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A Summer Holiday	By : TwistOfLime Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 12021 -:- 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
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Author’s Note: Believe it or not, I actually started this story before the release of HBP (over six years ago!), but I sort of lost motivation to finish it and eventually deleted it. Later, I reworked it, trying to make it as compliant as possible and starting reposting it. Real life and writer’s block got in the way and I abandoned it again. I’ve tried finishing it in the past, but I honestly just wasn’t happy with the story. I didn’t like it and I found myself just writing anything, rushing and cutting corners to get it done. I didn’t want to post something that even I didn’t like and I didn’t want to continue unless I was sure I could finish it. Anyway, here I am reposting this story for the third time. Most of the story is finished in rough form and while I can’t absolutely promise that I won’t abandon it again, I feel like I have this plot bunny under control now. Hopefully, third time’s a charm!

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Chapter One: Dreams and Misunderstandings

He awoke lying in the dark on a cold, stone floor. What was this place and how had he gotten here? He pulled himself up to look around the small room. It was completely bare, with a heavy wooden door on the right and a small barred window in the corner.

Looking out the window he saw that it was a dark night outside, the moon barely able to shine through the cloud cover. The landscape gave no indication of what or where this place was. The building was surrounded by a pathetic field, in which nothing grew. The bare ground was covered only in dead grass, turning into jagged rock where it met with the surrounding mountains. He had to have flown here; there was no way anyone could make it over the mountains by walking. Or perhaps he came by boat? In the distance, he could hear the sound of waves violently crashing on a shoreline.

Sitting back down in the corner of the room, his head began to swim with horrible thoughts. The feeling of despair in the room was so thick that he could taste it; he was drowning in it. He could hear the sounds of his mother being tortured, her screams and pleas ringing in his ears followed by a twisted laugh. The screams faded to silence only to be replaced by shouts of panic. His ears were ringing. Closing his eyes and trying to block it all out, his mind recalled a man slumped against a wall and a deadly flash of brilliant green. Was this real or a memory? He couldn’t tell anymore.

The door of the cell began to slowly open and cold seeped into the room. A gray, bony hand curled around the doorframe and was followed by a raggedly cloaked figure. It seemed to float above the ground, the cloak moving silently though there was no breeze. He tried to scream as the creature reached for him, but the sound froze in his throat as he slipped into the depths of unconsciousness.

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Draco awoke from his nightmare tangled in the silk sheets of his four-poster and drenched in a cold sweat. This wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of being in Azkaban. Ever since his father’s incarceration in his fifth year, the dreams had been occurring on an almost weekly basis. However, more recently, these dreams included Dumbledore, crumpled on the floor in the corner of the dank cell, a mere shadow of his true strength and pleading for Draco’s help. Please Draco… please… help me, he would whisper, a whisper barely audible above his ragged breaths. But the darkness would always come before Draco could reach him.

Draco kicked himself free from the sheets, breathing deeply and almost laughing at the absurdity of his life. How the hell had he ended up here? With his heart still pounding, Draco mulled over the events of the past two years...

When Voldemort returned, at the end of his fourth year, Draco watched in disgust as his father scurried around, like that rat-faced Pettigrew, determined to stay in Voldemort’s favor. If there was one thing Draco had inherited from the Malfoy bloodline, it was self-respect. Watching Lucius act with less dignity than a house elf was too much. It was then that Draco had vowed to never end up like his father, bowing to the will of a power-crazed maniac only to end up dead, in Azkaban, or facing a lifetime of servitude.

Prejudice towards mudbloods and muggles was not worth death or even a cell in Azkaban in Draco’s opinion. Surely the wizarding world could still have social classes without taking bloodline into consideration. Besides, there weren’t enough pureblood wizards left. Most of them merely overlooked where their pureblood reputation had been tarnished, even the regal Malfoy bloodline was guilty of this. Simply stated, purebloods were a dying breed and fighting to keep the wizarding world as such was a wish for the extinction of the wizarding race.

In reality, heritage was irrelevant; this was evident even within the halls of Hogwarts. Crabbe and Goyle came from generations of purebloods and were brought up in an affluent and distinguished household… they were also as dumb as trolls. Draco was surprised when they strung together coherent sentences, never-mind performing basic spells. Meanwhile, although Draco hated to admit it, Harry Potter, the son of a muggle-born, had achieved more in his first year, than most wizards do in a lifetime. Beyond that he had encountered Voldemort four times and not only lived but triumphed. He was a perfect example of the how archaic these prejudices were.

In Draco’s opinion, wizards who hid behind their bloodline did so because they feared that without their pureblood status they would drop in the wizarding worlds’ social standings. But the Malfoys would have been powerful without being purebloods, so why did his father support Voldemort so strongly? Perhaps, Lucius desired more power for his family? It didn’t matter to Draco; all that mattered was that he was not going to follow the path of his father. He would never end up in Azkaban following the orders of a sadistic maniac; he would take death first.

In his fifth year, Draco began to hear whisperings of Voldemort’s plans, plans that would restore him to power more terrible and more powerful than before. It was then that he decided to take action. If the Dark Lord succeeded, Draco could never be free. He extended his services to Dumbledore and began spying for the Order in mid October.

It wasn’t that he all of the sudden truly cared for equality between wizards and muggles, giants and mudbloods, werewolves and house elves, and all the other bloody creatures, or that he wanted to fight for world peace. No, certainly not. He was a Malfoy after all, and Malfoys took action only when there was personal benefit to be had.

To be perfectly honest, Draco made an amazing spy. If Scarhead had listened to Dumbledore, instead of being his normal paranoid, pigheaded self, the whole debacle at the Department of Mysteries would never have happened. Dumbledore had known exactly what was going on through information passed on to him directly from the snake’s lair thanks to one Draco Malfoy...

...Snape helped a little...

...Okay, so Draco wasn’t as useful as he had hoped to be. Not being an official member of Club Death Eater, the only information he was able to scrounge up was from dinner parties at the Manor and drunken Death Eaters are notorious for exaggerating their own importance and the importance of their tasks. The only thing Draco knew for sure was that his father’s usual level of self-importance had skyrocketed. This, Draco knew, was not a good sign.

It was ironic that Voldemort’s failure that notorious night, a failure that should have been celebrated and led Draco a little closer to freedom, brought about the ruin of all Draco’s plans. It was a careless mistake, a sign of how naïve Draco truly was. How could he have not foreseen the repercussions his father’s failure would have on the Malfoy family?

Voldemort had been upset over Lucius’ blunder in the Department of Mysteries to say the least. Not only had Lucius been unsuccessful in retrieving the prophecy, but that night Voldemort was forced to reveal himself to a world that was still vehemently denying his return. Voldemort does not forgive easily and this error was too great to go unpunished. Through Draco, the Dark Lord planned his revenge: the murder of Albus Dumbledore. If the mission were a failure, as most expected it to be, then Lucius would be punished with the death of his only heir. If successful, it would remove Voldemort’s most powerful enemy.

He remembered that night well. Draco self-righteous and foolish strode into the Lestrange’s parlor, queerly lit with blue-white flames and Death Eaters hiding in the shadows. He held his head high, his eyes never leaving the snake-like face of the Dark Lord as thoughts of honor and valor danced through his mind. He was prepared to die and said as much:

“This mistake is my father’s to pay for. You are a fool to believe that you will succeed. You are weak. You fear death above all, but I am stronger. I know that there are more important things than breath in your lungs and blood in your veins.” Draco cried as though in a trance. “Kill me. Torture me. I will never be in your service. I will not kill him for you.”

“Silly. Little. Boy.” Voldemort replied, his face breaking into a dangerous smirk. “I thought you might be difficult. You dare to believe you can disobey me? You think me weak? I will enjoy this. You will kill Dumbledore or rather you will try, I assure you. You are about to learn a lesson in obedience Mister Malfoy, do pay attention.” He gestured to Draco’s left with his translucent, spider-like hands.

There on the floor half hidden in shadows lay his mother, bruised, bleeding and shivering.

“No!” he shouted trying to rush forward, struggling against the two masked Death Eaters who had materialized out of the darkness to restrain him.

“Dolohov,” Voldemort said, inclining his head to the man on his right, “if you would do the honors?”

“Crucio!” he shouted and his mother began screaming, writhing on the floor and clawing at her own skin as though trying to crawl out of it. It went on for what seemed like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Every so often Dolohov would stop, his cackling, maniacal laughter drowning the echoes of the screams. The pauses were just long enough for his mother to gather her wits and tell Draco not to give in before it would begin again.

“Stop! Stop! Please! I’ll do it, I’ll do anything!” he roared, desperate to end his mother’s pain. “Anything you want, just leave her alone.”

“I’m not sure I’m convinced.” Voldemort replied brushing non-existent dirt from his robes, his feigned boredom betrayed by the blaze in his eyes. “You know, there are ways to inflict pain without wands. Dolohov here has been wasting away in Azkaban for his service to the Dark Lord. He has been very lonely for a very long time. Loyalty does not go without reward. Perhaps it’s time I’ve thanked him. Your mother would do nicely. It’s a pity she’s scratched herself up so much, but I’m sure Dolohov won’t mind.”

“Don’t touch her!” Draco screamed. “I said I’ll do it! I’ll fucking do it!”

Draco sat up in his four-poster, rubbing his temples. He wanted to forget; what was done was done, nothing could be changed and it was no use dwell in the past. But he couldn’t stop. He had been defeated. He had lost. Late at night, just before sleep Draco would lay there, trying to think of something, anything he could have done, something that could have stopped it from happening, but there was nothing.

Though Draco would have taken death before following orders of a man so twisted, he couldn’t stand by and watch his mother be harmed knowing he could stop it. It may have been selfish to trade his mother’s life for the life of a man so valuable, but she was all Draco had. She was a good woman, a strong witch, and an innocent victim of unfortunate circumstances. Draco had had no choice and so, against the protests of his mother, he was branded with the Dark Mark and bound to Voldemort’s service.

That summer life was at its lowest ebb. Unable to remain inside, Draco wandered aimlessly through the vast grounds of the Malfoy Manor, avoiding contact with others. One rainy day, restricted from the grounds, he sought refuge in the library, hoping to give his mind something else to think about. As Draco stared unseeingly at the pages of Magical Drafts and Potions, a sharp rap on the door was followed by the abrupt entrance of his mother, Dumbledore and Snape.

“Sir – “ Draco started, jumping up from his seat by the fire.

Dumbledore held up his hand for silence, and gestured to the chair. Draco noticed that his other hand was black and withered as though it had been badly burned and had never healed. “I know,” he said plainly. “We don’t have much time before my presence here will be noticed. Before that happens we have things to discuss.”

“But Sir you need to know. I don’t want to ki... that is I tried, but they... they had her. There was nothing I could do. I...” Draco continued, fumbling on his words, trying to explain, to make him understand.

“I know.” Dumbledore repeated. “There is no need for an explanation. I am well aware of Voldemort’s methods of persuasion. You carry no blame. I have taken the liberty of coming up with a solution to our predicament that will hopefully solve two problems at once. As you know, Severus has returned to his work as a spy for the Order at great personal risk. Unfortunately, there are many Death Eaters who doubt where his allegiance lies.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Dumbledore continued, turning to his mother. “You are to turn to Severus for help. Forgive me, but I don’t believe anyone is expecting Draco to succeed. Therefore it is reasonable that as a worried mother you might seek outside help to save the life of your son. Choosing Severus, Draco’s godfather and a trusted family friend, would be logical. You are to ask Severus to take an Unbreakable Vow, using your sister as your Bonder.”

At these words his mother gave a small gasp and Draco opened his mouth to protest. Surely Dumbledore wasn’t serious. If they carried out with this plan, if Snape took the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbledore would be dead before the year’s end.

Again Dumbledore held up his hand for silence. “I am well aware of what this means. I am an old man. My death is fast approaching as it is,” he said, glancing every so slightly to his blackened hand. “This is the only way. It will ensure Severus’ continued trust among the Death Eaters as well as saving your lives.”

“Now, before the protests begin and before my presence here is noticed I must leave. Mrs. Malfoy, Severus, I leave you to sort out the details. Draco, I will see you September first.” With that he strode from the room.

Against Draco’s protests, Snape took the Unbreakable Vow. Throughout the year, Draco concocted a couple of half-baked plans. Plans that were pathetic and almost guaranteed to fail. Because, honestly, that was what Draco wanted, plans that kept failing. He didn’t want to kill Dumbledore. He fooled himself into believing that his attempts and failures would be allowed to continue indefinitely; that as long as he was trying, the Dark Lord was satisfied. In fact, every failed attempt seemed to make him happier as he reveled in Draco’s failure.

Unfortunately, his father saw through this. He knew what Draco was doing. Therefore, with the hope of restoring himself to his former distinction as Voldemort’s most trusted servant, he planned the Battle of the Tower. Still imprisoned within Azkaban, he enlisted the help of Theodore Nott, a fellow sixth year Slytherin eager to prove himself. The attack was as much a surprise to Draco as it was to the rest of Hogwarts and the Order. All at once the water had broken through the wall Draco had foolishly been trying to build all year and he had no choice but to allow himself to be swept along with the current.

When the moment arrived, when he had Dumbledore cornered, weak, and wandless, he couldn’t go through with it. As he had stood there in the tower, with his wand poised and adrenaline rushing, the battle raging below him, the image of the helpless man, a man so decent and so gifted, stopped him. He faltered.

Snape was the one who had killed Dumbledore, under the conditions of the Unbreakable Vow. He completed Draco’s task by killing the one man who had always believed in his innocence.

Draco was disgusted with himself; because of his weakness Snape had been forced to murder. His weakness, his selfishness, everything was his fault. Not only that, but he had failed. Dumbledore may have been dead, but it was by Snape’s wand not his own, a detail Voldemort would surely not overlook. He followed Snape to the gate of the castle and escaped, unable to speak, to think, to breathe. He returned home, the last place he wanted to be but the only place he could think to go. Perhaps he and his mother could still escape.

It was not long before the rest caught up with him. Snape arrived at the Manor less than a quarter of an hour after Draco, tailed by McNair, Carrow and Greyback. They approached him with smiles on their faces, genuine smiles, not the smirks that graced their faces just before a kill.

“Congratulations Malfoy, the Dark Lord is pleased,” Greyback said, bowing slightly, his eyes lingering on Narcissa’s throat a little too long for Draco’s comfort.

“Surely you will be rewarded beyond all others,” McNair followed, clapping Draco on the back.

Years of living with Lucius had taught Draco how to mask his emotions, and so Draco smirked arrogantly all the while wondering what the hell was going on. He had failed. He hadn’t killed Dumbledore. Why was he to be rewarded?

Snape spoke next. “Please forgive me,” he said. “I have already been to see the Dark Lord and told him of your triumph. I explained that you were drained from the battle and had returned home to regain your strength before returning. He sent myself, McNair, Carrow and Greyback to bring you back; he wishes to see you.”

Narcissa gasped and slumped against the wall with tears in her eyes, realizing what Draco’s ‘success’ meant.

“Yes, Lady Malfoy,” McNair said laughing, mistaking Narcissa’s horror for happiness. “Tonight is a joyful night. The mudblood loving old fool is dead at last.”

“You three,” Snape said, stepping in front of Narcissa before they could realize that those were not tears of joy, “return to the Dark Lord and tell him we will follow shortly. Draco and I will make sure that Lady Malfoy is safe and well for the night.”

Few knew the truth of the details that surrounded Dumbledore’s death. No one had been told of the plan, knowing that they would only try to interfere. Dumbledore had left a letter, but no letter could ever truly explain or justify what had happened. If Potter had not been in the tower, no one would have ever known. He knew the truth, knew that Dumbledore had sacrificed himself for Draco.

Later, in an act of compassion and empathy Draco could have never imagined, Potter vouched for Draco in a Ministry hearing and Draco was allowed to go free. Snape was not as lucky. He escaped capture, but it was impossible to declare his innocence to the world and have him remain a spy.

While Snape innocence was known to a select few, most believed Snape had always been a faithful servant of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, that he had simply been biding his time teaching at Hogwarts, awaiting the time when his master would again rise to power. He placed himself near Dumbledore, earning trust, and waiting.

To most, Snape had used his position to murder Dumbledore. He was a hated man, the Death Eater most wanted by the Ministry. Draco’s involvement, however, was never mentioned because no one ever knew. Voldemort believed that Snape had taken the blame publicly to allow his godson to continue attending Hogwarts. All of it was Draco’s fault. Snape had sacrificed his freedom for Draco’s and Dumbledore was dead.

It was all so stupid and useless. Voldemort was growing stronger by the day. It was only a matter of time before the Ministry fell. Then power would replace what was right and what was wrong and loyalty would replace innocence and guilt.

These were the thoughts that tore through Draco’s mind as his heartbeat slowed after a nightmare: the anger, the sadness, the guilt, and the wretchedness of it all came rushing forth every morning with the rising of the sun.
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A Summer Holiday