Work Text:
The iron gates loom before him-- tall, imposing. Unwelcoming. There are no stray peacocks running about this time, and everything is eerily still, as if the grounds itself is holding its breath, awaiting the inevitable explosion that's surely to blow all of them away later.
Usually Harry has no problem just winging it. Now, he's not so sure.
He doesn't fancy dying.
Maybe they should have thought this through.
"Scared, Potter?"
"Potter?" Harry grins, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
Draco merely rolls his eyes, catches his hand and leads him forward. The silver bands gleam, a new but comforting weight on both their fingers, against the light cast by the setting sun. The gates open and, hands clasped, they enter.