Bluebells in Spring [Malfoys x OC]

Chapter 9: Draco

"I'm sorry, Father. The flobberworm was Albus's idea. We both did horrible on the last Arithmancy test. He said she marked too harshly and we deserved a better grade..."

Draco paused and looked back at his son. He saw Scorpius, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, standing in the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and was struck by memories of when his own father had visited the school when he was a boy. Draco made sure to keep his tone neutral and his gaze soft.

"That may be true, but nobody wants to come back to a flobberworm on their desk," he said, "Next time, just try and focus harder on your studies. Improve yourself instead of hindering others."

Scorpius nodded, his eyes analyzing the details of the flagstone floor. Draco could feel the distance between them, and he tried to reach across it.

"And don't worry about the grades. Repeating third year means you'll be old enough to buy fire whiskey in your final year. That'll make you popular."

Scorpius blinked and then gave him a faint smile.

"Thanks, Father... I'll try harder."

Draco nodded and then gestured down the hall.

"Best be off," he said, "You've got Charms, if I'm not mistaken."

Scorpius nodded and turned away.

"I'll see you after term, Father." He waved and hurried off.

Draco returned his wave, though Scorpius didn't see it. He stood there, watching after his son, and listened to the distant hum of students and staff in classes throughout the old school. He was glad that such normalcy had returned to these halls.

Draco turned on his heel and made his way through the castle. He didn't pay particular attention to where he was going. He should have.

He stepped off a staircase and drew up short. He found himself standing at the doors to the Great Hall. They were closed, as supper wasn't for a few hours. The last time he'd seen those proud doors, they'd been blown off their hinges and the Hall had been filled with rows of dead bodies.

His tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth.

Draco quickened his pace, making his way down the steps and out into the Entrance Hall. He hand sprang up to grip his forearm. He made it to the courtyard before his feet jerked to a stop once more.

The clear afternoon air suddenly became smoky and heavy in his lungs. He swore he heard the crack of breaking stone, and the bang and sizzle of curses flying overhead. But a few frantic glances showed nothing but an empty courtyard on a beautiful spring morning.

Draco knew it was all in his head, but that didn't release the tightness in his chest or banish the scent of death from his nostrils. His arm began to itch.

It had been a foolish thing, on his part, to avoid returning here for so long. It was inevitable that the memories would rise again. But he hadn't thought it would be this bad. He wished he had walked faster. He wished he hadn't seen the Great Hall. He wished he hadn't come back to the battleground that was still so fresh in his mind, even after all these years.

A small intake of breath yanked him violently back to the present. Draco's head snapped around, his eyes wide and his fingers frozen in the act of clawing at his forearm. In a split second he went from abject panic, to welcomed recognition, to gut-wrenching shame. Cordelia Smith was standing there, a bulging bag slung over her shoulder and her dark hair tumbling around her face in loose waves. Her gaze was fixed on his hands. Draco looked down. His nails were dark with blood. He quickly shoved the sleeve of his robes back down.