Berserk
by FenrisWolf
Epilogue
The majority of the pedestrians crossing the bridge did what most of polite society practiced, and ignored the existence of the derelict hunched in a pile of rags against the lamppost. Occasionally one of passersby might glare at the disgusting sight cluttering up the scenery, and very rarely, someone might cast a look of pity at the bit of human debris, but by and large, as far as the rest of the human race was concerned, the vagrant didn't exist.
A grime-encrusted hand with cracked and broken nails lifted the paper bag to his lips, and he felt the liquid oblivion of the cheap vodka slide down his throat, there to continue its work on his bleeding stomach, enlarged liver and failing kidneys. It was approaching the end of the cycle, and sooner or later the authorities would drag him off to one of their detox wards where the absence of alcohol would allow his body to repair the damage, but for now, he still had some control over his life.
Life. He felt himself start to giggle, and noted absently as the passersby edged away from him, not that he cared. What did he care what they thought, they were just Muggles…
Wait.
Muggles?
The derelict's brow furrowed as he tried to chase down the errant thought. Why did he use that word? He knew it felt right, the second he'd thought it; all these people around him, all the crowds in their clean, presentable clothes, they were Muggles, he knew it-just as he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wasn't one of them.
He was something different.
The vagrant pounded the sides of his head with his fists, subsiding only when he realized he was attracting the attention of a Bobby passing by on his patrol. What was it, what was the word he was searching for? It was an important word, that much he knew. It was the reason he was living as he did, down with the filth and the vermin, associating with Muggles in a manner no decent wizard-
Wizard.
He was a wizard.
As the word finally made itself known to him, he felt a barrier crumble, and suddenly Draco Malfoy remembered who he was, what he was, and how cruelly his destiny had betrayed him. He had nothing but the clothes that even the ragpickers would reject, and a monthly dole check that would keep him fed so long as he didn't squander it on drink, but of course he does, what else is there? He'd lost everything else; the mansion, the wealth, his station in life, all of it was gone, abandoned when he'd fled in fear.
Twenty years. Twenty sodding years he'd been existing like this, ever since his plan backfired and everything crumbled into ruins. Twenty years of living in terror, of hiding among the hated, despised Muggles out of fear what he might do if he found him.
It had been such a good plan, and one he'd enjoyed helping to execute immensely. Even his father had been doubtful, but in the end it was agreed to try it, and he'd certainly enjoyed his part in providing the Mudblood's entertainment. Not that he got to go first; he was too far down the pecking order for that. But he did get his turn, and made sure she knew whose idea it was that had brought her there.
At the time he was upset he couldn't stay for the finale, but his cover prevented him from being away from the school for too long. He'd been waiting, though, and had watched Potty race across the grounds, and then heard the commotion from the infirmary.
That should have warned him something was wrong; he hadn't seen Potter come back to the school, and everyone knew you couldn't apparate within Hogwarts, the wards were too strong. Everyone, it seemed, except Potter, who somehow had punched right through the Apparation barriers as if they were so much tissue paper.
He'd used his mirror to contact his father, and then watched though it in horror as Potter enacted his revenge. The sight of that towering golden figure banishing the being he'd thought was the most powerful in the world terrified him. Then Potter had looked right through the mirror at him, and Draco knew that whatever had happened to the Dark Lord would be a pittance compared to what Potter would do to him for his role in the attack on Granger.
He'd fled, racing on his broom off the school grounds and to the Three Broomsticks, where he could use the Floo network to get home. Once there, though, he knew any reprieve he had would be brief. Even if Potter left him alone, the Aurors wouldn't, not if Granger talked, and she would. So he ran again, this time to Gringotts, where he did the only thing he could think of, converted as much money as he could to Muggle currency, and fled the wizarding world.
Unfortunately for him, that's when the last of his luck had run out. Potter never found him, but living like a despised Muggle had eaten away at his soul. Even worse, he had no idea how their world worked; he'd never intended to have anything to do with them, as he'd known he was their superior, and his lack of knowledge ended up costing him dearly. Funds that would have kept a Muggle comfortable for years vanished in a matter of weeks, and Malfoy was left trying to find a way to survive in a world that was alien to him.
Draco found himself in the role of a pretty, 17 year old runaway with no funds and no resources, and ended up surviving by selling the only thing he had left; himself. I he'd ever considered it, he would have found it ironic that he courted and submitted himself to the same sort of violation he'd forced on the Mudblood, not just once, but again and again.
For a while his aristocratic hauteur and pale good looks brought him well paying customers, but the abuse that was inflicted on his body, by others and by himself in the form of drugs and alcohol, quickly eroded his brittle façade. His time as a well-paid gigolo was brief, and the slide down to his current state was rapid, and there he'd stayed.
Draco frowned in between coughs. There were gaps in the memories that returned, periods of blankness when apparently whatever he'd been drinking or injecting had erased every trace of his memory. Still, enough of the events of the last decade or so remained to make him sick to his stomach. To have been so mighty, and to have fallen so low, was more than a man could stand, wasn't it?
More of the cobwebs cleared and he struggled to his feet, one arm unconsciously cradling the bottle of vodka like it was a baby. When he was on his feet, he stumbled across the bridge, hoping the movement would help to settle his mind. Suddenly he realized what he was carrying, and with an oath he dashed the 'baby's' paper-wrapped form to the ground with the echo of breaking glass. The miasma of cheap alcohol permeated the area around him, briefly overpowering the stench of his own body.
What should he do? What could he do? He couldn't go back even if he wanted to; Potter wasn't going to forget, not ever, if he went back to the wizarding world Potter would find him and…Malfoy shuddered. He didn't know just what his enemy would do to him, but given what had happened to Voldemort, he knew it wouldn't be pleasant.
So what was left, living…no, existing as a Muggle? It might not be too bad if he had money, but this life, the life of a piece of human wreckage, was pointless. Better, perhaps, to end it; at least he could do so quickly, on his own terms, and cheat Potter out of that much.
His eyes drifted to the railing and the river beyond. The Thames was wide and deep at this point; he wouldn't be the first person to plunge into its embrace, or the last. What little cunning forced his steps along the sidewalk until he found a place where a burned out lamp created a pool of shadow. He put one foot on the railing, and started to lift himself up, when a voice spoke. "Leaving so soon, Malfoy?"
Draco froze as a cold sweat broke out all over his body, turning his flesh clammy. The years had lowered and roughened that voice, but he still recognized it, and swung around to face his destroyer. "Potter."
Harry smiled, though his eyes were cold and hating. "Well, the memory's returned, I see. You must be getting weaker, though; what is it, less than an hour since you woke up and already you're ready to jump? Last time you held out for almost a day before you tried to kill yourself."
"What are you talking about?" Draco whispered, but even as he asked, he remembered. He'd been on the streets for a couple of years, barely surviving, the first time Potter had found him. He was rooting through the dumpster behind a fast food restaurant, looking for something edible, when he felt someone's gaze burning into his back. Turning, he'd seen Harry standing in the mouth of the alley, a more mature, adult Potter, with none of the telltale gawkiness of his youth. He was dressed as a Muggle, but even after his years without using magic Draco could feel the power radiating off of him.
Seeing him there, his worst nightmare in the flesh, made something inside him snap. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he'd screamed. "Don't you want your revenge? Can't wait to punish me for what I did to your mudblood? Well, do your worst! Nothing you could do could be worse than the life I'm living now!"
His hands had been clenched, waiting for the blast that would give him oblivion, but an odd look had been on Potter's face. "You're right, Draco," he'd said slowly, "nothing I could do could be worse than living as you are, no money, no friends, and among Muggles, enduring their pity and contempt. I can't imagine anything that would be worse for you." His expression had changed, an unholy light had filled those green eyes, and the last thing Draco remembered for a long time was his enemy's voice shouting, "Obliviate!"
~~~~~
That had set the pattern. Every few years the Obliviate curse would wear thin, and just as Draco began to remember, Potter would reappear and renew the spell. The last couple of times his despair at realizing the depths to which he had sunk had driven him almost mad, but before he could take whatever steps he'd decided on to end it all, Harry had shown up, and here he was again.
Draco looked into the implacable, hate-filled eyes of his enemy, and whimpered. "Don't," he pleaded, his cracked voice utterly broken. "Please, let me go…"
If anything, Harry's gaze became even more malevolent. "Convince me, Malfoy," he hissed. "Give me one good reason, just one, why I should show you any mercy after what you did.
"I dreamed of it for years," he continued. "I knew you were alive somewhere, and it galled me to think you had slipped through my fingers and escaped. I had it all planned out; I was going to flay you alive and use your skin to bind my memoirs, I was going to feed you to Hagrid's flesh-eating slugs, just a bit at a time, so you could watch them shit out what used to be you, I was going to replace your blood with charmed acid, so that every time your heart beat your body would eat itself up from within; I had a thousand ideas, each more fiendish than the last. I never dreamed that the worst thing I could do to you was…to do nothing at all. It never occurred to me what it must have been like for you, to have to hide among the hated 'cattle' you so despised. And from the looks of things, nothing has changed.
"So tell me, Draco, convince me; why should I let you go?"
"Because it's destroying you, Harry," a sad, soft voice said.
Harry jerked and turned, and Malfoy watched as his victim walked up beside her husband. Hermione was twenty years older, a woman, not a teenager, and she was breathtakingly beautiful. Even Draco's bigoted opinion couldn't deny it, and he felt a sick wave of anger that on top of everything else, Potter should get to wake up next to this every morning.
"You shouldn't be here," Harry choked out after his initial shock had passed. "You shouldn't ever have to see him again."
"He doesn't matter, Harry," she replied, her hand caressing his cheek. "Don't you understand? By dragging this out, you're giving him control over you. I've known for years that something was eating at you, but I could never pin you down.
"Harry, you have friends and family that care for you and worry about you. You have the three beautiful children you gave me that worship you. But so long as you cling to your anger, the wounds will never heal. Let it go; let him go, Harry. He doesn't matter anymore, all that matters is us. Let it go."
Harry bowed his head and leaned forward as Hermione put her arms around him and held him close. Draco felt the restraints that bound his mind fall, and a few seconds later there was a muffled splash as something struck the river.
Much later, a street sweeper grumbled as he cleaned up the odorous mound of rags that someone had dumped by the bridge railing. Holding his breath, he grabbed the last bunch of cloth, and was slightly startled as something that had been placed atop it rolled away. He tossed the rags into his dustbin before bending over to pick up the other trash, wondering why somebody would have placed a broken conductor's baton on a pile of rags. Shrugging, he tossed the bits of wood into his cart and moved along, and left behind no trace that anyone had ever been there at all.
Fin
~~~~~
AUTHOR'S NOTE - Chapter was reloaded to correct a few typos.
A couple of reviewers asked what happened to Draco, and after a while it got me to thinking; his crime was even worse than that of Voldemort, in that he thought of the plan as well as participated it. If Harry were willing to send the rest of them to Hell, what would he do to the worst of them? This, I thought, was a believable answer, because doing nothing to Draco was the worst thing of all. At the same time the idea of Harry clinging to his hate made me uncomfortable, until I realized that, as always, Hermione could and would understand and heal him.