Chapter one -

Draco almost missed the carnage of war. There was never a time to think about where your morals lie when a souless lunatic takes up residence in your family home, uses it as a death eater HQ and constantly places the threat of unforgivables on your teenage shoulders.

Now all he had was time to think and there was only one thing on his mind.

On arrival of his coveted Hogwarts letter, all those years ago, Lucius sat him down on his emerald green, goose down bed spread and told him all that was expected of him.

Draco remembered fondly how excited he was, having seen the respect and authority his family commanded he had waited ever so patiently for this day, he was old enough now.

What happened was not what he expected to say the least, of course. He was told in no uncertain terms to uphold the family values or be cast out, like the few before him. He was told some people had dirty blood and stolen magic, but they looked just like him. They were worse than scum, Lucius spat frequently.

He was confused and eager to please and spouted any and all pure blood nonsense he'd ever heard, on every opportunity. In school, his friends raised the same way had never really been challenged on these ideals. Pure bloods tended to stay together, preserve the blood line as he'd been told so many times.

He'd never had reason to think his father would lie? But he'd seen that grangers blood plenty tonight, and it looked exactly the same as his. He also knew, really, that she was in every way his equal. Draco pushed the thought away.

He hadn't witnessed the end of the war, but as his fellow death eaters began to panic, the ruthless psychopaths who previously wouldve rather a crucio to the chest than abandon their dark lord, he knew it was over. His mother with all her faults had essentially carried him in his terror past the Hogwarts protections and apparated them back to the Manor. His father seemingly forgotten. The battleground left behind and he felt pathetic.

He took the manor in around him, the faint glow of the dark lords power radioactive in the evening light almost embedded in the very foundations of his home. Draco needed to remember every nook of his home, soon he would never see it again and the thought swiftly tugged at his chest. The darkly painted walls loomed over him dotted with beautifully regal portraits of his ancestors, all trimmed in ornate, goblin made silver frames, only separated by broad, dark wood doors. A thick, vermillion carpet was rolled out toward the rest of the manor on top of the flawless hardwood flooring and he spread his dragon hide covered feet out to brush the soft fur in not fondness, but something close to it he thought.

Candles flickered, hovering in the air thick around them while shadows taunted him. Draco lifted his gaze to his mother, then again to the awful display of wealth in the foyer alone.

What did it matter now, he thought? It seemed so trivial now, gold.

Seconds passed between him and his mother, stood in the dark foyer with no words deemed suitable to utter aloud. He parted his lips to speak, what he would've said is a mystery to even him, as with an ear splitting scream he clutched his mark and his knees thudded on the hardwood floor.

'He's dead', Draco choked, 'he's gone', his voice coarse with agony.

He shrieked with pain, tears streaming down his face and his veins bulging along his wrist as if the brand was trying to claw its way out of his translucent skin. He battled with the pain, tearing at his mark and digging his snagged nails into the black snake. With a tremendous wail his smokey eyes rolled into his head and consciousness was gratefully lost to him.

Hours passed, unbeknownst to him, until he came around with his singed and blood stained hair spread out in his mother's lap. They laid in almost comfortable silence, in the aftermath of war. Their dark lord gone. Narcissas long pointed and elegant fingers gingerly grazed over his cheeks, a childlike comfort that felt so wrong in the consequences of a losing battle.

Without the need to break silence, Draco tried to find where he was at with himself. So he no longer knew his place in this new world, free from blood status and the Malfoy name he grew so heavily to rely on deeply stained with dark magic. Even with his family at the mercy of the Dark Lord, he knew what side he was on, he knew his blood status meant he truly deserved his magic and he was doing what was necessary for the better of wizarding kind. He lived his cause, he didn't just believe in it.

But they had lost. and it only confused and muddled his thoughts more.

What do you do after you lose a war, Draco thought laying there. It was only a small matter of time before he was taken to Azkaban and the key was thrown away, that much he knew, but a few minutes could be taken advantage of. So he pulled away from his mother, held an arm out to raise her from the floor, and left her to pace the drawing room, rambling about suitable representation and divorce and how she wasn't ever really a death eater. She didn't notice when he closed the door behind him. He was safe and now she had to damage control.

There was nothing that could be done, he thought firmly as he walked to the library. There was only one book on his mind, if it was to be the last book he'd read before the kiss of death. He selected Hogwarts, a history and nestled down into a plush, arm chair near the ever burning fire place. It crackled and popped as he delved into the pages of the disheveled, dog eared copy, the warmth of the fire licking at his skin. He called for a house elf, feeling the nearly familiar pangs on hunger, while he tried to remember his last meal. As it was, losing the war had many consequences he wasn't prepared for. The library remained empty for him and he pushed the growls of his stomach away, settling further into the armchair.

He woke abruptly with a drip of sweat falling from the tip of his nose, blood shot eyes wide open in search of an enemy and white knuckling the plush velvet exterior of his chair. The fire loyal next to him, Draco began scolding himself in the near darkness. Imagine the dark lord had caught you napping in an arm chair with Hogwarts a bloody history!

It took Draco a second, then reality set in. He was gone. Draco truly and honestly didn't know how to live in this world anymore.

After what seemed like an age, Draco shook himself into full coherence and noticed the small strip of sunlight breaking through the drapes. How could it be a new day and he was still was still free? He wondered to himself if he was wrong and the dark lord was alive, or as alive as he was. He still didn't know if it was relief or terror filling him up.

The confusion didn't last, a single, loud knock was heard echoing through the halls of his beloved manor. 'Well here we fucking go' Draco thought. He raised his long limbs out of the comfy chair and stretched, relishing his last few free moments as more light poured through the curtains. Reluctantly he made his way to the foyer, where his mother already stood, and in a quiet solidarity they entwined their pale fingers and gently pushed the door wide.