Chapter 11: The Funeral
Ginny
Ginny Weasley feels like she's been through the spin cycle of one of those Muggle washing machines that her father fiddles with in the garden shed. She feels crumpled and wrung dry. Her stomach hurts every time she thinks of Professor Dumbledore, of their last conversation together in his office.
She remembers him perfectly in the soft light of the circular room, the fire crackling, the small whirring noises of his magical artefact collection, the motes of ash and dust in the air. His face had been weary and lined, his voice tinged with exhaustion. Even so, she never expected him to falter, to fail. When he told her not to worry about Draco Malfoy, about Voldemort's plans, and she believed him implicitly and had allowed him to lift the weight off her shoulders.
"I can't believe he's gone," she says stupidly to Harry as they stand in a patch of sunlight. The rows of white chairs on the great lawn are filling up with all manner of witches and wizards. She watches Fleur help Bill into a chair, and her stomach aches looking at her disfigured older brother. Tonks and Lupin sit nearby, and her parents are walking down the rows, heading towards the rest of the Order.
"Should we sit as well?" she asks Harry, squeezing his hand.
"Maybe in a moment." His voice is still pinched with exhaustion.
"Oh, Harry," she whispers. "Don't lose hope. We need you to stay strong now, more than ever."
He lifts his eyes to look at her face, and there is too much sadness in his expression to bear. "I trusted him, Ginny."
"We all did," she says.
Harry's voice is calm and hollow. "He didn't tell me everything. He never revealed the entire picture to anyone. He just held it all in his own mind, dolling out wisdom on a need to know basis. We all believed in him so completely, trusted that in the end, he would guide us. And now?"
She knows what he's saying. Even in the darkest moments, she'd never believed that Dumbledore could fall. When Dumbledore was alive, even when things were at their worst, she could trust that the darkness could not fully envelop their world.
And now he is dead, and worst of all, killed by a man he had trusted and defended for years. His failure to see Snape's true nature threw Dumbledore's whole character into question. He was not infallible. He was not all-knowing. He had been a regular wizard, like the rest of them. He could be fooled and killed, just like anybody else.
But she cannot allow her feelings to dishearten Harry further. "The Order is still strong, Harry. Hope is not lost."
"I was wrong to focus my attention on Malfoy all year. Dumbledore was right about him. He couldn't do it in the end. I should have known it would be Snape all along."
Ginny bristles at the mention of Draco. "You were not wrong. He was a Death Eater, just as you suspected." She drops Harry's hand and walks to great lawn to take her seat.
Everyone in the Order was shocked by what Draco had done, both by the Dark Mark burned into his arm at such a young age, and the fact that he'd renounced the Death Eaters in front of Dumbledore, that he'd switched sides. Now, they all regard him with wariness, with confusion, but they appear to accept him and to honour Dumbledore's last wish, to offer him protection. They all blame Snape for Dumbledore's death. Harry, especially, has pooled all of his hatred, his grief, into the Potion Master's betrayal. But Ginny remembers that Draco was the one who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. She won't forget so easily, and she won't forgive.
She can see Ron and Hermione heading towards them. The white tomb gleams a short distance away. Ginny can hear Hagrid's sobs a few rows down. She wipes her own eyes. The funeral has begun. The chairs are all occupied, every last one.
In spite of her best efforts, she cannot help but look around for the gleam of his pale hair. Is he at the funeral? Would he really be bold enough to show his face here, after what he's done? She cannot see him.
Harry told her everything that transpired on the tower. He told her the morning after Dumbledore's death, in the Common Room. There was something to do with Horcruxes, which Harry was vague about in her presence. He wouldn't say exactly what the term meant, even though he clearly knew and the trio had been discussing it for some time. It hurt her that he trusted Ron and Hermione so much more than her, even though they were supposed to be close. What does it mean, then, that Ginny is his girlfriend, when he can't even confide in her fully?
She'd tried to shake it off, feeling guilty for succumbing to something as petty as jealousy amidst their time of mourning.
She did piece together Draco's plan, the one he'd refused to tell her, the extent of what he'd done. Harry explained how he'd failed to kill Dumbledore, how he admitted, in the end, that he was no true Death Eater. She knows that he is currently hiding in McGonagall's office, and that after the funeral, he will be taken to a safe house by the Order.
Ginny doesn't know how to feel about it. Of course, he could never kill Dumbledore. She'd always known that about him; in her heart, she'd always seen his potential for kindness. What does it mean that he's switched sides? Ginny doesn't know, but she does know that he could have spared the headmaster's life if only he'd seen made the decision sooner, if only he hadn't been such a stubborn coward.
Whenever she thinks of it, her insides begin to roil with anger.
As soon as the service concludes, Ginny stands up and walks away from the crowd, needing space. She can hear Harry running to catch up with her.
"Ginny?" Harry is breathing quickly, running his hands through his messy hair. He pulls her into a private alcove. "Ginny," he says again, taking her hand. His palm is sweaty. "I need to talk to you about something. About us." He studies her face nervously before continuing, talking very low so that she has to lean in to hear. "These last weeks with you have been brilliant. They were some of the happiest moments I've ever had at Hogwarts." He grins at her, but its one of those lopsided, sad grins that lets her know the bad news is still coming. "I just...I think we need to break up for now. It's too dangerous for us to be together, and I need to focus on what's coming." He takes a shaky breath. "Everything is going to change now, and I think it's best if we're not together. Not now."
Ginny finds herself nodding as she looks up to face him. She is full of anger, but her anger has nothing to do with Harry. If anything, his words have taken some of the pressure off her chest, and she breathes a little easier. "You're right, Harry. Of course, you're right." She squeezes his hand, and then lets it drop.
Draco
He stands in the shadows of the castle, off to the side where he won't be seen. His heart beats quickly throughout the memorial service, and a terribly thick feeling coats his chest, making it difficult to draw breath. Draco forces himself to breathe deeply, and to push that thick feeling down into the compartments in his mind. He breathes in, and slowly out. And he feels better.
Draco watches her on the way back from the funeral. Her eyes are red.
He hangs back in the shadows, watching Potter take her aside. He watches Potter's mouth move, and wishes he could read lips. Ginny's expression doesn't change; her lips are turned down into a frown. She looks distracted.
He waits for their conversation to end, and then he makes his way quickly through the crowd of mourners before she can disappear inside the castle. "Ginny, wait," he whispers, taking her by the wrist, pulling her away from the crowd.
She twists away from him. Of course she does; he knew she would, he just hoped that maybe, somehow, his decision to stay in the castle and not leave with Snape would count for something.
"I have nothing to say to you," she spits. When he doesn't immediately respond, she keeps going, the words pouring hotly from her. "Do you think I don't know what you did? Dumbledore is dead. It's a miracle Katy Bell is still alive. And you're the one who poisoned Ron. You nearly killed my brother."
Draco flushes. He'd nearly forgotten about the wine, but of course she's put the pieces together. "I didn't mean for Weasley to drink that wine."
"No, you'd meant for Professor Dumbledore to drink the wine. You'd meant to kill the greatest wizard of our time. And you did it, Draco. And don't tell me you didn't do it, that you didn't cast the spell - "
"I wasn't going to say - "
"Because you are responsible for his death just as much as Snape. You organized it. You lead the Death Eaters into the school. You may not have said the words, but in every other way, you are the one who killed Albus Dumbledore." She says it with finality, with venom. "And I will never forgive you for it. Never." Her voice breaks, but her brown eyes are burning. She turns around before he can say anything.
Draco watches her stomp away and disappear into the castle, her red hair a beacon in the crowd.
He leans against the castle wall, scowling. He's given up everything, and to what end? He has never felt so isolated. The Slytherins have largely left the castle: Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, Zabini and Nott. Pansy was surprised when his mother didn't show up to take him home. She hugged him goodbye, and in spite of himself, he clung to that bit of warmth from Pansy, that last bit of his old self.
Now she is gone, they are all gone, and he feels like he belongs nowhere. He can't even write a letter to mother for fear that it will be intercepted.
McGonagall is being nice enough, letting him stay at the castle and hinting that the Order will keep him safe, but he knows he doesn't belong. He knows it in his blood; he feels it in his bones, even as the Dark Mark on his forearm flashes an angry black. He would leave, but he has nowhere to go and nobody else to turn to.
Draco curses under his breath. The feeling of panic and fear bubbles up again, and he pushes it down, breathes through it. It's Ginny's fault; she manipulated him, then abandoned him. He wants to hate her for it, but instead he sinks down into the shadows of the stone alcove. He closes his eyes, and remembers the feel of her breath on his neck, the utter gentleness of her fingers tracing his Dark Mark.
