Chapter 28: The Rebel and the Funeral
When Harry finally makes it back down to the beach, the sun is almost entirely hidden by the now-calm ocean. In the distance he sees two female figures walking slowly side by side, their shadows dark and dragging across the sand. Harry recognises them as Hermione and Luna, and the sight gives him a strange, peaceful feeling in his chest that makes him reluctant to go inside.
Even though he is desperate to tell Ron and Hermione about the words he just saw appear on the golden Snitch, he will wait, because he owes them an apology first, and despite wanting to talk to them together, he supposes that can wait too.
He turns and walks up the steps of the porch and opens the quaint little wooden front door. The entryway is quiet and cozy, painted a french blue and decorated with dainty side-tables and family portraits. The whole place has Fleur written all over it, but the countless photo frames filled with smiling Weasleys are undeniably Bill.
Harry tentatively makes his way towards low voices, and after ducking around a winding staircase that reminds Harry longingly of the Burrow, he finds himself in the kitchen doorway.
Bill sits at a small round table, opposite Dean Thomas. They both have steaming mugs in front of them, and they look up at Harry's entrance. From the stove, Fleur turns to smile at him, her long silvery hair swimming behind her. Harry feels suddenly awkward, as though he just wants to run outside and bury his head in the sand, because he doesn't think he deserves to be here — safe, and being smiled at as though he didn't just get people killed, especially when he sees Dean's arm is in a sling.
"Hey, Harry," Dean says it tiredly, but his brown eyes are warm.
Harry tries to smile in return, but he probably ends up grimacing instead. "Hi — er — have you seen Ron?"
"He's upstairs," Bill tells him, his expression encouraging. "First room on the left."
"Thanks," Harry nods at him before back-tracking out of the doorway. Sometimes he wonders why all of the Weasleys don't hate him, seeing how he has put Ron in danger countless time over the past seven years. Harry fleetingly thinks of the Dursleys, and wonders if now he understands their incurable detest for him any better. Shaking his head, Harry decides that no, he will never understand the Dursleys.
He reaches the first landing and steels himself, knocking more harshly than he intended, and silently curses himself as the door opens to reveal Ron standing hesitantly inside, looking tall and positively downcast. "Hey," Harry rushes out, sounding too breathless. Ron looks at him as though he doesn't believe Harry's there at all, so Harry delves his hands deeper into his pockets and asks, "Going to let me in?"
Ron stands back to let Harry walk past him, and into a room that looks much the same as the hallway downstairs. He spins around, needing to get everything off his chest, but even as he opens his mouth, Ron gets there first, "I'm sorry, mate."
Harry frowns, "What — no, I —"
"You were right. About the things you said." Ron lowers his eyes to the floor.
"I still shouldn't have said them — and I — I still should have been there." Harry rakes a hand through his hair, lowering himself dejectedly onto the window seat, thinking his apology isn't going at all to plan.
"You were with Malfoy," Ron says it simply, factually, and while there is no disgust in his voice, there is something strangely close to acceptance, and it leaves Harry voiceless. He can't deny it, can't lie, and then Ron's eyes meet his, exhausted and defeated. "'Mione says you lo—" Ron chokes off with a strangled sound, the word 'love' getting caught in his throat like something unpleasant. Ron sighs, a sigh that travels through his whole body as he slumps down onto the edge of the bed.
Harry almost wishes Ron would say it, if only so Harry could have a reason to tell the world, to tell anyone who will listen, that he has fallen in love with his enemy. But Ron just stares at the floor, his head bowed and his hands together, and when he eventually speaks, it is to say, "we saw the stag, Harry," As though wrapping his mind around the fact that someone like Draco Malfoy might be capable of loving Harry is easier than believing his best friend is capable of loving a Death Eater.
Harry swallows away the bitterness on his tongue, turning to look out of the window at the darkening sky. Below, he can just make out Hermione and Luna returning to the cottage, when Ron says, "She said she didn't tell you because you'd go back for him."
Harry's eyelids flutter closed, his jaw clenching, unclenching when he releases a breath, because it's true, he would have gone back. And if he'd done that then they never would have gotten the cup.
Harry leans his head back against the window, wondering whether there will ever come a time when he is forced to choose between his friends and Draco Malfoy. The thought makes him feel sick, and through gritted teeth he asks, "Do you hate him?"
Ron looks up, his lips a thin line, and even though Harry is expecting the answer it still makes him bristle. "I don't think I'll ever stop hating him, Harry — but for you, for you I hope he survives this." He sounds as though he doesn't quite agree with himself, but when his blue gaze settles on Harry there is an honesty there that makes Harry forget how desperately he hopes Draco will survive this too.
"So… so you don't care that I — y'know…"
"What?" Ron snorts, and his mouth pulls up at one corner, "That you like blokes?" He pauses, shrugs, "Nah, not really. Although, I can't say I think you picked the right bloke." He tries for humour, but his half-hearted chuckle doesn't quite reach Harry. Ron clears his throat, "Malfoy'll always be a pointy git, but if Hermione forgives him, after what he's…well… then — then that's— that has to be good enough for me, doesn't it?"
"Thanks," Harry murmurs, unsure whether what he's just heard makes him want to jump up and down or go to sleep and never wake up, and after a few tense seconds he decides to take advantage of the silence, and says quickly, "and I'm sorry about before."
Ron glances up, scowls, and for a brief moment they are back in their potion's classroom, standing in front of an old cupboard and shoving eachother in a competition to claim the newer-looking textbook. Without that book, Harry would never have sliced scars into Draco Malfoy's skin, without that book, Harry's life may have been very different. Ron won back then, but Harry wins now, and suddenly they're both laughing, and it feels so good that Harry doesn't ever want to stop.
But he has to stop, because there's a war going on, and while laughing feels right, it also feels wrong. Harry stands and slaps Ron on the shoulder, and in the squeeze of his hand he hopes to convey all the things he can't say, all the sorrys and thankyous that his best mate deserves. The door opens then, softly with a click, and when Harry looks over his shoulder he sees Hermione hovering on the threshold, biting her lip and looking so anxious and broken that Harry wants to hug her.
It hurts knowing what she's done, but it hurts more that Harry should have realised but didn't. Harry thinks about Remus, Remus who lives his life clinging to the ghost of his friend's memories, Remus who is the last man standing. And Harry knows that some things are too important to give up on, even if they feel like acid in his stomach, burning and consuming him.
He knows that Hermione was right too, and that's why he does hug her, pulls her into his arms and squeezes. And she knows she's forgiven, but the way she squeezes back tells Harry she hadn't expected him to ever forgive her, and knowing that acts as a balm to smooth over the rough cracks in their trust.
"Oi," Ron interrupts after a while, his tone joking but serious as well, and Harry steps back with a smirk and a lifted brow, Ron's past words ringing through him, 'When this is all over, I'm gonna ask her to marry me.'
Harry grins, and then he tells them about the Golden Snitch.
Draco has cast as many concealment charms on himself as he could think of, but somehow he is still sweating to think that they are not enough. Even though the Manor is practically void of Death Eaters at the moment, Draco's whole body feels cold and jittery as though someone is going to be waiting for him around every corner.
The guest rooms are spread out on the lowest floor, and it makes Draco sick to remember how Zabini had been able to tell him with absolute certainty which one belonged to Antonin Dolohov. The name alone sends spears of revulsion into the pit of Draco's stomach, but the idea that his old classmate has been in there enough times to remember such information makes Draco's hatred increase enough for him to want to vomit.
Draco comes to a stop at the right door, the dark, towering wood of it making him shiver. He hasn't been down to this part of the Manor in years, and, hoping it will be the last time, he flicks his wand and casts a detection spell under his breath.
His heart comes to a shuddering halt when he finds out there is someone inside, someone who can only be Dolohov, and someone who, if his spell tells him correctly, is apparently asleep.
Draco stands frozen on the spot, wondering whether he should run the hell away and just tell Zabini he couldn't find it, but Draco pushes the idea away immediately, because while Slytherins aren't about sentimentality, they are about owing eachother. And right now Draco owes Blaise Zabini a favour, and more than that, Draco surprisingly finds that he wants to help him, that he wants to get Zabini out of here as much as Draco wants to get himself out of here.
Attempting to swallow down his fear, Draco puts a hurried muffling charm on the door, and releases an inaudible sigh of relief when he pushes it open without a creak.
He slides into the room, the door still soundless as it slips closed behind him. Instantly the smell of whiskey burns Draco's nostrils, fills his throat and makes him crave a drink of water. There are empty glass bottles strewn over the floor, some shattered, others intact, and then Draco's eyes land on the man who appears unconscious on the bed. Dolohov's mouth is half open, black soot still stuck to the side of his face, and his legs are hanging over the edge of the mattress, his torso diagonal as though his sleep came out of nowhere and slammed him onto his back.
Draco would think he's dead if it weren't for the slow movements of his chest, and suddenly Draco is overcome with a nearly uncontrollable desire to kill. It wouldn't take very long, all he'd have to do would be to whisper the right curse, or to drag the Sword of Gryffindor out of his back pocket and jam it into the bastard's ribcage. Draco would smirk to think of what the heroic Godric would think if he were to know the uses to which his prized weapon was put to, but he is still too busy fighting his sudden blood-lust, and his hands are shaking.
He can't do it, he knows he can't, but oh how he wants to. His vows would probably kill him first, and even if they didn't the Death Eaters would find out it was Draco, and then everything would be over.
Draco shakes himself, wanting to get this over with so he can get the hell out, and gives the sleeping man one last glare of loathing before looking urgently around the room. He doesn't dare accio Zabini's wand for fear of it making some sort of noise as it's forced out of its hiding spot, and by the lack of possessions around the room Draco presumes it can only be in either the wardrobe or the bedside table.
Thinking quickly, and deducing that Dolohov is the kind of man who goes days without changing robes, Draco decides to check the bedside table first, so on lead-like legs, Draco creeps forward.
His hands and his forehead are sweating by the time he silently lowers himself to his knees, and after casting the same charm as he did on the door on the drawers, he gently pulls the first one open. It's empty apart from a few galleons and a pocket knife, and with clenched teeth Draco moves onto the next one.
It's locked, and his heart both pangs excitedly but plummets into his stomach. It won't open to ordinary unlocking spells, and with a muttered expletive and a lack of options Draco reopens the first draw and takes out the pocket knife.
He digs the blade into the corners of the bottom draw, trying to prise it open. The wood rattles once, Draco's sweaty palm almost drops the blade, and Dolohov grunts in his sleep.
Draco's nerves are in overdrive, and his chest is pounding so vigorously it's painful, so he closes his eyes for a second, calms his mind, and thinks of Harry.
The knife gives that last little bit into the metal lock, and the draw slides open with a click.
Zabini's wand is the only thing in there, and Draco's hand darts out to snatch it up as soon as he sees it. He stows it into his pocket hastily and with bated breath puts a new locking spell on the draw, hoping that any damage he's done to the wood won't be noticed unless Dolohov goes looking for it.
There's another grunt, followed by a hiss. Straightening, Draco turns his petrified gaze on Dolohov, but his eyes are still shut, only screwed up with the discomfort of a fitful sleep.
Draco walks backwards to the door, unwilling to look away for fear of the man suddenly springing awake and finding him, and when his back comes into contact with the door handle Draco is filled with a smug sense of accomplishment.
Then he's gone, safe. Or, as safe as one can be when a horde of Death Eaters is due to arrive at any moment.
Draco hurries up the entrance hall staircases and down the main hall towards the East Wing. He pauses to take off all his concealment charms, but stops dead as the door to his father's study opens, and the washed-out pallor of Lucius Malfoy greets him with suspicious surprise.
"Draco. What are you doing here?"
Cold dread rushes through Draco's body, and in his pocket he feels Zabini's wand like a heavy sprig of guilt. But he shouldn't be guilty, no, he shouldn't be — and suddenly he isn't. He's livid. Because here is this man, privy to the going-ons of a madman, content to let his own son be harassed and threatened right under his nose, willing to let a teenaged boy be used up and then thrown away.
"Was it you?" Draco spits hoarsely, "Did you fuck him too? You sick fucking bastard!"
Lucius has gone, if possible, even paler, but his eyes are dark and astonished. And he knows what Draco's talking about. Draco knows he knows.
"You're fucking disgusting!"
Lucius gaze darts down the corridor, wary of being overheard, and then his glare settles on his son. "How dare you — I had no part in —"
"But you still let it fucking happen! And that's just as bad! It's just as fucking bad!"
And Draco remembers this look, remembers the fracturing facade of someone who has had enough, of someone who can take no more. He remembers it because it is the same look his father gave him when Draco had been distraught over the disappearance of his mother.
Draco is ready for the backhand that comes. His fist comes up, knocks away his father's arm, his teeth bared in a snarl and his hair in his eyes. And then Lucius's face dawns with comprehension, and he recoils. But Draco doesn't care, doesn't care if his father feels regret or shame or guilt, he doesn't give a fuck.
"You make me sick," Draco says, and then he turns, and he doesn't look back to see what he's left behind, doesn't stop to think about why his father might be here instead of there — in an underhanded battle of terror.
He only walks forward, and when he swings the door open to his rooms, Zabini is waiting for him.
Zabini has been pacing, and at Draco's entrance he hastily turns, his dark features schooled in such a way that expects disappointment.
But then Draco secures the doors behind him, and slides Zabini's wand from his pocket, and the other Slytherin's eyes light up with amazement.
Draco hands it to him, and Zabini does not hesitate to take it. There is no thankyou, and Draco is pleased, because he doesn't plan on thanking Zabini for earlier, and things are easier this way, easier if they just continue in a mutual, wordless understanding that in this hell called war, they have eachother's backs.
Zabini nods at him, and Draco nods back.
"It was either this or vows," Zabini says indifferently a moment later, and Draco scowls, wondering what he would have chosen, if given the choice. Vows in Zabini's case would have been different, would have been vile, and for an intense second Draco is glad that Zabini chose to lose his wand instead.
Draco doesn't need to tell Zabini to be careful, to make sure no one sees him with it, and neither of them say anything else before Zabini departs like a short-spoken whisper.
Draco is left to collapse onto his bed, and with an uneven sigh he lowers his head into his hands, missing Harry Potter with every inch of his body.
Moody's funeral is on an overcast day on the first of May. There is a slight wind, and the smell of the sea carries over to surround his farewell.
Harry thinks Moody would have liked it, would have liked the small numbers, and the fact that he would forever sleep in a place that is transient. The ocean is always changing, and it keeps constant vigilance by day and by night.
Harry releases his handful of soil, watching as the breeze tries to take it away.
Nobody cries, and Harry thinks Moody would have liked that too.
Hermione sheds a tear, but wipes it away before anybody notices. Harry notices, though, and he thinks her sadness has more to do with the idea of death than it has with the man who lies to rest below them.
Harry doesn't let himself grieve, not yet, because he knows if he starts he won't be able to stop, and he will lose sight of what's important, of what has to be done. He knows that it will be easier to mourn everyone together than individually, and he would rather death take out a chunk of his heart all at once, than chisel away at it piece by piece.
Luna says a few words, her dreamy voice nearly indistinguishable from the rustling of the leaves. If it were any other day, Harry would have smiled at the things she says, and he knows Ron would have snorted too, but today they're sending off a warrior, and Harry knows there will be more to come.
Remus has the most to say, and his handful of soil hits the upturned earth with a soft thud. The sound speaks of something final, and Harry's heart clenches. Beside him, he sees Ron take Hermione's hand, and he hasn't realised his own feels so empty until now.
Harry closes his eyes, lets the breeze brush his cheeks, but when he opens them he is no longer standing amidst his friends by the beach, beneath the copse of large trees. Instead he sees Hogwarts, the towers of it reaching into the sky just like they have reached into Harry's heart.
And he knows, knows that in the face of death he has let himself become vulnerable — opened himself up, and now he is witnessing Voldemort's thoughts again. But while it once would have made him nauseous and scared, now, as he sees flashes of uncertainty and images of his school, his home, he knows that's where he has to go.
Harry gasps, and he's back by Shell Cottage. Bill Weasley is saying something with nostalgia in his voice, and Ron and Hermione are both giving Harry side-glances of knowing. Harry swallows, tries to steady his breathing, and waits.
By the time the last word has been said, Harry's temples are sweating, and as everyone else disperses his two best friends hang back beside him.
"We have to get into Hogwarts."
They look at him without surprise, but Hermione shakes her head in worry. "But Harry — we can't. There's practically no way in. Not with Snape as Headmaster now."
"Yeah, not to mention they've got bloody Dementors surrounding the place," Ron puts in.
"Hogsmeade, then," Harry says without a beat, unfazed by both Snape and Dementors. "And we'll get in through one of the secret passages. There's a Horcrux there. I knew it — I always knew there'd —" He breaks off at Hermione's quelling look, and Harry doesn't bother saying that sometimes the most least-likely hiding places are the most obvious. Besides, Hermione looks too nervous to be told she's wrong.
"It'll be dangerous," Ron says lowly, but something in his voice tells Harry that's not what's stopping him, but it should be what stops Hermione.
Harry knows Hermione won't stay behind, no matter how much Ron begs, and what she says next is both predictable and entertaining. "We haven't even got a plan!"
"Hermione — since when have our plans ever gone right? We plan, we get there, and then everything turns to shit — besides, danger's never stopped us, right?" Harry and Ron share a look, Ron grins, and Hermione sighs.
"Should we tell the others?" Ron asks after a while. Harry thinks about the camp, about all the people they lost, and about Remus's new born son.
Finally, his gaze falls to Moody's headstone. "No. We get in — we get out. We try and make it back here by nightfall."
Ron nods, Hermione nods too, and Harry is grateful.
Draco gets most of his meals from the elves in the kitchen, so as to avoid unwanted attention. And it is on his way down early that evening when he is suddenly grabbed by the back of the neck and flung against the wall.
Pain winds its way up Draco's back as Dolohov sneers at him with sick amusement and says, "wrong way to the dungeons, Malfoy. Prisoners are this way."
And then he's tugging Draco back the way he came, bending his arm at an unnatural angle as he pulls violently on Draco's wrist, and Draco can't shake him off, so instead he draws his wand, casts a mild blasting hex that has Dolohov recoiling.
He doesn't let Draco go, though, and if anything his eyes become even wilder — black and unhinged, and Draco doesn't have time to think of another spell, because he's too terrified trying to figure out whether Dolohov knows about the missing wand, and too distracted by the churning in his gut that yells, 'please, please not this again.'
He's already tortured Hermione Granger, and he doesn't think he will be able to live through torturing anyone else.
Dolohov shoves him down the cellar steps before him, and Draco has to steady his hands on the wall to stop himself from tripping. Dolohov laughs, deep and sadistic and horrid, and Draco hates him.
There are flickering torches lining the stone walls, and there is a slumped, ashen figure shackled to the floor. He's got dark hair, black as ink, and for a second Draco's heart withers and shrinks into nothing — because no, it can't be —
And it isn't. It isn't Harry. Because then the young man looks up and Draco sees that his eyes are blue, not green, and Draco's relief makes him feel disgusted — selfish.
"He's a pathetic muggle… Know why he's hear?" Dolohov's breath is at Draco's ear, and Draco can smell it, stale and putrid, and more than anything, this is what makes him want to gag.
Draco swallows bile, his throat dry and scratchy — his lungs not giving him enough air. "W-why?"
"Because… He looks like Potter… don't you think?"
The muggle's cheeks are sunken, and his eyes are brimming with a plea as he looks up into Draco's face. And Draco does think so, he thinks it until it is enough to make him want to save him, save a stranger, and Draco Malfoy has never before cared about strangers, and whether they live or die.
But right now, looking at this prisoner, whose wrists are torn and bleeding, whose hair is nearly identical to Harry Potter's, Draco realises Dolohov's intent was not to have Draco torture the prisoner, but to have the prisoner torture him.
And then Dolohov points his wand, his grin taut and demented across his face, and screams, "crucio!"
The man caves in on himself, crumbles, and his lips part in a soundless howl as his eyes bulge to the point where Draco thinks they are about to burst.
"S-stop — stop it," Draco chokes.
Dolohov abruptly lowers his arm, laughing jeeringly as the muggle collapses as far as his chains will allow. Then he turns to Draco, and Draco knows what he's waiting for, what he's expecting — do it or watch him be killed. And Draco has to remind himself that this isn't Harry, it isn't the boy he gave his heart to, because if it were Harry, Draco thinks he would be on his knees already, begging to be the one to die instead.
Draco lifts his wand. He does it because this isn't Harry. He does it because the echo of Dolohov's threats are still lingering at the back of his mind. He does it because he likes to pretend he is brave, and not scared.
But he doesn't do it — because then Lucius Malfoy descends the stairs in a swirl of dark robes and harrowing features, and says, "Draco. We must go."
Draco's wand hand falls to his side, his pulse stuttering, while Dolohov glowers as though he has just missed out on the best fun he'll have in his life.
"Come," Lucius snaps, and Draco realises he hasn't moved yet. He takes a step, freezes, and his eyes travel from the unconscious muggle to Dolohov, knowing what will happen as soon as he leaves. "Draco."
And for a second, Draco regrets not killing the nameless man before him, because what Dolohov has in stall for him will be a trial where death will rapidly become welcome.
But Draco had his chance, and he lost it.
He follows his father out of the dungeons, his head pounding, trying desperately to forget the image of Dolohov's excited smirk.
"Where are we going?" Draco asks tersely.
"No questions." Lucius does not wait for his son to catch up, his strides long as he moves toward the Manor's entrance.
"Where are we going?" Draco asks again, firmer, his anger catching at the end and giving his voice something momentarily frightening.
Maybe Lucius hears it, maybe that's why he answers impatiently, "we're to be stationed within Hogsmeade."
"Why?"
They're out the front doors now, heading down the wide steps and onto the drive.
Lucius comes to a halt, and Draco stops several paces behind him, not wanting to get too close, not wanting to touch him. Draco frowns, his glare penetrating as he stares at the man who he is forced to call his father.
A muscle twitches in Lucius's jaw as he replies austerely, "We're expecting Potter."
Emotion takes over Draco's features, he knows it does, and he holds his breath because he knows if he releases it, it will waver. Zabini told him this would happen, that Harry would try and get into Hogwarts, but Draco didn't think it would be so soon, and it leaves him losing his grip on his own shoddily composed calm.
Lucius extends his arm, offering side-along, and Draco spares it a second's glance before he seethes and looks away.
"The Three Broomsticks," Lucius tells him stonily, and then he's gone.
Draco disapparates a second later, and appears by his father's side.
And what he sees has him lurching back into the pub's window.
The little village of Hogsmeade, once bustling with shoppers and covered in bright, cheerful shop displays, is now nothing but boarded up windows and barren streets. This is the place Draco used to eagerly await visiting, the place where he taunted Weasley and Granger and got snowballs thrown at him by what he now knows was an invisible Harry.
The memory makes him want to smile, but he can't, because seeing the village like this is akin to the feeling of having one of his vital organs taken out of his body only to have it clumsily stuffed back in again.
The very idea of a smile drops from Draco's mind and gets lost somewhere amidst the desolated town of Hogsmeade, because then he notices the dotted figures of Death Eaters all up the street, some hiding, others under dodgy disillusionment charms, others in plain clothes, trying to blend into a place where there is no one.
And they're waiting for Harry, Draco realises. Harry is going to come here and there won't be anything Draco can do to stop him from being attacked — from being captured.
Draco's heart rate picks up, and the knowledge that Harry has an invisibility cloak does little to make him relax. His eyes are quick and wary as they dart up and down the street, looking for a sign, for anything that will tell him that Harry Potter has stepped into a minefield of the enemy.
And then there's a crack, echoing from a side-alley up ahead, and immediately a shrill, deafening caterwauling charm goes off, and Draco has to fight the urge to cover his ears as everyone springs into action.
"We know you're here, Potter!" Someone calls, and then there are spells flying, and Draco doesn't even know he's moved until Lucius attempts to drag him back.
"Draco, wait —" But Draco shrugs him off, doesn't stay and listen to what his father may or may not say, and then he's racing towards the throng of the fight, the side street around which Death Eaters are crowding.
He doesn't have a plan, doesn't know what he's doing, all he knows is Harry. But then Draco stops, nearly crashes into somebody's back, because he sees that the alley is empty apart from an old man, who is arguing hysterically with one of the Death Eaters.
Harry isn't here, and Draco can breathe easily again.
