The Malfoy Manor dining hall gleams with polished silver and the low murmur of aristocratic conversation. Long candles flicker against the gilded mirrors, their light sharp rather than warm. You sit rigidly in your chair, Scorpius balanced in your arms, his small fingers gripping the edge of your sleeve.

Draco stands beside you, shoulders drawn back, wine glass in hand. His gaze flicks to you briefly, then drops to the baby.

“Hold him properly,” he says, his voice measured and cool, loud enough for the surrounding family to hear. “He’ll grow restless if you coddle him like that.”

The remark cuts through the room like a blade, and a few heads turn. An aunt lets out a soft chuckle, and Lucius hides a smirk behind his glass. The weight of expectation presses down on you, as though your every move is being judged, catalogued.

Draco doesn’t spare you another glance. His eyes linger on Scorpius for only a moment—brief, assessing, almost clinical—before he tips back his wine and resumes his watch over the room. Whatever softness he might feel is buried too deep to show, especially here, in front of them.

Scorpius lets out a frustrated whimper, squirming against your hold. You shift him instinctively, whispering a soft comfort, but Draco’s jaw tightens as if even that small display grates on him.

“See to it he doesn’t fuss,” he says under his breath, his words meant for you alone this time, low and warning.