Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter One

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank

low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without

rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly ...

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

The day that Harry Potter was put into the ground was hatefully sunny and warm. Rays of sunlight sparkled through the stained-glass windows of the Muggle church Harry's Aunt Petunia had secured for his final rites.

A casket glistened at the front of the church, blissfully closed. No one really wanted to see Harry's face frozen in a death mask, no matter how peaceful. Surrounded with flowers, the coffin sat carefully unwatched as the mourners kept their gazes firmly fixed on the Muggle minister, speaking from the pulpit on "a life too short." Only baby Alice Potter, completely oblivious to the day's events, showed any visible interest in the casket, straining in her Uncle Ron's arms to reach out and touch the pretty flowers.

Alice was mostly quieted, however, by the stern look on her mother's face and the openly hostile one on her brother's. Young Nicholas Potter had not spoken a word since his father's death and had only contemptuous looks for the rest of the world. If everyone else hadn't been so listless with grief themselves, they might have worried.

Instead, he was simply permitted to burrow deeper into his mother's side. Françoise Potter** sat stiffly in her pew, Nicholas on her left and Albus Dumbledore on her right. Small and wan, she had been nearly as taciturn as her son throughout the entire tragedy. Tears swam in her eyes throughout the funeral service, but she did not allow herself to cry. Only later, when she knew that no one could watch her and pity her grief, was Françoise planning to once more mourn the loss of her beloved.

Ron Weasley, watching his friend's widow closely, was probably the only person in the church who noticed that she was leaning into Albus Dumbledore's side just as her son was leaning into hers. Dumbledore, steel and stoic, had been a pillar to lean on for everyone affected by Harry Potter's death. He had been the first to openly grieve, allowing Harry's family to see his tears. It had been in Dumbledore's gtle embrace that Françoise had begun to cry on that first horrible night; the shared pain a comfort even through its own dark haze.

And further down the pew sat a pale and oddly fragile Petunia Dursley, clutching onto a lace-edged handkerchief as if it were her sole lifeline. She was entirely focused on the minister, a family friend who was probably surprised to hear of the existence of her nephew, and Ron noticed that she was mouthing the same words he was speaking.

Every now and again, her eyes flickered over the heavyset man on her right and she gave him a nearly murderous stare. Each time, the man simply coughed uncomfortably and tightened his already strangling necktie, his neck threatening to roll over the sides of his collar in protest. Ron guessed this might be her son, the infamous Dudley Dursley. While Harry and his aunt had come to a fairly familial understanding through the years (particularly once his Uncle Vernon had left his wife for a younger woman), Harry and his cousin had remained firmly at odds throughout their lives. Dudley was probably only attending his cousin's funeral at his mother's vehement insistence.

Alice snuffled in Ron's arms and shifted again, trying to get down. Absently, Ron pulled his attention from the other mourners and concentrated on his adopted niece, making soothing, clucking noises and smoothing down her light curls.

Harry Potter's sun had practically risen and set on this one little girl. He had loved both of his children, certainly, but he and Alice had a particularly special bond. His little Looking-Glass girl, he'd called her.

"What sort of adventures have you had today, little Alice?" he would ask the toddler as he came home from work every day. "What wonderland have you visited?" Sweeping her up in his arms, he would join in her laughter and listen to her babyish chatter with what Ron thought was cheerful relish.

Ron made a mental note to track down that copy of Alice In Wonderland that Harry had planned to give Alice when she was old enough to read. He would add, of course, a copy of Through the Looking Glass to the gift.

That's what Harry would have wanted.

It was unfair, Ron thought sourly, suddenly. Harry should be the one to tease his beloved daughter about her quixotic namesake. Harry should have to struggle to braid her hair in just the way she wanted it for her first day at Hogwarts. Harry should be the one to loom menacingly over her first brave beau.

But Harry was about to be placed into a very large hole in the ground.

Tears prickled at Ron's eyes. Little Alice, sensing his distress, finally stopped twisting in his arms and settled into his embrace, patting his shoulder with her chubby hand.

This, of course, proved to be his undoing, and he wept in earnest. Quietly, unobtrusively, Ron grieved for his dead friend and his children. He caught Dumbledore's eye and accepted the man's complacent nod, tightening his arms around Alice.

He also caught Nicholas' unabashed scowl and frowned through his tears. Harry's death had turned his son into a withdrawn ghost of the bright child he used to be. Unfortunately, Nicholas, who permitted the diminutive 'Nick' only from his deceased father, was, at the age of seven, certainly old enough to know what had happened. To be affected by the severity of it all. Ron hoped fervently that Nicholas hadn't managed to catch a glimpse of his father's body in the chaotic aftermath of his death.

Françoise had been at the market with the children and, upon returning home, she'd found Harry. In the ensuing panic of baffled Aurors unable to detect a hint of Dark magic, of a calmly furious Albus Dumbledore whisking the remaining Potters to Hogwarts, even of Ron himself, standing disconsolately over his best friend and wondering what he could do, it was entirely possible that Nicholas' eyes hadn't been completely shielded.

And how could Ron go about asking the child that question? Ron, who still couldn't sleep at night for those horrible images flashing through his mind's eye, ask a little boy if he had th same problem?

Maybe, if Nicholas had indeed witnessed the undisguised horror of the scene, the memories would dull with time. Maybe the boy might even be able to bring himself to speak again. To smile. Anything but that cold look of hatred on his face.

Ron told himself this fervently, hoping it would prove true for himself as well. Hoping that, indeed, the seething trauma of Harry's death might recede to a dull ache. It would never fade completely, of course, but it might become bearable.

He was startled from his musings as the organ struck up some Muggle hymn that he did not recognize. Apparently, the service was over.

Handing Alice over to Dumbledore, Ron rose and approached Harry's coffin for the first time that day, joined by a solemn Neville Longbottom, now far thinner than his chubby youth would have ever predicted, an earnestly tearful Remus Lupin, hair now completely white, despite his mere fifty years, and a recalcitrant Dudley Dursley, propelled to the coffin by his mother's harsh glare.

Ron shook hands with the other three men, struggling to recall what he'd been told of this bizarre Muggle ritual. They were, according to tradition, supposed to carry Harry to his grave. What were they called? Pall-something.

Oh, yes. He had it now.

Pallbearers.

Death's escorts.

Shuddering, Ron picked up one of the coffin's handles, wincing as a fumbling Dudley Dursley managed to drop his. It landed against the wood with a dull thud that caused most of the mourners to jump. Alice let out a quiet, startled cry and Dumbledore pulled her closer.

Slowly, Ron and Neville and Lupin and Dursley bore Harry's body out of the church, feet shuffling and eyes lowered. Once at the entrance, Ron pulled a small, empty tin can out of his pocket and sat it on the ground.

"On the count of three," he told the men, helping them sit the coffin on the ground near the can. "I'll Apparate after you lot with the ... with Harry."

"On the count of three what?" Dursley asked irritably.

Ron glared at the man. "Touch the can. It's a ... never mind." There was no point in explaining the magic to Dursley. "One ... two ... three!"

Watching dispassionately as the men Portkeyed to the cemetery, Ron placed a hand on the lid of Harry's coffin a few seconds later and Disapparated, taking his best friend with him.

-- -- -- -- --

"Harry Potter was, of course, many things," Albus Dumbledore said quietly. "He was above all things, a loving husband and father," with a gentle nod toward Françoise, who was now cradling Alice in her arms, "a loyal friend," to Ron, who had not been able to bring himself to remove his hand from Harry's coffin since he'd Apparated, "and a good man."

A rustle ran through the smal group of mourners, but everyone remained silent and rapt with attention.

"I would feel disloyal toward Harry's name if I dwelt on his childhood achievements," Dumbledore continued, "but I would feel equally disloyal if I let them pass without mention. I was present at Harry Potter's birth -- I helped to bring him into this world. I knew him as a young man, full of life and what has been termed on more than one occasion as 'stupidly brave.'" He allowed himself a wry smile and even Ron's lips twisted at that -- a comment that could have only come from the waspish Professor Snape at some point during their school years.

"Harry Potter had been saddled, nearly from birth, with a task that no one should have asked of him. And yet, through everything, he persevered," he said evenly. "Indeed, every person here today owes their lives to this quiet, gentle boy. But when anyone tried to bring this up, Harry would, of course, just smile and shake his head, wanting to speak of happier times." Again, Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I am sorry," he said heavily, "I am sorry that we can now only know Harry Potter through memory, that his children will grow up only being told of how wonderful he was, but I can never be sorry that Harry Potter touched our lives and I know that Harry, if he could, would prefer us to consider that. We should not consider Harry Potter 'a life too short;' rather, a life that we are grateful was lived, even in small measure."

Abruptly, then, Dumbledore was silent, head bowed over Harry's headstone.

Harry James Potter

July 31 1980 -- July 29 2012

The brightest flame in the darkness

Silent tears coursed down the cheeks of nearly everyone present. Even angry Nicholas wept fiercely, scrubbing at his cheeks and making quiet whimpering noises.

"Love you, mate," Ron whispered to Harry, cold in his coffin, giving the casket one last parting slap before backing away to stand next to Françoise. A warm breeze kissed their cheeks as baby Alice struggled to get out of her mother's arms to explore the grass around her father's grave. Françoise simply clutched the protesting toddler closer, tears wetting her fine curls.

A few mourners approached the casket hesitantly, flowers or other tokens in their hands. Petunia Dursley bore a single white lily, bursting into loud, braying sobs at the sight of it resting on her nephew's coffin. Dudley made a single abortive attempt to turn his mother away, but she rounded on him fiercely.

"Don't you touch me!" she shouted. "One of my beautiful boys is dead and the other one is glad!"

Dursley recoiled, trembling hand hanging forlornly in the air. "Mum," he whispered, an agony that even Ron could sense contorting his pudgy features. "Mum, I'm not ..."

"Don't be a hypocrite, Dudley," Petunia said, more tired now than angry. She swiped at a few of her tears with that same delicate handkerchief she'd been holding all afternoon. "You remind me of your father." But she finally allowed him to silently lead her away from the coffin, toward a car parked a few yards away.

Ron let out an unconscious sigh of relief as Harry's Muggle relatives drove away. Petunia would be by Françoise's house within a few days, certainly, but through the years, Ron had realized that Petunia was much more bearable outside the company of her abrasive son.

And now, the wizarding community bid its final goodbye to Harry Potter, once the Boy Who Lived.

From somewhere within his uncharacteristically black robes, Dumbledore pulled out a wand that Ron immediately recognized as Harry's. With a single unhesitant gesture, he snapped it over his right knee and Françoise let out a keening cry. Apologetically, Dumbledore laid Harry's wand on the casket, speaking a few words that Ron did not catch.

Finally, Françoise allowed Alice to escape the prison of her arms and the toddler immediately made a beeline for the coffin, patting the wood, finish sparkling in the sunlight, with a little hand. "Pretty," Alice said. "Shiny, pretty."

That was all it took for Françoise to lose her composure entirely, despite her earlier resolve, sagging against Ron and sobbing into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and allowed a few tears to escape his own eyes, sliding unnoticed into her hair.

Only a few moments passed, however, before Ron felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up from Françoise's head, he met Dumbledore's sad, old eyes.

Not knowing what exactly to do with his hands, Ron shoved them in his pockets and contented himself by keeping an eye on the Potter children. Nicholas was currently in the middle of a circle of adults, tolerating their sympathies with his now-characteristic silence and the usual scowl mercifully not present. Alice was still beside her father's casket, pulling petals off of a daisy that had fallen to the ground and chattering to herself happily.

Ron wondered idly who would have sent daisies to the funeral of Harry Potter.

"Weasley," a quiet, aristocratic voice said from somewhere behind him.

Spinning around, Ron's face immediately settled into the same sort of scowl he'd been seeing Nicholas Potter sporting lately. "Malfoy?" he asked, half incredulous and half furious, "what the hell are you doing here? This is a private affair!"

Draco Malfoy looked relatively unconcerned with Ron's statement and met his eye evenly. "I came to pay my respects, Weasley."

"Respects," Ron scoffed.

"Yes, Weasley, respects," Malfoy echoed, taking a step closer. "Believe it or not, I had -- have -- respect for Harry Potter. I am also grateful to him for reasons that your stupid little Gryffindor brain couldn't possibly wrap itself around." His eyes flicked over to the coffin and Ron was shocked to indeed see something akin to respect in Malfoy's eyes. "My most honorable adversary," Malfoy whispered, closing his eyes.

After a moment, however, Malfoy broke his own trance, eyes snapping open and glaring up at Ron once again. "Weasley," he said dismissively, coldly.

"Malfoy," Ron retorted, inclining his head and carefully watching the slight, blond man saunter away.

The crowd was diminishing. Molly Weasley and the twins had long since left, presumably returning to the Burrow. Ginny still lingered in the distance, chatting with Neville Longbottom and placing a tiny hand over his rather larger one in a gesture that made Ron wonder minutely about the nature of their relationship.

Remus Lupin was nowhere to be found, but Ron had expected that. He had taken Harry's death hard, feeling as if he was losing the last of his family and the already prematurely aged man had gained even more lines on his face over the past few days. Ron knew that Remus would retreat even further into his solitary existence now.

Nicholas was now standing near his sister, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his Muggle suit trousers, and he was kicking at a few stones in the grass, scuffing his shoes. Ron thought briefly about going over to the children but immediately realized he had nothing to say that could improve their situation.

Startled as a hand lay across his arm, Ron very nearly jumped at the voice near his ear. "Are you all right?" Ginny asked him.

Ron looked wonderingly down at his sister. How had she traveled across half of the cemetery in a mere few moments? Glancing at his watch, Ron was startled again as he noted that more than an hour had passed since Dumbledore concluded his short little eulogy. "I'm okay, Gin," he replied with a sigh.

She squinted up at him. "Doubtful," she said. "But I won't push for now."

"Thanks," he said gratefully.

"Mum's having all of us over for supper, you know," she continued carefully. "I know you've been keeping close to Françoise and the children, but they're welcome to come as well."

"I'll see what she thinks about that," Ron said in a noncommittal tone. "But I dunno -- I think she'd rather be alone tonight."