The war ended with his family safe (broken, ashamed and dishonored, but safe). Draco was thankful for that and for the words of Potter in regards of his mother.
"She saved me," he said to the Wizengamot who tried to incarcerate her. "You would all be dead if Narcissa Malfoy hadn't lied to Voldemort, risking her life in doing so."
Draco nodded solemnly at Potter when he left the court, but could not think of any words to let him know how much he appreciated what he did for his mother. She had not been the same since the day of the battle at Hogwarts, and both he and his father worried about her health.
"You are free to go, ma'am," said Minister Kingsley to Narcissa. Draco sighed in relief and waited for his mother, always graceful and with a dignified pose, to approach him.
"You should thank him, Draco," she said.
Draco nodded, though he grabbed his mother's arms and walked with her to the Atrium. With no words between mother and son and the heavy burden of knowing his father was not returning with them, they Apparated away.
"I will make something to eat," said Narcissa, her voice seeming to come from far-away.
Draco felt sad. His mother only ever cooked when she felt depressed and conflicted. He could still remember her last pregnancy, the longer one, and how she and his father suffered when his would-have-been brother died in her womb. She stayed in the kitchens with the elves for weeks. His father drowned himself in Vodka and FireWhisky.
His legs took him to his bedroom, the one he had seldom used since beginning Hogwarts. The same green walls and silvery-grey drapes he remembered met him there, making him feel small and daunted. The colors that once made him proud now only served to remember him the color of the Avada Kedavra and the pasty skin of the Dark Lord.
A shiver ran through his body.
This wasn't the Utopia they had been promised. This was not the pureblood-ruled world the Dark Lord swore to give them. It was not supposed to be like this.
Looking out of the window, Draco saw the sun setting behind the Abraxan's empty stables; the reddish and golden tint of the sun colored the waters of the small lake he had bathed on as a child. Draco thought instinctively of the Gryffindor colours and how they had represented victory along the ages.
Kings and Queen had worn those colors to show their royalty, their power and their might. How many conquerors had worn green and silver, colors of poison and rotten things? Draco didn't know.
What he did know was the bitter feeling left in everyone by the war. He could see it even in Potter, in the way his voice spoke in hushed tones and his eyes looked as if he had seen death.
He could see Granger and Weasley during his parents' trials. They seemed haunted by something, and it seemed as dark as the mark that had thankfully vanished from his arm.
Nobody could have ever prepared Draco, prepared this generation of wizards and witches, for the horrors of the war, but those were nothing compared with the numb thoughts of a hopeless future.
For the Pokémon Journey Challenge :)