Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Wigtown Wanderers, Seeker
Prompt: (7-Polytype Dimension) Incorporate the theme of 7 within your story (you can take this in any way you like)
Word Count: 2340, per GoogleDocs
Warnings: Extensive discussion of character death and funerals
MC4A Challenge Block
Stacked with: QLFC; Summer Bingo; MC4A (ER; ToS; FPC; SS; SF; LiCK; T3)
Individual Challenges: Short Jog; Click Bait It; Gryffindor MC (x2); Witches Coven 2; Forehead Kisses; Thief MC; Misunderstood; Bloomin' Time (Y); Tissue Warning; Times to Come; Themes & Things A; Themes & Things B; More Than England
Representations: Funeral; Picking Up The Tab; BC use; Luna's Sparkly Dress; Vulnerable Harry; Dead Dung; Celebrating in a Cemetery
Bonus Challenges: A Long Dog; Second Verse (Ladylike—Vulnerability; Not A Lamp); Chorus (Odd Feathers; Machismo—Vulnerability; )
Tertiary Bonus Challenges: LiCK (Amaranth); T3 (Terrarium)
Summer Bingo: 5D — Gray
Word Count: 2340
Author's Note: Clearly a bit of an AU, since the pairings aren't canon. I've also taken several liberties with Mundungus Fletcher's life and personality, but I like to think that maybe there was a little more to the man than his life as a petty thief. Hope you enjoy!
Seven Coin Salute
Harry had just set the last of the sausages on the table when a loud rapping on the kitchen window startled him. Wand at the ready, he turned to see a striking black owl staring intently at him from the windowsill. Her talons, filled with envelopes and papers, hit the glass again.
"Merlin's pants, Ursula, I'm coming. Don't do that to me before I've had my tea," he grumbled. He threw open the window, and Ursula flew in, dropped the post on the counter, and landed on the back of her favorite chair.
Hermione pushed through the swinging kitchen door and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Breakfast looks great, darling." She petted the top of Ursula's head before divvying up the mail.
"Fan mail, fan mail, invitation, a card—ooh, it's from Gin—bank statement, magazine, newspaper… nothing overly exciting. You want Sports first? Or maybe The Prophet?"
Harry snorted and snatched the sporting section of The Quibbler out of her hand. "Very funny. I don't even know why you subscribe to that gossip rag."
"I like to keep track of the seven different witches you're cheating on me with this week," Hermione deadpanned.
Breakfast was quiet, but it always was on Sundays. They passed sections of the paper back and forth between bites, and then Hermione worked the crossword, requiring occasional input from Harry. As always, she started the dishes when she was finished. This time, though, Harry didn't get up to help dry.
Hermione looked over her shoulder to see what was keeping him. "Are you reading the obituaries?"
"Yep."
"Sweet Merlin, again?"
"Old war habits die hard, I guess."
After a few minutes, Harry took up his regular dish drying station, but his mind was clearly miles away.
Hermione sighed—she knew that face. "Anybody we know?"
A long silence. "Dung."
"As in Mundungus Fletcher? Huh. I bet that was an interesting obituary."
"There was no obituary, just a death notice."
"I don't understand the significance," she said slowly, brow furrowed.
"It means no one has claimed him," Harry murmured.
Hermione tossed the dishrag into the sink and sat back down at the table. "I still don't understand what that means. You forget that I avoided reading a newspaper for nearly six months after the war."
"Dung didn't have any family, right?" Harry began, sitting across from her. "No wife, no kids, no living relatives."
"As far as I know, no."
"When someone dies, their body is taken back to the hospital to verify their identity, find a cause of death if they needed it, prepare them for burial, all kinds of different things that the Ministry and St. Mungo's deal with. What they don't take care of, however, are the actual arrangements. The family or friends of the deceased are responsible for the funeral, the obituary, the headstone, all the niceties of death." Harry gestured to where the Quibbler still lay open. "When it's apparent that no one is coming forward to retrieve the body for burial, the Ministry puts out a death notice. It gives the public seven days' notice to come forward and claim it. If no one does it within a week… well, I think their pauper's field is on the same island as Azkaban."
"That's terrible," Hermione whispered, her eyes now glued to the small paragraph under Dung's photo. A moment later, her gaze shot back to her husband. "And how exactly do you know all of this?"
Harry shifted in his seat. "After the war, St. Mungo's gave people a lot longer to find their loved ones. But even after a full month had passed, there were several people still sitting in their morgue. I couldn't just let them get carted off to that place…"
Hermione reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You're a good man, Harry Potter. I love you terribly."
He returned the gently pressure. "Love you too."
Hermione stood abruptly and grabbed one of her ever-present notebooks. "So do you think St. Mungo's will let us claim Dung's body this afternoon? Or would it be better to wait for Monday? Though they'll probably be less busy Tuesday. But then is that enough time to plan a funeral?"
Harry cocked an eyebrow at her. "I haven't even asked if you wanted to help yet. Hell, I wasn't even sure when I was going to ask if you'd be okay with this."
She smirked at him. "I've known you for fifteen years, and we've been married for seven. When are you going to get used to the fact that I know you better than I know yourself?"
It was Harry's turn to sigh. She was probably right, as always.
.oOo.
Claiming a body for burial was a little more complicated than it had been immediately after the war, but Harry still found it frighteningly easy. After putting in an application—which took all of 15 minutes to process—it was determined that Harry had as much right to Mundungus' body as anyone. Hermione immediately submitted an obituary to The Quibbler and paid for another notice, this one on the inside of the front page, to announce the time and date of Dung's funeral. Harry took care of the rest of the arrangements—finding the burial plot, the casket, a suit for Mundungus, and commissioning the headstone.
The morning of Mundungus' funeral dawned gray and misty. Dressed in their best dark robes, Harry and Hermione Apparated from their small Welsh village to the tiny graveyard outside Liverpool where Harry had found some of Dung's distant relatives were buried. The empty grave wasn't exactly hard to find among the crumbling slabs of stone. A Ministry official arrived shortly after, bringing Dung and his casket along by portkey. As soon as Harry signed the appropriate forms, the man disappeared as fast as he'd come. The only things left to do were wait for any other mourners to arrive and then start the service at three.
Ron and Luna appeared first.
"Strange to think the old codger's dead, isn't it?" Ron asked as he hugged them both.
"If anyone could have given Death the slip without the Hallows, it would've been Dung," Harry answered. "But I guess he could only do it for a hundred and seven years."
Hermione didn't reply because she was too busy staring at Luna's outfit. Her sparkly silver robes would have looked more at home at a Ministry ball than a cemetery.
"What do you think?" the blonde asked, giving a little twirl that nearly blinded them all. "They made me think of the way Mundungus loved shiny things that he could sell. I think he would have like this."
Ron blushed deeply but put his arm around her waist anyway. "I think you're right, babe."
Luna looked at Harry and Hermione expectantly, but they were saved by George's timely arrival. They chatted lightly for a few minutes, catching up on all the recent happenings in the extended Weasley family. Having so many people to keep track of was a full-time job, and Harry stifled a laugh as he watched Hermione's hand twitch, knowing she was wishing that she could take notes.
Five minutes before the service was scheduled to start, Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared at the cemetery gate.
Harry waved him over and shook the older man's hand. "Good to see you, Shack—" Hermione elbowed him in the ribs— "I mean, Minister. Glad you could make it."
Kingsley couldn't help but chuckle at the Potters' antics. "I'm just Kingsley here, Hermione."
Hermione blushed, but she ignored it as she pressed Kingsley for support of her new werewolf legislation. When she had him thoroughly backed into a corner and agreeing with her, she nodded and switched gears. The others breathed a sigh of relief and joined in the conversation about the upcoming Memorial Ball.
Aberforth Dumbledore chose to limp into the graveyard at precisely three o'clock. He gave them all a curt nod and nothing more.
"Is this everyone?" Hermione hissed at her husband. "Seven people?"
Harry shrugged at her. "Didn't have any family, and I don't figure he made a lot of friends in his line of work."
"But still…"
A heavy silence fell over the people gathered around Mundungus' grave. They looked around at each other expectantly. Someone needed to start talking.
Harry cleared his throat. "Right, well, I've never actually done a funeral, but I don't think that would have mattered to Dung. I'll be the first to admit that I didn't know him all that well, but I certainly knew of him. Uh, why don't we all go around and say a little bit about how we knew Dung or maybe tell a story about him?"
"I'll start," Hermione said. "I really only got to know Mundungus while we were at Sirius' house, but he was a great source of information. No matter how much I read and study, there are a lot of things I don't know about the wizarding world. Mundungus always answered my questions and helped me learn a lot of unwritten rules and things I'd never find in books. That knowledge probably saved mine and Ron and Harry's lives somewhere along the way. I'm afraid I still owe you, Mr. Fletcher."
Luna nodded. "Mundungus was a really good listener, too. I only talked to him a few times, but he never interrupted me or called me loony, even though I could tell he didn't really believe me. It was quite nice."
"I can remember when we found out Dung stole the, uh, thing, from Sirius' place. We only figured it out because we asked Kreacher about it. I guess, in a roundabout way, Dung taught me that the things that are really valuable, like family and friends and loyalty, can't be bought or stolen. Those you have to work for," Ron added.
"Dung was really smart in a lot of ways. He worked with me and Fred to develop—and actually field tested—a lot of our special products during the war. He also had amazing contacts, so he could get us ingredients that we couldn't find anywhere else. WWW is forever grateful for you, Dung," George murmured.
A few beats of silence passed as the older men seemed to have a silent conversation. Aberforth gave Kingsley a small nod.
"I knew Mundungus from the original Order," said Kingsley. "I think that gives me a little bit of a different perspective. He wasn't known for being much of a fighter, but Mundungus had a knack for being in the right place at the right time to get information. His intel saved a lot of lives, including mine more than once. Even though Albus usually had to buy that information, we couldn't have survived without it. Thanks for your help, Mundungus."
Aberforth unexpectedly cleared his throat. "I also knew Dung from the original Order, mostly because my brother was one of the only people he was ever really loyal to. For some unknown reason, that loyalty seemed to extend to me, too. We kept in touch after both wars 'cause he did a lot of his dealings in the back corner of the pub, but I didn't mind. He never brought anybody unsafe in there, and he tipped me well for it. And he probably never told you this, but he helped sneak a lot of kids out that last year of the war. The ones inside would get them to me, and I'd give them to Dung to take to their families. He'd slip them papers that looked real enough to get to some other country. Saved a lot of lives, you old bastard. Never let people see the good parts of ya."
The younger contingent were speechless. Thieving Dung smuggled kids in danger out of the country?
"What, you think my brother would have trusted him if he was just some kind of low-life thief?" Aberforth scoffed. "Mundungus Fletcher was no saint, but he was one of the most loyal men I ever knew."
"And we're going to honor him as such," Harry finished.
He carefully pointed his wand at the blank headstone. He hadn't been sure of what he wanted it to say before today, but now he had a pretty good idea.
When he was finished, the white marble read:
Mundungus Fletcher
Born 7/7/1912 Died 10/7/2019
Loyal and Cunning When It Mattered Most
Harry stood back and admired his handiwork. It was almost perfect, but something was missing.
Beside him, Hermione pulled her wand out and aimed at the stone. When she was finished, he could see that there was now a wreath of lilies in front of the stone. She'd also added one final line:
"Where there is loyalty, weapons are of no use."
"That's exactly what it was missing," Harry said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She grinned up at him. "I know you best."
He just snorted a laugh. She was right.
"Well, Ministry employees will be by to see to the actual burial," Kingsley announced.
Harry held up his hand. "Before anyone leaves, I'd like to do one more thing."
He took out his money pouch and transferred its contents back to the pocket of his robes except for a single Knut. To everyone's surprise, he walked over to the casket. "No matter how much of a closet good-guy Mundungus turned out to be, I think he's still appreciate a small tribute to one of his true loves: petty thievery." And with that, Harry anchored the pouch to the casket with a Sticking Charm and the proclamation, "For Dung!"
One by one, the others followed suit. A loud clink echoed through the stillness as each coin pouch was stuck to the casket—seven in total. They stood quietly for several moments, reflecting on the loyalty, crimes, and many sides of Mundungus Fletcher, before Aberforth broke the silence.
"Alright, back to the Hog's Head with you all so we can remember Dung's other true love: alcohol. First round's on the house—but don't get used to it."