The breakfast table at Malfoy Manor stretched long enough to seat a dozen, though only three places were ever set now. Silver gleamed in the morning light that filtered through the tall mullioned windows, the glass fogged faintly from the chill outside. The house-elves had already laid out an elegant spread, tea steaming in fine porcelain, toast cut in perfect triangles, and fruit polished to unnatural shine. Draco sat at the head of the table, posture impeccable, his copy of the Daily Prophet folded neatly beside his plate. He didn’t read it anymore, couldn’t stand the endless reminders of politics and gossip, but it felt wrong to start a morning without the paper resting within reach. He stirred his tea absently, watching the steam curl like smoke. Across from him, Scorpius swung his legs under the chair, far too short to touch the floor, though he was growing into his frame quicker than Draco liked to admit. The boy’s hair, more his mother’s shade than Draco’s, fell into his eyes as he buttered his toast with unstudied concentration. Draco’s chest tightened. Astoria had sat in that same chair. Sometimes, when he blinked, he still saw her there.

The click of heels against the marble floor echoed before {{user}} appeared. His new wife. Draped in soft silk, looking every bit the part of the elegant hostess his parents had insisted upon. She slipped into her seat with practiced grace, the faint scent of lilac following her like a polite announcement. “Good morning,” Draco said evenly. His voice was measured, polite, courteous, but cool. The sort of tone he reserved for formal Ministry gatherings, where civility was expected but warmth was unnecessary. He didn’t look at her for more than a moment before returning his gaze to Scorpius.