Chapter 7
When he came to, the first thing Harry noticed was the silence. It was the kind of silence that was loaded, heavy with unspoken words, a veil fallen over the world. Grave and mournful. The sound of defeat. The second thing he noticed, were the ropes tightly coiled around his body, binding his arms, fixating his legs, constricting his breathing. Harry kept his eyes closed, not yet ready to face the world outside the privacy of his own mind, hoping against hope that this was just a dream. A nightmare. Soon, he would wake up to the bickering voices of Dean and Seamus, Ron happily snoring behind his curtains, Neville reading a book on Herbology.
And then Bellatrix Lestrange’s voice sounded from somewhere above his head. “The Dark Lord has been called. It is time you get on your knees and worship him as you are supposed to, and maybe he will show mercy.”
Harry opened his eyes. The night sky of the Scottish Highlands was staring back at him, stars shining brightly, unbothered by what was happening. He was lying on the staff table in the Great Hall. Like a sacrifice upon an altar while the others stood by and watched. And there were others. If Harry tilted his head just so, he could see them. The students, battered and bruised, the teachers, muted by rage, the Death Eaters, smiling victoriously. He could see red hair in between the blond and brown and black, and wondered who it was, if they knew Ginny was hurt, if they’d lost anyone else. He wished Sirius was with him.
The door to the Great Hall opened and a collective gasp was drawn from the crowd as Lord Voldemort stepped inside, followed by even more figures wearing black robes and masks, and even though Harry couldn’t see them, he could imagine Voldemort’s malicious red eyes, the deathly pale skin, hands like spiders caressing his wand.
“You have fought bravely.” Voldemort’s voice carried through the silence, echoing off the walls. “I understand. Hogwarts is your home, as it has once been mine, and you wish to protect it. But now the time for fighting is over. Join me! Together we will move towards a better future.”
“Never!” Someone yelled, effectively breaking the spell that had fallen over the Great Hall, followed by footsteps, bodies shifting, a person stumbling forward –
Bright green light filled the Hall, just for a second, and with a dull thud, a body hit the ground.
“Foolish child,” Voldemort said mildly, “So much blood has been spilled tonight. Good blood. Pure blood. And so unnecessary.” From the corner of his eye, Harry could see the crowd parting as Voldemort moved forward, towards the staff table, towards him. He could see him now, tall and slender – a living skeleton. “It never had to come to this,” the wizard continued, “He could have stopped it.”
Who could have stopped it? Harry wanted to ask but his tongue was too bug for his mouth, too heavy to form the words, as he stared into red eyes, unable to look away. There was a presence in his mind, pushing against the walls he had built up, trying to break in, and some of his feelings, his memories, his essence, bled through the cracks. Anger and fear.
“That’s enough, Tom.” The sound of Dumbledore’s voice was enough to bring harry back to the present, to look away from Voldemort’s face that was slowly distorting into a brutal smile, to look towards the Headmaster standing in the doorway to the Great Hall. Voldemort, too, turned around, as did everyone else, a new kind of tension filling the air, an anticipation for what was to come.
“You don’t look so good, old man.”
It was true. From what Harry could see, as Dumbledore stepped forward, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, his hand was as charred and black as ever, and his eyes showed fatigue, and Harry remembered what Snape had said.
Albus Dumbledore is going to die.
“I will not allow you to hurt anyone else.”
“Allow me?” Voldemort let out a dark chuckle. “What will you do, old man?”
You can’t kill him, Harry thought frantically, not yet. Not with the snake still alive.
Except Dumbledore didn’t know that. Or did he? Would he try and fight Voldemort? Did he have a plan?
Think, Potter, think.
Nagini was right there, slithering to Voldemort’s feet, hissing incoherently whenever someone as much as looked at her.
If I just had my wand…but he didn’t. Bellatrix had taken that from him.
Except, I don’t need it, do I?
He still had Draco’s bracelet; he’d been doing wandless Magic for a year now even without it.
It’s not about the spells, it’s about the intentions, Sirius had said, you need to picture it in your mind.
So Harry pictured it. The ropes binding him, loosening, falling away, setting him free. Slowly. Bit by bit. He still had the Cloak, he could feel it, a light bundle against his hip.
If I’m fast…
And then the ropes loosened. As quick as he could, Harry rolled sideways, off the table, and wriggled free, pulling the Cloak out and covering himself with it, before crawling underneath the table and towards the wall, ignoring the shouts of surprise and outrage.
“Leave him!” Voldemort ordered, “He will not go far. He will watch – Watch as his old mentor dies.”
Harry half expected him to strike then, to raise his wand and kill Dumbledore, but he didn’t.
“Kill him.” A shudder went through the Great Hall at the command and Harry had heard the hissing sound underlying the words, just as Nagini moved forward and Dumbledore…waited.
What for? Why isn’t he defending himself?
It didn’t make sense. Dumbledore was calmly standing in the middle of the crowd, his eyes fixed on Voldemort, his face unreadable, and Harry wanted to cry out, to warn the Headmaster, to kill the bloody snake himself, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. He was frozen in place, his back pressed against the wall, barely remembering how to breathe.
Then, several things happened at once – Nagini surged forward, burying her teeth in Dumbledore’s throat. Harry let out a cry of protest, his body moving on its own accord, forward, to do what exactly he didn’t know, just that he had no choice over it, until he was right in front of Dumbledore, the Invisibility Cloak lying uselessly on the floor. There was a flash of silver, and the snake’s lifeless body hit the ground. And then a single Death Eater broke the ranks and stepped between Harry and Voldemort, dropping their cloak and mask.
“Severus,” Voldemort said softly, a hint of surprise entering his voice and he clearly wasn’t the only one, all around them people gasped and whispered, unsure of what was happening. “Step aside. I will deal with you later.”
“No.”
Whatever Voldemort had been expecting, it obviously hadn’t been that. “No?”
Snape shook his head ever so slightly. “No,” he repeated, adjusting the grip on his wand; there was something strange, yet familiar about it. Harry’s eyes were pulled towards Dumbledore, still breathing but only barely so, and it hit Harry, why the Headmaster hadn’t defended himself, why he hadn’t raised his wand – he hadn’t had it. Snape had.
“You are willing to die for the son of the Mudblood?”
“Do not,” Snape grit out, his shoulders a tense line as he made himself a little bit taller, “Call her that.”
“You disappoint me, Severus,” Voldemort said, “Your sentimentality has clouded your judgement and you would do well to remember where your loyalties lie.”
Harry couldn’t see Snape’s expression, but his voice was filled with contempt when he answered, “My judgement is clear, and my loyalties lie where they have always lain.”
Something passed over Voldemort’s face, then, something like deep surprise, something like fear, and Harry couldn’t help but feel triumphant over seeing him so thrown off course, uncertain and doubtful.
“Very well.” Voldemort bared his teeth. “I do not take pleasure in killing you.”
Harry almost believed him – as far as Voldemort knew, Snape had been a faithful follower, carrying out orders, having no doubts – but only almost. There was a fire in the red of his eyes, a malicious glint, and no mercy.
Snape moved so fast that Harry almost missed it, at the same time as Voldemort did, two streams flashes of bright green light erupting from two wands, and meeting mid-air, throwing both Snape and Voldemort back.
Harry was frozen in place, staring at the motionless body of the man who had killed his parents.
Is he dead? He wondered, unable to move closer. Slowly, the Great Hall filled with the buzzing sounds of whispers, murmurs, bodies shifting carefully. Is it over?
A hand, gentle but strong, touched his shoulder, pulling him around and Harry was met by a pair of hazel eyes, calm and yet filled with pain, as Remus closed both his arms around him, holding him close.
“It’s over,” he muttered into Harry’s ear, “It’s over. It’s over.”
It was a mantra and a prayer, a wish, a dream, and here, in the arms of the man that had become like a father to him, Harry allowed himself to belief it, while he returned the embrace.
It’s over.
The bodies of Dumbledore, Snape, Madam Hooch, Demelza Robins, Zacharias Smith, and five others were lying in the Great Hall, surrounded by friends and family, mourning their death. Madam Pomphrey and a group of volunteers were tirelessly tending to the wounded. Minister Rufus Scrimgeour and his Aurors had arrested the remaining Death Eaters, bringing them to Azkaban to await their trials. And Harry was sitting motionlessly in the Hospital Wing, alternating between staring at Sirius’ sleeping face and dozing off, slumped against Remus.
He was somewhere in the half-state between sleeping and waking when a deep groan sounded from the bed, rousing Harry from his slumber.
“Sirius.”
“Hey, cub.”
His godfather looked like hell – his skin was unnaturally pale and strands of his hair stuck to his forehead, his usually vibrant eyes seemed dull and tired and filled with pain, and then there was his chest. Harry swallowed thickly as his eyes traced the bandages covering Greyback’s marks.
“How are you?”
“Me?” Sirius asked, “Who cares about me. How are you? What happened?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. He stared at his godfather – eyes open, chest falling and rising, falling and rising, falling and rising…next to him, Remus put his arm around Harry’s shoulders and reached out with his other hand to hold Sirius’.
“He’s gone,” he said, “He’s dead. It’s over.”
There was more. There was so much more that they had to tell Sirius sooner or later, but for now this would have to be enough, for now, this was what mattered.
It’s over.
“Who –” Sirius interrupted himself, gulping audibly. “How many – Is everyone okay?”
“Mostly,” Remus answered, “Albus is dead. So is Severus. A few others.” Sirius nodded his head in a detached, distant, entirely subconscious sort of way, his eyes vaguely glazed over as he stared into the distance, miles and miles away from where his body was, a dark place, a cold place. “It’s over,” Remus said again, squeezing Sirius’ hand, pulling him a back to the here and now.
“It’s over,” Sirius repeated, “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“We’re okay.”
“We are, Padfoot. We’re okay.
Harry was grateful that they didn’t make him talk, that they seemed happy enough with him simply sitting there, clinging onto his godfather and Remus, counting his own breaths, listening to his own heartbeat, trying to silence the noise in his head. At least, he thought, Madam Pomphrey had given them a set of curtains to have some privacy, effectively shutting out any sound that might have come from the other side. Harry was grateful for that too. He didn’t think he could deal with any of that right now. The stares. The whispers, The people.
He knew, just a few beds away, the Weasley’s were gathered around Ginny, knew that Hermione was with them, but even they, even his friends, would ask questions, would look at him in the same way everyone else did these days, or worse, they would pity him, walk on eggshells around him, trying to spare his feelings. The mere thought made him sick.
Harry wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, if it was any at all, but their private little sanctum was broken when the curtains opened and a head of platinum-blond hair and a pair of steely grey eyes poked inside.
“Madam Pomphrey asks if there is anything you need,” said Draco, glancing at Harry for the split of a second before directing his undivided attention to Sirius. There was dust coating his hair and robes, dried blood on his hands, and dark circles under his eyes.
“We’re good, thank you, Draco,” Remus answered and Draco gave a sharp nod, looking at Harry once again, and then pulling his head back and shutting the curtains while Harry stared at the spot where Draco’s head had been. They hadn’t talked yet. Harry had done his best to avoid everyone except Sirius and Remus and was glad that he could safely do that here by his godfather’s side, but his heart clenched at the thought of Draco, his mind going back to just a few hours ago, the candle light catching the blond’s skin, their breaths mingling in the space between their lips. It seemed like a lifetime ago. When he looked back at the adults, Remus had both eyebrows raised and jerked his head towards the curtains. Harry frowned. Another jerk.
“He wants you to go after him,” Sirius pointed out, his voice still hoarse but clearly amused, and Harry blushed. It was ridiculous, really. After everything that had just happened, after almost dying, he was embarrassed by this…whatever this was.
“Not now,” Harry muttered, looking down at his own hands, picking at the dirt under his fingernails.
“I’m fine, Harry,” Sirius said, “It’s okay.”
And it was, wasn’t it? Even if Harry didn’t know what it was between them, he knew it was something and maybe that was enough.
Harry stood up quickly, before he could change his mind again, and pushed past the curtains. All the beds, he noted, were hidden from view, which was just as well. He really didn’t fancy having an audience to whatever happened next. And there was Draco, standing by the door to Madam Pomphrey’s office, looking at some sort of chart.
“Draco.”
The blond looked up in alarm, his eyes wide. The exhaustion was written in every line of his face, and there was fear. Draco was afraid.
“Does Sirius need something after all?” The Slytherin asked, concern lacing his voice.
Harry shook his head. “No,” he said, “No, Sirius is fine, I just…I wanted to talk to you.” Draco remained silent, merely considering Harry with an expectant look. “Your mum,” the Gryffindor blurted out, “Is she –”
“She’s fine. I spoke to her earlier. She has, however, decided to stay away for a little longer until her innocence can be proven without a doubt.”
“Good.” Harry nodded his head. “That’s good. I’m glad that she’s okay.”
“Was that all?”
“No, I…I wanted…About earlier,” Harry choked out, trying to find the right words, “At the Common Room, you said, I mean, I thought – did you – did you mean –” he gave up. Harry’s face was burning, and his hands were shaking violently and it seemed, no matter what, he wasn’t able to string two coherent words together anyway.
“Very articulate,” Draco said teasingly before growing serious, “I don’t expect anything from you.”
“Yes, no, I know that.”
“I don’t expect anything of you,” the blond repeated, "But I also understand that the art of subtlety is lost on you, so I will make myself as clear as possible. You intrigue me, Harry. Ever since I met you, you have been able to break through my defences, to vex me more than anyone. If you asked my friends, they’d tell you that I’m obsessed. It was jealousy, at first. Fascination. Curiosity. I wanted your attention, though I did not understand at first, why. It made me cruel. However, in recent years I have become very aware of the nature of my feelings towards you, and while I know that at least some of those feelings are required, I don’t mean to assume anything. It’s not my place.”
“Wh – What kind of feelings?” Harry stuttered.
“I like you, Harry,” Draco said bluntly, “You’re kind and passionate and infuriating. Not to mention attractive.”
“I – I –” Harry tried, “I like you, too.” Actually saying out loud was a weight lifted from his shoulders, and Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his frantic heartbeat.
The corners of Draco’s mouth pulled upwards into something soft and amused. “I know you do,” he replied. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what Harry was trying to say, but with no intentions to make it any easier on him.
Git.
Collecting his entire Gryffindor bravery, Harry steeled himself and said, “You promised me a kiss.”
One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched upwards towards Draco’s hairline. “I did, did I?”
“Yeah.” Harry gulped nervously.
There was no reply. Instead, Draco stepped closer, slowly closing the distance between them until he stood right in front of Harry, wetting his lips, and Harry’s brains shut off. There was a hand on his cheeks, slowly sliding backwards to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. And there were lips, slightly chapped but still soft, pressing against his own and oh…This was…it was good. Different from the drunken kiss he’d forced onto Charlie. Better. So much better. Harry’s own hands must have moved because they found themselves clasping a waist, Draco’s waist, pulling the blond closer as Harry’s lips kissed back and –
“Bloody hell.”
Harry jumped back, his heart pounding almost painfully against his ribcage as he tried to catch his breath. Draco, too, looked dazed, his lips red and swollen, his eyes wide and fixed on something behind Harry’s back. The Gryffindor turned around. Ron was there, gaping, as was the rest of the Weasley family. And Hermione.
Two wolf-whistles echoed off the walls of the Hospital Wing and both twins were grinning almost obscenely. Mrs. Weasley was smiling, her eyes wet with unshed tears, Percy looked both surprised and annoyed, and Charlie bit his lips as of he was trying hard not to laugh.
“How’s Ginny?” Harry blurted out, his mind completely blank and vaguely panicking because this was not supposed to happen!
If Mrs. Weasley found his question in any way weird, she didn’t show it. “Awake and bored,” she answered, still smiling, “Madam Pomphrey says she’ll be able to leave soon. We were just going to see if they need any help with cleaning up the Castle.”
“Should probably get to that,” Charlie added, giving Harry a subtle wink, who could feel the blush returning to his cheeks.
“You’re right. Come on, Minerva will need all the hands she can get,” said Mrs. Weasley, striding past Harry towards the door, followed by her sons. Most of them anyway. Ron was still frozen in place, staring at Harry with his mouth wide open.
“Is this a thing now?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at Harry and Draco.
“Er –”
“Problem, Weasley?” Draco stepped next to Harry, very purposefully taking hold of his hand.
Next to Ron, Hermione was also smiling happily and, when Ron didn’t answer, jabbing him in the robs with her elbow.
“No,” Ron said quickly, rubbing his side, “No. It’s fine.”
“We’re happy for you, Harry,” Hermione said, and Harry believed her.
“Thanks.”
Ron stepped forward, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Listen,” he began, "I was a git before.”
“It’s alright, Ron.”
“No. No, just let me – I was jealous, okay?”
Harry frowned. “Jealous?”
“You barely wrote all summer and then you come back being all chummy with Malfoy, what was I supposed to think?”
“Hang on.” It all started to make sense now. In a weird, twisted sort of way. “Hang on,” Harry said again, “Did you think I replaced you? With Draco?” Ron’s face turned the same shade as his hair, and he remained silent. “You’re my best friend, Ron,” Harry told him, “That’s not going to change.”
The tension that had still been in the line of Ron’s shoulders left, as he breathed out and nodded. “I’m sorry for being an idiot.”
“I’m sorry for making you think you didn’t matter.”
Draco let out a barely audible snort and shook his head. “Gryffindors,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no heat behind the word, no real snide, just affectionate exasperation, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. It seemed, he thought, as if things were going to be alright.
It was the end of term feast. The Castle was mostly cleared of all the rubble and debris. Broken windows had been mended, damaged portraits taken down, exams rescheduled, and the Great Hall looked almost normal again. But only almost. The usual House colours of the winner of the House Cup were missing, replaced by black and white and Hogwarts crests, and the tables were standing in a large circle, and, if anyone had bothered to take a closer look at said table, they would have noticed that it wasn’t just students sitting there, but also friends and families and all those who had fought in that final battle.
Harry was sitting between Draco and Sirius, the Weasley family across from him. A few seats down were Dean and Seamus, caught in their own bubble, exchanging soft looks and words. Luna and Neville were holding hands. As were Pansy and Blaise.
Harry had to suppress a smile when thinking back to a few days ago when Draco’s best friends had caught on to the newly found development between the Gryffindor and Slytherin, remembering the way Blaise had given Draco a suggestive look, the way Pansy had rolled her eyes and muttered, “Finally.” The way Draco had scowled and said, “Shut up.” And Pansy’s response – “No,” she’d said, “You will not take this away from me. I’ve had to deal with your pining since third year, I have a right to enjoy this now.”
The air was filled with chatter and laughter but underneath there was also pain and sorrow. The realisation that some people would never come back.
Newly appointed Headmistress McGonagall stood up and slowly the conversations died down. “Thank you,” she spoke up, “For coming here today, even after all that has happened. The last couple of weeks have been a trial for everyone. We have fought and we have won, but some of us lost, and I want us to remember them. I want us to remember Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Rolanda Hooch, Demelza Robins, Zacharias Smith, Roger Davies, Graham Montague, Rosa O’Hare, Lilith King, and Matt Cornelli. As you’ve noticed, this Hall looks different today. There are no Houses. There are no divides. We are one. We are united. And we have to overcome our differences if we want to move on from the past. We shall not forget, but we must forgive. Hogwarts is our home, and it will remain our home. I ask now, for a moment of silence for those that cannot be with us today.” No one spoke. Harry could hear the rhythmic breathing of hundreds of people as they lowered their heads. He hadn’t even known most the people that had died, and yet he mourned them, and yet he missed them, and yet he wished they could be here today. Next to him, Draco was equally quiet, his gaze fixed firmly on his empty plate on the table, and without thinking, Harry reached out and took his hand. “Thank you,” McGonagall said, breaking the moment, “Now we eat, and tomorrow the future begins. A future of unity. A future of peace. A future together.”
The platters and bowls alone the table filled with themselves with food and Harry watched as everyone began to eat, conversations slowly picking up once again. He was still holding Draco’s hand.
A future, he thought, a future worth fighting for.
He reached for the potatoes, not letting go the blond’s hand.
A future worth living.
Draco, for his part, held on just as tightly, an almost invisible smile on his face.
A future together.