Cost of Mercy (story for SoftObsidian)

Oneshot for SoftObsidian74: A N/C Draco/Hermione slave-fic with Hermione as the slave...

Cost of Mercy

She lies in the bed, wondering what would have happened, how things would have been different, if it was not her, but Harry, who had entered the Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, to find Draco weeping bitterly, bemoaning his mission to kill Dumbledore.

When she saw him like that back then, her heart clenched in her chest.

“Draco,” she whispered, making her way towards him. “Draco, it's all right!”

He glared at her furiously, and an instant later, pulled out his wand, casting the Cruciatus curse on her.

She could have repelled it easily, but she didn't. She just let him send her to the floor in agony, her head striking hard against the surface. Blood trickled from the gush on her head, mingling with water, as her body shuddered from the blinding, tearing pain of the curse.

When he had ended the curse, he told her to leave.

She lifted herself off the floor painfully, her clothing drenched in water, and stained with her own blood. She shook her head, smiling at him sadly, and took another step towards him, holding her hands where he could see them, not reaching for her wand.

“Draco,” she said gently. “Don't. I know we have never been friends, or even on good terms – but I can tell that this is bigger than stupid house rivalries, or name-calling. Whatever it is, just tell me. Let me help you.”

“Get the fuck out,” he demanded, glowering at her ferociously, but she could tell his resolve was weakening.

“Why?” she asked. “Who else have you got to help you with this?”

A moment later, his wand was away, and he sobbed brokenly in her arms, his face pressing into her shoulder, telling her everything, absolutely everything – the Dark Mark, his mission, Voldemort's threat to murder his parents if he hadn't complied – absolutely everything.

She held him tightly, showering his flushed, tear-streaked face with kisses, whispering words of comfort and reassurance.

“We can help you,” she said firmly. “You don't need to do this. You are not a murderer. There are ways out of it.”

His hands dug into her sides with brutal force. “Really?” he whispered, as if not daring to believe it.

“Yes, Draco, really,” she said, her hand resting on his back. “Tomorrow morning, we'll go to McGonagall, and talk to her about this. She will know what to do. We can hide your parents. We can protect you from Voldemort. It'll be all right.”

He sobbed breathlessly, desperately, clinging to her with all his might.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me for everything, Hermione. Everything... calling you names.. taunting you... cursing you... forgive me.”

She held him until his sobbing subsided in her embrace. As much as his brokenness and anguish unnerved her, she was also reassured by it; by seeing the humanity on the face of her long-time nemesis. Perhaps, one moment of compassion, one act of mercy could bring the former enemies together, and change the course of history, ending the war that had plagued the wizarding world for decades.

She was naive like that.

“I forgive you,” she said firmly. “Don't worry about it, not in the least. Everything is forgiven. Tomorrow, will be another day.”

And another day came, but by the time the dawn broke above the Gryffindor tower, it had been too late.

Albus Dumbledore had been discovered dead, murdered in his own chambers. Draco had done it, after all, and fled the school.

Nobody knew what came over him, not even Hermione, not until, hid under Harry's Invisibility Cloak, she overheard Severus Snape speaking quietly to Dumbledore's portrait. Dumbledore's portrait had said that Draco was disdaining himself for some sort of “weakness”, and seeking to atone for it by any means necessary. She caught a glimpse of Severus Snape, grasping the frame of the portrait, muttering abjectly:

“Albus.. he is my godson. My godson is a murderer! How could it have happened? Who could have turned him into something like that?”

Unable to bear to hear any more of this, she fled. Her fault, her doing, she thought. She had turned Draco into a cold-blooded killer. The one single act of compassion changed him – made him loathe himself for accepting mercy and comfort from someone like her – a mudblood, a rival, a Gryffindor; and a murderer he became.

She was right after all, mercy did change the course of history. Just not the way she had hoped it would.

The war ended swiftly after that. So many dead. All of the members of the Order, all of the members of Dumbledore's Army. All of the Weasleys, and even Harry, even Ron, even Luna, even Neville, the twins, Tonks, Lupin, Shaklebot, Snape, and so many, many others. Everyone but her.

Draco had kept her alive.

She is repeating their names to herself, as tears stream from her eyes. She has no right to say those names, she knows. She killed them, she thinks. And yet, she lives. If you can call it that.

She lies in bed, on her back, her wrists chained to the headboard. She is naked. She always is. Her body is worn out, aching, sore all over. There is a sharp soreness on her chest where permanent scars are beginning to set.

She hears the familiar footsteps.

Again.

And then, he enters the bedroom and stares at her, with a triumphant smirk on his lips.

Draco.

He has changed. The young Master of the Elder wand became a formidable Dark Wizard in his own right. He was instrumental in Voldemort's winning the war, and had a number of Horcruxes of his own. It was rumored that Voldemort had tried to kill Draco to gain the mastery of the “deathstick”, but Draco's hand was resting on the Elder Wand, as the young ruthless wizard simply said:

“Don't fuck with me, Tom, if you know what's good for you.”

After that, Voldemort left him alone. He wasn't stupid, not really – he knew that if Draco was left alone, to himself, he would likely leave the Dark Lord alone as well.

And so it was. A draw, a stalemate. A strained truce between two Dark Wizards who shared the supremacy of the wizarding world.

Draco looks at her appraisingly, and begins to disrobe, revealing his slender, alabaster-pale body. His body has no scars, no injuries, no Dark Mark – he had it removed with the Elder Wand. He is his own Master now; and he calls no man, or wizard, his Lord.

“Ready to be fucked, mudblood?” he asks casually.

She bits her lip, and glares at him defiantly. He chuckles, and sits on top of her, his erect member pressing against her belly, suggesting of a greater forced intimacy to follow. His hands are on her breasts, cupping them, toying with them, squeezing them possessively.

“You are mine,” he tells her. “You know, this is all you are good for, and even for this, you are barely adequate.”

His fingers reach into her sex, probing, invading; fingernails scratching the walls. She is so dry – he never uses any lubrication, and her body refuses to produce any, not like this.

“Useless cunt,” he growls at her. “Dry as a Weasley Howler parchment. Why I keep you alive, I don't know.”

Without further deliberation, he thrusts into her, and she groans at the tearing pain of the penetration. Her teeth are clenched, as he fucks her, quickly and furiously, his hands on her breasts again, squeezing them without much interest or appreciation. He orgasms quickly and pulls out of her, shaking his head disdainfully.

“You are so ugly, it's almost unbelievable,” he mutters, and stretches on the bed next to her. She can hear his heartbeat, wild and loud, and his breathing, labored and weary. She dares to hope that they are done for the night, but of course, they are not.

He reaches into the nightstand, and pulls out a knife, its blade still bearing her blood from the night before. He presses the tip of it against her chest, and begins to cut, along the faint scars that are already present there. Every night, he does that, over and over again, carving a single word into her skin.

She makes no sound at the cutting pain, not even a gasp leaves her lips. It's not that bad, she tells herself; could not be any worse than writing lines with the Blood Quill – could not be any worse than dying by Voldemort's hand, so why is she near ready to burst into tears each time the sharpened metal parts her skin?

Maybe if he had carved something different, it would have been easier to bear. Had he carved cunt, or whore, or mudblood into her skin, she would not have cared.

But no. He doesn't do that.

The word is is working on, night after night, simply says, mine.

His.

She never asked for this, she thinks bitterly; she never asked to be his. But perhaps, she did give her consent to become his, that fateful night in the Moaning Myrtle's bathroom some three and a half years ago.

She gave him forgiveness then. Some say, when you grant forgiveness, it liberates you. Not so, she thinks; forgiveness is the ultimate act of submission. By forgiving, you agree to bear the sins of the other, even if it maims you, even if kills you; and even if it doesn't.

The knife continues to torment and brutalize her flesh, and then, finally, tears spill of their own accord. He ignores them, and continues to carve, absorbed by the activity, mesmerized by the damage his hand is inflicting.

Eventually, he sets the knife aside, and looks at her with amusement.

“You cry entirely too much,” he says. His voice is dispassionate and bored. “What is it that you want?”

She stares back at him with desperate hope in her eyes.

“Have mercy,” she whispers brokenly. “Kill me.” She is begging for herself, as there is no-one else left to beg for. Everyone else is gone. She despises herself for being alive. She despises herself for still caring about being hurt. She shouldn't mind. Her own body, her suffering, her degradation should not matter to her, she has no right to care about herself enough to beg for the pain to end. She should not be begging for mercy. And yet, she does.

“Mercy,” Draco snickers. His lips twitch into a cold, contemptuous smirk. His hand cups her breast roughly, and he pinches her nipple brutally, squeezing it with all the fury and rage that he can manage. “You showed me mercy once, mudblood. See where it got you.”

The End