Chapter Text
"Oh"
Draco stands frozen in disbelief outside the grand gates of Malfoy Manor. Before him, Potter stands with an air of holiness, bathed in the fading light of dusk, his green eyes sharp and determined.
Draco can see the tautness in Potter's shoulders as he raises a wand toward him. To Draco's astonishment, it's his wand, the familiar length of wood that had chosen him at the tender age of eleven.
There's a moment he contemplates running, praying to Merlin when Potter strikes him down, it'll be fast. But no, the wand's head isn't pointing towards him; it's the handle.
"I'm returning it," Potter states, his voice void of emotion.
Ah, that's right. Potter had testified on his behalf; it wouldn't bode well for him to murder after the fact. A lump forms in his throat as he examines the green-eyed boy.
Potter looks good. Well, Potter has always looked good. Even covered in grime and dirt, the boy gives off a rugged type of handsomeness.
A surge of jealousy coils tightly in the pit of Draco's stomach, forcing him to grapple with the unsettling realisation of how deeply he's affected by Potter's undeniable charm in the midst of their dire circumstances.
"I won't take it, I can't; leave me be Potter," he says, looking anywhere but Potter's piercing eyes. The black-haired boy sighs as he takes a second to compose himself.
"It's your wand", Potter says through gritted teeth, as if holding back a thousand other things he wished to say instead.
Draco meant it, though. Would he not combust if he dared touch the wand that had defeated the dark lord?
Would the mark on his arm not deem him unworthy of touching such a monumental part of history? As much as he hated the thought, the wand wasn't his anymore. He had chosen his side, and his wand had chosen its. His wand had chosen Potter. Merlin, how ridiculous.
"Why did you lie?" Potter asks after an elongated moment of silence, the wand still extended towards the Malfoy heir.
"I don't know what answer you expect, but you won't hear it. I don't want my wand back. Clearly, it's chosen you as its new owner. Well, with a core such as unicorn hair, I should've known idiots with hero complexes would be its preferred choice," Draco sneers, readying to scurry away.
"Yeah, and it chose you first, so what does that say about you?" Potter says, his eyes unmoving as his words glue Draco to his spot. There's silence as the blonde tries to decipher his words.
"I'm struggling to understand what you're insinuating," Draco spits, holding back his comment that nobody understands what Potter talks about due to his plebian way of speaking.
"I'm saying that I think you could be better. You're such a dick. You're the biggest ponce I'll probably ever meet in my life. Malfoy-" Potter starts, his eyes softening as he steps onward, extending his arm further.
The expression on the saviour's face makes Draco want to vomit. The poster child for goodness, a boy literally wrapped in a halo, was looking at him like...like...like.
"There's been so much death. So much suffering, Malfoy-I. Well, Shit. Don't you think we should do better than the people before us? Listen, I am joining the Aurors to finish this. Hermiones is going head first into the ministry to change laws whilst studying, and well, aren't you tired? I'm tired of all the fighting and dying. We want peace, and you? Don't you want to do better, Malfoy? After all this... Don't you want to be better?"
It was a terrible speech. It's a good thing Granger was the one heading into the ministry because Potter would surely fumble any attempts at inspiration; the boy was a bumbling mess. But still, his words hit areas that Draco hadn't known existed.
Being 'better' was how this whole thing started.
The conviction that the blood coursing through his veins was somehow purer than others fueled the chaos and impending doom around him.
Draco had genuinely believed he was on a path of improvement. By enacting the dark lord's orders, he felt he was honouring the Malfoy legacy.
He sought to live the teachings of his forebears with every act he committed. Each step the young heir took deepened the shadows enveloping him, intertwining his fate with the evil he thought would elevate him.
It didn't matter that doing so made him physically ill or that his mental fortitude to actually fulfil those acts was weak and waning. Draco thought he was doing what was 'better'. He thought he was doing what's right.
He quickly shook all thoughts away, not ready to have a breakdown in front of the saviour of the wizarding world. He would not be suffering more humiliation than necessary.
Any sort of reply got stuck in his throat. A huge part of him wanted to lash out, to spew hateful words to get Potter off his back. He wanted to say something so irredeemable that the look of soft hope shining from those green eyes would instantly vanish.
"I hope...ugh," Potter says, seemingly unable to find the words he wanted to say. Draco's wand gets laid on the ground with such care that the blonde has to turn away.
"Just think about what I said," Potter says before quickly apparating away.
Draco takes a moment to process the conversation he just had, his body a canvas of guilt, jealousy, and exhaustion, primarily exhaustion.
Moral dilemmas have never been a problem for the Malfoy heir; in fact, morals, in general, have often been an afterthought. Draco's not stupid. As much as he'll never admit it, he knows when he's wrong.
If the screams that haunt his nightmares weren't enough to change his perspective, then the outcome of the war certainly was. Good had triumphed; the things his family had fought for were wrong. He was wrong.
The very thought made him cringe as if he could hear the disapproving groans of his bloodline raining from above.
He turns toward the manor, his heart heavy as he surveys the familiar walls of what was once his sanctuary.
The shadows of the dark lord now cast a pall over this cherished place, tainting his fondest memories with their venom.
The grandeur that once characterised the manor has faded; its once-vibrant façade now shrouded in an oppressive gloom, as if the very stones mourn the loss of their former brilliance.
If there's one thing Malfoys are good at, it's surviving and adapting. They've survived countless eras of the wizarding world; they were one of the oldest families in history.
They'd been through numerous changes in social norms and laws, and it wouldn't be any different. The Malfoy family had simply missed an update, stuck in the ways of old as the times changed around them.
Potter was right, which is another thing Draco would loathe to admit out loud. They had to do better. He had to be better.
So that's what he'll do: adapt, change and be a proper Malfoy. And if calling it that is his way of coping with dismantling his childhood and taught behaviours, then that is nobody's business but his own.
.･:･:･:･:･:.᭖ঌ২ৈ.･:･:･:･:･:.
Draco strides through the desolate halls of the manor, each room stripped of its former charm as their possessions have been taken for reparations.
The once vibrant walls now stand stark and lifeless, devoid of colour, with the portraits of his ancestors, those who once filled these spaces with history and memories, completely vanished.
It's a funny sort of feeling. He should be furious and raving about the treatment of the Malfoy name. But instead, Draco sits. He sits in the middle of his once-lavish dining room and sighs.
They got off rather easy if you really think about it. Lucius had been sentenced to a lifetime of soul-sucking, but Draco and his mother had been freed of all charges.
It's crazy when you think about the fact that he not only attempted to kill the most powerful wizard of all time but also breached the security of the supposed safest fort in the world. Oh yeah, and then let a bunch of Death Eaters inside.
He cringes.
Draco is uncertain about why they chose to take the manor instead of their vaults. After all, money would be much more advantageous than a house that the Dark Lord once inhabited.
Dark magic seems to emanate from the very walls. But hey, if someone wants to sleep in the room where the Dark Lord got off, that's their choice.
Draco pauses, vividly recalling how his aunt would saunter toward the Dark Lord's chamber, her clothing sheer as she moved inside. Yes, that's right—the Dark Lord, as some would say, got bitches.
Merlin, if that crazy murderer were still alive and perhaps not a crazy murderer, Draco would sue for emotional distress.
"Draco, darling, come here! I need to know which of these I should throw away."
Draco rose, his mind buzzing with various plans for his dim future. How does one be better anyway? Well, he supposes there are the bases of better, like being kind. Draco scowls.
He's not sure being kind is a thing he can do, but perhaps not being a complete asshole is more up his alley. Draco walks, his feet dragging as he listens to his mother's slight murmuring echoing around.
Step 1 of doing better: Don't be an asshole.
It shouldn't be hard. Dracos had to hold his tongue on multiple occasions.
Galas with ministers and their ghastly clothes, spitting elders who really ought to die but cling to life and just earlier, with the saviour of the wizarding world. Yes, being better should be rather easy.
"Draco, will you need these robes? I doubt we'll be attending any important events in France, but they may come in handy should our reputation cease to be dirt." Narcissa asks, her blonde hair a mess she would usually never allow.
Both of them were a mess. Narcissa had struggled immensely with Lucius's prison sentence.
When the announcement rang in the hall, eyes swivelled.
The audience of those hurt by their actions watched with such intensity as his mother merely flipped her hair and stood, pulling Draco by the hand as they walked away.
His mother was the strongest woman he knew; she lied to the dark lord's face, for Merlin's sake. But in the same ways Draco was, she was soft and vulnerable.
When they had arrived home, she had shattered, leaving Draco to pick up the pieces as Aurors stormed their home, as the items he wasn't privy to knowing about sunk them into trouble and as he fought to keep their heads above water.
She had cried for days when he told her they were taking the manor.
She shouted at him, calling him all things from incompetent to naive; Draco was unsure if she had meant any of it, but she never apologised. She was sorry; he knew by the way she had fixed his hair and straightened his collar.
They weren't the apologising type, you see.
After that, he'd seen her put in an active effort. She had acquired a home for them in France with the help of some distant relatives and had taken to organising their belongings, starting by dumping anything she deemed infected by the dark lords' bad luck.
"I don't think I'll need anything of the sort for at least ten years; by then, I'll be a different size...well, hopefully", Draco muses, looking at the odd pile of things his mother has acquired.
In the midst of a strange pile of what Draco thinks are his father's undergarments, what appears to be paper with numbers on it peeks through.
"what's this?" He says, pointing with a furrowed brow.
"Oh, it's Muggle money. The last time I visited the ministry, I had to go through the Muggle entrance. Could you give it to me? I'll throw it away." Narcissa responds, her lips downturned as she recalls the memory.
Draco picks up the money with unhidden interest. The notes feel odd compared to the galleons he'd grown up holding. They aren't shiny gold, but they still have beauty in terms of design.
"I'll keep it; I'm planning to head to Muggle London soon, so this will be of use," Draco says, pocketing the notes with an air of nonchalance. Narcissa stares in shock, her mouth gaping, before she clears her throat.
"Apologies, dear, I seem to have misheard you. What did you say?" She asks, her eyes slightly wide as she awaits his answer.
"Oh, I said that I'll be heading into Muggle London soon", Draco confirms, his eyes not meeting hers as a light layer of sweat covers the back of his neck.
"Draco. You have no business interacting with muggles. If you want to shop, simply head to Diagon Alley. It's much more fitting for a wizard such as yourself."
A scoff left Draco's lips before he could help himself.
"and why would I do something so Stupid? Mother, surely you know we're not welcome there. We Co-signed the actions of a madman who terrorised their streets and lives. Why would I even think about showing my face anywhere remotely wizardly after what I've done? What if someone attacks me? You know my wand is restricted to only a few spells; I can't even apparate, Mother! What would-"
"I don't want to hear this nonsense! They will forgive us in time; we must keep our heads high, Draco. While your father is rotting in Azkaban, the Malfoy name-"
"The Malfoy name was ruined the moment Fathers Mark started to burn; no, it was destroyed when Grandfather fell for the schemes of a man who wanted nothing but death and destruction! Honestly, what was the plan? What was the end goal? Why, if we were superior, would we get rid of the inferior? Where would that leave us? Why, Why, why!!!" Draco snaps, the words pouring out of his mouth before he can help.
Narcissa's lips are drawn tight, and her hands clutch her dress.
"You mustn't think of these things, Draco, it-"
"Is that not what got me in this situation? I followed what was taught, not doubting it for a second. I did what I was supposed to as a pureblood heir and played my part spectacularly. I held myself better than others, as a Malfoy should, and I...I didn't doubt for a second that I was wrong. We were wrong , so I'll be going to educate myself. Malfoys have adapted for centuries, you see; we must've to survive. So that's what I'll be doing." Draco says, nodding confidently as he searches the pile for any more money lying about.
"You know nothing of the muggle world, Draco! They are dangerous! I simply can not understand this random change! Your life is not ruined, Draco; we'll go to France and secure you a position under a potions master after your exams-"
The words his mother was speaking started to fade as he attempted to control his emotions. It was just like her to do this, to look at the path forward as if it held no obstacles. But there weren't any for her, not really.
"After a few years, we can come back to England. Our vaults are still lavish and full, so a good pairing regarding your marriage will fix our reputation in no time-"
"You're delusional, mother. Fully delusional. A marriage? Who would marry me after this? You claim this can be fixed, but it wasn't you who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, was it? It wasn't you who was tasked with killing their headmaster. No, you waited here and tasked my godfather to ensure my success instead of taking me away once you noticed how dangerous this was for us! You got to stand on the side, Unmarked! Instead of- I don't know why I'm talking to you about this!" Draco shouts, his throat beginning to close.
Draco felt his expression slowly transform into one of deep sorrow; this whole situation sat heavily on his heart.
He was completely and utterly drained, as if every ounce of energy had been sucked away. Narcissa's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting the pain of his harsh words, which lingered in the air like a chilling fog.
The unspoken accusation, the haunting reminder of "You should have protected me like a mother should " hung painfully between them, casting a shadow over their strained bond.
"I'm going to muggle London," Draco says suddenly, the urge to run away thumping through his veins as he stares at his mother's teary face. Without thought, he speed walks toward the floo.
His body surged with adrenaline as he sprinted through the winding halls of the manor, each footfall echoing against the ancient walls.
This impulsive act was probably the most Gryffindor thing he had ever done in his life, charging headfirst into the unknown without a second thought. There was no time to linger on that disgusting thought; it would surely haunt him later.
As he grabbed a handful of floo powder, the address of a frustratingly mundane Muggle-disguised post office tumbled from his lips—a detail that seemed so trivial amidst the chaos, but urgency drove him forward without hesitation.
Yes, this was the way to go. No thoughts, just movement.
The green flames engulfed his being, changing his view from the cold living room to a grossly painted office. He attempted to adjust as he stumbled out of the floo, something he's never done in his life.
Draco took a deep breath as he looked around. The place was practically empty. His father had taken him here only once.
It was the perfect place for a Malfoy to ship something off inconspicuously. The bright yellow walls and disorderly shelves of packaging were certainly not Malfoy-appropriate.
"I'll be right with you!" A voice called.
Oh goodness, the decorations on the wall were ghastly. Little cartoon men with packages ran from one side of the wall to the other with little class or care.
Poorly done, if he were being honest. But he supposes it's something fun for wizards when they come.
Yes, wizards. Wizards who would come to this Muggle-disguised shop. A shop with a wizard working here...a Wizard who was coming to serve Draco soon...
A wave of panic washes over the blonde as the reality of his situation sinks in. A wizard is about to come face to face with Draco Malfoy, a former Death Eater infamous for his betrayal of Hogwarts. His heart stops, and the weight of this moment bears down on him.
If a wizard spots him in this vulnerable position, it could spell disaster; they might hastily draw flawed conclusions and alert others. With time slipping away, he knows he must act swiftly, every second counting in this precarious game of fate.
If someone were to call this description dramatic, Draco would simply think them an idiot. This is very obviously life or death.
So yes. No thoughts, just movement.
The tall blonde kept moving, the sound of his heart beating in his ears as he tried his very best not to panic.
Draco assumed he was outside as cold air enveloped him. He hadn't been seen. He hadn't done anything wrong, and there was no point in thinking about the worst.
His feet hit the pavement hard, and his breath became ragged. Before Draco could spiral anymore, a shoulder harshly bumped into his own, snapping him out of his stupor.
"Be careful!" a man says before continuing his walk.
Draco's eyebrows furrow as he suddenly dodges a swarm of people who were once walking behind him, their expressions bitter as he blocks the path.
He instinctively sidesteps. His eyes try their best to adjust to whirling madness as he seeks refuge from the relentless tide of people surging past him.
"Sweet Salazar, I'm in Muggle London, " he whispers.
The world around him becomes a dizzying blur as his vision falters. This is not...right; Everything about this is new and not right. The air crackles with the racket of bustling voices, each syllable of conversation merging into a chaotic symphony.
The scent of street food mingles with the distant aroma of gasoline, overwhelming his senses; it's too much; he feels like a baby being newly introduced to the world.
Vibrant neon lights flicker overhead, casting colourful reflections on the faces of hurried strangers, each illuminated with excitement and urgency.
A jumble of unfamiliar sights assaults his senses, the shimmering displays of shops filled with products he's never seen, the kaleidoscope of colours from passing cars and the rhythmic cadence of footsteps echoing on the pavement.
As he grapples with the overwhelming stimuli, he feels as though hes drowning, desperately trying to hold onto his sense of calm amidst the whirlwind surrounding him. He breathes short breaths, struggling to bring enough oxygen to his lungs as his brain shuts down.
He'd had once overheard Blaise rambling on about his wild Italian escapades, where he took ctazy drugs with his equally crazy cousins. Draco had never dipped his toes into anything quite like that, but he was convinced that this moment was about as close as he’d ever come.
Draco shrinks against the wall he's currently stuck against. People don't even pay him any mind. They move with purpose, almost like a pack of lions, well, what Draco can imagine lions would. He doesn't know.
He doesn't know anything . His breath starts to spike as he watches carefully, the fear of being set on fire racing in his mind like the tales of his childhood.
Before the Draco can die of lack of oxygen, his body is being manhandled in a particular direction.
He struggles to protest, not being able to see, hear or speak properly as the tears stream down his face without permission. It's utterly embarrassing.
But he can't find the strength to feel the emotion, as pure fear is busily seeping into every inch of his body.
He thinks hes being taken into a warm building that changes the bright, blinding white light to something more soothing and yellow-toned.
He also thinks he's being carted off to be chopped into pieces and eaten as a sacrifice, so Dracos not really sure which perception of reality to believe.
"Young man, breathe", a woman's voice whispers as she firmly rubs his back.
Which is so rude, considering he's trying to do just that.
"You're safe; everything will be alright," She says, continuing her ministrations.
There's a small part—well, no, a large part of Draco's brain that signals danger. This muggle is simply planning to lure him into a false sense of security. She's clearly aware of his superiority and, in his vulnerable state, has decided now is the time to strike.
That voice is loud, but Pansy once told him it's not someone's first thoughts that matter; it's what they do afterwards.
Of course, she was talking about ripping Daphne's hair out versus not doing it, so he's unsure whether it should be applied to this situation. Nonetheless, he came to Muggle London to learn, and by Merlin, he'll do it.
His body trembles as he struggles to suppress the instinct to swat her hand away. Sweet Salazar, he feels like a walking contradiction. A large part of him wants to lean in, be absorbed by the warmth the muggle is pertruding.
Yet there's still that trained hesitance, the voice that sounds like his father begging him to act according to the Malfoy ways. He supposes he'll have to work on that.
The soft, golden glow of the lights that differ from the harsh light of the sun creates a peaceful atmosphere that wraps around him like a comforting embrace. In this serene sanctuary, far from the mess, he finds he can breathe.
He turns to the woman, noticing her wrinkled skin and grey hair. Her warm brown eyes twinkle as she smiles softly, still rubbing his back as though he were a toddler needing assistance.
Draco clears his throat.
"Thank you. I'm quite alright now," He says, his voice crackly and weak.
"Are you new to the city? I understand it can be quite frightening. Come, you're in my cafe! We've closed for the day, so it'll be a good place to recuperate," she says, not giving him time to answer as she hauls him up.
He took a proper look at the cafe. Its brown and green theme was lovely, though the place could use an upgrade in decor. It was old but still lively.
If Draco is shocked by the woman's strength, he doesn't show it, but his jaw drops as she stands to her full height, her head meeting his nose.
"I've got some freshly brewed coffee if you're interested. But looking at those fancy shoes, I'd guess tea is more your thing," she teases, leading him to the back of the kitchen.
A window lets in the sun's beams, leading to a small table with three chairs tucked into it, stationed as what appears to be a rest stop for employees.
Draco sinks into the chair with a heavy sigh, his gaze drifting towards the tall, muscular older woman pottering around.
He attempts to block out the distracting array of appliances and unfamiliar Muggle technologies cluttering the room. Hes overwhelmed enough, and their presence was a constant reminder of a world he struggles to understand.
Soft melodies float from the small, rectangular device in the corner; its cheerful tunes only serve to heighten his anxiety.
Because honestly, what the fuck is that? What the fuck is any of the things sitting causally in this room?
The blonde sends a plea to Merlin as he feels the weight of impending frustration press down on him; he simply cannot bear the thought of another mental breakdown.
"So, what is causing you panic attacks in the middle of London?" she asks, not looking directly at him as she plates a couple of biscuits.
He fights off the instinctive reaction to tell the woman to mind her business. That's gotten him nowhere.
He swallows the bitter words, wondering if maybe the world is ending as he considers spewing his feelings to a muggle.
Draco wanted nothing more than to take a two-hour nap. He'd done it. He'd come to muggle London and disagreed with his mother. That was enough, was it not? This was more than enough change for the blonde.
"My mother and I fought. You see, I've... Let's just say I'm not a good person, and I've done some bad things. Determined to be better, I may have upset my mother by tarnishing some of the ideals she's raised me with," Draco explains carefully, staring at the mug of tea that had been placed in front of him.
"So you're like a part of a gang? Like from the movies?" the woman asks, her eyes sparkling. His brow furrowed in confusion as he struggles to understand her words, the word gang throwing him for a complete loop.
He sends a quick prayer to Merlin, begging for a Muggle dictionary to implant itself in his brain.
Unexpectedly, the woman breaks into a smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she taps where his mark sits; Draco's eyes follow where her touch registers, widening as he takes in the sight.
In the chaos of his disastrous adventure, his black shirt had been torn, exposing his pale skin beneath. A glimpse of his tattoo peeked out, a silent testament to his past. Its intricate design, faintly visible against his light complexion.
"It's faded, but that usually means you've had it for a while. I don't mean to stereotype you, but well, you dress somewhat fancily for someone so lost and confused. My other guess was that you've escaped from some kind of cult!" The woman says, cackling, completely oblivious to the internal meltdown he is having.
The mark faded after the dark lord's defeat, but Draco's eyes had done their best not to linger too long on it.
He'd covered it as best he could anytime a long-sleeved shirt wasn't an option. His stomach clenched; it was like being forced to revisit every single mistake he'd ever made.
"The design seems nice", The woman speaks, trying to restart the conversation.
"It's not. It's just as disgusting as what it stands for," Draco speaks, finding himself believing his words.
This woman was a Muggle. This lovely woman who plucked him off the streets and sheltered him inside her quaint cafe. A cafe, Draco assumes people come to relax from their busy lives.
He takes a moment to think about the sea of people he encountered not merely an hour ago. Some were smiling and laughing amongst each other, while others seemed stressed and in a rush.
They were simply people living their lives. Draco only had a glimpse of it. He knew nothing of the Muggle world, and yet...
"I...I want to be better. I'm scared, but I want to be better," he confessed quietly, barely a whisper. The woman pushed the plate of biscuits towards him with a gentle nod.
"Then you'll want to eat something. My name is Darlia, yours?" She asks, watching as Draco slowly nibbles on a biscuit.
"Draco, I like your cafe; it's in desperate need of refurbishing, but it's nice," Draco mumbles, his tiredness evident from the droop of his eyes and the flatness of his voice.
Darlia snorts, shaking her head at his comment before looking toward the clock.
"Draco, have you escaped from a cult or gang? Tell me honestly. I saw how you looked at some of my appliances, but you're dressed rather modernly. I hate to be so forward, but I've got to know whether to call the police if you're in danger," she says, her tone stern yet still warm.
Thinking quickly, the blonde shakes his head, getting ready to bullshit his way through this situation as much as possible.
"No! I'm in no danger! I just...Well..." Draco stalls, deciding which of the given options to take.
"I've escaped from a cult of sorts. I say escaped, but well, the cult has dispersed. It's no longer a thing, so it shan't be a problem," he says poshly, the same way he does when dismissing someone.
"The problem I'm having is that I've been in this cult all my life, and I'm not sure how to...er," Draco struggles, his eyes drifting to the floor as he rethinks his cover story.
"Live without the ways of the cult?"
"Yes! We were rather isolated and often hurt people with our beliefs and ways of life. I've recently decided that educating myself and being better would be good. It's a lot easier said than done, and I find myself overwhelmed," Draco sighs, shaking his head as he takes a sip of his drink.
"Changing yourself can be hard. So you fought with your mum over this?" she asks, standing as Draco finishes his biscuits.
"I said something rather horrible," Draco sighed, his face falling as the face of his teary mother flashed in his mind.
"You see, she was a part of the cult but was never marked like me. She also was never as involved as I was, even though...I don't know what I'm trying to say, Darlia," Draco huffs, rubbing his temples as a headache forms.
"How about the truth? It's just you and me here." Darlia urges, placing more snacks in front of the boy.
"Mother...I suppose I wish she did more to protect me. I was forced to commit certain acts for my survival and hers. My father had become a failure to the cult, and so it was my turn to step up. I don't really want to get into it. I just- I suppose I'm jealous. She gets to live life unmarked and guilt-free while the weight of my actions suffocates me. I've bullied people in the name of our beliefs, I thought myself better than others, and now- I don't know. I resent them for teaching me wrong, but they can't be blamed for everything. It all blew up in our faces, and now Mother wants to act like everything is fine! Like my future isn't completely ruined, as if all we have to do is run off to France and wait while people get over what we've done! I-" Draco rants, stopping once he realises he's become too open.
"I apologise," He says, sheepishly looking toward warm brown eyes.
Darlia smiles, tapping her finger on the table as she looks towards the clock once again.
"It's getting dark," she murmurs, glancing out the window at the fading light. "Will you be going home?" Her eyes search his face, hoping to discern his feelings.
She finds her answer as his lips twist into a frown, the corners pulling downwards, while his grey eyes widen, shimmering with unmasked sorrow.
"You can stay with me then. All my children have left the nest, so I've more space than I know what to do with," she says, standing.
Draco stares in shock at Darlias's easy invitation. He hadn't wanted to go home; it would feel like a failure after all, but still, to think a solution would present itself so easily!
"Darlia, you have scarcely known me for a full day! This is utterly preposterous. I find myself seriously questioning your intellect." He snaps, his tone posh and cheeks flushed as he watches her grasp his elbow.
The woman laughs, hauling him to a standing position.
"You look so young, but sometimes you sound so old," she laughs, leading him further into the kitchen, where a flight of stairs lay.
Draco's mind led him back to his childhood tales, and he worried for a millisecond that this was now the time Darlia would reveal herself as the evil he had been warned of. But no.
Instead, she quietly observed Draco as he awkwardly navigated her Muggle bathroom. She felt a hint of amusement when he stared at the light switch, clearly perplexed by its purpose.
When he became entangled in a thick-knitted jumper, a look of panic flickering across his face; she helped silently and without judgment.
And finally, when Draco's eyes widened in shock at the sudden darkness that enveloped the living room when she turned off the television, she couldn't help but notice the mix of confusion and fear in his expression, as if he were facing an entirely foreign world.
And he was. The word 'Overwhelmed' wouldn't even scratch the surface of what Draco was feeling. This was not the plan. Well, there wasn't a plan at all...
This whole no-thinking just acting business was far too much for him. Yes, the Gryfindor activity was not for him after all.
"Here, you can use this bedroom", Darlia says, opening a cream-coloured door. Her entire home was primarily cream, with the colour coming from the furniture and decorations.
It was so different from the manor. There were windows almost everywhere, looking out onto the streets, and the space felt both homely and cozy. Although the apartment was small, it was decorated in a way that created an illusion of more room.
"Thank you once again for graciously allowing me to stay here; I truly appreciate your generosity," Draco said stiffly, feeling so disappointed in his guest manners; he'd been nothing but a burden to this unknowing Muggle.
"oh dear, you've gone all posh again. Relax. Sleep well, I'll see you in the morning" She smiled, tucking her silver hair behind her ear. As she walked away, Draco rubbed his stomach, hoping to dispel the copious amounts of 'what the fuck is happening' swelling within him.
The room Draco was inhabiting felt like a Hufflepuff's wet dream. Copious amounts of mustard yellow were thrown about, with a few splashes of green in the form of fake plants and bedsheets.
The blonde leapt into bed, ignoring the fluttering curtains and the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows around the room. He found himself baffled by the light switch, its mechanism still a mystery to him, and tonight, he had no desire to solve it.
It was an odd sensation, being in a space he had never imagined would bring him comfort. Yet, as the soft, fuzzy blanket wrapped around him like a warm embrace, he felt an unexpected sense of peace wash over him.
His inner turmoil quieted as he closes his eyes, surrendering to the call of sleep.
.･:･:･:･:･:.᭖ঌ২ৈ.･:･:･:･:･:.
The morning sun attacks Draco's face, disturbing his sleep.
The undrawn curtains are the blonde's first sight, a silent witness to his restless night. Weighed down by yesterday's fatigue, his body feels heavy, and his eyelids flutter weakly, desperately clinging to the remnants of sleep.
The room's yellow provides another attack to his senses as he looks around, processing his insane decisions and unprompted Muggle sleepover. Surely, Merlin had looked out for him, as he was alive and unharmed.
It was shocking how easily Draco trusted the older woman, allowing her to lead him places without resistance.
He quickly thought of her tall stature and muscly figure. If she wanted to, Darlia could easily overpower him. Maybe she engaged in some sort of Muggle sport that contributed to her impressive physique.
As thoughts of past encounters flooded his mind, he recalled the many times various Gryffindors had physically bested him.
If he's going to embrace Muggle livelihood, he may as well reap its benefits. A small smile graced his face as no negative feelings flood his being.
He could do this. Darlia was lovely and would surely aid him; he just had to ask and see what she needed in return.
Draco threw his blanket off with newfound energy and jumped out of bed. As he left his room, he took in the apartment in its full glory in the daylight. It was a very cozy place—nothing luxurious like what he was used to, but still very nice.
"You're awake! How did you sleep?" Darlia asks, walking towards him in her colourful pyjama set.
"Good! I'm feeling good!" Draco smiles. Darlia stands with clear shock as she takes in his beaming presence.
"Come down for some breakfast. It seems like you've had a bit of an epiphany." She grins knowingly as they walk back down to the kitchen.
"I wouldn't necessarily classify it as an epiphany; however, Darlia, I have come to the realisation that I possess much to learn, and you are the ideal instructor. I would like to propose what I believe to be mutually beneficial arrangement: you impart your knowledge to me, and in return, I shall provide you with whatever you desire." Draco offers confidently, his back straight as he awaits her reply.
Standing by her coffee maker, Darlia stares wide-eyed before chuckling softly.
"I swear, you give me whiplash. Sometimes you sound so posh; sometimes you say scathing things with no problems, and others you seem so adorable! You're quite the package!" She says.
Draco bristles, his cheeks pink, as he tries to remember saying anything rude. Sure, he was mumbling as he navigated her home yesterday, but he doubted he'd said anything of substance. He's positive 'adorable' wasn't anything he'd been.
"I would be happy to help you. Maybe you'll stop being such a sea urchin once you get closer to me! Aha! Yes, that's what you are! Adorable yet prickly and what some consider a delicacy" She smiles, her brown eyes glistening.
"W-what do you want in return?" Draco stammered, his cheeks flushing as he fought to brush off her cutting remarks. Her comparison of him to a grotesque sea urchin lingered in his mind.
"Nothing, my little Urchin. I just want to see you grow. When I look at you, I see a struggling young man, someone who had a spoilt youth regardless of the responsibilities laid on your shoulders. You've probably never had to consider someone else's feelings or life before now, huh? Well, I'm glad you're trying. People may say it's the bare minimum, but there sure are easier options." She says, staring at him as if she'd known him all his life.
Draco's breath catches in his throat as he reflects on her words, a mix of surprise and admiration washing over him.
She has an uncanny ability to articulate precisely what he needs to hear, as if she can peer into his thoughts without requiring him to reveal anything. Her insight into his struggles feels almost magical...
"Are you a witch?" Draco asks, his voice low and full of suspicion as he watches every single twitch of Darlias body for confirmation.
The woman laughs, free and unrestrained, at his suggestion.
"No, though my ability to read people has raised some eyebrows. I suspect my gift would be reading minds if magic were real." She laughs as Draco fights the urge to correct her.
"Well, thank you, Darlia. I want to make amends, but I'm not sure where to start. I don't know much about things such as that," Draco says, pointing to the toaster.
"I gathered you were a bit clueless when you didn't know how to turn on the lights", Darlia hums.
"Yes, I gathered you were a bit tasteless by the gaudy cheetah print throw blanket and decaying walls," Draco snaps back, immediately regretting it.
"Sorry, it wasn't even a good insult. I just react like that sometimes," Draco sighs, his shoulders slumping as he disobeys his number one rule of doing better.
Darlia chuckles, placing a plate of toast and a mug of tea before him.
"I've lived a long life, Draco. It'd be shocking if I couldn't handle a couple of your urchin insults."
Draco cringes; it looks like the grotesque nickname is going to stick.
"What do you think your next steps will be?" She asks, munching on her toast.
"I doubt the first step has been taken. I sort of ran here in an attempt at spontaneity. I suppose apologising to people would be a good first step?" Draco asks, unsure, fiddling with his toast as he soaks in the sun's beams.
"I've never apologised before. Not for something serious; I usually go through life doing and taking what I want. It was a privilege I've had because of my nam- my father's standing in the cult." He continues, quickly saving himself.
Darlia hums, watching as he eats.
"Words are good, but actions may be better. If you've taken a lot in life, maybe try giving instead," she says softly, the crinkles near her eyes quickly becoming Draco's favourite part of her smile.
Draco ponders her words, his gaze distant as the rhythmic hum of London stirs outside. Suddenly, a spark ignites within him, an idea bursting forth like a struck match.
His eyes widen, and with a rush of exhilaration, he slaps the table, the sharp sound cutting through the ambient noise as his excitement spills over.
"I think I've figured out what to do!"
Darlia says nothing, but her eyes shine with amusement as Draco stands. His radiant and genuine smile blooms across his face, radiating a youthful joy that he hasn't shown since their paths first crossed.
"Do you need help getting back home?"
Draco froze as the world came crashing down on him. I mean, that's the question, isn't it? Was he ready to go home? Was he ready to face the world?
At his core, he was still very much a coward. Sure, the idea of facing his mother and having the same argument seemed like the right thing to do. However, the hurt in his mother's eyes and the hurt she, in turn, inflicted didn't feel very appealing.
It would undoubtedly make him cry. Draco wasn't a fan of crying; it made his face terribly blotchy.
Darlia watched silently as her guest's energy completely died. Without a word, she grabbed her toaster and placed it before the blonde, smiling.
"Shall we begin our lessons? The introduction plan I've prepared for you may take you a few days to grasp. You'll have to stay here, of course!" Darlia says, tapping the toaster lightly.
Ah. An out.
She had presented an ideal opportunity for the cowardly Draco.
His body ignites with a warm, fuzzy sensation, stirring feelings he refused to acknowledge. It was honestly disgusting.
"Thank you. I-I would very much appreciate that" Draco choked out, his voice strained as he fought against the unexpected swell of emotion that threatened to betray him; He tries to ignore the burning sensation in his eyes, desperate to conceal the vulnerability it represented.
Darlia's hands moved deliberately slow as if sensing his internal struggle, giving Draco a chance to withdraw. Carefully, her gentle touch settled on his elbow, grounding him in the moment. The warmth of her skin contrasted sharply with the chill of his uncertainty, prompting him to take a deep breath.
"We've got a lot of work to do, Urchin. My fridge is empty, so we'll have to stop by Tesco first."
Draco's slight meltdown paused in full as he turned to the older woman.
"What the fuck is a Tesco."
The two stare at each other, blinking slowly as time moves by.
"Well, it seems like we have more work than I anticipated," Darlia says, her eyes still widened as she turns away.
More work than anticipated turned out to be the understatement of the year. Draco's clothes weren't exactly casual, and since they were the only Muggle-type garments he had, they had to rummage through a box of her son's old clothes.
They were horrendous. The clothes were not stylish at all, making Draco rethink his life choices.
"Darlia, it is quite clear that I shall have to flee England if anyone I know happens to see me in these dreadful garments. Honestly, the mere thought of anyone catching a glimpse of me in this ensemble is nothing short of a travesty." Draco snips poshly, playing with the light switch as Darlia gathers her things.
"You're so dramatic. Come along. We'll have to drive quickly before the traffic picks up," she sighs.
Ah, yes, driving. Draco was absolutely thrilled about it—100% thrilled to climb into a metal death trap that Muggles lovingly refer to as a car and entrust his life to strangers, who were all piloting their own glorified tin cans on wheels. What could possibly go wrong? Draco was just bubbling with confidence!
Darlia’s car was a tiny black and shiny thing, like a sleek beetle that had somehow mistaken itself for an automobile; it was such a ghastly thing.
Draco threw a quick plea to Merlin before climbing into the passenger seat. Everything was perfectly fine. His heart rate picked up, but that was fine; It was oddly hot in the contraption, but that too was fine.
The front of the vehicle was covered in buttons that had his brain reeling but a rebellious thrill had Draco thinking he was high.
Was it the adrenaline? His stomach felt like it had turned itself upside down, gaining a life of its own and deciding to pursue acrobatics.
As the engine roared to life, the harsh sound reverberated through the car, sending a jolt of anxiety straight to Draco’s stomach.
His insides tightened, almost as if they were physically reacting to the noise, and he instinctively rubbed his belly, a gesture that had become a comforting ritual. He tried to reassure himself with a silent mantra: it's fine, it's fine.
Once they turned onto the bustling streets, where cars surged and honked all around them, Draco's mind began to spiral into chaos.
Each passing vehicle seemed to close in, amplifying the sense of entrapment. A familiar sense of dread washed over him as they accelerated and merged into a sea of honking cars.
It was happening again—just like when he had first arrived. Panic gripped him, and his breath quickened, shallow and uneven, as if he were struggling to catch up with the frantic pace of the world outside. The walls of the car felt like they were closing in, and the familiar symptoms were creeping in, threatening to overwhelm him once more.
"Darlia!" He gasps, feeling extremely warm. "I'm dying!"
Darlia looks to him, watching with sympathetic eyes as he unravels.
"You're not dying, darling. You're having a panic attack," She says, refocusing on the road as she places a hand on his knee, his body shaking uncontrollably.
Draco tries to draw in as much oxygen as possible, his eyes blurring with tears. What in Merlin's name- is that the name of this frustrating experience?!
"Breathe with me, Draco. In and out," she urged gently, wrapping a soft cloth around his eyes to block out the bright sunlight that flooded the area. The sun's warmth felt harsh against his skin, and the racket of unfamiliar sounds echoed in his ears.
Each honk, laugh, and shout seemed to swirl around him like a chaotic storm, overwhelming the young Malfoy heir. She could see the tension in his shoulders and how his breath quickened, so she focused on guiding him through this new experience, hoping to help him find calm amidst the hurricane.
Draco's whirling mind eventually calmed as the car came to a stop. His eyes open to a smiling Darlia.
"Congratulations. You did it! I assume that was your first car ride. You've done so well, and I hope you're proud of yourself." She smiles.
Proud of himself? This entire experience felt like an endless series of stumbles, a chaotic journey where he was merely trying to survive.
He looked down at himself—a dishevelled mess clad in weathered cargo pants and an oversized black t-shirt that hung awkwardly from his frame. It swallowed him whole, and in that moment, he honestly felt as though he had never been less proud.
He sniffled, trying to hold back the mucus threatening to fall, and looked at his shaking hands. Darlia was right, though. His plans were lacklustre, and he had no idea what he was doing, but he was doing it. He had done it. So surely, that had to count for something.
"Thanks, Darlia", He whispered before wiping his tears with the cloth she'd provided him.
"Would you like to come into the shops with me? Feel free to stay in the car." She spoke softly, gently combing the hair away from his face.
He sighs. Why not? What did he truly have to lose? At least he would be more equipped to handle it if it happened again—or at the very least, he’d be better prepared.
"Okay. I'll come with you."
The grocery store, as Darlia had called it, felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was buyer's hell.
The air was heavy with the mingling scents of fresh produce, baked bread, and the mouth-watering scent of chocolate, all competing for attention.
How was anyone supposed to focus on a specific shopping list when such colourful products were constantly thrust in front of them, vying for their attention?
The young Malfoy heir, a boy moulded by the standards of pureblood perfection, wandered the aisles with wide eyes, captivated by the bright packaging and tantalising displays.
He resembled a curious toddler discovering their first toy, delighting in the endless varieties of treats around him. Darlia, determined to keep him on track, tugged gently at his arm, trying to pull him away from the chocolate stands and the flashing red signs that screamed about unmissable deals.
She could see his struggle between the allure of the sugary snacks and the responsibility of completing their shopping.
It was the perfect Muggle trap. That's what Draco determined as he stared at five different versions of the same pasta sauce. Some sort of scam to get people to spend more money than they have.
He watched discreetly as a young man beside him wasted no time grabbing a particular brand of sauce, not looking at the others for a second. Muggles were amazing.
As Darlia pulled him toward the frozen goods aisle, Draco gasped, his breath visible in the chill of the air. He peered into the shimmering glass doors of the freezers, mesmerised by how they preserved the frosty interior. It was a brilliant invention!
Darlia smiled as he eagerly leaned in, his small head disappearing into the icy depths while she perused the shelves for food. Each time Draco emerged, his wide eyes glimmered with wonder; He reached out to feel the frosty walls, the cold sending delightful shivers deepening his curiosity as a shiver ran down his spine.
Draco continues his investigation, utterly unaware of the presence behind him. A man sighs, tapping him on the shoulder as the blonde puts his head inside yet again, repeating the process.
"Sorry, mate. I just need to grab those dumplings," the very familiar voice says as the blonde turns.
Draco gasps as he comes face-to-face with Harry fucking Potter.
Potter stood frozen for a moment, his eyes wide open in disbelief as he took in Draco's striking transformation. The sight of the usually impeccably dressed pureblood boy now clad in casual Muggle attire was jarring.
Draco’s outfit contrasted sharply with the polished image Harry was used to. With his mouth slightly agape, Potter couldn’t help but admire how different yet strangely fitting this new look was.
In turn, Draco scrutinised the golden boy with a discerning gaze.
He noticed the subtle changes in Potter's physique; his arms appeared more defined, muscles subtly enhanced, giving him a robust appearance that hadn't been there before. Yet, even amidst this newfound strength, Potter's eyes betrayed him.
The shadows beneath them hinted at sleepless nights and burdens carried too long. Dark circles framed his vibrant green irises, which seemed to shimmer with a mix of exhaustion and determination. It was a complex look that spoke volumes.
"Malfoy?" Potter calls.
The blinding white ceiling lights spotlight him in his disgraceful outfit, the fabric clinging uncomfortably and contrasting sharply with the polished image he usually projects. Sweet Salazar, this was the worst-case scenario. The thought of it made his stomach churn; he’d have to disappear and find a place far away from Europe where no one would recognise him.
“Malfoy,” Potter's voice cuts through his spiralling thoughts.
Honestly, how mortifying! What was he supposed to do but dig a hole right where he stood and bury himself in it? God, he and Potter looked practically identical, down to their scuffed trainers that had seen better days. If Blaise saw him now, he would probably weep for the loss of his dignity. And ugh, if Pansy caught sight of him like this, she would never let him hear the end of it.
Draco paused his internal tirade, taking a moment to truly observe the other man. The lines that etched Potter's face told a story of weariness and burden, making him look like a man haunted by his past and present.
"What the fuck happened to you " Draco blurbs out before his mind can think of anything else.
"What happened to me ?! What happened to you ?! What are you doing here? Why are you wearing Muggle clothes?" Potter asks, each question bringing a strange vibrancy back into his eyes. Potter's expression melts into one of pure hope as he puts down his basket.
"Are you taking my advice? I heard your mother went to France alone," the raven-haired boy continues as Draco closes the freezer door.
Draco bristles, not really wanting to get into his whole life crisis with the saviour of the wizarding world.
“Have you experienced a bit of a growth spurt? You don’t seem quite as short and slender as I recall. I could have sworn I saw you just last week, and yet you appear to have aged five years since then,” Draco muses, genuinely confused by Potter's physical transformation.
"Yeah, er...Things have been a bit hard lately. Miones got me on nutrient potions, so...Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Potter asks, bestowing Draco with that horribly hopeful expression.
“Of course, I am here to procure some food. Darlia is the one shopping; I have merely chosen to accompany her.” Draco said poshly, his cheeks burning pink as the uncomfort of the situation sunk in.
"Well, this was a riveting conversation, but I'll be on my way now, Potter," Draco says quickly, scanning the area until he spots Darlias back.
Potter's eyes widen in surprise, a look of urgency flashing across his face as he leans forward instinctively, as if to reach out and prevent Draco from walking away. It was clear he had unanswered questions swirling in his mind, words teetering on the edge of his lips.
With each step Draco took away from Pottef, the overwhelming desire to break into a sprint becomes more challenging to resist, gnawing at him as he gets closer to his desired destination.
"Darlia, we've got to go. The most distressing situation has occurred, and we must make haste," Draco hisses, tugging on her jumper like a child does his mother. It would be utterly humiliating if he weren't so desperate.
Potter still stares, the shock and wonder clear on his face.
The fierce hatred he had harboured for Harry Potter during their school days had gradually melted away, replaced by the sombre realities of war and the grief accompanying it. But Merlin help him, everytime he saw the man he's consumed by a blend of emotions he struggles to decipher. It's a disgusting feeling. One that leaves him stupefied.
No. This cant happen again. He's determined to avoid Potter whenever possible. The weight of their shared history looms too heavily between them to allow him peace.
Darlia lets him drag her out of the shops with their bags, slightly concerned that he was so unfocused he didn't even acknowledge the wonders of self-checkouts.
They hadn’t truly addressed it when they returned home, leaving an unspoken tension lingering in the air.
In fact, Draco had seemed to retreat into himself after the incident, his usual bravado replaced by a thoughtful quietude. It wasn’t until much later, as they gather around the dinner table, that a renewed light seems to flicker in his eyes.
The night sky, adorned with shimmering stars, cast a soft glow while the warm, inviting lights of the room enveloped them in a comforting embrace.
Fresh from the shower, Draco steps out, the moisture clinging to his skin and the faint scent of soap trailing behind him. Meanwhile, Darlia was nestles comfortably on the couch, her body swathed in a fuzzy pink blanket.
She was engrossed in a delightful baking program, the cheerful sounds of whirring mixers and clinking bowls filling the space, offering a cozy backdrop to the evening.
"Darlia, I think I'll have to head home sooner than I thought", Draco spoke softly as he nestled into the couch.
"Does this have to do with that boy you saw at the shops today?" Darlia asks, her head turning to face the blonde-haired boy.
"I loathe to admit it, but yes. He is responsible for this whole thing. I just have to start putting in some work and some plans," Draco sighs, covering himself with a spare blanket.
Darlia looks at him with a gentle expression, her eyes sparkling like sunlight reflecting off a clear lake as she takes in every detail of his face.
"I understand where you're coming from, but please don't rush things, okay? With patience and care, you'll arrive at your destination," she says, her voice soothing like a soft breeze on a warm day, as a yawn creeps up on her like a quiet thief in the night.
Draco nods slowly, feeling the weight of fatigue settle over him as the peaceful atmosphere lulls him into a state of relaxation.
"Yeah, I know," he replies, his voice barely rising above a whisper, a delicate tone that conveys a secret being told or a vulnerable confession being shared.
And it was true. He had a new rule now and everything. Thanks to Darlia's thoughtful guidance, he felt armed with the right tools to navigate the waters of his quest for self-improvement. Dracos' subconscious starts planting the seeds for his future plans, ready to fulfil rule number two as much as possible. He falls asleep as new ideas swim in his brain.
2. Don't take, Give instead
As the piercing sound of a dog's frantic barking jolts Draco and Darlia from their slumber, they momentarily struggle to switch on their brains.Slowly, they emerge from the warmth of their blankets, resembling two sleepy butterflies breaking free of their cocoons. The hazy morning light filters into the kitchen as they shuffle in, wrapped in their colourful, cozy pyjamas.
"Do you want to make the toast?" Darlia asks remembering their crash course from the other day.
Draco, too tired to have a panic attack about the situation, nods.
Making toast like he's been doing it for years, Draco plates up their breakfast, steadfastly ignoring the proud look on Darlia's face.
"I'll be going home today."
Darlia nods, her heavy eyelids fluttering as she gradually shakes off the remnants of sleep. She runs a hand through her tousled hair, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"Do you need me to drop you off somewhere?" she asks, her voice still a bit throaty from slumber. The morning light streams in, illuminating her features and adding a gentle warmth to the moment.
"No, I think I'll be okay, Darlia," he says, stretching his limbs. He thinks briefly about the sea of people and the non-option of apparating. Darlia watches as his smile drops before standing herself.
"Not to worry, Urchin. I'll walk you where you need to go; that way, you'll know how to return." She smiles, redoing her ponytail. Draco stares, his eyes soft at her nonchalant invitation, her kindness consistently shocking him.
He's undoubtedly spent the night in places far fancier than hers, but despite that, Draco can't shake the feeling of attachment; the thought of never returning fills him with an unexpected sense of sorrow.
"My door will always be open for you," she adds, somewhat reading his mind as she has for the duration of his stay.
"Thank you, Darlia. I must admit, you might find yourself growing weary of my company sooner than expected—I have a feeling I will be here quite often." Draco puffs his chest proudly as he speaks. Darlia laughs heartily, her laughter ringing out as the blonde takes his last bite of toast.
This welcoming home, alongside Darlia's gentle presence, has given him a sense of belonging that he never thought he would experience again after the war. It's a newfound hope, a precious chance to rediscover life beyond the shadows of his past.
If bright green eyes were the catalyst for that change, well. No one needs to know that at all.