Draco was lying listlessly on the green ottoman in his spacious bedroom in Malfoy Manor. He still unconsciously allowed himself to do that only when he was sure no-one was around. His mother’s obsession with posture and elegance had been a constant reminder in his childhood for as long as he could remember.
Maybe he took a bit of twisted pleasure out of the small act of revenge for the constant vexing from his tutor, or maybe it felt a little like a petty rebellion; the only type he was capable of. Draco exhaled noisily through his nose. Right, as if a Slytherin like himself, descendant from one of the Sacred twenty-eight comprised of mostly Slytherins – a few Ravenclaws here and there ‘marred the family’, as his grandfather used to say – could be capable of real rebellion.
Half of his house back in Hogwarts could, apparently. They had done just that during the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco wasn’t part of that half, the good half. So, thanks to being a spineless git, here he was, confined to his room. Soon to be ex-room, he should remind himself. Malfoy Manor was going to be sold, not that anyone would want it now, so abandoned was a better word for it. Yes, they were going to abandon their home in favour of their Ancestral Home, the one his father, and his grandfather had grown up in. A smaller place, but it was just right for the two of them. Indeed, there was no need for the extra space now that his deluded father was in Azkaban. For life this time.
Draco had mostly packed his own things by himself. He didn’t even dare talk to his mother, not what he would usually do. Whining about the elf not doing the work, or convincing her she could do a better job than the elf with his precious belongings. Mother would always cave at her son’s praise, even though she knew he was talking and dancing his way out of responsibilities. It takes one to know one, as the saying goes.
Crate after crate, he had slowly vacated the room. Curiously, he had been more sad looking at the empty room in his dormitory at the end of the school year. He wasn’t sure there was much pride left in him for his family name, family house…In his family.
There was only one thing left in the room and it was in Draco’s pale hands.
At first glance, it was simply a ring, a little worn-out, or if he was a romantic, well-used. Draco wasn’t sure even how he found it, for as long as he could remember it was always in his room. It wasn’t something given to him, but he was sure it was a heirloom. A big silver ring with a serpent on it? Come on, it could only be a Malfoy heirloom.
Draco wasn’t the curious type, so he never asked. It was pointless now, anyway. Not even he could wear that around with pride anymore. Not because he would receive backlash from the wizarding society, but because he wasn’t sure he saw the point. He wasn’t proud; not anymore. So Draco came to the conclusion, an hour or so after sitting down on the ottoman, that it was useless to him.
Selling it was the first thing that came to mind. Probably some would still pay a handsome sum for it. It was antique after all, and he was almost sure it had something magic in it. Draco had experimented with it in Hogwarts, the only time he had been curious about it. But the money he would make would also be useless. Even after disgrace, the Malfoy’s still had money to last through more than a few generations. So, what to do?
It came to him in a flash, the witch that had been tortured in the manor. He huffed again, clasping the ring in his right fist. Not that anyone would want his charity, he thought with disdain, let alone the smart witch of the Golden Trio. Obviously, he would have to do it anonymously. Being secretive was one of his malevolent talents, wasn’t it?
Damn him.
Damn all of it. He was actually going to do that. Send her a big, ol’ pile of golden coins in the post. Only last year, and for all the previous six years at Hogwarts, Draco had called her every slur in existence. And took pleasure in it.
Something had changed after what he saw…He had seen war and torture and his family torn to pieces and all of it from the same person, Draco sneered — if he could call him that.
There was nothing he could ever do to alleviate the pain and the hate. Draco still had to determine what he felt at all, about his family, his participation and the feeling of being in the wrong. Something he had never been accustomed to in his short life. Malfoys simply were never in the wrong; even when they knew they were, deep down. Which probably said a lot about his torn-apart family.
After believing all his life he was in the right, he was finally admitting, step by step, he was wrong. But if he could help in any way, especially in an invisible one, he was going to do it.
Draco nodded slowly and opened his fist to look at the ring. There was no attachment to it. It was going to be easy. Not as easy as figuring out a way to get the money to Granger.
She was always going to be suspicious of it. No matter which way Draco looked at it. No matter which plan he devised. The war had left them all scarred. Some more than others, Draco reflected with a grimace.
It was a problem he was going to figure out himself, as he was accustomed to. Regretfully he had acquired a taste for secrecy the past year or so. Now he could put his talents for figuring out difficult problems into something that actually was going to do some good. Or that was what he wished to do.
Resolutely, he stood up and went to exit his room, probably for the last time. He didn’t bother looking back. There were more important things to look forward to, and looking back wasn’t an option anymore.