warning
short fic. slash implied. no happy ending.

disclaimer
characters belong to J.K Rowling & Co.
my undying gratitude belongs to Kristen for the betaing.
situations... well they belong to me.

autodafé

by blue

He's going to be burnt.

Harry knows it.

He's known it since the sentence was pronounced. And since the sentence was pronounced, he's been thinking about going or not.

Going or not.

Going or not.

But now he's there, at his place of honour on the balcony reserved to the celebrities and the war heroes.

People around him chat lightly about little nothings. About everything but what is really going to happen down the balcony.

But Harry doesn't care about the hypocrisy for Harry doesn't listen.

Absently he looks down at the crowd pressed in the square. Absently he looks at the stake neatly built at the centre of the place.
And then, not-so-absently, he looks at him. At him who's walking calmly through that crowd, painfully calmly towards that stake.

Towards the end.
Towards his end.

Draco has always been so theatrical, Harry thinks suddenly.
Then he corrects himself quickly, looking for the right word. Finding it.

Dramatic.

For Draco is dramatic, while he's brought at the centre of the stake.
For Draco is dramatic, while he stays still and the guards bind him to the wooden pole.

Harry's attention focalises on his skin. He's suddenly aware that he doesn't remember if it's wearing his usual ivory shade.

How long has it been since the last time he had run his hungry fingers on it?

He doesn't remember this, either.

A man is reading the sentence once again. For everybody to know. And Harry's train of thoughts is distracted.

Draco doesn't seem to pay attention. He's looking away, scanning the crowd. He shifts his gaze on unknown faces. Then on the near balcony.

On Harry.

Harry who swallows. Draco's eyes are cold and hard.

When have they frozen?

Harry knows the answer just as he knows that it would be better for him to look away. But he can't.
He sinks into those mercury pools instead. He drowns into the accusations they hold.

Pity it's too late for righting the wrongs. Too late for begging for forgiveness. Too late for saying what he should have said but he didn't.

Too late now.

Now that Draco's eyes say "Look. Look and burn with me".

And Harry obeys. He looks, apologetically, lost in painful memories until he's brutally snapped out of them with the sound of a snapped wand.

Draco's wand, which lies now on the stake, broken at its owner's feet.

Harry sees Draco look at it briefly and smile bitterly raising his steely gaze again. On Harry who lets his green eyes run for a while on those unforgiving lips. Lips he has learnt to know oh-so-well but which, in this moment, clearly show him that actually he knows nothing about the secrets they hold.

But again, pity it's too late.

Those lips will take their secrets with them.

They will take everything with them. Briefly, Harry wonders what the flames will leave him when they will rise.
But he doesn't bother looking for an answer which is inexorably coming by itself.

For the stake has been set on fire and Draco is quickly disappearing behind the thick smoke.

As long as he can, Harry keeps his eyes into Draco's, while inside his head random thoughts are spinning chaotically.

Because.

they say that if you're lucky your heart will simply stop beating - they say that if you're lucky this will happen before the fire reaches you clothes - before it reaches you, liquefying your skin, eating away your flesh, making your blood boil - if you're lucky you won't feel the pain - if you're lucky - they say

Draco.

your mouth was fresh and it tasted of mint and light smoke - you always smoked after sex and our room smelled of it - of smoke - and sex - of you - and me - and silent fears - our fears - they never let us go, right Draco? - why am I thinking about you using the past tense Draco? - what's happening, Draco?

Is.

your hair has caught fire - it's a halo dancing bright around your head - or a crown - Draco, you sad prince - you, my decayed prince - how I loved you for that - how I love you - you didn't know - you don't know - I never told you - now I wish I did - maybe you wouldn't have to wear that humiliating crown, then - maybe I would have your hair to play with for a little more - to smell their scent that always reminded me of something I've never been able to put my fingers on - and now I'll never know - so many things I wish I did, Draco - but it doesn't matter - nothing matters anymore - because you are

Burning.

screaming? - I hear screaming - inhumane - so they lied - or you haven't been lucky enough - you're screaming - does it hurt? - the flames envelop your body - an embrace too warm - I should have never let you go - I should have done something - anything - I should do anything - but I can't move - just watch - I watch you lighting up as a torch - Draco please - I think it's too much for me to take - forgive me - I watch you and the fire and the smoke - and these screams - is it you Draco? - am I really watching you burn?

And this is how Harry realizes that is true. That he's really watching Draco burn.

But what he can't realize is that as the fire has surrounded Draco, he's begun to scream.

That it's his own voice he's hearing.

People turn to watch him, astonished. They watch their hero cry out in pain as if he's the one on the stake. They don't understand why. They can't. And they watch, uncertain.

But Harry doesn't care. He doesn't care for explanations. He doesn't care for reassurances.

He doesn't know people are beginning to panic. He doesn't even see them.

For Draco is all Harry can see. Draco still burning in front of his eyes, even now that the flames have extinguished.

Ash is all they have left.

And scream is all Harry can do.

.stop.