Fan Fiction ❯ Different Life ❯ Chapter 1

Fandom: Harry Potter

Disclaimer: Not of the owning

Author: the Prince’s Jewel

Warnings: Not Britpicked. Mention of rapes, torture.

Summary: There‘s not a lot that happens when you‘re in a dungeon cell. Especially when the door only opens twice after you’re thrown into it.

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Different Life

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Every three days, the bread came. Every three days, while it soaked into the one small bowl until it was soft enough to eat, he cleaned himself, her, and their clothes. Every three days, he wondered if today would be the day the bread wouldn’t come.

Water, water they didn’t have to worry about. They had been given a continuous supply of water. When he bothered to think about it, he usually decided it was provided to extend their torture.

He had never expected to live in a dungeon. Not him. And certainly not her. But, he’d failed. Failed, and they had both paid. He had been forced to watch her raped, beaten, cursed repeatedly. He’d watched, screaming for them to stop, until her mind was gone. Then he had been given to the last to rape her. When the man had finished raping him, they’d been brought here.

She had screamed, at first, whenever he had gone near her. But she had to be fed, and she had to be cleaned, and she no longer screamed when he touched her. He ran the damp cloth over her swollen belly. Soon enough, she would be screaming again. The babe was due, very soon. Words spilled from his lips as he cleaned her, the lessons he had learned over the years dripping into the endless, otherwise unbroken, silence. She did not remember, and so he taught.

He fed her bits of the softened bread when she was clean, wiping what she drooled out carefully back into her mouth. They had no food to waste. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be able to catch another rat, and they would have a little more to eat. When she refused more of the bread, he scratched another mark on the wall, and ate his own meager meal. He set aside some of the bread for bait, and wrapped the bit that was left into his shirt. Scant protections against rodents, but the best he could do.

*******

Another third day, another loaf of hard bread. Three to wash today, again. Somehow, he’d kept them all alive. The child now old enough to recite the lessons he repeated endlessly, the woman now able to feed herself and aware enough to let him know she needed the slop corner. Another mark in the wall.

The woman and child curled on the musty straw in the corner, napping. He knelt by the endless water, washing the threadbare remains of their clothing, except for the robe that covered the others, and the under things he and the woman wore. Those would be washed once the other clothes had dried.

“Hey.”

He turned, regarding the person in the doorway.

“the Dark Lord decided you could use another lesson on what happens to those who fail. And, um, he sent… well….” The man entered the cell and carefully deposited his burden. “He sent your dad. Said you deserved to be given the remains of your family.”

He cocked his head slightly, taking in the filthy bundle of rags on the floor. Another to was and feed and this was his remaining family?

Another man entered, laying his burden down just as carefully, looking equally apologetic. The first glanced at the second, and both glued their eyes to the floor. “Uh, he said you might as well have the traitor, too, since you were the only one left who hadn’t gotten revenge.”

“Revenge?” He paced closer, then knelt, turning the battered man so he could see an unrecognizable face. “Who?”

“That’s… Professor Snape.”

“Oh.” He stopped to think. “Will the Lord grant another half loaf of bread, and perhaps a vegetable or two?”

“I dunno. I’ll ask,” the taller said doubtfully.

“Thank you.” He began peeling the rags from the closest body.

“Um, aren’t you gonna try to escape?”

He didn’t cease his task. “No. I have no way to take them with me.”

“Right.” The shorter man drug the taller out of the cell. The door clunked shut behind them.

He removed the rest of the ragged clothes. Bathed blood, and grime, and semen from the two, and cried silent tears over their unconscious forms. He washed their ragged clothes, bound broken bones as best he could with the strips and snatches their clothes became. The bread he had saved would go to feed them when they woke, if he was able to get it down them. The water he had so carefully dribbled into their mouths would not keep them alive long.

The child woke when he was arranging them more comfortably on the straw. Silently, eyes bright with curiosity, the little one pushed straw up around the two. He gave grave thanks, and went to check the laundry. The child’s shirt, his old one, was dry, so he checked his trousers. They were still slightly damp, but not so much he couldn’t wear them. He slipped his underpants off, dressed himself and the child quickly, and began washing the underthings.

The child gravely and carefully helped their mother dress, bringing her underthings to be washed. When the washing was done, he began the day’s teaching, tracing letters into the dirt of their floor. She joined them, eyeing the new arrivals with uncertain, nervous interest.

He taught the letters, singing an old nursery rhyme as he drew them out; the child singing along cheerfully, and soon pointing to the proper letter while they sang.

They had no names, he, she, and the child. They had needed none. Now, though, there were two new he’s, and the child wanted to know what they were to be called. So, he taught Child new names. He became Papa, and she became Mother. The older man was Father, and the younger Godfather. Not at all correct, of course, but true as far as their odd, imprisoned family was concerned.

Child helped him when Father and Godfather woke. Helped him feed and water and bathe the two men unable to do anything for themselves. Sang quietly to them, lessons learned from Papa repeated to blank-eyed unresponsiveness day after day.

Mother improved, sometimes singing snatches of lessons with Child. Papa continued to catch the rats that tried to steal their portion of bread, which never increased. On occasion, however, they did get a rotting vegetable or two. When he was unable to supplement their meals thus, he sometimes slit his wrist with the tiny knife that he’d had when taken, and given them his blood.

Father and Godfather sometimes broke the usual activities of the cell, screaming the high, thin sound that was all the noise they ever made, trying and failing to escape the pain that came on them so unexpectedly at those times. Those times came often at first, and tapered until they rarely came ever at all.

Papa counted the marks on the wall one day. That night, he gave Child a little blood in addition to the rest of the tiny meal, whispering, “Happy seventh birthday, my Child,” as he did. Child only sucked contentedly before curling up to sleep.

That night, while the others slept, Papa wept, wondering if his sad little family would ever be free, or if he would have to decide who would die, one by one, to keep each other alive, until the last died alone.

*******

Every so often, Papa would count the days. Would wonder how they were surviving on a loaf of hard bread, the occasional rat, and the more rare rotten vegetable, the lichen and moss from the walls. He would wonder why he tried so hard to keep them all alive.

It wasn’t as if they had anything to live for. Father and Godfather were only barely able to move, their badly healed limbs preventing them from doing for themselves just as their broken minds did. Mother had progressed to the point of a young child, but her health and beauty were gone, and there was nothing to hold her fleeting attention in the cell even had she been fully well. Child had never known anything but the cell. Sometimes, Papa hoped to finally, somehow, please the Lord so that Child might have a chance to truly live. He never hoped for rescue. There was no one left to rescue him.

He lived only for them. Only to keep them alive, to try and heal the minds in the adults’ ruined bodies, to teach Child all he knew. Already Child had learned the Family cold, his old House code, and the code for the cell he had adapted from the two. Child had learned to read, to write, to do sums. Knew the words for all the six years of charms, jinxes, and hexes, knew the movements of a wand to make them work. Knew the history of the world, the genealogies of the Families. Everything Papa knew, he had taught to Child, and Child had learned it all.

He thought of names for Child, as well. He had not, hoping Child’s Father would recover. But it seemed Child would be an adult, or more likely dead, before that happened, so the task of naming Child fell to him. Mother was too much a child herself to do it. Papa considered carefully. No matter which side won the war, Child would be a pariah. No matter how proudly named, no matter the pure heritage, Child was the product of rape, a bastard, the child of a traitor to both sides of the war and a woman with a failure for a husband.

He himself was the last of his line, and doubted that would change. Child was also the last, though his Father had been all but penniless. He would name Child his heir, though he wasn’t sure the magic would work right without wands, or that when all was said and done, that there would be anything left to inherit.

When he had chosen, he carved Child’s name into the wall, as he had for himself, Father, Godfather, and Mother.

********

The bread had not come. Papa rose shakily from his place, checking and double-checking the cell, but there was no bread. He nicked the wall, fingers running back over the marks. Twice now, there had been no bread.

The war was over, and the magic that had seen to their feeding was broken. He moved quietly to the water, noting the lowered level. The magic to keep it eternally flowing was gone as well, it seemed.

They would not wash, then. Perhaps it was optimistic to hope for rescue, but the war was over, and that meant a chance of this place being searched. A chance for them to die a humane death under the sun, instead of prisoners in their cell. Not an optimistic thought, really.

He combed out his hair and rebraided it, doing the same for each of his companions. Tonight, they would sleep warm beneath the unbraided mass, but for now, with the sun peering fitfully through the tiny window high above, they would have it braided. He found himself smirking as he finished Child’s braid. His care had left them all with this one remaining glory. Ribs showed easily through nearly translucent skin, faces hollowed into skin-covered skulls, but their hair, though brittle and dry, reminded him well of who and what they had once been.

“No bread?” Child whispered.

“No, no bread. We will not wash today.”

“Oh.” Child understood. “We will die, then.”

Papa sighed, hugging Child close. The tiny body shivered - the magic keeping the cells merely cool were gone, and it was cold - then tried wiggling closer. “You cannot crawl into me.”

“I can try!” But, the wriggling stopped. Bright eyes regarded him from the overly-thin face. “How long?”

“I am not sure. If we… if we eat our own dead, longer than if not. But the water will be gone soon.” Papa sighed again, resting his head against the child’s. “I do not know if I am cruel to try and keep us alive in the hopes of a rescue that may never come, or if I should… give up the fight.”

“You are not a quitter, Papa.”

*********

Two days ago, he had given them the last of the water. He slumped against the wall, Child in his lap, wrist held against gently sucking lips. He forced himself to look up when the door rattled, Child off his lap and in the dark corner with the others before it had fully opened.

He rose slowly to his feet, leaning back against the wall, and regarded the Auror. The man blinked. “I’ve found a live one?”

“A live one? I suppose I am.”

“How long have you been in this cell?” The Auror hadn’t approached him yet, Papa supposed it was caution.

“I have been here a very long while. Many years, I believe. This wall behind me, I have marked daily.”

“Lumos.” Light flared. He guarded his eyes, hearing the Auror’s soft gasp at the numerous marks - some with tiny notations - that covered the wall. “What is the last thing you remember before being put here?”

“Being raped,” Papa replied calmly, “after watching my mother tortured into insanity. We were placed in this cell four days after the death of Albus Dumbledore.”

“That was twelve years ago.”

“Ah. I thought it had been quite some time.” He leaned more firmly against the wall. “What will happen to those in these dungeons. The living, I mean?”

The Auror shrugged. “It depends on who, though everyone’s going to St. Mungo’s first. You’re only the third to be found alive, and the only sane one so far.”

“I know the names of some who were imprisoned. Will you tell me their fates?” After a long moment, the Auror nodded. “The Dark Lord put Narcissa Malfoy here, for trying to protect her son. She has no more mind than a small child.”

“She’ll have to go to St. Mungo’s.”

“And if she recovers?”

“Don’t know. I suppose the Ministry would provide her with a living allowance until she could support herself.”

“What of the Malfoy estates? Why would she not go there?”

“Ministry seized those. Lucias was in Azkaban, and Narcissa disappeared with Draco, who was responsible for letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

“Draco and Lucias are also here.”

“Lucias will go back to Azkaban. Draco will have a trial, and follow. He might be Kissed, first, because of what he did.”

“And Severus Snape?”

“Snape?” The Auror straightened suddenly, eyes and voice viciously hungry. “He’s in the dungeons?”

“He betrayed the Dark Lord.”

“He will be Kissed, if he survives to make it to his trial. He murdered Dumbledore, and no one has forgotten that.”

Papa looked down for a moment, biting his lip. “What of his child?”

“What child?”

“Snape’s child.” Papa looked up again.

“He has a kid?”

“Lucian Drake Severus Malfoy-Snape, born of the final rape Narcissa endured before her… incarceration. He is also Lucias Malfoy’s godson and Draco Malfoy’s heir.”

“I suppose he’ll be put up for adoption, since you said Narcissa has the mind of a small child. There’s nothing for him to inherit.”

Papa nodded. “I see. Do you think you might find some robes, food, water?”

“Oh, of course!” The Auror left.

Papa turned to his small family. Slowly, he walked to them.

Draco knelt next to his father. Grey eyes met as he gently drew his knife across the man’s throat, before his father’s fell closed. Onyx met his eyes next, as he performed the same service for his Godfather, silent tears streaming down his face. Lucian watched as he added their sleeping mother to the dead.

“What will I do?”

“You will do what you feel you must.” Draco moved back to the wall across from the door, and settled with his brother in his lap. He opened his wrist once more. “Drink, please.”

Lucian sealed his lips over his brother’s wrist, swallowing hungrily. He kept his dark eyes fastened to his brother’s sorrowful ones.

“I had… I had not believed there would be any other outcome, truly, yet a part of me hoped that somehow, we would be spared. I kept us alive because that part of me still believed that once we were free, things might be better.

“I am a fool, Lucian.” Draco reached to stroke his brother’s hair with his free hand. “A fool. What other fate could possibly come to my family?”

The Auror was returning. He ignored the man, continuing to speak to his brother, though loudly enough he knew the man could hear him. “What other fate? Who would pardon those who failed or betrayed Voldemort, as we did? Who would care that we were beaten, raped, tortured, imprisoned, starved?” He did not take his eyes from his brother’s even when the Auror stepped into the room, and Lucian did not stop his feasting.

“Who would mind if the one who attacked Harry Potter was returned mindless to die alone in Azkaban? Who would not feel justified if the soul was taken from an already destroyed man, if that man was the one who had killed Albus Dumbledore?

“Who would be there to protest the pre-determined fate of a man on trial for letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, though he had done it when only a terrified child threatened with the endless torture and eventual tormented death of his parents if he failed?

“Would would care if a woman driven insane for protecting her only son was allowed to die a lingering, lonely death in St. Mungo’s?

“Who will care about another orphaned child born of rape? Who will care that he was born in a dungeon cell, if he is the son of two of those, brother and heir to the third, godson to the fourth? Who would be able to look past what you are, to see the person you are?

His hand slipped from Lucian’s head, to rest limply in his lap. He turned tired, empty eyes to the gaping, shocked Auror.

“Tell me, who will want to take care of a penniless orphan with this child’s background?

“His father, his godfather, and his mother are dead now. I did not spend these last twelve years keeping my family alive in hopes of having them left to rot away, alone, in places no better than this.

“I will not live long, either. I will not live long enough to attend the farce you would call a trial.” His voice had weakened throughout his speech, and he coughed. “I will not live long enough to see my brother take his first steps out of this cell, or see the expression on his face when he sees the horizon for the first time. I will not be able to live long enough to ensure he is safe.”

He stopped to cough again, and Lucian, still feeding, had to help him sit back up. “I want you to keep him safe, Potter. Maybe you, the Savior of the World, can save one last child. As his last living relative, I name you his guardian.” Draco’s voice faded entirely, and he leaned into his brother.

“Papa?” Lucian released Draco’s limp wrist. After a moment, he kissed Draco’s cheek, then rose and went to the pile of bodies. He kissed each goodbye, and went back to the famous man his brother had named his guardian. “I am ready to go now.”