Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Six — Everything is Turning Out so Dark

"So I will walk through the fire?

Cause where else can I turn?

Yes, I will walk through the fire, and let it burn."

-Buffy Cast, "Into the Fire"

Thursday, October 30, 2003

"Draco Vespasian Malfoy, you have no idea how bloody sick I am of mopping up your sorry ass." Her voice was low and throaty, certainly not the one Draco wanted to wake up to. A damp cloth dabbed at his aching head, and a whispered spell sent the pain flying away.

He peered from beneath his lids. A halo of red fire was her hair, sweeping over to conceal her face and glinting auburn and gold in the morning light. "Ginny?" he whispered, the leftover pain of the Cruciatus curse leaving his mind groggy.

The snort in response was most definitely not hers. Draco rubbed his eyes, grunting at the pain it took to reach his hands to his face, and peered up at the woman helping him. "Oh. Hello, Blaise."

"You’re welcome, Draco." She pushed up out of the chair she was perched in and walked over to the tall wooden vanity in the master bedroom of the Malfoy Manor. Narcissa no longer used it. Draco thought it was too big; too lonely. "That commoner is at it again," Blaise Zabini spat.

Draco blinked a few times, trying to push away the confusion. The muscles of his legs started spasming, an unfortunate aftereffect of the Cruciatus Curse. "The... commoner? Lord Voldemort, I assume?"

"None other. Half-blood trash thinks he can come in and take over..." She trailed off, stalking away, to a bench in the corner. A steaming cauldron simmering over a tiny magical fire let off a sulphurous smell as she ladled a bit into a goblet.

"You should be careful what you say, Blaise. The wall’s have ears here." He shoved himself up to a sitting position, hissing in agony as a burst of pain shot up his spine. "Damn, how long was I under?"

Blaise shoved the goblet in front of his face with another snort. "Near as I can tell, close to ten minutes. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in St. Mungo’s with the rest of the loonies, my DEAR Baron," she added, giving a sneer.

"Bugger off, Blaise. Would you give the Baron thing a rest?" Draco hissed again, rubbing his temples to try to clear the headache before quaffing the restorative potion. It stunk terribly. "Why didn’t he kill me?"

"Well, you only let Fred into the organization — you didn’t turn traitor yourself. Lucky for you, I guess." She sighed heavily, snatching the emptied cup from his hand and tossing it on the bedside table before collapsing into a plush chair beside the bed. "Is this how you thought it would be?"

Draco attempted to ignore the terrible aftertaste of the potion. It wouldn’t do for a Malfoy to complain about such a trifle, after all. "How I thought what would be? I knew I was going to be a Death Eater from the day I was born, Blaise. Yes, I certainly didn’t think Lucius would end up Kissed in Azkaban before I was twenty-five, but I’m stuck with it now, aren’t I?" He snatched the wand from the bedside table, raising it to utter "Silencio."

Blaise nodded her agreement. "Good idea. I’d hope the commoner hasn’t found a way to listen in, but I wouldn’t be surprised... Draco, why are we still here, following him? Five years, and all it’s been is death."

He sighed deeply, trying to ignore the twitching muscles in his arm. "Blaise... I’m so sorry about your father... but is questioning the Dark Lord really the best of ideas? Do you want to get yourself killed and leave the Duchy to some Muggles?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed, eyes narrowing. "Papa’s gone, I’m a Duchess. I have a certain responsibility, you know. And my cousin still holds that place in the House of Lords — it’s really too bad he was a Squib, but at least my family still holds control in both worlds. That’s more than I can say for you Malfoys. Bowing down in front of that pathetic Half-Blood commoner as if he was the King of England!"

"Blaise..." he murmured, rubbing his aching head, "I’ll admit a good deal of agreement with you, but this really isn’t the time or place..." Draco grunted and tried to stand, managing only a few steps before stumbling over spasming muscles. "Dammit. Blaise, will you help me? I need to get to- to Snape."

Silence. Draco cringed, wondering if the Duchess’ pronouncements were merely brought on by the Dark Lord in hopes of a confession. Would it be a clean death, or more torture? Her deep alto voice broke into his thoughts. "Then... you let Weasley in, knowing fully well that he was a spy... because you are one yourself..."

"Off to find Voldemort now, I presume? I’m ready for whatever it takes." That was a lie. Unable to gather enough coordination to turn back to face Zambini, Draco resigned himself to meeting his end cowering. However, no curses came; no call to the Master.

"I want a deal, Malfoy. I get you there safely... and you set up a Secret-Keeper for me and my cousin. I may’ve been bred to this task, but it doesn’t mean I want it."

A trap? A way to get those Draco was close to into the hands of Voldemort? Not that it mattered... Snape was well known as a traitor to the Cause, and Fred had really been the only friend he’d managed to keep for any period of time. And Ginny... but she wouldn’t be at Hogwarts anyway. "Alright," Draco hissed after a moment’s hesitation. "It’s likely to be chaos with the Headmaster dead. A bit of curse breaking, an invisibility cloak, and a Silence Potion, and we’ll be in the walls without a problem. Can you get the tools, Blaise?"

"Of course," she quipped, nearly bouncing over to aid him in returning to bed to rest. "Oh, and Draco? Voldemort knows about your feelings for the little Weasley girl. It’s too bad you have the tendency to scream your soul out while half-way conscious... you may want to make sure she’s safe..."

Draco cursed loudly at Blaise’s retreating back. Voldemort, on his back, knowing his moves, knowing his secrets. Was this the end, then? "Blaise, why are you doing this? Voldemort isn’t blind you know — he’ll notice where your loyalties lie sooner or later."

"Because, dear Baron," she drawled over her shoulder, reaching for the door handle, "Fred was dear to me, too."

A loud thud roused Hermione from her dreams. With a groan, she rolled out of bed, snatching her dressing gown — tartan, of course — from its place and pulling it on. She stormed to the door, throwing the lock open manually and yanking it open, taking a deep breath to yell at the students no doubt roaming the halls after curfew. A tall, lanky redhead came barreling into her instead, yelping in surprise as both he and Hermione crashed to the floor in a jumble of limbs.

The smell of stale alcohol was overwhelming. George Weasley blinked slowly, bleary-eyed, and burst into laughter as he realized he was lying on the floor. "Oh, George," Hermione whispered, shaking her head. "What have you gotten into now?"

George cleared his throat dramatically and grabbed the doorframe, using it to lever himself to his feet. "Prof’ssor Weasley, reportin’ for duty, ‘Mione!"

Hermione grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room, slamming the door to her quarters shut quickly. "George Frederick Weasley, even you should know better than this — what if one of the students saw you staggering down the hall like a drunken bum!?"

"S’after curfew," he grumbled, tossing himself on a grubby sofa without thought as to Hermione’s view on the matter. "Y’r turning out worse ‘an McGonag’l. If Fred was here -" A choked sob cut off whatever he was going to say.

She sighed deeply, walking over to rummage through a few cupboards to pull out a teapot and slightly chipped teacups. Teachers didn’t get paid nearly enough. "If Fred were here, George, I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to be drowning your sorrows in a pint."

"Y’don’t just SOUND like McGonag’l, you ARE bloody McGonag’l!" Looking like nothing more than a spoiled two-year-old, George crossed his arms and kicked his heels against the sofa legs.

"George!" Hermione exclaimed, voice laden with exasperation, "Bloody McGonagall happened to hire you even when you were fired for Percy being a Death Eater!" She fumbled around in her pockets for her wand, letting out a loud curse when she remembered it was elsewhere. "Just stay right there and don’t move. And for God’s sake, don’t break the couch! I don’t get paid enough to replace it if you damage it beyond magical repair!"

She shoved the door of her bedroom back open, kicking aside piles of unmarked term papers and stacks of research books on her way to the bedside table. Just as she’d thought, her wand was waiting for her under a half-graded essay from a second-year Hufflepuff. Hermione turned to find George slumped against the doorframe, watching.

"If Fred were ‘ere," he mumbled, trying to keep upright, "the bugger’d prob’ly be running about the place wi’a hood on ‘is face cursing Muggles! ‘E’s a bloody Death Eater!" George kicked the wall, sending himself stumbling over a pile of books.

Hermione came to the rescue, sliding his arm over her shoulder to steady him. "George, let’s go sit down for a bit? I’ll make some tea, or some coffee if you like, and we’ll wait to talk until you’ve sobered up a bit?"

"Donwanna," he grumbled. His eyes suddenly focused on something in Hermione’s room, and he let out a bellow of rage, pushing away from her aid to weave his drunken way over to a neat desk next to a window. "Bloody bastard!" George spat, grabbing the object of his ire.

It was a photograph, taken just before Hermione’s graduation. A younger Hermione and Ron waved out from the picture, stopping every once in a while to grab Harry’s attention away from Ginny. "Bloody bastard," George repeated, "I’ll teach you to dis’pear like that! Teach you to hurt Ginny!"

"George, stop it!" Hermione hurtled forward, reaching for the precious photo. "That’s one of the last times I saw them together! Please, put it down!"

The delicate hands of a hex-expert grabbed hold of his wrist, steadying his hands to keep him from dropping the frame. George yanked his arm away, keeping the photo aloft. "It’s his fault, ‘Mione, you know it! He’s the bloody Boy Who Lived, an’ he ran off like a scared Slytherin when it got rough! I bet ‘e’s off in Jamaica, sittin’ on the beach with a Mai Tai while we’re all ‘ere, getting KILLED!"

His hand slipped. The picture went flying; little figures inside unawares as gravity brought them crashing in a shatter of glass to the floor. Hermione let out a cry, stumbling to her knees to snatch the photo from the rubble. It was too late. The glass cut her hand, just as it slashed across the graduation picture.

She looked over at George, who sank into a ball on the floor. "It’s ‘is fault," he murmured, ignoring Hermione’s sob. "He may’ve lived, but he left."