A Draco fic for Kikyous Spirit, who made me see that Draco Malfoy may not be all that bad, who somehow got me to roleplay him, who keeps me from burning the Abominations I create (only she calls them Harry Potter fanart), who gave me the idea for this, and who made me post this.

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It was a scene of ending, where one knows that it must finish, whether in happiness, tragedy, or merely death, but finish it must. It was the type of ending that could be told for decades afterwards, or perhaps even be the ending of a book—no—a series of books.

And, looking at it all, Draco Malfoy realized it had never been his story at all. Of course it hadn't, or why was it Harry Potter standing alone to face the Dark Lord while Draco watched from behind the ruins of a pillar smashed by a curse? It was Harry standing defiant in the face of certain destruction, everyone else eliminated or unable to come to his aid.

Draco wondered vaguely what he should be feeling at this point; it occurred to him that he should feel some satisfaction. After all, the boy he had hated, tormented, and been occasionally shamed by from the beginning was going to die, but that wasn't at all what he felt. It was an unidentifiable emotion that seemed almost like…like…disappointment. Death seemed so terribly permanent; what was there to look for after it? Doubtless Potter would have no trouble moving on to see his blasted godfather and parents again…maybe some of his friends too; Draco was not sure how many of the fallen were really dead or would be dead by the time Harry met his speedily approaching end.

But for Malfoy? What was in store for him? He realized with dismay that he wasn't sure. In a way, one could almost say his life had almost revolved around that one individual and making life miserable for him and his pathetic friends. So many times Draco had envisioned a thousand deaths for each of them, but he had never given a thought to the afterward. Now that he did, he discovered that nothing came to mind, not even the sense of jubilation he had expected.

It irked him.

It was also at that point that it hit Draco how much of a coward he was and had always been. It hadn't taken any bravery to ridicule the Weasleys' financial misfortunes or to throw insults at Hermione for her "impure" parentage. It had taken no noble sense of duty to harp on Harry's first unfortunate run-ins with the dementors or to gloat over Cedric's murder. It hadn't taken any agonizing over ethics when he had exaggerated the "killer hippogriff" story and nearly gotten the creature's head cut off. It had been no act of bravery to flaunt and take advantage of his power as a prefect or as one of Umbridge's favorites.

For all his arrogant talk, he was the one rarely seen without his bodyguard-like Crabbe and Goyle at his side, and he had been the first to flee when Hermione had had enough and finally struck him. So many times he had wielded his father's influence in his favor, but the gratification had never been satisfying; it always felt as if he hadn't pulled it off just right. That was the only way his father was of any help to him, and even then it certainly hadn't won any friends for Draco.

Ah, friends. Did they even really exist? Not that it made any difference now, but perhaps it was a question worth pondering had there been enough time. But there was never enough time for anything, now was there? He supposed Potter had said something about friends before, but since when did he listen to anything Potter said? Who would have thought there was a chance that his words might have been useful someday? But even that did not matter now, as time slipped through the fingers of the present and fell away into the ocean of the past. There was too much to understand, too much that never could be understood.

He sat there, watching as the Dark Lord raised his wand, watching the eyes of both combatants, knowing they both were aware that this was the end. Draco understood that there was nothing to seeing the outcome; that perhaps if Harry had only had a little more time it would be different, but there was not that vital time.

Yet there was one thing Draco did not understand. He didn't understand why he was moving towards the two lone figures standing before him—he was vaguely aware that he was running, but everything seemed to pass so slowly—or why his path veered toward where Potter was. He did not understand that even as the word "Avada…" formed on Voldemort's tongue his hand roughly shoved his rival out of the way. He barely understood the words that passed his own lips: "You're a bloody idiot, Potter…"

He didn't understand why he had interfered at all; it wasn't quite satisfying; he felt as if he hadn't pulled it off just right. It was an act one could almost consider courageous, yet he had never done anything of the sort, so of course it couldn't be considered such. Right? He wasn't sure; he needed a little longer to understand. But there was no time, and he saw nothing but a blinding wash of green light before he felt his breath ripped from his lungs with a strangely free sensation. He felt himself falling and could not understand, but it didn't matter.

It had never been his story anyways.

Owari