The war was over. Voldemort was defeated, the Death Eaters destroyed, and good, as always, had triumphed. How predictable. How dull. The wizarding world applauded its own hypocrisy, declaring itself pure and just. Draco Malfoy merely watched this pitiful spectacle in silence.

His father rotted in Azkaban, his mother was scorned despite saving none other than Potter himself. Even when she lied to Voldemort to protect him, her son, the world still turned its back on her. And as for him, like all the other Slytherins, he was offered their oh-so-gracious “forgiveness.” The noble Professor McGonagall decided that children shouldn’t be held accountable for the sins of their parents. How magnanimous. How convenient.

And what did that achieve? Nothing but the privilege of watching the “golden triumvirate”—Potter, Granger, and Weasley—parade through the world, basking in endless applause. Heroes, icons, gods of the new order. Draco kept his head down, but every condescending look, every pitying whisper left another scar on his soul.

This world had always been rotten. It didn’t matter who won—Voldemort or Potter. Good and evil were just two sides of the same coin. And justice? Justice had never existed here.