Draco wanted to cover his ears as his aunt's screams echoed through the house. This wasn't unusual – he'd heard her scream often enough. In joy, sometimes, when a snatcher fed her a titbit of news that usually made Draco want to vomit. In pleasure, on the rare occasion when the Dark Lord visited her, and he allowed Bellatrix to pleasure him. In pain, maybe, when he was pleasuring her and it went down the path that both of them liked.

Never had he heard a sound like this. It was as horrible as the sound of someone under the cruciatus curse – in a way, it was worse. He'd never heard his strong, wilful aunt like this, and he honestly had doubts as to whether she would survive this.

His eyes flickered over to his father, who was sitting comfortably on an armchair, reading his book. Anyone would think that he couldn't hear the terrible noise coming from upstairs; only the whiteness of his fingers as he tightly clutched at the book gave his true emotions away.

The worst bit was yet to come, though, Draco knew. The worst bit would be when it was over, and he'd have to visit his aunt and hold his baby cousin. He'd have to gently touch it, knowing what it was. An abomination.

He pictured a child with the face of the Dark Lord and shuddered.

It looked surprisingly normal, Draco thought to himself. 'It' he called it – he found it hard to give it a gender, as though that might humanise it. Any offspring of the Dark Lord should not be humanised.

"She's beautiful," Lucius said stiffly. He might have put more effort into his acting had he actually been in the room, but he wanted nothing to do with a baby of that age, so it seemed Lucius was safe.

Aunt Bellatrix didn't seem to notice the forced tone. "She's his," she whispered reverently. "Ours."

Narcissa twitched, and Draco thought he could understand why. She wanted to caution her sister; to remind her that she may have birthed the girl, but the Dark Lord could very easily decide to take her away, particularly if anyone thought that Bellatrix being the mother of his child might raise her status to be on more equal footing to the Dark Lord.

Lucius was not as reserved. "Be careful what you say, Bellatrix," he warned.

Draco watched carefully as his aunt's face darkened. He knew that every person in the room – minus the infant – was remembering the tentative hours when Bellatrix first fell pregnant. They were recalling the hours they waited for the Dark Lord's decision as to whether Bellatrix could keep the child or not.

"He allowed her to be born," she hissed. "He loves her."

Draco could have choked on the air he was inhaling. Childbirth had obviously driven his aunt to insanity; he was willing to bet that Lord Voldemort had never loved anything or anyone in his life. The snake was the closest living creature to him, and even then he didn't show Nagini any warmth. He treated her with care, certainly, but there was no fondness in his actions as one might show towards a pet.

"If you think that, Bellatrix," Lucius said coldly, "then you are a fool."

"He won't take her from me," she insisted. "Not now."

"He wasn't aware it would be a girl, Bella," Narcissa interjected gently. "It is quite possible that he let you keep the child with the expectation that he would have a son."

A flicker of doubt crossed Bellatrix's face. "He would not take her," she said, but her voice wavered.

"Perhaps not," Narcissa told her soothingly. "But just in case… you should think about who you would choose if the time comes. Your master or your child."

Bellatrix wasn't the motherly type, it was easy to say. Although her daughter was the offspring of the Dark Lord, neither love for her child nor her sister's advice to remain in bed kept her from attending the Battle of Hogwarts only a few weeks after the birth.

Perhaps Draco should have felt guilty for feeling so little emotion towards his aunt, but he couldn't help his reaction to the news of his aunt's fate. It wasn't grief for her that flooded his mind when he heard that she was dead, nor did he feel pity for her orphaned daughter, it was the terrible thought of 'what on earth are we going to do with her?'

"Right, so you know what you're going to do?" Draco asks for the thousandth time. Narcissa nods, and he can tell that she's holding back tears. "You can't fall to pieces, mother," Draco presses. "For the baby's sake."

Narcissa had always had her own, unique strength. It gave her the power to endure anything – given time. But she'd always had her family by her side when it really mattered, and Draco was worried that, in the coming weeks, when her husband and her son were in Azkaban and she was on her own, she'd struggle to do what needed to be done.

His trial was in three hours, and he held little hope of escaping prison. He knew he'd serve his time; he had no qualms with it. He hoped it would be a short sentence; something less than life. He couldn't imagine he'd get off completely, though.

Narcissa had a little more time of freedom; her trial was not until next week. Up until now, they'd both been under house arrest. Lucifer had not been given such treatment; he was being held at the ministry until his trial. Since the end of the war, it had just been Narcissa, Draco, and it.

Draco knew his mother's sentence would be shorter than his own; unlike her husband and son, she'd never taken the mark. She'd still serve time, though; she'd harboured Voldemort himself under her roof. "I understand how important this is, Draco dear," Narcissa said gently. "I want the best for her too. She is my own flesh and blood."

Draco nodded tersely. His eyes flicked to the cot in the corner, where the yet-unnamed child was lying. He resented her presence, for taking up so much of his last moments of freedom. For stealing one of his last moments with his mother in what would probably be a very long time.

"Goodbye, Mother," he said softly.

She stepped forwards and embraced him. "I love you, Draco."

He arrived early, although he wasn't sure that the show of punctuality could make much impact on the Wizengamot. To his surprise, there was already someone waiting outside the courtroom.

"Potter?"

Potter smiled grimly. "You powers of deduction never cease to amaze me," he said dryly.

"Is the fact I'm going down not enough for you?" Draco said bitterly. "Do you have to make sure I'm locked up for the longest amount of time possible? Or have you just shown up to watch the spectacle of my trial?"

Potter's voice was infuriatingly mild. "Oh, no," he says. "I'm here to testify."

Draco's heart sinks. The testimony of the saviour carries some weight, and his circumstances already looked grim. With Potter going against him, he'd be going down for life.

At that point, the door swung open and an elderly-looking witch stepped out. "The trial of Mr Draco Malfoy is about to begin," she said in a no-nonsense voice. "May all who wish to act as witnesses or to view the trial in progress step into the courtroom now."

"Time to face the kraken," Potter said to Draco.

Draco just gave him a confused look. "Time to what?"

"Never mind," Potter said, shaking his head. "It's a muggle saying."

And with that he led the way into the grey room.

"The charges stand thusly: Mr Malfoy is accused of murder, attempted murder, harbouring a known criminal…" her voice droned on and on; Draco stopped listening. What was the point when they were going to send him down regardless of what he said or did? No fancy words could save him now.

"Before Mr Malfoy takes the stand, will anyone speak in his defence?" the woman asked. There was a pause for someone to volunteer – a formality only, as everyone in the room knew. No one would stand up for a Death Eater.

The entire room was taken by surprise, however, when Potter cleared his throat.

"I'd like to act as witness for the defence," he said.

Draco might have fallen of his chair if he hadn't been cuffed to it.

Potter did better than Draco might have ever believed. He started right back in sixth year and recalled everything he knew of Draco's life at the time. He skipped over things that made Draco look bad, and emphasised the few moments in which Draco looked good, like when he couldn't bring himself to kill Dumbledore. Facts were twisted, and when the room was dismissed for the Wizangamot to make their decision, Draco walked out of the room almost believing in his innocence.

There was a few moments of awkward silence in which Draco looked everywhere but Potter. Finally, the other boy found the courage to break it.

"I'm sorry about your father," he said.

"Are you?" Draco asked, genuinely surprised. "I would have thought you would have been in full support of a life-sentence."

"Oh, I was," Potter replied. "I'm sorry about the effect it must have on you and your mother, though." There's a pause in which Draco tries and fails to think of something to say. "This war… it leaves scars on us all, no matter what part we did or didn't play in it."

Before Draco can reply, the door swung ominously open once more. The pair look at each other, in that instance connected by the weight that rested on these next few minutes. Neither of them voiced it, but they were both thinking it.

Surely that had been too fast?

The words floated through the air and across his hazy vision, but he couldn't quite believe them. "The sum of five thousand galleons to be paid within three months", "Four years home detention" and "Two additional years wandless" were all phrases that belonged to someone else's life. There was no way he could be so lucky to get off that lightly. He glanced at Potter; only a small, happy twitch of his mouth told Draco that he had heard correctly.

Then the courtroom was dismissed. Draco left it in a daze, unable to believe this was really happening. It was like he was living a page of someone else's life.

"Why?" he asked Potter, as soon as they were out of the crowded room.

Potter looked at him enigmatically for a moment. "I imagine it's because they're trying to save space in Azkaban," he replied, deliberately misunderstanding the question. "They've locked up so many people already; they need the room for the more dangerous criminals."

"That's not what I meant," Draco replied.

Potter sighed. "Look, Malfoy, we've had our differences," he said. "But we were children. As an adult, I think I can tell the difference between a Death Eater and someone who went along with things because they had to."

"You're still trying to be the saviour the press has made you out to be," Draco observed.

Strangely, Potter's mouth twitched. "If you'll remember, the press hasn't always had good things to say about me," he replied. "And I doubt they'll approve of me testifying for Death Eaters."

Draco inclined his head in agreement.

"I'm standing up for what I think is right," Potter continued. "They can say what they like about me, but they'll never say I didn't do that."

"Just remember that history is always written by the winning side, Potter," Draco said. They reached the end of the corridor and Potter stopped. Draco realised this was where the pair of them went their separate ways. "Don't be so quick to count on a noble retelling."

"I know," Potter said. "I don't intend to be the loser in this battle." He held out his hand.

Draco was surprised at the gesture, but he shook it firmly. "Thank you," he said, sincerely.

"Don't mention it," Potter said. Draco thought he was being polite, then he pulled a face and added, "Seriously, it's Hermione you should be thanking. She wrote most of my testimony. I just had to remember it."

The day was full of unexpected events, apparently. "Thank her for me, then, will you?" he asked.

Potter inclined his head. "I will," he replied. With that, he released Draco's hand and turned away.

As Draco watched Potter walk in the other direction, a thought struck him. "Potter!" he called out. Potter turned back.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Is your hero complex exhausted yet, or do you still have it in you to help out another person of Malfoy blood?" Draco asked.

"If you're referring to your mother then I can tell you I already intend to testify on her behalf," Potter replied.

"She wasn't who I was referring to, although thank you." The amount of gratitude he had had to bestow on Potter today was beginning to hurt his teeth.

"Then who?" Potter asked.

"A baby?" Potter asked Draco, when he saw the small, pink human in the cot. "Why... Is he your brother? How am I supposed to help him?"

"It's a she," Draco responded absently. "And she's my cousin."

He waited a few moments for Potter to figure it all out. He could pinpoint the exact moment that it happened, because Potter's expression turned to one of surprise. "Bellatrix's?" he asked unnecessarily. "I still don't see…."

"That's because you don't know who the father is."

Potter was surprisingly good at holding babies, Draco thought absently as he watched the dark-haired man cradle the girl, rocking her gently back and forth. Draco couldn't even touch her without shuddering yet.

Narcissa had returned with refreshments; tea for Potter and Draco, and something a little bit stronger for herself. She watched Potter hold the child with beady eyes. "Does she have a name?" Potter asked. Both Narcissa and Draco shook their heads.

"Bella… had little to do with her," Narcissa said hesitantly. "She died only a few weeks after she gave birth."

"And Riddle?" Potter asked. It took Draco a few moments to realise he was referring to the Dark Lord by his given name.

"He never saw her," Draco replied. "We assume he knew of her existence but, before the battle of Hogwarts, he had other things concerning him."

"I suppose he would have," Potter said. There was silence for a moment as all three of them watched the baby grip Potters finger and pull it towards her mouth. "What are we going to do with her?" he asked eventually.

"We were going to put her in a muggle orphanage," Draco replied. "When Mother and I thought we would both be sent to Azkaban. Obviously now, though, the circumstances have changed."

"Have they?" Potter asked sharply.

Draco was surprised, but before he could reply, Narcissa spoke up. "Of course they have," she said. "If we are free-"

"I wouldn't call home detention 'free'," Potter interrupted. "You'll both be wandless and imprisoned in the Manor, at the very least. A large amount of your fortune will be depleted due to the fines-"

"We'll still have house-elves," Narcissa snapped back. "And the Malfoy fortune is far more extensive than you can possibly imagine-"

"Enough to bribe the ministry to let you keep her?" Potter demanded. Narcissa fell silent.

And that was the crux of the issue, Draco knew. Not how to raise the child, for that could doubtless be solved. The issue wasn't that at all.

It was how to protect her from a world that would be baying for her blood.

"Look," Potter said, more gently. "I know you'd like to raise her. Ordinarily I'd agree." Draco doubted he was speaking honestly, there, but he let it slide. "If she was a normal child-"

"She is a normal child!" Narcissa interjected heatedly.

"I can see that," Potter said, with an air of forced calmness. "But that's because I'm holding her, and she's trying to bite my finger. The rest of the world can't see that she's just a normal baby, and it's them you have to convince. Even if you did fight the ministry for custody of her, she'd always be an outcast. Always. That's not something that should ever be inflicted upon a child, no matter… no matter who their parents were."

Narcissa looked like she was going to reply sharply, but Draco cut in before her. "What do you suggest?" he asked Potter.

Potter looked down at the child he was holding. She let go of his finger and reached for his glasses. Smiling, he bent his head forward and let her grab them.

Draco wondered how this tiny, innocent thing could cause such a problem. Here she lay, clutching the glasses of the most famous man in the wizarding world, not knowing that her entire future was being decided for her in these few crucial minutes.

"Instinctively I oppose the orphanage idea," Potter mused, "if only because it feels like history repeating itself. But I think you're right; the muggle world is probably the best place for her."

"She doesn't belong there," Narcissa said almost tearfully.

"They'll accept her there," Potter said. "Like the wizarding world never will. And she'll come to Hogwarts eventually, just like every other witch or wizard."

"She'll have a muggle upbringing, though," Narcissa said.

Potter bit his lip. "You say that like it's a bad thing." He quickly continues before Draco or Narcissa can say anything. "I've already said that I'm not totally happy about it either."

"For different reasons than we are, I imagine," Draco pointed out.

"If there was another way…" Narcissa said.

"I don't think there is, though," Potter said, rescuing his glasses. "If there was, we'd take it."

She had no possessions; her residence at Malfoy Manor was always supposed to be temporary. She made a sad sight, wrapped up only in blankets with a small bag of clothes that had been knitted for her by the house elves. "She should have a name," Potter said. "Before she goes. A Black name."

They all thought for a moment, before Narcissa came up with a suggestion. "How about Cebelrai?"

Even Draco hesitated at that.

"I know that the usual pureblood naming system is to pick a strange name and go with it regardless of popular opinion," Potter said carefully. "But don't you think that, given the circumstances, a name that's a little less… conspicuous might be appropriate."

"You're probably right," Draco said quickly. "After all, she is going to spend the next eleven years with muggles."

Narcissa's mouth tightened.

"How about Maia?" Potter suggested quickly. "Like the star?"

"Hm," Narcissa said. "Maia." She thought about it for a few more moments, and both Potter and Draco held their breath. Finally, she announced her verdict. "I like it," she said.

Draco quickly added his approval. Narcissa, who was holding her, carefully handed her over to Potter. "You shouldn't apparate with children under five," she said anxiously.

"I know," Potter said soothingly. "I'm taking muggle transport." He stooped to pick up the bag. "I guess this is it, then," he said awkwardly.

Draco nodded. "Good luck," he said, although he had no idea what he was wishing Potter luck for. Maybe for everything.

Potter's face was as serious. "And you," he replied.

Draco and Narcissa saw him out and watched him walk away. He felt a slightly bad for the relief that washed over him as he realised it was the end of an ordeal.

The end of an ordeal, and the beginning of a new life.

The man sloshed through the puddles in the Manchester street, ducking his hooded head to keep the rain from his eyes. In his arms was what appeared to be a thick bundle of cloth in a basket, which he held protectively to his chest; closer inspection showed it was, in fact, a child. The man moved surreptitiously and with a purpose; an onlooker might have been suspicious that the child was stolen.

There were no onlookers, though. There were still a number of hours before the sun should, theoretically, rise. Of course, when it did, it would be hidden by the thick layer of clouds coating the sky.

He halted suddenly, midway down the street, appearing to have found what he was looking for. He turned to the left, walking towards a grey stone building with a worn sign outside it saying "The Ann Murdoch Halfway House."

He carefully placed the child on the doorstep, taking pains to ensure the basket was secure. From his coat pocket he pulled out a piece of paper, which he tucked down between the wicker and the wrappings. A small hand wormed its way out of the tightly-wrapped blankets to grab at it.

Straightening up, he knocked on the door and waited a few moments. When there was no response, he knocked again; louder and longer this time. A light flicked on, and scuffling resounded from inside the house.

A few moments later, the scraping of a key in the lock could be heard. Seemingly satisfied with this, the man turned away and began walking back down the short path.

The door opened to reveal a small woman in a pair of patched pyjamas. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes bleary, showing that she, like the rest of the street, had been fast asleep until the knock on the door rudely woke her.

"Excuse me, sir," she called out to the man's retreating back. "You can't jus' leave it 'ere." The man didn't turn back, and she began to step forwards.

Suddenly, there was a crack that made the woman jump, and the figure disappeared before her eyes. She blinked, hard, and when he didn't reappear in her vision, she raised her hands to her eyes and rubbed them.

There was still no sign of him. Shaking her head, she turned to the basket left on her step. Surprisingly, the child hadn't stirred at the loud sound.

"I don' suppose anyone woul' believe me if I told 'em what 'appened," the woman said idly to the child, tucking the blanket in tighter. The child might not have been startled by the sound, but she had been wriggling a bi, and her wrappings had come loose.

The woman's fingers hit the folded piece of paper, which she pulled out of the basket and opened. The lighting was dim, but the hall lamp gave just enough illumination for her to be able to make out the hastily-written words.

Her name is Maia.

May her second chance at life prove fairer than her first.

The woman frowned. "Maia, is it?" she said aloud. "Well, we got all sort round here. Jane's coming 'round in the morning; she'll sort you out."

Whoever this Jane person was must have met Maia's approval because she smiled widely up at the woman bending over her. Sighing, the woman lifted the basket and carried her into the hall.

As the door clicked shut, Maia let out a loud gurgle.

Further inside the house, another child began to cry.