Night of the Dead

Night of the Dead

By Messiah

Chapter One

"Pansy!" Draco called when he came across her locked door. He muttered an indignant Alohomora, and was unsurprised to see Pansy propped against the wall, her fingers working inside herself, as if she could remove the thing she was housing.

She glared. "I saw you. You were all over that man!"

He sighed and put a hand to her lower back, pushing her to movement, which of course caused her to remove her hand and drop her skirts. Slowly she approached the chair he directed her towards, her full belly leading the way.

"Why did you do this to yourself?" he couldn't help but ask.

She dropped into the chair with none of her childhood grace, her eyes dark with insanity as she looked up at him, far too much like his mother in her last days. "I love him."

"Yes, and he loves you. And no one died in the bloody war, and Voldemort was the best fucking thing to ever happen to us!" he snapped angrily, before relenting. Let Pansy have her denial, since it was the only little bit of herself she had left. Of course the child wasn't Severus's, no matter what she said, Severus had died by his own hand during the War. Nor was it Draco's, as a bout of measles when he was child had taken care of that little problem.

She stalled for a second, merely a hitch in her breath, before she forgot what he had said; and then she repeated herself. "I saw you. You kissed him. You know it's not him! It was only The Fool. There's always one there. Every year. And yet you still approached-"

"Quiet!" How she could remember the night before, and not what he'd said a mere second ago disturbed him minutely. Conveniently forgotten like so many other small things not of enough importance to her, like the fact that he had told her he hated her in their seventh year.

"No! It's not him, Draco! There's nothing you can do! He's dea--"

Draco roared incoherently and left the room, slamming the door behind himself.

Let her abort the damn thing if she wanted to. He'd have no part in it. A brief twitch of his thumb to set the hidden machine in the sitting room moving, and then Duke Ellington was singing through the speakers, not so consequently drowning out Pansy's dulcet shrieks.

--------

"Yes sir, I understand." Draco resisted the urge to add another sir, and merely nodded to the twitchy head that was currently floating in the floo. The Assistant Minister of Magic, one Percival Weasley, disappeared in a final flash of flame and Draco allowed himself to sigh and relax his guard -- something he would never do in view of any of the Weasley's, let alone the very one who had the strings of the English wizarding world wrapped around his fingers.

Damn the bureaucracy and their restriction on all former Death Eaters. No matter that Draco had more than proven his worth during the war; they could still only see the blackened skin along his inner forearm. Not only had the Mark branded him as a loyal follower of Voldemort, it now branded him as something much more devious in these current times of uncertainty. For "A traitor once, can always be a traitor again", and weren't the fledgling Death Eaters still clambering for a new overlord? A position that could easily be filled by the last heir of the Malfoy line, and sometimes he was tempted to go, if only to prove he was worth something.

As of ten years ago, when he had decided that he was finished with his father's ideals, Draco had switched alliances. With the Mudblood, Granger and her sidekick Longbottom, he had helped to create a potion, that when drunk, would temporarily shield the user against Avada Kedavra. And if that wasn't enough to prove his innocence, he had once saved Potter - at what could have been a most opportune time to merely slit the boys throat with the knife he had held in his hands, thereby regaining the favours of both his father and Voldemort. If he had truly been a follower of Voldemort, that was exactly what he would have done when he came across the emaciated boy lying nearly dead in the loam of the forest floor. Instead, he had easily picked up Potter's broken body and Apparated as near to the camp as he could, walking the mile distance of Unplottable land before hastily depositing the boy into one of the Healer's arms. He had disappeared just as quickly as he had come, still intent on his mission, so he never learned until years later that Potter had wanted to die, and cursed Draco for what he had done.

Not that it honestly would have mattered. It had been the duty of The-Boy-Who-Lived to survive, and Draco's duty as an Order member to keep him that way. At least until Voldemort was dead, and then after that, Potter could die in whatever bloody way he saw fit, which was exactly what he did. And good riddance.

Draco turned back to his desk and silently shuffled through his papers until he found what he needed. Attaching it to Herbert proved to be an ordeal, since the owl made up its mind that it would definitely not be delivering any mail this day.

"Ruddy owl, I should trade you in for a newer model," Draco muttered while attempting to pin the owl's wings down without hurting it. Finally, Herbert gave a long suffering sigh and stuck out its leg, impatiently clacking its beak, as if it had been Draco who had been dilly-dallying all along. Draco hastily tied the letter, and sent the owl off, "Give this to Dobby. He'll know what I need." The owl hooted its understanding and kicked off, the flap of its wings sending the disordered papers to the floor.

It was only a short hour later that Herbert returned, but Draco had no time to examine the package it had brought as he was interrupted as soon as the owl arrived.

"Bloody hell woman! You have the ill timing of a House-Elf during spring cleaning," Draco scowled at Hermione's floating head.

"Hello to you too Mr. Malfoy, are you busy?" She peered as far into the room as she could, while asking this question.

"Oh, loads. Can't you see? I've had an urgent summons from the Queen, and I really must go."

"Hmm. One moment please," her head disappeared, to quickly be replaced by her entire body slipping through the fireplace, tailored pinstripe trouser-suit and all, miraculously soot free. "We need to talk." She didn't bother to ask before removing a stack of folders from the room's single spare wing-backed chair and sat, letting the files fall gracefully into her lap. She fingered at the coloured tabs poking out of the manila folders with her manicured nails, and watched him as he settled into the other chair, its violet diamonds completely mismatched to the green paisley of hers.

Draco leaned forward onto the desk and cradled his chin in the palm of his right hand, his left twirling a loose feather idly. "So, what brings you to my humble abode? Do you have another potion that you just can't quite figure out? Expect me to yet again save your arse and let you receive all the credit for your absolute brilliance?"

Hermione snarled, and he grinned back, since they both knew it was true. Former Death Eaters didn't get accolades or Order of Merlins; or grace the front cover of the Daily Prophet, all smiles and happy words. Unless they were due to go to Azkaban that is, and then it would be overkill with a five page article about all they had done wrong. Sanctifying in the minds of the righteous exactly how much better the world would be without that person. Food for the idiots brainwashed minds. Even then, said article would have to bicker for space with yet another cover to cover ode to all that was Harry Potter. Funny how over the years the newspapers had become less and less awe inspiring, and were even now following the trend of the populace, and slipping into calling him The Fool. In only the most respectful of ways, of course.

"Some of us have things to do, Granger. So if you would please get to what this impromptu meeting is about?"

"Oh, and what, pray tell, do you have to do that is so important?"

Draco's eyes flicked to the package that Herbert had brought, but he didn't mention it. What the Mudblood didn't know, he wouldn't tell. Especially if she didn't know. The little bitch had her claws into all things Weasley, which made this bit of information all that much more important to him.

After a frustrated cough she began, "Apparently, some fool thinks that Harry is still alive, and they think they have figured out how they can uncover the truth. I've come to see if you know anything of this?"

Draco was rather proud of his childhood training that allowed him to hide his sudden flush and rapid heartbeat, and merely smirked at Hermione, "Why ever would you think that? You know that the Ministry doesn't trust me. Especially not with something as important as that!"

Hermione nodded, her eyes studying him closely before shifting to the side, as if even after ten years, she still couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Yes, I know ... It's just that ..."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's common knowledge how you felt about Harry, although Harry himself never knew, and well-"

"Wait a minute! Common knowledge? What exactly was common knowledge to the rabble of Hogwarts? I felt, and feel, nothing but hatred for him!"

Hermione stood and brushed out non-existent wrinkles from her trouser legs. "Keep telling yourself that Mr. Malfoy. Sorry to have bothered you." Then she left, the fire flaring from the sprinkle of floo powder and completely hiding her form.

This was certainly an interesting development. He had thought he had hidden his attraction to The-Boy-Who-Lived during his years at Hogwarts, but apparently he hadn't. Or at least not well enough, since none of his dorm mates had ever mentioned anything about it, and surely they would have if they had known something of that magnitude. Easy blackmail material right there.

Pansy only knew now because of the one night he had spent in her room, drunk on gin and high on Zeus knew what. She had awoken him the next morning with her maddening cackle (far too much for his aching head) and proceeded to simper and moan out, "Harry, Oh Harry!" in what was a wretched attempt at copying Draco's restless whimpers. Draco knew he talked in his sleep, and it was his own fault for allowing himself to pass out in her room. The only thing he could do though, to punish the woman, was to perform a tongue-tied hex and let it be. But that was enough, since any time she thought to mention, or write, what had happened, she would began to stutter uncontrollably, and her quill would mysteriously spit ink so badly, that any trace or effort of legible word was blotched completely.

He didn't really know when his appreciation for the Boy-With-The-Death-Wish had started, but he knew he had realized it the night before the war began, in their seventh year. They had stood side to side at the back of the classroom, something like twenty students separating them from the Headmaster who was attempting to give a heartening speech. They both stood with their arms crossed protectively across their chests, but where Potter stood straight as a flag pole, Draco leaned comfortably against the wall, a foot raised to the stones for balance, sleeves rolled back to proudly show off the Dark Mark he had recently acquired. Let the students think what they wanted, since it was only Dumbledore's trust that he needed.

Draco had slid his eyes to the side to see if Potter believed any of the drivel seeping from the ancient man's mouth, and had been surprised to see the glare of utter revulsion that Potter was sending towards the Headmaster. It was at that moment he began to see Potter in a new light. Because a boy who could hate, couldn't be nearly as pure as he was made out to be.

He had always been physically attracted to Harry, the boy far too thin and short, his body too gangly, his cheeks too gaunt and eyes too big behind his round glasses for conventional good looks. But that was exactly what Draco had liked about him. The boy was never ugly, but also was never beautiful, and the closest he ever came to something like allure was when he was caught in the heat of the moment, when he was perched on his broom and flying for the mere joy of it, or at the second when he realized that his potion wasn't going to explode and was, without a doubt, actually correct. Of course these times were short-lived, either when someone called out and distracted him from the feel of wind along his body, or when Professor Snape deducted points because the look on his face was entirely too angelic. And, as always, Draco was left feeling... incomplete.

The day before the war broke out full scale, Draco realized that his attraction was beyond the physical, something he had never felt before, not even towards Luna Lovegood when he had sworn up and down in sixth year that he loved her. Its pure simplicity was astonishing, and the ache it left within his body was beyond pain. If he hadn't been raised with magic at his beck and call, he would've sworn that the emotion he felt was something magical. He knew it wasn't love though, since it was his belief that a sixteen year old couldn't possibly fall in love (the year before with Lovegood had merely been puppy love, he insisted) - not even if the recipient was half a year older, and already seventeen.

Dumbledore's encouraging speech ended, and the children filed out, Draco watching them leave with something akin to shock, and something even closer to awe. These were seventeen and sixteen year olds, willing to give up their lives for what they believed to be right. At the moment there were only a few who were anything more than elbows and knees, and round stomachs for those who still hadn't grown out of their baby fat. They had so much to live for, and yet all they could see was everything they were going to die for.

Not only had that been the moment that he knew he could one day appreciate Harry Potter, it was also the moment when he began to doubt his allegiance to Voldemort. And with his faith wavering inside of him like a candle flame dipping before a breath, Potter glanced up at him and grinned, reaching out with a Quidditch roughened palm, and squeezed Draco's shoulder before following his classmates. The casual touch had made Draco's breakfast boil, and before the oddly gleaming eyes of the Headmaster, he purged his stomach time and again until nothing came but acid and dry heaves. Through all of this, Dumbledore merely watched, eyes never wavering from Draco's hunched over form.

Finally Draco had straightened and wiped at his mouth with his left arm, the fresh Dark Mark scalding against the acid on his lips.

"Sherbet lemon?" the man offered, pulling one from his pocket and disentangling it from fuzz.

Draco had accepted, if only to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

That had been a turning point in Draco's life, a revelation. After discussing details with the Headmaster (a decidedly shocking affair since Dumbledore had known all along exactly what Draco was doing - and for whom), it was decided that he was no longer an Order member spying for the Dark Lord. At this point his role was reversed, although it was much the same. Get what information he could, which wasn't all that much since no one could have a very strong role within the ranks of the Death Eaters at the young age of sixteen, and tell it to the ears of those who mattered. Meaning any adult at Hogwarts, or to the Golden Boy and his friends if an adult wasn't available.

It had taken several long months, and severe fights between Harry and the other two-thirds of the Trio, for the Weasel and his bitch to believe that Draco really was there for the side of the Order, but after his leaks of information had proved to turn the outcome at several key points, they had come to trust his words. But as Granger had once said, "Just because I trust you, it doesn't mean I like you." And as evidenced by their meeting just now, she still followed this line of advice.

No one had cried the day that Harry died; defeating the remaining Death Eaters had been far more important than something so indulgent, but Draco had heard Hermione screaming that night in her tent. But of course her shrieks were only one among many, and all of them had the combined affect of hiding the muffled sound of his own tears into his pillow. So well in fact, that he was able to even hide them from himself. For surely it was only smoke in his eyes?

He wondered what Granger would have said if he had told her about the Night of the Dead. Would she have laughed at how he had lost control of himself and pushed the defenceless boy against the wall, merely because the boy had foolishly chosen to dress as The Fool on that night of all nights? With the ghosts of the past flying above their heads, and the liquor strong in his stomach, he had molested the poor child. But he had looked so much like Harry, never before had Draco seen a costume so well wrought. A glamour so complete that it had fooled him for a few brief moments.

At the boy's shocked gasp he had pulled away and realized where he was and what he was doing. He had drunkenly apologized and walked away to find a safer conquest, someone who wasn't black haired and green eyed, with such a strong feel of pure magic surrounding them.

No, Hermione probably would have given him a pitying glance and a sad shake of her head, and suggested that he go to speak to the doctors at St. Mungo's.

She had been the strongest in denial of Harry's death, proclaiming that until the body was found, she would never believe that he was gone. She had also been one of the first to give in. Even now, when someone mentioned his name, she would grow stony faced and refuse to listen to what they had to say. Because to her, The-Boy-Who-Lived was nothing, and Harry was everything, and Harry had failed her. He hadn't come back to her and Ron like he had promised.

Draco sighed and mentally dragged himself away from reminiscing on the past. He had a job to do, even though it was distasteful. He reclined into the comfort of his old chair and pulled the package closer to him, taking his time to untie the cord and tan paper, before revealing a simple book. There was a creak as the ancient leather binding opened, but no dust since Dobby would never let anything dirty pass from the Manor into the hands of a Malfoy. And honestly, if Draco admitted it to himself, the House-Elf performed ever so much better now that he was paid, although he was given to fits if someone made the mistake of mentioning Harry Potter's name, or Hogwarts for that matter. Once, in a pique of anger, because Dobby had failed to clean up a mess of his own making, Draco had offered to send the creature back to the newly rebuilt Hogwarts, but the elf had resisted, crying out that without his Harry, he simply couldn't go back. It was better to live with his original family, now that they were so polite. Never mind that Draco was all that was left of the House-elf's original family, and that Draco had much more distracting things on his mind then taking time out to torture the House-Elf.

Inside the cover of the book, in small precise lettering was a single word, Harry. But of course, that was all that was needed. Quite literally, there was not a single witch or wizard in the world who had that name. It was just too...muggle, and quite frankly, not many muggles found it within themselves to name a child Harry, or Harold as it was. The name had died out fifty years ago along with Cora and Bertha, and countless other names that only men and women over the age of fifty wore proudly.

One night, in the rubble of Hogwarts, a gorgeous sunset had caused the single tower known as the Headmaster's Tower to cast a lengthening shadow across the stones and shattered glass. In that shadow, Draco's flashlight (amazing thing really) had picked out a single book, still intact. Strewn all around it was shreds of gold flecked paper, wall paper most probably, and red velvet, the only recognizable remains of the Gryffindor dormitory. Draco had been amazed, since not even a single book in the library had survived, and yet this small journal had. But of course the name inside had explained it all.

Draco had hidden the book within the pockets of his robe and left, secure in his knowledge that nothing usable remained, and this he reported to the camp. The book was forgotten for a week, and only then was it shoved into the hands of Dobby who was wandering forlornly about between the tents, looking for something to do. Draco had commanded Dobby to go to his Manor and put it somewhere safe in the library, and there the elf had stayed, taking it upon himself to clean out the spider webs and rats.

Draco had given the journal no further thought until now, its memory dim and forgotten in the back of his mind. But the Ministries request for anything pertaining to the matter of Harry's death had jolted him into remembering.

He settled down for a read that would most undoubtedly be horribly written, although probably interesting, but was distracted by the sound of feet outside his study and the slam of the loft's balcony door. The balcony was a rotting affair, and the only thing worth bearing weight was the escape route, a set of rusting stairs that led to the street below. This meant only one thing, Pansy had left yet again.

Defeated, Draco set the book to the side and hastily pulled a tired old jumper over his head to cover up his button-up shirt. Although living in muggle London had its advantages, it also had its disadvantages, up to and including the fact that Apparation was not only a rude thing to do, it was also dangerous - illegal. To find Pansy, he would have to use a muggle form of transportation. He slipped his feet into a pair of dress shoes that were lying in wait beside the front door and slid the keys off of the shelf designated for them. He was still rich, but money had become unimportant, and the only real indulgence he allowed himself was his Rolls-Royce Phantom, modified slightly with magic so that it had no need for petrol or engine, and so that it would automatically seem much the worse for wear in the areas where it would be noticed.

He slipped behind the wheel and pulled out of the garage into the wet streets of London, his internal radar tracking Pansy as she flitted towards her destination, wherever it may be. She never had appreciated the rules that had been spread out for them on paper after the War, scoffing at the Anti-Apparation laws, and the need to hide from the muggles.

Honestly, the only reason why she hadn't been dragged to Azkaban all those years ago was because of the flawless skin of her arm, and Draco's adamant protestation that he could, and would take care of her. Of course that led him to weekly goose chases as she ran near round the world, attempting to find what, he knew not.

Luckily, on this night when his nerves were frayed close to snapping, he tracked her to an even seedier area than his own, although not more than half an hours drive away. He found her squatting on the front steps. of an ancient six story block of flats, very out of repair, but also obviously well loved. The kind of building that no doubt was loaned out by an ancient landlady much too old to fix anything, but who would still visit her tenants every weekend with a basket of freshly baked biscuits and a gossiping ear.

He parked the car, and after a cursory glance to make sure that the glamour was still upon it, for it wouldn't do well to have thieves steal it, he approached Pansy as he would a skittish animal. But tonight, instead of staring at him with wide frightened eyes, she smiled, and clutched at her seething belly.

"I thought you'd never come! I've been waiting for... oh I don't know, twenty minutes?"

Draco sighed and sat next to her, wincing inwardly at the grime that was no doubt ingraining itself into his trousers. "What is it this time Pansy? In search of Severus? Or maybe Blaise?"

She giggled and swatted at his arm playfully, "Oh you're silly! Why would I do that? You know they're dead!" Draco was surprised by her clarity, since her sane moments didn't come too often, especially not during one of her disappearing acts. Usually it came later in the night, after he had tied her to the bedposts so that she couldn't stab at herself with a kitchen knife. But her next words deflated his joy, "I've come to find Potter! Although, I have no idea why all of you are so fascinated with him."

He decided to play her game, anything to keep her in this cheerful mood. "Oh really? And have you found him?"

Pansy ignored him and pulled up her t-shirt to stare in a fascinated way at her bulging stomach. He closed his eyes in revulsion at the way the tight skin gleamed in the moonlight. Surely nature's most beautiful thing, but also the most disgusting. He could only thank Merlin that he wasn't a woman. She dropped the shirt and turned to him, her small hands tight on his forearms. "I heard you talking to Granger, and to the Weasley."

Of course she had, she always listened in on his conversations. "Of course you did, Pansy."

"And I decided, that if the he was really that important to all of you, even though he's far outlived his usefulness if I must say so myself, I would find him. Only for you though, Draco dear. Only for you."

"You would find him..." Draco repeated dully, not really knowing what to say to what was surely one of Pansy's most fey of moments.

"Yes!" she cried, jumping up and clapping her hands with glee. "And I did!"

"You did?" Pansy frowned as he looked around wildly, trying to see what she could possibly think was Potter. Surely she wasn't deluded enough to think that the rubbish bins were The-Boy-Who-Lived?!

"What is wrong with you? I just told you that I found Harry-fucking-Potter, and you're looking at garbage!"

Draco smiled sheepishly, "Ah, well, I thought maybe you were hiding him back there."

She cocked her head to one side and grinned endearingly at him, "You know, if I didn't know better Draco Malfoy, I would say you had inherited your mother's insanity." Draco didn't bother to reply. "Well, that alley doesn't contain the Almighty Potter. But, if you would be so kind as to look up at the fifth floor window at the far right, you will see a pale face peering down at us oh so anxiously."

And indeed, when Draco stepped off of the stairs and backed into the quiet street, he could see that blinds were being bent down so that a pair of eyes and half of a face could watch the activities below, and even from this distance he recognized it was the boy from the Night of the Dead.