An unspeakable began to feed a memory to the wall of silver, and it shivered to life upon the metallic surface, bathing the courtroom of a scene from his childhood.

The face of Lucius Malfoy peered down at them all, young and magnificent, his eyes glittered dangerously.

"Draco," he said smoothly, "you are forgetting; you are far more special than anyone else. You're a wizard, a pure-blooded wizard at that. A true wizard Draco; and a Malfoy. Suggesting we ought to pity… muggles… it's laughable. Don't suggest that to me again." A woman's scream ripped through the memory from somewhere behind Lucius, and slightly out of view. Raucous masculine laughter overpowered the desperate shrieks as someone called out for the torturer to do it again. The screams began to sound wet, sloppy, and a groan of disappointment caused the young Lucius to look away from them all curiously.

"Is that mudblood dead? So fast? Merlin that's disappointing, Nott, get another would you?" He called to those out of view, as the memory began to ripple, slithering back into the bottle from which it had been freed.

The courtroom had become silent in a different manner than before. Where they had been interested, delighted to watch their suspicions that the Malfoy patriarch was a blackmailing bully, this had been another thing to view entirely. A complete disregard for human life was a difficult thing to watch, especially considering the sheets that had covered the dead in the ministries hallways, their muggle families being contacted via the muggle police in order to return their dead.

It was common knowledge it was one of the Ministries biggest post-war headaches, and here was a memory of Lucius Malfoy chiding his son for pitying muggles as his friends murder one in the background.

The silence was long. Cold. Stony. And Pansy was trying to stifle her giggles.

Never had Draco felt so angry.

Then the questions began. When was this? What was he doing? Who else was there? What was happening to the women he'd brought home? Did his wife know? Did Draco ever attend? Why was he allowing this? What was the point, considering they believed Lord Voldemort was gone, were they trying to tempt him back with a bit of muggle torture? Were they definitely muggles? Was it always women?

Every time, Lucius was given a chance to defend himself, and each time, he chose not to, admitting to everything. It was frustrating, he hadn't given up, but there was no smooth talking his way out of anything. They had just so many testimonies otherwise. So many people had been contacted.

His anger was beginning to fizzle into fear. It was like a scorpion, crawling its way up his spine, stabbing him in each separate vertebra, paralysing him with terror. He'd so desperately wanted to prepare something to help his father; he'd supplied every memory he'd been asked for, truthful ones at that. When he'd been given the opportunity to supply something new, Alvis had looked at him knowingly, and nothing had been submitted.

The man he'd grown up adoring, wanting to be like in every way, so much so he'd emulated him in his first years at Hogwarts; was crumbling beneath him.

:: :: ::

Harry had taken hold of her hand, and was squeezing it tightly, the murder of the muggle woman had clearly upset him, and he was doing his best to comfort her surreptitiously as they both knew what was coming soon. Unfortunately, the press had noticed, and were taking pictures of their clasped hands. Hermione was at loathe to let go however; she needed the support as much as he did.

"There are two memories I believe the court should view next Mr Malfoy, would you like to hazard a guess as to which ones?"

"No," Lucius answered, and a coy, telling smile crawled its way on to his questioners' lips.

"Then let us display a memory from your son, Mr Draco Malfoy." He gestured elegantly for the next memory to be shown, how the unspeakables knew which one to show was beyond Hermione, but they did, and soon, creeping its way up the silvery wall was the picture of a gathering in the Malfoy's sitting room.

Beside her, Draco was breathing in and out overly quickly, appearing to hyper ventilate, his mother had kept a death grip upon his forearm, and as she looked over at the screen, she saw out of the corner of her eyes his knuckles becoming whiter than winter snow.

She attempted to disregard it, and looked to the screen as screams shook through the courtroom.

They were all staring at the face of Lord Voldemort.

His red eyes were gleaming with vengeance, his lipless mouth curved into a mocking smile, his robes were fluttering about him despite there being no wind in the room his was standing in.

"Lucius," Voldemort said, "Narcissa, it is a wonderful day for the both of you, for my son has chosen to enter my service." He smiled cruelly at the pair of them.

Draco had begun to tremble in earnest, and she darted a look at him, watching his nostrils flare.

"Your arm Draco," Voldemort demanded, his long twisted but somehow elegant fingers reaching forward. Draco was remaining stock still in the memory, and the act of it was causing Voldemort to smile even nastier at the courtroom who were all struggling to keep their composure after their initial screams.

Hermione couldn't blame them, it was one thing to see him in pictures, dead, with flowers bursting out his mouth; but alive, threatening someone in front of them was completely different.

"Draco," The memory of Lucius warned, as the present Draco sat straighter in his chair, attempting to smother his shaking.

In the memory an arm was carefully moved forward, the flesh so pale the veins upon his wrists were visible in the dim lighting of the sitting room. Behind Voldemort, two of his Death Eaters moved to share a whisper, nodding towards him, their faces covered with their masks.

"Silence." Voldemort said simply, and immediately the two straightened up, clasping their hands in front of themselves, obedient once more. A sneer developed on the snake like visage of Voldemort, his hand moving to clasp Draco's forearm within his vice like grip. Voldemort was looking at the memory Draco with such a violent glee the courtroom was doing its best to continue watching, and not bolt through the doors from where they'd come in. He raised his wand up into the air elegantly, his teeth bared in a vicious grin.

He stabbed his wand into Draco's bare flesh.

The tip of it burrowed beneath his skin, releasing something that pulsated and wriggled violently, tearing the skin from his muscles, and revealing the gore below. His skin rippled. Shredding and popping, bubbling like a liquid coming to a boil. Blood dribbled and splashed on to the floor, down his wrists, over his fingers. Over Voldemort's fingers who was staring at him with unrestrained delight.

Voldemort began to laugh as Draco, next to Hermione covered his left forearm with his right hand, his eyes stuck to the projection of himself struggling within Voldemort's grasp, yelling and screaming as his mother tried not to cry behind her dark lord.

Eventually, Voldemort removed his wand, and his skin began to pull itself back normal knitting and sewing flesh together, renewing it in the vilest of manners. The memory of Draco had glued his eyes to his mothers, watching her distraught face struggle to hold back tears.

"Look Draco." Cooed Voldemort; an unrestrained cackle behind his lipless mouth. Draco remained staring, his eyes on his mother's distressed face.

"I said look." Voldemort hissed, fury bubbling on the surface. The view of the memory changed from Narcissa's face to a clearer view of his arm. His skin was bright red; an angry black scrawl was beginning to sharpen into distinctive lines. A snake bursting from a skulls jaws.

The Dark Mark.

Bellatrix cackled, laughing hysterically.

"Cissy! Aren't you proud?" She cried delighted, throwing off her mask and running to embrace her sister as Voldemort turned to speak to Lucius.

"Let us hope your son doesn't fail me." He sneered, challenge dripping from every syllable.

:: :: ::

Bile was rising in his throat. A cold sweat had burst out upon his forehead, and he was struggling to remain still, not shaking as if he were a deer about to be shot. His mother had held his arm throughout the memory, refusing to look at him, attempting to keep him as stable as possible.

The urge to vomit was building, as he watched himself wipe away blood that had covered his hand.

He gagged. He lost.

Vomit splattered over his chin and legs, splashing upon the floor in front of him. His mother gasped as Pansy recoiled in horror. They stared at him, astonished, Pansy's lips twisting cruelly into a smirk she'd often reserved for Hufflepuff first years, her dark eyes glittering.

His throat was burning, the taste of his stomach acid overpowering as he breathed in in a poor attempt to calm himself. His arm had burnt while he'd watched the memory, completely unable to look away, the pain of it had been exquisite, and to his horror, re-liveable.

"Evanesco," whispered Hermione beside him, and immediately, evidence of his weakness vanished into everything and nothing. He looked at her, unbelievably thankful and still shaking. She shook her head, and to his distress caught a sight of Potter whose expression was unreadable, horror and amusement would be his best guess. Hermione on the other hand, was easy. Pity and sympathy.

Opposite them, chatter erupted, fingers pointing. Photographers were looking immensely disappointed that they hadn't been able to capture the moment Draco Malfoy, the son of the trials subject, empty his stomach all over himself and the courtroom. Quills were scratching away frantically, and many members were looking distressed, their own chests rising and falling as they attempted to calm themselves.

He knew why that memory had been requested. That he had become a Death Eater had not been considered a secret, in fact, he'd been foolish and boasted about it. During the last year, he'd been treated well at Hogwarts by the other Death Eaters, simply because he shared that mark upon his arm with them. He wasn't a favourite, but he'd avoided being tortured. His father may have fallen out of favour, but the rest of the Dark Lord's circle had judged him as still to be tested. His disarming of Dumbledore had at least bought him some respect in their eyes, even if they questioned why he was unable to kill him. Snape however, had lied for him at every available opportunity.

Only, the memory showed his greatest failure, and the moment his family began to spiral wildly out of control. It demonstrated perfectly, just how much Lucius Malfoy believed in blood-purity that he had allowed his son to take the Dark Mark and enter a life of servitude. It didn't matter that they were being punished by Lord Voldemort, it was a point they'd said they were ignoring for the time being. If the threat of their lives weren't over his head, and they were still in favour, would he have been allowed to become a Death Eater?

Yes, he would. It was just more glory, and more confirmation that Lucius had borne a son eager to be his clone. The unspoken question hung in the air; had it been Draco's choice, or was he forced? It was an answer he didn't want revealed. He was still trembling. His mouth was dry, rancid and a thin sheen of cold sweat was pasting itself to his skin. He was burning up from shame and humiliation, the last thing he'd expected to do was empty the contents of his stomach in front of the media, and those who wouldn't be able to broadcast it to a country wide audience.

Everything was falling apart.

"I believe it is time for us to have a break. Perhaps go for a walk, stretch our legs, eat and drink." Kingsley's calm soothing voice came from his corner. Draco had completely forgotten that he was even there, and at the sound of his voice jumped slightly. He looked at him, only to meet the eyes of the Minister of Magic, who was regarding him sympathetically. His shame flared.

"I agree," the questioner replied, and immediately, the doors opened, and the aurors stood, ready to usher people back out.

"We'll break for half an hour. Then this shall continue." Shacklebolt commanded, and stood, gesturing for people to begin to be let free.

:: :: ::

"Are you alright Draco?" his mother was saying, keeping her lips as still as she could once more.

"Yes, it just wasn't a pleasant thing to watch was all." He told her, just as quietly. He'd been able to effortlessly block actually viewing the memory when handing it over due to his occlumency, but watching it; he'd recalled how it had felt. He'd remembered the panic, the revulsion, the sharp, sharp pain. If anything, this was the reason to use his occlumency once more, even if it meant not seeing Hermione in his dreams again. They'd become an odd source of comfort. Her eyes, calculating, agonised as she stared at him, screaming in pain.

"How'd you vanish it?" She asked him, her brow creasing.

"I didn't." he admitted, "It was Granger." At that, his mother pursed her lips, her nose in the air. She released a low hiss, angry immediately.

"Draco! That was disgusting, what was that?" Pansy trilled, disgusted, pressing a glass of water into his hand as they stood in the waiting room.

"It wasn't particularly a memory I wanted to relive Pansy." He answered coldly, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. Immediately the clammy taste that his vomit had left was washed away, his insides cooling as he took another mouthful.

"But, gross. To puke like that. Ew." Pansy announced, curling her nose up.

"Why are you even here?" Draco spat at her, infuriated suddenly.

"Because I asked her here Draco," his mother said gently, "I asked if I was allowed to ask anyone to come to the trial, and thankfully, Minister Shacklebolt agreed that asking Pansy here would be support for both of us. Be thankful she was able to come." Narcissa chided him. He sneered at her, unwilling to verbally antagonise the smirking Pansy further.

The news horrified him. She'd spent the entirety of the trial behaving as though she had a front row seat to the best drama around. With a sinking feeling he realised that was exactly what she had. Chances were she had no real wish to be contracted to him anymore. She may have greeted him every morning with a kiss on his cheek or jaw, but if Pansy was attracted to anything, it was power, and the Malfoy's used to have it in droves. Now it was all being revealed just how tenuous that power actually was. It was so easily dismantled.

Especially considering when over half those involved were now either dead, or waiting for their own trials. The rest of them so heavily blackmailed the moment the threat disappeared had started to surreptitiously right their wrongs.

So like a fly to honey, when the call had come from Narcissa for her to attend, of course she had. She'd return to Hogwarts and enchant all the Slytherin girls of how she had been there to comfort Draco Malfoy as she watched his father be sentenced to either a life in Azkaban and, or the kiss. How, she hadn't wanted it to happen but, it had, and right in front of her too! Then she'd find a way to sever the contract tying her to him, and say how she really didn't want to, but she wanted a stable family, and one where every member had suffered some sort of incarceration wasn't particularly ideal. Or perhaps she'd call in her father to do it for her. Then cry in the girls' dormitories for three days straight and lie about how upset she was, but her father just didn't approve anymore.

He gritted his teeth, feeling his temple throb with anger. Raising his glass to his lips once more, he dwelled on what his mother had said. She'd asked for her presence and it had been granted. Was it a hint that their good behaviour wasn't going unnoticed? He wouldn't know. It was hard to tell with Shacklebolt.

The dark skinned man with his rich tones, and calming presence wore stress better than his new headmistress, but it was difficult to know what he had a track of. It was unlikely he and his mother would have been allowed to invite a guest if they had been hell raisers.

The thought calmed him, and he schooled his face into a pleasant expression, waiting for the half hour to be over.

:: :: ::

"So the great Malfoy puked." Harry said thoughtfully, confirming Hermione's suspicions that Malfoy's sickness hadn't been subtle at all.

"Yeah…" Hermione mused.

"I didn't realise that Malfoy had that happen at his house though… I mean, he could never see the thestrals to my knowledge, so he can't have seen them murdered in front of him. Only, he had them in his home being… tortured. It's like he had a version of the Dursleys." Harry was musing aloud, the pair of them quiet by the remains of a potted plant.

"It makes you think doesn't it?" Hermione replied, catching Harry's eye.

"I wish it didn't."

So far the trial had been enlightening. Lucius Malfoy hadn't been a man swept up in the danger of Lord Voldemort when he'd recruited followers. He'd believed whole heartedly, in his cause. He'd voluntarily gone to his side, and been included in his ranks. He'd relished in the glory and power of it all, enjoying showing his forearm to those who stood in his way.

Beside her had sat his son, who had spent half the time sitting stock still, carefully schooling his face into an emotionless slate, or trembling. It was in one sense, unnerving, in another, it was relieving to know that he loved his parents.

:: :: ::

They were back in the little, dimly lit courtroom, listening to yet more evidence that Lucius Malfoy was a manipulative, dangerous man. They were discussing bribery, his actions threatening the school board of Hogwarts amongst other institutions. Somehow, boxes and boxes of paperwork had materialised, each with the distinctive smear of the Malfoy brand of corruption painted upon each bit of parchment.

He wet his lips a little, shame making his heart beat faster.

He'd always known of course, very little had been hidden from him about his father's actions in the Ministry. Only… there was something deeply humiliating about discovering to what lengths he had gone to. It was galling to learn that the Minister of Magic would only come to dinner so regularly because often they were sitting in Lucius's pocket, blackmailed or bribed to keep them powerful.

After all, it was common knowledge that the Malfoy family was so rich none of them had to work.

Constantly, his father was asked why. Why. Why.

Every time. Without fail. It came back to his prejudices.

He'd done that because he was searching for the Dark Lord. He'd done it because he had heard a rumour about Harry Potter. He'd done it because it kept his family in power.

Finally.

He'd done it because he'd been asked to by Lord Voldemort.

Did he believe in blood purity?

He'd answer yes. In defeat. He knew. His father knew.

:: :: ::

"This memory was kindly donated by Miss Hermione Granger," the words echoed about the hall, and immediately her hand shot to Harry's gripping it tightly. Instantly, Harry rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, attempting to soothe.

Her screams ripped through the silence that had formed like a knife slashing at velvet.

She turned her head, looking to Harry who had closed his eyes, his jaw tight, teeth gritted. He was unwilling to watch, knowing he'd felt angry and helpless in the time he'd spent in the Malfoy family homes cellar. His guilt was going to be overwhelming him. Instead, she found herself turning to look to the man who had been there, watching her.

Draco was staring at her.

His ice eyes were wide, glassy. His pale pink lips parted. The light from the chandelier illuminated his face so that instead of making the sharp angles of his face dangerous, he was softened, protective.

She stared back, holding his gaze. Her own lips parting in surprise. His eyes never wavered from hers as his now deceased aunt screeched at her, calling her a mudblood. Telling her she was scum. Screaming where had she got it from. Where!?

He looked at her, searching. Searching for something. Maybe she was making it up.

Harry was still stroking her hand, as her screams heightened. She started to sob in the memory, between her shrieks of agony.

Still, Draco looked at her.

Flashes began to burst into life opposite them. Alerting her that the media had noticed them staring at one another. Her cheeks began to flush, but still, she could not look away. He leaned towards her a little, looking as though he was going to say something, but didn't. Still he looked.

Her heart began to beat so fast she was sure it was going to burst out of her chest. He watched her carefully, taking note of her cheeks blush.

She watched him trace her face with his ice like eyes, regarding him carefully. He really was attractive. She'd missed it somehow, over the years she'd known him he'd always looked… rat-like, but he'd grown up. He'd matured like Harry, like Ron.

She wondered briefly why she'd even turned her head in his direction; she should have just hung her head. She knew why. She wanted to see that he was sorry, that he wanted to do something while she was stuck on the floor of his house, that he hadn't wanted that for her. That he didn't actually believe in the cause. That at that moment in time; he was just as trapped as she was. She knew it wasn't his fault. She'd been there when he'd lied, lied to his own father in front of him about Harry's identity, a note that had already been revealed by Harry's memory; and had been analysed immediately, how had Lucius felt seeing his son lie to him? He'd been dismayed.

Still his eyes were upon her, searching. Desperate.

Her screams were dying. The memory was ending. Harry squeezed her hand, and released her. Draco swallowed. And looked away.

:: :: ::

They were discussing sentences.

There was finally nothing else to cover; no more confessions could be pulled from his lips. All the memories harvested had been viewed, with people coming in to confirm or deny, paper work proving them right or wrong.

Shacklebolt had spoken sternly several times, reminding them all that his father had been invaluable in the capture of many other Death Eaters, and that he'd switched sides. Even, more humiliatingly, that Mr Harry Potter himself had even spoken about leniency. Still. The kiss. It hung in the air. Spoken. Spoken again. And again.

Each time, Shacklebolts face grew darker, thunderous, and the press would supply the lightning.

His father sat in the chair, chained. His head on his chest, defeated. Accepting. He couldn't bring himself to move his head to look at them, and Draco realised he couldn't bear to see his father's face.

His family was officially about to never be the same again.

He kept his mouth still, his eyes bored, his arms and legs motionless. The trembling that had cursed him earlier gone with Hermione's vanishing charm. Now he was as still as a mountain. His mother was too.

Pansy however, had leant forward in her seat, her expression eager. Her excitement was palpable. No longer could he stand his future so tied in with hers. After all. If his family was about to shatter into smithereens before his eyes, he could smash his future with her.

Still they argued.

Eventually, arms began to be raised in favour.

Guilty? Yes. Most definitely. Just look at his left forearm.

The punishment.

:: :: ::

She could think of nothing but Draco.

Shacklebolt was holding court, attempting to drown out the shouting from those whose vengeance was a curse upon their beings. Their rabid eyes and mouths frantic as they shook their fists and wands in their desperate attempt for their own brand of justice.

Then they were silent.

"What good would it do all of you to become as bad as them?" Shacklebolt was saying, watching them carefully, his voice as calm and reassuring as it always was. "You all owe your lives, your families' lives to his wife. She lied to Lord Voldemort, risking her own life. His son told you, told all of you that the Malfoy's are a unit. They did what they had to survive, and we have seen it that this is true. Is Lucius Malfoy a corrupt wasteland of a wizard? Yes, he is and he has admitted as such, but what would we gain if we gave him the kiss? Satisfaction? Is this what we want? Is this what we need to base our judgement on, our own need for vengeance and revenge, instead of fair justice. Are we deciding right now that we want our world to give a fate worse than death? Have we not had enough? Do we want more?" Kingsley cried, staring each of them down, pacing around Lucius Malfoy as he spoke, reminiscent of Dumbledore.

For two hours more. They argued.

She was barely paying attention. Questions raged in her mind. She could smell him. Smell the earthy scent of Draco Malfoy. Was that him? Was it his cologne? Was it inherited? Why was she thinking of this when she was watching one of the most important decisions in the wizarding world be made right in front of her face. Why was the smell of a man who had bullied her so important?

Her head was swimming. She was floating, wringing her hands in her lap as her mind raced over everything that had happened since the final battle. She'd barely paid attention to the trial. Instead she'd lingered on her close proximity to Draco, thinking of his sneering, droll voice, and the way he'd amused himself at the memorial service.

She remembered him handing her her wand, the first time they'd ever spoken on neutral turf. It had been as though they had no history together. It had been awkward, but easy. She'd watched as Shacklebolt had so casually ripped his family members away from one another, seeing his falling face as his mother vanished in front of him.

The discovery he was human.

What was he going to look like when his father was sentenced? Could she look? Would she look?

What was happening to her?

:: :: ::

"Life imprisonment in Azkaban."

The decision was made.

:: :: ::

He gasped in relief, as his mother gave a wail of shock. Pansy just sighed.

A clock chimed. Two am. His mother was pulling on his sleeve, they were allowed to say goodbye.

:: :: ::

She looked briefly, and saw the back of him walk away from her, aurors tailing him and his mother to the centre of the courtroom. Photographers were snapping away at Narcissa slipping her hands through the bars, caressing her husband's face. Draco was stood behind her, his face impassive, and he nodded once, in the overly macho men do when they're in pain.

She tore her eyes away, looking to Harry who was watching her carefully, expectantly.

"I need to talk to Ginny," she said to him quietly, and he nodded, understanding.

As he turned to usher her out, his eyes met with Shacklebolts, and the pair of them smiled at one another, victorious. A true example had been made of the Malfoys, complete with revelations the press had been delighted to record, but it hadn't been spiteful, it had been as fair as it could be given the circumstances.

They were changing the wizarding world, was the Order of the Phoenix.