This is a translation of my original fic "Después de la Guerra" please, forgive any grammar or spelling mistakes.

This is a mature story. It contains explicit (consensual) sex scenes. For those curious, the spicy content starts in chapter 8.

The story is finished, and the chapters are scheduled to be published.

The room was plunged into darkness, and only the flickering light of a few candles dared to drive away the thick shadows. But somehow, what could be seen was more terrifying than what awaited in the darkness.

Lord Voldemort stood pale and menacing, his red eyes glowing on his unnaturally flattened face. At his feet, trembling and frozen, Draco Malfoy awaited his sentence.

The young man waited in silence, not daring to raise his eyes from the marble floor. He had lost count of how long he had been in that position, but he knew that he must not move from there under any circumstances. Not even if the giant snake came too close.

His mother, Narcissa, had begged him moments before they were summoned; he must not open his mind, must not show fear. He must wait and obey. He must accomplish what Lucius had failed to do: keep his family safe.

And although Draco had felt proud at being called before the Dark Lord, now he couldn't help but tremble with uncertainty and fear. What if he wasn't fit? What if he couldn't right his father's wrongs?

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Lord Voldemort spoke.

"Here is the young whelp who dares to follow in his father's footsteps. I hope your decisions are wiser, and your service more... acceptable."

Draco muttered something unintelligible, his throat suddenly dry. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his Aunt Bellatrix's sneer.

"Your services will be needed at Hogwarts, but to do so you need to be of the proper rank. Present your arm," Draco obeyed, raising his left arm, but without taking his eyes off the serpentine veins that crossed the flagstones.

He could feel cold fingers surrounding his wrist, and the tip of a wand resting on the thin skin of his forearm.

"Morsmordre."

His forearm began to burn, and Draco gritted his teeth, fighting to stay strong and show no signs of weakness. But the pain didn't stop, and seemed to spread all the way up his arm, up towards his shoulder, like a tongue of flame.

A slight growl escaped his lips.

"Pathetic," the whistle echoed throughout the room, and suddenly Nagini moved like an arrow, jumping on him, her mouth open and her fangs ready to kill...

OOO

Draco woke with a start, gasping for air. He sat up in bed, struggling to calm his breathing. Sweat was streaming down his face, hiding the trail of tears, and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

But not quite. That scene had really happened, Draco still remembered it clearly. The circle of Death Eaters, watching silently, Bellatrix and her mad smile, Nagini creeping menacingly, the Dark Lord, mocking him.

And Narcissa, hiding her fear and despair behind her impassive mask, watching as her only son followed in the footsteps of her disgraced husband...

Draco looked at his arm. In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, he could make out the dark stain that spread across his forearm. The Dark Mark was no longer visible, but it hadn't completely disappeared either. The bruise remained on his skin, an indelible reminder of his decisions.

He had been stupid and arrogant. How could he have even imagined that a sixteen-year-old brat could do the job of a Death Eater? Even more so after what had happened to his father...

But he had been proud and foolish, and blinded by rage and a desire to redeem his family's name, he had thrown himself into a mission that was clearly too big for him. But of course, he hadn't wanted to see it. He hadn't accepted the possibility that the Dark Lord was actually punishing them for Lucius's failure. Draco thought that, for once, he could restore the pride of the Malfoy family.

But of course, that wasn't the case. He hadn't been able to do it. His mission was both simple and incredibly complicated. He had to kill Albus Dumbledore.

Draco buried his face in his hands, trying to ignore the memories that haunted his mind. But he already knew it was impossible; the shame and regret were too strong. He remembered the opal pendant and the bottle of wine. And the cupboard that acted as a secret entrance to Hogwarts.

And that fateful night, in the Astronomy Tower.

He had disarmed Dumbledore. He had him at his feet. And yet, his hand had trembled, his arm had gone numb, and his throat had refused to speak the words. And Dumbledore had offered him a way out, the path to redemption. And Draco had swayed in doubt, unable to decide...

Until the other Death Eaters arrived and there was no turning back. And then, Snape stepped forward, and made the decision for him...

Draco stood up suddenly, stumbling into the bathroom. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to see that again. He couldn't relive the moment when the old headmaster had fallen backwards, staring into space with his mouth agape, plummeting into the void...

The icy water made him shiver, but Draco put his face back under the tap. The cold made his mind focus on the present, not the past. And Draco needed a glimpse of clarity, however fleeting.

Because the nights were dark, and his nightmares were too real.

OOO

The three Malfoys were having breakfast in the dining room, crowded at one end of the giant oak table that gleamed in the morning light.

That had been one of the most curious after-effects of the war. It was as if the three of them had huddled together to protect each other, as if by sticking together they could keep the others from disappearing.

The last few years had been difficult times. After the uncertainty of the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and his parents had remained in the Great Hall, not knowing what to do. They were alive, but they doubted they would emerge from this war unscathed.

And so, it was. Although no one had said anything to them during those first hours, days later a group of Aurors had appeared in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor, to arrest them.

Lucius and Draco were tried for belonging to the inner circle of Death Eaters, and Narcissa for being a collaborator of the Dark Side. Neither of them denied the charges or attempted to defend themselves. They would not be as lucky as after the First War, as this time there was more than enough evidence to lock them away for life in Azkaban.

However, the consequences were different from what they expected.

The first to be freed was Narcissa, thanks to the testimony of Harry Potter, who spoke in her favour at the trial. The young hero recounted how she had lied to Lord Voldemort, camouflaging his return to life and allowing him to return to battle.

Clumsily but convincingly, he described Narcissa as just another victim, imprisoned in her own home, powerless to make decisions. Just a mother and wife trapped by her family's decisions. His words moved the judges, who relented enough to set her free.

Humiliated by the ridiculous spectacle, Narcissa could do nothing but swallow her bitterness and be grateful for the chance to be free. And yet, what seemed like a show of mercy, for her was the cruelest of tortures.

Narcissa had returned to the lonely mansion, where only memories and shadows dwelt. Her body may have been free, but her heart remained in Azkaban, with her husband and son.

She wrote countless letters, begging for mercy without success. Her only hope was that Shacklebolt's promise to remove the Dementors from Azkaban would come true.

But to everyone's surprise, two years later, the Chosen One agreed to intercede for Draco. It was not entirely clear what had prompted him to do so - Narcissa knew it had not been her many pleading messages - but the truth was that Harry appeared before the court again, defending Draco.

He claimed that Draco had not wanted to kill Dumbledore, nor had he identified him at Malfoy Manor. He reminded the court that Draco had been a minor during the war, and that he had been forced to obey in exchange for the lives of his parents.

And so, finally, after demanding an excessive fine as compensation for the victims, the Ministry agreed to let Draco return home.

Draco didn't know how to feel about it. He was grateful for his mother and for himself, and angry that the damned scar head always had to influence his life. And ashamed, for his own cowardice. And relieved to be able to get away from the dementors...

His recovery, however, was slow and painful. Nightmares plagued him every night, bringing back memories of past events he wanted to forget.

At first, alcohol was his only help to forget and remove the memories from his mind, but the solution was another curse that dragged him into darkness. If it hadn't been for his mother, Draco would have fallen hopelessly into a spiral from which he would have been unable to escape.

But Narcissa was firm and ordered the elves not to bring even a drop of liquor into the Mannor again. She also devoted herself completely to her son, who reluctantly accepted her help and advice.

And so, little by little, Draco regained a shadow of his former self. Fortunately, his sense of duty and the love he had for his parents helped him get his life back on track. He didn't want to break his mother's heart once again.

Lucius was not as lucky as his wife and son. After all, he was a former convict, escaped from Azkaban, who had belonged to the inner circle of the Death Eaters and was directly involved in many crimes.

His only mitigating factor was the absence of his wand, taken by the Dark Lord at the beginning of the war. Because he had essentially been a prisoner in his own home, Lucius had not participated in the bloodiest part of the battle, and several witnesses had claimed that his only interest was ensuring that his son was safe.

But even so, many insisted that he should receive an exemplary punishment, being one of the few Death Eaters still alive, and for this reason he was locked up in one of the worst cells in Azkaban, near where the Dementors still roamed.

However, an unfortunate accident that occurred five years after his conviction led to his sentence being reviewed.

The news came to Malfoy Manor in dribs and drabs. First, they were told to prepare to travel to the Ministry as soon as they were called. Then they were told to wait in a corridor until the investigation was concluded. Draco managed to get hold of a newspaper announcing the uncontrolled attack of the Dementors on the prisoners in Azkaban.

And that's when they thought the worst had happened.

Narcissa, white as wax, lost her balance, letting herself fall to the ground, her gaze vacant and terrified. She was unable to cry, but her hand clung to Draco's so tightly that it cut off circulation.

"He's been attacked. He's been attacked," she repeated, her voice weak. Draco still didn't dare believe it. His father, consumed by the dementors... that couldn't be true. It couldn't be happening.

And finally, hours later, someone informed them that, contrary to their fears, Lucius Malfoy was unharmed. He had survived by a miracle, because the dementors had focused on his cellmate instead of on him.

This event sparked criticism from the magical community. Many were against the use of dementors, and the fact that they had rebelled against their guards marked the end of a long-running battle that Shacklebolt had been leading since he rose to the position of Minister.

The next news on the front page of the Daily Prophet indicated that, not only had the Dementors been driven out of Azkaban, but the prison was to be demolished and rebuilt in a more humane design.

As a result, prisoners deemed less dangerous were transferred to their former homes to remain under house arrest until further notice.

That's why, after five years of imprisonment in Azkaban, Lucius was allowed to return to his old home, on the condition that he would never be allowed to go outside or get his wand back. A more than generous punishment, considering that many judges had voted for life imprisonment or even the Dementor's kiss.

Draco remembered that day with a pang in his chest. The three of them had hugged each other, crying as they had never done before, for endless minutes. Lucius was so thin he looked like a ghost, and his health had declined. Narcissa and Draco thought he would never recover.

But they crowded around him, supporting and keeping each other company. It no longer mattered that they were under surveillance day and night, or that their former prestige had evaporated along with their wealth. Their family was still intact and that was all that mattered.

Slowly, Lucius recovered, although some things were never the same again. Not only was he ill, weakened by years of confinement and contact with the Dementors, but his mind had also changed.

He could no longer stand the darkness and hated closed rooms. He now tried to spend as much time as possible outside in the gardens, and to the surprise of his wife and son, he developed a fascination with gardening.

His explanation for this strange occurrence was that there was life in the garden, and he could not find it within the marble walls. Draco understood what he meant, for he had felt something similar after his return from Azkaban, as if he could not get enough sunlight.

And at least gardening was a lot more harmless than alcohol, so Narcissa and Draco let him enjoy the greenhouse and gardens in peace.

But Lucius wasn't the only one who had changed; Narcissa was acting differently too. Due to the huge fines they had paid for Draco and Lucius' release, as well as reparations to the victims of the war, the Malfoys' once immeasurable fortune had been reduced to a mere few galleons.

It was true that the Malfoys no longer led the extravagant lifestyle they had before the war, but the cost of Lucius' medication was too high, and they needed to find money somehow.

Narcissa began selling off the works of art they had in the mansion. Her taste was exquisite, and over the decades she had amassed a fine collection, but none of that mattered now. Her husband's health was the most important thing.

Using her art knowledge, she managed to haggle down a more than decent price for most of the works, although it was clear that the buyers were offering much less than the pieces were actually worth.

But when it was her turn to sell her jewelry, Draco stopped her.

"No, mother. I won't let you sell your family's inheritance."

"They're just trinkets, Draco."

"They're more than that. They're keepsakes from your parents and grandparents," Draco protested. He knew all too well the sentimental value these jewels held for his mother, and he knew that she agonized over the idea of parting with them, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

"There are more important things than memories," she murmured, unable to look him in the eyes.

"There are other ways to make money. Let me try something," he insisted, closing the jewelry box. Reluctantly, his mother agreed, and Draco got to work.

For too long, he had wallowed in his own suffering. That had to end. It was his turn to support his family.

He had shared his mother's affinity for art and expensive objects and had a keen instinct for knowing what people wanted. Using his meager savings, he bought a sculpture by a somewhat outdated artist, and days later managed to sell it to one of his mother's friends.

He didn't say where he got it, but promised he could find more if the need arose. Weeks later he did the same thing again, selling a painting that had been missing for years. A few days later, he received his first assignment: to buy a limited-edition collection of old books.

Little by little, Draco built up a new reputation. He could get anything that was asked of him, for a price that was always agreed upon in advance. He never explained how he got the items, but the truth was that most of the time he just had to go to establishments of little reputation and ask.

None of the rich pureblood wizards wanted to venture into those places, but Draco didn't care; his name was already tarnished, and this new activity distracted him.

He didn't do anything illegal, nor did he use tricks or threats. He just had to be patient, persistent and know how to flatter people, three things he was very good at.

And so, with Narcissa's experience and Draco's perseverance, the Malfoys were able to raise the money needed to ensure Lucius' recovery. For the time being, the Malfoys could survive.

But surviving wasn't going to be enough.

OOO

That morning, as usual, Narcissa checked her mail while she ate breakfast, leaving aside the usual threatening letters that arrived anonymously, and opening only those scrolls she was sure of where they came from.

"This is new," she said, peering at a small envelope sealed with a black seal. "It's from the Greengrass family," her eyes gradually clouded over as she read the message, and her face took on a disconsolate expression. "My godfather, Augustus Greengrass has passed away."

Lucius and Draco watched her in silence, unsure of what to say. The old patriarch had been an old friend of the family, and perhaps one of the few people still in touch with the Malfoys after the war. Narcissa and Draco had done business with him over the past few months, providing artwork for his hotels.

Narcissa cleared her throat softly, folding the letter carefully and placing it on the table. Using all her willpower, she held back her tears, but Draco could guess what she was thinking.

He was a very old man. He was very sick. It was only a matter of time before this happened.

And yet, his absence hurt. Augustus had been a father figure to her after Cygnus Black's passing.

Lucius took his wife's hand in a gesture of silent support. They looked at each other, silently sharing a message that required no words.

Then, Narcissa turned at her son, her gaze suddenly serious and determined. And from her lips came the words that Draco had hoped he would never have to hear.

"We must go to the funeral."

This is how our story begins. It is not a very happy beginning, but the Malfoy family has managed to survive the war and its consequences.

On the other hand, the situation can only improve... Or so we hope.

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