Chapter 22
"Ah, Draco. Here you are. I have saved you a seat," Voldemort says, gesturing to the empty chair; the first on one side of the table and the nearest to him. The first seat on the opposite side is occupied by Severus.
"Thank you, my Lord," Draco says, as he comes to oblige and sit next to him. He keeps his face empty, his eyes hollow. "You are most gracious."
His shoulders are tense, his fists clenched tightly under the table until they are white. His insides are on fire with rage, and it is the hardest thing to not get up and destroy everything until all there is left is devastation and rubble around him.
He wants to burn this world down.
He wants to see Voldemort and all the Death-Eaters crumpled at his feet.
All he can think about -- all he has been able to think about -- is Harry.
Was he in pain when they killed him? Was it instant or did Voldemort make sure he suffered?
What must he have felt, that it was Draco that did it to him? Despite that smile of his, what had he felt in his final moments?
He had disrespected Harry's body after his death, allowed the Death-Eaters to do so. Burned his hung corpse alive in front of the entire world in joy and celebration.
He watches as Voldemort speaks, flat eyes fixated and unmoving on his face.
I will ruin you.
***
Draco spends months planning it out; how does he cause the most damage possible before he kills himself at Voldemort's hand?
He may not be able to finish the job, but how does he leave them all so ruined that it will take them years to recover, if ever?
He takes the months to create divides and conflict among the Death-Eaters. He causes as much instability and chaos as possible. He sabotages progress but makes sure he is never the one incriminated. Death-Eaters executed for the wrenches he threw in the works, as much as possible. The less people Voldemort has on his side, the less powerful.
And most fortunately, Voldemort is easy to manipulate because of his horrid temper. He will kill anyone for the slightest wrongs, and Draco knows how to subtly cause a lot of that to happen. His position as the second-in-command also means his opinions and words are taken seriously.
It does not mean that Draco is safe, of course, or that Voldemort is particularly kind to him. There is respect, perhaps, but Voldemort still does as he wills in the end.
He has learned that not even his position and contributions can keep him safe after what happened to Rodolphus.
The last phase of his plan is publicising his own betrayal.
Voldemort will lose credibility simply on the basis that he trusted Draco for anything at all. How did he not see it coming, knowing the rumours of Draco's history with Harry?
Wasn't it obvious? Wasn't it something everyone has been saying in secret? And look, they were right.
And with Draco keeping all the processes in order and the large numbers in line and control, held by fear and his power -- losing that would throw the entire organisation into chaos.
The last phase will end in Draco, essentially, killing himself.
***
That's how it was supposed to end. But it didn't.
"I'm dying," Severus tells Draco. And indeed, he looks like it too; sickly and thin. "An illness of the magical core. It has reached its most critical stage and there is no cure for it. I have months at best."
It tears at his heart.
"Severus," Draco whispers.
Severus blinks, bewildered by the emotion in his voice.
"I'm tired of losing people," he murmurs, staring down at his hands. He is tired, indeed. Exhausted. Much of his grief now manifests in two ways; rage and hatred, and the fatigue bearing down on him with the weight of a tsunami.
Severus eyes him quietly. Draco fears he may be giving away too much of himself.
He hasn't expressed any such emotion like this to him in years. It must be suspicious.
Draco lets it drain out of his face. "Is that all you called me here to tell me then?"
"No. That's not the only thing." Severus breathes. He seems reluctant, hesitant. Still, he plows through. "Do you know why your uncle was executed?"
Draco lifts his head. "No... I don't."
"He was entrusted with an important task, one that he not only failed to complete, but actually ended up worsening. To be fair... it is rather complicated and difficult task. Following Rodolphus' death, the task was entrusted to me. I have managed to complete a third of it over the years, and now that I do not have long, this task will be delegated to you by the Dark Lord's orders."
"And what is this task?'
Severus stands and beckons him with a hand to follow.
When he reaches a door, he pauses. His hand hovers over the doorknob, reluctance still blatant in his every moment.
"You must know," Severus says quietly, "You are under orders to not cause any harm to him. The horcrux inside of his soul, you see, is the very last that will ever be made. The criteria of horcruxes is that the flesh and blood of the person must be their own, so this is the last way of immortality for the Dark Lord."
Draco is well aware of the horcruxes; that Harry, Hermione and Ron had destroyed them all, and Neville the snake. There was one more, but that was never found by the trio. Draco, too, does not know where it could be.
The last horcrux is inside of a person, it seems.
But who?
"Rodolphus was given the task to find a way extract it from the soul and keep it preserved. But it went wrong, and somehow it merged further into the soul such that his life became tied to the Dark Lord's. If one dies, so does the other. Do you understand how important it is, that you do not harm him for this reason, until the horcrux has been extracted?"
Severus' gaze on him is piercing and heavy.
"I understand, Severus."
"Your intelligence and power is unmatched among the Death-Eaters, next to Rodolphus and myself. Perhaps even more so than myself. This is why you have been chosen for this task."
Severus pushes the door open.
As Draco turns into the room, the person is revealed and --
Oh Gods.
The hitched breath, and the jolt all through his body, what emotion must pass through his face when he sees the face -- it's a mercy that Severus was far too distracted by checking the readings in the orbs.
"I see," Draco says, quietly, only when he is capable of keeping his voice impassive, "I don't understand, however... as I recall, the body -- "
"Was a fake. A look-a-like disfigured beyond the point of recognition. It was known that Potter was captured by the Death-Eaters. Nobody should suspect it because what reason could there possibly be to keep him alive for years?"
The silence lulls.
"Will he wake up?" Draco asks. Slowly, he clasps his trembling hands behind himself, tightly, to hide them. They are always the only thing giving him away. The cruciatus effects make it hard to hide this reaction away completely, always showing up most under stress. "How would I keep him asleep?"
"You need not worry. I will tell you all the theories and spells you need for this task; that includes the coma-inducing spell. He will need to be kept under, after all, for the entire duration of the extraction. The agony of extracting a horcrux can kill, and we do not want that, do we? Not before we can complete our task."
"Yes. Of course."
Severus nods. "No matter how much you loathe him, I trust you will keep yourself in control around him."
"I suppose I will have to."
"I have some errands to run then. Until then, familiarise yourself with the vitals spells and how they work. Should be easy for you."
"I will do so."
With that, Severus walks past him where he stands in the doorway. His body is carefully held together.
It is carefully held together until the door is shut behind him. And then it's not.
Draco's hands unclasp behind him, and fall to his sides. For a very long moment, he doesn't move. Just stares at the face, the body clad comfortably in a robe, but so much smaller and frailer than he remembered. He had begun to forget his face after all these years.
It's him...
It's hard to believe his own eyes.
Draco moves towards him in steps so light and careful it's as if he fears that a too-hard press of his shoes would make this entire vision come down on him, as if it was a feeble illusion all along. A mere dream that he can be broken out of abruptly from sleep.
But it's not.
It's not.
When he kneels down slowly beside the bed, he can feel the floorboards beneath his knees, the sheets under his hands as it rests there, and as he stares at his face.
He doesn't know what he's going to do when he gets to him.
He wants to touch him but his hands are so dirty.
He wants to touch him but his hands have already hurt him too much.
It lifts for Harry, and then stutters, fingers curling back loosely into his palm when he loses his nerve at the last second.
It's a long time after that Draco manages to truly muster the courage to do so. To rest his shaky hand to the back of Harry's. It feels as weak and thin and fragile as porcelain, after all these years of lying in the same position. Draco's hands feel too dangerous even without that fact.
But as soon as he touches him.
As soon as he touches him -
All these years Draco had thought he'd lost the ability to cry; all such human things had been wrung out of him by his uncle. But here he is.
All it takes is the feel of Harry's warmth and solidity against his palms, and he goes.
It's him. It's really him. His black, wild hair, and his long eyelashes resting so softly against his cheekbones in sleep, and his brown skin and the familiar slope of his name and the bow shape of his mouth. All these orbs surrounding him that keep life in his body. It's him. It's him.
Draco's hand grips his tightly in his own, and his fingers run over his hairline until it slides to hold his cheek, staring closely into his face through the crumpling of his own, tilted over his sleeping eyes, his eyes unblinking even through the blur as if he couldn't not look at him for even a second. His face is twisting so tightly that it hurts, all the heat rushing up to it, a hitched, weak gasp escaping through his teeth.
"Harry." It's a whisper. It's the most he can speak; all he can say. "Harry."
What can he say?
What can he say after all of that?
***
It's a rookie mistake; brought upon by a moment of weakness.
Years of poor sleep perhaps contributed to it, as well as the familiarity of the breathing and touch.
When Draco wakes up, still kneeling beside Harry's bed with his head against his ribs and hand grasped around his, it's to the sight of Severus standing over him.
The realisation strikes cold terror through him.
In an instant, Draco is on his feet, wand pointed at his own godfather.
"Lower your wand, Draco," Severus drawls, unfazed. "We are both, I believe, on the same page."
Draco roves his gaze over his face, gauging his honesty. He doesn't lower his wand.
"I had thought I would have to spend these months working out how to undo whatever your uncle did to you. But you have returned to yourself, it appears."
"It appears so," Draco repeats, still not entirely certain. Severus has spent many of these years seeming so loyal and dedicated to the Dark Lord. His farce has been beyond believable.
"Let me see inside your mind, Draco," Severus then says, grasping his cloak to reach inside it for his wand with the other hand.
Abruptly, Draco's wand shoots back up at him, to keep him at bay.
"No," he says, vehement.
"I see," Severus says. His gaze is knowing. Draco hates the thought that his fear is so clear to him, even despite all his attempts to close his face away. "How will you prove, then, that the mind-manipulation has been entirely done, with no chance of relapse?"
"I can feel it," Draco says, thick and afraid. For once, he cannot keep his terror away and he loathes it. "I remember everything. I can see things clearly again. And none of it can occur again without the code... Uncle was the only one who knew it."
"You're certain?"
"I am."
"I can't say I'm entirely convinced, I'm afraid," Severus says dryly. "Mind dark magic are tricky things."
Draco's hand trembles around the wand.
"I must see that it is all undone," Severus says softly, "It should not return; not while Harry is in your care."
That's the only thing that makes Draco lower his wand, after a long moment.
"Make it quick," he grits it out.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth."
Severus is careful with the Legilimency, it does not even hurt as he moves through the paths of his mind. But the presence is there weaving through his thoughts and it doesn't matter. There are meanings attached to the sensation; sickening memories. What the consequences led to.
As soon as his mind is free to himself entirely, he retches, hand over his mouth, trembling.
"It's over," Severus says, kneeling before him, his hand soothing on the top of Draco's hair. This, too, feels different from his uncle, but it doesn't cause the same awful physiological reaction at least. "it's over, Draco."
***
"Feet on mine," Draco whispers gently, patiently. He smiles at her, even though she could not see his face. "Do you remember the steps?"
Narcissa smiles at him. Her hand is in his, smaller and enveloped by his larger hand. She is so small and frail now, and he a whole head taller than her. When he was a child, she'd seemed so large to him.
Her eyes are closed as she sways to the old music, dreamy and lost in the sound. Draco holds her and spins her around the hospital room,, hand to her back. She follows effortlessly with her feet on his, as if something inside her still remembers.
"That's right. You're doing very well."
That's right, Draco. You're doing so well, love.
After the first day, he was sure he would never dare show his face to her again. He had full plans of dying, having lost her this way, and then Harry.
Now that he has to live, it seems, he realises there are ways around it.
He can never show his face to her, indeed. But he can polyjuice himself into another person.
He can disillusion himself, like he has now.
Draco twirls her around as she dances with a blur. Narcissa rests her cheek to his shoulder, seemingly having had enough of the spinning and now content to simply sway together. They stay like that for a long time.
***
"I have given you everything now," Draco says, hands clasped behind the back of his head with the anti-magic bracelet on display. It can only be broken from the outside.
Ron stares down at the vial in his hand, the Pensieve in front of him. Hermione stands beside him. Draco has not yet dared to look up and see either of their faces.
If Draco is to convince the Light Side, in particular the leaders, he knew he would have to lay himself completely at their mercy.
It's a foolish thing. Some foolish part of him hoped, somehow, that the war hadn't changed them enough that they would not see his genuineness. Though he cannot blame them either if they cannot, after everything.
In his dove form, he left the message in particular for Ron and Hermione, ensuring that no one else sees. He makes the plea that this stays between them, and to meet him alone at a particular location. He provides evidence that he has clasped an anti-magic bracelet on himself, to make them feel safe.
It worked so far. There was no response, but they showed up at the location. Their wands were out, and they were fully on guard, understandably. But they showed up; far more than he could hope.
"I have given you everything, and taken nothing," Draco tells them both, eyes down, "One slip and you can end my life at the hands of the Dark Lord with that vial."
It's a strange feeling now to fear death so much, after all these years. He has had nothing to lose for so long, and now he does.
He can't bear the idea of his own death now because he keeps thinking of Harry and what would become of him after. He cannot accept Harry being placed under the custody of some unknown Death-Eater.
This was a needed risk, however. He gave it all in the hopes that it would convince them that he was on their side. He gave them all his memories, even against the shrivelling; painful terror inside him that said, no one can know, no one can be trusted to see your weakness, no one should see your pain so they can use it against you; Rodolphus and the things he did to him, the training, the mind-manipulation, the way he felt -- his oncurring sabotage of the Death-Eaters from the inside to weaken the organisation, the final phase that he'd planned. That was the point at which his memories ended.
Harry... he should tell them about Harry, but he fears what they might try to do. If they cannot trust him, if this all fails - they will try to take him away. But Harry will be safest with him.
Then again, that's also if this doesn't go entirely wrong.
The alternative is they give him a chance to prove himself, somehow, but still do not trust him enough with Harry.
This kind of interference can also lead to their own deaths. It's not a feasible risk to take.
Perhaps none of this is, however.
"All I want in exchange for all this is your trust."
He and Hermione are looking at each other. There is some silent communication going on there. An agreement. Of what, Draco doesn't know.
And then there's the violent shattering of glass. The vial. Draco's memories spilling across the ground, drank up by the Earth.
There it is then; the answer.
It's over.
And so Draco is ready to execute his escape plan. He did not come here with full intention to lay himself completely at their mercy, after all, though it looks like it. He will not harm them, but he will also certainly not let them kill him without a fight.
Not with what is at stake now.
"It's fucking hard to look at you, you know," Ron says, impassive, "When I think of you, the first thing I see is what you did to him. To his body."
"Understood," Draco answers, as he begins to unclasp his hands from the back of his head. "I understand."
"But no one will ever know. Except for the three of us."
Hermione is the one to finish.
Ron is looking at him still with that unfathomable face.
"Stay where you are, Draco," Hermione says, "We're not finished."
Draco.
"It's been years..." Ron says, "and people are losing hope. Working with you might be the only chance we have at winning this now. So... whether this comes back to bite us in the arse or not, it might be a risk worth taking."
"I know it wasn't your fault. But Draco, I have to say this, we can't afford..."
"It won't be like that," Draco interrupts, knowing what Hermione will say, "the only person that could activate that code is dead. Rodolphus Lestrange was the only one that knew."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"I want to know one thing, then, only out of curiosity," Hermione says. "Your final phase of the plan... you meant to publicise your betrayal to the Death-Eaters. What made you stop?"
"I fear I can't say. It involves the safety of someone dear to me."
And to you.
"But also... if I want to bring them down, I figured, I may as well do it all the way."
When Hermione comes forward to take his wrist in her hand, it is, unexpectedly, gentle. She puts her wand to the anti-magic bracelet.
"He loved you more than anything," she murmurs to him, "And I felt it too; how you have been feeling. What you still feel for him."
The anti-magic bracelet breaks open and falls to the floor.
"Welcome back. I'm pleased to see you as yourself."
***
Draco buys a house in the desolate areas of Chimera Hills, and takes Harry there. Severus moves in with him on Draco's suggestion so that he will have someone looking out for him as well through the last months of his illness.
"I'll read you your favourite today," Draco says to Harry, leaning back on the chair. Matilda by Roald Dahl.
After he reads enough that he grows tired himself, eyes drooping, he puts the book face down on the nightstand.
He stares at Harry's face. Then, he reaches for his hand and takes it into both his own, tugs it up to his lips so he can press a soft, lingering kiss to Harry's fingers.
Draco then lets go with one hand, so he can slide Harry's up to his own cheek and press it there tenderly.
"When it's over, wake up soon," he whispers, "I miss reading to you when you could hear me."
Present
Harry watches Draco work from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded.
"What are you doing?"
"Strategising," Draco answers, not looking up as he holds up one paper and compares it with another, before spreading it out again. It looks like blueprints of places; likely the ministry and the Dark Lord's residency. He is dressed in trousers and a white shirt, a vest. "We have to consider all the factors, every possible thing that could go wrong."
Harry sighs, unfolding his arms as he pushes off the frame and moves over to him.
He rests his elbows on either shoulders of the chair so that his head is tilted over Draco's, pulling him down with a hand to his forehead so he can meet his eyes upside down. Draco has gone still.
"You're being far too obsessive," Harry murmurs, leaning down to his lips so the next words brush against them in a kiss, "Come to bed."
Harry gets it; the state of the world as it is, and how short on time they are. Every second ticks down with a life. But seeing Draco's sunken, tired eyes --
It won't do anyone any good if Draco doesn't take care of himself.
"Okay," Draco relents, quietly, taking one of Harry's hands to put it to his mouth tenderly. Harry curls it around his and pulls him up to his feet and towards the bedroom, glancing behind at Draco's face. Draco's eyes do not leave him once, slightly wide, fixed on him. He looks like that every time Harry kisses him; as if he can't believe it's truly happening.
This is always what makes him stop; makes him listen.
Harry smiles at him. His hand is warm to his cold one, not letting go.
They lie in bed; Harry framing his face with an arm so he can stroke his hair. Draco is so exhausted he falls asleep in an instant.