Chapter 3: The Weight of Ruins
Draco wandered aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Diagon Alley, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The night air was cool, biting against his skin as he pulled his threadbare cloak tighter around his thin frame. He hesitated at every corner, torn between the desire to keep walking and the inevitable need to return home—a home that was nothing but a cold, empty shell of what it once was.
He felt the weight of the small parcel in his hand, the food that Granger had given him earlier. His fingers tightened around it as if it were a lifeline, but the thought of bringing it home filled him with dread. The manor, once a symbol of power and prestige, had become a place of shadows and silence, where his mother clung desperately to the remnants of her pride. He knew that without this food, she would go hungry, but the thought of her questioning where it had come from made his stomach churn.
His father was gone, serving his time in Azkaban for his crimes during the war. Draco had no illusions about his father's comfort in prison—Azkaban was no longer the place of terror it had once been. The dementors were gone, replaced by a new regime that believed in rehabilitation over punishment. It was ironic, really, that his father, the man who had taught him that being pureblood was everything, was now enjoying three meals a day while he and his mother starved in the ruins of their life.
He wished, more than anything, that the Golden Trio hadn't rallied for his release. He would have preferred to stay in Azkaban, far from the decay of their once-grand home. At least then, Draco wouldn't have to see the disappointment in his mother's eyes every time she looked at him, and wouldn't have to bear the burden of a family name that meant nothing anymore.
His mother, despite everything, still clung to her prejudices. She had nothing left—no pride, no money, no family, no name. But the belief in the superiority of purebloods was something she refused to let go of, even as they lived in squalor, even as they went days without a proper meal. Draco had often been tempted to tell her the truth about where the food came from, to see the look of horror on her face when she realized it had been given by the very person she despised. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was the only one who wanted him alive, the only person left in the world who didn't look at him with contempt or hatred.
He continued to walk, each step heavier than the last. His mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions—guilt, anger, bitterness, and a deep, gnawing sadness that he couldn't seem to escape. He was thankful for the one comfort he had left—the four-poster bed that still stood in his room, a relic of better days. The sheets were in tatters, but the bed was the only place where he could find any semblance of peace after a long day of rummaging through garbage, of enduring the sneers and insults of those who had once feared him.
As he finally made his way home, Draco climbed the grand staircase with a heavy heart, the manor as cold and unwelcoming as ever. He pushed open the door to his room, grateful for the darkness that hid the decay of his surroundings. The bed creaked as he collapsed onto it, the worn mattress groaning under his weight. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories of the day, the memories of all the days that had come before.
But today had been different.
Today, he had seen her.
Granger.
He hadn't noticed much about her in school, beyond the fact that she was a mudblood—a word that had once slipped so easily from his tongue, filled with venom and superiority. But now, that word felt hollow, meaningless. The girl he had seen today was not the bushy-haired know-it-all he remembered from Hogwarts. She was sad, melancholy, with a distant look in her eyes that he couldn't quite place. It was as if she, too, was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, a weight that was slowly crushing her spirit.
Draco turned over in bed, the sheets twisting around him as he tried to get comfortable. He found himself wondering what would have happened if he had been different, if he had made different choices. He had always been taught that blood mattered more than anything, that power and status were everything. But what had that belief brought him? A life of misery, a family in ruins, and a mother who still clung to the past with desperate hands.
He thought of Potter, Weasel, and Granger—how things might have been if he had treated them differently, if he had seen them as people rather than enemies. But the past was the past, and there was no way to change it. He didn't have the money or the influence to buy himself a time-turner, to go back and undo the mistakes he had made.
Sometimes, he would slip back into old habits, the prejudices his father had instilled in him bubbling to the surface. But all it took was a glance in the mirror, the mirror that hung in the bathroom, to humble him. The reflection that stared back at him was a stark reminder of what he had become—a broken man, a shadow of who he once was. The arrogance and pride that had once defined him were gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that gnawed at him day and night.
And then there was Granger.
He couldn't bring himself to say her name, not yet. Saying it would make everything too real—the look in her eyes when she had seen him, the way she had offered him food without a second thought, the way she had looked at him with something other than contempt. It was too much to process, too much to accept. His pride wouldn't let him say her name, not now. But he knew, deep down, that he would eventually have to face it, that he would eventually have to acknowledge what she had done for him.
But for now, Draco clung to the small victory he had gained. He had taken the food, had brought it home, and his mother would eat tonight because of it. It wasn't much, but it was something. And as he drifted off to sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of the day, he couldn't help but wonder when he would bump into her again.