I'm the son and heir of nothing in particular— click. Draco stopped the record player. It was the third month into his house arrest. No books were allowed. Except for those on muggle technology. And. Well. sigh- Basically everything of muggle writing.
However strange yet that was for Draco to not only read but also voluntarily use muggle things, it was incredibly satisfying to see the displeased expression on his Father's face. Despite the fact that the Malfoy family got away without them fatally sentenced to rot in prison after their trials, the outcome which was honestly a huge blessing since there were no volunteers in his family willing to end up in fucking Azkaban— despite that, his Father was still scolding on some bollocks like "We, of the Malfoys, now have to sit here in our own Manor like prisoners, without house-elves and without any magical tools. Even without books!" - the last line he would yell once he saw Draco habitually carrying some muggle encyclopedia in his hands. Ah, but mornings were really such bright blurs in this now routine. They would sit there, Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius and try to make it peaceful. Draco, on one hand, was really - you know - peaceful. He would drink his coffee (no sugar, with a dash of milk), bite some custard tart, then turn a page in that muggle encyclopedia to the chapter about cataclysms and wouldn't pay any attention to what his Father was doing across from him. Lucius, on the other hand, was not peaceful at all. He did not drink his tea while it was still hot, he did not bite any dessert Narcissa had joyfully baked earlier in the morning (she'd got real good at cooking, and Draco adored it), what he did, though, was flash sparks from his cool steel eyes. He'd lift his - already tepid - tea full of intention to turn a blind eye on his son's reading all this garbage when oh— Draco turned a page.
Now days in the Manor were as monotonous as ever. No elves, as Father himself got a chance to mention, no artifacts either. As it had been stated by the Judge during their trials, the whole point of this probation was to show that life no matter how privileged you were could be a bitch. That was not a direct quote, of course, but you get the point. Draco did get the point. He knew everyone would have been apparently rather happy if he and his precious parents had just rotted in those stone boxes up in Azkaban. Well, they hadn't. But that wasn't much better. They were boiling with their own frustration, in this bloody Manor. Instead of dementors, they met their own discontent, less visible than the former but more palpable when in a room, or house for that matter, with a man who had all his ambitions ruined, his son that he sulked on as if it was the boy who'd have actually brought them all on pedestals after the war, and a woman who always wanted and did the best she could for her beloved son, only having mistaken once and letting him down in result, now she silently faulted on her husband for their shared bad fortune. It was a mess, in a word.
In his room, Draco grabbed the encyclopedia and opened it at the bookmark (it was a wooden snake that wiggled once the book was opened). He was now at the chapter about some damaging waves that emit from muggle technology. The concept was... quite vague indeed, though it did remind a bit of cursed necklaces and other artifacts he'd had the misfortune to encounter in his later time at Hogwarts. Great time it was (haha.). He read without any rush, there was plenty of time– the whole probation thing felt like it was about to last forever, not just nine months in total. He indulged himself with thorough studying of illustrations that filled the book with colors, sophisticated lines at some places, and, despite his hopes, any lack of real movement. So it was absolutely true, then! Muggles really couldn't make pictures move. How come that the television thing existed, then? Draco got the encyclopedia from Blaise; his friend was a remarkable extrovert who somehow managed to get along with both purebloods and muggleborns, even after everything, and visited Draco on occasional Wednesdays. He, as Draco recalled, sometimes attended a book club that was situated in some big bookshop in the centre of muggle London. There Blaise saw this 'Book of Knowledge' (as he'd called it when he put it on a coffee table in front of Draco on one of his visit) and had bought it because it said 'The truth about dragons and other myths revealed' under the title. Of course he'd bought it right away because it reminded him of Draco. What a jerk he was, but Blaise truly cared about his friends; especially about the one who was caged inside his own home. Draco contemplated the television. It was such a long word, why wouldn't they make it shorter or make up another one. What if it did have a short name but it wasn't mentioned in the book? How would he even know about it. Would there be at least anyone who'd talk to him, after he's out in the world and wizarding society again? It felt like there were very few people who'd approach him without any second thought and would not try to actually kill him in the process. He could always rely on Pansy and Blaise, though. He closed the book. It was getting bitter.
The sky outside the window was cloudy, the most part of it. Windows weren't charmed, that at least gave some sort of a hold on reality (a rather sad one, considering that it was only going to get greyer and less lively as autumn proceeded) in this whole shut-in situation. Besides, let's be honest, the Ministry wouldn't let them have such a luxurious view as a blooming garden and green meadows when the reality was the exact opposite and could make their forced residence there slightly more depressing. Draco grabbed his jacket, put on his dragonhide boots and stepped outside his room. Fortunately, the Aurors weren't obliged to supervise them throughout the day. The Ministry made sure that the wards around the residence were strong enough, not to mention that their wands were confiscated after the mishap with Father when just a few days after the probation started he tried to fire-call someone. Wasn't really wand magic, obviously, but they shut down the Network and took the wands anyway. Just to be on the safe side, you know. Not much of a problem for Draco, however— Potter hadn't returned his wand neither after the battle nor the trials.
He walked down the long hall, where quite an amount of family portraits, or rather the decade-old shades in their stead, hung on the walls. There used to be hushed talking, now there was none. The Ministry took care of it. sigh— it always did (although sometimes it came to its senses way too late). There were no obvious malice intentions, the inhabitants of those portraits were just considered witnesses and were now in the Ministry for further interrogation. This echoing silence only made things lonelier here.
Draco hurried the last few meters to the door and pushed. Somehow it seemed way heavier now (or was it the feeling of being trapped that made him weaker?). Finally fresh air blew in his face and he leaned onto the door. The landscape before him was still colorful, though some yellows and browns had spotted foliage already, marking the final days of September. It was quite messy, especially if compared to how it used to look before— before all the shit that had been happening here during the last few years while ,em>he was ruling over this place. On the left to the path that led from the main entrance to the gates was standing a fountain, it used to be dazzling white - one could just find a way through their lush garden if focused on this sparkling mass of marble like a beacon. Now it was grey and its inner sides were covered with moss; birds seemed to like it, though - they sprang around it all day. Well, that was at least something. Draco lingered on the stairs having been caught up in birdwatching for a second and then went down towards the path.
The birds scattered away the moment he passed by the fountain. A grey grainy cloud, they were like a small omen of an upcoming thunderstorm. He was walking through the garden, past the gnarly fuzzy bushes, heading straight to where the garden was ending and the field began. The gazebo stood there as always. It was small, he used to go there with Pansy when they got tired of adults at celebrations and parties, whatever Father could come up with to maintain his credibility. Those were colorful days, he missed them. Draco went up three low steps and went in; it was a bit dark there, the gazebo was built in a shade so that it was not boiling hot in summer, but in autumn it was way too fresh. Just what he needed right in that moment.
He went to the bench on the far end of the gazebo, swiped some dust and leaves away and sat down. He looked down to the right, and traced his fingers along the carvings on the wood. It felt like it was a million years ago, like it never happened at all— yet, he recalled so vividly.
"Hey, what're you doing there?"
Pansy ran over to him from the other side of the summerhouse where she'd been looking over the field. Draco did a double take when she hovered over him from behind his back, her mid-length hair hanging off her head now that she undid her plaits (she sweared every so often that once she entered Hogwarts she cut them off, damn her mother's obsession with her long hair).
"Nosey, aren't you, Pans?"
"As all Slytherins should be."
She said that smugly; they always were so sure of their ending up in Slytherin, it was funny even.
"Right."
He murmured as he kept on cutting something in the wood.
"So? Show me, won't you!"
She just pushed him aside in an attempt to look over his shoulder while he spread his pale palms across his scribbling on the wood. Pans huffed as Draco tried to back her off with his shoulder, but bloody hell this girl was as stubborn as him. Few moments of this hustle, and Draco flopped onto his bum gasping loudly once he hit the floor.
"Ha! Is this some sort of stuff fans do these days?"
"Maybe you should spend a little less time with your Gran? Honestly, you sound just like her sometimes..."
"Nah, this one's my father's! Anyway, what is that?"
She pointed at some dots and lines and one big messy circle, and raised her eyebrows questioningly when she looked back at Draco as he slowly got himself up to his feet. He was just annoyed that he hadn't got a chance to finish this— honestly, now he was looking at it and it was quite... chaotic and incomprehensible.
"These are our family constellations. Here's mine, this one's my aunt Bellatrix's, and this is her portrait."
"Oh! Uhm... It looks shaggy... but it must be quite in her character, I imagine. Maybe one day you'll become a good portraitist, Draco—!"
Maybe.
Draco turned away from the half erased drawings, scooted over to the farthest bench and leaned onto the railing of the backrest with his elbow. He gazed out at the field, just like Pansy had back then. What had she seen there? He could now only see an invisible border between him and the rest of the world. She could— and, Merlin, she'd been doing it whenever she had an opportunity to (that is, whenever she'd visit the Manor), really— just run across this field, hands in the air, and hide among those high gold ears. Rush, stomping, giggling, twinkling eyes. The wards ended here, just at the line where the field started. And he could only look.
He was sitting there staring somewhere— nowhere, his mind floating, almost blank, as he sat unfocused and twisted the ring on his right hand (the one that Blaise had given Pansy and him for some Christmas long time ago, marking them as three best friends).
It'd got greyer, darker even, colder, yet with some warm gusts of wind. It brushed Draco's fringe (it'd grown a bit in the past few months), he blinked and lowered his gaze to check his watch. A quarter past four. It was getting late, Mom'll be making tea soon. He got up from the bench, smoothed out his slacks, adjusted the sleeves of the jacket and headed towards the exit. Coming to a halt at the threshold he glanced back at the carvings once again, and took a step out.
It might sound strange, but the walk back from the summerhouse always seemed longer. Or maybe it was just Draco and his shallow contemplating mood. Either way, in almost half an hour he stood in the hall and closed the door pushing it so hard that a few leaves got into the hall. Again. That silence. But at least the rustle of the leaves made it a little more welcoming. Even so, there was no reason to stay among those unnerving empty portraits. Draco strode rather decisively in the direction of the dining room.
Up the hall and then to the left, an arch and there it was, a spacious room, considerably brighter than other rooms of the Manor, with a big almost black wooden table. Refreshments were set already (much more modest than what once was, sure), smelling deliciously, the smell painting everything in warmer colours. Mother poured tea in the cups, and smiled softly at Draco when she noticed him in the archway.
"You're right on time, dear. How was your walk?"
"It was fine." It's not like it's going to change anytime soon, anyway, Draco stifled a sigh and cast a glance towards the window. "The weather is getting harsh, though."
"Well, it's about time autumn came, isn't it? Come sit, dear, it's all set now."
Draco nodded and sat at the table to the left from her. He took the cup, cast a glance over the table and frowned.
"Where's Father?"
"In his study."
Her answer was fast and she didn't look at him as she nonchalantly put jam on her toast. A right way to stop any further discussion in its tracks.
"Ah. Alright?"
"Absolutely."
Absolutely it was not, but she wouldn't say so just like that. Not while there was an illusion of things being normal. Not while the halls and all the closed quarters of the Manor got more and more stifling with each passing minute. Not while Father was in his study apparently uncorking yet another bottle of firewhiskey. Mother's feigned nonchalance only meant that it bothered her as well and she was not ready to share her thoughts on the matter yet.
They maintained an airy conversation that was confusingly unfamily-like even for the Malfoys, and in not more than half an hour Draco thanked his Mother, grabbed a few apples from a fruit bowl on the countertop and moved hastily towards his bedroom.
***
The rest of the evening passed as quietly. Father didn't show up for supper once again; maybe Mother talked to him a bit, the conversation she and Draco were having went rather neatly compared to the previous one, albeit slightly stiffed.
Back in his room he listened to a few more albums of some very pompous Bowie guy. He particularly liked Hunky Dory and prefered to put it on repeat (because of the closing song which was, to be fair, really depressing), went through the chapter about the waves again for good measure, and went to sleep when the screeching sound from the player made it clear that no other songs were to play.