The Manor had been his home as a child. He had grown up in these walls. The building others saw as an imposing and extravagant display of wealth had been home to him. Of course, Draco had always known that he was fortunate - Malfoys don't even pretend they don't know their privileged - but he had felt comfortable in this space. He had known every corner, knew which cursed items to avoid, which family portraits would talk and which would only stare haughtily straight ahead. He knew every twist and turn of the maze in the grounds, he knew the floorboards that creaked and the places that were cold even in the height of summer. This was where Draco belonged.

But it didn't feel that way anymore. The Manor was no longer full of family memories, the occupation by the Dark Lord had stripped away the comforting familiarity and replaced the halls with horrors. Every room reminded him of another nightmare.

His parents had vacated the walls for exactly that reason, unable to cope. His mother had been completely torn between taking her husband to recuperate and leaving her son alone in this building that was not their home anymore. Draco had been the one who insisted.

He had needed some time alone he thought.

There would be no trial for him. No convictions against his parents either, Harry had ensured that - typical. The boy who lived twice still had a noble streak that just wouldn't quit, forgiving them so graciously that it just made him angry. Harry had ensured they were spared the fate of most Death Eaters - in exchange for their continuing co-operation. Lucius was called to the Ministry almost daily to report on what had happened during the war, what he had witnessed, and he knew his mother would be there with his father the whole time, her expression frozen in a way most people mistook for demonstrating a cold, hard heart but he knew was all about pride and control.

He didn't have to report. Why he wasn't sure. Maybe Harry thought even his knowledge, even what he'd witnessed, was worthless. So he stayed at the Manor. He hadn't returned to school - couldn't bear to do so in fact - and he haunted the building.

Oh, his parents visited regularly even if they lived in a London apartment the Ministry assigned. But he still spent an inordinate amount of time drifting around. Alone.

Part of him knew it was unhealthy. He should...well, do something. Embrace the real world. Socialise. Some people would still talk to him, not everyone considered him to be a complete pariah. Even Draco knew this half life he had chosen, and insisted upon being left alone to continue, was far from healthy. And yet he had no urge to change. The idea of contacting old friends or making new ones, or returning to his studies or finding a job, the idea of in anyway building a life and a future...it just seemed like more effort than he could summon at this time.

Everyone thought his family were oh so lucky for being forgiven, for escaping punishment despite the side they'd picked. Draco couldn't be bothered to prove them wrong. In truth, the words 'couldn't be bothered' summed up his entire attitude to life at the moment. He wandered the hallways, remembering the terrible things that had happened here. Hermione's screams. Ollivander sobbing. Ron banging on the dungeon door. The death of Professor Burbage. And the Dark Lord's presence which seemed to linger like a stain that couldn't be scrubbed away.

They might not be sending him to the Azkaban, but he had imprisoned himself in his own way.

A second chance and he was wasting in with brooding. And Firewhiskey.

The Firewhiskey was an important part of his 'coping strategy'.

The winter was drawing in and with it the evenings were dark earlier on. They had only one house elf left, a pathetic creature he kept sending to Hogwarts to socialise and so she couldn't invade his alone time. Draco had not bothered to close the curtains and the dusk invaded the room, the only light being the fire that he was slouched before, his fingers loosely holding the neck of a bottle that had been far heavier when he selected it.

And then somebody had the nerve to knock at the door and disturb him.