A/N: This is my first Drarry oneshot I've ever done, so I'm a bit nervous.
It's for my dear friend, potterhard, for her birthday.
I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think.
JK Rowling is the sole owner of the characters, that beautiful British woman.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Harry should have been able to defeat Voldemort. Wormtail shouldn't have stepped in front of the Dark Lord at the last second, deflecting that final spell. As his body hit the soggy grass, the gong rang. The war was on.
Voldemort was gone in an instant, regrouping, planning, strategizing.
Harry was left, caught up in a world where he was the champion and loser, so many people leaning on him, so much death falling upon his head.
Thousands had died. Hundreds more die every day.
Harry felt every death like a pin in his brain.
Your fault. This is your punishment for not being strong. Like Snape. Lupin. Fred. The countless others gone. You are weak, Harry.
One starless night, he stood on the only sound structure remaining on the Hogwarts grounds. The astronomy tower was open to the darkness of the sky, the faint burning of the castle's many wings. Nothing was left of Hogwarts but a pile of rubble, a lake filled with stone, papers scattered and still charring in the cold fall wind.
Harry relished his time alone despite the destruction of his home around him. The bodies of students, his friends, professors he looked up to, all have been moved to shallow graves down by the lake, crosses fixed in the loose soil, a ring of flowers over every carved name. Despite being alone, he didn't feel alone. This was still their home. He looked down over line after line of markers, feeling the same emptiness that trickled in from his dreams to waking life.
The bodies of the Death Eaters, felled by the Order or by lucky students, were burned near the edge of the forest. They were now nothing but a pile of twisted metal masks, distorted into gruesome, twisted faces with heat and ash, bones, and family crests.
Harry pulled out a tattered piece of parchment, the ever present reminder sitting in his pocket. He unfolded it carefully, cautious not to rip along the edges. The myriad of names folded out before him. On the left, a column of those friends and neighbors, his closest, that were still alive. Hermione Granger. Ron Weasley. Luna Lovegood. Ginny Weasley. The list went on.
But lately, the right column of the paper had begun to fill. Slowly, dreadfully, a name would float from the left to the right and take their permanent seat there. Deceased. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. Fred Weasley. George Weasley. Neville Longbottom.
Harry had become obsessed with this piece of parchment. Whenever he felt at ease, whenever his mind slipped into quiet oblivion, an itch would start in his fingers. What if someone had died just then? What if a name was floating away, never to be seen or heard from again, another grave on the grounds, another victim to the war? He sat up, frantically reaching into his pocket. Most times, the columns haven't changed. Occasionally, his heart would sink and bile would rise in his throat. Another friend lost.
As he pulled the parchment out for the seventh time that night, a choking sound of relief pulled from his throat. The right column hadn't grown. He closed his eyes for a moment before folding it carefully and slipping it back into his pocket.
Harry leaned against the cool stone, feeling the wind ruffle his outgrown hair. He wishes he could sink into the mortar and disappear, leaving all the pressure behind. When had things become so hard?
He got looks everyday. In the underground Order meetings, he felt the judgment, the quiet whispers. People blamed him for not being able to defeat the Dark Lord on his first go. He was the "Chosen One," right? Or was Trelawney just a pile of nonsense, sending a false prophet to bring them forward? Every death, hanging on his shoulders.
So lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the footsteps ascending the crumbling stairs behind him. He felt more than heard a presence a moment later. In a lightning fast movement perfected by time and paranoia, he pulled his wand and spun around.
No one knows I'm here. No one.
It's possible that Draco Malfoy knew. He stood about ten feet away at the entrance to the stairway, his grey eyes trained on Harry. His face was emotionless, a complete mask of pale skin. Dark circles ran under his eyes; his hair was long and askew. He was dressed in all black, a traditional Death Eater outfit. A mask, metal, horrifying hung limply from his fingers, his wand nowhere to be seen.
Harry felt a rage like he'd hardly ever known as he gripped his wand, his mouth ready to fire the final unforgiveable. What right did Draco fucking Malfoy have to be here? He was the spark that started the war. Voldemort's first task, Dumbledore's final fall. Harry had the chance to stop this monster standing before him, the man who had ruined so much more than just his quiet retreat.
"You. You. You have no right to be here. But what am I complaining for, hmm? You've made me killing you so much easier," Harry snarled, staring down the man before him.
Malfoy didn't react. He just kept staring, his head tilting slightly. The Death Eater mask dropped from his fingers. Metal against stone crunched loudly against the silence.
"Did you hear me, you fucking pureblood scum? I'm going to kill you. I always knew you were weak." Harry laughed, the sound unforgiving and a little manic. "You can't even defend yourself. Anything left to say, Malfoy? Any dying declarations of love to your lord? Fucking little Death Eater pawn."
Once again, he got no response. As the curse fell upon Harry's lips, Malfoy opened his mouth calmly.
"Kill me."
Harry faltered, the words dropping from his mouth and to the stone.
"Excuse me?"
Malfoy snarled in response, the mask breaking. He looked too comfortable, falling to hatred.
"Are you deaf, Potter? I said kill me."
Harry grit his teeth, anger seething through him once more. Malfoy couldn't even give him the satisfaction of a fight, of a small win in the war. It infuriated him. Another strike upon him. Malfoy was testing Harry, teasing him. He didn't want to die; he wanted to knock down Harry's victory to a favor. He had probably just forgotten his wand, knew he had no way to defend himself. A fucking favor.
Harry Potter gave favors to no one, especially not Draco Malfoy.
Harry steadied his wand once more, aimed right at Malfoy's chest, his muscles clenching.
"Avada-"
Malfoy was staring straight at him, and something in Malfoy's eyes stopped him. Or, more accurately, the lack of something there. In their Hogwarts years, the grey was bright, shining with malice, dark humor, and intelligence. There was nothing there now, absolutely nothing. Something inside Draco Malfoy had died, and Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable, the need to look away lest he be pulled into those black holes.
Draco Malfoy didn't care that he was about to die. Of all things, this bothered Harry the most. His wand dropped to his side, and he turned back to the smoldering view, knowing deep inside that he wouldn't die tonight.
"You're pathetic."
Harry heard the cold voice, but was suddenly too exhausted to reply, wondering if he was, indeed, weak. Draco Malfoy was defenseless behind him, asking to be killed. Even if it was some kind of sick favor, Harry was sure that Malfoy had killed and tortured. Another Death Eater down was a victory for the Order, and a victory for anyone Malfoy could hurt in the future.
He gripped his wand once more, stealing himself.
But, no. He couldn't do it.
Fucking hell. He had never seen someone so dead in his life, so hating of themself, so devoid of any emotion or humanity. How could he make Malfoy hurt worse than he was right now?
Harry heard footsteps again and suddenly Malfoy appeared in his peripheral view, ten feet away down the stone wall. He leaned on his elbows, crossing his arms and staring out over the ruined grounds. His eyes passed the graves and then fall upon the smoke from the burning Death Eaters.
No words passed between them that night. Around four am, Malfoy stood abruptly. Harry could hear his footsteps receding down the stairway. He was gone. It would never happen again, an anomaly, a mistake. If he came back, Harry would kill him.
The next night, long after sunset, Malfoy appeared again, apparating straight to the tower and leaning against his spot ten feet away. Harry jumped, swearing loudly and pulling his wand.
Malfoy caught his eye.
For the second night, Harry Potter failed to kill Draco Malfoy.
This pattern happened night after night for months. Malfoy would appear, and Harry would point his wand at his chest. He would catch the grey, lifeless eyes, not a word passing between them. Harry's wand would lower. Malfoy would leave after two hours.
Every day, the men seemed more and more exhausted. Harry sought refuge on the tower, nursing bruises and gashes from fights the Order orchestrated. Occasionally, Malfoy would arrive covered in blood. Harry would turn away, sick, wanting nothing more than to down the bastard. He just couldn't.
Around the third month, Harry began to expect the Death Eater. He stopped raising his wand when the pop sounded; didn't think about killing the man except for on the battlefield. Harry was less alone. Not a word had been spoken, but there was an understanding. They had seen horrors, done horrible things. For those two hours, there was no good side and bad side. No hatred. There was just exhaustion, compatible silence. A nothingness that rang clear as the fires of Hogwarts burned themselves out, leaving the two in darkness that even the moon couldn't penetrate.
One freezing night in late February, Harry unfolded his sacred parchment. The columns were off, one more name in the right. His breath seemed to freeze in the air, fogging before him. Hermione Granger. He folded the paper carefully, sticking it back into his pocket. He hardly noticed how hard he was crying until an animalistic scream ripped from his lungs.
He hadn't heard that sound since Sirius died.
Shaking and screaming, he clutched the stones, wanting nothing more than to throw himself off the tower. Harry swore, cursing everyone he knew, cursing himself for being weak.
There was a pop, a moment of silence punctuated by Harry's cries before strong arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him away from the edge of the tower. Harry fought and kicked, hitting at Malfoy, yelling the worst profanities he could think of. Malfoy did nothing but hold him more tightly, a small hum coming from his throat.
A couple of minutes later, Harry fell back against him, exhausted, shaking so hard that his vision blurred. Malfoy didn't move, his rock, the humming ever constant. Harry felt it deep in his bones, and it calmed him until he had no more tears left to shed. Malfoy released him when he calmed, walking to the edge of the tower and leaning in his spot once more. As if nothing happened.
It wasn't the only time Malfoy comforted Harry. Ron's name joined Hermione's a week later, quickly followed by Ginny and Molly Weasley. When Harry thought he had lost the ability to cry, his head would explode and he would scream, the tears running fresh. Every time, Malfoy was there in a second, as if he was monitoring him, holding him down from his own self destruction. The hum reverberating in Harry's ears was the only thing that could calm him. Like every time before, Malfoy would let him go and resume his spot. Once again, the silence was deafening.
As winter changed to spring and the air began to warm, Malfoy spoke the first sentence since their impromptu meetings began.
"My parents are burning out there." He nodded to the pile of bodies, now much higher since the massacre devised by the Order. It had been an empty success, more numbers, more families left behind.
Harry nodded, feeling a small bit of sympathy as Malfoy's mask slipped. He was an orphan, parentless, officially alone. Just as fast as it had come, though, it was gone. Malfoy closed his mouth, remaining silent for weeks.
Harry found himself watching Malfoy closely in the following weeks, paying less attention to the destroyed castle and the restless forest. His hair was the color of silken straw, his eyes nearly the same silver as the moon. He blinked less than a human should, and despite his leaning, he had perfect posture. Tall, lean, built, intimidating. Beautiful.
Dead inside.
Harry wondered how much the man had been hiding, if he really was the same person he was at Hogwarts. The paint was fading away, revealing the actual walls beneath them. Or was it the other way around? Could this be an elaborate trick? Keep Harry's guard down, tell Voldemort of his location? The Death Eaters would come, Voldemort in lead, and with one spell it would be over. Harry wouldn't expect it. Then again, no one had come by except for Malfoy. He was the only one Harry saw on the tower, the only one who surveyed the damage of their lost home.
Was it possible to trust him?
Harry began to notice something else as the spring turned to summer, and the humidity weighed down upon them. Malfoy appeared to be moving closer to him on the wall. For every week, about a foot was moved. He was eight feet away. Six. Four. Two. Finally, he walked straight over to Harry and leaned down next to him.
Harry's kneejerk reaction was to hex him, but Malfoy was confident, and didn't apologize for the closeness.
After a while, the silence became less deafening and more compatible.
Harry found himself enjoying the body heat next to him.
What was happening?
One night, in the sprinkling rain, the atmosphere changed. Malfoy apparated at the usual time, taking his position next to Harry. His hands shook and he clenched them into fists, his eyes shut tight against the world. Harry watched him silently, not sure what was happening.
Suddenly, piercing grey eyes shot open and he turned, grabbing Harry's robes roughly in shaking fists. Harry tensed, sure this was the moment where he would die, where the trust would be broken and the ambush would come.
The death curse never came. Instead, he felt a pair of lips crushed against his, the other man growling into his mouth. Harry's lips were forced open as an expert tongue snaked in, tasting him. Without thinking, without struggling, he kissed back, wrapping his arms around Malfoy's back.
Every movement was angry, passionate to an extreme that neither had ever felt. Malfoy knocked him back against the wall, pinning his arms as clothes were pushed off. Buttons were ripped, scattered, and fabric was shredded. They explored the other's body with tongues and lips and hands, fumbling, needing, wanting.
The humid air fell upon their skin, beading water and sweat as words were lost once again, this time in a desire neither had known existed. It was pure lust with pure emotion, so volatile and dangerous that their passion could've exploded, decimating everything around them. They were hot, burning, every touch met with another.
Draco Malfoy had never given so much of himself to anyone.
Nothing had ever been so fucking delicious. The forbidden sin.
They fell back to the cold stone together, their fire dying in sweat and harsh breathing. Harry relaxed, closing his eyes for a moment as Draco's arms wrapped around him. He was shaking again, his head resting on top of Harry's.
Harry felt himself smile for the first time since Hermione's death. He inclined his head back, looking up at the grey eyes.
They weren't so dead, not anymore.
A light kiss was placed on his lips, hands gently caressed his skin. Harry closed his eyes, resting against Draco's sweaty chest before turning his head and whispering into the other man's ear.
The rest of the night was spent in silence. Their clothes were repaired; they redressed, their usual spots taken once more. As if nothing happened.
The next night, Draco appeared in his usual black, throwing his Death Eater mask to the side and taking his position. After a minute, Harry felt unknown warmth. He looked down; Draco's hand was snaked around Harry's, his fingers twining with his.
Harry was surprised, but didn't resist, feeling a burning in his stomach as the men silently stared across the dark grounds, the fires higher than the day before. They were two loners, two people with the pressure of the world upon their shoulders. Two men who had nightmares, who saw no good in the world anymore.
They had found each other in the darkness, under the fire's glow, on the crumbling tower.
For the next week, their entwined fingers became routine, a new addition to the nightly meetings.
One night in August, Harry wasn't there.
Draco stayed there the two hours before disapparating, feeling a twinge in his stomch.
Harry wasn't there the next night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Draco felt a growing knot in his stomach, a sickness he couldn't relieve. After waiting the full two hours, he disapparated back to Malfoy manor.
There was a large group of Death Eaters gathered outside the house, malicious laughter hanging through the air.
Draco's stomach dropped; bile rose in his throat.
Somehow, he knew.
He walked inside, past the men that clapped him on the back and told him of the news. His ears didn't want to hear, so he simply carried on, the silence in his mind once again deafening.
Harry was lying on the dining room table, his hands and legs tied at extreme angles. Every inch of his body was covered in blood, the evidence of days of torture. Finally, Voldemort had ended the suffering.
Harry Potter ceased to exist.
Harry's eyes were open, the emerald green staring at the ceiling. The same color as the killing curse, the curse always meant to meet him, the ironic, beautiful eyes that held his demise, his death. He hadn't given up; Draco knew as much. His eyes were defiant despite his pain, despite his knowledge of his approaching last breath.
Draco Malfoy did not cry. He burned, he angered, he screamed inside, he hurt so fucking much. But he did not cry.
He moved to turn away, but something caught his eye. Harry's right fist was clenched around something. Gently, he unfolded the stiff fingers, revealing a ripped up old parchment.
Draco grabbed it, shooting the body one last look before turning to leave. He couldn't see Harry like that. That wasn't who Harry was. He was so much more than a prophecy, a dead end.
Once outside, amidst the celebrating and laughing, he disapparated back to their tower. Once open to the air, their shared view, he unfolded the parchment, recognizing it as the thing Harry was always pulling out, always watching, always cursing at.
The names upon it were old, faded with time. All except for one in dark charcoal, Harry's messy scrawl at the bottom left column.
Draco Malfoy.
Carefully, delicately, Draco sealed the paper with a preservation charm and placed it in his pocket.
The small parchment was always present with him from that time on.
It sat in his breast pocket as he researched the horcruxes tirelessly, determining which were gone.
It rested in his jeans pocket when he tortured Lavender Brown to death in front of Voldemort, proving his loyalty.
It sat in his robes as he discovered Nagini was the only horcrux left; when he took a knife and mutilated her past repair.
Finally, it rested against his heart as he walked up behind Voldemort, pointing his wand at the back of his neck. In a flash of green, the gong silenced. The war was over, and Draco Malfoy was gone.
Years later, he was spotted at the cemetery that held the body of Harry Potter. A woman saw him, recognizing him from old wanted posters.
By the time the aurors got there, he was gone.
A puzzling change had been made to the grave of the chosen one, the one everyone knew had to have taken Voldemort down.
The aurors stared, unsure of what to make of it.
There, carved near the bottom left side, laid a phrase. The last words Harry Potter had ever spoken to Draco Malfoy.
Don't give up.