Disclaimer: I own nothing by Rowling and nothing by Nightwish.

A/N- As I said in my lookup, I'm incredibly sorry that this update came so much later than I promised. I really do apologize. In any case, I hope you enjoy.

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Bare Grace Misery

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We're lucky, you know.

Lucky? Why?

We're lucky to have a choice.

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Bella has always liked the arts. She likes to go to the ballet, thinks it is a sign of good taste. But, sometimes, it makes her jealous. She wishes she could dance like the girl on the stage. Her grace and poise is astounding. The girl is pretty, too, she has a wide-eyed and innocent look about her. It makes Bella laugh. It makes her laugh until she is sick. Sick with jealousy.

After the show, Bella sneaks backstage to the girl's dressing room. The rainbow of flowers that litter tiny room make her head spin. The girl is undressing, facing a full-length mirror on the wall. She sees Bella's reflection on its shining surface and turns around, her movement graceful and elegant, even in her fear. Bella's curse hits her before she so much as has a chance to call out. The girl falls, as graceful in death as she was in life, her pretty dark hair flowing and her lovely green eyes flat and empty.

Bella loves the arts, but she never did like being jealous.

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What choice? I don't feel as if I have any choices anymore.

The choice to live or die.

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A little girl stands on a street corner, shivering violently. The cold, bitter air has stolen the feeling from her hands. She tries to revive them, by rubbing them together, but they remain numb. 'Where is my mother?' she calls to the passerby. 'Have you seen my mother?' Her voice is shaky, barely audible. She coughs, convulsing violently, and hacks up something pinkish. The people on the street make a wide berth around her, turning their faces away.

Night is setting in now, and the little girl is beginning to tire. Lonely and dejected, she slumps to the ground, leaning up against the building behind her. She is so hungry and so cold, but her fatigue outweighs both feelings, and it is not long before she slips into sleep, the cold stone at her back her only pillow. The light-shadows of dreams flicker across her conscious. A lady, soft and warm, strokes her soft brown braids. When, five minutes to midnight, the building at her back is blown up in a Death Eater attack, she doesn't feel her body tearing apart. From the cold or from starvation, it matters not which, she is already dead.

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Sometimes I don't want to live. But I don't want to die either. I'm afraid.

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Lucius Malfoy is not a religious man. Still, somehow he finds himself here, kneeling at the base of an altar to a saint he doesn't even know the name of. He doesn't know any prayers, he doesn't even really know what a person is meant to say when they pray. He supposes it depends on what you're praying for, but he can't exactly put a name to his prayer. He knows he's too far gone for Heaven, he's committed far too many sins. But he doesn't believe in Hell, not really. If he believed in eternal punishment for sinning, he never would have killed in the first place. Malfoys believe in self-preservation, and setting oneself up for an eternity of damnation doesn't exactly hold to those beliefs.

Alright, then. He isn't praying for salvation, nor forgiveness, really. He has no regrets, wants nothing more for himself. So what does he pray for? He would pray for his wife's spirit, but where's the sense in that? No point in praying for the dead. There's no changing their fate. But he doesn't truly care for anyone, if not his wife. Except his son, of course, only he doesn't like to admit that. He's supposed to have disowned the boy five years ago. But you're meant to be able to talk to God about anything. Perhaps, then, that's who his prayers are for. The boy-child who is no longer his.

Don't let him die alone. He whom I have forsaken, let him know that I did love him. Let him know that, in the end, he will always be my son.

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It's alright, you know. Or it will be, in the end.

How do you know?

I don't. But doesn't it sound nice to say that?

That's not what you were supposed to say. You're supposed to be confident.

Yeah, well. I'm supposed to be a lot of things.

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Voldemort is in a good mood tonight. He can feel a change in the winds. He can sense success. It is throbbing, pulsating in the air, so much so that he can almost taste it. He twirls his wand between his fingers and marvels at the raw strength he feels emanating from within himself. The fates are on his side tonight, and he knows it.

'Lucius.' he calls. 'There has been a change in plans. We attack at dawn.'

'But my Lord! How can we possibly-'

'Do not question me. Notify the others. Let them prepare to fight.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

Voldemort smiles. Tomorrow will be a day to remember.

-

I'm sorry.

For what?

For everything.

You shouldn't be. I love you.

I know. It's just... I love you too.

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In case you were confused, this is set the evening before the Final Battle, all at more or less the same time. The parts in italics are Harry and Draco speaking. They alternate, every other line, starting out with Harry.

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