Title: Dystopia In Action
Summary: Draco knew that he was going to have to do something that wasn't going to be greatly appreciated.
- the idea of a society, generally of a speculative future, characterized by negative, anti-utopian elements, varying from environmental to political and social issues (Wikipedia)
- “The hero comes to believe that escape or even overturning the social order is possible and decides to act at the risk of their own life; this may appear as irrational even to him/her, but they still act.”
It burned and cut and sliced and broke.
It had his heart in his hand, with it's green and it's black and it's utter, utter stupidity.
It was Harry Potter, once arch-rival, twice herald boy-hero, and thrice lover.
“Go on, Draco,” the cold voice prompted. “Show us how it's done.”
He could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck; a beacon to anyone who cared to look closely enough. His hand was sweaty in a way that it had never been before, and his head was throbbing from right behind his eyes, making his vision swim.
Harry was curled up on the floor, his arms around his mid-section in a vain attempt to ward off the pain. He was letting a near-inaudible whine pierce the air. Draco was sure he was the only who could hear it; the Dark Lord would be taunting him if he knew how close he was to breaking.
He took a step forward, his black dragonhide boots that Harry gave him for Yule last year making a soft tap that seemed too loud in the silence. His robes swished about his hips, briefly showing the dark pants he wore underneath them. In the darkness of the dungeons, no one could tell that they weren't the silk trousers he normally wore; no, they were Harry's denims that he left of the floor their last night together before Harry had to go on his Horcrux hunt.
Draco couldn't help but think that it was a futile attempt. If Harry hadn't been anywhere near that bloody house in Godric's Hollow that night, he would have never been captured. If Harry hadn't been without his bloody invisibility cloak, he wouldn't have never been seen. If Harry hadn't gone into the house, he wouldn't have been laying at Draco's feet, broken.
“Aw, is wittle Draco scared?”
His back stiffened in response to the taunt, but he stopped himself from rising to it. He had one shot at this, and he had to make it count.
It was irrationality at its worst; a fool's plan to even consider. But Draco knew that if he did this, he would give their world a chance at redemption. He had felt Harry's power; felt it and basked in its warmth. He had felt the sheer strength that came from a single pulse of it, and he knew that if given the proper chance, his Harry coud win the war.
Those words made him stronger than all the magic that ran through his pure-blooded veins, and all the generations before him.
So he raised his wand and pointed it at the curled up body, the sweat now dried up and leaving his wand feeling cool against his palm. He pushed out with his magic, sending every ounce that he could spare into destroying the anti-portkey wards surrounding his ancestral home. It would grow back. Grow back, and be stronger.
The gasps behind him as he dropped to his knees let him know that it had worked. But the green eyes that fluttered over at the feel of magic washing over their owner's skin locked on Draco's ashen face.
And Harry smiled.
Draco grasped onto a tiny wrist.
They were gone just as multiple shots of light flew into the ground around them.