Heyo friendos! There's just a few things I'd like to address before beginning this story; the first being the usual copyright disclaimer. Anything related to or recognizable as a part of the "Harry Potter" franchise does not belong to me. I plan to make zero profit off of this story and it's all just for fun. With that out of the way, I'd also like to credit u/angelusblanc on reddit as this work of writing is inspired by a prompt they had posted to the r/HPfanfiction community.

This is my first time creative writing in literally years. I gave up writing fanfiction long ago but something about this prompt sparked my creative interest. That being said, constructive criticism is always welcome. Especially having been out of the game for so long I'm sure there's areas where I can improve and feedback is something I really appreciate. On another note, updates to this will be irregular at best. I have a lot of prior commitments in life and fanfiction unfortunately must take a backseat to that. I'll do my best to update as often as possible but I cannot promise any type of schedule.

Thanks for taking an interest in my story, and I hope you enjoy.

Introduction

There were many things that haunted Draco Malfoy. The dark mark on his arm, that no matter what potion he took or what spell he used refused to disappear. The streaks of gray in his mother's hair, a constant reminder of how much the war had taken a toll on her; how much the constant worry for his safety had aged her. The screams he would hear at night when the manor was dead silent, Crabbe's last breaths as he was consumed by Fiendfyre. Crabbe's death.

Death, it seemed, was what haunted him most. Albus Dumbledore's body tumbling from the Astronomy tower. The lifeless form of Harry Potter cradled in Hagrid's arms. Though Potter was later revealed not to be dead, Draco carries with him still the way he felt in that moment. The pounding of his heart and the tightness in his throat at the realization that he would have to obey the madman Voldemort forever, that his savior was dead.

So many lives lost, yet Draco had come out of it alive. He often felt guilty, survivors guilt, he'd read it's called. He had never truly wanted to see so many dead, though his younger, impressional self had thought so. It was what his parents and friends had wanted, was it not? The realities of serving the Dark Lord hadn't truly hit him until it was thrust upon him. Just a schoolboy, he'd be tasked with killing one of the most powerful wizards alive. Nobody could understand how that felt, the fear he'd carried every day.

He scoffed aloud at himself. Harry Potter knew that fear, Draco knew. Schoolyard rivals, they had more in common than either of them had ever wanted to admit. Potter, too, had been forced to grow up too fast; had been tasked with the impossible as a boy. Draco picked at his cuticles, his face contorting with some emotion he couldn't quite place. Not impossible; Potter had succeeded. With that success came Draco's freedom from his living hell. It was hard to not feel indebted to him. He didn't want to owe a debt to Potter.

Draco rose from his chair so suddenly it fell backwards, a loud clatter ringing through the quiet manor. A walk, he decided, was what he needed. His thoughts were turning unpleasant, as they so often did these days. A walk would clear them up. Mind made up, the blond quickly fled the room, the chair abandoned on the floor.

Ten minutes later found him in the library. Its contents had been greatly reduced since the war, nearly all traces of anything illegal or even slightly dark abolished from the Malfoy home. Draco walked along the shelves, running his fingers over the spines of the books as he went along. He stopped when his fingers grazed a particularly worn one, its texture soft under the pads of his fingers. Hesitating only briefly, he yanked the heavy book from the shelf

Draco thought briefly of going to a chair but decided to take the much less dignified route of sitting on the floor. He shivered as his bottom hit the hard surface, the wood icy against him. Crossing his legs much like a child, he began fingering through the pages of the book randomly. He soon came to realize it was an old book about blood purity and known pureblood families. Curious, he continued to flip through the pages haphazardly, skipping multiple at a time. Coming upon an image, he stopped. A family tree, the Black family tree. He searches out his mother's face, briefly surprised when he finds it. This book felt much too old to include his mother. Spotting his own face below hers, he shakes his head silently at his stupidity. Magic, the book is kept up to date with magic.

Running a finger over his own image, he sighs. The Draco in the book looks so youthful and innocent. He misses the days where bags didn't permanently reside under his eyes and his biggest concern was the upcoming Quidditch match. Where this family tree had less dead people on it. His train of thought is broken by a shot of pain in his finger. Looking down, he notices a papercut. Blood drips down onto the book before he can stop it, landing right in the center of somebody's face. Draco grimaces, feeling slightly guilty for reasons he can't quite place. "Sorry, Sirius Black." He sets the book on the floor still open to the Black family tree. He'll cleanse the book of his blood after he grabs a potion to clean out his finger. That book is dirty after all, and he didn't survive a war just to succumb to a papercut. Rising from the ground with a small effort, he leaves the library. What he doesn't see is the book beginning to glow with magic behind him.