Chapter Text
Harry was screwed. He knew this, and yet he still couldn’t halt his footsteps as he stepped closer to the thin suspended platform that would surely be his doom. Perhaps he was an idiot for thinking that attending this cemetery of a war college would save any ounce of his dignity. Hell, it was far more likely he would leave this world by falling from a hundred or so feet in the air, screaming so loudly half the dragons in this god forsaken place would go deaf. Oh, right, he’d nearly forgotten about that little detail. Because if The Parapet didn’t kill him, the overgrown lizards would. Suddenly, he stumbled, nearly falling face-first into hard stone in the process. At the last moment, however, he managed to regain his balance, standing upright once again.
Harry stared out onto the narrow bridge connecting the tower he was in to the one on the other side. His salvation was so close, yet so far. “Move it, or get out of the way.” A gruff voice muttered into his ear. Harry pivoted on his heel to face the taller man behind him. He looked to be his age, with dark skin and darker eyes that stared at him with a mixture of amusement and impatience. Upon seeing Harry’s face, the man's eyes widened slightly. “Aren’t you…” Harry sighed. It was good to know even the biggest assholes managed to catch an earful of his widely known reputation in Navarre. “I am, and you can shut up and wait your turn.”
The man's eyes somehow managed to darken even more than their natural shade, but his face remained as neutral as ever. “Name’s Blaise. Zabini.” Harry turned without a second glance. “Okay then, Zabini, kindly shut up.” Harry knew he was being an idiot. His godfather and guardian, Sirius Black, had told him all about the cut-throat environment of Basgiath. “If the Dragons don’t kill you, your fellow cadets will.” Harry shivered at the memory of his godfather’s words. Then another memory resurfaced. “Keep your head up, Harry. If this is your choice, then you'd better see it the fuck through.” Harry smiled at the memory. And then he took his first step onto the narrow ledge. His legs wobbled, and his mind spun, but he forced himself to walk, one step at a time. Slowly, he gained ground, thanking Zinhal, the god of luck, for Sirius’s advice on wearing rubber-bottomed boots that would help him with balance, therefore increasing his chances of survival. Daring a glance up, he noticed a head of bright red hair a few metres away from him. From what he could tell of his profile from behind, Harry could see the man was tall, his trousers and tunic rugged and patched, hanging limply off his gangly frame. Harry looks down at his own dragon-scaled armor, durable, light, and flexible, all things he needs it to be. “Sirius really is a genius,” Harry can’t help but think, as he remembers his godfather mentioning wanting to experiment with Kavran’s—his black morningstar tail dragon—scales. Lost in his thoughts, Harry didn’t realise how far through The Parapet he was. By his estimate, he was nearly halfway down. Then, the redhead slips. It’s a small stumble, but it nearly sends him plummeting to his death. Panting, the man in front of him freezes mid walk, obviously worried that the next time he won’t be lucky. “Bad move,” Harry silently chides as he approaches the fearful redhead. Harry might be willing to be patient with the frightened bloke, but people like Zabini wouldn’t mind shoving them both off the narrow path to make room. If the frozen candidate won’t move soon, he’ll be the death of both of them. As Harry approaches the redhead, he wonders once again why he had decided to become a rider. He supposed, in a way, he always wanted to be one. His mother, a scribe, had fallen in love with his father, a rider. And no matter where Harry went, he knew his face was a constant reminder that James and Lily Potter’s legacy still lived on. It helped that he was basically a replica of his father, the only difference being his green eyes, which he inherited from his mother. “This is for them,” he reminded himself.
“Hey,” he whispered to the man in front of him. The redhead startled, but thankfully didn’t lose his balance. “W—what?” His voice was at an unnatural high pitch.
“You might want to consider moving. The idiot behind me isn’t really the compassionate type,” Harry muttered.
There was silence, and for a moment, Harry wondered if his words had been drowned out by the wind whistling around them. Then— “I c-can’t. I’ll fall.” Harry paused, knowing that it was a rational fear. Then he glanced down at the boy’s shoes and silently cursed. They were smooth-soled and worn: exactly what would get him killed. Harry turned his head, panic rising as he noticed Zabini approaching, a flash of snow blond hair appearing behind him. If Harry didn’t find a way to get the candidate in front of him to move, they would both be dead before he could shout ‘regret’. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, turning back to the man, “I’m going to give you my boot.”
“You’re going to what?!” The boy shrieked.
“You have to trust me!” Harry half yelled into the boy's ear.
Another beat of silence. “What’s the boot going to do?” He asked.
Harry internally groaned—they didn’t have time for this. Zabini was just a few paces away! Harry gushed out an explanation. “Yourbootiswornoutit’lllmakeyouslipmineisrubbergrippedtake the fucking boot!” Harry roared as he noticed Zabini grinning at him in a way that promised murder. His hand slid to the dagger tucked into his belt, but he doubted it would be of any more use than a butter knife in a fight against a bigger opponent like Zabini, especially in such a narrow space.
“Fine, give me the bloody boot!” The redhead shouted back at him. Harry didn’t think twice before lifting his right leg and shoving downwards on the hem of the leather wrapping around his calf. After some grunting and foul language, he managed to pop off the boot, nearly dropping it in surprise when it slung off. “Here! Give me your right boot and take this!” The redhead’s boot came away far more quickly than his did, and soon he was slinging his arm behind his back, his worn boot in hand; an open invitation. Harry grabbed the boot and shoved his own against the scarred palm of the redhead, body wobbling as he slung it on—
“I thought I told you to hurry up.” Harry freezes as he feels the hair on his neck prickle, his hand sliding to his dagger. But just as Harry slid the dagger out from his belt, a pair of hands shoved him forward. Harry cried out as he stumbled into the redhead in front of him. “What the fuck?!” The redhead screamed. Harry managed to regain his balance, but he couldn’t risk straightening up to see if the redhead was okay, so instead he carefully turned so he was facing Zabini, gritting his teeth and raising his dagger. Zabini’s eyes narrowed, his hand creeping to his side where his own weapon was likely stored. Harry tensed himself, preparing to unleash an attack. He knew this was it, this was the end. But he’d be damned if he didn’t go down without giving Zabini a few scars to remember him by—
“The hell is going on?” The new voice cut through their confrontation like a well-thrown knife, sounding cold, bored, and mildly irritated. Harry froze at the sound of it, at the unexplained shiver that ran down his spine when he heard it. The voice seemed to be coming from behind where Zabini was standing, and in answer to it, a slow, daunting smile spread across Zabini’s lips. “Draco, you’re just in time. Looks like you might get to make your wish come true.”
Draco.
Harry suddenly found it hard to breathe, as if his lungs refused to work. It can’t be…there’s no way…Harry didn’t tear his eyes from Zabini’s as he muttered to the man he hoped was still behind him, “Run.” He heard the soft squeak of a heel, and he knew his message had been heard. At that moment, he lunged out with his foot, his arm following as he used his momentum to drive his dagger towards Zabini’s stomach. Zabini, caught off guard, managed to stumble to the side just in time. Harry watched as Zabini waved his arms through the air in vain as he tried to keep his balance. It was all Harry needed.
In a flash, he spun on his heel and was sprinting as quickly as he could down The Parapet, head spinning with thoughts. Draco. Draco. DRACO. Harry knew there was no mistaking the person that name belonged to, the person his godfather had told him he would never have to worry about. The person who had every reason to want Harry dead. And if he saw him— “Oof!” Harry barely had time to register that in his haste, he’d managed to crash into the redhead, who in turn fell forward onto the unsuspecting boy in front of him. The three of them tumbled, Harry managing to cling onto the rocky surface beneath him as sharp gravel pierced his cheek, followed by something warm trickling down his face that he knew was blood.
“Oh, shit!” Harry looked up just in time to see the redheaded candidate grab onto the edge of The Parapet, his legs dangling in mid-air as he clung onto The Parapet in hopes of escaping the fatal drop. Harry scrambled forward, hand clasping the redhead's lighter one. “Hang on, I’ll pull you up!” The redhead laughed hysterically. “Mate, what the fuck do you think I’m doing?!” Biting the inside of his cheek to keep back a retort, because this was not the right time, Harry planted his feet on each side of the redhead’s hands, tightening his grip on the latter as he pulled. He heard a few grunts and watched in relief as the redhead kicked out his feet, finding purchase on the stone as he hauled himself up. With a final kick, he crashed into Harry. For a few moments, the two of them lay side by side, breathing in deep breaths. And then Zabini’s pissed voice broke through the peace. “You bloody git, get back here and fight!”
The boys shot up quickly, not daring to look back as they ran, the world around them becoming a blur as they stumbled on, nearly falling a few more times before, finally, the second tower’s entrance loomed in front of them. Harry practically tackled the redhead through it, gasping as he groaned from where he had been flopped onto the cool marble floor. He lay there, panting and cursing and thanking the gods for their mercy. And then it hit him. He’d done it. His eyes snapped open, and he found the cool, assessing eyes of a woman in fighting leathers staring down at him. “Hello.” He said, his voice cracking.
She rolled her eyes. “Congratulations. Name?”
He’d done it. He was here. Safe for now, just as he’d promised Sirius he would be. He opened his mouth.
A scream ran through the air, and Harry’s eyes snapped to his left, where the Redhead lay, his freckled face now clearly visible, but he was staring past him, his mouth agape. Harry twisted his head around quickly, and the air he’d managed to regain whooshed out of him all at once. There, hanging by the tips of his fingers, was a boy. Not just any boy, but the boy who had been in front of him and the redheaded candidate. “No!” He wanted to scream, but no words came out through his dry mouth. He jumped to his feet, realisation landing like a blow to his head. In the rush to escape Zabini and his company, Harry and the other candidate had completely forgotten about their run-in; completely forgotten and left the poor boy, who looked no older than fifteen, dangling to his death. Harry willed his feet to move, to go back—
His eyes landed on Zabini’s tall frame, leering down at the boy who was barely holding on. He crouched down in front of him, his smirk dangerous. And he just watched—watched as the little boy pleaded and pleaded for his help. Rage swept Harry like a storm, and he pulled out his dagger, ready to walk away with Zabini’s blood coating his hands.
And then he saw him.
His silvery blond hair was swept back as the wind billowed against him, yet his lean frame stood as still as a boulder, completely unfazed. He was wearing night black fighting leathers, so in contrast to his pale skin, just a shade darker than his hair. Harry’s gaze travelled up from his built body to his high cheekbones—only to see his eyes, like Harry’s, were no longer focused on the disaster unfolding in front of him. No, his beautiful, stormy grey eyes were set right on Harry’s. For a moment, nothing else existed except for the riot raging inside those eyes. Nothing, and no one. Harry didn’t notice that his feet had finally taken their first step. He could have walked off the Parapet and wouldn’t have cared. But reality never left him for long.
“PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU!” The spell was broken, and Harry’s eyes snapped back to the boy, his thin limbs quivering so hard, Harry could see them shake from where he was standing…doing nothing. “HEY!” He screamed, but his cry was blown away by the wind. Zabini didn’t even glance up. He just leaned down, whispering something into the boy’s ear. Harry couldn’t see much, but he swore that a few seconds later, he saw the boy begin to push. Begin to grapple his way, slowly, back up. And years later, Harry Potter would remember that in his last moments, this boy chose to fight. Then suddenly, his resolve gave out, and his arm slid out from under him.
He fell a silent death, no cry escaping him as he plummeted to the ground, as if he’d already made his peace with Malek, the god of death. There wasn’t even a thud to signal it was over. Years seemed to pass, but Harry knew it had only been mere seconds. He looked up, staring back into those stormy eyes, which had never left his. Nearby, Zabini frowned, then he spat into the abyss where the boy had been just a few seconds ago. He stood, his height once again hiding the storm behind it. And then he began walking, closer and closer to the tower, leaving behind the spot where two bloodied marks had been engraved onto the edge of the Parapet’s stone. “It’s all that’s left of him.” Harry thought, his mind still trying to find its way back to wherever this hell was. It was only later that he realised that the blood, too, would be washed away by the rain.