Draco Malfoy sat alone at the end of his enormous four poster bed, lost in thought. His fingers drummed absently at the deep forest-green silk of his sheets, his pale blonde hair hung unkempt in his eyes. The room was dark but for the unsteady glow of his lantern that flickered restlessly on his bedside table. Outside his room the halls held an eerie silence; not even the stirrings of house elves filled its emptiness. It was as if the Manor itself had gone mute in mourning. Scars of the terror that had not long ago carried out it's savage reign within these walls still remained tangible even if most of the physical traces had been cleared away. Even the Ministry surveyors, who'd come to strip them of their fortune- restitution they'd called it- had been too frightened to spend much time alone in its rooms. He glanced quickly at the enchanted clock next to the miserable lantern. Good, he still had time to take care of what needed to be done.
Merlin! Draco had begun to feel as if that tiresome social worker they'd sent from the Ministry would never leave. How she kept prattling on! Oh, about his 8th year, and how his behavior would determine the course of his life from this point on, how one slip up would land him back in Azkaban with his pathetic father. What, did she think he hadn't known that? That he hadn't been there at the Wizengamot and seen the looks on everyone's face when somehow he was released! He shook angrily at the memory of his father being lead off in chains, listless and defeated. Him! LUCIUS BLOODY MALFOY. Broken and cowardly. And his mother! What had she done but fall to pieces. Couldn't she see that he still needed her? Now she was off at some sort of halfway house for dark wizards. He couldn't see her, at least not with scheduled supervised contact.
In the end, the Ministry had thought it better that Draco be entirely removed from his parents influence. At his sentencing it was determined that because he received the Dark Mark at such an early age, and more importantly, under extreme duress, that he would be placed under the custody of the Ministry for the period of one year, wherein he would return the currently-under-reconstuction Hogwarts for what they were now calling the "8th year." Only after having satisfactorily completed this 8th year, would he regain his typical adult wizarding rights.
The 8th year, available to anyone who had attended Hogwarts as a 7th former the previous year, was one of two options. Firstly, there was, of course, the actual 8th year that Draco had the misfortune of being forced to attend. For the others, the was also the option of a short summer course followed by taking your NEWTs. Really, the summer course was like a review for anyone who had managed to stay far enough under the radar to have learned anything last year. Lucky bastards. Regardless, everyone who was supposed to have taken their 7th year last year, including the muggle-borns who had been previously disallowed by Voldemort, received the 8th year invitation. Draco shuddered to think who would be there with him, or worse, who wouldn't.
Glancing back at his bag next to him, Draco reached into the side zipper and pulled out a small dagger. His blood was still churning, heavy and thick, at his unexpressed anger and resentment. Being torn from his mother, while her and his loathsome father, who had beaten him so thoroughly during his childhood "to make him strong", simply allowed themselves to be utterly destroyed. The Malfoy name had been dragged through the mud, and was just a curse upon the bearer. So with the same determination that flooded him so unexpectedly each time, Draco carefully drew the small dagger and brought down its sharp blade and the soft flesh of his forearm, reveling in the pleasure it brought in the wake of the pain. The calm. The peace. Now he was ready. Now he could once again face his Ministry-appointed-warden; board that dreadful train, once more, for Hogwarts. He smiled to himself as he watched the thin lines of blood trail gently down his pearlescent skin. It soothed him. The weight of the cold knife on his skin. The sting of pain when the blade pierced it. But most of all, most importantly of all things, the complete sense of control he felt once more as the small weapon made him whole.
He glanced at the clock again. Now that he had his relief he was beginning to grow impatient waiting for the Ministry worker to return. He sighed to himself and continued watching the fading flickers of his lantern.