Draco liked the eerie, unnatural silence and sameness that snow brought. The great London sky was a flat even grey as the tiny frozen flakes peppered the streets and rooftops. In the melancholy hours after work and before curfew, Draco wandered around the city. Today, he found himself lying on his back on a picnic table next to the river Thames, staring up into the falling snow.
He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled the thick white smoke into the silvery world; it mixed and mingled with the snowflakes. Each draw caused a sinking, relaxing feeling that seemed to pull his back closer to the table, as if he was being absorbed into it. His woolen scarf was wet with hundreds of thousands of melted icy flecks and his hair stuck to his forehead. Through another long release of smoke he sighed, thinking about how he ended up there.
The war had been finished almost three years prior; Draco hadn't considered it "won," because good had not prevailed. Although Voldemort had perished as a consequence of his weakened soul and the connection between him and Harry Potter, the influence of his followers was too strong to be overcome. The crowd that had gathered around their final fight cheered when Voldemort had collapsed in death, thinking it was all over… until streaks of vibrant green lightning had rained down on the supposed victors. They succumbed quickly to the ruthlessness of Voldemort's remaining loyalists.
Those who had been on the Dark Lord's side were obviously spared and rewarded; those who had not were punished, stripped of their magical status and forced to live as Muggles. This punishment seemed exceptionally cruel and demeaning to the Death Eaters as they took the wands, sometimes forcibly, from anyone that had opposed them. Many of the more fragile members of the battle immediately changed allegiances in a desperate grab for their own salvation. For the most part, their disgraceful plan had been fruitful, but they were only rewarded the most menial jobs that the wizarding world had to offer, and were regarded as highly as mudbloods.
The most bloodthirsty of the Death Eaters, seeking to avenge his Aunt Bellatrix's death, found it in their personal duties to punish the Weasleys severely because it was at the matron's hand that she had died. They were sent far away to exile, somewhere where they could perform no magic and rarely were allowed to see each other. Or, at least, that's what the Carrows had told Draco. After having lost Ron, Hermione Granger had set off on foot in desperate heartbreak without telling a soul of her plan and without her wand as well, to personally scour the Earth to find her love. She was never heard from again.
Of course, there was a special place in hell for Harry Potter. He was imprisoned by the Ministry for the first year and a half after the war. They used him as a puppet for their own amusement, a jester of sorts, subjecting him to the most powerful of Imperious curses and causing him complete humiliation. The Carrows again were at the forefront of pain and suffering and presided over most of Potter's slavery. Draco remembered well their most favourite of humiliation tactics: they had stripped him naked and thrown him in an oversized gerbil's cage and placed it in Trafalgar Square for all of London to see for three months. The cage was open to the elements from the top and they rarely changed the wood chips that lined the floor. Essentially, they left Harry to rot publicly in his own filth while only just barely giving him the nutrients to sustain his life. Also, for his viewing pleasure, they projected the live feed from the Weasleys' exile and torture on the glass sides of his cage, viewable only to him, for him to slowly waste away to insanity while others watched him scream and writhe in mental anguish, oblivious of his strife. They had quickly found that the best way to break Harry Potter was to rid him of all those who loved him. It was, after all, love that had saved him in the very beginning. One night out of no where, the cage vanished when no one was around to witness it, and he had fled into the darkness of London's alleys. Rumours flew that he was forming a resistance of freedom fighters, that he had gone to the United States for asylum, or that he had killed himself out of madness. No one wanted to admit that they knew absolutely nothing about his whereabouts.
And then there was Draco Malfoy, an icon of the new regime. Gleaming, clean, polished, and of fabulous wealth and heritage, he was the very image of the future of the new wizarding world. He instantly had gained the position of Senior Assistant to the Minister of Magic, which didn't bother him in the slightest because despite the fancy title, it was just mounds upon mounds of personal records that needed approval or denial. He sat in a posh office in an overstuffed velveteen chair, stamping papers with a bored look on his face and only straightening his back and expression when someone actually bothered to come talk to him.
Muggles were, surprisingly, mostly left alone. Now that the Ministry had all the power it could ever have, they no longer needed to torture and kill for amusement. Instead, they congratulated themselves on being masters of the universe over exorbitantly expensive cocktails and cigars and amused themselves with lavish parties the new "magical Squibs" were forced to throw in their honour. The only true impact on the Muggle lifestyle was the takeover of the entire Muggle government and the threat of being killed instantly for nothing other than not being of magical blood.
His cigarette had burned to nothing but filter, so he shoved it between the weathered planks of the picnic bench. He was left alone for the majority of his time, especially once work let out. Draco had his own flat in an upscale neighbourhood of London that was secluded enough so he wasn't bothered, but immersed enough so he didn't feel entirely alone. The snow was falling heavier now and enough had accumulated to make a pleasing crunch when Draco brought his feet down from the table. Checking his watch, he knew curfew was almost in effect, though it hardly mattered because Draco was a poster child, and could therefore do almost whatever he wanted as long as he kept his public image relatively untarnished.
The fanfare began to blast through the speakers in the streets as Draco rounded the first corner away from his picnic table smoke spot. He watched as Londoners scattered like rats to get into the nearest doorway, even if it wasn't their actual home or workplace. They would stay for an hour, just until the sweeps of the roads for stragglers were done, and then scurry off down damp alleys into the inky darkness, taking the most secretive path possible to their abodes. If they were caught, they were at first given a fine. On second offences the Death Eaters showed their own form of mercy: the Cruciatus Curse, right there in the street. Draco thought it was unnecessary, because the Muggles were too scared of them to fathom breaking the rules, and the magical Squibs were too broken to care about much of anything anymore. He continued on, glancing into exposed windows every now and again, where he could see people offering people who were most likely strangers steaming hot tea and a healthy portion of some hearty meal. The curfew had done its job to deter crime but with an unexpected side effect: the people of London were united in terms of friendship and hospitality. If someone showed up on a doorstep at curfew time, people had learned that whom you were, where you were from, or what you did for a living was unimportant. They fed you and, if the family you stumbled upon was a little bit well off, they gave you a few coins to pay off any Death Eaters you might encounter on the rest of your journey home.
Another corner, and Draco began to see the scores of officials begin to appear from thin air or pour from dark alleys and doorways. His bright blond hair was obvious enough to make his identity known, so he continued walking past as if they didn't exist while they cast glares of envy. Down a murky side alley, rounding endless bends he cut through the snowy night with grace and agility. Stepping through a hole in a rotten fence, he came face to face with a dodgy grimy pub lit with shotty old neon so covered in dirt there hardly was even a point to turn on the lights. Draco secured his valuables inside his coat with a charm and trudged through the deepening snow to the door.
Inside was a perpetual haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, as well as the smell of stale basement and working men. It wasn't a clean, proper smell that Draco should enjoy, but something about the smell of smoke, motor oil, and sweat made him feel safe, as if he was just a normal person and not some royal figurehead. As soon as he stepped across the threshold the bartender, a war-hardened magical Squib by the name of Barnaby thrust an entire bottle of gin at Draco.
"Y'look like ye need it today, my good man. 'S'on me." he chuckled with half of an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. Draco took his normal place on a dry-rotted barstool at the darkest corner of the bar.
"Thanks, Barns," Draco half-muttered as he reached under the bar for a whiskey glass. He filled it to the very brim and slid it across to the wrinkled bartender, who toasted Draco and knocked it back with a wide grin and a shudder. For the first time that day, Draco allowed himself to crack a little half-smile at the corner of his lips. Five years ago, Draco would have never associated with someone like Barnaby but Draco, and the times, were different, and he considered the brash man almost a friend.
With the same indifference Draco kept through all circumstances in his normal life, he began drinking straight from the bottle while absent-mindedly staring at an arm wrestling match going on at the other end of the bar. He looked entirely out of place wearing flawless dress pants and a Victorian military jacket, while everyone else was covered in grit and their clothes were torn and frayed. Tipping the bottle back and chugging, he shuddered for a full ten seconds at the bitter taste of the gin.
"I fucking hate this job, Barns. Like, I really fucking hate this job, and the people, and just… just, fuck. Fuck, Barns," Draco proclaimed an hour later while polishing off the last inch or two of liquid courage in the bottle in his hand. "Everyone is such a pompous asshole. So full of themselves with horrendously large sticks up their arses." He attempted to sit the bottle squarely on the counter but managed to just get the corner on the surface, which slipped sideways with Draco's hand coming in contact with the counter.
"Don' hold back, Draco," the bartender snickered. He was good-natured and kind, but it seemed everything was a joke to him. It occurred to Draco that having seen the things that man had seemed, joking was the healthiest way to cope.
"Oh, I won't, you can count on that. I can say whatever I want to you because you bloody understand. Pigs." Draco went off on the same drunken tangent whenever he went to that bar, but it never bothered anyone. In fact, most regulars perked up when they saw him enter the bar because it meant they'd be getting a dish of good old-fashioned slightly rebellious ranting. It made it even more hilarious that it was coming from the second-in-command himself. A lot of the regulars from the bar were people Draco had known either from school or various holidays with his family; they'd known him as a nasty little prick growing up, but most had at least grown neutral to him because it appeared he was one of them after all and that his ego had deflated considerably. The war changed everyone, but they also understood Draco had to put on airs to keep up appearances. He was central to the government, so if he seemed pleased to the general commons, it could be assumed that the Minister was pleased as well.
"Yer jan'd, man," he heard one of the arm wrestlers say. Draco lifted his head from the bar. He hadn't realised that his head had made a pillow of the gin bottle until the other man nudged him.
"Li-thas-sumthinnew…" he mumbled groggily. Barnaby put a tall glass of water on the counter in front of him.
"Ev'ry day y'come in here 'n' get twisted, Malfoy. How d'y'do it?" He was wiping down the bar with a lemon-scented scrub that made Draco crave some sort of mixed drink with too much tequila. Draco smirked and pointed at the other man, bottle in hand, obviously readying to tell him a very interesting story. He opened his mouth to talk a few times, but reduced to snickering so heavily that his eyes squinted shut and he bared his teeth. Finally, he gathered his composure enough to speak.
"Hangover… potions…" he managed to slur definitively. He began to giggle again when he pulled a flask from his breast pocket and chugged the contents before anyone could stop him. "I fergot I 'ad that!" He whipped out his wand and refilled it under the bar and downed the contents again.
"Ya certainly need more booze, yeh!" joked Barnaby, and Draco laughed with a very animated nod, which almost tossed him off his barstool. He gripped the edge of the counter for support, eyes wide because he had very nearly just escaped certain death, and then laughed heartily again for what a fool he was. It had been a little over an hour and he was too drunk to stand and was more than likely at least a little blacked out.
Twenty minutes later, Draco was face down on the bar and not stirring. A few people tried to rouse him, but this was an almost daily occurrence and all present knew the plastered wizard would be perfectly okay because they had all seen him drink much more than what he had consumed that night. A stranger coming from the back of the bar tossed several coins on to the counter before nodding at the pub owner.
"I've got it, okay? I'll make sure he gets home and doesn't end up in a ditch somewhere." The bartender nodded with a knowing smile and whisked the money into a large glass jar while wishing him a good evening. The unknown man took Draco's arm and flung it around his shoulders to hoist him to his feet and secured an arm around his waist. Draco made some incomprehensible mumbling, but his head lolled forward and he was out cold again.