The birds chirped and the peacocks glided across the manor grounds as Draco sat silently beneath a tree, obscured from the sun's hot glare.
The war is over. Finally, Draco could breathe deep and not fear every second he will be called, that every second could be his last. He was granted freedom by the ministry of magic. They said he had no choice in the matter. He had to follow in his – now dead- Father's footsteps, or he would have been killed.
They didn't say it, but it was clear they thought Lucius, cold hearted, sadistic Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord's right hand wouldn't have even blinked before killing his own son had the Dark Lord asked it of him, for surely Draco was just an heir to the Malfoy bloodline and easily replaceable.
But that wasn't true. Not any of it. His Father, for all of his faults, was the best Father he could have ever asked for. He had given him everything he had ever wanted and more. He had joined the Dark Side willingly. But he hadn't known what he was in for, oh no… the tortures, the murders… all those screams. The things he had had to witness are things no boy need ever see. Grown men would have retched at the sights he had seen. He was but a boy, barely sixteen, when he had joined the forces.
But now, it was all over. He was finally free. So why couldn't he move on? Why couldn't he be happy?
Every day now, He woke up violently, forcefully shaken up out of a hideous nightmare, and left the Manor's familiar arms in order to help out at Hogwarts.
The castle was in ruins; entire walls crumbled to the ground, holes in the floors and ceilings, the stairs- shattered, pictures and paintings hidden under masses of rocks, their occupants long gone in search of a safe haven.
A lot of people scattered around the halls of Hogwarts these days, volunteering, wanting to help restore the beauty of the great castle.
To him, the castle had always seems alive; always humming with activity, happiness and a sense of pure awesome magic raging through the walls. Not now. Now, even with all of those people running around, the castle seemed empty. Dead. Quiet.
The manual labor was hard for Draco; he wasn't used for such tasks, previously left for house elves and magic. But he wanted to do it on his own. The work distracted him, gave him something else to focus on but his own unguarded thoughts- and, of course, got his body so much fitter than Quidditch ever had.
Just now, Draco took a wrong turn and just as he was about to turn back, he noticed that a wall had crumbled down there- while not unusual in the destroyed castle, it gave him pause.
There was a hallway there, behind the crushed wall, a hallway he had never seen or knew to be there. Curious, he went in. after a few turns, he got himself to a dead end.
On the ground, curled in a ball, rocking back and forth while murmuring quietly to himself, was the great savior of the wizarding world, the boy who just wouldn't die. Potter didn't notice him standing there, hadn't heard him coming. He was in his own world now, a world which, apparently, wasn't as great as Draco led himself to think.
When Draco thought of Harry Potter these days, he pictured him laughing, happy, free and celebrating the final demise of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Harry should be happy- perhaps even getting married to the Weasley girl who seemed to be bent on following him around like a lost puppy.
Draco thought of leaving, seeing harry like this felt like intruding, but then, coming out of his musings, grey eyes found watery green ones.
"I- I'm sorry," said harry, his voice cracking. "About what?" Draco had asked, surprised that Harry would apologize to him, of all people, for anything he did.
"About your Father. I'm sorry. I didn't want for him to die… I tried to get to him, but I couldn't. I know you loved him very much." Draco stared at Harry for a second,, and then a single tear blinked itself out of his eye, running down his cheek. "Thank you."
The blonde's voice, usually as non-expressive as his blank face, was now full of emotions. Draco sat down next to Harry, both of them looking into each other's eyes in understanding.
Their hands found one another.
Them, the broken boys, who were thrust into a life of war too soon, for too long, would be alright now.
They had each other.