Mankind never learns from its past mistakes. Worse, after defeating Harry Potter and affirming his power over Wizarding Britain, Voldemort takes it one step further. He looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns, scum of the Wizarding World, undeserving of their magical powers, are the new targets. Will old rivalries grow deeper and deadlier in such dark times or will they be washed away by the horror of it all, in order to make way for something rare and precious…true love? A Hermione/Draco story.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.
Holocaust – II
He stood at the edge of the room, as usual, waiting to be called forth. Other reports came before, reports of various natures, probably less important than his. That little hair-dye spell had actually proved useful for something. After months of keeping a lookout in the Leaky Caldron, he'd finally trapped what he considered the most interesting prey of all. Oh, he'd caught others of course. After all, he had always been keen on fulfilling the tasks he was set. Also, he was paid handsomely to do the job… probably because no one else wanted it, he thought bitterly. But it didn't matter. The few nostalgic Mudbloods he'd happened upon enjoying a meal in the Diagon Alley pub didn't matter either now. The present he was about to hand to his Master on a silver platter outshone them by far. Hermione Granger, Potter's right-hand girl, the Know-It-All of Hogwarts. What was it the teachers used to call her? The most brilliant witch of her Year, possibly of her time. Well… that was before. He clenched his teeth for a moment, before forcing himself to relax. The Lord disliked such displays of emotion, preferring self-control and affected indifference. Yet there would still be revenge and he could not help but feel anxious to see it happen.
"Young Master Malfoy, Secret Services."
Stepping forward into the torchlight, Draco felt a sarcastic smile build on his lips. It was almost a disappointment to have to squash it. Secret Services… who did they think they were fooling? Everyone in the room knew where he did his surveillance. Theodore had already teased him to no end about it, flaunting his job as Junior Advisor to the Prime Minister. If you could so call that which sat on the stone chair before him. There had been no election, no votes. He had taken the place of power for himself, of course… as was his right, in a way, as Draco kept telling himself. Voldemort had won the war. Scrimgeour had been conveniently disposed of. What else was there to expect?
Having arrived in front of his Master's chair, he knelt on the cold, hard ground and waited. How they loved humiliating him for what his father had done! Thankfully, no one outside the Death Eaters' innermost circles knew what he'd been going through for the past year. Why, he'd even been allowed to build himself a reputation of power out there. He'd been told they needed to seem like a coherent and strong knot, so as to keep the masses under control. While most of Britain's magical population believed him to be a rich, young bachelor in the Dark Lord's favour, Draco was in fact considered as little more than a servant amongst his peers. He was in disgrace for something he hadn't done. However, as Voldemort commanded him to rise in a chilly tone, he somehow felt his precious piece of information was going to change all that.
"So, Draco Malfoy… what tidings do you bring from the dark corners of the Leaky Cauldron?"
He wouldn't take the bait. He had his killing curse and knew when to cast it, as the saying went. Clearing his throat discreetly, he fixed his gaze on the ground and tried to look humble.
"I believe I have something that will please you, Master."
"Oh really? Amuse me then, don't hold back."
He couldn't even clench his fists, couldn't let his nostrils flare in anger. It was like living in an aquarium, under a bright light. It was as though he were being tried for murder and any little movement could be interpreted in one way or another.
"At noon today, I saw the Mudblood Hermione Granger enter the Leaky Cauldron in the company of Ronald Weasley. She was not wearing her insignia. I think we can safely erase her name from the P.M.I list without consulting Mr. Shacklebolt."
Looking up through his hair, now thankfully returned to its usual silvery-blond, Draco saw the Dark Lord sit just a bit straighter in his high-backed chair at the mention of Potter's best friends. Ron Weasley was no longer too much of a sore spot, as he actually worked for them now. Not that they let him understand the full importance of the messages he carried to the different Magical Ministries around the world, of course. Hermione Granger, however, was a different matter. She was a sore spot, her mere existence an affront to any respectable, pureblood wizard.
That meddlesome Kingsley Shacklebolt and his Protection of Muggleborn Individuals list! It had been created just after the final battle in a desperate attempt (Draco considered it to be a foolish waste of time and effort) to protect the survivors with no name and bloodline to save them. Voldemort had tried to destroy it, to no avail. He'd then picked a name at random on the list and sent his men to capture and torture the wretch, but their spells and punches had seemed to meet a solid, invisible wall of protection around the victim. Shacklebolt had been severely punished for his little trick, but had been allowed to remain in charge of the list. What he did not know, however, was that Voldemort had created a magical law able to counter the effects of the list. If a Mudblood whose name was written down broke one of the new rules in anyway, the barrier of protection would disappear and they would be left to face the consequences. None were in possession of a wand anymore, so it wasn't like they could put up much of a fight.
"Granger, is that so? Good, good. I'm pleased with you, Draco… even though I would rather you keep any such suggestions to yourself next time. I will deal with the Mudblood Granger's case personally. Dismissed."
His insides boiling with rage, Draco bowed deeply before exiting the room. Nothing! Not the slightest reward for all his hard work… Oh, sure, a couple words of praise thrown in for good measure, to keep the troops docile. He didn't care about those anymore, hadn't for quite a while. They didn't earn him the respect he so craved, the respect he deserved. It seemed as though nothing he did could ever buy him back into the Lord's good graces. Walking along the dark corridor, Draco felt like punching the stone walls, cutting his knuckles open and letting the deep crimson blood run down his hand. At least the pain would be real, uncomfortable but real. Pain he could explain. His life he could not.
A/N: Yes, it was a very short chapter and yes, Draco is an utter and complete git. But I felt that I had to give you something after so long an absence and as I start exams next Monday, I really won't be able to write for my own pleasure until July. In the meantime, try to believe me when I say that Draco will not remain like this forever. He's just really frustrated at the moment.