They were coming.
One by one, monstrous shapes were breaking through, claws first, spreading thin the poisonous green-grey haze that was by now fully covering the only way out of this blind alley.
Right behind him, Potter (Harry) was still on the ground. Motionless.
His grip tightening on his wand, Draco turned, crouched and placed a hand on Potter's (Harry's) knee. He tried Disapparating them again. Once more, he failed.
He clenched his teeth until he could feel them hurting at the roots.
He let go of Potter (Harry) and, slowly, pushed forward towards the advancing horde of Dementors.
They hissed. They rattled. They spewed forth their putrid breaths.
Draco shuddered.
The tip of his wand flicked up then slashed down as he shouted 'Vociferox!'
The air in front of him shrieked and its fury rolled and echoed against any wall it found in its path.
Looking around, he counted to ten, but his surroundings remained devoid of all other sign of life.
He cast another spell. He couldn't give himself the leisure to hope for any nearby rescue. After all, in Knockturn Alley, hope was probably a banished word.
This time, orange flames shot up straight at the sky, setting it ablaze. A party trick, grandiose, but ultimately harmless, though dyed with enough Dark Magic to draw the right kind of attraction, the Auror kind, to it.
He started falling back towards Potter (Harry), moving slowly, without losing sight on the encroaching Dementors.
Darker than the dark of night that enveloped them, hovering above ground, they glided forward. Undeterred. Drawing in ever-tightening circles around what would eventually become their prey. Eating whatever light abided yet.
The shadows hid, the air condensed. The hissing came closer.
When the heel of his boot hit something solid, almost tripping him up, Draco stopped. His wand at heart-level, he pointed towards the sky and he cast. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Then, fighting the urge to duck his head between his shoulders, he resolutely turned around and bent over Potter (Harry).
Behind him, a barrier, hazy white, so transparent it verged on blue in some places, rose between them and the gathering Dementors.
'Protego maxima.'
'Fianto duri.'
'Repello inimicum.'
All were spells cast at the Battle of Hogwarts to protect the Castle and its inhabitants. And, while a fair number of Wizards, mostly Muggleborn, thought that was what had kept the Dementors at bay, the Purebloods had known better.
Draco knew better. His rueful smile tasted sour on his lips.
At best, they'd buy him (them) a few more minutes. If only were he able to use them...
He conjured up a bar of chocolate and tore into it as he ran quick diagnostic spells on Potter's still form.
Three very precious minutes later and Draco had nothing worthwhile. Potter (Harry) was simply unconscious, not seemingly cursed. No obvious signs of foul play.
He vanished the empty wrapper with a flick of hand.
'Most likely drunk off his face,' Draco's mind jeered uselessly, not sure if he was mocking Potter (Harry) or himself. After all, Draco was the one who'd stood by for hours outside of the White Wyvern, waiting for Potter (Harry) to re-emerge from its cavernous depths.
'Obviously drunk.' He huffed out an exasperated breath at his momentary lack of wits. Apparently it was catching.
Though, fortunately, he'd had something to gain from his all-too frequent associations with Potter (Harry) and that was a need for proper preparation. For the former Boy-Who-Lived had never stopped being a magnet for trouble.
He withdrew his shrunken-down Potions strongbox from one of his robe's inner pockets, set it down and reverted the charm. His fingers went unerringly to the right compartment.
Before feeding Potter (Harry) the Revive Potion, he chanced a look over his shoulder. The barrier was holding, though it was rapidly thinning. Beyond the limpid bubble, masses of foul darkness writhed and throbbed, gathering strength.
'Alright, wakey-wakey Potter,' Draco whispered as he brought the phial to Potter's (Harry's) lips. 'Time to open those baby greens, princess, and get on with vanquishing the big, ugly beasts.'
He pushed Potter's (Harry's) mouth open and almost recoiled at the heavily sweet, almost unctuous, smell that assaulted his senses. For the first time that night, Draco felt real panic claw at his throat.
Frantic now, he allowed the red-filled phial to drop to the ground, then cast a weaker variant of the Scouring Charm on himself. He retched again and again, bringing up soap bubbles and spitting, then rinsed his mouth with the water conjured up by his Aguamenti. Finally, there was no lingering taste of chocolate.
He fitted his trembling lips over Harry's (Potter's) parted lips and kissed him.
He swept his tongue carefully all over the well-known nooks and crannies of the inside of Harry's mouth, licked over the edges of his teeth and along the sensitive palate. Bitterness welled up on Draco's tongue, sharp and potent.
Wormwood, crossed with asphodel and sopophorous beans. Sickly sweet smell and terribly tart taste. Harry had been doused with the Draught of Living Death.
The Sleeping Draught, the Anti-Apparition Jinx, the Dementors' Attack, Knockturn Alley, all tied in, intricate machinations finely tuned to form a trap for Harry. Someone had sentenced the Hero of the Wizarding World to a fate worse than death.
But they hadn't counted on Draco being there. Draco, who loved Harry more than his reason, Draco, who'd spotted Harry in a place he least was expecting, Draco, who wouldn't go above stalking his former lover to make sure he wouldn't get into trouble bigger than he could handle.
Draco who'd walked willingly, unknowingly, into a conspiracy. Draco who couldn't master a Patronus to save his (their) life. Draco who still had to hope beyond hope.
He heard the softest pop, and bursts of air rushed in, frigid and bracing, washing over them. He knew then that the magical wall he'd erected had at last crumbled.
He straightened himself from where he'd been hunched over Harry.
Forcing himself to ignore the furious sibilants whipping the air behind him, the bone-whistling cold starting to suffocate his senses, he again rifled through the strongbox. Soon, his fingers curled lightly around the fragile little bottle holding the precious Wiggenweld Potion.
Supporting Harry's head up with one hand, Draco carefully poured the blue liquid inside his mouth, then applied pressure on his throat until he could feel the bird-quick bob of him swallowing.
He sat back, his heart slowly turning to ashes.
The tales that told of the Sleeping Beauty, were at once right and wrong, as Potioneers were eager to share with those who listened. The potion would work, but not completely, and not right away. As he gradually woke up, Harry would be at first confused, disoriented and lacking fine muscle control. A newborn babe in swaddling robes. And then...
Draco had to hold on until that 'then' arrived.
There may be no hope for him tonight, but he would give Harry a fighting chance.
He hadn't turned to face the Dementors. He was afraid he'd lose the tenuous hold he yet commanded on his mind and body.
But he could hear them closing in: the uneven scrape of decaying robes, the dry crunch of snapping claws, the harsh rasp coming from the gaping holes they had instead of mouths. He could hear them from the hundreds screaming their terror in Draco's ears as Voldemort and his Death Eaters raided the Hogwarts grounds once more.
Draco knew, somehow without feeling, that he'd started trembling from a cold that no heating charm could appease. His hands were going numb under the thick leather of his gloves. He tugged them off.
He didn't yet rush to take up the wand he'd left lying on the ground near Harry.
His senses shying away from the dreaded presence at his back, he focused all of his remaining strength in taking in Harry. Probably for the last time, Draco thought wildly.
He traced Harry's features one by one with cold, almost unfeeling fingers. Not that it mattered, Draco already knew what touching Harry was supposed to feel like. What mattered was that Harry's skin felt warm, alive, almost burning.
When he finally heard, above the vicious clamor of voices, human or not, real or not, the sound he'd been waiting for, a weak cough, Harry's, he grasped for his wand.
He got up and turned, shielding Harry from the Dementors' view. They were so close Draco could almost taste on his tongue the moldering corruption they brought to the world.
Fortifying his will, he stared unseeingly at the writhing masses of darkness in front of his eyes, and started unspooling memories.
His father holding him in his strong arms, teaching him how to soar a broomstick into the sky when he was four years old. His mother gently encircling his wrist, as she taught him how to wave his practice wand when he was seven years old. Harry holding on to his naked waist, whispering softly what could've been words of love when he was twenty-four and hurting...
'Expecto Patronum!'
He cast, his voice barely above a mutter, as he felt his throat go numb at the searing, freezing pressure of claws shackling around his arms. He hadn't realized he could feel even colder than he'd had.
A hesitant wisp of light bloomed from the tip of his wand, then started floating forward towards the Dementor who'd trapped him. His tattered hood had started falling away, revealing his nightmarish features. But Draco, head tilted back, could only focus on the large gash gaping open, revealing the void from which there would be no escape.
He tried to twist from the merciless vise, but his body was no longer listening.
The void came closer, grew larger. It hovered inches above Draco's face.
His eyes fell shut.
Still darkness, so much darkness.
From somewhere far away, he thought he'd heard someone (Harry) whisper (shout?) his name.
As if he were in a dream, he opened his eyes, then stared straight into the abyss.
Draco (who was draco?) screamed.