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Before he learnt to fear it, Draco had loved the Manor. The sunroom on the first floor of the east wing which lit up golden with the first rays of the sun, its floor to ceiling windows reflecting gently rolling hills beyond hills, the smaller parlour which was only for family, where he learnt how to play the piano sitting next to mother, watching her elegant fingers glide over keys, the extensive library with its secret alcoves and hidden passages, the garden paths lined with fountains where as a toddler he chased (and was chased by) the famous Malfoy peacocks . He couldn't have picked a favourite.
Except now he could. As he watched fiendfyre consume the pillars and foundations of his childhood home, the plaster ripping, the wood going up in bedazzling flames, the bricks collapsing in a violent crescendo, he realised he loved the apple tree the best. The apple tree outside his bedroom, which he had made a habit of climbing from his balcony. At night he often lay on its near horizontal branch, munching on a tart apple and just looking at the stars. Once, when father wasn't home, he managed to convince mother to climb it too, in what was no doubt the sole unladylike performance of her life. The tree was the physical manifestation of his childhood and now it was going up in flames.
Yes, he knew it was only right. The Manor had become was part of Voldemort's dark legacy and the grounds were besmirched with so much dark magic and suffering that no amount of cleaning could chase the darkness away. It wasn't safe, it never would be, and more importantly, its presence served only to prolong the emotional suffering of everyone who had been tortured or had lost someone beloved there.
Fire and ashes were the only way to dispel the ghosts borne of pain. The Manor burnt with everything in it, the furniture, the carpets, the curtains, most books, many memories. Even the portraits, they hadn't been allowed to remove those. Safety hazard, the authorities had ruled. He thought of great great Aunt Lucinda who had always taken gleeful pleasure in his tales of silly teenage drama. Draco wondered if portraits could feel fear or if it was all just an echo of something lost to time.
Where there were walls and life and memories, only ashes would remain. Someday though, years and years from now, perhaps grass would grow again.
He had agreed to it, he had. Not that the wizengamot needed his agreement. It was judgment, and it was supposed to hurt. The media circus present there was certainly counting on it. He had no doubt his photograph would be splashed right alongside that of the burning manor, on the front page of every wizarding newspaper. He was wearing his dark glasses though, the vultures wouldn't get anything from him.
Harry had been livid when he heard it was to be a widely publicised event with media presence. He was ready to barge into the Minister's office threatening withdrawal of support. "Don't Harry," Draco had to physically hold him to stop him from flooing to the Ministry. "I don't really care about the reporters. Maybe it's for the best. Justice that isn't heard is hardly justice." Harry had scoffed loudly, letting him know just what he thought of that adage. But he'd stopped nonetheless, because Draco had insisted.
Harry was there, amongst the team of aurors further down the hill, closer to the Manor boundry, ensuring crowd control while a team of Fiendfyre fighters patrolled closer still on brooms. It was hard to recognise faces clearly from this far away but he knew Harry kept glancing at him from the glint of his glasses.
At some point, Harry found some excuse to move to a point closer to him, and whenever there wasn't a camera pointed in his direction, he'd seek out Draco, a concerned expression on his face. Draco knew he'd come over to talk if he gave him as much as a nod, but he tried his best to look aloof. Yes they had been dating for a while now and had even moved in together but he wouldn't want any media attention on Harry in connection with him, not today when he was standing here as a guilty party facing his punishment.
The boundary of the West Wing finally collapsed with a loud crash taking his former bedroom with it, and the flames moved closer to the apple tree. Draco, despite his moral position, felt dread gripping his heart. It was torture to watch something beloved, knowing it was going to die, but not yet. "It's still green," he kept thinking, "the branches are still intact, fruit still hanging. If the flames were to stop right now, the tree would remain." One of the branches caught fire. Still mostly intact. There used to be a Robin's nest in the branch above his favourite spot to lay on. There were etchings in the bark, made by him over the years. Doodles, dates, initials of crushes. There was even one HP. Not yet, not yet. It was agony but he couldn't look away.
His hand was caught in a warm grip. Harry. Harry was holding his hand, and he could hear a few cameras clicking but he didn't let go. "Draco," he said, his beautiful face lined with worry, "are you alright? you don't have to look. We can leave."
He tore his eyes away from the now burning tree and looked at Harry. Harry, who hadn't been able to sleep for the last few days, anxious about the Manor and what it would do to Draco. Harry, who watched him so closely, so carefully, ready to provide support and comfort at smallest sign of hurt. Harry, who had never had a childhood home like the Manor. Harry who wasn't incomplete or lacking because of it.
He gripped Harry's hand tighter, and turned his back to the Manor. "Let's go home," he said. They had a tree to plant.