Work Text:
Draco dreams of the forest. A forest, he supposes, but it feels like the forest.
In the dream, he’s holding a stone and looking at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter. In the dream, he’s crying. He can hear his parents calling out for him, he can hear, still, the echo of bombardas that he knows should have ended hours before.
He knows, in the dream, that things had gone the way he always knew they had to. He knows that he wishes they hadn’t. That, in the dream, he’s devastated.
That heartbreak follows him into daylight, drapes itself over him like a cloak. He feels it when he wakes, feels it as he walks the halls of the manor he commands, feels it as he’s told by his house elf that his father has called by floo and is waiting for him. He feels it as he hears him say, “the Potter boy was seen in Dorset three days ago. You know what to do if you find him.”
The heartbreak follows him all day, because he knows if he sees Harry Potter, he has to kill him. He knows that he will. And he mourns him already, the man he has never met, the man who is more legend than man, because he remembers himself standing in that forest. Because, in a dream, he knew him.
He also knows what’s expected of him, and he will follow through. Even if it kills him.
-
But this is not that kind of story.
-
What happened was this: the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord was born as the seventh month died.
And so, one fateful Halloween night, the man who called himself Lord Voldemort aimed his wand at that baby, after killing everyone standing on his way. He didn’t flinch or bat an eye, way past the point of hesitating before taking a life, even if it was the life of an innocent, wide-eyed one year old who stared at him with his arms outstretched, looking for comfort. He aimed his wand and said the words that would kill him.
The babe, defenseless, just sat there.
…but killing off a child would not be very PG-13 of us, would it, and so what happened was this: the little boy broke the Killing Curse as it slammed against him, turned it into endless fragments of green light, tendrils of black magic that floated up into the ceiling like dancing fingers, fading into nothing. Some of it slipped inside of him through his weeping little baby mouth, through his wide green eyes, through the jagged crack the impact put on his forehead, but most of it – gone.
And yes, the boy was nestled in a cocoon of protective magic strengthened by his parents’ sacrifice, but he was an actual baby, and a powerful curse slamming against him was certainly enough to knock him out, even if he did have a bit of a magical force field. He passed out. He did not die.
The man who called himself Lord Voldemort – perhaps not much of a man after all – did not die that day, either, in any way, shape or form. There was no rebound to the spell. From his side of the wand, it appeared as if it had hit the boy and done what it was due.
He peered into the crib that held the unconscious baby and, being a Dark Lord and therefore not knowing the first thing about babies, assumed his work there was done. Satisfied, he turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs, ready to continue his pursuit of power, now unstoppable. That’s what he thought.
But the boy had not died, as we’ve established. What happened to him was this: a devastated young man in a flying motorcycle found him and, you know, like a regular person, thought to shake him around a bit before assuming he was dead. And the baby knew him, so he sighed with relief upon waking, lay against the man’s chest and fell back asleep clutching his battered jacket in his tiny fists.
When Hagrid came for the boy, Sirius insisted on accompanying him, and together they met Albus Dumbledore in Surrey. Yes, unfortunately that still happened.
We know how this story could have gone. But it is not how it went.
What happened was this: young Sirius Black now had an alibi. Even though the baby was still left in a terrible home with his terrible aunt and uncle, his godfather, a free man, visited him in the form of a dog – against Dumbledore’s orders, but, in young Sirius’ words, he did not give a shit – and taught him about magic all through his childhood. Harry Potter was a happy boy. He knew his stay in Privet Drive was momentary, he knew as soon as that man “Dumbledore” allowed it, his godfather would take him.
A few things changed, of course. This is not the story we knew. Let us try to break it to you… gently.
1. Harry James Potter received the “you’re a wizard” talk at 4 years old, as soon as Sirius thought he’d be old enough to understand it.
2. Sirius Black told him all about his parents as well. Showed him pictures and books and sometimes cried while he cradled Harry to sleep.
3. Sirius Black, unbeknownst to Harry, once slipped into the Dursley’s bedroom at night, let them think he was a demon, and threatened to unleash hell’s wrath upon them if they weren’t nice to their nephew. It worked.
4. Lord Voldemort didn’t die that Halloween night.
5. Lord Voldemort continued his campaign for power and immortality.
6. Lord Voldemort gained terrain over the Ministry, terrorized and devastated magical villages, established governors in each of them – Death Eaters, all of them.
7. Lord Voldemort directed a series of attacks against ministry facilities.
8. On Christmas Eve, 1986, the Ministry fell. Millicent Bagnold was killed in her office, and Pius Thicknesse was appointed Minister in her place.
9. Lord Voldemort gained full control of magical Britain.
10. Albus Dumbledore visited when Harry turned 7 and told him the story of Tom Riddle, the man, and Voldemort, the monster. Harry was 7, and Dumbledore let him know he was a soldier. He let him know he was the most powerful wizard of all time, probably. He let him know he was their only hope. Harry was 7.
Everything was different.
Harry was whisked away from Privet Drive and taken to Grimmauld Place. He was 7, and his transformation into a warrior, a bringer of hope, began.
-
Harry Potter is, at 20 years old, a first priority criminal, wanted by a corrupt government for treason and criminal disloyalty.
The tips of his fingers hold more power than many wizarding folk see in their entire lives, charged with years of training, charged with light and dark magic, balanced inside of him like night and day. And what he does is this: he walks. There’s a member of the Resistance next to him, always, a different one each day as he walks through the country, feet calloused, refusing to apparate anywhere before he sees it all. He walks, passes villages in his search for horcruxes, and bestows small miracles upon those who need him.
He comes and goes, more legend than man. In places where governors reign wielding terror as their weapon, the people await him. His name is whispered in taverns, held close like a secret, like something precious, and when he appears, white hooded cloak shadowing his face, it’s as if rain poured after centuries of drought. He smells of dirt before a storm, of fresh grass, and every house welcomes him in secret in the middle of the night.
His hands brush over burning foreheads, over broken arms, through strands of hair, and his touch is curative. His words slide smooth like a balm over wounded souls, his message — we will win this, I will win this, worry not, fear not, for I will end this — the love everyone feels for him, deep in their hearts. He’s a stranger, but he’s not. In places where fear has become a living, breathing thing, villages where everyone cowers before their leaders, people bow down for their warrior, kiss his calloused hands, his scarred forehead, and what little they have they give him so he can continue his trip.
At night, after he has left, the air smells different, smells like him, like rain and lightning, and his message of love is whispered into the night with the certainty that he will free them, he will free them.
Harry Potter, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. The boy who lived, the man destined to become a savior.
At night, people come together in secret and say, “long live Harry Potter, savior of all.”
-
He’s just a boy, too.
He flies over Dorset, broom held tight between his legs as he makes his way to the Resistance’s refuge in East Devon. The hands that cured a man of blindness earlier, now push through a wooden door and find their way around the back of his godfather, who was up waiting for him. Desperate times, but that man always has a smile for Harry.
“News of civilization?” He asks then, holding him tight, letting him know it’s okay to share the burden of his responsibilities if only for a minute.
“Yes. A man knows of a man who bought the cup. We need to move to Wiltshire.”
That’s how he lives. Just a boy who happens to be a savior, who lives nowhere and everywhere, who knows his duty, who has trained his whole life to achieve it.
And Sirius goes with him. “We’ll hit the road tomorrow.”
-
When Harry Potter knocks on his door, Draco almost sicks up on the spot.
Piercing green eyes stare at him, ready for a fight. But Draco is smart. He knows Harry Potter has come looking for something. Draco reads the paper, talks to his father daily about the information they have on Potter at the Ministry. He wouldn’t come, unless he was looking for something.
Draco should kill him, should end this, win the Dark Lord’s favor.
But he dreamt of a forest, and of knowing this man who carries the wild in his eyes.
He lets him in.
-
Malfoy Manor is full of secrets. Harry coaxes them out of hiding, cradles them near his chest and learns about darkness by stumbling into it in every corner.
The cup calls for him from the heart of the house, and he finds it on the second day of his stay, unearths it from a coffin in the depths of the dungeons. He destroys it on the spot, unspools the layers of iron with the magic contained beneath his fingernails, and destroys it.
When he turns, Draco Malfoy is in the corner. The child of a Death Eater.
But Harry has been in many places, seen enough repentance to recognize it in downcast grey eyes. He lowers his cloak and walks to the child of a Death Eater, holds his head between his hands.
“You can tell me.”
“There’s more where that cup came from,” Draco mutters, as if Harry had forced it out of him. He could have, but he didn’t.
“Will you show me?” And he can tell this man whose beautiful face he holds between his fingertips knows little of gentleness, knows it because he sees him flinch at Harry’s uncomplicated love and soft words.
“I should turn you in.”
“Will you show me?”
Draco shows him.
-
He learns more from Harry Potter the first two weeks they spend together than he did in 7 years at Hogwarts.
In the mornings, he steps out the door to find Harry kneeling by the flower beds, and when he turns to Draco his smile is wide and gentle, “Look at this,” he says, and with a touch to their petals, he makes the buds shake off their stupor and bloom, nurses them back to health. “Every living thing is ready to thrive, if you ask nicely.”
In the evenings, when they share a meal by the fire, he can’t stop himself from thinking about his father. About the fact that he’s betraying him. And Harry knows, because he always knows. In the short time they’ve spent together, he’s always seemed to know.
“Once you’ve passed your own limit, punishing yourself for love, you will start hating yourself, Draco,” he tells him as if he could read his mind, and then reaches for his hands and plays with his fingers, traces an outline of vines and flowers along Draco’s arms with magic, with locks of pure, blue light. “And if you think you know what’s right, that’s what you should do.”
And it’s nothing Draco doesn’t know. He knows what’s right, knows the magic of Harry’s hands, knows his heaving chest after an evening looking through the libraries for clues of where he needs to go next, he knows his profile, has been staring at it for days, he knows what he feels after Harry kisses his hands and tells him he can join them if he wants, they have room for him, he has room for him.
He knows what’s right. Harry’s message of love, of life is what’s right. And he would walk through fire if Harry asked, but right now, he’s simply asking him to thrive, if he’s ready.
He’s ready.
-
“The locket is in Inverness,” Harry says. He can see Draco flinch, and he knows the reason. “We have a fortress there. Will you come with me?”
He knows the reason.
-
This is what it’s like, walking with him: there’s magic where Draco never thought to look before. In the eyes of a child, who feels hope for the first time, in the lips of a mother that kisses Harry’s hands and Draco’s forehead. There’s magic in Harry’s feet as they touch the ground and make flowers bloom around him, as he brings life to everything around him, offers tenderness and words of love in places where authoritarian brutality is the norm.
It’s this: walking into prisons at night and melting out the iron keeping innocents locked in. It’s colors seeping into grey, it’s Harry reaching into a tree and it producing a perfect, ripe apple to gift to him, it’s Harry pressing it to Draco’s lips with a smile and saying, “here, you’ve earned it.” It’s Draco biting into it and being certain of the fact that he loves this man, tasting it in the sweet, sweet juice after breaking the skin of the fruit.
He knows, now, that Harry is the legend he has always heard about. He’s infinite, raw power poured into the purest vessel it could find, he’s gentleness to his core, he’s magnetic and good. He makes it impossible not to love him.
And he knows, now, that Harry is also the boy everyone forgot used to hide underneath that cloak. That for all the life he brings everywhere he walks, there’s a solemnity he carries in his chest, the burden of hope heavy between his shoulder blades, crushing him even if he does not know.
Sirius comes and goes, joins them on their trip and disappears on recon missions, over and over. Once, when they’re alone, Draco tells him about it, says “he’s just a boy” and Sirius sighs because he knows what it’s like to love him, to love this boy who is both young and ancient, like Draco does, and can’t even assure him, because there’s many ways this could end, and only one of them, the least likely of them, lets them keep him.
So he gives Draco a stone.
-
It takes them a year. Harry makes his way through England and Scotland, brings hope and freedom to the people as he searches for the items he needs to destroy the Dark Lord.
Draco guides him into Hogwarts, hand in hand, the moment they know where to find the last one. As Harry destroys it, he sees Draco cry.
He hasn’t told him what Harry has always known, that the way this ends for him is in sacrifice, but he thinks Draco must suspect. So he holds him in his arms and smooths his hands through his hair and over his eyelids. “It’s almost over, my beloved. Now let him come to me.”
He makes himself sound more confident than he feels. For the first time, as he holds Draco close, he doubts his own faith, for entirely selfish reasons.
But he remembers his lessons, and he remembers Dumbledore, and the Order, and reminds himself that this is what he was born for.
“Let him come to me.”
-
Draco knows what Harry is going to do, and sees him try to hide it. He sees him fight, sees him help every single witch and wizard to cross paths with him, the way he always does.
And when they part ways in the midst of the battle later that night, when Draco sees his mother, he feels something shatter inside of him and knows it’s happening. So he runs.
-
“The boy who lived, come to die.”
“You think this ends with me, Tom, but it doesn’t. The people’s pain is more powerful than their fear, and they won’t be silent. Do not think they’ll be silent. From the other side, I will see them bring you down.”
And then a curse, finally doing what it was due all those years before.
-
He stands in the forest, a stone held tight between his fingers. He can hear his parents’ cries for him in the distance, running towards him, echoes of bombardas that should have stopped hours before. He stares at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter.
“Why?”
“This was the only way he would die. I know you don’t understand, Draco, but this was the only way.”
“But he’s not dead, he went back to the castle, he’s making everyone pick sides. Harry, it’s over, it’s over.”
-
Harry stands in Kings Cross.
He’s given a choice, and he thinks of the burden, thinks of what his life might look like now, what will be expected of him next.
He thinks of the boy with the grey eyes.
He makes his choice.
-
In the morning light, a hero is reborn. Draco tosses him a wand and runs to fight next to him. Where he always belonged.
Afterwards, when the withering body of a man who was a monster hits the ground, they walk into the Hall, hand in hand, covered in dust from head to toe. Harry touches every bloodstained forehead, every dead body, presses his forehead to them and whispers words in the ancient language of the magic that runs through his veins, through underground streams and every living, breathing thing.
Everywhere in the Hall, eyes begin to open, and look into a new world.
-
“The change is only starting,” Draco tells him, as they stand with their foreheads pressed together outside the castle.
“It has started, my beloved.”
He doesn’t say he loves him, but Draco has known from the beginning, hears the words in the spaces between, slowly, dripping from every pore of Harry’s skin.
“We should go away for a while, just… while the dust settles.” Harry doesn’t protest, but Draco sees it in his eyes, and so, he interrupts his thoughts with a soft press of cracked lips, rough to touch, tender to heart. When he pulls away, Harry’s smile is nearly blinding. “You deserve it, for once. Besides, I know of a place in Wiltshire where the flowers sing your name.”
“And you?”
“And I sing it, too. I sing it, my love.”