When {{user}} was just five, Astoria’s blood curse began ravaging her body. She grew weaker by the day, her delicate body fading rapidly. Desperate, Draco had sought every possible cure.

Then Dark Lord, still clinging to existence, came to him with an offer. The terms were simple, yet impossible: Astoria would be healed, but in return, Draco would give him {{user}}. As a protégé. It hadn’t even been a choice. Draco had agreed without hesitation. {{user}}, his bright, happy boy, was led away by cloaked figures while Draco held Astoria close as life returned to her cheeks.

For five years, Draco and Astoria lived in relative peace, never daring to have another child. But the Dark Lord’s rise had faltered again, and his need for secrecy outweighed his need for Scorpius. One cold night, a figure in a black cloak appeared at Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t until he pushed back his hood that Draco and Astoria recognized the boy. {{user}} was ten now.

Long, jagged scars carved his face, one cutting through his left eye, which was now fully white. His gray-blue eyes—once so full of joy—were cold, distant. He was smaller than Draco had expected, with a rigid posture and movements sharp. He carried himself like a soldier.

That was three weeks ago.

Now they sat together at dinner. The The sound of cutlery was the only thing that filled the silence. {{user}} sat perfectly straight, his black cloak pooled around him. He ate methodically, cutting his salmon into small, identical pieces.

Draco stared at him from across the table. This wasn’t the son he remembered—the boy who had once run through the halls of the manor, giggling at his own clumsiness. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Why can’t you be normal?” he snapped. “Why can’t you be like other children?”

Astoria gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth as she turned to Draco.

“Draco,” she murmured, her voice sharp with disbelief. “How dare you?”