Title: Whatever Tomorrow Brings
Author: thewickednix
Pairing: Harry Potter / Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Categories: Slash
Warnings: Adult Language, Sexual Situations, Angst, Violence, Weirdness

Summary: The final battle calls for sacrifices with unexpected consequences.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's notes: Bonding!fic. I don't usually like them much myself, but then again, I don't usually like vampire!fics either, and I've written 80 000 words worth of those, so...

And yes, I have begun a new fic while still working on two others (-one with an approaching deadline! *panic*). Bad, bad author! …But I just can't help myself when my imagination runs off with me.

Prologue:

I never expected to live through the war. I had always imagined myself dying in the last battle, defeating Voldemort before falling to the glorious death of a true hero. I never wanted to see the aftermath of the war, let alone be forced to live in the mess. Perhaps I was a coward, but I thought I'd done enough. Through saving everyone else, did not I deserve some peace at last?

In the end, it was I who was saved. He saved me, in every aspect of the word.

Even if I did not realise it at the time.

Chapter 1. Judgement Day

"Harry, are you positive this is the right thing to do?"

Hermione looks over at me with concern, holding onto her wand desperately, trying to focus on me while she avoids the curses flying her way. A hex explodes into a stone beside her, and she is thrown to the ground. I move to help her but she gets up before I reach her, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears of anxiety and terror, her expression equal to the ones on everyone else's faces. That expression that tells not only of the horrors of today, but of those we've already lived through.

No one has been spared, no one has survived this far without enormous sacrifices, without leaving something or someone they loved behind. For some of us, the cost has been almost too great to bear. I lost my best friend, my mentor, and my godfather within the time span of three years. Hermione lost her husband a week into their marriage. The Weasleys have lost two sons and a daughter, and are still able to consider themselves lucky.

And only God knows how many more will be lost before this day is over. Something I don't prefer to think about right now, as I am ducking curses and trying to throw them back, doing anything in my power to move as unnoticed as possible around all the Death Eaters in the heat of the battle.

Out of the cauldron and into the fire. Towards my doom.

Swallowing loudly and trying to catch my breath, I answer Hermione with as much credibility as possible. "Yes, I am," I state clearly, proud of myself that my voice isn't shaking. This is not the time for uncertainty.

All around me I hear explosions, people shouting out curses, people screaming. More people dying. But I shut it out as I move, only concentrating on my own opponents, my own task.

Kill Voldemort. That is all I can do for anyone right now. The rest will be dealt with afterwards, though probably not by me.

My duty is to destroy Voldemort. But I do not expect to live through this battle. My obligations do not require it. Too many times have I fooled death and lived through a dead-end situation, and too many times have others had to die instead of me.

In truth, I am fed up with it all. My whole existence circling around something I never asked for, my status as the hero I never wanted to be.

When I go, I will be mourned, of course. People will go to my funeral and cry over my grave, pretend that they knew me and bond over the fond memories they share of the poor Chosen One. But they don't know me, the real me. So few even bother to try. All they need is the hero. Who fucking cares about the boy behind the scar?

No, I will not feel guilty for dying tonight. Those few who are left that really know me will get over it, rebuilding their lives as best as they can. I have nothing left to rebuild, nothing to return to.

And I am so sick of fighting.

Suddenly I am startled back from my reverie by a Death Eater I recognise as Dolohov, coming at me out of nowhere with an Avada Kedavra I barely manage to sidestep. I hear Hermione casting a hex and being left behind me, taking up the fight with Dolohov to let me continue. I do not dare to look behind me and confirm that she is still alive.

We are almost at the same numbers with the Death Eaters, and so the others are able to keep them busy as I look for Voldemort. I try to stay to the side, feeling like the worst coward ever as I hide away from the heat of the battle, trying to circle the battlefield in search of my true opponent.

But even that is not easy. The field is wide and smoky, and I can barely see ten feet before me, let alone navigate to where Voldemort is hiding behind his closest cohorts. The grass is high and the ground is muddy, and more than once I feel myself losing my footing. It is only when I duck a stray Confusing Curse that I finally fall, sliding onto my knees in the dirt, letting out a loud yelp as I go.

"Well, well. If it isn't little Harry Potter, and right at my feet too!"

The sickly sweet voice sends shivers up my spine. With dread I look up to find Bellatrix Lestrange looking down at me, her wand pointed straight at my chest.

"My lord will be so pleased to hear that it was I who--"

But the woman gets no further before a loud yell is heard:

"Avada Kedavra!"

I watch with mixed horror and fascination as the light goes out in Bellatrix's eyes, her mouth falling open in a surprised 'o', her legs giving in as she falls backwards in the grass.

"Potter, you stupid prick!" a cold voice cries out, violent hands gripping me and lifting me from the ground. Malfoy lets go of me as soon as I regain my footing, sneering at me as viciously as ever. "Try to stay alive, will you? At least until you kill the Dark Lord."

There is no compassion in his voice, no sympathy in his eyes. Not that I expected it. I fight the urge to spit back at him, and instead turn my back on the blond, running forward through the grass, trying to forget the image of Bellatrix's cold grey eyes, staring back at me.

Just like Sirius did before he fell behind the veil.

I stumble again, almost falling over a stone suddenly found in the mud, only to have my arm again grabbed by Malfoy's firm hands. "Focus, Potter," he commands harshly, evidently irritated by my lacking capacity to stay alive even crossing a field.

If Malfoy was any other man, I would say that his concentrated indifference has to do with the battle, or the fact that he just killed his only remaining relative. But since it is Malfoy, any excuse for his behaviour is useless. Throughout the fifteen months we have fought together, side by side, he has continued to treat me with the passive disdain he reserves for all of us whom are beneath him but whom he is forced to side with. Why he even joined our side at all instead of just running away is beyond me.

"There he is," Malfoy says quietly, forcing me to turn my attention towards three figures by the forest. A tall man in dark robes I don't have to look twice at to recognise as Voldemort, and two of his foremost followers, Avery and Carrow.

"Go around the edge of the forest and come up behind them. I'll attack from the front and divert their attention," the blond mutters, gesturing offhandedly for me to take off to the right. I'm reluctant to take orders from a former Death Eater, but unfortunately I have to admit that Malfoy knows a lot more of wartime strategy than I do. And with Hermione, Kingsley and Mr Weasley lost somewhere in the midst of the battle, I have no one else to ask for advice.

Hence I obey my one-time worst nemesis, taking off into the high grass to the right, trying to stay as low and invisible as possible. From the side I watch as Malfoy approaches the Death Eaters, shouting and casting hexes at a distance far to great. But the distraction works, causing Avery and Carrow to take defence and move away from Voldemort and towards their attacker.

I watch in awe as Malfoy takes Carrow down with a single spell, slightly jealous at the grace he manages to put into even a death strike. But Avery is not as easy to take down, and I see Malfoy throwing himself to the ground as he ducks under a Cruciatus.

Looking away, I keep running as quietly as I can over the soggy ground, trying to focus on my own task instead of the matter of Malfoy's survival. That is the least of my worries right now.

In the end, it is not how I imagined it. I have been forced to kill many men during the war, but I always thought that Voldemort's death would be special, exceptional in some way. That it would be the grand finale to what has been a horrendous war, a nightmare in all aspects.

The snakelike man has time to lift his wand against me, to cast an Avada Kedavra that barely misses my shoulder. But making a mistake, like any mortal man would, the great Tom Riddle is then distracted by a stray Stunning spell. So I take my chance, and I aim.

And he falls.

I feel the air leave my lungs, the strength leave my limbs. Voldemort is dead. It's over.

But the world does not stop. The sun does not burst through the thick layer of clouds to bathe the battlefield in sunlight and warmth. The rain does not wash away the heavy, metallic smell of blood.

We are not yet saved.

"Potter! Watch out!"

From somewhere behind me I hear Malfoy's voice, but it is too late.

"Scelero Profanus!"

The curse hits me violently in the back, pulling my legs out from under me, and I fall down onto my stomach in the dirt. But there is no immediate effect, and for a second I think I have been spared.

Then the pain begins. Slowly the burning, horrid sensation spreads, like Fiendfyre through my veins, tearing at my intestines, ripping at every nerve. I feel a feeble scream escaping me, as I grip my stomach in a desperate attempt to stop this feeling. But nothing prevents it, nothing aids this excruciating flame in my body. I scream for all that I am worth, writhing in the mud, unable to do anything else. I feel as if I am sinking into the dirt while being hauled up from the ground by my own skin.

"Potter! Potter, do you hear me?!"

A familiar voice sounds from somewhere afar, but I cannot recognise it through my own screams. Firm hands grab me, rolling me over so that I am lying on my back, forced to look up into the light. Through narrowed eyes I see a pale but dirty face I know I have seen before, but I still cannot name the person.

"Potter, goddammit!" the harsh, raw voice cries out, trying to keep me still. "Stop moving, or it'll spread faster!"

I don't know what 'it' is, and quite frankly I'm not in the presence of mind to care. But I still at the other man's command, feeling my last strength drain off me, feeling myself giving up.

I'm going to die.

With the realisation comes the tears, overflowing in my eyes and running down my cheeks, blurring my sight. But someone slaps me hard in the face, and my vision clears for a second, letting me at last recognise the face in front of me.

"M-Malfoy…"

"No, you don't!" is the harsh response. "Don't you dare die on me now, Potter," he commands, moving around beside me, fumbling for something. He finds it, turning to watch me gravely for a second, as if making a decision, before he raises his left hand and lets a sharp silver blade run over his palm.

My eyes see only red.

I am too far gone to even question him. Feeling the life slowly slipping away from me I open my mouth to say my goodbyes, when a cool, damp hand lifts up my dirty one. The mere movement of my limb is so excruciating that I cry out, but Malfoy ignores it. He takes a deep breath and moves something over my palm, and it takes a moment for me to realise that it was the knife. I feel the blood flow over my hand, but I can't feel the wound through the rest of the pain in my body.

Malfoy lifts my hand, my palm facing him, and I scream again, writhing on the ground and cursing Malfoy for making my last moments even worse than they already are. But the git doesn't react to my plea, instead he lifts his bloody hand and presses it against mine. And I hear a whisper:

"Nema minn vinr

eða smíða hann til minn líki,

minn ætt, minn blóðeða minn nafn."

The blood flows between our fingers, dripping down our wrists, blending between our palms. It feels as if cord has been created between our hands, a seam connecting our skins, and I'm certain I could not pull away if I wanted to. Something moves between our palms, something in the blood, flowing from me to Malfoy and from him to me. The words are still repeated, strengthening the connection, a clear voice chanting from some far away universe, calling me back.

Calling me home.

Slowly the pain fades away, my head clears, my lungs fill with oxygen, and I feel as light as air. Just when I truly believe I am rising from the ground, the chant changes.

"Ek biðja þinn."

Malfoy calls out the last words loudly, his voice as clear as air. It washes over me like a furious wave, knocking the air out of me and returning me to this earth.

The last thing I am aware of as I pass out is the hot throbbing in my hand, and Malfoy's melodic voice, fading slowly into the background.

TBC

Author's note #2: The chant is in Old Norse. I don't really speak Old Norse, but since I speak Swedish (which originates from Old Norse), I used Swedish grammar and translated the words. So the grammar might be completely fucked up, but the words separately should be right. If anyone does know Old Norse properly, feel free to correct me. If you don't, it shouldn't bother you either way.

Anyway, please review and share your thoughts of this first chapter, be they good or bad.