The Terror of Ending Forever

Prologue.

The war was over.  It was finally, blessedly, over.

Draco cried and sat down right on the blood soaked floor of the great hall, watching as Harry, his beloved if irritating gryfinndor, was surrounded by the adoring masses as the remaining Death Eaters were rounded up.

Including him.

He didn’t fight it, he just cried softly as he felt his heart begin to break.  There was no doubt in Draco’s mind where he was going, the Mark on his arm the only proof the Wizengamot would need to decry him guilty.  Not even being the ‘toy’ of the Savior would be enough to, well, save him.  Though he was unresisting he was bound with a spell and side-apparated to the ministry holding cells where he would await his farce of a trial.

It would be days, maybe even weeks later that he was drug from his tiny cell.  They’d barely fed him at all, and his normally white-blond hair was caked with filth and grease.  The dementors that floated abouts the Wizengamot room sucking any tiny flicker of hope that could have remained within him.  It was just the stony faces of his executioners in the room; no one else had bothered to come.

In all honesty, he hadn’t expected anyone to, even his Harry.  Draco hoped he was ok in the aftermath of the battle, when he’d been taken he’d just caught sight of him being carried off, unconscious.  As he was chained to the chair and hearing the accusations leveled against him he let out a sob and prayed that they just gave him the kiss already and didn’t draw it out.

He didn’t speak a word for himself; he just sat quiet as he was found guilty and sentenced.

“4 years in the prison Azkaban to be finished with the Dementor’s kiss,”