Written for During the War (Draco reacts to Harry's fake-death)
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of that jazz. So I'm going to take another go at second person as I really like doing it this way when it comes to Draco.
-oOo-
-oOo-
-oOo-
Through everything, you never expected the great Savior to die. You've known him the majority of your life, you never really liked him; the feeling was always mutual though so you never felt bad about it. You'd been pitted against one another since that first train ride, and every year had just solidified the line that was between the two of you.
After all, He was Potter, the great Gryffindor – you were Malfoy, too arrogant to see your own downfall.
You never thought he'd die though. For years you'd wish him death. That he'd fall off that broom of his or that he'd smart off to the wrong person and end up a tea set. Every time you looked at that smug face you just wanted it buried under the ground, you wanted the spark of superiority taken from his eyes.
But now that those old wishes are fulfilled, you almost want to pray for them to be rewritten.
Ginny Weasley's screams had been what had made it all too real. It had been hours of fighting, hours of trying to stay alive in the mess. You'd just lost one of your oldest friends and yet none of it had seemed as real as when you hear the girl's broken cries and see Potter's body.
He's like a ragdoll in Hagrid's arms. Potter's black hair is long and ragged and covering his face. He's limp. His legs dangle over the half giant's elbow, a single arm draped and swaying with his carrier's movements. There's no life to the Great Savior and that scares you.
The Dark Lord, your Lord, is smiling as his army enters. They're all smiling because why wouldn't they? They've won. They've killed the head of the Light and they know the advantage they now have. They've crumbled the resistance, destroyed any hope of surviving. You may not have been one hundred percent on either side of this war, but even you realize the devastation that this moment has caused.
You're standing there with everyone else, and none seem able to move. All around you is members of the Order and students you went to school with. They're bloody, bruised, burnt. Despair is written in their faces and none of them seem able to breath. The only sound from this side is Ginny Weasley's cries as her father holds her back.
The Dark Lord is talking now. He's stating what he's done like everyone doesn't already see his prized kill.
You can't take your eyes away from Potter's limp body. It was just a few hours ago that you'd seen him in the Room of Requirement. He'd been so alive, so unstoppable. He'd saved your life. There was no reason to, and you know that had the roles been reverse you might have kept flying and sacrificed him to the flames. But he hadn't. He was a better person than you. He always had been the better person.
Your name is mentioned somewhere in this mess. It's the distraction needed to snap you back into the scene. There's smoke everywhere and it's only a matter of time before the fire slips into the courtyard. The rubble has built up around you, and the sight of the fallen fighters make you want to vomit. The destruction of war has entered Hogwarts and it seems that the school will crumble by time this is all over.
You're being beckoned to the line of Death Eaters. The Dark Lord is waving you over as if he really wants you there. You know better, he could care less where you stand, he'd kill you eventually either way. Just behind him your aunt is grinning wickedly and you know she's thinking about getting her hands on you again.
Everyone is looking at you now.
Weasel is glaring up at you with a deep hatred in his eyes. Granger looks almost pleading like she believes there's a chance of redemption for you here. You want to tell her otherwise. She should be smart enough than to think like this. Longbottom also looks pleading at you. He takes a step to the side, placing himself between you and the Death Eaters. He's been trying for so long to break you from the Death Eater ranks, and even now he's trying to set you free.
You fidget under the gaze and can't look any of them in the face. Instead your attention is once more on Potter. He must have shrunk since you last looked his way. He looks smaller in Hagrid's arm, almost like a child. That's the irony though. He is a child. You and everyone around you all are children really.
"Draco," your mother's voice finds its way to you, "come."
You're still looking at Potter's dead body as you take a step forward. They all step to the side to let you pass. None of them stop you, and why should they. None of them want you.
It's almost too quick of a walk. Your legs had moved on their own and as you melt into the Death Eater ranks you wonder why you'd done so. The touch of your mother's hand on your shoulder reminds you of why. It was all to protect her. Everything you have done has been to protect her in a world where life is so fleeting.
Potter is a prime example of just how fragile life really is. Just a few months ago he'd been in your home. He'd been alive, fighting, and upon his escape you'd taken a moment to exhale in relief. Just a few hours ago he'd been tearing through the fire Crabbe had caused, recklessly risking his life to save your sorry arse.
Just a few minutes ago he'd been brought out for the world to gaze at his death.
Even now you're watching Potter. There's some commotion going on as Longbottom speaks directly to the Dark Lord. You pay him no mind though because for one moment you think you see Potter move. It was only for a split second but there's no doubt in your mind that you saw him shift in Hagrid's arms. Your mind is trying to explain it away. Trying to push down the rising hope.
You want to believe so bad. You want it to all be fake. For Potter to rise and strike down the manic you're forced to serve. You want death to leave the Savior alone long enough for him to rescue you and everyone else. You know better though. Life not is made of resurrections and second chances. Potter is dead. He will remain dead.
But still, the longer you look at him, the surer you are that his chest is rising and falling in slow, almost nonvisible breathes.