Title: Redemption of the Fallen
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: T+/R
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Angst, Romance, Drama.
Warnings: Some sexual content, angst, and over all bleh.
Summary: Your form which returns gently to heaven. What else can I do, besides avenge you? I watched it for the longest time, until my tears dried up. And the sorrow overflowing from the scar which can't be erased, I swore that I would never forget it. I'll flap my broken wings and erase it all some day, you'll see, until the last bell ringing the dirge completes. {'Redemption' a new single by the J-rocker GACKT}
Author's Notes: A suddenly oneshot plot bunny attack ala Gackt. This song is pretty great, the video is beautiful, and I really want to play FFVII-Dirge of Cerberus where this single is featured. It really inspired me, visually, to write this oneshot. Compared to my other fics, it is quite tame, hence the T+/R rating. All lyrics are by Gackt, I am only using them for a short bit, soooo don't hate me GAKUTO-SAMA!!! To view the video: http://www.youtube.com/?v=Qw5jRK7YbdY



Redemption of the Fallen




You told me to live as if you were to die tomorrow.






He had heard once that Muggles believed in angels, celestial beings that did the work of a Muggle god. He had heard once that before man lived on the earth there had been a rebellion in the Muggle heaven and that the Muggle god had cast out angels to fall... Lucifer...the god's most beloved servant, had been the one who had instigated this rebellion and because of his resistance to some issue, Lucifer was cast down.

He did not know why the angels fell, or why Lucifer suddenly became the Devil, but he did know, in a piece of information he had gleamed from somewhere at some point, Lucifer was the most beautiful of all the angels...

And he remembered, once, someone had compared him to that fallen angel.

He was dreaming, always dreaming, in a place he could never remember falling to sleep inside, but he knew he slept. In moments of near waking, a strange lucidity would sweep through his mind and he could almost recall his name. He knew he was a wizard and he knew that he was a Pureblood, but in truth the words: Muggle, Pureblood, magic and wizard meant nothing to him oftentimes, but he knew them as if they were simple words that a babe would coo soon after birth. Of all of this, he could not remember his name.

He could remember many things, although none of it made much sense in his dreams, and his dreams were too deep and too vivid to allow him to feel any sort of remorse over the fact that he could not remember. Through the haze and swirl of ether, through the rainbows of color falling over the forms and figures inside his brain, there was one figure, one person he knew better than others.

It was strange, because in some deep recess of his mind, he did remember that he could hate this person when he was awake...whenever that was...and that he should banish this person from his mind. However, this person, this figure was the most comforting figure in his dreams, no matter how he knew he hated it, and how it most likely had hated him.

Hermione...Granger...

Hermione Granger was sometimes a girl in his dreams, and more often than not, a grown woman. She was a pretty girl, although her hair seemed to want to consume the rest of her body as wild and unruly as it seemed in his visions. And as a girl, her face was pixy like, with a condescending twist of the lip and a dominating gleam in her honey colored eyes.

He did not care much for Hermione Granger the Girl.

Hermione Granger was a beautiful woman in the sense that she had grown into something much more, much better, and much more unreal than the girl. Her hair had lost the vivacity it once had, laying tamely over her shoulders in caramel waves. Her eyes were harder, not nearly as bright, and somehow he knew that those eyes had seen something...something awful that had changed them forever. Her mouth was passive at rest, but could weave a snare of words that could bring down the wildest of beasts and men. She was taller, stood slightly stooped and never quite straight, her limbs were lithe and quick to move, and her figure had filled out so that she seemed softer, feminine, but deadly...for if she moved, it was deliberate, calculated and accurate.

From the bossy girl to the warrior woman, she was a constant in his dreams.

She spoke in echoes which reverberated through his dreams. Every word was slightly disjointed as her mouth moved, as if proving the speed of sound was indeed slower than the speed of light.

Her lips would move, and he could only hear the words fractions of seconds later.

Many times he dreamt the same dream of her, a dream in which he knew that he loved her...the woman, his woman.

It had been a place somewhere in the waking world, he remembered, a place as familiar to him as his name should have been. Home?

The moonlight reflected slightly off the marble tile floor, white and green, white and green...and the summer constellations danced about the moon and he could smell lilacs from the open doors leading out into the garden. The house had been abandoned and the only the heir remained to live among the broken furniture and dusty corridors of this house, his house, his childhood home.

The moonlight slipped across her back and over the dark caramel waves, as she stared down at him, her hands moving to pull on her trousers and tighten the buckles that cinched the waistband tighter around her emaciated waist. She lifted a leg to rest a booted foot on the side of the bed, not caring whether or not dried sod fell onto the dingy and neglected satin sheets, tightening more buckles and straps.

He watched her as she pulled back her hair into a throng, the moonlight falling over her bare arms where the leather jerkin that covered her upper body had been cut away. The moonlight highlighted the tiny white hairs on her skin and the goosepimples across the backs of her arms. Finally, strapping a wand holster to her left upper arm and another with thick straps that rested over the swell of her breasts, she turned her eyes away from him for the first time.

Lips moved, and eyes were averted.

"...you told me to live as if you were to die tomorrow, but we might all die tomorrow, Dr-..."

She had said his name, but it always seemed the volume drained away just as she were about to finish the syllable.

Lips moved, and eyes were moved to look into his again.

"...as much as I would want to forget this War...move on and heal...your kind and gentle words cannot heal me now..."

He tried to speak, but she continued, her words echoing, ringing and vibrating in his brain.

"...this body is only dedicated to the never ending fight...as is yours. And if I die...if you die...it will never be over. Everyone returns to the heavens, someday...so this isn't good-bye. Even you, my sweet Lucifer, will be returned to the stars, and I will be waiting...just as you will wait for me..."

She turned, with a smile upon her lips, her honey eyes dulled and dead, and that was when she walked out of the door leading to the ruined garden and disappeared with a pop before his eyes.

At this point, the dream would start flowing backwards and stop at the point where he was leaning over her...in the bed he had placed in the sitting room. The Manor had been destroyed except for the first floor, and the sitting room with the cracked glass doors that lead out to the gardens on the county Wiltshire highlands...the smell of smoke and curse burns permeated everything, but he could smell the lilac bushes from the garden upon the summer evening breeze and the sweet scent of her hair and sweat upon her alabaster flesh. He could taste the bittersweet smoke of clove cigarettes in her kisses and the saltiness of her skin just at her throat.

She was not the girl any longer, not the girl he had hated once, but the woman he had grown to respect and even possibly love. She was dirty, battered, bitter, hard and his...

He penetrated her with the sort of care he knew she liked, abandon that was both painful, and so exquisite. There was no tenderness, only need. She held to his neck and his hair which streamed in silver torrents over his shoulders, down his sides and back to tickle the dusky peeks of her breasts. He was groaning as she clenched him, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him on and urging him harder, faster, deeper...

"...fill me..."

The most sensual of echoes in his brain, her voice coated his body like a velvet cloak that warded against the winter winds of a War he could only just remember...a War that had changed them both so completely it was almost a dream within a dream to imagine that they were finding solace in each other...

"...need you..."

"...want you..."

"...hate you..."

"...love you..."

And she came undone underneath his heated gaze, silver melting inside those orbs as he watched her convulse, watched her face contort from the stone statue of a goddess and into that of a living woman who let everything go just to experience a moment of total abandon...before the face turned to stone again.

Grabbing the metal bars of the bed frame before him, he twisted his hips and delved deeper insider her, his leverage more substantial so that his thrusts were brutal and violent. She was screaming, but it was not the screams he knew from his nightmares...no, it was screams and declarations of a concept that was beyond his understanding, a call to dominate, a call to procreate.

Her fingers dug into his sides, nails flipping over ribs and over hipbones and he filled her with his soul and made her forget, made both of them forget that they were nothing more than pawns, warriors on a stage called War.

The afterglow was the part that he liked the best, holding her thin frame against his, remembering only momentarily his name, only to lose it again. He somehow remembered that his mother used to hold him, comfort him when he was scared, when he was sick, when he was tired, when he was sad... But this, holding Hermione Granger, was something much more. He was the one who comforted, the one who held and stroked the hair of the one he loved the most. It was empowering and it was natural. She was strong, but even she needed someone.

Pressing kisses into temples, into lips, and into hands, he wanted to promise her the stars, the world, and a time when they could be at peace and forget ever past event that had made them into people who were so desperate, so starved, so hardened and so scarred. She would rub her face against his chest, press her ear to his heart and run the tips of her fingers along the Mark on his arm, faded and forgotten, a memento of a childhood mistake.

And all too soon, she was dressing again. He watched how her breasts would move, count the ribs in her sides, frown at the prominence of her hips bones and collarbone. He looked no better...both starved, both worn thin, both running on fear, hate, adrenaline and the drive to end the War...they had no time really to spend on lovemaking, but it seemed more necessary than sleep or food sometimes. It was proof that passion still existed and it was proof that they were alive.

She was leaving again, her words only hums in his mind, and as she disapparated, the dream ended.

Inside the swirl, the ebb and flow of ether, he was left alone outside of his dreams that floated like reflective orbs around him, waiting for him to fall inside as if diving into a penseive. Nightmares floated past him with voices screaming and the smell of burnt flesh wafting by his face. Old dreams of times before he knew Hermione Granger, of times when he was a child and the world was tinted in shades of white, light and gray. Dreams of flying on a broom, dreams of triumphs, dreams of failures, dreams of chaos, dreams of sublime order, all of which floated past him, traveling along the flow of the ether that began to swirl around him in a maelstrom of sound and light. Was he waking?

Faster and faster around him the dreams flew, moving down into a pitch black vortice...hell, perhaps?

'...my sweet Lucifer...'

Above him, an orb of dream stuff hurtled downward on a collision course, and he prepared himself.

He was in the sitting room again, moonlight streaming through the open doors and the summer constellations in the skies. The air was chillier, as if a breeze from the sea had reached him from far away. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at the man who stood before him whose green eyes were luminescent in the dark and his scarred face shadowed. He knew that this man was someone he hated, and idly wondered, somewhere in the back of his labyrinthine mind, where were those silly spectacles this man always seemed to wear.

The green eyed man was speaking roughly, ebony hair falling about his face in shaggy strands, his face was gaunt, and twisted angrily. He could not hear the man's words, but only watched his lips move, making out every word.

'...yourself together, man. She would not want your arse sulking about this ruin of a house, waiting for her to return when you know quite well she is dead! You haunt this place like a spirit, you look like a ghost more than ever...and we need you! You are a warrior now, quit thinking about the past! We are so close to winning this War, Dr-...'

Again, his name was uttered, but he could not remember it...he could not remember who this man was, but he knew that he hated him more than ever...

'...pull yourself together...we need you to fight...we need you to win!'

He said nothing, but rested his heavy head in his hands. Realization was flooding him. Hermione was dead. She was dead and would never be with him ever again. She was gone and he had no one to fall into, lose himself inside, no one to make him feel real...and that was when he began to feel sleepy.

The green eyed man was yelling, and he knew that it was all to bring him round, to get him to move, but it was useless. He had no reason to move, no reason to fight...she was gone.

And that was when he fell into this world of dreams.

That dream, or was it a memory, faded and once again he was floating over a whirlpool of ether and air. He was waking, and high above him was light, perfect light, as if he were ascending out of the bowels of the earth and out of hell...like Lucifer unchained.











Harry Potter would never forget what Draco Malfoy looked like that day the War ended.

Harry had only been to church a few times when he lived with the Dursleys, and had remembered the lessons as child on who the Devil was and what he was once called...Lucifer, the brightest of all of God's angels, the one who fell. Draco Malfoy was the embodiment of Lucifer that day when Voldemort fell.

Harry could not help but remember how Malfoy moved across the plains outside Little Hangleton, a vengeful angel with silver fire for eyes, silver for hair and swathed in the blackest of clothes that made him seem like Evil, Death and Hate embodied in a form so perfect and so beautiful that Malfoy's victims were more stunned by his visage than the curses that flew from his wand to strike them down. Granted the last battle had been a bit surreal in the minds of those who had survived, but Harry would never forget Draco Malfoy.

How in the world, Malfoy, of all people would have fought on his side was beyond Harry's understanding. In fact, the events that led up to the War had proved that Draco Malfoy would be an enemy, but something had happened in the ten years between the night on the Astronomy Tower and the Battle of Little Hangleton. It all had to do with Hermione.

The War had changed all of them, and the years following Voldemort's demise, Harry could only look at the photographs of his friends and lament. They had changed from pliable schoolchildren into soldiers, outfitted like pagan warriors, wielding wands, knives, swords, anything that would beat back the scourge that was Voldmort's supernatural army. Werewolves, vampires, giants, inferi, dementors, men, women and lastly the Dread Lord, all of which eventually fell to the army that sprang from the Order of the Phoenix and became the nameless army that would squash out all the darkness that had fallen over Europe.

A baptism of blood brought about the rebirth of the Wizarding world, the blood of innocents and of scarifies were needed, and Harry Potter could only grieve for the rest of his life for the ones who had been lost.

In the end, it was Draco Malfoy whom Harry remembered the best.

The vengeful angel who had slept, awoke to kill almost all that stood in the way of Harry fulfilling his duty to kill the one who had taken everything from him... For years the Wizarding media would call Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter the 'hands of divine justice.' But Harry was the only 'hand' still alive.

Hermione was gone, as was Ron, Neville, Luna, most of the Dumbledore's Army from his Hogwarts days, the Weasley family was reduced to Ginny and Charlie, and at the end of it all, hardly anyone was left alive or unscathed.

That night, Draco Malfoy fought for his redemption and fought for his love, which had been kept a secret from Harry for so long, for Hermione Granger.

Silver hair flying, eyes flashing, Draco Malfoy stood before Tom Riddle, daring the old snake to kill him. Harry stood at Draco's side, stunned, as Voldemort seemed to cower at the sight of Draco Malfoy. It was not Harry Potter that Voldemort feared those last moments, it was Draco Malfoy.

"I have come to take you back to Hell, Azazel..."

It was a voice from another world, something that was Draco Malfoy and something that was not. Harry felt as if his soul were being sucked away by a dementor as Malfoy spoke, as if he could die...but he did not. Instead Malfoy glanced at Harry, his eyes still shining brightly, like stars...his mouth twisted into a smile that Harry would never forget.

"Kill him now, Potter."

And the last stand began.

Voldemort fell.

And the War was effectively over.

The last words Draco Malfoy ever muttered, or the last words Harry ever heard Draco Malfoy say were spoken as the blood splattered angel dragged the remains of what had once been Tom Riddle off into the dawn.

"I'm going to burn him in the rising sun, Potter, in a fire that never dies. And afterward, I am going home...

I'll be seeing you around, someday, Potter..."

Harry watched Draco Malfoy's back, thin and sinewy, silver hair falling in heavy strands and swaying as he dragged Tom Riddle away and out of sight. Harry never saw Draco Malfoy again, no one ever saw him again for that matter. The Manor in Wiltshire, which was little more than a ruin, was empty. All of Draco's Gringotts accounts had been transferred into a public fund for the rebuilding of St. Mungo's which has been obliterated during a battle, and into the rebuilding of Hogwarts which also had been damaged, but repairable.

After investigations by what was left of the Ministry of Magic Aurors, it was confirmed that Draco Malfoy was dead, or in more specific terms: no longer on this earth. The same was said about Voldemort, but his remains had been found, burning for weeks in a strange fire in the center of one of the many henges on the Salisbury Plain, not far from the Malfoy Manor. Many Muggles had to be obliviated...and Harry buried the ashes of Voldemort in several different locations around the British Isles, all places of magical protection, unmarked and willingly forgotten for all time.

Life went on. Harry married Ginny Weasley and they left Britain after all was settled and the Wizarding world was on the mend. Harry never looked back, placing he and Ginny into a new life, in a new country, and in a place where the War could have never reached.

But the image of Draco Malfoy, his eyes like stars, dragging Voldemort's body off into the pink and red dawn, haunted Harry Potter. He had no love for Draco Malfoy in his whole life, but Harry did love Hermione...and in the end, Hermione and Draco were entwined by fate, time, and circumstance. It was like a drama on the tellie Ginny liked to watch on Saturday nights...a romance that would never end happily, between two beautiful people, both ethereal personas in a world of dream...

Harry often wondered, while looking at the foreign constellations of a southern sky, if in another place and in another time, things would have ended better for a love that Harry knew so little of, between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.

Harry grew older, watching those strange stars, until they became familiar, wondering always, what had really happened between Hermione and Draco...and what had really happened to Draco Malfoy...the man who reminded Harry more of a fallen angel than a flesh and blood man...



Your form which returns gently to heaven
What else can I do, besides avenge you?
I watched it for the longest time, until my tears dried up.

And the sorrow overflowing from the scar which can't be erased,
I swore that I would never forget it.

I'll flap my broken wings and erase it all some day, you'll see,
Until the last bell ringing the dirge completes.





Full lyrics for Redemption:


English

Your form which returns gently to heaven
What else can I do, besides avenge you?
I watched it for the longest time, until my tears dried up.

And the sorrow overflowing from the scar which can't be erased,
I swore that I would never forget it.

I'll flap my broken wings and erase it all some day, you'll see,
Until the last bell ringing the dirge completes.

You told me to live as if you were to die tomorrow.
Fail not and be what we were now
Face as if we want to have forever

Bright red tears traced by a trembling finger,
I had nothing to lose, nothing to lose
It crashes through the dark memories.

The last smile wavered, and disappears,
And the warmth is all that's left.

Your kind and gentle words can't heal me now,
This body's only dedicated to the never ending fight.

Because everyone returns to heaven, some day,
You'll never need to say goodbye.

I'll flap my broken wings and erase it all some day, you'll see,
Until the last bell ringing the dirge completes.

Your kind and gentle words can't heal me now,
This body's only dedicated to the never ending fight.

REDEMPTION...REDEMPTION...