Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 28
- 29
- 30
For this chapter, I'd just like to add a few forewarnings; 1) this does contain direct quotations from DH. and 2) WARNING: minor character death upon the horizon. Beware.

I hope you enjoy. Please, if you have a chance, leave a word or two to tell me what you think. It's really, really appreciated.

Chapter 28: When The Time Comes
Escaping the Chamber of Secrets was easier than it had any right to be. Granted, the disappearance of Squirt probably had more to do it than anything else; since the Horcrux had erupted he'd vanished without a trace. Harry hadn't even seen where he'd gone and could only hope for Hagrid's sake that the hydra was alright.
Still, Harry highly doubted they would have made it up the vertical walls of the tunnel without the assistance of magic. There was something to be said for Levitation Charms.
In spite of his natural scepticism, Harry usual disbelief of the theoretical validity of such charms barely raised comment. The ringing words, projected straight into his mind, left him feeling cold and numb, a chill seeping through his gut. Yet it was the ultimatum that rang most resoundingly.
"Give me Neville Longbottom…"
The fear for Harry's friend rose and overwhelmed the triumph of destroying the Horcrux, the euphoria that had flooded him and spurred his and Draco's brief and frantic response. And besides that fear was the growing worry that Neville would do something stupid. It was too like his Gryffindor friend to walk into the situation without eliminating every other possibility; self-sacrifice was an innate part of his character, Harry knew. It persisted even through his own fear.
Hogwarts was in ruins. Walls were crumbling and dust layered the floor. The scorched outlines of a vicious curses and explosions stained the ageing stone. Windows were shattered and statues bowed beneath the weight of the attacks upon them. The destruction only became more ruinous the further Harry and Draco progressed to the heart of the castle. The hallways were empty of Death Eaters and defenders alike, not a student to be seen, yet like a fish reeled in on a line, Harry felt himself drawn to the Great Hall with the certainty that it was their destination.
The doors hung off their hinges like a broken branch dangling from a tree.
Inside the atmosphere was muted. Professors, Order members and students leaned heavily against one another, or wandered with the listless slowness of wading through quicksand between their fellows. There was little ruin to the actual room; unlike the explosions inflicted upon the walls of the anteroom they had been led to through the staff corridor, there was barely a scratch or streak of soot marring the wall.
No, in the Great Hall the damage seemed to be solely inflicted upon the room's occupants. The ambient light of magic and the candles overhead illuminated the sorry scene of bowed heads, drooping eyelids and wrinkled brows, darkening dusty discolouration of dirt over pale skin and brightening the rustty redness of drying blood. The scattering of such ruddy adornments was far more frequent than Harry had hoped to find. Barely one person amongst a dozen was free of some injury or another.
Walking into the room slowly, as though unwilling to disrupt the stagnating exhaustion and stale fear, Harry and Draco searched for familiar faces amongst the crowd. Madam Pomfrey appeared to have taken the seriously injured in her trembling hands hand; conjured bandages and muttered Healing Charms wafted around her like the sterilised scent of medicine. Children and adults alike with their arms in slings, a patch on their heads, the left over stain of blood on a cheek split open and oozing redness, lined the walls. Just as many had heaved themselves onto the house tables as lay slumped on the pews, moaning, crying and muttering their grief and disbelief. Yet it was those that occupied the centre of the room, the widened walkway between the two central tables, that drew the eye like a moth to fluorescent light.
Bodies. Bodies lined the hall like speed bumps along a highway. There had been an attempt at neatness, but little could be done to make such a scene any less horrifying. The sheer number of prone figures waylaid any attempt. There were dozens.
Some were covered in sheets. Some simply laid gently atop their sheets, blankets bunched around them in a tender cocoon. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw a slack face, a limp arm, a head crooked upon a loose neck.
Harry and Draco picked their way slowly in between the figures, like so many others commiserating over the dead. Sobs, muffled against sweater sleeves, added an aching discord to the moans of pain from the injured. Yet perhaps the saddest part was that not every body had a mourner. Some simply lay there, alone, all but forgotten; there were simply too many.
Progressing down the length of the hall, Harry could discern both familiar and unfamiliar faces. He felt his eyes grow larger with every unconscious flinch, every flicker of memory as he met the closed eyes of a pale face and was assaulted with the memory of a scowl, a smile, the sound of idle chatter. Within the space of as many steps he wove through the bodies of Alastor Moody, Dedalus Diggle, that girl Ron had a brief stint with Lavender Brown, Neville's eternal fan Colin Creevey, Susan Bones from Magical Creatures. There was that girl from the year above, a Ravenclaw who had shown him the way around the library in his first week. Twins identified as being Hufflepuff from their stained ties lay side by side. There was an unknown Order member with half of his robe torn askew. Bodies after bodies, each as limp, as unmoving and as coldly pale as the last.
Halfway down the room, Harry happened a glance upwards to behold the immobile figures of Neville and Ginny standing but three paces away. There was tension in every line of their body, so tight that they trembled with the strain of a pair of bowstrings. Tapping Draco's hand, drawing his attention to follow him, Harry picked his way over to their side. It was marginally easier to do so when he forced himself to overlook that it was bodies he was stepping over.
Harry's heart sank when he fell into place by Neville's side. His eyes dropped, following the twin line of sight of his friends', and the figure of Frank Longbottom swum into view. His face was lax, cheeks sagging slightly. The smoothness of his brow bellied the downturn of his lips. A blanket appeared flung with half a mind over his lower half. He looked in the depths of sleep, albeit a disagreeable one. Harry only got a brief glimpse, however, before the face blurred out of focus. It took him a moment to realise that it was tears clouding his vision.
Blinking rapidly, Harry glanced towards Neville once more. His friend's face held less expression than his father's, yet even so, there was a flatness, a rigidity, to the emotionless plains of his face that bespoke pain lurking just beneath the surface. His eyes were locked on his father's face, though their glassiness indicated he barely saw that which he gazed upon. It was heartbreaking to witness.
"Neville..." Harry didn't know why he had spoken; some unconscious plea to attempt to alleviate his friend's pain, despite Harry's own natural inclination towards silence. He knew nothing he could say would help, and so paused as soon as he had spoken. Neville flinched slightly at the words, but didn't glance towards him. He appeared only to sink further into grief. The faint tremble of his shoulders was enough to still any further attempts at conversation on Harry's part.
Ginny, staring with similar glassiness at Mr. Longbottom, slowly untucked her fingers from Neville's. With that same slow motion that seemed to have gripped everyone in the hall, she stepped hesitantly towards the dead man's side. In jarring motions, Ginny sunk to her knees. She reached a hand out slowly, hesitantly, and in a moment of finality, tugged the blanket over his head. Harry wasn't sure if the sight of the sheet-draped figure was better or worse than that of the man.
The veiling seemed to snap the spell Neville had fallen under. Jerking backwards as though stung, he stumbled half a step backwards and, after a moment's pause, wheeled around and strode from the hall. Watching him depart, Harry was distantly surprised that he managed as much without stepping on someone. He disappeared through the hanging doors of the Great Hall moments later.
Ginny was on her feet and following after him within seconds and Harry was on the verge of following her until he noticed Draco. Or more accurately, where Draco was heading. In contrast to the slowness of those around him, the Slytherin nearly ran across the hall. He slowed only when he nearly skidded to a stop before...
Oh no. Please, God, no, please no...
Harry was not a religious person, but he would pray to any God that spared him a second thought if it would save him from the reality of what he saw. Unlike Draco, he made his way slowly to the dead student surrounded by the ring of his friends.
Please no, please no...
Pansy was cradled in Blaise's arms. There was not any injury in particular to be seen, but the wide-eyed staring of her eyes was indication enough. A single, pale hand extended from the soot-stained warmth of Blaise's lap; it looked horribly cold, fingers half-curled on the marble floor.
Blaise was even more expressionless than Neville had been. He lacked even the tension in his shoulders; rather, the hunching of his back and the drop of his chin gave him the appearance of a marionette with half of its strings cut. One hand stroked absently at the back of Pansy's head, the other gently wrapped around her shoulders. He could have been rocking her to sleep. Except that he wasn't.
Hermione was crying. Ron looked to be on the verge of joining her. Draco was nearly as blank-faced as Blaise, save for the straining clench of his jaw, the faint glaze of his eyes. He stared down at his friend as though he couldn't possibly tear his gaze away. He likely couldn't.
Harry cried. He couldn't help himself. The weight in his chest needed an outlet and though the dribbling flow down his cheeks didn't do much to help it was easier than quashing it down. So he cried, softly and quietly, as the sounds of grief around him became a distant echo of inconsequence.
Because Pansy was dead. She was dead, and it was final. Harry didn't even know how it happened, when it happened. That thought itself sat accusingly forthright in his mind, for whatever reason utterly important.
And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
At some point, he drew Draco into his arms. The shared warmth between them did little to melt the coldness seeping through him, sending a shiver over the surface of his skin, but it helped. If only a little. Draco didn't cry, not like Harry did, but his grief was apparent nonetheless in the clawing grasp of his hands, in the weight of his forehead as is fell against Harry's own, in the quiet rasping of his breath. He seemed physically pained, and Harry couldn't exactly deny such a possibility. His own pain felt like a literal piercing of his chest. It was hard to breathe.
He wasn't sure how long they remained holding one another. Time was difficult to discern when in the midst of grief. He was vaguely aware of the weariness of his legs, but such weariness seemed negligible in comparison to greater hurts. Because Pansy was dead - dead - and nothing could compare to that.
Eventually, however, a voice pierced through the fogginess of his heavy thoughts.
"Have you seen Neville?"
Raising his head from Draco's, Harry slowly turned his attention towards Ginny. Ron's younger sister looked exhausted; redness rimmed her eyes, eyes that visibly sagged, and the lines on her face aged her by years. Her uniform were darkened by dirt, obscuring the vivid redness at the cuffs and tie. Even her vibrant hair hung lank and lacklustre. She looked like a survivor of war - appropriately enough.
"Neville?" Draco's voice was a choked crackle. He cleared his throat with an effort. "He was with you, wasn't he?"
Ginny was staring at Pansy, renewed sorrow weighing further on her features, but at Draco's words she dragged her attention back to their conversation. "I was, but he said he wanted to be alone. To think." She shook her head. "But that was nearly an hour ago, and I haven't seen him since."
"Did he say where he was going?"
She shook her head again. "Just somewhere to think. I thought I'd leave him to himself, you know. Because of his father's –" Cutting herself off abruptly, Ginny's eyes fell to Pansy once more. "Never mind. I'll... I'll look for him." With a hasty backwards step, she spun on her heel and raced from the Great Hall.
Harry watched her go, his mind turning sluggishly. It took minutes for the words to fully register. "Neville's missing?" Somehow, even through the blanket of grief, focus reasserted itself on his mind. Focus and gradually growing horror. He raised his eyes to Draco's face, staring upon the frowning profile as his friend continued to gaze upon the absence of Ginny's passage. "Draco, you don't think...?"
That was when he heard it. The voice didn't echo in Harry's mind as it had before, but he would have recognised it anywhere. Booming as though through a megaphone, the words rang through the hall.
"Neville Longbottom is dead! He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."
Harry felt a splash of cold shock ripple through him, cascading over his shoulders and leaving a tremble in its wake. No, no, no, please no, not now, I can't -
"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as well as every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live, and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."
The echo of the announcement seemed to hang over the masses in the Great Hall. Faces turned upwards, outwards, turned towards the front of the school and the promise that lay beyond. Eyes widened in horror, mouths falling open, stricken. Movement seemed impossible.
McGonagall was the one who broke the stasis. Only the paleness of her cheeks indicated any fear on her part as she strode from the room. When the sweep of her dark robes disappeared through the door, the entire mobile cohort of the Great Hall defenders seemed to flow into action at once. Caught as though in a current, Harry felt himself swept along with his friends from the walls of the castle. The spilled into the courtyard before the school like a tributary flowing into its larger cousin.
"NO!"
Her voice was horrifying to bear witness to. If a sound could be labelled as pure Despair, McGonagall produced it seamlessly. When Harry's gaze trained on the Death Eaters, upon Hagrid, upon the cause of her distress, only the constriction of his throat stoppered him from releasing a similar cry. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were not so impeded.
"No!"
"No!"
"Neville! Neville!'
It was painful to hear, almost as painful to see Neville's prone form cradled in Hagrid's arms. He looked pathetically small beside the half-giant and horribly still; it was heartbreaking. Harry hadn't thought that the pain consuming his chest could possibly swell any further, but somehow, upon seeing Neville, it ballooned once more.
Not Neville, too... How could he...? Why did he...? So stupid, why had Neville done it? How could he have been so foolish?
Why was this happening? What had any of them done to deserve this? For it seemed impossible. Destruction and misery inflicted on such a gross scale simply did not happen. Death of such immensity was a distant and foreign menace, but would never be realised by Harry. He'd never believed it possible to feel such pain for another person; he'd simply never cared for anyone enough to let whatever had hurt them impact him. It was in that moment that he realised what his friends truly meant to him.
Such a realisation could not have come at a worse moment.
The cries of despair rose on mass from adults and children alike as they flooded through the doors of the castle. Bathed in the illuminating yellow light streaming through the wide-flung doors, they assembled in a sad parody of a concert with the Death Eaters the main event. And at the head of the Death Eaters –
"SILENCE!"
A bang and a flash of bright light burst like fireworks overhead, painfully bright in the darkness of night. The voice, amplified with magic, sliced through the noise and smothered it like a scream thrust underwater. Fear, however much the onlookers fought it, was impossible to deny. The speaker drew all eyes like a magnet.
He was like nothing Harry had ever seen before. Physical disabilities were one thing, yet never unfamiliar and horrifying in a way that the creature before them was horribly morphed and twisted. Draped in a thin black curtain of robes, the man's pallor contrasted with sickly paleness. White, translucent skin clearly showed a network of purple and blue veins on his hairless skull, a skull made more bulbous than it already was in its bareness. The face was skewed into a sick hybrid of man and snake; flattened and angular, he was noseless and lipless. The eyes, peeled wide and nearly lidless, skimmed over each figure in attendance, flashing in a luminescent red. The thin smile that spread across his face, in tandem with the raising of his wand in a skeletal, spider-like fingers, was terrifying.
"You see?" The man swept before his horde of followers, before Neville's body and a sobbing Hagrid, pacing like a caged tiger. "Neville Longbottom is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him."
"He beat you!" Ron's yell split the silence. Just as well, for Harry felt that if the red-haired boy hadn't then he would have. A crashing wave of anger, unprecedented and only intensified by his grief, roared through him. He felt a growl on his lips, one which was echoed by the rising yells and screams of objection that followed Ron's lead. It was satisfying to realise that not a one in the crowd believed the snake-man's words.
Another bang and flash of light and the voices snapped off once more. Not with magic but simply cringing from the explosion of heat overhead. "He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds." Malicious cruelty twisted the man's voice, revealing the lie for what it was had any been foolish enough to believe it. "Killed while trying to save himself –"
A shield flashed into existence a split second before a blast of white light would have impacted the pacing man. The afterimage flared enduringly before Harry's eyes, so it was only after moments of rapid blinking that he realised what had happened.
Standing before them all, further forwards even than McGonagall, Draco brandished his wand. Harry couldn't see his face, but from his wide-footed stance, the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, it was clear that fury longed to burst forth.
"How dare you."
It would have taken courage, Harry knew, to speak such words in the face of the man who haunted his dreams, but Draco lacked none of that. His anger seemed to have overrun the twinge of common sense that encouraged self-preservation. It was probably fuelled by the supportive growls behind him.
"Draco? My dear boy, Draco. How wonderful to see you once more." That cruel smile twisted the snake-man's face once more. For all his claim of satisfaction, there was a hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes. "And what do you think you are doing?"
"Something I should have done a long time ago." Draco's voice rang clear and cold through the darkness. The strength of his tone was incredible. Harry felt himself stepping forwards, drawn not only by his desire to protect Draco but also magnetised to his words. "There's no way that anyone here is kneeling to you, Voldemort. Not tonight."
The Death Eaters hissed in fury. One woman, crazed eyes wide and matted hair flying as she lurched forward, brandished her wand before her like a sword. "You pathetic, snivelling worm. Draco, I should have known you would carry your mother's weakness."
It was too much for Draco. Harry saw it coming and flung himself forwards the few steps that lay between them, grabbing Draco to him in a tug that nearly threw them both from their feet. He was just in time, somehow throwing up a shield moments after Draco cast a glowing red spell towards the crazed woman, moments before a green light flashed back towards him. A splatter of sparks rebounded with a jarring force that caused Harry to wince as his temples throbbed painfully. He felt like he'd been struck himself.
Then, everything seemed to happen at once.

It was strange, really, how a single exchange of spells could trigger a battle. In the moments that followed his aunt's attempt on his life, Draco's world turned upside down. It probably had something to do with the trembling of the ground that cast him flat on his back, but a lot more to do with the fight that ensued.
The giants had returned. That much was apparent. But what was also apparent was the return of the centaurs, and what appeared to be giant spiders flowing in a dark tsunami from the Forbidden Forest. Like a wave breaking upon the shore, the swarm of magical creatures fell upon the humans, defenders and Death Eaters alike.
Spells soared overhead in an attempt to protect, to shield. They were marginally successful, but cries of fear and pain still rung through the night. Draco cringed upon himself, grasping the only two things that mattered to him in that moment in each hand: his wand and Harry's hand.
He didn't know what had made him leap forward, urging him to yell his denial of the Dark Lords – of Voldemort's – claims. He couldn't help it; he'd just been so angry, so distraught, his eyes unseeing of anything save Neville's limp figure hung in Hagrid's cradling arms.
In hindsight, seeing the aftereffects of such a show of denial, it probably wasn't the wisest decision he could have made. The ground trembled like an earthquake beneath him, and bodies danced around him so closely that Draco was surprised he hadn't been trodden on. Someone - McGonagall? - appeared to have called for a retreat into the safety of the castle for there was a general movement towards that direction. Feeling a tug on his hand, Draco squinted through the haze of darkness, sporadic lighting and racing bodies to Harry above him.
Somehow the other boy had reattained his footing. His face was a mask of determination, devoid of the misery that had hung upon it but moments before. And he was tugging, insistent, upon Draco's hand. "Come on! We have to move or we'll get –"
He didn't get a chance to finish. Luckily, Draco had already lurched to his feet, as a second later an impossibly large foot impacted the ground where he had been sprawled. On weaving feet, he followed Harry's own stumbling form. It would have been impossible to see him, to follow him, had they not been joined at the wrist.
The castle was a battlefield. Spells shot erratically the length of the room, fired from both sides with equal intensity. Draco realised with morbid satisfaction that even the students were fighting back. Doing well, too, if the impact of Expelliarmus and Stupefies were any indication. Perhaps Neville's DA lessons had been beneficial after all.
Concentrating on avoiding spells was difficult, but at least there was no assault from giants. At some point, halfway across the hall, Harry paused in his flight to fling up a shield charm with a raised hadn and slaying fingers. A trio of spells fired towards them rebounded in a scatter of multi-coloured light. Any further forward movement ceased at that, stuttering to halt. Draco turned to face possible assailants head on. He was aware only of the flicker of spells and the warmth of Harry at his back as he fired a curse at the head of a passing Death Eater.
It was manic. Draco fired off more spells than he could count, and nearly fell victim to just as many. Chance dodges were as responsible for his continued existence as Harry's shields were. As he launched spell after spell, he caught glimpses of the surrounding battles like snapshots from a camera.
Black firing spell after spell at a faceless Death Eater as the man stumbled backwards from the assault.
A trio of first years falling behind an overturned table as Yaxley laughed and launched an Incendio at them.
His aunt facing off against a portly woman - was the Weasley matriarch? - and cackling manically.
Bursts of fire, of light, of buffeting air, each passing around him and just barely missing contact. He chanced a glimpse of Theodore Nott taking a hit and felt a blow strike him in the chest where no spell had hit. Another blow landed as he caught sight of Hermione's determined, dirt-smudged face as she tugged a limp, lolling Ron across the room, firing a spell over her shoulder as she went. People fell and some rose once more, friend and foe alike. Many didn't.
That was until a shockwave rippled through the fighting, blasting figures from the centre of the room and casting them like discarded toys to the perimeter. Draco felt his feet sweep out from under him, felt a force like the heave of a giant's breath propel him head-over-heels into one of the benches of the Great Hall. For a moment all he could see was the floor in front of his nose.
Harry. Where was Harry? The thought was the first that made sense, urging him into action. It was the only thing that mattered, the only thing of importance, and it broke through the scream of pain in his shoulder that begged him to freeze in pitiful stillness.
That was until his dragged himself to lean heavily on the overturned bench and caught sight of the stand off before him. The centre of the room had been cleared in a stage set for a performance. The previous fighters lined the walls like an audience. And in the very centre... It was impossible, should have been impossible, but there it was. Voldemort, arms spread and wand extended, facing off against Neville, very much alive.
Exclamations of "HE'S ALIVE" and cries of relief blossomed throughout the hall. Draco felt his own mind short circuit, locking upon that one simple fact. Neville's voice was the only thing that could have quelled the onlookers into silence.
"I don't want anyone else to try to help." His face was determined, a frown impressing his brow. "You're not going to hurt anyone else, Voldemort."
Voldemort sneered, though the ugly curl of his lip didn't quite mask his disbelief, the faint tinge of... fear. "You don't mean that. That isn't how you work, is it? Always hiding behind others, shielding yourself –"
"Not anymore," Neville broke in, cutting across Voldemort's words with savage force. "I won't do that anymore. No one else will die for me. So it's just you and me, Voldemort."
"You really expect to survive a fight against me."
Incredibly, Neville smiled. It was only a small smile, yet Draco felt a wave of confidence well within him. "I have before. I'll do it again."
The pale, snake-like face twitched slightly. Yes, it was definitely fear in his eyes. Impossibly, the most dangerous creature in Wizarding Britain, possibly the entire world, was quaking before a boy not yet seventeen. As though to allay any beliefs of his own fear, the man hissed, raising his wand further. "You honestly believe you have a chance. To what, save your little friends? How pathetic."
"More pathetic than grasping at immortality through the deaths of innocent victims?" Neville shook his head, snorting as if it were a fine joke. "I don't think so." When he affixed his gaze once more, Draco could see a hardness instilled in his eyes. It was merciless.
It happened so fast that the pair could have been moving with magical speed. In the space of a split second, Neville raised his wand, uttered an Expelliarmus. Voldemort spat viciously in the same instant, and a flash of green raced forwards to meet the starburst of red. With a collision like a statue's head launched into the castle walls and twice as loud, the duel streams impacted.
Beams of light throbbed from the point of contact. Draco had to squint his eyes or else turn from the sight to save himself from blindness. But more than that was the physical force that rippled from the collision, greater even than the sound of magic impacting like the clap of cymbals. With the force of distorted gravity, an undeniable weight forced Draco to the floor once more. His limbs felt heavy, impossible to lift, and a muffler seemed to press down upon his magic.
Before his eyes, the figures of Neville and Voldemort trembled beneath the force of their magical fight. A ribbon of light, fading from red to an electric sun of yellow at the point of contact and finally to green, extended between them. Teeth bared and eyes narrowed, the both somehow miraculously retained their feet, even through the crushing weight of the rippling magical effects. As Draco looked, it seemed as though the fight would endure eternally. At least until, slowly but surely, Neville seemed to fold before his opponent.
In that moment, Draco knew he had to do something. Neville - his friend, Neville; the boy who had died and somehow returned to face an evil madman - couldn't face this impossible foe on his own. He'd tried, but their levels of experience, of strength acquired from years of honing abilities, differed just too greatly. If he didn't do something...
Like paddling through gelatinous custard, Draco struggled to raise his wand hand. Every muscle in his arm screamed to drop to the floor, but he clenched his teeth and pointed his wand towards Voldemort. If he could only distract him, only for a moment –
His spell fired, arcing towards the bald, translucent head of the snake-man. Only to dissolve in a shimmer of white light reminiscent of violently scattered dandelion seeds within two feet. Those red eyes of the monster didn't even turn, didn't spare a moment's notice for the attack from the side.
Draco's spell appeared to be a catalyst for the onlooker's response. Spells fired towards Voldemort - and some towards Neville too, assumingly from the remaining Death Eaters - yet each dissipated before contact. Draco slowly realised that it wasn't an impossible defence from Voldemort; the spells simply couldn't penetrate the cocooning walls of intense magic. Perhaps it was the sheer magnitude of magical power exchanged, but each external blast, each attempt to interrupt the battle ongoing, disintegrated before it could even penetrate.
Another attempt from Draco ended in a ridiculously pathetic shower of sparks before he could do nothing but slump to the ground in sheer exhaustion. His head throbbed from the light, from the glass-shattering ring of spell-on-spell, pounding with a steady, demanding beat. Yet through it all, he wouldn't turn away. A heartbreaking effort, as before his eyes he witnessed Neville sinking further and further to the ground.
Too strong... he, Voldemort, was too strong. Maybe they should have known better than to try...
Yet however Draco considered it, he couldn't agree with the sentiment, with the words of the wrath-like copy of his father from the Chamber of Secrets. They had fought, they had lost - lost many. Lost Pansy - and yet even knowing he was going to die when Voldemort forced Neville to the ground he couldn't believe he had made the wrong choice.
At least if I die... with my friends... with Harry...
At the thought, Draco craned his neck hazily about the room. Where was he? Where...? His eyes fastened upon the half-curled form of his friend - of his lover, his partner - and he felt a searing pain of regret. If he could have one wish, one hope, if would be for Harry to survive. If only that. Even if he didn't survive himself...
Harry seemed to be struggling to move. As Draco watched him fight against the exhausting weight of the radiating magic, his fingers fumbled into his pocket. For his wand? Draco felt a brief flicker of confusion peer through the throbbing of his head, through the ringing in his ears. Harry hadn't used the wand once in the fight, so why would he start now? He was always better at wandless magic, not to mention effectively incapable of offensive spells. Defensive too, until recently. Was he going to try to shield Neville?
But the object that was tugged from his pocket wasn't a wand. It didn't even vaguely resemble one. Draco was baffled, his bafflement overwhelming his despondency as he watched Harry heft the black and silver object. Watched him point it across the room - to Voldemort - and pause. Saw the pained bite of his lower lip, the brief close of his eyes and the physical cringe, before his face hardened and -
BANG!
The crack like a thunderclap shattered the spell. Quite literally, for like a taut twine snapped in two, the duel streams of magic broke apart. The light hung for a moment, as though confused, before dispelling in a gust of explosive air after the ringing of the cymbal-like echoes. Neville and Voldemort were frozen, staring at one another, until the latter raised a hand to his darkly-swathed chest and pressed lightly. A wet stain seeped through the fabric barely visible. His spidery fingers came away red.
Turning, the snake-like man narrowed his eyes, searching for his assailant, until -
BANG!
The second shot could have been fired by a professional marksman. Some experts in Muggle Studies would later claim it was a complete fluke that the bullet even pierced through the magical force field. Others insisted it was the purely because it was a Muggle weapon that it was able to penetrate that which repelled magic. Either way, it was an impossible shot, one in a million, in a billion, for an amateur. Yet somehow Harry it did.
Right between Voldemort's eyes, Draco watched as a red rose blossomed and dribbled a single, thick stream down the man's noseless face. An oddly dark trickle, as though diluted by ink. Like black blood. Those eyes widened minutely, for a moment - only a moment - before with a slump so slow he seemed to float to the floor, the figure of Voldemort crumpled to the ground.
Silence rung through the hall. Faces turned, sought out the attacker, and locked on Harry. Frightened faces, incredulous faces, uncomprehending faces all - and Harry didn't seem to see any of them. Huddled on the floor, his gaze was locked on the fallen form of the greatest and most terrible wizard in the modern world, the wizard he had just taken down with a single Muggle weapon.
Motion struck the masses in a moment. Confusion reigned. Following a brief moment of stunned silence, an overwhelming cry of cheers erupted, clashing boomingly with a frantic buzz of questions. Through it all, shouts and cries of Death Eaters penetrated, but as if a switch had been flicked their sheer competency seemed to have died with their master. A smattering of spells and they were quickly overwhelmed.
Draco lurched to his feet. He had one thought in mind and one thought only. Ignoring the arising pain in his shoulder, he reached Harry's side in moments, wading through the crowd pushing forward with cries of amazement and triumph. Harry met his eyes as soon as he stood before him, the gun – the one Draco had seen at Defaux's house, he realised - held limply in his hand. Wide eyes, terrified and horrified at once.
The world seemed to dislocate into the distance around them, a curtain draping over the fuzziness of unintelligible noise. Draco ignored it all. He barely spared a thought for those around him; they didn't matter. None of them mattered.
He placed both hands on the sides of Harry's head. The shorter boy tipped his chin under slight urging. Draco dropped his forehead down onto Harry's, pressing them together softly but firmly. The warmth of that brief contact became the centre of his world.
Slowly, Draco took the gun from Harry's fingers. It was cold, lifeless. Metallic. Without a thought, Draco tucked it into the pocket of his robes. Later. They would consider it later.
But for now...
"It's alright. It's going to be alright now." Draco closed his eyes, dropping his voice to a whisper. He felt a faint huff of air on his chin, on his lips. It was almost a sob. "Everything's okay."
Draco knew Harry was scared. Possibly more scared then he'd been when he'd fired the gun. Draco didn't understand why, exactly; he couldn't fathom a fear greater than that of his own encroaching death, the death of his friends and his lover. But he didn't have to understand it. He simply had to be there for him, for Harry, in any way he could.
The babble of voices surrounding them took on a euphoric tone. Forgotten briefly were the deaths, the pain and the destruction. In the face of victory, misery was overlooked. Temporarily, at least. It would return, and soon, but for now...
"It's going to be alright. I'm here. I'll be right here for you. Always."
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The Masks of Real Heroes