Draco was shaking. Yes, the great Draco Malfoy who had once believed himself invincible and superior to most everyone was trembling and pale like a child. Though, truly he was still a child despite having come of age more than a year ago. Draco recognised the feeling twisting through him like a disease. Before, in what felt like another life, he tried to supress it and it had worked for a while. But, even with years of experience presenting a cold, unaffected demeanour, cracks began to show. He soon learned to accept it. Though it was hardly a choice. This feeling, it was an unstoppable, strong beast that Draco could not tame for long. Not forever. With it suddenly so there in his life where it once had been a passing feeling, it overwhelmed Draco. This fear he felt, it was a path that he followed. He did not want to but he had to. Perhaps one day he could escape. Draco found it almost too much to hope for.
Why should he not feel fear? Draco was going to, that very morning, face a trial in which his fate would be decided. He had the Dark Mark. He had attempted to murder the previous headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore. His actions had caused death and pain. He, like his parents before him, had supported the Dark Lord Voldemort; a murderer, taker of countless lives. This in itself was incriminating enough to put Draco in Azkaban. All that remained was the conduit to said prison. Hence the trial.
It had been months since Voldemort fell. During that period the Wizarding World had to build up from the ground, leaving time only for the trials of the most loyal, vile Death Eaters that still lived following the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco's father, Lucius Malfoy, had been one of the first to have a trial. Lucius, however, provided so much invaluable evidence against his fellow Death Eaters the Ministry of Magic had no choice but to let him walk free. With the rage, fear and intensity of war cooling the lesser criminals, such as Draco and his mother, Narcissa, became the new focus of the Ministry. Previous failures of the Ministry following wars combined with ex-Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt, as the new Minster of Magic meant the Ministry was much more thorough with their investigations. In addition, prodding from the 'golden trio' spurred justice along if the Ministry dared grow lax.
With his thin, finely boned hands – Narcissa had often commented on how elegant his hands were but they now seemed skeletal – Draco tugged at his shirt's collar with some difficulty. His hands were bound together with some sort of magical fabric that would not yield; not that Draco put in much effort to break them. It would be futile. Draco's shirt was black, of course, underneath a stream-lined, black blazer paired with tailored, black trousers and polished, black shoes. His expensive clothes, which had seemed so refined and appropriate when Draco first donned it, filling him with a small surge of confidence, felt like bindings to rival those around his wrists. He could scarcely breathe with his collar wrapping around his throat like a band of steel, or perhaps it was the fear. Sweat beaded under the silk of his shirt and at his neat, slicked back hairline. Draco clenched his fists as fear began to creep its way out as a physical reaction. He refused to let anyone see what had rooted within him so deeply it almost felt a part of him. Not the wizard guard that watched over him from the other end of the hallway, looking bored but wary; not the people within the courtroom waiting to decide his fate. The world could only observe so much of Draco's fear before he bottled it away. He was not a Malfoy and his father's son for nothing.
The months following the war Draco had spent in Malfoy Manor, hiding from society with his parents like the criminals they were. Lucius was quickly plucked from his sanctum to stand trial, leaving Narcissa and Draco to their own devices. In a matter of weeks Lucius returned, mildly shaken up, but still the three were not foolish enough to venture out of the safety of the Manor. The public continued to see the Malfoys as guilty even if the law did not.
Narcissa had continued on as if nothing had ever happened. She entertained herself with trifles, doing her duty as mistress of the house. One could not see a change in her manner except that she checked on her son far more, fluttering around him like a mother hen, and she was forced to do her own housework. Spells were used – she was a witch after all – but she was unaccustomed to such menial labour.
The reason behind the change in Narcissa's duties was due to the loss of all help. Any witch or wizard the Malfoys could have hired to perform such tasks had they need of it became unapproachable. Both Voldemort's followers and his enemies hated the Malfoys, supporters of the Dark Lord who had jumped to the other side at the last minute. Neither side trusted the Malfoys any longer.
The other option, house elves, had been taken away by Lucius. The head of Malfoy Manor was cunning; he had been sorted into Slytherin after all. From past experiences, also known as Dobby, Lucius knew Harry Potter was opposed to house elf slavery. Draco had also informed him of Hermione Granger's ridiculous desire to free all house elves. Since that was two thirds of the 'golden trio', who had considerable power in the Ministry, were rooting for house elf rights Lucius realised it was probable keeping unpaid house elves could become illegal. Lucius was a coward. He did not want to return to Azkaban, a year had been long enough, and he would not put it past someone to use it against him. The most logical course of action would be to fire all house elves and erase their memories lest they be used against him and his family. So that is what Lucius did. It also would be logical, perhaps more so, to instead pay house elves to do housework, thus helping repair the soiled Malfoy reputation in the process. But he did not trust them to not turn on him like that wretched elf Dobby.
The Manor, which had always been quiet, descended into an almost deathly silence. When Narcissa ceased fussing, shuddering to a halt like an ancient motor vehicle out of gas, the large house felt frozen to Draco. As if Malfoy Manor held its breath for Narcissa's carrying on like her world had not shattered. Otherwise one would think the house abandoned.
Before Lucius' disgrace had occurred, before Draco had gone to Hogwarts, Draco had thought his parents incredibly boring, as most adults were to the young boy. It was an unfortunate consequence that Draco was often incurably bored, caused by a child growing up in a big house with often only his parents and instructor for company. His parents went to various affairs, sometimes dragging him along, and they all seemed so dull. Unless other children were present, such as Theodore Nott or Vincent Crabbe, Draco found such doings pointless. This is not to say he liked all children but he did enjoy to taunt those he disliked.
Adults could not be made fun of like children and their age made them slightly more intimidating to young Draco. In addition, Lucius had threatened punishment if Draco acted out in front of important people. That was enough to stop Draco misbehaving at another fancy dinner amongst adult. Even once Draco was at Hogwarts he did not think about what his parents did. He was self-absorbed, no denying it, and did not acknowledge that people had much of a life outside his own. Especially his parents. So when Draco found upon returning from the war to his childhood home how much life his parents brought to Malfoy Manor it was a shock. When his mother lapsed into her own silences, alongside Draco's more frequent ones, Malfoy Manor felt dead.
Draco haunted a select few rooms in the house. Most rooms he avoided: the drawing-room Charity Burbage, a Muggle Studies teacher, was murdered in and Hermione Granger was tortured in; the cellar used as a prison; anywhere Voldemort had been. There were memories lurking there that were better left untouched.
He was no less sallow and gaunt than he had been during the war. Dressed in all black did little to distract from his unusual paleness, instead highlighting it by the utter contrast. If Draco had dared to wear white he could have resemble a ghost that floated through the halls of Hogwarts. In truth the grim expression plastered to his face most days matched that of the more dour ghosts. Narcissa could not recall when she had last heard her son laugh ever since the war. Nor could she recall her own or her husband's.
Some believe that Malfoy Manor was devoid of all joy and happiness. They forget that the Malfoys are human too; their range of emotions as complex and vast as any other person. A person may be horrible but that does not entail the absence of more positive feelings. Voldemort and the war submerged the Malfoys in fear, pain and suffering just like many others were. Like candle flames, the joy, happiness and general comforting feeling of safety were snuffed out by the immense weight of their darker counterparts. At that point, the suspicions were true. Malfoy Manor was devoid of joy and happiness. Voldemort was dead and gone, the war over but the Malfoys were an unlucky lot. The Wizarding World still watched them with distaste and hatred, any allies left from the war watched them with parallel emotions, the traitors to their Lord. The Malfoys would have suffered from either outcome of the war. They belonged nowhere but in a small crevice between the two sides, hunched in the shadows. Really, all and all, they should be very grateful they were not dead. None pitied them but the Malfoys themselves. They were bullies, the lot of them, and deserved what they got. The Malfoys wished that Voldemort had never come back from the dead at all.
Now they were a sorry sight, the Malfoys. Lucius wore a haughty exterior like a second skin but the confidence he once had was lacking. He only came across as foolish and pathetic. Narcissa retained her grace but her smiles pinned on for the sake of her husband and son were weak, as though they would break. Her own snobbish mannerism were obsolete as she no longer saw anyone other than family. It left behind a tired, fragile woman who clung to love for her family like a lifeline. Brief, occasional snaps showed the pride she once had, but it was more draining than it had ever been before. And Draco, well, he did not even try anymore. What was the point?
Though recently, new hope for his mother, Draco began to play music loudly in his bedroom. Perhaps he found the silences too stifling; too depressing. Maybe it was his upcoming trial. Narcissa did not really know. All she knew was that one day she had been in kitchen, preparing lunch for the three of them and becoming increasingly frustrated with her husband's favourite dish, when the distant sound of music thrummed through the Manor. "Draco!" Narcissa called without the use of a Sonorous Charm, working her way towards his bedroom. "What is that noise?" Narcissa found that the closer she got to Draco's bedroom the louder the noise became. She rapped on the door to his bedroom but the racket coming from within it buried the sound so she decided to go in. When she opened the door there lay Draco on his bed next to an unfamiliar ancient radio blasting rock music she recognised as the Weird Sisters. "Darling! What are you- never mind!" Narcissa huffed, giving up trying to scream at Draco and turning off the radio with a flick of her wand.
For a second Draco looked like a regular, confused boy his age, searching for the reason his music had been silenced. When he saw Narcissa standing in the doorway he schooled his expression into a blank mask. "Mother. I did not realise you were there."
Narcissa stared at her son before comprehending how uncultured it was to do so. "Oh, of course dear. Don't fret. May I ask where you got that radio from?" Narcissa asked, saying radio with faint distaste. She did not approve of something so Muggle in Malfoy Manor, even if it did only have magical stations. "And why were you playing music at such a loud volume?" it was an effort on Narcissa's part to put it delicately. Since the war she least of all wanted to be the one making Draco's life any more upsetting. So it jolted Narcissa when her practically apathetic son for the past months lost his cool.
"I am of age, mother, if you were unaware," Draco jabbed. "I am perfectly capable of going out on my own for five minutes! And just because you feel like babying me does not mean I cannot discretely buy an old radio! As for the volume of the music, this damn house is so bloody large I didn't think it would be an issue!" Narcissa's eyes widened as Draco's rant went on until they were positively popping by the time Draco had concluded, panting with exertion. Draco's own eyes stretched a little when it hit what he had just done in the presence of his mother. "Excuse my behaviour," he muttered. "I'm sorry for… that. Thank you for your concern. Um… is lunch almost ready?" Once lunch had finished Draco resumed playing music and Narcissa knew better than to check on him.