Chapter Text
Draco sat on the porch of a cottage. The wood was sturdy underneath his touch, and the faint jingle of a windchime resounded throughout the quiet place. Gladioli grew in the garden up front, their pale pink petals dancing on their stems as a round of breeze gently rolled over the emptiness of his surroundings. The sight was so awfully familiar: the endless prairie stretching beyond where he sat, full of golden-colored wheat fields; the empty swing by a lone tree on the right, and the vacant country road; but he couldn't put his mind to recognize it. He couldn't put a word in, despite how it hung at the edge of his tongue.
When he looked around, nobody was watching. Nobody was here except for Draco.
…In fact, he’s not even sure he’s here at all.
He stood up, ignoring the creak of wood planks as he did so. Draco reached to open the door handle, gasping silently when his hand went through. It was almost as if he was a ghost, translucent and insubstantial.
He walked through the door anyway.
The inside had been more beautiful compared to the outside. The cottage was brightly lit, the afternoon sunlight pouring in waves after another through the open windows, bathing the whole place in a beautiful shade of tuscan yellow.
Paintings lined the walls, the smaller ones were placed on the cabinets and shelves. When Draco neared them, not a single speck of dust rested on their frames, as if an eternal stasis charm was veiling the whole cottage. What was more surprising was the fact that some of the faces displayed in those canvases were his face; Draco's own gray-colored gaze being mirrored back at him.
The sudden wave of familiarity hits him so hard that Draco nearly stumbles.
It was their vacation home. The small abode their family would go to during Summer and Spring, the same cottage his father had painstakingly placed a fidelius charm on because mother had wanted a private place just for the three of them. Our safe haven, she used to say.
There were pictures of him throughout the years, starting from when he was probably barely five, to that picture where they celebrated Draco's eleventh birthday, to—oh, he remembers that—the picture they took on Draco's first Hogwarts winter break, the one where he was still sulking after losing the remembrall to Harry. Then there was Draco playing with his parents during second year, Draco proudly sharing his incendio spell to his father, Draco boasting the wound he'd gotten from Buckbeak as if it was a battle scar, Draco, Draco, Draco…
And they stopped. There were no more pictures after he'd started fifth year—the year when everything in his life started to crumble, the pedestal under his feet that he’d cherished so much turning to nothing but ash.
Suddenly the place felt suffocating.
Draco forcefully tore his gaze away.
He crossed the many pieces of furniture, past the dining table and the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves full of fairy tales and relics. He stepped foot into the small patio of the cottage, relishing the cool wind against his face. Pots of flowers circled each pillar supporting the roof, their combination the exact same as the flowerbeds in the Malfoy Manor. There were two rattan chairs placed facing outwards to the back garden, and Draco found himself hovering closer to them.
“ Mon cher. ”
Draco spun around, taken aback by the sudden greeting. His mother was there, standing on the patio just a few feet away with all her usual grace. She looked different from the last he saw her. Gone was the constant apprehension that seemed to haunt her all the time, replaced by a slight smile that reminded Draco so much of the times before the Dark Lord decided to barge into their lives.
"...Mother?" He asked, voice faltering at the end.
She nodded. "Yes, it's me."
"How though?" His hand went to grip the edge of a chair—his fingers went through it. "I'm supposed to be dead. I am dead."
“One shouldn't be too sure of the unknown.” She said, walking closer to where he stood, the confident click of her heels filling the silence. "The fact that you're still here should be proof of it, aren't I right?"
She took his hands in her own. She held him, her touch warm and comforting and nothing like the white mist that had been assaulting his senses from the first time he'd stepped foot here.
“It… It doesn't make sense." Draco shook his head. "I fired the killing curse at myself. This should be the afterlife."
His mother's eyes softened. "But I'm here."
"Yes, you are. But you're still alive. Why are you here?"
Draco watched how his mother rested her gaze at a point beyond the horizon, the hands holding his tightened for just a second before they let go. "This place is a boundary between the living and the dead. You could go there, past the garden, and let yourself be taken in by the light." She turned, staring directly at his face, smiling. "But you don't want that."
(His mind fleetingly went back to Harry. To the quick, ephemeral journey they'd spent together, and how much he wanted to re-do everything.)
"I don't," Draco repeated.
" Mon cher," his mother called softly. This time, she caressed his cheek. "My wonderful dragon, you're the bravest boy I've ever known. The loveliest boy the world has decided to grace me with. Had I been in your spot, I don't believe I would've done the same thing. You sacrificed yourself , and that was very selfless."
His throat tightened. "No, I'm selfish. I didn't do it all for the greater good or anything. I did it all because of…"
"Because of him," his mother finishes, a knowing smile still on her face.
He swallowed thickly. "Yes."
"Is it really selfish for a person to want to save someone they love?"
Draco looked away, the burn in his ears was too much for him to handle. Not for the first time he cursed his pale complexion. His mother's hand slowly dropped. "Still, if this is neither the afterlife nor the living world then why am I here?" He asked instead.
"One could not know for certain," his mother said. "Though I suppose it's probable that this happened because of the wish you've made after you cast the killing curse. Magic is volatile, every wizard knows that. It bends like water, even with the smallest of nudges. Unforgivable curses are much more than that, they feed on the caster’s intention for it to succeed; and you’re here, in the between. I would assume it heard your wish of coming back.”
“Does that mean… I stopped the killing curse from happening?”
“Not so quite.'' She raised one slender finger to point at a spot in the garden. “Look closely.”
He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he did, there was a long snake sprawled across the trimmed grass, its body half-hidden by bushes. The sight sent a shiver through his spine, abruptly reminding him of all the times the exact same snake had tormented him in his dreams. Although he could see now that Nagini was dead: her body unmoving like stone.
“I killed her,” Draco murmured.
“You did.” His mother affirmed. “You wanted to erase that part of yourself, that part where a horcrux resided within you. Draco, your actions gave them a chance to defeat the Dark Lord.”
Her voice was clear, bright like sunlight filtering through crystal, and oh, Draco hoped so as well. He had wanted to leave at least a dent in history, whether it be for saving Potter’s life—to let that boy smile for another day in the living world—or for doing one last good thing in a shot at redemption. It felt so easy to believe in her—her assuring words, dauntless like the unmoving pillar of strength Draco had been leaning on since he was a kid. It is truly a wonder, really, how she always manages to make him feel comfortable and loved despite every single circumstance they've been in. For that same reason was why he asked the question that's been clouding his mind for the longest of times.
"Do you think I deserve to come back?"
"Of course," she answers almost immediately. "My love, you were never the one at fault. Never. It was because Lucius and I were you dragged into this in the first place."
Never at fault.
( It's not your fault. You're just a boy looking for home, Harry had once said, his words echoing like a poem in Draco's head.)
His eyes prickled and—fuck—Draco felt tears begin streaming down his cheeks like the beginnings of a spring drizzle. "Thank you." he choked out.
There was a beat, or perhaps less than one when Draco pulled her into a hug. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged his mother—or much less his father—but he was glad when he did, because Draco felt all the tension melt from his body as warmth blanketed him. Like he was welcomed. Cared for; just as though he was a boy again being hugged right before his first train to Hogwarts.
When they finally parted, Draco was only more or less sniffing.
His mother placed a parting kiss on his cheek. "Go," she whispered. " Mon bien-aimé, find him. Go back to him."
"Wait - you haven't told me why you're here," he rasped. Draco’s body felt lighter by the second. "Who are you?"
Unfortunately for him, the only answer he received was a smile before white fog colored his vision.
*
When he first opens his eyes, he’s greeted by the sight of yellow-addled clouds beginning to bleed into the purple sky behind them. A flock of birds flew by, and for a moment Draco really thought he was in the afterlife.
Although that wasn't really the case, so it seemed, because his ears had slowly started to pick up the noises floating around him, some of them panicked and the most hurried. When Draco forced himself to sit up from where he laid, his muscles burned in protest, making him hiss in response. It was like waking up after a long dreamless sleep—or death, in his case, because he's pretty sure he was just a step away from dying, if the vision he'd had before was anything to go by. Draco blinked once, thrice, trying to get used to the afternoon light shining down on his face.
He realized he was sitting on a wide cream-colored cot, its color a little bit grayed out from the grime soiling it. Now that he could see clearly, he was in Hogwarts' Entrance Hall, the things surrounding him were nothing but stacks of ruins and the few students running back and forth with medical supplies in their hands, too busy to realize his presence. Next to him were dozens of others laying on a cot similar to him, but a piece of fabric covered where their faces are supposed to be. Dead; they were dead.
Draco staggered upwards, ignoring the wave of nausea crashing into him.
His parents were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Harry.
What the fuck. He clutched his throbbing head. He couldn't have failed, could he? He managed to come back, which is all a miracle in itself, and there should be absolutely no way he'd failed, not after… after everything. And yet, his mind unwittingly thinks about the reason why his mother had appeared in his vision of the in-between. Could it be, perhaps the reason she was there was because Draco had indeed failed, causing everyone he loved to be killed?
He tamped down a bitter laugh from escaping. He didn't have time for this.
Go, find him, his mother had said.
He walked unsteadily to the Great Hall, his legs had nearly given up when he went up the marble staircase. Students were staring at him now; their jaw slack and eyebrows raised high. A few had started to shout about something, their voices far too loud for him to understand without having his head feel like it was about to split into two clean halves. People inside the Great Hall snapped their gazes towards the entrance—towards him.
Draco tried his best not to think about it.
The Great Hall was in the same state as the outside, half of it falling apart and broken into ruins. A puff of dust seemed to fly up every time he took a step.
Go, go back to him.
Whatever God is up there—or maybe Merlin it was himself—must've heard Draco then, his silent pleadings, because in the middle of it all, in the middle of all the ruckus and the cots where injured students laid on with parents mulling about, were Harry and his parents.
Harry Potter, his wide eyes staring directly at Draco. His eyes, full of disbelief, visible even from afar.
A rush of whispers went through the Great Hall almost in an instant, their volume rising tentatively by each second. Draco saw how his mother raised both of her hands to cover her mouth, and his father whose arm instinctively snaked around his mother’s waist like he was offering moral support. Probably he was, for both himself and his wife.
Time seemed to stop then, the same as it had been in the cottage surrounded by prairies that'd seemed just as endless as somewhere beyond the skyline. He couldn't hear anything except the thrumming of his own heart—the erratic thump thump thump of it.
"...Draco?"
The Hall fell silent.
"Harry," he says.
Then it was like everything had broken free.
"Draco!" Harry called—shouted for his name as he broke into running, nearly stumbling over a medical box. "Draco, oh my God, Draco—"
And fuck, Harry sounded like home.
Harry pulled him into a hug, pulling apart only to cradle Draco's cheeks with his hands. Draco, whose hesitancy is like second nature to him; thrumming through his veins in such a ceaseless motion that reminds him of a grandfather clock's ticking, would've found the need to back away if he were in any other predicament other than this one. He had always shied away from physical contact, something that Pansy absolutely despises, and for what exact reason, Draco has no idea. But now, with all the beautiful verdant green in Harry’s eyes staring so intensely into his own, Draco finds himself wanting more. He wants to drown himself in the warm embrace of Harry’s unfaltering hands.
"Stop gaping," he says, soft like a whisper. "It won't be my fault if an insect decides to fly head-first into your mouth."
"You're alive," Harry says instead in lieu of an answer.
"I am."
"But - how?"
"You're the one who got top marks for our sixth year Potions." Draco felt himself smirking. "Guess."
Harry scoffed, but Draco didn't miss the way his eyes were drawn to his lips. "I don't know, you tell me."
Draco opens his mouth, pauses, the words dangerously teetering on the edge of his tongue. He considers it for a second too long, then, fuck it, he opens it again, saying: "I wanted to see you again." He admits. "I wished for it; that's why the killing curse didn't work."
"You wanted… to see me again?" Harry asked, unsure.
This time, Draco reaches out, pale and cool, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of Harry's jaw, finally feeling the stubble underneath his touch. "Yes. I wanted to."
This close, Draco could feel Harry’s breath ghosting over his face, and oh, they were so, so close. The tip of their noses were nearly touching, just enough for their lips to be touching if Draco were to lean in slightly. It made him wonder, distantly, how those lips of Harry's would feel like: could they be chapped at first, turning soft after he wets them with his tongue? Would he kiss like a lover? His eyes open as their lips meet, dancing in a tango made for two, staring at Draco as if all the pitter-patter of stars in the night sky were his to hold?
Turns out he doesn't have long to ponder before Harry does the unthinkable.
“Can I kiss you?” Harry asked, blurted out, looking surprised at his own words. "If you don't want to it's okay, it’s—"
"Yes, you can." Draco's throat was dry. “Please.”
He watched the way Harry’s Adam's apple bobs up and down as he gulped.
"Okay."
The press of Harry’s lips against his own sent waves of shivers trailing down his spine. Draco drinks it all up: Harry’s absolute fervor even with that hint of shyness as he slots their faces together, the way his uncertainty began to mold into familiar Gryffindor bravery as time passed, and the series of warmth that kept rippling through his heart over and over again like a constant that he needs to get used to. Harry did not kiss like an experienced lover. He kissed like a fool in love, stumbling in his way to prove that the feelings he stored were real, and Draco discovers that that was a hundred times more endearing. Draco drinks it all up, as if their kiss was his father’s most-priced wine in the Malfoy Manor. As if their kiss was worth millions of galleons.
Perhaps, yes, it was.
When they parted, Draco chuckled breathlessly.
“What, what’s wrong?” Harry asked, a small smile playing on his face.
“It's just…” Draco took Harry's hands into his own. “I wasn’t expecting this. All of it. Heck, I wasn’t expecting I could come back in the first place.”
“Does it matter?”
Does it?
It's not the end of their journey. Of course, it isn't. The ruins around them were an obvious reminder of one of the things they would have to rebuild. They were going to start from the beginning again: Draco and Harry's relationship, forging on a new path quite unlike all their past history full of childhood preconceptions and external influences; Draco and his father, Draco and his friends, or the people who he’s fully aware are gawking at them, why him? Why the son of a Malfoy? He could almost hear them say; and Draco with himself; Draco and the guilt that always seemed to curl around his neck, tightening, tightening, and tightening…
But for now, what matters most for him is the fact that they were here.
What matters most is that they made it out alive.
"Actually,” Draco leans in for another kiss. "No, it doesn't."
For now, it was more than enough.
*
Miracles don’t come to a person like Draco Malfoy.
Draco thinks that it's not so quite right anymore.