A/N: If you're looking for a happy little story to warm the cockles of your heart, then slowly… Click… Away…
maybeyou'regonnabetheonethatsavesme
There is a startled murmur through the chamber as the iron doors slam open. The two Dementors glide in, the prisoner between them; they did not need to chain him – he could not run anyway.
The two hooded guards push him down the length of the hall and cast him down at the base of the green and silver throne. His eyes are hooded, but his head is held upright, as if he is unaware that he is in the place where he will die.
The crowd gathered to watch his death give a shared gasp, then burst into cheering. I am there in that crowd, but I will not cheer. The Dementors bow thrice to the figure on the throne and glide away.
The Dark Lord stands with Nagini in one hand and his wand in the other. The shouting dies down and is replaced with a silence, heavy with anticipation.
"So," the Dark Lord says, carefully stroking his snake with his wand. "So, Harry Potter, you come here to die."
Harry looks up from where he kneels on the cold stone floor. The numerous bruises on his face are dark against his pale skin, and he looks dreadfully thin.
"You wish," Harry spits, and those words sound so familiar, but I cannot remember where from.
The Dark Lord angrily replies in Parseltongue. Almost nobody else in the hall can speak the language, but Harry can. His eyes widen, tears barely visible in the green, and he hisses something back. The Dark Lord turns his attention from the boy and looks to us, his faithful Death Eaters.
"He replies so easily," he says – and was that a touch of admiration in his cold voice? "Yet he does not know who betrayed him. He thought he had loyal friends – he was mistaken. One of these supposed friends is here now, in my ranks!"
Harry stands and slowly turns, looking at the waiting crowd.
"Show yourself, my trusted servant," the Dark Lord says in a low voice. "Show the wretched child how he came to be here, then he may die in agony."
Without really knowing why or how, I step forward.
"It was I," I say loudly, and a mutter of assent ripples through the crowd. My father smiles proudly from next to the Dark Lord.
Harry's eyes widen, and he finally allows the tears to fall. Shimmering droplets flow down his cheeks as we lock gazes.
"Yes," the Dark Lord says. "It was he."
"No," Harry whispers angrily, brushing away his tears. "Tell them, tell them they're wrong!"
Not caring that the Dark Lord is staring right at us, he walks slowly to me. The people on either side of me step away.
"Tell them, Draco," he whispers. "Tell them that it's not supposed to be like this. We were – oh, Draco – we were… We were supposed to have our happy ending. This isn't happening…"
He looks at me, sad green eyes staring into my blank grey ones.
"You lied," he whispers. "You said you loved me… You lied."
"No, Harry,"' I whisper back. "I didn't lie at all."
"So it was real," he says. "It was real, so why is it like this?"
"I'm sorry," I reply.
Tears still spilling from his eyes, he turns away from me for the last time. My father raises a thin eyebrow and smirks.
"Go ahead," Harry says, his voice echoing through the hall. "Do your worst."
"Don't worry, Harry," the Dark Lord says, raising his wand. "I plan to."
I close my eyes as shouts of "Crucio!" fill the chamber. After a few minutes, everything is silent.
I open my eyes to see Harry lying face down on the floor, shaking from head to foot.
"No…" I whisper, but nobody hears me.
The Dark Lord does it then; he yells, "Avada Kedavra!"
I tell myself that it isn't happening, it isn't happening at all. Harry is not lying on the flagstones, pale and still and yet so beautiful.
No, we're going to get through this and spend the rest of our lives together in a house with a white picket fence and have children and laugh and cry and…
Why did I never notice that his eyes are the same color as the killing curse?
I call his name, and the Death Eaters are looking at me weirdly, but all I can think is…
Merlin, oh, Merlin, what have I done?