Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty-One — The Rose

"When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong."

-King’s Singers, "The Rose"

Sunday, November 9, 2003

A hint of sunlight crept over the cots the five Weasleys kept as beds in the infirmary. Ginny met it awake, staring at the ceiling in silent vigil. Three lives hung in the balance this day.

A shadow flitted across the growing expanse of dawn, sending Ginny sitting up to seek its source. There, gliding on the late autumn wind, a tawny barn owl approached. From a distance, Ginny already knew what was contained in the thin package grasped in the creature’s claws.

One white rose, brother to the four left abandoned on the mantle of the fireplace in Molly Weasley’s haste to escape the death trap the Burrow had become, in the aftermath of one Tuesday morning. The package dropped in Ginny’s lap and the owl disappeared out the window without begging for food, this time.

Each time before, the white rose had come on the anniversary of a death. Three times that death had been Neville’s, joined this year by four — remembrance of Percy and Fred, for two of them, the reason for the other two unknown. They had carried no message. The sender seemed to assume that the package spoke for itself, that one white rose was worth a thousand words on parchment. Last year, she’d dreaded the day the rose came and the anniversary it signaled. This year had been overshadowed by the horror that Percy committed only moments after its arrival. But the appearance of a rose on this day, Sunday the Ninth, gave face to the nameless one who’d made sure a rose was there to give Ginny hope on the anniversary of despair. And its appearance today left Ginny wondering as to whether a white rose would come to offer hope next year.

With trembling hands, she tore away the simple florist’s wrappings, hoping against all hope for the slip of paper which hadn’t been present in other years... and there it was, wrapped around the stem of the most perfect rose Ginny had ever set eyes on. The delicate petals were of a creamy white, just as they’d been each time before, but the tips were deep red, as if Nature had gingerly dipped the bud’s tip in blood.

The faultless flower held Ginny’s attention for only a moment. Never setting the rose down, she unrolled the short length of parchment. The flowing penmanship, black on cream-coloured parchment, caught and held Ginny’s full attention.

Dearest Ginny,

Each year, the rose you received came with different meaning — the first, white with guilt. The second white of loneliness. The third was white of hope. And the four, white of shared pain — the brother I killed, the fiancée whose death made me remember to grieve, the brother I should not have ignored, and the brother who became my only true friend. This rose is the white of parting, and the blood red of love. Next year when no rose will find you, remember the one who would send them always.

All my love,

Draco Malfoy

Ginny sat silently, the perfect rose clutched tightly in one hand, unaware of the prick of thorns drawing blood from her palm. Only after the precious note had been tucked away and a spontaneously remembered spell preserved the beloved flower for always did Ginny let the tears of regret flow freely.

~

Draco marched silently across the serpent seal of the Malfoy family, hoping against all hope that his mother was far from the manor that morning. The glamour wrapped around himself would hold true for anyone but those of Veela blood — his mother and David Avery being the only two he knew of among the Death Eaters who might be assembled before their weekly attack. And David didn’t have enough to glamour himself — he could only see the glamour of others, as if Fate decided to make Draco’s work just that much harder.

They should be gone by now, off to kill and pillage whichever small town they’d decided upon for today. That, and seven hostages were hidden somewhere out there, all member’s of Draco’s own graduating class. He hadn’t really known any of them, but thought that one of them — the Patil girl — had been Harry’s date to the Yule Ball during the year of Voldemort’s rising. To what use they were intended, Draco figured he’d never know. Getting Blaise out would probably cost him his life.

Once again, he silently thanked the Malfoy ancestor who’d created the charm, which masked the presence of any Malfoy heir within the family home. The glamour cast over himself would make any servants or Death Eaters look past him, like an anti-Muggle charm. Total invisibility. He crept up the stair, wary of any noise, lest a house-elf hear a noise where one shouldn’t be.

To the left, down the plushly carpeted hallway, his footsteps conveniently masked. He stopped short as he heard a noise from downstairs, then relaxed as he recognized the bawdy laugh of Greg Goyle. The imbecile had likely been left guard, the only duty he was fit for. His mother didn’t stand guard in front of the master guestroom, as he’d feared. Luck seemed to be going his way for once. Perhaps he’d make it back to apologize for the note.

Draco pushed the door open as far as he could without attracting attention and slipped inside, immediately conscious of Blaise sitting pensively on a window seat. He checked the adjoining rooms for extra persons and, finding none, clamped a hand over her mouth and dropped his glamour at the same moment. "Boo," he whispered, smirk plastered to his face as she tried to scream in surprise.

The momentary panic faded and she shoved him back. "Dammit, Draco," she hissed, tensing perceptibly, "you weren’t supposed to come! I’ll be dead before nightfall!"

"You think I’d let Fred Jr. die with you? Sorry, Blaise, but the Duchy can’t pass to another cousin — it was messed up enough when your granddad had to take it. Now hurry, we’ve got to get out of here before any Death Eaters get back." Draco rose and grabbed hold of her hands, yanking her to her feet.

Blaise drew back shaking her head. "Draco, I can’t Apparate, I’m pregnant! How am I supposed to get away? And they haven’t left for the attack yet, your mum said it was happening later this afternoon, for some reason. I think they’re trying to take the Ministry!"

Draco tossed an arm around her waist, dragging her toward the doors. "We sneak into Father’s study. It’s the only fireplace hooked up to the Floo network. I’m not letting you die, even if I lose my life in the bargain. Fred deserves better, Blaise." He poked his head out first, listening for the sound of Goyle checking the upstairs or Death Eaters arriving for a pre-slaughter meeting. When nothing was forthcoming, he dragged Blaise bodily into the hall, hurrying her on toward the back stairs.

Dark and dingy, only the servants used them. Blaise made a noise of disgust, but Draco didn’t give it second thought, plowing down the halls and byways of the mansion of his childhood, stopping short every time a noise sounded in the distance.

There were no interruptions, however, something which worried Draco more than the danger of the rescue. There was a trap set somewhere in the manor. If Blaise hadn’t been the bait, what was?

The study was as empty as the rest of the house, though it had been neatly abandoned when Lucius had been dragged before the Auror Tribunal. No dust marred the room, due to Narcissa’s influence, but the chair Lucius had been yanked from still lie discarded on its side, waiting for its owner to return to right it. No such luck. The Kissed Lucius Malfoy had been found dead in a pool of his own blood, termed suicide. It wasn’t, of course. It was murder, since he’d had no soul left to direct his body. No one cared about the fate of a once-great man. Evil, yes — but great.

"Blaise, seven of our classmates were kidnapped last week. Have you heard anything of them?" Draco snatched the pot of Floo powder from the mantle and thrust it at Blaise, waiting impatiently.

She nodded before taking a pinch of the dust. "Narcissa was gloating about it. She’s been keeping them down in the dungeon. I don’t know what they’re for."

Dammit. Bait. Draco nudged Blaise toward the fireplace. "Get out, now. Hogwarts is back on the Floo network for five hours this morning. The keyword is Snape’s Office; it’s the only one on the loop. I’m going to find the hostages."

"Don’t. It has to be a trap. If my room wasn’t warded, and you got me out so easily, it has to be." Blaise grabbed his arm, her face suddenly a whirlpool of fear and doubt. He didn’t see the Duchess like that often.

"Potter’s back, Blaise. He’ll use them as bait for that trap. I’m the last chance they’ve got. Damn, I hate playing hero. Now get out of here and get Fred’s brat safe, all right? And I don’t want to be buried in the family cemetery, I don’t belong there." Draco shoved her toward the fireplace insistently.

With a sigh of resignation, Blaise threw her arms around Draco in an embrace. "I’m going to miss you. Tell Fred I’m sorry."

"Tell Ginny the same." Draco turned and started for the door, wrapping the glamour around himself before he heard Blaise call out her destination and slip through the fireplace. She was right. It had been far too easy to get her out. Obviously, she was no longer necessary to Voldemort’s plan. Dead before nightfall, she’d said, and Draco believed it. Two lives saved. At least Ginny would be happy.

The passage to the dungeon was as empty as the one to the study, strengthening Draco’s feeling of dread. Every footstep echoed on stone, each loud enough to herald his doom. For a moment, he considered turning his wand on himself, to keep the inevitable torture from happening — but the thought of seven men and women doomed in the dank cell beneath the drawing room floor kept him moving. With these seven lives, maybe he could be redeemed, even with his death.

There was no redemption until the one who meant most could forgive him for the anguish, which had been his legacy to her family. Maybe there would be no redemption.

He barely noticed walking into the drawing room and lifting the simple trapdoor. Draco climbed down into the dungeon — and saw them, the seven chained to the wall. He pulled off the glamour and stepped into their midst, noting every look of dismay. Ernie MacMillian, Terry Boot, Lisa Turpin, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Sally-Anne Perks, and Parvati Patil all stared in horror, gaunt and lifeless eyes expecting a horror, which Draco wouldn’t bring.

"I’m here to help," he said simply, drawing his wand and moving to Parvati’s side. He touched the tip of the wand and muttered softly, "Alohomora."

Instead of opening, Draco heard the shriek of an alarm upstairs. He and Parvati met eyes, hers filled with resignation. "Go," she spoke past cracked and parched lips. "Warn Harry."

"Bloody Potter," Draco heard Ernie mutter from down a bit. Though Draco privately agreed, he grasped Parvati’s shoulder in compassion. "I’ve sent someone on ahead. I won’t get out of the manor alive. She’ll send help," he murmured, stepping back. And he wrapped the glamour back around himself, the last possibility of escape, and scrambled from the dungeon. He managed to close the trapdoor and get halfway to the hall before the drawing room doors were tossed open.

None of the Death Eaters saw him — the glamour worked wonders. Careful not to brush against any of them, he threaded his way through the crowd, almost incredulous at his sheer luck. No one saw him. His mother wasn’t there. David wasn’t there.

He was free of the swarm. Draco broke out at a dead run. He had to get across the field before he could Apparate, and then up from the gates of Hogwarts to the door before he was truly safe. The front doors of the house were visible.

And then came the cry of alarm. Draco’s own mother cried out his death sentence. Without a backward glance, he threw open the door and dashed down the walk. A hex flashed past him and his run changed to a dodge. He heard the terrible cry of "Avada Kedavra," but the green light only flashed past his shoulder.

Was luck back on his side? He seemed to be ahead, to be winning, almost to the gate, almost to freedom — and then David Avery appeared in front of him. The shock in both of their faces sent them stopped sharply on the path to the manor.

Draco had one advantage. His wand was already out and in hand. And so, as David reached for his wand, the words were already on the tip of his adversary’s tongue. The last time he’d have to speak the dread words. "Avada Kedavra."

With the flash of light, he didn’t wait to watch his childhood friend crumple to the ground. The last time. The last death, he promised himself. He crossed the threshold and Apparated to safety.

~

Ginny sat alone outside the infirmary, barely aware of those talking inside. Blaise had come running up moments earlier, with a message. Draco had apologized to her, and walked right into a trap. Like a Gryffindor, he’d run into danger, to try to save the hostages.

Draco was dead.

The rose lay across her lap, though Ginny paid it little attention. She’d done her crying in the morning, but the reality of the situation hurt just as much. Dead. Draco was dead, and she’d been too cowardly to give him a chance.

Guilt flowed in every vein. She breathed regret and choked on sorrow.

"Ginny?" a quiet voice asked, spearing the silent tension.

She looked up, into inquisitive grey-blue eyes. Her cry of relief echoed down the hall and she shot to her feet, the red-tipped rose tumbling to the floor in haste, not giving thought as to what any passer-by might say — a Weasley hugging a Malfoy. "Gods, I thought you were dead!"

Draco pried her hands off, pushing her to arm’s length. "Ginny, I’m sorry. The rose — it was wrong, I shouldn’t have sent it. I presumed too much. I’m a Malfoy -"

Ginny shook her head and stopped his speech with fingers pressed to his lips. She studied the anguish in his eyes, the misery and self-loathing, and her thoughts of the night before returned. " ‘My only love, sprung from my only hate. Too early seen unknown, and known too late’," she quoted.

" ‘Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy’," Draco whispered in response. "Shakespeare." He wasn’t supposed to know of Shakespeare. The man had been a squib, as much loathed by the Malfoy family as Muggles. Why had Draco Malfoy been taught the classics of Muggle literature? At the question in her eyes, he explained. "Fred gave me the book, after I confessed to him. I’ve not read anything else by the man, but I know that play by heart."

"Fred knew?" The only words she could think to ask, though she kicked herself mentally as she’d done the day before. Wrong. She kept doing things wrong.

"Fred knew," Draco repeated. "He knew, and he couldn’t tell you, for fear my cover would be broken." He reached up, touching her cheek as if it were glass, and dropped back into another quote. " ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims’-"

"-‘ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss’," she finished. " ‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do’," she skipped ahead, voice dropped to a whisper.

And Draco bent his head down, lips silencing the lines, which came next. Neither noticed Blaise watching from the door, a tear of joy coursing down her face. Most likely, neither would’ve cared.