Be Careful
107: How Your Story Ends
By Anne B. Walsh
Author Notes:
For probably the last time, I disclaim the quotes from DH.
“My Lord... my Lord...”
That tone is going to cause me nightmares if nothing else from tonight does. Draco kept his distance from the cluster of Death Eaters around Voldemort, making sure none of the disgust he felt at his aunt’s adoring voice showed on his face. Was she really upset about Aunt Andromeda getting rid of her husband, or was it just the surprise of finding out he’s gone, and she’ll be happy tomorrow because it means she can spend more time on the real love of her life?
From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Harry. The Gryffindor lay where the Killing Curse had thrown him, seemingly motionless, but Draco focused his gaze on a twig just above Harry’s shoulder and was rewarded after a few seconds by seeing it occluded by a swell of black robe.
It worked just like Abby said it would. They both went down, and they both lived. One hand crept inside his own robes to touch the red velvet bag. Sorry for doubting you, sweetie. I never will again, I promise.
“My Lord...”
“That will do,” said Voldemort. Draco wondered if he was imagining the overtones of uncertainty in the voice. Certainly he wasn’t making up the aggravation.
Having six Death Eaters fussing over you must be uncomfortable even when they’re your Death Eaters.
“My Lord, let me—”
“I do not require assistance.” Voldemort got to his feet unaided, glancing around the clearing as though to orient himself, then turning his attention to Harry’s crumpled figure. “The boy... is he dead?”
Well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-Galleon question, now isn’t it?
Planting his feet for courage, Draco called up every memory he had of his godsisters, in class, on stage, anywhere that correct answers and performance were the order of the day. The look Neenie and Abby shared at these moments was a refinement of his own world’s Hermione and her frantic handraising, a puppy-hopeful eagerness to shine restrained by a thin coating of polite behavior. With any luck, it would convey to Voldemort that the best person available to investigate Harry Potter and his degree of current vitality was—
“Draco,” said Voldemort, pointing the Elder Wand at him.
Yes! The rush of glee at the success of his dissembling needed no disguise. “My lord?”
“Examine him.” The wand’s tip twitched towards Harry. “Tell me whether he is dead.”
“Yes, my lord!” Beaming broadly at having been given such an important task, Draco turned and marched with proud precision to Harry’s side. On the way, he caught Lucius’ eye and winked at him. Lucius glared back impotently.
Try and stop what’s coming, Father. I dare you.
He knelt beside Harry, made a show of checking his pulse (strong) and his eyes (focusing normally), then leaned down as though to listen for breathing. “Your sister’s a Slytherin, Potter,” he whispered without moving his lips.
Harry’s right hand, shielded by the combined bulk of their two bodies, flipped up a single finger in response.
Draco laughed aloud and jumped to his feet. “Dead, my lord!” he proclaimed in a tone meant to carry. “As dead as his own mummy and daddy!”
Who, where I’m off to, are very much alive.
The Death Eaters burst into celebration, which Draco joined wholeheartedly, taking an instant to toss a mild “don’t notice” spell over Harry. It would keep anyone from looking too closely at the supposed corpse.
No sense in spoiling the moment for them. They’ll know what’s going on soon enough.
Backing into the trees a short way while Voldemort threw Cruciatuses at Harry—very brave, my lord, attacking a dead body—Draco reviewed what was going to happen next. The Death Eaters would head for the castle now, so that Voldemort could trumpet his triumph to the forces of good still within Hogwarts’ walls. The forces of good, seeing their hero seemingly dead, would get angry and attempt to kick Voldemort’s snaky arse. At some point, Harry would reveal that he was not dead and actually kick Voldemort’s snaky arse.
And all I need to do before that is find Luna and make our last jump together. Seems simple enough, but there’s many a glitch between hand and Snitch. I’d better stay alert.
Hagrid, sobbing profusely, was lifting Harry from the ground. Draco crossed his fingers that Harry had enough sense to keep still. If he moved too soon, everything would be ruined.
What am I worrying about? He can play dead through three Cruciatuses, he’s not going to break cover for a few tears. Off to the castle, and may the best side win.
Thoughts of Luna, of Mum, of Abby and Moony and Danger, kept Draco’s feet light and his heart pumping fast as the Death Eaters left the Forest, whooping in glee and shouting insults at the centaurs when they came in sight. The advent of the dementors sent his hand to his wand, but none approached him more closely than he thought he could deal with, though they did remind him that there was still another world that needed saving.
And for that one, I’ve not got instructions like I did for this. There’s the prophecy, but those things are famous for being interpretable only in hindsight. I just wish I didn’t have the feeling I’m forgetting something important about it...
At last they were standing in front of the castle, Voldemort summoning the defenders out to see what had become of their champion. Draco winced away from McGonagall’s scream, peering into the crowd to see if he could locate Luna, when another voice pierced his defenses and brought his gaze around to its owner. Hair even more chaotic than usual, eyes wide in horror and disbelief, Hermione stood dead center on the castle steps.
Damn it, I forgot she wouldn’t know! And if she sees me—
As though she had heard his thought, Hermione’s attention swiveled away from Harry and onto Draco. He could see her shoulders coming up, her mouth opening, her hand rising to point at him.
She’ll give me away. She thinks I let Harry die—I did, but it wasn’t how she thinks—and she’ll give me away to get back at me for it—unless I can find a way to tell her—
“Listen to them crying over Potter,” Draco said loudly, giving Hermione a fractional headshake. “Talk about diminishing Gryffindor glory!”
Hermione froze in place. Draco could almost see her mind working. Those words, they sound familiar. I’ve heard them before. Recently. The charm, the one Luna used—“he’s telling a terrible story, but it doesn’t diminish his glory”—wait, a terrible story—is he trying to say—
Without speaking, Draco glanced up into the sky, feeling Hermione’s eyes following his. The moon still hung over the Forest, and he looked at it for a slow count of two, then brought his head back down. Is Luna all right? he was asking.
Slowly, Hermione nodded. She’s fine.
Draco grinned at her. Take your own answer. Pronoun reversed, obviously.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. Faster than Draco had ever seen her move, she flashed all her fingers at him, then held up three. Are you trying to tell me this is a Rule Thirteen? That he never checked Harry’s body or— She inhaled suddenly and flicked her index finger out towards him. You did it! You did it and you lied!
It was Draco’s turn to nod. Got it in one.
With a second scream, Hermione fell to her knees. The expression on her face would have looked like grief to anyone else, but Draco knew she was probably the happiest person on the castle grounds right now.
Second-happiest if you count my former master, but I don’t think he ever knew how to be really happy. So she still wins.
There was a scuffle at the front of the crowd, and Neville shot out, charging at Voldemort. Draco groaned under his breath as Voldemort Disarmed the younger wizard with an insultingly lazy flick of his wand, then tossed Neville’s wand aside with a laugh. It landed near Draco’s feet, and he scooped it up before anyone else could, taking advantage of his momentary hiddenness to scowl in Neville’s direction. Merlin’s farts, Longbottom, I thought you had more sense than this...
“But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Voldemort asked Neville as Neville got back to his feet.
Draco snorted a laugh before Neville could answer. “Some pureblood,” he said, shoving the elder Goyle out of the way to come to the front of the crowd. “I could beat him with one hand tied behind my back!” He held up his left arm, letting the sleeve fall back to reveal his bandaged stump. “Or otherwise incapacitated.” A glance back at Voldemort. “My lord? May I?”
Voldemort smiled. “What an intriguing idea. The purest blood of Slytherin House against the purest of Gryffindor. Yes, Draco, show us how well you fight for my great ancestor’s banner.”
“Right away, my lord!” Draco flipped Neville’s wand back to him and drew his own. “Scared, Longbottom?” he taunted.
“You wish.” Neville wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth with his off hand. “Answer me one question, Malfoy.”
“Anything you like.” They were circling each other, wands up, Draco coming around to face Voldemort and the Death Eaters, Neville the Order and the DA. “Within reason.”
“Is Harry really dead?”
Draco laughed openly, remembering a conversation held in the Room of Requirement the night before. “As dead as my dear mum, he is!”
Neville’s lips twitched. “That’s what I thought.” His wand jabbed suddenly forward. “Expelliarmus!”
The spell caught Draco unprepared. He staggered backwards, his wand torn from his hand, watching Neville spin around to face Voldemort once more. “Dumbledore’s Army!” the Gryffindor screamed. “CHARGE!”
Hands snatched at Draco as the defenders of Hogwarts dashed forward. He tried to fight them at first, but they seemed interested more in shoving him to one side of the crowd than in harming him, and he caught glimpses of his handlers’ faces as he spun past them—Hannah Abbott, Michael Corner, Dean Thomas, Cho Chang, all sparing an instant to smile at him and push him further out of harm’s way—
“Take my hand!” a girl’s voice cried over the roar of the battle, and Draco reached out and caught the offered appendage, pulling himself out onto the fringe of the fight with it. He got his breath back and looked up.
“Wasn’t that the other way ‘round?” he commented.
Hermione grimaced at the pun. “You’re sure you don’t need it?” she asked.
“Positive. I’ve got another one at home, ready to put on. Mum had it made up last week.”
“Good.” Hermione hesitated an instant, then flung herself at him, hugging him tightly. After an initial second of startlement, Draco did the same. It felt like the right thing to do for the last time he would ever see her.
When they pulled away again, Hermione’s eyes were damp. “Take care of Luna,” she said. “Make sure she doesn’t get lost searching for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.”
“I will. And you, do the same for...” Draco jerked his chin back at the main body of battlers, shutting his eyes for a second to rid himself of a suspicious stinging therein. “That lot. Don’t let any of them actually get killed.”
Hermione laughed. “I won’t. Well... goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
One last smile, and Hermione plunged back into the thick of the fight. Draco, wandless once again, kept to the edge, craning his neck to see if he could get a glimpse of Luna. The press of bodies forced him into the entrance hall just ahead of the centaurs—he dodged as the door to the kitchens crashed to the floor, and Hogwarts’ full contingent of house-elves charged out, Dobby and Kreacher in the lead—a surprisingly solid piece of air nearly knocked him over, but he regained his footing in time to duck into the Great Hall—
There!
Luna was battling his mad aunt, Ginny and Hermione by her side. Across the Hall, Voldemort dueled with McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Slughorn all at once, but Draco barely noticed this except for a private gratification that his opportunistic Head of House had some personal courage after all. As he began to force his way through the crowd towards the magical catfight, Ginny dodged a Killing Curse by an inch—
“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!” howled Molly Weasley, throwing her cloak to the floor as she charged at Aunt Bella. “OUT OF MY WAY!”
Ginny ran for the far side of the impromptu dueling ground, Luna and Hermione for the near. Draco hissed in triumph and shoved Goyle aside, putting in an elbow to the nose while he was at it. Two more people and he’d be at Luna’s side—one more—
Anthony Goldstein, standing beside Hermione, stumbled and fell, and Lucius appeared in his place, murder in his eyes, his hands reaching for Hermione’s neck.
Oh no you don’t.
Draco dived at his father, knocking him away from Hermione. They went down together, rolling over and over as people backed away, each grappling for a hold on the other. Aunt Bella’s insane laughter, Mrs. Weasley’s bellowed spell, Voldemort’s scream of rage, all blurred together in Draco’s ears, and then Lucius caught his left arm at the elbow and twisted it up behind his back, and he screamed himself in pain.
“Here, my lord!” Lucius shouted, dragging Draco to his feet by his stump and the right shoulder of his robes. “Here is the traitor who lied to you about Potter! Kill him and we can still win!”
Like magic the floor cleared between the two Malfoys and the Master one of them served and the other no longer did. Voldemort, his face contorted in fury, brought the Elder Wand up to the ready. Draco started to struggle once more, then froze as a little girl’s frantic voice echoed up out of his memory.
“Draco, don’t move, don’t move! You have to promise, you have to swear you won’t move! The last day... the last minute... you have to promise, Draco...”
I promised. I swore I wouldn’t move.
And Abby’s never been wrong before.
Draco lifted his chin and glared into Voldemort’s red eyes. Go ahead and try it, you bastard, he thought deliberately. I’m not afraid of you anymore.
A flash of green light—several voices shouting at once—a sense of confused motion, and something heavy slamming into his chest—
Then nothing.
Author Notes:
Kindly remember that the story’s not over yet, and dead authors cannot update...
Rule Thirteen, of course, comes from the Evil Overlord List.