::64::
"Fifty—" Pansy's voice, more than just slightly tinged with maniacal greed, was cut short by the light that exploded above her. She looked up, squinting at the bright light above, then at its origin.
Draco was too exhausted to really notice. The physical torture may had paused for the time being, but what wounds it had left behind still overwhelmed him.
"Did the dog actually explode?" the woman turned, seeing that the animal's still body was still intact, and looked at the glittering fire above her. It seemed like something from a flagrate spell. "Zero-seven-three—" she narrowed her eyes at the crowd before her, "This is foolish! Which one of you did this?"
073180-060580 was in the sky, a stream of numbers that seemed meaningless—glowing from above where Albus lay.
"Protego!"
Pansy's face paled. "It can't be." She murmured, holding her wand up.
There, floating in the sky amongst the fading numbers, was Harry Potter.
Panic filled the area soon after, Deatheaters going as far as running over one another to reach their portkeys.
The woman rose her hand, shouting, "Crucio!"
Harry dodged it, the wind whipping through his hair as he rolled to dodge the spell. It was a madhouse. The sheer amount of people there caught him by surprise, and the spell Pansy had unleashed hit one of them.
His eyes caught the silver sheen of Draco's hair, where he had crumpled to the ground after distracting the woman holding him there. Harry wasn't certain how well a simple protection spell would hold up against Pansy—he needed to be sure to keep her attention on him.
The broom below him began to shake, and he froze, turning around to see that someone had hit it with a Reductor curse. The ground was unforgiving, knocking the wind out of him; his glasses lay crushed beneath him, and Harry thought, I really should have gotten around to fixing them like Hermione told me to.
It wasn't like he was expecting to end up in another battle—but would later admit to himself that retrospect could be a cold-hearted bastard.
"Oh, Potter," Pansy sighed, her smile so very similar to Bellatrix on the night of the fire at the Weasleys', "So glad you could make it." She aimed her wand, about to murmur the killing curse.
He heard Ron's voice in the sky above him. "Expelliarmus!"
Pansy sneered, turning to the sky; Aurors surrounded her. She barreled past Harry, deciding that his death was not worth her freedom, jumping toward what he could only assume to be a portkey.
Except it didn't take her anywhere.
Who was the fool, she thought darkly, snarling as she fought the binds, that chose rocks, of all bloody things, to be portkeys in the desert?
Ropes coiled around her, and Harry heard the chattering above his head as more Aurors dived in—they'd only managed to capture three other Deatheaters, most had portkeyed moments after Harry's arrival.
The dark-haired man grabbed his glasses, repairing them as well as a half-blind and impatient man could. He saw Albus.
Ron rushed over to him, shouting something, but Harry barely heard it.
He'd barely noticed it himself, but suddenly he was there, running his hand through the dog's fur, knowing there would be no response. Hermione sought him out.
"Harry," she said, kneeling next to him, a hand on his shoulder, "I'll take care of him, okay?"
"I can't leave him—"
"Malfoy needs you, too," she reminded him gently, "I'll be right here with him, Harry. I won't let anyone do anything, I promise."
He looked at her, as if he was uncertain, but turned toward Malfoy. He was unconscious; the other man leaned in close, his hand on his chest. He was still breathing. Harry thought about bringing him out of it, but he was hardly a qualified healer, and he knew nothing about the extent of his injuries.
"Take him to Mungo's," Ron shouted, to someone behind him.
The Mediwizard who transported them made some sort of comment about him being Harry Potter and how good it was that he'd been there to help them.
St. Mungo's was hardly his favorite place. A healer tried to stop him from accompanying Malfoy and Harry heard himself say, "I'm going with him."
Hearing his voice somehow made things more real to him. There was a rush of emotion that flooded through him, making him lift up his hand and take Malfoy's, despite whoever might have seen.
Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw from Hogwarts, had become a Healer. Harry remembered being surprised at the news, since he'd noticed that the man seemed to have an affinity for brewing potions—he was in Slughorn's advanced potions class.
"Keeping watch on him for the Ministry?" the healer asked, looking and taking note of the injuries he could see.
The Gryffindor stared at him blankly, and then remembered where he was and, more importantly, whom the Healer was referring to. He straightened up.
"Not for the Ministry," he answered simply, "how soon will you know everything?"
The healer looked up from his patient. "Not sure. I'll work as fast as I can, Harry."
Harry kept himself from saying that it wasn't fast enough.
::65::
"He has extensive muscle damage, bone damage," Healer Corner began, taking a breath to read off the rest of the list, "contusions and possible lung and heart damage. He sustained some head injury as well, but I think his brain will be okay. The rest of him…"
Harry tensed. He leaned forward, pressing his fingers together in front of him, lost in processing the first bit of bad news.
"We can offer a potion regimen, but it's going to be a long process. I don't think he'll be up and out of here for a little while. Additionally he may need some rehabilitation—I know magic should be the cure-all, but it isn't. Some of this is going to have to heal on its own, and some of his injuries we won't know the severity of until he does start to get better." The Healer looked at the celebrity in front of him, finding it odd that the man cared so much about someone he'd certainly seemed to hate and would have had good reason to continue doing so even years later. If there was one thing, however, that he knew not to ask about, it was his personal life.
"When will he wake up?"
Michael had been hoping Harry wouldn't ask him that question. "Well, we're keeping him in good shape here. Making sure he's getting hydration and pain management. He's suffered some extensive damage so it might take a little while, but ideally he'll come to soon. It's up to him, though, Harry. All we can do is hope."
The green-eyed man shifted his gaze to the floor. It wasn't the news he had wanted to hear.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
Those amethyst eyes suddenly flickered with an emotion the Healer was hesitant to decipher. The stare alone was indicative of how protective Harry was feeling.
"Do you have cots here?"
Michael was quiet for a moment. "We usually discourage family and," he looked at the familiar scar on the olive-skinned man's forehead, wondering what to call him in relation to a known Deatheater, "friends from staying for too long. Patients need their rest."
"I don't want him waking up alone. Someone could go after him here." It was obvious that Harry wasn't intending on leaving, and no amount of persuasion would change his mind.
The Healer simply nodded. "I'll be sure to have someone bring one for you here."
All he received in response was a silent nod.
::66::
It took far too long, the green-eyed wizard thought, for anyone to check on Malfoy. He hadn't been paying attention to the time, but he felt like he had been there for ages. The silence gave him far too much lienency in repeating the last two days in his mind—Malfoy, Albus, Malfoy and him.
Remembering the way the pale man touched him was painful enough. In the bed beside him, with bruises, he looked different. Dark purple, nearly black contusions contrasted with his skin grotesquely.
When Hermione arrived, the memory of Albus's motionless flashed through his mind. A jab of pain hit him, squeezing his chest and his lungs.
"Harry," the woman said gently, embracing him in a hug. The man hugged bank, his grip tight, like she was the only thing keeping him afloat in a stormy sea.
"How is he?"
The look on her friend's face the moment she saw him was indicative of something serious, but she didn't know how much until he had told her.
"Broken bones, muscle damage." He paused, almost afraid to murmur the next sentence, like somehow it would keep Malfoy silent forever if he admitted it. "They don't know when he'll wake up. They don't want to risk bringing him out of it with a spell, not with the damage he has."
His tone was flat, but his eyes glittered with a chaotic whirlwind of emotion.
Hermione nodded, silent for a while. She took his hand. "Malfoy's always been stubborn. He's a Slytherin, self-preservation is a skill."
Harry didn't say anything, but she knew her reassurance meant a lot.
She found herself smiling a little. "Seems like he'll never really leave you alone, I don't think he'd quit now."
The wizard cleared his throat, shifting his gaze away from her and changing the subject. He couldn't pretend nothing had happened. "What…about Albus?"
She stayed silent for a moment. "When you're ready, we can…whatever you want to do, Harry. We can…bury him. Ron and I will help."
He was thankful she didn't refer to him like he was simply a corpse. Remains was a word he detested using in the context of death.
"He helped save Malfoy's life," the man said finally, "he deserves recognition for that."
Hermione nodded, agreeing with him.
"Is Ron all right?"
"He's busy now—they're in the process of strategizing. Trying to find the best way to approach the rest of the Deatheaters. He'll be working overtime for a while."
The man met her gaze, rage brimming through his body. "When they get Pansy…" he took a deep breath, trying to quell the storm inside him, "tell Ron I want to be there when she gets the Kiss."
Hermione had rarely seen how vindictive the wizard could be. How, even he, the savior of the Wizarding world, touted for having such morals and good character, could thirst for revenge and bloodshed over those he cared about.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." She admitted, "I know you're angry, I know you want to see to it that she receives the consequences for her actions, but I don't think it'll be healthy for you to retain…those emotions."
Harry realized how much Hermione didn't actually know about how he'd changed after the war. Despite this, he knew she was right.
He just didn't care.
"Just tell him for me, please, 'Mione?"
The woman relented, saying that she would. It wasn't like she could say much else. She just hoped that he'd be distracted enough with Malfoy's recovery to invest the energy in the hatred that was growing inside him.
"I'll see if Ron can come by later. He'll probably have questions for you, about their investigation."
A long stretch of silence passed. When Hermione left, she saw, in the corner of her eye, Harry take Malfoy's hand. His thumb rubbed the underside of Malfoy's wrist. It was such a small thing and yet the action conveyed so much.
She prayed to Merlin that Malfoy woke up soon.
Losing him would destroy Harry—it didn't matter that he faced one of the most dangerous wizard of the world. It didn't matter that he still faced reminders of his legacy and danger every day because of it.
The hold Draco Malfoy had over Harry Potter was stronger than all those things combined. The man was teetering on a dangerous line, and facing a big threat.
The threat of having his heart broken.
…
Want to know something kind of funny? This story was originally supposed to be only a few chapters long.
It's interesting how things can change like that.
The end is rapidly approaching. Originally I was planning to go on much longer, but I feel that it would screw with the storyline if I strayed too far from the current climax. What does this mean? Well, I'm toying with the idea of a sequel, so I'm asking all of you for a favor.
After reading the final chapter, I would like you to consider this question:
Would a sequel be ideal for this, or should I leave it how it is?
This story is actually very personal for me in a lot of ways and holds some different aspects of the personal struggles I have and was facing over this past year—it's a form of catharsis. But I wouldn't like to impose that catharsis too much in a story and ruin the dynamics and relationships I have tried to convey.
Tl;dr: I don't want to Mary-Sue this thing. I'm proud of how it's turned out, and I would like it to retain the level of work I've put into it.