He’d crawled out of his hole in the wall for a drink, for something strong and warm to ease hid mind if only for a few hours. He’d been staying in an inn—a nice inn—but an inn nonetheless, and while it was well kept and quiet most of the time, it didn’t resemble home in any way, shape or form. Draco appreciated that the couple who ran the place left him alone and that they didn’t mind when he came and went, no matter how late or early the hour. But he missed the manor. He missed baby Scorpius in his cradle and Astoria rushing to sooth him when he cried, humming lullabies, swaying back and forth.
He wasn’t happy about being here. Nothing was as it should have been. His parents, barely old enough to be called adults. His son, already grown. Long dead family members he felt nothing for and didn’t wish to see or get to know. The knowledge that his wife would die young. Nott and his unchanged ideals and his hatred for Draco and his family and the fact that he couldn’t even really blame him for how he felt.
Moving too fast, not paying attention, Draco knocked shoulders with somebody. He was prepared to apologize when he heard Nott’s voice and swallowed the words back down and closed his mouth fast.
Draco took in the sight of him, dull-eyed and seemingly so uninterested that he couldn’t be bothered to muster up a quick, impudent retort. His hands in the pockets of his navy blue jacket, he took a step back and shrugged nonchalantly. “Obviously,” he replied, flippant as could be. “You should watch your mouth. I could’ve been an old lady.”