Chapter Text
Dead.
His mother and father were gone—killed without mercy by their own Master. His mother had lied flawlessly to the Dark Lord, the most skilled Legilimens alive. At first, he believed her. But then Bellatrix Lestrange caught a tiny movement from Potter’s sprawled body. She fired a swift Killing Curse, sealing her master’s rival’s fate and crushing the hopes of many.
Bellatrix let out a cruel laugh before striking her own sister with Crucio. His mother—once the very embodiment of grace and beauty—screamed in agony. His father fell to his knees, bowing and begging for her release.
For a breathless moment, there was hope, for the Dark Lord ordered Bellatrix to stop. But it vanished instantly when he began mocking their family name before hundreds. He declared that the Malfoys were a band of spineless traitors who did not deserve a place in his coming reign.
He killed his father first—quickly, with a single Killing Curse—forcing his mother to watch. As Lucius Malfoy fell, Narcissa’s earth-shattering cry echoed across the battlefield. The recent Cruciatus Curse had broken her nerves, leaving her unable to stand. She crawled to her husband’s body, face slick with sweat and tears. Trembling, she held him tightly. The sight made the Dark Lord sneer in disgust.
He struck her again with Crucio. This time, she did not scream. She wept silently, still clinging to her husband, praying that death would come quickly so she could be with him once more.
But Voldemort prolonged her suffering, casting Crucio again and again until she was nothing more than a shell. Only then did he deliver the final Killing Curse.
Draco swore he had never known pain greater than this. All along, he had been forced to watch, not allowed to close his eyes for even a second. A Death Eater stood behind him, jabbing a wand into his ribs. All he could do was watch, cry, and curse his family’s fate in silence.
And now, his mother’s cries would forever echo inside his skull. His father’s lifeless face would be burned into his vision for the rest of his days.
His parents were dead—the only reason he had endured the war was gone. If not for them, he would have fled to another country, far from the chaos. Now it was too late. There was no reason to live anymore, and as long as he drew breath, their deaths would haunt him. Perhaps following them into death would be the best option.
But before he died, he wanted to taste the sweet nectar of revenge.
No one spoke of how quickly sorrow could twist into fury, and now it had hardened into a thirst for vengeance. Magic surged within him, rattling his bones and humming through his veins. He didn’t care how powerful the Dark Lord was. He didn’t care how many armed Death Eaters surrounded him. All he wanted was to unleash his fury. All he wanted to taste was their deaths.
He didn’t care if this desperate act would cost him his life. So be it. Let the Malfoy name end with him.
With absolute confidence and grim determination, he summoned his wand. It answered his call, snapping into his palm without resistance. In one fluid motion, he spun and unleashed Avada Kedavra at the Death Eater behind him.
Curses rained down on him. He dodged with sharp, precise movements, refusing to waste time on shielding charms or simple Expelliarmus—he aimed only to kill. He cast the Killing Curse left and right, dropping Death Eaters one by one.
Draco moved like a shadow, light on his feet and deadly in his strikes. Time was crucial; he dodged only the fatal spells, letting stinging and cutting curses slice into him without slowing his aim.
Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. He lost count after that, yet the Death Eaters kept coming, pressing in around him. Acting on instinct, he hurled the most powerful Bombarda Maxima he could muster at the nearest building, killing and injuring many at once. He did not stop. He kept moving, alternating between Avada Kedavra and Bombarda Maxima, leaving devastation in his wake.
Then he saw a grey blur lunging toward him. Fenrir Greyback—though not under a full moon—still retained his terrifying, wolf-like attributes. Draco sidestepped just as Greyback sprang, and before the werewolf could strike, Draco’s Avada Kedavra hit him mid-leap. The beast fell lifeless to the ground—an act that marked the beginning of the high-ranking Death Eaters’ assault.
The top-ranking Death Eaters were cocky as ever. They attacked one by one, deeming a combined assault beneath them. Unlike Draco, they didn’t hurl the Killing Curse the instant they had the chance. They wanted to display their skill, to draw out his agony before ending him. That arrogance was how Yaxley, the Carrows, and Rowle all tasted his Killing Curse.
But Antonin Dolohov was different. Not only a sadist like the rest, he was a skilled duellist and a capable strategist. He landed a curse that cracked Draco’s wand arm, forcing him to fight left-handed. Then, with an unknown dark curse, he tore through Draco’s left eye. Pain throbbed everywhere; blood streamed without pause.
Yet rage carried him forward. With unshaken determination, Draco fought on with his non-dominant hand. Dolohov, in his arrogance, kept toying with him, refusing to end his life quickly. That arrogance was his undoing. Draco’s cutting hex took his head clean off. Blood spattered; the head fell, the body collapsed. Draco didn’t blink.
“Who knew my little nephew could murder like a wild animal?” Bellatrix’s voice sang—mocking, delighted. “All this, only to avenge your pitiful excuse for parents?” She looked him over as if assessing prey, only to find this prey had become a predator—one with flawless instinct for killing.
Draco’s body shook—not with fear, but with unadulterated rage. He channelled his magic into a forceful blast that knocked Bellatrix off balance. While she fought to right herself, he struck with a merciless Crucio, forcing her to the ground with a scream that pierced through the battlefield. For long minutes, he held the curse, pouring every shred of his hatred to inflict maximum agony—until Voldemort himself intervened.
Of-fucking-course. The madman would save his number one Death Eater.
An Expelliarmus ripped Draco’s hawthorn wand from his grasp and sent it into Voldemort’s waiting hand. “Hawthorn,” Voldemort murmured, inspecting the wand. “A paradoxical and complex wood—capable of both healing and killing. It demands proven talent to master. And yet this hawthorn is implanted with unicorn hair, a core that resists the Dark Arts. Still, you managed to hurl countless Unforgivable with this wand.” His gleaming red eyes locked on Draco with cold amusement, silently impressed at how quick the young Malfoy had shifted from spineless boy to murderous beast.
Draco clenched his uninjured fist tightly. This time, not out of rage, but to focus his magic. He called it forth, summoning another wand from those scattered across the battlefield. It didn’t take long—one answered his call. A blackthorn wand with a horned serpent core leapt seamlessly into his waiting hand.
With it, he unleashed Sectumsempra on his aunt.
Bellatrix shrieked as the curse tore her open, blood gushing from wounds that carved deeper each time she drew breath. The spell was the darkest creation of his Uncle Severus—the very same curse that had left ugly scars across Draco’s own body. He knew exactly how much agony it caused. Killing her with Avada Kedavra was far too merciful. He wanted her to suffer—for Crucioing his mother, for taking both his parents from him.
Still bleeding, Bellatrix begged her master to save her. And, of course, Voldemort silenced her with a swift Killing Curse.
“You impress me, young Malfoy.” A flicker of shock lit Voldemort’s red eyes, quickly smothered beneath the cold mask of arrogance.
Draco knew that arrogance well. Saving Bellatrix in front of an audience would expose how much he valued her—and that would bruise the Dark Lord’s ego. Besides, Sectumsempra was not widely known; there was a chance Voldemort didn’t even recognize his godfather’s invention. But even if he did—and even if he knew the counter-curse—he would never stoop to chant it, let alone repeat it over and over until the bleeding stopped.
“What a waste. With such talent, you could have been my most feared servant.”
Draco bit his tongue hard, then spat blood onto the ground—making his opinion clear without a word.
“Pity,” Voldemort hissed. “The world will lose yet another talent.”
The duel began.
Curses flew from both sides. With precise movement, Draco sidestepped the blue light of Petrificus Totalus, then fired back in a jet of green light. Voldemort flicked his wand, conjuring rubble to intercept the Killing Curse.
Draco didn’t give up. He moved constantly—ducking, weaving, countering. Voldemort barely shifted, dismissing each curse with a flick of his wrist.
The spectators—survivors from both sides—stared in awe. Those who fought for the light had never imagined a Death Eater boy could defect with such bravery. They never thought that after Harry Potter’s death, of all people, it would be Draco Malfoy who gave them hope again.
Despite his House, the boy had displayed an unparalleled act of bravery. Without hesitation or fear, he had taken down countless Death Eaters who swarmed him, singlehandedly cutting their numbers down. He had even wiped out Voldemort’s entire inner circle without pause.
Minerva McGonagall had never believed the boy—a former schoolyard bully and branded Death Eater—would one day fight for their side, even if his motivation was clearly driven by vengeance. Shame washed over her. How could she stay still while the boy fought You-Know-Who tooth and nail?
Now that the Death Eaters’ numbers were drastically reduced—thanks to the boy—they had a real chance to win. With renewed determination, she struck down the nearest opponent. Neville Longbottom followed her example, disarming and stunning a Death Eater beside him. One by one, the others rejoined the fight.
And the war broke out once again.
Inspired by how Draco had ended Dolohov’s life with a cutting curse, Voldemort slashed a vicious one of his own. It was too fast; Draco barely dodged. His right arm—already broken thanks to Dolohov—was now torn apart, falling lifelessly to the ground. He gritted his teeth as blood splattered, the pain throbbing through him, yet he pushed it aside as best he could.
“You cannot last,” Voldemort laughed cruelly, delighted at the sight of his bloody opponent. With such injuries, there was no way—surely—the boy could keep fighting.
Draco barely heard him. The throbbing pain was fading beneath the stronger pulse of vengeance. His instincts held firm. And when Voldemort lowered his guard for the briefest second, Draco struck.
Sectumsempra.
Voldemort staggered, blood soaking his robes and pouring freely. “What did you do, boy?” he growled, dropping to his knees under the weight of the pain. He flicked his wand furiously, casting a dozen healing charms in rapid succession—yet not one could slow, let alone stop, the bleeding.
It seemed his godfather hadn’t shared all of his creations with the Dark Lord. I’ll be thanking you in the afterlife, Draco thought.
Draco grinned through bloodied teeth. “Why? A little blood scares you?”
Voldemort answered with Crucio. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers as Draco fell. The war, reignited moments ago, ended swiftly. The Order’s side overwhelmed the surviving Death Eaters with ease.
Writhing under the curse, Draco clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut, refusing to give Voldemort the satisfaction of a scream. No longer wishing to toy with the boy, Voldemort disarmed him with another Expelliarmus, leaving him lying helpless in a pool of his own blood.
Despite his own grave injuries, Voldemort was still laughing cruelly. “These wounds you inflicted on me won’t kill me, boy. I am immortal. I can regain my physical form easily.”
Draco’s breath hitched. His vision blurred, the pain now almost unbearable. Yet he shook it off, forcing himself to stay conscious. “How?” he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
To Voldemort, the boy was already on the brink of death; there was no harm in teasing him with a closely guarded secret. For the first time, Lord Voldemort was sharing something no one— not even his most trusted followers—had ever been told.
“Horcruxes. I cannot die before they are destroyed,” Voldemort said proudly. The boy was dying, and he couldn’t resist flaunting his supposed immortality. No matter what Draco had achieved, he would never be the Dark Lord’s equal.
Draco’s heart sank. Even though he never expected to survive, hearing of the madman’s immortality unsettled him. As long as Voldemort lived, there would be no peace.
What should I do? he thought.
He needed to land one final blow—something wandless, something that would worsen Voldemort’s injury. If the madman was grievously wounded, perhaps the Order could capture him. Immortal or not, they could still lock him away. Draco hoped they’d have the guts to bury Voldemort alive—preferably somewhere deeper than the deepest vault in Gringotts—and build a Muggle orphanage on top of it. That would exactly make Voldemort roll in his grave. The thought of Voldemort, still conscious, trapped beneath such a place, made Draco almost smile.
In his weakened state, Draco wasn’t sure he could manage a wandless Sectumsempra. Then it struck him: he didn’t need to. Another cutting curse—just to deepen the wound—might be enough.
“And I will hunt you down myself even in the afterlife.”
Draco’s final defiance, though not shouted, rang across the battlefield, stunning the Dark Lord and the onlookers. With one last desperate act, he gathered every shred of remaining magic and cast a wandless Diffindo at Voldemort.
His magic did not fail him. As his vision began to darken, he saw blood spray across the Dark Lord’s robes. Even as he lay dying, Voldemort reflexively unleashed a Killing Curse in the heat of the moment.
Draco Malfoy—the pest so hard to kill—was finally dead.
Voldemort felt his own body weakening by the second, but he braced himself. Even if this shell was destroyed, his soul would endure. He would regain a body. Without Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy to oppose him, he would claim total control over the British wizarding world. It was only a matter of time.
But Voldemort was wrong.
The Horcruxes were gone.
Draco Malfoy had killed him.
And Draco Malfoy would never know he had succeeded in his final act of vengeance. He would never know he was buried among heroes. He would never know that, though the Malfoy name ended with him, it would forever be remembered as a symbol of bravery. He would never know that history would record him as a hero—the man who vanquished the Dark Lord, the proof that redemption is real. He would never know that Gryffindors would retell his story with awe. And he certainly would never know that his Malfoy signet ring and the wands—both hawthorn and blackthorn—he had wielded in battle would one day rest behind thick glass in a museum.
But if Draco Malfoy had known all that, he would have sneered. He would have told you—hysterically, of course—that he wanted no worship from some reckless Gryffindors. He certainly wouldn’t want his name printed in some sodding history book, let alone mentioned in Binns’s boring lectures. All he had ever wanted was to live a normal life, far from the weight of the Dark Mark.
He wanted his family back. People may say whatever the heck they want about Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but to him, they were his parents—flawed or not. He missed his mother’s soft embrace. He missed his father’s steady, comforting grip. He wanted his youth returned to him—to spend it recklessly on Quidditch, sneaking out after curfew, smuggling firewhiskey into the common room, and pranking some Gryffindor tossers.
He wanted a life free of guilt. Since that blasted mark branded on his arm, he had been too familiar with the gnawing ache of guilt. And most of all, he wanted freedom—the freedom to choose his own path.
Such a shame he could never have any of it, right?