He was sitting on the edge of the bed when Draco slipped into the room and gently closed the door behind him. For a moment the young Slytherin simply stood in silence. He'd seen Harry at the lowest points of his life . . had nearly tripped over him in that first real battle, Harry on his knees, sobbing like a child as Lupin died in his arms. Draco had become a spy for the Order toward the end of his last year at Hogwarts, and God knew he'd seen more disturbing things after three years spent in service to the Dark Lord. But the helplessness in Potter's eyes had stayed with him.
They'd killed Voldemort two years ago, and in that time he'd made a career out of watching Potter slowly come apart at the seams. He didn't find it funny, the way he once would have. He only thought it sad. Potter was a hero, his name toasted across the world, and Draco had never seen him so unhappy.
Ron and Luna had married, shortly before the end of the war. Hermione was dead, by Voldemort's own hand, though she'd taken her last breath peacefully enough, in the Hogwarts Infirmary surrounded by her friends, with Harry holding her hand and Draco – who'd risked his life and given away his true loyalties to bring her back – sitting at the foot of her bed with dry eyes. He hadn't cared for her, really, but he hadn't wanted her dead. And . . . he'd cared about Potter, who'd crooned lullabies in that soft voice of his with tears pouring down his face as she faded in and out of consciousness.
Dumbledore was still at Hogwarts, but Snape had taken over as Deputy Headmaster, McGonagall killed while defending her youngest students during that last attack on Hogwarts. So many had died in that final fight . . . . the Weasley twins, who had always privately amused Draco . . . Molly Weasley, without whom the family had just seemed to drift apart . . .Hagrid, fallen in his attempt to give Harry those precious few seconds he'd needed to finish the soul-destroying spell he'd used to make Voldemort a permanent denizen of Hell.
The Gryffindors of Potter's year had nearly been decimated. Ron Weasley had survived, but clumsy Longbottom had gone the way of his parents, cursed into insanity by the most unlikely traitor of all, Ginevra Weasley. He'd saved Draco's life, and Snape's . . had refused to give up the names of the Order's spies, even after hours under the Cruciatus Curse.
The Slytherins had likewise suffered immense casualties. Blaise Zabini, who'd at last chosen Draco over her lord and master, who'd turned on her fellow Death Eaters and given the younger Malfoy his chance to escape with Granger. Goyle and Crabbe, linked in death as they always were in life, had in death acquired the peculiar honor of being the first victims of Potter's Killing Curse. That had been early on, of course. Harry'd become quite practiced at the Unforgivable during the years of the war . . . and it was that, as much as anything, which explained why Potter was sitting in the darkened room at Number 12 Grimmauld Place that had once belonged to his godfather, notorious Azkaban escapee Sirius Black, with a knife in his hand and a plea in his eyes.
"Oh, hell, Potter." Draco crossed the room to Harry's side and sat down beside him, feeling the bed sag slightly under his weight, and the old mattress springs creak ominously. "Like that would make anything better. Weasel already feels bad enough about getting married to Loony Lovegood and not being as close to you as he used to be – like your bloody shadow, he was. Last thing any of us need is for you to off yourself." Draco hesitated. "We lost enough, Harry," he finished, quietly.
"I only worry them." Potter's tone was weary . . with life, with pretending to be okay when he was dying inside. "I'd stop visiting, but it would only make them more concerned. I could leave, but they'd look for me . . everyone would. At least, like this they'd have some sort of . . .closure." He laughed, and the rawness of it made Draco flinch. "I'm no damn good in the real world, Malfoy. Half of Snape's time is taken up with brewing extra-strength Dreamless Sleep potions because otherwise I can't close my eyes without seeing the dead reach for me. And even those don't work sometimes, and I wake up screaming their names. I spend more time at the cemetary than I do at home, and then I come back to this mausoleum and wonder why I don't just die myself a grave and bury myself there with them."
"I always said this house was bad for you," Draco protested. "It's depressing. You should move. I'll even help you pack, and you know how Malfoys feel about manual labor."
"And I appreciate the offer. I expect Dumbledore might want your assistance in packing up my things . . . after."
"You won't see how everybody else suffers. You don't even think to look. You think Severus spends 'half his time' making those bloody potions for you because he can't find anyone else to delegate the task to? He makes those thrice-damned potions for you because he can't stand not to do something, when all any fool has to do is look in his eyes to see that he cares about you. You're like the child he never had, and he's trying to be there for you in the only way he knows how to offer. I can always tell when Dumbledore's heard from you, because he walks into the staff room looking older than he ever has, without that sparkle in his eye, and the whole room goes quiet like somebody's just died."
Draco rose, dusted off his hands as though merely coming close to Harry had left them somehow dirty. "If you ask me, Potter, you don't deserve them. So go ahead. Finish slicing up your wrists and sit there and watch yourself bleed out." The firelight flicked on the edge of the dagger, turning the tiny crimson drops that clung to the blade to rubies, gleaming there for an instant before falling into the white basin below. At least, Draco thought irrationally, he's trying to be neat about it.
He waited for Potter's eyes to settle on him before he spoke again, in a voice so soft it was nearly inaudible even in the empty house that to him felt like death. "You can do this. And they'll forget you, the way they did everybody else. You'll just be another empty chair at the table on Christmas, another present they'll buy out of habit and have to put back when they remember that you won't be there to open it. Another wound that won't heal, and another grave for them to leave flowers at. Might not even have a funeral . . wouldn't want to ruin the holidays by hosting the huge event your tragic demise is going to warrant."
"Jesus, Draco." Harry's eyes were closed, and he trailed his fingertips through the blood in its neat white bowl at his feet.
"It isn't the dead who grieve, Potter. They don't care if you're sorry, if you hurt yourself over and over again out of some misplaced sense of guilt. It doesn't matter to them, because they're gone. You can tell yourself that it's punishing you, this little drama you've decided to play out. But you can handle pain, Potter. And only ones left hurting are the ones who did nothing wrong . . nothing but be stupid enough to love you."
Hearing the word love come out of his own mouth was something of a novelty, Draco mused, and seemed to have shocked Potter every bit as much as he'd surprised himself. That was a nice, triumphant note to end it on, he believed, and stepped through the doorway. But he couldn't resist one last remark as he left Potter alone in the dark again.
"Potter . . . just because Voldemort was cruel enough to plan his attack for Christmas . . why do you feel the need to do the same?"
And then he was gone, and Harry sat on the bed alone again, counting the tiny droplets of blood as they fell.