A/N: It's time for some light on Draco too, don't you think?

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"You lost a part of your existence in the war against yourself."

The name Draco Lucius Malfoy wasn't exactly one that would involve feelings of arrogance and pride. Not anymore.

The victory of the 'Light' also meant the defeat of Voldemort and his supporters. The only thing that bound Draco to the disgusting category was his branded left fore-arm. The skeleton with the snake was quite enough to deem him wrong, sadistic and part of the 'Dark'.

Once known, feared and perhaps somewhat respected too, for their orthodox beliefs in blood purity, affluence, and the air of conceit that surrounded every member of the family, the Malfoys had now been reduced to but a pathetic bunch of extremists who were led by the most supremacist of them all, Lucius Malfoy.

The War brought on its repercussions, ones that adjusted themselves to suit the plight of every single being somehow connected to it. It had been a period of darkness, blind faith, superiority, the insatiable desire for power and whatnot. But the only thing that stood out to Draco in all these memories was the intensity of the blur that his life had been.

He had been like wet clay - inexperienced, new, and ready to be moulded. By the time he was eleven and ready for his education at Hogwarts, he had already been led to believe that it was all just for appearance's sake. Trying to gain knowledge, trying to stand out, trying to make your own mark.

He knew.

He knew it was all going to be for nothing, because in the end, he was going to be the only Malfoy heir, and inherit what his father had inherited before him.

He knew the lies his father fed him about blood superiority could be proven wrong if only he could muster up the courage and will to research it on his own. To see it for himself.

He knew how his father was leading all of them onto the path of war, without a care in the world of the millions of inexplicable reasons why it could all go horribly wrong.

He knew how his mother had long stopped her small acts of adoration toward him that kept the both of them sane whenever Lucius' eyes would go all dark with no humanity.

But he couldn't do anything about it. Perhaps the name Malfoy was also cursed with cowardice. Perhaps it wasn't all pride and richness and getting what you wanted. Perhaps there was a facade that spread throughout them all - one of continued arrogance, and of the absolute lie that was their 'perfect' family. He couldn't very well throw it all away and try to see it for what it was now, could he? Of course not. Twisted versions of things was normal. Trying to see the real thing was not. Yes, he could still spot some of the remaining love in his mother's eyes, but only when she accidentally let it slip.

Otherwise, it was always the same drill - Keep your face devoid of petty emotions, and your mind clear. Always.

Still, when his world had declared battle, and the sides were chosen, some light corner of his tortured mind had believed that maybe he would be given a choice. It was a small hint of the presence of his own self, all these years later, but it was there. He wouldn't know what he would choose, but that was a completely different story.

But of course, he had no choice. What else could you expect when all your life, all you've gotten to choose between was what punishment you would like to receive for the new mistake you've made?

With the Dark Mark branded on his arm, he felt as if another part of his already tattered soul had been taken away. He didn't know if it could survive another blow. But for the love of his mother, he did what he had to. Just for her.

He knew it would give him the rank of a Death-Eater, someone who's sadistic enough to enjoy inflicting unmeasured pain on others with Unforgivables others didn't dare mention. Yet through all of that, he never understood the actual meaning of it all. Maybe that small shred of innocence had kept him sane. His mother had kept him sane. Sending him to Hogwarts for his last year, all the while knowing that it was all going to go to hell anyway. What wouldn't he do to save her then? What wouldn't he give, when all he possessed of his own, wasn't even his own?

He had wanted to question his entire existence; Salazar help him, he really did. But he didn't have the energy anymore. What would it matter? He was just a lab rat, tossed aside when the assignment had failed. Wanted dead too, lest he might spread the infection. But through all of his dilemma, his confusion, there simply wasn't time left to support the Dark Lord. What did support even mean? If it meant giving up your life without question...well, he was already bound to do it, like it or not.

One can only see so much torture, violence, cruelty, brutality and madness. Bellatrix had been insane since the very beginning. There was no saving her. He knew that much. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

Through all of this, he still couldn't quite bring himself to accept that he too, was a lost cause. Through the blur that his life was, could he deem himself worthy of being saved?

But what did he know. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe there was no hope left for him. Maybe the end was really the end for him.

Still for some reason, Harry bloody Potter had asked the Minister to pardon the Malfoys for Narcissa's act of saving him and Draco's partial kindness. It was clear that he disagreed. And Draco didn't like arguing with Saint Potter anyway, what with the golden halo he always seemed to have around his head. Why did he try to save him anyway? What did it have to do with him if something happened to Draco? They were enemies after all. Not friends. Never friends. That tossing over of the wand was a momentary lapse of judgement, that's all. But he didn't regret it. Not really.

Lucius had been robbed of all magic and was placed under permanent house-arrest. They said that him having any more of it would be nothing less than toxic. The Azkaban of it all was omitted in consideration of his deteriorating health. But Draco did wish he wasn't confined to the Manor. At least the poor house would be free of him. After all this time, he could have been free of his sodding excuse for a father but he had to spoil that too. What a great life.

Lucius, like the ungrateful prick he was, absolutely despised the idea of living like a Muggle forever. He would rather be dead. But seeing his wife and son alive was enough to keep him going. The hypocrite and Muggle-hater had now clearly turned to false claims of affection for his family to gain sympathy. But maybe he did have a heart. It had just always been hidden by a well practised mask of hatred. After all, Narcissa had fallen in love with the same man at some point, right?

When his condition had worsened way beyond regular healing, courtesy of vigorous Death-Eater trainings, the house arrest was lifted for a temporary time period. Draco had shifted Lucius to Paris for better remedies. It was shocking, really, how St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries had given up. Though Draco had no feelings for his namesake father, none that were expected of him anyway, he wanted him to be comfortable for it was very Malfoy-ish to fulfill every need. The respect ingrained in his mind since the tender age of three wasn't going to just Vanish now.

After all, the Cruciatus is known for its long-term effects.

Draco wanted nothing to do with the business empire that Lucius claimed he had built. He was a petty liar, so it was highly likely that must've been stolen, or founded on other people's fortunes. He devised plans to get the name Malfoy back to its original place in his own way, with trust and honesty being an important step in the rebuilding.

Narcissa Malfoy could hardly be called pleasant, but she certainly wasn't as crude as her husband. She did not radiate immediate hatred and coldness for all below their blood status. She was still learning to adapt to the new environment of acceptance, and the Ministry tried to 'help' by making her sign up for counseling sessions. She had her own pair of magic-resistant cuffs that bound her to the life of a Muggle. She was sentenced to not using her magic for six years after the War. Her punishments were less blood curdling that the other Death-Eaters, mostly because Harry Potter provided proof that she had been deviating from the wayward ways of Voldemort for a long time. She had only stood by him in those last moments to protect her family. Just like her son.

The infamous Slytherins had grown apart and lost touch. The housemates had all had their own versions of distressing lives, and with the worst over, it was time to figure themselves out. Draco and Pansy Parkinson had been a longtime item, but Pansy didn't get to see much of him during sixth and seventh years. Last he had heard, she was with the Nott Jr. He was another one of those caught in the cross-fire of having Death-Eater parents. Draco and Theo had had a somewhat close friendship, until the War had broken them apart too. The only contact he had with a former Slytherin was Blaise Zabini, and that too because they had called a truce during their first year. They both had dominating personalities and since their truce in first year, they had actually become friends. In other words, Blaise was the only one who Draco could trust, beside his mother.

Draco had put his business skills to test with his work on a new firm, one that had surprisingly yielded excellent results. Malfoy Apothecary was the most renowned firm dealing with Potions ingredients, along with basic writing supplies like parchment and quills, in all of Great Britain. There were other rival companies too, of course, but none of them had the zeal that Draco possessed. This was something that was his. This was something that be had created. Finally something he could call his own.

This was where making up for the loss of respect came in. He had opened up a charity organisation based in Paris, to donate money to help restore the battered community. He had opted to keep it undercover, so not many people knew the owner of the organisation that had helped so many people. His charities often brought him to the Ministry of Magic. The dealings more than often intermingled with foreign affairs, and for security, conventional, and conservatory purposes, all permissions and dealings were certified by the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation himself. His organization offered and supervised restoration costs, health and medicine expenses, and education disbursements. It was all a little new, a little different.

Hell, it felt completely out of character. But he had figured, that maybe if he could try to help others like him realise and understand themselves before it was too late, he could prevent the creation of more Draco Malfoys.

That maybe it could be his redemption. Even if he wasn't sure he deserved one.

It was another sodding morning, the one that was always the same - blue skies, hope lighting the very air, subtle indications of productivity and other crap like that, when he received an Owl from said Head:

Mr. Draco L Malfoy

This letter contains my personal request to you to come and meet me in my office at the Ministry. I would be highly obliged if you could make it on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. for this hasty rendezvous. We have some details regarding your concern with our Department that need to be discussed.

I would appreciate your punctuality and your precious time. A reminder may be served when I say the meeting is very important for your Organisation.

I am looking forward to our meeting.

Regards,
Max Wilson

Head of Department of International Magical Cooperation,
Ministry of Magic,
London.

The letter puzzled Draco to say the least. Nothing this important had ever happened in the past one year. He received the letter on Sunday. On Monday, he got up at 6:00 a.m., worked his daily routine and was ready with breakfast by 8:00 a.m. Having nothing to do except wait, he skimmed through the Daily Prophet on his breakfast table. An awfully large picture of the Golden trio covered page 5. Only, the photograph was quite old. The head line said 'OUR WAR HEROES' in bold. Draco gagged. It wasn't like he vehemently hated them; it was all this unwanted and highly exasperating attention they received. He knew for a fact that Potter hated the spotlight; Granger was somewhat along the same lines. It was Ronald Weasley who thought it was great. 'Once a Weasel, always a Weasel,' thought Draco.

He realised that he hadn't actually seen them in quite a long time. Not that he wanted to, of course. It was only to know how happy people were after the War. He, for one, was beyond glad it was over. Making up for all lost relationships had been his goal. But Narcissa Malfoy still hadn't mustered up the courage to talk to her long estranged sister, Andromeda Tonks, neè Black. He respected her decision, though he really wanted to know how his Metamorphmagus cousin who he never met was when she was alive. The War had taken that away from him too. A chance to reunite with his family. And it evoked mixed feelings which lay somewhere between the feeling of missed chances and resentment.

Potter appeared in the Prophet a few times enjoying his happy, married life with the Weaslette. Recently, he and the female Weasel had actually become acquaintances as he had offered to help her Quidditch team through their crisis. Still, calling her Weaslette was an old habit which did die hard. The Weasel and Granger had managed to snatch the first news in the Gossip Section for their break-up. Draco wondered if they had seen it coming. After all, Granger would not have survived with that mediocre wizard. He then wondered how he had stopped calling her and others like her Mudblood. It just didn't have the same allure anymore. It didn't sound right, like something was off in saying it. It probably didn't make sense anyway. He had seen Granger bleeding on the floor of his own house, for Salazar's sake, and the blood. Merlin, it still made him squirm. But all other facts aside, what his eyes had focused on was the redness of it; it was like the colour of cherries, tamed by the iron of it all.

His musings made him lose track of time. He glanced at the watch to find it was 8:50 a.m. Muttering curses under his breath, he Flooed directly to Wilson's office. The man had apparently forgotten his own meeting; the office was deserted. He ventured out into the corridor to find him. It was almost empty. As he walked on, he did not notice the woman with riotous but neatly tamed, curly brown hair walking towards the office he just emerged from. A few more steps and 'bamm!' He bumped, no, crashed, into the woman. A loud gasp emerged from her throat. He steadied himself just in time to avoid landing on his ass, as gracefully as he could manage. Salazar curse him if he was ever going to look less than perfectly calm. Disheveled wasn't a word in his dictionary.

His gentlemanly spirit, one he had honed purposefully, kicked in and he hurried to help the woman, who was now crouching on the floor, unmistakable wrinkles lining her previously ironed clothes. Her head was bent, and he could see her chewing on her lip and she absently tried to reach for her purse. But he made no move to help her up, as his eyes had already caught warm, but annoyed, chocolate ones. Those eyes were all too familiar. Sudden screams filled his head and a picture of a woman in black robes torturing a fragile and innocent girl appeared out of nowhere.

This was definitely going to be one ironically unforgettable run-in.

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