Crabbe. The final member of Draco’s crowd when he was a boy who wasn’t dead or locked in Azkaban (no longer under the watch of the Dementors, who had been Genocided in the war, but instead of some very powerful charms and magics), but that was about to change very, very soon. With arms bound with magic cords and lips coated in Veritserum, he was babbling endlessly about the countless crimes he’d committed since and during the battles against Dumbledore and his army. It was more then enough for a life sentence in jail, or even a death sentence. Which was what Harry and Draco were arguing about. “I thought we agreed we were going to go easy on killing people!” Harry hissed under his breath, trying to make sure that Crabbe didn’t hear him and assume he was some kind of weak hearted link that he could exploit to escape. The last thing he needed was for Crabbe to make some kind of run for it, because then he’d have no more arguments to stay Draco’s wand. He _wasn’t_ sentimental about Crabbe’s life either, it was just life in general that he disapproved disposing of so quickly, even if it was that of someone who’d used their life miserably. Angrily, Draco turned his back on him for a moment, not to leave but instead to try to collect himself before he said or did something stupid. He had a long standing habit of that. When he turned back, it was with a pretty good point, which almost made Harry wish that he had said something regrettable in its place. “We agreed that ‘we’ wouldn’t kill anyone needlessly or before we learned what they knew. You know that if we hand them over to the Ministry Percy will probably have him executed anyway!” Harry sighed. Draco just didn’t get the point. He didn’t give a damn whether Crabbe went on to see another day or not, but he didn’t want Draco’s to be the hand that struck him down. At least the blood would be on Percy’s hands if they handed him over to the Ministry and that was the way things panned out. But when he vocalized his opinions, Draco just turned away again, this time for quite a while. With his back turned away, Draco muttered to himself. It was Harry who didn’t understand, not him. Crabbe was the summation of every bad choice he’d even made in his life, what he’d have become if Voldemort hadn’t started to slip and he wouldn’t have begun to see things in a different light. Killing people like Crabbe, who really and truly deserved to die, was something that helped him cope, that hoped him kill off a certain part of his past. But this time when he turned around it wasn’t with an argument but with a digression. “All right, luv,” he said, trying to hide his reluctance, “we’ll take the time and effort and ship him into Ministry hands.” He was rewarded with a beaming smile from Harry, which almost made it worth it. “Thanks, Draco,” he said, and still smiling he put his wand away and began to walk back towards where they’d set their Portkey to save the effort of Apparation. As he went, he heard Crabbe whisper something to Draco with a sneer in his voice. “You can’t touch me,” he’d said, and that wiped the smile from Harry’s face. So Crabbe had heard after all. He just hoped it wouldn’t provoke Draco to backing out on his promise. But Draco did no such thing. Instead, he leaned in close to Crabbe, and smiled. “Actually,” he said, “I can’t kill you.” The night was suddenly filled with a muffled scream as Draco’s elbow shattered Crabbe’s nose into a half dozen pieces.