Notes: Thank you for you kindness last week. I needed it. If you're interested in a little Halloween themed fun, I'd recommend My Soul to Keep (see bio). It's a little gothic horror, dark fantasy, gothic romance piece I wrote last year that pairs a ghostly Tom Riddle with Hogwarts student Hermione Granger.
Here we go...
WARNINGS: Canon violence and death.
27. So Shalt Thou Feed on Death
Hermione's nails dig into Draco arm, leaving bloody indentations. He welcomes the pain and the sharp focus it brings.
He has no idea who the Death Eaters are behind their skeletal masks. He supposes it doesn't matter. None of them will be sympathetic to his plight.
They fight back as best they can, Hermione wears only a baggy tee shirt and cotton shorts. Her feet are bare and her hair is a tower of tangled frizz. He imagines he doesn't appear much better. His feet are equally bereft of shoes. His chest is bare, his black sleep sweats hanging low on his hips.
At least they're selling the illusion of lovers caught during a midnight tryst.
Draco closes his palm over a shattered piece of the crystal lamp his mother loved once upon a time. The sharp glass bites into his skin and blood wells to the surface. He reaches into his pocket and clasps Potter's coin with bloody fingers. Heat pulses through him. The signal has been sent.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. Potter was supposed to signal him, to warn him of an impending attack. But it doesn't matter. Tom and Harry will be here soon.
He ducks a particularly nasty hex and Hermione crouches by his side. The bed is between them and their attackers, but it's a paltry defense. She hisses a protection spell and the next barrage of deadly magic sizzles into oblivion as it impacts the barrier.
Draco takes the moment to press his bloody hand against the wall. The wards pulse through him. He reaches out his senses, searching. The particularly noxious ooze of the Dark Lord hits him like a foul stench. He rips his hand away.
"He's here," he tells Hermione.
Her knuckles go white on her wand. The next incantation she releases is pure dark magic. Draco blinks at her, unable to help the shock crawling beneath his flushed skin.
She gives him a grim look. "Tom and I didn't just spend our time smoking cigarettes."
Clearly. One of the Death Eaters falls and doesn't get up. Another one slides into his place. Draco swears softly under his breath. They aren't tired yet, but the two of them aren't going to be able to hold this line forever.
He takes a deep breath. The air is acrid with magic as it fills his lungs. They don't have to hold on forever. Just until Tom and Harry arrive.
Hermione lets loose another vicious combination of hexes that has blood spraying over the ivory coverlet. Draco doesn't let himself see it. He will not think of crimson upon ivory. Not within these walls.
Together they drop a handful more Death Eaters.
It's different than his battles among their ranks. Then he avoided the violence as best he could, going out of his way to maim not kill. Now he has no such reservations. They've made their choice and he's made his. These deaths will not be on his conscience.
The hallway outside the bedroom goes abruptly silent, the bustle of reinforcements cut off in a single breath.
Draco pulls Hermione to his side, his fingers digging into her hip. She tenses, understanding what he does not say.
He raises his wand as the Dark Lord steps into the bedroom. The remaining Death Eaters part like waves of grain, bending away from their Lord. He hears nothing but the stampede of his heart and the catch of Hermione's breath. Draco turns her into him, pulling her flush against his chest. The movement serves two equally vital purposes. The Dark Lord sees evidence of their attachment, but most importantly, he can no longer make eye contact with Hermione.
"Leave us."
The silver masks scramble out the door, tripping over their fallen brethren in their haste. The Dark Lord prods a black lump at his feet. The body slumps sideways in a lifeless sprawl. The Dark Lord's too-thin lips stretch into a hideous smile.
"I always knew you could be a talented killer, Young Malfoy."
Draco doesn't bother to tell him that particular corpse is Hermione's work. She's supposed to be a simpering girl with little knowledge of magic.
His body tenses, realization a stone dropped upon his chest. She's supposed to be incompetent, but her wand presses into his abdomen, blatant evidence to the contrary. He maintains his focus on the Dark Lord as he grasps hold of the wood, pulling it gently from her fingers. He can feel her flinch into his chest, but she releases the instrument without protest.
Now that he has it, he has no idea how to make it disappear. His other hand already holds his own wand—technically McNair's—and the Dark Lord will notice any spell he attempts.
Hermione tugs on the band of his sleep sweats. He shifts at the strange sensation of her hand so low on his hip. A moment later, he understands her intention. He lets the wood slip down between the fabric and his flushed skin. He has no idea how they're going to mask the thud of the wand as it hits the floorboards below, but he trusts the clever witch in his arms.
The telltale noise never comes. Hermione's toes slide against his calf. A moment later the wand follows the slow descent of her foot.
Draco maintains eye contact with the Dark Lord. "I simply wasn't interested in killing for you."
"Your father is extraordinarily disappointed in you, little boy."
Something sharper than dread slices deep into his gut. He ignores it. Lucius Malfoy no longer holds power over him.
Hermione relaxes a fraction against him and he sees her wand slide under the bedside table. How she managed the operation without the scrape of wood is beyond him, but he'll take whatever miracles come their way.
"You'll be especially excited that I've brought your father with me today." The slits of his nostrils flare as his lips split with glee. "I couldn't stop him from coming to see what has become of his son."
His nails are digging into Hermione's hip. He forces his grip to relax. Hermione would be beneath the Dark Lord's wand already if his father had shared his son's secret.
She looks at him from beneath caramel lashes. He holds her inquisitive stare for the barest second. It is long enough for her to understand far too much.
"I'm not particularly happy with him either."
It's a stupid response, but their primary occupation is buying time. He shifts Hermione closer, finding strength in the steady rhythm of her chest rising and falling against his.
The Dark Lord's focus flickers to Hermione. Draco presses a fortifying kiss to her tangled hair. She winds her arms more tightly around him.
The Dark Lord's sneer is pure malice. "It's almost sweet. If she weren't such a broken creature, I might be more impressed. But it hardly takes talent to use another man's dirty seconds, does it?"
Draco feels her go stiff against him. He wills her to relax. She's not supposed to understand the depths of cruelty in that statement.
"I grew weary of disguising my interest in her. When your brutes destroyed her, I couldn't stand it any longer." It's a half truth. He's suddenly glad Hermione forced them to construct a solid narrative of their relationship. "She helped me see the truth of you."
Her breath grows more even as he speaks. By the time the Dark Lord replies, the tension has drained from her entirely. Draco runs a gentle hand down the slope of her spine. She sighs softly into his neck.
They can do this.
"And what truth might that be, little boy?"
His next line requires no acting at all. "That you're a desperate, half-mad louse who feeds off of fear and gore. You don't have any real power, Voldemort—or should I call you Tom?"
It's disgusting saying that name to this twisted creature, but it provokes the desired reaction. The monster in front of them hisses, lips a thin line in his skeletal face. Draco grins, all reckless bravado. "You are feared, sure. But you've done nothing but lose, Tom. You lost your body. Then you lost your mind. And for what? Magic that you can barely hold on to? I know you're not what you imagined. You're a pale imitation of a true Dark Wizard. In fact, you're utterly pathetic."
The spell ricochets into Hermione's back before Draco even knows it's coming. Her scream is a visceral thing as she collapses in his arms. He swings her behind him, letting her slide down the wall as gently as possible.
The Dark Lord doesn't him give the time. Draco drops Hermione with an inelegant thud as he blocks the next Cruciatus Curse hurled their direction.
The battle turns vicious quickly. Draco is abundantly thankful for all the hours Tom forced him to train, to react to the full gamut of spells from his dark library in the blink of an eye. His wand may not be as reactive as the one Tom appropriated, but his reflexes make up the difference.
Draco barely breathes as spells arc through the air, the walls shuddering with every impact. He doesn't falter and the Dark Lord doesn't gain. In the back of his mind, he understands he's holding his own against the Dark Lord himself. But Draco doesn't have space for the satisfaction such a realization would evoke. He has barely enough time to recognize the next attack and parry accordingly.
The slightest distraction and this perilous stalemate will shift.
Hermione groans loudly from behind him. He doesn't look. The next hex from the Dark Lord flies wide. It takes Draco a moment too long to realize it was never intended for him.
She screams and he drops to his knees beside her.
He's disarmed a moment later. He pays no heed to the wand ripped from his fingers. Blood drips from the corner of Hermione's mouth. She blinks wildly at him, pupils cross-cut with agony.
But when she speaks, it's low and controlled. "Sell it for him, Draco."
Despite everything, she has kept her head.
He doesn't hesitate. He wipes the trickle of blood away from her lips with his thumb and imagines what he would do if these were his final moments with the boy he loves.
His eyes flutter shut as he places gentle kisses on her trembling eyelids. Then he lowers his mouth to hers. It's not a kiss of passion, but desperation. This may be their last kiss and he wants it to convey everything words will not.
He's ripped backward and for a moment, he's confused by the cinnamon glow of her warm eyes where he expected deep azure. Then reality crashes into him along with the Cruciatus.
He doesn't fight it.
Just a little bit longer.
Draco's vision goes blinding white as he shatters.
Hermione tries to crack open her eyelids. Her lids resist, her lashes crusted together. She attempts to raise a hand to wipe away the debris, but her hands are manacled behind her.
Her stomach plummets as she remembers where she is.
It's imperative she open her eyes. She blinks forcefully. It's not enough, but she keeps at it until the shape of the parlor solidifies around her.
She's sprawled across the oriental rug, her limbs akimbo and her neck contorted at a particularly unpleasant angle. Her body aches, but nothing like her months in the depths of Malfoy Manor.
Draco's platinum hair spreads across the rug beside her, some strands close enough to tickle her nose. She sidles closer to him, careful to move slowly and silently. She can't hear any other voices in the room, but that's no guarantee they're alone.
He's warm against her, but she can feel the tell-tale shake of the Cruciatus Curse within his limbs. Hermione rests her head between his shoulder blades. He's still shirtless and his skin is damp against hers. She presses her lips to the line of a shoulder blade. He doesn't stir.
Hermione refuses to panic.
She doesn't know how long they've been here, but based on the dull ache in her bones, long enough for the effects of her Cruciatus Curse to begin to abate. So, a handful of hours. It's a good sign they're still at Malfoy's vacation property.
Voldemort is too arrogant to expect any type of trap.
That's the only portion of their plan that remains. But it's also the only part that matters.
Hermione leans into Draco, wishing the heat of her breath was enough to wake him, but he remains motionless.
"I find it particularly difficult to believe my son has given everything up for you."
Lucius Malfoy is staring down at her with eyes that know too much. She swallows and fumbles into a sitting position. She keeps herself pressed to Draco.
"You can't believe he'd ever love a Mudblood?"
To her surprise, he shakes his head. "Oh, I can believe my son would stoop so low. It's not that. It's the rather important fact that my son only wants to shag boys."
Bloody hell. Her whole body spasms, her knee knocking heavily into Draco. He groans and she's embarrassingly thankful. She has no idea what to say to Lucius Malfoy.
He pulls lips that are an echo of his son's into a firm line. "So, the question becomes, what exactly are you and my son doing, Hermione Granger?"
Draco rises slowly to sit beside her, his abdominal muscles rippling with the effort. He knocks his shoulder gently into Hermione as he studies his father. Lucius Malfoy is the only Death Eater present in the parlor, but Draco goes stiff like he's facing the full force of their ranks.
"Hello, Lucius."
"Son." The word is a weapon, and she sees it slice deep into Draco's flesh.
Lucius steeples his fingers as he stares down at them. His eyes are the same cloudy gray as his son's, but where Draco's eyes are windows to his soul, Lucius' are nothing but cold mirrors.
"I would think you would know better than this, Draco. It nearly killed your mother when we thought you were dead, but this, this is so much worse." He pauses, fingers caressing the top of his cane. "And really, Draco, you should know better than to upset your mother. Especially here."
Draco blanches. His fingers twitch uselessly against his manacles. Hermione bumps her shoulder against him. He looks quickly away from his father and takes a shuddering breath. There is far more to this conversation than Hermione understands.
"Get out," he hisses.
A pleased smirk settles over Lucius hard features. "I imagine the Dark Lord will be… displeased with your deception."
"I don't care what you tell him," Draco growls, voice feral and broken. "Just get the fuck out of this room."
Lucius lets his cane trail the length of the divan. Draco flinches, as if struck. Hermione's gaze darts between them.
Something happened here. The reason Draco hates this house.
Lucius twirls his cane, never breaking eye contact with his son. Draco trembles, rage cracking through the fissures of his composure.
"Die well, if you can manage it," Lucius goads as he turns on his heel.
Draco spits a line of blood toward him, but his father doesn't turn back.
The door clicks shut, too quiet a sound. The tension in Draco's frame threatens to rip him apart. Hermione shifts closer, running her nose along the brutal line of his jaw. His breath escapes in rapid pants. She doesn't stop.
Eventually his breaths stop shuddering through his chest and his jaw becomes moldable once more. Hermione exhales a breath, relief making her sag further into him.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
She doesn't think he has anything to apologize for, not this time. "It's fine. Do you want to talk about it?"
His laugh is bitter and wrong. "No. Not on a regular day and certainly not now."
She won't push, but she has to ask, "will this affect our mission?"
He is silent for a beat too long. "No."
Hermione isn't sure if she can believe him. But they have more to worry about than whatever ghosts haunt this room. "Okay. But expect Voldemort to walk through those doors any second. You father is certainly going to out you."
Draco nods, glum acceptance softening the angular planes of his face. "I miscalculated that part of our plan. I'm sorry."
"It's fine, Draco. We only needed to get his attention, and we've done that. You're no longer required to be in love with me."
He drops his head upon her shoulder, platinum stands splaying across her dark tee shirt. "I suppose that's something. My father's pride only helped us for so long. I knew he'd keep his mouth shut until he was certain of my motives."
Hermione eyes him. "The bonds of family don't run as deep as I'd assumed."
"My father's loyalty to the Dark Lord supersedes everything." Draco's eyes are portals to a horror she doesn't understand. "We haven't been family in a long, long time. I have even less of an idea what goes through his twisted head than the monster he serves."
"Voldemort is rather simplistic when you distill it all down," Hermione observes.
"I don't think I've ever been described using that adjective, Miss Granger."
She freezes, the hiss of Voldemort's serpentine voice unmistakable. He steps through the open door.
Hermione blinks and looks at Draco. Apparently, they're more exhausted than it seemed if neither of them noticed the door opening.
The expression on his skeletal features sends chills down her spine. His grin splits his face into gruesome halves.
"Perhaps we ought to try this again, now that the gambit is up."
Hermione bores holes into the carpet. It's more essential than ever that she keep Voldemort out of her head.
Draco laughs, a cold and foreign sound. "And you expect different results? Just because I'm not in love with Hermione doesn't mean anything else is different, My Lord."
The title is mocking and Voldemort hisses darkly. A feral smirk pulls at Draco's lips. "Did I offend you, My Lord? How utterly tragic."
They both expect the bolt of green light that singes the carpet between them. Hermione throws an annoyed look Draco's way. It's one thing to distract the madman; it's quite another to encourage his wrath. She has no desire to dodge killing curses for the remainder of the day.
There's a crash in the hall beyond. All three of them turn to the door, but nothing emerges. Voldemort's expression contorts from pure rage to irritation. He waves his wand.
Hermione recognizes the familiar apparation incantation. But the serpentine monster doesn't disappear. Draco's lips pull wide, his smile all teeth and satisfaction.
Voldemort's sunken eyes widen. Another killing curse blasts the space between them. Hermione isn't sure if he's deliberating missing or simply too enraged to concentrate.
"What have you done?"
Draco stumbles to his feet, madness still limning his lips. Voldemort's wand trembles as he extends it.
"Were you trying to flee, Tom?" Draco jeers. "The first sign of trouble and you show your true nature. A coward and nothing more."
"What did you do?" Voldemort hisses, parseltongue clinging to every syllable.
"They didn't do anything, but I did."
Tom steps through the parlor door, elegant wand twirling lazily between his fingers. He stops directly in front of Voldemort, sapphire eyes scanning the creature standing before him. His full lips twist in disgust. "I can't say I like what you've done with yourself, old man."
Voldemort stumbles back, as if dealt a physical blow. Tom's lips curve upward, smile hard as diamond. "Ah, you didn't see this particular threat coming, did you?"
The Dark Wizard regains his senses, his wand arcing upward. But Tom is faster. He sinks a dagger into the base of Voldemort's throat before his counterpart's wand can form a spell. The creature gurgles and Tom catches him, lowering his shuddering frame to the ground. Tom pulls the knife free and blood arcs upward, splattering across his porcelain skin in heavy ropes.
Tom places a bloody hand against Voldemort's sunken cheek. "You forgot about this, didn't you? It's alright. I don't think it will hurt and it's not like this body is anything special."
Voldemort attempts to speak, but all that emerges is a wet rasp. Hermione has gone rigid. They never knew the full plan. Tom and Harry were careful to keep the pertinent details away from both Draco and Hermione, in case their capture went south.
She never imagined Voldemort would fall to a mere knife wielded by someone other than Harry Potter.
Tom rises, an avenging angel. Blood drips down his face in heavy rivulets. The black of his shirt and jeans mask the full extent of the carnage, but the afternoon sun filtering through chiffon curtains illuminates a faint crimson hue where it stains his shirt. His eyes blaze bright, the sapphire bold against the blood.
She should retreat. She steps forward, her hands still bound behind her.
Tom meets her halfway, his hands slick against her bare skin as he spins her. The manacles fall away. He releases her and turns to free Draco. Her chest tightens as she watches their fingers intertwine for the briefest of moments.
Tom steps away from both of them, wiping his brow. Blood smears in angry streaks into his ebony hair. "It's not over yet."
Draco barely resists closing the distance to Tom. The featherlight caress of their fingertips is hardly enough to satisfy him.
Harry Potter steps into the room before he has a chance to act. The Chosen One comes to stand at Tom's side, green eyes wide as he stares down at the Dark Lord's corpse. Harry takes a deep breath and lets his eyes slide to Tom.
"So, it's begun?"
The remaining half of the Dark Lord nods. "Brace yourselves, it's about to get intense in here."
Draco feels especially naked without his wand or even a bloody shirt, but there's no time to figure out where the Dark Lord stored the wand and a shirt is only a piece of cloth. The air grows heavier with each breath. It's as if the atmosphere is collapsing in on them. He chokes down his next breath. It feels like swallowing water.
Hermione stumbles beside him and he reaches out on instinct, steadying her. His ears ache now, the rising pressure enough to make them pop. Hermione's fingers lace through his. He tightens his grip on her as both of them stumble back onto the divan.
Draco has no idea how Tom and Harry are still standing, but they are. Tom holds the wand he stole from Draco high, poised to attack at the slightest provocation. His ring glints darkly in the soft sun, an obsidian spark. Harry stands just behind Tom, his raven hair in disarray and his wand hovering on the precipice of action.
Draco's breath escapes his lungs for a very different reason than fear. He's seen them together before, heads bowed low over the kitchen table, shoulders bumping as they walked along the beach. But he's never seen this. Two wizards of incomparable power, side by side, prepared to vanquish the most potent threat imaginable. Two boys he's loved.
His insides go hot then cold. He has never seen anything more magnificent. He has never feared so much for anyone in his life.
The windows shatter, jagged shards ripping through the room like missiles. Harry slashes his wand and the projectiles drop to the rug.
What comes next isn't something Draco can properly understand, let alone describe. It's a feeling. The coldest depths of winter. The darkest corner of the dungeons. The most barren landscape. The look in his father's eyes as his mother bleeds. The slide of metal into flesh. A sky without stars. A body without a pulse.
Absence. The void curling through him, around him until he's choking on its inky darkness.
Hermione inhales sharply and Draco claws his way out from beneath the slimy gloom that blankets everything. He feels it coat his throat, his lungs.
The room goes pitch black, stealing his sight away. Wind roars in his ears, as if a tornado has formed in the parlor. Objects bang against the walls and shatter on the floorboards.
Hermione's nails dig into his hand. Draco is thankful for the reminder that he is not alone.
He closes his eyes—they're useless anyway—and searches the rest of his senses. Beneath the roar of the heavy air and the clatter of the parlor being torn to pieces, he hears Tom and Harry chanting, low and controlled.
Tom's voice is a touch lower than Harry's, but their voices meld together into one as their mantra repeats, "reditus ad animam meam."
Something about souls and returning. He isn't exactly at the top of his translation game. As their chant grows louder, the maelstrom grows more violent, as if reacting to their spell.
The mirror above the mantlepiece explodes—at least Draco thinks it's the mirror. There aren't any other crystalline objects left to destroy. A sound like wards cracking echoes through the room, making Draco's eardrums ring.
The darkness begins to fade. No, that isn't right. It begins to concentrate, like the focus of a lens. A solid line stretches between Harry and Tom, beginning at Harry's scar and ending within the cavity of Tom's chest. Lesser tendrils stretch out from Tom, their threads thinner, pale gray instead of deep midnight.
Tom drops to his knees, dagger and wand clattering to the floor. His azure eyes roll back into his skull and he topples sideways.
Draco and Hermione are at his side in an instant, moving as one. Draco props Tom's head in his lap as Hermione runs a hand over his slack lips. Her fingers come away coated in fresh blood.
The dread pooling in his gut threatens to pull Draco under. He forces his lips to move, his eyes locked on the thick black thread connecting Harry and Tom, "what is going on, Harry?"
Harry staggers a step closer. "I don't understand. It's supposed to connect him to all the Horcruxes. But I'm… I'm not a Horcrux."
Hermione's anguished eyes slide between the two boys. "It appears you are."
Harry's eyes are too bright, the emerald too green. "That's what he meant. When he said I open at the close. Dumbledore didn't mean the end of the war. He meant the end of me. We figured out how to dismantle the charm to retrieve the stone, but I never understood the clue."
Hermione looks up sharply, her lips sliding down. "No, Harry."
"It won't work unless… unless I do this." Harry kneels beside them, debris crunching where he lands. He reaches out a hand and his fingers slide around the bloody hilt of Tom's dagger.
All the air goes out of Draco's lungs. It's nothing like the heavy press of darkness from before. It's so much worse. It is the bitter cold of understanding seeping through every facet of his lungs until they are brittle, ready to shatter with his next breath.
Hermione lunges for Harry, but he's faster. He scrambles out of reach, dagger in hand. Tom slumps back to the ground, sprawled face down upon the oriental rug.
"If the spell fails, not only does Tom die, but Voldemort returns," Harry explains, his voice far too even for a boy on the brink of—
Draco can't think it. He eyes Tom. The dark tendrils still writhe around the boy, although some disappear slowly as if they are ribbons, spooling neatly within his shuddering chest. The line connecting him to Harry is still an angry black, full of a tension the other tendrils lack.
Draco crosses into the space between Harry and Hermione. Emerald eyes gleam as they catch his. Harry raises the dagger. Draco retreats half a step. He knows that's no ordinary blade.
What had Tom said? The ability to cleave a soul from its body.
"There has to be another way," Hermione begs, hands outstretched.
Harry smiles, the saddest, most broken thing Draco has ever seen. "You know there isn't."
"I'm not letting you do this," she protests, eyes sliding to Draco. "We're not letting you."
"I'm not asking permission, Hermione," Harry whispers. "Can't fight destiny and all that."
"Maybe all it takes is a scratch." She's grasping at straws and Draco can't blame her. He can barely think over the roar of his own blood.
Harry laughs. Draco thinks it might be the last time he ever hears that beautiful sound. His vision blurs.
"This is the darkest of dark magic, Hermione. The price is never just a scratch."
Tom rasps loudly behind them, his body jerking. Hermione's breath catches. Draco swipes at his eyes to clear them. Harry buries the dagger in his own chest.
Draco doesn't know who screams. Maybe it's Hermione. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's both of them, their agony melding into one keening wail.
Hermione beats him to Harry's side by the briefest of moments. She pulls the dagger from between his ribs, but the damage is already done. The dagger clangs against the wall as she hurls it away.
Draco's fingers join her delicate ones as they press against the surging wound. Harry's scar glows red hot before turning to dark ash. It peels away from his skin, the dark tendril becoming milky gray as it crosses the distance to Tom.
Hermione's eyes are wide and bright, tears carving rivers down her cheeks. "What have you done, Harry?"
He lets out a hollow laugh that's more blood than humor. "Saved the world, of course. And the boy you love. Make sure he's bloody worth it."
Hermione drops her forehead to Harry's. Draco's hand finds its way to her shoulder. He doesn't want to intrude, but she deserves to know she's not alone in this moment.
"I will always love you, Harry James Potter."
Harry coughs, wet and bloody. "You should know this was his choice. No matter what he tries to tell you—he knew exactly what he was sacrificing."
Hermione shakes her head. "I don't understand."
"You will."
Harry raises a trembling hand and traces the line of her jaw. Draco screws his eyes shut, unable to bear the raw tenderness of the caress. Hermione shudders against him.
"I don't know how to say goodbye," she hiccups.
"Then don't," Harry replies, voice a thin shadow.
Hermione smashes her lips to Harry's. It isn't a kiss. It isn't anything but pure desperation. The dark boy doesn't kiss her back. His hand falls from her cheek and his eyes go dull.
A part of Draco he never knew existed cracks.
He's seen a thousand shades of death. But not this.
Hermione screams. Draco buries her anguish against his bare chest. Her sobs are hot and wet against his skin. He's surprised he can feel them at all.
"Well, isn't this a tragic picture."
Draco had no idea rage could feel this keen.
Never releasing his hold on Hermione, he angles to face his father.
Lucius Malfoy stands in the doorway, the apocalypse laid at his feet. His silver eyes slide to the husk of the Dark Lord. If he's surprised to see his leader oozing blood onto his rug, he doesn't show it. Draco has absolutely no idea how he survived the carnage in the hallway.
Draco shifts, searching for a place to deposit Hermione. She doesn't appear to realize they have another intruder—another unforeseen consequence. He can't blame her. She and Harry may not have been together in the end, but they were still the best of friends. He can't imagine what she's experiencing; he never had a friend like that.
The floor and furniture are a mess of broken glass and frayed threads. Everywhere he looks seems just as likely to impale her as protect her.
Draco takes a fortifying breath and pulls Hermione closer. He left her before. Abandoned her to the whims of this cruel conflict. He will not let her down this time.
"What do you want, Lucius?" He will not call the man father. Not in this room. At least the carnage finally shows the true nature of this space.
The eyes that are reflections of his own flit to the Dark Lord's corpse. "It is a pity that we'll have to construct a new host. Yet again. But seeing as how Potter has provided copious blood, I imagine it will be rather straightforward."
Draco refuses to look at Harry. If he doesn't look, it won't be true. But the trembling girl in his arms and the crushing weight on his chest allow no such illusion.
He edges closer to Tom and the wand just beyond. He just needs to keep Lucius talking. "And how many will rally when they discover he was defeated by four teenagers?"
Lucius' attention swings to Tom. The boy collapsed face down on the rug, so the only distinguishing feature is his ebony hair, which could belong to anyone. Draco doubts his father would be able to recognize a young Dark Lord, but that's one risk they can hopefully avoid.
"And who is your young friend?"
Pieces of the truth make the most substantial lies. "My boyfriend."
His father looks pointedly at Hermione, still trembling within the circle of Draco's arms. Her sobs have become sporadic, her frame stiffening as their current reality becomes plain to her.
Draco's foot nudges Tom's—his—wand.
"So you are risking someone else's neck for your own safety. Just not the Mudblood's."
It's a fracture of truth that splinters into his heart. He allowed Harry and Tom to bear the brunt of this and now at least one, if not both, of them is dead.
Hermione's elbow digs into Draco's ribs. He catches her cinnamon eyes, carved raw by grief, but no less sharp. He uses his foot to flip the wand into his waiting hand, thankful for the hours of practice he spent perfecting the vain trick.
Lucius' mouth curves into an indulgent smile and Draco becomes a boy again, defenseless against his father's whims. Hermione elbows him harder and he snaps back like a stretched flobber worm.
"You're not going to do anything with that, Draco," his father croons. "Put it down before you hurt someone you care about."
Hermione steps forward, her jaw set and her back ramrod straight. "It's over, Mr. Malfoy. Surrender peacefully and face the consequences of your choices or risk death."
The man scoffs, silver eyes full of cruel mirth. "Over? Why Miss Granger, it's only just begun. The Dark Lord cannot die. Even you should have discovered that by now."
"You will find reality is rather different that the beliefs you hold, Sir." Draco has no idea how she manages to maintain her polite tone. Hermione takes a half step in front of him. Draco moves his wand into position behind her back.
Draco has infinite choices in this moment.
He can do nothing, allow Hermione or Tom—if he's still alive—to determine the course of events. That's certainly what he would have done six months ago.
He can immobilize his father, detain him and allow the Order—and eventually the Ministry—to take him into custody. That's the right choice, the one where he can sleep at night.
Or he can let loose the full power of this magnificent wand. That's the choice with no return, where his soul pays a price yet unknown.
He sees blood on ivory skin, ivory fabric and ivory upholstery. He hears her scream.
He makes a choice.
Hermione drops the instant he begins to move, giving him a clear shot at the man standing across from them. Draco's fist tightens on the ornate wood. The wand fights him a moment, searching for Tom and finding only Draco, but then it obeys.
His father's eyes are the most brilliant green when he realizes what his son has done. By the time he blinks, it's over.
The wand drops from his fingers, hitting the floor the same moment Lucius' skull cracks against the floorboards.
Draco doesn't feel anything at all as Hermione pulls him into her.
"It's over," she murmurs, rocking them back and forth, a macabre imitation of a dance. He can't say anything at all, so he sways with her instead.
Notes: Yes, I just did what you think I did. And yes, the rest of this piece isn't about defeating Voldemort, it's about living in the world with the consequences of defeating Voldemort and what that means for these three young people based on the decisions they've made. Basically, we just escaped the Death Star, but Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead.