"Almost"
Work: Harry Potter
Genre: Angst
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13
It seemed to him that the bright warmth of the sun was a blatant and blasphemous mockery of the carnage in the streets. The stones were hot with blood that steamed off their smooth surfaces; red rivers flowed to cover the blackened stain where the Dark Lord had fallen.
But there was no celebration at his defeat. No, there was not a single happy face to be found anywhere, not a solitary trace of mirth. After all, how could anyone find the heart to find joy in the victory when there had been such cost?
Potter, miserable little Potter, was simply standing in the middle of the road; he hadn't moved since he had ended it all. He wondered what Potter was thinking and whether he was finally satisfied. He hoped so, because the bastard had taken everything from him.
Hermione was trying to make him speak, saying his name over and over in a tone that because increasingly filled with worry, at the same time that she held Weasley's sobbing self in one arm and clutched a wound in her side with the other. He could almost respect her right now – almost.
Professor Snape was sitting silently on the curb, his limp hair in his face. Remus Lupin sat next to him, talking quietly with a sad grey expression. Dumbledore took the hand of a weepy Professor McGonagall and gravely handed her a handkerchief. That oaf Hagrid was making a body count, and he didn't want to hear what number he was up to. Aurors were leading away the Death Eaters who had survived – like those who had fought the Dark Lord and lived, they were few.
So many were gone. The Dark Lord hadn't simply killed, he had massacred, and the other side had not shown any more mercy than he.
Arthur Weasley was dead. He was stupid, he had always been stupid. Too eager, he thought. He had been one of the first, and Ron had disguised his tears for so long. Now, he was crying like a baby into Hermione's shoulder.
Crabbe and Goyle were dead. He didn't care. He had never cared anything for the useless sods, and he wasn't about to start mourning them now.
George Weasley was dead. It was almost funny how utterly lost Fred looked and how broken up Percy was. Ridiculous, pompous Percy had finally been thrown out of his little world of offices and Galleons.
That Auror Tonks was dead. He had thought her pretty before, despite her impossibly colored hair, but her face was twisted in agony and her limbs broken from what the Dark Lord had done to her.
His father was dead. He was kneeling at the side of the corpse, cradling the blond head in his arms and paying no mind to the red pool that was soaking his robes. Tears ran down his cheeks as he begged his father to wake up, and he didn't care who saw. He didn't care if Potter thought he was weak of if Granger laughed about it later. Potter had taken his father from him, but he had neither the strength nor the will to retaliate.
It was not supposed to end like this.
He was supposed to win; the Dark Lord was supposed to win. He was supposed to be able to laugh at Potter's dead body, not the other boy able to stare at him and his father's corpse like he was now.
He buried his face in his father's robes, muffling the sound of his crying and smearing the tears all over his pale cheeks. He almost wished that Potter would begin to laugh, or that someone would make a crude remark about his weak state so that he could curse them to Hell and back. The energy would not come, though, and his hatred was drowned by his grief.
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Harry watched him, remaining perfectly still as if the crying young man was some sort of small animal which would be driven away by any sudden movements. He was somewhat aware of Hermione calling his name, but he found not the heart to answer.
He was kneeling in a pool of his father's blood, holding a blond head so much like his own, pleading the impossible from a corpse. His eyes, so cruel and full of malice for the last seven years, were wet and red; his face, which had always been arranged in an unbecoming sneer, was now moist with tears that did not cease to fall. For once in his life, he was paying no mind to Harry, conjuring no dark thoughts in his head. For now, even if it only lasted a moment more, he was just a lost child mourning someone he had loved.
He should have felt good, Harry supposed – he had just destroyed Voldemort, hadn't he? He felt like the villain here, though. As much as he had detested the foul, sneering Slytherin, he pitied him as he watched him grieve. He almost wanted to go up to him and say something comforting, but he knew that there were no words that could fix things between them.
Harry felt someone, probably still Hermione, prodding him in the shoulder, but he ignored her. The blond boy's breathing was ragged as his tears began to ebb. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe and glanced up.
He looked straight at Harry, and his gaze was neither hateful nor accusing. He simply looked, unashamed of his red eyes and mussed-up hair. Harry wasn't sure if he should smile or tear his gaze away, so he simply returned the stare.
The other boy bit his lip and looked away first. He gently smoothed the hair above his father's brow and carefully lay his head down on the street. He remained kneeling, though, as if unsure what to do next. Harry almost wanted to go up to him and apologize. That would have been ridiculous, though, he thought. He hadn't killed Lucius, and the Death Eater had been a terrible person anyway. He wasn't sorry that Lucius was dead, he wasn't sorry that Voldemort was gone and all the Death Eaters were doomed, but he was sorry that the boy had lost his father.
"Harry!" he heard, and at last he heeded his friend's voice. Hermione's face was flushed and moisture clung to her eyelashes. "Are you alright?"
He thought about that one. Was he alright? No, not really. But all the fear had left him; he was no longer a hunted man. He was just Harry Potter, and that was fine by him. "I guess I am," he said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.
"Great," she said tiredly. "Can you look after Ron for a moment?" she asked, stroking his tousled orange hair. "I want to go see if he's okay." She gestured with her eyes towards the blond boy who was still kneeling motionless in the blood of his father.
"Yeah," Harry said after a moment of surprise. "Sure, I'll take care of him." He drew his friend from Hermione as she gave him the slightest of smiles.
"I'll be right back, Ron, don't you worry for a second." She walked over and kneeled down beside the young man. She put a comforting arm around his shoulders and he didn't pull away.
Harry wished that he had half of Hermione's good sense. The cleverest witch of her year was what everyone had called her, but she had to be the most compassionate too. He almost wished that he had gone over there with her – not that he wanted to give the boy a hug or anything, but there were still wrongs left to be righted.
Maybe later.
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It barely registered in his mind at first that Hermione had joined him. The girl was unbothered by the unsavory puddle they were sitting in, and again he felt that he could almost have the tiniest smidgen of respect for her. He glanced out the corner of his eye at her face. She hadn't come to gloat, or to laugh at his weakness, so it seemed. Her expression was comforting, something he had never expected.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, and put her arm around him. He bit his lip and swallowed, wondering what the proper reaction was when your enemy suddenly showed you mercy. He was sure that pulling away was definitely the wrong thing, and so he allowed her to stay with him. Her touch felt positively maternal, which was something he missed; he had no idea what had happened to his own mother. She could be dead, or in Azkaban for all he knew.
He didn't care anymore. All that mattered was that he was not completely alone, not hated by everyone. Most people, he supposed, but not everyone.
And so he said what seemed best fitting: "I'm sorry too."
She smiled slightly and stayed with him until he was ready to get up. Yes, he definitely respected her, and he felt he could almost like her.
Almost.
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Awww! Poor Draco!!! Wanna review? It's easy... just click the pretty periwinkle button....
Work: Harry Potter
Genre: Angst
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13
It seemed to him that the bright warmth of the sun was a blatant and blasphemous mockery of the carnage in the streets. The stones were hot with blood that steamed off their smooth surfaces; red rivers flowed to cover the blackened stain where the Dark Lord had fallen.
But there was no celebration at his defeat. No, there was not a single happy face to be found anywhere, not a solitary trace of mirth. After all, how could anyone find the heart to find joy in the victory when there had been such cost?
Potter, miserable little Potter, was simply standing in the middle of the road; he hadn't moved since he had ended it all. He wondered what Potter was thinking and whether he was finally satisfied. He hoped so, because the bastard had taken everything from him.
Hermione was trying to make him speak, saying his name over and over in a tone that because increasingly filled with worry, at the same time that she held Weasley's sobbing self in one arm and clutched a wound in her side with the other. He could almost respect her right now – almost.
Professor Snape was sitting silently on the curb, his limp hair in his face. Remus Lupin sat next to him, talking quietly with a sad grey expression. Dumbledore took the hand of a weepy Professor McGonagall and gravely handed her a handkerchief. That oaf Hagrid was making a body count, and he didn't want to hear what number he was up to. Aurors were leading away the Death Eaters who had survived – like those who had fought the Dark Lord and lived, they were few.
So many were gone. The Dark Lord hadn't simply killed, he had massacred, and the other side had not shown any more mercy than he.
Arthur Weasley was dead. He was stupid, he had always been stupid. Too eager, he thought. He had been one of the first, and Ron had disguised his tears for so long. Now, he was crying like a baby into Hermione's shoulder.
Crabbe and Goyle were dead. He didn't care. He had never cared anything for the useless sods, and he wasn't about to start mourning them now.
George Weasley was dead. It was almost funny how utterly lost Fred looked and how broken up Percy was. Ridiculous, pompous Percy had finally been thrown out of his little world of offices and Galleons.
That Auror Tonks was dead. He had thought her pretty before, despite her impossibly colored hair, but her face was twisted in agony and her limbs broken from what the Dark Lord had done to her.
His father was dead. He was kneeling at the side of the corpse, cradling the blond head in his arms and paying no mind to the red pool that was soaking his robes. Tears ran down his cheeks as he begged his father to wake up, and he didn't care who saw. He didn't care if Potter thought he was weak of if Granger laughed about it later. Potter had taken his father from him, but he had neither the strength nor the will to retaliate.
It was not supposed to end like this.
He was supposed to win; the Dark Lord was supposed to win. He was supposed to be able to laugh at Potter's dead body, not the other boy able to stare at him and his father's corpse like he was now.
He buried his face in his father's robes, muffling the sound of his crying and smearing the tears all over his pale cheeks. He almost wished that Potter would begin to laugh, or that someone would make a crude remark about his weak state so that he could curse them to Hell and back. The energy would not come, though, and his hatred was drowned by his grief.
------------------
Harry watched him, remaining perfectly still as if the crying young man was some sort of small animal which would be driven away by any sudden movements. He was somewhat aware of Hermione calling his name, but he found not the heart to answer.
He was kneeling in a pool of his father's blood, holding a blond head so much like his own, pleading the impossible from a corpse. His eyes, so cruel and full of malice for the last seven years, were wet and red; his face, which had always been arranged in an unbecoming sneer, was now moist with tears that did not cease to fall. For once in his life, he was paying no mind to Harry, conjuring no dark thoughts in his head. For now, even if it only lasted a moment more, he was just a lost child mourning someone he had loved.
He should have felt good, Harry supposed – he had just destroyed Voldemort, hadn't he? He felt like the villain here, though. As much as he had detested the foul, sneering Slytherin, he pitied him as he watched him grieve. He almost wanted to go up to him and say something comforting, but he knew that there were no words that could fix things between them.
Harry felt someone, probably still Hermione, prodding him in the shoulder, but he ignored her. The blond boy's breathing was ragged as his tears began to ebb. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe and glanced up.
He looked straight at Harry, and his gaze was neither hateful nor accusing. He simply looked, unashamed of his red eyes and mussed-up hair. Harry wasn't sure if he should smile or tear his gaze away, so he simply returned the stare.
The other boy bit his lip and looked away first. He gently smoothed the hair above his father's brow and carefully lay his head down on the street. He remained kneeling, though, as if unsure what to do next. Harry almost wanted to go up to him and apologize. That would have been ridiculous, though, he thought. He hadn't killed Lucius, and the Death Eater had been a terrible person anyway. He wasn't sorry that Lucius was dead, he wasn't sorry that Voldemort was gone and all the Death Eaters were doomed, but he was sorry that the boy had lost his father.
"Harry!" he heard, and at last he heeded his friend's voice. Hermione's face was flushed and moisture clung to her eyelashes. "Are you alright?"
He thought about that one. Was he alright? No, not really. But all the fear had left him; he was no longer a hunted man. He was just Harry Potter, and that was fine by him. "I guess I am," he said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.
"Great," she said tiredly. "Can you look after Ron for a moment?" she asked, stroking his tousled orange hair. "I want to go see if he's okay." She gestured with her eyes towards the blond boy who was still kneeling motionless in the blood of his father.
"Yeah," Harry said after a moment of surprise. "Sure, I'll take care of him." He drew his friend from Hermione as she gave him the slightest of smiles.
"I'll be right back, Ron, don't you worry for a second." She walked over and kneeled down beside the young man. She put a comforting arm around his shoulders and he didn't pull away.
Harry wished that he had half of Hermione's good sense. The cleverest witch of her year was what everyone had called her, but she had to be the most compassionate too. He almost wished that he had gone over there with her – not that he wanted to give the boy a hug or anything, but there were still wrongs left to be righted.
Maybe later.
------------------
It barely registered in his mind at first that Hermione had joined him. The girl was unbothered by the unsavory puddle they were sitting in, and again he felt that he could almost have the tiniest smidgen of respect for her. He glanced out the corner of his eye at her face. She hadn't come to gloat, or to laugh at his weakness, so it seemed. Her expression was comforting, something he had never expected.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, and put her arm around him. He bit his lip and swallowed, wondering what the proper reaction was when your enemy suddenly showed you mercy. He was sure that pulling away was definitely the wrong thing, and so he allowed her to stay with him. Her touch felt positively maternal, which was something he missed; he had no idea what had happened to his own mother. She could be dead, or in Azkaban for all he knew.
He didn't care anymore. All that mattered was that he was not completely alone, not hated by everyone. Most people, he supposed, but not everyone.
And so he said what seemed best fitting: "I'm sorry too."
She smiled slightly and stayed with him until he was ready to get up. Yes, he definitely respected her, and he felt he could almost like her.
Almost.
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Awww! Poor Draco!!! Wanna review? It's easy... just click the pretty periwinkle button....