Moonlight spilled like crushed silver across the dead branches at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. When the wind stirred, those brittle limbs shook violently, their shadows clawing at the ground like a pack of howling wraiths.
Harry leaned against the stump of a half-broken oak. The moment his back touched the rough bark, pain shot through him—there was a long gash there, and blood had already soaked through his dark coat, gluey against his skin. The night wind sliced through it all, cold enough to seep straight into his bones.
His wand was still clenched in his hand. Sweat had made the handle slick, and his knuckles were white from how tightly he held on.
His vision blurred. He'd slammed into another tree while dodging Kingsley's Impediment Jinx; his temples still throbbed, and every pulse sent another wave of darkness across his sight.
"Harry, stop hiding."
Kingsley's voice carried from not far away—low, heavy, threaded with helplessness. "This was Dumbledore's final order. We… had no choice."
Harry gritted his teeth and said nothing, only pulling himself deeper behind the tree.
Dumbledore's order.
The words pierced his heart like a fistful of needles.
The old man with the half-moon spectacles, the gentle smile, the headmaster who had once told him that people were never simply good or evil—how could that man leave behind an order to kill Harry Potter?
Just because he was Voldemort's final Horcrux?
Footsteps approached—more than one pair. Kingsley, Evans, and two other Order members whose names Harry didn't even know. Their boots crushed the fallen leaves with soft rustles, each sound scraping across his nerves.
Evans' impatient voice drifted over: "Kingsley, enough talk! We have to deal with this before sunrise—no time for complications!"
Harry drew a slow, shaky breath and forced himself upright, wand lifted toward the sound of their approach.
But he had nothing left. The war had ended only days ago. He hadn't even recovered from the battle that had nearly killed him, and now his own allies were hunting him down. His arm felt like it was filled with lead; even raising the wand was a struggle.
"Expelliarmus!"
Evans' spell shot past, a streak of red grazing Harry's ear and exploding against the tree behind him, showering him with splinters.
Harry staggered aside, but his foot caught on a root. He fell hard. His wand flew from his fingers, rolling into the grass several meters away.
Damn.
His heart seized. He scrambled to get up, but as soon as he lifted his torso, Evans lunged forward, wand raised.
"Stop struggling, Harry. I'm sorry."
A harsh violet glow gathered at the tip—
the Bone-Shattering Curse. One hit and the bones would turn to powder.
Harry stared at the violet light. His mind went blank. He barely had the strength to breathe, much less dodge.
Just as the spell was about to strike his chest, a sudden crash burst from behind him—branches snapping violently.
A familiar voice tore through the night:
"Harry! Move!"
Harry whipped around.
A blur of pale blond hair rushed toward him—Draco.
Draco looked a wreck. His blond hair was as messy as wind-tossed grass, a gash sliced across his left cheek, blood pooling at his jaw. His black robes were ripped open in several places, the shirt beneath stained with more blood.
His wand was still sparking, as if he'd fought his way through half the forest to get here.
Before Harry could react, Draco barreled into him, shoving him aside.
Harry tumbled across the ground, his elbow scraping a rock and sending a sharp jolt of pain up his arm—but he didn't care. He looked up just in time to see the violet Bone-Shattering curse slam into Draco's back.
"Ugh—"
Draco choked on a sound, his body convulsing as if struck by a hammer. He stumbled forward two steps and collapsed to his knees.
One hand clutched his back; the other still clung to his wand, knuckles bone-white. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, pattering onto the fallen leaves—bright, vivid, unbearable.
"Draco!"
Harry scrambled toward him like a madman, grabbing his shoulders. The moment his hand brushed Draco's back, he felt scorching wetness—blood still pouring out. Even through the fabric he could feel the ragged edges of the wound, terrifying in size.
Draco slowly turned his head. His face was pale as paper, breaths thin and broken. Yet his gaze held no resentment—only a faint, relieved softness.
"Are… are you hurt?" he whispered, voice as fragile as a breath of wind.
"I'm fine! Are you stupid? Why would you come here?" Harry's voice shook uncontrollably. He tried to press Draco's wound, but the instant he touched it, Draco's brows knitted in agony. Harry snatched his hand back, panicked and helpless. "They're after me. Why would you come?!"
Draco tried to smile, but the movement made him gasp; blood slid down his chin again.
He lifted a trembling hand, reaching toward Harry's face. His fingers brushed Harry's cheek—then fell limply.
"I… I heard about Dumbledore's order… I couldn't let you die…"
"How did you know?"
Harry's tears finally fell, hitting Draco's hand like tiny bursts of heat.
"Who told you?"
"S-Severus… my godfather…" Draco's voice grew thinner, eyes unfocused. He stared desperately at Harry, as if trying to carve his face into memory. "Harry… don't let them… hurt you… run…"
His words faded. His body went slack, collapsing into Harry's arms. His wand slipped from numb fingers, hitting the ground with a soft clatter, rolling into the grass.
"Draco? Draco!"
Harry pressed his fingers under Draco's nose.
No breath.
His body still held a trace of warmth—but it was fading, cooling like a dying winter fire.
Harry held Draco's corpse, unmoving.
The wind blew. Leaves whispered.
But he heard none of it—only Draco's eyes before he fell, and the trembling words: I couldn't let you die.
Kingsley and the others approached. They stopped a short distance away, silent.
After a long moment, Kingsley sighed.
"Malfoy… why did you do it…"
Harry slowly lifted his head. His gaze was empty, terrifyingly hollow.
"What… was Dumbledore's order? What does it mean that I'm the last Horcrux?"
Kingsley hesitated before answering:
"Before he died, the Headmaster told us privately. There is still a fragment of Voldemort's soul inside you—the final Horcrux. To erase Voldemort completely… you must die. He said it was for the greater good, for everyone."
"For everyone?"
Harry laughed. The sound scraped like broken glass.
"So you kill me?
And you let him—"
He lowered his head to look at Draco, voice collapsing into despair.
"You let him die like this… because of me?"
Evans frowned and stepped forward, wand lifted.
"Harry, stop this. We cannot defy the Headmaster's—"
He never finished.
Harry stood—still holding Draco's body.
He didn't reach for his wand. His arms tightened around Draco, and his eyes were void of all emotion, a dead and bottomless pool.
He turned toward the depths of the Forbidden Forest, steps unsteady but unyielding.
"Harry! Where are you going?"
Kingsley moved as if to stop him—but Harry's empty gaze froze him in place.
There was nothing left in those eyes. No rage. No fear.
Only the silence of something that had already died.
Harry said nothing.
He carried Draco into the forest. Moonlight dimmed behind the thickening canopy. Finally, even his shadow vanished.
He didn't know how long he walked.
When his legs finally gave out, he fell to his knees, Draco's body slipping to the ground with him.
He collapsed over Draco, chest heaving, each breath a knife of pain.
His life was draining away—blood still leaking from his back, magic completely spent.
He reached out, brushing the messy blond hair from Draco's forehead.
His voice trembled faintly, more exhale than sound.
"Draco… I'm sorry… If I'd known… if I'd known this would happen…"
His words faded.
His body went still atop Draco's, unmoving.
Deep in the Forbidden Forest, only the wind whispered through the branches.
Two bodies lay entwined in the darkness.
Silent.
Forever.