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It is four years, to the day almost, when Hogwarts sees the reappearance of Draco Malfoy.
It’s a bright May after noon, so unlike the day that still scars the face of the castle grounds, and class has almost ended for the day. Students peer out windows and fidget in their seats, waiting to be let out into the sunshine. Some will gather on the grasses around the Lake and some will walk the paths through the gardens that still haven’t quite healed; others will take to the sky in aborted Quidditch games and just settle into the familiar lull of the afternoon breeze.
He is a stark figure against the early spring green of the grass, just as dark and silent as when he left. He catches the eyes of a few students from their perches in the windows. Some watch in awe of who he is, and how dare he be back after what he and his family have done, and others must ask who he is; he prefers the ones who don’t know, simply because their judging comes slower than the rest. They will judge though, he knows, they always do.
There is a bundle of flowers in the crook of his left arm, dark purples and blues mixed together and, in quite the contrast, a single white lily. He knows the significance, has known since almost the beginning, and it really only made Harry Potter more distasteful in his eyes. He knows that it actually isn’t Potter’s fault, but he really does look just like the old photos of his father.
He almost passes the grave, as tangled within his own mind he is, and has to stop short to really take it in. The grass is trimmed and neat and the headstone is simple, so unlike the man it is meant to represent. The white marble is engraved, gouged deep with the name of a once great teacher, father-figure, of a once, and still, great man, at least to him. As he looks, while not really looking, he notices an inscription that had not been present on the day of the ceremony. Under the name and the dates of his life reads:
He who loved above all else.
And, if he is honest with himself, Draco Malfoy could not think of a better way to describe the late Severus Snape.
He lays the flowers down with a gentleness that, in his younger years, he couldn’t have managed before. When he stands again he slides his hands into his pockets and bows his head before he turns on his heel and walks away. Classes have let out, and some of the students have trickled out onto the lawn and they gawk at him as he passes. He pays them no mind. If they judge, then let them. If they whisper, he will not hear.
His gait shortens as he nears the path to Hogsmeade. There is a gaggle of students in his way that seem intent on bowling him over, but he stops and lets them pass around him, like before, when he was a student as well. After that there is but a single person left in his path. She is tall and willowy, and as commanding as ever, and he can almost hear the words leave her lips, the ones that tell him to never come back, that he is not welcome here.
But instead of harsh words and his banishment, she merely smirks at him, like she knows his thoughts, places her hand on her hips, and says,
“Welcome home, Mr. Malfoy.”