Chapter Text
The war was over. The Dark Lord had lost. Lucius Malfoy was now in Azkaban, and Narcissa Malfoy was dead—killed by an illness affecting purebloods. His mother had been the only thing keeping him sane over these past few years—the prominent rise of the Golden Boy and the downfall of a Death Eater.
The public hated him. The Malfoy image was completely tarnished. Draco had nothing. He had the possessions of the Malfoys but not a single soul to love him.
His friends—Pansy, Blaise, Zabini, and the Greengrass sisters—had been told not to associate with him due to the tarnished image of the Malfoy family. Draco had no one. He had no one left to love him, no one to call his own. His mother, whom he had loved so dearly, had died right before his eyes. His father was in Azkaban. It was too much. Even going out in public meant constant harassment and assaults for being a "Death Eater."
Potter. Harry Potter.
Draco had not expected him to testify at his trial. He had assumed he would be sent to Azkaban just like his father. But on account of being a minor—and with a testimony from the Savior himself, along with others like Luna and Ollivander—Draco had been spared imprisonment. Yet, instead of relief, he felt only misery.
It was too much.
He took his wand and heaved a shaky breath. Potter had returned it to him after the trial. What had surprised Draco the most was the amiable smile he had given him—it had made his heart leap into his throat.
He had tried many methods to remove the Dark Mark—slashing it, burning it. Nothing worked. It remained as dark as ever, with countless scars now adorning his hand.
"I'm so tired... I can't do this anymore," Draco sobbed. He sobbed until he had no voice left.
So, he did the only thing he could think of. He ran.
He would run away. Start a new life in the Muggle world.
Maybe then, he would find someone to love him. He smiled weakly at the thought.
Maybe if they didn't know who he was, if they didn't know what he had done—maybe then, someone would look at him without anger or hatred in their eyes.
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He left behind everything that was once his—his posh life, the eloquent manor, and his past. He left it all behind. The moment he stepped into Muggle London, the magical
world he once knew felt like a distant reverie, a fever dream. The people here didn’t care about blood purity or the tattoo adorning his arm—they simply didn’t.
At first, Draco had no idea what to do. He had brought along some cursed heirlooms that only affected purebloods, selling them off at antique shops. To get by, he worked in a
small flower shop for a few months. He had been quite surprised to see that the Muggle world wasn’t all that different from the magical one—there were still murders, crimes,
and violence.
After spending months in the Muggle world, Draco began to understand the strange but fascinating weapons they used—tools that could kill a person instantly. By watching
fights and riots, he gained a solid grasp of how things worked.
Draco was fascinated by the strange objects, so he approached the men sitting in a dark alleyway, their fingers resting on those deadly weapons. Even though he had grown up
in the wizarding world, he never relied solely on spells—he had physical capabilities, and more importantly, he was cunning. One wrong move could probably get him killed,
and he knew it.
The men tensed the moment he stepped closer, hands already gripping their weapons, ready to strike. But Draco had faced worse odds before. He schooled his features into
something smooth, something easy, and flashed them the most charming smile he could muster.
“What a fine day, gentlemen. I’m not here to hurt you or cause you any trouble. I just wanted to ask a simple question—could I join your, er… group?”
Silence. The men exchanged wary glances before one of them, a grizzled-looking man with a scar running down his cheek, let out a rough laugh.
“The hell’s a posh boy like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, voice thick with amusement.
Draco smirked, unbothered. “Looking for work.”
One man, sporting a hefty beard and a large nose, stood up and smirked. “And what the hell are you gonna do, pretty boy?” He smirked again, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The man swung his arm, aiming to strike. But years of being a Slytherin Seeker had sharpened Draco’s reflexes—he dodged the hit with ease. As he had said, he was quick on his feet. Though he wasn’t as strong as his opponent, he was faster. With a swift movement, he pivoted and kicked the man in the shin.
The blow was enough to loosen the man’s grip on the sharp-looking object in his hand. Seizing the opportunity, Draco moved fast, snatching the weapon and pressing it against the man’s throat.
The stunned silence on their faces was absolutely hysterical. Draco smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Hmm. So? What do you think? Good enough…?”
The man before him sneered but didn’t pull away. “For a posh boy, you’re quick on your feet, I’ll give you that.” He eyed Draco for a moment before asking, “What’s your name, pretty boy?”
Aurelian. Aurelian thats my name..
Hah, of course, a posh name for a posh boy. I'm Edward, and these two are Thomas and Henry."
"I look forward to working with you in the future."