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Harry’s known darkness. He’s known darkness since he was a boy sleeping in a cupboard. It’s more spacious here, at least. And he’s not alone.
It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but he knows he's not alone.
He’s not sure it’s even dark or if his vision has just gone fuzzy. Maybe he’s already asleep or unconscious or dead. Feeling dead didn't feel that different the first time. It just felt… lighter?
A light suddenly sparks. Oh, he is dead, isn’t he? Or he’s heading there quickly, going into that light. He’s pretty sure he won’t find himself at King’s Cross anymore. No, he won’t be given the choice. He’ll already be on the train.
The light calms down, shrinks into a little sphere that chases the shadows away. In the light, Harry can see his own hands shaking and covered in a thick layer of blood. When he looks up, there are more hands, two of them, holding the ball of light up and letting it float into the air.
Right. He’s not alone. But he kind of wishes he were. He doesn’t want anyone taking this train with him. Least of all–
“I don’t think red suits you, Potter. I always knew you’d have been better suited for Slytherin.”
Harry feels hands on his torso, blood smearing through his clothes, across his skin. And suddenly, his shirt is coming off. “I’m dying,” he chokes.
Malfoy hums. “Probably.” His fingers brush lightly over the many gashes across Harry’s chest. Harry gasps at the pain, but Malfoy shushes him. “We’re matching.” Now it’s Malfoy whose shirt is coming off. In the dim light, Harry can make out thin white lines slashed across his chest. The shirt is pressed onto Harry’s own slashes, soaking up the fresh blood.
For a moment, it’s silent. Harry closes his eyes as pain washes over him. He is dying, even if Malfoy isn’t acting like it. And they are matching. Same curse and all. Plus, when the cavern’s entrance came down, Harry’s injury hadn’t allowed him to dodge as easily as Malfoy had. To Malfoy’s credit, he had tried, at least, to pull Harry away. That didn’t stop the rubble from crushing Harry’s leg.
Neither of them have said it, but they’re trapped, their wands taken, in total darkness, no one knowing where they are. Robards knows, Harry thinks. He sent them. He’ll find them.
“I don’t want to die here,” Harry says, interrupting the sound of Malfoy's fingers trying to spark up some poor attempt at wandless magic. The Lumos was impressive, but that seems to be about all he can do.
Malfoy doesn’t even look at him. “Ah, the cupboard thing, right? Too dark. Too enclosed.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “So dramatic, Potter. Is the simple fast that you are dying not depressing enough?”
“Fine,” Harry snaps. It comes out painfully weak. “I don’t want to die here with you.”
Malfoy’s hands don’t stop moving across Harry’s body, one holding the cloth to the open wounds, the other still searching for something it doesn’t seem able to find. “That would be shocking, really, if you wanted to do anything with me.”
Harry opens his mouth to argue, but he doesn’t want to start something that can’t be ended. So instead, he just groans pathetically and lets his head tilt back onto the rocky ground. He sort of wishes Malfoy would shut up and just let him sleep, but he has enough experience to know that Malfoy has never shut up once in his life.
At least, not until they were assigned to this case. To be honest, this is the most Malfoy has actually talked to Harry in all the weeks they’ve worked together. Every time they were in a room together, Harry could feel all the tension of things in the past. He swore if anything was going to kill him, it was going to be the awkwardness.
A sudden snap wakes Harry up and he sees Malfoy peering over him, looking unimpressed. “Sit up, Potter. There’s no need to slouch.” Without warning, Malfoy is helping him up, resting him against the wall gently so as to not affect the wounds. “And don’t shut your eyes, there’s a perfectly pretty face right in front of you to stare at.”
Harry does look at his face, pretty or not. It is surprisingly smooth, calm and concentrated. The only signs that anything is wrong are the teeth biting his lip.
When Malfoy catches his gaze again, he raises an eyebrow, his hands stilling. “You know, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to talk to you in private.”
Opportunity does not feel like the right word here, all things considered. All things include the blood currently gushing in alarming amounts from Harry’s body, the fact that there isn’t anywhere for them to go, and the fact that Harry doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. And private does suggest choice, does it not?
“Could’ve fooled me,” he slurs, trying his own unimpressed look. He knows it just looks like an awkward grimace. “You’ve barely talked to me this whole time.”
“Would you have liked me to talk to you?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“What kind of answer is that?” Malfoy’s hand moves, makes a motion in the air, seeming to try magic again. When it doesn’t work, he barely makes a face, instead bringing his thumb to Harry’s cheek and swiping at a tear as if it’s a piece of dust. “Let’s talk. I want to talk.”
“Why do we have to do what you want?”
Malfoy’s thumb taps lightly against Harry’s cheek. “What do you want then?”
Harry looks down at his injuries, well, at the pale blood-soaked hand holding a cloth also covered in blood over his injuries. What does he want? What did he want last time?
Last time, he thinks, he got everything he wanted. He got the goodbyes. He got the choice to walk into the forest. He got to choose the precise timing. And his family. His parents. Sirius and Remus. He got them too.
Now all he has is Malfoy.
The finger still on his face moves down to his chin and pushes his face upwards so he is forced to look again into those gray eyes. It almost feels like he is silently telling Harry not to look, not to think about it. Well, until he says—
“Again with the drama, Potter. I didn’t mean it as your last wish.”
“Maybe I just want to sleep.”
Malfoy’s hand falls from his chin, grabs onto his arm, squeezes. “I knew it. I always knew you were secretly selfish. You’d leave me like this? You would, wouldn’t you? Just because you could.”
“It’s not because I can.”
“You would leave me with all this between us? Would you shut your eyes right now if I let you? Would you even say goodbye?”
Harry blinks his eyes back open. “You’re one to talk. You left. You didn’t say goodbye.”
“Oh. So you do want to talk then,” Draco scoffs.
Harry realizes what he’s walked into and promptly shuts his mouth.
The cloth pressing against his torso suddenly feels like the weight of a grand piano. He’s not sure if Malfoy is purposefully pushing it into Harry or not.
“You know the first time you died, I was pissed,” Malfoy says after a moment. “After all that, you were going to take the easy way out. You were going to do exactly as You-Know– Voldemort said and die. ‘For us’. Whatever that meant at the time. I thought you were leaving us to fight Voldemort on our own.”
“I wasn’t,” Harry says because for some reason he needs Malfoy to know. He doesn’t know about the Horcruxes. Nobody does. But still, Harry needs him to know there was more to the story. That Harry didn’t have a choice.
“Right, I’ve since learned, considering you came back and all,” Malfoy bites. “But you wouldn’t be coming back this time, would you? What would be the reason for dying now? Don’t you Gryffindors always need a reason for something?”
“I think you’re confused, Malfoy. That’s a Slytherin trait, isn’t it? Can’t do something without it serving yourself.”
Through the bloodied cloth, Harry could feel Malfoy’s fingers sharpen against him. “Fine. You caught me. I’d rather you didn’t give up and die for my sake. What would happen if Robards found me with your body? What would they think? I wouldn’t want to be fired. Again.” He looks pointedly back at Harry and Harry feels it immediately. The blame and then, of course, his own guilt.
He swears the guilt is going to kill him faster than the blood loss.
He opens and closes his mouth, half wondering if blood is dribbling from the corners of his lips. He hasn’t felt any, but to be honest, he can’t feel much anymore. There’s just the weight of the cloth and of Malfoy and the faint feeling of rock against his back. “I did want you to talk to me,” Harry admits, going back because he can’t stand the present topic.
“Oh?”
“I- I wanted to ask you– I had so many things, questions.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“How have you been. How was France. Are you okay being back. Are you okay seeing me. Are you still… angry.” Harry shuts his eyes again, but it’s more of a flutter than anything else. They’re not going to stay closed, not yet.
He senses Malfoy’s hand move again, from his arm to the top of his chest to his collar bone to his neck. It’s solid. And warm. And the clearest thing Harry can feel.
When Malfoy doesn’t answer Harry’s list, Harry takes a shuddered breath. “I know what I want now.”
“And what is that?” Malfoy’s voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
“I want you to talk. Now. To me.”
“Would that… make you happy?”
Harry finally opens his eyes and nods. Malfoy’s hand presses more firmly to the side of his neck and for the first time, Harry can feel how much it’s trembling. His face is still smooth, except for that red bitten lip and one wrinkle in his brow.
“Well, I do live to entertain,” Malfoy says, going back to his ambivalent tone, nose slightly raised. “Seeing as that’s all I’m good for. But you’ll have to do me a favor first.”
“Er, now? There’s not much I can do.”
“I’m not asking for much,” Malfoy promises. “Well, maybe for anybody else. It may be difficult for you, dramatic as you can be.”
“I’m dramatic? You’re stalling!”
“I’m not stalling,” Malfoy argues, and then he hesitates. “I want you to talk to me first. About something happy. Really happy. Anything you want.”
Harry knows he doesn’t disguise the surprise on his face. In all honesty, it’s the last favor he could imagine being asked for. Something happy? How could this possibly be something self-serving? “Why?”
“Part of my favor is that you don’t ask that.”
So Harry doesn’t ask. Instead, he tries to think of something happy and when something doesn’t come up very quickly, he feels all the more unhappy about it. He’s happy, isn’t he? After everything? There’s been ups and downs, sure, but overall, can’t he say he’s happy?
He thinks about now, the numbness slowly overtaking his body. That feels more accurate to how he feels emotionally most of the time. Then there’s that pressure. Draco. That he can feel. These days, he doesn’t feel it. But he did. Before it all went down.
“Rose, Ron and Hermione’s daughter, she just learned how to walk,” Harry says because, if he doesn’t fill the silence soon, he’s going to start talking about the pressure that was Draco Malfoy and he’s not sure if that is a particularly happy or unhappy thing.
“Tell me more.”
Harry tells him more. “She’s adorable. She’s got the Weasleys’ red hair with Hermione’s bushy texture. It’s very nearly ridiculous, but it works on her.” He smiles and closes his eyes, trying not to attribute red hair with the blood stains of eyes open. “She’s so wobbly when she walks, but she looks so proud of herself too. You should have seen Hermione. She was near tears. Ron was actually crying, though he’d kill me if he found out I told you.”
Harry opens his eyes back to blood. Ron and Hermione don’t even know where he is. He won’t get to say goodbye to them this time. Or Rosie. He won’t marry. He won’t have kids of his own.
Malfoy takes his hand off Harry’s neck and waves it around. When nothing happens, he lets out a frustrated breath and shuts his eyes tightly. He waves his hand again. The Lumos flickers. Then, nothing.
When his hands drop and his eyes open, he is smirking. “She sounds like a brat.”
“Sometimes,” Harry admits. It’s fond, but he can no longer bring himself to smile.
“Something else,” Malfoy urges. “Hmm, something really nice. That can’t be tainted by your overly depressing mind.”
Harry tries to think of something else, still unsure why. But everything is already tainted by something else. It’s so easy for good things to turn. Ron and Hermione have been the most consistent happy things in his life, but even thinking about them now makes his heart twist. If not them, thinking about his parents sometimes makes him smile, but it’s not pure happiness, how could it be? No matter how happy the memory of them, it doesn’t change the fact that they are dead.
The only other person that has made Harry happier than most is sitting right in front of him. But he’s also made Harry extremely sad. Especially now, when they are meeting again like this, finally talking again, like this.
“I can’t think of anything,” he says finally as images run through his head. Images of Draco leaning against his desk, grinning. Coffee being left with snarky notes. Draco waiting outside his office door. Draco doodling in the margins of case files. Draco leaning close to him, eyes wide, searching.
“What do you think of when you cast a Patronus?” Malfoy asks.
“I don’t think of anything. I just know the feeling and I let it wash over me.”
“When’s the last time you felt that feeling?”
Harry opens his mouth, closes it, can’t trust himself not to be honest. Not when he sees the image clear as day. That moment, three years ago, both of them out for a drink after work. The way Draco laughed so hard his drink nearly spilled, laughed so hard he had to hold onto Harry for support. His warm hands. His long fingers. That feeling washing over him, from that touch to his chest to his cheeks. Draco coming out of his laughter. Do I have something on my face? Harry smiling, surprised that the feeling wasn’t going away. I’m just watching you laugh. Draco smiling too. Well, I do live to entertain. The feeling rising and rising. I’m not entertained. I’m happy.
“I want you to talk now,” Harry says. “I did your favor. Plus, I said it would make me happy.”
Draco bites his lip. “I’m not quite sure I believe that. All things considered.”
“Believe it. I want to hear your voice.”
“I knew it. You like my voice.”
“Never said I didn’t.”
“The implications were there.” Draco waves a hand in the air. And then he talks.
One hand on the cloth and one hand on Harry’s shoulder, Draco talks and he talks. About the little things, the blanks Harry’s wanted to be filled, what France was like, how his mother was, about his new job, what exactly brought him back. They’re all inconsequential things, but Harry appreciates them nonetheless.
He lets Draco’s voice ground him like his touch does. The pain ebbs and flows, so does the numbness, but Draco is always there. His fingers may shake, but his voice never wavers. He never sounds scared nor does he hesitate. Instead, he is that same sarcastic self, telling his stories with all the flair he can muster, though he would absolutely deny it. While he does it, his hand moves, never straying from Harry’s skin, but moving along his body, up and down his arm, up to his neck, his jaw, his cheek.
“When I came back for the case, I wasn’t exactly expecting it to be you I was working with.”
Harry nods. “They told me they were bringing in a specialist. Didn’t know that was you.”
"I- Part of me hoped to see you again," Draco finally says softly, like it's painful for him to do so.
It’s the first time they’re really acknowledging it, at least, without jabs. It was only a month ago when Harry was first assigned to the case, volatile wands being sold illegally and causing mayhem. Robards told him they needed outside help, that they were bringing in someone who specialized in wands and their personalities.
It had been three years since they’d seen each other last. Three years since they had worked together. Three years since Harry had gotten him fired.
Draco breaks the silence. His hand is still on Harry’s cheek. It was frozen before, but now his thumb moves, back and forth and back and forth. It feels intimate, like this. It makes them both feel brave. “Do you hate me then?”
“For what?”
“Leaving.”
It sounds so simple when he says it like that. Simple is the last word Harry would use to describe it.
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about in private?” Harry asks softly, keeping his eyes on Draco's, trying to figure out what it is he wants.
“I figure we should,” Draco says, his fingers still against Harry’s skin, just holding now. “Seeing as you might be dying and all. And as you know, a Slytherin always takes an opportunity.”
Harry holds eye contact. “Not always.”
“What do you mean?”
Harry steals a shaky breath. “You never kissed me. I gave you plenty of opportunity.”
Draco’s eyes go wide. “Well- well maybe I would have. If I didn’t- if you didn’t let me get fired.”
“Maybe you would have?” Harry remembers the build-up. Remembers all of those moments of feeling, looking at Draco and knowing he must feel something, anything too. Even if it was only a fraction of what Harry felt, it would be enough. The waiting, the coffee, the talking, the owls. They had been hurtling toward something. Something slightly terrifying, but that also made Harry happy.
Draco shrugs. “Is that what you want to talk about? What would have happened if I’d kissed you? Because, to be honest, I don’t think anything would have changed. Not on my part at least. I still would have been fired. I still would have left. Tell me, Harry, honestly, would you have done things differently if I’d kissed you?”
Immediately, Harry wants to say yes. Wants to say of course. Of course things would have been different, better, happier. Of course they wouldn’t be here now, Harry dying and Draco taking it as an opportunity. Of course Harry would have done things better.
But he can’t say that. He doesn’t know if it would be a lie.
Because even if Draco had kissed him all those years ago, it wouldn’t change the fact that Harry made the mistake that cost him his job.
It happened like this, Harry was leading the case and Draco was helping because, like always, Harry had asked if he could get Draco Malfoy to help him as a wand expert. The case wasn’t even specifically about wands. It didn’t matter. By now Robards was used to Draco being an honorary guest of the DMLE.
In actuality, Draco worked for a different branch of the Ministry, in the Department for Wand Regulation. He complained about it to Harry all the time, saying that the wands were interesting but the job was boring. Well, the job was boring when he wasn’t fulfilling Harry’s case needs.
This particular case involved a missing young wizard that was still being tracked through his wand which seemed to be going off at random places and moments. But every time someone showed up, there was no sign of anyone or anything.
Harry should have known what was happening, but when he walked himself and Draco into a trap, he could hardly think. The kidnappers knew that they would track the wand, and when Harry and Draco showed up, they’d been ambushed.
The fight was brutally uneven and in the chaos, Harry was almost severely injured if not for Draco stepping in and saving him. But in doing so, he brought down a building and the criminals escaped.
It didn’t matter what Harry said to stop it from happening. The Ministry had been looking for a reason to fire Draco ever since he had started, with the controversy he’d brought with him. This was the perfect excuse to let him go.
Harry had talked to everyone he could to try to change things, to no avail. And then Draco was fired and Harry was left unpunished.
But that wasn’t the worst thing Harry did. The worst was after.
Draco left the Ministry and Harry stayed. The news got out, everywhere, that Malfoy had always been a bad egg and that this was the best decision the Ministry had made in a while. To associate with Draco now was social suicide.
Which is not why Harry didn’t write him, despite receiving exactly one letter a week after the incident. No, Harry didn’t write to him because to write to Draco would mean letting himself be swallowed by guilt and shame and anger. So he let Draco go.
“I would’ve written to you,” Harry says, but still it comes out as hesitation. “And you would have told me you were leaving. And we could have… we could have kept contact.”
He entertains the possibility for a moment, erasing the truth of learning from an outside source that Draco had left for a job in France. In this fantasy, Draco tells him about the job, gives him his address. Harry promises to write, to floo, to not let him go.
Draco straightens. “I would have liked it if you had written to me,” he says in that matter-of-fact voice of his. “Although I hardly think the missed opportunity of one kiss is enough to fault me for all this.”
“Of course not, you’re faultless.”
“Exactly right, Harry. As you know, I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” he says and though his tone is serious, Harry knows he’s joking. “Maybe I was simply waiting for you to kiss me.”
Harry shakes his head lightly; it drags against the rock behind him. “Again with the maybes. Did you want me to kiss you?”
“Of course I wanted you to kiss me!” Draco says, and the tremble in his hands feels different somehow, fueled with some strange power. “Potter, I’ve wanted you to kiss me since we were sixteen! But it was only- it was only those late nights at the Ministry when I actually thought it might happen.”
The words sink in. Sixteen. Harry only has images of Draco’s name on a map, blood and screams, shaking wands and trembling hands. He doesn’t remember anything about kissing.
But those nights in the Ministry… that he understands. It was like they were in a bubble where it was only them. Where things could happen, touches and glances, and they could mean something without it having to be said.
And then all of a sudden, the Ministry was gone. The bubble burst. And Harry never tried to get it back.
“It would have.”
“If it would have, then it shouldn’t have mattered if it was at the Ministry or not,” Draco says. “But no. It was only worth anything when I was worth anything.”
Harry takes a shaky breath. It’s not from the pain at all, not the physical pain at least. “I let you go. I let you go too easily,” Harry admits. “I’m sorry.”
“If you had told me not to go to France,” Draco says slowly, “then I wouldn’t have gone to France.”
“It was my fault. I thought it was my fault.” It comes out all in one breath. “I thought I was just another bad thing. Another mistake. It was my fault we were there, my fault you got fired, it was all my fault. I tried writing, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t knowing that it was my fault.” He can hear the distress in his own voice, can feel it traveling down his body, to his wounds, as if the two kinds of hurt were mingling.
Draco seems to notice too, his hand moving to Harry’s shoulder and squeezing. “Don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself. Of course it’s your fault.”
The throbbing pain is back and suddenly the truth of the situation is hitting him. He is still bleeding out and though he may be saying words he’s been wanting to say for years, at the end of this, they will be meaningless. That thought brings more tears to his eyes than the wounds ever did.
“Of course it’s your fault,” Draco repeats, his hand going to Harry’s cheek. “But I forgive you. I was never angry, Harry. I wanted you to fight for more and when you didn’t, I was hurt. But I came back, didn't I? I came back hoping to see you again.”
“Not like this, I’m sure,” Harry says through his tears, one hand scrabbling for the cloth pressed to his chest and the other reaching for Draco’s wrist.
“No. Not like this.”
“I’d fight for you this time,” Harry mutters, feeling tired again, exhausted really. He feels like he’s spent half his life being exhausted and it’s all come to this moment. The ultimate sleep. “I wouldn’t let you go.”
This seems to be the wrong thing, because all of a sudden, the smoothness of Draco’s face is disappearing. He looks serious all of a sudden, both hands dropping from Harry and waving into the air. He’s muttering something Harry can’t hear over and over and over again. With every syllable, the motions of his hands become more frantic.
The Lumos goes out.
When it lights up again, Draco’s hands are dropped. His head is down. His chest is rising and falling slow. “You’re entirely stupid, Harry. We’ve been working on this case for a month. Why can you only admit this when you’re dying?”
“Now who’s being depressing?”
“Shut up. Shush. I can’t with you. I…”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says again even though it’s him dying. Mostly, it just feels like there’s nothing else he can do. Plus, he is sorry. For a lot of things. “I thought whatever we were heading towards was gone. When you left, I was- I was devastated. I figured if it was that easy for you to go then… you must have been fine without me. I wanted you. I almost thought you wanted me too.”
“Wanted you? I…” Draco shuts his eyes tightly. “Yes. Tell me. Tell me what you wanted.”
Harry sucks in a breath, surprised by how painful it is. “Anything. Everything. Draco, I- I wanted everything with you. I wanted what we had, plus kissing, and fucking too. Maybe some dates. I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead, well, maybe about the fucking. But that’s not all… I just– I–”
Draco waves his hand around. “Expecto Patronum!”
From his fingers, light. Not the same as the little sphere. No, this light is nearly blinding, tinted silver-blue like Draco’s eyes. It spreads across the entire cave and then shrinks, just a little, molds itself into a form that can actually be looked at. One that Harry recognizes.
“Go to the Ministry and find Robards,” Draco says to the Patronus. “Tell him we’re trapped and wandless. I’m not- I’m not sure exactly where. But Harry needs help, badly. He needs a healer soon or- or…”
The stag bows its head. Then, like it was never there to begin with, it disappears.
Draco slumps immediately in relief. “There. Someone will come. Someone will find us.”
Harry just stares at Draco like he’s never seen him before, the image of the stag still seared into his eyes. Finally, everything Draco’s been trying, everything’s been saying, it makes sense. The hands waving, the wandless magic, the trying to not keep things depressing, it all clicks. "It's..."
"Yes, a stag, I know. Embarrassing really, how long it's been like that." Draco looks at Harry, eyes sparkling with relief and something a little like fondness, like it's not embarrassing at all actually, like he wants Harry to know how long he's felt that way. But Harry still can't bring himself out of his state of awe and when Draco notices, he tilts his head and asks, “Harry? How are you feeling?”
Harry shrugs the best he can. “Like I’m dying.” Like you are going to be the one to save me. Like you already did.
“I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else. But you’re not going to die, see? We already agreed dying isn’t Gryffindor enough for you. And you wouldn’t leave me again. Not without reason.”
“No,” Harry agrees softly even though he sort of feels like he's floating outside of his own body. He can feel it in the way his vision focuses and blurs, the way the numbness and the pain fight. He knows the clock is ticking. “But just in case, I–”
“Shush,” Draco says and then he pulls Harry into his arms. "Once we're out of this, we'll talk for real. Then you can tell me."
Harry’s head meets Draco’s shoulder as he slumps into, his mouth hitting skin, shutting him up for the moment. It doesn’t feel like he stops falling. Instead, he feels as if he’s melting into Draco, overlapping, like they are one, like he can borrow his blood, his strength, his life.
“I know I’m comfortable, but you better stay awake, Harry.” Draco’s mouth rumbles against Harry’s hair. He wonders if there is also a press of lips. “I’ll bite you if I have to. That will keep you up.” There’s teeth, Harry definitely feels the light scrape of teeth over his scalp.
When he laughs, he swears those teeth turn soft.
“You said you wanted to listen, right? I’ll talk then. I’ll talk for you and you will listen. It would be awfully rude if you fell asleep while I was talking to you, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.” Harry closes his eyes.
So Draco talks and Harry listens. Time passes around them like something Harry doesn’t understand. Minutes could be hours could be seconds. All that matters is everywhere Draco is touching him, every word he speaks. Even as Harry feels himself drifting, that is less important than paying attention.
But Harry can’t stay awake forever. He knows that. And eventually, he finds he can no longer fight it the way Draco wants him to. Draco’s voice is still strong in his mind, but everything else is fading. Fast.
Distantly, he can hear something loud, like an explosion going off. Then there is light, so much of it. Is it for him? Is the train finally coming?
He can hardly feel anything anymore, see anything, hear anything. The touch he does feel pulls on him, grabs him, but it feels very much like a soft breeze, an urge lifting him into the air.
As everything around him turns to clouds, one voice keeps talking. Harry, Harry, hold on, okay? The Aurors are here. They’re going to get you to Mungo’s and you’re going to be fine. You hear me? Harry, you’re going to be okay. You wouldn’t leave me again. We still have things to talk about. And that kiss, didn’t you say you would kiss me? Hold on, Harry, darling, please.
Harry can’t feel anything but a weight in his hand. In the haze, he squeezes it, attempts a smile. The light is everywhere, it’s in Draco’s words, it’s in his touch, it’s in the way his hands shake. It’s light and he’s not alone.
The feeling of casting a Patronus washes over him. It feels like knowing he’s not about to leave. Like knowing this time, he’s not going to let go so easily.