Redemption

Draco isn't a religious man. He knows nothing of God or Christ or faith in a higher being. He thinks it's rubbish to place all of your beliefs, all of your hopes, all of your fears in the hands of an unseen force. He's heard that a good lot of Muggles do this, that they pour all of their passion and pain into devotion to a God that they will never hear, see, or touch.

Draco prefers to place his beliefs, hopes, and fears in the hands of someone real. He prefers to pour all of his passion and pain into devotion to one person. This person is his saviour, and he is real.

His name is Harry Potter, and he is Draco's redemption.

Before Draco was of age to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he was tutored by a very excellent witch from the south of Wales. In addition to basic magic theories, maths, history, and social skills, she imparted to him the idea that words are power, perhaps even more powerful than magic. Under her tutelage, Draco voraciously read every primer he came across that dealt with vocabulary in an effort to help him become as powerful as possible.

That was many years ago, but, even today if he closes his eyes, he can plainly see on the parchment page the definition of the word 'redemption'.

re demp tion (r-dmpshn) n.
1. The act of redeeming or the condition of having been redeemed.
2. Recovery of something pawned or mortgaged.
3. The payment of an obligation, as a government's payment of the value of its bonds.
4. Deliverance upon payment of ransom; rescue.
5. Christianity. Salvation from sin through Jesus's sacrifice.

He hasn't planned any of this. Certainly, Draco never planned anything in his life. His father and mother had always taken care of every detail of his life, leaving no room for questions or dissent. Draco was told how to dress, how to act, how to speak and he complied without question. After all, one of the things that was burnt into his brain at an early age is that his parents are always right and that he is not to question them. So Draco did as he was told. He wore his robes just so, earned no less than top marks in his classes, became engaged to a pureblooded witch to insure the family name would be continued, became branded with the Dark Mark, and joined the ranks of the Death Eaters. All because it had been planned for him and he was expected to comply.

It wasn't until he was in the thick of one of the first battles in the War that he had an epiphany. He had a choice. His parents were not there in that field on the outskirts of Devon. They were somewhere in Ireland with Voldemort and Draco was not under their watch. He didn't have to be there, fighting for a cause he never really cared to support. Well over the age of eighteen, he was his own man and could make decisions for himself. No longer did he have to fight his father's battles for him or live his life for someone else.
Draco was his own man. He was his own man, and he could make his own decisions. Intending to start right then and there, Draco fled the scene of the battle, and set out to atone for the things he had done.

Weasley nearly killed him one night, when Draco had suddenly appeared in the middle of a field. Honestly, Draco wouldn't have blamed him if he had. After all, he did bear the Dark Mark on his arm and, although he hadn't actually received it until he had left school, it had been widely gossiped about at Hogwarts during their seventh year that he'd taken the mark that summer. Luckily for Draco, Weasley had been nearly blinded by rage at his presence and, thus, his aim was off a bit. Avoiding hexes a bit more easily than he would have, had Weasley had control of himself, Draco then trained his own wand on Weasley, ordering him to take him to see Potter.

As he had suspected, the Gryffindor refused and told Draco that he would just have to kill him, because he was never giving Harry up. Giving him a scathing look, as Draco was quite annoyed with Weasley's posturing, he then busied himself fashioning a random rock into a Portkey, intent on taking Weasley to Hogsmeade, where it had been rumoured that some of this Order resistance was stationed, when a familiar crack sounded. Someone had Apparated nearby. Straightening quickly with his wand at the level of his eye, Draco found himself eye-to-eye with The Boy Who Lived.

Unlike Weasley, Potter didn't try to kill him. Oh, Weasley insisted that Draco deserved death, or worse, on account of who he was and what he'd done, but all Potter did was shake his head and tell Weasley that there were uses for Draco Malfoy. That shut Weasley up straight away, and he busied himself sending some ridiculously little owl off with a hastily-scrawled note, while Potter disarmed him.

A day after that, Potter and Weasley took him via a Portkey to some dank and dusty hole in the ground. It was there that his ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus Lupin, performed many spells, and tests on him. Once they were certain that he bore them no harm, Potter returned Draco's wand to him, while Granger and some vile-mannered witch with atrocious pink hair de-briefed him with battle plans and schematics.

It seemed that his atonement would begin by switching sides in the great War.

When the War was over, and Good had triumphed over Evil, he should have felt sated. He should have felt at peace with himself.

But Draco doesn't feel either of those things. There is something deep inside of him that felt restless and unworthy. It is as if he has lost his place in the world along the way, and it is dark, and he can't make anything out.

Life in the wizarding world returns to normal, as much as normal can be after a massive loss of population and the destruction of so much. His mother, he has heard, drank a phial's worth of hemlock that she kept on a chain about her neck in a lachrymatory. His father, it is rumoured, was felled by Remus Lupin, ran through by a sword. Barbaric but completely befitting Lucius a death that mirrors the way he lived his life. Granger has returned to an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's, while Weasley got snatched up by the Chudley Canons, signing him on as Keeper because their previous one was killed in the War. Potter has rented out a flat on Diagon Alley and has taken up a different job each week.

As for Draco?

He has moved in with Potter. At first, he told himself it was because he didn't have anyplace else to go. His family's moneys and assets were frozen by the Ministry until there could be a full investigation as to how deep Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's corruption and lies went.

But even then he knew otherwise.

And with every look exchanged between the two of them, every touch, every kiss...Draco knows he wasn't wrong about this.

Draco knows he wasn't wrong to place all of his beliefs, all of his hopes, and all of his fears in Harry's hands. It is right to pour all of his passion and pain into his devotion to Harry. Harry had saved him that night out in the countryside. Harry had cast aside judgement and accepted Draco for who he was, regardless of the crimes he had committed in the past.

How can he possibly be wrong when, night after night, Harry saves him again and again?

Every night is different and unexpected. Nothing is planned; they leave their lovemaking up to lust and Fate, and Draco welcomes the chaos of uncertainty for once in his life.

He trusts in Harry implicitly, because he cannot trust himself without Harry's guidance. And Harry is more than happy to guide Draco, and teach him things that no one, not even his most excellent schoolboy tutor, could have possibly imagined.

Harry runs his hands reverently over Draco's face, lips following the ghosted trail of touch and laying careful, caring kisses on lidded eyes and cheeks and nose, and Draco sighs, wondering if perhaps his tutor had been wrong. Words are power, but touch, he is beginning to think, is the All Mighty. Palm meets palm for Holy Palmer's kiss, and hips align and then shift, allowing room for exploration and experimentation. Fingers entwined and squeeze, while bodies rub against one another, causing a warmth and tightness in Draco's trousers from which he does not shy away. Hands hook in waistbands and yank form closer to form. Bodies roll on top of one another, while mouths struggle for dominance, tongues duelling with one another. Fingers unthread, and clothes are divested.

Head to toe. Skin to skin. Flesh against flesh. Perfect and pure and beautiful and, above all else, worthy.

Yes. Worthy.

Harry's chest molds against his back and there is a pushing and stretching sensation in him, and Draco feels saved all over again. It is painful, but pleasant at the same time, because he wants to do this for Harry, he wants Harry to do this for him and he simply wants.

Breath is warm on the nape of his neck, and Draco sighs again, relaxing muscles here, there, and everywhere. Those hands that touched his face so gently move over the plane of his back and cup his arse and then there is that blinding moment of blisstorturesearingpainbrilliance, and he knows that Harry is in him, he is around him, and they had become one. One essence, one entity, one body.

Welcoming this invasion, this jointure, Draco moves back against Harry, and their voices rise together to the heavens in a strained and joyful Hallelujah. Everything is nothing, and nothing is everything, and Harry is the light in his darkness.

Yes. Light.

Draco cannot see, for the light is so very bright, and he is on fire and everything is moving. Harry's hands guided him back and forth, and he feels a tongue run along his spine, lapping up the sweat that was pooling there. Voices rise again, his muscles clench down on Harry, on them and he - they - come together at last, and collapse in a pile of languid limbs.

And, as he does each night under Harry's guidance of this sort, Draco feels sated. He feels at peace with himself. He feels these things, because Harry makes him feel calm and deserving and atoned.

Harry is the light in the darkness.

Draco's deliverance.