Siege

This is what he says gets him through it: "If I don't let myself be happy now, then when?" If not now, when? When the time we have now ends, when the big hand goes round again. Can you still feel the butterflies?

Siege

During their seventh year, there was a siege on Hogwarts. Death Eaters lined the grounds, staring hungrily at the walls of the castle, searching, trying to find a way in. Battering rams slammed at the great wooden doors twice a day, and numerous rocks were thrown at windows, but their most potent attack was when they cut off the food supply. Inside, the houses split off from each other, trusting only their own. Gryffindors kicked over chairs, swearing to kill the bastards but never actually doing so, Ravenclaws searched the library and cast complicated spells that never worked, Hufflepuffs jumped at loud noises, and quiet ones at that, and Slytherins went about their daily lives, because most of their fathers were outside wearing masks and they'd never hurt their babies, would they?

The food and water supplies dwindled and fell, and Dumbledore set buckets on the roof to catch rainwater, the same rainwater that pelted down on the Death Eaters as they stared stolidly upwards, never moving. Students moved around as if in trances, most sure that they were going to die, and more and more children slumped in their common rooms, gazing up at the ceiling with eyes that were half-dead already, wishing that the other half would come as soon as possible and wondering, why hadn't it already?

They held out for a long time - forty days - but finally the first student, a Ravenclaw first year, died. There was a whole-school funeral and nowhere to bury the body, so they burnt it on the top of the school. The smell of burning flesh pervaded the students' nostrils for the next few days, but they ignored it and tried not to gag, because what else could they do?

It was as if the first death unblocked a ravine. As rain fell outside, a student died a day, and then the others got gradually used to the scent of smouldering flesh until it was as normal a smell as toast at breakfast time, or a jar of toad-eyes in Potions.

The school was shaken back into life. Alliances were formed between Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. The Slytherins remained the only house with tight robes and glossy hair, except for one, a small pale-haired boy who grew more and more emaciated and wild-looking. Students clung to each other for comfort, praying to the God who nobody believed in that their friends wouldn't be dragged away from their clutching hands.

The Gryffindor girls' dormitory was silent and almost empty at night now. Parvati was dead, died from malnutrition, or, some said, despair after her twin died. Lavender plunged from the top of the parapets onto waiting swords and a rush of Killing Curses. The teachers said she'd gone mad, and maybe she had. Everyone went insane, even if it wasn't all that noticeable. Lavender had gripped onto the last shreds of her sanity so she could commit suicide and finally escape, everyone said. Hermione slept in the boys' dormitory, in the bed that Dean had vacated when he died, next to the bed that Seamus left so he could sleep in Lavender's, and so he could smell the perfume that still lingered there. Sometimes she crept into Ron's bed, and he would turn over in his sleep and wrap his arms around her, and she would sob into his shoulder despite the fact that her eyes were so dry that no tears could come. He would wake up, kissing her groggily, and pulling her nightdress awkwardly above her hips. Then they'd make love, desperately, craving the closeness. When they came, together, Ron would stare into Hermione's eyes and shiver inwardly at the inhumanity, the cold glassiness of her irises.

Neville lay in the corner still, and if the others had not been so preoccupied they might have noticed the absence of his snores. He didn't sleep, not anymore. He lay awake and stared at the crimson drapes and watched the blood drip off them. Was it imaginary blood? He didn't know, and he didn't care: his days and nights, pasts, presents and futures were merging into each other. He sometimes wondered if he was going mad, and then he hoped that he was because then he could sink into a beautiful world of sweet oblivion.

Justin Finch-Fletchley gave up after eighty days. He walked out into the army of Death Eaters willingly, eyes closed, a small smile etched on his lips. He crumpled to the ground immediately, after being hit with a barrage of 'Avada Kedavra's. When the delicate, lily-white hands of Lucius Malfoy rolled him over, he was still smiling, but it had slipped, and twisted into a grotesque parody of a smirk. Lucius dropped him immediately, repulsed, wiping his hands compulsively on the grass, trying to control the bile rising in his throat. He croaked out a Banishing Charm, sending Justin's slight, tanned body with its malformed, hideous face somewhere else. He didn't know where, precisely, but he didn't really care, so long as it was away from him.

Professor McGonagall went about her everyday duties, teaching classes on how to turn teacups into bowler hats, and no one except those who knew her best noticed the tightness of her lips. Finally a group of sixth years, all four houses aligned in some kind of fury, revolted against her, demanding to be taught something useful. Her bottom lip trembled, and she fled from the room, bat-black robes flapping behind her, trailing an unexpectedly feminine perfume. The next day she returned to her lessons, eyes steadier than they had been for a long time, rolled up her sleeves, and began to teach a class how to transfigure small stones into massive boulders in midair to rain down on the Death Eaters. She was never challenged again.

Professor Lupin came back to teach at Hogwarts at the end of the fifth year. No one objected, because the pupils were mostly too busy wondering about the threat of Voldemort than a teacher who, although a werewolf, was really rather good. He never went back to the Whomping Willow after that disastrous night in the third year; instead, he drank the Wolfsbane potion and locked his office door, just in case. Professor Snape made it, half-grudgingly, half-admiringly, and he had done for most of the siege so far. But then he had gone to Remus, and told him with surprising gentleness that there was only enough asphodel to last for another two transformations, and what was he to do after that? It was impossible to get to the Willow because of the Death Eaters, and so Remus tried not to think about the day that he would have to give himself up to them because there was no room in the castle that could hold in a monster.

Sirius Black shared Remus' living quarters, and his bed. Every night before they went to sleep, they stood on either side of the bed, Remus in blue striped pyjamas, Sirius in boxers and t-shirt, looking at each other with a strange, almost desperate look in their eyes. Then Remus would kick off his slippers and Sirius strip off his shirt, and they'd crawl into bed with a hurried 'Well, good-night then'. They would curl up separately, each on his own side of the bed, acutely aware of the other's breathing, careful not to touch. In the mornings, though, they'd wake together, limbs entwined. Tousled black would be tangled with fine honey-flavoured hair, flawless brown skin with scarred white, and bright blue eyes staring into rich brown. They'd lie together for exactly six minutes, breathing in unison, comfortable in each other's arms. Then Remus would extricate himself and dress, slowly pulling off his pyjama bottoms and shirt. Sirius would watch him, feeling slightly voyeuristic, and as Remus turned his head, throwing him a small, shy, sweet smile, he'd beam back, a grin full of tenderness, and love, and everyday emotions that Sirius Black was relearning how to feel.

The rain still pelted down outside during Remus' last month, and the Death Eaters were drenched, yet they still remained, staring up at the castle's windows, willing the school to surrender. Black hair dye dripped down Nott's face in a way that would have been highly comical had the face not been filled with a grim determination that made even the other Death Eaters shudder.

Inside the castle, even the Slytherins were beginning to cave in. A few remained strong: despite his emaciated figure and uncut hair, Draco Malfoy sat tall at the Slytherin table, hand limply holding Pansy Parkinson's. Both shot secret, longing gazes over at the Gryffindor table, Pansy at a flame-haired, slight girl who gazed equally longingly back, and once even blew a tiny kiss. Draco didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the boy by the flame-haired girl's side, who was holding her hand with about the same amount of enthusiasm as Draco was holding Pansy's.

When he slept at all, Harry Potter slept at the top of the tallest Astronomy tower, on a small, brown couch that he had conjured up there. It smelt slightly of fish, and more strongly of feet, but Harry didn't mind. It was better than hearing Ron's gasps in the middle of the night, or watching Neville's eyes that remained stubbornly open. When he couldn't sleep, Harry watched the Death Eaters. Funny, he thought, when other people couldn't sleep, they read a book or counted sheep. Harry, on the other hand, watched merciless murderers set up camp outside his school. The perks of being The Boy Who Lived were, he observed, far and few between. He didn't really talk anymore; what was the point? There was nothing to say, nothing that mattered anyway.

Students and teachers began to form unlikely alliances, both in and out of romantic matters. Terry Boot was seen in and out of the Slytherin dormitories as Blaise Zabini's smiles grew wider and a whole lot more natural. Professor Trelawney forgot all about prophecies, and managed to kill a Death Eater by dropping a crystal ball exultantly on his head as Professor Vector grabbed the back of her robes and begged her to stand back.

It was permissible that the gradually diminishing Gryffindors and Slytherins joined together in friendship and in love. Students and teachers ceased to care about others' identities, settling for the feel of sweat slicked skin against sweat slicked skin, and tear-streaked kohl smudged onto two faces pressed together, and the closeness and security that they only felt when they lay with another person, breathing heavily, one's head on the other's chest over their heart, while languid fingers stroked through hair wet with sex.

By the time the siege was over, which was not for a long time yet, only the first years, and second years, and a small number of third years, remained virgins. The craving for intimacy and safety with another was too strong - many gave in to it, and not many regretted it. Enemies became friends, and opposites realised that perhaps they were not as different as they had once thought. Black hair and blond hair ceased to matter, and the difference between green and grey eyes was no longer so palpable - everyone's eyes burnt with the same starved, half-fanatical light, so what did the colour matter anymore? Sexuality barely made a difference anyway, and whether the partner was male or female no longer mattered, because at least they weren't alone.

People tried not to think about the army of black-robed executioners standing outside, and after a while it was easy to do so. It was even easier to ignore their eventual fate, trying to put off the day when they would accept the way their lives would be ended. That was the worst part of the siege: not watching your friends die, although that was heartbreaking, but feeling yourself become immune to the sadness, standing dry-eyed at memorial services and staring up into the blinding sun to take your mind off the ashes being scattered off the top of the castle.

++++++

Harry Potter often stood alone on top of the castle at night, where it was cool and fresh in the surrounding darkness, despite the smell of burning flesh that wafted on the wind. It still rained all the time, but Harry loved to stand in the rain, to raise his face up to the clouds and feel the raindrops hammering on his eyelids. The downpour outside took his mind off what was happening inside the walls. He shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms as he stared off into the darkness, trying not to pay any attention to the figures on the ground.

One night, there was a voice behind him. "It's cold up here, Potter."

"It'll be colder in a couple of months when this is all over, Malfoy," Harry said without bothering to turn.

Sigh. "That's true." A pause, and then, abruptly, "Are you scared?"

"What, about the outcome of all this?"

"Yes."

Snort of dry laughter. "Of course I'm scared. Quaking in my boots. Pissing my pants. Absolutely bloody terrified. Are you?"

"Same as you."

Then Harry turned around for the first time. "What?"

"I said-"

"I know what you said. But why're you scared? Your father's down there, isn't he? He wouldn't hurt you."

"Ever heard of the phrase, 'The end justifies the means', Potter?" Malfoy stared out into the night, his face an inscrutable white mask.

"Of course I have. So what?" Harry asked.

"It means that my father and his cronies would have absolutely no qualms about killing their own children, if it meant a world without half-bloods, Muggle-borns and Muggles."

"You didn't say 'Mudblood'," Harry pointed out slowly.

"Is that the point here?" Draco sounded frustrated and blotches of pink were standing out on his cheeks.

"I suppose not. But what would killing the Slytherins have to do with 'ridding the world of unfit wizards' and so on?"

"Not all Slytherins are Death Eater spawn, you know, Potter. Millicent isn't."

"So why's she in Slytherin?"

"She's a genuine bitch."

"That's not the point, although I have to say that I thoroughly agree with you," Harry admitted, with a wry smile.

"Anyway, saying that the Death Eaters murdered the whole of Hogwarts sounds a whole lot better than saying 'Well, they killed some of them, but they let their kids out through the back way.' It's all about image. If they're shown to have any mercy, any feelings, then their whole campaign would probably collapse because there'd be a lot less fear and people wouldn't mind fighting them half as much," Malfoy explained emotionlessly.

A small pause, and then a long exhalation. "Bloody fucking hell, Draco."

"I know."

Harry sat down heavily on the grey flagstones, and glanced up at Draco. "Sit down," he commanded. Draco obeyed him meekly, crumpling unceremoniously onto the floor next to Harry. He'd never realised just how small and slim Draco actually was. Usually when Harry was in contact with him, which wasn't often, his personality was large enough to fill the room. "I haven't talked to you in a long time," Harry remarked.

Draco cast a glance over at Harry. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

"Rather spar with you any day than die a slow death at the hands of Death Eaters," Harry pointed out.

Draco shrugged. "Okay, so you have a point there."

Harry stared into the sky for a second, picking out the constellations. "Plough or Big Dipper?"

"What?"

"Do you call that constellation there the Plough or the Big Dipper?"

"The Plough, of course. That's what it's been called for centuries. It's what Professor Sinistra calls - called - it," Draco replied promptly.

"You do Astronomy?"

"I did before Sinistra kicked the bucket."

"I didn't know you did Astronomy," Harry repeated disbelievingly.

"What d'you think I do when you're in Divination?" Draco said, half-exasperated.

"I don't know. Torture small creatures. Pull the wings off flies. Practice your Unforgivables."

Uncomfortable pause.

"I know you're not evil, you don't have to tell me."

"Good," Draco returned coolly.

Another, even more uncomfortable pause.

"Did you really think the Slytherins did that?" Draco suddenly blurted out.

"What?"

"Pull the wings off flies and so on."

"...No," Harry lied.

"Because we don't. Admittedly, Trevor the toad provides us with endless hours of amusement, but we don't torture the little bugger."

"Oh, good."

"Actually," Draco looked thoughtful, "it depends on what exactly defines torture. Does poking with lit matches count?"

Harry looked shocked.

"That was a joke!" Draco said, sounding frustrated.

"I knew that," Harry fibbed again.

"God, the rest of the school's got a bloody awful view of us." Draco leaned back, his right arm behind his head, slumping onto a short stone post. His sweater - Muggle, Harry noted with a small smile - crept up, showing a few inches of flat, pale stomach. For some reason, Harry couldn't draw his eyes away from the white, creamy skin. Draco wriggled slightly, and the sweater edged up even more. Harry swallowed. If he hadn't been sure that that wasn't the case, he would have been sure that Draco was flirting with him.

"You should count yourself lucky, Potter," Draco said lightly.

"Why?" Harry whispered. Suddenly everything had gone deadly quiet. All he could hear was the blood pumping through his ears and a slight rustling from the ground below.

"I haven't tried to hit on anyone using intellectual conversation for a while now," Draco murmured back, grinning, "and to be honest I'm rather worried about the outcome. What do you think?"

"I think it's working quite well," Harry observed. (How his words were coherent, he'd never know. He thanked Uncle Vernon silently for saying 'Eh? What? Speak up, boy!" to everything Harry said throughout his childhood.)

"Oh. Good," said Draco, looking pleased.

"Why? How do you usually hit on people?" Harry asked offhandedly.

"If truth be told, I'm rather big on the element of surprise. I often come up behind people and do this," as he shifted along the floor closer to Harry, leaning suddenly in and kissing his neck softly, "and then this," muffled, as his lips made their way teasingly up the underside of Harry's chin, "and end with this," as he kissed him full on the lips. As he pulled away again, "and they don't usually complain, either."

"I can see why not," Harry gasped. He shook his head slightly to clear it, and was suddenly hit by the weirdness of the situation. "Draco, what's wrong with this picture?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Draco sat back on his heels, regarding Harry dubiously.

"Okay," Harry said loudly, "you're Slytherin, I'm Gryffindor, we're both going to die in a couple of months, and your dad's down there. Oh my God, what if he can hear us?" Harry got up, shaking Draco's hand off his shoulder and gazed over the top of the stone battlements.

"He doesn't know about it," Draco retorted exasperatedly, nose screwed up crossly, "Don't be such an idiot. Just -- just sit back down and we can -- "

Harry blinked. "We have a death sentence hanging over us, and all you can suggest is to -- is to -- "

"Isn't that all the more reason to do this, then?" Draco demanded. "We're going to die, we may as well make our last months as fun as they can get! For fuck's sake, I'm guessing that you hate the twats down there as much as I do! Well, just spite them as much as you can by having -- "

"We're going to die!"

"And we may as well have a sodding good time as it's happening!" Draco half-yelled. "Listen, Potter, when you've finished being a total and entire prat, come down to the Slytherin common room. The password's 'miracle'."

"Bit bloody optimistic," Harry muttered rebelliously.

"What else can we be?" Draco finally said, quietly. "What else can we do but hope?"

Harry looked at him from under heavy eyelids. "You could be honest."

"What's more honest than hope?" Draco spat.

Harry didn't reply, dropping his gaze. And then Draco was gone. The door leading down to the interior of the castle banged invitingly, and Harry had to flatten his hands on the stone ground to prevent himself from following Draco.

"Fuck him," Harry said, trying the words out experimentally, seeing how they fit. Not very well, as it turned out. "Bastard," he muttered, which sounded rather better. Without knowing quite what he was doing, he stood, and dusted off his hands on his robes. He marched decisively over to the wooden, studded door. He wasn't exactly sure where the Slytherin common room was, precisely, but he intended to find it, and who the fuck was that hiding in the shadows?

The person flung itself at Harry, and there was a hot whisper against his neck. "I knew you'd come looking for me," Draco whispered fiercely.

Harry let himself tentatively wrap his arms around him. "You need this as much as I do, Malfoy."

A pause, and then a quiet admission. "I know."

++++++

Death is one of the few elements that doesn't discriminate. Male or female, young or old, good and evil, loved and unloved, it takes us all in the end. Everyone's taken under Death's merciless wing, clutched by the strangely comforting black-gloved hand and dragged into a different universe entirely. Even though it rarely discriminates, though, Death is rarely fair. It drags people away at the most inopportune times, often leaving behind those who beg to join Death and its passengers. When a person dies, when he takes the hand of Death, he is pulled towards a stairway of light - the old cliché - and climbs, a step behind the black-robed figure. When they reach the top, Death pulls back its hood, as if about to administer a Dementor's Kiss. And then Death does kiss its victims, but it's not a soul-sucking Kiss, it's a gentle, motherly kiss. The person looks up into Death's face, observing the cascades of golden waves on its shoulders, the white skin, the rosy cheeks and warm, brown eyes, and whispers, "Goddess", barely even recognising his own words. Death cups his face with soft, warm, dry palms, and smiles, a smile full of beauty and time-old wisdom. It doesn't speak, just pushes him gently towards the great gold gates.

Harry Potter died just two days before the siege was over. He saw his mother and his father when he entered the great gates, and as he collapsed wearily into Lily's arms it felt as if he'd been there forever. It felt as though being held by his mother was the most natural thing in the world, even though he could barely remember her. Her hair smelt like rosemary and it tumbled around both of their faces as he wept, without knowing why, into her chest. Then he turned to his father, who was grinning. "We've been waiting for you," was all he said, simply, and then Harry Potter just knew that, finally, he was home.

Draco was left behind, and he mourned for the bright boy with sparkling green eyes who he'd loved. Night after night he dreamt of Harry, and he awoke every time with tears streaked down his cheeks and a terrible sense of deep melancholy in his heart. Most of them took place in a dark glade at nighttime, which was strange because he and Harry had never been outside the castle walls together. He and Harry were sitting on the grass, not talking, just watching each other with strange, half-starved expressions on their faces. Then Harry would stand and walk away, Draco unable to move. Suddenly his legs would come to life and he'd sprint helter-skelter in the direction that Harry had disappeared in, but when he came crashing into a small clearing, it was always empty. Then he'd wake up. But the dreams didn't trouble him as they might have; he couldn't explain how, but he knew that one day he'd follow Harry when he disappeared, and when he entered the clearing, a dark figure would be standing there, and Death would extend its hand. Then Draco Malfoy would ascend to heaven, or wherever he was going to live for the rest of forever, and be rid of his crippled, twisted old man's body, and be a beautiful teenager again. Harry would be standing at the gates, wearing that funny little crooked smile, and he'd cock an eyebrow. "What took you so long, Malfoy?"

And then Draco would grin back, and say, "I got a little held up."

Harry would nod, and beckon Draco through the golden gates, and finally, finally, the siege would be over.

fin.