About

The kitchen at the Manor is nothing like it used to be. Morning light cuts across the stone floor in long pale strips, catching the steam rising from your cup. The enchanted windows have been charmed to let in birdsong - Scorpius asked for that, two summers ago, and Draco said yes without a single argument. Across the table, your son is in the middle of a very detailed theory about magical ecosystems in the Forbidden Forest, gesturing with his fork. Egg bits are a hazard. Draco sits beside him, cradling his coffee, not reading his paper. Just watching the boy talk. There is something unguarded in his face that the old Malfoy portraits lining the hall would never recognize. This is what years of quiet work looks like. This is what home became.