Unredeemable

"...the unparalleled skill of the Aurors and the invaluable assistance of Mr Malfoy, whose rather extensive knowledge of Dark magic played a pivotal role in capturing the dangerous criminal..." Harry's voice brimmed with amusement as he read aloud from the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. "This case demonstrates that even the darkest chapters of one's past can be redeemed through genuine repentance and selfless service to society..." "Potter, might you not...?" Draco grimaced, watching the Head Auror flip through the pages with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I'm quite certain there are more entertaining ways to ruin my morning." "Oh, but the best part is yet to come," Harry grinned. "Here, do listen to this: 'The Ministry of Magic is considering the creation of a special advisory position for Mr Malfoy to combat the proliferation of Dark magical artefacts...'" "I was present for all those sanctimonious discussions, thank you," Draco interrupted. "And I don’t need to be reminded how artfully I was cornered." Hermione, seated at the end of the table, observed their exchange with quiet attentiveness. Over the past few days, she'd learnt to notice the smallest details: the slight narrowing of Draco's eyes when he was irritated, the faint tremor in his fingers when he restrained his emotions, the way the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen around him. Since the severance of their magical connection, reading him had become more difficult, but she could still sense... something. A faint echo of the closeness they'd once shared. "Speaking of sanctimonious discussions," Harry said, setting the newspaper aside, "Kingsley sent word that all the paperwork is ready. You may start tomorrow." "Splendid," Draco drawled. "At last, I can put my talents to use for the greater good. Perhaps they'll even award me the Order of Merlin—for transforming from a dangerous criminal into a Ministry lapdog." "You might show a bit of gratitude," Harry remarked. "Considering the alternatives." "Oh, I'm terribly grateful for the chance to avoid Azkaban at the cost of... what was it? Ah yes, 'selfless service to society,'" Draco leaned back in his chair. "Particularly commendable was the part where you convinced the Wizengamot that my use of forbidden magic was a 'necessary measure.'" As he mentioned of forbidden magic, Hermione noticed his eyes darken—just for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptibly. "Incidentally," Harry said, suddenly serious, "some members of the Wizengamot still think I made a mistake. That you should never trust..." "A former Death Eater?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "How predictable. I'm quite certain your fan club is equally thrilled about the idea of me walking the Ministry halls." "Draco," Hermione said gently, speaking for the first time. "You know that's not—" "I know," he turned to her, and his gaze softened as it often did these days in her presence. "I know, Hermione." The way he said her name made her heart flutter. Even now, after everything that had happened, after the severed bond, his voice stirred an ache within her for the unity they had once shared. "Right," Harry stood and stretched ostentatiously. "I must review the Selwyn case reports. Seems there are new details about the runes." Draco stiffened so noticeably that even Harry caught it. "Something serious?" he asked, a bit too casually. "Not quite certain yet," Harry studied him carefully. "The Unspeakables say some of the symbols don't match known dialects. It's as though they... changed during the ritual." "Ancient magic is unpredictable," Draco shrugged, but Hermione saw his fingers tighten on the arm of his chair. "Especially when dealing with rituals as dark as that." "Which is why we need an expert," Harry said, heading for the door. "Hermione, could you—" "Of course," she said, rising. "I shall review the rune documents. Perhaps the Malfoy library—" "No," Draco interrupted sharply, then caught himself. "I mean, there's nothing more to find there. The Ministry has already seized all the significant books." Hermione frowned. Since that day in the crypt, Draco hadn't mentioned the library—not once. It was as if even speaking of it pained him. Or awakened something he preferred not to confront. "Are you coming?" Harry called from the doorway. "Yes," she replied, but lingered. "Draco..." "I know, I know," he muttered, pushing himself out of the chair. "I haven't signed the contract yet. I wanted to go over the terms again. Make certain you didn’t sneak in a clause about weekly reports on kittens rescued or other good deeds performed." "Actually," she said with a small smile, "it's daily reports." His quiet chuckle warmed something deep within her. So familiar, so... terribly human. And once again she felt the need to believe it was all over. That the darkness she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes was nothing more than the lingering shadow of a nightmare endured. "Can you hear them?" the witch asked suddenly. "The whispers?" Her eyes, fixed on him, brimmed with both trepidation and a fragile hope that stole his breath away. Draco stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them to a precarious distance. Now, he could feel the warmth of her body, catch the faint scent of her perfume, and see the quick rise and fall of her chest. "No," he said softly, his voice so careful, as though he might shatter the moment. Hermione smiled, visibly relieved, but there was something else in her gaze—understanding? doubt? She swayed towards him, so subtly he doubted she even realised it. "Good," she murmured, then reached out, her gentle fingers brushing his cheek. He barely suppressed a shiver as his hand covered hers, pressing it against his face. Her warmth sank deep, into the part of him that still clung to life. "That's good," she repeated in a soft voice that felt like a caress. She tilted her head back to look at him, eyes brimming with something heady, intoxicating. "What's the holdup?" Potter's voice called from the corridor, smashing the moment apart like a Bombarda spell. Hermione flushed scarlet but didn't pull away. Draco allowed himself one more moment of closeness, his fingers lightly touching hers, before he stepped back. "Perfect timing as always, Potter," he drawled with his usual sarcasm. "A rare gift." "Sod off, Malfoy," came Harry's reply, lacking any real anger. Granger lingered, reluctant to leave. He could see the questions in her eyes, the worry, and something else—something neither of them was quite ready to name yet. "Go," he said gently, finally releasing her hand. "I’ll catch up." There was a promise in his voice that sent her heart racing. She smiled, her flush deepening as she turned to go, caught between embarrassment and anticipation. Draco watched her leave, the familiar chill creeping back into him. The warmth of her touch still lingered on his skin, like an echo of the light they had once shared. As the door clicked shut behind her, he turned sharply. The silence in the room felt oppressive, broken only by a faint rustling—a sound of scales brushing against stone. He moved to the mirror, its frame carved from sombre, dark wood. A standard-issue Auror's office mirror—plain, unassuming. But its reflection... its reflection showed the truth. Draco felt the cold seep deeper. His dragon—a silvery embodiment of the Malfoy family's ancestral magic—was ensnared, struggling in the viscous grip of a black, oozing substance. The creature thrashed, trying to shake free, but the darkness crept steadily upward, binding its wings, coiling around its neck. The dragon turned its head, and in its eyes, Draco saw a desperate plea. He raised a hand to the glass, unsure whether he meant to help or... Don't, came a familiar, soothing whisper. Don't resist. You know this is inevitable. And so, Draco didn't resist. He stood motionless, watching as the silvery creature writhed in agony. The darkness climbed higher, smothering the once-lustrous scales in impenetrable shadow. The dragon screamed—a wrenching, desperate sound. But Draco couldn't hear it. He heard nothing but the tranquil, all-encompassing silence. He understood now. The unbearable cacophony that had threatened to drive him to madness—that had been the light magic. The magic of his forebears, the proud legacy of the Malfoy line, and, later, of Hermione. It had sought to shield him, to enclose him within a barrier of light, warding off the encroaching darkness and the voice of the Ancients—the voice that had waited, ever patient, for him to finally heed its call. And now, he had. He had listened, and in listening, he had accepted. They had given him that which he most desired. "You’ll accept. Everyone always does," he remembered the Alpha saying. He hadn’t lied to Hermione when he told her he no longer heard the whispers. There were no whispers now—only the voice, calm and unyielding, chilling in its precision. It no longer came from without but seeped from within, entwined with his own thoughts, indistinguishable from them, an inextricable part of his very being. The mirror shuddered—a fine crack split its surface with a crystalline sound, then another, spreading like a spiderweb across the glass. The dragon thrashed once more, its form splintering with each fracture until the image could no longer hold. With a sharp, echoing snap, the mirror broke, shards raining down like frozen tears. The dragon lashed out at the glass in one final act of desperation—a death throe, nothing more—and the remnants of the ancestral magic rippled outward in silver waves. Something painful stirred in Draco's chest—regret? loss?—but the voice swiftly dissolved those unnecessary emotions. We take only what is ours by right. A service for a service. Fair enough, Draco thought, his gaze unwavering as the darkness consumed the broken mirror entirely. From the shadows, his fragmented reflection slowly emerged in the sharp pieces left: a tall, pale young man with silver hair, his eyes now devoid of their familiar gleam. A small price to pay. In exchange, he had gained power—ancient, limitless, absolute. This, he realised, was what redemption truly was: not absolution, but the means to protect, to shield, to save those who mattered most. Go to her, the voice commanded, calm and resolute. She is yours. Yes, Draco thought, smoothing his hair. He really shouldn’t keep his witch waiting.