Chapter One: Goodbye, Manor

Early April 1999

He, for one, looked forward to the demolition. After two difficult (an understatement) years taking orders from a monster and months of being ushered in and out of courts, legal offices, and, at the very beginning, prison cells, the Malfoys had received their final judgment. Draco felt relief wash over him as a crew of wizards pointed their wands and shouted their bombardment spells, as if it were a ceremony of sorts. Beside him, his father fought back the shiny coat of tears that reflected the image of their home imploding into itself, leaving nothing but rubble and smoke.

With an almost pathetic, crepitating sound, Malfoy Manor was no more. From their spot on the side of the hill near the once immaculate garden, a dozen house elves refused to contain their cheers. Before Draco could say anything, he felt his father collapse to the ground beside him, choking on his sobs. "Father, I…"

March 1999

"Now, for your all but principal role in facilitating the attacks on numerous members of our community, funding and participating in a fundamentalist terrorist coalition, and engaging in what many could call crimes against humanity," the Chief Warlock paused to clear his throat. Fifty three pairs of eyes stared sternly at them. "For these reasons, the Wizengamont, along with the Ministry of Magic, should reserve the right to sentence at least you, Lucius Malfoy, to life in Azkaban."

"Chief Warlock, I"—

"Call me Your Honor, Malfoy."

Lucius scowled. "Weas—I mean, but Chief Warlock"—

"Last warning!"

"Oh, Arthur, will you just let it go?" Arthur Weasley, the newly appointed Chief of the Wizengamot sighed with frustration. The Minister of Magic had requested—demanded, more like—a total overhaul of the system. Bring in fresh faces! he had commanded. No more of this wishy washy old pure blood shite. I want a revolution. And so, Arthur Weasley, once happy with his humble position fixing jinxed television sets and VHS-playing machines, had landed a spot at this very table.

He cleared his throat again. "As I was saying, Mr. Malfoy: your actions during the Second Wizarding War were, you must agree, less than worthy of exoneration."

"Yes, Your Honor. But, as I have stated in my deposition, I deflected and have made efforts to make amends through our donations to the Ministry, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the victims of the attacks. And if you look at my wife's file, you'll see clearly that Harry Potter owes her his life. We only ask for you to recognize the energy that we exerted to pay our dues…" Lucius Malfoy spent weeks after the battle trying to cover his family's asses by donating thousands of galleons to organizations that defended muggleborn rights and even went as far as to set up accounts at Gringotts for the prisoners held at the manor. Hadn't all this been enough? Back when he was in school, Lucius's father taught him that while actions spoke louder than words, galleons were commandments. In the past, Abraxas's words served him well, and Lucius, for his part, saw no reason to discontinue following this advice—at least not until he found himself standing before Arthur Weasley, expected to grovel for the freedom that the red-haired Chief Warlock dangled before his very eyes.

Weasley chuckled. "Yes, and we all thank you for making us all a few galleons more capable of repairing the physical and psychological damages that you and your comrades inflicted on our friends and families. And it is also true that we all thank your ex-wife, Narcissa Black for her part in ensuring a path to justice and victory." He could almost feel Weasley's inability to contain his enjoyment.

Ah, yes. That.

"As it stands, if it were up to me, I would say that the just thing to do were to have you locked up this very instant." Lucius grimaced, a lump began to swell in his throat. "And yet," Weasley bellowed, "as I have been made to understand, the Law is not about Justice. The Law is about Technicality. Loopholes. Empty gaps made to be filled by the corruption of justice, rather than its validation." The man rolled his eyes and shot a glance at the witch who had interrupted him earlier. "And because of such technicalities, a group of old German muggles continue living happily in Argentina. Because of such technicalities, Margaret Thatcher's reign in muggle Britain continues to show its deleterious effects on the working class population of this state…" Could he get on with the muggle references already?

"Arthur…"

"I'm nearly there, Shafiq!" He turned to Lucius again. "Because of such technicalities, your wife, son, and other Death Eaters who 'defected,'" he raised his middle and fore fingers to make air quotes, "have had their records expunged of criminal charges. And because of such technicalities, you Lucius Malfoy, will walk free this afternoon."

A sigh of relief translated to tears, once brimming with anxiety, streaming down his cheeks. "Thank you, Chief Warlock—I assure you that you won't regr"—

"With two conditions!"

What Weasley said next affected him more than he could show, so, like the well-trained Malfoy that his father raised, he merely nodded and swallowed that creeping lump. Yet, from the corner of his left eye, he could see Draco and Narcissa looking at him in the same way that they had since the end of the War. Regret. Fear. Hopelessness. All of the sudden, Lucius felt more impotent than he had when the Dark Lord had castrated him of his wand.

Early April 1999

Draco felt for a while now that this had all been nonsense; no one was indomitable, and, if one were to be, it certainly would not be his blubbering father. Sure, he had affection toward the man, interpolated with a sense of compunction about following in his footsteps. But as he saw his childhood home, along with all of the unsavory memories of the last three years, collapse into itself, he could not share the same sense of desperation that he read upon his father's face. For the older man, this moment sealed the end of an era; for Draco, however, the destruction of the Malfoy Manor, along with the obliteration of the phony reputation that it represented, launched the beginning of something different. Whatever that may mean.

Four years of no magic for Lucius and the transformation of Malfoy Manor into a fucking memorial. Those were the conditions. Malfoy Manor was to become a war memorial, dedicated to the victims, human and non-human, of Death Eater violence. Its new proprietors: House elves across Wizarding Europe. Sorry, elves. Not even important to serve as a monument for muggleborn heroism—no, that right was reserved to the foyer at the Ministry of Magic. Malfoy Manor now stood as the first elf-owned estate. The two watched as their former house elves scurried down the garden to begin conjuring rubble into marble statues. Were they that content with their newfound status?

And so began the new regime. Liberal twatters, his grandfather would have scoffed. After the divorce, effective within weeks of the war's end, Draco's mother had pleaded for him to leave his father and come stay with her and her older sister. Truth be told, he much preferred that option, but seeing his father crumble at the trial… No, it wasn't as if he was concerned or anything. Lucius still had his money, and even though the manor was gone, he could afford a townhouse in the city that was close enough to Muggle London for the Wizengamot to agree to let them live there during Lucius's probation. Plus, Draco knew that staying with his mother might mean putting a block in his plans.

Neither had stepped into the property before its purchase. Their proxy once mentioned that it was "a bit modern for what an aristocratic wizard might be used to," but neither Lucius nor Draco paid the subtle warning any mind. How different could it be from the manor that the Malfoy family purchased centuries before? After apparating himself and his father from what were the remains of the manor to the block where their new home awaited, both Malfoy gaped up at the edifice before them. From the outside, the Victorian architecture—though indeed more modern than the manor—looked unassuming. Though short on square footage, and overall unimpressive, the townhouse Inside, however, both Malfoy men could immediately tell that its previous owner (a young "yuppie" who had since taken up residence in the more "hip" area of Diagon Alley) must have had very little respect for both the house and himself.

Now, sitting across his father at the "breakfast bar" of their open kitchen (both had shuddered at the sight), he could finally say it.

"Father, I've been meaning to talk to you about something." He nervously gripped the sides of the wooden stool beneath him, the smooth surface cooling his sweaty palms. Just yesterday, after the demolition, Draco received a large envelope that secured an option away from all of this.

Paying his son no attention, Lucius was staring blankly at a pack of eggs, then at the stove, then the eggs, and back to the stove. This had gone on for the last five minutes. "Draco, how do I boil an egg?"

"Father, I plan to leave for America in about three months."

"I see." And Lucius left to lock himself back inside his study.

In his bedroom, Draco once again took out the large, opened envelope that he had stuffed into a space on his bookshelf.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I am very pleased to inform you that…