Disclaimer: If you are here, then I'm assuming you know these characters belong to JK Rowling, and that I am not, in fact, her.
AN: Okay, so here's the next chapter. Please enjoy, and HUGE thank you to all of you who have reviewed this story. It really means so much to hear what you all think of it.
Chapter Eleven
A truth should exist,
It should not be used
Like this. If I love you
Is that a fact or a weapon?
Margaret Atwood
The room was silent as a graveyard as Lucius Malfoy was led to the chair at the center. Enchanted chains coiled themselves brutally around his too thin, trembling wrists. As if there were anywhere to run. As if there were any chance at escape. As if he could muster the energy. This room sat in the bowels of the ministry, untouched by the light of day, heavily drenched in the sickly fear of those summoned to die, or, as it was for him, worse. How many last breaths had been drawn into the cold silence? How many souls torn out? His heart leapt as a metal door to his left rattled, a terrible reminder of what was to come. They say the ripping out of the soul is a pain unimaginable, the very screams sucked out of your throat so you must bear the horror in silence.
The audience looked on with resentful and hungry eyes, starved for the witnessing of his ultimate destruction. Most of them were ministry officials, but he wondered how many of them found a source of joy in this exquisite torment. Some of them were the family members of those he had harmed or killed. Surely, they eagerly awaited the hand of justice. The blackened, decaying, grasping hand of that monster they had declared to be justice. Few of them were people who cared for the man, who shied away in fear and revulsion at the fate he now awaited. Draco sat like a pale statue among them, painfully aware of the glances and whispers cast his way. His eyes were locked on his father. He had never seen the man look so utterly afraid. But all men are reduced to their weakest selves in the face of such finality. Lucius looked back at him, his only solace in his final moments. His only son.
"Lucius Malfoy," Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice resounded through the chamber's frigid air.
"You are here under penalty of law to answer for your crimes. They are as follows: murder, torture, the possession of dark objects, the repeated use of the unforgivable curses, involvement in plots against the Ministry and the wizarding community at large, and affiliation with the Death Eaters, a known terrorist group and followers of the now deceased Lord Voldemort, formerly known as Tom Marvolo Riddle. For these crimes you are sentenced to the dementor's kiss." There was no joy or gratification in his voice. His dark eyes appraised the man with a methodical sadness. He had done this too many times already.
A moment of charged silence settled like a blanket over the room. They all knew what was coming. They all waited for the lock to click open, the metal door to swing wide, the dementor to sweep into the room and descend languidly, torturously down onto its victim. They waited to watch the man's body twitch in inaudible, transfixed anguish, unable to utter even a cry, until all movement ceased, and the only thing left was flesh and bone and sinew, and dead unfeeling eyes. They waited for a corpse that lived and breathed, on standby for death, but a death that would bring him nowhere, give him nothing, no peace. They wondered what happened to the soul, if it was torn to pieces, shredded beyond measure, or perhaps slowly and despairingly drained of itself until it was simply dust settling in a dark and unreachable place. But none of them really cared, not really. None of them except one pale haired boy who now stood strongly on his feet, arm outstretched, aim, breathe, pull the trigger. They never saw it coming. A gunshot rang through the room. It was the best way he knew how to say, "I love you too".
Lucius Malfoy slumped in his chair, shot clean through the skull, a faint smile on his lips. Draco stood unmoving, the gun still held in his hand, still pointed as if looking for an answer to the horrible question of "have I really done it?". There was no fear on his face, no shock or horror, no remorse, nothing at all. In less than a second, chaos erupted. Several people screamed, many more leapt to their feet, charging for the exit. Draco dropped his arm, the gun dormant at his side. Kingsley's eyes were locked on him in shock. Aurors fought through the crowd to reach him. He simply stood immobile in the midst of it all, looking back into Kingsley's disbelieving gaze.
It seemed that in a matter of seconds, they all converged on him at once. He felt hands pull the gun from his own, and bind his wrists painfully together with enchanted chains. As if afraid he would try and flee, they shoved him down to his knees and yanked his head back to better see the power they exerted over him. Kingsley had moved to stand in front of him, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. He was nervous. During the war, Shacklebolt had been one of the few to trust Draco when he first betrayed Voldemort. They had worked closely during that time, Draco relaying to him every detail of his work for the Dark Lord, all that had been planned. They had fought by each other's side, captured more death eaters than they could count, relied on each other, put faith in each other.
"Draco," the man said, his eyes still punctured with incredulity. "I have no choice but to arrest you, unless you can give me some reason not to." Desperation emanated from the man, but Malfoy merely shook his head. There was no escaping punishment, he had known that. Kingsley took a deep breath, reaching down to squeeze the boy's shoulder.
"I am sorry, my friend." He nodded at the aurors to take him away. The trip to Azkaban seemed too quick, his freedom disappearing with every step.
xxxxx
It was his darkness descending. In those endless moments, he relived his worst self. He could picture so clearly, too clearly, each face of each person he had stolen the life of. Their dead eyes watched him, accused him. He knew that this place was where he belonged. It was built for the wretched and cruel, to hide them from the world, a desperate attempt to preserve an innocence that never really existed. Yet her words rang out to him through the stale air. I will still be here. Hermione Granger. She knew the name of every person he had killed, every person he had tortured, every person he had injured, and yet, despite it all, she still saw the good in him. She didn't see a Death Eater, or a pureblood, or the mask he wore like it was his skin, she saw him. Not even the life-depleting chill of the dementors could snuff out the spark of life that gave back to him. So he surrendered himself to the ceaseless thoughts that pried his bones apart. The hollow screams and manic laughter echoing up and down the halls faded away as he sunk deeper into his mind. He had to face himself.
There would be no forgiveness for him. He knew he didn't deserve it anyway. The things he had done, he had done out of self-interest, out of the will to live, out of fear of a man who was now no more than dust. But maybe forgiveness isn't what sets us free. Maybe what sets us free is knowing that we can be horrible and still accepting that we can also be good.
Draco looked down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. Shadows smothered his fingers in the meager light. He was still here, still breathing. There was a voice inside him that asked 'why?'. Why did he deserve to live, when others far more pure-hearted than him, had died, sliced away from any life they could have had? Maybe he didn't deserve it. Maybe it was all just chance. In that moment, he so desperately wished he could be given another one. A chance to change, really change. To be someone deserving of his precious life. To be someone deserving of her.
xxxxx
Hermione stood in an empty room deep within the recesses of the Ministry of Magic. Her entire body felt rigid, her eyes fixated on the dark grey walls. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the fury surging just beneath the edge. No amount of logic seemed to dissipate it. Her mind raced over the last few days. An emergency Order meeting had been called the afternoon that Draco Malfoy had shot his father. She could hardly breathe just thinking the words. He had shot his father.
When McGonagall had told the members of the Order, there was a period of silence and shock, a neat little chrysalis that was snapped apart by shouts of outrage pulled from the lips of each and every one of them. 'How could he do such a thing? What is wrong with him? Sick little Death Eater. He'll never change. Once a murderer, always a murderer,' they had said. But they were wrong. They were ignorant. Hermione had risen from her chair, fury emanating from her like a dangerous black cloud. She had looked at them all, met their eyes with steel. Draco Malfoy had saved his father's soul. Draco Malfoy had made a decision far more difficult than any that they had ever been faced with. Draco Malfoy had sacrificed his own life for a man who had hardly shown him a sliver of love. Where was his fault? In taking a life? Which of them hadn't? The war had not been so kind to them either, not at all. All of them had blood on their hands. If they could deem such monstrosities as justice, then how could they not also deem this as such? He had saved a life by taking it.
They had been quiet then, taking in the uncomfortable truth – that if it had been their parent sitting on that chair, about to lose their soul, a thing which they believed so deeply in, they'd have pulled the trigger just the same. Draco Malfoy was guilty of only one sin. One which all children who grow up in the harshest of hells are burdened with – loving a parent no matter what. Ron had stood up and declared that he shouldn't be allowed to rot in Azkaban. It had taken all of them by surprise. But he looked at Hermione and in that moment she knew that childish grudges were as flimsy as paper swords. They weren't enemies. They weren't rivals. They were human beings, and this world is a cruel one, a hard one. So they formulated a plan and Hermione and the senior members left for the Ministry, determination etched into their mouths like the sharpest of weapons.
She understood why he had done it. She couldn't fault him for it. What he did took immense courage and self-sacrifice, even if there were those who could not recognize it. Yet she was furious. That night she had sat alone on his bed, his pillow clutched tightly against her chest, tears burning her throat as she cried. He had left her. And what choice did he have, she argued? She knew it was selfish to be angry, but she felt so horribly abandoned. Shaking her head, she took a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes for a sweet and brief moment. She would not cry. Not here. Not now.
So there she stood in the ministry, waiting. When the door on the far side of the room opened, her heart nearly stopped at seeing him again. Ten days. It had taken them ten days to secure his release. He looked rough, but he was still the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. The auror escorting him released the magical binds on his wrists. A thin golden loop of a spell was wrapped snugly around Malfoys wrist. She bit her lip. He would have to wear it for a year. It tracked his every movement, every piece of magic he cast. If he took one step out of line, it would knock him unconscious until the Ministry could come collect him and bring him back to Azkaban for violating the details of his release. She knew he would hate it, but looking at him and seeing him looking back, she couldn't care less. She had him back. He moved towards her, his eyes written with unfathomable emotions.
The world slipped away as he wrapped his arms tightly around her, every line of his body fitting perfectly against every line of hers. Her hands wove up into his soft hair as he breathed into hers, his head pressed into the curve of her neck as if to say, "never let me go". She nearly shook at the entire and absolute peace it brought her to feel his warmth against her. For a single moment, it seemed that the too clean grey walls melted away, that there were no longer any looming threats, that every wound and scar no longer ached or bled, because sometimes, some very rare times, the simple touch of love is enough to heal all injury, even if for only a single moment. She pulled back, looking deeply into the silver storm of his eyes, trying so fucking hard not to cry just at seeing their color again. What passed between them in that instant was far more powerful than any words. It was a shout into the infinite darkness of this universe, a promise of "I will protect you. I will fight for you. I will care for you with every breath in my fragile existence. There is not a corner of this world too far that I cannot reach you".
But all she said was: "I am so fucking mad at you," and turned, walking out of the ministry and into the light of day with him by her side.
She didn't speak a word to him until they reached the Head dorm. The portrait hole closed quietly behind them, a muffled noise that seemed so loud compared to Hermione's fuming silence that it could have knocked them both flat. The sun slanted in sheets of gold through the windows, engulfing them in the slowly dying day. Hermione stood there, her hands clenched into fists, trying desperately to abolish the overwhelming anger inside of her. She knew he had gone through hell. She knew he had made the hardest decision of his life. She knew he was tired. She knew he was emotionally beaten. Deep breath. She turned to face him. And all the logic slipped away.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" She whispered. And it was so much worse than if she had screamed it. He went rigid in shock.
"How dare you? How dare you do something so bloody foolish?" She stopped, holding up her hand to cut off his reply.
"No. No. I understand why you did it. We all do. I don't blame you. But –" she bit her lip hard, trying to keep herself from crying, she was so sick of god damn crying. "But you put me through hell. I thought I'd never see you again. I was so afraid. They could have given you the dementor's kiss, you brainless prat!" She yelled at him, her voice feeling as hot a molten iron coming out of her throat.
"Stop acting like you're expendable." Her voice was barely a whisper. He moved to take a step towards her, but the look she gave him halted him in his tracks.
"Idiot!" She cried, "I can't lose you, I don't want to lose you. I need you. I love you."
They both fell into deathly stillness as the words tumbled out of her mouth, changing everything. For a short moment she was completely consumed by shock. Holy hell, she loved him. With all the clarity of a stormless sky, he closed the distance between them, grasping her face in his hands and kissing her deeply. It felt like home, like nothing had before. The world slowly spun on around them as they fell against each other.
"I will never leave you again," he whispered against her mouth. His hand slowly wound into her hair, pulling her mouth closer to his as kissed her sweetly, gently. Carefully, she pulled back, leaning her forehead against his, breathing him in. His fingers moved to trace tender devotion across her cheeks before moving down to pull her ever so slightly closer by the hips. Heart hammering like a windswept sea, she let her hands fully explore him, slowing and with such aching burn. His hair was like satin, thick and when she pulled at it slightly he sucked in a breath and grasped her hips more firmly. So he liked that, and something about that knowledge made her extremely pleased. Her hands moved downward, across the iron muscles of his shoulders, built from hours on the quidditch pitch, down his back, a motion he mirrored, tracing his fingers up her own, sending shivers through her whole body. They lingered there, standing in the rose gold light of the setting day, bathed in the blush of dusk, awaiting the mystery of night. Loving each other.
"How?" He asked, leaning away to look at her face and a small smile pulled at her lips.
"Myself and several other members of the Order managed to convince the Ministry to grant you immunity on grounds of your potential usefulness as a former Death Eater willing to comply fully with the Ministry. In lieu of the possible resurgence of the Death Eater cause, the Wizengamot agreed. Kingsley was very outspoken on your behalf. I think he loves you." He gave her a crooked, bright eyed smile.
"You're brilliant," he said. She looked at him seriously.
"Would you have let yourself rot in there?" He searched her eyes, unsure of the truth.
"I don't know," he replied. After a pause, she nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears.
"But I wanted to come back for you. To be a better person. I promise you, Hermione, I will do anything it takes to be worthy of your love." His eyes burned with the intensity of his conviction. She reached up, brushing her fingers across his jawline.
"You already are," she said.
