Drarry: The Boy Who Loved

Photograph

"Harry, I found him."

Ron's voice sounded strange. Choked. And he seemed to be standing in front of the bathroom. 

Harry filled with dread. He somehow knew what was inside. He walked down the hallway with the others following behind him. Actually, he was running. But things seemed to be moving in slow motion before his blurred eyes. This is how a bride must feel, walking down the red carpet toward the person she loves. But Harry was running toward a bathroom, and the only red carpet he was walking down was stained with blood. 

Harry stood motionless in the doorway. He felt frozen and so, so helpless. He felt like it was his fault. He should've been there more often. He should've listened more, should've pushed Malfoy more to talk to him. He should've done more. 

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was small in his ear. "Let me see." Harry didn't move. He couldn't. Ron gently pushed him to the side as Hermione screamed. "Oh my god!" She cried, over and over. 

Harry regained feeling in his legs and stumbled over to Malfoy just as his knees buckled. He fell on his knees next to him, blood splashing around his hands. Tears flew down his face as Neville called Saint Mungo's Hospital's emergency ward. He clasped Draco's cold hand in his and felt a weak pulse. So he wasn't dead. Harry didn't know what else to do, other than hold his hand and repeat numbly, "I'm here, Draco. You're okay. I'm here."

It felt like forever before Hermione knelt down next to him. Two nurses stood at the door, waiting to take Malfoy away. "Harry," she said softly. "You have to let him go."

"No," Harry sobbed, and held Malfoy's hand tighter. 

"Harry, these people are here to help him."

If anything, Harry saw the nurses as a threat. They were going to take Malfoy away from him. Harry might never see him again. He'd seen so many people get killed, lost so many friends. He didn't know if he could bear to lose another. But he also knew that if he didn't let go, Malfoy wouldn't have a chance. So he glanced once at his face, the face that could've been sleeping, and took a mental photograph. He folded it away in his heart for safekeeping, so he could take it out and unfold it whenever he felt like it, smooth it out like the most precious document in the world. 

He let go.