Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Four — What Can’t We Face, if We’re Together?

"What can’t we face, if we’re together?

What’s in this place that we can’t weather?

There’s nothing we can’t face!"

-Buffy Cast, "I’ve Got a Theory"

Wednesday, October 29, 2003

The morgue guard was one of His. Draco barely had to throw his weight around at all to get in to see the bodies. He passed the table where Dumbledore seemed to rest peacefully, passed the one where Fudge seemed ever the head of state. Set apart, as if to protect the hallowed heroes, were the bodies of the two Weasleys.

Draco knew what the mortician had found upon examination of the bodies. He ignored the real villain, Percy, and went to stand next to Fred’s body. "Anybody there?" he called, glancing around. Satisfied that there was no answer, he grabbed the limp hand and turned his arm. The Mark was there, of course. No magic could remove it.

"You stupid bastard," he whispered, "Why’d you have to go get yourself killed? Do you realize how much trouble I went through to get you in, to make Voldemort trust you? And then you go get yourself shot up, by a Muggle weapon no less, and waste everything." He sighed, locking his fingers with Fred’s limp ones. "Damn you, Fred Weasley. They think you’re one of His. I’m the only one left alive who knows."

There was a clang of metal from behind him. Draco caught sight of a flash of red as he drew his wand and dropped Fred’s hand, turning to face the danger. Two flashes of Weasley hair. Once face, identical to the one dead, the other far too familiar from the haunting of his dreams.

Ginny gasped and grabbed for her wand. George grabbed her shoulder and shook his head. "Who knows what?" he demanded. "What do you know about what happened?"

He could lie. He could make a run for it, convince the world for good that Draco Malfoy the Death Eater had come to survey the wreckage of the attack, to insure Dumbledore was taken care of for good. Ginny lowered her wand, eyes pleading. Her face was red, probably from tears, or maybe anger. He made his choice, and was immediately sure it had been the wrong one. "He was a spy. I think he was taking information to Dumbledore. He was just... in the wrong place..." Draco turned back to the body, hoping that the others wouldn’t notice the emotion barely restrained under the surface.

"So that... makes you...?" He didn’t know why George was pressing for information. If he said it out loud, did that make it more the truth than unsaid? It certainly made it more dangerous — but being here was just as dangerous.

"Yeah," he muttered, eyes locked on the patch of dried blood, which no one had bothered to clean from Fred’s face. "I helped him make the right contacts. I got him in. I thought Voldemort would figure it out, for a while. A Weasley as a Death Eater? But it looks like the Dark Lord wasn’t quite as suspicious as I thought."

Draco turned in time to catch Ginny’s sob. "You mean... Percy’s been one...?" He watched, not quite as detached as he wished, as her older brother grabbed her close in a hug. George continued for her. "How long was Percy a Death Eater?"

Too many questions; the morgue guard would be getting suspicious. "I don’t know. I didn’t know he was one in the first place. Voldemort hardly trusts anyone with all the information, after all. However... he worked with Father. It probably started there." He turned back to look at Fred’s body for a moment. "You can’t tell anyone. If you do, we’re all doomed. I can still report in, even if Dumbledore’s dead."

"But... what about -?"

"Weasley — Ginny, I’m sorry about your brother, very sorry, but I can’t stay. People are going to start getting suspicious, especially if I’m seen talking to an Auror and a Ministry employee who used to date Potter, before the bastard disappeared." Draco stepped forward, intent on shoving past the two and using a Memory Charm on the guard. He hissed suddenly, grabbing his arm as the Dark Mark sizzled, almost audibly, in its call. "Dammit."

George tried to grab his shoulder to ask another question, but Draco shoved it away, stumbling out of the morgue. He tried to straighten himself as he walked down the hall, but the pain was nearly crippling, almost worse than the Cruciatus he’d been subjected to so many times. He pulled himself up as he passed three red-haired, bleary-eyed Weasleys and leveled a sneer at the group of them. Fred was different than the rest. Fred had been a friend. He stepped outside and Disapparated.

Far from the intrigues of wizarding London, Harry Potter — known to everyone around as Mr. Harold Black — curled up on the old musty couch in the den of his little home in America and pulled his wife onto his lap. "Baby’s asleep," he whispered, an impish smile flitting across his face.

Rachel Black sighed softly and kissed his cheek. No matter how many times he smiled, the cheer never reached his eyes. He’d lost someone in the attack, he’d said. The past wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, and though she’d heard all about the terrible family which had raised him, she knew there was something hidden.

"Let’s just stay here for a while, honey. I think James will be sleeping for a while." Her husband of two years grunted in response, curling his body around her protectively. He had dozed off within moments.

Rachel reached over and gently traced the squiggly scar on his forehead. There was something in the air. Her common, lawyer’s assistant husband had secrets; more secrets than any mortal man should carry, whatever they be. Secrets, she knew from experience, had a terrible way of biting back.