Chapter Text
The war was over; Draco Malfoy should be safe.
Except he wasn't. The constant threat of Azkaban loomed over him and his mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, had already been sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban for his crimes. No matter what his wife and son had done to help the Boy Who Lived, he had not aided them enough in their small acts of rebellion. He would be punished accordingly.
Meanwhile, Narcissa and her son were being monitored. As if they had any inclination to go back to the dark side.
Frowning, Draco rolled up his left sleeve, exposing the black mark branded on his otherwise unblemished skin. He felt a surge of fear mingled with even more guilt, the feeling he got every time his eyes rested upon the tattoo. Oh how he loathed the mark, with it's skull and snake! Oh how he loathed himself for being so foolish and taking it with pride! With pride!
Tugging the sleeve down, Draco glared at his olive green bed sheets. He was alone in his grand bedroom, and he found himself, yet again, lost in thought, occasionally taking out his anger on the inanimate objects laying around the room.
Which is what he did just now.
The heavy book that had previously laid atop his bed went flying, shattering an ornamental vase perched on his dresser. He hardly noticed, however: he had many more important matters at hand.
He'd been such a fool in his past years, and he knew it. How could he had ever possibly deluded himself into thinking that joining the Dark Lord was an honor? Why had he taken it upon himself to complete the Dark Lord's mission, when Albus Dumbledore could have protected him all along? In fact, he could've gone to Harry Potter for help, his long-time enemy, and he would've been fine! Better, he could've gone to Luna Lovegood!
He recalled the time when he and Luna had met by pure coincidence in Flourish and Blotts, the Wizard bookshop, in Diagon Alley. He'd felt very awkward at first, seeing her examine the shelves and humming a tune, but he eventually mustered enough courage to apologize to her for what he did. And although she'd been prisoner in his family's cellar for some time during the war, although she had every reason to hate him and push him away with disgust, she had been kind and polite to him. She's accepted his meager, Sorry, and had asked him how he'd been, what he'd been doing, if he needed help finding the book his was looking for....
Draco had answered each one of her questions, and, in a matter of minutes, she'd been on her way, but not before making sure Draco had found his book. He barely noticed it in his shock, however. He'd been completely flabbergasted.
Luna's forgiveness had opened a realm of possibilities to him. If she had forgiven him, was it possible for others to as well? After many weeks of pondering and pacing and several more broken objects, Draco had come to one, simple conclusion: he had to try.
So when his Hogwarts letter had arrived for the eighth year running (with a hasty explanation of the additional year due to the fact that many pupils' studies had been interrupted by the war), he'd accepted immediately.
Standing, Draco began to pace his room. His whole life he'd been told to uphold his family honor. He'd been pressured to be what the Wizarding World had expected him to be: the perfect Malfoy heir. But that image they'd had hadn't been him, not really.
The real Draco Malfoy—he wasn't sure who that was anymore. The thought made him freeze. How could he have had on a facade for so long that he'd forgotten who he truly was?
Well, he thought, I'm done.
He was done being what his mother had taught him to be, what his father expected him to be, and what the rest of Wizarding World thought him to be. He didn't want to be a perfect son, a successful Ministry worker, or a Death Eater. And, in that moment, the careful plan his mother and father had laid out for him to follow since the day of his birth was dismantled with a single thought:
I'm done.