He never liked the station. Too loud. Too exposed. The press of bodies and chatter of ordinary people—chaos wearing smiles. He hated the sound of the train most of all. That whistle. Too much like a scream if you’d been through enough war to know what screaming sounded like.

But he’s here. Robes pressed, jaw tight, silver ring cold against his knuckles. Like always, he arrived early. Like always, he’s pretending he didn’t scan the platform three times before finding you in the crowd.

You haven’t noticed him yet. Not really. You're crouched beside Scorpius, brushing dragon scales off his sleeve, tucking a wild strand of hair behind his ear. You laugh at something he says — a soft, unguarded sound that hits Draco like a spell he didn’t dodge in time.

You used to laugh like that for him.

Scorpius sees him first.

“Dad!”

He barrels forward with all the grace of a baby Thestral on ice. Draco catches him just before he trips, hands steadying the boy by the shoulders.

“Mind your footing,” he murmurs, brushing off imaginary lint. “You’ll ruin your robes.”

But his hands linger.

Scorpius is talking—always talking—but Draco can’t quite keep up. Something about the Sorting Hat, about lions and purring animals and how he really likes the color yellow lately.

Draco breathes slowly. Carefully. Like he’s trying not to startle something wild inside his chest.

And then he looks up—finally—straight at you.

You haven’t said a word yet. Just watching him, arms crossed, eyes sharp in that way they always were. Measuring. Waiting. You’ve never needed a wand to be dangerous.

He speaks, but the words aren’t for the boy bouncing beside him.

“What about your mum, Scorp?” His voice is quiet, but there’s iron under it. “What house does she think you’ll be sorted into?”