Atonement

Two.



He knocked on her door and waited for a response. He wondered if she would make him wait, or if she would cancel or delay the appointment. To his surprise and relief, she did no such thing.



“Enter,” her cool voice said as soon as he knocked.



He opened the door and entered the room, more nervous than an errant schoolboy reporting to the Headmaster's Office.



He looked at her.



“Hi,” he said timidly.



She nodded and pointed to the chair in front of her desk, which he took instantly, feeling like his legs were made out of cotton, or vapor.



“Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “How can I help you today?”



“I... needed to talk to you,” he stammered. Merlin, this was awkward as hell. The invisible wall between them was unbearably thick, and he had no idea of how to even begin to dismantle it.



“Go on,” she offered. “Do you have a concern regarding a Public Health issue, or is this a general Ministry matter?”



“Neither,” Draco said. “It's .. a personal matter.”



She frowned. “You should have mentioned it before making the appointment. You see, it is inappropriate for me to spend my work time discussing personal matters, Mr. Malfoy. That's not in my job description.” Draco stared at her in absolute misery. “Mr. Malfoy, this isn't what the Minister is paying me for,” she said coolly.



“I – realize that,” Draco conceded. “I just.. well, I didn't know how else to ... I mean, you are always so busy, and...”



She shook her head disapprovingly. “Well, I suppose since you are already here, I can use up my lunch break for this conversation. Now, go on. What is it?”



He took a deep breath so sharply that his teeth ached.



“I am sorry,” he said quietly.



“That's fine,” she said. “Now, get on with it, please.”



“No, this is it.... I wanted to say that I am sorry.”



Her eyebrows rose slightly to indicate a small measure of surprise.



“Sorry... for what?”



“Everything,” he said.



Long, uncomfortable silence hung between them. She gave no response, and did not look at him again. The invisible wall between then grew even thicker, even stronger.



“Say something,” Draco begged.



She stiffened slightly at his words.



“What do you want me to say?” she asked with clear distaste. “That I accept your apology?”



“I .. don't know,” he admitted painfully. “I guess not, not if you don't mean it.”



A small, bitter smile graced her lips and vanished without a trace.



“How could I possibly mean it at this point?”



He stared at her blankly.



“It's been twenty years,” she pointed out with that cool unwavering logic of hers. “Twenty years since Harry saved your miserable hide from Azkaban. Twenty years, since everything was over. And you are asking me now? Why now?”



He bit his lip, unable to give a response. She continued bitterly,



“Are you hoping that when I become the Minister of Magic, you will get a promotion of some sort? That your wretched career will finally go someplace?”



“No!” he said quickly. “It's not that at all... I ... just .. wanted to say that I know I was wrong. I thought you would want to hear this, even if... you can't forgive me.”



“No, it's not that I can't forgive you,” she finally conceded, looking at him calculatingly. “Simply put, I don't want to.”



He thought about it for a while, weighing her words, allowing the distinction to sink in.



“I understand,” he said at last.



“No, you don't,” she said flatly. “You don't understand, and you never will. You don't know what it was like, to be on the receiving end of your cruelty, to be taunted and bullied by you and your ilk every day, for seven years. You have no idea. You never will. You think you are suffering now, because nobody will give you a glamorous job, and because people aren't fawning over you like they used to. Trust me. You aren't suffering. You don't know the meaning of the word.”



He stared at her speechlessly, taken aback by the icy fury she'd unleashed on him.



Her face was slightly flushed, the pink coloring her cheeks. Her lips were pressed into a thin line.



“Get out,” she said flatly. “This meeting is over.”



He stood up quickly, and stared at her. He wanted to argue with her, to tell her he knew... but she was right. Everything taken into consideration, he really had it good. He was free. He had a job. He had a family. He got off easy. Maybe he shouldn't have, but he did.



“I can't,” Draco said softly. She glared at him, and was obviously about to snap, when he continued , desperation building in his voice. “Hermione, please. You are right. I don't .. understand. I just know that I was wrong, I just want you to forgive me... that's all.”



“That's all,” she whispered with surprising venom in her voice. “You want me to forgive you for calling me Mudblood? For hoping I'd die when the Chamber of Secrets was opened? For spying on us, for taunting us, for bullying us? For being a part of the Inquisitorial Squad, while Harry and Lee were cutting up their hands with the blood quills? For stomping on Harry's face back on the train, and breaking his nose? For using an Unforgivable on Rosmerta? For sending Katie to St. Mungo's for three months? For letting the Death Eaters into the school? For me having to use the Memory Charm on my own parents, Draco, my own parents, to save them from your ilk? For all of that, you only want me to forgive you, that's all? Would you like fries with that, Mr. Malfoy?”



He stared at her blankly.



“Get out of here,” she said very quietly, “before I become upset and say something unkind.”



He was still standing, still feeling unsteady on his feet. Instead of walking away, he made a tentative step towards her.



“Go on,” he said with a small smile. “Say something unkind.”



She shook her head tiredly. “There's no point to any of it. No matter what I say, you will never understand. You are seeking absolution? You can't have it. Simply put, there is no way to make you understand, or truly regret any of what you've done.”



“Sure there is,” he said with a tiny smirk that held none of his former confidence or arrogance.



She glanced at him briefly. “Oh?”



He looked into her eyes, and held her gaze.



“Hurt me,” Draco said.



“Hurt you?” Hermione repeated, a little incredulously. “What could I possibly do to you that will compare to what you've done to me?”



There was a lump in his throat, and he couldn't answer her at first. He swallowed hard at last, and said very quietly,



“Anything you like.”



“Anything I like,” she repeated. “What's that supposed to mean?”



“Just what I said. You can hurt me. You can humiliate me. You can make me as helpless and as pitiful as you want, for as long as you want, until you don't need to anymore. Then... when you think I've had enough, you can forgive me. Maybe.”



“Maybe,” she mused thoughtfully. “Don't hold your breath, though.”



“Too late,” he said with a cheeky smile.



She raised an eyebrow at him. “Playful little thing, aren't you?”



“Yes, Ma'am,” he said, slightly emboldened.



“All right, playful little thing,” she said, smiling back at him. There was something odd about that smile of hers, but Draco couldn't quite tell what it was. “Strip.”



“Huh?” Somehow, he hadn't expected her to take him up on his offer that way.



Bloody hell, he did not know what he'd expected. Maybe to be told to write lines, or be made to compose an essay on all he had done wrong and read it out loud to all her Gryffindor and Ravenclaw friends. Something along those lines. Definitely not... this.



“You see,” Hermione said very confidently, “you don't understand what it's like to face humiliation voluntarily, day after day. You aren't capable of it. And that's what it was like, getting up and going to class, knowing that every day, you and your kind would find a way to degrade me and embarrass me, to treat me like I was less than human. You will never know. And that's why you should leave, and not waste my time, which, by the way, is valued far more than yours these days.”



She turned her attention away from him, and focused on a piece of parchment, reading through it carefully and calmly, as if nothing strange just had happened. She was a picture of serenity, while Draco's insides were twisted into one tight knot.



“Fine,” Draco said quietly. “I'll... do it. I'll strip.”



She set the parchment aside and stared at him. She did not look excited or pleased or satisfied. If anything, she looked... bored.



He felt heat rush to his cheeks. Why did he agree to this? This was... insane. He didn't want to do this.



But... he couldn't just leave, either.



Not until he had done everything he could, everything she wanted of him.



She held the key to his prison.



She was the one who had the power to set him free.



Good thing he didn't wear robes these days.



He lifted a trembling hand to the collar of his shirt and fumbled with the buttons. The top button took the longest... he continued working through them, one by one. His hands felt clammy and cold, and he knew he was only prolonging his humiliation by taking his time with this, but he simply couldn't force himself to just hurry the fuck up and get it over with. Eventually, he opened his shirt, slid it off his shoulders, and held it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it.



“Just drop it on the floor,” Hermione said simply. Her expression remained absolutely impassive.



“All right,” he mumbled, allowing the shirt to slip through his fingers and rest at his feet.



He fumbled with the buckle of his belt, while she watched him, never taking her eyes off his face. Her face was still dispassionate, but he could tell she was ... getting something out of this, out of getting him to expose himself to her this way. He grit his teeth, undid his trousers, and slid them off, along with the shorts, and kicked them aside.



Her lips twitched slightly when Draco's right hand instinctively moved to shield his manhood from her view.



“Hands by your sides,” she ordered. “Come closer.”



He stood before her, shivering under her unmerciful scrutiny. Her eyes rested on the faint thin scar going across his chest.



Hermione was holding a quill in her hands. With the sharp tip of it, she traced the faded scar, the contact making Draco shiver again.



“Funny thing,” she mused thoughtfully, “you should have learned your lesson then. But of course you didn't. Everything was always somebody else's fault.”



He opened his mouth to argue with her, but the protest died in his throat before leaving his lips.



Sectumsempra, Draco remembered and lowered his eyes. Potter got a detention for that, but honestly... that was really Draco's fault. Potter wanted to help him, Draco attempted to cast an Unforgivable on Potter. Good going, idiot.



Hermione surveyed his body with a mixture of amusement and resignation. Draco knew all too well that he was not much to look at these days. He'd gotten much leaner in the last ten years, and the muscles obtained through playing Quidditch were simply no longer there. His long blond hair had began to thin out. Even his face had gotten more thin, more pointy. It was as if he had began to disappear.



Hermione's eyes did not rest on his manhood, or linger on his chest. Instead, she stared at something else.



“Give me your left arm,” she said tersely.



“What?”



“Extend your left arm to me,” she repeated. “Now.”



“All right.”



He complied with her order, and stood completely naked before her, while she stared at his Dark Mark. It had faded since the fall of the Dark Lord. At this point, it was just a collection of scars, but the image of the skull and the serpent was still clearly visible on his arm.



His heart was pounding so hard, Draco could swear it was going to punch a hole in his chest any moment. Never, in his entire life, had he felt so exposed, so naked in front of someone.



All he had, all he was, had been laid bare before her and opened to her.



With his eyes half-shut, he watched her as she continued to stare at his Dark Mark. Her hand hovered above it, but never connected with his skin.



If only, he thought.



If only she would touch him.



Make him believe that he wasn't tainted forever.



His face was burning as if fever had set in.



She dipped her quill in the inkwell and brought it to his skin. She used the quill to circle the Dark Mark the way a teacher circles a wrong answer on a test paper.



He shut his eyes then, and waited in silence.



“Get dressed,” she said. “Get out.”



He reached for his clothing and got dressed. She paid no attention to him.



It took him a few minutes to regain his voice. “So... what do you think?” Draco asked.



“About what?”



“Will you forgive me.”



She did not look at him. “Mmm. You think you've earned something today?”



“I don't know,” he said hoarsely. “You tell me.”



“I can tell what you think,” she murmured. “You think you've debased yourself as much as you possibly could have, a noble pureblood showing his priceless body to a lowly Mudblood.” There was a slight undercurrent of danger in her otherwise soft voice. “Let me tell you this, Mr. Malfoy... As far as earning absolution goes, you haven't even began.”



When he ran out of the Ministry building, he felt a touch of cold air on his wet cheeks. Wet? Had he been crying? He raised his hand to wipe his face.



“Fuck,” he said quietly, to no-one in particular. Odd, he thought. It felt good to say it.

---

TBC...