Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Ron held Terminus Est out to Lucius, blade gleaming in the faint light, and as if in a dream, Lucius took it.

"My son's sword?"

"Yes," Ron said, "And if you only do one good thing in the whole of your miserable, evil, misspent life, let this be it."

He turned and walked out of the room without another glance at the old man who held his son's sword in trembling hands. Ron shut the door behind him, and leaned against the wall beside it, steeling himself. And yet no sound came from inside the room — no gasp or cry, not even the sound of the sword falling; but in a few moments' time, a thin trickle of blood ran out from under the door, and Ron knew that it was done.

Harry was not coming. Hermione had realized this, and the despair was like chalk dust in her throat.

He winced them, and his hand tightened painfully on hers. "I am not sure I agree with the poets about all that "Death, where is thy sting?" business," he said hoarsely. "It seems to me that it stings more than enough."

"Are you in pain?" Hermione asked, leaning closer, feeling the rhythm of the pulse in his wrist beat and fade. This is the last time, she thought wildly, the last time I'll watch his lashes flutter down like that when he talks, and the quirk at the side of his lips, the wry curve of his mouth, that turn of his head, that laugh just under his voice. I must remember these things that I can tell them to Harry, if he does not come in time. Harry, she thought despairingly, Harry, please come, please come quickly!

"Like being torn in half," Draco said. "Not a breach, but an expansion — " he broke off, and coughed more blood. "It tastes of poison," he said wonderingly, and looked up at Hermione almost as if he could see her.

There was a light in his eyes, but it seemed reflected rather than as if it came from within. "One soul in two bodies," he said. "That's what she said."

"I don't understand," Hermione said softly. He coughed again, and put his hand to his mouth; when he took it away, it was silvery-red with blood.

She caught at his fingers, the blood slippery against her skin. "Just rest," she began, then turned her head — was that a sound? — yes, it was — the rhythmic tattoo of running footsteps. She heard their echo increasing, drawing closer and closer. "It's Harry," she whispered. "It must be," and she squeezed Draco's hand, hard, her heart contracting in anticipation.

His fingers did not return the pressure. She looked down at him. His eyes were closed, the lashes lying still against his cheekbones, untroubled by expelled breath. She released her grip on his hand, and it slid silently out of her grip, falling to rest against his chest, fingertips to collarbone, as if he were asleep.

"Oh," Hermione said. There was nothing inside her chest now but a great emptiness. "Oh, Draco."

Harry was lost. The fortress was a maze of twisting corridors, like the guts of some giant snake. Each one looked the same, gray walls and gray floor.

He ran, the sword of Gryffindor clutched in his hand, careening around corners, the pounding of his own heart as loud in his ears as the rhythmic strike of his boots against the floor, and as he ran the howling in his head grew louder and louder until it was painful.

As he ran he tried to tell himself that his panic was sourceless, that there was no cause for it, that he had last seen Draco only a few moments before in the Ceremonial Chamber, shocked but upright, as well as could be expected. He told himself that even as the breath hissed in and out of his chest and he ran until his sight was flecked with black motes, and he turned the hundredth corner, and there was Hermione, sitting on the ground, her back against the wall and her long brown hair shawling down over her shaking shoulders and covering her face.

Her wand was in one hand, and it blazed with light like a fallen star. Her other arm was curved around Draco, her hand on his chest, and the fierce glow of her wand lit them both as if they were players on a stage. Harry could see everything, very clearly, limned in pitiless illumination: Draco's head in Hermione's lap, the bright fringe of his lashes where his eyes had fallen shut, the silver hair stuck to his forehead in pewter strands, the thin hand open against his chest, the clawed scars stark against the skin.

He's fallen asleep, Harry thought with a crazed lucidity, and as if she heard the thought, Hermione raised her head and saw him there, and her mouth began to tremble. He saw how her hair was stuck to her damp cheeks, and then she set her wand down and reached her hand out to him, and as she did so, she slowly shook her head, answering the question he had not, yet, asked aloud.

The sword slipped from Harry's hand. It struck the stones at his feet with a harsh clang that resounded down the corridor like the sound of a tolling bell.

Author notes:

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, and better than thy stroke:

"Death be Not Proud": John Donne

Not a breach, but an expansion:

Valediction Forbidding Mourning: John Donne

Well, I used to have the notion I could swim the length of the ocean If I knew that you were waiting for me

I used to have the notion I could swim the length of the ocean I'd plumb the depths of every sea for you

I'd escape from my chains, and I'd reach out for you

Maybe I'm in love with you

Maybe, maybe I'm in love with you

That's it, that's the law, that's the whole of the law

— yo la tengo

Freezing wind blew off the lake, stirring the dry, dead grass between the graves. There were patches of snow on the ground, still, and icicles hung like teardrops from the statues that decorated the rooflines of the mausoleums. The bare branches of trees were flung like openwork lace across the ice-blue sky.

The words of the funeral oration rolled across Ginny like dark water. She felt as if she were drowning in them.

For behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.

The dead raised up incorruptible. Ginny thought of Tom, and shivered again. Her companion turned to her and placed a thin, black-gloved hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right." Ginny nodded at Blaise, who tucked a wayward lock of poppy-red hair behind her ear, and frowned. Blaise, Ginny thought distantly, looked perfect as always in her black velvet scarf and matching gloves. A black fur muff dangled from one dainty hand and diamonds burned frostily in her earlobes. By contrast, Ginny thought, she herself must look like a scarecrow: she'd hardly had the energy to brush her hair that morning, and she'd lost so much weight that her black dress hung on her like a sack. "I'm just a little cold."

For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

Victory, Ginny thought bitterly. Oh, they'd had victory all right; the wizarding world was still rejoicing at the death of Voldemort, still holding parades and parties and drowning Hogwarts in thank-you letters and grateful gifts, all for The Boy Who Lived. Not that Harry cared, or had even noticed. He hadn't been able to bring himself to come with the rest of them to the funeral. He hadn't even looked up when Hermione asked him. He hadn't moved in days from the same splintery old chair in the same corner of the infirmary.