Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Seven — Broken Bottles

"Broken bottles under children’s feet,

Bodies strewn across a dead-end street!

But I won’t heed the battle call,

It puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall."

-U2, "Sunday, Bloody Sunday"

Friday, October 31, 2003

George woke with a grunt, which was swiftly followed by a moan of pain as he tried to open his eyes. He and the bottle had never gotten on well. They might be genetically identical, but Fred had always been able to drink him under the table. Fred. George forced himself to sit slowly, attempting to ignore the pounding inferno which he assumed was his skull. "Fred died Tuesday," he muttered to himself, peeking between his eyelids at the glaring brightness surrounding him. "I moved in Thursday. It’s Friday. The burial’s today."

He pried his eyes open. This wasn’t his room. Where had he ended up, last night? Had he really gotten that drunk? "Don’t remember a thing," he groaned, looking around in panic. Whose room was this? His eyes locked almost immediately upon a familiar tartan dressing gown tossed over the back of a chair near the door. "Oh, shit." With a yelp, George scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sudden urge to lose whatever he’d eaten the night before. "I’m in McGonagall’s room. I’m going to get fired."

"You are not in McGonagall’s room! She gave me that for Christmas my first year teaching — she knew I’d wanted one like hers!" The feminine voice came from behind another door. George glanced over to his sleeping accommodation and gave a sigh of relief as he realized it was a couch and not someone’s bed.

He coughed self-consciously, rubbing at his forehead and scuffing his foot against the floor. "Umm... where am I?"

The bedroom door was pushed open and none other than Hermione Granger, George’s little brother’s ex-fiancée, walked into the room. Her hair was tamed into a severe bun, her professorial robes were immaculately pressed — and her lips were curved into what George could only term a seductive smile. "Oh, shit," he repeated. Ron’s fiancée. Almost a Weasley. "Um... Did we... I mean, it’s not that I’d be ashamed or anything -"

Hermione suddenly burst into laughter, instantaneously back to the chipper, intelligent young woman George remembered from Hogwarts. "Oh, the look on your face, George Weasley, was priceless! It was just like the time you, Ron, and I walked in on Fred and Angelina -" She cut off abruptly, the hint of life fading. "Never mind that. You’re feeling alright? You looked as if you’d had quite a bit to drink before I found you outside my door."

"Yeah. Head hurts," he mumbled, looking down to his shoes. He remembered the time Hermione was talking about. The Burrow, the summer after Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had gone under — that must’ve been right before her seventh year of school? Angelina and Fred were to have been married in August of that year. Hermione and Potter were staying for the wedding; she must’ve just arrived from her Muggle home. Potter wasn’t there yet; the Muggles kept him until almost the last moment. They’d gone upstairs to surprise the couple with a few early wedding gifts and had interrupted something rather heated. George hadn’t been able to face his twin for days without blushing in embarrassment.

They should’ve knocked first. Or better yet, waited to give the presents. Then Fred and Angelina would’ve had a few more hours of happiness before the accident tore them apart for eternity.

"George? Are you listening to me?" Hermione’s voice snapped into his thoughts, tearing him away from the memories of both Fred and Angelina.

George looked up to meet her eyes. "I was just wondering about what it’s like. You know, death. Maybe Fred’s up there driving the saints up the wall with his and Angelina’s pranks?"

"I hope so," Hermione sighed. "God, I hope so. George... the internment ceremony is in a few hours. If you go and get dressed, I’ll walk down to Hogsmeade with you so we can both Apparate over to the Burrow."

"Yeah. The Burrow." Buried under the oak tree in the backyard. "Don’t you have classes? I told McGonagall I’d start Monday."

She shook her head abruptly, chewing on her lip. There was a glint of pain in her eyes as she replied, a stoop to her shoulders which George hadn’t seen moments earlier. "It’s a national day of mourning, George. For Headmaster Dumbledore. Fudge too, I suppose, but it’s Albus everyone is talking about."

With a nod, George headed over to the door. The murderer buried without a funeral on the day of the hero’s special day. He wondered for a moment if there would be onlookers to spit on his brothers’ coffins.

Hermione followed him into the hall, giving an exaggerated glare at a broken beer bottle lying next to her door. George sighed softly. His anger had done it, probably. He turned and passed it by.

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace, years of experience with Floo Powder keeping him from the confusion sometimes associated with the magical transport. Three fireplaces to throw off the trail, should anyone be watching for his movements. Paranoia kept the spies alive.

He hoped the burst of flame hadn’t awakened anyone in the house. It was early in the morning, probably several hours before any onlookers would arrive for the funeral. Not quite sure why it meant so much for him to say goodbye, Draco stepped forward and took a glance around.

A shabby couch, cheap carpeting, banged up table, chairs that had seen better days — he was hardly surprised by the state of the Weasley’s sitting room. However, just as Fred had mentioned, a tall and elegant grandfather clock was perched in the corner of the room. It looked as if all the Weasleys were home, asleep somewhere in the house. An arrow labeled "Harry" hovered halfway between "You Don’t Want to Know" and "Mortal Peril." Draco shook his head with a sigh. "How cute," he muttered under his breath, "they gave him acceptance before he buggered off."

"Who’s there?" A timid, feminine voice came from one of the sofas. Draco was barely able to keep from cursing. He’d just wanted a moment to pay his respects — but what Weasley would let a Malfoy into the house?

It wouldn’t hurt to try, he supposed. "I’m here to say good-bye to Fred." Would that do the trick, or send the girl running for the Aurors?

Draco caught a glimpse of Weasley-red hair glinting in the early-morning sunlight as she rose to face him, wand in hand to protect herself. "Malfoy," Ginny spat. "Your kind isn’t welcome here."

"My kind?" He stared, eyes drawn to the spray of freckles across her nose, the curves of her cheeks, the highlights of gold from the sun, barely able to make a coherent response. "I... Ginny, he was my friend. I just want to have one last chance to -"

"Do you think I really believe that crap? Why would you want a Weasley for a friend? You’re a Malfoy, you hate everything to do with Muggles, and my family has plenty to do with them. I’ll believe that you’re spying, certainly for selfish reasons, but I won’t believe you’d befriend the very people you spent years of your life cursing for your jollies." She took a step toward him, practically burning with Gryffindor fire to match the flames of her hair.

He kept staring, unable to resist. "Ginny," he whispered, "you have to believe me. I’m not the way I used to be."

She gave a snort of disgust. "Then why are you here? You’ll blow your cover, if you really are a spy."

"I won’t. I was careful getting here — I made side stops at three different Floo centers to throw the trail. And I swear it, Ginny, I’m on your side. I don’t want Voldemort to win." He hazarded a trance-like step toward her, hands held in her view to reassure her.

"Why? What made you turn?"

Draco stopped abruptly, eyes drinking in every word, gesture, and movement. "You did it," he admitted, ignoring the look of disgust and confusion that threatened to mar her face. "You remember the day, Ginny. Sunday, two years ago, in the Three Broomsticks."

"You killed Neville," she whispered. Accusing? Regretful?

He couldn’t tell. He took the chance and kept talking, making not a move. "I don’t know if I did. I looked up, and you were standing there. You were like an angel, standing there in the rubble. And the way you looked at him..." I wish you looked at me that way... "I couldn’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, Ginny."

Ginny stepped back, knocking into the couch. "Stop saying my name! That’s impossible, life only works that way in trashy romance novels! I went to the loo, and when I came back my fiancée was dead, and my life went back to being hell!"

"Virginia... Please, it’s true. Every word of it." She was going to cry. It was all Draco could do to keep himself from pulling her close, offering her a shoulder to cry on, running his hands through her hair- he pushed the thoughts away, concentrating on keeping his voice low and his expression calm.

"No! I’m not getting involved in this! Haven’t you taken enough from me!? Harry left, Bill died, Neville died, Fred got the Mark and died, Percy turned and killed the only one who can save us anymore and then killed himself! What else do you want from me!?"

Ginny ended in a shriek, which was quickly followed by the noise of someone pounding down the stairs. Draco backed up in a panic as one Ron Weasley appeared from around the corner, his wand drawn. Or Draco assumed it was Ron. His hair was meticulously tidy, his facial hair neatly trimmed into a horrid goatee, and sporting thin wire-frame glasses perched on his nose. He stopped abruptly, staring in shock at Draco. "Malfoy? You’re in my house!"

Definitely Ron. No one else could approach his talent at stating the obvious. Add to that the fact that his accent had been horribly marred by years with the Yanks, and the sad picture of Wonder Boy’s best friend was completed. Only Ginny’s presence kept Draco from lapsing into hysterical laughter. However, some things he couldn’t resist...

"You sound like a bloody Yank!" He allowed himself a snort of laughter before moving on. "You can ask Ginny why I’m here, Weasel. Not that it’s your business."

"He’s here to see Fred," Ginny murmured, stepping back to shadow her brother.

Ron was livid. "Get out, Death Eater. I should be calling the Aurors right now! They’ll have you Kissed and in Azkaban before you can say ‘Lucius Malfoy’! Oh, but that’s right — your dear Dad is already a soulless blob!"

"How DARE you!" Draco had his wand out before he was aware of making the motion, barely conscious of Ginny’s quiet "Ron, that was too much."

Before Draco could throw himself at Ron, two pops rang through the room, the signature sound of apparition. He spun to face the new threat, putting himself between Ginny and the intruder — though also allowing Ron a shot at his back in the bargain. The paranoia amounted to naught, however, as he came face to face with Fred’s twin and the Granger girl. Less than surprisingly, their wands were trained on him as well.

"Malfoy? What the hell are you doing in my parents’ house?!" George exclaimed. Every gesture, every sound the image of Fred — it was enough to give Draco pause.

"To say good-bye," he repeated. "I just want to say good-bye."

The voice of reason in the mess shocked him. Granger lowered her wand first, looking on him with sadness and something that resembled pity. Pity? For a Malfoy? "Ron? Let him."

"What do you mean, let him!?" the voice from behind him demanded. "He’s a Death Eater, he probably put Imperious on my brothers for all I know! I bet he was the one who recruited them and poisoned them to make them do it!"

Granger reached out and grabbed hold of George’s wand arm, pushing his aim from right between Draco’s eyes. "I got the message to Albus. The one from Saturday."

"I know," Draco replied, gaze flickering over to George shortly. "The church was nearly empty on Sunday. I swear I didn’t know about Percy, though. There was talk of a mission for this Sunday, but nothing about Percy."

Hermione nodded. "Snape believes you. And Minerva does too."

"They’re mobilizing in Toronto," Draco blurted. "I don’t know what the plan is for Sunday, I’ve been ordered to stay here. Voldemort is starting to suspect."

"Toronto?" George demanded. "There’s never been a Death Eater attack in Canada! Or anywhere but Europe for that matter!"

A hand clamped on his shoulder, turning him to face Ron. "Harry. Do they know where Harry is?"

"I don’t know!" Draco glanced back to Granger and George, finally coming to rest on Ginny. "I swear, I don’t know what the plan is. Blaise is clueless too, though it doesn’t surprise me in the least. You have to tell Severus — I don’t think I can keep up the act much longer. I helped get Fred inside, and his showing up on Fudge’s doorstep the day of the murder made it obvious what side he was working for!"

"We’ll get you out, Malfoy." Granger clapped a hand on his shoulder, leading him toward a door from the sitting room. "We’ll have Aurors in Toronto on Sunday and we’ll fake your death, if we have to. Now, I think Fred is outside. Let’s go say good-bye before more people show up?"

Draco nodded mutely and turned to glance at Ginny once more before being led from the room. Just before the kitchen door shut, he caught a glimpse of the four white roses on the mantle. Bill, Neville, Percy, Fred — she’d kept them.

The four remaining Weasley children and their parents buried the wayward two that morning, as the rest of the wizarding world stopped life to pay tribute to Albus Dumbledore. Hermione and Draco looked on, unaware of the watcher in the woods nearby.