The Redemption of Draco Malfoy

Chapter One: The Dark Lord's Task

Draco Malfoy woke, on the morning of his first day back at school, from a dream he couldn't remember. He sat up straight and rolled his neck from side to side, rubbing the cramps from it with his fingers. Try as he might, he couldn't grasp hold of the fleeting thread of the dream, and soon it had vanished from his mind completely. The fact that he couldn't recall the details when they sat so tantalisingly on the edge of his subconscious, may have been the reason why he was in a particularly irritable mood that morning.

From the light shining around the edges of his heavy velvet drapes, Draco could tell that it was a bright and brilliantly sunny day; it made him sick to his stomach. Yawning deeply, he swung his legs off the bed and planted his bare feet on the stone floor. It was piercingly cold, and comforting. Draco slid his pyjama top over his head and padded into the bathroom.

Half an hour later he entered the cavernous dining hall of Malfoy Manor, the room in which Lucius insisted on taking their breakfast, despite the fact that conversing with one another required a good deal of yelling. But then that didn't bother Draco in the slightest; conversation with his parents tended to be rather dull.

Draco's footfalls echoed off the walls as he made his way to the table and took his seat. His father sat at the opposite end of the table, his legs crossed to the side and his face hidden behind the morning's Prophet. His mother, on their right, was nibbling on a corner of toast as she flipped through one of her fashion catalogues. She raised her head for long enough to greet Draco.

"Good morning, Draco."

"Morning, mum," Draco mumbled in reply.

The door to his left opened, admitting one of the servants carrying a silver platter of what would undoubtedly contain toast and Diricawl eggs as well as a goblet of freshly squeezed pumpkin juice. The house elves would have done the cooking of course, but Lucius, like most people, demanded that they stay out of sight at all times, which was why the human servants brought in the dishes. Draco recalled that this one's name was Preston. He let the man set the plate and goblet down before him and then watched as he trekked back through the door he'd come through.

After a quick glance at his father, Draco dug into his Diricawl eggs, careful to lean forward, keep his elbows off the table, his back straight, chin up, napkin laid. Meals at the Manor had always been a formal affair, regardless of the occasion. It was second nature to Draco now. As he expected, Lucius soon lowered his paper, his pale face looking as sharp and refined as ever.

"Draco," he said commandingly, "I take it you are packed for school."

"Yes, father," Draco replied, making sure to make eye contact as he spoke. He wished his father wouldn't prattle on, so that he could eat his breakfast. But, alas...

"Be ready by ten o'clock," his father continued. "I'll not wait any longer. If you're late, you walk to school."

"Yes, father." Lucius eyed his son curiously, as though expecting him to raise an argument over the matter. When he didn't, Lucius settled for, "Back straight!"

Draco made an attempt to straighten his already perfectly straight back. Git, he thought towards his father.

* * *

As Lucius Malfoy waited inside the open coach for his son to descend the Manor's stairs and climb inside, he remembered the meeting he had had, not two days ago, with the Dark Lord. He had apparated to familiar spot in the woods, then walked the path to the ancient castle that lay hidden from muggle and wizarding eyes alike. There, in the uppermost chamber, he had spoken to Lord Voldemort.

"Lucius," the Dark Lord had said, "you are punctual, as ever."

"Of course, my Lord. I would not wish to keep you waiting."

Voldemort nodded once, then began pacing around the room. "These are dark times, Lucius," he said in his snake-like voice, "but not dark enough. Too often our plans have been foiled by that muggle-loving fool Dumbledore and his pet whelp Harry Potter. I tire of failure, Lucius."

Lucius remained silent; whatever point the Dark Lord wished to make, he would make it soon. It was best not patronise him with sycophantic supplications in the mean time.

"Tell me," Voldemort continued, "what is the best way to kill a man? Or a boy, come to that." The question, Lucius realised, was rhetorical. He kept silent. "Is it through the body?" Voldemort asked. "Do you break it? Or the mind? Do you destroy it?" He turned around to pace the other way. "These methods work, yes; but they are prone to failure; to error. To ineptitude." The last word was spoken with a reptilian distaste. Voldemort turned to face his servant. "But there is another way," he said. "A better way. The heart, Lucius. You attack the heart. For without the heart, the mind cannot work, and the body cannot function."

Voldemort's lips turned upward into a cruel smile. "Or, the human mind...and body...I should say. Their entrances lie within the heart." Lucius began to wander where this conversation was going. "We have neglected this option for too long, Lucius." He took a step forward, black robes sliding across the stone. "If we cannot break Harry Potter's body, and we cannot destroy his mind - we will crush his heart. You know, of course, how we do that, Lucius?"

"Through those he loves," Lucius replied dubiously. "But, my Lord - they are protected, just as the boy himself is."

"Yes," Voldemort hissed. "They are. Within the walls of that pitiful school they cannot be harmed, and we cannot get inside. But..." Voldemort raised a thin, tapering finger, "we do not need to."

"My Lord?"

"Your son, Lucius," said Voldemort, "how old is he?"

Lucius' brow creased with confusion. "H-he is fifteen, my Lord"

"Fifteen," Voldemort hissed. "Well past the age at which he should have entered my service."

"Y-you told me yourself, my Lord - that he was not ready."

"I did," said Voldemort. "But now, I think, he is."

"What would you have him do, my Lord?"

"Is it not obvious, Lucius? He can tread where we cannot. He can pull the strings we cannot touch; sow the seeds we cannot plant. He...can bring me Harry Potter's friends."

"My Lord," said Lucius, "do you think it wise to entrust such a task to the hands of a child?"

Voldemort turned his fiery gaze on Lucius. "Your son is weak, Lucius," he said, "and naive. But he could be my greatest servant, if he is properly educated." The emphasis Voldemort put on the word 'if' made it clear to Lucius that it was not an 'if' at all, but rather a 'when' with the promise of dire consequences for non-compliance.

Lucius hated to cite the flaws in the Dark Lords' plan, but there was no other choice. "But my Lord," he said, "Draco is nothing short of a bitter enemy to Potter and his friends. Surely, he could never get close enough..."

"If he is truly your son, Lucius, then he will find a way." Lucius swelled with the compliment, as much as it was possible to swell in the presence of the Dark Lord. "Potter is a hero," Voldemort continued, "there will be no shortage of prey."

"The Weasley boy is closest, my Lord," Lucius pointed out. "But the Weasley's have old magic running through their veins. He too, will no doubt be protected. And Draco will not find it easy to get close enough to the wretch."

Voldemort ran a contemplative finger along his pale chin. Then he turned his slitted eyes on Lucius. "The girl," he hissed. "She is a Mudblood. She holds no such protection. She will be easy picking." Without waiting for further argument, Voldemort stipulated his demands. "You will tell your son to bring me the girl. With her in our hands, Harry Potter is as good as mine." Voldemort allowed himself a malevolent smile. "Ah, the tired predictability of the hero. He will rush blindly into oblivion to save one he loves. And in it, we shall wait."

Lucius bowed. "As you wish, my Lord." He turned and started for the door.

"Lucius," Voldemort called after him. Lucius turned to look over his shoulder at the twisted, inhuman creature that he called master. "Failure is no longer an option," Voldemort warned. "Bring me the girl!"

* * *

The carriage that carried the master and heir of Malfoy Manor to Kings Cross Station trundled along smoothly, pulled, as the Hogwarts' carriages were, by Thestrals. These Thestrals, however, were entirely different to the ones that Draco routinely saw at school. They were larger, for a start, with red eyes, rather than white. The most salient difference, however, was that they were bred using dark magic, so that their reputation as omens of death was rather more than superstition. They had been in the Malfoy family for generations now, living lives that were unnaturally extended by the charmed blood they fed on. As a boy, Draco had been terrified of them; but that was until his father's influence had manifested itself, giving Draco a natural affinity for all dark creatures. Even so, Draco found them to be quite impressive in all their dark splendour.

Inside the carriage, he sat opposite his father, staring out the one-way window at the passing scenery. He was glad to be going back to school. The summer had been long and boring, full of formal evenings, dark arts lessons, fencing practice and a particularly memorable execution of a rogue hippogriff, whose head Lucius had insisted Draco remove. He could still remember the blood.

"Draco," his father said, breaking the silence inside the carriage. Draco looked up. "There is something we must discuss." Sensing no protest in his son's demeanour, Lucius continued. "As you know, the Dark Lord is becoming increasingly impatient with the efforts to capture the Potter boy."

Oh, great, thought Draco, more about the Dark Lord. I never get tired of hearing about him. And he's thrown in a mention of Potter to make my day.

"...And as such," Lucius continued, telling Draco he had obviously missed something, "he requires you do a task for him."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "A task? What sort of task?"

"You will," - and his father never did ask - "bring to him Potter's female friend. The Granger girl."

Draco could have coughed up his tongue. "What!?" Clearly, Lucius did not appreciate such a crude exclamation.

"You will do this, Draco," he said menacingly. "There will be no questions."

On the contrary, Draco had plenty of questions. The reason why Voldemort would want to get his scaly hands on Hermione was, of course, obvious. But why did he need Draco to get her for him? Why not just blow up the school and fish her out of the wreckage? What the hell did he expect Draco to do?

"You want me to take Hermione Granger to Lord Voldemort?" The pain sliced up through Draco's chest and threatened to split apart his skull.

"What have I told you about referring to him by name?" Lucius hissed. "He is the Dark Lord to you, until you prove yourself worthy of his name."

"Sorry, father," Draco said, rubbing his temple. He waited until the pain had subsided before he spoke again. "How am I supposed to get Granger to Vol...the Dark Lord." His father's eyes flashed maliciously.

"I will be in touch," he said, "with instructions that you will follow. Until that time, your energy would best be spent," Lucius smirked, "building up a rapport with her."

Again, Draco could have coughed up his tongue. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Find...a way," Lucius said sinisterly. "Use your head for once, boy. The Malfoy's are not wanting in resources. Bribe her, beg her...seduce her if you must. Just find a way."

Draco goggled incredulously at his father. Surely he couldn't be serious. He was not left the wonder however, as the carriage slowed to a halt and the doors swung open to reveal the hustle and bustle of Platform nine and three-quarters.

* * *

"Ron!" Hermione snapped.

"Sorry," said Ron, picking the side of Hermione's trunk back up and helping her carry it onto the train.

"Honestly," said Hermione, shuffling forward with the other end in hand, "every time a pretty girl walks by you just leap off the face of the planet."

Ron flushed slightly. "I wasn't looking at girls," he insisted. "It's your bloody trunk. What do you have in this thing? It weighs a tonne."

"Just my books," said Hermione. "And my clothes of course, and Crookshanks' basket and toys. And some extra reading."

"How...much...extra reading?" Ron said between breaths as he lugged Hermione's trunk up the stairs of the train.

"Just a few books I thought might come in handy during the year."

"And you bought how many copies of each?"

Hermione shot Ron a 'very funny' glare. "Where's Harry?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder as though expecting to see him.

"Dunno," said Ron. "He said he'd be right behind us."

"Mmm," Hermione agreed. "Maybe he's talking to Ginny."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Right, because she always has a lot to say to him." Hermione giggled in reply.

It wasn't until they had loaded both of their trunks onto the train and laid claim to an empty compartment that Harry caught up to them.

"There you are," said Ron, taking his feet off the seat opposite him so that Harry could sit down. "What took you?"

"Your dad wanted a word with me," said Harry.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Again? What was it about this time?"

"The usual," said Harry. "Stay out of trouble, don't go looking for trouble - make sure you don't cause trouble." He shrugged. "He's just looking out for me."

"Exactly," Hermione added. "And he does have a point."

"What do you mean by that?" Ron asked, rounding on her.

"I just mean that...maybe once in a while it's a good idea to remind Harry not to go looking for trouble. Not that he ever does, of course," Hermione added, smiling apologetically at Harry. He never showed outward dislike for the advice of others, but Hermione could tell that he thought they were all just stating the obvious. She relaxed back against her seat as the two boys delved into Quidditch talk.

* * *

Draco stared listlessly at the two boys facing him in his compartment on the Hogwarts Express. "Wow, Goyle," he said to the one on the left, "that sounds like a really exciting summer. I wish I'd got bitten by a Doxy and told me all about it." Draco rolled his eyes at the goofy look on Goyle's face and turned to look out the window.

Was it just him, or were these two buffoons even more irritating than usual? These questions never seemed to work for Draco. The latter, he thought. It was never just him.

When at last a final shrill whistle sounded outside, the slamming of doors could be heard all along the train as it started to move. Soon they had picked up a good deal of speed and Platform nine and three-quarters had faded away into the distance. As Goyle launched into yet another blow-by-blow account of his supposed fight with the Doxy that had sunk its venomous teeth into his hand, Draco knew it was time to leave. He slipped out of the compartment door with the promise that he would be right back. Not bloody likely, he thought to himself.

He set off wandering down the aisle towards the front of the train, in the hopes that he'd be able to talk his way into an early visit to the snack cart. The witch at the front was adamant in her refusal however.

With an extravagant sigh of impatience, Draco wandered back in the direction he had come, a chocolate frog clutched secretively beneath his arm. Once he was out of sight of the domineering witch, he tore open the wrapper and shoved the chocolate amphibian rather inelegantly into his mouth. As he chewed it, he extracted the card from the wrapper and flipped it over. He scoffed.

Albus Dumbledore. Typical. He screwed it up in his fist, threw it on the floor and resumed walking. Almost immediately he bumped into something solid.

"Watch where you're going!" he spat, choking down the remainder of the chocolate frog and glancing up at the offender. "Granger," he hissed.

The buck-toothed, bushy-haired Mudblood glared back at him with narrowed eyes. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"A bit of bloody walking room would be nice," Draco snapped. "You must've gained weight over the summer - you're taking up the whole bloody aisle."

Unfortunately, the remarks didn't seem to faze Hermione. "Still as spiteful as ever, I see. Feel free to drop dead of a wasting disease in the next thirty seconds."

Draco took an exaggeratedly unsteady step backward and clapped his hand over his heart. "You hurt me, Granger," he mocked. "Your insults usually aren't so sharp."

"Does that include the time I slapped you?"

Draco's bones flushed with fury. She should have given up and thrown a 'Shut up, Malfoy' or a 'God, you're impossible' his way by now. But she hadn't. So, Draco thought, Granger likes to play the game.

"Any excuse to touch me, I suppose," Draco drawled.

"Only in your dreams, Malfoy."

"Nightmares, more like."

"Whatever," Hermione conceded. "I'll leave you to your sordid delusions." She brushed roughly past Draco and disappeared down the other end of the train.

Draco took a deep, steadying breath and was reminded of his father's orders. How the hell am I supposed to build a rapport with her? Moreover, why would I want to? Maybe I'll just let the Dark Lord throw me a little vengeance party instead. It's got to be better than this.

That was a lie, of course. Draco had seen what his father could do to disobedient servants, and if the Dark Lord could do worse, then Draco didn't want to be one of those disobedient servants. Should he have been sowing the seeds of friendship with Hermione instead of jousting verbally with her? He couldn't even fathom the idea.

* * *

"What's wrong with you?" Ron asked when Hermione returned from her visit to Ginny's compartment.

"Malfoy," Hermione spat, dropping down heavily into her seat.

Ron's eyes flashed, his body tensing. "What'd he do to you?"

Hermione turned to him. "Hmm? Oh, nothing. Well, nothing that requires a pitchfork expedition." Hermione patted his knee to return him to his seat. "He just reeled off the usual snide remarks. Hasn't changed a bit."

"You were expecting him to?" Harry asked.

"Well, no," conceded Hermione. "But I thought that, with Voldemort rising again, he might wake up and see what his father is really like."

"Are you joking?" asked Ron. "He probably spent his summer selling chocolate frogs to raise money for You-Know-Who's latest get-Harry-quick scheme."

"I 'spose you're right," said Hermione. Shrugging, she extracted a book from her bag and buried her nose in it.

* * *

By the time the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade Station, the sky outside was an inky black that was fast giving way to night. The students exited the train in the usual disorderly fashion, many of them having to wait several minutes before there was room enough to open their compartment doors. Draco, however, had no such trouble.

Swinging open his compartment door - passers by be damned - he strolled lazily down the aisle to the rear exit of the train. He was able to lose Crabbe and Goyle in the throng of people that were making their way towards the supposedly horseless carriages, or - in the case of the first years - the miserable looking boats that floated silently on the lake's edge.

Draco couldn't help but smile when he saw a young second year boy walk past one of the carriages and run into something invisible. He dropped like a sack stones to the ground, scratching his head and looking about in confusion.

Draco picked his way through the rows of transports, the Thestrals turning their heads to sniff at his clothes as he passed - obviously detecting the scents of the Malfoy Thestrals on him. He found a carriage near the back which appeared to be rather empty, apart from his fellow Slytherins Malcolm Baddock, Theodore Nott and...

"Hi, Pansy," Draco drawled dejectedly.

"Draco," Pansy said happily as he climbed inside. "I was looking for you on the train. I couldn't find you anywhere."

"Can't imagine why," Draco replied. He leaned his shoulder against the side of the carriage and directed his attention outside as Pansy recounted the tale of her summer holidays.

The carriages started to move, the skeletal horses pulling them along the path to the Hogwarts castle. Draco had to admit that even after four years, the sight of the towering citadel looming above the hill was still rather awe-inspiring. The huge wrought iron gates with the decorative gargoyles parted to let them through, swinging shut again once the last carriage had passed.

"And then I went to Gulliver's on Knockturn and they wanted to charge me sixteen galleons - can you believe that?"

"Mmm - of course," Draco replied without knowing what it was he was replying to.

He lifted his gaze as the enormous turrets and spires of the castle climbed into view, followed by the base of dark edifice. Against the starry backdrop the castle looked like a living creature, perched ominously on the hilltop with its stony hide absorbing the moonlight. Draco felt himself smile.

* * *

"Home at last," said Harry, staring up at Hogwarts.

"Yeah - it's good to be back," Ron agreed.

They lapsed into silence, each of them staring up at the castle, as the carriages wheeled in to a stop outside the immense oak front doors. The students trickled out in their hundreds and climbed the steps toward the Entrance Hall. The doors opened to admit them, the din rising higher and higher as people's voices began to reverberate off the distant walls. The crowd veered right and made for the Great Hall, where several brief announcements and a feast awaited them.

Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the Great Hall together, making their way over to the Gryffindor table where they were greeted by many of its residents. They found seats and joined in the casual conversation.

Hermione traded holiday experiences with Parvati and Lavender while Ron and Harry engaged in yet more Quidditch talk with Seamus Finnigan. When Lavender was engrossed in her own esoteric story of a dress she bought, speaking more to Parvati than to Hermione, Hermione took the chance looked up and around the hall. As her eyes drifted over the Slytherin table, she was surprised - to say the least - to see Draco Malfoy staring back at her with a blank expression. He didn't bother to hide it of course, but merely turned away after she had seen him. Still riled about what happened on the train I bet. Hermione turned her attention back to the Gryffindor table just as a hush fell over the crowd.

The first years were led in, shaking and stumbling and looking far smaller than Hermione remembered first years to be. The Sorting Hat was placed on a stool in front of the teachers' table where it sat limply for several seconds before opening its mouth and breaking into song.

Hermione listened jovially with the rest of the hall as the hat had its annual minute of fame. After it had blared the last note, Professor McGonagall carried the stool out amidst a roaring of applause. When she returned, she unrolled a sheet of parchment and reeled off the kids' names.

One by one they were sorted and found an empty seat at their designated table. Hermione made the scattering of Gryffindor students that sat near her feel welcome, remembering her own Sorting when she had talked a mile a minute to calm her tightly wound nerves. Once the last student had been sorted into Ravenclaw, another hush fell over the hall as Dumbledore stood

He wore a beaming smile that, though dulled slightly by sombreness, was nevertheless warm and encouraging. "I will dispense with any long-winded pleasantries," he announced in his sonorous voice, "as I know we are all ready to tuck in to this wonderful meal. So...enjoy." He resumed his seat and the noise level grew once more.

"That was rather terse," Hermione commented.

"The man obviously listens to his stomach," said Ron, rubbing his own and waiting eagerly for the food to arrive. When it did, his plate was piled high with food in less than a minute.

Sighing as Ron tried to stuff an overly large drumstick into his mouth, Hermione reached out for the bowl of peas.

* * *

Vile girl, Draco thought, glaring at Hermione across the hall. And I have to befriend that. He shook his head and looked down at his empty plate. He realised he wasn't hungry - not after stuffing himself with so many sweets on the train. He pulled the bowl of peas towards him, loaded one onto his fork and bent it back, ready to launch it at some unsuspecting person. Potter was too far away, of course, but then any of the Hufflepuffs would make a good target. Draco aimed at Justin Finch-Fletchley, paused, then lowered the fork. These juvenile pranks just didn't hold any thrill for him anymore. "Damn," he muttered, dropping the fork and pea on the table.

The rest of the meal passed as blandly as the start of it had. Draco mostly kept to himself, contemplating the problem of how to earn Hermione Granger's trust. Within thirty seconds he had again deemed the task impossible, and joined in the Quidditch talk that was raging amongst the boys around him.

When at last the food had vanished, Dumbledore rose once more. "Again," he said, "I have very little to say, other than welcome to another year." He smiled around the hall warmly, though there was more tiredness in his eyes than Draco remembered. "As always," he continued, "I must remind you that the Forbidden Forest is off limits to all students, as is any part of the castle after hours - barring the bathrooms of course." A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. "Mr. Filch has posted an updated list of banned objects - magical or otherwise - on his office door; Hogsmeade permission forms should be handed to your head of house; and...oh, yes...Quidditch trials will begin during second week." There was a rumble of conversation among the Quidditch players in the hall.

"As for our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore said, incurring another hush, "as he is not arriving until tomorrow, I will leave you in suspense, for now." People began to murmur excitedly, predicting who the new teacher would be. "I think," said Dumbledore, "that that is all. Have a pleasant night." He renewed his smile and resumed his seat.

The din of conversation rose once more in the hall as students stood to leave and make their way to their dormitories. Once Draco had exited the hall, he was accosted by Pansy.

"Draco, there you are. The Prefects are supposed to be showing the students to their dormitories."

"Huh? Oh, right."

"Where's your badge?" Pansy asked.

"Must've left it in my bag," said Draco. "I'll run along and get it." He slipped off in the crowd and headed to his dormitory, with no intention of retrieving his badge. He didn't need a power trip to inflate his ego - he was Malfoy after all.

The Slytherin dormitory was, as usual, several degrees cooler than the rest of the castle, which Draco found quite pleasant. It was the kind of atmosphere his father would approve of; keep your guests uncomfortable while you appear perfectly at ease. That is the key to negotiation. Not that his father ever negotiated.

The decor too, was something his father would have approved of: sharp and dull and very, very grey. Draco made his way to his own room - his own Prefect's room - and sat down on the bed to rest his feet. He gazed out the window where the sky was now dotted with stars and much darker than it had been when they'd left the train. As they often did when he looked into darkness, words his father had said came back to him. I will be in touch, with instructions that you will follow. Until that time your energy would best be spent building up a rapport with her. Find a way. Sighing deeply, Draco reclined back on his bed and closed his eyes, ready for sleep.