The Price of Harry Potter

Chapter Eight: A Denouement

Hermione desperately wanted to be able to change the pattern of days that unfolded over the next week. Sometimes she wanted time to speed up, for the days to fly by and for the end of the year to arrive. She painfully wanted her family back, her friends, the people who she loved. Each minute of each day dragged out, elongated, stretched, and it felt as if getting through the week was like wading through thick mud.

Other times she dreaded the New Year and the choice that she would have to make. She had sworn herself, bargained her love, for one choice and yet she still felt unbearably guilty and was unable to tell if she would, could, go through with it. On these occasions the time seemed to fly past and she was unable to grasp it and hold it back from its terrible, inevitable progress. Hours slid through her fingers like the wet soap in her sunken bathtub in her luxurious black and white bathroom.

And so the days passed, alternately racing and crawling, while Hermione anticipated and dreaded and filled her days with thoughts and turmoil and anguish.

* * *

By the time that she had become fully conscious again after her oath by sword, the Death Eaters had left. Only the Malfoy family remained in their dark, gothic house. And somehow this was a relief. Hermione avoided Lucius from then on, unable to bear the self-satisfied smile that graced his featured whenever he looked at her, so reminiscent was it of Draco's smirk. The smirk that she hadn't seen since the night of the St Stephen's day party. In its place was a worried frown, lines of anxiety creasing around his eyes and his expressing taught and drawn. He looked grey and physically sick. So much so that Hermione almost found herself worrying about him. That is, she did find herself worrying about him, but she tried to put it from her mind whenever the thoughts surfaced. He was Draco, a Malfoy. He was her enemy, a follower of Lord Voldemort, Lord Voldemort who had killed her parents.

She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

Narcissa was rarely around. Hermione did not intentionally avoid her, not the way that she avoided Lucius, but still she saw little of Draco's mother. Hermione's time was mostly spent alone, through choice: in her room or reading through the extensive library, or, sometimes, with Draco. She was disturbed by how logical she found some of Lucius's books. Not Voldemort's policies, they were cruel and prejudiced, but some of the other, older documents made sense. Knowledge appealed to Hermione and she did find it stupid that so many possibilities were left unexamined, untapped by the people she had always though were good.

Research needed to be done, perhaps spells adapted, potions altered, and then surely here was the potential to do great good. Surely evil was controlled by the witch or wizard from whose wand the spell was cast? Surely the anatomical knowledge could be used to heal as well as to torture? Surely this curse to destroy tissue could be used to target cancers? Surely this blood-boiling spell could be toned down as a hypothermia cure? Maybe, when this was all over, someone - Snape, a thought whispered in some part of her mind, or Draco? replied an even more traitorous part - could help her dissect the power contained within these tomes?

But she couldn't shut herself away entirely in the dusty room and when she emerged she often spent time with Draco. They had never talked to each other much, and now they did so even less than that, but the silence was easy, even companionable. Somewhere along the line Hermione had decided that bickering with Draco was an unnecessary irritation and had stopped provoking him. He had responded by causing no arguments either.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Hermione remembered his promise, half heard through unconsciousness: I promise I won't let you them hurt you, and she felt irrationally pleased by his declaration.

He wasn't so bad.

Well, he was a complete bastard and a nasty, cruel, sadist, but in the face of the true evil of Voldemort this hardly seemed to matter. He was good company, and he was clearly as anxious about the upcoming ceremony as she was, and this brought Hermione a sense of kinship with the boy she had previously hated.

She didn't ask him about the ceremony, or his apparent worries, but she suspected that as well as her supposed initiation it might be his. She determined to discover if he already had a Dark Mark on his arm. It would have been simpler to just ask him, but the one time that she had tried to raise the subject his face had turned to stone and he had walked away, not answering, leaving her to stand alone in the mushy snow.

She hadn't realised, until she started looking specifically, the care that Draco took to keep his arms covered. At fist she guessed that this meant that he did have the mark after all, then she wondered if it was to prevent his parents seeing his bare arms and being reminded that he was unmarked, and then she wondered if that was just wishful thinking, and then she realised that she had talked herself right around in a circle and was still no closer to finding the truth.

* * *

It was the thirtieth of December. Whether she wanted it or not she had twenty-six hours until the ceremony. Nerves were starting to get to Hermione and she couldn't settle to anything. She slammed down the heavy book and stormed from the library. She flung herself on her bed, her face pressed into the pillow and her hands balled into fists. Then with a scream, she grabbed the glass of water from the table by her bed and flung it across the room hard. It smashed into the window, shards of glass from both flew everywhere, showering down both inside and out like raindrops. It did actually relieve some of her tension and she left the room, abandoning the house elves to clean up the mess.

Once, she would have been horrified at her behaviour, now it hardly seemed to matter anymore. A terrible sense of morbid finality hung over her. She kept telling herself that in just over a day she would be free, her family and Ron's restored to her. But she was having difficulty convincing herself. It felt as if her life was closing in on her from all sides, suffocating her, suppressing rational thoughts and emotions.

Maybe she would be dead. Maybe Voldemort would kill her once she was no longer needed. Maybe she would kill herself after what she had done. It seemed as if her sanity was barely holding together, a loose thread that could snap at any second.

The halls were quiet and dark even though it was only ten pm. Lucius and Narcissa were downstairs in the withdrawing room, but the idea of their company was repulsive, so she decided to look for Draco instead. The obvious place would be his room, so she tried there first, doubting that he would be asleep, although he had been looking more and more exhausted all week. She knocked gingerly at his door and heard him call for her to enter.

He sat on his bed, his arms locked around his knees and his hands balled into fists. He must have just showered because his white-blond hair was darkened with moisture and hung limply around his face. He wore a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms but his feet and chest were bare. His eyes were shut and his face was twisted into an expression of intense agony.

"Draco?" she gasped involuntarily.

He sprang upright, his eyes opening. "Hermione, I didn't expect it to be you."

She didn't ask who he was expecting, she was too concerned about him. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said shortly, although resignedly as though he knew that she knew that he was lying. He sat back on the bed, his legs giving way underneath him as if they could no longer hold his weight. She hurried forward to kneel beside him on the bed, but he pushed her hands away feebly. She couldn't help but take advantage of his semi-nude state to flip his arm over and reveal the bare, pink and white, unmarked skin.

He snatched his arm out of her grip. "No," he snarled. "I'm not one of them. They have other holds on me."

"Draco, what is happening to you?" she asked softly, not really expecting an answer.

"My life is forfeit to your good behaviour," he replied wearily. "Ever since the sword ceremony. Your doubts drain my life and if you don't kill Harry then I will die."

She recoiled, horrified. "How could they do that? I knew that Lucius was a monster, but to bind his own son..."

"It wasn't father. It was Voldemort. He fears that father might release you, or that I might, and so this is to bind us to him as surely as you are bound."

"That's barbaric! Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Because you're not supposed to know. I shouldn't be telling you. Voldemort figured that my death might be another incentive for you to renege on the bargain."

"Draco, I would never kill you," she said.

"Oh? Even though you will be given the choice: my death or Harry's?"

"I already have to betray Harry to Voldemort to get my family back."

He didn't reply, just sank back on the pillows with his eyes shut. She was horrified to see that the lids were blue-tinged. She watched him, his breathing shallow.

"Does my conviction give you back energy?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

She lay down beside him and pulled him into her arms. He felt weak in comparison to the steel strength she remembered from the last time he held her. His eyes opened again, piercing grey, and he watched her with detached interest. She kissed him and his arms came up around her. She wondered if it were wishful thinking or whether he felt stronger when he pulled away from her. He smiled, "It's a nice idea, but I don't know if it will work."

She laughed wryly, her sense of humour becoming morbid due to her circumstances. "You know," she told him. "I'm beyond caring. My," she paused, correcting herself, "Our situation is so hopeless it's almost comically ridiculous. We'll probably both be dead in two days."

He silenced her with a finger across her lips, "There's no need to make it worse."

She threw back her head and laughed hysterically. "Worse? How could it be worse? My family and friends are dead. I'm bound by a magical pledge to betray my one remaining friend, who at times I hate intensely, in order to revive them. I don't trust anyone and I fully expect to be double crossed and lose everything. Now you tell me that you are dying too and it's my fault and I'm lying here in your bed offering to have sex with you. How much worse can it get? It's already completely insane!"

He had pulled away during this outburst, fear of her evident in his guarded eyes, and somehow this made the situation even funnier. Now his face creased. "You're offering to have sex with me?" he repeated.

The laughter was beginning to crack in her throat and become sobs. "Yes," she cried. "Why not? It might keep you alive for a bit. What have I got to lose? I don't want to die a virgin." She covered her face with her hands and turned away from him, curling into a protective ball. Ever so softly he brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her cheek, turning her back into his arms. He lay there, holding her tenderly as she sobbed.

Somehow it didn't feel repulsive anymore. She hated herself for her pessimism, but was unable to fight it off. When he eventually bent his lips to hers she uncurled and welcomed his body to hers.

* * *

The first though that bled into he mind as she surfaced to awareness the next morning was, Shit! It's today.

She couldn't move, Draco's arm and upper body across hers, her legs tangled in his sheets. She might have laughed hysterically at this echo of her earlier fears, had she not felt so much like crying. Her whole body ached, but was nothing compared to the pain in her mind.

Today, today, today, today, today, taunted a nasty voice in her head. In the face of that, remaining in Draco's bed seemed like a very good idea. She snuggled down against him and his arms closed around her reflexively. His skin was warm and the blue around his eyes and lips did appear to have receded. Perhaps it had worked. Not that it mattered, he would die anyway if Harry didn't.

The door crashed open, waking Draco, and they heard Lucius's voice. "Draco, she's gone! Her bed wasn't slept in and..." he broke off when he was the two pairs of bleary eyes looking up at him. Draco thoughtfully pulled the sheet up to cover Hermione's bare breasts. Lucius had the grace to blush. "I... was afraid that Hermione had left," he explained needlessly.

"Well, as you can see," his son smirked with a languorous stretch, "she is right here."

Lucius had recovered, and arched one aristocratic eyebrow. "Indeed. I'm glad," he said dryly. "If the two of you would untangle yourselves from each other and dress, I would appreciate your company in the dining room."

* * *

"Here are the ingredients for the resurrection spell. It is a complicated spell and I must go work on the incantations and rituals that accompany this potion. I am therefore going to leave the two of you to brew it. I'm sure that with your combined skill you are more than capable." It was a complement but his voice twisted it so that it sounded more like an insult.

She began measuring the ingredients as Draco mixed them. It was a relief to have something productive to do, and while she worked Hermione could not think as the potion required her full concentration. A warmth suffused her however when she realised that this was the first tangible evidence that Lucius might keep his half of the bargain.

Finally the last drops of puffskein tears were added and Hermione checked her instructions. "What colour is it?" she asked, looking at the chart on the parchment.

"Um, about the colour of snake vomit," he replied.

"Oh helpful, since I haven't got the faintest idea what colour snake vomit is! Is it that colour?" she asked, exasperated, handing him the parchment.

His eyes met hers over the page. "Yes," he whispered. "We've done it. Hermione, I..."

She silenced him by turning away. She didn't want his words of sympathy and understanding, his words of hope. Not when she might be allowing him to die that very night.

* * *

In the middle of the afternoon she began to get ready to go meet Harry. She pulled the scarlet silk dress out of the wardrobe, spreading it out on her bed as she had that very first night. Red silk, the colour of blood, she thought wryly. How ironic. A dress the colour of blood to betray Harry. Gryffindor red. Yes, tonight she would wear this dress. After all, it might be my last chance to do so. And it would remind the Death Eaters who she was, no more hiding in black and green and silver.

When she was dressed she went to Lucius's study as instructed and knocked on the door. He was standing with his back to the door, facing his desk. "Come here," he instructed her.

It seemed like a very long way to walk and each pace seemed to take her further away from him rather than closer, but finally she was there. He was staring into a bowl of milky liquid. It reminded Hermione of a Pensive, but the swirling liquid was impenetrable.

"What is that?" she asked.

"It's a gateway. Harry is hidden behind a protective spell and a normal location charm won't find him. Using this you can travel directly to him. But it has to be you because he will have to let you through at the other end. Any of us would be trapped between here and there. You cannot turn around and come back; it is a one-way passage."

"Then how do I get back?"

"You won't be coming back, not to here. This," he pulled out a silver locket on a chain, "is a portkey. It will only work for two people, so you must convince Harry to come with you."

She nodded and he slipped the chain over her head, making her shiver as his icy lips brushed her forehead.

"Come, it is time for you to go." He moved her to stand in front of him, and whispered in her ear, "Not that I expect Potter to appreciate it, but you look stunning in that dress."

She shuddered and stepped forward to move away from him and found herself peering into the bowl of murky liquid. "Why can't I see anything at all?"

"You won't be able to unless Harry lets you through."

"What...what if he doesn't?" She turned to look back at Lucius over his shoulder.

"Then you will be stuck. So make sure that he does." Lucius's cold voice made shivers run down Hermione's spine. She glanced around the room, wishing that Draco was there. She hadn't said goodbye. Not that it mattered, of course. I don't really care for him, but it would have been nice to have someone who held some regard for me watch me go. It would have given me strength.

With a deep breath, she leaned forward and fell into the bowl, and as the gulf of oblivion surrounded her, swallowing her whole, she thought, damn Harry and his protective spells, why couldn't I just have Apparated!

* * *

Nothing, nothing, emptiness and oblivion engulfed her, draining thoughts and feelings until she felt unconscious but aware, floating, drifting without purpose. Then her feet landed, but there was nothing beneath her, and she walked, without purpose or direction. Clouds of restless smoke drifted around her, changing her blank surroundings to other whiteness, other misty landscapes, directionless and featureless.

Time didn't seem to pass, or perhaps hours did. It hardly mattered and there was no way of telling. She didn't get tired or hungry, although she had been wandering for as long as she could remember. There was not even any fear now.

Slowly the smoke ahead of her parted and she followed the path of empty air until she was faced with an image of herself, walking in the opposite direction. Then a barrier came between them, and as she raised her hand to touch the smooth surface, so did her reflection, and then she realised that was exactly what it was, a reflection of herself, fuzzy brown hair, scarlet dress, black shoes, the only colour in the drained landscape, facing herself, hand to hand, through a mirror.

This must be the exit, she thought.

She watched the image, the reflection, but it only imitated her actions, as a true mirror would. There was no heart's desire here, no deepest dread, just herself, as she was, unchanged.

She wondered if that was it. Was it just showing her herself? Was it showing her that she hadn't changed?

Have I changed?

Maybe.

Then the edges of the mirror began to peel away and she could see through into a little, white-painted sitting room, a pair of leather armchairs and a round table with a stack of newspapers, painfully ordinary. And there, looking back at her, was Harry Potter.

* * *

She stepped through the mirror wordlessly, her thoughts in turmoil. All the images of Harry, her parent's funeral, Ron's funeral, blame blame blame, came rushing back to the surface. So stupid, so trusting, he had let her in without a word.

Then her heart softened, cracked and she was in tears. Harry, my Harry.

And then she was in his arms, crying into his shirt while he held her, rubbing her back. In Harry's arms, where she had wanted to be all those years when he had always picked someone else.

Gradually her tears subsided and she pulled away from him, looking up into those famous green eyes, and said the only thing that came into her mind, "Harry."

He smiled at her, as kind, as trusting, as ever. "Hermione, I had given up hope of ever seeing you again."

She couldn't smile back, not now.

"Harry," she said again, trying to move beyond this, to find other words, but unable.

"Here, sit down, let me get you a drink."

And so she sat in Harry's little sitting room, gathering her thoughts, holding back the tide that had so unexpectedly overwhelmed her, while he bustled off to the kitchen and returned with two mugs of tea.

It broke her heart that he could still be so endearingly naïve, after all he had been through.

"To what do I owe this visit?" he asked.

She thought about lying, about telling him she had missed him, about dismissing it out of hand. But then told him the truth.

"I know where Voldemort is and how to get to him."

As she expected a fire lit in Harry's eyes. "He has asked you to betray me," Harry surmised. "You are to take me to him."

It was agony, but she nodded. "I have a portkey, and it will take us to him."

"So I must go on his terms?"

"Yes,"

In the nine days since her agreement she had wondered and worried about how she would get Harry to accompany her, whether she should tell him she just wanted to go out and spend some time with him, whether she should pretend it was to visit some mutual friend (if she could think of one who survived), if she should pretend that she was working for the Aurors and that it was for his safety. Even when falling through the gateway she had not known what to say. But now it was clear as glass.

The truth would get him to follow her. Even knowing that it was a trap, Harry would follow her blindly to Voldemort. He wanted revenge with such a burning need that he would face Voldemort in any circumstances rather than live out his empty days in this little house, protected from the world.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked her. "Let's go at once."

She didn't know what time it was, what time they were expected and her heart was bleeding, knowing that they would die, knowing that it was what Harry wanted nonetheless, knowing, deep down, that really she had no choice.

She stood facing her, looking down into her eyes, one strong arm tight around her waist, and the other lifted, his fingers linked through hers. Then, together, they touched the locket.

* * *

They were in a hall. Hermione didn't know where; she had never seen it before. There were no windows, nothing except black walls and an arching black ceiling and at one end an empty black throne. In a circle around them, hoods up, wands drawn and pointed at them, stood the Death Eaters. Draco sat on the floor in front of the throne, expressionless, watching her.

There was no surprise on Harry's face at the ambush. Hermione briefly wondered what the Death Eaters thought of that. Instead there was a small smile of satisfaction on his handsome face, his green eyes sparkling ferociously behind his glasses, his wand in his fist.

She wondered if she should have told him to leave his wand behind, and yet that had not been one of the terms, and she wasn't sure she could have done it - it would have been viciously unfair.

One of the Death Eaters, the one nearest the throne, threw back his hood to reveal the chiselled face of Lucius Malfoy. He lifted his head and called out, his voice echoing in the bare hall, "Master, we have the boy."

And then, where there had been no one before, there was a man sitting in the throne, a human man, not some bodiless spirit or possessed creature, but a man, as alive and breathing as she herself. And that man was Voldemort.

He was young. That was the first thing that struck Hermione. Although she knew Harry had on several occasions, and described it to her, she herself had never before set eyes on the Dark Lord himself. She was terrified, and his eyes were on her, boring into her skull as if he could read every one of her thought before she herself had even thought them. His handsome face was stern, but not evil.

How could you tell that someone was evil from their appearance? Was it something in their expression? Or something in the way they moved?

Was there a way? Or was it just a gut-wrenching feeling. A knowledge, an instinct that transcended what your eyes could tell you?

She knew, more intensely that she had ever felt anything before, that this man was evil. But was it just ingrained hate? Was it just a forewarned knowledge of his actions?

How could you tell if someone was evil if they had not yet done anything to show it?

Was Draco evil?

Was she?

"Get rid of the girl," Voldemort said, and for a second her blood ran to ice, but then Lucius, grabbing her arm, hauled her out of the circle and pushed her down next to Draco. "Sit and be silent," he hissed.

Then Voldemort walked into the circle, facing Harry. Neither spoke, they just stared at one another. There was no expression of hate, although the atmosphere was tainted by it so strongly Hermione could almost smell it. Their faces only betrayed mild curiosity.

"So we meet again, boy," Voldemort said with a slight smile.

"For the last time," Harry replied.

"I believe so."

It was all so polite, so painfully cold, it sounded so rehearsed. She had expected more than this. Where was the emotion in their still voices?

"Show the girl the bodies. Inform her of her task," commanded Voldemort, his eyes never leaving Harry's. Lucius came to get her, but she could hardly wrench her eyes away from the two men in the circle. They were perfectly balanced, the same height, the same lean build, both holding their wands in the tight right fists, neither moving to cast a spell.

Then Lucius uncovered the bodies lying behind the throne. She hadn't even noticed that they were there and it took her almost a minute to realise what she was seeing.

Her mother, her father, Mr Weasley, Mrs Weasley, Charlie, Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron.

They were identifiable, but grey, sunken and starting to decompose. She felt her face crease in disgust as Lucius handed her the vial of potion that she and Draco had prepared only that morning.

It felt like years before.

"Pour a drop into each mouth," Lucius told her, and so, trying not to breath the stench of decay, and let a trickle of the liquid flow into her mother's mouth. Instantly the corpse began to change, colour bleeding back into sunken skin, and before her eyes her mother returned, looking now as if she only slept, as if her lungs had only just that moment drawn their last breath, and Hermione found herself crying, sobbing silently as she brought back the image of her father and then the Weasleys with Ron, her friend and ally, last of all.

Then Lucius roughly pulled the vial from her and led her to the circle once more. Voldemort held out his hand and Hermione was led to stand beside the man who had caused all this misery in the first place.

"Now," Voldemort said softly. "Those who have proved loyal to me shall be rewarded and those who have proved false shall suffer."

His eyes were still locked with Harry's an he turned his wand and flicked it in Lucius's direction, whispering a sinuous spell beneath his breath. Lucius cried out in pain and sank to the floor, imploring in his agony, "Master, what have I done? I am loyal, Master, I am loyal."

"No," Voldemort's voice was as expressionless and uncaring as his face. "You thought to overrule me, my second in command. It is not a good thing to try. I have already killed Wormtail for attempting the same treachery. I have seen how you have won the people of your area to you, bribing then, aiding them, making them loyal to you with new housing, new hospitals, kindness and charity."

"Never, my Lord. Loyal to you. Always loyal to you," Lucius wheezed. Voldemort's wand flicked again as he whispered another spell, and then there was a flash of green, and Lucius was dead.

Without looking at the body, Voldemort spoke, "Draco Malfoy, I hereby promote you to your father's position. See that you serve me better than he did."

Hermione expected a reply, but when she turned to look at Draco, he still sat motionless at the foot of the throne, staring at his father's body. Hermione wondered if Narcissa was one of the hooded figures in the circle, but none of them made any movement or made any sound to betray if Lucius's wife was present. Draco's arm was still unmarked and Hermione wondered if Narcissa would be proud, her uninitiated son promoted to second-in-command over all the assembled Death Eaters.

But she didn't have much time to think. Voldemort moved away from her, leaving her in the circle, between Harry and Draco, but off to one side. "My dear," he addressed her. "This is your moment. To complete the spell of resurrection you must kill this young man," he indicated Harry. "With his death you will return your family and that of the Weasleys to life. And you will prevent the death of Draco Malfoy, for whom, although I expect that you deny them, you have developed feelings."

Hermione looked at Harry, then at Draco, then at Harry. She raised her wand and stood for a moment, perched on the edge of eternity, then said, "Avada Kedavra," and Voldemort, resurrected, human Voldemort, keeled over in the flash of green light.

She expected to be killed instantly by the circle of Death Eaters, but their only movement was to bow, heads inclined and wands flat on the floor, to Draco.

Draco and Harry however, both moved in a heartbeat, standing, wands drawn and pointing at one another.

"If you don't kill him, I will," Draco informed her.

"If you don't kill him, I will," Harry echoed.

And there it was, in its simplest form, the choice she had always had to make: Draco or Harry.

She remembered Harry, biting his lip, dust and blood on his robes, facing the troll that had cornered her in her first year.

She remembered Draco, his eyes shining in the firelight, his tenor voice soaring as he joined in the Christmas Carols.

Harry, standing for applause in the Great Hall, having once more beaten off Voldemort and saved Ginny.

Draco, his eyes wide with fear that he refused to acknowledge, his fingers grasping her arm as they were buffeted by the noses of wide ponies.

Harry, safe and unscathed after the fire that had killed the Weasleys, the fire that had been aimed at him.

Draco, his beautiful face twisted into a sneer, calling her Mudblood.

Harry, broken and exhausted, returning Cedric's body to Hogwarts.

Draco, his eyes on hers, his mouth and hands touching, stroking, caressing away her fears.

Harry, standing in his black suit beside her parents' grave.

Draco...

She didn't know how for how long she stood there, looking between them. Harry's green eyes on her, sure and determined, knowing that she would chose him. Draco's grey eyes unsure, filled with fear, fear and love.

She made her choice.

Her wand still trained on the other boy, the sound of the bodies beyond stirring in the flash of green as she whispered the killing curse, Hermione walked into Draco's arms.