Author's Note: I know that this idea has been done before, but I decided to take a shot at it instead of homework and sleep tonight… So this is my spin on Drarry meets some-kind-of-fluffy-fairytale. You were warned.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. But damn, if they were…
A Kiss Away From Death
"He is dead!"
Voldemort is cackling. He taunts, he plays, he triumphs, spinning around the courtyard in absolute glee. The screams of Potter's friends do nothing to diverge him, nor the solemn atmosphere. "Harry Potter is dead!"
Draco Malfoy's mouth drops open. He almost chokes; the intense urges to retch are overcome by dry heaves kept steady and silent. He tries to cry out, but his words are trapped in his throat, the attempts to escape not unlike that of a caged wild beast, clawing and scraping to be freed. Potter. Dead. No. No! Only an hour ago he'd been alive and fighting valiantly. Because Potter is invincible, he always has been. He can't be dead. He can't. He isn't.
"I've destroyed him!" Voldemort continues, his ruby eyes glinting with malice. "You cannot save him! It is too late!"
Now Draco recalls a few things about The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Die. Little things—more than he cares to admit, perhaps even more than Potter's best friends and girlfriend do. But these are the little things that make up Potter, and who he is, and who he always has been. Draco recalls Potter's class schedule, his favourite foods, the old trainers that he only wears on Hogsmeade weekends, the quill he uses for exams and essays, but never homework scrolls. Little things like that. And things like Potter's mental and insufferable habit of always persevering to see yet another day of doing all of those stupid things that Draco recalls about him... It can't be all gone, just like that, not like this. Because life without Potter is nothing. It is oblivion. Senseless, ruthless, meaningless oblivion.
Nobody speaks a rebuttal. It is quiet now; Voldemort has paused for dramatic effect. Draco hears nothing and sees nothing—not the misting fog surrounding the courtyard or Voldemort's followers as they crowd in, nor the Giant traipsing behind in defeat... In his arms carry the only thing that Draco truly sees: his lifeless body. Potter's. Limp, lack, and lifeless. Merlin.
It is then that Draco remembers other things about Potter: the way he looked when he was angry, how he grinned when he was happy. Draco remembers the way Potter would play with the same lock of hair by his ear and how he slouched in his seat and nobody ever noticed... The line of his jaw, the green of his eyes, the wildness of his hair... The soft crinkle of skin near his mouth whenever he smiled genuinely. The rasp of his voice when he was tired. All of those things that made Potter who he was—is. Alive.
The wild beast inside Draco's throat has scratched at it through and through; it aches with pain and he can almost taste the fresh blood in his mouth. No. The image tears at him inside and he longs to look away, but he can't. His gaze is glued to Potter's body, which the giant has now placed upon the cold ground, and he cannot withhold a whimper.
No. Don't be.
Draco continues to stare down at that lump of flesh on the ground, unmoving. Potter's face is devoid of anything. Draco can't remember the angry look, or the happy look. He can't see the often-touched lock of hair or the slouch that comes with the chair. The strong line of Potter's jaw is invisible, the bottomless green of his eyes concealed. There is no crinkle of skin or trace of a smile. No voice to sound raspy. And then Draco finally realises that Potter isn't—not any of that, not anything he used to be. Not alive. Nothing.
Now Draco actually chokes, and pales. "Oh gods, Potter," he sniffles.
There is no hope without Potter. For Draco, or for any of them. They are all doomed.
"Wait, I know what to do!" someone shouts suddenly.
Draco whips around and wipes his eyes to conceal his emotion—it is Granger, her wild hair strewn about her tear-stained face. She is obviously distraught and delusional with grief. "True love's kiss!" she cries. "I know it's a long shot, but Harry's always been a special case, we can still wake him—Ginny!" Granger whirls around to look at the girl standing next to her. "Ginny, please, we have to try!"
Voldemort stares at the anguished girl for a moment, then he begins to laugh. His entire army snickers along with him in support. "Foolish mudblood," he booms, "with your frivolous, disgusting dreams... You almost charm me with your audacity."
By now Ginny Weasley's eyes are alight like priceless gemstones; they burn with the fire of a woman scorned as she glares at the evil terror in front of her. Then she steps forward brashly, her father's frightened grasp shrugged away, and her brother's hand limp at her side. She moves towards Potter's feeble corpse with purpose, although her mouth is slightly agape and her hands are trembling a little. But her eyes are still certain. It is worth a try.
Surprisingly, Voldemort makes no move to stop her. He stands high and mighty above, almost as if he is smirking down at her. It is a revolting expression, and Draco shields his gaze from it. The Dark Lord's eyes seem to challenge Ginny's in flame and temperament.
She kneels down next to the body. And as she reaches out to Potter, she tucks that damned lock behind his ear and whispers something in it. The entire courtyard seems to be holding its breath waiting for something extraordinary to happen, but personally, Draco feels like he might explode as her lips creep closer to Potter's grey, lifeless ones. Why can't he breathe? And then for no reason at all, Draco covers his eyes with a curtain of his own blond hair. He cannot watch. Ginny cannot actually believe that this will work? It is ridiculous! Though somewhere deep in his heart, he hopes. He's desperate.
And that is why he unblocks his vision at the very last moment.
Their lips meet.
A clock chimes in the distance.
Nothing.
Voldemort squeals with horrible glee, spreading his arms out wide as if embracing the world and its unforgiving gifts. Ginny Weasley has tears running down her face rapidly as she kisses Potter's lips again and again. "No, Harry!" she yells, her shrieks shrill and desperate. "You have to... Harry, please! Wake up! I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, please, please wake up..."
Draco bows his head and squeezes his eyes shut, he does not know what to feel but he knows that the tiny fleeting bit of hope has now been replaced by a crushing sense of disparity. His doubts had been correct. He had so wanted it to be true, for Potter to wake up and live again… even if Ginny Weasley were to be his true love. It is only now that Draco realises that the notion would bother him. But she isn't his true love. And Potter is still dead.
Draco feels an actual tear trickle down his cheek. "You're supposed to be the Boy-Who-Lived," he murmurs with miserable vexation. "So live, damn it."
"Draco!" He hears his name shouted repeatedly. "D…Draco!"
When he looks up, his eyes are gaunt and empty like Potter's must be. It is his father, calling for him to join them—to join the side that has killed the only person that Draco ever really cared about. His jaw tightens. Lucius is still gesturing, but Draco does not see him. He only sees Potter... Potter, with the wild messy hair and the green, green eyes. Potter, with the soft smile and the blazing gaze. Limp, lack, lifeless Potter. And Ginny Weasley crying silently beside him.
"Draco," his mother says now. He looks at her. "Come."
It hurts. Draco does not want to see anymore. There is no hope in that. He inches forward, trying not to watch the triumph flit across the faces of the Death Eaters or the dismay flickering on his classmates'. He will go to his mother, because when she calls him, he is safe. Safe from the horror and death and misery that comes with looking at Potter and knowing that he isn't the Potter Draco had known any longer... Because the Potter he knew is just a corpse now.
"Malfoy, wait," another voice calls to him when he is halfway across the courtyard. Draco freezes, but then he slowly turns around. Who is that? It's... It's... It's Longbottom. Neville Longbottom. He is almost unrecognisable with his face so bloodied and harrowed and full of torment. Draco stares at him. "Don't go," Longbottom pleads softly. "You can't say that he didn't mean anything to you, Malfoy, you knew him better than a lot of us did." He hesitates for a moment. "Will you... will you go to him? Just for a moment... one last time... please?"
Draco gapes, his bottom lip trembling slightly. He hopes it doesn't show, but he knows that it is a fruitless wish. Why should he do anything for them? Why should he do anything for anyone? Ginny Weasley looks up in slow motion and wipes her tears with the back of her hand. Then she starts to retreat from the body, as if in invitation for Draco to kneel there instead. To take her place, figuratively and literally... Accepting it.
"Draco, come here," his mother urges again. He turns toward her.
"Malfoy, please," Longbottom begs. "For once in your life. Please."
Draco looks out towards each of the crowds he is standing in the middle of. On one side, Voldemort watches him patiently, like a sinister cat about to devour its meat—as if weighing whether he will succeed or fail; both his mother and father look at him with wide eyes, now and then gesturing for him to come to them, to safety. But on the other side... Granger and Weasley gaze at him with dreadful, pleading stares, Longbottom the same. The entire school. His school.
He steps towards Potter's corpse.
What do they want him to do? They don't say. Somehow, he thinks he knows.
He takes another step.
Voldemort licks his lips now. His blood-coloured eyes almost blaze through Draco's skin.
Another step.
"No, Draco," his father hisses quietly.
But Draco ignores him, he ignores them all. Instead, he crouches beside Potter's body and studies him for a bit. Although cold and solid and colourless, he realises that it is still Potter. The same Potter that Draco has lived to taunt and tease and sabotage all these years. Has lived for. Quivering, he reaches forward a bit and touches Potter's skin. Ice. He shudders and draws away.
Voldemort lets out a loud bellow. "What are you to gain from this, weak one?" he snarls. "This is an absolute farce. Draco Malfoy cannot do anything for you! He and Potter have been mortal enemies since the very first day they laid eyes upon each other, I have made sure of it. And of course... young Malfoy belongs to me."
"You're wrong," Longbottom spits venomously, his back arching in defiance as he limps forward. "Draco doesn't belong to you. He belongs to Harry. He always has and he always will."
And for some reason everything clicks—Longbottom's finger extends in the direction of Potter's mangled body and the courtyard is hushed in horrified silence. But suddenly Draco can breathe again. He blinks once, then twice, his vision clearing and his uncertainty diminishing. Longbottom is right. Draco realises that there is nothing truer than that. Draco has always been Potter's, and Potter has always been his. Neither can live sanely without the other.
"Potter, please." He runs his hand across the cool skin and whispers. "Don't be so fucking stubborn. Wake up."
There is a strangled noise from Voldemort's side, but Draco doesn't stop. It sounds like his father.
"Can't you just sit up and yell at me like you used to?" Draco continues, low as the whistle of wind. "Come on, Potter, honestly. You could glare and bitch at me for an entire eternity and I wouldn't mind at all. I promise I wouldn't. I'd let you punch me right in the gut, and I know you know how much I hate it when you do that, don't you? And you'd never hear another bad word from me—not even one little nasty remark about your hair or your glasses or your clothes, or anything." He sighs. "I just... I just need to see the colour of your eyes again, and your mouth twisting in that ridiculous manner it does whenever you're angry with me. I don't think I ever appreciated those things much before, but I sure as hell miss them now."
Draco laughs bitterly. He is aware that he is talking to a dead man, but he doesn't care. He imagines that Potter is scoffing at him for his trouble. "I bet you think that seeing you like this is what I've been wishing for my entire life, don't you?" Draco murmurs. He bites his bottom lip and looks down at his lap briefly; his cool demeanor has crumpled into nothing now and he knows it. "But in reality, I couldn't be more lost and alone. You see, I don't exist without you, Potter... I can't. I won't."
Voldemort's grin starts to fade as he realises what is going on. His ruby eyes narrow and then widen again with utter bewilderment.
"And I know that you didn't love me," Draco whispers, his voice cracking a little from his own revelation. "You didn't even like me. But it doesn't matter. Because... because well, I think I love you anyways, and I hope to Merlin that it will be enough."
He closes his eyes and begins to lean in, his heart pounding through his ears. He has everything left to lose now.
Voldemort's shriek is as loud as a wailing siren. "No! Somebody stop him!" he bellows. And for some reason, absolute panic has erupted now that he has discovered that it is Draco who loves Potter, and not Ginny. Because something is urgently different. Something is horribly, indescribably—
An explosion.
It is the crackle of spells being thrown at Draco and Potter as their lips touch, and with increasing pressure Draco knows that at this exact second he will either spontaneously live or courageously die—and there is nothing as surreal as the moment when one must stand on the thin line between his two fates, nothing as daunting as the thought of losing or gaining forever. Draco's eyes snap open, bewildered. There is a flash, a burst of green, and then another explosion.
FWOOOOOOOOOOOSH!
Gravel and dust fly in every direction, deflecting all of the harmful spells that were aimed at them. A strange, glowing emerald barrier hovers over their bodies and then falls away without warning. Draco gasps and looks straight into Potter's eyes, which are now wide open and staring. At him.
"Draco," Potter croaks.
Draco's mouth drops open, and he screams.
"HARRY POTTER!" Voldemort shouts; his face is contorted and his eyes are wild with fury and revenge. "You will die for the last time tonight!"
He hurls the Killing Curse just as Potter throws Draco out of the way and lunges back, wielding his own trusty spell. The two hexes collide in lightning shades of stunning ruby and emerald, the ruby reflecting off Voldemort's eyes as the emerald shines in Potter's, each spell balancing out back and forth, closer to one caster and then farther again. But after a while Potter struggles to keep his grip, his hair flying back from his forehead as he bites his lip hard with clear frustration. He looks as if he is about to fall and surrender, his strength leaving him once more. Draco shakes his head and clenches his fists at his sides. No! He has just registered the realness of Potter's return and he will not lose him again. There is no fucking way!
"Harry!" Draco shouts, his voice hoarse with unfamiliar sentiment and courage. "Harry, for fuck's sake, don't you dare give up now! I swear to Merlin, I will kill you if you die on me again!"
Then Potter turns his head and looks at Draco, his eyes intense and fiery. Like always, the rush of passion between them courses through Draco's veins like a shot of adrenaline. Their gazes lock: emerald to silver, just as the ruby-emerald bond cracks between the battle wands like fireworks. The emerald green flies straight back towards Voldemort, who shrieks as the spell smashes into him, and he falls to the ground with a loud, exhausted thud. The sound of Death. The sound of Life.
Horrified, the Death Eaters begin to flee as the Order members and students chase after them, firing hexes and curses at their backs in attempts to capture a few. Draco sees his own mother and father escaping, although none of the Light fighters aim any curses at them. He has to wonder whether it is deliberate. But then Potter crumples to the ground, fatigued, and Draco runs to his side, all else forgotten.
"Potter, gods—Harry." Draco kneels beside him for the second time so that the Gryffindor's head lies in his lap. "It's going to be okay. Gods, you're going to be okay, I promise. Just... everything is... everything..."
Now he is choking again, but it doesn't hurt. The wild beast is gone. Hot tears stream down his cheeks for real as he leans over Potter's body, although he doesn't mind it—he lets them come. He cries with everything he has. Because he is relieved for the feeling of finality that wouldn't pain his chest or its contents anymore. He has saved Harry Potter's life, and with that, his own... He has earned back the right to live. No obligations, no fear at every turn, no rashes or burns or slashes against his fair skin as punishment. Only opportunity, understanding, and redemption. A fresh start.
"Did you hear what I said earlier?" Draco asks, tears still fresh on his face. "About the glaring and bitching and punching and how I..." He trails off.
Harry stares up at him and smiles weakly. "Every word."
Draco shakes his head and starts to sob again, nuzzling his face so close to Harry's that a few little droplets splash across the other man's nose. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cries. "I know it wasn't supposed to be me. I don't understand..."
"It had to be you, Draco," Harry murmurs, his hand coming up to drag a thumb across Draco's cheek. "You were the only one who could've done it."
Draco frowns. "But Ginny Weasley is your girlfriend... You love her."
Harry's green eyes bore into Draco's. "I loved you first," he says. "I've loved you always. It only worked because you love me back, somewhere deep down... Because you've always loved me." He smiles. "It was true love's kiss. It's real."
"But it's not, it's just a myth," Draco argues, closing his eyes and letting the last of his tears fall from them. "All of that tripe about true love and kissing, they're just fairytales for girls, and muggles, and... and..."
"No." Harry shakes his head. "Love is for everybody—and there's nothing stronger than that. Nothing."
"I hated you," Draco whispers. "And you hated me."
"Hate, love," Harry whispers back. "What's the difference, really?"
Draco gasps again and leans forward, and Harry meets him in the middle—real, warm, gentle lips meet his, the ones that Draco had never believed he could touch before, but now, he is touching. Draco is kissing Harry Potter. And he never wishes to stop.
"You did it," Draco mutters against Harry's lips, with a sigh. "You saved the world again."
Harry chuckles and smiles that smile. "No," he says, kissing him again before speaking. "You did."