Threadbare

Seventeen: Execution

Harry.

You awaken.

Sunlight filters through the diaphanous curtains, bathing Draco in a cream-colored glow. His breathing is deep and peaceful as he rolls to his side and buries his cheek in his pillow, clutching it as though it were you.

You sit up and stretch your arms, still watching him, and thinking that when the war is finished you wouldn't mind waking up like this every day for the rest of your life. You rub your eyes, a bad habit, but you had a good sleep and they don't hurt when you pull your fingers away. You run your hand through your hair: that hasn't changed; it's still messy as ever and standing on end. For a few minutes you are content to sit there staring at Draco. You cannot be sure, but you imagine he smiles slightly in his slumber.

Soon enough you pick up your glasses and swing your legs to the floor, whereupon you feel something sticky on your navel.

You slip your hand down under the covers, wondering how the chocolate could possibly have—

"Oh," you murmur, and wipe your hand on the sheets, only pausing afterward when you realize you might have used the tissue that has miraculously appeared on the bedside table. You frown with embarrassment when you remember how you somewhat rejected him last night, but you smile to yourself when you remember how he was completely all right with it.

The clock says half past six, and you have just enough time to get ready for the seven-o'-clock meeting with Dumbledore. You get up and start to dress, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to rouse Draco. When you finish, you look around the room as if to search for something—but you discover that you are only absorbing the surroundings, storing the environment of a memory that you will allow no one to take away.

You turn to Draco and sit down by his side. You take a quill and ink and a square of parchment from the nightstand drawer; you write him a message and hope that it won't be the last. Perhaps the mission is not yet engraved within you; perhaps part of you still denies that later you might perish. But the possibility of losing Draco stands out in your consciousness, strong and painful.

You leave the note on the table where he will find it. You lean forward, but you couldn't bear to kiss him; so instead you run your fingers through his hair, and slide them, featherlike, down his jaw line.

Silently, you creep out the door, his breathing like music in your ears.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

The room is cold when you rise, drained of Harry's presence. The sun glares in your eyes; you roll to your other side. You wait for a few moments, and later you sit up, determined to catch Harry at breakfast. You turn to the clock on the nightstand and spot a folded piece of parchment waiting for you.

You grab it so quickly that it nearly gets crumpled. With fumbling fingers, you open it.

I'll meet you in the Astronomy Tower later.
No matter how late I come back.
—Harry.

You creep to his pillow and wrap your arms around it, inhaling his scent, perhaps vanilla and a bit of cinnamon, but mostly something you cannot identify as anything other than Harry. Most people smell like their dorm rooms or their houses, but from the beginning Harry has been redolent of mirth and redemption. He smells as if no tragedy has assailed him, as if he has mastered how to keep himself, and keep himself alive.

:o:

Harry isn't in the Great Hall at breakfast. Nor are Lupin and Snape and Dumbledore. You frown more deeply as you look to their places, one by one, and see only absence. Weasley and Granger eat slowly, silent in the midst of noisy conversation. You think it a shame to be like them, reduced to worrying and nothing more, but you place your elbow on the table and hold your chin up with your fist as you eat, completely eschewing Malfoy manners, unable to think of anything but Harry's survival.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

Dumbledore gives you, Remus, and Snape a briefing. It is detailed and dizzying, and although he speaks calmly, there is a trace of urgency in his voice. His eyes are grave, and they pierce into yours, saying, If you fail, the world must face the consequences. He tells you what he has told you many times before: the Death Eaters will be meeting in the MacNair Manor at seven in the evening. You will be accompanied by Remus, Snape, five members of the Order, and eight Aurors—all of whom will be enough to distract the Death Eaters and leave Voldemort to you. You will have to practice extreme caution, because you can't use objects like Invisibility Cloaks and Polyjuice Potions, which will prove useless against Voldemort's powers. By the time Dumbledore talks about transportation, you are too busy trying to accept your duties to catch up with what he's saying.

Afterward you and Remus and Snape go to the lawn for a final practice session. Snape leans against a tree, arms crossed, planning only to watch. You and Remus fall into dueling stance. When Remus throws the first hex without warning, you shield it by quick instinct, and send a hex of your own.

"Everything's in place," Remus says, jumping to the side to avoid the hit. "You only have to worry about—Petrificus Totalus."

A quick reflection curse does the trick. You nod, wand still at the ready. "Voldemort, I know. And you only have to worry about the Death Eaters, so don't think about me. Stupefy." The sun is in his hair as he leaps out of the way, hurling a fast Impedimenta at you. You easily dodge the curse and look at the shape of his robes, the circles under his eyes, his tired smile as he commends your agility. Nonetheless he is beautiful, if only for his strength. You remember Sirius and how Remus never had the chance to say goodbye, both before Azkaban and before death. Remus has borne it all, loneliness and betrayal and loss. Some students laugh at him for having strands of gray hair at so (relatively) young an age, but you can't help thinking of how it only shows how much he has carried.

You wonder if you'll have a head tinted gray at his age.

You wonder if you'll live to be his age.

"Harry?" he steps nearer, confused by the lapse in hexing. He was expecting you to go next.

"I just—" You look around, at the trees and the lake and the far-off pitch and the castle, and they meld and twist in your eyes and it feels like spinning, so quickly that you flop down on the grass with a lost look toward the horizon, where the Giant Squid is taking a few moments to bask in the sun.

"It's a beautiful day," you say out loud, not to anyone in particular.

"Are you going mad, Potter?" Snape says, uncrossing his arms and immediately walking toward you, eyes drawn to the Squid as well. Remus's hands are in pockets—he does that when he's nervous outdoors. He parts his lips, about to express his concern, but you shush him with, "Let's sit down for a while. Take it in and keep it, just in case."

Somewhere behind you Snape snorts, but is unable to come up with a sarcastic comment. When Remus sits beside you, so close that you can smell the soap he used this morning, you hear a soft rustle in the grass behind and you know that Snape has sat down too. Although you can imagine the scowl on his face, you wonder why he jumped in the bandwagon. He has no empathy, after all, and you don't think he's going to die. Perhaps he only wants to take this chance, to use you as an excuse to sit on the ground he has long waited to sit on, to admire the sunlight glistening on the water, the splashes the Squid is happily making. Perhaps he has waited for this simplicity and has never had the opportunity to try it.

Remus traces his palm up the nape of your neck, offering what comfort he can. You think about Draco.

You think, I don't want to die.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

When you reach the Gryffindor portrait after a long run, you sigh with relief at seeing a third or fourth year girl just about to enter. You send her a charming smile, but how it works in your disheveled state is besides you. She steps back and lets you enter first. You nod courteously at her (Harry's politeness has rubbed off on you) and stroll in, hoping he's there.

He is. He's at a table by the window, speaking in hushed tones with Weasley and Granger, whose faces are downcast with resignation. When Hermione murmurs something, a bit of worry lurking in her expression, Harry squeezes her hand. You feel a bit of jealousy tug at your insides—only a bit, and then you remember why you're there.

Harry, who was facing a completely different direction, seems to sense you coming and turns to you. In the moment your eyes connect you almost offer to come with him, to help him kill Voldemort. But he would never allow you to risk your life, or to force yourself into the same responsibilities he has. So you tell him you want to talk. A few seconds later you realize you've failed to say it aloud; but he stands slowly, not taking his gaze off you, and nods toward the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

"What do they think about the mission?" you ask once you're alone in his dorm room.

He knows you're talking about Weasley and Granger. "They're worried, to say the least."

Silence, and then, "Harry, are you sure you want to do it?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to, but I have to. We've gone through this. You know what I mean. Let's talk about something else."

"Like how I am completely going to seduce you later?" You wiggle your eyebrows, and his face breaks into a smile. Even as you make the joke your heart quivers. You wonder how he can be so nonchalant about the task in his hands, as if it's just another item on his to-do list. He's excellent at hiding what fear he has. Sometimes that scares you.

"Why later, when you can do it now?" He leans in to kiss you, sliding a hand up to your hair, when a brisk knocking comes on the door and someone enters.

Harry pulls away, and you both look expectantly at Lupin.

"Harry, I think we have to go..." He looks from you to Harry, unsure of whether he should say any more.

"He knows," Harry says.

Lupin nods. "Right. As the Headmaster mentioned, we have two trains to take. We can't use magic or the Floo in case we're being watched. Which I hope we aren't. Well, are you ready?"

"I'm ready." He stands.

"I'll meet you outside the portrait." Lupin sends you another glance, but it's neither suspicious nor doubtful. It's sympathetic. And for once you don't feel inferior being sympathized with. When Lupin leaves, shutting the door behind him, Harry turns to you immediately.

You stand. "I don't know what—Mmph—"

You surrender to his desperate lips. You close your eyes, breathe through your nose, concentrate only on his mouth and his scent and the small noises he makes, trying to absorb the way he slides his fingers through your hair and pulls you so close you feel molded into him. When Harry lets go he leaves you wanting more.

"I'll be back. Later. Don't forget."

"Yes, I—"

"Let's go downstairs. I'll be back right away, anyway."

"Of course you will."

Sometimes, giving yourself too much hope is the only way to get by.

When you step out of the portrait hole Lupin raises his eyebrows in a question. Harry nods quickly, and takes your hand, and shares his warmth because you have none to give. Before you know it he and Lupin are walking slowly away.

"Harry—wait—"

And you pull him to you and kiss him and kiss him until both your lips are swollen and all you can think is I can't let him do this alone, I can't, when all the while you know you have no choice and neither does he.

Harry whispers something and his throat catches and you don't hear the whole of it. But you suspect it has something to do with you and love.

When he walks away again you watch his steps and memorize the way they sound. You imagine you will remember this moment for the rest of your life.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

Remus and Snape take you down to Hogsmeade, where you meet three more members of the Order. There is Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mr. Weasley and someone you haven't seen before. All three have bags under their eyes, and when they spot you they smile languid winces. They continue to wait for the train with hands in their pockets, eyes roving as if in search of doom or redemption. Even Lupin plays with his fingers and runs them through his hair until it becomes almost as disheveled as yours. Only Snape remains calm, but he stands so rigidly that you suspect he is on the constant lookout for suspicious activity.

It will be over soon, you try to tell yourself.

When the train rolls in you are startled out of your anxious reverie, noticing for the first time that Remus has been rubbing circles on your shoulder. He tells you, when everyone is too busy boarding the train to be within earshot, "Be very careful, Harry. We're depending on you."

Despair burns in his eyes. He looks at you like you're going to die.

For a second you wonder if he still loves you that way—if he wishes that someday...

You almost laugh at yourself when he says, "Draco will be waiting," because Remus will not be selfish even when the world ends.

Draco will be waiting. You think about this as you walk through the train doors.

:o:

The MacNair Manor is dark and foreboding—as expected. The sun is nearing the horizon by the time you and the entire task force reach the foot of the hill that the mansion stands on. The Aurors suspend the security spells, and afterward you follow them through a window in the front of the house. They stare at you before crossing the foyer. Perhaps they doubt that you can do it on your own.

Remus and Mr. Weasley and the rest of the Order nod at you before they leave. Soon enough you're in an empty foyer with only Snape, and it's so quiet that you can hear your own breathing echo on the walls.

"This way," he mutters, striding with a swish of his cloak. You follow him as quietly as possible. With each empty corridor you pass, you grow more afraid of Death Eaters finding you. You end up tiptoeing so as not to make noise, and when Snape turns around to see you mid-balance, he sends you a grimace of a smile.

He opens a small door. "This room has a door to another room, which has two doors. Go through the door on the left, and then pass through the tunnel to reach the Dark Lord's lair. The official meeting hasn't started; he'll be alone. Use this to open the locks. It's the Headmaster's; treat it with utmost care." He hands you a penknife similar to the one Sirius gave you years ago, except it's made entirely of gold. "The Dark Lord can sense his Mark more strongly than he can ever sense you, so I cannot enter. Remember: minimal movement. I'll be waiting for you here."

"Okay."

"Send a spark if you're in trouble. You do know the spell—"

"Yes, I do."

"Good. Go, then."

Now even Snape looks like he's relying on you to save the world.

You go through the door.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

The MacNair Manor is dark and foreboding—as expected. You find the security spells turned off, and a window unlocked in the main wing.

You climb in, hoping there is something you can do.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

Later, when you noiselessly open the door and see Voldemort's back outlined against a crackling fire, your chest pounds at the realization that it's too easy.

Voldemort is watching the flames in the hearth, oblivious of your presence. Too easy, and a part of you stings with guilt for not giving him the chance to fight. But this is life and death, and what is required of you.

You raise your wand.

"Avada—"

"I was expecting you," Voldemort says.

Your breath catches in your lungs. You try again:

"Avada—"

He vanishes before your eyes and immediately appears behind you. You turn around as he shouts, "Crucio!"—

But his voice cracks. The pain doesn't come. Only silence.

He is frozen in place.

"Avada Kedavra," you murmur finally.

He falls, and for a moment you imagine Draco is behind him, staring at you with wide gray eyes.

You plunge into darkness.

TBC.