Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Avada Kedavra
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Draco waited, but even after several minutes, he didn't hear the telltale sounds of battle. He cursed, feeling himself beginning to panic. Had Potter and Weasley figured out it was a trap, that it was really Pansy Parkinson under all that ugly red hair and freckles?
For a fleeting second, he let himself be concerned over Pansy. What would happen to her? Would Potter torture her for information? After all, Draco had learned not to put anything past Harry Potter when it came to Ginny Weasley.
But then the second was up, and Draco did what he did best – began to focus on himself again.
He couldn't afford another failure. What would the Dark Lord do when he found out that Draco had messed up again? It was nothing short of a miracle that the Dark Lord had spared him after the fiasco at Hogwarts. The only reason he was still involved was because his father was continuously promising that Draco would learn, that it would be smart for the Dark Lord to keep him around because one day he would be a better, more loyal servant than anyone had ever been before.
But Draco didn't think he could be a loyal servant. Truthfully, he could not imagine living the life his father lived. In and out of Azkaban. Never knowing when the Dark Lord would grow angry and do away with him.
He didn't want that. In fact, he wasn't even sure he wanted to fight anymore. All throughout Hogwarts, he had anticipated the day he could finally become a Death Eater. He had dreamt about the day he would get the chance to earn his Dark Mark.
Battle and murder and power had once been words that enticed him beyond all else. He was still up for the power. But battle?
These battles were different than the silly encounters he'd had with Weasley and Potter in the corridors at school. They were different than the duel he'd challenged Potter to in their first year. Here, he didn't have Crabbe and Goyle to protect him. He was on his own, and as he was discovering, he wasn't as gifted with a wand as he'd once thought. Perhaps paying attention in class (something he'd done only in Potions so he didn't miss it when Snape pointed out Potter's mistakes or nearly reduced Granger to tears) would have been an idea at least worth entertaining.
And murder – he hadn't even been able to go through with killing Dumbledore, a senile old man who played for the other team, one that he did not like, or even respect.
If Snape had had to bail him out then, what would happen next time?
Draco had spent most of his life thinking – knowing – that he was on a higher level than everyone around him. He was a Malfoy, after all. His name alone communicated everything. He always got what he wanted because of who his father was.
But the Dark Lord didn't care about who his father was. And Harry Potter's side certainly didn't care about that. He could be killed just as quickly as Weasley – and look at who his father was. It seemed that there was no way out of this mess this time.
Draco did one of the few things he seemed to do well anymore – he fled. Perhaps if he found a way to get home before he was caught, he would have enough time to pack a bag and disappear forever. He might even be able to convince his mum to come with him. After all, his mum was in just as much danger as he was. They were all guilty by association. Lucius Malfoy's involvement with the Dark side had pretty much sealed all three of their fates years and years ago. And the Dark Lord had threatened to have his mum killed unless Draco succeeded in capturing Potter, which Draco now knew he could not.
Draco ran, but spun around when he heard footsteps behind him. A pair of strong hands wrapped around his forearms and he was shoved against the wall.
It took him a moment before he realized who he was looking at.
'What did I say before?' Harry Potter spat.
He said nothing. He knew very well what Potter was talking about.
'What did I say before?'
He was vaguely aware of how pitiful he was. Of all the ways to meet his end … having it delivered to him by Harry Potter was possibly the last way he would have chosen.
He wondered if Potter would be too noble and too good to actually carry through on his promise to kill him. Even after everything, Potter was still a bloody saint. He really wouldn't be able to live up to his promise of killing Draco, would he? Sometimes, Potter was downright sickening, but this time, Draco was holding his breath and praying for Potter's mercy.
But he recognized the look in Potter's eyes. It was the same one he used to see when he looked in the mirror.
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'P-please,' Malfoy choked out, nearly sobbing.
It was pathetic, but then again, so was he.
'Please don't ki—'
'Shut up!' Harry yelled. He wasn't even sure what he was really about to do, but he felt certain that he wouldn't be able to do it if Malfoy verbalized it.
There was no question in Harry's mind that he could do … this. But did he want to?
It was almost as if he had risen out of his body and was now floating several feet in the air, looking down on himself and Malfoy.
And he saw it, as clear as day:
Draco Malfoy was a boy who had been, quite unfortunately, caught up in this war. He was trying as best he could to survive another day.
Malfoy hadn't chosen to be born into the role of Voldemort's follower any more than Harry had been chosen to be born into the role of Voldemort's conqueror. But Harry was going to rise to the occasion, because there was nothing else for him. And Draco – well, perhaps there was nothing else for him, either.
In reality, he was hardly any different from Harry.
As Harry was beginning to learn, nothing was ever as it seemed. There was no black or white, only grey. And the line between right and wrong could often be blurred, or even washed away entirely.
This war – this life – was as much about the things you did as it was about the things you did not do. The choices made and the actions executed were just as important as the desires stifled and the impulses ignored.
Who was he to decide what was right and what was wrong?
Harry's perspective was different from Malfoy's or Wormtail's or Scrimgeour's or even Ginny's. No one else was the one destined for heroism, like Harry. No one else felt the burden and pressure he experienced daily. But then again, nobody else was living Malfoy's life.
Harry knew that his side was the right side. But if he was Malfoy, would he not think that Voldemort was the answer to the world's problems? Or would he not, at the very least, hold his tongue and follow his orders?
But that, therein itself, lay the problem. Malfoy might have thought that what he did was right, but at this current moment in time, Harry was the one in position to decide who was right and who was wrong.
And so he decided to do the most loving thing he thought he could do for someone like Malfoy – he decided to set him free.
He gritted his teeth and told himself, then and there, that he would not allow himself feel bad about this later on.
He'd seen the curse several times before, but it had never seemed to glow as green as it did now, coming from the tip of his own wand.
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Several of the Order members, including Tonks and Lupin, needed to be treated by Audrey and Earl, so the meeting at Headquarters was postponed until after everyone was properly looked after.
This was fine with Harry. He hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in three days. Hell, it was past lunch now and he hadn't even been to bed yet. He fancied a nap, and a cancelled Order meeting was exactly what he needed to get it.
He said nothing the entire way home, and would not open his mind to Ginny, though he could feel her trying to get in.
While the rest of the household stayed in the kitchen to eat the food Mrs Weasley was making, Harry slipped past them all and climbed the stairs to his room. Should he tell them what he had done? Or could they all tell? He felt as though there was a sign hanging above his head. Would they simply not want to know? If Mrs Weasley found out, would she kick him out of her house?
He wasn't completely blind. He picked up on the looks Ginny had been giving him. She was concerned, but she didn't know what he had done. If she knew, she wouldn't even look at him at all. At best, she would look at him the way she would look at a stranger. Or someone she detested.
He was carrying around a secret, one that he knew for certain he couldn't tell anyone. He could do it, too. He was very practiced at keeping large secrets, after all. But this secret felt as though it would kill him if he didn't get it off his chest, if he kept it tightly wrapped up and locked away, down deep inside of him.
He had attempted to get Ron's attention – he could tell Ron; Ron would understand and Ron wouldn't judge him and Ron wouldn't get that awful look on his face, the one he knew Hermione or Mrs Weasley or even Lupin would have if he confided in them, instead.
But Ron had been too preoccupied with an intense-looking conversation he was having with Hermione to notice that Harry needed him.
His hands felt dirty, and so the first thing he did was wash them. He scrubbed and scrubbed but the feeling didn't go away. It was as if something was stained onto his skin, something that only he could see. Or could the others see it too?
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw Ginny standing behind him.
'Mum asked me to come up to see if you wanted her to send you up anything to eat,' she said hesitantly.
'I saw Malfoy at the Ministry,' Harry said softly, hoping Ginny would understand what this meant.
She didn't. Or perhaps she did. But she said nothing, and Harry hoped it was because she didn't know what he meant, rather than she was too busy trying to come up with a way to get away from him that she was forgetting to speak.
'He's dead now,' he added. If she didn't understand this, he would just have to come up with another way. He couldn't say the actual words.
Ginny's eyes widened at the news of Malfoy's death, and then she gasped when she put two and two together and realized what Harry was implying. 'Did you do it?' she asked bluntly, before she could stop herself.
Well, at least she'd finally figured it out.
He looked down and said, 'Tell your mum not to bother. I'll be down shortly.'
He could feel her eyes on him for several more moments, and he could tell that she was struggling to say something – or to not say something. Finally, she left without another word. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He wondered what would happen next. He wondered about the Horcruxes, about the Final battle, about himself and Ginny. He felt as though his mind was operating on another level, but really, it was probably only because of a lack of sleep. Wasn't it?
He leaned toward the sink and splashed water on his face.
He could not deny the strange, unfamiliar surge of feeling he'd experienced earlier, after what had happened with Malfoy. It was unlike anything he'd felt before, even while doing wandless magic. This was … power.
He had felt responsible for everything that had happened to his parents and Sirius and Dumbledore and Ginny and Ron, but it was only after his meeting with Malfoy that he did realize the true weight and burden of murder.
Even so, strangely, Harry could not feel guilty about what he had done. If anything, he felt ashamed and even somewhat afraid, but not for the reasons for which he knew he should.
He had, to some degree, enjoyed the feeling, the rush, that had accompanied his encounter with Draco. So much so that he knew he would not be opposed to doing it again, if only to experience that same feeling.
But wasn't that completely sick and awful? Was a warning bell going off in his mind at this very moment?
He wondered if Tom Riddle had felt this way after his first kill.
First kill. There would be more. Harry nearly shuddered with delight at the thought.
He wondered if Riddle had become what he was – Lord Voldemort – because of this feeling. Hermione often said that Harry was ruled by his emotions. Was it possible to be ruled by this, as well? Would Harry head down the same path as Voldemort? He knew that he was probably overreacting … after all, it had only been one time. But wasn't that even more of a concern? It had only been once, and already, in the back of his mind, he was thinking about next time. What he would do differently. How it would feel. What he would say. Who it would be.
In Muggle storybooks, the heroes always triumphed, always overcame the evil and the countless temptations.
But was it possible for heroes to make the wrong choice, to become the very thing they were born to defeat? Just because those stories were never published and read to small children, did that mean it wasn't possible? That it never happened?
From time to time, was it really so hard to believe that the line between good and evil blurred so much that one did not even realize when he or she had crossed it?
What if the prophecy had gotten it wrong? What if it wasn't Ginny who would be led astray, but Harry?
He would do anything to protect Ginny and win this war, even if it meant getting his hands dirty in the process. But wasn't love supposed to save him in the end? Could it be possible that love would also be his destruction? With love, he knew that he would make it through this war. But what if the person he was when all was said and done wasn't who he'd started out as?
This newfound sense of euphoria was still rushing through his veins. Harry took a good, long look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were just as green as his mum's had been. And his hair was messy and always stuck up in the back, just like his dad's had.
His experiences growing up had never been truly influenced by his parents. Still, Sirius and Lupin had always said he'd received his good heart from his mother, and that Lily would be proud of how kind he could be. Harry knew that his dad was the reason he had such a knack for getting into troublesome situations. And he was willing to bet that it was not a coincidence that both he and his father had fallen in love with fiery, strong-willed women. These things had been handed down directly from his parents.
But then, as he continued to examine his reflection, his eyes came to rest on his scar. And Harry was forced to wonder, though not for the first time, if his parents were not the only people who had passed some of their traits onto him.
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Harry said nothing at Headquarters. He merely sat back and let Ron speak, listening as his friend described the trap involving a Polyjuiced-version of Ginny. He decided that his biggest concern, for the moment, was going to be trying to stay awake throughout this boring meeting.
Now, reflecting upon the events at the Department of Mysteries, he was relieved that he had actually recognized this trap for what it was. It appeared that his training with McGonagall was paying off more than he'd realized. Not only was she teaching him to harness and strengthen his magic, but she was also teaching him how to calm himself and properly assess critical situations with a clear, level head. He had certainly been able to do that today.
He knew he shouldn't give himself too much credit, though. It was his own fault that he and Ron had been tricked in the first place.
When it was first speculated that the other side could be planning on Polyjuicing Ginny, the girl had been forced to cut and highlight her hair. She had been given a bracelet that tracked her every move, which she was never supposed to take off.
After a while, Harry had begun to notice that Ginny hadn't been wearing her bracelet. On top of that, she had used a Glamour Charm to get rid of the highlights in her hair. Eventually, her hair had begun to grow longer, and it was now difficult to tell that she'd gotten it cut at all. With everything that had been going on around Headquarters and The Burrow, nobody else had seemed to notice that all the precautions they had taken to protect Ginny had been erased seemingly overnight.
Harry had noticed, of course, but he had made the decision not to say anything. Unless she was going to Headquarters, Ginny never even left The Burrow. How much trouble could she get into? Even if she did find herself in a sticky situation, Harry would be there to save her.
Had that girl posing as Ginny really been Ginny, Harry would have saved her. But what he hadn't ever considered before was that a Polyjuiced Ginny wouldn't put her in danger, it would put everyone else in danger. If he hadn't realized in time that it was a trap set up by Voldemort, he could have led Ron to his death tonight.
'So, Harry,' Lupin said. 'How were you able to tell that it wasn't really Ginny?'
It took Harry a moment to realize that Lupin was talking to him. 'I …' he said, and then felt himself begin to panic.
He knew that he couldn't reveal the true reason – he had known because he had used his connection with Ginny. He and Ginny had decided that they weren't going to tell anyone about this just yet, and he did not want to go back on that decision, even if it meant having to make up an answer.
'I know Ginny,' he said eventually. 'Maybe Mr and Mrs Weasley raised her, and maybe Ron and everyone else grew up with her, but I know her better than any of them. I could tell that it wasn't her. Something about that person pretending to be Ginny was all wrong, something that I can't put my finger on, even now. And on top of that, she was calling for help.' As he spoke, he realized that this was probably what had first caused him to be suspicious of what had been happening. 'You know, calling my name. Calling for me to come and save her. And the real Ginny would never have done that.'
Everything he had said – especially the part about knowing Ginny better than anyone else – had been true. But even as he spoke, he could not bear to look up and see what sort of expression was on Ginny's face. He had managed to avoid looking at her since their short conversation at The Burrow, and although he felt certain everyone had noticed that there was something going on with the pair, he didn't think anyone would dare bring it up at this moment in time.
Apparently, Lupin and the others seemed to accept his answer. Although Hermione – ever-brilliant Hermione – was giving him a look out of the corner of her eye that told him he'd have to answer a few more questions when they all returned to The Burrow.
The meeting gradually switched from the Polyjuice incident to other important matters, such as Moody. Apparently, the Auror had suffered rather extensive injuries, and had to be taken to St Mungo's for treatment. With an almost unnoticeable quiver in her voice, McGonagall told everyone that Moody's condition was critical, and that the Healers all said his chances of recovery did not look very promising.
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After Harry spent the entirety of dinner ignoring everyone by remaining silent and not looking up from his plate even once, he went up to Ginny's room and attempted to speak to her. He'd been a complete arse to her – and everyone – but she was supposed to forgive him. She loved him, didn't she? And to be honest, he was who he was. He'd never pretended to be anyone other than a miserable bastard. Shouldn't she have realized what a relationship with him would be like ages ago?
Besides, he forgave her every time she did something wrong. Although, really, when did she do something wrong? He could think of only a handful of times that she had apologized after an argument and had done it because she had been genuinely wrong.
He found that her door was slightly ajar, but he knocked anyway. 'Ginny?' he said. 'Can we talk?'
'Not now,' she said, and Harry nearly walked right in because he didn't even think for a moment that Ginny would say no. She always helped him when he needed her to.
'But Gin –'
'Please, just go away.'
'It's important, though.'
'I'm sure it is,' she told him, sounding slightly angered. 'Because with you, isn't everything important? You can't seem to take a breath without the Daily Prophet wanting to write about it, and I thought you realized how ridiculous that is, but I guess you don't. You're selfish, Harry. Today has not been one of your finer ones. Is it because you're tired? We're all tired. We're all running on no sleep – not just you. And yet the rest of us were able to carry out friendly conversation at dinner. The rest of us were able to act like human beings. You want to talk? Don't you think I wanted to talk earlier, after we got back from the fight and I tried so hard to get your attention? Don't you think I wanted to talk after I found out that I had been Polyjuiced, and that you and Ron had nearly been killed because of it?'
'I – yeah,' he said stupidly. 'I guess. So –?'
'So – I'm tired of you being so unavailable unless it suits your own purpose.'
'Are you – are you breaking up with me?' he asked finally.
'No,' she said slowly, but not so slowly that he had to wonder whether or not she'd been seriously considering it. 'But I'm hacked off at you right now. Really hacked off. And it doesn't mean that I don't want to talk later, about what you said before – about Malfoy. And while I realize that that could be the reason you've been acting so cold today, it doesn't explain every other time you shut me out for some stupid reason or another. This is a pattern with you. One that I really wish you'd break.'
If she was waiting for an answer, she was going to be sorely disappointed, because Harry took a step back from the door and then trudged downstairs. He knew that she was right, that although he'd had things on his mind he'd still had no reason to treat everyone so poorly, but he was still angry with her for saying it.
He saw Ron, who was without Hermione for the first time all day, and although a part of him still wanted to talk about Malfoy, a larger part of him wanted to sulk. He knew that by sulking, he was being just as miserable and childish as Ginny had accused him of being, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to help it.
'Are you all right, dear?' Mrs Weasley asked. She sounded concerned, even though he'd been acting like a prat to even her today, and he felt a wave of guilt hit him square in the chest.
'Er, yeah,' he said. 'I just want a little fresh air. I'll be outside.'
Mrs Weasley shook her head. 'Do you think it's wise to –?'
'Please?' Harry said. 'I'll only be only a few feet from the house. I have my wand. I just – I just need to see something other than four walls closing me in for a little while.'
She relented, but watched him through the kitchen window. He opened the door (after undoing the locks, which was rather time-consuming, actually) and stepped outside, feeling comfortable, finally, as the cool air of the night hit him.
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Harry was on the grass, staring up at the sky. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been outside for a reason other than one directly relating to an Order mission.
The air was cool – it was only days away from October, and the leaves on the trees were now falling to the ground in reds and yellows.
His head hurt. Or maybe his heart.
And for the very first time since this war began, Harry Potter honestly started to contemplate giving up.
It was a fleeting thought, as ludicrous as a Muggle thinking about witches and wizards, but it was there. What if I just let Voldemort win?And he had to admit that he was tired of fighting, of trying to be the hero, of having to protect everyone he cared about.
They all told him not to act like such a hero all the time, but really, wasn't that what they all needed from him? If he gave up, if he stopped playing that role, wouldn't they all die?
When was it going to be someone else's turn?
He looked up at the black sky and tried to count the stars, but hardly any were out.
There was only one that Harry could clearly see: directly above him, bright and twinkling, almost as though it was communicating through some sort of Morse code – hang in there.
He heard approaching footsteps. A moment later, Ginny lowered herself down onto the grass beside him, and then shifted, until she was flat on her back.
They stayed that way for quite some time, not speaking, but simply looking up at the sky. There was a thick silence between them, and the air around Harry felt charged with something he didn't quite comprehend. Ginny turned her head to look at him, her eyes saying, I'll forgive you if you forgive me. Harry felt around for her hand and clasped it in his own. As he was beginning to realize, he didn't always need to use their connection to understand Ginny.
She squeezed his hand with hers. He rolled onto his side and kissed her softly. They soon forgot themselves, though, and Ginny used her free hand – which was fisting the collar of Harry's shirt – to pull him over on top of her.
Their bodies pressed together, a startling fit, and Harry had to wonder, at least for a second or two, if it was possible that someone had created them with the another one in mind. He lowered his wall and when he felt Ginny do the same, he communicated his thought with her.
She laughed into his mouth and began pulling his shirt over his head, apparently ignoring his thoughts that they should not allow themselves to get carried away. She stopped – although they had managed to warm themselves up together, it was still rather cool outside, and so she allowed him to keep his clothes.
He attempted to roll away from her, but she following, the soft weight of her body pressing him to the ground. The hand that had been holding hers let go in search of more favourable resting spots. The noise coming from the back of Ginny's throat was enough to make him forget that they were in the middle of her backyard, and that if anyone looked out the window, they would probably be able to see what was going on outside.
The sound of Hedwig returning from her latest hunt registered in Harry's mind. He knew that someone would open a window to let her in, and he also knew that upon doing so, that person's attention would be drawn to the two figures snogging on the lawn.
Let's go inside.
They pulled away slightly and Harry looked up at Ginny. She really was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Just to the right of her, he could make out the same star he'd been looking at earlier. It was still blinking, but in a different pattern this time, delivering a new message.
If Hermione had been out there with them, she could have told him that the star he was looking at was called Sirius.
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Don't forget to check out my new one-shots, Scientist and Symbiosis.