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Malfoy Manor is a paradise, iff it wants you there.
It's an old manor, see. The oldest, in fact: there's older buildings in Britain, such as Hogwarts, and older places, like the hill the Ollivanders live under, but there's not really older houses.(1) It's had dozens of generations of Malfoys live in it, in unbroken line from Armand, advisor to the Conqueror, and many of them deliberately improved the enchantments and wards, but some of them just lived there their whole lives, and that does some magic all its own. When you are the master of a house like this, you never trip down the stairs, the reference book you were looking for is always right to hand, the sun always shines just right through the windows to highlight your best features when you want to impress someone.
When you're the child of such a house, not yet its master, the conveniences are less insistently helpful (though the elves usually aren't), but the sense of belonging is not. The house wants you to love it, like a not quite animate stuffed animal auditioning for a spot on the permanent shelf instead of relegated to the nostalgia of youth. The flowers in the garden are always in view and never underfoot unless you want to walk through them; the fireplace is always the right temperature in your bedroom; the walking paths are all manageable distance for little legs, and the hedgerows are as impassible as forty-foot stone to wild animals that might even consider being less friendly than a decorative sparrow. The great white peacocks(2) strut about the gardens, rightly confident that no wolf has been permitted upon the grounds since approximately five minutes after Armand's wife Cateline raised the walls.
This ... mostly ... works, if your father is disappointed in you, so long as he hasn't actually disowned you yet.
You can kind of feel it, though.
(1) Grimmauld Place, nominative determinism notwithstanding, was built in the 18th century. Why can't anyone remember where the Black family lived before that? Don't worry about it! :)
(2) A creature roughly the size of an especially large ostrich; there's always somewhere between five and twenty of them, and this number is more or less uncorrelated to how many of them have been served for dinner recently. If you ask the kitchen elves how this works they will look at you rather like you just asked why the number of rain clouds there have been this year isn't related to the water pressure in the shower.
