"IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I'LL KILL YOU, HARRY!" Ron roars as he and Hermione drag Greg onto their broom, and Draco finally grasps Harry's arm, clambering up behind him, clutching tightly to his waist. Harry spots the diadem flying through the air, makes a hairpin swerve, and dives. Draco's face is buried between his shoulder blades.
"What are you doing, what are you doing, the door's that way!" Draco screams as Harry catches the falling diadem around his wrist and soars back towards the door, Draco holding him so tightly it hurts.
Draco's breathing was harsh outside of Harry's head. He could hear Harry's shaky breaths, and he could feel his left hand trembling in his lap. Almost there, almost there…
"You actually are joking, Perce! I don't think I've heard you joke since—"
The air explodes, everyone is thrown, and from the wreckage, Harry hears a terrible, agonized cry…
"If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?"
"No… Never," Lucius whispers.
"NO!" Hermione shrieks, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Greyback is thrown from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown.
"Don't hurt 'em, don't hurt 'em!" Hagrid yells, vanishing among the swarming Acromantulas.
"We're all still here," Luna whispers, "we're still fighting, come on now…"
Harry is bent over Snape, trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. "Take… it…" Snape rasps, and Harry sees the silvery blue leaking from his eyes and mouth. Hermione thrusts a flask into his hand—Harry fills it to the brim.
"Look… at… me," Snape whispers, and Harry meets his dark eyes, a moment before the life inside them vanishes.
"Almost there, Harry," Draco murmured, his voice shaking again. "So close, I can feel it." He heard Harry huff, and without even seeing it, Draco knew it meant something like Obviously, you dolt.Probably because Draco was thinking it, too.
The Weasleys surround Fred's body. Harry can clearly see the bodies of Remus and Nymphadora Tonks beside them, peaceful and still, and his world seems to shrink. He runs for the Headmaster's office.
Inside a memory, on the Hogwarts Express, an eleven-year-old Severus grins at an eleven-year-old Lily Evans. "You'd better be in Slytherin," he says.
"Slytherin?" Another boy in the compartment pipes up—the young James Potter. "Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
Inside a memory, on a hilltop, Severus is trembling with terror. "The prophecy—he thinks it means her son! He's going to hunt them down—hide them, please, keep them safe—"
"And what will you give me in return, Severus?" Dumbledore asks.
"Anything."
Inside a memory, Severus is crying. "You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect her son," Dumbledore urges.
Inside a memory, Severus's wand is on Dumbledore's blackened hand. "You've done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?" Dumbledore asks.
Severus hesitates. "Maybe a year."
Inside a memory, Severus raises his eyebrows. "Are you intending to let Draco kill you?"
"Certainly not," Dumbledore replies. "You must kill me."
"Alright, Harry, hang on tight," Draco murmured, and inhaled sharply as he felt Harry's warm hand grab his own—Harry was taking that literally. Draco held it tightly, anyway, as he spotted the glow in his peripherals, brighter and longer than ever, and hooked his magic into it.
Inside a memory, Dumbledore paces his office. "Harry must not know, not until the last moment, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?"
"Know what?" Severus asks.
"There will come a time—after my death—when Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake. Then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry. ... That on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded, and a fragment of Voldemort's soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left. Part of Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Voldemort's mind. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Voldemort cannot die."
"So the boy… the boy must die?" Severus asks.
"And Voldemort himself must do it. That is essential."
Another long silence. Then Severus says, "I thought… all these years, that we were protecting him for her. For Lily. You have kept him alive so he can die at the proper moment?" Severus is horrified.
Harry rises out of the Pensieve, and his legs give out beneath him, sending him to the floor.
…
"Neville, listen… you know Voldemort's snake, huge snake, calls it Nagini…" Harry says.
"I've heard, yeah… what about it?"
"It's got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know, but just in case they—" Harry chokes on his words.
…
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Harry's nerveless fingers fumble at the pouch on his neck, pulling out the Snitch. He reads the words on the metal: I open at the close. He presses his lips to the Snitch, and whispers, "I am about to die." The shell breaks open, revealing a small, black stone. He closes his eyes, and turns the stone in his hand three times.
When he opens his eyes, the memory-like figures of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus stand around him, smiling at him.
…
Harry is walking through the forest, under the Cloak, flanked by the figures of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus. Their presence is his courage.
…
"I expected him to come. It seems I was mistaken," Voldemort says.
"You weren't," Harry says, loud and clear, as he drops the stone onto the forest floor and removes his Cloak, stepping into the clearing. The figures around him vanish.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort says very softly. "The Boy Who Lived." He raises his wand, head tilted to one side. Harry's heart is racing so fast, counting out its final beats. He does not draw his own wand.
He sees Voldemort's mouth move and a flash of green light, and then everything is gone.
…
The air was shoved out of Draco's lungs as the secondhand impact of the Killing Curse punched him in the chest, but the glow continued, the breadcrumb was still going, and he couldn't stop now even though he wanted to, for what could possibly come after death? But he knew Harry was alive, here, right in front of him, gripping his hand so tightly it hurt, and he had to continue.
…
A huge, bright white, misty place. Something is making pitiful whimpering noises—the form of a small, naked child, skin raw and flayed-looking, curled on the ground. Harry recoils.
"You cannot help," a voice says, and Harry turns to face Albus Dumbledore.
…
"But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse," Harry starts, "and nobody died for me this time—how can I be alive?"
"I think you know," Dumbledore says. "Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty." Harry thinks for a long time, remembering.
"He took my blood," Harry says finally.
"Precisely!" Dumbledore exclaims. "He took your blood, and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily's protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!"
…
"I've got to go back, haven't I?" Harry asks.
"That is up to you."
"I've got a choice?"
"Oh yes."
…
"By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say goodbye for the present," Dumbledore says, and Harry sighs and nods. He doesn't really want to—it is warm and light and peaceful, here, and he knows he is heading back to more pain and fear of more loss. But he has to.
"Tell me one last thing," Harry says. "Is this real? Or has this all been happening inside my head?"
Dumbledore beams at him. "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry. That doesn't mean it's not real."
…
Harry is laying on the forest floor, as still as possible, listening to the voices around him.
"You," Voldemort says, and there's a bang and a small shriek of pain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."
Harry doesn't know who is sent. His heart is pumping traitorously as careful footsteps approach.
Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touch Harry's face, pull back an eyelid, creep beneath his shirt, down to his chest, and feel his heart. He can feel the woman's fast breathing, her long hair tickles his face. She leans in close to his ear, her hair shielding her face, her hand feeling his heart beating beneath his ribs, and whispers, barely audible:
"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"
"Yes," Harry breathes. The hand on his chest contracts, nails piercing him as she sits up.
"He is dead," Narcissa Malfoy says, to Voldemort and the watching Death Eaters.
Draco gasped, withdrawing himself, finally, with an audible groan of pain and relief and every emotion he hadn't had time to feel. He shuddered violently, his face wet with tears and sweat, his hand gripping Harry's tightly—this time, it was he who thought Harry might disappear, and held on for dear life.
"Fuck," Draco breathed hoarsely, emotions storming through him. He dropped his wand, somewhere—his hand grabbed for his chest, not for the scars, but where he felt the jet of green light hit him—hit Harry—Harry. The hand on his chest reached out of its own accord, and was found by another, just as warm, alive, here.
Harry had died. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for them all—because he had to. Because he always did, because no one else could, or would. And then he came back, given the choice, not because he wanted to, but because he had to,because no one else would. He couldn't be free from feeling responsible for the wellbeing of the Wizarding World, a burden that had been thrust upon him as a child, even in death.
"Harry," Draco's voice was strained, nearly whimpering, and he was completely overwhelmed, because now righteous anger had joined the mix. They had known, Dumbledore had known, had raised Harry like a pig for slaughter, forcing him to endure a horrific childhood, making him save the day over and over, giving him a daunting, dangerous, impossible task, and then asking him to die—and even in death, Dumbledore was pleasantly surprised when Harry came through it, tethered to life by a mere twist of fate. And then the man practically told him to go back and finish the job, and Harry did. Un-fucking-believable.
Draco's breathing was shallow, uneven, difficult through the painful lump in his throat. With shaking arms, he brought the strong hands he held to his face, holding the backs of the fingers to his forehead and cheek, feeling the warmth beneath the skin. Alive. Alive. One of the hands released him, but returned shortly, tentatively, to his face, a rough palm on Draco's cheek, careful fingers in Draco's hair. Alive. Here. Safe. Draco, not yet completely aware of himself, leaned into the touch, and he heard a quiet, shaky intake of breath in front of him. Alive.
Draco held the hand against his face, trying to control his breathing, riding out the hurricane of emotions, noticing the difference between those and the twisting discomfort in his gut from his bonds, now, painfully sharp. He had never had to test it like this, before. It only made him grip Harry's hand harder, probably out of spite.
When he finally felt he had some control over himself, he released Harry's hands and sat back in his chair, pulling away from the warmth of the being in front of him. Only then did he decide to open his eyes.
Harry's face was wet, too, and Draco knew he himself must look a right mess—he knew he got red and blotchy when he cried, Pansy had always told him it wasn't a good look. But Harry looked like a tragic angel, because of course he did, the tosser. His eyes shone brighter against his smooth, brown skin, his lips a lovely rosy colour from pressing themselves together so hard, from the straight teeth currently biting them nervously.
"So that's why you trust my mother," is what Draco finally decided to say, because he didn't trust himself to say anything else and not completely explode. Harry searched his face carefully for a moment, before a corner of his mouth lifted a little, and he nodded.
Draco took several more deep breaths, the room descending into silence once more.
"I know why that was important, and formative to you," Draco muttered, meeting Harry's eyes. He said nothing else—it was too volatile. He waited for Harry to prod him for more, but thankfully, he didn't. He simply continued watching Draco, silently.
Draco bent over and picked up his wand from where he'd dropped it on the floor. He pointed it at the board, made yet another dot on the trail, and labeled it "Death". Simple and succinct, there really wasn't any way to make it look less morbid. He looked back at Harry, thinking, remembering.
"Why did you come back for me?" Draco asked softly, brow furrowed, unsure if Harry would even answer. Draco wouldn't blame him if he didn't, but Harry didn't hesitate. He opened his notebook, clicked his pen, and started to write.
I didn't want you to die
Draco's face smoothed out into a tiny smile, which seemed to please Harry. Typical, that Harry would use Draco's own words, like that—but appreciated, nonetheless. That Harry Potter remembered and valued anything he had to say was a miracle in and of itself, just as the fact that Harry Potter was alive was a miracle. Draco cherished both of them equally. He shook his head fondly.
"What Dumbledore said, at the end… is that why you were frightened, when I spoke to you at St. Mungo's? You thought I was in your head, watching that?"
Harry nodded slowly.
"And he gave you the Snitch… it held the Resurrection Stone, not for you, but for your escort…" Draco was mumbling to himself, at this point, processing all the rest of it, now that the flood of emotions had subsided. Harry was still nodding at him.
"You know that technically makes you the 'Master of Death,' right? You actually possessed all three…" Draco made air quotation marks with his fingers, and Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"I know," Draco smirked. "As if you need another ridiculous title to add to your list of epithets. When you do finally croak, they won't be able to fit all of them on your gravestone," he said dryly. Harry chuckled silently at him, eyes still shiny from tears now twinkling with amusement.
Eventually, Draco sighed and glanced at his watch. "We're out of time for today, but…" he raised his wand to his temple, concentrating hard on a memory of sitting on a beach on the Amalfi Coast. He made sure he was fully clothed in this one, not exactly eager for Harry to see his scars. It was boring, but peaceful—Draco had simply sat there, on the beach, for hours, trying and failing to read a book, distracted by the beautiful scenery. He focused on the scents of the lemon groves and the feel of the sea breeze and the sun on his skin, the sounds of the waves on the rocks. Draco carefully pulled the strand of memory out of his head, stood up, and took an empty glass vial from a drawer in his desk, placing the memory inside and corking it tightly.
"In case you need another holiday, from your head," Draco murmured, handing the glowing vial to Harry, "I'm assuming you have a Pensieve, at home."
Harry took it delicately, staring at it in awe. He looked up at Draco with a delighted, grateful smile, that made Draco feel warm all over