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Feather-Light and Fiery is his Truth by MithrilQuill

He stands in the eerie moonlight and he watches as his soul is torn to shreds before his face. He looks at the curling lip and the empty eyes, at the greyer image of himself, and at the pointed wand. He does not understand how this could be true.


He follows the green jet of light as it travels from the tip of the long, thin stick and towards her pretty form. Her angelic form. But it is twisted now, in pain, and he is not sure anymore that she is an angel like he has always believed, because angels would be strong and able to do something. He does not have time to cry out before the shimmering green envelops her body and wrenches his mother’s life out.


He follows the light’s path back and stares into the hollow reflections of his own eyes. And it doesn’t make any sense. Before his mind has even registered that it was Lucius who killed his own wife, not the Dark Lord, Draco sees his father’s body slump, dead, beneath the Dark Lord’s towering form.


And he falls into dark, oppressive oblivion.


He will never be able to determine, later, if it is his own will that makes him stand, and laugh hoarsely and kill, and kill, and kill. Perhaps, he will tell himself later, it was the Imperius Curse, but he moves now, almost mechanically, and he tortures and punishes, and kills, and kills, and kills.


And slowly, sickeningly, Draco Malfoy falls into a dark sort of blindness that shrouds his being. He feels his soul blacken with the smoke of every murder, and it weighs him down, but he still does not understand it and his world has been torn apart, so he just moves, mechanically and does what is expected of him, what is asked of him because he knows of nothing else. He has never known of anything else.


And then she comes, gracefully, into battle. Her cloak is flying every which way about her and her fragile form is running, jumping, climbing…flying everywhere. She does not look very strong, but a fire is lighted in her eyes and she does not stop for even a second.


And suddenly, it seems to Draco as if she is everywhere. At every battle and every attack she leaves her mark. It is not a skull or a black, dark object, just a simple smell of sweetness and a light, feathery touch. They begin to speak of her like a legend in the papers, but to them she is one of many, many soldiers fighting the Dark Lord…his Lord, he reminds himself with a pang of something inexplicably painful. To him, she is everything. To him she is strength and fire and warmth and truth. And he thinks that if he understands her then he will finally understand what has happened to his world, and perhaps then he will understand himself.


He wishes he could dance with her, gracefully, fly with her light and agile form. But he cannot. Not really. So he calls himself coward and he begins to send her gifts.


First Draco sends his sweet obsession a thousand Galleons. But he does not know where she lives so he sends them to the Orphanage, the one in which he saw her laughing gently with the children.


Then he sends his truth a feast of the most delicious food, but he does not know where she lives so he sends them to the food lady that he has seen her speak with, and the plump old woman sends them out with her own and they feed a thousand mouths.


Then Draco sends her a Queen’s wardrobe, but he still does not know where she lives so he sends it to the shelter where he knows he has seen her stop more than once to place a warm winter’s cloak on the doorstep.


He sees her standing, on a cold stormy day, and looking at a large almost dilapidated structure, one that they made to hide their children from him. So he sends them cartloads of wood and nails and pretty blue paint like the blue cloak she was wearing that day.


He sees her walk, relentlessly, around the large blue place at night (he is following her you see) and keeping watch. So he sends a letter and casts a spell to make his ugly scrawl as elegant as her image and the owl flutters into the abode of those weaklings that call themselves men and wizards, and soon there are many keeping watch and she can go home and rest on feathery cushions, but he knows she will not.


So he does not.


He sits, on his polished desk, the one his mother sat on when she sent him letters at school, and he smells the sweet taste of candy from far away. He takes out an elegant quill the color of fire that sheds its rays over his desktop and he wonders, if she were here, how bright his room would be.


He hears her speak for the first time at the gates of Hogwarts. The ministry has fallen long ago and the school has closed its doors, but she stands before it, speaking to the walls and those halfwits ensconced within. He knows they tremble at the strength within her voice. He does.


“Wake up!” she yells, and he is surprised that she is using human speech, but his angel makes it taste so much sweeter in his ears and he wishes he could stand by her side, but he cannot, does not.


“Wake up and stop waiting for miracles to happen!” she yells, “Wake up and make your move, fell the evil nightmare that stands outside your gates and cast aside your fear so you can live again!”


She turns her head and she walks away, but Draco stays the words replying in his head over and over and over. Live Again


Suddenly he hears a gasp from behind him and he turns and watches his angel, his truth stumble to the floor and bleed, thick red blood, just like a little girl. And he realizes that he really is a coward.


They come out of the Castle, out of the gates he spent six years behind and they carry her inside, away from the treacherous arrows and curses of their common foe. He sends a thousand silent curses towards the hands that hold her up and carry her to safety. A million curses because they should be his hands, but he is too weak, too cowardly, too far away. But he is glad, as he walks away, that she is safe now.


He sits, in his cold, silent home and he imagines her beautiful, fiery voice singing. So he takes out books, and ink and parchment and an elegant chess set and he begins to dance to her tune. His mind and his hands begin to dance elegantly, gracefully to that beautiful tune and he weaves a clever web, but this time, it is a web of truth, and sweet angelic pride.


So he stands, five days later, staring at the dance he has made to her tune, but then he remembers that he has never heard her sing before. So Draco smiles as he realizes that it is his song. He feels strong now, and brave, as he looks down at his bleeding left forearm.


So he sends all the letters out, and all the galleons and the sickles and he stands before his house elves, his soldiers and he gives them his commands. And he paces in his room, practicing spells and curses and all the right things to do and say, because he knows he will be a little afraid then, but it will be alright. She will be there.


He stops suddenly and the dream he was unconsciously walking in freezes before his eyes. He realizes that she will not like these stiff, oppressive tainted walls. So he writes one more letter to his dark haired, handsome friend and he draws a picture of an old boyish dream and he leaves briskly. There is no time, only hours to the final battle. He finds it with minutes to go.


A small, elegant house beside the woods with a lively shimmering stream of water, pure as herself flowing nearby. He acts quickly, his words persuasive and somewhat forceful, but the woman gives it to him with a smile and he is slightly confused because he does not know that his shining eyes speak of love no matter how harsh his voice might sound.


He apparates to the battle, closes his eyes, and stands tall and firm. He makes his declaration; his words are strong and firm. He speaks the truth and the tides of the war begin to turn. He flies and jumps and dances on the battlefield and he watches his practiced game of chess unfold before his eyes.


And she is there. She flies across the battlefield, sweet as ever, her cloak flying every which way and she is her own little storm. She dances to his tune too, willingly, happily and naturally as if she has done it a thousand times before. And she has, for without her his voice never would have risen in the beautiful song of truth.


They stand side by side, and their hands act as one. Their dance steps weave together as they fly across the ground of Hogwarts and they come close, oh so close, five times and almost touch. But the song has not ended and they must see this to the end.


An eerie, unearthly scream rips its way through the battlefield spelling the end of the war. They have won and later this battle will called the Song of the Dragon. It feels suddenly empty and a peaceful silence washes across the grounds. He sees her, only steps away and his neck turns a deep red as she smiles at him. They step closer to each other and he notices her wounds.


He reaches a hand out, and their fingers touch and they both realize that it is the first time they have actually touched. He grasps her hand, tightly, as they both collapse in limb-breaking weariness. He draws her closer to him, and realizes that they fit together so well as her hand comes up and grasps his shoulder steadyingly, lovingly, and they lie there on the battlefield waiting to be tended to so they can stand once more and sing and dance again, because there is still much more to be fixed and done…together.


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