The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

The day of his memory examination loomed like a thundercloud, and when it finally arrived, he was an anxious wreck. He paced his flat in circles, muttering under his breath, as though rehearsing lines for an interrogation. There was no logical reason for his nerves—he knew he hadn't hidden the time-turner, hadn't done anything that would incriminate him further—but the mere thought of someone rifling through his memories felt like a violation of the last shred of dignity he had left.

When the Aurors arrived to escort him, he didn't even attempt his usual sarcasm. Instead, he followed silently, the knot in his stomach tightening with every step closer to the Ministry. The elevator ride to the Department of Mysteries felt interminable, the hum of the lift only amplifying the pounding in his ears.

Hermione was waiting for him in the designated room, seated at a sleek metallic table, her arms crossed and her expression as unreadable as ever. Seeing her should have been a relief—she was, after all, his supposed savior in this mess—but instead, her presence only made his anxiety worse. She had a way of looking at him that made him feel like an unruly schoolboy caught red-handed.

"Malfoy," she greeted, her tone curt. "You look pale. Nervous?"

He rolled his eyes, trying to muster some semblance of his old bravado. "Must be the lighting in this drab dungeon you call the Ministry. It's very unflattering."

Her lips twitched, almost as though she was suppressing a smile. "Or maybe it's the fact that your memories are about to be laid bare. But don't worry, I'm sure the guilt of your past isn't eating you alive or anything."

He scoffed, but it came out weaker than he intended. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely," she replied, her eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and disdain. "But don't flatter yourself—it's not about you. It's about justice."

Before he could retort, the door opened, and a stern-looking wizard stepped in, holding a small, rune-inscribed Pensieve. The sight of it made his heart skip a beat. This was it. The moment where every embarrassing, painful, or regrettable memory could be dredged up and examined like some grotesque exhibit.

"Mr. Malfoy," the wizard began, "please take a seat. This process is painless, though I imagine it might be… uncomfortable."

His glare didn't waver as he sank into the chair across from Hermione, but the bravado he clung to felt paper-thin. She leaned back slightly, her posture deceptively casual, through her eyes betrayed the razor-sharp attention she was paying to his every move. The intensity of her gaze was unnerving, like being dissected under a magnifying glass, and it only amplified his unease.

The stern-looking Ministry official stepped forward, holding the glowing, rune-etched device that would delve into the depths of his memories. "Mr. Malfoy, we'll be examining your memories comprehensively, starting after your trial following the war. We're particularly interested in any interactions related to the time-turner, but all relevant moments from the past six years will be reviewed."

"Of course you are," he muttered, sarcasm laced through his tone. But the bite was dulled by the apprehension tightening his chest.

The official ignored him, motioning for him to focus. She tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Relax, Malfoy. Unless you've got something to hide, this should be easy."

He met her gaze, his voice dripping with venom. "Oh, I'm sure you're going to have the time of your life snooping around in my head, Granger."

"Only if it's interesting," she quipped back. "Now cooperate, or this will take all night."

The magical device hummed faintly as it neared his temple, and he braced himself. The tugging sensation that followed was strange, like an invisible thread being pulled from his mind. It wasn't painful, but it was deeply unsettling, as though pieces of himself were being unspooled and laid bare. The silvery strands of memory swirled into the Pensieve like liquid moonlight, forming an iridescent vortex.

The process began.

The memories began to unfurl like threads of silver silk, pulling him back to a day he wished he could forget. He stood beside Granger and the Ministry officials, helplessly watching his trial play out in vivid detail. The younger version of himself—a pale, trembling shadow of a boy—stood before the Wizengamot, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of shame and fear.

Every detail of that day came rushing back, sharper and more unbearable than he remembered. The haughty stares of the pureblood elite seated in the gallery, the quiet murmurs of disdain from those who had suffered at the hands of the Death Eaters, and the heavy, oppressive silence that filled the courtroom whenever his name was spoken.

He could feel the weight of his family's legacy dragging him down like a stone tied to his neck. He could hear the unspoken accusations in every sneer, every judgmental glance. His voice quivered as he answered the panel's questions, his words hollow and stripped of confidence. The memories of that boy—the boy he used to be—filled him with equal parts pity and disgust.

But amidst the overwhelming blur of faces and voices, one figure stood out, sharp and unyielding against the storm: Hermione Granger. Her presence was seared into his memory, a bright, defiant beacon against the suffocating darkness of that day.

In the Pensieve, the scene shifted to Hermione taking the stand. The crowd became a haze, faces fading into irrelevance, until only she was left in sharp focus. Her younger self—just seventeen—was a perfect mix of nerves and determination. Her hair, a riotous mess of curls, framed her face like a lion's mane as she stepped forward, her chin held high despite the murmurs that rippled through the courtroom.

The sight of her at seventeen hit Draco like a punch to the gut. She was younger, fiercer, and yet strangely fragile in the way only war survivors could be. And yet, there she was, speaking for him. Defending him.

Her voice rang out clearly, steady despite the tremor of emotion underlying her words. "Draco Malfoy," she began, her tone authoritative yet empathetic, "was a boy raised in a system of prejudice and hatred. While his choices cannot be excused, they can be understood. He was as much a victim of his circumstances as anyone else in this war."

He remembered how the words had made him feel at the time: equal parts relief and resentment. He hadn't asked for her defense. He hadn't wanted her pity. But now, watching it unfold through the Pensieve, he realized just how much she had risked for him. She hadn't been obligated to speak for him, to vouch for his character, or to paint him in a sympathetic light. Yet she had.

"And yet," she continued, her gaze sweeping the courtroom but landing firmly on him, "in the final hours of the war, Draco Malfoy made the choice to lower his wand. He made the choice to let us go. He made the choice to step away from the violence he was raised to embrace."

The younger Draco's face burned with shame as the crowd murmured. He had felt stripped bare under her analysis then, and even now, in the present, it was no easier to watch. His hands clenched involuntarily as he relived the moment, his mind warring between gratitude and humiliation.

"Draco Malfoy deserves a chance," Hermione concluded, her voice unwavering. "Not because of who he is, but because of who he could be."

The silence that followed was deafening. He remembered the moment clearly—the way his stomach had churned, the way his mother had gripped his shoulder with bony fingers, the way he had forced himself to keep his head high despite wanting to disappear.

In the Pensieve, his younger self looked up at her, his grey eyes meeting hers for the first time that day. There was something unspoken in that look—a mix of disbelief, confusion, and a flicker of something he didn't have the courage to name. Even now, watching it as an observer, Draco could feel the sting of it. She had believed in him when no one else did. And that belief had cut him deeper than any wand or word ever could.

The scene faded, leaving him back in the cold, sterile room of the Ministry. The memory was over, but its impact lingered, raw and unyielding. She stood nearby, her expression unreadable as she watched the Pensieve settle. When she finally turned her gaze to him, there was no smirk, no sharp quip. Only silence.

The official and Granger scrutinized each scene carefully, their faces impassive.

The Pensieve swirled again, and the scene shifted to flashes of his brief marriage to Astoria. Their wedding, small and subdued, unfolded like a memory locked behind frosted glass. It had been more of a transaction than a celebration—a quiet ceremony attended by only the closest family members, devoid of the joy and spontaneity one might expect of a union. The image of Astoria in her wedding gown, her fragile frame almost swallowed by the silk and lace, lingered painfully in his mind.

The memories rolled on, revealing their quiet dinners in the vast dining room of their shared flat. The conversations were polite but distant, the kind exchanged between acquaintances rather than lovers. There were no passionate arguments or laughter ringing through the halls. Instead, there was a pervasive silence that grew heavier with time, settling over them like an unspoken understanding of what their marriage really was: a partnership built on obligation rather than affection.

His heart clenched as the memories peeled back the layers of their struggles. Astoria's fragility came to the forefront—her health waning despite his every effort to shield her from stress. He recalled the nights he spent watching her sleep, her breaths shallow, the dark circles under her eyes deepening as time passed. He had felt helpless, unable to stop the slow erosion of her vitality, and that helplessness gnawed at him even now.

The Pensieve didn't shy away from the more painful moments. Her quiet tears after a doctor's visit, the way she tried to brush them off with a small, apologetic smile. The times she caught him staring at her with worry etched into his features, and the way she would place a hand on his arm and whisper, "I'm fine, Draco. Stop looking at me like that."

And then came the memories of their bond dissolving, not in a fiery explosion but in a gradual, inevitable unraveling. It wasn't her illness alone that had driven them apart—it was the weight of their mutual loneliness, the realization that neither of them could give the other what they truly needed. He could still feel the ache of that final conversation, her soft voice breaking as she told him, "We're not what either of us hoped for, are we? But that's okay. I think… I think we deserve to find what makes us whole."

The memory lingered on her face, a mixture of resignation and a strange kind of hope, before the scene faded. He found himself gripping the edge of the table in front of him, his knuckles white as the Pensieve calmed once more. The echo of her voice lingered in his ears, and for the briefest moment, he felt as though he were back in that flat, watching her walk away for the last time.

It wasn't just the dissolution of a marriage he mourned—it was the loss of the person she could have been if life had been kinder to her, and the man he might have been if he had been braver.

The Pensieve dragged him deeper into the past, and the memory of Lucius Malfoy's sentencing came rushing back like a tide. He saw himself, a mere twenty-year-old, standing beside his mother in the courtroom. Her grip on his arm had been so tight it left bruises, but he didn't care. His own hands had trembled as he watched his father, gaunt and hollow-eyed, being led to the defendant's chair.

The trial had been swift and brutal. Lucius had no allies left, no favors to call in. His crimes were too numerous, his complicity too undeniable. The judge's words rang in Draco's ears even now: "Lucius Malfoy, for your role in the war and your allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, with no possibility of parole."

The memory twisted like a knife in his gut. He had tried to keep his face impassive, to emulate the stoic Malfoy composure his father had always demanded, but the moment the verdict was announced, something inside him had cracked.

He remembered his father's face as they led him away—there had been no defiance, no arrogance left. Only a haunting emptiness, a man resigned to his fate. Lucius hadn't even looked back at him or Narcissa, and that hurt more than the sentencing itself. It was as if his father had already written them off, or perhaps he couldn't bear to see the pain in their eyes.

In the aftermath, he had felt adrift. The man he had idolized as a child, who had been his model of power and control, was gone. Azkaban would strip him of whatever remained. He mourned not just his father's imprisonment but the shattering of the illusion he had built his life around. Lucius Malfoy, the invincible, had fallen.

He remembered returning to the manor after the trial. The silence had been suffocating. The once-grand halls, filled with relics of a powerful family, now felt cold and barren. His mother had poured herself a glass of wine and sat by the fire, staring into the flames, her expression unreadable. He didn't know what to say to her. What could he say?

And so he had retreated to his room, locking himself away like a prisoner in his own home. That was when the real mourning began—not just for his father but for the life he thought he would have. He had always imagined Lucius guiding him, showing him the ropes of the family legacy. Instead, all he had inherited was a tarnished name and a hollow title.

And then came the scenes that surprised even Granger.

The Pensieve shimmered again, shifting into another sequence of memories that he instinctively wanted to claw back and bury deep within himself.

The first scene unfolded in the dimly lit drawing room of Malfoy Manor, the grand hearth blazing with an unrelenting fire. There was Draco, sleeves rolled up, methodically burning everything that reeked of darkness and corruption. The cursed artifacts that had been passed down for generations, the sinister books filled with unspeakable spells, even the hauntingly lifelike portraits that whispered secrets in the dead of night—he fed them all to the flames.

Each item burned with a distinct, eerie glow, as if reluctant to die. Yet he didn't flinch. His movements were steady, almost mechanical, as he tossed the remnants of his family's legacy into the fire. There was a grim determination in his eyes, a silent vow that he would not be tethered to the shadows of his lineage. The act wasn't just cathartic—it was desperate, a plea for absolution in a world that saw him as nothing more than a remnant of the war.

And yet, she noticed something peculiar. Among the memories, there were fleeting moments where he hesitated. His hand would hover over certain objects, his expression conflicted. It wasn't attachment; it was regret. Regret for what those items represented, regret for the choices that had led his family to this point. But he pushed through it every time, throwing each cursed relic into the inferno with a finality that spoke volumes.

The memory shifted, and she found herself standing in a makeshift study—smaller and far less grand than she imagined for a Malfoy. The desk was cluttered, strewn with papers, ink bottles, and—most surprisingly—a modest stack of The Daily Prophet. At first, the scene seemed innocuous enough, just him reading the papers. But as the memory sharpened, Hermione noticed something that made her pause.

Each page he turned bore her name. Hermione Granger Spearheads House-Elf Rights Campaign. Granger to Lecture at Magical Law Symposium. Minister's Advisor Hermione Granger Earns International Acclaim.

He sat at the desk, his grey eyes scanning the articles with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He wasn't just reading; he was absorbing. Every word about her seemed to hold his attention hostage, his jaw tightening as he read of her accolades and achievements.

And then there was the photo—a candid image of Hermione from an event she barely remembered, tucked neatly into one of the articles. His fingers lingered on it, tracing the edges of the page as if it might disappear. His expression was unreadable at first, but the longer Hermione watched, the more she saw the cracks. There was frustration there, certainly—whether at her or himself, she couldn't tell. But beneath it was something softer, something he probably didn't even recognize himself.

Fascination. Curiosity. And just the faintest flicker of admiration.

Another memory came, this one more humiliating for him. He was standing in front of a mirror, practicing what looked like a speech. His tone was sharp at first, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, Granger, what a surprise! Saving the wizarding world again, are we?" But the mockery faded, replaced by something quieter. He stared at his reflection, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You're insufferable, you know that? Always bloody perfect…"

The memory shifted again, this time showing him folding up one of the articles with her photo and slipping it into a drawer, hidden beneath a pile of mundane parchment. It was an act of someone who didn't quite know what to do with his feelings. He wasn't sure if he hated her, envied her, or… wanted to be near her.

She couldn't help the smirk that crept onto her face as the memories played out. Whatever he might claim about her being a "know-it-all" or "insufferable," the truth was written all over his actions. Somewhere, in the tangled mess of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about her.

The memories faded, and he stood stiffly beside her, his jaw clenched, clearly dreading her reaction. 

"Well, this is unexpected," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't know I had a fan club."

He flushed but said nothing.

The memories shifted again, plunging Hermione into a scene she could hardly believe. There was Malfoy, dressed in plain clothes, seated stiffly in a circle of strangers in a dimly lit room. It was an anger management class—a group therapy session, by the look of it—and the awkwardness radiating off him was almost tangible.

He sat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched, clearly fighting the urge to bolt for the door. The facilitator, a kindly older woman with a clipboard, prompted him to speak.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said gently, "Would you like to share today?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his sharp features twisting into a scowl. "I don't see the point," he muttered. "Talking doesn't fix anything."

The facilitator smiled patiently. "Talking isn't about fixing—it's about understanding. Why don't you start by telling us about the last time you felt angry?"

The memory flickered, and suddenly he was speaking, though reluctantly. "Fine," he said, glaring at the floor. "It was… a week ago. Some bloke bumped into me on the street and didn't apologize. I wanted to hex him on the spot, but—" He stopped short, realizing his audience was full of Muggles. "I, uh… restrained myself."

She couldn't help but smirk as she watched him struggle to explain his magical outbursts without revealing their true nature. He looked completely out of his depth, surrounded by people who had no idea what a hex or a wand even was. And yet, he stayed.

The memory shifted again, this time showing him alone in a small, sparsely furnished room. It wasn't the grand library of Malfoy Manor, but a modest space filled with books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. The titles flickered past as if on fast-forward, their spines revealing a surprising range of authors: Orwell, Austen, Dostoevsky, Baldwin.

Granger watched as he sat on a worn armchair, a book in his lap, his expression one of quiet concentration. The firelight cast a warm glow over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face. He turned the pages slowly, his fingers lingering on certain passages as if they held answers to questions he hadn't yet dared to ask.

The next scene showed him scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, his brow furrowed in thought. Late nights spent reading had transformed into early mornings spent writing. The desk before him was cluttered with half-finished essays, ink-stained quills, and scraps of parchment covered in hastily scrawled notes.

He wasn't just writing for the sake of it; he was pouring himself onto the page. His thoughts were raw, fragmented, as if he were trying to make sense of his fractured world through the act of creation. There were pieces about his family, his regrets, his fears. But there were also moments of startling introspection—lines that revealed a depth of self-awareness she hadn't expected.

One memory lingered longer than the rest. It was a quiet morning, and he was seated by a window, the golden light of dawn spilling over him. A notebook lay open in his lap, and he was writing with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He paused, rereading a line, and for the first time, Hermione saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

She leaned closer, trying to make out the words on the page. They were messy but legible: "Redemption is not a destination—it's a process. And maybe it's not for them. Maybe it's for me."

When the examination concluded, he slumped back in his chair, feeling as though he'd been hollowed out and left to dry in the wind. The memories—years of his life laid bare, dissected, and scrutinized—had left him raw. He could still feel the phantom pull of the Pensieve, like a hook in his chest, dragging pieces of himself to the surface that he would have preferred stayed buried.

The official handling the procedure, an older man with a no-nonsense demeanor, nodded curtly, clearly satisfied. "Everything checks out," he said, his tone clipped as he packed away the equipment. "You're free to go about your house arrest, Mr. Malfoy."

He barely heard him. His gaze was fixed on her, who now stood across the room, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. She didn't look triumphant, which surprised him. She looked thoughtful, almost troubled, as if she'd seen something in his memories that unsettled her.

"Well," she said finally, breaking the silence, "you're not hiding the time-turner. But you are hiding a lot of other things, Malfoy."

Her words hit him like a dart to the chest, sharp and precise. He forced himself to sit up straighter, plastering on a smirk that he didn't feel. "Careful, Granger. Sounds like you're starting to understand me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted immediately, but her tone lacked its usual bite. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers drumming against her arm as if she was debating whether or not to say more. Finally, she added, almost reluctantly, "But maybe—just maybe—you're not as irredeemable as I thought."

He blinked, caught off guard. Of all the responses he'd anticipated, that wasn't one of them. Her words stirred something unfamiliar in his chest—a flicker of hope, fragile and unwelcome. He opened his mouth to respond, but she was already turning to leave.

"Granger—" he started, but the door clicked shut behind her before he could finish.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the empty space where she'd stood. The silence in the room was suffocating, pressing down on him like a physical weight. He leaned forward, running a hand through his hair, his thoughts swirling as chaotically as the memories in the Pensieve.

He hated how exposed he felt, like she'd peeled back layers of his defenses and caught glimpses of the person he didn't even want to admit existed. The memories she'd seen weren't just moments—they were pieces of him, fragments of a life spent trying to claw his way back to something resembling humanity. And now she knew.

Her parting words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced. "Maybe you're not as irredeemable as I thought."

He let out a bitter laugh, leaning back in the chair. Trust Granger to deliver both an insult and a compliment in the same breath. But even as he scoffed, he couldn't deny the small, stubborn ember of warmth her words had left behind.

Not irredeemable. The idea was laughable—and yet, somehow, it made his chest ache in a way that felt almost... hopeful.

"Bloody Granger," he muttered to himself, standing up and pacing the room. The woman was insufferable. Brilliant, yes. Fierce, undeniably. But insufferable all the same. And yet, she'd just defended him—not just in front of the officials, but to herself.

He shook his head, his mind replaying the way she'd studied him, her gaze piercing but not unkind. She'd seen him—truly seen him—and somehow decided he wasn't a lost cause. For someone like him, who'd spent years convincing himself he was beyond saving, that was a terrifying thought.

The night stretched on, but sleep didn't come easily. Instead, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide whether Hermione's words were a challenge or a lifeline. Maybe both.