Funerals and Weddings

For disclaimer, summary, story codes and other information, please see the prologue. Additional warning: descriptions of violence and death.

Chapter the Twenty-first: The Ultimate Nightmare
Two and a half weeks later
31 October Hallowe’en


Blood. Smoke.

Flashes of light. Darkness. Confusion. Shrieks.

The coppery taste of blood.

Running feet. Flames. Black robes. Terror.

Muttered words. A brandished wand. Blonde hair. Evil laughter.

Pain.

Pleas for mercy. The smell of burning flesh.

Agony.

Silence.

A green glow slowly condenses into a shadowy form: a leering skull.

The Dark Mark.

Draco bolted upright in his bed, sweating and shaking. Wrenching his bed curtains aside, he stumbled to the bath to splash water on his face. He stood for a moment, swallowing hard, fighting to keep the nausea at bay. He was tired of throwing up every morning. Slightly calmer, he returned to his bed and flopped onto his back.

It was the last day of October. Hallowe’en. The day he’d been dreading ever since he had gotten Lucius’ letter. He hadn’t heard from Lucius since, not that he minded. And not that he would have forgotten Lucius’ veiled message about some kind of Death Eater attack on Hallowe’en, but his Seer blood apparently felt he needed to be reminded and the dreams had started exactly a week ago.

Draco had shot awake after the first dream, terrified and sick. He’d barely made it to the toilet before heaving up his guts. Shaking, he’d thrown on his dressing gown then his school cloak over that before moving as fast as his jellied legs could carry him to Professor Snape’s quarters. The Professor had greeted his frantic banging on the door with a snarl on his face, but his expression had quickly changed when he saw Draco, white as sheet and swaying in the doorway. Taking his arm, he’d led him to a sofa before summoning a cup of tea laced with brandy and handing it to Draco with the curt order to “Drink.” Draco did, coughing slightly at the surprise of brandy. By the time he had drained the cup he felt marginally better and Snape was quietly pleased to see a flush of colour on the boy’s face.

Snape had listened silently, expressionlessly, to Draco’s recital of his dream. By the end, Draco was pale again but he didn’t appear faint so Snape let him be. Saying nothing but “Stay here,” the Professor had swept from the room, leaving Draco to huddle in silence on the sofa.

By the time Snape had returned with the Headmaster in tow (attired in a violently orange dressing gown scattered with black jack o’ lanterns, complete with matching nightcap), Draco had pulled himself together. His Malfoy Mask firmly in place, he stared into the fire as he recounted his dream again. Dumbledore had questioned him for more details, but the only thing Draco could give him were impressions—sounds, smells, tastes and a precious few snippets of images. The only clear picture he could describe was of the Dark Mark, with its snake curling from the green skull’s mouth. He’d been frustrated that he couldn’t provide any useful information; Draco knew without a doubt that he was foreseeing an event yet to come but what good was it if he didn’t know exactly what it foretold? Dumbledore had thanked him for sharing his dream and had sent him back to his dormitory with a sleeping potion from Snape. Draco hadn’t taken it. He didn’t want to revisit that horrible dream, but he was afraid to quell his subconscious. What if his next dream was more specific? He’d lain awake for a long time, finally falling into a restless doze just as dawn was breaking over the castle.

Every night thereafter had been the same: Draco would awake suddenly, heart pounding, from the exact same dream. It never changed. It was hard for Draco to explain, even to himself, just why the dream was so disquieting. After all, he didn’t really see anything. But the dream had a quality he couldn’t put into words—a coldness, a hopelessness, a viciousness, an all-encompassing sense of doom that reached the very marrow of his bones. It was the quintessence of terror.

Draco had allowed the memory to be taken from his head to be examined in Dumbledore’s pensieve, but neither Dumbledore nor Snape saw anything more than Draco. By the end of the week, Draco looked terrible; purple smudges underscored his tired eyes and his haggard expression. He couldn’t eat—it was as if the taste of blood and smoke and burning flesh would never leave his mouth—and he dropped weight he couldn’t really afford to lose. By Friday the 30th, he was in a complete daze and was finally ordered to the hospital wing by Professor McGonagall, who was truly concerned the boy was going to keel over in the middle of class. He’d submitted to Madame Pomfrey’s examination silently and, giving in at last to his body’s needs, had gratefully downed the sleeping potion she gave him. His last thought as he drifted off was ‘at least it will be over soon.’

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Harry would have had to be as blind as a bat with his glasses on not to have noticed Draco’s sudden deterioration. He’d asked his partner on Monday if he was all right and had simply been told he was fine, he just hadn’t slept well. By Wednesday’s lesson, Harry had felt concerned. He still couldn’t figure out why Malfoy was so different this year or how he felt about these changes, but the bloke was obviously ill and Harry would have to be quite cold-hearted indeed not to have felt some worry. So he asked again if Draco was OK, only to have Draco snarl,

“Yes! I’m fine. What’s it to you anyways, Potter? Leave me be.”

Harry’s first reaction was to snap back, but he held it in; he of all people knew that wounded animals tended to strike out when in pain.

“Look, Malfoy—” Harry had started gently, only to be interrupted.

“No, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m not myself. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But I’m fine. Or I will be. Just…give me some space,” Draco had rubbed his hands tiredly over his face and his voice had sounded despondent.

Harry had given in and they’d had a subdued session of practise.

Harry kept an eye on Draco in classes on Thursday and by Friday morning at breakfast, he was really concerned about the fair-haired Slytherin. He leaned over to Hermione and Ron and whispered,

“Have you noticed Malfoy this week? That he seems ill?”

Hermione frowned. “Yes, I have. Yesterday in Arithmancy, he looked terrible and he could hardly keep his eyes open. His hand was shaking so badly, he was having difficulty writing so I…” she glanced quickly at Ron, “…I offered to take notes for him. I was really surprised that he took me up on it and genuinely thanked me.”

Ron looked slightly put out at Hermione doing favours for the ferret, but since Harry was making a point to get on with the boy, and the fact that he too could see Malfoy was not well, he only said, “You’d think someone would have made him go see Pomfrey by now, wouldn’t you?”

Harry nodded. “I asked in DADA Wednesday if he was ill and first he snapped at me, but then he apologised and said he wasn’t great but that he would be fine. I didn’t want to pry, so I left it at that.”

Hermione looked across the Great Hall as Malfoy walked nearer their table to exit the room. “You know, Harry, he looks like you do after one of your nightmares.”

“I look that bad?” Harry asked, brows lifting.

Ron smirked. “Well, not as pale, but Malfoy’s got quite the head start on you there.”

Harry rolled his eyes and finished his breakfast. “C’mon, we’ve got to hurry, Transfigurations is soon and McGonagall will do her nut if I’m late again.”

It was only a few minutes into Transfigurations when McGonagall sent Malfoy to the hospital wing. Harry couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione’s observation that Malfoy looked like he did after a Voldemort nightmare. He couldn’t quite place his finger on why, but it really bothered him. Was Malfoy having nightmares? He clearly wasn’t sleeping. But what in Malfoy’s pampered existence would give him nightmares? Had something happened? Was it related to his un-Malfoy-like behaviour this term? The little seed that had planted itself in Harry’s brain the night he visited Hagrid’s pumpkin patch sprouted a little more as Harry wondered again if Malfoy was shifting away from the Dark. Movement recalled him from his thoughts and he cleared his head and focused on the lesson as the turtles they were to transfigure into bongo drums were handed out. But the idea of Malfoy suffering nightmares like his own continued to trouble Harry the rest of the day.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The door blew off its hinges as it slammed inward. A shriek could be heard from farther inside the house. A thin, long-necked woman came into view from an archway leading off the hallway. She gaped, showing teeth better suited to a horse. “Who are you? What do you want?” Taking in the black robes and wands, the woman paled even more. “You’re one of…of…them! Get out! He’s not here! Get out of my house!”

A low, hissing laugh sent chills up her spine. “Petunia Durssssley, I believe? Sssssuch a pleasure to meet you. Although your foolisssssh sssssisssster was much prettier than you, wassssssn’t ssssshe, Wormtail?” The hooded figure stepped forward and Petunia noticed the white, spidery fingers holding the wand.

“Yes, master, much prettier,” Wormtail simpered obediently.

“And where is the usssselesssss Muggle you married Petunia? And that monsssstrossssity you birthed?”

Petunia took a step back as the hissing creature took another step closer. “He’s…they’re…they’re not here. They’re away.” She cringed when the spidery fingers raised the wand to point at her head.

“You lie,” it hissed. “Luciusssss, Nott, sssssearch the housssse for the Mugglesssss.” Two of the silent, hooded figures moved forward, one up the stairs and the other past Petunia into the kitchen. Petunia felt cold as the robed creature turned toward her again. “Ssssso, Petunia, how isssss your nephew Harry thesssse daysssss?” Petunia stared blankly as fear froze her blood. “Ansssswer me, you dirty Muggle!”

Petunia jumped. “I…I…I don’t know. He’s away…at that school…I haven’t seen him…since…since he left. Why are here? He’s not here, he’s at school!” She was wringing her hands nervously as she huddled in the archway.

“Yesssss, I know. Unfortunately, the old fool hassss him well protected there…at leasssst for now,” the creature gave another hissing laugh and Petunia shuddered, inching back a step. “I can’t have Potter…yet…sssso I thought I’d have a visit with his Muggle family.” The last word was somehow even bitterer than the others.

The two robed wizards returned. “There is no one else here, my Lord,” one said, bowing.

“Pity. I wassss sssso looking forward to killing them,” the creature laughed again. “I guessss I’ll have to sssssettle for you, my dear Petunia. Lucky for me that it’ssss you I really want.” With that, the creature lowered his hood and levelled his wand. Petunia gasped at the monster before her. Red eyes burned in a snake-like face that was as waxy and pale as a corpse’s. The eyes held her spellbound; she could not look away.

“Lily Potter’ssss blood protection endssss here. Good-bye, Petunia.” Voldemort’s face twisted into a parody of a smile. ”Avada Kedavra.”

The last thing Petunia Evans Dursley ever saw were glowing red eyes and a flash of green light. She died with Voldemort’s hissing laugh ringing in her ears.


Then there was darkness.

Then there was screaming.

Doors slamming open, spells shouted, blood spattering.

”Crucio!” A red-haired man falls to the ground in agony. A teenaged girl, still dressed as an angel, weeps and wails as her virginity is ripped away, her tinsel halo crushed beneath her head. A dark-haired child clings to his mother even as she topples to the ground in a burst of green light, before slumping bonelessly as another green flash ends his life as well.

“Sectumsempra!” Blood gushes forth as a short man dressed as a devil drops and writhes, his red blood mixing with the red of his costume. A woman’s voice, crying out for her child to run. An elderly man brandishing his cane at the black-robed invaders of his home.

“Imperio!” Dressed only in his shorts, a balding man snatches a knife from a cutting block then proceeds to stab his wife of 22 years in the chest. Stabbing, over and over, until her screams stop and her blood runs in rivers over the linoleum floor. Stabbing, stabbing until the spell lifts and he freezes, staring at the mutilated body in front of him and the gory blade in his fist. The knife drops from his nerveless hand as he stares into the lifeless eyes. Gleeful laughter breaks through the shock and he turns his head. A flash of green and his eyes are as lifeless as his wife’s.



Then there was darkness. Again.

There were no more screams.

Only the sound of hungry flames eating away at blue-painted wood as fire crawls up the outer walls of a modest 2-story home. Smoke fills the air. The screams begin again, but muffled. Without warning, the front door opens and a youngish man stands illuminated in the doorway as he turns back to shout for his family. An incantation is barely audible over the now-blazing fire: ”Incendio!” The man is instantly engulfed in flames; he stumbles forward, shrieking in pain and flailing his arms. He crashes to the stoop, his arms trying desperately to pull himself forward…then he is still, with only the flames eating away at his clothing and skin still moving. The ground trembles as a dull explosion rocks the house; the gas lines have been breached. The inferno rages. Orange and red and yellow reach into the blackness of the night. Smoke billows and curls, obscuring the moon.

There is the smell of charred human flesh and burning human hair.


And there is silence.

And darkness.

Stealthy footsteps. The creak of a door pushed slowly open. Soft snores from across the room. “Incarcerous.” A startled cry as wrists are bound by ropes to the wrought-iron bedstead. Her struggles mask the whispered incantation but nothing can drown out the sound of her tortured screams as her entrails explode over the rumpled duvet.

The screams still smear the air as the shadowy figure leaves the house.


And then there is darkness. An utter blackness broken only by a glittering green skull.

Draco awoke with a violent jerk. Gasping, trembling, he shoved aside the sheets twisted around his body and yanked his bed hangings to the side. He desperately needed air. The room was dim, not dark. He glanced over to the enchanted window to see the sun rising over the horizon. Despair washed over him.

It was too late.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

A/N: I feel strangely subdued now. All I’ll say is that I would love to hear what you think of this chapter—and thanks for reading.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^