Chapter One: Quel Talent, Quelle Valeur.

The war. It's over. I can't believe it. I pant with fatigue, sleep-deprivation, the numerous curses inflicted by me and upon me, and most of all: relief. Sheer, abandoned relief that everything has finally finished. My head is buzzing with – what? – something painful and insistent. So many people are dead – dead – and it's my fault. I had no idea what death really meant until I had to – until I watched – well, alright. Let's not dwell on the past. Not that the future is looking so rosy, either. Right, let's dwell on the present. This bench is awfully uncomfortable. My hair is greasy and I'm starving.

"He did it," Mother mumbles, in that way she has of speaking without moving her mouth. Just for us.

"He bloody did," Father adds, in the same way. They marvel, eyes widened and shining behind the scratched, muddy faces they both have.

"Only Potter is annoying enough to get the Dark Lord to commit suicide." I quip.

"Son," Father snaps, flashing me a dangerous look "I won't hear you speaking like that anymore."

Mother clutches me, if possible, even tighter.

We wait out everyone's grief. I recoil from the sight of people dragging their loved ones, injured and dead, across the hall. I don't let myself wonder which ones I'm responsible for. No one comes over to us, and we don't go anywhere. Where can we go? The Manor will be closed to us before we get there, and I dread to think what the goblins have done with our Gold. I push away thoughts of consequences, but images of my family bound, shackled, and thrown in Azkaban chase themselves around my throbbing head.

It seems an age before the Auror, Shacklebolt, limps across the hall to us.

"Lucius, Narcissa, Draco. I have no paperwork to serve you, but as I'm standing in for Minister until we can organize an election, it's my duty to inform you that your trials are tomorrow. Good day."

He makes his way back across the hall, and Father starts muttering obscenities.

"Don't worry," soothes Mother, "we didn't flee, we stayed behind. That's got to mean something."

"We could run now," Father suggests. "The guards haven't been put back up."

"No!" Mother says. "After all we went through to find Draco, you want to put us all back in danger?"

"After all we went through, I don't want to put us in Azkaban."

Mother and I both shudder at this concept. But Mother's mind won't be changed, and she shakes her head.

"Go, if you like, but we're staying."

Father falls silent. We stood by him through this, and now it's his turn to stand by us.

I see the war survivors glaring at our family. Well, let them glare, I think. They could be sending much more than dirty looks our way.

A commotion from the head of the Great Hall causes us all to look up, and McGonagall is positively hobbling up onto the raised area where the teacher's table normally is. She's wrapped in bandages and it looks as though some of the curses she's been hit with will never heal. She's also batting away a very distressed looking Pomfrey, who's trying to feed her a potion.

"I apologise for interrupting your grief and celebration. But business must be attended to. This hall is filled with the dead, and the injured, and the living. An area of the grounds has been marked off, and funerals will begin tomorrow, for those of you wishing to bury your loved ones here. Madam Pomfrey, if she leaves me alone as I am perfectly fine, will be seeing to those that are lightly injured, and will forward the heavily injured to St. Mungo's. As for the living, you can stay on the grounds for as long as you need. We have beds, food, and safety for a thousand people." Her eyes pierce mine. "No one is exempt from this invitation, but those causing harm or trouble will be ejected. The Aurors will remain here for the duration."

"I can show you to my dormitory." I say to my parents, standing up, craving a long, dreamless sleep.

"I know where it is." Says Father. "Take your mother, I'll see you in a while."

"Lucius, wh-" Mother starts, but Father shakes his head. He wins this one, and she falls silent.

There's no password for the Slytherin common room, and two Aurors are guarding the door. They let us by, repeating the warning McGonagall issued.

Walking into my familiar room is surreal, after all that's happened. Everything is spotless, everyone's trunks aligned neatly at the end of their bed, contents folded inside, just like I always insisted. Zabini and Nott left Hogwarts before the battle, didn't want to get their hands dirty. Crabbe is dead, gone forever, and Goyle can never come back, he has fled with his parents.

Something uncomfortable, like guilt, creeps up my body and stings my eyes and nose. But I won't let it out. I made them stay. It was my idea to find Potter and deliver him to the Dark Lord. To save– but there are no excuses. It's my fault.

I climb into my own bed, and pull the curtains closed around myself to block everything else out. Sitting cross-legged on top of my covers, I put my knuckles to my eyes and try to think about something else. Tomorrow's trial. Lifetime in Azkaban, fully deserved. I wonder if there's any hope for us.

"Draco," comes Mother's voice, softly, from behind the curtain, "I'll be in the shower. Call if you need me."

I don't reply, and a moment later I hear the door to our en-suite click shut. This is the one of the stranger moments of my life. The first female in our dorm room is my own mother. Crabbe and Goyle would-

Shit, every time I think of them is like a punch in the stomach.

When Father finds his way to my dorm, and Mother is out of the shower, we sit around on a bed each. The awkward surreal feeling mounts, and I'm sure Mother and Father want to talk to each other in private judging by the expressions they're giving one another.

"I'll be back," I announce, standing to leave. I try my hardest not to sway as fatigue hits.

"Where are you going?" Mother asks.

"Perhaps to the kitchens, for food," I lie, repulsed by the very idea of eating at the moment.

"Alright," says Mother, frowning lightly, "don't be gone too long."

"Talk to Potter, if you can," Father suggests gravely. "Shacklebolt says he won't be asked to testify in the trials, but you may persuade him to, for yours."

My stomach clenches at the idea, but I nod and escape the dorm. I don't see the point of approaching Potter asking for anything resembling a favour to me.

I wander the castle aimlessly, wrapped up entirely in my own thoughts and worry. It's only when I step into a relatively hidden bathroom and catch my reflection that my mind is pulled back to the present. I'm a mess: my hair is an absolute state; my eyes have grey rings around them; my face is hidden by dirt, ash and blood from who-knows-where; and my lips are dry and cracked. I look pathetic.

I fill the sink with water several times trying to wash as much crud off me as possible. I dunk my whole head into the water and even rub my teeth with my finger - I hadn't brushed my teeth since the Dark Lord appropriated our Manor. Instead of coming out looking half-way presentable, removing the dirt makes me look even more starkly pale than before, accentuating my hollow cheeks and grey eyes. My hair falls in dripping tendrils around my face.

I used to be so into my looks, but now all I see looking back at me is a skinny, lanky boy with a permanent look of horror on his face. As I'm scraping my hair into what I hope is a more sophisticated style, I hear a loud crack behind me and spin around, terrified.