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CHAPTER ONE: GOD-FORSAKEN MESS
Draco Malfoy was a good man– somewhere in this world, in this universe perhaps, there was someone who had to believe him when he said that. Astoria had believed it, however wrong he had done her, towards the end of their relationship. His mother believed it too, biassed her opinion might be by their relation. But he was a good man, it was not his fault that the world he was born in was flawed, that the teachings his father forced upon him were tremendously faulty. All he ever wanted to do was make his parents proud.
On his eighteenth birthday, Draco Malfoy, son of Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, a known Death Eater himself, was brought to trial in front of all the big names in the Wizarding World. Well, all the good big names. All those who stood on the right side of war, the light, those who had sided with Harry Potter when Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, vanquished for once and for all.
They had stared at him with disgust evident in their eyes— how could he explain to these people that he had immense hatred for that bastard? How Voldemort was the reason why his father was locked away in Azkaban while his mother cried herself to sleep? In the end, his version of events wasn't required. Saint Potter had stepped in and saved the day, explaining how Draco had helped him and his friends back when they were captured in Malfoy Manor.
He would never admit it to anyone, but that day, he respected the hell out of Harry Potter.
Now, Draco Malfoy trudged wearily through the front door of his new Muggle house, a house he had gotten quite cheap because it was ‘haunted,’ apparently. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The faint smell of takeout and stale coffee lingered in the air—a far cry from the elegant manors of his youth. As he kicked off his worn shoes, Draco couldn't help but grimace at his living state.
Flashbacks of his trial and its aftermath flooded his mind. The hushed whispers in the courtroom, the disdainful glances from former acquaintances, the weight of his family's tainted legacy—all had driven him to seek refuge in the anonymity of the Muggle world, the same world he once hated.
"How did it come to this?" Draco muttered to himself, his voice tinged with bitterness. He had never imagined himself being Derek Morrinson, a man working a mundane Muggle job, an accountant of all things, navigating office politics instead of magical duels. Yet here he was, a shadow of his former self, trying to make sense of a life that had veered off course.
In the midst of his thoughts, Draco's gaze fell on the small fireplace in the corner of his flat—the one connection to his magical past that remained. He contemplated the idea of Floo-calling his mother, a rare gesture that had become even more infrequent since his departure from the wizarding world.
"Maybe today," Draco mused aloud, a hint of longing in his voice. He missed his mother, the one person who had always believed in him despite everything.
In a sudden burst of resolve, Draco retrieved a handful of Floo powder from a drawer and approached the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, the flames roared to life, and he tossed in the powder.
"Malfoy Manor," Draco enunciated clearly, feeling a mix of apprehension and anticipation.
As the green flames engulfed him, Draco was transported back in time—to a grand and imposing fireplace, the centrepieces of his childhood home. Memories of laughter and warmth flooded his senses, mingling with the heavy weight of family expectations.
"Draco? Is that you?" A familiar voice called out from the other end of the connection, pulling him back to the present.
"Mother," Draco replied, his voice softening with relief. "It's good to hear your voice."
For a fleeting moment, Draco found solace in their conversation, a reminder of the love that transcended his troubled past. But as the conversation drew to a close and Draco prepared to return to his solitary existence, a sense of melancholy settled over him like a heavy shroud.
The truth remained unchanged—the divide between his past and present was insurmountable. Despite his longing for connection, Draco knew that he was destined to navigate the complexities of life alone, forever haunted by the ghosts of his past.
As the flames flickered and faded, Draco's heart grew heavy with resignation. He retreated into the shadows of his flat, the echoes of his mother's voice lingering in the empty silence.
Perhaps, this was what life was meant to be— a silent retreat from the mayhem that he once was a part of. He walked upstairs to his bedroom, barely registering the fact that he hadn’t had any dinner yet, and got onto his bed.
Yes. The silence was good and in that solitary moment, Draco realised that some wounds never truly healed—that redemption, if it existed at all, was only but a distant and elusive dream.
The silence was good for only thirty-seven minutes. Soon after deciding that he must wallow in self-pity, Draco decided that he truly was not cut out for it, the silence was truly a deafening concept, and he knew just how ironic that sounded. All he wanted suddenly, was to get away from his tiny house and his insufficient, unfulfilling, pathetic existence. The mud-blood hater turned muggle-imposter– perhaps silence wasn’t the only thing ironic after all.
An idea bloomed into his head, an invitation to the downtown night club his friends had invited him to sparked (were they really his friends? Co-workers? Passerbys in his life, who’s names he barely registered?). Earlier in the day, when they had proposed the idea with a hard thump on his back, “Ay, Morrinson, how about Trudy’s tonight?” he had been repulsed. There was nothing in this world that seemed as boring and uneventful as spending time drinking washed-down cheap liquor with men whose minds only worked regarding bra sizes.
Now, he realised, staying at home was just as boring and uneventful, if not even more. This was his life now, whether he decided to accept it or not, he had chosen this life. Draco Malfoy might have been one of the best wizards in his year, born of impeccable taste with a silver spoon in his mouth. Draco Malfoy might have been a better man living a better life had he not chosen wrong so young his life. But he was no longer Draco Malfoy anymore. He was Derek Morrinson and though magic still ran in his veins like blood, Derek was who he was meant to be.
Thirty-seven minutes after deciding that he deserved the silence in his pitiful life, Draco Malfoy Derek Morrinson made his way to Trudy’s.