Author's Note: I do NOT own Harry Potter or anything related to them. All rights belong to the lovely Ms. J. K. Rowling.

Run Away, Far Away

Chapter 2: The Boy Who Made All the Wrong Decisions

Just because the war was over doesn't mean everyone's wounds have healed. Being shone upon by the light of goodness doesn't give everyone a free pass to escape the horrible nightmare brought upon by nightfall. And it is true what they say, scars do not heal, they only fade. The biggest scar that I've got in my entire life stares right back at me, judging my being and the decisions I have made. I was not the boy-who-lived nor was I the brightest wizard of my age. All those praises went to Potter and Granger. As for Weasley, I bet he's still a King, wallowing in the wealth and popularity brought upon Voldemort's defeat. I wasn't like the Golden Trio, no. But I had a title of my own, or at least I'd like to think that I do. I refer to myself as the boy who made all the wrong decisions. Mother used that term as well, much to my dismay. The title seems fitting, though as it speaks nothing but the truth. I was raised poorly by my parents. I'm not one to point out fingers but I cannot hide that fact anymore.

Father drilled the thought of blood superiority into my head ever since I had the sense of reason. All my life I went about believing that we are the good guys, that we are doing the Wizarding World a favor by putting those Half-Bloods and Muggle-Borns right where they belong; lower than the dirt under the soles of our feet. Being a rich Pure-Blood was all I cared about because I knew I could get away with just about anything. People do shut up and keep a blind eye as long as you suffice their financial needs.

By the time the Dark Lord was introduced to me, I felt both gratitude and fear. I was proud that Father's position among the Death Eaters moved up and up each day. After all, the fewer Mudbloods, the better. Or so I was told. But when Voldemort stepped up and met me eye-to-eye, I knew that I was on the wrong side. I wanted to refuse his offer of the Mark. I wanted to refuse the task of killing my own Headmaster. I've always thought Dumbledore was an old fool, blinded by his over the top kindness but I cannot fathom the sight of him falling through my own wand. But I knew better than to speak up. If I did not do what Voldemort has offered me to do, it will cause not only my life but my parents as well. I will be a bigger disappointment than before. And for the first time, I was truly scared.

I hated Potter and the people who surrounded him during our Hogwarts years for they only are interested in him because he is the 'Chosen One'. Fools, they are, I once thought. Potter couldn't save his own arse if he wanted to. He didn't have any knowledge of what's going on in the Wizarding World. He didn't know that a slimy old man is forcing his way through existence again just to battle him. Hell, he didn't even know a single magical spell! If it weren't for the atrocity they call a girl and the redheaded oaf, I doubt he would be alive right now. And that was the thing behind all of Potter's success—love. He wouldn't have that lightning scar on his forehead if it weren't for the love of his parents. He wouldn't have those Quidditch trophies if it weren't for the love of his teammates. He wouldn't have defeated Voldemort if it weren't for the love of almost everyone suffering in the war. They called for his name, for his power, and Potter delivered. And now, peace has been restored. I bet it would take a hundred years for it to be disturbed again. By that time, Potter's name would be in history books for the next generations to follow. And secretly, I am both envious and proud of that.

I didn't return to Hogwarts to finish my final year. I just thought it was irrelevant because when I show up in the great establishment, the glares and whispers will be sure to follow. I wouldn't blame them. If our roles were to be switched, I will resent a former Death Eater who helped kill thousands of innocent lives, too. Alas, fate cannot do that. As long as I bear the Malfoy name, I don't think anyone in the Wizarding World will forgive me. And for that, I am still a coward. When I turned my back during the war and stayed with Mother in the Manor, I did not even dare look back at the remnants of what was once the great Hogwarts. It was too painful to think that I was one of the factors why it stood in ruins. When I was younger, I would have been proud. But war changes people. It truly does.

The night of Voldemort's death, Death Eaters have been arrested one by one. I was one of those sitting in Azkaban, awaiting the Ministry's decision whether I was to be locked up in a cold and dark cell or to be sent free to be given a chance to 'change'. After all the questioning and deliberation, I was sent home. As for my parents, they stayed longer. For three days, I did not sleep for when I close my eyes all I see are pain and blood and flesh and death. I was worried for Mother's well-being. For my father, not so much. I knew he deserved it. I knew that if he were to rot in jail, so be it. It wasn't enough punishment for corrupting his own son and controlling his own wife. For three days, I did not eat. Every piece of food that enters my mouth leaves seconds before they even go through my throat. The only thing that kept me moving was the Firewhiskey that I have been practically inhaling. For three days, I was a sullen drunkard. That is until Mother's arrival.

Somehow, her lying about Potter's death convinced the Ministry that she isn't much of a problem as opposed to Father. He was placed in a special cell that was heavily guarded, day and night, according to Mother. So, we had the Manor to ourselves. For some reason, that very same day of Mother's arrival, we decided that we should celebrate. A particular reason as why we should didn't come to mind. All I remember was we ate to our heart's content. And after that, Mother slept in my room. She was hugging me like she used to when I was younger. She stroked my hair softly and whispered me her lullabies until I fell asleep. I've never felt so hopeless.

Three months passed when we received that news that Father was found dead in his cell. It didn't surprise me. He must have lost his mind after all the nightmares he encountered every night and decided to end it all. We didn't even have the chance to see his face for it was too unrecognizable. The funeral was simple and quiet, as expected. Mother and I were the only ones who looked upon his gravestone while it rained. Mother was heartbroken and did not speak to me for another three months.

For almost a year, we didn't meet properly. Our days were spent in silence and the clamor that can be heard were only during mealtimes, when the plates and forks and knives scratch at each other. Sometimes during the afternoons I'd play the piano. I always find myself humming to my parents' waltz that Mother composed herself. That only made her cry harder. But I was sick of all of it. I didn't want to leave in fear and self-pity anymore. I had to tear myself away from the bigger picture and start assembling my own.

If someone told me a few years back that I will be living in the Muggle world like a normal Muggle, not using magic and even conversing with a handful, I would have Avada'd myself. Eight months after the war, I started scouting a new place to live. I wanted to be somewhere far from all the gore. I wanted to be somewhere undistinguishable enough so that mother and I could live in peace. Alas, the odds weren't in my favor. Every place in the Wizarding World seemed to know my name and how bad my reputation is. Of course, no one even paid much attention to my inquiry of a home. They all muttered under their breaths how disgusting I was. Karma, I guess.

Out of desperation, I finally decided to think outside the box. As much as it pained me, I actually gathered what's left of my 'guts' and manned up to face the Muggle world. For two months, I travelled among the 'other' people and kept my magic use to a minimum. I met some witches in wizards while I was in my search. Luckily, they didn't seem hostile towards me. The ones I've met weren't present during the great battle but they sure knew my name. Regardless, they actually helped me in my travels and lectured me about the Muggle customs. It wasn't long until I found the perfect place. It was a city in Oklahoma called Edmond. It wasn't as busy as I thought it would be but I think it had a perfect balance of serenity and productiveness. One of the witches who helped me pick a suitable living place, Aira, was a Half-Blood about three years my senior. She was an American residing in New York but her fiancé was from Oklahoma City. They were more than helpful in giving me advice as to how I should start my life.

I went back to the Manor to try and convince Mother to come with me. But she just smiled at me and refused. "But Mother," I started to protest. I tried my best to maintain my puppy dog eyes no matter how pathetic I may seem. "This is the best chance we could have! Don't you want to pick up all what's left of our lives and move on?"

"Draco, I wouldn't be the kind of mother who will force you to do as I say," she started. She barely looked at me as she started to sip her tea. "Living in the Muggle world is ridiculous for me. I wouldn't fit in. But if that is what you want to do, if you think that is the best for you, then I don't think I have the right to stop you."

"But…"

"Enough." She raised a hand at me and closed her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts before continuing. I looked at her, defeat clear in my eyes. "I know that you are scarred, Draco. I know that you want to heal…"

"I want you to heal, too, Mother. I can't do this by myself!" I sounded so helpless and I knew Mother noticed. She only gave me a weak smile.

She looked around the dining area, taking it all in before returning her gaze to me. "This is the only way I'll heal. This is where I belong." I saw tears starting to form in her eyes but she kept her composure. "Lucius wasn't the best father nor was he the best husband, but… I love him. I still do. And I know he did feel the same way for me before all the chaos arose. Every wall in this Manor reminds me of him, how we danced in the ballroom. This is the only way I'll heal, Draco."

She didn't choke back the tears. She let them roll down her cheeks and did not even bother wiping them. "Oh, Mother," was all I managed to say before I took her in my arms and embraced her warmly and tightly. I know that this house held all the sentiment left of my father. I can't bear to see Mother breaking herself by pulling her away from the remnants of what our family used to be. I stroked her hair gently and whispered at the top of her head. "I wouldn't leave if you told me so."

She pulled away from our hug and looked at me deeply. Her eyes were now full of disappointment for some reason. "Draco! I just told you I'm not that kind of Mother." I allowed myself to chuckle at this. Mother was adorable when she gets angry sometimes. "If leaving is your own medicine, then travel the world if you have to. I am not holding you back." I nodded at her though something still tugged my heartstrings. "Just promise me you'll visit." We both laughed at this. I kissed mother's forehead, pleased with her compromise.

After a day or two of packing, I was ready to leave for Edmond. Leaving the Manor was bittersweet. I know my life wasn't perfect but it isn't the worst. That is before the war, at least. I looked back at the solid edifice that kept its nobility and superiority. But even the walls of the Manor, the pain that coats it, or even the scent that lingers in the gardens, were all changed by the war. Leaving is my medicine. And I sure will make the most of my doses.

Author's Note: I do think this is better than the first chapter haha. Anyway, please don't forget to vote, follow, favorite, and most importantly… REVIEW! I really like getting your feedbacks. Thanks you!