BLIND SIGHT - drarry

Ch. eighteen

(Note: this chapter may be a little confusing as Harry will go through a lot of Pensieve memories)

Harry sat alone in his study, Dumbledore's pensieve on the desk in front of him, flanked by vials of swirling silver liquid. He'd asked his friends and Zabini to give him their memories of the end of the war and Draco in the hopes that it would help him make sense of everything in his head. He still didn't remember much of his time in the hospital wing, but Zabini had said there were clues in that time, so Harry started there, pouring a memory he got from Ron into the water and diving in after it.

The infirmary was full, bodies carried in on stretchers or by their comrades. Harry moved through the throng like a ghost looking for familiar faces.

He saw Ron hurry past him, a bleeding Hermione cradled in his arms and a mix of triumph and despair on his face. Neville was carried in behind them, blood streaming from his throat.

"He did it. The Dark Bastard is dead."

"Harry did it? He killed him?" The voice came out of the mass of medi-witches and wizards that huddled together around the potions cabinet. A slim figure pushed his way through and Harry saw Draco, his robes and skin blood-spattered and a terrible hope on his pale aristocratic face.

The blond rushed towards Ron, helping him move Hermione onto an empty bed and casting several spells to stop the bleeding from the ragged stump of her arm. When the worst seemed to be contained, Draco turned to Ron again, "He's alive? Harry?"

Ron nodded, "I think so. It came down to the two of them in the end, just like Harry said it would. There was some kind of fight but I was too far away to see, then there was a light."

The red head sank onto a stool, wiping a hand over his face. "The light was too bright, I don't know what happened." Harry saw the hope fade on Draco's face as Ron went on,

"I have to get back out there. Voldemort is dead, but his followers haven't given up yet. They still think they can win if they take the castle."

A voice shouted from the doorway, "Any able bodied soldiers, we have to get to the battlements." Ron stood with a groan, clapping Draco's shoulder heartily. "I'm sure he'll be here any minute. Watch over my girl, will you?"

Harry watched as Draco nodded dumbly, and as Ron left the room the memory faded to grey mist. Harry wanted to call out to his friend, tell him to stay off the battlements, or at least stay well back from the ledge but the past was past and there was no changing it now. He took one last look at Draco, hope and despair crossing the blond's face as he moved to another bed, hands extended towards another bleeding body.

As the mist moved higher and thicker, Harry thought he heard the Slytherin mutter, "Please just let him live."

Then he was gone.

Harry came out of the memory sharply, his breath caught in his throat. The scene was muted, but it had happened and tears began to build in his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and took a few deep breaths until he had his emotions under control. Then, dry-eyed, he picked up the next vial, Hermione.

The infirmary was practically empty, a long row of empty beds lined one wall and against the other was the object of Harry's attention.

"Draco, you have to sleep. You've been at this for hours. I know it's not like me to say this, but the research can wait."

A small smile crossed the Slytherin boy's face as he sat heavily slumped over a low table covered in books and parchment. Harry could see a curtain shrouded bed beyond it and Draco's left hand disappearing through the thick white drapes.