A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 15

Strike The Choir

There was a tense buzz in the change rooms. There was always a buzz before the League Matches, before the ones that really counted, the ones that would decide whether or not they would advance to the finals. The air would be vibrating with the energy of the team, the determination in every face, the heartbeats, all seemingly in time, all deafening the players, as they marched to their moment of truth. There was a certain kind of pressure, a certain kind of camaraderie for having gotten that far, a certain kind of hope and another kind of resignation. There was a frisson that passed over each player as they took their place in line to soar out onto the pitch.

This was not one of those games, nor was it that kind of buzz.

The tension in the room this time was much less pleasant and much less final. More than a mark of their skills, their talent as a team, more than an indication of their power for the year, for the season, this match would be a mark of the staying power of the team. It was a mark of Draco’s staying power as a Seeker.

Every member of the Catapults was worried now. They each had to prove themselves to be as worthwhile as their record-breaking Seeker. They each had to pull their weight and make a name, a light for themselves on the professional sports stage. They each had to play better than they had ever played, follow all the rules and carve their way through critical eyes and disapproving mouths. They needed to prove that they were not riding on Draco’s coattails.

Draco, meanwhile, had to prove to them that he was not a one-trick pony. He needed to force his way through their expectations of failure, through the pressure of his miraculous two-second catch. He needed to show, not only that he was really a phenomenal Seeker, that he was worth the record he had set, but that he was not a coward. He had to prove his determination for the game. He needed to win effortlessly enough to provide evidence to the disbelieving masses that was so good, so loyal to his team, his game, that even an attempt on his life could not deter him.

Draco had learned quickly that fame was a fickle mistress and the masses were quick to believe the worst. They delighted in train wrecks, in watching downward spirals of the purest souls. They were morbid and hungry for failure just so they could throw their noses into the air and proclaim that they knew it all along. They wanted to see you rise up to the heavens just so that you could be struck down by lightning. They wanted to watch your wings melt because you rose too close to the sun and, worse, they wanted to step all over you once you fell.

“Alright, team,” Wood called out to them all. His voice was commanding but there was a grim undercurrent to his words. Draco hadn’t completely convinced him of his recovery earlier in the day. Now he glared at the locker in front of him, his knuckles white around his broom. “We all know what’s riding on this game, and it’s not really our place in the standings. Regardless, we are going to win.” There was a determination in his voice that made it so Draco need not look at him to see his eyes. They were burning and clear in Draco’s mind. He had heard Wood give this speech before. “The Falcons’ Chasers are strongest when they’re in close range to the goalposts. Ackerly, Peakes, you make sure to deter them whenever they do have the Quaffle.” Wood turned to the Chasers now. “Turner, you need to keep your eyes on Hobbes at the start of game. He’s known for moving before time. If he even flinches before the whistle, you call him on it. You have to get the Quaffle first.” He turned to Brookway and Fitzgerald. “Keep to the Hawkshead Formation when you can. The two other Chasers, Milne and Levesque are skittish. They’ll break away more easily if they see more than one person coming at them. The Keeper, Van Soom, is also stronger on her right side than the left.” He turned to Draco finally, though Draco had his back to Wood. He turned around, knowing it was his turn and stared determinately at his Captain. Wood took a deep breath. “Malfoy, we all know that Turpin is no match for you, but keep an eye on her. She’s sneaky and quick on her broom. She’s also got more of a penchant for feinting than you do.” Everyone laughed a little, but it was a strained laughter. “She’ll jet across the pitch fifty times a game just to make her opponent Seeker dance. So be wary of her sudden movements. And please,” he pleaded strangely and Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Wait until we’ve been playing for more than five minutes before you catch the Snitch.”

Draco gave an involuntary smile before they all lined up to fly out. He took a deep breath and focused on the weight of the broom in his hands to try and distract himself. The truth was that since the photoshoot, Draco had been able to think of nothing else but the letters and their threats against Scorpius. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to do something. The person, whoever they were, had gone much too far. They crossed a line that should never be crossed.

The last wizard to be mad enough to threaten the life of a child met a sticky end and tore up the world in the process. Draco only worried that Scorpius was not quite as equipped to face down Death as Harry Potter was at age one. Furthermore, Draco wasn’t there to die for Scorpius if the need arise.

Not that he was ready to compare his ink and parchment bully –because that was what they were really –to Lord Voldemort. No, not quite.

The most aggravating part of the whole situation was Potter. He had no right to force himself on Draco, thinking that he could nose around in other people’s business just because he was an Auror. Draco didn’t need his help and he wasn’t going to accept it. Draco did not need Potter to save him and he would not let Potter save Scorpius either.

That was Draco’s job and he was going to do it. He was not so weak or cowardly that he could not protect his own son.

Draco growled at the thought of Potter insisting that he would ‘help’ and kicked off of his broom.

He soared out onto the pitch –this time in Northern Scotland –and let the cold, cutting air hit his face. He breathed in deeply and flew out in a straight line, at first. The crowd was on baited breath as Draco seemed to be offering no dramatic entrance. He is scared, they were all thinking. Draco smirked to himself and then pushed himself up to stand on the thin shaft of the broom. He spread his arms as the crowd gasped and clapped. Then he kicked off the broom, doing a summersault in the air and landed back onto his Firebolt 250, urging it faster to lap the pitch twice before the joining his team for their group formation.

“It seems, Draco Malfoy is, indeed, back on the top of his game,” the announcer proclaimed. “Even after the violent injuries he suffered as a result of a sickening attack.” Draco decided that the announcer liked him and relaxed, taking his position in the air. The announcer continued to mutter, mostly to himself it seemed, until the opposing team emerged and he was forced to announce them.

Draco circled, thinking still about Scorpius and his problem with Potter. He had told Draco he would inform him when he had some information. What was he talking about? What could he possibly divine from one letter that Draco had not already figured out?

In fact, given that Potter only had access to the one letter, he probably couldn’t even decipher what Draco had. He didn’t know of the instances to which each letter referred. He could figure out what was meant when the writer referred to Draco, or to Scorpius, sure. He could also see –because it was clear –what the treats were. But Potter could not understand why this person was threatening what they were.

No, Potter couldn’t offer him any useful information. Draco knew that.

Then why was he considering the scarred git this much? Why was he still thinking about him?

“Damn it,” Draco muttered to himself. Lisa Turpin had flown up to join him, no doubt with the same plan that Blightman had had. The look in her eyes told him that she was intent on dogging his every move. He shook his head, gave her a sidelong look and then casually but deliberately shook the sleeve of his left arm so that it revealed a small portion of the black mark there.

She gasped audibly and distanced herself from him as though she thought it might be contagious. Draco snickered coldly and dropped a few feet to pay attention to the release of the balls.

As always, the Bludgers were released and soared violently and aimlessly into the air. Darting back and forth until they collided with something, the metal balls went on their way. Next the referee removed the Quaffle and placed it under his arm to bring into the air. Finally, he flicked open a small compartment in the chest and released the Snitch.

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the tiny golden ball. Everything else blurred, though his body became hyper-aware of the movement of the air around him. He could hear every sound and every rustle as players moved near him. His eyes, however, never left the Snitch as it zoomed, impossibly slow to his mind, in the air, directly towards the Falcons’ goalposts.

Draco took a deep breath and shifted his gaze so that the Snitch was always in sight, but so that he looked as though he was staring at Turpin. She stared around herself, apparently believing that the Snitch was hovering about her. To encourage the idea in her, Draco flew abruptly towards her. She gasped and dodged out of the way, immediately darting after him, thinking he was trying to pull another trick like he had against the Tornadoes. The whistle had rung in the distance to Draco’s ears as he led the opposing Seeker on a wild chase around the pitch.

He needed to ensure that she did not have time to look for the Snitch herself. He needed to make sure he always knew where it was so that he could catch it when they had scored sufficiently.

“Malfoy and Turpin are already in a race, it seems,” the announcer said. “Though perhaps Malfoy is just distracting her. Both artists in their feints, Turpin and Malfoy. This should be a good game.” Draco rolled his eyes. Turpin was no artist with her feints. Painting a million portraits did not make one a master of the craft. It just showed they had too much time on their hands. “Now Turner’s got the Quaffle and Brookway and Fitzgerald move to flank her to complete a Hawkshead Formation there. Brilliant of them, really. Wood instructed them well. Milne dashes aside as Fitzgerald zooms by and, one quickly pass and, score! Catapults Chaser James Brookway gets past Falcons’ Keeper Hanne Van Soom to score the first goal of the game! Ten points to the Catapults.”

Draco cheered pleasantly with his team before returning to his purpose. It seemed, much to his dismay, that Turpin agreed with the announcer and had stopped following him so determinately. He shot her a malevolent smile before zooming aimlessly about the pitch, always keeping the Snitch in his sights.

This is ridiculous. Where is the challenge in a game like this? Where is the excitement? Draco shook his head and followed the announcer’s calls, waiting for the right time to end it.

+++++

Harry stared at the table in his kitchen. Rather, he glared at the table as though it was a particularly uncooperative suspect in an interrogation. The table had done nothing wrong, of course. It rather fulfilled its ambitions to the fullest, being to support various objects and serve as a writing surface for Humans of all kinds.

Unfortunately, it was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and thus subject to Harry’s ire.

He had been completely thrown by the sight of Ginny with Dean Thomas. It had completely derailed his train of thought and thoroughly unsettled him. So much so, in fact, that he was now gripping the edge of the aforementioned table with such force that the wood creaked. Being that it was a rather old table, it soon caved under the pressure and a whole piece broke off in Harry’s hands.

He cursed colourfully and then pulled out his wand to repair it.

Harry got to his feet and ran his hand distractedly through his hair. He decided that he should probably not continue to abuse his furnishings and, instead, settled on pacing his floor. Granted, the floor also being rather old did not deserve to be thusly abused, still, it was much more used to it than the table.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what it was about seeing Ginny with Dean in public that bothered him. Sure, he termed it some form of betrayal, though it wasn’t really. She was a grown woman and allowed to fraternize with whosoever she chose. He had no reason to wish her ill because of that.

Rather, he had no reason to wish Dean ill because he was responding to the fraternization. Harry was simply not jealous. He had no reason to be. He…

It was old hurt that burned through him like venomous residues. They were injuries long passed and there should be no reason for them to flare up now. But Harry had never quite learned how to heal the way other people did. He still bore scars, all of his body, from his years at Hogwarts. Though most of them had faded to the point where they were no longer glaringly obvious, they were still there. He knew them all and knew all of their origins.

One thing that was true of the rumours about Harry in the papers was that he was remarkably good at holding grudges. Even years after the war, he remembered every detail of it. He remembered, in vivid and violent images, the whole of what would have been his seventh year at Hogwarts.

He had learned to forgive, certainly, those who sought it. But he never quite forgot.

Harry took a deep breath and stopped in his tracks. He needed to relax.

No. He needed to focus on his case. He had a job to do for the first time in what felt like years.

Probably because it has been years.

He needed to do it.

Setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders, Harry slipped his hand into his pocket to ensure the letter was still there. Then he focused on his destination and Apparated to the front door of Malfoy’s home. He would have much preferred to Floo in, but he had never done it into the house before. Furthermore, he was quite sure that wards would have been put in place to stop Harry doing that. Particularly after the last time he had been there.

That and Harry had always taken Dumbledore’s words to heart. Flooing in, much like Apparating directly into someone’s living room without warning them, was much as polite as kicking down their front door and setting fire to the curtains. Even to Malfoy, Harry felt he should offer the chance to refuse him entrance.

He knocked at the door and waited. Eventually, a House-Elf popped into existence in front of Harry. The door remained resolutely closed, but the Elf bowed its head to him. It was ancient looking and looked as though its fingers had been dipped in ink.

“Yes?” the Elf asked him carefully. Harry shifted, his anger with Ginny dissipating in the face of such a strangely comforting face. Harry blinked.

“Er,” he began lamely. “I’m here to speak with Draco Malfoy. I am Auror Harry Potter.”

The Elf continued to eye him but began to nod.

“Inky is cannot let Auror Harry Potter see Master Draco at the moment,” he told Harry. Harry frowned and huffed. Was Malfoy really so determined not to accept Harry’s help that he wouldn’t even shut him out personally?

“Why not?” Harry demanded before realizing that the Elf probably couldn’t answer that, nor would it feel inclined to. “I mean, can you just let him know I have information about his case? Maybe he’ll change his mind, then…”

The Elf shook his head again and Harry’s frown deepened. A crease appeared on his forehead between his brows.

“Inky cannot pass on this message to Master Draco,” he continued. Harry opened his mouth again to protest, but the Elf swayed back and forth as though trying to physically decide to cross a figurative line. “Auror Harry Potter must understand. Inky does not mean to be difficult. But Master Draco is not at home. If Auror Harry Potter intends to help Master Draco, then Inky wishes to help Auror Harry Potter. But this Inky cannot do.”

Harry made a noise of sudden understanding. Then he considered the Elf for a moment. He wondered how much power Inky had and if it was possible for him to convince the Elf to collect the rest of the letters from Malfoy to bring him. He bit his lip, weighing out the options, then decided against it. It would do nothing to help the situation if he somehow forced one of Malfoy’s House-Elves to betray him. Plus it might get the poor Elf sacked. Harry couldn’t have that.

“Well, do you know when he will be back?” Harry asked carefully. “It’s very important.”

Inky swayed again and then stepped in close to Harry, his large eyes pleading with Harry. He seemed frightened but Harry could tell by the healthy nature of his limbs and ears, as well as the prim little uniform Malfoy had given him to wear, that he did not fear for himself. Malfoy apparently treated his House-Elves better than Lucius Malfoy had treated Dobby.

“Inky does not know, sir,” he squeaked. “Master Draco is always out late after a Quidditch game.”

Harry raised his eyebrows and the Elf nodded silently at him. Harry smiled and turned from the door.

“Thank you, Inky,” he offered. The Elf nodded to him and then disappeared with another pop.

Harry stepped out onto the grass and searched his mind. He had made a point to look at all the Stadium locations for this season’s matches, in the event that something of this nature occurred. He could not, unfortunately, remember all the dates for all the individual matches.

He settled on the stadium in Northern Scotland, after assessing the rotation, and took a deep breath. He hated long distance Apparation.

He focused on the image from the Ministry file and then felt the familiar and wholly unpleasant tug behind his navel before he materialized again in front of the massive pitch. Adjusting his glasses, Harry stepped forward, trying to find the right door inside.

He spied a large man clothed in black robes with a white sash across the front. They were meant to be security to stop people sneaking in for a free show. Harry walked up to him with an amiable smile on his face while his fingers wrapped around his wand.

“Hello there,” Harry began simply. The man glanced briefly at him before deciding to ignore him. Then, when his mind caught up with what he had seen, he looked more fully at Harry and his eyes widened slightly. His demeanour shifted and he nodded to Harry.

“Harry Potter,” the man whispered, amazed. “It’s quite an honour, sir.” He offered his hand to Harry and Harry shook his pleasantly.

“Thanks,” he answered. He had never quite figured out what to say in response to those kinds of reactions, though he was accustomed to them by now. “Are the Catapults playing here tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” said the guard. According to the nametag his name was Brian O’Leary. “Against the Falcons.”

“Right,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to need to get in.” He hoped for the best but the man’s face had already shifted back to seriousness.

“Do you have a pass?” he asked, rather hopefully. Brian O’Leary apparently did not seem to want to have to turn Harry Potter away. Harry shook his head. “Then, I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. No one goes in without a pass.”

“I’m an Auror,” Harry pointed to the crest on his robes. “This is important. I’m not fooling around.”

“I’m sorry, Auror Potter,” O’Leary adjusted his title. “But I cannot let anyone in without a pass. It’s for the safety of the spectators and the players. I’m sure you understand.”

Harry gritted his teeth and felt his face get hot. He hated people who followed rules too blindly and couldn’t identify the right moment to break them.

“This is about a player’s safety!” Harry snapped without raising his voice. His tone was even but harsh and commanding. His eyes were hard and his jaw was set. “I am here to protect one of the players and I will get past you.” Harry glared daggers at the man and made himself as big as possible. While Brian O’Leary was a head taller than Harry and twice as broad, Harry’s magic was all he ever needed to intimidate. O’Leary was brawn. Harry was power “Either you let me pass quietly, or I will hex your prick up your own arse. And I know how to get away with it, too.”

O’Leary was clearly wondering if the rumours about Harry’s recklessness as an Auror were true. There hadn’t been many in recent news, but any time Harry was involved in any case it was speculated that he broke all the rules just for fun.

He decided he didn’t care to find out and stepped aside.

Harry offered him a cold smile before walking into the stadium and towards the pitch.

+++++

“And Turpin seems to have seen the Snitch! She’s flown in an impressive downward arc towards the Catapults’ goalposts! Flying like a demon, she is, but what’s this? Malfoy isn’t following her! He… is he really? Can it be? He’s waving… coyly at her? He hasn’t moved an inch and… yes, she’s pulling out of her trajectory!” The announcer seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. “Malfoy called her bluff and now Turpin looks quite the fool! No one has ever been so confident as to ignore a feint entirely!”

Draco blew her a sarcastic kiss as she flew back to his level. She glared at him but he merely sneered. If she had really seen the Snitch she would have darted off in quite the opposite direction.

He hovered, completely relaxed, in the air above the game, waiting patiently for his turn to act. He had successfully managed to pull Turpin into a number of dangerous positions with his feints. She had nearly flown headlong into her own goalpost on one occasion when he spun around quickly and flown in the opposite direction. Another time he had lead her directly into an oncoming Bludger. He had avoided it just in time for it to hit her in the chest when he veered off. It nearly knocked her off her broom too. She did a spectacular pinwheel in the air as a result of trying to hold onto her broom.

The crowd had seemed to appreciate it. At least the Catapults’ fans.

Now Draco was just biding his time. They were seventy points ahead and he needed just one more goal before he could end the bloody game. He eyed Abigail Turner carefully as she stole the Quaffle from an opposing Chaser and immediately soared towards the goalposts. Draco’s heart beat a loud tattoo against his chest as he watched her, careful to keep an eye on the Snitch at the same time.

Turner was flying directly at Van Soom, ignoring Wood’s direction to keep left. Draco wondered briefly if she had lost her mind, when he realized that Peakes was hitting a Bludger with all his force, directly at Van Soom. It shot off at the Falcons’ Keeper and she saw it just in time to swerve, leaving her center goal open for Turner to score.

Draco grinned wolfishly and immediately fell into a dive. He soared resolutely towards the ground in a perfectly vertical motion. He knew that Turpin hadn’t quite followed suit immediately. Wronski Feints had become something of Draco’s signature move, and after he called her bluff so clearly, she was intent on ignoring one of his.

Pity it wasn’t a bluff this time.

“Malfoy’s dived towards the ground, is it a Wronski Feint?” The announcer asked. “Turpin didn’t seem sure but now she’s shot off after him. This may be the real thing, Ladies and Gentlemen! Malfoy is –yes! –he’s reaching out to the ground! Looks like he’s trying to pick some grass but, no! He’s done it! He’s got the Snitch!”

Draco’s hand curled protectively around the ball that was hovering in the grass. He pulled up abruptly, the tail of his broom just brushing the ground as he did, and soared directly back up into the air with his arm raised high to show the world that he had, indeed, done it again.

Draco smug expression was captured by a multitude of flashes and cheers. He felt a sense of accomplishment, of vindication, for having proven all his critics wrong. He proved that he was not only on his game, but not afraid of bullies and threats. He wasn’t a coward.

And then Draco felt an abrupt and violent lurch as something hot and powerful knocked him in the stomach. He was thrown backwards, through the air, towards the ground. He realized deftly that his robes were on fire and his eyes began to cloud from the intense pain.

The last thing he saw was the sphere of fire and debris where his broom had exploded.

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A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! One review commented on the length of this story and that, at this point, there are a lot of unanswered questions still ahead. There is a reason for this. This is not a short fic. It's not even normal novel-length. My long fics tend to be... well, very long. I hope that doesn't scare anyone off. But the other point to this fic, in particular, was to retrain myself on how to write and think. Harry and Draco have always served me well to train my writing mind in the past, so I came back to them. I was out of sorts with it at the beginning, but I feel a bit better about it now.

I hope that answers the unasked question. I also don't like to leave loose-ends so I promise that there will be answers to every query in the story. Some just may not be as important as they might first appear. Or vice-versa. We'll see. :)

I heart you! And, as always, reviews = LOVE.