Chapter Twenty-One
Everything changed after the Fallout.
It started with the court. When Lord Voldemort died, his followers fled from the international manhunt for Death Eaters, and while some managed to escape, many were caught and trialed and imprisoned for their crimes. The Malfoys certainly had enough resources and influence to tuck themselves away in a corner in the world and live out the rest of their days in relative comfort, but considering Draco's role in everything that happened, it was no longer possible.
Draco remembered sitting there in an empty courtroom under the sickly yellow lighting, the only people in the room being the judge, the jury, the lawyers, and the accused. Mother sat to his left, appearing smaller and more fragile than ever with her hair now threaded with strands of grey, and Father… Father sat to his right, his face cold and impassive, and Draco didn't dare to look at him. Not when he knew that he had let him down and was the very reason why they were dragged to court.
The trial began. First for Lucius Malfoy, then for Narcissa Malfoy, and finally Draco. Evidence was presented and facts laid down. Their lawyer fought for them, pleading with the jury for their innocence, but the crimes they committed were too great, and when the time came for the verdict, they were all found guilty. Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, and Narcissa Malfoy five years of house arrest.
Draco was ready for the worst. Ten years in Azkaban. Or perhaps twenty years of house arrest. Or a lifetime of community service. Whatever punishment he received, he would receive it gladly, because he deserved it ever minute of it. However, when the verdict came… he was free. Draco looked up in shock. He had to undergo court-mandated therapy, of course. But other than that, he was free.
It wasn't until much later when he learned that Harry Potter had spoken up for him, which had saved him from a sentence just as harsh as his parents'.
The trial was over. Guards entered the room, hoisting Father to his feet. Seeing him about to go, Draco blurted before he lost his courage, "Father-"
Father glanced back at him. Draco expected anger. Draco expected disgust. Those were the expressions he was familiar with, the expressions that had been aimed at him for far too many times to count, the expressions he could handle. But what he received instead was far worse – a cold, bitter disappointment.
Father was led out of the room. It was the last time Draco saw him for the rest of his life.
A pair of guards came for Mother, but before they could ask her to leave, she reached for Draco and wrapped him in a fierce embrace, holding him tightly in her arms. Draco gasped, surprised at her strength, but before he could react, she whispered into his ear.
"Rage," Mother's voice was hoarse, but filled with a determination he had never seen in her before. "Rage, my darling. Rage against the dying of the light."
From the corner of his eyes, Draco saw the guards reach over to pull them apart, but before they could touch them, Mother let go of him and took a step back, straightening her clothes. Her eyes were glimmering, but she did not cry. She looked up at Draco and gave him one last smile. And like the queen she was, strode out the courtroom with her spine straight and chin high.
It was the last time he saw her for the next five years.
And Draco… Draco left. Alone.
Other than the handful of people in the courtroom with a few exceptions such as Harry Potter, nobody knew of Draco's role in the deaths of the hostages nor his role in Voldemort's fall. Nobody knew of the final verdict that fell upon the Malfoys, of where they were imprisoned or for how long. And nobody knew that Draco Malfoy walked away free.
"New York?" Pansy said, surprised. Then, she paused, but when she spoke again, there was approval in her voice. "It's a beautiful city. I'm sure you'll love it there."
"Thanks," Draco said. He shifted the phone against his ear. He hesitated. "Will you be able to send me off?"
"Oh…" Pansy's voice fell. "I'm so sorry, Draco. You know I'd love to, but my parents want to lay low for a bit in Hong Kong, and I need time to pack. I'm so sorry about it. How about Blaise? Is he able to send you off?"
"No, unfortunately," Draco said quietly. He knew that Blaise's mother worked in the underworld as well, and with the manhunt going on, probably wanted to stay under the radar for a bit as well. Blaise's phone number was dead, and every one of his social media accounts had been deleted, leaving Draco no way to contact him.
"Oh, really sorry to hear that…"
"It's alright." Draco didn't know what else to say. "Bye, Pansy."
"Bye, Draco."
With a click, she hung up.
Draco exhaled and placed his phone beside him on the nightstand. He was in his bedroom at the Manor. The closets and drawers were bare, the bed stripped, and his belongings packed into the suitcases on the floor. Even with the sunlight streaming through the window, the room was still so cold. The Manor was still so cold. He would have thought that with its owners gone, the mansion might have thawed slightly, but perhaps too much blood had been shed in these halls that even the absence of the inflictors could not wash away the coldness that lingered.
After the Fallout, after the trial, he thought that his phone would be buzzing nonstop, filled with his friends' messaging and calls, asking if he was alright, or offering to send him off. But nobody did. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, his phone was completely silent.
The next day, Draco picked up the luggage and bags on the floor and brought them from his bedroom down to the front door where a chauffeur loaded them into the back of a car. As he brought his last suitcase down, he glanced back at the empty room behind him. He thought he'd feel some longing, or sadness, or anything, really. But all he felt was emptiness.
Nothing of his youth and innocence remained between the walls of the Manor. Nor the halls of Hogwarts. Nor in this nation still reeling from the aftermath of his actions.
Draco arrived in New York City. And life fell into a deep and unending silence.
An apartment had prepared for him, a small but comfortable place with a lovely view of the sprawling cityscape before it. He lived alone, his solitude interrupted only by a Chinese housekeeper that visited him three times a week to clean and bring him groceries. During the day, he was expected to attend an online school to finish his last year of secondary education. And two times a week, was required to see his therapist.
Life seemed simple enough. Eat, sleep, shower. Read a few textbooks and finish a few worksheets. Maintain a 3.0 GPA. Stream some movies or binge a few TV shows. And if he was feeling particularly motivated, perhaps even think about working on his college applications.
But Draco couldn't do it.
Rage against the dying of the light.
In the beginning, all Draco could feel was guilt. A crushing wave that suffocated him, that left hm kneeling on the floor and choking on his sobs as he wept and wept and wept until he collapsed in exhaustion. A wave that dragged his heart deep into the sea of shame so that he could feel nothing but misery over the blood of the three innocent souls that covered his hands.
The mission he had been given was simple. If everything went according to plan, there would only be one life lost that night. Father would have been proud of him. The Dark Lord would have been proud of him. Everything would have been fine.
But he had been afraid. And because of that, people died. Father was going to prison for the rest of his life, and Mother would waste away five years of hers in house arrest. Dozens more of Father's closest friends and associates were either in chains or being hunted across the globe.
Draco could still see the disappointment on Father's face as he left the courtroom, the exhaustion and hopelessness etched into his features. For his entire life, all Draco had wanted to do was to make Father happy. To gain Father's approval. To be someone Father could be proud to call his son. But because of his weakness, because of his fear… he had failed Father in the worst way possible.
Yet, at the same time… Draco didn't want Harry to die. He could still see that face framed by those crooked round glasses and unruly dark hair, the mouth that could quirk into a brilliant smile or press into a grim line, those clear green eyes that flashed with a wild delight or darkened with focus and determination. They were enemies. They hated each other. But, god, because Draco didn't want Harry to die, others did.
Draco couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown, and Fred Weasley. He saw the shock and fear and hurt on their faces when they were knocked out and dragged away from him, and the sound of their bodies being dragged across the stone floor would forever linger in his ears. But not only that, he also saw the flash of Colin's beloved camera, smelled Lavender's flowery perfume tinted with the scent of nicotine, and heard the sound of Fred's laughter as he raced down the halls after pulling whatever stupid prank he just did. In Hogwarts, they had never been worth Draco's attention, but he hadn't realized how many of their quirks and passions he had subconsciously noticed. Now that they were gone, they haunted him every night.
From then onwards, he no longer wore anything with short sleeves. Not when the mark on his forearm served as a reminder that everything was his fault.
Rage against the dying of the light.
The thoughts and conflict and emotion and guilt were driving Draco insane, and he needed someone to talk to. Someone he trusted, someone from his past, someone that could help him or comfort him. He reached for his phone and called Pansy. She was too busy unpacking to talk. He called Marcus. There was no response. He called Millicent. She hung up the second she heard his voice. And Blaise's number was dead.
One by one, Draco called and texted every one of his friends, asking if they had time to talk. Some were decent enough to respond briefly and apologize. Others didn't bother at all.
Draco sat back, confused. Why wasn't anyone responding? For a moment, he thought that they didn't want to be around him because he caused their classmate's deaths. But what happened during the Fallout was a secret. Neither of them should know of what he did or what had happened. Then why weren't they responding?
He suddenly remembered Graham Montague from his second year. The boy who had run up to him pleading with him to give his father a loan. He suddenly remembered the flicker of disgust on his features when he denied the request, and then the frostiness that followed.
In the past, Draco was the center of the universe. He always thought it was because of his personality and charm. Now, he knew that they simply liked him because of his last name, and more accurately, the power and influence that came behind it. Now that the Malfoy name was useless, there was no longer a need to curry his favor or be his friend.
It hurt. It really hurt. His heart wrenched painfully as he put down his phone. Every smile, every laugh, every compliment or congratulation. Like a fool, he had swallowed it up until his chest puffed with pride, believing himself to be the king of everything when in reality… he was nothing. He believed that he had friends. Friends that loved him, supported him, that would be there for him. But they weren't. They never were.
Before, Draco might have felt indignant. He might have felt furious at how he had been used and taken advantage of. But now, all he felt was a weary acceptance. After everything he did, he deserved to have his friends leave him. He deserved to have his friends distaste him. He deserved to be alone.
Rage against the dying of the –
Draco tried to keep busy. He tried attending the online school, but everyone there was frighteningly intelligent, and he struggled to keep up. Seeing them talking over each other in their video calls and answering complicated questions with ease… the stress and anxiety was overwhelming and Draco couldn't bear it.
He tried to attend the therapy sessions. His therapist was incredibly kind, an Indian woman who never pushed or pressured him to talk and encouraged him to share whenever he was ready. After a few sessions, he decided to trust her enough to talk about the day Lord Voldemort entered the Manor. When he left, it felt as if a fraction of the weight on his shoulders have lifted. But when he returned to the next session, she told him with a quavering voice that she was going to refer him, and sure enough, an unfamiliar bald man with a stern expression took her place. Draco never shared again.
Rage against the dying –
Draco was tired. God, he was so tired. So tired of the shame and guilt, so tired of the stress and pain, so tired of feeling. It was an exhaustion that weighed down his bones, an emptiness that dragged down his soul. A part of him knew that he should be grateful. He was allowed to finish secondary education. He didn't have to go to prison or stay under house arrest or face more severe consequences for his actions. He knew he should be trying desperately to make the most of his second chance, to keep on living, but at the same time… he couldn't. He just couldn't.
Gradually, he stopped attending his classes. He didn't want the stress that came with it. He remained silent in his therapy sessions. He didn't like this new therapist. He ignored his housekeeper who tried to make conversation with him in clumsy English. And when, for the first time in months, Pansy called him, he didn't pick it up. He didn't know if he could ever trust her again. He didn't know if he could trust any of them again.
Rage against the –
It was hard to sleep, but even harder to get out of bed. It was hard to speak, but even harder to think. It was hard to smile or cry or frown, but hardest to feel anything at all.
He was empty. A deep and heavy emptiness that drained every ounce of what little energy he had, that left him exhausted even from the simplest of thoughts and devoured any emotion or feeling he could muster. All he did was to exist. And existing was exhausting enough.
Rage against –
He missed the days when he'd felt guilt or shame or stress or sadness. Anything was better than this emptiness. But that emptiness was all he had.
Rage –
He couldn't. He just couldn't.
His therapist suggested him taking walks to get some fresh air and exercise. Draco didn't want to. But when he threatened to send the court a particularly barbed report that might have him sent off to an institution for the mentally ill, Draco was forced to relent.
Every morning at ten, he would put on a jacket and head downstairs to the city. New York in spring was truly a thing of beauty. The sky was in a lovely shade of blue, with soft white clouds drifting lazily across, and flowers bloomed at every corner, filling every gap in the city of steel with patches of brilliant color. Skyscrapers and buildings glimmered under the sun, the glass on the windows reflecting the sky's clear blue hue, and every park was filled with families picnicking on the fields of rolling green grass. However, despite the beautiful weather and perfect temperature, the people remained busy. High heels and dress shoes clicked on the pavement as people with faces filled with determination marched about, flowing in and out of buildings in streams. The roads remained choked with honking cabs and impatient cars, and the air was thrumming with purpose. Everyone had a task at hand, a mission to accomplish, a dream to make into reality.
Draco made his way through the city. He regarded the skyscrapers, the parks, the people. Perhaps he should be feeling awe. Or wonder. Or perhaps even inspiration or motivation. But all he could feel was the same heavy emptiness.
Despite being surrounded by a thousand faces, he had never felt more alone.
It was around the end of March when Draco saw the dragon tattoo.
During his walks, Draco usually followed a route that took him exactly one hour to finish so that he could return home and rest as soon as he could. However, he had been particularly lost in his mind that day that it took him a full five minutes to realize that he had made a mistake. Instead of walking down a street lined with its familiar cafés and florists, he was heading down an alley lined with tattoo shops and piercing parlors.
Draco kept his head down and walked faster. He felt slightly uncomfortable surrounded by windows and doors plastered by posters and photographs of freshly-inked tattoos on bright red skin and far too many piercings on parts that really shouldn't be pierced. However, he was around hallway down the street when he stopped.
The window the tattoo shop beside him was a collage of art. And not just a particular type of genre either, but a chaotic mess of everything. There were pencil drawings of flowers or watercolors of the starry night sky or oils of cityscapes or charcoal sketches of faces. Looking at them as a whole was enough to be overwhelming, but individually, every piece was truly beautifully crafted. Draco thought they belonged to be in a museum or exhibition rather than hanging at a tattoo parlor window.
However, what caught his attention was an ink drawing of an English dragon at the bottom of the window. Though it was incredibly simple compared to its flashier companions, there was something strangely sincere about it that drew Draco in. Maybe it was the way its snout was raised proudly in the air. Or the way its wings were tucked artfully against its back, or the elegantly pointed tail. Every stroke had been drawn and shaded with care, and for some reason…
Before he could come back to his senses, Draco pushed open the door and stepped in.
The interior of the shop was really quite small, the entire space barely the size of a walk-in closet. More pieces of artwork, just as lovely as those at the window were hung on the walls, and other than a tattoo chair and a small cabinet loaded with machines and ink. There was a little staircase at the back of the room, leading to a storage area or perhaps a small apartment or residence area, but other than that, the shop contained nothing else.
A tall young man was seated on a swiveling stool beside the tattoo chair, leaning against the wall as he scrolled through the phone. He seemed to be around his mid-twenties, rather good-looking with aristocratic features framed by dark blond hair and dressed casually in black jeans and a leather jacket. When Draco stepped in, he glanced up. His eyes were grey, the color of a rising storm.
"Are you the artist?" Draco asked, indicating the art surrounding them.
"Yeah," the man said. He had a faint Russian accent.
"Great," Draco nodded. He swallowed. "I saw the dragon outside. I'm wondering if I can get that tattooed on."
The man nodded curtly and gestured at Draco to take a seat. Draco did, perching cautiously on the tattoo chair.
"This your first tattoo?" the man asked, putting down his phone.
"Yes… um…" Draco hesitated, remembering the Dark Mark. He must have shifted his left arm unconsciously or betrayed some sort of hint, because before he could react, the man had snatched up his wrist and pulled back his sleeve, the Dark Mark in full display against the pallor of his skin.
Draco yanked his arm back, but the man was surprisingly strong, the hand on his wrist unyielding as he studied the Mark on his forearm.
"This is very well done," he said approvingly. "The shading is impeccable. I don't know what compelled you to get such a shitty design, but at least the execution is good."
"Well, it wasn't as if I had a choice." Draco snapped. He yanked again, and this time, succeeded in freeing himself. He rubbed his wrist and scowled. "Are you always so rough with your clients or what?"
Right at that moment, a yell pierced through the room.
"Artyom! Where the fuck did you leave my shoes?"
A slender blond woman stormed down from the stairs with a bag slung over her shoulder. She was also very attractive, with the same dark blond hair and storm-grey eyes, but what caught Draco's breath were her arms. The tank top she wore left the tattoo sleeves on both arms in full display, an intricate masterpiece of fine lines in black and grey.
"How the fuck would I know?" Artyom yelled back. He started cursing in Russian, and the woman swore right back. And for a moment, Draco just stared at them. Both of them were raging at each other, their shouting getting louder and louder until he spotted a glimpse of pink at the bottom of the stairs. Draco wasn't sure if it was what she was looking for, but he gestured weakly at it. The woman saw it, and glanced over. Sure enough, a look of delight spread across her face as she reached over and scooped it up. It was a pair of ballet slippers.
"Oh yes, go ahead, blame me for your own forgetfulness," Artyom muttered. Scowling, the woman reached over and swatted him over the head with the shoes. Then, she turned to Draco with a dazzling smile and reached out a hand. Draco shook it.
"I'm Yelena," she introduced herself. She glanced at him queryingly. "You here for a tattoo?"
Draco nodded.
"You've found a good place." Yelena said. She jerked a thumb at Artyom, who flipped her off. "My brother's an asshole, but he's one hell of an artist. He'll take good care of you."
"That's good to hear," Draco said. Haltingly, he asked, "Did he do the tattoos on your arms?"
"Of course," Yelena replied easily. "I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it."
She reached out so that he could see her arms, and once again, Draco found himself enraptured. One arm depicted a garden, a collage of carnations and chrysanthemums and narcissus amidst a backdrop of leaves and thorns, every petal and detail meticulously shaded. The other was of a city, an intricate network of skyscrapers and street signs that crisscrossed her forearms, drawn so realistically that it seemed to be leaping from her skin.
"You got a design in mind?" she asked.
"Yeah," Draco managed to pull his eyes away. "I'm thinking of the dragon outside."
"Good choice," Yelena said approvingly. She glanced meaningfully at Artyom. "Since you helped me find my shoes, my brother better give you a discount."
"Go fuck yourself," Artyom shot back. "I charge whatever the hell I want."
Despite himself, Draco cracked a small smile. He liked them.
Yelena flipped her brother off viciously, before waving goodbye to Draco with another brilliant smile. With that, she headed out, the door to the shop swinging shut behind her.
"My sister's a bitch, but you won't find a better dancer than her in the world." Even though Artyom said those words distastefully, the pride that laced the second half of his comment was undeniable. He turned to Draco. "You want the dragon, right? Where do you want it?"
"I… I'm not too sure," Draco admitted.
Artyom sighed. "Forearm? Shoulder? Back? Stomach? Or do you want me to stamp it on your ass?"
"God, no," Draco said, recoiling. He thought for a moment. "How about the shoulder?"
"That works," Artyom pulled out a piece of stenciling paper and began to draw the design. "Take off your shirt."
Draco shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving them neatly folded by the side. He leaned back on the tattoo chair. The leather was cold beneath his bare skin, and he shifted until he settled down into a reasonably comfortable position. By then, Artyom had completed the design, a simple outline of the dragon drawn onto the paper.
"Here?" Artyom aligned the stencil on Draco's shoulder after wiping it down with a soft hand towel that smelled faintly of soap. Draco nodded. Artyom placed it on, the paper cool as it stuck to his skin, and after a few minutes, peeled it off, leaving an outline of stark purple lines.
Artyom put on a mask, snapped on a pair of gloves, and picked up the tattoo machine. It buzzed, the needles whirring, but when he leaned over to work, Draco jerked back violently. Because in that moment, all he could see was a sneering face of ghostly white and eyes glittering with cruelty, and all he could feel was the same naked terror as the Dark Mark burned into his skin.
"You want the tattoo or not?" Artyom snapped.
"Yes," Draco forced himself to take a deep breath and exhale slowly. He had just been shivering from the cold, but his hands were now clammy with sweat. No, he was not in the Manor. No, this was not Voldemort. No, it was not the Dark Mark. He was in a sketchy New York tattoo shop with a short-tempered Russian artist waiting impatiently for him to get his shit together so he could ink a stupid dragon tattoo on his shoulder and get paid. "I just… nothing."
"Alright," Artyom shrugged. With that, he got to work.
The needle cut into Draco's skin, and he clenched his teeth against the pain. It wasn't agonizing, but it wasn't exactly comfortable either, the stinging needle piercing in and out and leaving his skin red and tingling afterwards. Once again, all Draco could see was the needle that had cut into his forearm, outlining the snake and skull of the Dark Mark, the prickling pain he felt now all too familiar to the one in the past, and he forced himself to take another deep breath. This was not the Dark Mark. Lord Voldemort was gone. He was safe.
"God, you're tense. Relax," Artyom said, his brow furrowed in concentration. Maybe it was an attempt to get Draco to loosen up, but unknowingly, asked the worst possible question. "How'd you get your other tattoo?"
"None of your business," Draco said shortly. In part from the pain, but mostly because he did not want to talk about it whatsoever. Artyom didn't look offended. Shrugging, he continued to work.
A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the buzz of the tattoo machine. As Artyom continued to work, the initial pain dulled from a sharp sting to a persistent prickling. Draco closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. This wasn't Voldemort, this wasn't the Dark Mark…
The buzzing stopped abruptly.
"God, can you please relax?" Artyom demanded, glaring at him. "This is just a fucking tattoo! It's not torture. Do you have some sort of trauma or something-"
"Fuck you!" Draco exploded. "What the fuck do you think? Fuck yes, of course I have trauma!"
Something snapped deep inside of Draco, and it was as if a dam had shattered, leaving the waters trapped inside flowing out in a raging wave. The guilt, the shame, the conflict, the fear, the misery, the loneliness, the pain… Draco had kept all of it bottled in his heart for so long, bearing the burden alone on his trembling shoulders for so long that when it came out, he couldn't stop. He just couldn't stop.
He told him about his family and their ties to the underworld and Lord Voldemort. He told him about Harry Potter and the Dark Mark and his role in the Fallout. He told him about how everything went to hell, of how innocent lives were lost because of his actions and how he had let Father down and how everything was his fault. And also… Draco swallowed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. Unable to hide the pain in his voice, told him about the hurt that all of his friends – friends that he had trusted and loved with every inch of his beating heart – had left him the moment he stopped being useful.
Sometime in his story, Artyom had picked up the machine again and continued to work on his tattoo while he rambled and raged. When Draco was finally done, Artyom reached over and handed him a bottle of water. Draco took it gratefully, finishing half of it in one gulp. It had been a long time since the last time he'd spoken so much.
"What do you think?" Draco asked bitterly. "I'm a coward, aren't I?"
"Yeah," Artyom agreed easily. He wiped at the excess ink on Draco's shoulder with a piece of cloth. "You're pretty pathetic."
For a moment, Draco just stared at him in disbelief. He didn't know what to say. Admittedly, based on his interactions with Artyom, he knew he wasn't going to get much comfort from him, but he did go through hell, and he expected Artyom to – oh, he didn't know, maybe at least show him a little sympathy or something? He most definitely did not expect Artyom to agree so immediately that he was a pathetic coward.
"You are the most uncompassionate person I have ever met in my life," Draco said. He couldn't stop the bitterness from entering his voice.
"Well, what the fuck do you want me to say?" Artyom demanded, looking up from his work. "You want me to give you a hug and tell you pretty lies about how you're such a strong, brave boy? I'm sorry, but that's not my job. I'm a tattoo artist, not your fucking therapist."
"Fine." Draco never should have told him anything. He was never going to tell anyone anything again. "Finish your stupid tattoo and let me get the fuck out of here."
Artyom turned back to his shading, and the shop once again descended into a sullen silence. It wasn't until an hour later when Artyom spoke.
"You want to know why I think you're pathetic?" he asked.
No, Draco did not want to know why he thought he was pathetic. That was not going to be good for his self-esteem, which god knows was tattered enough. But Artyom didn't bother waiting for him to respond.
"You're pathetic, because you're wasting the lives you killed," Artyom said bluntly. "They're dead. There's no denying that. They will never get the chance to see the world or fall in love or do whatever privileged people like you get to do, but that's not the same for you."
Artyom began working on the dragon's tail, the needle flashing as it drew the delicate scales. "You killed them. It's your fault. But instead of wasting your life feeling sorry for yourself, go do something more meaningful. Go get a university degree and go get a good job and go do something that makes you happy. You might not be able to bring them back to life, but the least you could do is to live your life to the fullest for them."
It… it made sense. It really made sense. The fog of depression remained heavy around him, but for the first time, a ray of sunlight shone through the mist, and in that moment of clarity, Draco realized… that it really was a waste. Sitting around all day immersed in self-pity, watching the days slip purposelessly by; he was wasting his second chance at life. His secrets were buried and his records were cleared. He was allowed to finish high school and attend university. He had a bright future ahead of him. Why was he wasting it?
For his entire life, he had been living for Father, to make him proud. From struggling to have the highest grades in his class to forcing himself to be interested in banking to even bearing the Dark Mark and putting innocent lives at danger. But all that came out of it was stress and devastation and guilt. For his entire life, he had been living for his friends, fearing losing them. From showering them with gifts to spending hours socializing to entertaining them, even if it meant being cruel. But all that came out of it was betrayal and loss and hurt.
Now, they were all gone. His father was in Azkaban. His friends had left him. He was alone. But now that he was alone… there was no point in living for them anymore. They played an undeniable role in his past, but they did not have to play a role in his future. He could finally begin to live for himself. Not because he deserved it. But because it was the least he could do to honor the lives lost on his hands.
"All done," Artyom announced, placing the machine to the side. Draco glanced at the tattoo, and couldn't stop himself from giving a small smile. The skin on his shoulder was scarlet and tender, the ink gleaming and fresh under the light, but the elegant dragon curled there regarding him with gentle eyes was one of the most beautiful things he had seen in his life.
Artyom rubbed a layer of antibiotic oil over the tattoo and covered it with a plastic wrap. He handed him a small tube of ointment along with a sheet of paper detailing the aftercare procedures.
"Thank you," Draco said. He really meant it.
Artyom waved a hand carelessly. "Then you'd better give me a big tip."
This time, Draco laughed, and yes, the tip he gave was certainly far too generous considering the less-than-ideal customer service. After waving goodbye, he stepped out of the shop. It had just begun to darken slightly, but there was still more than enough daylight for Draco to see skyscrapers of steel silhouetted against the clear blue sky and the blossoming flowers that decorated the city in blooming splashes of color.
And in that moment, he realized that the world was a vast but beautiful place.
That night, Draco stood in the bathroom before his mirror. It was dark, the lights turned off, but the glow of the city below provided enough illumination for him to see clearly. It was cold, the wind through the open window sending goosebumps across his arms, but he didn't mind. He took off his shirt, carefully peeled off the wrap on his shoulder, and looked at the reflection staring back at him.
A slender boy with white-blond hair that nearly brushed his shoulders. Skin pale enough to see the network of delicate veins crisscrossing beneath, broken only by the ink on his forearm and shoulder. A thin face with cheekbones and chin sharper than before, and bruise-colored circles beneath eyes that had long since lost the carless ignorance of youth. The darkness of the room cast long shadows across his features that made him appear older and wearier than he really was, but despite it, there was a glimmer in the depths of those grey eyes that stared back.
"Rage against the dying of the light," Draco whispered.
He looked at his tattoos. One of a snake and skull, a brand of pain and servitude, a reminder of his crimes and the blood on his hands. The other a graceful dragon, a mark of hope, the start of a new life and perhaps even the beginning of a journey to redemption.
A small smile graced his lips as he took his first step away from his past.
Rage against the dying of the light.
Draco picked up his schoolwork. He began taking longer walks. He began speaking a little more in his therapy sessions. And he even started chatting with his housekeeper and learn a few phrases of clumsy Chinese.
Through it all, it wasn't easy. He was immensely behind on his academics, and had missed the major university application deadlines. He did not understand American culture whatsoever, and didn't trust his therapist not nearly enough to talk about his true feelings and thoughts. To add insult to injury, his housekeeper claimed that he had the worst accent she had ever heard in her life.
But Draco tried. Because he wanted to live his life to the fullest. Not just for himself, but for Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown, and Fred Weasley.
He threw himself into his academics with an intensity that even his rigor in Hogwarts could not compare and managed to pass his APs with decent scores. With the help of a counselor, he enrolled in a community college, and began working on his applications for next year's round of admissions into NYU. He dedicated at least one day a week to explore the city, and hired his housekeeper to teach him Chinese. And during his session with his therapist, his good behavior was impressive enough that within another half year, was freed from his therapy obligations.
There were far too many days when he'd throw his computer aside the moment his class was finished, overwhelmed by anxiety and stress. There were far too many days when it was so much easier to stay in bed, lost in that heavy emptiness. And there were far too many days when it was so much easier to remain drowning in his head than to live in the world around him.
But every time, he forced himself to sit up. Wash his face. Take a walk. Open his computer and get back to work. It was a slow process, but with every passing day, took a step out the darkness of his past and into the future that lay ahead.
Rage against the dying of the light.
Draco was on his way home one day when he passed a few elderly men painting. They were seated against a wall, their easels propped up before them, brows furrowed in concentration and smocks covered in smears of color as they worked on painting a fountain before them. Despite himself, Draco stepped over to take a look.
He saw the brushes laden with paint, coating the canvas in broad strokes of brown and blue as they painted the sky and earth. Then, the brushes with finer tips as they drew the fountain, detailing the droplets spraying in the air and the flowers that bloomed at its base. He could smell heavy scent of the oils, could hear the sound of the bold brushstrokes blending in with the splashing of the fountain, and bit by bit, the corner of the street was brought to life.
Afterwards, he made a trip to an art supply store and bought himself a few brushes and tubes of paint, a bottle of turpentine, and a few pieces of canvas. That night, he set up a little corner in his bedroom, and after watching a few tutorials, began to paint.
Rage against the dying of the light.
On the spring of the following year, Draco received his admissions into NYU Stern. And that fall, stepped into the university.
On the day of his orientation, he arrived on the campus, eyes wide as he drank in the majestic stone buildings, the bold purple and white banners fluttering from the windows, and the excited chatter of students around him. The air was positively trembling with anticipation, everyone there ready to start this chapter of their life in this prestigious university, looking forward to the brilliant future ahead of them. The energy was infectious, and even Draco couldn't help but to feel a flicker of excitement as well.
A petite girl with a pixie cut sat next to him during a presentation, and introduced herself cheerfully. She added his Instagram, and later that day, messaged him, asking if he wanted to hang out. A part of him was tempted to. But then, he remembered Pansy – how she had always reached out to chat with him, how she had always promised to be there for him, but when he needed her the most, left. Politely, Draco declined her request.
He was in his business law class when he met a tall young man, a little silent and aloof but incredibly kind. They studied together often, quizzing each other on terms that took them both far too long to memorize. After the finals, asked if he wanted to go grab a drink with him and his friends. A part of Draco was tempted to. But then, he remembered Blaise – how he had always been there beside him, a steady presence he could always count on, but when he needed him the most, disappeared without a trace. Smiling sadly, Draco declined his request.
Draco studied intensively, and his grades were exemplary. He took as many courses as he possibly could, hoping to graduate after three years of college rather than the usual four. He met people in his classes, talked to them cordially enough, and added their social media. He made friends… though they were, more accurately, acquaintances.
It was a little awkward when he wasn't able to find a partner for group projects. It was a little sad to be studying alone in the library. And even he couldn't help but to feel rather pathetic eating all alone in the cafeteria. Draco knew that all these issues would have been easily resolved if he simply made some friends, but at the same time… he couldn't.
He wanted to love. He wanted to trust. He wanted someone to stand with him when the darkness came, someone to talk to when the world crumbled, and someone to look forward to seeing each day. He wanted to know that when he fell, he'd fall safely into arms that would not only catch him safely but hold him tight so that he would never fall again.
But he couldn't. He knew better than anyone else the fickleness of human nature. People might be friendly. People might be kind. People might stand beside you with smiling faces and pretty promises, but in that moment when you need them the most…
Draco remained alone. But he was alright with that. It was, after all, better to fall expecting the pain than putting his trust into people who claim they'll be there, but end up standing back and watching him fall.
Rage against the dying of the light.
Draco graduated. He was dressed in robes of purple, the crowd politely applauding as he made his way across the stage to receive his diploma. There was nobody there to take him photos or give him flowers, nobody there to cheer his name and offer him praises, but he was alright with that. Smiling, he took shook the dean's hands and took his diploma, and walked offstage with his shoulders squared and chin high.
Afterwards, while his fellow graduates headed off to drink and party, he found himself back at the sketchy little alley of tattoo parlors. A part of him wanted to check in on Artyom, and perhaps even thank him for his words that had been a tipping point in helping him find a new purpose for his life. But when he rounded the corner, he stopped.
There was a girl standing before the shop, admiring the artwork at the window. She was very pretty, with glowing bronze skin and long black hair pulled into a braid. Right at that moment, the door swung open and Artyom stepped out. The girl's face broke immediately into a bright smile, and even Artyom's usually callous demeanor softened as he leaned down to kiss her gently. Holding hands, they strode away, radiating contentment.
Draco watched them make their way down the street. Artyom seemed to have found his happiness, and he was truly glad for him. Turning away, he headed home. It wasn't until he reached his apartment door when he realized that he had been smiling the whole time.
Rage against the dying of the light.
A few acquaintances invited him out for some drinks. Draco would have usually declined, but considering how the bar they were going to was one of New York City's most prestigious, caved and went along. It turned out to be a great mistake, but also one of the best decisions he made in his life.
Though his acquaintances had fantastic taste in selecting bars, their alcohol tolerance was very low. In moments, they were all tipsy, babbling away in Italian, which effectively excluded Draco from whatever fascinating conversation they were having. Sighing, Draco took a sip of his Cosmopolitan.
"Are they your friends?"
It was the Chinese man sitting beside him at the bar. He seemed to be around his mid-forties, dressed smartly in a sleek black suit, and had an Old Fashioned before him. When he glanced over, there was a friendly twinkle in his eyes.
"Acquaintances," Draco admitted. He sighed. "Nonetheless, I suppose I'm still responsible for getting them home,"
The man chuckled, and Draco found the corner of his lips quirking into a smile. And thus, they began to talk. The man introduced himself as Richard, a businessman from China. Draco introduced himself as a fresh NYU graduate with a bachelor's in Business Administration, working for Butterbeer. As the hours slipped by, Draco found himself liking this fellow. Though Richard appeared amiable on the outside, he had a wicked sense of humor. And Richard, in turn, found Draco's dry cynicism and sharp wit clever and refreshing.
It wasn't until nearly four in the morning when Richard asked if Draco wanted to work for him. In that moment, Draco discovered that Richard was not simply an ordinary Chinese businessman, but in fact the owner of Shanghai's most prestigious bars and clubs. And he had been thoroughly impressed by Draco's capabilities and personality that he decided to hire him on the spot.
Well. Why the hell not? Draco agreed, and within the week, was on his way to Shanghai.
Rage against the dying of the light.
Draco first became the manager of CIRCLE. Though the shop was originally classy enough and the staff decent at their jobs, Draco decided to change things up. He renovated the bar so that it possessed a 20's-inspired décor, and of course, hired Hyun to rewrite the menu. Within weeks, CIRCLE became one of the most popular bars in Shanghai, with customers flocking in for the drinks and atmosphere. Amazed by his performance, Richard soon gave Draco control over Black Tiger. And then Genesis. And then HEXAGON.
Within twenty-four months, Draco found himself supervising nearly every bar and club Richard owned. However, nothing could have prepared him for the end of the year. Richard announced that he was ready to retire, since he had grown far too old to be staying up all night, and in the meantime, declared Draco the new owner of his empire.
Being the manager of a handful of these bars and clubs kept Draco busy enough, but now that he's in control of all of them? Needless to say, his workload exploded exponentially. On one hand, Draco knew that as the owner, he didn't need to be in charge of everything. He could easily hire managers to run his bars and clubs in his stead, which he did, since it was physically impossible for him to supervise half a dozen clubs at the same time. However, he forced them to inform him about every little shift or change that arose, and insisted on being there personally to make sure that the problems were resolved. The work kept him up all night and busy as hell, but Draco didn't mind. He liked working. He liked moving. It drowned out the silence.
Draco moved into an apartment in Xuhui, a lovely little place above a flower shop. He woke at noon and slept at dawn. During his free time, he'd take a stroll around the district with a cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. Or he'd pick up some canvas and oils from the numerous art supply shops on the streets and dedicate an hour or two to painting. He spent his days alone, but he was fine with that.
Yet, at the same time… he was only human, and there were days when the loneliness was overwhelming. Days when silence was an unending roar in his ears that he could no longer ignore. Days when his home became not a place of safety but a cage of solitude, trapping him within its walls. Days when his soul was screaming for someone to talk to. Or not even to talk to. Just having the presence of someone beside him was enough.
Whenever they came, he'd pick up his phone and text a few acquaintances for a drink, wasting the night talking about trivial matters and shallow gossip. Or he'd call Hyun for a meal, their conversation meaningful enough, but never going too deep. Or, on days when the loneliness was suffocating, he'd find himself dancing in a club at midnight, freed from his usual restraint by intoxication, and wake the next morning in the arms of a stranger.
Eleven years of solitude separated his past and present. He could no longer trust the friends of his childhood, and did not trust enough to make friends for his future. He knew, with every inch of his broken, beating heart that he was alone. That he would always be alone.
But he was alright with that. He was. He really, truly was.
Until, perhaps, that night when Harry Potter walked back into his life.