Chapter 1
The wind howled as it ran through the dry leaves of the trees, leaving Hermoine's bloodshot eyes stinging. She struggled to keep it all together: out of the Golden Trio, she was the one who always had to be in control of her emotions. But perhaps, in this case, a small exception would do. After all, she had just seen her parents splayed out in front of her, their eyes dimmed with the tint of death, their limbs fragile and cold.
Even with all the effort she had gone through to wipe her parent's memories, Hermoine had still lost them. What had all the careful planning done for her? She tugged on the ends of her cashmere scarf-another painful reminder of her parents. It had been a gift given to her by her parents on her 15th birthday. The wind slapped her face while she sniffled miserably, letting her mind flow to all the "what ifs" of what could have happened. If she had never put the charm on her parents, would they still be alive? If she had killed before the Battle of Hogwarts would Bellatrix have portkeyed to Australia in the middle of it, killed her parents, and returned, only to be finished by Molly Weasley?
Her head throbbed uncontrollably. Suddenly, her throat was aching for a nice drink and warmth around her. She didn't want to be in the company of others. Not now, when the Battle of Hogwarts was over, Dumbledore had been defeated, and Hermoine had portkeyed to Australia to lift the memory charm on her parents. But still, she lifted her feet in what felt like an impossible task, and apparated to the nearest Muggle bar she knew.
She didn't want to think. She doused down one glass of whiskey after the next, fulfilling a craving she didn't know she had for the way the world blurred around her, leaving her throat burning and eyes slightly watery. She was at the point where she was close to knockout-drunk but she decided not to stop. Her usually overactive, planning brain had also taken it's quit for the night. It, too, recognized the unimportance of planning now.
What a fat lot of good that had done.
Draco Malfoy was being disobeyed...by himself. His after-war fear was visible. Although his usual graceful, lithe body would be able to stand perfectly still for hours at a time with the mask of a perfectly interested expression on his face, the war had rattled him far more than he wanted to let others see. He commanded his quivering hand to be still, yet it shook more against his polished desk, the smooth mahogany reminded him of everything he'd been through as it made contact with the rough calluses on his hands. Hands that were all too tired of fighting. Of scheming. Of making crude signs at Potter because that was what he was supposed to do.
A short rap at the door brought him out of his thoughts. In strode Lucius Malfoy, master of the house, and most likely soon to be a resident at Azkaban. Once again, that reminder took Draco back to his troubles. He understood what would happen if Lucius went to Azkaban, but what would he do in that situation? What would he do if Narcissa or himself were convicted too?
But Draco was tired. Tired of all the thinking, of all the plotting, of all the worrying. Tired of being a double agent for Dumbledore and passing information along to him while sweating uncontrollably and fearing, every second, that the Dark Lord would show up at his house and whisper the words that would end his life.
Draco didn't pause to hear what Lucius would say. He apparated to Blaise's house. Where, if only for moments, he could get away from the war. Pretend like it never happened. Pretend like the worries of tomorrow didn't hang over his head like a pathetically gloomy cloud.
He almost splinched himself, getting there. But after Draco arrived, he realized something horrific. It didn't matter where he went, he could not get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach and the coldness that set over his hands like icy gloves.