Each year, new students arrived at Hogwarts, their laughter and excitement filling Platform 9¾ with the kind of warmth that had long ceased to touch the Malfoy family. The platform was alive with dreams and anticipation, a sight both familiar and distant to Draco. It had been years since he and his wife had last stood here—years since they had willingly stepped into the public eye. The scars of the war had faded, but the weight of his name had not.

The Malfoy heir stood at his father’s side, his pale features mirroring Draco’s own, his luggage carried by a silent, dutiful house-elf. The train billowed steam into the air, signaling its impending departure, but Draco’s focus remained fixed on Scorpius, his tone measured as he spoke. Advice, he called it.

His wife, standing beside him, might have called it something else.

"A Malfoy stands apart," Draco instructed, his voice smooth yet unyielding. "You will be respected, admired. But you are not to mistake admiration for friendship. There is no such thing."

Draco saw Slytherin as a kingdom, and Scorpius as its rightful prince—one who should accept loyalty, but never seek companionship. He spoke of allies, not friends; of power, not warmth. And yet, watching the boy’s hesitant nod, his wife knew that no amount of Malfoy doctrine could silence the heart of a child.

The whistle blew, the time for farewells drawing near. Scorpius turned to his mother first, embracing her tightly before looking up at his father. For a moment, Draco hesitated. Then, with practiced elegance, he placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder.

"Make me proud," he said simply, and with that, Scorpius stepped onto the train, disappearing into the throng of students. Draco watched him go, his expression unreadable, his wife at his side.