Threadbare

Eighteen: Finally

Draco.

Voldemort is dead.

He was a wrinkled corpse when the newly dispatched Aurors pulled back his hood. They brought him to the Azkaban morgue to ascertain his body was dead; they conducted tests on him to ascertain his ghost wouldn’t bring him back. They gave him an unembellished wooden box for a casket, and he was buried beside his father’s grave. The Minister of Magic oversaw his funeral with restrained happiness. No one was there to mourn his loss.

Harry is in a coma. So are Lupin, Snape, Lucius, and everyone else who was in the MacNair Manor two days ago. No one is sure why they dropped unconscious the moment Voldemort was murdered. They haven’t roused, and the story hasn’t been told. Dumbledore refuses to comment on the matter. There have been speculations, most of them bizarre, but you are convinced there is a simple explanation.

The stranger question is why you are awake.

When Harry fell to the ground along with Voldemort you didn’t think you would live—not because of magical reactions, but because Harry, as you thought, was gone. You expected your breath would stop and your lungs would turn into dust; you expected to collapse and die like them both. But you did not: you stood and stared, and then fear rushed down your spine and you ran to Harry, and when you held him he was warm. You took his pulse; it was soft and slow: he was alive. Ironically enough, that was when your tears dropped onto his cheeks.

It might have been hours later when a few Aurors arrived to capture Voldemort and take you and Harry to St. Mungo’s. Harry is still here, in the same bed, in the same position. The healers magic energy potions into his nose every five hours, even when for all the others they do it every six. Two days and nobody has stirred. It’s becoming ridiculous. The wizarding world is itching to celebrate and they yet have no reason to, so instead they talk about how you could have possibly survived and what you had to do with You-Know-Who’s death and/or Harry’s tragic coma. You’re either a hero or a villain. You’ve realized you are both: a hero for helping Harry and a villain for remaining conscious afterward. You’re so tired of being either that you’ve stopped listening to anything but Harry’s breathing.

The healers have told everyone that Harry—and the other wizards involved—will wake up. They just don’t know when. And you don’t know whether to believe them.

The last two days have been a waking dream of boring classes, cloying meals, and tossing nights, with lapses in between where you would suddenly remember that Harry’s not in the Gryffindor Tower playing chess with Weasley or training in Lupin’s office or having a nice talk with you in the Astronomy Tower like he promised. You remember that he’s in the hospital and no one has been able to do anything to bring him back to consciousness. Every time you think about it another tremor pangs through you, more of worry than hurt, more of guilt than sadness. When Harry told you about the prophecy, you didn’t want it to come true, so you blinded yourself to the possibility that it could. Now Harry has finally faced Voldemort. Now Voldemort is dead, but Harry is on the precipice bordering death and survival. Now you realize how easy it can be to lose someone. It’s a shame you’ve realized too late.

You are in St. Mungo’s mission casualty room number one, waiting for Harry to wake up, when Dumbledore Apparates.

“Shhhh,” a healer on duty hisses. Upon realizing who it is, she casts her eyes down and quickly steps out of the room.

“You’re still here, Draco? I do hope you remember our agreement.”

You’re only allowed to visit Harry because you’ve promised to be back at school promptly at eight every night. It’s three minutes after.

“Sorry, I guess I lost track of time. But there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you, Professor.”

“If you would like to visit your father...”

“No, that’s not it.” Lucius is in the hospital ward in Azkaban along with the other Death Eaters. He’s still unconscious, anyway, and you can find no good reason to visit him.

“I understand. Something else, then. Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you. I just wanted to know why—how—I didn’t fall into a coma.”

Dumbledore, whose beard is whiter than snow and whose eyes are surrounded by deep lines, seems to turn thirty years younger when he smiles at you and says, “I was wondering the same thing.” His eyes twinkle, and you realize that you haven’t seen them twinkle in months. He pulls up a chair, sits down before you, and leans back, waiting for your answer.

“I... I really don’t know...”

“Did you take any potion for security’s sake before you Floo’d from Hogsmeade to your home to the MacNair Manor?” The amused accusatory way he says it pricks your conscience the tiniest bit. “Did you cast any spells on yourself to ensure that you would stay in one piece, at least, in the mission you took upon yourself without the approval of authority?”

“Sir, I’m sorry I—”

“Of course you aren’t. If you hadn’t petrified Voldemort, Harry would not have succeeded; indeed, he wouldn’t even be on a bed beside you at this moment.” He twinkles. “I was only prompting you to tell the truth.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t take a potion. And I certainly didn’t cast spells on myself—not that I knew any. You could say I wasn’t very... ready.”

“Are you sure there was nothing you did?”

“There was—I—oh.” You glance at Harry. He doesn’t stir.

“What is it, Draco?”

“I... I did have a bit of...”

Dumbledore nods encouragingly.

You put your hand in your pocket and pull out a tiny dragon.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

When your eyelids flutter open to meet the stillness of night, you slide your hand to the left until it arrives at the edge of the surprisingly small bed. You try the same with your right hand, but there is no Draco in reach. Your eyes adjust after many blinks, and soon enough you see that you’re in what vaguely resembles a room in St. Mungo’s.

“Holy fuck,” you mutter before proceeding to close your eyes so later you can wake up on Voldemort’s floor and see him dead and meet Draco in the Astronomy tower as you promised.

“I understand how you feel,” a voice vaguely resembling Dumbledore’s says.

“Who are you? I certainly hope you’re not Vol—”

“No, Harry, I’m not. I see you need your rest; perhaps we can continue this talk—”

“Dumbledore?” You open one eye. “Dumbledore! I mean, Professor!” Your relief at seeing him makes you sit up so quickly that your head throbs for a few seconds. “Where am I? Where’s Voldemort? Where’s Draco? I mean—not that I—”

“Draco has informed me about your unlikely friendship,” he says, “and has revealed your admirable... connection with one another. In fact, just an hour ago he told me to thank you for helping him if you were to awaken. So, on his behalf, thank you.”

“Thank you for what? He told you we were together? Does everyone else know? Where’s everyone else? Where’s Lupin? Is Voldemort dead? What am I doing here? Since when have I—”

Suddenly Dumbledore chuckles. And then, as if catching the laughter from himself, he chuckles again. And again and again, until his mirth is so strong that you start to laugh as well, not knowing what for, but knowing that things are fine, that there is nothing to worry about. You have never seen Dumbledore laugh before, and perhaps that’s a good thing. It’s too strongly contagious. It’s hard to believe that this is the same Dumbledore who forgot the sparkle in his eye only days ago. Or perhaps weeks... what day is it anyway?

“It’s ten o’ clock on Tuesday night. With Draco’s help, you successfully killed Voldemort. However, he had a permanent magical shield against the Unforgivables, which ordinarily would have reflected the Killing Curse on everyone in the vicinity. Because of the prophecy, I was certain it would not apply to you. It did not, but there was another repercussion, and for this I ask forgiveness. Voldemort indeed received a strong blast of the Killing Curse, but a diluted version of it—pardon the term—spread out over all the wizards in the MacNair Manor at the time, with those nearest the epicenter receiving the strongest hits. The Order members and the Aurors are in this building, while the Death Eaters are in Azkaban. They are all still in comatose.”

“Will they be all right?”

“We have reason to hope, Harry.”

“How about Draco? You were saying he helped me?”

“He thought he saw you seeing him, but I suppose you did not. Yes, he cast a petrifying spell on Voldemort so you could finish the task. I must commend you, Harry. Voldemort is—was—so strong that had you uttered the Curse a moment too late, he would have escaped from you and Draco’s grasp.”

“Is Draco here?”

“No. He is at Hogwarts and well; he was not hit by the reflection to begin with.”

“What? How?”

“Do you remember the dragon you gave him for his birthday?”

Slowly, incredulously, you nod.

“You saved him, Harry. You, being who you are, could not have died. But he was much closer in proximity to Voldemort than you. Had the Curse reflected properly on him—without your dragon’s protection—he might have perished.”

Dumbledore’s now serious countenance tells you what exactly ‘perished’ means.

“I... I don’t know what to say. Wow.”

He smiles. “You don’t have to say a thing, Harry. I don’t know if I was right in telling you all of that when you have just awoken. I only wanted you to be the first to know everything. Now, I would like you to stay here for a day or so, at least until someone else regains consciousness. If you go back to Hogwarts the press will start flocking to you instead of me, and you really need a bit of rest.”

You are too dumbfounded by Draco and the dragon and Voldemort being dead to do anything more than nod.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“Draco will be visiting too.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you for saving the world.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Good night, Harry.”

“Good night.”

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

When you enter the hospital room early the next morning, Harry is seated on Lupin’s bed. He is watching Lupin sleep, brushing the hair from Lupin’s face so tenderly that if Lupin were conscious, you just might thrown a fit. Harry tells him, “You’re going to wake up soon, aren’t you? You have to. Wake up, Remus.” But even under the intensity of Harry’s stare, Lupin remains motionless.

“One of the Aurors in the other room woke up an hour ago. Now we’re sure everyone else is bound to wake up too.”

He looks up at you, and it takes only a moment for him to register both who you are and what you’ve just said. He all but leaps off Lupin’s bed and pounces toward you, ending up with his arms tight about your waist and his chest smothering yours.

“Harry, this isn’t dignified,” you say, but slowly you let your arms slither around him as well. You can feel him smiling into your shoulder. You also smile as you discover that he’s finally taken a shower and changed his clothes, and he smells like vanilla soap and fresh laundry, which for some bizarre reason stimulates your hormones.

“There’s no one else here,” he says before moving to kiss you.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we are in a room full of near-corpses whose ghosts might just be watching?”

“No.”

You teasingly dodge his lips and say, “I’m feeling jealous about you and Lupin, by the way.”

“What?” His expression turns suspiciously serious in a small unit of time.

“You and Lupin.” You lift an eyebrow. He nearly withers before you.

“Well. There’s something... I’ve forgotten to mention. It’s not that important, really, it’s just...” He sneaks a glance at Lupin. “...It’s just something you might want to know.”

You hope this isn’t what you think it is.

“Remus—Lupin—Remus and I... had this... thing.”

Arms akimbo: “What thing?”

“Draco, quit it, you look totally gay.”

You cross your arms over your chest instead. “Right. What thing?”

“Erm. Thing. You know what I mean.”

“You had a relationship?!”

“You could call it that.”

“Well? What happened?”

“Oh, it’s over now. Completely. We’re nothing more than friends.”

“You didn’t—”

“We only kissed, Draco.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what happened between me and Pansy. I assure you there were no feelings involved; it was merely a prurient farce.”

“Which means...?” Now it is his turn to lift an eyebrow. You have to admit it’s a bit endearing to know someone’s jealous for you.

“Which means she wanted me and I refused. Somewhat because her nose is too turned up. Mostly because I love you.”

“I... I feel exactly the same way.” A smile starts in his eyes. He hastily adds, “I mean, not the pug nose, but loving you. I mean, I may not show it much, but I—I mean, I do, I guess I do love you.” He looks embarrassed, but you think it’s amusing how he becomes inarticulate when he tries to speak very sincerely. You suppose that’s one of the quirks you have always liked about him.

“I conjectured as much. Remember the dragon you gave me?”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“At first I thought you paid a fortune for it. Forgive my breeding. But now I know it was mostly you.”

“Yeah, well. I did still pay a lot for it, in case you think I’m cheap.”

You chuckle. “If you are, I won’t hold it against you. I still find it hard to believe that the same kind of magic that saved you seventeen years ago has saved me now. It’s an impossibly amazing coincidence.”

“You saved me too, you know. If you hadn’t been there, everyone would have been doomed.”

“And I can’t wait until my father hears about it.”

“I wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

“But before we melt into puddles of cheese, there’s something I wanted to show you. I’m not sure whether my assumptions are correct, but here it is.” You reach into your pocket and fish out the silver chain Lucius gave you when you were unwittingly Ported to his study. The white gold ring dangles from it; the diamonds glimmer in the dim light of the sunrise. You hold the ring between your fingers and show it to Harry, twisting it so he can see what’s inscribed on the inside. “My father gave me this, but I wasn’t inclined to inspect it until last night.” Harry leans closer to see the letters clearly.

JP & LM.

“I was only thinking of the possibility that...”

“Yes, they were together back in school. Remus told me.”

“Ah.” Immediately suppositions begin to wander through your mind. How James and Lucius could possibly have attracted each other, how long they were together, what happened to their relationship that turned it into a tragedy of the past. It’s difficult to imagine your father in love with someone, especially someone whose main purpose wasn’t to bear him an heir or to entertain guests at dinner parties. It’s also difficult to believe that he is still haunted by whatever happened so long ago. But what you find hardest to accept is that he might have given you the ring as a symbol of caution—because he thinks you and Harry will fall to the same end.

Funny how you cannot imagine being with anyone else for the rest of your life. Funny how you wouldn’t see it as life if you were.

“We’ve got a very messed up relationship, past generation included,” Harry says.

You are about to come up with a witty reply, when he looks about him and discovers that not one patient has awoken. His face breaks into a grin.

“So are we going to kiss now or what?”

He presses his lips to yours, more of a prod or a challenge than an actual kiss, and waits for you to respond. You can’t help surrendering. His tongue tastes a freshly brushed kind of minty. When you lean into him he abandons the seducing and devours your mouth full on. After a particularly loud moan—it ceases to matter if it’s yours or his—the pleasure is disturbed by a teasing call:

“Get a room!”

Ah, so the werewolf is awake.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

Draco asks you to keep the necklace/ring, saying that it was your dad’s after all. You hesitate a bit before putting it in your pocket, unsure of whether either of you should keep it at all. But when you ask Remus he tells you it’s a good idea to hold on to it, if only to keep the truth in what you know of your dad. You, Draco, and Remus talk for a while, with you and Draco mostly filling him in on the events. Soon enough the seventh year Gryffindors enter the room en masse, cheering and chattering as loudly as possible. They announce that classes have been cancelled for the day to make room for visits to parents and relatives from the mission who have started to wake up. Hermione gives you a tight big hug, causing the entire troop to follow. As they crush you in their arms, they simultaneously shower you with bags of sweets, bottles of Butterbeer, and endless questions. You are so glad to see them that you munch on all they give you and answer most of their questions. Some of them can’t believe you’re friends with Draco; some of them can’t believe he helped you; and most of them haven’t been able to accept that you killed Voldemort in the first place. The hospital room suddenly turns into a miniature Gryffindor Tower, gossip and all, and it is perhaps because of the overwhelming noise that Arthur Weasley from the bed in the far corner wakes up, and so do Snape and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Snape looks livid at all these children rousing him, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak because Dumbledore enters.

Suddenly everything goes quiet.

Dumbledore takes one look at Snape and announces, “Classes are still cancelled.”

The room explodes with applause.

“Draco, may I speak with you for a while?”

“Yes, sir.”

They retreat to a corner, but the loss of Draco’s arm over you shoulder compels you to watch as they speak. The conversation looks serious; Draco nods a few times, and at one point, gestures in your direction. He nods one more time before walking over to you.

“Harry,” he says, softly enough for no one else to hear, “my father’s been awake since dawn, and Dumbledore’s allowed me to visit him before his trial. I thought you might like to come with me.”

‘Why did you think that?’ you almost ask, but you realize you both know why.

“Dumbledore’s convinced the healers to release you. Would you like to come along?”

“Yes.” Pause. “When?”

Draco looks confused for a second. Then he says, “Right now, of course.”

Of course.

He smirks at you for being so dim. You roll your eyes.

But you sigh as you follow him out the door, trying to hide the fretful burning in your stomach.

TBC.