Disclaimer: This story is for purely recreational purposes and in no way am I profiting from this. I do not own Harry Potter nor Dawn of Dead. The title comes from the song "Little Things of Venom" by Arid.

Summary: Dawn of the Dead (2004 remake), Harry Potter style. After years of growing accustomed to the peaceful life of house arrest with his wife and son, Draco Malfoy wakes up one morning to a world changed, Wizarding and Muggle alike.

A Crossover, technically, but the character from DofD aren't as important. Just inserting HP characters into the film and making it coherent.

Warnings: Foul language, graphic violence, reanimated corpses, gore, undead cannibalism, m/m sex (Let's assume that involves the basics ie. BJs, handies, 69, rimming, anal, etc), and mentions of het, and... Character Death (yes, I'm sorry!)

Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini/Pansy Parkinson, George Weasley/Angelina Johnson, mentions of Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, and OCs

This isn't entirely Epilgoue-compliant. I pick and chose certain things, and skewed some ages, but nothing complicated. This is my first sincere foray into the fandom, and, yes, it is kind of weird I went this route but the fuse can be a funny thing as we all know. Anyways, I'm pretty nervous about this, so I hope you enjoy it. And please, no flames.


I. Better… Tomorrow

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: Yes, by heaven!
O most pernicious woman!
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
My tables, -meet it is I set it down,
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;
At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark.

Hamlet Act I, sc. 5 (line 100)

Reaching his ears, the sound of the floo flaring in the entrance hall was a welcome distraction. The passage was leaving him a bit more melancholy than he anticipated for the chosen selection. Hamlet had sounded like such a pleasant name. How was he to know otherwise? Tomorrow he'd find something less dreary in his mother's secret stash of Muggle Works she left for him, but for now he marked the page and set aside the tome before striding out to the foyer.

A house elf dressed in a crisp white dish towel with the Malfoy crest stitched in gold on the front dashed back and forth from the floo into the foyer, dealing with the small mountain of bags and boxes crowding the hall. Paying little mind to the evident purchases charged to his bank account, his eyes quickly sought out the elegant form of his wife uncharacteristically bent over, wrinkling her ice blue robes, and blocking his son from sight. Her murmuring could barely be heard over the rustling of packages and the smack smack smacking of the elf's bare feet as it circuited across the marble floor.

Frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he tentatively called out, "Astoria?" His voice seeming too loud for the nervous clench in his gut.

She straightened in a flash: Squaring her shoulders and the Malfoy mask she didn't dedicate her childhood to perfect struggled to hide her obvious distress. All of her poise was offset by her previously pinned up honey-colored hair now mussed and its escaped strands hanging in wild curls about her pale face. His mouth dropped open to inquire but the eager squeal of "Daddy!" soon cut him off. For a moment niggling discontent was forgotten and he smiled, dropping to a knee and happily receiving the small arms flinging themselves around his neck and the light blonde head burrowing into his chest.

"How was your day shopping?" He angled his face down to better see his son when the boy merely held on tighter, strangely quiet compared to the chatterbox Scorpius normally was. "What's happened?" He directed his question over his head straight at his wife.

She'd obviously been preparing for his glare since she calmly stood there, hands clasped at her waist and avoiding his sharp grey eyes by staring at Scorpius. "There was sort of a scuffle at Diagon, and Scorpius got caught up in it."

"'Got caught up in it'?" He sneered. "He's shaking."

It was true; as soon as "Diagon" left Astoria's wine red lips, it triggered a whole bout of tremors wracking his son's delicate frame. Draco wrapped a protective arm around him and his other hand gently cradled the back of Scorpius' head, fingers threading through the platinum strands. So like his own.

"Hey," he whispered into the boy's hair, carefully coaxing the five year-old to unbury himself. Once he succeeded, he wished he hadn't: The healthy hue to his son's complexion had paled to the color and consistency of wet parchment, the usually sparkling blue eyes were red-rimmed and faded to a slate grey. Cold, like Lucius'.

Draco initially shied from the pitiful sight, but a rage equal to an overwhelming tenderness surged through him. This was his baby boy, his entire world contained in the best children's robes money could buy, and he now looked to be sick and terrified. Quickly Draco swept him up into his arms -Scorpius curling naturally against his chest; he could probably feel Draco's heart banging rapidly just beneath the surface- and stood tall. His face didn't belie his intense worry but remained as stone.

"Explain," he said simply.

"He's absolutely fine! A bit shaken up is all!" Astoria huffed in light of the strong show of affection never once shown to her from her husband.

By the slight narrow of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils, he was clearly waiting for more.

"Alright... I'm not completely sure what happened. One moment everything was fine and the next- some- some lunatic was attacking people. A crazed mudblood by the look of him. He grabbed Scorpius for only a second until the Aurors arrived and bound him."

"And where were you?"

"I- … you're well aware children aren't allowed in Circe's Enchanted Crystal!"

"He's five and you left him alone on the street," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Not for long!"

If his hands weren't full he'd hex her. Draco thought himself a relatively fair person since the war, so he wouldn't discriminate hexing a woman, especially his own wife. That was probably when it was called for the most.

"If there was something seriously the matter with him, they would have kept him at St. Mungo's."

"St. Mungo's? You took him there and you didn't think to inform me?" His stomach rolled at the thought that his son was at the wizarding hospital to begin with but it threatened to dissolve itself entirely in thick bubbling acid to hear his son was there when he was here, brewing potions and napping and reading Muggle literature, all the while sickeningly ignorant.

"If I had fire-called, you would have insisted on coming and you couldn't have forgotten that that's next to impossible-"

"Daddy." Draco obediently bowed his head -expression softening- to train all of his attention on his son who gazed up at him with smudged, sleepy eyes. "May I please go to bed-" A heavy yawn broke off his words.

"You don't want anything to eat first?" Worry niggled at him since the bottomless pit his son usually possessed had no interest in dinner. A lethargic shake of the head was his answer. "I'll take you up in a minute then."

He turned his sharpened gaze back onto his wife and poured all of his anger and disgust into that one fierce look. Even with all her beauty, it hurt to look at her, knowing his restraint to not lash out at her in front of his son was tenuous at best. So he hefted up Scorpius closer to him and said in a measured tone, "For your sake, you better hope those imbecilic healers were thorough."

His wife calmly received the not-so-subtle threat; that is, until he climbed halfway up the large, curved staircase and paused. Not turning back, he added coldly, "By the way, all that isn't strictly for him, goes back tomorrow, and do not dare to think you could argue otherwise. I have no problem barring your access to the vaults."

He would have grinned at her loud, indignant gasp if not for the trembling bundle in his arms, so instead he hastened up the rest of the flight and down the hall till he approached one of the many pristine white doors.

Inside the vast bedchamber bursts of color were in every direction: Stick figures and splashes of ink on parchment were tacked all over the walls instead of the austere portraits the rest of the manor housed; smiling moving images of the father and son waved from the mantle over a black hearth; and limited movement action figures of Quidditch players and magical creatures lined the cherry wood desk and dresser. Draco always sneered at the flapping miniature Hippogriff his son was so fond of standing proudly atop his night table. This was Draco's first room, a nursery of sorts, still being so young at the time to require only the room and ensuite and still be close enough to his parents' wing, though he used to wonder why keep him so close when Lucius discouraged seeking them out in unnecessary duress such as nightmares and imagined boggarts in the closet. One day Scorpius would move into the East wing with more space where Draco had resided during his years at Hogwarts.

A few minutes later he had Scorpius changed into dark green pajamas covered in fluttering gold snitches, and then carefully tucked him in. Systematically he had checked over his son while changing him-"Does anything hurt? Stick out your tongue" etc.- to find nothing out of the ordinary except the pathetic appearance. He called for the house elf that grated on him the least. With a pop, the ugly creature appeared.

"Master be needing Mipsy?"

"Yes, bring me a child's serving of Dreamless Sleep and a compress." And with that his servant winked out of sight.

Scorpius was drifting in and out of sleep, looking so small amongst the fluffy duvet and overstuffed pillows. Within seconds Mipsy was back with the potion and waited obediently as Draco urged Scorpius to sit up and feed it to him.

After the war, this particular potion had become Draco's best friend, so he figured his son -having been attacked by a rabid mudblood- could certainly use some now. Once the goblet was drained, Scorpius flopped back, drowsy eyes watching the Technicolor mural on the ceiling.

Narcissa had commissioned the art as soon as the name "Draconis" was chosen: A lifelike Hungarian Horntail soared about a clear blue sky and battled the knights below defending a fairytale castle - flying arrows, flashing swords, fiery breath licking crested shields and charcoal stones, shimmering wings and glinting teeth. Draco never grew bored of it. But for the moment his eyes could only focus on the pasty skin and the steady rise and fall of a tiny chest.

He opened his mouth, the barrage of questions -Where did you get hurt? What happened? What does this man look like so Daddy can go hunt him down and kill him- it was all on the tip of his tongue. However, it would be cruel to demand that of the young boy when it appeared all he very much wanted to do was sleep. Parenthood had done wonders for his patience and cultivated the bits of compassion the war had unearthed in him, though this tenderness basically only extended to his mother and Scorpius. Astoria was merely an arranged means to an end, and as for Lucius… well, that ship had sailed long ago.

So with a sigh, he stooped over and brushed his lips against the damp forehead, murmuring affections.

"Dad?"

"Mmm?"

"Could we go flying tomorrow?" Dark eyelids hung low.

Draco ran his fingers through soft, corn silk hair. "We'll see how you feel." Even now he knew his answer the next day would be yes. He couldn't have the five year-old knowing he had his father wrapped around his little finger. Sometimes Draco suspected he did and used it shamelessly to his advantage.

"We won't need to see what Mother says?" The most innocent expression was on that sickly baby face.

The older blond grinned despite the reminder of his infuriating wife. His son's manipulation skills were well on their way; no doubt he'd be sorted into Slytherin six years from now. Draco would most definitely take him flying around the manor's Quidditch pitch tomorrow regardless of whatever Astoria had to say. The only time she ever exercised a mothering bone in her body was when she said No or paraded their son around like a shiny accessory.

His grin widened when he focused on Scorpius' sleepy expectancy.

"Goodnight," he announced with a chuckle and another kiss on the forehead. Scorpius quickly drifted off before he had his chance to protest for an answer. It was terrifying yet at the same time heart warming how much they were alike.

"Mipsy."

"Yes, Mas-"

"Light the fire and stay with him. Give him whatever he wants." All traces of loving amusement had smoothed over as he turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving the door open a crack in case his son called for him. Sound carried well in the vast, high ceiling corridors.

Just outside his son's room, he could feel himself deflate. A weariness no man at such a young age should know aching in his joints. As angry as he was with Astoria, for now he didn't have the energy to deal with her, most likely seething over her lost purchases; so he headed for the one area of the house she never dared go. If he decided he was hungry, he'd take dinner there.

Draco hadn't changed the study much once he fully realized Lucius wasn't going to come back to it. His mother hadn't cared one whit either way. She was only too eager to avoid the Malfoy's ruined reputation by fleeing to their chateau in France. She had told him at the time that she didn't want to be a burden on his new marriage, but he had known better: The Dark Lord's stay hadn't been productive to pleasant memories inside the ancestral home. He couldn't fault her for leaving though. The public scorn would be enough to drive the most prideful away. He wondered how Astoria dealt with it, but he supposed the Greengrass' neutrality throughout the war and the Malfoy's hefty fortune would be incentive enough to stick around. Scorpius seemed to be untouchable from all of that though; one look at the jovial little boy and only the cruelest of monsters would be able to say an unkind word to him.

He poured a liberal amount of scotch and forced himself to drink from the crystal snifter in measured sips. The unchanged design of the room -the sleek lines and neutrally dark color scheme- held a stern dignity that reminded him of his father, the way he was before his halfblood megalomaniac returned.

Dignity, he muffled a snort by taking another drink. What did he know about that anymore? He was the Lord of the Manor after a childhood of dreaming and training, and he couldn't even leave! At least not for two more years according to this past May. Stupid Potter with his half-arsed testimony. The four-eyed git had told the Wizengamot how he had been coerced into the Dark Lord's service, but the Malfoys were to be made an example of. Meaning Lucius had been scheduled for one hell of a Kiss, and his misguided (and apparently too smart it must be a crime since he had led Death Eaters into Hogwarts) heir, Draco Malfoy, to receive seven years house arrest.

When the time came he could venture farther than his head in a floo call would allow, he would take Scorpius out properly. He hated how he had to remind the boy of Daddy's restrictions because of past actions Daddy wasn't really thinking through so he had to stay home for now out of punishment. He couldn't even wear proper robes; what was the point? Who was going to see him? Just trousers and a crisp button down. Merlin, how he couldn't wait for things to change and he could have the life his birthright entitled him to. Maybe he'd divorce Astoria; he really didn't need her anymore; he had Scorpius and he was definitely all Draco needed.

Several refills later he was slouched in the black leather, high wingback chair. Flames from the fireplace danced in his unfocused pewter gaze.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.


He jerked awake to the sound of screaming, but it had stopped as soon as it started. The initial jolt of consciousness slowly dulled with the silence that ensued. He settled back into his chair. He must have dreamt it.

Bleary eyes stung with use and stared absently at the dark hearth. The snifter of spilled scotch held loosely in his grip. He took a few moments to gather himself before sitting up-bad idea, bad idea. His whole left side ached from the awkward curl his body had made inside the chair during slumber and stretching his arms high over his head felt painfully good. He frowned at the darkness of his study, at the dead fire and the sharp slit of daylight between the curtains; usually the house elves tended to such things like clockwork unless told otherwise. Though he was sure he hadn't gotten completely pissed, perhaps he told them to leave it and just didn't remember?

Right, shower first.

Muffling a yawn, he trudged outside his study. Down at the end of the hall, the golden hue of day poured in through the floor to ceiling window, but its light hardly reached more than a few meters before it was swallowed by shadow. He was used to this -this being a more secluded part of the building- though the familiarity did nothing to prevent his shiver. It reminded him too much of… less savory times.

What the hell were the elves doing? They knew better than to leave the drapes closed like this at the start of the day. Sure the Malfoys didn't entertain much these days but the estate home wasn't a tomb and most importantly, the darkness frightened Scorpius.

"Philly," he snapped, knowing Mipsy was ordered to stay by his son's side. When no telltale pop was heard, he looked around him in case he missed the small creature. "Philly," he tried again louder. Nothing. "Grody? …. Mipsy?"

Frustrated, he stalked down the corridor and considered which item of clothing would add more insult to injury when he gave them to the bat-eared little whelps. Considering Astoria, she probably occupied all three with some unreasonable, meaningless task out of spite, knowing he would want one of them for something or other, be it a Hangover potion or preparing his bath; both wouldn't be too terrible at the moment.

As if the day couldn't be off to a more top notch start. "Astoria."

She stood at the top of the stairs, her back to him, with such a crooked posture it was much too early by his internal clock to sneer at properly. Honestly, was he the only sufficiently raised pureblood of his generation?

"Astoria... Astoria, don't ignore me." He stomped closer. When he stepped into the light -apparently the elves made it this far- he noticed two things: One, the shiny marble floor was streaked carmine; and the second, the mess stopped underneath her weirdly positioned heeled slippers.

"Ast- Astoria?" His voice sounded threadbare. Alarms trilling inside his head. One hand uncertainly reached out.

She jerked around like a badly wounded animal. Blood, almost black scarlet ink, soaked well into her champagne silk gown. Her arms shaking at her sides; fingers curled into claws, manicured nails stained and jagged. A wheezing rattle reluctantly brought his gaze up further. "Merlin, Astoria, what-"

A horrible screech ripped through his eardrums and before he had time to tear his round eyes away from the butchered mess of her neck, his fingers were in it with a nuke warm squish as dazzling white teeth bit at his face like a rabid dog.

"Fuck- what-" Cringing and just barely holding her back, he shoved as hard as he could. Bloody dress and flailing limbs went skidding across the floor.

She wasn't still for a moment, already hunkering to all fours. Spitting and snarling with a veil of copper sticky locks tangling in her neck flesh and shading glazed, hungry eyes.

The few rapid steps he took backwards were not because he was afraid, just cautionary.

Strictly cautionary.

"Now, st-stay back. There's something-"

Jaws snapped in his direction, frothing at the mouth.

"Terribly... terribly wrong with you." He gulped. "We'll get you to St. Mungo's, alright? Grody! Mipsy! Philly!"

She lurched forward with a growl, and he jumped back, bumping into an antique vase. "Shit," he yelped as it crashed to the floor. Wand! Where was his wand? His mind skittered down the hall, around several turns, past one set of double doors and landed hard on the polished strip of hawthorn left beside the scotch. Damn it all. Just when this terrifying thought hit, one more crippling struck him.

Scorpius.

With one more check on the growling creature, formerly known as his wife, struggling to stand, he dashed away.

All matter of scenes raced through his head: Scorpius safe and fine, still sleeping or playing with his toys but completely unaware of his mother's state; Aware and frightened, locking himself in and waiting for his dad to get there; or worse, but when Draco grazed on worse his balance would falter so he pushed himself harder and faster.

His desperate delusions wouldn't let him see the vibrant trail of red he ran along.

The door was closed when he arrived. Dread twisted through his gut at the handprint smears on the front that led down to a lake of blood on sparkling marble; the dripping door handle lent to slow, lazy ripples through the metallic body.

Probably just trying to get in. He's fi- fine. Absolutely fine.

He pulled on the wet handle with confidence, but what met his eyes upon entering made him drop to his knees. Numb lips mouthed a soundless, No.

The stench of iron filled his nostrils. Opened curtains cast too bright light between dark shadows of disarray. The nightstand overturned, contents scattered; the hippogriff action figure laid on its side and feebly flapping its wings. Wrinkled bed clothes strewn and pointing like a crippled finger.

Bile scorched his throat.

An explosion of guts and tattered Malfoy-crested dish towels; torn apart little bodies, some with mutilated bat-eared faces still attached; bulbous eyes staring unseeingly with glassy terror: Mipsy, Philly, and Grody. And at the center of it all, hunched over what might have been Grody, slick with black crimson was his little boy in fluttering snitch pajamas, green sleeves soaked up to the elbows, and a limp twig-like arm in his grasp. The sound of sloppy chewing and baby teeth scraping bone squirmed in Draco's eardrums.

His hand clamped over his mouth, staving off the acid burning behind his lips.

With just that small action, a red-spattered head snapped up. A strip of leathery skin clamped between bared fangs was sticky against a pointed chin. Glazed blue eyes speared him, and a sharp growl pulled at his insides. Scorpius jumped to his feet with eerie quickness, entrails squishing under his feet. The young Malfoy charged with dim, furious eyes and Draco knew no more but to run. He stumbled backwards from the room -his little boy tearing after- and slipped and landed on his back in the pool of blood. With a jerky kick, the door slammed shut. Banging and snarls sounded on the other side, echoing in his ears. He scooted backwards to get out of the mess and leaned against the wall. Needing just a moment to breathe -this isn't happening, this is not happening- his eyes slipped closed with damp relief. Relief that ended all to soon. The full body slams shuddered the door on its hinges; the door rattled unnervingly.

A shriek he was more acquainted with tore through the hall. Draco scrambled up and out of the way just as Astoria crashed into his vacated spot. Teeth bared, head first, bouncing back unbothered with a sick thud.

The urge to ask if she was alright despite all reason twitched on the tip of his tongue, but when she whipped around -face smashed in and bloodied, perfect nose crooked, and one tooth dangling by way of torn gum and spit- he didn't wait for the next inevitable lunge.

There was no time for doubt. He knew this sensation of contained panic rippling through his system and converted it into raw adrenalin. He hadn't felt this since the war.

Draco ran.

The manor streaked by on the fuzzy edges of his periphery, the main focus centered on the nearest, quickest route; it needed no thought save for innate instinct. The few portraits that had been left uncovered called out to him, wailing their own woes, but they were passed by, ignored. His heart beat boomed in his ears. Legs burning. Lungs shrinking. A small stitch sprouted in his side but he pushed himself to keep going. The spasms in his spine of the chase were amplified by the sliced air of Astoria's swiping claws at his back and her wheezing pants down his neck.

He turned a sharp corner and scrambled down an ornate curved stairwell. His feet a blur, he had to grab the railing. There was a rip of fabric, a yelp, and he was snowballed over, tripping those last few steps, landing with a hard smack on the floor. Pain didn't seem to register and without missing a beat he was pushing himself up. One of the many visitors only sitting rooms wasn't far now. His ankle was pulled out from under him. Astoria's jagged nails bit into his black argyle sock, red-filmed teeth intent on his Achilles tendon. It was with the strong desire to remain unscathed and not the reoccurring urge since their betrothal that gave him the excuse to rear back and kick her in the face. Hard. As soon as she let go with a squawk, he crawl/ran that last stretch of marble.

In the corner of the rarely used room was his target, the floo. It may have been lame but all he wanted was to be with his mother; it made sense in the past during Survival mode and it always worked out after that. Without further ado, he limped over to the ivory fireplace -his grab for green powder knocking over the urn- and eyed the black hearth. Once again he wished he had grabbed his wand.

Wet, slapping gallops entered the room. With a spike of fear came a flare of wild magic and the hearth burst into overenthusiastic flames. He threw in his handful and leapt in just as it bathed green. Thoughts of help and his mother in mind, he choked out, "Chateau de Malfoi!"

Before the whoosh and swallow of flames, the last he saw was the grisly maw of his wife, her jaw warped and chartreuse flickering in her hungry eyes.

TBC


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