DEATH EATER ROUNDUP CONTINUES

The process of finding and apprehending Voldemort's remaining followers continues this week at the Ministry of Magic, with the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and newly instated Head of Magical Law enforcement, Amelia Bones, leading the charge. The two months since the War's end have seen the arrest and imprisonment of many of Voldemort's most infamous followers; previous heads of discipline at Hogwarts, brother and sister Amycus and Alecto Carrow, are now nearly a month and a half into their life sentence at Azkaban. They are joined by former Head Of Magical Law Enforcement, Corban Yaxley, as well as a number of other notable Death Eaters (for a full report, see page 6).

"We have so far arrested and sentenced those who we believe to be Voldemort's main supporters, and guilty of the most severe crimes," the Minster told a correspondent of the Daily Prophet. "This was always going to be our priority; rounding up the individuals we believe provide the most danger to the public."

The Daily Prophet can report that the attention of the Ministry is now turning to the individuals whose role in the War is considered somewhat questionable. "We wish to provide justice, of course, to everyone who lost friends and family during this war," the Minister said in a recent statement to the the public. "However, I am trying to build a ministry that understands that not everything - especially in matters of war - will be black and white. The days of sending people to Azkaban without a fair trial are over. Furthermore, sentences that allow rehabilitation will be considered alongside sentences that focus on punishment alone."

Notable hearings coming up in the next week are those of Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, wife and son to Lucius Malfoy, who was sentenced to five years in Azkaban last month (page 6). Whilst many may wish to see the Malfoy's –

Draco's chest tightened uncomfortably at the mention of his family, and when the feeling of nausea that had existed steadily over the past few weeks threatened to rise up, he pushed the paper away. Draco sighed and rubbed at his brow with the heel of his hand. Like the nausea, he seemed also to have a permanent migraine pressing against his skull; at moments his head throbbed with such an intensity he felt as though his brain was pulsating.

He supposed the words he'd just read ought to provide some comfort. Shacklebolt's words, after all, were words of mercy. If the Ministry kept its word about a fair trial as they said they would, and considered rehabilitation as they said they were going to, he might just escape Azkaban.

And then what? Draco thought, slumping back into his chair and staring up at the ceiling. The concept of the future seemed, and had seemed for the past year, to constantly elude him. He couldn't seem to formulate a plan or even fathom an existence beyond the next few days.

He'd spent a year under Voldemort feeling nothing but fear and thinking of nothing but survival, but now Draco felt he was trapped in a state of shell-shocked indifference. Besides painful flashbacks that twisted his core, Draco seemed to be feeling little of anything.

He supposed he didn't want to go to Azkaban.

He was also fairly certain he didn't want to stay here; stuck in this Manor where the Dark Lord's previous presence and his father's prominent absence lingered; sweeping through hallways and clinging to furniture.

But beyond that, Draco had no sense of what the future held for him – nor what he wanted it to hold.

Draco checked his watch. Ten minutes. He tugged the sleeve of his suit back down and briefly made a move to adjust his tie. But, like the crisp black suit and pressed white shirt he wore, his tie was perfect; sitting neatly between the lapels of his jacket and knotted tidily at this throat. He thought idly that the Ministry might take to him more kindly if he wasn't so immaculately dressed. He remembered the shabby, frayed appearance of Remus Lupin and unnatural hair colour of his cousin Tonks – two apparent heroes of this war, their deaths grieved and lamented over – and wondered if this tidy black suit might remind their fellow Order member and current Minister for Magic just who's side Draco was on.

He was going to wear the suit on anyway, of course. Draco deemed anything to calm his mother's psyche and prevent her rapidly increasing slide into insanity worth doing, and she had practically begged him to put the damn thing on.

He leant back in his chair and caught her figure through the gap in the doorway to the entrance hall. Against the shadows of the dark walls surrounding her and cast in the light of the window she was staring through, Draco's mother looked paler and sallower than ever.

Draco checked his watch again. Five minutes.

Draco hoped, whilst his own plans and desires for the future remained hazy – Draco hoped that his mother would avoid Azkaban. Between his taking of the mark, the death of her sister and imprisonment of her husband, Draco wasn't sure how much more she could handle. He wondered whether Azkaban – Dementor free though it was – might just finish her off.

There was a sharp knock on the door and Draco caught his mother's startled jump – and then she turned to him with pleading eyes. He pushed away from the table and went to join his mother's side. When they opened the door to the Ministry officials, and were escorted down their front path, neat hedges still gleaming and snow-white peacocks still strutting, Draco and his mother did so hand in hand.

She was remaining remarkably calm, Draco observed. He'd watched her carefully during their journey to the ministry, and watched her now as he was escorted into the middle of the trial room. He'd decided to concentrate on her rather than the other faces that loomed from the gallery. So determined was this focus that when Madam Bones's voice cut through the strained silence of the trial room, Draco was almost surprised.

"Draco Malfoy," She said, looking down at him.

He nodded.

She looked down at the parchment in front of her. "Here to answer for crimes committed during time served as a Death Eater. You have been put on house arrest awaiting trial for the past three months, I have here." And a fucking miserable three months it's been Draco thought bitterly, recalling three months of boredom and isolation; nightmares that transformed him into a raging insomniac. "According to the Magical Law Enforcement worker assigned to your case you have made zero violations against your house arrest." She met Draco's eyes, and he nodded, unsure of what else to do.

"The accusations made against you are as follows," Madam Bones pressed on, withdrawing another sheet of parchment. Draco steeled himself. "Allowing a group of Death Eaters into Hogwarts by means of a Vanishing cabinet – " Draco managed not to flinch as memories of that particularly painful sixth year were dragged to the surface of his consciousness, " – an action which resulted in the eventual capture and murder of Albus Dumbledore. Do you admit to this crime?"

Draco swallowed. "Yes," he managed, avoiding his mother's eye.

Madam Bones nodded, and Draco registered the scratch of her quill against parchment. "Next: allowing the presence of Lord Voldemort in your home and assisting in the hostage situation that included Ollivander, Luna Lovegood and the goblin Griphook. Do you admit to this crime?"

Draco recalled a year of school holidays with the Dark Lord drifting back and forth from his house as though it was a hotel; tutoring people to insanity on his living room floor and allowing his serpent to drip blood across their hallways. Sometimes Draco woke up and for a moment was seized by the same fear that used to plague his every waking hour. Sometimes he considered setting his childhood home on fire.

"Yes," he sighed.

"Next: fighting against Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley when they were attempting to escape your Manor House. Do you admit to this crime?"

Draco remembered duelling Wealsey, Granger's screams and Potter running off with his wand. "Yes."

"And finally, prior to your defection, joining the invasion of Hogwarts on the second of May and fighting as part of Lord Voldemort's army. Do you - "

"Yes," Draco said, cutting Madam Bones short. This – hearing everything he did read back to him in this crisp, uniform manner – it was driving him insane. He just wanted it to be over. He felt he'd rather endure Azkaban than be forced to sit through another minute of this forced parade through his lowest points; his darkest moments.

Madam Bones sighed, and regarded him with an expression that seemed to oscillate between sympathy and disappointment. Irritation swarmed Draco, spreading from his gut to his fingertips. Who the hell was she to look at him like that?

"Do you have any witnesses you wish to submit in your favour? Any mitigating factors you would like them to present?"

Draco shook his head. Besides his mother, any person he could think of that would be even remotely interested in whether he did or didn't rot in prison was either dead or already in Azkaban - and it struck him, then, both how few people remained who cared for him, as well as how few had ever really existed. No, Draco couldn't think of a single person - alive and free - who would be willing to testify in his favour.

"No."

Madam Bones nodded. "Now, with the evidence presented, and the lack of witnesses in your defence, protocol would suggest a minimum sentence of five years in Azkaban."

Draco's heart sank. The one coherent thought that his trauma driven, insomnia addled mind had managed to gather was that he'd really rather not join his father in prison.

"However," Madam Bones said, and Draco lifted his head. "As it happens, evidence in your defence has already been submitted."

"By who?" Draco blurted out before he could help himself, but Madam Bones simply smiled.

"By Harry Potter," She said, and Draco nearly choked on his own spit. Potter? "Mr Potter submits that when instructed to confirm his identity to Bellatrix Lestrange, you - despite recognising him - did not do so, thus delaying the Dark Lord's arrival and aiding in his eventual escape. Is this correct?"

"I - yes," said Draco, catching his mother's eye as this particular memory churned in his subconscious.

Madam Bones nodded. "Very well, this will be considered when it comes to your sentencing. Now, do have anything you wish to say? Any words of...remorse? Or regret?"

Draco opened his mouth, ready to spit forth the words that might help sway the opinion of the court. He contemplated telling them that he was sorry; that people died who didn't deserve to and that he weeps with regret over their fallen children; their fallen soldiers.

Then he contemplated telling him that actually, if he regretted anything he regretted his adolescent greed for glory and fame; his ignorant desire to serve a Lord who, in the end, did nothing but pour fear into his gut that was hot and heavy as molten metal. He regretted fussing over Quidditch and the House Cup and yearning for the admiration and control of his classmates because, in the end, none of it mattered.

But the rest of it – the murder and scheming and torturing on behalf of his Lord – he wasn't sure how to regret. It was hard to regret a path he felt he'd always been travelling down. He wasn't sure which action he wished he could alter, which words he wish he could retract that would have prevented him from ending up where he did and committing the crimes that he had. It was hard to regret what had always seemed inevitable.

"Mr Malfoy?" Madam Bones prompted as he remained silent. "Anything you wish to say in your defence?"

It wasn't me! He thought about yelling, suddenly furious, and he swallowed heavily to stop the words escaping. He never wanted to torture people and let that psycho live in his house. He did what he did to stay alive – to keep his family alive. He thought about screaming that in the face of Madam fucking Bones – celebrated Witch turned celebrated bitch, in his opinion, looking at him with disappointment when he never even knew her.

And he hated Potter, wherever the hell he was. Harry Potter – forever having to play the hero. No, this was so just like Potter. He had to remind Draco whilst his pride crumbled around him – he had to remind Draco that whilst the Dark Lord may be dead and times may change he would always be blithering, simpering Saint Potter. Going to Madam Bones with evidence to remind Draco he was still a bigger, better person than him.

Draco swallowed. "I – " he began, but found himself tongue-tied by his newfound rage. He shrugged, and felt about fifty people recoil before him. (Note to self, Draco thought; when asked to show remorse for numerous crimes against the Wizarding world, do not shrug.)

Madam Bones regarded him carefully. "Mr Malfoy, in light of the evidence held against you and your admission of these crimes I am inclined to sentence you to a year in Azkaban. However, given the evidence submitted in your favour, the defection of your family prior to the War's end, as well as your age, I have decided to give you a choice."

A choice? What the hell did she –

"You may serve your sense either in Azkaban, or you may serve it at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft of Wizardry, repeating your seventh year and completing your magical education."

Realisation dawned on Draco. So, this was what all that bullshit Shacklebolt had been spewing. All that stuff about rehabilitation – he didn't have to go to Azkaban, he just had to go back to school.

"You will return to Hogwarts on the first of September, and in addition to the continuation of at least three of your N.E.W.T subjects, the Ministry also requires you to complete an O.W.L in a sixth subject."

Draco frowned. "Which – "

"Muggle studies," Madam Bones said firmly, and in spite of himself, in spite of the situation, Draco barked out a laugh.

"Muggle studies? Are you joking?"

He could see his mother tense up and she gave him a look that was both anxious and pleading. By the looks of it, he had only very narrowly escaped Azkaban, and mouthing off the head of the department of magical law enforcement was indeed, a risky move.

"No, Mr Malfoy, I am not joking. Given the prejudiced nature of your crimes and the number of Muggle lives lost in this war, the Ministry feels it is important to educate people in your position of the importance of protecting and respecting Muggle lives."

Protecting and respecting? Muggles? Draco couldn't tell if he wanted to burst out laughing or throw up. In the end, he did neither, and managed to compose himself. His next words came out slightly forced, but even nonetheless.

"And I have no choice in this?"

"You could go to Azkaban," Madam Bones said simply.

Draco's lip switched into a humourless smirk. She may as well have said no – Draco thought. Insulting and belittling as this sentence was (Muggle studies?!) it was definitely preferable to Azkaban.

Draco nodded to show he understood.

"Upon completion of your final year at Hogwarts, given that you pass at least three of your N.E.W.T subjects and achieve a pass in your Muggle Studies O.W.L, the Ministry is prepared to pardon you of all crimes. You will be free, Mr Malfoy. No criminal record of any kind."

It was the last part of her sentence that caught Draco's attention especially. The idea that, once out of Hogwarts, he would be free from the crimes he committed was incredibly tempting. He could move. After two painful months of House arrest the idea of being able to go anywhere and do anything had Draco feeling something as close to excitement as he had in a very long time.

"I must warn you, though, Mr Malfoy. There are those who would happily see you dealt a far greater sentence than the opportunity to complete your magical education. You must understand that this is still a punishment of sorts. As such, you will not be permitted to join your house Quidditch team, and you must remain within the Hogwarts grounds – this means no visits to Hogsmede village, and you will not be allowed to return home during the holidays. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded.

"Your behaviour will be closely monitored and both expulsion from Hogwarts or failure to achieve a pass mark in your Muggle Studies O.W.L will result in you having to serve your one-year sentence in Azkaban. In other words, Mr Malfoy," said Madam Bones, looking at him pointedly from over the top of her glasses, "Keep your head down and study hard, and you can leave all of this behind you."

Draco's mother's trial followed immediately after his, and after agreeing formally to the terms that Madam Bones had laid out he was allowed to move into the galley to watch his Mother's trial.

The initial part of it followed almost exactly as Draco's had. His mother's crimes were read out, and she admitted to each and every one – but Draco found it difficult to focus. He was feeling such a bizarre mixture of relief, excitement and disgust that it made his head spin, and Madam Bones's voice sounded very far away.

He had escaped Azkaban. In a year's time, he would be completely free. The catch was that he would have to spend a year studying the trivial existence of muggles.

He'd taken Muggle Studies last year, as was compulsory, but it had been taught by Alecto Carrow. It was the study of pureblood supremacy rather than of muggles themselves – and when the syllabus on that dried up it became an opportunity for the Carrow sister to taunt Draco for the various ways in which his family had failed the Dark Lord. Draco had no idea what actual, genuine Muggle Studies would be like. He pictured the lifeless form of Charity Burbage suspended over his dining room table – her blood pooling on the polished wood and wondered, whilst beginning to feel slightly ill, who would be teaching it.

"…any mitigating factors you would like them to present?" The voice of Madam Bones brought Draco back to the present, and he watched his mother shake his head in response, and then say (with tangible regret), "No."

"Very well," Madam Bones nodded. "However, evidence has been submitted in your defence already." Narcissa lifted her head with surprise, as did Draco, and he frowned. Surely not her too –

"Harry Potter submits," Madam Bones continued, answering the question Draco and his mother hadn't had time to ask. Saint Potter again. "That you lied to Lord Voldemort and declared Mr Potter dead when he was actually alive, and in doing so you allowed him to defeat Voldemort. Is this correct?"

His mother nodded. "Yes, I – yes."

"Good. Do you have anything you wish to say? Any words of remorse or regret?" She looked at Narcissa almost hopelessly; Draco supposed his lack of a response to this question still bit.

"I – I'm sorry," she said eventually, quietly, glancing down at her hands. "I know allowed terrible things to happen – even took part in some terrible things myself." She looked up at Madam Bones. "I did what I did to keep my family safe. I didn't care, by the end of the War. I didn't care who won or lost…I just cared about my son." His mother's eyes met his, and a small, sad smile tugged at her lip. "All I ever wanted was to keep him safe."

Madam Bones seemed to consider Narcissa for a second, her expression completive. "Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. My decision today is not easy," she said, and seemed to address the gallery as well as Narcissa. "There are many who wish to see all Death Eaters locked away to prevent another uprising of those kinds of ideals. However, I think it is important to consider that there were victims on both sides. Therefore, due to the evidence submitted in your favour, your seemingly genuine words of remorse, and the importance of your role as a mother to Mr Malfoy, I will…not be sending you to Azkaban."

Draco's heart soared and he watched his mother's face collapse with relief. The image of his mother rotting in a cell in Azkaban melted away, and felt some of the anxiety that had been lodged in his chest dissipate.

"Instead you will face a fine of ten thousand galleons, a permanent criminal record and must agree to random searches of your home by Ministry officials." Draco nearly rolled his eyes; his house had already been searched three times this month – he wasn't sure what more they were expecting to find. "Furthermore, due to International Wizarding Law you will not be permitted to leave the country for the next three years. Do you understand?"

Narcissa nodded, and then was escorted from her chair so she could sign the necessary documents.

Draco waited outside the trial room for her – lingering by the same doors he'd been brought through. The door opened and his mother was led out, and has soon as the Ministry officials had disappeared from either side of her, her features collapsed into a smile. So great was her relief that, as he stepped forward and let her pull him into a hug, he caught a glimpse of the mother he'd known growing up; cold and fierce to others, but always adoring to him.

She pulled back and took his face in her palms. "Oh, Draco…" she murmured, and Draco thought she might cry. She seemed to steel herself, and sighed. "Let's go home."

(The problem was, Draco thought, as they moved through the Ministry halls – he wasn't quite sure where that was anymore.)

.

.

Diagon Alley was slowly returning to normal. The properties that the war had left empty were gradually being filled, and by the time Hermione went to get her things for school, only a few boarded-up shop-fronts remained.

It was a strange trip. If their group had been the subject of stares and excited mutters before the war, it was nothing compared to the stir the four of them caused as they walked down the cobbled street. It was difficult at times – finding the books and equipment that Ginny and Hermione required when everywhere, people wanted to shake their hands and gush words of praise, and when shopkeepers only recovered from the shock of having them at their till to resolutely refuse payment.

"This is great," Ron said, taking a bite out of one of the pasties that had been shoved into their hands by a flustered woman at a food stall. "I don't think we're ever going to have to pay for anything ever again. Anybody up for some free drinks at the Leaky Cauldron?"

"I wish they would let us pay for things," Hermione said, adjusting her grip on the free books she had eventually accepted from Flourish and Blotts. "It's not going to do anyone any good if this post-war frenzy means every store goes bankrupt."

"It's a bit ironic," Ginny added. "First time in my life I've actually got money and nowhere will let me spend it."

"I just wish people would stop staring," Harry muttered, and Hermione glanced over at him. She knew trips like this were hardest on Harry – the staring and spluttered words of thanks that followed them wherever they went only served to remind Harry of the things they all knew he was struggling to forget. Nightmares often left him with a tired, worn out look, and apart from trips to the Ministry and visits to the young Teddy Lupin, Harry didn't leave the Burrow much. It had taken a lot of convincing from the rest of them to get Harry to even come with them to Diagon Alley – and it was Ginny, of course, who eventually brought him round.

Hermione spotted the youngest Weasley lace her fingers through Harry's, and saw how he seemed to calm at her touch. Hermione's stomach tightened, and she glanced away. Small displays of affection from the two of them – touching though they were – always seemed to remind her of the ease in which Ginny and Harry had slipped back into their relationship; an ease that her and Ron lacked. They were – something, Hermione knew that. Something more than friends – it had just been easier, in a way, during the war. The war had made everyone impulsive and Hermione had realised afterwards that hurried kisses before going into battle and entwined hands on one of their many sleepless nights had actually been easier than figuring everything out now.

"We've just got quills and parchment to buy now," Hermione said, brushing thoughts of her and Ron aside. "Should we grab them, then head home?"

The others murmured in agreement and they set off to get their remaining supplies.

By the time her and Ginny had bought what they needed, and had fought off the admiring crowd at the leaky cauldron long enough to travel home by floo powder, evening had begun to settle in, and they returned to the burrow to the smell of food being prepared and Mrs Wealsey bustling round the kitchen.

She greeted them as warmly as she always had as they clambered, one by one, out of the fireplace, but still looked as tired and fragile as she had all summer, and was carrying with her the same air that she was barely holding herself together.

(Fred's death had hit them all hard.)

It was just the five of them for dinner that night. Charlie and Bill had abandoned their posts abroad to work with the Ministry in its attempt to return the Wizarding world to order, and they, along with Percy and Mr Weasley, often ended up working late into the night.

"Is, uh – George – joining – " Ron asked tentatively, and Mrs Weasley shook her head.

George had his good days and bad days. On bad days – and they often turned into bad weeks – he barely left his room, eating only what Mrs Wealsey brought to his bed and forced him – with the same motherly fire she had always possessed – to eat. On his good days he could function, at least – helping Mrs Wealsey around the house, but whatever conversation they managed to engage him in was often short-lived. Some days it seemed like George had forgotten how to carry a conversation without Fred there, finishing his sentences – or perhaps, Hermione had thought once, he'd never really known.

Mrs Weasley didn't sit down with them at first, but followed a levitating portion of their meal up the stairs to George's room. She returned several minutes later with a weary expression and it wasn't long after they'd all finished eating and the washing up had been done that Mrs Wealsey bade them goodnight and retreated back upstairs.

Harry picked up the copy of the Daily Prophet that had been lying at the end of the table, and Hermione grabbed her bags of shopping and begun to flick through her new school books.

"That looks hard," Ron commented, looking over Hermione's shoulder and glancing at the complex transfiguration theory visible there.

Hermione hummed with agreement. She was, admittedly, feeling somewhat daunted by the prospect of returning to Hogwarts. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Harry and Ron as she left them to their exciting new jobs at the Ministry, and it was painful being separated from her parents so shortly after being reunited. The world around them was only just recovering from the chaos it had been thrown into and Hermione almost felt guilty – like she was running away from it. But with all her new books, quills and parchment spread on the table in front of her, it was hard not to feel excited too.

"The common room is going to feel so empty without everyone there," she mused, admiring her new school bag. "I mean, who in our year is actually going back? I heard Lavender might be, and Dean was considering it, but that's probably it, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, with the Ministry handing out cushy jobs to everyone, can you blame them?" said Ron.

"Plus, Hogwarts wasn't exactly a home-away-from-home last year," said Ginny. "The Carrows tormenting everyone…dementors surrounding the castle…I reckon it's too painful for some people to go back. Sometimes I'm not even sure about this."

Harry lifted the arm that was stretched across the back of Ginny's chair and squeezed her shoulder.

"You guys could always change your minds, you know," Ron said. "The Ministry would give you two jobs in a heartbeat – "

Ginny scoffed. "Yeah, well Voldemort blew up half their staff, so obviously – "

"Plus, our minds are made up, Ron," Hermione added. It had been a source of bickering between the two of them, her return to Hogwarts. The boys had never had the same intense love of learning that Hermione had, and didn't quite understand her eagerness to complete her education and receive her qualifications. She also knew that, in a small way, Ron felt as though he was abandoning her just as their relationship had finally been given an opportunity to flourish.

Ron looked like he might retort when a tapping at the window interrupted him, and they all looked over to see a large grey owl with a letter addressed to Harry tied to his foot.

Harry got up to get the letter and Ron sank back into his seat. "I wonder who from the houses is gonna be there," he mused, as Harry returned to the table. "Can't imagine Pansy Parkinson and that lot showing up."

"Draco Malfoy will be," Harry announced from his spot by the window, opened letter in his hand.

Ron gaped. "Malfoy? They're letting Malfoy go back? I thought he was on house arrest or something?"

"He was," Harry said, walking back over to the table and sliding the copy of The Daily Prophet over to Ron. Hermione leant over and caught the black and white photo of Narcissa and Draco being escorted hastily down a lengthy driveway – faces contorting at the quick succession of camera flashes underneath the printed title; MOTHER AND SON FACE TRIAL. "His hearing was today, they gave him an option between Azkaban and Hogwarts. Letter from Amelia Bones," he tossed the letter to the two of them. "She just told me."

Ron frowned and picked up the letter. "How come? You weren't assigned to the Malfoys' case."

Harry scratched behind his ear. "I know but, I – uh, I gave evidence in his defence."

"You did what?" Ron said, incredulous.

"For his trial. When I was in the Ministry the other day I talked to Amelia Bones, she was reviewing his case at the time. I just told her my opinion on some stuff – "

" – that he's a prejudiced twat we nearly died saving – "

" – that he wouldn't have killed Dumbledore," Harry finished firmly, and Ron quietened down. "And that he could've identified us at Malfoy Manor, but didn't, really – "

" – he as good as identified Hermione!"

" – And I told her that through the whole thing he looked scared shitless. I mean, seriously – did Malfoy look like he was enjoying himself through all that? He's a prat, for sure, but I don't think he deserves to go to Azkaban."

Ron seemed to consider Harry's words, seemed to verge on understanding – and then collapsed back into disagreement. "But still – after everything he did to you at school? Did to us at school? You still went and helped him out?"

"Well, I think it's good of you, Harry," Hermione said, and Ron gaped at her.

"You think it's good that Malfoy's going to join you at Hogwarts?"

"No," Hermione replied. "I just think it's impressive of Harry to be able to put such a long-standing feud aside in order to help Malfoy receive a fair trial. The Ministry should know about both sides of the argument."

Ron considered her for a moment. "I guess," Ron grumbled eventually and Harry gave Hermione a nod of thanks for bringing him round. "I suppose you knew about all this," Ron accused, looking over at Ginny.

"Yeah, I did – but only today," Ginny added hastily, as Ron looked ready to start arguing again. "Harry told me when you guys were buying stuff for Crooks."

"I didn't realise we'd started keeping things from each other," Ron said.

"Ron," Hermione protested as Harry sighed.

"I'm sorry, mate – I would've told you, you know I would've," Harry said, and Ron's expression softened slightly. "I just wasn't allowed to until after Malfoy's trial was over. Plus, I didn't even know if Madam Bones was going to listen to what I said, felt pointless to start a row over something that might not even matter."

Ron turned to Ginny again. "And you're fine with it, are you? That Harry gave evidence defending that prat?"

"Yes, I am," Ginny said, and then rolled her eyes when Ron made a noise of disapproval. "And I've got a lot more reason to disagree with what Harry did than you, Ron. You didn't have to go to school with him last year – what he gave you was child's play to how he acted last year. If I can learn to understand Harry's reasons for helping him avoid Azkaban, then you sure as hell can."

Hermione took advantage of Ron's responding silence. "What was he like, Ginny?" she asked. "Last year?"

"Horrendous," Ginny replied, sinking back into her chair. "But different, a bit. Remember how he used to tease us and taunt us – how it was so superior? So condescending?"

Hermione nodded, and so did the boys. She remembered Malfoy's taunts about her blood – how he teased Ron for being poor.

"Well, it was different to that," Ginny continued. "He bullied and he tormented other students just like he always had, but it was a lot more...frenzied, a lot more raw. The Carrows favoured him over us, sure, but they were still pretty nasty to him. Always teasing him about his parents' failures – I reckon scaring Malfoy with ideas about Voldemort's wrath helped them feel further away from it." Ginny shook her head. "It was fucked up. Voldemort scared the Carrows, who took it out on Malfoy, and Malfoy took it out on everyone else..."

Ginny trailed off, and Hermione's felt herself strangely caught between pity and contempt.

The words that Draco had spat during their time at school seemed distant and almost insignificant – the war, she felt, had provided everyone with a sort of tunnel vision; their teenage feuds seeming blurred and unfocused – but the cowardice and submission he had shown during the Battle of Hogwarts still remained. Hermione remembered Draco pleading with Death Eaters in their moments of strength and fleeing from them in their moment of weakness. The deaths of Fred and Tonks and Remus and the bravery they had shown had provided her with a much lower tolerance for cowardice.

And as shrewd as Ginny's reflection was, and as much as the calm and rational part of her brain wished to sympathise with Draco's situation, she couldn't help but feel anger towards anyone who had caused her friends pain in their absence.

"Still a twat then, basically," Ron said. "Good luck with that, Hermione. Head Girl or not, Malfoy's got to be one thing worth not going back for."

"Well, hopefully, the war will have sobered him a bit," Hermione reasoned, though slightly reluctantly. "I can't imagine him running around shouting about his father now his father's locked away – or boasting about missions from the Dark Lord now Voldemort's dead." The others gave vague hums of agreement, and Hermione yawned. Her jeans itched at her side and the idea of putting this conversation to rest, getting into her pyjamas and climbing into bed was very tempting. "I imagine he'll keep his head down," she said, supressing another yawn. "I doubt I'll even see him much."

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Thanks for reading! I know there are some inaccuracies (like bringing Amelia Bones back to life and stuff) but hopefully you'll forgive them. Reviews appreciated x