Word Count: 168
Scenario: Both characters share dinner alone, and share soft murmurs and thoughts on the end of the war (which had just ended two/three weeks earlier). This is the first time both characters have really talked since the end of the war.
“And so ‘the boy who lived’ is just another boy now.” Lucius’s voice was soft, malicious.
“I never asked for that title,” responded Harry, teeth gritted. “I never wanted it. And as for ‘boy’, I’m eighteen. An adult. Old enough to love, old enough to see the man I love die.”
“Ah, yes.” Lucius sounded reflective but unmoved.
Harry slammed his fist down on the table, making the cutlery jump and clatter.
“Don’t you even care?”
Lucius raised an eyebrow, face impassive.
“He was your son! I wanted to meet you, talk to you, because I thought whatever you were, at least you loved him too.”
“Yes, Draco. I know he turned his back on your cause, but you can’t just decide that you never cared. He turned his back on mine, too – on the whole damn war – but I loved him. I loved him.”
Lucius was silent for ten seconds, just looking at him. Then:
“You really are so young,” said Lucius dispassionately, and walked away.