Draco surveyed the wizards and witches with a cool, calm expression. They had judged him already. He was fine with that—he could expect no less, taking in to consideration his position. The golden trio glared accusingly at him as others whispered about how they 'had always known' that the Malfoy house was a bad name. The minister looked down upon him condescendingly.

"Draco Malfoy," he announced. "Seventeen year old wizard. Son of Lucious Malfoy, known Death Eater. Apprentice to Severus Snape, known Death Eater. Speaker and leader for He Who Must Not Be Named. Murderer. Con artist. Impersonator. Caster of Unforgivables: known Crucio, known Imperio, suspected Avada Kedavra. Known Death Eater. Convicted. Here to plead lesser sentence in exchange of information about He Who Must Not Be Named."

All fell silent. Draco reveled in the silence. He maintained an image of cool disinterest. Finally, he spoke. "I am not here to plead my case innocent," he informed them, his velvet voice echoing in the scarily quiet chamber. "I am not here to tell you that I'm not a Death Eater. I am here to tell you…" he looked around slowly. The trio was leaning forward, anticipating his words. Could they know that admittance would mean his death? If so, they could not care. "I am here to give you the coordinates of the Dark Lord's resident castle."

.xXx.

Hermione stood, alone, in the icy wind. The pale gray sky cast a murky light onto the scene of despair and sorrow. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she looked out on the graveyard. There were no living persons around to see her as she paced the rows to stop in front of a new, nondescript grave. Her face showed no emotion as she gazed at the freshly turned earth. The simple gray headstone read the name and the dates, nothing more.

Very calmly, the young Gryffindor trod to the side of the grave and gracefully folded her legs under her. She lay her upper body across the fresh dirt and breathed deeply for a moment before slowly dissolving into tears. Damn that stupid, stubborn ferret.

"No one mourns the wicked," she whispered. "No one mourns the wicked." It turned into a sort of mantra as she repeated it, over and over.

But the problem was, he wasn't wicked, and part of her had always known that. He had been caught up in it all because of his family. It wasn't his fault. And in the end, he sacrificed everything, anyway. It wasn't his fault. And he couldn't truly be wicked.

Because no one mourns the wicked.

Hermione sat up stiffly and tapped her wand twice on the headstone, then stood and crossed to the grave next to it. This one was far more elaborate, and she arranged a small bouquet in front of it, then kissed her fingers and touched them to the shining marble headstone. Then she said a sad farewell to the two boys who were caught up in a life that they couldn't control—it was all because of who they were.

.xXx.

No one paid much attention to the fact that a once nondescript headstone had changed to an elaborate silver masterpiece. Why would they? No one mourns the wicked.

Draco Malfoy

Slytherin

"No one mourns the wicked, so the wicked shall not be mourned. But always forbid that one who is not wicked shall be not mourned. We mourn for those who we did not help, for fear that they might be wicked. We mourn for you, Draco. And no one mourns the wicked."

Harry Potter

Gryffindor

"Once the boy who lived. A legend. For as long as there is Good, there shall also be Evil. There will never be a Final Battle. But legends are reborn, and when they leave us, they are mourned. Be glad that you were a legend, Harry Potter. Because no one mourns the wicked."