The Act.
Draco sits on the edge of the astronomy tower, his mind heavy and eyes closed.
It's dark out now. The wind cuts through his ungelled hair.
It's officially his nineteenth birthday today, yet his life feels as though it's already ended.
If he's honest, it'd ended long ago.
Ever since his fifth year—which, Merlin, it's only been three years—his life has been spiralling, and at this point, he's finally reached his low.
Voldemort had already begun rising when he was in fifth year, as his father would so graciously remind him, and he knew he had to prove himself, not just to The Dark Lord but to his father, who'd wanted this for him ever since he was a child.
He'd been primed for this his whole life, and regardless of his doubts, he needed to prove himself.
In sixth year, it was the cabinet, the cursing of Katie Bell, and the the task to murder Dumbledore.
He was unprepared for them. The idea of repairing the cabinet had been easy, but it was so much more difficult than he thought it would've been.
The ministry was encroaching upon his father and he knew he had a time limit to complete his task. He also knew that if he failed, The Dark Lord would kill not just him, but also his mother and father.
There were no choices for him. There hadn't been one for him, ever. He knew his role to play from a toddler and each decision he made was not his own, it was his fathers, even then it'd not been his own.
A decision between a task or death for his whole family was not a true choice, and he had no other option than to restore the cabinet, even as he grew disillusioned with becoming a death eater.
The cabinet took up all of his time. He was barely eating or studying and his grades had suffered greatly—something he was reminded of when he returned home, painfully—he gave up Quidditch to have more time to fix the cabinet. He stopped sleeping, he stopped speaking with his friends.
But it seemed that despite how popular he was among the Slytherins, nobody really cared.
Life moved on without him, and it seems his friends could too. They never noticed that there was something wrong with him that year.
To add onto the stress, Voldemort, angry with his fathers failures, tasked him further to kill Dumbledore.
Draco hated that old man, undoubtedly so, but not enough to kill him. He never wanted to murder anybody. But just as with the cabinet, there was no option.
Katie Bell had been a casualty in his plan to murder Dumbledore as hands free as possible, yet it only made it worse.
Harry figured it out too, storming after him as he fled from The Great Hall, his emotions peaking all at once.
He'd been operating under stress and fear for so long that Katie Bell was the final straw.
When he made it into Myrtle's bathroom, his safe space, he knew it wasn't safe any longer. He'd sprinted all the way there, and it bought him some time before Harry entered.
He ripped off his vest and he splashed water in his face but it was useless because he was finally breaking down. He couldn't take it and Harry—
He threw the first spell. He didn't know what to do, he was in the middle of a meltdown. He knew he shouldn't have. He shouldn't have engaged at all, but he and Harry always fought, and he was scared.
They destroyed the bathroom, water everywhere, and Draco didn't have time to cast a counterspell when he heard the spell Harry cast.
He didn't hear it at all, because all he felt was the pain from it. He flew backward and he landed in the water, pain, pain, splintering through his chest and he can't breathe, he's choking on his blood, his tears dripping into the water he laid in as he bled out.
Harry stared over top of him, blinking. He was going to die at the age of sixteen, to the Boy Who Lived. Because even Harry's saviour complex didn't extend to him, Draco Malfoy, he was going to watch as he died.
Snape patched him up, but the scars never healed. They still reopen, a part of the curse that Harry threw at him without even knowing the meaning.
Harry never told him sorry. It seems trivial now, but he'd wanted one so badly. He almost died, yet life moved on again, and left him behind.
Blaise and Pansy grew frustrated that he was never around, but he had no time for them anymore, as much as he wished he did.
When he fixed the vanishing cabinet, there was no celebration, no relief for him, because it meant little to nothing. He'd completed his first task, but he still needed to murder his headmaster for he and his family to be safe. Finally succeeding in fixing the cabinet meant that he was risking the lives of everyone at the school. The Death Eaters were going to be let in, and people may die. If they did it would be all his fault.
The same moral dilemma that he'd been facing all year.
He has no doubts—not then and still not now—that if it'd only been he who would die if he didn't restore the cabinet, he would not have fixed it. He would've lost his life to save others, but he would not risk his mother's, nor his father's. Either way, there would be at least three deaths on his hand.
There was no winning option. Either way, still a teenager, Draco was going to lose.
His original plan with the necklace was no longer an option, and he knew he had to kill Dumbledore actively. Throw a spell at him, but he could never use Avada Kedavra on someone.
On the astronomy tower, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, cornering Dumbledore, he had his wand raised.
He had to. He had to kill Dumbledore. His life, his family's lives, depended on it. Yet his hand shook, and he couldn't say a single spell. As his wand began to lower, Snape threw one for him. Dumbledore was dead.
Yet, Draco had not killed him.
He had failed.
He was going to die. All of this was for nothing. He could've saved the lives of anyone who may be caught in the battle, if he and his family were going to die either way.
Yet, he didn't die.
In seventh year he attend Hogwarts, even as the war began. People already knew of what he'd done. He was the one who let the Death Eaters in, yet this had not completely sealed his fate. If he'd done so many things differently, perhaps he would be seen better nowadays.
Harry, Hermoine and Ron were out finding the Horcruxes to kill Voldemort, as he was told constantly. They were looking for the pieces to kill the wizard that he was working for yet he couldn't be more grateful. He prayed that they'd find all the pieces as quickly as possible. He didn't want a war. He didn't want to be a Death Eater. He didn't want Voldemort alive at all.
People had stopped associating with him at this point, even the Slytherins, ever loyal, abandoned him. Avoid Draco was the sentiment, and he'd earned it well. He was not the king of Slytherin. He was not popular. He didn't deserve to be. It was for the best that he was isolated.
His home wasn't safe, overrun with Death Eaters. When he was at home, he was forbidden from entering most of it, travelling between his room, the kitchen and the bathroom only. His house was not his own any longer, and lingering for too long in a common area posed a threat to him, the Death Eaters especially trigger happy with their curses during times of celebration or anger. He tried not to be in their line of fire, though that didn't stop him from getting a few hit by a few crucios. Fenrir Greyback leered at him every time they would meet, and though forbidden from touching him, Draco always feared that Greyback may disobey the orders. He likes his prey young after all, and Fenrir had made so many comments about his looks that Draco knew under any other circumstances he would've been killed or turned.
At Malfoy manor, fear filled him every moment. Fear never left. He felt terror in every moment he was awake and his sleep, when it did come, was fitful at best.
While he was at home, he was summoned to identify someone. Undeniably Harry Potter, beat up but no less captured. Fear filled him again. This was his only hope. Harry was the only person who could defeat the monster that made his life hell. He said it was not Harry. As he was dragged away, Draco stood and he prayed that Harry make it out alive and not get discovered, for both of their fates.
If Harry was caught, Draco would be perishing alongside him.
But at that point, he was already questioning whether he wanted that or not.
7th year he lost Goyle too. He watched him die in the Fiendfyre, getting engulfed by the flames, burned alive as he screamed.
At that point, Draco was already in the hands of depression, engulfed like Goyle in the flames. He fell further into the clutches with each day.
At the time, he couldn't mourn Goyle. There was no time, though he cried as he wondered who decided to rip someone he cared for away from him.
Nowadays, he wishes the Fiendfyre had taken him, rather than Goyle.
-
"Harry Potter is dead" Voldemort proclaimed joyously, yet Draco felt more empty than ever. The crowd around him emailed, gasped, muttered prayers.
Draco stared down at the ground and blinked back his tears. That was what he should've wanted. This was what he used to want, for Voldemort to win the war. But all the news did was fill him with dread and tear him apart. Voldemort won.
Voldemort called out for people to join him, now that he'd won the war. No one moved. Draco didn't either. He did not want to proclaim his dedication nor his loyalty to The Dark Lord, he had none. Every choice he made, every task he tried to complete for The Dark Lord he made was a choice he made to keep him and his family alive. Never to help the Death Eaters win.
From the other side of the divide, his parents beckoned him.
Draco, Draco, come they begged.
They looked so desperate for him to step forward, and once again, the choice he made was not his own, it was his family's.
Had he not given enough?
He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He kept his head straight, like a Malfoy should, despite wanting to hide more than anything. His shame felt like it would eat him alive.
Voldemort celebrated his public display of loyalty, hugging him before he released him into his parents awaiting arms.
I did this for you. I did this all for you. He wanted to proclaim to them. But he said nothing.
Harry was not dead.
Draco had never been more relieved. The battle started, yet he did not participate. He didn't have his wand either way, Harry had it.
No instead, he ran away like a coward, and his parents led them out of the Hogwarts bounds so they could apparate to the manor, where they stayed.
It doesn't take long for the Ministry to arrive once Voldemort is defeated. He knew they would be coming for them quickly. Bellatrix was dead, and besides for the Carrows, the Malfoy's were some of the most high profile Death Eaters.
They broke down the door to the manor while he was sitting in the front parlour. They were yelling angrily and calling them all scum for their loyalty to Voldemort. His father tried to flee, and his mother protested, but he did not.
Instead he held up his hands to show he had no wand, but they didn't stop them from throwing him off their couch and onto the floor, pinning him down and handcuffing him though he hadn't shown any signs of planning to use magic.
The three months he spent in Azkaban were detrimental to his already poor mental health. The cold atmosphere, the dementors, the way the other prisoners would talk to him and the abuse from the guards turned his numbing heart empty.
Each day was spent curled in his cell, crying his eyes sore until he couldn't anymore. Then it was filled with staring at the wall, disassociating to the wailing screams and moans of the prisoners who'd been there much longer than he, going insane.
Every time he was allowed a shower, he'd get it done as fast as possible. The comments about his young, skinny, pretty body by the other prisoners made him sick. The jokes about them finally taking advantage of him make him scared. He hates Azkaban. But he earned it.
The guards would yell at him. He was forcefully beaten more times than he could count, even though he'd never once disobeyed an order. He was beyond compliant. He had no appetite anymore, no desire to eat at all, and yet they'd scream at him to eat his food every so often. If he didn't, they would force feed him until he threw up.
Draco wished he would've failed both his tasks in sixth year. He would've died and saved himself from this misery.
One day—he wasn't even sure which one—he was dragged by the officers into the showers and then he's allowed a shave.
He's unsure of what's happening but he's not sure that he cares.
Until they put him into a new pair of prison garments and lead him towards a room he's never seen.
Inside is his father, wearing black robes, seated in a chair and tied down to it. His eyes are dull, looking years older than he did only a few months ago.
Draco's eyes trail to the pensieve in there.
"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, you've been sentenced to death for your crimes against wizard kind."
He's viewing his father's execution for his war crimes.
He stares as his father's fondest memories are pulled into the pensieve. His mother is in almost all of them, he's not in any of them.
He's never made his father proud anyway. All the way to death, to both of their prison sentences, all the way to risking his life, and not once did he make his father proud.
He wasn't even good enough to earn a spot in his father's fondest moments.
But his father's chair is levitated, floating over the pensieve, and Draco stares down at the ground as his father is melted alive in the corrosive pensieve.
His father is dead. Draco doesn't cry. He should've. It was his father, the man who raised him, but there's nothing.
His father is the one who led him here in the first place. His father is the one who spewed his bigotry to him from before he can even remember, who spread teachings from the undead madman looking to commit magical cleansing.
His father, who didn't love him at all.
Draco does not cry. Though he hears his mother, wailing at his loss.
He hears the verdict from his mother's trial, though he's not allowed to be there for it.
Ten years in Azkaban. He knows she won't make it out alive. Not after the loss of his father, not in this cold place. This time he does cry.
His trial is last. They put him in the same robes that he was wearing when they arrested him. He looks like he's drowning in them. He's so thin now that if he wraps his thumb and pinky finger around his wrist, they connect.
They read out his crimes. He never got the chance to really speak to his lawyer. He pleads not guilty to all of them but casting unforgivables. He'd done so in the war, as many had. He knows that even Harry casted them, though the difference between the Boy Who Lived Twice and the disgraced Draco Malfoy is night and day.
They put Veritaserum on his tongue, he wouldn't have lied either way. He expects his sentence to be the same as his mothers.
But it's not. Because Harry testified for him. He sat in shock as Harry told the jury of how he acted in sixth year, of how he did not kill Dumbledore, reminding them of his age. He listened as Harry told them that he lied, risking his own life, to keep him alive. He listened, and all he could think of is how undeserving he was to be receiving a testimony from Harry. From the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
Draco listens after days of jury deliberation to their verdict.
House arrest and magical restrictions.
Not death, not Azkaban. Just reparations—as both his mother and father had to pay— and house arrest.
Though, he learned he would have to find his house elsewhere than the manor, as it'd been seized by the Ministry.
He'd gotten off extremely well, and it was all thanks to Harry.
Draco's guilt eats him alive.
When Hogwarts decides to offer an optional eighth year for all the students in his year (the whole war going on distracted them from learning all that well and most of them didn't even take their N.E.W.T.S last year) he does not plan to go back.
Not when he can barely leave his current residence (a very cheap apartment that it's barely the size of his bedroom at the Manor) without being yelled at, even when he's accompanied by a member of the Ministry.
Not when the Battle of Hogwarts left over 50 deaths, and he was on the wrong side.
Snape, Nymphadora, Remus, Fred, Lavender, so many more family members of the people in his year.
He's just like the Death Eaters that murdered them, he has the mark just like they do. Just because he's remorseful, just because he's young, he's a Death Eater nonetheless.
And they'll all hate him if he steps into Hogwarts.
So he refused to go. It was the first choice that he made for himself. He did not want to return to Hogwarts. He didn't want to complete his N.E.W.T.S. He just wanted to hide forever, find a non magical job that didn't require them, and hope that he get one at all when he's a Death Eater.
There are plenty of places, if not most, that refuse entry to Death Eaters, even though there's barely any who aren't in Azkaban. Places he used to frequent they threaten him if he lingers too long outside of.
He'd try his best to find somewhere that would take him, though.
The choice was ripped from him. He was told by an Auror that they were mandating him to go to Hogwarts for his eighth year.
He needed to receive his N.E.W.T.S and pass a muggle studies class. It also helps that isolating him in Hogwarts would mean that they wouldn't have to worry about his whereabouts. They wouldn't have to waste time with him for a year.
Draco broke down again when he was told. Not because he had to go, though that was part of it. But because he thought he finally had a say.
He should've known better.
Draco Malfoy doesn't get to make choices, other people make them for him.
He's not in a place to disobey or protest. He can't even beg, because a single step out of line could end with him back in the horrible place that is Azkaban.
So Draco returned, he returned with a wand that didn't call to him (his is still with Harry) and magical restrictions so strong that he could hardly cast more than a Lumos.
He wasn't even sure how he was going to complete his education or his N.E.W.T.S when most of the things in their curriculum over the past two years were spells that he was banned from casting.
He was right. It was exactly as he'd expected.
The first day of his eighth year, he ran through Platform ¾ wearing a hoodie and jeans.
Muggle clothing. Pulling the hoodie over his head hid his signature bright blonde hair. The hoodie helped him go unnoticed as nothing more than another muggle born going to Hogwarts in their casual attire. He was happy that nobody questioned him as he got onto the train to Hogwarts.
He beelined to the compartment all the way in the back of the train. All the ones he passed had people in it, and either way, his compartment was the furthest back on the right side. It was always where he sat with Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe and...Goyle.
Now, he stared at an empty compartment, no one else would be coming to fill it.
Blaise was in France with his Mother, Pansy refused to return with him also. Crabbe and Goyle were where he belonged, in Azkaban and dead, respectively.
He sat down in the compartment, grateful that it was unfilled.
He just wanted to hide from everyone.
"I think this compartment is empty." a voice said from the outside of his compartment.
A voice he knew well, Hermoine Granger.
"Well, open it then." Ron said, another distinct voice.
The door opened. He stared at the ground.
"Oh! It wasn't. I'm sorry, do you mind if we sit in here with you? All the other compartments are filled." Hermione said.
"You can have it, if you want." Draco replied. He didn't look over at her.
"Malfoy? What the fuck are you doing here? You have the audacity show your face, Death Eater?" Ron spat, vilely.
Harry stuck his head into the doorway. "Merlin, you have to be kidding me." he groaned.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "After what you've done, after all the things you said, all the slurs you threw, all the bullying you did, you come back."
Draco stood up and pushed past them. "Take the compartment."
He left them standing there, and sat down on the floor in the corner of the train. He hid his face in his knees.
What a great start to the year, his first interaction had been with the Golden Trio of all people, and he rode the train not in a compartment, but in a dark corner on the floor, hiding himself from view from everyone around him.
It got no better once he actually entered the school.
He sat down at the furthest end of the table that would usually be assigned to Slytherin, sitting in the direction that he'd see the wall if he stared ahead, rather than the other students.
The first day they were all permitted to wear clothing out of uniform, and he was grateful for the opportunity to avoid his robes (which forever were stained with green, a reminder of who he was, how he acted.)
His hoodie, which he kept to cover his hair, allowed him to get through the opening speech from McGonagall, the new headmistress, without any notice.
Her speech was all about the war, about the scars they obtained, about how they shouldn't spread hate towards anyone, not for their house or their blood status.
It made his skin crawl. He shouldn't be here. All he did was hate, every year of his schooling until he was too consumed with his tasks for The Dark Lord—the monster—to be a bully. He was the reason for their scars. He should be hated.
More than anything that first day, he wanted to leave the Great Hall. The Great Hall that he'd watched get destroyed, the Great Hall, surrounded by victims of the mass murderer he worked for.
But, McGonagall requested they stay after the ceremony ended, all the eighth years, for discussions of their sleeping arrangements and "other important information."
The ceremony was a drag, as always, but now there were far less first years to sort, far less people who returned in all years. Now, each first year that walked up muttered under their breath, please not Slytherin. When the sorting hat did place them in Slytherin, there was mute clapping, disappointment from the first year.
There was no Slytherin pride, and he couldn't say that he had any either. Being a Slytherin, the Slytherin Prince, had been so important to him, until he realised that the title meant nothing. That nobody cares about him all that much at all.
After the ceremony, he remained in the Great Hall, staying in his same spot until McGonagall beckoned him closer to come with all the other eighth years. The other seven of them. The seven who undoubtedly hated him, and likely had the most reason to.
Harry, Hermoine, Ron, Dean, Seamus, Luna, Neville
Of course, Harry and Ron were glaring at him as he walked up, the others only not doing the same because they hadn't yet realised who he was.
McGonagall told them that they'd all have classes together, just the nine of them. They wouldn't be allowed dorms and their old houses, because there was no true space for them. Rather they would be rooming in a smaller space, the four girls together and the six guys together in large shared bedrooms to give them ample space per person.
Draco had never been more scared to room together with someone than he was in that moment.
"I know there is animosity between the nine of you, but I'm asking that you all room together peacefully, set a good example for the younger years who look up to you. I'm not asking you to put the events of the past behind you, rather I'm asking you to simply coexist."
The younger years who look up to you, McGonagall said, but nobody looked up to him. Nobody should. He was no hero, no saviour, no good guy.
He tugged his hood off his head, revealing his blonde hair to the group. He might as well. They'd all find out soon enough, he'd have to share a room with five of them. Three of them already knew either way.
Their bitter groans were only muted because McGonagall shushed them before they could complain too loud, though none of them were happy.
The tension grew thicker as she walked them to where their rooms would be. It felt like it was growing, and growing, until you could cut it with a knife.
And somebody did.
Seamus stopped McGonagall right in the middle of their new shared common room and stared at him.
"I'm sorry, but you can't seriously expect me to room with him of all people." he protested, gesturing at Draco.
The other boys made sounds of agreement.
He only stared at the ground.
"I do, it's what we were able to do with the space available and so you must. If there were other options I would be more considerate of the feelings between the six of you, I know this not ideal for any of you but—"
"He's a Death Eater, headmistress. You know the things that he did, he shouldn't even be here. How are you going to ensure our safety, what if he tries to hex me in my sleep"
"I can assure you, Mr. Finnagen, that Mr. Malfoy has no incentive to injure you. The consequences of his actions would be far worse than anything he would gain from doing so. Now, once again, Hogwarts has no space to hold you anywhere else. You all will get along. There's no other option. The girls room and bathroom is to the right, the boys is to the left. You are jpermitted to enter the room of the opposite gender, you're of age now, and I assume you all can make proper choices."
"Bu—"
"Good day, I hope you can settle down well." With that, McGonagall left them standing, and the second that she was gone, the other boys started to curse up a storm.
Draco only stared at the ground as they insulted him. He had nothing to say in response. Then he let them enter the room in front of him and pick out their beds.
"Listen, Malfoy, I will not hesitate to call you out on any of your bullshit, if you say the wrong thing, or you try to hex any of us not only will I hex you back, I will report you to McGonagall and I'll see to getting your pretty ass back behind bars in Azkaban." Dean glared.
"Okay." It was the first word he'd spoken to anyone that wasn't the Golden Trio, and his voice cracked when he did. The other three snickered.
He collapsed on the bed that was chosen for him and laid there for a while, only getting up to shower after trying to cast a cleaning spell and nothing happening (he knew nothing would. Apparently cleaning spells are too dangerous for him.)
That was the easiest of his days.
The next day, he couldn't cover his face or hair with a hoodie. They had to wear robes. They were allowed to wear pins with their former houses on them, but they needed to wear plain black robes, and certainly not muggle loungewear.
So he got ready manually, there were very few spells for getting ready that he could use, aside from a short accio he could call to get a product, and he headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.
The moment he stepped in, the Great Hall went dead silent.
Hundreds of eyes, all glaring at him with nothing but pure hate and anger in their eyes.
"DEATH EATER"
He flinched. More than anything he hated that word, though it was the truth. The permanent mark on his skin showed it plainly.
That person broke the silence.
"THEY SHOULD'VE KILLED YOU LIKE THEY KILLED YOUR DAD"
People yelled their agreements. He didn't tell them that he wishes they had.
"MURDERER" It was pointless to argue that he didn't directly murder anyone.
"TERRORIST"
"WAR CRIMINAL"
"GO BACK TO AZKABAN WHERE YOU CAME FROM"
He tried to tell his body to move. His mind screamed at him to leave the Great Hall entirely. But he stood still and let them berate him.
He only moved when he felt the first stinging jinx hit him, and then another, and then another.
If he stood there any longer, he's sure his whole body would've been red and burning.
Each day after that was like a rinse and repeat. Bullied in his classes, getting curses, hexes and jinxes thrown at him from students of all years, constant insults, his teachers grading him so harshly on any written assignments that it was impossible to get an A, sitting in his dorm room and not even feeling safe.
And he was defenceless. Fight back with one of the mild jinxes that he might have an ability to cast, and he would've only get more thrown at him, curse back at them and get in trouble for his mouth, confront a teacher about his failing grade on a paper he knew deserved better, he'd only get worse grades in that class. A step too far out and he'd land himself back in Azkaban.
Potions was the only class he was passing, and that was only because it's hard to fail someone on a potion that is done properly. It's either that you did it properly, or failed. He'd always been good at potions and he'd gotten plenty of help from his godfather.
In all his other classes, couldn't complete the work. His teachers refused to acknowledge the fact that he couldn't cast the spells they were requesting not because he couldn't do it, but because he was no longer permitted to.
He earned this, he thought, every time a tripping jinx or stinging hex was tossed at him. When he received a failing grade on a test for failing to demonstrate the skill, as his teachers told him, it was the consequences of his own actions.
He was tormented with nightmares and insomnia in his sleep. Each day they got worse. Images of his father, from a young child, punishing Draco for his failures, all the way up until he watched him die.
Memories of his mother as she comforted him and told him things would be okay, mixed with her acting just as foul as his dad would.
Memories of The Dark Lord's terrifying face as he glared, threatening Draco and his whole family. Echoes of the screams of the prisoners the Dark Lord put in the Malfoy basement. The screams of the people that Draco watched die in front of him in the Dining room without interfering.
The faces of the people he would bully, replays of him spewing slurs with ease and mocking everyone for all the things that he had they didn't. His sleep never stopped being fitful. He never got more than two hours.
He was never permitted sleeping draughts from the hospital ward. He wasn't supposed to enter into the ward at all, and Pomfrey hated him just as much as the next.
He'd wake up gasping in fear, dripping with sweat. The other boys put silencing and muffling charms around them the first night that he woke up in fear, after requesting that Draco do them for himself and telling them he wasn't allowed to cast them.
They laughed for hours about that. Draco was the butt of every one of their jokes. Now he understood how the people he bullied felt.
Each stinging hex would leave him with red blots on his skin, each tripping jinx made him all the more bruised, one time he broke his leg, because someone sent a spell and sent him falling down a staircase.
He healed himself. No one was going to take him to Pomfrey, she didn't want to treat him, and no one was going to heal him either. He was surprised they didn't break his other leg while he was sprawled on the ground, trying not to cry in pain.
At least his father had taught him that Malfoy's never cry, they never scream even when it hurts brutally.
So he sat there for an hour, using the strongest healing spell he could in increments to fix his broken leg, and he got in trouble for skipping class. Not even a broken leg with no one to help him was enough to warrant missing a class.
Harry and the other eighth years were lauded as heroes, and they truly deserved those titles. They were the heroes for the war, Harry died for it. Hermione wiped her parents memory. Ron lost his brother.
Draco was lauded as a monster. A monster who hated all muggle borns.
He felt like a monster too. He sat at the back corner of the Slytherin table and didn't speak to anyone, but the Howlers spoke for him.
Every piece of mail he opened was a Howler. A student yelling, a parent, a random victim of the war, he was the free Death Eater, he was the easiest to blame.
Full of insults, which hurt the more and more he heard them. The more and more he believed them.
The only pieces of mail he recieved that weren't Howlers were the ones about his mother's condition, which deteriorated so quickly that he was left in shock.
Three months into school, the first one telling of her condition appeared. She's sick and they estimate about a year, it told him.
He looked at it until his eyes crossed. His mother was going to die within a year. He'd lost the little bit of appetite he had.
The next one was a month later, changing the estimate. Two more months.
The final one came a month and half later. We regret to inform—
She was gone, gone and cremated. Because there were no open casket funerals for Azkaban prisoners. He didn't even get to say goodbye to her.
Draco Malfoy the new head of the Malfoy family after the death of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy.
Following their alliance to the Dark Lord in the war, the Malfoy's were each sentenced. Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco was sentenced to death, making his mother the head of house. However, locked in Azkaban with failing health, she passed earlier in the week. Now, eighteen year old Draco Malfoy is the head of the Malfoy house.
Now the real question, what did he receive? The answer: nothing. With the Malfoy Manor, their mansion, being seized by the government after the war and their whole fortune being taken for reparations as the combination of all three Malfoy's sentences, there's little more left than a hundred galleons.
He blinked mindlessly at the paper in front of him. It was slammed in front of him by a student. A 7th year.
"How's it feel now, huh? Nothing more than a broke, felon, orphan. Daddy and mommy are dead now, you have no one to hide from behind anymore. Your hundred galleons couldn't even get you four meals. You used to be on top of the world. You're no better than any of us anymore, you're even worse. You're nothing more than a pathetic loser now, you don't even fucking speak anymore."
He only looked at the paper. There was laughter from around him but he stayed silent.
"You're useless."
He already knew. He'd known since he was a child and his father would yell at him for getting less than first place in anything. Every time he fell off his broom, every time he fumbled his words or didn't prove himself the best ever.
He knew it even when he won a quidditch match and his father would still sigh at him in disappointment for some reason he never learned.
It wasn't good enough.
The laughter stung just like the hexes they threw.
He went out to Hogsmeade for the first time that year. He only went for a few minutes to purchase an urn. The ashes of his mother were coming by owl soon and he needed something to place them in.
The urn wasn't engraved. They did engraving but he didn't realise until he was purchasing it (his identity obscured with muggle clothing, of course) that the store didn't allow Death Eaters.
He didn't get it engraved, after all, asking for it to say Narcissa Anastasia Malfoy would be a dead giveaway.
He brought the urn back to their dorm room. He tried to use a carving spell on it, but nothing happened.
He couldn't engrave it either. This was all he would have of her. He couldn't get anything from the house before it was seized and he wasn't allowed to get any pictures of her either. Aside from a few pieces of clothing and a ring she bought for him, that was it.
"H-Hey. I know that you're going to s-say no, but if any of you know how to do a carving spell, I was wondering if y-you could engrave my mother's name i-in this urn...it's all I have of her, and I can't do it."
"Don't you fucking dare. You can't be serious, thinking that we'd actually fucking do anything for you." Seamus glared.
"S-Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry for bothering you—"
"I can do it. Narcissa helped me during the war, when she lied to Voldemort for me." It was Harry.
"Mate, you can't be serious." Ron groans.
"She proclaimed me dead, if she hadn't then I probably would be right now. It's going to take me all of a minute either way."
"Oh so you'll help him out after everything he's done—"
"Yes. Because I'm trying to be nice and if this is all he has to remember her by then I'd like for him to have something. Even I do."
"Thank you." Draco replied.
"Just spell it out for me." Harry told him.
Narcissa Anastasia Malfoy
When he put her ashes in the urn, he held her and finally felt the tears come.
She could be just as mean as his father. But she also could be the kindest woman he knew. She was his mother. But she's gone. His tears ran off the side of the urn. He bit his lip to keep quiet as the tears overflowed. It was too soon.
She'd made bad choices, but she was never as bad as his dad when it came to The Dark Lord. A follower, yes, until further towards the end, a devotee, never. Never a murderer, only a watcher. Not that it made it much better. He knew that he would miss her.
Everything was too much, too soon. Goyle, his father, his mother. All this death surrounded him, yet he was still alive.
He was unsure of whether he wanted to be alive anymore. The answer was further toward no than yes. At least he could be free if he was dead.
-
Draco sat in the common room. He wasn't sure of whether it was 9 pm or 2 am, just staring at the wall.
He was so tired.
Earlier that day, a group of boys ganged up on him in the great hall.
"You walk around here like a lost puppy, nothing to do now that your master is dead? No blood-racist dicks to suck? No pureblood guys to shag? I bet you even let that fucking werewolf—what's his name, Fenrir?—fuck you. Always following after Blaise and Theo like that earlier, I bet you've had half the pureblood men in you. Nothing without them, hmm?"
He thinks it was a sixth or seventh year. He's not even sure. But he recoiled so viscerally from them that they cackled.
"Uh oh, we discovered his secret! He's been whoring around with everyone, acting like a cockslut, hoping that none of us would put it together!"
"Aren't most of those purebloods like 50?"
"Yep. Draco's been fucking with all the purebloods three times his age, keeping them sated. They probably couldn't even get it up for him."
"I didn't."
"Oh? He's finally denying it, but it's too late. They were all staying at your house for a while too, plenty of chances for all those Death Eaters to get with you. Fenrir and Voldemort especially, since they'd overpower you so easily. How'd it feel, being those monsters bitches? I bet they fucked you every day too, you fucking whore."
Draco panicked. They wouldn't stop. Their laughter just got louder and louder and it wouldn't stop and he'd never do what they said he would.
Even if he was, or if he wasn't, it's not the same as letting the Death Eaters go at him like a piece of meat and it made him sick—
So he ran.
He ran back to the dorms and let them laugh at him, let them spread their rumours when they inevitably planned to tell everyone that he was like that.
He stayed in the common room until then, watching everyone enter. Hermoine and Ron, Luna and Neville, Dean and Seamus, Parvati, then Harry.
He felt sick to his stomach, as he had been most days. He felt disgusting. The blood under his fingernails as he scratched at his Dark Mark was only a testament to it.
While the other eighth years got interrupted by fans of them, asking for an autograph or thanking them for their help to end the war—and he did see how that could get frustrating at some point as they can't be left alone—Draco received the same treatment of not being left alone, only the things that interrupted him weren't fans, they were people who rightfully hated him.
He'd thought it would get better after a few months of being at Hogwarts, it hadn't. It never got better. He was sure that this was his deserved treatment for the years that he'd made schooling for others as stressful and awful as possible.
It was his payback, his karma.
But, Merlin, was Draco Malfoy exhausted.
It maybe 9 pm, or 2 am, he wasn't sure. But he was sure when Harry Potter sat down beside him.
"You're bleeding."
"That's nice."
Harry pursed his lips.
"Do you know what the time is?"
"No."
"It's 1:15 in the morning."
"Oh."
"I heard what Xander and all his friends said to you today—or well, yesterday. He shouldn't have said that."
"That never stopped me before. It's a taste of my own medicine."
"That's not—he's been telling everyone that you and Fenrir...er"
"Shagged?"
"Yeah."
"And people believe him?"
"They'll believe anything when it comes to you"
"I can see why."
"But you didn't though. It doesn't even make sense."
"You said it best. They'll believe anything when it comes to me. It's an easy thing to use as ammunition. It probably didn't help that I ran."
"It's awful."
"It's what I get. I deserve it."
"You don't—I wouldn't have testified for you if I thought you were a bad person. If I thought you deserved Azkaban I would've let you go, but all the things at the trial that I said are still true. You may have been a bully, a blood-purist, a Death Eater. But you stopped bullying anyone towards the end of fifth year. Anyone should've been able to tell that you didn't believe all that blood-purist bullshit towards the end of sixth year, even when I knew you had the mark. Not only that, you took it under immense stress and you were sixteen. You're not the same person. You stopped a lot of the things that made you a dick a while ago."
"It doesn't change the fact that this is who I am now. I am a Death Eater. It doesn't matter the context, his mark is on my wrist. I am the guy who spewed slurs with joy. I am the bully. I am the blood purist."
"But you're not! If we ignore the Death Eater thing, evidently you believe you are, regardless. Those other things are past tense. You don't say slurs and you don't bully, you aren't a blood purist. You're not your past."
"I don't deserve redemption though. Just because, for some bloody reason, you think that I'm redeemable, doesn't mean that I deserve it."
"Draco, you were a kid. We all were. You don't deserve to be hated the rest of your life for the actions that you did when you were a teen and younger."
"Yeah? I was a teen, and they acknowledged that in court, but they still tried me as an adult. They still took everything I had. My mark is permanent. Everyone knows who I am. I will never be forgiven. I will never be unhated. You may have been a kid, Harry, "The Boy Who Lived Twice". As much as you hate the title, the public sees you as succeeding in spite of your age. For me, I never was, it's not the same. The public sees me no different than my father, an adult that should've known better, even if I wasn't."
"It's wrong to think like that though!"
"It doesn't matter what's fucking wrong! It's what it is! Maybe if people considered me differently than I wouldn't be banned from stores, or from the hospital ward, or have hexes thrown at me every single day. If what was wrong mattered then the Dark Lord wouldn't have gotten back to power in the first place."
"Draco..."
"You may not think that I deserve it, and that makes one of us, but the public has already agreed that I do."
Draco watched as Harry stood up.
"For what it's worth, Draco, I'm sorry about everything. For the loss of Goyle, your dad and your mom. For the loss of your house. For those months in Azkaban, and for your sentencing in the eyes of the public."
Draco felt confused when Harry left, and more than anything, hurt.
-
That was only a week ago. It was the first time in months that Draco had spoken at length to anyone.
He wished he could say it had an impact, but after spending those past seven days with constant laughter from around him, slurs being thrown at him for his presumed sexuality and for the people they accused him falsely of fucking, and the usual bullying only amped up further, he was done.
He used to wonder if he'd rather Goyle be alive than him. Now there's no longer a question.
If he were taken, rather than Goyle, at least one of them would still be alive. Draco's soul had died months ago, but now his physical body would be soon as well.
He's not wearing a robe. He's not wearing shoes either. Just a button up and a pair of pants that he didn't bother tucking in.
He didn't want this to happen.
Or maybe he did.
He's been wanting to die for a while. But he didn't think he'd ever do it himself. He's always been a coward. It's funny that even that cowardice didn't extend to his own life.
Not anymore.
It's dark. He put his stack of notes on the ground with a paper weight.
The things he never said.
The final two letters he's sending out via owl, a copy of the same letter to both Pansy and Blaise.
You always were my best friends. I'm sorry that we grew apart as we grew up. I don't blame you for not attending Hogwarts, I wish I didn't have to. I wish I didn't do a lot of things...I wish I wasn't leaving you. I can't help but wonder if you care though. you didn't notice my pain, you didn't notice as I starved myself. I wonder if you liked me as much as I thought you did, or if you put up with me just like all the rest. I'm sorry that I'm so confused. I'm sorry that I'm doing this. But you're going to be happier when there's no association between us anymore. I truly loved you guys. -Draco
He hooks one on both the owls he's sending, and let's them fly away. He checks back to the papers he left on the ground, making sure the paperweight is strong enough that they won't fly away.
When he's sure enough, he stared back down at the fall from the Astronomy Tower.
He's not going to survive this. He doesn't want to. At least, with the exclusion of Blaise and Pansy, there's no one to hurt when he does this.
Dumbledore fell off this tower last year. A direct cause of Draco's actions. The memories aren't any less painful now.
Two deaths off the tower soon.
This should be a special day, as he's a year older, finally nineteen, but no day is special anymore.
His birthday and his death day. What a perfect day to do this.
He's not sure he cares. The idea of being a year older means another full year to get through. The idea of being a year older only makes him feel more pessimistic.
There is nothing out there for him. That's maybe the reason why he chose today, because he just can't take it anymore.
His life is too worthless and he's too depressed to go any further.
There was nobody here to celebrate his birthday. Blaise and Pansy didn't send him anything. He doesn't have any other friends to wish him one. His mother and father would always wish him one, get him extravagant gifts, but there's no way for him to get that anymore.
There's no presents for him now, except for this one that he's giving himself. The gift of peace. The gift of reaching the end.
Maybe he'll see his mother or Goyle in the afterlife.
He's not sure.
He just knows that the afterlife can't be any worse than his current reality.
Nothing that he might face after this could be worse than right now.
As the wind whips through his hair and blows his shirt, he stands up on the edge of the tower.
With one final, deep exhale, he reminds himself that this is for the best. Not just for him, but for everyone. This is the only good deed he's done.
With that thought in his mind, Draco turns around, and he falls back, trusting that nothing but the hard impact of the soft grass below catches him.
For the first time since fifth year he feels at peace, and he doesn't feel the pain when he hits the ground, he's only consumed by the darkness.