Sins of the Father

Disclaimer: All characters presented in the fic are the property of J.K. Rowling. I just like to play with them on occasion

Author's Note: Written for elementaldeity for the dmhgficexchange on livejournal.

Special Thanks: Terri, Inell, Zephyr and especially nakhash_mekashefah for the wonderful feed back especially in the eleventh hour.

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Chapter One
The Sins of the Father

The
summer before Hermione's final year at Hogwarts, Death Eater activity
had increased. Their actions grew bolder as Lord Voldemort’s power
increased with each passing day. The Order of the Phoenix was working
overtime, trying to recruit additional support to minimize the impact
the brewing war would have upon Muggle England.


Upon
Hermione’s suggestion, the Order had moved its location to the Granger
residence in Muggle London the year after Sirius’s death. She had grown
insistent that her parents relocate to Order Headquarters; concerned
for their safety as Voldemort rallied support. When Sirius fell,
ownership of Grimmauld Place defaulted to Narcissa Malfoy as the only
remaining Black not being hunted by the Ministries Aurors. Hermione had
little problem convincing Dumbledore to take residence at the
Granger’s, placing their home under the Fidelius Charm.


Hermione’s
suspicions soon proved to be correct when Severus alerted the Order toldemldemort’s latest plan to get to Harry Potter. It seemed as if he was
convinced that the best way to get to Harry was through his loved ones.


“After
all, it worked so well with Sirius,” Severus added coldly, his sneer
reveling in the guilt his words brought to Harry’s face.


Unable
to break through the magic protecting Harry’s family, Voldemort had
decided to target Harry’s friends instead. The Weasley’s were all put
on alert, while Hermione breathed a sigh of relief that her family
would be safe. Or so she thought.


“Mum, it’s just not safe
for you,” she had insisted one morning, shortly after Severus had
reported his latest findings. “I realize that you don’t fully
understand the implications of this war, but you and dad have been
identified as targets. It’s because of who you are to me and my ties to
Harry,” Hermione added, her voice trembling as she considered the
danger she had brought to her parents’ lives.


“Mionabelle,”
Elizabeth Granger sighed, calling her daughter by the childhood pet
name as she tugged lovingly at Hermione’s curls. “I know that you are
concerned for our safety, but we Grangers are made of tough stock. I
simply, no we -,” she amended, her eyes falling lovingly on her husband
across the room, “cannot live our lives in fear.”


Hermione
swallowed her tears, burying her face in her mother’s chest as she
wrapped her arms around her waist. She knew that she would not convince
her parents to close their practice, to remain virtual prisoners within
their own home as a war ensued that they knew very little about.


“I know mum. You taught me that as well, I’m just… I’m afraid.”


Elizabeth
took her daughter’s shoulders, pushing her lightly away from her body
as she tilted her head until her shining eyes looked up into her own.
“Que sera sera,” she sung lightly, the song she had sung countless
times as Hermione drifted off into a dreamless sleep.


“Whatever
will be, will be,” Hermione answered, as she looked up into her
mother’s eyes. As she watched her parents leave the confines of the
Order’s new headquarters for the last time, she allowed a tear to fall
from her eye before seeking out Mundungus.


***


“What is it, little girl?” Mundungus snapped, coughing on the smoke from his pipe.


Hermione tutted, pulling her wand out in a flourish and casting an extinguishing spell.


“Why you little br…”


Hermione
didn’t give him the chance to complete his thought. She needed his
assistance and didn’t have time to waste with trivial banter.


“Look
Dung,” she started, her hands on her hips, eyes fixed on his. “I don’t
have time for this nonsense. My parents have insisted on going into
work today despite my warnings.”


Mundungus coughed and
grunted out a laugh in disgust. “It sounds like they have a death wish.
So what does the little know-it-all suggest I do about it,” he spat
out, before lighting his pipe again, inhaling deeply before blowing the
smoke directly in her face.


Fighting the desire to hex the
petty thief before her, Hermione pulled her wand out again, opting
instead to send a stream of water, once again extinguishing the pipe
and ruining the tobacco inside.


“What you’re GOING to do
is go down there and keep them safe,” she insistedwith a satisfied
smirk as he wiped his face and looked at his pipe incredulously. Not
giving him the chance to question her further, she continued, “You know
why you’re going to do it? Because I am the ‘know- it- all’ that will
put you under the Imperius Curse to make sure it happens,” she
finished, satisfied as she watched his expression blanch at her threat.


“B-b-but, I’m to wait for…”


“You
have your instructions from me. I don’t have time to wait for
Dumbledore to return. They are in danger now,” she finished
emphatically, breathing a sigh of relief when he finally gathered his
cloak and hat and Disapparated.


***


Her eyes were
glazed over, the drone in the courtroom deafening to her ears as Lucius
was presented to the court for sentencing. He had been found guilty of
illegal activities, including the murder of Hermione’s parents.


Despite
the personal interest she should have taken in the case, she could not.
It didn’t matter. They were gone. Her mother’s song still haunted her
ears because it did not have to be. If only she had pleaded further,
they might have agreed to stay home. Or, if she had simply cast the
Imperius Charm on Mundungus rather than waste time reasoning with him,
he might have been able to save them.


He had managed to stun
Lucius, bringing him into the Ministry’s custody. That had been little
consolation to Hermione, just as the verdict of guilty had been, as
well as any sentence short of death would be. Although Minister Fudge
had been removed from office, there were still plenty of others left
who were for sale throughout the ranks of the government. Hermione knew
from experience that Lucius Malfoy would not stay incarcerated for long.


If
at all possible, her summer ended under an even darker shadow than that
of the murder of her parents. When she received her owl, announcing her
position as Head Girl, any exmentment that she would have felt was
immediately washed away with the revelation that the Head Boy was none
other than the son of the man who had killed her parents.


The
first week at school was horrible. Both as likely as the next to cast a
hex upon one another; Draco in retaliation, believing it to be
Hermione’s fault that his father was imprisoned; Hermione in repentance
for being unable to save her parents from their fate. Lucius was
untouchable. However his son, continually spouting off hateful rhetoric
and defending the bastard’s every action, was a welcome substitute.


The
second week of the term, things got even worse. Lucius Malfoy, in a
desperate attempt to save himself from execution began naming strategic
locations and members of Voldemort’s Death Eater squad. Draco
consequently, was shunned by his house, no longer trusted, as the name
of Malfoy had now become synonymous with traitor.


At the
end of the week, after a particular tumultuous meeting with the
Headmaster and Heads of Houses, Hermione confronted him, having been
frustrated at his undermining of every proposal she had put forth. Upon
getting no explanation as to why he would neither offer ideas of his
own, nor attempt to work with her, she snapped


“What’s the
mattow, ow, Malfoy? You were full of conversation in our meeting, yet
now you have nothing to say? Perhaps you’re too confused. Are you still
a cold-blooded bastard, wanting nothing more than to rid the Wizarding
World of Mudbloods? Or perhaps you are debating supporting the
acceptance of Muggle-borns in an effort to lend strength to your
father’s pleas for mercy?”


Anger flashed in Draco’s silver eyes as he grabbed Hermione’s neck, pinning her against the wall in the corridor.


“I
am not my father, you filthy Mudblood. Just because he has forgotten
where his loyalties lie, does not mean that I have,” he finished,
before releasing her and sweeping down the corridor.


Hermione
avoided the stoic Head Boy for the remainder of the weekend. That
confrontation had marked the first time she truly feared just how far
Draco Malfoy might go if he were pushed. He had been shunned by his
house and left to walk around stewing in his own anger. Her instincts
told her that he was far from rational and coul dan dangerous.


Sunday
evening, following supper, Hermione set off to patrol the perimeter of
the Forbidden Forest. It was a custom amongst many of the more
troublesome older students to send the first years on missions to prove
their willingness to bend the rules, the forest being a long favored
target. One of Hermione’s goals this year was to minimize the number oew sew students caught breaking the rules as a part of that ridiculous
tradition. Unfortunately, as she looked out across the grounds, it
appeared as if she might have been too late.


‘I swear,
they get more foolish with each year. I suppose they think the
Headmaster’s warnings about the Forbidden Forest are mere lip service,’

Hermione thought, as she caught sight of three figures headed straight
into the forest on the main path. She slowed as she got a better look
at the figures. That silvery blond hair and school-issued robes were
unmistakable. As she got even closer, she saw that his two companions
were not accompanying him but rather dragging him towards the forest.
That fact, combined with his pleas to be released let Hermione know
that she needed to get a staff member fast.


She began to
run, her heart thumping as her feet carried her back towards the
castle. Cursing herself silently for not considering casting some sort
of alert that might bring aid to meet her; Hermione raised her wand in
the air, casting red sparks as Hagrid had instructed her to use the
first time she ventured into the forest during first year. As she saw
the light from Hogwarts entrance flood onto the front staircase, and
Hagrid’s massive form step out, Hermione sank to the ground in
exhaustion.


***


Draco looked up into the masks of
his captors as he felt his feet touch the ground, his stomach settling
from the queasiness that travel by Portkey always left him.


“Has
the Dark Lord need of my services,” he questioned, trying to contain
the quavering he felt in his voice at the chance to prove his loyalty.


Removing her mask, Bellatrix looked down upon the fair boy, her violet eyes boring through his own.


“Foolish
boy, our Master has no need for a traitor such as yourself. The sins of
the father… you know,” she cooed, patting his cheek lightly three times
before turning to leave the room, her ebony mane swaying behind her
back.


Draco turned to his other captor, affixing his calm
façade before speaking, “I am not my father you know? My allegiance
still lies with the Dark Lord.”


He stood in silent
anticipation as the tall masked figure slowly turned towards him. When
Augustus Rookwood removed his mask Draco visibly shrank away from his
icy glare.


Rookwood laughed heartily, as if Draco had told
an amusing anecdote over cocktails, before his eyes narrowed, an icy
glare focused upon the boy.


“Do you think that Lord
Voldemort is concerned with your childish beliefs or alliances? You are
here as Bellatrix explained, to atone for the transgressions of your
father.”


Draco began to speak, wishing to convey that he himself would make his father pay for his treason, but Augustus cut him off.


“Boy,
no one is interested in anything that you have to say. I have fallen
victim to the acts of a traitor and personally believe that all
evidence of one who would defy the Dark Lord’s existence should be
eradicated. Their wives, mothers, sons and daughters should all pay for
their folly.”


Draco watched as Augustus’s face lightened, his mouth turning into a congenial smile.


“I
say this because I believe that one should understand one’s
predicament. I do not wish to listen to your pleas for mercy or a
chance to prove your loyalty. I do hope that you will accept that I do
not care. No one does. We intend to break you completely, killing you
slowly day by day; sustaining you only enough that you wish for nothing
more than your life to slip away from you. Only then, when you’ve lost
the ability to even hope for your death, will we dispose of the last of
your traitorous line.”


Refusing to show the panic that the
Death Eater’s words spoken with such a casual candor had instilled in
him, Draco lifted his chin in defiance. That was the first time he
heard the curse “Crucio” directed towards him, though it would not be the last.


Draco
lost count after his third day. His time spent in the dungeons became a
montage of torment and anguish. His captor’s did not simply rely on
magical curses and hexes, rather they relished in practicing Muggle
tortures upon him. He became their personal pet; his body taken for any
number of pleasures whether it was to be a target for which to aim
their curses, or an orifice to release their aggressions.


As
Draco slid in and out of delirium, he came to recognize the scent of
his captor’s; unable to see through his eyes which remained bloody and
swollen. Each individual’s scent was like a pheromone, inducing a
physical reaction in him. Bellatrix- arousal, as her favorite torment
was to heighten him to a state of arousal, before cutting into his
flesh, engraving the marks of a traitor into his flesh, leaving him
unfulfilled and bleeding. Avery always elicited a mental detachment
from his flesh, as he would purge himself of all guilt of his
traitorous path by beating Draco with his hands. The pain, Draco had
found, could be blocked out, if he were able to detach himself from his
body. But the scent that caused Draco to hyperventilate in fear was
that of Augustus Rookwood.


Rookwood’s position was that of
his caretaker. He would enter daily, after the other’s had used and
abused Draco until he was lying in his own waste, unable to move. His
voice always the same level of calm as he reminded Draco, “I told you
this was to happen.” He spoke almost gently, rubbing salves across
Draco’s open flesh and feeding potions into his system.


“Why
do you heal me,” Draco would always ask, lulled into the false security
of the man’s seemingly kind actions. “Would it not be better to let me
die,” he questioned, always realizing too late that this was what the
man had come for.


The maniacal delight in his voice was
always evident as he replied, “I heal you so that they can break you
again. I told you this boy. If death is what you want, you can be
assured that it will not come soon,” he would finish, leaving only
after he had carefully mended all of Draco’s wounds in preparation for
the next day.


***


When the door opened again, the
fresh cuts on Draco’s flesh bleeding freely, he did not bother to
attempt to catch the scent of his visitor. Only when the gasp of horror
reached his ears did Draco lift his head from its resting place on the
cold stone.


The scent that greeted his nostrils was
unfamiliar to him. This person simply smelled clean; no elaborate
scents could be detected, no blood other than his own was traceable.
No, this scent did not belong in this prison, it was the smell of
someone pure.


As he heard the soft murmurs of healing incantations begin, he recoiled from their wand.


“Be still Malfoy,” the quiet voice insisted. “I’m going to help you.”


Draco’s
mind became alert as the voice reached his ears, it was one that he
knew although he could not place it. As he felt the effects of the
healing spells close his wounds he let out a sob in exasperation.


“Leave me,” he begged, his mind spiraling in anguish as he thought of reliving his torment even one more day.


Recognition
flooded his senses as the voice responded, “I suppose that a Mudblood
is not even worthy of healing you,” she snapped, the animosity that had
colored their relationship over the years dripping from every word.


“You
don’t know, they’ll only… again,” he finished, unable to verbalize the
horrors he had faced over the past weeks… months… years he had spent in
captivity. Drawing his body into a tight ball upon the floor, Draco
turned painfully so that his back was towards her.


The
hatred that had flared up within her when he had rejected her charms
ebbed as she recognized the brokenness of the boy before her.


“Draco,
Dumbledore is here. The majority of the Death Eaters have been killed
and Harry and Snape have gone to face Voldemort.”


Ripping
a length of cloth from her robes, Hermione cast a spell to dampen it,
mopping his face caked with blood and dirt as she assured him that
their Potions Master was indeed working for the Order and would not
betray them.


Draco stilled as Hermione proceeded to clean
his skin of the muck and mire that had collected since his first night
of capture. As she cleansed his skin, healing each cut and bruise as
they were revealed to her, he had his first glimpse of something that
Rookwood had promised would be lost to him forever - hope.


He
had since given up on hoping for death, understanding that his simple
death would not satisfy the thirst for retribution of Voldemort and his
followers. Any hope for rescue had disappeared with the first kiss of
Bellatrix’s knife.


“Is it, is it really over,” he asked uncertainly, welcoming the comfort of Hermione’s lap as she moved his head to rest upon it.


“Voldemort
has not yet been defeated,” Hermione admitted carefully, not wanting to
dash Draco’s hopes, “however, with the defeat of the Death Eaters I am
confident that your imprisonment is,” she finished softly, the damp
cloth replaced by her hand raking his hair back from his forehead.


***


Hermione
had stayed, offering him the first humane touch in months and
reflecting on her life since she had joined the Wizarding World.
Despite all the wonderment and joy she had experienced at finding a
place where she truly belonged, she couldn’t help but ask ‘had it all
been worth it?’ She had seen friends and family fall at the hands of
Voldemort. And now, her two best friends were facing the man who had
been responsible for it all.


When she heard Harry’s scream
echo throughout the camp she pushed from her mind the possibility that
the worse had occurred. Absently cradling Draco’s head to her chest,
more for her comfort than his, she murmured repeatedly, “He’s going to
be all right.”


As it turned out, Harry was all right,
although the deadly curse that he cast nearly cost him his life along
side the menace that had plagued the world. It had taken them years to
find out what had stood Harry apart from the rest of Voldemort’s
victims but Dumbledore had finally managed to begin to sort through the
Dark Magic coursing through Harry’s scar.


It had turned
out that Voldemort had injected his humanity within Harry; that was why
he had never died. While he had intended to simply contaminate Harry
before disposing of him, the curse did not act as intended, rather
affording Harry certain protections against any curse coming from
Voldemort.


In an act of desperation, as Harry found that
he could not kill Voldemort by his wand either; he finally turned the
wand upon his scar, casting the Killing Curse, destroying the last
remaining humanity there was of Voldemort.


When Harry fell, screaming in agony, Ron and Severus quickly turned on the shell of a man before them, casting Avada Kedavra in desperation, finally sending the man, once known as Tom Riddle, to his death.