Draco

4:49 p.m.

Malfoy Manor

"Mate, if you wait any longer to buy your school things, you won't need to worry about the train ride. Cause you won't be there! You'll be here, crying in your mum's skirts like a little blighter who can't hack it! Now man up, put on some decent robes, and let's go!"

To the blonde's complete discredit, he sank further into the cushion of his father's 800-galleon leather wing-back. The unbelievably frilly chair did a good job of swallowing him but refused to finish the job by taking him completely. Rubbish old thing.

"You go on Blaise. I'll just order my things through the owl post. It'll arrive tomorrow afternoon and I'll be at the station on time."

"When you say, 'on time', what you mean is you'll show up right before the train takes off, nearly miss it, and expect for me to pull your sorry arse aboard as the damned thing is moving! IF YOU MAKE IT AT ALL!" Blaise practically screeched.

Backing up slightly and squinting his eyes, Draco took note of the severe change in his friend. While his dark skin was as pristine as ever and his eyes shone with more intelligence than he'd previously been known for, the temper Blaise was notorious for hiding was a loose-cannon now. On display for everyone to see. How disgusting, Draco thought. But Merlin, they'd both had summers worthy of suicide, hadn't they? After all, Blaise had been carted off to France. Muggle France! And Draco knew how Blaise hated the French. The poor bloke had nearly torn his skin off at his hearing. Hearing... Thinking back on the ridiculous cover for sentencing made Draco's blood boil even now. Both he and Blaise had been acquitted, but the ministry had still dealt them punishments. And Draco had been flown out to the United States. The MUGGLE way, or as the American Wizarding Council called it, "NoMaj". He knew everyone back home would laugh at him for being forced to live among NoMaj's. He knew every one of his friends thought he'd go mad for the lack of magic too. A Malfoy? With no magic? Unthinkable. He wouldn't last a day.

Only he had. 280 days to be exact. Every one of them difficult and hellish for its challenge. At first, Draco couldn't tell whether the Council, in cooperation with the Wizengamot had made it so, or if muggles just lived like that on purpose. Bulky box-cars whipping around on asphalt, broomsticks cleaning dirt instead of flying, dishes washed by hand, lights you have to manually turn off and on, human elves called maids- which his host family could not afford. It was enough to-

"Helloooo?"

No, the Gentry's were your average middle-class American family of squibs and "Normi's", as the "young folks" called them. Normi. Draco shook his head at the notion. There was nothing normal about the way they lived at all. At least there wasn't that he could tell. His first day on probation had been a very interesting one indeed. He'd managed to burn himself on two different appliances, he'd burned his breaky, burned his lunch, and burned his supper- not to mention his tea, he'd burned that too.

"Draco? Mate? Are you there?"

Draco blinked and looked curiously up as Blaise held his large hands in front of his face. Squinting at the potential threat, he began to sneer with an ugly curl of his lip.

"Just what the hell are you doing Zabini? Trying to confound me? Well it won't work! The NoMag's took me to see a spy-acitrist and I can't be confounded. Something to do with my brain being so well endowed. They even took special note of my large cranium-"

"You saw a psychiatrist?"

"You know what one is?"

"Of course. They have them in France you know. But I didn't think you'd make use of one. How'd it go?"

Draco looked off into the distance as he remembered the large office of one Dr. Laura Pirocelli. There was a big, green, leafy plant in one corner, set in an intricate gray basin made of porcelain. Some calming fragrance swept through the air- soft, sweet, but not cloying- and Draco felt remarkably comfortable as he took a seat on her black leather sofa. This was nothing like the mind healer's department at St. Mungo's with their poking and prodding. Nor their gross, sterile smell, like many a death had occurred there and been covered up. Dr. Pirocelli was young too. Maybe in her mid-to-late thirties, and she appeared calm behind her tortoise-shell glasses. She smiled at Draco and complimented him on his interesting name. She knew a lot about astrology it seemed, and Draco appreciated that.

There was a popping noise coming from the way of the fireplace in his father's study. Draco blinked himself back to the present just in time to see Blaise shoot him a worrying glance and depart without further ceremony. How long had he been daydreaming? And was he smiling?

"Eh. Whatever."

He hadn't even gotten to tell Blaise the reason why he didn't want to go to Diagon Alley in the first place. Though it was probably obvious he didn't want to be ogled like some Veela in the forest. Students would surely hate him even more now that they all knew he'd been made Head Boy. Just what in the bleeding hell had McGonagall been thinking? Hermione effing Granger had taken up her position as Head Girl. So Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and all of their ilk would surely know by now who had taken Head Boy. There would be flames. There would be lightning. There would be anarchy. But Draco, try as he might, he didn't want to give up his miracle of miracles. Head Boy was as prestigious a position now as it had ever been. It would make his father- no, his Mother proud. It would make his mother proud to know that her only son, through all of the trials and tribulations he had endured in that school, through all of the destruction and damage to the school and its inhabitants- the blame for which rested solely on his shoulders- had prevailed. And though some other boy, ANY other boy would have been a better candidate, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black's only son had been chosen above all others for Head Boy. A position he could even put on his resume once school was finished.

Thirst. Hunger. Redemption.

These three words rang soundly in Draco's ears. They meant that he would be going back to school, and he would take charge of his own destiny. But first he would have to show his face in public. He would have to face the humiliation that came with being associated with the failed death eaters and their psychotic leader. A man who was not a man. A snake in human clothing. A demon among children.

Draco closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath. He'd been over this. With the doctor, for 10 months, he'd been over this. Setting his jaw in a straight line, Draco stood and went over to the window of the study. Out in the garden were several of his mother's white peacocks. They danced around each other and called out in glee. Another shaky breath. Then another. PTSD she had said. Draco felt terrible laying claim to any mental repercussion of the war, feeling that he had caused so much damage that there should never be any diagnosis for his guilt.

"Ory!"

CRACK!

"Master is calling Ory, Sir?"

A sigh escaped Draco's lips as he looked down at the little elf in black embroidered pillow stitching. Were they out of cotton cases?

"Yes, Ory. I need you to see that my school things are ordered and have arrived by 4 p.m tomorrow evening. Can you handle that? I don't want any slip ups and it is imperative that everything on this list is procured. Am I clear?"

Ory's large blue eyes lit up the room as he grasped the parchment from Draco's hand. He was a new elf in the manor. Fairly new anyway as he'd been received from the Nott's residence just one week before Draco was carted off to the States. Ory was meant to replace Dobby as that elf was either dead or dying from the enchanted knife Aunt Bella had launched at him. Though Dobby himself had been inexplicably freed, he remained with Narcissa when she called for him.

"It is Ory's honor to be picking up Master's school things, Sir!" the elf gave a grand bow as he would any master of the Nott family.

Heaving a puff of air and appraising the elf with a firm nod of his head, Draco released him to do his bidding, praying Blaise's worries were unfounded and that he would make the train with time to spare. One more look through the garden window proved that the sudden gloominess in the study was owed to the setting sun in the distance.

A bath was in order.

Draco made his way to his bedroom to select a nightly wardrobe. On his way, he noted how much of his family's manor house was the exact same as it was before he left. The stone manse was cold and unfeeling. The flowers in their expensive vases were vibrant and healthy as ever, curtesy of his mother's magnificent stasis charm. The paintings which hung in the corridor- all that were left anyway- were silent as though in mourning. The Malfoy family matriarchs and patriarchs uttered not a word as he walked, turning away from him in silence. Draco couldn't tell whether it was from sadness, that they had helped to make this spectacle of the family, or disgust that Draco couldn't hold up against the pressure of it as they had. That silence was all around him. Given that any of the faucets in the manor were leaky (which they were not), he was sure he would be able to hear it for the silence.

As he reached his bedroom and undressed with the lights out, Draco realized he had done nothing today, and yet he felt as though his body were covered in grime. He sighed as he ran one calloused hand through his fine blonde hair and the other over his chest. Breathe out. Three welted scars lay over his left pectoral muscle. He didn't remember receiving the wound but could clearly remember the gashes in his black satin dress shirt. He had been wearing it the night of the battle in unison with his favorite black suit. It was the only one that ever truly fit his lithe frame, he recalled with a rueful smirk. So arrogant he had been. By the time the battle was over, not only was his favorite suit ruined, but so was most of his skin, his perfect hair, and his ego. Ruined. All of it. He was now as scarred inside and out as Potter.

Draco stood there in his room, slowly undressing with languid movements of his fingers. The button of his trousers gave way to the slow unzipping of his fly. Two thumbs gently looped into the waistband of his slacks, then released them to float down to the floor. Black boxer briefs were next to go and Draco smiled at that. There was something the muggle's had gotten right. Before leaving his home, Draco had only ever known boxers. Not boxers like one might see in an Ad on the TV (an invention he would be sure to vouch for admitting into the school by the way) but the old fashioned, diaper boxers which made your trousers look frumpy and wasted fabric. No, these muggle underwears were far superior to that.

Draco released the soft material to join his trousers on the floor and felt his flaccid member swinging in the night breeze. He waited a moment but didn't smell anything. With a shrug, he picked up the first set of night clothes set on his dresser and made his way into the bath. Here, only candle light flickered through the darkness as Draco sat in his water. He had yet to begin cleansing, but he was relaxed. He hadn't seen anyone but Blaise and Pansy since he'd returned home. In fact, he'd even been too scared to pick up the Daily Prophet and see if they'd written anything about him returning to the school he destroyed. Hell, he wondered if there was anything written about Potter and Granger returning to the school they helped save. This would be their second time attempting 7th year.

He was sorry. Not in words, but at heart. McGonagall had made him Head Boy. What to do, what to do…

Draco sank down beneath the water and held his breath. That seemed like a good place to start. He just prayed he wouldn't do anything to fuck this up.