Vis-à-Vis-à-Vis: A Drarry Story

Chapter 14

Draco stood in the middle of the grassy field as if it were center stage, the remaining few stadium lights his spotlights. He said nothing. He did nothing.

As Harry and Ron descended the stairs, eyes crawled up their backs like insects. He felt like an injured mouse surrounded by an entire colony of hungry ants.

Draco lifted his head, chin tilted back, eyes closed, but Harry was too far away to read his expression. Draco's shoulders eased down on an exhale, and he flicked a cuff open. Harry paused on a step to watch. An older woman a few seats away from the aisle clutched a small glass ampere of emerald liquid. She caught Harry looking and hid it in her hands.

Draco rolled his sleeve up to his elbow and raised his palm to the sky. His Dark Mark was an inked imperfection. With his other hand, he tapped his wand against his side. His gaze stayed firmly on the grass in front of him. He paid no mind to the thousands of Moirai, nor to the dozens of Aurors watching him.

Slowly, he lifted his wand and pressed the tip to his upraised forearm. Magic washed around Harry, but pulled a pained grunt from Ron. Ron winced, then righted himself.

Silty darkness curled in Draco's palm like malevolent steam. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Oh, fuck," Harry whispered.

"Harry," Ron said, a warning. "We need to attack. Now."

Harry shook his head. Draco wouldn't- He couldn't-

"Harry, send the fucking flare."

Harry shook his head again. The woman clutching the ampere smiled at the sky. Clouds rolled in. The moon disappeared. Black-on-blacker forms roiled above the stadium like intestines.

"Harry!"

Harry looked out over the stadium. Thousands. Tens of thousands of Moirai.

The woman shoved the sleeve of her robe up to her elbow, revealing a greyed skull and snake etched into her wrinkled skin. On the other side of the aisle, a man did the same, revealing a fresh, black Dark Mark.

Lighting rent the sky. A singular white bolt. It shot through the curved cloud, and deep, empty eye sockets receded. The sky churned in a long, undulating line, weaving itself through the eye sockets and through the mouth of a skull that blocked out the moon.

"Head! Auror!" Ron shouted, shaking Harry's shoulder. "We have to attack now! Send up the fucking flare!"

Thousands. Thousands of Moirai. No. Death Eaters, old and new. More of them than Harry could count.

And seventy-two Aurors. At best, seventy-two Aurors against sixteen thousand Death Eaters.

Over two-hundred Death Eaters per Auror.

Impossible odds.

Every Auror in England would die in this stadium tonight. And after the Aurors had been eliminated, no one would be left to fight.

"He was right," Harry whispered to himself.

Ron hauled off and punched Harry in the shoulder. "Red! Flare!"

Harry shook his head. His shoulder ached, but he was too numb to pay it any mind.

The snake in the sky grew eyes, and they glowed a sickly amber as it slithered through the gaping maw of the skull. The heavens groaned in protest, a gut-deep heave too heavy for mere air.

"We can't win," Harry said softly.

Ron's face was as red as his robes, his lips slick with spit that landed on Harry's cheek when he yelled, "We don't run!"