The Darkest Hours, a harry potter fanfic

Rating: M.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, and sadly no money is being made. It's all JKRs.

Summary: A few snapshots of love and despair in the lives of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. One shot. Warning: Slash. Character death.

Authors Note: I've been piecing this together for a few weeks now, I just didn't want to post it while I was in the middle of another fic. Dedicated to everybody who ever gave me a review for 'Nightmares.'

The Darkest Hours.

However long the night, the dawn will break.

-African proverb

The day that Draco Malfoy was convicted for being a Death Eater had been the worst day of Harry Potters life.

He could remember it clearly - highly polished dark wood of a courtroom, high ceilings scattered with slowly rotating symbols. Lines of sombre witches and wizards in robes of deep purple. The squeak of a shoe on the shiny floor, deafening in the silence. The numb skin lit from underneath with burning rivers of fear as Harry sat high in the stands, gazing down at the boy he loved. His nerves tight and thin like wires, stretched to breaking point.

A verdict; guilty.

Eternal, sinking, bottomless despair and the loss of his senses as Harrys' legs buckled and he sank to the floor. A blonde head bowed as a trembling boy was escorted away, flanked by two hooded Dementors. Draco did not look up and Harry knew it was because Draco did not want him to see the despair etched into the features of that fine, pale face.

The Wizengamot would not even consider a retrial. Draco Malfoy had the Dark Mark burned into his left forearm. Numerous eye witnesses placed Draco Malfoy amongst the ranks of Death Eaters that stormed Hogwarts castle on that terrible, final day of war in June. Draco Malfoy was undoubtedly, unquestionably guilty.

Harry watched him disappear through cold, black gates and knew exactly where they were taking him. That tiny grey island surrounded by mile after mile of endless iron sea. The high stone prison guarded by the worst of dark creatures, where the worst of dark criminals waited endlessly for the release of death, trapped in the cage of their own minds. Harry had walked unsteadily from the courtroom out into the dim, torch-lit corridors of the Ministry of Magic; and he made it perhaps fifteen paces before his mind turned to black and he collapsed to the cold stone floor.

That was nearly three months ago, and Harry could recall further back too - much sweeter memories and much angrier ones but none that came close to touching that deep well of sinking black despair.

Nine months ago - before the war had ended. Draco came to Harry out of the blue. They had argued, fought and screamed and eventually Harry had turned to walk away; until Draco had grabbed his wrist and finally let the cold mask fall.

Wait. Stop. And then the word Harry had never expected to hear. Please.

"I need help," Malfoy had whispered, his eyes over-bright, his face pale. "Potter… there's no-one else… I can't do this anymore…"

Harry had of course agreed to help him. And over the next month or two it all came pouring out of Draco - the loneliness, the fear, the inescapable destiny. Harry identified with all of it. Strange how two completely opposite people could share so much.

The youngest Malfoy had been born into his calling - given a destiny even before Harry had been given his. Submit yourself. Your body, your mind, your life, everything… to the Dark Lord. No room for error. No second chances after mistakes. Serve the Dark Lord and watch his empire grow.

"The world will be cleansed, Draco," he remembered his father whispering to him when he was roughly eight years old. Lucius' eyes gleamed with the vision of such a future. "The Dark Lord will wipe everything tainted, everything impure from the face of the Earth… and we will rise up, exalted - his most trusted followers. You will fulfil your duty and you will be rewarded."

"What could I do?" Draco asked bitterly, one night in mid December as they sat in a dusty corner of the deserted library. The wind and rain stormed outside, the twisting, hovering candles flickered and dimmed. Stray strands of blonde hair fell into troubled grey eyes and even then Harry had wanted to reach out and cover those slender, pale fingers with his own. "I couldn't run from it - I had nowhere else to go. I couldn't escape. I was just a child, and they're my family. Maybe I didn't even want to escape, I don't know… it's not like I knew then - what was expected of me." He sighed. "I just wanted to make my father proud."

They hatched no plans, no spark of inspiration came to either of them. They spent quiet, secret nights alone just talking, and Harry knew he was not helping but Draco didn't seem to mind. Perhaps he knew there was no way out and all he wanted was somebody to take his mind off things.

Harry could remember the first time they kissed. In the astronomy tower of course - wasn't that where all memorable first kisses happened? It was late January and bitingly cold. They had taken thick, warming blankets up and sat underneath an unbroken stretch of dark blue sky, lit with the glow from a few scattered stars. It was a beautiful view, and Harry found himself edging closer and eventually resting his head against Dracos' thin shoulder as Draco talked. About his childhood, about his first meeting with Voldemort. Afterwards Harry told of his first encounter with the Dark Lord - and when he finished there was nothing but silence between them for a long time, comfortable silence as they reflected on their lives so far. Eventually Harry had lifted his head to gaze up at the blonde boy, and Draco had leaned down to capture Harrys lips in a soft, hesitant kiss.

"I think I'm in love with you," he mumbled, and Harry felt a kind of frightened happiness grasping at his heart.

The next few months were filled with cautious happy moments. They met secretly, talked about a future they knew might not happen, made love desperately with hands pressed to each others mouths so that nobody would hear them moan. Always the threat of war hung over them, like a guillotine with tense, tight rope just waiting to be cut.

Harry knew there was nothing he could do that would mean Draco did not have to fight against him when Voldemort struck. He knew that Draco knew it too. Common sense told him he should walk away before the hurt got too deep, before the inevitable happened and they were torn apart forever. It only made him cling on tighter.

His friends had found out of course. They could not keep it a secret for ever. Ron and Hermione had followed him one night in late April when he crept from the Gryffindor dormitories, sneaking through the moonlit castle, up to the astronomy tower, to Draco. They had been kissing heatedly, Harry pressed tight against the tower wall, the cold chill of stone seeping through his shirt; when his friends had burst through to the tower. Accusations had been made - a curse, a love potion, Imperio. Maybe Harry had lost his mind, maybe it was not really Harry. He had sighed and told them what they saw was real, he was in love with Draco Malfoy. The shy, euphoric smile that Draco gave him was what kept him going through the following few weeks of bitter silence from Ron and Hermione.

Hermione had been the first to forgive.

"I don't understand it, Harry. I don't trust him. I don't know why… but I can see that you are happy. Please just be careful."

"I will."

Ron was less accepting, of course. Too much had passed between him and Draco for them to ever lay their enmity aside. Harry caught him muttering to Hermione a month later about how he had been replaced by Malfoy of all people, how Harry was sick and Malfoy was using him and the whole thing was too disgusting for words. Harry considered confronting him, opened his mouth, his muscles tensed - before giving up and trailing back down to the dungeons to fold himself up in Draco's lap.

"He won't even try to understand," he mumbled, his face buried in the soft fabric of Draco's shirt, eyes closed and burning.

"Then I guess he's not the friend you thought he was," Draco said quietly, and tilted Harry's chin up to capture his lips in a comforting kiss. Harry felt the desire burn at his insides and they fell backwards into the cool green sheets, tearing at each others clothes.

Afterwards, lying side by side in silence, Draco's fingertips playing idly with the dark hair along the back of Harry's hairline, shafts of moonlight shining through the high windows and creating silver squares of light on the stone, Harry spoke.

"The war is coming soon," he whispered.

"I know."

- -

Two weeks later, at the end of June, Hogwarts received intelligence that the Dark Lord and his legions were planning to strike within a week. Harry woke one morning in the Slytherin dungeons to find himself alone, a white square of folded paper lying on the pillow beside him. I love you, it read. He pushed himself up, borrowed a dark green sweater from Draco's chest of drawers, and went down for breakfast. All day long he forced away the tears, bit back the screams. "You knew this was coming," Hermione said softly. He nodded.

That night, war came to Hogwarts.

A summer storm rumbled across the dark velvet night, lightning splintered the sky and struck the ground as they stood at the windows and watched hundreds upon hundreds of shadows marching towards the castle. The professors ordered the younger students to depart, called upon the centaurs and the elves, asked the seventh years for help. They did not ask Harry. His destiny was sealed, he would not be leaving. Ron came and stood by his side. Hermione squeezed his hand.

"Good luck," he whispered.

It did not take long for Voldemort to find him. He was battling Rabastan Lestrange, dodging curse after curse, as jets of coloured light and the thunder of crumbling stone filled the air. He shot a Stupifying spell at his assailant and watched him fall, before spinning round in time to see Voldemort sweep up the stone steps towards him, drawing his wand with long, white fingers. Red eyes burned with murderous, gleeful fury. Everything seemed to slow to a crawl around them and all noise fell away as Harry and the Dark Lord circled one another, preparing to strike.

"I've waited a long time for this, Harry Potter," hissed Lord Voldemort, his serpentine features twisted with malice.

"Likewise," Harry whispered, and struck.

The battle raged for many hours, and as the first golden rays of dawn shone over the horizon Hogwarts stood tall, ruined and broken but victorious. The Dark Lord lay dead in the grounds, his army defeated or escaped. Harry stumbled through the wreckage of bodies and stone, searching. Tears of relief spilled over when he was pulled sharply around and into a fierce embrace, blonde hair in his eyes and the comforting familiarity of it overwhelming him. He knew they only had a few hours before the Ministry descended upon them.

"What now?" he asked.

- -

They had pleaded and begged for a retrial, an appeal. The Ministry of Magic would not budge. The war had been waged, the side of good was triumphant. The Dark Lord had been vanquished and the rogue elements would be severely punished. A lifetime of imprisonment waited for Draco and not even heroic Harry Potters' testimony could save him. Brought together by war and torn apart by peace, Harry thought bitterly.

He was allowed to visit, once a month. One day out of thirty he was allowed to spend half an hour with the boy he loved, watching him smile valiantly for Harrys' sake as they sat on the freezing stone floor, hands clasped. Listening to him mumble that eventually he would be freed, one day they would be together. Harry knew he did not believe it. Draco wasted away in prison, unfed and abused, and there was nothing Harry could do to save him. They shared a desperate kiss when Harry departed and it made his heart scream to know that he was leaving Draco there in the cold and the dark, afraid and alone.

Harry lived at the Burrow, spent his time waiting for the next visiting day, surrounded by the love and laughter of the Weasley home but feeling none of its warmth penetrate him. Loneliness and hate were his only companions. The twins told him jokes and Mrs Weasley fed him up with nourishing meals but every smile felt like a betrayal, every mouthful felt like he was turning his back on Draco and his suffering. He stopped eating.

"You can't mourn for him forever," Mrs Weasley said, perched on the edge of his bed one cold autumn evening in September. Harry curled his fists into balls, feeling the nails bite into his skin.

"He's not dead," he snarled.

"He's in prison for life, Harry dear. You can't waste your own life waiting for him. What you want just isn't going to happen."

Harry bit back the tears, closed his eyes and ignored her. She sighed a few moments later and he heard her leaving the room, the door closing with a soft click. He ached for the embrace of pale arms and the low voice that was his only source of comfort. He turned over the memories in his mind, like discarded photographs dulled with age. Loneliness and despair had blurred the memory of happiness.

He could remember a night in mid May, before the war, when the first balmy warmth of spring stole through the castle, lingering with the moonlit nights that Harry shared with Draco. They spent every night together in the dungeons now that Ron and Hermione knew. Blissful hours wrapped in the dark and each others embrace, pretending there was no war, no destinies. Night time was theirs. Draco had surprised him this night with a few flickering candles and a badly made treacle tart. Harry had melted into his arms and almost wanted to scream with the bitterness of it all, the alien devotion that crept up and clenched around his heart. They had made love on the sheets of Draco's bed and afterwards Harry closed his eyes and wished and wished and wished.

When the day came, the one day of the month he was allowed to visit Azkaban Prison, Harry made his way through the stone corridors with a determined and aching heart. Ron and Hermione followed, playing the supportive escorts. He barely knew they were there.

Draco was curled into the corner of his tiny cold cell, head resting against the wall, eyes closed. He looked exhausted and sick and starved but he smiled when Harry came into the room and held out a shaking hand towards him. Harry slipped into his weak embrace.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered, gritting his teeth against the tears, burying his face in Draco's neck, in his hair. They spent wordless minutes gazing at each other, wanting to say everything but not daring to waste precious seconds. There was no need to say anything. They both knew.

"I'm not getting out of here," Draco whispered sadly.

"I've brought my wand." Harry drew it from inside his robes, gazing into Draco's eyes. The blonde boy nodded.

"Together."

"Together. I love you."

"I love you."

They kissed, pouring every moment, every ounce of despair and devotion into those final few moments. Draco gathered Harry weakly into his pale, thin arms, closing his eyes.

Two flashes of blinding green light brought them all running to the scene. Dementors hissed furiously, denied their Death Eater victim. Minstry officials shook their heads sadly at the saviour of the wizarding world, throwing his life away for a murderer. Ron sank to the floor in despair as Hermione began to cry.

The two boys lay silent in each other arms, and for the first time in months, they were smiling.

The End.

A/N: Please review!