And We All Fall Down

Voldemort may be dead but the battle's not over yet. Students, teachers, friends and enemies are still fighting for their lives on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The battle rages; Death Eaters are fighting members of the Order, classmates are fighting classmates, and brothers are fighting brothers.

...Ring around the roses...

I move through them all, taking down as many as I can, but not stopping to see if I missed. Through the field of fallen corpses and fallen wounded, I look for someone. A glimpse of a white mask or a flash of blonde hair is all I need. I find myself hoping that he is not dead yet, but I don't know if that's because I wish to be the one to kill him or not. Do I want him dead? Do I really want to be the one to take his life away? Am I -

"Potter!"

...A pocket full of posies...

Suddenly, I am dragged out of my thoughts and I spin around by the sound of my name; of that voice, and I come face to face with the one I have been looking for. For a moment, relief floods through me at the fact that he is standing there, alive, in one piece and unhurt.

And then relief is replaced by anger as I remember what he has done. How he brought Death Eaters to the Welcoming Feast of our seventh year. How he tried to kill Dumbledore. How he killed many of my friends not an hour ago. How he has torn my life apart with a wave of his wand.

...Ashes, ashes...

Simultaneously, as if with one mind, we draw our wands at each other and scream those terrible, merciless words:

"AVADA -"

--

We're in the robe shop on Diagon Alley. You ask me about Quidditch and I display ignorance. You ask me what house I think I'll be in and I say I don't know. You insult Hagrid, my half-giant guide and I do nothing - you've obviously grown up in this world that I have just stumbled into, so who am I to contradict you? Your robes are now fitted and you hop down off the stool, telling me you hope to see me at Hogwarts. I reply with the same.

We're in the Entrance Hall now and I'm standing near Ron Weasley, a read-headed boy I met on the train, and you're sandwiched between two large boys who unpleasantly remind me of my cousin. You announce yourself to me, tell me your name again and offer your hand. I am polite. I shake it. You talk to me for a few more minutes, insult Weasley in a vicious manner that I completely ignore before a strict looking woman beckons us out of the drafty hall.

I am sitting on a stall in front of the entire school with a ridiculously old and battered hat on my head who insists on muttering nonsense in my ear. You've already been through this and have moved over to the table under a green banner - Slytherin, just like you said. The hat is still talking to me, but I am ignoring it, preferring to study the magnificent large hall. It prattles on about Gryffindor, where Weasley told me all his family were, and Slytherin where you are. I don't argue with the hat, not wanting to be drawn into its strange conversation, and feel nothing when it puts me into Slytherin. You wave and beckon me, talking a mile a minute about how you knew I'd end up with you. You were right again.

It's the day after the Halloween feast, of our first year, and the headmaster announces that a first year student, Hermione Granger, is in a coma at St. Mungo's after being attacked by a troll last night. You laugh and say the Mudblood deserved it and I frown. You've used that word before and know I don't agree. When I found out what it meant we argued in our dormitory and in the common room numerous times about this idea of the purity of blood, but you are adamant that purebloods are superior - your father told you as much, so it must be true.

You continue to spout off the word "Mudblood" all year, especially when Gryffindor wins the house-cup.

The duelling club of our second year is an eye-opener for us both. You show how well your father taught you the Dark Arts, and I show the school I am a Parselmouth, immediately making me Public-Enemy Number-One. The year progresses quickly and a rash of muggleborns disappear, which puts me in a bit of a mood. I truly believed that I was getting through to you on the pureblood issues, and then this happens and all my work is undone.

Ginny Weasley, a first year and younger sister of the boy I met on my first train ride to Hogwarts, was possessed by Voldemort; Dumbledore tells us all at the leaving feast. However, she was saved by the teachers just in time so no harm done. You clap for them and her half-heartedly, not really caring about the family of "blood traitors". I sigh, wondering if I could just memory charm all that your father taught you out of your pretty blonde head.

Our third year comes with many things: the news that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban and that you are dating the pug-nosed Pansy Parkinson. You spend so much of your time with her at first that I rarely see you, but eventually the infatuation ends and you confess to me that you only began dating her because your mothers set you up. You really think she's "kind of yucky".

The Gryffindork's portrait has been slashed and now we have to spend the night sleeping in the Great Hall. You and I spend the night, curled in our purple sleeping bags, talking about everything and anything, and, despite the hour, I don't think that I have ever seen you as passionate or as lively as you are right now. There is lightness to your voice and a glimmer in your eyes that I am sure is reflected in mine. Tonight is the first time that I have seen you smile - truly smile, not that patented Malfoy smirk.

Fourth year brings with in yet another Defence against the Dark Art's teacher, the Triwizard Tournament and something very unwelcome that I could never share with you. Something I am sure that if I told you, it would make you turn on me faster than a Firebolt: I like you.

As in, more-than-a-friend like you.

I realised it during the summer before school started. I realised that I had felt this way since that night in Great Hall, but had ignored it. You occupy my thoughts in a way that you never have before, but I can't tell you through fear of losing you.

Someone has entered my name in the Triwizard Tournament. I worry that you think I did it for the fame or the glory, but you don't ever say anything. You just tell me that I had better win or you will hit me with my Firebolt.

I come out of the First Task triumphant with just a small burn on my arm and you come up to me looking pale and worried. You could have been killed, you say. I smile. I wasn't, I reply, but you still look shaken and for some odd reason, I find hope in your manner.

The Yule Ball is upon us and I am dancing with my date - an older Slytherin girl - but I am not looking at her. I am watching you. You who is dancing entirely too close with Pansy. You who has your hand placed very low in the small of her back. You who has never looked more elegant and beautiful as you do tonight. I find myself wishing that I was in Pansy's place, but dismiss the thought quickly as you turn around and catch me staring at you.

You're not that stupid. You'd never fall for your best friend.

They've taken what "I'd miss most" and hidden it in the bottom of the lake. I scan the grounds and stands and realise that you are missing, put two and two together and I almost forget to wait for the whistle. You could be drowning down there! You could be dying, and I am standing around on the surface, realising that I don't like like you - I love you. Just like that the thought of losing you makes me realise just how much I need you.

There is no hesitation between the starting cue and my entrance into the murky water. I have never been a strong swimmer but I doubt even the muggle Olympians could keep up with me now. It takes me a total of fifty dead Grindelow's, two oh-so-subtly-threatened-with-the-point-of-my-wand Mermaids and thirteen minutes to find you. I am the first one back to the surface with my "treasure" in my arms, but have to hand you over to Madam Pomphrey as the Gillyweed still hasn't worn off. I am cursing myself six ways from Sunday for not being by your side when you wake up.

After the event, when you work out why you were taken, you say that if you were entered in the contest instead of me, you're sure they would have taken me. "After all, you are my best friend." Yes, I say, heartbroken, best friend.

I remain slightly distant from you for the rest of the year, not wanting to be reminded of what I can never have. However, its ten minutes before the third task and you come and wish me luck and spontaneously hug me too. It's such an out-of-character thing for you to do and I can't help but let it bring back a shred of my waning hope.

Throughout the maze, the port-key ride and the duel with Voldemort, only one conscious thought runs through my head: I have to get out of here, to see you, to hug you and never let you go. I see your father lined up with Voldemort, but it doesn't surprise me as much as I thought it would. It just makes me all the more determined to not let you follow his path.

I grab the cup and transport the dead body of the other Hogwarts Champion, Diggory, back to the site of the maze. Dumbledore stares at me as I tell him what happened with Voldemort, how Diggory died, and I am sure he is wondering if I killed him in revenge or something petty like that, but I refuse to let myself care. All I want to see is your face, your beautiful face, but I can't find you anywhere.

There is a half-hearted award ceremony announcing me as the overall champion, but I pay it no mind. Where are you? Why aren't you here for me? I need you. I just had to see a boy die - I can't pretend we were close. The first thing you told me is that Slytherins and Hufflepuffs don't mix - and I need you with me.

As soon as I can, I tear off back up to the castle; fly through the dungeon corridors and storm into the Slytherin Common Room shouting your name. I rush up the stairs to our dormitory, and stop suddenly in the doorway. You are sitting on my bed, staring blankly at the wall. I ask you where you were, but you don't answer. I ask you what's wrong, but you ignore me and keep looking at the wall. I sit down on the bed gently, so as not to startle you, and choose to wait with you until you are ready to talk.

Eventually, you begin to speak in a quiet and distant voice. You tell me how when I grabbed the Cup with Diggory and disappeared out of the maze, Dumbledore told the school what had happened. You told me that you had overheard mutterings in the darkest corners of the Common Room about how the Dark Lord would be back and you guessed what happened during my absence.

You turn away from the wall and fix me with a desperate stare and I find that no matter how hard I try, I cannot look away. Was my father there, you ask me.

I want to say no, deny that I ever saw him, because I know that the real answer could break you, but you take my hesitation as a yes and break down in tears. This is the first time I have seen you cry and I am not sure what to do. Do I hug you, or is that too invasive? Do I pat you on the shoulder and say "there, there", or is that too unsympathetic of me? You soon decide for yourself as you shift up the bed and place your head in my lap, holding on to my leg, sobbing quietly. I stroke your hair and murmur that everything will be okay, even though I know inside that it won't be. How could it?

The summer passed in a series of owled letters and a quick meeting at Diagon Alley, but we're back at school again and something in you has changed. Before, you were talkative and outspoken, a leader among the younger Slytherin year groups. Now you are quiet and withdrawn and you no longer take an active role in antagonising the Gryffindors.

You told me during the summer that after Voldemort's re-birth your father had not been at home at much and that you missed him. I pretended to feel bad that he was neglecting you, but inside I was jumping for joy. Over the past few years I had tried to get you to rethink your ideals on blood superiority and during the school year, it usually worked. However, after every summer holiday you would come back to school with fresh ideas and insults in your head and I knew exactly why: your father. Perhaps now I would have a proper chance to show you that blood has nothing to do with anything.

While you came back from this summer depressed, you also came back looking better than ever. You've lost the child-like features and have grown into your beautifully angular and defined face. You're taller and those wiry muscles that you obtained from Quidditch work-outs are starting to show. Your head may be a mess, but you've never looked better to me.

As is standard at Hogwarts, we've got a new Defence teacher - an ugly toad woman called Umbridge - but this one seems to be starting a war against those who believe that Voldemort is back; mainly me. I spend night after night in detention with her, writing lines using a blood quill. In a sick way, I look forward to these detentions as afterwards I go back to the dorm and find you waiting for me, ready to help me soak my hand in a Murtlap solution that you concocted for me. Those evenings you rant about how you want to kill her for hurting "your Harry". Those evenings I can pretend that you love me like I love you.

Pansy is still hanging around you, dangling on your arm like an ugly piece of jewellery, but you take no interest in her anymore. You ignore her and most of our Slytherin classmates, distancing yourself from them in a way you never have before. We spend night after night having hushed conversations under the covers of one of our bed, away from the ears of the other boys, about Voldemort, the war and our parts in it. Before, you would have said that you would follow your father, but now you don't seem so sure. You wonder whether murder in the name of blood is right and I try and reinforce those thoughts, try and get you to think for yourself and not for your father.

It's not until the end of our fifth year that you finally makeup your mind and decide that you don't want to be a slave to the Dark Lord; that you want to be your own person and not cater to anyone's whims except your own. My heart swells with pride as I think about what you are saying. However, I tell you that you shouldn't go spouting off your allegiance to the light side when you go back during the summer, in fear for your life. You tell me not to worry, that you'd sort something out.

And you do.

It's my sixteenth birthday and I am sitting on my bed at Privet Drive opening presents from my Slytherin friends, when I see your owl fly through the window. I drop the half-opened present in my hands and rush towards it, nearly snatching the letter out of the animal's mouth. I rip open the envelope and read the words inside. There are only 3 words.

"Three. Two. One."

I feel a tugging at my navel and I realise that your letter was a port-key, and I panic because the last port-key I took was to Voldemort and my wand is still in my trunk. As the ride comes to an abrupt end, I immediately scan the area to see where I am: a plain, non-descript apartment. No graveyard, no Voldemort, no Death Eaters. I relax a fraction and take another look around. This time I notice you leaning up against a door frame, smirking at me. Then you bound over and hug me tightly, chuckling and telling me that I looked like a right prat crouching down on the floor, wide eyed and ready to pounce. I laugh too, but mine is out of relief and out of the joy of seeing you.

You drag me to the sofa and tell me how you went home for a week, just to organise some things, and then one night, while everyone else was asleep, you took all your stuff and crept out of the house, fleeing to the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley where you waited out the night until Gringotts opened the next morning. When it did, you emptied out your vault into a different, secret one and bought an apartment in the middle of muggle London, where you were sure your father would never think to look for you. He hasn't found you so far.

We lounge about all day, and you ask me to stay the night. I point out that there is only one bed and you scoff at me, reminding me of all those times at Hogwarts where we would talk under the covers and fall asleep before remembering to move back into our own beds. I laugh it off and agree, but inside I am as nervous as hell. How could I be that close to you and pretend that I feel nothing for you? How could I survive the night? We climb into bed, myself a little hesitantly, and talk about inconsequential things before we fall asleep.

I wake up to find an arm wrapped around my waist.

I relax into the embrace, snuggling down, before realising who exactly is beside me, and tense up. I must have woken you up, as you mumble something about relaxing, and tighten your grip on me. I spend the next hour barely breathing, trying to calm down and control the reactions in a certain part of my body. Finally, you wake up and flash me a tired smile before dashing into the bathroom to relieve yourself, never knowing what you had been doing to me.

The rest of the summer follows a similar pattern. Every few days you send me a port-key-letter at the Dursley's and I spend the night with you, against you, in bed. It's not until the end of August that something happens. Something that I will remember for the rest of my life.

I wake up from the most beautiful dream. You were there, sitting with your head and shoulders across my lap, both sit under the old willow tree listening as I read a book of Muggle folklore out loud. Your head was turned slightly away from me, facing out over the gardens where a little boy - no older than five - has hovering on a miniature broomstick. If I had looked carefully, I would have seen the words Firebolt Mini Extreme written on the side.

The boy had black, untidy hair which didn't seem to fit his aristocratic and sharp face. His eyes were what intrigued me the most; a mix of vibrant green and stony grey so distinctive that could only mean one possible conclusion. This boy on the child's broom is our son. Yours. Mine. Ours.

I continue reading out loud, but I am not looking at the book anymore. I am watching you watching our son. Your lips are formed into a soft, quiet smile and I want to reach down and kiss them. Just as I am about to, another voice moves through the spacious gardens.

"Daddy! Come look what I can do!" the boy calls.

I lean down to you and whisper "Go on, Daddy, go and see your son." You kiss me chastely on the lips and whisper back."

"He's your son too, Papa."

The dream ends there and automatically, as if it were something I do everyday, I roll over so that I am face to face with you and kiss you on the lips. Then, realising what I had just done, I pull back in horror.

What did I just do?

Oh God, oh God, oh God, becomes my new mantra and I must repeat it a million times both in my head and out loud before I realise that you are awake and smirking at me. In my hurry to get away from you, to protect myself from your disgusted rant, I get twisted up in the bed sheets and end up on the floor beside the bed, unable to free my legs.

I hear a muffled snickering and I look up slowly, fearful of your rejection. Instead, I see you leaning over the edge of the bed, mouth buried in what remains of the sheets so as to try and quiet your laughter. Your eyes, which are focused on mine, are bright and full of your laughter. I stare into them, expecting to see a flicker of hate or disgust, but I see none.

After an eternity of staring and laughing and worrying, you sigh and tell me to get back up on the bed and give you a proper good morning kiss.

Boys don't faint, so I collapse into unconsciousness. Not the same thing.

For the rest of the summer, I don't bother to go back to Privet Drive. I stay with you, in your -our - bed, wearing your clothes and sharing your toothbrush. We go out on a trip to Diagon Alley, both feeling very nervous about it, but for different reasons. You are worried your father and mother, or one of their associates will see you and drag you back home. I am worried for a different, more selfish reason. We decided not to hide the fact that we are together, but what will people say when they see us holding hands or sharing a kiss? Will they point or stare? Will they shout things at us and chase us away from the Alley? I already stand out from the crowd - my scar makes sure of that - but now I just have one other reason to show the world how not normal I am, and it makes me scared.

We are outside of the Leaky Cauldron when you notice my quiet and slightly glazed eyes. You pull me into the shadows where we can't be seen. "Are you sure you want to be open about this? We can wait." You ask me, and I suddenly feel guilty as I know you said you didn't think we should be ashamed of each other. Shaking my head, I tell you no, I don't want to wait. I've waited long enough. With a quick kiss, we walk into the dingy pub hand in hand and heads held high. There are a few whispers and points, but most of the inhabitants are too drunk to see past their beer or mead.

We pass through the pub and into the Alley and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Step one is over and bearable. I look up and see that the Wizarding shopping centre is full of parents, children, shopkeepers and other magical people. I panic. We've jumped from stage two to twenty-two and I can't do it! I move to turn back, and a hand squeezes my own. I look down to see that your hand is still firmly grasped in mine and refuses to let go. Taking a deep breathe, I nod sharply just once and march up into the Alley, pulling a smug looking you along behind me.

When I first stepped into Diagon Alley, I think I over estimated the attention span of the shopping witches and wizards - people looked at us, but not one of them said anything mean or made a threatening gesture. Most of them smiled at us and got on with their business. Maybe the Wizarding World is more accepting than the Muggle world when it comes to these sorts of things. Who knew.

We get to the station exceptionally early on September first, about two hours before the train is due to leave. We find a secluded compartment that's closer to the Gryffindor end of the train than the Slytherin end, stash our trunks in the overhead luggage rack, lock the door and cast an obscuring charm over the windows. We sit down, my head in your lap and your fingers running through my hair, and talk about the year ahead of us, about who is going to be our next defence teacher and, slightly morbidly, who is going to be the next student to die. You nominate that annoying Creevy boy from Gryffindork, because you figure someone in his house is going to wise up to the picture-taking-pervert and kill him with his own camera. I laugh and agree. The boy is a little voyeuristic.

We are sitting down at our table in the Great Hall, listening to Dumbledore talk about how he failed to get the teacher he wanted for Defence this year - Professor Slughorn - so he's going to teach it himself. We snicker together as Snape's scowl deepens and he sends a look of intense dislike at Dumbledore.

Our relationship progresses throughout the year, with us 'stepping it up a notch' during the Christmas holidays, which we spend at school with only a handful of other students, none of them Slytherins. From there, it progresses into some carnal need to have each other whenever and wherever we can get away with. Students say things to us, nasty, cruel, derogatory things that they believe will hurt us, or cause us to see the 'error of our wicked ways', but they never do. I don't think anything anyone could say would make me see the 'error' of you. In the broom closets, over Headmaster Dumbledore's favourite chair, under the Quidditch stands, on Professor McGonagall's desk, you have never felt anything but right to me.

Teachers frown upon our 'affiliation', as Professor Snape called it once, but they never do anything to stop us. I don't think there is anything they can do. You are Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding World, and I am Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord, Saviour of All That is Good and Holy. How exactly do you go about telling two people of our stature, that they can't have something they want? You don't, you just frown and pretend it doesn't exist. It works for McGooglies.

The end of our sixth year comes with a death that surprised everyone, including the eternally-cynical you. We had known for years that Snape was a spy for Dumbledore, but who knew that he was actively playing both sides? Who knew that he was so far into his role that he would just go ahead and kill Dumbledore, just to cover up for an incapable Pansy? You laugh when you hear that she had tried and failed to kill the Headmaster. "All tits, no courage," you say.

It's with a sombre tone that the student body heads to the train. Most of the student body. Never having spent much time around Dumbledore, you and I don't really care one way or another. The only lamentable thing about his death, I say, is that the Wizarding World has lost a genius, and you agree with: "At least the Sherbet Lemons will be safe!" I think the whole student body is wondering how we can laugh at a time like this.

We are back at the apartment where we spent the summer before sixth year. I don't even bother to spend a single day at the Dursley's. What's the point? I know they don't miss me and I sure as hell don't miss them - they'd take a rather harsh attitude to the fact that I am sleeping with another boy and I have no wish to spend a second listening to them announce to the world how I am 'an unnatural little freak', and a 'fucking queer fairy'. No, I have everything I could possibly want right here with me. Well, maybe not right here. I do still need to pop down to the Chemist for a few supplies before tonight's festivities get the go-ahead...

You turned seventeen on the fifth of June, and now it's my turn. You wake me up with a little more than our usual good morning kiss. You then rush off out of the room only to return with a fully laden breakfast tray in one hand and a small present in the other hand. You won't let me open it until we eat the breakfast you made especially for me. You watch me eat it and I try not to grimace as I choke down a piece of blackened toast and a slice of undercooked bacon, trying not to destroy your pride with a single suggestion that we really should look into getting a house-elf. After breakfast is washed down with a rather large glass of Pumpkin juice, you vanish the tray and hand me your present. It's not much, you say, but I disagree. Anything you chose to give me is special. I tear the wrapping off the small box and look at it in confusion. It's a small, black velvet box.

One synonymous with an engagement ring.

I gasp and stutter over my words, not knowing how to deal with the magnitude if the issue in front of me. A massive thing contained in such a small box. You take it out of my shaking hands and kneel at the foot of the bed, facing me. You tell me that I have made you feel things you have never felt before, never been allowed to, and that you never want that to stop. You know we are too young for it to happen right away, but you are prepared to wait, you say. Wait until we are out of Hogwarts, until we are free to conduct our lives away for the scrutiny and disapproving faces of fifteen-hundred peers. You stumble over the next few words, but I know that you mean them, and I say yes.

Yes, yes, oh Gods, YES!

You look up from the bedspread, to whom you were addressing the whole speech, shocked and startled by my vehement reply. It takes a few minute for my answer to sink in, but I know when it does. Your face breaks out into a smile of relief, of love, of passion and of joy. You scramble up the bed and kiss me. On the face. On the neck. Everywhere you can put your lips. I laugh at your antics and then not-so-subtly clear my throat. Once again, you look up, startled out of your worship of my left nipple. I think you may have forgotten something, I say. You frown and look constipated as you try and remember what you forgot and I take pity on you by waggling my left hand and looking pointedly at the little black box you still have clutched in your fist. I smirk as you fumble with it, rapidly opening it, taking out the platinum ring inside and placing it on the correct finger. We seal it with a kiss.

I'll have to pop down to the jewellers later on today and get you a ring too.

Just like last summer, we spend the day before our return to Hogwarts in Diagon Alley shopping for school stuff. This year, however, I am not afraid of people looking at us weirdly, or saying things about us. If they do, I just run my hand through my hair. Showing off both my infamous scar and the engagement ring on my finger, daring them to say anything. You snicker whenever I do this, and grab my hand away from my hair, telling me that if I keep doing that my hair will start to fall out and that you refuse to marry anyone whose hairline recedes before they hit their twenties. Despite all my apparent 'showing off', I notice that at shop counters, you hand over the money with your left hand. Your left hand, on which is the solid platinum engagement ring that I gave you the same day you gave me mine.

We step into Hogwarts, heading towards the Great Hall for our final Welcoming Feast and a sense of nostalgia washes over me. This is it. Our last year of school. Our last year of classes, homework, Quidditch and sex in forbidden places; before we have to go out into the world and make our mark. Well, I suppose we have already made our mark, being who we are, but that just means we have to make newer, bigger, better ones.

You squeeze my hand during the feast, and look at me with that knowing smirk, as if you can tell exactly what I am thinking. From your face I realise that it doesn't matter if Hogwarts comes to an end because you'll still be here.

Simultaneously, as if with one mind, we grab at each others hand and whisper those beautiful, undeniable words:

"I love yo-"

--

"-KEDAVRA!"

...And we all fall down.