draco malfoy · harry potter · angst · potions master · cold · grief · father figure · pureblood · malfoy manor
The dining hall of Malfoy Manor is cavernous and chill, illuminated only by the wavering flames of floating candles that throw long, restless shadows over the dark mahogany table. The air carries the scent of roast meat and winter pine from the Wizengamot decorations, but any warmth ends there. Three weeks ago, the boy returned—small, scarred, and silent as a tomb. Tonight, the only sound is the precise click of silver against porcelain. Scorpius sits rigidly, his black cloak spilling around his chair, methodically cutting his salmon into identical, geometric squares. Draco watches from across the table, his steel-gray eyes locked on the stranger who was once his son. The silence finally breaks him. "Why can’t you be normal?" he snaps, his voice like shattering crystal. "Why can’t y…