A/N: my concept of the Afterlife is going to deviate from Harry Potter canon.
Draco opened an eye. He really didn't want to. He knew he was bound for the foulest and most loathsome pit of despair the Afterlife had seen fit to create; but he didn't need to see it, to boot.
Then his other treacherous eye opened, and Draco was... confused.
His hellish after-existence seemed to bet set inside a Hobbit's house. Indeed, he was nicely tucked up in a wooden four-poster bed, bedecked in a cheerful red-and-white check-patterned bedcover.
(He knew about Hobbits' houses, having devoured the Lord of the Rings trilogy one summer when he was nine, perched in one of the many leafy trees on Malfoy Manor's extensive grounds - hiding from his father, who would have thrashed him for reading Muggle literature.)
Pulling back the garish bedspread, he set his bare feet on the floor, relieved to see that he hadn't sprouted huge, hairy Hobbit feet. He shuffled to an oval mirror perched above an antique washstand, one so old his reflection wobbled in places. He reached out to adjust the mirror's angle – and leapt back.
The Dark Mark on his forearm had vanished.
He was surprised to find how much its absence surprised him. Ever since its agonising inception, Draco loathed the silent, slithering snake trapped below the surface of his skin.
Its absence was a surprise, yes; but a very welcome one. He didn't fancy existing in the Afterlife forever with that eyesore on his arm. All that remained were the scars of his own making; the ones he gained when he tried, with increasing rage and desperation, to rid the foul mark from his body.
Finally, he looked at his reflection. Again, he wasn't expecting what he saw. The Draco that left Wizarding Earth was gaunt and bitter. Lines scored his forehead and tracked a grim path from his nose to his lips; brought on by stress so acute no teenager should have experienced it. His stomach used to rebel at the sight of the rich food Voldemort insisted on being served morning, noon and night, so he subsisted primarily on Firewhisky – the neater, the better. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shook and he constantly had a headache. He was permanently in a foul mood, which helped him deal with the unending horror of what life in Malfoy Manor had become since that grey-green snakish freak slithered his way into the lives of witches and wizards with imaginary axes to grind.
Who dragged their children along with them.
Now, Draco looked okay. Not the Adonis he was so used to thinking of himself as P.V. (pre-Voldemort), but his hair seemed less lank and stringy, his face was a little smoother, and the sclera of his eyes seemed more creamy than cherry-coloured. He glanced down at his naked body, something he'd lost all interest in before he took the ultimate plunge. It looked trim and muscular, not Hobbit-like at all. He concentrated, and cracked a smile when his willy waggled from side to side. That was the most action it had experienced in what seemed like years.
He located the dinky bathroom and bathed, watching the sun rise out the stained-glass window that cast a coat of many colours over his bathwater. Drying off, he mooched back into his bedroom and opened his wardrobe, whose hinges protested with an almighty shriek. His options consisted of a range of robes in pastel colours. Shuddering, he searched for a set of robes in the darkest grey he could find and shrugged them on.
As if on cue, he heard a voice. One that came from within his Hobbit house.
"Ah, good, you're awake!"
Turning, Draco narrowed his eyes as a most handsome and genial young man ambled into his bedroom. He knew that wavy brown hair and those clear grey eyes. He'd played Quidditch against him enough times to know him up close and personal-like. It was no surprise his visitor was in the Afterlife. It was, however, somewhat surprising to see him stride through Draco's new habitat like he owned the damn place. In buttery-yellow robes.
Draco closed the wardrobe door. "Hello, Diggory. Long time."
Cedric Diggory knew what to expect from a Malfoy, which wasn't much. "I trust you're feeling up to a tour of the place, then? An introduction to your new Afterlife?"
Draco eyeballed him. "Are you my welcome committee?"
Cedric shrugged. "There was a shortage of volunteers, so I thought I'd throw you a bone." He picked up a serviceable ewer from a table, examined it, put it back and ran his finger along a nearby windowsill. Then he wandered over to a bookcase. "Not many of your sort end up here, to be honest. You're a bit of an anomaly."
"What 'sort?'" Draco bridled. "Slytherins? Malfoys?"
"No. Death Eaters."
Ah. Draco supposed that was fair enough.
"All right," Draco sighed, fastening the last of his robes. "Quit touching my stuff, and show me where the action is."
Draco was disappointed by the lack of action.
Cedric led him outside, down his Hobbity-house-like garden path, and into town, which consisted of a collection of similar Hobbit houses snoozing peacefully alongside a sleepy riverbank. Pastel-robed divine beings dotted the riverbank at intervals, alternating between fishing and snoozing.
Draco was aghast.
"Is all of the Afterlife a replica of The Shire?" he sneered, mostly to hide his worry. He seriously couldn't see himself existing forever in this cutsey-cutsey hell hole. He wouldn't be able to kill himself if he couldn't hack it again.
"It is at the moment," Cedric replied, nodding respectfully to a couple of matrons passing by (with eyes out on stalks for the new arrival). "Everyone gets a turn at creating our universe. The bloke responsible for this knew J.R.R. Tolkien. Slipped a few too many Wizarding secrets to the man, unfortunately, and they ended up in the stories. Luckily the Muggles assumed it was all made up, but boy, did Bernard end up in hot water with the Ministry of Magic!"
Draco sighed. "Bernard?"
"The bloke that's responsible for our universe looking like The Shire."
Meanwhile, Draco was distracted by something else. "Why don't we have wands?" he asked, groping through his pockets for any sign of wood.
"Don't need 'em."
Inconceivable! "How do we exist, then?" Draco demanded.
"Easy," Cedric shrugged. "Utilise your imagination. Observe." Cedric held his hand out, palm up. "One cheese and pickle sandwich, please."
A large, crusty sandwich bursting with lettuce, cheese and pickles appeared on his hand.
Cedric took a huge bite. "Now you try," he mumbled around his pickles.
Doubtfully, Draco held his hand out. "One large F" – but he changed his mind and amended it to "Butterbeer."
A mug shimmered into view and landed on his outstretched hand, brimming with butterbeer-y goodness.
Cautiously, Draco took a sip. It was legit. And his Firewhisky-demanding stomach didn't lurch in revolt.
"There's limits, of course, with this type of magic," Cedric explained, "but I'm sure you'll work them out."
"Uh-huh." Draco was distracted again, this time by a lovely young lady in lilac robes that suited her long honey hair and violet eyes, who was approaching the duo.
"Hello, Lucy," Cedric smiled around his sandwich, nodding at the lady.
"Hello, Cedric," she grinned. "Going to be introducing me to your friend, then?"
"This is Draco," Cedric replied, slightly shortly after swallowing a mouthful of bread and cheese. "He's just arrived. I'm showing him around."
"Hello, Draco!" she beamed, and touched his hand. "I'm Lucy. Welcome to the Afterlife. You'll love it here, I'm sure."
For the first time, Draco was inclined to agree.
"I'm showing him the Scrying Screens," Cedric said. "Want to catch up later at the pub, then?"
"Of course," Lucy dimpled. "Bring Draco along, too! There'll be lots more people for him to meet!"
"Of course," Cedric murmured blandly.
They both watched Lucy prance along the path until she disappeared from view.
"So," Draco said casually, "are we allowed to have, er, relationships in this place?"
Cedric turned and headed in the opposite direction. "Anything you like!" was his enigmatic reply.
Eventually, Cedric led Draco to a deep underground chamber that was filled with a magical light. Long tables graced the large room, and on these perched enormous picture frames which Draco, if he'd ever bothered paying attention in Muggle Studies, would have recognised as being similar to television screens. Ornate chairs perched before each screen, and a pair of golden winged headphones lay nearby. A handful of people were seated at some of the screens with the headphones clamped tight on their heads. They stared avidly at their screen, lost in another world.
"These are the Scrying Screens," Cedric said unnecessarily. "You can use these to check in on what's going on back where we came from. Most folks use these to see how their friends and family are getting on. It can be a bit traumatic, especially for the recently arrived like yourself, just so you know."
Draco sat gingerly on a nearby chair. "How do they work?" he asked.
"Pretty simple, really. You think of a person, destination, or something that ties you back to where you came from, then touch the screen. Put on the headphones for sound, and Bob's your uncle."
Draco wasn't interested in hearing about Cedric's uncle. Plonking the headphones over his ears, he thought for a second, then touched the screen in front of him. Instantly, it shimmered, as if he'd dropped a stone into water. Flickers of colour swam in and out of the ripples, and soon he was presented an image of what he was looking for.
His father.
Lucius Malfoy, once the proud owner of Malfoy Manor and all it entailed, was now relegated to a single room of his own house. Death Eaters took up most of the other rooms, and Voldemort kept the choicest real estate for himself and that unholy snake. Now Lucius sat in what was his office, except now a crib had been added to the room. It was unmade. Draco imagined most of the house elves were dead or had gone the way of Dobby, if they were brave.
The man himself sat at his cavernous desk, empty save for a Firewhisky bottle, a nearly-full glass and a silver photo frame. Draco knew it contained a portrait of his family, looking austere and stern, before Voldemort turned up and made everything exponentially worse.
Lucius looked like death. His platinum locks, his pride and joy, were greasy and hung from his head in lank tendrils. His face was unshaven, and his eyes were rheumy. His shoulders slumped, and his hands lay listlessly on the slightly dusty desktop. His hand shook as he reached for the glass.
Cedric, peering over Draco's shoulder, saw a broken, grieving man on the verge of defeat. He was rather alarmed to see Draco smile grimly at the sight.
Draco had seen all he needed to see. So he thought again and touched the screen. When the rippling and colour mixing stopped, Draco leaned forward… then leapt out of his seat.
"Merlin's tits!" he roared, causing some of the other users to look up from their screen in alarm, wondering where the fire was. "Where the hell is my mother and what is she doing?"
Cedric looked at the screen, trying not to snigger. "She appears to be in the Naturists' Afterlife," he commented. "Once you've been here a while, you can travel to other Afterlives. She seems to be, er, quite happy."
Draco shoved him away. "Stop staring at my naked mother!" he hissed angrily.
Cedric stifled a laugh and went to chat to another scryer.
Draco forced himself to look at the screen again. Not only was his mother as naked as the day she was born, she looked very happy cosying up to a bearded centaur with a hell of a six pack and an appendage that made Draco ill just to look at it. He jabbed at the screen again. "Mother!" he shouted. "Put some damn clothes on!"
"It's just one-way communication," Cedric called over. "Try not to break the screen, please."
Scowling, Draco thought of something else he could look at. Almost reluctantly, a name shimmered into his head, and almost as reluctantly, he tapped the screen. More rippling, more colour-shimmying, and eventually he found himself looking at a large tree, one of a number of trees that appeared to make up an urban park.
Underneath the tree lay Granger. Still in the same rags she was wearing in Malfoy Manor. Lying face down, motionlessly on the grass, with the odd tendril of her hair lifted and lowered by a breeze. Was she even breathing? Draco leaned forward, squinting into the vision, but he couldn't tell.
What in the world was she doing?
And why was she doing it there?
How long had she been doing it for?
He leaned forward again so he could yell at the lazy bitch to wake up before he remembered Cedric's words. This wouldn't do at all! He tried to send Granger to a place of safety, and look at how she's wasting the opportunity! Something had to be done.
He called over to Cedric. "Diggory! Where's the helpdesk?"
A/N: What is Granger doing? We'll find out in chapter 3.