Monster

There was nothing Draco Malfoy couldn't handle, he was sure of that. He had, of course, almost successfully killed Dumbledore. He had suffered terrible wraths not only from his own father, but from the Dark Lord himself on numerous occasions. He had gotten the same number of OWLs as Mudblood Granger, and had gotten an E in Arithmancy only because he had slacked off. He had hidden his Dark Mark for a whole year, and he had survived Potter's stupid attack in the bathroom. He was a pureblooded Slytherin and a Death Eater at that, and he could have the world at his feet if he so pleased.

But on the second of May, 1998, Draco was caught off guard by how quickly things could change. He was numb with disbelief as he sat at the hastily repaired Slytherin table in the Great Hall between his equally stunned parents. They whispered around him, blotting out some of the grateful and saddened speech that swarmed around him. He couldn't bear to look up from the table, but the one time he did look up, he saw Potter looking almost as confused and quiet as Draco.

A shudder ran through Draco as he glanced towards the direction of where the Dark Lord's body laid, separated from the good sixty or so other bodies. Potter had finally defeated the Dark Lord. He wondered dully if his family should've left long ago, and how much time they would have before Aurors would round all of the Death Eaters up and imprisoned them… or worse, killed them all.

He felt like he might would get sick from the smell of the blood, rubble, and food. He glared at a jug of pumpkin juice as if it was its fault that his whole family could be killed within hours. The next time he looked up, Potter had mysteriously disappeared. Draco had half a mind to follow him and see how Potter liked it; he would never forget how Potter had followed him all through sixth year like he had been some child that needed watched.

To occupy himself, he tuned into his parents' whispered conversation, hoping to find some glimmer of faith to tide his fears.

"… but Lucius, we can't just leave the country, that could make them all the more willing to find us and kill us," his mother hissed over Draco's bowed head.

"Yes, but what else can we do, Narcissa? You can't be suggesting that we stay like obedient mutts until they remember that we were on the forefront of the Dark Lord's followers! Malfoys do not go down without a fight," his father replied, obviously trying to keep his voice calm.

"And it will turn into a fight if we don't just…" Narcissa trailed off, panic radiating off of her. She continued, putting a little force behind her words. "I don't want to give in any more than you do, but maybe if we just... apologize or something!"

Lucius laughed humorlessly. "I'd rather empty my whole Gringotts vault than say sorry to those… those…" He also trailed off, unable to find a competent enough word to describe everyone who had fought against the Dark Lord.

Prats. Tossers. Gits. Stupid fuckers, Draco filled in for his own amusement, but the words sounded empty. Not only had Potter saved him in the Room of Hidden Things, but someone else had saved his life from his own side. He hadn't any idea who it could have been, but after being roughly punched in the face, he could have sworn he heard Weasley's agitated bellow. But someone on the other side had saved him, and even though they had won, he felt no real anger towards them. This only infuriated him further. When he was younger, he would've sought out someone to hex right away to relieve him of his annoyance, but he had grown up in the last year. A cold calm washed over him and he interrupted his parents for the first time in his life.

"I think we should turn ourselves in," he said in a frosty tone.

Narcissa and Lucius leaned towards him, surprise and outrage on their grimy pale faces. "Son, you must be joking–" "Malfoys don't do such things–"

Draco cocked his head and held up a finger for silence. Once he was sure they would not speak again, he started again. "If we turn ourselves in, we have a better chance of having a fair trial. And then, our fate is simply in the hands of higher powers," he concluded.

Lucius snorted. "And you think that will save us? Perhaps that Potter or any number of those other ignorant fools will save your neck?"

Draco fell silent, suddenly regretting he said anything, even though he knew he was right. Well, if they wanted to be sent to Azkaban or executed, he wasn't going to try and reason with them. They returned to arguing and he felt sick again, the icy calm receding and leaving him empty once more.

Draco found he couldn't handle as much as he thought. He couldn't handle being saved by Potter. He couldn't handle death. He couldn't handle being put down by his father again.

And most of all, he couldn't handle the way he felt when he saw the great oaf, Hagrid, carrying the supposedly dead body of Potter.