And All Was Right With The World

He still looked the same. The same youthful, boyish looks that had won him much squealing and cooing from girls in school were still there. So what was this missing feeling, this hollow screaming inside Draco telling him to get away, that something was terribly wrong?

Maybe the rumors weren't just rumors, after all.

The eyes. Once so startlingly green and full of life, they seemed to have lost something, a spark of life perhaps, to the years. They were still dark and unfathomable, and just as easy to drown in, to lose yourself, perhaps never to return. They used to make Draco claustrophobic, and he used to hate having to look into them, going to bed everyday, fearing having to lock eyes with his rival again when the sun rose.

In fact, they still had the same effect.

"You haven't changed at all, Draco." He smiled, every bit still the Boy Wonder of old. The light reflected off his glasses oddly, made his eyes look vacant, hollow. Draco suppressed a shiver.

"You have. So how are the publicity sessions? What do they call you now? The Boy Who Lived And Saved the World As Well?" Draco tried to call up some memory of old, bantering in the corridors of Hogwarts, maybe. It didn't come. Only the smothering sea of green.

Harry chuckled. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, sounding eerily like the laughter of unfriendly spirits that would sometimes haunt the dungeons of the Malfoy manor.

"You're not very up to date on the news, are you?" He brushed his fringe aside with a pale and spidery hand. The scar was still there, a permanent reminder that would never fade, but now it had a burnt and charred look, the lighting shape blackened.

It was an unfamiliar and unnerving sight. Draco opened his month to retort, but found no suitable words coming forth. He tried again, valiantly ignoring the look of amusement flirting across Harry's eyes. "Did you try to get it removed or what?" He winced mentally at the words, weak and pathetic even to his own ears. Looked at Harry, looked away. Put his hands up. "Okay, fine. That was bad. You've caught me at bad form. I can't exactly keep up to date with the new in a coma, you know. I'm not you."

Harry sighed. Let his hand fall. "You should read the Prophet. Especially Rita's new articles. Might find something to amuse you in there."

"What's wrong? Shock horror. Is she not singing your praises loudly enough?" Draco sneered, but inside he was getting tired of this game, and his curiosity was on the rise.

"Draco, please. I haven't got time for this." His eyes hardened, looking into Draco's with sudden intensity. "Do you know how Voldemort was defeated?" He held up a hand before Draco could speak. "Ok, you don't because you were lying in a Volde-induced coma."

"Trying to save your dad from Voldemort by jumping in front of him. I didn't know you had it in you, Draco." His eyes seem to look through Draco with ease. Draco fidgeted in his bed. This was getting uncomfortable.

"Thanks. Just for that, I thought you were going to get yourself killed very slowly, very painfully too." He bit back the rest, wanting to hear more.

"I almost did. I still don't know if what I did was right. I-" Harry's words were cut off abruptly. His eyes clouded over with something that might have been pain. Draco sucked in a breath as he felt the room's temperature drop. His clothing suddenly seemed no longer adequate, an unearthly chill penetrating his bones.

He knew what to expect before the door slid open. A terror cloaked in black robes. But here, in a hospital? In the new Voldemort-free world?

Harry stood up. "I have to go now. They-" He gestured to the pair of Dementors - "don't like to be kept waiting. Bye, Draco. Come visit me sometime." He sat there, numb with shock, staring at the Dementors, then Harry and back again.

"Oh, here. Might be entertaining to you." And with that, the Boy Who Lived of old turned and walked away, the Dementors flanking him like escorts would a king, or wardens would their prisoner.

Draco looked down at the newspaper that Harry had deposited in his lap. It was a year-old copy of the Prophet. The headline read The Boy Who Lived Gets Life Sentence In Azkaban for Use of the Dark Arts In Defeating He Who Must Not Be Named.

The clanking of manacles resounded down the corridors, the only rewards for the Boy Who Once Lived.

The End