Work Text:
With an audible crack Harry lands on an uneven shoreline, one foot in the frigid water. He swears, casts a Drying Charm, and takes a moment to orient himself. Waves crash into a pebbled beach and white cliffs tower above. The full moon, bright and otherworldly, hangs high in the sky and its light skims across the ocean below. Harry inhales deeply; he notes a distinctive tang, equal parts sea salt and dead fish. He will never understand why the coast is considered romantic.
The familiar tug of magic — tender yet sharp — lets Harry know his quarry is nearby. He’d been forced to wait a few moments before Apparating to ensure he didn’t land too close. Over the last few months, he’s learned a thing or two about stealth.
The location makes sense. He remembers something in the file about an old and disused family home near the Cliffs of Dover.
Harry curses as he stumbles on a rock. He hurries around a section of cliff that juts out and obscures his view. He’s rewarded with a distant flash of platinum hair, radiant in the moonlight. With visual confirmation made, he pauses and takes a moment to pull on his invisibility cloak. The wind whips through his hair and makes his teeth chatter. With a quick Warming Charm, he presses onward.
Following the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry threw himself into Auror work. Shacklebolt gave him a free pass, said that defeating Voldemort and surviving the Battle was qualification enough and anything else could be learned on the job. Harry’s certain the depleted Auror ranks also had something to do with it.
Hermione implored him to take a break. You’ve given enough of yourself, she’d said, you need time to heal. But he just couldn’t slow down. It was a relief to have something new to focus on; something to keep him busy and keep his thoughts at bay. The idea of wandering aimlessly around Grimmauld Place, pondering his life choices and talking about his feelings gave him vertigo. It made him feel like he was high up on his broom, surrounded by Dementors. He knew he was better suited to practical endeavours.
Harry quickens his pace. Another section of cliff juts out truncating the shoreline and he quickly rounds the corner, getting closer. Like a beacon, there’s a flash of white in the darkness ahead.
Auror work is good; it gives him a sense of absolution. But there’s still the problem of long, lonely, endless nights. When he can’t take the non-stop cycling of his thoughts, then Dreamless Sleep is the answer. Perhaps a little too often.
Ginny? Well, that was over before it began. He’s now sure he sees her more as a sister than a romantic partner. Maybe that’s all it ever was. Things are still awkward between them but he hopes in time fences can be mended.
After the war, the DMLE set up a special task force to round up the remaining Death Eaters. They needn’t have bothered. One by one, like poisoned rats, they turned up dead.
At first, the Aurors couldn’t believe their luck. Reports came in that Mulciber was just sitting out in the open in Knockturn Alley. It wasn’t until they had him surrounded that Harry noticed his eyes, open and glassy; his mouth, slightly agape; and his chest, no longer rising and falling. Lucius Malfoy and Rabastan Lestrange were next, found in their cells, stiff, eyes wide open, faces contorted in fear.
One by one they kept dying. All Death Eaters. On each body the Dark Mark was scar-tissue white, as though drained of all Dark Magic.
The Ministry adamantly refused to waste time investigating the deaths even though they were deemed suspicious. Bitterness and resentment ran deep.
But Harry has a theory. He’s sure the string of deaths has everything to do with Voldemort. He’s dead, they reminded him — like he needed reminding — isn’t that enough?
It should be. But Harry’s never been one to leave things alone. He’s convinced that somehow, from beyond the grave, Voldemort has found a way to summon his followers.
In life, the Dark Lord tethered himself to this realm through the darkest magic. Now, in death, he seems to be calling his magic home. Harry suspects the Dark Mark was more than just a brand, more than a tool for communication. In the event of his death, the Dark Mark was Voldemort’s failsafe. A petty and vindictive master, if he didn’t get to live then why should anyone else?
It frustrates Harry that no one else can see this. But then again, he sometimes sees what others cannot.
Harry breaks into a jog as the blond figure strides ahead. The Tracking Charm he’s placed on Malfoy is a flagrant abuse of his Auror privileges. But then again, Harry’s rather good at justifying things. He always has been where Malfoy is concerned.
Draco kept his head down after the war. He received a slap on the wrist and a pardon — he was only sixteen at the time and coerced, Harry testified on his behalf. He managed to expediently secure a Potions Apprenticeship under a respected Potioneer, thus proving the Malfoy name wasn’t rendered entirely worthless, and devoted himself to the craft and his research. In the months that followed, everything he’s done has been by the book, not a toe out of line, his hands clean. All the same, Harry has kept tabs on him — old habits die hard.
Tonight, All Hallows’ Eve, under the glowing light of a full moon, Draco Malfoy is the last remaining Death Eater. Reformed, for sure, but he still bears the Dark Mark. Voldemort’s magic.
Harry had planned to spend Samhain in the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow. With the veil between worlds thin he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of his parents, perhaps even Sirius and Remus too. It’s the first year he’s been free to do so. But he knows they’ll understand. This is a matter of life and death.
Harry creeps closer. Draco pauses abruptly, and Harry quickly does the same. Draco stiffens.
“Of course it’s you.” Draco’s voice is sharp. “Come to see the end, have you?”
Slightly abashed Harry pulls off the cloak. He doesn’t know how but cloak or no cloak Malfoy always seems to know when he’s nearby.
Draco appears resigned. “You’ve seen me at my worst. Why not now too?”
The temperature suddenly drops, and Harry knows Draco feels it too because he wraps his black cloak tighter around himself.
“Draco, I’m here because you’re in danger.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’ve been expecting this. I should be celebrating Samhain with Mother, welcoming Father home for the first time. But I know it’s my turn tonight and I wanted to spare her the anguish of watching her only child die.”
He looks over Harry’s shoulder and Harry turns too. They both see it, the dark translucent figure making its way to shore. Draco sees it because it’s coming for him. Harry, because he’s seen it before and lived.
“Blast,” Draco says. “I planned to already be inside the house, relaxing in the study, drinking firewhisky — 150-year-old Veelan firewhisky, mind you, not that swill Ogden makes.” He looks around at the scenery before them, taking in the white cliffs and the waves that batter the pebbled shoreline. “There’s nothing for it now.” He sniffs, squares his shoulders. “I suppose this is rather poetic in a way.”
Harry looks at him gravely. “You don’t deserve to die.”
Draco seems surprised, but he slips the Malfoy mask back in place so he looks haughty and bored instead. “Why do you care? I stomped on your face and left you on the train. I’m the one who let Death Eaters into the castle.”
“But you also saved me at the Manor when you didn’t reveal who I was. That took great courage.”
Draco pauses, as though considering the validity of the statement. “You saved me in the Room of Requirement.”
Harry remembers. It’s all he thinks about at night: Draco’s body pushed up against his, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, his breath coming in ragged bursts against the nape of his neck as they flew at breakneck speed, dodging chimaera-like flames and fleeing for their lives. Harry’s heart flutters. He can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have Draco’s body pressed up against his again, but under better circumstances.
“I don’t want you to die,” he says.
Draco scoffs. “I don’t think Death gives a shit what you want, Potter. Besides, I’ve made my choices. Now I have to live with them. Or not, as it seems.”
“Did you? Because I don’t think you did. A lot of choices were made for you. You didn’t get a choice. Not really.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “That’s Gryffindor sentimentality for you. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you can change it. Not even you can save me now.”
The hooded figure approaches the shoreline, gives off a dark glow and travels in fluid motion.
Most Wix and Muggles alike picture Death as male: a cloaked Dementor-like creature with skeletal features wielding a magical scythe. But Harry knows the truth. He’s seen her before — twice in fact, although he barely remembers the first time. She was there at King’s Cross Station, her power and strength formidable, her ethereal darkness alluring.
Harry supposes it makes sense that Death is female. If the female body can give life then just as easily it can take it away. It’s a complete cycle. Birth and death. Nurture and destruction.
Draco is utterly enthralled, and Harry can’t blame him. When she wants to be, Death can be beautiful. Persuasive. Enticing. It would be all too easy to just walk towards her and let go, to be folded into her embrace. Draco starts to do just that, and Harry holds him back. He’s annoyed at first, like Harry is ruining everything, before he snaps out of it.
“I won’t let you die.”
“Has killing the Dark Lord gone to your head? You think you can defeat Death too? No one can. Not even you.”
He tries to move around Harry, his face set, determined, ready to meet Death with courage. It’s perhaps one of the few courageous things he’s done in his life. And the most stupid, in Harry’s opinion. He pushes Malfoy back but he keeps putting up a fight.
“Stop being a stubborn git,” Harry shouts and kicks Draco’s leg out from under him. Draco clutches at Harry and the two go down in a heap. From Draco’s grunt, he’s gone down harder than Harry intended, but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty. He pulls the cloak over them both and quickly looks over his shoulder. Death floats along the shoreline towards their location.
It’s marginally warmer underneath the cloak. It could be the charmwork, but it could also be his body pressed up against Draco’s, holding him down, pinning him in place.
“I won’t let her take you.”
Draco sneers. “You don’t actually think a charmed cloak can keep Death away, do you?”
Harry casts Lumos. The light and shadows play across Draco’s delicate features and make him look as though he’s carved from marble. “This one can. It’s one of the Deathly Hallows. As long as we stay underneath we can hide from Death.”
Draco scoffs. “The Deathly Hallows aren’t real. Nothing more than a bedtime story. Everyone knows that, have you gone mad?”
Harry can feel Draco’s breath ghosting across his lips; they’re so close. “Maybe I have.”
Harry’s heart thuds strong and steady like the waves crashing into the shore. He doesn’t know whether it’s stupidity or adrenaline, the warm body under him or the close proximity of Death, but Harry leans down, closes the small fraction of distance and kisses him. Draco gasps and Harry slides his tongue inside, feeling him and tasting him like he’s always wanted. He tastes like apples and cinnamon, like a warm afternoon bathed in sunshine. After a moment Draco kisses back just as eagerly. When Harry sucks on his lower lip, Draco whimpers. Harry pulls back, curious what he will see in Draco’s face, wondering how he truly feels.
“What if I don’t want it?” he says, and at first Harry thinks he means him or the kiss or both. He’s sure his erection is obvious, pushing against Draco’s thigh. Shame washes over him and he starts to shift away.
Draco grabs him, holds him firmly in place as he clarifies. “I didn’t mean you, you idiot. I meant, what if I don’t want to die?” His voice wavers and Harry’s never seen him this vulnerable; his eyes transparent like grey glass.
Harry inhales sharply and looks down at him. “Do you trust me?”
Draco smirks, but then he swallows and looks expectantly at Harry. “Perhaps it is I who have gone mad. Yes. Yes, I do.”
Harry glances quickly over his shoulder. Death makes her way closer as though she has an appointment she intends to keep. He needs to act fast.
Harry turns back to Draco and casts Immobulus. The spell is necessary but it clearly makes Draco uneasy. Fear flashes in his eyes. Harry looks down at him, hoping to tell him without words that everything will be all right. Draco nods.
With his wand aimed carefully at Draco’s arm, he casts.
“Sectumsempra!”
The incantation is familiar but it’s so unlike that other time in the bathroom. He’s not lashing out in fear or anger, his curse is not the uncontrolled, knee-jerk reaction of a teenage boy. This time it’s precise and localised. Three gashes rip through his clothing right down through the Dark Mark. Draco’s blood flows crimson and jet.
Harry risks a quick glance at Draco. Hurt. Betrayal. How could you do this to me again? It’s all there in his face and he doesn’t even try to mask it.
“Shhhh,” Harry says tenderly. “We’re almost there.”
He aims his wand at the wound.
“Expulso Tenebris.” The inky black poison from the Dark Mark separates from the crimson rivulets. “You’re doing so well,” Harry whispers.
“Tergeo.” Harry siphons the Dark Magic into a conjured phial.
“Vulnera Sanentur.” The skin knits together and Harry bends down to place a kiss above the mangled skull and snake, now bleached white. A ghost of the Mark.
“Finite Incantatem.”
Draco looks over Harry’s shoulder, his voice trembles. “She’s still there.”
“I know,” Harry says. He knew she would be. He lifts the edge of the cloak just enough to roll out the phial and levitates it towards her.
Death outstretches her graceful, skeletal hand and her fingers close around Harry’s offering. With a parting nod, an implication that she’s aware of their presence, she turns, floats over the rocks and heads out to sea. Harry watches her go.
Three times he’s defied Death. Three chances. Despite what the tales might say, Harry knows he won’t get a fourth. There have been times in his past when he’s questioned the choices he’s made. But not tonight. He feels Draco’s hand on his arm.
“Are you going to stare at the ocean all night or are you going to kiss me?”
Harry smiles as he takes one last look at the moonlight reflected in the waves.
As if that were even a choice.