He sat, silent, stolid, still. Below, through the rain and mist, he saw all of the figures of his family and friends gathered around one of the headstones of the Malfoy family cemetery. His mother was weeping. Sadness was not a rare emotion in the Malfoy family anymore, or what was left of the family. None of the Death Eaters there showed any emotion at all. They were simply there because Lucius Malfoy had been powerful.
As he looked down from his post, high on one of the peaks of the East Wing of the Malfoy manor, memories flooded his mind. It had been years, he had forgotten how many, since he was back at school. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger: the Trio. How he hated them. He looked at them with the utmost disgust. But Harry was dead now. Much to his surprise, the Dark Lord had managed to kill him. He had left Granger and Weasley alone, but the world had changed so much since then, they'd probably be dead by now anyway.
Walking down the streets, or even flying over them on a broom was enough to make anyone see that all that had resulted from the last and successful uprising of Voldemort was destruction, chaos and decay. The Dark Lord had power, but over what? This hell hole? In the end, fighting on the dark side had not been worth it. Worth anything. Come to think of it, he didn't really join wholeheartedly in the first place. The family ties of the Malfoys were enough to drive anyone mad. From a young age, he had been driven to the dark side by his father, his mother, everyone. But this is what the dark side got you...death.
After the War, he had tried to leave the dark side, but Voldemort wouldn't allow it. Everything was to be destroyed if it disobeyed the Dark Lord. He would wipe entire families clean off of the map, leaving no trace. But he was a Malfoy. His father had helped during the war, and he had now earned even more power now that it was all over. That was the only thing that the name Malfoy had helped him with. But the help had come with a price. He hadn't died, but he was exiled, and the name Draco Malfoy was disgraced forever. He had spent some time as a loner, living off of what he could, with no one to turn to. A prisoner inside himself. He had found himself longing to go home. Home to the place where he had learned to hate. The place that seethed with hatred itself.
He had resisted, however, and found an underground group of people, still fighting for the cause of good. Although Harry had been killed, and Dumbledore, many of their followers had gone to the dark, or died trying to fight it. The few that had escaped were here, mainly hidden in the woods, or sometimes even the sewers. They had heard about Draco's exile and had offered to take him in. It was here that he discovered that Granger and Weasley were still alive. They had not, by any means, extended welcome to him. After the death of Harry, they were mere shells of their former selves. They were deathly pale all of the time, their eyes dark. No life existed anymore. They were simply alive, but not living.
He had stayed with this group for a long while. By then,Draco had stopped caring about time. The end of the world had come, it just was taking its sweet time. There was no future anymore. Just survival of today. He worked harder to pull his own weight in the underground groups, and was finally accepted by Hermione. Weasley, however, was still hostile. He didn't believe that a Malfoy could change. They were out on a mission to sabotage yet another one of the Dark Lord's plans to kill all of the members of yet another family, and Draco had gotten separated from the team. The next thing he realized, he was grabbed and bitten on the neck. He remembered feeling all of the warmth and life draining from his body, but it was being replaced by a strange cold. This cold was fueling him. Now he had a thirst for blood.
The news had gotten to his parents, and they had a funeral, with no body. Lucius had told everyone that Draco had been attacked by a pack of rabid wolves and mauled horribly. No one was the wiser as Draco perched on the very spot he was now, and he watched his own funeral take place. The rest of the time between that day and this one was all blurred. The occasional kill, the blood sucking, and constant cold. He once again, lived on his own, exiled by the exiles. He was truly a no one. He was the undead. But he didn't want to go back. Better this than the bitter hatred of home.
Now he sat, watching his fathers funeral, emotionless. If anything, he felt sorry for his mother, who had no one left now. But he doubted that she'd even take him back even though everyone else was gone. All of a sudden, an owl hooted loudly and his attention snapped back to the funeral. The people were departing, the once black mass of their robes scattered into several smaller masses in the distance. He stood up and stretched his legs. It was dark and he was hungry.