Hidden Equinox

i.

They lost the war in the winter.

With the snow fell their defenses, and everything that had been so long considered and so carefully constructed was leveled into nothing more than ash and blood stains on white snow by morning next. The wind was blowing north and carrying the scent of defeat, tired and sweaty and tearful as the falling rain.

They burned the tents and the belongings and everything they could find, even the things that could never be replaced, like Severus' personal supply of rare potions and the faintly sparkling memories in Dumbledore's pensieve and Potter's tattered, battle-thinned invisibility cloak, and the bodies too, in that old fashioned way that didn't involve wands but matchsticks. That night, over flames that didn't so much dance with the wind as bend and undulate under it, they all toasted to their victory and the splendor of their blood while a charmed harp played in the background songs that none of them recognized. The smell of death and smoke and burning hair was awful, but they were too far gone in celebration to notice, and it melted the snow and sunk into the ground and stunk for months. It even kept away the grass and flowers in the spring.

Or maybe that was the pile of the skeletons that remained unmoved in the center of the barren, used field, waiting for the snow to fall again, untouched.

ii.

But that isn't the way it was supposed to go.

It was supposed to be spring, the season of novelty and healing, and it was supposed to be a small affair at the old house on Grimmauld Place. Voldemort, Harry, Dumbledore, Ron, the stunted form of Peter Pettigrew and the two Malfoys, Lucius and Draco.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort was supposed to say, Harry's surname a hiss of breath and hate on Voldemort's tongue. "At last."

And then he was supposed to raise his right hand and flick his wand once in Harry's direction and say two words, six syllables, and Ron was supposed to act without thinking--on instinct--and Harry wasn't supposed to see, because he was supposed to be looking at Draco, and the light was supposed to be bright and quick and painfully green. There was supposed to be a sick thud as Ron's body hit the paneled flooring that churned Draco's stomach, and then all hell was supposed to break loose as Draco slouched in the corner under the window, where the sunlight was supposed to spill over the top of his head and light up his silver hair like a crown.

Draco wasn't supposed to fight, to take sides, to win.

But Harry was, and he did.

He was supposed to be the last, the only, and he was supposed to look up from Voldemort's body and see Draco huddled against the wall, haloed in spring sunshine and clutching his wand tightly to his chest. Harry was supposed to ignore the fact that seeing Draco that way disgusted him. He was supposed to ignore a lot of things actually, like the ache that seemed to have settled into the marrow of his bones, and the bodies of Ron and Professor Dumbledore lying at his feet, and the taste of Avada Kedavra on his tongue and the back of his teeth. He was supposed to smile tiredly and say,

"It's over."

iii.

And that isn't the way it went.

It was summer.

There was a sun in the sky, and clouds, and the scent of violets and battle plans rolled over them with the wind. There was risk, a danger that they all knew too well and were all too willing to accept after three continuous years of days spent in fitful sleep and nights spent awake, dodging curses and turncoats. There was a battle in the midday sun atop hills of green grass and dandelions, and then it was over.

There was a celebration and happiness and relief, relief, relief.

But there was also a rumor. Harry Potter still had yet to join in on the celebrations of that night, and the rumor stated that Harry had refused to do so until he had checked under the mask of every last Death Eater, dead or alive. It was said that he wouldn't allow the bodies to be moved or even touched until he found what, or who, he was looking for. It was said that he searched all night by the light of his wand and had even pushed away his best friend--Ron Weasley, wasn't it?--when he had pleaded with Harry to stop. It was said that he viciously tore the masks from the persecuted's faces and attacked those he thought resembled what he was looking for, and that he combed through the dead all night long, once, twice, thrice, frantic and desperate, until the sun came up the next morning, and with it all of his responsibilities to the rest of the wizarding world. There was a breakfast to honor the dead, a lunch to honor the living, and a dinner to honor The Boy Who Lived.

But it was never said whether or not Harry Potter had ever found what he was looking for.

But nobody thought much about that, because it didn't matter, did it? Everything was going to be all right. They had their victory and they had their hero. There he was, hardly more than a boy, as perfect as glass as he accepted their praises with a smile and a polite word of thanks, and nobody cared that his gaze always drifted towards the window, or that he never laughed anymore.

iiii.

This is what they won't tell you.

Harry stays up late on Thursdays.

He reads occasionally, to pass the time, or he writes in his journal or tries to think up some new strategy, something they haven't already tried and failed at. But by eleven o'clock, he always forgets this pretense of distraction and simply waits. He sits by the rear entrance of his tent and he inevitably, inanely waits.

And at midnight he's there. Draco Malfoy, within the cloth walls of Harry Potter's battlefield residence. It doesn't matter why or how or for what. Maybe it's business. Maybe Draco will tell him that Voldemort is planning to attack them on the eighth, half strength, with the concentration on the south parameter as a decoy and a sneak-up unit on the west that will file in while the rest are distracted and destroy their Potion's Headquarters, hopefully catching Snape in the act if the timing was right. Or maybe not. Or maybe he only came to see Harry, to speak to Harry, to lie on the same rumpled cot next to Harry and brush the back of his knuckles against Harry's.

Does it matter?

It's Thursday. It isn't the fall or spring or summer or winter, or maybe it is. Maybe it's all of those, all at once, bundled up into a little white ball at the base of Harry's spine that only lights up on Thursday, the day he sees Draco.

Maybe the big picture isn't important. Maybe it doesn't matter how it ends, like it doesn't matter why Draco is here. Maybe all that matters is right now, and the way that Draco's lips slide against Harry's, soft and warm, and the way that the moonlight shifts on Draco's skin when he breathes and wraps his arms around Harry's waist, pulling him closer.

Finis