War was supposed to end things.
It was supposed to bring an end to the chaos, to the fear, to the death. But standing here now, in the middle of it, surrounded by the echoes of curses and screams, Harry felt nothing like the hero they’d all made him out to be. He wasn’t the Chosen One. He wasn’t the Savior.
He was just a boy—a boy holding onto Draco Malfoy, the love of his life, as the world crumbled around them.
Draco had fallen to the ground moments ago, the green flash of a Killing Curse still burning in Harry’s mind, searing itself behind his eyes. The same green that had haunted him for years, since that Halloween night in Godric’s Hollow. Only this time, it wasn’t his parents. It wasn’t Sirius. It wasn’t anyone else.
It was Draco.
Harry knelt beside him, his hands trembling as they cradled Draco’s face, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. The battle roared on around them, but all Harry could hear was the ragged sound of Draco’s breathing, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
“Why?” Harry’s voice broke, barely more than a whisper, as he stared down at Draco, his mind spinning, refusing to accept what was happening. “Why did you do it?”
He could still feel the warmth of Draco’s shield charm, the magic that had thrown him out of harm’s way. He’d watched, helpless, as Draco had stepped in front of him—shielded him—from another Death Eater’s curse. And now, Draco was dying, bleeding out on the cold, hard ground, all because of him.
Draco coughed, a weak, pitiful sound, and Harry could feel the tremor in his own chest as he tried to hold back tears. A tear slid down Draco’s cheek, and Harry wiped it away with shaking fingers, his heart breaking all over again.
“I love you,” Draco rasped, his voice so quiet, so fragile, that Harry had to lean closer just to hear him.
And then, without thinking, without hesitating, Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s. It was desperate, a kiss full of panic, of fear, of hope. He poured everything into it—everything he hadn’t been able to say, everything he wanted to believe. That Draco wouldn’t die. That this wasn’t happening. That maybe—just maybe—he could save him.
Like Fawkes had saved him. Maybe if he just cried hard enough, his tears would work. Maybe they could heal Draco the way they had healed him.
“Please,” Harry whispered, pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against Draco’s, his breath shaky, his eyes burning. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t—Draco, I can’t do this without you.”
But Draco didn’t answer. His eyes were fluttering shut, his breathing growing more and more shallow, and Harry felt a wave of panic crash over him, suffocating him. No. Not like this. Not now.
“No, Draco!” Harry’s voice cracked, raw and broken. “Please. Please. Don’t go. You can’t—you’re supposed to live. You’re supposed to live!”
He didn’t know if he was shouting or sobbing, or if the noise of the battle had drowned out everything around them, but he didn’t care. None of it mattered. All that mattered was Draco. Draco, who had hated him once. Draco, who had teased him, challenged him, fought with him. Draco, who had somehow—impossibly—become everything to him.
And now Draco, who was dying in his arms, seventeen years old, far too young to be another casualty of this stupid fucking war.
Harry’s hands shook as he clutched at Draco’s robes, his heart pounding, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. “You can’t leave me,” he whispered, over and over, like a prayer. “Please.”
But Draco just smiled, the smallest, softest smile, barely there before it faded.
And then his eyes closed, his body going still in Harry’s arms.
No.
No, no, no.
“Draco!” Harry screamed, his voice hoarse, his chest heaving as he shook him, desperate, begging for him to wake up, for him to open his eyes, for him to laugh and call Harry a bloody idiot. For him to say it was all a joke, that they had more time.
But nothing happened.
The tears came then, hot and fast, and Harry couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t stop anything. His hands fisted in Draco’s robes, pulling him closer, holding him like if he just held on tight enough, he wouldn’t slip away.
Why did it have to be him?
Why couldn’t Draco have just been selfish? If he had just stayed out of the way, if he hadn’t shielded Harry, if he had been himself, maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be happening.
But no. Of course not. Because Draco had always been more than his sharp words, more than his biting insults, more than the rivalry they had built up over the years. Draco had loved him. And that love had gotten him killed.
Harry’s chest ached, his throat tight as he buried his face in Draco’s neck, his tears soaking into his robes. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”
He wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not for him.
But Draco was gone, his body limp in Harry’s arms, and all Harry could do was sit there, shaking, clutching him, begging for it to be a dream, for someone—anyone—to come and tell him it wasn’t real.
But no one came. And Harry was left with nothing but the memory of Draco’s last breath, the ghost of his smile, and the emptiness in his chest where his heart used to be.
He was seventeen, for fuck’s sake. Seventeen. They weren’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not now.
But Draco had. And now all Harry could do was hold him and whisper, over and over, the words he should have said sooner.
“I love you.”