How did he get to this point? It was hard to say. Many deaths, lots of veritaserum, Dumbledore’s portrait, his mother’s death… among countless other factors of varying circumstances.
He was pale. Even paler than before, and that was saying something. Dark shadows plagued the underside of his eyes. Would they ever go away? Nightmares of the things he had seen and done haunted his nights. Would he ever sleep properly again? The smirk that usually inhabited his pointed face had been replaced by a constant melancholy frown. How could he ever be happy again?
His only comfort was that it was in the past. All his life he had been raised to believe in pure bloods and the dark arts. Blindly, he had followed his parents, been proud of their allegiance to Lord Voldemort.
The changes had begun in his sixth year at Hogwarts. That was when it had all become real, become too much. He had been forced by his father to join the ranks of the Death Eaters, never fully comprehending the ramifications of the choice. By the time he understood… he was in too deep. His soul was tormented by all he was forced to see and do.
Leaving had been the best, scariest, most horrible day of his life. He remembered it vividly, almost as if it had just happened moments ago. It was the day that would forever change his life. It was the day he learned what really made a man.
It was three days after Draco had tried to kill Professor Dumbledore. In the end, Snape had done it. This left the Dark Lord very angry. Snape was supposed to stay undercover as long as possible, and Draco had messed that up. Usually Voldemort would have killed him point blank, he had decided to show “mercy” as Draco was so young and potentially useful.
They were in a dark, damp cave that was lit only by a few torches. Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa stood on a great stone tablet in the center of the cave, surrounded by thirty or so Death Eaters who were standing in a circle on the ground. Voldemort sat in a great throne at the rear of the cave, Wormtail on his right and Nagini at his feet.
Earlier that day, Voldemort had sent word to the Malfoy Manor of Draco’s impending punishment. Lucius had beat his son, screaming at him that they would all suffer the Dark Lord’s wrath because of his inability to kill. Draco had then been sent to his room to prepare. He had done the only thing he could think of in his bruised, bloody, terrified state. He wrote the single word “help” on a piece of parchment and sent it to the only person that entered his mind- Harry Potter.
A sea of masks swam before Draco’s eyes, and Voldemort spoke, “Youngest Malfoy. You will kill your mother. Or you will face the consequences.” Draco had the fleeting thought that he would hate to see the wrath of this man who considered himself to be showing mercy. His hesitation was enough to set Voldemort off.
He had risen slowly, his red slits staring, unblinking and unfeeling, into Draco’s eyes. Still staring, he muttered, “Lucius, you will put your insubordinate son under the Imperius Curse and force his hand. Then you shall rid us of the pathetic boy.”
His father would never! Those were his thoughts as the curse hit him. Lucius had not even hesitated, not for even a fraction of a moment. Draco was dimly aware of his wand raising, but he felt pleasantly happy at the situation. He heard his voice saying “Avada Kedavra”, but he didn’t much care. He was feeling much happier than he had in over a year. Without warning, the feeling was gone and he fell to his knees, sobbing over his mother’s robes, trying desperately to wake her.
He became aware of snickering and looked up to find that it was his father. His father! How could he be so heartless? Nameless, faceless people were one thing! This was his mother, his father’s wife! It was at this thought that he realized his father’s wand was now pointed toward his chest. He wondered for a moment why his father was hesitating. Maybe he did care? If not about his mother, about him? No. He was savoring the moment, mocking Draco.
Midway through his father’s spell, Draco heard a great crash. He looked up, and there stood Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, two of his old Defense Against The Dark Arts teachers, and a woman he didn’t know with pink hair. The Death Eaters were caught off guard. Harry hurtled toward him while the others fired curses at the surrounding men in masks. Lucius was about to curse Harry, but Harry stunned him and he fell to the ground. It vaguely occurred to Draco that Harry could have killed his father, but chose not to.
Voldemort was writhing on the ground, rendered useless by some unseen adversary. Was someone hitting him with a curse? He did not know until later the cause of Voldemort’s pain- Harry had come to save his enemy, Draco, in his time of need. Harry’s love had been too much for Voldemort to possess him in the Ministry of Magic, but the love he was showing for Draco by saving him, risking his life for him, that was too much for Voldemort to even share a room with.
Harry pulled Draco away, out of the cave. He grabbed a sneaker from the ground and motioned for Draco to touch it. The others ran from the cave, aiming curses over their shoulders. They too grabbed the sneaker and the former professor that Draco knew to be the werewolf said “1, 2, 3,” and they were off. Draco felt like his navel had been wrenched from his body and the next thing he knew, he toppled to the ground in the Headmasters Office at Hogwarts. He stared into the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, who blinked slowly at him and then smiled a reassuring smile. He began to talk…
Those events had taken place over a month ago. After strenuous testing, all parties had been satisfied that Draco’s remorse was genuine. He now resided at Number Twelve, Grimmuald Place, Harry’s home and headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, of which he was now a member. Harry was rarely there, but other members came and went frequently. When Harry was there, conversation was cordial, if slightly limited. An unspoken truce had made them not enemies, even if they were not entirely friends.
One thing bothered Draco, though, almost as much as the recurring visions of his mother’s death and his father’s laughter. Why had Harry come? He had risked his life for Draco, his enemy, who had tormented him and his friends and tried to kill his mentor. His fellow Death Eaters had killed his parents, his godfather…
When he gathered the courage to ask Harry’s answer was simple. “You needed my help.” And then Draco finally knew the true meaning of goodness.