You did it you son of a bitch, you actually did it
He’d done it. Finally earned the Dark Mark, the highest approval of the great lord, the master of evil, Lord Voldemort. He’d paid the price of his soul twice over, coupling it with his heart as he dashed it into the flames of a jealousy that had consumed him, over taken him. He’d mirrored the same betrayal the late Peter Pettigrew had performed, turning his best friend, his love, over to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. All for a quarter sized skull brand on his upper arm.
*Flash*
An owl fluttering through his window. Large, tawny, in perfect condition... obviously rented from the Owl Post Office. Ron only knew one person who rented owls, and that was Hermione. Eagerly he’d dived to the letter, ripping it open, to find over a dozen pages of Hermiones handwriting. He only got past the first line... ‘Ron, I’m so happy, I’m moving to Bulgaria with Viktor!’
The letter fell from his hands.
*Flash*
Hermione... what would Hermione think? Of what he’d done. Would she attend his funeral like he knew she’d attend Harry’s, heart broken and tearful? Or would she let him be buried alone, forsake entirely, his own family mourning Harry’s loss over his.
*Flash*
Harry winning the Triwizard gold. More gold then Ron had ever gotten in his entire life. And he’d given it up as if it was nothing- NOTHING- as if money came that easily to everyone. He’d not only given it away, but given it to Fred and George to make exploding wants and Canary Cremes! While Ron had sat there, silently, pale, watching what would probably be his last chance at owning a decent broom, decent clothes, a decent owl, go right out the window.
*Flash*
Draco had told him, with that same insolent smirk. Draco had been right all along, about which side would
win, which side should be taken. He’d been right to warn Harry all those years, standing in a robes shop,
telling him to not mix in with the wrong side. And Harry had. And Harry paid.
*Flash*
“He’s dead,” Draco had said, eyes flashing, “we’ve won! We’ve finally won! There’s nothing that can stop
us now, nothing!” And then he’d run off, the pretentious bastard, as arrogant and immature at his 25 years
as he has been when he was 11. Arrogant git.
*Flash*
And now here he was. The top of the astronomy tower. He’d apparated there, there was no blockades now,
all had been removed when Hogwarts had fallen, the teachers going off to fight in the war that had been
raging for over a decade. The students had been sent home, under taught, to huddle and cry and to be
whispered soft lies from their parents that everything would be all right. The castle was only a ghost town
now, only a standing monument of how nothing lasted long against Lord Voldemort. Tentatively, Ron took
on step onto the edge of the building, and looked down.
*Miles away*
Draco lay bleeding, screaming on the ground, wracked with an agony so intense he was praying, begging to
black out. He felt like someone had ripped his face off, like someone had used some kind of Muggle gun and
shot him in the head. His left eye was gone, a bloody mess, shredded by an intensified Stunner spell. Harry
was perched over him, eyes wide, jaws lowered, face twisted in concern in confusion. His mind raced, trying
to remember a healing spell, some kind of charm that could save Draco’s sight and quite possibly his like. He
leaned over him, face almost as pale as Dracos, and whispered in a panic, over and over again. “Why Draco?
Why did you do it? Why!?”
*Flash*
Draco knew Ron had believed him, knew that he needed to believe him. Ron had made the absolute
sacrifice for power and had realized instantly that immortality meant nothing if you had no soul, money
meant nothing if you no longer wanted to live. It’d been risky, lying directly to the traitor, for if he’d
checked with anyone he’d have known that Harry was still living, kidnapped, in the hands of Lord
Voldemort, but still alive; and Draco would have been exposed. But the risk had paid off, and now Draco
had his chance. Now Draco would be the one who was supposed to kill Harry, deal the final blow, become
the Dark Lords right hand man.
*Flash*
Ron slid another inch forward. Another. The edge had seemed so close a minute ago, just one step, but he
seemed no closer now then he had been. His mind was reeling, blank, and he could feel every inch of his skin
screaming in pain. He no longer had a heart to bear the pain on, so it danced upon his flesh, through his
mouth, down his throat. It ate at him from the inside out and the outside in, consuming him, destroying him.
One more inch. One more. The edge was still so far away. And then he fell, screaming, shoved from behind
by adult hands not much bigger then they had been as a child. He never knew who’d pushed him, only heard
the small squeaky voice scream, “You betrayed him you son of a bitch! How could you? HOW COULD
YOU!?”
Two weeks later, Neville Longbottom was committed to the England Magical Sanitarium. He lived with his
parents at last.
*Flash*
Draco had his wand out, clenched tightly in his right hand, but he couldn’t feel it, and he couldn’t see it.
The only thing he could see was Harry, bound to a statue of the dark mark, barely conscious. He’d been
beaten, professionally beaten, and blood ran from his mouth and nose. His eyes were swelled, but not
enough to block his vision. He could still see enough to make out the form of his executioner. His boyhood
rival, winning at last. Draco felt only the small marble in his other hand, clenched tightly. It was a Portkey,
with a link directly to one of the areas still controlled by Dumbledore and his band of wizards. Draco
raised his wand high above his head, and Harrys eyes widened as he brought it down.
“Avada Kervada!!!”
There was a flash of green light and a high pitched scream, and Draco was running, diving towards Harry,
as Lord Voldemort crumpled from the force of the blast, screaming, alive but at the very least contained.
Draco brought out the marble as he ran, extending it towards Harry, as his own father stepped forward
and raised his wand. A beam of light launched out, green, and Draco thought for a moment that he’d
failed, that the spell would kill Harry. But the spell was not aimed at Harry. It caught Draco no the side of
the face, blowing away his eye, just as he and the marble slammed into harry
*Flash*
Draco was on the edge of consciousness, the edge of death, and he knew it. All he could see was read, and
the trace brown lightning bolt scar that rested on Harrys forehead. Harry was talking, and Draco had to
struggle to make out the words. He was crying, Draco realized, sobbing desperately.
That’s odd, he thought, why would Harry be crying? He’s safe...
“Why Draco!? Why god damnit!?”
And Draco smiled, not smirking this time, but truly smiled. Harry was safe. He’d live. Why didn’t matter,
not yet. He could tell him later... if there was a later.
That revelation shocked Draco out of the shock he’d slowly been sinking into. He might die here, never
telling Harry why. He tried to work his mouth, found it dry, found he couldn’t produce sounds. Weakly he
grabbed Harrys arms, pulling him closer, trying to speak and failing a final time. Why?
Why?
Here’s why, Draco thought, struggling to lift his head from the grass to press his lips against Harrys, weakly,
but with all the force he could muster. And then he sunk back to the grass, grass red and wet with his blood.
That’s why, he thought. That’s why.