At Your Last

At Your Last

He was in a deep, dark place, and there were no doors. At any other time before this night, the thought of it would have given Harry claustrophobia - but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not tonight, not here, not anymore. In any case, Colin would be here with the portkey before morning, so there was nothing to worry about. All he had to do was wait.

Wait, in a deep, dark well in which he was the only living being. He took a few steps and promptly his foot brushed against something soft and disturbingly limp. An arm, or possibly a leg. Despite the emptiness consuming him, Harry shuddered, and stopped in his tracks.
He could not tell the surrounding walls from the darkness within them, but he knew that they were circular; he had seen it earlier, when the well had been lit to painful brightness by the flashes of numerous wands - jets of red, purple, golden light, electric sparks that sizzled through the air, and eventually, the sickly green of the forbidden spell, consuming everything. He could still see it on the back of his eyelids if he closed his eyes, a ghostly green brushing along his memories, almost gentle now that it had burned its killing force. Death was not black, but green; Harry Potter had known this since he'd been an infant. His earliest memory was this blinding flash of green; were he to die right now, it would be his last. He liked that thought; it had order to it, structure. A kind of closure. Avada Kedavra, beginning and end, and everything between merely a mindless, silly struggle to keep the inevitable at bay. A child's struggle, a boy hero's struggle. Harry could not remember when he'd been that boy; if he had even ever existed, or if it had been the collective mind of the wizarding world that had construed him and shoved Harry into that mould until he finally resigned and said, Alright, alright. I'll be what you need me to. I'll be your hero. Just care for me in return.

They'd cared, and now they'd paid. Was it worth so much, to believe in heroes?

It didn't matter now. He thought of those flashes of green with something bordering wistfulness; it would be good to go that way. Appropriate.

Instead, he was alone with the dead, waiting for morning and Colin Creevey, and whatever life he could make beyond that. High above him, he could see a small circle of nightly sky, pale purple cut into the stark blackness of the walls. Stars. They were very bright tonight, fiercely brilliant. Harry had never felt more far away from them.

A moan pierced the darkness, and he froze. He'd thought they were all dead. He stood rigidly, not daring to move, listening into the darkness - and sure enough, it came again. Harry groped for his wand, although his weary mind screamed protest. Please, please, no more. He'd seen so much death tonight. The death of almost all that he'd had left.

A rustle of movement, followed by a gasp of pain. Someone cursed under their breath. Friend or-? Harry dared not call for light; instead, he grabbed his wand more firmly and asked sharply, "Who is there?"

Ron, Ron, let it be Ron... Neville... Lupin... apparently, a part of him was still capable of hope. Amazing.

But stillness followed his words, and Harry's apprehension grew. Death Eater, then... a horrible suspicion grew in him and he felt his hand start to shake... Voldemort? No, no, fate could not be so cruel - he had no strength left in him for more fight. He'd killed him, had finally fulfilled the cursed prophecy; he had no more stamina for murdering.

The conviction sunk into him, slowly and curiously absolute: If it is him, I'll die. I'll let him kill me. It was not a melodramatic thought, nor even a despairing one; it was quite simple, quite unexciting. He had no thought left for the world they'd meant to save. Let the world take care of itself for once. If Harry Potter had carried his own well of heroism within him, it was now as empty as the one surrounding him.

Then, someone spoke; soft and pain-strained, the voice was nevertheless not Voldemort's, and Harry almost felt disappointment. "Potter?"

From that one word, he knew; he'd heard that voice often enough, having had it sneering and spitting insults at him for years, and then, in the final days, lethal threats in a soft, menacing tone. He did not lower his wand. "Malfoy."
He tried to gauge where the voice had come from and shifted on his feet, facing the general direction. Did something stir there, at the back of the well? He narrowed his eyes, staring hard; yes, there it was again, a shifting in the shadows. A gleam of starlight fell on silvery hair; strange that the stars should not descend to these depths for him, but for the gleam on Draco Malfoy's hair.

"Stay where you are."

A soft chuckle drifted to him, followed by a cough. "Not much else I can do, Potter. Seems like you... were in luck... this time."

"Only time that counted," said Harry, feeling the stupidity of the words, the fake bravado, the second they had left his mouth. For heaven's sake, even now - it seemed like decades since they'd traded schoolyard insults, and even now they'd fall back into inane banter, with the Dark Lord and a pile of his foes and allies dead at their feet? "Don't move."

This time Malfoy sounded derisive. "Don't wet your pants, Potter. I'm not... exactly much... of a threat right now."

Something was wrong with his voice; it was rasping through his throat as though something was seriously damaged there, distorting the usual arrogant fluency of his words. Harry lifted his wand a little higher and said, "Lumos," making it a mere whisper so the conjured light would not be too bright. He did not want to see too much of what surrounded him, too clearly.

A very faint glow emerged from the tip of his wand, illuminating the light sheen of wetness on the wall facing him, the dark outlines of bodies on the floor, and the pale face of Draco Malfoy, angular features thrown into stark relief by the shadows under his brows and nose, the high cheekbones. In the faint light, his eyes looked black. A thin trickle of blood was running from the corner of his mouth. Its startling brightness, the deep red of it the only visible colour in Malfoy's face, gave him something vampiric, staring at Harry from the darkness, black robes and pale face and hair, and that bright, bright smear of blood. Harry shivered.

But vampires' features did not contort in pain, nor did they gasp so humanly about it. Harry lifted his wand a little higher, trying to get a good look at Malfoy without having to come closer. Malfoy was slumped against the wall; his robes hid any injury that might have been there, but Harry thought he could see wetness on the front of them, something just barely reflecting his light. Malfoy placed a hand against the stone floor, trying to gain leverage to push himself up. "Stay where you are," Harry said automatically, but it would not have been necessary; after a moment, Malfoy gave up and slumped back with a grunt. Breathing hard, he stared up at Harry with an illegible expression. Harry remained where he was, legs placed slightly apart on the wet stone, wand lifted, ready for combat.

No Avada Kedavra for Malfoy, then. Some injury instead, something that bled and ruptured, life leaking out to puddle and then dry on black stone. He thought briefly how galling it must be for someone like Draco Malfoy, to die of something so simple, so profane, as blood loss. A Muggle way to die.
If he was dying. Harry kept eyes and wand on him, uncertain suddenly of what to do. He had one brief memory of Malfoy during the fight, blond hair and black robes whirling by, a brief flash of recognition in those grey eyes, more intense than a curse - then Voldemort had screeched his name and Harry had spun away, and then he'd lost all time and desire for thinking. But had they fought - had they met in the frenzy of battle, they'd have tried to kill each other. He might be dead, even now. Instead, Malfoy was lying at his feet, bleeding and unarmed-

"Where is your wand?" he asked sharply. Malfoy shrugged, then winced at the motion. "Lost it." He lifted a slender hand, and Harry tensed; but Malfoy only fingered the blood trickling from his mouth, grimacing as he held blood-stained fingers to his eyes. "Damn." He raised his eyes to Harry's with an expression of grim humour. "Go on then," he snarled softly. "Seems it's your lucky day. Do it."

Harry did not answer; he was still trying to figure out what he was supposed to be doing with a dying, but defenceless enemy. His thoughts were racing. Colin was coming at dawn; a lot could happen until then. He looked down at Malfoy, broken and bleeding, but grinning still, and felt a curious ache not altogether unlike what he'd felt before he had discovered he was not the only one alive. So many dead. He could not bring himself to triumph, not over Voldemort, or the other Death Eaters; not even over Malfoy. They'd paid too much; they'd paid too much. And here was Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, archenemy of his school years, all those taunts and pranks and nasty little fights that seemed so petty now, so meaningless. They'd used to play Quidditch against each other, hadn't they? They'd used to fly... ah, to fly again with that rush of pure, uninhibited freedom. To feel the heat of competition, racing broom along broom after a tiny winged golden ball - they'd been unblemished then, even Malfoy.
To fly that way again...

He gave a gasp of pain as his knees connected with hard stone. His wand cluttered to the floor; the small circle of light shook violently, rolled away, shone on an anonymous robe-clad shoulder that would never shrug again. Harry felt a dry sob force its way through his throat. It hurt.

Too much lost.

"Got you too, did they? I hope so." He could not see Malfoy's face anymore, but his voice cut through the dark like poison, soft and malevolent. Harry shut his eyes; forced himself not to utter any more. This was worthless. All of it was. He would not touch Malfoy; he'd find his wand and make his way to the opposite wall, and wait for Colin. Just a few hours... but he could not move. He stayed on his knees, rocking gently back and forth, wrapping his arms around himself. Too much destroyed. Even Malfoy, spoiled, hateful, sneering Malfoy - for some reason the sight of him there, hissing taunts even as his life leaked from him, was too much. It was another wasted thing - Draco Malfoy's strange, angular beauty broken, that arrogant grace shattered. He'd offered him his hand once, when they'd been eleven. He had refused. A memory from another life.

"Potter." He did not know how much time had passed. He did not care. He'd be in here till morning, in a grave, with ghosts and half-ghosts speaking. "Pull yourself together, you coward. You don't have to do it." Cough. "It's happening anyway." Malfoy's voice had changed. It took him a long moment to register how. The rancour was gone from it.

"I can feel it," Malfoy continued. He spoke softly, almost dreamily. "Remember those Thestrals? I could... see them now too if... one were here."

Harry reached into the darkness, grabbing for his wand. He brushed Malfoy's leg instead; startling warmth under his fingertips. He shied away, his fingers closing on his wand. Once more, golden warmth lit Malfoy's bleeding face. His expression was strange; intent, alert, eyes glittering as though with fever. "Guess you won after all, huh?" he murmured. "Bugger. I hate losing."

"I know," Harry said automatically, then stopped, astonished by himself. Malfoy almost grinned. "Quidditch, yes. I hated you... for that. The way you flew..." Malfoy's eyes closed briefly, as though to vanquish pain, or view some inner memory. "... you were gorgeous."
For a moment, Harry thought he had misheard. Malfoy opened his eyes in time to see him blink. He was definitely grinning this time, although it was strained, and half-tinged by contempt. "You didn't know? Of course... figures. Too busy... playing the hero... fighting evil... makes me sick. Guess it was... a good thing you... never found out."

Harry shook his head. He wasn't sitting here, having this conversation with Draco Malfoy. All that he'd left to care for had died tonight. He would not taint their memory with Malfoy's feeble taunts. Laboriously, he rose, resolved to leave Malfoy some small rest of dignity. To die alone, close to his fellow Death Eaters and his Lord; instead of the man he loathed most in the world. He turned his back. Malfoy's voice stopped him after two steps.

"Harry."

It was so weird to hear his first name from Malfoy's lips that he turned. "What?" he said tiredly. Malfoy's face was strange, too, curiously blank, devoid of his perpetual sneer. "Harry," he said again, and something brushed over his darkened eyes, something like wistfulness, or pain. Then he laughed; a broken, throaty sound with an unhealthily liquid noise to it. "Can't... believe myself. After all this... I'll tell you. Bloody... joke." Harry said nothing. He had enough; he was so tired; he wished that Malfoy could just spare them this, that he could let them do this last as though they were grown-up. Perhaps, he thought, if he is still alive when Colin comes, we can -

"You didn't know, did you." Malfoy sounded vaguely amused, vaguely sad. "You moron, Potter. I hope you won't... forget this, then. Your noble conscience..." He bared very white teeth in a brief grin. "Hope it'll... hurt like hell. I was in love with you."

Harry blinked. For a moment, his mind was completely empty of any thought. Then a spark of anger took him by surprise. He had not thought he'd still have room for anger. "You little bastard," he said slowly. "Don't you understand? I didn't win. Nobody won this." He made an erratic, angry gesture around the still figures surrounding them. "All dead, can't you see? Your people and mine! What are you doing this for? Can't you use your last-" He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "For god's sake," he added softly. "This is no time for your little spiteful games."

Malfoy's face clenched briefly. Not in anger; it was something different, something Harry had definitely not expected. Pain, and not of the physical kind. "Damn you, Harry," he whispered. Another cough made him choke; more blood dribbled slowly from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it on his sleeve, looking vaguely disgusted.

Harry stared. Something in those three words, the genuine hurt in them, spoke to him like Malfoy's previous words, those outrageous, ludicrous words, had not. It had to be a joke, of course, another tired, mean-spirited joke, something to prevent even the possibility of these last hours spent in truce. It had to be. But-

"Malfoy...?"

The silver-blond head lifted with some difficulty. Malfoy's blood-tinged smile was bitter. "No games, Potter. Not...anymore. You and your... bloody heroics. Got even... to me. Fate must have... a blast with this." He was speaking with more difficulty now, the words rasping deep in his throat. Harry just continued to stare at him. There was no lie in Malfoy's posture, no hidden smirk in those darkened eyes. His gaze was direct, lips relaxed, one corner quirking in what might be pain, or might be a smile. It was a stunning experience, watching Malfoy undisguised. "What..." Harry murmured stupidly. He felt something begin to twist inside him very slowly at the sight of Malfoy's face, something raw and new and very much in pain. He watched, frozen to the spot, as Malfoy's face softened a bit. Part of him wanted to turn and run, scramble up the slippery walls by his nails rather than see that change in Malfoy's face, that barely perceptible shifting into something horribly close to tenderness.

"What did you... why did you never say?" The words tumbled out before he knew how to take them back; something twitched in Malfoy's face, a shadow of the old annoyance. "What do you think, Potter? My family... Voldemort... I made my choices. Anyway... as if you'd have believed... Perhaps..." He trailed off; the smile that bared blood-stained teeth was actually without rancour. "Impeccable... timing."

The raw thing inside Harry wrenched, hard. He stared at Malfoy, and for a moment what he felt was fury. How dare you, he wanted to scream at him. He wanted to grab the broken figure by the shoulders and shake him, force him to take it back, every word, to tell him he'd been right, it had been a joke, just a cruel joke to make even this more miserable, these few black hours before dawn. How dare you tell me this now, you fool, you fool, you horrible little-

But he had been the fool, he realised, staring at Malfoy's calm, wryly amused face. Seven years of mutual hatred, growing steadily from childhood enmity into adult resentment, but always, always equally intense. Blood and bruises, threats and duels, punches, traps, insults, blazing glances in passing. They'd claimed each other in the only way they knew, the only way imprinted on them by what position made them. Had there been ever, Harry Potter wondered, a moment when they might have turned it all around and fuelled all that passion into something different, found new ways to touch? Could they have, would they have wanted to?

A quiet smile in Draco Malfoy's eyes as he lay dying said maybe.

The light of his wand flickered. Draco smiled his little smile, full of indulgent gentleness, and something like regret. "Sorry... Harry."

He found out then that there were many ways to break, and seeing death was not the strongest. Thestrals must know this. "Draco..."
He did not know how he came to be on his knees, to touch that star-limned hair. He realised he was stammering - apologies, accusations, denials, something, it did not matter. Colin Creevey was coming, he said, with a portkey, just a few hours, it would be okay, if he could make it that long, god, why had he never told him, it would have been okay, it would still be okay somehow, it was all over now, they need not fight each other anymore, he'd make it alright... Hang on till morning, he said. You idiot, he said. Please, he said.

Draco smiled, and touched his fingers to Harry's lips. His words were only whispers now. "You sentimental... fool, Potter." A pause, interrupted by coughing, more blood. It was Harry who wiped it off this time, fingers trembling. "Know what... I'd have liked?" The wand had fallen somewhere, its light perished; but the stars knew their own. Their light glittered faintly on pale hair, wide eyes. "To see you... fly again."

They crouched among the dead, Harry's arms somehow around the slight frame of Malfoy's shoulders. Malfoy was very warm where he touched him. He fit into the space against Harry's chest in ways that made him want to scream wordless accusations to the starlit sky. Instead, he babbled. He promised Quidditch games, broomstick races, trips abroad. Lazy afternoon strolls, Muggle films, vacations by the sea. Forgetfulness, forgiveness, space to move on, new chances. He had not known he had it in him still to see beauty, but he strung a dazzling future in the damp space between his lips and Draco's ear. Draco listened, eyes fixed on Harry's face, that curious little smile still on his lips. Harry saw himself fly against a misty, opalescent sky in Draco's eyes. He fell silent then. The world always had room for more sorrow, for missed chances.

Loyalty had always been among Colin Creevey's virtues. As promised, he arrived with the portkey in the morning, just when the sky began to turn a delicate rose-tinged gold. The stars had long faded by then. So had Draco.