Much Like Suffocating

Much Like Suffocating

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He hasn't come out in three days. He hasn't eaten, nor slept. We've tried, Hermione and I, to talk to him...but he communicates with broken sobs and hurled objects. Although I have been exposed to this language before, I still fail to understand it with any affluence.

To anyone else it would seem that Harry has had some sort of breakdown. The battle had been no different than any other - both sides suffering casualties and although we fought them back...the victory was bittersweet. How is it possible to celebrate when so many come home without their children, siblings, lovers? Many are confused; it should have been considered a huge step forward. Everyone knows that Harry Potter cannot bear to take a life...no matter how malevolent the spirit within the one he killed. And still...this is abnormal...he acts as though he, himself, has died.

Hermione and I have been holding the reigns for three days. The others trust us and know that we are capable of leadership. We are not, however, their leaders - that's Harry's job. He was born for it...or perhaps he was made. This much, however, is true. He has something inside of him that instills trust and unquestionable loyalty from all who look upon him.

There are times when it seems to be too much for him. The crushing weight of hope and allegiance is, at times, too much for him to bear. His resolve and will grow unfathomably stronger...for his people...while his soul grows weaker - while the light in his eyes diminishes with an aching slowness.

That day we eliminated a huge figure of opposition. That day Draco Malfoy closed his eyes for a final time. That day the Death Eaters lost their most zealous and talented warrior.

Hermione looks at me with sadness in her eyes. She is the single strongest person I have ever known - aside from Harry. Somehow, she mourns all that are lost and simultaneously carries the remains of those who loved them on her back. She worries for him. Harry and Malfoy hated each other, and she cannot fathom his sudden spiral into despair - seemingly triggered by the demise of his worst enemy. Well...one of his worst enemies. She doesn't understand...and I wouldn't either...if it hadn't been for -

She didn't see it...but I did. I saw Harry run after him, a wild kind of need in his eyes. The rain had turned the air grey and felt almost cleansing on our faces - heated and stinging with sweat, wounds...determination. Harry caught up with him and grabbed at his robes, screaming at him and flinging his arms wildly. I could not hear from my position so I ran to them...I would not let Harry face such peril alone. Malfoy glared at him and his next actions shocked me to my very core. He *knelt* at Harry's feet. His head tilted back and his hands hung at his sides - he was awaiting his death. Harry, had it been any other day...any other person, would have raised his wand without question and said his prayers after his opponent had fallen, lifeless, to the ground. That day...he cried.

He dragged Malfoy to his feet and screamed at him again. Were anyone else to look at him it would have seemed as though his face contorted in anger. I, however, am not just anyone. I am his best friend. I know Harry quite possibly better than anyone...anyone alive today. His countenance was not one of rage - but anguish. Deep and pulsing. He was screaming at Malfoy to run...and Malfoy refused. Perhaps it was pride that would not let him flee - perhaps it was weariness. We have been at war for a long time and honestly I cannot tell you what day it is...what month...what year.

Now that I think about it...I should have known before - had I wanted to, of course. I can't lie and say that I would have been accepting of...whatever it was he had with Malfoy. But now...I wonder. If his death can drive Harry to such despair...after not having seen his face in three years...I feel cheated, in a way. Obviously Malfoy had the privilege to see a part of Harry no one else has ever seen, or perhaps...it was Harry who had the privilege of seeing a different part of Malfoy. I know Harry Potter...he is a good man, and when he loves, he does it deeply and with abandon.

That day...Malfoy again sank to his knees and Harry fisted his robes at his collar, pulling their foreheads together and babbling something through his tears and the rain. I saw Malfoy's mouth move only once, and I cannot say with any certainty what it was that he said...although I have a fairly good idea. Harry shook his head, refusing, for the first time, to kill an enemy. His arms tensed and became rigid; and even over the rain and the droning roar of battle his voice carried over to me.

"Go!" he screamed...and then his voice softened and, although I could not hear him, I knew what he had said... "...please..."

I was rooted to the spot, wanting badly to rush over and kill Malfoy myself...and yet...entranced by the intense and utterly moving emotions swirling about the two of them - passion like I have never seen before. Malfoy surged up and pulled Harry to him. Before that day I never imagined I could be so spellbound by a kiss between two men. My instincts told me to expect Harry to shove him away - and perhaps deliver his ribs a swift kick. I knew...somewhere, even then, that Harry couldn't have pushed him away even if he had wanted to. *Something* bound the two of them there, sobbing and gripping to one another in the rain on that god forsaken field, littered with the bodies of warriors who were still children only a year ago.

Harry Potter has rough hands. Perhaps it came from quidditch and the gripping of his broom - although I can't imagine Malfoy having rough hands, even though he too rode a broom for many years...before the war. Perhaps it was fate that Harry's hands should be coarse - an ironic symbol for a young man who has worked hard and earnestly...with a weak and unimaginably soft soul. I remember noticing once, a long time ago, that Harry bites his nails. Now my mind rushes back to our last year of school and the look on Malfoy's face when Professor Snape inquired about the deep abrasions on his arms. I remember thinking he might be a lush, as his excuse was that he scraped it against the dungeon wall.

Those hands, rugged and calloused, came up to cup Malfoy's face and for a moment I thought they might run away together - I couldn't have blamed them...I almost *wanted* them to. Malfoy, however, had other plans. Quicker than anything I have ever seen, his wand was at Harry's throat. I couldn't see his eyes, but I'm sure they flashed with the same resoluteness as they always had. In truth, had he wanted to, he could have killed Harry then...but he didn't. He merely stood there, wand pointed at the Boy Who Lived's jugular - forcing him to action. Harry's shook his head again, unwilling to be swayed. Malfoy muttered something else, and whatever it was, it caused Harry to turn his head and look around him...at us. At those who'd follow him to the gates of Hell...at those of us who already had. When he turned back, his look was a pleading one and his lips formed the word "no" as though it were a question. To this Malfoy pressed his wand further into Harry's skin and with a guttural cry Harry raised his own and spoke the words that until that moment I had become immune to.

Malfoy slumped down - instantly dead and, as cliché as it sounds, Harry died too. The battle raged on - the death eaters unaware that their leader had fallen...by his own hand more than Harry's...the rest of the aurors unaware their leader had fallen...years before this day had ever dawned. Harry dropped to his knees and I assumed he would hold Malfoy's lifeless form to him; he, however, did no such thing. Without a single thought spared to those who might see him, he gathered Malfoy into his arms and strode away. His face was as stern as I'd ever seen it and his stride seemed unaffected by the extra weight. Malfoy was roughly the same size as Harry - yet Harry carried him as though he weighed no more than a child. Where he took him I may never know.

It was hours after the battle before he returned to us. My sister worried herself to nausea, fearing him dead. I would have liked to have comforted her, had I been able. I always knew Harry couldn't ove her the way she wanted him to...and now I know why. I, too, feared he may be dead - having just lain down with Malfoy and let the earth take him into it. I had actually resigned myself to this when he came through the doors of our quarters, devoid of tears. He immediately entered the room he shares with Ginny, slamming the door behind him. In three days he has not allowed her, nor anyone else access. Every now and then the sound of shattering glass comes ringing through the halls...or perhaps it is the sound of a shattered soul.

Now that I think on it, all has been quiet for a while...too quiet. Harry has a job to do - he must continue the fight and finish this, to set our world right again - although now I question what is right anymore. I, too have a job - I must go to him...I know that now. I realized long ago that I love him as much as, and possibly more than, my own brothers and I will be strong for him now. Never in my life have I felt so...human. Before I can talk to Harry there is something I need to do.

I find Hermione sitting by the door with her head in her hands. She wraps her arms around me and squeezes hard, drawing strength from me. We have not had the time to marry, in name, but she is more than my wife anyhow. Her title extends a mere ring or certificate...she is my savior. I have never needed her to know this more than now. Although I cannot tell her why, I entwine my fingers through her soft and wavy hair, breathing in her scent. She smells like home to me. Her head fits gloriously well underneath my chin and into the crook of my neck - as though we were made for one another. With a kiss to her head and the most heartfelt 'I love you' of my life I detach myself from her and apparate into Harry's room.

I find him sitting at the window sill, and he is so still he might have been made from marble. He is looking out beyond the grounds...possibly beyond this world entirely. I know he has to know that someone is in here from the loud pop that echoes when one apparates. Nonetheless, he remains unfazed. I walk up behind him softly, I'm sure he can see my reflection in the window, and place a hand on his shoulder.

No response.

I am not surprised. Not really knowing what else to say to him, I squeeze lightly and speak softly to him. "...I know..."

He shrugs my hand away roughly and pitches forward until he is leaning against the glass, his arm is raised over his head and his fingers are spread - the coolness of the glass seeping into his skin. He presses his forehead to the chilled surface and his voice is tight.

"You don't know *anything*."

Sitting beside him, I lean my head back so that I can partially see his face. "You're right...to tell you the truth, I thought I knew everything three days ago...and now I realize how much there is I have to learn. I saw you, Harry...I saw you kill him. I can't pretend to know anything about what he was to you...but I know he had more of you than any of us ever has..."

His palm turns to a fist and he bangs it against the glass while a choked cry rips from his throat. I am unsure how to comfort him...so I don't. I simply sit near, should he need me, and let him know that I am here for him.

"Why me?" He asks no one in particular. "Why did it have to be me? If he wanted to die then why did I have to kill him?"

To me, the answer is obvious, and I tell him as much. "No one else could have killed him...you know that, I know that...he knew that. I know it was hard...but he wanted it to be you...I'm sure of it..."

He stands abruptly and attempts to cross the room. A chair is in his way and, angered with its interference, he flings it aside. I try not to flinch when the new pile of splintered wood hits the floor - many things are now broken in this room. He turns to me and his voice has become almost frantic.

"I can't do it...never again...I don't want to..."

I get up and rush over to him. Gripping his shoulders, I look sternly into his bespectacled eyes and shake him almost fiercely. "Don't say that! Never say that! Look at me...look at us...we *need* you. Don't let us down, Harry...we've come so far. Don't let Malfoy down. He could have killed you! One of you had to die and he died so that you could finish this!"

I think my words have struck a cord in him, as his knees go weak and he slumps to the floor. I sink down with him and allow him the few moments of sobbing he needs before we can go any further. After a while, his cries lessen and his head ends up in my lap...it has been here before. Even Harry Potter needs to be held now and again, and when Ginny holds him it seems to make him more uneasy than anything else.

"Where did you take him?" I ask him.

His eyes are closed, and his voice almost too low to hear. "I...can't tell you that. I'm sorry..."

That is enough for me. Harry is here, and he will go on. He will lead us and together we will win this war. There is silence between us for a long time. I do not ask him if he loved Malfoy...he may not even know the answer, and I'm not sure *I* want to know. I do not ask him if he will be okay...only time will tell. I am greatly relieved when his breathing evens out and, for the first time in three days, Harry Potter sleeps. He is beautiful...and broken. And I find it amazing how he looks almost otherworldly...he *is* almost otherworldly. I grieve for him, and those we have lost. I grieve for Malfoy, of all people...and for my sister.

I finally put him into his bed and forbid all others to enter his room until he has risen. Harry Potter will go on...because he is a strong man. Because he is a good man. I can only pray that my children can know someone so strong and unbreakable as he is. He is our sacrifice...and when the time comes...if the time comes...I will give my life for him.

Because he is a strong man. Because he is a good man.

Because he is our saving grace.

END

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Don't say I didn't warn you.