Draco glared angrily at the darkening sky outside his window. The silver and green curtains framed the tall thunderheads hurrying towards the Manor. But Draco didn't care about the storm – he hoped the rhythm of the rain falling would soothe him to sleep. It was the few rays of the sunset peeking through behind the clouds that had brought daggers shooting from his steely eyes.

He heard the clock in the hallway chime seven. Shifting his scowl to his leg, Draco reached over to the side of the armchair and grasped his cane. Putting his book on the side table, he heaved himself to his feet and limped over to the closet. Throwing open the doors, he grabbed the first shirt he saw and began to button it over the tee shirt he was wearing. Just as he had finished, he heard the telltale crack of a house elf appearing.

"Master Draco," squeaked the elf, "dinner will be served in five minutes. Lady Cissy is already in the dining room."

"Thank you, Hobin," Draco replied, trying to refrain from snapping at the creature who had nothing to do with his current, stressed frame of mind. "Tell her I will be down immediately."

The elf bowed and disappeared with another crack. Draco sighed and checked his hair to ensure it was presentable for dinner with his mother, trying to ignore the dark circles under his eyes and the haggardness that he couldn't seem to rid himself of. Then he began the—for him, at least—grueling walk to the dining room. Not that he would ever show it; he was a Malfoy, after all.

-O-O-O-O-

The door clicked open as Draco returned to his bedroom. He flicked the lights on with his wand, and collapsed onto the chair he had been sitting in before dinner. He picked up his book again, and tried to immerse himself in the theories of 16th century potions masters. What had earlier that day been an engrossing article on the strengthening of healing potions was now merely an excuse to avoid facing the night again. After reading the same paragraph three times without comprehending it at all, Draco was forced to admit that he should at least try to get to sleep to keep his exhaustion from overwhelming him.

Sliding into bed, Draco massaged his knee, debating whether or not to use the potion the Healers had prescribed for his leg pain. He decided that the pain was bearable, and would save the potion for a night when he needed it more. Turning off the lights, he gripped the sheets tightly as the darkness descended on him. The rain beat a rhythmic tattoo against the roof, and despite his fears of the night to come, Draco found himself losing his battle to sleep.

His Aunt Bellatrix loomed over him, leering at him as she dragged him through the Manor. He knew where they were going – the main hall where Voldemort was holding court. She threw him down before the pale feet of his dark Lord and master, and slyly sashayed over to the deathly pale wizard seated on the throne-like chair, lightly running her fingers up his arm to gain his attention.

"My Lord," she murmured, "I brought him as you asked." Voldemort turned his head to look at the prone figure before him.

"Draco, my dear boy." The voice was high, and cold – so cold. Draco shuddered. "It seems you were unable to do what I asked. And I really didn't ask for that much, you know." Draco was shaking. "If my dear Severus hadn't been there, the whole operation would have failed. The operation, might I remind you, that I trusted you with, Draco." Long, pale fingers stroked a long, pale wand. "It seems you have a lesson to learn, boy. I would hate for you to have gone through all that trouble without learning something."

He knew what was coming – couldn't do anything about it. Couldn't stop it from happening. Could only brace himself and try not to disgrace the Malfoy name by screaming.

"Crucio."

Draco sat up in bed, gasping for breath and covered with a layer of sweat. He had taught himself not to scream at the nightmares, but he couldn't stop himself from having them. He kicked off his sheets and sat on the edge of his bed, pressing his face into his hands. He remembered what happened after. The pain had gone on and on, until finally Voldemort released him. Then, before his father had time to react, Voldemort had made Lucius use the same curse on his own son, as punishment for his failure to kill Dumbledore. He remembered the look of regret in his father's eyes as he pointed his wand at his own flesh and blood, before carefully composing himself and focusing his eyes on a point just above his son's sweat-soaked blond hair.

The clock chimed four. Draco knew from past experience that it would be useless to try and go back to sleep, so he pulled on some clothes for the day and made his way downstairs. He didn't bother to turn any of the lights on. The house elves always kept some candles burning through the night, but Draco knew the Manor like the back of his hand and could easily navigate the many hallways. He headed towards one of the lesser-used parts of the Manor, not that any parts besides the kitchen and living quarters were frequently used.

Finding the door he was looking for, Draco slipped inside. He had come through one of the side doors into the ballroom. He wasn't a dancer – he could barely walk now – so he made his way directly towards the far corner where one of his most prized possessions sat. Lighting the room with a flick of his wand, Draco limped towards the grand piano. Settling onto the bench, he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. With his eyes still closed, he placed his fingers on the ivory keys and began to play. It was a melancholy tune, punctuated at times with the anger and frustration he was feeling, and at other times with fear. Draco played until he felt himself begin to completely calm down. The nightmare earlier that morning, while still very real, felt distant. He did this every morning – it was the only way he could face the day knowing that night was going to come again.

The sun was well above the horizon when Draco joined his mother for breakfast. This was much less formal then their dinners together every night. It was by unspoken agreement that they met in the kitchen and went through the morning rituals of cracking eggs and frying bacon. Sitting at the counter across from his mother, Draco looked her over carefully. There were new lines around her eyes and mouth, and she too looked tired and worn. She had not dealt well with the Ministry's lack of organization with the Death Eater trials. Her husband of twenty-some-odd years was still waiting in Azkaban until the Ministry could sort through the massive list of captured Death Eaters and presumed You-Know-Who followers in order to organize trials for all of them. Draco himself had spent a month in Azkaban before his trial and subsequent clearing of charges, as the Ministry had made an effort to try and sort out the youngest first, to spare them as much as possible from the terrors of the prison, and of the dementors that had returned to serve there.

Not that it had helped much. Draco had recurring nightmares of the chill, dark cells and the constant emotional drain from the dementors. Giving himself a shake, he forced himself to focus on the warm August air flowing through the kitchen windows and the sun shining on the small garden that Narcissa had grown and tended all summer. She, having no mark on her left forearm, had avoided prison and had channeled her worry and frustration for her husband and son into making the delicate plants grow.

"So, Mother. Any plans for today?" The two of them went through the same ritual everyday – pretending that things were normal and that Lucius was merely on a business trip, or perhaps sleeping in.

"Oh, well… I thought I would work in the garden a little bit. I saw some weeds coming up yesterday near the hydrangea, so I will have to take care of that. And Mrs. Greengrass was going to Diagon Alley to purchase a new set of dress robes, so I told her I would come with her." Narcissa took a sip of tea. "It does make it so much easier to decide on what to buy when one has a second opinion. What about you, darling?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure. I was thinking – " Draco was interrupted by the sound of wing beats. An owl fluttered through the open window and stuck its leg out towards Draco. With an uncertain look towards his mother, whose puzzled face mirrored his own, Draco detached the letter and absentmindedly gave the owl some treats while staring at the Hogwarts crest sealing the envelope.