Draco remembered pain, darkness, and a deep fear, running through him at the thought that he would lose not only his life, but his Mother and Father to a demented old sod who couldn't be arsed to accept he was going to be defeated by a seventeen year old boy.
He recalled the shadows they all walked around, he recalled the hate, and would never forget the slight desperation they all shared.
And the faces. The faces kept coming back to him. Luna Lovegood, eyes dull and heavy with unshed tears, face drained, plain and pale. Such a brave girl, trying with all her might to lay just a little bit forward in her cell, so she could cover Olivander...
Oh, he had wanted to help them. All of them. He had wanted to embrace them, and let them go. He hadn't been able to stand their faces, their eyes, the way they seemed to be dying. Dying, dying, dying. Dying in front of his eyes, and taking what they could from his soul.
But he couldn't've helped them. Because Mother and Father were to be the ones that would've died, then.
He still heard the voices at night. The Dark Lord, Death Eaters, innocent people....
He couldn't, wouldn't, forget. The war hadn't ended for him.