Chapter Text
Lucius Malfoy passed through The Veil at exactly 10:14 am on April 28th 2010. Draco knew this to the minute, because the scratch of his financial advisor’s quill ceased abruptly. The young woman paled, darting her eyes from the parchment, up to Draco, and back again.
Draco cleared his throat, raising an enquiring eyebrow. “Madamoiselle?”
The woman rose to her feet, snatching the stack of paperwork from the desk. She gave him a sheepish look. “If you’ll excuse me just a moment, Monsieur.”
Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair as the woman bustled past him. It wasn’t as though she could have found anything untoward in his financial records. He’d been fastidious in ensuring that all his business dealings had been squeaky clean for over a decade. A conversation was being had in rapid-fire French in the adjacent office, just loud enough for Draco to catch the odd word. Hadn’t these people ever heard of silencing charms? Perhaps they weren’t on the Beauxbatons curriculum.
He fiddled with his cufflinks, his sense of irritation rising. Thankfully, Draco had thoroughly internalised his mother's lessons on the importance of feigning nonchalance, so when the junior advisor burst back into the room, she found him in precisely the position she’d left him.
He focused on transmitting an air of bored annoyance, crossing one ankle across his knee and leaning further back in his chair. He steepled his fingers in front of him, a gesture that he hoped would give off a devil-may-care affectation. This seemed to work nicely, as the young woman blanched and hastily stepped aside.
An older woman followed her into the room. She shot Draco an apologetic glance, taking the seat opposite him with a sigh. She dismissed her younger colleague with a beleaguered wave of her hand. “Off you go then, putain.”
The entire interaction was so painfully French that Draco had to fight to keep his smirk under wraps. Instead, he gave the woman what he hoped was a piercing look and waited for her to explain herself.
“I can only apologise for Cecilia, Monsieur. I am Guillemette Rousseau, Head of Assets and Holdings at Gringotts Marseille. This situation is unusual, but not unprecedented.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Monsieur, midway through your consultation, your title and holdings altered themselves on the parchment.”
Draco furrowed his brows. “How is such a thing possible?”
“This was Cecilia’s question also. Either some powerful enchantments were cast, or you have come into your full inheritance.” Rousseau raised an eyebrow at him. Her expression gave nothing of her thoughts away.
Draco was silent for a moment. “I can assure you, Madame, that I cast no enchantments.”
Rousseau waved a hand in admonishment. “Of course not, Monsieur, such a thing is not possible at Gringotts Marseille.” She exhaled heavily through her nose, flicking her eyes up to Draco’s face. “Which leaves me with the dubious honour of informing you that the full Malfoy vaults and title holdings are now at your disposal. Lord Malfoy.”
She held Draco’s gaze, spinning the title page towards him. Draco leaned forward in his seat.
“May I use your Floo, Madame? I’m afraid I have to get back to London rather urgently.”
Fifteen minutes, two Floos and an exorbitant bribe to the International Portkey employee at Paris Charles de Gaulle later, Draco was striding down Diagon Alley. Pulling his iPhone from his back pocket, he shot off a group text.
Draco huffed in annoyance, weaving through crowds of shoppers headed away from the Wizarding District's newer establishments and back towards Diagon’s traditional centre. The sign for The Blaze Bar swayed in the April breeze on the corner of Knockturn and Horizon Street.
Had Draco been in any mood to take it in, he would have remarked that the entire neighbourhood seemed rejuvenated. A mass-cleanup campaign had transformed the once-grimy underbelly of the Wizarding World into a chic, up-and-coming place to be seen. Unfortunately, his mind was rapidly turning to soup, so Draco couldn’t care less.
The Blaze Bar was a cathedral to liquor, with floor-to-ceiling shelving reaching into the eaves and large windows overlooking the street. Stained glass inserts coloured the light, casting muted jewel tones across the tiles. Draco ignored the splendour, striding across the room towards the private booths along the far wall.
Blaise Zabini stood as he approached across the empty bar, an amused expression playing across his face. He was tall, taller even than Draco, with a regal air to his features that put people’s teeth on edge. He was also one of Draco’s oldest friends.
“What was so urgent we had to drop everything to rush here, you self important twat?”
Draco felt some of the tension leave his shoulders, pulling his friend into a hug. “You named your business Blaze.”
Blaise snorted a laugh, still clasping Draco’s upper arm. “Wanker.”
There was a pop of apparition behind them. Blaise grimaced as Pansy materialised by the door, smoothing her blouse as she walked towards them.
“What did I tell you about apparating?”
Pansy raised an eyebrow, giving Draco’s hand a squeeze in greeting. “I hardly think the risk outweighs the inconvenience of walking in heels.”
“I’m surprised you’re still wearing them in your condition, Parks.”
A light blush coloured Pansy’s cheeks. She ran a protective hand over her burgeoning bump. She was approaching her fourth month of pregnancy but refused, on principle, to let this fact slow her down. “No pain, no gain, mon chér. The healers say I can apparate until the third trimester, so I’m—”
The door banged open behind them as Theodore Nott and Greg Goyle made their entrance. Greg strode straight up to Draco, clasping him by the biceps with both hands. “Alright, who are we hexing?”
Draco grinned at him. “No one!”
Greg had grown into his looks since the war, losing the puppy fat of his youth. He was as physically imposing as he had ever been, towering over Draco by half a head and nearly twice as wide. Draco wouldn’t call himself unimpressive – at 6ft1, he was happy with his proportions. It was just that, while Draco had a Seekers build, Greg was a Beater in every sense of the word.
“If that wanker Arsène has come crawling back I will personally castrate both of you, Malfoy, I fucking swear it.”
Pansy groaned. “Oh! Please!” She leaned her bodyweight into Greg's chest, swooning into his arms. “I love it when you get all bloodthirsty, Greggy.”
Greg chuckled, squeezing her shoulder as he settled her upright. “Less of that, you harlot.”
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Theo shot Draco a glare. “If I’ve just walked out of a meeting with my editor because you’ve got boy trouble there’ll be hell to pay.”
Even if pressed under threat of cursefire, Draco would deny the soppy look on his face. Friendships forged in the fire of war often became brittle and shattered. His little gang of miscreants bandied together out of necessity, and demonstrated their devotion in their own way over a decade later.
“I think Lucius is finally dead.” He held Blaise’s gaze as the words settled on the group. Blaise was the antithesis of Draco, the steady quiet to Draco’s flamboyant eccentricity.
Beside them, Theo made a strangled noise. Pansy gripped his arm, pushing him down into the booth seating.
Greg cleared his throat. “I’ll get drinks in, yeah? Elderflower cordial alright for you, Pans?”
Pansy eyed Draco thoughtfully, not relinquishing her deathgrip on Theo’s forearm. Theo looked faintly green, eyes darting between Draco and Blaise. “What do you mean, you think?”
Draco shrugged, taking a seat beside Pansy. “What I said. I was at Gringotts in Marseille, stuck in an interminable meeting about my French investment portfolio. My name on the parchment changed from Heir Malfoy to Lord Malfoy before my fucking eyes.”
Theo choked a laugh. “You’re sure it’s not a trick? This is very on brand for Lucius.”
And fuck, if that wasn’t right on the nose. “He’s threatening to disinherit me, not abdicate his fucking title and assets.”
Pansy hummed in agreement. “and the Aurors haven’t been to see you?”
“This all played out less than an hour ago, Pans. I came straight from Marseille to here.”
Theo wrinkled his nose. “You do smell a little of Portkey Terminal, in fairness.”
Firewhiskey (and an elderflower cordial for Pansy) thumped down on the table.
“So, let me get this straight.” Greg levelled his eyes at Draco, taking a seat as he poured out three fingers of firewhiskey for each of the four men. He handed Pansy a flute of cordial. “Your old man, who's been making threats to disinherit you—”
“Because I will not further the Malfoy line, yes.”
“Right. Your homophobic cunt of a father has somehow passed his land and title to you—”
Draco shook his head. “Don’t forget blood-purist lunatic and megolomaniac boot licker.”
Greg ignored him. “And the only way that this makes sense is if he’s got himself killed? Is that about the speed of it?”
Draco nodded once before knocking back his firewhiskey in a single gulp.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, darling.” Pansy leant forward in her seat, sipping the flute of cordial. “But there’s no way that you could be implicated in this, is there?”
Draco gaped at her.
“Because you have to admit, it’s awfully convenient.” She leaned back, flicking an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve. “I’m just pre-empting what the Prophet will say. Much less the Aurors.”
He blanched. “I literally just told you I was at Gringotts in Marseille when the title changed!”
Pansy hummed thoughtfully. “I know that, mon eclair.”
“Less of all that, for now. Are you alright, Dray?” Concern shone from Blaise’s face as he looked at his friend. Draco felt his insides go gooey.
“Yes. I’m okay, I think.”
“Are you sure?” Blaise raised his eyebrows at him. “The man was a Grade A Wanker, but he was still your father, Dray. You called us to a bar at 11 am.”
Draco made an undignified sound of protest. “Your bloody bar, you hag! It was a convenient meeting point!”
Theo snorted into his drink. “And the plentiful firewhiskey is just a bonus, right?”
Draco was saved the indignity of reaction by the door slamming open. All five heads turned as two red-robed Aurors filed into the room.
“For fucks sake, these bastards love to make an entrance”, Theo muttered. Draco hummed in agreement. “Bollocking hell, is that the Weasel?”
Pansy squinted across the room. “Ah yes, I forgot you haven’t seen him lately. He’s certainly filled out.”
Draco nodded. Weasley looked unfairly good in his Auror robes, broad-shouldered and almost as tall as Greg. Under different circumstances, Draco would have taken a moment to appreciate the shape of him. Unfortunately for Weasley, no amount of firewhiskey could make up for the Weasleyness of it all. Draco quietly refilled his glass, pondering the unfairness. Nobody had the right to look that good in that shade of red, especially when paired with that hair. This day was going from weird to weirder by the second.
He was saved from the confused tumble of his brain by the second, smaller figure stepping towards the group. Draco recognised her in the vaguest sense.
Blaise stood, pushing past Greg and crossing his arms across his chest. “Susan. Weasel. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Susan Bones. Draco had a vague recollection of Susan from Hogwarts, sat at the Hufflepuff table and huddling in the Room of Requirement with Longbottom and his merry band of rebels. She’d grown into her looks, too, casting a judgmental eye over the table and matching Blaise’s stance. If Draco had even the slightest inclination towards the fairer sex, he’d concede that her uniform looked rather fetching. As it was, he was entirely distracted by the way Weasley’s face had flushed at Blaise’s greeting.
“Pack it in Zabini, for fucks sake.” Weasley huffed, levelling a glare at the table.
Blaise snorted a laugh. “Apologies. Auror Weasley. Auror Bones. How may I help you?” He spread his hands in a placating gesture, tipping his upper body forward in a semblance of a bow. Pansy coughed a laugh into her flute.
“It’s actually Malfoy we’re here to see, if you don’t mind.” Bones turned her gaze on Draco.
Draco sighed, leaning back in his seat. “The old bastard is finally dead, then, I take it?”
Weasley choked a gasp, devolving into spluttered coughing. Bones’ expression didn’t falter.
“It is my duty to inform you that Lucius Abraxas Malfoy was found dead in his cell at Azkaban prison this morning. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Draco huffed a laugh. “That makes one of us, then. How did he die?”
Susan’s face took on a pinched expression. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer we provide the details in private?”
Draco held her gaze. “No.”
“The exact cause of death will be subject to an autopsy report, but signs point to an overdose of Draught of the Living Dead.”
A cool fury settled in the base of Draco’s stomach. “So this was an accident?”
Weasley, who seemed to have recovered from his coughing fit, cut in. “Somebody must have provided the potion for him, but the guards are adamant that nobody visited his cell in the hours leading up to his death. We’re working under the assumption that this was either an accident or a suicide.”
Draco scoffed. “Yes, because there’s no way that whichever of your Brothers or Sisters in Arms provided an unstable old man with enough Draught of the Living Dead to cause an overdose had nefarious intent, surely.” Pansy gripped Draco’s leg under the table, giving him a warning squeeze.
“It’s just conjecture at this point, Malfoy. There will be an investigation.” Bones’s expression softened a touch as she looked down at him. Draco felt the skin of his neck prickle under her gaze—a hot, uncomfortable feeling washed over him.
Across from him, Greg scoffed under his breath. “I’m sure the investigation will be very thorough.”
“How did you know about this before we arrived?” There was an accusatory undertone to Weasley’s voice that set Draco further on edge. He clenched his jaw.
“He was at Gringotts when his title changed from Heir to Lord.” Theo spat. “He came straight here. Give the man a break, for fucks sake.”
“I think a trip to the middle of the North Sea to kill a man after 11 years of no contact is a little far-fetched. Don’t you?” Pansy’s voice took on a sickly sweet tone. “And as you say. The guards said he had no visitors.”
“Not to mention, I have an iron-clad alibi. I was in Marseille last night, having dinner with Arsène Boucher, and had meetings with the French branch of Gringotts this morning. I’ll swear it under Veritaserum if I have to.”
Theo groaned at that, rolling his head on his neck to give Draco a withering glare. “Arsène? Again, Draco?”
Draco made a noise that he hoped conveyed that now is not the fucking time for your dramatics, you twat.
Blaise shushed them both with a wave of his hand. “If this is not a formal questioning, I’ll have to ask you to either cease at once or wait for Draco to arrange representation.”
Auror Bones smiled. “No need. We’re very sorry for your loss, Lord Malfoy. Please let us know if we can be of assistance at this difficult time.”
As Bones and Weasley filed out, Blaise fixed his stare at Pansy. “How did they know where to find him, Parks?”
Pansy gave an unapologetic shrug of one shoulder. “I told Nev. Presumably, Nev told the Weasel. You can’t tell me things without expecting the man I was literally in the middle of shagging, ta ever so Dray, not to find out.”
Theo gave a cackling laugh. “Why the fuck were you checking your phone mid-coitus, you slag?”
Draco groaned, tipping his head into his hands. “What the fuck do I do now?”
A quiet descended on the table. “I would suggest,” Blaise said gently, “that you take a couple of days to think. There will be all sorts of things for you to sort out, but all in good time. As much as you hated your father, this is a lot to take in, Draco.”
Draco groaned a second time, not lifting his head.
“I’d suggest your first port of call be to your solicitor.” Blaise continued, “There will be funerary arrangements to be made, as well as a whole knot of legal issues to disentangle.”
“Listen to the man, Dray.” Greg gave Draco a nudge under the table with his foot. “He’s the expert, after all. How many stepfathers have you buried now, Zabini?”
Blaise chuckled. “Fuck off, Goyle. Eight.”
Draco finally lifted his head. “I should be feeling something, right?” His eyes were burning with—something—certainly not tears. “I just feel numb. How could he do this?”
Pansy squeezed his thigh. “Fuck him, Draco. Fuck the lot of them.”
“Donate all his money to The War Orphans Foundation.” Theo held Draco’s gaze. “Fuck it, start your own. The Draco Malfoy Fuck Blood Purists Fund. You’re loaded on your own merit, Dray.”
Greg snorted. “We’ll workshop the name.”
Theo was on a roll now. “Turn the Manor over to the Ministry or something. Open a fucking museum, or turn it into a children’s home.”
Draco groaned anew. “Merlin, the fucking Manor.” His father had barred Draco and his mother from the wards when they’d left the country a decade prior, before Lucius’s incarceration. “What kind of state must it be in?”
A sick feeling of dread and guilt welled up in Draco’s throat. He hadn’t been back to the Manor since The Dark Lord’s residence there. In his mind’s eye, he saw Nagini moving through the halls. The screams of prisoners in the basement had haunted his nightmares for years.
“At least the wards will recognise you as Lord now, right?” Theo clutched Draco’s hand across the table. “We’ll go tomorrow, check it out. We’ll tell Bones to come along too, shall we? Just in case.”
The squeeze of Theo’s hand around his own dragged Draco out of the fog of his memories. Pansy wrapped her arms around his shoulders, anchoring him in space. The press of her belly against his side flushed him through with a torrent of emotions. They’d been dragged through hell, the five of them, and still they were here, living their lives and holding each other through the process of healing. Draco nodded, wiping his eyes on the palm of his hand.
Susan was waiting for them at the Manor gates when Draco and Theo apparated in the next morning. Draco’s head felt thick – due to the shock, he was sure.
“Just take a hangover potion, you lush.”
Draco grunted, accepting the vial that Theo passed him. Immediately, the foggy feeling lifted. Perhaps not just the shock, then. The gravel of the driveway crunched underfoot as they made their way towards the gate.
“Malfoy. Nott.” Susan nodded to each of them. “This is as close to the main building as the wards will allow me.” She shot Draco an appraising look. “Your father must have locked them down to everyone but himself and a select few.”
Draco nodded. “That sounds like Lucius, the paranoid old twat.”
As he approached the gate, he felt the ancient Manor wards recognise him. A bone-deep family connection to the land washed over his senses. This was his birthright. Tendrils of a familial power crept through him, centring itself in Draco’s core.
The last time he’d tried to approach—to retrieve some possessions before he and Narcissa headed to the continent—he’d found himself flung backwards to the ground. It had been far more than a simple banishment from the property. His father had cut him off from his family wardstone, laid down nearly one thousand years prior. He had all but castrated him of the breadth of his family magic. Now, with the old twats death, Draco was finally home.
He took a deep breath in through his nose, revelling in the feeling. It took all his mental strength not to remove his shoes and socks and dig his feet into the nearest grass. As it was, he crouched down to the gravel, placing his bare hands on the ground. The feeling amplified. Draco pulled on 29 years of social etiquette training not to strip off and roll around.
Behind him, Theo coughed. “You’re through, then?”
“Yes.” Righting himself, he retrieved his wand from the holster beneath his coat. The wards were a mess of various spells, most of which were beyond Draco’s comprehension. He added Theo and Susan to the list of accepted magical signatures with little issue.
“You can step through now. There’s some kind of adaptation on the Caterwauling Charm and Knock-back Jinx. Nasty stuff, but I’ve added you both by name.” He huffed a breath through his nose. “Plus a lot more I don’t recognise and don’t have a hope in hell of understandingly without extensive study. Add that to my never-ending to-do list, I suppose.”
Susan shifted from one foot to the other. “We have a ward specialist on contract at the DMLE. I can put you in touch with them, should you wish.”
Draco nodded. “I think that would be best. I’m not an expert at protective enchantments beyond a Protego.”
Susan hummed. “Let’s get this over with then.”
The Manor was in a far worse shape than Draco had expected. A sick feeling washed over him as they approached the doors. A glance at Theo and Susan, and their stricken expressions, confirmed that they felt it too.
“What the fuck did he do to the place?” Theo breathed. Susan shook her head, disbelief apparent on her face.
Draco set his jaw, reaching for the doorknob. In the past, the doors had opened for him without his needing to open them physically. Susan grabbed his wrist before he could touch.
“Something isn’t right here, Malfoy. Let me cast some detection spells, first.”
Susan cast a series of spells that Draco didn’t recognise, the grim set of her face becoming more apparent with every pass of her wand. Finally, she stopped, exhaling deeply. “I have no idea what the fuck he’s done, but it’s nasty.”
Theo made a pained sound. “Language, Auror Bones!”
Draco ignored him. “What did you find, Susan?”
“There’s at least one curse that would activate on contact. Beyond that, there are several other trips and jinxes.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m not a cursebreaker, I’m afraid Malfoy. I’ll send a Patronus now to get the cursebreaking team here as soon as they’re available, but for now I don’t recommend going any further.”
“Not if I value the use of my limbs, you mean.”
Susan nodded. “I have no idea what the nature of the curse on that door is, but it’s contact-based. In my experience—which is extensive, mind you—it’s probably a flesh-eating curse of some description. If you touch that door, you’re in for a world of pain.”
The same cold fury uncoiled in Draco’s gut. “And if I don’t touch it?”
Susan frowned. “Then we wait for the cursebreakers to arrive. Probably tomorrow at the earliest.”
Draco looked at Theo. He gave him a nod. “Susan, stand behind me.”
“What? No, Malfoy—”
“Get behind me and cast the strongest Protego you can. You too, Theo.”
Confusion turned to horror on Susan’s face. “Malfoy, you cannot be—”
“Behind me! Now!” He nodded at Theo. “On my count. Three.”
Susan ducked behind Theo, throwing up a Protego as instructed. “This is fucking demented, you crazy twat!”
Draco ignored her. “Two.” He levelled his wand, centring his stance as he took up a duelling position.
Theo cackled, a delighted sound. “I’ve got you, boo!”
“One. Bombarda Maxima!”
The doors exploded inwards, splintering into shards of wood and tangled metal filings. In the same moment, a whoosh of cold rushed outwards. Tendrils of curse smoke lanced towards them, seeking purchase on whomever it could find. Theo threw up a Protego around himself and Draco, forcing the cursed air to deflect away from them. The three of them fell to the floor, gravel digging into their palms.
Theo gave a wild bark of laughter, maintaining his shield charm around them as the smoke cleared. He whooped, dismissing his spell as he jumped to his feet, pulling Draco up with him. “That was mental, you ridiculous man!”
Theo’s enthusiasm was catching. Draco found himself grinning at his friend, before staring at the mangled remains of the doorway.
Susan scowled at them both. “You just endangered all our lives, Malfoy.”
Theo cackled. “Cast your detection spells, Bones!”
“Fine.” Susan spat. Her muttered incantations were the same as before, but delivered with an acerbic rage that had Draco smirking uncontrollably.
“Well, you’ve successfully punched a hole in the fucking wall. Whatever was in place on that door has been summarily destroyed.” She gave a reluctant shrug. “It worked.”
Theo gave a cheer, leaping at Draco, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. “Attaboy!”
“Get off me, you tart.” Draco gave him an exaggerated shove, but returned his grin. He motioned to the door. “Shall we?”
“I’ll go first, lest you get yourselves blown to pieces.” Susan marched forward, wand drawn.
It became immediately apparent, as they entered into the travelling parlour, that the door had been the least of their concerns. The pervasive chill of dark magic curled around them.
“Cast a bubblehead charm,” Susan instructed. Theo made a pained sound of dismay.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Your hair will recover, darling. I don’t want to drag your corpse out of here.”
Once they had clad themselves in as many protective enchantments as Susan had in her Auror arsenal, they began to move slowly through the house.
The sinking feeling of dread and a cold that reached to his bones had Draco on edge, despite Theo’s deranged delight beside him. Panic rose in Draco’s throat as they moved into the green sitting room. This had been his mother’s favourite room in the house. The drapes had been pulled closed, casting the once cheerful room in shadow. From the corner of one eye, he was sure he saw movement skulking around the corner.
He gripped Theo’s forearm. “Did you see that?”
Susan frowned. “Lumos.”
The room was illuminated under Susan’s spell. Something felt off about the place—entirely unfamiliar, despite him having spent much of his childhood perched on the window seat, or playing on the rug by the fire.
“I really think we ought to wait for the cursebreakers, boys.” There was a slight wobble to Susan’s voice. “In fact, I insist.”
Draco gave a curt nod, catching Theo’s eye. The three of them beat a hasty retreat. As they made it to the front door, Draco’s attention caught on a shuttered portrait. “Alohamora”.
Susan grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the exit. He yanked himself free, watching as his father's face was revealed from behind a pair of dark drapes. It was a still portrait, unmoving. Clearly, Lucius had never had the proper enchantments cast while he was alive.
Rage coiled in Draco’s gut as he took in his father's features. The aristocratic sneer of his lips was so true to Draco’s memory of him. His hair was neatly tied at the nape of his neck. People often remarked that Draco resembled his father.
Resolve settled in Draco’s mind. Raising his wand, he took aim directly at Lucius’s face. “Incendio.”
“Alright, time to go.” Theo wrapped an arm around Draco’s chest, pulling him bodily out the door.
The fire must have spread to the surrounding portraits, since the parlour was soon ablaze. Draco and Theo sat on a bench in the gardens, watching with amusement as Susan shouted orders to a hastily summoned emergency fire-fighting team.
“Well, that certainly expedited matters,” Theo remarked, nudging Draco with his elbow. Draco hummed in agreement. “Where to now, old man?”
Draco was quiet for a moment. “I think I’ll check out the Grounds Keeper Lodge. Father will have left that alone, I wager.”
Theo frowned. “That’s at the far end of the grounds?”
Draco nodded. “Father liked to pretend that it didn’t exist. It was the only place my mother and I could escape to when the Dark Lord was here. It’s still on the property, so it wouldn’t have triggered the wards or alerted anyone as to our leaving. I’m not sure anybody but Mother, Father, and I knew it was there.”
“Want company?” There was no hint of judgment in Theo’s voice. Draco felt a flush of affection for his best friend.
“No. Head home, and I’ll text you in the morning.”
He got to his feet, before wrapping Theo in a hug. “Thanks for today, Nott.”
Theo smirked. “Don’t mention it, Dray.”
Draco could have apparated to the Grounds Keeper Lodge, but he was wary of the wards. Instead, he walked the several miles across the Malfoy estate.
With nobody to tend to it, the flora had grown wild and unkempt. The further he walked from the site of the Manor, the greater the sense of relief. He let his fingers drag through the bracken, relishing the quiet and the peace.
Before long, the fishing lake came into view, with the Lodge on the far side of it. It was a small building by Pureblood standards, a simple three-bedroom house for the Grounds Keepers of old and their families. A small stable lay to one side of it, adapted to a den for his use in his childhood. Draco had played there with Vince and Greg, flying their training brooms under the watchful gaze of the house-elves. His heart gave a sharp lurch at the memory of Vincent. He pushed the feeling down—too many emotions for one day.
The simple brickwork of the Lodge stood in stark contrast to the grandeur of the manor. Ivy had grown over the sides of the building, the cottage garden overgrown and untended. Clearly, nobody had been here for a very long time. Draco hoped that this included Lucius.
He faced down the door with trepidation, brandishing his wand. “Alohamora.”
The door swung open without complaint. No cursed air rushed out to greet him–only the musty smell of disuse.
Draco strode forward with renewed confidence. The room looked just as he remembered. A small sitting room, complete with a large fireplace and adjoining kitchen. A dining room, with a round table and four chairs. A large Persian rug, clearly borrowed from the Manor itself, covered flagstone flooring. Stairs led up to the sleeping quarters. Draco exhaled heavily.
He marched to the window and flung the curtains open. The rest of the afternoon was spent casting as many cleaning and freshening charms on the house as he knew, before digging out an old book on household spells from a small bookcase in the sitting room. By the time he settled heavily on the couch, covered in cushioning and freshening charms within an inch of its life, he’d made up his mind.
Fuck the Manor. Burn it to the ground. Salt the earth so that nothing may grow there again. Draco was tied to the earth here, his magic entwined with the ancient power of the Wiltshire countryside. The grand walls of the stately home that stood on it represented nothing but the regime of a madman and the chokehold that Lucius had held him in his entire life. It polluted the power of the place, and Draco would not stand for it.