Berserk by fenriswolf

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 20/05/2004
Last Updated: 02/07/2004
Status: Completed

In which Voldemort learns that there are lines that even a Dark Lord should not cross. Inspired
by musings on just how Harry might react if Hermione was attacked. Themes of vengeance, angst and
redemption.




1. Berserk
----------

Berserk

By FenrisWolf

~~~~~

Prologue

~~~~~

Harry raced across the grounds of Hogwarts towards the Forbidden Forest, his heart pounding in
fear, the piece of parchment clutched forgotten in one hand. The last three days, ever since
Hermione had been kidnapped, had been the longest of his short life, his days made terrible as his
emotions whipsawed between fear, grief, guilt and anger. His nights were even more terrible as his
all-too vivid imagination conjured up visions of the torments the girl he loved might be suffering
as a price for loving him.

Then that evening a raven had flown in the window of his dorm room, a note affixed to its leg.
It didn’t wait for him to approach; simply pulled it free with its beak, dropped it on his desk and
flapped away. With trembling hands Harry unrolled the note, reading the spidery writing written in
dark, reddish-brown ink whose nature he didn’t want to consider.

*Dear Potty;*

So sorry your mudblood harlot was unable to meet you for your tryst the other day. She’s waiting
for you now, in the place you were to meet before. I’d hurry if I were you.

*love and kisses,*

*Lestrange*

Ever since Hagrid had left on another mission for Dumbledore, he and Hermione had been using his
hut as a meeting place. There was nothing smutty about it; aside from some very enjoyable snog
sessions, their physical relationship hadn’t progressed very far. No, the comfortable surroundings
of Hagrid’s home were cozy and intimate, and let them escape the daily pressures of their lives for
a few hours. Sometimes Harry cooked dinner, and once Hermione attempted the same, but much to her
embarrassment her brilliance in all things did not extend to simple acts of domesticity. Harry had
manfully choked down the meal, but by unspoken agreement any further attempts were left in his
hands.

The last time they were supposed to meet, however, Harry had arrived to find the hut a complete
shambles, the door smashed, furniture overturned, and his heart had stuttered at the sight of a
large bloodstain in the middle of the floor. A quick search while he screamed her name had proven
that she was missing, and even the Aurors that Dumbledore quickly summoned were unable to find a
trace.

So Harry was ordered back to the castle, and the operatives for the Order of the Phoenix were
put on alert to keep an eye out for the missing girl, but Harry knew in his gut that they had very
little hope of finding her alive. Only the fact that they hadn’t killed her on the spot offered any
encouragement, but it was slim, very slim.

Ron and their other friends had tried to keep his spirits up, but Harry was unable to pretend
that the situation was anything other than desperate. Not even during his fifth year when Voldemort
had plagued him with visions and he’d felt like the whole world had turned against him, had he felt
so completely helpless.

Harry’s thoughts returned to the present as he skidded to a stop outside Hagrid’s hut. The
crudely repaired door was ajar, but no trace of light showed within. He knew he should wait, should
have contacted Dumbledore, but if there was any chance for Hermione, he would take it. With wand
outstretched, he entered. “Lumos.”

All the wreckage from the earlier attack had been cleared away, with the few sturdier pieces of
surviving pieces of furniture left pushed against the walls. What drew Harry’s gaze was the
shrouded form lying in the middle of the floor. “Hermione?” he whispered. He dropped to his knees
beside the slowly moving shape and with one trembling hand twitched the fabric aside.

*“NOOOOO!”* he screamed as the bloodied, tortured form of his beloved was revealed. Her
face was almost unrecognizable under the bruises and swelling, the soft, bushy hair he loved so
well was matted with blood; every inch of her body that he could see was covered with more of the
same, and even though she was completely unconscious, she continued to writhe in pain from the
aftereffects of the curses that had been placed upon her.

He was frozen for a moment, his mind in shock; suddenly Hermione’s breath hitched as a
particularly bad spasm wracked her body, and Harry was jolted into action. He quickly cast the
strongest healing charm he knew, though he was woefully aware how little it was in the face of her
injuries. He then cast the diagnostic charm he’d learned during the magical first aid lessons he’d
studied under Madam Pomfrey. As the charm’s glow formed around her battered frame its color shifted
to indicate her condition, and he blanched.

She was dying.

She had massive internal injuries; her lungs were filling with fluid, her pleural cavity was
distended with blood from lacerated organs, and the combined pressures were affecting her heart.
Even if she could survive the quarter hour it would take to carry her to the hospital wing, just
moving her was likely to kill her.

Harry had never felt so helpless in his life, not when Cedric was murdered, not even when Sirius
fell through the Veil. Hermione was the one who’d shown him what love was, when he thought all that
was left in the world was pain and ashes. He was supposed to die for her, not the other way around.
She was the reason he’d finally accepted his destiny to defeat Voldemort, so that they could have a
life together. She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t LET her die….

Harry’s connection to the magical forces harnessed by the Wizarding world had always been far
more primal than the average wizard’s. Most wizards had a touch of it, which was how accidental
magic occurred. Harry’s was strong enough to allow him to perform wandless magic, though only the
most basic charms worked. Dumbledore had been convinced that he had the potential to do much more,
but that for some reason his access to his full powers was blocked.

Now, faced with the prospect of losing the woman who meant more to him than his own life, grief
ripped though him and attacked the barriers separating him from the magic he needed. Under the
onslaught of his terrible emotions the barriers crumbled, and like a volcano erupting raw power
flooded into him. It poured through him like white-hot lava, burning through him, forcing open the
channels that until now had handled only a minute fraction of the load.

For an instant that seemed to stretch into an eternity he teetered on the brink of total
destruction, with his newfound power threatening to consume him like a phoenix on its burning day,
but then the balance shifted. The emotions that had breached the barriers gave him control of the
power, harnessing it to his will. Instinctively he reached out and spread it like a cocoon over
Hermione, anchoring her spirit within her torn flesh until the vessel could be made strong enough
to hold her soul on its own. Then gently, tenderly, he lifted her in his arms, and with his need
forcing the way, Apparated to the hospital wing.

~~~~~

Albus Dumbledore strode hurriedly down the corridor leading to the Hospital Wing, his features
showing an unusually high level of worry. Ahead of him he could see the head of Gryffindor House
waiting for him, her face a mixture of rage, nausea and fear. “Minerva, how is she?”

Tears glittered in the corners of Professor McGonagall’s eyes. “Oh, Albus, it’s terrible. I
don’t believe I’ve ever seen Poppy this worried before. She threw out everyone but Harry; somehow
he’s managing to keep her anchored here…”

The headmaster’s breath hissed between his teeth.

“Aside from the blood loss and hypothermia, she has broken bones, internal bleeding, and a
collapsed lung…and that doesn’t touch on the other trauma.” Her eyes grew flinty with anger. “The
worst of her internal injuries stem from that. Poppy has already taken the steps necessary to
prevent any…side effects, but Merlin alone knows what this will do to her spirit. I only pray she
lives to recover.”

“She’ll live. I won’t allow anything else.”

Dumbledore turned at the voice, and flinched from the figure standing in the door leading to the
infirmary. The potential that had lain dormant for so long was awake at last, but not in any manner
the elder wizard had wanted to see. Rage poured off Harry like waves of heat, blinding the
headmaster’s magical sight. He switched to his more mundane senses and recognized the bloodied,
disheveled young man on which so many hopes were pinned. “Harry, I am so—“

“Don’t say it, Professor, just…don’t. I’ve listened to you counsel patience again and again, and
look where it’s left us, where it’s left *her*.” His rage spiked up a notch as he gestured
towards the closed door. “No matter what I do, she’ll never be the person she was before this
happened. I won’t let them get away with this. I *can’t* let them get away with…with…” He took
a shuddering breath, struggling with his fury.

“In time, Hermione is going to wake up in there. I respect her too much to let anyone Obliviate
her, even if Madam Pomfrey would permit it. That means that when she wakes up, she’s going to
remember what was done to her.” His teeth bared in a snarl. “And when she does, I’m going to be
there to tell her that she no longer has anything to fear from a single one of the sick
*bastards* who did this!”

~~~~~

The black robed figure slouched in the carved onyx throne, a grimace on its lipless face. Its
eyes were almost shut, just a sliver of slit-pupilled iris showing as it wrestled with the emotions
resonating across its link with that accursed boy, Harry Potter.

When Voldemort’s minions had first managed the abduction, the emotions had been anxiety and
fear, followed by a delicious feeling of helplessness. He’d enjoyed those almost as much as he had
enjoyed watching his followers ‘entertaining’ Potter’s girlfriend. He hadn’t let them kill her,
however; far better to return her to his arms, so he could see first hand the price she had paid
for loving him.

Lestrange and Nott had managed the return, leaving her in the same squalid hut from which she
had been abducted. He’d estimated how long it would take from the time he sent the message to
Potter until he found her, and the boy’s first shivers of anguish and torment had been everything
he could hope for.

He hadn’t been certain when the Malfoy boy had suggested using her as a means of striking at his
nemesis; she was a filthy little mudblood, he couldn’t see how anyone could really care what
happened to her, but apparently the little Slytherin had been spot on in his estimations. He’d been
deciding just what sort of reward to give his informant when the first hint of something wrong
echoed down the link. The anguish was still there, but it was being masked. Something far more
primal was rising, and it took Voldemort a moment to realize what it was.

Rage.

The Dark Lord found himself being impressed by the intensity of the emotion he was sensing. It
was bloody and hungry, and it was looking for a target – it was looking for HIM. He relaxed the
barriers he’d placed on the link that existed between himself and the boy, and had smiled when he
felt Potter’s mind become aware of his. That smile had only lasted a few seconds, until the first
wave of blind, berserk fury washed over him, tearing at his mind. He’d tried to put the shields
back in place, only to have them ripped asunder by the next wave, and the next.

In the end Voldemort had been forced to drain the life force of seven of his minions in order to
raise a barrier strong enough to hold back Potter’s rage, and even then he could feel it clawing at
the outside, trying to tear a way through to him. It was at this point that the Dark Lord had the
first glimmering of fear, that perhaps pushing his foe over the edge had not been the wisest of
moves.

That had been four hours ago. A dozen more drained husks were scattered about the room, their
essence gone to feed the barrier that held Potter’s fury at bay. Those barriers were crumbling
again, but this time Voldemort didn’t bother reinforcing them, because he knew it didn’t matter. No
point in erecting wards against the mind of the Boy Who Lived when he was there in the flesh to
kill you.

Buh-doom.

Buh-Doom.

Buh-DOOM.

BUH-*DOOM.*

There was a tremendous crash as the bronze doors were blown inward off their hinges, one of the
great valves crushing Nott into an oozing pile of shredded flesh. Beyond the entrance, enveloped by
a nimbus of Rage-fueled wild magic, stood Harry Potter. Tendrils of green fire flickered across his
skin and pooled in his eyes. His hands were clenched into fists, and every few seconds he flexed
them, sending pulses of energy through the chamber.

Voldemort stared at the figure that stood in the entrance of his sanctum, and swallowed
nervously. No, using Granger to bait Potter hadn’t been such a smart idea after all…

Bellatrix Lestrange barked a strained laugh. “Why are we just standing here? There’s twenty of
us, and only one of him! MacLane, Goyle, all of you move in!”

The circle of Death Eaters started to tighten; Harry just stood there watching them, until the
closest was within a dozen feet of him.

“*Apertum Liminis!”*

They didn’t even have time to scream; every being bearing the Dark Mark was enveloped in a
column of green fire, and Voldemort felt a wave of nausea as the walls between dimensions were
ripped asunder and his followers were hurled…somewhere. He had only a fleeting impression of
towering columns of fire and brimstone, and capering things that clutched and tore at the new toys
just given to them, before the portals slammed shut.

When the last echoes of his spell faded away, Harry stepped forward into the chamber. Each time
his foot came down, the room shuddered, the marble floor crazing with spiderwebs of cracks. The
tremendous amount of power necessary to rip open a score of Gates was incredible, but he not only
wasn’t tired, he seemed…energized by the act of vengeance.

The last thought to cross Lord Voldemort’s mind was both pithy and to the point. It probably
would have annoyed him no end to learn that his words were the most common ones recorded on a
Muggle flight recorder just before a catastrophic crash.

“Oh, *shit*….”

~~~~~

Voldemort threw curse after curse at the advancing figure, terror beginning to claw at his
throat as they had no effect. *Crucio, Imperio,* and the penultimate, *Avada Kedavra,*
splattered off the bubble of Potter’s rage like snowflakes tossed into a blast furnace. This wasn’t
happening, his mind gibbered, it *couldn’t* be happening. Where was this boy, this
*child,* getting such power? Finally, in desperation, he channeled all his remaining power
into his ultimate weapon, the Sundering Curse, last uttered before the sinking of Atlantis.

*“Zakalayati Nibhandin!”*

Voldemort felt all his remaining power, everything he had husbanded and gathered over the years
in his quest for domination, drain into the curse. The blinding knot of energy, fit to rip apart
the building blocks of matter itself, flashed at his foe—and vanished, absorbed into the corona of
primal rage that surrounded Harry. The Dark Lord uttered a whining cry of fear and tried to flee,
only to run headfirst into a blood-red bubble of force that sprang into being around the two of
them, trapping him within the reach of the figure of vengeance that stalked towards him.

Harry glared at the quivering shape cowering before him that was responsible for so much death
and suffering. This thing had killed his parents, had killed his friends, had ordered the torture
and murder of countless others, and had made Harry’s life, and the lives of those closest to him, a
living hell. Now the one person whose well-being mattered more to him than anything in the universe
lay in a hospital bed, battered, violated, because this creature had ordered it. No more.

He raised his wand and pointed it at his nemesis, and chanted the words not spoken with intent
for over 3,000 years, since the fall of two cities of wickedness on the shores of the Dead Sea:

*“Aroisrufio Malach Nekome!”*

The form that erupted from the tip of his wand was not the silver stag of his Patronus. That was
a charm of protection; this was a call for vengeance, brought forth by the rage of the righteous
lashing out against injustice. The towering figure of the archangel rose above them, its presence
both contained by the shield and stretching to infinity, to the very throne of Jehovah. The
amorphous suggestion of ghostly wings flared outward, spreading a feeling of protection over all
who sheltered beneath them, imparting a feeling of impending doom to those who deserved judgement.
That feeling would linger over the landscape for weeks to follow, but it was only a side effect of
what was occurring now. Within the chamber, the translucent figure passed judgement on Voldemort,
and the Dark Lord was found wanting. A flaming sword rose into the heavens and struck downwards,
and with a despairing cry Tom Riddle was banished from the world of men forever….

~~~~~

In a dimension normally accessible only in mankind’s most horrifying nightmares, the being known
as Chernobog sat on its throne of bones, watching with boredom as its minions tortured and flayed
one another. There was no spark, no spontaneity, it had summoned these things into existence, and
no matter how hard it tried to deceive itself, it always knew an instant before they did just
exactly what they were going to do.

Suddenly a ripple passed across its realm as a portal was ripped open, something was thrown
through, and then it slammed shut again. Chernobog felt its interest stir as a presence impinged on
its senses. It hadn’t felt anything like this in so long, it felt like…it was! It was a
*human*, one of those pathetic talking monkeys that capered about at his Enemy’s whims! It
hadn’t had one of them to play with in eons, ever since the Enemy sealed the gates against
Chernobog with his priests and his prayers.

The being reached out and summoned its new plaything into its presence, tittering as it read in
the worm’s mind its pathetic attempts at evil. Chernobog looked into its toy’s soul and smiled
viciously*. “So, little worm, you sought immortality, did you?”* it cooed, its voice echoing
with charnel house screams*. “You are truly blessed, then, for your fondest wish has been
granted. You shall live forever, Tom Riddle, and give me and mine all the pleasure we can wring
from your worthless being…”*

The screams echoed into eternity.

~~~~~

The scream that shattered the silence of the hospital wing quickly subsided into sobs, and Madam
Pomfrey hurried to the bedside of the young woman who had been so long unconscious. “Shhh, it’s all
right, you’re safe now,” she said softly, trying to ease her patient’s fears. “No one can hurt you
anymore, you’re safe…”

Shivers wracked Hermione’s frail body. Safe? She’d never be safe again, never be clean again,
not after…after…her mind shied away from what she’d experienced, fastening desperately on the
warning she had to give, the thing that had enabled her to cling to her sanity throughout her
ordeal. “Harry! Where is he, I have to warn him—!”

A presence moved at her other side, and she flinched before she recognized the familiar messy,
black hair and sad, green eyes. “It’s all right, Hermione, I’m here, don’t worry…” he whispered to
her soothingly.

She struggled to maintain her composure long enough to speak, to impart her warning before
succumbing to the pain. “Harry, whatever you do, don’t leave Hogwarts! It’s a trap; they’re waiting
for you! He told me, before he—before they—” Hermione’s words stumbled to a halt as her will to
continue failed her.

“It’s all right, Hermione,” Harry repeated. “The war’s over, the threat is gone. Voldemort and
his followers can’t hurt you or anyone else, ever again, I swear…”

Over? How can it all be over? How long have I been here? She looked up at Madam Pomfrey, who
correctly interpreted her frightened expression. “You’ve only been in hospital for three days, Miss
Granger, but Mr. Potter is telling the truth as well. The threat has passed, V-V-Voldemort is no
more.”

Pomfrey’s willingness to speak the feared name convinced Hermione when nothing else could. She
turned back to her boyfriend, recognizing for the first time the new pain in his eyes. “Harry?”

“Yes, I did it, I defeated him.” Shame flooded his features. “I’m so sorry, Hermione, I never
should have let them touch you…”

Hermione’s face blanched as his word finally brought to the surface what had happened. She
whimpered and tried to pull away from him, but he clung to her hands. “Hermione…Hermione, look at
me.” When at last she did, he spoke fiercely. “What they did—Hermione, I won’t begin to pretend to
know what you felt, but please, please believe that what happened to you has no real power over the
real you; not the Hermione in here.” He touched a finger gently over her heart. “What they did
means nothing. They could hurt your body, but not your soul. That is yours, inviolate, and nothing
anyone else can do can harm or mar it. You have the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known, Hermione,
and *nothing has changed that.* Whatever else happens, whatever else you might hear, never
stop believing in this.”

Hermione broke into sobs, and Harry awkwardly cradled her in his arms and let her cry herself
out. It was what she needed, the reassurance that what had happened to her hadn’t changed, or
worse, damaged her in his eyes, and he would do whatever it took to convince her of that. Time
enough to face his own demons when she was well…

~~~~~

Time passed slowly for Hermione in the hospital wing. Harry never strayed far from her side, but
seemed to know instinctively when to speak and when to simply be there. A few people she allowed to
see her, but at her request most were staying away until she was released. She wanted as few people
as possible to have memories of her recovering from the attack, no matter what Harry said.

Of her classmates, only those a few of the professors referred to as the Six Musketeers, those
who had accompanied Harry to the Department of Mysteries in the doomed effort to save Sirius, were
granted permission to visit. Ron and Luna, Ginny and Neville, and of course, Harry. Her parents
were brought as well, though at her request the details of her trauma were kept vague. The Drs.
Granger were visibly upset to see their only child once again injured, but the news that the cause
of all their fears was finally vanquished eased their concerns.

One surprise visitor was the taciturn Potions Professor, Severus Snape. He visited late in the
evening of her first day awake, timing his arrival for a moment when Harry had been forced to leave
her side. He wasted no time in pleasantries or chitchat, simply expressed his relief that she was
safe, and handed her a small vial of iridescent green fluid.

“It is an extremely rare, and extremely potent, cosmetic potion,” he explained. “It will
eradicate any trace of blemish or scar that might remain from your…ordeal…so that no physical
reminders will linger. It is one more way to thwart their evil, by erasing any outward traces of
their actions.” For a brief moment something strangely like sympathy flickered in his eyes. “We
cannot remove all our scars, Miss Granger, but we owe it to ourselves and the memories of those who
did not survive to destroy every trace of Riddle’s madness that can be eliminated.”

With that he left in a swirl of black robes, leaving her to drink or not as she chose. She
hesitated for a few seconds, and then quickly drained the vial. A pleasant warmth enveloped her,
and she watched in bemused awe as the faint traceries of scars that covered her arms faded from
view, leaving unblemished skin. A quick check beneath her gown showed the other marks fading as
well, and in a few minutes all the lingering reminders of her torment were gone from her body. Now
there were only the scars within to deal with, and Harry would help her with those. Harry…

As he promised, he was there for her whenever she needed his strength and reassurance, making
sure she knew she could get through this. When the counselor arrived from St. Mungo’s to help her
work through what had happened, he escorted her to and from the sessions, but insisted that she
talk to the counselor alone, at least at first. He would support and protect her, but he would not
allow her to turn him into a crutch. When the counselor deemed it time for him to be there, he
was.

In time she was deemed well enough to depart the hospital, both Pomfrey and the counselor
agreeing that the familiar surroundings of her own room would be better for her. Classes had ended
weeks ago, but most of the sixth and seventh year Gryffindors had remained to support her, as well
as a few friend from other houses like Luna Lovegood. When their NEWT scores were released
Dumbledore threw a banquet in the Great Hall, and gave Hermione a special award for receiving the
highest marks of any Hogwarts student in over two centuries. Professor McGonagall followed up by
helping her answer all the offers she was receiving, both for jobs and for scholarships to advanced
courses of study.

The one sour note in all of this was Harry. He still showed an uncanny ability to be there when
and how she needed him, but as she grew stronger and her scars healed, he began to pull away from
her. It was so gradual that at first she didn’t realize what was happening, but at the awards
banquet she noticed for the first time that he was withdrawing into himself, pushing others forward
to take his place.

Over the next couple of weeks she tried several times to get him to talk to her about it, but he
always managed to divert the conversation to another topic. Finally, with a week before classes
were set to resume and those who’d stayed the summer would have to leave, and with a clean bill of
health from Pomfrey and the counselor (though both recommended she continue the sessions for as
long as they were helpful), she decided to pin him down once and for all.

Hermione found him in the Room of Requirement. She’d noticed that he was spending more and more
time there, and each time she found him there, the surroundings were grimmer, more austere. This
was the worst yet; the walls were bare stone, the floor the same, and it was damp and cold. The
furnishings were even more disturbing: a simple, narrow cot, a single wooden chair and a plain
table with a couple of thick candles, a sheaf of parchment, an inkwell and some quills, and that
was all. There were no creature comforts of any kind, and two other facts alarmed her. One, there
was what appeared to be a chamberpot hidden under the cot, and two, there was no latch on the
inside of the door to the room. For whatever reason, Harry’s requirements had been for a prison
cell, and the Room had provided it.

Harry was seated at the table with his back to the door when she entered. He didn’t turn around,
but she could tell by the stiffening and relaxing of his shoulders that he knew she was there, and
who it was who had intruded on his self-imposed solitude. “Harry, what’s going on?”

Instead of answering her question, he simply said, “Poppy told me you were being formally
discharged today, Hermione; congratulations.”

The quill he was holding continued to scratch on the parchment, and suddenly, for the first time
since her ordeal, Hermione was furious. “Harry Potter, you will look at me when I’m talking to
you!” she shouted, reaching over his shoulder and yanking the quill from his hands. He flinched and
without thinking turned towards her, and she recoiled from the naked agony in his eyes. “Oh, god,
Harry, what’s the matter?” she cried, and then she saw the words he’d been writing. “‘I, Harry
James Potter, do hereby attest and confess…’ Harry? What is this?”

“What it looks like, Hermione, my confession,” he replied, the pain and suffering plain in his
voice.

“Confession? Whatever for? I don’t understand…”

“I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t want it to interfere with your recovery. The things
I did to win the war, what I did to Voldemort and his followers…Hermione, it’s not safe for me to
be running around loose. I have to be put away, for everyone’s safety.” He sighed and dropped his
head, no longer able to meet her eyes, the shame he’d kept bottled up so long breaking free at
last.

Hermione shook her head in denial. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she whispered. “Harry, you’re
wrong, you must be…”

He just shook his head and mutely handed her the document he had been writing. She took it and
read the terse, dry account of his actions, her face paling even further when it described just
what exactly had happened in the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort. When she could
stand to read no further it dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, and Harry choked back a
sob.

“You see, Hermione? You see what I’ve become? And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, if that’s
what it took to protect those I love, to protect…you. I can’t regret having the power to stop him,
but I can’t put anyone else at risk, either…”

Hermione’s mind had been racing from the moment she finished reading his account and realized
what it meant, and she spoke furiously at him. “And what about me, Harry? What happens to me when
you lock yourself away?” He bowed his head and she found herself growing angrier by the moment.
“You told me, while I was recovering, that nothing that happened to me at their hands mattered,
that it didn’t change anything. How can that be true if it means you leave me alone? How am I
supposed to go on without you?” She gripped his shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look at
her. “We love each other, Harry, at least that’s what you said! Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it, I’ve never meant anything more; that’s why I have to do this…” He paused,
groping for the right words. “What I have to do has nothing to do with what happened to you, it’s
because of what I did—”

“What you did, you did because of what was done to me!” she screamed in his face. “If you lock
yourself away, it’s like they won! That what they did…to me…matters!”

“Don’t you see, Hermione, no one’s safe with me loose,” he pleaded. “It’s for the greater
good—”

“Oh, very bloody noble, Harry! And what am I supposed to do while you’re sacrificing yourself
for the ‘greater good’, whatever the hell that means? You’ve been telling me for weeks to live, how
am I supposed to do that with my heart ripped out by you playing martyr?” She was practically
screaming now, tears running down her cheeks, and he started to get angry in return.

“That’s not fair, Hermione. All I want is for you to be safe and happy; to live the life you
would have had if you’d never met me. After what happened, that’s what’s fair…”

“News flash, Harry! Life isn’t fair, and neither is love! It’s messy, and dirty, and
complicated! It’s fighting and making up, sacrificing and being selfish! It’s everything you could
imagine, and everything else that you can’t! But one thing life isn’t Harry, is being alone when
the person you love, and who loves you, is standing right in front of you!”

She struggled to calm herself, and after a moment, bent down and picked up the paper she’d
dropped. She set it with the others on the desk, and with a simple gesture of her wand, set them
all aflame. Harry watched as the confession he’d struggled so hard to write went up in smoke, and
his shoulders sagged in defeat. At least he’d tried to the ‘right thing’, or at least he’d thought
it was at the time, but just perhaps Hermione was making more sense than he. It wouldn’t be the
first time that happened… “So, what do we do now?” he asked, at a bit of a loss now that his
personal plans for incarceration seemed to be on the scrap heap.

The anger faded from her eyes and she smiled, albeit a bit sadly. “We live, Harry. I know it’s
not something we’ve really thought about the past couple of years; everything was too wrapped up in
just surviving to worry about what came after, if anything. But since we did survive, we are going
to do what we haven’t been permitted to do for seven long years. We are going to do what makes
*us* happy, not anyone else. And what makes me happier than anything else, is you.” She
stepped into his space, wrapping her arms around him as his instinctively embraced her in return.
“What about you?” She looked into his troubled eyes. “What will make you happy?”

As he looked back into her brown eyes, he felt the guilt and self-loathing that had entrapped
him begin to crumble at last. “You,” he sighed, “you make me happy, Hermione. If I’m going to live,
if I’m going to have a life, it has to be with you. Nothing else matters.”

And in the end, nothing else did.

*~Fin~*

Authors Notes: This originally appeared on the ficlet board, and I want to once more thank the
moderators who allowed me to go over the max 5000-word limit in order to finish it. Someone
suggested that I should repost it in the main section, so after a little tweaking, here it is. Hope
you like it. It’s a one-shot, and I don’t plan any sequels.



2. Author
---------

AUTHOR’S NOTE -- AN UPDATE: After seeing several reviews questioning the use of the assault on
Hermione as a plot device, I felt it appropriate to reply.

First of all, I deliberately kept all references to exactly what happened to her a vague as
possible. You will note that at no time is the word ‘rape’ ever used. It is implied, but never
mentioned. The reason for this is simple: I also am uncomfortable with the increase of use of this
plot device, and the sometimes graphic descriptions of the act that are often supplied by the
author. To date I believe I’ve read only one fic where the graphic nature of the description was
justified by the rest of the story, the rest have been gratuitous in the extreme. I chose not to go
there.

Nonetheless, Harry’s reaction is pivotal to the story, and this was the only thing I could think
of that would drive him, as the title said, berserk. The story is about consequences we face for
our actions. The attack had to occur in order to make the plot work, but it happened off camera and
before the story began. I wanted to offend as few sensibilities as possible, while still providing
the necessary elements to make it all work. Hopefully I have done so. For those who are still
offended by my work, I apologize.

Fenris



3. Epilogue
-----------

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.