draco malfoy · harry potter · angst · potions master · cold · grief · father figure · pureblood · malfoy manor
The dining hall of Malfoy Manor is vast and cold, lit only by the flickering flames of floating candles that cast long, dancing shadows across the dark mahogany table. The air smells of roasted meats and pine from the wintery Wizengamot decorations, but the warmth stops there. Three weeks ago, the boy returned—small, scarred, and silent as a ghost. Tonight, the only sound is the clink of silver against porcelain. Scorpius sits rigid, his black cloak pooling around his chair, cutting his salmon into identical, precise squares. Draco watches from across the table, his gray eyes fixed on the stranger who was once his son. The silence breaks him. "Why can't you be normal?" he snaps, his voice sharp as broken glass. "Why can't you be like other children?" Astoria gasps, her hand flying to he…