Fred's old school trunk was much like Harry's own trunk had been. Dark, hard material, locks that were tattered after years of use, though several brightly colored sweets littered the bottom, much unlike Harry's had. Not sure if the sweets were innocent or unfinished prototypes of the joke shop, Harry reached into the depths of each corner, removing the bright candies and placing them atop the dusty nightstand.

Percy's room had been largely untouched in the time since he had left the Burrow before the war, and in the weeks that Harry had occupied it, little had been done to change that. After his first night of sleeping in Percy's old room, bedding fresh due to Mrs. Weasley's insistence, Harry had thought that he ought to clean it up a little. It had been a nice thought, but it had remained simply that. The dust stayed, barely disturbed even after nearly eight weeks of inhabitance.

And now, as he threw the last of his clean socks into Fred's old trunk, Harry was about to leave the room empty again. The following day was September 1, and Harry Potter was returning to Hogwarts.

Anxiety clawed at his chest. After Voldemort's death, there was a solid week's worth of work that had been done to repair Hogwarts as well as find, identify, and bury the dead. It had nearly been fifty-fifty on deaths of those in the rebellion and Death Eaters, a number that gave many families comfort, knowing that their loved ones died likely taking at least one Death Eater with them. But for Harry, it was devastating. So many lives were needlessly lost to Voldemort's ruthless battle against death, unity, and understanding.

Ever since the idea had been brought up nearing a month previous, returning to Hogwarts to complete his education had caused Harry a horrible array of emotions. He, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had been offered jobs at the Ministry, no N.E.W.T.s required. Ron had been immediately taken with the idea, but Hermione's persistent concerns over their education and career choices had eventually led Kingsley Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, and several other prominent witches and wizards to discuss the idea of a "re-do" for the previous year. It hadn't just been Harry, Ron, and Hermione that had missed an entire year - aside from the previous year's muggleborns not being permitted into the castle, nearly every student at Hogwarts under the Carrow's regime had missed out on a genuine education.

Harry dropped down onto the foot of the bed, head dropping into his hands. He, too, had been tempted by the Ministry's offer. To be given job security so young was a gift. But Harry fought with more than simply a choice between entering the workforce or returning to school.

Once Hogwarts had been repaired and the dead laid to rest, Harry had a few days spent entirely in Percy's old room with absolutely nobody bothering him. He couldn't say it had been enjoyable, but it was a gulp of fresh air to have escaped the limelight for even a few days. Harry had endured being famous for seven years under multiple themes, but now he was an all-out hero. He was expected everywhere, to speak to everyone, to be available at any given opportunity. If Harry had his way, his entirely selfish way, he would disappear from the public view for the rest of his life, holed up in some distant country where no one would know his name.

But he couldn't do that. Harry rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. In some sick way, he knew he owed it to the wizarding world that he had just saved to stay. To vanish now would be ungrateful to those who had stayed by his side all these years, supported him through thick and thin, loved him when he hadn't loved himself.

His hands slid up his forehead and tangled into his hair. No, no matter how much Harry wanted to disappear forever, he could never do it. Besides, as Hermione had gently mentioned, one more year at Hogwarts would guarantee his privacy from the general public, at least. Working for the Ministry, however, he would become public property again under the ever watchful eye of his fans.

"Think of it as a bit of a vacation," Hermione had said, much to Ron's incredulity.

After the past seven years, a normal school term with normal adolescent issues did sound an awful lot like a vacation.

There was a knock on the door then, and Harry lifted his head just as Ron stepped inside.

"Dinner's nearly ready," he said. "Mum says you ought to wash up."

Harry nodded. "How...how is she?"

Ron grimaced. After Ron and Harry had decided to return to Hogwarts, Mrs. Weasley had been rather teary-eyed. With Bill and Fleur living away, Percy returning to his London flat (he had insisted that he couldn't break the lease just then, but he visited nearly every weekend), George back to living atop his shop in Diagon Alley, and Charlie due to return to Romania shortly after the Hogwarts Express left, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were facing a truly empty house for the first time since the war once Harry, Ron, and Ginny left. Seeing Mrs. Weasley wipe at her eyes every time he retrieved an item for his trunk from around the house had Harry reconsidering returning to Hogwarts on more than one occasion.

"Mostly the same," Ron said, breaking Harry's musings. "I reckon it'll be pretty rough tomorrow, saying good-bye, but once she calms down after we leave, she'll be fine. She's good like that."

"Right."

"Right." Ron nodded awkwardly. "Well, best do as she says and wash up. She won't have you ducking out on our last dinner together."

"I haven't been-"

"I know, Harry." He gave Harry a small smile, reaching to pat him on the shoulder. "We all know."

Harry sighed, wishing he hadn't been so quick to anger. But Ron simply gave his shoulder another pat and left, leaving the door open as a reminder to follow. Harry rubbed his eyes once more, then stood and made his way downstairs.

The kitchen was alive with the smells and sounds of dinner, all of Harry's, Ron's, Ginny's, and Charlie's favorites as though Mrs. Weasley was determined to make each of them the guest of honor. It brought a lump deep in his throat watching Mrs. Weasley sweep about the room, setting dishes on the large table and running a shaking hand through her wild hair. Mr. Weasley and Charlie were already sitting, their amused but strained expressions making it clear that Mrs. Weasley wanted no help. Ron was only a few steps ahead of Harry, making his way to a chair.

"Oh, Harry, Ron, come now, sit, sit!" Mrs. Weasley said in a falsely bright voice. "I suspect Ginny will be here soon, then we can tuck in!"

Harry sat down across from Ron. "It looks delicious, Mrs. Weasley."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Harry, dear, you're too kind." She set the last dish down and glanced toward the staircase. "I've made everyone's favorite, so feel free to eat as much as you'd life! Nothing left, you hear me?"

The men all nodded, smiling indulgently as Ginny stepped into the room.

"Come on, Ginny, sit down," Mrs. Weasley said kindly. "I've just finished setting the table."

"It smells amazing, Mum."

"Oh, my dear." Mrs. Weasley gave Ginny's cheek a swift peck before sitting down beside Ron.

Ginny looked around a moment, eyes falling on the only empty place setting - right next to Harry. She made her way over, looking at the floor, and sat down, inching her chair ever so slightly closer to him.

"Well, let's eat, shall we?" Mr. Weasley said. "Everything looks delicious, Molly, and I have no doubt that it tastes just as superb."

As Mrs. Weasley wiped her eyes, everyone else began to load their plates.

"So," Mrs. Weasley started after a few minutes. "Tomorrow's the big day. Everyone excited?"

"Returning to Hogwarts?" Ron rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I'd've rather taken the Ministry job. But Hermione made some good points about going back, I suppose."

Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, it'll be good to have a full education. I'm glad somebody could talk some sense into you."

Ron shoved an enormous piece of chicken into his mouth, cutting off any plans of replying. Which, Harry suspected, was the point.

"How's the Ministry handling everything these days, anyway, Dad?" Charlie asked.

Mr. Weasley shrugged. "I suppose we're all just doing the best we can. It's hard, to say the least. Weeding out the bad seeds from before the war has been the top priority, along with making sure that the new features of Azkaban are in order. To be honest, it's hard to admit how much we leaned on the dementors to handle the day ins and day outs of the prisoners."

"How...how as Azkaban changed?" Ginny asked, her elbow just barely bumping into Harry's.

"Well, obviously we had to make sure that the building was fixed up, seeing a how the inmate will have their faculties about them without the dementors around." Mr. Weasley shuttered slightly. "Too, the Auror Department had to do an entire training and shift more than half their staff to maintain the place. I think a long-term solution is in the works now for an entirely new sub-department, but that's easily a year or more away from being absolute. They're worried for the safety of the prisoners in the meantime, though."

Ron choked. "They're worried about the safety of Death Eaters?"

Mr. Weasley shot his son a stern look. "Not everyone in Azkaban is a Death Eater, nor is everyone there meant to stay for life. But it's the Death Eaters that are the cause for the violence. There've been two murders that I know of, and I'm nowhere near the department. I dare say the Aurors are up to their ears in policy adaptations and paperwork."

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips. "Maybe this isn't the right time or place to-"

"Who was murdered?" Harry asked. His voice was quiet and slightly hoarse from lack of use, but Mr. Weasley heard him.

"A witch committed two years ago for a manslaughter charge, and Lucius Malfoy."

The table fell silent.

Lucius Malfoy. Dead.

"Well, good riddance, I say," Ron murmured.

"Ron, how dare you!" Mrs. Weasley snapped. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "That is hardly the things to say when someone's been murdered."

"You don't think that that's what he'd've said if I'd been killed?"

"I don't care what Lucius Malfoy would have said, it doesn't make your cold attitude justified!"

"Besides, Ron," Mr. Weasley said, shooting a look at Mrs. Weasley. "The Malfoys, while undeniably foul in the past, were one of the few families that were tried and found to be trying to break away from Voldemort. It doesn't make anything they did right, but it does make a difference."

Silence fell as Ron stabbed at his mashed potatoes and Mrs. Weasley took a few deep, steadying breaths. It was Charlie who spoke first.

"If the Malfoys had been found to be...well, not innocent, but...if the Wizengamot had found them to be trying to escape Voldemort...why was Lucius in Azkaban?"

"Well, his wife and son were acquitted entirely," Mr. Weasley said, glancing briefly at Harry. "But Lucius was sentenced to...I think it was around five years in Azkaban for his crimes, as well as having to pay an enormous fine for personally housing Voldemort, his followers, and his...Dark activities." Mr. Weasley sighed, reaching to pull a piece of chocolate cake onto his plate. "But, regardless, Lucius was ambushed by some Death Eaters that apparently found it important to...well."

Harry set down his fork. He hadn't eaten much, but he couldn't even pretend to continue now. Lucius Malfoy dead. Maybe once, in his angrier of times, Harry might have relished in the idea, but the reality of it was horrible. Lucius' wife, Narcissa, had saved Harry's life when it had mattered most, and though Harry had a seven year bitter rivalry with their son, Draco, he knew deep down that he would never have wanted this for him. Now the Malfoys, once a proud wizarding family, were a shattered shell, with only a mother and son to fend for themselves. Yet another family destroyed by Voldemort, even after his death. Harry closed his eyes.

A warm hand touched his under the table. Harry reacted as though electrocuted, yanking his arm back so hard he nearly toppled into Charlie in his haste to pull from...

Ginny. Her brown eyes were wide as she pulled her hand back into her own lap. Charlie nudged Harry, playing off the silent commotion as brotherly shoving, much to Harry's relief. Mrs. Weasley eyed him for a moment, but turned her attention to Ron, who had begun shoveling in his pudding with enough enthusiasm to warrant a reprimand.

Charlie raised his brows at Harry, who only shrugged sheepishly in return, not knowing what to say. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes back to Ginny, but she had taken to glaring at her plate, hands firmly in her lap.

Guilt burned his insides, snaking through his veins like an untamed fire. After he had been made to return to the world of the living from his days-stay in Percy's bedroom, Harry had immediately sought out Ginny. He had held it in his heart throughout the past year that those brown eyes, those freckles, those soft hands, those flowing red locks, that laugh, and that smile were all he wanted once the torment of war was over. But the moment he saw her, sitting in the living area reading a book, Harry knew. He knew at immediately that he could never love Ginny the way he once thought he could. But he had pressed on, making his way to her and speaking quietly, wanting to push that feeling away.

Nothing had deterred it.

Days crept by where simply seeing Ginny had hurt him. Talking to her was a challenge Harry hadn't yet overcome. Something enormous had shifted between them. So much had changed. They had each lost so much, and Harry had his own inner demons that only multiplied in their year apart. Less than a week had passed when Harry knew that he no longer loved Ginny the way she loved him.

But, for all his supposed Gryffindor bravery, Harry had yet to tell her. Instead, Harry had taken to avoiding her at all costs, hastily crafting excuses to leave whenever he did happen to befall her company. Hurt swam in her eyes each time. It tore at Harry when he was alone, yet he continued to do nothing.

Harry placed his hands in his own lap and bowed his head, suddenly very tired. So much had changed. How had he ever convinced himself that he could return to what his life was before the war? How had he ever convinced himself that he could have a normal life?

The Malfoy Manor was cold. It always had been, in that emotional sense that books spoke of, but as Draco locked his old school trunk, now fully packed, he could physically feel the chill pass through his bedroom. He straightened, rubbing circles into his sore back. He had been packing his trunk on and off for weeks, stopping for days at a time as he swayed between how bad of an idea he thought it was at the time. Draco collapsed onto his bed with a groan.

He was such a coward.

As Draco laid here, self-loathing overcoming his entire being, the cold on his skin dipped into his heart. There were endless reasons to hate Draco Malfoy, as he was all too aware. For things as simple as being a spoiled brat with outdated prejudices and childish pettiness, for things are harsh as outright attacking students in the corridors of Hogwarts, for things as criminal as practicing the Cruciatus Curse on mere children. The memories had stolen his sleep for nearing on two years now, but after the owl his mother had received the previous week, Draco couldn't find more than twenty minutes of unconsciousness at a time.

Because, for all he wished to, Draco couldn't bring himself to grieve for his father.

His mother hadn't offered details, and Draco hadn't asked. But savagely, he knew his father deserved every second of whatever it was.

Draco's mother had tried for weeks to convince him that his father had done everything he had to try and protect them. Perhaps he had, but Draco knew that if his father hadn't been so weak, so prideful, so pathetic as to have ever been in the Dark Lord's service, the past seventeen years could have been so different. Even if Draco had still been raised to be the snarky little arsehole that he was, the Malfoy name wouldn't have been drug through the mud that now clung to Draco's every molecule. Had his father actually changed his ways after the Dark Lord's disappearance all those years ago instead of just pretending, maybe Draco wouldn't have been thrust into the positions he had been. Maybe he would have grown to be less of the evil prat that deserved every ounce of loathing that he knew was coming his way the second he stepped onto the train the next morning.

Or maybe not.

Furious tears stung his eyes as he laid there, wondering if any of it would have made a difference. What it all boiled down to was how enormous of a coward Draco really was.

The large clock in the lounge chimed, echoing faintly throughout the manor. Draco glanced at his own clock, hardly surprised that it was nearing one in the morning.

Not that time really mattered anymore. Ever since he and his mother had been acquitted by the Ministry for their parts in the war, Draco had taken to simply existing inside the manor, barely eating, scarcely sleeping, and never once stepping outside. It was a lonely and aching existence, but at least no one was hurt by inactions this time.

But, being so late, Draco knew his mother was likely asleep. He stood from the bed and made his way to the kitchen. A cup of tea might calm him enough to catch a few minutes of sleep.

As Draco entered the kitchen and busied himself with making a strong cup of lavender and chamomile tea, he kept an ear out for his mother. He had never once hated his mother for anything that happened. She was an undeniably strong woman that had willingly disobeyed the Dark Lord twice, going behind his back and lying to his face without batting an eye. No Death Eater could say the same, could have gotten away with such feats. And Draco's mother had done both in the name of keeping her only son as safe as she could.

No, Draco had never hated his mother for the events of the past. She had always been far stronger and braver than his father could have ever hoped to be. More than once, even before all the Darkness had penetrated their home, Draco had wondered what on earth she ever saw in his father. Regardless of how his father had treated him, causing more than one argument Draco overheard, she had stayed and remained unwaveringly loyal to Lucius Malfoy.

Despite his untouched love for his mother, Draco still couldn't bring himself to face her for more than a few minutes at a time since they returned home and especially since his father's murder. Draco couldn't fake the sorrow that so gripped his mother, even for her. She didn't deserve to grieve alone, yet Draco couldn't provide that company for her. Even after all she had done for him. It tore at him every time he escaped her.

Draco poured his tea into his cup and held it in both hands, savoring the warmth it brought his frozen fingers. He took a sip. Now that the war was over and Draco no longer was living in personified panic, he had hoped sleep could come easier. But it seemed that the opposite had occurred - now that the world had fallen into a certain amount of calm, Draco was sleeping less than ever. Waking nightmares kept him tossing and turning into the night, and even when he did manage to fall asleep, the horrific memories only jolted him back awake.

"Ahem."

As though hit with lightning, Draco started violently, spilling some of his tea down his front as he whipped around. In the kitchen's doorway stood his mother.

She looked pale, and her eyes were rimmed in red. "I know you've been avoiding me, Draco."

Guilt shot through Draco's heart like an arrow. "No, Mother, I-"

"And I can hardly blame you," she said, speaking as though she didn't hear his half-hearted denial. "I know you don't mourn your father. He was terrible to you, even before the Dark Lord rose again." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I only wish I had been more aggressive in protecting you from him. No child deserves what Lucius put you through."

The quiet that filled the kitchen was palpable. Draco stood there, wet front growing cold, not knowing in the slightest what to say. There were no words he could find quickly to comfort his mother as she made a final attempt to reach out to him. Nothing she said was wrong. Nothing she said was something he could dispute. Yet Draco longed for her to know that he could never blame her.

But she didn't give him the chance.

"Have you finished packing for school?"

"Uh..." The abrupt subject change took him aback. "Yes, I just finished tonight."

"That's good, that's good."

Draco hesitated. "I'm not sure how good of an idea it is to go back."

His mother nodded. "I know. But this is too good an opportunity for you, Draco." She smiled sadly. "A fresh start, a way to complete your education properly so that you have all the tools you'll need to make your way through this new world."

Draco looked down at his tea, unsure of what to say.

"With this year, you can rebuild yourself. Make yourself a strong, better man than your father ever was." His mother's voice wavered, and Draco forced himself to look back up at her. Tears swam in her eyes.

"Well...I..." Draco drowned the rest of his tea, now lukewarm, in one gulp and set it noisily on the counter. "I ought to try and sleep. You know...big day..."

"Of course." His mother's small smile fell as Draco moved past her and into the lounge. As he rounded the corner toward the stairs, he barely heard her say, "I love you."

What she thought there was left to love, Draco hadn't a clue.