He stared at the cheerfully painted door. What would he say to his mother? How did he even feel about her, after everything that had happened? He had changed so much since the last time they had seen each other. No longer a blood purist – not even a little. And as much as Draco loved his mother, he resented her so fucking much now. The resentment coiled in twisty feelings that tainted the good things. He resented the way she and his father had raised him. The way she hadn’t protected him. The way she had just let his father take his fucking hand. Fuck. Fuck. The memory of that night erupted and made Draco feel sick and weak – he swayed on his feet, dizzy and pale, trying not to retch.