A/N: Warning: This fic contains abuse, violence, struggles with mental health and coping with loss and grief.

Draco Malfoy's release from prison was a far more anticlimactic affair than he cared to carefully examine. He'd been roused as he had been most mornings for the past handful of years, with a dose of brutality served at the hands of the Azkaban guards. It had been dubbed his daily penance. Prichard, a squat man of little note, whose round face and upturned nose gave him the look of a heaving pig took particular pleasure in delivering the torment. There had been a gleam in Prichard's beady eyes after he'd used his wand to throw Draco from the bed, his head cracking painfully off the cold cement floor.

"Rise and shine you filthy piece of scum." Prichard all but panted into Draco's face, the thick links of the guard's fingers knotted in the limp mass of blonde hair that now fell below Draco's narrow shoulders, his head swimming with the motion.

The musty tang of Prichard's perspiration worked in tandem with the soured sweetness of the oaf's breath to strangle Draco. His stomach lurched. The scraps of moulded bread that he was able to force down last night voicing their displeasure.

"Looks like you'll be walking out of here alive afterall Malfoy." Prichard paused, yellowed teeth bared in a semblance of a grin, "Pity."

Prichard was a smug bastard who used his meaty fists to gain compliance when the limited magic he could manage proved ineffective. The mediwitch in the infirmary hadn't asked any questions when Draco had been dragged in the first time, bloodied and barely conscious. She hadn't asked any questions on his other trips either.

Warden Davies' dark eyes glittered with contempt as Pricharch forced Draco into the only available seat.

"It would appear, Mr Malfoy," said Davies, his voice a reedy thing more befitting of a field mouse, "that the Ministry has finally gotten around to your case."

Draco's only response was to blink slowly. Davies leaned back in the garish purple chair, steepling his thin, knobby fingers beneath his chin.

"Tell me, Mr Malfoy, do you think you'll survive out there? In this new world made up and run by those you and your master sought to eradicate? Do you think, Mr Malfoy, that you'll be welcomed back with open arms by the society that seeks to exterminate the remainder of your ilk?" Davies paused leaning forward across the littered surface of his desk.

"Or perhaps, Mr Malfoy, you are under the impression that there is forgiveness for you to be found out there. That you've paid your penance." Davies hissed the last word, his thin lips quirking upward as his spittle peppered Draco's face. The warden was practically crawling across the desk, his spindly fingers desperately clutched the chipped edge.

Draco blinked slowly at the man again. Once. Twice. A third time. Before Davies seemed to deflate, the hot air that propelled him across the desk evaporated.

Irritation momentarily pinched the warden's papery lips to a tight pucker before it was replaced by a predatory grin, "Keep your precious silence while you have it, Mr Malfoy, I intend to make you sing upon your return."

Prichard's meaty fingers fisted in the grey prison uniform, hauling Draco to his feet without ceremony. The warden's parting words were delivered as Draco was dragged from the room, his voice barely audible above Prichard's laboured breaths. "You'll be back Mr Malfoy, you'll be back."

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco's release was executed in short order, the guard responsible for his discharge a serious man who didn't care for violence. The clothes he'd been wearing upon his incarceration had been returned to him, they hung from his frame ill-fitting and rumpled. Only when he stood a scant few feet from the exit were the manacles removed and his wand returned. Several moments passed with his eyes locked firmly on the wand. Cedar eleven inches with a unicorn hair core. His mother's.

By the time he arrived at the mainland, Draco was drenched in the salty water that separated the prison from the rest of wizarding England. The boat used to ferry people to and from Azkaban was as decrepit as the prison itself. A testament to the Ministry's commitment to proper oversight.

A bright flash of light to his left caused him to flinch as he stepped off the pier, braced for the searing pain of a well-aimed spell. When several moments passed with no pain to speak of he hazarded a look in the direction the light had come from. A thin, balding man stood several feet away, a camera aimed in Draco's direction, Rita Skeeter and her ever-present quill in tow.

Draco hadn't read the prophet since he had been incarcerated. Afterall, it wouldn't do for the prisoners to foster hope. Envisioning the headlines was easy "Ex-Death Eater On the Prowl: Draco Malfoy Released from Azkaban." It should have smarted that his release had not afforded him the luxury of freedom, nor the illusion of it. He'd traded one cell for another. Azkaban for a life in the fringes as little else than scum.

There was a bright flash to the left of him as and his head swivelled in time to catch a reporter with his camera at the ready. Perfect. Less than an hour of freedom and he was already being herded into his new cell. Life as a released ex-Death Eater.

Closing his eyes, Draco focused on the memory of the lush greenery that surrounded the manor, the call of the birds, the heavy perfume of his mother's prized roses and disappeared with a resounding crack.

. . . . . . . .

Draco landed in a crumpled heap on the lawns of the manor and immediately lost the battle with the stale bread and bile that sloshed around in his gut. Acid scorched a blazing path from his stomach and burst from his lips. He heaved his meagre meal onto the grass as his eyes watered.

His arms shook violently as they struggled with the task of keeping him upright, weak from years of neglect compounded by malnutrition. When finally his stomach stopped its rebellion he flopped onto his side, vanishing the puddle of sick with a shaky Scourgify.

He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the sparse rays of sun that managed to filter through the grey sky. Prichard's farewell throbbed in time with the spasms still wracking his gut and the tremors in his arms.

There was something he should feel, he knew, some measure of shame at how low he'd been brought. Perhaps even some measure of righteous anger. But feeling required energy, a luxury he'd been unable to afford in the past three years. Frigid blades of wind sliced at the exposed skin of his face and plastered the sodden clothes to his body. A violent shiver raced up his spine as the cold settle into his bones.

Draco pulled himself to his feet as best as he could manage, a feeling of grim satisfaction bloomed at the feat. He took a minute to orient himself as his head spun. It appeared he'd apparated just inside of the once imposing gates. The intricate ironwork curved inwards around a gaping maw to form deadly points. It was a miracle he hadn't splinched himself. Not that it mattered much.

Aurors had breached the manor early on May 10th, rounding up the losers of the war before the dust could truly settle. His father had died in the final battle, cut down right before his eyes. Narcissa Malfoy had been prohibited from retrieving Lucius' body. There was no funeral. Losers of war didn't have the right to mourn. The thought of running was a murmur between them that died in its infancy. There was a single wand between them and fleeing would guarantee pursuit by a ministry hell-bent on appearing competent once more.

A particularly strong gust of wind almost succeeded in bowling him over and reoriented him to the matter at hand. He clutched the wand tighter, the last gift from his mother. In some recess of his mind, it rankled that the ministry had not seen fit to repair the damage they'd inflicted on his ancestral home. There would be no one to greet him in the manor. The walls of this new cell inched closer, his chest heaved as panic encroached on the periphery of his vision. The last Malfoy.

A wounded scream echoed in the stillness of the Wiltshire countryside. A scream Draco thought sounded an awful lot like a wounded animal. A scream that left him hoarse and clutching his head in shaking hands as he struggled for a single scrap of composure.

Draco struggled against his desire to collapse under the weight of his burden. Instead, he shuffled up the drive and to the manor doors. There was a moment's hesitation where he deliberated using the weak magic he'd been able to muster, but even another bout of retching was preferable to the bone-deep chill that shook him. Touching the cedar wand to the door stole the breath from his lungs. The request for entry had stirred the ancestral magic of the manor. A magic that was eager to be reconnected with a rightful heir, that wrapped itself around his magical core and sent him crashing to the floor unconscious.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Several things occurred to Draco as consciousness returned. He was very warm, he was very wet and he was no longer wearing the sopping clothes he'd come home in. There was a brief moment of panic that set his heart thrashing against the confines of his ribs. It subsided as he looked around him.

He was submerged in the large tub in his ensuite, his head nestled against a folded towel. Prichard's parting gift had been healed and Draco's skin scrubbed to a healthy pink, the medicinal scent of potions heavy in the air.

He was confronted with half a dozen large pairs of eyes when he turned to his right. Their cautious hope was palpable. It was something of a shock to find so many of the elves here.

He certainly hadn't expected the creatures to be here upon his return. He hadn't expected to return at all.

"Young Master Draco—"

A loud thud echoed in the room as he rammed his knee into the tub as he recoiled. Memories of a serpentine man flickered before his mind's eye. A man who was not entirely sane, a powerful man who smelled of death and plagues. His father's master, who used Draco's fervent beliefs to ensure his servitude.

He's just a boy! His mother's plea.

"Don't call me that." Draco rasped, his voice bordering on hysterical. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Please, I'd rather you call me something else."

The elves exchanged concerned looks before one of them turned its large eyes on him.

"We can call the ma-. We can call the heir, Lord Malfoy."

Images of his father grovelling at the bare feet of a madman, back bowed in supplication. You've failed me, Lucius. A sibilant hiss. An arc of lightning striking his father's body. Crucio. His father's anguished screams. There is only room for one Lord in this Manor Lucius. A reprieve. His father's voice shredded by the screams he failed to contain. Yes my Lord.

"No!" he yelled, startling the elves with his alarm. "No. I—" He closed his eyes and ran a trembling wet hand down his face. "Just call me Draco."

The silence that followed his request was tense. He idly wondered if the Malfoy elves had ever addressed anyone without the use of their proper title. The elves shifted from foot to foot, their eyes darting around to each other.

The elf that had made the first suggestion tried again, she was a tiny thing, far smaller than the other elves, her pillowcase a dainty pink. "Mister Draco," a pause. The elves looked at each other, sharing their quiet victory when no correction came. "Mister Draco, what are sir's orders?"

Another lull in the stilted conversation.

"Do you think-" he started, voice breaking around the words. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Do you think perhaps you could make me some dinner?" His voice still sounded raw to his own ears, the earlier abuse of his throat apparent.

The little leader's ears perked up, given a task at last. "Of course Mister Draco. Would Mister Draco like his favourites? Minni and the other elves can—"

"No Minni, thank you." The thought of rich foods was enough to have his stomach clenching painfully once more. "I don't think I would be able to keep any of that down."

"We should prepare a light broth for Mister Draco," said another elf.

Assent rustled through the group before Minni turned her large eyes on Draco once more. "Does Mister Draco want the broth?"

His lip twitched at the title, a smile threatening to spread across his face"Yes, Minni, thank you."

The elf nodded eagerly before she disappeared with a soft pop, the other elves following soon thereafter.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dinner was a quiet affair taken alone in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the sitting area of his suite. The crackling fire the elves had stoked provided a pleasant warmth that chased the remaining chill from his bones. They were still falling over themselves to assist him, several elves appearing together to ask for tasks. In the end, he dismissed them for the evening. It wasn't as though Draco could blame them for their strange behaviour. It must have been maddening to be bound to the manor with no one about to sustain the ancestral magics

The broth and crackers were bland, a small mercy as his stomach had no qualms about voicing its displeasure. The mere thought of more retching tying the organ knots.

Minni appeared as he wrapped up the meal, vanishing the wares with a simple snap. He rose from the armchair he'd tucked himself into, exhaustion pulling him towards the bed.

"We are most pleased that Mister Draco has returned to the manor. The magic is glad that Mister Draco is back."

Minni's words coiled around Draco's heart and squeezed. The manor wouldn't have needed him if they hadn't killed his mother.

He cleared his throat, the sudden overwhelming grief threatening to choke him "Thank you, Minni, that will be all."

A soft pop was the only indication that the elf had left. Draco dragged himself to the enormous bed, it was several times larger than the metal cot he'd been given in the prison. The weight of his grief threatened to overthrow the layers of carefully cultivated apathy that he shrouded himself in. Before he could let the grief overcome him he stripped himself of the too-large trousers and shirt and left them in a heap beside the bed. As soon as he crawled under the covers exhaustion claimed its hold on him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sound of poorly concealed whispers dragged Draco from the murky depths of slumber. Prichard, the bastard, had quickly learned that Draco was an extremely light sleeper and had taken to silencing his approach. The only indication that an altercation with Prichard was to come was the pain that jolted him from sleep. A creeping sense of dread settled low and heavy in his gut. Nothing good could come from unknown whispers.

To make matters worse he was also boiling, a thin sheen of perspiration cooling against his brow. Draco stiffened. His mind was slow to slog through the syrupy fog of sleep in an attempt to formulate a plan, anything, to get him out of this predicament. The whispers grew louder, feverish. They were finally going to kill him.

"Mister Draco—"

Draco's eyes flew open, wide and unfocused. There were no guards that would call him such a thing, no staff with such a small voice. Realisation was slow to dawn on him as the whispers settled. He was in the manor, cocooned in several thick layers of comforters, the fire from the night before long since burnt out. An enterprising elf had parted a set of the drapes at the far side of the room, golden buckets of lights poured through the window and spilt onto the floor.

Minni, the spokesperson that she was, stood before him, the other elves huddled at her back. Their wide expectant eyes trained firmly on him.

"Minni thought Mister Draco should eat something before the day is completely gone. Minni and the others have prepared fresh broth for the Mister Draco."

The adrenaline was slow to leave his body, its remnants lingering in the twitch of his fingers and the stiffness of his jaw. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. It was jarring to be free of pain. To stretch his limbs without the stiff tenderness of wounds not quite healed. To be awakened by the concern of the elves as opposed to the sadistic glee of the guard. Anger surged in his veins, incinerating the haze of his apathy, before finally exploding white-hot in his mind. Three years of abuse and so-called rehabilitation offered by the Ministry for crimes they hadn't seen fit to sentence him to. They'd raided the manor, bloodied his mother and thrown him into Azkaban without so much as a trial. Not until he could be of some use to them. Not until two months previous, when a Ministry advocate had swaggered into the prison and given him the farce of a choice. Rot in Azkaban or assist the Ministry.

Draco slammed the walls of his occlumency into place, corralling the anger that threatened to consume him into a sloppy prison of stone. There would be time for anger. There would be plenty of time for a great number of things.

His voice was even when he finally spoke, careful to enunciate the words, "Broth will do."