A fic offering...
Title: Winterhart
Author: Xanateria
Pairing: H/D
Rating PG-13 or so. Violence, implied m/m sex
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. No monies gained through this minor copyright infringement. I can only wish.
A/N: Damn Bunny wouldn’t let go. I was trying to work on Compulsion. No really. My thanks to Elfflame for the very quick beta. Any mistakes left are purely my fault. Comments make me happy :)
Hart - One who will not fight unless provoked. Peace and Harmony, also Purity and Fleetness.
It wasn’t really that the camp changed, Harry mused as he stood on the slight rise behind it. But the snow covered everything. Sparkling white could make anything look clean, even the camp of an army at the edge of a battlefield. The cold was getting more intense, as was expected. Hermione had cautioned him against frostbite before he’d gone walking, and inhaling the air was like breathing in shards of ice. But, though he noticed, Harry found he didn’t particularly care.
Each day some first year he didn’t really know posted a list of the known dead or newly missing. The boy cried silently every time he did it, but seemed to have taken upon himself to do it, so no one else, already carrying so many burdens, would have to do so. They had only to look. The boy’s name escaped him, just at the moment. But again, he couldn’t find it within himself to care, though he’d made sure to thank him only the day before.
It was disturbing, being a figurehead for a war he didn’t want to fight. He made sure to thank everyone who contributed, and those contributors now numbered all of the Hogwarts students, right down to the children who should have been safe at Hogwarts being first years. Though they weren’t allowed to the front lines, they were put to work as assistants, fetching and carrying for the War Council, older and wiser wizards and witches who’d either volunteered or simply found themselves in charge of coordinating the attacks on Voldemort and his followers. After Dumbledore’s death, Harry’d assumed school would continue, albeit without him, but a major attack on four Wizarding centers on two continents had changed that. The school was now used as a safe headquarters, and a hospital. What learning continued, went on while everyone got on with the business of staying alive.
And that, Harry reminded himself somewhat bitterly, was becoming harder by the day. At first, losses had been minimal, but the numbers were escalating. As the numbers went up, wizards and muggles alike began to realize that strategy was their only hope of winning. And not all of the strategy was magical. Harry and others with the knowledge taught everyone who would listen about Muggle battle tactics. And, somewhat at his insistence, those tactics included everything most found at best morally dubious. Taking the moral high road wasn’t worth lives. And fighting fire with fire didn’t make those who fought monsters, merely more likely to survive. And if poisoning, assassinations, and other underhanded tactics worked, damned if morals were going to get in the way now.
Not now, Harry told himself, and not ever again. You couldn’t play by the rules when the other side didn’t care that they existed. And that had been their mistake. All of them had underestimated what lengths Voldemort would go to, to make examples of those he captured through whatever means at hand. Looking down at the orderly looking rows of Muggle type tents, being used to conserve as much magic as possible, Harry nearly laughed bitterly. He, of all people, should have known. Then the examples started showing up. Bodies of those taken that had been made to suffer agony that would have made them beg for death. Bodies of those he knew. Adults, children. It didn’t matter. Each and every one was horrible. So many lost. Charlie. Neville. Oliver. Several professors. All of them left where someone on the side of the light could find them, though all who did wished they hadn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the day he and Hermione had stepped in to drag Ron and Molly away from Charlie’s mangled body.
And on the list of missing today, more names than anyone wanted to see. And one that had made the bottom drop out of his stomach, and his world shift again. He’d come up here to work through his emotions in private, but the words burned behind his eyelids. Draco Malfoy, assigned to Special Tactical Squad Six, missing, presumed dead. Stomach churning, Harry’s hands clenched to fists. Presumed. That’s not what it should say. Bitterness rose up again. It should say hopefully. That’s what everyone was really thinking. It had been as much a shock to Draco and himself when they had gotten together as it was to anyone else, but as the imperious Slytherin had explained to various housemates, war made for strange alliances, even in the bedroom.
Strange or not, they’d been happy. The only times he felt like he had anything worth really fighting for just for himself were in his admittedly volatile lover’s arms. In the face of a war neither of them wanted they’d let go of their animosity. Both of them had been shocked at the passion they’d found underneath it. The best either had hoped for was being able to work together and be civil. It had been working late one night, Harry remembered, that had brought them together. They’d been going over deployment options for DADA members, arguing, as civilly as possible about the details. Both of them had finally lost their tempers, but instead of hurling insults, Draco had hurled himself…right into Harry, pinning him against the map table. That same night, Draco had seen to it a first year moved his things into Harry’s tent. Tonight would be the first night he’d spent alone since then.
Oh he would go on and fight. For his friends, who had already lost too much themselves, and because it was expected of him, but that was only duty. Before there’d been a chance at a real life, a real love when it was all over. Until that morning, Harry had never doubted that they would prevail. Now his doubts crowded with thoughts of the cost. How many more? How many more lives would be shattered, hearts and minds destroyed before it could end? But though everyone looked to him for them, he didn’t have any answers.
But he hadn’t been left with absolutely nothing. In the pocket of his robe, the vial was still warm, almost as if to spite the weather. Heedless of the cold, Harry looked out, seeing the inside of his tent and last night’s conversation. Ron, Hermione, and several other members of the Order had come at his request.
When they’d arrived he’d asked them all, the smartest, most logical people he knew, one simple question. They’d failed again and again to locate the last hoarcrux. And after everything else had been eliminated, he’d had to ask. What were the odds the last one wasn’t an object at all, or an animal, but he himself. What if he had lived because Voldemort had accidentally made him, Harry James Potter, the last vessel of his protection. At first his question had been met only with shouts of outraged denial and claims that even if it was true, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t be expected to die to kill Voldemort, prophecy and hoarcruxes be damned. But none of them had argued with him And when they’d left Draco had pulled him into bed with a desperation that had only made it seem even more true.
And now Draco was gone. And if he was lucky he was already dead. Gods, he couldn’t believe he was thinking that. But it was the better option. The possibilities of what could be happening to him if he weren’t didn’t bear thinking about. But the reality was his only anchor was gone, and would be forever in a matter of hours. Voldemort didn’t keep those he captured alive for long. He liked using their bodies too much as examples for that.
And with him gone, and Ron and Hermione safely together, there was no reason not to use the vial. At least, not that he could see. No one needed a figurehead, not really. And he didn’t have anyone who really needed him. Ron and Hermione would have each other. He exhaled a long sigh, and fingered the vial. The vapour cloud left by his breath lingered. He turned on his heel, and walked away, not seeing the cloud slowly fade to nothing.
Early the next morning, before dawn’s light even began to tinge the sky, Harry rose, still fully dressed from his bed. For form, he shrugged on his robe. In order for this to work, he had to look as though everything was completely normal. Just over a bit later he had as many protective spells as Hermione and several of her assistants could provide. His explanation had been thin, but feelings of dread, for him, were more than enough of a motivation for him to want extra protection.
Or at least, that’s what they thought, and that was all that was important. Next he planted stories of where he would be for the day so no one would think to miss him until it was too late. Wouldn’t do for anyone to come looking after all. After a day the snow had started to turn to dark where it mixed with the hard packed dirt, but he focused on the white and the cold. If he didn’t let himself feel, he could do this. It was for the best. And that’s what he was best at, doing the right thing.
Minutes ticked by as he reviewed the steps. When the stone he’d charmed glowed brightly, it was time. He opened the vial and downed the contents in one swift swallow. After waiting a moment for the nausea to settle down, he firmed his concentration and Apparated with a sharp crack that no one heard. When he came back to himself, he took care to make it look as though he was taking pains to be hidden, and headed in the direction his scar pulled him. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting lost. An ironic smile flashed across his lips, until he had to grit his teeth against the sudden waves of pain that were the sequel to the earlier nausea. When they passed however, he smiled again, though his eyes were bleak. He was right on schedule.
When they found him, it took over an hour for eight of them to break through the web of protections surrounding him. Mentally, Harry congratulated Hermione. Picturing her, and Ron, and Ron’s family one last time, he let himself fall to the ground. Then, using all of the skills he’d learned at controlling his mind, he put himself into the role he knew his enemies would need to see. He’d reached the point of no return when he’d downed the contents of the vial really, but from here on, he could only hope that his reputation for reckless bravery, and his foes’ own ego would be enough to make everything work. Ruthlessly, he willed that hope to the very depths of his mid and heart, forcing himself to become what he knew they wanted as they kicked, punched, and jeered.
When there were tired of amusing themselves, the leader hauled him upright and dragged him before Voldemort. When he was dropped again, Harry didn’t have to think of a role. Not really. He had only to think of his own pain and do what came naturally. As quickly as his battered body would allow, he stood, and faced the older man silently. Thankful to be still conscious, he was unsurprised when the man who had brought him into the building kicked his legs out from under him.
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Voldemort purred his name in satisfaction. “Again we meet because your conscience won’t allow me to continue on as I wish. I won’t bother with the long monologue that explains everything to you,” he continued, voice suddenly harder, as he casually cast a Crucio spell that had Harry writhing on the ground. “I find them tiresomely clichéd. I had, however, not expected you to be joining me quite so soon. It really was lovely of you to be so accommodating. I’m sure you thought you could come here and sacrifice yourself for the cause. Become a wonderful martyr once you die. All I care to tell you is that while you are most definitely a sacrifice, you won’t be leaving. Not here. And most certainly not your body. I like my playthings in one piece.”
Deep inside himself a tiny voice wanted to cheer, but he quashed it before it could surface. All he needed now was time. Time and opportunity. The pain was expected, and he did his best to distance himself. It would only take a second, and he had timed things to be sure he would have enough time to have his chance. Minutes, though it felt more like hours later, the chance presented itself. Voldemort had ceased his curses for the moment, allegedly searching what was left of his mind for something more inventive to use on him. While he thought, he gestured for Harry to move closer. Pretending to struggle, Harry let one of the many Death Eaters who’d gathered to watch the fight drag him closer. As soon as he was close enough, he swiped his fingers down Voldemort’s arm, murmuring the activating incantation as he did so. Before he could be knocked for his insolence, he smeared his now bloodied forearm down the scratches.
More of the assembled rushed to batter him back, but Harry hardly noticed. It’d worked. He’d done it. Well, the poison in the vial was going to do it really. Take out Voldemort and his final hoarcrux in one final strike that would buy his loved ones the peace they deserved. Now it wasn’t the men assaulting him that hurt, but the pain of the poison beginning to work. As it did, Voldemort cried out, and those gathered around Harry looked up in surprise.
“What have you done boy?” Voldemort demanded, his face contorting with pain that Harry was sharing.
And then knowing it was done, that things were soon to be over he couldn’t help it. “I just made arrangements to leave you arrogant, sadistic, hypocritical bastard. And just to make sure you don’t continue on as you would like, I’m taking you with me.” And Harry smiled, feeling the cold if the room they were in, and all of his various aches and pains. The only thing that would make this moment better would be if he could see Draco one last time. But, hopefully, Harry would be seeing him soon enough.
For a moment there was silence, stunned and echoing. Then his voice rasped. “You’d kill yourself? I don’t believe you.”
In answer, Harry just smiled. “Some things are true whether you believe them or not. Besides, you know it’s true, you can feel it.” Even as he said the words, he felt the blackness edging his vision. Etching Draco’s face in his mind, he forced himself to move. He was leaving this world beside his love, no matter what the body looked like. It took what felt like years to navigate the rooms. No one stopped him, they were all to busy trying to save their Master, or foiled by the layer of protections that had snapped into place as the effects got worse. He didn’t know where they had come from, but at least he could die with dignity.
At last he saw it. The flash of pale blond hair, with streaks of silver smeared with blood. Though his heart clutched he staggered into the room, grateful he could be with Draco even in some small way. His knees gave out when he was beside the body, but he didn’t really care. As best he could he crawled as close a he could get, laying his head on his love’s chest. And then, he heard it. A heartbeat. His heart stuttered and then leapt, but then tears filled his eyes. It was too late. He may have saved the world, but he couldn’t save himself or his love.
After a moment, he withdrew his wand and murmured then incantation to awaken him. If they were going to die, Draco at least deserved to know they had won and that they were together. After a few minutes his eyes fluttered open, and pierced Harry with a look so full of love that he felt tears fill his eyes again. “I woke you to tell you that I killed him. That we’ve won,” Harry whispered shakily.
For a moment the eyes were stunned. “We won? Bloody marvelous Potter. For once Gryffindor heroics got us somewhere. Call the cavalry and get us out of here.”
In answer, Harry shook his head, whispering what he had done. Inwardly Draco cursed. Wasn’t that just like his foolhardy love. Well dammit, Potter might have been ready to die because he had died, at least by all appearances. He could get that. He certainly felt like death warmed over. But he wasn’t gone. And if Harry could get himself in here, then Draco could get them out. Fortunately, Potter wasn’t the only one capable of planning for contingencies, he thought smugly, as his love passed out on his chest. He could hardly let Harry look better than he did.
***
The two stood, wrapped in cloaks against the bitter cold, watching through the snowfall as the camp disassembled. “I won’t ask how you did it,” Harry told him, turning into the warmth of his chest.
“Good,” Draco smirked slightly, “because I won’t tell you.” As he watched his breath fog out, he made sure Harry was cushioned as best he could against pain. They were both scarred. Harry woke him from nightmares almost nightly. And Harry himself was still wracked by the lingering aftereffects of the very effective poison he’d chosen so very carefully. But it didn’t matter. Somehow, the two of them had managed to win a battle that had nothing to do with Voldemort. They’d made it back. They’d defied the odds and lived, though each was missing parts of the tale. And now they would have time to see what happened to their love without a war snapping at their heels. Kissing Harry’s chilled lips, he hugged him a bit tighter. That would more than likely prove interesting.
***