Funerals and Weddings

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

Chapter the Twenty-third: Harry Strikes Back
The same day
1 November

Bang, bang, bang! Draco stood waiting impatiently outside his Head of House’s quarters yet again. ‘Answer the door!’ thought Draco irritably. ‘Wake up!’

Bang, bang, bang! Still no answer. “Where the hell could he—” Draco interrupted himself. ’Fuck! What if he was called by the Dark Lord? What if he was there? With Lucius and the other Death Eaters? Could he have participated? Killing those people?’ Draco felt sick at the thought. He paced in front of Snape’s door.

‘What do I do now? See Dumbledore, of course! Draco, get a hold of yourself—use your brain!’ Scolding himself for wasting time, he hurried off to the Headmaster’s office.

Upon arriving, he realised he didn’t know the password. He spent a moment begging the gargoyle to let him in, citing an emergency, but it remained frozen. Sighing, he began naming every sort of sweet he could think of: sherbet lemon, Fizzing Whizbees, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, chocolate frogs, ice mice, fudge flies, licorice wand, chocoball…

“Mr. Malfoy,” Draco was saved from naming every sweet he knew by the man he was looking for. “I take it you were looking for me?”

Draco turned and was shocked to see the Headmaster’s appearance. His face was haggard and the blue of his eyes was intensified by the red streaks through the whites. His robes and beard were grimy with what appeared to be soot. His boots and the hem of his robes were caked with mud. The man looked exhausted and ill.

“Headmaster! Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better, but thank you for asking Mr. Malfoy. Is there something you needed?”

Draco’s brain, still reeling a bit from his nightmare, had finally put two and two together and realised Dumbledore must have been out at the scenes of the attacks. “Yes, I needed to tell you…but I think you already know.”

“Know what?”

“About…the Death Eater attacks,” Draco replied, suddenly realising that he was assuming what he had dreamed had actually happened. No, he knew it had happened. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it had been real.

Dumbledore looked momentarily surprised, then nodded. “Follow me, young man. I believe this is a conversation we best have in private.”

With that, Dumbledore gave the password (“Twix”) and Draco followed him up, wondering, ‘Twix? What the hell is a Twix?’

Dumbledore sank into his desk chair with a tired sigh. “Ahh, that’s a bit better. Now, Mr. Malfoy, tell me how you know of the Death Eater attacks. Did your father contact you? Or did your previous dream become more clear, perhaps?”

Thinking of the dream made Draco’s body feel chilled again. “I dreamed it…or maybe I Saw it. I’m not sure, but I think I saw everything that happened. It was like I was there. Like my dream about Lucius, not like the dreams have been all this week. You’ve just come from there, haven’t you? From where the attacks happened…and those people were…killed.”

“Yes, I have just been to the scenes of multiple attacks,” Dumbledore acknowledged. “But I only saw the aftermath, not the attacks themselves. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to tell me what you saw in your dream. Or perhaps—the pensieve might be easier?”

Draco nodded. “The pensieve. That way you can see everything—and I won’t accidentally leave out something that may be important. But I warn you, Headmaster—it’s…horrifying.” Draco swallowed hard as images from the dream flashed unbidden across his mind.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, I imagine it is. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go clean up a bit before diving into your memory. I find I am quite anxious to rid myself of this ash and the smell.” With that he excused himself and went through a door adjoining his office; Draco imagined that it led to his private quarters.

Draco fell into a light doze while waiting. When the Headmaster returned, looking quite a bit better in fresh robes and clean hair, Draco siphoned the silver memory into the pensieve and Dumbledore dove in. Draco was so tired, he couldn’t help himself and fell back asleep on the settee.

Albus Dumbledore emerged from the pensieve and saw Draco sleeping. He felt sorry for the boy, especially after what he’d just witnessed in the pensieve; so he left him sleeping and made firecalls to the Order from his private quarters. It disturbed him greatly that Voldemort himself had participated in the raids last night. They had no evidence of him doing so since his resurrection and Albus believed it meant one of two things: Tom had felt Petunia Dursley was too personal or too important for anyone else to handle or Tom was feeling very strong—strong enough that the thought of putting himself in possible danger did not worry him overmuch. Personally, Albus hoped it was the former rather than the latter. A Voldemort confident in his own safety would only become more aggressive and more dangerous. He hoped that the fact that Tom Riddle had only been clearly present at the murder of Petunia and not at any of the other Muggle homes lent some weight to his preferred theory. Deciding he couldn’t wait any longer for more information, he spelled open the floo to Grimmauld Place and hoped someone from the Order was there.

Draco slept soundly on the Headmaster’s little couch; it was as if now that his Seer’s blood had done its duty, it had gone dormant and was allowing him some much-needed dreamless sleep. He didn’t awake until a perfunctory knock sounded at the office door and Severus Snape strode inside calling for Albus. Draco saw that Snape looked much like Dumbledore had when he had arrived—dirty and tired. But he didn’t look as ill as the old man had, perhaps because Snape had seen—and done—much of what he had just investigated in his past.

“Draco!” Snape said in surprise. “What are you doing here? Where is the Headmaster?”

Before Draco could reply, Dumbledore entered the office. “I’m here, Severus. I was getting an update from Moody and Arthur Weasley at headquarters—and telling them about young Mr. Malfoy’s dream.”

Snape turned to Draco. “A new dream?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. I dreamt—or Saw---the attacks last night. I couldn’t find you when I awoke so I came to tell the Headmaster.”

Snape looked at Albus, raising a brow in query.

“Yes, unhappily for him, Draco apparently witnessed everything through his dream—or perhaps I should say vision. He permitted me to view the dream in the pensieve. With the timing, it seems he Saw the events either as they were happening or perhaps just after. Unusual, as dreams and visions usually show the future.”

“Quite.” Snape was looking at Draco speculatively. “May I use the pensieve?”

“Of course—the memory is still in it. But wouldn’t you like to clean up, refresh yourself first, Severus?” Dumbledore asked.

Snape sneered a little. “I’d rather do this as I am, thanks. It seems more…fitting.” With that, he dunked his hooked nose in the swirling silver and disappeared into Draco’s memory. Dumbledore summoned some tea and toast for he and Draco to share whilst waiting for the Death Eater-turned-spy to return.

When he did, his expression was grave. Draco was surprised at his first words. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Draco. But I imagine it makes you quite glad that you decided not to join the Dark Lord.”

Draco nodded. “Yes, sir. If I’d had any doubts, I wouldn’t anymore.”

Dumbledore seemed pleased. “Severus, your opinion?”

Snape frowned thoughtfully. “I recognized some voices—and some, shall we say, hallmarks, of a couple of my former brethren. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take the time to clean myself up a little before we talk—and perhaps Draco should go back to the dungeons to get some sleep?” he said with a pointed look at the headmaster.

Draco mentally rolled his eyes. If Snape wanted a private conversation, he could just say so. But he simply rose and said, “Yes, I could use a bit more sleep. Keep the memory, Headmaster.” He nodded to them both moving to exit.

“One moment, please, Draco,” the Headmaster stopped him. “Do not let on that you are aware of anything that has happened. It would not be wise to have anyone else knowing about your vision. I’ll be making an announcement to the student body later—you will need to react the way you would have acted before switching sides.”

“In other words, Draco,” Snape added, “be smug. Smirk. And be sure to let us know which of your housemates seem particularly happy or knowledgeable about the events of last night. You are our eyes and ears within Slytherin House, Draco. I know how difficult it will be, but you’ve done difficult before and you will need to do it again.”

Draco met Snape’s eyes, seeing the mysteries hidden there. Draco nodded briefly and left the office.

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Harry stayed holed up in the safety of his dormitory until dinnertime. He joined the other Gryffindors in the Great Hall, acknowledging their words of condolence. He sat facing the Slytherin side of the Hall and he couldn’t keep his eyes from returning to the faces there. Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Zabini, Parkinson…Malfoy. Had they known? Had their fathers told them about the planned attack? Had their parents been involved? Had one of their fathers been the one to kill Aunt Petunia? Had it been Lucius Malfoy? He felt angry and sad and confused. And strangely betrayed. He and Draco had been on such better terms this year, working together well in DADA—could Malfoy have known what was to happen and looked him in the eye? Harry felt his gut clench. He knew it was ridiculous—Malfoy had agreed to a truce, not a reversal of loyalty—but he still felt hurt by the idea that Malfoy had aided and abetted in the murder of over a dozen innocent people by keeping silent about Voldemort’s plans. That is, if he had known. He was always going on about “his father” and implying he knew so much more than others because his father trusted him with information. So the question was: had Lucius told Draco the plans or had Draco been unaware? It may have seemed like a minor point to some, but to Harry it was crucial. The same little part of him that relished the wet dreams he’d had in which Draco starred was desperately hoping Draco Malfoy was innocent of collusion to slaughter.

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Draco deliberately sat with his back to the Gryffindor table at dinner; he’d almost made himself sick listening to Nott and Pansy go on and on about the successful Death Eater attacks, with each of them trading speculations as to how many their fathers had killed personally. Draco had played along, pulling on the increasingly uncomfortable Malfoy Mask and joining in the snide comments about worthless Muggles, with Crabbe and Goyle laughing sycophantically whenever everyone else did. How did Snape stand to be a spy? He couldn’t fathom it. Draco knew he was a good actor and that none of his housemates suspected him. But he didn’t want to test his skills with Harry. He was afraid he’d forget his lines if he looked into the brilliant green eyes that haunted his dreams. So he kept his back to the Gryffindors and planned to avoid Harry until DADA class the next day.

Unfortunately, the fates seemed to be conspiring against Draco that day: first they gave him a dream he could do nothing to prevent from becoming reality because it was happening as he dreamed it, and then they placed the Golden Trio directly in his path as he made his way out of the Great Hall with Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini in tow.

”Shit!” Draco’s curse was heartfelt if silent. Mentally steeling himself, he prepared to play the role of a lifetime. Crabbe gave him his cue:

“Hey, Draco, don’t Potter’s eyes look red to you? Betcha he’s been cryin’ allllll day about his poor auntie,” Crabbe snickered, with Goyle’s loyal chuckles joining in.

“Could be, hard to tell with his eyes behind those hideous glasses. But then again, maybe he hasn’t been crying. I know if I had a useless Muggle for an aunt, I wouldn’t be crying. More likely I’d be…professing gratitude.” Draco replied, smirking.

For a second, Harry looked as if he’d been sucker-punched. The stunned expression was quickly replaced though, with one of cold fury. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Zabini slide his wand unobtrusively from the sleeve of his robes.

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Harry hissed, lifting his wand and taking a threatening step forward.

Right on cue, Goyle and Crabbe stepped into their roles as bodyguards and Zabini lifted his own wand into view.

“Anytime, Potter,” Draco surprised himself by saying. Where the hell had that come from? He covered swiftly by adding with a sneer, “Though I doubt a nancy boy Gryffindor like yourself would know what to do even if you could get it up.” This earned him some snickers from Crabbe and Goyle.

Something wicked flashed in Harry’s eyes. “Obviously, you aren’t very familiar with many Gryffindors, Malfoy. But believe me, I know exactly what to do…how to do it, when to do it…and where to do it. But you’ll just have to trust me on that one, Malfoy—” Harry swept his gaze down Draco’s body and back up again, smirking. “—you’re not my type.”

With that, Harry turned on his heel and marched up the stairs. Draco blinked, then sneered. Motioning to the other Slytherins, he strode away without a word. Part of him was miserable for making Harry hate him again, but part of him was so turned on he could hardly walk. The only thing he wanted to do at the moment was get back to his dorm and wank himself off. He’d worry about having pissed Harry off…later.

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Harry, on the other hand, was furious—with Malfoy and himself for allowing himself to think the prat might have changed. He slammed through the portrait door, ignoring the Fat Lady’s “Temper, temper!” as he did, up the stairs to the 6th year dorm near the top of the tower and straight to his trunk. Snatching up his Invisibility Cloak, he spied a lumpy object wrapped in an old Weasley jumper. Grabbing it and stuffing it inside his robes, he was heading out back out of Gryffindor just as Hermione and Ron arrived.

“Harry, what was that all about with Malfoy?” Hermione asked.

“Just Malfoy being his usual arsehole self,” Harry replied bitterly. “Look, I’m going for a walk. I’ll talk to you later.” Without waiting for a response, Harry dashed down the staircase.

Ron turned to Hermione. “Was it just me, but did that fight Harry just had with Malfoy get a bit…sexual?”

“No, it wasn’t just you,” Hermione replied. “It did get a little…hot, didn’t it? Nice of Harry to defend the Gryffindor honour, though wasn’t it? Though, I’m not sure I can trust him…I think I may need some proof that a Gryffindor knows exactly what to do…know anyone who could show me?” She smiled at Ron suggestively.

Ron grinned back. “Funny, I think I do. Let’s go…find that proof.” Laughing, they headed down the hall toward their favourite trysting place.

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Harry had sat for a long time in the Astronomy Tower, enjoying the firewhiskey the Weasley twins had sent him for his birthday. The best bit about it was they’d put some kind of ever-filling charm on it, so the bottle never ran dry. Of course, that also kept Harry from knowing how much he drank, but that wasn’t bothering Harry at the moment. If fact, nothing was really bothering him at the moment. The tongue stuck down his throat certainly was bothering him. In fact, he was rather enjoying it.

He’d run into Justin Finch-Fletchley in the Astronomy Tower. Justin was depressed—he’d just broken up with his boyfriend and the news of the Death Eater attacks and the worry for his Muggle family was getting him down. So Harry had generously shared his firewhiskey and one thing had led to another and now his mouth was devouring Justin’s as his body pressed Justin’s into the stone floor. He rubbed his erection against the Hufflepuff’s and got a groan in response. Justin flipped him over and started unfastening Harry’s robes, then his shirt. Kissing his way down Harry’s chest, his hand drifted lower to squeeze the bulge in Harry’s trousers. Now it was Harry’s turn to groan. His trousers were open and pushed down to his knees. When a wet heat enveloped his aching cock, Harry moaned, tossed his head back and let Justin’s mouth suck him off to a place where Malfoys and Death Eaters didn’t exist.

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A/N: Ah-ha! The plot thickens! Reviews are much loved!

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