Compared to what I've done lately, I know that this is a really short chapter, but it didn't seem right to make it longer or attach anything to it.

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The ride home was quiet. Unnerving, really. His father simply sat there, looking straight ahead firmly, grasping his cane with such determination that it looked like his hands were cramping. He did not look out the window, did not even look at his son. Just straight ahead.

Scorpius, long-ago trained on how to react with his father, mirrored him. He did not watch London slowly melt away, did not gaze out the window to watch the English countryside that he so loved bleed into view. Like a dutiful son, he kept his eyes forward and his stature stiff. He was not going to show fear. He was not going to flag.

It felt like hours before they reached the Malfoy Manor, a home that was considerably dank and cold compared to Hogwarts. There had been a time when Scorpius had been proud to call it home, but now he knew a prison when he saw it.

The car stopped. His father waited for the door to open, allowing himself to stretch out his legs and unfold, arching his cane out in front of him before taking a measured walk to the front door. It opened without assistance and Draco Malfoy, in all of his authoritative glory, eased through the front entryway as if he did not have a disobedient wretch of a son in need of discipline.

Draco disappeared into his study. Unbidden, Scorpius knew his place well enough to follow until told otherwise. Casting off his cloak, Draco marched behind his desk, taking great care before seating himself, as he always did. Scorpius advanced, standing rigidly in front of the desk.

Draco took out his pipe, lighting his match and drawing the flame into the bowl, allowing the tobacco in the pipe to flare into a dull ember. Taking a few mediated puffs, he leaned back. For the first time since King's Cross, he looked at his son.

Scorpius did his best to remain stoic and alert as his father contemplated him. The room began to fill with smoke and he fought back a cough. Stiffening his spine, he stood with his chin up and shoulders squared. At some point, his father would lash out, and he was going to take it like a man.

Draco sat back, inspected his son carefully. His eyebrows knitted together, as if Scorpius was a puzzle, or perhaps an enigma. There he stood, a ball of nervous tension, yet still and impatiently to bear his punishment and be done with it. The boy looked as if he were a badly compressed spring, waiting to snap.

Just a few moments longer, then.

It was when Scorpius began to unconsciously bite his lip and fidget did Draco speak.

"Up to your room. At dawn we leave for Albania."

That was all he said. And as soon as he said it, he took his pipe and left Scorpius alone in the study.