The Afterlife
A nearly transparent Draco was escorted (or pulled) into a very impressive chamber by a weeping Lucy.
He supposed the imposing room bore a passing resemblance to the dark and menacing ballroom of Malfoy Manor when Voldemort implemented his interior decorating scheme of blackened misery. But in this case, light existed instead of darkness, spilling through huge stained-glass windows depicting chess pieces engaged in famous Wizarding battles.
Across the vast black and white chequered floor sat a number of Important People on resplendent thrones. Each was bedecked in stately robes and wore golden coronets; although in Slytherin's case, his was askew. He slouched on his throne, more interested in the contents of his goblet than the waif standing before him.
Dumbledore, sitting next to Slytherin and doing a much better job of looking regal than Slytherin ever could, held out his hands for silence.
"Thank you all for attending this extraordinary meeting," he began. "The topic of which is standing in front of you now: Mr Draco Malfoy."
Draco looked up. Did someone say his name? He was so tired. Lucy was clinging to him with a death grip, lest he fly up into the chamber's rafters and disappear – many, many feet north.
"We have all witnessed his journey of life and death; in fact, some of us have been watching him from the moment he was born. I admit that at times, it seemed that Mr Malfoy was destined for a darker journey than the one he embarked upon. But now, he stands at a crossroads, where he is faced with two choices: to accept his death and reside in the Afterlife, where he has made favourable impressions on some of the residents – or Fade Away into nothingness."
Lucy wiped tears away, only to be replaced by more tears. Slytherin slurped his drink.
Dumbledore addressed Draco. "Mr Malfoy, you have free will to do with yourself as you please. But can you tell the assembled why you have chosen Fading Away as your final path?"
He'd rather not. Thinking was hard.
"Because I don't think I belong here," Draco eventually said. "It's always felt strange. When I was sent back to life to help Her – Ms Granger, that time was honestly the most content and happy I've ever been. Living as a Muggle, even. But I can't go back, and I don't feel right here. Fading Away is the only path left to me."
"You might not like that place, either," Dumbledore noted.
Draco tried to shrug. Meh. Too much effort.
"It's interesting you say you feel like you don't belong here," Dumbledore continued. "Given your upbringing and the unacceptable circumstances your father put your family in, you came to the Afterlife by your own hand at the young age of eighteen.
"But, according to even older and wiser powers than us assembled, it seems you came to the Afterlife too early."
Lucy gasped in Draco's stead.
"The path the Fates set for you, Mr Malfoy, was to live a long and fruitful life, and to come to the Afterlife when you reached a doddering old age, much like myself and Sal here," Dumbledore said, glancing at Slytherin, who was wiping his finger inside the goblet to get the last of the booze out.
"In most cases where someone has arrived too early, they make the most of the circumstances and exist quite happily. But sometimes, something in the land of the living draws them back. And I believe that is the case with you, Mr Malfoy."
Draco raised his head, with difficulty, and looked at the assembled. "I don't understand what you're saying," he mumbled.
There was the sound of shuffled hooves, and Draco realised that Tymedon was present, resplendent in robes but not sitting on a throne, obviously. "Draco," he said, "if you could do anything or be anywhere you wanted, what would you do?"
Easy. "Live as a Muggle," he replied. "With Hermione, if she can forgive me for everything I did to her."
"Not enter the Fade?"
"If I had a choice, no."
"Not live in the Wizarding world?"
"I don't know what I have to offer it. I made a lot of enemies. I would prefer to live a quiet life – with Hermione, or on my own if she doesn't want me."
Murmurs spread throughout the chamber.
Once again, Dumbledore raised his hands for silence. "The time you spent helping Ms Granger has changed you for the better," he began. "Even before that, your refusal to continue with the Dark Lord's evil regime showed us all that your heart is good and resolute. Mr Malfoy, what I am about to suggest is highly, highly irregular, but we have the power to send you back to life – for good, if you want it."
Lucy gasped again and flapped Draco's arm up and down in excitement. "Did you hear that?" she squeaked.
Draco heard the words, but surely, they weren't right? Was his hearing shutting down in preparation for the Fade?
"What say you, Mr Malfoy?"
Lucy and the assembled watched colour return to Draco's skin. Hope manifested inside him. "I would love that more than anything," he replied humbly. "Thank you."
Dumbledore smiled. "Well, no time like the present, eh?" he asked, drawing out a sceptre from within his voluminous sleeves. "Sal – Sal! You can have another drink afterwards. Get on with it!"
Draco hugged Lucy hard. "Thank you for everything," he whispered, nearly overcome.
"I wish you the happiest of lives," Lucy, replied, smiling through her tears – happy tears, this time.
Draco turned to Tymedon. "Tell my mother I love her and I will always think of her."
Tymedon nodded. "I will, son."
A lump grew in Draco's throat.
Lucy stepped away and the two elderly gents focused their sceptres on Draco. "Now, you'll end up in the same place where you died," Sal warned. "Just so you know." He lifted his sceptre.
"Wha -?" Draco yelped. Shouldn't he have a wand to defend himself, in case Voldemort won and he was being beamed right back into Evil Central?
But it was too late. With a swish and a flick from each venerable wizard, Draco was gone.
Malfoy Manor
Draco landed with a hard thump in the middle of the ballroom. He scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and stared around wildly – only to find nothing.
Nothing besides dingy darkness and destruction everywhere he looked.
Not a stick of furniture in the large room remained in one piece, and the large curtains hung limply from the windows in tatters. Feeble light struggled through the panes, most of which were broken from the branches of the once-topiarised trees that surrounded the Manor. They'd been given the chance to grow free-range, and it seemed like they'd gone gangbusters.
Draco listened for any sign of life within or without the Manor, but all he heard were the trills of birds and the sound of the branches knocking against the windows.
Judging by the mess, Draco presumed Voldemort had lost the war. And hopefully his life.
But where was Lucius? The house elves?
Hopefully the house elves saw sense and escaped the second they could. His father was a stubborn old coot, though. He and the Manor were a part of each other.
Draco cautiously crept through the once-opulent home with an odd sense of disassociation. This was his home, he'd been born and raised here, but he was never truly happy in it. On a few rebellious occasions, he'd wanted to throw things at the walls or smash furniture to smithereens, but he never dared follow through. Now, someone - or a number of someones - had gone and done it for him.
The portraits of Malfoys dead and gone were no more. Their frames hung on emaciated walls, with the remnants of ripped canvas hanging sadly from them. Draco would never miss them.
His childhood bedroom looked like a hurricane had torn through it. He wasn't allowed to personalise his space by putting up flags or pictures of his favourite Quidditch team, so it had always looked like a showroom bedroom in a house that was dressed for sale. His feet crunched on glass, and he stooped down to pick up a silver photo frame that contained a photo of himself, Blaise, Theo and Pansy in Sixth Year. His features looked pinched and unwell compared to his grinning mates. That was the year he let the Death Eaters into the school. He cringed at the memory.
He pocketed the photo and made his way, eventually, to the study. Every single time he'd entered this room, it was with a healthy sense of dread. He had always disappointed or infuriated his father, no matter how hard he tried.
The study was in the same shape as the rest of the house, except the desk was still in one piece. It was a monster of a desk, heavy and cumbersome, and Lucius probably warded the shit out of it.
So, Draco was surprised to find an absence of wards as he approached the behemoth. He wandered around it and stood facing it, standing where Lucius normally sat. He'd never seen the room from this angle before.
Idly, he opened and closed the desk's many drawers; all opened smoothly as if they had been oiled for his very presence. In the last drawer he tried, he struck gold.
There lay his wand. His father had saved it for him.
He picked it up, relieved to experience its familiar weight and the tingle of magic that warmed his arm. This led to a very unpleasant discovery: the Mark was back. It wasn't moving, at least, and it wasn't causing him agony the way it did before, but there is fucking was – marred by the scars he'd made months or years ago.
Draco thought about Hermione and her plans to get surgery to fix the scars on her body – acquired in this very building, he recalled with a shudder. He wasn't terribly impressed with Muggle surgery vs magic, but if something couldn't be removed by magic, maybe Muggle techniques…?
Leaving the worst until last, Draco squared his shoulders and headed down to the dungeons, praying that no one would be still locked in them.
There were no signs of life, but there was a considerable number of robed and/or clothed skeletons taking up room in cells and in the main corridor. He needed to honour them, somehow. At the very least, bury them.
Well. Wherever Lucius was, it wasn't at Malfoy Manor.
Draco stood in the driveway, looking at a building that once impressed, delighted or intimidated guests, but now was nothing more than an elaborate mausoleum. He felt nothing for it. Might as well burn it down and start again.
Mausoleum…
Draco bush-whacked through the wild gardens and came to a stop outside a small, still-warded marble building. He pulled the wards down and opened the door, casting a Lumos on his wand.
There he was.
Lying on the floor, not in the walled niche that was reserved for his father, lay a plain wooden coffin, gathering dust. Draco brushed the dust away and revealed a brass nameplate:
Lucius Abraxas Malfoy
9 September 1954 – 2 May 1998
Killed during the Battle of Hogwarts
The last of the house-elves must have done this before they left, Draco guessed. With everyone in the House of Malfoy dead, they were finally free. He hoped his return wouldn't force them back.
He looked down at his black and white chequered clothes, and transfigured them into jeans and a sweater. He had to enter the Wizarding world, and he wasn't looking forward to it a single bit.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
Unfortunately, wizarding kind weren't permitted to apparate into the bank for security reasons, so Draco popped into existence as close as he dared. Entering the bank's golden halls, he immediately noticed the murmur of conversation grind to a halt as he headed to the Tellers, but he ignored them.
One of the goblin tellers nearly fell off his very tall stool in shock as he peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles at the rather grubbily-dressed person standing before him. "M-Mr D-Draco M-M-Malfoy?" he stuttered, momentarily all at sea.
"The same."
"B-But y-you're d-dead! Or so we were told…" The goblin removed his glasses, polished them and balanced them back on his nose. He peered at Draco again. Oh, dear. Mr Malfoy was still standing there.
"Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he replied coolly, unaware that if Hermione were standing next to him, she'd be having fits of giggles at his purely coincidental quoting of Mark Twain.
"Er… quite," the banker swallowed. This waif passed the bank's security ID requirements, so…
"I'd like to view the Malfoy and Black-Malfoy vaults."
Oh, well. Banking is banking. "Certainly, sir," the goblin announced, climbing down from his enormous stool. "I am Mr Krubeld, and I will be delighted to escort you to your family vaults. Come with me, please."
After an exhilarating cart ride through deep and gloomy flame-lit passages, Mr Krubeld threw on the brakes about a series of massive circular doors. "Here are the vaults for Mr and Mrs Lucius and Narcissa Mal" – he stopped and looked sideways at Draco. "Begging my pardon, sir, but are they dead?"
Draco nodded. "Definitely dead."
"My condolences, sir. Which vault would you like to view first?"
"We'll start with mine."
"Very good, sir."
When the door opened, Draco stuck his head in, expecting to see little change to the contents from the last time he accessed it. However, there were a lot more Galleons inside than he expected to see, and he had quite a few to begin with.
"The passage of time and interest rates…" Mr Krubeld murmured discreetly.
Next on the list was Lucius's vault. When the vault door creaked open, Draco wasn't surprised to see the vault practically bursting at the seams with money, gems and whatnot. He was a prick of a father and husband, but he knew his way around business transactions.
When Mr Krubeld opened Narcissa's vault, Draco stepped inside and took a look around. It too, was impressively amassed of money and valuables.
Draco turned to Mr Krubeld, who fished a parchment and quill out of mid-air. "Consolidate Lucius Malfoy's vault into mine and close his vault and account down."
"Yes sir," Mr Krubeld confirmed, checking the parchment and quill were recording Draco's instructions to the letter.
"Next, remove all the non-cash valuables from my mother's vault and transfer them to mine."
"Yes, sir."
"Is there a charity for rebuilding society after the war, and for orphans, widows, that sort of thing?"
"Yes, indeed, sir. Mr Harry Potter himself is the chair of the charity."
Draco nodded. "Donate half of my mother's money to the charity, and the other half to St Mungo's, then close the vault and account. The donations must be anonymous."
"S-Sir!" Mr Krubeld stuttered, feeling rather faint. "May I confirm… all of your mother's cash deposits are to go to Mr Potter's rebuild charity and St Mungo's?"
"Yep. I'd like for Mother's riches to be put to good use."
"A-And anonymously?" Mr Krubeld squeaked. "Surely you want to be acknowledged for making such generous donations!"
"And have society accuse me of trying to buy my way back in?" Draco countered. "No thanks. Except…. Mr Potter can be informed the donation came from the Narcissa Black -Malfoy vault. But the St Mungo's donation must be anonymous."
"Very well, sir." Mr Krubeld's parchment was getting rather long. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I'll be in touch later regarding the Muggle bank account I have" (or hoped he still had). "I'll require some funds from my vault to be transferred there. In the meantime, I'll take ten thousand pounds Sterling to go."
A Malfoy with a Muggle bank account? Mr Krubeld wondered, shooting off orders here, there and everywhere. Never thought I would live to see the day.
On the bumpy cart ride back to the surface, Draco thought: I hope I've made Mother proud.
Medical School, Sussex: halls of residence
Hermione directed Ron and Harry to put the last two boxes of her possessions by the window to her new room, where she would be spending the next year. The accommodation catered exclusively for first-year medical students, and she hoped she would quickly make some friends among them.
Harry was used to Muggle living, but it was all an adventure for Ron, who kept pointing at various electronics and asking how they worked. He was starting to attract attention from other students who saw him in the communal laundry asking what a washing machine did.
The remainder of her possessions were neatly boxed and kept at Grimmauld Place, and right now she almost felt like joining them. Her decision to attend Muggle Medical School, once so resolute, was fraying at the seams in the face of her nerves and indecision.
It didn't help that she had to leave Crookshanks at The Burrow again, much to Molly's delight. The look of hurt in Crooks' huge eyes once he twigged that Hermione was leaving him behind again made her cry. Her eyes were still red and puffy.
"I think we'd better go," Harry announced, watching Ron turn the en-suite shower on and off, not noticing his shoes were getting wet. "You know you can visit us any time you like, yeah?"
Hermione nodded, a massive lump in her throat. "I'll visit Grimmauld Place or the Burrow every weekend, for as long as my studies will let me."
Harry pulled Ron out of the shower, then caught Hermione up in a massive hug. "I know you'll do well here," he murmured. "But just remember, you've got other options. You're not alone."
Ron joined in the hug. "You going to grow your hair out?" he asked Hermione.
"Nope."
"Ah, well."
Hermione watched the pair head outside to the van they'd rented to move Hermione's belongings. There was a scuffle at the driver's door, as it seemed to Ron that since Harry drove, it was his turn now. But since only Harry had a Muggle driver's licence and Ron's last attempt at driving a car ended up with the car and passengers dancing with the Whomping Willow, Harry sent a sulking Ron over the passenger's door before climbing in and starting the van up.
Tears welled in her eyes.
She headed into her tiny en-suite and splashed water over her face. It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.
Not even her mirror reflection seemed to believe her.
She sighed. She needed a change of scene. Never mind that her new room was a change of scene.
She needed to a place where she was happy.