Title: Sunsets
Author: creepycrawly
Characters/Pairings: Harry PotterxDraco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: slash, angst like woah, spoilers for books 5&6
Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them...well, let's just say the whole damn series would be shrinkwrapped.
Summary: Harry feels betrayed by sunsets.
Harry feels betrayed by the sunsets. Everything bad that has occurred in his life has occurred near a sunset. This is, of course, in addition to the agonizing realizations that the sunsets he experiences will never be fiery declarations of love, waiting to be ridden off into as the story comes to a twist close. His sunsets have, as of yet, been the deaths of days that he is glad to see go.
Over the hill, he can hear soft chanting and singing. Somewhere in the blend, he thinks he can just hear Pansy Parkinson's sweet alto. It's trembling slightly—all their voices are. As the sun begins to set over the hill, their voices waver on, gaining a little strength. She and the others have been singing for hours, now, maybe even days. As the sun rises, as the sun falls, the voices of the remaining twelve Voxsaltutori have been trembling and wavering in a song they know too well.
It's ingrained in their pores, is the morscantus, twisted in with their very DNA. The magic that birthed them, that gave them voices of silver and gold, that gave them hearts of song and the ability to weave magic in their every note, taught them the song. Each and every one of them was born knowing it. For much of their lives, they've prayed against ever having to use it.
But for these past few days (Weeks? Months? Years? Lifetimes, even?) they've been singing it, a plaintive refrain. Their voices rise, their voices fall, the only sound in the still air of the permanent-dusk.
'Morscantus,' Harry thinks bleakly, mentally reciting. 'The Death Song of the Voxsaltutori. The most beautiful song that has ever been sung, and the most dreadful.'
----
(Soft hands on his face, smoothing down his cheeks, wrapping around his throat.
If I were to kill you now…
Green eyes, looking up trustingly, a depth of love and emotion and knowledge and warmth. Rough, chapped hands slipping around smooth, pale, scarred hips. Pale face, tilting slightly. Chapped lips move slowly, whisper-soft, over delicate skin.
But you wouldn't.
One delicate eyebrow, arching high.
Wouldn't I?
A firm shake of the head.
You wouldn't.)
----
Pansy's voice shakes for a moment, and then shoots straight up the register, bringing the song into its third cycle. Feeling his breath catching in his throat, Harry turns away, walking towards the ruins of a once magnificent home.
Who knew, who knew? he wonders.
And, indeed, who knew? Who knew that the Malfoys with their pretty sneers and their sharp eyes were double agents? Snape, perhaps, but there's no way to ask him now. Maybe Professor McGonagall. But she's no help now, either. She's been dead for twenty-two days and three hours and fourteen minutes and two seconds, a casualty of Harry's own explosive power.
----
(You're the strongest wizard I've ever met…my god, you could flatten the entire castle if we didn't ward the rooms we screw in!
Dark green eyes crinkling into a sharp grin. Hands landing on impossibly-narrow hips. Messy, dark hair tangling with longer, paler strands.
No way. I'm just…just me…
A snort of disdain. Long legs twining with long, tan ones. A pale head pillowing itself on a large, firm chest.
Well, Just Me, you'd best believe me, or there'll be no secret us…)
----
Who knew the Malfoys were one of the last pureblood clans of Voxsaltutori? Maybe his parents, not that he can ask them. Sirius probably knew, too, but he can't ask him, either. And Remus, well, Remus probably knew, too, but he, too, is dead, body still locked in a death's grip with Bellatrix Lestrange. They've been dead for twenty-two days, three hours, and exactly fourteen seconds. Killing two people at once is difficult, even for Harry's unrestrained power.
The sounds of the Voxsaltutori falling into the fourth cycle makes Harry's spine tremble. It's the most mournful of all the cycles, sung in those pure, crystal clear notes that is the language of the Voxsaltutori. The separation of lovers bound, that is what the fourth cycle is. The first is the separation of parents from children, the second that of wives and husbands, the third of siblings. The fifth is the splitting of friends, the sixth is simple lovers, the seventh is that of twins.
----
(I…I just can't believe it, you know? It's…it's not…not normal…
A soft smile. Blankets rustle slightly. Pale bodies twine towards on another, the moon lighting on milk-white and sun-gold skin.
Maybe for you, it is. But…pureblood twins…they're different. The Greeks…they had this legend…well, it's like this…
Pale lips parting, and the clearest sound he's ever heard emerging. Sweet, delicate notes vibrate in the air. Green eyes follow the bobbing of that Adam 's apple, listening.
Beautiful. What is it?
Warm lips on his smooth cheek.
That is the beginning of the unushomocantus. Twins, well, they're one soul in two. The Greeks believed that souls were once circles, but the gods tore them in two because they were jealous of humans' happiness. Over the years, we have, for the most part, managed to get over it and survive with half a soul. Sometimes, though, they mess up and a single, whole soul is created. That's how pureblood twins are born. They're born for one another, and nobody else.
Dark lashes caressing cheeks as he blinks.
And what about the rest of us?
Silver eyes dancing, a warm smile on his lips. Long, thin fingers—artists' fingers—twine with calloused ones, clenching together.
The rest of us? Well, sometimes, we're lucky enough to find our other half. That, my dear, is a soulmate.
Leaning in, soft lips on his own.)
----
Killing Fred and George Weasley took almost all of his strength, so they've only been dead for twenty-two days, three hours, and ten minutes. They held out a full four minutes, the strength of their bond serving as a wall against his unbound magic. Still, every action has a reaction, and their magic flickered out and left them to face his all alone.
Harry'll never forget it. First went Fred's magic, and he collapsed in George's arms. The bubble of magic surrounding them went from royal blue to the pale shades of dusk in a heartbeat. Screaming for his twin to breathe, to open his eyes, to live to live to live to just live, George had all too quickly burned up his magic.
As their shield had flickered from dusk to powder blue to gone, Harry had shaken his head and screamed 'I'm sorry'.
George just smiled at him sadly and answered, 'we know.'
And then the Weasley Twins had died.
Five seconds later, Harry's own magic had faded.
Hearing the group over the hill starting in on the seventh cycle of the morscantus—it sounds an awful lot like a horrible corruption of the unushomocantus—Harry shivers, tears burning in his eyes. Five seconds. Five bloody seconds, and they would have been safe. Five bloody seconds, and they'd still be alive.
Because five seconds after that came the final death in the Ninth Dark War, the Second War against Voldemort.
Five seconds later, the one person Harry had always sworn to protect had stepped forward, arms spread and chin held high.
Thinking about that makes Harry collapse to his knees. It's not enough that he has killed his mentors, his friends, his almost-family. It's not enough that he has killed everyone (and everything) that was in a five-hundred foot radius of him when his power unbound. It's not enough that he has wiped out almost an entire generation.
No, no.
Harry has been the destruction of his own soulmate.
----
(Arms wide, wearing nothing more than a long pair of soft, cotton pants, Draco Malfoy stands before him, an untouched angel in the midst of this chaos.
"Come on, Harry," he whispers gently, the sound somehow audible despite the roar of unrestrained wild magic. "Just let it go."
"Can't," Harry breathes. "Can't. Can't hurt you."
"Can't hurt me," Draco agrees, arms still wide open. "But you might hurt you. I can't let that happen. Let it go. Just let it go."
Shuddering, trusting him, Harry closes his eyes and lets the last of his magic slip from his tentative control.)
----
The bright flash of light that had resulted from Draco taming Harry's released magic with his voice is still imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. In some strange, cruel trick of fate, the light had been as green as Avada Kedavra.
And Draco's death had been just as swift.
Soft footsteps on the grass behind him make Harry look up. Seeing Tonks, he smiles sadly. She's lost just as much as he has, recently. And it's been at his hands, too, but she's still taking care of him. She's forcing food and potions down his throat, bandaging the burns on his hands from the magic, walking him through the motions of living.
Her hair is long and silvery right now, and Harry wonders if that might be its natural colour. She is, after all, related to Narcissa. But then again, Bellatrix had dark hair, and so did Sirius. Harry's never met Andromeda, even though she was one of the witches keeping him alive. She, too, died, but thanks to Voldemort's followers, not Harry.
Tonks looks at him, her eyes deep green and sad. "Oh, Harry," she sighs softly, slipping an arm around him. "Oh, Harry," she repeats as she lays her head on top of his. It's a warm, soft, motherly embrace, much like Molly Weasley might give him if she weren't preparing to bury the better part of her family right now.
Harry can feel the tears burning in his eyes. "I never wanted this," he whispers.
"I know," she answers gently, squeezing him.
"He sang out his life, you know," Harry whimpers. He has no idea why he's doing this, except that it feels so much better just to tell someone how he feels. Even up to the end, Hermione and Ron refused to believe that Draco was protecting Harry, that his entire family was helping the Order. They refused to believe that Harry loved him.
He doesn't know what they think now. They've been too afraid to approach him, really. Everybody has been.
"I know," Tonks responds.
"He loved me," Harry cries. "He loved me, and I killed him. I killed him, Tonks!"
"Shh," she whispers, pulling him close against her. "Harry, did you force him to come out there? Did you force him to stand in front of you unprotected?"
"No, but…"
"But nothing, Harry. He loved you, alright. He loved you, and he knew what needed to be done," she murmurs, her embrace tender and loving.
"But…" Harry pleads.
Tonks just shakes her head. Quietly holding Harry against her, she stares at the setting sun, casting a golden glow over the whole valley. Its warm light, though rapidly fading, makes the whole dead tableau look a little more alive. The splinters of houses and trees and people look a little less ghostly, a little less burnt away, when the light of the setting sun hits them.
Harry stares at the dying sun, his eyes watering sharply. There's still a silver mist rising from the destroyed village. It's more visible under the light of the stars and the moon, though. It's kind of like ghosts, and kind of not—the only time someone had tried to explain it to Harry, he hadn't been too interested in listening, because he hadn't wanted to think about death.
Tonks, seeing the look on his face, lays her head on top of his again, her silvery-blonde hair fluttering in the wind. "It's okay to cry, Harry."
And that breaks all of the walls within him. He collapses against her, crying for everyone he hasn't cried for—everyone he hasn't been able to cry for.
Sirius, killed by drapery because of Harry's own stupidity.
Dumbledore, killed by Harry himself because Harry couldn't fight Voldemort on his own.
Charlie, killed by fiancé because they'd been overheard talking about Harry.
Cedric, killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Bill, killed by Fleur under the Imperius Curse.
Narcissa Malfoy, killed by her own sister for being a spy.
Snape, killed by the Order for killing Dumbledore—even though, in the end, it had been on Dumbledore's command.
Professor McGonagall, killed in the first wave of Harry's exploding power.
Bellatrix, killed in the second.
Remus, killed with her.
Fred, killed in the third wave, dying in George's arms.
George, killed shortly after him, but already having had to see that which had always scared him.
Draco, killed by Harry.
Draco, killed for loving him.
Draco, gone, forever, because of Harry.
"Sometimes, Harry," Tonks whispers, watching the sun fall beyond the ridge, dying completely, "love means watching someone die."