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Harry hits the ground, the leaves of the forest crunching beneath his face. Dead, like he should be. Dead, like he’s not. He hears Voldemort crowing his success and victory to the crowd of cheering Death Eaters. Only one is silent. A mother, who knows she has played a part in the death of the boy her son loves. A boy her son couldn’t love. Her hands are clammy and cold in her guilt, and she swallows as she is made to check the body.
Her heart falls when she touches his skin and her magic tells her that this boy was touched by Death. The life of the Boy Who Lived, a bright force that even she’d wanted to guide them towards the end, extinguished. She pushes her hand closer to his heart and feels the feeble thrumming of his heart. Her own soars. When he flinches marginally away from her hand, she breathes again. He’s still here, she has hope for her son. For their future.
She hides her reaction, she knows how. She’s a Black, with all that it comes with, and the wife of a Death Eater. She must hide just a little longer. “Dead,” she declares to the waiting crowd. Their raucous cheers return, louder, and she feels a disgust that had long been in her stomach blooming wilder. They were cheering over the death of a boy her son’s age, a child who deserved to be loved. They were cheering over the death of a boy who would never get to grow up, all in the same breath that they were cheering for the creature who would take the lives of millions. She feels the familiar tingle of rage that she was taught to hide and slides her mental shields in place.
— — —
The walk to the castle is long for Hagrid, holding the boy who’d accepted him in his arms. His meaty hand clutched Harry closer, just as they had that Halloween night so long ago. But Harry was no longer that little wiggling bundle, he was cold, so cold. And still. Hagrid was weeping, though he could make no noise because the Death Eaters had silenced him.
When they cross Hogwarts’ gates, he can feel how the wards have fallen. The air is filled with a heavy silence while the members of Harry’s Army stand in a semi-circle, littered upon the palace steps and in the external corridors. They’re muted and still, except for those who cry out when they see Harry. This is family, Hagrid’s family, and he knows that they will still fight. Harry isn’t lost to them, not yet. His magic still lingers in the grounds around them, the most plentiful magic that Hagrid had ever felt. Even greater than Dumbledore’s, who could not stand it, and greater than a powerful boy he’d known long ago, Tom Riddle.
That boy, grown and mutated by his lust for control now, amplifies his voice to the waiting crowd, “Harry Potter is dead!” The crowd who had not seen the body draped across Hagrid’s arms cries out, the ones who had been frozen in shock shaking in rage. They would be still no longer either. What he doesn’t expect though, is the first to move being the Malfoy boy.
— — —
Draco has lived with madness his whole life. His mother taught him to hide it, to conceal it, but it was in his blood just as much as it was in hers. And he didn’t have a fraction of the control she did. His madness was a living beast, a hippogriff clawing at his insides, screaming at him to yell and claw and bite and scratch anyone who posed a threat to Draco.
When he was young, he thought the threat had been Harry. When Harry had rejected his friendship, when Harry made it on the Quidditch team. Harry this, Harry that, was all he’d ever heard. Potter was oblivious to it, of course. He was dumb as a box of rocks. But Draco wasn’t, and Draco wanted that fame, needed the attention. He wasn’t a worthy heir otherwise, he could never quite prove himself to his father because Harry and his little gang were always there. Always shining brighter than the light Draco was cast in.
As he got older, Draco found he desired that light, the kind that would warm him in its embrace. He didn’t care about the attention now, the madness had torn at his seams and he was losing himself. The attention would only bring more shame. Now, he needed something to ground him, a rock. A box of them, perhaps, keeping Draco there and present instead of lost on the wings of the creature in his chest.
He’d found it, briefly, on the back of a broom. He didn’t do life debts, especially not to Harry Potter, but he owed one. The creature had been clawing, tearing apart his stomach as he’d rub from the flames. But Harry had touched him, had dragged him onto the back of a broom and saved his life despite hating Draco. What shocked Draco more was the way that Harry had silenced the creature. He’d felt Harry’s magic dragging it in, pulling the venom out of Draco’s heart. He wanted it, wanted it again, wanted it always.
When he saw Harry, his light and grounding rock (though Harry doesn’t know it yet), limp in the giant’s arms he could feel it all breaking. It wasn’t graceful or pretty, every fine thread he struggled to weave that kept the beast back snapped. It rushed forth in rage and glory, Draco had never known such emotion. He’d heard about it though. Vengeance. It roared like a tidal wave inside him, swirling and sucking him deeper into it. This power could defy the gods, he felt it now, just as they’d said in his favorite myth. Achilles and Patroclus. The loss of one the catalyst for the other. He’d ridiculed Achilles for throwing himself towards death before, but now… he couldn’t care less if he lived or died. He just knows he has to drag every last cloaked figure in front of him down with him.
His magic, Merlin help it, was always too close to his emotions. When he cries, it cries, when he smiles, it does too. Now, the creature tearing out of his chest is real, living and breathing and rampant. A giant dragon made of shadows tears out of his chest, sweeping over the crowd of students and hurtling towards the ones who’d taken his Patroclus from him. He’d never pictured himself as the great Greek hero, but he felt now he could be. He would be the hero. He doesn’t even stagger back as the dragon roars its fury. This is his madness, his creature. People run screaming, but he doesn’t, he can’t. He’s throwing spells around, hitting his targets dead on with green flashes of light. If someone had told him to stop, he wouldn’t have. He’d have killed them too. He storms forward, following the path of his dragon, paralyzing and killing the people it doesn’t scoop into its cavernous maw.
He knows cruelty, has seen it in his aunt and father. He’s seen it in himself. He sees it in himself now, but he views his body as if from above. Watches as his wand waves viciously, cutting through the air like an invincible blade that is only amplified by every life he takes. He watches as the Dark Lord aims at his back, Draco unable to stop himself. Truly, unable to care as his emotions are currently raining fires of rage onto the Death Eaters that stand and fight. The ones that run are not worth the beast’s acknowledgement. He sees the spell fly, the vicious green he himself is spewing. He screams as his mother dives in front of it, racing toward her. But his body does not stop. It fights. It has to. It just fights harder now.
He whirls on the Dark Lord, doing something he never thought he’d do. Engage directly with the greatest and evilest dueler since Grindelwald. They fight, dodging and striking, stepping over the dead bodies Draco had littered across the ground. His world narrows from the chaos to this one man, this one creature, much like the one he’d had in this chest. This man had let the rage absorb him, and it transformed him into something that wasn’t human. His cruelty took his heart, his ambition took his love. ‘His fuckheadedness stole his nose’, Draco hears Pansy’s voice in his head. He knows she’s safe. She chose to run.
Their spells catch on each other and hold for a moment, twin streams of green, a battle of wills until Voldemort redirects the spell. It will hit Draco square in the chest. He knows it, can feel Death hovering over his shoulder, reaching out to its son. He closes his eyes and lets his arm fall. If he goes, he knows he has fought.
But he is not given the chance. Once again, Potter jumps in and steals his moment. Potter, he curses internally. Then blinks. “Potter?”
“Get down, Malfoy! Are you suicidal?!” Brilliant green eyes flare at him, a familiar lightning bold scar bisecting a thick dark brow, standing out against rich brown skin. Warm brown skin. Alive brown skin. Draco can feel Harry’s heart thundering against his chest as Voldemort screams in shock and rage. Harry stands, offering Draco a hand. Draco pauses for a moment, staring at it until Harry hisses, “Come on you arse! Move!”
Voldemort is busy fending off Draco’s dragon as it descends upon him, hurtling spell after spell at the great creature whose wings are now pockmarked with holes. Harry follows his eye line, “I have no idea how you did that, you git, but you’re going to tell me after all of this is over.”
Draco shakes his head, “I honestly have no idea.”
Harry leads them out of the way of a Bombarda, debris exploding out. Draco’s panting as they make it inside the castle. He hears his dragon roar in pain, and his heart breaks. He watches from a window as Voldemort strikes it down, the wonderful, brilliant creature falling to the ground of the courtyard. It is breathing, but weakly. Voldemort storms to the castle step, killing anyone who comes in his way, even his own followers. Draco can hear the clamor of a fight in the Great Hall. He looks back to Harry, who was looking at him curiously.
Draco presses his wand into Harry’s hand, the second wand he’s given him. “Here. End it now, for everyone we’ve lost.”
Harry looks from him to the wand, and back, “Why? What’s this change of heart, Malfoy? Why did you run out there?”
Draco shrugs, “For the last part, I have no idea. I just moved without thinking. I was… something else. I don’t regret it though. As for the former…. I think it was less of a change of heart, and more the realization that I was allowed to have one. I was done keeping everything locked away. That just happened to be the catalyst. Now move, you horrible slug, or I’ll be the new Boy Saviour.” He pushes at Harry’s shoulders. Seeing as Harry was just over half a head taller than him, and probably had fifty pounds on him, he wasn’t very successful.
“Draco-” Harry starts then stops before saying, “Thank you.” Then he’s kissing Draco, cupping the nape of his neck in his large warm hands. Draco is shocked for just a moment before he realizes, kissing back and upping the ante. He squeezes Harry’s face in his hands, pulling him down to meet Draco’s face level. Harry lets it happen. The scruff of Harry’s cheeks rubs at Draco’s hands, the shadow of a boy turning into a man. The body of the dragon of shadows slowly turns brilliant gold, turning into an owl and flying straight back to Draco. It melds back into his chest and the world turns clear for a single moment, his objective revealed.
That vision shocks Draco back into himself. Neither of them will get to see manhood if Harry doesn’t get his shit together and go kill a genocidal maniac. Draco tells him as such when he says, “Get your fat head moving! I’ll see you after.” They both sprint towards the Great Hall, bursting into the doors.
It is clear a war is being fought here. People are screaming, shouting, running, fighting. There are bodies slumped against the wall. He hears Bellatrix scream. He sees when people see Harry. He launches himself at the first Death Eater he sees, throwing his whole body at the man with a manic grin on his face. He can feel his magic crackling along his skin as he punches the man in the throat. He moves on, helping where he can. He pulls bodies out of the way, closing their eyes, pours his magic into fighters who need it, and punches more Death Eaters.
He feels the moment Harry and Voldemort meet, all magic being drawn to the meeting of their wands. He screams Harry’s name, running towards him. He’s kept back by the dome forming around the two figures, one in billowing black robes and the other ridiculously in jeans and a jumper. He reaches towards the latter, willing all his magic to Harry. He’s pulled back by the scruff of his neck and reminded of the fight at hand when he’s thrown to the ground. He fights, wild and untamed as the dragon. But the owl still sits in his chest, stirring the winds of hope. He feels the moment it ends too. The explosion of magic, the high scream of Voldemort mixing with Harry’s bellow of effort. The magic shatters, and all the Death Eaters scream, clutching their arms. He does too, curling up where he lays on the floor, clutching his left forearm. He thinks he screams, the burn of the mark on his arm feeling as though it will tear his skin off.
He feels arms wrap around him, Harry's voice over him telling people to back off as he’s lifted into the air. He feels Harry’s heart beating steadily as he’s carried to the infirmary. Maybe I will die, he thinks distantly, as he fades into sleep.
He stirs a few times, when Madame Pomfrey puts a numbing slave on his arm, when he feels the cool press of a towel to his forehead. When he feels a hand intertwine with his own and lips press to the back of it. This time, the darkness he fades into is peaceful.
***
He wakes in a dreamscape land, standing by the gates of Malfoy Manor. He turns around, looking through the gardens. There are ghostly apparitions of albino peacocks strutting around, the flowers and herbs of the garden a muted hue of their original colors that seem to melt into the air.
He walks for a little while, taking the familiar cobblestoned path. The peacocks don’t seem to acknowledge him, but he can brush his fingers along leaves and feel their delicate give. The ferns tick his shins as he approaches the rose garden where he’d work with his mother. It was his favorite place, a small piece of light and growth in a dark, cold manor. There was an ornate bench where he could sit and read in the sunshine, surrounded by the smell of white roses and lilies.
He goes there now, following the footprints only he can see. His, from when he was very small, and his mother’s. When he reaches the hidden rose garden, he pauses. Narcissa is sitting on their bench, a stag kneeling at her feet with his head in her lap. He approaches hesitantly until Narcissa looks up with a peaceful smile. She looks younger, less worn by age and the stress of the Dark Lord in her home. “Draco,” she says softly, “Come join me.” She pats the bench beside her and he sits, careful to avoid touching the stag, even if it appears docile. Appearances can be deceiving. He should know.
“Mama,” he gasps, “Are you alright? Where are we? I saw you-”
“I know, my darling boy,” she says, reaching out and stroking his hair. “You are right to know that this is not home. It is… an inbetween place, perhaps. You will be here again one day, though hopefully not for a long time. I’m sorry that I didn’t get more, but the war is over now, and you have a chance to grow. And to love.” She pets his head again. She’d always wanted him to grow out his hair, but he’d resisted, not wanting to look like a girl. With the war, he hasn’t had time for constant trims so it brushes his jaw now. “J’aime, mon dragon. You were very fierce today. I am proud.”
His eyes filled with tears, “Mama, I wanted to- I saw you fall but I couldn’t break free of my anger. I’m so sorry, please, Mama, I’m sorry.” Narcissa shakes her head, wiping his tears.
“Do not be sorry, I made my choice, and I would make it all over again as many times as I needed. Because I love you, because you are my son. I’m glad you fought, that you found your way, even if it was at the end. Look, mon étoile, life is something you choose. I made the wrong choices, but I know my last choice was the right one. I am happy where I am, but I wanted to speak to you one last time. Choose your happiness. You have a wonderful opportunity, do not squander it just because you feel guilty about mistakes you made, especially if your parents led you into them. I should have protected you better from your surroundings. You are young, you will make plenty more mistakes, and you will learn from every one of them. Don’t your fear blind you to what could be.” She takes his hand with a smile, trying to place it on the stag’s head.
He pulls away, “No, Mama, I can’t leave! You can’t leave, please.”
“I am sorry that I was pulled away so soon,” Narcissa says sadly, “But perhaps I was meant to. You have the space to decide who you want to be, Draco. Not what others do.” She smiles then, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, my son, I will see you again one day.” She places his hand on the stag’s head, and the stag looks up. Draco meets the bright green eyes of the animal, and wakes up.
***
He wakes up, finding his hand laid on top of a sleeping Harry’s head. Draco is laid in an infirmary bed, among the injured of Hogwarts, with the Boy Saviour sitting in the chair next to his bed, his head laid on his arms on the bed. Draco stifles a little laugh at the absurdness of it, stroking his right hand through Harry’s hair. He looks down at his left arm which tingles slightly. The Dark Mark is a smudged mess of ink, oozing out of his skin. He swipes his fingers across it and some comes off. He scrubs harder, to find that what remains is a replica of the Dark Mark, composed of thin, red lines.
He lets out the breath he’d been holding. Of course he wouldn’t be free, of course his choice would never be gone, permanently inked into his skin- A sleepy voice breaks his thought. “Draco?” Harry sits up, rolling his neck, “When’d you wake up? You feeling better?”
“Er, yeah, Potter,” He says self-consciously. Harry really hadn’t been quiet, at all. Damn Gryffindors and their inability to be quiet, he curses in his head.”Mind telling me when you decided to call me by my first name?”
Obnoxious Harry Potter grins, “Yeah, sure, mate. Right about when you created a giant shadow dragon that ate half the Death Eaters, and then kissed me in the corridor.”
Draco wrinkles his nose, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m sure that being unconscious has wiped my memory of something I would never do. Shame. But I do seem to recall you kissing me.” Okay, so he’s pompous, what’s new?
Harry chuckles, “Yeah, maybe. I don’t remember all too well either. I just think… maybe I’d like it to happen again?” He says the next part with a questioning look at Draco, who scoffs.
“Git,” Draco huffs, turning over, “Go find your Weasley leech and leave us civilized folks alone.” He hears Harry laugh behind him and his ears turn red. He tucks further under the blanket, itching at his left arm. He feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him over.
“Draco,” Harry says after a beat.
“Potter,” Draco spits back.
Harry shakes his head, “No. Call me Harry. Common courtesy after you kiss someone. But.. really. Thanks. Your help was… indispensable. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here right now if you hadn't covered for me in the Manor, so.. Thank you. Also, the sight of Draco Malfoy boxing a Death Eater is one I won’t forget soon. It was pretty cool of you.”
Draco huffs, “I know. I’m pretty awesome. Believe I told you so all the way back in first year.”
Harry winces, “Nah, you were a little slimeball.” Draco has to give him that, but he’s never going to admit it.
So instead, he says, “Harry.” Harry’s face lights up. Draco clears his throat as he blushes then continues, “I’m glad you’re not.. Dead. Or whatever. And, I uh, I hope that I can be of help when we rebuild Hogwarts, if I don’t get sent to Azkaban.”
Harry’s face hardens, “You won’t. I won’t let them, and neither will anyone who saw you fight today. Would you ever want to be an auror? I feel like you’d do well.”
Draco shakes his head, “No. I planned to follow Sev’s footsteps and be Potion Master here. Or maybe a Mungo’s healer. My-” He pauses, clearing his throat again, this time of a real lump, “My mum taught me all about herbal healing. I think I want to help people this time around.”
"Sev?" Harry asks, "Snape?"
Draco nods, "My godfather."
Harry pauses then nods, “I can see that. Those are good plans.”
Draco asks, “So, Po-” At Harry’s look, he amends, “Harry, bet you want to be an auror then. Or a politician. You’d win unanimously, I’m sure.”
Harry shakes his head, “ Not to sound like I'm copying you, but actually, I think I’d want to be a teacher too. DADA, here at Hogwarts.”
Draco can imagine that too, it’s hot. He shakes his head of the thought, “That’s nice. Guess we might be coworkers one day, huh?”
The look in Harry’s eyes is confusing, Draco can’t pick apart a single emotion. He just stares and stares at Draco, waiting for something. Draco scratches his arm nervously. “What?” Draco asks finally.
“Draco…” Harry says slowly, “Did I not just say I wanted to kiss you again? Why would we only be coworkers?”
This arrogant dick! Talking to me, like I’m the dunce out of the two of us, I swear this time- Then what Harry was saying registers. “Wha-” Draco blinks, astonished.
“I said,” Harry begins again slowly, “That I’d like to kiss you again. I have since the Manor. Since before, maybe. Even though you’re really, really irritating, and a huge git.”
“But what about Girl Weasley?” Draco sputters, “Or Granger?? Didn’t you have something with one of them?”
Harry laughs, “No, Ginny’s got Luna, and Hermione’s got Ron, but I don’t know how long that’s going to last.” Harry shrug. Blast that motion. Draco blinks, and Harry leans in, “Draco, may I kiss you again?” Draco pauses for a long moment before nodding furiously.
“Yeah, uh, yes, please,” He cups Harry’s face again as Harry hands wrap around his back and his lips press to Draco’s fervently. After a few long moments, Harry pulls back with a real smile.
“That was nice,” Harry says dazedly, “Very nice.”
Draco laughs, “Just nice?”
Harry shakes his head, “That was excellent. You are an excellent kisser, Malfoy.”
“I’m an excellent everything, Potter,” Draco grins back. He understood what his mother meant now, about choosing love. If he listens to others, he’d lose this chance with Harry. Draco found that he really didn’t want to give that up. Harry crawls into the infirmary bed with Draco, curling around him so they can both sleep for a little before facing what has to be done.
Maybe now, Draco can start to dream about the future.