In the forest, his first instinct before noticing the odd shift from Dark Mark to Malfoy family standard, had been to turn tail and run for the castle in an attempt of self preservation to rival Millicent's.
But Draco knew this wasn't the truth even as he thought it. Actually, his first instinct had been to grab Granger. And that realization in itself was leading him down a prickly path he really didn't want to go right then. He seriously doubted his life could get any more complicated than it already was.
As far as he knew, there might have been some crack squad Death Eater assassination team hiding in the bushes, itching to cast Unforgivables at the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister, or perhaps, better yet, at the son of the most notorious Death Eater traitor who had very recently shagged the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister.
It wasn't heroism, obviously. He was the last person Granger could depend on for singular acts of selfless bravery.
And oh! Some hero's sidekick Weasley turned out to be. When they finally decided to give awards out for Superior Effort in Just Standing About and Gawking Like a Moron, Wealsey was a sure thing for first class honours.
There was a scene wafting in and out of his head. Blame in on his perverse imagination. It was taking him some effort to shake loose the made-up image of Granger's slight body lying on the damp grass, her huge brown eyes vacant and empty in post Avada Kedavra-death, her normally bee stung lips blue, and her injured hand slack and open at her side. Gone was the perpetual 'don't-hate-me-for-knowing-what's-best' look she wore like a damned badge of pride. In its place was a frozen mask of accusation.
You could have saved me...
The lead weight in Draco's stomach seemed to drop further still, and his hands were doing worrying things to his now-wrinkled school tie. He continued pacing in front the gargoyle statue for a few minutes more before finally giving his godfather and exasperated, expectant and slightly desperate look. If the man wasn't going to say something in the next instant, Draco swore he was going to throttle him.
"It's not your father," Snape deigned to inform, possibly sensing Draco's frustration. His dark eyes flickered briefly over the still-visible streak of dirt over his godson's cheek. He pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief from inside his robes and handed it to Draco.
"Clean your face," said Snape, looking pointedly at the smudge.
Draco stopped in mid pace, sagging heavily against the stone wall. A huge dam of relief burst inside him. He swiped at his face almost absently. "Who else is in Dumbledore' s office, then? Weasley' s voice hasn' t broken yet, so I' m guessing that baritone I heard earlier is someone else..."
Snape nodded. "Kingsley Shacklebolt was here ealier. I believe Nymphadora Tonks, Arthur Weasley, Alastor Moody and Horatio Coon are still present."
Draco looked up, recognition flashing in his silver eyes at mention of the last name. "Coon's the legal advisor that drafted my agreement with the Ministry."
"Agreement is a bit generous to describe that contract," Snape retorted, his voice dripping venom. "I'd have been less surprised if they had asked for your first born."
"In exchange for guaranteeing me my title and property, I just might have agreed," Draco returned, with a humourless bark of laughter. He was making a token effort at sarcasm, but Snape could see the shaky foundation beneath.
Draco had effectively traded sixteen years of his life in exchange for allowing his father to be imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. In return, despite the rules that normally governed what happened to the property of convicted Death Eaters, Draco would be allowed to legally claim all that his family owned, when his father's sentence was concluded. The contract had been drafted when Draco was sixteen, which made in legally null and void in Wizarding Britain, if not for Arthur's Law.
The whole contract was a piece of hypocritical, blundering dribble. It had been given the seal of approval by a Minister whose heart may have been in the right place, but whose head was full of vendetta-laden mutterings from a war committee comprised of aging wizards with long memories.
The Ministry, past or present, could hardly be called a model of egalitarianism. However, it was one thing to cheat adult wizards of justice, it was quite another to panhandle minors and then have the audacity to call it 'law'.