From the Ashes

From the Ashes

Part One

by Fourth Rose

In secret we met - in silence I grieve

(Lord Byron, When we two parted)

* * *

The priest has finished his rites; the heavy granite slab has been closed over the coffin. One by one, the mourners walk back to the gate to Apparate out of the cemetery - all except the forbidding dark figure next to Harry who won't leave his side even once they're alone. Only now, without the hateful glares of the crowd, can Harry bring himself to approach the grave. Snape follows him silently.

For a long time, all that Harry can do is stare at the simple grey headstone which shows nothing but the Malfoy family crest and a short inscription:

Draco Lucius Malfoy

1980-2005

Non diu, sed totus

He hears a sound that must have come from Snape - a low chuckle with no humour in it.

"An epitaph written for a Muggle emperor on the grave of the last heir to one of Britain's oldest pureblood families. How perfectly adequate."

Harry's lips move silently as he tries to work out the meaning of the words. "Not for long, but... wholly?"

Snape nods. "Miss Parkinson insisted on putting this on the headstone, just as she chose a mixture of the Catholic funeral mass and the burial rite out of the Book of Common Prayer for the service. Neither here nor there - she really knew him better than anyone else did."

Harry grits his teeth. Don't go there, Harry. Not now. There will be time later to resent Pansy for being allowed to mourn him. "I guess you'd have chosen something else?" Harry is surprised himself by the steadiness of his voice. He never was very good at hiding his true feelings before; not until the end of the war.

"Yes, though it was Muggle in origin as well. Given the circumstances of Mr Malfoy's death, I suggested king Richard III's device Loyaulte me lie, but Miss Parkinson swore that Draco's spirit would rise from the grave to haunt us both for the rest of our lives if we dared to lay him to rest under such a Hufflepuff motto."

Harry has heard nothing but the beginning of that sentence. Slowly, as if it meant a great effort, he turns his head to look at Snape.

"Are you saying that you know how he died?"

Snape returns his gaze with a carefully neutral expression. "I'm sure you read the papers, Potter? There was an official declaration by the Ministry, after all."

"You know perfectly well that they're lying." Harry's voice is still quiet, but there's a hint of barely controlled anger to it now. "They said that he was killed in self-defence by an Auror while he attempted to break his father out of the holding cell at the Ministry and that Lucius committed suicide after hearing about it. This is ridiculously impossible in more ways than I could begin to count, Professor, and I want to know what really happened. So if you know something, anything, please tell me."

Snape seems slightly taken aback by the fact that Harry is pleading with him, but he shakes his head nevertheless. "There is nothing I can tell you, Potter."

He sounds almost sincere when he adds, after a moment: "I'm sorry."

Harry looks away. His gaze lingers on the headstone once more when he replies softly, almost to himself:

"So am I."

* * *

After a war, those who survived are usually too busy picking up the pieces to think much about the things they went through. That part comes later, once the dust has settled.

At least, Harry thinks as he wanders aimlessly through the bustling crowds in Diagon Alley, this is true for the Order and its allies. Now that the dead have been buried, everyone seems hell-bent to make all visible signs of the war disappear as quickly as possible, as if they could eradicate everything that happened by doing so. It's not going to work, but he supposes it will take some time before people realize it.

There is very little left to pick up for the supporters of Voldemort. All the prominent Death Eaters are dead - either killed during the fights or executed by the Ministry; their property is confiscated, their remaining families in exile. The lower ranks are filling the cells in Azkaban, guarded once again by the Dementors who have returned to their posts after Voldemort's fall as if nothing had happened. There are rumours that Headmistress McGonagall got into a screaming match with Minister Scrimgeour about it, but the Minister insisted the Dementors were no threat anymore and that they were needed to make Azkaban secure again.

Harry doesn't know what all those who belonged to neither side are doing now - the purebloods who wouldn't follow Voldemort in the first place, or abandoned him when Draco Malfoy left his father's side and claimed that the Dark Lord had betrayed wizarding tradition just as much as the Order and their Muggle-loving supporters. He has no idea what will happen to those who chose the "third way", now that the one they were following is buried in a little graveyard in Wiltshire, hated and despised beyond the grave by both the light and the dark sides.

Harry's musings are cut short when someone bumps into him - someone who was obviously in a hurry to get around the corner of Knockturn Alley. A woman, wrapped in a dark blue cloak against the chill of the clear spring evening, laden with shopping bags that are now spilling their contents onto the pavement.

"Can't you watch where you're going?" she snaps as Harry crouches to help her shove her belongings back into the bags. He stops short at the familiar sound of her voice and tries to see her face which is half-hidden under the hood of her cloak. "Pansy Parkinson?"

She pulls back her hood and sneers at him. "Why, if it isn't the famous Harry Potter. I'd ask for your autograph, but I've got my hands full thanks to your clumsiness."

Harry bites back the reply that she clearly ran into him and not the other way round. "Well, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you..."

She actually slaps his hand away when he reaches for the many little boxes that have fallen out of a bag with the label Madame Medea's Herbarium. "Just do me a favour and leave me alone, Potter. I'm not in need of a hero at the moment."

"You seem more in need of a sherpa right now," Harry answers dryly, pointing at the scattered boxes of ginger root, raspberry leaves and St. John's wort. She looks surprised for a second; then the left corner of her mouth quirks up in a strange sort of half-smile. "Not bad, Potter. Obviously, doing blokes was not the only thing you learned from Draco."

The half-smile turns into a smirk at Harry's stunned expression. "You really thought I didn't know? He never managed to keep anything secret from me since we were both three."

For a moment, Harry is torn between the urge to wipe the smug expression off her face with the nastiest hex he knows and a strange feeling of relief to finally hear Draco's name spoken again. Then he remembers Snape's words about Pansy knowing Draco better than anyone else, and the burst of hateful anger subsides. Here's someone who's grieving for him, too - even if she's careful not to show any sign of it.

Meanwhile, Pansy has stuffed everything back into her bags and straightens up again. "Cat got your tongue, Potter? I'd say I'd love to continue chatting with you, but I'm afraid you wouldn't believe it, and you would be right."

Before she can turn away, however, Harry's voice stops her. "Pansy, wait."

She raises an eyebrow in a way that reminds Harry so much of Draco that his breath catches in his throat. When he doesn't elaborate, she taps her foot impatiently. "Well, what is it? I haven't got all day, Potter, so spit it out or get lost."

"Can I buy you a drink?" Harry is surprised himself by his words, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Pansy frowns; her eyes are narrow with suspicion. "You expect me to have a drink with you, Potter? Are you out of your mind?"

"Not yet." Harry's voice is barely above a whisper. "But I think I soon will be if I can't talk about him with someone."

It's certainly not wise to drop his guard like this, but Harry is sick of hiding behind the mask he's been wearing for far too long. Pansy may not like him, she might even hate him with a passion, but at least she'll understand.

She does. "That desperate?" is all she says before pointing to a small café across the street. "You can buy me a cup of tea, I'm cold. And just so we understand each other, Potter, this is a one-time offer. I have no intention to become your personal confessor just because you won't admit to anyone else that you were sleeping with the enemy."

* * *

The silence isn't exactly uncomfortable, but Harry feels jumpy nevertheless; now that Pansy is sitting here with him, he has no idea how he should get her to talk about the things he desperately needs to hear. He watches her stir an indecent amount of sugar into her peppermint tea; she seems absolutely relaxed and in control of everything. It's a very Slytherin trait - he has seen it many times with different members of Slytherin house. It's also a trait Draco never managed to achieve during their school days; at least, not in the presence of one Harry James Potter. The cool, aloof, reserved Draco Malfoy the wizarding world remembers now came later, after the war had started.

Pansy has changed since school, too. She no longer deserves the nickname 'pug-face', though she's still snub-nosed and not exactly pretty: her face is too round, her brown eyes too big, her little mouth too full for that. The only truly beautiful thing about her is her dark hair which flows down to her shoulders in gentle waves and curls around her forehead. She's short, her movements more energetic than graceful; her hands are small and look as soft and smooth as a baby's - hands that never seem to have lifted anything heavier than a wand in her life. It might explain her problems with the shopping bags, Harry can't help thinking.

Harry gestures towards the bags, glad to have thought of something - anything - to start a conversation with. "Why didn't you levitate those instead of carrying them?"

Pansy throws him a look over her teacup that would have made Snape proud. "Because I have potion ingredients in here, if you absolutely have to know, Potter. I'd think that even someone as hopeless at potions as you would know that one shouldn't use magic on the ingredients before brewing a potion."

He shrugs; secretly, he's almost enjoying the constant flow of insults. It's a refreshing change from all the hero-worshipping he has had to face lately. "I'm aware of that. Still, I'm surprised that you'd carry them yourself. How about a house-elf?"

Her face darkens. "As if anyone still dared to show up with a house-elf in public! Your little friend Granger" - she spits out the name as if it were an obscenity - "has made sure of that with her wonderful campaign, hasn't she? Oh, of course, Hogwarts still uses them, as does the Ministry, but we all know it's a sure sign of a Dark Wizard to openly exploit the poor little creatures, don't we?" Her voice is dripping with venom now.

Harry shrugs again, resigned to obviously always saying the wrong thing. "But you still have house-elves, don't you? I thought all the pureblood families had them."

"Of course we do." The calm mask is back. "Most of them have served our family for generations. They'd probably throw themselves from the rooftop if we ever threatened to set them free." She takes a sip from her tea. "Did you really lure me in here to talk about house-elves, though?"

"No." Harry takes a deep breath and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Nothing for it now. "I want to know what happened to Draco. You know how he really died, don't you?"

Pansy puts the cup back on the saucer, but keeps her eyes fixed on it. "Yes." Her voice is devoid of any emotion; it's clear she doesn't want to say more.

"Then please tell me."

She's looking at him now; there's a strange expression on her face that might even be pity. "No, Potter. Believe me, I'm doing you a favour by not telling you."

"Pansy -"

"I said no." She's still calm, but it's clear that she won't give in. "You'd never understand. Not that it matters to me - frankly, I wouldn't give a shit if you knew and it drove you crazy, but it would have mattered to him."

Harry suddenly finds it hard to breathe. "You think so?"

It's Pansy's turn to shrug now. "He was obsessed with you from the day he met you. Throughout our school years it was nothing but 'Potter this, Potter that'..."

"Yes, but - he hated me then! Or are you saying that he didn't?"

"Of course he did. Hate is a force of attraction, after all, though it certainly took him a while to figure it out. And then, after school, when he finally had you where he really wanted you, it got even worse. There were times when I threatened to slap him if he mentioned you just one more time."

Harry feels he is starting to blush. "He talked about me?"

"All the time. And in great detail." Pansy smiles fondly. "Oh, the boy was nothing if not an exhibitionist. He never had an ounce of self-control when he was younger - he learned it the hard way later when he found himself in the Dark Lord's inner circle. But it all went down the drain when it came to you."

She gives him a smirk that is downright dirty. "So, Potter, I hope it doesn't bother you too much that I've heard things about you that most people would only dare to think in the dark. No, wait - actually, I hope it does bother you, and I can see that it does."

"What makes you so sure that he didn't tell me some things about you as well?" It's petty and childish, but it's the only comeback Harry can think of.

Pansy waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, I'm certain he did. I take it you were adequately shocked?"

Harry shrugs awkwardly. "Well, I... I was a bit surprised. I had thought before that Draco didn't like women - usually, I mean."

"He didn't, Potter, just as you don't like men. Usually."

Harry looks down on his hands. "I just liked him."

"Well, I suppose he just liked me, then. The only difference is that I was first and foremost his friend; the rest was just an occasional benefit."

Harry looks up sharply. "Oh, that means it was different with me?"

"You never were his friend, Potter. You fell for him, and maybe you even thought that you were in love with him, I honestly don't care. But you never knew him well enough to be his friend - in fact, I don't believe you knew him at all."

Before Harry can answer, Pansy gets up and reaches for her cloak. "Thanks for the tea, Potter; it has been so nice to chat with you. I'd just ask that next time we meet, you do me a favour and run headfirst into the nearest wall instead of bumping into me again."

* * *

Harry keeps replaying the conversation with Pansy in his mind that night when he's leaning on the windowsill of his small, impersonal room in the Leaky Cauldron, staring out over the dimly lit rooftops of Diagon Alley.

He's rented this room right after returning from the last battle when he found he just couldn't set foot into the Order's headquarters at Grimmauld Place any more. He's spent most of the war either there or at the Ministry where they gave him Shacklebolt's former office although he technically isn't an Auror. When it was all over, though, there was no way in hell he'd ever have gone back to any place that was his only because the former owner had died, be it Sirius or Kingsley Shacklebolt.

So he packed the few things he didn't want to leave behind and moved into the Leaky Cauldron where he plans to stay until he has decided what he's going to do with the rest of his life - supposed that he will ever muster up the energy to start thinking about it.

Tonight, though, is one of those nights when the urge to go down to the bar and drown his ability to think in a bottle or three of firewhisky becomes almost overwhelming - almost, that is, for someone who hasn't seen Ron go down that very path ever since Arthur and Ginny were killed. Whenever Harry finds himself on the brink of giving in to the temptation, he can't help picturing Ron at their last meeting, red-faced, glassy-eyed and unsteady on his feet. He wouldn't have needed Molly's resigned letters to tell him that Ron hadn't been sober for a single day since his father's and sister's deaths; it was obvious enough. Harry is still clinging to the last remains of his own dignity, though he is not sure how long it will take until he can't afford that particular luxury any more.

For the moment, something to distract him from going over Pansy's words again and again seems most important. It's still rather early, and although he's tired from wandering the streets all day, he doubts he'll be able to sleep if he just goes to bed now. So he turns away from the window; his eyes scan the little room, desperately searching for anything to do.

At long last, he digs out a quill and a bit of parchment and starts writing a letter to Neville. It doesn't bother him overmuch that he's hardly kept in touch with any of his friends lately, but he can't help feeling a little guilty when he realizes that it's been almost two weeks since Neville has heard from him. After all, there can't be much in the quarantine ward at St. Mungo's to take Neville's thoughts away from the fact that he's dying - slowly decaying from the inside due to a Dark curse the healers are unable to counteract.

So Harry writes to fill both his and Neville's empty hours, scribbling down everything that comes to his mind - most of it is hardly cheerful, but he knows Neville will appreciate the news nevertheless. Harry tells him about the last Death Eater trials, about McGonagall's efforts to re-open Hogwarts come September, about Scrimgeour's attempts to re-establish a functioning Ministry of Magic, about Ron's alcohol problems and Hermione's retreat into the Muggle world. He even mentions meeting Pansy, though he leaves out the main topic of their conversation. Instead, he tries to remember the herbs in Pansy's shopping bag and asks Neville if he has any idea what she might want with them - hoping that a question concerning his beloved herbology will keep Neville occupied for a while.

It is past midnight when Harry finishes the letter, and he's so tired he can hardly keep his eyes open by then. Hedwig is fluttering on her perch expectantly; Harry ties the thick roll of parchment to her leg and sends her on her way to St. Mungo's. Then, without even bothering to undress, he falls onto the bed and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

* * *

The plan to attack Voldemort's headquarters was in its final stage; they were on the brink of the battle that would decide the outcome of the war. Harry had been trying to avoid the thought all evening; of course, he could not tell Draco, but now it was time to leave, and he knew for sure he would not be able to return before the plan was set in motion.

Which meant it was possible he would never see Draco again. If he was honest with himself, he was even certain that he wouldn't.

To his own astonishment, Harry realized that he wasn't afraid of dying - in a way, he'd been resigned to the fact that defeating Voldemort would cost him his own life ever since Dumbledore had told him about the prophecy back in his fifth year at Hogwarts. Yet, he just couldn't leave Draco like that - without a word, with no farewell, no kind of warning what the immediate future might hold in store.

If Draco had noticed that something was amiss, he didn't say anything. They kissed one last time, and Harry was about to step into the fireplace when he turned back again, desperately searching for the right words.

"Draco, I... I'm afraid it might be some time before we see each other again..."

Draco's pale face remained impassive, he just kept looking at Harry with those cool grey eyes and answered quietly, "I'll be awaiting you, Harry - for as long as it takes."

A second later, Harry was surrounded by a wall of green flames which separated him from Draco. Panicking, he tried to reach out towards the familiar slender figure that had been in front of him a heartbeat ago, but there was nothing left to hold on to, and he was alone...

Harry wakes drenched in cold sweat. His head is pounding, and he feels acid burning in his throat. He is used to nightmares, has even trained himself to wake up when they get too bad, but this is different.

Groggy and disoriented, he gets up and stumbles into the bathroom because he's suddenly feeling violently ill. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning, so there's nothing to throw up, but his stomach keeps heaving, and he's retching until he's so dizzy that little bright lights are dancing in front of his eyes and his heart seems ready to burst out of his chest.

No nightmare has ever done this to him - not since he learned to block the dreams Voldemort was sending him years ago. Afterwards, during the war, there were just ordinary nightmares, caused by the horrors he witnessed on a daily basis, but none of them left him in the state he is now. They were only dreams, after all.

The scene he's just woken up from is not.

It's a memory.

* * *

When Tom, the seemingly immortal innkeeper, knocks on Harry's door later that morning to ask what he wants for breakfast, Harry sends him away without even opening the door. The mere thought of food is turning his stomach.

He's crawled back into his bed and can't bring himself to get up again; in fact, he feels like pulling the blankets over his head. He'd probably do it if it would help shut out the images he's seeing.

Ever since the end of the war, he's been on the run from these memories. The one moment of clarity at Draco's funeral is still fresh in his mind, the feeling that the ground had opened up beneath his feet to swallow him. Since then, he has been struggling to keep away from the abyss as far as possible.

"I'll be awaiting you, Harry - for as long as it takes."

He does not want to dwell on that sentence, the last words he ever heard Draco speak. He has no wish to ponder whether the odd expression in Draco's eyes meant that he understood what Harry had been trying to say. That these few words might have been the farewell Harry could not bring himself to utter.

"I'll be awaiting you, Harry."

Harry feels his defences crumble. He hasn't cried once during the war, and he isn't crying now, but his whole body is shaking. It's neither pain nor grief, it's something else, a silent kind of horror he has no name for. He can't think, he can't move, he can hardly even breathe - the only thing that's on his mind is the desperate wish for it to end because he's unable to stand it any longer.

"I'll be awaiting you."

Is he? When Draco said these words, could he possibly have imagined the outcome that he would die and Harry would live - had he wanted his words to reach out from the grave towards Harry to show him the way?

Suddenly, there's another image in Harry's head, and it's not a memory this time: he sees himself, all in black and white like an old Muggle photograph, back in the cemetery in Wiltshire, half-sitting beside Draco's grave, his head and upper body resting on the granite slab which covers it. The only dash of colour in the picture is the bright red of the blood that's pooling under his wrists and slowly sinking into the rough surface of the stone. His eyes are closed, and there's an expression of peace on his face he didn't think himself capable of any longer...

The time for heroes is past; he has played his part, and now he's not needed any more. There is no prophecy left to fulfil, no villain to be defeated, no world to save. His living or dying has no consequences for anyone's future but his own. For the first time, Harry begins to grasp the full implications of the fact that the war is over.

"I'll be awaiting you, Harry..."

As the image fades, Harry realizes he can breathe again. His heartbeat slows down, and after a while, he even feels able to move a little bit. He sits up and pulls the blanket around his shoulders; his hands are still shaking, but his head is clearer than it has been in a long time.

"...for as long as it takes."

He's not ready to go there; not yet, at least. But the certainty that there is a way out if things should become unbearable is strangely liberating. Harry tries to etch the image of his blood on Draco's grave into his brain - he finds himself intrigued by the idea that he might let his death speak out loud what he was never allowed to admit while he was alive.

And who knows, perhaps Draco will be awaiting him then.

Or, if there really is nothing but oblivion, at least he'll have that.

* * *

Early in the afternoon, Hedwig comes back with Neville's answer. Harry is still sitting on his bed when she arrives, but he's feeling better, and he's almost glad of the distraction. He unrolls the parchment which is written by an unfamiliar hand - this is no surprise as Neville has no use of his own hands any more. Yet, his mind doesn't seem to be affected by the curse that's causing his body to waste away; in some ways, the tone of Neville's letter is lighter than that of the one Harry has sent him.

Harry quickly scans the text without paying too much attention to what he's reading until Pansy's name catches his eye.

"...and from the ingredients you listed, I think I've been able to work out what Miss Pug-face (sorry, you said she's not so pug-faced anymore) 'is up to', as you put it, Harry. It's just a suspicion, but I'm fairly certain that... "

* * *

When the innkeeper is knocking on Harry's door again a few hours later to ask what he'll want for dinner, he doesn't even receive an answer.

Inside the door, Harry is still staring at the words on the parchment.

* * *

References:

Non diu, sed totus: Not for long, but wholly. (Inscription on the memorial of Emperor Joseph II (1780-1790) in Vienna.)

Loyaulte me lie: Loyalty binds me. (Motto of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later King Richard III of England (1483-1485).)

Hate is a force of attraction. (Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters)