A/N: Hello! I'd come up with this fic idea recently and decided to start writing it! As it is Draco Malfoy's birthday today, and I've spent the last few days writing/editing this, I thought what better day to post the first chapter!
Anyway... this story will possibly be triggering for some people; there will be mentions of self-harm, regret, depression/anxiety, and grief. Please review- I love constructive criticism.

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Draco Malfoy hated his life. There really was no blunter way to put it. He despised himself, his past- you name it. The truth was, though, that he had nobody but himself to blame.

Things had gotten so bad for him, that he really saw no future for himself. You see, his father was stuck behind bars- and would stay for seven years. His mother, however, was simply on house-arrest for another year-and-a-half. Draco was quite literally shocked when the court merely sent him off with nothing more than a verbal beatdown (which, yes, was well-deserved), and was punished by being forced to donate yearly to an assortment of organizations and foundations for war cleanup. It was remarkable, indeed, though, that he wasn't sent to Azkaban. But… when you are a failed murderer and war-criminal, the guilt is stained. There isn't any possible way to just 'wash it off.' Money can't repay his actions, his intentions, or the fear instilled in everyone. Because even if he didn't kill anyone, he really didn't try and save anyone, either.

Draco spent the vast majority of his completely free time, cooped up in his bedroom, waiting- hoping -that by pure luck, he'd be blasted off the face of the Earth. Alas, things (most things, actually) preferred to not work out to Draco's plan, so, rather, he drowned his sorrows in reading various books and poetry. Also sleeping as much as he could with the recurring night terrors.

Narcissa Malfoy did her best to try to get her only son to rid himself of the facade and actually talk. It was unhealthy. He didn't seek company, he'd lay around in his bedroom, leaving only to use the restroom, and the few times he'd actually left the house in the five months it'd been since the war, he returned fuming with anger or trembling out of fear (most often, both).

It had gotten so bad, she really did have no idea what to do. She was magically bound to the manor, which was just inconvenient more than anything. She tried redecorating; renovating the many, many rooms in the estate, but it was rather time-consuming and quite frankly, grew boring. It was lonely for her, too, and it was rather shameful to have only house-elves to talk to. But she found her ways. Draco, on the other hand, had the leisure of being allowed to leave, only… he never did.

His last public encounter was what he decided would be his final. He went into Diagon Alley- as discreetly as possible, of course -and tried to just get a coffee at the cafe with Theodore Nott, but, sadly, didn't last very long.

Quite quickly, someone recognized him and while passing their table, shot out the tiniest thing, big enough for Draco to lose his temper.

"Miss, can we sit somewhere else? I don't feel comfortable being seated next to these people."

See? It was barely anything! It should've been nothing more than an irritating reminder of his mistakes. But, obviously, after wallowing at home in these mistakes 24/7, talking to nobody, this was not exactly his reaction.

"You better sit far FAR away from us… Both of us are constantly fighting the urge to murder people for fun. Right, Nott?" he'd spat out. Theo looked dumbfounded and was at a loss for words, but managed to cue one thing on, to shut the hell up.

And…. rather than doing this, Draco waited for the retaliation of both the waitress and the couple that was standing there, creeping back slowly.

"Mr. Malfoy, I order you. Please get out of my restaurant…" the waitress said firmly and quietly.

Draco then responded as any person would in that situation: he threw the table over and disapparated back to the Manor.

When he'd returned, he was quivering with a combination of fury and anxiety, but Narcissa heard him enter the Wards and came racing in.

"What happened? Why are you back so fast?" she'd asked incredulously.

"Leave me alone…" he cried as she placed her hands on his shoulders. "It's fine!"

"Clearly, it's not! Talk to me, Draco!"

He groaned and pushed past her in the direction of his room. "I'm fine, Mother."

And Draco may have told her that, but he sobbed in his bed for hours after that.

…

It seemed crazy to Draco that something as small as someone not wanting to be near him was enough to set him off, but when he really thought about it, it made sense. He'd never liked it when people didn't like him, but this was a whole new thing. Now… the list of people who did like him was way shorter than the list of people who hated him.

Were things ever going to get better? He wondered. Suddenly, he heard a knock at his door.