He didn't want to go to the memorial, but his mother made him. She'd said that it was very important to "change their image" and to assure everyone that they were no longer with the Dark Lord.

He was gone. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could finally be named and he was gone. Draco took in a deep breath. He let it out. There was a lightness to his chest. Breath in, breath out. He could walk down the hallways in his house without that dark sadness.

But that didn't mean that he wanted to go to the memorial. He knew who would be there, what people would be saying. They'd all be mourning the other ones: the Weasley twin, the werewolf, Tonks. . .but there wouldn't be anyone mourning his side. Nobody mourning Bellatrix or Fenrir or. . .or. . .

Or Crabbe.

But his mother was making him go, so he put on the dress robes. What with his father being in Azkaban and the sudden loss of all fortunes when the Ministry took everything belonging to Death Eaters and redistributed the wealth to those who had lost homes in the war, Narcissa Malfoy was a mess. In a way, Draco liked it. In a way, he was glad that the Dark Lord had lost and that his father was in Azkaban. No more expectations on him.

"Draco!" He'd heard the yelling that night, as he was wandering the halls. He was terrified. He'd lost sight of Goyle, and a Death Eater had cornered him. Just when he thought he was a goner, somebody jinxed the other man, and a moment later Draco felt a solid fist connect with his face and Weasley's mocking yell. "Draco!" the call again, fainter this time, as thought dying away. He'd chased it down.

They were together, his Mother and Father, down in the dungeons. Mother had been a mess, covered in dirt with a ripped gown and her hair in disarray. Even his father had been out of sorts. They'd just been standing there, yelling his name.

Then, when everyone was gathered in the Great Hall, they'd sat with him. Nobody said anything. What could be said? Everyone else was celebrating except for the Malfoys, who looked forward to nothing but prison. Except that Potter had spoken on behalf of his mother at the trial, and nobody wanted to sentence Draco.

"Are you ready yet?" Narcissa asked, tapping delicately at Draco's door. Sighing, he nodded his head, and pulled his color tight. They had to use Floo Powder to get to the ceremony. Such a lowborn way to travel, but that was all that was left to them.

The memorial was just as tawdry as Draco had expected. Rows upon rows of witches and wizards, almost all dressed in black (an orange butterfly was bobbing in the front row that Draco assumed was Looney) and almost all crying. A crowd of redheads signaled the presence of the Weasel clan, up at the front. With a sinking feeling, Draco watched his mother head straight toward them.

He tried to keep his head down as he hurried after her, but the trademark platinum Malfoy hair gave him away. He could hear people mumbling as he walked by.

"What are they doing here?"

"Filthy Death Eaters."

"They should go to Azkaban, where they belong."

His mother walked with a stiff back and a raised chin, but she trembled slightly. Draco knew that he should emulate her posture and demonstrate that, even in the face of adversity, the pure blood ran strong. Instead, he felt his chin dipping more and more toward his chest.

They slid in to two empty seats behind the Weasel family—two of very few open seats anywhere on the Hogwarts parade ground. When they were safely seated, Draco raised his eyes.

He was sitting right behind him. The messy black hair was impossible to mistake. Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die. And next to him the little Weasel chit, and on the other side the two-tall one. And, of course, the Mudblood.

His mother, unbelievably, leaned forward and poked Mrs. Weasel in the shoulder. The red-haired woman turned around, her eyes wide with surprise.

"I am very sorry for your loss," Narcissa said with a tight, controlled voice.

"Yes, well," Mrs. Weasel seemed a little flustered, and she bobbed her head a few times before facing forward again.

Draco, meanwhile, was reading the names of the headstones. Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, Fred Weasley, Colin Creevey. . .his eyes scanned over a few dozen other names. Where was Crabbe?

The speakers began, then, first Kingsley Shacklebolt with a whole spiel on sacrifice, McGonagall on the whole theme of courage, Slughorn speaking of the children. And then George Weasley stood up and everyone became quiet.

"I think what gets me the most," George said slowly, and even Draco was listening now, because if anyone knew about loss, it was the Weasel twin. And, despite the fact that he would never, under any circumstances (except, perhaps, for the Cruciatus Curse) would Draco admit it, he'd always liked the twins. He was fairly certain that everyone at Hogwarts, past or present, did.

"Is how sad we are." He looked down for a moment, and almost contradictory to his words there was a tear in his eye. "We have accomplished great things," he said after a moment. "And these people we remember today helped us to complete them. We should be rejoicing, but we're crying. Does that make sense? These are the people who celebrated life. D'you all think Tonks would be sitting around here, crying, if she were alive? She'd be rejoicing that her son would grow up in a free world. Would Colin be upset? He'd be hugging his brother and jumping up and down. Fred would be. . .he'd be. . ." here he had to pause for a moment. He wiped his eyes, and then gave a shuddering laugh.

"Guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite up here," he said, and laughed hollowly. He took a deep breath and looked up again, and his face was pale but strong. Draco felt his lips pull into a snarl. Maybe the Weasel didn't know about loss after all. He had, after all, only lost a brother. He hadn't lost a father, a name, a home. He hadn't had to live in the same house as The Dark Lord, afraid to walk outside, afraid to come home during breaks and afraid to behave out of line at school. He hadn't lost all sense of power. He'd only lost a brother.

"What I'm trying to say," George said. "Is that we should celebrate these lives, not mourn them. They wouldn't want that." He opened his mouth again, and seemed unable to say whatever words were pushing through. He shrugged, smiled, and said "I guess that's all."

There was no applause as George got down from the podium, but Draco was fairly certain he was the only dry-eyed wizard (except perhaps for his mother, but Narcissa was turned from him in strict profile so that he couldn't tell.) He was fuming at this point. This was the winning side, he thought. They had no right to be disappointed, sad, torn. . .no right!

And when Harry Potter stood up he lost it, that this one boy, the one stupid boy was going to tell him things that he knew better than anyone. Before Potter had even gotten to the podium Draco had leapt up in his seat.

"Sit down, Potter," he snarled. The Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die turned to look at him, green eyes wide in surprise. The Weasley's spun around in their seats. He could feel the eyes of every witch and wizard swivel to look at him.

"Sit down," Draco said again. "What can you tell us that we don't know? About your sacrifice? About your heroism?" With a feeling of dread, Draco recognized the tears filling his eyes and throat. Have to finish this quickly, then.

"How about this for sacrifice?" he asked. "Having the damn Dark Lord eating at your breakfast table. Having your father shut up in Azkaban for a crime that he had no choice but to commit. Do you know what that's like, to have to do things you hate, that anyone would hate, because He made you? And what about the missing graves."

He pointed at the place where he thought Crabbe should be, and even, for that matter, Bellatrix. She'd been crazy, but not terrible for all that. She'd given him sweets, sometimes.

"They were people, too," Draco said. "Crabbe? Crabbe was a person, too, he was a student. And all of them. . .they were. . .they were. . ." and there they were now, damn tears, and if he didn't get out soon they'd all see, and purebloods didn't cry, Father said, purebloods didn't cry.

"So sit down, Potter," Draco said one more time. "Just sit down." He abruptly turned on his heels, scrambled over his mother, and hurried out of the gathering. He kept his head down again, trying to hide behind two-long hair.

When he'd finally gotten away, so that the murmurs of the witches and wizards didn't reach him, he sank down behind a tree. He looked up, squinted into the sun, and tried to force down the tears.

"Draco?" a voice said, and if Potter's was the voice he most didn't want to hear, this one was a close second. "Draco, I'm so sorry. None of us thought. . ."

There was too much change. The world turned upside down from the way things had been, and Draco couldn't take it anymore, he just couldn't deal. Everything couldn't change so abruptly, his best friend gone, his Master gone, his Father gone, and now this Mudblood trying to make nice.

"Shut it, Granger," he said harshly. But he turned to look. There she was, ugly bushy hair and all, and behind her Potter and the Weasel. They all looked sad, pathetically so.

"We just want to—" Granger spread her hands wide, a helpless look on her face.

"To finish a sentence, maybe?" Draco asked, pulling himself to his feet. "I should have known something so simple would be possible even for a filthy Mudblood."

And pow! Draco felt stars collide into his vision as a fist pounded into his face. Distantly he heard "Ron!" and the sound of retreating footsteps, with a muffled "He deserved it, the slimy git, I don't care how pathetic his life is."

When Draco opened his eyes again (now from a new position laid out flat on the ground, a rising bruise on his right cheek) he looked up into disgusted green eyes.

"Some things never change," Potter said, almost sadly, before turning to walk away. And strangely, inexplicably, a smile formed on Draco's face.

That was right. Some things never changed.