Disclaimer: I hold no rights over the characters of this story.

Warnings: Heavy Triggers

Chapter 1- Draco Malfoy

Life sucks.

That was the personal motto that pulled Draco Malfoy through the day. His reminder that he was still alive and regretting it.

Life is unfair.

Life hurts.

Therefore it bloody sucks.

Everyday he awoke in white emptiness and every night he went to bed only to be tormented by the face of every innocent soul tortured and dead because of him.

Because he was weak.

Because he was worthless.

He deserved everything that life brought him after the war and even more. He was utterly alone and he still couldn't decide whether that was a curse or a blessing. He felt numb while hurting all over. His soul, his very core, were broken.

He had lost everything.

Even though the Dark Lord was defeated, therefore the leash, binding him to someone he despised from the bottom of his very being, broken, he had still lost. He got his wish and his nightmares, both granted at the same time. His father was shipped off to Azkaban for life, where he left his parting breath a year and a half after the Battle of Hogwarts. It was impressing really, that he managed to survive that long. His mother didn't have the mark, and wasn't accused of anything more than interacting and passively helping the enemy, so she was left off lightly, sentenced to five years under house arrest in the Malfoy mansion, no magic.

She had managed to survive only four of them. The heavy depression after Lucius' death and the heavy pressure from the wizarding world on her frail shoulders, combined with the loss of everything in her life save for Draco, had her falling severely ill. She had died in his arms, his name, her baby's name, the last thing leaving her pale white lips.

He had lost everything he had fought for. He did not take the mark or work for Voldemort because he wanted to. He had done what he had to protect himself and the people he cared for. And he had obviously failed. Even so it surprised him how he still had escaped the law.

Draco hadn't been sentenced for his wrong-doings, only thanks to one Harry Potter. Even though he bared the disgusting mark, even though so many had suffered so that he and his family could be safe, the fact that Potter had burst in the court room during his trial, insisting that Draco's help was essential to the victory of the Light, had him send off home guilty-free.

But not guilt-free.

Most of his family's fortune had been confiscated after his father's imprisonment as funds to repay the damages inflicted by the Death Eaters upon the world. Draco only had his father's mansion left. Depressed enough to be unable to use his magic, friend-less, help-less and hated by the world, Draco had no idea why he still allowed himself to walk this world alive. He didn't deserve his life.

His thoughts trailed off to the Boy-who-Lived. What did he do after the war? He probably finally got the life he dreamed, the life he deserved. With a loving family, a good job and surrounded by people who cared about him.

He had years to have any actual interaction with the outside world, but when he was still in school rumors had it that Potter aimed to become an Auror, much like his parents were. He had probably succeeded. Draco could think of very few, if any, better suited for a job like that than Harry Potter. He could imagine the Golden Child speed rising through the ranks to Head Auror, if he hadn't reached it already. They probably had given him his badge without even asking him to pass the exams and had offered him the position themselves.

Or he could have become a Quiditch player. Best seeker of the school and maybe even their generation, he wouldn't have had any problem getting into any team he wished. He probably had countless offers from all over the world, begging him to grace them with his registration.

Whatever he had become he was certainly happy. One of the perks of being the Wizarding world's saviour. Married to the Weaslette, maybe even with a child or two of his own. Draco could only guess.

It felt weird, thinking about his childhood nemesis with apathy, no rivalry hate or jealously burning with the thought that the Griffindor led a life happier than his own miserable existence. The Saviour deserved at least that much. As was the Death Eater.

Draco still didn't know why Potter had stood up for him all those years ago. He owed Draco nothing, his debt from when the Slytherin hadn't revealed his identity at Malfoy manor repaid when he saved him from the Fiendfire in the room of Requiems. So why would he go out of his way to defend /him/ of all people? Draco didn't care, or so he told himself. The small pang of hurt he still felt at the thought that the other boy hadn't cared to check up on him, even to see if he was still alive, wasn't real. Just another lie he told himself to pretend he wasn't the shadow he seemed to have become.

Draco shook his head to dismiss the thoughts. His unkempt platinum hair, now almost at waist length, waving and falling in front of his eyes as he did so. He didn't even notice. Slowly and tentatively, he rose from the dusty old chair by the window of his father's study. His weak legs barely held him upright. His body had become bony and thin and weak. He didn't care for himself, it had probably been weeks since he had eaten something even remotely substantial, but he /didn't. care./ There was no reason to. His eyes fell on a dusty picture by his father's big ebony desk. He gingerly picked it up and run his bony fingers over the glass, leaving clear trails on the dust. It was his parents, back in happier days. Lucius' face was young, handsome, with the trademark Malfoy sneer plastered on his sharp face. But his grey eyes were soft, looking at the beautiful woman by his side with unmasked fondness, a smile threatening to break the façade. He had his arm around his wife's waist. Narcissa looked so young, yet still majestic and stunning, leaning back in her husband's embrace. Her face was lit up with pure happiness, her smiling face and bright blue eyes trailing from the man by her side to the small sleeping bundle in her arms, her Dragon. It was so eerily peaceful, such a cruel promise of what could have been, had the accursed Dark Lord never returned. Before his father went mad from fear and torture, before his mother died early from depression and grief. Before.

A single salty tear run from a dull silver eye to trembling lips, falling onto the glass silently and mixing with the dust. He tore his gaze from the picture and put it back on the desk, before he turned and stumbled down the empty corridor. He had long since freed and dismissed the house elves of the mansion, the cold building even colder by the emptiness that graced it. Draco's ghost-like figure walked towards his rooms supported by the wall, his bare feet echoing through the empty space and returning back to him, like they were mocking his lonely presence.

He walked into his room, and moved to stand in-front of the full body vintage mirror. He hesitantly took in his pale demeanor, his eyes lingering on the bones, so heavily pronounced that he could count almost every single one of them. His skin, deathly pale and ill looking, so white that it was almost transparent. His sunken face, so very different than from when he was in school, With black-purple marks under the eyes that betrayed his exhaustion. His twiggy legs, straining with the effort of keeping him standing. what a disgrace. So completely worthless. Why did he allow for this -his- pathetic existence to continue? Such a coward still, after all these years after the war. Seven long, dark, empty years. His apathetic face suddenly twisted into one of pure resentment, anger, pain, fury. All those dangerous emotions that he bottled deep inside of him for years, surged out. What he kept locked, building and growing inside him the more he fed it, everything burst out in one single moment, his bony fist colliding heavily with the reflective surface. Blood spluttered everywhere. Small. shiny pieces of glass, poked from the shredded skin of his knuckles, logged in so deep that he was sure there was some irreversible damage done. He didn't mind, it didn't matter, he had no more use of his hand, of his flesh.

His eyes lifted to the broken pieces still stubbornly clinging onto the wooden frame. Hundreds little mirrors reflecting his face. Hundreds of his once lively silver eyes, now the grey of the dead, stared back at him. Slowly, he bend down, taking hold of a piece. A nice, big, sharp piece. He weighted it into his palm. It would do. It would do nicely for what he intended it to. It wouldn't be hard, his body just a soulless, broken shell. He saw his face again, into the sharp piece. A single reflection. The first real smile after almost ten years was the last image of Draco Malfoy in this world, before the sharp surface met the sensitive flesh of a pale wrist, painting the white skin red, creating a scarlet pool on the marble floor. And then Draco Malfoy was no more, his body lying dead on the cold floor, for no-one to find.