Gilded Soul

Author's note: This is almost the end. I'm sorry this one is shorter than the rest, but Draco needed a chapter to morn.

Chapter 40 Dragon’s Lament

The funeral was silent.

Well, this funeral was silent. This was the third funeral Draco had attended in as many days. It had been nearly a week since the fated battle that took his Gryffindor away, and everyday his mark grew more lethargic. Quill never moved at all now.

The implications of that fact didn’t escape Draco, but he tried not to dwell on it. It was already too hard not to cry, as he latched tightly to the small golden box that held his true loves ashes.

The first service had been held in the great hall for the students of Hogwarts. Draco was barely coherent for that one. He had only vaguely felt Hermione shuffling him along to his seat and weeping against his shoulder. He seemed to have been out of tears, having cried for days straight after the battle.

He could somewhat remember causing a scene when Dumbledore tried to take the golden urn from him, in order to allow the students to pay their respects. Draco’s knuckles were white from trying to hold onto it. In the end he had to stand in front of the great hall, holding the box, as students passed, giving him pitiful looks and offering condolences.

It was sickening to have to muddle through, but he couldn’t let go of the box, just couldn’t let go. The only thing that kept him from running out of the hall screaming was Hermione, standing beside him like a solemn rock. She had provided his solidarity over the previous few days, and Draco didn’t know what he would have done without her. In fact, he wasn’t sure how he had managed to function with Hermione for so long as he had; she was a force to reckon with.

The next funeral he attended had been for Ministry officials. It was at least short and fairly straight forward, no eulogies that seemed to last a decade, or sob filled stories told by people who didn’t even know him.

Though there were only a few people who could count themselves among those who really knew Harry Potter. Everyone knew of him, but the list of people that knew the inner workings, what made Harry, Harry, was slim. Those that did really know Harry were some of the only ones not to speak at his many memorial services. It was too difficult. You couldn’t really know Harry and not be devastated by his passing. Even Dumbledore declined to stand up in front of the Ministry and talk about the late Harry Potter.

The final service, the one he was currently ignoring to the best of his ability, was for the public. Anyone and everyone who wished to pay their last respects to the Gryffindor Golden Boy was now seated in front of him. Draco stayed in the back row, not wanting to participate in the sappy speeches and false sentiments. He still clutched his golden box, and he stared at it, wishing it were just a pretty trinket, instead of his lover’s last resting place.

His mother sat beside him. It was a surprise to see her, he had been sure she wouldn’t have made it through the raging fire that consumed the manor. He hadn’t been back there since, but he heard about the complete and utter destruction of his childhood home. The Aurors had found his mother unconscious but otherwise completely unharmed in the area where her bedroom had been. She had been protected by Harry, just as he had, just as Harry had promised.

Somehow he sought her out with his magic, to keep her safe. Gryffindor’s always keep their promises, or maybe that was just Harry.

A single tear escaped his stormy eyes and his mother squeezed his hand. She had been unwavering in her support of Draco since the battle. At first it he assumed that it was because his abomination with Harry was abruptly ended with his death, but it seemed Harry’s protection of her and her son gave Narsissa a newfound respect for him, however late it seemed to come. He was still grateful that she seemed accepting of his preference, though in all honesty his preference wasn’t for men, it was for Harry. He couldn’t see himself with anyone else. Not ever.

Hermione nudged Draco lightly and nodded toward the front of the auditorium. Draco wasn’t surprised to see someone he didn’t know up in front of the congregation speaking about Harry, because it had already happened more times than he could count. This chubby inarticulate brute seemed to garner Hermione’s attention though. He gave her a quizzical look and she leaned in and whispered in his ear, “That’s Dudley.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly as he looked back up to the speaker. He didn’t look a thing like Harry, but was apparently his cousin, the oaf who had treated Harry like dirt throughout his entire childhood. Draco listened closely, ready to jump up and throttle the muggle if he said a single derogatory thing about his Harry.

“I-I didn’t know Harry well, e-even though we grew up in the same house. I was… ignorant and cruel to him.” There were many gasps and whispers at that comment, but Dudley pressed on. “In spite of how mean we were to him… h-he still saved my life… I-I never thanked him b-but I wish I had. I’m sorry, Harry.” The lump removed himself from the front of the room and scurried away, as fast as his thick body would take him, up the aisle and past where Draco sat.

Odd.

Draco wondered briefly if Harry would have been touched by the belated apology, or if he would have been just as disgusted by it as Draco was. No one seemed to realize how special Harry was until it was too late.

Even himself.

He had perhaps realized it, but he never did anything about it until a mere few months ago. It was something Draco knew would fill him with regret for his entire life. He wanted more time.

Time to make up for all the awful things he had done to Harry over the years. Time to hold him and kiss him. Time to tell him he loved him.

It was too late.

Too late for Hermione to tell him about the secret crush she had been harboring for years, too late for Ron to apologize for his bigotry, too late for Dumbledore to tell him he loved him like a son, to late for the Dursley’s to repent, too late for Remus to tell him about his forbidden relationship with Sirius, too late for Snape to reconcile with him… too late. For all of it.

The room was stifling, smothering and he couldn’t breath. He leapt to his feet and bolted from the room. Once outside he collapsed in the shady cathedral entrance, pressing his forehead to the cold marble floor. He didn’t know why they chose this place; it had no significance to Harry, or even wizards in general. A muggle church. Draco scoffed to himself. Harry wasn’t even religious.

Once outside he couldn’t stop the sobs from coming, his whole body shook with them. So much so, that he hadn’t felt the small hand on his shoulder for several moments. Not until he heard the voice that went along with it. “Draco?”

Trying to quickly compose his features, he pulled himself up and smiled weakly at Hermione. He had been trying to be brave; he knew she missed him just as much. “I just couldn’t listen to anymore.”

She nodded her understanding. “It’s a bit much isn’t it? Those people barely even knew him and…” She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.

They sat in silence while the service went on without them inside. Draco looked down at the golden box in his had and shuddered with another silent sob. “He’s really gone isn’t he?”

Hermione didn’t answer, she just pulled him tightly to her. “He loved you so much,” she whispered against his hair. “He was happier with you than I had ever seen him.”

Draco tried to reply but words failed him, so he just let her continue to hold him, and rock him like a child.

--

Draco woke up with bleary red eyes, his body felt weak and broken, probably due to the lack of food he had consumed over the past week. Even though Hermione insisted he eat, it was easy to defy her, because she wasn’t even practicing her own demands.

The scent of Harry had long left their bed. He desperately tried to cling to it, but it seemed the harder he tried, the fainter it was, till finally he woke up and it was gone. He slid out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe, looking at his reflection in the mirror Harry had transfigured on the door.

He was a wreck. His hair was disheveled and grimy, a slick sheen of grease coating it from root to tip. His eyes were red and dull, with deep purple rings underneath. His face was sunken and hollow, his body quickly following suit.

Something else was off too, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

A strangled sob erupted from his chapped lips as he looked at his chest. His mark, Harry’s mark, it was gone, faded into his skin like an old scar. Draco fell to his knees; his piercing sobs echoing through the room.

This was the moment he had been dreading the entire week. The moment he would have to face that it was over, that Harry was gone and never coming back. He didn’t think he could handle the pain that wracked his body, splitting his heart into a million pieces, never to be mended again. He was no longer whole; he wasn’t even half of himself without Harry.

He had no reason to live now. No reason to keep up this partial, cursed existence.

He just had one last thing to do, then he could sleep. Sleep away the rest of his life in glorious peace, back with his beautiful Harry.

--

Author’s note. Sorry this one is shorter, I’m not sure how much of desolate Draco anyone could take, I know this was one of the hardest chapters I have ever had to write. Remember the faeries...