It Goes Like This

by Exceeds Expectations

"You know what's right and you know what's wrong. Now all you have to do is choose which one you want to fight for." Draco/Seamus slash.

It goes like this: one minute you're Slytherin's prince and everything you do makes your parents spit golden praise, and the next you're a screaming mess of a boy with a death threat hanging above your mother's head and an Avada Kedavra stuck in your throat.

And you don't know when he started noticing you, or when you started noticing him, but something happens and you start to believe that maybe not everything is hopeless.

There are four times that stand out in your mind.

-x-

One:

It's your fourth year and McGonagall has given you detention for failing to hand in your essay even after the week-long extension she gave you. You're outraged, and rightfully so. That essay was beyond pointless.

You arrive at the Great Hall at approximately 7.20pm and find McGonagall there with three other students. That Hufflepuff is there, the one who can't keep his mouth shut, Zachary or the like. He's chatting with a dark-skinned girl whose name you don't know, though she looks to be a sixth or seventh year. Beside them stands Finnigan, his hands shoved into his robes and an expression of frustration and hostility across his face.

You stand alone.

"Okay, gentlemen – and Miss Johnson – tonight you will be assisting Professor Sprout in cleaning up the greenhouses. I'll walk you down to meet her and you will be put into groups. I am told she has some students of her own that will assist you. Come along."

She walks. For a second, no one moves. Then Finnigan mutters, "Sod this," and starts after her.

You follow.

-x-

McGonagall leaves you at the greenhouses with Professor Sprout and a group of (apparently misbehaving) first years.

"This isn't going to be easy, you know," Sprout says with a glint in her eye. She extends her hand slowly.

"Wands please."

There is a collective groan as you all hand over your wands.

"Mr Smith and Miss Johnson, could you please come here? You will be cleaning Greenhouse One with Gertrude here," says Sprout, her hands on the shoulders of a pudgy little Slytherin whose face is positively glowing red.

"Finnigan and Malfoy? You'll be cleaning Greenhouse Two with little Arnold here," she tells you. A small, skinny little black boy is half hidden behind her.

"Oh for-," starts Finnigan. "Come on then, you two."

And he storms off in the direction of Greenhouse Two. Again, you follow. You hear soft footsteps behind you.

-x-

You've got your arms elbow deeps in dragon dung trying to make sure no more Burrowing Blipsnippers are living in the manure and all you can hear behind you are Finnigan's exasperated sighs and frustrated tuts.

"Finnigan, is there something wrong with you? Are you physically incapable of being silent?" you ask.

"Shut up, Malfoy," he all but hisses. "Some of us aren't used to stirring shit all day."

"What are you implying, eh?" you ask as you turn to face him. Your arms are cold and filthy and the smell of dung is putrid, burning your nostrils.

"What else could I possibly be implying, Malfoy? Surely you aren't that thick?"

You take steps dangerously close to him, advancing on him furiously. He doesn't back away or move at all, but you see him tense, ready for a fight.

"Listen, Finnigan," you spit out his name like it's dirt on your tongue. "I've not had the best day, all right? I've had to put up with you for close to an hour now, as well as this little idiot who can't even clean a pot without smashing it," you say, nodding at the first year who is resolutely sweeping up the remainders of his third pot.

"I don't want to hear anymore of your sound effects, okay, because I just don't give a shit. So shut up, and stop being so bloody irritating."

He stares you right in the eyes as you rant in his face. He doesn't flinch. His eyes narrow and you see the quiet fury that has pooled in his irises and you want to punch his little face in for being so annoying.

"You're not the only one who's had a crap day. Maybe if you took your head out of your arse for five minutes you'd see that other people have problems too. It's not all about you."

He whacks you out of the way with his shoulder, hard, and you stand still and breathe, quietly seething.

Two:

You've been given your mission and the penalty is death. Not only your own death, but your mother's death. Your sweet, caring mother.

You need to succeed.

And it's thoughts like that that drive you insane. Mid-November and you're already cracking, already deteriorating at the edges and feeling bits of your confidence crumble and fall from your skin.

You find a new place to haunt. You can't spend your days in the common room anymore; people are asking questions, getting suspicious. So instead you find an abandoned girl's toilet and go there when you think you're in danger of shattering.

The ghost girl is there, Moaning Myrtle, and you let her listen to your sobs because she has nowhere else to go and she's just as lost as you are and maybe, just maybe, she might understand.

You burst in on a Monday afternoon because you were just in the Room and the Cabinet is doing nothing, nothing, and you need somewhere where the walls are bright and the ceiling is high enough that you can breathe easily.

She's not there.

You walk to the mirror, your hands shaking and your breathing coming in sharp little gasps. Through the thick layer of grime on the mirror's surface, you see yourself. You look so different. Your skin is so very pale and your cheekbones are more prominent, your eyes stick out more. Your face has this sunken, too-thin look, and your hair is lank and dull and you look like you're dying.

Which is fairly accurate, actually, you think. If this bloody Cabinet doesn't get fixed…

You feel weak. Tired. Drained.

You let go of the sink and cross the room to the opposite wall. You lean your head back against the cold, smooth marble, and let your knees buckle slowly as you drop to the floor.

There, you let the tears come.

And then the door opens.

Finnigan is mid-step when he sees you. His leg hovers in the air for a second, hinging on the step he's not going to take.

"Malfoy?" he asks curiously. "Why the hell are you in here?"

You don't look at him. Your eyes are fixed on the floor, tracing the chipped edges of the old marble tiles.

"Merlin, Malfoy, are you crying?" he says incredulously.

"Get out, Finnigan," you manage to choke out.

"You are crying," he says. But his voice isn't as gleeful as you imagined it would be.

And then he does something you don't expect – which, in hindsight, you really should have. He is a Gryffindor after all. He makes his way towards you and sinks to the floor beside you.

The silence echoes around the room. Your eyes are still burning holes in the floor.

"My mam hates me being here, you know," comes Finnigan's voice casually from beside you. "At Hogwarts. She doesn't like what's going on, with You-Know-Who and all. Even Harry. She wasn't sure about Harry. She honestly thought I'd be better off at home than at Hogwarts. Shows how much she knows. I mean, Dumbledore's You-Know-Who's biggest fear, isn't he?"

Your heart squeezes. He has no idea that you're crying because you can't kill his protector. Not a clue. You feel your stomach churn and your palms start sweating.

"So I managed to get her to let me come back. But things have been different between us lately. It's like she thinks I'm getting older, making my own decisions, fighting my own fight, you know? But all I want is my mammy, Malfoy. I don't want to have to fight. But I will."

You're not sure why he's telling you this, but something in his voice rings true with you, something about it catches you by the throat.

"That's why I come here. So I can read her letters in private and just not worry whether or not they upset me. What about you, Malfoy? Why are you here?"

His voice reverberates around you. Why are you here?

"I have…things to do. I'm not strong enough," you say, your voice but a croak.

"You know, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can help you," he says. "We can protect you. Look, I'm not implying anything here, but you know what's right and you know what's wrong. Now all you have to do is choose which one you want to fight for. I know you're not a bad person, Malfoy. I just hope you make the right decision."

He rests a hand on your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, warm and heavy through your robes. You're suddenly freezing here on this bathroom floor. You shiver. His hand doesn't move and he doesn't speak again.

You look at him for the first time since he entered the room. His eyes are blue. Painfully blue. And you can see that he's being honest. He's trying to help you, he's trying to reach out and stop you from shattering yourself with impossible goals.

So you nod curtly, stand and walk out of the bathroom without looking back.

All I want is my mammy, Malfoy.

Maybe he gets it, too.

Three:

The night that you fix the Cabinet, the night that you let them infiltrate the school, you're soaring. You've made it this far and everything's going to plan. Your confidence is back and perhaps you will succeed, perhaps you will make it out of this mess and move on and run away and never look back.

But you have one more thing to do.

Here's what you don't expect; the students are fighting. You run through the corridors and follow the slapping echo of your own footsteps and the curses and hexes that fly past you. You see Death Eaters and children battle, you see grown men and women torturing your schoolmates, and you swallow the bile that rises in your throat. You keep on running.

It hits you, where you're running to. You suddenly realise what you need to do, what you need to do right now. You need to become a murder and a killer and you're not ready, you're just not – breathe.

Your feet have taken you off course, taken you to the room that lets you breathe in peace. You push the door of Myrtle's bathroom open and pray that she is off somewhere watching the carnage. You need one last moment alone with your soul still intact.

But you walk in and he's there. He's just standing there, staring into the mirror, and it looks as if he's waiting for something. You stare at the back of his head and you don't know what to do. You could leave, you could run from here.

His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. He doesn't make any move to turn around. He just glares at your mirror image, blue eyes narrowed and sharp and you're confused and speechless.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he asks. "You did this."

"I- I- yes," you splutter. And then, "Yes," you say again, stronger, more confident.

"Why, Draco? Just why?"

"You wouldn't understand, Finnigan, you couldn't possibly get it, okay? My family, they need me on their side. They need me to be a good little boy and I need them, all right, I need my family, Finnigan, I need my mummy too," you say, eyes filling with tears. You blink them away furiously.

"Malfoy, you're putting people in danger here. There are children out there, for Merlin's sake!"

You stare at him. Neither of you has moved. Maybe it's easier to be honest when the eyes you're looking into are just made of glass. Maybe that's why you say what you say next.

"Look, you don't understand. I don't want this, Finnigan, I don't. But you can't help what you're born into and I'm a Death Eater, I was always going to be a Death Eater and I hate everything about it and I just wish – I wish I was brave enough to say no."

"I already told you we could help you! This isn't good enough, Malfoy. Your family loyalty has nothing to do with the fact that you put hundreds of children in danger tonight. And why, Malfoy? For what? What's the plan here? Get Harry? Kill him? Kill Dumbledore?" he says mockingly.

Your silence tells him everything he needs to know.

"You – you're going to k-kill him, aren't you? Dumbledore. That's what this has all been about."

You still don't speak.

"You fucking traitorous bastard," he seethes at your reflection. "I thought they scared you into running their little errands. I didn't know they had you committing their murders now too. It is your job, isn't it, Draco? You're officially one of them when you've offed Dumbledore."

He finally spins to face you and the look of hatred he shoots your way burns into your mind. This is what the world thinks of you.

"You can't do it, you know. You're a coward, Malfoy. You're nothing."

And you say, "I know," and swing the door open with a crash and run.

Four:

It happens again in the heat of battle. Only this time it's the big one. You can taste it in the air, see it in the face of every unwitting soldier; this is the final battle.

You find yourself in the Charms corridor. There are a few Gryffindors fighting bravely. Recklessly, you think. But then, that's always been the difference between you and them, eh? They're strong enough to die for what they believe in and you're weak enough to fight for what you don't.

You pass them quietly, hoping you blend into the dull stone behind you. You make a turn and find yourself watching a new fight.

Three on one. Three Death Eaters on one boy.

Finnigan.

Stupid bloody Finnigan.

For a moment, you stand rooted to the floor. You cannot move your feet, cannot raise your wand, cannot speak.

He is fierce. He spits his curses and slashes and slices his wand through the air like a deadly sword. Those blue eyes are narrowed with fury (as they often are in your presence), but his glare is not meant for you. He directs his rage at the three masked figures whose movements you can recognise as people who've been in your home, shared your meals, befriended your family. People who don't care that he's just a young boy.

They advance on him. Their jeers carry, taunts of "precious little Gryffie" and "look at him, he thinks he can win" punctuating every spell they throw.

"Expelliarmus!" one of them cries and you watch, horrified, as Finnigan's wand flies from his hand.

"Oooh, what are you going to do now, boy? There's no one here to save you. Where's Potter when you need him, eh?"

Finnigan stands his ground. He balls his hands into shaky fists and never drops his gaze.

"Go on then," he sneers. "Do what you want. Might as well have a few moments of happiness before you lose everything."

The Death Eaters cackle and Finnigan's face darkens.

You snap. You take a step forward and all four heads snap in your direction.

"Ah, Draco! Come to play?"

"No. Stupefy!" you scream, hitting the nearest Death Eater square in the chest. He crumples to the ground and you waste no time in Stupefying the next. Your heart pounds in your throat and you wonder why it's so hard for you to be brave.

The last Death Eater stands before you.

"Well, well, well, Draco. Saving your little friends then? You certainly aren't what I thought you were."

"Good," you say, and raise your wand.

"Sectumsempra!" roars your opponent and, no, not again, you think and jump to the side. He gives you no time to recover before he is screaming in your direction, rainbow streaks coming for you, and you are dodging and ducking and screaming right back and then-

He falls.

His face contorts and he freezes for a just a moment and he falls.

And behind him stands Finnigan, his face gleeful and his eyes bright.

"I knew you'd come round eventually," he whispers, even though no one is around to hear.

"I didn't," you reply.

"Come on, we've got to move," he mutters.

And you follow.

He leads you to an empty broom closet and holds the door open for you to hurry inside. It's dark and dusty, but you hear footsteps in the corridor behind you and so you run straight in. You feel him enter behind you and then everything is pitch black.

You are both silent in those moments, both holding your breath and listening and hoping and praying.

The footsteps fade into the silence. Yet, still, neither of you speak.

The darkness presses on your eyes, a heavy nothingness, and you are so lost in that instant. You want out. You want to find your parents (please be safe) and you want to run.

But you can't. You've got another job to do.

"Malfoy. Thanks," Finnigan says into the dusty air around you.

"You'd do the same," you say.

"Would I?"

You can hear the smirk in his words and, suddenly, you're not so sure. Maybe. Maybe not.

"Wouldn't you?" you ask.

When he replies, he is closer than you thought. You feel his warm breath ghost over your cheek.

"Who knows?"

You feel him shift beside you. And then his lips somehow manage to find yours, warm and solid and right¸ and you kiss him furiously, passionately, teeth and tongues and gasps and your hands tangle in the back of his robes and his hands thread through your hair, and nothing matters but this.

But then there is a crash in the distance, a bang that reverberates and shakes the walls around you, and you jump apart. After the bang is silence. You hear Finnigan's ragged breaths in time with your own. Your chest heaves and you're so thankful for the darkness. You don't think you could look him in the eye.

He is the one who finally opens the door. The dim light from outside tumbles onto his skin and slants across his face. You see the shine of his lips and feel yourself blush.

"Malfoy. You know what's right. You don't have to be who you're trying to be."

And he leaves, closing the door and leaving you in the dark.

You don't follow.

-x-

Later on, those words dance around your head, singing to you like sirens.

You don't have to be who you're trying to be.

When the battle ends, you find your mother. You tell her, tell her that you don't want this, you never wanted this. She holds you close and smoothes down your hair and whispers in your ear. "He's gone, Draco, he's gone."

You don't have to be who you're trying to be.

You find Potter hours later, sitting in the ruins of the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends and classmates and everyone who fought the good fight.

"Potter," you call. He looks up at you, eyes tired and weary. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says.

You don't have to be who you're trying to be.

You catch Finnigan's eyes in the crowd around Potter. He smiles at you. You smile back.

When you walk out the door of the Great Hall for the last time, it is with his whisper in your mind.

You don't have to be who you're trying to be.

And, for the first time in years, you feel free.

-x-

So it goes like this: one minute you're drowning and the next minute someone tells you that you don't have to, and even though you let yourself keep falling down, down, down, you never actually drown because you keep his words as a life jacket in the recesses of your mind.

And he never knows it, but he saves you.

(And you never see him again.)