July 15, 1998: Malfoy Manor

"I have to go back? Are you mad?!"

Documents flew into the air, twirling manically, narrowly missing the flames from an elegant candelabra that thanks to a clever charm, filled the entire room with soft light.

"Calm yourself, Draco," Lucius Malfoy drawled in a flat, bored voice. With the flick of his wrists, the papers neatly stacked themselves back on the table.

The tall, and startlingly slender frame of Draco Malfoy turned away from his father to implore to his mother, who was sitting rigidly in an emerald velvet upholstered chair, nestled in the corner of the room. "I can't go back there, not after..." his voice failed him.

Narcissa grasped his hand in her own, frowning at its lack of warmth. "Draco, dear, we have been pardoned, and your father has earned early parole. We will not hide ourselves away, we must rejoin our place in society."

Earned? More like bought. "I don't want to go back." He snatched his hand away.

"If you wish to receive your inheritance, you must," Lucius sneered. "I hardly think that is asking much of you for what you will gain."

Draco slammed his fist on the table, "You have no right to ask anything of me! Ever again."

Lucius rolled his eyes, "The stipulation has been bound by magic. Either you graduate from Hogwarts, or fend for yourself. Do as you please."

Draco paced the length of the room, his long legs taking him quickly from one wall to the other. He needed that money. He needed it to get away. Away from the manor, away from the influence of his cowardly father. The place was tainted. Haunted. It reminded Draco of the life he wanted nothing more than to forget, and the promise of a life that had been thoroughly destroyed. However, his birthright called to him. He earned it—through his loyalty to the family—paid for by his own blood, sweat and tears.

All the power and prestige their family cultivated over generations had been wasted by his father's ignorant choices. He gambled for status by backing a madman.

Draco had seen for himself the incredible power of the Dark Lord, but it did not take long to realize that the man had lost any grip he may have ever had on sanity. Following Voldemort was like scrambling onto a sinking ship. The absolute Titanic of all decisions: grand in design, but flawed to the point of ensuring complete disaster. He clenched his fist and twisted his left arm, remembering the painful scar hidden beneath his sleeve. Following his father's guidance brought him nothing but disappointment and failure. Since the fall of the Dark Lord, Draco swore he would never allow himself to be so stupid again.

He stared out the mullioned window of the study, deep in thought. Could he cut ties with his family? Turn away his birthright? He began his pacing again, furiously swinging his balled fists with each step.

He certainly was smart enough to make a living on his own, but it would be difficult to go unnoticed, and obtain much desired peace, while toiling to create his own monetary comfort. Not to mention, hardly anywhere outside the manor was safe. The families of the Death Eaters his father betrayed in order to secure his own freedom would grasp any chance they had at revenge. If they caught wind that Draco was on his own, he would immediately become a target. And even if he could find someplace safe, there would be the matter of convincing his mother to join him. He could not fathom leaving her behind indefinitely. If he had his inheritance, he could keep them hidden and support them both...

But because of the iron-clad settlement made years ago, Draco would have to complete his last year at Hogwarts in order to access what was rightfully his. Classes and tests did not worry him in the least, or even the remote possibility that dark wizards could reach him within the schools' walls. The real trouble was returning to the very place where his world fell apart.

Draco stopped in front of the window, and steadied himself by bracing his hands on either side. His head was swimming with memories—most painful enough to render him physically weak.

As a first year student at Hogwarts, he expected to be admired and respected for his family name, and to be idolized for his natural talents that, so far, had greatly out-shined the other magical children he knew. Those false hopes were shattered almost immediately. So he resulted to earning what respect he could through force and fear. Which, as adolescent intentions so easily do, spiraled out of control. Before he knew it, the dark mark burned on his forearm, and his every move was tainted by failure. Almost the moment he became a Death Eater, Draco realized he had no taste for such rotten cuisine.

And there had been so much death. He felt the bile rise in his throat just thinking about Hogwarts as he had last seen it—smoldering ruins, soaked in the blood of the unfortunate.

It was more than ghosts and gore that made Draco reluctant to return. It was those who survived. They knew of his every mistake, and would surely see that he paid dearly for each and every one. No silly squabble in the halls would be too much trouble for him to handle—he proved to be a survivor against seemingly insurmountable odds again and again. What felt unbearable was the sick twist of fate that he would finally get the attention he so desperately wanted in the past, at a time when all he wanted to do was disappear. How could he stand up for himself—weather the accusing stares, ignore the malicious whispers, and dodge spiteful hexes—when he hated himself as much as they did? Draco Malfoy failed to live up to his potential, and nothing shamed him more.

The boy who had everything, amounted to nothing.

He rocked back on his heels, and took a deep breath to settle the churning of his stomach. The only way he could escape his past was by moving forward, one miserable step at a time.

"Fine. Send the owl."

Draco caught a glimpse of his mother's proud smile as he stormed out the door. Her faith in him made him feel like he was going to be sick. He climbed the stairs two at a time, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.

He barely made it to the washroom before emptying the contents of his stomach. Draco slumped against the cold, black tiles of the floor. Over the past few months he had spent far too much time in that position. He did not have much of an appetite these days, but what little he did eat rarely stayed put. As a result, his frame had become quite skeletal, and his skin waxy and sallow. His mother made potions to help, and they were probably the only thing keeping him from wasting away completely.

However, his days of wallowing alone in his room were numbered. So, Draco pulled himself up slowly to the sink, rinsed out his mouth and splashed cold water on his face. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Vacant, grey eyes stared back, lifeless and dull.

"Stop it. Stop acting like such a git. Stop punishing yourself," he told his reflection. A faint, humorless smile curved the edge of his lips, "You'll have others to do that for you soon enough."

A soft rap at the door pulled him away from the mirror.

"Draco?" his mother's voice called gently. "Are you alright?"

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair before opening the door. "No. Not really." He sighed.

His mother reached out to cup his cheek, her eyes as shadowed and haunted as his own. "Here, drink this and lie down."

Draco took the potion bottle and drank the entire contents in one swift gulp. The familiar burn of ginger tingled in his throat as he walked to his bed, his mother close behind. She took the empty bottle and fluffed his pillows before he sat.

"Thank you," he mumbled, already feeling the relief spread through his torso.

"I'm glad you are going back, Draco. It is best to face these sort of things head on..." she glanced toward the door, closing it with a brisk flick of her fingers, then dropped her voice to a whisper, "...you have much more strength of character than your father. Don't allow yourself to believe otherwise. Blood of the Noble House of Black runs through your veins, too, you know."

Draco huffed, "Sure. We'll see."

Narcissa held his shoulder firmly, forcing him to meet her eyes, "You get to determine your own fate, Draco. Now is your chance to decide what kind of man you really want to be. Do you want the past to swallow you whole? Or do you want to prove yourself to be great despite it? You survived a war—from the losing side. Use what you have learned..." her breath caught in her throat, and when she spoke again, her eyes shimmered with tears, "...and don't allow other's expectations to define you. My dear Draco, you are my greatest treasure. Don't shut yourself away from the world. You will live to regret it."

Draco slumped against his mother's shoulder, leaning into her embrace as he struggled with her words. It would be so easy to let his mistakes engulf him, pull him into the undertow of misery and remorse; to give up. To hide away and let the world move on without his endless series of cock-ups. But that was not an option, not anymore. Draco had no clue what kind of man he wanted to be, but of one thing he was absolutely certain: after everything they endured, he would do whatever it took to make his mother happy again.