Harry Potter One Shots

Middle Ground

All rights belong to the author, Rose DiVerona

Some years had passed since Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, defeated the evil Lord Voldemort. The wizarding community had repaired itself the best it could in wake of the violent and damaging battle at Hogwarts that preceded the death of the dark lord. Many died fighting, and despite appearances, some scars remained that would never completely heal. George Weasley would never, for instance, regrow his right ear or recover the part of himself that was lost when his twin died fighting the Death Eaters. Teddy Lupin would never remember his parents, who perished trying to create a better world for their son to live in. And Draco Malfoy—he would always bear the faded tattoo of a skull and snake, the emblem of an order to which he foolishly tried to belong, despite never truly finding his place among the rest of Lord Voldemort's servants.

Living as a member of the Malfoy family after the final battle was no easy task. Though the family managed to talk their way out of Azkaban, Draco almost wished he'd been imprisoned, if only because it might have saved him from hearing the derisive whispers constantly directed toward him.

He deserved it. Of that he was well aware. Draco Malfoy might have been a coward, but he was no idiot, and he had long since abandoned the pretension his mother and father preferred to adopt—that Malfoys were better than everyone else, and remorse was beneath them.

Draco regretted many things in his life, not least of these assisting in the plot to kill Albus Dumbledore. The realization that he would not have been able to perform the actual deed in the end was of no comfort to him. It made things worse—if he could convince himself that he might have murdered the old man had he been given just one moment longer on the tower, he could at least find his place among his Slytherin family. As it was, he felt caught in the middle; he did not belong with the victors, or the defeated. He was in limbo.

A memorial service had been held at Hogwarts a month after the climactic war against evil, meant to commemorate everyone who died. Draco had attended, hidden underneath a cloak. He was not quite sure he belonged, but if anyone identified him, they did not comment on his presence. Neither Vincent Crabbe nor Bellatrix Lestrange, of course, was recognized at this memorial—they had been on the wrong side of the fight. But Draco's cousin, Nymphadora, and her husband, the werewolf Remus Lupin, were prominent names in the proceedings.

Draco knew Lupin as his third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but he had never been allowed to meet his cousin. When her name was mentioned, he watched from a short distance away as a woman sobbed, slightly bent from grief. In her arms she clutched a baby.

He hesitated before cautiously approaching the figure. He knew this was his aunt, Andromeda Tonks. Another relative he'd never met—and her grandson. She looked up he came nearer. For a long moment they held each other's gaze, each acknowledging whom the other was. Then Andromeda stepped forward and handed Draco the baby.

Narcissa Malfoy never reconnected with her sister, but her son and his aunt maintained tentative contact in the years to follow.

It had been a decade. Ten years, and the wounds had not gone away.

Draco married a Pureblood because it was what his family expected. Despite the fact that the young man had moved away from Malfoy Manor long ago, he had never been able to leave the wishes of his family completely behind. He loved Aranna, to an extent. They were happy enough.

He had a two-year-old son, christened Scorpius Lucius. The small boy clearly resembled his father—the gray eyes, blonde hair, and pointed face were all Draco's. Scorpius was the one joy in the man's life, and he was determined not to miss the chance to be a better father to the child than his own father had been to him.