When Pastel Meets Punk[Drarry]

Chapter 2

Draco's POV

I arrived at the platform on time.  'On time' being the bit in between early and late when the platform mainly consists of eager first years and nervous parents. They were all giving me that look that I have become so very familiar with this past month.  No, not the look, that look.  The difference being the first is more of an up-and-down-nod-of-the-head-possibly-with-a-wink glance of approval, and the latter is more of a recognition followed by quickening the pace of their steps so as to get as far away from me without seeming as though they are doing so.  Yes, I am rather familiar with both, though certainly that look seems to crop up more recently, for reasons which I am sure can explain themselves.

Not that I don't think I deserve some kind of punishment, really it's more that I already have served my punishment.  I lived with a bugfuck crazy serial killer cult leader with a fondness for Unforgivables in my family home. I was forced to take the Dark Mark and betray all of my friends, my school, my mentor and pretty much the whole of the Wizarding world, or die.  And of course the Ministry prodding and picking at Mother's and my every move.  Although, naturally in their eyes I am still only a Death Eater.  To them I was never free of all charges.  If they had it their way, my family would all be rotting in Azkaban with Lucius.

I don't think they will really ever understand or accept that I am not who I was. I am not a Death Eater - despite what the brand on my left forearm may suggest - I was scared, I was young, I had no power or control over my situation, and I thought I could save my family from a madman.  I had looked up to my father. I hung onto every word he uttered and mimicked him as best I could.  I held my back straight and looked down my nose at everyone. I sneered and looked away from people I deemed unworthy of my attention - people my father deemed unworthy - I was a nasty, foul-mouthed, rude little spoiled brat.  But I'm not anymore.  Much.

I'm done with all that, I'm done with doing everything my father told me to.  My father is dead.  Murdered by some trainee Auror who killed on site without trial.  The Auror was given a slap on the wrist and my father went without so much as a funeral.  I had felt odd after it happened, like I wasn't quite sure how to feel.  Though in the end it was relief, perhaps if that trainee hadn't done it, I would have.  Perhaps it was more so euthanasia than murder.

After his death I had sold Malfoy Manor and relocated to a small cosy cottage on the country outskirts of Wiltshire, not all that far from where the Manor had been so Mother wouldn't feel too out of place.  The new cottage was quaint and delicate and gave off the most wonderful feeling of warmth. Even before we had properly settled, it had already felt more of a home than the Manor had the past year.

Mother wasn't happy, but she was content.  I don't think either of us have been happy in a long time, it may take a while before we remember how to be.  For now we can both settle for content, we had risked our lives for less.

She has taken to knitting out in the garden when the weather is nice enough and baking when it begins to drizzle.  I had never seen Mother bake before, at the Manor it was always the house elves who did everything.  I had asked her one day, when the rain was pattering on the roof of the cottage and the kitchen smelt of warm cupcakes and herbal tea.  She had given me a small smile - a thing that used to be so rare but which I found had been appearing more often as of late.  She dusted the flour off of her apron and sat down, gesturing for me to copy her and began to pour tea with her favourite tea set (one of the only things we had taken with us before we had left the Manor).  She told me of the days back when I was only very small, when she had trouble with sleeping after her nightmares from the first war.  She told me of how she would sneak down to the kitchens where she stashed her Muggle cookbooks and bake until the sun rose up.