Funerals and Weddings

For disclaimer, summary, story codes and other information, please see the prologue.

Chapter the Seventeenth: A Letter
Three weeks later
10 October

The days and weeks went by quickly for the work-laden 6th years. Even Ron was reduced to doing his homework nightly just to keep up. Despite Harry’s original misgivings, being partnered with Draco in DADA was going along quite well. They didn’t talk much—the blonde was oddly quiet this year—but they worked well together. Draco helped Harry improved his attack skills while Harry beefed up Draco’s defence.

Harry had felt a little awkward with Draco the first class after his erotic dream but he had put it firmly from his mind and focused on the lesson instead of Draco’s body…mostly. It annoyed Harry that he’d finally have forgotten about the dream and then Draco would do something—turn a certain way, give him a crooked smile, brush his hair from his face—that would draw Harry’s eye and the dream would be back full force in Harry’s mind. There was a part of him that wanted to experience the dream again—but he tried to keep that part of himself ruthlessly squashed. Honestly, he was glad he hadn’t dreamt of Draco again. And he firmly ignored the little part of his brain that was disappointed each morning when he woke after a dreamless night.

Draco’s nights weren’t dreamless. The Dream about Harry still came to him at least three nights a week (usually after DADA classes) and it was becoming harder and harder for Draco to ignore the urge to jump Harry when he saw him. For that reason, he didn’t say much around Harry—he didn’t trust himself not to let something slip that would tip Harry off as to how much he wanted him. But he loved every minute with Harry—he was proving to be a wonderful partner in DADA—and he got to look at him as much as he wanted. Fuel for his dreams, he supposed.

Early Monday morning at breakfast, an unfamiliar owl landed in front of Draco at the Slytherin table. Masking his trepidation, Draco removed the scroll and slowly unrolled it. Glancing quickly at the bottom, his fears were confirmed: his father had made contact. As casually as possible, Draco finished his coffee and excused himself—he kept Crabbe and Goyle from following by saying he needed the loo. Figuring the toilet down by the Potions classroom to be deserted this time of morning, Draco slipped inside, and after checking to be sure he was alone, unfurled the scroll to read.

My dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you have not heard from me since the day I last saw you and for this I apologise. I’m afraid I let my anger get the better of me that day; in my defence, I was exhausted from several days of travel and meetings and I did not think clearly before I reacted. I hope you can forgive your loving father of making an error in judgment.

I have said nothing of our encounter to our closest friend. Therefore, he is still looking forward to seeing you for the special event we discussed. I imagine we will have lots to celebrate when you come home for the winter holidays.

I wish you could be with us for Hallowe’en; it will be a most memorable one this year, I am sure. I know you will be thrilled when you hear the news of it.

Send your reply to the Manor—I will get it eventually.

With much love,

Your Father

Draco swiftly re-read the letter a second time. He stood blinking for a moment before darting into a stall and losing his breakfast. Tears leaked from his eyes as he knelt in front of the toilet, continuing to dry heave after his stomach was empty. He let the tears flow freely as he truly understood what he thought had accepted last August: his father was gone. Lost to him. Lost to madness. Gone willingly into the insanity that was the Dark Lord. Draco Malfoy no longer had a father.

For the man Draco knew as his father would never have written that letter. His father could never be described as loving. Love. When had he ever heard that word from his father? Never. His father, ask for his forgiveness? Never. His father, admit he had made an “error in judgment?” Never. Lucius Malfoy was above such trivialities as love and forgiveness and mistakes. No, the man he had known as his father would demand Draco beg his forgiveness for what had happened between them last summer.

Flushing the toilet, Draco stood and moved to the sink to rinse out his mouth and splash his face with water before casting a breath freshening charm. Hands braced on the basin, Draco stared at himself in the mirror. Bits and pieces of the letter floated through his mind:

…error in judgment…

…our closest friend…

…home for the winter holidays…

…loving father…

…Hallowe’en…most memorable…

…special event…

As each phrase echoed in his brain, Draco’s anger grew.

…loving father…

‘Loving father, my arse!’ His eyes were hard with hatred.

…error in judgment…

‘Error in judgment? Is that what using the Cruciatus Curse on your own son is called these days? An error in judgment? I’ll show you an “error in judgment” Lucius! Oh, I’m sorry, sir…did I kick you in the balls? Please forgive my error in judgment. Oh, dear, did my sword run you through, Lucius? What a terrible error in judgment!’

Draco’s blood was boiling in rage by this point. If looks could kill, his reflection in the mirror would have need of an undertaker. It was just at this moment that the door swung open. Harry Potter had picked the wrong time to visit this particular toilet.

Harry stopped abruptly when he saw Draco. The boy’s face was flushed, his eyes were red and he looked as though he could chew glass. Harry should have heeded his Slytherin side at this moment and beat a hasty retreat; instead he allowed his brave, often foolish, Gryffindor self to open his mouth.

“Malfoy? Are…you all right?”

All Draco could see was the red haze covering his vision. “Potter,” he drawled in his most scathing tone. “Do I LOOK LIKE I’M FUCKING ALL RIGHT?!?” Draco’s control snapped and he roared at Harry.

Harry stepped back, keeping his eyes trained warily on Draco while he slipped his hand into his pocket to finger his wand. “No, you don’t. You look like you’re ready to kill someone. What’s happened? Can I help--”

Draco cut Harry off by stalking forward and placing his nose a fraction away from Harry’s own. “No, Potter,” he hissed in a deadly quiet voice. “Your goody-goody Gryffindor self can’t help. And as a matter of fact, I am ready to kill someone. Unless you’d like it to be you, I suggest you leave… now.” The last word was bitten out between Draco’s clenched teeth.

Without a word, Harry took a step back. Never looking away from the dangerous blonde, he pulled the door open and eased backwards out of the toilet, letting the door swing shut. He walked swiftly down the Potions corridor, not stopping until he was well away. Leaning against the stone wall, he took a deep breath. He’d faced Voldemort three times, but he’d never felt such…hatred…and anger…rolling off a person as he had felt emanating from Malfoy. Harry couldn’t help but be glad that for once, he wasn’t the target of the Slytherin’s wrath—and he couldn’t help but feel a little frightened for whoever was.

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