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The Funeral	By : cpetnm Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 7733 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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A.N. Thanks for reading and to those delightful readers who reviewed, as well!

@Carrie: Did you ever watch Six Feet Under, about a family of morticians? My take on that family business was taken from there and the younger brother, David, was how I imagined Draco. David was always so respectful of both the mourning families and of the dead. Draco has matured and he’s taken his role in the magical world seriously. Thank you for the thoughtful and sweet review!

@Victoria: Hermione didn’t want to believe the dangers associated with the magical dead, even though she was given some idea of what to expect. For the most part, the Hogwarts ghosts were friendly, so I think she expected mischief at the very most, rather than the anger she got from the female ghost. This chapter has a bit about the wizarding portraits and magical memento mori photos. Thank you for the lovely review!

@starr: I thought in this story, I’d like both Harry and Ron to be nice about Hermione and Draco. Both H&D have been through so much, but I think they matured and reacted in courageous ways. Thank you for the review!

@General Crow: I’d imagine that as modernity crept into the wizarding world, preparing the dead and burial rites became something people found distasteful, just like in our world. As far as their prior involvement, they finally take the plunge and discuss things. I want them to be together again, but I feel like they will have to choose a new course of action. Whether that means they try to make things work in England or she leaves or they go together, I’m not sure. Any ideas? ;) Thank you for the review!

@Anon: Poor non-believing Hermione! Lol!

@ChaosLady: Thank you! Lots of movement this chapter. :)

It had been sobering to work on Remus Lupin’s ragged body. Despite his younger self, Draco had thought the wizard had been a great teacher and he had a natural sweetness that was absolutely foreign to the young Slytherin. He hoped the werewolf would find peace in his afterlife, as his life in this world had been difficult.

But working on his cousin, Nymphadora, had been downright wrenching. The witch looked like a brunette version of his mother, with her striking bone structure and wide lips. If his mother’s sister hadn’t been burned off the Black family tapestry, Draco would have grown up knowing Nymphadora. The Auror’s body, with her powerful Metamorphmagus magic, had mended itself quickly as Draco cast spells on her.

His cousin’s wispy form began to materialize as he finished working on her.

“Hello, cousin.”

“Greetings, Nymphadora. Are you ready to begin your journey?”

“Not yet. Remus and I have a baby, Teddy, named after my dad. Mum’ll take good care of him, but I want to be able to watch over him after I move on. Will you perform the Imaginem Imbutus Spiritus spell on my death image?”

It appeared the ghost of Nymphadora Tonks was chewing gum as she looked at Draco expectantly.

“Would you and Professor Lupin like to be in the picture together?”

For those wizards and witches who didn’t have the substantial amount needed to hire a magical artist to create a picture of their loved ones, a momento mori photograph could be taken and the subject’s spirit could be imbued in the photo. It wasn’t as grand as a painting, but it worked much the same way.

She shook her head sadly. “Remus has already moved on. Will he be waiting when I get to my destination?”

Draco nodded.

“He’ll be there,” he said softly.

Tonks waved her hand dismissively to him. “Well, get to it, Little Malfoy! I’ve got somewhere to be.”

A moment after his cousin dispersed her spectral form, Hermione came into the warehouse.

“Malfoy,” she said in greeting.

She looked tired, he thought. He guessed he looked fairly shitty, too, but he had all these memories of her from their sixth year and she had been like a juicy, ripe peach, all creamy skin, dewy, brown eyes, and those surprisingly soft curls. She was still beautiful to him, but she was more angular now, her cheekbones cutting her face and her eyes dark and somber in her pale face.

“Do you think you could go back to my room at the Leaky and get my camera?” It wasn’t like he could leave her alone in the warehouse, so this was probably the best option. They had a boatload of bloody work to do today.

“Why?” she asked with confusion.

“Do you think I could explain when you return? Time is of the essence,” he urged her.

“Hand me your key, then,” she said, holding out her hand. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“Room 7. It’s in my trunk.”

She’d always thought, even with her egalitarian bent, that the rooms at the Leaky were rather shabby and plain. Everyone in magical Britain stayed at the Leaky Cauldron’s lodgings and yet the rooms looked like the place was barely making ends meet. Sometimes the wizarding world was such a mystery to her.

Hermione located Draco’s trunk. His camera was between layers of clothes, letters, and books. A small, engraved box sat at the bottom of the trunk. It was so beautiful, with its inlaid pearl design and she couldn’t help but pick it up. The wooden prism unlatched itself when she touched the latch.

I really shouldn’t go through his things. He trusts me and I’m taking advantage.

Despite knowing she shouldn’t snoop, Hermione couldn’t help but look in the box. Inside was a photo of her, taken fourth year at the Yule Ball. Viktor had been cropped out of the picture. She looked so young and so happy in her fancy dress, with everyone admiring her changed looks and her famous date. The picture had clearly been handled endlessly, as the edges had begun to curl a bit and the paper was somewhat wrinkled. A short note she had penned to him, telling him to meet her at the Room of Requirement was in the box, as was a button she recognized as one from a sweater she used to wear all the time.

The last item was one she had only seen once. It was a protection amulet and he had offered it to her that bitter night when he had begged her to go into hiding with her parents.

Draco had been so sure The Dark would obliterate her side. He’d had absolutely no faith that good would triumph over evil, his experience with Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and his family making him think it was impossible to fight that kind of hatred and power. She’d told him the Order would take him in, would even take in his bigoted parents, but he’d refused. He’d said when Voldemort won, he’d be able to offer her protection. His lack of faith in what was right, in her, had absolutely broken her heart. How could she trust him, knowing he would do the wrong thing when he’d had the opportunity to do what was honorable?

She put the box back and patted his things into place, trying to make it look like she hadn’t rifled through his belongings. Merlin and Morgana. She wiped her tear-stained cheeks as she quickly made her way back to the Ministry.

“Do you know how wizarding paintings are created?”

Hermione shook her head. After finding the memory box in Draco’s trunk, she didn’t really want to talk to him.

“The deceased’s wand is used to enchant a set of paints. When the painting is complete, the wizard or witch’s spirit is imbued in the image. It’s fairly expensive to buy the specialized paints and the process is time consuming for the artist. When the dead’s wand isn’t available or has been lost, a memento mori photo can be taken and the undertaker can perform a spell to preserve the essence of the dead in their photo, if the person has yet to move onto the next plane. Memento mori photos are no longer popular, since most families find them morbid, but every so often we’ll get a request for one.”

Draco waited for her to ask him a question or offer some opinion, but Hermione continued to gently cast spells on an old witch. He realized she was ignoring him.

Fine, he thought dejectedly.



They worked until late that night with few words spoken between them. There was more Draco could teach her, but he was in no mood to offer her his wisdom. She had been almost friendly with him the previous night, but not today. Today she had been…detached.

As she collected her things to leave, Draco cleared his throat.

“Will you ask the Weasleys if they have any special requests for their son’s preparation?”

“I’ll ask,” she murmured.

When he got back to the Leaky, he had Tom sell him a bottle of Firewhisky so he could drink in his room. He wanted to sit in bed, drink his Ogden’s, and pass out. A dreamless night would be much appreciated after the crap day he’d had with the subject of his brain’s nightly musings.

That prick! Where is he?

Hermione had been standing at the warehouse doors for over an hour. Her anger escalated every minute she waited.

Enough’s enough.

She found a Floo and made her way to Draco’s hotel room, banging loudly on the door.

“Malfoy!” she yelled. His door was unlocked and she threw it open to find a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table next to the bed. Making her way to the passed out blond, she rudely shoved his shoulder.

“Get up! I’ve been waiting for ages for you to show up, you lazy arse!”

The oblivion and quiet of the previous night had been too good to be true. Hermione’s angry, shrill voice was like an Acromantula’s hiss, a precursor to something ever worse. But he found he preferred her anger to her distance.

She continued to poke his shoulder and chest, even when she realized he was awake. He grabbed her arm and yanked her into the bed, taking advantage of her surprise.

“Stop,” he growled. “You’re being a bitch.”

His arms held her firmly, even a touch too tightly, as they glared at each other. She thought he smelled like spicy whisky, the warm, musky smell of sleep, and his shampoo, which had always reminded her of the sea.

She lowered her eyes in submission and nodded. “Just…get up, Malfoy. We need to keep working.”

He let her go, watching her warily. She went to the desk and fished something out of her little beaded bag. It was a box of those Muggle cigarettes Blaise, Theo, and Pansy had loved to sneak out and smoke at night. He’d have one with them on occasion. She took a lighter and lit the stick, taking a deep drag of the burning tobacco.

He realized then how little he knew this woman. What had happened to her over the last year?

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” she said, avoiding him by looking at the smoke floating to the ceiling.

“No, I’ll be out of the shower in a minute. You can wait here.” He climbed out of the bed, his naked body displaying a fairly impressive morning erection.

When he closed the door to the loo, Hermione let out a groan.

He stood under a cool stream of water and tried to will his wood to go away. Seeing her sucking a fag between her defiant lips after having her body pressed against him in the bed…bloody buggering fuck, this train of thought was making the situation even worse.

The little bathroom door creaked open and he heard her sit on the toilet next to the shower. He didn’t say anything and neither did she. It was disconcerting to have her on the other side of the flimsy shower curtain, but he scrubbed his hair and lathered his body. The water was now too cold and he quickly rinsed off and turned off the stream.

Hermione jumped up and grabbed his towel, passing it to him while he waited in the shower.

“Can you stay in there for a moment?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, okay.”

She was quiet as she tried to think of how to say what she wanted to say.

“Did you think of me? After you left?” she ended up asking. What she had meant to tell him was how angry she still was with him, how he had betrayed her.

“Every day,” he murmured.

“Do you regret what happened between us?”

“No.”

“Why did you come to me instead of one of the professors?”

His thin body was starting to shiver in the cool, moist air of the bathroom.

“I’m freezing my arse off, Granger. Let me get some clothes on and take some hangover potion and we can talk, alright?”

“Oh, sorry! I’ll wait out in the hall.”

“Why? You’ve seen it before,” he said as he stepped out of the shower, a towel slung over his hips.

She watched him make his way into the small hotel room and find his clothing. And though she wanted to watch him dress, she looked around the small bathroom. He probably had some clothing on now, she reasoned, as she went into the main room and sat at the edge of the bed.

He ignored her as he buttoned his dove grey shirt and efficiently knotted an icy blue silk tie. Opening his trunk, he pulled out a small bag that clinked with the sound of glass and found a tiny vial. He uncorked it and swallowed the bitter potion. The dull ache in his head eased, as did the feeling of vertigo. The clenching of his stomach did not abate, unfortunately, but he guessed that had more to do with the witch sitting on his bed than the idiotic amount of Firewhisky he’d drunk the previous night.

She relit the cigarette as he got ready for another long day. After quickly combing his hair into place, he sat beside her on the bed and took the cigarette out of her hand, inhaling a long drag.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he said.

She nodded and tried to take the cigarette back, but he held onto it. “I know, Malfoy, but it seems to help with my anxiety.”

He hummed his agreement at her statement and took another puff.

“I don’t know why I went to you. The other Slytherins were told to keep an eye on me that year, so any friendships I’d had with them ended. I didn’t trust anyone, but I thought you might talk to me if you understood my predicament. I don’t think I could have gotten through that year without you.”

Handing her back the cigarette, he looked into her face and saw her warring emotions in the glassiness of her eyes and the tight line of her lips. She took a quick pull and exhaled.

“Did you lose your fortune?” she asked, looking around the crappy room.

Not expecting that question, he laughed. “Mostly. My parents funded a great deal of the Dark Lord’s plan and gave him access to the family vaults. Then the Ministry seized the Malfoy vaults after Potter defeated him. Since my undertaking is considered valuable, I was allowed to keep my own vault, which is paltry compared to the one I’d always thought I’d inherit.”

“Why aren’t your parents helping with the undertaking effort?”

“I was arrested after the battle, but my parents agreed to give them sensitive information in exchange for my freedom provided I perform the death rites for the Ministry.”

She finally looked at him, taking in his somber face. “I’m glad they did that for you.”

He shrugged. “I deserve to be in there with them.”

No matter how betrayed and angry she had been at Draco, she didn’t think he deserved the same fate as the rest of the Death Eaters. After the time she’d spent with him performing the death rites after the Final Battle, she thought he’d been punished enough. She thought about what Harry had said, about the unbearable situation Draco had found himself in. He had lost everything, too, and yet she had wanted to withhold her forgiveness and the comfort she’d get from letting herself accept him again.

With a wandless spell, she snuffed out her cigarette and Vanished it. Standing and smoothing her knee length navy blue dress, she held out a hand to the man who appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Come on, Malfoy,” she said quietly. His eyes widened and he tentatively accepted her hand, a lifeboat in the endless, black sea that had become his life.

“George made arrangements to have Fred’s picture painted. I have the paints.”

Draco looked up from his task and nodded. “Lay the paints out near his body, please.”

Hermione gently placed the glass bottles of paint in a myriad of colors at Fred’s feet. When she put down the last bottle, a cold chill touched her shoulder.

“What are you doing, Hermione?” a confused Fred asked her.

“Fred,” she whispered with a choked sob. “Can you give me a second?”

The normally silly young man had a perplexed, sad expression, but he nodded as she jogged over to Malfoy.

“Will you talk to him?” she asked. He looked over to see Fred’s image hovering over his body.

“Greetings, Fred Weasley,” Draco said in the formal way he spoke to the dead. “Hermione and I are preparing you for your journey. Your brother is having a portrait of you done and we need to enchant the paints for the artist.”

“I need to speak to George. There’s no need to create a painting. I can’t go without him.”

Every so often, a ghost understood he was about to leave this plane of existence and didn’t want to. As an undertaker, Draco couldn’t force the soul’s compliance, but he would do everything he could to get Fred to move on. The ghost didn’t yet understand how he would become a peripheral part of life for his loved ones, no matter how they tried to include him in day-to-day life. For the ghost, it was a sad thing to watch as your family grew old and died, while the specter was perpetually in the emotional place they were when they left the living.

“Your brother wishes you to make your way to your afterlife. He will join you in time, Fred.”

For the first time, Fred seemed to realize Hermione and Draco, known enemies, were working together.

“Hermione…did we lose? Why are you here with the Ferret?”

She looked at Draco and he gave her a small nod to talk to the young man who had accepted her like a sister during his lifetime.

“No, Fred, we won. Your family is safe. I’m helping Draco prepare people for their journey,” she said, echoing Draco’s language to the deceased.

The twins were Gryffindors through and through, but it didn’t mean they weren’t shrewd. Fred looked at the two and comprehension dawned on him.

“You two, eh? Was that why you were moping about all summer last year?”

Draco looked at Hermione with a tender expression, which Fred noticed. Fred knew he’d never get to fall in love or enjoy the sweet comfort of a willing woman, at least not in the way he’d known it before. It made him sad and if these two people had the opportunity, he felt it was his responsibility to tell them so.

“She’s pretty special, our Hermione is,” Fred said to Draco.

“She is,” Draco said quietly.

A sense of hope filled her with Draco’s admission. It was a start.

In a very unusual decision, Draco had Hermione bring George to the warehouse to talk to his brother one last time before he made his way to his afterlife. His reason was practical, as well, since Draco couldn’t enchant the paints if the spirit wasn’t willing to cooperate, which Fred wasn’t until George pleaded with him to move on.

The blonde and brunette sat in the hall to give the twins a few moments of privacy.

“What you told Fred, was it true?”

Draco looked at her eyes, so vulnerable and so beautiful, and reached a hand to her face to push a curl behind her ear.

“Yes,” he said, his hand lingering. “Maybe it’s time for us to start over.”

She wasn’t ready to admit her feelings for him, so instead she took his hand and threaded their fingers together.

“Yeah,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “We could try again.”

The door from the warehouse opened and a teary-eyed, but smiling, George came out. He nodded at Draco, then pulled him into a hug.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I never thought I’d see him again. He’s ready to move on now.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco replied with an awkward pat to George’s back. “I’ll have Hermione bring the paints to you after I enchant them.”

The two men pulled apart and George looked at the couple. “He gave me a message for the two of you. Even though you were on different sides during the war, your relationship will mend each other and show our world what forgiveness and acceptance really means.”

Could our relationship truly mean something to people outside of us? Hermione wondered.

George mussed Hermione’s hair and gave her a brotherly smile as he walked away from the warehouse.

That evening as Draco ate a small meal in his room at The Leaky Cauldron, a tiny owl delivered a message from George Weasley.

Malfoy,

We’re going to bury Fred observing the old ways. Tomorrow at dawn at our family’s plot in Ottery St. Catchpole. Hermione will Apparate you to the exact spot. Mum would like you to make sure everything is done correctly, if you would be so kind as to help us with protocol.

G.W.

Only the old pure-blood families asked the Malfoys to help with the actual burials. He supposed the Weasleys were a pure-blood family, so it was understandable they’d want to bury their son with the old rituals. It was not only his duty, but what he needed to do to absolve himself of the guilt he carried, to help the living have some closure with the death of their loved ones.

The spring morning was cool and damp, but the sun making its way into the Eastern sky promised a beautiful day.

Arthur handed out the family’s recitation for safe passage into the beyond from the Weasley family grimoire. It was written in Middle English and it appeared to Draco that the Weasley children had been coached in how to read the archaic version of their language. The Malfoy’s recitation was in Latin and Narcissa had made him learn the verse before he was seven years old.

Gently, Draco suggested the mourners hold their wands aloft as they sent Fred on his journey. As with all pure-blood funerals, the living wore black and the deceased wore a white robe with his wand held in his hand. Each mourner was given a red poppy to place in Fred’s casket. Draco had non-family begin the process of saying their goodbyes to the brilliant jokester, then each Weasley, beginning with Ginny because she was the youngest, bid farewell to their fallen family member. By the time Molly and Arthur were done, all Draco could hear were muffled sobs in the otherwise silent early morning.

Using his wand to close and seal the casket, Draco called the brothers to lower the box into the ground. Each man used his wand to ease Fred into his final resting place. The Weasley brothers began to slowly cover the coffin with earth as Arthur tearfully spoke the final part of the ritual.

“Fred Weasley, son of mine, son of Molly, safe travels through the Veil and beyond. Know that when you find your Elysium, your ancestors await you. Father Septimus, Mother Cedrella, Father Augustus, Mother Marion, please guide your grandson to his place in the bosom of our family…”

The eldest Weasley recited the names of the dead for nine generations, as nine represented universal love, eternity, and faith for magical people.

When Arthur finished, Draco had those present file out according to custom, beginning with the Weasley parents. Draco would be the last to leave the grave, making sure the dirt was properly packed and the requisite spells were used to regrow the grass and flowers in the little cemetery. It would be like Fred had always been here, amongst his kin.

After everyone had left, Draco took a deep breath. He’d never been the sole guide at a funeral. His father had always been the one to conduct these things, but Lucius had taught him well and Draco had known deep in his bones what he needed to do. So, it surprised him when he saw Hermione waiting for him beyond the white fence surrounding the headstones.

He walked to her and found himself in her arms.

“Thank you, Draco. The Weasleys are so grateful.”

He knew they were. Molly, her face streaked with tears, had pressed a motherly kiss to his cheek before she made her way from the burial site; Arthur had whispered his thanks. Even Ron had offered Draco a nod of his head as he made his way past the blonde undertaker.

“I know.”

She looked up at him and slowly leaned in, her eyes watching his. They stared at each other as their lips met. It wasn’t so much a kiss as an oath. In helping the Weasleys, Draco had made it clear that he wasn’t the young man who had proudly taken the Dark Mark. He was a man who had made a catastrophic mistake, but he desperately wanted to make amends. If this girl would give him a chance to prove himself worthy, he had no doubt, in time, the rest of the wizarding world would come to accept him.
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The Funeral