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Shards of broken glass crunch under Draco's feet. It is the sound of defeat, but impossible to avoid, since almost every inch of the Manor's floors are covered as if the glass splinters had fallen like snow. Outside it is almost summer, but inside, it is a dark winter morning.
Aurors and self-appropriated Ministry officials invaded the Manor the day after the battle in an effort to collect evidence, while the Malfoys were still at Hogwarts in the maelstrom that followed Potter's defeat of the Dark Lord. After the first war, the Ministry had been plagued by a lack of knowledge of who were in league with the Dark Lord and who were merely his pawns. Draco scoffs at the notion that there was a single witch or wizard who wasn't a pawn for the Dark Lord. Still the Ministry, in hopes of being better prepared for the second reconstruction, raided the Manor and left behind a trail of destruction. It is almost too painful to look at, but Draco forces himself to examine the carnage and commit it to memory. Something deep inside tells him that he must, if he is to carry on.
The heathens showed not a shred of respect for the rich wizarding ancestry that they were ripping apart in the vain search for scraps of connection between the minions and the Dark Lord. Five-hundred-year-old tapestries hung in tatters, and not a single pane of glass or mirror survived. Precious family heirlooms were confiscated and many destroyed, probably without the Ministry stooges even knowing what they were.
His Manor, the centerpiece of his prestigious birthright, has been desecrated and looks more like a battlement than his ancestral home. At least they had left it standing. His mother and father swear that they will restore the Manor and the Malfoy name to their former position in society. The first can be accomplished with time, Galleons, and magic. The second promise rings hollow. It is an insurmountable task and Draco thinks his parents fools for even suggesting it. They cling to the past like the remnants of the shredded portraits cling to their canvases – ghosts of the past not willing to surrender their mark on this earth.
As Draco surveys the world outside his broken window, he is amazed by the serenity and beauty of the landscape despite the fact that the world outside is as shattered as the inside of his Manor. The world as he knew it is gone, and the same wizards who have defiled his beloved home will be leading the reconstruction of wizarding Britain. The thought sends a shiver straight down Draco's spine. It is followed by a numbness that feels like paralysis in the face of adversity. How can he begin anew? What is left besides these walls, as scarred and damaged as he is?
The sun shines on Draco's face, and he allows himself a few precious seconds to close his eyes and savor the warmth. Tomorrow he will ask Mother to take him to France to buy a new wand. Hope courses through his veins with the determination of a first step. The first step is always the hardest, but it is a wand that he will need to commence his journey, and he has no choice but to put one foot in front of the other and begin.
