(Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter Stories or any of the main characters, only the plot and a few momentary characters are mine. I've tried to stick as close to Rowling's stories as possible, but as the story progresses, I will deviate from it. Apologies for the swearing, tried to keep it at a minimum but the story didn't feel authentic without it.)

Chapter 2: Ends and Beginnings

As Draco looked into his parents' faces, he was shocked to see how worn and broken his father was. It had been weeks, really, since he had properly looked him in the face, on the night when Potter and his friends had escaped, taking the Dark Lord's most valuable prisoners with them. He realized that his father, in particular, was drastically changed. His normally pristinely figure was unkempt and there was a ragged air to him that reached far deeper than outward appearance. His mother still held her head high, but her self-control was rigid rather than proud. He felt a softening towards both of them.

There were so many things that he could have said, so many questions on his mind, but the words that he heard himself speak were, "I'm going to turn myself in to the ministry, and offer them my full cooperation."

His parents stood, for a moment, silent and uncertain. Staring at him, as though seeing him for the first time, and he smirked inwardly, realizing that the expression on his face echoed theirs. Then he thought he saw something else, in his mother's eyes. Was it pride?

"We will as well." Narcissa said, firmly.

"Father?" Asked Draco, knowing that Lucius had more to risk than they did.

"We will." He said, resignedly, after a long pause, but his face was grey and aged, and Draco saw fear in his eyes.

Draco led his parents slowly through the chaos of mourning and jubilation, strangely ignored by the victors, towards the place where Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry Potter stood talking in the middle of the crowded Great Hall. It was slow going, and as he pushed his way along, keeping his eyes fixed on his goal, he saw Potter look at them as they approached, and gesture animatedly talking rapidly. An owl swooped down through a broken window, and landed next to the Minister, holding out a letter. The minister took it, and read it briefly, while absently handing the owl several knuts. He looked up and said something to Potter, with a slightly stunned look on his face. Potter shook his hand, beaming, and clapped him on the shoulder.

And then the Malfoys were standing face-to-face with the Boy Who Lived and Shacklebolt. "Potter, Shacklebolt," Draco said, by way of greeting, he knew the older man from the many visits he had made to the Ministry of Magic with his father when he was a boy.

"It's Interim Minister of Magic now Mr. Malfoy," said Shacklebolt mildly, "What can we do for you?"

"Congratulations, Minister. I am here to turn myself in, as a former Death eater and one-time supporter of the Da…of L-Lord Voldemort, I would like to offer the ministry my full cooperation. I have information that will be valuable to the Ministry in apprehending and convicting remaining Death Eaters." Draco said, and he felt a slight tremble of fear as he stood before the two men, realizing that they could easily arrest him, simply for wearing the Mark. But he shoved the fear aside, and gazed firmly with his grey eyes into the eyes of the two men before him.

Kingsley nodded slowly, giving him an appraising look that Draco met firmly, despite the vague trepidation that lingered on the edges of his consciousness. "Thank you Mr. Malfoy." The tall, dark man said in his most powerful and reassuring tones. Then he turned to Lucius and Narcissa, who stood directly behind Draco. "And what of you, Lucius, Narcissa?"

"Yes." They both said, and by the tremor in their voices, Draco knew that they, too, were experiencing some fear in offering themselves up to the Ministry.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Potter said, stepping forward, "You saved my life in the forest, I did not get a chance to thank you then. But, thank you. It was very brave of you." Draco stared at his mother in shock.

Kingsley interjected, saying, "Mr. Potter and I have been discussing your family's roles in the battle. Narcissa, you played a key role in Voldemort's downfall. We might never have won the war if not for you." Draco felt his father shift restlessly behind him, and felt certain that his father had not known of this either, at least not fully.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Narcissa said coldly, "But it was for my son…for Draco. HE would not allow us to go looking for him, unless…" But she trailed off when she saw the thoughtful look on Harry's face.

"Dumbledore always said that love would be Voldemort's downfall. It was the one thing that he never understood, never felt." Potter said, thoughtfully, rubbing the scar on his forehead absentmindedly. "It was my mother's love that brought about his downfall at the end of the first war, and your love for Draco along with the remaining magic left by my mother's love that brought about his final demise. How fitting." And there was a distant look in his eyes, half-sorrow, half-pity. And Draco wondered who the pity was for, surely not Voldemort…surely.

"And, Draco," the Minister said, turning to the tall blond man, "Madame Pomfrey informs me that you were responsible for saving the life of one of your fellow students, a Miss Lavender Brown?"

"Y...yes..." He said, surprised, "I didn't think anyone knew...She'll live then?"

"We believe so. We will need to get her to St. Mungo's as soon as she is stable enough, but Madame Pomfrey is very hopeful that the girl will not only survive, but will return to full health in time. Of course, she will bear those horrible scars for the rest of her life. Sadly." Shaklebolt said, ignoring the way that Draco sagged in relief, then turned to Draco's father. "Lucius, you did not join in the fighting at the end, in fact, you have not been seen joining in the battle at all today."

"I did not have a wand, Minister." Draco heard his father say, "At least...not one I could use. I was not capable of fighting, even if I had wanted to." his voice trailed off but Draco sensed a not of something he could not recognize in his father's voice. Regret? Sadness? But for what? He was not sure, but his father had been cunning and politically driven for so long, that it was hard to tell his genuine emotion in relation to anything outside their own family.

"Very well, I believe that we can get a full acquittal for all three of you. However, we will have to take you and Narcissa into custody, partly for your own protection. As to your son…" Shacklebolt turned a speculative eye on Draco. "Draco, do you have the Mark?"

Draco's mouth was suddenly dry, but in answer he pulled up the left sleeve of his robes, revealing the slightly fading mark. He was surprised to find that the skin around the mark was red and inflamed, as though it had been scorched.

"And how old were you, when you received the mark?"

"16 sir."

A flash of disgust and pity crossed the man's face. "Since you were underage when you received the mark, and you clearly did not go to Voldemort when he called, you may have a choice. You can either choose to come to the Ministry with your parents, or remain here under the watchful eye of Minerva McGonagal and the other teachers, assisting in the clean up and repair of the school."

Draco looked around at the broken room around them, at the dead and dying and wounded. And he felt the book deep in the pocket of his robes, hanging there with a weight that seemed to be calling to him. "I'll stay here, Minister." He said, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears. He heard an indrawn breath from behind him followed by a sigh of relief, and wondered what his parents were thinking, but he realized that they had both relaxed slightly, and he wondered why.

"Very well, Draco." The Minister said, "If the three of you will find yourselves a seat somewhere nearby, an Auror will come eventually and give you more details on how we will proceed. Food will be served as soon as the house elves have had a chance to recover from the battle."

Draco nodded, "Thank you Minister, Potter." He said, bowing slightly to both in turn, before preparing himself to walk away, but his father stepped forward.

"Mr. Potter." Lucius said, "I have something belonging to some friends of yours. Perhaps, if you would be so good..." He drew three wands from his robes and handed them to Harry.

"I...thank you, Mr. Malfoy." Harry said, a startled look on his face, "They will be...very pleased to have these back."

"It is...the least we can do..." Lucius voice trailed off, but once again Draco heard that strange weary emotion in his voice that was puzzling.

Then Draco heard his name, and turned to find Potter standing in front of him, holding out his hand. Staring at him, in surprise, Draco slowly grasped the proffered hand and his grey eyes met Harry's green ones and he was shocked to see respect reflected in his old enemy's face and knew that his own eyes were showing the same. "I can give you back your wand, later, I think." Potter said, "There's, just...something that I need to do first." Draco nodded reluctantly, feeling the stolen wand in his pocket, then turned and followed his parents to the old Slytherin table, which stood nearby.

They sat in awkward silence for a long time till, at last, Draco turned to Narcissa, "Mother," he said, "What happened in the Forbidden Forest?"

Narcissa stared blankly out the window for a long time, and then recounted, "The Dark Lord was not pleased when you did not rejoin the others in the Forest when he called. He ignored your father's pleas to go and find you, while the battle was waging. He said that you had shown a lack of loyalty...as though your life had no significance except where it was used to serve him." And her face twisted and as she clenched her teeth together tightly on the last words.

"I did not return because I had not apprehended Potter yet, as he had instructed me to, and I did not want you to suffer because of my...failure." Draco said, disgusted.

"We know...knew...and then Harry Potter walked into the Forest, and he confronted the Dark Lord, but he did not pull out his wand or attempt to use it, he just looked the Dark Lord in the eye, and accepted death. The killing curse hit him directly in the chest." Draco could feel the blood drain from his face as he listened to the story, but his mother continued, "He fell, and the Dark Lord was flung backwards. When the Dark Lord rose, he...requested that I check if Mr. Potter was alive. I felt his heartbeat and saw that he was still breathing. I asked if you were alive, and he said yes. So I lied to the Dark Lord, and told him that Potter was dead, because I knew that was the only way he would allow us to return to the castle to find you."

Draco stared at his mother in horror and awe, "You could have been murdered!" He whispered violently.

"We have made many mistakes over the years, Draco." Said Lucius, "But we do love you...we have always loved you."

"I know." Said Draco quietly. And then he looked around the room, because he could not bear to look his parents in the eye any longer. The tortured looks on their faces were like knives in his heart. Around the walls lay the bodies of the dead. The Weaselys were standing huddled in a group around one figure, and he wondered who it was. "This..." He said hoarsely, waving his arm around, "This should never have happened. It's a school. Some of those bodies are the bodies of sixth years. This cannot happen again. It can't. Did you know that the Carrows made us use the cruciatus curse on the other students, students as young as first years? And the students who tried to resist were tortured instead. Can you imagine if that was in my first year?"

"Draco..." there was pleading in his father's voice, but he couldn't stop.

"I saw them carrying in a body. It was a sixth year student. He worshipped Potter. Just, worshipped him. And now he's dead. Can you imagine?" And suddenly, Draco felt cold and worn and empty, "16 and dying in a battle that should never have happened? How could anyone, even him, ever attack a school. And just imagine what would have happened if they hadn't been able to get the younger students out, with Greyback roaming the halls? This can never happen again. Never. Sometimes, I wish I had died last year, rather than see everything I've seen this year." But he whispered the last part, so that it was barely audible.

Lucius and Narcissa stared at their son, pale and ill, their hearts twisting within them…shocked, "What are you planning?" Narcissa asked fearfully.

"Whatever I have to." He said cryptically, almost viciously, because at the moment he only had a vague idea about what to do himself. "Whatever I can..." And his face was hard again, cold and remote, and he saw fear reflected in his parents' faces. But an overwhelming and overpowering guilt had seized him, and he could not feel anything else.

Part 2

Several hours later, Draco said a polite, but loving goodbye to his mother and father. They both whispered their love to him, and if their whispers were a little cool and lacking in emotion, the emotion in their eyes was enough for him to understand their meaning. But, it made him painfully aware of the sensation of emptiness and guilt that was slowly numbing him. He thought about the raw and opened grief and the deep affection that he'd seen the Weaselys displaying from across the Hall and the burning pain that was visible on the faces of Potter and Granger. And he pondered how strange it was, that the same love, love of family, could show itself in so many different forms.

Feeling out of place amongst all the grief-tempered celebrations, and half wishing he had gone with his parents to the Ministry, he wandered down to his old room in the dungeons. Guilt shot through him with every step he took, piercing his heart with agony when he saw blood spattering on the walls, or dead acromantula. Sometimes he paused, his head hanging, knowledge of everything that he had been involved him scorching through him like a living flame. He longed to run, to go into hiding, to run back to the Aurors and ask them to take him to the ministry, but that would be worse. He had made his decision, and he would have to follow it till whatever bitter end.

He found the dungeons strangely untouched, and there was an eerie quality to them. A sensation of stepping back in time seized him as he entered the common room, sending a physical pain through him, as it recalled to him the snide and cruel comments and conversations that had been held by him in this very place. He had to force himself to walk at a steady pace through the common room; the skulls were no longer familiar but sinister and troubling. They seemed to stare at him, accusing, reminding him of the death and suffering above him.

Finally, he entered his room. His trunk still sat there, just as he'd left it when he went away at Easter, which now seemed to have been years ago. He removed his ashy, battle-worn cloak, and sank into a chair in the corner. He stared at the wall for many long minutes, and then drew the book from his pocket and looked at it. It was bound in green leather, faded, but not worn, and it smelled of disintegrating parchment and dust and age. He opened it, and it creaked slightly in protest.

Holding the book in one hand, he gazed that the first word, transfixed.

"Remorse,"he read, "Is a very strange and powerful thing. Even now, there is very little information on its magical properties and potentials. What is known is that it is the only remedy to reunite a soul that has been rent apart by murders, especially those murders perpetrated by the soul in order to create a Horcrux. Horcrux, that most abhominable of evils, that can only be accomplished by those who have successfully erased or removed from their minds all awareness of guilt, and every sensation of love from their hearts."

Draco gave a great start, and gazed in horror at the page in front of him. What was it he had heard Potter say to the Dark Lord at the end, "There are no more Horcruxes." It was plural, wasn't it? Could the Dark Lord...could Voldemort, have actually made more than one Horcrux? He felt a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach, but he fought against it and continued to read. "Although little else is known about this most interesting experience of a witch or wizard's soul, it is believed that the same experience can serve to heal a soul of any and all damage wrought by the Arts of Darkness. This is believed to be especially true in regards to those cases where the witch or wizard seeks out the experience, intending to rid him or herself of said relations with Darkness."

He looked up and gazed at the room of green and silver and stone that surrounded him, and relished the beam of hope that opened in his heart. He could feel the blackness; feel the stains left by his unforgiving tendency and cruelty, and the agonizing burn of black flame that had begun the first time he had dared to use an unforgiveable curse flared in protest at the direction of his thoughts, but he ignored it.

"It is said," He continued to read, "That remorse may be made more possible by an experience of undeserved mercy, especially when it is wrought by an enemy. But I know of no occurrences where this has been done with a true motive. This would be most valuable for the one who wishes, who seeks to experience remorse, as the experience has been described as one of the greatest agony. For, in order to experience true remorse, the one who has committed themselves to the Dark Arts must fully devote themselves to know real compassion, a compassion so great, and so deep that it will take them through every act of cruelty and pain that they have committed in their path towards the Dark Arts, and they must know the suffering they caused."

Draco stared at the page, his face grey, but he read on and on, until the evening closed in and still he read. One sentence, at the end of the book, stood out to him, amidst all the others, "It is said that, if captured, the tears shed in remorse can help to heal those wounded by even the darkest arts." He closed the book and put it down, and sat in the silent darkness, lit only by the erie green light of the lake above him. Then, with deliberate movements, he opened his trunk, and took out a set of vials, bound in silver, that his parents had given him when he received the O for his OWL in potions. He placed them on a table next to the chair he had been sitting on as he read.

He turned back to his trunk and nearly yelled in shock, when the ghost of the the Bloody Baron appeared, materializing through the wall above it. He started back, and stared at the horrifying figure, but felt the fear melt away. A year in the presence of Lord Voldemort had left him with little fear for a figure so familiar as that of the Bloody Baron.

"The Headmistress requested that I be so good as to come look for you, Mr. Malfoy." the Baron said coldly in his icy rasp. "You were not present at luncheon and dinner is almost finished."

"I'm not hungry." Draco said, "I need to sleep. I will come up for breakfast in the morning."

The Baron rolled his eyes in what would have been a droll gesture in any other ghost, but in him it was, if not terrifying, at the very least intimidating. He floated around the room, observing it, until his eyes lit on the book at the table. If a ghost could look sharp, the then Baron's eyes were like needles, as he turned his haughty gaze on Draco.

"Remorse." He rasped. "This is a very powerful magic for one so young. I have neither seen it nor heard of it being used since the first rise of the Dark Lord. It is rare indeed that one who has sought the Dark Arts, should in any way seek out an experience of remorse?" He looked at Draco as though seeing him for the first time.

Draco's mouth was suddenly dry as he asked; "Someone else did this, during the last war?"

The ghost nodded his head slowly, observing Draco with his piercing eyes. "Our most recent Headmaster, Severus Snape, experienced true remorse many years ago. Found it after he betrayed the woman he loved, and brought about her death and the death of her husband, and nearly caused the death of their infant son."

"Potter." Draco stared at the Baron with an expression of a drowning man, who has just seen the branch of a tree within his grasp.

"And…and do you know of any others?" He asked, half-shocked at his own abruptness.

"I did, in my own way. Not as powerfully, I suppose, as you will, for I had just taken the life of the woman that I loved with my own hand. And the experience so tortured me that it drove me to seek out my own death before the magic could be completed. But you are the first, in many years, over a hundred, perhaps, that has read that book. The first to have discovered it in centuries, I believe. I did not know what my own experience was, until I had passed many centuries in the form you see me in now."

"But it...it can be done?"

"Of course, you foolish child. Have I not just told you that Severus experienced it? Your soul, I believe, is not so tainted as his had been. Twisted as it was by bitterness, it continued to be for many years. He did not know that his constant pain and irritability was due to his lack of commitment to remorse in regards to one of the deaths he caused. Had he accepted remorse for the one, he would have found himself fully healed. But he did not…although maybe he has now." As was the habit with ghosts, the Baron seemed to have lost himself in the past and turned to drift towards the door, but Draco stopped him, "Wait, Baron, what are you going to tell the headmistress?"

"That you are indisposed this evening, but that you will be in the Great Hall by the seventh hour of the morning." He said, coldly, turning around, "Be sure not to forget it, will you? I have a reputation to maintain. And, good luck, Mr. Malfoy, you will need it, I believe." Glided through the wall next to the door and Draco stood staring after him, his face waxen and green in the pale light of the lake.

There was a fire in the grate of the fireplace next to the table, which he noticed for the first time. A house elf must have come and gone while he was reading his book. He moved the chair in front of the fire and set the table next to it, taking care as he moved everything. Then he sat down in the chair, gripped its arms with his long, white fingers, and closed his eyes. As he felt the warm glow of the fire reach him, he unlocked and opened the door in his mind where he had kept his compassion, turned off and imprisoned for many years, and as he focused on remorse, and he was immediately seized with an agonizing flood of emotions and memories that were so intense they nearly threw him from his chair.

Draco's parents lectured him, saying that all magical beings, except for pure blood wizards, were less valuable and should be committed to servitude of those whose blood was magically pure. He asked about House Elves, and what they were, and his father sneered haughtily, reprimanding him for even asking the question, saying that clearly all house elves were so far below wizards as to barely merit their attention. The scene faded.

Dobby hit himself over and over on the head with a rolling pin, his large eyes watering as the child, Draco looked on. Draco could not remember what it was that the House Elf had done, or really if he had done anything at all. But as he watched in disgusted amusement, he told the elf to be sure to slam his fingers in a drawer, just in case there was something he'd missed. But this time, the pain and hurt and the bitterness in the elf's eyes consumed the older and more mature Draco, and he felt the bruises and the agony as though they were his own...

Draco listened to his father telling him about being a pure blood, and how that made him superior to others in the wizarding world. That half-bloods were not to far removed from purebloods, so they were worthy of respect and time and attention, if they were of the right sort. But muggle-borns were less than they were, that they were dangerous and not to be trusted. That muggles were little more than animals, and a disgrace to the world, and not to be tolerated. The younger Draco had listened with rapt attention, accepting and taking in every word as truth, but Draco now, who sat in agony in his chair, saw the cruelty of the words and the falsehood of them, and what those beliefs had done to his already tainted soul...

The small girl with the bushy hair stood in front of him, defying him with her sharp brown eyes flashing fire. And he spoke the word that should never even exist. Saw the confusion, in her eyes, and mocked her in his heart for being so ignorant that she did not even understand this one important, vital part of wizard culture. That she was worthless, less valuable, less pure, than he was. But as the memory crashed over him in a wave, he saw the hurt, the confusion, and the fear, and he realized her value as a person, and as a witch, whose intelligence and goodness were far beyond anything that he had ever owned.

He watched himself mocking Potter and his dead parents, and where before he'd only seen rage and anger in the other boy's eyes, he now saw the hurt and the pain. He felt his loss and the agony it brought, and it was so real, so potent that he nearly fell to the floor. He felt the pain and humiliation of Neville Longbottom as he jumped up flights of moving stair with his legs bound together with a leglocker curse.

And on and on and on it went, till Draco was weeping kneeling on the floor, suffering the same pain that his victims had experienced through his cruelty and thoughtlessness and lack of compassion. It took every ounce of self-control that he had gained in the two years he had spent under Voldemort's watchful eye, to capture those tears and still engage in the pain and the hurt that he needed to suffer in order to change, in order to have his to be free of the marks of darkness…Hours passed, and the agony increased with each passing moment, as he felt as though the emotional pain and humiliation alone would kill him with their weight. But still it continued hour after hour getting ever more intense as he passed through years of deepening devotion to the Dark Arts, the secret lessons with his father over the summers, starting in his second year, and increasingly brought under greater control by Voldemort, until...

Two brown eyes stared out of an agonized face, framed by a halo of bushy brown hair. The screams that were torn from her by the curse ripped through him as though they were his own. And he felt her pain and the desperate yearning to be free of it, and even though he had not cursed her, he saw how his cowardice and devotion to the Dark Lord had influenced his decision to stand aside while she was tortured. And, as though from far away, he could hear his own voice screaming in echo. And then he saw her unconscious form being offered to Greyback, and he felt Greyback's mind and intentions, and he vomited on the floor. Knowing what he had feared to know, that his own unwillingness would have extended to letting her be dragged away by the monster.

A few more memories passed through him, shattering his mind and body with pain, till it finally ebbed away and he found himself panting on the floor, barely able to gather the last tears as they streamed down his face. And, finally, the pain was gone, and he stood shakily to his feet, wiping sweat from his face and longing for a drink, to rid himself of the sour, bitter taste in his mouth. Shakily, he sank into his chair, and then felt a horrifying pain in his left arm. Frantically he rolled up his sleeve and stared at the Mark on his arm. The faded blackness seemed to be weeping, as the disgusting figure of the skull and the snake melted and ran, and oozed, until there was nothing left but the outline of the mark, the magic having been drained from it.

Elation and wonder filled him. The magic was broken, and he could feel the damage to his soul mending, the burning blackness fading away. He leaned back, exhausted, and the crippling guilt that had driven him down to the dungeons the day before was gone, replaced by a deep and solemn sense of remorse and sorrow. Vaguely, as he sat, gazing at the mark that no longer tethered him to the Dark Arts, he felt a growing sense of purpose. How long he had sat there, thinking, he did not know.

His reverie was broken by a resounding crack that sent him leaping to his feet, to see a small house elf that stood quivering in his presence. He sank down into his chair, and stared at the elf, memories of the torment he had inflicted on Dobby rising painfully to the forefront of his mind.

"B...B...Bloody Baron sent Winky to check on young master." The tiny elf said her small voice squeaking in fear.

"Thank you." Said Draco carefully, cooly, "I am well."

Winky stared at him as though he had just grown an extra head, and then glanced at the stinking spot on the carpet." Master has been sick?" The little elf asked, as she snapped her fingers, vanishing the stinking mess. "Can Winky bring the young master anything?"

"A glass of water, Winky, if you don't mind." Draco said, half-heartedly.

Winky continued to stare at him. "H...has master had any food?"

"No." Draco said, suddenly realizing that he was desperately hungry.

"Winky will bring master something to eat." The house elf said, rubbing her little hands together nervously.

"Thank you, Winky." Draco said, "Nothing too elaborate, you don't need to go to any trouble for me, breakfast is only a few hours away."

"Master must be very ill!" Winky said, wringing her hands together more violently.

Draco looked up and stared at her. "Why is that?"

"Master must not mind Winky, it's the butterbeer. Winky cannot stay away from it! Sometimes Winky is too forward when Winky has had a little bit extra." Winky said, her face terrified.

"Winky, I'm not going to be angry with you, I'm just surprised. Now, please answer the question. Why do you think that I'm ill? I am perfectly fine, it was just a bit of sick."

"Master is being polite, master is being kind and thoughtful. Oh no, oh no, oh no!" Winky shook her head her eyes nearly consuming her entire face. "Master isn't DYING is he!" She let out a little shriek.

Draco laughed humorlessly, torn between humor and disgust at his former self and stood up, "I'm perfectly fine, just tired and hungry...and sorry." He said the last more soberly, "I've been horrible to your kind, haven't I? I wish I could make up for it...I wish I had been better to...to all of you." And suddenly his mind was flooded with images of poor, hurt, humiliated Dobby and his heart filled with remorse.

To his immense distress Winky started howling. "D...D...Dobby would be so happy! D...D...Dobby would be so proud of the nice young master. Dobby wouldn't know what to s...s...say." She took out a ragged piece of handkerchief and blew her nose on it rather loudly. "Winky will get some nice breakfast for the young master who is being so sad and kind." She disaparated with a loud bang, and Draco was left staring at the place she had vanished from with a bemused expression on his face. He checked his silver and green watch that his parents had given him for his coming of age; it was five in the morning. He paced the room thinking, his chin resting on his hand. With the remorse the blackness and the guilt had lifted from his soul, replaced with resolution and true regret and sorrow for all that he had done.

He wanted to do something to right the wrongs that he had been culpable in, no, he wanted to do whatever he could to right any wrong that he or his family had been connected to, and to help mend the world that he was a part of. Suddenly, the cunning of his Slytherin roots appeared to him in a new light. No longer to be used to promote his own status and name, no longer as a tool for his own self-service, he saw the use for something better. He took some parchment from his trunk along with his emerald inkbottle and his phoenix feather quill, and he began to write.