The war was over. Good had prevailed over evil. But the cost was great.
Draco thought about looking for his parents, but had found himself standing in the desolation of the barren battlefield. Well, desolate toward life, for he stood amongst bodies. People who had once been alive, with dreams, ambitions, families, friends, lovers…he looked down at the grounds, realizing he had just stepped in a small puddle of blood. Disgusted, he lifted up his shoe and glared at the blood now covering his shoe soles, as if the blood would evaporate off it. Nonetheless, the blood was still there. A trickle dripped off the side of his shoe and he became suddenly engrossed in it. More specifically its colour.
The blond wizard realized that he had no way of telling who's blood he had just stepped in. All his life he had been taught-and had believed, actually believed-that he was above others just because of the 'status' of his blood. He scoffed at how naiive he had been. The deep red looked the same, whether it had come from a pure-blood, half-blood, even a muggle born. So why did it even matter in the first place? That's when the realization dawned on him. It didn't. Never had. Not really.
Suddenly his thoughts were brought back to another time. When he had watched as muggle born blood had been shed. To say that he had been surprised when Granger, Weasley and Potter were brought to his home, was a bit of an understatement. When he'd seen Granger, alive and well-well, alive at least-he'd wanted to cry out in joy. It was a weird thing. He hadn't seen her in quite a while. Didn't know what circumstances had led to the intelligent witch getting captured. But there was no doubt in his mind that the swollen-faced freak that she and Weasley had been accompanied by, was Potter.
But when he was forced to identify him, Malfoy had paused. Why had he hesitated? All he had to do was hand over The Boy Who Lived. Voldemort would be right over, they'd slaughter him and the reign of the death eaters would be secured.
Was it because the reign of death eaters wasn't what Draco had wanted, after all? Was it because Malfoy knew that sentencing Potter to death would be sentencing Granger to death, also? Not that she wasn't in danger at the moment, if her tortured screams later had anything to say in that. Was it because Draco looked at Harry and saw him for who he was? Not as Potter, the annoying Gryffindor, or The Boy Who Lived, or the best friend to Granger, or the Dark Lord's number one target; but Draco had seen Harry as Harry. A scared young boy who had been unwillingly tossed into a cruel world with a path already laid out for his life before he even had a chance to refuse it. Shoes to fill, a battle to be won.
The only difference was, Draco was on the wrong side. With a jolt, Draco caught himself before he could finish the thought in his head, as if his family around him could hear his thoughts. And what an unexpected thought at that. Another one followed. He's innocent. That boy is innocent, and doesn't deserve this. None of them do. Refusing to look at Granger, Malfoy mumbled out the lie. He couldn't tell if it was Harry or not. Draco hoped that his aunt Bellatrix wouldn't see through him.
Though he did half expect to hear the words Avada Kedavra being shot at him from behind. Family or not, Bellatrix was painfully loyal to the Dark Lord. She would see his interference as a threat. A threat that needed to be taken out. In a situation like this, Draco wasn't sure where his own father's loyalty would fall. He just hoped that he himself would be killed long before his mother would try to intervene.
When she seemed to believe him, Draco let out a breath. But the worst wasn't over. It was yet to come. And come it did, as he watched Hermione's chest being carved into, with Bellatrix's wand; a gleam of insanity lighting up the death eater's eyes as she watched the pain and fear she was inflicting. Hermione's screams filled his head. He wanted to rip his aunt off the innocent girl. But he couldn't. Why? He was afraid. A coward. Too afraid to save the girl who had been a friend to him during a time when he seemed to have none. Too cowardly to stand against evil, for fear of the safety of his family.
Breathe, Hermione. Please. Just breathe and do not answer anything, he'd urged, wishing that he could somehow take some of the pain away. Potter and Weasley had come to the rescue then. When Potter disarmed Draco, he hadn't given much of a fight. Hadn't wanted to. The three of them had to get out. They just had to. Even so, Draco eye's still sought the witch's brown eyes, never wanting to let her out of his sight again. What he saw in them had frightened him. Emptiness.
He was brought out of the painful memory by a sniffling nearby. He looked up into the same brown eyes, full of trepidation. Tears streamed silently down her face, and she looked embaressed; she obviously hadn't seen him when she walked over. Draco couldn't blame her. This sight that lay before them was enough to make anyone blind to everything else.
Draco tensed, waiting for her to move. When she didn't, he relaxed slightly. There were so many things he'd wanted to say then. He wanted to run to her and beg her forgiveness. Ask if she was alright. Stay by her side until she forced him away. Sadly, he realized, she felt safe. She felt like home. Not the Manor, which had been thoroughly corrupted during the war. Not Hogwarts-though it had always been more of a home to him than the Manor ever was-which had seen the worst of the war. But the feeling of home. Of security. And oddly enough, of comfort.
She opened her mouth as if to say something. But then thought better of it, and was suddenly gone. She'd been the last real friend he had. And that's when Draco had felt it. The loss and loneliness. The death all around him suddenly overcame him and Draco fell to his knees as sobs ravaged his body.