missing his fated kairos

"...I think... no. I know I was in love with you. I believe I still am." Draco whispered softly, not daring to look towards Harry who was leaning against the wall on his right. It was all pretend, of course. Harry Potter was dead. He was a ghost and he could easily phase through the wall if he wanted to – except he didn’t. He wanted to play at being alive. A game of make pretend so cruel that Draco didn’t have the strength to criticise him. Harry wouldn't look at him either, staring towards the sky. Towards the sun he'd never feel against his skin again. Thinking about the rain he would never have to hide from ever again. The thunderstorms he'd never have to fear. Not anymore. He had his arms crossed over his chest defensively – as if he was barely holding himself together. In contrast, Draco was crouched with his back against the wall, just one reply away from sliding down to sit on the cold stone floor of the gazebo they were inside of.

"You should have told me sooner." Harry responded sombrely. Draco let himself fall on the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and burying his face between them. He really should. If he had, then maybe, just maybe, Harry wouldn't have hesitated. He wouldn't have hesitated during the final battle. He wouldn't have hesitated to shoot that killing curse or any other spell at Voldemort. But, because the Wizarding World has taken and taken and taken from him without ever giving him anything back, Harry hesitated. Voldemort didn’t.

Voldemort had tried to kill Harry thrice in 18 years. Third time’s the charm, as they say.

Harry's body had hit the ground and, for once, he didn’t get up. Voldemort had rejoiced. His Death Eaters had rejoiced. The Light side was desensitized to this grief after experiencing Harry’s death earlier, so they didn't hesitate to strike back. All of them shot some kind of spell towards Voldemort. Nobody knew whose Killing Spell was the one that got him, but it didn't matter. Voldemort was gone, most of the Death Eaters still left alive were apprehended and Harry Potter could finally rest. He could finally pass to the other side and be reunited with his loved ones.

Except, that was not the case.

Draco Malfoy has been able to see ghosts ever since he was born. It was not his mother's face who first greeted him once he opened his eyes to look at the world he had been born into. It was one of the previous Healers' who had worked at the Mansion and had died from a dreadful, face-melting curse shot her way. Her whole face had been blown off – an eye still hanging off of its optic nerve and half her skull bones protruding through her skin and muscles which were barely hanging off her decaying face. Upon his arrival into this brave new world, baby Draco cried himself to dehydration and he eventually fainted when neither of his parents managed to console him. He survived that encounter and the ones following it. He got used to the ghosts roaming the Malfoy estate after a few years of learning which hallways to avoid, which rooms to board shut and when to wisely stay locked up in his room.

He got used to being the only one seeing them as well – although that had been a particularly awkward discussion he had had with his parents, asking them if they saw the weird-looking, bat-like child hanging upside down form their living room ceiling. The empty sockets where its eyes should have been were still tracking Draco’s every movement as he tried to convince his parents something was really there. All Draco learned from that momentary lapse in judgement – to be perfectly fair, he was 11 years old and terrified of the dark – was to never tell his parents about the ghosts inside the Manor ever again. Not unless he wanted another long visit to St. Mungo’s – they found nothing wrong with him, of course. Draco had to tell his parents that it was his imaginary friend sneaking around the Manor to get back off his back. The visionless child followed him around for another month before it suddenly disappeared. Draco didn’t go looking for it, he wasn’t an idiot, but he often found himself wanting to ask who it was haunting now. Regardless, he hasn't had a visceral reaction to the ghosts demanding his attention ever since.

Of course, that changed when he met Harry Potter at Madam Malkin's – so many things changed when Harry Potter forced his way into his life. There were four ghosts following the Boy who Lived. Two of them were definitely his parents. They were so young, though, that Draco felt unsure for a brief moment, but their resemblance was uncanny. The other two looked just like Harry's father, so Draco assumed they were Harry's paternal grandparents. They were covered in smoking pustules, so Draco judged that some kind of pox killed them – dragon pox, perhaps? Harry's parents looked fine save for their translucency and ability to float. They were supposedly both killed by Unforgivables, but there was no way for Draco to confirm their cause of death. They looked exhausted as they endlessly watched over their son. Exhausted, but smiling ever-so-slightly. Draco had to wonder then what Harry had gone through for his ghostly parents to appear so drained. He found out sooner rather than later when Harry’s mother made a comment about him finally getting new clothes and his own proper belongings – things he could possessively call ‘his’, nothing second-hand or worn down. That he'll have his own bed to sleep in, his own room, not just a cupboard under the stairs. Draco was queasy that entire day. He did his best to appear as bigoted as any other pureblood so Harry could hate him as quickly as possible and stay far, far away from him. Him and his family of ghosts. Draco didn't puke his guts out, but, that day, he had been very close.

"I should have. Maybe then you wouldn't have let him kill you." Draco whispered brokenly, not daring to face Harry as he made that accusation. He heard a shuffle of sorts – not of clothes, but something similar to wind-blown, rustling leaves – and, then, he felt an unnatural chill overwhelming the entirety of his right side. That alerted him to the fact that Harry had sat down next to him, their shoulders, arms and thighs brushing against each other. Over all the years of seeing and – very rarely – interacting with ghosts, Draco had found out that they couldn’t physically interact with the realm of the living. However, their presence could be sensed through the unnaturally low temperature they exuded.

"I don't know if that would have helped." Harry confessed quietly, making Draco turn his head slightly to sneak a peek towards him. Harry was still looking up at the sky, his elbows leaning on his knees and his hands hanging awkwardly in front of him. His back was pressed rigidly against the wall – because, if he didn’t focus, he’d just phase through the wall. Right. Those thoughts distracted Draco for only a couple moments. Afterwards, Draco found that he wanted to grab Harry and throw him into the Great Lake. Grab him and shake him until he came back to his senses. Maybe hug him tightly and, perhaps, kiss him – just once. Just to see what it would feel like. That helped him arrive to a rather depressing conclusion.

"If you don't believe love can save you, the world is doomed." Draco's exhausted voice gave out at the last word, his emotions overwhelming him. All the terrifying ghosts he had met throughout his life – neither of those experiences could compare to how daunting sitting next to Harry felt now. Now that he was dead and Draco, miraculously, was very much alive. What a terrible ending. The good guy dying and the bad guy living. If only Draco could delight in being alive… it all felt meaningless, however. All of those sacrifices – to what end? Harry glanced at him, catching Draco staring back unabashedly. He froze, not knowing what to do except for meeting his gaze head on.

"Love can save just about anyone... but it can also doom you. I've loved and lost far too many people to be able to live any longer. To be forced to love and lose again. Repeating that experience would have inevitably killed me even if Voldemort hadn't."

Draco gulped before he decided to dive right into it. It's not like either of them had anything better to do. He and his mother were on house arrest at the Malfoy Manor until the date for their trials was decided. Draco knew it was only a matter of time. Soon enough, the slightly-less-corrupt-than-before Ministry and its Aurors would come knocking at their door. Demanding they be judged under the heavy stares of what was left of the crumbling Wizarding World. Speaking of…

Draco really wanted to ask Harry why he was here. After all, ghosts tended to stick to their loved ones' side – to the people they most regretted leaving behind. Lily Evans, James Potter, his grandparents, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were all sitting behind Harry when he duelled Voldemort. A few Weasley twins stuck to the still living conglomerate of Weasleys. Bellatrix stuck to Voldemort's side until he died. She then appeared by Narcissa's side alongside Andromeda – Draco didn’t know much about her. Just that she had tried to run away from home to marry a muggleborn but was ultimately caught and killed. They showed her no mercy – not even the mercy of a quick death. Her entire body was cut apart into long strips which had been sewn back together with strands of her once luscious hair. As she haunted Narcissa, what was left of her hair clung to her scalp in jagged, uneven patches, as if someone had pulled it out rather than cut it. Draco wouldn't have been surprised if he was told they killed her using some sort of Muggle torture because of her love for them. He tried not to look at her that much, however. She looked too young and too exhausted – even for a dead person.

"Walk me through it." Draco asked him – it definitely sounded as if he was begging him to share his life’s story, his death’s story. It was a cruel joke, really. Draco had begged his mother to tell him everything was a bad dream. That he’d wake up and Harry would be alive and victorious. That he’d grin menacingly his way and Draco would gather enough of his dwindling strength to sneer his way. That had been the only guaranteed way to get a reaction out of Harry during their school years. Draco had clung to that vile attitude desperately – it was the only way Harry would acknowledge him as an equal. A rival. A something. A someone. Draco curled even more tightly into himself, trying not to let his pathetic, attention-seeking self come back. He was too tired to entertain any notion of sneering or playing the bad guy anymore. Draco wanted everything to stop. He was tired. He wanted to rest. Eternally, if possible. Harry watched him for a few seconds, not bothering to outright reject Draco’s demand. Perhaps he too had had enough fighting. Here, they didn’t need to be good or bad or any other adjective related to morality. They could be… them. Just Harry and Draco. They could simply exist in Draco's back garden and admire their surroundings. The stone path they were sitting on. The arched ceiling above them. The sky stretching out to meet the vast fields at the furthest edge of the horizon.

"It's going to be a long story."

"I have time."

"Do you?"

Draco looked at him confused. Examined him closely. Harry looked tense for a reason Draco didn't understand. Has he found out something before he decided to stick to Draco's side? Harry hadn't been with him since the beginning. Since the end. Since his death. He had stayed by Weasley's and Granger's side until the battle ended – Draco left after that, hand in hand with his mother, but he had assumed Harry wouldn’t leave their side. He almost pissed himself when he ran into Harry today. Literally ran through him, jumped back like a frightened cat and made Harry flinch as he too took a few steps back himself. Needless to say, it had been pretty awkward to explain that yes, Draco could see him and yes, it felt terribly revolting to walk through Harry.

Draco wasn't sure if Harry had visited anyone else before appearing by Draco's side this morning, making Draco choke on his gulp of water - and poorly hide his reaction from the surprised ghost. He had tried to avoid him, not to make it obvious that he could see him, but that charade ended when Draco overreacted after walking through him. Harry looked one sentence away from having a mental breakdown when Draco asked him what he was doing here after they ran into each other. His expression had returned to a numb neutrality by the time Draco walked to his back garden and decided to sit inside one of the gazebos as he figured out how to converse with the Boy who Died.

"Why are you here?" Draco asked him wearily once again. It was impossible for the Harry Potter to have regrets about Draco, Draco's stupid love confession aside. It's not like Harry returned his feelings. At most, he had looked thoughtful about Draco's emotions. Not interested. More like he was analysing a particularly complicated spell, trying to understand how to cast it. Draco was fairly sure Potter was straight anyway. Weaslette aside, everyone knew he and Chang kissed. (Even if Harry’s reaction to his confession had been odd – Draco had expected disgust and hatred, not quiet contemplation.) It had been a long shot anyway, but Draco was doing his best to avoid adding to his never-ending list of regrets. He already had quite a very short time to fix as many of them as he could - adding to the list was counterproductive. He couldn't allow himself to lose this opportunity. Still, that begged the reoccurring question. What was this about? Why was Harry here? Why did he visit Draco of all people?

Harry didn't answer him, choosing to look at the daffodils blooming alongside the paved pathways. They were currently inside of a small gazebo which consisted in a curved roof over their heads and two translucid walls, similar to a tunnel. Harry was sitting next to Draco, by the edge of one of the walls, so it was easy for him to lean sideways to caress one of the blooms. His fingers went right through it, but he didn't seem affected by it. He actually looked used to it. It hadn’t even been that long since his death and yet Harry was acting as if he had been dead for 12 years, not 12 weeks.

"Walk me through it." Draco asked him again and, this time, Harry sighed in defeat before looking over at him. "What of it?" Draco didn't hesitate. "All of it." His answer made Harry sketch a ghost of a smile, but it was gone in the next second. He didn’t meet Draco’s eyes as he spoke. "You were there for most of it. You might get bored." Draco shook his head as he straightened himself, mimicking Harry’s position as he leaned his back against the wall. "I won't be." He promised rather pathetically, wiping at his eyes to get rid of any unshed tears. Harry hummed noncommittally before he looked up at the skies again. The arched ceiling made it impossible for Draco to see much but Harry, sitting at the edge of the gazebo, had only a partially obstructed view of the sky.

"The first people I've loved and lost were my parents." He spoke as if he was telling a story of a faraway event, completely separate from his life. Draco didn't like it. He turned to face him and that seemed to snap Harry out of his thoughts. His head turned slightly towards Draco and, for a few moments, none of them said anything. Their faces were barely a few centimetres apart. Draco wished this was real. He wished he could just lean over and kiss him. It didn't matter if Harry hated him. As long as he was allowed one kiss, Draco thought he'd be alright, regardless of the upcoming trial's outcome. Regardless of whatever he decided to do after the trial.

That was impossible, of course.

"What about your grandparents?" He asked, making Harry's eyebrows furrow. He seemed to do some mental gymnastics before he realized what Draco was implying. Why he was bringing them up. His desperate relief didn't show outright, but Harry's body turned fully towards Draco as he spoke breathlessly, sitting on his hands and knees.

"My paternal grandparents? My father's parents? Were they by my side?"

Draco watched the fragile hope on Harry's face and his heart panged. How alone has Harry felt over the years? How much has he detested going home during summer break because there was nobody worth going back home to? Anyone to miss him? Has there really never been someone for Harry to call family? Someone who cherished him as if he was their son? Draco's family wasn't perfect, but he knew his parents loved him. That they cherished him and that they wanted him to survive, even at the price of their own lives. That they wanted him to live – to make mistakes and learn from them, to love and lose, to experience every aspect of life. To be happy. Draco utterly disappointed them, but he tried his best. He promised them that he did – and they forgave him for not living up to their expectations. For not being their perfectly happy child. But Draco’s mind didn’t work that way. He couldn’t just make the bad emotions go away and only keep the happy, bubbly ones. He would have if only he could have. These days, however, he wasn’t even sure if he knew how to be happy. The whole world felt as if it had frozen over. Nothing seemed to be able to bring a true smile to his face. So, obviously, when he realized that he could be even more miserable by making Harry tell him all of his woes, he jumped at the chance. Some days, it felt like he was meant to accumulate all the sorrow in the world until he finally exploded. Today wasn’t the day, no matter how much his heart ached, painful jolts stabbing his ribs every time he breathed.

"Every moment of every day," Draco promised him solemnly which made Harry let out a breathless "Oh." He then gulped and, working his lower lip between his teeth, he tried to pose another question. "What about my parents –?"

Draco didn't let that horrible doubt linger any longer. There existed no universe in which Lily Evans and James Potter didn’t watch over their son, loving him more or less quietly. "Every moment of every day." Draco repeated his earlier answer, which made Harry’s shoulders drop in relief. In anguish. Even his breaths sounded distressed. And Draco knew that was deliberate or, perhaps, reflexive.

Because Harry didn't need to breathe. He wasn't alive anymore, after all.

"They talked to you all the time. They always told you that they loved you. And that they were sorry they couldn't keep you safe even after their death." Draco added which, unsurprisingly, made Harry breathe shakily before he hid his face in his palms. Draco bore witness to this like he had done for every other ghost who noticed him and dropped by to talk to him. To speak of their regrets. Of their life. Of their death. Obviously, this was different. Harry was different. Because he actually meant something to Draco and, so, as his witness, Draco only suffered more as he was forced to listen to Harry trying to regulate his breathing.

"... did you... did they...?"

"They were proud of you."

Harry sobbed – his whole body shook with the force of it, as he desperately tried to contain the sound, to keep it from tearing him apart. Draco was the only who could see the state of him and, yet, he moved so that he could cover Harry's crumpled figure, hiding him from the curious fields of flowers which were facing them. Harry was choking on his sobs, crying uncontrollably, his grief wracking his body. Draco watched him silently. This was his duty – to observe, to soothe, to hurt all of the ghosts with his knowledge as someone stuck in-between the world of the Living and the world of the Dead.

Still, this was Harry having a mental breakdown in front of him. It’s not like Draco would ever see him like this again, so, in a show of terrible manners, he didn’t take his eyes off of him. For once, Harry didn't look like the Chosen One anymore. No longer unapproachable or arrogant. He looked like an orphan. Like a child who's had to deal with far too many problems forcibly relegated to him to deal with. Draco tore his eyes away at a particularly guttural sob. He watched the daffodils and listened to Harry bawling his eyes out, unable to offer any comfort. What could he say that would fix everything? His family was already dead. Harry was already dead. He had already killed himself, renouncing any possibility of a happy ending. All Draco could do... all he ever could do... was to bear witness. And to help the ghosts move on to the afterlife. The sooner Harry left him, the better.

By the time Harry quietened down, it was already noon. Draco was beginning to feel hungry and thirsty. He made no move to go inside the Manor. He didn't want to be inside of it anyway. The Aurors had stripped it bare. It was a dark, hostile entity to begin with, but it was familiar. It had been home. Now, Draco couldn't even recognize his own bedroom. His mother tried to keep it together as best as she could, but Draco noticed how much it exhausted her. Rebuilding. Repairing. All of it – and for what? They might not even be alive in a month. And then the Manor would disappear alongside the last of the Malfoys. What a fitting end for the bad guys.

"... the second person I've loved and lost was –"

"Don’t."

"...what?" Harry breathed out in shock, finally looking at Draco. He let his fingers brush against the flowerbed nearby, not looking at Harry. Rather distractedly, he shook his head at Harry's attempt to move on. "I'm not here to torture you into confessing all your sorrows. When I asked you to walk me through all of it, I meant your life, not how you were slowly killed by all the deaths you’ve had to live through." Harry watched him for a few long moments before opening his mouth. He seemed to want to say something in response, but nothing came out. Eventually, he frowned and settled for a curt response.

"...I don't know what to say to that."

"I can ask questions, if you think it would help you gather your thoughts."

"...alright."

"Have you truly never experienced magic when we met?"

Harry paused for a moment before frowning lightly. "At Madam Malkin's or at Hogwarts?" He asked Draco to clarify, referring to their very first meeting which made Draco huff pleased. It seems his attempts to make Harry leave him alone had worked. "So, you do remember that. Is that why you were so antagonistic towards me? Because I insulted Hagrid?" He asked him rather amused. Harry glared at him which pleased Draco even more. Any emotion in lieu of pain and despair and suffering was a welcomed one. Hatred could be a greater motivator than love, especially in the current circumstances.

"You were being a discriminating bigot. Just like your –" Harry had meant to lash out, but he stopped as he remembered a crucial detail. Draco gave him a humourless smile. "You can speak your mind. It's not like I can stop you." Harry looked so uncomfortable by that fact – that he could say anything without repercussions – that he looked away from Draco. He thought that would be it for the day, because Salazar knows they were both emotionally drained, but Harry spoke again.

"I'm sorry about your father. I'm not sorry Lucius is dead. But I'm sorry you lost your father." Harry told him honestly as he made eye contact with Draco once again. The sincerity in his gaze made Draco close his eyes for a moment, remembering briefly how he heard his father's dying screams back at the Battle of Hogwarts. He wasn't sure who got him, he may never know, but Draco wasn't sorry that Lucius Malfoy was gone. He was sorry, however, that his father was gone. Harry had expressed his emotions very eloquently, as if reading Draco's mind. He thought that his mother wouldn't agree with them.

Draco had seen her tears as she called for him, to join them, to leave the Light side and join the Dark when they thought Harry was dead. Draco hadn't moved for a long while. He had taken a brief step towards his mother who beckoned him with a broken heart. Of course, that was the moment when Harry opened his eyes and rolled away from Hagrid. Draco had never run faster in his life. He broke into a sprint, trying to run antiparallel to Harry’s trajectory, as he called out his name and threw Harry his wand. Harry caught it effortlessly and the duel against Voldemort begun, but then, at the final spell to be cast – the crucial moment of the battle – Harry hesitated. He could have cast a spell and easily win against an already weakened Voldemort. He didn’t. And he paid with his life. Everyone was too involved in the fight to pause when Harry’s body fell. They each cast a variety of spells at Voldemort. Someone killed him. Nobody knew who. Draco and his mother didn't cast any spell. Draco couldn't. He had given his wand to Harry. And Harry had decided to die in spite of it. Draco only managed to see his ghost walking towards his friends before he and his mother left the battle behind.

"Thank you. The feeling is mutual." Draco mumbled which made Harry give him a nod in acknowledgement. Draco continued their conversation from earlier. "I am a bigot. Expected that.” He replied unaffected, not wanting to bring up the fact that Harry’s ghosts had been terrifying enough that Draco used the most disgusting weapon in his arsenal to get away. It had been wrong of him and he often regrets how much that one gesture shaped his personality. However, he preferred that to having to live as a ghost translator between dead parents and their living son. Draco wouldn’t have survived it. He had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon at eleven years old and he still would have gone to bed each night puking from the onslaught of terror and suffering and hope coming from those four ghosts and Harry… oh, Harry. Draco was a coward. They both knew it, so he didn’t think it was worth stating it out loud. He moved on. “What else...? Did you enjoy Diagon Alley? The first time you saw it?"

"I enjoyed it every time I saw it. Until it was attacked. After that, it was just another problem I had to solve."

Draco tilted his head to the side as he watched Harry straighten his back, leaning his head against the wall behind him. They were sitting face to face now, further away than earlier, but still close enough that Draco could see Harry's microexpressions. His displeasure, his sorrow, his exhaustion.

"What about first seeing Hogwarts?" Draco asked curiously, knowing not to ask about Harry's childhood. From what he had heard from Harry’s ghosts, there wasn’t any happiness to hold on to. No memories worth revisiting.

"... it was my dream. My freedom." Harry confessed softly which made Draco smile lightly, remembering his own puerile wonder when he first saw the castle. "You must have enjoyed those first few months before..."

"Voldemort. Quirrell. Yeah. It was good. Life was... good. I didn't think I'd ever have a home, but Hogwarts was it for me."

"That must have been nice."

"It was.” He then frowned lightly before looking briefly towards Draco, suddenly shying away from his gaze. Draco blinked twice, confused by the sudden change in his behaviour. Harry actually started fidgeting with his sleeves before speaking up again. “Was... uhm… did you enjoy Hogwarts?" He looked so hesitant that Draco couldn't help but huff amused as he lowered his head, a small smile playing on his lips. He rested his face in his palm, his elbow propped up on his knee. When Draco looked back up at him, Harry was already looking at his face. At Draco's face. Lower, actually. His –?

Before he could figure out what had gotten Harry's attention, Harry looked away, appearing embarrassed and even more fidgety than earlier. Draco assumed it was because he was still feeling odd about asking Draco a question in return. About showing interest in Draco’s life. Draco decided to answer it, so that they could move on from the tense silence.

"I did. Ignoring all the expectations placed on me, I did enjoy my first year. I loved magic."

"... loved? Not anymore?"

Draco hummed as he considered it. Trust Harry to ask a simple question that required a complicated answer.

"I don't know. It's not the same, I think. I was so awed by magic when I was 11. I'd have done anything to spend my life continuing to research it and explore it and create even more magic. But that wasn't what was expected of me."

Harry was quiet for a moment before he nodded in assent. "I know how that feels." He admitted quietly which made Draco hum. He watched Harry’s expression curiously. "Did you actually kill Quirrell that year?" Harry scowled, becoming the boy Draco once knew. Draco barely managed to refrain from smiling. From giving him a scowl back, for old times’ sake. "Voldemort was on the back of his head and he was doing his best to kill me –"

Draco had not expected Harry to be so defensive. Perhaps he should have, but the damage was already done. He raised his hands in a pacifying manner. "I'm not blaming you. I just didn't know if it was true. I can't judge you for something I wouldn't have had the courage to do myself. If I was in your place, I'd have died." Harry observed him quietly, then leaned forward, hands on his knees as he splayed his legs wide. His position looked so uncomfortable Draco cringed. He was about to comment on it, but Harry spoke up before he could. "And yet you're still alive." Harry whispered in the space between them, making Draco shiver. Terrible reaction to an even more terrible sentence. Harry didn't notice his visceral reaction, being too busy examining Draco's face, not his body. That thought would have sent Draco spiralling every other day, but today he was preoccupied with protecting the last shred of sanity he had left. In spite of Harry’s best efforts to wreck Draco's psyche.

"It seems I didn't have the courage to die." Draco replied coolly, making Harry still. His expression changed into one of miserable understanding before he leaned forward even more – a truly amazing feat given his position, probably due to the fact that he had no bones to restrict his movements. Harry leaned his forehead against Draco's chest and Draco’s overwhelming thoughts were silenced suddenly. There was a cool sensation just above Draco's heart – which was beating in an embarrassingly ferocious rhythm. Draco knew Harry could hear it, but neither of them mentioned it.

"Playing Quidditch. Against you. Racing you. Being your rival, however much of a prick you were. I enjoyed it in our first year. It was such innocent banter." Harry confessed in a whisper that made Draco's face burn. He had been an antagonistic asshole throughout all of their years at Hogwarts, but Harry had given back as bad as he got. Draco was glad there was no animosity regarding their first year. That one was truly just innocent banter between them. No spells cast to maim or torture. No betrayals. No responsibilities. Draco cleared his throat to hopefully stop his voice from doing anything embarrassing – like crack or croak or, worse, shake. "... I did too." He replied just as quietly as Harry, holding his hands in his lap, his fingers tightly interlinked with one another.

"I wanted to play against you again. I wanted to fly with you again." Harry added, making Draco's hands twitch. He wanted to run them through his dark hair, to settle one at the base of his nape and the other on his cheek. He wanted to drag Harry's face so their lips could meet and he could –

Harry distanced and looked up at him as if he had clocked exactly what Draco was thinking. Draco didn’t even have time to school his expression. Harry looked at his face again. At his –

Oh.

Oh.

Harry was looking at his lips. That's what he had done earlier in a lightning-fast glance. Draco gulped and Harry watched the movement. What was this? Why was Draco still affected by him when he was dead and gone? Why was Hary staring so intently when, by all means, he should be a straight guy and not so into Draco’s lips? And why did Draco want to take him up on whatever he offered? So what if they tried to kiss? It wouldn't be real. He’d fool himself into thinking it real, but who else (except for his own person) was there to judge him? They wouldn't feel it, anyway. It was ridiculous.

Oh, but they would feel it. The coldness of the touch. The shiver on his skin. Draco would feel it. He wasn't sure if Harry could feel his warmth. The warmth of a living body. Of a living being. Nonetheless, it was clear that Harry could feel something from Draco. Otherwise, why would he keep seeking him out, dragging himself closer and closer? Why would he – unless he wanted something from Draco? Draco didn't even care if it was warmth, life, a conversation partner or – a kiss, perhaps? Whatever form it took, whatever their twisted relationship would transform into – Draco thought he was alright with it. He craved Harry like he hadn't craved anyone before. Because he too understood what it was like to be in a room full of people and feel utterly alone. He too understood the deadly loneliness that made you want to hurl yourself into the abyss. Harry had already done it. Draco wondered how far he was from following him.

"Draco?"

They both jumped, scrambling away from each other, before looking down the path. Narcissa Malfoy was a beautiful woman who exuded elegance even in times of perilous danger and appalling misery. A kind mother who had betrayed the Dark Lord in order to save her son. Yes, Draco knew his mother had lied to the Dark Lord about Harry's death. Nobody else – nobody relevant did, however. There was nobody bold enough to take a stand for them at their trial. Why would they, when the two of them had done more bad than good? Naturally, the two Malfoys expected the worst.

"Mother? Has something happened?" Draco asked as he hurried to get to his feet. He stopped in front of his mother, taking his hands in hers to check if she was cold. She could never tell when she was freezing. His father used to always hold her hands, kiss her nose, cup her face – any ordinary touch turned meaningful when he worried for her health. She wasn’t cold, thankfully. Draco really didn’t want to try to fix their heating – the magic behind it was so capricious that he didn’t even bother studyin it further. He had started chopping wood himself to feed into the fireplaces of the Manor.

His mother’s expression softened at his obvious concern, before she looked at the spot he had just vacated. Draco worried she'd think he had finally gone mad. Talking to himself, about to kiss air in their back garden and looking so smitten while doing it. Instead, she offered him a small smile. "You must be starving. Let's eat together in the garden. The weather is quite pleasant." Draco thought it was rather chilly for noon, but he nodded nonetheless, wanting to get away from this moment, from the revelations of his moment with Harry, as quickly as possible. There was too much left unsaid between them for Draco to be comfortable to kiss him. He wasn’t sure what Harry’s reasons were for wanting to kiss him, but Draco knew his. And he knew Harry didn’t truly understand Draco. A putrid part of him told him it didn’t matter. Harry was dead, regrets after death didn’t count and Draco was still living and so full of regrets he was choking on them – he deserved a little treat. He shoved that part of him back in the depths of his mind. Harry didn’t deserve this. No matter the circumstances. Draco felt sickened at the thought that Harry could want to kiss him – an abomination. A coward. An imperfect being who could never be happy, not even when he had everything he could possibly wish for. A sorry excuse of a human being.

Still, as he walked away with his mother, he looked behind him to see Harry still sitting inside the gazebo, watching him leave with a contemplative expression on his face. Draco hesitated for a moment before waving towards him as subtly as he could. A sort of hopeful "see you later". Draco didn’t really expect to find Harry again, but from years of dealing with ghosts, he had learned it was terribly rude – and often catastrophic – to leave without a proper goodbye. Harry’s eyebrows shot up at the delicate movement before a small smile tugged at his lips. "See you later, Malfoy."

Draco spent the rest of that day with his mother, making lunch together (their House Elves were freed under the Ministry's orders) and reading together until the moon rose. They went to sleep after another day of waiting for their demise, wishing each other goodnight and sweet dreams (hoping their wishes came true, since they both knew they weren’t able to get a restful sleep ever since the War).

Draco couldn't get more than four hours of sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed to no avail. He got up and apathetically pulled a dressing gown over his shoulders. He grabbed the nearest pair of shoes he could get his hands on and he put them on before he went outside. To the back garden. To the gazebo where he had last seen Harry Potter. Harry wasn't in the same place Draco had left him. He was almost relieved by that fact. If Harry resolved whatever regret he had, whatever was tethering him to the realm of the Living, he could finally rest. Draco hoped Harry left and never came back. He ignored his traitorous heart which hoped, against all odds, that Harry was still here. Whatever regrets Harry had, he had solved them and he had gone to rest peacefully in the afterlife. Draco repeated that mantra in his head as he surveyed his surroundings. Draco felt a little remorseful that he hadn't spoken with Harry more. Hadn't told him everything he wanted to say. That’s all he allowed himself to feel. Nothing more, nothing less.

Draco continued his walk until he reached the fields of flowers that his father had personally planted in his mother's honour. A gesture of love so grand that Draco had asked to be told the story at least a hundred times. How his father had sneakily learned the necessary spells, how he had learned how to plant the seeds, when to water them, how he had ordered the House Elves to keep it a secret, how he had cast such a powerful Disillusionment Charm on the fields that his mother hadn't even noticed that they were entirely gone.

How Lucius had shown them to Narcissa – the fields of flowers in all colours and types and shapes, but most importantly the dozen rows of daffodils planted in her honour. Lucius always described how excited Narcissa had been. How she had run through the flowers, laughing and dragging Lucius with her, the two of them eventually falling among the blossoms. Lucius' promise to love her and keep her safe, regardless of where he would be forced to pledge his loyalty.

His father had been a good husband to his mother. He had been good to Draco as well. Draco would never forgive him for being a coward and serving Voldemort, but he would forever love him for being a good father and a good husband despite his many shortcomings as a man. He would love him for always trying to keep them safe and happy. Even if he had, ultimately, failed.

Draco exhaled in the chilly air of the summer night, watching the night sky and the flower fields. A serene night like this – that would be a good way to go. He wondered how long he'd have to stay here, dressed so lightly that it felt like the wind was blowing directly against his naked skin, before he collapsed from hypothermia. The intrusive thought made goosebumps appear all over his skin, but Draco welcomed the fear. It's been too long since he felt something other than vague amusement and vast emptiness.

The previous day, he had received a letter just after dinner. Blaise had asked him to reconsider running away. He had offered, once again, to get him to a safehouse in Italy. A perfect getaway for him and his mother. The most desirable outcome, the easiest solves-all plan to Draco’s unending problems. An ending and a new beginning. If only Draco wanted to start over again. The thought itself made him want to shove his head in one of the flowerbeds and let any bees hiding inside – or other critters – poke his eyes out. Crawl into his nose and mouth and ears. Suffocate him so he didn’t have to reject such a perfect solution.

Blaise Zabini was the only one from his friend group who was exempt from any trial or suspicion whatsoever - he was his mother's son, after all. Mrs. Zabini remained neutral throughout both Wars, despite her mingling with both sides. Even if she had chosen a side, she had far too many allies to risk aggravating her. And, naturally, all those benefits worked in Blaise's favour as well. He could have run away and ignored their suffering. Instead, he’s been working tirelessly to get his friends out of the UK. Out of reach of a Ministry which desired even more bloodshed.

To prove his efficiency and determination, Blaise has already safely helped Theo and Pansy leave the country. From what Draco had heard, Theo was living somewhere in Norway whereas Pansy chose France as her refuge. Goyle also planned to leave with his family in the next few weeks. He had mentioned Germany, but they were still weighing their options. Daphne refused to leave the country. Or, rather, she refused to leave her sister behind. Astoria wasn't fit for travel in her condition – blood malediction. They hadn't been active Death Eaters, anyway, so the Ministry had no reason to suspect them. Draco was funnelling as many funds as he could to Blaise – to help save as many of the orphans of the War as possible – and Daphne – to help with Astoria's receding health and all the expensive potions Daphne was concocting to try and save her.

Naturally, Draco refused to answer Blaise's letter. He didn’t need saving. He could direct him to numerous others who needed his help more than Draco did. He had tried, once, and while Blaise had been grateful, Draco had also gotten an earful about how his life was as important as the others'. Draco would rather avoid receiving another Howler. Instead, to show Blaise he was still alive, he sent another donation to him. The Ministry were overseeing his spending habits, but they couldn't do shit if Draco said he was donating to a sick friend and the son of the one and only Mrs. Zabini.

Draco had run away all of his life. This time, he would hold his ground. He had told his mother as such. He had also pretended not to hear her crying late at night after his particularly upsetting confession. The following day, he had asked her if she wanted to leave. He had told her that she could. That he'd owl Blaise and tell him to get her out of here. Her response had been that she had nobody to live for except him. And that, if he wanted to see his end at their trial, she will see her end there as well. Draco tried to not feel guilty about his mother throwing his life away for him. He failed, so he spoke to Blaise to get his mother out of the country without her consent. He didn't want her blood on his hands. Blaise didn't approve of his methods, but he still respected his wishes and promised to take care of his mother. That’s all Draco could have asked for.

Tonight was so enchanting. Draco's thoughts, not so much.

"You'll freeze to death."

Draco winced. He relaxed as soon as he felt the temperature drop as Harry approached him, standing on his right. Draco looked briefly his way to see that nothing had changed from yesterday. Harry Potter was still dead and the world still chose to move on. Fools, the lot of them. They didn’t know what they lost. They never knew him, anyway. He was their Saviour to them. Their Chosen One. Their Boy who Lived. Draco wondered absentmindedly if anyone knew his true self. Probably Granger and Weasley, if he had to take a guess. He hoped that was the case at least. Harry deserved to be seen for who he was and loved, notwithstanding.

"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" Draco asked him in a resigned manner, ignoring his earlier remark. It was a beautiful full moon – and Draco remembered too late. Harry already tensed at his side. Draco turned to face him to properly apologize or to take back his words. Anything to wipe that horrible expression off of Harry's face. But he didn't know what to say to make it right. So, he remained silent for a long time. Harry spoke up before he could.

"Remus and Sirius wanted to adopt me, you know?"

Draco didn’t expect Harry to broach that subject, especially after Draco stabbed him in the heart with an expression he'd hoped to be romantic – and which, in typical Draco fashion, turned into a disaster. Still, he blinked surprised. He did not know that piece of information. Draco thought he knew what Harry was trying to do – a twisted sort of trauma bonding which Draco would have refused – has already refused – during their school years. And here was Harry, trying again. Draco almost sighed, but he kept his grievances to himself.

"I didn't know they were together." Draco replied instead, making Harry smile lightly as he reminisced. "They were. As soon as we proved Sirius' innocence in third year. Ah. Ron, Hermione and I and the two of them found out Pettigrew was the one who betrayed my parents and he hid as Ron's rat for 12 years."

Now that made Draco stare incredulously at Harry. His expression must have been particularly entertaining, because Harry laughed softly. It was a short laugh, but it was one nonetheless and Draco could burst from pride. He managed to get that lovely sound out of Harry? Perhaps he should allow himself to be more expressive. It seemed useful enough.

"There's a lot you don't know about me." Harry spoke easily, looking more alive, more mischievous than Draco had ever seen him before. Draco wasn’t sure what that said about him – a ghost looking more alive than Draco who was actually still breathing. But he didn’t bother to ponder it. He was invested in their conversation now.

"I'd love to learn." Draco replied just as easily. So, Harry told him all about his first three years at Hogwarts. How he defeated Quirrell after suspecting Snape for so long and admittedly being wrong about him that one time – but only that one time. Draco chuckled at Harry's irritation, gaining a grin from him. Draco didn't let himself dwell on it in fear that Harry would realize how alive he looked. Like they weren't both dead or dying. Draco fooled himself into believing they were two boys standing in a field, reminiscing about their life for no particular reason.

Harry continued talking about his second year. About Dobby and the Chamber of Secrets. About the basilisk and young Tom Riddle. About fooling Lucius to free Dobby. They both pretended Lucius and Dobby were still alive. They both pretended this was a fun story to tell at dinnertime, not Harry's tragic past.

Harry moved on to third year. Sirius, Remus, Buckbeak. Time Turner. Pettigrew. Neither of them could pretend anymore. Harry barely managed to finish telling him everything. Talking about Sirius and Remus wore him out, especially given what he had confessed at the beginning of their talk. Still, Draco had to ask. He needed to know how Sirius Black’s and Remus Lupin’s story ended.

"I know Black died during the battle at the Department of Mysteries. In our fifth year. What about professor Lupin?"

Harry looked at the full moon with a faraway expression on his face. Draco thought he would get no answer from him until Harry peeled his eyes from the moon with some effort. He stared at the daffodils. At the three rows of yellow daffodils, planted there in honour of the three Malfoys - they were Charmed to match each of their hair colours.

"...Greyback. Fenrir Greyback got him. In 1996, after the Battle of Mysteries. Greyback was on his way to kidnap Ollivander. And Remus ... he was grief-struck after Sirius died. He was acting recklessly. He was still in contact with a bunch of werewolf packs and he found out where Greyback would be. He went after him and he didn't come back."

Draco took that in while watching the full moon. He then closed his eyes briefly. "I'm exhausted, but I can't rest." He whispered before looking towards Harry. He didn’t shy away from Harry’s understanding gaze, his quiet companionship. He understood more than he let on, Draco was sure of it. People didn’t really notice it, but Harry Potter was smart. He could a foolish idiot at times, but he was smart. Witty. His quick-thinking had saved his lives numerous times, Draco was sure of it. That’s why he knew Harry wasn’t falling for Draco’s antagonistic act. Not anymore. Not after Dumbledore’s death. Not after Sectumsempra. And definitely not after Draco had willingly given Harry his wand so he could fight against Voldemort. Draco was tired of pretending.

The wind blew so harshly then that Draco's robe, draped carelessly over his shoulders, was snatched away. Draco simply watched it disappear whereas Harry, who had always acted on instinct, turned around and tried to grab it. The effort was worthless, of course. Even if he had managed to touch it, which he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to grab it and give it to Draco. Still, Draco found it endearing.

"Thank you." Draco whispered softly while Harry frowned as he lowered his arm, letting it hang uselessly at his side. He crossed his arms over his chest, irritation taking over. "What for? I couldn't have held onto it anyway." Draco tilted his head to the side with a contemplative hum. "I appreciate that you wanted to catch it. Sometimes, intent matters just as much as the action itself. If not more." Harry looked towards him, observing his features. His irritation faded away with every passing second.

"Did your mother plant these?" He decided to ask Draco which made him smile sincerely. He was glad he could return the favour and speak of his childhood, of his past, to Harry. About a past which was truly his. No need to pretend, to fake it till he made it. This story wasn’t even about him, but it was his. It was so authentic, so true and genuine. It always eased Draco’s worries to hear it, to speak it. He recounted his parents’ love story to Harry, a smile playing on his lips as he did so. He was crouching before the row of the yellow daffodils on the left by the time he finished his retelling. This row had the same colour as his father’s hair. Draco stared at it and cursed him for forcing him to abandon his ambitions and to forge new ones, crafted to fill the role of the perfect son, the perfect heir. He cursed him for pushing him so much. For pushing until, inevitably, something broke and neither of them could repair it. Draco cursed him for leaving them so soon and for never being there for Draco’s future milestones. For making it so Draco wouldn’t even have a future.

Draco also cursed his father with his love – his “I love you” which condemned him to an eternity of begging for forgiveness and an eternity of saying it back louder and louder. Of saying so many other things that Draco would never believe. That he would live. That he would be happy. That he deserved to live and be happy. That he deserved a second chance.

Lucius Malfoy didn’t manifest as a ghost when he died. Draco sometimes wished he did, so Draco could yell at him just this once. So he could yell at him and then fall at his feet and beg for a solution that satisfied both Draco's decaying soul and his parents’ wishes. So he could scream at him for leaving and then cry his eyes out because he was dead, he was free and Draco was still shackled to a world which hated him. His mother too. And wasn’t it easier if they just all let go? Why prolong their suffering? Why not just –?

"... I didn't know." Harry whispered which made Draco look up towards him, blinking rapidly. He had forgotten he was there. Draco had never imagined Harry could be so quiet. Still, he appreciated his attempt to keep the conversation going. He would rather not have a mental breakdown at the moment. "That he was a good husband?" Harry nodded hesitantly. "And a good father, it seems." Draco gave a half shrug as he got up. He didn't want to talk about his father. He had enough thoughts about him as is. His father took too much space in Draco’s head. If he invited him to occupy his words as well… That would be too suffocating.

And, he didn’t want to talk about Lucius so close to his and his mother's trial. He expected a letter to pop up these days, announcing them of a date. They were one of the Wizengamot's priority trials, after all. Their Most Wanted. Most Desirable. After all, Draco had done enough evil to be condemned thrice. All that was saving him from a life sentence was his status. He had been a minor while committing most of his crimes. But he was tired. And everywhere he looked, there were ghosts. The Manor was full of them, especially at night. All of them chattering, screaming or crying. He could never rest properly because of them. Still, Draco was glad that his father didn't linger. That he passed on. Draco couldn't have born having to look at him. To have Lucius quietly follow him throughout the day. His father could read him terrifyingly well sometimes. And Draco knew his father would be able to tell Draco's true intentions at a mere glance.

"Were Sirius and Remus the second and third people you've loved and lost?" Draco asked Harry curiously to which Harry gave a stiff nod. "What about Diggory? You two seemed close." Draco asked Harry genuinely curious, but Harry's expression instantly shuttered at his question. Draco blinked in surprise before he took a careful step towards Harry. He had even lifted his hand to place on Harry's shoulder in a comforting manner. His actions were stopped abruptly when Draco sneezed. Harry's expression cleared enough for him to glance back at the Manor.

"You should go inside before you get sick."

Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he left without any other parting words. But he did wave at Harry over his shoulder. He didn't look back to see if Harry waved back.

The next day, after another sleepless night, Draco fell ill. He had a such a high fever he was certain he’d start hallucinating soon, a cough so strong he might as well be coughing his lungs out and a runny nose which made him feel like a 3-year-old. He knew his mother did her best to nurse him back to health, but Draco wasn’t sure what exactly she did since he didn’t remember most of those three days anyway. He remembered her soft hands cupping his face, her lips against his forehead and her hands holding his during her silent vigil. He remembered opening his eyes for a few moments every couple hours. Sometimes, it would be his mother helping him sit so she could feed him some soup or give him some potions. Other times, it would be a cold touch against his face. A touch so comfortingly cold that Draco would lean into it, chasing it when it distanced. He'd raise his hand weakly in search of that comfort and he'd only settle when the cool sensation was back.

He'd trace his cheeks, his eyes, his nose, press his palm against his forehead. Glide his fingers through his hair. Touch his neck gingerly – a ghost of a touch – but Draco would still shiver. Pleasure, comfort, yearning. He wanted to open his eyes and watch. Touch back. Speak. But his cold prevented him from doing much. And wasn’t that ironic? He was craving his cold touch and unable to get it because of his cold. He'd always waste his energy following that touch, craving it, silently begging to have it back.

On the third day, Draco felt well enough to keep his eyes open for longer periods. His mother was so obviously relieved to see him get better that Draco felt bad. He felt bad knowing he'll rob her of this relief once they go through with the trial. But he was tired. He closed his eyes, wishing for all to go away. For himself to cease to exist.

The telltale sign of his appearance – a sound similar to rustling leaves – made Draco pay attention to his surroundings, but he didn't open his eyes. He felt his touch start at his jaw, cradling his face between both hands. Harry then gently caressed his cheeks with his thumbs, stopping just under his eyes. He softly touched Draco’s eyelashes, counting them under his breath. He sat down on the edge of Draco's bed to get the proximity needed to keep up with his meticulous ritual. Harry pressed one palm against his forehead and kept it there. His other hand gently traced Draco's throat, before it stopped at his clavicle. Draco desperately wanted to open his eyes. To see what expression Harry was making. To see what expression he would make if Draco revealed he was conscious. Something told him to wait, so he did. Harry pressed his palm against Draco's beating heart. He was soon pressing both palms against his chest, phasing through it. It was as if Harry wanted to cradle his heart in his palms. Draco would have let him. It already belonged to him anyway. He could do whatever he wanted with it. Rip it out of his chest, break it into tiny pieces, squish it into his palms... cradle it. Take care of it. Love it. Love him.

How foolishly desperate of him. Perhaps he hasn't fully recovered yet. Perhaps this was one of those hallucinations he’d heard his mother mention. Draco was imagining such impossible things... and to what end? They both knew where Draco will end up soon. What end awaited him. It was useless to harbour such aspirations. Such meaningless feelings. And yet...

The featherlight touch disappeared from Draco's heart. He gave it a few seconds and then, he was about to open his eyes when something impossible happened.

There was something cold against his lips.

Draco's eyes snapped open to reveal Harry watching him with vivid amusement dancing in his eyes. He had been caressing Draco's lip with one of his forefingers, but he dropped that hand as he snorted, seeing Draco’s flushed cheeks and, most likely, dilated pupils.

"You reacted more than usual. That's how I knew you were awake." Harry informed him teasingly which made Draco sigh deeply. He sat up in his bed, using all of the power of his sick body. "So you decided to have fun while you were at it?" Harry's lips morphed into a shameless smile. Unapologetic. "I may never get another chance to tease you like this. The aloof Malfoy Heir goes strolling in the garden at night dressed in see-through clothes and then falls ill like a Victorian child." Harry continued his teasing to Draco's quiet indignation. "They were not see-through. " Harry gave him a look that had Draco looking away, his face burning, but not because of his fever. Harry chuckled before getting up. Draco's eyes instantly snapped to his receding figure.

"Wait." He whispered before he could restrain himself. Harry looked back at him over his shoulder. He was hesitating, not knowing if he should turn back or leave. Draco didn't let him overthink it. "Don't go." He asked, hoping it didn't sound like begging to Harry's ears. Harry's expression softened before he returned to his place, sitting next to Draco.

"I won't." Harry whispered to Draco's embarrassingly massive relief. "Get some rest, Draco." That made both of them freeze. They had never used their first names when addressing each other. Draco had only thought Harry's first name. He had never said it out loud to him. From the shock on his face, Harry must have felt the same. "... I can't rest with all the noise." Draco confessed in the charged air between them to distract them from the inevitable shift in their relationship. Harry furrowed his brows and, as if hearing it for the first time, he flinched at the first wail coming from the cellars. He looked towards the doorway, finally hearing the cacophony of tortured noises. Harry glanced back towards Draco in abject horror.

"All night. Every night. I can't... I can't rest. I can’t help them either. They're stuck in whatever torture killed them." Draco whispered as he fisted his sheets, tightly holding onto them. He had learned to tune them out, but it was like they knew he could hear them. That someone could hear them. They never quieted down. They never let Draco forget what he had let happen. What he had been a passive participant in. He hadn’t fought for them. He had watched them get killed and tortured and – he didn’t want to go there. Not tonight. Not ever again. Neither he nor his mother have gone down to the cellars since the end of the War. They bolted the door shut after the Aurors inspected it. Draco wanted to destroy them, once. He had gone down to the door and had begun taking all of the wooden planks off. Then, he heard a woman consoling her child, telling them that they were safe as long as they remained together. Hidden. Among the cries and the screams of horror, there was a woman singing a lullaby to her child. A dead woman humming to her dead child. Draco couldn’t open the door. He never tried again. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to hear them. He wanted them to pass on, but he couldn’t help them. He couldn’t open that door. He feared what he’d do if he was reminded of what happened in those cellars.

He looked at Harry who was observing him concerned, his hand hovering between them as if not knowing if Draco wanted to be comforted right now or distracted. Draco decided for him by changing the subject abruptly. "Tell me about Diggory."

Harry recoiled as the sounds of tortured souls echoed throughout the Manor, taking his hand back. Any distraction was welcomed, however, so Harry told him. He told him about the Triwizard Tournament, about Digory telling him how the Egg worked, about the cemetery, the ritual that brought back Voldemort and Diggory's death. About everyone hating him and not believing him. About...

"... I had a crush on him. I think. He was... he was good-looking and older. And he was kind. And funny. He didn't deserve to die in my place."

Draco did a double take, but he forced himself to recover. A crush, he said… perhaps Harry wasn’t as straight as Draco thought. And wasn’t that even more tragic?

"... none of them deserved to die. Not your parents, not Black, not professor Lupin... and certainly not you." Draco settled on saying, deciding a talk about their sexualities was definitely not welcomed when they could hear someone getting disembowelled downstairs.

"Don't say that." Harry begged him as they maintained eye contact. Draco’s expression softened. He understood how much his words meant. And he knew Harry needed to hear them well before he hesitated in the final battle. He cursed himself for not being courageous enough to say them to him. Harry's eyes screwed shut as if he was desperately trying not to cry. "You deserved to live, Harry. Not to survive. You deserved to live." Draco whispered ardently, remembering what his parents told him, what his parents tried to teach him as he grew up. Draco didn’t want to listen to them. He couldn’t. Still, he hoped Harry listened to him. Considering Harry let out a sob in sync with the ghosts of the Manor, Draco thought he did his job, but he froze upon hearing Harry’s response. "So do you." Harry whispered between broken sobs. And wasn’t that what he had wished to hear all of his life? Still, it was too late. He was too tired now to keep trying.

Draco knew that Harry understood him so well because he had gone through the exact same thing. He too wished someone had said these things to him while he still felt alive enough for the words to matter. It was too late for Draco, unfortunately. As it was for Harry. But Harry thought he could still save him. What a foolish Gryffindor he was. Stubborn. Reckless. Impulsive.

Draco appreciated his effort nonetheless, but they both knew it was fruitless. Draco had already made up his mind. "What about Cho Chang?" Draco continued which made Harry purse his lips. Draco switched subjects quickly, keeping them both awake and aware – as if the tortured souls from the cellars weren’t doing a good enough job with it. "She kissed me. She was sad about Cedric. I was also sad about Cedric." Draco let out a humourless, dry laugh. "So you two kissed to quell your sadness? I expected Chang to be smarter. Not much to expect from you, obviously, but I thought she had some brains left." He was antagonizing him, hoping he’d leave. Harry was starting to look sicker and sicker with every sound he heard. It was as if, while conversing with Draco, he was trying to imagine what the poor ghosts were going through. Draco had tried it once. It ended with him standing very close to the edge of the Manor’s roof. He stayed there for hours until, finally, there was silence. He went back to bed and pretended he had a nightmare when his mother asked him why he looked so exhausted. Harry scowled at him even as tears stubbornly streamed down his cheeks.

"Your distractions aren't working –"

"What about the Weaslette?"

Harry paused briefly. He contemplated that scenario, his likeliest future, for a second more before he spoke. "I think... I think I'd have been happy with Ginny. Maybe." Draco raised an eyebrow at that. How anticlimactic. And how very bisexual of him. "Well, that'd not the love declaration I expected. I thought you were head over heels for her." Harry shrugged, looking like he didn't want to explain himself. But Draco was tired of waiting around for answers, for solutions. He had to know the truth. He didn’t want any more regrets.

"Harry."

He didn't even have to say anything else. Harry instantly dived into a heated rant.

"It was what was expected of me. Marry my high school sweetheart, have kids, become an Auror and then Head of DMLE. Keep catching bad guys until I physically can’t anymore. Retire. Have grandkids. Enjoy life. Be... be happy." Harry deflated as he spoke that last sentence, fidgeting with his sleeves and not meeting Draco’s eyes. If he had looked at Draco, he’d have seen him hide a wince. Happiness. Seems he wasn’t the only one trying to achieve the impossible. Immovable object or unstoppable force? Draco and Harry, pillars of the Light and the Dark side, against one single concept – happiness. How skewed was their reality when they couldn’t fathom a future where they could be happy?

"I couldn't fit into their mould. I was raised to be their pig for slaughter, you know? Their hero. Their Saviour. They didn't think about what would happen to me after everything. About how I'd cope or what I'd feel. They just... expected me to be fine. But so many people died. People I wasn't even that close with, but whose deaths destroyed another part of me. They chipped at me until I finally fell apart. I hesitated... and that cost me my life. And I regret that everyone's hurting. Hermione and Ron, the Weasleys, everyone else... but I'm so relieved not to have their expectations weighing on me anymore. I'm so relieved that I get to just exist and they can't judge my every move. I can... I can finally rest."

And didn’t that sound so peaceful? Draco knew he shouldn’t find comfort in his words – that they were guiding him to a very abrupt end which would destroy his mother. But Draco was so relieved that there existed a plane of existence where he could rest.

"... Harry." He still whispered his name in an attempt to chide him, but it sounded more like Draco was pleading him to tell him if his words were true. If he could truly experience such a peaceful death. Harry must have noticed because he hurried to look at him and stress his next words.

"Don't go to your trial. I can't... I can't handle another death. Run away. I saw your mother holding a letter from Blaise. Run away with her. Fuck the Wizengamot."

"I've done terrible things." Draco told him gently, trying to soften the blow. There was no need. Harry knew almost everything that Draco had done. All of his sins, all of his mistakes, all of his crimes – except for the ghosts in the basement and how exactly Draco aided in their death. Draco didn’t want to think about them. They were finally starting to grow quieter. If only he ignored them a few more minutes, a few more hours, maybe they’d settle again. It didn’t matter if they started their choir of despair tomorrow night once more. Draco would take what he could get.

"You were a child!" Harry retorted, revolted by Draco’s quiet resignation.

"So were you."

Harry remained silent whereas Draco smiled softly his way. He hadn’t realized he could be this soft with another person aside for his mother.

"I fit into their mould. I acted as well as I could. But I cracked the mould at the end. I couldn't kill Dumbledore. I couldn't fight for the Dark side until the end of the play. I gave you my wand to defeat him. I wasn't their perfect son, nor their perfect Heir. I failed them."

"Who cares? You did the right thing in the end. You helped us win the war."

"Who cares? You died in that war. I don't want to live in a world without you."

Draco may have meant to mock Harry’s words, but he actually bared his soul right to him. They both froze at Draco's involuntary confession. Draco hadn't meant to say that. He was too tense to take it back, so he made a flippant hand gesture to dismiss it. "Don't dwell on my ridiculous emotions. What I meant to say was –"

"... are they actually ridiculous?"

Draco's eyes snapped to Harry's and they were suddenly so terribly close that Draco ached to lean even closer. A kiss. A touch. He'd take anything. He was pathetic and desperate, but he was also planning on dying, so who cared?

"No... they are not." He eventually settled on an answer which was most likely to get him a kiss, observing as Harry got even closer to him.

"Great." Harry’s answer was more of an exhale than a word. Draco didn’t have time to dwell on his sudden breathlessness because Harry cupped Draco's face in his palms. He was cold. But he placed the most featherlight, the gentlest, the softest kiss on Draco’s lips. Draco tensed, fearing that any movement would make Harry stop. He closed his eyes, letting Harry do as he pleased with him. He dug his hands into his sheets to keep from reaching out. He leaned into the cooling sensation and he immediately regretted it when Harry distanced. He didn’t go very far, however. He leaned his forehead against Draco's and gulped, hesitating. "I wish I were with you." Harry whispered in a secretive tone. However, he was hesitating once again. He didn’t dare utter the word which would have changed everything. Draco did it for him. "Alive? Darling, don't lie to my face."

"But I can't say I wish you were with me. I don't want you to die. "

Draco considered all of the possible ways they could shape their feelings into words before speaking up.

"I wish I could kiss you and truly feel it."

"Yes."

"I wish I could hug you and feel your heartbeat."

"Yes."

"I wish I could touch you."

Harry shuddered at that before nodding slowly, analysing Draco’s features as if fearing he’d forget them. Cataloguing his every word as if Draco wouldn’t scream them from the roof of the Manor if only Harry asked. Speaking of Draco’s embarrassing feelings, he had to make sure of something. One more regret to take care of.

"... do you love me?" Draco asked him reluctantly. He wasn’t sure if he’d rather hear the truth or the lie – he wanted the affirmative answer. He realized humourlessly that he didn’t care about its veracity anymore. Would Draco perceive his ‘yes’ as a lie if he didn’t care either way? Harry watched him cautiously. His answer was unexpected. "I won't tell you. It will influence your fate. And I don't want your blood on my hands as well."

However, Draco could read between the lines.

"Since when, Harry?"

"... I don't know." That was the truth. Draco could tell from the way Harry’s shoulders dropped, hunching over himself as he realized he hadn’t managed to fool Draco.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but that was when his mother walked in. She smiled warmly his way, holding a tray with food and drinks for the two of them. Harry retreated quickly so Draco couldn't pester him with more questions. His mother's soup warmed his body instantly, but it was Harry's confession that kept his heart beating that day.

That evening, an unfamiliar owl landed on their windowsill. The Ministry summoned them for their trial. It was scheduled for Saturday, two days from today. Draco flinched when his mother aggressively crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire. But neither said anything as they took a day to rest. To emotionally prepare for what's to come.

One more day until the trial.

Draco decided to take it slow today. He walked through the more ... aesthetically pleasing parts of the Manor, the ones which didn't instantly give him the creeps. He ate breakfast with his mother, made sure all of their assets were ready to be transferred to Blaise and Daphne, finished that book he's been dying to read, ate lunch with his mother, walked through the fields of flowers, stopped by the daffodils to grab one flower from each row, put them in a vase and watered them (just enough so they could live through tomorrow in his place), ate dinner with his mother, ... argued with his mother. She tried to convince him to leave. He wouldn't hear it. After the trial, Narcissa would be escorted away by Blaise's associates instead of the Aurors. She'd be safe. And Draco would be free, regardless of the trial's outcome. He will finally be able to rest.

He couldn't sleep that night either. The screams were too loud as if they knew this was the last night they could torture him. They were making him think terrible thoughts. Consequently, he got out of bed, dressed warmly and he headed outside. He didn't even need to reach the daffodils to find Harry. He was inside one of the pavilions. This one was a hexagonal building with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed an unrestricted view of the flower fields surrounding the Manor. What a beautiful scenery unbefitting of such a dark, ugly place. Harry was inside, staring at the horizon. Draco didn't need to announce his presence. The door’s groan made it known. Harry looked over his shoulder just as Draco frowned at the repulsive door. It bugged him that he didn’t have time to fix it. Both his and his mother’s wands had been confiscated by the Aurors. No magic allowed, so Draco would have to repair the door in the Muggle way. He wasn’t even sure where to start. So, he didn’t start at all. Another regret to add to his overwhelming pile.

"You'll catch a cold again."

"I dressed adequately this time."

Harry raised an eyebrow his way before shaking his head, deciding not to fight a losing battle. Draco approached him quietly, stopping by his side. They stared at the scenery for minutes that felt like seconds. They didn’t dare break the spell they were under. After all, they both knew what tomorrow would bring. Draco wanted to ask for more stories about Harry's adventures, but he feared it would take too long and he'd miss the trial. When he gathered enough courage to say something, probably a meaningless comment about the weather, Harry beat him to it.

"I hated the Yule Ball in fourth year."

Draco blinked in surprise before looking over at Harry's expression intrigued. His breath hitched audibly as he took it all in – Harry in his ethereal, otherworldly splendour surrounded by a canvas of flowers and darkness. Draco thought that this would be the memory replaying in his mind during his last moments. Harry Potter. A field of flowers. A starry night.

"Why?" He asked softly, trying not to cringe at how breathless he sounded. Harry, the oblivious idiot, didn't seem the notice at least. He was still looking blankly towards the horizon. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before looking at Draco. He must have been overwhelmed by the same imagery – Draco surrounded by an endless canvas of flowers and stars. His mouth was agape for a solid minute, just staring at him before he forced it shut. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and, only after taking those necessary steps to gather himself, did he speak up.

"You. You were having so much fun dancing with Pansy." Harry confessed quietly, making Draco blink. He remembered the Yule Ball. Pansy made him laugh at her very inappropriate comments about everyone’s outfits. They danced until their feet ached and Draco, being a gentleman, offered Pansy his shoes to walk in while he remained in socks. They made bets with their other friends about how many points each House would lose that night. And how many people professor Snape would find snogging. Draco had never had that much fun in one single night.

"I was." He confirmed when Harry didn't seem to want to continue his line of thought. "...I wish I could have danced with you. I wish I would have asked you to be my partner." Draco was the one with his mouth agape now. He gulped forcibly before he cleared his throat, trying to get a hold of himself. Harry was onto something. It worked wonders on calming his rapid heartbeat. Finally gathering enough courage, he bowed his head and extended his hand towards Harry, looking at him through his eyelashes. "Would you be my partner for tonight, Harry?"

Harry blinked before he laughed softly. He turned towards him and he placed his hand over Draco's, a giddy smile playing on his lips. He had definitely noticed Draco' phrasing – for tonight – but he didn't bring attention to it. "It would be my pleasure, Draco. But we have no music."

Draco rolled his eyes. Trust Harry to ruin the mood. "Who needs music in this setting?"

Harry conceded that point as he took another look around them. But he still had more objections.

"And I still am a shitty dancer."

"Irrelevant. I will lead, you follow."

His dilemma was solved as simply as that. If only everything else had such easy fixes.

Draco started their night with a simple slow dance, keeping his hand hovering over Harry's waist and the other hovering against Harry's hand as they swayed – 1, 2, 3 and 1, 2, 3 and – from side to side, back and forth, step by step. Harry followed easily, occasionally looking at their feet. Draco smiled amused at that.

"There's no risk of stepping on my toes. You're as light as a feather."

Harry snorted.

"How charming. I'm sure you tell that to all of your partners."

"Just one of them. The other liked stepping on my toes to annoy me... and to ruin my shoes."

"I have to agree with Parkinson on this one. Who pays 50 galleons for a pair of shoes?"

"How'd you even know how much they cost? And they were imported leather from –"

They bickered as they danced, laughing at their eccentricities and gossiping about their ex-classmates and professors. Draco switched to a livelier dance at one point, moving them faster, but he didn't let Harry panic over the newly-added steps. He stuck to the basics he had taught him as they danced around the pavilion. By a field of flowers. Under a starry night sky. Draco and Harry. Harry and Draco. The Dying and the Dead.

It was ridiculous, truly. They couldn't feel their bodies against each other, Harry more often than not phased through Draco and they had to dance together for several minutes before they stopped going in opposite directions or bumping ineffectively into each other. It was awkward, but it was their moment. And they'd cherish it for as long as they'll be conscious enough, alive or dead, to remember it.

They had gotten closer to each other at the witching hour, standing nose to nose as they swayed from side to side. Draco's eyes flickered to Harry's lips. Harry's eyes flickered to Draco's lips. They made eye contact and smiled before sharing one final kiss.

Their dancing ended soon after that and they went outside to lie down among the flowers, under the darkness of the sky. They talked all night, Harry telling him about how he spent his last few years alive – dealing with Umbridge, creating Dumbledore's Army and meeting the Order of the Phoenix in fifth year, hunting for Horcruxes, their Sectumsempra, stalking Draco and Dumbledore's death in sixth year and finally finding the last Horcruxes and the final battle in seventh year. Loving and losing Hedwig. Dobby. Weasleys. Loving and losing so many others along the way. They were both emotionally drained by the end of it.

"You'll catch another cold." Harry whispered when Draco sneezed after a few hours of lying down on the cold ground. Dawn had arrived. Just a couple more hours until Draco's trial. Just a couple more hours until he could hear their verdict. Just a couple more hours until it could finally be over.

"It doesn't matter anymore." Draco whispered back. Harry didn't reply, but he followed Draco inside the Manor. He didn't leave his side for even a moment. Not even as he got ready to face the Wizengamot alongside his mother. Not when they Floo'd to the Ministry. Not when they arrived at the Ministry and not when they had to face all of Harry's friends who’ve survived.

Draco's trial happened just after his mother's, so he had the privilege to analyse the people present. The very small crowd of War survivors. He remembered the Wizengamot seats being filled to the brim when he came here with his father. When he showed him which seat Draco will inherit. When he attended a few meetings himself since Lucius wanted Narcissa to regularly take breaks from raising Draco – he wanted her to rest, he wanted to take care of them, of both of them. He remembered being so excited as he raised his hand while his father raised his wand to cast his vote, to accept or deny a motion. Most of the others were also very endeared by his presence even if they didn't like his father. Because they could see he was a good father, even if he wasn't a good man.

Lucius was a coward. And his hands had been fully covered with the blood of innocents. He had used those hands to cast all of the Unforgivables. Numerous times. He had tortured, killed and forced people to do unforgivable things. But those same hands had cradled Draco. Those same hands had braided Narcissa's hair. Those same hands had wiped tears, blown noses, healed scraped knees, cast wonderful spells, gardened, loved. So what if Draco loved a bad man? He loved a good father.

That's why he couldn't risk losing his mother. His dear mother.

He was listening to the trial with one ear and, with the other, he was listening to Harry counting people off. Whispering how they died. Why they weren't here. "OK, OK, alphabetically..." Harry mumbled since he had already lost count of who was missing. "Abbott, all of them killed during the War. Avery, sentenced to life in Azkaban. Son is missing. Black... gone. Sirius at the Battle of Mysteries. And Regulus Black, his younger brother, died when he was young. Seventeen, I think. They thought he had fled, but he was drowned by Inferi when he tried to destroy the locket. One of the Horcruxes." Harry went through all of the Sacred 28 families and the less relevant people that had been part of the Wizengamot. From fifty people they were down to twenty, eleven of which were children forced to step up when their parents died in the War. They were staring at Narcissa with hatred in their eyes. Draco expected the worst.

"...Greengrass. Not present for the trial since her sister just died this morning if the crowd is to be believed."

Draco flinched.

Astoria.

Harry noticed his reaction and stopped rambling, but Draco made a subtle gesture to ignore him and keep going. He'd rather listen to Harry and his mother defending herself instead of the shrill screaming of the ghosts who have been sentenced to Death by a Dementor's Kiss. They were floating through the people in attendance, wailing and begging to be allowed to pass on. Draco did his best to tune them out. To focus on Harry’s next words.

Harry wisely skipped over Draco's own seat on the Wizengamot since he didn't have access to it anymore. Maybe after the trial. If they didn't kill him directly. Harry mentioned a few other people who died horrible deaths before he mentioned Pansy’s disappearance. He looked over Draco's expression for any sign he knew anything about his ex-friend, but Draco didn't give anything away.

"... Shacklebolt. Killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. I think he would have made a great Minister." Harry confessed quietly before he sucked in a sharp breath, exhaled and moved on. Draco agreed with him, but anyone was better than whoever this buffoon was. Draco hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. He knew he was not a pureblood and probably not a muggleborn. So, probably a halfblood. Unless they were crazy enough to let a Squib or a Muggle run the Ministry. Draco wasn't sure where the Wizarding Society’s crazy levels were at these days. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"And Weasleys..." Harry paused as he watched the group of them which attended the trial. The ones who survived. Charlie Weasley was the one in possession of the Wizengamot seats – Weasley and Prewett. Molly didn't want anything to do with either of them. She was painstakingly working on a half-finished jumper with an A on it while she listened half-heartedly to the Minister of Magic list Narcissa's crimes. They were close to announcing her sentence. Draco looked at his mother and he wasn't surprised to see her dissociating. Others wouldn't be able to tell, but he always could. He'd probably be in the same state.

It's not like there was anything to defend against. Everybody knew what they had done. Rita Skeeter had made sure to air out all of the Death Eaters' dirty laundry just before Bellatrix Lestrange went and found her. Apparently, Rita Skeeter had shared one too many secrets – she was found dead the very next day after Lestrange's visit.

Draco had seen aunt Bellatrix come home bathed in blood more than once. He couldn’t pinpoint when exactly she had killed Skeeter. He'd rather not think about it, to be perfectly honest. If he thought about a certain dead person too much, he had the misfortune of summoning them to his side. It was the Universe mocking him as usual. That made him think – did he summon Harry to his side? Or had it been Harry who chose to visit him? He may never know.

Regarding the Death Eaters’ secrets, Skeeter's articles were published the next day in spite of her sudden death. A fail-proof plan in case someone killed her. All of the Death Eaters' crimes were on full display for everyone to see. With quite logical pieces of evidence. Which was surprising of Skeeter since she was known for her exaggerations and aberrations. Draco wouldn't be surprised if the Minister took all of Narcissa's crimes from Skeeter's article, instead of making an effort to personally write the list.

"Oh." Harry whispered which made Draco spare him a look. He followed his gaze towards the Weasleys. Molly was tightly clutching onto a few jumpers. The one with an A on it was the biggest of them. Another had a B. A platinum blonde woman was holding onto that one as well, staring coldly ahead - Draco recognized her as Fleur Delacour. One of her hands was holding onto the jumper and the other was held protectively against her bump - oh. Draco didn't want to dwell on that revelation. One of the twins was holding another jumper – an F. And the H jumper was held by Granger, Ronald and Ginevra.

"Greyback killed Bill. Fred died because of an explosion. George tried to get him to a Healer since he was still breathing, but he didn't make it in time. Fred died in his arms. Percy... he's not dead. He is in Azkaban, though. And he will be there for a few years since he's helped Fudge spread propaganda among other things. As for Arthur... Bellatrix got him. He took a spell for Ginny. At the final battle. It was a curse that had him bleeding out in moments. Molly killed Bellatrix afterwards."

Draco remembered that. Hearing his aunt's shrill laughter being suddenly silenced would haunt him forever. Her gagging as she decomposed –

Draco was going to puke. He felt too anxious. Too tense.

"Who did I miss....? Oh, Nott. He's vanished. Like Parkinson. And I missed Zabini too, but he's not in the Wizengamot anymore. His influence is mostly European as was his mother's. His family was neutral during the War, but they had certain allegiances. The Minister negotiated it so the Zabinis hold some important role right now that I don’t care to remember in exchange for their Wizengamot seat.”

Draco really wanted to find a way to smack Harry over his head. He was talking too much. And then, when the verdict for his mother was about to be announced, Draco wished Harry would talk more. Say anything. But he remained deadly quiet.

"... two years in Azkaban followed by five years of house arrest."

Draco was, once again, grateful that he had talked Blaise into taking his mother away. He watched as she was marched away, mostly against her will. She had figured out what Draco had done when the "Aurors" didn't let her go. Didn’t let her turn towards her son. Didn’t let her attend her son’s trial. She glanced desperately towards Draco as he took the stand. He offered her a soft smile and an even softer "Take care, mom." Narcissa screamed his name in desperation, but Blaise's people were very efficient. Her screams were barely audible by the time the Minister started listing Draco’s crimes. In contrast to his mother who had tried to defend herself, Draco didn’t utter a single word.

Draco's trial ended just as quickly as his mother’s – except that, now, he could see all of the hatred directed at him. If there had been a couple pity votes for his mother, there were none for him. The Weasleys especially glared daggers at him, looking particularly murderous. Draco wondered what they would do to get their hands on him. He really didn’t want to find out.

"What?! How can he say that? They don't understand you at all. Why isn't anyone saying anything? Didn't they see you at the last battle? You fought with us. You saved Ron's skin like three times. And other people too. Why aren't... why do they hate you so much?" Harry whispered desperately when the votes against Draco kept piling up. "This isn’t the world I died for." Harry added mournfully whereas Draco closed his eyes as he heard his verdict.

"10 years in Azkaban."

"What?! No! You insufferable bastards! You fought in this War, are you blind?! Draco saved your kid’s ass twice. Your kid would be dead if it weren’t for him! And you didn't fight at all. You let your children do the fighting and now you're upset they're dead!" Harry went off on them, but it was useless.

Draco was taken away in magic-suppressing handcuffs. His wand was snapped in half.

His wand... his magic...

He let the guards take him away. He expected to be Floo’d or Apparated directly to Azkaban any moment now. He wondered who would feed the stray cats which often found their way to the Manor. Who would take care of the daffodils and the other flowers fields. Who would make sure all doors and windows were closed at night. Who would...? Who was he fooling?

The Manor was dying. And so was Draco.

It took Draco embarrassingly long to realize that he wasn't being taken away by actual Aurors. But he didn’t spoil Blaise’s surprise. He remained quiet as they dragged him away. It wasn't like he could fight four people off of him. Without his wand? Without any other weapon? Impossible. Still, he opened his eyes and glared at the one whose mannerisms, whose movements he recognized. He had lived with him for seven years, how could he not recognize him instantly? The man Draco was glaring daggers at analysed his expression for a moment before giving him an almost imperceptible shrug.

Draco wondered who had had the initiative to kidnap him. He assumed it was a common effort from Blaise, Theo and Pansy. He hated them all equally for it. Draco and his kidnappers exited the Ministry through a side exit, Apparated to Swansea, on the western coast in Wales, and, then, Apparated again to Waterford, on the eastern coast in Ireland. Only then did they enter a strange, rectangular transportation device which was waiting for them. "A car?" Harry asked dumbfounded which made Draco think it was that muggle carriage which he had heard about. It looked rather sleek. Perhaps in another universe he would be driving one of these cars. Only after he was safely inside the aforementioned car and they were well on their way did his kidnappers take off his handcuffs. Draco glared at the man sitting next to him who didn’t look like Blaise Zabini at all but who was definitely Blaise Zabini. As Blaise’s Polyjuice Potion wore off, Draco glowered, not daring to take his eyes off of him.

"Just so you know, I hate you." He sneered viciously. Blaise rolled his eyes, looking unapologetic.

"Yes, but you're alive. So I don't particularly care."

"My mother?" Draco’s voice cracked, making Blaise's expression soften as he leaned against his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Waiting for you. At your new home."

Draco scowled, but he was so relieved. His mother was safe. His one objective for the day had been fulfilled. Still, he refused to make further eye contact with his traitorous friend. He leaned his back against his seat, his eyes observing Harry as he remained in Draco’s line of sight, flying as fast as this car. He gave Draco a worried look but he calmed down ever-so-slightly when he noticed Blaise at his side. Draco was then blessed with one of Harry’s rare grins as he raced the car. Draco barely kept a smile off his face, reminding himself he was mad at Blaise and particularly irked by Harry’s enthusiasm as Draco’s plans fell through.

"What country did you choose for me?" Draco asked Blaise in a prickly manner. He missed his wand. Blaise deserved a Stinging Hex to the face.

"You'll see."

Disappointing answer.

"I'll kill you if it’s America." Draco retorted venomously making Blaise snort.

"It's not America." Blaise reassured him. Draco sighed deeply, expressionlessly.

"... I deserved that. The punishment. You should have let me serve my sentence."

Blaise rolled his eyes again, making a dismissing hand gesture as he talked.

"Don't be a fool. The Wizengamot is as corrupt as ever. Especially now, with all those orphans-turned-pawns on the playing board."

"They were orphaned during the War. They have every right to be upset."

"We lost our parents too, Draco. We're upset too. Tragic deaths don't give them the right to hunt us down or attempt to destroy our legacies."

"But we already attempted. During the War. There are so many muggleborns occupying the Wizengamot seats now. I got off easy. I expected a Dementor’s Kiss."

"They wouldn't. They're trying to create a brave new world. Peace and justice and rainbows and unicorns."

"All of those exist. So, they have all the chances to succeed."

"Did you see the Weasley committee? I heard them talking about wanting you executed. Apparently, it's your fault the War happened, not Voldemort's. Funny, isn't it? Justice, they said. A fair trial, they said."

"... I am not a good man. I caused a lot of harm.”

"You were a child trying to survive."

"So were they. And I fed them to the wolves."

"You did what you had to do to survive the wolves."

There was a tense silence as Draco pondered if he should reply to Blaise. He eventually did, lest he regret this as well.

"I could have just not done it. Any of it. I could have killed myself and let someone else be the pawn in my stead."

Blaise’s shaky inhale made Draco close his eyes. Harry probably couldn’t hear what the two were discussing but, when Draco opened his eyes, Harry looked troubled. He tried to mouth something to Draco, but it was impossible to decipher.

"... Draco."

Draco was starting to regret he had spoken at all. He didn’t answer Blaise, so his companion felt compelled to keep speaking.

"You're free. You can live peacefully."

"... it surely doesn't feel like it."

They remained silent for the rest of the ride. This car must have had some magical component equipped to it, because it only took one hour for them to get from Waterford to the Cliffs of Moher. Blaise deposited Draco at the edge of said cliffs after they exited the car. Blaise’s bodyguards waited for him inside the car while Blaise spoke to Draco as he pointed at a wooden carriage wheel on the ground. "In ten minutes, this Portkey will go off. Grab onto it and leave. Do you understand, you stubborn mule?” Blaise didn’t wait for Draco to respond. It was, probably, a rhetorical question. “I need to get back to London before those useless fucks find out I’ve left. These fucking assholes at the Ministry are a huge thorn in my side. I don’t know why they wouldn’t just let me steal their prisoners from under their noses." Blaise was mocking his own constraints, but he had already done so much for them. He had saved so many of them. Draco knew he could never repay him for saving his mother. All the money in the world wouldn’t be enough.

"Tell Daphne I'm sorry for her loss." Draco decided to say, reminded of what Harry had told him during the trial. Blaise nodded solemnly.

"I will. You know she'd have been there for you if only Astoria –"

"I know. Don't worry about it. Leave, Blaise."

His friend hesitated. He then poked Draco’s chest with his finger, as if to drive the point home.

"10 minutes, Draco."

Blaise hesitated to leave for another moment - as if knowing something was wrong. Ultimately, he dragged Draco in a tight embrace. They held onto each other for dear life. Until one of Blaise’s bodyguards told him he had to leave. Blaise thumped Draco on the back before he turned his back on him and entered his magical car. Draco watched the car drive away at an incomprehensible speed.

Finally left alone, Draco contemplated the horizon. The place where sea and sky met. He looked at the Sun and wished to drown in him. He looked at the sea and wished to be embraced by it. Harry didn't say anything for a long while as he stood at Draco’s side. Neither did Draco.

Then...

"At the trial. They compared me to you. Two sides of the same coin. They kept saying you fell courageously in battle. But that's not true. We both know you let Voldemort kill you. Yet they sing your praises as if they raised you to be the hero you turned out to be. But they only raised you to be a pig for slaughter. You raised yourself to become ... yourself. Your righteous, horribly selfless, self-sacrificing self. I hate you for that. I hate you for leaving. The least you could have done when I gave you my wand was to take me out before you did yourself in. If you wanted to die so badly, at least kill me first, so I don't have to suffer in this miserable world." Draco's eyes closed as he exhaled sharply once he said everything he wanted to say. He felt a ghostly coldness against his cheeks and, when he opened his eyes, Harry was watching him sadly, his hands hovering over Draco's cheeks.

"I could have never killed you."

"You almost did. I wanted to thank you. When you used Sectumsempra. When I was bleeding out on that filthy bathroom’s floor. It wasn’t the ending I expected, but it was the ending I deserved. Of course, Snape appeared before I could say anything. And I was saved. I would have happily died at your hands. I've already had enough by then."

"... why didn't you talk to someone?"

"Why didn't you?

"They wouldn't have understood." They said in sync, Harry sounding resigned and Draco smiling woefully. Harry's jaw clenched whereas Draco huffed humourlessly. "Maybe I should have told you. Maybe we would have understood each other. But it's too late now. I'm tired. I want to rest."

"Pick up the Portkey, Draco."

"No."

"Draco, I'm being serious. I think there's someone approaching."

Draco frowned at Harry’s growing panic before looking over his shoulder. He didn't even manage to see who it was – not that it mattered. His attacker could be anyone. Their identity was inconsequential. What mattered was what they wanted to do to Draco. All he knew was that he was suddenly hit by a spell. He wasn't even sure what spell it was at first – it wasn't an Unforgivable, of that he was pretty sure. He knew how two of them felt and this spell wasn’t them. As for the Killing Spell… well, he wasn’t dead yet.

It didn't matter anyway. Whatever it had been, it had locked his muscles in place. They were spasming involuntarily, trying to move. His survival instincts had taken control of his body. His body was doing its best to free itself, but the magic didn’t allow any muscle contractions. Draco couldn't even breathe.

"I was hoping I'd catch you before they whisked you away."

Draco couldn't breathe.

"10 years is a joke. And you weren't even going to serve them? You're a disgrace to the Wizarding Society."

Draco couldn't breathe.

He could barely hear Harry screaming his name, trying to help and being unable to do anything.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I caught you. Have fun in Hell, you son of a bitch."

And then he could breathe again. Draco was hyperventilating, doubled over as he struggled to gulp in impossible amounts of air. His instincts were telling him to scream. To cry for help. But he was so terribly tired. And there was nobody in sight except for him, his attacker and a ghost. How laughable. An idea hit him then – he could grab the Portkey. He might make it… His mother was waiting for him. And Blaise and Pansy and Theo and Daphne and Gregory. They had all done their best to give him a chance to survive. The least he could do to repay those favours was to try to grab the damn Portkey. And he tried, he truly did. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He was never enough.

His attacker called a Stupefy and Draco was sent flying off the cliff, plummeting toward the churning water below. Draco saw Harry diving for him, screaming at him to hold his breath, to fight, to survive. To live. As he fell, Draco had a terrifying realisation. He didn't want to die. He wanted to hug his mother again. To have her tell him he would be alright. To hug his friends and thank them for sticking by his side. He wanted to live. He didn’t know if those thoughts were generated by his survival instincts or by his fear of death. All he knew was…

Mom...

I'm scared.

I don't want to die.

Those were his last thoughts before hitting the water. Another spell hit him as he broke the water’s surface and, suddenly, his body felt heavy. As if rocks had been tied to his limbs, pulling him to the bottom. He couldn't swim. He couldn't move. He was going down. Falling deeper and deeper. There was only him and the sea. And, as he had previously wished, it embraced him. He felt its cold embrace and he closed his eyes. Very few would mourn him, after all, so he welcomed the darkness like an old friend.

He blinked his eyes open when, suddenly, there was warmth. Such an overwhelming warmth that he thought he'd be burned alive. But it was gentle. Tender. Coaxing him out of his shell with soft touches and comforting whispers.

The Sun.

Icarus could do it. He could fly towards the Sun. He had already fallen, but that meant nothing when the Sun himself reached for him. He thought he heard people calling him using a name he was familiar with. A name so dear to him. A name spoken with love and hatred, care and disgust. But a name which had belonged to him, most definitely. He considered turning to check. Maybe someone would miss him. Maybe someone would want him back.

But the Sun... oh, the Sun...

The Sun was waiting for him. It was obvious what he chose. Who he chose.

The Sun didn't hesitate to reach for him when Icarus did his best to remain airborne just a moment longer. He flew towards the Sun. He fell for a brief moment – his forever destiny. But the Sun wouldn’t let him go again. The Sun would change their predestined fates just for them to meet. The Sun caught him. And Icarus laughed in his embrace.

Draco Malfoy’s body was never found.

Narcissa Malfoy never stopped looking for him.

Blaise Zabini never stopped blaming himself for not waiting ten more minutes.

Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle and Theodore Nott never stopped waiting for him.

Draco Malfoy’s murderer never faced any consequences for his bloodshed.

Alas, Icarus’ fall never happened again. The Sun made sure of it.