They Shook His Hand with a Clenched Fist

For all those who could have been saved… and weren’t.

This way…

The ground was soaked red. The sky was pouring rain down bucket by divine bucket, in the hope of washing away the horror, the fear, the lingering symbols of death and destruction and injuries. The battle had just ended – countless bodies lay scattered over the large open field. It had only hours ago been a meadow in full bloom. Now it was the equivalent of a graveyard – even worse in some senses, for all who lay on its earth were not yet dead – many were still dying.

Please, come here.

For once, good and evil was one. For once, there was no divide between the Death Eaters and those who fought against them. There was no segregation, physical or emotional, between the forces of Lord Voldemort and the forces of Harry Potter. Together they all lay, only as humans. Here and now, blood had no leverage – opinions did not matter – titles were of no account. Together they lay; together they died.

I’m – can’t you see? Please, please, not like this. I don’t want to go like this.

Those lucky enough to be, for the most part, healthy, hale and whole, with only minor injuries, were standing. Healers and people experienced in Healing had arrived immediately after the battle, anxious to help; anxious to save lives if any could be saved. These people walked amongst the bodies, calling out names and searching for the living. Healers bent down next to most bodies, placed their hands on wrists and necks and felt for pulses. More often than not, when they stood up again, their expressions were of sorrow and despair.

Here, come here.

Most bodies, because though there was no division now between the dead, dying and injured and all those who had fought in the war – the division was still clear in the minds of the Healers. They had not fought. They were not injured. They did not realize the implication of the battlefield: no matter what these humans lying on the earth thought of themselves as, no matter where their loyalties lay, they were all grievously wounded and many were dying – they all needed help. They all needed Healing. Yet, most of the Healers, educated men and women, still lived by the laws of the wizarding world, laws which had been hammered into their brains for ages. They did not trust Death Eaters – they did not treat Death Eaters.

Please, please, I beg you… is that what you want? Should I beg?

He was no Death Eater. He had changed sides. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. Yet, no Healer came within ten feet of him, as if there was an invisible barrier around him, which repelled the Healers and their life-saving magic.

Can’t you see me? I need help. Protect me now! Protection was the promise!

His father was a known Death Eater.

Help, help, help…

His change of alliance had not been announced for his own personal protection.

Am I nothing?

So it was thought, automatically, that he must be a Death Eater as well.

Is that it?

He tried to call out, in the hope that he was mistaken, that they had just missed him by accident, but no sound issued from his throat.

Nothing? Worthless? Dirt?

A man approached, wearing Ministry robes. He glanced down at the handsome, pale-haired boy momentarily, took in his open eyes, his gaze of relief and then walked on.

I helped you! I helped kill Him!

Rain splattered on the boy’s face, washed away any sign of the expression of hope that had blossomed on his face. Drops slipped down his cheeks, leaving tracks – rain… or tears? His eyes fluttered closed – the last few months of his life, wretched, miserable, terrible, flashed in his mind.

You needed me! And I obliged!

They had sent out the “invitation�. The call for him, specifically him, to join them, to changes sides. It was a very secret operation, so secret that He Who Must Not Be Named never got gist of it. Of course, being in the midst of preparations, war preparations, there was probably a lot You Know Who missed in those days. At least, “a lot� when it was understood that the Dark Lord usually never missed anything.

I need you, now, please. I admit it. I need you! Help.

His mother had been killed after he had failed to obey the Dark Lord’s orders, after he, himself, had failed to murder Albus Dumbledore. It was done to teach him a lesson. It didn’t matter that the deed had been done anyway (though Snape was commended for his work), what mattered was that Draco had shown the Dark Lord, clearly, the doubt within his own heart. If a servant of the Dark Lord could not kill a man (especially one who was dying already), what use was the said servant? The Dark Lord, generously, mercifully, had not killed him; his mother had suffered the consequences of his inaction. Draco would have willed death on himself before he willed it on his mother. Watching her die had been worse torture than the Cruciatus Curse. Her death had been neither swift nor easy.

Oh, God, help. Please.

The Order of the Phoenix had, no doubt, heard of his mother’s death. Perhaps they felt her death had unhinged him. Perhaps, he thought now, they had been right.

Don’t make me better. Don’t make me better if you can’t.

Remus Lupin visited Draco at the Manor. He was sitting in front of his mother’s grave, in the Manor’s large garden. Fresh narcissi were scattered over the small hill of black soil. They had been his mother’s favorite flowers. Draco wasn’t crying. Lupin walked over to him, softly, wordlessly, and stood over his shoulder. Draco waited only a moment, before making some scathing remark to the werewolf. Now, he cannot remember what the remark was.

Just stop the pain.

Lupin did not reply to the insult, said nothing. Draco waited for the werewolf to leave, but his patience soon wore thin. He almost jinxed his ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Almost more than jinxed him. He spun around to face the man, yelled at him, shouted something or the other. Perhaps it had been something about trespassing on Malfoy property. Lupin didn’t even blink. All he said was words that Draco, even now, recalls with utmost clarity: “We can give you protection.� Then he turned and left.

Kill me then!

The next day, the werewolf was back. As if he already knew – as if the stupid Order of the Phoenix knew without his saying. Lupin took one look at Draco, glanced at the small bag he held in his right hand, the broomstick in his left, and nodded. The werewolf produced his own broomstick and together they traveled, quickly, speedily, to number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Potter’s house, the werewolf informed him softly. It had belonged to Black before he had died. An ugly, old house elf stumped into sight. He was muttering insanely to himself. Then, there they were: Potter, Weasley and Granger. All of them stared at him. Potter wore a look of loathing, matched by Weasley. Granger looked at him with her eyebrows together, Draco detected something like wary pity in her gaze and it disgusted him more than the loathing. Filthy Mudblood. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need any of them.

You want to, have wanted to all along!

He was put into a small room, connected, not to the hallway leading to the stairs, but to Alastor Moody’s room.

Please, see me!

When he breakfasted, even if he awoke extremely late, there was always someone sitting with him. Keeping an eye on him.

I’m not evil. I’m not.

When he was finally given a mission, a small spy job, Snape accompanied him.

Don’t think me evil. I’m not evil.

The day he gathered the courage to pass information to the Order and informed them of a secret so profound, so deep, that he was sure that the Dark Lord had told it to only a few of his followers, he got a few pats on the back, a few appreciative nods … and that was it.

I’m just me.

Nothing changed that day, though he had hoped with all his heart that it would.

I changed. I changed for you, all of you.

They never trusted him – they invited him, wanted him, and needed him and yet, they never trusted him. He saw it in their eyes, in their every glance.

If I hadn’t? Would you have won – would we have won?

He opened his eyes – retuned to the present, returned to death and pain. He turned his head slightly. That lack of trust was showing clearly now … he had not imagined it. Two feet away, Granger and Weasley knelt on the earth.

But there is no “we� is there? No “we� for you.

They were next to Potter.

No trust for me. Help me.

They whispered to him, tried their best to smile through their tears. Their expressions were nothing like the ones they had given him at the Order’s Headquarters.

Dying.

Potter was dying … like him. There was no difference between them, no difference he could see – he was blind maybe. Obviously, Weasley and Granger saw a difference. Draco turned his head again, gazed at the sky. He could not bear to watch the scene next to him … his eyes fluttered closed. A moan rose to his lips. His thoughts were brief, fleeting now.

Mother…where are you…

Where was his Mum? Where had he left her? At home, perhaps?

Father…

He had seen his father… where?

Your son… please… help him.

Why didn’t they come? He was hurting… why didn’t they come? Didn’t they care?

I am still your son… I didn’t want you to die…

Was that it? Were they dead? No, no, no, nononononono! his mind screamed.

Please, are you out there… Mother… Mum…

They were somewhere. They had to be! Not dead, not dead! NOT DEAD! Tears spread down his cheeks now, swift, free of any barriers holding them back before … he was too weak to hold any barriers now … he turned his head again, almost instinctively. Granger and Weasley were holding Potter’s hands.

Hold me too…

How would that feel? A friend to hold his hand…

It hurts…

It hurts…

Hold my hand…

Please.

A reflexive buck from Draco’s body, just before the end … a last breath.

Potter’s hands fell from his friends’ grasp. Both glanced at each other in a moment of brief shock … and then they wept, holding each other, bent down further, rested their heads on their lost friend’s body…

A Healer, one of open mind, stopped momentarily and watched with grief the two friends’ mourning. Then she noticed the white-haired boy at her feet. She knelt down swiftly, set two fingers on his neck, and paused with bated breath. A few seconds later she shook her head sadly, and set her hand on the young man’s.

Too late. The Healer stood, walked off to her next patient.

Even at the end, only the heavens wept.