Cost by Goldy Rating: R Ship: Harry & Hermione Canon: Books 1 - 5 Genre: Angst, Drama Status: Complete Length: 1,394 words in 1 chapter Published: 20 Mar 2005 Last updated: 20 Mar 2005 He was the last of the Death Eaters. Dark fic. From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/4036/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1. Chapter 1 Title: Cost Author: Goldy Author E-mail: thegoldoneb_a@hotmail.com Category: Angst Keywords: Harry, Draco, Hermione, post-war Pairings: H/Hr, non-consensual D/Hr Rating: PG13 with rather strong adult themes Spoilers: All five books. Summary: He was the last of the Death Eaters. Disclaimer: No infringement is meant. I’m just playing. They still belong to JKR. She’s still the only one who’s allowed to make money off them. Dedication: For simonsays. He knows why. Warning: There are mentions of a rape that occurred in the past—I’ve rated this R. It does not merit a scene in this fic, and there will not be any graphic details of it. But please, have no fear of hitting the back button if any of the subject matter makes you uncomfortable. *** Harry’s boots echoed off the marble floor as he strode toward the end of Ministry Hall Number 113. He walked down to the far end, his face impassive. He was alone. He came to a stop outside the very last cell, crouching down so he could see the figure huddled inside. “Hello, Draco.” Jail had not suited Draco Malfoy. The man looking at him from inside the cell barely resembled the boy Harry had known at Hogwarts. Grime clung to his every pore, smudging his face into a mask that made him look years older. His fingernails were caked with mud and blood. His face was hollow and gaunt, his eyes shrunken and haunted. His once blond hair was a gray, tangled mess around his face. His clothing was tattered and ripped. Prisoners in Ministry Hall Number 113 were not treated well. “Potter.” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, but the disgust—the hate—was still there. “Come to gloat, have you?” “No,” Harry said, forcing himself regard Draco with nothing but pity. “No, I haven’t. I’ve come to say I’m sorry.” Draco grinned, his teeth yellow and decaying. “That’s a laugh. You must have a very short memory, then.” “I don’t,” Harry said. “I won’t forget anything you’ve done—ever.” “Good,” Draco wheezed. “I’ll haunt you for the rest of your fucking life. You have nothing to be sorry for, Potter.” “I fought it,” Harry said. “Like I fought every other death sentence.” “Aren’t you noble? Careful, Potter, I might get snuffly on you.” “It’s not about being noble,” Harry said steadily. “It’s what I had to do. I killed Voldemort—but I won’t do it again. I refuse.” “I’m not sure if you noticed,” Draco said. “But you’re doing a piss poor job—this hall is empty, Potter. And come tomorrow, nothing will be left but the shreds of the people your Ministry let rot away.” “The public will get what it wants.” “That’s right,” Draco said. “The world will cheer when they kill me. I should be proud that I’ve earned so much attention. And you’ll never forget me, that’s the important thing. C’mon, Potter, let’s admit it, a part of you is getting hard at the thought of my death tomorrow.” Harry regarded him expressionlessly. “No one deserves death. And I’m… I’m tired of it.” “I remember, Potter,” he said, eyes steady and taunting. “I remember her screams—every one of them. I remember the way she begged. I remember how tight she was—how good she felt for a Mudblood. I remember the way she cried for you. I remember every moment. Torturing your bitch was the best night of my life.” Harry clenched his jaw—his only reaction. “It was also the worst mistake of your life.” Darco looked triumphant. “I knew you were in there somewhere. The real you, Potter. The real you wants to tear me apart, piece by fucking piece. You can deny it all you want—but it’s there. You want me dead.” “I don’t.” “Do you want me to tell you the noises she made? The way her body twitched when I used the Cruciatus Curse?” “Shut up, Malfoy.” “Tell me you want me dead.” Harry took a breath, steadying himself. “I won’t. You can tell me all you want—I know what you did to her. But I don’t want you dead.” “Liar,” he rasped. “No, Draco,” Harry said. “That’s the difference between you and me. I can look at you and not want you dead. I can look at you and pity you. You never had a chance—you never made your own choice. You’re going to die tomorrow as a slave. You’re going to die and the world will celebrate. I pity you.” “Well, aren’t you high and mighty? The hero of the wizarding world, Harry James Potter—willing to bat for the man that tortured and raped the woman he loves. You’re a fucking liar, Potter. You hate me.” “That’s you, you moron,” Harry snapped. “I never cared enough about you to hate you. Still don’t. I won’t hate you, Draco, no matter how much you want me to.” Draco’s eyes darkned. “How is the Mudblood doing these days?” he asked. “Has she let you take a poke at her yet? Or has the mere memory of me left her legs crossed?” Harry’s face remained emotionless. “I won’t hate you,” he said again. “I refuse. And I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry that you’re up for death row and I can’t do anything about it. I’m sorry you chose Voldemort. I’m sorry you went after the one thing that forced me to lock you in here. I’m sorry you hate me. But I will not hate you. I killed Voldemort because of love, not hate, and I swore to myself I’d never kill anyone again. Even you.” Harry took out his wand and conjured up a glass of water. He slid it past the bars of Draco’s cell. Draco let out a choked laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! I’m in awe, Potter! I bow before your mercy!” Harry ignored him. “Drink it. You need it.” Keeping his eyes on Harry’s, Draco lifted the glass and turned it upside down, the water pooling in a pile at Harry’s feet. “Fine,” Harry said. “Have a good rest of your life, Draco.” “A piece of you, Potter,” Draco croaked, his voice fading as Harry walked away from him. “A piece of you is going to cheer when they kill me tomorrow.” Harry kept walking. He never looked back. When he stepped outside of Ministry Hall Number 113, Harry allowed his shoulders to slump. The guard locked the door behind him and the mediwitch smiled slightly, returning her attention to the injection she’d been testing. The poison was magically engineered to makes sure Draco did not go peacefully. Since his defeat of Voldemort, the wizarding world had been starved for revenge. It sickened Harry. He’d seen—done—enough acts of carnage during the war. He had no taste for revenge. Standing in the corner waiting for him was Hermione, her arms wrapped protectively around her frame. Her eyes snapped to his the moment he’d exited the prison. He reached her in two quick strides. Her arms wrapped around him and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She made soft, soothing noises in his ear and he closed his eyes, wishing that the image of Draco sitting in filth—with no shame or remorse—would leave him. “It was bad, wasn’t it?” she said when he pulled away. He nodded. “He got to me, Hermione. He—he knew all the right buttons to push. He used you—he… I wanted to kill him. I never wanted to feel that way again.” “Oh, Harry…” “And I think he’s right. I want him to die. I want him to suffer as much as possible.” “Of course you do,” she whispered. “He hurt you where you were most vulnerable. But you still fought for him, Harry. You still… came here to face him. You’re better than he is.” Their hands entwined together and Harry pressed his lips to her forehead. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “I shouldn’t… you’re the last person who I should put this stuff on.” “I’m alright,” she said. “It’s hard… knowing he’s in there… that you saw him. But I’m alright.” Harry held her tightly, the others in the room looking away from their display of intimacy. He glanced at the mediwitch and the poison that would soon end Draco Malfoy’s life—the last of the Death Eaters. “Let’s go home,” he whispered in her ear. “We don’t have any reason left to stay.”