Sunday 20th July, 1997

Draco eyed the carpet. Fifteen geometric squares to the left and seven to the right. That was one more than the week before, meaning his chair made a modest migration in the days between his time occupying it. The sun slanting in from the windows made a gradual, malingering crawl across the grey and turquoise carpet, industrial and flat but tastefully modern like the rest of the minimalist doctor's office.

Doctor? Was that the right term? Draco wasn't even sure. Muggle titles were strange. Hermione had once referred to her parents as 'doctors' but she also said they rehabilitated teeth and not the mind like the man seated across from him and his parents, scribbling on his notepad every so often and flipping through the dozens of pages tucked in his files.

Two months had passed since the nightmare at the Manor, but the ending of one nightmare only birthed itself into hundreds of others. Draco - and his parents, really - didn't expect to survive the ordeal; they weren't meant or designed to, if they were following the precious prophecy Draco had learned about. And in the aftermath of everything, when the embers of the destruction and sundered mess finally settled, they were left nearly transient by choice and aimless in how to resume their lives.

How do you return to a life you never wanted that now held no place in the world?

Draco briefly looked up from the carpet to watch his mother, an enormous smile stretched across her heavily make-up'd face, regale to Dr Cobb how wonderful the renovations were coming along on the Manor. It was fake - a fake smile to match the fake renovations, a fake outer shell to the world to maintain that precious, perfect image their proud family needed to continue to maintain, according to his mother. 'Image is everything, darling. Who are we if we can't even trust our shadows to follow us and stand tall?'

And yet here they were, meeting with a 'mind' doctor once a week as a family and several other times individually. They'd first started seeing Dr Cobb, an American squib with credentials as extensive as Draco's pedigree, a month ago, though whose decision it was to begin the service was still a mystery to the blonde. His mother had looked chagrined and shameful when they prepared for their first session, tugging on her fitted soft leather gloves and coolly avoiding all eye contact with the Malfoy men. His father, on the other hand, had been uncharacteristically somber and watchful of Draco as he explained the purpose of the doctor and how he sought only the 'best' in the industry. Mind doctors, he explained, were not well established among the wizarding populace but he needed a clinician knowledgeable of their world and ways, and of the war that had just ended.

Choosing an American at least alleviated some of the familiarity with their surname. They'd be hard pressed to find someone in Britain, even a squib, who hadn't followed or heard of the highly publicized Death Eater trials, with the infamous Malfoy father-son outcome.

Four weeks of meetings with Dr Cobb and Draco could count how many words he'd said, even in the individual sessions he had with the middle-aged man.

'How are you feeling today, Draco?'

'I dunno. Fine. Good.'

'And what makes you feel good today?'

It was always the same conversation with Cobb. The same start and the same ending with that last question by the doctor, which the teen refused to give an answer to. Why? Because he was too tired and too empty to lie more than he already had. Was he feeling good or fine? No, but that's what his mother wanted to paint to the rest of the world. That their family - the combination of two of the most ancient and powerful Pureblood families in wizarding existence - continued to thrive and persevere despite their hardships and trials, that they were immune to scuffs and dents and could emerge from fire unscathed. But that wasn't the way the world, or people, worked. No one could step away from battle without injury, either bodily or mentally. And their blood, the very thing that damned him to weeks of tortuous ritual craft, didn't save them from suffering. It only made it worse; he didn't know how to mend the emptiness inside him, and didn't know if the emptiness was supposed to be filled with something else. Something more fulfilling? Something worth living for?

Did he even want to escape the wistful numbness? Some days it felt better to feel nothing, and other days he relished the pain that reminded him he was still alive.

The vast majority of Wizarding Britain held the opinion that his family saw an unwarranted amount of clemency thanks to his parents' integral involvement in freeing the ever-infamous Harry Potter and Severus Snape. But the popular opinion was tainted by the knowledge that it was Draco who kidnapped Harry in the first place. That it was Draco who was a marked Death Eater, albeit under spying pretense but his loyalty was questioned in the end. Those who were close to the war and case knew the truth: Draco was nothing more than a scared boy played like a pawn between two opposing forces, Dumbledore and Voldemort alike, and all culpability fell to the teen in the end. Voldemort was killed and couldn't pacify the masses in being accountable, as ironic as it were. And Dumbledore was seen as doing no harm. He was praised for his efforts in successfully guiding the Order, despite never even stepping foot in the Manor or even Malfoy property.

No. The public wanted someone to place blame on. They wanted a face - someone they could hate because that's how society worked. Punishments across the centuries were always heavily publicized, crude and barbaric, to please the palette of morbid intrigue. As a society and whole, they moved past humiliating criminals in wooden stocks and displaying gruesome hangings in the town square, though the thirst for retribution continued to run strong. People wanted a person to hate. A person to blame. A person to be angry with.

Silently, Draco looked down at his lap as he listlessly listened to his mother drone on and on about how 'delightful' the manor was looking. There were no real renovations going on; a centuries old manor would see facelifts every so often and undergo some restorations, but renovations? Not nearly dramatic enough in Draco's mind. If he had his way, he'd tear down his ancestral home, salt and burn the land, and build a new estate that resembled nothing of its predecessor. His mother's idea of renovations was having a small army of cleaning crews in the manor around the clock. The gardens had been gutted and were being redesigned by some award-winning Dutch witch responsible for the infamous Keukenhof tulips in Amsterdam.

"And Draco, what do you think about the changes being done to the manor?"

Three sets of eyes rested on him, waiting for his response, with each person expecting something very different from him. And while Draco didn't grant the question anymore attention than a lame shrug of his shoulders, the disappointment from the trio was palpable. His mother wanted him to praise the efforts and support her stance of showing a unified, rehabilitated front. That their family - the proud, strong Malfoys - weren't defined by their chapter of darkness in supporting the Dark Lord. That chapter was a mixture of misguided ideals and manipulated thoughts influenced by Voldemort himself. It was his mother's idea to run with the mantra that they were victims in the war as much as anyone else; a husband forced to fund a villain to save his family, a mother following her maternal instincts in caring for the two captured boys in the manor, and a son cornered into spying for the Order only to be nearly killed in the end.

Dr Cobb wanted any kind of response from Draco, even if it was a lie. The teen once asked if the doctor preferred him to lie than to stay silent, for which the American rolled his shoulders indifferently and begged for something other than a non-answer, such as his trusty, 'I don't know'.

His father, though, was a mystery.

"Draco's still spending insurmountable time in his room, Dr Cobb," Lucius muttered quietly, his cultured, articulate voice rolling over the curves in the sentence. "He's continued to take his meals there."

At this, the teen glanced up, staring at his father in a mixture of betrayal and curiosity. Had it been two years ago, he would've been amazed the Malfoy patriarch noticed anything about his ongoings outside of how it pertained to the family and their image. Certainly not his routine in the manor and how he chose to spend his holiday between school terms. Before the war, before Azkaban, his father embraced the parenting theory that children were at their best when scarcely seen. And when seen, they were well-reared, miniature versions of their parents. Posh. Collected. Clean.

Narcissa pressed her lips together to smother a frown and looked down at her hands neatly folded in her lap, disapproving of her husband's candidness.

"Some alone time is natural, Lucius. Especially for a young man his age and after the type of event he's been through. We've discussed how to respect space," Dr Cobb replied smoothly, his accent dragging the vowels out longer than Draco was used to. It was an interesting accent, something he could attach himself to and become distracted from the actual content being spoken.

Lucius nodded once, quickly. "Yes, and I've- we, Narcissa and I, have been utilizing the support exercises per your advising. But that doesn't change my concerns. His sleep schedule is quite...liberal."

This made Draco look out the window of the high rise tower the office was situated in. Muggle London. The tall, thin buildings stretching impossibly up into the sky were a puzzle of sharp corners, steel, and glass, so different from the Medieval-like, topsy turvy structures found in Diagon Alley. Before the war, Draco would've balked at the thought of traveling to the very heart of the Muggle city, dressed in a grungy Muggle ensemble that looked more befitting for a Weasley than a Malfoy, and taking advice from a lowly squib.

It was his choice to wear the white-washed, jean trousers, a long-sleeved flannel button down left open over a plain cotton t-shirt. It was so basic, so painfully mundane, so Muggle that it couldn't be further from the haute couture robes lining his wardrobe and closet. And that was precisely why he chose it. It didn't remind him of the past, of the person he used to be. That person was no more and somehow, supposedly with the help of this American squib mind doctor, he was supposed to craft a new identity from the pieces leftover from the war.

His mother had looked scandalized when she first saw him in the 'grubby' clothes, but his father, surprisingly, said nothing when they left the manor. The older wizard merely nodded a few times as if he understood the clothes' purpose. Rather than admonishing his son, he instead had placed a hand on his shoulder and ushered him towards the apparition point.

Draco watched dozens upon dozens of cars and buses lineup in gridlock traffic below all the while his father voiced his concerns to the doctor about the teen's sleeping habits. There was a small part of him that was bothered with his father's concern, but not bothered enough to find the strength to voice it. No, he wasn't bothered enough to feel much of anything. It was a prickle, an annoyance, and nothing more. It was as if he existed in a constant state of Occlumency, in a world that was diluted of colors and flavors as he moved through his days on autopilot, doing the bare minimum to stay alive but nothing in terms of living.

"...He hasn't seen any of his friends or girlfriend since he's come home from school. And I doubt if he's actually seen them much since the trial even," Lucius said. "He's sent owls but there's been no correspondence back from-"

"Lucius, darling!" Narcissa interrupted, gently slapping a dainty hand against her husband's shoulder and leveled him a reproachful smile. "Draco is right here, and to speak as though he's not is rather indecorous of you. If Draco wishes to bring up his friends or girlfriend, he would do so on his own."

The Malfoy patriarch stared at his wife for a few beats. Her smile didn't lessen, but it also didn't reach her eyes. There was a storm brewing in the older Malfoy's gaze, an argument that wanted to be brooked but he knew time and place wasn't appropriate. Instead, he boldly ignored his wife's stare and words and sighed heavily at the doctor. "I trust you understand my worries."

Dr Cobb placed his clipboard on the accent table beside him and massaged the bridge of his nose. After a few seconds passed, he turned towards his youngest patient, ignoring the married couple sending seething looks at one another. "One or two months is a long time not to talk with someone you're dating. Especially at your age."

It wasn't a question. And yet, Draco blinked at how disarming the statement was, feeling compelled to say something back. "Suppose so."

"Are you still dating this girl? The same girl you risked everything for? The same girl you made the choice to save in exchange for another boy's life? That's the same girl you haven't spoken to in so long?"

His mouth felt dry at the reminder. Yes, he had made that conscious decision. A decision that no one - especially a teenager - should have to make. But he was a Slytherin through and through, and didn't have the boldfaced bravery Gryffindors had. He didn't have the courage to easily own up to the decision that would follow him for the rest of his days. And what he could say to Harry? How could he tell him that he weighed Harry's life below that of Hermione's at the end of the day? That he knew he was delivering Harry to his death? When they were in the manor together, it was easier to adopt a hasty 'forgive and forget' and make amends in what they assumed were the last days of their life. But now that they were no longer living on borrowed time, they were forced to acknowledge everything; every action, every nuance, every word uttered.

The sudden flush of panic and torment below his ribcage came hard and fast. But he was faster at bottling it up and tossing it back down into the recesses of his body, where it could get lost with the rest of his emotions.

Wetting his lips, Draco looked down at his hands hanging in front of him. "I sent-I sent her a letter," he mumbled. "Well, I sent the letter to Potter with a request for him to pass it along to her. She knows that I needed some…" He gestured vaguely, "That I needed some time to get things proper."

Narcissa snapped her head up, her phony smile renewed on her visage. "A perfectly sensible response to a significant other," she rushed to say. "And school day romances are certainly fickle ones, aren't they? I'm positive Miss Granger has her own family and matters to attend to and keep herself occupied. Mr Potter will relay the message and all will be well." Her eyes flashed with panic and flicked downwards as she caught herself on her verbiage. "I mean to say that all is well, but it will be more well when those letters are passed along."

The silence that transcended was stifling and hot and cloying. The only sound was from the honking of cars in the streets below them.

Unable to stand it any longer and not wanting to give his mother the luxury of existing in her fantasy, Draco was about to shoot up from his chair and abruptly leave the office when his father's quiet voice stopped him: "Everything isn't all well, Narcissa. We wouldn't be here if it were."

"I'd like to see Draco in two days from now, alone," Dr Cobb casually said, scribbling something on his clipboard with drawn together brows. "And Lucius, I'd like to see you tomorrow, alone, if that works for your schedule."

Before either Malfoy patriarch or heir could say anything, Narcissa interjected with a stiff laugh. "Sessions three days in a row, doctor? Making the trip to Muggle London isn't an easy venture for us, you understand."

The American doctor looked nonplussed with her and opened his hands in what Draco could only describe as a shrugging gesture. "There's a lot of untraveled roads to cover with your family, Narcissa. A lot of unpaved, rocky roads that won't be - as you put it - an easy venture. Your investment in your family, especially your son, might require you to make some concessions. You knew this when you asked to start services with me."

Narcissa pressed rouge-painted lips together in a thin line. "Perhaps you can make a house call. All of our other healers do so."

Cobb smiled wryly. "Convenient for them, but I'm not a healer. I'm a psychologist. A doctor. And our original agreement for no sessions to be held in the manor still stands." He paused for a moment, waiting to see if the Matriarch would toss a counterargument. But she didn't - she only looked away in disapproval. "I'll tell you what, though. Lucius, I'll still meet with you here in the office tomorrow, assuming you can make it work with your schedule. And Draco… I'll see you at Stonehenge in two days. I think that's pretty close to the manor, and being outside will be a nice change of scenery for us both."

The distance from the manor was a small miracle for Draco. Despite how much time he shuttered himself into his bedroom, he actually hated being inside the dwelling he was a forced captive of for two months. The trip to Muggle London, though terrifyingly new with strange sounds, smells, and people, was a small reprieve from the dark memories that stalked him in his childhood home.

But to voice that required energy. Energy that he didn't possess. So he bottled up his displeasure and tossed it back into the cellar with the rest of his emotions and pulled his apathy back on. "Sure, whatever."

The blasé answer was accepted unconditionally as it always was by the American, his warm smile and quirky accent making Draco instantly like the man despite how mentally invasive some of his questions were. He wished he could give the doctor more to go on, or not let him down constantly during their sessions. The psychologist always reassured that there were no right or wrong answers once he stepped through the doorway, but the young Slytherin knew there were inclinations and preferences.

If he were more open with himself, more true with his emotions, if he could feel more than nothing, maybe he wouldn't be such a difficult patient for the doctor. Maybe Cobb wouldn't need to see them as frequent as he wanted, maybe his mother wouldn't pretend to the world that they were still a perfectly sculpted family, maybe he'd have the courage to talk with his girlfriend.

As Dr Cobb brought the session to a close and walked the Malfoys out, Draco thought heavily of Hermione. He last really spoke with her after the trial, when he was still astonished at the amount of mercy the Wizengamot showed him and pardoned his Death Eater involvement. While he was still charged as a Marked Death Eater, it was a baseless, administrative move that carried no power behind it beyond leaving a permanent blemish in Draco's files. He was acquitted on all sentencing and allowed to walk free, the only chains attached to him coming from the grounds of his own guilt.

In the aftermath of the trial, he'd felt lighthearted and thankful. Happy, almost. And riding on that adrenaline, he found the strength to talk to his fretting girlfriend and give her the respect she deserved in telling her he was alright, that he was satisfied with the outcome, and that he was sorry for what she went through.

It was a painfully nearsighted apology, zoning in solely on her and ignoring all of the elephants in the room that needed to be addressed. She wanted to hear about how and why he kidnapped Harry - their prophesied Chosen One, their precious weapon, the Boy Who Lived - but he couldn't give that to her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

After their session, the small family favored a placid silence as they walked to the apparition point a few blocks from the tall building. The silence continued when the three popped up on the dusty road a few meters from the glittering golden and iron wrought gates that mouthed the front of their manor, freshly polished from the 'renovations' and deceivingly immaculate. The newly bedded lilacs and gingersnaps beside them immediately flowed a steady stream of sweet aromas, placed purposefully there to welcome arriving witches and wizards to Malfoy Manor.

Everything in the manor had a purpose, even down to the flowers. Once upon a time, Draco stood with confidence in knowing his own purpose: the heir, a perfect replica of his father's image destined to walk steadily in his shadow. Those plans were dashed, though. Outside of being the heir by birth, he didn't know his purpose. He didn't know who he was anymore.

The silence was broken when they stepped through the front doors and into the grand foyer, expensive dragonhide shoes, designer heels, and faded chucks cushioned beneath the brand-new, hand-woven Persian rug. It covered the spot where his Aunt Bellatrix's lifeless body had been dragged with the rest of the fallen after the battle. After Harry was 'killed' and Voldemort succumbed to a fast-thinking Snape, Draco had been nearly numb in body and mind as he was shuffled out of the drawing room, wedged between his parents, but enough of mind to immediately recognize the bodies in the foyer. Bellatrix. Rabastan. Several other Death Eaters.

"Well, that was… delightful," Narcissa said with a stiff, quick smile as she tugged off her gloves one finger at a time. "It was rather kind of Dr Cobb to make alternate arrangements for you, Draco. You ought to have shown more appreciation. Make mind that you thank him when you see him at Stonehenge."

"Of course, mother" the teen mumbled. He wouldn't.

Narcissa blinked and looked surprised at the quick agreement, anticipating her son's argument back and caught off guard when it never came. Maybe it would've been easier for her if he had. At his numb obedience, the Matriarch shot a fretting, panicked look at her husband before wringing her hands together briefly. "Splendid. Very good. Supper will be served soon so go clean yourselves up."

She turned stiffly and began to walk away, her heels clinking-clanking on the glossed marble floor before pausing to look back at the unmoving father and son. "And Draco, darling, change into appropriate clothing. You look...dreadful."

Draco stared at her retreating figure. He wouldn't change; the flannel shirt was wrinkled from the day and the cotton shirt felt liberating compared to his normal heavy robes and jackets. If he shed the button down, his left arm would be exposed, showing off the ghastly mark his mother told him to always keep concealed, as if that could hide the ugly truth.

"I have to talk with you," Draco said to his father as he slipped the flannel off his shoulders and neatly folded it over his right forearm. Lucius had been on his way towards the grand staircase, pausing with his hand on the banister to look back questioningly at his son. "I… I've been thinking about my education. I have another year of Hogwarts left, theoretically speaking."

Lucius narrowed his eyes on the boy and dropped his hand from the banister to approach him slowly, cautiously. He read between the lines immediately. "Yes, you do," he replied sharply. "Your Seventh Year is an important one, Draco. It will equip you with applicable skills instead of the basic, droning theories found in books. And with our new business prospects coming on the horizon, it will be imperative that you have the most-"

"I'm not going back."

Draco couldn't look at his father, caught between anger, humiliation, and whatever other emotions were fighting within him to get out. Instead, he looked down at his shoes - 'trainers', Hermione had called them - and traced the curved, rubber white toe tip peeking out from his jeans with his gaze.

He didn't see the concern flood the Malfoy patriarch's eyes and misinterpreted his silence as disappointment.

"I… I'll write Dumbledore tomorrow," Draco quickly tacked on, still looking down. "And make arrangements to set up independent study. It's been done before and-and I'm sure it's what he'll prefer anyways. He doesn't want me in that school - not after… anyways, it'll be better for everyone, won't it? I can study here from the manor and help out with the new resear-"

"No," Lucius cut in like a mallet dropping. He took a step forward, making the teen tense and glance up. "Draco, you are returning to Hogwarts and that's final. If you're worried about Dumbledore, which you shouldn't be, I'll speak with him personally."

Draco barked a laugh. "It's a bit late for me to pull the 'father' card, isn't it? I don't think that'll work as well as it used to." He turned away again and set his jaw, not liking - and not used to - the uncanny amount of worry he depicted in his father's voice. "It's not right for me to go back, father. Even before March, I wasn't exactly safe just waltzing about the halls and acting chummy with my housemates. How do you think I'll be received now?"

"You're placing far too much power over yourself into your classmates' incapable hands," Lucius countered. "You're a Malfoy. You don't bother with the thoughts and opinions of-"

"That's precisely the problem!" The teen didn't quite yell, but increased his tenor loud enough that it caught and echoed around the large foyer, upsetting some of the portraits who tried to shush him. "I'm a Malfoy! And if people don't see that and get disgusted, they'll see this-" he jutted his left arm out, "- and pass all the judgment they need. Sure, the Wizengamot cleared my name but it was nothing I did that earned it."

The concern in the older wizard's eyes was quickly eclipsed with anger. "That is not true, Draco," he hissed. "You took that mark to help the Order, which you did. You followed every detail given to you to the letter and would've saved this family had I not interfered. And Potter-"

"-Don't," Draco shook his head quickly, frantically. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. All he wanted was to tell his father of his decision and then retreat back to his room to sleep. "I've given this thought and it's the best decision for all of us. Mother… She can't handle anymore negativity directed at us. Look at her!"

"Your mother means well and would expect you to stomach children's taunting better than resorting to dropping out of Hogwarts entirely. You must finish, Draco." While a myriad of emotions played across his son's face, Lucius zoned in on only the pain depicted on youthful features uncannily similar to his own. "Though I don't believe it's the case, if it's your image you're worried about, not returning to Hogwarts will do more tarnishing than hiding away here in the manor like an artefact. Dr Cobb has said it before - you must return to a sense of normalcy, Draco. Hogwarts will do that for you much better than anything here."

Something broke in Draco's chest at his father's atypically soft words. The heavy burden that was once wound up so tight unraveled itself quickly, making him nearly succumb to every feeling he tried to suffocate down within him. His father knew of the pain the manor brought, he knew how much he hated it. Hogwarts would at least get him away from the manor and its wretched memories.

Draco raked his fingers through his hair, clawing at the white-blonde roots. "And what about safety?"

His argument was weak and Lucius batted it down with a gracefully arched brow. "We were able to ensure your safety without a single issue when you returned after the trial. This new school year will be no different."

"I'm not staying in that bloody room next to Snape and Potter again. And there's no way I can go back to the Slytherin dorms." He laughed ruefully. "Hufflepuff, perhaps? Or maybe Ravenclaw. I think I'll look brilliant in blue and bronze. Really will bring out my eyes. I don't believe I helped put any of their relatives away in Azkaban so they shouldn't be as narky with me as the Slytherins."

Lucius stiffened at his son's sarcasm. "If Ravenclaw is what it'll take then I'll ensure it happens. Alternatively - and more realistically - I can also arrange for an offsite flat in Hogsmeade for you if more...convenient living quarters cannot be secured. It's a small commute that I'm positive Dumbledore would be willing to allow."

"Or I can commute through the floo system just for classes while staying here. It's not like I'm desperate for the full Hogwarts experience," the teen half-heartedly mumbled and returned his stare downcast to inspect the frayed hem on his trousers. Jeans were wretched and stiff. How Muggles tolerated them on a daily basis was beyond him.

Ever his father, Lucius took the lame counter as a means that he won the discussion. Or at least managed to win the battle; achievement over the war would be determined later, once he was able to ensure the boy actually was returning to school. "Allow me to speak with Severus and Dumbledore. If they are unable to convince me of your safety, then I will arrange for you to complete your education remotely. You may be of age now, but I'm still your father and head of this household. And if you wish to see our new business partnership fulfilled, you'll heed my advising. Understood?"

Draco quietly considered it. The words were the most subtle, gracious way of saying, 'my house, my call, my rules', and Lucius wasn't afraid to pull rank as far as inheritance and Draco's aspiring career plans were a concern. It was true now that he was of age, he could officially become more entrenched in the Malfoy's business stakes, with the latest medical endeavor being one Draco wanted to personally head up when he was deemed ready. That vision wouldn't come to prosper if it was killed prematurely from the official head of Malfoy Enterprises.

He looked around the foyer briefly, taking in the brand-new rug, the stench of strong cleaning potions and the sizzle in the air from the sanitizing spells, the way the portraits tended to hide away or speak with themselves in hushed tones rather than engage the teenager in proud stories of his heritage. Despite the charmed drapes opening every morning to welcome in floods of sunlight through the large windows, the manor was darker and drearier than before. The shadows that were once corporeal during Voldemort's residence now only existed in the teen's mind, coalescing and shivering from one room to the next.

If it weren't for his Knockturn potioneer, who kept sideways books, Draco's stash of dreamless droughts would've been up and he wouldn't have been able to get a wink of sleep. Insomnia came immediately, especially around 3am when his waking nightmares and panic attacks grew worse. Sleep was the only thing that saved him. Dreamless sleep was the closest thing he had to not existing.

"Draco?"

Clearing his throat, the teen nodded once. "Sure, fine. Talk with Dumbledore and Snape. Let me know if I'm changing uniforms or decorating a new flat."