A/N: This story's title and some of its basic themes were inspired by "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot and "Die Romantic" by Aiden. Future chapter titles may also relate.
Ships: SS/HG, DM/HG, RW/HG, SS/LE, LV/BL
Rating: T for language, abusive situations, and some sexual content. Rating may go up to an M in future chapters.
Warning: I'm proud to say this story is currently very canon and HBP-compliant. However, this will no longer be true when DH is released. But isn't that the point of fanfiction, after all? I hope readers will be able to ignore all future plot conflicts and suspend their disbelief.
Disclaimer: All of these lovely characters belong to the amazing J. K. Rowling. I, sadly, am not making any money from this story.

Welcome to Redemption
By: ewanspaz

Chapter One
The Letter to No One

Less than one mile from the nearest Muggle village, a large mansion sat upon a hillside. The house had been strangely deserted for quite a while (until now, that is). It was something like sixteen years, but none of the villagers really cared to remember how long it had been. No one knew anything about the original owners of the place, except that they went by the name of Lestrange.

Over the past few weeks, many had wondered whether the Lestranges had returned or not. Strange noises were heard from within the house, but it looked just as dilapidated and deserted as ever, so the notion was, for the most part, tossed aside. Every few days or so, one brave soul would venture up the hillside, only to suddenly forget (upon reaching the front gates) why he or she had gone on such a tiring walk in the first place. It was certainly odd, everyone agreed. It was finally decided the old mansion was simply haunted…

I'm in Hell…that's what this infernal place is…

The man once again leaned back into the rickety chair and pinched the bridge of his hooked nose, wondering if he'd ever get over this excruciating headache. It was making it nearly impossible to write. He needed to finish this letter—and tonight. Looking down at the parchment, he grimaced.

A 'D'. Just one little 'D'. I used to grade essays for a living. Surely I can write one simple letter?

Only it wasn't simple. Nothing he would write in his entire life could ever be this important. It meant saving himself. What's more, it meant saving his entire world. It was crucial he go about this the right way, and even more crucial that, upon finishing the letter, he send it to the right person.

He resolutely grabbed his quill up off the desk and scratched a letter 'e' onto the parchment before he once again gave into more convulsions. The quill clattered back to its former position as his hands shook violently, completely out of his control.

Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours straight of the Cruciatus spent writhing at the feet of the Dark Lord. Each hour represented one of the years he had worked at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, gathering information for his true master and later keeping a close eye on the Boy Who Lived. Sixteen years of careful spying wasted, for just a few weeks ago he had been forced to blow his cover in the worst way imaginable…murdering the one man who had ever offered him a second chance. A second chance he knew he hadn't deserved. Nevertheless, he was gone now. Albus Dumbledore, the only one the Dark Lord ever feared. Dead. Of course, there could be no other way; either Dumbledore died or they both did, for if he had hesitated to kill the old wizard, it would have been only too obvious which side he was really fighting for. Add that to the fact he would have been breaking an Unbreakable Vow, resulting in death anyway.

No. Severus Snape definitely needed to remain alive. He had made a promise to Albus Dumbledore, and if there was one thing you could say about Severus Snape, it was that he kept his promises, Unbreakable Vow or not. This promise left Snape the sole responsibility of continuing Harry Potter's training, of assisting him in finally bringing about the downfall of the Dark Lord. And as much as Snape loathed anything with the name 'Potter' attached to it, even he could recognize the fact that Lord Voldemort had systematically helped him ruin his life, miserable as it was to begin with.

Realizing the after effects of the Cruciatus had subsided once more, he reached for his quill, intending to write at least the letter 'a', when an earsplitting scream forced him to drop it again.

Draco Malfoy.

He had taken a room in this wing of the mansion for a reason: so as not to hear the goings-on of his fellow Death Eaters in the wing opposite. He preferred not to hear the terrified screams of the young Muggle girls they kidnapped from the nearby village. He shuddered at the thought that he used to enjoy such tasteless activities. However, he knew he'd have to join in soon or they would begin to suspect something. Right now they'd all written it off as him needing to recover from the Cruciatus, and Snape was only too happy to go along with this. No other thought at the moment disgusted him more than the raping of innocents. The powerful Memory Charms put on the girls afterwards did nothing to ease his discomfort, either. He knew they would all wake up the following morning with bruises and cuts in places they didn't know they had. They might not remember, but they would know, and that was enough.

So of course he was thankful for this secluded room, but unfortunately Draco Malfoy, now a veritable pariah among Death Eaters, had also been shoved into this wing of the mansion. Far from getting accustomed to the boy's delirious screaming fits, Snape found himself increasingly unhinged by the sounds. He wasn't sure why exactly. Maybe he sympathized with the boy because he had witnessed him make the same mistake he had made at about that age…denying a way out to the Light…descending completely into the Dark.

History repeats itself…again and again.

The boy's mother, Narcissa, was dead. Lucius, of course, was still rotting away in Azkaban, the only Death Eater left behind. True, it was no longer guarded by dementors and now resembled your ordinary Muggle prison, but the knowledge that his beloved wife had been murdered seemed to be eating him alive just the same. Snape was sure if he ever escaped his cell, he'd come strangle Draco with his bare hands. Another reason to feel sorry for the boy, for he couldn't really be blamed for his mother's death. The Dark Lord had sensed his weakness, had known he didn't have what it took to follow through with his mission. It was, as Narcissa realized from the start, the Dark Lord's way of punishing Lucius for his mishap in the Department of Mysteries. However, she jeopardized Snape's double status as soon as she uttered her request in his house that night…one year ago…it seemed like such a long time had passed…

Damned blubbering fool, that woman.

Not for the first time, he wondered if things might have been different had she never shown up on his doorstep that night. For once in his life, he found himself wishing that someone had actually taken the advice of Bellatrix Lestrange. Why had Narcissa Malfoy harbored such faith in him?

Finding young Malfoy had slipped back into one of his restless, yet mercifully quiet, nightmares, Snape gripped the quill and managed to scratch out an 'a' and an 'r'.

Dear…Dear WHOM? Who would ever trust him enough to believe his innocence? Who wouldn't hex him at first sight before even listening to his side of the story? It was a lost cause…

"Mother, why? You should've left it up to me. It was MY mission, not yours. Then you went and blabbed to that…TRAITOR! AND NOW YOU'RE DEAD. YOU'RE DEAD, MOTHER, DEAD!"

Snape sighed, closing his eyes. He was quite used to Draco's random tirades by now. Mostly he mumbled incoherently while he slept, but every once in awhile, his ramblings were perfectly comprehensible…like now. He still hadn't grown accustomed to the "traitor" part of it. Technically, Snape had already saved the boy's life twice. Once on the top of the Astronomy Tower, finishing the deed Draco couldn't bring himself to do, and then again in front of the Dark Lord, pleading on the boy's behalf and thereby earning him a lesser punishment. In the end, Draco had also received sixteen grueling hours of payment. While Severus Snape was perfectly capable of remaining sane after so many hours of the Cruciatus, Draco lacked the proper experience and training to come off just as well. He hadn't been tortured nearly as long as the Longbottoms, but his brain was certainly addled to an extent. All that aside, Draco Malfoy had to be the most ungrateful brat he had ever encountered. Certainly the "traitor" bit could be removed, anyway?

"All these years…all these years…acting like I was capable of NOTHING. And look where you are, Father. Azkaban. You fucked up, okay? YOU FUCKED UP. I WAS SACRIFICED FOR YOUR DUMB MISTAKES, AND NOW SHE'S FUCKING DEAD. FUCK YOU. I'M MORE THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK—

But the rest of Draco's outburst wasn't to be heard, as Snape had finally abandoned his letter, stalked down the hall to Draco's room, and uttered a quick "Silencio". He really couldn't take much more of this. The number of fits had multiplied greatly over the past week, and Snape knew this wasn't a good sign. If Draco Malfoy wasn't transported to St. Mungo's—and soon—he wouldn't make it till the end of the summer.

Once more feeling a stab of pity, Snape strode over to the basin next to the bed, dampened a cloth, and placed it on Draco's forehead. For a few seconds, it seemed to calm him, and he drifted back into a peaceful unconsciousness; then he gave a violent twitch, his eyes snapping open at the same time. With the lightning-fast reflexes of a Seeker, he had latched onto Snape's arm, gripping tightly.

"Well now, look who we have here. It's Dumbledore's little pet. Don't even try to tell me you're on our side now. You didn't kill any of the Order members that night, or any of Potter's stupid little friends. You could have…if you wanted to. And I saw the look on your face when you killed him, like you were completely disgusted with yourself. Well, I suppose I would've been disgusted with myself, too…if I killed someone just to save my own skin. You didn't do it to protect me. You just wanted to survive. And then you ran away…like a…coward.

The last word was a barely audible whisper as Draco suddenly drifted back to sleep again; although, it was still enough to make Snape's blood positively boil with anger.

Coward. Potter's face loomed before him in the midst of screams and flames. It was the worst thing he had heard that night. It had hit him harder than the actual act of murdering Dumbledore. Yes, he had run. But he had to! It was all part of the master plan. After Dumbledore, he was the only person who could successfully lead Harry Potter on the right path. He sighed…if only the arrogant boy knew this already, life would be so much easier. Well, if he could finish the letter…

Draco began twitching and muttering again, so Snape took this as his cue to leave. However, he came back after retrieving parchment and quill from his own room, resolving to at least keep the disturbed boy company.

It was really time to get down to business. Who the hell could he address this letter to? Minerva McGonagall immediately came to mind. Besides him, she was Dumbledore's most trusted confidant. Maybe they had been too close, though. Whether she had trusted Snape to begin with or not probably meant nothing. She would most likely be feeling the sting of betrayal at the moment…and she was a member of the Order. If she read Snape's letter and didn't believe him, the entire Ministry of Magic would be swooping down upon him in less than an hour.

No, maybe an Order member wasn't the best choice, nor was a close friend of Dumbledore's. What he needed was someone with great faith in Albus Dumbledore…someone fairly well acquainted with Harry Potter…someone (though he couldn't believe such a person existed) that had always trusted him in the past. He could already see the main issue with these qualifications. He really doubted there was anyone on speaking terms with Harry Potter that didn't think he was the Dark Lord's right-hand man. Potter spent vast amounts of energy regaling all his little friends with tales of Snape's "other life" (Snape had overhead these whispered conjectures in the corridors more times than he cared to remember).

It was terrifying, in all honesty, to realize you had no one to confide in, and you had just murdered the only person that had ever trusted you.

Meanwhile, Draco's mumbling had grown louder again, and Snape leaned back in his chair for a moment, trying to comprehend what the boy was saying this time. It sounded like a whole jumble of nonsense, so he turned back to his work, only to whip back around in shock as he distinctly heard the words, "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

Hermione? As in Granger? The Cruciatus had apparently done more damage than Snape had originally thought, as he would bet all the gold in his Gringotts vault that Draco Malfoy would never in his life feel the need to apologize to Hermione Granger.

Well, he would have to consider those interesting words at a later time, when he didn't have such a vast amount of important things to attend to. He looked back down at the desk. The blank parchment seemed to leer at him, taunting him for the fact it had been an hour already and he had only written the word "dear". He permitted his mind to wander a bit more…and then—

"GRANGER!"

The one word ripped itself forcefully from Draco's mouth, reverberating around the spacious room, tearing through Snape's pulsing migraine…and it all became clear: He would write his letter to Hermione Granger.

Staunch believer in Albus Dumbledore? Definitely. Acquaintance of Harry Potter? A best friend. Even better.

And hadn't she always trusted him from day one? Hadn't she stood up for him all the times Potter and Weasley expounded one of their brilliant "Snape is a Death Eater" theories? She certainly had, even though he'd been far from courteous to her for the past six years.

With his mind made up, Severus Snape picked up his quill for what he prayed was the final time. He really did hope that Hermione Granger wasn't the sort of person to hold grudges.