A/N: Hey everyone, this is my post-war fan fiction. It will follow the main pairing; Ginry, Romione, Drastoria. It will be much more serious than Red Queen, it won't be all doom-gloom, but Hermione isn't fucking Ron's brains out every chapter either. I want to follow it until just before Rose gets on that train.

As always, reviews and comments are important and highly requested.

First Day of My Life- Bright Eyes

And you said "this is the first day of my life
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you
But now I don't care I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy"

Chapter 1

Ron Weasley

9 May 1998

11:36AM

There's a cold feeling in your heart when you're at a funeral service. No matter whether the person were your whole world or just some bloke you met only once or twice. Ron was aware of this now, an icy claw dug into his aorta. His reddened eyes trained on his brother's casket as it was being lowered by magic into the Orchard's damp, mucky earth.

The sky above was a sickly gray, heavy clouds only holding rain out of respect for the dead. He could hear the chirping of birds off in the tree line, just audible over the muffled cries of his family, friends, and strangers. The usual sweet smell of apple blossoms in spring, which wafted through the thick, heavy air, was a cruel reminder of nature's indifference to the occasion. The flowers casually watched and shook in the brief gusts of wind.

As a casket-bearer, he stood right at the edge of the grave as the Wingardium Leviosa was cast. The damp earth seemed like an angry maw, the morbid fascination flashing in his mind, bidding for him to follow behind. The speech from Interim Minister Shacklebolt, wherein he praised the bravery of those they had lost, was lost on him, he drew little comfort from the thought that Fred had died courageously. He was still dead. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the inappropriate thoughts.

He looked up to survey the crowd, easily one or two-hundred strong, his eyes rested on George. His usually light-brown eyes were glazed and distant, his face powdered with ginger stubble, his red hair matted down with mud and grease, his shirt only half done, tie askew and his dark brown jacket falling from one shoulder. He had refused to be a casket-bearer when asked by Bill; no one had brought it up to him since. Ron wanted to help, but he knew he wasn't in any better of a place, and he was more likely to muck it up further. His eyes continued to scan the crowd.

Harry was standing with Ginny and Hermione, gently rubbing his sister's back as she cried. Harry couldn't hide the tears that were welling in his eyes as well, not now, not when he saw the pain and death he had 'caused.' This hurt Harry more than any of the other visitors, all these people that died for his sake, most of whom he would never know. But he'd probably spend his entire life trying; carving more names into the cross he bore.

Ron turned his attention to Hermione, who was watching him while trying to stifle her tears. They fell despite her will, despite her British-style stiff upper-lip. Her right hand was absently rubbing her left forearm. She had taken to doing that now, when she was anxious. It worried Ron, he didn't want her to fixate on the horrible things Lestrange had done to her, but once again he was more afraid to speak up.

The service ended. The crowd began to break off like flecks of stone. Ron felt his father's warm hand on his shoulders and began to push him along. Percy had done the same for George, though with more force and a more reluctant subject. Suddenly a flash of realization was upon George's face as some men began to shovel dirt into the grave. George tore his arms away from Percy's grasp, dashing for the grave. Ron turned to try to stop him, but he was too late.

George had jumped down the hole, screaming and crying as he tried to tear open the box. The lid was charmed shut, but George kept clawing at it like a mad hippogriff. He screamed bloody murder. 'Don't leave me. Not yet. I need you' he yelled. Ron could see the blood began to spill from George's finger-tips, marking the coffin with a wild rust-brown crochet of crisscrosses. George eventually broke down, unable to claw, only clutching at the smooth, varnished pine, trying to hold on to something.

Charlie jumped down, his experience with dragons helped him wrangle his bewildered brother and push him up to Bill and Percy who carried him away. Ron was tasked to stand behind, wand at the ready in-case George was able to make another run for it. But except for a few pained cries, George had accepted his fate; to be without his other half for eternity. He seemed like another dead body, Ron thought to himself.

People were invited into the Burrow for refreshments; thin sandwiches and bitter coffee. Ron and Percy descended the stairs after helping Bill put George to bed. Bill said he'd stay with him, so Percy and Ron went back downstairs to help their mother get through the festivities. Ron could sense tension radiating from his brother. Before he could ask what was on his mind, Percy spoke up as they both stood at the threshold to the sitting area, though not one person was sitting; they were chatting and eating or drinking, milling about or telling stories about the dead. If it weren't for the context and the muffled volume, one would think it were an awful house warming party. And it was, a house warming for life without Fred.

"Do you think that George will be okay?"

"'Okay' is a lot to ask of most people right now, Percy. We'll just be there for him, that's all we can do for now."

"I guess you're right, I'll go help Mom in the kitchen, yeah?"

"I'll check –in soon, maybe see how Ginny's holding up."

Ron veered his way through a cluster of mourners, excusing his movement as he did. Percy watched his brother out of the corner of his eye; he seemed like an entirely different man, Percy thought. He was wrong of course, Ron was Ron. He sat down on the couch, hoping to decompress a little before checking on his little sister. Hopefully, he wouldn't find her in a compromising position, he trusted Harry and he trusted Ginny, he didn't trust them together. He heard someone clear their throat, he looked up to find Neville, crutches in hand.

"Uh, hey Neville, take a seat. Your leg bothering you?" Ron moved down so his friend could sit.

"Thanks, no, it doesn't hurt. Pomfrey didn't run out of Calming Draught at least. The splint's not too bad, I might just do this the muggle way. How are you getting on?"

"Better, I was pretty bad off a couple of days ago, but I just knew I had to be there for everyone else. I mean, Harry's lost people before and each one tears him up inside but he moves past it. I miss Fred, but I could have lost more, so much more. We all could have…"

"Ron, it hurts when you lose family, I know that. I still go to St. Mungo's to see my parents when I have time, they probably have no idea what I'm doing there or who I am. You don't 'move past' this kind of thing, Ron, you move with it. Try to remember that."

Ron sat in silence, smoothing his pants leg. He had almost forgotten what Neville had lost long ago. That was probably worse; to not only lose someone but to have them lose you as well. He brought his hands to his face, sighed, removed his hands and turned to Neville.

"Things can change a lot in a year or two."

"Yeah, they sure can."

They changed the subject to Quidditch. Mainly discussing how the Holyhead Harpies were moving to accept men and making predictions of how awful the Cannons would be the next season. Neville said they might win two matches, Ron said they could squeak out four or five. Ron forgot to check on his sister entirely.

Harry Potter

Seventy-four.

Seventy-four confirmed dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, as that day's copy of the Prophet reported. That number would probably double by the next day. Triple even. He had known people would get hurt. They were bound to, because of him. But it felt worse to hear, to read. To say a number and represent a veritable crowd of people, it felt disrespectful in a way, to have that much loss and suffering quantified and marked in a ledger. Then only for it be written in the next volume of Hogwarts: A History and memorized by school children. He'd ask that the entire list be put in a glossary, that's the least he could do.

People came up to him, often, asking for a handshake or autograph on a chocolate frog card, but sometimes someone would run up and begin to accuse him of taking their son or daughter, father or mother, sibling or lover. He'd watch as the tears streamed down their angry face, he'd hold out his hand and invite them to tell him about their loss, over a Butterbeer or a cup of tea. That's really all he could do now, he may have killed the most fearsome man to have ever held a wand, but he was just a scared boy. Sometimes he wondered what he hadn't been a wizard, if he wasn't Harry Potter. If he was just some guy from Westminster, he'd be fretting over University or getting a job or meeting a nice girl. That seemed to be all he had going for him, Ginny and his 'family.'

After they had won and the Golden Trio had settled back into the Burrow, he would sit up until all hours of the night in Ginny's Room, listening to Ginny tell stories about Fred until her voice was hoarse and she couldn't shed another tear, then he'd tuck her into her bed and go off to his cot in Ron's room. As he was doing now, lying above the covers in a Chudley Cannons shirt and pajama bottoms he was borrowing from Ron. But that night was different, the night after the funeral. He rolled over to leave, but he felt a tug on his shirt. He looked back, thinking that he was caught under Ginny's arm. Then he heard Ginny's hoarse whisper.

"Please, Harry. Stay tonight. I-I need you."

Harry thought to refuse, to say that it was improper, that her family would kill him in the morning. But each thought was thrown away with no decorum as he pulled away the sheet and slid underneath. His heart began to pound as he felt Ginny bring her arms across him, as her breasts pressed against his shoulder through a thread-bare Holyhead Harpies' tee. He didn't have to worry long, as her breath picked a slow, light rhythm; she had fallen asleep. Harry ran his fingers over a shiny scar on her back that peeked out from under her shirt. He quietly followed her, not fearing anything in that moment; Weasley, death eater, or otherwise.

"Bloody Hell! Get out of my sister's bed, Potter!"

Harry sat up from the mattress, disoriented as it was the first time in about a month he had slept through the night. Realizing where he was and who was yelling at him, he reached for his glasses. He put them on slowly, hoping the gesture would help show his innocence.

"Ron, w-we didn't do anything like you're thinking. She asked me to sleep with her and that's all we did." Harry looked over at Ginny, who was still asleep despite the disturbance.

"Yeah, I'm sure…" Ron said, still angry but he was over the initial shock. "Can you get out of her bed now?"

Harry began to get out of the bed but then he realized he couldn't, the bane of every teenage boy's existence, morning wood. He sighed and stood with a hump in his boxers. Ron took it the wrong way, obviously, Harry started explaining right away.

"Come on, Ron. Don't act like you've never had a woody in the morning. I spent months in a tent with you, but you were pitching your own, weren't you?"

"Just get out. I don't want my baby sister to have to see… that." Ron said, motioning towards the door.

Harry exited, his shoulders slightly hunched. He went up to Ron's room to get a pair of slacks on and new shirt. Ron went on ahead to breakfast. He put on a pair of jeans and began to pull a red t-shirt with a faded lion print over his head when he heard a crash down stairs. Harry began a mad dash down the stairs, wand in hand.

"What's wrong? What happened?" He yelled as he reached the kitchen.

"N-nothing, Harry. Mum just set one too many places at the table and she dropped a platter. I already fixed it." Percy said as he ran his hand over his mother's back, trying to calm her as she cried. Ron stood there, as if frozen.

"O-oh, it's a-alright then."

"I-I'm sorry Harry. I dropped the French toast too." Mrs. Weasley said as she wiped a tear from her eye.

"N-no, it's fine, Mum. Do you want me to get everyone else up?" He was at a loss of what to do; he had never been very adept at soothing people. Aragog's burial came to mind and that was when he had luck on his side.

"Let Hermione and George sleep, dear, they need the sleep but get the rest of them up, if you would." Molly said as she gave Percy a hug and returned to the kitchen.

"Right away."

Harry went back up the stairs, going quietly past Ginny's room, going to the second floor, where George and Hermione slept; Hermione was in Bill's old room. As he was about to get on the stairs to the third floor, he heard a door close behind him.

"Morning, Harry." George said, while wearing purple pajama bottoms with a V-neck undershirt.

"Morning, are you feeling alright? Your mom said you could sleep-in if you wanted."

"I am as good as I am going to feel, for a while. Harry, I barely slept a wink. The room reminds me of him too much. I'll just get downstairs for breakfast." George headed for the stairs.

"G-George…", 'I might as well try' he thought to himself. "It gets better, you know, losing someone. They're still in here." He pointed to his chest with a weak finger.

George sighed, looked to his slippers and then back to Harry.

"Harry, I appreciate the thought, but you don't know what this is like. I'll be okay… eventually." He went down the stairs to breakfast, the smell of sausage reaching the second floor.

'He's right. As much as Sirius's death hurt me, I can't even imagine what he must feel.' He sighed and got Charlie up with little trouble. Then he went back down to the first floor to get Ginny up. He knocked on the door, just in case she was changing. An anguished groan welcomed him in.

"Wakey, wakey, Ginny." He sang off-key.

"Ungh, Harry?" She said sweeping and collecting her hair before letting it fall to her back.

"Yes, Gin. It's me, breakfast is ready." That got her going, she shot out of her comforter and over to her dresser. She began to take off her shirt, when Harry felt he had to speak up.

"Let me leave first, b-before you start… disrobing." He said as he covered his eyes and began backing towards the door.

"Oh, come now, Harry. It's not like you were never going to see them, you are my boyfriend."

"I just don't think it's proper for me to be standing here while you change. I'll wait for you downstairs." A deep blush was on the 'boy-who-lived''s cheeks.

"Hmm, alright." Ginny went back to changing once Harry had shut the door behind him.

Hermione Granger

Voldemort and his death eaters were approaching the castle. 'Who is that? Who is Hagrid carrying? No. No no no no no no!' As if no one was aware, the snake-faced man opened his mouth wide.

"Harry Potter… IS DEAD!" A cheer rose in the black-shrouded crowd, in contrast to the silence over taking the beaten and bruised opposition.

Voldemort opened his welcome to crest-fallen wizards and witches. Not one moved. But she heard the slight scrapping of leather shoes on the rubble, a lanky, awkward-looking youth breaking from the crowd. 'Neville? He wouldn't, it must be a joke.' She silently hoped that her friend had a clever plan.

"We lost. There's nothing we can do. If you want to die for a cause that lies, dead, in Hagrid's hands, go ahead." Neville said coldly as some low ranking death eaters helped him to their side.

Slowly, the crowd began to move around her, shuffling ever closer to the Dark Lord. Only a few dozen men and women stood there, a few students she recognized as Muggleborns. 'Mudbloods…'

"Show me your loyalty" Voldemort hissed, as hundreds of faceless men and women surrounded each of them.

One face caught her eye. 'Ron!'

"Ro-!"

"Avada Kedavra!" Flaming hate in the eyes of the man she loved was the last thing she ever saw.

Hermione sat up in her bed, not minding her hair, and brought her knees to her chest. She cried in her bed, as she had since the day after the battle, she knew it hadn't happened like that. Light had won, 'for now…' her mind threw in, bringing another round of tears. She eventually got the composure to push herself out of the bed to a stack of clothes, she changed into a new bra and panties set, the old ones were wet from sweat, a pair of jeans that fit loosely, and a blue long-sleeve shirt. She couldn't wear short sleeves, not anymore. Hermione gently touched her left wrist, pain coursing through her as her fingers flew away.

She headed downstairs before the weight of her mind tied her back to bed. Mrs. Weasley was fixing sandwiches, ham and cheese on white with lettuce, in the kitchen. Hermione watched her for a moment, a longing to see her own mother pulling at her heart.

"Can I help you, dearie? You slept in very late, though I suppose after yesterday and being on the run for so long, a good night of sleep is deserved."

"I was wondering where Harry and Ron were."

"Oh, just flying about out there with Ginny. Tell them lunch will be ready soon, if you would dear."

"Of course." Hermione went outside and sure enough Ron and Harry were goofing off dozens of feet in the air.

"Harry, Ron! Lunch will be done any minute." Ron came hurtling down to Earth almost instantly; the mention of food was more than enough to get his attention.

Ron and Harry busily ate, as if they were going back on the run. Hermione forced down two sandwiches, she was still painfully skinny from the months in the wilderness, and her health could be at risk if she didn't regain the weight. Especially with the stress she had been under. Harry was the first to finish as he ate three sandwiches, while Ron was starting his fourth sandwich. Hermione left the table along with Ron, following quietly behind. Ginny had only picked at the bread. She hoped watching them act so care-free would somehow rub off on her.

Harry and Ginny were already up in the air, chasing Pig around the towering structure of the Burrow. Hermione caught Ron's soft blue eyes on her. He didn't draw them away as she caught him unlike when they had been in Hogwarts, no, he let his eyes gently draw themselves over the few remaining curves on her body. A slight shiver ran through her body.

"'Mione, how about you fly with us for a bit? It might make you feel better."

"N-no, no, I hate flying. I'll just watch you."

"I'll hold onto you, Mione, it'll be alright. Please?" Ron gave a big goofy grin, that for some reason set Grindylows loose in Hermoine's stomach.

"F-fine, but if I say I want to get down, you have to let me down." She said as she approached Ron and the old Nimbus he had pulled from the shed.

"Yes, 'Mione…" He exaggerated his exasperation; he understood how uneasy flying made her.

He held the broom between his thighs and allowed Hermione to approach, straddle the handle, and make some adjustments. Ron wrapped his thick arms around her frame, grasping the mahogany just in front of her pelvis. She felt his head come to rest on her shoulder, she heard him take a deep breath. An impulse to shrug him off her shoulder conflicted with one to push herself farther back on the broom, closer to him.

"Alright 'Mione, remember Madam Hooch in first year? What do we say to get off the ground?"

"Up?" she said, uncharacteristically nervous in her speech.

"A little more forceful, so the broom can hear you."

"Ron, the broom can't hear me. It's a broom…"

"Pretend, 'Mione, like it's pretend." Ron said in a slightly strained voice.

"Fine…" She was not amused. She was eighteen years old and much too old to pretend brooms had ears. "Up!" She squeaked as the broom jerked up into the air.

They maintained an altitude just over ten feet in the air, 'Ron must want me to get used to the sensation.' She turned to look over her shoulder to tell Ron he could go a little higher. She froze. His eyes were focused and hard, so unlike his usual warmth, it reminded her of her dream.

"Let me down…" She mumbled.

"Huh?" He said.

"Let me down!" Hermione screamed as she began to try to get out of his grasp.

He slowly descended even as she thrashed against him, threatening to send them tumbling to the ground. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she was sprinting to The Burrow. She had to put distance between herself and Ron. She ran up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Weasley as she asked 'what's wrong, dearie?' Tears were streaming down her face as she buried herself beneath a pile of sheets, blankets, and an old yellow sweater that must have been Bill's.

She heard Ron enter, his panting breathes and uncertain, shuffling feet were audible even under the bulk over the lithe frame. Hermione wanted to have him embrace her and tell her she'd be alright, but her mind screamed for her to run, that she couldn't let him see her like this.

"'Mione? What's wrong?"

"N-nothing. I-I'm fine, Ron." The tears came back; she hated to lie to him.

"Hermione… Tell me what's wrong. I want to listen."

'Damn it all… when he'd get to be articulate…' She silently pouted.

"Turn the lights low, my hairs all messed, come sit with me." That was only partially true, but mostly she didn't want to see his eyes right now.

She heard the old rusty nob of the paraffin lamp, and then heavy scuffling footsteps approaching the bed, the squeaking of the dusty box springs. Hermione peeked out from her padded fortress, the broad silhouette of her boyfriend, both intimidating and exciting to behold. Ron took a deep breath, Hermione felt very conscious of every movement he made now that she was so vulnerable in the dark.

"Do you want to explain what happened out there? Or should we look past it?"

"W-we should talk about it…" She mumbled. She felt like a child being lectured. "I had a dream last night. It was the last day of the battle, and Harry had died. Instead of Neville standing against Voldemort, he joined him-"

"That's silly, 'Mione. It didn't happen that way."

"Don't interrupt, Ronald." She said pointedly.

"Sorry, please continue."

"And then more people turned until it was me and a handful of mud-Muggleborns. Then the other wizards and witches began crowding around us, to prove their loyalty. Th-then I saw you and… and you cast the Killing curse on me…"

The tears came pouring out of her eyes now, she didn't bother to hide them, and she knew Ron could see them shimmer in the low light of the lamp. His arms snaked around her body, pulling her nearer to him. His left hand running through her scraggily knotted hair, while his right gently rubbed her back. She took his silence as license to continue.

"I still feel like nothing is going to change. No matter what I do, people will still think less of me. They'll see me as a-a mud-"

Ron crashed his lips to hers, not allowing her to finish the dreadful word.

"Never. Say. That. Word. You are the Brightest Witch of the Age. There is no qualifier or asterisk. Don't belittle yourself or all that you've done. If anyone thinks less of you for your birthrights, they are a nutter." His arms pulled her in tighter.

"That doesn't mean you can just kiss me out of the blue like that…"

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again, unless you ask, of course." The copious amounts of heat radiating from his skin told Hermione he was blushing ferociously.

"Maybe… one more" Ron brought his lips to hers, softly, allowing her to control the depth.

She gently teased his lips with her tongue, causing them to share a small giggle. Hermione felt safe around Ron, she felt stupid for thinking he would ever hurt her. But she understood that her mind wasn't healthy, that it would take time for her to have a good relationship with Ron, to trust him completely, like she wanted to.

"Are you alright, 'Mione?" She had stopped kissing and had begun to stare into the mid-distance as thoughts whizzed around her head.

"Oh, y-yeah. I'm sorry." She stuttered as she blushed in the darkness.

"It's alright. Take as much time as you need, love."

She sat there for a moment, the feelings welling up inside her. Hermione drove her lips onto Ron's, pushing him onto his back. She wanted to lose herself for a moment, let the mean little thoughts in her head drift off. Her hands sliding up his chest, bunching up his shirt as they went, her hands pressed between their chests. Her right hand gently tweaked her nipple through her clothes, while her left hand knotted itself in the sprinkling of Ron's chest hair. As she got more and more lost in the snogging, her hips slowly began to grind against a rapidly growing bulge it had found.

There was a knock at the door. Ron sighed and Hermione slowly removed herself from him, the slight aroma of chocolate and sweat lingering in her nose.

"Come in."

Harry opened the door for Ginny as they both entered. Ginny stood looking pointedly at her brother. 'She must think its Ron's fault that I ran off.' Harry turned the nob on the lamp, his green eyes met Hermione's own brown. She knew he was more worried about her than whatever Ginny believed Ron had done.

"What did you do?" Ginny asked as she swept some sweat matted hair off her face.

"I didn't do anything. I asked 'Mione to fly with me for a bit, she had a bit of a… flashback, you could call it."

Ron seemed a little agitated that his little sister was instantly accusing him but he held himself with a touch more maturity than he was known. 'I'm actually impressed.' Hermione thought, a bit worried that she could have to explain her nightmare once again.

"What'd you see Hermione?" Ginny asked, concern shaking her voice.

Hermione was unsure of how to describe it. 'Should I just tell her that it was about Hogwarts? Should I include Ron in it as well? Will that cause her to blame him?'

"It must've been first-year flying!" Harry interjected.

A slight chuckle sounding across the room, Hermione smiled, thanking Harry silently.

"I just wanted to try flying again, Gin. I guess I over did it though, huh?"

The group began to talk about Quidditch, Harry and Ginny hoping she'd pick up some kind of interest in the sport. But she found it just as barbaric and boorish as she had before. Ron's arm draped itself over her as Ginny was telling her about all the good the Holyhead Harpies had done for Witch's rights. Hermione didn't really listen, instead nestling herself into the lanky frame of her boyfriend. Suddenly a thought came to her.

"When am I going to see my parents?"

The room sat quietly for a moment, they had been lightly conversing on the upcoming season. Harry spoke up.

"I think you should talk to Kingsley, not right now of course. He has some other things to get sorted, namely; the remaining death eaters and re-establishing the Ministry. I don't think it's the best idea for you to be going overseas right now, not alone. For all we know, they, Rabastan and the rest, could be gathering in Australia after fleeing the country."

Hermione nodded, she felt a pang in her heart. She wanted her mother; to tell her that she was fine, to tell she had a cute boyfriend, to make strange sugar-free desserts with her. She wanted her father to say he 'didn't like the look' of Ron, that she was still his little girl. She pushed her back a little closer to Ron's chest, his grip drew just a little tighter. The conversation went back to Quidditch. She tuned it out though, because she really didn't give a damn. The smell of chocolate was pulling at her nose once again.

Draco Malfoy

June 1998

The days ran into each other here, where ever the hell he was. All he knew was the place smelled of piss and rust, presumably from blood or the thick iron bars that left a blood red film on his hands. He was sick of being there. He was nauseated by his father, constantly proclaiming his 'innocent' to the passing guards. It didn't matter, not in the least. Draco Lucius Malfoy had given up a long time ago, but now he had something to give up to, the legal system.

They'd have their day in court, the more major offenders were standing trial now; combatants, torturers, murderers. Or that's what he thought, the steady flow of a handful of death eater elites every day out those giant doors. Despite his father's previous rank, he was small potatoes to Rodolphus Lestrange, but Lucius had stepped on enough people's shoes to have sent his family to Azkaban after a quick stop at the Wizengamot. He looked at the shrieking mess that had once been his father and tormentor, screaming his innocence until he would begin to cough blood. Draco shook his head, bits of dirt falling as he did, he was a fool to have tried to please this man. He wasn't a man; he was a boy, same as Draco had been.

He looked across the block to a large set of wooden doors, a set of guards in red stood watch. One of them, rather fat with an unkempt moustache, caught his eyes. The fat little man smiled, his yellow teeth seemed like that of a rat. The guard drew his thumb across his throat, signaling Draco's demise. He shrugged and turned from the bars, he would try to sleep on the floor, and the dirt was so thick he could only guess whether it was stone or wood that rested beneath his feet. He gave a cough, the dust rising in front of his eyes.

She wouldn't stop screaming. That was the point, but it hurt, much more than that loony Luna girl. It pulled at his heart, like a strained ballad that begged for him to sing along to the twisted melody of the Cruciatus. He had hated her, despised her for every accolade and award she received, that she stole from him, but was that wrong worth this. He couldn't ponder that thought as long as if may have required.

"Lacero."

Her blood welled in the jagged, obscure cuts. The red spilled with her anguish, a cry not unlike the animals he had been told she was related. Despite her bestial actions and heredity, he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it; he may be killed if he didn't show strength, even glee, in the face of her pain. 'They aren't like us, my little dragon. They don't deserve the magic they have stolen. They make us hide how special we are, my precious.' He remembered his mother cooing to him before bed when he was young. He steadied himself on the wall, a pained grin on his face. He wouldn't die, not over her. Not over a Mudblood.

His eyes shot open. His father was gone, probably taken to see the healer to patch up his mouth. They couldn't have their prize snitch dying before they had lost their use for him. Draco couldn't find sleep, not that it was surprising in such a place, but he hadn't had it in months. It showed in his thinner, tallow-coloured face and dark-circled eyes.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Draco sat up at the use of his name. He had been called 'death eater', 'cock sucker', and 'murderer', but 'Draco' had been non-existent for the past few weeks. Months? He stood on shaking feet, turning back to the bars. There was a woman who seemed like an Auror on the other side of the bars; she was short with honey-blonde hair, she was quite fit, but the hard look in her eyes made him sure that she'd rather kill him than kiss him.

"I-I am Draco Malfoy." A slight rasp was in his voice from de-hydration, possibly illness.

"You are being requested by the Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt. You will be momentarily removed from your cell. If you resist or act in a way that may be seen as disruptive, the charges of "Hindrance to an Auror" may be added to your current charges. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am" Draco hobbled over to the door of the cell; he was to be restrained before they opened the door.

He was led along to the large doors, the woman Auror in front of him and two guards were a step behind him. All three of them had an eye on her plump little ass in those tight trousers. The three men flinched as light hit their faces, when they passed through the doors, the light was still from candles but they were easily three times as bright as those in the holding cells. 'So, we were in the Ministry…' Draco thought to himself, not really feeling either way towards the discovery.

They came to a thick wooden door. 'Interview Room' was etched into the wood. The Auror entered to announce his arrival, most likely. Draco was breathing heavily, either from the distance or the stress. He would be talking to the Minister of Magic, possibly, most likely to discuss his execution. 'Grilled or fried, you death eater twat?' He thought to himself, he cracked a smile, the first in months.

"What are you smiling about, cock eater?" One of the guards behind him bellowed.

He hid the smile and remained still, hoping for no retribution. His hopes were unanswered. The guard's elbow plowed into his side, sending him into the other one who pushed him to the ground. With his hands and feet chained, he had no hope to stop his fall. He gritted his teeth for impact. He tasted blood and smelled the dirty stone. The two guards hefted him up as the woman opened the door.

"Bring him in, set him in the chair."

They did as they were ordered. Draco felt his arms were being torn from their sockets with each hobbled step the guards took. His legs weren't listening to him, 'I must have hit harder than I thought.' They threw him into the chair, it threatened to fall, but Minister Shacklebolt flicked his wand at the chair and it righted itself.

"Thank you, Auror Jessup."

"Of course, Minister."

The Auror shot Draco a look as she and the guards left. She must have guessed he had been appreciating the view.

"Mr. Malfoy. I asked for you to be here so that we could discuss your involvement in the War."

Draco sat silently, he'd answer any questions that affected him, but he wasn't going to be a coward like his father. He realized it was ironic that he had thought to do this now, instead of when it would have mattered. His eyes were set on the shackles on his feet.

"Would you like me to remove your restraints? Would that help you be more involved?"

The Minister flicked his wand again, the shackles came undone. Draco kept his feet stationary, as if the irons were still there.

"How high up was your family among the death eaters?"

Draco sat there quietly, trying to indicate his reservations. But he already had an answer to that question.

"We were shit on their shoes. After the incident at the Department of Mysteries, we had no place in any of it."

"Then why was your family; you and your parents, there at the Battle of Hogwarts. From Mister Potter's testimony, he had a run-in with you, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle."

Draco flinched at the mention of Crabbe, he was an idiot but he was still something like a friend.

"Your mother reported Potter's death to Lord Voldemort himself."

Draco's eyes were still on his invisible shackles.

"Oh, yes. Mister Potter. We were forced to go. Mother wanted to stay behind at the Manor, but she was deemed a threat to the attack. A few wands at her throat and she came along, all three of us did. Can I have some water?" He rasped.

"Here", a hand came from his side, the words 'I must not tell lies' were scarred into the skin.

Draco took the glass in his hand, not daring to look to Potter or thank him. He took a long gulp as Kingsley continued.

"Mister Potter, here, believes that you and your family should be allowed to go without imprisonment. That you were too young to have made the choices you did. Your mother was pulled into this by her family ties, your father, and concern for your well-being."

"That doesn't excuse what my father did. It was his choice, his mistake. But of course he's squealing pretty well for you all now. He's much too valuable at this juncture."

"There is that, Mister Malfoy. If you were to be asked candidly, what do you think your family deserves?"

Draco paused for a moment, frozen. He was not sure how to take the question. Was it an honest question or a trap to see if he were truly repentant?

"I-I think my father and I deserve Azkaban. I may not have killed Dumbledore or Potter, but I was there. I could have stopped it. My father has given you about as much information as he was privy to, he'll start spewing lies soon. Seize a large amount of our assets, strict probation for some period after my release. I say 'my' because my father deserves a life sentence. He didn't serve any time after the First War because of his connections. Then periodic, random check-ins by Aurors after the probation, to make sure that we haven't relapsed, and return some percentage of our wealth after the initial probation is served."

"Life? Are you sure?"

"He deserves nothing less. He was essential in convincing me to accept the Mark, though that was my own choice."

"And what about your mother?"

With a dumbstruck look on his face, he looked to Shacklebolt. A stern expression was on his face. Draco could feel the frustration growing in his stomach. He didn't want to plead to this man or Potter or any one. He just wanted this to go away. The tears welled slowly in his eyes.

"P-please, she's done nothing. She's just gone along with this for her family, for me. I-I couldn't live with myself if she spent a second in Azkaban."

Shacklebolt and Potter shared a look.

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy. Your trial will be with in a week's time. I will call an Auror to escort you back to the holding area."

Shacklebolt flicked his wand and the shackles clicked around his legs, slightly tighter than before. Draco could feel Potter's eyes on him. He almost wanted to see what they held; disgust, anger, or… pity? He didn't look up. He wouldn't be able to take that. 'Saint Potter.'

He was led along to the holding cells by the same Auror with different guards. She had put on a cloak, much to the guards' annoyance. Draco was despondent, not even some bird's bum could cheer him up. He was back in the cell with his father, who had a gag in his mouth to stop his confessions. Draco wanted to smile at his father's predicament but he couldn't, he was most likely going to Azkaban and that was enough to take anyone's joy away.

Harry Potter

16 June 1998

4:37AM

He said goodbye to Kingsley after Malf-Draco, he meant, had been escorted out. They'd already exchanged pleasantries and discussed The Grangers. He was correct, a small team of Aurors would go to find them in Australia and then they'd have Hermione remove the memory charms at the Ministry. She'd have to pay a large fine, but due to the circumstances of the use of the charms, she would avoid further penalty.

He ran out into the Atrium. By the time he was there, he had realized he had been running the entire time. It was hard to break some habits. He sighed as he approached a golden fireplace. It seemed like such a waste, but he was not such an ass to use his political capital over something as trivial as a misappropriation of funds. He threw a handful of the green powder into the crackling flame.

He appeared at the Burrow, the living room was deathly quiet just like the rest of the home. It was horribly early, not even Misses Weasley would be up and about. Harry could actually hear the faint sound of Ron snoring, which made him want to laugh but he held his tongue. He slowly approached the stairs, the old wood creaking beneath his feet as he ascended. Somehow he made it to the first floor without anyone coming down to tear his limbs from their sockets. He opened Ginny's door slowly, poked his head in to see her.

She was sprawled out on the bed. Arms to her left, legs to her right and her head tilted on a large fluffy pillow. Ginny's hair was fanned out beneath her body. She must have forgotten to tie it before bed. He did usually remind her these days. But she seemed happy, peaceful, more so than she had the past month at least. He ventured to step in, a board squeaking as he did, Ginny began to stir.

"Shhh, go back to bed Gin. It's just me." He whispered, she turned over to her side and continued to snooze.

He continued over to her bed. He slid off his trainers and he laid himself down in the bed. Harry watched the photographs on the far wall move; cheering and waving silently. His hand rested on her side and smoothed down the Gryffindor tee that had begun to ride up over her tummy.

He smelled her hair, not intentionally, the scent just floated lazily around the room. She smelled like the apple blossoms outside but he also noticed dirt. It all reminded him of the funeral, of Fred, of the stories she had poured into him like a basin. He gently stroked her hair, already feeling the knots that were forming in her locks. He sighed and got a band from her bed-side table, collected her hair, not much was pinned under her, and put it into a pony tail. It was too tight but that was what he could do at the time. He laid on the mattress, hoping for sleep to take him for a short while as he waited for the world to start moving again.

No such luck, he laid there awake and restless. Thinking about Draco, 'who did he so adamantly reject my help? He could have walked away with a few fines and been done with this death eater business, but he seemed to want to pay for his deeds, almost as resolutely as any of the Weasleys would have wanted him to.' He sighed again. This kind of thinking wouldn't get him to sleep.

He began to think about the coming day and what he wanted to do with Ginny. They could finish their chores quickly; degnoming the garden and peeling potatoes for dinner, and go out and lay in the grass for the afternoon or fly or look at the apple blossoms. He didn't care what they did. He just wanted to make up for lost time.

A/N: Reviews. Tell me what you think. Do I need to change something? Do you see someone being out of character? I don't bite.