Draco Malfoy spends no less than five hours sitting and staring at his hands. By the time the little clock Granger had pointed out says it is 1:00am he decides he will try sleep.
He doesn't get very far.
No sooner has his head touched the pillow do the images of his nightmares try to take a hold and set his mind buzzing. Still dressed in muggle jeans and a muggle button-up shirt (bloody muggle everything now…), he curls in on himself and breathes slow, purposeful breaths, trying to calm his rising panic, bile stinging his throat.
The war was hell. No one would argue that, least of all Draco. He was indoctrinated as a child, threatened as an adolescent, and abused as a young man. By the end, he was praying to the Gods that Potter would kill the bastard camped out in his house so his world could return to what he always thought it would be. It seemed so simple when he was young. Until he was about thirteen, he was sure his whole world could be summed up in an easy 5-step program.
Attend Hogwarts and be the best
Find a pureblood witch who is also the best
Have pureblood children who are the best
Run the family business which is the best
Leave a legacy, a portrait, a family at the end of his life which has always been, you guessed it, the best
Easy right?
Then there was the fucking Dark Lord and his ridiculous ambition. What did he expect really? That he would go about murdering muggles and causing unexplained disturbances and generally sending a two-finger salute at the planet and everyone would either cower in a corner or pat him on the back and tell him "good show"?
Ridiculous bloody wizard.
Oh the muggles noticed alright. How in blazes could they not? One muggle slaughter too many and someone started asking questions. And then enough half-bloods and muggleborns were scared to death and thought to look outside of the wizarding world for help. Can't blame them really. There weren't enough Oblivates to stop the eventual tide. Before anyone could be ready, the world at large knew. They knew everything.
And first they came for the Death Eaters.
Lying now in Granger's spare bed, he looks at his forearm just in front of his face. The mark is faded but it will never be gone. The muggles tried to remove them from all incarcerated Death Eaters with lasers and scalpels. When that didn't work, they coerced other witches and wizards to try. But nothing could break that which was bonded to this skin. Removing the limb might work. He was half surprised they didn't just chop the damn thing off. Barbarians.
Death Eaters were all sentenced by the courts to various levels of prison. Being young and not having actually committed the most heinous of acts as had his compatriots, Draco was given a lighter sentence. The fact that he is twenty-four and free is probably a miracle but he is having trouble seeing the joy in it just now.
His parents were not looked upon as favorably. After a short time in prison, Draco was notified that both of his parents had taken their own lives, unable to cope with the new world order. He could not give much care to the loss of his Father, overbearing tyrant that he had been, but the loss of his Mother tore him down. It is still the stuff of his nightmares, creeping out from the corners of his mind at odd moments, her smiling face distorting into a pained sadness. He wept for her once then allowed the bitterness to eternally dry future tears.
Financially, that meant all Malfoy holdings went to Draco. Since the family business was a wizarding enterprise, however, and all things wizard are now strictly regulated by the muggle governments, it did not last any longer than its suicidal former president. The manor, once it became visible to the naked eye, was discovered to be badly zoned and was taken. A car park now sits atop what was once their opulent parlor. Their lavish gardens, now the foundation for a pet grooming service with the crass name "Doggy Style". Narcissa would have blanched at the thought.
The only thing left untouched was the vault at Gringott's and thank Salazar for that. Draco is far from penniless, even with the laughable exchange rate decided upon by the muggle/wizarding cooperation council.
What he is however, is untouchable. Pariah. Draco Malfoy, wizarding playboy, wealthy pureblood, powerful Death Eater, has absolutely no one and nowhere to go. Staring straight ahead into the darkened room, he glances at the bedside table and curses internally as he realizes he doesn't even know how to turn on the fucking lamp.
As the wizarding world was integrated into the muggle one, the first to adjust were of course the mudbl-… the muggleborns.
He is a little disgusted at himself that he almost thought the old slur. But he also forgives himself a lot these days. He thinks he is holding it together reasonably well, all things considered.
The muggleborns, as he was thinking, basically just went home. They already had families and friends and knowledge. They at leastknew how to turn on a lamp.
Half-bloods were in a similar position and were in the swing of things within weeks, months at worst, of the Wizarding Accords.
Purebloods have not fared as well at all.
Magic is now strictly to be used with certain types of licenses and in certain settings. "No Smoking" signs have been slowly replaced with "No Magic Use" or "Thank You For Not Casting". Brewing potions is akin to having a liquor license and only given to business proprietors and their employees. All in-home potion making is considered illegal and is prosecuted much like muggle drug trafficking. Any other magic permit is given with specific applications. Just because a wizard is authorized for transfiguration does not mean he is allowed to cast charms. That is an entirely separate enterprise and they will thank you to sign up for an authorization course at the local university. And of course there is an annual fee (per specific type) to keep the permit valid.
All of this has left the oldest families in the most desperate positions. Their wealth has been halved and they have no, as the muggles say, "marketable skills in the work force". Many tried to flee Britain but really, there's nowhere to go. Japan, Canada, Mexico, Italy, Norway, Cambodia… it doesn't matter. Every country has integrated in some way. His home country is probably one of the most livable since they still allow most forms of magic. Less developed countries returned to the days of stake burning and exorcisms. So no, running away did not seem to work.
Then, there were the Death Eaters, which brings us back to our blond, grey-hat villain. Villain might be harsh but he knows he is no hero. In the end, he didn't want Voldemort to win. In the end, he was sickened by the death and destruction the crazy blighter had wanted, even to muggleborns, who he no longer holds in disdain.
Unfortunately, in the end, he didn't exactly fight against it either. The muggles called him a coward. They didn't seem to understand the implication when he told them he was simply a Slytherin.
When the muggles came with, literally, guns blazing to the final battle, Draco was rounded up with the first lot and sentenced to 7 years in a penitentiary. He never fought, never raised his wand at the muggles. Magic can do many wonderful things, but the reality is that wizards and witches are just vastly outnumbered in the world. A spell can deflect a bullet, sure. Another can send that bullet back where it came from. Some spells could throw his attackers off their feet or hurl objects their way or pull their firearms from their hands…
But what could a handful of spells do against thousands of soldiers, armed and angry and frightened by the unknown, all standing on the other side of tanks or flying over their heads in muggle aircraft outfitted with bombs and countless munition rounds. Somehow that day, even the purebloods with very little knowledge of muggle artillery, knew when to stand down. He thinks it might have had something to do with watching their all-powerful (or so they had believed) Dark Lord fall when a well-timed sniper sent one shot through his brain; a look of utter surprise on his face.
For seven long years, Draco was surrounded by a strange mix of muggles and wizards. In their push for full integration, many argued that separating the groups, even in prison, would perpetuate the idea that wizards are not the same as muggles. Draco knew what they were doing. A group of people for centuries had believed themselves superior to those who could not do magic. By saying "we're all humans" in their kind voices and inclusive ways, what they really wanted was to take the wizards down a peg or two. If his parents' deaths and his own near depression are any indication, it worked.
It didn't really matter to Draco who surrounded him in that time. Hiding his face in books and punishing his body to fatigue with basic exercises, he spent seven years a lone wolf, uninterested in conversing with other prisoners, wizard or muggle.
On the day he was to be released, he was informed that all witches and wizards leaving punishment would be assigned to another who was fully established to assist them in their joining of "normal society". When he saw Harry Potter standing just outside the bars that had held him, he grimaced a bit.
"Is this ironic: You of all people taking me in? Or divine punishment?"
"Neither because I'm not."
Draco had flinched at that. "So why are you here? Come to taunt the Death Eater?"
Harry had rolled his eyes. "No actually. I'm your ride."
They talked a little, in Harry's cramped muggle automobile. Draco didn't apologize exactly, and Harry didn't say he forgave him per say, but they seemed to come to an understanding of sorts. He had decided Harry probably was an alright bloke really. Though he won't admit that out loud. Honestly, what had bothered him so much about Potter? Especially after his enthusiasm for the Dark Lord had started to wane. His friendship with Weasley perhaps? That guy was honestly such a tosser. But Harry himself? Quiddich fanatic, easy going, adept wizard.
It's amazing what seven years of reflection can do for your perspective.
When Harry shuts off the engine of the car he had dropped the bomb (no pun intended in light of earlier musings) regarding his… what was she? His case worker?
Hermione Granger had been assigned to, not only mentor him, but allow him to stay with her in her home. Hermione, know-it-all, bossy, muggleborn, Golden-girl, stuck-up, Granger.
So here he lies, in said home, watching the clock tick to a new hour. 2:00am and sleep hasn't come.
He's not sure when it does, but eventually he is groggy and feels like he has hardly slept yet knows he has. The clock says it is past eight and there is an insistent but soft knock at his door.
"Malfoy, are you awake?" He finds his limbs are heavy and he can hardly move, less likely answer her or rise to open the door.
"Are you decent at least? Breakfast is ready." Having tried for nearly five minutes now to rouse her charge, Hermione is starting to be genuinely concerned for him, especially knowing the fates of his parents and so many others like them.
She gently pushes the door open, hiding her eyes with one hand as she does. "Malfoy?" She peeks barely through her fingers and relaxes when she sees he is dressed.
Then immediately purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips that he is still completely dressed.
"Geez, Malfoy, you didn't even take your socks off. Did you sleep like that? I would've been happy to offer you something. I did, in fact, as I recall. It can't be comfortable to sleep what with all those buttons and zippers and things. I hope you'll listen to me today when we choose your clothes. You'll need some things that might even seem strange to you-"
"Granger."
She looks at him, staring at his face but his eyes are still closed. "Yes?"
"Now I remember why I called you a bossy know-it-all."
He can't see her eyes darken what with his still being closed, but hears the edge to her voice. "The same reason you called me a mudblood I'd imagine."
At that, Draco opens his eyes. He's a little shamed and a little embarrassed and a little sorry but he has this streak of pride that disallows him to admit it.
Sitting up and leaning against the headboard, he eyes her. "And why is that?"
"Because you're a prick. Now, do you want breakfast?"
He had expected more, he would admit. A damned monologue about respect and regret and restitution…
Instead she has just quirked an eyebrow and is waiting for an answer.
And actually, he's quite hungry. "Breakfast sounds fine."
Climbing from the bed, his feet hitting the carpeted floor (Carpet: that's a sweet ecstasy just into and of itself), he pads across the room and follows her to the smell of bacon.
Sitting across from Hermione Granger in her inviting home, eating a meal she prepared, feeling her cool wood floors beneath the balls of his feet, he relaxes a little for the first time in forever and tucks in to what feels like his first meal in a lifetime.
"So I was thinking the first thing we pick up is a coat. It's getting quite cool now and the weather is only going to get worse from here. And then we really need to get some casual clothes for everyday wear. Of course you will need suits when you start looking for a job. Have you thought about that yet? Work I mean? Of course you probably haven't sorry, forget that. We'll talk about all of that later. Today, we will get you a wardrobe, tomorrow's problems can wait a day. Let's get some pajamas too. Oh and socks and shoes and accessories. Do you wear accessories? Don't really see you as the type to wear pinky rings or hemp necklaces but you never know. Muggle fashion is all new to you. There's no telling what you might like…"
She drones for the entirety of breakfast. Draco catches maybe half. She asks him questions and then answers them herself. He figures she has this conversation under control and he is superfluous.
Which works out well when he takes the last strip of bacon and she doesn't notice.
He considers as he crunches the salty and, admittedly, well-cooked meat (extra crispy, as it should be): If her incessant chatting doesn't drive him spare, rooming with Granger might not be completely awful.