Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty – I Must Do What I Must

"Believe me I don’t want to go

And it’ll grieve me ‘cause I love you so

Wish I could say the right words to lead you through this land

Wish I could play the father and make you understand

Wish I could stay."

-Buffy Cast, "Wish I Could Stay (reprise)"

Saturday, November 8, 2003

With a mournful sigh, Ron slid into a chair across from Harry at an out-of-the-way table in the Hogwarts library. "Harry," he moaned, letting his forehead smack to the table with an audible thump as he slumped forward in his seat, "I walked in on Hermione and George."

The expected sympathy never surfaced. Harry gave a short laugh and flipped through a tome. "Really, Ron, it’s been over 4 years. Do you really think she’d sit and wait for you to show your sorry ass again?"

Ron scowled, refusing to move his head. "You sound like a bloody Yank."

"Rachel rubbed off on me," Harry replied, flipping a page. "At least I still say schedule right. You should’ve heard her in the morning. ‘Honey, what’s your skedju-el for today?’ Damn Yanks think English is their language."

"Harry, did you mean it? At the meeting, when you said you couldn’t do magic anymore?" He certainly hadn’t meant to let the words come spilling out as they did, but Ron wasn’t known for being the Weasley with the best timing. That had been Bill. Or maybe Percy. It didn’t matter anyway, they were both dead and buried.

Harry sat silently, leaving Ron with uncomfortable thoughts before answering. "I’ve still got magic. I’m not a Squib."

"I never said you were," Ron retorted. He finally raised his forehead from the desk, ready to slam it back down if foot and mouth met, as they often seemed to. "Do you reckon You-Know-Who will try to take Hogwarts this weekend? Cause if he does, he’ll win – you can’t cast the bloody spell."

"Reckon is a Yank word," Harry replied, yawning. "And yeah, if Voldemort comes this weekend, we’re doomed. Would you stop reminding me?"

Ron kicked at a table leg. "What are you looking for?"

"Hermione wants to know where Albus’ spell came from. She’s sure it can be modified to allow someone else to cast the spell, or cast it using my wand, or something like that. I think we’ll just have to wait until I can use magic again." Harry tapped his wand on the table, the nervous habit creating the only sound in the library.

Harry hadn’t used to have nervous habits. "Why isn’t Hermione doing the research then? It seems like her kind of thing." Ron stopped, abruptly. "Oh, yeah. Never mind, I forgot – she’s busy playing tonsil-hockey with my dear brother."

"Yank."

Ron gave up and let his forehead drop back on the table. The nice loud thump was a wonderful distraction from Harry’s wand-taps, though the irritation returned once the noise Ron had created echoed away. "Maybe you should stop researching the spell, then."

Harry gave another snort. "And do what instead, listen to you bitch and moan?"

"Find a way to get your magic back."

The sentence hung like thick fog between them until Ron continued. "There has to be a spell to boost someone’s magic usage, or boost the ability to channel magic... maybe one to borrow magic? Then you could use some of mine and some of Hermione’s and all of Malfoy’s so he keeps his fucking hands off my sister – and you could destroy You-Know-Who using that?"

Overlooking the comment about Malfoy, Harry gave a shrug. "I don’t think the spell exists, but it has to be a better avenue to try than this dead-end." Ron looked up to find a book shoved in his face. He stifled a groan, trying not to superimpose the image of a fifth-year Hermione over Harry’s face. "Don’t give me that look," Harry countered. "You suggested it, you’re helping."

Wistfully, Ron thought of the little apartment in L.A. he called home. Life seemed to have a way of getting more difficult.

~

Draco stalked down the halls of Hogwarts toward the library, oblivious to the less-than-congenial greeting he would receive were he to make it that far. A few hours of research had quickly transformed into an extra night spent recuperating in the hospital wing, and he was eager to get on his way to the manor. Well, eager wasn’t the right word. He was likely marching into the jaws of death, but the ghost of Fred Weasley seemed to march one step ahead, mocking and jeering until his still-living friend went to rescue the dead man’s lover. It would be a relief when Fred’s ghost could finally be put to rest, as Blaise and Fred Jr. went into hiding.

One hallway short of the library, Draco turned the corner and ran into Ginny Weasley. Literally. He didn’t have time to consider how many times they’d ended up in a similar situation before – though in other instances it usually ended up with Draco insulting her family and Ginny running away in tears.

This time was only slightly different. Draco pulled himself to his feet and offered a hand to Ginny, who was still on her backside on the floor. "I’m really sorry about that, Ginny. Are you alright?"

Ginny climbed to her feet of her own volition and started backing away from Draco, tears suddenly appearing on her face. Afraid she was about to take off running, Draco grabbed her shoulders, turning her sharply so the only way to back up was directly into the wall. "Ginny, please – what did I do wrong? I thought I was just some Death Eater with a conscience."

"You’re confusing me, and Harry’s confusing me, and Ron’s confusing me – when did life stop being easy to understand?!" she screeched in near hysterics, struggling to get away from the wall.

Faced with the prospect of a hysterical woman in the middle of a Hogwarts hallway that would be busy in several moments when the children got out of lunch, Draco did the only thing possible. He picked up Ginny, tossed her over his shoulder, and dragged her into a classroom, which would remain empty on a Saturday afternoon. She kicked and screamed the entire way, of course, eliciting a horrified gasp from a passing Ravenclaw first-year at her language, but managed to make a dash for the door the moment Draco set her down.

"Dammit, Ginny, would you tell me what’s going on? The last I knew, you could barely stand to look at me!"

His plea stopped her with her hand on the doorknob. "You know, you can be just as dense as my brother sometimes, Malfoy," she spat, all other words refusing to shape themselves in her mouth. For all she knew, those would be the last words of hers he’d ever hear – and he HAD proved that he cared what happened to her; he’d saved her from the riot and made sure she’d gotten to Hogwarts... but the words she was supposed to say didn’t come when she wanted them.

He didn’t react to the statement audibly, but the sudden slump of his shoulders was more than enough to let Ginny know how much she’d hurt him with just a sentence. "Right," he muttered. "I can’t waste any more time here. I’ll get Blaise and your nephew out of there somehow. I’ll see you in hell, I guess." And Draco pushed past her and disappeared down the hall. She didn’t bother to call for him to stop and listen – it was probably too late for that, anyway.

Two houses, both alike in dignity,

she mused. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes; a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life. If only William Shakespeare knew.

~

He didn’t see her again before he left Hogwarts, but he thought of little else. And so, halfway to Malfoy Manor, Draco ducked into a florist shop. He ordered a single rose, scribbled out a short note, and sent off the florist’s owl for the delivery. Draco sent his final goodbye and started back on his journey.