Title: Oneshot A Redrawing of Lines
Parings: Possible D+H. Depends on how you read it.
Warnings: HBP spoilers, angst.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all things such related are copyright J.K. Rowling. I own nothing, am making no profit, and mean no harm by spinning my amusing little tales. Some dialogue taken from the American version of "The Half Blood Prince".
Author's Note: Fuck. I have no idea where this came from. I was re-reading the end of HBP and it just kind of ... happened. What follows is inspired by my thoughts on the whole fiasco. Scenes from the chapter, "The Flight of the Prince," and those surrounding it, told from Draco's perspective. HOLY CRAP I WROTE IN THIRD LIMITED. It's the end of the world:)

I figured I should probably get this up before "Deathly Hallows" shows up and totally proves all my post-HBP theories wrong. :)

A Redrawing Of Lines

Draco knew, before he had touched the first winding step, that there was no way on Earth he could do what he had been told must be done.

He knew before he disarmed the Headmaster, before he put two and two together and realized a third person was hidden there with them. He knew before Dumbledore began to speak. He knew before the man's words penetrated his mind and his heart and started to sway his emotions.

He knew before he had woken up that morning. Or even before that; when he was told, by the venerable, surging mass of evil himself that he was to become a killer before he had even reached adulthood.

The Death Eaters were around him. And that horrifying werewolf, Fenrir; he recoiled in his mind. He vaguely remembered speaking, but could not remember what had been said mere moments after the breaths crossed his lips. Draco had never felt so afraid.

Standing there, in the chaotic, freezing wind - almost an entity of rage, itself - cold to the bone and shivering from fear, he stole a glance at the stars. Wishing with all his might on the first one he saw, not knowing which, he ached for someone to save him.

And someone did.

He felt himself pushed roughly to the side. Confused, he looked up ... Up into the face of the one man at Hogwarts he respected above all others - Severus Snape. But Draco was not holding his attention; Dumbledore was. The old man was whispering, begging? No, his face was all wrong. A serene kind of acceptance, of willingness to submit to fate, was what the pale young boy saw.

Snape leveled his wand.

Draco saw it out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the Headmaster.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Draco watched, horrified as his fear escalated, while the body of the Headmaster sailed - almost gracefully, bird-like - in a horrific arc in the air, falling below the battlements of the tower. First his head, then his arms, his torso, his legs.

His feet.

The boy struggled with a muddled cry of anguish and fear and confusion as he was pulled heavily from the tower. Snape was shouting at him, but everything seemed to be in mute. He felt as if he were fighting through a raging current, the entire world going so unbearably slow around him, the sounds of people screaming and fighting and crying and burning all jumbled together in an overbearing, overwhelming, orgiastic frenzy in his mind.

Was this what war was like?

If it was, Draco had had enough.

He wanted to fall to his knees and clamp his eyes shut tight, cover his hands over his ears and block out the gut-wrenching noise. He wanted to pretend he was somewhere else, like he did when he was young and his parents were fighting and he was scared.

He was scared.

Draco barely realized that he had stopped. His eyes shut painfully tight, he imagined he was home. Riding his most favourite alabaster Andalusian mare along the grounds of his family's home. Swimming in the warm-water pond by the forest. Lying on the grass in the sun staring up at the clouds.

When he was young and he didn't understand. When he didn't have a care in the world.

"Run, Draco!"

The cacophony of reality crashed down upon him again. He heard voices shouting curses. He turned back: Potter and Snape had their wands pointed at each other in a menacing, duel-like stance - Snape's face a picture of commanded, silent authority; Harry's, of rage and fear and complete and abject sadness.

Draco felt like he wanted to cry, too.

His body seemed to move of it's own will. He forced himself to turn and run, as fast as he could, to get away from the shouting and the fear and the pain.

"Crucio!"

An ear-splitting scream.

He skidded to a halt and flung himself around to look. Potter was lying on the ground, writhing and howling in pain, face a contortion of anguish, tears running down his cheeks. The lumbering blonde man and the siblings were all attacking him at once, and yet Potter was still fighting - he wouldn't give in to the pain.

Snape's face was a mixture of horror and rage. He screamed at them to stop, and cast a look back at Draco, his eyes pleading with his charge to run. "Run fast and run hard," he seemed to say. "I will catch up to you."

Though he ached to help, Draco did as he was told.

He always did as he was told.

Didn't that make him a good boy, as his mother always told him? He wasn't so sure anymore.

He lost track of everyone. He grappled for his wits as he stood at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. He saw the other Death Eaters sprinting toward him and felt nothing but fear.

They will hurt me. They'll kill us! I've failed; I know I've failed and they know and now Voldemort will know ... I wish I could just die right here. On my own terms instead of ...

"You won't die, Draco."

He looked up. Snape was beside him. Draco was puzzled. He could feel the tears running down his face, the fear swelling so large within him that he felt he would burst.

Snape held out his hand, and Draco took it.

"I promised I would keep you safe. I intend to honor that promise."

Without thinking, Draco breathed, "Potter?'

Snape looked back at the Death Eaters lumbering across the grounds. At Potter, searching for them and not finding them where they were hidden, just out of view; realizing his defeat and running to the aide of his friends.

Draco admired his courage. His bravery.

He wished he was helping his friends right now, instead of running terrified into the night, praying for his very life.

Snape smiled, a little self-assuring quirk of the lips, and whispered, "The Order will keep them safe."

Draco grasped onto his godfather's arm as the familiar sickening tug of side-along apparition overtook him. He had no idea where he was going, if he would truly be safe, or what would happen to those he loved.

He had one last thought that he sent out in vain, whispering in a mixture of despair and longing hope, wishing the person he would tell it to could hear him.

"Give him hell, Potter. Give him hell."