Title: Myrmidon
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Pre-romance DracoHermione
Summary: Redemption doesn't always come in the form of heartfelt declarations, unmitigated bravery, or open accolades. Sometimes, it's a letter, a nod in the place of a scowl—unsigned and unremarkable, but still very, very real.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Please, don't faint from the shock. I'd rather like you to read the story. ;)
Dear Granger,
This is not a social call, a heartfelt letter, or even an apology. You, I'm quite sure, deserve one, and I certainly deserve the humiliation of giving one, but my pride and my fear started this, and, alas, it will end it as well.
You don't like me. It's okay, because—these days—I don't like myself much either. I am not a good man. Blood may not stain my own hands, but I allowed it to stain others', and in that, I've done too much wrong to ever be redeemed.
But so have you, you worry, as you read this. Deep down, Granger, I know you're afraid. I see it as plain as day. You're afraid, because you killed someone fighting for your cause, and my hands are clean. I've always been the evil one to you, and now—here we are—post-war, and you're questioning all you've ever known. Just like I was forced to.
I suppose it's a twisted sort of karma.
I do not ask for your pity. I brought all the misery I behold upon myself, by being His myrmidon, and I shall suffer as I should.
I do not ask for your forgiveness. I deserve to be haunted until my dying day with the sounds of Aunt Bella's sickness as she tortured you. I deserve to see the dead eyes of every victim until I take my last breath myself.
But I do ask for something, I'm sure you realize. You're not the brightest witch of our age for nothing, of course.
Forgive yourself, Granger.
That's it. That's all.
Forgive yourself.
The Ministry is crowded, but she's on alert as she always is now. It may be years past wartime, but Hermione doubts the paranoia derived from that period will ever fade.
A flash of platinum blonde hair stiffens her spine, and her hand is itching for the comforting feeling of her wand's weight upon her palm. But she doesn't reach for it.
Draco Malfoy.
Grey eyes are poised in her direction, waiting for a curse of either variety.
It doesn't come.
She nods.
He nods back.