Atonement

Title: Atonement
Author: Emily Waters
Recipient: SoftObsidian74
Pairing: Hermione/Draco
Characters: Hermione, Draco, Ron.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, D/s, humil, oral, abuse, M/F, violence.
Summary: DH, post-epilogue. Twenty years after the war, Draco is plagued by remorse. In his mind, Hermione is the only one who can grant him the absolution he is seeking. Hermione takes him up on his offer ... to suffer for her.
Author's Note: This is a short-ish Dramione, about seven chapters in total. Top!Hermione, bottom!Draco. Written for SoftObsidian74, baby, this one is for you! Those of you reading Ashes of Armageddon, no, I haven't abandoned that story, honest! Still working on that.

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One

He had been wrong.

No, not just wrong. Dead fucking wrong about everything. The unsettling realization began plaguing him shortly after the war, but in the last three years it completely consumed him.

Pureblood ways. Old traditions. The superiority of wizards. All of it was nonsense.

The pureblood crowd had followed a half-blood Dark Lord. How did he not recognize the hypocrisy of it sooner? The fact that the Dark Lord in question turned out to be a complete lunatic only underscored their collective stupidity.

In the end, it was the half-blood Potter who defeated the Dark Lord; and the blood protection of a mud... Muggle-born woman that had turned out to be the key ingredient in winning the war.

And... Draco's half-blood godfather had sacrificed himself for his godson, and for Potter.

Merlin. It hurt to think about it, even now, some twenty years later.

Twenty years later, the Malfoys were not doing so well. He had to admit that, if only grudgingly, and if only to himself. He was lucky that Greengrass had agreed to marry him, in spite of the fact that almost their entire fortune had been spent on keeping Lucius out of Azkaban. They couldn't even afford to keep the Malfoy Manor. They were poorer than the Weasleys had ever been. How pathetic was that?

It's not that his life was entirely miserable. Greengrass Hall was a comfortable enough place. And Daphne... Daphne was a good enough wife. Aloof, at times unfriendly, and not the one to cling to old-fashioned notions of sexual fidelity, as her ongoing affair with Zabini had demonstrated, but she had been a loyal companion for the past fifteen years. She stood by Draco's side unwaveringly when most of his former acquaintances and friends had fled from him like rats from the owlry, eager to distance themselves from a former Death Eater. And Daphne was a good mother to Scorpius. Daphne and Draco didn't have the mindboggling, soul-melting intimacy he somehow expected from marriage, but they never had the bitter, angry fights he had dreaded either. It was a comfortable union of mutual support and understanding. Which was just as well, as at this point in life, Draco was in no shape to handle anything else. He just lived day by day.

And one day was very much like any other. He reported to work in the morning, at 8:15 sharp, as his shift started at 8:30. He had a coffee with his squib supervisor, caught up on the news, and started his assignment. Filing. Nine hours of filing daily, at the rate of seven galleons per hour. In his younger days, he would have scoffed at such a prospect. Now... he had to admit, it was all he could hope for, and he was desperate to hold on to even that.

Pansy had challenged him once. She asked, what happened to his aptitude for Potions, his expertise with nonverbal spells, his familiarity with Dark Arts? Nothing happened to them, Draco said a little sharply. It's just that... abilities and aptitude did not matter much, when one's public image was defined by the Dark Mark engraved on one's forearm. The bottom line was, his skills aside, no-one would hire him. He had started his own business six years after the war, only to see it come to ruin a year later. His reputation made people reluctant to enter dealings with him. Honestly, who would purchase healing remedies and restorative potions from a former Death Eater? What had he been thinking?

When his Potions Shop in Diagon Alley had folded, and the surviving Weasley twin had purchased the space for the expanding Weasley Wheezes business, Draco had a bit of a meltdown. Not exactly a nervous breakdown, more like he just stopped eating, locked himself in the bedroom, and waited for death. He wasn't even sad. He just wanted it to be over, but had no energy or focus to even cast some sort of deadly spell on himself. He just sat and waited.

Daphne rescued him of course. She told Blaise Zabini, who told Cho Chang, who told Marietta Chang, who told Luna Lovegood, who told Neville Longbottom, who told Ginny Potter, and who finally, told Harry Potter. Four days later, Percy Weasley showed up at Prince Hall and handed Draco a new job offer. Filing Clerk with the Ministry of Magic, entry-level, at the rate of pay of six galleons per hour. Take it or leave it, Percy had said, and departed promptly. Daphne's raised eyebrow, and picture of Scorpius on the wall urged Draco to take the offer. He did.

Since then, day after day, he reported to his job, performed his duties meticulously, and went home. He had began to feel something like quiet contentment in this mind-numbing, repetitive labor, and the contentment might have lasted, if not for her.

Hermione Granger (who had never changed her last name to Weasley), was now working for the Department of Public Health and Safety with the Ministry of Magic. She looked much younger than her thirty-eight years of age. Her body was not worn out by guilt and dread, in fact, it never even betrayed any strain at bearing two of the Weasley's children. She still looked like she was in her mid-twenties, and her mind was as sharp as ever.

He saw her from time to time. They would pass each other in the hallway, or see each other in a public meeting. They would acknowledge each other with small words, but even though he was genuinely warm and friendly towards her, her tone of voice in addressing him was always cold and formal. Not rude or openly hostile in any way. Just.. cold.

Of course it was cold, Draco thought bitterly. It's not like she had any reason to be friendly to him. There had been too much bad blood between them. He had wronged her too many times, and in too many ways. He had no right or reason to dream of anything other than strained formal courtesy. And yet, he still dreamed of something other. He dreamed against all reason and against all hope.

He was not in love with her, or even infatuated with her. He just longed for... something other. Something more. At times, in his bleakest moments, he imagined himself falling to his knees before her, and begging her forgiveness. And from time to time, in his fantasies, she would place her hand on his shoulder and tell him, It's over. You are forgiven. You don't need to hurt anymore.

As years went by, her career grew and developed, while Draco's own was at a predictable standstill. She was now Heading the Department of Public Health. The newspapers cited her as the next in line to run for the office of the Minister of Magic. Draco had no doubt that she would win, if she chose to throw her name in the proverbial hat. Just like Draco had no doubt that five years from now, he would still be a filing clerk.

Merlin, it hurt.

It did not hurt because of any perceived injustice. Draco knew that he did not really deserve any better. This was... fair, he had to admit that.

But who knew that fairness could hurt so much?

It would hurt a lot less, he thought, if his fantasy came true. If he could summon the courage to beg her forgiveness, and if she could find the pity to grant it to him, a great measure of his pain would go away. He knew that much.

Insane, he thought. That was it, he was going insane.

She would never forgive him. He knew that all too well. He could tell from the way she looked at him. Not really at him, but more like through him, as if he were an inconvenient inanimate object that had to be acknowledged and tolerated for some odd reason.

His day was over. He filed the last of the parchment scrolls in the vault, and locked the room. He headed towards the Floo, and stood in front of it numbly, staring at the flickering of the flames.

He was only thirty-seven. Same age as his godfather was when he had died. But ... Draco's destiny was different. For Draco, there would be no redemption, no forgiveness, no salvation. There would be only enduring, day after day, until his body would finally decide to shut down and end this.

“Do you mind?”

He nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. He turned around and looked at her.

Her face was as composed as ever. She held a large pile of papers in her hands. She was clearly heading home.

“Pardon me,” Draco said.

Her dark eyes stayed cold even as they were reflecting the brightness of the flames dancing in the hearth.

Breathless, Draco found himself drowning in her gaze. If only...

Would he dare... ?

Could he...?

“You are blocking the Floo,” she said calmly.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I was wondering... if .. we could talk one day, Ms Granger.”

She looked at him with something like distant curiosity. “Oh?”

“Would you be willing to...”

“I am available to any employee of the Ministry by appointment. See my secretary for details. I believe I have an open space coming up in three weeks' time.”

He looked down. “Of course. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Now, if you will excuse me...”

He stepped aside and watched her take the handful of the Floo powder and toss it into the fire. A moment later, she was gone, disappearing in the flames.

Draco rested his elbow against the mantle of the hearth and smiled.

He had waited for twenty years.

He could wait another three weeks.

To Be Continued...