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Harry isn’t sure what to expect when he meets Death- the blinding emerald light of the killing curse hurled in his direction is only a symbol of what he’s imagined thousands of times in this very moment.
A nagging voice has always told him it was bound to end this way. Himself and Voldemort, eye to eye, surrounded by the depths of something dark.
What he never expected was a the frigid feeling of ice crackling from his head to his toes, freezing him whole until his eyes opened to reveal a world just as white.
For a moment, there’s nothing. His eyes adjust to the emptiness, and he’s stumbling as he stands and tries to make out the puzzling aftermath of this purgatory. And then, a voice.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here, Potter.”
He whips around, startled at the voice but allowing the warmth of familiarity to melt his bones.
“Malfoy? What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He smirks, and it’s the same pull of his lips that Harry’s seen a thousand times. However, something in his eyes is different. Softer. “I’m dead, Potter. And so are you.”
“Dead?” Harry asks stupidly, and then the memories come rushing forward. The battle. Voldemort. The forest. “But- how did you get here?”
This isn’t right. Harry was supposed to die, yes. But not Malfoy. Even an arch nemesis’s demise is oddly unsettling after so many lives had been claimed.
And then, Malfoy does something Harry has never seen before. He laughs, and it’s a whole, hearty sound.
“I’m a fucking traitor, that’s how.” He shakes his head at himself, as if he’s reliving his last choices. “But, want to know something completely mental? I don’t care.”
His lips have pulled into a full on grin, and Harry feels the rest of the ice pool at his feet.
“I was always meant to end up here, Potter. We were pitted against each other from the start. Kinda sad, once you think about it.”
Harry nods, not quite understanding but unable to let this new Malfoy go. He gulps. “Who did this to you?” He asks, and it’s scratchy. Almost as if Harry himself is afraid of the answer.
“Who else?” Malfoy shrugs. “Father found out I had multiple chances to turn you in and didn’t. At the Manor, when I pretended not to recognize you. And in the Room of Requirement just a while ago.”
“Why didn’t you?” Harry asks, and he’s hooked on this selfless version of the enemy that only Death seemed to twist into reality.
Malfoy shrugs. “Didn’t seem right. I was tired of manipulation. I’ve always been a follower, and I figured that if I couldn’t be a leader, I could at least support one. I knew you had a chance at setting the world free from the same bullshit that ended up killing me.”
“Wow, um... thanks.” Harry mutters, unsure of how to respond. What was once a wintry world has morphed into the warmth of an England summer.
“Please, Potter. Spare me the mushy gushy crap.”
And Harry feels his lips tugging upward, a match to Malfoy’s smile. How ironic; only in death would Harry had ever guessed they’d share a moment like this.
“So, what do we do now?” Harry looks around, trying to make sense of everything. Wondering if this was his new reality, and realizing that he wouldn’t mind so much if it was.
“Obvious, isn’t it? You’re going back.”
“What?” Harry’s brow furrows, and Malfoy’s gazing at him like he knows something.
“You’ve got to go back, Potter. You’ve got to save the world while you still can.”
“I- I don’t understand,” he stammers, but Malfoy’s rising and crossing the empty space between them.
“You get a second chance, Harry. Don’t waste your time conversing with me. Go back; do what I couldn’t.” He smiles again, and Harry feels his legs turn to jelly. He doesn’t fully understand, but for some reason he trusts Malfoy.
“You called me Harry,” he says, puzzled but warm.
“Don’t get used to it.” And then Draco Malfoy is lifting a hand and pressing it to Harry’s forehead. The emptiness turns into an ocean of white blur, and it suddenly occurs to Harry that his time here is done. Running on pure instinct, he grasps Malfoy’s shoulders and holds for dear life, pulling him closer until he’s sure that wherever he’s going, he’s bringing Malfoy with him.
***
His limbs feel heavy, and Harry cracks an eye to realize he’s being carried by Hagrid. He stares through the small slit to see a sea of people, dirty with war but standing determinedly. And in that cluster of bodies, his eyes catch the figure of a blonde.
He’s staring up and down, patting himself in disbelief. Eyes wide with confusion. It’s hard for Harry not to smile. It worked. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was Draco Malfoy.
When Harry does come to life, startling everyone and sparking the light of hope and retribution, it’s Draco Malfoy who throws Harry his wand. They share a knowing glance, a brief stare that holds an eternity of secrets and new beginnings. Like anything could happen. Like they could win.
And they do.
When Voldemort falls, dying in a most humanly fashion, it’s Draco Malfoy who stands next to Harry. They share a celebratory moment, a second that extends beyond Life, even Death, itself. And it’s perhaps the most exhilarated Harry has ever felt.
His new life is nothing like his old one.
In the months following the war, it’s Draco Malfoy who quells the nightmares, who pulls up the sheets at Grimmauld Place and holds him when the stench of death hangs heavy. Who helps to re-build the castle, still struggling with the guilt of his former decisions. Who cries into Harry’s shoulder, welcoming an embrace that he’d never known he’d needed.
It’s Draco Malfoy who calls him scarhead while packing his trunk for eighth year, only to be rebutted by Harry lifting his hair: “IT’S NOT THERE ANYMORE!” And the coy response of “Okay, Scarhead,” fills the air between them.
It’s Draco Malfoy who kisses Harry one night in the common room, a bit drunk off of fire whiskey and house unity. But it’s Harry who kisses him back, lacing his fingers around the bare skin of his neck and tugging him closer. And in that moment, Harry feels like he’s died and come back to life.
And in a sense, he has. Thanks to Draco Malfoy.