Chapter Text
3rd of May, 1998 (The night following the Battle of Hogwarts)
The Malfoys slipped away from Hogwarts before the end of the war, returning to their family manor as dawn broke. Returning home did not give Draco any comfort; after months of Voldemort’s presence, the walls of Malfoy Manor seemed to radiate death and fear. Still, Draco trudged forward, his mother’s hand light but insistent on his arm to guide him through the entrance hall. Lucius followed in silence, a shadow at their backs. Narcissa continued onward, leading them toward the drawing room.
As he crossed the threshold, Draco flinched; he had managed to avoid this room since Potter, Granger and Weasley had unceremoniously made their grand escape. The damage to the interior had quickly been repaired, undoubtedly by the family’s house elves, but as his gaze drifted to the polished floor, he could still see Granger sprawled there, eyes vacant, staring at nothing.
“Draco,” Narcissa called. She had settled into a velvet seat by the empty fireplace, her posture rigid. “Please, come sit.”
Stiffly, Draco moved towards her and lowered himself into an identical chair. “Why are we here, Mother?”
“If we are to be arrested,” she said, her voice cool and even, “I’d prefer to spend my last moments with my family, in my home.” She turned her attention to the hearth, casting a quiet “Incendio.” Flames leapt up, curling and dancing above an enchanted log.
It did little to fight the cold Draco felt deep in his core. Lucius stood behind Narcissa, resting his hands on the headrest of her chair as though it might steady him. “There is still time,” Lucius murmured to his wife. “We could disapparate to the villa in France–“
“We are too recognizable,” Narcissa cut in swiftly. “It would only delay the inevitable.”
Lucius’ grip tightened, knuckles white. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his words were low, “When you are questioned, keep your answers short. Offer little detail. Do not accept any drink—if it is laced with Veritaserum, you will not stand a chance. If you are offered a deal, you must take it.”
Draco’s stomach turned as he recalled that this would not be his father’s first arrest. After the dark lord’s first uprising, Lucius had been detained but narrowly evaded sentencing. Draco could only hope for a similar outcome for all of them this time around.
For months, Draco had felt like a prisoner within the confines of his childhood home, forced to watch Voldemort rule over his dark followers. Secretly, Draco had longed to see him overthrown, though he would never have dared speak it aloud. But he had not considered what came after defeat: Would he be sent to Azkaban? Tortured for information? Intentionally driven to madness?
“Lucius, enough,” Narcissa sighed, her eyes fixed on her son. She leaned forward and placed her hands over his. “Draco, your father and I will do everything in our power to ensure you are taken care of. Even in these circumstances, we have galleons and information – that’s power.”
Draco didn’t share her confidence, but the weight in his chest left no room for words. He simply nodded.
They sat in silence, the air heavy with thoughts none of them spoke. Time crept on, the night passing until Draco began to hear the tell-tale ‘pops’ of apparitions outside the manor, followed by hurried voices and the sharp crack of splintering wood as the front door was blasted from its hinges.
Draco winced as Narcissa’s grip on his hand tightened like a vice.
The drawing room erupted with shouts as Aurors flooded in, wands raised, robes swirling in the firelight. Rough hands seized Draco’s arms and hauled him to his feet. He didn’t resist. As they dragged him from the room, his mind went mercifully still. This, he knew, was the beginning of the end.