Avada Kedavra

This is a Harry Potter fanfic. Oneshot. AU. Harry mourns Draco after the Battle of Hogwarts. Implied abusive Dursleys. Implied Drarry. Implied Voldemort/Bellatrix. Severus as Harry’s father. TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide. References rape. It’s just one sentence, but it is there. I don’t own HP or any part of it.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” he shouted, and watched as the other fell.

“Voldemort is dead.” He announced wearily, and cheers erupted in every corner of the castle, a hastily cast sonorous ensuring his quiet statement was heard by everyone present.

And then his world collapsed.

No” he whispered, as the blond beside him crumpled to the ground.

“No” he stated, as the Dark Lady called out something about ‘a lover for a lover’ before her fading cackle announced her departure.

“NO” he screamed, as he knelt and cradled the blond in his shaking arms.

The celebrations faltered as his forgotten sonorous amplified his anguished cries. None of the listeners, not even those closest to him, had ever heard such despair in his voice, not even in his darkest days, and it scared them.

What could have wrenched such a sound from him, of all people? Was the Dark Lord not dead after all? Had he returned yet again?

He looked up at the dark haired man who suddenly appeared before him.

“Please” he whispered, tears streaming unnoticed down his face. “Please, help him.”

Not the Dark Lord then, but a death. The listeners’ thoughts filled with mingled pity and dread. Who was it? His two best friends were alive and well, physically at least, and they could think of no one else whose loss would cause him such distress.

The man knelt beside him and examined the boy in his arms.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly.

“Please,” he repeated. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said again. “It’s too late.”

“Please father,” he begged. “Tom came back. I came back. Please, bring him back to me.”

This confused the listeners. Father? His father was dead! Had his mind come unhinged?

The man sighed. “You know the circumstances are not the same.”

“I’ve endured,” he sobbed. “I’ve endured everything. I’ve endured the love, the adoration, the hero-worship. I’ve endured the lies, the hate, the suspicion. I’ve endured their damn prophecy, their tests, their manipulations. I’ve endured the nightmares, that bastard in my head, the visions of you being tortured over and over. I’ve endured the taunts, the beatings, the rapes.”

The man simply looked at him, with an uncharacteristic expression of pity.

“I’ve given them everything,” he continued. “Everything they’ve asked of me — my mother, my foster father, my godfathers, my friends, my brother in all but blood. I’ve hidden when I wanted to fight and fought when I wanted to hide. I’ve pretended to hate those I love, and love those I hate. I’ve lived for them. I’ve died for them. I’ve killed for them.”

The mood in the castle was sombre as the listeners finally began to comprehend just how much they had asked of their boy hero. Slowly, they made their way outside, hearts filled with sorrow, regret and gratitude.

“I’ve given and given and given,” he continued. “And I have never once asked for anything in return.”

The listeners took in the sight before them. The-Boy-Who-Lived rocked in the mud, the body of Draco Malfoy cradled gently in his arms. Tears flowed unchecked as he regarded the man he had addressed as father. Professor Snape knelt before him, his customary sneer absent, his face conveying pity, sympathy and was that love? None of the listeners had ever seen the man with such a soft expression in his eyes. Their astonishment was short-lived, however, as the boy suddenly noticed their presence.

“Why?” he screamed at them. “I’ve given you everything! I’ve kept nothing back! Why must you take the one thing I wanted for myself? The one thing I was unwilling to give?”

Many of the listeners cried as he bowed his head over the boy in his arms and began to keen his loss. The man reached out in an attempt to comfort, but he flinched back.

After what seemed an eternity, he noticed the listeners once more.

“No more.” He moaned. “I have no more to give.”

No one present that day would ever forget the look in the man’s eyes as the boy whispered an apology, pointed his wand at himself and, in a dead voice, spoke his final words.

“Avada Kedavra.”

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