Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other characters, JK Rowling does, and I'm certainly not profiting off of them...I just use them as my puppets. Which is still good fun.

A/N: Second ever fic posted...it was the drabble that turned into a one-shot. I like to call it a drabbleshot. Call me inventive. The title comes from a song of the same name by Flogging Molly. Anyway, feedback is always appreciated, of course, so...enjoy! (I hope!) :)

------

This wasn't going well.

This wasn't going well at all.

Not that Draco was entirely sure what was happening, exactly. But he had the feeling no one was. No one who mattered, anyway.

He aimed a hex at an Order somebody and missed. He cursed under his breath.

Fuck.

He kicked at the withering blades of grass beneath his feet.

Fuck my aim, fuck the Dark Lord, fuck Potter, fuck this whole fucking day.

He yanked up the sleeve of his robes, irritated. It kept getting in the way.

Fuck my father's stupid robes.

They were too big, anyway. Tailored to fit his father's broad shoulders, rather than his own slender frame. It annoyed him. Whenever he wore these, it annoyed him. A lot.

He had done this all for him, after all.

Done it all for him.

Why?

Draco didn't really know. But whenever he thought of it, his Mark burned. Burned for his father's guidance, for his support, for his reason for…everything.

Why he was here.

Cloaked in black, face sweating beneath his oppressive mask.

He ached for time spent, time lost, with his father. It had all made sense, then. He had explained the need to serve the Dark Lord, and it had made sense. It was something he had to do. It was something he was going to do.

But nothing made any sense right now. He felt young and hopeless and confused and angry and so fucking scared.

He knew that until he wasn't, his curses were going to miss.

He didn't feel any of the old flame in his belly, anymore. The flame that urged him to keep going, that what he was doing was right, that his father would be proud if he just pushed himself a little harder…

The flame had been extinguished with the rainy chill of the evening air, and the sun that was obscured behind the darkening clouds. Soon the sun would be gone, and all he would have would be an emotionless palette of gray and blue and dead.

He saw a girl running terrified away from a man in billowing black robes. Dolohov.

He was a bit surprised to see that the girl was Granger. She was whimpering in fear and haphazardly throwing curses Dolohov's way but he blocked them all and said something about finally finishing her off at last.

A flash of fear curled in Draco's chest, like a vine around his ribcage, squeezing tight. It shook him, and he felt like he was going to fall over.

An anchor. He needed an anchor.

His anchor was gone.

And with it, his reason to keep going.

His beliefs, all the ideas he had come to think of as unwavering truths, were falling away from him, from beneath his feet. And soon, he would fall, too. And no one would be there to save him…

And then everything stopped.

Draco panicked when he saw what everyone had stopped to look at.

The Dark Lord and Potter were in the middle of the chaos, facing each other like they didn't know anyone else was in the vicinity. The Hogwarts grounds had never been so quiet, so still, as if the wind had ceased to exist and the earth had ceased to spin. Dolohov stopped in his pursuit, and Granger, either stupidly or cleverly, froze as well.

But Draco could not see or feel or hear anything other than the Dark Lord and Potter and his own heart hammering inside his chest.

This was it.

He looked at Potter and was frightened at what he saw. Potter looked calm and serene and completely at home, as if what would come, would come, and he would be alright with it. He stood stock still, wand in hand, blood on his shirt from a wound that must have hurt but he didn't seem to notice. It was not the Potter that Draco had known in school, and he absently wondered what must have happened to him to be this way, but it was foolish to think of these things now.

The Dark Lord said something to Potter, something undoubtedly taunting, and Potter only quirked his lips up a little bit. He was sweating and filthy and faced with death but Draco had never seen anything quite as beautiful.

But then Potter turned, as if looking for something, until finally settling his eyes upon Draco.

Draco's breath caught.

Potter looked him straight in the eye and Draco wanted to run away. Potter's eyes were calm and fierce and noble and determined and so vivid and Draco felt himself shrinking under his gaze. His felt an unbelievable pressure squeeze his stomach and his chest and all his insides and it hurt and he wanted to cry but he didn't know where the tears would come from.

But then Potter smiled at him.

And the truth slammed home.

He had never wanted this. He had never wanted to do this. His father had done it and it had made all that sense but all Draco had ever wanted was security. He had allowed himself to dive headfirst into a war and he didn't even know what he was fighting for and if it was even real. If any of it was even real.

In Potter's eyes, he had seen security. He had known what it felt like. It had felt like a warm blanket hugging his heart and it had felt like a soothing salve to the burning on his forearm.

And Draco realized that that was what he wanted. That was what he was fighting for.

And he had to fight. He could not rest or think or mourn his father until he had done all he could, or until death overtook him. He had to act. Right now.

His hex at Dolohov did not miss.