Our Fathers

Chapter Two - Blood Rites

Draco tried to remember when life had last been good to him. Each act of Voldemort seemed to set his family back in one way or another until this last fateful move threatened their very lives. He glanced over to the old clock gracing the study mantle - it was nearing time to leave the safety of the manor to face death.

Lucius entered the room, something metallic and silver in his hand. "One-time portkey. It's a copy of your grandfather's signet ring." He held it out, and Draco slipped it onto his finger, careful not to touch the family crest, which would trigger the transport. "It will bring you right back here," Lucius continued. "Your mum always wears that brooch, so I made a portkey copy... and Voldemort would never think to check my belt buckle, hmm?"

Draco attempted to smile at his father, but the grin was closer to a grimace of worry. "You'll teach me how to make portkeys when this is all over, right, Father?"

He'd heard the portkey rant a dozen times before, but the familiarity seemed helpful right now. Lucius ruffled Draco's hair, a proud smile appearing on his face - talking about portkeys was his passion. "We Malfoys have a talent for it. That's what Lord Voldemort courted me for, back in '67, when I joined up. Long ago, our family was the only family with the knowledge of the craft. The incantations come not from Latin, but from an ancient dialect of Aramaic, much older than even Greek. This is where our fortune began; with the secrets of the portkey."

"But lots of people can make them now." It was almost a game, the banter about the portkeys. Once, not long ago, Draco had found the speech silly and useless. After all, it was the same information, time and time again, but now... he might never see his father alive again. One more rant seemed like not enough time.

"Very true," Lucius continued, oblivious to the dark thoughts of his son. "I don't expect you to understand the importance of the portkey lore, not until you are mature. I didn't. Just remember - there are still some secrets of portkeys that the Ministry workers do not know." And he winked, giving a grin so out of character that Draco could do nothing but smile.

Narcissa entered then, adjusting the collar of her modest lavender robes. She managed to appear proper and motherly, even while looking glamorous. Shining at her throat was the portkey copy of her favourite brooch. "It's time, Lucius. If we're late, he'll kill us no matter his original intentions."

"We're to Apparate over, though he'll probably fix wards around once we're inside, if he intends to use the spell... Draco, come take my hand. You too, Narcissa. I'm not to tell the location of the meetings." Draco moved to his father's side. "Remember, I'll pay my respects first, then your mother, then you. Just follow my lead." And, without another word, Draco found himself elsewhere, in a dark marble foyer.

It wasn't an initiation. It couldn't be. Vince and Greg's fathers were standing behind the three Malfoys, identifiable by their impressive bulk. Another pair of grunts - unknown to Draco - stood by their side. Avery and another man of Veela heritage - the Eli Baker Lucius had mentioned, no doubt - were flanking the Dark Lord's throne, unmasked. And on the throne, Lord Voldemort lounged. Draco shuddered imperceptibly as the hideously serpentine red eyes raked over his form. A grotesque smirk plastered itself onto Lord Voldemort's face, and before Lucius could approach the throne to pay homage, the horrid figure raised a thin, disfigured hand. "I have no wish to speak to you, Lucius. I know the games you play. Crabbe, Goyle, restrain him until I am ready for him."

Lucius' hand went for his belt buckle, but the bulky hands of two men he'd called friends caught him fast. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye, turning the portkey on his finger so that, in a moment's notice, he could escape. He saw his mother clutch at the fabric of her robes. Now! They should both leave now, and Lucius would find a way to escape -

"Narcissa, my dear, I require your council. Approach the throne and kneel before me." Such a simple command. Draco waited for his mother's signal to leave, but it never came. Instead, she went to kneel before him.

For just a moment, Draco wondered if the whole ordeal had been a setup, put in place with his mother's help to catch Lucius in a traitorous act. But then, as Voldemort lowered his face and whispered into her ear, a flash of silver caught Draco's eye.

Avery and Baker were muttering words that he didn't understand, and Lucius screamed out a cry of terror. Veela? Were they speaking Veela? And then Draco saw the stain of blood spreading over the pale lavender fabric covering his mother's neck.

With a choked cry, he flung himself forward, intending to do something drastic to Voldemort, but the hands of the other flunkies held him fast. He heard screaming. His? His father's? He couldn't be sure. A soft light seemed to envelop the form of his mother and spread over to the twisted frame of Voldemort.

And then his mother's body slumped forward, clearly dead. Narcissa's blood had brought change. In the place of the translucent-skinned snake sat a cloaked old man, bent with age but clearly human. Human, except for red-irised eyes which focused themselves directly on Draco.

Lord Voldemort's voice was still low and sibilant, not wavering with age as his new appearance would suggest. "Bring the son. As the blood of the mother restores, the blood of the child will youthen."

Part of the chant? He wouldn't know. As he was dragged forward, he became conscious of his father's shriek and sudden cry of "Draco! Go!" It took a moment for the command to register in his panicked brain, but when it finally did, Draco touched the face of the ring and vanished. The no longer functioning portkey was left to drop to the floor in his place.

And, a stomach-twisting moment later, he was back in his father's study. He fell to his knees, shaking uncontrollably as the scene played through his mind again and again. Blood on the pale lavender robes and the flash of light and Voldemort, human. Draco let out a sob, closing his eyes and trying desperately to focus on anything but the vision of the last moments of his mother's life.

After a moment, however, he knew he'd wasted enough time. He had a duty to perform. He launched to his feet and snatched the bundle from the desk, turning to make a dash up to his room.

Everything there was packed, ready for the return to Hogwarts in only a few hours time. Heedless of the regulations against magic, Draco snatched his wand from its velvet case inside the trunk and hurriedly shoved the files on top of the stacks of robes and slacks. "Reducio." He picked up the now tiny trunk and stuck it in his pocket, turning again to the door without a second thought. The weight of the trunk was comforting as it banged against his leg, reminding him that he really was alive and running for his life.

"Shit shit shit shit..." It was a mantra to Draco as he rushed through the halls of the manor. He ducked into the master bedroom only long enough to grab the family Gringotts keys as instructed and continued toward his goal. His home was empty, foreboding. He expected a house-elf to show its face, but even that comfort was denied him.

Finally, he reached the only floo-connected fireplace in the Manor. The ornate snuff box of floo powder found its way into Draco's pocket as well, though not until a pinch had been snatched for immediate use. As Draco was about to toss in the powder and call out "Hogwarts," a thought struck him. He hadn't a clue what the floo stop at the school was called.

The sound of raised male voices forced him to action, despite his unease. And then the answer came, so simple he was amazed he hadn't considered it earlier. In went the powder and "Snape Manor!" was called as he stepped into the flames - just in time, as he heard the study door being flung open. Hopefully, they hadn't heard his destination.

An ungainly step on the other side found him kneeling unsteadily in the dusty floor of a dark, deserted parlour. Draco sneezed and started cursing loudly again, though this time at himself. "Stupid, bloody git! School starts tomorrow! Of course he's not here!"

But a floo directory should be. Hurrying through corridors remembered from his youth, in the years before the falling out between his father and Snape, Draco finally found himself in the ancient and musty library. He dashed along the shelves, tossing any yellow-and-orange bound volumes aside, searching madly for the correct one.

"He knows that Snape's my godfather... He knows I'd come here... and the bloody Death Eaters probably heard where I was going anyways..." he hissed as he went, comforted slightly by the sound of his own voice. "They'll be here any minute. Damn, damn, da - aha!"

And there it was, like a shining beacon of Hope. "Floo Directory, 1986. Blimey, he's been away a while..." Pages were flipped quickly, some tearing in his blind panic. "Bones... Earton... Felton... Haymere Pub... Hogwarts!" He stared blankly at the address, and slowly began to panic. "Unlisted. Shit shit shit shit." And so the mantra began over again as Draco made for the door. Only one option, the least safe, remained. "Knight Bus. Ugh."

But then he heard voices. "I heard him up ahead! Apparate out front and cut him off!" With a muffled curse, Draco's course changed and he plowed toward the kitchens blindly. The door was locked, but a quick kick should make a break large enough to slip through.

And kick he did, though the loud splitting of noise alerted his pursuers. He could hear the footsteps, shouts, and impediment curses being flung his way as he made for the freedom of the road.

They were gaining, but Draco had his wand already outstretched. With agility he hadn't known he possessed, he hopped the fence and reached the roadside just as the Knight Bus responded to his signal and popped into existence. "Welcome!" said the driver, "I'm -"

Draco threw himself up the stairs. "Hurry! Get a move on, those are Death Eaters!" A gasp echoed from some other passengers, but the driver acted, slamming the door closed with eyes wide in panic. Another man grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the door, as the Knight Bus popped on its way, leaving the Death Eaters behind on Snape's front lawn.

"Hey, kid, are you alright? No charge for that 'un, of course! I'm glad we were there in time. Death Eaters, you say? Is that truth? I've been hearin' things, course, but I didn' know they were back in full force!" The assistant wasn't the only one crowding around and asking questions.

"Hogwarts. I have to get to Hogwarts! Please, let me alone, I just watched them kill my mum, leave me be!" It was a sob, though Draco fought madly to keep tears from taking over. And the assistant led him to a spare bed - disgustingly common, the proper Malfoy within groused - but Draco said nothing about it. He collapsed onto the bed, hiding his face from onlookers in the pillow. The image of his mother, kneeling, blood on her robes, was frozen in his mind's eye. He finally slipped into the oblivion of sleep hours later, watched with fear and apprehension by the others on the Bus.

When Draco woke, the sun was high in the sky. The room was unfamiliar - neither his room at home nor the dormitory of Hogwarts. And it smelled. Cursing as he realized where he was, he jumped to his feet and hurried to the front of the Knight Bus. "Driver, what time is it? Why didn't you wake me?"

The driver yawned rudely. "Well, mate, you asked for Hogwarts, but we can' just pop over there cause of the wards. Seein' as you was bein' chased and been through all that, I decided to jus let ya sleep it off. It's the first a' September, so you don't need to be up at the school it... well, a whole two hours from now!"

Draco stared at the driver blankly. "You let me sleep until late afternoon?" Lucius never let him sleep past daybreak. "Well... how close to Hogwarts can you leave me? I'd rather like to reach it before the others."

"Edge of Hogsmeade. Can't get no closer, seein' how Dumbledore's extended the anti-Apparition fields. Hold on and we'll be there." And with a pop, they were. The tarnished sign proclaiming the town to be Hogsmeade filled Draco with a sense of relief. Though Death Eaters might be following, he could be safe now. And he even had enough time to catch a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks first.

With a curt nod to the driver - as close to a thank you as any Malfoy got - he ambled down the streets without a care, stopped by a little salon to have his hair fixed, ordered a butterbeer from a suspicious Madame Rosmerta, and lounged near the front window. Sipping the cold brew, he tried to block out the memory of the blood on his mother's collar.

Perhaps had he been more attentive, he would've heard the scream of someone outside or seen several witches running past the window in terror. As it was, he looked out the window of the Three Broomsticks just as a masked Death Eater looked in.

Both started and Draco belted out a cry of alarm. The other patrons soon joined him with screams, but Draco wasn't there to notice. He turned and dashed for the back door, well aware of the Death Eater hurrying through the front room to catch him up. The castle suddenly seemed much farther away. Draco ran.

He had taken off around the lake separating the castle from the town rather than heading up the exposed road to the school. The forest side, while as foreboding as its name suggested, was covered against aerial pursuit and unknown to the Death Eaters trailing him. Thus, it was through the Forbidden Forest that Draco was making his path.

However, the forest was unknown to Draco, too. Lost, he'd wandered frantically as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The depths of the forest on a full moon were perilous indeed.

To make matters worse, his pursuers were still out in the forest on his trail. He'd slowed for a short respite earlier, only to find that his halt had given the masked men plenty of time to catch up. He'd ducked and dodged curses and barely made it away in one piece. Every once in a while, the sound of voices would become loud enough to make out, suggesting the Draco's escape had reached the top of the list of Voldemort's important things to fix. Perhaps Lucius' blood had been useless and only Draco's could complete the specific spell, or maybe the mere fact that someone had escaped the clutches and designs of the Dark Lord had driven the man mad - madder - with fury for revenge. However, whatever the cause of the frantic chase, Draco fled not only to preserve his own life, but the very life of the Malfoy name. And that, to the heir of such a legacy, was a truly sacred duty.

With a glance behind himself, Draco lost his footing and tripped over a series of gnarled roots spread across the ground. Pulling himself up to his knees, he took a furtive look around. The clearing was familiar. It had been years since he'd been there, but a memory of a desperate detention search for a dead unicorn flashed into his mind. Four long years earlier, with the detestable Potter, Granger, and Longbottom, he'd seen this very grove.

He leapt to his feet and spun about, getting his bearings. As he headed toward the school, or at least in the direction which he remembered from following Hagrid, he heard voices raised in the foliage behind him. Holding down a yelp of shock, he ran.

His footsteps seemed to echo eerily in the darkness of the forest. Alerted to his presence, the voices grew closer until Draco could make out bits of their conversation. "-move around to cut him off-"

"Quick, Avery, take the trail to the side -"

"-but I thought there was an anti-Apparition field! How did he manage to catch us up?"

The 'he' could only be referring to one man - Voldemort. Muffling a moan of fear, Draco turned for a moment to gauge the progress of the men pursuing him. When he turned back to the path ahead, he stopped short. Hooded and bent so low with age that he was barely taller than the masked and silver-handed servant at his side stood Voldemort. "Ahh, young Malfoy... so glad you could join us."

Draco spun on his heel, making a beeline for the trees. Before he made it out of wand-sight, however, the laughing voice of Lord Voldemort filled the air. "We'll have none of that, Malfoy. Don't worry... I'll make it swift. Imperio."

The familiar feeling of peace filled his tired body, and Draco couldn't fight. "Come, boy, kneel before me... and it will be all over."

All over... Voldemort was saying something else, but the haze of Imperius blocked it out. Draco hadn't been able to overcome the curse the year before, when the horrible Professor Moody had tested it on the entire class of Slytherins, but fear of death and a sudden glint of light on metal caught his attention and helped him to wrench his thoughts away from the comfortable acceptance of orders.

He found himself, miraculously, aware of everything that was happening. A cloaked figure was hunched beside elderly Voldemort, a hand of shining silver the metal that had caught his eye. Draco waited, trying not to be sick as Voldemort reached over and petted his head as if he were a lap dog, finally springing when the old man turned aside.

The boy's block sent the ornate dagger in Voldemort's hand flying across the glade. Before the Dark Lord could recover or reach for his wand, Draco sent a punch flying into his face, knocking the robed figure into a crumple on the ground.

The cringing servant advanced, but his hesitation and surprise gave Draco the extra moment he required to dash for the castle, visible through the trees behind the hooded man's head. Draco tripped him on his way past, slipping away from grasping hands and not bothering to glance back to ascertain the condition of his captors.

Draco ran toward the edge of the Forest and toward the protections that his school offered. Voldemort, in his weakened elderly form, wouldn't dare to threaten Hogwarts - no, Potter was still alive, and Draco doubted the Dark Lord even had the strength to kill him, anymore.

Finally, he passed the last trees. Draco added an extra burst of speed as he passed Hagrid the gamekeeper's rundown hut. Voldemort's shriek of anger had died away, but his earlier surprise in Hogsmeade warned him against being lax. Taking the fastest route across the campus, Draco threw the great door open himself rather than ringing for the house-elves. The doors of the Great Hall were opened still, and at the end of the hall a small group of first years was visible, clustered around the Sorting Hat. Professor McGonagall, however, was crouched beside the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter was visible, lying on the ground for some odd reason.

Draco could care less. As he ran down the aisle separating the Gryffindor table from the Ravenclaw one, he remembered another time someone had done this - Quirrell, with the stories of the troll. Panting, Draco came to a halt past Potter but still several feet from the teachers. His eyes were fixated on Dumbledore at the Head Table, but his knees shaking too hard to continue. Snape was near the Headmaster, looking worried.

Unable to remain on his feet, Draco collapsed to his knees, gasping loudly for air. "Death Eaters," he called, hunched over with the pain of a side cramp. "In the forest. Voldemort's with them."

A gasp of shock ran throughout the room. Draco raised his head slowly, making eye contact with the Headmaster. The old man gave a solemn nod and Draco, reassured that his message had been taken as truth, toppled forward in exhaustion.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the form of Professor Snape launching over the Head Table. If he hadn't been so starved for air, he would've laughed at the ridiculous sight. Snape was certainly making a big deal out of nothing - the Death Eaters wouldn't dare attack the school.

But then Draco realized his Head of House's target. He was, rather embarrassingly, swept up into the dark man's arms and cradled like a child. Draco started to protest, but the words changed before he had a chance to speak them. "Professor - my mum, You-Know-Who - she's dead, Professor -"

For one brief moment, Draco entertained the thought that Snape was about to cry. Instead, however, his godfather stroked his hair softly. "I know, Draco. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Everything faded into exhaustion. Finally safe, Draco fell unconscious.

A/N2: There seems to be some question as to my origins, from reviewers on both this and my other work (yes, that's a shameless plug), so I've decided to let the secret out: I'm an American living in London. I've been acculturated enough to pick up bits of slang, I have to use British grammar and spelling in papers at my uni, and I know my way around the city better than quite a few natives I've met, thanks to the joys of the Tube strike! So, if my metaphors seem a bit mixed, there's my excuse: I'm confused! And to the rude worker at London Stansted who sold me my Express ticket (begin rant) I may have an American accent, but that doesn't mean that I'm an idiot! I live in London, I know the Tube system like the back of my hand, I simply didn't remember which line Tottenham Hale was on! Don't assume that my accent makes me ignorant (end rant). Note that the chapters will remain around this length - fairly short, running an average of 5-7 pgs for parts 1 and 3, 6-10 pages for part 2, and part 4 is yet to be written. Let me know what you think - or share your nightmarish Tube strike stories! I'd love to hear them!