Disclaimer: I am not JKR or Bloomsbury or WB... therefore, one must assume that I do not own or make any profit from writing about the characters they own. I do so for my own benefit - because if I don't the bunnies will drive me insane!!!!

Quick A/N - AU: Book 6 - didn't happen... so we'll just forget that. Dumbledore led the Light vs Voldemort, Draco didn't let anyone into Hogwarts and Snape didn't betray anyone. Harry and his entire year finished all seven years at Hogwarts. All reviews and thoughts are welcome!!

Warnings: There will be descriptions of: character death, torture, war and both het and slash relationships... if you don't want to read any of that then don't go any further. If you do, then I take no responsibility for what you read and what you feel... you have been warned!

"The war has been long. The damage great and the casualties high. But, the magical community has never been as focused and united as I see it now. I see no division between pure-blood and muggle-born. No vilification of werewolves or others of creature derivation. I see that a new age has dawned for all wizarding kind and I am honoured to have been selected to lead it into this new day."

Inauguration speech, Amelia Bones – Minister of Magic, February 12th 2007

Minister Bones had indeed been correct, the war had been long. Although the wizarding world would only ever date it in the annals of history as being from June 21st 1998 to December 31st 2006, and that Voldemort was finally defeated on the 80th anniversary of Tom Riddle's birth, it had really been going on since the 1970s, and apart from the brief lull that was the 1980s and early 1990s, the wizarding world had been at war for nearly forty years. Voldemort had been making life miserable for others for half of his existence, in an effort to somehow undo the misery that had been the first half of his life. Yet, no matter how long the actual fighting, skirmishing, spying, sabotaging, attacking, pursuing and hunting had gone on for, the clear up seemed to be taking forever.

January 2007 had been concerned with rebuilding the Ministry – a new ministry that was able to cope with the new world that wizards and witches everywhere had awoken to on the 1st of January. New posts had been commissioned, old ones remade or done away with and both had to be filled. Fresh blood and the best of the old had banded together to create a new Ministry of Magic, which – after February – had been helmed by Amelia Bones, Clarence Rigger as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Hermione Weasley nee Granger as Junior Undersecretary. By March, all positions in the Ministry were filled – mostly by loyal Order members or others who had proved an unequivocal loyalty to the Light. Kingsley Shacklebolt was now Chief of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and had created a new Auror division. There were now three tiers to it. There was the Wizarding Police Constabulary, under the control of war veteran Seamus Finnegan who, like the muggle version had limited powers and was responsible for the maintenance of law and order. The WPCs were only ever called upon to investigate small crimes, ones which after the war may have seemed insignificant but having an entire division dedicated to ensure that thieves, swindlers and other such miscreants were taken to task was a necessary. Especially with the fact that many had seen the fall of Voldemort as the perfect excuse to go somewhat wild. The WPC was also able to liaise with the Muggle Police Service if the need arose thereby strengthening the ties between the two. After all, the Muggle Police had been very helpful with the war. Then there was the Aurors – not at all revised from the way it had been before the war. Although, now under the leadership of Nymphadora Lupin (still known as Tonks) it was a slightly more colourful office. Lastly though there were the Dark Aurors or the DA. These were the best of the best – the marines of fighting the Dark – and had the authority to use any means necessary to apprehend or stop a Dark practitioner. Case loads for these wizards were small and infinitely complex and it was generally agreed that they would provide protection at major ministerial events and International Confederate meetings. They were also cleared to work for Gringotts.

Arthur Weasley headed up a new department that was concerned with the Death Eaters alone. Known simply as the Death Eater Investigation Department, it was the job of these brave souls to wade through the masses of evidence and information collected by the Aurors or WPC and search for viable Death Eater activity. The department was only temporary but with the war so fresh, the Ministry felt that the people would be more comforted with the idea of an entire independent department ensuring that the war crimes were answered, than if it was simply the Aurors and Wizengamot. Nevertheless, the department employed over fifty talented witches and wizards all under the watchful eyes of Arthur, Blaise Zabini and Mallory Hayday – once again, valuable Order members ensuring that the war was put to rest for good. Ron had suggested that they call it the Death Eater Audit Department or DEAD for short as they all knew that no Death Eater would escape the war without Azkaban or death. He had been quickly vetoed but no one had bothered to correct his claims.

Werewolves and Vampires had been taken off the "Magical Creatures" list – along with Veelas, goblins, elves and centaurs and were now under the classification of "Magical Species". They were given rights according to this new standing, and – more importantly to them – they each had a vote at the General Assembly of the Ministry of Magic. "Magical Creatures" were reclassified as those that couldn't – in anyway or at anytime – be held accountable for there actions or speak for themselves. If Snape hadn't come up with Wolfsbane Potion then the werewolves might have missed out, but now they had the choice and could be held accountable to the law. The Department of Magical Species oversaw all legislation and was, unsurprisingly headed by Remus J Lupin, the only decorated werewolf in history.

Other departments dedicated to muggle interaction and co-operation were still in the final stages of development but everyone was confident that there would never be another Muggle Purge like the one Voldemort had so recently whipped up.

March progressed with the honouring of all the War Heroes. Orders of Merlin – First Class – had been presented to Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Weasley and Remus Lupin. All were commended with having "braved a never ending darkness, unwavering in their loyalty to Light and Freedom" and "were a credit to the Wizarding Community and the World of Magic." Molly Weasley had had to move onto a second and then third handkerchief by the time Ron had received his award. Nearly every member of the Order of the Phoenix had been awarded at least a Third Class. Harry and Hermione had both worked hard to ensure that everyone who deserved to be honoured had been but that the awards hadn't lost their meaning. All in all only fifty awards for the defence of the Wizarding world were handed out, despite the fact that many more had played a part. There had been one other award declared, a new award. Called the Phoenix Feather it was a small, palm size feather donated by Fawkes and was an award for "unfailing loyalty, bravery and doing what must be done - no matter the cost, but always aware that there was one". Well, actually that had been unfair of the Ministry, as it turned out that it would be donated by Fawkes when there was someone worthy to collect it, and so far Fawkes had not judged anyone worthy. The crowd at the steps of the Ministry had gone wild when they had heard that, many demanding that Harry be awarded it as he had been the one to strike the killing blow to Voldemort, but Dumbledore had shaken his head, those damnable eyes twinkling with a renewed fire. All he had stated was that when a person worthy of it was found, then it would be relinquished to them.

Of course, that had set the wizarding world alight. The Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, Witch Weekly and even – to Hermione's horror – Transfiguration Today had all run articles written by readers who claimed that they were the ones worthy of the honour. There had been ludicrous feats of bravery listed, with a wizard in the Shetland Isles going so far as to claim that he had been the one to destroy Voldemort, and that it had been his Avada Kedavra that had ended the Dark Lord. Those in the know however knew this to be false. Harry hadn't actually uttered the killing curse, there had been no green light that shot out of the twin wand, no, he hadn't done anything as heroic or epic as that. Instead, he had drawn a circle around himself in the air with his wand. It had shimmered in the winter night – a beautiful gold that sung of home and hearth and heart and had warmed all who had seen it. And then he had said the words that presumably Dumbledore had scratched onto a parchment for him and pressed into his hand after they all hastily fled 12 Grimmauld Place to face Voldemort. He had waited, and delayed – sending nothing other than defensive spells out against the Death Eaters that had gathered against them, simply dawdling and waiting for midnight to roll on. It had taken forever, but eventually his watch had vibrated dully against his wrist and he read from the parchment: "O'er thy heart and brain together hath the word been pass'd--now wither!"

It had been like dawn coming all at once. The golden circle that protected him had flared, growing and glowing brighter and brighter and hotter and pushing all the night's darkness towards Voldemort. There had been no bang, no explosion – nothing remarkable at all... There had just been light and the whisper of the wind and Voldemort lay dead at his feet.

Harry had sworn that he had heard another voice on the wind whilst Hermione demanded to know the spell on the parchment, but when he had handed it to her there had been nothing there. The parchment was as clean and bright as when it had first been made, no longer sweat stained or wrinkled. And then, before any Order member could do anything about it, it had simply crumbled to ash, and once more Harry would swear that he heard a voice – laughing with childish glee – as they watched the crumbled paper float away.

All the Death Eaters had been arrested that night – even Draco Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew who had been absent from the battle but found later at Malfoy Manor. The Manor had been the headquarters of Voldemort's war efforts for well over half the war. It was unplottable, and although that technically meant that its location was only unplottable to cartographers and anyone who didn't know where to find it, it did mean that there were records in the Ministry of how to find such a place. After all, bureaucracy dictated that spells of that magnitude have all the necessary paperwork properly filled out and filed. Neatly. Unfortunately though, it would seem that Lucius had worked at the Ministry for far too long, and had removed all evidence of the Manor – and any other Malfoy property from public record. It wasn't until – at the point of the Vanquisher of Voldemort's wand – he was pleasantly pressed for the information that Lucius revealed the location of the Manor. With a further twist of his arm – driving the point of the wand further into his throat – Harry managed to make Lucius drop all the wards to the building. Tonks, Lupin, Charlie Weasley and Morag Fenal had been the ones to bring the final members of Voldemort's Inner Circle to the Ministry. The others were either already imprisoned or dead.

Pettigrew and Malfoy, Draco, were the last Death Eaters to arrive at the holding cells in the deepest part of the Ministry. No one was being sent to the new Azkaban until their trial was concluded. For the time they were held in invisible cages. Ten foot square, the cells were wall-less and bar-less but magic held them in place. They could see one another clearly, but they couldn't communicate – speak, hear or touch – and all they could do was watch as one another waited for their time in the dock. Once a Death Eater left their cell, they never came back. Pettigrew was forced into a cell between Fenrir's two lieutenants, both of whom shared similar inclinations with their former Alpha. Draco was pushed into one well away from his father. On his left was a Death Eater he had never met, and on his right was Cato Rosier – a distant relative and more recent bedmate of his. He noticed with a wry smile that the 'more dangerous' Death Eaters had a cell to themselves, the lesser ones had to share, five or less to a cell, two beds and a few blankets between them. These were the ones who could get away with claiming Imperius had been used on them. These were the ones that weren't seen as a threat. These were the ones whose testimony would probably not result in public execution. Therefore these where the ones who had the small comfort of being able to talk and touch and feel another being. The others couldn't be trusted to have company. They might plot or plan or scheme. It might compromise their trial.

Draco didn't see how that would happen. The Death Eater's were more likely to turn on one another in the faint hope that they might save their own skin. They wouldn't bother scheming with one another – the benefit of the masses didn't outweigh the benefit of the few (or rather the one) anymore. He also didn't find the separation from the other Death Eater's torturous, after all the years of living and existing with these men, it was finally a relief to be separated from them. And, as no magic of any kind could permeate the cells they were in, it was wonderful to finally be free to think. To spend the months thinking of everything and nothing as he waited for his own trail to roll around. As he waited for his time in the dock, his time to tell his side of the story. And he was looking forward to it immensely.

As he waited, he remembered. He remembered the carefree days of his childhood, where his biggest fear had been soiling his robes or forgetting dinner etiquette. Then there was the challenge of school. Fearing that he wouldn't be popular, that he would never play Quidditch for Slytherin or that he would fail all his classes. Then he had faced the annoyance that was Harry Potter as the Gryffindor Seeker, the only one in the school that beat him every time they met. It wasn't until seventh year that Draco finally beat Harry at Quidditch. It had been a hair's breadth between them, and Draco ended up with a broken collar bone for his trouble, but he had reached just that bit further and caught the snitch as he tumbled from his broom. It had been worth all the defeats, just to beat the Golden Boy on their final ever match.

Then he remembered the war and everything that he had seen and done and had done to him. But none of that really affected him. The only memory that seemed to get under his skin these days was that of his arrival at the Ministry the night that Voldemort fell.

Pettigrew had fallen at Harry's feet, begging for the young man to save him as he had done once before. Back when Sirius was alive and he had needed Pettigrew alive to clear his godfather. Now, his godfather was dead, cleared post mortem and vaunted as another of the heroes of the Second Rise of Voldemort. Harry didn't need Pettigrew alive any longer and simply walked passed the bald and simpering man as quickly as possible. But, he hadn't been able to ignore the pathetic little man completely as stubby fingers had curled round his upper arm and tugged desperately.

"Please... Harry please... your father, he wouldn't have... Harry please!"

It had been a fast and increasingly high pitched speech that had only served to ignite Harry's famous Gryffindor temper and within seconds Pettigrew found himself pinned to the cold wall that lined the route to the holding cells. White knuckled fists clutched at his dark robes and blazing emerald eyes were all that Pettigrew could see, the emerald darkening as the hero of the wizarding world grew angrier by the second.

"Never, ever, think that you have the right to speak of my father again you pathetic little rat. He was a million times the man you ever could be and for the life of me, I can't understand what he ever saw in you… You are nothing more than a traitor and a coward – you betrayed him to his death. You left Sirius to rot in Azkaban. You stole my blood to raise that creature you bowed to. You are the worst scum of the wizarding world and I will be glad when you get everything that is coming to you."

He remembered watching the furious speech Potter made to Pettigrew with cold eyes. Harry Potter had grown up over the war. There was a time after fifth year when the simple mention of Black would have caused the windows to shatter and the doors to rattle as the Boy Who Lived punched someone's lights out. But, Pettigrew, the very creature that had caused as much pain to Potter's life as Voldemort himself didn't cause any reaction of that. If Draco weren't so good at reading people he would have thought that Potter was simply too disgusted with Wormtail to bother wasting anger on him, but that wasn't the case. He was shaking. The Killer of Voldemort was so angry that his whole body was trembling with the effort. Draco could feel the smile that tugged at his lips – Potter had finally learned to hide his emotions. Rather than screaming at Pettigrew, he was spitting the words out with carefully concealed venom. The boy had grown up – and Draco couldn't help but be impressed.

Wormtail was trembling by the time his robes were released and he was quickly dragged away from Harry before he could do anything to affect his status in these investigations. They may be Death Eaters, but once arrested, they were protected from brutality until their trial – after that…

"You alright mate?"

Draco hadn't really noticed Weasley in the corridor until he spoke. Like the Boy Wonder, the years of war had been both kind and cruel to the other Gryffindor. Both of them had obviously grown out of their adolescent bodies. Their limbs were now long and lined with muscle that was clearly visible under their battle gear, and Kevlar left little to the imagination. Ron was still a good few inches taller than Harry; his hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck was no longer so bright ginger, a darker more auburn shade now that made his blue eyes brighter in the dim of the corridor. He was broader than Harry too, especially across the shoulders but despite the raw physicality of his body, it didn't quite have the power that Harry's did. At just over six foot, the Boy Who Lived was the model pinup for young witches and wizards everywhere. His dark hair seemed even darker and messier but even the untamed locks shone with the innate power that exuded from the young man. He was tanned, his skin a swarthy, healthy hue that spoke of warmth and hot summer days of Quidditch. It was an immediate turn-on for the young man that was forever destined to be nothing more than milk and mercury. Dark rich locks and tawny skin were god like to him – even if he didn't like their owner. Like his friend he was muscled, not overly so but more so than Draco's lean form. Compared to the two Aurors he had tormented in school, Draco seemed waif like and almost frail. He was a whole head shorter than Ron, his eyes would have met Harry's mouth, he wasn't anywhere near as broad and definitely nowhere near as physically strong, but he would bet that of all in the room, it would only be Potter that would challenge him magically. But there was little he could do – wandless and bound as he was. And he wasn't suicidal either.

He had to smile though, there was no way Potter would beat him to a snitch now. He wasn't a Seeker anymore. His frame suited a Chaser better, which was apt given his career choice.

"Fine Ron. Just wish I'd have let Sirius kill him all those years ago – think of what that might have achieved."

"We've been over this Harry, it wasn't your fault – you didn't know that letting that rat," the word was spat out with more venom that Potter had mustered before. Spittle shone in the dim light as it flew from his mouth. "Go would bring Vold-… him back."

"I know Ron, I know."

Potter sounded tired, as if he had been having this argument for years. He turned to offer his friend a wry smile and Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. Those eyes. Those damned green eyes hadn't changed at all. In all the years of fighting and killing and god knows what, Potter's green eyes still reflected power. But it wasn't the power that shone from them that made Draco so mad, so furious at the world. It was that after all these years; they were still as innocent as they had been all those years ago in Madam Malkins when Draco had first seen him. Oh Merlin that hurt. How was it that Harry Bloody Potter could go through a whole war, kill Draco's aunt, watch his mother die, kill Voldemort and Morgan knows who else and still remain a bloody innocent? It wasn't fair. He had done everything that had been asked of him, everything that he had needed to do and he felt as though his soul and heart had torn apart and where never going to heal.

Never before had he hated Harry Potter, but now, sitting in this tiny cell with no real human contact and only the memory of keeping company with the men that now surrounded him, he truly hated Harry Potter. Harry, who had everything whilst he had given everything and currently had nothing. He didn't even own the clothes that he was wearing, the black cotton pants and t-shirt, both of which moulded to his body and made it clear that he had no concealed wand or weapon. He guessed that they thought it would insult and degrade the Death Eaters more – that they had to wear muggle clothes; that they weren't considered worthy of wizard robes anymore. Draco wasn't a fool. He had guessed that the Ministry were holding them here in these prison cells in an effort to break them. He had heard the guards in March say that the public had voted that the trials would go from lesser to greater. But he knew that the Ministry thought that the longer the 'bad' ones went without real human contact, the easier they would be to break. Still, they allowed the people to believe that they were acquiescing to public demand. And so the end of March had seen the hearings of the deeds of the deceased Death Eaters. Their lives and actions had been detailed and their killers pardoned. He knew the order it must have gone – Voldemort, Aunt Bella, Mother, Rudolphus, Rabastian, Greyback, Avery, Pansy Parkinson, Terry Boot, Theodore Nott Snr, Travers, Yaxley… their crimes listed and their killers (or perhaps they adopted the more politically correct term of 'executioners'): Potter, Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley, Tonks, Lupin, Snape, Shacklebolt – they were all pardoned and hailed as heroes. He wondered what they would have done about the deaths of Amycus and Gibbon after all, their murderer was still unidentified. They had probably had glossed over them, footnotes in a war where better men had died for less. He also wondered whether they mentioned McNair and Gideon Goyle – both of whom were in the secure unit of St Mungo's… one to many Crucios for their sanity to take… He imagined that if they had been touched on it was only out of respect to Gregory Goyle, who he heard had become quite the proficient healer during the war.

Then there were the hearings of the outer circles of Death Eaters – marked men but without the power or knowledge or favour to be in the Inner Circle. People like Marcus Flint and his father, Tracey Davis, Teddy Nott, Vladimir Krum, Igor Karkaroff, Aubrey, Peregrine and Petrel Parkinson, Dolores Umbridge and other former Ministry puppets. There trials had been held first because the people wanted a spectacle of the real Death Eaters, a spectacle that couldn't occur if there were thirty people awaiting trial. So throughout April and May they had been tried – the Wizengamot split into two so that two trials were held simultaneously. Veritaserum made things much easier and those trials were more of a question and answer session than a real trial. They weren't the big fish… they weren't Malfoys or Rookwoods or Rosiers…

And their trials weren't going to be the Death Eater trials of before. They weren't going to be the personal prosecution of each individual where the claim of Imperius would save them from the stake… oh no, not this time. All of them were going to be tried for war crimes - willful killing, causing great suffering or serious injury to body or health, torture, treatment, unlawful wanton destruction or appropriation of property, taking hostages and depriving them of fair trials. Draco knew how they were going to be tried. The Ministry had gotten smarter over the war years. Charging them all as Death Eaters wouldn't be enough – it would make them martyrs to some and eventually history, written by soft hearted liberals, would see Death Eaters as misguided and misunderstood individuals who had been warped into the delusions of an insane madman and where robbed of any possible escape from him. One day they would be pitied or revered and the Ministry wasn't going to allow that. So they were to be tried as war criminals – not Death Eaters… he doubted that that name would be used in any other form other than to differentiate between the sides of the war.

Wormtail's trial had been first. It was kindest that way. Without Voldemort to protect him, he wasn't surviving well in the world. He had always needed to be around stronger individuals. He had trailed those stronger than him all his life – those more magical or physical or simple stronger than him through the sheer force of their character. But he had none of them left, and those he would have crawled to – Cato, Lucius, Alecto or even Draco himself, they were all being held forcefully away from him. He had cracked midway through March. His trial in May had lasted but a day. According to the Aurors who brought Draco's supper of bread and ham with a glass of water, Pettigrew had only been asked for his name after sipping the Veritaserum, before spilling everything he knew in a five hour monologue of confession and tearful begging. Potter and Lupin had apparently watched with some satisfaction as he had been the first to be sentenced to execution by fire.

The old punishments were always the best and always the ones to turn to in times of trouble.

He guessed that there was some beauty in it – after all, fire cleansed and purified and would allow the wizarding world to rise – phoenix like – from its ashes. There was a haunting beauty about it. A poetic justice. And a morbid irony that the symbol of those that had fought for the freedom of the wizarding world, the phoenix and therefore fire, was going to be the end to their enemies.

Cato had been next. A week later Draco had cried himself to sleep when he had been told that Cato was to join Pettigrew on the pyre. He imagined that Cato would be one of the only people he'd ever cry for. He hadn't fooled himself as to whom and what Cato was. Cato was a killer, and a talented one. But he had only ever been loving and kind and gentle with Draco and he had coaxed him into his bed rather than simply requesting it of Voldemort and taking it. Cato hadn't fucked Draco, if he had dared, Draco would have said that the other young man made love to him. But he doubted that Cato knew how to make anything other than death. But still he wept for him.

That had been a week ago. Jungson was being tried now. There were only five of them left now. Rookwood, Alecto, Mulciber, Draco and his father. Lucius would be tried last – he was the crowning glory after all, he was Voldemort's right hand man, and had the Death Eater's won but Voldemort died, Lucius would have led in his place. He had to be tried last. He suspected that either Alecto or Mulciber would precede him to the docks. This meant that it was either Draco or Rookwood to face the courts next… and how he hoped it was his turn.

He watched as three Aurors approached his cell. They were carrying wash products: a large bowl that was steaming slightly, towels and soaps and fresh clothes. He saw that there were fresh clothes too – just the same, black and tight muggle clothes, no shoes. There was a hair brush and scissors in the hands of one Auror – he guessed that his hair was matted after months of not being washed and brushed properly.

He also guessed that he was next – after all, one had to look one's best for the Daily Prophet when the Ministry reported their next victory. He just hoped that they didn't cut his hair too short, he hated it when it was shorter than shoulder length now… he liked running his fingers through it and feeling it on the back of his neck.

He stood as they entered his cell, and idly he looked at his hands. After all, they were what he was going to be tried for and, if they thought that he had the hands of a murderer, then he would burn.

It was good that his manicure was perfect then…