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Where the Heart Moves the Stone	By : Hanakai Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1936 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
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- 13
Where the Heart Moves the Stone
- Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -
- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
10.7.2003

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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
Warnings: SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence, & language.

This is the UN-CUT version. To view the �clean� version, please go to http://www.fanfiction.net'hanakai and click on �Where the Heart Moves the Stone.�

Kudos and thanks must got to my beta readers: the effervescent LadyDeathFarie, sparkly Korax, and tasty Evelia.

Please review.

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~ Chapter Seven ~
The Thin Edge of the Wedge

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�The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt;
I am black; astonishment hath taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?
why then is not the health of daugdaughter of my people recovered?�
- Jeremiah 8: 20-22

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The words were drawn out with Veritaserum and etched into record with a Quick Quotes Quill. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madame Pomfrey, Severus, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were the only ones in attendance. And Fawkes. Fawkes was there, too. The young, barely molting phoenix perched on Harry�s knee during the interview, warbling pathetically and weeping tears for him that were of no use.

Harry had never been under Veritaserum before and was grateful for the insulation the truth serum provided. He could feel relatively little emotion as he recounted the tale, and the memories did not have the hazy, frantic feel that the events did. Everything seemed clearer. He could see where he�d lost his temper, where he�d panicked, where he�d made his mistakes. And he had made so many of them . . .

No one spoke but Dumbledore, and he looked old and paper thin as he prodded at Harry�s emotional wounds. Not even the serum could hide the raw, tattered undertone in the boy�s voice, though, and with every response the Headmaster seemed to get older and grayer. For his part, Harry simply sat propped up against the too-starched, stiff Hospital Wing pillows and stared with blurry eyes down at his bandaged hands. A new pair of glasses�silver rimmed, smaller, lighter, and expensive-looking�were on his night stand. His old glasses had vanished somewhere and no one could seem to find them. Even after two days, Harry refused to wear the new ones. Instead, he spent his waking hours squinting at something in the distance that only he could see.

He would only speak to Ron, Hermione, and Albus�but that could have very well been because those three were the only ones who really tried to speak with him. Part of the reason for that was because he�d been cloistered in one of the private rooms in the back of the Wing with an overly protective Dobby and Winky standing guard all day. Everyone but Ron, Hermione and the staff were booted out by the Elves. Another part of it was that no one could seem to look him in the eye without quickly looking away. Thus, other than his friends, no one else really came to visit him�at least, not when he was awake. There was, however, the time he�d woken up to see Professor McGonagall sitting by his bed and crying very, very quietly. He closed his eyes and pretended he was still asleep. There were also the times when he woke to the scent of peaches, tea, blood, and something sweet, sour, and potions-like, though the room was empty. Once, thinking he�d been dreaming, he�d reached out and rested the exposed tips of his fingers on the seat of the chair next to his bed. It was still warm.

�I found Ignis in Terrum while I was looking up spells for a project.� That wasn�t a lie. Killing Voldemort was a project, if ever there was one. �I never even thought about using it before�the books said it was too difficult. But when Goyle started to cast Avada Kedavra on me, I panicked. It was the first spell I thought of. I�d dropped my wand already, so I just put my hands on the ground and tried to pull at the magic down there. It startled me when it worked. It didn�t take him very long at all to die.�

�Self defense then,� Kingsley muttered, barely audible above the scratching of the Quick Quotes Quill.

Sprout frowned at him and made a shushing motion with her hands. Minerva clutched the head of her cane and glared stonily at the back of Dumbledore�s battered fuchsia hat, and Snape was uncharacteristically slouching slightly in a stiff, hardback chair with his arms crossed in front of him, stalwartly avoiding everyone�s eyes. Pomfrey stood anxiously at the head of Harry�s bed, minding her patient with sharp, hawkish eyes. The boy moved only his mouth.

Underneath the veil of the potion, he felt something broken and rotted inside him. �Self defense then.� As though it could have been anything else. He wondered if Kingsley knew what had happened at the Durselys� house�what he�d done. Dumbledore said no one would have to know. Dumbledore�s voice had sounded old that night, just like now. They wanted to know about Draco.

He answered more questions and stared down at his hands. He wanted Severus to look at him. Severus stared impassively at the floor.

�She wanted to take him home with her. I could have probably stopped her if I had wanted to, but I promised him I�d do what I could to help his family.�

�And you think letting Narcissa take Draco back to Malfoy Manor helped them?�

�Yes.� He stared down at the grains of the potions-soaked gauze, seeing Draco laying still and pale in his mind�s eye. �She was right. He shouldn�t have been just lying there like that. In the mud, I mean. He wouldn�t have liked it. He didn�t want to die like that�because of me. He shouldn�t have been in the mud like that. Like he was a part of them.� Them. The Death Eaters. �He wouldn�t have liked it.� The words were repetitious and tiresome and Harry blinked slowly, trying to organize and regroup his sluggish thought processes. �I�m sorry.�

He had said it so many times his tongue ached from forming the words.

An old, wrinkled hand laid itself gently atop his bandaged ones and squeezed lightly, enough to make his damaged skin tingle, but not enough to hurt. No one told him that it wasn�t his fault, though. Perhaps Dumbledore couldn�t lie right now, either.

Severus wouldn�t look at him.

�How did Avery die?� Dumbledore asked.

Memories of the angsty muggle music that Dudley had been so partial to in June suddenly flooded his mind and Harry closed his eyes in a long, slow blink, listening to dulcet phantom tones in his head. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, humming silently. His cousin�s attempts to seem tortured and deep suddenly struck Harry as silly and terribly shallow

You don�t . . . you don�t . . . you don�t see me. You don�t . . . you don�t . . . you don�t see me . . .

�Harry?�

The boy opened his eyes. Even blurry, the hospital was too white. �Disarming spell. Malfoy sent him into a tree. He hit his head. I thought that he had passed out, but then he jumped up between Malfoy and me after I killed Goyle. He cast the Killing Curse and fell down. He didn�t get back up. I don�t know what happened to him after that.�

Dumbledore made a contemplative noise and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his hands in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of his seat.

Harry�s eyes began to ache from the strain of continually attempting to focus. You . . . don�t . . . see me . . . You . . . don�t . . . see me. You . . . don�t . . . you don�t see me.

Severus shifted for the first time since this session began and straightened a bit in his chair. His dark eyes flickered to the still form on the bed and he twitched and fidgeted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say something. Poppy leveled a fierce glare at him from her Mother Hen position at Harry�s side. Her patient saw the exchange as a series of dark blurs out of the corner of his eye.

You don�t . . . see me. You don�t see me at all.

More questions. �What spells did they cast?� �Where did the others go?� �What were they carrying onto the grounds?� �What did you feel when the Killing Curse hit you?� �Has your scar been tingling?�

He answered them as best he could. The Quick Quotes Quill seemed unbearably loud.

�Do you have anything else you�d like to tell us?�

�I�m sorry.� He wanted to slap himself even as the words left his mouth. He wanted to scream. The potion wouldn�t let him.

The hand reached forth again and rested atop his with a gentle squeeze. �I know, Harry.�

The Headmaster turned and whispers were exchanged that ranged just out of Harry�s hearing. They were keeping secrets from him again. Veritaserum forced him to realize that he didn�t blame them�not after the way he�d ballsed up on Tuesday. He wanted to keep secrets too. He wanted to stop apologizing. He wanted . . . Out of the corner of his eye, he could seem the blurry shadow that was Severus staring at the floor again.

He wanted Severus to look at him again and not hate him.

The potion didn�t even let him pretend to grieve. It was somehow disgusting that, even after all that had happened, all he could think of was Snape. He wondered if he was sick. The potion let him know that it didn�t matter to him. Harry closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.

Dumbledore turned back around and sighed quietly. �Why don�t you try and get some sleep?�

The question was rhetorical. The potion didn�t care.

�Because I�ll dream.� Harry decided that he hated Veritaserum.

Dumbledore seemed startled at his reply and he shot Madame Pomfrey a look that Harry was incapable of deciphering without his glasses. The matronly woman gently touched the boy�s shoulder, forcing him to look up at her. Something he couldn�t focus on was waved in front of his face.

�Drink this now, Potter,� she said in her brisk, firm voice. �It�s the antidote to the serum. It also has something in it that will help you rest.�

The lip of the flask was pressed against his lower lip and he tipped his head back, swallowing instinctively as something thick, cool, and unaccountably creamy slid down his throat. It tasted faintly like rosewater and Harry�s eyes teared up at the cloying flavor.

The mediwitch hummed in approval and helped Harry lay back down. Though most of his wounds had healed, he still ached fiercely. His scar had also been livid and red and had been throbbing dully since Tuesday night. He settled into the cool, starched Hospital Wing sheets with a lump in his throat and a looming sense of unease. He wanted to reach out and catch someone�s hand as they passed�ask them to stay�but the effort seemed to be too much when he�d already taken so much of his professors� time and energy.

As the others departed, Dumbledore paused next to his bed. Harry stared blankly at the perpetual glass of water on the nightstand as a weight settled down on the edge of his mattress and the smell of lemon drops and�oddly enough�peppermint underscored by soap and a metallic scent seemed to wrap about him. The Headmaster looked at the glass that had arrested his student�s gaze for a moment in contemplation.

Harry had spent most of the past two days asleep, or with Ron and Hermione, and, between the Order, Hogwarts, the Board of Directors, and trying to stave off Fudge and the Ministry, Albus had been inundated with work. Not to mention, he had his own . . . project . . . he�d been working on since July. He hadn�t really had time to visit Harry the few times the boy had been awake. Interrogating the child the moment he woke up had not been the way he wanted to start his Friday morning.

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione had been waiting in his office when he had left the infirmary on Tuesday night, and he had been able to instruct them not to ask Harry what had happened. This way, at least, he could create a cogent cover story without too many people knowing what had actually happened. Jasperstone senior had been spirited away to a safehouse until the Silence Curse wore off�some time tonight, most likely�and Mary had been unconscious since the incident and occupied a bed in the main Hospital Wing. She had yet to awaken. Thus far, he had only Narcissa Malfoy and Harry�s statements to go by, but they matched practically to a tee. Damage control with the Board of Directors and Ministry could be accomplished easily enough�provided he pull the right strings�but he had no idea how he would handle the emotional impact of these events. Death Eaters were not supposed to attack on Hogwarts� very doorstep. And they most certainly were not supposed to kill one of his students and land two more in the Hospital Wing right under his very nose.

Harry shifted slightly to allow the elderly man more room and turned sluggish, slightly out of focus eyes to his mentor. There were dark rings below the boy�s eyes and he had a waxen, waif-like appearance to him. It vaguely reminded Albus of the way the boy had looked when Alastor had first brought him to Headquarters from the Dursleys� that summer.

�You�ve not been sleeping well.�

It was not a question and Harry made no move to deny it.

�He�s angry.� Despite the fact that the bruising on his throat had healed, the boy�s voice still sounded a bit rough. �I can feel it. My shields have been holding, but it . . . aches.�

Albus nodded and pursed his lips pensively, wondering what he should do or say. There was no manual on how to handle emotionally damaged children and he felt terribly ill-equipped to comfort the boy. Of course, in light of Severus�s evasive behavior over the past few days, it was easy to surmise that Harry had relatively little interest in the Headmaster�s comfort.

Albus reached into his robes and removed a large tome from one of his magically maintained pockets. There was something comical about seeing him reach into his thin sunshine yellow robes and remove this enormous book, but Harry didn�t smile.

�Your storybook,� he explained as he set the book of fairy tales down in the nightstand. �There was a school service for Draco yesterday morning. A plaque was erected in his honor.�

�Ron and Hermione told me last night. They said it was nice.�

The Headmaster nodded and his eyes became unfocused, as though looking elsewhere. �Yes. It was very nice. I suppose your friends have also informed you that classes are canceled until Monday?�

Harry nodded.

�If you would like to take more time, that�s fine. Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, as well as Ms. Parkinson have been granted extended leaves of absence.�

A small furrow appeared on Harry�s forehead. �When is the funeral?�

�Tomorrow.� The glimmer in the Headmaster�s eyes seemed to dim a bit more. �Mrs. Malfoy has invited you to attend. I saw her on Wednesday morning. She came to make a statement to the Board of Directors in your favor. With her help, and that of Kingsley and some good friends within the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, we�ll be able to have this whole mess cleared up by next week. Mrs. Malfoy said that she wants to put all of this unpleasantness behind the family . . . And that she does not blame you for anything.�

His eyes narrowed shrewdly as Harry looked away. �Harry��

�I�ll go,� the boy said to a wall. �I want to go. But I�ll return to classes on Monday. Ron and �Mione said that they�d help me keep up, but I don�t want them to have to. I don�t want to depend on them so much. If anything happened to them��

�Then they would be proud to be standing at your side when it happened,� the Headmaster interrupted. �We�ve talked about this, Harry. You know you cannot push them away, nor can you keep them in the dark all the time. Quite frankly, they would be most upset if you did. You do not like it when I keep things that you think are important from you. Do you think they feel any differently? They are already targets.�

�I got Draco killed.� The words sounded loose and rough. �I don�t want them to get hurt, too.�

Albus shook his head, knowing that Harry couldn�t see the motion. �Draco made his own choices, Harry.� His voice was unusually stern and Harry turned to him, weary green eyes widening in surprise. �He died doing exactly what he wanted to do,� the Headmaster continued, �protecting his loved ones. Do not invalidate his sacrifice or his bravery by saying that it was anything less. To do so is both cruel and disrespectful . . . to both yourself and the memory of Mr. Malfoy. You owe him more than that, and I owe both of you far too much to allow you to destroy yourself over this, do you understand?�

Avada Kedavra eyes remained wide and Albus smiled sadly. �My dear child . . .� the tone was both endearing and exhausted. �You have made many poor decisions. And you have made many good ones. And, regardless of whatever choices you have made, you�not the Boy-Who-Lived�are truly and dearly loved by many people. Even those who would rather they did not care for you at all. We do not blame you for this. I do not blame you for this. Not even Mrs. Malfoy�who was there and saw the whole thing�blames you for this. If anything, this is the fault of my inattention. I became so wrapped up in my scheming that I lost sight of other things.�

He shifted on the edge of the bed so that he could face the boy fully. His eyes looked terribly sad. �Sometimes, we become so distracted by the potential in front of our faces, that we can forget the realities in the periphery, child. And when that happens, people and events often fall through the cracks. I have been overly attentive to some of the wrong things . . . in love with my own cleverness, in a way . . . and this situation is in part a result of that. You made a bad decision in following Draco outside. Draco made a bad decision in going to you instead of me and in disobeying his mother by taking you to the Wards. Mary made a bad decision in listening to Mr. Jasperstone and opening the Wards. Micah made a bad decision in following Voldemort. But I am the one who is responsible for the students� safety. In the end, Harry, if anyone is responsible for what happened this past week, I am. Not you.�

�You�re only one man, sir,� the boy whispered softly.

�And you, dear boy, are only one child. You cannot bear the weight of the world alone. You need your friends. And your professors. And your confidence. You are not alone, Harry.�

Albus smiled and turned slightly to the nightstand, from which he lifted the boy�s new glasses. He opened the metal arms and looked through the lenses for a moment before turning slightly back and gently sliding the silver rimmed spectacles on the boy�s face. Green eyes blinked several times as everything came into painfully sharp focus for the first time in several days.

The old man smiled at him sadly. �Sometimes, we have to be willing to see the things we would rather avoid in order to bring the world into proper focus.�

Harry looked up at him through the glasses in obvious consideration for a moment. Then he scooted over and curled up slightly around the Headmaster�s bent form. He lay down on the pillows again and closed his eyes. �I am not a child.� Somehow the statement sounded more sad than defiant. �And you�re not alone either, sir.�

Albus froze, unaccountably touched by the act, and then relaxed a bit. Without asking or being asked, he retrieved the book from the nightstand and opened it to the page marked by a black ribbon.

He took a deep breath and began to read aloud. �Once upon a time there was a handsome young wizard who longed to be able to communicate with hippogriffs. You see, his cousin�s aunt on his mother�s brother�s side had accidentally transfigured herself into a hippogriff one day and she was the only one who knew where the wizard�s favorite cauldron was.�

Harry relaxed into the mattress, ignoring the feel of the glasses digging into his face. He was exhausted and more than ready to submit and allow the drugs to carry him into a dreamless stupor. He closed his eyes and listened to the Headmaster�s voice, soaking in his mentor�s warmth as the elderly man regaled him about wizards and hippogriffs and Egyptian phoenixes. In his head, though, he tallied the names of his casualties up in an unspoken list. The headmaster may not blame him for Draco, but that said nothing about Goyle. Goyle, he�d actually killed.

�The hippogriff was confused by this turn of events and demanded to be turned back into a wizard. But the phoenix . . .�

Now, two of those names were people who had actually died by his hands. The knowledge was strange�like a burn on his tongue that he couldn�t help but play with. He didn�t like killing people. And yet he kept doing it. He ran through the list over and over again. James. Lily. Sirius. Cedric. Draco. Goyle . . . And there were more still.

�How many more?�

His own personal victims of time and circumstance.

Eventually, he fell into an exhausted, chemical induced sleep, lulled by the Headmaster�s voice and his own silent litany.

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Friday November 8th, 1996

TRAGEDY STRIKES HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY � A HERO FALLS
- Article by: Felicity Cauldron
Draco Malfoy, son of Lucuis Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, dies in an attempted attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Black banners hang in the Great Hall for the second time in three years. The students and staff are uncharacteristically somber as they once again mourn one of their own. Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, died on the evening of Tuesday November 5th, 1996, felled by a Death Eater curse. According to sources at the Ministry and at Hogwarts, the young Slytherin was struck down by the Killing Curse just outside the school�s Wards, attempting to prevent three Death Eaters from entering the grounds. Mr. Malfoy successfully thwarted the efforts of two suspected Death Eaters�Richard Goyle and Michael Avery�but the third as yet unidentified suspect managed to escape.
Ministry Aurors who evaluated the scene on Tuesday night believe that Mr. Malfoy confronted the Death Eaters at the edge of the Wards and became involved in a scuffle. In the ensuing conflict, Mr. Goyle�who was also Draco Malfoy�s godfather�was killed by a Hot Flash Curse and Mr. Avery cast the Killing Curse on young Mr. Malfoy. The effort of casting was thought to be too much for Mr. Avery, who was also suffering a severe contusion from the conflict, and he died from magical exhaustion.
�The Malfoy Family has long been suspected of having ties to the Dark, though these claims have yet to be substantiated,� said Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt in a news conference held by the Ministry this morning. �We believe that Draco Malfoy somehow intercepted plans to send a small attack squad or surveillance squad to Hogwarts from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and wanted to intercede the Death Eaters. At this point in the investigation, all the evidence we have points to the fact that Draco Malfoy died attempting to defend Hogwarts.� The Ministry is set to release an official brief of their findings at the end of next week.
It is suspected that the Death Eaters were attempting to breach Hogwarts in order to kidnap Harry Potter for You-Know-Who, but neither Mr. Potter, nor any of the staff were able to comment on the veracity of these claims. However, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore reportedly had Mr. Potter removed to a safe location until the investigation of the Wards is completed.
The Malfoy family has been believed to be involved with the business of You-Know-Who since Harry Potter survived the killing curse in October of 1981, and Lucius Malfoy was in fact arrested under suspicion of being a Death Eater last May after the attack on the Ministry. Draco Malfoy�s housemates in Slytherin reported that the young Malfoy heir had been acting strangely all year.
�Hen�t n�t himself anymore,� said Blaise Zambini, a fellow Sixth Year Slytherin and heir to the Zambini Kwik Spells empire. �He didn�t want to socialize with his mates anymore and seemed preoccupied all year. We tried to help him, but you can only help those who will let you. We never suspected that he was involved in You-Know-Who, though. Never. Draco just wasn�t that kind of person.�
A spokesman for Mal Malfoy family released this statement on Thursday morning:
�For hundreds of years the Malfoy family has stood as a pillar in our world. We have shared with you our joys and our sorrow. Now, when our sorrow surpasses all previous grief, we are particularly grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and all the letters and gifts we have received thus far. We know in our hearts that our Draco had nothing to do with the followers of You-Know-Who. He was a good and honest young man and our grief has known no depth since word of his murder reached us. Our only solace lies in that he died as he lived: a true example of heroism and loyalty, and we know that�though he is no longer here�he will live on so long as the school and the values he tried to protect still stands.�
According to Ministry sources, a scholarship is to be set up in Mr. Malfoy�s memory thill ill help poor children attend Hogwarts. An in-school memorial service was held on Thursday morning at Hogwarts and a private funeral is scheduled to be held on Saturday morning soest est of Obdan at Malfoy Manor.

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�It was real nice.�

The operant words of a funeral. �It was real nice.�

Lucius did not attend. Narcissa stood at the foot of the casket as a man from the Ministry droned on about all that Draco had accomplished and how sad it was when a young life was cut so tragically short. Because, as the man had said, �It is always tragic when a life ends, particularly that of a young man who had barely begun to live.�

The Malfoy matriarch did not weep.

It was Saturday and it was raining, large, cold, heavy drops of rain. Though magic shielded the guests from the actual rain, the coldness of it seemed to seep in through the invisible barrier the funeral director had been kind enough to erect. The whirlwind manner of the funeral preparations made the service seem abrupt and harried, though it really was nothing of the sort. Rumors and whispers started and were rapidly squelched about why Narcissa and Lucius were so desperate to inter their only son not even a week after his death, but nothing came of them. Actually, it seemed apparent that most of the guests were more interested in who was there than any sort of mourning.

The funeral was a Who�s-Who of social lights, despite the Malfoy House�s less than pristine reputation. After all, Draco Malfoy had died a hero. He had saved Hogwarts from a vicious attack by Death Eaters. At least, that�s what the Ministry and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had told the press. Cornelius Fudge was in attendance. He delivered a stirring eulogy about honor and sacrifice and the bravery of Draco�s generation. Rita Skeeter took quotes and her photographer took pictures of her next he che casket as she wore a long practiced expression of wistful grief she�d perfected just for the occasion.

Strangely enough, Harry Potter had also come to the funeral, though the two boys� rivalry had been the stuff of legend. The wizarding world�s reserved little hero was dressed in slightly faded black robes and stood next to a somberly clad Professor Dumbledore. Both wizards seemed unnaturally tired and pale, but no one dared approach them. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to speak to them found themselves skillfully redirected by the aged Headmaster while Harry Potter simply stared at the closed oak coffin with empty eyes. Directly across from the two Gryffindors was Severus Snape. The Head of Slytherin wore surprisingly fancy ebony dress robes and stood with a large contingent of Slytherin upperclassmen. He looked even paler and thinner than usual�almost scarecrow-like, despite his stylish clothes . . . or perhaps it was because of them. The Slytherin children stood in respectful silence and stared, bored, into the distance when they thought no one was watching.

However, most people probably would not have noticed if the whole lot of them expired from ennui right there. Even Snape, who was obviously their chaperone, seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to them, staring instead at the casket. If anyone had taken the time to stare for longer than an instant at the Potions Master, they would have no doubt seen the beaded rosary�so red it was black�that he clutched in his hands, or noticed his lips moving faintly in an unheard prayer. His long fingers worked over the beads as he stared impassively down at his former student�s casket, treading them through one dark bead at a time. As it was, no one saw, except perhaps the Headmaster and Harry Potter, who said nothing.

�Truly these are dark days,� some official or another droned on.

To Snape�s left, Narcissa Malfoy�s face could have been carved from ice for all the coldness she emanated. Her eyes, though, seemed to burn as she stared down at her son�s final resting place. Someone had the poor taste to murmur �Where�s Master Malfoy?� within the grieving woman�s hearing and, for a moment, her eyes flashed with barely suppressed violence and she seemed prepared to whirl around and seek out the person, but a thin, stained hand shot out and gripped her elbow before she could move. Her eyes flickered to Snape and she ed ied incredulous that he would dare touch her, so he quickly withdrew his hand and returned to worrying the beads. Angered beyond words, the woman averted her eyes and her body seemed to twist for a moment, loose and string-like. Her black finery whispered around her as she swayed, pale. Standing to her left, Harry Potter looked away and Headmaster Dumbledore closed his eyes.

�So young,� the man continued, sounding enamored of his own turns of phrase. �With so much strength and light inside him . . . The realization of potential��

Harry took a careful step towards the woman, but then stopped and looked hopelessly lost for a moment.

The tired speaker finally wound up the last of his poorly constructed similes lef left the foot of the casket to make room for the witch in charge of the funeral. The elderly woman, dressed in severe black robes and too much red lipstick, ordered all those present to hold hands. The crowd sorted themselves out into twelve concentric circles around the coffin with the primary mourners in the first circle. Harry�s cold, chapped hands were wrapped in special gloves to help his hands heal and his skin tingled as Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Dumbledore each grabbed a hand. He studiously avoided looking at anyone or thing for very long. Looking at Draco just made him feel ill and heavy and he had a curious lump in his throat. Still, it was not enough to overpower the rush of jealousy he felt when Severus finally tucked his rosary beads away and took Narcissa�s hand in one of his own.

He stared back at the coffin with a sour expression on his face.

The woman at the foot of the coffin began to chant in a language Harry had never heard and a feeling like a cold wind swept through him. His magic, not yet fully recovered, lurched heavily within him in response and he shivered. It felt like the bubbles of a fizzy drink sliding beneath his skin and it took a serious act of self control not to yank his hands back and cut himself off from the circle. Dumbledore squeezed his hand gently and the boy bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. It distracted him from the pull of magic pooling over the coffin.

The headmaster had explained before the ceremony that this would protect Draco�s body from grave robbers and from being used in spells. It was also supposed to alleviate the grief that the attendants of the funeral felt. The closer one stood to the coffin, the more of their magic was used in the spell, but the first row of people also benefited the most from the soothing properties of the ceremony. The old man nudged Harry a step forward and the Gryffindor took another reluctant step towards the coffin, making sure to pull Narcissa and Dumbledore with him. The feeling moved from fizzy drink bubbles to garden slugs sliding beneath his flesh. He clenched his teeth against a surge of nausea.

Then it was over.

His hands were released so abruptly that Harry nearly fell and a wash of warmth moved through the boy, similar to the feeling he got from eating chocolate right after seeing a Dementor. He shivered at the sudden change in sensation. Across from him, Severus shuddered violently.

For a moment the Potion Master�s eyes locked with his green ones and Harry looked Severus full in the face for the first time in nearly two weeks. The rosary beads slipped from the older man�s hand and fell to the fading green grass silently. Around them, people began to mill about and mutter to one another. Skeeter resumed taking quotes, Narcissa stepped away from the coffin, the funeral witch began to lower the coffin into the ground�spelling the earth to accept back one of its children, and Dumbledore stepped between Harry and a reporter. Severus and Harry merely stared at one another as the coffin was absorbed by the earth. There would be nothing as low class or muggle as digging done at a Malfoy�s funeral.

It was not until the coffin had vanished and someone began to herd them back through the rain towards the Manor for refreshment that Severus broke eye contact to retrieve his beads. Harry drew in a sharp breath and looked away from his Professor as the man turned to usher his Slytherins back to the reception area. The boy looked around wildly, sure that someone had seen the two of them staring at one another and was going to find out that everything they�d been told about Draco�s death was a lie . . . But if anyone noticed, they didn�t say anything. After all, it really was a very nice funeral.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

His glasses are on the mantel. Cracked and dirty, they stare at me in eyeless accusation as I sit before the fire in my lounge chair. Around me lies the wreck and ruin of my life: books, potions, knickknacks, and broken glass all carelessly strewn across the floor. It is a disaster. I don�t care.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Repeating it does not change the reality of the situation, yet still I find it hard to fathom. Over the arm of my chair, I have draped Potter�s invisibility cloak. Atop it sit my rosary beads. I not not removed those beads from my armoire in fifteen years. I put them away the day I heard word of the Dark Lord�s supposed defeat. I was twenty-two and stupid then. Thirty-seven and stupid does not seem very different at all.

No. Scratch that. Thirty-seven is very different. Thirty-seven is forced Occlum les lessons, and Lady Narcissas who won�t give me the time of day, and Hogwarts funerals, and mourning Slytherins, and pale, hospitalized Harry Potters, and impetuous Draco Malfoys whom I had a hand in destroying.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

I gave him to Albus Dumbledore and now he�s dead. I wonder where Lucius is and if he hates me for failing to do as he asked. I can only protect one person at a time, though, and that person is currently alive and well and ensconced in the red and gold of Gryffindor Tower. The Dark Mark on my left arm throbs in a way that is not quite painful, as though reminding me of that fact. I ignore it. One person at a time, Severus. Yet none of this changes the fact that Draco Malfoy is dead, and if I didn�t feel so bloody empty and strung out, I�d be reeling from the knowledge.

My eyes fix on the glasses again and I shift, knocking the blood red rosary beads to the floor. I turn to look at them, and instead find myself looking at the cloak. The cloak. Harry Potter�s cloak.

Quite a collection I have going here . . . Glasses stolen off an unconscious and wounded boy, and an irreplaceable cloak confiscated from said boy, both occupying my chambers . . . An incomplete collection.

I wonder what Potter has told people about the cloak. Everyone believes the spectacles to have been lost in the brainlessly epic battle on Tuesday. There were no questions and in all the fuss and bother of bustling Potter into the Hospital Wing and finding the Creevey girl unconscious on the lawn, no one noticed something as silly as a pair of glasses vanishing into my robes. Once Pomfrey had me on a bed and filled to the gills with numbing potions and chocolate, no one noticed me at all. Minerva apparently handles finding a hysterical, bloodied Potter lying on the ground with two corpses and an unconscious Death Eater much better than I do.

But the cloak is something different. I never told anyone I still had it . . . Though Albus knows. Albus knows everything. Bastard. Even the Dark Lord thinks Potter still has it�my little reports have taken care of that. How on earth would I explain clinging to the damn thing like a security blanket to a creature who is more snake than man? Although, if the student were anyone other than Potter, my dear mad Lord would probably laugh himself into a stupor over my questionable tactics of seduction.

But did did Potter tell everyone?

He lost it?

He dropped it?

He forgot it when he was fleeing his Potions Master after being sexually assaulted?

Does it even matter?

I have it and it�s mine now and I have never once in my life willingly relinquished what is mine.

Why do I still have this thing, though?

I lower my water filled brandy snifter to the ground and then straighten and run my now free hand over the cool, liquid-like fabric.

Potter . . . My wide-eyed, flawed, battered Harry Potter . . .

Surely, this cloak has as many lives as that impetuous, thrice-damned Gryffindor. It miraculously survived my tantrums last week . . . And this week . . . And tonight. I would blame it on Albus, or Potter�Harry�or Merlin himself if I could, but I cannot. Neither Albus, nor Harry�POTTER!�nor Merlin made me cherish this silly bit of silky silver. They do not know I treasure this stupid thing�touch it because he touched it . . . Feel it because I can feel him in the very thread.

What have I become?

I bite my lip and shift uncomfortably, slouching in my seat. My breath quickens and the feel of the cloak overwhelms my shame.

I tell myself I am not seriously considering sitting alone in my quarters and wanking off while fondling Potter�s cloak. James Potter�s cloak. Whatever. Never mind that it smells like Harry . . . feels

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Where the Heart Moves the Stone