A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 10

Pull The Trigger

Dear Dad,

I’m sorry it took so long to write you. I promise I’m alright. Everything just got so busy so fast with school. They gave us homework on the first day! I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, I… I don’t want you to cross with me, Dad… but I ended up in Slytherin. I was so scared on the train and then this boy came to sit with me and he seemed so confident and clever. His name is Scorpius. Scorpius Malfoy. He’s really great, Dad.

And his father is Draco Malfoy! The Seeker for the Catapults, Dad! I told him there was no way, even though he looks like Malfoy. He showed me a picture and it’s true! But then, he didn’t believe when I said you’re my Dad, so I suppose it was fair.

But anyway, I told him I was worried about being put in Slytherin because no one else in the family was a Slytherin and he said that he was hoping for it. He wanted to be in Slytherin but that, if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. He said that all the houses have their worth. I asked him if he would still want to be friends if we ended up in different houses and he laughed and said of course. He said that the houses are really just a place to sleep. He said they used to be about divisions between the community of the wizarding world but that it was those divisions that caused bad things like the war. He said now the houses are just representations of old traditions and that what the school really wants is unity.

He’s brilliant, isn’t he, Dad? He kind of sounds like Aunt Hermione, but less bossy. I hope she doesn’t read this.

So… when I they put the Sorting Hat on my head… well I didn’t know what to do. I waited for it to tell me what to do. It said that I would do really well in Slytherin, that it would help with my great potential, or something. Then it said that I would be alright in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff too. But I heard that to get into the Ravenclaw dormitories you have to answer a riddle and it changes all the time. I can’t do that! I would just blank every time and never get into my own common room! And Hufflepuff… It didn’t even offer Gryffindor, Dad. I’m sorry and please don’t be angry. I told it that I wanted Slytherin and it put me there.

I was so scared of telling you. But everyone in the house clapped for me and Scorpius was so happy. And then James came over and told me it would be alright and that you would be proud of me. Are you, Dad? Are you proud? I know you said that I was named for two Headmasters of Hogwarts and one of them was a Slytherin and all… but, is it ok? Really?

Rose ended up in Ravenclaw but I guess that was obvious, wasn’t it? James told me not to worry about anything, but that when I joined the Quidditch team he would have no choice but to defeat me, brothers or not. I told him he would be lucky to get one goal in against me. I want to play Chaser when I’m allowed to join, Dad. Scorpius is going to try for Seeker, like his father. I bet he’ll be great.

Professor Longbottom told me to say hi to you and Mum, as well. He’s a good teacher, but Scorpius thinks he’s too strict with him and no one else. He might be right. I’m not sure. But Professor Greengrass is the same with me in Transfiguration. Rose too. We have that class with the Ravenclaws.

Mum said she wasn’t angry with me and that it was alright that I’m in Slytherin. She said that what matters is that I’m happy. I don’t think she was very happy about hearing about Scorpius, though. She asked if he was the only friend I made and told me I should meet other people. I told her I did meet other people. We sit with Thomas Nott and Lorcan Scamander. His twin brother Lysander is in Ravenclaw with Rose. They’re always together. There’s this girl who follows me and Scorpius around too. Her name is Dana Goodfellow. I’m a little scared of her.

Anyway, Dad, I hope everything is alright with you. I hope you don’t hate me now that you know…

I love you, Dad.
Albus Severus

+++++

Harry sat, lonely and cold, at the kitchen table. He was bathed in the pale light of the early morning. There was fog outside that had nothing to do with Dementors. He found that the two were never mutually exclusive in his mind. Not since the war. He walked through the foggy London streets, his hand always wrapped around his wand in his pocket, ready to cast a Patronus at the slightest indication of movement, of a dark hooded figure soaking in the happiness of the place.

But then Harry reminded himself, every time, that London was often foggy and that he needed to let go.

He reread the now worn letter his son had sent him from Hogwarts. He had already responded and received more letters, but he kept going back to the first. Albus Severus wrote in a way that illustrated just how worried he was that Harry would not approve. It was full of apologies and weakly attempted justifications. He tried so hard to please Harry and deeply worried that Harry would not approve.

Harry had felt tears sting his eyes upon reading the last lines, the ones where Albus asked him not to… to hate him. Harry could never hate his son. He could never hate any of his children, even if they decided to hate him for whatever reason. It hurt him to think that Al was so frightened that he thought his father might hate him.

He had congratulated Albus in his response, told him how much he loved him and that he was, indeed, proud. He was proud to have children in more than one house, proud that the Sorting Hat recognized the potential in Albus, the ambition and the sharpness of his mind. He was proud that Al had made friends and found someone he could trust.

Harry had tried to skirt around any comments Al made about Draco Malfoy, but he trusted his son’s judgment in regards to Scorpius. He sounded like –well, to be frank, he sounded like Hermione when she was younger. Harry was amazed to think of how unbiased the boy seemed to be, given who his father was.

But then, Harry did everything in his power to not think of Malfoy. It never worked very well, but he tried. He didn’t want to imagine that Malfoy was a great father with infinite tolerance who had taught his son to respect all his peers, regardless of blood status or house affiliation. He didn’t want to think that way at all, because, even though he knew they had all grown up, even though he expressed his desire that everyone accept one another, he didn’t want to lose the last shred of his youth.

He wanted to keep Malfoy a little teenaged git in his mind because… because it was easier that way.

He got to his feet, refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. He drained his cup of tea and walked towards his study to pick up his briefcase for work.

There was one thing that irked him deeply about his son’s letter. Or rather, in regards to his son’s letter.

The words that Malfoy had spoken, that night when he completely Lucius Malfoy’s file, echoed in his mind and refused to fade. He had asked Harry if he could ever love a Slytherin. Harry had thought it was one of Malfoy’s usually oblique comments that would no doubt and in some kind of insult. He had answered that when he found one worth loving, he would.

He bit his lip, realizing that Malfoy had known of news of his son before he had. Harry knew that it was likely that he had just heard from Scorpius before Harry had heard from Al. Still, it disconcerted him that Malfoy could have information on his family before he did.

But then, recently, Harry was sure that Scorpius Malfoy knew his children better than he did.

He cursed himself and stepped into the Floo.

He stepped out into the Ministry’s Atrium along with the morning rush of arrivals and made his way towards his Department, thinking still of his son and nothing else. If he had been paying closer attention, he might have noticed the woman just ahead of him, a lace veil over her eyes, walking determinately towards the Auror offices.

+++++

It stared at him. No. No, it glared at him from the table and he returned the favour. If looks could kill, Draco’s eyes would be as deadly as a Basilisk’s in that moment. The parchment on the table was toast.

Still, it put up a valiant fight. The words scrawled lazily over the surface, in green ink and loopy writing similar to the Hogwarts letters this time, burned themselves into Draco’s retinas and would never leave. They sent a searing fire through him and scorched his soul.

A mere four days after Draco was released from St Mungo’s, billed with a full recovery and more galleons than he was prepared to part with, Draco feared that he would end up back in hospital.

Or prison.

He returned home to find a small mountain of letters from fans and enemies. Some had burst into flames before he had managed to get to them. A handful of Howlers shrieked intelligible insults and condemnations through the halls of his home. There were exploding and poisoned missives designed more aggressively than they had ever been in the past. This time, it seemed, they were intent to kill him.

None of these bothered him particularly, however. There were, after all, four letters of love and concern from nameless fans to match every one letter of hatred. Granted, the four love letters were probably sent by the same person, but still. The ratio was quite off.

No. The letters that bothered him were the ones that sat, neatly piled, on a separate table. Each was a different colour, in a different envelope with a different seal. Each had different ink and writing on it. The only thing they shared in common was the size and the signature. As always.

He had gone through each of them, reading and rereading every individual word. They stung and filled him with a terror he had not felt since the height of Voldemort’s power during the second war. But the messages only spoke of the kind of condemnations Draco heard on a daily basis. Until the last one.

The message contained in the most recent letter was not something that frightened Draco so much as he enraged him. The loathing and fury that filled him with every word of that letter was enough to make him forget his fear and plot murder.

So now he sat, glaring at the paper, itching to burn it but knowing that he must not. He knew he must keep it and lock it away, along with the others, because then it was only words. Then it was nothing but a piece of parchment.

Parchment couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t hurt anyone. It was parchment.

He breathed as deeply as he could with the bandages over his chest. His wounds were closed, but the Healers insisted. Nott had insisted that the bandages, painted with dittany, would limit any scarring. Draco had allowed it, knowing it was the only way to escape.

Now, as he felt his breath constricted by the bindings, he regretted it.

“Inky,” he whispered to the air. A little pop and the Elf appeared before him, his large eyes expectant. Draco motioned to the table. “You know what to do. I can’t see it anymore.”

Inky nodded and picked up the letter. Before disappearing, he turned back to Draco. His ears drooped slightly and Draco found himself wondering if his own ears drooped when he felt despairing. He was sure that something showed, no matter how hard he fought to keep his face impassive.

“Is there anything else Inky can do for Master?” the little Elf inquired. Draco considered him for a moment before offering the Elf a very small, sad smile.

“Yes,” he responded. “A stiff drink.”

The Elf disappeared and Draco leaned back against his chair. The Prophet lay on another table next to him. A black and white portrait of himself, flying in his Quidditch robes, covered a quarter of the front page. The headline next to it: Record Breaking Seeker Attacked. The writer of the article couldn’t seem to decide whether to be in awe of Draco’s Quidditch achievement, or vindicated because he had – apparently –instigated a brawl and been knocked off his ‘pedestal’.

Draco never read the Prophet anymore. Aurora kept a subscription, however, to keep track of the public opinion of him. Apparently, she believed this was important for his image, or something of the like.

Draco could not care less.

“Draco, love,” Aurora’s voice flitted suddenly on the air towards him. He groaned softly and turned to her. She was standing in the doorway, playing idly with her hair. Draco tried to seem serene. “Skeeter owled again. She insisted that you told her you would keep your interview with her. She offered to come here to do it if you weren’t feeling up to going out.”

Draco groaned more loudly and rolled his eyes. He thinned his lips and glanced at the newspaper next to him.

“I do not want that woman in my home,” he murmured. “Tell her I’ll meet her at her office in ten minutes. If she’s not there, she gets no interview. And I’m only giving her half an hour to talk. No more. Merlin knows she’ll get enough out of half an hour to make up three pages worth of meaningless nonsense anyway. Why give her too much to work with…”

He was talking more to himself than his wife, but she made a note of it and left to inform Skeeter. Draco got to his feet and went to change his robes. If he was going to spent time with Rita Skeeter, he was going to need to look his best. No need for her to think that he wasn’t in top shape. He didn’t need any more speculation about a spectacular failure at his next game.

Surely they all think I’m going to implode from the pressure of my last win, anyway. Why add fuel to the fire?

The press was known for spinning a story and Skeeter was so good at twisting what she saw that it was a wonder she wasn’t cross-eyed.

+++++

So much for a month’s worth of paperwork.

The riot, as it turned out, generated very little paperwork for the Aurors at all. Most of it was completed by Hit Wizards and clerks overnight. Harry had missed the flurry of parchment and memos flying about the office when he bolted to St Mungo’s to get Malfoy’s statement.

He sighed and leaned his head against one hand, scribbling nonsense on a sheaf of parchment. He hardly knew what he was writing anymore. It was only once he realized that he had justified his use of Stunning Spells on rioters by proclaiming that they had set fire to the bitch sternum that he decided that any kind of administrative work was a lost cause for the day.

Harry scribbled over his mistake and then shoved the forms aside in favour of laying his forehead down on the cool, polished surface of his desk. He sat there, staring at the wood less than an inch in front of his eyes, wondering how it had come to this, when he heard his door creak open and sat bolt upright.

Realizing that it was a woman’s hand on the doorknob, Harry quickly attempted to busy himself with something or other. It did not do well to appear as though he had nothing better to do than nap on his desk. Even if that was the truth.

He snatched a quill from the ink pot and immediately pretended to be writing something before he realized that there was no parchment beneath him and he had just spilled ink onto the desk top. He cursed and cast a cleaning spell while moving things idly around. He was sure that the person was inside his office now and probably reconsidering him and his position.

“Auror Potter.” The voice was smooth and quiet, but cold and cutting. It was familiar in some way but he could not quite place it. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Harry looked up once his desk was clean and his eyes fell on a woman he did not believe he would ever see again. He had hoped, in some way, that he would never see her. The room was instantly distorted, being pulled into a funnel with its apex at the doorway.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” Harry responded, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He nodded to her and tried to offer a smile, but his mouth wouldn’t quite pull up that far and, by the look on her face, it must have looked more like a grimace. “Please, take a seat.” He motioned to the intentionally uncomfortable wooden chair stationed in front of his desk.

“Thank you,” she said, clearly ruled by her aristocratic background. He could tell that she had not shown up for any kind of courtesy visit. Her red-stained mouth was downturned and her eyes were sharp. Her long fingers were clasped around a small strapless purse. Her robes were black with silver piping and seaming. The clasps were wolf heads howling on each end of a crescent moon. Her long white blond hair was carefully plaited.

So, not here to thank me for closing her husband’s file. I suppose that was too much to hope for…

“How can I help you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry asked, his voice somewhat curt. This woman, more than any other woman on the planet, made him feel uncomfortable. She tilted her chin at him and pursed her lips.

“You can take your job a little more seriously, for one,” she informed him haughtily. Harry blinked and then gaped.

“Pardon –” he began but she cut him off. Harry suddenly realized that she was panicked, though she hid it well.

“You need to start doing your job, Harry Potter,” she said. Her voice steadily became more shrill as she spoke. “You need to take my son’s case more seriously and actually do something to help him! “

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry attempted again, but she would not let him speak and he was at a loss at how to make her listen.

“No,” she told him sharply. “Auror Boot told me you took the file but wouldn’t work on his case. What is it you want, Potter? Is it not exciting enough? Or perhaps you think the way the rest of the foolish young wizards who witnessed the war from afar do. Perhaps you think that whatever Draco gets, he deserves. “ Harry did not make an attempt to speak this time. He simply stared through his lenses at her. “Well he doesn’t deserve this, Potter. He doesn’t deserve to be threatened with death and torture. He doesn’t deserve to deal with it on his own, bearing the weight and responsibility of his entire family. And it’s only getting worse. He deserves help and he deserves your help, Potter.” She paused, her shoulders heaving from the force with which she delivered her speech. She swallowed and folded her hands before narrowing her cold eyes at him. “I thought your job was to save people.”

Harry couldn’t avoid it any longer. He gazed directly into her eyes and saw only the poor, terrified eyes of a seventeen year old boy about to be consumed by fire. He saw cold silver eyes, stained with tears and pain before they were stained in blood.

Harry felt his stomach lurch and the strange vortex that had become of his office swirled more violently. His mouth was a hard line. The scars on Malfoy’s chest from that night in St Mungo’s swirled in Harry’s head like a fog.

“You said the situation is getting worse?” Harry found himself asking, his voice quiet. He felt a stab of anxiety in his gut. Narcissa Malfoy nodded and snapped open her purse. She pulled a nondescript letter from within it and then snapped it shut, holding the letter out to Harry. He took it and looked over its surface. It was average parchment with an untidy scrawl in blue ink. The seal was inconspicuous. There was no particularly unique aspect to the letter. He unfolded the parchment and scanned the contents. His stomach plummeted.

“They started threatening Draco’s son, Scorpius.”

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A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews!

Ley: Hello! I missed you! lol XD Yeah, this one is different... I'm not sure why. We'll see what happens, hehe. I'm glad you like it, though! And Ginny... will hopefully make more sense later. X_X Yes, hehe.

yaoiObsessed: I'm glad you like it! And yes, those men are sick, though they're not the only ones. There will be more action between these two for sure. :D All kinds of action, hehe.

thrnbrooke: Yes, they got somewhere, lol. Somewhere good? Maybe not. XD

I hope you liked this chapter. Reviews, as always, garner my undying love. :D