By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 35: Draco

Draco didn't know how long he knelt there in the grass, bent in half like a crescent moon that could not withstand its own weight. His silver eyes were fixed on the front doors of the castle, but they saw nothing; only a blankness stretched before him, as if someone had thrown a white sheet over the world like a little kid playing ghost. So when two figures emerged from the front door, growing larger and stopping before him, he didn't notice until one of the figures crouched in front of him, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Malfoy?" Granger said gently—far kinder than she'd ever spoken his name before, as crushed as it usually was beneath mutual animosity. Not that Malfoy didn't deserve her hatred.

He blinked himself from the fog, lifting his chin to meet her brown eyes. They were bloodshot and red rimmed, streaks of tears flowing through the grime on her cheeks. The memory of her punching him in the face four years earlier caused his nose to twinge, and he couldn't handle the dissonance between that violence and the way her hand was now cradling his shoulder. He shrugged her off, albeit gently, before glancing past her to observe Weasley, who looked a bit as if someone had carved into his chest and torn out his heart, leaving him inexplicably upright and alive. Draco guessed his own face looked rather similar.

"What are you doing out here?" Granger asked, and Draco shuddered at the question, hearing Harry's voice. He didn't answer, only turned his silver eyes back to hers. Granger stared at him, a shadow of understanding crossing her face, and she swallowed, shoulders tightening in tandem with her voice. "He's gone, isn't he?"

Weasley took a step closer, looking determinedly away from Draco and toward Granger, who was still kneeling in the grass. "What?" Weasley said sharply, his voice hoarse, "What are you talking about?"

Granger closed her eyes for the space of a breath before she stood, turning to face him. "Harry's gone to the Forbidden Forest."

Weasley's face flushed, his blue eyes blowing wide. "No," he whispered, "no. He hasn't. He's lying." And he turned his wild gaze to Draco, stomping forward to yank him up by the collar and shake him, his face close to his, dried blood smeared around the corner of his mouth. Draco wanted to recoil, but his limbs wouldn't let him; he remained limp, his head turned to the side to avoid seeing his own pain reflected in Weasley's azure irises.

"Ron," Granger said gently, pulling on his arm. "He's not lying. You know Harry better than anyone—he would never let anyone else die if he knew he could prevent it."

Weasley still held Draco in his grip, his chest heaving, and Draco relished his anger—he wanted Weasley to hurt him, to toss him to the ground and cut his heart out the way someone had done to him. Harry was gone: what use did he have for it now?

Without warning, Weasley dropped him, and Draco stumbled, just barely able to keep himself upright. Weasley turned away from both of them, his head tilting back, and he screamed, the sound loud and long and scraped from the depths of his body. Granger watched him, her eyes achingly sad, and when he stopped, she walked to his side and enfolded his hand in hers. Tears spilled down her face, falling at her feet like crystal beads from the shattered chandelier at Malfoy Manor.

Draco watched them take comfort in the fact that the other was still here, still alive, like finding a splinter of wood in the fury of a storm-soaked sea. Darkness clawed its way through his chest and up his throat, threatening to drag him under as his own hand remained empty.

Until Granger turned back toward him—her face was blown wide open, every shred of her grief visible, and it was there for Draco, too. Were they not mourning the same person?

But he couldn't let himself feel it the way she so clearly was; if he did, it would consume him and destroy him. So he turned away from her, casting his eyes about the ground, as if he were searching for something he'd lost. As he did, he noticed his wand lying in the grass. He bent down and picked it up, the wood smooth against his palm. Before, he may have felt a jolt of warmth and recognition bolt up his arm, but now he felt nothing.