Chapter 29: Death is Everywhere, Death is My Own
The Hogshead is dimly lit with cobwebs clinging to the even darker corners, and Harry feels twitchy to know what is waiting for them just outside. It'd been a close call, with the three of them backed up, beneath the invisibility cloak, at the dead end of an alley, and while Harry had been desperately hoping to see a flash of platinum hair amidst the throng of their pursuers, he was also glad to escape with his life.
Aberforth Dumbledore is a man caught between his desire to do what's right, and his cynical sense of defeat that tries to tear him asunder.
Harry listens to the truth about his late Headmaster with guilt in his gut and relief in his chest, and he is happy that Rita Skeeter's shit in the guise of a book was left behind at Malfoy Manor.
Hermione looks as though she might cry when she hears about the loss of Ariana Dumbledore, and how both brothers spent their lives thinking her death was their fault. Ron is sympathetic, Harry can tell, but his emotions come second to his appetite, and while he grunts in compassion every now and then, the majority of the tale Ron spends glancing longingly at the half-eaten plate of bread and cheese.
Harry burns with a million questions, but he holds them in, and when Aberforth tells him he should go into hiding, should leave the country and forget about the destruction he will be the cause of in his wake, Harry grits his teeth, and says again how urgently they need to get into the Castle.
Aberforth simply peers at Harry, his sky-like eyes baring an uncanny resemblance to his brother's, and for a short moment Harry is back in a cushioned armchair in front of his old headmaster's desk, with the weight of Albus Dumbledore's stare piercing him and wordlessly telling him that everything will be okay.
But Aberforth looks as though he's trying to convey the message of things being the opposite of okay, that what Harry wants to embark upon is nothing but a suicide mission. Harry supposes that might be what it is, but he clings internally to the reminder that the Sorting hat put him in Gryffindor, not Slytherin, and while he may be in love with a Slytherin, his blood is brimming with what he knows that Slytherin would call idiotic bravery. He knows he can do this, that he will do this, and no one can stop him.
Aberforth finally gives in and nods, and then a minute later the portrait of his sister swings open to reveal Neville Longbottom, and behind him, Dobby the house elf.
Neville looks positively haggard, but upon seeing his classmates, his face spreads into a grin that no one can take away from him.
Dobby steps excitedly up to Harry, who crouches down to be at his level. "Dobby — what you did back at the Malfoy's — I — Dobby, you saved us —"
"Oh, no, Sir," Dobby shakes his head bashfully, his long ears swinging, "Harry Potter is the one saving Dobby! Dobby came rushing as soon as Dobby heard —"
"Was it Draco?" Harry rushes out breathlessly, ignoring the heavy gazes of his friends. "Did Draco send you?"
Dobby's eyes widen, and for a moment he looks uncertain, "Dobby hasn't seen Mr. Draco for five years."
Harry frowns, baffled, when suddenly Aberforth, who has been talking to Neville in a way that speaks of a well-known acquaintance, says, "Dobby, have you done what we spoke of yet?"
Dobby squeaks, his reply enthusiastic as he gives a nod of the affirmative. Then, turning back to Harry, "Dobby must go, Harry Potter. Dobby will be seeing you very soon!"
And before Harry can even get out a 'but wait' Dobby disappears with a crack.
He gets to his feet, confusion and loss layering themselves over him like a blanket. Ron looks away as soon as Harry's eyes fall on him, and Hermione simply clears her throat and says, "thank you, Mr. Dumbledore."
They follow Neville into a narrow and winding passage, one that Harry never even knew existed. Ron seems to be voicing everything Harry can't say, and Harry is grateful, because even though he is outwardly beaming to know that Neville is alive and well, his mind keeps turning over the question of, 'if Draco didn't send Dobby, who did?'
Neville tells them all about the Room of Requirement, and how the passage had appeared once they'd run out of food. Aberforth had grudgingly provided for them at first, but after he got sick of new faces bursting into his pub at ungodly hours, he'd asked Dobby to bring food to them instead.
Harry's skin crawls as he hears about the Carrows, but he feels something fiery and hopeful flare up inside of him to know that Dumbledore's Army never gave up.
The tunnel begins to expand and fill with light until they come to a stop, and then Neville swings open another door and shouts loudly, "Hey, everyone! You'll never guess who's here!"
And then he steps aside and Harry is met with cheers and clapping and excited screams, and he is overwhelmed, because everyone spread out in the room full of hammocks and chairs below him is counting on him, grinning at him as though he's the only hope they'll ever need.
It's flattering, but unnerving, and as Harry climbs down the portrait hole ladder he is instantly swooped up into a barrage of hugs and slaps on the backs and, 'Harry, good to see you mate's.
Harry catches sight of Ron and Hermione, who are being given the same treatment as he is, and then through the crowd his gaze lands on Ginny Weasley. She's smiling at him, uncertain yet warm, and Harry has the urge to hug her, because he still loves her, just not in the way she wants, but he knows that would be unfair, so instead he just smiles back at her, and withstands the look of a love they both know he can't return.
Briefly, Harry wonders what Ginny would do if she found out that this has more to with Harry's preferences for a certain blond Slytherin, and less to do with the responsibilities of winning a war. But then the passage door swings open once more, and Luna and Dean are swamped with the greetings of their friends before Dean manages to yell over the din, "Harry! Remus and the others are on their way! He says Snape knows you were seen in Hogsmeade, and that whatever it is you need to do, do it quickly!"
Harry nods, not bothering to be annoyed at how Remus somehow managed to find out what they were up to. Harry prefers to think that he's not that predictable.
He raises his voice, using what authority he likes to think he doesn't have to be heard over the enthusiastic clamour. They hush and stare at him with awe, and Harry pushes away his discomfort and tells them that there's something he, Ron and Hermione have to do, and he shouldn't be so surprised that everyone immediately wants to help, but he is. Harry has spent too long thinking that everything this war is or ever will be is on his shoulders, and with an agitated pause he thinks of Ron's words, that this is about all of them, not just Harry. And Ron's right, he realises, and Harry will just have to grit his teeth and get over the fact that for some reason, everyone wants to help him, and there's nothing he can do about it. Because maybe saving lives is about more than the sacrifices Harry has spent too long trying to prevent.
So he lets them help, and listens with a pounding heart as Luna talks about Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem.
"What's taking so bloody long?" One of the Death Eaters hiss.
Draco slinks further back into the crowd, the gates of the Hogwart's grounds looming up before him. Dementors hover in the sky like black clouds, promising storms of despair for them all.
"Snape hasn't given the signal yet, so shut your fucking face," another grunts, shoving several Snatchers to the side as he edges his way to the front.
Draco lost sight of his father before they arrived, and he doesn't care where he is, or what he might be doing, he only cares about getting inside, and getting Harry.
A hand touches his elbow, and Draco jumps.
Blaise Zabini is standing behind him, the hood of his robes drawn over his face. He looks like a fucking vampire and Draco wants to punch him, because his nerves are already frayed enough as it is without the unnecessary fright. "What the hell are you doing here?" He whispers.
"I could ask you the same question," Zabini replies smoothly, and his lips quirk to the side, with what Draco presumes is the lingering memory of several weeks ago.
Draco almost calls him a bastard, but instead seethes, "You know why. Now don't be an idiot. You've got your wand back — you should fuck off before it's too late."
Zabini snorts, and Draco's eyes widen, because he's never thought he'd hear that noise coming from the stoical semblance of Blaise Zabini. Fleetingly, he remembers Zabini shouting at Dolohov to get out, and thinks maybe he shouldn't be so shocked after all. "I'm here for the same reason as you, Draco."
Draco narrows his eyes into a glare, unsure how he feels to have his first name slip from Zabini's lips. For a split-second he wonders if maybe Zabini has always been his friend after all, in a strange, unfriendly sort of way that only Slytherins can manage, and Draco has just never bothered to think about it. Or maybe their sort-of-friendship is something new, something that was born from the shitty leftovers of right and wrong. Either way, Zabini is here, and somehow it helps Draco to relax a little.
"What?" Draco asks quietly, "going to get your hands on Potter, too?" He says it in case anybody's listening in, and because maybe he still has a slim chance of disguising the fragile mask of his susceptible heart. But Zabini sees through him, and Draco knows he understands what he isn't saying, even though Zabini huffs out something suspiciously close to a laugh.
"Unlikely. Luna's waiting for me."
Draco rolls his eyes. He doesn't know what to think about the whole Zabini and Lovegood situation, it might even be a hoax for all he cares. But for some reason the idea that this boy, who has been defiled for the sake of war, might find feelings that are half as strong as the love Draco feels for Harry, makes Draco feel hopeful.
Draco wonders whether that makes him less selfish than he used to be, but he knows if he were to choose between anyone and Harry Potter, he wouldn't even let himself breathe before choosing Harry.
He supposes he is just as selfish after all.
Severus Snape lowers his wand, hesitation clear in his black eyes, and Harry won't know until later that this is because he's seen this before. Seen a woman place themselves in front of Harry, willing to give up their life to save him.
But Harry does't know this yet. So instead all he feels is mind-blowing relief when Minerva McGonagall is victorious in their duel, and Snape flees like the coward Harry has always thought him to be.
The Great Hall erupts with cheers, and McGonagall turns to Harry with a lined look of concern, "Potter—" there seems to be a number of things she wants to say, but in the end she settles with, "it's good to see you."
Harry's heart clenches, the need to run and find one of the last two horcruxes warring with his desire to stay here and fight, to protect the people who are so willing to fight for what's right.
"It's good to see you too, Professor," Harry says.
And then he runs, squeezes through torrents of milling and panicking students to try and begin his search.
He makes it up the grand staircases before he almost collides with Ron and Hermione. Hermione's tone is eager and awestruck as she rushes to tell Harry about Ron's brilliant idea of going down to the Chamber of Secrets.
Harry nods, urgent, trying to ignore the fact that they might not be able to find eachother afterwards, because Harry doesn't have the Marauder's Map to help them, and Harry misses it almost as much as he misses the person he gave it to.
They seperate, and Harry is swallowed by the crowd.
Wards are going up, surrounding Hogwarts like a crackling dome of magic, and Draco is caught breathless by the beauty of it.
Death Eaters are shouting, pushing eachother, trying to break down the gates, but they can't get in, and Draco's heart thuds with anticipation, his stomach roiling with unease.
Beside him, Zabini seems captivated by the glistening wards forming in front of them, and Draco wonders what's going on inside his head.
Suddenly, a giant spreading of green and blackness gathers in the sky above them, and the snake and skull act as a signalling mark of newborn terror.
The matching imprint on Draco's skin tingles and itches, and then everyone is firing spells at the gates, yelling and swearing, and it takes Draco too long to raise his arm and do the same.
The sight of the tearing enchantments does odd things to Draco's insides, and his throat tightens up and his hand shakes. But he still casts, still helps take down the defences of his old home, because somewhere, his new home is waiting for him.
"You remind me of him…"
The words slide through the spaces between Harry's ribs, and settle around his heart like shards of ice. Because they are everything he has been fearing, yet everything he already knows, and he fights the urge to close his eyes from the pain they make him feel.
The ghost of Helena Ravenclaw eyes him with distrust, and Harry can do nothing but hold on desperately to the ways he is different from Tom Riddle, and ignore the ways he is similar. He thinks about choices and chances, and Draco Malfoy, and how Harry left him behind. He thinks about how he won't stop until he ends this, and about how that has to make him good, if even a little bit.
And then Helena tells him where the young man who reminds her of Harry hid her mother's diadem, and Harry's lips part over a shuddering sigh of relief just as a deafening crumbling sound from overhead makes him stagger.
He thinks maybe the castle is falling down, but then his attention turns to the window, and it is worse, so much worse, because what he sees is the collapsing charms of their defence, of everyone's united effort at stopping something that will come anyway.
Harry swallows, realises he's alone in the tower, and forces his legs to take him to the Room of Requirement as fast as they will carry him.
The gates burst open, and the Death Eaters swarm inside like a wave of hungry, charcoal coloured ants.
Draco grabs onto Zabini's arm and hurries after them, rushing forwards as his eyes hastily scan for a place where no one will see them.
There's a familiar thicket of trees just to the left, where couples used to sneak off to and snog, and Draco hauls Zabini after him as he heads towards them.
As soon as they are under the cover of the trees, Draco reaches into his back pocket, and from his hidden paper bag he pulls out the old wad of parchment Harry leant to him all those months ago. His chest aches with the memory of it, and he forces it away so he can tap his wand on the top of it and murmur the correct words.
"What the fuck is that?" Zabini asks as the map spreads with interwoven patterns of ink, the level of his voice failing to hide his urgency. "What are you doing?"
"Finding Harry," Draco says as he helplessly searches through what looks like thousands of black dots, the names all jumbling together and becoming illegible as students pack into the hallways.
If Zabini finds Draco's use of Harry's first name odd, he doesn't comment, he only says, "Will that thing tell me where Luna is?"
Draco doesn't reply, too busy looking for anyone who Harry might be with, for Weasley, or for Granger, but he can't find either of them, and his hands start to sweat and tremble because Harry has to be here somewhere, he has to be —
— And Draco finds him, racing down a seventh floor corridor, and his legs almost give out with relief — but then he's gone. "Fuck, no — no no." Draco's breathing is erratic, and Zabini is saying something but Draco can't hear him, because Harry just disappeared and Draco has to find him. He knows it as much as he knows that he needs to keep breathing to keep on living.
But breathing is hard right now, because Harry —
Draco remembers with a smack of shocking clarity, the Room of Hidden things, where he spent a majority of his sixth year, where he carved out the failure of his future, and sealed his past as something he would hate looking back on.
And that's where Draco has to go now.
He shakes his head, pushing away the ringing in his ears and the blurring of his vision, and Zabini is tugging on his sleeve, looking an inch away from punching some form of coherence into him.
"We have to go," Draco says foggily, stuffing the map back into his pocket and turning, but Zabini stops him.
"What about Luna —" Screams and explosions cut him off, and they both flinch at the noises of destruction, and at the knowledge that, around them, a battle has begun.
"I need to go —"
"But —"
"Come with me — and then I'll help you find her, I swear I'll —" But Draco doesn't finish, because then there's the cracking of leaves and a tall, shadowy figure steps through the trees, and Antonin Dolohov leers at them with a gleam in his gaze.
"And what do we have here?"
"We know where Potter is," Zabini says without missing a beat, and Draco doesn't know what to think, whether this whole thing with Zabini has been a sham, or whether it's real, whether Draco's austere and unruffled classmate really is in love with a ditzy Ravenclaw, and only said what he did to buy them time.
Either way, Dolohov clearly looks enthralled by the statement. His wand is on Draco, and Draco tries to stave off his glare as he nods in agreement with what Zabini's said.
"By all means, take me to him, then." Dolohov grins, and he makes a flicking gesture with his wand towards the castle, and Draco understands the meaning; that he has no choice but to comply, no choice but to lead him straight to Harry Potter.
The metropolis of junk is never-ending, piles of it acting as pillars which threaten to topple over at any second. But still Harry runs. Deeper and deeper into the abyss until he's sure there is no way out.
The world is quiet here, nothing but the echo of centuries of students coming and going, of hiding things that needed to be hidden. Harry sees broomsticks, some splintered and broken, others intact, and so many pieces of discarded furniture that if he had the time he would wonder what the hell was so unorthodox about a saggy old couch that someone would want to hide it.
But he doesn't have time. Because outside, there is the sound of a war, and as soon as Harry steps out of this room it will devour him.
He keeps searching, and then just as suddenly as his next breath he finds it.
It's like magnetism, pulling him closer, enticing him through something wound tightly within his chest. It is the same feeling he'd gotten when he'd been submerged in golden goblets, before seeing Hufflepuff's cup sitting high upon a shelf.
Harry freezes, and even though his mind doesn't know where to go, his body does, and his arm reaches out towards a low side-table, covered in trinkets and strings of pearls and all sorts of things Harry can't name. His fingers lift the latch of an intricately carved wooden box, and there's the diadem — dainty and silver and inlayed with sapphires.
Harry swallows, his thumb stroking over the jewels, his brow creased as his pulse speeds up, because for a terrifying second he feels as though he does not want to destroy it. He flinches back, appalled, knowing that he wants to get rid of it with every inch of his power, and that it must be the piece of Voldemort's soul embedded in it playing twisted tricks on his mind.
He gnashes his teeth and reaches for it once more —
"Potter."
And Harry would recognise that voice anywhere. Because he's heard it a thousand times before, in his dreams and in his memories, and if he has his way he will hear it a thousand times more. But something's wrong, it's off, and through the resentment of it Harry can pick up on the fear.
Harry whirls around, and there he is, looking white-washed with a dread that has worsened since the last time Harry saw him. Since the night he'd gotten to be wrapped up in the arms of Draco Malfoy.
Draco's wand is pointed at Harry's chest, and Harry doesn't look into his grey eyes, because he's afraid of what he'll see there, more afraid of this than of the entire war. Because Draco Malfoy's patronus is a stag just like Harry's, but Harry still left him behind, and between their two opposing sides Harry can't tell which is the truth, and which is the lie.
Instead Harry looks at the dark-haired Death Eater he has seen several times before, who stands too close to Draco's back, looming over him with his bulk, and at the chiselled calm of Blaise Zabini's impassive features.
Zabini has his wand aimed on Harry as well, but he can't see the Death Eater's, and when he lowers his eyes he has a sickening feeling that it is digging into Draco's back. This shouldn't give him hope, but it does, and it is what enables Harry to meet Draco's stare.
"I believe you have something of mine, Potter," Draco says, and there's that crease across his nose, and the downturn of his lips, and Harry doesn't know if what he sees is stress, or the crumbling facade of someone who has been weary for too long. "I want it back."
Harry clenches the Hawthorne wand tighter, and watches as Draco winces at something the Death Eater hisses in his ear. Harry's blood boils, and his voice is stern as he says, "I've already made that mistake once. I won't be making it again."
He says it because of that living and breathing hope in his chest. He says it to give Draco a believable way out. But hurt flashes across Draco's face, a pain that seems to affect him more than whatever torment he is suffering by the blackmail at his back, and Harry hates himself. Because he doesn't mean it, he could never mean it, not anymore. And just like that he realises that this must be the truth, that the lie never existed in the first place. Realises that Draco is acting just as much as Harry is, and that the possibility of forgiveness might exist after all.
Because Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy, and now he is beginning to accept the fact that maybe Draco loves him too.
"Do it now Draco. Do it or I'll kill him, and then I'll kill you…"
Dolohov's words tickle the hair at Draco's neck, and he shivers with revulsion, but what Harry says next hurts more than anything Dolohov could possibly do.
For a second Draco thinks he might fall apart, but when he takes in Harry's unwavering green eyes, the hard set of his jaw, and the way he doesn't stop looking at Draco in such a way that begs for him to understand, he is able to delude himself that it is real after all. That Harry's only playing along because he has to. That Harry loves him.
But then Granger and Weasley appear from around the corner, and stop behind Harry with their wands raised, and Dolohov shoves in front of Draco with a growl and a killing curse dripping acidly from his tongue.
And Weasley snaps, snarls, and fires back. Draco sees Harry push Granger behind him and grab something off a table before shoving it into his pocket, and then Draco is almost hit with one of Weasley's spells. Zabini reacts in Draco's defence without missing a beat, sending a jet of something which sears across Weasley's shoulder, and that's all it takes to get Granger to fight too.
Draco wants to scream at them to fucking stop it, because he doesn't want either of them to kill Zabini, and surprisingly, he doesn't want Zabini to kill either of them as well. But suddenly Zabini spins around, his arm twisting as he directs the course of his curse at Dolohov, and Draco detects the exact moment where the Death Eater realises he's been betrayed.
Dolohov lets out a livid roar, and with a slash of his wand he knocks Weasley and Zabini stumbling back into towers of furniture, and suddenly there's fire — fire everywhere, burning and building and getting hotter by the second as it spills from Dolohov's wand in the shape of chimeras and savage beasts.
And then everyone's running.
Draco can't see Harry, can't see if he's safe, and it nearly chokes him as much as the rapidly thickening smoke. He can hardly see amongst the sweltering fog, and with quick movements he launches himself over towards a giant spire of chairs and tables and begins to climb.
His skin feels like it's boiling, like it's about to peel back from his body, and his palms are sweaty as he attempts to grab onto the corners of furniture to hoist himself higher. He's almost at the top when something snags his ankle, weighing him down and causing him to slip.
Draco's heart falls into his stomach as the soaring flames lick higher and higher, but what's worse is the sight of Antonin Dolohov, clinging to the furniture just below Draco, his hand like a vice around Draco's leg.
Draco tries to kick at him, tries to do anything he can to get him to let go. He can't cast at him, because if he lifts even one of his hands he knows he will fall and be consumed by the fire.
Dolohov's face is red and intense, his teeth bared as he struggles to use Draco as a ledge, and he might be yelling something but Draco can't hear him, because the sound of burning wood and collapsing structures is too loud — the roaring of the fiery wasteland below them even louder.
And then something like panic flickers in the man's eyes, and it's so unfamiliar that Draco can't look away, not even when Dolohov's grip slips and he's falling down down down, down into the fire he created, and down into the promise of death.
Draco hauls himself up and onto the top-most flat table, gasping for the air that is barely there. Dolohov is gone — dead, and while Draco is elated he is also numb, because he might be about to follow him, and through the sweltering mix of fire and furniture, Draco sees Zabini on his own pyre, and thinks that Zabini might follow them as well.
But then Harry comes back for him.
And this is what redemption feels like, Draco thinks. Redemption feels like Harry's sweaty palm colliding with Draco's. Redemption feels like being swung up onto a broom behind the boy he loves. Redemption feels like being chosen, even after everything — after a lifetime full of shit and wrong choices. And maybe that's just because Harry Potter is insane and too much of a bloody hero for his own good, but right now he is Draco's hero, and Draco thinks that's enough — that it'll be enough for a lifetime.
His arms are tight around Harry's waist, the air hot and stifling as they speed through it, and Draco never wants to let go, because he knows where letting go has lead him to in the past, and he hates it.
Draco casts a desperate glance over his shoulder to see Zabini being pulled onto a broom behind Weasley, before he turns back to Harry, tightens his arms and rests his forehead between Harry's shoulder blades.
And then they're hurtling through the giant, arched doorway, and Harry doesn't have enough time to steady the broom before it crashes into a heap of rubble and throws them both off.
Draco lands on his back, winded, and tries to regain his breath. He hears Granger shriek Harry's name, and the metallic sound of something screeching, as though in pain, and then nothing but the distant sounds of a battle and the heaving of his chest.
Draco blinks away dust and smoke, and when he finally opens his eyes, Harry Potter's green gaze is staring back at him.
Harry doesn't think about the fact that he's just destroyed the second last horcrux with a basilisk fang, or that Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini are staring eachother down with an awkward, mutual dislike.
Harry only crawls hurriedly over to Draco's side, his eyes closed and his face covered in black soot, but still beautiful. So beautiful. And Harry's hands flutter, because he wants to touch him, wants to make sure he's okay, but he isn't sure if he's allowed to do that, because even though he came back for Draco this time, he still left Draco behind.
But this is a war, and they've both done things, they both will have to do more things — and then Draco's eyes crack open, slate-grey and brimming with a relief that washes over Harry and makes his ribcage feel two sizes too small.
"Draco — how — how'd you find me?" Harry croaks out, feeling like an idiot, because of all the things he could have said he chose the one of the least importance.
"That — sodding — map," Draco replies between pants, his eyes drinking Harry in like a man dying of thirst.
And Harry doesn't know who moves first, but suddenly Draco's on his knees and they're kissing — soft and hard and gentle and needy all at once. And it's brilliant.
"Bloody hell," Ron says, and it draws Harry away, forces him to pull back from the delicious addiction of Draco Malfoy's lips and give his friend a warning glare. But Ron is too busy intently admiring a missing chunk of wall, all Slytherin-related things, including an amused looking Zabini, purposefully forgotten. Hermione looks decidedly embarrassed, but there's a small smile on her lips, and that's all Harry needs to turns his full attention back on Draco.
And Draco's looking at him as though he hung the moon, and fuck, Harry can't do this, can't go on unless he knows Draco is safe. "Draco, I — you need to go."
Draco's expression of affection slips into exasperation, and then settles into a perfectly sculpted look of indignation. "No."
"Please — it's not safe."
"Nowhere's fucking safe," Draco spits, his face twisted but still smudged with blackness and it's so endearing that Harry wants to hug him.
But now's not the time, because below them people fight and scream and die, and Harry has to finish this. "Draco, listen to me — you have to —"
"I'm not leaving you!" Draco says it through his teeth, his steely eyes determined and bright, and his cheeks flushed, but his words are as good as a confession. And Harry loves him, god, he loves him so much —
"I love you," it bursts out, as natural as breathing, and Harry never wants to take it back. Draco's eyes widen, and his fury flees from him as quickly as it came. Harry says it again because it's the truth, and because Draco needs to believe it. "I love you Draco, and I swear I'll come and I'll find you, after all this is over — I promise you —"
Draco definitely moves first this time, and his lips taste like smoke and sweat and something deliciously unyielding as they part beneath Harry's. Harry pours everything he has into the kiss, gives Draco everything he wants him to remember, and everything Harry wants to remember for himself.
Draco is first to pull back as well, his hands uncurling from Harry's shirt as he catches his breath and rasps, "see you soon… Harry."
And then he's standing, his lips tugging up at one side, and he looks so invigorated that in the next second he's wearing a full-blown grin that makes Harry feel warm in all of the right places. "See you soon, Draco."
They share one last look of longing, before Draco takes a step back and disappears around the corner, Zabini following him without a word.
Ron clears his throat. "That was one of the weirdest fucking things I've ever seen."
There's a noise which sounds suspiciously like Hermione giving Ron's arm a slap, and Harry's lips twitch into a smile —
"Let me find the boy, My Lord," Lucius Malfoy all but whispers, his face ashen and desperate.
"I've told you already, Lucius. Before the night is out the boy will come to me!" Voldemort's voice is low but lethal, and with a flex of his neck he urges his snake to slide closer to his ankles.
There is an anxiety in the air, smothered by a controlled fury, and Nagini has to be near him at all times, because if she isn't…
Voldemort steps right up to his servant, his nails piercing skin as he tilts Lucius's head to the side. "How can you live with yourself, Lucius? Your son, a failure. Your wife… dead."
Lucius trembles, and Voldemort's anxiety turns into a sick amusement as he laughs —
"It's the snake," Harry pants, squinting up into the concerned faces of Ron and Hermione as he struggles to his feet. Ron offers him a hand, but then retracts it as though remembering where Harry's hands have been within the last ten minutes. "The last one's the snake."
"What do we do?" Hermione asks softly.
"I dunno. But I know where he is." Harry recognises the dilapidated room he saw as the Shrieking Shack, and he needs to get there as soon as possible.
Hermione gives a small nod, and Ron steels himself as though remembering this is bigger than his dislike of Harry's boyfriend.
And the word 'boyfriend' makes Harry feel like he can do absolutely anything at all, no matter how insane it might be, such as winning this war.
Harry loves him. Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy. And Draco can't stop smiling.
He doesn't care that he's two steps behind Zabini, struggling to keep up with his quick strides. And he doesn't care that Zabini snatched Harry's map from Draco so as to find Lovegood. Because Harry loves him, and Draco doesn't think he has ever felt this good, this elated.
In fact, he is so exhilarated that he doesn't stop to consider that their hello might have been the disguise to their goodbye, and that while Harry had confessed something Draco never thought could be true, Draco didn't say what he should have in return.
But Harry loves him, and to Draco, that's all that matters until he almost collides into Zabini's back and is met with the scene of Lovegood and the Weasley twins duelling the Carrows.
Zabini throws himself into the battle, shoving Lovegood aside and out of the path of a killing curse. There is a particular wildness to his eyes that Draco would find dangerous if he had the time to think about it.
"What the hell are they doing here!?" One of the Weasleys shout, and Draco ducks and casts a forceful shield charm when Alecto notices him and sends something nasty his way.
And Draco doesn't know what he's doing, because he promised Harry that he'd leave, as soon as he helped Zabini find Lovegood, he would leave. But here he is, fighting alongside two Weasleys, and it is something Draco can fairly say he never would have imagined himself doing.
Amycus falls at the hand of Blaise Zabini, and his death is enough to distract his sister, who screams and flings herself forward with demented rage. But five against one is no match for the Death Eater, and the Weasleys her him stunned and bound in a matter of seconds.
And then Zabini is snogging the hell out of Lovegood, and belatedly Draco wonders if this is how bloody awkward it'd been twenty minutes ago when no one in the world existed besides him and Harry, when all they knew was eachother's lips.
Draco doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his wand, because standing across from him are two people who look as though they are still deciding whether or not to stun him too, but their curious amusement at the sight of the snogging couple in the corridor seems to be enough to outweigh their suspicion of Draco, and Draco releases a breath of relief as he contemplates what to do next.
But after that, everything happens so quickly.
Draco can see him, over the shoulders of the twins, black-hooded and barrelling towards them — a Death Eater. His wand is aimed at the back of one of the Weasley's heads, and Draco knows the shape of the words the Death Eater's lips form as he casts, because he has dreamt of them, cried over them. Because there was a time when Draco thought he would have to say them himself, speak them to an old man on top of the Astronomy Tower.
And Draco moves without thinking.
He darts forward, shoulders a Weasley out of the way, and puts all of his strength into deflecting the curse with a stunner.
The curse would have seared straight into the place where Weasley's neck would have been, but Draco's spell meets it halfway and sends it reflecting back into the chest of their attacker.
The Death Eater thuds to the floor, his hood slipping, and behind him Draco hears, "bloody hell, George — Malfoy just saved my life! Can this day get any weirder?"
Vincent Crabbe lies dead amidst the rubble, the last traces of his ruthless intent to murder still etched across his face, and Draco looks down at him with both resentment and remorse.
Because this could have been him, he realises.
This could have been him, but he'd fallen in love with Harry Potter, and then everything changed.
And now Draco has saved one life, but taken another, and he can't decide whether this makes him feel better, or worse.
When Severus Snape dies Harry doesn't know how he is meant to feel. Because he has always hated this man, but somehow he is caught up in the injustice of his death, in the unfairness of war.
"You have your mother's eyes…"
And Harry knows he does, has heard it too many times to remember, but for some reason coming from this man it is different.
They have one hour to tend to their dead, and to mourn the losses which will only grow and grow. Harry almost wishes someone would give him up already, would hand him over to Voldemort. But he has seen the way everybody fights, and Ron was right, he reminds himself, it isn't just about him anymore.
As they make their way back up to the castle, the vial of Snape's memories clenched tightly in Harry's fist, Harry wonders whether there will be anyone who goes back for his body. It is a sad, bitter thought, and it turns Harry's stomach.
But then they are passing through the Great Hall, and Harry sees Remus and Tonks, amongst all the bodies — amongst all the dead. And for a second he wants to tell them to get up, to stop pretending. Because it can't be true — it can't be happening. Remus was meant to be the last one standing, the last living connection Harry had to his father. And now he's gone.
Harry sways, nearly drops to his knees, but his friends are there holding him up, supporting him.
Harry feels too tired, too numb to cry, but silent tears are clinging to his cheeks, and it takes him everything he has to clench his teeth and bottle away the grief, and to wait just a little bit longer.
Harry shakes away Ron's arm and Hermione's hand, and says he'll be back in a little bit. He needs air, he needs to think, and he needs to go some place where people aren't looking at him like he will save their loved ones. Because Harry can't even save his own loved ones, and it's tearing him apart.
He moves with robotic exhaustion up staircases and through ghostly quiet passage ways until he's standing in front of the familiar, crumbled griffin gargoyle.
Harry takes a breath to steady himself, enters the office he has visited many times before, and then heads for Dumbledore's Pensieve.
Draco is still shivering from the message Voldemort projected over the castle, the hissing ring of it haunting his ears. He tries to ignore the part of him that thinks handing himself over is exactly the kind of stupid bravery Harry is most known for amongst Slytherins, and instead focuses on the memory of Harry telling Draco he loves him.
He follows silently behind Zabini, who follows Lovegood like a lovesick Crup, who follows Fred and George Weasley into the Great Hall. And all at once Draco is drowning in the sense that he doesn't belong. It isn't just because of the stares people give him, some weary, others disproving but curious — it is because he feels as though he doesn't deserve to be here.
Here, with all these people mourning over their loved ones, over people who have died fighting in a battle that Draco has spent his whole life being on the wrong side of. He can't help but feel as though if only he'd done something more, or not been so much of a coward, then they'd stare less. But there was nothing he could have done, he realises, because if Harry Potter hadn't come and turned his life upside down by throwing a juicy green apple at his head, Draco would be lying dead in a pool of black robes beside Vincent Crabbe.
So Draco settles down on one of the benches, gnashing his teeth and ignoring the stares and the whispers and the hate, because he doesn't give a fuck about what people think, that he's here when he shouldn't be. Because he's here for Harry, for what he finally knows is right, and if that makes him undeserving then so be it.
He notices Weasley and Granger amongst a throng of Gryffindors, whose clothes are tattered, their sleeves being used as places to wipe their eyes. Harry is not with them, and it makes something cold and dreadful swirl in his stomach, but neither Weasley or Granger seem perturbed by Harry's lack of presence, so Draco sighs and attempts to shove down his anxiety.
He can't help from scanning the crowd, however, searching for a sign of wild ink-coloured hair, or a flash of round glasses doing nothing to cover the expression Draco used to think was one of martyrdom, but now knows is just Harry being Harry. Harry, feeling too many things and thinking everything is his fault.
There was a time when Draco would have smirked and agreed that everything was Potter's fault, but now he finds himself wishing he could do something to ease the burden Harry never chose to bear.
His eyes meet Granger's across the hall, and Draco blinks away his surprise, because she's giving him this unnerving, faint smile, which makes him scowl and look away.
Because he fucking tortured her. He listened to her scream. And she shouldn't be able to smile at him — shouldn't be able to even look at him. But somehow she does, and unwillingly Draco begins to form a strange sense of respect alongside his guilt, for the bushy-haired girl who holds nearly as many surprises as Harry does.
He knows what he did to her can never be undone, but if this ever ends, if they get out of this alive, Draco finds himself thinking of how he will apologise to her, how he will attempt to mend something which had only started to grow before it'd been felled to ruin.
Maybe returning that smile might be a good place to start, but when Draco looks back both she and Weasley are gone.
Harry collapses on the stairs on the way out of the office. He thought he could make it — could keep walking until he does what he needs to do. But he can't.
Because there are countless truths and facts that are stabbing into him from all angles, and he can barely breathe, can barely remember how to breathe. The truth is meant to hurt, Harry knows, but what people always fail to mention is that it hurts so much that it numbs.
His hands aren't shaking as he clasps them together atop his knees. Or maybe they are, and his vision is just too foggy for him to notice.
Sitting there, alone in the Headmistress's office, Harry thinks about how he's always wanted to be normal. How he wanted birthday parties and parents and normal experiences such as making friends and falling in love.
The Weasley's had given him the first, had welcomed him into the arms of their home without a second thought, and there have been so many parental figures throughout Harry's life that he would never have enough time to thank them all, even if he didn't have to die.
When he was younger he'd often thought, holed up in his cupboard beneath the stairs, that he'd done something bad, that that was why he was never able to make any friends, and why the Dursleys always hated him. But he was wrong, because he did make friends. Many friends, but only two stuck by him through everything, were able to heal with him, and mend all the pieces of eachother that became broken.
And then Harry had fallen in love. And even though it was with someone he never would have expected, he cannot help but feel, in what he knows are probably his last, fleeting moments alive, that it was the most right thing he's ever done.
The person he fell in love with is a sarcastic, selfish prat. Harry knows this, he's always known this. But then the Slytherin turned up in the dark and cobwebbed entryway of Grimmauld Place, and gradually Harry began to explore the nuances and the niches that all grew upon eachother to make up the intricacies of Draco Malfoy.
Because while Harry doesn't think Draco will ever stop being sarcastic, or a prat for that matter, he now knows he is thoughtful, beautiful beyond anything Harry can imagine, and brave. Brave in his own right. Just like Severus Snape had been.
So in a way, Harry has gotten everything he's always wanted, it's all just about to come to an end.
Harry takes a deep, rattling breath, and struggles to get it past whatever is clogging his throat.
He wonders what will happen to Draco after he's gone, how he will react, and whether he will go right on living like the rest of the world. Because this war is bigger than Harry, it's about all of them, and heroes come and they go, and while the world will cry over them, they will also forget.
Harry doesn't mind being forgotten. He thinks he wouldn't mind at all, would die happily if it meant he knew beyond all certainty that Draco Malfoy would always remember him, remember their time together, and what it meant.
He gets groggily to his feet, and makes his way down the stairs, one step at a time. He thinks he has managed to form some sort of detached calm around himself, but then he sees Ron and Hermione waiting for him, their heads bowed and their arms around eachother as though holding themselves together.
Hermione looks up as she notices him, and her face is encrusted with dirt, the tracks of her tears standing out stark against the browns and pinks on her skin. Ron follows her gaze, and with a gut-wrenching pain Harry realises he has been crying too.
Harry hasn't ever seen Ron cry before, and while he isn't doing it now, the evidence of it renders Harry speechless, frozen to the spot.
"Oh, Harry — we — we thought you'd gone to — to him," Hermione speaks in shattered fragments, and Harry wonders if her lungs hurt as much as his do.
"I'm going now," Harry says. And they are the three hardest words he has ever spoken. Fresh tears spill over Hermione's cheeks, and one by one they break Harry's heart. "I feel like I've known for a while now… And I think you have too… That part of him lives inside me."
Hermione sobs, and then her arms are around him.
Over her shoulder, he meets Ron's gaze, and between them they share everything they can't say in words. Harry tells Ron to take care of her, and Ron tells Harry that he will, that he'll marry her and give her a family, and that when the hours are dark and the birds stop singing, together they will remember their best friend, not the Boy-Who-Lived, but Harry. Just Harry.
"We'll go with you —" Hermione croaks, but Harry shakes his head, and he knows she can feel it.
"Kill the snake, and then it's just him… It's just him," Harry says into Hermione's hair, his voice rough, before he pulls back.
"W-what about Draco?" Hermione asks quietly. "He's still — s-still here."
Harry almost smiles sadly, because of course Draco didn't listen to him, and that's one of the reasons why Harry loves him. He shakes his head, because as he goes down there, down into the forest and to his death, he wants to remember Draco happy, Draco grinning and telling Harry he's an idiot, or rolling his eyes when Harry thought Mozart was a muggle. He doesn't want to remember Draco's pain, or the way he will look if Harry tells him he has to go, has to leave him once more.
Draco knows Harry loves him, and that's more than enough.
Harry takes one last look at the two people in front of him, the two people he loves as though they are a part of him, and he wants to thank them, for everything they've done, and for everything they will do after Harry leaves them.
But Harry can't speak, and they look at him and they know — they understand, and then they fall into eachother's arms as Harry turns and walks away.
He feels stiff and cold all over, but he balls his fists. Because he knows that nothing is scary, it's what leads up to it that is most frightening. And he supposes, that just like everything else, dying will be the same.
He stops in the entrance hall. He doesn't know why, and he wouldn't be able to explain it if someone were to ask him. He just feels as though he needs to look into the Great hall. So he does. And there's Draco, sitting on one of the benches, frowning and looking miffed as Luna says something to him. He looks pale and tired, but so gorgeous Harry's mouth goes dry, and he knows he has just made carrying on that much harder.
He wants to reach out, to run his fingers through Draco's soft hair and stroke the sharp angles of his face, because he knows those angles will soften, that they'll soften just for him, just for Harry.
But he can't. Because Draco Malfoy steals his breath away, and Harry has to keep going before he suffocates.
He steps out into the night, the aftermath of a death and destruction that will only continue lying all around him, and Harry walks through it.
And when the shadowy depths of the Forbidden Forest swallow him up, Harry remembers the Golden Snitch in his pocket, and realises that he is ready to die.
That this is the close.
"Hello, Draco. It's good to see you're okay," Lovegood stands in front of him, blocking Draco's view of the surrounding hall. He doesn't know what the hell Lovegood means, seeing as she was the one who was an inch away from death the last time they met. But he doesn't want to upset Zabini by being rude to his girlfriend, so Draco just grunts and shrugs a little.
And then he feels it. A heat building in his body and clenching within his chest, and he rushes to his feet, stares through the door to the entrance hall where he feels like someone is watching him.
Harry.
But Harry isn't there. Draco spins around, searching every corner and every huddle of people who hold onto eachother and weep, for Harry, or for Granger or Weasley. But he can't see them, can't find them.
And he panics.
Because something isn't right.
He feels it lacing through his veins like ice and extinguishing that short-lived heat.
And then he's pushing past people, darting around tables, needing to get out. To see. Because Harry was there. Draco knows he was. He was watching Draco, staring at him with the full weight of his heavy gaze, a gaze Draco now knows holds the affection he's always hoped for. But Harry didn't come in — didn't find Draco like he'd promised — and why, why would Harry do that?
The worst part is that Draco thinks he already knows why. He just doesn't want to believe it.
Because Harry loves him. And Draco loves Harry, and Draco wants a life with him, wants a life full of promises and laughter and arguments. He wants everything they've always been, and everything they haven't had a chance to be.
But Draco's world comes crashing down, and maybe he's always known it would, maybe he's just been waiting for it to happen. And now it has, and Draco's not ready for it — doesn't think he'll ever be ready for it.
The entrance hall is empty, and Draco races through it and out onto the grounds.
Cold air slams into his face, along with the smell of burning and death and Harry leaving him again — leaving him because he loves him. Not saying goodbye because he loves him.
But Harry did say goodbye, Draco realises.
He'd said it in his kiss, and he'd said it in his promise.
Because Harry will find him, one day, in another life — a different world. A world where death has already come and gone and they are nothing but memories. When that time comes, they will be together. After Draco lives his life without Harry, alone with nothing but a longing for what could have been, then Harry will find him.
But not in this world. Not in the reality where Draco made all the wrong choices, and Harry gave himself up to save everyone. He'd saved Draco too once, but not now, now he kills him.
Because Harry isn't here. Granger is though — maybe Weasley too — Draco hears her voice calling him, but he can't hear it over his own guttural sounds of agony. Somewhere within the pain he's fallen to his knees, rubble sharp and digging into his skin.
Granger's hand is on Draco's shoulder, and she's crying — crying with him. His sobs burst out of his whole body, tear him apart at the seams, and his heart — god, his heart, it aches and aches and aches.
Granger might be hugging him, or she might be trying desperately to put back together the pieces of Draco which have been ripped apart. But Draco doesn't think he can ever be repaired, because this —
— this is what dying feels like.
