White Horses

HARRY SLID BACK INTO REALITY in an unfamiliar room. It was wide and laced with shadows, and filled with a poisonous presence that drove him to his knees.

From where he stood above Harry, Voldemort watched the boy cower in front of him with no little satisfaction. Years ago, Harry might have been able to endure the pain and stand up straight to face Death - but after their last little 'encounter,' Harry's reaction to the Dark Lord had been at least doubled in intensity, if not more.

Draco's mouth was dry as he mutely watched the scene unfold. Voldemort kneeled by the Gryffindor and lightly stroked his face, sending Harry skittering backwards to escape his touch. Draco watched the boy cry out in pain, lying on the floor, and was forcibly reminded of how Harry had writhed and cried out beneath him just that morning. He recognized distantly that Harry was wearing one of his shirts and wondered what had happened after he had snuck out of the bed to take a Portkey to the Dark Lord's side.

The blonde shrunk further back into the shadows as he felt power flare to life in Harry, like a sudden flame out of the dark. The Gryffindor boy glared hatefully at Voldemort and his eyes looked like they were lit from behind, his skin radiating a faint glow as if it were holding in a supernovae and not flesh, blood and bone. He was literally glowing as his magic surged through him and struggled to keep him alive. But he was expending so much energy just to combat the Dark Lord's presence that he was shaking and sweating as his eyes burned deep holes in that wane face.

The pain was obvious and undeniable, and Draco - for an instant - wanted everything undone. There must've been a better way than this. I didn't really need Potter as a pawn. I didn't really need to cause this pain. But Voldemort spoke and Draco regained his purpose with no visible difficulty. He was confident that his mask had not once slipped since he had rejoined the once-man here on the Malfoy grounds this morning.

"I told you last time," Voldemort spoke almost tenderly to the pathetic, quivering boy. "Didn't I? Harry."

Those unnaturally long-fingered hands brushed the hair back from Harry's scar and the boy seemed to choke as he stared at the monster in horror. Draco also felt nauseated as he watched his master touch the Gryffindor in the same way he so often had. Voldemort gripped Harry tightly by the chin and whispered in his ear, "But now I can kill you at last, Harry Potter."

Draco could see the choices running through Harry's eyes and he stepped out of the gloom for the first time, cautioning sharply, "My Lord, Potter always carries at least one Muggle weapon on him, sometimes more. Shall I search him?"

The Dark Lord spoke scornfully, "I doubt there is any Muggle weapon that could harm me." Despite his words though, he threw Harry to the ground at Draco's feet. The boy lay unmoving, face-down like a broken doll.

Reaching down, the blonde was only partially surprised when Harry rolled quickly over and out of reach - drawing his gun as he moved. He pointed the pistol at Draco, and for a moment, the two of them stared into each other's eyes in shock. Draco was shocked because there was no hatred in those eyes, only an endless field of pain. Harry stared because he could find nothing at all in Draco's face: no satisfaction, no sorrow, no hatred and certainly no tender feelings. Nothing.

While Harry still reeled at Draco's now undeniable presence, Draco himself called, "Accio gun." The familiar weight was wrenched from Harry's hand and he could say nothing as the young Death Eater told Voldemort, "You see, My Lord? The fool just doesn't know when to die." Harry couldn't help flinching from that familiar touch - even though his body cried out for those hands - while the cold Slytherin searched him, never revealing a hint of an expression. Harry didn't look again into those dead eyes; he couldn't bear to. So, this is the end between Voldemort and I. The end that Draco promised me.

Those thin hands smoothed over his body and Harry wanted to scream, not only because the pain that Voldemort's presence was causing him but because of the vicious mockery of those touches. He felt disgusted in his own body as he thought of what he had done last night, and now at last he was able to conjure up hatred for his Slytherin lover. He raised bitter, stagnant eyes to meet Draco's, and for the first time, he thought he saw something in that blank face. It looked like a warning - and Harry ignored it.

Then the young Death Eater was completely gone again, looking perfectly as cold and in-control as he had for years. Never around Harry though, he had always lost himself around Harry, whether it was due to anger or...

Harry stopped this futile thought from struggling to the surface, letting it drown in the pain of his betrayal.

Draco saw the decision in Harry's face just a millisecond before a small fist came flying at his own head. Before it could connect, the dark-haired boy was thrown back across the room - though Voldemort had to use his wand to exert that force, unlike Harry or Draco. The Dark Lord stepped in front of Harry so he could tower over the boy. He left his back to Draco, ignoring the Slytherin.

"Are you upset with dear Draco? I understand the two of you have become quite close recently. I suppose it isn't such a surprise. Just as you are Dumbledore's toy, he will be mine. He is young, intelligent and attractive. He will be my front-man - the charming opiate for the masses, a perfect example of Pureblood superiority."

Unbeknownst to the Dark Lord, Draco had been hefting the confiscated gun in consideration during his master's propagandising.

Harry watched without really understanding as Draco pointed the gun. The dead mask slipped and the blonde's wan face was livid with determined hatred. Before Voldemort even noticed Harry's diverted attention, Draco had pulled the trigger decisively: the final moment that would change his life had arrived, the moment that would change the whole world.

And nothing happened.

Struck with dawning realization, Harry thought wildly, He didn't know about the charm! The safety charm that would allow no one else to fire the gun. It was impossible to tell what Draco was doing. So many times now they had played at betrayal and reconciliation. Harry wasn't completely certain just who that shot had been for, but Voldemort was turning back to Draco, having heard the futile click of that jammed trigger. The Slytherin was staring at the gun in his hand in the most absolute horror that Harry had ever witnessed in another person; he didn't even once glance up at the furious Dark Lord.

Voldemort raised his wand at the blonde, opening his mouth furiously as he shaped the first syllable, "Av-"

Harry knew without a doubt what curse was rolling off that poisonous tongue and he closed his eyes. He couldn't watch Voldemort use the Killing Curse on Draco, and he didn't want to see where the Slytherin would point that gun. With no time to think about his decision, Harry threw all his power at Voldemort with the simple intent to make him stop. He cancelled the spell on the gun and screamed past Voldemort's curse, "Now, Draco!"

THE SILENCING SPELL ON THE gun far outranked any Muggle contraption, but it did nothing to hide the wet, meaty thuds of bullets hitting a body; tearing through flesh, and exploding cartilage and bone in their wake. Draco emptied the entire nine-bullet clip into Voldemort's chest cavity. The inhuman body faltered, the dying man's curse still half-formed on his lips but no air left in his lungs to complete it, no lungs left to draw air.

Harry could feel the power that was warring against his hold begin to slip. Through that connection, he knew that Voldemort was scrambling to heal himself - to close up the unbelievable holes in his body and knit back together the shredded mess that had once held his heart and lungs. But the Boy Who Lived didn't let up his iron control over the bastard, and Voldemort stayed helpless and unmoving as his lifeblood poured from his body, slowing as the pulp that had once been his heart could no longer pump the warm blood.

Only once he had felt the last traces of that power fade did Harry let go and allow the gaping body to slump ignobly to the ground. He shuddered as all of Voldemort's power flooded through their connection, pouring out of the dead man and into him with one last surge of burning pain in his scar.

He opened his eyes.

Draco was staring at the body and looked more horrified, if that were possible. Then, as if he had remembered Harry's presence, he seemed to close up upon himself. He walked over to one of the dark walls and Harry heard the singing of metal as the blonde pulled a long sword from its mounted sheath. It seemed to be there for decorational purposes, but Draco clearly had other plans. Muttering under his breath, "Sans tache," he brought the sword down in a gleaming arc, the light flowing like liquid on the curved metal as he permanently separated Voldemort's freakish head from his body.

Leaving the quivering blade imbedded in the hardwood floor, Draco stumbled over to Harry and grabbed the boy by his thin shoulders, pulling the Gryffindor against him tightly. Harry didn't react and stayed as unmoving as Voldemort had when they had killed him. Leaning back, Draco held that blank, scarred face between his face and kissed Harry hard, wanting to feel nothing but those lips against his. There was still no reaction from those green eyes and it was difficult to believe that this was the boy that only eight hours ago had been with him in the most intimate ways possible.

It was only when Draco said to him, "It's over," that Harry showed some sign of cognizance.

He blinked and looked at Draco like it was the first time he'd seen him that day. He opened his mouth to croak, "Draco..."

But the Slytherin hushed him with a soft kiss. He whispered reassuringly, "Don't worry, Harry. It's all over." Then he reached up to stroke the necklace that still shone at Harry's throat. Draco smiled, though there was nothing happy about it, and told him, "I'm sorry." There were so many things to choose from that Harry wasn't sure just what the boy was apologizing for, until the silver burned against his skin once again and the world dissolved into a dark wash of colours.

HE WAS ON THE FRONT steps of the school. The sun was still high in the sky and it couldn't have been more than an hour since he'd left. Harry glanced at the school entrance, where everyone was surely panicking about what had happened, and then he turned away. He sat heavily on the broad stone steps, just like he had the previous evening.

But this time, Draco would not come trailing after him to sweep him into a warm embrace.

Voldemort was dead. There was no denying it this time. Harry had sat there as the man had bled to death, had felt his life flickering out for himself. The monster who had ruined Harry's life time and again, who had made Harry who he was today, was gone. The Wizarding world could be free again - and it was all thanks to Draco Malfoy?

Harry stared out at the golden-kissed snow, left rumpled and uneven by the tracks of students. A murder of crows took flight, screeching and wheeling madly. Had Draco been planning this all along - or had it been just a an impulsive idea? Why had he needed Harry to be there? Just to provide a weapon and a distraction? And where was the Slytherin now? Why had he sent Harry back but stayed behind in the dark room?

Harry was still sitting, unmoving, on those steps when McGonagall came hurtling out the front doors. She screeched to a halt and exclaimed tightly, "Mr Potter! What on Earth are you doing out here?!" He didn't think that question warranted much explanation, but he allowed her to bundle him inside. They headed for the Great Hall and Harry blanched at the idea of the whole school seeing him. Luckily, the students had all been sent back to their houses and the Great Hall was curiously echoing with just a small gaggle of teachers present.

Before he knew it, Harry was surrounded by the desperate adults and Mad-Eye Moody's voice cut through the crowd, "Potter, did you learn anything? Do you know the Dark Lord's location? His next move?"

Oddly, Harry could feel hysteria fizzing through him like champagne bubbles and his voice was tinged with that wild laughter as he said, "Next move?" He didn't seem to have full control of what he was saying, as he found his mouth saying for him, "He's not moving at all, not anymore."

There was a shocked hush and it was McGonagall who asked severely, "Just what are you implying, Mr Potter?"

He couldn't help a small snicker from escaping and he said expansively, "I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you: Voldemort is dead."

His skin was as cold as Draco's and his vision was filled with the dark shadows of that horrid room, then suddenly there were hands holding him up. Harry blinked up at Lupin and watched the man's lips shape words, though his voice seemed to come from far away. The old tinny radio in Lupin's throat was saying, "He's in shock. We should get him to the hospital wing." Then he was airborne, but it was nothing like the smooth action of his Firebolt. More like riding on the back of a hippogriff. Whatever happened to Buckbeak, he thought curiously, after Sirius was gone? I wonder if Voldemort had any pets... Nagini maybe...

Luckily, his semi-delusional thoughts were not expressed aloud as Professor Lupin hurried to the infirmary with the small, tousle-haired boy in his arms. Harry remained blissfully unaware of the world around him as Madame Pomfrey came out to greet them, not at all surprised to see her most frequent patient back again. "Honestly," she tutted as she layered heavy blankets on top of Harry, "I don't know why we even bother with house dormitories, if the students insist on spending all their time down here anyway!"

Once she had administered her potion and Harry had calmed down again, Professor Dumbledore came down to meet them. The old man immediately stepped out of the fireplace in a whirl of elaborate robes. He smiled at Harry and said softly, "Harry. It does me good to see you alive and well. I hear that we have some more good news?"

Harry nodded, with no urge to laugh as he told the headmaster, "Yes, Voldemort is well and truly dead. Shot with bullets and then decapitated."

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with satisfaction and then he asked Harry, "But how did you get to wherever you were - and back? We checked the whole school and the only other person missing was Mr Malfoy..."

Despite all that had happened, Harry didn't like the old man's tone and what it insinuated. He said shortly, "I was taken by a Portkey that Malfoy gave me. He was there, as well. It was Malfoy who killed Voldemort, after all."

It was rare thing, to shock Albus Dumbledore, and so Harry soaked up every moment of that stupefaction. He only wished Draco had been there to see it; being able to shock Dumbledore would have amused him to no end. But then the Headmaster's face settled into something more like disappointment and Harry asked in a spurt of annoyance, "What?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and said sadly, "If that be the case, we must assume that Voldemort is not truly dead."

Outrage caused Harry's voice to break as he exclaimed angrily, "What! After I've told you that he died! I watched Voldemort bleed to death; I kept him from healing himself until his heart stopped and Draco chopped off his bloody head!"

Dumbledore just shook his head, and explained "We have evidence that Mr Malfoy had followed in his father's footsteps and became a Death Eater."

Harry dismissed the Headmaster's bombshell easily, "Of course he was. What does his being a Death Muncher have to do with Voldemort being dead?"

Dumbledore stared at him and was surprised for the second time in as many minutes. Perhaps Mr Potter is not the boy I thought he was. "It is relevant because the prophecy says that you will kill Voldemort; indeed, that only you have the power to kill him. If Mr Malfoy is truly a Death Eater, than we have no reason to believe that he would actually kill his master, even if he could. This could well-enough be a plot to make us believe that Voldemort is gone, just as he lulled the world into not believing his return after your fourth year."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing; he felt like he was arguing with Fudge again, though this time for the other side. "I felt him die, sir! I felt his bloody presence die and the pain in my scar went with it."

The Headmaster wasn't going to accept it, Harry could see that in the old man's bright, cornflower-blue eyes. He took off the necklace around his neck, feeling the tiny dragons against his fingers. He hoped sincerely that Draco was no longer in that room and then he tossed the spent Portkey to Dumbledore. Harry said coldly, as he pushed himself off the bed to leave, "There's the Portkey. Trace it and find out for yourself, if you must."

Harry was shaking again, by the time he got up to the Gryffindor dorms. He gave the password - "White rabbit" - and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open. Most of the house's members were present in the common room and they all fell silent when Harry entered. Ignoring this behaviour as if it were usual, he asked the crowd in general, "Anyone know where Ron and Hermione are?"

Neville was the first to speak up and he told Harry, in a frightened voice, "They're both up in Ron's room."

Nodding his thanks, Harry headed up the prefect's room. He could hear a murmur of voices inside and so he knocked cursorily and then let himself in. Ron had his arms around Hermione, the skinny girl burying her face in his shirt, so the ginger-haired prefect was the first to see Harry. The slighter boy shook his messy dark head and said weakly, "Did you miss me?"

Hermione had spun around when she heard his voice and she grabbed him, digging her hands into his borrowed white sweater as she nearly screamed, "Harry! Oh my god, we were so frightened! What the hell happened?" He detached her hands and pushed her back onto Ron. But he sat down on the edge of the bed and told them all that had happened in that dark room, much more than he had told Dumbledore. They listened without interruption and didn't ask any questions until he had finished describing Dumbledore's reaction.

It was Hermione who first asked what they all had surely been wondering, "So, is this what Malfoy meant, when he said it would be 'over by New Year'?"

Harry chewed on his lip and said uncertainly, "I'm not sure. But I sort of imagine that it is. How many other nasty surprises could be waiting for me?" He wasn't sure how he should react. Draco had betrayed him, in order to save the world. Maybe saving the world hadn't been the blonde's goal, but that's what had happened anyway. He couldn't know for sure just what Draco had meant to happen. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wanted to see the boy again and find out.

THE SUN HADN'T YET GONE down when the whole school was summoned back down to the Great Hall once more. Dumbledore was waiting there to address them, and all the Christmas decorations were still up. With the traces of a benign smile lurking behind his long beard, the Headmaster spoke in a carrying voice, "My dear students! I know that this has been a most unusual Christmas, but we have all been given a most precious gift:

"Voldemort is gone. The Wizarding world is free again!"

This proclamation was met with stunned silence and Dumbledore wasn't deterred, "The Aurors have confirmed it and it has already been announced to the press: Lord Voldemort is dead. His body and those of all his followers, the Death Eaters, have been confiscated by the Aurors. According to the preliminary investigations, it would appear that Voldemort's forces destroyed themselves in some internal conflict."

There was a wail from the Slytherins and Harry looked over to see a fifth-year girl fall to the ground, sobbing. The Slytherins stood separate from the rest of the school and their faces were a mix of shock and dread. But Harry didn't feel pleased by seeing the Slytherins get what was coming to them. Right now, they weren't evil supporters of You-Know-Who; they were a bunch of kids who had just been told in the most awful way that their parents were dead.

Harry glared angrily at the Headmaster, hating him for his pleased, gloating tone. But even that hatred was driven out of him by a strange hollow feeling, when Dumbledore continued on to say, "Draco Malfoy also disappeared when Harry Potter did, and we have no choice but to assume that Mr Malfoy was killed in the crossfire."

A hand grabbed his but it didn't stop him from protesting loudly, "No!" Ginny tugged on his hand desperately, but he couldn't help himself.

Draco couldn't be dead. He must've gotten away before the Aurors arrived, he must have gotten away before the Death Eaters had turned on each other. Harry's voice was strange and thick as he asked the Headmaster directly, "Did you find Malfoy's body?" When Dumbledore didn't immediately reply, he repeated himself shrilly, "Did you find a body?" The moonlight hair, unreadable silver eyes, long thin hands and bony wrists. The scars that Harry knew traced that slender back, though he still didn't know why. The hard press of his pelvic bone and the heart that beat unevenly against his own. That body that had been a part of his last night; where was it? Where was Draco?

"Most of the bodies were beyond recognition. There had been a fire, and the house burnt down with the Death Eaters inside."

Harry sagged against his friends as he tried to fight off the nausea that was leaving him breathless, and Ron held him upright. Burnt...? No, he couldn't have been... Ginny was whispering frantically to him, but he didn't hear a word she said. Watching Harry's pain and the Slytherins' grief - though they couldn't understand the former and didn't want to understand the latter - nobody felt much like celebrating. Harry could only think dimly to himself, Malfoy. Where are you?

TIME CONTINUED, AS IT STUBBORNLY insists on doing, and there was no word to deny Draco's death. Though Harry might seem to have been recovering, he slowly withdrew from everything around him. He quit Quidditch, claiming that he had lost the desire to play. His spot was given to Ginny and Gryffindor still went on to the play in the finals and win the House Cup - though mostly thanks to the healthy lead he had set them up with already. The D.A. was also disbanded, since there was no longer a specific need for their training and Harry didn't feel much like teaching anyway.

During the day he would always avoid the room he had shared with Draco. He spent all his time in Gryffindor Tower or in the library with his friends, not even going out to walk the grounds on his own. When he was with his friends, he could usually act normal. But occasionally, in the middle of the night, he would steal down to the dungeons. He would always be aware of how he looked when he walked down that corridor, half-hoping and half-fearing that the Death Eater might be sitting in his room and watching through the enchanted walls.

But he was never there.

As the months passed, Harry began to not see Draco everywhere. He was no longer rudely shocked every time he looked up from his studying, expecting the boy to be working across from him. He stopped searching crowds for the silvery, white head that he had looked to for months. Whenever he did something foolish, his mind would no longer play tricks on him by providing the sort of snarky comments that Draco would have made. And eventually he stopped going to that dungeon room altogether, and the nightmares of pale figures being burnt alive faded away.

Spring came and brought finals. Harry busied himself with studying and got the best grades he had in all his years at Hogwarts. Another school year had finished, and as he rode the train back to King's Cross with Hermione, Ginny and Ron, he wondered what his last year would be like. He wondered if he would be able to make it through alone - and then a Chocolate Frog escaped from Hermione and hit him in the head, followed by apologies from the prefect and laughter from the Weasleys and he remembered that he wasn't entirely alone. Even if he knew that Malfoy was truly gone.

But still... he couldn't at times help feeling that something had been left hanging, forgotten. Waiting for him.