The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

When Draco arrived at his flat, escorted by two Aurors whose expressions suggested they'd rather be anywhere else, he felt a strange mix of relief and unease. The space, while familiar, didn't feel like home—at least, not yet. It was eerily clean, almost sterile, as though someone had worked tirelessly to scrub away every trace of its previous occupant. The furniture gleamed unnaturally, the air carried the faint scent of lavender polish, and not a speck of dust dared to mar the pristine surfaces.

He stepped inside cautiously, his footsteps echoing against the polished hardwood floors. The Aurors lingered at the threshold, their wands at the ready, making it clear they weren't about to give him a moment of privacy until they were satisfied the flat was secure. He barely acknowledged them, his gaze sweeping over the space. It was exactly as he remembered it, yet completely different.

On the dining table, a large bouquet of elegant white lilies and roses sat in a crystal vase, accompanied by a welcome basket overflowing with expensive teas, jams, and biscuits. The unmistakable handwriting on the attached card made his chest tighten:

"Welcome home, darling. Be good. Love, Mother."

For a moment, he just stared at the note. Narcissa's gesture was as thoughtful as it was bittersweet. He could almost picture her arranging the basket herself, insisting that the house-elves polish every apple and ribbon every package just so. And yet, he knew her concern ran deeper than this surface-level act of care. The flowers, the basket—they were her way of reminding him that, despite everything, he still had someone in his corner.

"Everything in order?" one of the Aurors asked gruffly, snapping him out of his reverie.

He turned, his expression a practiced mask of indifference. "It appears so."

The Aurors exchanged a glance before one of them nodded. "We'll be back tomorrow for a welfare check. Don't leave the premises without authorization."

"Of course not," he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Where else would I possibly go?"

Without another word, the Aurors exited, leaving him alone for the first time in months. As the door clicked shut behind them, he exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping as the tension of their presence dissipated. He stood in the silence of the flat, the weight of the past month pressing down on him.

He wandered aimlessly through the space, his fingers grazing the back of the sofa, the edge of the kitchen counter, the bookshelves in the sitting room. Each touch was both grounding and alienating, a reminder of what he'd once taken for granted and how far he still had to go to reclaim it.

Eventually, he found himself in the bedroom. The bed was exactly as he'd left it—large, plush, and ridiculously indulgent, with its silk sheets and countless pillows. It looked like a relic from a different life, one where he hadn't been confined to a cell and stripped of his dignity.

He kicked off his shoes and sank onto the mattress, the softness almost disorienting after weeks of the hard cot in his cell. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to relax. His body, still tense with the remnants of anxiety, slowly began to unwind as the familiarity of the space enveloped him.

The scent of the linens—freshly laundered with the same detergent he'd always used—triggered a wave of unexpected emotion. He closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow as exhaustion overtook him. It wasn't just physical fatigue; it was the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from weeks of constant stress, uncertainty, and isolation.

His mind, despite its exhaustion, churned with fragmented thoughts. The conditions of his house arrest loomed large in his mind, as did the memory of Granger's sharp voice and unyielding gaze. Her daily visits would begin tomorrow, a fact that filled him with equal parts dread and curiosity.

What would she want from him? What new indignities would she heap upon him? And yet, part of him—the part that had grown strangely accustomed to her presence—found the idea of seeing her again oddly grounding.

Sleep pulled at him, heavy and irresistible. As he drifted off, his last coherent thought was a faint hope that, for tonight at least, his dreams might offer an escape from the mess his life had become.

He slept deeply that night, cocooned in the rare comfort of his own bed. But even in sleep, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future lingered, like shadows waiting to pounce the moment he woke.

••••••••••••••

Without the conveniences of magic or Muggle electronics, Malfoy's daily life quickly descended into an unmanageable mess. The Ministry had been clear: no magic, no wand, and certainly no enchanted objects. They had gone so far as to confiscate anything that could even hint at being charmed, leaving him in what felt like the Stone Age.

It didn't take long for him to realize just how reliant he'd been on magic for every aspect of his life.

The first disaster came when he tried to cook himself breakfast. The kitchen was stocked with basic ingredients, a knife, and a rudimentary gas stove—nothing else. He stared at the stove for several minutes, trying to decipher how it worked.

"Do I… summon the fire manually?" he mused aloud, searching for something to ignite it. He eventually found matches but struggled to light one without snapping it in half. When he finally got a flame, he leaned too close, accidentally singeing a lock of his platinum hair.

"Bloody hell!" he yelped, swatting at his head.

By the time he managed to light the stove, the eggs he'd attempted to crack had slid off the counter and onto the floor. He groaned, picking up the slimy mess with a towel.

Cleaning was an equally disastrous affair. Without a wand, he had no way to summon a broom or vanish dust with a quick flick of his wrist. Instead, he was left with an old broom and a rag.

He started with the floors, pushing the broom aimlessly around the flat. "Why does this take so bloody long?" he muttered, already sweating after just ten minutes. When he finally finished sweeping, he realized he had no idea how to properly mop. He filled a bucket with water and dumped an excessive amount of soap into it, resulting in a frothy, slippery mess that he promptly slipped on.

"Merlin, just kill me now," he grumbled, sprawled on the wet floor.

Even simple things like laundry became Herculean tasks. He found a small washboard tucked into a cupboard, the kind of contraption he'd only ever seen in history books. He stared at it in horror.

"You're telling me people actually used this… by hand?" he said to no one in particular.

Reluctantly, he filled a basin with water, added soap, and threw in his clothes. He scrubbed one shirt against the board for all of thirty seconds before his arms began to ache.

"This is barbaric," he muttered, tossing the shirt back into the basin. By the time he finished, his fingers were pruned, his back ached, and the clothes were nowhere near dry.

Without any enchanted objects to assist him, the evenings stretched endlessly. He tried to pass the time by reading the books provided by the Ministry, but they were all painfully dull—mostly tomes on reintegration or histories of post-war reconstruction.

"I'd rather read The Monster Book of Monsters," he muttered, tossing a book onto the table.

The silence of the flat was oppressive. Without magic to liven up the space, it felt cold and empty. He found himself talking aloud just to fill the void, his voice echoing off the bare walls.

"Well, Granger, I hope you're bloody pleased with yourself," he said one evening, glaring at the ceiling as though she could hear him.

By the end of the week, he was at his wit's end. His flat was a mess, his clothes were damp and wrinkled, and he'd burned more meals than he'd eaten. He sat at the small kitchen table, head in his hands, muttering to himself.

"This is hell. Literal hell. And the Ministry thinks this is rehabilitation?"

He glanced at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and groaned. "No magic, no enchanted objects, and no bloody electronics. How do Muggles even live like this?"

For the first time in his life, he felt completely and utterly defeated.

••••••••••••••

In his world, Granger was an enigma, a living paradox that defied explanation. She was salvation cloaked in judgment, a relentless force of reckoning wrapped in the guise of mercy. Her hands were both balm and blade, mending the cracks in his broken existence even as they carved away the parts of him that no longer served. She was his angel—his fierce, unyielding savior—and yet, every time she entered the room, it was as though she wielded a scythe, cleaving away pieces of his soul.

To him, Granger was the kind of angel that didn't grant deliverance without cost. Her presence was a weight he both dreaded and yearned for, a duality that left him reeling. She towered over him now, arms crossed, her gaze piercing through him like shards of glass.

"You're not helpless, Malfoy," she said coldly, her voice a mixture of pity and disdain. "Stop acting like you are. You're capable of more than this self-pitying mess you've become."

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. "You say that like it's simple. Like you haven't already stripped me bare, taken everything that made me who I was, and burned it to ash."

Her eyes hardened, her expression unflinching. "Good," she said, her tone cutting. "That version of you deserved to die."

Her words struck him like a physical blow, but he couldn't deny them. As much as they stung, they were the truth. The man he once was—the arrogant heir, the sneering antagonist, the boy who had reveled in power and privilege—had no place in this new world. And she was right to carve him away piece by piece. The problem was, she did it so ruthlessly that he wasn't sure there would be anything left.

And yet, he couldn't hate her for it. He couldn't summon the venom he once would have, the knee-jerk anger that had once defined him. Instead, all he felt was gratitude, raw and uncomfortable. She was destroying him, yes—but she was also rebuilding him. Her sharp words and relentless demands were small deaths, each one stripping away the detritus of his former self, forcing him to confront the person he could become.

"You've made me into a ghost," he murmured, his voice quiet but laced with something fragile.

"No," she replied, her tone as steady as steel. "I've made you human."

Every demand she made, every sharp-edged word she spoke, was a crucible, forging him anew. She wasn't just an angel of destruction—she was an angel of transformation, the kind that didn't just grant mercy but demanded penance.

She was the angel of small deaths, each encounter with her another step in the long, painful journey of unmaking and remaking himself.

But he couldn't ignore the truth lurking just beneath the surface. There was a second edge to her presence, a darker comfort that he didn't fully understand. If her sharpness was death, then her fleeting moments of softness were his codeine scene—a temporary reprieve from the agony of his transformation. Those rare moments when her voice gentled and her eyes softened were a balm he craved, even as they left him aching for more.

He didn't know what terrified him more: the small deaths she delivered with such precision, or the moments of salvation she granted afterward. Either way, he was caught in her gravity, unable and unwilling to escape.

And so he let her kill him, piece by piece, because deep down, he knew she wasn't just his angel of death. She was his only chance at life.

•••••••••••••

By week two, he was an absolute wreck. His once-polished demeanor had disintegrated into a pitiful mess of unwashed hair, wrinkled clothes, and a permanent scowl of defeat. The flat reflected his mental state—chaotic, unkempt, and utterly hopeless.

When Granger barged in, it was like a storm rolling through, her sharp eyes scanning the disaster in front of her.

"What in Merlin's name is this mess?" she demanded, wrinkling her nose. "You look like absolute shit. Go take a shower and shave. Now."

Draco, slouched on the couch in a pair of sweatpants that had seen better days, glared at her. "You go and shave! Leave me alone, Granger."

She raised a brow, unimpressed. "I waxed my cunt just for you. You stink. You look like you've been dragged through the Forbidden Forest backward. Twice."

He flushed, glaring harder. "Why are you always criticizing me? Do you enjoy it or something?"

A sharp laugh escaped her lips as she crossed her arms. "Criticizing you is the only form of entertainment I have in this dreary arrangement. What else am I supposed to do? Bake you cookies and sing you lullabies?"

"I don't know, maybe just leave me alone for once?"

"Leave you alone to wallow in your filth? Not a chance. You're twenty-five years old, Malfoy! How have you managed to survive this long without learning basic life skills? This," she said, gesturing around the flat, "is weaponized incompetence. And newsflash, it's not my kink."

He stood up, his face red with anger. "I'm not weaponizing anything, Granger! I am incompetent, alright? I don't know how to do all this—this muggle nonsense! I grew up in a bloody manor with house-elves! I didn't have to clean or cook or… or shave on command!"

She rolled her eyes, unfazed by his outburst. "Oh, boo-hoo, poor little pureblood who's never had to lift a finger. Your sob story is so tragic. Should I get out my violin and play you a tune?"

He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. "I didn't ask for this, you know! I didn't ask for you to barge in here and run my life like you're my bloody parole officer!"

"Oh, please. You didn't ask? Let's not forget who begged me—on their knees, I might add—to get them out of that hellhole. I don't see you rushing to return, so maybe show a little gratitude."

"Gratitude? For what? Your constant nagging? Your holier-than-thou attitude?"

She smirked, leaning against the counter with an air of superiority. "Yes, actually. Because without my constant nagging, you'd be dead in a week. Face it, Malfoy, you wouldn't last two days without me."

He opened his mouth to argue but found himself at a loss. He hated that she was right, hated how she could reduce him to nothing with just a few sharp words.

"And another thing," she continued, as if she hadn't already obliterated his pride. "This whole 'woe-is-me' routine? It's getting old. You're not the first person to hit rock bottom, Malfoy. The difference is, most people claw their way back up. You're just sitting there waiting for someone to do it for you."

He slumped back onto the couch, defeated. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll shower. Happy now?"

"I'll be happy when you stop smelling like a troll's armpit and looking like a knock-off hobo," she shot back. "Oh, and while you're at it, clean this pigsty. Your mother didn't send that welcome basket so it could rot in the corner."

He shuffled into the bathroom, muttering a string of curses that barely reached her ears. She smirked triumphantly, leaning against the kitchen counter and glancing at her watch. She was keeping track of how long he'd sulk in there. When the minutes ticked past twenty, she crossed her arms and called out, "Planning to drown yourself in there, Malfoy? Because I don't have the paperwork for that."

He didn't reply, but the sound of running water continued.

By the time the bathroom door creaked open, it had been exactly 44 minutes—yes, she was counting. She arched an eyebrow as he stepped out, wet hair tousled, steam trailing him, and absolutely stark naked.

He froze mid-step when he spotted her still standing there. For a moment, his eyes narrowed, as though questioning why she hadn't left. Then, with a smirk that spoke volumes about his arrogance, he shrugged, making no move to cover himself.

"Enjoying the view, Granger?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in reluctant amusement. "Oh, God. Ew." She waved a hand dismissively toward him. "I see that you're a 'shower.' At least tell me you're a 'grower'—otherwise, that's tragic."

His smirk widened. "Don't worry, darling," he drawled, stepping forward like he owned the room. "This cock will shut your mouth for a while. Trust me, you'd be singing a different tune."

Hermione snorted, unimpressed. "As I was saying," she shot back smoothly, "I'd rather fuck your daddy. Now go put some clothes on before I vomit."

His smug expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "You're not my mother, you know. You can't just order me around."

"No, I'm not your mother," she replied with a pointed look. "Because unlike her, I've already beaten some sense into you. Now, for the last time, get dressed. Unless you plan on spending your 'house arrest' as a streaker."

He glared at her, his jaw tightening. "I fucking hate you, Granger."

She tilted her head, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Oh, wasn't I the love of your miserable life just a few weeks ago? What happened to all the 'my angel, my savior' nonsense?"

"That was then," he snapped, stomping off toward his room. "This is now."

"Well, I'm glad to see you're capable of learning," she called after him, clearly enjoying herself.

The sound of a door slamming was her only response, and she chuckled under her breath. She knew he'd be dressed and sulking in five minutes flat, and the mental image alone was enough to keep her entertained.

"Brat," she muttered, shaking her head as she picked up the stack of papers she needed to review. "This is going to be a long six months."

••••••••••••••

The tension between them remained unchanged, simmering beneath every word and look. They had developed a routine of insults and deflections, a twisted game neither of them seemed willing to break.

One evening, she arrived at his flat far later than usual, almost midnight. The room was dimly lit, and she spotted him lounging on the couch in a pair of gray sweatpants she'd never seen before. It was... startling. He looked different—human. Gone was the polished arrogance she was used to; instead, there was something raw, unguarded about him.

He turned his head toward her as she stepped inside, his expression unreadable. "I thought you weren't coming," he said, his tone casual but with a thread of something softer underneath.

"Unfortunately, I have to come every day. Ministry orders," she replied, brushing off her coat and tossing it over a chair.

He smirked, leaning back lazily. "It's almost tomorrow. Cutting it close, aren't you? Busy schedule? Or just forgot about me?"

"Didn't you have your goodnight wank already?" she retorted, dropping her bag onto the table.

He arched a brow, his smirk widening. "In fact, I did. Thinking about you, as always."

"Good." She met his gaze evenly, her lips curving into a sly smile. "As you should."

For a moment, silence fell between them, and then, to her surprise, he actually laughed. Not the sarcastic chuckle she'd heard before, but a genuine, warm laugh that softened his face. It startled her more than his sweatpants.

She blinked. "Merlin's beard, you're capable of laughter. Alert the press."

He rolled his eyes but kept smiling. "Don't make it weird, Granger."

Pulling herself together, she reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle. "I brought you something," she said, holding it out.

He eyed the bottle warily. "I don't need it," he said stiffly, though his gaze lingered on the wine.

"Oh, stop it," she scoffed, stepping closer and placing it on the coffee table. "You need it. It's wine. And it's decent, so don't waste it."

His eyes lit up as he reached for the bottle, his fingers brushing against it almost reverently. "Ah, thank Merlin. You are my angel, Granger."

She snorted, crossing her arms. "You live in some serious dissonance, Malfoy. Yesterday I was the bane of your existence, and today I'm your savior."

He shrugged, pouring himself a glass without hesitation. "It's called nuance. You should try it sometime."

She rolled her eyes and sat down across from him, watching as he sipped the wine. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the taste, and for a moment, she saw someone entirely different—a man who wasn't haunted by his past, but just... alive.

"Don't get used to this," she said, breaking the silence. "I'm not your personal sommelier. This was a one-time thing."

He opened one eye, smirking over the rim of his glass. "I knew it. You do like me."

"Don't push it," she warned, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

The tension between them had always been palpable, a mix of sharp wit and barely disguised irritation. But tonight, something felt different. There was an ease in their usual biting exchanges, a thread of warmth that neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Still, she couldn't ignore the faint flutter in her chest when he looked at her—not the smug smirk or the mocking glint in his eye, but something softer, though it was quickly masked by his usual arrogance.

"Would you like to have a glass of wine with me?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, though his smirk hinted at mischief.

She arched a brow. "Your whores not available tonight?"

"You're my favorite of them all."

Before he could even finish the sentence, her hand flew out, delivering a sharp slap to his cheek. The sound echoed in the small flat, and he stumbled back a step, his eyes wide with surprise.

"I apologize!" he blurted, rubbing his cheek. "That was… that was out of line."

She crossed her arms, glaring at him. "Trust me, you deserved it. But we both know I would be your favorite."

He tilted his head, his lips curling into a grin. "Obviously."

Shaking her head, Hermione watched as he disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with two glasses. With a flourish, he opened the wine bottle, the cork popping out effortlessly.

"Cheers, darling," he said with mock elegance, raising his glass before downing the entire contents in one go.

She rolled her eyes but raised her glass. "Cheers." She sipped hers slowly, watching as he poured himself another glass, then another, until he was visibly tipsy, his cheeks flushed and his posture more relaxed than usual.

He leaned back on the couch, swirling the wine in his glass. "So, tell me…"

She groaned. "Here we go."

He ignored her, his grin widening. "Do tell me, though—are you and the Weasel only shagging in missionary?"

She nearly choked on her wine. "What the fuck? For the record, no. Not that it's any of your business. And also, we haven't been together for years."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh? So, he's got a small cock then. Makes sense. Tell me, am I bigger than him?"

"Excuse me?!" she spluttered, glaring at him.

He shrugged, a smug look on his face. "It's a valid question."

She groaned, setting her glass down. "For Merlin's sake, yes, obviously. But we broke up after the war. He's… well, he's sweet but a little dumb."

He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Why did you even get together with him? You've always been better than him in every way. You should've been with someone who could challenge you, someone with the same… academic abilities."

She snorted, shaking her head. "Puppy love, I suppose. And who, pray tell, should I have been with?"

He straightened, puffing out his chest. "The second-best in the class, of course. Someone who actually deserves you."

She raised an eyebrow. "You've never been in love, have you?"

He paused, his smirk faltering for a moment. "I don't think so. No."

She sighed, standing up and brushing off her clothes. "Enough about my personal life and your… measurements. I'm leaving. Go to bed."

His grin returned instantly. "You're not my mother."

She smirked over her shoulder. "I could've been if I'd fucked your father."

"Granger!" he exclaimed, his face reddening. "Stop saying shit like that! It's not funny. Even my mother didn't want to shag him."

Hermione laughed, waving him off as she grabbed her bag. In perfect French, she tossed over her shoulder, "Ugh, dégoûtant. Bonne nuit. Je te verrai demain."

Draco, surprisingly, responded in fluent French, "Bonne nuit, mon amour."

She froze for a moment, turning back with a glare. "Shut up," she snapped, switching to English before slamming the door behind her.

And yet, as she walked down the hallway, she couldn't quite shake the small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips.