Shadows of the Legacy

The night had fallen on Draco's laboratory like a thick mantle, where each shadow seemed to have a life of its own and the corners were consumed in an almost tangible darkness. The stone walls, worn out by time and silent witnesses of unspeakable secrets, seemed to murmur old legends. In that oppressive environment, Draco had held Orion's hand just for a moment, but the icy mark of contact persisted on his skin, like a footprint that refused to fade into the gloom.

"I'm not interested," Draco said in a harsh voice, trying, with each word, to reconstruct the distance he had created for years between his being and that of those who dared to approach.

Orion remained motionless, his silhouette trimmed by the hesitant light, watching him with an imperturbable calm that was almost unbearable. His patience was, for Draco, like the imminent arrival of a storm that, sooner or later, would shatter all defenses.

"If that were true," Orion replied with unusual softness, "you would not have remained silent.

The comment swent deep into Draco. A familiar knot tightened in his stomach at the thought that Orion could read the cracks in the armor that, with so much effort, he had erected over the years. With clenched fists and a forced breath, his gaze turned to the ring resting on the table, that dark object that had become the epicenter of his obsession.

The silence spread, as dense as an impenetrable fog, and the room seemed to shrink, as if the walls themselves wanted to conspire against him. Finally, with a sharp tone that did not admit replicas, Orion added:

—We have work to do.

That conversation was suspended in the air, an invisible edge that threatened to hurt at the right time, while Draco left the laboratory with his soul torn by memories and uncertainty.

When he returned to his home, the atmosphere did not offer him any comfort. The image of the ring, resting on the table with the engraved snakes that seemed to move with the light, settled in his mind. The surface of the metal, bathed in an opaque glow, evoked the throbbing of a hidden life, as if those reptilian figures breathed in unison with their anguish.

During the last week, reality had fragmented before his eyes. On nights when silence became absolute, he swore to hear his name whispered in the gloom, an ethereal voice that slid through the corridors of time. As he walked through the corridors of his home, the image in the mirrors seemed to take an instant to reflect his movements, as if time itself hesitated before the presence of something emassible.

That night, Draco refused to leave the studio. With the fireplace lit and his wand always at hand, he indulged in a ritual of containment: he poured a glass of whiskey, hoping that the liquor would dispate, at least for a moment, the oppression that squeezed his chest. He watched the amber liquid dance to the beat of the flames and, in that distorted reflection, he thought he glimpsed a furtive movement.

He blinked. The image faded, but the chill persisted, running down his back with the intensity of an omen.

The sound of footsteps, slow and dragged, interrupted his thoughts. They came from behind him, and instinct dictated that he should not turn around, that shaping what lurked in the dark would only increase his terror. However, curiosity, mixed with panic, forced him to turn his head.

Before his eyes, the room was empty; however, the air had become hopelessly colder, impregnated with a presence that he could not identify. A dull heartbeat resounded in his temples, accompanied by a vague and disturbing memory, like an echo of the past that refused to dissipate. With one hand, he passed his forehead in a gesture of exhaustion—he was simply tired.

Determined to leave that den of concerns, he left the glass on the desk and prepared to leave the studio. But when he took a step, his reflection in the window caught his attention: there, in the glass, his image had remained static, without accompanying his movements. For a moment, his other self seemed to fix his gaze on his back, and, in a macabre gesture, he sketched a smile that froze the blood in his veins.

Puzzled, Draco turned abruptly, wand in hand, to face what he believed to be a threat. The room was momentarily flooded with light as he conjured a spell of revelation, but there was nothing. Only the echo of his own fear and the certainty that something was lurking him in the trumbre.

Then, a murmur slipped between the whispers of silence:

"Dad."

The word, pronounced with an innocence that contrasted brutally with the oppressive atmosphere, made Draco's heart stop in his tracks. For an eternal instant, his mind refused to recognize the figure that materialized on the threshold. The silhouette, illuminated by the faint glow of his wand, advanced slowly and, despite the doubt, showed familiar features. But in that state of delirium, his mind hesitated, refusing to connect the image with his own flesh.

With an imperceptible tremor, Draco raised his wand again, ready to attack that aberrant vision. The figure stopped, and with a voice loaded with an urgent plea, he repeated:

"Dad, what are you doing?"

The trembling spell that danced on the tip of his wand seemed ready to destroy what the mind considered unreal. It was then that, in the blink of an eye, the terror dissolved in a torrent of relief and shame:

Scorpio.

His son, whose face so similar to his, who kept the same gray eyes but with darker blond hair, burst into the gloom. The possibility of having attacked that innocent being hit him like a punch in the chest, and the wand fell from his hands, releasing the magic contained in a tremor of remorse.

"What are you doing awake?" Draco asked in a rough voice, marked by inner conflict.

The boy, with an intense and somewhat puzzled look, replied:

"I heard you walk." And talk.

A chill ran down the back of Draco's neck. With a forced voice, he tried to silence his own fears:

"It was just a bad dream."

But Scorpius, with a seriousness that denied his tender appearance, crossed his arms and, with a calm that reminded him of those inescapable truths, added:

"It wasn't just a dream."

The weight of those words sank into Draco, momentarily collapsing the facade that he had so determined to build. The boy continued:

"I don't want you to be like this." I don't want you to be... alone.

The impact of that confession, pure and sincere, made him stop the torrent of his internal anger. With a gesture of resignation, Draco closed his eyes and, after an instant of internal struggle, sketched a weak forced smile:

"I'm not alone," he murmured, trying to convince himself, although uncertainty continued to nest in his soul.

Frowning, Draco replied:

"Come here."

The boy hesitated for a brief second before approaching. Upon contact, Draco felt the real and tangible warmth of his son's hair and skin, an irrefutable reminder of the life that lived in him and that, despite all the shadows, was not mere illusion.

"I'm fine, Scorpius," he whispered, trying to silence the fears that still vibrated in every corner of his mind.

"Yes... if you weren't, you would tell me, right?" the boy asked with a mixture of innocence and melancholy.

A pang of guilt and hopelessness took hold of Draco. With a voice that tried to be firm, he replied:

"Yes," he lied, knowing that the truth was a weight that he could never let go.

After that brief interaction, Scorpius withdrew, and Draco watched him walk away down the corridor, until the silence, dense and oppressive, claimed the stay again. With his gaze fixed on the open door, he understood, with almost unbearable certainty, that the presence of those shadows and ghosts of his past would not dissipate so easily.

Reluctantly, Draco turned off the light of his study and left the room, closing the door behind him as if it were a ritual to lock up what he could not understand. When he arrived in his room, he lay down on the bed, trying to drown in his sleep the cacophony of memories and hallucinations that besieged him.

As the night lengthened, his mind inevitably ramed towards Orion Graves. There was something in the unwavering calm of that old friend, in the way his eyes seemed to penetrate the surface of the chaos, which attracted him with an inexplicable force. Orion was not the ostentatious archetype of the heir of pure blood; his discretion and insight made him an enigma, a refuge in the midst of the whirlwind of betrayals.

Memories of furtive nights at Hogwarts, of silent walks through stone corridors and barely whispered conversations, flooded Draco's mind. Those hours stolen from the war and the weight of family expectations were the only backwater where the true essence of his being had dared to show itself. One night, in the Astronomy Tower, under the heavy rain, Orion had asked in a serene voice:

"Do you think that one day we can be what we want to be?"

The answer, brief and bitter, had been:

"No."

But Orion, with a determination that defied logic, had replied:

"I think so."

That promise, as faint as the glow of a candle in the dark, had been sealed in Draco's memory, marking him in a way that still tormented him.

At dawn, when he arrived at his laboratory, he found Orion already present, with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and that expression of unwavering calm that was always as irritating as it was necessary. Between replies and silences, Orion dared to ask:

"What's stopping you, Draco?"

Draco was silent at the aurore's question. Not because he had no answer, but because he knew that any word he said would be a betrayal of someone: to the version of himself that he had tried to change, or to the one that he still clung to the shadow of his roots.

He could tell himself that he had changed. That the war had taught him to see the world with different eyes, that he was no longer the arrogant boy who despised others for his lineage. But deep down, he had not stopped being a Malfoy. He continued to protect what was left of his name, making sure that Scorpius had a place in a world that once belonged to his own. He still believed, even in secret, that his son deserved more than the others.

Scorpius was the reason for his change, but also the reason for his resistance. For him he had put aside the arrogance and contempt for others, but also for him he clung to the legacy of the Malfoys, to the idea that he should preserve his legacy, his lineage, his status. Not because he believed that blood mattered, but because he could not allow his son to grow up without the same shield that protected him.

If Draco abandoned everything that had defined him in the past, what would remain of him? Who would Scorpius be without the story that preceded him?

He looked up at Orion, who watched him with the severity of a man who already knew the answer to his own question. But Draco didn't say it out loud. He simply closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sigh. After a moment of introspection, the truth emerged, almost unintentionally:

"Scorpius."

The name, pronounced with a vulnerability that made his voice tremble, was the tacit confession that, despite all his efforts to keep the shadows of the past at bay, his son was the only lighthouse in the dark that he never wished to lose.

Orion frowned.

"Your son?"

Draco nodded slowly. The pressure in his throat was suffocating, a dense and tight knot.

"He's the only really good thing I've done in my life." I don't want to give you reasons to be ashamed of me.

Orion looked at him in disbelief.

"And do you think there's something about you that should embarrass him?"

A chill crawled down Draco's back, icy and persistent.

"I don't know what he would look like."

Orion was silent for a moment. His expression was inscrutable, his shadow elongated on the floor as if the fire of the fireplace burned in an impossible direction.

"Let me tell you something, Draco." His voice descended to a harsh, vibrant whisper, as if it were filtering between the walls. What your child thinks of you should not depend on what you fear, but on what you choose to be.

Draco looked away, but something was wrong. The air seemed to become denser, more sticky. The light from the fireplace flickered, and for a moment, the room seemed to melt into liquid shadows.

"You don't understand."

Orion let out a sigh, almost exasperated.

"No?" And what about me? Do you think I didn't have to face the same thing?

Draco looked at him, surprised, but then he felt it. Something was crawling under his skin. At first, it was a dull heat, then an unbearable burning, he looked down at his hands and his mouth dried up, his palms were red. No. Not red, open, the flesh was torn apart, as if someone had torn off the skin and exposed the tense muscles and pale bones. Hot blood dripped between his fingers, dark and sticky, splashing the tiles. A dizziness hit him. His pulse rumbled in his ears like a distant drum.

"They didn't take it well," Orion continued, with the same indifference as always. But in the end, they understood that it was my life.

Draco tried to speak, but his own breath seemed distant, alien, as if it no longer belonged to him.

His ribs were burning.

Something was moving inside him.

A second later, his stomach was torn.

He choked a scream when he felt his insides collapse out of his body. The sound was wet, viscous, a warm splash against the ground. A red torrent spread through his boots, spreading like a spot of live ink.

Trembling, he looked up.

Orion watched him with the same calm as always, his face barely curved in a smile.

"If Scorpius loves you," he whispered, "he will understand.

Draco blinked.

And everything disappeared.

The blood. The wounds. The pain.

There were only Orion, the crackling fireplace and the room in dim light.

Draco took a trembling hand to his stomach.

The skin was intact.

No.

Sticky.

He looked at the palm.

A trail of blood.

Orion watched him in silence, expectant.

Draco didn't say anything.

Because deep down, I knew it.

The fear that had ruled him all his life was nothing more than that; fear.

And in the end, the only thing that was really destroying it...

It was himself.