Author's Note: Some events have been slightly (or significantly) altered.

It was the first time the Malfoy Manor had failed to repair itself. Supporting itself throughout the centuries with the strongest and oldest magic, the snowy peacocks would always return eventually and the bricks would always go back to their intended place. No spell could destroy it, in the true sense of the word, and the fire in the ornate fireplace would always burn with the pride of more than a hundred generations. It was meant to outlast any war, survive every fire and flood and storm, so that the blood of its family could always return to it until time itself gave in.

If Tom Riddle truly ever took anything from someone, it was a home. As Harry's footsteps echo in the parlor, he hears – no, feels – the foundation of the Manor give one of its last creaks. A layer or dust and grime covers every inch of the cracked marble tiles, and he slowly follows the lone trail of dried blood until he finds the crumpled figure of the last true Malfoy child.

This was the result of the war. But it was over now, it was over, and maybe Draco didn't realize it yet.

"Come on, Draco. Please." He drops his wand. Harry is very tired now, but he still must pick up the pieces.

It's only after the war that Draco really becomes beautiful. Silent and defeated, all Harry really notices is the paleness of his skin, heaving and panting on the ground like a newborn bird that fell out of its nest. A jewel in the midst of garbage. He was never ready for the fighting.

"You were supposed to save them," he breaks his sacred vow of silence, picking himself off the ground and lunging at him clumsily. Harry doesn't move, eyes fixed on his shoes and definitely, definitely not on Draco. He feels fingernails digging into the flesh on his arms, he feels him tugging, pressing the top of his head into his chest, as his shaky voice grows louder.

"You were supposed to fix everything, Harry!"

They were both so, so tired. Those were the words Harry wished that he could tell at least one person, but he could never bring himself to it. I'm tired. Don't depend on me. I'm not doing this anymore. All this time, while Harry had been pushing forward, despite the many graves at his feet, laid for him like a pathway, Draco was confined to the Manor's grounds, watching it fall and rise and fall and rise again while not being able to do a single thing.

"Draco..."

Tilting his head forward, Harry kisses his blond hair, wrapping him in the warmth and safety of his own arms. Draco rejects it by accepting it, pale fingers lacing together around his neck and bringing himself to kiss him, hard and unapologetic, on the lips. He's spilling all of his emotions onto him, who he knows can take it because he's taken him at his worst so many times. He just wants to get away, and the only way to do that is through Harry. It had been so long since the last time his green eyes gave him that undying promise – "Just stay here, and I'll come back for you" – And now, he would never have to leave him again. Because the war was over. It's over.

"You were supposed to save my family!"

At this point, Draco allows himself to be more selfish than he usually is. But Harry returns his kiss. It's soft but fierce, with a thousand I'm sorrys, a thousand forgive mes, a thousand attempts to start over again. Because the war was over. It's over. But the repercussions remain.

"…You were supposed to save me."

Lift your head and look out the window

Stay that way for the rest of the day and watch the time go

Listen, the birds sing

Listen, the bells ring

All the living are dead, and the dead are all living

The war is over, and we are beginning