The funeral was quite a solemn and dreary affair. The weather overcast and a light spattering of rain lent itself to the atmosphere. An equally dreary and solemn minister stood at the head of the casket, dressed in excessively ornate and rather pompous black robes; a small, white, and homely looking chapel stood innocuously to the side.
A mother wails as another son is lowered into the earth and two best friends stand next to each other, heads down and hands clasped together.
Draco's day was going significantly better. He had started off with an Eccles cake and chamomile tea at that new bakery that had opened less than a month ago. While the pastries were not as good as those he made himself, the convenience and proximity to his flat made the whole outing worthwhile. The bakery was little more than an open shopfront with two flimsy stools that were chained to concrete bollards for customers to sit on. Draco liked to sit there and watch out onto the street as muggles went about their lives. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially brazen, he would start up a conversation with whoever had settled on the stool next to him, but mostly he just sat and watched and made-up little stories about who they are and what they do.
Today he was keeping himself occupied with a sedate looking fellow who had perched himself on the path railing on the other side of the street. He had on a muggle suit, black, with sunglasses and ruffled hair. Draco imagined him as one of those classic cinema spies, perchance waiting for a fellow companion to give him his orders. Or not, a bit too laid back it seemed. Perhaps instead he was actually a world-famous movie star, confident in their own skin, but self-assured enough to be able to casually perch himself whenever the fancy struck. The man knows that if one of his adoring fans spotted him, he would be swarmed immediately, but for now he was content to just bask in the morning sun of a unimportant Wednesday.
"Oi mate, if you've finished your drink you need to move along, I can't have you clogging up the shopfront all morning," a voice said not unkindly.
Draco flushed, jumping up. The chair rattled ominously from the unexpected movement.
"Sorry," he muttered, moving to the side and placing his cup and serviette into the metal bin a few steps down.
The walk back to his flat was brief. Terraced housing lined the streets, the only differences were the types of cars sitting out the front, and the types of potted plants that lined the entryways; Geranium seemed to be the favourite, followed closely by Carnations. Draco rented the upper floor of 16 Lygon Place from a small but quite mean older lady. As long as he paid his rent on time however, she seemed content to leave him alone for the most part. Draco's downstairs neighbour was a portly fellow this side of fifty. Their paths rarely crossed and rather more than 10 words had been spoken to each other in the 2 years Draco had been living there.
The flat itself was close to derelict, and while Draco did his best to make sure it was as clean and tiny and in as working order as he could, there was not much he could do about the peeling paint, or the boiler that should have been replaced 10 years ago. The number of cold showers he had to take due to the negligence of repairs to the boiler should be criminal. It probably was.
Once home, Draco filled a mug with water from the kitchen tap and poured it into the pot of his dittany plant. It was the only plant he had managed to keep from the manor. He had shrunken it down and hidden it in his breast pocket when he was leaving. Lord knows what the aurors would do if they knew he was keep a magical plant with him. His parole terms made it quite clear that he was to have no interaction with anything magical, be that item, plant, or person. The good news was that his parole meetings only occurred every 6 months, and they only ever took place in the London muggle offices that the Ministry had procured. That didn't mean, however, that the aurors that he dealt with on those outings were particularly enthused to be dealing with him, and he hadn't had a meeting yet where he wasn't spit on yet. He had only had four of those meetings so far, so who's to know if they will get better or worse in the future.
Once the dittany is watered, Draco makes his way to the rocking chair sat next to the painted shut window facing out over the street. He picks up his favourite book from where it was sat on his living room table, pages to where he had dogeared, and settles down to read.
If it wasn't very obvious: Draco does not get out much. If it wasn't for the sometimes outings he takes to the supermarket or for those Eccles cakes and tea, he wouldn't go out at all.
Ron's day was going particularly worse than expected and he was in a piss poor mood because of it. Watching your own funeral can do that. It wasn't the fact that he was dead, though that was a right shit go, or the terrible weather, or even the pompous minister giving the very boring and uninspired speech about his heroic heart that he specifically requested not to happen if he died, no, the thing that really had Ron spitting mad was the fact that whatever ghostly mechanics where at play had decided that the best course of action was to attach him and his ghostly body to Draco Fucking Malfoy. He wasn't even able to watch the end of the funeral before he was whisked away to Malfoy's bleeding flat in the middle of the muggle suburbs, dropping him dead centre in the living room, where Malfoy was curled up in the corner with book in hand.
Of course, whatever powers at be didn't give any explanation on why he would find himself dead and being forced to haunt Draco Malfoy on a random Wednesday.
Ron's first instinct when he realised where he was, was to scream, then curse Malfoy out, then cry, which he did for about an hour. Ron's second instinct was to then hurl himself out of the closed window, which he could do, because he was a ghost. It failed spectacularly with him immediately and dizzyingly dumped back into the centre of the room.
Malfoy did not notice anything amiss.
Ron had first thought that it may have been the flat that he was haunting. He tested how far his scope was by first walking the perimeter of the living room, slowly making his way into other rooms. He had found that he could go an even distance away from the living room, about 2 meters at most. Not much leeway. It wasn't until Malfoy had gotten up to use the bathroom that he realised it wasn't the house he was attached to. As Malfoy moved around the flat, Ron was able move around as well, as long as he didn't get too far away from him.
As the hours creeped past on that first day Ron realised something quite fundamental about Malfoy: he was quite boring. While Malfoy had a small television, he didn't turn it on that whole evening, preferring his book. Unless it was to make a cuppa or to use the bathroom, he didn't get up. There was nothing for Ron to do but explore the flat as far as he could, stare at Malfoy, or stare at the clock perched above the living room entry way.
The living room was the most obviously used room in the flat, though it wasn't very furnished. The television was one of those box shaped ones and sat on a well-used and splintering wooden corner table. Opposite the tele sat a clean but older style settee, the sort of one you would find in your grandparent's house with flowers decorating the fabric. Next to the settee was the living room table. It was small and unassuming, an undistinguished grey, and had a small pile of well-loved books sat perilously leaning on top, a small vase with a single daffodil immediately to the right of the book pile, with the daffodil long dead and petals dropped. Under the table were more books, these ones looked older, with spines cracked and dust gathered. All this set on a worn red woven rug that took up most of the floor of the room. The walls were mostly left bare, besides the clock and a small hanging frame with a cute painted cat playing with yarn that was suspended near the telly with fishing wire and a rusting nail. In the corner was the wooden rocking chair that Draco was currently perched upon. It was nicely lacquered with a deep brown stain, a yellow paisley pillow laid out on the seat to make it more comfortable.
It felt distinctly NOT like Malfoy, though he obviously lived here.
Ron had not seen Malfoy since the trials took place after the war. He had not even wanted to go to them, but Harry and Hermione had both agreed that it was best if they attended to make sure that the trials were held fairly, and the accused given appropriate defence. Ron hadn't agreed but when Hermione got into one of her discrimination tirades, he knew it was a lost cause. Last he knew about Malfoy was that he was to serve his five-year sentence in muggle London, unable to use magic. A very light sentence for a death eater, if you didn't count the social isolation, or magical core weakness, or the whole sending someone out into a new world with no idea how that world worked, that also came with it.
In reality, the Wizengamot had thrown Draco out into the wolves hoping he would be eaten.
All in all, there was absolutely nothing for Ron to do so, when the afternoon finally turned into evening and the evening turned into nighttime, and Draco rose out of his chair and padded into his bedroom, Ron couldn't help but follow. He skipped dinner and put on his pyjamas, which consisted of a threadbare white shirt that fell nicely across his thighs and no bottoms, Ron glancing away after realising what was happening, though not before he caught a glimpse of a very shapely ass.
The bedroom was much worse than the living room; a double mattress laid on the floor, blankets and pillow piled on in a heap with an empty mug sitting near the head. The paint was peeling much worse here and a slow but constant dripping noise could be heard just outside the window.
Ron watched as Malfoy spread the blankets out, fluffed his pillow, and then flicked the light switch, the only illumination now coming from the crescent moon shining. Malfoy lifted the blankets and shuffled under, cocooning himself in the warmth they provided.
Ron laid down next to him on the mattress, stared at Malfoy, and cried.