Unredeemable

Draco awoke with a start, as though struck by an unseen force. A frightful throbbing assailed his temples—whether from sleep deprivation or the previous evening's indulgence in firewhisky, he couldn't quite discern. He had but the haziest recollection of retiring to bed following his quarrel with Hermione, yet her final words continued to resonate with perfect clarity. "I saw Harry's memories of your exchange with the werewolves," her voice was hushed, though it carried a distinct steel beneath its quiet surface. "You're planning to employ ancient magic without fully comprehending the ramifications." "I comprehend them perfectly well," he didn’t turn to face her, never spared her a glance. "That's precisely why I must undertake this alone." "Must you?" she drew nearer, her presence radiating warmth against his back. "For whom are you doing this, Draco? The dead? Because those among the living aren't asking it of you." "And what would you propose?" he wheeled around sharply, causing her to retreat, startled by the darkness that clouded his eyes. "Shall we wait for Selwyn to complete the ritual? Count the corpses? Perhaps we should wait until he gets to my mother?" "I'm suggesting we find an alternative approach." "There is no alternative," he snapped. "You examined Cassandra's records yourself. The Ancients require a specific sacrifice—one who harbours both light and darkness within." "And you've appointed yourself the ideal candidate?" Bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. "After everything we've..." She faltered, stumbling over the unspoken. "After everything we what?" He advanced closer, looming over her. "Say it, Granger. After you decided you could save me? That a mere touch of your light could dilute my darkness and set all to rights?" She remained silent, and he uttered the words he would rue until daybreak, "Perhaps you should to return to Weasley. At least there's something salvageable there." For the briefest moment, her brown eyes revealed a fracture, a shadow of hurt breaking through like delicate crystal shattering. It had swiftly given way to an icy fury. "You know, Malfoy," she stepped backwards, the space between them suddenly seeming vast as an ocean, "I believed you had changed. But you remain determined to destroy yourself, simply to prove something to those who've been dead for years." She turned and walked away, leaving him alone with the emptiness. Draco watched her retreating figure, feeling something within him break. Perhaps it was for the best. Maybe by morning, she would calm dawn, and they might discuss matters properly. But the morning brought something entirely different. Something amiss. In those first moments after waking, Draco couldn't quite pinpoint what had changed, yet an inexplicable unease was mounting within him. He reached inward, searching for the familiar warmth of their bond—that subtle presence of Hermione he'd grown rather accustomed to over the past days. But where her light had once pulsed, there now gaped a hollow void. At first, he decided she'd merely closed herself off from him. After their quarrel the previous evening, that would have been perfectly sensible. It always felt like a thick wall—dense, impenetrable, but... alive. This, however, was altogether different. The emptiness was absolute, unnatural. As though someone had torn away a fragment of his soul, leaving behind a raw, bleeding wound. Without thinking, Draco pressed a hand to his chest, where the marks of their magical connection pulsed beneath his shirt. Usually, touching them brought him solace, helped him attune to her essence. But now, he felt nothing but cold. And then the pain arrived. Not his pain—hers, distant, seeping through the tattered remnants of their bond like icy water. Draco closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations: cold stone against her back—she was lying on some manner of stone floor; the damp, mouldy scent of the air—a cellar, perhaps, or a crypt; and... the same suffocating darkness that had shrouded Rookwood's body. The same invisible hunger that had tainted the air around Avery. Draco recalled the hours he and Potter had spent examining the traces of ancient magic on the victims' bodies. With each case, the presence had grown stronger, as if the entities Selwyn was summoning were drawing nearer to the boundary between worlds. "Hermione," he whispered, his own voice thunderous in the silence of his bedchamber. Draco closed his eyes once more, desperately trying to grasp the fading thread of their connection. Through the haze of pain and fear, fragments of her experience bled through: dampness that penetrated to the bone; the oppressive weight of magical restraints binding her; and something else—vague, yet disturbingly familiar... Think, a voice murmured in his mind. You know where he keeps his victims. An image surfaced unbidden—Rookwood's face, disfigured by runic scars. His body had been discovered at dawn in Godric's Hollow, the site of the greatest sacrificial act in magical Britain's history. A place where a mother's love had created a protection stronger than death itself. A place where the veil between worlds had grown so thin that, even years later, the locals gave the old graveyard a rather wide berth. The alpha's words echoed in his memory: "In a place where the boundaries between worlds are thin. In the hour of the last shadows." "Godric's Hollow," he exhaled. "Of course. Where else would one conduct a ritual to summon the Ancients?" He darted to the window. The sky in the east was just beginning to pale—less than an hour until dawn. The hour the ancient texts referred to as the time of the last shadows. Draco was on the verge of Apparating when the thought occurred to him to alert Potter. But he dismissed it at once. Harry would attempt to stop him, insist on a proper plan, on preparation. And there simply wasn't time. No time at all. Another wave of fear surged through the faint thread of their bond. Hermione was alive, but something was shifting. Her presence in his mind was becoming increasingly... foreign. As though something ancient and dark was seeping into their silver threads, poisoning them from within. Draco knew that darkness rather well—it was part of his own nature, the very thing Hermione had fought so desperately to protect him from. Hurry, the voice inside urged. He's waiting for you. For the first time, Draco didn't argue.

***

The old graveyard of Godric's Hollow received him in deathly silence. Even the November wind seemed rather disinclined to disturb the place. In the pre-dawn gloom, the gravestones cast rather sinister shadows—long, distorted, like outstretched hands reaching for him. Draco shivered involuntarily, recalling the first time he had heard the tale of this place. His father had recounted the night the Dark Lord came for the Potters—with pride and anticipation. Now, Draco felt only the bitter irony of fate. He, the heir to the Malfoy legacy, had come here not to kill, but to save. Through the frayed threads of their bond, fragmented sensations seeped through, faint but tangible enough to guide him. Draco tightened the grip on his wand, moving cautiously between the graves. Somewhere here... Suddenly, the marks on his skin flared with pain—ancient magic responding to the proximity of its source. In the dim light, he spotted a crumbling crypt. Rather old, nearly as ancient as the graveyard itself. Faded runes marked its stone walls—the very ones he and Hermione had studied in the Malfoy library. Inside, hundreds of candles burned with tiny flames, flickering like a heartbeat within the ancient walls. Newer runes, freshly carved, glowed with a faint red light, forming the intricate pattern of a ritual circle. Draco descended the chipped steps carefully, every fibre of his being attuned to Hermione's presence. She was close, terribly close. Her magic, even suppressed by ancient spells, pulsed in his veins like a beacon. But there was something else too—dark, ancient, lurking in the shadows. It was watching him, waiting. "I rather wondered who'd arrive first… you or Potter," the necromancer's voice echoed from the darkness. "Though, to be quite fair, my money was on you." "You know, Selwyn," Draco brushed the dust from his cloak as it drifted down from the ceiling. "If you wished to invite us to your little ritual, you might have simply sent an owl. All these dramatic kidnappings rather reek of... provincial theatrics." A low chuckle echoed through the chamber before the dark wizard stepped out of the shadows. His face was hidden behind a crimson mask that caught the light of the candles and reflected it in distorted, blood-like glimmers. The sight was unsettlingly elegant—half ritual, half mockery of old pure-blood masquerades. "Do allow me a little drama. I've been planning this for so long." With deliberate slowness, he reached up and removed the mask. The candle flames flared brighter, illuminating the chamber, and Draco felt his bravado evaporate. Hermione lay on the cold stone floor, bound by invisible restraints. Her eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell faintly. Alive. Around her, a black mist coiled, its shifting shapes hinting at figures—shadows, or perhaps something rather more tangible. "Let her go." Draco fought to keep his voice steady, though the marks on his skin burned fiercely in the presence of ancient magic. "She's not suitable for your ritual. Mudblood, remember?" Selwyn laughed in a hoarse, rather crow-like cackle. "Oh, my dear young friend," he stepped fully into the light, and Draco barely suppressed a shudder. Selwyn's eyes were completely black. "Your little magical bond has made her absolutely perfect. The irony, that in trying to protect her, you've turned her into the most desirable sacrifice." "What are you talking about?" Draco began to move slowly around the edge of the crypt, inching closer to Hermione. "The Ancients rather fancy special souls," the necromancer spoke almost tenderly, his fingers idly caressing the hilt of a ritual dagger. "Souls where light and darkness are thoroughly intertwined. When you shared your magic with her... oh, if only you knew the gift you bestowed. Now, she possesses sufficient darkness. And you..." He squinted, studying the silvery marks on Draco's skin. "You harbour enough of her light. Together, you shall make a rather magnificent offering. My final gift to them." "You're mad." "Perhaps," Selwyn shrugged. "But when the ritual is complete, when the Ancients claim your souls... they shall grant me the power to cleanse this world. To make it as it ought to be." Hermione stirred weakly, beginning to regain consciousness. Draco felt their bond grow stronger, faint threads knitting back together. Stall him, the voice in his mind whispered. He loves the sound of his own voice. Let him prattle on. "And what precisely is this world meant to look like?" Draco took another step forward, noting from the corner of his eye how the runes on the walls pulsed with increasing brightness. Dawn was approaching. Selwyn's eyes glinted feverishly, his black irises alive with manic fervour. "Pure! Free from filth and corruption. The Ancients—they remember what magic was like before we sullied it by mingling our blood with the unworthy. They shall grant me the power to correct the mistakes of the past." "And you believe they'll simply hand you this power?" Draco curled his lips into a mocking smirk. "Ancient beings haven't the slightest interest in blood purity." "Oh, but you are wrong," the dark wizard replied, raising the dagger to admire how the candlelight played along its blade. "They are waiting. They have waited for someone who dares to—" He broke off abruptly. Hermione's eyes snapped open, and the air around her shimmered with raw, elemental magic—a primal instinct of survival breaking through the bonds that restrained her. The surge was so powerful that, for a moment, the candles extinguished in a single breath of darkness. Selwyn reacted instantly. A flick of his wand, and an invisible force clamped around Hermione's throat. She gasped, choking for air. "Finite Incantatem!" Draco aimed his wand at the noose-like bind, but the spell skittered off rather uselessly. "Relashio! Diffindo!" Each spell failed, dissipating against the necromancer's ancient magic as if it were nothing more than a gentle breeze. "Oh, how terribly touching," Selwyn drawled, his lips curving into a cruel smile. "Young Malfoy attempting to save a Mudblood. What would your father say?" Darkness churned in Draco's chest, rising like a tide, and for the first time in years, he did not fight it. It surged forth like a river breaching its dam, and the marks on his skin ignited with black fire. "Sectumsempra!" The curse burst from his wand, fuelled by pure rage. Selwyn deflected it with almost casual elegance. "Crucio!" Draco cast the Unforgivable without hesitation, heedless of the consequences. "Protego Maxima!" Selwyn's shield flared crimson, effortlessly blocking the spell. "Not at all bad for a novice. The potential is certainly there. But you haven't the faintest idea what true darkness is." The counterspell hit with such force that Draco was hurled against the wall. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and darkness swam before his eyes. "Did you honestly think you could stand against me?" Selwyn loomed closer, twirling the dagger rather lazily. "I have spent decades mastering ancient magic. And you... you're merely a boy, playing with forces beyond your comprehension." Hermione's struggles were growing weaker. Draco could see her lips turning blue, her eyes rolling back. Time stretched unbearably. Each second seemed an eternity. The runes on the walls pulsed rhythmically, drinking in her life force. The necromancer's face twisted in triumphant ecstasy. Helplessness gripped Draco, suffocating him like a vice. You know what must be done, whispered the voice. You know the price... Draco knew. He watched the life slowly fade from the eyes of the witch who had endeavoured to save his soul and realised, in that moment, he was prepared to pay any price. Something ancient stirred deep within his consciousness, responding to his desperation. A chill spread through his veins. The marks on his skin flared with inky blackness, drawing upon the power that had always been there, waiting for permission to awaken. His magic shifted—there was no longer a struggle between light and dark. There was only shadow, ancient and ravenous, coursing through him. His eyes began to darken—not like Selwyn's, but differently, as though an abyss had opened within his pupils. The smirk vanished from the murderer's face. Spells erupted one after another—fierce, merciless. The dark wizard parried them, but with each blow, he retreated a step. The black mist surrounding them thickened, taking on grotesque forms. The noose around Hermione's throat loosened, and she coughed weakly, slowly regaining her senses. Through the haze, she saw Draco fighting—his magic surging in dark waves, as ancient as his opponent's. But Selwyn was frightfully strong—eleven victims, eleven souls had fed his power. Each counter-curse carried echoes of their death screams, every shield was woven from their agony. With every movement of his wand, the runes on the walls flared brighter, channeling their accumulated energy into him. Help him, an unfamiliar voice whispered in Hermione's mind. She lurched forward, reaching out. Draco immediately sensed her presence and turned. "Like in the library," she conveyed through their bond. "Our shared magic..." But Draco shook his head, gripping her wrist tightly. Their eyes met, and she saw in his gaze something that made her heart seize with icy dread—an endless, all-consuming darkness. And resolve. Terrible, irreversible resolve. She understood his intent a second before he acted and tried to recoil, but his grasp tightened. Instead of drawing upon her strength, he... pulled. The pain was unbearable. Hermione felt something dark and viscous being torn from her body, returning to its rightful owner. His darkness—the very same that had become a part of her essence through their magical bond—was now retreating. He was taking it all, leaving nothing behind, erasing every reminder of their magic having once been whole. She wanted to scream, to stop him, but no sound escaped her lips. The bond between them frayed with each passing moment, and Hermione felt it with every fibre of her being—the invisible threads snapping, the profound connection unraveling. No longer could she sense his emotions, no longer could she touch his mind with hers. His presence, once an inseparable part of her life, was dissolving, leaving behind an unbearable ache of loss. "Impossible!" Selwyn's voice cracked into a rasp. "Darkness doesn't release the light! Unless..." He faltered, staring at Draco with sudden comprehension and fear. "You listened to them... You—" He never finished. A wave of pure, undiluted darkness shattered his defences, slamming him against the crypt wall. The air around them thickened into tangible blackness. Draco slowly raised his wand. "Do you know what's amusing?" His voice sounded strange, layered with undertones that were not his own. "You were right after all. The Ancients do fancy special souls." Selwyn jerked, struggling to raise his wand, but another surge of power pinned him to the stone. Draco stepped closer, until they were nearly face to face. "But not as sacrifices," he murmured, his words meant only for the dark wizard. "They were searching for a conduit. Someone who would willingly accept their power. And you... you were merely clearing the path. Every victim you offered thinned the veil between worlds. It is the life of the summoner that finishes the ritual." Selwyn screamed—not in pain, but in sheer terror. His blackened eyes widened in realisation as he finally understood what had truly transpired in this crypt. The final curse struck his chest with deadly precision. His body arched, and in that instant, something ancient and inhuman flickered in the air, greedily claiming its final offering. Hermione pushed herself up on trembling arms, struggling to focus her gaze. Her throat still burned from the suffocating grip, and black spots swam before her eyes. Draco stood with his back to her, staring at the lifeless body of the necromancer. His figure seemed almost unreal in the flickering candlelight and the first glimmers of dawn filtering through cracks in the crypt's ceiling. For a moment, she thought she could see shadows swirling around him—alive, tangible. He turned slowly, and something imperceptible in his appearance shifted. The darkness that had consumed him moments before was already beginning to dissipate. When his eyes found her crumpled on the ground, he crossed the space between them in two strides. "Draco..." she began, her voice barely a whisper. "It's going to be all right," Malfoy said softly, brushing his fingers against her cheek. With remarkable ease, he lifted her into his arms, and Hermione instinctively leaned into him, seeking the familiar warmth. Through half-closed eyelids, she studied his face—so familiar... so terribly dear. The blackness in his eyes was retreating, giving way to the silver of his true essence, shining brighter and brighter, like the moon emerging from behind storm clouds. He held her close, and there was such care in his touch that, for a fleeting moment, she believed—truly believed—that everything would indeed be all right. He carried her out of the crypt, leaving behind the body and the pulsating runes that the furious head Auror would no doubt spend days deciphering. The rays of the rising sun touched his pale face, turning his silvery hair to gold. He glanced down at her, expression filled with worry and something that resembled tenderness—so human, so real—that all her fears ebbed away. At the edge of the graveyard, Draco paused, preparing to Apparate. Hermione rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. But then, just at the edge of her perception, she heard laughter—soft, satisfied, ancient. She tilted her head to look at Draco, but he appeared not to notice a thing. Perhaps it was merely the wind playing among the headstones.