Funerals and Weddings

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

Chapter the Twenty-eighth: A New Focus and a New Dream
One month later
12 December

The next month flew by. DADA classes were more intense than ever. Harry and Draco had perfected each other’s spells and had moved on to new, even more advanced skills. Harry astonished himself and Professor McGonagall when he was the first in his class to successfully transfigure a mouse into a cat. Harry was even doing well in Potions. As Hermione had said (rather sarcastically, Harry thought), wasn’t it amazing what a little studying could do?

For studying was what Harry was doing. It seemed that the Death Eater non-attack in Hogsmeade in November had woken something up inside his brain and he suddenly had a burning desire to know. To know as much as he could about as much as possible. Hermione, of course, was ecstatic. Ron was less thrilled, seeing as how having two best friends obsessed with studying meant he spent way much more time in the library than he liked.

Now, if Harry’s new-found love of learning had interfered with Quidditch, Ron would have had a serious problem and a legitimate excuse to drag Harry out of the library more often. But if anything, Harry was even better at Quidditch! His focus was so intense, it was almost scary. Ron didn’t want to question whatever good fortune had given Gryffindor the most talented Seeker Hogwarts had seen in…well, ever. He was just thankful that he was on the same team as Harry, and not the opposing one!

Harry didn’t know where his new drive had come from either, but he wasn’t going to waste time wondering about it. In fact, he wasn’t wasting time worrying about anything. He got along just fine with Justin—they were back to being friends, as if they had never dated, argued and broken up. He’d let the argument with Ron and Hermione about giving Malfoy over to the Death Eaters drop—he never mentioned it again and neither did they. He’d pretty much avoided the two of them the entire rest of the day after he and Justin had broken up. The next day had been Monday and it was as if an unspoken agreement had been made between the three of them not to mention it and pretend it never happened. Of course, Harry knew it had happened and it would pop up to bother him sometimes, but he always let it lie. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew the time wasn’t right to address it…yet.

He had never even asked Malfoy about the entire Death Eater incident in Hogsmeade at all! Malfoy never brought it up either. Harry was getting on well with Malfoy at the moment and didn’t want to go back to the arguing, the sniping, the posturing, the insulting. He figured that something would happen soon enough to spoil the fragile peace between he and Malfoy, and when it did, he could ask about the Death Eaters then. ‘No need to borrow trouble’ seemed to be Harry’s new motto.

On the few occasions when it occurred to Harry that it wasn’t like him not to be worrying and obsessing over everything, he wondered if he was possibly under some kind of spell. Even Ron had said so once, in jest. But if it was a spell, Harry found he couldn’t be bothered by it. Why should he complain about a spell that made him successful and energetic…and happy?

Because Harry was happy. Well, as happy as he ever was. Which he supposed really meant that he was content. He was satisfied with content; he’d long ago accepted that true happiness wasn’t in the cards for him. It may not have been throw-your-arms-in-the-air happy, but it was better than depressed or angry or miserable. And deep down, Harry didn’t think he was under a spell. He thought that maybe he was finally doing the ‘growing up’ that adults talked about so much.

In retrospect, Harry could laugh at himself for being so naïve and unconcerned. Why hadn’t he been expecting the other shoe to drop? Had he really thought that it might last? After all, when had the world ever been that nice to Harry Potter?

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The month wasn’t going as well for Draco as it was for Harry. He and Snape had sent a letter off to Lucius following the Death Eater’s visit to Hogsmeade. Draco had tried to sound as shocked and disappointed as possible that he had missed the Death Eaters when he had decided to leave Hogsmeade early and go back to the castle (Snape had thought it better for Draco to pretend he’d gone for just a short time and left before the Death Eaters arrived, rather than say he hadn’t gone at all, since all it would take is one person mentioning that they’d seen Draco that day and Lucius would know Draco was lying.). He asked Lucius to let him know in advance next time and of course he would be waiting (‘Don’t hold your breath, Lucius,’ he thought.). He’d ended the letter by saying how he was looking forward to the Christmas holidays and their “special celebration” (‘not likely!’). Draco had thought it a fine piece of written acting, if he did say so himself.

But as the days wore on, and nothing was heard from Lucius, Draco grew more and more worried. He’d never been so grateful to have Blaise as a friend. The two of them spent a lot of time talking about Lucius (Draco had told Blaise the entire story of Lucius using Crucio on him) and wondering what would happen when it came out that they had defected to the Light. Because they both knew it was only a matter of time before it would come out. Blaise was more worried for Draco than himself—as he said, Draco’s “betrayal” was much bigger news that his own.

Snape convinced Draco to write to Lucius once more—just to “make sure” Lucius had gotten his previous letter and that everything was “all right.” When Draco received no response to the second letter, even the hardened spy seemed worried. He promised Draco that at the next Death Eater meeting, if Lucius was present (as he hadn’t been at the last two meetings), he would find out what he could from the elder Malfoy.

During every DADA lesson, Draco expected Harry to ask him about the Death Eaters looking for him. But Harry never did. Draco thought it was strange, but didn’t want to bring up such a dicey topic, so he kept his mouth shut. He might never understand Harry’s motives for covering for him that day, but he and Harry were getting on well again and he couldn’t stand the thought of ruining it.

To make matters worse, Draco was dreaming again. Not just The Dream about Harry—he wouldn’t have minded that! No, now it seemed he was having one of three dreams almost every night. One was The Dream—but unfortunately, Draco only got to enjoy it once a week or so.

The second was the dream he’d only had once before, the previous summer. The dream he’d told Dumbledore about. The dream with Harry duelling Lucius. Lucius casting Dark spell after Dark spell, sneering as he mocked Harry’s skills. Harry firing back hexes and shielding himself while darting back and forth, never giving Lucius a stable target. Lucius’ cold laughter echoing eerily as he aimed his wand and shouted, “Crucio!” Harry dodging aside nimbly at the last possible second, rolling to his feet to face the Dark wizard again.

And then, finally, time would slow and Draco would hear Lucius’ distorted voice crying, “Avada Kedavra!” and he would see the green light pulse slowly outward from the wand pointed directly at Harry’s face. Just as the green arrow of light would be close enough for Harry to reach out and touch, time would speed up again and somehow, somehow, Harry had cast the silver shield spell and the green jet would ricochet off the shield, lancing back at Lucius and into his chest. And Lucius would fall, graceful even in death.

Just before he awoke from this dream, Draco would see Harry turn to him in the dream. He would speak to Draco, as though he were really standing there in front of him. Draco didn’t know if it was a challenge or a blessing or a command or simply a statement, but it was always the same: “Now you’re truly free. Make your dreams reality, Draco.”

Draco would awake from this dream unnerved and chilled, but at least he wasn’t screaming, like he would be whenever the new, third dream came…

I am a prisoner. I know that because my wrists are locked within some kind of magical fetter in front of me. What I don’t know is where I am or what is going to happen. I am alone in a hallway, sitting on a rough wooden bench. The bindings on my wrists are chained to a metal loop attached to the stone wall behind me. Only a few flickering torches light the hallway. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but I know it has been long enough for my back to ache and my arse to be half-asleep. I wish I could sleep. Merlin, I am so tired! Maybe if I close my eyes…

I am jerked roughly to my feet by the roots of my hair. I don’t cry out, but my stomach clenches at the sight of the white-masked, black-robed figure in front of me. Death Eater. I know where I am now—wherever the Dark Lord has chosen for his lair. And I have a pretty good idea of what is going to happen. Not that it makes me feel any better! The Death Eater removes the chain shackling me to the wall and shoves me in front of him; a wand jabbing in my back indicates he wants me to walk. Can’t the man speak? Is the Dark Lord reduced to using trained apes as his minions? I’m about to throw up, I’m so scared, but at least I still have my sparking wit! The door looms in front of me and all vestiges of humour flee as I summon every ounce of courage I have and hope I can at least die with honour and not snivelling like a baby.

I keep my eyes on my feet as I walk into the room. The Death Eater shoves me to my knees on a cold, stone floor. I wait, trying not to shake in fear.

“Greet your Masssster,” a cold, hissing voice comes from above me. “Kisssss my robesssss.”

I don’t move. I may die, but I won’t kiss a monster’s robes.

I feel an invisible pressure on the back of my head. I try to resist, but it is pushing me inexorably down to the ground, until my face is pressed into dusty folds of black cloth. I roll my lips inward so they do not touch the cloth. Some would say it was petty and pointless, but it gives me a small measure of vindictive pleasure to beat the madman at his own game.

Now the same invisible force is pulling me back upright to my kneeling position. When I would have kept my head bent, he forces it up, my chin tilted to the ceiling, until the only way I can avoid looking at him is to close my eyes. And I won’t close my eyes. My hood falls from my head and my hair drapes across my forehead. Then he speaks.

“Sssso, finally, the heir of Malfoy kneelsssss before me. It’sssss a pity not to have your father kneeling there with you. It would be ssssso delightful to have father and ssssson together, don’t you think? But alasssss, Luciusssss had to go and get himssssself killed, didn’t he? Fool. Well, what do you have to ssssay for yourssself, boy? Nothing? Oh, how could I forget about that little ssssssilencing charm? Finite incantatem!”

Oh, yes, I’m quite sure he “forgot” about the silencing charm. Not that it was needed. I have nothing to say to the scaly bastard. I just glare at him.

“Nothing to sssssay, boy? No pleassss for mercsssssy?”

He cackles and it turns my stomach.

“Declare your loyalty to me, young Malfoy. Take the Dark Mark and ssssserve me asssss your father did,” the monster hisses at me.

I continue to stare at him. Wait, perhaps I do have something to say, after all.

“No.”

I shake my head and wait for the pain.

“Do not defy me, Malfoy! Declare your allegiance to me now!”

“No.”

“Insssssolent brat! Pledge yoursssself to me or ssssuffer!”

The insane creature styling itself as a “lord” is spitting with rage now. I speak what I imagine to be my last word:

“No.”

Then he says the word I knew was coming. Ironic that he chooses to punish me with the very spell that was used to turn me against him.

“Crucio!”

I’m on fire. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming. The pain is endless and unspeakable. I’m not even aware of writhing on the ground or of the sounds coming from my mouth. The only thing I know is sheer, hellish agony.

After what seems to me to be an eternity, he ends it. It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes. I’ll never know.

The hissing comes from above me again. “Are you ready to take the Dark Mark now? Ready to ssssserve the Dark Lord?”

I lift myself up slightly, just enough to look him in the eye.

“No.”

The fire is back, singeing my skin, burning my bones, boiling my blood, ripping the soul from my body. I’m screaming, I have to be screaming. The knives are slicing me open, stabbing into my eyes, my feet, my hands…

Again, it stops. Every part of me aches and I can hardly breathe.

“Do you need more convincing? Or are you ready to ssssubmit?”

The voice seems to come from very far away, but I know I need to answer it.

“No.”

Pain, fire, agony, slicing, stabbing, pinching, blinding, twisting, boiling, charring, burning, pulling, thudding, ripping, deafening, shredding, tearing, screaming, writhing, driving, wailing, slashing, endless hell…

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“Draco! Draco! Wake up! DRACO!”

Draco lurched awake to find himself nose-to-nose with an ashen Blaise Zabini.

“Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake,” Blaise slumped to Draco’s bed and passed a shaky hand over his dreadlocks. “What the hell were you dreaming about to make you scream like that?”

Draco felt the terror recede and he fell limply back against his pillow. A dream. It was just a dream. He rubbed a hand over his face to try and clear his head and was appalled to feel the sweat drenching his forehead.

“I…I was screaming?” Draco asked, still gathering his wits.

“Bloody hell, yes, you were screaming! Loud enough to wake the dead!” Colour was slowly seeping back into Blaise’s shocked face. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were being tortured!”

“I was,” Draco said, without really thinking.

“What?” Blaise half-shrieked. He lowered his voice when he saw Draco wince. “You were dreaming about being tortured?”

Draco pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Yeah, by the Dark Lord. He was using the Cruciatus Curse on me.”

Blaise’s mouth gaped as he stared at the even paler-than-normal boy. “Fuckin’ell.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, that about sums it up. Listen, I’m in desperate need of a shower. Let me wash up, then…I’ll tell you about it, if you want.”

“Yeah, sure,” Blaise stood up. “I’ll wait for you.”

Draco paused on his way to the toilet and looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

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That was the first time Draco had experienced the “Cruciatus Dream,” as he came to call it. Blaise had accompanied him first to Snape’s quarters, then to the Headmaster’s office, where Draco had recounted the horrific nightmare for them all. When he was finished, Draco had only one question for the Headmaster:

“Sir, do you think this was…a vision? Or just a really, really bad dream?”

Dumbledore had steepled his fingers and looked at Draco seriously.

“I know which one I hope it is,” the old man said. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you for sure.”

Draco had rubbed his hands over his face and mumbled, “I love my life,” at the Headmaster’s useless response. The old wizard had chuckled.

“The one piece of good news I can give you is this: in the vision you had of the Death Eater attack back on Hallowe’en, you weren’t involved in the events, you simply saw them. The same is true for the dream—and possible vision—you had about Mr. Potter and your father. We can hope that the fact that you yourself were actually in this dream means that it isn’t a vision and is merely that—a dream.”

This thought had comforted Draco a little until he realised there was one dream that he was most definitely involved in that the Headmaster didn’t know about: The Dream with Harry.

“Great,’ Draco thought to himself. ‘Either I hope they’re both a dream and I give up hoping that I’ll ever have Harry, or I hope they’re both a vision and look forward to being tortured to death. What the hell kind of choice is that?’

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A/N: Alas, poor Draco. Another terrible dream—or is it a vision? We shall soon find out.. To my reviewer Alice—a pasty is a meat pie over in Britain that is very tasty! Hope that helps! Please keep reviewing everyone—and Happy Hallowe’en!

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