My last year and a half project...

  Not that many people know, but for the last year and a half I have been working on a fan fiction story.
  My fandom: Harry Potter (surprised? ;-)
  My ship: Dramione
  The intro...

"I want you to show me every twisted, frightened thought you’ve ever had. I want your eyes to crack my bones; I want your words to tear my skin apart."

Redemption of Malfoy

Chapter 1

At what moment do we gain our redemption? Is it the moment we are forgiven for our sins? Or perhaps it is the moment we forgive ourselves. Hermione remembers, when she was 6, her parents had her baptized and the clergyman kept talking about redemption. At the time, it seemed like such a foreign concept to her: words like sin, penance, atonement meant little to her, and when she was dunked under the water she remembers feeling no cosmic difference or internal change. So, she doesn’t think that was the moment.

******

Another guttural growl slams Hermione back into reality and it comes from the blonde next to her. With that growl, a spatter of blood lands across her face. Pureblood, the antithesis of herself.

    “Are you ready to cooperate now, son?”

    “I am not your son.”

    The Dark Lord hisses in amusement at the youngest Malfoy, “Oh, but you could be. I could make you great unlike your disappointment of a father.”

    “He is no longer my father, nor will you ever be.”

    Voldemort takes the next moment to casually cast the severing curse, this time to Malfoy’s chest. Hermione can’t seem to look away fast enough as the blonde screams in horrific pain.

    “Stop it! Can’t you see you are killing him?” Bellatrix cackles from the shadows ending Hermione’s protests with a fast but effective Cruciatus. Suddenly, fire. She is on fire and it feels as though a thousand knives are carving her insides into sculptures of dark things. She can’t speak or think or even breathe, and she thinks she might die. Perhaps just perhaps this is the last thing she will ever know: pain-dark, deep and never ending pain. But as quickly as it starts…it ends.

    “Shut up, Granger. This has nothing to do with you. I don’t need a mudblood’s help,” Draco Malfoy seethes through coughs.

    Hermione gasps for air as her body tries to normalize itself after the unspeakable. Her nerve endings feel frayed; she can hardly think.

    “Perhaps, young Malfoy, you should take heed to whatever thing decides to stand up for you, because at this moment there aren’t many people standing in your corner.”

    “I don’t need anybody or anything, least of all a dirty-blood.” Malfoy spits his words and with them his blood.

    The words aren’t lost on Hermione. She understands the power of words, and even at 19, those words, the ones that have kept her fighting this war, the ones that supposedly define who she is, still hurt. Especially from him.

    Hermione doesn’t know exactly how long she has been at Malfoy Manor; she lost count after what she thinks was the first few days. Since she’s been here she has been locked in the dungeon without the sun to track the day’s cycle. Today is the first day out of the dankness of her cell. But, she is beginning to not care because as much of a fighter as Hermione is she doesn’t think she will survive.