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History is what makes heroes. Actions judged in retrospect, the wisdom of the future at your disposal. You can’t be expected to make the morally right choice without that advantage, can’t be expected to know the difference between war and revolution.
Harry is a hero, isn’t he? He saved countless lives, saved every life—Harry is a hero.
Harry also killed, though. Murder, some call it, cynical and silenced. They look at Harry and they don’t see the triumph of love and life; they wonder how he survived Death.
Inhuman, they say. Unnatural.
Draco’s Harry. They say awful things about him, behind plotting hands and ungrateful eyebrows. They weren’t supposed to even know—no one was supposed to know—but everyone does, these days. They celebrate or condemn Harry’s choice, and both hurts him.
The knight is a monster to the dragon, isn’t he?
It doesn’t matter. Draco loves him—what more could he need to know? He knows Harry; he doesn’t care about the judgement history will make on them.
(Still, some nights Draco can’t help but wonder: how did Harry best Death?)
(Draco loves Harry. Really. Still, sometimes he wonders.)