talekayler | FIC - Amaranth

Title: Amaranth
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry/Severus
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2181
Summary: The war is drawing to a close. Everything around Harry is broken, and keeps on breaking.
Warnings: Somewhat abrupt ending? idk. Angst galore, slightly AU, and spoilers: *no character death, if you need the assurance*.
Author's notes: Short and angsty. ♥ This is kind of just for me, because I adore something like this with this OT3, and I had it saved as a reward for... something, I think. Can’t remember what/probably doesn’t matter anymore. All mistakes in here are mine. Amaranth is used for healing, protection, and invisibility, and to mend a broken heart.

--

Everything Harry sees as they hurtle down the corridors is in shambles. Broken statues, walls blasted apart, staircases that lead to nowhere.

“Come on, Harry!” Ron bellows over the scrape of stone on stone and scattered screams. “You said he was at the Shrieking Shack!”

Harry casts one more desperate glance over his shoulder, wondering where Draco’s run off to and if he’s still safe. He shouldn’t be here; he’ll be caught eventually, Harry knows it, and neither side will be gentle.

As they round the corner, Harry feels like his world has collapsed. Draco’s wandless, being backed into a corner by a Death Eater. He lets out an angry, wordless scream and sends off the first spell he can think of at the hulking robed figure in front of Draco.

The Death Eater crumples with a yell, but not before he manages to get off his own spell. The stone that Draco’s crowded against begins to crumble, the floor falling away beneath his feet. Harry’s running as fast as he can, but he knows he’s already too late. Draco’s eyes are full of panic when they meet Harry’s, in that single moment before the stone crumbles and falls away, and the light from the stars shine weakly through the opening.

Harry’s heart is in his throat as he peers out into the night, desperately searching for any hint of that white-blond hair, for any sign that Draco’s okay, that he’s alive. But there are flashes of spells, screams and explosions and waves of beasts and Harry’s not sure which way is up anymore, and then there’s Ron, who’s pulling him away, screaming something about Voldemort and Harry remembers, remembers that if it hadn’t been for Voldemort, none of this would have happened, that Draco would most certainly still be alive and healthy and safe.

Harry’s nerves twist and he’s filled with a white-hot rage. No one hurts Draco, his Draco.

Severus gives him this wide-eyed look as Harry drags the Cloak off and comes into view. His eyes are intense as Harry edges toward him, lifts him up and settles his head against Harry’s chest. Severus gives a weak cough, blood dribbling down his chin. “Pot-ter,” he says. He’s never called Harry anything but, not even when…

Harry forces his mind away from those thoughts and focuses on the here and now. Severus’ hand reaches up, shaking, and clutches at Harry’s arm. “I need… need to…”

“Don’t,” Harry says, unable to bear this, Severus stuttering like how he makes Harry stutter. His skin is paler than it should be, and Harry thinks that if Severus utters one more word, Harry’s going to loose it.

Severus seems to know what Harry’s thinking, but he still manages to force out, “Dr-Drac-o?”

Harry swallows thickly. “I don’t know,” he says, and clutches Severus tighter.

Severus’ eyes close briefly before they open with a strained, but determined, expression. “Take… take them,” he says, and gestures weakly as pearly white tears drop steadily from the corners of his eyes. They’re memories, Harry realises, as Hermione shoves a small flask into his hand. He lifts it, hand shaking, and captures the tears in the bottle, capping it tightly once filled.

“You need… to go,” Severus says, and it’s barely a croak. Harry shakes his head adamantly.

“I can’t go now.”

“You must. I’ll be… fine.” Despite his efforts, Harry chokes on a sob; the corner of Severus’ lip twitches, and behind the wall of pain that’s made its home in Severus’ eyes, there’s a fine tremor of amusement. “I’m not… in any danger, now.”

No, Harry thinks, because you’re about to die.

“Quickly,” Severus says to Hermione over Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t… have time to lose.”

Harry’s hands tighten for a moment on Severus’ shoulders as Hermione pulls on his jacket gently. When did everything suddenly fall to pieces?

He presses a quick kiss to Severus’ forehead, feels the huff of air against his skin; no doubt that Severus is amused by his sentimentality, even now. Harry doesn’t care.

Harry lies on the floor of the Headmaster’s study, feeling his heart race towards its last few beats. His eyes are closed. Everything is silent around him.

He doesn’t understand how he hadn’t realised it before. How else would it end? He was always supposed to die, marked for it.

And Severus… Severus had known. All this time, every time he had kissed Harry, run his hands over Harry’s body… he had known that it would come to this, that Harry wasn’t supposed to come out of the war alive. Perhaps that was why he had always called him ‘Potter’.

Had he told Draco?

Harry sits up, and as if he’s in a dream, the office slowly comes into view around him. His mind is made up.

Draco’s fate is undetermined – Harry’s not sure what happened to him, and he fears the worst.

Severus is lying in a pool of his own blood in the must of the Shrieking Shack, and whether or not he’s still alive is also debatable. Harry severely doubts it.

What else does he have left?

Ron and Hermione, of course, but they’re not able to replace Draco or Severus, don’t even come close. Friends as opposed to lovers. Two pieces of Harry’s soul.

The walk through the castle is silent, and Harry feels like he’s the only one left, the only one alive in a world of ghosts and memories. The grounds are empty, torn apart and unrecognizable as Harry makes his way towards the Forbidden Forest, into the fate that awaits him in there.

Neither Draco nor Severus greet him when he twists the stone in his fingers; he doesn’t know how he’d cope if they had. But the comfort provided by his parents, from Sirius and Remus, is enough, and just what he needs.

Harry’s surprised at the sound of his voice when he speaks. His simple, “You didn’t,” echoes across the clearing and manages to capture attention despite how quietly he said it. The snapping of twigs, the rustle of leaves, the sound of the ring falling to the ground – all sound is so loud suddenly, as if amplified, after his silent walk from the castle.

The red of Voldemort’s gaze and the green of the spell hurtling through the air are eclipsed by the memories Harry clings to.

Everything will be better now, he’s sure. He’s going back to where he belongs, to those he belongs with.

Severus eases himself onto the bench with a groan, hand at his neck and massaging it gently. The hall is in an uproar; the Dark Lord has been defeated at last. Severus has no clue how it was done, or by whom, and he wonders if it even matters. What does he have left, an old traitor like him? He’ll be lucky if he’s sentenced to Azkaban.

It’s easy to block out the sounds of celebration around him; he’s had enough practise with blocking out the inane chatter of students. It’s become second nature.

Perhaps this is why he does not notice the person approaching him.

Severus does not stir when they sit next to him. He does not turn his head, no matter how much he wants to. He doesn’t dare get his hopes up that it will be one of his brats for fear of having that crushed. He’s gotten too familiar with that feeling, and it’s about time he’s gotten sick of it.

But it is one them; no one else would press against him like that, meld themselves into his side as if they were trying to get as close as they could. Severus doesn’t have to turn to know that it’s Draco.

His arm rises automatically, curling itself around Draco’s thin shoulders and bringing him in close. Draco presses his face into his shoulder, and by the feel of it, into the spot of drying blood there. It’ll be smeared over his face, but Draco doesn’t seem as if he’s particularly bothered by it.

Severus steels himself before he turns to assess the damage that’s been done to Draco, to take stock of his injuries. He appears to be whole, no missing or broken limbs, but his robes are dirty and torn and burnt, the Slytherin crest hidden completely under a layer of dust and blood that Severus desperately hopes is not his. With a gentle finger, Severus tilts Draco’s chin up. Draco complies, and his eyes are so dull, it pains Severus to look at them.

He’s sure his own don’t look any better.

“What happened?” he asks, croaks, really.

Draco gives a sympathetic wince and reaches up to skate cold fingers over the vivid bite marks that adorn Severus’ neck. Severus shivers at the touch. “I don’t remember much,” Draco says, and it’s almost swallowed by the sound of the Hall. “I was cornered by Jeffers. Got blasted out of the castle and landed in a swarm of Acromantula. Don’t know what happened after that. Came to near the lake just a few minutes ago. It’s all over? Where’s Harry?”

Severus feels his throat tighten. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to explain it to Draco, but he has to, he owes it to him. “He… Dumbledore… there was something connecting him to the Dark Lord. A bit of his soul was in Potter.” Even now, he can’t call Harry by his name. Draco’s stiffened beside him, as if he knows what’s coming, what that means. Severus thinks it’s likely that he does. With a family as old as the Malfoy’s, with Lucius being who he is… “It needed to be severed,” he whispers.

“He…” Draco starts, stops, and tries again. “Then–”

“A sacrifice,” Severus says.

“Of course,” Draco says, and falls silent.

When he feels like he’s able to, Severus glances down. There is indeed blood smeared across Draco’s cheekbone, standing out garishly against his pale skin. As Severus watches, a tear cuts a thin track through the blood and is quickly lost in the folds of the robes.

Severus pulls him close and makes a silent vow that he’ll never let Draco suffer pain again.

He knows he’ll be unable to keep it.

Around them, there’s an upsurge in the celebrations as the doors to the Hall creak open again. The noise increases tenfold, makes Severus’ ears throb. He can’t imagine anything that would be cause for the influx of noise, not now when he’s lost so much. Not just Potter, but a piece of Draco too.

There’s a name being called out, again and again, pleas for attention and greetings and praise. He can’t bring himself to focus enough to pick out what is being said, even if he wanted to. Maybe he can use this to their advantage. He has a better chance of getting himself and Draco down into the quiet safety of the dungeons if everyone is distracted. The noise is just starting to die back down, and his opportunity is slipping away.

“Let’s go,” he mutters into Draco’s hair. Draco gives a stilted nod against his shoulder.

Severus raises his eyes just enough to see if they have a clear shot for the doors – and freezes.

Harry. Harry, Harry HarryHarryHarry.

He’s walking toward them, stumbling really, through the sea of people that still separate them. His clothes are dirty, rubbed green and brown, adorned with splotches of red that Severus thinks are from him, are torn and scorched. There’s a hole in the knee of his Muggle denims, and the skin underneath is a little torn and bloodied. His hair is overly long, too long to be the mess that it usually is, and holding so much dirt and mud and the odd bits of grass. He looks equal parts ridiculous and perfect.

Severus is only vaguely aware that his mouth is slightly open, only vaguely aware that his grip around Draco has tightened painfully, that Draco’s squirming under his arm as he tries to get loose, get to Harry. Harry, who’s walking towards them with dirty, crooked glasses and this look on his face like he’s seeing the best thing he can imagine and fears it disappearing, of having it always just barely within his reach.

With a jolt, Severus realises that they – he and Draco – himself – are the focus of that look.

Harry crashes into them with enough force that the table behind them digs into their backs. Draco cries out, his arms wrapping themselves around Harry’s middle and his face pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck and smearing blood across Harry’s cheek, and it’s not like it makes much of a difference. Harry’s spread himself on their laps, his arm tight around Severus’ neck and the metal of his glasses digging into Severus’ face, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Harry is so solid in his lap, his breath hot against Severus’ skin and he’s pressed so close, Severus swears he can feel Harry’s heartbeat.

Severus shudders a breath and his eyes slide closed.

fin