"Silence!" The judge looked sternly at everyone, waiting for their attention. The old man leaned forward, and all but whispered, "Do you have any say in this matter?"

The unmistakably pale blond hair was cast low, away from the prying eyes. All was silent in the room, anticipation hanging by the thread. Big and small people with black cloaks were towered over him, sitting high above the tortured boy. They waited.

And so he might as well let them for a short while.

After several minutes, the man raised his head very slowly, mustering all the courage and strength he could. This was shame; this was humiliation. He knew, either way, that he would be punished. He would be punished for the crimes he had done, whether or not he was forced. He knew no matter what, he would be haunted for what he had done. So no, he had nothing to say.

The young man could practically hear the whole room suck in some air, waiting for his plea. Waiting for him to say that yes, he was guilty. If he did, his sentence would be cut in half and some leniency would be given to him.

Finally, his piercing steel grey eyes locked into the old man's withering ones. Hands shackled, feet bound, and given the dirtiest clothing; this was just the beginning. He had to do something. He had to stop somehow. He had to feel something. He had to know that maybe he would see Hogwarts, even if it didn't bring back the best of memories. He had to know what it felt like to be truly loved, to be married, to have kids.

But it was completely ruined. And he would never know. And he doesn't fight for it.

"No," he said inaudibly.

As if a time bomb was done ticking, the whole room exploded into shouts and name calling. The one guilty returned his head back to his previous position, low and shameful. He didn't care about this. He just wished they could send him to the Dementors, and have them Kiss him. He didn't want to live.

The judge used a casting charm to raise his voice and have him heard. "Again: silence! We cannot go on if we are acting as animals!" The room instantly became quiet, again waiting, tired. As much as this was interesting, it was rather exhausting. The court had about three hundred more people to prosecute, and this trial was taking too long.

The man sighed, and took off his reading glasses. "Son, I . . . I'm willing to give you a chance." Draco's jaw clenched at hearing 'son.' He didn't want the old man to call him son. Out of all the things he was worried about. . . But not that it really mattered. Nothing mattered.

"For your punishment, I think it would be appropriate if . . ."

His eyes were wide in fear. Two men were holding him down, trying to restrain him. Merlin, the size of that thing! How would it fit? It had a red glow, taunting him with the amount of heat and fire.

No.

Sweat rolled down from his smooth forehead, down to his cheeks. His heart beat faster, seeing the cursed thing approach. This couldn't be. He was just a young man! Why this?

That was when he started to fight.

"Hold yer horses, boy! Stay still!" said one man. The big burly man on his left squeezed his arm some more, and it felt like it was going to tear out. He struggled again, but no sound came out from his mouth. He could hear his own erratic breathing, his heart beating beyond measure. He tried to throw his arms up, but was brought with resistance. It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth fighting after everything he had done.

But it was his young, nineteen year old instincts to make him want throw a fight. And as much as he wanted to take responsibility, as much as he wanted to act like a man, he couldn't. He had gone through so much in so little time, he wondered if this would ever work. If anything would work. He wanted to hold on some inkling that maybe everything would be fine. That come next year, he would celebrate his twentieth with family and friends.

All good things come to an end. Always.

The youngster screamed, for Merlin knows how long, as the metal seeped through his chest. It burned his skin, scorched his muscles, causing his nerves to explode with pain. His piercing cry bounced off the walls, and causing everyone in the room have their hearts broken from hearing the young man cry.

It'll be OK, the man coaxed himself, as the devil's mark slowly etched itself in him. It'll be OK.

"How is he fairing?" asked a muted voice. The young man was aware of the fact that he was lying on his back, in a cold place; he was either back in Azkaban or somewhere else. He was also remotely aware of the pain - the sizzling pain in his chest. It hurt to breathe. When he would take in some oxygen, his muscles would scream in agony, tightening even more around the cursed thing, his nerves reacting in a painful manner. He kept his eyes closed, hoping for the voices to go away and hoping for the pain to never return again.

"Well, Minister, he's been asleep fo' long time, now, eh? Poor chap," the other man said. His voice was hard and unpolished.

The Minister sighed. He then asked, in his deep, soothing voice, "Do you think he will be ready to leave yet?"

"Uh," started the unpolished man. The prisoner could hear him scratch his filthy hair. "I reckon. But, I think we 'ave to see; this kind of punishment ain't tossed around lightly." The man stopped. "As much as I don't wanna feel sorry . . . He's just a young boy." The two men outside the prisoner's cell lapsed into a sober silence.

"Fear and power can turn anyone into something they don't want to. Or mean to, that is," said the Minister sagely.

"Yer know, I's mighty glad you the new minister now. You see, the old one, he was goin' around, gatherin' all the bad folks- even the innocent- and sending them to the Dementors . . . It's been a lot easier with you, sir," praised the unpolished one.

The minister chuckled. "Thank you, Thomas." He paused. "I think I will come back later. My work is done." There was a rustle and jingle of keys, and the blond haired boy heard them leave, wishing they were still here. It was better than no company, after all.

It was better than feeling the magic come from his punishment, attaching itself to his nerves and veins and muscles, being an uninvited interloper. It was better than waking up, screaming and uttering his mother's name, wanting some comfort as opposed to the cold air. It was better than . . . It was just better.

"Hey, how did he get out?"

"How do you plan to serve your sentence, Mr.-"

"You! Feeling ashamed enough already?"

"I'll make you pay! I'll make every single one of you pay!"

Goodness, these people knew how to make some noise. People were surrounding him, pushing him, shoving him, and throwing curses, yelling that they wanted him to die. The young one heard someone say that he hoped he would be cursed for eternity.

Draco didn't really doubt that.

He was being hurled along through the ministry's main lobby, pass the crazy reporters, who were looking for a pay raise on the hottest Death Eater gossip. Cameras flashed in front of him, momentarily blinding him, until another tug was felt on his arm and he would be brought back to reality.

"Minister! How did you come to this decision?" Kingsley Shacklebolt was walking behind him and his body guards, his smooth and purposeful steps oddly calming. The minister ignored the reporter while he tagged the confused, lost ex prisoner. Draco felt relieved, for some reason, knowing that at least one person cared for his welfare. To an extent, that is.

They had finally reached the very large area where wizards and witches arrived and left through Floo Powder. There was a large section cut off by magical means, allowing Draco room to get out of the God forsaken place. The mob was desperately trying to break through for reasons unknown. Well, it was rather obvious. Draco ignored them, keeping his nonchalant demeanor strong. His hands and feet were tied down until he would be taken to a new location; where it was, Draco didn't know, but he knew - or hoped - that it was someplace good.

Draco's two body guards and Kingsley stopped in front of the fire place. One guard left Draco's side, while the one remaining kept a tight hold on him. They sluggishly approached, Draco dragging his limp legs inside the fireplace. Draco slowly turned around, fully facing the crowd. Every voice was muted, shouts dull, going from one ear to another. He saw the angry faces, the tears, the red blotches on their cheeks. He could see their mouths turn into rude words, cursing him. Waiting for him to be gone. And yet . . .

And yet. It still wasn't enough.