So, You Want to Die Young.
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Summary:
"Every night, you're terrified of what you won't become, so you want to die young."
In the wake of the war, everything is ruined. Harry had thought the casualties would end with the fighting. Draco had thought being “dead” was the solution all his problems. Neither of them had anticipated peace to feel so…. Empty.
“What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if in your dream you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah! What then?” —Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Chapter 1
Four years before
“I know it’s asking a lot but—”
“I’m going to Azkaban either way and this is the only way I’ll ever be able to help him. I understand that. I’ll do it.”
The flatness in his father’s voice made Draco’s stomach clench.
“Draco. This is a lot to ask of you, too. It won’t be easy. It will be lonely. Are you sure you want to do this?” Professor McGonagall asked.
Draco was quiet for a moment. He had been sure from the moment McGonagall had appeared on his doorstep a few hours ago with the suggestion. He took a deep breath.
“Yes. I can’t stand the way they look at me. Loneliness would be easier than facing that,” Draco said quietly.
“Then we are decided.”
Harry dropped the Prophet as though it had burned him.
“No,” he whispered, his eyes locked on the paper where it lay in the table, skimming over the headline once more.
Former Death-Eater, Draco Malfoy, Murdered by Father. Lucius Malfoy to Face Extended Sentence.
“No. No, no, no, no, no,” Harry repeated.
They had survived. The war was over. They had survived, there weren’t supposed to be any more casualties.
The war had ended two weeks ago. He had moved from the Burrow back to Grimmauld Place a week ago. He was glad now, that he was alone, sitting at the long dining table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edges so hard that the ancient wood threatened to splinter. His stomach turned, bile crawling up his throat.
He skimmed the article.
Avada Kedavra. Cast by Lucius Malfoy’s wand. 10:47 last night. Burned the body at scene of the crime. Narcissa Malfoy eye witness. Would have been 18 on June 8th.
There were side by side pictures of Malfoy and his father. Harry suddenly felt a murderous rage when he laid his eyes on Lucius, one he thought he would never feel again, the same feeling he had when he looked at Voldemort. He tore through the picture with his nails.
“You bastard. You fucking monster,” Harry spat. “Why couldn’t you have left him alone? You took and took and took from him and now…” Harry surprised himself with a sob. “And now there is nothing left to take.”
There had been a time when news of Malfoy’s death wouldn’t have phased him. Those days had passed. Malfoy had saved him. He had saved Malfoy. Harry had come to feel something akin to comradery with the other boy. They were both trapped, forced into situations the previous generation had forged for them. Tools of war, the both of them.
Tears dripped off his nose onto the newspaper in front of him, where Malfoy’s image blinked up, unsmiling.
It had only been eight days since Harry had last seen Malfoy.
They had met up at a muggle coffee shop so Harry could return his wand. Somehow, the press had still been able to track them down. There had been a picture of them walking side by side down the street on the front page under the headline: The Boy Who Lived and Former Death-Eater Spotted In Muggle London. Unity on the Horizon?
Harry stood up quickly, hurrying towards the far end of the table where a week’s worth of Prophets were stacked messily. He shuffled through them until he found the one he was looking for.
He and Malfoy walking down the pavement, both looking tense. Harry was slightly in front of Malfoy, leading the way as the other boy trailed behind him. They were both clearly unaware of the camera tracking them. Malfoy mostly kept his eyes on the ground as he followed Harry, but occasionally they would travel up to the back of Harry’s head and he would get this funny, almost pained look on his face. Old rivalries die hard, he guessed.
Harry looked away from the picture, swallowing the lump in his throat. He tried to remember the last thing he said to Malfoy. They had stayed at the coffee shop only long enough to exchange the wand discreetly, Harry thanking him for letting him use it, Malfoy replying that it wasn’t as though he had a choice, though the usual acid had gone from his voice.
“Bye, Potter. And thanks,” Malfoy had said, his eyes finding Harry’s for the first time since they had met that evening.
“For what?” Harry had asked, his stomach twisting in unfamiliar knots.
“For not condemning me the moment you had the chance. The Ministry would have listened to you, if you had wanted to. I’m not so sure the rest of the world will be so forgiving” Malfoy clarified.
“I wouldn’t let them condemn you. I won’t let them. You had about as much choice in this as I did, Malfoy,” Harry said.
“Saint Potter, always to the rescue,” Malfoy replied, but a smile ghosted his lips, not the sneer that Harry was so used to accompanying that phrase, Saint Potter. Harry remembered thinking it was the first time he had seen the other boy smile in a while. Maybe even in years. He wished he had known it would be the last.
“Come off it,” Harry smiled back.
“I’ll be seeing you, Potter, I’m sure,” Malfoy said, standing up from the table. He rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder for just a moment. Harry reached up and covered Malfoy’s hand with his own, a gesture that felt oddly intimate, but that he had been unable to stop. Malfoy’s eyes had widened, but he didn’t pull away.
“Yeah. I’ll see you,” Harry said, remaining at the table. Harry released his hand.
Malfoy had nodded and walked away. That was the last time Harry had ever seen him.
Harry clasped his hand over his mouth, trying to place the pain in his chest. Malfoy had never been his friend. They would likely have never had been friends. So why did the fact that there was no chance of reconciliation making him feel sick?
Three years before
“How have you been getting on?” McGonagall asked, having brought Draco to her office for their daily meeting.
“Fine, I suppose,” Draco said. It was much easier to speak, now that he didn’t have that damned mandrake leaf in his mouth, not that he spoke much anyway. It had been his third try, as the last two times, the full moon had come on a cloudy night.
“Where are you now, in the process?”
“Waiting for an electrical storm,” Draco said, his eye glancing towards the window as he spoke, hoping perhaps he could speak one into existence.
“And your wand, it’s working well?” McGonagall asked, her gaze falling to the wand on her desk.
He nodded. She had had it reregistered under a false name as that of a tourist, so Draco could carry on performing magic without drawing suspicion. He wouldn’t have pinned Minerva McGonagall to be a woman with connections like she had, but he supposed connections came with being headmaster of Hogwarts.
“Good. Now, let’s just hope whatever form you take isn’t too outlandish. I know it’s not under your control, but I really hope you’re something I can explain away, although with Hagrid on grounds, there’s very little I can’t come up with an excuse for. That, and you won’t be Hogwarts’ first unregistered Animagus,” she added, though she seemed a little nervous.
