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For the Want of a Nail	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4934 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 24
- 25
- 26
Chapter 25. Running Up That Hill

Nightmares. Sometimes they plague us during our daily rest. These horrible dreams persecute us until we find them too real to be anything but true. We hate them. We fear them. Like formless Dementors they bring cold and darkness upon our world. But then we wake up, and find the world much as it was, and we breathe out as we realise it was all just a bad dream.
This is nothing like that.
I sleep until too late, only to wake up to the room filled with sunlight and a cold bed beside me. Only to find my worst nightmare to be my reality.
Slowly making my way out of bed, I try to suppress all the thoughts penetrating my mind. As my subconsciousness screams, feebly trying to convince me to leave this house and never come back, trying to convince me to live, I get dressed. I button my jeans, I make sure my T-shirt isn't on backwards. I even run a hand through my hair to try and tame my unruly locks.
I concentrate on anything. Anything to stop me from thinking. Anything to make me forget.

___________________________________________________________________

"It's too soon, Alastor! We don't have the time!"
We all sit in silence, staring at Lupin and the crazy old Auror. I almost feel the need to applaud the werewolf, I have never seen him express an opinion that is less than cooperative. Against anyone except me, of course.
Mad-Eye Moody seems less impressed. He bangs his wooden leg to the floor with frustration. "We cannot wait! What extra time we grant ourselves we also give You-Know-Who! By the time you find us to be ready He might have left the Manor!"
Lupin exhales loudly. "But we are not prepared! Harry is not prepared!" His voice reeks of desperation, and I watch a dark cloud land upon the group. Even Moody seems to back down a bit, though he mutters under his breath.
"He is as prepared as he will ever be."
No one seems to object to this morbid sentence. Why would we, when it is true?
On the outside I show the same cold mask as I always do. No one will have to think this situation to be grave enough to bring feeling to my face. Though I expect my dread was all revealed last night, they will not have to be reminded of that. Because in the end, my fears, my shear despondency, nothing of it matters. It will not change the circumstances. It will not affect the ending of this tragic fairytale.
So I remain stone on the outside. On the inside, I am screaming.

"Albus, what do you think?" As a last desperate resort, Lupin looks at Dumbledore. I am surprised to realise that the Headmaster had barely said a word during the whole meeting. Now he sighs deeply, sitting up straighter in his chair as he gathers his words.
"For Harry's sake, I wish we could wait longer." The old man sighs, and I feel a sinking feeling in my gut. "Alas, Alastor is right. We have to strike while we are on the strong side of this. The more time we waste, the more time Voldemort has to gather his own weapons," Dumbledore turns at me sadly. "the more time Voldemort has to become suspicious of Draco. We have three days until Draco has to be back at the Manor. I think that we use those three days to plan. On the fourth day, we strike."
I hate myself for becoming such a big factor in this. I hate myself for going to Dumbledore in the first place. I could have lived a fairly normal life. Feeding off Muggles now and again, living of blood flavoured lollipops in between. Instead of finding myself in the midst of a raging battle. A bloody battle not only of good and evil, but of morals and impossible guilt.
Instead of finding myself in love with the foolish boy who was selected for immolation.
Father used to say that the war would bring us peace and glory. But I see no glory here. I see no peace. What glory is there in sending an innocent boy to sacrifice himself for us? What peace is there in living with that guilt forever, even after the flames of the battles have died out?
Some little calm sweeps into the room with Dumbledore's proclamation. Even as our world becomes embedded in this horror, it is good to know when to expect the tragedy. Three days is not much. But it gives us a chance.
It gives Harry a very long last mile.

___________________________________________________________________

I descend the stories to the first floor. From the dining room I hear a voice I recognize as Dumbledore's. For a second I am offended that they dared to start a meting without me. But then I hear those dreaded words.
"We have three days until Draco has to be back at the Manor. I think that we use those three days to plan. On the fourth day, we strike."

Three days? As my heart suddenly catches in my throat, I have to lean against the wall to stay upright. Three days. I had expected at least a few weeks, a month perhaps. But three days?
I cannot enter the dining room as I'd originally planned. I cannot walk in there and face the decision they have made. My heart still pumping fiercely, my legs carry me to the library. Shutting the door behind me I take a seat in Draco's chair. Closing my eyes I can almost pretend none of this is happening. In this dark, familiar room, I can pretend nothing has changed. I feel Draco's presence here, lingering in this chair, in these books, in these walls, even as he plans my death in the dining room. I can pretend he stands behind me now in the shadows, soundless and invisible as always.
My mind embedded in the fantasy, I barely register the door opening.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice cuts through the darkness, and I slowly open my eyes. The girl walks up to me slowly, taking a seat in the other chair. "I thought I might find you here."
I do not answer. I have a hard time thinking of what to say. What do I want to say? I want to ask her about yesterday, what she thinks about what she saw. But do I really want to know? Do I really care?
We sit in silence for a moment, before Hermione coughs softly. She looks at me with big brown eyes, unshed tears glistening in the darkness. "Harry, I'm so sorry." The next thing I know I find her arms around my neck and her bushy hair in my face. Her tears wet my shoulder, and my arms come up around her in an awkward hug. Somehow this claim of affection seems so out of place, so foreign to me. I am ashamed to find myself so comfortable with Draco's arms around me, yet so disquieted with anyone else's close presence. When have I grown this distant to my closest friends?
"How could this happen?" Hermione sobs and shakes in my arms. "They say there is no other way! Now they have locked themselves in the dining room, planning- How can they possibly plan this?!" By now she is almost screaming, hitting my shoulder with her fist. "How can they stand scheming for the battle, when- How can Dumbledore, how can Remus? And Tonks and Mr Weasley and Malfoy and-"
"Draco is not scheming."
The words leave my mouth before I even have time to register them. Hermione stops mid-sentence, her body tensing up as she takes a step back from me. Trying to wipe away her tears, she raises her head to look me in the eye. She stares at me with a furrowed brow, and I cannot help myself.
"Draco is not scheming. You make it sound like he is the enemy." I narrow my eyes as I stare at Hermione. "He is doing nothing but trying to make the best of the situation! Nothing except trying to help."
Hermione stares at me for a moment, raising an eyebrow and looking like she is trying to get some perspective. "Harry," she finally begins, a frown around her mouth. "What is this between you and Malfoy?"
I open my mouth to explain to her, but find I do not know what to say. There are no words for what we have. Only feelings, only colours. The three words I manage to utter seem way to insignificant to explain anything between me and Draco.
"I love him."
Instead of the shock I expected, sadness washes over Hermione's face. She fidgets and swallows a couple of times, as if uncertain if she should say anything or not.
"Oh, Harry." she sighs, taking a seat in the armchair. "Don't you see how messed up that is?"
I furrow my brow. "What are you on about?"
Hermione sighs another time, hands fidgeting over the hem of her skirt as she thinks about what to say. "Harry, I understand. When Malfoy feeds off you, when he bites you..." For a second Hermione seems lost in her own thoughts, and jealousy rises within me, because I know exactly what she is imagining. "It wakes... feelings. But Harry, it's not real." Suddenly Hermione is very somber again. "I too thought for a while I had feelings for Malfoy. But it's only the vampire. It's a weapon. Harry, it's not Draco Malfoy."
Somewhere deep inside me I feel the anger rise. But somehow I can't seem to grasp it. Why would I need to anyway, I don't believe a word Hermione is saying. So I just smile at her softly. "No Hermione, you're wrong."
She tries to cut me off. "Harry-"
"No." I interrupt her, starting to feel the anger sip through the numbness. "I love him. I love Draco. Not the vampire, not because of his powers."
"But Harry, he is Malfoy! He is mean and snobbish and-"
And I snap. "Shut up!"
Shock is mirrored in Hermione's eyes at my outbreak, but I cannot seem to stop there. "You don't know him, you have no idea what he's like!"
Hermione stands up from her chair. "Harry, he's using you! Can't you see it? He needs to feed off you, of course he is nicer to you than to other people. But it's not real!"
I am stunned to silence for a moment. I sigh and shake my head slowly, moving towards the door. Narrowing my eyes, I cast a last look at Hermione. "It's real for me. What does the rest matter when it will be over anyway in four days? If he doesn't care for me I don't need to know it three days before I die!"
Guilt washes over Hermione's face, but I cannot stay and face the consequences. I am already rushing out though the door.

___________________________________________________________________

"We enter through the fire place in the second story drawing room here..." I point to the spot on the map of the Mansion I drew. "Then I and a couple of Aurors proceed downstairs, while the rest of you remain on the main floor. The Death Eaters will try to escape when we attack them in the dungeons, so we need people to be there to... greet them when they do so."
"And what about Harry?"
Mr Weasley's words cut through me like knives, but I manage not to let it sip through onto my features. I only clear my throat before I mutter:
"Potter will stay in hiding until... 'til it's time."
No one objects, no one utters a word. It is as if a chill has suddenly entered the room. We have a plan now. A clear line to victory, to peace, to justice. But how will we ever be able to celebrate that justice? What justice is there in letting an innocent child die for this?
Of course, it is wrong of me to consider Harry's sacrifice more great than that of the others' already dead because of this war. But none of them, were willingly sacrificed. None of them had to take part in the battle, knowing that they would not survive to see it end. None had to themselves cast the spell.
I suddenly feel very tired. Highly unreasonable, actually, since I never need to sleep. But I reckon that this sudden exhaustion has little to do with a need for rest. The silence in the room draws on as everyone stares at the maps and notes scattered around the table. Letters and lines marking our victory, our salvation. Marking my eternity of devastation.
I rise from my chair, and no one even looks up to acknowledge my leave. I close the dining room door behind me, only to find myself face to face with a Weasley.
The Weasel stares at me with an empty gaze, completely void of the usual enmity shared between us. I am just about to move around the living dead red-head, when he suddenly speaks.
"They're going to attack in three days?" he croaks, still staring straight forward at the wooden door. I contemplate if he could possibly be speaking to himself, but after a minute I find myself forced to answer.
"Yes."
Another silent moment runs by, and I turn to leave when the Weasel speaks again. "They're really going to kill him?"
Razorblades dance in my gut at the words, and I take a deep breath, turning to face Weasley again. I am certain that I am unable to hide the pain on my face, but I'm not sure if it matters anymore.
"Harry is going to kill the Dark Lord. Everyone has but to accept the consequences."
Suddenly an enraged Weasley is staring back at me. "How dare you call him that?" I stare at the red-head in shock for a minute as he takes an intimidating step towards me. "After all you've done to him, how dare you say his name?!"
A fist flies my way, and I do not even bother to step aside. A roar echoes through the hall as the knuckles meet my face, but it is not me who s screaming. To me the punch feels more like a light slap, while Weasley is now clenching his hand in agony.
While in any other situation I would be laughing at the Weasel's misfortune, now I cannot. I wish he had punched me properly. I wish it had hurt. For I would have deserved it. The Weasel doesn't even know how true his accusations are. He doesn't know how deep my betrayal goes.
I am contemplating a way to make Weasley's hit count, when I look past the groveling figure and see Harry. He emerges from the corridor of the West Wing, tears clouding his eyes so that he doesn't even see me at first. He stops in his tracks, staring at me for a second before looking down at the Weasel.
"Harry! Wait!"
Harry startles at the voice of Granger from the corridor behind him, and he hurries past me and Weasley, rushing up the stairs. The Weasel looks up as Harry runs by him, exclaiming "Harry!", but the other boy doesn't stop.
Thoughts rush through my head as I turn my head from Harry to the Weasel and back again, listening to Granger's approaching footsteps at the same time. Rashly making my decision of what to do, I rush after Harry before Granger has the time to appear and see me.
I catch up to him in the hall.
"Harry!" I grab his shoulder, but he struggles free.
"Let me go!" he exclaims and continues running. I grab him again, wrapping my arms around him and bringing him to my chest. He struggles until the sound of Granger's approaching footsteps reach him, and he stops to look up at me.
"Hide me." Harry croaks, his fingers digging into my upper arms. I stare at him for a split second, before I grab him and drag him into the nearest cupboard. Harry holds his breath desperately, not breathing out before Granger has long since passed the door.
With the air come the tears. The former resistance has suddenly disappeared, and it seems he can't get close enough to me. He clings to my robes, presses me up against the dusty wall, his head tucked under my chin. The sobs grow more incoherent as his tears start wetting the front of my robes.
"I don't want to die."
His voice is weak and desperate, as if he expects me to make it better, to take pain away. And I want to, I do. So, so much. But all I can do is hold him, kiss him, try to make him forget. But his days are counted. And even I can't turn back time.
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For the Want of a Nail