DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Cannibalism, explicit sexual situations, graphic violence, main character death, psychological trauma, secondary character death, strong profanity, and suicide.

NOTE: This story has been modified from its original publication in hp_zombiefest. Happy Halloween! :)

THE FIRST WAVE

Draco stood in the deserted corridor outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, alone once again. One would think he'd grown accustomed to the feeling by now. Goyle had never really forgiven him for Crabbe's death, but these days, he didn't allow himself to dwell on that for too long. As much as he'd abused the pair for their gullibility and detested them for the sickening ease of their corruption, he'd still considered them his friends for the majority of his years at Hogwarts. Perhaps a part of him missed those days of strutting down the corridors, flanked by his thuggish companions, but he'd done his duty to his former friend, paid his respects, and moved on. After all, one could only mourn so much for a fool who'd brought about his own destruction.

He could hardly even remember those days anymore. The memories felt as if they belonged to someone else—someone from a different life, who knew nothing of the ways of the world, outside of the sanctimony of his upbringing, and thrived in the sheer ignorance of it all.

Staring at the three rolls of parchment, flattened and plastered to the wall before him, he read and reread the multitude of names scrawled across them, searching for a place where he belonged. It seemed pointless. No such place existed for a Death Eater amongst the triumphant children of the light, the fallen, or even the grey areas in between, where much wiser individuals had chosen to remain.

Curious, how the task of deciding between the lesser of two evils had once come so easily to him. He'd known his priorities then. He did whatever he had to do to keep himself and his family alive. Even if it meant extending their wretched existences by a mere day, or a meagre hour, he'd considered no sacrifice too great. He would've given up anything—his pride, his conscience, and his very humanity—to ensure his own survival. But now, stranded in the stillness of the aftermath, he no longer had anything left to divert him from asking the single, most dreaded question that had plagued him for so long:

Was it worth it?

He honestly didn't know. He'd spent the last two years struggling to preserve a life that hardly even resembled one anymore. The world had changed, and it expected him to salvage what he could from the rubble of lies that had once sheltered his existence and "start over," as if such abstract absolutions came so easily to those who truly needed them. Everything that he had once confided in had now betrayed him, leaving him to fend for himself in a society that he no longer understood or recognised. His parents became strangers. His friends became his enemies. His own home became a prison.

Sometimes, he wondered if he ever really knew his parents at all. When he looked at them now, through surfeited, grey eyes, aged far beyond his years, he saw all of the things that he hated about himself. In his mother, he saw the same fear and need for order that would never permit him to question authority and ensure that he always remained within the carefully drawn lines that secured him to his duty. In his father, he saw the same self-righteous ignorance that would compel a man to value his pride over all else, even those whom he professed to care for. He saw the same selfish coward who would think of nothing but his own family, even as he ran straight past the nameless sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers that lay strewn across the battlefield. And yet, despite it all, he knew that he could never truly blame his parents for any of it, or for the person that he'd become. No amount of hostilities or accusations would change anything now. Given a similar situation, he probably would've done the same.

But no one ever wants to believe the worst about his or her self. Not even him.

Unable to bear the suffocating taint of his ancestral home, he returned to Hogwarts. The walls, like the walls of his manor, now shone with a renewed vigour, as if gold trimmings and refurbished hangings alone could conceal the inky, black stains that writhed close beneath. But he still remembered the sins that had slowly dripped and bled into the foundation. He still remembered the nightly screams that had reverberated through the stone, intruding upon his nightmares as he shuddered in the safety of emerald sheets. He still remembered all of the death that had passed through these halls. And time would never allow him to forget.

He wandered the castle like a ghost, worlds away from the lively souls around him. He haunted the library, sustaining himself by stealing glances at the forbidden and throwing everything he had left into his studies, reading about other people's lives in a vain attempt to distract himself from his own, and dreaming of the day when he'd finally leave this accursed place for good. He skulked in the back of classrooms, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. It seemed ages ago that he'd gloried in the spotlight of fear, disgust, and loathing aimed towards him by his classmates. They'd served as the source of his power, because they'd hated him. Envied him. Respected him, even—however grudgingly they'd allowed themselves to submit to that fact. He'd relished the knowledge that he could affect and incite them so easily, consuming their every jealous, vengeful notion at whim. It would suffice to say that no one envied or respected him now. But the hate… The hate would always remain.

Not for the first time in his life, he found himself at a standstill, uncertain where to begin. Uncertain as to which route to take. Uncertain where it all leads to in the end.

Instinctively, he reached for the vine wand that he'd carried with him since that ill-fated skirmish at the manor. It didn't work for him as well as the new wand he'd commissioned after the War, but something about it gave him strength. Something about it gave him the will to keep fighting. This particular wand, as fiercely beautiful as its owner, felt odd in his hands, but not odd in a terrible way, simply odd in the fact that he had not earned the right to hold and keep it.

He'd never told his parents or anyone else that he'd given in to impulse and stowed it away after finding it in the carnage. He'd recognised it almost immediately, having acquainted himself with the receiving end more times than he cared to admit. At first, he'd told himself that he'd saved her wand with the intention of using it as collateral for his own. But when he'd finally returned to Hogwarts, he'd continued to excuse his unwillingness to approach her as just a matter of waiting for the right place and the right time to discuss the negotiations. Eventually, he realised the disturbing truth.

He didn't want to give it back.

He had a disease festering inside of him—an infection that had taken root early on in his childhood and had mutated into something much more condemning and sinister. It demanded sustenance, and the dark hunger that gnawed at his innards whenever he saw her standing alone, proud and fearless, whenever he saw her fussing over a perpetually oblivious Weasley, whenever he saw her happy and laughing along with her friends, refused to relinquish its claim upon the one small part of Hermione Granger that he could ever hope to keep for himself. Getting his old wand back didn't even matter to him anymore. Not as much as this. He didn't care how dangerously obsessed or despicable it sounded. At this point, very few aspects of his pathetic, ostracised half-life seemed to matter anymore.

A sudden disturbance in his surroundings alerted him to the swift and purposeful patter of footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he tensed, reaching instead for his other wand. He stilled, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every so often, he had to defend himself from the usual, ill-conceived ambush or two. Seeing as how the rest of the school mainly consisted of bereaved family members who thirsted for vengeance, his own Housemates, who openly spat upon the Malfoy name for walking free while their families suffered the full punishment of the Ministry, and countless other twats who simply wanted a go at him, McGonagall had taken it upon herself to enforce strict measures upon her new regime, more or less forbidding the rest of the student body from assaulting the last Death Eater at Hogwarts. But since when had the rules ever stopped anyone?

He whipped about, prepared to curse whatever fuckwit had dared to approach him to within an inch of his or her life, only to come to an abrupt halt. Hastily, he stuffed his wand back into the pocket of his trousers, scowling at the bewildered brown eyes that greeted him.

"Oh, it's you," he scowled, laying on as much scorn as he could muster. The pounding surge of adrenaline that should've felt as familiar to him as his own wand had yet to subside. If anything, it had merely intensified. The initial threat had passed, yet he continued to stand there, rooted to the spot, on edge, and unable to flee, as blood rushed and thudded in his ears, so jarring and loud that he feared she would overhear.

"Of course it's me," Granger scoffed, oblivious to his discomfort. "What the devil do you think you're doing, brandishing your wand about like some raving lunatic? You could've really hurt someone!"

"I do believe that was the point, Granger," he snidely remarked. "I'm not about to doss down in the corridors, leaving myself open for the next fucking idiot who tries to do me in."

Her eyes widened and she blinked at him for a moment. How he hated those eyes. Those bright, honest eyes… "Not everyone's out to get you, you know," she quietly replied.

"I see that you're as pious as ever," he sneered.

He wouldn't let her see—would never let her know—how much her words had truly affected him. He refused to hand over another weapon for her to manipulate him with, the same weapon that his parents had never hesitated to wield upon him, because they knew how desperately he longed for their approval.

After everything he'd seen and done in the War, he'd vowed never to give someone that much power over him again. Love, in his limited experience, served only as an excuse. A masquerade of self-gratification. A tool of extortion. And pain. Endless, perpetual, bone-deep pain. He hadn't spoken to Granger in months, not since their last disastrous encounter, and until now, he had intended to keep it that way.

In truth, he just didn't know what to say to her. The notion of apologising had crossed his mind once or twice, but when he really paused to consider all of the things that he needed to apologise for, he realised that nothing he conceded to her would ever come close to warranting her forgiveness. He couldn't think of anything he could say, or anything he could do, to make himself worthy in her eyes. So, he spared them both the agony and the awkwardness by not saying anything at all.

But now, having her so close to him, and yet so far away, reawakened the desperate longing that loomed within the darkest recesses of his heart. No matter how many times he'd tried to convince himself that he'd come to terms with his predicament, he could never deny his baser instincts—the same selfish instincts that had driven him to cower behind his aunt as she tortured the one Muggle-born who deserved a wand more than the Dark Lord's entire army combined.

Yes, Muggle-born. He'd stopped using that hateful word the day that he, a pureblood wizard, stood idly by, shuddered, and watched as she took wave after wave of the Cruciatus Curse and refused to break. Only later did he find out that she'd lied. Even knowing that she would've faced certain death or insanity if she'd held out any longer, she'd continued to lie to her tormentor's face, fighting and screaming until the very end. Disgusting, how he'd spent nearly his whole life believing himself superior to the girl who stood before him. The girl who had something worth dying for. The girl who caused his words to wilt into nothing.

"I see that you're as pleasant as ever," she retorted, dismissing his taunt with a prissy roll of her eyes. "Anyway, Malfoy, I just received a parcel from Harry this morning, and despite the fact that I have far more important matters to attend to, I went looking for you, because I, unlike some people, have a sense of decency, and thought you might like this back. Merlin knows, I'll be mighty glad to be shot of it."

She held out a hawthorn wand, flipping it so that the handle faced him. Disbelief marred his haughty persona for the briefest instant before he quickly schooled his features and tentatively reached out across the distance between them. His hand brushed against hers for a terrifying moment as he closed his fingers over the wood. Immediately, he felt that familiar warmth in his fingertips, and that unmistakable tingle of magic that surged throughout his entire being and instilled within him a renewed sense of purpose. He felt power. He felt courage. But most of all, he felt forgiveness. And however fleetingly, that knowledge humbled and freed him. His wand forgave him for not having the strength to fight for it, for letting it go to another, and for his foolish attempts to taint it with Dark magic, despite the purity of the unicorn hair that laced its core. Reunited with its true owner at last, it forgave him for everything, because it understood him, and they completed one another.

For the first time in his life, he choked back a delirious outpour of relief, looked Hermione Granger in the eye, and fervently, truthfully, and without any ulterior motive, said to her, "Thank you."

"Oh, um," she stammered in surprise, clearly taken aback by his uncharacteristically sincere response. "Don't thank me! Really, it's Harry you should be thanking! He repaired his old wand a while back, but what with Auror training, renovating Hogwarts, avoiding reporters, losing his owl, and all that, he never got around to getting yours back to you."

The sudden realisation that he had yet to return her wand sent him plummeting back towards the cold, hard ground of reality. His mask froze back in place, and Granger drew back slightly, startled by the abrupt switch in his demeanour. Several moments of terse silence followed before she bit her lip and averted her gaze to the stone floor, wringing her hands and nervously continuing, "Oh, and… He also told me to tell you that he's sorry he wasn't able to give it back to you in person. He, well, we want to thank you. That wand saved more lives than you can possibly imagine."

She looked up at him then, a brave smile on her face, and he wrenched his eyes away before it threatened to destroy his resolve. "I get it, Granger," he snapped.

"Right," she frowned, seemingly perplexed by his irascible behaviour. "Well, I suppose I'll be going now. See you around, Malfoy. Take care of yourself."

He winced as she went. If anyone else had said that to him, it would almost certainly have served as the prelude to some sort of personal slight about his cowardice or something as equally demeaning. Because, unfortunately, he did take care of himself. He took care of himself before anyone else, in fact. Even her. Like father, like son. But he knew that she didn't mean it that way. She never did. And perhaps he didn't mean most of the things that he'd said to her. But it didn't change the fact that he'd said them.

He could hear her slipping farther and farther away, but in the end, he did nothing. Because he knew that they would never work. Someone like him didn't belong in the same world as someone like Granger. She could never love him, and he could never love her—at least not in the true sense of such a maimed and twisted word. He told himself that he blamed his pride, but truthfully, his fear held him back, just as it always had in every aspect of his life. Fear stopped him from questioning his parents' teachings. Fear stopped him from standing up to them. Fear stopped him from risking everything to save her. But fear hadn't stopped Weasley. Or Potter. And in the end, they'd gotten her out alive. They deserved her. And even though it destroyed him to admit it, he had no right to begrudge them for that. He couldn't even say that he'd lost her to either one of them, because he'd never had her in the first place.

Fuelled by recklessness and self-disgust, he stormed over to the third sign-up sheet on the wall—the sheet marked:

Defence Against the Dark Arts: "Eighth-Year" Experiential Learning Project

~Sponsored by TerrorTours (59 Diagon Alley)~

Option #3 (of 3) - Zombie Trail

COMPLETION OF THIS PROJECT, OR AN APPROVED ALTERNATIVE, IS MANDATORY FOR ALL STUDENTS WHO WISH TO SIT FOR N.E.W.T.S IN THE SPRING.

Hovering overhead, there fluttered a notice that stated that, by signing below, all participants agreed to waive the right to hold the TerrorTours travel agency responsible for any and all injuries or deaths that may occur as a result of their excursions. Draco paid it no heed. Come what may, he would accept the consequences.

Due to his earlier stupor of indecision, he'd practically memorised the list of names by now, but just to make certain, he reread it one last time.

Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Anthony Goldstein, Padma Patil, Pansy Parkinson, Ronald Weasley (Guest, Auror-In-Training), Hermione Granger…

With frightening determination and an air of cold finality, he carved his name upon the parchment, sealing his fate.

Fuck the Bermuda Triangle and the bloody vampires.

The zombies beckoned.

TO BE CONTINUED