Chapter 1
Draco wearily looked down the rain-soaked alley before him. The heavy drops falling on the cobblestones mirrored his mood: dull, exhausted, and sluggish. The city lay still, illuminated only by flickering street lamps, and the sound of the rain was the only noise accompanying his footsteps. For some time now, he had lost interest in lingering long in places where other wizards gathered. It was always the same: hateful glances, scornful remarks, as if people didn’t know he had condemned himself long ago. The death sentence that lay on his own lips was always more present than the words of others. Yet he knew it wasn’t that simple to escape.
How often had he thought about it? The thought of death crept into his nights like a dark shadow. There were these quiet moments when the house he lived in was so cold and empty that the darkness began to whisper. “Wouldn’t it be easier?” the silence asked. “Wouldn’t it be more peaceful?” But then there was his mother. The last connection that still held him, like a fragile thread binding him to life. How often had he seen her sitting awake in her room, her face as pale and hollow as that of a corpse, yet she was still there. He couldn’t leave her alone, not now.
He continued deeper into the dark streets, where hardly a light burned in the houses anymore. It was late, later than usual. Most people were sitting in their warm homes, surrounded by their families. A hint of longing rose within him as he thought about what he could have had. A normal life. A life where he hadn’t joined the Dark Lord. But it had never really been his choice. It was his father’s decision, and before him, his grandfather’s. The tradition of the Malfoys, upheld over generations, as if it were a legacy they should bear with pride. Pride. What a senseless word it had become.
Draco remembered the long evenings he had spent as a child with his father. Lucius Malfoy, so imposing, so awe-inspiring in his stature. A man who could fill a room with a single glance. But beneath all that shine and arrogance lay something else, something Draco had never quite understood as a child: fear. Now, as an adult, he saw it clearly. His father had not been a proud man; he had been a fearful one. Fearful of shame, fearful of losing power, fearful of not living up to his ancestors’ expectations. And so he had joined the Dark Lord, like many others before him. And he had pulled Draco into this endless cycle of power and fear without asking whether he wanted it.
The only family he had left was his mother. His father had died long ago in Azkaban, alone in a cold, dark cell. A miserable death. Draco had not shed a tear when the news came. It was as if he had long expected the end, as if it were just another consequence of all the decisions his father had made. But it still hurt. Not the news itself, but the awareness that his father was gone without ever truly knowing him, without ever really trying to understand him. All he left behind was a massive burden of expectations, guilt, and sorrow that Draco now had to bear alone.
Forgotten by the wardens, or rather, ignored. Draco only vaguely remembered the announcement of his death—a perfunctory communication that expressed nothing but indifference. It could have been one of the prisoners or one of the guards who had taken his life. It was irrelevant. The name Malfoy, once full of brilliance and power, was nothing more than a whisper that grew quieter with each generation. And now, only his mother remained, and she was no longer the same.
After the war, she had fallen seriously ill. A shadow of her former self. Her once noble face had become gaunt, her skin pale as parchment. Her eyes, once full of pride and determination, now looked dull, as if life had drained out of them. Yet there was something in her gaze that deeply shook Draco each time: love. Unconditional love. As weak as it was, his mother looked at him with the same warmth and care as when he was still a child. This love was the only thing that had kept him going in the last few years.
The healers at St. Mungo’s Hospital did not treat her. It was their hatred for the Malfoys that led them to ignore her. Draco knew it was only a matter of time before she would leave him too. The evenings he spent by her bedside grew longer, the silence in their house more oppressive. And as the days passed, he felt her life ebbing away, like death slowly taking possession of her. But as long as she lived, he stayed. He took care of her as best he could. But he already knew he would leave England as soon as she died.
Just as he walked on, lost in thought, stones suddenly struck him from the side. He spun around, surprised and angry at once. A group of wizards stood a short distance away. They could have attacked him with magic, but they had chosen stones—as if they wanted to humiliate him before delivering the final blow. One of them, a man with dark hair, stepped forward. Hatred burned in his eyes, a hatred that was all too familiar to Draco.
How often had he seen this hatred? He had encountered it on the streets, in the faces of people who recognized him. Who despised him, not only for his role in the war but for his name, his heritage, his family. The name Malfoy had become a curse, a symbol of all the evil that had swept over the wizarding world during the dark years. And Draco knew he could never truly escape. The war may have been over, but the scars remained.
“What do you want from me?” Draco asked sharply, his voice full of barely suppressed rage. The man twisted his face into a sneer. “Filthy Death Eater,” he spat, pulling out his wand. But before the spell could hit him, Draco had already apparated.
He landed in front of the small shop he had been visiting for weeks. His heart raced, and he felt anger and exhaustion merge into a cold, numb mass inside him. He had no time for confrontations—he needed to get the medicine for his mother. He hurried into the apothecary and pulled his hood deep over his face. The young apothecary behind the counter likely recognized him, yet she never showed it. Her warm smile and bright blue eyes were a rare ray of light in his dark life.
“How is your mother?” she asked softly, adding a packet of herbs to his order.
Draco lowered his gaze. “Not much longer,” he mumbled. The words felt heavy on him. They felt like a final verdict he didn’t want to pronounce but had long known. The apothecary fell silent for a moment, then cautiously spoke, “And what will you do when she… is gone?”
Draco had no answer. What would he do when his mother was dead? She had been the only reason he was still alive. Without her, he had nothing, no purpose, no anchor. “I… don’t know,” he confessed quietly.
The young woman regarded him thoughtfully, then said, “A friend of mine works in Romania. He takes care of dragons. I’ve told him about you, and there’s a position open right now. It might be a hasty suggestion, but I thought it could help you if you got away. Away from England, away from this darkness. Maybe you’ll find something there that helps you start a new life.”
Draco was taken aback. He looked at the woman as if trying to understand why she was offering him such a thing. “Why are you telling him about me?” he asked quietly. “You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. Why should anyone give me a chance?”
She smiled gently. “Because I believe that one can learn from the mistakes of the past for the future. I had a brother your age. He died in the war, but I never held you responsible for it. When you first came here, something about you reminded me of him. I hope you find the happiness that was denied to him. It’s my way of forgiving.”
Her words struck Draco deeply. He had never expected anyone to show him such kindness, especially not after everything that had happened. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he should really give it a try. Perhaps it was time to begin a new chapter in his life.
The idea of leaving the country had always terrified him. But now, as he contemplated it, it also felt like an escape. It was not just a way to leave the shadows of the past behind; it was also a chance to escape the darkness that surrounded him. It was an opportunity, not just for him, but also for his mother. If he left, maybe he could let her rest in peace. “I’ll think about it,” he said quietly as he accepted the medicine. “If my mother dies, I’ll come back.”
The young woman nodded understandingly, and Draco stepped out of the shop, apparating home to prepare for the inevitable. That very night, his mother passed away. She had fallen asleep peacefully, and he buried her next to his father on the old Malfoy family estate. It was a cool, clear night, the sky filled with stars, and the earth was soft from the rain of the previous days. As he dug the grave, he wondered how long it would take before he himself became a shadow in history. Somewhere within him, the thought grew that he was now truly alone.
The grief was overwhelming, but at the same time, there was a kind of relief. He had cared for her until the end, had held her hand, and had been there with her. Now it was time to let go. He had survived the last few years in a suffocating silence, but now that she was gone, he felt free. Free to finally become who he wanted to be.
He left the estate the next morning, just before sunrise. The sun rose above the horizon, bathing the world in golden light, a sign of hope in the dark days that lay behind him. He had chosen a path, and for the first time in years, he felt alive.