from Grimmauld Place. There wasn't a reporter in sight.
Potter was a excellent flier, Draco had to admit. Much better than when they had been children.
Potter also happened to be wrong.
They were not exactly the same size, judging from the fact that Potter's flying robes were a little on the short side.
**
Coming home shouldn' t have felt like this, thought Draco. Especially not coming to his home. Merlin, he was actually nervous.
He hovered for a moment, flexing his gloved hands. Draco could not recall the last time he had suffered sweaty palms. And this was despite the stingingly cold, country air. He has flown low over the bordering village of Thimble Creek, below the cover of shadowy frost and mist and marvelled at what looked to be a tenfold increase in its previously tiny population.
With Lucius gone, magic had been restored to the community and its inhabitants could now make a living again. The old residents must have come back. Either that or new magical folk had chosen to settle there.
There was a brand new village green and several merchant dwellings. Draco could make out new cottages on the outskirts. Everywhere he looked, there were people starting their work for the day.
There were also children. Draco could barely recall the last time he had seen children in Thimble Creek. As he flew, he felt like an interloper, a part of the estate's dark and depressing past.
It felt almost wrong to return.
For a moment, something young and afraid in him briefly sparked and he nearly turned back. But there was nowhere to go back to.
Then, over the treetops he caught sight of Malfoy Manor proper and very easily squashed that old urge. He touched down completely silently just beyond the main, iron gates and spent a moment just staring.
Despite it being winter, it was green The trees were bare, but the twin row of manicured hedges that bordered the long path leading to the bisected front steps of the house was vibrant and healthy. Draco savoured the sight as one only could after spending as much time in barren desert as he had.
Pansy certainly kept good house.
He removed his wand and touched the gate with it. It swung open smoothly and silently. Rust and corrosion was now a part of its recent history. He slung his broom over his shoulder and started walking, sharp gravel crunching under his booted feet.
The Manor itself had received a fresh coat of paint. Draco could not help but be amused by the fact that not even an industrial strength white-washing was enough to remove the gothic oppressiveness of the place. The house still had a character all its own. The roof and window frames had been mended, the glass-paned windows scrubbed free of grime.
And as he reached the central entrance, which was flanked by thick, white pillars, he could see that the marble had been polished and restored and the enormous brass dragon knockers on the front doors gleamed at him.
Dejavu hit, strong and hard. He recalled the last time he had stood on that same doorstep, feeling a different measure of discomfort at the prospect of informing his father about his ill-fated marriage to Hermione.
Hermione had stood at his side, scared, brave, dishevelled, beguiling. Resilient in the face of their predicament and na?ve enough to believe that Draco's presence alone would keep her safe from all manner of evil. Lucius Malfoy or otherwise.
He really ought to have held her hand.
Draco used the knocker and waited. It didn't take long. There was the staccato of footsteps behind the door and then it was wrenched open. Pansy stood there, immaculately dressed in deep purple robes.
She didn't look in the least bit surprised to see him standing there.
"About time," Pansy said and then she threw herself into his arms.
**
"Ahem."
Draco looked over the top of Pansy's dark head and observed a skinny, dark-haired, young man glowering at them from the foot of the staircase. He was wielding a feather duster, although from the mood of the situation it might as well have been a machete.
A sniffling Pansy extricated herself from Draco's light embrace and beamed up at him with moist, blue eyes.
And then she punched him hard, in the arm.
"I could kill you for all the worry you put me through!"
"Take a number," Draco muttered, rubbing his bicep. "Who is that?" he inclined his chin at the still glowering young man, who seemed intent on witnessing what Pansy might have preferred to be a private moment.