Draco Malfoy limps. He fucking drags his leg behind him, pushing forward and sacrificing every ounce of repituity while doing so.
It was the fucking snake. Nagini, the one who’d lived with them for months at Malfoy Manor. The one who the Dark Lord had fed numerous times in front of his followers, Draco chewing his cheek with silent opposition.
And now, it had bit him right in the arse. Just a bit lower in all technicality, but Draco didn’t care. He just wanted solace.
He hadn’t meant to show the slightest reluctance to the Dark Lord’s plan to invade the school. To “catch Potter once and for all” as soon as his presence had been identified. Forgive him- Draco loved Hogwarts. It was the only place he’d ever felt (and he’d kill you if you knew this) home. At school, he had his friends. He had games of exploding snap and good-willed jabs between housemates and witty banter. He had Potter to annihalate with sarcastic comebacks and the like. It all gave him fuel; a sense of purpose.
Now, that fuel had been ignited by dark magic and curses that set the turrets on fire. Creatures ran rampant, killing those in their wake. Some of the braver students had stuck around and threw counter-spells from behind posts and make-shift debris walls. In the midst of it all, Draco limps.
He pulls his leg to the Room of Requirement, where he knows Potter will be. He’s known him far too long to guess his motives. His plans were like clockwork, a rhythmic and predictable rouse. Or maybe, Draco was just that keen at sensing his thoughts and ideas.
He doesn’t have a lot of time; he’s figured that much out. Even if he manages to outrun Voldemort, the poison will still inevitably travel through his circulatory system. He’s already broken into a cold sweat as he approaches his destination.
Potter’s already there, rummaging through stacks of decade old-belongings that only the Room of Hidden Things would hold. He’s clearly searching for something.
“Malfoy.” He starts, pointing his wand at Draco’s chest. He’s alone, and the silence that ensues is almost unsettling. But this time, Draco doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care that he’s spent the last 7 years arguing with this boy. He doesn’t give a flying fuck that he’s on the dead end of his wand. He’s dying, and he doesn’t bother with small details.
He focuses instead on the vibrancy of his stare, the way his green eyes cut through him like no one else ever could. The soft patches of dirt that bespeckle his face and hands from battle. The beads of sweat that slowly trickle down the side of his neck, reflecting his urgency.
“I don’t have time for games right now!” He shouts, eyes darting around the room for his lost object while his wand remains steady. They then come to rest on his form, his bloody and pathetic lower half that trails lifelessly behind him.
“Wait, Malfoy- you’re- you’re hurt.”
Draco doesn’t respond. He tells himself his hard swallow is the effect of the snake venom, but he knows it’s a lie. It’s always been.
The caring tone to Potter’s voice, the way he lowers his wand and rushes to inspect him regardless of his mission is enough to push him over the edge. To ignite that same fire deep within his belly, blazing wild and free.
“What happened?” Potter is close, too close, and Draco finds it hard to catch his breath. That’s what happens when you’re dying, right?
“Fucking snake,” is all he manages to squeak, and suddenly he’s light headed. He slides downward to the floor, and Potter, against all odds, reaches to catch him.
Now they’re both on the ground, Draco panting and Potter pointing his wand at the wound. “Reinervate!” He commands, but nothing happens.
Again, louder. “Reinervate!”
“It’s fine, Potter. Don’t waste your time on me. You’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He smirks, and this is all too real. Potter’s caring for him. It’s nice and warm. Peaceful.
“Fuck, Malfoy, when did you become such a selfless git?” He’s smiling, and Draco chuckles. It’s a beautiful truce, winding and weaving Draco whole.
“When you decided to save the world, I guess.” Living Draco Malfoy would never be so vulnerable, allowing the sharp silence to fill the air between them. He’d scoff, or roll his eyes before running infinitely in the opposite direction. Dying Draco, however, was a fucking sap. He refused to deny himself what he’d been missing, buried upon layers of mistakes and bad decisions. Potter draws in a sharp inspiration before settling into Draco’s gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell them? Bellatrix- you knew it was me. You knew it was me, and you didn’t say anything…”
Draco laughs softly. “Because, you idiot, it was always you. Always fucking you. And I fucked up; I ruined my chance to be good. But you… you are what good aspires to be. And I hate that about you, I always have.” He pauses, grinning and shaking his head at his own stupidity. “But it’s what makes you Saint Potter, and you deserve every piece of it.”
Potter’s mouth drops into the finest of “O’s,” and Draco can’t help but stare at the plump crimson of his lower lip.
“Malfoy- Draco- what the fuck,” he whispers, and it’s not a question, but a foretelling. His voice is raspy; he swallows hard against a dry throat. His eyes are reflective pools of the past seven years, memories dancing across his irises as he realizes the implication of Draco’s words. He licks his lips, studying the boy before him. The boy that was wholesome and selfless and good despite all previous notion.
Before he can answer, Draco points upward. “Potter, look,” He states, his hazy vision landing on the most peculiar glint of sapphire. “It’s a diadem. Isn’t it pretty?”
“It’s a-“ Harry turns suddenly, whipping toward the direction of Draco’s gesture. Sure enough, there, propped against a dusty old mannequin atop a mound of antiquities, was exactly what he’d been looking for.
His face lights up, cheeks a rosy pink as they’re pulled taut. “Draco, you fucking prat, you found it! You-“
He jolts back to look at him, but his lids have come to a gentle close. His chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, and Harry notices the amount of blood that’s pooled around them.
“Draco, no! Fuck!” He glances around, desperate for some sort of answer, before deciding to cup Draco’s face in his hands.
“You can’t go and do this now, you wanker! Not when you just told me how you feel! Draco, please, please-“ he Grips for dear life, but Draco’s face is cool to the touch.
His stomach clenches. How has everything he’d known to be true flipped in just a matter of minutes? How did he end up here, begging his arch nemesis to be alive?
He runs a hand along the edge of Draco’s jaw, and he stirs a bit. His fingers glide lower, down the soft plane of his neck and collarbone. Draco shivers. Potter laughs.
“You like that, don’t you?” He smiles, playfully amused as he trails a path down Draco’s chest. The caress is heaven, and in his semiconscious state Draco feels whole. Green eyes flicker down to his lips, pale but smooth despite his current state. Harry knows this is it, and it’s all or nothing. There is no longer right and wrong; light or darkness. It’s only Draco, and himself, and everything that he’d thought he’d known to be true snowing gently in broken bits all around them.
He bites his lip, making a characteristically Harry decision- a rash, exuberant, intuition-driven thought that just feels right. And as he leans forward, closing the gap between them, he knows there’s no going back.
He’s going to get them out of here. Destroy the diadem. And- Goddamnit- Draco is going to get another chance.
Draco’s eyes fly open as Harry presses their lips into a soft embrace. It’s as if kissing fucking Harry Potter causes more of a shock to his system than the venom coursing through his veins, and suddenly he’s wide awake.
His hands are tingling; he’s nauseous; the room is spinning. And absolutely no part of that has to do with the injury to his leg.
Draco relaxes; allows himself to succumb to the warmth that spreads throughout his body. God, Nothing had ever felt like this before. If this was the type of reprieve that dying got him, then by golly-
Harry pulls away suddenly, and the absence is heavily vacant upon his lips. His stomach twinges as Harry snaps upward. It is all too evident that they are no longer alone.
“Potter! I fucking found you! You’re dead!” The voice belongs to Crabbe, and Draco is just coherent enough to make out his figure. He’s accompanied by Goyle, waving his wand about, attempting haphazardly to bring about some type of spell. Draco raises a weak hand to protest, but flames are already shooting from the tip of his wand toward a pile of rubbish beside them.
“Fu-fucking fiendfyre,” he whispers, and realization dawns on Harry as he realizes what Draco’s said. Crabbe wasn’t joking. They needed to get the diadem and get the fuck out of there.
In the nick of time, the door opens to reveal Weasley and Granger, who immediately hurl spells at Draco’s childhood friends. The robotic henchmen that he’s realized were no more loyal to him than his own father. They were blind, the lot of them, sightlessly following orders from the Dark Lord. Draco dodges, protecting his face from the fallout. Magic sparks the air, and an urgency radiates between all parties as Crabbe’s flames begin to violently spread.
Harry squeezes his hand before jetting forward, climbing the Mound of Things to retrieve the diadem. Crabbe and Goyle are distracted momentarily by the fire, which has formed the shape of a large serpent and seems to be forming ideas by its own volition.
Ron Weasley stares with his mouth open as the snake rears it’s head, and even Crabbe seems surprised at his own doing. Hermione, in a fit of logic, grasps his hand and pulls him from the direct path of the flames as the serpent strikes.
Harry’s tumbling, struggling to find hand-holds in the pile as things get heated. He’s almost to the diadem, and Draco is silently willing his thoughts to persuade his victory. He can hardly move, and in the midst of chaos he notices that his leg is tingling.
In the next moment, several things seem to happen simultaneously. Harry suddenly grabs the diadem. Ron and Hermione have summoned brooms and are hastily mounting their only means of escape. Crabbe and Goyle back away, terrified, as the snake turns on its master and slithers toward them. Draco observes it all, shaking slightly as his muscles contract involuntarily. His leg, it’s burning, and it’s as if the more the flames travel from object to object the more consuming the pain becomes.
Ron and Hermione are ascending rapidly toward Harry. The flames are climbing higher, ignited on old parchment rolls and other treasures from previous students. Harry is pulled onto Ron’s broomstick as he steers to the exit.
Harry screams objections, yelling at his friend to turn the broom around. Draco’s stomach lurches at the sentiment, but he knows it’s over for him.
The serpent’s attention is diverted to the trio as they halt and sharply turn backward. Weasley’s grumbling is barely audible above the high-pitched whine of the fire, and Draco begins to cough as smoke chokes the air.
The snake strikes, and a shower of flames lands around him. His leg, it’s on fire, it’s on fucking fire…
The pain intensifies. He’s going to pass out soon, he’s sure. His flesh is screaming, but all he can vocalize is a string of choked coughs. His throat is raw, but it’s nothing, nothing compared to the bite of that fucking snake…
He’s barely conscious, but he feels a tugging sensation on his limbs. And then he’s weightless, like he’s riding on air. The pain, it’s lessening. He must be close to death…
Harry. He thinks of that kiss, the one that forever erased the line between good and evil. How ironically it was the most alive he’d ever felt. And how if heaven was real, and if Draco Malfoy was lucky enough to end up there, he’d spend an eternity reveling in that one moment.
He allows his thoughts to consume him, until his leg is painless. He’s floating, flying… until he’s not.
He feels himself fall, tumbling forward, and then the slam of the floor against his chest brings him back to reality. His eyes flash open, miraculously, to find that he’s facing the entrance to the Room of Requirement. The door is closing, and there’s a serpent, and the room is engulfed in flames…
But as it seals shut, he’s left in the silence that he suddenly realizes is indicative of his safety. Next to him is Granger, pulling Ron to a standing position. On his other side is Harry, fucking Harry…
He’s lifting himself from the floor and begins running straight toward Draco, bruised and splattered with soot. Before he can open his mouth to speak, Harry’s arms are thrown around him.
“Your leg, Draco! How is it?” He pants, pulling away slightly to examine the wound.
But it’s vanished.
Draco’s mouth falls inexplicably, and he’s unable to make sense of anything that’s happened in the past ten minutes.
He gapes stupidly, breath heading as he grasps the fact that he’s suddenly fucking alive and his leg doesn’t hurt and there’s no bite. And Harry fucking Potter is still holding him, and it’s so much that he can’t handle it.
Overwhelmed with emotion, he stares at Potter, who’s a fucking light at the end of the incessant, winding tunnel that’s been his life the past few years. He becomes lost in the details of his face, cheeks flushed crimson with adventure and green eyes peering from behind glasses that were probably permanently crooked by now. He pulls his lip between his teeth as he too contemplates what happened.
“Fiendfyre.” Granger’s voice pierces the quiet confusion. “It’s a dark enough spell to destroy a horcrux. That’s why when you dropped the diadem, Harry, it disentigrated.”
“Oh my God, Hermione, Nagini is-“
“A horcrux.” She finished, and Draco glanced between them. Ron’s eyes were glazed over, and for the first time in his life Draco Malfoy felt he could relate. The logistics of it all quickly faded however as Harry’s eyes positively brightened.
“Draco, I don’t know fucking how, but when the fiendfyre caught your leg… it must have reversed the effects of the snake bite.” He’s smiling, a wide, wholesome grin, and Draco finally catches his breath.
“I’m- I’m not dying,” he declares, more to himself than anyone else, and Harry’s still beaming as he presses a continuation of their earlier kiss to his lips. It’s war, but in this brief moment, they’re fucking happy, and that’s all that matters.
“You know, I’m not dying, Hermione,” Ron tries with a helpless shrug, and she blushes before slapping his arm.
“Come on, boys,” she says determinedly to them all, “we’ve got a war to win.”