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Though it was a cold day, the sky was clear.
The thestrals were prettier than Draco thought they would be. Their sleek black coats and their starry eyes were so elegant next to the odd ways their bones stuck out and the odd look of their faces. They were almost transparent, and they looked like they blended in with the world behind them. Draco wondered how they could have ever been monstrous. They were always mysterious to him, always something he had wanted to see. And now here they were, standing with him in front of his house.
He put a hand on one of their sides. In response, it whinnied and shook its black mane. Draco understood the message: "Everything will be ok."
If he had heard it a few days ago, he would have adamantly disagreed. Nothing would be ok. Nothing would be the same. The world would end, stop right then and there. But now, as he stood on the doorstep, he realized that the world had kept turning, that he was still standing, breathing. He steadied himself on his walking cane. It was an old thing that he and Harry had found in the Manor's attic after going through everything of his mother's when she had passed. That had been many years ago.
Back then, Harry was still the Boy Who Lived. Now, in Draco's mind, he was the Man Who Died. It was inevitable, really, but there was something so surreal about it. Harry had always seemed larger than life. He was supposed to be immortal. At least, that's what the public had believed. It's what Draco had believed, too, for the longest time. When they were children, he was sure that Harry himself believed it. Draco had thought that Harry was arrogant, that he had no regard for life. It wasn't until they had become friends that Draco realized: Harry wasn't immortal, he was suffering. It wasn't until they were dating that Draco knew the truth, that Harry would die again and again, if he had to, to protect his values, his loved ones, and causes larger than himself. And it wasn't until they were married that Draco saw Harry fully as a man: someone fallible and prone to receiving Life's curveballs. In many ways, Draco thought, that did, in fact, make him immortal. And Draco still saw him everywhere.
The photos from when they were young, scattered through the house.
The letters they had exchanged when Draco had to be sent away for a Healing trip to Romania.
The old, discarded, beaten-down quidditch gear from when they still played.
The essays Harry had written later in his life that talked about his experiences with the war.
The coat that Draco was wearing, that Harry had given him for their 50th anniversary.
The cane.
The bed, that still held Harry's imprint. Those sheets would not soon forget his shape.
Draco wouldn't, either. He had held Harry's hand as it turned cold, and the feeling was still fresh on his fingertips. It was a feeling he should have never known. Harry's passing was so peaceful and so wrecking! He had died comfortably, lying in bed, surrounded by love, by flowers sent from family, friends, and the grieving public. Draco's heart had almost stopped when Harry's hand fell loose. He had held his breath. He had held back tears.
And when Harry breathed no more, it was as if Death had greeted him as an old friend, had been waiting patiently for a long time. Draco could almost picture Harry taking Death's hand, moving away from Draco, going into the underworld.
Death took his mind, and the thestrals were there for his body. In the sleek black carriage where his lover lay, Draco stared back at his reflection. He was a lot calmer than he thought he would be. He could almost feel Harry's spirit reaching back to him, inviting Draco to descend with him, to walk through the fields of the underworld together. They would be together again, Draco knew it, but his time had not yet come. He didn't mind being alone. Peace would come eventually.
Until that time, though, Draco would be busy. He would sort through their old things. He would publish the essays, pass on the photos, tell his and Harry's stories to younger generations. He would drink tea in the kitchen like they used to do. He wouldn't make the bed. He would pass on Harry's life bit by bit until it would become legend.
A thestral hoofed the ground. Draco knew what it meant. With a worn and weary hand, he raised his goodbye. The horses sped off, taking the carriage with them, and Draco still stood at the step. He watched the spot where they had disappeared. He kept standing until his joints couldn't stand any longer, and his body begged for inside warmth.
Harry was gone. He was dead.
The finality of the thought sank through Draco. The house seemed bigger than usual. Quieter. Draco thought he could just make out the ghost of Harry's laugh echoing through the walls, though it may have been his own desperate longing. Memories kept in place by those four walls and the steady rhythm of Draco's beating heart. Draco breathed in, and out. His thumb toyed with his wedding band and he looked out the window. The sky was clear. It really was a beautiful day.