Draya Malfoy

38 - White Tomb/Daddy's Home

Harry stared glumly at the white tomb before him, the dull ache which had taken refuge in his chest on that fateful night in the Astronomy Tower refusing to dissipate.

Although, he thought as he fidgeted in the hard, plastic chair, if he were to be completely honest, the thrum of sadness had been with him long before Dumbledore took his last breath.

He was reminded of it when, during mealtimes, he found his gaze sweeping over to the Slytherin table, Crabbe and Goyle looking oddly lost without the tall, pale figure of Draya between them, bossing them around.

Harry swallowed, not being able to erase the memory of that night, of the fear in Draya's voice, or the pure terror in her eyes. He only wished that Dumbledore had not been so foolish as to immobilise him, costing him the chance to defend himself against Draya's disarming spell. Would Dumbledore still be alive? Would Draya be safe from harm under the Order's protection?

She had, after all, lowered her wand.

"Are you alright, mate?"

At Ron's words, Harry looked up at his friend, feeling a flicker of irritation at his stupid question. Of course he wasn't alright! He was sitting at the funeral of a man he had once considered to be invincible!

But Harry was too exhausted in his grief to speak, so instead he just shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to his headmaster's tomb.

"I just can't believe you carried on... you know..." Hermione said, seated on his other side. "...fornicating with her, knowing she was a Death Eater."

Harry closed his eyes. Hermione just would not quit. She didn't seem to understand that maybe perhaps he had cared about Draya, that he, Harry Potter, able to see the world beyond black and white.

And he didn't want to think about her, because when he did, he felt this awful sense of dread that he had massively let her down, that he had missed the chance to save her and protect her when he could. And it made him feel so fucking angry at Dumbledore, who - in Harry's eyes - should have done more to protect his students and himself from that great big cunt in the shape of Severus Snape.

"Where are you going?" Ron called as Harry stood up and began to march away. "It's just about to start!"

But Harry didn't have time for the dead. Not when the living needed him more.

*****

"He requests your presence tonight."

I looked back up into my mother's anguished face, wanting to argue, but knowing it it was futile. She was, after all, simply passing on a message.

My voice was a barely a whisper when I spoke, dropping my gaze to my mother's wringing hands. "What does he want with me?"

I did not really want to know. The last time Voldemort requested my presence, I was ordered to perform the Crucio Curse on my chosen victim.

"My chosen victim?" I had asked, looking around the room of Death Eaters, confused.

"Yes," Voldemort had replied, his red eyes gleaming as his mouth twisted into a wicked smile. "As a reward for your efforts at Hogwarts, I shall allow you to pick one of our team to- shall we say... vent."

Frightened, I had turned to my mother, as I often did these days. She quickly stepped forward, volunteering herself. But I couldn't do it, I couldn't torture my own mother.

In the end, I chose Snape. I mean, he probably deserved it at that point anyway.

Whether I did a good job or not, I don't know. But Snape gave a good show of writhing and screaming on the floor at my feet as I pointed my wand down at him. However, I couldn't help but notice he quickly regained his posture the moment the meeting was over and Voldemort had turned in for the night.