Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 2: The Tribute
Minerva McGonagall had brought with her the day's issue of Daily Prophet, a wizarding radio and a bagful of lemon drops. Though celebrations abounded in Hogwarts and everywhere else in the wizarding world, she thought she wanted to be here, even if for just a moment, to pay respects for the one with the vision and wisdom to foresee it all.
Minerva smiled, the grimness of gray skies could do nothing to darken her mood. She tuned the radio to the chamber music station, carefully laid the sweets at the foot of the tombstone, and was about to prop the newspaper that shouted "VOLDEMORT VANQUISHED" against the structure when she saw a small bunch of lily of the valley, white and delicate, leaning inconspicuously against the marble.
Her heart warmed to the thoughts of the early morning visitor. She held the flowers against her nose, letting the sweet scent fill her senses with the promise of life and hope before returning them to their position. The newspaper had been charmed to act as their latest backdrop, the bold name in the headline only served to accentuate the purity of the petals brushing against it.
Satisfied with the arrangement, Minerva stood. She was about to leave when her ears caught the distant flapping of robes in the wind.
She turned and narrowed her eyes. From afar she could see a head of blond hair that could belong to no one but a Malfoy. Her thoughts immediately turned to the Elder Wand, and the mayhem that would ensue if it once again fell into the wrong hands.
She frowned as her body morphed and disappeared onto the branch of a tree.
It was the younger Malfoy. Minerva observed, with a hint of satisfaction, the blisters on the usually pale face and the slight limp in the gait. He must have suffered an attack during the battle.
To her surprise, Draco caught his steps on the other side of the tomb, his head bent to a humble bow. Grey eyes focused on the speckles interspersing among the earth, painted by fresh rain falling from the skies above. Lips moved to speak, yet the customary drawl was reduced to a whisper; the silent words it labored were lost among the tinkles of water against marble.
Minerva's spine once again straightened in tension as the young man finally approached the headstone and fell on his knees.
If he dared to dig Dumbledore's grave...
Instead, Draco retrieved an envelope from his pocket. His fingers fumbled slightly as he unwrapped the hawthorne wand, rotated it such that the handle faced the tombstone, and planted it into the soil beside the lily of the valley.
The rain was falling hard now. The headline of the newspaper had dissolved into a smudge of black, threatening to taint the elegant whiteness of the flowers resting upon it. The blond curled his lips as his vision rose to follow the drift of storm clouds above.
As if an afterthought, he picked up his wand for the last time. His other arm extended to a slant, the sleeve of his robe falling back to expose a stretch of marked flesh into the rain.
Minerva crouched, her hind legs bent for attack as Draco spelled.
The flesh tore, blood gushing out from a thin, long gash that severed the snake and skull neatly into two. Scowling in pain, he fell against the wet earth; his trembling hand struggled to surrender the wand once more but only managed to prop it against the flowers, the scarlet on its handle briefly staining the petals before being cleansed by the rain.
Draco stood, his jaws clenched as he limped towards the lake, chin held high as Minerva had always known him. The grey eyes never once turned to look at the grave again, nor inspected the wound that was held pressed against his lips, bleeding tears on the path he was treading.