Shades of Grey

Prologue

"For either way you choose, you cannot win."

– The Phantom of the Opera

There was blood—that much he could recall. Crimson red dripping from the dirty flesh of his comrades; of his enemies. Bright red beads of blood that stained the stone tiles and mixed with the bright green flashes of curses that were thrown so carelessly about the battlefield. The inhumane shrieks and cries as loved ones crumpled under the curse was overwhelming, and no matter how many sleeping potions he took nor how far he isolated himself from society, he could still hear them. Could still very much feel and taste the essence of death and decay as it hung in the air, smothering all the life surrounding him.

He'd barely made it out alive—that long and endless day that was forever marked as the Battle of Hogwarts. The day that Voldemort fell and all of his followers fled was marked as one of victory by everyone who esteemed him—the Boy Who Lived. The boy who conquered death day in and day out. He was everyone's hero; he was their martyr. Children everywhere would know his name, and magical creatures across the land would praise him for his courageous feat.

He was everything Draco Malfoy wasn't. He was everything Draco would never be.

As with any war—both in the magic and Muggle worlds—there were repercussions for being involved with the losing side. And when one took in consideration the amount of destruction the Dark Lord had created over his many years of rising and falling from power, then the inky black Mark that branded Draco and the other Death Eaters who'd been left behind was even more vile and treacherous than the original intent. It occupied the pale region of his left forearm like a tumor—it was as black as the night, and swirling lines and shifting shapes that made up the trademark signature of Voldemort's most loyal followers shone brightly in the moonlight the night of the battle that one fateful night.

Draco often found himself staring at the Mark when he was forced to expose it to the world—the dark mass that was embedded into his alabaster skin produced an eerie and melancholy feeling to arise within the Malfoy Heir, and Draco once grew so disgusted with its physical appearance and metaphorical meaning that he'd been forced to run to the toilet and vomit whatever scraps of food he'd managed to digest that day.

Yes, the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War was taking its toll on Draco Malfoy, and with each passing day, his family's number ran thin.

As the Death Eaters were captured, questioned, and thrown into Azkaban as punishment for engaging in such a lost and dark cause, Draco calculated that his family's trial would arrive soon enough. The Malfoy name hardly went unnoticed in the events leading up to Harry Potter's greatest victory, and so it was only natural to assume that they were saving the best for last. The best for last was, he knew, meant to be saved for his "dear" Aunt Bellatrix, who'd only barely managed to escape Molly Weasley's killing curse and had slithered into the shadows of the night, but Draco and his family were definitely second best.

It was time that Draco Malfoy righted all of his wrongs; he had to once more protect his family, and as far as he knew, with a vicious tyrant deceased and all of his soldiers on the run, that gave Draco only one option.

His careful thought process had brought him to the doorstep of a house that was once said to belong to his family—full of portraits that still had grudges against impure blood and would have stood rotting and eroding, if not for its secret and most confidential purpose. A purpose that Draco had been quite aware of come the end of the War. The rain that coated the streets and pelted down from the dark and cloudy sky coated his skin, causing strands of his pale blonde hair to stick to his forehead. He shook the hair from his face and knocked once, his hand shaking slightly. Draco's teeth chattered together violently as he waited for someone—for anyone—to open the damn door and hear his plea. He'd practiced in front of the long mirror that stood elegantly in one corner of his room back at the Manor, and his speech seemed decent enough. It was an honest speech—one that Draco hadn't given in a long while.

When at last he thought that all hope was lost, he heard the jiggling of what appeared to be a series of locks, and soon the door before him slid open a crack. A bright green eye glanced him up and down once before opening wider, revealing someone that Draco knew very well. A boy turned man, though his crooked glasses and unkempt black hair were the same as they'd always been—enemy stood faced with enemy, and the man just inside the door stared at Draco in bafflement.

"Malfoy," He managed to spit out, and Draco could detect the disgust, malice and shock that mixed with the simple utterance of his last name. "What are you—"

"I want to join," Draco blurted out. Forget that his carefully planned speech had been thrown away at his proclamation—the look on the face of the man who stood opposite him was priceless, and Draco had to refrain from twitching his trembling lips into a small smirk.

He always had managed to shock the hell out of Harry Potter.

a/N: Hi! So this is the prologue of a fic idea I came up with once during AP Psychology. It's sort of taken possession over my mind inbetween writing for my other fic-Redemption-and so today, after successfully finishing another chapter of previously mentioned fic, I decided to write the prologue. If people like where this is headed, I'll try to upload the first official chapter soon, but for now, here's a sneak peek! Read, review, enjoy and-as always-thanks for coming!