Harry Potter and its characters are the property of J. K. Rowling and do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing.
Ash and dust filtered down from a dark sky, obscuring Draco's vision. His eyes stayed focussed on the light colouring of her hair, a pale blonde which contrasted against the destruction that surrounded them both. Other witches and wizards ran past him, battling one another on all sides. Spells ricocheted off brickwork, teeth ripped into flesh, but she did nothing - Luna simply stared back at him, her eyes pleading, her wand long gone. The noise around them was deafening, but it could not match the internal struggle raging inside his head. He tightened his grip on the willow wand, a poor replacement for his original Hawthorn. The wood burned against his skin, resistant to the spell that sat at the forefront of Draco's mind.
'Draco,' a voice growled, rasping against his ear. He didn't look back, unable to turn his gaze away from Luna's. She was trembling, her pink jeans ripped and stained with someone else's blood. Her jumper was ragged and slashed open at the shoulder. Amongst the robes and night, he was surprised she had remained inconspicuous for so long. 'Draco,' the voice urged a second time, 'do it!' Had she really come to battle dressed like that? He fought back the impulse to giggle, the sound catching in his throat. A cold, bony hand grabbed his own, forcing his wand up. His father stood almost touching him, breath hot on the back of Draco's neck. 'Do it!'
Still, Draco faltered.
Lucius let out a growl, releasing Draco's hand. He raised his own wand up and spoke without hesitation. 'Avada Kedavra!'
Like a limp rag-doll, she fell to the ground.
Lucius twisted, grabbing Draco by the neck with his free hand. 'Do your duty,' his father spat, grip tightening. 'Or I shall put you out for slaughter like these mudbloods.' Draco began to gasp for air, his hands fumbling to release his father's grip. Lucius let go, dropping his son to the floor. He turned his cloak and moved away, leaving his son in disgust.
Draco remained on the ground, desperately gulping for air. He turned his head to look for Luna. While the battle continued, she was still. White hair splayed around an emotionless face, her body twisted awkwardly where she had fallen. Time seemed to freeze as Draco rolled onto his front, pulling himself over the rubble and bodies to reach her. The screams and curses faded into a dull roar, overcome by the sound of his own breathing.
Her head was tilted to the right, exposing her left side to the night air. Her cheek was smudged with ash; he raised a hand to brush it away, but hesitated at the thought of touching her. The once vibrant eyes were now flat and dull, yet they still seemed focussed on him. Accusing. He began to tip backwards, suddenly desperate to get away from her. Luna's hand jumped forward, grabbing his ankle...
... the scream rang around the stone walls of his bedchamber. The realisation that he was at home, in his own bed, was only a small comfort. Satin bedsheets were twisted around his torso, skin slick with sweat. His heart throbbed against his rib-cage as he struggled to regain his breath.
It was only a nightmare, he tried to tell himself. A nightmare which haunted his every moment, recurring all the more frequently now his mother was trying to wean him from Somnum Tenebris. The sleeping aid was the only thing keeping him going, allowing him to maintain the appearance necessary for survival in this new age. Somnum Tenebris promised sweet, unthinking darkness and had become an addiction in the three years following the massacre at Hogwarts. While his mother claimed to be concerned about his wellbeing, he knew his newfound catharsis of the potion was his father's work. Lucius Malfoy had attempted to quash any rumours of weakness in the aftermath of Voldermort's uprising, even going to murderous lengths to maintain his position, but the rot had begun to set in. The heir of Malfoy was weak. Some of the old crowd - Carrow, Rookwood, Yaxley - still allied themselves to the once-great Malfoy family, but the new wave of deatheaters felt no such loyalty.
Marcus Flint was one such newcomer - once Draco's teammate in Quidditch, he had roamed his village slaughtering mudbloods and muggles alike in the wake of Voldemort's rise. His cockiness had amused the Dark Lord and as a result, Flint had been awarded a townhouse in East Kensington within easy reach of Voldemort's seat of power. Other families had also been bestowed gifts, as befitting their role in the subjugation of muggles: Bulstrode, a country estate outside Bath; Zabini, several houses on Belgrave Square; Parkinson, a swathe of free muggle labour for their business. The Dark Lord had been generous in rewarding his followers. Excluding his Aunt Bellatrix, the Malfoy family had only been allowed to keep their ancestral homes, a slither of power Lucius clung desperately to. The message had been clear.
Turning on his side, Draco began to punch his pillow. Again and again his fists fell onto the bed. The satin split like skin, sending feathers spilling over the mattress. With a primal sob he ceased his attack and began to rub at his hands, attempting to scrub away phantom blood. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he smelt the bodies burning, saw the piles and piles of black robes...
'Master Malfoy?' A small voice squeaked, making Draco jump. A house-elf stood in the doorway of his room, the wrinkled face wary. 'May I be of assistance?' It did not meet his eyes.
'I was practicing an attack spell,' Draco quickly lied, trying to sound composed. 'The pillows got in the way.' The elf bowed its head, in no position to argue against such an obvious falsehood.
'Of course, Master Malfoy. I shall clean up the mess immediately.' The elf took a few steps into the room, arms raised outwards. Draco could feel the feathers stirring behind his back, creeping their way up the mattress and towards the ripped pillow. 'A bath has been drawn for you,' the elf continued, focussing on its work.
'Yes...' with a sigh, Draco pushed himself up from the bed and stumbled towards the en-suite.
He lay still in the tepid water, his eyes distant, as a pair of elves moved around him. In a pensive daze he was washed and groomed, his skin healed and exfoliated, hair trimmed and styled. The elves worked without conversation, practiced in Draco's morning ritual. Any blemish or indication of a disordered night was removed. Appearances had to be kept up, his mother insisted, even though the chance of a visitor had dwindled to almost nothing. Even his mother struggled to be alone in his presence. Crabbe and Goyle, once loyal friends, were some of the first to pull away from him. Their association was unfavourable, visits becoming more and more infrequent as the gossip spread. In the back meeting rooms of the Leaky Cauldron, in the offices of the new Ministry, people began to question everyone. How many had Draco killed? Did the Malfoy boy prove his worth?
Crabbe, despite the inability to cope with academic work, had moved onto higher things following the downfall of Hogwarts. He now held a role on Voldemort's personal inquisitorial squad, hunting down potential conspirators against the new regime or rebels that persisted from the old. At dinner parties, he liked to brag about single-handedly wiping out the Creevey family, and was a respected guest at official functions. Goyle, on the other hand, had been married to Milicent Bulstrode, cementing both families' positions of power. The wedding had been three months prior with permission of the Dark Lord. Draco had attended the wedding long enough to be seen by the right people but had retreated to the men's bathroom during the speeches. He couldn't stand listening to any more talk about the 'great battle.'
Draco had long begun to suspect that his own bachelorhood was coming to an end, observing the changed mood of his father. Lucius had been cold towards him following his inability to murder his classmates, but in the past few weeks this had shifted. Instead of scornful glances at the dinner table, Lucius' eyes had begun to rest on his son. His gaze was greedy and calculating, measuring the worth of the Malfoy heir.
His train of thought was disturbed as the bathwater began to drain away. Draco let himself be ushered from the bathroom, cool steam rising from his skin with an instant-drying spell. An outfit lay across the bed, laid out by his mother - a slim-fitting suit, black with silver details. He let the elves dress him as if he were a mannequin at Madam Malkin's. The silk shirt clung to his skin, while the blazer was heavy. The richness of the fabric seemed to exude money, while the suit gave him a silhouette sharp enough to draw blood. A silver death head pin was placed in the right lapel, a near-copy of the tattoo carved into his left forearm. He stared at the finished look in the mirror, an image of pureblood perfection, and felt repulsed.