Chapter 1: Prologue: Starfall
Chapter Text
But everything dies, even the stars. After all, it is their destiny to collapse.
They stand silently upon the hill, staring out into the rain illuminated silver against the darkening afternoon. The girl is holding a bouquet of wilting flowers, the delicate yellow petals tearing under the heavy weight of water.
The boy holds nothing, not even her hand.
She speaks. "Aren't you going to ask me?"
"Ask you what?"
"To marry you."
The boy gazes down at the endless train tracks, the silent and solemn crowds waiting. They're a black blur. Black for mourning. Their faces gleam.
"No."
The girl turns to him sharply, petals falling like confetti. Anger radiates from her trembling hands, her mouth small and hurt.
"Nobody else is going to marry you. Who wants to marry a Death Eater?"
The boy says nothing, although his face tightens subtly as if a door has slammed shut somewhere in his mind. He turns from her and strides away.
"Stop! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" She gives chase, dropping her flowers, but it's too late even as she calls his name across the valley. "Draco! Come back!"
Around the corner, the scarlet train sounds its horn. The students neither cheer nor hurry. They simply line the platforms like winter-worn ghosts, their faces heavy with strange burdens.
On the hill, the yellow flowers lay crushed into mud.
And the taillights fade to black.
That's what he remembered most. The taillights fading. It was raining that day, everything just a blur of dull colours. The dark slate of rain on asphalt. The brown buildings, the miserable faces. The red of the car lights as they faded into the distance.
He was seventeen years old. They put him on a chair in the middle of an enormous room. The stern faces gazed upon him as his crimes were read out. He could hear his mother weeping.
War profiteering. Accessory to murder, unlawful imprisonment, torture, persecution of any identifiable group, enforced disappearances of persons.
War crimes.
Crimes against humanity.
It was hard to see. He blinked a lot. The silent faces lined the room. Most of them were expressionless. Watching. Waiting.
It all looked so dramatic in the papers: Evidence Seized! Death Eaters Caught! The Victims, The Terror, The Justice! But it was just days of dry paper and muted whispering, of people clearing their throat, and him, sitting in that chair, waiting and waiting and waiting.
Justice wasn't particularly grand or spectacular. He had an excellent lawyer who spoke sorrowfully of his young and malleable mind, of the manipulations and blackmail he suffered through. It worked. He looked pathetically young and frightened, sitting alone in the centre of the room. He received a light sentence compared to the other Death Eaters. Compulsory enrolment in a pro-Muggle program. A list of conditions as long as his arm. No wand for a year. Supervised magic. Monitoring. Not to leave the country.
No; he wasn't given justice in the courtroom. Not in that enormous, dark room with its walls of expressionless faces. It looked a lot like justice — very serious, very intimidating — and you could be forgiven for thinking that the Wizengamot gave Draco Malfoy justice that day.
But, you see, he committed crimes against humanity.
And so humanity had to commit crimes against him.
The first started with the exclusion. Just as Draco had helped in separating the Muggleborns from the Purebloods, so the wizards and witches helped in excluding him from their kind. He heard the mutterings, saw the pointed fingers, the sneers and jeers and disgusted expressions. He grew to hate Diagon Alley, the shopkeepers who refused him service, the customers who scurried away.
And just as Draco had watched Voldemort murder their loved ones, so did the wizards and witches murder his. His father disappeared soon after the Battle of Hogwarts, effectively escaping justice; his mother, unable to cope with the family's fall from grace and her husband's unexplained absence, soon grew frail and small until one day her body just gave up.
And just as Draco had allowed the futures of the Muggleborns to be taken away, so did they take his. No witch would have him, no witch would touch him.
Except Astoria Greengrass. His saving grace. He remembered her from Hogwarts as a pretty and high-spirited girl, and when she began courting him he was ecstatic. A chance. Somebody was giving him a chance. He could marry and even have a family.
Of course, even this happiness was short-lived. Astoria's parents made no secret of their disapproval of the engagement, and in retrospect Draco thinks maybe they were right to hate him. Because Astoria, so happy and carefree in their early days of courtship, soon grew small and exhausted, worn away by her association with a Malfoy. To Draco, the whispered insults and contemptuous expressions were familiar, a daily routine. But to Astoria — the graceful daughter of the respectable Greengrass family — it was a nightmare. At first she was upset, dissolving into tears after being refused service in Diagon Alley or being spat upon as she walked through the Leaky Cauldron. And at first, she was consoled by Draco's assurance that it would get better But soon enough, anger began to overtake her bewildered hurt: anger at the shopkeepers, anger at the wizards and witches who treated her with such disdain, anger at everyone. Her family urged her to leave Draco; she argued bitterly with them and whenever she visited her mother, she came back in a state of despair. After one particularly volatile argument — the insults flying between Draco and Astoria, their raised voices echoing around the rooms of the manor — Astoria brought up Draco's old assurance of 'it gets better'. And, in an icy tone eerily reminiscent of a furious Lucius Malfoy, he elaborated: he never meant it stopped, just that it became easier to deal with.
And then, just as they were on the cusp of a monumental break-up, Astoria discovered she was pregnant. Certain judgements about family arrangements were still rife in the Pureblood community and Astoria's parents, horrified by the prospect of a child born from wedlock, were quick to rush Draco and Astoria into marriage.
They had a son, Scorpius, and they both promised each other they would try to patch things up, try to be better. And just for a moment, when Draco first held his son in his arms, it was all perfect.
But the crimes…
Draco withdrew from the world when Scorpius was five years and eight months old. Humanity finally paid him back. Humanity finally struck him down and considered its justice done.
Despite their promises of a better relationship for Scorpius's sake, it became apparent that neither of them were happy. Astoria genuinely tried. But the stress of it all — the angry wizards and witches, her furious family, the exhaustion of motherhood — it soon wore away the smiling Astoria he'd once fallen in love with. The arguments built up and crashed over and over, a ceaseless tide of bitterness: the way Draco never communicated with Astoria, just sat there stony-faced, or the way Astoria grew anxious over every little thing, or a thousand other little habits and flaws and mistakes.
One week before Draco's twenty-eighth birthday, Astoria declared Scorpius would never be a part of the wizarding world. Never, she said, would he ever know the hatred and resentment and long-held grudges that plagued the Malfoys. She would protect Scorpius from everything. If his Hogwarts letter ever came, she would tear it up.
Two weeks later, Draco served Astoria with divorce papers. A long and bitter legal battle ensued, both of them demanding sole custody of Scorpius.
Yes. That was where the real justice was meted out. In a very different courtroom to the one in which Draco had sat so many years ago as a terrified seventeen year old.
The family courts judge had looked at Draco. Draco knew him. He was a Muggleborn. His sister had been killed during Voldemort's purge.
Astoria was granted full custody of Scorpius. Draco was given Christmas and birthday visitation rights.
But this was his son. He had never known what it felt like to love something so much he'd die for it — until his son was born. And so he tried. Appeal after appeal. And he tried desperately to patch things up with Astoria. Some days, she was adamant that Draco wouldn't see Scorpius, alternating between tears and anger at the prospect of Scorpius ever being a part of the wizarding world. Other days, she seemed uncertain, a little lost, and miserably agreed it would be best to have some time to herself. Draco treasured those days. He would visit Astoria, leave with Scorpius, and spend the whole day with his son. They would go to the park, or to the zoo, and Scorpius would always request to spend just one more day with him. Just one more day.
But no. Scorpius always had to return to his mother's care at the end of the day.
And, six months after the divorce had been granted, Draco spent a fine summer day with his son. They visited a local park — Scorpius endlessly enjoying the playground — and afterwards, they went for a walk past the flowerbeds and rows of elm trees. Scorpius, complaining of tired legs, sat atop Draco's shoulders and became mesmerised by the hundreds of butterflies that flew around them. Can we come here again tomorrow? he asked.
We'll see, Draco said, and Scorpius — evidently placated by the answer — said his goodbyes at the end of the day without too much fuss.
It was the last memory Draco would have of Scorpius as a young child.
The following day, Astoria owled Draco a letter stating that she would soon be moving to a new address. Draco wasn't surprised. He wondered how it took this long for Astoria to tire of living with her constantly critical mother. Two days later he sent an owl, but it came back with the message undelivered and when he tried using the Floo network it wasn't connected. He went to the new address she'd given, but it turned out to be a decrepit ruin on the edge of some forsaken Cornish coastline. He asked her friends, but they had no idea. Astoria's mother — that purse-lipped, disapproving woman — had given him a long look and told him that Astoria had said she was simply moving away.
He searched everywhere. Hired private investigators, both magical and Muggle, but nothing had come of that. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement hadn't cared in the slightest. She's got full custody, hasn't she? they said. Well, it's not abduction. Draco had wanted to hit the officer who said that; hit him with an Unforgivable.
He never gave up searching and, nearly six years after Astoria's disappearance, he received a visit from a nervous Law Enforcement wizard.
They had received reports of a young child performing underage magic in a small flat in Cardiff. Upon investigation, they had found an eleven-year-old boy who told them his name was Scorpius Malfoy.
Draco remembered an old quote he had seen somewhere, words that somebody had scrawled onto a piece of paper.
There's no justice; there's just us.
And just as those who are undeserving must be punished, those who are honest and kind will be given their reward.
Harry had the crowds but they were smiling, grateful; he had the whispers and pointed fingers but they were accompanied by the words hero and savior. He had two best friends who didn't call him a hero, they hit him over the head instead and had long, lazy conversations about stupid things, and he loved them for it.
He had Ginny, with her red hair and bright eyes, and they had one son. James. They lived in an old farmhouse with gables on the roof and an enormous garden with hedges and fields and a swing that Harry had built himself, a swing from the highest branch of an ancient oak tree. In the winter, the fields were heavy with mist and frost and in the summer, they had strawberries and raspberries, and Ginny would go berry-picking with James or Harry would take him down to the river for trout fishing.
And he was happy, so happy.
For a while.
Ginny's death was neither quick nor unexpected. Perhaps it would have been better if it were. But the truth of it — the bitter, bitter truth — was that all the symptoms were there. Ginny ignored them. Harry brushed them off. But the symptoms were there.
It started soon after James's second birthday. Ginny was tired. Well, of course she was. She had just received a promotion at work — Quidditch correspondent for The Daily Prophet — and it required a lot of travelling. Probably still getting used to the workload, she told Harry confidently. She'd feel better soon.
She didn't. Months went by and Ginny always seemed a little tired, a little worn down. Well, perfectly understandable. Still getting used to travelling again, and there were a few bad colds going around — just Ginny's luck, they agreed wryly, that she would somehow catch one cold after another.
Somehow, it became a normal part of their lives. How did that happen? Later, Harry would look back with the agony of hindsight. They always left parties early because Ginny was tired, she always slept in — sometimes past noon — on weekends, and she began reducing her work hours.
James's third birthday. They had a party. Nothing fancy, just a little celebration. Birthday cake and all the usual relatives, the doting aunts and uncles. Hermione and Ron bought young Rose over to play with her cousin, and Andromeda was there, of course, with Teddy. He fussed over James, playing games and telling him fanciful stories about an octopus that supposedly lived under the house. James — very taken by the idea of a majestic octopus living beneath his home — was absolutely enchanted and devotedly followed Teddy around for the rest of the day.
At the end of the day, as they farewelled the last of the guests and tidied up the streamers and torn wrapping paper, Harry commented on how much James clearly adored Teddy. And Ginny said, with a little half-smile, that perhaps James would have a younger sibling soon, someone else to adore.
Of course, nothing was official. But she'd lost her appetite lately, and she'd started feeling a little nauseous too. Her stomach seemed to be growing a little. If she was already showing, she was probably already a few months along.
Harry could not have been happier. James — well, James hadn't really been planned. But they'd made room for him in their lives anyway, anxious and worried though they had been. But they were both settled now, further along in their respective careers, and both of them had expressed a desire to give James a little sister or brother. Ginny took a pregnancy test the next day — a cheap potions kit one, leftover from her pregnancy with James — and they were certain of the result. All the signs were there. The test was merely a formality.
Negative.
They both frowned over it, puzzled and disappointed. Ginny bought another kit on her way home from work two days later and tried it again.
Negative.
She went through three more tests that week before conceding defeat and going to their local Healer's office. The Healer's tests were far more accurate, after all, and would clear up any confusion.
Negative.
But it was wrong, she told the Healer adamantly. She was feeling tired, she could hardly eat anything, she felt nauseous all the time, and her abdomen felt swollen. The Healer did a few routine health checks — a blood pressure spell, a few questions about diet and exercise, an update on Ginny's medical history — but seemed quite cheerful and unconcerned. Could be anything, they said. Might be a flu, possibly a bad cold. They gave her a few Pepper-Up potions and told her to return in a week or so if she didn't feel better.
She didn't feel better. Harry didn't feel better. He was heavy with disappointment. Ginny, so certain she was pregnant, was left confused and unhappy. At last, one month later, she returned to the Healer complaining of abdominal pain. An appointment was made with St Mungo's for a body-scanning spell. Just to make sure, the Healer said offhandedly, and Ginny told Harry she felt bad for making a fuss over nothing.
Because, right up until they returned to the Healer's office one week later for the results, they were both so sure it was still nothing. Right until they saw the Healer's pale face. Right until the other staff in the Healer's office avoided them, wouldn't look them in the eyes as they walked in. Right until the Healer sat them down and explained, very carefully, that Ginny had ovarian carcinoma. Malignant growths. They avoided using the word cancer until the very end of the meeting.
It was…bad. At an advanced stage. Hard to believe it hadn't been previously diagnosed, they kept saying. They couldn't treat it, but they could manage it. The Healer had to explain this five times before Harry finally realised what they were saying. They couldn't save Ginny's life, but they could prolong it.
They tried.
All the usual spells and potions, all the typical magical medicine. They even looked into some of the Muggle treatments, but the Healers said Ginny was beyond surgery anyway, since the cancer had metastasised, and chemotherapy would produce the same results as the spells.
They wasted so much time on worry. Sleepless nights spent wondering when they should tell everyone else, Ginny in tears as she imagined her mother's reaction. Worst yet was James. Just a few weeks ago, they were excitedly thinking they would be giving him another sibling, a best friend. Now, they would have to explain to their three-year-old son that his mother would, in all likelihood, not live to see his next birthday.
And so much time wasted on anger, too. Arguing between themselves about how and when to tell James, or if Ginny should tell her parents without Harry there, or whether she should try the Muggle chemotherapy anyway. So many days wasted with Ginny not wanting to go to her appointments, or Harry finally breaking down because he was sick of it all and it just wasn't fair. And both of them trying so desperately to hide their sadness and anger and fear from each other, spending too many nights staring at the ceiling and locking themselves in the bathroom to cry silently.
All the books, all the stories Harry ever read, they all told him fairytales about slow deaths. Romantic stories of people determinedly spending their final months in a wild celebration of life, surrounded with friends and family, and spending their final days in peaceful acceptance. But Merlin help him, it wasn't like that at all. Just two people, both of them terrified and wasting so much energy trying to hide it, and James didn't really understand what was going on at all and just wanted to play with his toys and get free lollipops from the Healers, and Ginny hid in the bathroom sometimes when her family visited because she couldn't stand her mother's crying and her father's heavy sorrow.
Ginny went to St Mungo's on the seventh of January, nine months after her diagnosis. Harry packed her overnight bag, but he kept slowly adding more clothes, and books, and photographs of him and James, and then he realised he wasn't packing an overnight bag. He was putting the final remnants of their lives in a bag for a one-way trip to the hospital.
He was right. Ginny checked in that day, and that's where she stayed. She could have stayed at home, but that was the final argument she won. She would not have Healers coming in and out of their house, slowly transforming their beautiful family home into a clinical extension of the hospital. James would remember their home as a backdrop to the memories of his smiling, vibrant mother. Not a sterilised room with a thin stranger choking down bitter potions, a Healer casting endless spells over them. Maybe Harry could have argued harder, louder, but he was tired of arguing by then. Tired of everything.
Ginny did not want to die. Sometimes, the fear won and she spent days paralysed with the knowledge she would never walk back into her office and accept a hard-earned promotion, or celebrate another wedding anniversary with Harry, or stand on Platform 9¾ and see her son wave excitedly as he walked onto the Hogwarts Express. She planned to write letters to James, one for each birthday, but she couldn't bring herself to do it until the Healers said that soon, she would be too weak and too disoriented from pain potions to lift a quill, let alone write a letter. So she managed to write three letters for James: one to be given to him when he graduated Hogwarts, one to be given to him on his wedding day, and one for when he had a child of his own.
She was adamant, at least, that she would live to see James's fourth birthday. The seventeenth of February. She was determined to see that day.
You'll live for a hundred more birthdays, Harry should have told her. Something from one of those romantic stories. But they both knew the truth and he was sick of trying to hide everything. So he held her hand and said nothing, but the silence stretched between them like an ocean anyway and he bit his lip until he was certain he wasn't going to cry.
He wished, later on, he could remember every crystal-clear detail of the day she died. He wished there had been an important feeling about it, somehow. A dark cloud, an ominous feeling, something that would have warned him. But there was nothing. He'd taken James to Andromeda's house — James had been very tearful lately and Harry hoped playing with Teddy might afford some much-needed distraction — and after farewelling his son, he went to the florist, buying a bouquet of tulips, and then to the hospital. Ginny was sleeping and he didn't want to wake her up. He sat by the bed for a long time, holding her hand and waiting.
She wasn't doing too well these days. The pain potions made her groggy, disoriented, and she slept all the time. The Healers hadn't given her much more time. A few weeks if she was lucky.
Ginny woke briefly, her eyes opening, her gaze locking onto Harry at once. She frowned and tried to speak, her hand lifting ever-so-slightly, but Harry recognised what she wanted. Water. He nodded and left.
When he returned a few minutes later, Ginny was unresponsive. The Healers walked into the room shortly afterwards. There was no sense of urgency. Everyone knew this was going to happen.
Her death certificate listed the time of death as 12:39pm, the ninth of February.
Chapter 2: The Wand Chooses the Wizard
Chapter Text
"No, let's have a different ending. That's a sad ending."
"You can't change the ending," Harry says, sitting on the edge of his son's bed and frowning. "It's a true story. The Room of Requirement burned down."
"Are you sure?"
"Definitely."
"Maybe it only burned a little bit and they put the rest out," James suggests.
"James, I was there. There were lots of flames. In fact, the room nearly took me with it."
"Oh," James says with disappointment. "I suppose it's really gone, then. Still, can't hurt if I look for it. Tell me more battle stories," he adds.
"Tomorrow night," Harry says.
"I won't get any sleep," James complains. "I'll be up waiting for my Hogwarts letter."
"Goodnight, James," Harry says with a laugh.
"Goodnight," James repeats, rolling over and switching off his lamp.
Harry turns and leaves. James is ten years old, but he'll be eleven in just a few hours. Five hours and thirty-six minutes approximately. Where did all that time go? Harry used to tell James silly bedtime stories, switching on the night-light as James clutched his plush-toy puffskein. Now, of course, James is far too old for night-lights and fuzzy toys. The bedtime stories have been downgraded into demands for Hogwarts tales, stories with which James can impress the other students.
Harry sighs and makes his way to the living room. He tries to read a book, and gets up a few times to make a cup of tea. He's staring into space, deep in thought, when there's a gentle whisper of wings and a small but definite tap at the window.
Harry stands up slowly and walks over to the window, pulling the sash up. The owl looks at him. He can see the green ink shining on the envelope.
Hogwarts has sent for his son.
He smiles even as his heart breaks.
Ginny should be here, Harry thinks as James chatters excitedly at breakfast the next day, waving his letter about. During milestones such as these, he always thinks of Ginny. Her absence still echoes like a lonely voice. He wonders if she would be worrying as much as Harry, wondering if James will be all right at Hogwarts.
"...and Teddy said they were thinking of adding a fifth house to Hogwarts, for all the students who are part-goblin, but I think he's just telling stories again. Isn't he?" James pauses and waits, taking a bite of his toast, and Harry collects his thoughts again.
"Yes, he is."
"I knew it. Anyway, do you think there's swimming at Hogwarts?" James asks.
James has dabbled with many hobbies throughout his childhood — karate lessons, football, local under-ten Quidditch matches, collecting Chocolate Frog cards, and even — for one awful summer — drum and guitar lessons. Throughout all of James's discarded interests, however, one thing has remained constant: his swimming. James had gone to his first swimming lesson as a chubby toddler, slightly suspicious, but he had soon developed a love of the water.
"There's a lake," Harry says doubtfully. "Very cold, though. I wouldn't recommend swimming in it."
James grins. "I'd swim in it. I wouldn't mind a bit of cold."
"A bit of cold? Oh, just you wait until you have your first Scottish winter," Harry laughs, reaching out to ruffle James's hair. "You won't swim then."
"I will," James says decisively. "And there'd better be a music club, too."
"Maybe." Harry remembers a few clubs from his own time at Hogwarts — the Gobstones Club, of course, and there was also a chess tournament every year. Seamus mentioned an informal football team set up by the Muggleborns too. But of course, Harry hadn't really had much time for extracurricular activities during his time at Hogwarts.
"...and I could start a band! Dad, could you put a shrinking spell on my drumkit? Small enough to fit in my luggage."
"All right," Harry says vaguely, mind still on his own Hogwarts education, and then he blinks. "What? No!"
"All right, fine. No instruments," James says brightly, but Harry knows his son too well and he narrows his eyes. He'll have to keep a very close eye on the contents of James's luggage.
"I can hardly wait for Hogwarts," James adds excitedly. "It's going to be amazing. Do you think I'll be in Hufflepuff? I think I will. Teddy says Hufflepuffs are always the nicest, happiest people. And I love badgers. I wish you'd let me have a pet badger, Dad. I'd take much better care of it than I did of my goldfish."
Yes, Harry thinks as he reaches for the marmalade. James will be fine.
Harry delays a visit to Diagon Alley for as long as possible. James is absolutely thrilled at the prospect of owning his own wand, and he reads the Hogwarts textbook list over and over, chatting excitedly about how he can 'practice' with the potions kit too. No; Harry has no doubt that it would be very sensible to delay the purchasing of James's wand and Hogwarts items until the summer holidays are nearly over and James will have very little chance to attempt any spells or potions until he's safely under the supervision of his professors.
The summer holidays are spent in a whirl of activity, anyway. James's excitement at receiving his wand is made more bearable by the distractions of other things: spending as much time as possible with his Muggle school friends before they all go their own separate ways, and going to birthday parties, and plenty of visits to London to go see the baby rhinoceros at the zoo or wander around the aquarium. Teddy visits nearly every day throughout the summer, entertaining James with stories of Hogwarts.
"You'll feel right at home there, there's a giant squid in the lake. Finally, someone who has arms even more noodley than yours," Teddy says during dinner one night.
"I have not got noodle arms! Dad, tell Teddy I haven't got noodle arms."
"Stop teasing your cousin," Harry says, giving Teddy another helping of peas.
"I wasn't teasing, I was stating a fact."
"Dad!"
Harry gives Teddy a stern look; Teddy flashes a quick, if slightly apologetic, grin. "Okay, okay," he says. "You haven't got noodle arms, little cuz. Even if the octopus under the house agrees with me."
James pulls a face, but good-naturedly accepts the jest. The octopus under the house has become a long-running joke in their family now, even if James no longer believes Teddy's fanciful stories.
Soon enough, the conversation turns to Diagon Alley. James demands to know every detail about Teddy's own wand purchase; Teddy settles back in his chair, getting ready to spin another tale.
"You wouldn't believe it," he says. "They tried everything, little cuz. Wands made of thousand-year-old oak trees, cores of liquid gold, wands encrusted with rare dragon scales, and – "
"Teddy," Harry says with exasperation, but James interjects.
"I didn't believe him anyway," he says, sticking his tongue out at Teddy. "Nobody would use a wand with scales stuck all over it."
"Ah, I remember when you used to believe every word I said," Teddy says fondly. "They grow up so fast..." He grins, then reaches into his sleeve and pulls out his wand. "Cedar, unicorn-hair core. Surprisingly swishy. Believe it or not, first one I picked up."
"Really?" James looks to Harry for affirmation; Harry nods.
"I remember that day," he tells James. "Teddy bounded into the shop, quite excited, picked up the nearest wand, and said 'I like this one'. And evidently, the feeling was mutual. He waved it about and fireworks exploded all over the shop."
"Maybe I'll get a cedar wand," James says with excitement.
"Maybe," Teddy says with a shrug. "It's quite a rare wood for wands. Let's wait and see."
"We'll go tomorrow," Harry promises, doing calculations in his head. Five more days until the first of September. Yes; they'll go tomorrow.
James's face lights up as if it's Christmas, and Harry can't help but laugh.
Harry keeps his promise; they go to Diagon Alley the next day, Teddy in tow. Harry saves Ollivander's shop for last. He's certain James won't be able to concentrate on anything else, but of course James proves himself to be equally interested in everything. He races about Madam Malkin's robe shop, trying on different dress robes and giggling hopelessly when Teddy parades about in a top-hat and bowtie. Madam Malkin gives them both disapproving looks.
"Teddy Lupin," she mutters, managing to grab James and force him to stand still. "Every year you come in here with your old robes in tatters...I don't know what you do, it's very high quality fabric..."
"Oh, I know. Considering all the pyro-spells I do, I think your robes are spectacularly durable," Teddy says cheerfully, and Madam Malkin's face softens a little as she rams a pin into James's arm, much to his horror.
"Ouch!"
"Well, sit still dear."
"Look, there's blood!"
"Stop fussing."
They emerge from the shop ten minutes later, James frowning and closely examining a small mark on his arm, but he soon forgets his injury as they enter the apothecary and buy a potions kit.
"Teddy, remember that recipe you showed me for exploding dung-bombs?" James begins excitedly. "We can – " But then Teddy quickly shakes his head, and James notices Harry's expression. "We can...make something else," James says meekly. "A nice calming potion."
"I'm sure," Harry says dryly, firmly taking the potions kit away from James. "I'll carry that."
Flourish and Blotts is next and James immediately makes a beeline for the comics section. He's always loved his comic books and it takes a long time to drag him away from the latest adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Harry's left alone to gather the prescribed textbooks and purchase them, somehow ending up with two comics as well.
"Let's go to the Magical Menagerie," Teddy says, and that immediately triggers another flood of hopeful pleading from James. This has been the only subject on which Harry put his foot down: James — who owned countless goldfish and forgot to feed them, who accidentally lost many pet mice, who once had a pet iguana and somehow lost it too — is certainly not going to receive a pet for Hogwarts. Not until, Harry had said firmly, James showed a little more responsibility towards owning a pet.
"Come on, we've talked about this. Maybe next year," Harry says to James, and James looks crestfallen.
"I suppose," he says.
"Shall we go to Ollivander's now?" Harry asks, wanting to cheer him up, and it works. He brightens up again.
They make their way to the little lopsided shop, the black paint peeling from the window frames. As they step inside, the door swinging shut behind them, Harry thinks the shop hasn't changed a bit. Dusty shelves lined with narrow boxes, the smell of ancient magic in the air. However, the man that greets them isn't familiar; there's something about his face that is vaguely reminiscent of Ollivander and yet he's far younger, his face less lined, his hair only just beginning to pepper with grey.
Evidently James is thinking similar thoughts, for he blurts out, "Thought you'd look older." The man looks amused; Harry sputters and Teddy laughs.
"You are perhaps thinking of my father, Garrick Ollivander. I am his son, Geraint." Ollivander gives a little bow.
"Oh, I get mistaken for my father too," James says feelingly. "Great-Aunt Muriel, she's the worst for it. Blind as a bat, and – "
"All right, James," Harry says quickly. "Let's...let's just let Mr Ollivander take some measurements."
"Measuring what?"
"Your odd little noodle arms," Teddy supplies. "He's never seen anyone with limbs like that before. You'll probably need a wand specially made."
"Go away!" James says, his face reddening. "You've got noodle arms!"
"Oh, do I? Do I?" Teddy grabs ahold of James; James fights valiantly but Teddy easily gets him into a headlock and, laughing loudly, ruffles James's hair.
"Stop it! I'm telling! Dad!"
"Teddy, leave your cousin alone. This is an important moment," Harry says sternly, and Ollivander peers at Teddy.
"A Lupin, if I'm not mistaken. My father chose a wand for you. One of his last customers, if I recall."
"Yeah. Perfect match," Teddy adds affectionately.
"It is not a perfect match," James mutters, flattening his hair down again. "I remember when you transfigured Celestina Warbeck's face onto all my Quidditch figures."
Teddy grins and Harry can't hide his own amusement. James gives them both a look and straightens his robes with dignity. The moment however is ruined when a measuring tape suddenly flits about him, making him jump slightly.
"Hmm. Let's see..." Ollivander says, and at last Teddy and James quieten down. Harry waits patiently for Ollivander to make the first suggestion: an oak wand. James gives it a swish but only a few sad sparks fizzle out and Ollivander shakes his head.
"Perhaps a holly wand would be more suitable," he says, handing over a different box. But the holly wand proves equally inadequate, and Ollivander chooses a third, a fourth, a fifth...By the time James has given the sixth wand a swish, he's looking a little unhappy, but Teddy looks pleased. He claps James on the shoulder.
"Look at that! Tricky one, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Suppose I'm not the first choice for these wands," James says miserably, giving another one a half-hearted wave.
"No, it means these wands aren't your first choice. You've got so much potential these inadequate little sticks knew with one swish that they wouldn't be up for the job."
"Oh, sure," James says, but he sounds a little more hopeful. He gives Teddy a surreptitious look. "Do you...do you really think so?"
"Course I do! Out of everyone here, I'm the one who's known you the longest — "
Harry looks at Teddy, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, what?"
James laughs, giving another wand an exuberant swish, and this time he stumbles backwards as golden sparks rush through the air, popping and whistling like fireworks.
"Look!" he cries. "I found my wand!"
"Indeed you have," Ollivander says. "Hawthorn, solid, ten inches, and..." He gently takes the wand from James. "A core of dragon heartstring."
"Hawthorn? It looks nice," James says.
"A very interesting wand." Ollivander places the wand back into its box, nestling it in the fragile tissue paper. "You have a complex journey ahead."
James smiles, looking up and catching his father's gaze. Harry gives him a smile, pleased that James has finally found a match; Teddy gives James an approving nod.
"Come on, then," Harry says. "Let's go home."
Scorpius comes home on the seventeenth of June.
Draco has searched for his son for nearly six years and somehow, he never pictured it happening like this. There's a knock at his door at midday. Pansy, he thinks as he makes his way to the door. But no; the unfamiliar face of a Magical Law Enforcement officer stares at him.
"Draco Malfoy?" they ask unnecessarily, and Draco's first thought is that he's somehow breached the conditions of the pro-Muggle program in which he's still being forced to participate eleven years after his trial. There's a list of rules as long as his arm and he can never remember which spells he isn't supposed to cast, which potions he's forbidden to create.
"Yes," he says tersely.
"I'm very sorry," the man begins nervously, his hat tucked under one arm, and Draco's heart gives a little lurch. "Unfortunately, your ex-wife has been found deceased."
"Astoria?" Draco asks blankly, not understanding for a moment.
"We received an alert that underage magic was being performed at an address in Cardiff," the officer says, taking a step back as if expecting Draco to fly into a rage. "We found...a child...trying to perform healing spells..."
Scorpius. Draco tries to say the name but he can't quite manage it. His mouth feels dry as a desert.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," the officer says. "It's very unfortunate. As for your son — "
"Scorpius."
The officer clears their throat. "Yes. Scorpius. He appears to be in good health, but he's been taken to St Mungo's for a routine health check. As soon as we've completed some paperwork and you've provided documents, we can leave Scorpius in your care."
It seems so completely surreal. As soon as the officer finishes the brief conversation and leaves, Draco stands in the hall and stares blankly at the wall. The rooms of the manor, so silent all these years...the hallways that gathered dust in the absence of little footsteps...and all these empty places, these silent spaces, might once again hold the presence of his son.
He has to find the paperwork. He goes to his father's study, to the polished mahogany desk, and searches through the papers with trembling hands. Scorpius's birth certificate. The ink shines brightly on it, seemingly fresh as the day it was stamped by a cheerful nurse eleven years ago. He sinks into the worn leather chair and gazes at the certificate for a long moment, trying to remember that day. The day they became parents. But his mind feels emptied, like somebody poured all his memories into a pensieve. Astoria is dead, he thinks. He should feel something about that, surely. This woman that he loved so much for everything she gave him, and hated so much for everything she took away. They fought and loved and sometimes they tried their best and sometimes they did their worst, both of them slowly destroying the other.
But he doesn't feel anything. A mindless hum fills his mind. Astoria is dead. How? What happened? Normal people would have asked, he thinks. What does Scorpius look like? He keeps picturing a young five-year-old with wispy hair. But Scorpius is eleven years old now.
He fire-calls Pansy. He needs someone to keep him sane. She arrives in a flurry of floral robes and disapproval, following Draco up the stairs and telling him to stop looking so miserable.
"There's no use thinking about her," she says sharply as Draco opens the door to his son's old bedroom. He never changed it, never moved a thing. It's still painted baby-blue, with a little frieze of teddy bears around the wall and a copy of Beedle the Bard resting on the bedside table next to the child-sized bed. It's the room of a five-year-old child with a happy smile and a body still several sizes too small to contain all the energy within. Not...
Not the boy who is coming home.
"Re-paint it, buy some more furniture," Pansy says, as if reading his thoughts. Draco rests his hand atop the lamp — a little ceramic bear that changes colours when touched — and feels the dust thick against his skin.
"You wanted me to marry you, once," he says. His voice echoes once in the room, then is absorbed by the dust.
"Once."
"Things could have been so different."
Pansy studies him for a moment, then walks to the doorway. "That," she says, "was a very long time ago, Draco."
The door closes; he listens to her footsteps fade.
Five hours after first receiving the news of his son, Draco waits impatiently in the reception of St Mungo's. The papers have been signed, the documents have been certified. It all seems very rushed, but the Law Enforcement officers explained that if guardianship wasn't organised as soon as possible, Scorpius would have to be placed into state care overnight. Now, nearly six years of searching is reduced to this. Sitting in a little plastic chair, listening to an elderly man nearby with a persistent cough, and waiting. Waiting, waiting.
At last, just as the clock chimes six o'clock, a Healer walks into the reception area, looks around, and gives Draco a cheerful smile.
"Mr Malfoy?" she says.
"Yes."
"I can see the family resemblance."
If that's a joke, Draco doesn't find it funny. If it's small talk, he's not impressed either. He hasn't got time for that.
"My son."
The Healer's smile fades; she looks slightly chastened, as if Draco has snapped at her. "Yes. Well, he's rather small for his age, isn't he?"
"I wouldn't know."
Any trace of cheerfulness vanishes completely now. The Healer clears her throat and looks at her notes. Scorpius seems slightly underfed, she tells him — nothing too concerning, but he'd benefit from a few good meals. Otherwise he's in fine health.
"Any questions?" she asks.
"No."
The Healer nods and leaves again. She returns again ten minutes later, Scorpius trailing behind her.
The Healer was right. He looks too small for his age, pale and tired, with dark smudges under his eyes. He looks once to Draco, then glances at the ground — and there his gaze remains. The Healer reaches Draco first and speaks brightly, telling Scorpius he's been a perfect patient. Scorpius keeps his eyes trained on the ground, not responding at all. Draco has never felt so wretched. It's not supposed to be like this. All these reunions that he used to dream about, all these moments he created...why did he never imagine this? All those memories of Scorpius, bright and smiling and somehow forever five years old, running into Draco's arms.
And isn't it strange, Draco thinks dully, how right now — in this moment — all he can feel is a crippling sense of loss. These past years, he's been thinking he'd get Scorpius back. And it's only now that he's realising he will never get Scorpius back. That boy is gone forever.
The Healer finally says a quick farewell, perhaps sensing the tension, and leaves. Draco waits, but it becomes apparent Scorpius has nothing to say.
"Have you got everything?" Draco asks at last. There's no suitcase or luggage with his son.
"Yes," Scorpius replies.
They leave St Mungo's, Scorpius trailing after Draco like an uncertain shadow. Once outside, Draco turns to Scorpius.
"We'll do a side-along Apparation," he says, and Scorpius frowns. He glances up at Draco, then away again. Draco waits. And waits, and waits. Scorpius is clearly uncomfortable about something but he remains silent. Draco doesn't know what to do. All the books on fatherhood did not prepare him for this. After a moment, he speaks again, guessing at Scorpius's discomfort. "You don't like side-along Apparations?"
Scorpius frowns, a crease of anxiety appearing on his brow. "What if I get sick?"
"That's all right. You'll feel better soon." Draco tries to smile reassuringly, even though Scorpius has barely looked at him, and holds out his hand. "Ready to go home?" The word slips from his lips before he thinks about it. Of course Scorpius isn't going home. Home is Astoria's house in Cardiff or wherever it was. Draco, preoccupied with mentally telling himself off for the verbal error, nearly misses it when Scorpius takes his hand.
"I'm ready," Scorpius says, a flash of determination crossing his face, and for a moment Draco's heart lifts with hope.
Things might be all right, he thinks.
Scorpius spends the first week in the manor gardens, reading books or sitting quietly, and Draco watches him with the unease of someone who can feel their life slipping through their fingers like sand. This is his son, but at the same time it isn't. Half-stranger, half-Scorpius, always slipping between memories and different pasts.
They attend Astoria's funeral. She died of an undiagnosed heart defect, her parents say. Her father looks so much older than Draco remembers him. Her mother tries to hold Scorpius, but he shies away from her and won't talk to any of the other attendees.
In accordance with Pureblood funerals, the casket is open. Astoria looks small and thin, almost childlike, and the sorrow washes over Draco like a wave. Dead, at thirty-two years old. He wants to hate her for everything she did, for robbing him of six long years with his son, but all he can feel is a dull melancholy. For everything that might have been...
He'll never know. What happened during those six years? Scorpius hasn't spoken a word about it. From what Draco can gather from the Law Enforcement notes, Astoria did her best to integrate Scorpius and herself into the Muggle world. They moved from place to place, mostly small flats and bedsits, as Astoria worked low-paying jobs such as cleaning offices or answering phones. She never once contacted her wealthy family for any money, or so her parents claim.
Draco wonders if she ever found happiness again.
Scorpius goes to the casket too, and when he sees his mother he begins to cry. Astoria's mother rushes to him and he backs away from her.
"It's all right," Draco says, automatically reaching out to Scorpius as he often did when offering reassurance to a five-year-old Scorpius crying over a grazed knee or dropped ice-cream. But Scorpius backs away from him too.
Draco sits through the rest of the funeral, dry-eyed, not saying another word.
They speak very little to each other. Draco's never been one for heartfelt conversations or affection — a habit he picked up from his father — and Scorpius seems to feel the same, preferring to keep a guarded distance. He's mourning his mother, Draco knows, and — though he hides it well — he often looks as if he's been crying.
At least he's getting plenty of fresh air and sunlight, Draco thinks, and he eats every meal without complaint. Draco consults a hundred different parenting books in the first few weeks, trying to figure out whether it's normal or not. It doesn't seem normal. All the books talk about fussy eaters and children refusing to eat their vegetables, and yet Scorpius never says a word and finishes every meal. And the books warn of tantrums, too, of lots of shouting and the precarious pre-teenage years when children decide it's the ideal time to start questioning every rule and pushing every boundary.
Draco wonders if it would be more reassuring if Scorpius actually threw these supposed tantrums, rather than reading books and sleeping.
Fresh air might improve Scorpius’s wellbeing, he thinks, and they settle into a routine: one walk in the morning, after breakfast, and one in the evening. Scorpius accepts the prescribed exercise without question and, for the first few weeks, drifts after Draco like an unhappy raincloud. However, one month after his mother's funeral, during their morning walk through the manor gardens, Scorpius's attention is caught by a pale blue butterfly flitting past. He watches the butterfly with a mesmerised expression.
"A Pearl-Studded Blue, if I'm not mistaken," Draco says, and Scorpius glances at him, looking startled. "Your grandmother was a devoted conservationist." A little-known fact about Narcissa, Draco thinks. She had a keen interest in local flora and fauna.
"My grandmother?" Scorpius reaches out and touches a flower near the butterfly, watching it carefully.
"My mother. Narcissa. She died before you were born." Of course, Scorpius already knew this, but six years is a long time, especially to a young child. Memories fade.
But Scorpius surprises him. "I remember." He pauses, then gives Draco a surreptitious look. "Did she have grey eyes too?"
"No. Her eyes were blue."
The butterfly flits briefly past a flower and lands on Scorpius's hand. Scorpius's eyes widen and he glances up at Draco again. "Look," he says.
Draco smiles. He's never been one to smile much, but he can't help it. The moment transports him to another place, another time, when he carried a happy child on his shoulders as butterflies rose in swarms around them.
The butterfly flits away again, but Scorpius doesn't seem too disappointed. He watches it disappear into the distance, his expression reflective. And as they make their way back to the manor, passing beneath the rows of elm trees, he looks at Draco as if he's trying to figure out something. Or remember something.
Draco waits for him to speak but, as ever, Scorpius seems to prefer to remain silent.
On the seventh week of Scorpius's return (of course it's the seventh week, Draco thinks; seven is a lucky number), Scorpius asks tentatively if Draco drinks coffee. They're sitting at the breakfast table after their walk — Scorpius nibbling at a piece of dry toast, as ever, and Draco leisurely sipping at a cup of tea — when Scorpius poses the question.
"What?" Draco, taken by surprise, doesn't really have an eloquent response.
"Nothing," Scorpius says, his gaze immediately dropping.
Draco frowns and lets the silence settle between them. He looks down at his cup of tea, watching the steam idly curl through the air, and suddenly remembers Astoria's habit of drinking coffee.
"Tea," Draco says. Scorpius glances up again. "Peppermint tea. Would you like a cup?"
Scorpius considers that for a while. "Is it nice?" he asks uncertainly.
Draco frowns and studies his son. "What did you normally have for breakfast?"
"Toast."
"With...?"
Scorpius is looking anxious now, as if worried he'll supply the wrong answer. "Nothing. Just... toast."
"Just dry toast?" Draco isn't pleased. Astoria never bothered much with her diet — she got far too thin as their marriage deteriorated and gave food little thought, too caught up in her anxieties. Still, he thought she would have put a bit more thought into Scorpius's needs. "What about lunch and dinner?"
Scorpius's anxiety seems to worsen. "I...I don't know," he says. "Mum always forgot to buy groceries." After a moment he adds, almost defensively, "She tried to remember. She wrote lists and stuck them on the fridge."
Draco says nothing, although he can feel his expression tightening with disapproval. But Scorpius clearly loved his mother and Draco is certainly not about to criticise her, especially so soon after her death. He nods at the house-elf; it disappears and returns shortly afterwards with another cup of tea for Scorpius.
Scorpius picks up the cup, looking a little uncertain, and takes a sip. After a moment, he gives Draco a hesitant look. "It's nice," he says.
And somehow, of all the things in the world, it's food that makes everything just a little better. Draco has never particularly bothered with food. The house-elves serve it; if it's black and tastes like charcoal then it's been cooked too long, if it jumps off Draco's plate and runs about the room then it hasn't been cooked enough. That's about it in terms of Draco's knowledge of food.
But Scorpius — who has thus far seemed to have quite a listless attitude towards everything — begins to show an affinity for mealtimes. Perhaps he's coping better with the loss of his mother now, or perhaps he feels a little less reserved around Draco. Either way, Draco's grateful for Scorpius's newfound interest. At breakfast times, Scorpius begins trying every single available spread: honey, ten different types of jam, marmalade, marmite — every shiny jar that catches his attention. The house-elves — two elderly ones gifted from Astoria's mother as a wedding present so many years ago — are only too delighted at the voracious appetite and quiet appreciation of their new master and soon, all sorts of things start making appearances at the breakfast table. Stacks of steaming-hot pancakes, piled high and dolloped with cream and fresh strawberries; crumpets with lashings of rich butter; mugs of hot chocolate piled with plump marshmallows; porridge sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. Scorpius tries it all and the house-elves positively dote on him.
But at the end of each breakfast, he always has one cup of peppermint tea.
Draco receives a small parcel towards the end of August. Attached is an apologetic note from a Law Enforcement officer, stating that due to 'miscommunication' (Draco reads that as 'we forgot'), the parcel had been delayed in its delivery. It contains, evidently, Scorpius's possessions gathered from the Cardiff flat. He hands the parcel to Scorpius at the breakfast table as Scorpius is halfway through an almond croissant.
"What's this?" Scorpius asks apprehensively, putting the croissant down and accepting the parcel.
"Your belongings."
Scorpius frowns and opens it, slowly tearing the paper away. There's a few clothes within, and a comb, a toothbrush, a few library books. Scorpius chews his lip anxiously. "I borrowed these from the Cardiff library," he says, looking up at Draco. "How will I return them?"
"I can do that."
There's little else within the parcel. A few toys, some stationary and school notebooks. There's a piece of homework — Draco catches a glimpse of neat rows of sums — and Scorpius's anxiety intensifies. "I didn't hand that in."
"I'm sure it's fine."
Scorpius doesn't seem too reassured. He slowly neatens the contents of the parcel, stacking them into a tidy pile, and gazes unhappily down at his plate. Draco has the unsettling feeling that he's supposed to be having one of those heartfelt talks that other parents apparently undertake without effort.
"Do you miss your mother?" Draco asks at last, inwardly wincing at how awkward the words sound. "We can go to Cardiff."
"Why? She's not there."
Draco, taken aback by Scorpius's reply, decides to take the less courageous choice and change subjects. "I see they forgot your wand," he says, looking at the neat pile of belongings. "Careless of them."
Scorpius's head jerks up. He stares at Draco. "What wand?"
"The wand your mother purchased for you," Draco explains patiently. "When you received your letter."
"What letter?"
"Your Hogwarts letter." Dread slowly coils in Draco's heart. "You should have received it on your eleventh birthday. The fifteenth of November..."
Several expressions flicker over Scorpius's face. Then — "I don't have a wand."
"Well," Draco says briskly. "We'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and buy one. Along with the rest of your Hogwarts things. You'll need new robes, of course, and a potions kit. A cauldron, and a telescope. We'll go to Flourish and Blotts, too, and I'll ask what the set books are."
Scorpius face lights up very briefly at the mention of books, and Draco glances at the library books on the table. Of course, Scorpius has spent quite a lot of time reading, and Draco should have realised.
Food and books. Well, it's a start. But he's slowly beginning to know his son now, and the unfamiliar parts of Scorpius are gradually melting away.
At the end of the meal, Scorpius has his usual mug of peppermint tea.
They go to Diagon Alley the next day. Scorpius watches everything with eyes as wide as saucers. They go to the apothecary first, buying the potions ingredients, and then to Madam Malkin's to purchase Scorpius's robes. The years have softened the harsh views of the war, and the orphans and veterans have long since grown up and had their own children, a new generation. Gone is the vitriolic hatred, although Draco still gets scowls and sneers from passers-by. Draco is glad, if only to spare Scorpius the same treatment he received so many years ago.
In Flourish and Blotts, Scorpius is completely enchanted by the books and quickly disappears between the rows of shelves. Any book that catches his eye, Draco adds to the stack: books on oceanography, botany, the history of goblins, an ancient tome on wandlore, a few stories about adventures both magical and Muggle, an encyclopaedia on dragons — it seems Scorpius's appetite for knowledge and stories has no limits. Quite some time later — laden with their purchases — they leave the bookstore and, at Draco's suggestion, make their way to Ollivander's.
If he's honest with himself, Draco is quite uncomfortable with the idea of meeting Ollivander again. He still remembers how Ollivander's luminescent eyes gleamed in the darkness of the cellar of Malfoy Manor. So it's with much relief that he opens the shop door and finds himself facing Ollivander's son. Still quite awkward, he thinks — no doubt Ollivander's son knows exactly who he is and what he's done — but both of them are cordial to the other and neither make any reference to the past. Ollivander studies Scorpius intently for a moment, makes some measurements, and nods.
"Walnut," Ollivander says decisively. "A walnut wand nearly always finds its match with one of high intelligence."
Scorpius looks slightly embarrassed by the remark, but he accepts the wand offered by Ollivander and gives it a small, shy swish. There's a graceful twinkle of pale blue lights, barely visible, but Draco is pleased.
"First try," he says approvingly, but Ollivander has a reflective look on his face.
"Not quite," he says slowly. "Not quite. Perhaps something a little more...challenging. Something allowing for creativity."
Ollivander offers a yew wand next, but that doesn't agree with Scorpius at all; it emits a loud pop that sends Scorpius stumbling backwards. Ollivander gives a disappointed shake of his head and retrieves the wand.
"A miscalculation on my behalf. I apologise," he says, but Scorpius still looks shaken. The next wand, Draco thinks. Third time's the charm, as they say. Draco tried two wands before finding his own, if he recalls correctly. They'll find a match soon enough.
But half an hour later, Draco is beginning to feel just a little worried. He tries not to show it, standing with his arms crossed and a manufactured expression of casual impatience upon his face. Ollivander is now solidly ignoring the wands within easy reach, delving further and further into the dusty shadows of the shop. Wand-boxes and tissue paper litter the floor. A short chestnut wand, a springy red oak, an ash one with a rare phoenix feather — Scorpius has tried a wide variety of wands now and yet none have chosen him. He stands in the middle of the shop, looking utterly dejected. Particularly for someone who keeps getting compliments, Draco thinks critically. Walnut for high intelligence, ash for courage, elm for elegance and dignity — yet for all Ollivander's listing of Scorpius's apparent graces, Scorpius looks more and more miserable with each wand. When he starts trying the more rare wands — wood from a pear tree, core of an extinct dragon's heartstring, lengths ranging from oddly short to dramatically long — Draco frowns and steps closer to Ollivander.
"Is it normal to take this long to find a wand?" he mutters as Scorpius swishes a very nice ebony wand through the air, the black handle inlaid with gold. The wand emits an odd hissing noise, like a very angry Kneazle, and Scorpius hurriedly sets it aside.
"All in good time, Mr Malfoy," Ollivander says and Draco resists the urge to childishly scowl. He hates people who speak in proverbs.
Scorpius tries another wand, this time a highly unusual pine wand with a unicorn hair core. The wand doesn't respond at all, whether via beautiful sparks or angry hisses, and Scorpius looks so utterly defeated that Draco immediately goes to him and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Sometimes the perfect match takes a while to find," he says. Scorpius looks at the floor and says nothing. Ollivander — standing a few steps away, studying Scorpius with a look of deep contemplation, suddenly nods decisively.
"Might I have a word with your son?" he asks Draco, and Draco frowns but steps away, watching with slight mistrust as Ollivander leans down and asks Scorpius something. Scorpius listens intently, then looks at Draco, looks away, and whispers something in return. "Ah," Ollivander says, straightening up again. "I should have known, but I'm afraid I'm yet to master my father's skill of matching wands with their masters." He turns and disappears into yet another shadowy aisle and this time doesn't return for some time. When he does reappear, he's holding a very dusty box.
"What's that?" Draco says, suspicious at the thought of Scorpius receiving some sort of mysterious wand heavy with ancient magic...that's most certainly asking for Potter-esque adventures and Draco won't be having with that sort of thing.
"Your son's wand," Ollivander says, removing the lid of the box and revealing, to Draco's relief, a very ordinary-looking wand. It's of medium length, slender, the wood a pale gold, the same colour as sunlight on an autumn morning. Elegant, Draco supposes, in its own minimalistic way. No elaborate carvings or inlaid gold, no ivory handle or engraved patterns. "My father made this wand some time ago. An uncommon wand — wood of a fir tree, phoenix feather core. This wand requires a very special owner. A mind sharp and bright as a sword, a keen intellect and curiosity. A wizard with great strength of both heart and mind, for the fir tree is one of the most resilient trees and will grow through both fierce summers and deep snowfall."
Draco, despite himself, is quite impressed with Ollivander's speech, though — skeptical as ever — he's not sure whether Ollivander speaks true or whether he's aiming to make an exceptional sale. Either way, Scorpius looks anything but awed. He stares at the wand, then looks down at his feet.
"I don't think it's for me, then," he says very quietly.
"I beg to differ." Ollivander holds out the box, waiting. The wand, nestled within, looks very unassuming for all Ollivander's talk of special owners and uncommon traits. Scorpius hesitates, then reaches out and picks it up.
"Oh," he says. Just a soft, small oh, but Ollivander smiles.
"Yes," he says. "I thought it might have been waiting for you. Give it a swish."
Scorpius gives Draco an uncertain look. Draco nods and Scorpius lifts the wand, giving it a small wave. For a moment, nothing happens and Draco's hope finally disappears — he's not sure how much longer he can stand in this little dusty shop and watch his son miserably try wand after wand.
But then a golden bubble emerges from the tip of the wand, taking on the form of a beautiful koi fish with translucent fins and glittering scales. It drifts through the air, little golden bubbles trailing in its wake, and soon it's joined by a second, a third, a fourth, until silver and gold fish skim along dusty shelves and high ceilings.
"A beautiful and elegant charm," Ollivander says quietly. "Well suited, young Scorpius."
Scorpius, gazing at the fish, doesn't seem to hear him at first. But later on — when all the fish have disappeared and they're finalising the purchase — Scorpius speaks.
"It wasn't me. It was the wand."
"The wand and the wizard work together," Ollivander says, placing the wand-box into a little velvet bag.
"It wasn't me," Scorpius repeats, his voice so soft that Draco nearly misses it.
"It was both you and the wand," Draco says firmly. "Now come on, we've still got to buy your pet." He hopes the prospect of a pet will cheer Scorpius up.
It does. Even Scorpius — this boy without tantrums or fussy eating or any sort of usual childhood behaviour — can't resist the thrill of a new pet. Though he trails after Draco like an uncertain shadow, as ever, he becomes considerably less withdrawn as they walk into the Magical Menagerie and are greeted by the croaks of toads and frogs, the flap of a raven's wings, the soft slithering of snakes. Overhead, the owls hoot sleepily and Draco automatically searches for an eagle-owl among them. Lucius had been adamant that Draco would have an eagle-owl. Powerful, dignified, sleek. And the least suitable pet for an excitable eleven-year-old, Draco thinks. The temperamental creature had been little more than a feathered ball of rage and seething resentment, and Draco has far too many scars on his fingers from an owl that refused to suffer the indignity of sending letters.
Fortunately, Scorpius doesn't seem drawn to the beady-eyed eagle-owls; he gives them a cursory look, stares at their sharp beaks, and sensibly retreats when one of them hisses at him. A snowy owl edges close to Scorpius and he gives it a cautious pat before a raven flies down to land on his shoulder. Draco half-expects Scorpius to jump, startled, but Scorpius just gives the raven a scratch under its beak and walks onwards, the raven still perched on his shoulder.
There's an assortment of exotic toads — fire-bellies, natterjacks, and frost-crests — and golden-eyed frogs that hop from place to place. There's fire-crabs with beautiful bejewelled shells, and Kneazles rumbling their cages with loud, happy purring. Scorpius pauses by each one to give it due attention but seems content to move on. Until he spots a rat. A shop employee is holding it upside down, dangling it by its tail and ignoring its squeaking. Scorpius frowns, watching the man walk past, and then pauses before timidly reaching out and pulling the man's sleeve.
"Excuse me," he says. "You shouldn't hold them like that."
The employee looks around. "What? Oh, don't worry about this one." He gives the rat a little wiggle. "It's about to be Henry's dinner. Our acromantula."
Draco gives the employee a frosty look. Scorpius doesn't need to know that.
"You still shouldn't carry them like that," Scorpius says.
"It's fine. If you want a pet rat, we've got some very nice black ones. Specially imported."
Scorpius wavers, looking as if he wants to say something, but ultimately he closes his mouth and turns away, and Draco makes a split-second decision.
"I'll buy that one."
"Look, it's not a pet rat," the employee says with exasperation. "We've got very nice rats for sale. Specially bred so they've got the best traits for pets, nice soft fur and everything. This rat — these are just bred to be dinner. No quality checks."
"I'm buying it," Draco repeats.
"Look, go pick out something else for your kid. He's not getting this rat."
Draco levels the employee with a look. It's a very particular look, passed down through the generations of Malfoys, refined throughout the years. It's nothing as crass as a sneer or a scowl; just a subtle narrowing of the lips, a slight twist to the mouth, a certain look in the eyes.
"Is that so?" Draco says.
They walk into the bright sunlight of Diagon Alley, Scorpius holding a bedraggled little rat in his hands.
"Thought of a name for it?" Draco asks, rearranging their purchases and nearly dropping a bundle of robes.
"Pan," Scorpius says shyly. "After one of Saturn's moons."
"That's a good name." Draco grabs an escaping robe sleeve and stuffs it back into the bag. "Ready to go home?"
Scorpius nods.
But summer is soon a season past. It's nearly autumn now. Autumn is a peculiar season, a moody season with strangeness in the air and hollow voices in the wind. The badgers will burrow into their setts, the ivy will deepen into a rich red, and in the gardens the pumpkins will fatten for harvest. On the last day of August, Scorpius arrives in Draco's study with a request for assistance in packing. Together, they fold robes and stack textbooks into the trunk. It's Draco's old trunk; he can still see his initials faintly stamped into the leather.
"We should get you a new trunk," he tells Scorpius.
"Why?"
"This one used to be mine." He taps his initials. Scorpius looks closer, studying the letters as if they hold some immeasurable secret. D.L.M.
"Draco," he says. "Draco Malfoy. What's the 'L' stand for?"
"Your grandfather, of course," Draco says with surprise. "Lucius."
"Can I visit him?"
"He's...he's overseas at the moment." More a calculated guess than an outright lie, Draco thinks. His father has most likely fled the country.
"Oh."
Draco folds another set of robes and places it aside. "I'll Floo to Diagon Alley and buy you a new trunk."
"It's okay. I like this one." Scorpius glances at the initials in the corner.
"Well, if you change your mind, come and get me."
But evidently, Scorpius doesn't change his mind. When they travel to Platform 9¾, it's with Draco's old trunk. The platform is full of noise and bustle and too many people. Scorpius seems very small suddenly. The other students look so much bigger and Draco is terrified for him.
"Well," he says, trying to muster up a calm tone of voice, "I'll see you at Christmas."
Scorpius nods. The train whistle blows and there's a slight pause before Scorpius leans forward and gives Draco the briefest of hugs. Then he takes his luggage and boards the train, a very brave expression on his face.
Draco, once again, watches his son disappear from sight.
James races along the platform, bright-eyed, fuelled by the thrill of his first real adventure. He's already said farewell to his father, enduring a slightly-clingy hug before wriggling away.
People gravitate towards him. They always have. He chatters to total strangers, he helps load luggage, he introduces himself so casually and speaks with such sincere frankness. He makes a new friend with every step he takes.
"James! Come sit with me!"
"Hey — aren't you the boy who helped with my luggage?"
"I wish I'd saved you a seat!"
"You're James Potter, aren't you? You can sit here!"
He laughs and smiles at them, nodding and shaking hands. But something compels him onwards. He's already instant friends with all these strangers. Who else is left to meet?
There.
In the last compartment.
This is a boy who is unfamiliar to James.
He pops his head round the door. "Hello! Mind if I sit here?"
The other boy looks up. Blond hair, a pointed face. Grey eyes. He shakes his head.
"Brilliant, thanks," James says with his easy grace. He swings onto a seat and grins. "I'm James, by the way. Nice to meet you. Are you first year?"
The boy looks at him and says nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?" James asks cheekily. "Never mind. My dad says I talk too much sometimes." He laughs and looks out the window, waving furiously as the train gathers momentum and the platform disappears from sight. "Hey, here we go! There's my father, see him? Oh — he's gone already. Wow, we're already going fast. I guess that's why they call it the Hogwarts Express." James is bright-eyed with enthusiasm. "Have you got your school robes? Do you know what house you'll be in? I hope I'm in Hufflepuff, we have badgers at home and I think they're awesome."
The door slides open, interrupting James's monologue. A tall, thin girl looks in at them.
"Hello," she says, looking keenly at James. "Didn't I see you on the platform?"
"You're Jennifer," James replies, smiling. "You dropped your textbooks and I helped you pick them up."
"Oh, that's right!" She blushes. "I was just going to ask if you'd seen a red hat, I seem to have lost it — oh." She stops and stares at the other boy.
"What?" James asks.
"If I were you," she says, "I wouldn't be seen with him." She points. "That's Scorpius Malfoy. He's bad blood."
"Bad blood?"
"Yes. They give us Purebloods a bad name. His father was a Death Eater." She shudders. "If you want to come sit with me — "
"Thanks, maybe later," James says cheerfully, unperturbed. The girl frowns and walks away, shutting the door again.
"She doesn't seem to like you," James laughs. "Anyway, I figured it out as soon as she said your name. Scorpius Malfoy. My dad said something, you know what it was?"
Scorpius shakes his head.
"He used to say there's a bit of good and bad in everyone." James looks at Scorpius expectantly. "So what say we'll be friends, and I'll figure out if there's more good than bad. Or vice versa." He grins. "Though if I were you, I wouldn't try anything. My uncles own the Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. It's true. See that trunk up there?"
Scorpius gives the trunk an obligatory glance.
"Think that's full of clothes? Think again. It's full of pranks and toys." James leans back with a satisfied grin. "It's going to be a good year."
The journey continues on. James chatters every now and again, showing off a toy or prank object that he pulls from his trunk. They're nearly at Hogsmeade when James jumps to his feet.
"Our robes, I nearly forgot!" He tugs his trunk open, rifling through the mess before finally producing a robe and wriggling into it. "See the blank crest?" He taps his chest. "When we're Sorted, it'll change into our house crest. How cool is that?"
Scorpius nods. James waits.
"Well? Aren't you going to put your robe on?"
Scorpius sits there for a moment, then at last he speaks. His voice is soft and raspy. "I don't think I'm a wizard."
James is surprised for a moment, then recovers. "Not a wizard? Didn't you get your letter?"
Scorpius stares at his feet. "I did, but my mum tore it up and said it was lies."
"Lies? Lies?" James is aghast. "The headmistress of Hogwarts — Professor Minerva McGonagall, who was at the Battle of Hogwarts and commanded a whole army of gargoyles and taught our parents everything they know — she sent you a letter specially to tell you that you can come to the greatest school in the world...and you think it's a lie?"
Scorpius stares at James. "I — I — "
"That's rubbish! Of course you're a wizard! Hogwarts is the best school and they don't pick anyone unless they're magic!" James points a finger theatrically at Scorpius. "Getting a letter from Hogwarts is the best thing that can ever happen to you, because as soon as you see it you realise you were magic all along. Now put your robes on."
Scorpius stares. He looks as though he's about to cry and James lowers his finger slightly. Then Scorpius's mouth twitches.
"I — I think I'm — I could be — a wizard," he says. James nods impatiently.
"Of course you are," he says as Scorpius opens his trunk and pulls out the black robes. He looks at them for a moment, then puts them on.
"There you go," James says, then grins and looks down at himself. "Look at us! We're proper wizards now."
And with those words, a great whistle pierces the air as the Hogwarts Express pulls into Hogsmeade.
Chapter 3: Other Rooms, Other Voices
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius begin their first year — James makes fast friends — Scorpius discovers a secret room — Draco and Harry have their first meeting.
Chapter Text
There's so much nervous energy it's a wonder the Great Hall doesn't simply shatter its great sky ceiling and sit among the stars. The first years line up, swapping taut smiles and whispering in thrilled anxiety.
"James, James!" somebody calls. "What house do you think you'll be in?"
"Yeah, I hope we're in the same house!"
"James'll be in Gryffindor, won't you James? That's the best house, I heard. Or Ravenclaw, all the smart people go there."
"Don't reckon I'll end up in any," James calls back airily. "I'll make my own house. It'll be called Weasley, after my uncles, and everyone'll get free dungbombs."
"That's brilliant!"
"Do you really get free stuff?"
"Yeah," James says, grinning wildly. "I've only got one pair of robes to last all term, I had to throw my other clothes out so I could fit in all the free joke stuff."
They laugh and jostle for his attention, already caught by his charm. A stout witch quickly puts a stop to their noisy excitement, however.
"First years, line up please! Come on, quickly. Quickly."
They stand to attention, hurriedly arranging themselves into a line, nudging and whispering. Then the doors to the Great Hall open and they follow the professor. James drinks it all in, looking around with great excitement.
"You can tell which house is which," he whispers to the girl behind him. "That table over there, with the green ties? Slytherin. And — "
"Quiet please," the professor says, but the girl looks at him with admiration.
He watches the students go before him. Some sit for ages on the stool with the hat falling over their eyes, others barely stay a second or two. Scorpius perhaps takes the longest; at last, the Sorting Hat declares him to be a Ravenclaw.
Soon enough, it's James's turn. He practically sprints to the stool, picking up the hat and plopping it onto his head.
"Ah," a voice says, very close, and James looks wildly around for a moment before realising it's the Sorting Hat.
"Hello," he says brightly, remembering his father saying once that he could talk to the hat if he wanted.
The hat is silent for a moment and James wonders if it's ignoring him or gone to sleep. The hat chuckles, answering his question.
"I don't sleep," he says. "You've got a bright mind, haven't you? Eagerness, oh yes, and enthusiasm."
"Oh, thanks," James says, wondering if the hat will declare him a Ravenclaw, but it falls silent again for a few moments.
"Stubborn, certainly," it murmurs at last, and James isn't sure if it's talking to itself or him. "Plenty of drive and ambition."
James shifts uneasily, some of his confidence fading. Slytherins are known for their ambition, Teddy has often told James. Will the hat deem him a Slytherin? He's not quite sure how he'd feel about that. Before he can voice his trepidation, however, the hat speaks.
"Hmm...I think you'll find kindred spirit in Gryffindor!" The hat shouts the last word and James gets to his feet, grinning with relief and making his way over to the cheering Gryffindor table.
"Thanks, yeah, thought it'd be this house," he says cheerily as students slap his back and grin at him.
It's going to be a fantastic year, he thinks.
Harry drives home alone.
His wedding band feels especially heavy tonight, as though Ginny's hand is resting over his own.
Routine. It kept them going, him and James. Week in, week out. Years went by and it was always the same. Come home from work, pick James up. Jokes about earwigs for dinner, boiled slugs for dessert. Dinner was always served at half-six exactly, James excitedly talking about his day. When James was younger, they would play a board game, or Harry would do silly charms like turning a teddy-bear blue, and when James was older, Harry helped with homework and signed permission slips for excursions. After James's bedtime, Harry would retreat to his study to complete any incident reports for his Auror work. At ten o'clock, he'd pour himself a neat scotch and then, at half-ten, he would retire to bed.
And then he'd start his day all over again at seven o'clock, when James woke up.
Most of the time, Harry was content. It's a very solid, steady routine that kept him company in the years since his wife's death. He used James's bright energy as fuel to keep himself going. No time for reflection when there's dinner to make or crayons to replace or grass-stains to be scoured.
Sometimes — very occasionally and always late at night — he'd get up from his desk and walk into the dining room or hallway or kitchen and just stand there. Just stand there, staring into the darkness. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. Then he'd shake his head suddenly, abruptly, and try to remember what he was doing. Sometimes he thought he was looking for Ginny. Just standing there waiting, waiting. As though if he was patient enough and looked long enough, she'd suddenly come around a corner or step through a door and smile.
And how he finds himself doing it again tonight. Standing in the middle of the hallway, waiting. He can hear the past as if it's a ghost. Ginny laughing in the kitchen, making silly jokes with James — he can hear the soft patter of toddler feet — and then he'll just walk around the corner and they'll both look up and smile at him, pancake batter everywhere, the morning sun catching on Ginny's soft red hair, flour smudged on her hands…
He steps into the kitchen. It's empty, quiet, dark. The counters are all wiped clean.
He has never spoken to Ginny. Some people told him, especially after the funeral, that sometimes speaking aloud helped. Just say whatever you want her to know, Ron had said, his eyes red-rimmed. It helps, mate. Just to feel like she's listening.
But Harry never felt like speaking aloud. It seemed strange and besides, James was struggling enough to understand the concept of death. When's Mum coming home? he kept asking until Harry wanted to shout at him. The last thing Harry wanted to do was 'speak' to Ginny only to have James overhear and think that Ginny was somehow still there, still listening.
But he speaks aloud now. Three words, just to see how it sounds in this silent house.
"I miss you."
His voice echoes around the kitchen, catches on the empty pots and pans, fills the spaces where people used to be. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you…
His wedding band leaves an imprint on his palm as he clenches his fist.
Damn you, Ginny.
Harry sits opposite his two best friends; he has an inkling about the reason of their meeting and looks surreptitiously at Hermione as she scolds nine-year-old Hugo about leaving crumbs on Harry's coffee table.
"Good news, eh?" Ron says with a grin.
"I know," Harry replies. "Congratulations, mate."
Ron's grin fades a little; he looks bewildered. "What?"
"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"
Hermione looks horrified. "What? No! No. We're not expecting any more children."
"I want a brother," Hugo pipes up. "Rose is mean. She makes me wear a ballerina dress, and she tries to put my hair into pigtails."
"Brothers aren't any better," Ron says quickly. "Uncle George used my pet puffskein as a quaffle when I was your age."
Hugo laughs and runs to the direction of the kitchen, presumably to fetch another biscuit. Ron frowns.
"I worry about that kid sometimes."
"Well, in any case, nobody's getting any more brothers. Or sisters," Hermione says firmly.
"Of course," Ron says, giving Hermione a sideways look. "Although..."
"No."
"Right, right." Ron clears his throat. "Anyway, listen. You know, with James gone, I was thinking...you're probably enjoying the peace and quiet."
"When was the last time you had a holiday?" Hermione adds, and Harry begins to feel distinctly nervous.
"I don't know. Work's been really busy lately." There's been little else to occupy his time — no need to clean up after James, or organise swim practice for him, or ring the school and promise to reimburse them for the third broken window pane this month…
"Yeah, I've been telling Hermione how busy you've been. Reckon you've got a break coming up."
Harry's heart sinks. He can't take a holiday. Not now. Not when the house is so empty, the dead autumn leaves collecting in the corners of the garden, the dust gathering in James's room.
"I…I don't think I have enough service leave," he says at last.
"Why on earth not?" Hermione asks, frowning. "You've practically lived in your office for the past…however many years."
"Yeah, don't be daft, you must have a few months of leave at least," Ron adds.
Harry searches for a change of subject. "How's Rose settling into Hogwarts?"
It works, although Hermione gives him a look of faint disapproval. "Good," she says, and the conversation soon drifts along and, to Harry's relief, doesn't return to the topic of work.
"Anyway, I'll see you later," Ron says at last. "We should get going, we're supposed to visit Mum today."
They exchange goodbyes and leave, dragging an unhappy Hugo with them — "I ate all the shortbread!" he shouts to Harry as he leaves — and Harry listens as they walk down the driveway and Disapparate together, Hugo firmly clamped to his mother's side.
Alone again, Harry thinks as he listens to the silence of the house.
Draco sits on the edge of his son's bed, looking around the empty bedroom. So neat and tidy, he thinks, but perhaps the house-elves have already cleaned it. Neat rows of clothes hang in the wardrobe. There's a stack of books on the bedside table — all leather-bound ones that Scorpius must have taken from the study. Collections of ancient maps, histories of the world, a herbology book filled with pressed specimens.
Why hadn't Draco thought of books? He hadn't thought to put a bookcase in Scorpius's room. What do eleven-year-olds read these days? Beedle the Bard is far too childish now. Draco doesn't know what his son likes to read.
He doesn't know anything about him.
A sharp noise reverberates, like someone plucking a taut wire. Someone has passed through the manor wards.
Is it that time already? Draco makes his way down the hallway and slowly descends the stairs into the entrance hall. Let them wait.
He opens the imposing front doors. On the doorstep, a portly witch turns to smile at him.
"Ah, Mr Malfoy! Has it been a week already?"
"Evidently."
She walks in, making her way to the front parlour room. Draco has always disliked how familiar she makes herself.
"Now," she says, once they're both in the front parlour room, Draco standing by the window and the witch perched awkwardly on an antique chaise. "Hand over your wand, please."
He gives it to her. She murmurs a few words and, as golden letters float like leaves above the wand, she scribbles a few notes onto her scroll.
"Good, good. Not many spells, Mr Malfoy. You can use your wand, you know — just none of the restricted spells." She laughs as if she's made a joke. Draco doesn't smile.
She runs through the usual questions. If he's been meeting with any other people associated with Death Eaters or Voldemort supporters. If he's attempted to harm Muggles or Muggleborns in any way. If he knows where his father is. Draco is certain that last question is certainly not a standard part of the interviews between Ministry officials and those placed on the 'Wizards Under Watch' program. Nevertheless, he answers it.
"No."
"Very good. Well, that wraps it up for another week. Another good report." She waves the scroll at him. "Cheer up. In two more years, you'll be removed from the program and considered non-dangerous to the magical community!"
"How wonderful," Draco says, but the witch either doesn't notice his tone of voice or chooses to ignore it.
"Isn't it?" She gathers her hat and cloak. "Well, take care, Mr Malfoy."
He listens as she departs. Footsteps, a door closing. That's all this house seems to be. Footsteps and closed doors.
A scratching noise. He jumps. Nothing, he reminds himself. Just the family of squirrels that seems to have moved into the roof. Or rats in the walls. The manor is starting to become a little frayed around the edges, a little faded. After money was seized from the Malfoy vaults for war 'recompense', Astoria and Draco spent quite a formidable amount on legal fees for their divorce . Then came another financial problem, when Draco spent most of the remaining money trying to find Astoria and Scorpius. Now the servants have all left — save two elderly house-elves, Haggly and Hooky.
The scratching noise again.
He'd leave this house, burn it to ashes, salt the earth, but for his father.
He's still waiting, after all this time, for his father to come home.
"That's amazing!"
"Thanks," James says with a grin. They crowd around the common room table as he smooths the Marauder's Map out, pushing chess pieces and gobstones out of the way.
"What shall we use it for?"
"Anything," James says, a glint in his eye. "My dad used it all the time for sneaking round Hogwarts. We'll have a little trip to the kitchens, I think — midnight snack, anyone?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Count me in!"
"I'll fetch my wand!"
James has already made fast friends at Hogwarts. The other Gryffindor boys have all been quite friendly, of course, and the classes have all been wonderfully exciting (except, perhaps, History of Magic). The only disappointment thus far has been the discovery that first years aren't allowed to join the swim team, but James figures he'll just have to wait until next year. Maybe all his newfound friends will join the team too.
"Right," James says decisively. "We can't all go."
"Pick me!"
"That's not fair, I want to go!"
"Paul can come with me," James says, choosing a fellow first year. Paul, a Muggleborn, is easily awed by everything and no doubt he'll be very impressed with the Marauder's Map. "And Martin," he adds, selecting another first year at random.
Off they go, sneaking through the portrait and down the corridor. "I hope you're not causing any mischief," the Fat Lady calls disapprovingly, but they just laugh and disappear round the corner. They look at each other, nervous at the thrill of an adventure.
"Where to?" whispers Paul. James traces the footprints of Grimble, the cantankerous caretaker, with his index finger.
"Not that way," he says as Martin turns to look down a hallway. "This way. And then we'll go down these stairs. Quiet, now."
They follow the twist and turns of the corridors, talking in hushed voices, Paul jumping at every little noise and Martin demanding to see the map, wanting to see the footsteps wander round.
"There's us!" Martin says a little too loudly, taking the map from James.
"Quiet!" James hisses. They pause. "I thought I heard something," he says after a moment.
"We've got the map," Martin points out. "We'll know."
"I've got an idea." Paul is grinning. "We should sneak into Slughorn's office and steal his silver scales."
"Wait up," James says, "we should think of a plan first — "
"Go on, James, where's your sense of adventure?" Martin chimes in. Typical that he would agree with Paul — they're both from Bedford and they've forged a fast friendship.
"I don't know," James says cautiously, but the prank is appealing to his mischievous side.
"Go on!"
"We'll know if anybody's coming."
At last, he grins in consensus. They laugh softly, nudging each other, certain there's adventures just around the corner. The sandstone rasps under their soft footsteps; they whisper and giggle past sleepy paintings.
"Wait. What was that?"
They pause.
"Did you hear that?"
"No."
"Shhh!"
They pause again, heads cocked, listening intently.
"It's nothing," James says at last. "Come on — "
"There! Somebody's ahead! Can't you see them?" Martin surges forward, and Paul hurriedly tries to grab him.
"Don't be a fool, what if it's a teacher?"
"Give me the map, we'll check!" James says with exasperation.
Somebody has separated from the shadows ahead, trying to slink into a classroom. But Martin grabs them by the scruff of their robes.
"Look," he says, "it's that odd Malfoy boy." He gives him a little shake. "What do you think you're doing?"
Scorpius says nothing, eyes fixed on the ground. James shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Since the train trip, he hasn't spoken to Scorpius once. They were both Sorted into different houses, after all, and James has been busy making new friends.
"Cat got your tongue?" Martin demands, still gripping Scorpius by the collar.
"Thinks he's too good for us," Paul adds. He pushes his nose up with his thumb. "Ooh, look at me, I'm a Malfoy!"
"Better be careful, his Death Eater dad might get you!" Martin laughs and releases his hold on Scorpius, pushing him away as if he were contagious.
"Come on," James says, speaking up at last, "let's just go. Never mind about him."
"What if he tattles on us?"
"Don't be daft, he'll have to admit he was out of bed too," James points out. "Come on."
"I don't trust him. Maybe we should follow him," Martin says with a grin. "Maybe he's off to open the Chamber of Secrets…"
Scorpius turns and slinks away into the shadows, but Martin and Paul follow him.
"Hey, Malfoy, come back here!"
"Yeah, get back here!"
Scorpius breaks into a run. They follow him, their footsteps echoing around the halls. Portraits open their eyes sleepily, muttering about the noise; an indignant goblin snaps at them. Out of all of the Gryffindors, James is the fastest. He rounds a corner, catching up to Scorpius.
And comes face-to-face with Peeves.
"Students out of bed! Students out of bed near Transfiguration classroom!" Peeves bellows jubilantly.
"No! Shut up!" James says desperately.
But Peeves is in his element now. Somewhere, a door bangs open. Footsteps sound; wandlight dances along the hallways.
James pelts around another corner. Behind him, he can hear his friends bickering as they struggle to keep up. James knew he shouldn't have trusted Martin with the map! And of all the nights to forget his invisibility cloak...
Footsteps. A teacher's voice.
"Peeves! All that unbearable noise at this hour — "
Oh, no. He'd recognise that terse, no-nonsense voice anywhere.
McGonagall.
He turns another corner, breathing heavily, and then pauses. Just ahead of him, Scorpius has stopped at the end of the corridor. He taps his wand against the wall quickly and the stone melts like ice, creating a small portal. James gazes with amazement, his mouth hanging open. Scorpius steps through the portal, slipping into whatever lays behind it; the portal begins to close and suddenly, James is very aware of McGonagall's footsteps drawing near.
"Wait!" — and James, leaping forward, manages to catapult himself through the narrow gap in the wall. A few seconds later, he can hear McGonagall walking along the corridor, her shoes clacking sharply against the stone. A long pause, then —
"How very droll, Peeves," she says, her voice barely audible through the thick stone wall, but James thinks he can still hear the sharp annoyance. "I suppose this is your idea of amusement."
Peeves's cackling is loud and clear, but it soon fades, followed by McGonagall's footsteps. James exhales slowly.
"Wow," he says, "that was close." He presses a hand to the stone, trying to find the faint outline of a portal again, but there's nothing. It's already faded.
"You weren't supposed to come in."
He turns around. Scorpius is standing across a vast room. The high, vaulted ceiling emphasises the cold, dark emptiness of the room; there is not a single piece of furniture, not a single chair nor desk. Large windows line one side of the room, the pointed arches and ornate stonework creating deep shadows. Nevertheless, thin moonlight slants across the floor.
"Not supposed to come in? Thanks a lot," James says. His voice echoes around the room. "What is this place, anyway?"
"I found it."
"This is like the Room of Requirement. It must be," James says excitedly, suddenly recalling his father's stories. "Wow! They all think this place burned down!"
"It's not the Room of Requirement."
"How would you know?" James says. "I bet you five galleons it is. The Room of Requirement is a magical room with a door that appears from stone — "
"I know what it is." Scorpius hesitates, then produces a scroll from the pockets of his robes.
James frowns. "What's that?"
"A drawing."
"Give me a look, then. Are you an artist or something?" James jokes, but Scorpius just gives him a look and walks to the closest window, unfurling the parchment in the light of the moon. James hurries across the room to join him. It's a drawing of Hogwarts, he sees.
"Did you draw that? It's pretty good."
"It doesn't match." Scorpius points to one of the lowest lines of windows on his drawing. "When I walked inside and looked for this row of windows, I couldn't find it. It's because this room is walled off."
"How'd you find it then?"
"The Limen Charm. It creates an entrance, a portal."
"What's that charm? I don't remember studying it."
"I read a lot."
"You can't perform magic in corridors!"
"I read a lot," Scorpius repeats.
"What? That doesn't even..." James trails off, suddenly picturing himself bursting into the Gryffindor common room and announcing that he's found a secret lair. Paul and Martin might not be keen to come along for another adventure, especially if they've been caught tonight, but James has plenty of other friends. The other two boys with whom he shares the dormitory — Iwan, the Welsh boy, and Nathaniel who hates his name and prefers to be called Nate. And there's Allison from Herbology, and the friendly Hufflepuffs from History of Magic…
"Hey, listen," James says. "You should teach me this portal charm, we could use this room as...as anything! A second common room, or we could hold secret midnight feasts in here, or…"
"No. It's my room. I found it." Scorpius rolls up his drawing and steps away.
"Well, that's being a little selfish, isn't it? Come on, I'd let you stay. You could have that part of the room over there, and over here we could hold parties — "
"Go away! And you're not allowed to tell anyone about the room!"
"Oh, that's nice! I was only making suggestions! You don't have to be such a prat about it — "
"You were the one chasing me," Scorpius retorts, looking upset, and James scowls.
"So what? It's not a crime to chase people. And I think it's very selfish for one person to have a whole room to themselves — "
Scorpius cuts him off, raising his wand and murmuring words too quickly for James to register. The next thing he knows, he's being pushed backwards through a newly-appeared portal in the wall. He stumbles slightly, catching his balance before he falls, and watches with bewilderment as the portal melts away again.
Silence.
James bangs on the wall with his fist.
"I know you're in there! Just you wait! I'm going to go tell everyone about your stupid little room! I'll tell McGonagall you've been wandering around after dark, and using magic in the corridors!"
No response.
After a long moment, James strides away, fuming.
The next day, a tousled and sleepy James wanders to the Great Hall for breakfast. He yawns widely as Paul and Martin question him.
"Where were you last night? We had to hide in a classroom for an hour before Peeves went away."
"I got lost," James says easily. "Found my way back, though. You'd better keep up next time."
"You're fast." Martin takes a bite of his toast. "You'd make a good Seeker. I wish they let first years try out for the team," he adds wistfully.
"Well, you never know. My dad joined the team in first year." James takes a bite of toast.
"Yes, but your dad's also Harry Potter."
James doesn't reply. Unusually, he's not paying much attention to the conversation. He twists around in his seat, scanning the Ravenclaw table.
"Malfoy isn't there," Paul says suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Malfoy isn't there," Paul repeats. "I bet he tattled on us."
"We'd probably know by now." James casts his mind around and seizes the next topic with cheery enthusiasm. "Hey, have you lot been to the library yet? It's brilliant. I'm trying to figure out a way to get into the restricted section."
They laugh and chatter. James smiles along with them.
But in the back of his mind, something is nagging at him.
James races through the dungeon corridors. He's late for Potions — not that Slughorn cares, he adores James and insists on inviting him to numerous 'Slug Club' meetings — but too many more sleep-ins and there will be a notification owled to his father, and James isn't particularly keen to open a Howler at breakfast time.
He breathlessly comes to a halt outside the Potions classroom and takes a moment to quickly smooth down his robes and fix his askew school tie before walking through the doorway. Slughorn, holding a handful of fresh bat entrails and loudly explaining how to dice them, pauses to look across the room.
"Oh, hello, Potter," he says amiably. "Tardy again, are we? I'll have to make a note of that. Take a seat, take a seat. We'll be looking at a basic Calming Draught today. Now, as I was saying, the entrails must be diced with a silver knife…"
Around the room, numerous students turn to mouth 'hello!' at James and gesture for him to sit near them; he's proven to be a popular student in all his classes. James wavers for a moment, but apparently even Slughorn's fondness for him has its limits, for he frowns and points to a seat.
"For Merlin's sake, Potter, sit down so we can continue. This next bit is very important."
James hurries over to the seat, setting his bag down and quickly removing his already-desecrated textbook. One of his friends has drawn an unkind picture of Slughorn as an actual slug, wearing a waistcoat and a disapproving expression; James quickly flips the page over.
"Now, the intestines must be added at the very last second. This is paramount to achieving a usable potion." Slughorn waves the intestines around, narrowly missing a revolted-looking Ravenclaw. "Right! Partner up and we'll get started."
"Partner?" James asks the person beside him without looking, still trying to find the page with the Calming Draught.
"I suppose."
That's a familiar voice by now. He looks up and frowns. Of all the people in the room, why did he have to end up next to Scorpius Malfoy?
"I nearly got caught because of you," James whispers angrily. "I had to sneak all the way back to the Gryffindor tower, and Peeves nearly got me!"
"Serves you right for invading people's rooms," Scorpius retorts.
"You're one to talk! You're lucky I didn't tell anyone!"
There's a short pause. Scorpius stares down at his Potions textbook for a long moment before speaking.
"Didn't you?"
"No." James considers this. "I mean, I could have," he adds threateningly. "But I didn't."
"Why not?"
"What? What sort of question is that?"
"I want to know."
"If you tell me how to do that portal charm, I'll tell you."
Scorpius doesn't reply to that, just looks down at his textbook and starts writing down notes. James waits impatiently, but it becomes apparent that no answer is forthcoming.
"Fine," James says with a heavy sigh that implies great sacrifice. "I suppose I'll go fetch the intestines. I hope you were listening, at least, because I've got no idea what we're supposed to be doing."
Scorpius just gives him an annoyed look.
For a kid with no friends, James thinks, Scorpius sure has a lot of attitude.
Later that night, around the Gryffindor common room fire, James lounges with his friends.
"You're so lucky you're the teacher's pet. Slughorn loves you."
"I am not the teacher's pet!" James retorts, flicking an earwax-flavoured bean at Martin. He retaliates with an expired chocolate frog and the next moment, a hail of sweets rains down upon the students.
"Truce!" Paul calls out, ducking a Canary Cream. In the corner of the common room, two prefects are looking at them with distinct disapproval.
"Wish there was somewhere else we could go," Martin complains. "You can't have a laugh here, someone's always studying."
It's on the tip of James's tongue to say I know a place! but he manages to remain quiet. Martin speaks up again instead.
"You know who is a teacher's pet? That odd Malfoy. Always writing away." He mimics frantic writing and laughs.
"Maybe he's practising," Paul suggests.
"What do you mean? Like he's never written before?" Nate demands, and Paul flushes.
"No! I meant practising note-taking — "
"Paul thinks Malfoy doesn't know how to write!" James laughs, and Martin quickly chimes in.
"Of course not — he's got all his servants, remember?" He jumps to his feet, pointing at an invisible servant. "You, go write my letters for me. And you, go wash my robes," he orders. James can't help but laugh at his theatrics. "And you, go beat up some Muggles. I don't like the way they look at me."
They're all laughing now, and suddenly James feels a hand on his shoulder. He quietens, his smile fading, and looks up.
"Oh, Rose," he says amicably. He's quite fond of his cousin — after all, his favourite place to visit has always been Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione's place — but he's found that although Rose shares the same year level with him, they don't seem to see each other much.
"Can I speak to you for a moment?" she asks quietly.
"Sure," he says, standing up to follow Rose to a quiet corner of the common room as his friends return to their chatter.
"It's about your friends," Rose begins, and James frowns.
"What about them?" he asks, hoping Rose won't embarrass him by lecturing him on how rowdy they are. She spends most of her time in the library or with a group of quiet girls.
"I've been hearing stories about your little midnight adventures. Word gets around."
"I suppose you're going to tell on me, then?" James says, crossing his arms. Rose frowns at him.
"Not yet. But I'm warning you. Look, everyone knows you're Harry Potter's son, and some of the things your friends have been saying...I wouldn't be too keen to be associated with them."
"Like what? What are they saying?"
"Those remarks from that Martin," Rose snaps. "Making jokes about hurting Muggles... how do you think my mum would feel if she heard you laughing about that?"
"Martin didn't mean it like that!" James retorts, flushing.
"It's still insensitive," Rose snaps. "A lot of people here are orphans from the war. From both sides," she adds. "Tell your friends not to make jokes about that sort of thing."
"Or you'll write home about me?"
Rose doesn't say anything to that, just sighs heavily and gives him a long look. "You can be a real pain sometimes, James," she says, and then she goes up the stairs to her dormitory.
James turns away and retreats to his own dorm, his mood spoiled for the rest of the night.
Monday morning, and suddenly Ron and Hermione's talk of 'holidays' and 'taking breaks' all makes sense to Harry. They probably found out somehow, he thinks gloomily. News travels far too fast through the Ministry grapevine.
Harry sits at the great oak desk of the Head Auror. The Head Auror — a broad-shouldered, craggy-faced man named Williamson — is away. He's always locked in meetings. Instead, his newest secretary — a young man named Cuthbert — looks nervously at Harry.
"Hello," Harry says at last, taking pity on Cuthbert. Most of the Auror secretaries — recent graduates with qualifications in the business field — don't last too long. Maybe it's the demanding nature of the job, or maybe it's the frequent sight of the Aurors dragging themselves into the office after fieldwork, covered in blood and wearing grim expressions.
"Hello, sir," Cuthbert says, looking dwarfed by the intimidating oak desk and towering stacks of paperwork. "Williamson sends his deepest apologies, sir, but — "
"Yes, he's very busy."
"Right." Cuthbert tentatively opens a folder. "Well…you've made remarkable progress in your time here. Not that you need me to tell you that, sir." He looks down at the file. "Orchestrated international operations to catch most of the remaining Death Eaters...personally mentored several of the graduate Aurors...you've been with the office for fifteen years, it says, and yet you haven't taken a single day of service leave. Even after your wife's death...I see here that you took only three weeks off, filed under bereavement leave."
"This is about Ginny?" Her name hangs in the air like a bruised cloud. Cuthbert looks slightly panicked.
"No, of course not, sir," he says hurriedly. "This is about reward. You've worked hard for over a decade now! Your accumulated leave — "
"I don't care, I don't need time off — "
"You…you do." Cuthbert winces slightly, as if expecting retribution. "Williamson said there's a big project coming up and he thinks it's your turn. Sir," he adds quickly.
Harry pauses. Every now and again, the Head Auror chooses someone to direct an operation. The major ones are usually handled by the Head Auror themselves, of course, but the senior Aurors are sometimes given rein. And it's been a while since Harry last took on an operation…it will be a very busy, very demanding role…
"Williamson highly suggests you have a rest, so to speak, before beginning the operation. It will be very intensive."
"Being an Auror has always been intensive," Harry says, a bit more aggressively than he meant. He can't just take a holiday. Not now.
"Er…yes, sir." Cuthbert pauses, looking as if he wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere. "But…Williamson said to tell you…that he's already moved your duties to other Aurors. He's cleared your schedule for the next two months. Auror Spelton volunteered to take on a lot of your duties, actually."
Harry pauses. Spelton. A young recruit, but he's worked his way up through sheer talent and intelligence. Harry knows Spelton's wife is already expecting their first child... the extra duties would give him some much-needed money.
Harry's shoulders slump. "The next two months?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"Well, something else, then," he says, changing tack. "Some other position."
"I…there's really nothing, sir, at least not that I can think of…I can schedule a meeting with Williamson, he knows much more than I do —"
Two months alone in that empty house. No James, no work. Harry can feel desperation gripping his heart like a vice.
"There must be something, anything! Even just...just some paperwork, some filing...it doesn't even have to be field work, for Merlin's sake."
Cuthbert hesitates. Harry pounces.
"There's a job."
"Well...there's one vacant role, in our Wizards Under Watch program. But you're rather over-qualified for it, sir. Something for the graduate recruits, really. Williamson's been looking for someone to take the job, but they've all been reluctant to accept it, and I can't say I blame them — "
"Over-qualified doesn't matter, I'll take a pay cut," Harry says gratefully. "What is it, monitoring a Dark magic user? That's fine."
"Yes, sir. The previous case officer has unexpectedly quit after...er, there was a bit of silliness about missing money from the office funds, and...anyway," Cuthbert continues with determined cheerfulness. "One day a week, visiting a program participant. That's all."
Harry's expression falls. He'd been hoping for something a little more demanding of his time, but perhaps he could dedicate some time to preparation, depending on the complexity of the case.
"It's fine," he says. "I'll take it."
"I can't authorise it," Cuthbert replies anxiously. "You'll have to talk about it with Williamson."
"I'm sure he won't have a problem with it. I'll send him a memo. Thanks," Harry adds, giving a nod and turning to stride away before Cuthbert can change his mind.
He doesn't, and evidently Williamson isn't too irritated by the request; a few hours after Harry's sent the memo, Williamson sends a short reply. Request granted, he's scrawled. Will send client file shortly. Effective next Monday.
One more week of work, then, Harry thinks. Well, he'll have to arrange for that Salisbury estate raid on Thursday — they'd received a tip about a cache of Dark objects — then there's the intelligence reports due Wednesday, and planning needs to be finalised for the new surveillance set-up…
The client file arrives shortly afterwards, but it stays forgotten on the corner of Harry's desk.
Friday comes and goes. Harry manages to survive it and come six o'clock, the last of his colleagues have left the office. Ron visits on his way to the Patents Office to drop off some paperwork for a new Weasley wheeze.
"Thought you'd still be here."
Harry looks up from his paperwork. Ron stands by the door, his cloak folded over one arm.
"Yeah, mate. Just finishing up some reports."
"Well, at least that's the last overtime you'll do for the next two months." He grins. "Book yourself a trip somewhere, Harry. Join a Quidditch team. Start knitting. Just do something, promise me."
"I promise."
"Good. Well — I'd better get to the office before it closes."
"Right, I'll see you later."
Harry listens to Ron's footsteps fade. In the distance, a door closes.
Silence. Once again.
He slowly rearranges his paperwork. Everything's in order and he knows it. He's just delaying his inevitable return home. The fireplace will be cold and the ashes will be grey. He'll need to sweep the front steps; the dead leaves are gathering. The gardens will be dying, disappearing beneath the chill of autumn.
Well, at least there's one last thing to do. He reaches for the client file and flips it open. He hasn't had the chance to look at it all week.
Harry stares blankly at the name typed neatly at the top of the file.
At first, he thinks it's a joke. Ron left it on his desk, or a file was delivered to the wrong desk, or something. He slowly turns the page. It's blank except for one sentence in the middle.
Warning: Following details are highly confidential. Please sign below to continue.
He tries to turn the page. It doesn't move. He slowly reaches for a quill and signs his name. The ink dissolves to nothing and a few seconds later, the page turns. The headings of various sections catch his eye: contact details, next of kin, medical details, personal history, family association with Voldemort...it's all here. Every detail of Draco Malfoy's life, laid out neatly for any Ministry employee to read.
It's certainly not a joke.
Harry leans back in his chair and frowns, considering his options. He should have guessed as soon as Cuthbert said everyone else had been reluctant to accept the case. It can't be that bad, he thinks. Visit Draco once a week to tick a few boxes. It would definitely be awkward, though. Harry certainly wouldn't be offered tea and biscuits. And one sneer from Draco and Harry would be forced, by the rules of karma, to punch him.
Perhaps it would be that bad, he thinks. Perhaps tomorrow he'll just tell Williamson he's changed his mind, and go…
...on holiday.
With nothing to do, nothing to distract him, in his house of bittersweet memories. James's visit, at Christmas, is still two and a half months away.
Harry exhales slowly, leans forward and begins to read. Contact details first. Nothing of interest there. Then comes next-of-kin; a large government stamp fills the space where a family member's details should be. Harry's eyebrows rise. It means Draco hasn't nominated anyone, and has therefore agreed (by default) to have the Ministry manage his estate and arrangements should he die.
A list of family follows. Harry casts his eye down the list: Mother, deceased. Father, missing declared deceased. Uncle, deceased. Aunt, deceased. First cousins, all deceased. Grandparents, deceased. Ex-wife, deceased.
It looks as if only one relative survived the apparent Malfoy massacre: one dependant, listed as Scorpius Malfoy.
A door slams open. Harry jumps, then looks up as a cleaner walks in.
"Oh, Mr Potter," he says with surprise. "You're still here? It's nearly half-six."
"Another late night," Harry says lightly, picking up the file. "Good evening, Wilbur."
"Good evening, Mr Potter."
Harry takes his cloak from the hook and makes his way through the silent building, quickly walking out into the dark autumn night.
There's something strangely fascinating about seeing someone's life pinned to paper. Particularly someone like Draco, who had so carefully guarded his personal life at Hogwarts. Although Harry had long-forgotten their schoolyard rivalry, it still gives him satisfaction to know that he has access to certain details that would no doubt horrify Draco. For instance, the medical records note that he has low blood pressure. There's nothing listed under allergies, but a small range of notes on injuries detail two healed rib fractures and a broken wrist. Fascinatingly, there's a small sentence added to the 'broken wrist' injury: No charges laid.
Harry makes an easy guess: Draco called someone a Mudblood and got into a fight. He flips through the pages but there's no further explanation, although there's extensive details about Draco's links to pro-Voldemort organisations and supporters. Harry's Auror training kicks in and he immediately begins analysing the notes.
At ten o'clock, he pours himself a scotch.
But, for the first time for years, he does not retire to bed at half-ten. Instead, he reads the file until he's reached the very end.
Draco stares at the family portrait, holding it a foot above the fireplace. As if sensing the proximity of paper and oil, the flames below seem to reach higher.
His mother stands on one side. The last portrait ever taken of her. She's wearing a set of black dress robes, a string of pearls around her neck. Astoria looks resplendent in a crisp white dress. Draco had worn the traditional tuxedo, although privately he thinks the cut of the suit makes him look too thin.
But he had still been happy then. Distracted by all the problems in his life — his sickly mother, withering away to nothing; his father's uncomfortably obvious absence; his friends abandoning him. But Astoria made up for it. Beautiful Astoria, with her dark eyes and her always-smiling mouth, the way she'd always been so happy, bright as a star. Back then, when they still held onto hope for their future together.
Burn it.
His hand shakes just a little, then drops the portrait into the fire. His mother is the first to burn. Her hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes disappear first, followed by her bony hands clutching a single wilted daffodil. Then Draco burns away, his smirk and confident gaze disappearing into smoke. Then Astoria's mother and sister, standing neatly to one side.
Then Astoria herself. Her happy expression, her bright eyes, all vanishing beneath the flames.
Draco walks through the manor that night, walking from room to room, trying to find a space that doesn't haunt him. Faces rise from the cellar, screaming for mercy. Bodies writhe in agony in the drawing room (no; no, those doors shall never open again). Astoria flits from room to room. We loved each other, once, he can almost hear her whisper sadly. What happened to us?
At last he goes to Scorpius's room. That small child's bedroom, the same room that once belonged to a young Draco. In the darkness, he can almost pretend there's stuffed toys lining the shelves again, and a copy of Beedle the Bard on the beside table, and Scorpius will run through the door and pick it up and say give me a happy story tonight.
Children are the same everywhere.
They all want fairytale endings.
A noise like a taut metal wire being plucked. The noise vibrates through Draco's skull and he winces, slowly sitting up and feeling disoriented. He's in his son's room. Did he fall asleep in here?
"Master." Before him, one of the elderly house-elves has appeared. "Someone has passed through the wards."
"I know." Once a week, like clockwork. He's set the wards to allow the Ministry officials through.
"Shall Haggly let them in?"
"No, I'll get the door."
The house-elf dutifully disappears again. Draco makes his way down the hallway; as he nears the staircase, he hears a knock at the door and is immediately irritated. He'd received an owl notifying him that he had a new case officer, and he hadn't cared at all. But at least his previous officer knew to always visit at a reasonable hour (noon) and never knocked, always waiting patiently for Draco to answer the door. He taps the door with his wand, disabling the locking spells, and pulls it open, an irritated greeting poised on his lips. Instead —
"Who are you?" he asks stupidly.
Harry blinks at him. "Harry Potter."
"I can see that. I meant — what are you doing here?" Draco opens the door wider and looks around, half-expecting to see a Weasley as well.
"I'm your new case officer."
"What are you talking about?"
Harry stares at him. "Your Wizards Under Watch program," he says slowly. "The same program you've been participating in, once a week for the past fifteen years."
"The past — what are you — you are not allowed on this property," Draco says at last, trying to find his way back to solid ground.
"Yes, I am. As your Wizards Under Watch officer — "
"Stop saying that! I'm reactivating the wards."
"Do that and I'll have to make a probationary note on your record."
That sinks in, at least. Draco's alarmed. A probationary note might result in an extra month being adding to his program and he does not want to stay in the program any longer than necessary.
"Fine," he says between gritted teeth. "Come in." The invitation could not sound more hostile but what choice does he have? He's half-expecting Harry to gloat about it but instead he lingers on the doorstep, looking uncomfortable.
"Can't we just conduct the interview out here?"
"If you think I'm going to stand out here for twenty minutes, you're obviously more soft-headed than I previously thought," Draco snaps.
"Oh, so you're really resorting to petty insults? Look, this arrangement isn't ideal for either of us, so let's just get it over with."
"Then stop wasting both our time and come inside," Draco says angrily. He turns and walks through the entrance hall without any further discussion; he can hear Harry following him slowly. Front parlour room, he decides. One of the most unwelcoming rooms in the manor, with its dreadfully uncomfortable chairs and icy draughts.
Harry makes a beeline for the antique chaise, sits uncomfortably at the end of it, immediately opens the file and launches into a barrage of questions.
"It says here that on the twenty-second of May last year, you contacted Gregory Goyle. Doesn't that breach the rules? You are not allowed to contact any known or suspected Voldemort supporters."
"He invited me to his wedding. I regretfully declined."
"Reason for declining?"
"Are you stupid? You just said it. I'm not allowed to contact any known or suspected Voldemort supporters. I applied for special consideration for Goyle's wedding and was rejected."
"Well, that should all be on file. This is very incomplete." Harry looks at Draco as though he thinks Draco's been sneaking into the Ministry offices and stealing pages. "You've had a very poor history with your previous officers. Too many changes. Now, your ex-wife. The Greengrass family. Did you know that one of the cousins, Amina Addlesworth, was a suspected Voldemort supporter?"
"I do not have the habit of routinely running background checks on relatives."
"Did you ever meet this cousin, this Amina?"
"I don't recall meeting her, no."
"Really? Because she attended your wedding."
"Five hundred people attended my wedding, Potter. I did not meet all of them personally."
"Yet you invited them?"
"Astoria's mother made all the arrangements and invitations." Draco stares at Harry. "Have you seriously been investigating every single person who attended my wedding?"
"I'm an Auror. I'm thorough."
"Thorough? Pedantic, I'd say."
"And I see you haven't been meeting the requirements of the program." Harry immediately switches topics, turning a page of the file. "You're supposed to be engaging with the community, Malfoy. It's part of your Muggle rehabilitation."
"I've had these discussions with my previous officers. We agreed that it wasn't necessary."
"Not necessary?" Harry stands up, snapping the file shut. "Not necessary? Hermione created this program, she structured it specifically — "
"Granger designed this program?" Draco, absurdly, feels like laughing. "Granger made this program?"
"I fail to find the amusement in that, Malfoy. I suggest you start taking this more seriously. No doubt you intimidated your previous officers into 'discussing' requirements, but I assure you, things will be very different now. Part of the program is the requirement for you to contribute towards the Muggle community."
Draco waves a hand dismissively. "If you insist."
"You can come up with a list of possible contributions," Harry says, "and I'll choose the most suitable one. Now, give me your wand."
Draco stares at him, gritting his teeth. After a long pause, he throws his wand at him. Harry catches it easily and murmurs a spell, staring intently at the golden letters floating above Draco's wand.
"Seven spells?" he says incredulously. "You're telling me that in an entire week, you've only used seven spells?"
"I suppose."
Harry gives him a look, then frowns. "Three heating spells, two locking spells, an Accio charm and...Brackium Emendo." He pauses. "Brackium...why does that sound familiar? Broken bones. Healing broken bones. Why would you need to use that spell?"
"My house-elf fell when carrying the tea-tray and broke their hip."
"What, it just snapped like a twig, did it?"
"He looks like he's five hundred years old! He breaks a bone just looking sideways at me."
"This house-elf. Where is he?"
Draco exhales slowly. This meeting has taken far too long already. Nevertheless, he calls for Haggly; the house-elf dutifully appears two minutes later.
"Yes, master?"
"This is Haggly. Ask him whatever you want," Draco tells Harry.
Harry asks Haggly a range of questions as if he thinks Draco's just waiting for him to leave so the elf can be used as a personal punching bag. However, the elderly house-elf provides only dull answers: Yes, he broke a bone falling over. Yes, Master Malfoy was kind enough to heal it for him. Yes, he otherwise feels in good health. At last, Potter thanks the elf and dismisses him.
"Finished yet?" Draco snaps. "Or would you like to interrogate the squirrels in the eaves?"
"That will do for now. I'll be back next week."
"Not in the morning."
"If it's more convenient, I will arrange an afternoon appointment."
It's an unexpected courtesy in a meeting otherwise full of snide remarks and accusatory statements, and Draco frowns distrustfully.
"All right," he says at last, moving to the door; Harry hastens to catch up.
"I can show myself out."
I'm sure you can, Draco thinks suspiciously. No doubt Harry would like to amble to the front doors in his own time, taking the opportunity to have a good gawk at everything and intrude even more on Draco's personal life. He follows Harry to the door, says a very formal goodbye and closes the door sharply.
With any luck, Harry will be so keen to avoid another meeting he'll hand the job over to someone else again.
Harry can feel a headache creeping up, but then, what did he expect? He has to actively focus on unclenching his jaw. Draco was just as he remembered: a complete prat, sullen, irritable, and unhelpful.
The real source of Harry's headache, however, is the manor. That dreadful house...when he had last visited, it had been Voldemort's base of operations. Rising from the dark grounds like a gargoyle, it had loomed over the landscape with immense intimidation. Inside, it hadn't been any better. Roaring flames in vast marble fireplaces; grand chandeliers swaying imperceptibly from above. People whispering, faint footsteps.
But now, in some ways, it seems almost more unsettling. The manor, illuminated by daylight, has turned into a shambling beast crouched upon the land. Overgrown gardens, ivy creeping along the window panes, and the ornate stonework of the porch steps crumbling away beneath Harry's feet as he walked over them. Sitting in the front parlour room, all he could hear were creaking noises and the occasional scratching noise, like a rat in the walls.
He's not going back there, he decides. He took this job to get away from unsettling silences and empty houses.
But then he remembers Draco's casual dismissal of the program Hermione had spent so many months developing — oh, those requirements aren't necessary — and his jaw clenches again. No; any other officer is just going to end up intimidated again and agree to Draco's little negotiations. Nobody else will enforce the rules, Harry is sure of it.
If there's one thing Harry can't stand, it's someone escaping justice.
Chapter 4: Digging Graves
Summary:
In which Draco digs a grave — Harry studies Draco's file and digs into the messy divorce — Rose gives some unwanted truths about James’s recent behaviour — James discovers Scorpius's enchanted room — James's friends take a disliking to Scorpius.
Chapter Text
James stares at the map, one hand propping his head up, the other tracing the footsteps of the caretaker, Grimble. That miserable old codger earned James his first detention last week.
Rain dances across the windows, but the Gryffindors gathered around the cheerful fireplace pay the weather little attention. They're still waving banners and flags around from the earlier Gryffindor and Hufflepuff match, loudly singing victory songs.
James looks across to the other side of the common room. There's Rose, having a game of Gobstones with one of her friends. She'll probably end up being Head Girl one day, he thinks a shade resentfully. Then she'll have even more reasons to tattle on him.
"Hey, James! Why are you hiding over there?" Martin calls out. James quickly rolls up the map.
"Not hiding, just trying to study," he lies glibly.
"James Potter? Studying? Have you got a fever or something?" Paul laughs.
"I know!" Martin says. "Let's go for a walk!"
Walk. Their code for mischief. James gives Rose a nervous glance. She's looking up from her Gobstones game, looking at him with her eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, maybe," he says at last.
"Oh, James doesn't know," Nate says suddenly. "We've invented a new game!"
"What new game?" James asks, feeling cross. He's usually the one with all the ideas.
"Martin came up with it. Whoever finds the biggest prat wins!" Nate produces a card with a flourish and James snatches it from him, studying it. It's neatly divided into twelve squares, each square with a little sentence written inside. Slytherin, says one. Hates Muggles, says another.
"What's that, hating Muggles?" Paul asks loudly. The common room quietens and James reddens as Rose turns to stare at him.
"Come on, Paul, we've told you about the war a million times before," Martin says with exasperation.
"Did you know that the Goyle family has killed a whole bunch of Muggles?" Nate chimes in. "That Garrett Goyle kid, his uncle's in Azkaban!"
"No way!"
"What's wrong with being a Pureblood? I don't remember writing that one down!" Martin frowns. "I'm a Pureblood."
"Ooh, look out! Martin's our first contender for the Biggest Prat award!"
They all laugh; Martin scowls.
"Anyway, I've got dibs on Malfoy," Nate says triumphantly. "I bet he'll tick nearly all these boxes. The rest of you will have to find your own prat."
"All right, I'll get Martin."
Laughter breaks out again. Martin crosses his arms and glares at them.
"So, what do you say?" Nate asks. "Start the game today? We've still got a few hours to kill before dinnertime."
"I'm in!"
"Let's go! I know a place where all those slimy Slytherins hang out."
"That's all right, we've got James and his map!"
They're all looking at him expectantly. James looks up and catches Rose's disapproving expression. Well, she can go sit in the corner and play Gobstones all day, he thinks. That's her. But he's James Potter, with a trunk full of the latest Wizarding Wheezes, and a magical map, and he's known as the king of adventures. Even if this game makes him just a little uncomfortable.
"All right," he says at last, grinning to show his friends that he's still the undisputed mischief-maker. "Let's go."
Martin and Paul jostle down the hallway, nudging each other and whispering.
"Where do you think the others are?"
"I don't know, but we'll definitely win. We've got the map!"
"I've got the map, you mean," James interrupts, still feeling a little annoyed. He glances down at the map and sees a trail of footsteps coming towards them. Scorpius Malfoy. "Look, there's Malfoy. We can tick a few boxes now."
"Steady on, that's not how it's played. You've got to ask him."
"All right, wait a minute — "
But Martin's grabbed the map from James's hands; he eagerly races down the corridor, Paul and James quickly running after him. By the time they've rounded the corner, Martin is standing beside Scorpius. Scorpius is huddled close to the wall, staring down at his feet.
"Look, it's Malfoy," Martin says, giving them a conspiratorial grin and nudging Scorpius in the ribs. "Hey, Malfoy. Want a chocolate frog?"
Scorpius gives Martin a distrustful look and says nothing.
"What's the matter with you? Did someone cast a lip-sealing curse on you?" Paul joins in. "Don't you like making friends?"
Scorpius shakes his head mutely and tries to edge towards a gap between Paul and Martin. The two boys quickly close in.
"Look at him, like a terrified little rat!" Martin laughs. "We only want to ask a quick question. No need to run off and tattle on us."
"I won't tattle," Scorpius says at last, looking at James.
"We're playing a game," James says, feeling as if he's somehow expected to say something. "Just a stupid game, really."
"Find the Nicest Slytherin, that's what the game's called," Martin says; Paul sniggers.
"But I'm not a Slytherin." Scorpius casts a longing look to the end of the corridor and tries to step away. Martin reaches out and pushes him lightly.
"Hold on, we're trying to have a conversation here. Didn't your mum ever teach you manners?"
"Let's just ask the question and go," James interrupts, suddenly certain he's hearing footsteps. "If I get another detention — "
"All right, calm down. So, Malfoy. On average, how many Muggles would you say your father has killed?"
Scorpius flinches. James looks around, agitated.
"Somebody's coming, I can hear them!" he says. "Give my map back, Martin!"
"So what? We're not doing anything wrong! McGonagall can't give us detention for just talking to other students!"
"Give my map back!" James snatches his map from Martin's hands. "I need to see — "
"Let go! I never get to hold it!"
"It's my map!"
"Ugh!" Martin staggers backwards; there's an enormous ripping noise and the map falls to the ground, torn in two. Martin stares down at it. "I'm sorry!" he says quickly. "I was going to give it back, I just wanted more time...you just had to wait…"
Scorpius takes advantage of the distraction and slips between the boys, fleeing along the corridor. James stares after him, then looks down at the map. Paul looks anxiously at James, then at Martin.
"We can fix it, James," he says nervously. "Don't worry. I'm sure there's a spell…"
"Yes. I'll fix it for you, it was my fault," Martin offers, looking regretful.
James picks up the pieces, not looking at either of his friends.
"I'll fix it," he says.
He's always been good at fixing things.
Draco opens his eyes. For a moment, he's disoriented and fear suddenly grips his heart. Has the Dark Lord sent for him? Has he missed a summoning?
"Master."
Draco's eyes adjust to the darkness. Weak dawn light, grey and wintry, is creeping between the heavy drapes, illuminating the gloomy room. Overhead, the hunter-green canopy is thick with dust.
It's still too early for breakfast and besides, Hooky isn't holding a tea-tray. She's staring at him as if awaiting instruction.
"What is it?" he says, voice still thick with sleep. The dreamless potion has left him feeling groggy and slow to react.
"Master," Hooky repeats, seeming nervous. "Haggly is being ill."
House-elves are never ill, Draco thinks. Their magic makes it easy for them to recover in a heartbeat from common colds and troublesome maladies.
"Ill?" Draco repeats, but Hooky doesn't reply to that. She stands politely, head bowed, as if awaiting dismissal. Draco stands up, the stone icy against his feet. Have the heating spells disintegrated again?
He walks to the western wing, down the stairs intended for servants to use. Through the empty kitchen that had once been bustling with house-elves and servants serving the generations of Malfoys. Finally, by the little servants' quarters next to the kitchen, he finds Haggly. On the rug before the small hearth, the house-elf lies with his eyes wide open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. His skin is a strange mottled colour.
He died some time in the night, Draco would guess.
A long, rasping noise. Draco turns. Hooky is dragging a longsword over the stone floor.
"No," he says at once.
"It is tradition," Hooky says. "Haggly will join the past servants of the Malfoy family. It is being his greatest honour."
Draco looks down at the shrivelled body of Haggly, nausea rising as he imagines swinging the longsword down, the cold and clotted blood slowly seeping out as Haggly's head rolls away. Then it would be stuffed and mounted on the wall, alongside the neat rows of the heads of past house-elves who had grown too elderly to carry the tea-tray.
"Some traditions," Draco says at last, "can be broken."
"It is considered an honour."
"I am a Malfoy," Draco says, his voice quiet but nevertheless carrying in the small room. "And I'm giving you an order. Return the sword."
Hooky nods. "Yes, master." She turns without pause, the long rasp of the sword slowly fading with her footsteps.
Draco stands alone in the room for a long time, thinking.
He can't ask Hooky to do it. She's as old as Haggly, if not older; her tiny wizened face and shaking hands make it too pitiful to ask her to dig the grave. But on the other hand — a Malfoy, digging a grave for a house-elf? It seems rather undignified, and he can only imagine the expression on his father's face if he could see his son performing menial labour.
In the end, he solves the issue by consulting one of his mother's charms books and performing a spell to lift earth from the ground. Of course, the book — entitled 300 Charms for Your Rose Garden — certainly didn't intend for the spell to be used to create graves.
And two days later, he dismisses Hooky. Both house-elves had been a gift from Astoria's mother; they had served the Greengrass family well over the years, she claimed, and while Draco had no doubt they had been loyal servants, they seemed to have a listless ambivalence when they arrived at the Malfoy estate. Hooky, particularly, had adored Astoria's mother and there had been many unhappy tears at the departure. And now, after the death of Haggly, he wakes up in the middle of the night and can hear the subdued sobbing echoing throughout the dusty rooms and washing up against closed doors like a tide of endless misery.
So he tells her to return to her former owner.
She gratefully leaves.
The wards go off again the next day, but no house-elf appears to alert Draco. He turns away from the window, a copy of 300 Charms for Your Rose Garden in one hand. From the window, he can see his mother's prized gardens becoming an overgrown mess. Herbology has never been his forte, however, and the book is proving very dull. He sets it aside and begins the long descent to the entranceway, pulling open both of the imposing doors to reveal a bedraggled and displeased-looking Harry Potter.
"Finally," Harry says, pushing past Draco. Draco frowns and looks pointedly at the trail of rainwater Harry's cloak is leaving behind. Harry doesn't seem to notice; he removes the cloak and leaves it haphazardly on a coat hook, where it continues to drip water into a gradually-deepening puddle.
"Do come in," Draco says sarcastically.
"It's freezing in here, Malfoy! What are you, a vampire? Light a fire." Without pausing for response, Harry strides into the front parlour room, then immediately strides back out. "We're not having the meeting in there, there's no hearth." He turns to the other side of the entrance hall and rattles the set of double-doors. "What's in here?"
Draco says nothing for a long moment. Then he speaks coolly. "The drawing room, Potter. I thought you would have remembered that."
Harry pauses for a moment, then turns back to the front parlour. "I suppose I'll do a heating spell, then," he says, his tone implying this is some great favour that will take an enormous amount of time and energy. Contrary to this, he makes a few quick waves of his wand and the room begins to feel pleasantly warm. Harry sits on the chaise, as he did last time, and produces the file for which Draco has developed an innate hatred.
"Right. Now, just to confirm your address details — "
"Malfoy Manor. You'll note that my surname is also 'Malfoy'. This is not a coincidence, Potter, but an indication that this is a centuries-old estate and I will always live here."
"You might want to do some renovations then, starting with some good heating. Though at this point, it'd probably be easier just to raze the whole place and start again," Harry says crushingly.
"This is a heritage-listed property," Draco retorts, his face heating with anger. Harry opens his mouth, looks at Draco and apparently changes his mind about something.
"Contact details confirmed," he says instead. "Now, I'll need access to your Floo Network."
"That's restricted."
"Duly noted, but as your officer I will require an emergency mode of communication with you."
"Send an owl."
"Emergency, Malfoy. Unless we're talking about a very special owl that can teleport itself across space and time — "
"Fine," Draco snaps. "I will allow this."
Once more, Harry opens his mouth, looks at Draco and appears to change his mind. "Right," he says instead. "Fetch me that house-elf, Haggly. I want to ask some more questions."
"You can't. I'm afraid he's deceased."
Harry looks at him for a very long time, in a calculating way that makes Draco feel acutely uncomfortable. "Cause of death?" he asks at last.
"Old age. I told you, that thing was a million years old."
"That thing? Do you, by any chance, mean the living creature that served you loyally?"
"Yes, Potter," Draco says bad-temperedly. "Now, are we going to sit here and argue over semantics, or finish this meeting?"
"Where's that other house-elf, then?" Harry says, ignoring him. "You mentioned another house-elf."
"Hooky. She is no longer in my service."
"They both died?"
"I freed her from my service," Draco says coldly, "and asked her to return to her former master. Astoria's mother. They're very fond of each other."
Harry says nothing to that, just looks at Draco for a moment before scribbling a few notes into the file. Draco waits silently, turning to gaze out the window; the only noise is the quill scratching across parchment.
"Well," Harry says at last, "have you made your list of possible contributions to the Muggle community? Money can be useful, but isn't it much more meaningful to give of yourself? Some time, some energy?"
"How right you are." Draco doesn't turn from the window. "I'll go down to the village and personally shake each Muggle's hand in a gesture of goodwill and non-murderous intentions."
"If you don't have any serious suggestions, I'll certainly be able to find something suitable," Harry says, his tone a little dangerous, but Draco isn't particularly intimidated. These days, he's got very little left to lose. "Now, your wand," Harry adds, and Draco turns to toss it to him.
"Eleven spells," Harry notes, writing something in his file. "Eight heating charms, a gardening spell, and...two spells associated with potions. Stirring a cauldron, perhaps? Malfoy, are you brewing potions?"
Damn it. Draco hadn't thought about those spells showing up. He considers his options. Lying won't do much good. Harry will demand to see the potions, no doubt, in that infuriatingly intrusive way of his.
"A potion to assist with sleep," he says at last.
"Where are these potions kept? You are to tell your officer of all magical activity including potion brewery — "
"I'm telling you now, aren't I?"
Harry gives him a look and stands up. Draco reluctantly leads the way through the musty hallways, down the service stairs, and into the cellar. Harry doesn't seem to like it much, for he lights his wand very brightly and looks over his shoulder constantly.
"These are the potions."
Harry raises his wand, casting light over the dusty shelves. A spider crawls slowly over the iron cauldron; a millipede makes its way across an open page of a book. Harry reaches for the book and Draco clenches his jaw as the wandlight clearly shows the title of the page: Dreamless Sleep Potion. He waits for a barrage of questions but Harry merely brushes the millipede away and closes the book before turning his attention to the potions.
"These are highly advanced," Harry says with a frown, reaching out and taking a bottle. "Very advanced. You'd have to be a professional potion-brewer..." He pauses, then speaks in a voice tinged with amazement. "Draught of Living Death...Moonseed Poison...Veritaserum? Malfoy, this a serious breach of the program!" He turns to Draco, looking furious. "You have five seconds to explain before I report you to the Ministry for practising Dark Arts. You shouldn't even be in possession of these potions, let alone brewing them!"
"They're not mine!" Draco snatches the bottle from Harry's hands.
"Where did you get them from, then?" Harry demands. "Some little shady shop in Knockturn Alley? You are not allowed within five feet of any store known to stock Dark objects or provide Dark magic — "
"I didn't buy them! They were — they were given to me." The words are wrenched reluctantly from Draco. He does not want to mention his godfather, not in front of the unbearably self-righteous Harry Potter. The potions had been Severus's final gift to Draco.
There's a long silence. Harry stares at the bottles, then at Draco, then back at the bottles.
"I see," he says at last. He turns away then.
"Are you going to report me?" Draco asks, unable to stop himself from asking the question. He needs to know. Probationary notes are one thing — little slaps on the wrist, adding a month or so to the program — but more serious incidents result in a breach of conduct, the consequences of which can range from anything to community service to incarceration, depending on the severity of the incident.
"I don't know," Harry says at last. "I'll think about it."
They leave the cellar and Harry departs silently, collecting his cloak and leaving without farewell.
Draco waits a long moment, then walks to Scorpius's room. Without the house-elves, the dust is gathering on the covers. There's a faint indentation in the pillow where Scorpius's head had last lain. Draco sits on the edge of the bed until the sun sets and the room is cast into darkness.
That night, the wind rattles the windows and shakes the panes, as if an unhappy spirit is trying to get in.
Or get out.
Harry sits in his study and listens to the wind howl outside, sending piles of leaves rushing along the porch steps. Although winter is nearly on his doorstep, the house is pleasantly warm. In the kitchen, the hearth-fire is dying down to ashy coals, but the heating spells keep the rooms comfortable.
Ten o'clock. Time for his singular neat scotch.
He doesn't move, however.
In front of him is Draco's file.
With little else to occupy his time, Harry had dedicated himself to catching Draco out. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. That's Harry's personal motto in his role as an Auror.
Networking tends to be the most important aspect of practising Dark Arts. People can't get far unless they have colleagues, peers, mentors. Someone to help them along. But Draco's network has proved pitifully thin. Pansy Parkinson, Harry had discovered through careful investigation, visited infrequently. Once a month or less. But she had little to do with Voldemort in the past, and presently she has even less in common with Voldemort supporters. She works as a 'fashion correspondent' for Witch Weekly, Harry has discovered, and is engaged to a Muggleborn wizard working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
There's Gregory Goyle, of course, but since Draco had declined the wedding invitation, there has been no observed correspondence between them.
And there Draco's network ends. No friends, no family. Only this Scorpius, apparently Draco's son. Harry hasn't seen any pictures or portraits of Scorpius in the manor, and privately he thinks poorly of Draco as a father. Fancy a small child growing up in that terrifying place, with locked doors and damp cellars, with fraying carpets and the decapitated heads of past house-elves lining dark and musty hallways.
Then there's Astoria Greengrass.
Harry has looked at all her relatives, of course, hunting around for the merest implication of a Voldemort supporter, but the Greengrass family proved to be exceptionally dull. Beyond looking for links to Voldemort, he hasn't bothered wasting time on researching the woman herself. The notes from the previous officer note that she divorced Draco years ago, and now the word 'deceased' is scrawled next to her name.
Deceased. That single word, repeated next to the lists of Draco's family and friends. However, someone has been overlooked. Harry slowly picks up his quill and writes.
Name: Severus Snape (deceased)
Relationship to client: Godfather
Known allegiances: Order of the Phoenix.
Another deceased to add to Draco's long list.
Harry sits back, staring at the file.
He'll have his scotch now.
James finishes his detention at half-eight, his hands numb and aching. It's freezing here, in Professor Sinistra's office, but she doesn't seem to notice. Too busy poring over her star-maps and rearranging a set of astrolabes.
"I've finished putting the books in order," he says. She frowns and draws a neat line on a map. "I've finished," James repeats, louder this time, and she looks up, startled.
"Hmm? Oh, you're still here. Well, I hope you've learned an important lesson about using ink-pellets in class. I played those sorts of pranks when I was a young girl — honestly, by now there should be rather more creative tricks." She frowns. "But that's certainly not a challenge, James Potter. Now, off you go."
"Yes, professor." He dutifully leaves and closes the door behind him. Sinistra has already returned to her maps.
He walks slowly down the corridor, feeling displeased. It's not fair — it was all that Philip Appleton's idea, the ink-pellets, and James had just sort of gone along with it. But Appleton hadn't been caught, only James.
Thin moonlight filters through the stained-glass windows lining the long corridor. The Astronomy Tower is completely deserted at this time of the evening — everyone else will be in their common rooms, chattering away. His friends will no doubt be eagerly awaiting his return, wanting him to share the next adventure. James puts his hands in his pockets, wishing he'd brought a pair of gloves or a scarf with him, and slouches along lost in thought until he sees Scorpius Malfoy up ahead.
"Hey — Scorpius!" he calls out. Scorpius looks back at him, startled, then turns and breaks into a run. James gives chase — for someone of a small stature, Scorpius can certainly move fast. Eventually, however, James catches up and grabs ahold of his arm.
"Hey, wait up! Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry about the other day."
Scorpius says nothing, just stares at the ground, and James lets go of his arm.
"I really am," James says. "I feel terrible about the whole thing, honestly. Martin and Paul — those other boys — they were just sort of having a lark, and it all got a bit out of hand. They shouldn't have asked you those stupid questions."
Scorpius still says nothing. James feels a bit lost, having said his piece, and looks at the ground too.
"Well," he says at last, "I just wanted to, you know. Say sorry and all that. I'll see you round, yeah?"
Scorpius speaks at last. "I'm sorry about your map."
James blinks in surprise, confused for a moment. Then realisation dawns. "Oh! That. Well, it wasn't your fault, was it?"
"Have you fixed it?" Scorpius looks up at last, meeting James's eyes.
"Well...no. Not yet. But I'm working on it," James adds quickly. "Almost got it figured out, I reckon."
"Really?"
"Yeah, of course!"
There's a long silence. James's shoulders slump; he withdraws the pieces of map from his pocket.
"I tried Reparo," he says miserably, "but it didn't work. I've wrecked it. That was my grandfather's map, you know. My dad...that was one of the last things he owned that belonged to his father. He doesn't even know I've got the map, I sneaked it out of his study drawer." He can't bear to think of the look on Harry's face when he explains that the map is forever broken, and he quickly brushes a sleeve across his face.
Scorpius hesitates before speaking. "I know how to fix it."
James looks up. "You do?" he asks.
"Yes. Follow me."
James hurries to keep up as Scorpius sets off, leading him through a maze of corridors and down many flights of stairs. At last, they're in a familiar corridor.
"Limens," Scorpius says, his voice startlingly clear and crisp. He taps his wand four times and the portal appears in the stone, allowing him through.
James steps into the room; he turns around to watch the portal quickly melt away again. When he turns back around to face Scorpius, his mouth drops open.
"Wow! This place is amazing! What did you do to it?"
Scorpius shrugs. James looks around, staring at the star-studded ceiling, then slowly reaches out and touches a tiny meteor whizzing past his ear. Around his feet, strands of glowing grass sway like seaweed.
"It's incredible! Did you do all this yourself?"
Scorpius hesitates, then nods.
"Are you serious? This is like — I mean, you must really know your magic! Wow, look!" James points to the ceiling; drifts of colour-changing clouds slowly dissolve, revealing nine moons, each in a different lunar phase. He looks across at Scorpius — he's looking almost as if he might smile.
"You think it's good?" he asks quietly.
James laughs, a loud and genuine laugh that makes the glowing grass vibrate around him. "It's brilliant! This is my new favourite place!"
Scorpius does smile then, a quick and shy smile that's gone almost as soon as it has appeared. "Look," he says, holding out James's map. James walks over, picking his way between clusters of glowing stars and planets with rings rolling around them.
The map is working again, James sees. As if nothing ever happened to it. His eyes widen.
"When did you fix that?"
"It's not me. It's the room. It's magic." But there's something about Scorpius's face — a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth — that makes James laugh.
"Liar! Come on, you have to tell me. How'd you fix it?"
"It's a secret."
James pulls a face at him. "Fine, then. Well, I'd better return to my common room. Thanks for fixing the map," he adds. Scorpius nods and draws his wand out, once more creating a portal with a careful gesture and an accompanying 'Limens'.
James pauses before leaving. "Listen, Scorpius. Would it be all right if I came back here again?" He spots Scorpius's expression and hurries to clarify himself. "I mean, just by myself. I won't tell anyone, I promise. I just thought...I mean, it's a pretty cool room, and maybe you could show me how you managed to make all those moons…"
Scorpius hesitates for a long moment. "All right," he says at last. "But...not your other friends. They're not allowed."
"All right." James nods and grins, leaping away from the quickly-encroaching stone, and finds himself standing in the corridor again.
He gives a little nod to himself and walks away, feeling quite pleased with himself.
But evidently, other people aren't sharing his happiness. When James returns to the Gryffindor tower a few nights later, after yet another detention, he's greeted by loud cheers.
"What's all this, then?" he laughs as Martin stands and mock-bows to him.
"Your tenth detention this year! I think that calls for celebration."
"And that was your best prank yet," Paul eagerly adds.
"Prank?" James asks blankly. He'd accidentally knocked a few Billywigs into a fellow student's cauldron during Potions, resulting in it exploding.
"Sabotaging Stuart Sinclair's potion, of course," Paul says.
"Sounds like I missed a classic James moment," a voice says from behind them. James jumps, then turns to look at Rose.
"It's nothing," he mutters to her. "Just a potion went wrong."
"Went wrong? It exploded!" Martin starts laughing. "Earned both James and Sinclair a whole week of detentions!"
James edges away from his friends as they make jokes and impersonate Slughorn shouting. Rose is glaring at him, her arms crossed, no doubt about to deliver a lecture.
"Is this true?" she snaps. "You're playing stupid pranks on people? I'm warning you, James, I'm going to write home telling Mum that you're being mean — "
"I am not!" James is scandalised. "It was an accident, thanks very much. Besides, I went to Slughorn after class and explained that it was all my fault. He agreed to cancel the rest of the detentions."
"What, yours as well as Sinclair's?"
"Yeah, he said it was very mature of me to own up and accept the blame." James grins, but Rose looks even sterner, if possible.
"You've changed a lot since you've been here, James Potter. All your stupid friends, egging you on...you think they actually like you? You're Harry Potter's son! That's the only reason they're always laughing at your stupid jokes and telling you how brilliant you are — "
"You take that back!" James can feel a red flush creeping up his neck. "You're just jealous. Hardly anybody even knows your last name is Weasley! You just hide away in the corner, being boring — "
"That's because I don't want people to know who I am!" Rose hisses. "So that people don't treat me differently. Slughorn's not cancelling your detentions because you're mature, it's because your surname happens to be Potter!"
"Oh, right. That's the reason. It's not because someone's called me mature for once, instead of you!" He turns and leaves then, feeling angry. Why does Rose have to ruin everything? Always scowling in the corner like a grumpy old Kneazle.
"Hey, James! Got your map working again?" one of his friends calls out.
"We can sneak to the kitchens and have a midnight feast!" Paul adds, to a chorus of agreement.
James smiles, feeling a little better.
Rose is wrong. He's got plenty of friends.
Draco stands in the overgrown rose gardens. The gardener used to visit twice a week to maintain the grounds, but the rose garden had always been his mother's area of expertise. In the heart of summer, when the nights were warm and the crickets sung relentlessly, a hundred rare roses bloomed into perfection.
Now, the petals wilt and fall; there's a thick blanket of rotting roses across the stone paths. Unruly thorns curl around statues and spread like disease, strangling the more delicate plants. Black beetles crawl in and out of dead rose heads.
Draco raises his wand and tries again, 300 Charms for Your Rose Garden held precariously in his other hand.
"Semper Aestas."
Nothing. A petal slowly drifts down, spiralling away to join the others rotting away.
He tries using different infliction; he analyses the wand movement as if he's about to take an exam for it. And yet, if the 'Forever Summer' charm is working, there's no hint of it in the icy gardens with its dead branches scratching at the overcast sky.
The wards vibrate.
Damn it. He'd forgotten about the Wizards Under Watch meeting. He snaps the book closed and makes his way through the gardens, past the unruly hedge maze (which has, at this point, developed a Doxy infestation and has become more a death trap than a quaint maze), and approaches the porch steps. He's annoyed to see the familiar figure of Harry standing there. He still hasn't given up hope that Harry will finally get sick of the entire business and reassign Draco's case to someone else.
"Potter." Draco pushes past and opens the front doors, setting the book down on a hall table and casting a quick Scourgify over his robes. He's spent most of the morning trying to tame the overgrown gardens and he's irritated that Harry's arrived now, when Draco's robes are torn from thorns and branches, accompanied by dirt under his fingernails. No doubt Harry will have some snide remark about Malfoys and menial labour. He looks up, expecting to find Harry staring suspiciously and asking nosy questions. However, he's already disappeared into the front parlour and when Draco walks into the room, he finds him pacing around. It only serves to irritate Draco further; if Harry's about to suddenly announce that he's formally filed a breach of conduct or something similar, Draco wishes he'd just say it.
"Right." As if reading Draco's mind, Harry suddenly sits down on the chaise as per usual and opens the file. "First, contact details."
Every week. Draco misses his previous officers. They didn't particularly care, just checked his wand for any Dark spells, asked a few token questions and left. But Harry is insufferably thorough, always going exactly by the book.
"So, have your contact details changed?"
"No." Draco's given up on sarcastic responses. He just wants the meeting done already.
"Right. Now, have you had contact with any known Voldemort supporters?"
"No."
"Sent any owls?"
"No."
"Right. Your wand, then."
Draco raises his eyebrows, handing his wand over without remark. Evidently, Harry wants to complete the meeting equally quickly. His usual barrage of questions are conspicuously absent.
"Twenty-two spells. Eleven of them are incomplete...you were practising something?"
"Gardening charms."
Harry begins to scribble a note. Then he stops, stares down at the file, looks at Draco, and then stares back down at the file. Then he speaks.
"What's the point?"
"What?" Draco's unnerved by the non sequitur. "The point of what, Potter?"
"This. Everything. I mean, if you're really going to go and murder Muggles or form a pro-Voldemort group or go around calling people Mudbloods — well, how is this supposed to stop that? What, I sit here and list gardening charms, for Merlin's sake? I mean, what's the point?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
"No. No, it is not. Malfoy, tell me. How exactly has this program convinced you that Muggleborns are not inferior?"
Draco can't figure out if it's a trap or not. He chooses his words carefully.
"I've participated in the program."
"That's not what I asked. How, exactly, has this program transformed you into a tolerant citizen?"
Draco can suddenly see exactly where Harry is headed, and he clenches his fists.
"You self-righteous prat." He speaks low and quiet, but the anger vibrates in his voice. "If you're looking for reasons to extend the program again, just do it. Another year, another five, another ten, what does it matter to you? But don't expect me to sit here and make up reasons why. That's your job."
He waits, but Harry doesn't fly into one of his typical rages. He just sits there, staring at Draco.
"I'll see you next week, Malfoy," Harry says at last.
That's certainly not what Draco had been expecting.
"Leaving already?" he asks curtly, covering up his surprise.
"Yes."
"Wait a minute," Draco says sharply. "Did you file a formal breach? For the potions?"
Harry pauses. "No," he says, and with that he grabs his cloak and strides away. Draco listens to the front doors slam shut.
He slowly sinks onto the chaise.
A rose petal, caught on Draco's sleeve, gently drifts onto the dusty floorboards.
Harry paces around his house.
Winter is truly settling in now. The chill winds rattle the windows and the rain is beginning to harden into icy sleet. Harry strengthens the heating spells and lights the kitchen hearth every morning but somehow the coldness seeps in, creeping under doors and around windows.
He hadn't handled the meeting very well, he thinks. Draco had, for the most part, seemed completely bewildered, and Harry can't particularly blame him. He'd tried to seem disinterested, but he kept thinking about the file that arrived that morning. Having exhausted all other avenues of investigation, Harry had turned his attention to the final stack of papers: Draco's legal record.
The first few pages had been typical. Five informal warnings were filed throughout Draco's childhood — nothing major. Accidentally setting off a Caterwauling Charm; performing accidental magic in front of a Muggle. There was a long gap, however, during Draco's time at Hogwarts. RECORDS PURGED, a declaration said, and Harry had frowned in annoyance. No doubt Lucius's status and money had made any little indiscretions disappear.
No such luck after the war, however, when Lucius infamously vanished one week before his trial, leaving his wife and son to face the consequences alone. No informal warnings here: Draco's trial had been documented in factual detail. Wizengamot — the high court. Crimes against humanity. Harry had skimmed through the legal notes, already knowing the outcome. But then, however, he'd read the restrictions placed on Draco and wondered if Azkaban wouldn't have been worse after all. All magic monitored for the next five years (more years added at some point for apparent breaches of conduct); all correspondence to be seized by his probation officer; his wand confiscated for one year; not, under any circumstances, to leave England until deemed non-dangerous.
But after all that, there had still been another foot of parchment left to read.
The divorce.
Harry had felt slightly guilty before reading it. They were confidential legal records, and unlike Draco's very public Wizengamot trial, a divorce was no doubt highly personal and of little relevance to Harry's role as program officer.
Nevertheless…
He had read it.
He'd only gotten a few sentences in before he could feel the bitterness rising like a poisonous vapour from the parchment. Scorpius Malfoy, it seems, had been stuck in a long and resentful custody battle that had eventually made its way to the family courts. A Healer noted that Astoria suffered crippling depression and was prone to bouts of anxiety and feelings of hopelessness; Astoria noted that Draco had become withdrawn and moody throughout their marriage.
And then, for the first time since reading through the scroll, Harry had felt something more than slight boredom and indifference.
Anger. Just one single sentence, but it inspired such anger.
Full custody granted to Astoria Greengrass.
In his mind, Harry had seen James's smiling face, imprinted over a thousand memories — celebrating birthdays and Christmases, Harry teaching him how to ride a broom, his first visit to Diagon Alley, James's face lighting up when he saw the wand shop and said one day, Dad, you can teach me all the spells.
If anyone had dared take James from him, dared suggested Harry was an unfit father, he would have fought them to the end of the earth. He would have given up everything for his son. And nobody, not even Draco, deserves to know how it feels to lose a child. And therein was the final end of the legal file: a neat list of appeals. Draco appealed the judge's decision no less than seven times; each time, the appeal was dismissed and on the seventh occasion, Draco was warned not to waste court resources on another appeal or he'd face legal consequences.
And thusly, it was with this knowledge that Harry attended the meeting with Draco. And now, hours afterwards, as he paces around his own home, the doubt seeps into his mind again.
Maybe the program, much like the decision of the family courts judge, isn't really about justice. Maybe it's about revenge.
Harry pauses in his endless pacing, stopping in the middle of the living room. No. Hermione created that program herself, and Harry helped implement it. It had been designed to encourage and celebrate diversity, not…
Hold a person hostage.
Not physically, of course, but it's been fifteen years and Draco is still monitored, still restricted, still answerable to a very long list of rules. The threat of Azkaban must be hanging over his head like a thundercloud. All he needs is a particularly serious breach of conduct and he'll have Azkaban. He'll lose his son.
An owl taps on the window and Harry jumps. He tugs the window sash open and unties the letter from the ruffled owl, surprised to see the Hogwarts seal on the letter. His reservation gives way to faint confusion as he opens it, revealing a progress report. He doesn't recall having these when he was at Hogwarts. Then again, perhaps the Dursleys received it every year and simply threw it out.
Harry reads the report, his expression growing steadily more concerned. James isn't failing every class, but he's not exactly excelling at anything. A very mediocre line of Acceptables, and three failing grades — a Poor grade for Potions and Herbology and, much to Harry's disbelief, a Poor for Charms.
Charms! It's the most basic subject. Nearly all magic can be traced back to a solid foundation in Charms. And James is failing it by a wide margin.
He sets the letter down. His first response is anger — he knows James is far better than this, he's displayed a natural aptitude for magic and has always been a quick learner — and the only excuse he can think of is that James is being lazy and not applying himself. Or perhaps he's caught up in the excitement of his first year, too busy having adventures and larking about in class…
Harry sits down again, trying to think of how he might write a letter to James without being overbearing or full of lectures about the importance of education.
He picks up his quill, disappointment slowly weighting his heart.
Nevertheless, his Auror work still demands his attention. The Head Auror, Williamson, calls Harry into his office the next day.
"Enjoying your break?" he asks.
Not particularly. "Yes, sir."
They speak of an upcoming operation for a while, the major one that nearly every senior Auror has their eye on, but Williamson strongly hints that Harry has already been chosen to lead it. Harry would have been happy to leave the conversation there, but then Williamson mentions Draco's case.
"You know why he's been on the program for years, don't you?" he asks Harry.
Harry bites back several suggestions, the word punishment balancing on the tip of his tongue. "Lucius," he guesses instead.
"Yes. It's been fifteen years, and we're running out of excuses to keep Malfoy supervised. But if anyone can find out Lucius's location, Potter, I know it will be you."
Harry isn't feeling particularly optimistic about that, but he nods anyway, and thusly it's with an apprehensive feeling that he visits the manor the following week. Draco takes a long time to answer the door, Harry thinks. When he finally appears, there's dark circles beneath his eyes and he looks slightly disoriented, as though he just woke — even though it's noon. Problems sleeping, Malfoy?
"Malfoy," Harry says by way of greeting. Draco just gives a tired shrug and opens the door a little wider. Harry steps inside. Well, if he's going to find Lucius Malfoy, he needs to do a lot more than sit in the front parlour and write down gardening spells. "Mind if I look around?" he asks, trying to force a tone of civility into his voice, although he knows that he's allowed to raid the manor whenever he chooses. Still, he'll give Draco the polite illusion of choice. He needs him on side.
Draco clearly knows he doesn't have a choice. "Go ahead," he says flatly, standing back and crossing his arms.
Harry skips over the drawing room; he doesn't need any more nightmares. He heads straight up the stairs and turns left, expecting Draco to follow him around. People don't like allowing others full and unsupervised access to their home, Harry's quickly learned in his time as an Auror. But Draco remains downstairs. When Harry looks over the balustrade he sees Draco leaning against a wall in the entrance hall, staring into space.
He frowns and heads down the hallway, half-wishing Draco actually had accompanied him. The manor is full of dead ends and confusing rooms; doors that look like they should open into rooms are actually closets and vice versa, and once Harry ends up nearly falling down a set of hidden stairs behind a linen closet. He investigates the stairs but discovers they're simply a set of service steps leading to the servant's quarters and the kitchen.
The rooms are depressingly empty with only some pieces of furniture remaining — a dark and imposing wardrobe, a dresser with a pixie infestation that Harry briefly has to subdue. The manor is beginning to remind him of Grimmauld Place. There's a number of bedrooms with heavy ebony furniture, the disused beds heavy with dust. Harry finds a bedroom with clean covers and it takes him a full five minutes to realise he's in Draco's room. There's nothing else giving away its occupant; no books, no pictures, no possessions at all. Harry only realises it's Draco's room when he opens the wardrobe and finds a neat row of clothes. He hurriedly closes the wardrobe again, feeling somewhat awkward. Going through Draco's possessions just feels weird.
Nevertheless, it's his chance to look for any clues. A letter, perhaps, or some other form of correspondence. But it's as if Draco's erasing his life. The bedside table is completely empty besides two books: one about gardening charms, the other about cleaning spells. The gardening book has an inscription in the front: To my darling Narcissa — may your roses grow as beautiful as you. Although there's no signature, Harry knows it's from Lucius Malfoy and he shifts uncomfortably at the idea that he's reading such a personal message.
In the next drawer of the bedside table, there's a broken quill, a hair comb, and a tax record regarding the Malfoy estate — and that's it. The rest of the room is eerily empty. He leaves and continues his exploration. The final room is a smaller bedroom that — finally — has some semblance to a normal room. The walls are painted a refreshing cream colour, the curtains are tied back, and there's a clatter of cheerful objects on the bedside table — books on natural history, a collection of rocks and pressed flowers, a couple of Chocolate Frog cards, an unopened packet of sweets. The dresser is filled with child-sized clothes and it doesn't take much guesswork to assume the room belongs to Scorpius Malfoy. In the bedside table drawer, there's a photograph of Draco holding a toddler-aged Scorpius. Harry picks up the photograph, watching its subjects move around. Draco smiles and picks up his son, holding him upside-down, and Scorpius laughs helplessly as his father pretends to drop him. When Draco puts him back on solid ground, Scorpius raises his arms to his father and Harry can almost hear him saying up, up! It reminds him so strongly of James that he quickly puts the photograph down and shuts the drawer with a loud snap.
"Finished?"
Harry jumps and whips around. Draco is leaning against the doorframe, an unreadable look in his grey eyes.
"How long were you standing there?" Harry demands, trying to cover his embarrassment.
"A few minutes." He regards Harry for a long moment, then turns away and begins walking down the hallway. Harry waits a moment before following him.
"You've got a pixie infestation in one of the guest rooms," Harry says after a long moment, desperate to kill the uncomfortable silence. "You should really take care of that." Along with the rising damp, the moth-eaten carpets, the cracked ceilings…
Draco doesn't respond. Harry takes his cue and remains silent until they've reached the front parlour room again. Draco takes his usual spot, standing by the window and waiting. Harry sits uncomfortably on the chaise, feeling lost. Asking the routine questions seems pointless, and he's acutely aware of his main goal: Lucius's location. He tries to think of subtle ways to frame the question. So...any idea where your father ran away to? I'm asking for a friend. They want to send flowers. He suddenly becomes aware of Draco staring at him, waiting, and quickly blurts out the first thought that comes into his head.
"Your son, he'd be about James's age, wouldn't he?"
He almost winces as he hears himself say it. Draco changes his gaze to the window, not moving.
"I don't recall," he says at last, "my contract requiring me to answer any questions about my son."
Harry bites back a retort, reminding himself Scorpius is probably a sensitive subject and he really should have avoided it. To his surprise, however, Draco turns away from the window after another long silence and speaks reluctantly.
"Who's James?"
"Oh. My son."
"Oh." Draco looks surprised and Harry thinks it's worth it just to see him finally drop that annoyingly apathetic expression. "I forget that you're married."
"Yes. To Ginny."
"The Weaslette? Is — " Draco suddenly falls silent, and Harry can almost see the realisation. Ginny's death had been all over the papers for weeks. No doubt Draco has only just remembered.
Silence reigns again. To Harry's surprise, it's once again Draco who speaks first.
"Your son. How old is he?"
"Eleven."
"Well, yes, then."
"Yes to what?"
"Yes, he's the same age as my son."
"Oh." Harry, desperately looking around the room as if it will present a magical escape from the incredibly awkward conversation, suddenly spots Draco's wand and quickly stands up. "Your wand, I should be checking it."
"What? Oh." Draco hands it over. Harry murmurs the incantation and studies the ghosts of the spells past. A whole range of spells, he sees, many incomplete or repeated consecutively, indicating practice. Mostly domestic cleaning spells or gardening ones, although there's a few charms associated with potions. Harry frowns.
"Are you brewing potions again?"
"Sleep aides."
Harry considers that for a long moment. Draco's not allowed to brew potions. Then again, Harry's lost a lot of faith in the program.
"Well," he allows, "as long as it's nothing restricted."
Draco nods. With that, Harry decides, he can probably reasonably escape the meeting now.
"Well, I'll visit next week, usual time." He stands up. Draco, clearly equally relieved to end the stilted conversation, quickly moves towards the doors and shows Harry out.
Harry makes his way down the driveway, only too grateful to reach the end of the Malfoy property and quickly Disapparate. He thinks he'd actually prefer their earlier meetings, full of snide remarks and sullenness, to that awkward silence and very forced civility.
But if he wants Lucius's location, he's going to have to work hard at this.
After all, everything has a price.
James stumbles and falls, sprawling face-first into the gently glowing grass. He rolls onto his back and laughs.
"No fair! You can't use tripping jinxes!"
Across the room, Scorpius weaves between spinning planets and tiny meteors. Overhead, a moon blossoms into a lunar flower, petals slowly falling from it and floating gently to the ground.
"I win," Scorpius says breathlessly, arriving at the finishing line: a tree lined with a variety of berries.
"Only just." James stands up, brushing himself off, and seizes a strawberry from the tree. It disappears in his hands as he tries to take a bite and Scorpius smiles.
"I told you, none of it is real."
"It feels real." James runs a hand through the broad leaves of the tree.
It's the fifth time he's visited this room now, and it's still his favourite place. Scorpius seems to know a million charms and how to use them, and he generously shares them with James. In fact, the first time James saw a genuine smile from Scorpius, it was when he was showing James how to create one of the moons floating across the ceiling above. James accidentally created a giant currant bun and nearly flattened himself with it, which amused Scorpius no end.
"Looking forward to Potions class tomorrow?" James asks, idly catching one of the tiny meteors.
"Potions is the only class I'm bad at," Scorpius confides, pausing to give Pan a scratch as she pokes her head out of his pocket. James had been very jealous to discover Scorpius had a pet rat. Maybe, James thinks, he can convince Harry to buy him a pet for his birthday. An iguana would be cool.
"So what if you're bad at Potions?" James says, returning his thoughts to the conversation. "You're well advanced in everything else. Which reminds me, I need your notes from Defence."
"I didn't take notes."
"Liar! I saw you scribbling like mad all class."
Scorpius looks hesitant. James tilts his head, grinning.
"Don't tell me, you were drawing pictures of Quidditch players? That's what I do in Defence. Do you have a favourite team?"
"Not really," Scorpius says uncertainly.
"That's all right. I don't have one either."
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls midnight and James glances out the windows, seeing the moon high and clear in the sky.
"We should probably go," he says.
"All right." Scorpius creates the portal and they both slip out of the room; Scorpius turns left, James turns right.
"See you tomorrow," James calls softly. Scorpius is already slipping away into the shadows.
James's trip back to the common room is uneventful. However, as soon as he steps through the portrait hole — invisibility cloak safely removed and hidden from the prying eyes of his friends — he's set upon by Martin and Paul.
"Where were you?"
"You've been going off on a lot of adventures by yourself, it's not fair!"
James shrugs. "Just went to say hello to a friend."
"What, from another house?"
"What's wrong with that?" James yawns and heads towards the dormitory stairs. Martin scowls.
"Nothing, as long as they're not a stupid Slytherin."
"Well, they're not, so calm down. I'm off to bed. We've got Transfiguration first thing tomorrow."
"Next time, we're all coming with you! It's been ages since I've had the map!" Paul calls after him.
"Yeah, okay." He disappears into the dormitory, grateful they're not following him at least. He likes having so many friends, but sometimes it gets a bit much. Someone's always wanting attention. Even the upper years trail him around excitedly. That's Harry Potter's son…
He goes to the washroom and brushes his teeth, looking at his reflection in the mirror. The unruly shock of black hair is certainly his father's, as is his straight nose and narrow jawline. His eyes, however, are the same precise shade of brown as his mother's. See, you don't even look like Dad, James tells himself. Rose is wrong, anyway. His friends don't care whose son he is.
He changes into his pyjamas and goes to bed, falling asleep almost at once.
James yawns his way through Transfiguration, narrowly avoiding a detention from a wrathful McGonagall, but by the time he's made his way to Potions he's beginning to focus a little more. Paul and Martin are at the front of the classroom, both giving him grins and clearly awaiting his presence. He begins to walk towards them when someone speaks up.
"I saved you a seat." Scorpius speaks so softly that James isn't sure he heard him at first. He pauses and looks around, spotting Scorpius two rows behind him.
"Oh, I didn't even see you there." James swings into the empty seat and opens his textbook. "Get back to the Ravenclaw tower all right, then? I don't know how you do it. I've nearly been caught loads of times, and I've got my cloak."
"There's plenty of tapestries you can hide behind, and if you're nice to the portraits, they won't tell on you."
"Oh, really? I've already made a few enemies, then. There's a goblin on the seventh floor that hates me, he always shouts for a professor if he sees me out of bed." James quietens as Slughorn calls the class to attention and begins explaining the potion.
They work on the potion throughout the lesson, and by the end they have successfully produced a Calming Draught. Slughorn gives them both an approving nod and an Excellent.
"Highest mark yet!" James grins at Scorpius. "We make an all right team, don't we?"
The class wraps up and they file out of the room. As James turns into the hallway, Nate grabs him and roughly spins him around. Martin and Paul stand beside him, both looking at James with their arms crossed. Scorpius waits just behind James, as if uncertain whether to leave or not.
"What are you doing sitting with him?" Nate demands, inclining his head towards Scorpius.
"What, you mean Scorpius?" James shifts uncomfortably, wishing Scorpius had left already.
"His dad's a Death Eater, remember? He tortured your dad's friends."
"He didn't."
They all turn. Scorpius spoke quietly, eyes trained on the ground, but Nate glares as if he spat at him.
"Did you say something?" he asks abruptly. Scorpius remains silent for a long moment, then speaks again, still not lifting his gaze.
"He didn't. It was Bellatrix Lestrange — "
"You've got some nerve," Martin interrupts, "defending your Death Eater father!"
"Yeah, I think you owe James an apology," Nate adds.
"All right, calm down," James says quickly. "We should really get going or we'll miss lunch."
"I'm not going anywhere until he apologises!"
"Well, I'm starved," James says doggedly, "and I'm going to lunch. You can stand around arguing if you want." He begins walking away and after a beat, Martin and Paul join him. James hears a series of dull thumps; when he turns around, Nate is hurrying to catch up. Behind him, Scorpius is kneeling and picking up his scattered textbooks. James turns quickly around again before Scorpius can catch his eye.
"You didn't have to do that, Nate," James mutters. "I don't know why you've got to be like that sometimes."
"I thought you, of all people, would understand," Nate retorts. "My father was Muggleborn. The Ministry imprisoned him during the war, did you know that? Seized all his money and his house. Lucius Malfoy himself authorised it. When my father was released, he had nothing." He brushes a sleeve quickly across his face. "It's not fair. Families like Malfoy's, they're the ones who should be paying."
James shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Nate saves him the awkwardness; he hurries ahead and disappears into the crowd ahead.
"If I were you," Martin says, clapping a hand on James's shoulder, "I'd stop hanging around Malfoy."
"Right." James picks at a frayed thread on his sleeve. "Thanks for the advice."
"No problem. See you in the Great Hall for lunch." Martin hurries ahead.
James stands alone in the corridor for a long moment.
Chapter 5: Expecto Patronum
Summary:
In which James apologises to Scorpius and cheers him up — Draco receives his old wand back — Scorpius teaches James spells and disarms him — Draco attends the wedding of an old flame.
Chapter Text
James checks his watch again.
Ten minutes to eleven.
He's been pacing this cold corridor for nearly an hour now. He'd been running late — caught up chattering away to his friends in the Gryffindor common room — and he'd come hurrying around the corner, out-of-breath from all the stairs and long corridors, a greeting already poised on the tip of his tongue.
But the corridor had been empty.
Scorpius is accustomed to James's tardy arrivals, and James is certain he wouldn't have left. James had only been a few minutes late, anyway.
He checks his watch again. Five to eleven.
Footsteps.
"Finally." James straightens up. They can get started on practising that levitation charm again, James is sure he's nearly got it under control.
Round the corner comes a tall figure. Someone who is definitely not Scorpius. James quickly grabs his invisibility cloak, drawing it around himself.
"Ha! Trying to fool me with that old thing?" The cloak is ripped away; James hisses.
"Go away, Teddy! I'm waiting for someone!"
"Oh, that's nice. 'Oh, hello, Teddy, my favourite cousin, how good to see you again'."
"It is good to see you," James protests.
"It's been a while, hasn't it? Shame I'll have to give you a detention." Teddy grins and taps his Head Boy badge; it shines in the moonlight and James's eyes widen.
"You wouldn't! I'm your cousin, you traitor!"
"Ah, but being Head Boy is the highest honour, young James," Teddy says, affecting a mocking, lofty voice. "How dare you suggest that I might sully my good reputation by playing favourites — "
"Don't give me that!" James is outraged. "I don't know how you got that badge — you're the cause of half the mischief in Hogwarts!"
"True. Fancy making me Head Boy — someone's gone soft in the head, I reckon. Well, off you go."
"You can't tell me to go to bed!"
"I can. I'm Head Boy!" Teddy lunges for James; James ducks away but Teddy easily grabs him, putting him in headlock and messing up his hair. James protests loudly, eventually squirming away.
"Stop it," he says crossly, trying to smooth his hair back down. "I told you, I'm waiting for someone."
"Ooh, a girlfriend? I didn't know Hogwarts allowed inter-species dating. Give the giant squid my regards."
"Very funny!" James ducks away, sensing another headlock in his near future. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about me. I'm going to bed."
"You're lucky I'm so nice, or I'd give you a detention. You owe me."
"Wow, thanks."
Teddy just laughs and saunters away. James tries to smooth his hair again, then reluctantly gathers his invisibility cloak around himself and walks back to the Gryffindor tower.
He walks a little slower than usual.
Potions is his first lesson that morning, and James promises himself to pay attention. Actually listen to Slughorn, and give the potion a serious attempt.
He hurries straight into the dungeons, running late after losing track of time, and sees Paul and Martin turn to look at him, both inclining their heads in a welcoming gesture. He quickly sits beside them, unpacking his books, and it's only when Slughorn's dismissed them to fetch their ingredients that he remembers Scorpius.
He looks around. Scorpius is sitting by himself in the corner of the room, an empty seat beside him.
"There we go! Five beetle hearts," Martin declares, dumping the hearts into their cauldron, and James turns around.
Well, it's no big deal. Besides, he's acutely aware of the rest of the Gryffindors in the room, and he remembers Martin's words about associating with Scorpius Malfoy. He briskly chops up a bat liver, trying to concentrate on dicing it perfectly evenly. His focus is ruined halfway through by Martin nudging him.
"Look, Malfoy's got a letter."
He looks up. Across the room, Scorpius is reading a creased piece of parchment. As Slughorn nears, Scorpius quickly tucks it away again and resumes stirring his potion.
"So what?"
"Must be interesting. He's gotten it out half a dozen times already, re-reading it."
"So what?" James repeats. "Have you finished with those billywig stings yet? We'll need to add them in three minutes."
"Since when do you care about doing potions properly?" Martin says, but at least he stops watching Scorpius and goes back to his chopping board.
At the end of the lesson, however, things have deteriorated. Martin has made a joke about Scorpius opening the Chamber of Secrets, and Paul — unaware of Hogwarts history — has to have the entire thing explained to him. James, uncharacteristically, doesn't particularly feel like sharing his father's role in the story despite repeated encouragement from his friends.
"The Chamber can't be opened again, anyway, so it doesn't matter," he says at last, as Slughorn tells the class to pack up.
"Good thing too, or Malfoy'd probably be already hunting Muggleborns," Nate adds, turning round to join the conversation. James makes a noise of non-committal and begins quickly packing up.
"Come on, next class is Herbology," he says. "I heard we're going to grow Biting Daisies."
But Nate is already pushing through the crowds, making a beeline for Scorpius, and James feels an unfamiliar pang of anxiety. He looks at Martin.
"Can't he just leave him alone?" he mutters.
"The Malfoys tried to kill your father, loads of times," Martin replies. "Don't know why you're so keen to defend him."
No help there, then. James hurries ahead, catching up to Nate.
"Come on, let's go to Herbology — "
Nate shakes him away and reaches out, grabbing Scorpius by the sleeve. "Hey, Malfoy."
Scorpius tenses and stays still, as if somehow it will render him invisible. No such luck.
"What's in the letter?"
Scorpius stays silent for a long moment. Then he speaks quietly. "What letter?"
"Don't play stupid, I saw it. Was it from your Death Eater dad? Was he sending orders for you to join him?" Nate shoves at Scorpius's shoulder a little, making him stumble. "Have you got a Dark Mark too?"
Scorpius pales. James quickly jumps in.
"Come on, let's — "
"What's a Dark Mark?" Paul interrupts.
"Oh, I'm sure Malfoy can tell you all about it."
"Let me go," Scorpius pleads.
"Not until you hand over that letter!" Nate retorts. "James, tell him."
James looks at his feet. "The letter can't be that important," he mumbles. "Just hand it over, and we can all go."
There's a long silence. Then Scorpius tries to push Nate away and run.
It happens so quickly that James nearly misses it — there's a shout, a brief tussle as Martin and Nate catch up to Scorpius — then somebody shouts it.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Scorpius falls without another word. Nate, his wand drawn, looks wide-eyed. He catches James's expression.
"I — I didn't mean to do that — you saw it — it was an accident — "
"What on earth is going on out here?" Slughorn demands, coming out of the classroom. "Magic in the corridors is strictly forbidden, and — Merlin's beard, what happened?"
Martin, Paul and Nate exchange glances.
James suddenly feels sick to his stomach.
He can't stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. Scorpius was taken to the infirmary; Madam Pomfrey said he'd gotten a concussion from hitting his head on the floor and had to be strictly observed for the rest of the day. Nate was taken to Professor McGonagall's office, later returning with red-rimmed eyes, saying that he had a week's worth of detentions and had to write Scorpius an apology.
"I am sorry," he tells James and Martin later that night in the common room. "I've never hit anyone with a spell before. I really didn't mean to. I just sort of panicked. I thought he was going to start shooting spells at me, so I thought maybe I should get the first one in."
Scorpius wouldn't have done that, James thinks.
But he keeps the thought to himself.
Scorpius isn't in any classes the next day, and James waits until lunchtime to go to the infirmary. But, as Madam Pomfrey curtly tells him, Scorpius left yesterday evening. He was given the all-clear.
At last, caught in a torrent of concern, he approaches Teddy just before the end of lunch.
"Could I have a word?" he says quietly to Teddy, and Teddy raises his eyebrows.
"Is this about your girlfriend, the squid?"
"No. It's a favour."
"Another one? I'm way too nice to you." But Teddy stands up good-naturedly and excuses himself from his friends, making his way from the Great Hall. Once safely outside, in the quiet corridor, James speaks.
"Look, it's...a pretty big favour. You could get in trouble."
"Oh, dear. Oh, no. I could get into trouble?"
"There's no need for sarcasm," James says crossly. Teddy reaches out and ruffles his hair.
"All right, calm down. What's this big favour?"
"I need to get into the Ravenclaw tower."
"Can't help you there, I'm afraid. Do I look like an insufferable know-it-all with no sense of humour?"
It's always been an ongoing joke with Teddy. Everyone had thought he'd be an instant Gryffindor, but he'd surprised them all by being Sorted into Ravenclaw. Perhaps the Sorting Hat knew, deep down, what it was doing, because despite his mischievous nature, Teddy proved to have a quick wit and a sharp curiosity that only served to build his intellect.
"I'm serious. I need to see — I need to see a friend."
"So catch up with them in class or whenever. The professors get mighty cross when they discover students sneaking into other houses."
"You just said you didn't care about trouble."
"Yeah, but this is still a pretty big favour, cuz. We're not talking 'five points from Ravenclaw, Mr Lupin, and don't do it again'. We're talking detentions, serious lectures, letters sent home. We're talking about Howlers from my grandmother."
James gives a shiver. Teddy's grandmother is a very formidable woman whom James simultaneously adores and yet lives in fear of incurring her wrath.
"Please. I wouldn't ask if it's not important."
Teddy frowns, one hand resting on his bookbag. The doors to the Great Hall suddenly open as students begin to emerge, signalling the end of lunch.
"All right," Teddy says at last, "you caught me in a good mood. You got your invisibility cloak?"
"In my bag."
"All right, when we're out of sight, put it on. Follow me and don't make a single noise, got it?"
James nods and dutifully follows the instructions, waiting until they've reached a deserted corridor before putting on the cloak. Teddy passes a few Ravenclaws on their way to class, greeting each one with a cheerful wave and passing joke or comment. At last, they've reached the Ravenclaw tower. Teddy takes ahold of a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle and raps it once. A question rings out across the corridor.
"If someone offers you a gift and you refuse, to whom does the gift belong?"
"Their willingness belongs to them; my hostility is my own," Teddy answers easily.
"What's that mean?" James whispers as the door swings open, but Teddy shushes him as they enter the room. It's completely empty, however, except for a lone seventh-year studying by the fire.
"Hello, Eric. Got caught in a book again?" Teddy say amicably and the boy looks up, his eyes beginning to widen.
"Oh, no. Am I late again?" He glances around the empty common room, then sweeps his books up quickly and makes for the door.
"Tell Higglesby I'll be there soon, I forgot my book," Teddy shouts after the fleeing student. After a short pause, Teddy speaks again in a low voice. "Right, well, it doesn't look like your friend is here. Or else they're up in the dormitories. No use staying here if they're a girl, you can't access the girl's dormitory and trust me, I can't get you into it. If I could, I'd be causing a lot more mischief than I already do."
"It's okay, maybe they're away. I can wait," James whispers, and Teddy shrugs.
"If you want. I've got to get to class. Just leave the same way you came in. Don't touch anything, and if somebody sees you, my name is not mentioned at all. Got it?"
"Got it."
Teddy leaves then, departing from the same door by which they entered. James looks around the common room. A fire crackles quietly in the hearth and in the middle of the room, across the midnight-blue carpet, there's a statue of a witch. Rowena Ravenclaw, presumably.
He assumes the boys' dormitory is on the left, same as the Gryffindor tower, and cautiously places a foot on the first step. When nothing happens, he continues until he's standing in the entranceway to the first-year dormitory. It's far tidier than the Gryffindor one — the beds are all neatly made, and encompassing an entire wall is an enormous bookshelf lined with texts. At the far end of the dormitory, on the bed closest to the window, is Scorpius. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, one hand propping up his chin as he turns the page of a large tome. Pan is curled up in the crook of his elbow, sleeping.
Relieved to see him alive and well, James approaches him, removing the invisibility cloak. Scorpius seems so engrossed in the book that he doesn't notice until James is standing at the foot of the bed.
"Hey, Scorpius."
Scorpius jumps, the book falling closed in his lap, and looks up. He stares at James for a long moment, looking startled.
"Oh," he says at last before casting a glance around the dormitory. "What are you — how did you get in?"
"My cloak. I snuck in."
"You knew the answer to the riddle?"
James hesitates. Teddy did say not to tell anyone, but James can trust Scorpius.
"My cousin, Teddy Lupin, he let me in."
"Oh." A short silence, then Scorpius gives Pan a scratch behind the ears as she opens her eyes. "He's nice. He helps me with my homework sometimes."
"Yeah, he's always helping people." James hesitates. "Are you feeling better? I was worried because you weren't in any classes, but they said you weren't in the hospital wing anymore." The words leave him in a rush. Scorpius watches him silently, his grey eyes unreadable.
"I'm all right," he says at last. "They let me miss my classes today. I'm supposed to be resting."
"Oh — do you want to be left alone? — I only visited to see if you were all right. I'm glad you are."
"Are you?"
James blinks. There's a certain coolness in Scorpius's voice — a tone that James has never heard before. It's strange to hear that distant chill in his voice.
"Well — yes — of course! We're friends, aren't we? I missed you the other night, when you didn't turn up at our room. I was waiting ages and then I got caught by a Head Boy."
"Did you really?" The coolness is quickly evaporating from Scorpius's voice, and James grins.
"Yes. I didn't mind. Sorry I missed you, though. I suppose you were busy or just forgot."
"I had an essay to finish," Scorpius admits.
"Oh. Shame, that. Well, do you want to meet tomorrow night? Not tonight, you should be resting. Though reading that huge book is hardly resting, in my opinion. What is it?"
Scorpius shows him the cover. Creative Transfiguration: Understanding the Principles and Practice.
"Ugh, that sounds way too heavy."
"It's not. It's where I learned the lunar spell from. I'm reading a chapter right now on how to transfigure things into animals."
"Oh! Do you mean to do that with our room? We could turn all the chairs into Hippogriffs!"
Scorpius stares down at the book. "I can't go to the room tomorrow night, anyway. I've got — I'm busy."
"With what?" James demands.
"I've got advanced transfiguration tutoring with McGonagall," Scorpius mumbles, not lifting his gaze from the book.
"Wow! Scorpius, that's brilliant! Advanced transfiguration, hey? Remember when we were on the train, and you didn't even think you were a wizard? Now look at you!"
A faint smile trembles at the corners of Scorpius's mouth. "My father said — " and then he stops. James waits impatiently.
"Well, what? What did your father say?" he prompts. Scorpius looks away.
"Nothing."
"Come on, you can't just start telling me something and then stop. Oh, was it that letter?" James pauses and bites his lip, looking down at his feet a moment before speaking. "Sorry about that, you know. It was stupid of me to say it wasn't important. I wouldn't want people reading my personal letters either. I can't imagine why I said what I did."
Scorpius tugs at a loose thread on the bedcovers. "It's all right."
A long silence eclipses them and James isn't sure whether he should stay or go. He'll be in a lot of trouble for missing class, he knows. At last, however, Scorpius speaks again.
"He said he was very proud, that's all, and that he always knew I'd do well." A flush rises in his face. "You're not — you're not going to tease me about that, are you?"
"Well, if I am, you can tease me about being a Squib," James says. He tries to say it cheerfully, like a joke, but his voice stutters a little half-way through the sentence and he knows Scorpius noticed. James's shoulders slump. "My dad sent me a letter too, you know. Except it's the exact opposite of yours. I'm nearly failing everything and I don't think he's ever been so disappointed."
"Failing everything?" Scorpius looks disbelieving. "Are you really?"
"Yes. It's true. I got a Poor for Charms." He tries to smile. "Oh, well. At least I'm good at making people laugh. That'll come in useful when I become a Squib."
Scorpius doesn't smile. He stares down at the transfiguration book, then looks up at James. "I — I could help, you know." He reddens again. "I mean, you probably don't need it, and I'm not saying I'm better than you — of course I'm not —"
"Don't be stupid, you could teach me a whole bunch of stuff, I reckon!" James is excited. "Like that lunar spell!"
"Well, that's one of your problems. You keep trying all the fancy spells, but it's not much use if you can't turn a match into a needle." Scorpius's face suddenly freezes. "I mean — I didn't mean to say — "
"Yes, McGonagall," James says mockingly.
The faint smile trembles again.
James grins, his heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks.
Draco sits in the breakfast room.
Growing up, the breakfast room had always been his favourite room in the manor. Designed to capture the early morning sunlight, and less formal than the rest of the home, Draco had always considered breakfast his favourite part of the day. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine he's nine years old again, walking into the room to see his parents. Lucius would have a cup of tea and two slices of toast with honey; Narcissa preferred a cup of peppermint tea and boysenberry jam. Lucius would open the newspaper, pass the crossword page to Narcissa, and read the rest. Draco would sit beside his mother, trying to help. He can almost hear her quiet, measured voice.
A ten-letter word for a species of Thestral. What do you think, darling?
He opens his eyes.
On this wintry morning, there is no sunlight in the breakfast room. A thin, grey light shrouds the room. The table is empty, bereft of plates and pots of honey and crosswords. The other seats are empty, the upholstery thick with dust.
An owl taps on the window.
Draco flinches, ever so slightly, at the unexpected noise. He rises, then turns to the window and pulls on the sash. It gives way reluctantly, the wooden frame swollen with the rains of autumn and the sleet of winter.
He wonders if it's from Hogwarts. He'd received Scorpius's report card recently and he'd never felt so proud than when he unfurled the parchment and saw the row of Outstanding grades, accompanied by a letter requesting permission for Scorpius to have advanced Transfiguration lessons. He'd always known Scorpius would be an intelligent and dedicated student.
But this isn't a Hogwarts owl. This owl is snow-white; the letter on its foot is enclosed in a white envelope, sealed with lavender wax. Draco slowly removes the letter and the owl hoots once before flying away.
He picks up a butter-knife and runs it along the wax, opening the envelope and pulling out the letter. A large number of rose petals, presumably enchanted to remain ever-fresh, cascade onto the table and Draco frowns, shaking a petal from his sleeve.
Pansy Parkinson and Christopher Clayton request the pleasure of your company as they join hearts and lives in marriage on the 14th of December…
Draco stands for a long moment, reading the invitation over and over.
At last, he places it back into the envelope and leaves it on the table.
"Why are there twenty-five gardening spells?"
Harry waits for a response, but Draco doesn't seem too inclined to answer. He's busy staring out the window at the dull and overcast sky. Rain begins to patter against the glass.
"Malfoy, I asked — "
"I heard you." Draco turns from the window, hands in his pockets.
"Twenty-five gardening spells in one week? What are you doing, practising to become a botanist? And I see there's thirty domestic spells." Harry casts a critical look around the room. If Draco's been undertaking any cleaning, there's little evidence of it. Nevertheless, he refrains from verbalising the observation.
Another silence stretches on. Draco seems particularly distant today. Not necessarily resentful or disagreeable, Harry thinks, observing him. Just...distant. His mind is elsewhere.
"Well, this matter of contributing to the Muggle community," Harry says, trying to draw Draco back to present matters. "A donation should be suitable, I think. A Muggle charity of your choice."
Draco turns back to the window, watching water droplets slowly trickle down the pane.
"How much?"
"A thousand galleons should suffice." The sum sounds large, but Harry knows that to Draco, the amount is nothing more than a mere nuisance.
"Can't."
Harry exhales slowly. Perhaps he misjudged. Perhaps Draco is simply being disagreeable today. Harry had decided to go with the donation as a compromise, but maybe he should've picked something less easy.
"Can't, or won't?" he asks, annoyed.
"Can't, Potter. I have five hundred galleons left in my accounts."
Harry stares at Draco, dumbfounded, but Draco doesn't turn from the window. He just keeps watching the rain slowly creep down the glass.
"What are you — five hundred galleons? What about your assets? Surely there's some shares, a few estates — " Harry cuts himself off, certain that Draco's lying.
"No." The answer is spoken without a trace of emotion, not even resentment or bitterness.
"But — what happened?"
At last, Draco finally turns to face Harry. He studies him for a long moment, then speaks.
"Whatever usually happens after a war. Assets are frozen, accounts are emptied for recompense. Whatever money I had left was spent on legal fees."
Harry looks away, suddenly recalling the lengthy custody battle with Scorpius and the very expensive appeals. The process for one appeal could take up to two years and a few thousand galleons, and Draco had made no less than seven.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. The manor, falling to decay and disrepair, the gardening and cleaning spells Draco is clearly struggling to learn. He cannot employ a gardener or servants and he sent his last house-elf away.
"I'd like to look around the grounds," Harry says at last. Draco gives him a long, cool look.
"I assure you, Potter, there are no secret stashes of galleons in the rose gardens or the hedge maze."
"Regardless." It's a single word and a priceless trick that Harry picked up from Williamson. Nobody can argue with 'regardless' or 'be that as it may'. True to this, Draco lifts one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug.
"I can't stop you."
They make their way outside. Draco leads the way and Harry lets him — who knows what ensnarements may be lurking.
The grounds are just as miserable as the house, Harry thinks. Stone circles indicate where flowers used to bloom, but there's nothing left but dead twigs and barren soil. The few trees that are evergreen are overgrown now and they create a dark, claustrophobic feel along paths. There's a glass conservatory that seems to hold little more than compost now, and finally the rose gardens. A single rose is blooming, white and bold against the tangle of black thorns and dead shrubbery, and Harry frowns at it. When he touches one of the petals, the rose disintegrates and Draco whips around, reaching out and roughly shoving Harry away.
"You complete idiot! That took weeks to do!"
Harry stumbles back a few steps, but doesn't raise his wand. There's a short silence, and he can see Draco's face already paling. Even threatening a Wizards Under Watch officer with violence — let alone actually laying a hand on them — is grounds for an instant breach of conduct.
"What?" Harry says at last, prompting an explanation. Draco stares at him, as if uncertain whether Harry will hex him or not.
"Forget it," Draco says at last.
"What was it, just a summer spell? Calm down then," Harry says. He raises his wand. "Vivo Vixi Victum."
A second later, a rose blooms. A second, a third. A fourth. Soon, the whole rosebush is abloom with a hundred white roses. Draco stares at the roses with a mix of disbelief and despair.
"What was that spell?" he asks at last.
"What, the one I just used? Makes flowers bloom. Should stay that way for the rest of the season."
"But — I tried for weeks — "
Harry tries to remember the spells he'd noted on Draco's wand. "Well, you were using that Aestas one, weren't you? That's a very outdated and difficult spell. Nobody uses it anymore." He's a little pleased about knowing that, to be honest. All those hours of helping Mrs Weasley in the garden are actually paying off.
Draco stares at him for a long moment, then raises his wand. He pauses and looks to Harry, as if expecting him to suddenly write down a warning for merely drawing his wand.
There's a slight pause.
"Vixo — "
"Vivo."
"Vivo vix — "
"Vivo vixi."
"Vivo vixi vectum!" Perhaps it's annoyance at having to be corrected repeatedly by Harry, or perhaps just Draco's style, but the incantation is forceful and the wandwork a little too sharp. A leaf, dried-up and blackened by the winter frost, twitches once but otherwise nothing else happens. Harry catches sight of the disappointment flashing through Draco's eyes and despite himself, he finds himself walking up to him.
"You've got the wandwork wrong, that's the main problem." Harry holds out his own wand and then goes through the motions. "It's like you're drawing a circle, not a spiral."
He waits for a sharp retort or a defensive remark, but Draco does neither. He tenses a little, but then raises his wand again and, without the incantation, repeats the motion.
"A smaller circle. Too wide, and you're going to have a twenty-foot-high garden."
"Right," Draco says tersely. He takes a step back, repeats the motion once more, and says the incantation. This time, he speaks curtly but without force, and a clear ray of pale blue light radiates outward. A second later and colour washes forth like a tide, bringing a lively green colour to the leaves and sending roses blossoming so fast that Harry can hear the rustling of it.
He turns to look at Draco, and there's an expression he hadn't expected to see.
He's smiling.
It's a small, half-hidden smile, but it's genuine.
He looks up and catches Harry's eye, and the smile disappears in a second.
"Finished?" Draco asks curtly, his face returning to its unreadable expression, a flatness in his grey eyes, and Harry's suddenly reminded of the last visit, when he was caught staring at that photograph of Draco and Scorpius. Seeing moments he's not supposed to.
"Just the hedge maze, and then I'll be done."
Draco leads him to the hedge maze. It's an overgrown mess of shambling evergreens, and it reminds Harry uncomfortably of the Triwizard Tournament. He's not sure why he asked to see the gardens. Just to get out of the dilapidated manor, probably. He turns to glance at Draco and catches him with a calculating expression.
"What?"
"Nothing," Draco says, but it's clear he's considering something. As they make their back to the sweeping porch steps, he clears his throat. "I've received a wedding invitation."
"All right."
"For Pansy Parkinson. She's not on the Wizards Under Watch program," Draco adds.
He's asking permission to go, Harry suddenly realises. He remembers how Draco's request to attend Goyle's wedding was rejected.
"That's fine." Harry recalls the details of Pansy's mediocre life. "Unless the groom is someone I need to know about."
"He's Muggleborn."
The Ministry worker for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Harry remembers now.
"Well, that's fine."
Draco nods once and Harry pauses on the last step.
"Well, I don't think there's anything else to discuss. Next week, Malfoy."
"Next week," Draco echoes, stepping inside and shutting the door.
Harry begins the long walk to the end of the property, where the anti-Apparation wards end and he can travel home in a whirl of space and time.
When Harry arrives home, however, he discovers two visitors waiting on his doorstep, both with identical disapproving expressions.
"Where have you been?" Hermione asks, her hands on her hips.
"Out." Harry has to squeeze past her to unlock the door.
"Out?" Ron repeats suspiciously. "Just...out?"
"Out...side."
"Oh, you've been outside. Thanks for that useful information, Harry, I can see why you're a top Auror."
"We dropped by to visit. You weren't here," Hermione says, as if she's caught Harry setting manticores onto small children. She follows Harry inside, taking off her knitted hat and patting her hair back into place.
"Just been doing some work," Harry says, leading the way to the living room. "Just the Wizards Under Watch program."
Hermione frowns; Ron doesn't seem concerned. He heads towards the sofa and drapes himself over it, reaching for a copy of Quidditch Weekly. "Heard about that new Chudley Cannons keeper, Harry?"
"Doesn't matter if they've got a new keeper, they'll have to replace the whole team to get anywhere."
"Take your shoes off," Hermione says to Ron. "You've got snow all over them!"
"It's only water! Harry doesn't mind. Got any butterbeer, Harry?"
Harry shakes his head. He needs to do some grocery shopping. The pantry is starting to look woefully empty. The kitchen is big, too big, he thinks. When they built it, they had visions of entertaining all their friends here, raising a family. Three or four kids. The counters stretch on forever and the walk-in pantry is designed for bulk storage. There's a set of stairs that leads to the wine cellar. Ginny loved a good wine and she collected many a fine vintage. Harry has no taste for it — it's all just pressed grape juice, he'd say, and she'd crinkle her nose at him.
Harry hasn't been to the wine cellar since Ginny's death.
"Mind if we stay for dinner?" Hermione asks, taking off her shoes and nudging Ron until he moves further along the sofa, giving her some room.
Harry never minds. They laugh and chat into the evening, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth as Ron shares news of his latest inventions with George and Hermione shares anecdotes about Hogwarts alumni. Harry updates them on Draco's case and they muse over it for a while; Ron is still of the opinion that Harry should reassign the case to 'some other poor sod'.
Long after the clock has struck ten o'clock and the table has been cleared, they're still idling chatting over their drinks. Hermione stifles a yawn and catches Harry's eye.
"I'm a little tired," she admits. "Should probably be off soon. Hugo's supposed to be staying the night at a friend's place, but he might want to come home early. He misses Rose an awful lot."
"Little toerag," Ron says affectionately. "When his big sister's around, all he does is whinge and complain. Soon as she's gone, he's slumped in the corner looking tragic."
They chat for a while longer, Ron polishing off his final drink, and then they merrily farewell Harry, stepping into his fireplace and disappearing in a flash of Floo powder.
Harry stands alone for a long time.
Though he loves his friends dearly, and loves how their visits fill the spaces in his empty house, he hates it afterwards. He feels the silences more keenly after they've gone, feels the emptiness looming like a void.
Somewhere, a clock ticks.
He slowly puts the goblets in the sink. Three of them.
Just like how it used to be with him, James, and Ginny.
Her eyes. Always twinkling at some secret joke. Hands moving across the sink — let me wash those, you can dry them — because that's how they always did it, one of them washing and the other drying, and they'd talk and laugh, and James would always wanting to help — let me put the dishes away, I can do it! —
And as quickly as the memory appears, it vanishes again. The noise and brightness disappears as if Harry's been plunged underwater.
These days, he always feels like he's underwater, drifting aimlessly, caught in endless tides.
It's midnight, but Draco is standing in the rose gardens. Lately he's had difficulties sleeping, walking around the manor late at night and sleeping only by the time of some half-destroyed internal clock. It makes him feel so disconnected and surreal, as if the world only exists when his eyes are open. Every time he blinks, the world collapses and then rebuilds itself in a second.
"Vivo Vixi Vectum." The words whisper through the air like a promise.
The gardens spring to life. Draco inhales, a half-catch of a laugh in his throat. The rows of tulips straighten as if coming up for air. The leaves unfurl like green umbrellas. He turns around, repeating the spell over and over, until the gardens are a wild storm of life, a crazed haze of young leaves and scarlet geraniums, sun-coloured daffodils and purple violets, azaleas the colour of a pink-streaked sunset, orchids the shade of a summer dusk.
He stands alone in the night as all around him, flowers burst to life, luminous in the thin moonlight.
The next day, he wakes up to an owl tapping on his window. Judging by the high sun, he's overslept again. It's not good, he knows.
He pulls the window open. The owl is rather too small for the parcel attached to it and seems to be struggling a great deal. Taking pity on it, Draco quickly unties the parcel and the owl gives a grateful hoot before flying away.
He returns to his bed, sitting on the corner of it, and frowns at the parcel. It's wrapped in brown paper, with his name and address scrawled in green ink. The handwriting is unfamiliar.
Gingerly, he unwraps it.
It's a book, bright and new, with 'latest edition!' emblazoned on the cover.
The Complete Guide to Herbology: Creating Magical Gardens and Landscapes.
Draco picks up the brown paper and turns it over. There's no return address, nor is there an inscription on the book, but he can guess who sent it.
He smiles wryly.
James takes a deep breath, slowly exhales, raises his wand, and speaks.
"Helixa."
It's a long moment before he dares to look. He glances down. The needle is still a needle. It doesn't look like a match at all.
"I am a Squib!" He throws his wand away angrily; Scorpius picks it up.
"It's okay. Just try again. You've got to focus on your wandwork. It's no use just swinging it around, you know."
"I'm not!" James reconsiders. "Well — maybe a little. But I like to make things look dramatic. It makes me feel like it will work more."
"Spells are about precision."
"I know, I know. You've told me a hundred times now. I'm trying, I honestly am." James accepts his wand back. "Thanks, Scorpius."
He tries again. This time, the needle turns to wood and James lets out a shout.
"Look! I nearly did it!" He holds up his hand; Scorpius looks at it with confusion. "High-five. You're supposed to hit it."
Scorpius hesitantly places his hand against James's. James laughs.
"Well, sort of. Haven't you ever given a high-five before? Never mind." He turns back to the half-needle and, feeling jubilant, raises his wand again. "Helixa."
This time, it turns into a complete match. James laughs and turns to Scorpius.
"Try a high-five again? No, you've got to hit my hand, not poke at it like it's a dead cat." James waits; Scorpius takes a breath and then slaps James's hand so hard that James stumbles backwards and doubles over. "Ouch! Not that hard!"
"I'm sorry!" Scorpius is distraught. "I didn't mean to — "
"Calm down, I'm still alive. Wow, you don't play around, do you? I bet you've got a mean left hook."
"Left hook?"
"You know, a punch?" James gives his hand a little shake, wincing slightly at the bright red skin. "Might have to teach you how to high-five without flaying someone's hand. Anyway, what do you reckon? Maybe I can have a go at that moon transfiguration. I could make a tenth moon for our sky." He points towards the vaulted ceiling.
"No. Not until you've mastered turning a needle into a match."
"Oh, you're mean. Worse than McGonagall." James pulls a face. "Hey, want to practice some other spells? Just take a break for a minute."
"You're not allowed to do moons yet," Scorpius says suspiciously, and James shakes his head.
"No, I was thinking defence spells. I got an 'Acceptable' in Defence Against the Dark Arts, after all. What do you reckon?"
Scorpius considers this, then gives a nod. James stands up straighter, feeling excited.
"Brilliant! All right, how about disarming?" He's pleased. They just finished practicing that spell today, and James has done well in class. "It's only fair that I let you know that I've done some serious disarming practice. Right, count of three? You might want to stand back. One, two, three!"
"Expelliarmus!" Scorpius's voice cuts through the air, clear and precise as a knife, and before James can even utter the incantation, he's flat on his back and his wand is in Scorpius's hand. He slowly raises his head; Scorpius is looking at him, wide-eyed, and shrinking back as if fearing retribution.
"That's — you said you wanted to practice — I'm sorry — "
"Don't apologise, you muppet," James laughs, standing up and walking over to him. "That was terrific! You could disarm anyone, I reckon! Even a professor."
Scorpius stares at his feet, a slight flush rising in his face. "Do you think so?"
"I know so. Come on, you have to show me how you did that."
Scorpius looks up at him. "Fine," he says, "but by midnight, you have to be able to turn needles into matches in a second."
"You drive a hard bargain," James says, grinning and nudging Scorpius to show he's joking. He has to do that sometimes, just to make sure Scorpius knows. Sometimes he takes everything too seriously.
But when Scorpius looks at him, there's a little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.
The next day, in Transfiguration, he listens attentively. His friends keep looking at him — he can feel them waiting, expecting the endless jokes and smart retorts. But James steadfastly ignores them. This is important.
When McGonagall sets them to work turning a mouse from white to black, James does his hardest to remember all of Scorpius's advice. He'd said that James tended to make his wandwork too 'big', with too many gestures and dramatic swishing, and that he tended to blurt out incantations instead of speaking clearly and deliberately. What else?
Concentrate on what you want to change, not what you want to see.
Next to him, Paul is trying to get his attention, waving his mouse around.
"Look, James! Bet you could have fun with these! Put it down Jennifer's collar," he whispers. "Dare you!"
"Not now."
"Come on! You can do a million pranks with it!"
James blocks him out, trying to concentrate on the small mouse curled up in his palm. With his other hand, he draws his wand and makes a small, careful motion before tapping the mouse twice. It opens its eyes just as the wand touches it and immediately turns a beautiful jet-black.
"Very good, Potter. And now, back to white." McGonagall is looking at him, her eyebrows raised slightly. There's the faintest hint of approval around the corners of her mouth.
James smiles widely, elated with success, and turns to Paul.
"Did you see that?" he asks him excitedly. Paul scowls at him.
"So what? Anyone can do it." He haphazardly taps his mouse; it emits a frightened squeak and immediately turns into a little puddle of fur, legs and ears sticking out in very odd directions.
James turns away as McGonagall swoops upon Paul, full of wrathful remonstrations, and concentrates on his mouse.
A few seconds later it turns snow-white again.
James waits, his invisibility cloak over him. When he sees Scorpius round the corner, a tentative wand-light held out, he grins and creeps towards him, then pounces, throwing his invisibility cloak over them both.
Scorpius stumbles slightly, then turns and looks. "Oh!" He reaches out, touching the material. "I don't think this is Demiguise fur, you know."
"Probably not." James shrugs. "Guess what, Scorpius? I did it!"
"Did what?"
"Turned a mouse black, then back to white! McGonagall said it was very good."
Scorpius gives a tentative smile. "Good job, James."
"What are you talking about? It's all thanks to you. Now come on, we're going on an adventure."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere you want to go! We'll hide under my cloak. We can go anywhere."
"Anywhere?"
"Anywhere." James laughs and stretches out his arms, as much as the cloak will allow him. "Pick any place, and I'll take you there."
"The lake," Scorpius says, as if expecting James to shake his head.
But James doesn't.
"Let's go," he says, grinning.
They sneak out of the castle together, whispering to each other occasionally. Scorpius even laughs at some of James's jokes.
James feels the happiest he's been since he arrived at Hogwarts.
Draco stands by the window, his back against the cool glass, and stares at the dress robes laid out on the bed. In his hand, the invitation is neatly folded.
Pansy Parkinson and Christopher Clayton request the pleasure of your company…
He'd introduced them to each other. How's that for irony? Astoria had been away and Draco had been invited to a garden party by one of the old Pureblood families — he can't remember which one now, but it would have been rude to decline — and he hadn't wanted to go alone. Pansy had agreed to go with him. They'd been much closer then and Draco had the feeling an affair was imminent.
And it was there she had met Clayton. Draco had made it clear he found the man to be insufferably boring; afterwards, his constant reference to Clayton as 'that ill-bred prat' had caused a rift between him and Pansy.
He dresses slowly. It seems to take an age to button up his shirt, his fingers numb with cold. The heating spells need to be reinstated again. He looks at himself in the mirror and adjusts his plain black robes. He'll be late to the wedding, he thinks, but it won't matter.
Finally, he tucks the invitation into one pocket and leaves the manor, stopping first by the rose garden to pick a single white rose. The Malfoys throughout the ages have always presented a single, prized rose from their gardens no matter whose wedding they're attending.
He Disapparates just as the rain begins again.
It's raining at the wedding, too. Draco stares down at the invitation in his hand, pausing after Apparating so quickly. The rain speckles across the parchment, causing ink to run like tears.
After a moment, he looks up. Across the tree-lined avenue, he can see the open doors of the church. A small wedding. Pansy's family, her three cousins wearing bridesmaid dresses. Pansy is beautiful in an ivory dress. Her husband is shaking hands with his relatives, receiving congratulations.
Clayton looks up first. He sees Draco standing across the avenue, standing in the rain. He touches Pansy's elbow; she looks up and sees him.
Both their smiles fade. Around them, the cheerful relatives continue their well-wishes.
She hadn't expected him to come, Draco realises. Neither of them had. Now they're both staring at him, their radiant smiles giving way to identical frowns.
The invitation had merely been a polite formality. He looks down at it again.
Pansy Parkinson and Christopher Clayton request the pleasure of your company…
Ink runs over his fingers, joined by a thin trickle of blood where a thorn from the rose has pricked his thumb.
He turns and leaves.
He Apparates just outside the manor gates and begins the long walk up the driveway. By the time he's arrived at the front doors, the parchment is a sodden mess. He slowly pushes the doors open and steps inside.
"What happened to you?"
He jumps, then closes his eyes slowly.
"Potter. Right. I forgot."
"You forgot?" Harry sounds disbelieving. "You've only had these meetings for the past million years."
Draco leans against the door, his eyes still closed. It feels reassuring to have something solid behind him. He can hear the soft drip of water running from his hair, his clothes, his skin. He opens his eyes at last and drops the invitation onto the floor. After a moment, the rose lands beside it, the petals crushed and bruised.
"Just let yourself in, then?" Draco asks, but his voice just sounds tired and defeated.
"I wasn't about to stand on the freezing porch waiting for you," Harry says. "So...the wedding."
He looks up. Harry's giving him a calculating look.
"The wedding," Harry repeats. "That's what it was. Pansy Parkinson, right?"
"Right." Draco takes his weight off the door and stands up straight, walking past Harry and into the hallway beyond the stairs, making his way to his father's study. Harry follows him, lingering by the doorway as Draco settles into the leather chair behind his father's desk.
"Firewhiskey?"
"I don't drink on the job," Harry says. Draco laughs humourlessly.
"Of course you don't." He opens the desk drawer and removes a bottle of Ogden's finest, pouring himself a neat dram.
Harry waves his wand at the fireplace; a fire springs to life. Draco, remembering his wet clothes, thinks of how the damp must be ruining the leather chair. He doesn't particularly care.
There's a long silence. He knocks back the firewhiskey in a single shot and places the empty glass upon the desk. Harry looks at him, then makes his way to an armchair near the fire.
"I suppose you'll be wanting my wand," Draco prompts at last.
"I suppose," Harry echoes. Draco tosses his wand through the air; Harry catches it and looks at it for a long moment.
"What's the matter?" Draco says. "Forgot the incantation, Potter?"
"This isn't your wand."
Draco looks at Harry for a long moment, then pours himself another neat dram. To his surprise, Harry stands and moves over to the desk, sitting in the chair opposite Draco.
"If you're offering, I'll take one."
"Thought you didn't drink on the job."
Harry levels him with a long look. Draco gets out another glass.
"I know it's not my wand." Draco slowly pours a second dram and slides it across the desk to Harry. "But I already asked for it back, Potter, and you'll learn this of me: when I ask, I only do so once."
"Is that true of your seven appeals?"
Draco pauses. Then he downs the firewhiskey in one swift movement.
"You've got access to my legal records. How charming."
"Of course I do, Malfoy. With your past — "
"My past, my past." Draco stands up and hurls the glass at the wall. It shatters immediately on impact.
Silence reigns and he's suddenly aware of himself. He sits down again. He supposes Harry will write him up now. Intimidating behaviour. That's what his previous officers wrote. Every time Draco so much as looked at them funny, they'd look terrified and immediately write him up. Let alone hurling objects around them…
Harry lifts the glass of firewhiskey, as if toasting Draco, and drinks half of it before setting the glass down again.
"I remember you asking," he says, as if nothing had happened. "You said I had something of yours, and you wanted it back."
It takes Draco a moment to catch up to the conversation. He remembers that night well.
"It served me well, you know. Better than many other wands I've had to use." Harry finishes off the rest of the firewhiskey. "Hawthorn, wasn't it? That wand...it was very reliable. Found it much easier to use than I expected. I used it during most of the war."
It angers Draco, to think of Harry using his wand, but he clenches his jaw and remains silent.
"I suppose you're angry about it." Harry smiles sardonically when Draco gives him a suspicious look. "I would be, if someone stole my wand and started using it. Not nice, really."
"If this is your idea of a game, Potter, then I'd rather not play. If you have my wand, give it back."
"I thought you never asked twice."
"It was not a request."
"I don't think you're in a position to be particularly demanding, Malfoy." Nevertheless, Harry reaches into the sleeve of his robe and removes a wand.
Draco's wand.
His breath catches in his throat. It's been seventeen years, old friend…
Harry holds it out and Draco hesitantly reaches for it, as if expecting the wand to dissipate into smoke the second he touches it. But it doesn't. There's a long pause, when Harry and himself are both holding onto it, and then Draco tightens his grip and Harry relinquishes his.
The last time he held this wand, he was a terrified seventeen-year-old, not knowing which way to go, not knowing anything. To his horror, he can feel the tears prickling in his eyes and he stands abruptly.
"Well, if that's all, you should leave. I'm expecting company," Draco lies, his voice curt. Harry looks startled, then a frown settles over his face.
"Well, fine. See you next week," he snaps, abruptly turning and leaving. Draco listens to his footsteps, then the front doors closing, and then he slowly sits back down again.
He knows it wasn't his imagination. It took effort to take his wand from Harry, as if there was an invisible magnet pulling the wand away from him. There's still an allegiance there, Draco's certain of it. His wand has come home, but it's not the same.
He sits in the study for a long time, listening to the crackling of the fire, wondering what the first spell should be. He's almost too afraid to try, as if his wand will somehow reject him.
A simple Lumos, he thinks, or an Alohomora. Nothing too taxing.
And yet, as he raises the wand, he finds himself saying something entirely different.
"Prior incantantem."
The ghostly stag rises from his wand like smoke. It's just a ghost of a spell, Draco reminds himself. Expecto Patronum.
The patronus lowers its head and for a moment Draco thinks it's going to charge him. It walks forward slowly, until it's about a foot away, looking at Draco.
"You're not even a patronus," Draco tells it. "Just a ghost."
The stag pays no attention to that line of reasoning, instead leaning forward to nudge Draco. He jumps away, instinctively avoiding the antlers before remembering it has no corporeal form. Still, there's a slightly unpleasant sensation as the antlers pass through his skin, like a chill from a draught. Draco's certain the patronus should be fading by now, but the stag shows no sign of disappearing.
"Go away," he tells it. The patronus steps back, regarding him with luminescent eyes, and remains standing silently by the desk.
And Merlin, he doesn't know what's wrong with him — maybe he's just sick of this empty manor, his footsteps the only noise, or just sick of the dark shadows that seem to never lift from the corners of every room — but sitting there with that brightly-shining patronus standing beside him like a silent but ever-watchful guard — he feels somehow all right, just for a moment, as if the world has righted itself on its axis.
Chapter 6: Getting Rid of All the Ghosts
Summary:
In which Draco wins his wand's allegiance back — Scorpius and James decide to be best friends — Rose argues with James about his other friends — James and Scorpius go home for Christmas break — Scorpius meets Harry — Draco begins renovations — James brings Draco and Scorpius the gift of Monopoly.
Chapter Text
Draco fights.
But his wand, it seems, is determined not to give in. Every spell is a struggle, every charm is a battle. Even the Lumos spell appears taxing; the wandwork feels lagging. After a week of efforts, he's nearly mad with frustration. When he tries to light the fireplace, his wand won't complete the swish movement.
"Incendio!" Draco repeats forcibly, but again, there's a faint feeling of resistance as he tries to move the wand through the air. It's like pushing it through treacle. "Incendio! Incendio!"
Nothing. In a rage, he hurls his wand across the room.
The wards tremor. Draco curses loudly and storms down to the entrance hall, throwing the doors open.
"What?" he snarls.
Harry's eyebrows rise. Nevertheless, he speaks without affront. "Might I come in, then?"
"If you must."
Harry waits, but when Draco says nothing further, he gives a small shrug and begins to make his way to the front parlour room.
"It's freezing in here, Malfoy," he says conversationally. "Haven't you lit any fires?"
"No, I haven't lit any fires, Potter, because you've got my wand!" His last word rises in anger, echoing around the room. Harry blinks at him, looking confused.
"What are you talking about? I gave — "
"It doesn't work! I don't know what you've done to it, but the stupid thing won't even do a simple Incendio! It's like trying to cast spells underwater!"
"Really?"
"I just said so, didn't I? Oh, you're going to write something down in that stupid file, aren't you? 'Dear Ministry, Malfoy was very mean to me today. Let's put him on probation.' Well — "
Harry starts to laugh. Draco pauses mid-sentence.
"It's not funny. Stop laughing, Potter."
"I can't help it. You made it sound like the Ministry is an overbearing parent. And trust me, you have no idea how close to the truth that is." Harry sets the file aside. "Give me your wand."
Draco passes his wand over, feeling slightly mollified and to be honest, quite uncertain how to proceed with the conversation. Harry has laughed at Draco's misfortunes many a time, but Draco thinks it's the first time Harry has ever laughed at one of Draco's caustic remarks.
"This isn't your wand."
"No, that's the one I've been using for the past seventeen years. My mother's wand."
"I want to look at your wand. The one I returned."
"I told you, it's useless. I've been performing spells with this one."
"I don't care about what spells you've been performing," Harry says candidly. "I want to know why your wand isn't working."
Draco pauses a moment, then turns and walks down the hallway, listening to Harry's footsteps behind him. He enters the study, looks around for a long moment, then fetches the wand from the floor. Harry doesn't comment on that, just indicates for Draco to hand it to him.
"No."
"Malfoy, I'm offering to help," Harry says with exasperation.
"No. It's something to do with allegiance, I'm certain. If I give it back to you, it will reaffirm you as the true owner."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd have to disarm you. Wands don't change allegiances every time someone picks them up or I'd own every wand I touched."
"I'm not giving it to you."
"Then I'll have to disarm you," Harry snaps. "In which case, it will change allegiance. I hope you're beginning to see how ridiculous this is."
"Fine!" Draco tosses the wand onto the desk. Harry sighs and picks it up, weighing it in his hand, then points at the fireplace.
"Incendio."
A bright fire immediately leaps to life. Draco stares at it for a long moment, his heart giving a traitorous ache. He's right. His wand is no longer his own.
"Now you try," Harry says, passing the wand back to Draco. He tries to levitate a vase; it manages to hover an inch before dropping.
They both try a few other spells, but the results are the same: the wand is perfectly happy to obey Harry's commands, but resists all of Draco's attempts at spells and charms.
"But I gave it back," Harry says with bewilderment. "I gave it to you." He frowns. "Maybe...maybe you need to disarm me."
"Disarm you?" Draco repeats blankly.
"Yes."
Draco picks up his mother's wand. Harry stands by the fireplace, Draco's wand in his hand, waiting patiently.
"Expelliarmus."
The wand drops from Harry's hand. He looks at Draco.
"You've got to mean it. Don't just stand there and say it like you're reciting a grocery list."
"I can't help it," Draco snaps.
"Why not?"
Draco lets the silence drag on, but Harry's beginning to look impatient. At last, he reluctantly speaks.
"My last two probationary notes were written because they noticed the Expelliarmus spell in my wand history."
"Oh, for — I'm not going to give you a probationary note for disarming me, all right?" Harry picks up the fallen wand. "Try again."
"Expelliarmus!"
This time, Harry stumbles back a few steps and the wand flies out of his hand, soaring towards Draco. He catches it in his left hand and pauses for a moment before pointing it at the vase again.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Once more, the wand resists him. The vase wobbles slightly, then falls over. Harry looks at it, then to Draco, and frowns.
"But you disarmed me," he says.
"My wand apparently disagrees."
"Maybe you have to really mean it," Harry says, walking over to take the wand from Draco and examine it. "Maybe it has to be taken from me in the same way it was taken from you."
The memories rush through Draco's mind — the desperation as he battled with Harry, trying to hold onto his wand — and he frowns.
"Physically remove it, rather than disarm?"
"No, I was thinking — more like, you know..." Harry gestures helplessly. "You have to mean it."
"Oh, I have to mean it. You should be a Charms professor, has anyone ever told you that?" Draco says curtly, his frustration at the situation getting the better of him. Harry gives him a long, calculating look before raising Draco's wand.
"Anteoculatia!"
Draco only just avoids the incoming hex, leaping out of the way just in time. Behind him, the vase shatters on impact.
"What are you — "
"Locomotor mortis!"
Draco ducks behind the desk, hearing something shatter above him.
"Are you insane?" he shouts.
Silence. Draco shifts uneasily, then — when he can't stand the waiting — he stands.
Harry is right next to the desk, holding the wand ready, an incantation already poised on his lips, but Draco beats him to it.
"Obliviate!"
Harry's eyes widen and he leaps to one side, narrowly avoiding the spell.
"You idiot!" he shouts angrily. "I was doing harmless jinxes! Obliviate? Really?"
"It was the first thing I thought of!"
"Seriously? 'Obliviate' is the first spell you instinctively perform? Oh, trust me, Malfoy, that's going in the file. Steleus!"
"Protego!" A blue shield bursts to life from Draco's wand, deflecting the spell.
"Herbifors!"
Harry doesn't duck that one fast enough; the spell catches on his sleeve and flowers immediately begin sprouting from the material. He tries to shake the flowers away and Draco seizes the opportunity, raising his wand again.
"Expel — "
"Flipendo!"
The spell hits Draco square in the chest. He flies back, hitting the bookcase hard, and crumples to the ground, books raining down around him. He knows he's supposed to be disarming Harry — it's the whole point — but surely he can extract some revenge first. He can almost feel the bruises forming across his back. Couldn't Harry have cast the jinx with a little less power?
He looks up just in time to see Harry looking uncertainly at him.
"Oh, good," Harry says. "For a moment there, I thought I'd knocked you out. Didn't realise — "
"Everte statum!"
Harry, much in a similar manner to Draco, stumbles backwards and lands heavily against the wall.
"You total prat! You underhanded, sneaky little git — "
"Epoximise!"
"Malfoy, no!" Harry looks down at his hand in dismay, trying to let go of the wand. But it's adhered unshakeably to his hand. "How are you supposed to disarm me now?"
"It will certainly be interesting. Expelliarmus!"
"Evanesce!" But Harry points the wand at himself, and there's a brilliant flash of blue light. When the light fades, Harry is gone.
Draco stares at the spot where he last saw Harry, and for a moment, he has to admire the cunning. Apparation wards make both Apparating and Disapparating impossible while in the manor; in substitute, Harry has used a vanishing spell on himself. But who knows where he'll turn up? As far as Draco knows, it's impossible for the caster of the spell to choose their destination.
He grips his wand in both hands and edges towards the doorway, glancing down the hallway. Nothing.
"Homenum revelio," he whispers, the spell washing down the hallway like a tide. Nothing is revealed; apparently, no human lingers in the shadows.
He makes his way to the entrance hall, whipping around quickly to glance up the sweeping stairway. Nobody there. At least the stairs – carpeted with a stair-runner — soften his footsteps. Upon reaching the landing, he sees movement and whips around.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell sears a hole right through an ancestral portrait and Draco immediately realises the movement was nothing more than one of the figures in the portrait. He sees more movement, this time on his left, and immediately shoots off another disarming spell. This time, he hits a family portrait.
"Damn it!"
The back of his neck suddenly prickles, and it's the only warning he gets.
"Protego totalum!"
"Melofors!"
Draco's spell creates a small protective bubble around him just as Harry's spell hits it and deflects. Harry, unperturbed by the lack of success, simply fires off a tripping jinx.
They duel each other down the hallway, then Draco uses a smokescreen spell to make his escape into a guest room, where he can quickly cast a Finite spell over his right hand (which Harry has turned into a butternut pumpkin). His hand back to normal, he looks around the corner of the doorway just in time to dodge a knee-reversal hex.
"Cantis!" Draco shoots the spell without really aiming, too busy trying to avoid the incoming hex, and he can tell the spell missed its target by a wide margin. Harry wastes no time sending another hex bounding towards Draco.
"Calvario!"
"Avifors!"
"Sectumsempra!" Harry sends a bolt of white lightning towards Draco before a look of horror suddenly crosses his face. The spell only just misses Draco. "I didn't mean that!" Harry shouts out, looking panic-stricken. "I meant to say Rictusempra, I just — I don't know why I said the other one — "
"Expelliarmus!"
The wand flies from Harry's hand with such force that Harry flies backwards, hitting the wall hard and sending several portraits crashing down, their glass panes shattering. Draco catches the wand in his right hand.
"I didn't mean it," Harry says, straightening up. Glass crunches under his feet as he walks towards Draco. "Honestly, I swear I meant Rictusempra, I have no idea…"
Both spells he has used before, Draco muses. Rictusempra — an infinite tickling charm — Harry had used successfully on Draco during that second-year Duelling Club. The only difference between the curses are three little letters and he's inclined to believe Harry's apparent mistake, although less inclined to forgive it.
"There's quite a difference," Draco says, his voice cold, "between those two spells."
"I know, I know!" Harry looks miserable and Draco studies him for a moment before raising his wand.
"Lumos."
His wand immediately glows, bathing the hallway with a soft blue light. No resistance, no difficulties. His wand has truly returned to him now.
"Did it work?"
Draco glances up. Harry's looking at him, waiting.
"Yes."
"So it's yours again?"
"Evidently."
"Oh. Well, good." Harry looks uncomfortable. "Er...sorry about the hex."
Draco shrugs. "I'm sure if it had hit me, you probably would've developed a guilt complex and a drinking problem and subsequently died an undignified death, sad and alone in a gutter somewhere. So, in any case, I would have eventually won."
Harry stares at him.
"That was a joke, Potter. You may laugh."
"That was supposed to be funny? Your sense of humour is extraordinarily dry, then."
"So I've heard."
Harry just gives him another look, as if Draco's a particularly difficult rune that he can't translate, and Draco turns to walk back to the entrance hall. He walks past the signs of destruction — ruined portraits, tapestries with scorch marks, cracks in the wall and, in one instance, a splintered door. Much to Draco's irritation, he hears Harry using constant Reparo spells.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Fixing things."
"I am trying to be nice," Harry says. "It looks like an earthquake came through here."
"And what does it matter? There were already cracks in the ceiling and walls long before you started this duel, Potter."
Harry is silent for a long time before he responds. "Yes, I suppose there were."
When they reach the entrance hall, Harry departs without another word.
Draco stands alone in his manor.
In the distance, he hears the shatter of glass against stone.
In the long white snows of winter, Scorpius and James chase each other around the castle like two playful foxes. Always after dark, the invisibility cloak tucked into James's bag just in case. But nobody seems to see them. They linger on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, whispering ghost stories; they circle the lake, observing the edges of the water that have frozen over.
"We could skate across it," Scorpius says, and they slide awkwardly across the surface in shoes with not enough grip, hanging tightly onto each other and laughing. Whenever one falls the other collapses with him, until they're playing silly games, trying to deliberately make each other fall.
And on nights when it's too frosty even for Scorpius, the boy with eyes the colour of a snow-tinted dusk, they stay in their room. Scorpius has transformed it into a summer's day in there, lush gardens and hazy azure skies, and James has transfigured all the daisies himself from a row of pencils. He's getting better and better. In class, Professor McGonagall gives him a raised eyebrow now whenever she passes his desk — her expression of approval. And in Charms, James is quickly surpassing his peers.
Tonight, they're practising Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Well, at least that's what James tells himself as he hangs onto the top of a transfigured tree, waiting for Scorpius to pass beneath. He'll drop on him like one of those assassins in his favourite adventure comics.
Scorpius is sidling along the wall below, looking around warily. James shouts a dramatic war-cry and flings himself down; Scorpius's eyes widen and he brings his wand up in a sweeping motion. The next thing James knows, he's softly bouncing off an invisible bubble that surrounds Scorpius.
"Ha! If we were Muggles, you'd be dead."
"Not dead, but definitely injured," Scorpius says with certainty.
"No way, Muggles are way tough. They're like...bowling balls. You should see my Uncle Dudley, he's built like a tank."
"You have a lot of uncles."
"Way too many. And great-aunts, and cousins, and my grandparents. On my mother's side, obviously."
"I wish I had a lot of relatives," Scorpius says wistfully.
"No, you don't. We have to go visit Dudley once a year, on Christmas, and it's awful. I don't know why we go. Dudley goes on and on about Muggle sports, and Dad just sits there and nods, and then they tell each other all those lies adults like to say — you know, 'oh, we must do this again' and all that tosh, and then we leave." James climbs up the tree again like a monkey.
"It would be nice to have cousins, at least." Scorpius pauses as Pan sticks her head out of his pocket, then gives her a gentle pat. "Just to have friends."
"Hey, you've got friends! I bet all the Ravenclaws think you're brilliant. They like smart people."
"I haven't got friends." Scorpius gives Pan a final pat. "I'm no good at it."
"Liar! What about me?"
"You're friends with everyone."
"That's because I'm brilliant." James half-falls off the tree, landing awkwardly in the grass, but Scorpius doesn't return his smile. "I'm not friends with everyone, you know," James adds, standing up. "I mean, it's different types of friends. There's the friends that you sort of say hello to in the corridor, but you're hoping they don't actually stop for a chat because you don't really have much to say to them. Then there's the friends that you sit next to in class but only because you don't know anybody else." James pauses, thinking. "Then there's the friends you actually quite like having a chat with, bit of a lark, that sort of thing. And that's it."
"What about best friends?"
"Oh, I have loads of those."
"I thought you're only supposed to have one, really. Otherwise, everyone will know all your secrets."
James shifts uncomfortably. He's never really had a best friend. He wouldn't dare share his secrets with Paul or Martin, and especially not Nate.
"Well," he says. "I lied, actually. I haven't got loads of best friends. They're a bit tricky to make, aren't they? I mean, they're pretty important, you don't want to mess up and choose the wrong one."
"We could be best friends, couldn't we?"
James had always envisioned his eventual best friend as a fellow Gryffindor, a daring and robust boy who would laugh loudly at all of James's jokes and always have funny prank ideas. The thin Ravenclaw boy before him couldn't be further removed from such a person. Scorpius hardly laughs, and when he does so, it's quietly. A tiny curl of amusement on his lips. And he's not really the sort for pranks, either. He likes to just walk around the lake, or teach James how to block a disarming spell, or just sit in silence.
"You'd make a brilliant best friend," James says suddenly. "What do you think?"
Scorpius smiles shyly.
James sits in the common room, a quill in one hand. He's supposed to be writing his History of Magic essay, but he's staring out the window and daydreaming. The snowflakes are spiralling lazily past the window, flecks of white in the pale winter sky. He can see his own face reflected in the glass, the flames of the hearth-fire flickering behind him. A snowflake drifts across the reflection of his face, seeming to pause for a moment across the iris of his eye.
"Hey, James!"
He jumps as someone slams down something next to him. He blinks and looks at it. It looks like a nondescript book.
"Check it out," Nate says with great satisfaction. "It's the latest Wizarding Wheeze. If you try and read it, it makes you see double of everything! And look, Paul ordered a new bunch of Extendable Ears. Reckon we can plant one in the girls' dormitory?"
"I don't know." James isn't really paying attention. He's busy wondering if he can sneak away tonight and practise some more transfiguration.
"What's wrong with you?" Paul demands, coming over. "You've been really odd these last few weeks, James."
"Yeah," Martin chimes in, joining them. "You've been studying way too much! You used to be fun. Now you're suddenly better than everyone...think you're too good for us, much?"
"It's not that!" James protests. "It's just...my grades, they weren't — "
"You're Harry Potter's son! Since when do you care about grades? The professors would give you good grades, anyway. Slughorn treats you like a celebrity."
"That's not true! I work hard for my grades," James says hotly, thinking of all the hard work he's done and all the time Scorpius has spent helping him.
"Well, even if it's not true, who cares? You could drop out of Hogwarts and it wouldn't matter. Your dad has so much money he could probably buy you five houses and a Quidditch team."
James shifts uncomfortably. His father is rather wealthy — James has never been left wanting for anything — but it makes him feel slightly awkward now. Thankfully, Martin makes a joke about Quidditch teams and the conversation wanders into idle chatter. James listens for a while, then collects his things and begins edging towards the portrait hole, planning his escape. If he's lucky, he might find Scorpius in the library.
"Trouble in paradise?"
He jumps, then scowls. "Go away, Rose. Nobody asked your opinion."
She only narrows her eyes at him, a stack of books held in her arms like a shield.
"Well," she says, "I'm just glad you've finally come to your senses and left those daft friends of yours behind. No midnight adventures lately, I've noticed."
Rose always notices too much, James thinks with annoyance.
"For your information, I've still been having midnight adventures," he retorts. "Just not with them." He tilts his head towards his friends.
"Well, I hope your latest friend is an improvement on those twerps," Rose snaps. "If your grades are anything to go by, I'll assume you've made a sensible Ravenclaw friend."
Definitely notices too much. James shifts uncomfortably.
"It's none of your business," he says at last. "You don't see me telling you off for hanging around with those dopey third-year Hufflepuff girls."
"They are not dopey! Candice is very intelligent, and Charlotte is the kindest girl you'll ever met."
"See? Dopey," James says meanly. "Unlike you, I like spending time with 'those twerps' or, as I like to call them, my friends. And if you tell Aunt Hermione or Uncle Ron anything, I'll write to Dad and tell him that you've gotten so academically competitive that you've started using your intelligence for evil purposes and you're secretly hexing all the first-years."
"You little — James Potter, you're unbelievable!" Rose seethes. "They would never believe that!"
"Or would they? Everyone knows how you're always trying to be top in the class."
"Since when did you get so cunning?" Rose snaps. "You've changed a lot since you've arrived here, you know."
"Good," James says defiantly, giving Rose a look.
She just narrows her eyes at him.
Later on, near midnight, James wraps himself up in the invisibility cloak and sneaks through the common room to avoid his friends, waiting until a couple of fifth-years come barreling through the portrait hole so he can slip out and escape.
He meets Scorpius by the lake.
"It's freezing." His breath puffs into the air like a ghost.
They walk to keep warm. Pan climbs onto James's shoulder and nestles around the back of his neck, keeping him warm; Scorpius practises a heating charm and produces a handful of blue flames.
It's quiet, and it's taken James a long time to get used to these silences. He's always been chatty, keen to fill empty places with cheerful energy. But it's another lesson he learned from Scorpius. There's something soothing, he finds now, about listening to the crisp snow crunch underfoot as the stars shine bright and clear above them. Hogwarts shines like a lantern, the windows dotted by orange glows. If James half-closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Hogwarts is a dying fire, lit with warm embers and coals.
"Are you going home for Christmas break?" James asks, suddenly remembering that their break begins next week.
Scorpius nods. "Are you?"
"Of course!" James hesitates, then speaks with honesty. "I really miss my dad. I think that's one of the hardest things about Hogwarts, don't you?"
Scorpius nods again.
They walk on, surrounded by silence and snow.
Harry waits on the platform, unable to stop smiling as he sees his son for the first time in three months.
"James!" he shouts, seeing him step off the Hogwarts Express and look around the platform. James turns and sees him; his eyes light up and he hurries towards Harry, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
"Dad! You wouldn't believe what happened in Transfiguration last week — "
"Wait up, where's your luggage?"
"This is it. What? I don't need to bring everything home, it's only two weeks — "
"Your hair!" Harry notices the wild shock of black hair. "You'll need a haircut."
"I will not," James says at once, drawing up to his full height. Taller already, Harry thinks. "I'm going to grow my hair out like Uncle Bill."
"I don't think so! Where's all your homework?"
"What homework?"
"I went to Hogwarts too, you know. I know how it works. You'll be completing all your homework before you open any presents."
"Oh, did you get me a Sneakoscope? You did, didn't you?" James is hopping about, full of energy and excitement. "I knew it! And a Gobstones set, did you get one of those? Everyone at Hogwarts has one except me, it's not fair. And the latest Wizarding Wheeze collection set, and I want a pet ghoul."
"We've talked about this, you're not getting a ghoul — "
"Dad, look! The train's leaving already!" James points. "Where do you think it's going? Does it go back to Hogsmeade? I want to go to Hogsmeade, it's not fair, Teddy always looks so smug when he's leaving for it! He told me that they give out free Honeydukes sweets to all Hogwarts students, and there's a house of little goblins that will do all your homework for only two knuts and a nice cake!"
Harry laughs. "There's no such thing. I've told you before, don't listen to all of Teddy's little stories."
And just like that, James is back, Harry thinks with a hidden smile, chatting away and complaining and being distracted by every tiny thing. Harry uses a portkey to take them home — side-along Apparition can be dangerous if one of them loses focus — and they tumble into their front garden, nearly falling head-first into a pile of snow. James is jubilant.
"I'm going to build a snow-hippogriff!"
"No you're not, you're going inside to unpack and change out of your school robes."
"But — "
"James! Get back here, you're trekking snow everywhere. I just cleaned these floors — "
"Ugh," James moans, but he dutifully returns and kicks off his shoes.
As James dashes off again to unpack, Harry listens to the footsteps racing down the hallway. By the kitchen counter, he can see James's shoes carelessly tossed aside, and he can hear him racing about every now and again, doors opening and closing.
He doesn't know how one child can fill the house with so much energy, but suddenly his heart fills with so much love and gratitude that it aches.
Draco waits at the train station, feeling inexplicably anxious as he searches the crowds for his son. Plenty of smiling faces and chatty students, but none of them are any he cares for.
Footsteps. He turns. Scorpius is beside him.
"Ready to go home?" Draco asks quietly. Scorpius nods.
He uses a portkey to get home. When Scorpius was a little boy, he loved portkeys, loved the rushing sensation. I'm flying, he would shout.
They land just atop the manor's porch steps. Scorpius stumbles and nearly falls; Draco steadies him and then taps the front door with his wand, unlocking it. He steps inside, ushering Scorpius in front.
Scorpius stops dead in the entrance hall.
"What happened?" he asks wonderingly. Draco clears his throat, uncertain as to how Scorpius will react to having his childhood home ripped apart. The wallpaper is half-stripped; furniture has been moved aside, carelessly stacked in corners.
"I'm renovating the manor, Scorpius."
Scorpius crinkles his nose. It's a habit he's had since he was a toddler, and it's what he does when he wants to smile but isn't sure.
"What sort of renovations?"
"Well, I was thinking it could do with a bit of light and space. What do you think? I was waiting for you to come home and choose the colours for your room."
Scorpius smiles then, a small but genuine smile. "I can pick any colour?"
"Any colour."
"What about Chudley Cannons?"
Draco is aghast. "Orange? You want orange?"
Scorpius nods. Draco feigns careful consideration.
"I suppose. I'll order the paint tonight. Bright orange, the same colour as a clementine."
"No! I don't really want orange."
"Too late. And all the furniture will have to match. I'll buy you an avocado bed and a wardrobe the colour of mud."
"No, that's horrible!" Scorpius is indignant, and Draco can't help it. He laughs. Hogwarts has changed his son. The frightened little boy sent adrift at the end of the summer has come back with a certain confidence, a certain courage that hadn't been there before.
"Want to see the drawing room? I thought I'd start with that room," Draco says, leading Scorpius to the drawing room. The floor has been completely torn up, revealing the underlay, and the walls have been stripped to the frame. Insulation drags along the ground like wisps of cloud.
"It's all gone," Scorpius says.
"Yes. I'm going to make it into a sunroom." Draco takes Scorpius by the shoulders and turns him until he's facing the northern wall. "See that? I'm going to take it all out and put in windows. From the floor to the ceiling, to let all the sun in."
"A wall of glass?" Scorpius looks at the wall in wonder.
Then he looks up, straight into his father's eyes, and smiles.
The day Scorpius was born, Draco knew what it was to love something so much he'd die for it.
And despite everything that has happened since, he never let go of that feeling.
Harry trudges through the front door, cloak trailing behind him. It's two days before Christmas and he's supposed to be preparing the house with decorations and baking festive treats for his friends and family. It's a tradition – Andromeda makes the shortbread, Harry makes toffee, and Teddy and James make the gingerbread biscuits. But it's been especially busy at work and he needs to put in the extra hours.
"Dad!" James appears in the hallway, flour smudged across his nose. "Hurry up, we've already got started on the biscuits."
Harry sighs. "Sorry, James. I can't stay long. I've still got to do a few more things."
James's shoulders slump. "Can't it wait? You'll miss all the baking."
"Get back in here, cuz!" Teddy calls from the kitchen. "I need you to make the icing. Can't do it without you."
James brightens up slightly. "Teddy reckons I'm the best at icing."
"Well, go help him then." Harry smiles at James.
"Okay, okay." But James looks happy enough as he disappears again, and Harry thanks Merlin for Teddy and Andromeda. He can hear the Wizarding Wireless playing cheerful Christmas carols; Andromeda will be sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen, humming to herself as she carefully folds the little gift boxes that will hold the baked goods. Harry would love nothing more than to sit down and join in the festivity, but he still has to visit Draco. He goes upstairs and changes from his Auror robes – it's best to visit Draco in plain robes, he thinks. Another psychological trick picked up from his Auror training. The lack of an intimidating uniform will make Draco more likely to speak without guarding his words.
"I'll be home soon," Harry calls over his shoulder as he steps onto the porch.
He Apparates just outside the Malfoy property, realising he's forgotten to bring the file. Nevertheless, he makes his way up the driveway, staring at the gardens. They've been transformed into a winter wonderland; sunlight catches and sparkles on roses made of ice, and white flowers blossom like snowflakes. Draco's clearly been studying his gardening charms.
There's a lopsided snowman by the front porch, and Harry regards it with faint bewilderment before knocking on the door. The door opens almost at once and Harry stares in surprise. There's a boy standing there, about the same age as James. He has the same white-blond hair as Draco, the same narrow face, the exact same eyes. For a moment, Harry thinks he's gone back in time and he's looking at an eleven-year-old Draco.
But when the boy speaks, it's without any haughtiness or dislike."Hello," he says shyly, and realisation dawns on Harry.
"Hello," he replies. "You must be Scorpius. Is your father in?"
Scorpius doesn't need to answer that question, for at that moment Draco appears beside his son, his hand resting on Scorpius's shoulder.
"Come in," Draco says brusquely to Harry. He turns to his son and speaks in a far softer voice. "Why don't you go upstairs and read your new books, Scorpius?"
Scorpius, however, seems reluctant to leave. "Are you a friend of my father's?" he asks Harry. Harry pauses for a long moment. 'Colleague' won't do — as far as he knows, Draco doesn't work — but he's loathe to explain to Scorpius that he's essentially Draco's parole officer.
"We went to school together," he says at last, turning to hang his cloak in its usual spot. It's only then that he properly notices his surroundings. "Malfoy, what did you do?"
"He's renovating," Scorpius says quickly, looking between Harry and Draco, and Harry has the uncomfortable feeling that Scorpius is worried somehow. Anxious about Harry's presence, as if he thinks any second Harry will attack Draco with a range of terrible curses.
"I hear you're in the same year as my son," Harry says, trying to make Scorpius feel at ease. Draco steps in front of Scorpius, his eyes narrowing, and Harry frowns. They're both equally protective of each other, it seems.
"Are you James's father?" Scorpius asks.
Harry's taken aback. "You know James?"
"He's my friend." Scorpius looks down at his feet. "I help him with spells."
"So you're the friend I've been hearing so much about!" Harry exclaims. James had mentioned a friend helping him with his homework, referring to a kind and intelligent Ravenclaw boy. Harry should have realised. "I should really thank you for that. James has been so happy with his marks."
Scorpius offers another shy smile before retreating, saying he has to finish some homework, and Harry realises that for whatever reason Scorpius's anxiety has dissipated somewhat. Apparently, he feels Harry presents no threat to Draco.
Regardless, there's slight tension in the air. Years of Auror training have schooled Harry in how to manage people — how to make them feel at ease, how to gain points with them, and he'd normally elect to say something nice about Scorpius. However, Draco has proven to be very adamant about keeping Scorpius out of any conversation, and Harry has the feeling that any remark here would be unwise.
So instead, he gestures to the front parlour room.
"Shall we?"
"I've removed the floor, so no, we shan't." But Draco leads the way to the sitting room, Harry notes books laying around, mostly on interior decoration and domestic spells. Unlike the rest of the 'in-progress' manor, the sitting room is yet to be pulled apart. Despite the dark green wallpaper and creaky floorboards, a cheerful fire is crackling in the hearth and a Christmas tree glitters in the corner, the light of the fire catching on the baubles. Harry sits in the armchair closest to the fire; Draco stands near the mantle, warming his hands near the flames.
"You're doing all this yourself?" Harry asks, recalling the massive undertaking that had been Grimmauld Place. They'd worked for months on that hopelessly dark house, and had produced little results.
"No, I'm hiring workers with my thousands of galleons."
"You could work, you know." Harry is slightly irritated with the bitterness underlying Draco's words.
"I did work, Potter. I worked in genealogy."
"What?"
"Genealogy. Tracing family histories. A lot of wizarding families are very interested in that sort of thing. The Ministry soon put a stop to that, though."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I'm sure you can find a rule somewhere. And if you can't, just make one up."
"Well, I'm giving you permission to start the genealogy business again," Harry says, displeased. The whole point of the program was to engage wizards as active citizens; preventing them from working was just stupid.
Draco doesn't respond to that and silence reigns for a long moment. Harry is still thinking uncomfortably of their last meeting, when he accidentally flung the Sectumsempra curse at Draco.
"How's the wand?"
"What?" Draco frowns. "Fine."
"Oh. Good." Harry pauses for a long moment, but the prospect of another silence looms and he finds himself speaking. "I miss it."
Draco finally draws his gaze away from the fire and looks at Harry, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"I miss it," Harry admits. "That wand. It was very reliable, you know. Used to use it a lot when I was out in the field." It had proved very useful as a second wand.
Another long silence eclipses them and just as Harry's about to ask some pointless question just to remind himself it's supposed to be a business meeting, Draco speaks.
"You can have it, if you want." He pauses, then hastens to clarify. "Right now. Borrow it for a spell or two, then give it back."
"Well..." Harry pauses, then shrugs. "Why not?"
Draco takes the wand from his pocket and holds it out. Harry hesitates, then accepts it. It feels the same as it ever did and he smiles a little, then lifts it.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A flash of white light, and the stag leaps from his wand, landing gracefully in the middle of the room. It lowers its head, as if investigating the premises, then raises its head again and looks at Draco.
Harry glances at Draco, then frowns. He has a strange expression on his face, watching as the stag slowly walks up to him and nudges him with its antlers.
"It's not disappearing," Draco says after a long moment. There's something in his voice that Harry can't read, but he shrugs it off.
"It disappears when it wants to. Why — does yours disappear on command?"
"I have not attempted a Patronus," Draco says.
"You should. They're very useful."
There's a long pause. "It's said," Draco says at last, "that if a Dark wizard attempts a Patronus, they will be consumed by maggots from their own wand."
Harry winces and casts around for a topic change.
"When did the renovations start?"
"Last week. I hope they will be finished over the next two years."
"That long?"
Draco levels Harry with a very chilly look. "I am attempting to transform an entire manor, Potter, not turn a match into a needle."
"All right, calm down," Harry says warily. "I've had some experience in renovations, you know. Bloody difficult." He's thinking of Grimmauld Place again.
"Yes," Draco says feelingly, "they are."
At least they've reached something they can agree on.
"I could help with a few spells," Harry offers. "I've gotten loads of practice with magically removing wallpaper."
"It's fine," Draco says, and Harry nods.
"Well, I should leave," he says, standing up, keen to return home already and tick this visit off his list. "Until next week, Malfoy."
Draco nods, opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Harry lingers, waiting slightly impatiently.
"Listen," Draco says. "Your son, James."
"Yes?" Harry tries to hide his surprise at the remark.
"He's friends with Scorpius?"
"Apparently."
Draco glances at the fire. "Look, Scorpius hasn't...I suspect he hasn't got too many friends, and I thought perhaps…"
"It's fine," Harry interrupts, understanding at once. "I'll bring James with me next week." He pauses. "Er...don't mention it to anyone, though. I mean, if the Ministry found out that I brought my son along to a meeting…well..."
"I understand."
Harry is loathe to ask the next question, but he has to.
"There's not...anything dangerous, is there? I mean, nothing cursed or anything..." He trails off, seeing the flash of anger in Draco's eyes.
"Would I let my son run around in a manor with cursed objects?" he snaps, and Harry feels apologetic.
"Yes, of course. I'll bring James next week, then."
"Fine." But there's a slight pause, and Draco adds grudgingly, "Thank you."
Harry nods and turns to leave. As he's making his way down the hallway, however, Draco calls out.
"Your Patronus is still here, Potter!"
Harry glances over his shoulder. "So? What do you want me to do about it? Just ignore it, it'll go away soon."
Draco gives him a long look of exasperation and snaps the sitting room door shut.
Christmas comes and goes. Christmas Eve is spent at Ron and Hermione's place; Harry and James arrive at the same time as Andromeda and Teddy, and as usual the evening is spent with the adults laughing and passing around the eggnog while the children amuse themselves. James good-naturedly plays a game of Exploding Snap with Hugo while Teddy flicks ink-pellets at them. Rose, draped over an armchair with a good book, seems oblivious to the noise around her.
The following day is the usual riot of over-excited children (although Teddy tries to affect an air of cool disinterest, even he can't hide his wide-eyed awe at receiving the latest Skyfire Century from his grandmother). After a long and leisurely lunch, things have calmed somewhat and the children are slumped in the sitting room, draped over sofas and armchairs. Hugo, already exhausted from the excitement of it all, has fallen asleep clutching his new train set.
Harry collects James for what he's come to regard as his annual duty: visiting Dudley. But he can't brush this visit off; Dudley and his wife have had their first child, and Harry is sure to congratulate them. Dudley offers a glass of aged scotch in celebration, along with his usual Christmas card to Harry, and gives James a present (a Monopoly set, much to James's fascination). In the evening, they exchange farewells and Harry drives a sleepy James home. He watches the snow spiral gently in front of the windscreen, creating mesmerising patterns in the dark night.
It's been a good day, he thinks, but then again he always makes sure James experiences all the wonder of Christmas, all the joy Harry never knew as a child.
That night, long after James has gone to bed, Harry sits by the Christmas tree and watches the tiny lights sparkle in the darkness, and on the mantlepiece the photographs of Ginny smile at him.
The ghost of Christmas past, he thinks abstractedly.
He extinguishes the lights and goes to bed.
Four days later, he prepares for his usual visit to Draco and collects James before leaving. James is only too thrilled to see his friend, although Harry has his own reservations about the visit.
"James? Time to go," he says, climbing into the attic. "Unless you'd rather stay home," he adds with faint hope. James seems enthusiastic about visiting Scorpius, but what if they're not actually very good friends? What if they have a fight? What if James, clumsy as ever, breaks some expensive heirloom? What if there's some bit of cursed furniture, despite Draco's belief that the manor is safe, and James ends up hurt? Harry is beginning to wish he hadn't agreed to the visit at all. "We need to leave in five minutes," he adds. James — lying on his bed in his pyjamas, eating a mince pie and reading a book on dragons (a gift from Hagrid) — looks peeved.
"No fair! You could've come and got me earlier," he says accusingly, leaping to his feet and reaching for clothes heaped on the floor.
"Don't wear those, that shirt's all wrinkled," Harry says, thinking of Draco silently judging. James just sighs and Harry retreats, going back downstairs and making sure he's got Draco's file this time. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to allow James to come along at all…who knows how awkward it might be?
James rushes down the stairs after a few minutes, wearing slightly rumpled clothes and a set of plain black robes. "All right, let's go."
"Wait, what's that, under your arm?"
"This?" James grins. "That Monopoly game Dudley gave me. I want to try it out! I bet Scorpius has never played it before either. Is it like Gobstones?"
"It's a complicated property management game."
"Brilliant, I can practice investing in long-term gains."
"Been eavesdropping on Uncle Percy's conversations again?" Harry asks dryly. James just grins mischievously and tries to balance his Monopoly set while he wrests with the front door.
Once on the front porch, Harry produces a portkey and, in a moment, they're whipping dizzyingly through the air and come to land at the end of the manor driveway. James tumbles over and lands in a snow-covered flowerbed; Harry quickly pulls him back out, dusting the snow from James's shoulders and casting a drying spell. James, unbothered by the fuss, straightens his robes and looks around.
"Wow! Dad, look at those roses! Are they made of ice? Why haven't we got roses made of ice? Wow, look at that house! It's huge! Does Scorpius really live there?"
And James is off, racing up the driveway excitedly, forcing Harry to sprint along to catch up with him.
He's still not sure if this is a good idea.
Draco is on the upper floor of the manor, hunting for his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Scorpius has already devotedly read his way through the new books he received for Christmas and has requested 'more stuff about manticores and things'.
The wards tremor and Draco frowns, looking out the window. Across the white expanse of the front gardens, he sees two people pop into appearance. They're both dressed in black and one tumbles over. For a moment, panic seizes Draco's heart. Then, as one of the people turns and extracts the other from the pile of snow, he remembers James. True enough, the second person is too short to be an adult. As he watches, Harry leans down and carefully brushes snow from his son. The next moment, however, the younger Potter has begun racing towards the porch steps.
Draco quickly turns and descends the stairs, wanting to get the door before Scorpius does — he hasn't told Scorpius of the possibility of James visiting — and there's a single knock before Draco opens the door.
Harry stands on the step, looking slightly out-of-breath. Beside him, his son is smiling up at Draco expectantly. Beneath his knitted cap, a wild tuft of black hair is escaping, and his face has the same structure as Harry's — the narrow nose, the hint of a jawline that will no doubt emerge as the softness of childhood melts away. However, his eyes are brown, and for some reason this surprises Draco.
"Come in," Draco says tersely to Harry, unsure how to respond to James. Harry nods once at him.
And then —
"Scorpius!" James's voice rings out jubilantly; Draco turns and sees Scorpius, wide-eyed, on the stairs. "Is this really your house? Wow, it's amazing!"
Scorpius hurries down the steps just as James flies up to greet him; both boys collide for a moment, reeling backwards. Then James starts laughing and, to Draco's surprise, Scorpius gives a small smile.
"What are you doing here?" Scorpius asks James.
"Visiting you, of course! Dad, look how big this place is!" James looks up at a chandelier, awestruck. "I bet it's got a million rooms, and half of them are haunted."
"No, they're not," Scorpius replies. "We're renovating, and Father says he's getting rid of all the ghosts."
Draco flushes; he can feel Harry staring at him, and he resolutely keeps his eyes trained ahead.
"Oh, shame that. You'd be so lucky to have a ghost. Do you know, Dad won't even let me get a ghoul?"
"Oh, ghouls can be very loud," Scorpius says. "I've been reading about magical creatures, you can get all sorts of pets. I wouldn't get a ghoul."
"What would you get, then?"
"Well, I've got Pan of course, but I wouldn't mind a Niffler," Scorpius says at once. "I've got a name picked out and everything."
Draco watches disbelievingly as the two boys casually saunter up the stairs together, still chatting away. He glances across at Harry, who also seems to be stuck in a sense of surreality. Soon, the boys have disappeared from sight.
Draco's not sure what he'd been expecting; something awkward, certainly. That Harry's son — a vague acquaintance to Scorpius, no doubt — would arrive and mumble 'hello' to Scorpius before both were reluctantly sent to the library to have a quiet game of Gobstones or something. Certainly, Draco hadn't expected a ball of energy and enthusiasm to come barrelling through his front doors, immediately launch into excited chatter with Scorpius (evidently a close friend), and then race away with neither of them sparing Draco another glance.
"Tea?" he says at last to Harry; it's the first thing that pops into his head and he feels irritated with himself. Tea is what you offer to welcome people.
"What? Oh — thanks."
"I'll be in the sitting room momentarily."
Harry takes the cue and leaves, setting off down the hallway. Draco, cursing himself for the offer of tea, makes his way to the kitchens. Since dismissing the house-elf, he's had to undertake most of the cooking himself. With a wave of his wand, he sends the tray of tea up to the sitting room and spends a moment standing still, listening hard for any noise. He can't help but worry slightly. Scorpius has never had friends over before, and Draco has no idea what this James Potter is like. But he can hardly make excuses to check up on the children — Harry would be furious to hear Draco imply that he thought James might try to kick Scorpius down the stairs.
He makes his way to the sitting room, where Harry has already taken the armchair by the fire and is sipping at a cup of tea. Draco stands near the opposite end of the mantle.
"I remembered your file this time," Harry says, holding up a folder. Draco looks at it for a long moment. Suddenly, he wonders what Harry has written in there. Surely he's gotten nothing useful from these meetings?
"May I see it?"
Harry blinks. He clearly hadn't expected that response. He looks hesitant, then shrugs.
"The law allows you access to your file any time," he says at last.
"Does it?" Draco can't help but sound surprised. He was expecting Harry to say no, in that infuriating self-righteous way of his.
"Of course. I mean, that's part of the duty of care, isn't it? Rights and responsibilities and all that." Harry opens the file and hands it over, gesturing to the open page. "When you signed this contract years ago, you should have read all this."
Draco has no idea what Harry's talking about. His previous officers have all certainly made sure he knows about his responsibilities, but nobody's mentioned his rights.
He opens the file carefully.
Case number: 252-13-458.
It's the first thing written upon the file. A line of neat numbers. Is that what he's reduced to? Not even his name. Just a line of numbers.
Beneath that is his contact information. Home address, Floo network availability, fire-call restrictions. The next-of-kin is stamped in large letters: WARD OF STATE. All this information Harry no doubt collected from other files readily available. The next page — medical information — is relatively empty. It lists past injuries — about five or six, and mercifully it describes the injuries in one or two brief words, with no mention of context.
He turns the page. Now it gets interesting. Family.
A neat row of names. Mother, deceased. Father, deceased. Cousins, aunts, uncles, deceased, deceased, deceased. There's only Scorpius left; next to his name, Harry has written 'good relationship'. Draco stares at the two words for a long moment, then turns the page.
Friends.
Crabbe, deceased. Parkinson, estranged. Draco looks up at Harry.
"What's this? Estranged?"
"No longer friends."
"I know what it means. I'm asking why you've put it in my file."
"It's true, isn't it? I saw it in your face, when you came back from her wedding."
"I don't know why you thought we're estranged, unless you've gone soft in the head," Draco snaps. "You've always been terrible at reading people, and now you've proven it. Pansy and I — she's my oldest friend — "
"It's been fifteen years since I started my Auror training, Malfoy. I've long since learned how to read people."
Draco stares down at the page for a while before he begins reading again.
Bulstrode, estranged.
No lie there. They haven't contacted each other in years.
Zabini, deceased. Nott, deceased.
Zabini had been murdered, Draco remembers. A routine mugging gone wrong; a misfired spell that killed Zabini immediately.
Nott had committed suicide. That had been kept out of the papers. Draco had received an owl with a funeral notice. When he'd attended the funeral, Nott's mother had stared at him with bloodshot eyes and shown him the note Nott had written. It was only five words. Tell them all I'm sorry.
"Is that correct?"
Draco looks up. Harry gestures to the parchment.
"All the details are correct?" he repeats.
Draco doesn't answer right away. He looks back down at the file, then turns the final page.
Work and professional life.
The page is empty and Draco hands the file to Harry.
"Genealogist. I intend to resume my work."
Harry looks around; Draco wordlessly passes him a quill from the mantle and Harry scribbles something onto the page. Draco resumes staring into the flames of the fire, thinking about his file.
"It's been rather quiet." Harry turns his gaze to the ceiling. Draco shrugs.
"Scorpius is very quiet."
"James isn't."
They swap a distrustful look and then both turn to hurry upstairs. Draco overtakes Harry, glancing left and right into open doorways. All empty. That leaves Scorpius's bedroom. He reaches for the handle, yanking the door open.
Both boys are lying on the floor, heads close together, reading a book. At hearing the door open, they both look up with identical expressions of surprise.
"Oh, hello," James says amiably. "Is it time to leave already?"
"Oh. Do you have to leave now?" Scorpius asks James. "The next bit gets really interesting, it's a charm about planets."
"No — you think I'm ready for the moon transfiguration?" James looks delighted. "Wow, Scorpius! You know what — we could transfigure your whole room! What do you say? That grassy stuff, we can grow that out of the floor — "
"And the wardrobe could be a tree," Scorpius adds.
"And your bed — we could make it into a swamp!"
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to sleep in a swamp."
"I'd put some bullfrogs in there to keep you company." James nudges Scorpius with his shoulder, smiling, and the boys soon descend into conversation again, ignoring Draco. He turns, suddenly aware of Harry standing behind him, watching his son too. He seems to be lost in thought, but after a minute he visibly focuses, straightening up and calling out.
"Come on, James, time to go home."
"Oh, now?" James looks up at Harry with reluctance. "Can't you just talk for another hour?"
"No. We've got to leave."
"Why?"
"We've invited Andromeda and Teddy for dinner."
"Oh! Can Scorpius come? He's in Ravenclaw, same as Teddy," James says with excitement, and Draco's stomach suddenly churns with fear at the idea of leaving Scorpius in some stranger's house for the next few hours. Thankfully, Harry resolves the situation with a quick shake of his head.
"Maybe another time. Come on."
James gets up, with much unhappiness, and both boys trail Harry and Draco to the entrance hall.
"Until next week," Harry says; it seems to have become their usual farewell.
"Next week," Draco echoes.
"See you at Hogwarts," James says to Scorpius. "Wish I could've stayed longer."
Scorpius nods, watching the two Potters depart. Draco closes the door.
"Have fun with your friend?" he asks his son. Scorpius looks up at him and gives a little secretive smile.
"Yes. I practised investing in long-term gains."
Draco is completely bewildered.
Chapter 7: The Death of A Star
Summary:
In which Draco and Harry play Monopoly — James tries to win his friends over — Scorpius brings a homesick James's house to Hogwarts — Scorpius lets slip a few details about his mother — Harry learns of a relative's death — Harry commissions a family tree — James abruptly loses his friendship with Scorpius.
Chapter Text
Harry sits in his study, staring down at the parchment before him.
Williamson had fire-called earlier. Any progress? he'd asked, as if Draco were a crossword puzzle. No. No progress. Williamson knew when Harry took this case that it wouldn't be a simple matter of demanding Draco give him answers. Perhaps fifteen years ago, when Harry was a new recruit, enthusiastic and focused on the exciting field work — firing spells and saving lives. But fifteen years have taken their toll, and he's learned a thousand other ways to get information. Reading the lines on people's faces like their skin is a map; watching for the tic of a muscle or the curl of a lip. Using conversation like a delicate scalpel, dissecting memories and recollections.
Draco's request to see his file had been unexpected, but the real observations aren't kept there anyway. No; instead, Harry has a whole stack of separate notes on Draco, ranging from his physical appearance (dark shadows under eyes often — poor sleeping? Psychological issues?) to his relationships (still trying to cling to dead friendships — problems with Pansy Parkinson). These notes, Draco will certainly never see. But many others will, Aurors and secretaries alike, and for some reason Harry's not sure he's comfortable with that. There's nothing in these notes to pinpoint Lucius Malfoy's location and since they're of little use, why have yet another person rifle endlessly through Draco's personal life?
"Dad, where's my Transfiguration essay? It was on the kitchen table, don't tell me you threw it out!" James's accusatory face appears around the study door and Harry, shaken from his thoughts, sighs and pushes the parchment away.
"I've told you before not to leave things lying around. Go check the hall credenza."
"I only left it there for an hour or two," James grumbles, turning to leave. "Oh, and where's my grey scarf?"
"Have you checked the laundry?" Harry glances at the clock on the wall. "James, it's nearly ten! Why do you have to pack now? You've got all tomorrow."
From somewhere in the hallway, James's voice echoes. "Yeah, but I want to get it done tonight. That way I can spend tomorrow re-painting my Quidditch figures. Hugo is not allowed to play with them anymore! My Seeker's missing half his broom."
"Have you found your essay?" Harry waits, but there's no response. James has already wandered away down the hall, his footsteps quickly fading.
Footsteps fading. Doors closing.
One more week of reprieve, and then it will start again. This empty house, these silent rooms.
The clock ticks.
James leaves.
There's no whirlwind of new robes and textbooks and nervous excitement this time; they arrive at King's Cross in an orderly fashion and, as James prepares to run through the platform barrier, he turns to his father and with ten words, he makes Harry's heart drop like a stone.
"I'll be all right, you don't have to see me off," he says.
Harry stares at him. "But...it's quite all right, I don't mind going to the platform."
"It's fine, I can just say goodbye here. I'll see you in summer. Don't forget to write — keep me updated on everyone!" James gives Harry a hug; before Harry can tighten his grip, James already slips away and, with a cheerful wave, disappears through the wall.
Harry walks away slowly.
His son is growing up.
Draco curses again as the wall turns a pale cream colour; he kicks the Charms book across the floor. It's a simple paint charm! How hard can it be? He taps his wand against the wall again.
"Powdered Snow," he repeats sternly.
There's a knock at the door and Draco, in a fit of frustration, strides to the door and flings it open.
"What?" he snaps. Harry blinks at him.
"Our meeting."
"I know."
"Everything all right? I could hear you raging from out here."
"Fine," Draco bites out. "This damn wall — " He cuts himself off, remembering exactly who it is he's talking to. He has no desire to lose his cool in front of Harry Potter.
"What's the problem?" Harry steps into the entrance hall and looks around. "It looks good. Much better than that terrible wallpaper."
"What are you talking about? It's supposed to be Powdered Snow."
Harry looks at the wall, then looks at Draco as if he's mad. "It is. It's white."
"Are you blind? That's Turtle Eggshell, not Powdered Snow."
"Are you serious, Malfoy? It's white. You can't have shades of white. There's no Turtle Snow or Powdered Eggshell."
"There is a critical difference, Potter, and if it's not Powdered Snow then it ruins the rest of my design."
"Merlin save me from days like this," Harry mutters. "All right, fine." He taps his wand on the wall. "There you go, it's white."
"It is not," Draco says irritably. "You've made it worse, it's Pale Cloud now."
"Pale Cloud? That's not even a colour. No colour is called Pale Cloud. Nobody says, 'oh, have you got that shirt in pale cloud?'. It's white."
"It's a cold white! I don't want cold, I want warm! It's going to ruin the entire colour scheme." Draco snaps his mouth shut, suddenly aware of how petulant he sounds. Harry is looking amused; he picks up the colour swatches on the hall table.
"You're right," he says, and Draco wonders if Harry's ever said those words to him before. "Look, there's a million different shades here. Oh, I see what you mean — there's sort of bluish-white, isn't there, and then you have the warmer shades…"
Draco waits to see if Harry's mocking him, but he seems quite serious.
"That does look like Pale Cloud, doesn't it?" Harry says, looking at the wall and then back to the paint swatches. "Hmm." He taps his wand on the wall and the colour changes ever so slightly. "Oh no, I think it's Winter Moon now." He taps his wand again. "Oh, that's Dumbledore's Beard, certainly."
"Give it here." Draco snatches the paint swatches away. "You made that last one up."
"I did not! I can't help it if they have daft names."
True to Harry's word, there's a shade called Dumbledore's Beard. Draco shakes his head, then carefully holds the Powdered Snow sample against the wall and, concentrating carefully, taps his wand twice. The wall changes and matches the sample perfectly.
"There you go, that's done then," Harry says and Draco turns to give him a look.
"There's another forty-six rooms and hallways, Potter."
"Nobody needs forty-six rooms. You could save yourself a lot of pointless work, sell this dump and buy a flat somewhere nice."
Draco levels Harry with another long look. "And where do you live?"
Harry opens his mouth, looks uneasy, and closes it again. "Not that it's any of your business, but East Devon somewhere."
"House or flat?"
"House, of course," Harry says, as if Draco's suggested he lives in a cardboard box. "It's a converted barn, we rebuilt it and renovated..." He trails off, but Draco's already seen the spark of pride in his eyes.
"So, quite a large building then. But I assume it's simply you and your son living there. So why live there? You don't need all the room. Just sell it, buy a flat in Bristol somewhere."
Harry looks at him. "Point taken, Malfoy," he says at last.
But the conversation has triggered something in Draco's memory; something he saw in his file as he was reading over the terms and conditions of his contract.
"I expect you've allowed me full access to your East Devon home," Draco says, unable to resist the amused tone. Harry stares at him as if he's gone mad.
"What are you talking about?"
"I was reading through the terms and conditions of the Wizards Under Watch program. Much like you have access to my Floo network, I'm supposed to have access to yours."
"What are you talking about? There's no — "
Draco turns and makes his way down the hallway and into the study; he can hear Harry striding after him. He opens the desk drawer and tosses the file across the desk. Harry snatches it up.
"It's under 'emergency contact procedures'," Draco says helpfully. For a long while, there's nothing but the noise of the fire crackling in the hearth as Harry reads the pages over and over.
"Well — that's — I mean, it's not — " Harry's looking distinctly cornered. "I mean — can't you just send an owl?"
"It's emergency contact, Potter." Draco can't help the smugness in his voice as he repeats the words Harry said to him during their first meeting. "Unless we're talking about a very special owl that can teleport itself across space and time— "
"Fine! Fine!" Harry glares at the file. "I'll give you access to my Floo network. But it's for emergency use only! If you turn up for any reason less than your house burning to the ground — "
"Quite unnecessary. I don't make a habit of visiting decrepit barns."
That strikes a nerve, Draco sees. Harry's jaw tightens and he holds a hand out.
"Wand."
It's been a while since Harry completed a wand check. Draco hands it over, waiting as Harry checks the spell history. Mostly domestic charms, Draco knows.
"There's a quick-quotes spell here, Malfoy. What on earth are you using that for?"
"Didn't I say I was resuming my genealogy work?" Draco turns away. "I have to watch a potion I'm brewing at the moment. You're early," he adds, a shade reproachfully.
"Am I?" Harry seems unsurprised. "Fine, we can hold the meeting in the cellar."
Draco has actually set up his cauldron in the servants' kitchen, finding it infinitely more welcoming with its large fireplace and well-worn furniture. When they arrive in the kitchen, however, Harry doesn't remark on the location.
"What's that?"
Draco looks up, startled, then flushes. That stupid Muggle game that he found in Scorpius's room, presumably a gift from James. Draco had been trying to figure out the rules and he'd brought it into the kitchen to muse over while he was waiting for potions to brew.
"A Muggle game."
"I can see that. I want to know why you have a Monopoly set in your kitchen."
"Your son left it behind," Draco says, tapping the cauldron thrice with his wand.
"You've got it all set up wrong, did you know?" Harry says conversationally. "I don't know why you've stacked all the hotels onto Free Parking. And you've put all the money in jail."
"It represents my frozen assets." The wry words are said before Draco can stop them. It was a private joke he'd had with himself, when he'd been staring at the stacks of paper Muggle money and thinking about his own accounts.
To his surprise, however, Harry laughs. With absolutely no trace of bitterness or mockery. He just laughs, like he would at one of Weasley's jokes.
"Do you know how to play?" Harry asks, gesturing to the board, and Draco knows it's more of an invitation than a question. He pauses, but Scorpius seemed to enjoy the game and no doubt he'd be delighted if, by the time he returned for the summer holidays, Draco had learned to play the game too.
"No," Draco says, edging the word with curtness just to make sure Harry knows that it does not mean he's welcome to stay any longer than necessary.
"All right." Harry begins sorting money into piles; Draco checks the potion on the pretence of having something to do. After that, he automatically reaches for the kettle and sets it over the hearth.
"Tea?" The word slips out automatically and Draco is immediately annoyed with himself.
"Thanks," Harry says absently, pushing a pile of money across the board. Draco sighs inwardly and gets out another cup. "Pick your piece," Harry adds. Draco casts a critical eye over the game-pieces, picking up a tiny boot and examining it.
"This is a boot. Why?"
Harry stares at Draco. "What?"
"Why is it a boot?" Draco repeats with infinite patience. "Why do Muggles choose footwear for gamepieces?"
"I...I don't know. It's..." Harry shrugs helplessly.
"And is that — is that an iron? A wheelbarrow? I'll assume this is a game dreamed up by sad little Muggle peasants as they went about their daily drudgery."
"Sad little Muggle peasants?" Harry begins scathingly, but Draco cuts him off.
"I'll be the top hat, it's the only piece with any sort of dignity."
"Fine. I'll take the battleship."
"The battleship? I didn't even see that piece!"
"How unfortunate," Harry says crushingly. "Roll the dice."
"Aren't they self-rolling?"
"This is a Muggle game, given to me by a Muggle relative. So I think it's safe to assume that no, the dice have not been charmed. You'll have to suffer the burden of picking up the dice and then manually releasing them."
Draco deliberately ruins Harry's cup of tea by adding three sugars.
James is happy to see his friends again. Paul and Martin, full of jokes; Nate, always happy to share stories; even Iwan, who is a little more standoffish and doesn't seem to find all the jokes about his Welsh heritage funny.
On their first night back at Hogwarts, they gather around the Gryffindor fireplace and exchange holiday stories.
"My parents got into a dreadful argument and my father had his ears transfigured into parsnips," complains Martin.
Iwan frowns. "At least you didn't have the embarrassment of your entire family being dragged to hospital because your brother tried to see how many peas he could fit in his nose."
"That's rough," James says sympathetically. "Chocolate frog?"
Iwan nods, then changes his mind. "No! Last time I ate one of your frogs, my hair turned into moss."
"You should see the latest Weasley joke," James says with a wink. "Hasn't even been released yet, but Uncle George gave me a bag of them for Christmas."
"No way!"
"Tell us what it is, you have to tell us!"
"Go on!"
It's been a while since they've been like this. There was all that tenseness before Christmas, James thinks, but his friends seem to have forgotten it. Now, he sits in the best armchair in the common room, his friends gathering around, laughing at all his jokes and looking at him in admiration, and he feels like a king holding court.
He settles back comfortably into his armchair, feeling unaccountably pleased with himself.
But there's one thing James would never dare tell his friends, and that's the fact that he's homesick. They'd tease him endlessly if they knew. So he smiles and makes jokes instead, plays pranks with Canary Creams and Skiving Snackboxes, and his friends all laugh and don't notice the way he goes to bed early or hides in the library for long periods of time.
Scorpius notices.
"What's the matter?" he asks one evening, when James's transfiguration practice is going terribly. His quill — transfigured from a field mouse — has sprouted beady eyes and a long tail.
"Nothing. Hey, want to look at the map?" He reaches for the Marauder's Map. This distraction has always worked well with his friends, but Scorpius just frowns.
"Something's bothering you."
"I bet Peeves is up to no good. Look, he's in Sinistra's office!" James shows Scorpius the map, but he just frowns more.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I wonder how long Peeves has been around for? You know, my father..." James blinks, and tries again. "My father, he said Peeves was around when he went here. It's odd to think of...ugh." He blinks rapidly, but it's no use. His vision is blurring. "It's odd to think of our parents here, isn't it? My father..." He swipes a sleeve across his face, feeling ashamed, but Scorpius just silently watches him. "I don't know why I'm crying," James adds shakily, trying to smile. "You think I'd be used to it by now! I didn't feel homesick at all when I left in September..." But they'd all been there at Christmas — Aunt Hermione and his grandparents, all his uncles — Ron, George, Percy, Bill, Charlie — and there had been Andromeda, and Neville had visited, and Luna, and all the wonderful people with whom James had grown up. It brought back a thousand memories of long and lazy days spent at his country home, surrounded by loved ones.
Scorpius just sits and waits for James to compose himself. Then he speaks.
"We could make it home."
James dries the last of his tears on his sleeve. "What?"
"Your home," Scorpius repeats patiently. "We could bring it here."
"What — my house? Bring it to Hogwarts?"
"No." Scorpius allows a small smile, and James has the feeling that someone less kind may have added 'idiot' to the end of that reply. "We could transfigure this room. Make it look like your home."
All tears forgotten, James leaps to his feet. "Could we?" he says with excitement. "I mean, you're brilliant at it, but I — I don't know where to start."
"What's your happiest memory?" Scorpius asks. "We could recreate it."
"Oh, that's a brilliant idea!" James doesn't even have to think about it. "A summer's day," he says at once. "You know those days, when the fields go on forever and the sky is blue as the sea..." He trails off, suddenly feeling self-conscious, but Scorpius is nodding in agreement.
"Blue unclouded weather," he says.
"Yes! Exactly." James begins to feel confident in the conversation again. "I live in an old farmhouse that my parents renovated before I was born. There's a vegetable garden outside, and then there's a little wooden fence, but past that...there's fields gold as a galleon." James stretches his arms out, envisioning the landscape. "There's an oak tree in the corner of the field — five times taller than me, at least, and if you close your eyes a little it looks like there's the face of an old man in the bark…"
Scorpius is leaning over his Transfiguration notes, drawing. He holds up the parchment, a sketch of a field upon it.
"Like this?"
"Oh! Yes, but the fence is a little more run-down. Sort of leaning everywhere, with the wire all rusted. And the oak tree is in the right-hand corner of the field."
Scorpius amends the sketch. James nods approvingly.
"You're very good at drawing," he says. "You're good at everything."
"Not everything."
"Nearly everything. You could be anything! You could be an artist, or a professor, or even Minister for Magic."
"I wouldn't want to be Minister for Magic."
"Why not?"
Scorpius looks down at his drawing, considering things. "I don't like talking to people."
James thinks about that. "Want to know a secret? I don't like talking to people either, sometimes."
Scorpius looks suspicious. "You're always talking to everyone."
"I know, but — well — sometimes I wish they'd all just leave me alone. Why do I have to be the one to make jokes, or organise midnight adventures, or share my map, or tell stories?" James shuts his mouth quickly, his face reddening. He's never told anyone that. "I sound horrible, don't I?" he adds miserably. "Like an awful friend."
"I don't think you're an awful friend."
"Real friends always have interesting stories, and share their things, and tell funny jokes."
Scorpius hesitates. "I think real friends are just people who are always there for you, no matter what."
James brightens. "I like that. Yes, no matter what. And I'm always there for my friends."
"So I suppose you're a good friend, then."
"I suppose I am."
They smile at each other.
Over the next few weeks, they work on transforming the room. Soon, the ceiling has turned azure and the floor has transformed into knee-high grass the colour of gold. The planets disappear, replaced by an enormous oak tree in the corner; a row of old desks are painstakingly transfigured into a little wooden fence, overgrown with grass. It's only when the room is nearing completion that James turns to Scorpius, remembering suddenly that the room belongs to two people.
"What about you?"
"What about me?" Scorpius is bewildered.
"It isn't fair that the whole room is my memory. There should be something of yours in here too. What's your happiest memory?"
Scorpius looks lost.
"Maybe something with your parents?" James suggests. Something in Scorpius's eyes flattens, like a door closing, and James remembers too late that Scorpius doesn't like to talk about his parents. "Sorry," he adds. "Your mother doesn't live with you, does she?"
He didn't mean to sound so blunt, and he winces at his words. But Scorpius, whose gaze is suddenly fixed at his feet, nods.
"My parents divorced when I was little and my mother took me away. We moved around a lot."
"That sounds fun," James says, thinking of how he'd love to travel. But Scorpius glances up, several emotions flashing across his face.
"It wasn't," he says. "Starting at a different school every year...I was always the new student. The last time we moved, it was to Cardiff and I didn't know anyone. I never stayed long enough to make any friends. I couldn't make friends, anyway. My mother didn't like visitors."
"Why not?" James thinks of his own mother. "Was she sick?"
Scorpius hesitates. "She was really sad all the time. She missed my dad really badly, but she said she could never go back because he'd hate her for taking me away. She was always forgetting to eat and a lot of mornings she wouldn't get out of bed. She cried a lot. It was okay, though, because I was there to help. You know, like going to the supermarket and buying food, and cooking dinners, and washing clothes and all that sort of stuff."
James frowns. He's never worried about those sorts of things – it's Harry's job. "Oh," he says at last, not sure what else to say. "Did that cheer her up?"
Scorpius looks away. "Not really. I tried really hard, but she never got better."
"Oh." James doesn't know what else to say. Scorpius hardly ever talks about himself, and especially not his family. But now he's started speaking, it's like he can't stop.
"I did everything I was supposed to do," Scorpius adds. "Going to school and doing my homework and everything, so she didn't have to worry about me at all — but it didn't work. And one day I came home from school and found her lying on the floor. I didn't know what to do. I just stood there, like I was frozen. After a while — I don't know how long — I went and called the ambulance. But it was too late by then." Scorpius hangs his head. "I watched her die and I didn't do anything. Just stood there. It's awful, isn't it?"
Silence stretches between them. Scorpius is staring down at his feet; he's not crying, but he has the sort of stoic expression that James practised many times after his mother's death.
"It's all right," James says at last. "It's not awful, Scorpius."
Scorpius looks up at him with surprise. "It isn't?"
James nods. Of course it's not awful, he thinks. He thinks of his own mother's death and how grateful he is, now that he's older, that Harry was there with her during her final moments. "You were there, weren't you? That probably helped her a lot. Just knowing you were there."
Scorpius falls silent for a while. "It's all right?" he says at last, his voice uncertain.
"It's all right," James repeats firmly. "It's perfectly all right."
It's a cold winter's night in the large stone castle, but they stand together under a sky the colour of a thousand childhood summers.
James thinks Scorpius changes after that. Not greatly; it's almost imperceptible. Something about the way he walks now, the way he holds his shoulders, the way he tilts his head upwards as he listens to the professors instead of hunching over his parchment.
In their room of summer, they have added a flight of cream-coloured butterflies that flutter around the patches of milkweed hiding amongst the grass. It's a tribute to Scorpius's favourite memory: a day — when he was young, no older than five — when his father took him to a park. It had been a clear summer's day, and Scorpius had sat on his father's shoulders as Draco walked through milkweed, hundreds of butterflies surrounding them.
One night, as they're sitting amongst the butterflies, James gives Scorpius a gift: a little silver rat he'd transfigured from an inkwell. It had taken him many late nights to complete.
"This is very advanced transfiguration," Scorpius says, eyes wide as he looks at it.
"Is it?" James says offhandedly, but he's pleased. High praise indeed from Scorpius. "I wanted it to move about and stuff too, but that's really tricky. Suppose it makes a nice ornament, though."
"It can be a friend for Pan," Scorpius says, smiling. James grins back at him.
It's nice, he thinks, having a best friend.
"You're going to break it."
"Stop fussing, it's fine."
"Don't tilt it like that — watch your wand! You're going to drop it."
"I will drop it in a minute," Harry says threateningly. The enormous pane of glass shakes slightly as it floats slowly through the air, following the movement of Harry's wand.
He's not quite sure what happened — he'd turned up at the manor, as per usual, with a file tucked under one arm and a determination not to do anything other than ask the official questions and leave. But somehow — and he's not quite sure how — he's gotten roped into helping Draco with the sunroom windows.
"I hope they fit," he says conversationally, looking at the window and then at the empty frames. "Look a bit too small, really. You might have to redo the frames."
"I will not, Potter. I paid for good craftsmanship, that's what I'm getting."
"Sure you didn't mess up the measurements?"
"Would you concentrate on the window? Look, you nearly hit it on the frame!"
"All right, calm down. You focus on your window, I'll focus on mine."
Draco falls silent, at least. After a tense fifteen minutes, the windows have successfully been slotted into place.
"Hope you're not replacing any more windows, there's no way I'll go through that again," Harry says. The very close fit of the windows had required some nerve-wrackingly delicate wandwork. He stands back, surveying what had once been the drawing room. The south-facing wall has been replaced by a row of wall-to-ceiling windows; the other walls have been altered to a pale colour — Powdered Snow, Harry supposes, like the rest of the manor — and the dark ebony floorboards have been polished to a beautiful shine, restored to their former pristine condition. The room is still quite bare however, absent of any furniture.
"If this is going to be a sunroom, you should get some sofas," Harry says critically. "A coffee table, a few bookcases."
"That will have to wait. Those windows have proven very costly." Draco turns and disappears down the hallway; Harry follows him and eventually emerges in the servants' kitchen. Another potion is bubbling over the fire, but Draco doesn't pay it much attention. He's busying himself moving large reams of parchment from the table.
"Someone's family history?" Harry asks curiously.
"The Winchelsea family. Muggleborn, and the daughter wants to know if there's any wizards or witches amongst her ancestors."
Harry nods, then glances down at the table, criss-crossed with deep grooves from years of knifework. In the very corner of the table, the Monopoly set still sits. Harry picks up the battleship; Draco glances over at him.
"That game," he says contemptuously. "Muggles have the strangest idea of fun."
"Don't lie, you enjoyed it."
"The Angel Islington isn't even a location, it's a building. I suppose you can't trust Muggles to get anything right."
Harry looks at Draco. Just when he seemed to be acting like a decent human being…
"What, exactly, is your problem with Muggles? Any reason why you loathe them so much that you want to wipe them all out?"
"I never wanted that," Draco says sharply. "I don't loathe them. I'm indifferent."
"How generous of you," Harry retorts angrily.
"Look, I'm stating the facts. They are inferior. I know it's not politically correct, but it's true. They haven't got magic! I can instantly Apparate anywhere I want, or unlock doors with a tap of my wand, or kill someone with two words. What can they do? Nothing!"
Harry surveys Draco coolly. Draco pours two cups of tea and pushes one towards Harry.
"Go ahead, put it in your notes," he says. "No doubt it's proof that I'm still a danger to Muggles."
"A danger to Muggles? You're a danger to yourself, with that amount of sheer ignorance."
"Ignorance? It's fact, Potter — "
"It's lack of magic," Harry interrupts, "that makes Muggles equal, if not superior. Are you insane, Malfoy? Do you think that Muggles simply went 'oh dear, no magic. I suppose we'll be living in caves and using rudimentary tools for the next few thousand years'?"
Draco looks startled. "Well — I — "
"They've invented things. They've invented guns — a Muggle could kill you from a mile away by moving a single finger. Telephones, video chat — a Muggle can contact another Muggle living on the other side of the planet in under a second. They've invented medicines that have cured millions of people; they've invented devices that store infinite amounts of knowledge and yet can be the size of a potion vial. But no doubt you know all this, Malfoy, since you're the one stating facts."
Draco stares at Harry for a long moment. Harry looks down, realising he's still holding the battleship. He puts it down.
The silence continues on. Draco turns to the potion, surveys it for a long moment, then stirs it slowly.
"What are they called?"
"What?" Harry asks, startled.
"The devices," Draco says evenly. "The ones you said store infinite knowledge. Unless you were making them up."
"I was not making them up," Harry says, indignant. "They're called computers. The smaller ones are called laptops. The even smaller ones are smartphones. They use those ones to contact Muggles anywhere else in the world, or access any information, or find a map of anywhere they want. You should ask Hermione about it, she's the expert on — "
Of course, he forgot to whom he was speaking. Honestly, had he really just invited Draco to talk to Hermione — advice he often gave his friends? Had he really just forgotten he was speaking to Malfoy, of all people? Harry drums his fingers on the table, irritated with himself.
"What were the small ones called again?" Draco still has his back turned to Harry as he stirs the potion; his voice is flat and contains no hint as to his thoughts.
"Smartphones."
"That's a ridiculous name."
"Much like 'Draco'."
Harry waits for the angry retort, but there's none. At last, Draco turns around and faces Harry. To Harry's utter bewilderment and surprise, there's a faint smirk on Draco's face.
"You know," he says conversationally to Harry, "there are times when you can be quite droll."
Harry takes a sip of tea to cover his smile.
A few days later, Harry finds himself in Flourish and Blotts. He'd only dropped by to purchase a new inkpot, but he ended up buying a novelty quill for James, and then he was unaccountably drawn to the Muggle Studies section. Sitting in the middle of the shelf is a book entitled A Thousand Years of Innovation: A History of Muggle Inventions.
As he picks up the book to add it to his purchases, he's certain he can almost hear Draco laughing at him.
The first day of spring.
It's just before the weekend. The senior students are all making plans for their Hogsmeade visit. The couples are whispering about hazy, heart-shaped interludes at Madam Puddifoot's. The younger years are dreaming of Honeydukes. Out on the grounds, the snow has melted away to reveal the first shy green of spring. The day dawns with a tentative pale blue colour, as if the world suddenly remembered it wasn't summer yet and hastily scrubbed all depth from the sky before anyone noticed.
It's a day of beginnings.
James wakes early. Today is the big Charms test, but he's not too worried about that. Scorpius has been helping a lot.
He goes to breakfast early. His friends greet him cheerfully. Afterwards, he attends Potions and teams up with Scorpius, creating a perfect Murtlap Essence. For the rest of the day, classes go smoothly. Then — last session — there's the Charms test. James produces charm after flawless charm. With each perfect spell, his confidence grows until he is full of joy. He only wishes he shared the class with Ravenclaw, so he could swap a little smile with Scorpius and they'd both secretly know how James had improved so much.
"Perfect!" cries Flitwick. "Potter has produced a perfect Cheering Charm!" He gives James an approving look. "Top of the class, I daresay. Well done!"
"Thanks, Professor," James says, glancing at his friends with a smile.
None of them smile in return.
They ambush him in the common room, just after they've returned from dinner.
"This is an intervention," Martin announces, dragging him into a corner of the common room and forcing him into an armchair. Beside him, Paul nods firmly.
"We're only doing this because we care about you."
"As your closest friends, it's our duty."
"Duty to do what?" James asks, looking up at his friends in bewilderment.
"To get you back to your old self, of course!"
"Yes — whatever happened to all the larking about in class? Now you're the class know-it-all," Martin says. He pitches his voice in imitation of Professor Flitwick. "Oh, well done, James! Why don't you take over and teach the class for me?"
"He never said that!"
"Might as well have," Paul says grimly. "You used to be fun. Now you've turned into a boring little know-it-all! Just like your cousin, Rose Weasley."
"What's wrong with Rose?" James snaps. He insults her all the time, of course, but he's family. It's different.
"Ha! I bet she's the one who's been giving you secret lessons in Charms. You couldn't improve that much on your own."
"It wasn't her! It was..." James stops, but his friends are waiting with crossed arms.
"Who?" Paul demands.
"Nobody," James says stiffly. "I've told you, I've been studying at the library."
"I'll say! Nearly every night!"
"Yes, can't you take a break from it? Stop being such a bore. Let's go for an adventure tonight."
"I can't," James says desperately. Scorpius whispered to him, during Potions, that he had done something special to the room and James is very keen to find out what it is.
"Why not? We're your friends, but you've hardly been spending any time with us!"
"I know, I know! It's just...I'm busy tonight."
"Studying again," Paul says crossly. "Go bury yourself in your books, then."
"Tomorrow night," James promises, swiftly escaping the armchair and grabbing a handful of books before disappearing out the portrait hole, not giving his friends a chance to reply.
He makes his way to the room, creating a portal with four neat taps of his wand. Scorpius makes it look so effortless, but it took James weeks to perfect the spell. He steps inside the room and notices Scorpius is there already, standing in the field of gold.
But it's no longer a summer's day. No; it's a midsummer night. The sky is a navy blue, with stars as clear as glass sparkling above. A harvest moon rides low in the sky.
"Wow, Scorpius! You turned it into night!"
"It's just a simple modifying spell," Scorpius says modestly.
"It's amazing! Hey, you've made it look like the real sky. Look, there's the Milky Way!" James points, following the fine dust of stars with his finger. "This'll be great practice for Astronomy." He lies down in the field, settling in for some stargazing; Scorpius pauses, then joins him.
Scorpius points his wand skyward; a collection of faint stars begins to glow brightly. "That's my father's star," he says. "The Draco constellation. Did you know it's circumpolar?"
"What's that mean?"
"It never sets. Never disappears below the horizon. It's visible every night of the year."
"That must be nice." James hesitates. "Looking into the sky, and seeing all your friends and family there..." He wonders if there's a star with his mother's name and suddenly misses her more than ever. "Do you have a star, Scorpius?"
He nods. "The Scorpio constellation. But it's not here — it's only really visible in the southern hemisphere. It's most visible in July." He seems to notice James's fallen expression, for he hesitates and then continues. "But my middle name..." He trails off again and James looks at him with interest.
"What? What's your middle name?"
"It's embarrassing."
"Oh, really? Scorpius Embarrassing Malfoy. I see what you mean."
Scorpius gives him an exasperated look; James grins and nudges him.
"Come on. I've got a bit of an odd middle name too. It's 'Sirius'."
Scorpius looks surprised. "You've got your own star, then."
"Have I really?" James is thrilled. "It's the name of my dad's godfather, I never thought it was a star too."
"Don't you listen in Astronomy? Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky. Everyone knows that."
"The brightest star? Really?"
"Look." Scorpius points his wand again, and a bright star glows fiercely. "You can even see it during daylight — under the right conditions."
"But what about your star? You said your middle name was one, too."
"I didn't say that."
"I guessed." James nudges him again. "Come on, I promise I won't laugh."
"All right. It's 'Hyperion'."
James's eyebrows rise, although he keeps his word and doesn't laugh. He twists his mouth quickly to stop from smiling.
"Is it really?"
Scorpius nods, looking miserable. "I wish I had a normal name. Something like Thomas, or Robert."
"Why on earth would you choose boring names like those when you could be named after a star?" James demands. "Anyway, which constellation is Hyperion?"
"It's not a constellation. It's a moon."
"Wow, you've got a whole moon to yourself?" James is impressed. "Which one?"
"Saturn's moon. You need a telescope to see it." Scorpius points his wand again; it takes several long moments before a tiny speck glows bright enough to be seen. "It's named after Hyperion, the Titan god of watchfulness and observation."
"Watchfulness and observation...that suits you perfectly. Want to know what my name means? 'Supplanter'," James says with a shrug. "I looked it up once. I don't even know what that means."
"Supplanter is someone who takes the place of someone else."
"Like a second in a duel, do you mean?" James frowns. "Well, that's not very comforting."
"It's more comforting than being named Hyperion," Scorpius counters.
"I think that's very comforting. Imagine being able to look at the stars and see all the ones your family are named after...I'd never be afraid of the darkness again if I loved the stars so much."
Scorpius looks away, smiling faintly.
They lay in the grass for a long time, watching the stars shine above.
Harry sits in the living room. Opposite him, Dudley grips a glass of scotch with a white-knuckled firmness, although he hasn't had a single drop.
Dudley has not been in this house until now. For Christmas, Harry has always visited Dudley's family in their neat little three-bedroom house in West Byfleet. Now, Dudley seems overwhelmed by it all. He spent the first twenty minutes staring at the moving pictures on the wall. Harry, after exhausting all other attempts at conversation, offered him a stiff drink despite the fact it was only just after lunchtime. Dudley accepted and it was only then that Harry suddenly remembered Draco's appointment. However, his attempts to leave were repeatedly foiled.
"Wait," Dudley kept saying, until he finally blurted out, "Dad's dead."
Now they've been sitting in silence for a good five minutes. A million thoughts are flying through Harry's head.
"Dead?" he asks at last, just to make sure he understands. Dudley nods.
"Dead," he says hoarsely. "Died yesterday. His heart just gave out. The doctors said he had coronary artery disease."
"Oh." Harry doesn't know what to say. At least Petunia is a blood relation, but Vernon? Nothing more than a bad memory. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says at last. Dudley stares down at the glass of scotch, downs it in one gulp, and looks up. He blinks.
"There's a man in your fireplace."
"What?"
"Is he supposed to be there?"
Harry looks over his shoulder quickly, then jumps to his feet.
"Malfoy! What are you doing here? I thought I said — "
"An emergency. A missed appointment qualifies as an emergency. I checked." Draco steps out of the fireplace, then spots Dudley and frowns. Harry looks between the two, trying to think of what to say. At last, he goes for introductions.
"Malfoy, this is my cousin, Dudley Dursley. Dudley, this is Draco Malfoy. He's...er...someone I know from school." Harry coughs. "Er, Malfoy, the kitchen's on the left, so if you just want to help yourself to anything..." The message is clear, and he hopes Draco won't decide to be obstinate and stay. Thankfully, Draco nods after a long moment and departs, walking into the hallway. Harry's not too pleased about Draco wandering around his house, but what can he do?
Dudley waits until Draco's gone, then sets his empty glass onto the coffee table.
"Listen," he says, "I know you and Dad...well, I'll admit he had a few flaws, same as you had yours. Same as I had mine." Dudley clears his throat. "But I just wanted you to know. The funeral's on Saturday, two o'clock at St John the Baptist church. There's no hard feelings if you don't go. I'm just letting you know."
"Right."
Dudley pauses. "I've got to leave. Thanks for the tea."
"It was scotch."
"Was it?" Dudley looks at the glass. "Oh. Well. I'll see you later."
"Right."
They awkwardly farewell each other; Harry politely accompanies Dudley to the front door and watches as he climbs into his car and drives off.
"So, that was your cousin?"
Harry jumps, then inwardly curses himself. "Malfoy! Go back to the manor, I'll meet you there."
"I'm here, aren't I? May as well have the meeting now."
Harry turns, closing the front door. Draco is leaning against the wall, a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other.
"Just help yourself, then," Harry says sarcastically, going to the kitchen, Draco following him.
"That's what you said, wasn't it, Potter?"
"For the sake of courtesy." Harry picks up the kettle and growls. "If you're going to make yourself tea, at least refill the kettle afterwards."
"So, are you going to the funeral?"
Harry whips around. Draco's sitting at the island counter, one eyebrow raised as he sips his tea.
"You were eavesdropping?"
"Couldn't help it. Stopped to look at that rather interesting paper hippogriff in the hallway, and I overheard things."
"Of course you did." Harry puts a teaspoon of sugar into his teacup. "And I don't know."
"Well, I certainly won't judge." Draco takes another sip of tea. "I've plenty of uncles whose funerals I wouldn't care to attend. Rodolphus Lestrange, for starters."
"Vernon wasn't like that," Harry says sharply. "But I lived with him for sixteen years, and every minute of that time he made it abundantly clear how much he resented my presence."
"And yet you'll go to his funeral and pay your respects."
"I never said that!"
"But you will." Draco takes a bite of the biscuit. "You thrive on guilt complexes."
It's very concerning to think that while Harry's been busy making notes on Draco, Draco has been making notes on him.
"Picked that up from our games of Monopoly, then?" Harry asks suspiciously, but Draco just gives him a look.
"We went to school together for six years. Know thine enemy, as they say."
Harry sighs and pushes his cup of tea away. "Did you attend any of your relatives' funerals? After the war, I mean."
"None," Draco says. He studies his teacup for a moment, as if reading the leaves. "Do you know, Scorpius is the first Malfoy in five hundred years to not be a Slytherin?"
"Ravenclaw, isn't he?" Harry has to admit it's certainly interesting. "Were you disappointed?"
Draco studies the teacup a moment longer, then pushes it away. "If my son is happy, how could I possibly be disappointed?"
And for a brief moment, Harry feels a flash of compassion, a real connection to Draco, and he nearly smiles in agreement.
But he quickly suppresses the urge, and instead ushers Draco brusquely back to the fireplace.
Later that night, Harry sits in the study, his usual glass of scotch by his elbow.
In front of him is a small silver seed. Draco had given Harry a handful of them before he left, and asked him to leave them in the Ministry atrium where others usually left business advertisements. Harry had stared blankly at the silver seeds until Draco had rolled his eyes and asked — rather acerbically for someone who was requesting a favour — if Harry hadn't ever seen a business card before.
Now, Harry studies the seed before carefully tapping it with his wand. A little paper tree begins to grow immediately, sprouting upwards, and the words Family Name appear along one of the branches, a blank line waiting after it. Harry thinks for a moment, then opens his mouth, about to speak his surname aloud — and then pauses. The Potter line is common knowledge and Draco would no doubt find it an easy task.
"Evans," he says instead.
The name glows for a moment before disappearing. Then, a set of numbers appear: 10 hours; 20 hours; 50 hours. Time spent on the project, Harry realises. Obviously, there has to be a set limit or Draco could keep adding ancestors onto the family tree forever.
"Fifty hours." It will be interesting to see how far back his family can be traced.
The hours disappear. Two words appear: Confirm Request.
"Confirmed."
The words fade. Harry waits for something else to happen, but nothing does. The paper tree remains blank. He puts it on the corner of his desk.
An hour later, just as he's finishing paperwork, he notices two words scrolled across a branch of the tree.
Request Accepted.
James spends the next month trying to spend more time with his friends, but it's difficult. They want to spend their midnights stealing food from the kitchens and provoking portraits; James wants to walk around the lake or lay in his field of gold and daydream. They want to spend class time whispering jokes and passing notes; he wants to practice spells and listen to the professor.
And he misses Scorpius. He tries visiting the room less, but he can't. Whether they practice spells, read books together, try new charms, tell stories or just sit together and look at the stars, James always looks forward to their nights in the room and, despite his best attempts at self-restraint, he finds himself making constant excuses to his friends and slipping away to the room.
One night, halfway through spring, James arrives back at the common room to find his friends furious. He'd intended to practice spells, but the night had been particularly clear and Scorpius had suggested a leisurely wander around the lake instead. Conscious now of his appearance — knitted cap pulled over his unruly hair, his cheeks reddened by the slight chill coming off the lake, James opens his mouth to say something distracting — possibly an offer to show off the latest arrival of wheezes, or share his copy of Quidditch Weekly. However, he glimpses his Marauder's Map in Paul's hands.
"That's my map! Did you go through my stuff?"
"You said we could use it."
"Yes, but sharing is different from taking!" James is indignant.
"Oh, so now we're thieves?" Paul looks hurt.
"I never said — "
"We saw you, on the map. Walking around the lake with him."
"Is that what you've been doing?" Martin asks, looking upset. "All that time you supposedly spent in the library, and you've been with Malfoy the whole time?"
"We're your friends. Gryffindors! Loyal, remember? And brave. And you've been lying to us!" Paul shakes his head.
"I know, all right, and I'm sorry," James pleads, but his friends are already turning away. "I'll make it up to you! I know, I've been an awful friend. We can go on a midnight trip tonight — "
"Forget it, we're always trying to spend time with you," Paul says, "If you don't want to be around us, just say so."
James can sense his friends leaving him. He'll be alone, and it will be horrible. Sitting awkwardly at the Gryffindor table during mealtimes, nobody talking to him; left in the corner of the common room with everyone ignoring him. Left out of everything, friendless and alone.
"Wait!" he says quickly. "Please! I — I know of a room. A special room. Like the Room of Requirement, but it's different."
His friends pause.
"Are you having us on?" Paul asks distrustfully, and James shakes his head.
"I swear, it's true. A magical room."
"Show us," Martin says.
James quickly grabs the map. "Let's go."
They follow him out the portrait hole. He walks quickly down the corridors, head down, looking neither left nor right. His heart is pounding; his face is flushed.
He promised. It's their room, their secret place, and now he's gone and told everyone. Well, not everyone, James reasons. Just his friends. And maybe he can take them somewhere else... But what other special room is there? James chews his lip, so caught up in his anxious thoughts that he nearly misses the room.
"It's — it's right here," James says, staring at the wall with trepidation. Maybe he can somehow salvage the situation. Scorpius need never know. He should be back at the Ravenclaw common room already. "It's secret, you can't tell anyone else."
"All right, we won't tell. Hurry up before a prefect finds us."
James slowly turns to the wall, swallows, and taps his wand four times, whispering the incantation. A portal appears; he can hear the others whispering with excitement as he steps through.
The room is not empty.
Scorpius is standing in the middle of the field, a butterfly in one hand. He came back to practise transfiguration, James realises as the butterfly slowly changes colour.
Scorpius turns to smile at him, and for a moment James automatically smiles in return.
And then his friends tumble through the portal.
"Are we outside? What's with all the grass?" Martin asks blankly.
"I've got seasonal allergies, I hope you know," Paul adds.
"What on earth is he doing here?" Martin says, pointing at Scorpius.
"Hey, Malfoy! Get out, this is our room now," Paul says loudly. "It's way too big to be wasted on you."
"This isn't your room," Scorpius says, his voice quiet but clear.
"Oh, so you think it's yours, do you? Three against one, so clear off."
"It's not mine either. It doesn't belong to anyone."
"Well, I claim it in the name of Gryffindor house," Paul cuts in. "We could throw parties in here. You couldn't. You don't have any friends!"
"I do! James is my friend," Scorpius retorts. James stares at the ground, unable to look Scorpius in the eye. He can feel his friends looking at him, waiting for a response.
"No I'm not," he mumbles. "I'm only friends with Gryffindors."
Scorpius doesn't say anything. James doesn't dare glance up. He hears Scorpius pick up his bag and make his way to the portal. There, he pauses. Then he speaks.
"Finite Incantatem."
There's a whirl of colours and a loud whooshing noise, as if the room is being sucked into a vortex. James staggers backwards, closing his eyes. When it all ends, he opens his eyes again and looks around the room, blinking.
The ceiling — a beautiful clear night sky — has turned back to dark stone. The grass has disappeared, revealing the dusty floor. The oak tree is nothing more than a battered desk in the corner. The cream-coloured butterflies now litter the floor as broken quills.
And Scorpius is gone.
Chapter 8: Cowards and Liars
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius finish their first year — Harry doesn't attend a funeral — James realises he's made a mistake and tries to salvage his friendship with Scorpius — Draco takes Harry on a field trip to a library — James's attempt to save his friendship ends in total disaster.
Chapter Text
Harry arrives on Draco's doorstep at one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Draco feels rather underprepared; it's certainly not their usual schedule.
"Potter," he says, bewildered. Harry is dressed in a suit, holding a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and looking completely lost. "Going to a wedding?" Draco quips.
"Funeral."
Draco remembers, too late, that Harry's uncle died recently. "Right." He feels that he should say something else. "So...what exactly are you doing here?"
"You're right," Harry says morosely, picking at one of the wilting petals of the chrysanthemums.
"I'm...right?" Draco, sensing an oncoming personal crisis, frowns and looks around before opening the door farther. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in."
Harry walks inside, still picking at the flowers and looking miserable. He wordlessly follows Draco to the study and stands by the fireplace. After a moment, he looks around as if suddenly realising where he is, and sets the bouquet upon the mantlepiece.
"You're right," he repeats, turning to look at Draco. "What you said about the guilt complex."
"What are you talking...oh, that."
"Don't just say 'oh, that', as if it's nothing," Harry says irritably. "I've been having a crisis for the past hour, and it's your fault."
Draco guessed right about the oncoming personal crisis, then. "What's wrong with a guilt complex? Loads of people have them, especially when a relative dies. Go and look suitably solemn, offer condolences, eat any free food, and leave."
"You're heartless," Harry says, but without any venom. He slumps into an armchair. "I can't attend. I don't want to."
"So don't. Your cousin said there wouldn't any hard feelings."
"I lived under Vernon's roof for sixteen years. He might not have liked me, but he still let me live there. Spent money on extra food for me, haircuts, my optometrist visits."
"How outstanding," Draco says dryly. "He must've been like a second father to you." He opens the desk drawer and pours a firewhiskey.
"No thanks," Harry says distractedly, glancing at the glass.
"Drink. You need it."
"I can't. I can't attend a funeral smelling like whiskey!"
"So you are going?"
"I don't know!" Harry stands up and starts pacing. "I mean, if I do go, it will be the whole guilt complex. He didn't do a thing for me; why should I do anything for him? Why do I always have to feel so guilty about everything?" He reaches for the glass of firewhiskey and downs it in one quick motion.
"I'm not offering another, I hope you know," Draco says disapprovingly. "That was a vintage bottle, Potter. Oak aged."
"This is your fault. If you hadn't said anything about a guilt complex, I wouldn't be overthinking everything!"
"Your chrysanthemums are wilting," Draco says. Harry stops pacing and gives Draco a very long look.
"You," he says, "are entirely missing the point."
"You are. If you're annoyed at feeling guilty, then stop feeling guilty. If you don't want to attend the funeral, don't go." Draco pauses. "I don't know why you're here, anyway. Shouldn't you be crying on Granger's shoulder or talking to Weasley?"
"They don't know." Harry tugs at the collar of his suit. "I don't want them to worry about it."
Draco feels rather pleased about the fact that Harry Potter has elected to leave his dedicated friends out of the loop, instead coming to him for advice. He turns away, but not quickly enough; Harry spots his smile.
"What are you smiling about?"
"I'm not smiling."
"You are. You've got one of your self-satisfied looks on your face."
"I just think it's rather amusing," Draco says, tidying a set of quills if only to keep his hands busy. "You asking me for advice."
Harry gives him another long look. "You're not so bad, you know," he says, and Draco stares in surprise. "It's true," Harry adds. "You've changed a lot since school."
"Drunk on one glass of firewhiskey? Always thought you'd be a lightweight."
"It's been seventeen years since the war, Malfoy," Harry says, ignoring the gibe. "Don't you think you've changed?"
"I suppose." Draco traces a pattern etched into the desk, trying to resist the next question, but curiosity gets the better of him. "Exactly how have I changed?"
Harry shrugs. "I don't know. You're more interesting, I suppose."
"More interesting?" Draco's amused.
"Well, during school you were very boring, weren't you?"
"Boring? Are you insane? After all that happened — "
"Oh, I don't mean boring like that," Harry says quickly. "I meant...well, you were just like a miniature version of your father, weren't you? Just a copy of his personality, really."
"I am nothing like my father," Draco says coldly before he can stop himself. "I will never abandon my family. My son — " He cuts himself off. He hadn't meant to say so much, and certainly not reveal his innermost thoughts to Harry Potter, of all people. But Harry isn't looking calculating or indifferent; he's instead staring at the fire, a pensive look on his face.
"Do you miss him? Your father, I mean," he asks.
Draco turns away. "Of course not."
"Oh." Harry picks up the white chrysanthemums. "Well. Just thought I'd ask. Anyway, suppose I should leave."
Draco accompanies him to the front door. He pauses a moment, looking at Harry.
"Are you going to the funeral?"
"I still don't know."
"Oh." Draco pauses again; as if sensing his hesitation, Harry waits patiently on the front step. "I do, you know," Draco says at last. "Miss my father, I mean." Then he shuts the door hurriedly — before Harry can respond — and leans against it, exhaling slowly. He doesn't know why he told the truth, but it feels strangely therapeutic to tell someone. He hates his father; he loves him. He wishes he'd magically appear and fix everything; he wishes he'd never return.
It's been so long, anyway, that he's beginning to forget who his father is. Draco looks at the portraits and sees a man who feels like a stranger.
Just a picture of someone Draco once knew.
Draco whiles away the rest of the afternoon by writing a letter to his son. Scorpius sent a letter recently; he'd made some new friends, he'd said, and discovered a hidden talent for playing Gobstones. The other Ravenclaws were very nice once he'd gotten a bit better at talking to them.
Still, Draco wonders what happened to James Potter. Since Christmas, Scorpius had started sending many letters, all of which excitedly mentioned the Potter child at some point. However, there's no mention of the boy in this letter.
Well, Draco's just happy that Scorpius is making more friends. He'll have to send new robes soon, he thinks. Scorpius has grown a lot. Then again, he'll be returning home in a month for the summer holidays. Draco smiles at the thought.
A tap at the window. He stands up and unlatches the window, pushing it open. A bedraggled owl patiently waits.
The letter is only a short scrap of parchment, consisting of a single sentence written in Harry's untidy scrawl.
I didn't attend.
Draco studies the sentence and, after a long moment, smiles faintly. He sets the letter aside and turns to the kitchen table, where a fresh ream of parchment awaits. He picks up the quill, draws the ink, and writes carefully across the top of the parchment.
The Evans Family.
James is miserable.
Scorpius isn't talking to him, his friends have already grown bored of the room and forgotten about it, and summer is swiftly approaching. School will finish in just two weeks, and James has to fix things before then. Late Friday evening, after dinner, he manages to catch ahold of Teddy in the crowded hallways.
"Hey cuz," Teddy says amiably, waving at his friends to go on without him. "What do you want?"
"The Ravenclaw tower."
"Not happening. Nice chat, I'll see you around."
"I'm not joking!" James desperately grabs at Teddy's sleeve to stop him leaving. "Come on, please? I need to see a friend."
"No chance."
"Why not? You snuck me in last time," James says accusingly.
"That was during class, wasn't it? This time of night everyone will be in the common room."
"I'll wear my invisibility cloak."
"You're the clumsiest person I know. You'll end up bumping into someone or treading on your own head or something. What's the big deal, anyway? You'll see your friend in class."
"I'm trying to apologise," James says reluctantly.
"So, go apologise then."
"It's not that easy."
"Oh no, it's not that easy," Teddy repeats mockingly. "Course it is. Here, I'll show you." He grabs ahold of a sixth-year Hufflepuff passing by. "Hey, Matthew. You know the other day, when I said all Hufflepuffs were thick as planks? Sorry about that, I can be a real idiot sometimes. Shout you and the Hufflepuffs a round at the Three Broomsticks next weekend?"
"Cheers, thanks," the Hufflepuff says, looking gratified. "See you in Charms class, Teddy."
"See you round." Teddy waves, watching the Hufflepuff walk away. "See, that's how you do it. Anyway, got to run. I've got Homework Club tonight."
"Homework Club?" James says, pleased to finally have something to tease Teddy about. "Don't your friends think you're a teacher's pet?"
Teddy gives him an odd look. "No. They're my friends, see, and therefore they think I'm awesome no matter what I do. Which, by the way, is true. I tried being non-awesome once, it sucked. Everyone thought I was you."
"Oh, very funny!" James, sensing an incoming hair-ruffling, ducks away quickly. "I'm telling Dad you're being mean, and he'll tell Andromeda!"
"I'll tell her you're the one who ruined her forty-year-old wedding veil by pretending to be a ghost!" Teddy calls as he walks away.
The problem with cousins, James thinks gloomily, is that they know too much about you.
He jams his hands into the pockets of his robes and walks slowly to the Gryffindor tower.
When he arrives in the common-room, he finds his friends sitting in the corner. They're complaining about Slytherins again.
"Henrietta Mortley, she's in second year. Her whole family's Dark!"
"I heard she has an uncle who's in Azkaban for torturing Muggles."
"We should — " Paul begins, and James interrupts.
"No, you shouldn't."
They turn to stare at him. "You don't even know what I'm going to say!" Paul protests.
"Yes, I do. Why don't you leave them alone?"
"Because they killed my cousins," Martin begins angrily, but James cuts him off.
"They didn't! Other people did! They can't help who their parents are!"
"But — "
But James has finally snapped, the words spilling from him, and he raises his voice. "You're just as bad as them! Going around picking fights and making fun of people — how is that supposed to fix anything? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all of you. Count me out." His voice rings with anger and he's suddenly aware of the silence in the common room. Paul is looking at him with a shocked expression; Martin is the first to speak. James is expecting anger, but instead Martin speaks so quietly that James has to step closer to hear him properly.
"But...some of them are horrible to us, too. The fifth-year Slytherins that always tease me about my dead cousins...call me a blood traitor...you don't know what it's like, James."
James looks at Martin for a long moment, at his miserable expression, and then he looks at Paul, who just seems bewildered now.
His shoulders slump and he suddenly feels defeated somehow.
"I'm going to bed," he says, his voice flat and tired.
Nobody stops him as he turns away and drags his feet up the dormitory stairs.
He doesn't know how to fix this.
It's pointless, James thinks. None of his friends are speaking to him anymore. Martin's gone very quiet, Nate stays out of James's way, Paul seems very confused by it all, and worst of all, Scorpius hasn't spoken to him since that day in their room. He hasn't even looked at him. James ended up sitting next to him in Potions yesterday, and the silence echoed between them like a vast ocean. At the end of the lesson, as they were packing up, James gathered all his courage and asked Scorpius if they were still friends.
Scorpius had replied — without a single look at James — "You're only friends with Gryffindors."
Then he'd left without another word.
Now James sits in the common room, hunched over a book he's really not reading. Opposite him, Rose is smiling as she reads a letter from home.
"Cheer up," Rose says, glancing up from the letter. "Only one week left. Has Uncle Harry got any plans for the summer holidays?"
"Maybe a trip to Brighton," James murmurs, not really focusing on the conversation.
"Mum's taking us to France. You know the family tradition."
"Mm," James says indistinctly.
"You look tired. Maybe you should have an early night."
"Can't. Got Astronomy soon."
"Oh, have we? I nearly forgot."
They make their way to the Astronomy tower. The Gryffindors share the class with the Hufflepuffs; one or two are on friendly terms with James and at least nod in greeting. James chooses a telescope on the far side of the room, listening as Professor Sinistra gives instructions. They will be looking at Saturn tonight, she explains.
"We're in luck tonight," she says. "Very clear conditions. Now, how many of you can see Saturn? The rings should be visible, although you won't be able to see them in much detail until you've completed the additional magnifying charm."
"Amplificare," James murmurs, tapping his wand on the telescope.
"Now, has everyone found Titan, the largest of Saturn's moons?" Professor Sinistra asks. "Good. You will be required to locate all nine of the moons."
The class works quietly. James carefully inks the names of the moons into his star-chart and Sinistra looks over his shoulder.
"Oh, you found Hyperion! Very good. It's quite a unique moon — it's the only moon in the solar system that has chaotic rotation."
"Chaotic rotation, Professor?"
"Its orientation in space is unpredictable." Sinistra turns to the next student. "Appleton! Have you found Mimas yet?"
James finishes early. As he waits for the other students, he adjusts the telescope to look at other parts of the sky. Sirius is easy to find; it's the brightest star in the sky.
That must be nice...looking into the sky, and seeing all your friends and family there…
The sea-blue star seems to wink in the night sky, as if it's a lantern flame flickering in a breeze. James blinks, feeling his eyelashes brush against the cold metal surrounding the eyepiece.
I'd never be afraid of the darkness again if I loved the stars so much.
Harry visits Draco on Wednesday, at the usual time. He's kept waiting quite a while before a somewhat flustered Draco appears, flinging open the door and distractedly telling Harry to come in.
"I was in the middle of figuring out something," Draco says, immediately turning and hurrying away. Harry follows him down two hallways and a flight of stairs, arriving in the kitchen. There's a mass of parchment and old books piled atop the work bench. Draco takes a seat on the far left of the table and starts unravelling a scroll. "Where was I?" he mutters. "That's right, the marriages in the Leeds line." He glances up. "You should really just Floo, you know. Far less disruptive."
"I suppose," Harry says slowly, then spots the name 'Evans' hidden among the piles of parchment. He pulls the parchment free, and is immediately entranced. "Look! It's my family tree!"
Draco gives him a long-suffering look. "Yes. You placed a request and I accepted it. I then started making what we in the industry call a 'family tree'."
"Yes, but it's different to actually see it," Harry says, too excited to pay much attention to Draco's condescension. "You've even got Dudley's daughter on here! She was only born a few months ago. How on earth did you find all this out?" Too late, he remembers Draco is in the middle of working, but Draco doesn't look annoyed at the interruption. On the contrary, he looks a little gratified with the attention. He pushes the parchment aside.
"Well, it's a bit difficult for Muggles. Most of the work is done through old church records. Births, deaths, marriages, baptisms. But for wizards and witches, I can just use the National Wizarding Archives. It's where I found your mother's birth certificate, for example."
"My mother's birth certificate?" Harry echoes. "I've never even heard of the Wizarding Archives..."
Draco looks at him for a long moment, evidently considering something. "Would you like to see it?" he asks at last.
Harry hesitates. Going sightseeing is hardly part of the Ministry-approved visits. But seeing his mother's birth certificate...he'd never even thought about that. "I would, actually."
He stands and follows Draco to the fireplace; Draco tosses a handful of Floo powder into the flames.
"Library of Magic, St James Square," Draco says clearly. He disappears in a flash of green flames and Harry quickly follows, repeating the same address, and finds himself standing in an elaborate marble fireplace in an enormous circular room. The great curved walls are completely lined with books; long oak tables stretch into the centre of the room where a statue of a witch, a book in one hand and wand in the other, stands proudly. Draco catches Harry looking at it.
"Valdis the Scribe," he says. "She was the founder of this library."
There's a faint whoosh, indicating someone is about to Floo into the fireplace, and Harry quickly steps out of the way. Antique lamps line the tables; here and there, a wizard or witch sits by one of the lamps, nose buried deep in an ancient tome.
"This is the Library of Magic?" Harry asks. Draco smiles.
"It's the foyer of the library." He walks to a shelf, reading the titles, then stops at a book. "Pick that book up."
Harry gives him a doubtful look, then reads the title on the book's spine. Registry of Births. It seems rather inconspicuous, and he obediently tugs the book from its place.
Draco grabs ahold of his arm just before they're whipped away. It's a portkey, Harry realises. Within seconds, they've arrived in what looks like a vast wine cellar. Instead of wine, however, the walls — marked with square nooks from floor to ceiling — contain glass bottles, a scroll within each one. In the centre of the room is a raised pedestal, a single sheaf of parchment upon it. Draco approaches it, picks up the long silver quill laying next to it, and writes something. When Harry looks over his shoulder, he sees his mother's name. Evans, Lily.
The word fades. A second later, hundreds of bottles begin to glow.
"Don't tell me you have to search every scroll?" Harry says, looking around.
"Wait a moment, the spell will process your mother's first name too."
It does. Within seconds, the glows begin to fade, leaving five bottles still aglow.
"There's more than one Lily Evans?" Harry's in disbelief, but Draco doesn't seem perturbed.
"There's thousands of records, all dating back to the eleventh century, and 'Evans' is a common surname. It's not that surprising." Draco goes over to one of the glowing bottles. "This is the correct one, if I recall. Quaero quero," he says, and with a swish of his wand, words begin floating above the bottle, like the ghost of the scroll.
EVANS, Lily. 30 January 1960.
Draco moves his wand across the name, as if underlining it, and the name ripples and dissolves into a new floating image. The full birth certificate appears and Harry's heart misses a beat. All this information, and he had no idea it was even here...his grandparents' names, their occupations, date of marriage...
"I didn't even know their names," he says quietly, speaking to himself. "I never even knew...Harry Evans and Hazel Evans. My grandparents. I suppose I was named after my grandfather, then..."
"It's my job to find this information, Potter," Draco says. "It's very common for people to be unaware of their family's history. For example, Astoria never knew..." He trails off. "Shall we take the portkey back, then?"
Harry's rather curious about the end of that sentence, but he acquiesces. They take the portkey back to the main foyer. Harry looks up at the domed ceiling overhead, marvelling at the size of the building. "So, this is the Library of Magic, then."
Draco nods. "Every book in the foyer leads to a particular collection," he says, gesturing to the portkey.
"It must be massive, though. How do they hide it from the Muggles?"
"I don't know. It was built in the eleventh century. Very ancient magic, probably breaking every rule of space and time. Then again," Draco adds, "it's not that hard to believe when you think about those smartphones. All the knowledge in the world, kept in your pocket...what are you smiling about?"
"You read the book," Harry says, feeling absurdly happy.
"Of course I did," Draco snaps.
"So," Harry says, changing the subject, "is this where you do all your research?"
Draco nods. "Sometimes I can borrow items — I've got a copy of the Domesday Book at the moment, but I'll have to return it soon."
"Can't you just buy a copy?"
Draco raises his eyebrows. "A full and complete copy of the Wizarding Domesday costs nearly a thousand galleons."
Harry's aghast. "What! For that price, I hope the book's made of solid gold and turns into a pet phoenix once you've finished with it."
Draco grins a little. "You can get annotated copies for cheaper," he amends, "but the nineteenth-century Wattleworth Press edition is regarded as the best and most definitive version."
Of course, Draco would only want the best. Harry shakes his head and steps into the fireplace.
"Malfoy Manor," he says clearly, stepping into the flames.
Once more he's whisked away, landing in the sunroom hearth. A second later, he remembers — too late — that Draco is following, and the next thing he knows he's tangled up with displeased Draco.
"First time using the Floo or something?" Draco demands, climbing over him and brushing the soot from his robes. "Honestly, Potter."
"I forgot!"
"You forgot I was right there? How could you just forget?"
"You're quite right, I don't know what I was thinking. Your presence is impossible to forget, with the amount of whinging that you do."
"You're worse. Your voice sounds like a Blast-Ended Skrewt being pushed into a wine bottle."
"Yours sounds like someone just trod on a peacock. One of those ugly little albino peacocks your father was so fond of."
"Ugly little peacocks? I'll have you know they cost a hundred galleons each."
"Should've saved your money and bought some garden gnomes."
"Why not? I hear they have little Harry Potter gnomes now, complete with tiny spectacles and a gormless expression."
They make their way to the kitchen, still bickering, but Draco prepares a pot of tea and Harry interprets it as a truce.
"I've got to finish up a couple of other projects," Draco says as he sits opposite Harry, handing him a cup of tea, "so your family tree will have to wait. Don't expect it to be completed quickly."
"That's fine." Across the table, Harry spots the copy of the Domesday Book. "Don't you get sick of looking at records?"
"I quite like it." Draco hesitates, glancing downwards slightly, and Harry's started to recognise it as a sign that Draco is about to reveal something personal. "They're like riddles. Puzzles, and I have to find all the pieces."
"It's why I became an Auror. Every case is a puzzle."
"I'm a puzzle?" Draco says it in jest, one eyebrow raised, but Harry says nothing for a long moment. He traces a long burn mark across the unpolished wood of the table, then looks up.
"Earlier, you said Astoria never knew something about her family history. What was it?"
Draco looks at him, then glances down at the table, his hands resting against the warmth of the teacup. "It's nothing," he says, and Harry can hear the finality in his voice. Perhaps Draco remembered to whom he was speaking; perhaps he regrets sharing such personal thoughts and memories. Harry glances up, catching sight of the freshly-painted ceiling, and suddenly recalls Scorpius's words regarding his father's renovations.
"Getting rid of all the ghosts," he echoes.
Draco tilts his head slightly, an almost-nod of agreement.
James stands atop the hill, gazing down at the students milling around the train station below. An early summer rain has come, sending silvery rain falling upon the tall, green grass. There's a patch of daffodils growing near James's feet and he looks disconsolately at the butter-coloured petals.
Time to leave.
He slowly descends the hill, walking the meandering stone path until he's reached the centre of Hogsmeade and then the station platform. All around him, students are sharing heartfelt goodbyes.
James boards the train slowly, dragging his luggage behind him. Most students are still on the platform, chatting excitedly before they board. He sits in an empty compartment, gets out his latest comic and tries to read it. Soon, footsteps constantly patter past, along with the clatter of luggage and snatches of conversation.
"Honestly, who does she think she is? I don't..."
"...pick us up at nine o'clock sharp, so don't..."
"...just a few Canary Creams and he gave me a detention…"
Each time, James glances up; he tries to keep reading but ends up re-reading the same sentence seven times. Just as he's about to toss the comic aside, footsteps stop at the compartment door and someone pulls it open.
"Hello."
James looks up. Nate is looking at him, Martin and Paul behind him.
"Hello," he says, but even he can hear the disappointment in his voice.
"Mind if we sit?" Nate asks, and James shrugs.
"Go ahead."
"Thanks." He sits on the opposite seat, along with Martin; Paul sits next to James.
"Listen," Paul says, looking nervously at the others, "we just wanted...we wanted to say we're sorry. I suppose we haven't exactly been very kind, even though I still think it was horrible of you to yell at us like that — "
James straightens up, feeling defensive, but Martin speaks then.
"I've been thinking a lot about it," he says quietly. "And...well...you're right. About what you said. I suppose it's all you ever hear about the war, isn't it — what your parents tell you, I mean. And it's easy to sort of, you know, get a little angry at people. Even people who didn't really have anything to do with it."
"What we're trying to say," Nate says earnestly, "is that we're honestly sorry about the whole business, and we'd like to be friends again."
James can't afford to be turning down offers of friendship, but he's still mad about what he lost and he thinks for a long moment before he shakes his head.
"I don't think so," he says. Paul and Martin look crestfallen; Nate nods.
"Well," he says, "maybe next year, then."
"Maybe," James allows.
They all nod at him and wish him a good summer before leaving. Not soon after, Rose and Teddy appear.
"Look at you, slumped there like a dead bumblebee," Teddy says theatrically, throwing the door open and immediately launching himself at James. James, caught by surprise, puts up a spirited fight but quickly resigns himself to being held in a headlock for a few moments, his hair being ferociously ruffled.
"Go away," he groans. "Haven't you got friends to bother?"
"I'd much rather annoy my noodle-limbed cousin."
"I'm taking the window seat," Rose tells Teddy, and they immediately start bickering.
"Merlin, save me from days like this," James mutters.
Secretly, though, he's grateful for their company.
Harry's pleased to see his son again, but there seems to be something different about him. Something's changed, Harry thinks. After they arrive home from the train station, James disappears upstairs to unpack and doesn't reappear again until dinnertime.
"Didn't know you were that interested in astronomy," Harry teases as James pores over an Astronomy book, absently eating forkfuls of peas as he turns the pages. "Thought you said stars were just balls of gas in the sky."
James makes an indistinct noise and turns another page. Harry frowns. Normally, that'd be the cue for James to excitedly chatter about the subject. Is it just the oncoming teenager years, taking away James's habit of constant chatter?
He studies his son. James, he realises, looks miserable.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing." James turns another page; Harry, worried at the sudden distance between them, reads the heading of the page upside-down.
"Studying Saturn, hey?" he asks, trying to draw James into conversation. "On a clear night, you can see it without a telescope. It's one of the brightest planets."
"But you can't see the moons," James says.
"No, you can't."
James stares down at the diagram in the book, then slowly pushes his plate away.
"You haven't eaten much," Harry says.
"Yeah." James carries his plate to the sink, then picks up his book and goes upstairs.
Harry sighs.
He spends the rest of the night in the study, going through his notes for an upcoming surveillance project. Just as he's about to finally go to bed, an owl taps at the window. Harry glances up, then grins and collects the parcel from the owl before going to the fireplace and flinging a handful of Floo powder into the flames.
"Malfoy Manor," he says clearly, stepping into the green flames, and a few seconds later he lands in the sunroom fireplace, toppling over and falling across the grate. "Ouch," he mutters, standing up and dusting soot from his robes. He hears hurried footsteps; a second later, Draco's appeared in the doorway, his wand aloft.
"Potter! What are you doing?" he hisses. "It's nearly midnight!"
"Oh, is it really?" Harry asks with surprise. "Sorry, I completely lost track of time. Did I wake you up?"
"No, I was in the kitchen, and — but that's not the point! And Scorpius is a very light sleeper, if you've woken him up — so help me — "
"Father?" As if hearing Draco's words, a rumpled Scorpius has appeared by his father's side. He spots Harry and shrinks back. "What's he doing here?"
"I'm just dropping off something for your father," Harry says.
"Go back to bed," Draco tells Scorpius, but he shakes his head firmly. Draco turns and gives Harry an angry look.
"It's all right," Harry says, trying to catch Scorpius's eye and smile reassuringly. "You can come along too. Shall we go to the kitchen?"
Draco leads the way. Once they're in the kitchen, Scorpius sits at the end of the table and observes both Harry and his father, an air of anxiety still about him.
"Please don't tell me you've arrived at midnight to give me paperwork, of all things," Draco says curtly, pouring himself a cup of tea.
"Sort of." Harry still feels terrible about waking Scorpius up; he hadn't really thought of that when he Floo'd. "I really should've left it until tomorrow, but it only just arrived and — well, I'm a bit impatient like that." He pushes a parcel across the table.
"What's that?" Draco asks suspiciously.
"Something for you."
"A present?" Scorpius suddenly asks. Harry turns to look at him.
"Well — yes. A present."
"Open it," Scorpius urges his father, and Draco gives him a look of slight amusement. He reaches for the parcel, slowly untying the string, and stares down at the item inside. The letters gleam across the leather cover of the book. The Complete Wizarding Domesday Book, Volumes I and II. Draco flips the cover open; there's a small stamp of a wattle branch on the first page, with Wattleworth Press in neat lettering beneath it.
"I want to read it," Scorpius says, and Draco looks amused.
"You want to read everything." But he hands the book over; Scorpius turns to the first page and immediately begins intently reading it. Draco glances at Harry, frowning.
"You didn't have to buy it."
"I know." Harry tries to say it as a joke, but Draco doesn't smile.
"Why did you, then?"
Now it's Harry's turns to look away. He glances down at the table and traces a pattern in a whorl of wood. "Well...I..." Why did he? It just seemed a bit of a joke at the time; he really hadn't put much thought into it. "Thought it'd be handy," he says. Draco waits, one eyebrow slightly raised, as if awaiting the punchline. A silence stretches on. "That's...that's it," Harry says awkwardly.
"You bought a thousand galleon book," Draco says slowly, "because you thought it might be handy?"
"Yes," Harry says resolutely.
"You're mental, you do know that?" Draco says conversationally.
Harry rolls his eyes. "You're welcome."
Scorpius looks up from the book, glancing from Harry to Draco, and then he closes the book.
"I'm tired," he says to Draco. "I'm going to bed."
"All right," Draco says. "Would you like the Lumos spell for your wand?"
To light the way back to bed, Harry realises. He used to do the same for James when he was little, except he used a different spell, and now he speaks before he can really think about it.
"Would you like something a little brighter?" Harry asks Scorpius, and Scorpius suddenly looks at him with complete attention.
"A new spell?" he says eagerly.
"Scorpius loves to learn new charms," Draco says.
"Really? Well, watch this," Harry tells Scorpius, drawing his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"
Within seconds, the stag is standing proudly by the table, illuminating the room with its white-blue glow. Scorpius gazes at it with an awestruck expression.
"What is it?" Scorpius asks.
"A Patronus. They're made from happy memories. You'll learn about them later," Harry says. Scorpius approaches the stag and hesitantly moves his hand towards it. The stag tilts its head, as if trying to nudge Scorpius. "Just walk," Harry says, "and it will go with you."
Scorpius takes a few steps forward and the stag immediately follows him, keeping pace. Scorpius looks at his father, his eyes bright.
"I'll learn this one day," he says. Then he turns and leaves, the soft blue glow of the stag disappearing with him.
Harry suddenly remembers the furious look Draco gave him earlier, when Scorpius first appeared, and prepares himself for a vitriolic lecture. However, Draco just gives him a look of mild annoyance.
"I don't appreciate you arriving in the middle of the night," Draco says. "Especially waking Scorpius — "
"I know," Harry says quickly. "I honestly didn't think about it."
"Typical of you." Draco looks away. "However, I'll consider overlooking your error. Mostly because you've impressed Scorpius."
Harry suddenly remembers Scorpius's friendship with James. Visiting a friend, he thinks, would definitely cheer James up. "Listen," he says, "James seems to be feeling a little down, and I thought maybe I could bring him with me next visit."
Draco shrugs. "I don't see why not."
"I'll see you next week, then."
"Next week."
Harry turns and makes his way back to the sunroom, the green flames of the Floo reflecting brightly along the large windows, glittering and flickering like ghosts.
Draco thinks Scorpius would also benefit from a visit from a friend; though he doesn't seem unhappy, he's certainly spending a lot of time in the gardens, reading alone, and he seems a little quieter than normal. On the Wednesday of Harry and James's scheduled visit, Scorpius arrives back from one such reading session in the gardens, grass stains on his robes, and Draco looks at him in dismay just as the wards vibrate.
"Visitors?" Scorpius asks, looking surprised.
"One for you, one for me." Draco studies Scorpius, then sighs. "Go upstairs and change your robes."
Scorpius nods and disappears to his room. Draco goes to the door and when he opens it, he's greeted with a pleasant smile from Harry and a look of terror from James.
"Afternoon," Harry says by way of greeting. "I've got some paperwork to discuss with you. James, run along and play with Scorpius."
James hides behind his father. Draco can't figure it out. The boy — previously appearing to be a confident and rather energetic child — now shuffles quickly behind Harry like a shy five-year-old. Harry, evidently equally puzzled by the behaviour, gives James a slight push into the hall.
"Go on," he says.
"I — can't I stay here with you?" James asks plaintively.
"No. I brought you here to spend time with your friend," Harry says. "I want to have a cup of tea and a bit of peace and quiet."
James gives Draco a look. "Hello," he says, politely but with a faint trace of apprehension.
"Hello," Draco says, still a little bewildered. "Scorpius is in his room." James stands there, unmoving. "You can go upstairs," Draco adds.
"Now, preferably." Harry says, a little less tactful than Draco.
James, at last, shakes his head violently. "I can't!" he blurts out.
"Why not? Off you go," Harry says, but James just looks even more unhappy.
"I can't. We had an awful row! Scorpius won't even talk to me."
"Then go say sorry and shake hands," Harry says, unperturbed. Draco speaks up, slightly defensive about James's last sentence.
"Scorpius isn't the sort to make a fuss over nothing," he says a little sharply. "I'm sure if you apologise, he'll be happy to be friends again."
Harry looks at Draco, and for a moment, Draco thinks Harry will make a sharp retort. However, Harry gives James a small nudge.
"Go on, then," he says, and James walks very slowly to the stairs and begins ascending them, reluctance in his every step.
"Children," Harry says wearily as soon as James is out of earshot. "They're twelve, what could they possibly argue about?"
"I don't know, we found a lot of things to argue about," Draco points out, shutting the door behind Harry. They both automatically start making their way to the kitchen.
"That's different. You're talking about schoolyard rivalry. I'm talking about a falling-out between friends. First time I had a major argument with any of my friends, it wasn't until fourth year."
"Was it?" Draco asks with interest. He always thought Harry and his friends were sickeningly sweet to each other. "Granger, wasn't it?" Some quarrel over homework, he'd wager.
Harry shakes his head. "Ron," he says regretfully. Draco's eyebrows rise with surprise.
"And what exactly did you argue about?"
"Mind your own business," Harry says, and switches topics. "Anyway, I wasn't kidding about the paperwork. You've got to update all your contact details."
"Nothing's changed."
"Oh, that covers everything then." Harry rolls his eyes. "You need to sign it, at least. Technically, the — " He stops dead in his tracks; Draco pauses and turns around.
"What?"
"What — what have you done to the kitchen?"
"Oh, this?" Draco says casually; he'd actually forgotten about the state of the kitchen. It had been a place designed for mass cooking, with long workbenches notched by years of knifework and a stone floor scraped and scratched from past house elves dragging things about. Draco had decided that it most certainly required an update.
In any case, kitchen renovations turned out to be trickier than he'd first imagined. He'd attempted a number of spells listed in the renovation spellbook and ended up having far too much fun with Incendio. The kitchen is currently a half-destroyed mess, counters reduced to piles of splinters and half the stone floor in fragments.
"I liked it in here," Harry says with horror.
"In winter, perhaps, when it had a fire lit and you couldn't see the full horror of it," Draco says critically. "I have plans."
"You always have plans. Speaking of which, if you've stolen The Strand from me…"
They fall into half-hearted bickering as if it's an old routine. Draco makes a pot of tea and sends it upstairs with a wave of his wand; they catch up to the tea-tray once they've made their way to the study. Their Monopoly game has been set up by the fireplace, on a small side-table, but Harry's immediately distracted by the reams of parchment on the desk.
"You've found out more about the Evans?" he asks keenly.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? You've got a few other Muggleborns in your family," Draco says. And, minutes later, they're both poring over the long parchment, Draco explaining things while Harry nods and asks questions.
It's almost a frighteningly normal routine.
James walks slowly up the stairs, feeling inexplicably nervous. He'd been thrilled when Harry had announced a 'surprise visit' and had happily taken the portkey. Once the manor had come into sight, however, Harry practically had to drag James up the driveway. James had tried to come up with a million excuses to go home, but Harry hadn't accepted any of them.
He steps onto the landing and turns down the hallway.
Scorpius is walking along it.
He's at the far end of the hallway, and he's busy buttoning up a set of robes and not paying any attention to where he's going. James waits for what feels like an eternity; Scorpius, still looking down at his robes and fumbling with the buttons, doesn't look up until he's a few feet away.
He stares at James, one hand still raised to the top button, other hand by his side. The silence goes on, until it's nearly too much to bear, and James is about to say something himself. Then Scorpius speaks.
"What are you doing here?"
He asked that same question six months ago, at Christmastime. When the manor's gardens were dusted with snow and roses of ice, and James's face was red with cold. Visiting you, of course, James had replied, and Scorpius had smiled at him.
"My — my father's here," James says, looking away and wincing at how awkward he sounds.
"I don't want you here."
"I'm sorry." James stares fixedly at his feet, still unable to look up.
"Leave me alone." The chilliness hasn't left Scorpius's voice.
"I said I'm sorry! Look...can't we just...start again? Things can be different this time...I feel horrible about everything, and...and..." It's always been difficult for James to admit weakness; others are always chasing him, begging for a scrap of friendship, not the other way around. "I miss you," he mutters. "Can't we just be friends again?"
"You're only friends with Gryffindors."
James looks up then, feeling hurt and angry. "Stop saying that," he says. "Do you have to be so stubborn? I'm trying to apologise! It's just a stupid argument — friends have arguments all the time! I already feel bad about it, and you're just making it worse! You're my friend, and — "
"I am not your friend!" Scorpius retorts, and at last, real emotion flits across his face — genuine anger.
"Are too! We made a promise!"
"You broke it!"
"I couldn't help it! I told you, my friends made me — "
"They didn't make you do anything! You're a coward, and a liar, and you're not my friend!" Scorpius is shouting now.
"Don't you dare call me a coward and a liar!"
"You are! You should be ashamed of all the lies you tell people!"
James is flushed with outrage; lost in his anger, he says the next words unthinkingly. "You're the one who should be ashamed — I'd rather be a coward or a liar than the son of a Death Eater!"
Scorpius doesn't retort. The silence seems a thousand times worse than their raised voices. They stand there for a moment, and then Scorpius speaks.
"Don't," he says, but his voice cracks halfway through the word and he pauses before speaking again. "Don't come near me. Ever again. If you try, I'll hex you."
"Scorpius, I — "
"I mean it." Scorpius draws his wand and points it at James. "Stay away from me." He looks at James, his face pale, and then he turns and disappears around the corner; a few moments later, James hears a door closing.
For some inexplicable reason, he wishes Scorpius had slammed it.
"You're such a liar."
Draco waves a hand dismissively. "You're too paranoid, that's your problem."
"It's not paranoia, Malfoy, when you've miraculously acquired two property sets." Harry's eyes are narrowed with suspicion.
"Oh, come on. You've got one set, and I haven't accused you of sneaking money from the bank to buy them."
"I've got the worst set! Whitechapel and Old Kent! They're worth nothing. And I swear I had an extra five-hundred pounds. Went missing about the same time I went to make more tea, actually."
The problem with Harry, Draco muses, isn't that he's paranoid. Quite the contrary, really. He's far too trusting.
He rolls the dice, begins to move his piece, then notices Harry's battleship sitting on Mayfair. "Potter! That's rent! You owe me a thousand pounds!"
"Too late, you already rolled the dice." Harry's grinning. Draco growls.
"You're annoyingly Slytherin sometimes, do you know that?"
"Must be spending too much time around you."
Draco opens his mouth to respond, but never does; right then, the study door opens and James appears. Draco frowns; the boy looks pale and unhappy. Harry glances up, his smile fading as he sees his son.
"James? Something wrong?"
"Can we go home? Please?"
"Don't you want to spend some time with Scorpius?" Harry asks; James shakes his head mutely and Harry exchanges a glance with Draco. "Well," Harry says, in tones of slightly weary patience, "I'm in the middle of a game right now."
James's gaze falls to the Monopoly board. "That game takes ages, Dad," he pleads. "Can we just leave?"
"Have you said goodbye to Scorpius?" Harry asks. "Go say goodbye, I'll finish my turn."
James shakes his head again.
"No?" Harry's taken aback. "James, are you really going to pick an argument over this?"
"I don't want an argument!"
And to Draco's horror, James immediately bursts into tears. Harry, looking alarmed, stands up and turns to Draco.
"I'd better take him home and sort this out," he says. "See you Wednesday?"
"All right."
Harry puts a hand on James's shoulder and guides him out the door.
"What's all this about, then?" he asks his son softly, but their footsteps are quickly fading and Draco doesn't hear James's reply.
Soon as Harry and James have left, Draco frowns and stands up, making his way upstairs. He knocks twice on Scorpius's door.
"Scorpius?" he calls quietly, and he hears a faint tap followed by a whispered Alohomora. The door opens. "You're not supposed to perform magic out of school," Draco reprimands gently.
"I know." Scorpius looks down at his feet. He looks upset, Draco thinks with concern.
"Did James do something?" he asks, but Scorpius shakes his head.
"We had an argument." Scorpius folds his hands in his lap, his signal for I'm not going to talk about it. "He's not my friend anymore."
"You don't want him to visit again?"
"No."
"And Harry?" Draco asks. Clearly James and Scorpius have had a row of sorts — Draco's not overly alarmed, he'd had plenty of dramatic arguments with Pansy and Theo in his childhood years — but if Scorpius doesn't want Harry to visit either...Draco will have to explain that Harry must visit, it's part of Draco's probation.
Fortunately, however, Scorpius nods.
"Harry can visit."
Draco sits beside Scorpius and changes the subject. "Would you like to play a game of backgammon?" he asks; it's one of Scorpius's favourites. Draco has a stack of newly-arrived letters from various historians, awaiting reply, the gaps in the family trees ready to fill, but he wants to spend some time with his son.
Scorpius nods and fetches the game.
Harry wonders what on earth happened between James and Scorpius. He'd asked James when they left the manor, but James had been too upset to say anything and as soon as Harry arrived home, he was immediately called into a conference at work.
"I'm sorry," Harry had told James. "But I have to go to this debriefing. We'll talk later."
But the conference had taken far longer than expected, and Harry had arrived home some time after midnight, when James had already gone to bed.
The next time he visits Draco, he wonders if he should ask about it. But surely it's just a quarrel over nothing, he decides, and there's no point bringing it up again. Instead, he tries to remember the real purpose of his visits and keep it strictly businesslike. He conducts a wandcheck, much to Draco's apparent annoyance, and writes down the spells performed, then asks the standard questions.
"Any contact with family or friends?" he asks Draco as they sit in the study, the file open across the desk between them.
Draco doesn't look too impressed with Harry's efforts to return their meetings to a more professional manner. "What family or friends?" he asks. "That's not sarcasm, Potter. That's a genuine question."
"Do you really need specifics? Fine. Theo..." Harry trails off, staring at the name in the file. Deceased. Blaise Zabini. Deceased. Millicent Bulstrode. Deceased. "Er...Pansy Parkinson."
Draco levels him with an incredulous look. Harry rapidly retreats.
"All right, yes, no contact then," he says, scribbling madly just to seem busy. "Changed any contact details recently?"
"No."
"Right." Harry closes the file, then stares at the desk beneath his hands. There's tiny scratching across it, he realises, from years of people writing on thin parchment. He can actually read a few words.
My dear son…
He wonders who wrote those words. Lucius, or Draco? Countless letters sent to Hogwarts, bringing news both bad and good throughout the years…
Footsteps. He turns around. Scorpius stands in the doorway.
"Hello, Scorpius," Harry says. "I was just leaving." He stands up, then studies Scorpius for a moment. "You know," he says, "you've probably heard it a thousand times, but you look so much like your father."
Scorpius looks at his father, then back to Harry. "Do I?"
Harry nods. "Do you think James and I are alike?" It's an impulsive question, one he hadn't meant to ask. Scorpius frowns and tilts his head, as if trying to remember something.
"My father has the Dark Mark on his wrist," Scorpius says at last. Harry, thrown by the unrelated remark, blinks and looks at Draco. Draco looks caught between surprise and horror at Scorpius's comment.
"I know," Harry says.
"Oh."
"I don't think Harry wants to talk about the Dark Mark," Draco intervenes quickly.
"No, it's all right," Harry says. "It's just a scar, isn't it? I've got a few of those I don't particularly like either."
There's a short silence, then Draco holds out his hand. Harry looks at it blankly for a moment before reaching out and accepting it.
"See you next Wednesday," Draco says, shaking hands only once before letting go.
"Next Wednesday," Harry echoes.
Scorpius looks at his father, then at Harry, and follows them silently to the front door. As Harry turns the handle, Scorpius speaks.
"I don't think you and James are alike."
"Oh," Harry says with disappointment. He'd like to think James looks a little like him — that tousled mop of black hair, at least.
Regardless, he smiles at Scorpius and leaves.
Chapter 9: Nobody, Nowhere
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius begin their second year — James and Harry begin to argue — James tries out for the swim team.
Chapter Text
For Draco, the summer seems to fly past. He takes Scorpius to the National Wizarding Archives and Scorpius absolutely adores it. He likes a trip to the planetarium, too, and the zoo. He discovers the book Harry sent Draco, the one about Muggle technology, and reads it over and over before demanding trips to London to visit the Science Museum. Scorpius is enthralled, tugging Draco from exhibition to exhibition, marvelling over interactive displays and asking Draco endless questions. They visit the Natural History Museum and, more specifically, its butterfly house. Scorpius seems entranced by the hundreds of butterflies flitting around him.
Draco can't begrudge Scorpius any of it. He's just happy to finally see Scorpius as he always imagined him to be — a bright and intelligent boy, full of natural curiosity for the world around him.
Of course, Scorpius spends plenty of time hiding in the manor gardens with a good book. But those moments are good, too; some of Draco's favourite memories become lazy summer afternoons with Scorpius curled up in the arms of an ancient apple tree, reading books while beneath the soothing shade of the branches, Draco idly flips through his Domesday Book
The smell of summer — of cloudless blue weather, of crushed lavender and bright wildflowers — seems to become forever trapped between the pages of Harry's gift.
The thirty-first of August arrives far too quickly.
It's a leisurely evening at the manor. Summer has lingered this year and the evening is mild and balmy. A faint breeze picks up leaves and petals, sending them skimming across the gardens and through the open doors. Draco completed a number of genealogy projects over the summer and had been paid handsomely for his efforts; as a result, the renovations have hastened. The manor has opened up. Walls have been removed; windows installed; skylights placed in strategic areas. Together with the freshly-painted walls, the manor has taken on a distinctly light and airy feel. Of course, it's a long way from finished and many rooms are still filled with dust and cursed antiques, but it's a start.
"Packed yet?" Draco asks Scorpius after dinner.
Scorpius feeds Pan a crumb from his plate. "Not yet."
So they go to his room, and Draco waits patiently by the trunk as Scorpius chooses what to take and what to leave.
"Only ten books," Draco says preemptively, noticing the calculating expression Scorpius is giving the bookshelf.
"Textbooks included?
Draco relents. "No."
Scorpius lights up as if it's Christmas and immediately sets about choosing his favourite books. After the books, everything else seems like an after-thought; Draco ends up packing all the clothes, if only to make sure Scorpius has any at all, while Scorpius pores over other items. He selects a collection of objects, a few Muggle puzzles that Draco bought him from the museums as souvenirs, and lastly, the telescope Draco had given him for his birthday.
"You can't take that."
"I'll shrink it."
"And then what'll you do when it's full size again? Everyone in your dormitory will trip over it."
"No they won't," Scorpius says stubbornly. "I've got the bed nearest the window, I'll just put it there. Besides, I'm a member of the Astronomy Club. I've got to have a telescope."
"You can use the ones in the Astronomy Tower."
"All right," Scorpius says, but his expression is mournful and Draco finds himself conceding defeat.
"You can pack it, then, but I don't want to hear any complaints about it being broken or lost." I'm spoiling him, he thinks, but he can't help it. Besides, in his opinion Scorpius deserves to be spoiled.
Soon enough, everything is packed. The trunk is levitated downstairs, ready by the front door; alarms are set, robes are cleaned and pressed and laid at the foot of Scorpius's bed.
They while away the rest of the evening in the library. Draco works on the Evans family tree while Scorpius reads a book on botany, interrupting Draco's work every now and again with an interesting fact or two.
It's a quiet evening, filled with comfortable silences and lazy page-turning, and Draco couldn't think of a better way to spend it.
For Harry and James, the evening is spent in a wild rush of haphazard packing and frantic searching.
"Where's my Charms project?" James demands as he upends the drawers of the hallway credenza.
"In your mess of a room, no doubt," Harry says with exasperation, rescuing a stack of photographs from James's wrathful searching. "I told you a hundred times to clean it up over summer — "
"Well, there's no use lecturing me about it now," James snaps, and Harry frowns.
"Don't talk to me like that, James. And be careful! That vase was a gift from Andromeda."
"So?" James retorts, setting the vase aside rather carelessly. "It's ugly, anyway."
"You are behaving very childishly," Harry says warningly.
"It's not in here!" James dumps the drawer on the ground, then disappears into the living room.
"James! You've left this hallway a complete mess — "
"I'll clean it up later!" James shouts angrily from the living room. "I was working on that stupid Charms project all summer, I bet you've thrown it out!"
Harry groans and walks to the living room. "I have not thrown out any of your school projects, James. You need to start being more organised — "
"Ugh, stop lecturing me!" James grabs a handful of books from the shelves and angrily throws them across the floor. Harry has had enough. He crosses the room.
"You're far too old for tantrums, James Sirius Potter," he says, taking ahold of James's arm to prevent any more books being thrown. "Go to your room, and I don't want to hear another peep out of you until you've calmed down."
James shakes him away, a murderous expression on his face, but nevertheless he stomps from the room.
"Fine! I'll go to my room, and I'll never come back out! Then you'll be happy!" James shouts as he leaves.
Harry listens to James storm upstairs. A few seconds later, there's the unmistakeable bang of the attic door slamming shut. Harry flinches, then slowly exhales. His shoulders slump.
James has been moody all summer. Oh, sometimes everything seems fine — James can spend whole days or weeks in a good mood, enjoying visits to Diagon Alley and trips to London, and he especially seemed to enjoy their brief trip across the Channel, to France.
But his moods change quicker than the London weather and rainclouds rapidly gather on the horizon. Sometimes James seems downright melancholy and spends his nights in the fields, stargazing. Sometimes — like tonight — he seems petulant and childish, losing his temper over the slightest things and refusing to listen to reason.
Is it normal? Is this just what it's like, having a teenager? Harry winces at the thought of dealing with this for the next five years.
He sighs and slowly places the books back onto the shelves.
James kicks a toy snitch across his room; it rattles along the floorboards before becoming caught in the corner of the rug. He huffs and gives it another kick for good measure.
It's no use. The anger is already fading, to be replaced with guilt. He slumps onto his bed and sighs, thinking regretfully of the way he'd snapped at his father.
He hadn't meant to. He'd just gotten fed up looking for that stupid project, and he still has to pack everything, but it's nine o'clock at night and they leave early tomorrow. And Harry had kept reminding James to pack, but he just kept procrastinating, and if he asks his father for help now then Harry will want to know why James left it so late, and…
James picks up the snitch and looks at it. Quidditch trials will be held this year, and this time he'll be allowed to try out.
Everyone knows your dad was the youngest Seeker…
Best one on the team…
Won every Quidditch Cup, I heard…
Truth be told, James isn't even that interested in Quidditch.
He should've practised more over summer, he thinks worriedly, instead of spending all his time at the local swimming pool. Maybe he could have asked Harry for Quidditch coaching. He could've given James some good advice about how to catch the snitch.
Or how to make friends. Harry has not even one, but two best friends. And countless more — there's Neville Longbottom, the hero who killed Nagini. Or Luna, the girl abducted by Death Eaters and imprisoned for months because of her family's outspoken support for Harry. Or Seamus Finnegan, who helped train Dumbledore's Army in his seventh year, or Dean Thomas who returned to Hogwarts to join the battle even though he had no wand.
Friends like that.
"I don't want to go back to Hogwarts," James whispers, testing the words aloud. Maybe he can stay here, in this endless summer, and he can forget all about the first year…
There's a knock at the door. James blinks quickly and sits up straight.
"Yeah?"
Harry pushes the hatch open and slowly ascends the ladder into the attic. "Supper's downstairs."
Guilt nibbles at James's heart again. He looks down at the snitch in his hand. "Right." He pauses. "Thanks."
Harry sighs and takes off his spectacles, rubbing at his eyes. James suddenly thinks of how tired his father looks.
"James," Harry says, crossing the room to sit beside him. "If something's wrong, you know you can always tell me."
"Yes. I just...it's nothing. Just...annoyed about my Charms project."
"That's all? There's nothing else?" He speaks so earnestly that James nearly squirms.
"No," he lies.
"Is it something to do with your row with Scorpius Malfoy? You've been in a mood ever since then," Harry says, and James looks up, startled.
"Why would I be bothered about a silly little fight with him?"
"All right," Harry says warily. "Didn't mean to imply otherwise. Just...I don't like seeing you upset. I know something's the matter."
"It's fine. I'm perfectly all right." James hates to see his father looking sad, and he tries his best to fix things. "Just been a little stressed about homework this summer, that's all. D'you want to help me pack all my stuff?"
That does the trick. Harry smiles. "Safe to assume you haven't packed a single thing?"
"Not even a sock," James says shamelessly, and Harry laughs.
"Come on then. I'll help you after supper."
Feeling just a little better, James trails Harry downstairs.
The second time Draco has to farewell his son at King's Cross Station, he thinks it will be easier.
But it's not.
They stand near the wall portal to Platform 9¾. Scorpius is looking rather stoic, his luggage neatly stacked beside him and Pan in his pocket. She pokes her head out, looking around sleepily.
"You shouldn't keep it in your robes," Draco says. "It'll chew holes in your pocket."
"No, she won't." Scorpius gently pats the rat; her eyes drift close. "She'll go to sleep soon, anyway. Rats are nocturnal."
Draco gives him a look. "I'm already putting in an order at Madam Malkin's." He glances at the wall, noticing a family disappearing through it. "Shall you go through?" he asks, recalling how Scorpius left by himself at Christmas.
Scorpius nods, but then he pauses and reaches into his pocket — the one not currently containing a sleepy rat — and takes out a camera. Draco recognises it as an old camera, belonging to Narcissa; Scorpius had found it during the summer renovations and wanted to play with it.
"Could we take a picture?" he says hesitantly. "Of us, I mean."
"Oh." Draco looks around, wondering if he should ask someone to take the photograph. He doesn't particularly fancy asking a stranger for a favour.
But, as ever, Harry Potter comes to his rescue.
"Hey, Malfoy," Harry calls out, wandering over. "Haven't seen the Weasleys anywhere, have you? James saw his cousins twenty minutes ago, just outside the station, and they all wandered off chatting to each other. Haven't found them since."
"Maybe they're driving to Hogwarts," Draco says archly, and Harry stares at him blankly for a long moment before his eyebrows rise with surprise.
"Did you...you actually remember that?" Harry asks. "Merlin, you have a memory like a pensieve. Oh, you have no idea."
"I have some idea. Professor Sprout said the Whomping Willow needed therapy for weeks."
"It needed therapy? You should've seen me and Ron! I got very close to being The Boy Who Lived to be Killed by a Tree."
"That," Draco says, unable to stop himself from smiling (and failing that, trying to turn it into a smirk), "would have been a very interesting footnote in the history books."
"It's like you enjoy re-living all my worst moments," Harry says conversationally. "You don't see me bringing up first year in the forest, do you? That first detention we had together? You were terrified of everything, and if I recall correctly, you shrieked like a banshee and fled as soon as you heard a noise."
"Then I'm afraid you don't recall correctly."
Harry just grins.
"Speaking of memories," Draco says, suddenly remembering Scorpius standing patiently beside him, "could you take a picture of us?"
"Oh, you and Scorpius? Sure." Harry takes the offered camera. "Stand up straight, Scorpius, you must've had a growth spurt over summer, you look almost like a third year. Oh, is that your pet rat? Make sure it's in the picture too, then."
Scorpius straightens up — secretly proud of Harry's observation that he might pass for a third year, Draco thinks — and at Harry's mention of Pan, he removes her from his pocket and perches her on his shoulder. Unexpectedly, he laughs as the rat sniffs at his ear.
"The whiskers tickle," Scorpius explains to his father.
A flash of a bulb. Harry lowers the camera.
"Has your rat got a name?" he asks Scorpius, handing the camera back to Draco.
"Pan."
"What, like pots and pans?"
"No," Scorpius says, smiling faintly. "Pan, after the second moon of Saturn. Everyone in my family is named after stars and moons."
"I know someone named after a star," Harry says, but then he pauses and his smile fades. Scorpius waits and somehow, Draco senses, Harry feels obliged to say more. "Sirius."
"The dog star," Draco says, and Harry turns to frown at him. "It's a nickname for it," Draco adds.
"You know the constellation Draco," Scorpius says. "And my own name is a constellation too."
"Well," Harry says, "I suppose you're right. I know three people now, named after stars." He smiles at Scorpius, then glances past him. "Oh, I think just spotted a Weasley. I'll see you later," he tells Draco, before turning to Scorpius. "Have a good year, Scorpius. Hope you enjoy it." And with that, he's gone.
Scorpius bids his father farewell, promising to write often, before turning and stepping through the wall. Draco watches him disappear, then turns and leaves.
After he's Disapparated back to the manor, he makes himself a cup of tea. Scorpius will already be on his way to Hogwarts now, sitting in a compartment, catching up with his friends and looking forward to the new school year.
And come eventide, when the stars appear in the fading sky, Scorpius will be sitting in the Great Hall beneath a ceiling of night. All the stars, all their ancestors shining in the sky.
Draco has known darkness too well to fear it; the night steps into his heart like an old friend.
James is greeted like a celebrity. The first years stare at him with awestruck expressions; they point and nudge each other.
"His son!"
"Next best thing to meeting Harry Potter himself!"
Paul and Martin are there, chatting with great excitement about the Quidditch World Cup they both attended during the summer. Nate and Iwan are sharing stories about their travels. They're all trying very hard to be nice to him, James thinks, especially after all the nastiness of last year. Rose said they'd grow out of it, didn't she? First years, with their stupid mindsets inherited from their parents…
He glances across to the Ravenclaw table. Scorpius is there. He's talking to a sixth-year girl whom James recognises as the head of the Astronomy Club. After he finishes speaking, a Ravenclaw across from him says something and Scorpius nods. They all smile.
James stands up. "I'm going to bed," he says. Paul exchanges a confused look with Martin.
"It's barely past eight."
"I'm a little tired."
He leaves them without further explanation, only pausing to get the password from one of the prefects ('tiddlywinks') and makes his way to the common room without incident.
The common room looks exactly the same as last year. The same armchairs, the same portraits and tapestries. There's the fat tartan armchair by the fire, the same one in which James used to hold council all last year, the other first years clustered around him with awestruck expressions. And those four armchairs in the corner, where he used to scheme with the rest of the boys. Stupid schemes, he thinks with a sudden flash of contempt. Scaring the house-elves by appearing suddenly in the kitchens, or chasing suits of armour down the hall.
He goes upstairs. The second year dormitory looks exactly the same as the first years' room, except the windows have a slightly different view. Last year, James claimed the bed where he could best chat to everyone in the room. Always the centre.
He's gotten the same bed this year, apparently, but he soon fixes that. Martin has the bed by the window; James swaps their trunks. Farthest away from everyone. He begins to unpack and, after a long moment, puts a locking spell on both his trunk and his bedside table to prevent people from rifling through his things. His own fault, really, for sharing his possessions so much and telling his friends to help themselves anytime.
A sudden commotion of noise and excited chattering comes from the common room below. The feast must have properly finished. James draws the curtains around the bed and lights his wand with a whispered 'Lumos', settling down with the latest serial of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. He's a little too old for the comic now, but he used to read it every Sunday morning with his father.
James turns the page of the comic. Martin Miggs, recklessly driving his automobile, careens down a narrow mountainside. Will our mad Muggle survive? Find out next week.
If he narrows his eyes a little, it all becomes blurry. He can imagine the scene as something else. The mountain can become a house, the smell of pancake batter in the air, a woman and man talking in low voices, laughing every now and again…
"Nox."
James attends the Quidditch try-outs. His friends look at him with astonishment when he arrives on the pitch.
"You haven't got a broom," Nate says, as if pointing out that he's missing a limb.
"You forget it or something?" Paul adds.
James shakes his head. "Not trying out. I'll just watch."
They all gape at him. "Why on earth not?" Martin demands.
I'm not a Seeker. I'm not Harry Potter. I'm not anyone.
He looks away. "I want the position of Seeker," he lies. "They're not looking for new Seekers, though."
"Go on," Paul says. "I bet they'd make an exception for you."
"It's all right." He tries to smile. "Wouldn't want to get their current Seeker fired."
They all laugh then, and make jokes about how modest James is.
"Bet you could," Martin keeps saying, the others agreeing with him. "You could have any spot on the team. Just ask and they'd give it to you!"
James doesn't reply.
They go and sit in the stands. Paul is apparently trying out for the Chaser position and they cheer him on. James watches the distant figures loop and glide on their brooms. Suddenly, he wishes he was with them, soaring into the endless blue, flying on forever until he's among the stars. Skimming along the icy surface of Pluto, darting through the interstellar clouds of dust and hydrogen, looping around Saturn's moons.
His hand tightens slightly around the railing in front of him.
Paul wins the position of Chaser. They all celebrate it that night, but James retires to bed early. The swim trials will be held tomorrow. James has spent a good portion of his life in the water, with three swim practices a week, and last year had been a very long year without his swimming. He'd done his dryland conditioning, of course, but it hadn't been the same and he'd spent nearly the entire summer holidays in the pool, regaining his lost skills and strength, training like mad. He has to make the swim team.
His friends all think he's mental.
"Swimming? In the lake?"
"What if the squid eats you?"
"Won't you freeze to death?"
They nevertheless tell James they'll be there to cheer him on, until they find out the trials will be held at six-thirty in the morning.
"It has to be before breakfast," James says, but he can't really blame them for choosing a sleep-in over a crisp morning spent by the chilly lake.
Only Iwan expresses an interest in it. "I wouldn't mind swimming," he says. "It sounds fun."
"Do you train?" James asks.
"Not formally," Iwan admits.
"Best of luck," James says doubtfully before going to bed. He doesn't really know Iwan too well, anyway – he spends most of his time with his best friend, another second year Gryffindor named Claire – and he doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humour, never laughing when the boys tease him about his Welsh heritage. It's never serious, just a bit of a joke, but Iwan seems to get irritated anyway, James thinks.
He gets up early the next morning, expecting to be alone, but Iwan is already dressed. James puts his jammers on under a robe and they make their way downstairs together. Despite James's apathy towards Iwan, it's nice to have someone there with him.
"Where are we supposed to go?"
"To the pier, the notice says."
"I'm freezing."
"I know. God, I hope there's some sort of magical heating spell on the lake."
James laughs. "Yeah, right. We'll be ice cubes by the end."
They go to the pier, meeting the rest of the hopefuls: there's a medley of boys from various houses. James dismisses a few of them at once. They haven't got a swimmer's build, he thinks critically.
"Where's all the girls?" a nearby boy demands. James sizes him up. Tall, lean, with broad shoulders — definitely competition. He narrows his eyes.
"Girls had their trials yesterday. They're on a separate team," he says. "James, by the way."
"Huh? Separate? Well, that's no fun," the boy says, giving James a look up and down. Sizing him up too, James realises. "I'm Thomas," he says. "Second year. You must be first year, judging by your height."
He's trying to throw him off, James knows. "First years aren't allowed and you know it. I'm second year."
Thomas laughs. "You've got a lot of attitude."
"I take swimming seriously," James retorts. He'll be furious if he loses his place to some obnoxious boy who's only there to gawk at the girls. Maybe this Thomas will be so disappointed he'll turn around and go back to bed. Back to the Slytherin common room, if James is any judge of character. "Let me guess," he says, "Slytherin?"
"Let me guess," Thomas says, "Gryffindor?"
A short, sharp whistle pierces the air, and a woman marches up to the pier. She's short and small of stature, her greying hair pulled back into a bun with a pin jammed ferociously through it, and her eyes are narrowed. She holds her clipboard like a weapon.
"Right! Welcome to the second year trials. I am your coach, Saltworth." Her voice carries clear across the lake, sending a flock of birds rising from the forest. "Drink your warmth potions – can't have you lot dying of hypothermia this early in the season," she says, handing out vials. "You! You're a first year. Get out."
The tiny first year flees. James finds himself straightening up, as if standing to attention. Saltworth shoves a vial into James's hand, moving through the group and resuming her speech. "Time-wasters are not welcome. There are twenty-three of you here and there are eight places available. I expect you to have basic form and technique — I'm not running a learn-to-swim class here, I am training athletes. You! First year! Get out!"
"I'm…I'm not a first year…"
"Don't lie to me!"
The student sensibly retreats. Saltworth casts her gaze along the group. "Line up! Your warmth potions should be working. You'll be going in one by one. One lap freestyle, tumble turns, no stopping." She points to a gold line shimmering across the lake. "That line marks the fifty-metre mark. It's a barrier, if you try and go past it you will stop very abruptly. Please note the depth markers." She gestures to the small numbers glowing and floating in the air above certain points of the lake. "Any questions?"
Silence.
Saltworth nods. "Get to it, then."
A line is quickly formed; James ends up near the end of it, shivering in his robe. Iwan is in front of him and he looks increasingly anxious.
"First up…Appleton, Philip! On my whistle…"
"I don't think I should have come here," Iwan whispers to James. "I thought we'd all be going in at once, and just sort of swim a few lengths…"
"You'll be fine," James says as the whistle pierces the air.
"Yes, but why does it have to be one by one? Why does everyone have to watch?" Iwan asks nervously. "They'll all be staring…"
"Can't do any worse than this Appleton," James says with a shrug. "Look at his kicking rhythm — absolute rubbish."
"Is it?" Iwan looks even more anxious now. "God, look — that angry lady is timing it!"
"Don't know why she's got a timer, she could time Appleton using a standard clock," James says contemptuously. Behind him, somebody laughs and he turns to look at them. It's that Slytherin boy again, he sees.
"Can hardly wait to see your time," Thomas says, grinning. "Let me guess, twenty for the fifty free?"
"Shove off," James mutters, turning back around. Though he knows Thomas is just trying to unnerve him, he thinks uneasily of his recent times. Are they fast enough? Freestyle's his strength, of course, but it's everyone's strength. An easy stroke. Eight places on the team, twenty-three people trying out…
The line moves forward. Saltworth's expression gives nothing away as she scribbles on her clipboard, her timer in one hand. Soon enough, it's Iwan's turn.
"Good luck," James says dutifully.
"You're an experienced swimmer, aren't you? You'll tell me if you think I did all right?"
"Yeah, now go." James gives him a little shove; Saltworth is looking impatient. The sun is slowly coming up over the horizon and James, after waiting through the tryouts of everyone before him, is in no mood to give a pep talk.
Iwan takes a few nervous steps forward to the end of the pier, then discards his robe and stands there, toes curling over the edge, waiting and looking as if he might be sick at any moment.
"Hope your friend does well," Thomas comments.
"He's not my friend."
"Wow, you're just so friendly and outgoing."
"Get lost."
Thomas just laughs. James scowls and crosses his arms, watching Iwan, but his mind is elsewhere and he hardly notices a thing about Iwan's tryout, too busy mentally running over his training.
"Right! Potter," Saltworth shouts, making a mark on her clipboard as Iwan pulls himself up onto the pier.
"Good luck," he says shakily to James as he goes past him.
"Yeah, thanks."
"Good luck," Thomas echoes.
James doesn't deign to reply, just kicks his robes aside and takes his place on the edge of the pier, waiting. His heart is racing, he realises, and his hands are shaking slightly. No, he can't be nervous, he can't mess this up…
The whistle pierces the air.
James dives into the lake.
Another long day at the Ministry, Harry thinks. A big shipment of illegal potion ingredients was discovered last night — a major breakthrough in their operation. The team spends the day hunched over pensieves and listening to recordings, carefully compiling information, making sense from the coded conversations and negotiations, trying to trace the shipment. By the end of the day, Harry's exhausted. But the plan is in place, targets have been identified, and evidence is beginning to mount.
"Night, sir," Cuthbert says cheerfully, last to leave as always.
"Goodnight." Harry collects the folders on his desk, lost in thought, and he stands up at once when he hears a footstep, hand already on his wand.
"Always alert," Williamson chuckles, stepping out of his office and closing the door behind him.
"Yes, sir," Harry says, thinking how always alert sounds very close to constant vigilance. "Just filing a few things."
"Always the last to leave, aren't you?" Williamson locks his office door with a wave of his wand, then turns and studies Harry. "Actually, Potter, I'm glad you're here. There's something I want to discuss with you."
"About the shipment?" Harry says, automatically reaching for his quill.
"Well, in a roundabout way, I suppose." Williamson walks over to Harry's desk and takes a seat opposite Harry. "You've been doing a stellar job leading this operation."
"Thank you."
"And I don't give out compliments easily, you know that. You have to earn respect, I've always said." Williamson nods, the light of Harry's desk-lamp creating deep shadows across his grizzled face. A lifetime of Auror work has carved his skin like a landscape, creating deep valleys of missing flesh and raised mountains of hardened scar tissue. "And I believe you've earned a lot of respect from the team," Williamson continues, resting his hands on the desk, his wedding band glinting in the light. His wife died forty years ago, Harry recalls. Rumour said that she was killed by a mugging gone wrong, and Williamson had dedicated his life forever afterwards to chasing criminals and Dark magic users.
"I like to think we all respect each other," Harry says politely, but inwardly he wants to smile. This is it. The first step towards becoming Head Auror.
"Well, of course," Williamson says, but Harry can tell he's pleased. He clasps his hands for a moment, evidently deep in thought, and Harry waits. Williamson is missing an index finger and his knuckles are criss-crossed with scars, and Harry glances down at his own hands for a moment. There's a small scar here and there, but nothing particularly noticeable.
He wonders how many fingers he'll be missing when he reaches Williamson's age.
"I'm sixty-two, you know," Williamson says suddenly, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "Thirty-seven years I've been doing this job. And I've seen a lot of Aurors come through this office. Some have lasted nearly as long as me, like old Howes or O'Brien. Some have burned out in a matter of months, or even weeks. Some have been smart as a whip, or have reflexes like a cat, or they've got incredible spell accuracy. But what you need most of all is someone trustworthy. Someone who always has you as their top priority." Williamson taps a finger against the desk, the one missing a tip. "And I reckon that's you, Potter. The next Head Auror."
Harry exhales and sits back. "That's…that's quite a role."
"Wouldn't ask if I didn't think you'd be capable of it." Williamson looks down at his hands, at the ruined fingertips and cratered knuckles. "But…this is why I'm asking, not telling. It eats up your time. It's demanding, I won't lie."
"No, it's fine. Perfect timing, actually," Harry says with relief. "James started Hogwarts last year, so he's not around as much – "
"Christmas? Easter? Don't accept unless you can fully commit," Williamson says gravely.
Harry pauses. Well…Andromeda always loves doting on James, and Teddy's great at keeping him company. Besides, it won't be every holiday and important occasion. Perhaps just a few busy days here or there. And this is what he has always dreamed about. Head Auror. "You have my full commitment," he says. "It will be an absolute honour to accept the role."
Williamson nods, his eyes crinkling up in a possible smile. With a face that lined, it's hard to tell. "You'll make a fine job of it, Potter. You're dedicated to this job. Aurors, you see them come and go – they learn quickly that this isn't a nine-to-five job. But you're different. Like me. You give a hundred percent."
"Thank you, sir."
"We'll brief you tomorrow. I'll mentor you through this latest operation and then...well. We'll see how it goes. Consider it the final test." Williamson waves a hand. "I'd better let you go. Been here since six in the morning, haven't you?"
Harry smiles and stands up, picking up his cloak. "I'll see you tomorrow, sir."
"Tomorrow." Williamson turns and strides away, disappearing into the dark corridor. Harry watches him leave, then turns and smiles, almost laughing. This is it. Fifteen years he's been working towards this. He never wanted to make assumptions, of course, but part of him always hoped…Head Auror. This promotion has been fifteen long years in the making, but Harry's so close to achieving that dream now.
He settles his cloak about his shoulders and turns off his desk lamp, unable to stop himself from smiling.
Made it at last.
Harry pours his usual scotch before bed and sits in the study, considering his latest step towards Head Auror.
He turns a paperweight over in his hands. It had been a gift from Ginny. Not even a gift, really. Just something he saw in a shop somewhere, and she noticed it caught his eye and bought it.
Ginny was good at that. Buying things just for the sake of having beautiful things. Filling their home with a thousand interesting or pretty mementos. Harry always had to have a reason to own something; Ginny didn't care.
He sets down the paperweight — a large snowflake made of silver — and looks down at his desk. A clock chimes midnight somewhere within the house.
On the right side of the desk is Draco's file.
Harry takes another sip of his scotch and sets the glass down, listening to the faint clink of the ice cubes.
At the start of the file — the page marked 16th September, one exact year ago — there's a flurry of notes. Harry reads them and wonders what prejudices coloured his perspective. The notes are abrupt and unkind, Harry thinks as he reads them over, referring to Draco as being 'uncooperative' and the possibility of a formal warning.
Draco hadn't appeared deliberately unhelpful, Harry thinks, frowning at the notes. Nor had he done anything particularly deserving of a formal warning.
Nevertheless, as biased as the notes are, at least they're there. As the pages continue, the notes trickle away to nothing. The last note simply says 'Malfoy b'day 5 June, Scorpius 15 Nov'. Like it's important somehow. As though birthdays will crack the case. He's going mental, Harry thinks. There's no way he'll track down Lucius Malfoy, acting like this. He should hand the case over to someone else. All his time should be devoted to this latest operation, anyway.
He takes a sip of his scotch and looks at the silver snowflake again.
When Harry arrives at the office the next morning, he goes straight into the debriefing. Williamson and another senior Auror, Howes, discuss the evidence so far with Harry. The large shipment of illegal potion ingredients is just one of many shipments they've been tracking, and they believe a large Ukrainian crime family is to blame.
"We've had to make a choice," Williamson says. "Go for the underlings – catch the delivery people, the hired security – or let's see how much this thread unravels."
Harry exhales. "You want to go right to the top?"
Williamson nods. "We've let the first shipment go through, but nobody's claiming it. Someone's snitched. Most likely a corrupted dock worker."
They spend the rest of the morning in the office, poring over options. Cuthbert interrupts at one point.
"Excuse me, sir," he says, addressing Harry, "your cases at the moment – "
"Clear them," Harry says distractedly, looking at a map.
"Yes, sir," Cuthbert says, disappearing again
"Thanks," Harry says, underlining something with his quill.
And it's only two hours later, long after Cuthbert has scurried away, that Harry suddenly realises what just happened.
He swears and jumps to his feet.
Draco is glad when the wards are set off at their usual time on Wednesday. He had removed a chandelier and inadvertently triggered some sort of ancient curse, sending the entire room into a darkness that even the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder would envy.
He leaves the room as it is, striding along the hallways and down two flights of stairs before he opens the front door.
And pauses.
There's a man on his front doorstep, tall and middle-aged with hair greying around his temples. He wears the neat, hunter-green uniform of a magical law-enforcement officer.
"Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy," the man says, flashing a silver badge. "Officer Nettleton. May I come in?"
Draco hesitates, if only for a moment. Then he recovers. Don't give them a chance to punish you. "Certainly," he says, stepping aside. "What may I assist you with?"
The man — Nettleton — walks inside and gives him a look of mild confusion. "Your Wizards Under Watch program, of course. One o'clock each Wednesday, I believe?"
"I was..." Draco pauses. "Auror Potter usually handles my case."
"Auror Potter is busy with more important matters," Nettleton says, casting a look around the reception hall. Draco hates the calculating way he looks at everything and would love for nothing more than to push him back out the door. "Your case has been redistributed."
I wasn't told of this. Draco bites the words back and instead gestures to the front parlour room. "Shall we, then?" Though he might be forced to allow Ministry officers into his home, he's certainly not obligated to make them feel welcome. No tea or biscuits will be offered, and the chilly front parlour room is the least inviting of the manor. Especially since Draco's only just finished renovating it, and the only furniture is a set of wooden chairs, all sharp angles and spiky discomfort.
Nettleton perches on one of the chairs. His eyes never stop roaming the room, Draco thinks with irritation, as if he'll find secrets in the walls or floor. But the room, with its freshly-painted walls and newly-polished floorboards, is nothing but a blank slate. Not even a chip or crack in sight.
Apparently finding no Dark curses scrawled across the walls, Nettleton abandons his visual interrogation of the room and opens the folder in his lap. It looks very thin and lacking, Draco thinks critically, and Nettleton seems to think the same.
"Auror Potter has made very few observations. I assume he has a collection of personal notes, however." Nettleton turns a page. "The manor is listed as your only address?"
"Correct."
"I understand there is a holiday villa in Majorca."
"It has been sold."
"And a London property?" Nettleton turns a page. "In Kensington and Chelsea?"
"My father used it for business trips, but it's now privately rented."
"To whom?"
Draco feels both irritated and nervous. These questions are trivial and will lead nowhere, but at the same time, Nettleton could choose to interpret Draco's responses as being discourteous or downright misleading, and file an official warning.
"I'm not certain," Draco says carefully. "You'll have to ask the agency that manages the property. Nuttall and Nye, I believe."
Nettleton frowns but says nothing. The agency is a popular choice for wizards and there's certainly nothing to tie it to the Dark Lord or any of his supporters. Draco knows this because past officers have already well investigated all the Malfoy properties.
"You have a son, I see," Nettleton says instead. Draco tenses. "Should be good motivation for you to tell us anything you can about your father."
Draco can feel the rage, like a magnifying glass on his pulse, make it jump fiercely beneath his skin. His son. His Scorpius, that this man dares talk about so brashly.
"Can't imagine things would be easy for the boy at school. Plenty of people still hate the name Malfoy. But if you helped us capture your father...well, some people might start looking a bit more kindly at you," Nettleton went on, oblivious to Draco's white-knuckled grip on the armrests. "If you actually cared about your son, you'd — "
Very, very fortunately, Draco thinks, Nettleton doesn't finish that sentence. He's interrupted by someone speaking.
Harry.
He's standing in the doorway, looking breathless, robes askew and hair disheveled. He must have Floo'd in, Draco thinks.
"What're you doing here?" Harry asks Nettleton, in the exact tone of voice Draco would have used.
Nettleton bristles. "Your secretary gave me the file, Mr Potter."
"Well, that was a mistake," Harry retorts, taking a step into the room. "I'm handling the Malfoy case."
"Not any longer. I've got the case."
"No, you haven't. I'll take it."
It's like watching a game of Quidditch, Draco thinks; they're the Seekers, and he's the snitch. If he wasn't so furious about Nettleton's remarks about Scorpius, he might have found the entire situation vaguely amusing.
"I am in the middle of a meeting," Nettleton says. "I'll just finish interrogating Malfoy, and — "
"Interrogating him?"
"I meant questioning," Nettleton amends quickly, but Harry's eyes are bright with anger.
"You're not interrogating anyone. Give me that file."
"I was questioning, and I was getting results. I notice Malfoy has a son — "
"Oh, well done, only took twelve years for you to notice then," Harry says cuttingly, and Nettleton flushes.
"Well, I'm rather surprised that..." Nettleton trails off, as if suddenly recalling Draco's presence.
Draco stands up. "Go on," he says, his voice soft and dangerous. Finish that sentence.
"Let's discuss this elsewhere, shall we?" Harry says, giving Draco a look before he turns and leaves. Nettleton hesitates, then follows, closing the door behind him.
A few seconds later, raised voices can be heard. Every now and again Draco catches ahold of some words. Harry seems to be doing most of the shouting.
"...not informed...think...in any way...certainly not...I assure you…"
There's a slight pause and the muffled sound of Nettleton speaking; this only seems to incite Harry's wrath further.
"Don't you dare...excuses...if you ask me...I'll certainly be filing a note...and personal integrity!"
There's another short silence, and then the sound of footsteps and the front door slamming. Another pause, and then the parlour door opens and Harry walks in. His face is flushed, but otherwise there's no signs of the furious words Draco heard.
"Hello," Harry says, smoothing his robes. His voice is forcibly calm, but there's a brightness in his eyes that Draco can't place. "Sorry I'm late. Shall we begin?"
"I..." Draco doesn't know what to say.
"I certainly don't intend to sit in here," Harry says, glancing about the room. "It's the most unwelcoming room in the house, and now that I think about it, it's one of your little strategies, isn't it? You did the same to me when I first arrived."
"You're not Nettleton," Draco says, perhaps a little emphatically, and Harry looks at him.
"Of course I'm not," he says. "Now, either we have a nice cup of tea and a game of Monopoly, or — judging by the dust on your robes — you tell me what part of the renovations requires my assistance. And if it's another damned Doxy nest, forget it. That's your problem."
There's a short silence. Draco looks down at his hands, noticing a small scar on the knuckle of his thumb.
"I removed a chandelier and triggered an ancient curse," he says at last.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Only in this manor," he says, "would you remove a light fitting and unleash Dark magic. It's a wonder you don't spontaneously combust just from making a cup of tea."
"Oh, it's happened before. That's how my grandfather's house-elves died."
Harry stares at him. "Really?"
If it wasn't for the rage still simmering from Nettleton's remarks, Draco thinks, he might have almost smiled.
He does ask Harry about it, however, as they're halfway through a game of Monopoly. Harry, busy doing some serious mental calculations about the number of houses he can buy for his pitiful Euston Road set, barely pays attention at first.
"Scorpius," Draco says, testing the waters.
"Hmm. Could I have three...wait, no...four houses?"
Draco wordlessly hands Harry the plastic houses.
"Do you think," he says, continuing his apparently one-sided conversation, "Scorpius has many friends?"
"Yeah, loads. Actually, I think I'll buy five — what?" Harry looks up at Draco, frowning. "Of course Scorpius has friends. He's a good kid."
"Right. The only thing wrong with him is his surname."
"Don't start thinking like that," Harry says warningly. "Trust me, I spent ages agonising over the same problems with James. Whether people would judge him, whether he'd be affected by special treatment — but it's a battle you just can't win."
"Nettleton said I could do things to make Scorpius's life easier."
"Nettleton is an idiot."
Draco doesn't smile. "If I knew where my father was," he says, "and I knew it would make people treat Scorpius better, I'd tell the Ministry in a heartbeat." He pauses. "But...if I wasn't sure whether it would make a difference to Scorpius, I don't think I'd tell anyone at all."
Harry considers that for a long moment. Draco's waiting for a self-righteous lecture about Lucius's wrongdoings, but when Harry next speaks he surprises Draco.
"Was Lucius a good father?"
Now it's Draco's turn for lengthy consideration. "I don't know," he says at last. "He spoiled me, and always said he had high hopes for me. He praised me often, regardless of how misguided my actions were." Draco smiles wryly. "Does that make him a good father, or a bad father?"
Harry studies his properties and carefully organises the plastic green houses. "All parents leave their imprints," he says. "Hermione once said that children are like pristine glass, and parents will always leave fingerprints and smudges no matter how carefully they handle them. Some shatter their children completely, some leave cracks and chips, but in the end we all leave our mark regardless of intentions."
Draco looks at Harry and wonders what mark he'll leave on James.
James stands alone in the corridor, gazing at the featureless stone.
"Limens," he whispers, tapping his wand against the wall. The portal opens. He steps through.
The room is cold, so cold. Perhaps the castle's heating spells don't reach this room. Perhaps Scorpius enchanted it to be warm, and the spell faded when he left. An endless summer for him and James, in fields of gold and skies of deep blue.
But the summer has ended.
There are no fields, no skies. Just a cold stone floor, a vaulted ceiling that sends echoes of James's footsteps reverberating around the empty room.
He shouldn't have come here. There is nothing here.
Nobody, nowhere.
"Papilio," James whispers, touching his wand to a broken quill lying on the floor. It twitches and slowly curls in on itself until it's formed into a cream-coloured butterfly.
The butterfly flutters its wings and lifts into the air, dancing around James. He watches it fly higher, higher, until soon its pale wings glimmer into nothing as it disappears among the shadows of the vaulted ceiling.
Paul called him Harry today. A careless mistake, and everyone had laughed about it.
James had been angry then, but now — as he stands alone in this big empty room — the sadness and anxiety roll through him like rainclouds.
Even my friends wish I was someone else.
James makes the swim team, at least. He tells his friends.
"Great," Martin says, moving a Gobstone piece across the board. Opposite him, Paul nods.
"Yeah, that's brilliant news. Ugh, I'm losing again, aren't I?"
"Don't feel too bad," Martin grins. "I've had loads of practice."
A quiet voice behind James pipes up. "I made the team too, James. I saw your name right at the top. Congratulations."
He turns. Iwan's sitting there, next to his best friend Claire, looking happy.
"You made the top eight?" James asks blankly. "But…you haven't even got any formal training, you said!"
"Guess the coach saw a lot of potential," Claire says, smiling at Iwan. "The fastest doesn't necessarily mean the best."
"Right. Well…congratulations," James says, suddenly realising he might have appeared somewhat aggressive. "See you at practice next week?"
"I'm looking forward to it."
Martin laughs. "Listen to these two, getting excited about going into the lake. I'd pay a hundred galleons to avoid it."
"So? You don't see me making fun of you for all that boring Quidditch," James says defensively, and Martin blinks.
"Just a joke, James. Sorry."
James pauses. "No, it's fine. Sorry, bit stressed with homework."
"Oh, that essay on Cushioning Charms? I can help," Paul says, and Martin returns James's smile.
Still got friends, James reminds himself.
Everything's fine.
The first swim practice is brutal. Saltworth puts them through their paces; the trials were merely the preliminaries, James soon realises. And he might have had the quickest time during trials, but Saltworth has a lot of critique to give him regardless. She has a very carrying voice; her merciless comments echo across the lake for everyone to hear.
"Focus on your arm pulls, Stevenson! Calthorpe, stop reaching so far! Count your kicks, count your strokes! Arms, Stevenson!"
At the end of the practice, she pulls each and every one of them aside. When she call James up, he gloomily expects the worst.
"You're Potter, aren't you?" Saltworth flips through the notes on her clipboard. "You've had training, if I'm any judge. Mastered the basic forms, at least, but plenty of room for improvement. Now, I want you to work on strengthening your catch…"
Saltworth is all right, James thinks warily, despite her piercing whistle and the way she furiously strides up and down the pier as she shouts at them. She seems to genuinely want to help him, and wraps up her commentary with a bit of praise.
"Good job today," she says. "Maybe you can give Calthorpe a few pointers about freestyle breathing techniques."
"Thanks, coach." James nods and turns away. The warmth potion is already starting to fade. They've been supplied with thin robes designed to wick away water — just enough to hold the cold at bay while they hurry back to their dormitories for a shower — but James doesn't feel particularly appreciative right now, standing and shivering on the edge of the pier. He picks up his towel and makes his way to the castle.
"Hey, wait up!"
James turns, then scowls. Thomas Pearson, that stupid Slytherin again. "What?" he asks.
"Just wanted to say congratulations on making the team." Thomas holds out his hand.
"Yeah, thanks. You too," James says suspiciously, shaking his hand.
"It's good to have some competition, right?"
"I guess." James quickens his pace. "Anyway, I've got to get back to the dormitories, so I'll see you next practice."
"Right. See you later, then."
Can't ever trust them, James thinks. Those Slytherins. Thomas will probably stab him in the back given the first chance.
He'll have to keep an eye out.
The early days of autumn soon burn away under the weight of red and gold leaves, leaving the chill promise of winter in the morning air. The pumpkins are soon carved, and the banners of black and orange decorate the Great Hall as preparations are made for the Halloween feast. Nearly Headless Nick practises the reenactment of his beheading endlessly and Peeves takes to hiding in suits of armour and scaring the living daylights out of nervous first years.
James isn't particularly amused by it.
But then again, little seems to amuse him these days. His friends are always wanting to go on midnight adventures, or go watch the Quidditch teams practice, or pester James for stories about his father. It's hard to find time just to do some homework or enjoy his latest comic in peace, and his grades have started slipping.
Tonight, James has managed to find a study nook in the farthest reaches of the library, in the shadowy depths where the candles burn low and the kickstools roam around, scuttling beneath shelves whenever a student appears with a lantern in hand. Every now and again, a book mutters something.
James finally finishes the chapter on common potion ingredients. It's fifteen minutes before dinner and he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Lunchtime was spent dutifully watching his friends practice Quidditch moves. James steadfastly refused their insistences that he 'show off some moves'. No doubt they'd expect fancy feints and daring feats of balance, and James hasn't the skill for either. He can only imagine how they'd pull faces at him, telling him to stop fooling about and show off his 'real' Quidditch skills.
He sighs and presses a hand to his rumbling stomach. He needs to write a quick letter to his father, at least. It's been a while since his last reply.
He picks up his quill again. If he were braver, he might write the truth. Sometimes, he might write, I feel like I'm letting you down. I'm disappointing everyone.
But instead, he writes quickly of light-hearted matters. His classes are going well, he's looking forward to the Halloween feast. He's been having plenty of adventures with his friends.
James sits alone in the silent library, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as the words blur together.
Chapter 10: Supplanter
Summary:
In which Harry and Draco settle into a rather alarmingly comfortable routine — James gets into arguments with his team-mates and realises he no longer has any friends — he has to also deal with a very narcissistic cactus — Harry donates James's old broom to Scorpius, resulting in an incendiary fight with James — James tries to help Scorpius and ends up getting hexed — Scorpius and James return home for Christmas break — James realises Teddy will be leaving soon.
Notes:
Note: This chapter has a scene in which an animal dies (albeit very quickly and painlessly).
Chapter Text
Harry visits Draco on Wednesday, as ever, although he really doesn't feel like it. The major operation has ensured Harry has suffered a considerable amount of sleep deprivation this past week, and if he ever has to spend another night in a muddy field it will be too soon.
Draco wrinkles his nose slightly when he answers Harry's knock at the front door of the manor.
"You look like you've been living in a ditch somewhere."
"Sounds about right. Hurry up and let me in."
Draco gives him a look but nevertheless steps back and allows Harry to wearily make his way to the study. He sits in the armchair closest to the fireplace; although it's only November, winter is beginning to creep into the air.
"Tea," Harry says and Draco gives him another look.
"Charming. Just treat me like a house-elf, then." Nevertheless, he disappears to the kitchen and Harry takes the chance to warm his hands by the crackling fire. He glances over at the desk – it's covered with genealogy work, he sees. Draco is evidently researching the Finnigan family and Harry wonders if they're relatives of Seamus.
"There's your tea." Draco sets a cup of tea rather carelessly upon the side-table near Harry.
"Thanks." Harry does a cursory analysis of Draco's current mood. Putting up a brusque front for the sake of it, he guesses, but he's actually in a good mood. Pleased about something. "Are you researching Seamus Finnigan's family?"
"Who?" Draco takes a seat behind the desk.
"Seamus Finnigan. Come on, he was in our grade at Hogwarts. Gryffindor. Irish. Wasn't allowed near fireworks."
"Oh, him. The pyromaniac."
"Suppose some people might consider him that, yeah."
Draco waves a hand dismissively. "The family tree was commissioned by an elderly Finnigan from Ballymena. It's sprinkled with a dozen Seamuses."
"Could be him, I suppose." Harry shrugs. "Anyway. Wand, thanks."
"Fine. Run your little tests, I've got other things to do." Draco tosses his wand across the desk; Harry catches it neatly and casts the charm, watching the ghosts of spells rise through the air.
"God, you've got enough book magic to put Madam Pince to shame," he complains. "All your genealogy work, I suppose. That's going to take me ages to sort through."
Draco – already picking up his quill – pauses to give Harry a little grin. "Yes. How inconvenient for you. Make sure you check every spell though, you never know if I've slipped a bit of Dark Arts in there."
Definitely too pleased with himself, Harry thinks critically. Nevertheless, they work in surprisingly peaceful silence for a while – Harry carefully cataloguing the spells while Draco's quill scratches across bits of parchment.
"Made much progress with the Evans tree?" Harry asks after a while.
"Hm." Draco finishes writing something, then glances up. "What? Oh. I've been rather busy with other projects."
"More important customers, you mean." Harry rolls his eyes.
"Yes, that too."
"Well, I was hoping it would be finished in time for Christmas. I thought James would like to see his history." If nothing else, he'll appeal to Draco's empathy as a parent.
"No hope of that," Draco says, but he doesn't sound particularly vindictive about it. "The summer holidays would be a better estimate."
"Right." Harry pauses, watching Draco write, and it reminds him of the letters he's received from James recently. The letters are always cheerful, giving the same news: classes are going well, many adventures with friends, enjoying swimming. But somehow, Harry has the feeling that he's missing something when he reads them. "You get letters from Scorpius, don't you?"
Draco lays his quill down, carefully places the lid back on the inkpot, and leans back, giving Harry a look. "Why," he says, "can't you go seek advice from all your nauseatingly perfect friends?"
"You're the only one I know with a son the same age as mine," Harry retorts. "And I'm not seeking advice. I'm just asking a question."
"Right, if that makes you feel better about it." Draco glances down at his desk, apparently thinking for a moment. "Yes," he says eventually. "Scorpius writes to me."
"About…?"
Draco pauses for another moment, then shrugs as if to say why not. "Very excitable letters about his subjects, generally. New things he's learned – little facts about Astronomy, or a news clipping from a science journal, that sort of thing." Draco tilts his head. "The new interest of the week, whatever that is. Learning wizard's chess, or the rules to a flying game. Last week I received a pressed plant specimen from his Herbology project, and the week before that he sent me a diagram of the best moves for a Gobstones game and wanted advice."
Harry thinks about that for a while. "Don't you ever wonder what he's not telling you?"
"Oh, I imagine he's not telling me a lot of things." Draco takes a sip of his tea. "That's what they do, though, isn't it? Especially as they become teenagers."
"But – doesn't that make you worry?" Harry blurts out, unable to help himself.
"What, that Scorpius isn't particularly inclined to tell me all about his silly crush on a girl or a bit of missed homework? Not really." Draco raises his eyebrows. "Unless your son is sending you letters laced with hard drugs or writing about the talking giraffe that lives in his head, I wouldn't worry. That's your problem, you know. You're slowly turning into Mad-Eye."
"I am not."
"You are. Constant vigilance. Soon you'll be putting Tracing Spells on James's clothes and testing his letters for traces of goblin powder or fly-high potion."
"I will not!" Harry says indignantly. "And you're enjoying this, don't think I haven't noticed. You're amused by my concern for my child."
"I'm amused by the fact you appear to be in full Auror mode all the time."
Harry can't really think of a good comeback to that. And besides – much as he'd never admit it to Draco's smug face – perhaps he has a good point. Maybe Harry's searching for problems that aren't there, automatically looking for something suspicious, something hidden. Analysing, examining, somehow looking for clues still.
"Be that as it may," Harry says, taking a sip of his tea.
Draco's not fooled. "I've got a point."
"The only thing you've got is a run-down manor and a son who actually enjoys Gobstones, worst luck," Harry snaps.
The worst part is, he thinks, Draco doesn't even look offended.
He just grins and picks up his quill again.
The first Quidditch match of the year, and the substitute Seeker plays for Gryffindor. The current Seeker has received yet another injury and no longer wants to play; everyone seems to be waiting for James to volunteer.
He doesn't.
He's always loved the water and, truth be told – despite all his complaints about the early starts and the mornings spent shivering on the pier as Saltworth outlines all their mistakes – he wouldn't give it up for anything. There's a swim meet in the first week of December – the European Junior Relay Championships – and while Saltworth has selected the team for the third year age bracket, she's yet to announce the second year team.
James has to be picked for it. It makes sense, he thinks. He's got the fastest times on the team.
During a particularly chilly November morning, Saltworth finally makes the announcement as they stand on the pier, ready to start practice.
"Firstly," she says, "swim practice will – Pearson, pay attention! – swim practice will meet for the last time on the seventeenth of December, and will not resume until mid-January. Secondly, I have chosen the four swimmers who will represent Hogwarts in the under-thirteen division at the Junior Relay meet. Pearson, Calthorpe, Tiller, and Rossi. Congratulations. Now! Line up…"
James doesn't move for a moment, momentarily crushed with disappointment and bewilderment. Someone pats him on the shoulder.
"Rough luck," Iwan says sympathetically. James shakes him away, feeling irritated.
"It doesn't make sense. I've got the fastest time out of everyone in our year level. Why do you get a place and I don't?"
Iwan drops his hand, looking hurt. "I've worked really hard to improve – "
"So have I, and I'm still the better swimmer."
"I don't know, your backstroke is pretty weak," Thomas interrupts, and James whips around to give him a scorching look.
"What would you know? You're not the coach."
"Just offering some advice. You should really work on it."
"Great. Next time I need advice from the person who can't even do butterfly, I'll ask."
Thomas reddens. "Butterfly is everyone's weakness," he retorts, but right then Saltworth blows her whistle and they quickly take their places along the pier.
Well, it doesn't matter, James thinks with annoyance. Saltworth has clearly made a mistake.
But no; after swim practice, when the debriefing is over and everyone has left for the warm dormitories, James lingers to speak to Saltworth.
"Yes, Potter?" she says crisply as she waves her wand, taking down the magical barriers dividing the swimming area into lanes.
"I just want to know," James says bravely, "why I didn't get picked for the meet. I've got the best times out of all the second years."
Saltworth purses her lips as she clasps her cloak and begins striding towards the castle, James jogging slightly to keep up.
"The key word is relays, Potter. It's the Junior Relays. I didn't pick the best person, I picked the best team."
"But I'm – "
"You'd better remember you're part of a team now – we haven't got time for individuals around here."
She strides on ahead, leaving James trailing unhappily in her wake.
James's day only gets worse from there. In Herbology – one of two classes shared with Ravenclaws – Professor Sprout announces a six-month-long task.
"I have here," she says, gesturing to a shelf behind her, "a selection of plants. Leftovers from various classes. Now, I would like you to pair up and choose a plant. You and your partner will care for the plant for the remainder of the year." She beams around at them. "A very exciting opportunity for you to independently research your plant! Who knows what you might find – I think there's even a few Thousand-Blossom Roses in there. Now, partner up."
There's a mad rush as everyone jostles each other, frantic to grab a partner and choose the best plant. James turns to Martin and Paul, but they've already paired up, and Rose is with one of her Gryffindor friends. Nate's with Scorpius, of all people, and Iwan's chatting away to Claire.
There is nothing more humiliating, he thinks, then standing there alone as Sprout gives him a sympathetic look. "Does anyone need a partner?" she says loudly, but nobody responds and she nods. "Very well. On your own, I'm afraid, Potter. Go see what's left."
He trails over to the shelf. There's only one plant left: a small and very sad-looking cactus.
"Ugh," he mutters. "Isn't there anything else?"
The cactus wilts a little. James didn't think a cactus could wilt, but it deflates like an old balloon and Sprout calls out with alarm.
"Careful, Potter! That's an Oversensitive Cactus. Best not to criticise it."
James looks at it with disbelief; the other students laugh. But Sprout is waiting, and so with much reluctance James picks up the cactus and carries it back to the greenhouse table.
After class – his cactus left on a shelf beside the plants of the other students, his name scribbled on the small ceramic pot that holds it – he catches up with his friends.
"Worst luck," Martin laughs.
"Nobody wanted that cactus!" Paul adds.
"I don't want it either," James says. He turns and gives Nate an unfriendly look. "Thanks a lot, by the way. Partnering up with Scorpius Malfoy? Now I'll have to do the project alone."
"Sorry," Nate says. "But…well…" He looks embarrassed. "I sort of…sort of…well…I felt bad about last year. You know…all that stupid stuff we did, calling people like him death-descendants and all that. So…well…I told Malfoy I was very sorry about it and we shook hands and he told me that if I was his Herbology partner, it would be really nice." Nate pauses. "Since I'm awfully clever at Herbology and he wants a really high grade."
James's mouth falls open. "Are you serious? You sold me out because you felt bad about Malfoy and he wanted a good grade?"
Nate looks scandalised. "I didn't sell you out! I thought it'd be a nice way to say sorry for my stupid insults last year. I don't see why you're getting so angry about it. You're the one who said we needed to grow up."
James readjusts his book-bag and says nothing.
Inwardly, though, he's fuming.
Draco studies the letter before him. Scorpius has written yet another long missive: his Transfiguration tutelage is going well and he's finding the work challenging, which is nice. He misses his Astronomy Club friends; most of them were older students who graduated last year.
When Scorpius first gave Draco the news of being Sorted into Ravenclaw, Draco…was not pleased. Were you disappointed? Harry had asked once, and Draco had said that as long as Scorpius was happy, he couldn't be disappointed.
But that wasn't quite true. It's how Draco might feel now, of course, but back then – when he read the letter – he had been disappointed. Surprised, confused, perhaps even a little disbelieving. Slytherins possessed exceptional traits: high ambition, determination to succeed, resourcefulness and independence…far superior, Draco had always thought, to the traits of the other houses. Oh, Hufflepuffs were friendly and Gryffindors were brave, and Ravenclaws were intelligent. But surely these nice but common traits faded in comparison to the fierce ambition and assertiveness of Slytherins…
Yes, it's taken Draco a while, but now – reading Scorpius's letter, which is littered with diagrams of spells, absent-minded technical drawings, and contains a casual analysis of magical reactions with wand-cores – Draco can't help but marvel at the curiosity and creativity that his son possesses. Of course, he thinks wryly, he's hardly unbiased.
Nevertheless, there's one part of Scorpius's letter that makes Draco's heart sink a little. The Ravenclaw Seeker says they're going to quit so they can focus on their studies, he writes. Do you think I should try for the position? I haven't played much but I think it would be awfully exciting. Could you help me train for it over Christmas?
Draco sets the letter down. Of course he was a Seeker…many, many years ago. And he was a good Seeker, but now – with the teenage ego slightly deflated – he'll admit that he was hardly spectacular. He's not sure how much he could actually teach Scorpius.
But the real issue is money.
Draco's ancestors would be turning in their graves, and the enemies of the wealthy Malfoy family would be laughing gleefully if they could see him now, balancing accounts in his father's study and doing calculations. The genealogy work brings in a small wage – steady income so far, and an average amount. Hardly a pittance, but certainly not sacks of galleons. Enough to slowly save up for the renovations – with Draco carrying out much of the work himself via hours of learning spells and charms – and, of course, the small amount of savings Draco diligently sets aside for Scorpius. Money to buy new books and robes at the start of each term, and to buy Scorpius's birthday and Christmas presents. Although Draco is far from wealthy, he never wants Scorpius to go without, and he never wants Scorpius to encounter the relentless teasing that poor students such as the Weasleys received. The irony, of course, is not lost on Draco and he thinks, rather dryly, that this is probably karma.
He has already purchased Scorpius's Christmas gifts – he set them aside at the shops months earlier and has been paying them off in weekly deposits. New books, and a pocket planetarium, a self-drawing map – all things he's certain Scorpius will adore. But not once did he consider purchasing a broom. He's got his old Firebolt, of course, but it would be extremely out-dated by now.
Draco sighs and retreats to his father's study to balance the accounts again.
But of course – as ever – Harry Potter comes to the rescue. Draco's rather irritated about it at first.
They're in their usual Wednesday meeting – Harry complaining about having to go through all the domestic spells Draco's been using, Draco trying to work out how he somehow ended up making Harry a cup of tea again – when the subject of gifts is brought up.
"I swear you do this on purpose," Harry says, sifting through the golden words floating through the air. "There must be a hundred different spells! I miss the old days, when you performed six or seven at most per week. Typical…I'll be here all afternoon. I was hoping to find time to do some Christmas shopping."
"Are you mental?" Draco says, putting a cup of tea beside Harry and, once more, mentally berating himself for this daft routine. Stop offering the stupid prat cups of tea. "There's only a few days left until Christmas," he adds, perhaps slightly snidely.
"I know, I know. But I've been so busy with work lately…barely found time to sleep, let alone do shopping. And I've got no clue what James wants…"
"Quidditch stuff," Draco says, thinking of his own son.
"Well, James has never been very keen on it," Harry counters. "Doesn't mind a few casual games with his cousins, but he doesn't seem too inclined to rush off and join a team."
"Scorpius does," Draco says, unable to resist a bit of parental bragging. "Wrote yesterday, said he wants to try out for the Ravenclaw team."
"Oh? I didn't know he played."
Some of Draco's pride evaporates. "Well…he doesn't. Not to my knowledge. I'll need to buy him a broom…"
Harry looks amused. "Brand new Skyblazers for the whole Ravenclaw team, then?"
Draco ignores the gibe. "Hardly. If you'll recall, Potter, my finances are somewhat limited. Scorpius will have to use the school brooms until I've completed a few more genealogy projects."
"Oh." Harry blinks, then looks down at his notes. "You've used a Severing Charm."
"The goblin massacre tapestries were quite determined to stay on the wall. I disagreed."
"Right." Harry pauses. Draco waits until the silence begins to nibble away at his patience.
"What?"
"Never mind."
"No, you were going to say something."
"It's fine."
"I swear on Merlin's grave, Potter – "
"Fine," Harry says, sounding almost sullen. "You're just going to go on an ego-fuelled rant about how you don't need charity, though. I was just going to say that I have a Skyblazer in the shed, hardly ever used – bought it for James two years ago and it's been collecting dust since. Scorpius is welcome to have it – it's not the latest model, but it's better than the ancient school brooms."
Draco scowls, automatically opening his mouth to say that he certainly does not need Potter's pity – he's not some sort of charity case, thank you very much, and if Potter wants to do a good deed he can go dump all his unwanted possessions on the undoubtedly-grateful Weasleys –
But there's only one thing Draco hates more than accepting help, and that's being predictable. And besides…well…Scorpius will perform a lot better on a Skyblazer than any of the tattered school brooms. Hogwarts is probably still using Cleansweeps, Draco thinks with horror. Who knows how decayed the magic is on those death-traps. And people would laugh about it too, the same cruel way Draco laughed at the wobbly, decades-old brooms the Weasleys used.
Draco leans back and crosses his arms. "Fine," he says.
Harry just stares at him for a bit. "What?" he says at last.
"Fine. Bring it on your next visit, Scorpius will be home for Christmas."
Harry looks as if he's not quite sure if Draco's joking or not, but after a while he nods and picks up his quill.
"All right," he says.
They sit there in – as much as Draco is loathe to admit it – silence that is almost companionable.
That's it, he tells himself. He's definitely not offering Harry any more cups of tea.
Winter is truly underway at Hogwarts. The distant mountains become steeped in snow, the valleys shining white with deep drifts. Swim practice has stopped and won't resume until after the Christmas break. The older students return breathless from their trips to Hogsmeade, rosy-cheeked and clutching parcels wrapped in Christmas paper. James watches them enviously, remembering Teddy's stories about the Shrieking Shack and — even better — butterbeers at The Three Broomsticks.
In the Great Hall, lush fir trees rise up like mountains, decorated with enormous baubles and topped with stars. Mistletoe appears around the castle in quite crafty places, and though the younger years — James included — avoid it like dragon-pox, the older students begin finding very flimsy reasons for hovering about beneath the leafy arrangements. Holly lines the hallways, enchanted snow falls gently from the ceiling of the Great Hall, and wreaths hang on classroom doors. James, recalling the last Christmas at Hogwarts, remembers Teddy's apparent tradition of hiding candy canes throughout the castle. The Ravenclaw students maintain Teddy's tradition, lead by Victoire; within days, the students are all laughing and nudging each other as they hide the candy canes in different places.
"Teddy hid one in McGonagall's hat last year," Paul says, wide-eyed with awe. "How're you going to beat that, James?"
"I don't know."
"You'd better figure it out soon, we're leaving for the holidays tomorrow."
James has been madly trying to catch up on homework so he can enjoy his break, and he's barely found time to scatter a few candy canes throughout the halls, let alone hatching ingenious plans to sneak them into the offices or possessions of unsuspecting professors. He could never live up to Teddy's brilliant ideas and pranks. Or anything Teddy accomplished at Hogwarts, James thinks. Quidditch captain, admired mentor of the younger students, Head Boy…no, James could never reach the reputation of the always popular, effortlessly cool Teddy Lupin.
The students are all particularly energetic that evening, packing last-minute gifts into their trunks and excitedly chatting about their holiday plans. Nate is going to France to visit family; Martin is thrilled about a ski trip his parents have been planning for two years. Iwan says he misses home and Paul teases him endlessly about it.
"Fancy being homesick in second year!"
"Everyone gets homesick," Iwan says. "What, you never miss home?"
"I wouldn't if I lived in Wales."
Iwan's mouth thins and Paul grins, nudging him.
"Oh come on, learn to take a joke."
"I will — if you learn how to tell one."
Martin laughs loudly and James can't help but smile. For a moment, his mood lifts a little. There's tinsel draped around the canopies, and the little stove is keeping the dorm cosy and warm. While Martin and Paul idly chat, Iwan stands by the stove, heating a saucepan of milk. The others always laughed and mocked him for it, saying it was quite a peculiar idea, but James always privately thought it was a rather innovative use of the dormitory woodstove.
"Hope you're making enough for everyone," Martin says, snapping James from his reverie. Iwan glances up from the stove.
"Make your own," he says. "I'm making just enough for me and Claire." He adds a handful of spices, the sweet smell of nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves filling the dormitory, and leaves shortly afterwards, taking two full mugs with him and leaving an empty saucepan behind.
"Shouldn't have made fun of him so much," Martin says regretfully. "That smells really good."
"Oh, wait until you try my aunt's hot chocolate recipe," Paul begins, and as James listens to the two of them chatter he realises they've planned to visit each other over the break.
James sits there and listens as they speak excitedly of their plans. James would love to be invited along, but the thought doesn't seem to occur to either of them and James can't invite them to his house – yet another side-effect of having a famous father. Harry, pestered by ardent fans, harassed by the media, and threatened by Voldemort supporters long after the war had finished, goes to enormous lengths to keep his address secret. Only close family members know the physical location – everyone else relies on the Floo network to get them through, with an auto-directing system in place. When James was younger, he didn't mind so much – his Muggle friends were all a short bicycle-ride away – but now he feels a pang of wistfulness.
He listens to his friends laugh and chatter as they leave the dormitory, making their way downstairs, and he sits in silence for a long moment.
He should really pack a few things or at least organise the homework assigned over the break. Instead, he unlocks his trunk and takes out the photograph of his parents. Ginny and Harry. It's their wedding photograph and both of them look as if all their dreams have come true. Ginny is resplendent in an ivory dress, her eyes bright and almost mischievous, as if she knows a secret the photographer doesn't.
James used to have the photograph resting on his bedside table. Everyone who saw it would excitedly grab at the picture, looking intently for the famous scar on Harry's forehead. James was always amused by that — the way Harry had combed his hair meant the scar was hidden.
He doesn't know why he locked the photograph away, or why he stopped being amused by people constantly studying it.
Perhaps because now he's realising that maybe Harry deliberately hid his scar.
James turns the photograph over, reading the words on the back written in the cursive handwriting of his nan. Ginevra Molly Potter (nee Weasley) and Harry James Potter.
James has read these words many times before, but it's always odd seeing his father's full name written out.
Supplanter.
James sets the photograph down. Well, maybe his middle name is more suited anyway. Sirius. Named after a star.
Not a star, he reminds himself. Harry's godfather. Who — as Harry explained once — had been an extraordinary brave man, fiercely loyal and willing to sacrifice his life for his friends.
Maybe 'Sirius' doesn't really suit James either.
He stands up and reaches for his bookbag.
He makes his way through the corridors, lost in thought. He reverts to remembering the circumpolar constellations, something he's started doing lately when he's trying to distract himself from his thoughts. There's Cassopeia, and Lyra, and Ursa Minor…
Voices. James glances up. The hallways are mostly empty this time of year — everyone's preparing for the journey home tomorrow, and besides, it's too cold to be lingering in the draughty hallways. Ahead, he can see a group of students laughing about something. Probably found the last of the candy canes, he thinks as he hurries past.
"…stop, please!"
James pauses and looks over his shoulder. There's about four students — all sixth and seventh year Gryffindors, he realises — laughing and nudging each other. One of the students – who looks as if he could pass for a distant relative of a troll – has Scorpius pinned to the wall.
"Stop!" Scorpius pleads again. "Please don't hurt her!"
James realises one of the Gryffindors has her wand out, her eyes trained on something. A little rat, floating mid-air. Pan.
"Would you stop whining? Honestly, it's just a bit of fun," the girl with the wand says.
"Come on, Malfoy. It's no worse than what your dad did to Muggles," another Gryffindor adds. "Isn't this what you Death Eaters do for fun?"
"Oops," the girl says, pretending to drop her wand, and Pan falls for a second. Scorpius cries out, struggling helplessly in the grip of the student holding him.
"Don't! Please, don't! Just give her back to me, I promise I won't tell McGonagall, I won't tell anyone — "
"Oh, tell them all anyway," one of the other students snaps. "I don't care if...what are you looking at?"
They all turn to look at James. He pauses for a moment.
"Leave him alone," he says at last, wishing his voice sounded a lot less hesitant and small.
The Gryffindors laugh. "Look at this little pipsqueak! What are you, first year?"
"Second," he says defiantly.
"Isn't that Harry Potter's kid?" The girl with the wand frowns at him. "Look, clear off. This doesn't concern you."
James fumbles for his wand and the smiles fade slightly from the Gryffindors' faces.
"Look, you little — " one of the other students begins, but James is already raising his wand.
"Vespertilio muci!"
For James, it's an easy hex — the first he ever learned, courtesy of his Uncle George, who told him it was one of Ginny's favourites. And it works beautifully now, one of the Gryffindors shrieking and clamping a hand over their nose as tiny bats fly from their nostrils. The other two students scatter, fleeing along with their hexed friend, and — the levitation spell broken — Pan falls to the floor and immediately begins scurrying along the corridor. Scorpius cries out, still struggling in the grip of the Gryffindor boy, and James raises his wand again.
"Should've minded your own business," the boy says crossly, dropping his grip on Scorpius in order to send a jinx bounding towards James. The spell narrowly misses James, rebounding off the wall and hitting Pan, sending the rat tumbling along for several feet.
"You idiot!" James shouts at the Gryffindor as Scorpius cries out, racing towards his rat.
"It's just a rat!" the Gryffindor retorts, wand still drawn, but he's looking a little worried now.
"Get lost, or I'll make bats fly out of your nose too!"
"You'll be sorry!" But the boy is backing away quickly now, until he finally turns and races away. James, watching him disappear from sight just in case he still tries another hex, suddenly remembers Scorpius. He turns around.
Scorpius is kneeling on the floor, cradling Pan in one hand. James, feeling a little uncomfortable, steps forward. "Is…is she okay?" he asks hesitantly.
Scorpius looks up, his face streaked with tears, and James realises Pan is dead. Her eyes are open, and a thin line of dark blood trickles from her ear. James stares for a long moment.
"Go away," Scorpius says, his voice choked.
"Should...should I get a professor?"
"Just leave!"
"But — "
"I told you to never come near me again!" And with that — Pan still cradled in one hand — Scorpius draws his wand and makes a slashing motion.
At first, James doesn't realise what's happened. He stares at Scorpius, bewildered, but then he feels a sudden sting and raises a hand to his face, tracing the lash of pain. A stinging hex, he realises. Scorpius hexed him. The welt starts on the edge of his jaw and curves past his mouth, over his nose, and ends just beneath his eye.
Before he can react, Scorpius turns and flees, disappearing from sight.
The students laugh and jostle along the platform, excited to be going home for the holidays. James, one of the last to board the Hogwarts Express, stands in the narrow aisle and gazes out the window. The students remaining at the castle over the break wave cheerfully, farewelling their friends.
"Hey, James! In here."
He looks around. Martin is waving at him from a compartment.
"Hi." James makes his way to the compartment, sliding the door shut behind him. He saw Rose board the train with her friends, and he remembers how Teddy said he'd wanted to spend the journey home with his cousins. James suddenly misses Teddy so much it nearly hurts. Last year, everything had seemed so exciting and adventurous, especially with Teddy there to smile and make jokes.
"All right, James?" Paul asks. "You look a bit pale."
"Yeah, fine."
"Probably thinking about that fight," Martin says, grinning. They'd all fussed over James when he'd returned to the Gryffindor tower, a bright welt raised across his face, but he'd refused to talk about it and gone straight to bed.
"I bet it was a troll," Paul says. "Wasn't it, James?"
"Why would it be a troll? If it had been a troll, my skull would be crushed in."
"Ah, come on. You're James Potter, you're not going to be killed by some daft troll."
James switches topics, getting out a deck of cards, and they play a few games. The sun has set low in the sky and the first evening stars have appeared when Martin gets sick of waiting for the witch with the trolley.
"I'm starved, she should've already been through," he complains.
"I'll go have a look," James offers, standing up. He wants to take a short break from all their chatting and arguments over missing cards, anyway.
He slides the door shut behind himself and walks along the aisle, pausing for a moment as the carriage rocks slightly around a corner. It's dark and quiet, the shadowed light of dusk offering little illumination. The windows frame a view of mountains tipped with snow, gleaming pale blue under the early moon, and James wonders what county the train is currently travelling through.
Light escapes from underneath the compartment doors, every now and again a voice rising in laughter. The aisle is dark and empty apart from James.
He stands there for a long time, listening to the chatter and laughter of other people.
Harry checks his watch.
James arrived home for the Christmas break yesterday, but Harry hasn't seen him yet. Caught up in fieldwork, he had to send Andromeda and Teddy to pick James up from the station. By the time Harry finally dragged himself home — well after midnight — James was asleep. And Harry had left quickly the next morning to attend an urgent surveillance meeting.
He checks his watch again, then clears his throat.
"I've got an appointment at one o'clock."
Williamson glances up. "It'll have to wait, unless it's urgent."
Harry suppresses a sigh and nods.
By the time the surveillance has finally been completed, it's three o'clock. He leaves for Malfoy Manor, fully expecting a wrathful Draco to greet him. He always hates to be kept waiting.
But, of course, he forgot about Scorpius, who seems to improve his father's mood greatly just by presence alone. Draco answers the door, but Scorpius is nearby – as ever – and trails after both Draco and Harry as they make their way to the study.
"You forgot Scorpius's present, didn't you?" Draco says conversationally, unstopping a bottle of brandy as he sits behind the desk.
Harry blinks at Draco, feeling taken aback. He hadn't forgotten it, but he'd assumed it would all be very clandestine – he'd sneak the parcel to Draco, who in turn would give it to Scorpius under the guise of purchasing it especially for him. After all, it would still be a point of pride.
"Yes?" Harry ventures, feeling slightly lost. He retrieves the parcel from his pocket and taps it twice with his wand, allowing the reduction charm to fade.
"Oh," Scorpius says, sounding very surprised. "You really do have a present for me?"
"Didn't I say so?" Draco asks, pouring himself a glass of brandy.
"Yes, but I thought…" Scorpius trails off as Harry smiles at him and holds out James's old Skyblazer.
"Not the latest model, I'm afraid," Harry says, but he thinks it may as well be an autographed broom from the Puddlemere United captain himself, judging by Scorpius's expression.
"That's…for me?" Scorpius asks, eyes wide.
"Of course. You said you need a broom," Draco says briskly.
"But…I'm allowed to take it to Hogwarts?"
"You can take it anywhere," Harry laughs. "It's yours now. Go on."
Scorpius hesitates, glancing at his father, then reaches out and accepts the Skyblazer almost reverently. "Thank you," he says at last, staring down at the broom in his hands.
"You're welcome."
"Off you go, then, while we finish up some paperwork," Draco says, and Scorpius nods before leaving, his footsteps quickly fading. And Harry thinks he must be getting soft-hearted, but it is Christmas, and Scorpius is so clearly filled with gratitude and joy for his gift…
"Forget the paperwork," Harry says. "Let's go watch your son fly."
They go to the gardens. Scorpius is a little hesitant at first – nervous and uncertain, the broom wobbling about as he tries to direct it about the expanse of manicured lawns – but after Harry shares the story of his first Quidditch match and the subsequent swallowing of the snitch, Draco becomes quite amused and the atmosphere lightens up considerably.
"And it's quite all right to be nervous about it," Harry adds. "My best friend, Ron Weasley, he practically had an anxiety attack before every match but he was one of the best Keepers Gryffindor had."
Scorpius seems a little more confident after that, and both Harry and Draco offer advice. Soon, Draco is calling out encouragement as Scorpius weaves his way around the garden, flying low beneath blooming ice-roses or soaring over the bare branches of the trees, a swift silhouette against the grey winter sky.
And when Scorpius lands for the final time, face rosy with cold, eyes bright, laughing with happiness at his achievement, he races towards Draco and they hug each other. For a moment, Harry's smiling, sharing their happiness, remembering a time when James would turn to Harry whenever he succeeded at something – whether tying his laces, or learning to ride a bicycle, or when he received his Hogwarts letter – and he'd throw his arms around Harry with the same joy.
But it's been a long time since James did that.
Harry's smile fades, just a little, as the slightest wisp of envy curls around his heart.
After so many times, James thinks, he should be used to this. How many times has Harry had to rush away due to unexpected fire-calls, or worked overtime in emergency shifts, or cancelled plans because of last-minute schedule changes? And yet, every time, a little pang of disappointment still rises in James's heart. He mentally tells himself off for it, even as his eyes still automatically flick to the clock above the fireplace.
Seven o'clock.
He sighs and, across the living room, Teddy looks up from his notes. "He'll be back soon," he says.
"Wasn't even thinking about that," James lies. "You know how it is. Bet Dad's gotten called into work for an overnight."
"Maybe." Teddy picks up his quill again, frowning.
"What are you doing, anyway? We should be doing something fun." Whenever Teddy's left alone with James, shenanigans always ensue. "Bet we've still got some fireworks left over from last summer."
Teddy gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry, but this job application is due tomorrow and I've really got to get it done."
"We could just play a quick game of Exploding Snap, then."
"Maybe later."
James falls silent. Teddy's been looking for jobs all year, ever since graduating Hogwarts last June. Mostly internships at travel magazines, which at first James thought was very cool and exciting until he realised Teddy would be away for months at a time. James hopes Teddy gets his dream job, of course, but deep down – though he feels guilty for it – he hopes Teddy chooses something else a little closer to home.
Six years.
Six years between them.
When James was younger, it didn't seem like a big difference. When James was four and Teddy was ten, for example, Teddy would carry James on his shoulders absolutely everywhere and tell him stories about the octopus under the house, and when James was seven and Teddy was twelve, they'd set off firecrackers during the long, hazy summer nights, and laugh at the same jokes and sit at the same window and watch the storms roll in while Andromeda made them both cups of milky coffee.
But now…Teddy is choosing his career, and making job applications, and looking at rental listings at the local real estate office and talking about maybe getting a place with Victoire, and James…well, James is still trying to decide whether or not he's too old for pyjamas printed with cartoon owls. And suddenly, six years seems like an impossible gap, a vast sea of time between them.
"What job are you applying for?" James asks, trying to distract himself from the lump of dread in his throat.
"Hmm? Oh, it's an internship at Silver Compass."
"Oh." James leans back a little on the sofa and closes his eyes slightly. When everything is blurred like this, the little lights on the Christmas tree look like stars and moons. Tiny planets spinning around each other. "When you're finished, can we play a game?"
"Sure," Teddy says.
But he continues writing well into the night, and at midnight James stands up.
"I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Teddy."
"Goodnight, cuz," Teddy says distractedly. "Sorry, this application is taking forever."
"It's okay."
And it is, James tells himself. It's fine. People grow up. Things change.
He goes to bed.
He was right, anyway; his father got called into an overnight shift. Harry drags himself through the door at seven o'clock in the morning, looking thoroughly exhausted. James – making himself a cup of tea – goes into the hallway to greet him.
"Sorry I didn't make it back yesterday," Harry says, giving James a brief hug. "I'm going to have a nap."
"Don't forget we're going to do the baking today. Aunt Andromeda said she'll be here around two."
"I'll fire-call her and cancel it."
James's heart deflates a little. "You can't do that! We're supposed to do it today. Teddy already promised to go and fetch all the ingredients with me."
"You can still go shopping with Teddy. We'll have to do it tomorrow."
"Dad, you promised – "
Harry groans. "James, I'm tired, I've had a long shift – don't start this now, all right?"
James says nothing. It's useless anyway, he thinks. Harry's always irritable after an overnight shift, particularly if it's an unscheduled one and he's absolutely exhausted.
"Fine," James mutters.
"Oh, for the love of Merlin – don't sulk. I'm in no mood for a tantrum, James."
"I wasn't throwing a tantrum! All I said was 'fine'!" James retorts, stung.
"All right. Well, I'm going to bed. I'm sorry about the baking but we'll just have to do it tomorrow."
"Okay."
Harry gives him a brief pat on the shoulder and departs, leaving James alone in the hallway.
Harry finally keeps his promise: they do their Christmas baking. It's hard to stay miserable when the Wizarding Wireless is playing cheery carols, Andromeda humming along as she sits at the breakfast table, putting together the little gift-boxes. And Harry's going from room to room, carrying armfuls of tinsel and wreaths of holly, sending twinkling lights everywhere with a swish of his wand. James and Teddy, of course, are in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, already somehow getting flour everywhere.
"All right. James, we'll need half a cup of golden syrup," Teddy says, getting out the cookbook. It's a very battered cookbook, gifted from Mrs Weasley to Ginny, and full of ancient magic. The pages tended to get quite excited and try to add ingredients if left unattended.
"Maybe I'll make something else this year," James says.
"What?" Teddy looks scandalised. "We've made this every year, since you were a little toddler and couldn't even do anything except eat all the icing."
"Yeah, well. I'm too old to be helping now," James says with a shrug. "I can make my own stuff."
"It's not about being too old," Teddy retorts. "You can look like a wizened old walnut and have a beard twice as long as Dumbledore's and it wouldn't matter. We'll still be stooped over the mixing bowls, cackling away and throwing flour at each other."
"Come on, James," Andromeda says, carefully wrapping cellophane around her homemade shortbread. "It's tradition. It'd break my heart not to see you two wreaking havoc in the kitchen, wasting good ingredients and forgetting to add bicarbonate soda."
"That was one year!" Teddy says.
Andromeda shakes her head sorrowfully. "Flat as cardboard, they were, and same texture too."
James can't help it. He smiles reluctantly and Teddy pounces.
"Aha! And you heard my nan, she'd be heartbroken. You wouldn't want that. Would you, James?"
James gives in and fetches the golden syrup. For a while, they work in reasonable peace and quiet, occasionally swapping a casual remark or joke. Andromeda murmurs a lyric every now and again as she curls ribbons, the radio playing beside her. James leaves briefly to put the star atop the tree; it's another tradition and the first time James did this, he sat upon his father's shoulders and reached up with clumsy hands, a golden star clutched in his fingers. Now, if he stands on his tiptoes, he can just reach the top of the tree.
"It'll be great catching up with everyone tomorrow," Teddy says once James has returned to the kitchen. "All the younger cousins will be so excited about Father Christmas…don't you wish you still believed?"
James gives him a look. "I'm twelve. Nearly thirteen."
Teddy studies him for a moment. "I know. It's just…I really miss that sometimes, you know? When you were a little kid and loved hearing all my stories. Spiders turning into cakes, and little goblins that lived in the laundry and ate socks, and the octopus under the house…"
"You wish I was a little kid still?" James asks.
"What? That's not what I meant, cuz. Look, you'll understand one day. It's just this realisation you get — "
"That you wish I'd stay the same? "
"James! Would you stop interrupting? Merlin's beard, you can be so frustrating sometimes — "
"Fine! You can finish the gingerbread by yourself, then!" James turns and storms out the kitchen and down the hallway, stomping all the way up the stairs and not stopping until he's climbed into the attic. He goes straight to his bed and sits down, scowling at the wall opposite. It has a picture on it of a little badger family having a picnic. And another picture next to it, of two wolves playing football. Stupid, whimsical pictures that belong in a children's book, he thinks moodily. They ought to have been taken down years ago.
A knock on his door.
"Go away."
"Come on, cuz. Stop sulking."
"I said leave me alone!"
There's a long silence and he thinks Teddy has gone away. But then he hears a soft sigh and footsteps fading away. A pang of regret rises in his stomach and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and feeling utterly defeated somehow.
He tries reading his comics for a while, but he ends up reading the same dialogue over and over and eventually he gives up, crossing the room and going to his window. The sun is setting slowly over the distant fields. The oak tree looks like a hunched giant, the knotted branches bare against the dark winter sky. As the dying sunlight slowly fades, the stars become clear and crisp, each one shining white. Sirius, James thinks. The brightest star in the sky. He absently traces the path of the healed welt across his face.
He goes downstairs, stopping on the second floor where the guest bedroom is. Well, that's what Harry calls it whenever somebody comes to stay, but James always thinks of it as Teddy's room.
He pauses for a long moment outside the door, then knocks hesitantly.
"Come in," Teddy calls out.
"It's me." James opens the door and steps in, feeling a little awkward and sheepish. It's been a long time since he argued with Teddy.
The curtains are still open, framing a thin moon, but the lamp on the bedside table shines brightly across the room, revealing rolls of wrapping paper across the floor. Teddy's sitting amongst it all, surrounded by unravelled ribbons and bits of tape.
"Oh, hello, cuz," he says amiably. "Good timing, I just finished wrapping your present." He nods at a square parcel on the bed, wrapped in blue paper with little dancing snowmen all over it.
"Surprised you didn't throw it out the window," James admits, and Teddy laughs.
"Well, I did choose the most childish wrapping paper I could find."
James crosses the room with difficulty, avoiding the piles of gifts and rolls of paper, and sits on the edge of the bed.
"Do you wish I was still a little kid?"
Teddy sighs and picks up another roll of paper. "James, that wasn't what I meant at all. It's just…I was there when you were born. When you were zero years old. And I used to visit you all the time and sing stupid songs to you when you were a baby, and when you were older I told you silly stories and helped you tie your laces and…and now I look at you and I can't believe you're nearly thirteen." Teddy begins cutting a swathe of paper away. "That's what I meant."
James thinks about that for a while. He picks up the nearest item — a plush toy owl that he guesses is a gift for little Lucy, who adores owls — and pokes its fuzzy belly, thinking about all his young cousins yet to go to Hogwarts, yet to grow up.
"I'm…" He pauses. He's never been very good at articulating his feelings, always wanting to appear brave and strong like his father. "I'm just trying to catch up, really."
Teddy looks up with surprise. "To who? Throw me that owl."
James throws the owl at him; Teddy catches it deftly. "Well…to you. And…well, I know you're six years ahead so I'll never catch up, but…Rose, too, and all my friends at Hogwarts…they all seem to know exactly what they're doing, and where they're going, and…and…"
Teddy frowns, momentarily abandoning wrapping the owl. "Okay, cuz. Let me tell you a secret. Nobody knows what they're doing."
"You do! You're always really confident and happy and — "
"Total rubbish. You know all these job applications? I've been applying for jobs for nearly six months now, and every time I get a rejection letter I wonder what on earth I'm doing with my life. "
"You're lying," James says uncertainly, but Teddy shakes his head solemnly.
"I promise."
James is silent for a long moment. "Well…if I were one of those magazine people, I'd give you a job in a heartbeat."
"Of course you would." Teddy smiles and throws the wrapped owl at him, the gift bouncing off James's head.
"Hey! I'm telling!"
Teddy laughs. "You'll never be too old for that. I swear on Merlin's pointy hat, I'll still be hearing that when I'm a hundred and two." He scrunches up his nose; his hair darkens to black and his features subtly change until he very closely resembles James. "I'm telling!" he mimics. "Teddy, I'm telling on you!"
"Stop it! Dad says you're not allowed to Metamorph family members! Don't imitate me!"
"You're imitating me!"
James launches across the room and — even though he's far too old for baking gingerbread, or putting stars on trees, or hitting Teddy over the head with a plush owl — he does it anyway.
And somehow, he feels better.
Christmas Day is spent in the usual way – everybody gathers at the Burrow to exchange gifts and family news. The adults stand around, drinking eggnog and catching up with each other; the younger cousins race around the house with their new toys while the older children lounge about in front of the fireplace. Harry notices, with faint amusement, that Teddy and Victoire have retreated to a cosy corner to murmur to each other.
"Look at those lovebirds," he tells Ron, grinning.
"Ah, to be young and in love again," Ron says theatrically. "Somebody should go over there and lecture them about safe practices."
Hermione nearly chokes on her butterbeer. "Ron!"
"What? Don't worry, I'm not going to do it. Think my mother's going over there anyway."
They watch with amusement as Mrs Weasley forcibly extracts Victoire and sends Teddy off towards the kitchen.
"Really, you should be helping washing up, Teddy Lupin! And Victoire, there is no reason for you to be lingering about."
"I can help Teddy in the kitchen," Victoire begins hopefully, but Mrs Weasley cuts her off quickly.
"You can go upstairs and help your mother. She's in the attic, looking for a family heirloom I promised her and Bill. Off you go, dear."
Harry has to hide a smile in his cup of tea as an unhappy Victoire is ushered past. Next to him, Hermione stifles a laugh.
"Poor James," Harry says, thinking with amusement of his son's future at the hands of interfering Mrs Weasley. "Ron, I know your mum means well, but…I feel sorry for any girlfriend James has."
Ron grins. "Oh, I look forward to that. James is the apple of Mum's eye – no girlfriend will ever live up to her expectations."
They laugh, but then heat radiates from Harry's pocket and he nearly drops his cup of tea. He can't believe it. The Auror's emergency token is burning fiercely, calling him.
Not once, he thinks in disbelief. Not once during the past fifteen years. A Christmas miracle, his coworkers would always joke. Fortune smiled upon them, Harry supposes. Oh, he's missed James's birthday a couple of times, and there's been a few Easters when James has been sent alone to the traditional egg hunt at Ron and Hermione's house. But he always made up for it and James – usually only too happy to spend time with Andromeda and Teddy – has never seemed too bothered.
But Christmas Day…
"Sorry, just have to make a call," Harry says to his friends. Ron blinks; Hermione's eyebrows rise incredulously.
"What, today?"
"Must be urgent." Harry turns and makes his way upstairs; there's a fireplace in Fred and George's old room that will allow him some privacy. He kneels on the dusty floorboards and lights a fire with a wave of his wand. "Auror's Office."
A pause, and then the flames turn jet-black as the connecting fireplace recognises Harry's magical signature and sends the call through. Moments later, he can see Cuthbert's face drifting across the flames like a cloud.
"Sir?"
"I received a calling. What's going on?"
"Williamson needs you here at once, sir. I can't give you any more information without verifying this connection."
"Very well." Harry's heart sinks. Part of him had hoped that it was a mistake, that someone had triggered the token by accident. "I'll be along directly."
"Received and understood."
Harry terminates the call and stands up. In the distance, he can still hear relatives talking, their voices rising in laughter occasionally. Somebody runs up the stairs – the light footsteps of a small child – and nearby, he can hear one of James's young cousins singing a Christmas carol, their voice out-of-key but full of cheerful enthusiasm.
He sighs and gets to his feet.
Everyone's surprised and faintly disappointed when Harry says his farewells.
"I'm afraid it's rather urgent," he says and they nod understandingly, exchanging hugs with him before drifting back to their conversations. Harry quickly makes his way to the living room to collect his cloak.
James trails after him. "But…you've never had to leave on Christmas Day…"
"I know, I'm sorry. I'll be back later, all right?"
"When? We haven't opened presents yet, you've got to stay for that…"
"I can't. It's urgent."
"Well…what kind of urgent? Is there trouble?" James looks down at his feet. "It's not…it's not fieldwork, is it?"
"I'll be fine, I promise." Harry ruffles James's hair.
"But…what about Dudley? We always visit him."
"Come on, you always hate those visits."
James looks up, hurt. "But they're a tradition. And Dudley always gives me nice gifts, and I want to see my cousin. She'll be a year old now. I got to hold her last year."
"You don't even know your cousin. You've only seen her once." Harry clasps his cloak. "Where's Teddy?" Teddy always, unfailingly, cheers James up.
And it's no exception today. Teddy appears at James's side, as if Summoned, and loops an arm around James's shoulders. "Hey, cuz," he says amiably. "What's the problem? You've got that angry hedgehog look again."
James shakes off Teddy's arm. "Dad's leaving. Says he's got work."
Teddy look at Harry. "What, today?" he says and Harry feels faintly annoyed. Everyone knows this is the life of an Auror, and while James might not yet appreciate the dedication Harry has to have to the job, Harry had thought Teddy would at least understand.
"It's urgent. I have to leave at once. Believe me, I wish I could stay."
"Then why don't you?" James asks.
"You know I can't! Come on, James, you know about my work. People need me," Harry says, trying to avoid saying the words lives might be at stake. He doesn't want James to worry.
James looks at him for a long moment. "Yeah," he says. "People need you. I know."
"Thanks for understanding," Harry says, relieved, and ruffles James's hair. "I'll be back before you know it."
James says nothing as he leaves.
Chapter 11: Giving Things Away
Summary:
In which Draco talks about Astoria — Harry's distracted with Auror work — James begins to feel isolated — Harry and Draco discuss James and Scorpius's enmity.
Chapter Text
Christmas Day is quiet for Draco. Just him and Scorpius.
The Christmas break, Draco will admit, did not have the best start. When he picked Scorpius up from the train station, Scorpius was silent. And, Draco knows, when Scorpius is having an extremely bad time, he won't speak. He'll hide somewhere and not speak a word.
But Draco managed to locate the problem, anyway: Scorpius's rat was missing and, after some tactful questioning from Draco, Scorpius finally said Pan had died unexpectedly. Draco wasn't surprised – they'd said at the shop that Pan wasn't meant to be a pet rat and probably had a few genetic problems or general poor health. But Scorpius was clearly devastated and had spent the evening in tears.
They had buried Pan the next day – Scorpius picked a place in the orchard, beneath the lemon tree that Narcissa had planted during the first year of her marriage to Lucius. Draco had spent some time debating whether or not to give Scorpius another pet but in the end had decided against it. Maybe in a few months from now, when an owl might catch Scorpius's attention. Owls are good. Much longer lifespans.
Of course, Christmas has always been hard for Draco. The glittering memories of his childhood – the kitchens bustling as feasts were prepared, and hundreds of Christmas cards arriving from family friends and those wanting favour with the Malfoy family, and endless parties and galas his parents enjoyed at the height of their social status – become little more than stardust; sad debris as Draco stands alone in the empty manor.
But maybe, he thinks on Christmas morning, it's not so bad. Scorpius loves all his presents and seems quite happy to spend the morning playing with his favourite gift: a spectroscopy kit. Draco had purchased the kit at the recommendation of the shopkeeper, who had insisted it was 'perfect' for the inquisitive intellectual. Now, however, he wonders.
"The measured spectra are used to determine the chemical composition…" Draco frowns and turns the page of the booklet that came with the kit. "Scorpius, what is this?"
Scorpius looks up from the glass prism he's turning over in his hands. "Muggles found out a way of finding out what makes up stuff, just by looking really closely at the colours in its spectrum. That's how they know what the stars are made of." He holds up the prism. "Isn't that interesting?"
When Draco was thirteen, he was throwing jellybeans at the girls in the Slytherin common room and trying to figure out anti-acne charms – not dabbling in quantum mechanics. Draco's not sure whether he should be immensely proud of Scorpius, or slightly terrified.
But in the afternoon, Scorpius reminds Draco that he is, after all, still a child. He flies his new broom around the manor gardens, and comes in to warm his hands up by the fire, and has a hot chocolate and laughs at the terrible puns in the Christmas crackers.
"What do you give a sick canary?" he asks Draco.
"I don't know."
"Tweetment." Scorpius laughs and Draco shakes his head in disbelief.
"That's awful, Scorpius."
"What do you call a fake noodle?"
"What?"
"An impasta."
"You have your mother's sense of humour," Draco says dryly, but then he wishes he hadn't said anything, for Scorpius's smile fades and he looks down at the empty crackers gathered in his lap.
"Do you miss her?" Scorpius asks, not looking up.
"Of course I miss her."
A silence eclipses them for a while. Scorpius picks up one of the crackers and begins slowly shredding the tissue paper. "She missed you a lot," he says at last. "She always said she wanted to see you again. But you'd be too mad at her, she said."
Draco doesn't speak for a moment, sadness suddenly gripping his heart. He always thought Astoria would never look back after the divorce, but apparently he was wrong. His heart suddenly aches. He was angry with her, yes, but it had always been a lot more complicated than that. If only Astoria had realised... "Your mother used to be very happy," he says eventually, studying his son.
"Did she?" Scorpius still isn't looking up, focusing on his task of methodically shredding the tissue paper.
"Yes."
"What made her so sad, then? Was it me?"
"No, of course not. Your mother…" Merlin, he is not prepared to have this conversation. Maybe when Scorpius is older, he'd always thought, but his son is older. Scorpius is not five years old anymore, distracted by toys and shiny things. He has just turned thirteen and is studying quantum mechanics, of all things, and apparently today is the day he will look back at their dysfunctional family and ask why.
"Your mother…" Draco tries again, "…felt very sad about a lot of things."
"What sort of things?"
Draco falls silent for a while. "Your mother and I were very happy when we married," he says eventually. "But sometimes, things don't turn out the way you expect. And when we started fighting and realised we weren't very good at being married, it made your mother very sad. There's nothing you could have done about it, Scorpius. The same way you can't heal a scar." He stands up. "Come, I'll show you something."
Scorpius trails him upstairs. Draco goes into the study, straight to the mahogany desk that holds the most important documents. Here, in the very bottom of the drawer, hidden from sight for a very long time, he takes out a photograph album.
"Here," he says, sitting on a nearby divan. "Have a look."
Scorpius sits beside him and frowns, taking the album from Draco's hands and opening the cover cautiously. The first photograph is a picture of Draco and Astoria at their wedding. Astoria was already three months pregnant, though it wasn't yet visible. She's wearing a navy-blue dress, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she smiles and stands with Draco.
"That's Mum?" Scorpius stares at the photograph, mesmerised. "She looks so happy and pretty…"
He turns the page. More wedding photographs, mostly of guests Draco doesn't know, but there's plenty of the ceremony too – Astoria arriving in a griffin-drawn carriage, resplendent in white, and her father walking her up the aisle. A picture of Draco and Astoria exchanging vows, and the reception afterwards with the enormous cake and glittering sugar-flowers decorating every table. And after the wedding photographs are a few photographs of the baby shower, Astoria obviously very pregnant. There's very few casual pictures – Draco never used the camera much and neither did Astoria – and most of the moments were captured by friends and family at the time. Narcissa, really.
When Scorpius turns the next page, newspaper clippings fall into his lap. Birth announcements and congratulations placed in the Daily Prophet. There's a little name-tag too, the one they attached to Scorpius's crib at the hospital. MALFOY, Scorpius Hyperion. And beneath that, a photograph of an exhausted Astoria sleeping as she holds a tiny infant.
"That's me?"
"Of course."
Scorpius picks up the name-tag, holding it as he stares down at the picture.
"That was the happiest day of my life," Draco says, smiling, his usual reticence worn away quickly by the memory of Scorpius's birth. "It's tradition, in our family, to name children after stars. I chose the constellation Scorpius, and your mother chose Hyperion."
Scorpius reads all the birth announcements, then turns the page. They spend quite some time poring over the pictures: Scorpius's milestones and early birthdays, a few other events. There's a single photograph of Narcissa towards the back, along with a funeral service itinerary and a handwritten poem. Scorpius reads the poem twice.
"Your grandmother wrote it," Draco says.
The last photograph is of Scorpius walking through flowering gardens, butterflies rising in clouds around him.
"I remember that," Scorpius whispers, as if speaking to himself. "I remember that day…"
"The last day I saw you." Draco had taken the photograph, already hating how little time he had with his son and deciding to try and record more memories with him. If only he'd known what lay ahead…
Scorpius looks at the picture for a long time, then closes the album. "Can I borrow this?"
"You can keep it if you want. But I'd prefer for you to leave it at the manor – it may get lost at Hogwarts."
"All right."
They go downstairs and while away the evening playing backgammon and drinking cups of peppermint tea. A nice way to end the day, Draco thinks.
But just before Scorpius goes to bed, he thanks Draco for the photo album. "I liked seeing all those pictures," he says. "I think it's my favourite present."
Draco smiles and takes Scorpius's wand, casting a Lumos for him, and sends him away to bed.
Harry spends the remainder of Christmas Day on surveillance, making an extremely important breakthrough in the operation. He works long into the night, arriving home in the early hours of the next day. At least he'll get to spend a little time with James, he thinks hopefully.
The morning starts nicely enough; Teddy stayed the night again and he's sitting at the island counter, cup of tea in one hand, getting career advice from Harry.
"Well, I know Luna would be happy to give you some advice about becoming a journalist," Harry says, rinsing the plates in the sink. "And I can put you in touch with Susan Bones — she's made quite a name for herself in the photography industry."
"Really? Thanks, Harry. I mean, I've got absolutely no contacts at the moment, so I'm really grateful for any help — oh, hello, cuz. You need something?"
Harry turns. James is standing in the doorway, looking exasperated, covered in dust and cobwebs.
"Yeah, where's my old broom?"
Harry pauses. "Why on earth do you need it? It's been sitting dusty for years."
"Yeah, well, Rose and Hugo are coming over later and they want a match."
"What? It's freezing outside." Harry sets another plate onto the dishrack.
"I know, but there's a vacancy on the Gryffindor team and Rose reckons she wants to practice for it." James huffs. "Don't know why she's so interested in playing Quidditch, really."
"Well, maybe you can borrow Teddy's broom. Next model up, anyway, I think."
Teddy shrugs. "Sure, I can go home and – "
"No, I want my Skyblazer," James says stubbornly.
Typical, Harry thinks wryly. James hasn't gone near a broom in months, and the second Harry gives it away…
"Well, you can't. I gave it away," Harry says briskly, picking up the dishcloth and wiping down the counters. James stares at him, mouth hanging open.
"You…you gave it away? To who?"
"Scorpius Malfoy. He really wants a spot on the Ravenclaw team but he hasn't got a broom, and yours has been sitting dusty in the shed for years. Thought I'd give it to him, along with a bit of advice."
"That's my broom! You can't just give my stuff away! Especially not to Scorpius!"
"Come on, James, you don't even like Quidditch! The Malfoys are having some financial problems at the moment and I know Scorpius is very grateful to have a broom."
"He's a nice kid," Teddy adds. "He's sent me a few letters — "
"What?" James says, looking outraged. "Why?"
"Well, I used to be the captain for the Ravenclaw team, and he wanted some advice for getting on the team."
"Oh, nice! Really nice! So he's getting free advice from my cousin, and free lessons from my dad, and a free broom from me!"
Harry sighs. "James, I'm a little disappointed. I know you two don't get along very well, but I thought you would have been happy to give your unwanted stuff to someone genuinely in need — "
"I want my broom back!"
Harry can't figure it out. James has never been particularly interested in flying. "Look, if you really want to take up flying, I'll buy you a new broom, the latest model — "
"No, I want my Skyblazer back!"
"Well, you're not getting it back," Harry says, feeling both angry and disappointed. He raised James to be better than this. "I'm sorry you feel that other people don't deserve nice things, James."
"Come on, cuz," Teddy adds. "What's so bad about Scorpius getting a few lessons on your old broom? He's genuinely excited about Quidditch, I think it's great."
"I don't want you talking to him," James snaps. "He should get advice from his own cousin."
Teddy laughs. "Well, funnily enough, we are actually related! We're second cousins. Pretty cool, isn't it?"
James looks furious. "Don't talk to him! And I am getting my broom back! And I'll destroy it so he can never fly it!"
"James! You are not getting it back and that's final! Go to your room," Harry orders.
"Fine!" And James storms away, slamming every single door on the way to his room. Harry winces as the final crash of the attic door echoes through the house, followed by the shatter of an ornament falling. He stands in silence for a moment, his heart racing. Merlin, they've argued before — James getting irritable about certain things, or Harry telling him off about leaving toys or books lying about — but nothing like this. It's terrible. His heart sinks, his stomach churns, and anxiety eats away at him like a vulture. Did he do the right thing, sending James to his room? Or was it actually Harry's fault, for giving the Skyblazer away? Harry's always bought James whatever he's excitedly pointed at in shop windows, and the many aunts and uncles have doted on James completely. Is this a burden of Harry's own making?
"I shouldn't have given James's broom away," Harry says at last.
"Don't be daft," Teddy replies, frowning. "He hasn't picked it up in ages."
"Maybe he just really hates Scorpius." They had a little quarrel in first year, Harry remembers, but James hasn't mentioned anything since.
"Why? Scorpius is a nice kid. Quiet and polite." Teddy shrugs.
"Well," Harry says, "I hope it's either an irrational hatred of Scorpius, or a sudden love of flying. Because the only other reason I can think of is that James genuinely doesn't want to give unwanted toys away to other people." He turns away, busying himself wiping down the counters again, but thinking of another boy he knew who didn't like sharing. Has he raised a Dudley?
"Come on, it's probably just the teenage years," Teddy says. "I bet you anything he's just turning into a moody teenager."
"Brilliant."
"Yeah. Have fun with that. You could always try putting him in a box for a few years until the worst of it is over."
"Well, I'm glad you're there to help him, Teddy. And all his friends at Hogwarts, of course." He smiles, recalling James's letters filled with anecdotes about his friends.
"Yeah, he'll be fine," Teddy says cheerfully. "Bet you anything he's just missing all his friends and feeling a little grumpy without them."
Harry nods, feeling a little more reassured.
One more day until James returns to Hogwarts. The Christmas break has flown past — it seems only a few days ago that he was baking gingerbread biscuits, laughing with Teddy and listening to Andromeda sing along to the carols on the Wizarding Wireless. The Christmas tree is shedding needles all over the floor, the last of the mince pies have been eaten, the festive cards lining the shelves have already been tidied away. James is still a little ticked off about his Skyblazer – it hasn't reappeared and Harry hasn't mentioned it since, so James resentfully supposes that it's Scorpius's property now and there's nothing he can do about it. Nevertheless, he tries to forget about it and focus on other things.
Like the celebration tonight. Teddy finally got a job offer from the Silver Compass and everyone's coming over to congratulate him. Harry is in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a roast dinner; Teddy and James are cleaning up the last of the Christmas decorations.
"Come help me with this tree, cuz," Teddy calls to him. "If your little noodle arms can withstand the weight of pine needles."
"Yeah, yeah." But James good-naturedly helps Teddy dismantle the Christmas tree, leaving a scattered trail of pine needles as they drag it outside. Teddy makes James stand back while he casts an Incendio, the tree lighting up like a firework for a brief second before disintegrating into ash. It reminds James of the summer nights spent in the fields, Teddy lighting fireworks and both of them laughing.
"We should stock up on some fireworks for summer," James says as they hurry back inside, their breath pluming silver in the cold January air.
"Maybe, if I'm around," Teddy says, making his way to the living room. "Suppose we should clear up the tinsel next. Harry must've been busy, usually all the Christmas stuff is cleaned away by now."
"What do you mean, if you're around?" James asks, automatically accepting the armfuls of tinsel Teddy is handing him. "You're always around for summer."
"When I was at Hogwarts, of course." Teddy waves his wand, making a wreath from the fireplace float through the air. "But I'll be really busy with this internship. And they'll send me all sorts of places." He pauses, gazing into the distance, smiling. "Not right away, of course — I'll probably just be fetching coffees and that sort of thing — but they told me to be prepared to travel at short notice. Italy, France, Spain…not just Europe, either, but Asia too…I've always wanted to go to the Philippines, they've got an incredibly rich history of water alchemy and ocean magic…"
"The Philippines?" James asks slowly. "That's…that's a long way away. The other side of the world."
"It'll be the farthest I've ever travelled." Teddy places the wreath in the box of decorations. "I can hardly wait."
"You'll…you'll write though, won't you?"
"Course, if there's owls available. Might have to use the Muggle mail in some of the more remote areas. More stamps for your collection," Teddy says with a grin. "Hand me that tinsel, cuz."
James wordlessly hands it over. "What about Sundays?" he asks at last. "You always have dinner with us on Sundays."
"Well, of course Nan will still come over." Teddy reaches over and ruffles James's hair. "Don't worry, I'll still find time to tease you about your noodle arms."
James musters up a quick grin. "Yeah," he says. "Course. And you'll send a postcard to the octopus under the house, right?"
Teddy laughs. "Of course. Come on, we've still got to get rid of all the pinecones and spruce branches Aunt Hermione put everywhere."
James nods and trails after him.
Later on, when they're all sitting around the table excitedly congratulating Teddy, James watches as the champagne is poured and remembers how the children were always given pumpkin juice instead. Teddy used to pull faces at James as they sipped at their goblets of pumpkin juice, and they'd commiserate about it.
One day we'll be old enough, Teddy used to say.
The adults are all chatting with each other. James tries to catch Rose's eye, but she's looking at Teddy with admiration, listening to him chat about Borneo, and James drops his gaze to his plate again. Will Teddy be here still when James comes home for the brief Easter break? Or will he be gone already? And what about the summer holidays? Surely Teddy won't be gone all summer…it will be James's first summer without his cousin. What about their fireworks? They always set off fireworks at least once during summer. Usually when the night is clear and balmy, Harry away at work and blissfully unaware of Teddy and James chasing wild fireworks around the garden, laughing and shouting as bright flares and sparks light up the night.
They finish dinner. Harry pours Teddy a new glass of champagne.
"A toast to the start of Teddy's exciting career!" Ron announces, lifting his glass.
"To Teddy's career!"
"May it be long and illustrious!"
They laugh and raise their glasses, smiling, and James catches Teddy's eye and smiles too. I'm happy for you, cousin, I really am, he thinks. Of course he is.
He looks down, blinking rapidly, and quickly downs the pumpkin juice, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat.
He returns to Hogwarts the next day, on the eighth of January. Paul and Martin's families went on a skiing trip together and both the boys show endless photos of people falling over into snow. Iwan has plenty of leftover sweets from his Christmas break, which he generously shares around. The first years all ask James what he received for Christmas, eyes wide with expectation.
"I heard you got the Philosopher's Stone," one of them says.
"I heard he got his own Quidditch team!"
"I heard — "
"I got some books," James says, cutting them off.
"Ooh, like ancient books of magic?"
"Was it Merlin's own spellbook?"
"No, just books," James says with exasperation.
"I heard Harry Potter's got a whole library of first-edition books, including the diary of Voldemort!"
A few days later he gets a break from all the stupid questions, at least, when the first match of the year takes place. He's not particularly interested but he goes along anyway, wrapped up in a scarlet and gold scarf that's more for warmth than any sort of house spirit. He dutifully cheers as the Gryffindor team recaptures the quaffle.
Martin jumps to his feet, nearly knocking James over. "Another goal! Did you see that, James? What a shot!"
"What?" But James stands up anyway and makes a few half-hearted cheers. All this sitting down, then standing up…he checks his watch. This game has been going for two hours now, and he's got to look after that stupid Oversensitive Cactus today. Who knows what's happened to it over Christmas break? Sprout locks the greenhouses after four o'clock, and it's already past midday…
Somebody slaps his shoulder and he jumps. "Come on, Gryffindor!" Rose shouts, seemingly unaware that she's just scared the living daylights out of James. "Come on!"
"Listen, Rose," James begins, "have you finished your Herbology project? You know, the one with — "
"Yes! Another fifty points! Yes!" Rose hollers, jumping up and down and jostling James about. She turns to the student beside her and they excitedly cheer together. Martin turns around to join in the celebration.
"Did you see that?" he asks them. "Look at the score! Soon it won't matter if we get the snitch or not!"
"I know! Oh, we're completely annihilating the Slytherins!"
James gives up; he turns and walks away, waiting for someone to call after him, but thankfully they're all distracted by the game. He threads between the excited students, finally managing to push his way free and walk away from the Quidditch pitch.
The cheers soon become distant noise. He looks over his shoulder, seeing the black dots of the players flit about in the grey winter sky. There will be snow again tonight, he thinks gloomily. His cactus will require extra care.
To his surprise, Professor Sprout is at the greenhouses rather than the Quidditch match. She's sorrowfully shaking her head at a row of blackened plants, and when she sees James she sighs.
"My Murtlaps succumbed to the frost over Christmas," she says. "I hope you're taking good care of your Oversensitive Cactus, Potter. Your grades can't afford another mistake."
"Yes, Professor." He ducks into the greenhouse, walking along the aisles until he comes to his cactus. It's still wearing the little Christmas hat James put on it for a joke, but it looks even pricklier than usual.
"Hello," James says, giving it an extremely careful pat. "Did you miss me? I'm sorry I was away." He removes the Christmas hat and gets a sharp spine to his thumb in retaliation. "Ouch! What did you do that for, you little — very nice-looking plant. Nicer than all the others. That's why I chose you," he adds, giving the cactus another pat despite his better judgement. "You've got the sharpest spines and I bet you'll grow taller than all the others."
The cactus seems to straighten up a little, then, and James — pleased with his work — sets about mixing a fertiliser for it. Why on earth did he have to get stuck with this horrid little prickly plant…all the measurements have to be so exact. Half an ounce of unicorn dung, a quarter teaspoon of liquid starlight…
Footsteps. James glances up. Great. Of course it's Scorpius.
He finishes mixing the concoction and gives Scorpius a filthy look for good measure, remembering how Harry gave his Skyblazer away. Scorpius steadfastly ignores James, as if he's not even there, and to James's horror he grabs the cactus and sets it aside.
"What are you doing, you idiot?" James says with alarm. "Don't touch that!"
"It's in the way. I need room to re-plant my Ever-Growing Basil."
"So? Come back another time," James snaps, hurrying over to rescue his cactus. "Shouldn't you be at the Quidditch match anyway, taking notes?"
Scorpius pauses and gives him a suspicious look. "What's that mean?"
"Heard you're trying out for the Ravenclaw team. Best of luck," James adds. "You'll need it, especially if you can't even afford your own broom."
"Shut up," Scorpius retorts, and for a moment James is stung. He thought this was just the way it was — Scorpius and him not talking anymore, their past friendship gone — and that it didn't really matter anymore. But to his surprise, it still hurts to hear Scorpius speak so angrily, his voice filled with coldness.
"Go away," James snaps, trying to desperately recover from the moment of hurt. "I was here first."
"I'm allowed to be here too, and I'm allowed to move your plant."
The cactus droops a little and James quickly grabs it. "It doesn't like people talking about it! You're ruining it!"
"It's already really stunted. You clearly have no idea — "
"Shut up! Or I'll make you shut up!"
"You'd hex me?" Scorpius asks, sounding disbelieving.
"Why not? You haven't got a problem hexing me," James says, recalling the way the Stinging Hex had hit him like a slap, and surprise flashes across Scorpius's face, followed by something else James can't decipher.
"I didn't mean to," Scorpius mutters at last, looking away.
"Just go away!"
Scorpius looks at James, opens his mouth, then seems to change his mind.
"Okay," he says, and he turns and leaves.
James listens to his footsteps fade, then sets the cactus back down and looks at it miserably. It's definitely looking very tragic now, shedding spines at an alarming rate.
"Don't listen to anyone except me," James tells it. "And I don't think you're stunted. I think you look very…very healthy. And all the other cacti will be jealous of you when you reach your potential. You have loads of potential." That's what people say, James thinks, when they think you're useless but they have to lie and make you feel better. You have lots of potential. Because you can't prove they're lying when they say that.
It works. The cactus perks up again.
James wishes people believed lies as easily as plants.
In the last week of January, James receives two letters at once. One is his usual letter from Teddy, full of cheerful jokes and anecdotes: his internship, he says, should really have been labelled 'coffee house-elf'. But his supervisor has been pleased with his enthusiasm and dedication and has hinted that, if Teddy applies himself, he could be given his first assignment as early as April. But I hope it's after Easter, he writes. It would be nice to see you (and all the others!) again.
James reads the letter a few times, then grabs the next letter and opens it. It's from Teddy again — he recognises the handwriting at once.
Dear Rose,
Congratulations! I'm so happy to hear about your grades. You've always been an unbelievably smart kid, and you've got reflexes like a lightning-spider, so I'm not surprised you're top of the class for Defence.
Teddy must've absently addressed the envelope to James by accident, James realises. It's happened before — Teddy's written letters to multiple cousins at once and sent them to the wrong people — and James knows he shouldn't read letters meant for others. But he can't help but read the rest of the letter somewhat guiltily. It's nothing particularly interesting, anyway — mostly Teddy congratulating Rose for her high grades, going on about her intelligence, and how he wouldn't be surprised if she became an Auror. And has she considered trying out for the Quidditch team yet? When he visited Ron and Hermione over the Christmas break, he'd noticed how quick she was in their casual Quidditch games and she would make a brilliant Seeker…
Well, it serves him right, James thinks miserably, for reading other people's letters. Now he knows exactly how talented Rose is in every single arena… He folds the letter up again and catches Rose's attention from across the table.
"Rose? Sorry, Teddy accidentally addressed your letter to me."
"Oh. Thanks." She reaches out and accepts the letter, opening it and reading it quickly, a happy smile soon spreading across her face. James waits until he can catch her attention again.
"You didn't tell me you were top of the class for Defence."
"Oh, well." She blushes. "It's nothing, really."
"And all your grades are really high."
"Oh, well, you know. I've always loved to read, and — wait, did you read my letter?"
"Thought it was for me."
"It has 'Dear Rose' right at the top," Rose says, looking unimpressed.
"Must've missed that bit. Anyway, congratulations on…well, everything."
"Thanks." She tucks the letter away. "Well, suppose we should get to class. We've got Potions first."
"Yeah."
They go to the dungeons together. Slughorn is in quite a cheerful mood, humming Christmas carols even though January is nearly over. He sets them to work brewing a Sleeping Draught.
"Rose, is it supposed to be this colour?" James whispers desperately when his potion turns an unsightly orange.
"Working alone, please, Potter," Slughorn says as he goes past.
"Yes, Professor."
"Excellent job, Weasley. Wonderful work, Davies. Ah, your work has improved remarkably, Calthorpe."
James throws a handful of Wiggenwald bark into his potion; a moment later it begins smoking furiously, filling the room with black smoke.
Slughorn turns to look at him, then sighs and slowly shakes his head.
"I'm not one for handing out detentions like Chocolate Frogs," Slughorn says, pacing in front of his desk, his stomach wobbling dangerously. "But really, Potter. It's quite disappointing. Your mother had quite a knack for potions, you know. Lily Evans was one of my most talented witches — "
"Ginny," James mutters, and Slughorn turns.
"What?"
"Ginny. My mother's name is Ginny."
"What? Oh! Of course!" Slughorn shakes his head. "My apologies, dear boy. Memories tend to suffer with time. Ginny…ah, yes, Ginny Weasley. Quite a powerful witch, I thought. Hand-picked her for the Slug Club — as my students call it." Slughorn chuckles. "She went into Quidditch, if I recall correctly. Such a shame. She could have been quite an influential and powerful witch."
"What's wrong with being a Quidditch correspondent?" James asks a little sharply.
"Oh, nothing, my dear boy! But a waste of talent, I think we'll both agree. Now, regarding your Potions work — "
"My mother wasn't a waste of talent."
Slughorn begins to look distinctly uncomfortable. "Well…perhaps we should focus on your detention, Potter. Quill out, and please copy down the last seven potions we have studied. Perhaps it will help you remember the correct ingredients next time."
James says nothing, but he gets out his quill, opens the textbook, and begins copying lines.
Things seem to only worsen for him. A few weeks later, he discovers his cactus has died. The class lines up outside the greenhouse, waiting for Sprout to arrive, and as soon as she leads them in, James sees the tragic shrivelled remains of his cactus.
"What happened?" he demands, rushing over to it and interrupting Sprout midway through a lecture on the properties of Murtlaps.
"It died, Potter," Sprout says crisply.
"But — I don't understand — I did everything right!"
"Well, you must have made a mistake. Please return to your place, Potter. You can see to your cactus later on."
"I can't see to it, because it's dead!"
"Back to class, Potter," Sprout says sternly, and James gives her a look of simmering resentment before returning to his place. His classmates all look on, agog, but Sprout clears her throat and continues with the lesson as if nothing has happened. Martin nudges James.
"What?" James mutters.
"Saw Malfoy in here earlier, moving your plant about. Wasn't being too careful with it. Reckon he did something?"
James clenches his fists, seething. "That little…I already caught him moving it about and insulting it! I told him to leave it alone!"
"Potter, please pay attention!" Sprout says sharply, and James forces himself to try and concentrate on the class.
Internally, however, he thinks of Scorpius with burning anger.
He has his chance to confront Scorpius about it during lunch when he sees him — accompanied by a small group of Ravenclaw students — headed towards the Quidditch pitch, broom in hand. Martin and Paul, both with James, nudge him.
"Look, there's Malfoy. Do you think he's going to Quidditch try-outs?"
"Yeah, obviously," James mutters before quickening his pace.
"Where are you going? Wait a moment, let's just forget it," Paul begins, looking alarmed, but James has already caught up to the group of Ravenclaws. He steps in front of Scorpius.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks loudly. Scorpius gives him a look and one of the Ravenclaw friends laughs and answers him.
"Can't you tell? Quidditch try-outs," she says, and James's face flushes with anger.
"I wasn't talking to you," he snaps, and Scorpius narrows his eyes.
"Don't talk to her like that."
"Why? It's not like she's your friend. You've hardly got any friends," James adds, and Scorpius's cool demeanour slips a little, his face tingeing pink.
"And you've got none at all," Scorpius retorts, and James gapes at him for a moment, the hurt twisting in his heart like a knife.
"He's got loads of friends," Martin says, stepping forward. "Everyone wants to be friends with James Potter! You're just jealous."
"Yes," Scorpius says, looking at James. "Everyone wants to be friends with Potter. But nobody wants to be friends with James."
Martin blinks and the other students look bewildered, but James understands the calculated insult perfectly. For a moment, he's so overwhelmed with outrage and fury that he can barely speak. He trusted Scorpius once! All those little conversations, confessing his deepest fear of living in his father's shadow...and Scorpius has used it for nothing more than a traded insult in front of other students. He's standing there, one hand resting on James's Skyblazer, going to try-outs because of Harry's encouragement, using advice from Teddy…
"Shut up," James snarls. "You are jealous. Stealing my friends, my family — it's pathetic! Though I guess since your father is a Death Eater, it's no wonder you're desperately trying to shove your way into any other family — "
Scorpius's hex hits James right in the chest; he stumbles back a few feet as flowers immediately begin sprouting all over his robes. The Ravenclaws all start laughing.
"Good one, Scorpius!" someone calls out, and James seethes.
"Entartrer!" he shouts, the curse hitting Scorpius in the neck, and Scorpius cries out, scratching frantically at his skin as scales begin to grow rapidly across it.
"Ha! You showed him," Martin says triumphantly.
"Come on, Scorpius — show him that new jinx!" one of the Ravenclaws says, and James raises his wand in preparation for the oncoming duel, but Scorpius shakes his head.
"I'll miss try-outs," he says, "and that's exactly what he wants." He casts a charm on his skin, where the scales are still ferociously growing, and picks up his broom, striding past James. "Stay out of my way," he says as he passes James.
"Stay out of mine," James hisses. "If my dad gives you any more advice, I'll tell him you've been harassing me."
Scorpius gives him a look of loathing, then turns and walks away.
"What did he just say to you?" Paul asks anxiously.
"I don't even remember. Nothing he says is ever worth listening to," James snaps, turning and walking away, the crowd dispersing behind him.
"I'd say. What was that rubbish he was talking about — friends with Potter but not James — does he think you're two separate people?" Martin laughs.
James doesn't.
He hoists his bookbag over his shoulder, though, and mutters, "Yeah. He's crazy."
James's birthday arrives. The seventeenth of February. He receives an inordinate number of gifts; at breakfast, the owls crowd round him, bumping his elbows and stealing bits of toast. Bewildered at receiving so many parcels, he wonders if his father has somehow decided to particularly spoil him this year.
But no. He picks up the first card and opens it; to his horror, it immediately begins loudly singing Happy Birthday. Students pause to glance over at James, conversations quickly dying away, and he slams the card shut, his face heating up.
"Was that from you?" James hisses at Rose. As much as she loves her books, she inherited her father's inclination for jokes and could, at times, deliver quite the prank to the unsuspecting victim.
"No," she says, looking amused. "You've gone all red, did you know?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly aware." He gathers as many of the parcels as he can and carries them, with help from Martin and Paul, to the dormitory. He hadn't gotten so many presents last year; back then, he hadn't told anyone it had been his birthday — Martin and Paul had been surprised to find out on the day — but he supposes word has spread now. He wishes it was still largely unknown.
Maybe it's part of getting older, James thinks uneasily. He always used to get so excited about his birthday. Every birthday before Hogwarts — right up until his eleventh birthday two years ago — he'd woken up early, hardly able to wait for the day to start. Harry would always sneak into his room at some point before he woke and leave little presents hidden around the room — just small things, like a sugar mouse on the bedside table or a small toy at the end of the bed. And for breakfast there would be birthday pancakes, and if it was a school day, there would be a cupcake in James's lunchbox. Of course, the real celebration happened in the evening, after school, with all his aunts and uncles and cousins singing in the kitchen as Harry brought out the cake.
"I mean, honestly, that pile's nearly as tall as me!"
James looks up. Martin is standing next to James's bed, staring in awe at the enormous pile of gifts and cards.
"You must have loads of friends, James," Iwan adds.
"Yeah." James eyes the pile, then slowly picks up card and opens it.
Dear James,
Happy birthday! Please tell your father that I'm his biggest fan…
James reads on, feeling uncomfortable. The card is full of gushing admiration for Harry, with plenty of references to 'the saviour of the wizarding world'. He closes it, then opens the next card. Glitter immediately rains out, spilling down the front of his robes.
"Ugh." As he tries to brush it off, Martin grabs the card.
"To James Harry Potter," he begins.
"Must be important, used your full name," Paul jokes.
"My middle name isn't Harry." James shakes his hand wildly, trying to detach the clinging glitter.
"What?" Paul asks blankly. "Isn't it?"
"No. Why would it be that?"
"Because that's your dad's name," Martin says as if James is being deliberately slow.
"Well, my middle name is Sirius," James retorts, picking up a present and unwrapping it. A snitch falls out.
They all laugh. "Sirius? What sort of name is that?"
"If that was my middle name, I wouldn't tell people either!"
Anger flashes through James suddenly. "That's my godfather's name. He died saving my father's life," he snaps. "I'm proud to have that name."
Martin's smile fades. Iwan looks away.
"Just a joke," Paul mutters. "We're always making fun of Iwan's name, and he never minds."
James stares down at the snitch in his hands. He doesn't want to argue. Not today, not on his birthday.
"Here you go," he says, mustering a quick smile. "You like Quidditch, don't you?" He tosses the snitch to Paul, who catches it deftly.
"Oh! Can I keep it? Wow, thanks, James!"
James spends the next half hour unwrapping the presents one by one and handing them out. There's a signed Puddlemere poster that Martin happily accepts, and another six snitches. He gives them all to Iwan, who has plenty of little brothers and sisters who will be excited to receive them. There's even a full set of Quidditch robes from a Hufflepuff student, accompanied with letter suggesting that if James would like to send a thank-you note, please have it autographed by Harry and sent to the enclosed address. As James realises, it isn't an uncommon request. Many of the cards he receives have a hastily scrawled 'Happy Birthday!' followed by requests for signed photographs of his father.
Really, he thinks, the gifts are meant for Harry too. Quidditch memorabilia, and items such as broomstick wax and enchanted snitches. Books for advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts strategies. A few Auror memoirs and biographies. James doesn't need to read those. He knows perfectly well what an Auror's life is like: far too many overnight shifts and urgent fire-calls at all hours.
Of course, there's plenty of generic gifts too — boxes of chocolates and baked goods. James shares them round and, while his friends are happily biting into Peppermint Toads and Acid Pops, he finally finds the presents from his family.
Harry has sent him a few things — books and almanacs, all a tribute to James's love of trivia — and a box of sugar mice, James's favourite treat. There's the usual sensible gifts too — a new set of robes, a pair of swimmers and a stroke counter — and the big gift, a science kit complete with a microscope. Ever the fearless explorer and curious scientist, Harry's written in a note attached to it.
James re-reads the note a few times, not sure why there's a lump in his throat, and then picks up Teddy's gift and slowly unwraps it. It's a wizarding atlas; when he opens it, the mountains rise from the pages and James momentarily forgets where he is. When he flips to the back of the book, there's a neat geographical map of all the countries, England currently glowing a faint blue. To my favourite adventurer, James, Teddy has written on the page. I know what you're thinking — 'oh, a bunch of maps, thanks Teddy, ever so grateful'. But whatever country I'm in, it will glow on this map. So no matter how far I travel — no matter how fast I Floo, or Disapparate, or fly from one country to the next — you'll always be able to see where I am. So in a way, you're always travelling along with me. So take care of this book and don't let your friends eat the pages, okay? Love, Teddy (and the octopus under the house).
"You all right? You look like you're about to cry."
James glances up at Martin and smiles. "Don't be daft. I never cry. Just reading a letter from my cousin."
"Oh. Do you want the last Cauldron Cake?"
"No, you can have it." James tidies up the mess of ribbon and wrapping paper.
"Wish I had birthdays like this," Paul comments. "Couldn't believe that pile of presents."
"And he just gave them all away," Iwan adds. "Isn't that odd, giving away gifts on your birthday?"
"Well, I'm not complaining."
James smiles tensely and tosses the last of the wrapping paper into the bin.
Draco gives Harry an unimpressed look. "You're doing it again," he says.
"Doing what?"
"Asking me for advice." Draco picks up his cup of tea and takes another sip. They're sitting in the study, as usual, with Harry moodily compiling spells and asking half-hearted questions about contact details. However, the routine was ruined once more when Harry asked gloomily if Draco thought Scorpius was spoiled.
Harry scowls and crosses his arms. "I am not asking you for advice. I'm asking if you think Scorpius is spoiled."
"Which will somehow lead to a conversation about parenting." Draco gives Harry a suspicious look. "Anyway, it depends on your definition of spoiled."
"What's that supposed to mean? On any level? You're terrible at advice."
"Yes, you think you'd take the hint and stop asking for it by now." But Draco, feeling slightly magnanimous as he recalls Scorpius's joy at receiving the Skyblazer a few months ago, takes mercy. "I give Scorpius plenty of toys and gifts, if you think that's what spoiled is. But he's always grateful, and he always remembers his manners, and – from a completely unbiased point of view, of course – he's a perfectly charming child."
Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course he is."
"Why? Has James started to throw tantrums and scream for sweets?" Draco grins but Harry looks unamused.
"No, but he threw a right royal fit over me giving his Skyblazer to Scorpius. You would've thought I'd kicked him out to live in the shed and given Scorpius his bedroom, the way he was carrying on."
Draco looks at Harry incredulously. "You didn't ask before you gave his broom away?"
"Why would I?" Harry asks, looking defensive. "He hardly ever used it!"
"Yes, but our sons hate each other. Are you blind?"
"What? Don't be ridiculous. They were friends in first year, they had a row – like all children do at some point – and James has moved onto other friendships." Harry shrugs.
Draco stares at him. Does Harry actually have conversations with his son? The way Scorpius refused to speak about the fight in first year, the way he angrily mentions James in his letters...Draco has come to realise that there's a clear enmity between the boys rather than an outgrown friendship.
"Hasn't James mentioned it?" he asks at last.
"Of course not. Hasn't said a word about Scorpius since first year – at least, not until Christmas, when he threw a tantrum about his Skyblazer. I imagine he doesn't give Scorpius another thought, really. Which is why it was so odd for him to get so angry about it…"
Harry's an Auror. He's supposed to be good at this sort of stuff. Reading between the lines, understanding silent conversations. Or has a trace of the old Harry Potter – the completely oblivious idiot, Draco thinks somewhat unkindly – still remained, resistant to the years of Auror training?
"…anyway, like I said, James has just moved onto other friendships. He's got a million friends at Hogwarts, I'm sure he's simply forgotten about Scorpius." Harry picks up his file. "You're blinded by your own prejudice, that's what I think. Just because we despise each other, there's no reason for our sons to have an equally hateful rivalry. It's not genetic, you know."
"We don't despise each other," Draco says irritably. "Don't be ridiculous. You're in my home, drinking my tea, spilling ink on my genealogy projects."
"So? Of course we despise each other," Harry retorts, looking slightly alarmed.
"Now who's clinging to old prejudices? We tolerate each other at the very least."
"Well, fine. But we're definitely not friends."
"Now you are going mental. I didn't realise 'tolerate each other's presence' was next to 'best friends' in your dictionary of delusions."
"I didn't say best friends! I'd rather eat a wineglass than be friends with you."
"I'm so glad we had this lovely little chat. I can see why you wanted to become an Auror – to help, to inspire, to care about other people. Have you got a feedback form I can fill out about your customer service?"
Harry buries his head in his hands. "You," he says, voice faintly muffled, "are just…incorrigible."
"I'm serious. Is there a feedback form? I imagine they keep a little stack next to the Suggestions Box in the Auror offices."
And, to Draco's horror, he realises Harry's shoulders are shaking. He's laughing. After a long moment, Harry looks up, still smiling.
"Sometimes," he says, "you're all right."
"Do not say that."
"Why? I'm tolerating your presence, just like you said."
Draco's eyes narrow and he thinks he ought to say something acerbic just to enrage Harry and make him leave.
But somehow, he ends up accidentally making a cup of tea and playing Monopoly.
Which is slightly confusing but not nearly as concerning as Draco thinks it ought to be.
Later that evening – after Harry has left, triumphant after winning the Monopoly game – Draco sits in the study and writes a letter to Scorpius.
Writing letters to Scorpius has not come naturally to Draco. When Draco was a student, his letters were always addressed to his mother and spoke of his achievements – never show your weaknesses – and her replies always simply sent news of home and offered congratulations for whatever accomplishment he'd mentioned. Your father hopes you are well, she would always add at the end. The sole acknowledgement of his father's affections.
But Scorpius…his handwriting is neat enough, but sometimes it tends to get a bit excitable and wander off the page, and the letters are covered with little sketches and drawings – a frog leaping along the bottom of the page, or an absent-minded diagram of Muggle machine parts, and sometimes Draco will turn the letter over and find a few notes on potion properties or transfiguration work. Scorpius's thoughts are pinned to paper, unfiltered, uncensored. He's worried about one of his newfound friends, who's upset after making some serious errors in their Charms essay, or he's struggling with Herbology and getting fed up with his Ever-Growing Basil, or he's anxious about his first-ever Quidditch match and wondering if he'll disappoint the team.
When Draco first started receiving these sorts of letters, he had no idea how to respond and it took quite a lot of time and consideration before constructing his replies. And he found himself wishing Scorpius didn't simply pour his heart onto the paper, giving Draco pages of honest thoughts and dreams and memories. Is this what he did to Astoria? Surely teenagers were supposed to be a lot more secretive. Draco had been taught a script since a young age and it was alarming to find that Scorpius didn't know the correct lines, the carefully-structured letters to send.
But now, for the first time, he feels grateful. He thinks of Harry's strange obliviousness to James and thinks uneasily that it seems there's nothing but silence between those two. If there is a conversation, it's one-sided.
So he picks up his quill and writes a reply to his son, each sentence heavy with gratitude for Scorpius's unguarded letters.
Chapter 12: Tiny Little Shards
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius's enmity reaches new heights — James's other friends express their regret over their treatment of Scorpius, much to James's chagrin — Harry and James argue, again — James and Teddy spend their last summer together before Teddy leaves — Draco suspects Scorpius is being bullied at Hogwarts — James and Scorpius begin their third year, and James starts it off by getting into a fight with a student.
Chapter Text
February melts into March, and March into April. James tries to focus on his studies. At least he's got time to himself now. All the other Gryffindor boys are busy with their friends and even Rose – quiet little Rose, who everyone ignored in first year – is busy chatting away with friends in the common room every night. She makes the Quidditch team and leaves everyone awestruck by her performance. Apparently she's going to make one of the best Seekers they've seen for years. James wouldn't know; the try-outs had been held on a Saturday afternoon, when he was in detention for damaging Scorpius's Ever-Growing Basil. It had been a stupid thing to do, but James hadn't been able to help it. It had been revenge for his unhappy cactus.
But fortune smiles upon Scorpius, as always, and the Ever-Growing Basil has been quickly restored to its former state of luxurious leaves and healthy appearance. James, on the other hand, is still stuck with a dead cactus, a week of detentions, and he missed Rose's try-outs.
It can't get any worse, he thinks.
But of course, it does.
His vendetta with Scorpius reaches a new height a few weeks later. One afternoon, as students spill into the corridor after class, James grows more and more impatient as a group of Ravenclaws dawdle along in front of him, blocking his path. He recognises Scorpius among them, and his impatience soon gives way to a flash of anger.
"Get out of my way, Malfoy," James snaps, shoving past Scorpius; the next moment, he stumbles and falls over, sprawling across the floor, his bookbag spilling ink and quills and parchment everywhere. The other students laugh while Martin and Paul rush to help James up.
"He got you with a Tripping Jinx," Martin mutters. "Honestly, there's no need for that."
James looks up just in time to see Scorpius tucking his wand away. The little git! He seethes and draws his wand, but Paul shakes his head.
"It's not worth it, mate – "
"Comminuo!"
Scorpius – already turning away from James – is caught unawares and the jinx hits his bookbag, immediately sending parchment and quills exploding from it. Scorpius whips around to face James, wand already in his hand.
"Hedera!"
James can't dodge the spell in time; it hits him squarely in the chest and vines begin to curl around him. A group of Hufflepuffs nearby start giggling, and his face burns with embarrassment.
"You'll pay for that one!" James snarls. "Consenesco!"
Scorpius sidesteps it easily, James is infuriated to see. "Oppugno!"
James lets out a cry of dismay as quills rise up to attack him, darting at his skin with sharp nibs. The other students are all laughing now and, furious, James slashes his wand through the air. A sizzle of white light bursts across the hallway and a moment later Scorpius cries out, an angry scarlet welt appearing across his arm, another appearing on his hand. Good, James thinks, casting a quick Incendio to reduce the bothersome quills to ashes. No doubt Scorpius will scurry away now –
"Flipendo!"
The spell slams into James, sending him stumbling back several feet; his head slams into the stone wall and he doesn't move for a moment, dazed. Nobody's laughing anymore. Scorpius takes a step forward, expression still furious.
"Opthmalio!"
The spell is blinding white, and James has no idea what it is, except it's so bright that his eyes hurt, and then even when the light has faded his vision is still marked with an imprint of the spell, and his eyes are itchy...he rubs his hands furiously across his eyes, but the itchiness gets worse and worse and he stumbles blindly.
"I'm getting a teacher," somebody says.
Someone touches his shoulder and speaks. Martin, he'd guess. "You okay, mate?"
No. It's among the worst pain he's ever endured. It feels like someone has thrown vinegar into his eyes. "It hurts," he mumbles. Someone touches the back of his head and he makes an angry noise of pain.
"Sorry," Martin says quickly. "You must've hit your head pretty hard. It's bleeding a bit."
There's a sudden kerfuffle and then, to James's faint relief, the very disapproving tones of McGonagall.
"Honeycutt! Take Mr Potter to the hospital wing at once. Malfoy – with me."
Martin drags James to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey diagnoses him with a nasty case of the Conjunctivitis Hex. He's given eye drops and spends the rest of the afternoon waiting for the pain to subside. McGonagall makes an appearance after a while, Scorpius in tow, and James immediately hates that Scorpius is there. No doubt he's pleased to see James looking so pathetic.
"Duelling is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts," McGonagall says severely. "You'll both apologise to each other."
"No," James retorts, giving her a defiant look, although fear flickers in his heart when McGonagall's lips thin.
"This is very serious," she snaps. "You may apologise now or receive a week of detentions."
"I'll take the detentions," James says, and McGonagall's lips somehow thin even further.
"I'm disappointed," she says. "I had hoped for more maturity, Potter." She turns to Scorpius. "And your choice?"
James can feel Scorpius looking at him, but he resolutely glares at the floor.
"Sorry, James," Scorpius says at last.
"Good." McGonagall turns as if to leave and James is immediately outraged.
"That's it? Two words and he's free to go? He doesn't even mean it! He's only sorry he's in trouble!"
"Rest assured that Malfoy is certainly dealing with more consequences," McGonagall says. She sweeps away, Scorpius trailing after her.
Well, at least James has been excused from the rest of the day's classes. A nap looks very enticing now, he thinks as he begins to lie down.
"What are you doing?" Pomfrey says sharply.
"Having a nap?"
"Certainly not. You may have a minor concussion – you are not to go to sleep under any circumstances. Sitting up, please, and keeping yourself awake. Haven't you got any homework?"
"Yeah, but you said I should try and stay awake."
Pomfrey doesn't seem to think that's very amusing. "In that case, you can consider Professor McGonagall's advice and think about the foolishness that led you here."
Scowling, James picks up his Herbology textbook and turns the page so violently it nearly tears.
But if there's anything worse than Scorpius getting away with it, James thinks, it's the fact that his own friends won't take his side either.
"Wow, that's awful," Iwan says sympathetically that night in the dormitory, after listening to James's story. "I can't believe he used that curse."
James scowls. "Typical of him."
"I don't know," Nate says. They turn to look at him; he's looking up from the book he's reading, looking faintly doubtful. "Scorpius seems pretty level-headed."
"Are you serious? You're defending him?" James demands.
"Look, obviously it was a completely awful thing for Scorpius to do, but I'm not sure I'd say it was typical of him. We're partners in Herbology, if you remember, and he's been very nice. If you ask me, you two have some sort of stupid fight going on. Maybe you should just stay out of his way, James."
"Maybe you should shut up and mind your own business," James retorts furiously, in absolutely no mood to be lectured on the virtues of Scorpius Malfoy. By a fellow Gryffindor, no less.
Nate blinks at him. "Okay," he says slowly. "Guess you're in a bad mood…" He picks up his book and leaves.
"Can you believe that prat?" James demands.
The other boys exchange looks and say nothing.
James finds his copy of Martin Miggs, well-worn, the pages tattered like the edges of a young child's security blanket.
Nevertheless, it's Scorpius who searches for James a few days later.
James is sitting beneath a tree near the edge of the lake when Scorpius approaches him. He's by himself, sketchbook in his lap, pencil-tin open nearby with its contents spilling out across the grass. James used to enjoy drawing quite a lot, but the hobby has waned in recent years. Nevertheless, he's in the mood for a bit of sketching and he's just started shading the lines of the castle when a shadow falls across the paper.
James glances up.
Scorpius.
James doesn't react, too surprised to do anything for a moment, even scowl – he just sits there, looking up at Scorpius with a bewildered expression.
Then Scorpius tosses a piece of parchment down; it lands on the grass beside James.
"McGonagall said I had to give you a written apology," he says.
"Oh," James says stupidly.
Scorpius turns without another word and walks away. James watches him until he disappears completely from sight, and then he glances at the folded parchment beside him. He should just throw it away, he thinks. Incinerate it. Who knows what hurtful words Scorpius has scrawled across the parchment?
But curiosity wins and after a long moment, James sets his sketchbook aside, slowly unfolds the parchment and begins reading.
James,
I'm sorry about what happened. When I saw you in so much pain, I felt like the worst person ever. I was just so angry at the time, I didn't think before hexing you.
Nobody else gets me this riled, you know, and I think it's because we used to be friends and I hate that. I suppose the best thing is to just forget we were ever friends. I'm reading a book on memory charms at the moment so hopefully I can make that a reality.
The funny thing is, when I think about it, you probably feel the same. Well, maybe, if you ask nicely, I'll erase your memories too.
Scorpius.
James doesn't read it again.
Once is enough.
He slowly folds the letter up, puts it back in the envelope, and sets it aside. After another pause, he picks his sketchbook up slowly and tries to continue the drawing. Walls, he thinks, staring down at the sketched castle. He was shading the walls.
He picks up his pencil and resumes his work.
Just a few more weeks and summer will begin.
Harry knows the summer holidays have been creeping up like Devil's Snare, but on the day of James's return a surveillance meeting takes a very interesting turn and it's an entire hour later when Harry suddenly jumps to his feet, swearing loudly.
By the time he arrives at King's Cross, the platform has long since emptied. A brief but very panicked search leads him to Andromeda's house; Teddy apparently took the day off to greet James at the station as a nice surprise. When Harry arrives at Andromeda's home, overcome with relief, James is certainly chilly towards him.
"Forgot something, did you?" he asks coolly.
"I'm so sorry, I was busy at work, this surveillance took a really unexpected turn and I just completely... Are you all right?"
"Whatever," James mutters.
And things only seem to go downhill from there. Harry spends the rest of the summer holidays buried in work; as the mercury climbs higher and the skies blaze midsummer blue, tempers seem to fray and patience disappears. James spends most of the time sprawled across the cool floorboards, reading his comics and ignoring Harry.
Harry had so many plans — trips to the seaside, perhaps, or even a visit to France, and plenty of journeys to London. But somehow the summer races through his hands like fine sand and before he knows it, the holidays are nearly over. Well, he thinks as the end of August bears down upon them like the Hogwarts Express, at least he's got a few days left to spend time with James. He can help James pack for Hogwarts and apologise for being so absent lately.
But on the final day of the summer holidays, Harry's hope for a happy farewell is destroyed.
He spends most of the day working, but at least he has the evening free. He walks through the front door, puts his cloak on the peg, and hears voices from the kitchen. Teddy and James are making dinner, apparently, and Harry has to smile.
"Rose has a terrible crush on some third-year Hufflepuff called Andrew," Teddy is saying. "At least, that's what Hugo reckons. Little toerag reckons she's mentioned him a few times, but I think he's just reading her diary again."
"I hope you're not discussing your cousin's love life," Harry says, stepping into the kitchen.
Teddy looks up from his task of stirring something in the saucepan. "Of course not," he grins. "Poor Rose, she's got enough embarrassment in her life. Like having a nosy little brother."
Harry laughs and they fall into casual conversation – if James has packed for Hogwarts yet, if he's looking forward to seeing all his friends again, what Teddy's plans are for the next week.
"I'm assisting a few of my colleagues, actually, on the first real project I'll be involved with," Teddy says excitedly. "We're doing a big feature piece on the origins of Quidditch."
"When it's published, send a copy to Rose," Harry says. "She's getting rather keen on Quidditch."
James begins peeling potatoes. "I'm not sure if Aunt Hermione would like that. Rose tried doing a Wronski Feint last week, nearly broke her nose."
Harry smiles, reminded of his recent visits to the Malfoy home. Scorpius has been very diligent with his Quidditch practice. "Well, it takes a bit of work. I actually taught Scorpius that same move a few weeks ago – there were a few near misses."
Surprise – then anger – flashes across James's face. "Why are you still teaching him Quidditch? I asked you not to!"
"Oh, for – are we really going to have this conversation again? It's nice to do things for people – "
"Not Scorpius Malfoy!"
"For Merlin's sake, would you drop it already?" Harry can't help the exasperation needling through his voice. "I know you had a bit of a row with Scorpius – a whole year ago – but there's no reason why everyone else should share your irrational dislike – "
"I'm just going to get some fresh air," Teddy says quickly, slipping away. Neither James nor Harry bother replying to him.
"First you gave my Skyblazer away, then you promised you'd stop giving him advice – he's on the Ravenclaw team, remember! What about Rose? She'll have to play against him, I hope you know," James says mutinously to Harry.
"It's just a game! And I didn't promise I'd stop giving him advice, James. Why are you getting so angry about this?"
"Because I asked you not to, and you just ignored me! I'm not as important as helping out someone else's kid – "
"Don't be ridiculous," Harry snaps. "I didn't realise that giving Scorpius a few bits of advice every month or so apparently counts as me not giving you enough attention!"
"You know what I mean! And I want my Skyblazer back, and I don't want you talking to Scorpius ever again!"
Harry exhales sharply. "I don't know what's happened to you," he says at last. "What happened to that nice child I used to know? I honestly can't deal with you sometimes."
"Then don't," James snarls, and he sweeps the nearest item – a mug – from the counter, sending it smashing over the tiles, tea splashing everywhere. Harry jumps, startled.
"Really? Now you're destroying things? I thought I raised you better than that." Harry shakes his head. "I am so disappointed in you."
"Yeah," James retorts, "I know."
"Go to your room," Harry says tiredly.
James turns and storms away.
Harry stands in the silence for a long moment, then sighs and waves his wand, mending the mug again, and fetches a cloth to clean the spilled tea. There's footsteps again – Teddy returning.
"Everything all right?" Teddy asks cautiously.
"Fine." Harry sighs again, standing up to survey the clean floor. "He's just…" He shakes his head. "The moody teenage years have started, I suppose. Why does he have to get so angry about everything?"
Teddy shrugs. "Problems at school, maybe?"
"No, he always seems happy in his letters. Plenty of friends, star of the swim team – his grades were a little low last year, but you know how it is. Midnight adventures and games." Harry wrings the cloth out, the drops of tea splashing into the sink. "I don't know...I just wonder if – damn it." The Auror coin is burning in his pocket again. "Come on, I just finished my shift!"
"It's okay. I can stay overnight if needed."
"Would you? Thanks, Teddy. You're a lifesaver. Try talking to James if you can. Make sure he's packed for Hogwarts." Harry goes into the hallway, grabbing his cloak. "I'll try to return as soon as possible."
It never stops, he thinks as he heads out the front door.
Never, ever stops.
James has lashed out before – throwing books across the room with frustration, or kicking a toy across the floor – but this is different. He rages around his bedroom. He rips posters from the wall, and shatters ornaments, and hurls his frightened Quidditch figures across the room, and kicks his beloved books, sending pages drifting around the room like feathers, and grabs framed pictures from the wall, throwing them to the floor and listening to the satisfying shatter of glass.
And when he's done – when the anger has exhausted itself – he slumps to the floor and cries like a child.
"You broke me," a small voice says, and James looks up, scrubbing a hand furiously across his eyes. A shard of mirror lies beside him.
"So?"
"How will you see yourself now?" the shard of mirror says disconsolately.
"I don't want to see myself." James reaches out and pushes the shard across the floor, beneath his bed, where it's out of sight. There's a cut across his palm now, the blood forming a long, thin line.
Footsteps. James glances up, eyes wide, and snatches up his wand, aiming it at the attic door. "Colloportus."
"Ah, come on, cuz. I wasn't just going to barge in."
At least it's not Harry. James feels a little relieved, although he doesn't remove the locking charm. "Go away."
"Are you okay? I heard something breaking."
"Fine. Wand misfired, that's all."
"What? Come on, you know you shouldn't practice charms. One of these days you'll get an Underage Magic notification."
"What do you want?" James snaps, hoping Teddy will leave. He can't stand the idea of Teddy – always smiling, never upset or frightened or hurt – seeing James cry. He'd die of embarrassment.
"Come downstairs, we'll finish making dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
There's a long silence and James wonders if Teddy's left.
"Okay," Teddy says at last. "But come and say goodbye before I leave, okay? I always miss you the most after the summer holidays."
James's heart suddenly gives a sharp ache, as if the shard of mirror has somehow found its way in, and he leaps up, scrambling over to the door. "Alohomora. Teddy, come back!"
"Haven't left yet," Teddy says, looking slightly startled, but he climbs into the attic and frowns. "What happened?"
James looks at his feet. "I got mad."
"No kidding." Teddy picks something up off the floor. "Oh…"
It's one of the drawings Ginny commissioned from Dean Thomas, James realises. The first thing she ever bought for him, Harry always said. The first thing she bought for the nursery – before the pots of paint, before the crib, before the soft blankets. The set of pictures: two foxes wearing waistcoats, a badger setting out a picnic for its family, a hedgehog with a little top-hat. Now, the glass is shattered and the frame chipped, the badger family huddling fearfully in the corner of the picture.
Teddy sets the picture on the bookshelf, the broken glass slowly cascading downwards as he sets it upright again. "James…is everything okay?"
"Yeah. Fine." James doesn't lift his gaze. There's an origami crane near his foot – Rose made it for him years ago. It's crushed now.
"Okay…well…are you coming downstairs, then?"
James hesitates. "Fine," he says after a moment. But when they go downstairs, Teddy doesn't go to the kitchen. He goes outside, instead, into the gardens. "Where are we going?" James asks with slight apprehension.
"Come on, cuz, don't tell me you forgot our tradition."
"What tradition? I…oh! I…I thought you'd be too busy this summer…"
"Well, it is the last day of the holidays," Teddy admits. "I kept forgetting to bring them." He begins taking the fireworks from the pockets of his robes. "Okay, let's see…"
"What's that one?"
"Oh, you're going to love that. It's a new type of spinner."
"Look at all the comets!"
"I know they're your favourite. Come on, let's set them up."
They walk though the gardens, past the low fence, and out into the field. James walks through the long summer-tall grass, feeling the dry husks of the wild wheat feathering his skin, snagging on his clothes. Ahead of him, he can see Teddy, a dark shadow moving quickly through the grass until they've reached the end of the field. Beyond it is a small clearing, just before the start of the woods, and it is here they'll set up the fireworks.
"Ready?"
"Okay, give me that box."
They work quietly, speaking in low voices even though there's nobody else around, and at last they retreat to the edges of the clearing. Teddy raises his wand.
"Incendio!"
The bright spark rushes through the air. Moments later, the first firework erupts into the sky, sending colours popping and soaring across the dark night. James watches, spellbound – he'll never get tired of these summer nights. All those times they snuck out of the house, pockets and bags stuffed full of bottle rockets, fountains, smoke balls and spinners. His favourite childhood memories smell like gunpowder and are filled with exploding stars.
He would give anything to be five years old again, standing beside his cousin, laughing into the sky. And afterwards he'd climb into his bed and listen to his father tell stories. The soft glow of his lamp, the stuffed toys littered about the room. The little family of badgers snoozing in their picture.
The longest distance between two places, James thinks, is time.
After they've returned to the house and have finished dinner, Teddy retreats to the living room to complete some research for work. James goes upstairs.
His room is a mess. But nobody else is going to fix it. He's far too old now for others to be picking up after him. James goes about the room, collecting clothes, folding them, putting them away. He gathers up his books, carefully using Sticking Charms to put the pages back in order, and rearranges his Quidditch figures, placing them back onto shelves. He hesitantly tries casting Reparo a few times and is relieved when it works.
"Sorry," he says to the family of badgers, picking up their picture. "Reparo."
The glass goes back together, but there's still a chip in the frame, and there's a long scratch across the beautiful watercolour sky. James puts the picture back on the wall, watching the badgers blink sadly at him.
It's long after midnight by the time James has put his room back in order and then packed for Hogwarts. Teddy appears to give him a cup of weak coffee at two o'clock in the morning.
"Still awake? Come on, go to bed or I won't hear the end of it from Harry."
"Only just finished packing." James stifles a yawn.
"Ready for third year?"
"Course."
Teddy smiles. "This'll be your year, I know it."
"Yeah."
Teddy studies him for a long moment. "Are you sure everything's okay, cuz?" he asks at last.
James pauses, but then he gives Teddy a quick smile. "Yeah, I promise. I'm fine."
Teddy frowns, but he nods and says his farewells then, as he has to leave early in the morning for work. "I'll see you at Christmas," he says, giving James a hug, and James fiercely resists the urge to cling to him.
"See you then," he says.
"Take care of yourself, cuz. Write me loads of letters, okay?"
"Okay."
Teddy leaves and James goes to bed. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, watching patterns of light and dark play across the rafters as outside, the moon filters through clouds.
A quiet voice speaks.
"I'm still broken."
James rolls over, facing the wall. "Shut up."
The shard of mirror falls silent again.
For Draco, the summer holidays seem to drag by. Normally they pass in a rush of activities — visiting museums and constant trips to the library — but Scorpius seems to have become smaller and quieter somehow. He cheers up briefly when he receives an invitation to a birthday party. It's for a fellow Ravenclaw, and Draco swings between great anxiety – will Scorpius be all right? – to happiness that Scorpius has finally, finally made proper friends.
Scorpius departs for the party, wearing his best robes and a very anxious expression, carefully holding the gift he'd bought for the host, but when Draco picks him up at the end of the party, Scorpius is smiling and holding a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin and chatting to another partygoer. And he's not the only one socialising; Draco finds himself conversing with other parents while he's waiting for Scorpius to say his farewells. He even finds a new customer: a Muggle mother keen to see if there's any other wizards or witches hidden away in her lineage.
But just as Scorpius is collecting his cloak and preparing to go home, a boy says something to Scorpius and points to another group of children. Scorpius turns to look at them; they start giggling.
Scorpius looks away again and walks very slowly to Draco.
"Let's go home," he mumbles.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Did those children do something?"
"Let's just go," Scorpius pleads.
"Who are their parents? I'll have a word with them! They've got absolutely no right to upset anyone like that — "
And then Scorpius retreats completely. Draco knows it by the way he sets his expression, presses his mouth into a thin line. He won't speak for the rest of the day now, Draco knows.
He Disapparates, taking Scorpius with him.
"What happened?" he asks, still holding Scorpius's arm.
Scorpius wrenches away from him and says nothing, disappearing down the hallway. Moments later, there's the quiet sound of a door closing.
Draco exhales slowly.
Scorpius's mood lingers for a few days, sending a shadow over the bright summer days. But a week later, he seems to have forgotten the incident and Draco's wondering if he overreacted. One evening, after dinner, the slightly-chilly distance between them has given way to comfortable closeness again. Scorpius is curled up in the armchair in the study, reading a book while Draco works on a genealogy project. There's a soothing silence between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Despite the warmth of summer, parts of the manor are still chilly. Mostly the parts yet to be renovated, where the windows are small and narrow and the ghosts of Draco's past still linger, faint footsteps and voices echoing with sadness.
There's a little noise, like something scurrying along, and Draco looks up. That little silver rat that Scorpius acquired at some point in his first year. It had only been an ornament back then, he thinks, but now it's running about and Scorpius looks pleased with himself.
"Practicing transfiguration?" Draco asks wryly and Scorpius has the grace to look a little embarrassed.
"Sorry." He places his wand down and holds the book up, showing Draco the title. Modification: The Fine Art of Motion in Transfiguration.
The rat suddenly stops running, becoming still and silent again, and Scorpius frowns and picks it up. "I suppose I still need to work on it," he says.
"Well, as long as you're learning something from it." Draco picks up his quill and resumes his genealogy project.
Silence reigns for a while until Scorpius speaks again.
"Father?"
"Hm?" Draco looks up from his work. Scorpius is gazing down at the little silver rat in his hand.
"It's nothing," he says at last.
Draco waits, but Scorpius remains silent, staring at the silver rat with a look that Draco finds hard to decipher. Melancholy, he thinks. Perhaps sadness, perhaps wistfulness.
"Missing something?" Draco asks, and Scorpius looks up, a startled expression on his face. "It's all right," Draco adds. "I think the death of a first pet is always difficult. One day, maybe you'd like another rat? Or perhaps an owl..."
Scorpius looks back down at the silver rat. "I don't want a replacement." He strokes the rat's delicate whiskers. "At least I have this reminder."
Draco opens his mouth to reassure that a new pet wouldn't be a replacement, but Scorpius's mood seems oddly pensive and he doesn't want to ruin it with reminders of Pan's untimely death.
So he turns back to his genealogy project and they while away the rest of the evening together, Scorpius working on his transfiguration work, Draco's quill scratching across the parchment.
For once, the shadows of this place, this study – always his father's study – retreat to the edges of the room, and Draco is content.
His son is home again.
James returns to Hogwarts. Third year, but it seems very little has changed. The old routines are easy to resume. The classes are still boring, the professors still give James the same lectures about paying more attention, and swim practice is still his one saving grace. The first swim practice can't come fast enough; James is itching to get back into the water. He performs well during the first three swim practices, but they're in their third week of school before James really hits his stride again. He cuts a smooth and powerful line straight across the lake, leaving the others trailing in his wake, and even Saltworth is impressed.
"Glad to see you've got the results to justify your ego, at least," she tells him, and once James has recovered from that remark he offers a dutiful 'thanks, coach' before taking Iwan aside at the end of the practice.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Huh?" Iwan tilts his head, trying to get water out of his ear.
"You know. Saltworth said that at least I can justify my ego, or something like that. What's she talking about?"
"Er…nothing?" Iwan offers uncertainly.
"Don't sugarcoat it, Iwan," Thomas says, coming over to them, and James scowls at him.
"There's…there's nothing to sugarcoat," Iwan says, looking as if he wished he were somewhere else. "James is a good swimmer."
"Selfish, you mean," Thomas says, and James's mouth falls open.
"What are you talking about?" he demands. "Selfish?"
"That's what I said." Thomas raises his chin, giving James a defiant look. "We're a team. But you never share any knowledge with anyone else – Saltworth is always saying 'you should give Calthorpe some tips on breathing' or 'Stephenson could do with a bit of help with his backstroke' – but you never offer anyone advice on anything."
"That's not my job, you moron! I'm a swimmer, not a coach!"
"Let's just forget it," Iwan says pleadingly, but neither Thomas nor James look at him.
"We're all swimmers, and we're all supposed to help each other out! There's been a million times where I've told you that I know I need extra work on my tumble turns, or how terrible I am at breaststroke – "
"So? From the first day of joining the team, you've treated me like a rival."
"Friendly rivalry, you complete idiot!" Thomas snaps. "That's what you do in a team – you push each other to try harder, but you help when people need it!"
"Don't call me an idiot!"
"You are! You're a snob, too. Too good for the rest of us, won't give us the time of day. You've had private swim coaching since you were old enough to crawl, but you'll be damned if you give a few bits of advice to your team mates."
"Shut up!"
"Or what?"
James punches him.
Hard.
Thomas staggers backwards. James takes a step backward too, realising what he's just done. He hadn't been able to help it. Besides, the rest of the team – still towelling off after practice – is right there. What's James supposed to do, just let Thomas get away with calling him names in front of everyone?
He waits for Thomas to retaliate, or spit insults at him, but instead he looks at James in disbelief, holding a hand to his nose, blood tricking through his fingers.
And then he starts to cry.
"What did you do that for?" another team mate shouts at James. They're all coming over now, fussing over Thomas, asking if he's all right.
"I didn't mean to," James mutters. "It was an accident."
"How do you accidentally punch someone, you prat?"
Saltworth is storming over now, seeing what all the commotion is about, and James almost winces in anticipation.
"What happened?" she demands.
"Potter punched Pearson!"
"He started it!" James says quickly.
Saltworth looks at Thomas – blood and tears smeared across his face – and then stares at James.
James returns to the dormitory later that night, in a furious mood. McGonagall had given him the usual disapproving look and lecture — and then informed him that he'd actually been shortlisted to attend the European Schools Swimming Championship. Now, Saltworth has removed him from all competitions.
It had been enough to make his blood boil, and he'd made no attempt to disguise his anger. McGonagall had gotten very sharp with him then, and told him that any more misbehaviour would result in his removal from the swim team for the rest of the term.
He rants to the other boys about it. "It's so unfair! Thomas picks a fight with me, then I finally snap and somehow I'm the one who gets in trouble for it. D'you know what Thomas got? Nothing. Not even a single detention."
"Well, I think he was just trying to ask if you could help out a little on the team," Iwan offers. James gives him an irritated look.
"Yeah, and he was so nice about it." He turns back to Paul, Martin, and Nate. "And he actually cried when I punched him. Cried. You wouldn't catch me crying like a little baby over one punch."
"I dunno," Nate says. "You're always doing a bunch of that strength training stuff for swimming. I probably wouldn't just brush it off if you punched me either."
"Plus you're supposed to be his friend," Iwan adds, and James turns to gape at him.
"What?"
"His friend. We're all on the same team, we've spent a year training together. We're all supposed to be friends."
"With Thomas? He's Slytherin, I hope you remember. Probably take all my advice, then stab me in the back the moment I've turned around. Anyway, I've got nothing in common with anyone on the team."
Iwan says nothing to that, although he gets a certain look on his face before he gets up and starts making a pot of hot chocolate, his back turned to them. Martin and Paul exchange a look, then start talking about Paul's Quidditch practice.
James moodily puts on his cloak, preparing to leave for his first detention of the year.
The first month of school passes quickly. To James's dismay, Sprout is very pleased with their results for the second year project – the adopted plants – and wants them to continue their care for their chosen plant.
"Potter, come here," she tells him as the others rush to search the shelves of potted plants for their projects. "Look."
It's the Oversensitive Cactus. James had spent a very long time trying to recover it last term, but had given up and it had certainly affected his final grade. However, now it seems to have come back to life, looking quite sickly but nevertheless battling valiantly onwards.
"I nursed it back to health," Sprout says proudly.
"Oh. Uh…thanks, but it's okay. I can pick another plant this time…"
The cactus droops slightly. Sprout frowns at him.
"…because…I feel that…the cactus deserves a lot more care than I can give it," James finishes weakly.
"Nonsense! You spent quite a lot of time trying to rescue the poor dear," Sprout says briskly.
"No, that's okay, I – "
"Nearly brought it back to life, you did – I just did a bit of care during the summer holidays, that's all. Go on, give it a pat," Sprout says encouragingly.
"…right." James puts on his gardening gloves, gives the cactus a reserved look, then reaches out and very gingerly pats it. Sprout nods approvingly.
"Wonderful. Well, you two will get along like a house on fire." She gives him another cheerful look before leaving.
Yeah, James thinks disparagingly. Lots of panic and shouting for help.
"People are idiots," he tells it. "You have the right idea, being a cactus."
It seems rather pleased with that remark, straightening up slightly.
James gives it another very careful pat.
It's useless anyway, he thinks. The cactus will probably have another near-death experience sometime in the very foreseeable future. As the weeks pass, its health certainly seems to take a turn.
On the day of Halloween, he spends the lunch hour in one of the Herbology greenhouses, tending to it. It's looking very sickly. Someone put a little pumpkin next to it and for whatever reason, this seems to have greatly offended the cactus.
"So what? It's just a pumpkin. Get over it," James says, picking the pumpkin up and tossing it aside. The cactus immediately turns an awful black colour and begins to shrivel up, and James panics. "No – I mean – I was talking about myself. Calling myself an idiot. Not you. You're not an idiot. You wouldn't do something as stupid as getting kicked out of every major swimming competition, would you?"
Footsteps. James glances up – he wouldn't be caught dead in here, speaking aloud to an annoyed cactus and giving it awkward compliments.
But fortunately, it's only Rose.
"Oh, hello," she says cheerfully. "Didn't expect to find you here." She picks up a plant that James recognises as Scorpius's basil plant.
"What're you doing with that?" he asks.
"Hmm? Oh, I promised Scorpius I'd check on it. Oh, look! I think it's trying to grow even taller," Rose says with excitement. "You're trying, aren't you?" she coos at it. "Yes, you are. You look so lovely…"
"Don't encourage it," James says sharply. "And since when did you start doing favours for Scorpius Malfoy?"
Rose straightens up slightly and gives him a guarded look. "We share Herbology with the Ravenclaws, if you remember, and Scorpius has let me borrow a few books on growing flowers. My project plant is a Lovesick Daisy and they can be very temperamental."
"So? It's Malfoy."
Rose crosses her arms. "He's very nice, you know – "
"You have got to be kidding me! You fancy Scorpius Malfoy?"
"What? Are you mental? I said he seemed nice! How is that, in any way – "
"Oh, that's right," James says recklessly, "you've got a crush on Andrew."
Rose turns crimson. "I – I do not! Who told you that? They're lying!"
"Don't think so, it was a pretty reliable source."
There's a slight pause, then Rose's embarrassment gives way to anger. Her eyes narrow. "Hugo," she says. "I'll kill him."
"Stop talking to Scorpius Malfoy! You're my cousin, you're supposed to be on my side!"
"I'll talk to whomever I please!" Rose snatches up her bag and begins to stride away.
"Or I'll tell everyone that you're spending every night crying over pictures of Andrew!"
Rose pauses then and turns back to him, looking horrified. "You wouldn't!"
"I would," James says grimly.
"But – you – what is your problem? If Teddy or Uncle Harry could see you now, they'd be so disappointed. You can be so mean sometimes!"
"Good thing they're not here, then," James retorts, and Rose gives him a furious look before turning on her heel and storming away.
He stands in silence, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes blood. Before him, his cactus is slowly wilting again.
"What?" James tells it sharply, but his voice trembles and he furiously swipes a sleeve across his eyes. Weak, weak, so weak, he tells himself. Oh, he thinks it's pathetic that Thomas cries from a punch, but here James stands, tears forming at the thought of Teddy thinking how sad and pathetic James's life really is. And his father…always speaking about James's imaginary friends, about how popular he must be…believing all those stupid letters James sends about his supposed successes. Don't you dare cry, James tells himself.
He swallows the lump in his throat and blinks rapidly, staring at the cactus.
It's still wilting.
October passes by quickly for Harry; it's the first week of November when he begins the final stage of the surveillance and he wonders where on earth all the time has gone. And on the fifteenth of November – Scorpius's birthday, Harry remembers idly – he's spending another late night at the office, hunched over his desk, intently finishing some paperwork. Usually he'd be the last to leave, but today there's quite a few lamplights scattering the desks around the room. Everyone's doing overtime these days.
"Potter."
He glances up. Williamson stands before him, his grizzled face half-hidden in shadows. "Might I have a word?"
"Of course, sir." Harry stands up and follows Williamson to his office. As he steps into the room, Williamson closing the door behind him, Harry realises this isn't a usual quick conversation about Operation Helios (as they've called it). Hopkins, one of the senior Aurors, is sitting on a chair pulled up beside the desk, and Cuthbert is hovering nearby, quill and parchment in hand.
"Am I in some sort of trouble?" Harry says, frowning. Did he miss a debriefing? Is there a problem with the evidence?
Williamson laughs, his half-cough bark of a laugh, and gestures for Harry to sit. "Quite the opposite, Potter," he says.
Harry sits down, still feeling slightly unnerved. Williamson makes his way to the other side of the desk and sits down heavily, the chair groaning under his weight. He rests his hands on the desk, the gnarled fingers hooking around each other.
"I was sixty-two when we last had a conversation like this. Now I'm sixty-four." Williamson exhales slowly. "The years add up quick if you don't pay attention. How long have you been here, Hopkins?"
"Too long," Hopkins says, and they all smile, perhaps with a trace of wryness. It's the standard Auror response to that question.
"Sounds about right." Williamson looks across the desk and Harry follows his gaze. There's a postcard from Spain resting atop some files. "Spend a lot of time dreaming about my boat, you know. Spent years restoring that old girl. Proper sailing boat, it is. Those long nights – you know how it is, lying in a muddy field wondering when the next spell's coming – I kept thinking, 'one day I'll be sailing over the Channel and this'll be nothing but a faded memory'. Well, I reckon that 'one day' has finally come."
"You're…you're retiring?" Harry asks. He's surprised. Of course a few people wondered about Williamson's inevitable retirement, but they had it estimated for two or three years from now. Harry thought Williamson would probably mentor him for a lot longer.
"I've paid my dues." Williamson looks down at his hands, at the scar-crossed skin, the ruined fingertips and cratered knuckles. "I just want to live in my little cottage near Cornwall and sail my boat. I've earned my rest."
"You have, definitely," Harry says, still taken aback. "But…well, we all thought you weren't going to retire this soon."
"Shacklebolt wanted me to see the end to Operation Helios but let's be realistic, Potter. We're probably still a long way away from that, especially if we're aiming to hook the bosses instead of the underlings." Williamson leans forward, his eyes shining beetle-black in the shadowed cragginess of his face. "It's time, I reckon, for me to sail my boat. And for you to lead the team."
"Right...right now?"
"You'll want some time to think about it, I'd wager. Got that little boy of yours to think about. Little James."
Harry smiles. "Not so little anymore. He'll be turning fourteen soon."
"My word!" Williamson's eyebrows – or at least, what's left of them – rise. "Seems only yesterday we were all chipping in a few sickles to buy you a congratulations card on the day he was born."
"Time flies," Hopkins adds gravely.
"Don't it just." Williamson nods at Cuthbert. "Making notes on this?"
"On James?" Cuthbert seems lost; Williamson laughs, another deep growly laugh, and Harry gives Cuthbert a dry look.
"The official offer of promotion to Head Auror," Hopkins says reprovingly.
"Oh! Yes, sir."
"Good," Williamson says. "Very good. We'll have it all written up official, like. All right, Potter. Don't rush your decision. Now go on, go home. You've been here since early this morning."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Harry adds, shaking his hand and nodding to the others. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He turns and leaves, goes to his desk, and picks up his cloak. As he leaves the office and walks to the fireplace, his colleagues call out their goodbyes.
"Off already, Potter?"
"See you tomorrow, then."
Harry manages to throw a pinch of Floo powder into the flames, reappear in the connective fireplace – a disused hearth in a boarded-up house in Chichester – and calmly Apparate home before he finally allows himself to laugh, overwhelmed with happiness.
He finally made it.
Head Auror.
Everything is perfect now.
Chapter 13: Pour More Oil
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius begin to actively sabotage each other — they go home for Christmas break — Harry achieves a major career goal — Scorpius and James have a violent and unforgiving fight and James recognises their friendship is completely destroyed.
Chapter Text
The water is the only place where James feels okay these days. He lives for the mornings where all he can see is the lake, stretching on limitless beneath a grey dawn sky, and all he can hear is the sound of his breathing, counting each exhale, each inhale, and all he can feel is the water around him.
Or maybe it's just easier to convince himself that he likes it this way, just him alone.
Because he's certainly not making any friends in his classes, even his new electives. Care of Magical Creatures bores him, and he thinks Divination is a complete waste of time. And he has to share the class with Scorpius. Worst luck, one afternoon Trelawney pairs everyone up for tea-leaf readings and they get stuck with each other.
They scowl at each other across the low table. James isn't in the best mood anyway – how on earth, on a chilly November day, does Trelawney manage to make the classroom so stuffy and warm? He swats away a curl of incense smoke, downs his cup of tea in a quick gulp, and looks down at the leaves.
"You've got a skull," he lies. "Nothing good for your future, then."
"We're supposed to swap cups. You're reading your own future," Scorpius snaps.
James is embarrassed at his mistake, and it certainly doesn't help his temper.
"Fine. What's my future say?" He shoves his cup across the table, but Scorpius doesn't look at it. He gives James a look of seething resentment and leans forward, speaking quietly, each word an icy needle.
"Did you tell Rose Weasley to stop speaking to me?"
"She's my cousin. Stop trying to steal my family, get your own."
"And you told your father not to give me any Quidditch advice?"
A wave of fury washes over James. "Did he tell you that?"
"I figured it out. You're pathetic, did you know that?"
"Shut up," James hisses. "I told you to stay away from me! And my family, and that includes all my cousins."
"At least Teddy's still replying to my letters," Scorpius retorts. "And don't forget he's my blood cousin. Not actually related to you at all, is he?"
"Shut up, or I'll make you shut up!"
"Right. You can barely perform second year charms, so that's not much of a threat."
That hits a sore spot. James has already served an alarming number of detentions and his grades aren't exactly spectacular. Flitwick mentioned remedial Charms lessons last week, which sent James into a wild panic. He can't stand the humiliation of anyone finding out how stupid he really is; he'd begged Flitwick to give him another chance to improve.
James glances once at Trelawney, making sure she's out of earshot, then whispers the spell, his wand half-hidden in his sleeve.
"Ardere."
Scorpius jumps as the spell hits his bookbag. It immediately begins to smoke alarmingly and Scorpius leaps to his feet, wand already in hand as a small flame begins to lick along the bag, paper disintegrating beneath it.
"Aguamenti!" Water spills from his wand, putting out the small flames, and Trelawney rushes over.
"What happened?" she demands.
"Nothing," Scorpius mutters.
"My dear boy, possessions don't simply burst into flames! Unless…sometimes the mysterious fates deliver messages in ways unfathomable to our minds…"
"Yes, perhaps it was a message," James says brightly and Trelawney looks gratified. Scorpius, on the other hand, looks furious.
"You'll pay for that," he whispers to James as Trelawney launches into a monologue about the mysteries of the unknown.
"Whatever," James, pouring as much dismissal into his tone as possible.
It works. Scorpius's eyes narrow dangerously.
They both finish the lesson in sullen silence.
Things definitely take a turn for the worse after that. In the hallways, they always glare at each other, jostle each other, send books falling and bags spilling. In the classrooms, they sabotage each other's work: Scorpius insults the Oversensitive Cactus and makes it wilt ferociously, while James uses a jinx to knock over Scorpius's inkwell in Divination, ruining all of his notes. In Potions, the last class shared with the Ravenclaws, Scorpius conjures a breeze when James isn't looking, sending the pages of his textbook rustling over to the wrong page, and James ends up making a catastrophic mistake. His potion explodes and Slughorn immediately vanishes it, waddling over to James alarmingly fast.
"Good heavens, Potter! What did you do?"
"Nothing," James says between gritted teeth, giving Scorpius a venomous look. He might be worthless at schoolwork, useless at making friends, and generally seen as a disappointment, but he's still got his pride and he won't be known as a tattle-tale. "Suppose I lost my concentration."
"A very careless mistake! Detention, my dear boy." Slughorn shakes his head, looking tragic, as if James's apparent stupidity actually causes him physical pain.
James gets his revenge, though, like he promised himself he would. After all, he was Scorpius's best friend – once. Scorpius has always strived to be accepted by others, to seek validation and approval. When other people celebrate his successes, he's happier than a soaring dragon; when he fails, his whole world crashes down. James just has to figure out how to make Scorpius fail.
And come Saturday, the perfect chance presents itself.
James watches the Quidditch match unfold, feeling rather bored. He's only here to dutifully support Rose, though he wonders what the point is, really. It's not like she can see him in the crowd of red and gold, or pick out his voice among the other loud cheers. Beside him, Martin and Nate jump up and down, hollering the names of the players and shouting encouragement. Rose circles overhead, evidently still searching for the snitch.
This match has gone on forever, and he's still got to serve detention with Slughorn today. Probably cleaning cauldrons, James thinks with a wince. He'd rather sit in McGonagall's office and sort through ancient student records. Or help Sprout water the plants, or organise star-charts under Sinistra's supervision, or even groom the Hippogriffs as Grubbly-Plank lectures him about paying attention in class…
Come to think of it, James realises miserably, he's practically an expert on detentions.
"Go Rose! Go!" Martin roars, startling James and nearly making him fall over. Nate begins hopping about as if someone's cast a dancing hex on him.
"She's spotted the snitch! We're going to win!"
James looks about, then spies Rose and Scorpius. They're neck-to-neck, racing for the elusive snitch.
A thought creeps into his mind.
He glances quickly at the students around him, but they're all staring up at the sky, enthralled in the chase. Heart beating wildly, James draws his wand before he has a chance to really think about it.
"Inversus," James whispers. He can just see the faint bubble of light leave his wand and drift into the sky. Against the clouded wintry grey, it's hardly visible. People would only see it, James thinks, if they were actively looking for it. It trails Scorpius like a hungry Dementor, then finally catches up to him.
He can see the exact moment it hits Scorpius. Rose is looping around the goalposts, chasing the snitch, and Scorpius – just a little in front of her – suddenly stops and reels. The commentator – a seventh year Slytherin – pauses.
"It appears the Ravenclaw Seeker is having some sort of problem…"
Scorpius shakes his head, as if trying to clear his mind, and turns sharply, immediately taking off in the opposite direction to Rose. She's still chasing the snitch, clearly focused entirely upon her task, but the Gryffindors start to laugh and the Ravenclaws' cheers die away.
"Where's he going?" Martin asks, looking bewildered.
"Maybe he saw the snitch change direction?"
"No way, Rose is still going after it!"
Scorpius turns, looks at Rose – little more than a blur of scarlet robes as she darts about the pitch – and then turns and flies again in the complete opposite direction.
"Turn around! Wrong way!" the Ravenclaw students are shouting now. "Malfoy! Turn around!"
Scorpius pauses again, looks about – one of his team's Chasers moves towards him, a concerned expression on their face – but then Scorpius darts away again, flying higher, higher –
"He's gone mental! What's he doing? Look, Rose is about to catch the snitch!" Martin says, laughing.
Rose does. She reaches out, her fingers closing around the glimmer of gold. The commentator duly notes it: "And it looks like Weasley has caught the snitch! That's a clear win for the Gryffindors!"
The Quidditch players descend, landing on the pitch to cheer loudly (in the Gryffindors' case) or debrief (the Ravenclaws looking disappointed). However, Scorpius is still flying well above the pitch; his fellow team mates frown, exchanging conversation and pointing upwards with puzzled expressions. Madam Hooch blows her whistle sharply, signalling for Scorpius to return to the pitch.
He does.
He turns, looking about, then dives sharply downwards.
"What's he…what's he doing…?" Martin asks, squinting upwards and frowning.
"I…I don't know," James says, fear suddenly knotting in his stomach. The jinx was only designed for short periods of time, surely it should have worn off by now…
Scorpius shows no sign of slowing down. His team mates begin to look distinctly panicked.
"Is he trying a Wronski Feint or something?" Nate asks.
"The game's over. What – oh no, he's going to hit the ground!" Martin looks on with a horrified expression. He's right. Scorpius isn't slowing down. He's going to smash into the ground at full speed.
But at the last minute, Scorpius tumbles from his broom. He hits the ground hard and everyone winces, but after a long moment – team mates rushing over – Scorpius slowly gets to his feet, looking bruised and shaken but otherwise all right. He looks over his shoulder at his broom; it had continued on in its journey and, upon impact with the pitch, splintered badly.
Madam Hooch rushes over. McGonagall joins the little group shortly afterwards. Everyone should be celebrating, but the spectator stands are silent. Everyone's watching the scene unfold.
McGonagall gets out her wand and casts a spell. A golden glow surrounds Scorpius, then fades. He gives another little shake of his head, then turns, tilting his face upwards. Looking towards the Gryffindor stands, James realises, panic beginning to set in. No. They've never tattled on each other – James didn't go running to the professors about Scorpius hexing him, after all – but then, in a horrible, horrible moment, Scorpius raises his arm and points straight at James.
The students on either side of James turn and stare at him.
"What did you do?" Martin asks, his voice far too loud in the silence.
"I…nothing. I didn't do anything." James wishes he could just disappear.
"What did you do?"
Down on the pitch, McGonagall stares at James. She doesn't shout, or speak at all. She doesn't have to. By this stage, the words Potter. My office are practically ingrained into James's mind.
He turns and begins making his way slowly down the steps, the stares of the other students heavy upon him.
James is used to McGonagall's lectures, but this one is particularly awful. She spends quite some time discussing the finer points of his personality, none of which are particularly favourable, then goes on to explain exactly how James has muddied the reputation of the Gryffindor house, and finally finishes with a suggestion that James can explain to his fellow Gryffindors why the match has now been ruled a forfeit and why fifty points have been docked from the house.
And then she removes James from the swim team.
"I have no other choice," she tells him. "You were warned about this as a consequence of any further misbehaviour, Potter."
He gets further punishment from his fellow students. It's one thing to feel a little isolated. It's another thing, however, to have the entire Gryffindor house furious with him.
Nobody is speaking to James. They seem to have reached an unspoken agreement to ignore him as a collective punishment. Nobody sits next to him in class anymore, nobody greets him in the common room, nobody passes him the pumpkin juice in the Great Hall. Only Iwan seems to have any sort of cheerfulness still remaining towards James.
"Want a hot chocolate?" Iwan asks James one night, heating a saucepan of milk as the other boys prepare for bed.
"Don't talk to him," Martin says sharply. "Nobody's allowed to talk to him or even look at him. It's what he gets for making us forfeit the match. And now we're losing the House Cup."
Iwan laughs. "Seems a bit stupid to me. Ignoring people like that. I thought we all outgrew that stuff in primary school."
"It's not funny!" Paul snaps. He's taken the Quidditch forfeit especially hard. "He's a complete idiot who doesn't care if his house wins or loses – he thinks landing a hex on someone is more important. Selfish, selfish, selfish," he rages.
"I said I was sorry!" James interjects, but Paul just continues in his furious tirade.
"I worked so hard during that match – spent weeks training – the whole team gave it our best and do you know what the worst part is? We could've genuinely won that match. But I suppose we'll never know."
"Yeah. And maybe you think it's childish of us to ignore certain people," Martin tells Iwan, "but I think it's more childish – and quite pathetic, really – for people to cling to first year grudges."
"If you've got something to say, say it to my face!" James snarls.
"All right, I will!" Martin turns to him. "Grow up, James! Everyone else has gotten over the stupid death-descendant thing except you."
"And might I add that you're a complete disappointment to the Gryffindor house," Paul adds angrily.
"Oh, come on, leave him alone," Iwan begins.
"I don't need your help," James snaps at him. "Stay out of it."
Iwan looks at him for a long moment. "No wonder you have no friends," he says at last.
"I don't want any friends," James retorts, standing up and grabbing his bookbag. "Especially any of you."
"Congratulations, then," Iwan says flatly. "You've succeeded."
James storms from the dormitory, making his way through the common room. Rose is by the fireplace, playing card games with her friends and laughing, but when she sees James she narrows her eyes. She's been absolutely fuming ever since she learned that James cost her the Quidditch win.
"What do you want?" she says sharply.
"Nothing."
"Good," Rose snaps. "I've got nothing to say to you."
"Good," he retorts.
Rose gives him a look, then sighs and sits down, turning back to her game. "Honestly, he's such a prat…" she says to her friends.
James opens the portrait and sets off down the corridor. Don't cry, he tells himself. Only children cry. Weeping over stupid things like little fights and lost wands. Harry's never cried, not once. Not when he came home with a broken leg from a raid gone wrong, or when he had to stay at St Mungo's overnight with a six-inch gash across his chest from a wild baby dragon, or when Andromeda had a heart attack five years ago and they had to wait for hours before the Healers could say whether she'd be all right or not. Harry has probably never cried in his whole life.
Don't cry, he tells himself sternly.
Don't cry.
Don't.
But his vision blurs regardless, and a painful lump forms in his throat, and he ducks into the nearest room – a disused classroom – and, hating himself immensely for all his pathetic weaknesses – he sits among the dusty desks and neatly-stacked chairs and sobs like he's five years old again, afraid of monsters beneath the bed.
But he's older now, and nobody's going to hold his hand and smile at him and say everything will be all right.
It's just him alone now.
At least James gets a break at Christmas. He goes home, and Teddy arrives a few days later, bundled up in layers of cloaks and scarves and mittens; he's spent the past few weeks on assignment in Greece and apparently he's adjusted too well to the warm Mediterranean sun. James, busy carrying armfuls of presents to the tree, catches a glimpse of Teddy stepping through the front door.
"Cuz!" Teddy shouts joyously. "Get in here and give me a proper greeting! Hugs and tearful welcomes and presents and all that!"
James, stupidly, almost wants to cry at the sight of his cousin. A face that's happy to see him. The closest he has to a friend right now.
"I missed you," James says before he can help himself, and Teddy laughs.
"Course you did." He races over to James, discarding mittens and scarves as he goes, and sweeps him into a hug. "Ha! Got you!"
"Not fair, you surprised me!" James struggles wildly, but Teddy just laughs as he manages to wrest James into a headlock and deliver a well-fought hair tousle. After a moment, he lets go and James straightens up, smoothing down his hair and giving Teddy a look.
"Great Merlin's beard, you've grown," Teddy says in amazement.
"Not that much," James says doubtfully.
"But...you used to be all lanky! All elbows and grazed knees! What happened to your noodle arms? You've filled out! Harry, what happened to your son?"
Harry, walking past with armfuls of tinsel, laughs. "All that swimming has finally paid off, I suppose."
"And his voice is breaking! Listen to it!"
"Shut up," James says self-consciously.
"Well, at least your hair still looks like an enraged mop. Some things will never change."
No, some things won't, James thinks, and he's very grateful that despite the changes throughout their lives – James still at Hogwarts, Teddy getting a job and traveling to the other side of the world – that Teddy still comes barreling through the front door and tousles James's hair as if they'll always be young children.
James fall into the routine as easily as falling asleep in his childhood bed. Andromeda is at the kitchen table, humming along to the Wizarding Wireless; Harry is arranging the gifts beneath the Christmas tree. It's like every Christmas and it brings back a thousand December memories, of the familiar voices of relatives and family friends, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, the sound of logs popping and cracking in the fireplace. Teddy is spilling flour everywhere, like he does every year, and there's a smudge of molasses on James's elbow and his shoulders straighten a little, as if a weight has been momentarily lifted.
For a while, he forgets his failing grades, and his lack of friends, and his grudge with Scorpius, and the way Harry doesn't reply much to his letters these days, and how Teddy's growing up and moving away, and his ceaseless anxiety over his swimming, and how much he misses the water and friends and summer and fireworks and his childhood.
Yes, he forgets these things.
For a while.
Christmas Day comes and goes. They go to the Burrow, the cousins drifting about like snowflakes. James can barely remember half of them – sometimes it feels like there's a new cousin every year. He finds a cosy armchair by the fire, hoping to read his new comic, but it takes his relatives all of three seconds to ambush him. Little Roxanne runs into him, wrapping her arms around his leg; Lucy tries to climb into his lap, smearing her sticky fingers on his robes. He ends up losing his temper, snapping at both of them and dumping Lucy unceremoniously on the floor. Roxanne's lip trembles; Lucy begins crying.
"What are you crying about?" someone asks, and James looks up. Finally, the calvary has arrived: Teddy. He languidly picks up Lucy, lifting her up and back onto her feet.
"James is being mean!" she sobs.
"I wouldn't be happy either if I had your grubby little fingers in my hair," Teddy says, smiling. "Go wash your hands and we'll have a game of Exploding Snap."
Lucy stops crying, although she still sniffles a little. "Okay," she agrees.
"I wanna play too!" Roxanne pipes up, and Teddy ruffles her hair.
"All right. Everyone can play. But first, I want a word with my cuz."
They race away. Teddy sits down in the armchair opposite James.
"They all adore you," he laughs.
"Yeah, great."
"Well…I'll admit some of them are best in small doses."
A sudden thought occurs to James and he looks at Teddy with fear. "I wasn't…I was never like that, was I? I mean, I've never annoyed you or made you wish I'd just go away…"
Teddy gives him a slight smile. "Did I ever make you feel unwanted?"
"No," James says slowly, "but that doesn't answer the question."
Teddy's smile widens then, and he laughs. "You never miss a thing, do you, cuz?" He leans back a little in the armchair, his usual sign for settling down for a story, but when he speaks next it's not of octopuses under the house or goblin-kings. "Victoire graduated last year," he notes. "You and Rose are the oldest cousins at Hogwarts now."
James hadn't thought of that before. "Are we?" he says uncomfortably.
"Well, Rose is six months younger than you. So I suppose you're the eldest."
"Right," James says uncertainly.
"The baton of responsibility has passed to you," Teddy says solemnly. "I am going to impart a very important lesson, young James."
"Is this about my grades?"
Teddy blinks. "What? No. Anyway – "
"Has Dad said something to you?"
"No. Stop interrupting, that's the first part of the lesson. No, in all seriousness, I'm going to tell you something that my nan told me when you were born. Are you listening?"
"I'm listening."
"Good. So, the day you were born…I was so happy. You've always had loads of cousins, hanging around like Christmas decorations, but back then…well, it sucks being an only child. I wanted a little brother or sister more than anything else, and the day I met you…well, my wish got granted. I had a little brother."
James looks down at his lap, not wanting Teddy to see how affected he is by those words. "Cousin, you mean," he says, trying to sound light-hearted.
"I've got plenty of cousins. Roxanne and Lucy and all the rest," Teddy says, "but you've always been my little brother."
God, if James actually starts crying now, he'll have to Avada Kedavra himself from sheer embarrassment. He clears his throat instead and pretends to be distracted by a loose thread on a cushion.
"Anyway," Teddy continues, "I finally get to hold you – you were so tiny – and I'm thrilled, of course, but Nan keeps telling me it's a big responsibility, being an older brother. And she says – and I've always remembered this – 'any decision you make, Teddy, you make twice. Once, when you do it. And twice, when James sees you doing it and copies you'. And whenever I've had to make a choice, I've always remembered that. How I treat other people will set the standard for how you treat them, and how I treat you will be how you let others treat you, too."
James glances up. Teddy's looking at him earnestly, as if waiting for a nod of understanding from him.
"That's not true," James mutters at last. "You always treat people really nicely, like they're your best friend. And I…I don't."
Teddy smiles. "What, you mean telling Lucy to get lost? Come on, cuz, don't be so hard on yourself. We all have bad days. Nobody's perfect."
James hesitates, opens his mouth, then closes it again. "What's that?" he asks instead, pointing to an object in Teddy's hand. It looks like a billiard ball, except it's completely black.
"Hm? Oh, this? Confiscated it from Hugo, the little mischief-maker. It's a prototype prank your Uncle Ron's been working on."
"What's it do?" James asks curiously.
"Well, it's supposed to leave a cool temporary tattoo," Teddy says, holding the ball out to James. "You throw it at someone, it becomes whatever you want it to become. Rose thought it would be cute to give herself a butterfly design on her ankle – Hermione's not happy about it."
"Why?" James asks, turning the ball over in his hands. It makes a little squishy noise.
Teddy grins. "There's one little problem with it. It takes a month or so to fade."
"Ha. Serves Rose right for trying out a prototype," James says, handing the ball back.
"Well, Hermione seemed pretty angry at Ron about it, so I figured out a solution." Teddy grins and pulls the leg of his jeans up a little, revealing a little butterfly on his ankle. "Couldn't get rid of it, but I could transfer it. Here, I'll teach you the spell – it'll come in handy if Hugo tries anything on you. Something tells me the little toerag has a supply somewhere."
James smiles and tries to focus on this moment, here and now, learning spells with his favourite cousin.
But the shadow of his failures wraps its hands around his heart as he recalls Teddy's words.
Every decision you make, you make twice.
Draco thinks Scorpius has been especially withdrawn during this Christmas break, but he has a surprise he's certain Scorpius will love. And come Christmas Day, when Scorpius unwraps his presents, Draco is proven right. The usual gifts – new sets of robes, quite a few books, boxes of sweets – are appreciated as always, but Scorpius seems awestruck by the last gift.
A brand new Starfire Century.
Draco had scrimped and saved like mad to afford it; he had ended up selling some of Narcissa's jewellery to get the last of the money. It had been a bit painful, selling his mother's jewellery, but perhaps it's better this way. After all, it was just gathering dust in his parents' bedroom, and he likes to imagine that out there somewhere, it's now glittering beneath the light of a chandelier again, the new possession of a proud girl.
Besides, it's all worth it, in this moment, to see Scorpius's face light up. He lifts the broom reverently from its case, the tissue paper rustling around it.
"A Century?" Scorpius says, gazing with awe at the words on the broom handle, the letters inlaid in gold.
"Of course," Draco says, smiling. "Since you mentioned your last broom was destroyed during training. I hope you'll be a bit more careful with this one."
Scorpius is delighted and, despite the chilly December weather, spends the rest of the day flying about in the gardens, doing loops and practicing dives. He comes in during the evening time, when dusk is settling upon the sky, and curls up in an armchair by the fire with one of his new books. Draco sits nearby, writing out a thank-you note to a family – very pleased with their received family tree – for the bottle of wine they sent for Christmas. The fire crackles merrily in the grate, the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of the room, and Draco thinks it's an excellent way to end the day.
But he forgets how Scorpius is no longer a small child, awed by gifts and convinced they simply magically appear beneath the tree, for – as he's waxing the broom carefully and admiring the shine of it – he looks across the room at Draco and and frowns slightly.
"These are really expensive, aren't they?"
"Well worth the price," Draco reassures him. "The quality is worth every galleon."
"How much was it?"
Draco blinks. "It was affordable," he says slowly, and Scorpius looks back down at the broom lying across his lap.
"A year ago, we couldn't afford a new broom at all," he says, "let alone a Starfire Century."
"Well, I found a few galleons here and there," Draco says, standing up and seeking an escape from the conversation. Scorpius shouldn't be worrying about money – that's Draco's job. "It's fine. Come on, we'll go have some peppermint tea."
Scorpius drops the subject at least, setting the Starfire aside and following Draco to the kitchen. He sits at the table, idly playing with Monopoly pieces.
"What piece do you play?" he asks Draco.
"The top hat, of course."
Scorpius smiles a little. "That's my favourite piece too."
"Must run in the Malfoy blood." Draco sits opposite him, pleased that Scorpius isn't worrying over the cost of his gifts anymore. "Shall we play a game?"
They while away the last few hours of the evening in the cosy warmth of the kitchen, playing Monopoly, and Draco is happy to let Scorpius win.
Over the rest of the Christmas break, Scorpius seems content to read his books and wander about the manor gardens, watching the ice-roses bloom into glittering petals, and – during New Years Eve – he's invited to a party. The invitation comes from a Ravenclaw friend, the same year as Scorpius, but even so Draco is very suspicious. New Years Eve parties, in his opinion, are certainly not the domain of thirteen and fourteen year olds. Additionally, the invitation clearly states parents are welcome too and Scorpius is actually happy about that.
"You can come too!" he tells Draco. "So we'll both have friends."
That particular comment circles Draco's mind like a bothersome fly for a while, and after careful thought he accepts the invitation and thusly finds himself venturing out the door at six o'clock on the evening of December thirty-first, Scorpius by his side, and wondering exactly what hell he's about to put himself through.
But the party is surprisingly bearable. A large group of parents welcome Draco into their midst and they stand around drinking wine and complaining about their respective children, while Scorpius disappears to find his friends. Draco's suspicions about age-appropriate activities soon disappear; evidently, a thirteen-year-old's idea of a New Years Eve party is to toast marshmallows in the fireplace and giggle over stupid games like Exploding Snap. Scorpius does ask Draco for a drink of champagne, though.
"Jennifer's father is letting her have a glass," he says forlornly.
"Well, I'm not Jennifer's father, am I?"
"No," Scorpius agrees, but he looks so dejected that Draco compromises and lets him have a sip from Draco's own glass. Scorpius crinkles his nose. "Oh," he says. "I thought it would be like fizzy cordial." Looking disappointed, he returns to his group of friends.
Draco turns back to the conversations around him. Another parent comes over and spends quite some time looking at Draco as if trying to remember him from somewhere.
Death Eater…murderer…the war… He waits for the curl of a lip, the contemptuous shake of a head.
"Say, do you know Gwen?" the parent says at last.
Draco's taken aback. "What?"
"Gwendolyn Gagebrook? She said she'd commissioned a family tree from some bloke called…uh…"
"Malfoy?" Draco tries doubtfully. He remembers Gwen. She was the mother whose children attended that birthday party.
"Yes! That's the one!"
"Pleased to meet you," he offers suspiciously, but the parent enthusiastically starts chatting about the business of genealogy, and Draco ends up actually having a nice conversation. Being sociable, he realises, and he's not quite sure whether he should be pleased about that or not. In any case, though, the evening is ruined at about eleven o'clock when Scorpius reappears again, this time to quietly tug at Draco's sleeve as if he's a young child again.
"Can we go home?" he mumbles.
Draco, still chatting to other parents, pauses. "In a minute," he says.
"I want to go home," Scorpius repeats quietly and Draco sighs, excusing himself from the conversation briefly.
"What's the matter? Do you feel unwell?" he asks Scorpius, turning to look at him and realising that Scorpius looks quite pale and almost on the verge of tears.
Scorpius nods.
"Did you drink any more champagne?" Draco asks, frowning.
"No," Scorpius says, looking even more upset. "Can we please just leave?"
Draco nods and says his farewells to the other partygoers, thanks the host for the invitation, and then leaves, taking Scorpius home with a Side-Along Apparation. As they walk to the front doors of the manor, their feet crunching over gravel, he gets more and more suspicious until, once they've stepped into the front hall, he decides something is definitely wrong.
"What happened?" Draco demands.
"Nothing."
"Scorpius," Draco begins warningly, and Scorpius hesitates before mumbling something. "What?" Draco asks.
"Nothing. I just don't feel very well."
"Did somebody upset you?"
"No."
"Scorpius – "
"I just don't feel well," Scorpius repeats.
Draco pauses, still caught in the grip of indecision. He's acting like his mother, he thinks ruefully. Narcissa would be fussing exactly like this. And Draco, back when he was Scorpius's age, always hated it when she did that.
"All right," he says at last. "But if anyone's upset you, you'll tell me, won't you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Scorpius goes to bed then, and Draco retires to his father's study. Lucius would disapprove of Draco's parenting, he thinks. He'd no doubt call it 'a lot of unnecessary fuss', as he often did when Narcissa fretted about Draco quarrelling with a friend or being challenged to a duel. Draco is perfectly capable of managing it himself, Lucius would say, and Draco would always be secretly proud of his father's words. His father believed in him.
Yes, he decides.
Scorpius will be perfectly fine.
Harry accompanies James to Kings Cross Station on the seventh of January, marking his son's return to Hogwarts. The platform is alight with energy and noise, as ever – tearful goodbyes, joyful greetings, loud chatter and laughter. Harry looks over the crowd for a long moment.
"Where's your friends?" he asks James, wondering if he'll ever eventually meet them.
"Suppose they boarded already." James shifts his bag over his shoulder.
Harry nods. "I know, it's not fair that they can't visit you over holidays," he says. "Maybe, for the summer holidays, you can arrange to visit them?"
"They live pretty far away."
"Well, I'm sure I could arrange a portkey." Harry smiles, but James doesn't return the gesture. "Maybe – damn it." He sighs and James looks at him.
"Called into work?"
"You know how it is." Harry takes the coin from his pocket, tapping his wand against it to stop the burning heat.
"Yeah," James says. "I know how it is." There's a bitterness in his voice – faint but definitely there – and Harry looks up sharply.
"For heaven's sake…look, I've got to go to work. Come on, don't act like this. I won't see you again until summer."
James crosses his arms and scowls. "What about Easter?"
"I…" Harry sighs again. "We've got a major project scheduled." It's the predicted time for finalising charges, if this major illegal potions deal finally gets delivered. "But we'll see."
"Great, so now you don't even want me home anymore."
"God, you can be so frustrating! That's not what I meant, James!" Harry looks upward in a gesture of entreatment. "Can you please just give me a break today?"
James looks at Harry, jaw clenched. Then he turns and leaves, striding across the platform, his bag slung over his shoulder.
Brilliant. Perfect. Harry's just been called into work, he's running late now, and James has decided to fulfil his duty as an argumentative teenager and leave without farewell.
Harry exhales sharply, shoulders tensed with stress, then turns and makes his way from the platform.
The school term marches on. James attends his classes, but he finds it hard to concentrate and he discovers the complete and abject misery of walking into a classroom and knowing nobody wants to sit next to him. Everyone has their favourite partner to pick in Potions, or to practice duels with in Charms, and it's not James. In Herbology, Paul gets into a bitter argument with James about the forfeited match and James destroys Paul's project.
He's sent to McGonagall's office. She adds another detention to his list. Detention for missing homework, detention for skipping class. He hates going to class so much that he starts using Skiving Snackboxes to make himself ill – especially to skip the classes shared with Scorpius. Scorpius is probably one of the worst triggers for James's temper. Quite a few times, they end up shoving past each other in the corridor – sometimes escalating to a few underhanded hexes and tripping jinxes, the other students unashamedly laughing and urging them to duel each other. They always stop whenever a professor arrives though – Scorpius seems keen to maintain his reputation as a perfectly behaved student and James wants to avoid another summons to McGonagall's office. He needs to win his swimming privileges back.
James spends nearly every morning by the lake, watching forlornly as his team mates laugh and jostle each on the pier. That first dive into the water, their fingertips breaking the surface, and James can almost feel the cool water rolling over his own hands…
"Stop torturing yourself," Thomas says one morning as he walks past James. "It's pitiful, seeing you sit there with an expression like Moaning Myrtle's. Go do some laps of the Quidditch pitch."
James does. He can't swim, but he can still train. It's not the same as swimming, but the exercise is a good outlet for his anger and he'll be ready when McGonagall allows him to swim again.
But February passes without a word from McGonagall. James's birthday comes and goes; his father sends him an unusually large amount of gifts and, in the birthday card, he sounds regretful. I hope you're enjoying the term so far, he's written. I'm looking forward to seeing you in summer.
James reads the words over and over. Summer. Just three months away. Everything will be fine.
He's fine.
And on the first of March, it becomes clear exactly how wrong that belief is.
He's having one of those days, where everything seems to go wrong. After classes have finished for the day, he finds himself in the owlery, writing a letter to Teddy. Sometimes, when he's having an absolutely terrible day, he looks at the postcard Teddy sent him so many months ago from the Rock of Gibraltar. They've dated the rock to 200 million years old, Teddy has written on the postcard. I find that oddly reassuring. There's a saying, 'solid as the Rock of Gibraltar', which means something is very safe.
James finds it reassuring too.
He picks up his quill, glancing at Teddy's latest letter. He's returned to the Mediterranean but he'll finish his assignment soon; he's written excitedly of all the sights he's seen, the friends he's made and experiences he's had. Teddy's always been like that, James thinks. He makes friends so easily.
He lifts the quill. Dear Teddy, he could write. This year has been absolutely terrible. I miss you so much. I'm angry all the time and I don't know why. It feels like everyone's pouring oil onto me and I'm about to light the match.
James stares down at the parchment.
Dear Teddy, he writes.
"Ugh, what's he doing here?"
James glances up. There's a small group of Ravenclaw students arriving to send their letters.
"Sod off," he says loudly, in case they're thinking of starting something. Better to appear aggressive and make them disappear quickly.
"He's writing letters," one of them observes. "To his imaginary friends, I suppose."
"I said go away!" he repeats, one hand automatically covering the parchment even though he hasn't written anything yet.
"Maybe he's making a wishlist for his next birthday already," one of the Ravenclaws says – one of the Chasers for the Ravenclaw team, James realises. Probably a friend of Scorpius. "Asking for a few extra brain cells, I expect."
The Ravenclaws laugh as they walk past James. "I've heard he's a squib."
"A squid, you mean. All he's good at is swimming."
"He hasn't been in the lake for months, he's probably forgotten how."
James clenches his teeth and stares down at the parchment. He won't rise to it, he won't give them the satisfaction of a response. He stares down at the parchment, concentrating on the watermarks across the paper, waiting until the Ravenclaws go to the other side of the owlery, and then carefully picks up his quill.
Dear Teddy,
Thanks for your letter, it's great to hear all your news. Could you tell me more about that spell you and your friends invented? Sounds interesting. And yes, my swimming is going well. I don't mind the early mornings though, it's worth it. All my friends joke about me being a squid, I spend that much time in the water…
He lets the lies spill from his quill, the ink dark as a starless sky.
Afterwards, he's mindlessly wandering the corridors when he pauses.
This is a familiar place.
James turns and studies the wall for a long moment, then reaches out and touches a wand to it.
He cast this spell so many times as an excited eleven-year-old, back when he loved every second with his best friend. All those nights spent laughing and tumbling across fields of gold, racing around glowing grass, climbing trees heavy with magic, the planets spinning between them…
"Limens," he whispers.
It's been three years but the spell is carved into his memory. Like tying his shoes, like diving into the lake. His wand, his hands, they know the spell by heart. The wall opens and he steps inside. For a moment, caught in those hazy memories, he's waiting for a sky full of stars, a field of summer dreams, butterflies rising around him.
But the room is empty. The ceiling is nothing but shadowed arches and darkness. There's a broken desk in the corner; it was once a great oak tree, James thinks, growing from the imagination of two boys. Tattered quills snap beneath his feet as he walks slowly across the room. The air is musty, the dust thick on the floor. It's been a long time since anyone was in this place. Scorpius clearly never visited it again.
A footstep. James turns.
"What are you doing here?" Scorpius demands. "I saw you create the portal. Magic isn't allowed in the corridors, you know. I'll tell McGonagall."
James's jaw clenches. "Of course you will," he says, and Scorpius draws his wand. James fumbles for his own wand; they back away from each other, watchful.
"Stay away from me," Scorpius says, eyes narrowed.
"You're the one who followed me here," James retorts. "And this isn't your room anymore. It belongs to me and my friends."
"Who would want to be friends with you?"
"You did, once." The words are out before James can stop them; an automatic response. Several expressions shift over Scorpius's face, all of them indecipherable.
"Yes," Scorpius says. "Once. Until I realised the sort of person you really are. We will never be friends."
"Oh, trust me, I don't want you as a friend either," James retorts. "I wish I'd never met you."
Scorpius draws back, as if he's been struck, and for a moment he looks like the timid, fearful boy who huddled into the corner of the train carriage on their first journey to Hogwarts. After a second, however, Scorpius's expression hardens.
"The Ravenclaws all say you're a prat, you know," he says, and anger flashes through James.
"So what? Ravenclaws aren't good for anything except adding up numbers. Boring little bookworms, the lot of them. Nobody wants them as friends!"
"Well, plenty of people wanted to be friends with your cousin," Scorpius retorts, his pale face becoming flushed with anger. "Teddy Lupin – he was never boring. Even though he graduated two years ago, everyone still talks about how clever and funny and kind he was. He's nothing like you."
"Shut up!" James snarls, clenching his fists. "You don't know anything about me, or my cousin! Besides, Teddy would never be your friend – your father killed his parents!"
"My father never killed anyone!"
"That's not what they say. They say he tortured Muggles!"
"That's a lie!"
"How does it feel, knowing your dad's a murderer? Could be in your genes, you know – after all, you watched your mother die – "
Scorpius launches himself at James with a cry; James barely has time to react as he crashes to the floor, his wand rolling away. Scorpius hits him, striking him hard across the face. James struggles wildly but though he is physically stronger, Scorpius's rage seems to lend him an unnatural strength. He hits James again and again, his fist smashing into James's mouth, and James feels his lip split.
"Nobody wants to be your friend!" Scorpius shouts, grabbing James by the collar and yanking him sharply upwards. "Not even you! They don't like you – nobody does! They only pretend to like you because your father is Harry Potter – he's the one they want, not you! You're nobody, you're nothing! The professors all know you're worthless, and if your dad knew what you were really like, he'd be ashamed to call you his son!"
Scorpius's last words echo across the room. For a moment, they remain where they are – James sprawled across the floor, blood trickling from his mouth, Scorpius's hands still clenching fistfuls of James's robes. They're both crying, James realises dully. He turns his face away and Scorpius suddenly lets go of him and stands up. He leaves without another word; James listens to the wall portal opening and closing again, Scorpius's footsteps soon fading.
After a long moment, he sits up slowly and swipes his tears away, wincing as his sleeve brushes over his split lip. He can feel a bruise forming along his cheekbone.
James sits alone for a long time, dust and tears and blood on his sleeves.
He waits to be called into McGonagall's office, but nothing is said about it. Somehow, though, the professors certainly seem to know something has happened. While it was, before the incident, common knowledge that Scorpius and James disliked each other, it seems amplified now. Slughorn makes sure they're never paired together. During Herbology, Sprout suddenly rearranges the plants so James and Scorpius's projects are as far apart as possible. And even daffy Trelawney seems to pick up on something, for she hovers anxiously as if terrified one of them will suddenly leap up and charge across the room, hurling hexes at the other.
But they don't. In fact, they don't even look at each other now. Scorpius doesn't acknowledge James's presence in any way. There's a definite iciness between them now, a cold, flat hatred that replaces the angry glares and heated words of earlier encounters.
Which is fine by James.
Sometimes destroying everything seems like the best option.
Harry waits impatiently on the doorstep of the manor, checking his watch. He can't afford to waste another minute…Operation Helios is taking up nearly all his time these days.
At last, the door opens.
"What?" Draco asks.
Harry gives him a look. "What do you think? It's Wednesday."
"Is it? Oh." Draco disappears into the hallway. "Close the door, you're letting the cold in."
Harry steps inside and closes the door. Although it's nearly April, spring has been slow to bloom and the weather has been full of moody skies and nippy breezes. At least Draco's becoming quite adept at the heating charms, Harry thinks as he hangs up his cloak.
He follows Draco to the kitchen, unable to stop himself smiling when he sees church records and family trees scattered across the notched table.
"Yet to finish my ancestry, I see," he says, sitting down.
Draco gives him an exasperated look. "It's not a matter of scribbling a few lines across a piece of paper, you know." He turns away, busying himself with the kettle, and Harry catches sight of an unfolded letter next to a book of sixteenth-century court cases. He tilts his head slightly, reading the careful handwriting. It's a letter from Scorpius, the cursive handwriting making it difficult to read at a discreet glance, but Harry manages to glimpse a few sentences. My new broom…worried about the next game…wish they'd talk to me…things aren't going so well this year…
"Everything all right with Scorpius?" Harry asks, attention still caught by the letter. Thankfully, Draco – still busy making tea – doesn't seem to notice what Harry's reading.
"What? Yes, of course." Draco pauses. "It's normal, isn't it, for teenagers to be anxious about everything?"
"James doesn't seem to worry much," Harry says.
"What, he doesn't worry about anything?" Draco seems disbelieving.
Harry's slightly indignant. "Honestly, I swear it's true. Actually, it's the opposite. Any time I ask him about swimming or his grades, he just shrugs." Harry frowns. "Nice that only I worry about it, I suppose."
"Well, Scorpius worries about everything," Draco mutters.
"Like what?" Harry's curious despite himself. Draco rarely speaks openly of his son, always so guarded about him.
Draco's mouth thins. "Quidditch games, he says. And he's always fussing about his grades, even though they're near-perfect. But there's plenty of other things that make him far too anxious. He comes home with his fingernails chewed to the quick and his hems completely unravelled from him picking at the threads." He sets down his cup of tea, frown deepening. "Is that normal?"
"Probably," Harry says with a shrug. He spent a good deal of his adolescence caught in paralysing anxiety, but that had more to do with all his loved ones dying and an inevitable war. "At least he's not angry all the time. Any time James comes back home, he picks a fight about everything. I ask him to spend some time with family instead of incessant swim training?" Harry waves a hand. "Instant fight. Ask him to please stop leaving damp towels on the floor? Another fight. Tell him I've got an overnight shift? Yes, a fight."
Draco considers that. "Suppose that's what it's like, then," he says gloomily.
"What?"
"Having a teenager."
They sit in silence for a moment, a certain sense of comradeship between them.
Still, Harry wonders later, perhaps Draco has a point. Maybe it's not normal. He writes a letter to James, choosing his words carefully. He includes cheerful news, as usual – the pear tree in the garden has blossomed beautifully, the foxes in the woods have several new additions to their family, and an owl has made a new home for itself in the oak tree. After those updates, Harry pauses before writing the next line.
How's school going? Is everything all right? Just making sure that –
A familiar circle of heat in his pocket. Harry sighs, sets his quill aside, and reaches for his coin.
As he reaches for his cloak, wand already in hand, the letter remains half-completed on his desk, forgotten by the end of his shift.
Two long years they have been working on this case. Two long, long years. The pensieves brim over with memories collected from undercover agents. Locked filing cabinets hold reams of paper trails – receipts and intercepted owl messages, phone-call records filched from telephone companies with the help of the Muggle Liaisons office. Evidence lines the walls, photographs connected to locations, names, dates.
And today, it finally all pays off.
The annoying part, Harry has to admit, is that he's behind the scenes. He's coordinating everything; he's the puppeteer, controlling the strings of the Law Enforcement officers, the Aurors, the field agents. He sits in the centre of his new Head Auror office, silver strands surrounding him like a cobweb, each strand a line of communication, each one whispering to him.
…target has arrived…
…Apollo Team reporting in, location secure…
…unidentified persons in vicinity, please advise…
…target not yet appeared, communication needed from surveillance…
…awaiting your instructions now…
Harry takes a breath and reaches out to touch a strand.
"Message received. Instructions are as follows…"
The next two hours seem to fly by, an adrenaline-fuelled rush. Harry moves like lightning, grabbing at strands, speaking rapidly, making split-second decisions, thoughts storming through his mind. He is coordinating twenty-seven simultaneous arrests across the country – and one of the communication strands connects to teams in Italy, Ukraine, and Singapore, where law officials are managing international arrests. Of course, Harry's got two senior Aurors – Hopkins and McSully – to help him, and Cuthbert scampers back and forth, collecting documents and information for Harry – but all of them know it's Harry's moment. This is when he'll prove whether or not he's Head Auror material.
At noon, the final arrest is made; one of the crime bosses, a major source of funds for the illegal operations, had received a tip-off and tried to flee England within an hour of the first arrest. They catch him just as he's meeting with a man who deals in 'urgent' portkeys.
"We did it," Hopkins says, voice heavy with exhaustion. "Thank Merlin, it's over."
They all start laughing then, caught halfway between exhaustion and euphoria at their victory.
Chapter 14: Starlings and Sunlight
Summary:
In which James learns of a death.
Chapter Text
It's the second week of May before it feels like summer truly lies ahead. It's a mild afternoon. Five weeks are left until the summer holidays and there's a certain drowsiness in the Charms classroom today. Little dust motes float through the amber-coloured sunlight, hardly moving in the warm air, and James watches them idly, his quill resting in his hand, his other hand propped beneath his chin.
"…and now, if you look at page seventy-four, you'll notice the angle of the spell…"
James glances past the dancing dust motes, then looks down at his notes and – with effort – dips his quill into the inkwell and begins writing a new line. The soft scratch of quills against parchment fills the room, punctuated by an occasional rustle or soft cough.
"…so of course, the movement of the wand is extremely important…"
Flitwick's voice murmurs on. James pauses again in his writing and looks out the window at the unclouded sky. In the distance, the rich green valleys and mountains rise and fall like an ocean. If James closes his eyes, he might imagine summer's here already…
Footsteps. James opens his eyes, blinking. The other students raise their sleepy heads. On James's left, Martin stifles a yawn.
McGonagall steps through the doorway.
"Apologies, Filius, but I must speak with Potter."
"Of course," he says, blinking owlishly. "Off you go, Potter. Now, as you can see from this example, the wand movement is a spiral motion…"
James stands up slowly, ignoring the faint whispers of students around him. As he slings his bookbag over his shoulder, Martin turns to frown at him.
"What've you done this time?"
Nothing, James thinks as he leaves the classroom. He hasn't gone near Scorpius for weeks now, hasn't so much as looked at him since the incident in that room with broken quills and dusty floors.
McGonagall takes him to her classroom office. James automatically sits in the tartan armchair and waits for the usual brisk 'ginger newt?' but McGonagall immediately goes to her desk and unlocks a drawer, retrieving something before sitting down.
"Potter," she says, and there's something in her tone that suddenly makes James feel anxious. He seizes ahold of a cushion, just to keep his hands occupied.
"I – I haven't done anything wrong, I swear," he says, mentally running over the past few weeks.
"No, you haven't," McGonagall says quietly. "I'm afraid I received a firecall moments ago from your father. There has been a very serious accident."
James stares at her, not understanding. "An accident?"
She nods. "Your cousin — Teddy Lupin — has been badly injured. Your father has requested your presence at once."
"I…I don't…" He realises he's slowly unravelling a loose thread from the cushion, undoing the stitches, and he stops.
McGonagall places a small silver button upon the desk. It has something engraved in it. A crossed wand and a bone, James thinks distantly. The St Mungo's insignia.
"You may use this portkey to travel directly to St Mungo's Hospital," McGonagall says, tapping her wand against the little button and activating it. "You're excused from the remainder of your classes today."
James stares at McGonagall for a long moment, then looks down at the portkey.
"Potter," McGonagall says quietly, and James looks up.
He reaches out and takes the portkey.
James stumbles slightly when he arrives. It's bright, he thinks, blinking to let his eyes adjust. Compared to the gentle afternoon sunlight of McGonagall's office, with its comfortable chairs and lined bookshelves, the hospital seems to be too bright, too empty, too clean. A long corridor stretches past James, the lights reflecting off the shiny floor.
Then someone's hugging him. His father, he realises, and he barely has time to respond before Harry's stepping away again.
"James," Harry says.
He looks past his father. There's a neat little row of chairs halfway down the corridor. Andromeda sits there, her hands clasped, staring at the wall opposite.
"Where's Teddy?" James asks, his voice sounding far too small, echoing around the corridor. Harry tries to lead him to the chairs but James doesn't move. "Where is he?"
"He's…he's still in transit. We have to wait."
"In transit?" James repeats, at last taking steps forward and following his father to the row of chairs. He looks at Andromeda, but she's still staring at the wall opposite, her mouth a thin line. "But…I don't understand…we're here and he's not…"
"It happened in Wales," Andromeda says, speaking at last. "His friends contacted me at once to let me know. While they were still waiting for the Mediwizards to arrive. But surely the Mediwizards should have already transported him here…"
"It might take them a while to find the exact location," Harry says quietly. "He's in the middle of the wilderness."
"What happened?"
Andromeda doesn't answer James. Harry just looks blankly at him for a moment, as if he's staring at a stranger, and fear begins to creep around James's heart.
"Dad?" he says edgily. "What happened?"
"They were crying," Andromeda says distantly, still staring at the wall. "Somebody was shouting in the background…I couldn't make out much, but they said I should go to St Mungo's at once."
"He'll be okay, though," James says. "Won't he, Dad? Won't he?"
Harry is silent.
"Won't he?" James repeats, and Harry makes a little movement as if trying to shake away his thoughts.
"I…I don't think I should have sent for you," he says, almost as if speaking to himself. "Perhaps it would have been best if…" He blinks and looks up. "Let's just sit and wait."
But James can't stay still. He sits down, he stands up again, he paces around the corridor. Every time a door opens or footsteps sound, he jumps to attention. But it's just a Healer with a clipboard, or an assistant carrying vials.
"They should be here already," Andromeda murmurs. "They should be here…"
James says nothing, just chews on a nail and stares at a poster for first-aid courses on the wall opposite. You Can Save Lives Now! it declares, and he reads it over and over just so he doesn't have to think about anything else.
When he's reading it for the fifth time, there's a loud bang of a door swinging open, followed by raised voices, and James whips around. At the very end of the corridor, there's a team of people rushing in, all surrounding a floating stretcher. For a moment, James catches a glimpse of Teddy's pale face, and then the group disappears into a room, the door swinging shut behind them. James automatically steps forward; he's immediately stopped by an invisible barrier.
"You can't go down there," Harry says. He's standing beside James, gazing down the corridor. "Staff only."
James follows his father's gaze. Beneath the door, he can see the light of spells. The bright flashes increase, each one occurring at one-second intervals. Like little fireworks, James thinks, the little firecrackers and star-rockets he used to set alight in the garden. Roman candles and cherry bombs, flying spinners and bottle rockets…James can almost see them now, bright colours exploding across the quiet summer nights.
James blinks.
"They…they stopped," he says blankly. The bright flashes have faded to nothing. The seconds tick past, but not a single spell is cast. "Dad? Why'd they stop?"
Neither Harry nor Andromeda answer him.
James can't quite remember what happens next. People arrive at some point – Ron and Hermione, Bill and Fleur – but James doesn't know when they arrived or whether they spoke to him. There's a Healer – a quiet man who keeps saying I'm very sorry and James can't work out why he's apologising.
They're walking down endless corridors and he's not sure why. Deeper into the hospital they go, where the hallways become empty and quiet, and finally at the end of a corridor there's a door with a Healer standing beside it. Everybody's going into the room and when James pauses, the Healer asks if James wants to say goodbye to Teddy.
James just stares at the Healer. He still doesn't understand. Say goodbye? He's already said goodbye to Teddy. Thousands of times. Every time Teddy left the house, every time James returned to Hogwarts, every time they parted ways after a Christmas dinner or a birthday party. But why would James say goodbye to Teddy in a little room in a hospital?
Maybe James just thought all of this, or maybe he said it aloud or maybe he shouted it, but the Healer starts looking upset and somebody's taking James by the arm and leading him away. They go farther down the corridor, where there's a row of narrow seats.
"It's okay. We'll just sit here for a while. It's okay," they're saying, and James realises it's Harry. His father.
So they do. They silently sit beside each other. James stares at the opposite wall. There's a framed picture on it. There's a field with mountains in the background, and every five minutes a starling flits across the sky. James methodically counts the seconds and minutes in his head, timing the starling each time.
Footsteps and the sound of someone sobbing. It's Victoire, James realises. Bill and Fleur are either side of her but they're both silent. When did they arrive? He doesn't remember. Did someone send for them? Victoire is the one crying endlessly. He listens to their footsteps fade. The starling flies across the sky again. He's still wearing his bookbag, James suddenly remembers. He was in class, dreaming about the dust motes. Maybe he fell asleep. Isn't that odd, to dream of this?
The starling flies across the sky.
The door opens again. This time it's Ron and Hermione, Rose walking between them. She's crying, but not like Victoire. Quieter. When she sees James she rushes to him and grabs his hands.
"Promise me," she says. "Promise me you'll say goodbye."
James just stares at her, at her bloodshot eyes and crumpled mouth, and he tries to pull his hands away but she won't let go until Ron comes over and pries her away. They disappear from sight too, their footsteps fading round the corner.
The starling flies across the sky.
It flits through the painting six more times before Andromeda appears.
She's not sobbing like Victoire, and she doesn't cling to James like Rose. She just walks slowly along the corridor, step by step, and then she pauses.
"James," she murmurs, her voice soft and thin as tissue paper. "Always his favourite…"
And then she continues on, disappearing round the corner like all the others, but this time Harry stands up and goes to her.
James watches his father leave. He turns his head to look at the painting again, waiting for the starling, but after a long moment he stands up instead and begins walking towards the narrow door at the end of the hallway. The Healer isn't there anymore, he thinks distantly.
He steps into the room.
It's painted blue, a pale blue, like a child's bedroom. There's a vase of sunflowers on a little side-table. And, on a low table draped in dark blue material, there's Teddy.
James studies him. There's a white sheet pulled up to his shoulders. What happened to his clothes? Did they throw them away? That isn't right, he thinks. They shouldn't throw away Teddy's clothes.
His eyes are closed, his skin pale and waxen. James reaches out and slowly catches a lock of Teddy's hair between his fingers. Teddy always thought it was terribly funny that James — always suffering through undignified hair-ruffling — could never seek revenge. No matter how he tried, he never managed to tousle Teddy's hair.
James drops his hand.
Footsteps, and then Harry's beside him, gazing down at Teddy. And then, after a long moment, Harry leans down and gently cups Teddy's face, and then his shoulders start to shake and James realises he's crying. His father, his strong and infallible father, sobbing like a child.
James bolts from the room and gets halfway down the corridor before he throws up.
Teddy died on the eleventh of May. Three weeks after his twentieth birthday.
He was kayaking with friends on the River Tryweryn, deep in the Welsh wilderness. His kayak capsized while he was rounding a particularly difficult riverbend and he struck his head on a rock while underwater, rendering him unconscious. By the time his friends realised something was wrong, managing to locate him and drag him ashore, he had no pulse and wasn't breathing. By the time the emergency Mediwizards arrived, the friends had already been performing manual CPR for some time. It took only three minutes of failed resuscitation spells at the hospital before they officially declared Teddy deceased at 1:07pm.
These are the facts presented to Harry, arranged in neat little Healer's notes. Andromeda gives him the information. There will be a coroner's report later on, she says, but they say it will take months to complete. There are queues, long waits for paperwork. It will be a long time.
They sit at the kitchen table. Andromeda at one end, Harry at the other. Everyone else went to the Burrow after the hospital. Like they needed to be close, together again.
Harry declined to join them. He went home instead, with Andromeda. James went upstairs, to the guest room – Teddy's room – and closed the door.
A clock chimes. It's one o'clock in the morning. Andromeda is gazing down at the notes. Harry stares unseeingly at a cup of tea in the middle of the table. He'd poured it hours ago, seconds after arriving home from work. Moments later, he'd taken an urgent firecall from Andromeda, stating that one of Teddy's friends had just contacted her and said Teddy was very badly injured. It's really bad, it's really bad they'd kept saying over and over.
Harry had made the split-second decision to make a quick fire-call to Hogwarts before leaving for the hospital. In his mind, he saw it all: a worried James arriving, a short wait, and then they would be ushered into a hospital room. Hey cuz, Teddy would say, reassuring James as always, and they'd all smile.
Harry hadn't thought of any other possible ending.
When he saw Teddy lying there, in the room painted the same colour as a childhood lullaby, all he could think about was Teddy's hair colour. Brown. Teddy was always changing his hair colour. Why have something ordinary, he argued, when you could have pink or blue or green? Years ago, whenever Harry visited Andromeda, young Teddy would come tumbling down the stairs to show off his newest hair colour. Harry would crouch down, cup his face, pretend to study him, and then declare Teddy's hair was the most amazing colour he'd ever seen. And Teddy's face would light up with pride and happiness.
Somehow, in that little hospital room, Harry had been waiting for it. Just for a moment, when he leaned down and touched Teddy's face for the final time, he saw a six-year-old Teddy open his eyes and smile at him.
But Teddy's skin had been cold and clammy to touch, his eyes closed, and his hair remained a dark brown, the colour of the earth after rain.
They sit at the table, Harry and Andromeda, and neither of them speak.
It's evident, Draco thinks as he walks across the lawns to the small chapel, that Teddy had been loved. Although Draco arrived early, crowds are already gathering around the doors. He accepts a service program from one of the staff, glancing down at the cover. A photograph of Teddy, and beneath it the words: Edward 'Teddy' Lupin, 17th April 1998 — 11th May 2018.
Only just twenty years old.
He takes his seat, Scorpius beside him. Scorpius had found out about the death on Saturday, from Rose Weasley, and had immediately sent Draco a frantic letter begging for permission to attend the funeral. McGonagall had granted him leave – but looking around the crowded room, Draco thinks McGonagall would have signed many more permission slips. Hogwarts students stream through the doors, dressed in black robes and many of them wearing Ravenclaw badges. At the front of the room, in the rows reserved for close family, the bright hair of the Weasleys is easily visible. All of them knew and loved Teddy, and yet it is Draco who is one of the closest blood relatives.
He looks down at the service program in his hands. He hardly concerned himself with Teddy's existence — Narcissa never spoke of her traitorous sister Andromeda — until Scorpius went to Hogwarts and mentioned, with great excitement, that he'd met a very kind boy named Teddy Lupin who always helped the first years with their homework and once told Scorpius he was going to be one of the most intelligent wizards Ravenclaw had ever seen.
And Draco could sit here now and dream of everything that might have been — an older cousin, growing up beside Scorpius, the two of them best friends — but Draco had fourteen years to make Teddy a part of Scorpius's life, and he let every year slip past without a second thought.
And now that opportunity has disappeared forever.
The service starts twenty minutes after its scheduled time, and Draco only realises why when a hush ripples through the room and the doorway — crammed with people wishing to pay their respects — admits the final two attendees.
Harry and James.
In that moment, Draco sees the striking physical similarity between them. Oh, they've always shared the same dark hair, the same jawline, but there's something in that moment when they walk to the front of the chapel, heads bowed, shoulders hunched as if the world weighs upon them, eyes trained on the ground, faces pale.
The funeral director clears his throat when James and Harry take their seats, and the service begins. A girl with silver hair and a wretched expression delivers the first eulogy. Victoire Weasley, according to the program.
Draco listens to her speak. It's painfully, agonisingly obvious that she loved Teddy. No doubt her own dreams, her own visions of a certain future, died along with him. She trails off halfway through the eulogy and seems unable to continue. As Victoire stands there mutely, her younger sister picks up the notes and reads the rest of it to the silent crowd.
Draco glances at Scorpius. He's staring ahead, the unopened program in his hands. A blue carnation rests on his lap. They were handing them out to those attending. Single carnations. Blue and white.
They sit silently through the rest of the service. At the end, everyone gathers round the family to express sympathy and Scorpius wants to do the same. Draco isn't too sure about that, knowing how James hates Scorpius. The last thing he wants to do is upset James or cause a scene.
But when Scorpius goes to James and offers his condolences, James just nods and says 'thank you' in a politely bland tone, the same tone he's been using with every other person at the funeral. James doesn't care, Draco realises, and that's when his heart suddenly aches for Harry's son. Nothing is important anymore. All the problems in James's life — his fights with his father, his enmity with Scorpius — none of it matters.
The only thing that matters is that his world now exists without Teddy Lupin.
The trip home is silent. Scorpius has received permission from McGonagall to spend the night at the manor before returning to Hogwarts tomorrow. It seems just yesterday that Scorpius was here for the Easter break, walking through the gardens and noticing all the new spring blooms, sketching tulips and reading his books by the orchard-houses.
Now Scorpius stands in the front parlour, unknotting his tie. He'd wanted to make a particularly elaborate tie-knot for the funeral. The Eldredge Knot, it was called, and apparently Teddy was fond of it. Scorpius admired the knot at some point in his first year and Teddy had spent an afternoon teaching it to him. But then, according to the tearful funeral attendees and those who delivered speeches, it was a typical representation of Teddy's generosity of time and energy.
Scorpius lays the tie flat on a side-table and studies it for a moment.
"How did he die?" he asks, his voice quiet. Draco frowns.
"I…I don't know, Scorpius." He'd spoken briefly to Harry and sent flowers from his mother's orchid garden, but he doesn't actually know too many details about Teddy's death. Draco knows too well – thanks to the curious reporters after his mother's death – the pain and anger of unwanted questions.
"Nobody knows." Scorpius lifts his head, looking up from the tie and gazing out the window. "I just want to know if…if it would have been painful…"
Draco follows Scorpius's gaze. The windows offer a view of the beautiful spring day, the gardens bright with flowers, the starlings flitting around the rows of blossoming magnolia trees.
"If he did feel pain," Draco says, "I'm sure it was fleeting. No more than a quick moment before he was given peace."
For a moment they both stand in silence, watching the sunlight cast playful shadows through the leaves and flowers.
If the opposite of a Crucio spell existed – if there was a spell where Harry could take away all of James's pain and misery and despair and endure it himself instead – he would perform it in a heartbeat. But no such spell exists, and this pain can't be fixed with a medicine kit, and Harry won't tell James lies like you'll be fine or time heals all wounds because he knows firsthand it doesn't. It doesn't heal all wounds. Harry still feels the loss of his parents, and Ginny, and Sirius. When someone dies, he knows, they take a little piece of the world with them and although people learn to cope with the absence, they never stop feeling it.
Everyone visits a lot. Mrs Weasley brings over endless casseroles and stews that neither James nor Harry eat. Ron and Hermione visit with Rose, who anxiously asks each time if she can see James, and Harry always has to say no, James doesn't really want visitors, until finally he asks Ron and Hermione to please stop bringing Rose over. They're hurt by his request, but Harry feels too tired to care.
Work fire-calls him. Harry finally accepts an incoming call five days after Teddy's funeral.
"What?"
"You're needed." It's Hopkins.
"I can't come in right now. I applied for bereavement leave."
"Sorry, Potter. But you know how it is. We've got a new lead on – "
"No."
Hopkins pauses. "No?" he repeats at last.
"I have lost my godson." For the first time since Teddy's death, Harry feels something other than a desperate sadness: anger. "He was like a son to me. For twenty years. Do you understand?"
"I do, and the whole department is extremely sorry for your loss. It's an absolutely tragedy. But you're Head Auror, and – "
"What about my son?" Harry says furiously. "What am I supposed to do, Hopkins? What do you suggest I say to James?"
Hopkins is beginning to look very uncomfortable. "I'm sure…I'm sure there's relatives who can mind him…"
"No. No. That is not an option." Harry has missed birthdays, and summer holidays, and Easters, and Christmas too. If there is one time he will be there for James, it will be now.
Hopkins is silent for a long moment. "Very well," he says at last. "My condolences again."
"Thank you," Harry says, and he terminates the fire-call.
He paces around the living room for a while, until he's calmed down, then he goes and finds James. He's curled up on Teddy's bed, asleep.
He hasn't cried once, Harry thinks. Not once. Not in the hospital. Not afterwards. Not at the funeral.
He sits on the edge of the bed and touches a hand to James's head, remembering how he used to stroke James's hair to help him sleep when he was a toddler. It was always Ginny's job, but after she died Harry took over.
James was so young when Ginny died. He didn't understand, even though he'd been told weeks, months before. Ginny was very sick, they told him, and she might go to sleep and never wake up. That's what happens to people when their bodies can't work anymore. But James still kept asking when Ginny was coming back, and he cried all the time and just couldn't understand that his mother was dead. Thank Merlin for Andromeda and Teddy; Andromeda, who babysat James just to give Harry some time alone to mourn, and Teddy, who lifted James onto his shoulders and told him stories and made him laugh, even if it was just for a moment.
Harry sits by James's side for a long time, listening to the silence.
James returns to Hogwarts on the twenty-seventh of May.
They drive to Hogsmeade. Harry could make the journey in a matter of seconds. Disapparating to the village, or arranging for a Floo connection via the Hog's Head or Three Broomsticks, or requesting a portkey from McGonagall.
But he doesn't. He gets up early in the morning and tells James they're driving. James nods.
They leave shortly before midday. The car tyres crunch over the gravel of the driveway. This familiar trip, this same journey Harry has made hundreds of times before. Past the lopsided letterbox, the small gate. Onto the winding country road. Past the lush green fields where James used to play with his Muggle friends, chasing each other over fences and under trees. And further out, the wide swathes of woodland where Teddy used to take James for Quidditch practice, safely hidden from the eyes of Muggles. Over the little wooden bridge where Teddy would take James fishing. The little landmarks, the little souvenirs of lives and memories and childhoods, all flashing past in the blink of an eye.
The little winding lane soon joins an arterial road. Through the local village, past the bakery where Ginny used to buy artisan breads. She'd always come home with a cinnamon bun for James.
Harry misses the smell of cinnamon.
Past the village, and soon the roads become less familiar. They travel through Bristol, the low skyline of the city rising like a grey tide. Onwards, through the sprawling urbanisation of the West Midlands; the green plains of Lancashire, the rolling hills of Cumbria that gradually rise into the craggy mountains and plunging valleys of Scotland. By the time they arrive in Hogsmeade, the evening sunlight is bathing the mountain peaks in golden light, the valleys steeped in darkening shadow.
James has no luggage, only the schoolbag he took with him when he came to the hospital. Just two weeks ago, Harry realises, but it feels like it's been years, as if someone tilted a time-turner when Harry wasn't looking.
McGonagall is waiting by the train station, a solitary figure on the platform, a black cloak draped over her shoulders, both hands resting atop her cane. Overhead, the first evening star appears, crisp and white as a snowflake, set bright against the dark skies of the Scottish wilderness.
Harry and James sit silently in the car for a moment. Then Harry speaks.
"You don't have to go back yet, James."
"I know."
"I can drive us back home again. I don't mind."
"It's okay."
Silence eclipses them again. Then Harry opens his door and steps onto the cobbled street. McGonagall offers her condolences, rests a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. He's very close to taking James back to the car, insisting they both go home, but McGonagall's presence and kind words are enough to stop him from doing so. Harry always felt better when he was at Hogwarts, and surely it will be the same for James. McGonagall will take care of him, and James's friends will help too.
Harry hugs James, unable to stop himself from clinging to him for a long moment. "I'll see you in a month," he says. Just one month until the summer holidays. That's all. "If you want to come home again...just send a letter and I'll arrange it."
James nods and Harry reluctantly steps away again.
He watches his son walk away into the shadowed streets, illuminated by the soft glow of the street lamps.
McGonagall calls James into her office a week after his arrival. James sits in one of the tartan armchairs. The one with the cushion. He can see a thread unravelling from the corner, from when he unpicked a stitch as McGonagall told him she had received an urgent firecall.
"Potter," she says, "if you would like to continue with your swimming lessons, you are welcome to do so."
"Okay."
McGonagall still sits there, looking at him, and James thinks she's waiting for him to say something.
"Thank you, Professor," he adds after a moment, but McGonagall's frown just deepens.
"Potter…we have a counselling service available for students. A counsellor visits Hogwarts twice a week – you'll have to ask Madam Pomfrey about which days – but an appointment can be arranged."
"Okay."
McGonagall looks at him a moment longer. "Well," she says, "please speak to Madam Pomfrey if you'd like to make an appointment."
"Okay." James isn't really listening. He can't stop looking at the thread unravelling from the cushion.
"Thank you, Potter. You're dismissed."
He stands and leaves.
He goes swimming on Saturday. After all this time…
He wants to feel something. He really does. For eight long months he has longed for the water. He has craved it, and missed it, and tried so hard to win back his swimming privileges.
But in the crisp pre-dawn air, he stands on the end of the pier and stares into the black lake and feels nothing.
A whistle pierces the air. He dives into the water and for a moment he's completely submerged and he can't see or hear or feel anything.
And then he surfaces and swims. Lap after lap. Back and forth.
Saltworth says something to him at the end of it.
"Thank you," James says, but he can't remember whether he's responding to sorry for your loss or good job.
It doesn't matter.
The weeks seem to trickle past like rain. James doesn't really remember much it; their final day of school has arrived before he's realised it.
The students chatter excitedly among themselves, making plans for the long and lazy summer holidays. Martin and Paul tidy up the dormitory and hold a competition to see who can find the most Bertie Botts beans and Chocolate Frog cards; Nate tells anyone who'll listen about his upcoming trip to the Maldives, and Iwan makes one last pot of hot chocolate atop the woodstove. The dormitory is a flood of activity, of last minute packing and searching for lost possessions and ardent promises to keep in touch.
"Can I have a word with you?" Iwan asks James quietly.
"Okay."
"I just want to say I'm really, really sorry – "
"Thank you."
"No, not – I mean, I'm really sorry about forgetting your letters." Iwan holds out a few envelopes. "While you were gone…when your cousin…" He looks uncomfortable. "You got a few deliveries, and I was supposed to give them to you when you got back. But I forgot."
"Oh. Thanks." James accepts the envelopes.
"No problem."
James puts the letters into his trunk, listening as the rest of the boys laugh and chatter.
Across the dormitory, through the window, a beautiful summer day unfolds.
The trip to Hogsmeade is brief. James stands apart from the crowds, watching them mill around on the platform, chasing wayward pets and swapping addresses. He's one of the last to board the train; he chooses an empty compartment.
Rose finds him. She sits opposite him and they both look out the window as the train gains momentum and leaves the village of Hogsmeade. The bright morning becomes a faintly-overcast afternoon and James watches the clouds drift slowly across the sky.
"James," Rose says.
He turns away from the sight of a small village passing by. Rose is looking at him with a miserable expression.
"You haven't…you haven't been avoiding me, have you?"
"No."
"Oh."
They fall silent again. After a long moment, Rose speaks again.
"Do you…do you sometimes…" She pauses. "It's nothing," she says at last.
"Okay." James doesn't want to deal with it, doesn't want to talk to her.
He stares out the window at the passing scenery as Rose begins to cry.
The summer holidays unravel before Harry and James. Harry takes him swimming each day; James doesn't seem to care but Harry knows well the insidious nature of grief. It can creep around hearts and minds like Devil's Snare, suffocating and sapping energy away. James swims lap after monotonous lap while Harry does his paperwork.
Work.
Harry knows it's not going well. He gets firecalls nearly every day. His performance has been patchy since May and now that the summer holidays have arrived, he's barely in the office. His superiors call him into a special meeting a week after the summer holidays have started, and Harry knows exactly what to expect.
He's right. He walks into the Head Auror office and finds himself facing Shacklebolt, five senior Aurors, and a very anxious-looking Cuthbert.
"Hello," Harry says, sitting down and looking at them all.
"Harry," Shacklebolt says gravely. "My condolences for the death of your godson. The last of the Lupin line, I fear, and what a tragedy that is."
"However," Hopkins begins, and Harry shakes his head.
"I'll spare you the speech. A death of a family member is a complete tragedy, of course, but let's face it, it happened two months ago and the Auror Office only allows two weeks' bereavement leave. Nobody wants to be unkind, you all have my best interests at heart, and you think it would be best if I stepped down for a while."
They all exchange glances.
Shacklebolt clears his throat. "Succinct as ever, Harry," he says.
"It's not fair on the team, Potter," Hopkins adds. "You're the Head Auror. We can't afford anything less than a hundred percent commitment. Isn't that what Williamson told you?"
Harry frowns. "I don't recall you being present at that time," he says.
"I wasn't. But Williamson gave me the same speech two years ago. I was a candidate for Head Auror too. I told him no. My wife's health hasn't been too good for these past few years and I knew I couldn't give the commitment the position of Head Auror demands."
Harry falls silent.
"This isn't what anyone wants," Shacklebolt says quietly. "You're a fine Auror, one of the best we've seen. But this job…it takes up your whole life. Work comes first. Rain, hail, or shine – "
" – divorce, death, or disaster," finishes Hopkins. "That old Auror joke."
Harry stares down at his hands. There's a few scars criss-crossing his knuckles, callouses on his fingertips. He remembers thinking, two years ago, that he might end up with hands like Williamson's. Those ruined lumps of sinew and flesh. A sign of good hard work, Harry had thought at the time. A life well lived.
"Have some time to think about it," Shacklebolt says. "There's no shame in changing your priorities, Harry."
Hopkins nods. Cuthbert, diligently scribbling away, glances up and looks at Harry.
"Okay," Harry says, getting to his feet, feeling heavy with the weight of something indecipherable. "I'll think about it."
"We'll speak again soon."
Harry goes home.
He visits Draco on Wednesday, as ever. Scorpius answers the door and Harry is suddenly seized by how much older he looks. When was the last time he saw Scorpius? Christmas, surely? Was he at Teddy's funeral? Harry can't really remember. All he can think of is the first time he took James here, and a little scrap of a boy answered the door, face softened with childhood, hair wispy, shy and uncertain and following Draco about like a frightened ghost.
Now Scorpius is taller – still small for his age, not quite as tall as James – but the gentleness of childhood is beginning to melt away. His jawline is straight and narrow, his shoulders are broader, and he offers Harry a guarded look rather than a shy glance. With each visit, he looks more and more like his father.
"Hello," he says.
Harry blinks. "Hello." He wonders if James looks so drastically different than two or three years ago too. He hasn't really noticed. For him, he supposes, it would seem gradual.
"You're early," Draco complains, arriving by Scorpius's side.
"I'm punctual."
Draco glances at the grandfather clock in the hall. "Well," he says, which Harry supposes is the closest he'll get to an apology. "Tea, then?"
They go to the kitchen. Scorpius disappears, a book tucked under one arm. Harry watches him leave and frowns.
"He's gotten older."
"Yes, it's very concerning. I've made an appointment with the Healer next week."
Harry looks at him. "Thanks, Malfoy."
"You're welcome."
Though, deep down, Harry does owe Draco something. In the weeks following Teddy's death – while everyone else gave him endless advice or brought around casseroles or sent flowers until the living room looked like a garden – Draco didn't say a single word about it. He was at the funeral, Harry remembers, and offered condolences. But apart from that, he's remained silent on the subject of Teddy's death.
And for some reason, Harry's oddly grateful for it.
"Has James changed much?" he asks Draco. "Since first year, I mean."
Draco looks at him as if he's asked if Hogwarts is still standing. "Yes," he says slowly. "He's grown up."
"I know, but…I mean, he's gotten taller…" Harry trails off. "He's fourteen. God, he's fourteen. When did that happen?"
"On the seventeenth of February, I imagine."
Harry has that feeling again, of time slipping through his hands like fine sand. He finishes the meeting quickly, wanting to return home soon, and at the end – as he stands up – he offers Draco advice.
"You should spend a lot of time with your son," he says. "Before you know it, he'll be moving out to start his own life."
Draco gives him a look. "I spent six years searching for my son, Potter," he says. "Believe me, I am grateful for every second I have with him."
Harry nods and farewells him, but those words haunt him long after he's returned home.
When it came to caring for James, he relied so much on other people. Teddy, always there. Always. When James was a baby, Teddy would hold him and carry him everywhere. He's my little cousin, he'd proudly tell people. I'm going to take care of him. That's why I was born first. And when James was a young child, Teddy would keep him company during Harry's long shifts.
But now Teddy is gone.
James is still at the pool, Harry thinks distantly as he arrives home. Hermione and Ron took him there, but they should be back soon. He should start cooking dinner, clean the dishes piled up in the sink…
But instead he goes to the living room and, very slowly, reaches to the top shelf of the bookcase. Here is where they keep the stack of photograph albums. All the family memories, lovingly preserved. Harry carries the albums over to the coffee table, then sits down and stares at them, listening absently to the soft but relentless tick of his watch. He opens the cover of the first one.
James. He's sleeping in Ginny's arms. She looks so tired, but she's happy. This was the day James was born. The next picture shows Harry, the pride and joy so evident in his face as he holds James. Then…
Little Teddy. Six years old, carefully holding his cousin, helped by Andromeda. Careful, now, he can almost hear her saying. Teddy touches James's hand and baby James automatically curls his fingers around Teddy's thumb.
Sometimes, Harry wished the photographs were Muggle instead of magical. Solitary, still pictures of time. Missing moments, not capturing certain movements, expressions, smiles…
He turns the page, wanting to continue despite the tears beginning to blur his vision. James sleeping in his crib…Ginny wrapping him up in a blanket…the photographs soon trace the years, the birthdays and Christmases, the little moments between. A summer night, James and Teddy gazing into the sky with awe as fireworks whistle and explode. Andromeda had taken that photograph, Harry remembers. She'd given it to him a few months later, knowing that Harry disapproved. He was always suspicious of the cheap fireworks and, in consideration of James's curiosity in all things dangerous, banned them from the house.
But despite the many years of summer fireworks, James never came to any harm.
"Harry? Are you home?"
He blinks and stands up quickly, swiping a sleeve across his eyes. He hadn't heard Ron and Hermione arriving; now he can hear them clattering about in the front hallway.
"Be there in a minute!" he calls out, trying to regain composure as he tidies the albums away. He has to be strong for James; it won't do him any good to dissolve into tears now.
He goes to greet them dry-eyed, though Hermione looks a little suspicious.
"Can't believe how much James swims," Ron tells Harry. "Hugo and Rose wouldn't get off the waterslide, but not James – he just went straight to the lanes and did lap after lap!"
"He really is an exceptional swimmer," Hermione says.
"Dinner will be ready soon," Harry tells James. James nods and trails down the hallway. By Ron's side, Hugo is busy trying to stop a damp towel escaping his bag, but Rose looks after James, then hesitates and takes a step forward.
"Uncle Harry, would you mind if…if I stayed for dinner?" she asks.
"Ah, come on, Rose. Bit late notice," Ron says. "Besides, we're supposed to be going to your grandmother's for dinner."
"No, it's fine," Harry says.
"I wanna stay too," Hugo pipes up, but Hermione has a reflective look on her face.
"No, your grandmother won't be happy if no grandchildren turn up at all," she says.
"But that's not fair – "
"Come on, Nan's making your favourite pudding. Treacle tart," Ron says, and Hugo looks mollified.
"Okay," he mutters.
"I'll be back around eight o'clock to pick you up," Hermione says, giving Rose a hug. "See you later."
They all farewell each other. Rose thanks Harry again for letting her stay for dinner, then turns to go upstairs. Harry frowns.
"Rose…I'm not sure if James wants company right now."
Rose pauses and gives Harry a look. "I miss my cousins more than anything else in the world," she says quietly. "Both of them. And I can't talk to Teddy anymore, but I can talk to James."
Harry lets her go.
James sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. It has a picture on it. There's a family of badgers, smiling as they unpack a picnic basket.
There's a little chip in the frame.
The attic door swings open and James jumps.
"What?"
"It's me, Rose."
"Oh."
She walks over to the bed, then pauses before sitting beside him. "What are we looking at?" she asks after a long moment.
"That." James points to the picture of the badger family.
"Oh." Rose looks at the picture for a long moment and silence eclipses them. After a long time, she speaks again. "James…"
"Yeah."
"Do you…do you ever wish…" Her voice trembles a little but James doesn't look away from the picture. "Do you…wish…it had been me instead? I…I wouldn't blame you if you did…I know you're much closer to Teddy than you are to me, and it would have been a lot easier if…sometimes I just think it should've been me, it – "
James feels like someone's poured a bucket of ice-cold water over him. He turns to Rose, horror coursing through him. "What? Why would you say that? What's wrong with you? God, Rose – no! No, I'd never wish that!"
Rose begins crying then. "I thought you did," she sobs. "I thought you were mad at me because I'm alive and he's not – "
"No, I'd never – I'm not mad at you, I'm not, I just…I'm just…I just want to wake up, that's all, I'm just…" And for the first time, he realises that's what he's doing. Waiting to wake up. Waiting for this nightmare to stop. Waiting for a dusty Charms classroom two months ago with dust motes in the air and a lazy spring afternoon blossoming over Hogwarts. Waiting, waiting, waiting to hear those two words again.
Hey cuz.
He begins to cry.
Chapter 15: Tempus
Summary:
In which James and Scorpius begin fourth year — James learns how to deal with his grief at Teddy's death — James tries to make friends with other students — Draco begins renovating his father's study.
Chapter Text
The summer holidays come and go. On the thirty-first of August, Harry helps James pack for Hogwarts.
"You haven't unpacked yet," Harry says as he opens James's trunk. "You've still got clothes in here from last term, James…"
"I know." There's a reason James didn't unpack.
A letter from Teddy.
He knows it. He hasn't looked, but he knows it. Iwan had handed him two letters and a postcard. The postcard would be from Uncle Charlie, who had been travelling through Belgium at the time and had promised to send James a stamp for his collection. One of the letters would be from Harry, replying to a short message James sent asking for a new set of robes. And the other letter…
It would be from Teddy.
James knows it. He'd sent a letter to Teddy on the seventeenth of April, wishing him a happy birthday and enclosing his gift: a geography book Teddy had mentioned wanting. Of course, he'd also included a short paragraph about his swimming (complete lies, of course – he hadn't been in the lake for months), a few comments about a spell Teddy had recently invented, and complained about Scorpius. Any advice for dealing with prats? he'd asked.
If only James could go back in time and write a proper letter, he thinks with another wave of sorrow. Something meaningful. He should've told Teddy how grateful he was for all his letters, and how much he missed him, how much he loved him.
But in any case, he'd been expecting a reply from Teddy. It generally took Teddy a few weeks to reply – the letter went to the Silver Compass postbox in London and they redirected mail accordingly. And James knew the moment Iwan handed the envelopes over. That letter has been sitting in his trunk for two months now. Waiting to be read. But when James does finally read it, it will be the last letter he's ever received from Teddy. He'll never read another letter from him again.
He's crying again, James notices dully. That's all he ever seems to do these days. Cry and cry and cry. He hates himself for being so weak but he can't help it. The slightest things set him off – Hugo offering him a Chocolate Frog, a bit of Muggle mail arriving with a stamp in the corner of the envelope – and it's mortifying. Harry heated up some milk in a saucepan one morning and James had to hide in his room for an hour, crying so hard his whole body ached, because it reminded him of Andromeda making cups of coffee on stormy nights. He cries when he goes to Teddy's room because Teddy will never sleep in that bed again, and he cries when it's a beautiful morning because Teddy will never feel the sunlight again.
He can barely muster the energy to get out of bed, or eat or read his comics or visit anyone. Even the smallest tasks – combing his hair, eating breakfast – seem insurmountable. He sleeps all the time and when he is awake, all he can think about is Teddy in that little blue room at the hospital, the way his skin looked waxen and how his hair felt when James touched it.
He begins stacking textbooks into the trunk, the mail from last term safely hidden beneath them.
Harry sees James to Kings Cross on the first of September.
"Will you be all right?" he asks James as they stand on the platform.
"Fine," James says, glancing away, and Harry frowns.
"Listen," he says quietly, "I know I haven't been there for you lately, James. These past few years…I've been busy with work when I should've been spending time with you." Harry pauses. It's been a long time since they've had a real conversation, a genuine conversation, and it's a little difficult for him to speak so frankly. But he ought to do it for James's sake. "I'm sorry about that," Harry continues, "and I'm trying to change it. But please…believe me when I say that when I ask how you are, I want to know the truth. Even if you're not doing so well. Even if you're downright miserable, actually, and you cry all the time and you're too tired to get out of bed. Just tell me the truth, okay? And I'll do everything I can to make it better. I'm your father. That's my job."
James stares at him. He looks as if he's about to cry, Harry realises with alarm, but after a long moment he just nods.
"Okay," he says.
"So…will you be all right?"
James looks at him, then glances to the train. Silence settles between them for a moment. Then – "I don't know," James says at last.
Now Harry feels like he's the one about to cry. "Okay," he says. "That's okay. Just…write to me, please? If you need to come home – for whatever reason – I'll make arrangements with McGonagall and I'll bring you home. All right?"
"All right."
"Promise me?"
"I promise."
Harry steps forward and they hug briefly. Then James turns and makes his way to the train, boarding it.
For some reason, Harry's transported to another time and place, when eleven-year-old James looked over his shoulder, eyes bright and hair tousled, and smiled at Harry.
I'm going on an adventure! he'd said as he left.
Harry turns and slowly walks away.
James sits at the Gryffindor table, watching the excited first-years. Some of them stare around with awestruck expressions, evidently entranced with everything from the floating candles to the sky-ceiling. Others are laughing, nudging students around them, trying to cover their nerves with bravado and silly jokes. Some stand silently, looking around the Great Hall as if searching for a familiar face.
They line up to be Sorted. Some of them look dejected at the Sorting Hat's decision, others look downright crushed. Some skip happily to their fellow house students, others look uncertain or confused.
Rose and Hugo sit either side of James, almost like guards, and he's stupidly grateful for it. He feels oddly vulnerable, as if he's expecting an attack at any moment. Last school year – those final months of the term – it felt like he was sleep-walking the whole time, not noticing anything, body numb, mind disconnected. Now it feels like the opposite. Like he's made of glass and any moment, a careless word or little shove will make him shatter.
He leaves the welcoming feast early, slipping out the doors of the Great Hall and going to the Gryffindor tower. The dormitory is the same as ever. The beds draped in scarlet and gold, the little woodstove for warmth in winter, the trunks neatly placed at the foot of each bed.
James goes to the window. All he can see is his own reflection, the candles casting flickering light across his face. But if he keeps looking, after a long moment he can see beyond his own reflection. The stars shine faintly across his skin, the moon a bright crescent just above his left eye, and he watches his breath ghost over the cool glass.
Teddy will never see the stars again.
He'll never see James again.
The sorrow greets James like an old friend now. It doesn't choke and suffocate him like it did over the summer, but it settles into his bones, heavy, making him feel exhausted and hopeless.
He goes to his trunk and opens it, then stands there for a long moment before slowly picking up the atlas Teddy gave him for his thirteenth birthday. He sits on the edge of his bed and opens it, going to the back of the book and reading the inscription over and over. To my favourite adventurer, James…
He stares for a long time at Teddy's handwriting. The way the t's are crossed with reckless abandon, the way the J curls like a smile.
Then he turns the pages slowly. The last time he looked at this atlas, there was a little glowing dot by the Rock of Gibraltar.
There's no dot now. Not by a two-hundred-million-year-old rock, not on the sunlit shores of the Mediterranean. Not in the bustling metropolis of London. Not by the rivers and roads of Wales. Nowhere.
He could wait until the moon fell into the sea and the sky turned to dust, James thinks, and he'd still be waiting for that glow to return.
The weeks pass quickly, and it's the twenty-eighth of September before James thinks perhaps he'll be all right. That night, he reads Teddy's letter.
He doesn't know why. He thought he'd never read it, ever. After all, then he'd always have one last unread letter from Teddy. One last message from his cousin.
But he keeps thinking of that starling. Flying over and over through the same painting. Five minute intervals. Someone crying in the distance. A Healer telling them to say goodbye. Footsteps. Andromeda's soft voice.
James. Always his favourite.
Long past midnight, he sits on his bed and stares down at the envelope in his hand, illuminated by the soft glow of his wand. To: James Potter.
He commits every detail to memory. This is the last letter from Teddy he will ever open. On the other side of the envelope, in small letters, is the return address. From: T. Lupin, c/o Silver Compass, London. For a moment, James just stares at the dark ink, unable to move.
Then he slowly opens the envelope and takes the letter out. His hands are trembling so much he drops it twice, but at last he manages to unfold it. Something falls out – a photograph – but James's attention is caught by the first two words of the letter.
Hey cuz,
James stops there. His chest aches, the breath caught in his lungs, and he puts the letter down. He can't bear to read anymore.
Hey, cuz.
He sits there for a long time.
He's not sure how long it is before he manages to pick up the letter and resume reading it. This time, as soon as he gets past the first two words he can't stop. He has to read the whole letter.
Hey cuz,
Saw a mermaid today swimming in the River Cynfal. Made me think of you — I reckon you'll start growing fins soon. You've already got those weird spindly limbs, so you're well on the way. Did you know Muggles have all these daft stories about pretty mermaids sitting around giggling and waving at children? Ha — the ones in the River Cynfal would eat Muggle kids for breakfast, no joke. They've had to migrate after a tourist campsite opened near the river and they're all completely enraged about it.
Anyway, aside from very angry mermaids, this trip has been pretty good. Very busy though, you wouldn't believe how exhausted I am. Looking forward to coming home and seeing you, my favourite cousin – even though you've been acting like a moody hippogriff lately. And I don't know what's happened between you and Scorpius Malfoy but…well, you wanted my advice but you're not going to like it. And my advice is: get over it.
It sounds harsh on paper but just picture me saying those words with a smile and a hair-ruffle, okay? I don't know what's going on between you two but I reckon you've both lost a potential friend in each other. Maybe you should back off a little, be a bit nicer. Even if he's being a bit of a prat. Just be the bigger person, you know? Promise me you'll at least try.
Anyway, terribly long letter for me — time for me to sign off. The sun is setting over Gwynedd and it looks amazing. Maybe I'll take a picture and send it with this letter. Oh, and before I forget —please turn over for the instructions written out for the spell you asked about. Let me know how it goes.
See you in June (look for me at Platform 9¾ – I'll be there!),
Teddy.
James stares down at the photograph. A beautiful sunset, clouds shot through with red and gold, over some rugged mountains. He stares at the picture for a long time before slowly turning it over. 5 May 2018 – Gwynedd, Wales. For James.
Six days before he died.
For a moment, it seems so surreal. James still doesn't understand – and maybe he never will – how he's reading these words right now and the person who wrote them is dead. It just doesn't make sense. He's sharing a moment with Teddy and the only difference is five months.
Time is the longest distance between two places, James remembers thinking once.
The final renovations of the manor are taking place. Rooms have been repainted, floors have been replaced, the tapestries of bland landscapes have been replaced by family portraits and photographs. Some of the antique furniture has been kept or carefully restored – the chesterfield suite in the sitting room, a hand-lacquered cabinet which was a favourite of his mother's. Other items – the drawing room table, a leather armchair made from goblin-skin – have disappeared. Over the summer holidays, Draco completed work on his parents' bedroom, repainting it and replacing the moth-chewed curtains, tidying away his parents' possessions. His father's belongings are in a neat box in storage now. It had been difficult, doing that. It had felt wrong, going through Lucius's possessions. A pocket-watch, a cloak clasp , a watch-repair kit, a well-thumbed copy of the Pureblood Directory. Impersonal items, items that might be found in anyone's possession, but Draco had carefully placed them into storage. It had contrasted strongly with his mother's bedside table, which was overflowing with pictures of her family, pressed flowers from her garden, a paper rose a young Draco had once made for her, and engraved jewellery given to her by Lucius.
The last room, he'd told himself. Of course, there's still plenty of little details to complete – new curtains for some of the rooms, and a bit of skirting board that needed fixing in the front parlour, and a window in one of the guest bedrooms needed replacing. But for the most part, the work was done.
Except…
He stands in his father's study.
Always, always his father's study.
Draco stands before the mahogany desk and studies it for a moment. He can almost picture his father sitting in the chair, quill in one hand, writing his letters. The study was always the place for discipline. Other children were punished in suitable ways – Pansy's mother would take away her toys, Theo's father wouldn't allow him out to play with friends – but Lucius never did anything so crass. He'd simply take Draco to the study and there they would remain in silence – Draco standing before the desk, his father sitting behind it – and then Lucius would always say This is not how I imagined my son to be. Those words – delivered in a tone heavy with disapproval – always crushed Draco more than any lecture Narcissa might give him about good manners. Then Lucius would resume writing his letters and Draco would stand there for however long it took Lucius to dismiss him.
This is not how I imagined my son to be.
Would his father ever express that sentiment now?
Draco looks up slowly and gazes out the window. The manor gardens unroll, a perfect swathe of green gilded with flowerbeds, with elegant willows and neat hedgerows. In the distance, the orchard is a hive of activity for the feasting birds. A far cry from the overgrown tangle three years ago, when Draco's son first came home and Draco decided to make some changes. The gardens are beautiful again, and the manor has nearly been restored to its former stateliness. Draco is busy these days, busy with his genealogy work, through which he's somehow made friends. His customers keep in regular contact and there's a few other parents with whom Draco's ended up being acquaintances.
And all these changes…they were all made for Scorpius. Not for Draco. It was only when Scorpius reappeared that Draco genuinely tried to change things.
For the first time, Draco wonders if Lucius ever truly loved his family. Oh, Lucius cared – he was overcome with anxiety and fear during the war when Voldemort demanded use of the manor. Lucius was always worrying about Draco and Narcissa.
But…if he'd truly loved them, he would have sacrificed himself for them.
Draco hadn't understood it. Not back then, when he was seventeen years old. Honestly, he'd empathised with his father. It was too risky to make plans for an escape. Perfectly understandable.
But when Scorpius was born, Draco knew how it felt to be a parent. To love something so much he'd die for it. And he would. If he could guarantee Scorpius's safety but knew that, as a price, he would die – he'd agree in a heartbeat. Whether Scorpius is a baby, or a child, or seventeen years old, Draco would die to protect him. He would be afraid, and he would feel despair, and hopelessness, but he would do it anyway.
Would Lucius have done the same for his son?
Draco stares at the empty chair behind the desk.
"This is not how I imagined my father to be," he says quietly.
Draco begins the final renovations on the fifteenth of November. Scorpius's birthday. It seems appropriate.
Harry notices. During their next meeting, he gazes about the room, then looks at Draco.
"You're renovating the study."
"Yes."
Harry gives him a faint smile. "Getting rid of all the ghosts," he says, and Draco, startled, wonders how on earth Harry Potter managed to step inside his head.
"I'm wondering if I should keep the desk or not," he says at last.
Harry studies the desk for a moment, then reaches out and traces his fingertips over a few scratches. "I imagine it has quite a lot of history."
Draco considers that. "I'll think about it," he says.
Harry collects his cloak. He seems to be in quite a pensive mood, Draco notices.
"How's James?" he asks impulsively as Harry opens the door, ready to depart.
Harry looks at him, then — to Draco's surprise — smiles. It's a very small smile, but it's there. "Not very well, I'm afraid."
"You're smiling." Draco feels like he's missed something completely. "You just said your son is not well."
"Yes," Harry says. "I know. He told me himself. We've been writing a lot of letters lately."
"Oh."
"I'll see you next Wednesday, Malfoy."
"Next Wednesday," Draco echoes.
He goes to the study and sits at the mahogany desk. He can see letters engraved into the desk, left carelessly by a sharp quill nib and too-thin paper. My dear son...
Lucius's handwriting. No doubt one of the very rare moments Lucius decided to write to Draco himself rather than send his regards through Narcissa's usual lengthy updates.
Maybe, Draco thinks, he'll keep the desk after all.
It's a bright November day when James feels all right.
There's nothing special about the day. It's a cold, crisp winter's day, the sky a pale unclouded blue though the thin sunlight offers little warmth. The distant mountains are steeped in snow, pristine and white as eggshell, and the students are getting ready for the first Quidditch match of the season. James sits in the library, his schoolbooks stacked on the desk in an attempt to feign study. He doesn't like the common room these days – too noisy, everyone chatting and laughing and throwing things about – and since the other boys realised James wasn't just going to return to his usual self, they've become slightly awkward around him. He avoids the dormitory out of politeness, just so they won't feel the need to quieten down and stop laughing as soon as he walks into the room.
Though his Charms textbook lays open before him, James isn't reading it. He's looking at the photograph in his hand. A sunset in Gwynedd.
He turns the photograph over.
For James.
He studies the smudged words for a long time, then sets it down and picks up his quill, trying to concentrate on his homework. What are the limitations of a Banishment Charm?
James stares down at the question. A group of students wanders past, rugged up in Quidditch scarves and hats, chattering away; James can hear Madam Pince's sharp, quick footsteps as she searches for the source of the noise.
The limitations of a Banishment Charm include proximity… The words trail away, ink blotting beneath the nib of his paused quill. He gazes at the photograph again, lost in thought for a long while. Then he opens his bookbag, hesitates, and pulls out a little postcard, turning it over to read the words on the back. Words he's read hundred of times now.
I was standing atop this rock today, James. Can you believe it? The earliest humans walked upon it, and it's had homes and castles built upon it, and two world wars have raged around it. They've dated the rock to 200 million years old — I find that oddly reassuring. There's a saying, 'solid as the Rock of Gibraltar', which means something is very safe.
He will go there one day, James thinks suddenly. He'll go there, and stand where Teddy stood. Where countless thousands have stood before them. Where wars have been waged, and bombs dropped, and castles besieged. Where countless photographs have been taken, and memories forged, and lifetime experiences made. And somewhere, in this great timeline of history, in this vast ocean of wars and battles and celebrations, a boy sent another boy a postcard. I was standing atop this rock today, James.
James has to bite his lip hard to stop from crying – not a single person has caught him crying yet, and he'll be damned if they see him now – but it's a different sort of crying to all the endless tears he's shed recently. That crying was always accompanied by a sense of hopelessness, and misery, and such emptiness that he knew with certainty that his life was completely worthless now.
But this time, it feels different. There's a strange lightness in his heart and instead of thinking how Teddy will never experience the world again, James is thinking how one day he'll visit the Rock of Gibraltar and share a moment with Teddy. It's just separated by time, that's all. Months or years or decades, but they'll still share a moment.
James is crying now, but for the first time in seven months, he feels like maybe everything will be okay after all.
Of course, the feeling is fleeting, and he still has plenty of moments of crushing grief and despair. But now he has other moments too, where determination flashes through him and he thinks maybe he can be better.
After all, it was the last request Teddy made. Promise me you'll at least try.
James reads that letter so many times. He keeps the atlas in his book-bag all the time, like a charm, and he props the postcard on his bedside table. Like he needs to be constantly reminded now that Teddy was here. He existed, and he left a legacy of experiences and memories and stories and connections.
It's the twenty-fourth of November when Teddy's legacy causes a shift in James's world. Like a small earthquake, just enough to tilt his perspective, just enough to change things a little.
It's an overcast Saturday, the snow-clouds storming in low and grey. Icy sleet has been pelting the pitch frequently, and a harsh wind had sent scarves unravelling and spectators' teeth chattering. The brutal weather, teamed with the fact it's only the second Quidditch match of the season – Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff – has thinned the crowds a little. James shivers in the stands, drawing his cloak tight as beside him, Rose cheers on the Hufflepuff Chaser, one of her friends. On her other side, Hugo joins in.
"Go Suzanne!" he shouts as the Chaser zips past.
A few bedraggled cheers rise from the Ravenclaw stands. But their team isn't doing well; most of the players are being thrown off-course by the fierce wind and rain. The game seems like it might have to be a forfeit when Scorpius – caught in a gust of wind – slams into another player and ends up with a bloody nose. But he flies onward, blood slowly drying black on his face, evidently distracted by the collision, looking exhausted, and thusly missing it when the Hufflepuff Seeker suddenly darts forward.
"And Thompson has spotted the snitch!" the commentator says, and Scorpius glances about with a panicked expression. He's close to the Gryffindor stands – nobody's cheering for Ravenclaw, though there's a group of second-years chanting the name of the Hufflepuff Seeker, evidently a friend of theirs.
"Ha, Malfoy's useless," Hugo says.
Every decision you make, you make twice.
James turns to Rose. "Cheer him," he says, and she looks at him blankly.
"Who?"
"Malfoy. Isn't he your friend?"
"I…what?"
James, exasperated, turns from her and cups his hands around his mouth. "Go Ravenclaw!" he shouts, his voice carrying clear, and Scorpius turns to glance at him for a moment, his expression startled. Beside James, Rose seems to shake herself from her confusion.
"Go Scorpius!" she shouts. "You can do it!"
Around them, a cheer starts to rise, the enthusiasm running through the stands like a bolt of energy. They stand, cheering for Ravenclaw, and Scorpius turns and darts away. Within seconds, he's caught up to the Hufflepuff Seeker and even here, all the way across the pitch and through the lashing winds, James can hear the faint cheer of the Ravenclaw spectators.
It's a fierce competition but Scorpius fights on with apparently renewed strength and, just as it looks like a sure win for the Hufflepuffs, Scorpius manages to grab the snitch from right underneath the Hufflepuff's hand.
"Ravenclaw has won the match!" the commentator declares. "The Ravenclaw Seeker has saved the team and just pushed the tally up enough for a win…"
Afterwards, as they're traipsing back to the Gryffindor tower, Hugo looks at James.
"Thought you didn't like Malfoy," he says uncertainly.
"I don't. But he played well. Ravenclaw deserved their win."
"Oh." Hugo pauses, then runs on ahead to catch up with his friends.
Rose is looking at James and grinning. He scowls at her.
"Shut up," he mutters.
Her grin just widens.
Harry misses his job.
He won't lie. For just a few months – a few wonderful months – he had the title of Head Auror. For him, it hadn't been just some empty accolade, another word to add to his resume. It had been an opportunity to create real change in the department. He'd had so many ideas over the years – and sure, Williamson had patiently listened to them and implemented a few new policies and practices. But so many more ideas had been shelved or given the usual ambiguous responses: that depends on next year's budget, or we'll have to talk to the rest of the team, or just we'll see. And Harry had thought that if he could become Head Auror, he could change it all. Make a real difference. He's always loved being in the middle of it all – racing around, organising projects, leading teams, and of course maintaining his favourite part of Auror work: fieldwork, where he can easily shoot off a hundred different spells and practice new defences. Always in the heart of the action.
But now he's older. His childhood is no longer just a few summer holidays ago. The scars and old injuries are beginning to take their toll. His reflexes aren't quite as quick as they used to be, and as Harry notches up the years in his career, he begins to deal with more and more paperwork, more planning and policies and strategies, while the young recruits are sent out to pour their energy and enthusiasm into spells and alleyway chases.
And James.
Harry's biggest regret.
When he was young (and naive, he thinks unkindly), he knew exactly what sort of life he wanted to give James. His child would never know what it was like to have a childhood like Harry's. No; James was never left wanting, always spoiled with toys and books and whatever his heart desired. The moment James expressed an interest in swimming, Harry arrange for coaching at the local pool. The moment he mentioned he wanted to play an instrument, Harry bought him a brand new drum kit, which was played incessantly for one summer and then never touched again. Whenever James expressed boredom, Harry would call one of his many relatives. Andromeda or Teddy, Rose or Hugo…James wouldn't ever know what loneliness felt like, Harry was adamant. He'd always have so many friends and family. And when Harry was still twenty-years-old, James nothing but a star across the universe, he thought he'd spend every weekend with his family, playing Quidditch or football, and he'd read his child bedtime stories every night.
But then Ginny had died, and Harry had become a single parent. And an Auror's work is never complete. There were still games of football, of course, and bedtime stories, but they were occasional rather than routine, and as the years went past Harry found himself spending less and less time with his son.
No; this is not the parenthood he'd envisioned.
He officially resigns from the Head Auror position. Yes, he could implement changes in the department. In return for a hundred percent commitment, he could improve so many lives. But Harry's tired of being selfless.
For once, someone else can make the sacrifice.
Winter seems to be taking the calendar very seriously this year, for the first of December sees snow lightly dusting the grounds of Hogwarts. The students scurry in the cold corridors between classrooms, their scarves wound around their necks, mittened hands clumsily clutching textbooks. In the frosty Herbology greenhouses, Professor Sprout hastily casts heating spells while the students practice growth charms on a row of daisies. James casts the spell over and over, slightly disparaged when the other students seem to achieve it so easily, but soon enough the daisy before him is flowering brightly.
"Potter, over here, please," Sprout says and James glances over his shoulder.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Goodness, no. I thought you might like to help me for a moment with the Christmas decorations," Sprout says cheerfully. "Now, if you could put a Freezing Charm on these Star-Roses, they'll make a lovely string of lights."
"A Freezing Charm?" James asks.
"You should have learned it in second year."
Yes, but it's been ages since James cast that charm. It's not really an everyday spell. Sprout looks at him patiently.
"Sure," James says at last, turning and making his way to the row of swaying Star-Roses. Just his luck; a group of Ravenclaws are working right beside the flowers, and they all pause to watch him perform the spell. He's not sure whether they especially hate him because of whatever Scorpius has been telling them, or if they're just prats.
"You're hopeless," one of the Ravenclaws whispers. Stuart Sinclair, if James recalls his name correctly. "Can't even perform a second year spell…"
James glances away, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He draws his wand, trying to remember the incantation. "Immobulus," he says, pointing his wand, but the Star-Roses keep moving slowly about and Sinclair laughs again.
"Shut up," James mutters, lifting his wand to try again.
"I'm surprised you've figured out which end of the wand to point. Really, you're – "
"If I were you, Sinclair," Scorpius says evenly, not looking up from his work, "I would follow Potter's suggestion and shut up."
"Didn't realise you'd joined the Potter pity party," Sinclair retorts to Scorpius. "My grandmother died last year, you know, and I don't recall getting a free pass to be a prat."
"And yet you're one anyway." Scorpius taps his wand neatly against a plant, sending little shoots sprouting up.
Sinclair looks outraged. "I'm a prat? I suppose you've forgotten all those times Potter hexed you, and insulted you, and – "
"I never said he wasn't a prat. I just said you're one too. Congratulations. You're both prats."
At that moment, Sprout arrives to begin examining their work. Sinclair shuts his mouth and glares down at his plant. The other Ravenclaws all whisper and giggle among themselves and James turns his back on them, casting the charm again.
"Immobulus!"
This time, every Star-Rose remains perfectly frozen.
James starts to think that maybe things will be all right after all. He can't go back in time and retrieve his life, the person he used to be before he was called into McGonagall's office on a mild May afternoon. That life has been buried along with Teddy's bones.
But some days he feels a little more hopeful, and a week into December he hesitantly goes to the lake in the early hours of the morning and watches the team swim. Afterwards, he waits for them to walk past him. Most people tend to avoid him these days, either too afraid of his temper – a reputation garnered by last year's scuffles and fights with other students – or still too awkward about Teddy's death. Besides, James thinks with a pang of regret, he wouldn't blame his team mates for ignoring him. When he thinks of all the times he snapped at Iwan, or ignored his attempts to make conversation…and he only too easily recalls Thomas crying after James punched him.
James touches a hand to his bookbag, feeling the reassuring weight of it. The postcard from Teddy is in there. The Rock of Gibraltar. Steady, safe, strong. He can do this.
He waits for Saltworth to stop doling out advice. Thomas is the first to leave, looking annoyed after listening to a five-minute critique of his breathing, and James hesitates as Thomas walks past.
"Hi," he blurts out, and Thomas pauses.
"Hello," he says cautiously.
They both stand there awkwardly. Then James says, "I've been thinking about swimming again."
To his complete surprise, Thomas smiles tentatively. "That's great," he says. "The team's missed you this year. What changed your mind?"
Nothing. Mind your own business. But James swallows the words and looks away. "Hard to get out of bed some mornings," he mumbles. "Can't get the motivation, you know?"
"Yeah." Thomas glances over his shoulder as Iwan arrives beside them.
"Hi," Iwan says to Thomas, looking wary. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah, fine. James wants to swim again."
"Oh."
"Just having some problems finding the energy to drag himself out of bed at five in the morning. Think we've all had that problem sometimes," Thomas adds wryly.
Iwan looks at James. A short silence descends over them. "Well," Iwan says at last. "As a fellow Gryffindor, I consider it my honour-bound duty to help James. It'll be hard work, throwing icy water on him and kicking him out of bed at five o'clock nearly every morning, but someone's got to do it." There's a pause, then he grins at James. Thomas starts laughing, and James suddenly feels stupidly, immensely grateful to both of them.
"Yeah," he says. "Thanks, Iwan. You're always so thoughtful."
"Of course I am," Iwan says, slapping him on the back.
They turn and make their way back to the castle together, and James remembers something.
"Hey, Thomas?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitates. "Next practice, I can show you some breathing strategies if you want. My coach gave me some good tips a few summers ago."
Thomas pauses, then gives James a smile so quick he nearly misses it. "Thanks," he says. "Really appreciate it."
They pass through the doors to the castle together, and James has that hopeful feeling again.
But the next morning, as soon as James opens his eyes, he can tell it's going to be a bad day. He hates this. There's nothing to trigger it, nothing to explain it, but some days he wakes up and he just wants to lie in bed all day, hiding from the world. Three more weeks until Christmas, he thinks dully, and Teddy won't be there.
"Wake up." Somebody flings open the curtains around James's bed and shakes him; he groans.
"Go away."
"No," Iwan says mercilessly. "Swim practice. Get up."
"I'm not going."
"Why not?"
"Because. Just go away."
There's a soft clink and James opens his eyes. Iwan has grabbed the glass of water on James's bedside table and is beginning to tip it threateningly over James's head. "I made a promise. Honour-bound duty, remember?" Iwan says.
"That was a joke."
"It was a promise." The water begins sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the glass.
"Just forget it, okay?"
Iwan tips the water over James's head.
James lets out an involuntary shout as the icy water cascades over him; he bolts upright, filled with momentary rage. "That's cold, Iwan!"
"Well, now that you're up," Iwan says as James stands up wrathfully, "you may as well come to swim practice."
"You idiot! My pillow's all wet!"
Iwan steps away, safely out of reach as James fumes and reaches for his wand, planning to cast a drying spell.
"Oh no you don't," Iwan says, snatching up James's wand. "If you want this back, come to swim practice."
"I told you, I'm not going. Give that back before I punch you," James seethes.
"That's the spirit! See you in the water!" And with a cheerful wave, Iwan grabs his jammers and hastily flees the dormitory.
James is left alone, water dripping from him; he begins shivering and looks at his drenched pillow. He should swap it for Iwan's, he thinks angrily, and hex the stupid little git as soon as he sees him again. But he's too angry now to go back to bed.
Still fuming, he grabs his jammers and goggles.
But it's hard to stay mad when he arrives at the pier and the team actually cheers. They gather around him, smiling.
"Wondered when you'd be back," Noah says, slapping him on the back.
"Yeah, well," James mutters, glaring at Iwan.
The practice itself goes miserably. James ploughs through the water and he actually wants to cry when Thomas easily outstrips him with nearly every lap. Iwan catches up to James easily when they're doing a few sprints, and at the end of the practice, James drags himself back onto the pier and sits there for a moment before slamming his fist into the wood, feeling pain radiate through his knuckles.
"Damn it," he says, and it sounds like a strangled cry and he hates himself so much. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." He punches the pier again just for good measure.
"You did great, James," Iwan says and James clenches his jaw, unable to look at any of them.
"Don't patronise me," he says between gritted teeth. "I sucked. My starts were terrible, I've got no endurance, I was exhausted by the final laps – it was pathetic. I'm pathetic." He hangs his head, filled with disappointment and shame. How could he have let this happen? The only thing he's got left is swimming, and he just let it go.
"Come on, team, pack up and get back to the castle," Saltworth orders loudly. "It's far too cold and the warmth potions will be wearing off. Potter, stay here. I want a word with you."
The others slowly drift away, making their way back to the castle. James stands up and crosses his arms, trying to gather the strength he'll need to face the barrage of criticism from Saltworth.
She takes her time. She takes down the lane-dividing spells, and picks up a pair of goggles someone left behind, and tidies up the notes on her clipboard. Then she goes over to James and they stand on the empty pier for a long moment.
"Calthorpe wasn't patronising you, Potter," she says quietly. "You made an admirable effort today."
He bites his cheek, feeling the lump form in his throat. In some ways, it would've been easier if Saltworth had just yelled at him. "This was the worst practice I've ever done," he says at last.
"Yes, it was, and even when you realised that about five minutes into the first set…you kept going. And that's what you need to do, Potter. It will be very difficult, and there will be plenty of days where you think you haven't improved a bit, but you need to keep going."
James looks away. The words are wrenched reluctantly from him. "I don't want to come back to practice." It was humiliating enough today – can he really stand it again and again for the next six months? Realising every time how much strength and power he's lost?
"Well," Saltworth says, "you need to make up your mind right now, Potter, and stick to your decision no matter what. If you decide not to return to the team, I'll accept that choice. But if you decide to continue your training…you will not waste my time with anything less than your best. Do you understand?"
He glances at Saltworth, then looks away again. "I understand," he says at last.
"Then are you going to continue you training?"
James stares down at the wooden pier, a dark pattern splashed across it from the lake-water. "Yes," he says. "I'll continue training."
"Very well. My office at lunchtime, Potter, and we'll sort out an intensive training schedule for you."
"Thanks, coach."
She nods and James turns to walk away, each footstep heavy.
He's still not sure whether he's made the right choice. At lunchtime, Saltworth wastes no time drawing up a timetable for him. It ends up taking nearly the entire lunch hour as they discuss his exercise regime and the best way to regain strength and muscle tone. By the time they're finished, James is beginning to feel very doubtful about his ability to dedicate himself to swimming again. Can he really do this?
That night, he sits on his bed, wand lit with a Lumos, slowly turning the pages of the atlas Teddy gave him. He traces a fingertip across the Iberian Peninsula, pausing by the Rock of Gibraltar.
"Tempus," he whispers, and little numbers flick through the air. He sets an alarm time for five o'clock in the morning.
He can do this.
Chapter 16: Steady and Strong
Summary:
In which Lucius contacts Draco — Harry decides to break his Auror oath and help Draco reunite with his father — Draco's meeting with Lucius goes terribly awry — Harry is questioned — James tries to uphold his promise to Teddy to be a better person, and leaves Scorpius alone.
Chapter Text
Lucius has, as ever, impeccable timing.
Draco has just finished the study renovations. He's sitting at the mahogany desk, still wondering if he should keep it or not, when there's a rap at the window. There's a tawny owl perched patiently on the sill. He stands up and tugs the sash open, reaching for the letter tied to its leg, wondering if it's a letter from Scorpius –
To: D.L Malfoy.
He recognises that handwriting.
Draco pauses, then unties the letter and sets it down upon his desk.
His father's desk, he reminds himself.
After another long moment, he unfurls the letter and reads it. Once, twice. Again.
Nineteen years have passed since his father's disappearance, and Lucius has evidently decided that nineteen years is long enough. He wishes to come home.
How should Draco measure someone else's life? When he holds up the ruler, where does he start? Should he measure from his father's childhood, all the shortcomings that Abraxus Malfoy had? Draco met his grandfather on several occasions and remembered him as a gruff, silent man. Narcissa seemed wary of him, and told Draco once that Abraxus had controlled Lucius's life very closely. Abraxus didn't seem fond of Draco either. One visit, Draco had overhead Abraxus complaining to Lucius. You spoil him far too much. He'll grow up weak, just like you.
Or should Draco measure from his own childhood, when Lucius was a distant figure, always in his study with the door closed, holding clandestine meetings with mysterious people? Or should he measure from his father's final act before his disappearance? Abandoning his family. Not a single letter, not a single warning. Draco can still see Narcissa weeping over her wedding photographs, wasting away to nothing.
Draco reads the letter over and over again. It's short. Of course, he tells himself, Lucius is still one of the wizarding world's most wanted men. Of course he couldn't write a long and detailed letter, explaining everything.
Still a wanted man…
Nineteen years Lucius Malfoy has been on the run. Time wears down memories and dulls emotions. Many people have forgotten, and Lucius is probably at the very back of the Ministry's mind now. Still…it's not like Lucius could just walk through the door of the manor and pick up his old life. And the letter reflects that; if Draco's reading between the lines correctly, Lucius wants to come home and, with Draco's help, hide away in the manor.
Seventeen-year-old Draco would have jumped at the chance. He would have loved to help his father, make him proud, finally receive some of that hard-won approval. His father, coming home at last…
But this is not Lucius's home anymore.
It's Scorpius's.
Draco stares at the letter for a long time.
James comes home two days before Christmas. Andromeda and Harry greet him at Platform 9¾ and Harry doesn't miss the way James automatically looks to the empty space beside Andromeda.
It's a quiet reunion.
"How's the year been so far?" Harry asks.
"Okay, I guess."
It's a truthful answer, at least, and Harry's grateful for that.
They go home. James doesn't join them in decorating the sitting room. Harry doesn't blame him. The Wizarding Wireless is playing the same old carols but the music lends a bittersweet melancholy rather than festive cheer. He hangs the ornaments up, carefully unwrapping each one from its delicate tissue paper. Andromeda sits by the fireplace, patiently unravelling strings of lights. Neither she nor Harry speak much. Like James, Harry is still looking. Still listening for the pop of someone Apparating to the front porch. Still waiting to see them step through the door, eyes bright, calling out.
"Tea?" Harry asks Andromeda, trying to distract himself.
"That would be lovely."
He stands up and goes to the kitchen, and it's there that he finds James. He's standing by the kitchen counter, staring down at an open recipe book. The page is well-worn, marked with years of flour smudges and spilt molasses.
The gingerbread recipe.
"Want help?" Harry asks and James glances up at him, then down to the page again.
"No." He shuts the book. "I'm not making it."
Harry doesn't argue with that. "Maybe we could make something else," he suggests. "You know, come to think of it, you've never really cooked anything besides gingerbread. Never made a single dinner, have you?"
"It's not my fault. You were never here to teach me."
There's resentment there, faint but present, but Harry doesn't let it nettle him. "I suppose I wasn't," he says, and surprise flashes across James's face. "Well, now that I am here…what would you like to make?"
"I don't know." James looks down at the recipe book. "I've never looked at the other pages. Only ever got this book out at Christmas."
"Well, now's the time to turn the page."
James hesitates, then flips the page.
It turns out to be a recipe for florentines; James completes it with his father's help and they take them to the Burrow for Christmas Day. In the evening, Harry extracts James from a conversation with Rose and they farewell everyone before leaving. Harry feels a little guilty about missing this tradition in recent years; it's been a while since he's seen Dudley.
But if Dudley feels any affront, there's no indication of it. His wife is cheerful and welcoming, ushering them inside to the cosy sitting room. Dudley gives James his present: a set of wooden puzzles that James immediately dedicates himself to solving. Dudley's daughter, Daisy, peers anxiously at James like he's a goblin, but she soon warms up to him.
"I'm James," he tells her and soon she's repeating his name happily.
"James! James!" she shouts cheerfully as he helps her stack building blocks.
But soon enough it's time to leave. They farewell Dudley and his wife, then begin the long drive home. James rests his head on the cool glass of the car window, the half-solved wooden puzzles in his lap.
"Why do we only visit them once a year?" he asks Harry as they're passing through Wiltshire.
"Well…" Harry hesitates. "They're Muggles."
"So?"
"So…when I was little, Dudley didn't like magic. He was very cruel to me."
"He doesn't seem cruel."
"People change." Harry checks his mirrors, then changes lanes.
"Then that makes the past irrelevant then, doesn't it?" James returns his gaze to the passing scenery. "We should visit more often. Daisy's my cousin, she shouldn't be a stranger."
Harry glances at him, then back to the road. "We'll see," he says.
On either side of them, the dark fields go on and on.
The day after Christmas, Harry goes to his usual meeting with Draco. Scorpius is nowhere to be seen. Harry only realises this when they're already sitting at the table, settling down with cups of tea and the usual Monopoly board.
"Did Scorpius stay at Hogwarts for the break?" Harry asks.
Draco glances at him. He's been oddly quiet, Harry thinks. Staring into the distance, ignoring his cup of tea. "No. He's in his room, reading."
"Oh. He usually answers the door when he's home."
"He's been very quiet lately." Draco finally takes a sip of his tea. "I know something's wrong, but he won't tell me."
"Quidditch?"
"Going well."
"Friends?"
"Always being invited to parties. We've got a New Year's Eve party coming up, actually."
"Study?"
"Fine. Grades are as good as ever."
"Well," Harry says, at a loss. "Makes it a bit tricky, then. Who knows? I suppose that's the problem with the teenage years — they always get so secretive. And all the door-slamming...although James has gotten a lot better recently, hasn't slammed a door in months. That's a good sign, isn't it? And he writes letters far more often now. Proper letters too, not just the usual — "
"Harry."
" — although I do worry when he gets a bit too quiet — I mean, I'm not saying I miss the tantrums — "
"Harry."
Harry glances up, surprised. Draco's still gazing out the window with an expression that Harry can't quite decipher. "What?"
Draco is silent for a long moment. Then he speaks again. "My father contacted me."
"Your..." Harry trails off, then tries again. "Your father contacted you?"
"Yes."
Harry looks down at the Monopoly board again. It's so tattered now, worn down by a hundred games. It was a present from Dudley, he suddenly recalls. So many Christmases ago. Eleven-year-old James had cheerfully brought the game to the manor to play a game with his newest best friend, and he'd never asked for it to be returned.
"Why?" he asks at last.
There's silence, and he looks up. Draco is staring at him. "Why?" he repeats. "That's the question you ask?"
"Why not?"
Draco says nothing. He looks back down at his cup of tea, then out the window, as if he's lost the thread of conversation and he thinks he'll find it hiding somewhere. They sit in silence. Outside, the clouds cast patterns of shadow and light across the land. Somewhere, a starling chirps. Harry thinks of the starlings in the fields beyond his house. The badgers in their sett. The little family of foxes. The way him and Ginny took something decrepit, something abandoned, and made it into a home. For each other. For James.
"He wants to return to England," Draco says, breaking Harry's reverie.
"Does he?"
"To see Scorpius." Draco's mouth twists. "He won't see him. I'll make sure of that."
"You won't let him see Scorpius?" Harry is surprised.
"Don't lecture me, Potter," Draco says, bitterness lacing his voice. "There's a consequence for every action. It's time my father learned that."
Harry falls silent. He glances at the mantelpiece. Here, in the kitchen, there are no family photographs. They're all in the hallways, Harry thinks. The study, the sitting room. But regardless of the lack of photographs, the little remnants of Scorpius and Draco's lives remain. The canister of peppermint tea on the counter. The Monopoly set. Genealogy notes. One of Scorpius's scarves draped over a chair.
"Will you?" Harry asks at last.
"What?"
"Will you see your father?"
Draco's anger seems to evaporate. He looks at Harry as if he can't quite believe him. "It's illegal. There's a trace set up, if my father ever returns to England — "
"You could go to him."
"The Ministry have a trace on me too. If I leave the country suddenly, they'll certainly be very interested."
Harry looks down at the Monopoly set, then speaks rapidly. Before he doubts himself. "An Auror could remove the trace."
"Right, so I'll just stroll into the Auror offices and..." Draco trails off. "You're not serious."
"Do you want to see your father or not?"
"I..."
"You said you missed him, once."
Draco taps his fingers lightly against the table, looking troubled. He looks at Harry, then glances out the window. "This is the whole reason you're here," he says finally. "Year after year they've kept me monitored. Adding time to the program. To supervise me, they say, but we all know the truth. To find my father. The last Death Eater."
Harry doesn't know what to say to that. "Yes," he acknowledges.
"And you've got him. I've just told you I know where he is."
"Yes."
"All you have to do," Draco says slowly, "is ask me where."
Harry's silent for a long time, staring down at the table, listening to the distant starlings.
Draco breaks the silence first.
"Then why are you here?"
That's a question that has been nearly four years in the making. That's the question Harry's been ignoring month after month, through all the winters and summers of their visits.
"Because," Harry says at last, "I want to be."
He waits for Draco to roll his eyes, make an acerbic remark about Harry's sentimental nature, but instead he gazes down at the table, mouth serious and unsmiling, grey eyes hidden beneath his lowered eyelashes. Years and years, Harry thinks. They have known each other for so long now. Strange that they met twenty-seven years ago, and this is the moment Harry calls him a friend.
Draco looks up again, meeting Harry's gaze. "You could still ask me. I'd tell you."
"I know."
Outside, the clouds chase each other across the sky.
They settle on the date of New Year's Eve, when Scorpius will be at a friend's party and the Ministry will be preoccupied with celebrations. Nevertheless, Draco still seems doubtful: Is it worth it? It's still considered a serious crime for Death Eaters to contact each other. If anything should happen…
But Harry knows Draco deserves some closure, and so he does his best to reassure him. "I promise," he says before he leaves. "You'll see your father again. And nothing will happen. You and Scorpius will be safe."
He goes directly to the Ministry afterwards. It's the ideal time for Draco to visit his father, he thinks. The Ministry never sleeps, but it certainly gets lethargic after Christmas.
"Oh! You're not rostered on tonight, sir," Cuthbert says, appearing and scurrying alongside Harry, clipboard in one hand.
"No, just here to pick up some paperwork."
Cuthbert disappears, rushing off elsewhere. Harry unlocks his desk drawer with a wave of his wand. It doesn't take him long to find Draco's file. He glances around, then quietly sets to work dissolving the powerful tracing charm on Draco's travels.
An hour later, an owl is winging its way to the manor, the coded message attached to its leg.
Request Accepted.
New Year's Eve. Today, for the first time in nineteen years, Draco will be meeting his father.
He reads Harry's letter for the umpteenth time. Request Accepted. Just two words, but does Draco trust them? Does he trust Harry? One little mistake, one careless oversight, and everything could fall apart.
It's not worth it, Draco thinks. It's not worth the risk. He glances at the grandfather clock, wondering if he has time to change his mind. Distantly, he thinks of how the clock was handed down through the generations, like most of the things in this house. While Draco threw away many things, he preserved many more.
After all, family history is his specialty.
Footsteps. Draco glances up as Scorpius steps into the hallway. He doesn't look particularly pleased, Draco thinks, for someone about to attend a friend's New Year's Eve party. "Ready to go?" Draco asks him. "I'll take you there with a Side-Along Apparation."
Scorpius looks at Draco, then glances down at the floor. "I don't want to go," he mutters.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to."
Draco says nothing. He can't make Scorpius go, but he mustn't stay at the manor. His safety is Draco's first concern, and in the very unlikely scenario that Lucius attempts to return to the manor, Scorpius cannot be here. That would be disastrous.
"I'm afraid you can't stay here," Draco says at last. "I'm going away to visit a friend."
Scorpius looks up, anxiety clear in his eyes. "I could stay here by myself," he suggests.
"I'd rather you didn't stay home alone."
"Then I'll come with you! I don't mind – "
"Why on earth don't you want to go?" Draco glances at the grandfather clock again, worry beginning to nibble at him. He's arranged to meet Lucius at ten o'clock sharp.
"I just...they don't want me there..."
"Then why did they invite you?"
Scorpius falls silent. After a long moment, he speaks again. "Can't I just...can't I just go with you?"
"I'm going to visit Harry," Draco lies. "If you're happy to spend two hours with James Potter, then certainly."
Another long silence. Scorpius's shoulders slump. He turns and slowly fetches his cloak from the peg.
Scorpius doesn't say a word as they leave the manor and walk down the long driveway. Draco sighs, and his breath forms a silver cloud in the dark winter evening.
"Is something the matter?"
"No."
"Scorpius – "
Scorpius's mouth thins and his eyes narrows slightly, his face closing as effectively as a door. Draco hates it when he does this. He becomes as icy and distant as the stars above. The worst part, Draco thinks, is that he knows exactly whom Scorpius inherited that from.
"I'm sorry you can't stay home tonight."
The silence stretches on, punctuated only by the crunch of gravel underfoot. Draco tries another approach.
"Did you have a fight with your friends? Is that why you don't want to go to the party?"
"Could you Disapparate now, please?"
Draco sighs again, then takes Scorpius away with a Side-Along Apparation. They arrive outside the address given; it seems as if the party is already in full swing. Draco takes a few steps forward; Scorpius stops him.
"There's no need for you to come in."
"Well, I'd like to meet the other parents, at least."
"Could you please just leave?"
Draco looks at Scorpius, but Scorpius won't look at him. He stares at the ground instead.
"All right," Draco says slowly. He pauses, then takes off his scarf and hands it to Scorpius. "Honestly, you'll catch your death. It's freezing. At least you remembered your coat, I suppose. Now, I'll be back at midnight to pick you up."
At least Scorpius doesn't complain about Draco fussing too much or tell him to leave again. He accepts the scarf and nods. Just as Draco's about to turn and leave again, Scorpius surprises him with a hug.
"Sorry," he mumbles into Draco's shoulder.
"It's all right. Sorry you couldn't stay home. I'll see you in a couple of hours."
Scorpius nods and steps away again. Draco Disapparates, feeling much lighter. Scorpius has his icy moments, but then Draco forgets that he's also inherited certain traits from Astoria too. Her affection, the way she's quick to regret arguments and offer a truce.
Feeling suddenly much more encouraged about meeting Lucius, Draco takes the portkey from his pocket and activates it.
He lands slightly clumsily in a deep drift of snow, disoriented. He's deep in the Latvian wilderness somewhere, that's all he knows. The snow flurries around him; the fields of pristine white seem to glow beneath the winter moon. In the distance, the silhouettes of pine trees rise like inky brush strokes.
Draco begins walking, leaving a trail of dark footprints behind him. Onwards and onwards, out into the fields, out into the deep snowfalls of the land. The cold creeps up his sleeves, quick and stealthy as a thief in the night.
Soon, a distant dot of light appears, floating on the black horizon like a boat bobbing at sea. Draco makes his way towards it, step by icy step, his feet dragging through the snow. After a long time, as he finally nears the small house, the door opens and light spills into the night. There's someone in the doorway, Draco thinks. But surely it cannot be his father. His tall, imposing father...
But it is. As Draco walks through the little unlatched gate and past the woodpile, he sees him. Lucius.
He looks old, Draco realises, and it hits him like a hex. His father is an old man now. His hair has silvered, the years of constant frowning and concentration becoming evident on the furrow of his brow, the deep lines around his eyes. He's old. What happened to the powerful man Draco once knew as his father?
"My dear son," Lucius says hoarsely, but Draco is not a child anymore, scrambling after his father for any scrap of affection or approval. He looks at Lucius for a long moment, then steps inside.
Lucius closes the door.
At least it's warm, Draco thinks. There's a pot-bellied stove emanating heat and Draco sits in one of the tattered armchairs in front of it. There's the sound of a bottle being uncorked and the clink of a glass. Of course, Draco thinks. Even here, in the steep snows of the Latvian forests, Lucius would somehow have a good bottle of the finest whisky.
"I was hoping to see my grandson with you," Lucius says, handing Draco a glass of whisky.
"Were you?" Draco says coolly, and Lucius's expression — a faint smile — wavers and fades.
"You are displeased," he says.
Draco takes a sip of the whisky, feeling the slow burn of it, and then sets the glass down and watches the ice cubes settle again. "Mother died," he says. "I suppose you probably received the news."
"I wish I had been there."
"And yet you weren't."
Silence hangs between them like a half-finished spell. Lucius looks past Draco, out the window. Draco moves the glass slightly, listening to the faint clink of the ice cubes.
"She died alone. Still asking for news of you."
Lucius's lips twist. "I was a wanted man, Draco. They would have arrested me the moment I set foot in the country."
"You still are a wanted man. And yet here you stand, long after everyone else has paid for their crimes and moved on with their lives."
Lucius looks down at his glass, then swiftly downs the whisky in one movement. "My grandson," he says at last. "I haven't seen him. Not a single photograph. That's all I ever wanted. To see him, just once."
"And fifteen years ago, your dying wife wanted to see you. Just once. But you didn't come back."
Lucius falls silent. After a long moment, he speaks. "I am aware that I have not been a particularly good father, Draco. There are many things I regret – "
"No," Draco says. "Don't stand here now and ask for forgiveness."
There's another long silence. When Lucius speaks next, his voice is heavy with sorrow and Draco hates that. He wants him to be angry, cold – he doesn't want to remember his father as a frail, sad old man.
"I know you'll be a better father to Scorpius than I ever was to you," he says.
"You set the standard low."
"I did the best job I could."
The anger fades from Draco. Now he just feels tired and defeated. He looks out the window, watching the snowflakes gently spiral past. They look almost luminescent in the darkness.
"Strange," Lucius says, "how much you look like your mother. When you were younger, you bore a far closer resemblance to me."
Draco doesn't say anything. He looks away from the window and stares down at his glass of whisky instead, watching the ice cubes slowly shift and melt. Lucius sets his empty glass down upon a side-table. A floorboard creaks. The house is settling, Narcissa used to tell Draco when he was young and afraid of every little flutter of the curtains, every creak and rustle.
"You'll never let me see him, will you?" Lucius asks.
The fire burns low in the hearth and Draco watches the flames for a while, the way the very centre of the flame appears an octane blue, the same colour as a bright summer day.
"No," he says quietly. "I won't."
Lucius doesn't speak for a long moment. When Draco glances at him, he's staring at the fire too. Draco's waiting for anger, that icy fury, the demands to see Scorpius, but that Lucius — strong and powerful, never compromising, always assertive — has faded to nothing. Nineteen years, Draco thinks. Nineteen long years have left Lucius a tired old man.
Lucius lifts his head suddenly.
"Did you come alone?"
"What? Yes."
"The wards," Lucius says, standing up, and panic flashes through Draco.
"What — "
But then he's cut off as a flash of light encompasses the room, blinding and bright, and when it fades they are surrounded by Aurors.
Harry goes home in a good mood. It's one o'clock in the morning and he's only just left the Burrow, laughing and calling out farewells to cheerful family and friends. James smothers a yawn as they step through the fireplace.
"Missed fire-calls," he says sleepily. "I'm going to bed."
"What?" Harry glances at the mantle. As James has observed, it's glowing with many missed fire-calls and Floo connections. All from the Auror department.
"Goodnight," James says, but Harry hardly hears him. He stares at the fireplace for a long moment.
Draco.
The rest of the Ministry is quiet. It's barely New Year's Day, after all, and nothing short of a complete emergency could drag employees away from their celebrations with family and friends. Harry walks down the empty halls, past the dark offices, through silent rooms.
Until he opens the door to the Auror department.
People are bustling around. Memos fly through the air. The place is lit up as if it's a busy Monday morning. When Harry steps through the door, a few of the Aurors look at him and wave in greeting. By the time he's reached the central Auror offices, he knows something is very, very wrong. Cuthbert is there to greet him.
"Sir," he says, as if he knew Harry would walk through the door that very second. "Williamson would like a word with you."
"Williamson?" Harry says slowly. He retired months ago. What's he doing here? He's still been visiting the office a lot, saying hello to his old colleagues, but why would he be here now? Harry looks around the office, at the smiling Aurors. They look excited, happy to be there despite the early hour.
"Right this way, sir."
Harry is ushered into the Head Auror office. The door shuts behind him; he'd been expecting Cuthbert to follow him, as he always does, and he looks back in surprise at the closed door. It's very quiet in here. A marked difference from the cheerful chatter outside.
"Auror Potter."
He looks ahead. Hopkins and Williamson are there, both looking at him with expressions Harry cannot decipher. They're sitting behind the desk. It's usually cluttered with files and photographs and broken quills and overdue paperwork, but now it's completely empty. Except for one small, thin file sitting between Hopkins and Williamson.
Name: Malfoy, Draco.
"Have a seat."
"I'd prefer to stand."
Silence descends between all of them for a long time, but Harry knows this game. It's one of the first things Aurors are taught. When interrogating suspects, give them silence. Let them grow uneasy. They'll begin to speak just to have reprieve from the unsettling quiet.
At long last, Williamson speaks. "Is there any particular reason," he says slowly, in that gravelly voice that has no doubt struck fear into a hundred criminals, "why you removed the tracing spell from Draco Malfoy?"
Harry clears his throat. "That's an interesting assumption."
"I'm afraid it is not an assumption." Hopkins clasps his hands in front of him, looking at Harry, unblinking. "It's an observation. We have surveillance evidence."
The word evidence seizes ahold of Harry's nerves, and he can't help the sharpness in his voice. "Have you arrested Draco Malfoy?"
"That's confidential information."
"What I think we should do – " Harry begins, but Williamson cuts him off.
"What I think you should do," Williamson says, still speaking in that slow and measured tone, "is go home."
"Have you arrested him?"
"I would very strongly advise you not to discuss your current circumstances with anyone else."
"Where's his son?"
"We have redistributed your shifts to other Aurors. You have been placed on unpaid leave."
"Where's Scorpius? Where have you taken him?"
"You have several other very serious problems right now, Potter," Williamson says. "I suggest you focus your attention on – "
Harry slams his fist on the desk. "I am not leaving until I know where Scorpius is!"
Hopkins and Williamson stare at him. It's perhaps the first time Williamson has ever looked startled, but Harry doesn't particularly care about that right now.
Hopkins is the first to speak. "I assume...I'm not sure what the protocol is for care of children. You'll have to ask the Law Enforcement officers about that..."
"You seem to care an unusual deal about young Scorpius," Williamson adds, studying Harry shrewdly.
"Yes, it's odd, isn't it?" Harry fires back. "A father is arrested and I want to know if his child is safe. Forgive me for having a single shred of concern."
Without bothering to wait for their reaction, he turns and storms from the office.
But unlike the celebratory nature of the Auror offices — all of Harry's colleagues smiling and offering Harry cheerful congratulations, clearly unaware of the circumstances – the Law Enforcement department has a distinctly sullen atmosphere. They're not pleased with him.
"Had a good New Year? Good. We didn't. We were here, dealing with your case."
Harry gives the sergeant a look. "Could I speak to Malfoy, please?"
"Which one?"
"Draco."
"No. He's still being processed and you'll just make more work for us. Go home."
"I need to speak with him."
"It's not happening."
"What are his charges?"
"For Merlin's sake, I'll stick you in a cell too in a minute."
"Where's his son? Scorpius Malfoy?"
At least the sergeant seems to take pity on him then. "There's no need to look at me like that. It's not like we stuck him in a cell too. We were able to make arrangements with the Hogwarts headmistress. We sent him back there. It's not strictly protocol, but I've got kids of my own and Ministry custody should definitely be the last choice."
Harry exhales slowly. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you."
He has no other choice then but to concede defeat and go home. He supposes he should be grateful that Scorpius is back at Hogwarts, safe and sound.
As for Draco...
The anger fades, and Harry just feels exhausted.
He needs to talk to someone about it, at least, and his friends are there as always. The next day, he sits at the kitchen table, Ron and Hermione opposite him. They'd been smiling at first, congratulating Harry on the capture of Lucius Malfoy — it's splashed all over the front page of The Daily Prophet — but their happiness soon turns to confusion as Harry explains the circumstances.
"You what?" Hermione stares at him.
"I removed the trace."
Hermione looks around, as if fearful of a hidden Auror pouncing upon Harry's confession. Ron just looks thunderstruck.
"Why?" he demands.
Harry is silent for a long moment, stirring his third cup of tea. "Because," he says at last, "I know what it's like to wish, more than anything, to see my parents one last time."
Hermione sighs. "Harry...I know this isn't what you want to hear, but sometimes you're too nice for your own good. I mean, it's a shame that things have ended this way, of course, but — "
"It's a shame? You do understand that Draco is facing an Azkaban sentence? He has a fifteen-year-old son, Hermione. Scorpius has no other family. None."
"Still," Ron says doggedly. "Malfoy knew the risk."
Harry falls silent. They won't understand. Harry knows Draco's choice was made under the weight of a thousand childhood memories, of family portraits and photographs and loyalty and duty. It was not an easy choice. Despite the risk, despite legal obligations and contracts and everything else, a little part of Draco – the part that stayed forever young, the part that still dreamed of a family being unbroken, together always – would have stopped him from reporting his own father.
And though Harry loves his best friends, this is something he cannot articulate to them.
"Everybody makes mistakes," Harry says at last.
"Malfoy's made a lot of mistakes," Ron points out.
Harry makes a split-second decision. "I'm going to do everything I can to fight the charges. This isn't fair. I don't expect either of you to help me – especially you, Ron, after everything the Malfoys did to your family – but I know what it's like to grow up without parents, and there's no way I'll just sit back and let Scorpius go through the same thing."
Ron and Hermione look at each other.
"Merlin, I hate it when he gets like this," Ron says conversationally. "Does his usual speech about how he'll do it all on his own, throws in a few insults about how he expects us to abandon him – "
"And acts like he can do it all without us," Hermione says. "Really. We destroy Horcruxes and help him defeat Voldemort, but we can't do a bit of legal research and help with a trial. Rather belittling, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I can't imagine why we're still friends with him."
Harry has the grace to feel abashed as they both turn to look at him. "Yeah…sorry," he mutters.
Ron grins, but after a moment his expression becomes more serious. "And I reckon we will be researching legal stuff for you."
"I'll be fine," Harry says with a shrug.
"Are they going to charge you with something too?"
"Like what? I've been placed on unpaid leave, not arrested."
Hermione exchanges a look with Ron. "Obstruction of justice," she says. "They could arrest you for that."
"Obstruction of justice?" Harry asks disbelievingly. "That's ridiculous — "
"You helped somebody commit a crime, Harry. This could be really serious. Have you contacted your solicitor?"
"I haven't got a solicitor." Harry tries to laugh. "I'm not exactly in the habit of needing legal advice."
"Well," Hermione says after a moment, "now might be the time to start."
Harry says nothing.
Later that day, however, after Ron and Hermione have gone home to search Hermione's extensive book collection, Harry discovers a fourth witness to the conversation.
"Dad?"
"Hmm?" He's in his study, looking through Draco's file.
"What were you talking to Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron about?"
Harry glances up. James stands in the doorway, frowning.
"Nothing. Just some work-related stuff."
"Okay." But James lingers in the doorway and Harry sets down his quill. "It's just…you're not in trouble for anything, are you?"
Harry pauses. "It's nothing. My supervisor is a bit cross with me, that's all."
James gives him a look. "Aunt Hermione said you could be charged with obstruction of justice."
"Eavesdropping again, I see." But after a moment, Harry leans back in his chair and sighs. "It's fine. They're not going to arrest me, and they're not going to send me away. I promise."
"You shouldn't have helped him."
"What?"
"Draco Malfoy," James says angrily. "Why'd you help him? He's a Death Eater. Why would you help a criminal? The paper said he'd been arrested for treason. You're honestly breaking the law just for someone like him?"
"Yes," Harry retorts. "Because I know him, not what the paper has written about him. And it's got nothing to do with treason. He wanted to speak to his father, James. If you hadn't seen me in nineteen years, wouldn't you want to see me?"
"That's stupid! It's not against the law to speak to your parents!"
"It is for Draco Malfoy," Harry says curtly.
"Why?" James's anger seems to be overtaken by confusion and frustration now. "That doesn't make sense."
Harry rubs at his temples, feeling a tension headache forming. "Because that's what happens after a war. People get punished." He waits for another retort from James, a scowl perhaps, but he just stands there for a long moment.
"Well, if he knew he was breaking the law, it was still a stupid thing to do," James mutters at last.
Harry looks down at his desk, debating whether or not to say something. "Listen, James," he says at last. "I know…I know you and Scorpius Malfoy aren't exactly friends. But this year…things will be especially hard for him. His father has been arrested, and if Draco is sent to Azkaban then who knows where Scorpius will go. Just promise me…"
"…I'll be a bit nicer. Even if he's being a bit of a prat. Just be the bigger person, you know?" James finishes, and the way he says it makes Harry blink in surprise. He sounds like he's read those words hundreds of times before, like he's chanting them from memory.
"Well…yes, actually."
James turns and leaves then, and later on Harry finds him asleep in the guest bedroom. His wand is still lit up with a Lumos spell; evidently he was looking through old family albums. There's a photograph of Teddy, aged about nine or ten, smiling at the camera and waving.
Harry picks up James's wand.
"Nox," he whispers.
When James returns to Hogwarts, he's in slightly better mood. Harry has promised him that everything will be fine and he won't be charged with anything; since Harry's name hasn't been mentioned in the papers at all, James is reassured. When he boards the Hogwarts Express though, all the students are whispering about something and he feels a bit paranoid until Rose enlightens him.
"Scorpius's father and grandfather have been arrested," she tells him as they sit in a compartment together, Hugo deciding to join them too.
"So? That happened a week or so ago, didn't it?"
"You know how it is," Hugo pipes up with a grin. "Everyone loves a good bit of gossip. For example, I heard a really interesting rumour about Rose and Andrew McCray – "
Rose lunges at him. "Shut up, Hugo!"
"Ha! It's true, then?" Hugo laughs even as Rose pins him down and ferociously rubs her knuckles across his head. "Ouch!"
"Serves you right! And it's not true," she says, returning to her own seat. "Andrew McCray probably doesn't even know I'm alive. I mean, he's vice-president of the Gobstones Club and a Chaser for the Hufflepuff team and he's got these amazing blue eyes…"
James exchanges a look with Hugo; they raise their eyebrows at each other.
"…and he's got this laugh that just sounds so perfect, and he's always so kind and wonderful and…"
"Why don't you tell us how you really feel, Rose?" James says, and Hugo sniggers. Rose straightens up abruptly.
"What? Shut up, James. Just wait until you find a girl you fancy. I bet you'll be one of those hopeless types, following her about with flowers and a dumb expression," she adds meanly.
But later on in the journey, when Hugo is reading Chocolate Frog cards and James is gazing out the window, Rose gives him a little smile.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. It's just…it's nice, to hear you make a joke again. It's been a while," she says.
"Oh." James hesitates, but he still remembers that day in the attic. Both of them crying. Do you wish it had been me instead? "I'm glad you're here," he says.
They both sit there smiling at each other – small smiles, and Rose looks a bit close to tears again and James is feeling a little like that too – but they're both there and James feels that little flicker of hope again. After Teddy's funeral, Harry had told James you'll never stop feeling his absence, but you'll learn to cope with it. At the time, James had barely registered the words, let alone understood them.
But now, he thinks, he's finally beginning to learn.
Two weeks later, during their first swim practice of the new term, James swims lap after lap as if it's the easiest thing in the world. His arms move through the water, fingertips perfectly aligned, and at the end of each lap he executes every flip turn with ease. The water feels like an old friend again, helping him forward, pushing him onwards instead of dragging at his limbs. When he hauls himself onto the pier at the end of the session, the boys all smile at him and offer a few high-fives.
"What?" James asks with confusion.
"You idiot," Thomas says, smiling. "That was your best practice yet. I had to give it everything I've got just to stay ahead of you."
"Still ahead of me though, weren't you?"
"And always will be, with that attitude," Thomas says, and James has the stupid urge to smile.
"Just wait until next practice, Pearson," he says.
He goes to the dormitory to have his shower and get ready for breakfast, and on the way he catches sight of the Rock of Gibraltar postcard on his bedside table.
Steady and strong.
He feels all right.
And perhaps he's still thinking of the postcard later on when he's sitting with the rest of the students in the Potions classroom, waiting for Slughorn to finish dealing with a mess left by Peeves and begin the class. Next to him, Paul is frantically trying to finish an essay about potion ingredients.
"It's due in five minutes," James says conversationally.
"I know, I know. Quick, what's the purpose of a bezoar?"
"I don't know. Where's Rose?"
Paul glances up, scanning the room, then pauses as his gaze fixes upon Scorpius. He's sitting just across the aisle, shoulders hunched as if to physically shield himself from others.
"Look, there's Malfoy," Paul says, a little too loudly for James's liking.
"So?"
"Well, did you hear about his dad?"
James pauses. "You should really finish that essay. Slughorn's nearly done."
"Oh!" Paul returns his attention to his essay and begins scribbling away again.
James looks up and just for a moment, his gaze meets Scorpius's.
Then they both glance away again.
Chapter 17: Scorpius, the Constellation
Summary:
In which Harry takes Scorpius to the aquarium — Harry and Draco hatch a plan — Harry and Draco have an almost-friendship — James finds out that Scorpius has been the victim of a cruel prank and tentatively helps him.
Chapter Text
Draco wishes he had a time-turner.
A careless mistake. One mistake. He should have reported his father as soon as he'd received that first letter. After all, he's always been a rational person. Weighing up the risks, making calculated moves. But he'd allowed himself to be swayed by that hope he'd always had. He had it when he was a naive teenager, crying in empty rooms over the fate of his family, and he had it when he attended his mother's funeral, and he had it for all the long years of his father's absence. The hope that one day his family would be together again.
And now here he sits. In a holding cell in the Ministry, and all he can think about is Scorpius. If Draco is found guilty and is sent to Azkaban…what will happen to Scorpius? His mother is dead. Narcissa is dead. Lucius is imprisoned. Astoria's father is dead and her mother's health is ailing. The last Draco heard, she was in poor health, unable to leave the house most days.
Even so, better that Scorpius lives with her than a stranger.
If I knew where my father was, he'd told Harry once, and I knew it would make people treat Scorpius better, I'd tell the Ministry in a heartbeat.
Bitterness rises in his heart, an endless tide.
Forgive me, Scorpius.
In the visitation room, one of the walls shimmers and gives away its use as a one-way viewing point. Harry paces around the room, ignoring the wall; Draco is far more wary of it and mentally screens the conversation, avoiding anything that might incriminate Harry.
"I spoke to your solicitor," Harry is saying furiously. "Did you know the maximum sentence is three years? Three years, for speaking to your own father. It is completely ridiculous — "
"I am aware of the sentence length, yes." Draco watches him, feeling oddly distant from all of this. He wonders if they know Harry was the one who removed the tracing spell.
Harry finally pauses in his pacing. "Could you be a little more interested in your own fate, Draco?"
Draco studies him. "You know as well as I do," he says eventually. "There's nothing we can do. There's no loopholes. There's no saving graces. The trial will be a formality and nothing else."
"Damn it!" Harry's arm twitches, as if he wants to throw a punch, and Draco glances at the viewing wall. "Damn it," Harry repeats, this time quietly. "Damn you, Malfoy. You weaselled your way out of a war trial but you get caught having a conversation with your father? That's how you end up in Azkaban? God, I could almost laugh about it."
They remain in silence for a long time, Draco sitting on one of the uncomfortable chairs, Harry standing by the door.
"How's Scorpius?" Draco asks, and Harry's shoulders slump.
"This has been all over the papers. The Daily Prophet has sensationalised it, as ever. You've been charged with criminal conspiracy. I can't imagine what Scorpius is going through." He pauses. "Well, actually, I can. Everywhere he turns, people will be talking about it. Whispering. Spreading rumours."
Draco falls silent again. After a long moment, he speaks. "They have asked me to nominate a caregiver — "
"No. No."
"Harry — "
"He doesn't need a caregiver. He's got you. You are not going to Azkaban, I won't let it happen, I don't care how — "
"Harry," Draco repeats tiredly. "Just say you'll do it."
Harry pauses. He looks at Draco for a while, his gaze shifting down to Draco's clasped hands where only the faintest shimmer shows the restraint charms looped around his wrists. When Harry speaks next, his voice is quiet. "It feels like defeat," he says. "I don't want this to be a defeat."
"I know."
Silence descends between them again.
February draws to a close, giving way to slightly warmer weather. Not much of a difference, but it makes swim practice a little easier when the grounds aren't covered in frost, and James feels confident enough to remove the tiny scarf from his cactus. One chilly afternoon, he lingers after Herbology to give it a few extra compliments. He likes it in the greenhouses these days, surrounded by the smell of damp earth, the shelves of plants making him feel hidden from the world.
"Still here, Potter? Class has finished."
He glances up. Professor Sprout gives him a kindly smile.
"Yes, Professor. Just wanted to check on my cactus."
"Well, if you don't mind staying a little longer, could you plant the Cobweb Vines for me?" She nods at a shelf filled with tiny pots of soil.
James nods and Sprout bustles away. He picks up the vial of seeds. Like grains of sugar, he thinks as he begins the task. He mindlessly moves along the shelf, methodically planting the seeds, listening to the soft fall of rain overhead.
"Professor? The latest essay – " Scorpius rounds the corner, sees James, and immediately stops. "Oh, it's you," he says icily.
"Sprout's not here," James says shortly, hoping Scorpius will leave before he ruins one of James's rare good moods.
But Scorpius gives him a suspicious look, not moving. "Does she know you're messing about with those plants?" he snaps.
James sighs. He doesn't want to talk to anyone, let alone get into an argument with Scorpius Malfoy. He made a promise to Teddy. "Go away, will you?"
"Gladly." Scorpius gives him one last chilly look, then turns just as Sprout comes round the corner.
"Oh, hello, Malfoy," she says amiably. "Not distracting Potter from his work, I hope."
"No," Scorpius says without looking even the slightest bit ashamed of accusing James of vandalism. "I was hoping I could speak to you about my essay, actually."
"Ah, the one about desert plants? Well, you're in luck." Sprout picks up a watering can and nods at James. "Potter here should be able to help. He should practically be an expert in cacti at this point."
"I doubt he'd be able to offer anything useful. I'd much rather – "
"No need to be so dismissive of others, thank you very much," Sprout interrupts. "I know you've had a few quarrels with Potter in the past, but you're in fourth year now and it's high time you – "
"Get over it," James says suddenly. You won't like what I'm about to say...
Sprout gives him a startled look; Scorpius looks like he wants to hex James into oblivion.
"I don't need any advice from you," Scorpius snaps.
"It wasn't advice, and I wasn't talking to you," James retorts, forgetting Teddy's letter.
"Who were you talking to, then?"
"None of your business!"
"Shut up, then," Scorpius fires back, and Sprout's jolly demeanour quickly vanishes. James has never seen her seriously angry – she always bustles cheerfully about the place, patiently helping students – but now her face seems to lose its softness, her eyes sharpening like the spines on James's cactus.
"I think," she says curtly, "that both of you ought to be just a little more respectful to your fellow student. Potter, I suggest you help Malfoy with his assignment to the best of your ability."
"Yes, Professor," James says, sensing danger.
"And Malfoy, I expect you to listen to Potter's advice with consideration. Show a bit of courtesy."
Scorpius stares at the ground. "Yes, Professor," he says at last.
"Good. Now, if there are any problems, I will resolve them," Sprout adds ominously, and with that she nods firmly to herself and disappears down a nearby aisle of plants, watering can in hand. James has the feeling she's probably still in earshot, however.
Scorpius turns away for a moment, digging in his book bag, and then holds out a piece of paper. James stares at it blankly. "Well? Are you going to help or not?" Scorpius says irritably.
"Excuse me? Don't speak to me like that — "
"Oh, because you haven't been a complete prat in this particular conversation, I'm supposed to be nice to you? Is that it?"
"Can't you just leave already? Merlin, I do not want to talk to you right now – "
"Well, you are!" Scorpius says, his voice rising, and James glances over his shoulder, keeping an eye out for an angry Professor Sprout. But when Scorpius speaks again, his voice is quieter, anger clipping each tense syllable. "Don't pretend you're not happy about my father's arrest. I know you are."
James just stares at Scorpius, feeling more surprised than anything else. "Why?" he asks. He means why would it make him happy, but Scorpius misinterprets the question.
"You know why he was arrested. Because he's a Death Eater. Because he'll always be a Death Eater, no matter how many years have passed or how many trials he's been through. Just like I'll always be a Death Eater's son, no matter what I do or who I become! Tell me, what do you think of when you hear my name?"
James, caught off-guard, answers automatically. "Stars."
Scorpius stares at him. "Stars?" he repeats.
James shrugs, feeling bewildered. "Scorpius, the constellation near the centre of the Milky Way. And Hyperion, one of Saturn's moons. That's what I think of...when I hear your name…" He trails off as Scorpius's face suddenly crumples. He turns from James and races away, his footsteps quickly fading. James is left standing alone but soon enough Professor Sprout descends upon him like a furious Devil's Snare, demanding to know what he'd done to make Scorpius flee so quickly, and when he is unable to produce a suitable explanation she makes disapproving noises and assigns him detention.
James doesn't really mind. At least nobody can bother him in detention.
Including enemies with odd questions.
Today, Harry will have to exercise the first of his responsibilities: Scorpius had evidently asked about visiting his father while Draco was in custody, and McGonagall granted him special leave from the day's classes. As his caregiver, Harry has been requested to accompany Scorpius.
Harry hadn't expected to deal with him at all until after the trial, and he feels a little worried about it. Scorpius has always been a courteous child, but no doubt he'll be devastated about his father's arrest and, quite possibly, horrified to learn he's now legally under Harry's care. James and Scorpius aren't particularly fond of each other either, and Harry doesn't even want to think about James's reaction to the possibility of Scorpius staying with them.
Which won't happen, because Draco isn't going to Azkaban, he tells himself. The same lie he's been repeating lately, and each time it sounds a little less determined and a little more desperate.
He Disapparates to Hogsmeade and collects Scorpius from McGonagall. Scorpius, wearing a black cloak and a downcast expression, doesn't say a word to Harry. Harry takes his cue and doesn't attempt conversation. They travel, via a portkey, to the Ministry; when they arrive in the atrium, Scorpius tilts his head back, gazing at the levels above them, and then he looks at the fountain in the centre. The light from the water dances across the polished floors, reflecting from the golden statue of a witch gracefully holding her wand aloft.
"Hecate," Scorpius says — the first word he's said since they left Hogsmeade — and Harry glances at him.
"What?"
"Hecate. Worshipped as a protective goddess in Greek mythology, but it's believed that she was actually a historically significant witch."
"Oh." Harry doesn't know what else to say. "This way, Scorpius."
They go to the elevators. Scorpius is silent, though he garners more than a few glances from Ministry workers. They go to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harry wants to cringe when a few Aurors greet him. They look at him curiously — everyone knows something isn't right, that he's been placed on unpaid leave — and their eyes flicker to Scorpius.
They pass through a set of doors, then another. Down a long corridor, and then there's a small waiting room where a harried-looking officer tells them visitation times have changed. Scorpius will need to wait another hour before seeing his father.
It's cruel to leave Scorpius — anxious and consumed with worry — stuck in a waiting room for an hour, Harry thinks. He tries to think of distractions — perhaps a visit to Diagon Alley, or a walk around the Ministry — but with all the stares directed at Scorpius, perhaps Muggle London is a safer bet.
He gets an idea.
They go the aquarium. Scorpius has a lot on his mind, Harry thinks, and he'll probably just wish he was by himself somewhere. But he carefully reads all the information about the sea creatures, and he spends a long time in the underground viewing room for the sea turtles, illuminated only by the blue glow of the aquarium, his hands against the glass as he watches the turtles swim about. Harry searches for something to say besides empty reassurances.
"This was always James's favourite part of the aquarium," he says at last, watching a turtle swim past. Scorpius turns his head and watches it too.
"They said you're my caregiver now," he says, his grey eyes seeming to almost glow luminescent in the blue underwater light.
"Yes."
Scorpius looks upwards, watching another turtle as it dives through the water. "One day," he says, so quietly that Harry thinks he's really speaking to himself, "I'll have my own home. Where nobody can take me away."
The turtles have all disappeared, Harry notices. Gone to the surface.
Now they're both just staring into emptiness, a blue void.
They go back to the Ministry.
Now it's Harry who sits in the reception as Scorpius goes to visit his father. Scorpius is escorted to the visitor's room by a kindly constable, and when he returns half an hour later he's crying quietly while the constable tries to reassure him.
"Come on, there's no need to make a fuss," he's saying. "You're far too old to be crying now, aren't you?"
Harry nods at the constable and leaves, Scorpius walking beside him and making a valiant effort to compose himself before they go into the busy atrium. Harry transfigures a nearby memo into a handkerchief and hands it to Scorpius.
"I've just got to visit a friend to pick up some paperwork," Harry says. It's a half-truth – Hermione promised to research Draco's case — but in reality Harry just wants to give Scorpius some extra time to compose himself. "It'll just take a few minutes."
Scorpius nods wordlessly and Harry uses a side-along Apparation to take them both to Hermione and Ron's house. The door unlocks for him – it always does – but it appears neither of them are home. Harry quickly goes to Hermione's library and finds her notes, a scrawled memo to Harry pinned to the top of them. When he returns to the front hallway, he finds Scorpius standing by the hall stand, a framed photograph in his hands.
"Scorpius?"
He looks up, then sets the picture back down onto the hall stand. It's a photograph of Rose, James, and Teddy, Harry realises. They're laughing and nudging each other, a Christmas tree in the background, a star glowing atop it. Harry casts around for something to say.
"It's a nice picture, isn't it?"
Scorpius just gazes at the photograph for another long moment. "James looks happy," he says at last.
Harry studies the picture too, his heart giving a little pang at James's happy expression. "That picture was taken a few years ago."
They stand in silence. Then Scorpius suddenly gives a little shake of his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, and turns away.
They return to Hogsmeade, Harry leaving Scorpius with McGonagall. When he's finally home again, he looks over Hermione's notes.
Sorry, Harry, she's written. Nothing useful. There's nothing you can do.
He thinks of the turtles swimming silently through the water, Scorpius watching them, his hands pressed against the glass. One day, I'll have my own home.
It's been a long time since Harry felt defeat, but tonight it calls his heart home.
And one week later, despair joins defeat when Harry is summoned to Shacklebolt's office. Usually, Shacklebolt is quite affable; however, now he sits across the vast and intimidating desk of his office and looks at Harry with something akin to disappointment.
Shacklebolt waits for a long moment, then picks up the file, glances at it, and puts it down again without opening it. He sighs, a long and steady exhale. "I don't need to read it," he says. "I have read it cover to cover, Harry, and yet it still makes no sense. But none of the evidence seems fabricated. The witnesses seem reliable. Everything seems to make sense except for your actions."
"My actions?"
"On the evening of December the twenty-eighth, you accessed Draco Malfoy's file and spent quite some time removing a tracing charm. When questioned about your presence in the office, you claimed you were there to collect paperwork."
Harry is silent.
"I have been telling the witnesses over and over that they must be wrong. That you certainly would not do such a thing." Shacklebolt leans back in his chair and clasps his hands in front of him. "And if you did, I'm sure there would be an exceptional reason for it."
The silence stretches on. "Draco wanted to see his father," Harry says at last. "I agreed to help him."
Shacklebolt surveys him. "You are an Auror, Harry," he says. "Your colleagues trust you with their very lives. They look up to you. You are a member of the elite Auror team, after all, and you took an oath to uphold their values."
"I know, I know I did, but it's not that simple — "
"It is that simple, I'm afraid. You have broken the law."
"Broken the law?" Harry echoes in disbelief.
"As your superior, I'm afraid I cannot comment on the charges." Shacklebolt glances down at Harry's file again. "But as your friend, I very strongly suggest you contact your solicitor and begin making arrangements."
Harry doesn't know what to do. Will they take him into custody? His colleagues, his fellow Aurors, will they be the ones to arrest him? What about James?
"I've just been made caregiver to Scorpius Malfoy," he says suddenly.
"Very unfortunate timing. We'll ask Malfoy to nominate somebody else. In the meantime, you'll still be a guardian to young Scorpius."
Relief floods through Harry. "They're not arresting me now, then."
"Nothing is official yet. Time is still on your side."
But nobody else is, Harry realises. Even Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, cannot help him now.
"Right," he says slowly, standing up. "Well...thanks for telling me."
"Of course."
Harry walks over to the doors, then pauses. "Who was it?" he asks. "Who told you?"
"If I really have to tell you, Harry, I'm afraid your Auror skills are deteriorating."
Harry's silent for a moment. "Once an Auror, always an Auror," he says. "That was always his motto. It was Williamson, wasn't it? He didn't trust anyone to replace him. He had Cuthbert keep a close eye on me."
Shacklebolt doesn't say anything.
"Yes, I thought so." Harry touches the door handles and the doors begin to swing silently open again. "Makes me rather glad I lost the Head Auror role in the end. Before I ended up like that."
With that, he leaves.
So Harry waits. He waits to receive the charges. Hear the knock at the door. Harry's solicitor — an elderly man who seems to have an expression of permanent exasperation — begins giving him plenty of advice, most of it being 'stop talking to Draco Malfoy'.
He doesn't. He visits Draco one week before his trial is scheduled to start. Draco's very quiet and doesn't say much. When he does speak, it's of Harry's fate rather than his own.
"I heard they're going to arrest you too."
Harry paces around the room again, unable to keep still. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about being arrested, or going away, or James's expression when he finds out.
He looks up. Draco's studying him.
"What?"
"Nothing," Draco says, shifting his gaze elsewhere. After another moment, however, he speaks. "Sometimes," he says, "I wish I could read minds."
Harry stills. Draco is gazing at the wall, his expression one of frustration as if he meant those words to be nothing more than an irritated response to Harry's silence. But Harry knows better. He stands in place for a moment, his heart pounding. He's still got his wand. Normally they remove them from visitors, but as ever, plenty of people are happy to bend the rules for Harry Potter.
He consciously doesn't look at the viewing wall. How closely is he being monitored? Could they read his lips, see the incantation?
He looks at Draco, then clears his throat, feeling the light weight of his wand in his sleeve. "You know I can't share details of my case with you, Malfoy," he says evenly.
"I'm beginning to wonder," Draco says, "what exactly the point of these visits are."
"I'm trying to help — "
"Damn it, Potter!" And Draco snaps suddenly, driving his fist into the wall. An uncharacteristic outburst of violence that makes Harry jump before realising the moment of distraction. All eyes right now are on Draco.
Harry flicks his sleeve slightly, bringing his wand into his hand, and whispers. "Legilimens."
It's dizzying and disorienting and Harry hates that spell, he hates being in someone else's mind. Draco throws his thoughts at Harry: an envelope, hidden in his sleeve. Give it to Lucius, Draco's mind demands in a cacophony of desperate noise. Lucius, Lucius, give it to Lucius.
And then Harry's back to his own mind again, frozen on the spot. A guard is rushing into the room already and Harry's chance is slipping away. He snaps into action, lunging forwards and grabbing Draco.
"Calm down, you're just making this worse for yourself — "
He feels the uncomfortable crinkle of parchment against his skin as he tries to restrain Draco. Both of them fumble for a moment and the envelope slips, and Harry's certain the guard must have seen it as it passes between them.
But seconds later the envelope is safely in Harry's sleeve, next to his wand again, and the guard is dragging a still-struggling Draco from the room.
Harry's left alone, his blood pounding in his veins.
He goes home. He takes the envelope from his sleeve. It's nondescript, crinkled, no name written upon it.
He wonders what it says, and for a moment he's tempted to read it.
But Draco had said nothing except, give it to Lucius.
So Harry neatly arranges for a visit to Azkaban. When he speaks to the warden, the warden smiles and nods and tells Harry he'd love to give the notorious Death Eater a piece of his mind, too.
Harry smiles thinly.
Lucius looks smaller, somehow. Harry had been expecting that — weight loss, a slight gaunt look, the same pale look of hunted people everywhere. But it still startles him to see Lucius like that.
They sit across from each other, a concrete table between them. Unlike the Ministry holding cells, there is no cosy visitation room: Lucius is being held in Azkaban due to his high security status. The shimmer of a protective shield charm is between them, and a guard restlessly paces the room.
This is going to be difficult.
And Lucius won't make it easier, Harry thinks. He's got a detached expression that doesn't move an inch as Harry sits opposite him.
"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," Harry says at last, leaning forward. He lets his hand brush the protective charm ever-so-slightly, testing its strength.
"Auror Potter," Lucius says, in that soft voice that always seems to be a whisper of contempt. "Due diligence, I assume."
The charm is malleable, Harry thinks. Designed to slow down movement so that guards can see exactly what's going on, rather than acting as an impenetrable barrier. He flicks his gaze back to Lucius. "Due diligence? No. I'm not here to see that you truly can't escape. I have faith in our Law Enforcement department." Harry shifts position, brushing the charm again. It's weaker at the top, he thinks. He chances a glance upwards.
When he drops his gaze, Lucius is studying him very intently.
"I just wanted to see," Harry says, "how far you have fallen."
"Gloating? How unlike the noble Harry Potter," Lucius says, his voice still barely rising above a whisper.
"You murdered people. You're not particularly in a position to be claiming the higher moral ground." Harry glances at the guard, then clears his throat. "I'm not here for you, anyway. I'm here for Scorpius."
Lucius pulls back, surprise flashing across his face, and then he narrows his eyes suspiciously. He opens his mouth, but Harry beats him to it.
"Children have no place in this sort of thing," he says, gesturing to the surrounding walls. "For the sake of that, if nothing else, I've come here. To ask you to disown Draco. Cut all ties. Let Scorpius be free of your shadow."
"Disown my son?" Cold fury washes across Lucius's face. "How dare you even suggest – "
"They'd have a much better life without you. Imagine the future that once awaited Draco, the one without your intervention — "
"You speak of my family as if you know them." Lucius stands up and the guard glances at them. "You ignorant boy, you always were so witless — "
"I'm glad Scorpius has never met you," Harry retorts, and Lucius's face whitens.
"And what would you know of parents and grandparents?" he says venomously.
That's it. Right there.
The perfect excuse.
Harry crashes through the shield charm. It slows him down, of course, much too slow, and Lucius easily moves out of reach. The guard rushes over, shouting at Harry to return to his side of the barrier. But Harry ignores him, lunging forward again, the charm pulling at his limbs like treacle. Too slow, he's going to be too slow —
He meets Lucius's stare, and mouths the words. Letter. Sleeve.
Lucius doesn't move, just keeps staring at him, and for a moment Harry thinks it's over.
Then Lucius steps forward and seizes Harry by the throat.
There's other guards now, and a lot of noise, and people trying to separate them, and then Lucius is finally wrested away and pinned to the floor, grim-faced guards applying restraint charms. Harry is left gasping for air and wondering if Lucius actually intended to kill him. It certainly feels like it.
"Auror Potter," one of the supervisors says reproachfully, helping him to his feet. "You should have known better than to allow yourself to be provoked like that. Malfoy is dangerous, you know that — "
Harry tries to speak. His voice is gone, momentarily lost to Lucius's iron grip. He touches his throat and a guard hurries forward.
"I've just notified the Healer, he'll be here in a minute."
Harry waves him off. "I'm fine," he croaks.
He only dares check his robes once he's safely left Azkaban. The envelope is gone, though he doesn't recall seeing Lucius remove it.
He touches a hand to the bruises blooming across his skin and goes home.
That night, he receives an owl from Shacklebolt.
All charges have been dropped.
Harry reads about it in The Daily Prophet the next day: Lucius confessed that he threatened to harm Scorpius unless Draco met with him. Rita Skeeter has written the article in her usual lurid style: FAMILY BETRAYAL, the headline screams. It's accompanied by a photograph of Lucius, looking rather smug and intimidating – a leftover picture from his days of power at the Ministry, Harry would wager – and the article paints Draco as a tragic victim of his overbearing father. It contrasts rather interestingly with the previous articles following Draco's arrest. Those articles had all referred to Draco as 'the snivelling little Death Eater'.
Though Harry's own involvement has been kept far more secretive, his colleagues have evidently been told a similar story: Harry found out about the threats to young Scorpius and, concerned about notifying other Aurors and risking Lucius's reaction, had felt forced to help Draco.
"You should have told us the truth, Harry," Shacklebolt tells him later on.
"That I helped Draco?"
"That you were under duress. It's extremely understandable that you would feel forced to help Draco contact his father. After all, Lucius may have very well carried out his threats if you involved law enforcement."
Even Williamson apologises. He calls Harry into the Auror offices the next morning and tells him he's welcome to resume work.
"It was extremely remiss of us to jump to conclusions," Hopkins tells him.
Williamson nods. "When I first reported it to Shacklebolt, he was convinced that you'd never voluntarily help a criminal. And he was right. It's the job, Potter. What else can I say? After a while you start to see the worst in everyone. Even your own colleagues."
That evening, as Harry reads the headlines of The Daily Prophet, he pours himself a scotch and studies the newspaper picture of Lucius.
They have something in common, he thinks. They're both fathers. Did Lucius have the same dreams for Draco that Harry has for James? Happiness, success, a family of his own one day? Did Lucius ever lose sleep worrying about Draco? Did he congratulate Draco when he won Quidditch matches, tell him to concentrate more when he had poor grades? Did he stand on Platform 9¾ and wait anxiously for his son to come home?
He stares down at the grainy black-and-white photograph of Lucius, and for the first time thinks he looks more sad than stern.
Everything has a price.
Draco gazes for a long moment at his reflection. Fine robes — plain, but high quality. It's hidden in the invisible seams, the soft material, the silver clasp. Same as Draco's upbringing is hidden in the thread of his walk, the tone of his voice. Anyone can be wealthy, Lucius always said, but status and class cannot be bought.
Some might think he's trying to impress his father, Draco thinks as he removes a loose thread from his collar. Perhaps he is.
Old habits die hard.
He studies his expression a moment longer. Grey eyes. Like his father, like his son. A recessive gene. Strange that it's survived the generations.
Then he turns and leaves.
Azkaban is far different from the prison Draco remembers from his adolescent years. It's still on an island, of course, but it's been sanitised by the post-war Ministry. Trying so hard to reflect the new ideals of justice through rehabilitation, Draco thinks. Well-lit and clean, and as he sits in the reception area he feels like he's in a hospital.
A high-security hospital. They still search him, and they still take him through many locked doors before he's left in a small, windowless room.
Lucius looks even older here, Draco thinks as he sits opposite him. The bright, artificial prison light does him no favours.
"You look well," Lucius tells him.
"I am."
They sit in silence for a while. Neither of them are much suited to long conversations, Draco thinks. He studies the scratches on the table between them. By the door, the guard shifts and stifles a yawn.
"Trades," Lucius says, and Draco glances up. "Isn't it strange, to spend a lifetime on that. Making trades. Deals."
"Blackmail and bribery," Draco supplies. Just like these scrubbed walls, these guards replacing Dementors. Both the Ministry and Lucius trying so desperately to sanitise their past. Wash away the regret.
Lucius ignores him. "Sitting in a room," he continues, brushing his hand across the table as if it's a sleek mahogany desk. "Making deals." He pauses, then rests his hands in his lap again.
Draco tosses the photograph across the table. "There," he says curtly. "You've seen him now."
The photograph drifts inch by inch through the shield charm, then comes to rest in front of Lucius. Scorpius smiles at the camera. The picture had been taken at the beginning of second year, if Draco recalls correctly. Standing on the platform. Pan perches on Scorpius's shoulder, her whiskers tickling him.
Harry had taken the picture.
Draco waits for the anger, the outrage at the treachery. The deal outlined in the letter had been apparently simple. If you take the blame for Harry too, you can see Scorpius. And no doubt Lucius had imagined a visit from his grandson. A photograph is a very poor substitute.
But Lucius says nothing. He picks up the photograph, and looks at it. For a moment, his expression softens. "He looks just like you," he says.
They spend the rest of the visit in silence. At the end of it, Lucius holds out the photograph.
"Keep it," Draco says.
He turns and leaves, and wishes he was angrier at his father.
Anger is easier than any other emotion.
He misses Scorpius more than ever that evening. His son has changed so much now. He remembers the toddler who used to sit cheerfully upon his shoulders and demand stories and toys and trips to interesting places, and he remembers the quiet, sad boy who returned after six long years away. He remembers his son, smiling and full of tales about his first year at Hogwarts. He couldn't stop chatting about all the spells, and the castle, and his brand new best friend.
James Potter.
Draco could almost smile at the irony of it. Somehow, Scorpius had easily achieved something which Draco had, at the same age, spectacularly failed at. Being best friends with a Potter.
But of course, things had soured between them. Maybe it was simply fate — Scorpius and James destined to mirror their fathers' paths — or maybe it was James's nature. The Potter boy has certainly changed in recent years.
But Scorpius has changed too. He's already so much more guarded than Draco ever remembered. His letters — those long, rambling pages of thoughts and ideas and worries that used to leave Draco bewildered and wondering how to reply — have long since faded into short, infrequent messages. He's so silent now. Does he speak to anyone at Hogwarts? Or does he just sit there, reading his books, effectively blocking out the rest of the world — Draco included?
Draco goes to Scorpius's room after dinner. He hasn't gone there since Scorpius left after the Christmas break, but it could probably do with a few dusting charms and cleaning spell or two. He reaches out and turns the door handle, then pauses.
He frowns, then tries again.
It's locked.
Scorpius locked his door before he left.
"Alohomora!"
There's the tell-tale click of the lock on the door unlatching, and Draco tries the handle again.
Still locked.
"What are you doing?"
He jumps, then exhales slowly. "Potter. We've discussed this before. You can't just Floo in whenever you feel like it."
"I know."
"What are you doing here, anyway?"
Harry ignores that and nods at the door. "Sneaking about? Scorpius won't like that. James caught me tidying his bookshelf once, threw a complete tantrum. I'm not allowed in his room at all anymore." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "He's going to have a very difficult time trying to figure out why his dirty clothes aren't mysteriously washed and ironed now."
"I'm not sneaking about," Draco retorts. "I just want to cast a quick dusting charm."
Harry shrugs. "Just leave it. Trust me, around this age they start to get very particular about their privacy."
"I will break this lock."
"I don't really think — "
"You're an Auror. You're good at this sort of thing."
Harry rolls his eyes. "An expert in breaking and entering, am I?"
"You got into the Chamber of Secrets, Potter." Draco points at the door. "This shouldn't be a problem."
"Alohomora!"
"I tried that."
"Oh. Well...maybe just kick the door in, then?"
"Are you mental?"
"What do you want me to do, whisper 'open up' in Parseltongue?"
"That was the password to the Chamber of Secrets? 'Open up'? You have got to be kidding me. Wonderful, now I find out that Salazar Slytherin apparently had the same creativity as a dead rat."
To Draco's disbelief, Harry starts laughing.
"What? What's so funny?"
"Nothing." Harry grins at him. "Just realised how much I missed this."
"Missed what?"
"Do you think Scorpius really put a Parseltongue password on the door?"
"Missed what, Potter?"
"Where's the Monopoly set?"
Draco gives the bedroom door one more irritated look, then turns away. "I suppose you'll want tea."
"Of course."
But Draco ultimately gets the upper hand two hours later, as they're sitting in the kitchen, the fireplace glowing with coals and the bank notes scattered around them like autumn leaves. Harry's gathering them up, trying to find the money to pay rent for a ridiculously overpriced hotel on Park Lane.
"You'll have to mortgage something," Draco says helpfully.
"No, I won't."
"So stubborn."
They fall into silence again as Harry concentrates on the task at hand. Draco watches him look under his teacup, rescue a fifty pound note from a stack of Draco's genealogy notes, and finally find the last money needed beneath his chair.
"See, Malfoy? It always works out in the end."
"For you, perhaps." Draco neatens his stack of genealogy notes again, and he spots the name Evans. Still working on that family tree. Somehow he only ever seems to find time for it on lazy rainy afternoons. Not the best schedule.
He can see James's name. The first name he wrote. The starting point. A lot of people make that mistake when tracing their family, Draco thinks. They start at the roots when they should begin at the newest leaf.
He glances up at Harry.
"Oh no," Harry says slowly. "You're smirking again. What happened?"
"It's me, isn't it?"
"What?"
"You missed me."
"What? Don't be ridiculous!"
"I'm right. You missed me."
"Honestly, you get some daft ideas sometimes — "
Draco's smirk has graduated to barely-contained amusement. "Admit it. You missed me."
"Fine, I missed you, you smug git. Now get that look off your face and roll the dice already."
But Draco's laughing now and after a moment, Harry shakes his head.
"You're mental, Malfoy," he says.
But he's smiling too.
And later on, as night falls and Harry collects his cloak, he offers a quiet but sincere, "Thank you."
Draco could say a million things to that. He could feign ignorance and ask, What for? or shrug it away as if it's nothing, or say, You owe me, because that's how Slytherins do things. It's all about favours and allies and power.
But instead, he just says, "It's all right."
And it is.
Scorpius comes home one month later for the Easter holidays. Draco doesn't know what to say to him. Is he angry at Draco? Surely he has so many questions. They haven't spoken since Scorpius visited him in the Ministry holding cells, and although Draco has sent a few letters since, Scorpius hasn't replied.
But Scorpius doesn't ask any questions. He says nothing. He goes to his room to unpack, as always. Whether he's coming home for the summer holidays with all his luggage, or carrying a small bag for an Easter or Christmas visit, he always likes to go directly to his room and unpack. Everything in its place.
Draco makes him a cup of peppermint tea and sets it on the bedside table, watching as Scorpius unpacks a series of odd little silver instruments. He begins piecing them together, constructing some sort of device, and Draco frowns.
"What's that?"
"A wizarding version of a spectrometer." Scorpius taps his wand against two glass spheres and they shimmer slightly.
"And what does that do, exactly?"
"Chemical compounds generate specific colours." Scorpius picks up one of the glass spheres and peers through it. "This device helps me identify physical properties." He pauses. "Professor Sinistra let me borrow it."
It's a long way from the small telescopes and simple glass prisms Scorpius used to own, Draco thinks. His son is growing up fast.
He looks around Scorpius's bedroom. The Quidditch pitch rug, the ceramic bear lamp. Remnants of a boy who is quickly disappearing, becoming a distant figure on the horizon of Draco's memory. He studies the bookcase for a moment, the shelves branching out, little enchanted leaves sprouting along them. He'd learned that spell just so he could create a tree bookcase for Scorpius's return to the manor. Nearly four years ago now, he realises. When Scorpius was eleven.
He's fifteen now.
Almost the same age as Draco when he received the Dark Mark.
"Suppose I should probably get you a proper bookcase," Draco says, and Scorpius looks up from his spectrometer.
"Why?"
"Well…you've outgrown that tree one, I would imagine."
Scorpius frowns. "I want to keep it. It reminds me of…" He trails off, then turns back to his spectrometer and picks up another silver piece. "This is what they call the dispersive element," he says instead, holding it up. "It splits light."
Draco watches silently for a few minutes as Scorpius puts the spectrometer together. "Well," he says eventually, "I'm glad you're home."
Scorpius glances at him, then looks down at a glass prism and turns it slightly. Draco follows his gaze. Glass prisms and telescopes. Always reflecting.
"I'm sorry," Draco says at last, breaking the silence. "It was a terrible mistake — "
"What was?"
Draco honestly can't quite believe Scorpius sometimes. "Contacting my father."
"Because he's a Death Eater?" Scorpius sets the glass prism down.
"Yes."
Draco waits for the questions. This has been a long time coming, he thinks. Not once, when Scorpius was a small child, did Draco and Astoria ever mention the war in front of him. Never. It was an unspoken rule between them. And not once since Scorpius's return has he asked a single question. All the questions that Draco knows burn in the sharp eyes and careless curiosity of others: What did Voldemort really look like? What orders did he give you? What does the Dark Mark feel like? Did you ever kill anyone? Did you torture people? Did you see dead bodies? What was it like?
And while Draco might feel nothing but contempt for those people, trampling over his memories for the sake of morbid curiosity, he would understand if Scorpius wanted to know. Scorpius has a right to know about his own family, about his father and grandfather.
And so he waits, bracing himself for the questions like other people might brace themselves for a Crucio spell.
But Scorpius merely adjusts the spectrometer, tilting his head slightly, and says, "The stars will be clear tonight."
"Will they?"
"Yes."
Draco looks out the window, at the last dying light of the day.
He thinks he can see Sirius rising already, bright as ever.
Later on, as they're eating dinner, Draco studies Scorpius. He's reading a book at the table, a habit that both Draco's parents would be loathe to see. But Draco hasn't quite got the heart to make Scorpius give up his precious books, even for half an hour.
"How's the school term been so far?" he asks eventually, when Scorpius reaches the end of the page.
He glances up. "Good."
"McGonagall still giving you advanced Transfiguration tutorials?"
Scorpius nods, but the bright spark normally accompanying any mention of Transfiguration is absent. Draco frowns and decides to change the subject. "How's all your friends?" he asks instead.
"Fine."
"Everything's going well?"
"Yes."
Draco studies him for a long moment. "I do worry about you," he says at last.
"I know."
"Are you sure everything's — "
"Yes." Scorpius looks back down at his book and turns the page.
Strange; Draco fought so hard to keep his son.
And yet it feels like he's still losing him.
James goes home for the Easter holidays. Easter Sunday is spent at Ron and Hermione's, like always, and they have the traditional egg hunt. The younger cousins are thrilled, racing excitedly about the garden, and a fight breaks out between Roxanne and Lucy as they both snatch up the last chocolate bunny. James watches it all, feeling somewhat melancholy at the first Easter without Teddy, and decides to sneak upstairs and find a good book to read.
Rose, however, has beaten him to it. He steps through her bedroom door just in time to see her smiling to herself as she rearranges a bouquet of chocolate roses.
"What's that?"
"James!" She jumps, then glances about. "What are you doing here? Honestly!"
His distant melancholia quickly fades in the face of Rose's flustered expression. "You're blushing," he says disbelievingly.
"I'm not!"
"Have you — have you got a boyfriend?"
"Shut up! I have not!" Rose's face is bright red now. "Go away, James! This is my room! You shouldn't just barge in on people — "
"You have," he says. Rose closes her mouth and glares at the floor.
"Fine, I have," she says. "Happy? And if you tell Mum, I'll hex you into a million little bits."
"Who?" James asks, curious despite himself, and Rose gives him a look of faint surprise. She uncrosses her arms.
"You're not…you're not going to tease me about it?"
"Depends who it is."
She rolls her eyes. "Thanks. Anyway, it's…well…it's Andrew."
"That Andrew McCray you mentioned earlier?"
Rose is beginning to blush again, but she turns away and tidies up a few things with slightly more force than necessary. "Yes."
James tries to remember him. "Sixth year, right?"
"Fifth."
"Slytherin?"
"Hufflepuff."
"Sort of tall?"
"Average height, I suppose."
"Yeah, okay. I've forgotten everything you've ever said about him."
Rose starts laughing.
James goes home in a slightly better mood, Harry notices. It's rare to see him smiling these days, and Harry decides to suggest a game of chess before bed.
"Sure," James says, and they sit before the fireplace in the living room, the board between them. It's quite soothing, sitting there listening to the crackle of the flames, idly speaking every now and again, waiting for the other to move a piece. James seems deep in thought, quite pensive about something, Harry notices.
"Check."
James glances up at Harry and frowns, then considers the board for some time and, at last, moves an overlooked pawn. Harry tilts his head.
"Good move," he says. "Didn't notice that one."
"Yeah." James sits back and waits for Harry to make his next move. "Did you take leave from work? You've been at home a lot more lately."
Harry looks at him. "Yes, I have," he says with realisation. He hadn't even noticed. Once, he hated staying home too long, listening to the empty spaces.
"It's been nice," James says.
"It has, hasn't it?" Harry leans across the board and ruffles James's hair, waiting for the usual reaction of irritation.
But James just smiles lightly and ducks away. "Better watch your king," he says.
"Oh?"
James moves his knight. "Checkmate."
Harry looks down at the board, but James is right. Nowhere left to go.
"You win," he says, smiling.
Harry receives the official letter reinstating him to his Auror position. He reads it several times, considers his options, and makes an appointment with Shacklebolt.
Shacklebolt isn't pleased.
"I had to make a lot of arrangements."
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
"The inconvenience?" Shacklebolt raises one stern eyebrow, reminding Harry uncannily of McGonagall. "I have spent quite some time trying to restore you to your previous Auror position. I was under the — evidently incorrect — impression that you wanted your job back."
Harry gazes down at Shacklebolt's desk, at the piles of paper stacked upon it, the scrolls of parchment, the inkwells, the half-written letters and owl droppings, the notices and memos.
"You've been Minister for nearly as long as I've been an Auror," Harry notes.
"That's correct."
"When do you think you'll retire, sir?"
"When my country no longer needs me."
"And what if they'll always need you?"
Shacklebolt gives him a wry look and rearranges a few piles of paper. "Shall I consider this your resignation, Potter?"
Harry considers it. "I think so," he says.
"Are you certain? Only recently, you were expressing horror at the mere thought of taking a brief break from your work."
"Only recently? That was four years ago, sir."
Shacklebolt frowns. "So it was," he says eventually. "Well. How time flies." He tilts his head, considering Harry. "Still…nearly twenty years as an Auror, Harry. What changed your mind now?"
"Twenty years."
There's a pause, both of them looking at each other, and then Shacklebolt smiles ever-so-slightly. "I must confess," he says, "I cannot argue with that. But…if you are certain…"
"I am."
Shacklebolt considers him a moment longer. "I'll redistribute your duties accordingly."
Harry pauses, but he's compelled to ask the next question. "And Draco Malfoy's case?"
"Closed," Shacklebolt says, giving him a speculative look. "We only kept him in the program as a means to catch Lucius. And now that we have caught him…" He clasps his hands, resting them on his desk. "I see no point in maintaining tabs on Draco. A waste of our resources, I'm sure you'll agree."
Harry could swear he sees a faint glimmer of knowing amusement in Shacklebolt's eyes. "Yes," he says. "I do agree."
"Very well. Thank you, Potter."
"Thank you, sir."
Harry stands and leaves.
He walks into the bright spring day, the sunlight weak in the morning air, lost among the shadows of the London skyline. He tilts his head back and looks at the sky, feeling oddly serene, and then goes home.
James returns to Hogwarts after the Easter holidays. He has an enormous stack of homework that he finds rather intimidating, but his friends are happy to help: Rose promises to look after the cactus when James is too busy, Iwan and Thomas help him with the trickier aspects of Charms, and Martin and Paul spend one particularly memorable evening demonstrating Transfiguration principles by turning everything in the dormitory into sweets. A furious prefect, storming in to see what all the laughter and noise is about, is promptly attacked by a liquorice allsort.
The subsequent detention is the only shadow on James's horizon. The days seem to hurry along, equally keen to get to the end of the term. Everyone's dreaming of the summer holidays. The only days that seem to slow down are the stuffy afternoons spent in Divination. On one such afternoon, James finds himself nearly falling asleep as two nearby Ravenclaws argue over the crystal ball.
"There was something there! I saw it! Some sort of cloud — "
"The whole thing is a cloud, you numpty. Look at it!"
"But this cloud looked different. Ominous, somehow."
"Hi," someone murmurs quite close to James's ear, and he jumps slightly. It's a Ravenclaw girl that he vaguely recalls from previous classes.
"Hello," he says, slightly suspicious.
"Sally's been asking about you," the Ravenclaw says, grinning.
"Who's she?" James goes back to staring at the crystal ball. It looks exactly the same as it has for the past twenty minutes, and he stifles a yawn. Five more minutes until class ends...
The Ravenclaw looks taken aback. "Sally Briggs? Everyone knows her. Anyway, we've got a little party planned tonight to celebrate the Quidditch semi-final. Sally will be there. Maybe you should come along too."
"Yeah, maybe," James says evasively, still trying to recall the mysterious Sally.
"Come on, it will be fun! Plus Malfoy's going to be there and we've got the best prank planned for him."
"And why would I care about that?" James says, looking at the crystal ball again.
"Because you hate him?" the Ravenclaw says slowly, as if James is being deliberately obtuse. "It will be hilarious, you have to see it. I mean, we haven't invited him. Not yet. But he'll be there anyway. He's desperate for friends, it's a bit sad really."
James glances up. Across the room, Scorpius is watching him and the Ravenclaw girl. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking.
Curiosity gets the better of him. "All right," he says at last. "I'll go to the party."
"Oh! Brilliant, I'll tell Sally. See you tonight, then. Charms classroom, seven o'clock. Don't be late."
When James glances up again, Scorpius has already picked up his books and left.
The rest of the boys are all envious.
"A date with Sally Briggs? You get all the luck," Martin says mournfully.
"Bet he didn't even try," Paul mutters. "He never tries."
"What do you care anyway, Paul?" Iwan asks. "You've got a girlfriend."
"Yeah, and she's very nice, but she's not Sally Briggs."
The boys all laugh then, and soon delve into a conversation about girls. James, busy cleaning up a leaky self-inking quill, hardly listens. It's not even a proper date, he thinks with faint irritation. He feels a little ambushed by it — he should have just said no and saved himself an awkward evening.
"I'll see you all later, then," he announces, cutting through their idle conversation about which girls are the most attractive.
"Come on, you can't be serious. You're wearing that?"
James glances down at his rumpled school uniform. "You're mental if you think I'm dressing up for a stupid Quidditch party," he says firmly, and with that, he leaves.
He's not in the best mood, therefore, when he arrives at the Charms classroom. It's festive though, decorated with streamers. There's a pitcher of pumpkin juice in one corner, the Wizarding Wireless playing music in the other. The students all welcome him – a few older Ravenclaws, including a prefect, and some Gryffindor students, and one or two Hufflepuffs. There's one Slytherin boy there who, James discovers, reads comic books too and they strike up an enthusiastic conversation. But they're soon interrupted by a brunette girl who introduces herself as Sally; she tucks her arm around his elbow and steers him away from the Slytherin. He walks with her, gloomily watching his newfound friend leave.
"So," Sally says. "The dark and mysterious James Potter."
"Not really."
"Oh, come on. Nobody knows anything about you." She pauses. "Except for your swimming, of course. I mean, just one look at you and I can tell that you swim a lot. You've got a very toned physique…"
James has no idea how to respond to that. "Thanks," he says after a moment, but Sally seems to be waiting for something else. "I like to swim," he offers eventually.
She frowns. "Do you think I've got a nice physique?"
"Depends."
Her mouth falls open. "On what, exactly?"
"Well, if you're aiming for upper body strength, you probably need to focus on strength exercises. But if you just want to get toned, then you should focus on flexibility training."
She just stares at him. Eventually, she speaks, her voice low and furious. "I was asking for a compliment, you idiot. Not…some sort of exercise regime! But I suppose if you think I need it – "
"What? I never said that! You mentioned swimming, I thought you wanted advice…" James trails off as she turns and storms away, immediately going over to her friends and speaking to them in angry mutters. They turn, like they're all faces on one furious creature, and glare at James.
"You really are an idiot, aren't you?"
James turns and narrows his eyes at Scorpius. "Shut up. I suppose you've got a million girlfriends, then?"
"I can speak to girls without insulting them, if that's what you're asking."
James gives the group of glowering girls one last glance, then turns his back on them and takes a sip of his pumpkin juice. "You're the idiot," he says.
"Because I don't make a fool of myself talking to girls? Well – "
"No, you prat," James says angrily. "Because you showed up. You have got to be kidding me. These people aren't your friends. They were talking earlier about some stupid prank they're going to do to you. They're laughing at you. You do realise this, don't you? And yeah, you can say what you want about me, but at least when I hate you I'm honest about it."
Scorpius looks at him, his expression icy. "Leave. Right now, or I will hex you."
"Why? Bit difficult to accept advice from your enemy?" James says recklessly.
"Leave," Scorpius repeats.
James opens his mouth, planning another insult, but pauses. Scorpius's tone of voice is very dangerous and no doubt they're seconds away from hurling hexes at each other. And James has actually had a decent year thus far, and he really doesn't want to ruin it. Not like this, not so close to the end of term.
So he closes his mouth again and walks away instead, slipping out the door before anyone notices his departure.
He wanders the hallways for a bit, feeling slightly lost. He doesn't want to return to the dormitories, not yet — the boys will all tease him about ditching his date and ask endless questions — but he's certainly not going back to the party, where all those angry girls await him...honestly, how could he ruin everything so spectacularly? Sally had been making an effort, and all he had to do was nod and smile and compliment her...James winces as he recalls their conversation.
He passes by a statue of a goblin king that looks familiar. He frowns, looking at it, then suddenly remembers. Just around the corner...a few steps along...
"Limens."
The room is bathed in moonlight, casting a faint blue glow over the stone arches and ornate window edgings. The dust is thick, save for a long mark across the floor. It looks like someone was half-dragged across the floor, James thinks, and then he realises with a jolt that it was him. It was him, lying on the floor as Scorpius punched him. Yes, now that he looks closer, there's still the faint marks of footprints on the floor. And there's something else, lying near the far wall...
James crosses the room. Scorpius's cloak. The silver clasp is broken. James probably did that as he was trying to shove Scorpius off him. He doesn't even remember Scorpius leaving the cloak behind. Scorpius would have noticed; his family isn't wealthy, after all, and a new cloak would have been expensive. Yet he never came back. Never retrieved it.
James slowly picks the cloak up, listening to the soft rustle of the material move. S.H Malfoy is written just on the inside of the collar. Scorpius Hyperion.
Scorpius, the constellation. And Hyperion, the moon of Saturn...
There's a sudden noise of grating stone as the wall opens. James turns, startled, and drops the cloak.
Scorpius tumbles through the portal. For a moment, James fumbles for his wand, wondering how on earth Scorpius knew he was here. But then Scorpius leans against the wall and whispers something.
"S-scourgify," he says, his voice small and thin, and then he says it again. "Scourgify. Scourgify!"
But nothing happens. No dust disappears, no furniture neatens itself. The broken quills remain scattered across the floor. What's he trying to clean?
Then Scorpius buries his face in his hands. The sleeves of his robes fall back and James sees it.
That was the funny prank. That was the joke.
Giving Scorpius the Dark Mark.
James stands silently, watching the blood trickle down Scorpius's forearm. He should have known better than to use Scourgify on skin. The blood looks black in the moonlight, and it joins the stark lines of the Dark Mark.
He steps forward. Scorpius immediately swishes his wand, bringing up a shield charm. He stares at James, his face pale, then he exhales and the shield shatters, making James jump.
"Go ahead," Scorpius says.
"What?"
"Say it. Go ahead and say it."
"Say what?"
"I told you so."
James looks at Scorpius, then glances upward at the ceiling just to buy some time to think. That ceiling used to be full of stars, he thinks. Twelve moons, each one waxing or waning.
Scorpius was always so skilled at Transfiguration.
"I can fix it."
"No, you can't," Scorpius says flatly.
"Can I try?"
Another long silence. Then Scorpius's shoulders slump, as if James has somehow defeated him with those three words, and he holds out his wrist.
"Lumos." In the light of the wand, James studies Scorpius's wrist. Blood beads along it, the skin raw from the scouring charm. But the Dark Mark still remains visible, black as the night, the grotesque features of the skull and the serpent clear against Scorpius's pale skin.
The prototype prank. James is sure of it. Hugo would have handed them out to his friends, and no doubt one of those Ravenclaws or older Gryffindors got ahold of one...
He extinguishes the light from his wand, then thinks for a moment, remembering the spell Teddy taught him.
"Stay still," he says.
Scorpius doesn't reply. James takes a breath, makes sure his wand is perfectly aligned with the curved edge of the skull, and concentrates. He tries to block out all other distractions and focus on just the spell, moving his wand carefully along Scorpius's forearm as he imagines the tattoo slowly washing away. It's working, he realises with a flash of pride. This is Teddy's spell and it's working. It takes a long time – each dot of ink has to be carefully removed – but at last he completes the spell. Scorpius waits, not moving at all. James lowers his wand.
"Done."
Scorpius pauses before glancing down at his wrist, as if afraid of what he'll see.
"It's…gone," he says, wonder in his voice.
"Yeah."
"What spell was that? How does it work?"
James hesitates. "Doesn't matter," he says at last.
Scorpius finally looks up from his wrist. For a moment they stand in silence, illuminated only by the thin moonlight, as if waiting for the other to say something, and then after a moment James turns and walks away.
Once he's back in the safety of the dormitory, he slowly peels back his sleeve.
The Dark Mark shines like wet ink.
One week left of term. The final tests have already been completed and although the professors try to maintain focus, there's a distinct lack of enthusiasm for any sort of study. As the final days melt away, fading into lazy afternoons, even McGonagall relents and allows them to spend their final lesson completing tasks like cleaning desks and sorting old essays.
The last class of the day is Divination. It's a beautiful June afternoon and James is loathe to spend it in the stuffy classroom. He lingers in the cool hallways, taking his time, and he arrives to class five minutes late. There's only one seat left: the one next to Scorpius.
James takes it, setting his bookbag down. At least the small windows are all opened and even Trelawney, it seems, has her limits; uncharacteristically, the candles are unlit and there's far less incense than usual.
"It is said that children born midsummer are naturally inclined to possess the gift of Sight...from the moment of birth, the stars will determine your fate..."
James takes out his parchment on the pretence of taking notes. Next to him, Scorpius is scribbling away like usual. James wonders if he's even noticed someone's sitting next to him.
"...while those born under the sign of earth will have a reserved nature..."
Trelawney murmurs on and on. James gazes across the room, soon distracted by his own thoughts, quill held idly in one hand as he daydreams of the lake. Crisp and cool and perfect for a last swim...
Something touches his wrist. He glances down, startled from his thoughts. Scorpius is pulling James's sleeve back ever-so-slightly, revealing first the dark tip of the serpent's tail, then slowly showing the rest of the Dark Mark. James doesn't move as Scorpius stares at the Dark Mark, then lifts his gaze to look at James.
He's figured it out. Scorpius has always been clever like that.
After a moment, Scorpius drops his hand and James pulls his sleeve back down.
They sit in silence for a long moment, Scorpius resuming his note-taking and James feigning attention to Trelawney's ramblings. It's only half an hour later, just before class finishes, that Scorpius speaks.
"Doesn't it bother you?" he says without looking at James, his gaze still fixed upon his notes.
James pauses. "Less than it would bother you," he says at last.
Trelawney dismisses the class then, and both of them get up and leave without another word, soon lost in the crowd.
Yes, James thinks as he catches a glimpse of blue sky through the windows, summer is definitely here.
Chapter 18: Happy Memories
Summary:
In which the boys begin fifth year — Scorpius begins to seriously reevaluate his opinion of James in the wake of James's recent attempts to help him — Harry's impressed with James's newfound maturity — after a discussion with Draco, Harry begins sharing stories of his past with James — James reads the inquest into Teddy's death — Scorpius returns a favour and helps James — Draco gets a visit from an old friend and a certain pathway is offered to him.
Notes:
Contains brief sentences from an autopsy report. Not graphic or detailed.
Chapter Text
That summer, Scorpius is quiet.
He's always been quiet, but there's a certain distance now that Draco finds unfamiliar. He seems to be strangely pensive. Looking inwards, reflecting on something else. Gone is the smiling boy who wrote honest letters; now he's silent and guarded, focusing on something Draco can't pinpoint. He tries to find out, asking questions — how are all Scorpius's friends? Has his schoolwork been good? Is he sad about Ravenclaw losing the Quidditch final? — but Scorpius gives Draco very little information, if any. Draco is left to guess at Scorpius's problems, and in the end he decides to tentatively investigate the one person who he knows hates Scorpius.
"I can have a word with his father, you know," he says one night over dinner.
"Who?"
"James Potter."
Scorpius says nothing, pushing the peas about his plate. Silence eclipses them and just as Draco's wondering if he needs to send Harry a strongly-worded letter about the wayward James, Scorpius speaks.
"He doesn't smile much."
"Harry?" Draco asks, mind still on the oldest Potter. Scorpius frowns slightly but doesn't look up from his plate.
"James. He doesn't smile much," he repeats.
"So? He needs to control his temper, in my opinion," Draco says disapprovingly. Too many times has he seen Scorpius miserable after an encounter with James Potter. "There's no need for you to worry about whether James is happy or not. I'm sure you'd much rather think about your friends. What's the name of that nice Ravenclaw boy, the one on your Quidditch team?"
Scorpius doesn't seem to hear him. He's gazing unseeingly at the table, his fingers tracing absently over the skin of his wrist. Draco frowns.
"Scorpius."
Scorpius glances up.
"Your Ravenclaw friend? The Chaser?"
Scorpius drops his gaze again. "Stuart Sinclair," he says vaguely. "And he's not my friend."
"Did you quarrel with him?" Draco asks, wondering if that's the reason Scorpius has been so quiet this summer.
"No."
Draco waits, but Scorpius just picks up his fork and resumes eating again.
Silence reigns again.
Scorpius is a million miles away, Draco thinks. He may as well be eating alone, an empty chair opposite him.
For Harry, it's the first summer in a long time in which he can properly spend time with his son. They visit relatives and friends, of course, and spend plenty of time at The Burrow, where James helps Mrs Weasley de-gnome the garden and spends time with Mr Weasley, coming back with his pockets full of wires and fuses.
"Wish I still had the old Anglia," Mr Weasley tells Harry wistfully during one such visit. "Muggle cars really are fascinating. I could make so many modifications…"
But Mrs Weasley very firmly squashes that idea. "James certainly doesn't want to risk his life flying about in one of your mad inventions," she sniffs.
James would love nothing more than to have a trip in a flying car, Harry thinks, but he's sensible enough to nod along with Mrs Weasley.
They spend plenty of time visiting Ron and Hermione too, and James dutifully helps Rose with Quidditch training. Hugo plays with James's Quidditch figures and accidentally snaps one of the Chaser's brooms in half.
"I'm sorry!" he tells James, looking upset. James's expression shifts into anger, his brow creasing and his mouth opening, and just as Harry steps forward to quickly intervene, he suddenly shakes his head.
"Never mind," he says, though he still looks a little annoyed. "You didn't mean to do it, did you?"
"No, of course not!"
"Well, just be more careful, then." And James swishes his wand. "Reparo."
"James," Harry says, a half-hearted reproach. "Leave the magic to me."
"Yeah, sorry."
But later on, Harry takes him to Diagon Alley and buys him a brand new set of Quidditch figures. James is bemused.
"What's this for?" he asks as they make their way through the crowded street. All the prospective first years are wandering about, eyes wide, staring at everything.
"No reason."
"Really? Don't suppose I could get the latest issue of Lightchaser too, then?"
Harry laughs. "Don't push your luck," he says. "Anyway, you've been really good with your cousins this year. I know it can be a pain sometimes — Hugo being so clumsy and breaking your things, and Rose always wanting you to help with Quidditch."
"Yeah, well." James shrugs. "I'm the oldest, aren't I? It's my job to look after them."
Harry ends up buying him the latest issue of his favourite comic after all.
The next time Harry decides to visit Draco, he ends up bringing along an unexpected visitor. As he's getting ready to leave for the manor, James wanders past.
"Where are you going, then?" James asks casually, grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter.
"Visiting Draco," Harry says, grabbing his wand and walking towards the Floo. "He's promised an update on the family tree. Now, I'll be back in a couple of hours — there's some leftover casserole for dinner — "
"Wait a moment. I'll come with you." James takes a bite of the apple. "I bet Draco's got a million stories about you."
Harry surveys James suspiciously, wondering if he should tell him to stay behind. Exactly what is he planning? But James has been in a good mood lately — in fact, it's been one of the best summers yet — and Harry doesn't want to ruin it with an argument.
"Be nice," he says at last, a note of caution in his voice.
James grins at him. "I'm nice to everyone."
Harry says nothing, just raises his eyebrows, and steps into the fireplace.
Seconds later, they arrive at the manor, James tumbling unceremoniously over the grate. Harry tries to help him up and James brushes him off.
"I'm fine."
"Potter!" Draco walks through the drawing room door. "What did I say about using the Floo, you..." He trails off, staring at James.
"You remember my son, James, don't you?" Harry asks.
Draco is still staring at James. "Of course," he says slowly. "And he's here because...?"
"Wow, this place has changed." James walks over to the windows and nods. "Nice views. That rose garden, is that new?"
"It's always been there." Draco glares at Harry. "Potter, a brief word."
Harry clears his throat. "James, why don't you..." Stop inspecting everything, be quiet, and do not go anywhere near Scorpius Malfoy —
"Look at the library," Draco supplies.
"Right! Yes. Straight ahead, third left," Harry adds.
"Yeah, all right," James says, evidently oblivious to the meaningful looks between Draco and Harry.
"But don't touch anything," Draco says. "I have some very rare books. And there's no need to go anywhere else in the manor. Especially the gardens. Please stay away from them."
Now it's Harry's turn to glare at Draco. "Are you serious?" he mutters. "He's not allowed outside? What, do you think he'll eat all the roses and trample the daisies?"
"Scorpius is reading in the gardens," Draco whispers back heatedly. "In case you've forgotten, your short-tempered son — "
James clears his throat. They both turn and look at him.
"I'm just going to go now," he says. "So...have fun." He turns and walks out of the room. Draco peers around the doorframe, watching him, and Harry shakes his head incredulously.
"He's going to the library like you said, he's not going to run away and attack Scorpius."
Draco turns and gives him a scorching look, then shuts the door. "They hate each other! Are you mental? Bringing your son here? And why exactly did you drag him all the way — "
"I didn't drag him anywhere! He wanted to visit! He was the one who suggested it!"
"Oh, and you didn't find that suspicious at all?"
"He said he wanted to hear stories about my school days with you, I don't think he quite understands the fact that we tried to murder each other on multiple occasions."
Draco frowns. "Hear stories? From me?"
"Yes."
Realisation dawns on Draco's face; Harry waits impatiently for him to share his revelation.
"You've told him nothing about your past," Draco says at last.
"Oh, come on. There's a million books about my life. I'm sure Rita Skeeter's latest book will answer any questions James has about my embarrassing days at Hogwarts."
"He doesn't want to hear it from a journalist, you complete prat. He wants to hear it from you."
Harry is taken aback. "Since when are you an expert in what my son wants?" he says, a little defensive.
"I'm not, but I'm an expert in family history." Draco nods at the genealogy book on the nearby coffee table. "So many people wanting to know their own histories. They don't look at family trees so they can memorise names and birthdates, Potter. They look at it so they can create their own story."
"James can look at the family tree, then," Harry says. "He can still know about my life without...without me needing to re-live particular memories."
Silence greets him. When he looks up, Draco is shaking his head slowly. "You don't even talk about her, do you?"
"Who?"
"Ginny Weasley. You won't even talk about her. His own mother."
"And you talk about Astoria with Scorpius, do you?" Harry fires back. "The divorce, the abduction — because that's what it was, let's not sugarcoat it — she abducted him. And her death, do you talk about that?"
Draco stares at him. Harry waits for anger or a demand to leave, but there's neither. "Yes," Draco says. "Scorpius isn't just my son, he's Astoria's son too. No matter how painful it might be, I will always remember that."
Harry falls silent.
They spend the rest of the visit discussing the half-completed family tree, then Harry collects James and leaves. He doesn't say another word to Draco about his son.
But the conversation weighs heavily on his mind.
Two days later, James is lounging around in his bedroom, halfway through a comic, when Harry knocks on the attic hatch.
"Yeah?"
"Come downstairs, Aunt Andromeda's here."
James isn't really in the mood for socialising, but he dutifully goes downstairs anyway. Harry and Andromeda are sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of cardboard boxes between them. James eyes the tattered boxes.
"What's that?"
"I was helping Andromeda do a bit of cleaning," Harry says, "and found these. We thought you might like to take a look."
James joins them at the table and curiously lifts the lid of the first box. It's stuffed with photographs, he realises, and he picks up the first one. It's a picture of two little girls, wearing matching dresses and hats. "Who are they?" he asks.
"Why, James. You don't even recognise me?" Andromeda asks.
"Wow! Really?" He looks closer at the picture.
"Of course. That's me with my younger sister, Cissy."
James studies the photograph for another moment, then picks up the next one. He ends up spending the entire afternoon surrounded by old photographs, listening to all Andromeda's stories and memories. Her parents, who spoiled her and adored her and gave her everything she wanted — until she married a Muggleborn. Then they disowned her, burning her portrait from the family tree and refusing to ever speak to her again.
"That's horrible!" James is indignant.
"It was. I thought that I could change my parents' minds about Muggleborns the same way Ted had changed my mind, but some prejudices are so deeply ingrained…" Andromeda shakes her head. "I paid a high price for marrying Ted, but it was worth it. Oh, James, we were so happy together…look, there's us on our wedding day! Isn't he dashing?"
James picks up the sepia photograph, gazing at the subjects. Andromeda is beautiful, he thinks, her black hair swept up into bun, her eyes dark and smiling. Ted, a fair-haired man, looks devilishly handsome in a tuxedo. It's not difficult to imagine a dramatic love story swept straight from one of Rose's romance novels. Love conquers all, the blurb would read…
Except this isn't a fairytale romance, he remembers. This is a Pureblood woman and a Muggleborn man, and the man was torn apart by a werewolf and the Pureblood woman ended up alone, her daughter murdered and her grandson dead.
He studies the wedding picture for a long moment, then sets it down and picks up another photograph. In this one, a baby is waving a rattle. "Who's this?" he asks.
Harry grins. "Don't you recognise Sirius?"
"Oh! I'm named after him!"
"And what a wonderful namesake," Andromeda adds. "Oh, James, he would have adored you. Little Sirius…he was seven years younger than me. Such a spoiled child — the whole family loved him — and I thought he'd grow up just like Cissy, meek and mild. But he certainly didn't, I'll tell you that! Quite the teenage rebellion, if I recall correctly. He was so stubborn. He could never just accept things the way they were. And his tantrums! When he got angry…well, we all ran for cover then. Reminds me of you sometimes, dear."
James laughs good-naturedly. "I'm not that bad," he says.
Harry exchanges a glance with Andromeda. "Oh, no, of course not," Harry says. "I'm thinking of writing a book, actually, about how to cope with children who are just too calm and level-headed."
James rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. He turns the page and Andromeda taps a picture of a small, dark-haired boy clutching a teddy bear. "Ah, there he is again."
James's smile fades. "He died before the war, didn't he?"
"Yes. Murdered by my older sister, Bellatrix."
"If it were me, I wouldn't call her my sister," he mutters, looking at the photograph of Sirius.
Andromeda is silent for a while. "Though I wish," she says at last, "that I could tell you that time wears away bitterness and resentment...I wish her death had not been so quick. I wish she had lived long enough to suffer all the misery she inflicted upon everyone in her life."
James has always thought Andromeda a formidable woman, and now he remembers why. But then the iron-hard look in Andromeda's eyes fades, and the cold fury disappears from her voice.
"But," she says, looking at him, her expression softening, "my sister is long dead and I am here, with all my memories of those I loved, and I'm sharing all these stories with you. That's a good ending, isn't it?"
James looks back down at the wedding photograph again. Andromeda, young, happy, linking arms with her smiling husband.
It's not the sweeping romance story that would have been written by the authors of Rose's books, but maybe, eventually, love does conquer all.
Later on, after Andromeda has left, Harry calls James to his study.
"Andromeda gave me something else today," he says, gesturing for James to sit down in the nearby armchair. "Something important." He hesitates. "I planned to put it somewhere safe and forget about it. I tend to do that with things that remind me of...people I've lost. I put the memories somewhere safe and try not to think about it."
James says nothing, though he wants to ask a thousand questions. Harry never talks about this stuff, and he doesn't want to say something wrong and ruin it.
"The thing is, James, that sometimes when people die unexpectedly...something called an inquest is held. It's never to assign blame, or accuse anyone. It's just to sort out exactly what happened. And I've...I've read so many inquests. So many of my friends who died in the war."
"Did you read Mum's inquest?" James asks suddenly. He'd never even thought about it...
"She didn't have an inquest. Her death was..." Harry breaks off and stares hard at his desk before continuing. "Her death was expected."
James feels upset and he doesn't know why. "Oh. Of course. That was stupid of me, wasn't it? It was a stupid question."
Harry looks at him, his expression softening. "No, it wasn't. You don't know any of this stuff, and that isn't your fault. It wasn't stupid. You're not stupid." He turns over the folder in front of him. Inquest of LUPIN, Edward ("Teddy") is scrawled across the front of it. James stares at it. "I wasn't sure," Harry says, "if I should give this to you. Inquests...they can be hard to read. So impersonal. All these little details, little medical facts, written by a stranger. But then I realised...it's not my choice to make. It's yours. If you don't want to read it, that's fine. But you're fifteen now, and I think you can make your own decisions."
He picks up the folder and holds it out.
After a moment, James reaches out and takes it.
James stands on the platform.
For some reason, he feels like it's his first day at Hogwarts all over again. Like he belongs more with the wide-eyed first years than the disinterested fifth years. He stands there, watching it all, one hand resting on his trunk, his robes slung over one shoulder. He won't wear them until he's arrived at school. That's the difference between first years and everyone else, he thinks. Eager to put on their robes, preferably with their matching school tie and brand new pointy hat. A uniform to make them feel like they belong. Socks pulled up to their knees, a white-knuckled grip on their luggage, their parents trying to kiss them goodbye.
"Well, I suppose we should say goodbye," Harry says.
James leans forward and impulsively hugs him. He isn't really that fond of displays of affection, but Harry seems especially pensive today.
"I'll see you in December," James promises.
"Write to me, won't you? I know you'll be busy, but — "
"Don't be daft, course I'll write." James smiles at him, and Harry's spirits seem to lift. "See you at Christmas, Dad."
He waves goodbye as he boards the Hogwarts Express. It's the usual cacophony of noise and clutter. He doesn't see anyone from the Gryffindor dormitory, although the platform is still very crowded. No doubt they're all out there somewhere, still farewelling their families.
No sign of Scorpius either.
James frowns, wondering why it matters.
"Lost a star, James?"
He glances up, blinking. A boy with wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes is standing in the doorway of a compartment. He looks oddly familiar, but James can't quite place him.
"A star?" he repeats stupidly, but the boy just smiles and steps back into the compartment.
James pauses, then follows him. There's another boy inside the compartment, identical to the first one, and finally James remembers.
"Lorcan and Lysander," he says. Luna's sons, the twins. They're a year below James, both in Hufflepuff, and he never really bothered speaking much with them.
"I'm Lysander," the first boy says. "It's hard to tell us apart, isn't it?"
"Yeah," James admits.
Lorcan, perched on the edge of his seat and evidently deeply absorbed in a book, glances up. "Oh, hello, James," he says. "Tell me, what do you think about tree dreams?"
"Tree dreams?" Speaking with the twins always makes James feel a little disoriented, as if he's been momentarily dropped into another reality. "I guess…I don't know. Trees dream?"
"They sleep, of course, but whether or not they dream…" Lorcan turns a page.
James sits beside the twins. The noise in the aisles seems to have reached its peak. The platform is beginning to empty of students, the parents waving at the train.
"Maybe that's why the Whomping Willow is so angry," James muses. "Maybe it has a lot of nightmares."
Both twins, now absorbed in the book, look up at him.
"Of course," Lysander says. "It makes sense now. You're awfully intelligent, James."
He wonders if Lysander is mocking him. But he's just sitting there, smiling serenely at him, while Lorcan nods and writes a note on the page.
"We were very sorry to hear about your cousin," Lysander says suddenly, and James blinks.
"Oh. Thank you."
"My mother always says that things find a way of coming back to us, in the end."
James finds that oddly comforting.
The first week of term dawdles past. James carries the inquest in his bag, the presence of it like a heavy rock.
It's the second week of September, on an unexpectedly warm autumn day, when he decides to read it. He takes the folder with him to the last class that day — Herbology. His cactus actually seems pleased to see him, and James spoils it with a few careful pats and some lines of poetry he stole from one of Rose's books. He mutters the lines quickly — if anyone overheard him reciting poetry to a cactus, he'd be forced to immediately and somewhat aggressively defend his masculinity. But the cactus seems appreciative anyway.
"You look healthy," James tells it, and for once he's not lying. It's turned quite a lovely green colour. He glances over his shoulder, looking along the aisle of plants, and his heart drops. There's a group of Ravenclaws around his stack of textbooks, whispering and rustling through the pages, and then one of them picks up the folder.
No. James races towards them; a few of them look up with startled expressions.
"Stop it! Put that back!"
"Why? Important, is it?" the Ravenclaw holding the folder says.
"Ooh, maybe it's something private!" one of them adds, and the next moment they're all trying to grab ahold of it — even Scorpius is there, James notices with fury, swishing his wand as if to Accio the folder. By the time James has reached the group, the battered-looking pages are in the hands of a confused-looking Ravenclaw.
"Give it back!" James snarls, bringing his fist back, and the Ravenclaw ducks away.
"Calm down! What are you making such a fuss about, anyway?" The Ravenclaw tosses the pages at James. "They haven't even got anything written on them."
"Oh," the other Ravenclaws mutter in disappointment, and they all slowly melt away, returning to their tasks. James isn't so quick to forgive, though, and he grabs ahold of a passing Sinclair.
"What did you do?"
"Let go of me," Sinclair snaps. "I just came over to see what all the fuss was about. Some of the Ravenclaws thought it'd be interesting to go through your books. You carry way too much stuff, you know."
James lets go of him, his heart still pounding as Sinclair gives him an offended look and straightens his collar before walking away again. Probably still deserves a punch to the nose anyway, James thinks.
Left alone again, he stares down at the two blank pages. Completely empty. Not a single word.
Someone walks up behind him. "You should be more careful," Scorpius says quietly as he pauses beside James. He leans forward, swishes his wand again, and words begin to reveal themselves, the dark ink spreading across the parchment: Section 67 of the Coroner's Act (1988)…
James quickly slips the pages back into the folder, before he has a chance to read any more.
By the time he's looked up again, Scorpius has left.
James doesn't join the crowds as they jostle away after class. Instead, he goes out to the castle grounds, nearly empty apart from the occasional first or second year, and walks to the end of the pier. Here, where he's dived into the water so many times. The first time as a nervous second-year, toes curling round the splintered edge of the pier, standing in the grey predawn light, anxious that he wouldn't make the team. And every time thereafter, whether he was about to triumphantly break a personal record or collapse onto the pier afterwards, overcome with anger and despair at his worst performance. Don't waste my time with anything but your best, he remembers Saltworth saying.
James sets down his bookbag and sits down slowly, rolling up his trousers a little and taking off his socks and shoes, letting his feet dangle in the water. It's very chilly, even at this time of year, and he's grateful for the warmth potions during swim practice.
Then he gets the folder out of his bookbag and opens it. He won't stop reading, he tells himself resolutely. If he stops, it will take him forever to open the folder again and read the rest.
So he takes a breath, somehow reassured by the cold water washing over his feet, and begins to read. The little details are kept short and succinct, the language impersonal as any report James has ever read. It reveals nothing unexpected: Teddy was kayaking with two friends when he capsized and struck his head on a rock. By the time his friends — slightly ahead of him — realised something was wrong and managed to eventually find him and drag him to the river's surface, he wasn't breathing. It took very little time for the MediWizards to declare him dead.
But here and there, little details pepper the neat handwriting like cracks in a wall:
It was observed that a lot of water and froth was coming out of Teddy's mouth and nose...
He was unable to be revived despite the efforts of his friends...
At autopsy, the deceased had a head injury, a scalp laceration, acute subdural and subarachnoid haemorrhages. It is likely that this head injury would have rendered him unconscious, thus allowing drowning to supervene...
James looks down at the last page, at the scribble of the coroner's signature, a droplet of ink splashed next to the date. Then he closes the folder and looks up, gazing across the lake. It shines beneath the bright afternoon sun, rippling like hammered silver.
He's always loved the water.
The wards vibrate at the usual time on Wednesday, despite the fact Draco no longer has a file nor a case officer.
He smiles to himself as he opens the door, then stops.
Pansy gives him a bright smile, as if the years without contact have all melted to nothing. "Draco," she says. "It's been far too long."
He looks past her. "Where's Clayton?"
Pansy's smile fades. "Christopher's busy with work."
"Why are you here?"
"For Merlin's sake, Draco. Invite me in, at least."
Draco crosses his arms and leans against the wall, allowing Pansy to walk past. She looks around the front hall and he waits for a disparaging comment about the goblin tapestries disappearing or the dark walnut panelling being replaced.
"You've done a beautiful job," Pansy says instead, taking off her cloak and hanging it from the hat-stand.
"I'm sure you didn't come all this way to give me empty compliments."
"Draco, let's not do that. Tell your house-elf to fetch some drinks, we'll talk about the old days."
"I haven't got a house-elf."
Pansy looks at him. "That's why I'm here," she says, going to the front parlour and sitting down on the uncomfortable chaise. Draco follows her but chooses to stand by the window.
"Because I dismissed my house-elf?"
"Because this is how the Pureblood world is now, Draco. It's so progressive. When I married Christopher, I turned my back on it. Just like you did when Astoria died. All those stuffy traditions and old ways…but things have changed. Everyone's getting rid of their house-elves, and moving — "
Draco cuts her off. "Why are you telling me this?"
Pansy pauses and looks down at her wedding ring. She twists it around her finger as she speaks. "As a favour to an old friend. I want you to come back too, Draco. It's not the same without all my friends there."
"Have you forgotten you're speaking to a fellow Slytherin? I know when I'm being manipulated." Draco gives her a long look. "We haven't spoken for years. Don't feed me those lines about missing old friends. At least give me the dignity of telling the truth."
Pansy falls silent. After a moment, she twists her ring so it's facing upwards again. "You're right," she says at last. "There's a reason. Last year, something happened."
"You divorced Clayton."
She glances up at him, surprise flickering across her face. "What? No. No, we actually…we started a family."
"You had a baby?"
Pansy nods. Draco tries to summon a feeling besides hurt. Despite the distance between them, he would have expected to at least receive a perfunctory announcement.
"Congratulations," he says at last, and Pansy's tense expression dissolves into a smile.
"Thank you. I had a little girl. She's beautiful, Christopher just can't stop doting on her. She's my world now. Children are like that, aren't they? For the first time in my life, I realised I would give up everything for someone else."
Draco's heart gives a little pang. He misses Scorpius; it's still two long months before his son will come home for Christmas.
Pansy seems to read his mind. "It made me realise," she says quietly, "that you must feel the same way about your son. And I had to let you know."
"Let me know what?"
"Draco…with your father finally imprisoned, your name has been cleared. People know you weren't hiding him or helping him evade capture. People feel like they can associate with you now, without the implication that they support…" She clears her throat. "Anyway. The important thing is, in the Pureblood circles, people are talking about your son now. They're saying he would make a good match for their children."
Draco says nothing, but the words send a rush through his heart. A match…a Pureblood match for Scorpius…he would have everything. Everything Draco ever dreamed of and never achieved. Scorpius would have status, wealth, respect. He could use his Pureblood connections to get any career he wanted. He would have a beautiful home, a happy family.
"I would do anything to see my daughter happy," Pansy says. "And I know you must feel the same way about your son. I couldn't just leave it. I had to let you know. This is your chance, Draco. I know it's been long, so long, but the Pureblood world will welcome you back with open arms. Rejoin it. Introduce Scorpius. He's turning sixteen this year, it's perfect timing. There are many respectable families who have daughters his age, and from what I hear, they would love to meet him."
Draco clears his throat. "I'll think about it."
Pansy nods, then stands up. "You should," she says. "Send me an owl when you make up your mind, and I'll help arrange things."
"Thank you."
She leans forward and gives him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Draco accompanies her to the front entrance. Just as she's leaving, he repeats, "Congratulations on your daughter."
She turns and smiles at him. "Thank you. I'm so happy."
He watches her walk down the long driveway.
Harry Floos to the manor, planning a leisurely Monopoly game with Draco, but upon arriving he notices a familiar scent.
"Pansy was here, then," he comments as Draco ushers him to the kitchen. "What'd she want?"
"What? How did you – never mind."
"Same sickly-sweet perfume she wore back at Hogwarts. Smells like someone threw up a lavender bush. So, what was she doing here?"
"Nothing."
"You're such a liar. Who's banker?"
Draco shoves the Monopoly board at him. "You can be banker for once. And now that my name has been cleared, apparently all Pureblood eyes are on Scorpius."
Harry straightens up, his eyes narrowing. "Someone's after Scorpius?"
"What? No, you idiot. They think he'd make an excellent match for their respective daughters."
"You're joking. Purebloods still do arranged marriages?"
"Don't be daft, it's nothing so backwards as that. It merely means that a few Pureblood families with girls around Scorpius's age will contact me, and arrange a few visits. If Scorpius happens to get along particularly well with one of the girls, it's a match. A courtship usually follows. But," he adds, giving Harry a look, "it's always up to the children. We parents might arrange visits, but the moment Scorpius — or one of the girls — decides it won't be a good match, then both families will just move along."
"Still doesn't seem right," Harry says, picking up the dice.
"Why not? Scorpius can decline all the matches if he wants. It's just a way of making sure that all options have been explored."
"You mean it's a way of trying to make sure Scorpius finds a nice Pureblood wife before he accidentally falls in love with a Muggleborn."
Draco frowns at him. "I knew you wouldn't understand it. It's just a tradition. Besides, if Scorpius does marry one of the Pureblood girls, then what does it matter? He's happy. She's happy. The families are happy."
"It still seems manipulative to me. And what will you do if Scorpius decides to marry a Muggleborn? Or even a Muggle," Harry adds, and Draco's frown deepens.
"Can't you just be happy for me, Potter? When I was Scorpius's age, I received so many invitations that I could hardly attend them all. I didn't want to settle, though, so I didn't accept any courtship arrangements." Draco picks up his quill. "I certainly regretted that five years later, after the war. I was very lucky to have Astoria."
"How generous of the Greengrass family," Harry mutters, and Draco glances up at him, his expression sharpening.
"Generous of Astoria. She was beautiful, intelligent, charming — she could have had anyone. But she chose me. And her family hated that. They said she could do a lot better than a Malfoy." He looks back down at the parchment again. "They were right, of course, but Astoria stayed with me anyway."
Harry has wondered, occasionally, what Draco saw in Astoria, especially after he had read their legal records. The bitter divorce, the horrible custody battle, the nasty little details emerging. Logically, he knew they had loved each other once — or at least accepted the idea of a life together.
But now, he wonders what Astoria saw in Draco. Her fall from grace, her disintegrating relationship with her family, her mental health collapsing beneath the weight of it all, her eventual retreat to a life as a Muggle…there must have been something, at the very start, that made it worth it. Something about Draco, something Astoria had seen in him.
"And that's what I feared happening to Scorpius," Draco says, pulling Harry back to the present conversation. "No parent wants to see their child experience constant rejection. This is my chance to give him a real future."
Harry looks down at the board. A part of him wants to argue with Draco about it, and express doubts about returning to the Pureblood circles.
But if their roles were reversed, he thinks, he'd probably do the same for James. A better future.
So he looks up at Draco and musters a smile, raising his cup of tea. "To Scorpius's future," he says, ignoring the shadow of doubt.
Draco smiles.
The first test of the year is scheduled: A Potions practical test. James sits beside Iwan in Potions, whispering advice before Slughorn begins the class. Scorpius, uncharacteristically late to class, has to take the last place left: the seat on James's other side. So far, however, he's been studiously ignoring everyone around him and reading his notes.
Iwan nudges James. "Don't forget about that Defence test next week too. What are your notes on shield charms?"
"I don't know," James mutters, flipping through his book. "I've nothing here except a drawing of a dragon."
"Yeah, I've got a half-finished sketch of cheese chasing a mouse."
They laugh; the moment is slightly interrupted when a Ravenclaw girl in front of them turns around.
"What's so funny?" she asks James, smiling.
"Nothing," he says, startled.
"Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. You've just got a really nice laugh..."
"Thanks, I guess," James says, and he turns back to Iwan. "Come on, you must have some notes..."
The Ravenclaw girl looks a little disappointed, but she turns back around again. Iwan gives James a meaningful look.
"What?" James asks.
Iwan leans closer. "She fancies you, you dolt."
"Don't be an idiot."
"You should ask her on a date."
James is doubtful. "I don't even know her."
"Well, you can get to know her. On a date." Iwan tilts his head meaningfully towards the girl.
James turns back to his own notes. The Ravenclaw girl keeps turning around to smile at him, which is quite disconcerting, and then whispering to her friend — the loathsome Sinclair. That doesn't bode well, James thinks suspiciously, and he's right.
"Sorry," says the girl, turning around again. "I don't mean to interrupt, I was just wondering...you mentioned the Defence test, and I'm...well, I don't mean to brag, but I am considered the best in the class. Maybe we could study together...?"
"James would love that," Iwan says with relish, ignoring James's glare. "You could even show him your Patronus."
The Ravenclaw goes bright red, but James straightens up with new interest.
"Really? You know how to do a Patronus? I'd love to learn that!"
Sinclair, who has thus far sat there with an unimpressed expression, scoffs at James. "Firstly, your friend was just making a completely inappropriate joke. Secondly, nobody can cast a Patronus — not even the seventh years — so you definitely wouldn't be able to learn it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" James demands.
"Oh, come on. We all know Abigail isn't exactly asking you out for your intellect."
The girl — Abigail, James supposes — goes even more red. "Shut up, Stuart!" she hisses at Sinclair.
"Why? We all know he needs remedial Charms and can't even cast the basic spells. Let alone a Patronus," Sinclair adds.
Iwan looks up, his eyes narrowing. "What's your problem, Sinclair? And if it's so simple, go ahead and cast your Patronus, then."
"Are you deaf, Calthorpe? I just said nobody can cast it," Sinclair snaps.
"I can."
They all turn and stare at Scorpius.
"What?" Iwan asks with confusion.
"I can cast a Patronus." He turns a page, not looking up from his work.
"Who taught you?" Abigail asks suspiciously.
"Nobody. I taught myself."
Sinclair gives him a look of contempt. "You are such a liar, Scorpius Malfoy. Nobody just learns this stuff from reading a book."
James looks at Scorpius curiously, and Abigail moves closer to eagerly whisper in his ear. "The other day, Professor Flitwick was explaining how a rebounding spell works, and Malfoy said it was all wrong. He said a bunch of nonsense about something called trickonometry — "
"Trigonometry," Scorpius corrects.
" — and told Flitwick he was wrong."
"Was he?" James asks.
Abigail looks at him blankly. "What?"
"Was Professor Flitwick wrong?"
Sinclair gives James an irritated look. "Why would he be wrong? Honestly, you're as mental as Malfoy."
"I'm not mental," Scorpius says sharply. "It's maths, that's all it is. If you bothered to understand the — "
"Oh, do shut up. We're all sick of hearing about your precious Muggle science. It's not the least bit interesting — "
"I dunno, it sounds a bit interesting to me," James says truthfully. They all turn to look at him, Scorpius included, their expressions mirroring surprise. "What?" James asks defensively. "It does sound a bit interesting."
"Oh, really?" Sinclair retorts. "Then Malfoy can tell you all about it, and then I'm sure you'll both be able to cast perfect Patronuses within a week."
"I can already cast a Patronus," Scorpius says angrily. "And I will tell James all about the science of it!"
"Oh, brilliant. Good luck teaching Potter to cast a Patronus when he still has problems with a disarming spell!"
"James is absolutely capable of casting a Patronus," Scorpius snaps. "It's a spell that requires a lot of strength, so he's certainly got a solid chance. Unlike you."
Someone clears their throat. They all turn and look to the front of the room, where Slughorn is waiting. The entire class is staring at them.
"If you're quite ready," Slughorn says with disapproval.
Sinclair slinks down in his seat and Scorpius's cheeks turn a faint pink. James opens his textbook and begins preparing for the test.
But his thoughts remain elsewhere.
Rose grimaces.
"You don't think it's a good idea," James says slowly.
They're sitting in the common room, playing a game of chess, and James had decided to tell Rose about the interesting conversation in Potions. Had Scorpius actually offered to teach him a Patronus? Was the offer genuine? Should James accept it? He thought Rose — more keenly aware of the nuances of such situations — might provide some soothing reassurance.
Clearly not.
"I mean, you've just…you've had a really good year so far," Rose says, nudging her reluctant bishop forward. "I just don't want you to ruin it."
"Yeah, but it's sort of…well, we don't hate each other quite as much as we used to." He pauses. "I think."
"Oh," Rose says. "Well. In that case, you should definitely sit in a small room with your arch-enemy and attempt to learn a very frustrating spell from him. I can't imagine what could possibly go wrong."
"Thanks for your support," James says as his rook takes out Rose's bishop.
She gives him an apologetic smile. "Just trying to be realistic. Just be happy that he's leaving you alone. The best thing you can do is stay out of his way, right?"
James offers her a quick smile. "It's your turn."
She narrows her eyes.
He waits until the next class they have together: Potions again. Scorpius is already sitting in the front row when James arrives, and he takes the seat behind him. As Slughorn begins the class, James leans forward and taps Scorpius's shoulder.
"I'm not busy on Fridays."
Scorpius gives him an irritated look. "What?"
"Fridays. For Patronus lessons."
Slughorn raps his wand against Scorpius's desk, making him jump and turn back around.
"Concentrating, Malfoy."
"Yes, sir."
"And you, Potter, focus on your own work."
"Yes, sir," James echoes.
Scorpius doesn't turn around again for the rest of the lesson. After Slughorn dismisses the class, Scorpius stands up and leaves without a word. As James makes his way to his next class, Rose catches up to him and gives him a sympathetic look.
"It was nice that you tried," she says, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"It's fine," James says, shrugging her off. "You can say 'I told you so' if you want."
"Come on, I'm not completely awful." She offers him a smile.
James returns it, despite the faint disappointment rising in his heart.
That night, after dinner, he makes his way back to the common room alone. Normally he's accompanied by a few friends — Iwan or Nate, sometimes Martin and Paul — but he leaves the Great Hall early, his appetite a little diminished. As he's walking up the stairs, someone calls out to him.
"James!"
He turns. Scorpius is standing at the base of the stairs, looking at him.
"Yeah?"
Scorpius looks at him for a moment longer and just as James is about to become impatient, he speaks.
"Fridays are fine," Scorpius says. "Seven o'clock. Outside the Transfiguration classroom. Don't be late."
A group of Gryffindors approaches, laughing loudly about something, and Scorpius turns and hurries away without another word. James stares after him until the Gryffindors catch up to him.
"James! You going to the Quidditch match on Saturday?"
He blinks and looks at the student. One of Rose's friends, he realises. "Yeah, of course. My cousin's the Seeker, of course I'll be there."
"That's the spirit!" And they sweep him along in their light chatter and laughter.
For once, he doesn't really mind their noisy presence.
Pansy makes arrangements, as she promised she would. Draco has to know the current shops and businesses frequented by Purebloods, and the parties to which he simply must acquire an invitation, and the current darlings of the Pureblood world, and the favoured families. All the places to be seen, and the people to be seen with. Harry would laugh about it, Draco thinks, but it's serious business. A single misstep could see Scorpius slide down the social scale. Don't get a domestic house-elf, Pansy tells him. They're considered to be poor taste these days. Don't mention the war, a lot of Pureblood families are building their wealth on Muggleborn connections and are very careful about maintaining political neutrality. Don't go to these shops, they're seen as cheap now. Don't speak to these people, they've fallen out of favour.
He has a very pricey year ahead, Draco thinks. He must give every illusion of wealth, from visiting expensive restaurants to purchasing the finest robes possible for Scorpius. The manor must look perfect at all times, ready for future guests.
Then there's the issue of Scorpius's birthday party. It will be held in summer, six months after Scorpius's actual birthday. But the date isn't important — it's just an excuse to properly introduce Scorpius to the Pureblood world, and summer is the ideal time for an impressive display. Luxurious decorations, extravagant food, and of course all the little 'extras', as Pansy calls them — enchanted lighting, champagne fountains, fireworks, and a cake large enough to feed at least fifty guests.
He's busy balancing the budget for all of this when Harry makes his appearance, looking damp and displeased.
"Malfoy," he says. "Thought I'd be nice for once and use the front door. I was banging away on it for ages! It's pouring down out there!"
"Yes, quite," Draco says vaguely, scribbling numbers into columns.
"I swear, I will now use your Floo at all hours of the day — "
"What?" Draco stares in disbelief at the total he just wrote. "No, no…that's not right…"
Harry peers down at the bit of paper. "What's that?"
"My financial downfall, apparently."
"What? But…you've seemed so busy with genealogy projects lately…"
"I can't do this. I have to get another job. A second one." The scrawled number seems to look larger the longer Draco stares at it.
Harry reads it aloud. "Two thousand galleons…? Two thousand galleons? What are you doing, buying gold bricks for the driveway?"
"Investing in Scorpius's future." Draco folds the paper in half. "I'll have to find a way to do it. I can't afford to make shortcuts. As far as the Pureblood world knows, I'm wealthy and Scorpius has a sizeable inheritance."
Harry is silent for a long moment, tapping his fingers lightly as if debating something with himself. "Are you sure you really want to do this?" he asks. "It just seems so…stressful."
"I told you, this will give Scorpius everything he's ever wanted."
Harry smiles, but it seems a little tense. "Of course," he says. "I'm just making sure that…that everything will be all right."
"It will be. I'll make sure everything is perfect," Draco says with determination. "Now, sorry to forego our usual Monopoly game, but I really need to finish these family trees. I need every commission I can get now."
"Of course," Harry says, and he picks up his cloak. "I'll see you later, then."
Draco nods and reaches for his genealogy books.
Two thousand galleons.
Well, he thinks as he picks up his quill. He'd better get started.
James meets Scorpius outside the empty Transfiguration classroom. It will be good for practice, Scorpius says. Nice and spacious, and McGonagall doesn't mind if students use her classroom for homework.
James isn't sure what he expected, but Scorpius doesn't waste time on any social niceties or casual conversation. He immediately goes to the blackboard, a piece of chalk ready in his hand. James is amused and almost sits at a desk, planning to manufacture a look of exaggerated attention, but decides against it. Instead he sits on the edge of one of the desks, his bookbag on the floor, and waits as Scorpius begins to write on the blackboard.
"So, any explanation you've gotten so far about producing a Patronus is complete rubbish."
"Is it?" James asks doubtfully. "I've heard it's all about happy memories. That sounds right."
"It's wrong," Scorpius says. "It's all about chemistry."
"Chemistry?"
"All emotions are triggered by physiological reactions. The four main chemicals responsible for happiness are serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins." The chalk rasps across the blackboard as Scorpius writes out each word.
"So I need more of those, then?"
"Sort of. The problem is that the professors focus too much on endorphins, which are responsible for improving your mood. But you need all of the chemicals to be present, with ideal levels of each one." Scorpius spends the next few minutes explaining the types of moods produced by certain chemicals. "That's why some people take ages to learn a Patronus, and some never do," he says, finishing his explanation. "They're just not picking the right memory."
James is a bit worried that Scorpius will expect him to choose a memory then and there, but he doesn't. He shows James the wand movement instead, and they practice it a few times.
"Now all you have to do is find the right memory. You can make a list of them if you'd like, and next week you can practice and work out which one is the most successful."
"A list?" James echoes. That seems a bit impersonal, somehow. "That's…efficient. Is that how you learned the Patronus?"
"I didn't need a list."
"But you think I will?"
Scorpius tenses. "It was just a suggestion."
James pauses, then shrugs and picks up his bag. "Thanks. It might help. See you next week, then?"
"See you next week."
James turns and leaves. It's late now, the candles burning in their brackets, and no doubt old Grimble will be on the prowl for wayward students. James settles his invisibility cloak over his shoulders and slips away; behind him, he hears the soft footsteps of Scorpius fading into the opposite direction.
When he gets back to the dormitory, the boys are throwing paper aeroplanes around and laughing.
"Where have you been?" Martin asks.
"Learning a spell from Scorpius Malfoy."
"Thought you two hated each other."
James shrugs. A paper aeroplane hits Martin right on his nose; he jumps up and races across the room.
"Iwan, you absolute prat! Get back here!"
Iwan just laughs and runs around the dormitory as Martin chases him; Paul and Nate grin at James.
James suddenly has the strange but very comfortable feeling of being exactly where he wants to be.
Chapter 19: Forgiveness
Summary:
In which the Patronus lessons continue — Scorpius and James have a spectacular duel — James appeals to the professors in regard to an issue Scorpius feels rather conflicted about — the boys go home for Christmas.
Chapter Text
October vanishes rapidly into chilly November, and James thinks the term is going well thus far. His grades are picking up — his father sends an enormous parcel of sweets and a letter filled with heartfelt congratulations after James's mid-year report arrives.
"This is what you get for getting Acceptables and Exceeds Expectations?" Martin asks incredulously as James unwraps the parcel, the sweets spilling out.
"You should've seen James's grades before," Iwan says with a grin. "I expect his father wept tears of joy when he saw this year's report."
James joins in the laughter good-naturedly — after all, it's thanks to the help of his friends, whether they're volunteering to help him study for a test or slipping him answers in Charms class.
And James's swimming is fast becoming another point of pride: Saltworth discusses, at length, the first of the upcoming inter-school swim meets and tells the team to check the noticeboard later in the month. James doesn't give it too much thought until he's shaken violently awake by Iwan one Thursday morning.
"What?"
"Come look at the selections!"
"Go away," James groans. "Every single other morning, I have to get up at the crack of dawn to — "
"You've been selected for five events!"
James hurriedly dresses and rushes down to the noticeboard. Thomas is there already, looking smug.
"Five events," he tells James. "That's the maximum number you're allowed to have, otherwise I reckon Saltworth would've selected you for even more."
"Five...? Which ones? Oh, God — she's mental! I'll be dead at the end of the day!"
"Look how happy he is," Iwan tells Thomas, and they snicker together. After a moment, though, Iwan's smile fades and he nudges James. "You all right?"
"Yeah, it's just...five events is a lot," James says, feeling a little anxious. "I can't let the team down."
"You won't," Thomas says firmly. "You'll be annoyingly brilliant, as ever."
James manages a quick but genuine smile.
The only area in which he's not succeeding (in fact, failing spectacularly) is his Patronus lessons. Four weeks in a row, he's gone to the Transfiguration classroom only to spend an hour casting nothing while Scorpius stands there and frowns.
Tonight is no different. James has even brought along a list of memories, but none of them seem to be working.
"Expecto Patronum!"
His wand fizzles like a broken firework. Scorpius — leaning against the wall with an indecipherable expression — finally steps forward.
"What memory are you using?"
James pauses. "My father taking me to the Quidditch World Cup when I was a kid."
"You don't even like Quidditch."
"Well, it's not about that, is it?" James retorts. "It's about family and friends and all that stuff."
Scorpius doesn't say anything. He looks up at the ceiling, evidently studying the shadows across it, then exhales slowly. "Try a different memory."
James is silent for a while. Swimming? Perhaps the day he joined the swim team…he'd always wanted to join a team, and he'd been so determined to succeed…accomplishment, isn't that one of the emotions Scorpius listed as triggering serotonin?
"Expecto Patronum!"
Nothing. But James half-expected that anyway. It's not even a particularly strong memory. He'd looked at a noticeboard and felt happy to see his name there. Hardly inspiration for producing a powerful Patronus.
"Try something else," Scorpius says.
"Like what?"
"Christmas. Surely those are good memories."
James looks away, frowning. "They remind me too much of my cousin now," he says.
Scorpius falls silent. After a long moment, he makes another suggestion. "Birthdays, then."
"Just makes me think of my mother missing all of them."
"Summer holidays."
"Nice, but not exactly moments of pure joy."
"When you got your Hogwarts letter."
"I was expecting it. Would have been angry if I hadn't received it."
"First day at Hogwarts."
"Fun, but exactly what I expected."
Silence settles between them. James stares at the floor. He's got plenty of happy memories, of course he does. They're nice and pleasant and remind him of good times. But they're not moments of powerful happiness.
"Wait," James says suddenly. "I've got one."
Scorpius nods and steps back again. James takes a breath, concentrating on the memory. Watching fireworks with Teddy. The way James always felt thrilled every time, as though he never grew out of watching cheap fireworks. Teddy always beside him, always smiling…
"Expecto Patronum!"
…and the way the spells lit up beneath the hospital door, and James thought they looked like fireworks because he didn't realise they were resuscitation spells. One second intervals. One second for every breath Teddy didn't take.
"You're not concentrating on your memory."
James glances up. "I am!"
"You're not. I was watching, and your expression just fell like someone punched you. You were thinking about something else."
"I wasn't! The memory is just connected to something sad, that's all."
"Well, you can't use it then."
"Then I can't use any of my memories!" James hurls his wand across the room; Scorpius's irritated expression is replaced by something James can't quite pinpoint. He crosses the room and picks up James's wand.
"You shouldn't throw your wand."
"Yeah, all right, McGonagall. Spare me the safety lecture," James snaps, but he hates the way he sounds more upset than angry, his emotions belying his words.
Scorpius doesn't respond anyway, just gazes at James's wand for a long moment. "Hawthorn," he says, and James frowns.
"What?"
"Hawthorn, isn't it?" Scorpius holds up the wand.
"Yeah…how'd you know?"
"My father's wand is hawthorn too." Scorpius pauses, then swishes the wand. Stars burst forth like a tiny meteor shower, raining silver around them. "I quite like hawthorn wands. They're contradictory. They're really good for hexing, but they're also really good for healing. Their owner has to know what they want from the wand or it can backfire badly. If the wizard isn't powerful or decisive enough, they'll never master their wand."
James is doubtful. "I've never had a problem with it."
Scorpius glances up at him. "You're the most decisive person I know. Once you've made up your mind, it's done and there's no changing it."
James's mouth twitches. "That's a nice way of calling me stubborn."
Scorpius smiles, but then looks away quickly as if afraid James will see it and mock him. James frowns and casts around for something to say.
"What's your wand?"
Scorpius pauses, then holds it out. "Guess," he says.
James accepts the wand. A pale wood. No engravings, no silver-gilded handle. When James was younger and they used to practice spells together, he always thought Scorpius's wand was a little boring. Now he thinks it's rather elegant in its simplicity. "The survivor's tree," he says at last.
"What?"
"Fir. That's what it is, isn't it? Teddy said firs could survive anything. All weather, even the hottest summers and the worst winters." James is immensely pleased with himself for remembering that tidbit of information. He turns the wand over in his hands and, still feeling slightly smug, decides to guess the core. "And…phoenix feather."
"How'd you know?" Scorpius asks, looking surprised.
"I read a lot."
"That's rubbish. You guessed."
James grins and Scorpius suddenly raises James's wand. "Expecto Patronum!"
The wisps of silver gather slowly, coming together to float through the air. James watches closely, hoping to see a clear form, but nothing happens and he realises Scorpius hasn't quite mastered a true Patronus yet.
"Sorry," Scorpius says, and James glances up. "You were expecting a corporeal form, weren't you?" He looks disappointed with himself.
"Don't apologise, you muppet," James says firmly. "It's still a Patronus, isn't it?"
There's another fleeting smile, then Scorpius gives James his wand back. "See you Monday," he says. "We've got that Potions test, don't forget."
"Yeah, of course. See you later." James hands Scorpius's wand to him, then turns and leaves.
Later on, in his dormitory, he casts Prior Incantatem just to see those little wisps of happiness again.
Harry visits Draco on the first of December. It's been a long time since he last visited; Draco has been very busy lately and responds infrequently to Harry's letters. It took quite some time to schedule this visit, and even now Draco seems a little rushed as he ushers Harry in and leads the way to the kitchen.
As Draco is busying himself with the teapot, Harry turns his attention to the Monopoly board. It’s been shoved to the corner of the table, where it’s slowly gathering dust. Next to it, there’s jewellery half-wrapped in cloth and Harry frowns, peering closer. A long silver necklace, a sapphire pendant hanging from it. A diamond-studded bracelet, a set of gold earrings, two jade hairpins. Harry looks closer at the bracelet, spotting an engraving along the inner band. To my perfect Narcissa — yours always, L.M.
Draco scoops up the jewellery quickly, placing the cloth back over it.
“So, did you hear the news about the dragon?” he asks smoothly.
Harry lets the matter go. “Ah, yes. The escaped Short-Snout. Took a rather interesting detour over Leeds.”
“Apparently the Ministry was up all night casting memory charms left, right, and centre.”
They laugh and move onto other topics, but Harry keeps glancing at the jewellery when he thinks Draco isn’t looking. Narcissa’s beautiful jewellery; gifts from her adoring husband, gifts that ought to become family heirlooms.
Soon to be sold.
The price for Scorpius’s future.
Harry wants to say something about it. Tell Draco not to worry, he’ll pay for it instead. Or ask if it’s really worth it at all, is it truly necessary?
"Look," Draco says, drawing Harry's attention to a stack of invites. "Scorpius has already been invited to so many social events. I can't believe it. Look at all these opportunities!" He picks up an invitation, his eyes bright.
Harry nods. "He's popular already."
And later, when Harry picks up his cloak and goes to the Floo, he pauses and tells Draco he’s a good father.
Draco doesn’t know how to respond to that. He blinks, and looks confused, and then he reddens slightly and says, “Well. I try.”
Harry’s grin broadens into a smile. “See you next week, Malfoy.”
“Next week, Potter.”
Harry steps into the fireplace.
At James's next Patronus lesson, Scorpius arrives twenty minutes late and is full of tense comments and stony expressions. At first, James can't figure it out; he thought things had been improving between them, but Scorpius is downright irritable with him.
"Any suggestions for memories?" he asks Scorpius after another failed Patronus.
"No," Scorpius says tersely. "Maybe you should give up and work on something else."
James tries his best to ignore Scorpius's snappish tone. "Well, we could always try duelling. We've got that Defence test coming up."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? Don't you trust me?"
James had spoken the words carelessly, lightly, but Scorpius stares at him until the silence grows thin and fragile. James, feeling unexpectedly stung, is about to pick up his bag and leave when he notices the way Scorpius is keeping his left arm quite still, as if he's hurt it.
James narrows his eyes as realisation dawns. "For Merlin's sake, just tell them to leave you alone."
Scorpius glares at the ground between them. "They'll graduate soon."
"Another seven months of this? You're mental. Just throw a few hexes and they'll leave you alone."
Scorpius snaps then. "That's always your solution, isn't it? Hit the problem until it goes away."
"It's worked so far. I don't see anybody hexing me."
Scorpius reaches out and wraps his hand around James's wrist, and James feels unnerved by the intensity and anger in Scorpius's expression. "You don't get it, do you? That's how they win. They want me to throw jinxes, and hexes, and shout and hurt people. So then they can turn around and say, we told you. Just like his Death Eater father." As Scorpius speaks his next words, his grip on James's wrist increases painfully. "But I will never let them win."
James looks at him for a long moment. "Let go of me," he says evenly.
Scorpius finally glances down then, and he seems almost surprised by the fact he's still holding James's wrist. He lets go.
"Hold out your other wrist," James says, and Scorpius looks at him, confused. "The one with the new Dark Mark," James adds. "Don't bother denying it's there."
"No. This is my problem, I'll deal with it — "
"This is our problem, and we're dealing with it."
Scorpius stares at him. After a moment, James impatiently leans forward, grabs ahold of Scorpius's wrist, and begins the transfer charm. After it's finished, James steps back and turns away.
"I should get back to the common room, I promised Rose a game of chess," he says.
Scorpius nods. "See you next week," he says, his voice carefully blank.
They leave, walking in opposite directions.
He'd hid the last Dark Mark with an illusion charm; it hadn't been his best spell work, but nobody spent much time staring hard at his wrists anyway. This time, however, James has an idea.
He bides his time. Two days pass until, by happy coincidence, he sees a group of Scorpius's tormentors slip into the library.
"Back in just a minute," James says to Rose, who's ranting about the outcome of a recent Quidditch match.
" - honestly, if Stevenson wasn't so bloody selfish and learned how to share the quaffle, it — what? Oh. All right."
He ducks into the library and weaves through the aisles, looking around until he spots the group of students. They're gathered around a study desk, whispering about something.
"Hello," he says brightly, making several of them jump.
The prefect, who appears to be the ringleader, frowns at him. "What do you want?"
"Just wanted to say," James says, keeping his voice light and casual, "you probably should be a little more careful about the pranks you play. Giving Harry Potter's son the Dark Mark? That's really low, even for you. To be honest, I'm not actually sure people will find it that amusing."
The prefect pales. "What? We never..." He trails off as James holds up his arm, rolling the sleeve up. "But...we didn't...that wasn't for you, it was..."
James ignores that. "You're not going to be very popular, are you? There's an awful lot of people attending this school who actually like my father. Saved a lot of lives, you know? They're not going to be pleased about your little joke. Very bad taste."
The lanky girl next to the prefect speaks, looking horrified. "But — we didn't — you're not going to tell people we did, are you?"
"Yes," James says. "Bit hard to hide the evidence, isn't it?"
The students exchange panicked looks. "Wait," the prefect says urgently, grabbing James's arm. "Look, I'll cover it up for you, I'm one of the best at Charms — "
James shakes him away. "I didn't come here to ask for your help. I came here to warn you. You'd better be very careful who you give these tattoos to."
The prefect pauses, looking bewildered, then realisation sinks in. "I..." He glances at the other students. "Yes, we will."
"In fact, you'd better be careful who you speak to. Or even look at."
The prefect nods slowly. "Right," he says nervously.
James turns and walks away. Behind him, he can hear urgent whispering, but it doesn't worry him.
As he turns the corner of the aisle, he bumps into Rose. She's grinning widely at him.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake. Did you follow me?"
"No," Rose says cheerfully.
"And you heard everything."
"Oh, no, of course not."
That night, she gives him all of her notes for the upcoming Defence Against the Dark Arts test and finishes his Charms essay for him.
That weekend, James attends his first swim meet at Durmstrang. The other boys — Thomas, Iwan, and Noah — are all keen to show off their knowledge from previous years.
"Last year, Beauxbatons hosted it," Thomas says. "We weren't allowed to go near the girls."
James laughs. "What were you supposed to do, sit in the middle of the Quidditch pitch?"
"It was torture," Noah says gloomily. "There were all these girls in their swimsuits and Saltworth said anyone caught ogling would have to swim a lap in the unheated pool."
James is indignant. "Hang on, they have pools there? We have to swim in a freezing lake during the Scottish winter! Where's our pool?"
They plot to write a petition about it; there's little else to keep them occupied. Durmstrang is hosting the first swim meet and the other students are rather unfriendly. The Hogwarts team are staying in a draughty dormitory and any time they make too much noise, an angry prefect storms in to shout at them in Bulgarian.
"What's he saying, anyway?" Thomas asks after the fifth time it happens.
"What do you think he's saying? 'Shut up', I imagine."
Regardless of chilly dormitories and angry prefects, It's nice just to be there with his team mates. They complete their events over the weekend, James achieving good results, and they're full of cheerful celebration when they return to Hogwarts on Sunday night. They miss the evening meal, but Saltworth arranges for supper to be sent to the Great Hall. She sits with them and is too pleased with their results to tell them off when they start loudly singing their school song and flicking crumbs at each other.
James goes to his dormitory in high spirits. "Is it always this good after a meet?" he asks Thomas.
"You haven't seen anything yet. Wait until we make it to the European School Championships, and then even Saltworth joins in the singing."
"Oh, Merlin, no."
Thomas laughs. "See you tomorrow, Potter."
"Tomorrow, Pearson." James waves goodbye and begins ascending the stairs to the Gryffindor tower, Iwan by his side.
He sleeps easily that night, tired but happy.
The week drifts past, snow gathering on the grounds as December settles into place. Come Friday, Scorpius is running late for the Patronus lesson and James is suspicious. He idly scratches at the fading Dark Mark on his wrist, wondering if he needs to give that prefect another little reminder.
But when Scorpius arrives, he seems unbothered. "Hi," he says, setting down his bag.
"Hi," James echoes. "So, what are we practicing tonight?"
Scorpius looks around the room, then waves his wand. "Exinanio."
Desks rush past James, soon followed by chairs, until the room has been cleared, leaving James standing alone in a sea of space.
"Are you still interested," Scorpius asks, "in duelling?"
"Oh! Really?"
"With some conditions. Nothing that causes harm," Scorpius says firmly.
James nods. "All right. Well...shall we begin, then?"
They bow to each other, then turn and walk in opposite directions. Just as James reaches the wall and turns around, all the candles suddenly flicker out as if a breeze has run around the room. Across the darkness, Scorpius's face is a pale blur. James readjusts his grip on his wand, holding it aloft, ready at any moment to deflect.
After a long moment, he calls out, impatient. "Come on, then!"
"I've already made my move," Scorpius whispers into his ear.
James jumps, his heart pounding, and whips around. "Expelliarmus!"
His spell ricochets into empty darkness. There's nobody there. He turns back around. Scorpius is still on the other side of the room, walking slowly towards him.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell misses Scorpius somehow, even though James knows his aim was perfect. He blinks. Is Scorpius too far away? He starts racing towards him, but the distance between them never seems to lessen. What's happening? By pure chance, he glances up, and his footsteps falter. Far above him, in the darkness, there's a mirror image of him gazing at himself.
And then he's suddenly falling, tumbling through the air — is he the one on the ceiling, looking at his reflection below? — and then shooting stars are lighting up the room, so bright he has to close his eyes, and he calls out, feeling afraid suddenly.
"Scorpius!"
Scorpius speaks as if he's right beside James. "I promised I wouldn't harm you."
James opens his eyes. "Expell—"
The stars disappear at once. Darkness. He lands in it; it splashes around him like ink, and he sinks slowly. For a moment he feels utterly disoriented. The darkness rises and falls, an endless ocean, and when he finally surfaces, he's on the ground and Scorpius is standing in front of him, his wand held aloft.
"Expelliarmus!" James shouts.
The spell shoots right through Scorpius as if he's a ghost. James's jaw drops. He reaches out and brushes a tentative hand through Scorpius's chest. It's an illusion. Residual magic. Now that his eyes have adjusted to light again, he realises the image of Scorpius is thin and shimmering slightly.
"Over here!"
He whips around. Scorpius is running across the room. Every step he takes, he leaves behind an imprint of himself. He keeps doubling back and changing directions, and James can't even tell which Scorpius he should be aiming for. Just as he raises his wand, silver droplets begin to pour like rain, except they're upside down, falling from floor to ceiling. Unless...unless James is somehow still tumbling through the air, and he's the one upside down...
He stumbles, the ground feeling uncertain beneath his feet. The images of Scorpius snap back together like magnets. Then Scorpius flicks his wand and the floor disappears. The air turns thick as treacle; James drifts through it, silver raindrops catching lazily on his clothes and skin. He loses his grip on his wand and it floats away from him, and he tries to battle through the heavy air. The silver rain is pouring hard now, picking up momentum, and the ceiling opens up like a sky, clouds of gold storming across it, the rain crashing over James like a waterfall even though he's completely dry. All he can do is wait, caught helplessly in the tide of Scorpius's spells.
His hand closes around something. His wand.
He turns, his feet suddenly on firm ground. "Expelliarmus!"
Scorpius's wand flies from his hand. The air returns to normal. The clouds disappear.
James exhales shakily. "Well, that's..." He stops as, in his hands, Scorpius's wand turns into an elegant koi fish and swims away from him, towards the ceiling. "W-what? I don't..."
Scorpius smiles lightly. "You've been fighting empty-handed, it seems."
"What?"
Scorpius's smile widens. From one sleeve, he pulls out two wands. His wand, and James's.
"My wand!"
"Are you sure?" Scorpius asks.
"But..."
Scorpius tosses James's wand into the air. James reaches out to catch it, and —
"Geminio!"
The wand duplicates. James grabs both of them. They duplicate again. And again. And again. Soon he's surrounded by ten, twenty, thirty wands. They fly into the air like a swarm of birds, then explode into fireworks. Sparks rain down, every colour, and then come together and form a koi fish again. It circles James and he reaches out, trying to catch it —
The tiny beat of wings against his palm. He opens his hand and a golden snitch flies out. Another one appears to join it, and another, and all of them are swarming around James until the fluttering of wings slowly morphs into the crashing of waves, and he's swept away in a riptide of gold, and it's all he can see...
He hears the soft murmur of yet another incantation, and he manages to reach out blindly, his fingers closing around a sleeve. He pulls Scorpius close to him and for a moment they tumble across the floor together.
James doesn't need his wand now. Scorpius's wand slips from his hand and James grabs it.
"Finite Incantantem!"
His voice rings across the room. There's a cacophony of thunderous noise as the spells collapse, sending bright colours spiralling into the air like sparks from a fire, and then there's silence. The room is dark and empty again. James doesn't move for a moment, then pulls away from Scorpius and sits up. He's breathless, his heart still racing, blood pounding through his veins. After a moment, he laughs weakly.
"You," he says, "are something else, Scorpius Malfoy."
"Something else?"
"That was...that was like seeing real magic for the first time. Like everything else I've ever learned has just been a silly trick."
"Oh." Scorpius leans against the wall and closes his eyes.
"You all right?"
"Just a little tired," Scorpius murmurs.
James isn't surprised. He'd meant what he told Scorpius. That was the best magic he'd ever seen. Transfiguring ceilings into oceans, forcing gravity to obey different rules, creating darkness from thin air, and somehow — in the midst of it all — stealing James's wand and replacing it with an illusion. Even secretly mimicking the action of an Expelliarmus spell when James tried to cast it. Layers and layers of illusion...
"When did you take my real wand, anyway?" James asks.
Silence.
Scorpius has fallen asleep.
James sneaks back into the dormitory well after curfew. Scorpius had slept for nearly two hours, at which point James had shaken him awake and directed him back to the Ravenclaw tower.
"We duelled," Scorpius had told him sleepily.
"Yes, and you were completely brilliant."
Scorpius had looked absurdly happy as he wandered back to his dormitory.
And now James walks up the long flight of stairs to the Gryffindor tower. "And where have you been?" the Fat Lady demands.
"Flimflam."
"Excuse me, I asked you a question — "
"Flimflam!"
She glares at him but swings the portrait open nevertheless. "Just like your father," she mutters. "Always showing up at odd hours, telling me that my job is to ask for the password and mind my own business — "
"Sounds like good advice," James says as he steps into the common room; he hears a muffled — but extremely indignant — "Well! I never!" as the portrait swings shut again.
Smiling, he practically floats to bed.
However, the next week, a slight shadow appears on the horizon: James receives an appointment for a careers advice meeting with McGonagall. He isn't pleased.
"Do I have to go?" he asks the boys in the dormitory.
"Everyone has to," Martin says. "The Head of House is supposed to help you pick your career."
"I wondered when we'd get our careers advice." Iwan looks delighted. "I've got a bunch of questions about dragon handling."
"That's a brilliant career!" Martin looks envious. "Wish I'd thought of that, I would've paid more attention in Care of Magical Creatures."
"I haven't a clue what I want to do," James says uncertainly.
"You'll figure it out." Paul claps him on the back.
"Yeah, maybe."
But as the date of his appointment grows closer, he starts quizzing everyone around him in the hopes of gathering ideas for a career. Martin's thinking about becoming a herbologist; Paul's thinking about broom making. Iwan wants to be a magical creature carer, and Rose says, very tentatively, that she's thinking about going into professional Quidditch.
"What's so bad about that?" James asks; Rose seems rather downcast.
"Mum doesn't approve at all. Says I've got amazing grades and I should do something with my intelligence."
Rose isn't the only one prickly about her career choice. One evening, as James is studying for a test with Scorpius, he unwisely asks him about his career advice meeting.
"Bet you're looking forward to it."
"Why?"
"Well, you know, on account of being a complete genius at Charms and Transfiguration. And nearly every other subject."
Scorpius turns the page of his textbook. "I'm not very interested in it."
"In what?"
"Spells."
James stares at him. "What? Just — spells in general? But — you've got advanced tutoring with McGonagall and everything, you're — "
"A natural prodigy, yes, I hear it from the professors all the time."
"But you could do absolutely anything you want," James tells him. "I've never seen magic like yours. There's wizards twice your age who haven't got half your strength. Or talent. No wonder McGonagall thinks you're the best thing since auto-inking quills."
"Practice, mostly."
"I could practice for years and I'd still be nowhere near your level. You could be anything. Any Ministry job, or even a Hogwarts professor."
Scorpius mutters something. James pauses.
"What?"
"Magic is fun," Scorpius says at last. "That's all it is to me. It's fun. It's not a career."
James doesn't understand. "You...you want to become a Muggle?"
"I want to work in a Muggle field."
"Like what?"
Scorpius tenses. "I've...I've always wanted to be an astrophysicist. Ever since I was little."
"A what? Is that something to do with astronomy?"
"Sort of. Things like...how a galaxy forms."
"Oh." James has never even thought about those types of things. "So, how do you become a...a physics wizard, then?"
Scorpius gives him an irritated look. "Weren't you listening? There's no career for it in the Wizarding world! It has to be Muggle, I'd have to go to a Muggle university, which I can't — "
"Why not?"
"Because they work differently! They'll need a score and a certificate, one from a Muggle school that I obviously didn't attend! You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?"
James doesn't understand why Scorpius is getting so worked up about it. "Well...sort of...I don't know, maybe ask your dad about it?"
"He doesn't even know what a television is! What could he possibly know about A Levels?"
"What are those?"
Scorpius looks at him, his jaw clenched, and James changes tack.
"What about Professor Flitwick?"
"What about him?"
"He's your Head of House, he's your career advisor then. He might able to — "
"He doesn't want to hear it. He just goes on and on about how I'm such a talented wizard, I've got such potential, I could pick any Ministry career I wanted...oh, never mind. Just forget it," Scorpius snaps, and he grabs his textbook and stuffs it into his bag.
"Wait, I was just asking..." James trails off as Scorpius snatches up his bag and storms off.
James is angry at first — angry that Scorpius is being so moody about it, angry that he's snapping at James even though it's not James's fault — but he more he thinks about the conversation, the more his anger fades. He thinks about Scorpius ranting about the impossibility of attending a Muggle university, and he remembers, when they were far younger, Scorpius talking sadly about the Muggle world in which he spent his childhood.
He sits and thinks for a long time.
The next day, after classes have finished, he spots Flitwick and McGonagall walking along a corridor, McGonagall nodding.
"Yes, Filius, I quite agree. The seventh years can be quite creative, I'm not surprised they've set up a post-exam Cheering Charms service — oh, hello, Potter," she says briskly. "If you'd like to discuss your careers appointment tomorrow — "
"No, it's not that. It's about Scorpius Malfoy."
Flitwick's eyebrows rise; McGonagall pauses, giving James a faintly suspicious look. "I'm afraid I cannot discuss details of other students — "
"No, I don't want to know anything about him," James says quickly. "The opposite, actually. I want to tell you something about him."
"Perhaps we should go to my office," McGonagall says.
Flitwick nods. "Well, I'll speak with you later, Minerva — "
"No," James interrupts, "I think you ought to hear it too, Professor."
McGonagall exchanges a look with Flitwick.
James sits in the comfortable tartan armchair, waiting. He'd finished telling his story quite some time ago; McGonagall has been considering him over her spectacles ever since. Flitwick seems content to sit in the armchair opposite James, waiting patiently.
"Malfoy is an extremely talented wizard," McGonagall says at last. "I regard him as a Transfiguration prodigy, and I do not use that term lightly."
"Oh, yes," Flitwick adds. "A wizard of remarkable capabilities. I haven't seen such power for a very long time. It seems a shame for it to go to waste — "
"No, don't," James says before he can stop himself.
McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "Don't what, Potter?"
"Don't start going on about how good he is at magic. That's what the problem is. Everyone keeps putting all these expectations on him and it's not fair. Your job is supposed to be listening to what he wants, not the other way around." James hesitates, but he's already started his speech and he decides to plunge recklessly onwards. "I reckon you're distracted by his surname. You keep thinking of him as a Malfoy, from one of the old Pureblood families, like the Wizarding world is all he's ever known. But that's not true. He was raised in the Muggle world, and ever since he was little, he's dreamed about being a physics...an...an astrophysicist," James finishes, stumbling a little. "And you might think you're helping him with all this talk about magical potential, but you're just helping him kill his dream."
McGonagall looks at him, then offers him the biscuit tin.
"Thanks," James says cautiously, pausing slightly as he pulls out a squeaking sugar mouse.
"I ran out of ginger newts, I'm afraid," McGonagall says, noting his expression.
"Shame."
"Yes, quite."
James nibbles on the ear of the sugar mouse, much to its alarm. McGonagall surveys him for a moment, then turns to Flitwick.
"He would be a suitable candidate," Flitwick says to the silent question James missed.
"I'm afraid that young Malfoy has left it rather late, though," McGonagall says, and James's heart sinks.
"He...he can't do all his physics stuff?"
"Well, preparation for Muggle universities are preferably arranged by the time students are sixteen." McGonagall opens her desk and retrieves a stack of papers. "He will need to undertake very intensive studies if he wishes to gain his certificate of education."
"What's that mean? Can he do it? Can you sort something out?"
"I can make arrangements. The Muggle Liaison Office exists for a reason, Potter. From time to time, we have students who wish to pursue qualifications in the Muggle world." McGonagall picks up her quill. "However, it really is best if they tell us as soon as possible. I will make an appointment with a liaison officer immediately."
Flitwick nods. "If this is truly what Malfoy wants, then as his Head of House, I will do my best to see it through."
James exhales. "Thank you." He stands up and goes to the door.
"Just a moment, Potter," McGonagall says, and James pauses. "It takes quite some courage to tell two professors they are wrong."
"Oh," James says uncertainly.
She gives him a faint smile. "Twenty-five points to Gryffindor."
The next day, in Potions, Scorpius is called out of class.
"A word with Malfoy, please," McGonagall says, and Slughorn nods. Scorpius looks worried as he slowly gathers his things, and though James is still a little stung that he snapped at James during their argument, he feels bad about Scorpius's look of pale anxiety.
"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," he whispers as Scorpius goes past him.
Scorpius frowns at him and turns away, following McGonagall from the classroom.
James goes back to work.
He doesn't see Scorpius for the rest of the day, including their Divination class. For the rest of the week, Scorpius seems to make himself scarce. That Friday evening, James goes to the Transfiguration classroom. The classroom is empty and dark. James walks across the room, his footsteps echoing, and puts his bag down on the near the neat rows of desks. There's some leftover instructions on the blackboard from a seventh-year lesson; the spell looks difficult at first glance, but James looks a little closer and begins understanding it. Don't look at what it is, Scorpius is always telling him. Look at why it is. Then you'll understand it forever.
He waits for a long time.
Scorpius never shows up.
The next day, Saturday, James plays a game of football with the dormitory boys. He scores some magnificent goals.
"Iwan's the same," Martin complains. "All that swimming and strength training, it isn't fair! You two are awful."
"I think James is a great player," Paul says happily.
"Yeah, because he's on your team!"
They laugh and go inside, trailing mud behind them, much to the outrage of Grimble, the caretaker. Ahead, James catches a glimpse of blond hair, but it's Lorcan. He smiles and waves at James as he goes past.
"Haven't seen Scorpius all week," James observes.
"Oh, didn't he tell you?" Nate asks. "He was granted special permission to drop some of his classes and attend specialised tutoring. There's a few Muggleborn students who are doing the same thing, actually."
"Oh." James should have remembered Nate is one of the few people on good speaking terms with Scorpius. They're always helping each other with their Herbology projects. "He told you that?"
"Well, I'm one of those Muggleborn students. I want to go into engineering, so I applied for special tutoring too."
"Congratulations," James says, and he means it.
"Thanks." Nate pauses. "Scorpius has been really busy. Otherwise I'm sure he would've told you."
James offers a quick smile. "Right, yeah."
He appreciates Nate's effort, at least.
Christmas break is fast approaching. James finally has a moment with Scorpius, catching him on his way to the Great Hall for lunch.
"Hey, Scorpius."
"Oh, hello," Scorpius says distractedly, putting his bag over one shoulder.
"I was just wondering if we're still doing Friday lessons." James pauses. "You haven't shown up for the past two Fridays..."
"Oh, yes, right, sorry about that. I've been really busy."
"That's all right. So, this Friday, I was thinking — "
"I'll be busy again."
"Oh."
Scorpius reaches out and touches his shoulder. "Thanks for talking to McGonagall and Flitwick for me. I'm grateful, I really am, but I'm working on this really demanding project at the moment, so..." He drops his hand and brushes past James. "I should really be working on it right now. See you later."
"Bye," James echoes, watching him disappear down the corridor.
James tells himself he doesn't mind, and come Friday evening he stands alone in the Transfiguration classroom again, practising endless spells by himself.
It's the final day of school before Christmas break. James is making his way to the library after dinner; Lorcan and Lysander are accompanying him. Both of them have developed some highly interesting theories about chimaeras, and James, while thinking the whole idea is mad, is also too curious for his own good.
Just before they step into the library, however, Lysander pauses.
"The stars are bright tonight."
James looks around. The nearest window only shows his reflection. "Are they?"
"Perhaps we should stargaze instead," Lorcan agrees.
"It's a little cold for that," James says reluctantly.
"Not if you bring the stars inside."
James, still looking at the window, steps into the library doorway and immediately runs right into Scorpius; they both drop their textbooks.
"Sorry," Scorpius says, kneeling to collect his books. "I'm glad I bumped into you, though. I've been looking for you."
"Have you?" James asks, his voice a little cool. "Anyway, I'm busy."
"Oh, no, we've decided to go stargazing instead," Lorcan says.
"Yes, see you later, James," Lysander adds, and the twins turn and walk away, leaving James with a vague sense of betrayal.
"I just want to show you that spell I've been working on," Scorpius says to James. "It won't take long."
James sighs and leans against the wall, crossing his arms. "Let's see it, then."
"Not here, it requires a lot of space."
James dutifully follows Scorpius up stairways and down corridors. The stone walls radiate cold and he shivers slightly, wishing he'd brought his cloak.
Scorpius stops suddenly. "Ready for the spell?" he asks, not turning around.
James glances around the corridor. "What, here?"
"Of course."
Realisation hits James about a second before Scorpius raises his wand and taps it against the stone wall.
"Limens."
The wall melts away and Scorpius steps through it. James doesn't move for a moment, his gaze transfixed. After a long moment, he follows Scorpius.
The field stretches on and on, a lazy summer night. The grass sways in the faint breeze. In the corner of the room, beyond the shambling fence, is the old oak tree. Every branch perfectly replicated, every leaf carefully created. A cloud of butterflies, small and white-winged, rise and dance around James. He looks up into the night sky at the countless constellations, the moons waxing and waning, the planets glittering.
"I wanted to say thank you," Scorpius says.
"Most people would've sent a card." He tries to speak lightly, but his voice betrays him.
Scorpius smiles at him.
James returns home for Christmas in a startlingly good mood, Harry notices. He helps decorate the tree, and puts the star atop it, and wraps presents for his cousins. Rose visits to help with the Christmas baking and Harry keeps a careful eye on James, half-expecting a little prickliness, but James tells Rose to pick any recipe she wants and they'll make it.
"Eclairs," she says excitedly.
James groans. "Trust you to pick the hardest recipe in there."
"Oh. Shall I pick another?"
"No, I said you could pick anything you want," James says firmly, and begins fetching ingredients.
"It's good to have an impressive recipe up your sleeve," Harry adds, wiping down the counter in preparation of the mess that's sure to come. "Girls like a boy who can cook. Speaking of which — "
James rolls his eyes. "No, Dad. I haven't got a girlfriend yet. Nobody's asked me out yet."
Rose puts her hands on her hips. "Oh, really? Remember Abigail Banhart? Blonde Hufflepuff prefect? She invited you to three study sessions in the library before giving up!"
"Yeah, History of Magic, she said. Most tedious subject ever."
"Courtney Willett, smartest witch in our Potions class? Asked you to Hogsmeade for the weekend?"
"She said something about a tea shop, it sounded boring."
"Audrey Molinaro? Slytherin Seeker? Offered to show you some moves?"
"Quidditch training? In the middle of December? No thanks."
Harry starts laughing. James frowns at him.
"What?"
"For Merlin's sake. You're as oblivious as me when I was your age," Harry says. "Never mind, James. I made quite a few mistakes too. I remember the first time I kissed a girl — "
"Oh, gross, Dad. I don't want to hear about your dates."
Harry continues anyway, too amused by James's expression. "Ravenclaw named Cho Chang. She cried when I kissed her."
James stares at him. "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing!"
"It's a wonder you managed to find anyone after that," James says, measuring sugar into a cup. "Mum must've been mental to marry you."
"Well, your mother never cried when I kissed her. In fact, she — "
"No, that's okay. I don't need details."
Harry laughs. "One day you'll be embarrassing your children with stories of your first date, you know. You'll be telling them all about the girls who cried when you kissed them."
"No, I won't. I won't be stupid enough to kiss crying Ravenclaws." James pours the sugar into the bowl. "Anyway, why aren't we interrogating Rose about her boyfriend?"
"Oh, Rose!" Harry's delighted. "You didn't tell me that. Is he nice?"
"God, you sound just like my mother," Rose mutters. "What do you expect me to say? 'He's awful, I can't stand him'?"
"He's captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team," James says, grinning. "And a prefect, and he's just lovely."
"Shut up, James," Rose retorts, shoving at James. They jostle for a moment, throwing half-hearted insults at each other, both dissolving into laughter after Rose dumps a handful of flour into James's hair.
For a moment, Harry thinks, it feels just like it used to.
Home.
Scorpius comes home with an enormous stack of textbooks and a newfound determination to read them all. It had been a battle just to get him home; he'd wanted to spend Christmas at Hogwarts, studying of all things, but he'd reluctantly acquiesced after Draco had promised him plenty of study time.
Well, there are a few social appointments coming up, but surely Scorpius will happily leave his books behind for just a few hours.
"I don't recall having this much homework when I was your age," Draco comments as Scorpius begins unpacking. He picks up a book and frowns at the title. Advanced Mathematics, Core One and Two. The other books have equally unfamiliar titles about geography, earth sciences, chemistry, and physics. "What, exactly," Draco says, "are they teaching in Muggle Studies these days?"
Scorpius glances up, then smiles as if he's about to reveal a spectacular surprise. "Well...I'm not taking Muggle Studies anymore. Or Divination. Or History of Magic, or Herbology."
Draco stares at him. "You've dropped out?"
"What? Oh, no! No, exactly the opposite. I've talked to my professors — James did, actually, he was completely brilliant, he arranged it all — and I've been approved for something called the Alternative Qualification Pathway, it's this program for — "
"Yes, I know what it is," Draco interrupts. Back in his schooldays, his fellow Slytherin students used to make fun of those who enrolled in that program. Squibs In Training, they'd called them.
Scorpius's smile wavers. "You...you don't approve," he says.
Draco doesn't know what to do. He paces around Scorpius's room for a moment. He wants his son to be happy, but why would Scorpius — with so much magical talent — throw it all away to settle on an ordinary Muggle career? And will the other Purebloods shun Scorpius's choice? Will it even matter? Pansy did say it was all very progressive these days.
"It's — no, it's fine," Draco says at last. "Just...it's a bit of a shock, that's all. Don't they need my permission first? They can't just — they can't just withdraw you from classes, from core subjects — "
"I've kept the core subjects," Scorpius says quickly. "I'm still doing Transfiguration, and Charms, and Potions. And since I'm over sixteen, Professor McGonagall said parent permission wasn't necessary."
"You've only just turned sixteen. And it's young, it's very young, to be deciding on a career. You really need to keep your options open, especially since you've got such extraordinary magical capabilities. It just seems like such a shame..." He catches sight of Scorpius's expression becoming closed and guarded, and hurries to remedy it. "I just don't want you to make a decision you'll regret."
"I won't regret it." Scorpius stares down at the floor. "I thought you'd be proud," he mumbles.
"I am, of course I am, this stuff looks very challenging and I'm sure you'll apply yourself, as always." Draco pauses. "Just...perhaps resume Herbology, at least? Divination can still be removed, it's a waste of time. But if you want a Ministry career, it won't hurt to make sure you've got all the right classes covered."
Scorpius nods and turns away, busying himself with another stack of textbooks.
Draco takes his cue and leaves.
Dinner that night seems even quieter than normal. Scorpius, unusually, isn't reading a book; he's staring at his plate, poking at the peas. Draco is busy mentally analysing their earlier conversation and realises something.
"You said that Potter boy arranged this."
Scorpius looks up from his plate. "James? No, he just...made things a lot easier for me."
"Why would he do that?"
Scorpius pauses. When he speaks next, his voice is carefully neutral. "He's much nicer now."
"Oh, really? Went from being a complete bully to suddenly being your best friend, did he?" Draco frowns and sets his cutlery down. "You'll want to be very careful around someone like that, Scorpius."
Scorpius says something, too quiet for Draco to hear.
"What?"
Scorpius raises his voice. "I trust him."
"You've certainly made a lot of interesting decisions lately." Draco meant to say it lightly, but the words hang in the air like rainclouds, ominous and heavy.
Scorpius doesn't say anything for the rest of the dinner.
Christmas arrives; Draco has spent an inordinate amount of money of gifts. Scorpius is pleased but somewhat bewildered with his main gift: a Starfire Phoenix, the next upgrade from Scorpius's old broom, a Starfire Century.
“These are very expensive,” he says, looking up from the broom and chewing at his lip.
“Well, I’ve been very busy with my work.”
“You could’ve spent it on other things,” Scorpius protests. “I don’t need a new broom, my Century is only a couple of years old.”
“You don’t want it, then?” Draco asks lightly. It works; Scorpius finally smiles, his face lighting up.
“Of course I want it.”
“Are you sure? I can take it back to the shop and buy you socks instead.”
Scorpius laughs, lifting the broom reverently from its packaging. “Thanks, Dad. It’s amazing, I didn’t expect anything like this.”
But Scorpius will need a top-of-the-line broom if he’s going to be playing Quidditch on any of the privately-owned pitches of Pureblood families. And his other gifts follow this line of thinking: brand new robes with elaborate stitching, and quality clothing that speaks of class and wealth just a little better than Scorpius’s favoured jeans and t-shirts. And then, as Draco takes Scorpius to the conservatory, another necessity for courtship: a snowy white owl. Scorpius must be able to send and receive invitations.
Scorpius eyes the owl. The owl eyes him back.
“Does it bite?” Scorpius asks.
“Owls don’t bite. They peck.”
“Does it peck, then?”
“Of course not. Go on, hold out your arm.”
Scorpius edges forward and very hesitantly holds out his arm. The owl flutters down from its perch and lands on his forearm. Scorpius winces.
“It’s…got claws.”
“Ah, talons, yes. Best to wear something with thicker sleeves.”
Scorpius tries to give his arm a little shake. The owl hangs on with admirable determination.
“Is it a pet?” Scorpius asks.
“Well, it’s not for dinner.” Draco is amused.
Scorpius gives his arm another shake. “But…will I have to feed it?”
“It’s an excellent owl, very well trained — it will return to you after hunting its own food.”
“Oh.” Scorpius shakes his arm, this time with quite a bit of force, and the owl finally hoots angrily at him and returns to its perch. “Does it have a name?”
“Yes, it’s named Arcas,” Draco says firmly, before Scorpius can suggest any Muggle-esque pet names.
“Arcas,” Scorpius repeats. “Well. At least I have a reliable owl for my post, then.”
But Draco saves the final gift for after dinner: a calendar. Scorpius accepts it, looking bewildered.
"Oh...thanks?" he says.
"Open it up."
Scorpius flips through the pages. It's filled with all the social obligations Draco has so carefully inked in, all the accepted invites and lunches and high teas and garden parties.
"You're going to be very busy," Draco says, smiling. He knows Scorpius doesn't have too many friends, and surely Scorpius will be delighted at all the arrangements Draco has made.
"I'm visiting...relatives?" Scorpius asks, staring down at a very intense June page. Summer is the season of choice for socialising.
"Pureblood families. When I was your age, I spent so many afternoons visiting family friends, enjoying parties and little celebrations...they're some of my fondest memories. And now, they'll be yours, too."
"Oh."
Draco's smile fades. "You don't like it."
"I...no, no, of course, it's...thank you," Scorpius says, glancing up at him. "I'm just...not great at socialising, that's all."
Draco rushes to reassure him. "Oh, I made sure not to begin with large events or anything like that. I was quite careful to structure the schedule so it's just a few little lunches at first." He pauses. "This is a very big opportunity, Scorpius. These Pureblood families are very influential, they can open up so many doors for our family. I just want to make sure you have the brightest future possible."
Scorpius looks at him, then down at the calendar again. "Thank you," he repeats.
Draco smiles, relieved.
The day after Christmas, James is lounging about on the sofa, enjoying a comic book (a gift from Rose) when Harry appears and begins making his way toward the Floo.
"Just visiting Draco, I'll be back soon."
"Oh! Wait a minute, I want to say hello to Scorpius." James scrambles off the sofa.
Harry raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't say anything further about it. They step through the Floo together and moments later, stumble over the hearth in the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. The room is empty, but Harry simply sets off down the hallway.
"Isn't it polite to wait by the hearth?" James asks.
"Oh, it's fine. Draco doesn't mind." Harry turns the corner and, just outside the library, bumps into Draco.
Draco does mind, James thinks, going by his expression as he looks at them. He frowns at Harry, then gives James a very frosty look; James has no idea why. He can’t recall doing anything particularly offensive lately.
“Scorpius, Harry and his son are here,” Draco announces as he sweeps into the library, as if Harry has brought along a rather murderous goblin. Scorpius, sitting in an armchair and reading a thick book, looks up and spots James.
“Oh,” he says, looking caught between standing up and staying where he is.
“Harry and I will be in the study,” Draco adds crisply. “James will be…where will you be, James?”
“Er,” James says, and Draco nods firmly.
“Yes, good idea. The kitchen. You can make yourself a cup of tea and stay out of the way.”
Harry clears his throat. “Draco, a brief word?”
Draco frowns. “I suppose,” he says. “James, if you wouldn’t mind leaving…?”
“Sure,” James says brightly, only too pleased to escape Draco’s suspicious gaze.
“Wait just a minute,” Harry interjects. “Why can’t we just duck out into the hallway for a moment?”
“What, and leave your son here?”
“Excuse me? If you’re so paranoid that he’ll grab Scorpius and throw him out the nearest window — ”
"Paranoia, is it? When your son has a reputation for being rather volatile — "
"Excuse me?"
Scorpius coughs. James clears his throat. Both their fathers ignore them.
“This is Scorpius’s home, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Draco retorts. “He has a right to feel safe — ”
"Exactly what are you implying about my son?"
“Now, listen here, Potter — ”
“I’m just going for a walk,” James announces.
“ — was not my intention, but if you insist — ”
James leaves. He stands in the hallway and studies a painting of a narcissus flower, pretending he can’t hear the faint argument. The door opens and closes again. He glances up; Scorpius gives him a tense smile.
“Still going, are they?” James asks.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
They study the painting together. James, for want of something to do, puts his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve got an owl,” Scorpius says suddenly.
“Oh.”
“Do you want to see it?”
They go to the conservatory. The owl is asleep.
“It’s a snowy owl,” James observes.
“Is that important in Wizarding culture or something?”
“No. My dad had a snowy owl, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
They both consider the owl a bit longer.
“Do you want it?” Scorpius asks.
“Want what?”
“The owl.”
“Isn’t it your pet?”
“It’s got talons,” Scorpius says gloomily. “I have to wear my Quidditch wrist guards all the time. And it pecks. And it eats field mice. And rats.”
James pauses. “I thought you liked rats. You had that pet one, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t your father remember that?”
“I think he forgot.”
They survey the owl. It deposits a large dropping on the floor.
“You can keep it,” James says.
They look at each other, and then start laughing.
Scorpius seems to relax more after that. He takes James to the living room, showing him a pile of presents. James picks up the new broom, impressed.
"Looks nice. Flies well, then?"
"I assume so. It's got integrated stabilising spells and auto-speed charms."
James puts the broom back down and surveys the large heap of brand new robes, all carefully tailored, all elaborately stitched. "Did you get all this stuff for Christmas too? And a broom, and an owl? Must've cost a mint!"
"Dad says I've got to look presentable for some Pureblood stuff," Scorpius says uncertainly. "Listen, James, you're Pureblood, aren't you?"
"What?" James laughs. "No, of course I'm not."
"But...your dad is a wizard, and your mum's a witch...?"
"That's not how it works. To be Pureblood, you can't have any Muggles in your direct ancestry. My dad's a Halfblood, so therefore I'm Half too. I mean, strictly speaking, nobody's truly Pureblood — somewhere in the family tree, there's always a few people who ran off with a Muggleborn or married a Halfblood — but the families would just disown them and say they didn't count as part of the family."
Scorpius stares at him, eyes wide. "Is...is that what they do? Disown people who don't marry other Purebloods?"
"Well, yeah. Got to keep the 'pure' in Pureblood, right?"
Scorpius fiddles with his sleeves. "Doesn't that...doesn't that seem a bit...harsh?"
"That's why there's a bit of disagreement about it in the wizarding world."
Scorpius finally leaves his sleeves alone and glances up at James. "You seem to know a lot about it."
James shrugs. "It's considered common knowledge."
"Not to me." Scorpius gives him a tense, fleeting smile. "I feel like I know nothing. I'm going to end up embarrassing myself in front of all these Purebloods."
"Just tell your dad you're not interested in attending that sort of stuff, then."
"I don't have a choice." Scorpius's shoulders slump. "This means everything to my dad, he says the other Purebloods are the one chance we've got for a better future. I can't make mistakes. I can't mess this up."
James studies him for a moment: the unravelling thread on his collar, the way he's fiddling with his sleeves again, the scuff marks on his shoes. He remembers Scorpius on their first day of school, thin and small and afraid. Well, James decides, he's been to so many events and boring galas that it seems selfish to keep all that knowledge to himself. He reaches for the calendar and flips it open. "Right. What've you got first? Oh, a fancy brunch. My condolences."
And he spends the next half hour going through the events in the calendar, explaining things, making jokes to help Scorpius lighten up, and it's only slightly ruined at the end when Scorpius says, sounding sincerely grateful, "Thank you, James, you're — " and Harry charges into the room, grabs ahold of James, and says, "We are leaving."
"Oh. Are we? Well — see you at Hogwarts, Scorpius..." James trails off, his farewell lost as Harry drags him from the room.
"The nerve of him! Do you know what he knows about you? Nothing! Absolutely nothing except what I tell him!"
James makes an educated guess at the conversation topic as Harry crams him into the hearth. "So you've been telling Draco that I'm a murderous fiend, then?"
"I absolutely have not!" Harry pauses to bark out their address, then continues the conversation as soon as they arrive in their own grate, even as James stumbles and coughs on a cloud of ash. "I confided in him, I told him I was having some issues with you — "
"Like what?"
"It's nothing, just back in third and fourth year when you were having some minor issues accepting my — "
"Endless exasperation at my constant failures?"
" - gentle guidance," Harry finishes.
James rolls his eyes.
"And I trusted him, I thought as a father of a son of the same age, he would understand, and now he's exaggerated the whole thing, and he's imagining that you're some awful bully and you're out to get Scorpius and — and sabotage his life, or something equally ridiculous, and — what do you mean, constant failures?"
"It was just a joke."
"Well, it's not a very funny one," Harry says firmly, storming into the kitchen and angrily fetching mugs from the cupboard. "You had a lot of problems, James, and looking back, I realise I was not very responsive, and that is entirely my fault. You did the best you could and you did not have constant failures, you had major setbacks and I am very proud of how hard you've worked to overcome them. Although, speaking of major setbacks, if you could please refrain from drinking milk straight from the carton, I would be even more proud."
James goes quiet for a bit. Harry pokes the kettle with his wand, evidently frustrated with the water taking too long to boil, and haphazardly measures sugar into the mugs.
"Typical," Harry mutters. "Nearly out of sugar too. Well, when it rains, it pours." He glances up. "James? Everything all right?"
James nods. Harry's expression softens.
"I probably don't say that often enough," he says, "but I am proud of you. Come here," he adds. "I know you don't like hugs, but you'll just have to tolerate it today."
James doesn't mind at all.
Draco can't believe how spectacularly the conversation with Harry appears to be crashing and burning. What had started as a well-intentioned discussion about perhaps exercising caution in regard to James and Scorpius's newfound friendship is rapidly careening into a shouting match about their respective sons.
“ — was not my intention, but if you insist that this is a personal attack on James," Draco begins, but Harry cuts him off.
"Where is this coming from? I'll admit the boys have had their differences, but you are being downright hostile — "
"Had their differences? Remember that time James threw a complete tantrum because you donated his completely unwanted broom to Scorpius?"
"Look, that was one incident — "
"You think because your son comes in here, acting nice — "
"It isn't acting, Malfoy!"
"What makes you so sure?" Draco fires back. "What makes you so sure that James has suddenly decided all is forgiven — "
"What makes you so certain that it's just a big act to...to what? Kill Scorpius with kindness?" Harry demands.
"Funny you should mention that," Draco says coldly, turning to pace across the floor. Harry remains where he is, standing by the door, his arms folded across his chest. "Scorpius — my extremely gifted son, privately tutored by McGonagall herself, called a Charms genius by Flitwick, perfect grades in every subject — has suddenly decided to drop all subjects except the core ones, and undertake intensive Muggle studies."
Harry gives him a stony look. "Sounds like a conversation you need to have with Scorpius. I don't see how — "
"I did have that conversation with Scorpius, actually. And you know what, Potter? Turns out someone arranged all of it for him. Someone went to McGonagall and discussed it with her. How generous of James to do that. How kind of someone who until very recently hated my son."
Harry uncrosses his arms, looking furious. "And Scorpius was forced to go along with this Muggle Studies stuff, was he? James held a wand to his head, did he, and made him sign up?"
"Scorpius doesn't know what he wants. It wouldn't take much for someone to convince him to throw away all his magical talent just to become a Squib in training." The old insult is out before Draco can stop it.
Harry stares at him, slowly shaking his head. "Squib in training? Merlin, I am really glad our children are not here to hear this."
Draco glances around. He'd been dimly aware of James leaving, but it had barely registered that Scorpius had disappeared too.
"James is a good kid," Harry says firmly. "Clearly you need to talk to Scorpius about a few things, but there is no way James is secretly ruining his life. Whispering in his ear, manipulating him? Sounds like you need to let go of your old Slytherin school days, Malfoy."
"You really want to talk about old school days, Potter? Because my mother was a few years above Severus at Hogwarts, and I remember overhearing a few stories about how your father treated other people. I bet his father wouldn't listen to a bad word about him, either. Funny how your son is turning out exactly like his namesake."
Harry looks at him for a long moment, his jaw clenching. Then he turns, striding out of the room without another word.
Draco stands alone in the library for a while, still seething, waiting to calm down enough so he can speak to Scorpius.
Scorpius is in the living room, alone, when Draco finds him. He's sitting in an armchair, the calendar in his lap. Draco's only too pleased to see the Potters have left already.
"I'm sorry about that," Draco says. "I just wanted to have a quick word with Harry and make sure that James is being nice."
"He is." Scorpius doesn't look up from the calendar.
"And he means it."
"He does."
"People can be deceptive."
Scorpius finally looks up. "James is my friend now, I really — "
"The Christmas tree really needs to be taken down," Draco says smoothly. "Could you pack the decorations away, please? And sweep up the pine needles."
"Yes, Father."
Draco frowns. "Now, please."
Scorpius stands up and silently departs.
Draco sighs, then gets to work folding Scorpius's pile of new robes.
They've got two luncheons, a brunch, and a high tea to attend before Scorpius returns to Hogwarts, and he must look perfect.
The farewell at the end of Christmas break is subdued. Draco is pleased — the social appointments with the Pureblood families all went well — but Scorpius is quiet, responding only when Draco asks him a direct question. As he ushers Scorpius along the platform, he spots James Potter boarding the train and laughing at something one of his friends has said.
"There's James," Draco says carefully. Scorpius looks up. "It seems he's got a few other friends, doesn't he? Plenty of other people to spend time with."
Scorpius drops his gaze. Draco sighs and steps in front of him, placing his hands on Scorpius's shoulders.
"I'm trying to protect you, Scorpius. Please, promise me you'll stay away from that James. Don't bother with him. Find other friends. Better ones."
The train whistle pierces the air. Scorpius glances at the train, then looks at Draco.
"I...I promise," he says.
"Thank you." Draco drops his hands and smiles at Scorpius, relieved. "I really want you to have a good year."
The train whistles again. Scorpius nods and hurries past Draco.
Draco waves, but Scorpius boards the train without looking back.
James thoroughly enjoyed his break, spent catching up with all his relatives — even Dudley and his family — and Harry had spent a lot of time with James, teaching him new recipes or playing games of chess by the fire. They'd visited Luna and she'd shown them a new spell she invented to expel Wrackspurts from the garden, and visited Neville, who had given James plenty of advice for dealing with the Over-Sensitive Cactus, and they'd even had a visit from an old friend: Dean Thomas, who had reminisced about the pictures he'd drawn for baby James so many years ago, and — to James's delight — had told him so many stories about Ginny's daring Quidditch moves during her time as Seeker at Hogwarts. Harry had listened too, and smiled a lot, and afterwards had disappeared for a while before returning, covered in dust, to give James an old (but beautifully maintained) broom.
"This belonged to your mother."
"You want me to have it?" James had said reverently, accepting the broom. "I'll keep it safe, I promise."
"I've been keeping it safe for twelve years, James. I think it's time it was flown."
"No way, it hasn't got a single scratch and I just know I'll crash it."
"I'll be disappointed if you don't crash it at least twice. I expect it to have plenty of scratches and marks by the end of the year, and a story to go with every one of them."
Yes; James is actually reluctant to return to Hogwarts. He stands on the platform and gives his father a hug, promising to see him at Easter.
"See you then, James. And don't forget to write. And keep me updated on the swim meets, you've been working really hard on your swimming lately. And — "
"Train's about to go, Dad." James laughs and waves; Harry cuts himself off and smiles.
"All right. See you at Easter."
James boards the train, pausing as he passes Thomas, who swaps a joke with him, and waves hello to Iwan and the other Gryffindor boys as he passes them by. He likes a bit of quiet on the train journey, and he picks an empty compartment. As he sits down, however, the door slides open, and he glances up.
Scorpius steps inside, smiling at him. "Hi," he says.
James smiles back.
Chapter 20: Making Matches
Summary:
In which Rose plays matchmaker and James dates several girls — Scorpius begins courting a Pureblood — Harry and Draco forgive and forget — Scorpius and James enjoy their renewed friendship.
Chapter Text
January passes quietly, soft beneath the winter snow. In the cosy warmth of the dormitory, the boys practice spells and talk about girls. Though swim practice has been suspended until the worst of the winter weather passes, Thomas and Iwan still frequently meet with James just to chat and laugh. At lunchtimes, he often spends time with Lorcan and Lysander, or sometimes Rose.
Though James feels as though he has more friends than ever, it seems others are less fortunate: Martin and Paul, usually inseparable, have a terrible row halfway through January. James steps into the dormitory one Sunday afternoon and finds the air thick with tension. Evidently, Martin has accepted a date with one of Paul's ex-girlfriends, and this has violated some sort of unspoken friendship rule.
James wisely elects to take a walk around the lake instead. Halfway there, he spots the Ravenclaw team practicing on the pitch, and he pauses to watch them. It's the end of practice, and the players weave through the air. One of them flies to James — Scorpius, he soon realises. Scorpius lands effortlessly, jumping off his broom without bothering for it to stop. It glides onwards without him for a few moments, then drops to the ground.
“Hi,” Scorpius says without even glancing at his abandoned broom. His cheeks are flushed with cold, the tip of his nose red, but he's smiling anyway. “Thanks for waiting.”
James realises Scorpius thinks he's deliberately visited him after practice, but Scorpius seems so happy about it that James can't quite bring himself to correct the error. Scorpius chats about practice, the other players, and their flying techniques; he talks about a new move he's been practicing, and gestures broadly as he explains a recent dive that went rather amusingly wrong.
“Scorpius,” James says as they're halfway across the pitch, “your broom?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course!” Scorpius scurries away, retrieving his forgotten broom.
James watches in amusement. Scorpius is different after Quidditch practice, he thinks. More friendly and happy. Maybe it does for him what swimming does for James, leaving him refreshed and ready to face the world again. As he watches Scorpius return to him, he gets an idea.
“Want to fly for a bit?”
Scorpius pauses. “Right now?”
“Sure. Just let me get my broom.”
It was a good decision. Scorpius's face lights up and James laughs.
“I'll be right back,” he promises.
He returns to the castle, to his dormitory, and fetches his mother’s broom. When he goes back to the pitch, Scorpius is waiting patiently.
“It's practically an antique,” James says, smiling as he holds up the broom. “Used to belong to my mother. I expect I'll crash it into the stands at least twice.”
“You'll be fine."
“No, I'm a terrible flyer. The only way I'd beat you in a race is if you laughed too hard at me and fell off your broom.”
“I wouldn't laugh at you." Scorpius pauses. "Not that much, anyway.”
"Yeah, cheers."
They take off. Scorpius's broom is clearly superior, but Scorpius doesn't race ahead. Instead, he loops around James, calling out occasionally, and tries a few feints and dives just for the joy of it. James appreciates the casual ease of the flight. He always disliked flying with Rose or Hugo, both of them getting competitive and trying to make James race them. It's nice to have Scorpius, star of the Quidditch team, loop lazily in circles and fly unhurriedly beside him.
“Score many goals last match?" James asks, just to annoy him.
Scorpius folds his arms, balancing perfectly on his broom. “I know you're not that ignorant, James. You know how Quidditch works.”
“And the goalkeeper has to keep the Bludger away from the wickets, yeah?”
Scorpius dives towards him; James rolls his broom over and flies upside-down for a moment before righting himself.
Scorpius circles him, smiling. “That was impressive.”
“Liar.”
“No, honestly. You could probably join the team. Why don't you like flying?”
James hesitates. “You know how it is, I’d never hear the end of it - ‘oh, your father won every Hogwarts Quidditch Cup!’ and, ‘your mother was famous for her Seeker moves!’ and all that stuff.” He shrugs. “So I went into swimming instead, because my father is a terrible swimmer.”
Scorpius frowns and toys with the buckle on his wrist guard. “I went into Quidditch for the exact opposite reason,” he says. “I wanted to be like my father, and make him proud.”
James shrugs. “There's nothing wrong with that.”
They keep flying for a while, Scorpius brightening up again after they chase each other around the goalposts. Scorpius is a very fast flyer, and dexterous too: he does half-loops, rolls, corkscrew spins, and endless figures of eight. At one point, he appears to lose control of his broom, tumbling wildly through the air, and James immediately flies to him. Scorpius rights himself and spots James’s expression.
“Sorry, I should've told you I was going to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Mazur’s Tumble,” Scorpius explains. “It's supposed to look as if I've lost control and I'm about to crash. It's excellent for distracting other players, but it's considered a dirty move so I've never done it in a proper game.”
“It's very believable.”
Scorpius grins at him. “It only works once or twice. Then you start seeing the pattern.” He moves downwards suddenly and James reflexively grabs at him before realising Scorpius is letting his broom drop deliberately.
“You prat. Next time I'll push you off myself."
Scorpius jumps to his feet, standing effortlessly on his broom. Far below them, other students look like specks. “Fly closer.”
“What? No way. Do you have any idea how dangerous mid-air switches are?”
Scorpius takes another step, standing on the very tip of his broom, then jumps. James's broom dips for a moment, then settles as Scorpius sits down behind him.
“See? Easy.”
“Yeah, I bet.” James eyes Scorpius's broom; it hovers in the air for a moment by itself, then flies downwards.
“Auto-landing spell,” Scorpius says.
“Fancy. Must be nice, being rich.” James grins as Scorpius laughs incredulously.
“Says the person wearing tailored robes. I bet even your plain t-shirts cost thirty pounds.”
James does a quick mental conversion to galleons. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“What? Tell me you're joking.”
“What's wrong with wanting to be comfortable?”
“You're joking, though. Aren't you? James?”
James laughs and flies away, hampered a little by the extra weight of Scorpius. His broom is nearly thirty years old and does not handle well with two flyers. Nevertheless, James manages to zig-zag his way back to the pitch. He lands rather gracelessly, his feet digging into the grass; Scorpius jumps easily off the broom.
“Show-off,” James says, but Scorpius isn't deterred.
“Thirty pounds. For a t-shirt.”
“A comfortable t-shirt.”
Scorpius shakes his head, smiling.
They pick up their respective brooms - Scorpius carrying his in one hand, James slinging his across both shoulders - and they walk back to the castle together, matched step for step.
January melts into February, thawing slightly beneath the weak, thin sunlight. One cold evening, James is playing a game of Exploding Snap with his friends in the common room when Nate suddenly notices he's missing an important essay. James volunteers to help look for it.
"Thanks, James," Nate says gratefully.
"No problem. I'll check the room of our last class, you can check the Great Hall."
They split up. James hurries to the classroom and casts a Lumos charm as he opens the door. Somebody gasps and he catches a flurry of movement before his wand-light illuminates a very rumpled girl and, next to her, an equally-rumpled Scorpius.
"What are you doing?" James asks rather stupidly.
Scorpius clears his throat. The girl stares at James, her eyes wide and her face scarlet.
James's brain finally catches up. "Oh. Right. Sorry. Uh...Nox." As he leaves, he hears Scorpius say something, and the girl starts giggling.
Well, good to know he didn't completely ruin Scorpius's chances.
When he returns to the common room, Nate has already found his essay.
"Great," James says. "I was traumatised for nothing, then."
"Traumatised? What happened?"
"Scorpius has a girlfriend, apparently."
Iwan straightens up. "Really? Who?"
"I don't know. I didn't exactly ask for introductions," James says wryly.
Nate grins at him. "Even Scorpius Malfoy has a girlfriend, and you don't. So what's wrong with you, then?"
James rolls his eyes. "If it's that important, fine. I'll get a girlfriend."
Paul is indignant. "It doesn't work like that. You can't just go up to whichever girl you like and say, 'fancy a date, then?'."
James looks around and spots a nearby girl.
"Hey," he says, and she glances up. "Fancy a date, then?"
She looks him up and down, then smiles. "Sounds good. Next Hogsmeade weekend?"
"All right." James turns back to the boys. The girl turns back to her friends; excited whispering and giggling breaks out amongst them.
Paul looks outraged.
James finds Scorpius the next day during lunchtime. Scorpius is sitting on a stone bench in a courtyard, reading a book, but when he glances up and sees James, he turns red.
James grins at him. “You never said you were dating someone. What’s she like, then?”
Scorpius turns a page, still looking embarrassed. “She’s nice.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Homework club.”
“What’s her name?”
“Miriam.”
Getting information out of Scorpius is like getting blood from a stone, and Scorpius swiftly changes subjects anyway. He puts his book away and produces a set of magnets — his latest subject in his Muggle studies — and shows James a few magnet tricks. James always loves seeing what he calls 'Muggle magic', much to Scorpius's amusement.
“I heard you’ve got a date this weekend,” Scorpius says as he demonstrates polarity.
“Yeah, we’re going to Hogsmeade.”
“What’s her name?”
James stares at him blankly. “God, I don’t know,” he says with realisation. “I’ve got no idea.”
“What?”
“Scorpius, help me.”
“All right, well…what house is she in?”
“Gryffindor.”
“Good, that’s a start. And what does she look like?”
“I don’t know. She had brown hair. I think. Dark blonde, maybe? Maybe it was reddish.”
“What else?”
“She was…wearing a school uniform.”
Scorpius stares at him. “Sometimes,” he says, “you amaze me.”
James gets the feeling that’s not a compliment.
The Hogsmeade date goes remarkably well, seeing as James spends most of it trying to subtly find out his date’s name.
“Hi, James,” she says brightly, greeting him outside the Three Broomsticks.
“Hey…you,” he says.
They go inside. James orders two butterbeers while his date finds a spare table.
“I was really surprised when you asked me out,” she admits, smiling at him as they sit down. “We’ve haven’t spoken much, have we?”
“No, never.”
She frowns. “Well, we have actually talked.”
James manages a smile as he frantically flips through his memories. He comes up blank. “Oh, yeah, but we haven’t really talked.” He chances a glance at her scarf, hoping to see an embroidered name or at least an initial. Nothing. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask how you spell your name,” he adds casually.
She smiles at him. “Oh, it’s just the regular spelling. Writing cards already? That’s so sweet of you.”
“Yeah, I’m…sweet. Anyway. So the regular spelling, what’s that?”
“You know, the one with the H. So, how’d you go at Beauxbatons last swim meet? I heard you were brilliant.”
James gives up, letting the conversation turn naturally to other topics. The girl ends the date by asking James if he wants to go steady.
“I know it’s only the first date, but I feel like we really connected. You know, you’re the first boy who’s really listened to me.”
“Sounds great,” James says, because he has no clue what else to say.
He leaves Hogsmeade with the realisation he now has a nameless girlfriend.
He tries to extract the information from Rose. She refuses to tell him.
“James Sirius Potter! I can’t believe you asked someone out without even knowing their name. I’m not telling you, you should ask her yourself.”
“Come on! She said we’ve already met before, she’s going to be very upset about this!”
“Oh, I know her, she’s - ” Iwan begins, and Rose wags a finger at him.
“Don’t you dare tell him.”
It seems to become a running joke after that, with everyone refusing to tell James. Even Scorpius seems amused by it.
“Rose is right. Serves you right, you should have asked her on your first date.”
“We’ve been dating for two weeks now, Scorpius! Come on, this is getting really awkward. She doesn’t even have a name on her quills!”
He eventually finds out, anyway, when he helps her with homework one night.
“Shouldn’t you put your name on it?” he asks carefully as she finishes an essay.
“Oh, yes, of course.” She picks up her quill and writes, in neat letters, Sarah Hopkins.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” James says with relief. “Sarah. Right. That’s your name.”
She pauses and slowly looks up at him.
“I can’t believe she dumped me.”
“I can’t believe,” Rose says, “it took you two weeks to find out her name.”
James moodily draws another line in his sketchbook. It’s lunchtime, and students are scattered across the grounds, enjoying the mild spring sunshine. He’s sitting beneath a willow tree with Rose, who is entirely unsympathetic to his plight.
“Everyone refused to tell me.” James glares at his sketchbook.
Rose grins at him. “Oh, James. Poor rejected thing.”
“It wasn’t rejection. It was a thirty-minute analysis of my personality that I never want to repeat again.”
“Ooh, why not? What did she say?”
“Why do girls ask questions they know they won’t like the answer to? Like ‘So why did you ask me out, then?’ and ‘What did you see in me?’. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t even want to know what your responses were. Merlin, you’re dense sometimes.”
“Thanks.” James draws another line. His charcoal snaps. “Now I’ve got to find a new girlfriend or I’ll never hear the bloody end of it from Paul. He won’t shut up about it! You know, who cares if everyone else gets a girlfriend before me? I just haven’t met the right girl yet, it’s not a problem.”
Rose perks up. “Ooh — ”
“No.”
“I didn’t even say it!”
“I don’t care. You’re not playing matchmaker.”
“Please? I’m already making a list in my head. You know, there’s this Ravenclaw girl, she loves comic books and graphic novels, you two would get along brilliantly. And there’s the Slytherin Seeker, she’s very — ”
“No.”
“Please, James? Please? It's not fair, I've got so many great people in mind...come on, it’ll be fun!”
"No."
"None of my friends are weird or awkward enough to need my help, it's not fair, I've never been able to do any matchmaking and it's just so disappointing - "
He groans. "If I agree, and it fails spectacularly, will you leave me alone?"
Rose beams at him.
She sets him up with a Slytherin named Theresa. His first date is scheduled for the next Hogsmeade weekend and James wonders if they'll have much in common. As it turns out, his fears of awkward silence are unfounded; Theresa appears to have a long list of questions to fire at him, and he has the odd sensation that he's attending a job interview.
"So, James," she says as they sit at a table at the Three Broomsticks. "Tell me a little about yourself."
"What? Oh. I'm...fifth year, same as you." He pauses. "You probably knew that already."
"What are your hobbies?"
"Swimming, I guess."
"You should definitely keep doing that. I like broad shoulders. What about you?"
"What? Yeah, broad shoulders are okay, I guess."
"No, what's your body type? Physically describe your ideal girl."
"Uh...I don't know."
She leans back and smooths her robes. "Well, what are you attracted to?"
"People with magnetic personalities," James says, and then he laughs. "That's a joke. About Muggle magic. Science, I mean. You know, because...attraction..." He trails off.
Theresa takes a long sip of her tea. "You're lucky you're so attractive," she says.
"Hang on, is that a set-up for another magnet joke? Because I've got loads of them."
She narrows her eyes.
Rose stares at him. "You told her awful puns?"
James frowns at her. He'd gone to her for a debriefing after the date; he'd asked for advice, but Rose had initially smiled at him and said surely it hadn't gone that badly.
Now, however, she seems to have changed her mind.
"I couldn't help it! Scorpius has been showing me these stupid magnet tricks all month — well, they're actually quite interesting — "
Rose sighs. "James. You are my favourite cousin and you can be very sweet and thoughtful sometimes. That being said, you can also be a colossal idiot."
"I didn't like her anyway," James says resentfully. "She was firing all these questions at me. Horrible questions."
"Oh, come on. Like what?"
"She asked me to physically describe my ideal girl! What am I supposed to do with that, describe her perfectly?"
Rose pauses. "All right, that's a bit mean. Look, maybe you need someone nicer. A gentler introduction to dating."
"Like who?"
"Leave it with me, I've got loads of ideas," Rose says cheerfully.
James doesn't trust that statement one little bit.
Rose turns out to be a terrible matchmaker.
There's Delia Moretti, a Gryffindor one year above James. She's got dark hair and dark eyes and a low, husky voice, and all the boys are green with envy. James thinks she's rather irritating though; she has a habit of grabbing his tie when he's speaking to her, or undoing the top button of his shirt when he's trying to do his homework, and she kisses him in the same manner James would imagine an extremely enthusiastic Dementor might try to remove his soul.
"Can you give me, I don't know, a single inch of personal space?" he asks her one evening as, after he's greeted her, she tries to loosen his tie.
She narrows her eyes. "Fine. Maybe I'll go find someone more appreciative of me. That Iwan Calthorpe is cute. One of your friends, isn't he?"
"Yeah, you're very welcome to him."
For some reason this greatly offends Delia, and thusly after just one week, James is single again.
The next one is Suzette Conley, a very shy Hufflepuff who blushes every time James looks at her and stutters every time he says hello. She's perfectly content just to hold hands, and knits him wonky scarves, and every time she finally gets the courage to kiss him, she ends up quickly turning her head and opting for a chaste peck on the cheek. James thinks it's quite endearing, really. They trundle along quite nicely for two weeks until Suzette very politely breaks up with him, on account of a sudden attraction to the lanky-limbed reigning champion of the chess club.
"It made me realise we don't actually have a spark, really, me and you," she tells James.
"Oh."
"But you've been perfectly kind and lovely. I'm really glad you were my first boyfriend. I'd love to still be friends."
James doesn't mind, but Rose is irate. He's not supposed to be making friends, he's supposed to be dating, she reminds him as she sets up another candidate for him.
March is a busy month. Amina Roper, who has a sharp wit and never fails to make James laugh, but breaks up with him after he skips one too many Hogsmeade dates so he can attend swim meets or practice football with the boys. Felicity Fawkner, a very intelligent Ravenclaw girl who criticises James's kissing technique; the argument gets rather petty after she presents James with pie charts, and James, after consulting with his ex-girlfriends, sends her a qualitative data report. There's Cora O'Lightly, one of Rose's Gryffindor friends, who has a very busy schedule. Their attempts to organise dates seem futile:
"What about Thursdays?"
"I've got choir practice," she says.
"Wednesday?"
"Homework club. Look, maybe we can meet in the morning, before breakfast?"
"Swim practice."
"What about Saturdays?"
"Football with the boys," James says. "Sunday?"
"Duelling club."
They break up a week later.
There's Amy Lin, a Slytherin chaser who seems to finally be compatible. She's on the girl's swim team, she doesn't mind if James is busy on weekends, and she's a good kisser.
Until one day, when — during a particularly intensive kissing session — she bursts into tears.
"I can't do this any more."
"Do what?" James asks, bewildered.
"I am so, so sorry. I only dated you because I thought it might make Rose notice me."
"Rose? My cousin? Why?"
"I really like her," Amy says, and she bursts into tears again.
"Well, most people like her, she's quite nice and...oh. Oh."
"Please don't tell anyone. You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"No," James says, and he dutifully pats Amy on the back as she explains that he's lovely, he really is, but he's missing some rather key features.
"We can still be friends, though," she says tearfully.
James adds her to his growing list of friends.
Rose narrows her eyes at him.
"It's not my fault," James says, studying the chess board. They're in the common room, in the midst of a rather long match.
"It must be. You two were the perfect couple! You actually lasted more than a week — a truly remarkable feat for you, James." Rose prods her bishop forward. "So what was the reason, then?"
James decides to take revenge; if Rose wants details, he'll give her details. "Her cousin's name is James. She said it felt too weird when she called my name during — "
"No!"
" — during swim practice."
Rose hits him on the arm. "Very funny, you complete prat!"
He grins. "Why? What did you think I was going to say?"
She reddens. "You're so mean. I don't know why I talk to you sometimes. You know, I'm doing you a huge favour — "
"Yes, thanks for the seventeen ex-girlfriends."
"Oh, come on...what? Really? Seventeen? Surely not."
He reels off the names, counting on his fingers as he goes. Rose looks slightly abashed.
"Well...as much as I like being a matchmaker, I guess you're the only one who really knows what you want. Perhaps it’s time for me to stop playing Cupid."
James agrees.
Though he does feel a little lonely, especially since Scorpius is making himself scarce and seems to be very preoccupied with meeting Miriam in dark corners of the library. At least Scorpius has been lucky enough to find someone whose company he enjoys so much - it’s nice to see him smiling away with his arm around his girlfriend.
However, just before Easter, Scorpius’s relationship seems to hit a bump. He comes into their enchanted room one night looking miserable, holding a letter in one hand.
”What’s wrong?” James asks at once, and Scorpius holds out the letter. James takes it and frowns as he reads the contents. Draco seems to be very keen to introduce Scorpius to a Pureblood girl. Come home for Easter, arrangements are being made, Draco has written.
”Who’s this Pureblood girl?” James asks curiously.
”Celia Selwyn,” Scorpius mutters. “My father said it’d be nice for me to have a pen pal, so we’ve been writing back and forth for a few months now. James...I think everyone’s got the wrong idea. I can’t date Celia. I’ve got a girlfriend already.”
"But your dad knows that, right?"
Scorpius looks awkward. "I thought I'd tell him in person. At Easter."
"Maybe you should let him know before he starts setting up dates for you."
Scorpius glances away and says nothing, and James grins.
"It's all right, Scorpius," he says. "Your dad scares me too, sometimes."
Scorpius laughs. Wryly, but he laughs anyway, and James is pleased. ”I don’t know. Do you think he’ll be mad about it?”
”I don’t see why. You’ve done all his work for him and already found yourself a girlfriend.”
”Speaking of which,” Scorpius says, “how’s your girlfriend of the week, then?”
”Haven’t got one. I’m sure Rose is working on that, though.”
Scorpius laughs and sets the letter aside, and James - perhaps foolishly - thinks that’s the end of it.
Harry visits Draco on a bright April afternoon, just before the Easter holidays, deciding to try to make amends. Draco answers the door with a bored expression, a drink in one hand. He gestures at the front parlour; the ice cubes in his glass clink gently. “Do come in, Potter. Ethel will be delighted.”
“Who’s Ethel? Your pet owl?”
Harry regrets his words as he walks into the room; there’s a witch sitting primly on the edge of the sofa Harry knows Draco reserves for irritating guests.
“Ethel is my event planner. Pansy hired her for Scorpius’s party.”
“His party? But his birthday was six months ago...”
“Irrelevant,” Draco says dismissively. “Summer is the season for socialising. Be reasonable, Potter. Speaking of which, Ethel thinks you should be invited. Brilliant, yes? I mean, you’re the Boy Who Lived - not impressive, by the way, we’ve all lived - “
“The Boy Who Lived Again,” Harry points out.
“The Boy Who Lived Again Even Though Nobody Asked Him To,” Draco says. “Use your full title, Potter.”
“I’m going to buy Scorpius a pet ferret.”
“You see?” Draco demands, rounding on Ethel. She’s staring at them with a faintly alarmed expression, clutching a folder of invitations to her chest. “You can’t take Potter anywhere in public. Inviting him to the party would be a disaster. I know it was your suggestion, and certainly, it might encourage people to see me as a perfect example of reformation, being the friend of the moron who muddled his way through life just hoping for the best - ”
“Those were not my exact words,” Ethel tells Harry quickly.
“To be fair,” Harry says, “it’s a valid description.”
Draco pours Harry a drink and hands it to him. “Cheers.”
“Thanks, Malfoy.”
Ethel stares at them, then blinks and looks down at the invitations and clears her throat. “Shall I add Mr Potter to the list of invitees?”
“And James,” Harry says.
”No,” Draco says instantly.
“Well, I’ll let you discuss that ,” Ethel says brightly. “I’ll fire-call you, Draco, to discuss the colour scheme.”
“I told you, as long as it’s not red and gold - ”
“Good heavens, it won’t be tacky,” Ethel says, then she spots Harry’s expression. “And it was just delightful to meet you,” she adds hurriedly, then turns and scurries to the Floo.
Harry scowls as she leaves. “Of course Pansy hired her.”
“Listen, Potter,” Draco says, evidently ignoring him, “I do realise I may have mildly overreacted during our last meeting, but this is a very important event and I can’t risk anything disrupting it.”
Harry pauses. “Well, I’m glad you’ve realised that James isn’t that bad. He really is a good kid, you know, and - ”
Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Let’s forgive and forget, shall we? We both acted rashly.”
Harry frowns at him. Considering the intensity of the argument, he’s suspicious about Draco’s apparent magnanimity. “You seemed very upset about it last time we spoke,” he says slowly.
Draco takes another sip from his glass. “To be frank, the issue has resolved itself. Scorpius promised me he would stay away from him. He’s moved onto other friends.”
”Uh,” Harry says, because right now there’s a cheerful letter from James sitting on the kitchen counter at home, telling Harry how fun it is to practice flying with Scorpius. “And...Scorpius kept that promise, did he?”
”I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t.”
”Oh. I see.”
”Scorpius is a very sensible child. I consider myself lucky.”
”I consider myself lucky too,” Harry says. “James has many strengths.”
Draco looks at him and for a moment, Harry thinks he’s going to say something and they’ll have another nasty argument.
But then Draco raises his glass instead. “To our children,” he says.
Harry lifts his glass too.
“So,” Draco says, “now that you’re here — “
”Oh, God. The real reason you’re being so nice. What horrible renovations are you needing help with?”
”No, no. But, you know, these gardens really do need more work if they’re going to impress a hundred guests — “
“No, I’m not doing it.”
”Oh.” Draco looks down at his glass and says nothing.
Harry sighs and goes to the library to fetch the Herbology books.
Easter arrives. James joins the students lining the train platform at Hogsmeade. The crowds are thin; most students have elected to stay at Hogwarts and complete homework. Many of the students on the platform are homesick first years.
"You were that tiny once," Rose tells James.
"Get lost," James says indignantly. "I was never that short."
"You're not that much taller than me, you know."
"Rose Weasley, you absolute liar — "
She reaches up to touch his head, then blinks, her grin fading into confusion. "What...what is that?"
"What?"
"You've got something in your hair!"
"What?"
"It's..." Rose's expression morphs into disbelief. "James, you've got...some sort of...it's a tiny galaxy. You've got a tiny galaxy in your hair."
He stares at her, then reaches up and touches his head.
"No, it's like..an illusion. Your hand is passing right through it."
"What?"
Rose starts laughing. James blinks at her, thoroughly bewildered, and Scorpius arrives at that moment.
"What's so funny?" he asks Rose, then notices James patting his head. "Oh, did you find it then?"
"Find what, Scorpius?"
Scorpius grins at him. James's jaw drops.
"You little git! How long has that been there?"
"Has it really taken you this long to notice it?"
"How long?"
Scorpius starts laughing. James lunges towards him; Scorpius bolts away. Rose starts shouting as James chases him along the length of the platform.
"You sneaky, underhanded little — " James begins, and Scorpius turns to chance a glance over his shoulder.
"I can't believe you didn't notice!"
"Get back here!"
Scorpius darts through startled first years and tries to duck behind a stack of luggage, but slips as James snatches ahold of him. They slide across the ground for a moment before tumbling into a heap together. James tries to pin him down, and holds up his wand.
"Ever wanted neon hair?"
"No, no, no! James, I've got that date, remember —"
"Too late."
Scorpius shoves him away, laughing, and it's only then that James notices McGonagall storming towards them, Rose wide-eyed nearby. Scorpius jumps to his feet and begins speaking before McGonagall even has a chance to start her lecture.
"James did nothing wrong, I started it - "
"This isn't Scorpius's fault, he shouldn't get into trouble," James says simultaneously, their voices overlapping.
McGonagall pauses and peers at both of them for a moment. "Well," she says after a moment, looking taken aback. "Be that as it may, I would expect that you both behave in an orderly fashion."
"Yes, professor."
"Yes, professor," Scorpius echoes.
She gives them another long look over her spectacles, and James could swear he actually sees a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Very well, then," she says, and leaves.
James waits until they board the train and sit down in a compartment together.
"Sorry."
"About what?" Scorpius asks.
James grins at him. "Delayed spell effects. You showed me how to do them last week."
"What? James, what — you didn't." Scorpius turns to the window and swishes his wand; the surface shimmers and becomes a mirror. He stares at his hair as it slowly turns a vivid, bright pink. "Come on! I have a date next week!"
"Does Miriam know about that?"
Scorpius drops his gaze, the lighthearted atmosphere dimming.
James feels a little guilty. "Here, I can fix it."
"Are you going to use that transfer spell?"
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not giving myself pink hair. I'd look like a Weasley gone wrong."
"You are a Weasley gone wrong."
James gives him a wry look and waves his wand, hiding Scorpius's hair colour with a glamour charm. "That'll cover it up until the spell wears off in a day or two." He's good at those sorts of charms. When he was little, he always wanted to be like Teddy, who could change his hair colour or eye colour in seconds. Teddy would secretly teach him charms to change his appearance too.
He doesn't know how, but Scorpius seems to know his thoughts. "Miss him?"
"Yeah."
"Obviously. Sorry. That was a stupid question."
"It wasn't," James says, because sometimes he wishes more people mentioned Teddy. Most of his friends and family avoid the subject, as if worried he'll burst into tears. He wonders if Scorpius has the same problem. He never mentions his mother.
Then again, the last time Scorpius mentioned his mother, James had said some very unkind things.
"What?"
James glances up. "Nothing."
"You winced."
"Just thought of something."
"What?"
James turns and glances out the window. "Just things. Stupid things. Things I wish I could change."
"I wish I could change things too," Scorpius says, following his gaze. The mountains and valleys of the Scottish wilderness rise and fall, breathing life into the land. "Miriam's started hinting about maybe visiting in the summer. I don't know what to do about this other Pureblood girl."
James hesitates. "Listen," he says. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"You said that Pureblood families disown kids."
"Oh, come on. Like — the Yaxleys, or the Lestranges. The really old families. The horrible ones. Your dad isn't like that." James glances at the distant mountain peaks towering over the scenery. "Even if he's a bit..."
Scorpius waits.
"...strict," James finishes. "He's not going to kick you out, you numpty. You're his son. Honestly, you would not believe the amount of rubbish my father puts up with. Years of letters about detentions and shouting and slamming doors."
Scorpius stares at James. "You treated your dad like that? What did he do?"
James shrugs. "Mostly also shouted and slammed doors and told me off."
Scorpius is still staring at him. "I thought you got along with your dad."
"I do. I mean, he's my dad, it's practically his job to argue with me about stuff. It's fine. At the end of it all, I know he'll always be there if I need him. Same as you know your dad will always be there for you, right?"
Scorpius hesitates, then offers a quick, tense smile. "Yes."
James frowns at him, then looks back out the window.
It's hard to imagine other people's situations; he always assumes that most kids have parents like Harry. Parents who sometimes get frustrated or angry or worry too much, but parents who also smile at their children and tousle their hair and laugh with them, or apologise for past arguments, or say, I really am proud of you.
The train crosses the border into England, emitting a whistle.
Draco welcomes Scorpius home for the Easter break. He’s disappointed by Scorpius’s apparently low mood; he’d expected excitement about all the upcoming social activities. Scorpius seems nervous about something, Draco thinks. He pokes at a few subjects after Scorpius arrives home, trying to find out the source of Scorpius's anxiety, but he's unsuccessful until he mentions the upcoming meeting with Celia Selwyn, the Pureblood girl Scorpius has been owling. Everything must go perfectly, he says, and Scorpius goes very quiet and says nothing.
Ah. That's all it is. Nerves about dating. Well, Draco can certainly understand that. Especially since Scorpius is unfamiliar with the Pureblood customs and etiquette.
That night, at dinner, Draco decides to help Scorpius with a few impromptu lessons. He sets a wineglass down, a small splash of a very nice Zinfandel in it, and Scorpius looks at it blankly.
"You'll be attending a lot of meals where you'll be expected to have an opinion," Draco explains.
"Opinion of what?"
Draco is faintly exasperated. "Wine."
"Oh."
"Go ahead, try it."
Scorpius eyes the wineglass, then grabs it.
"No, not like that. Never hold a wineglass by the cup. Grasp it by the stem, like so, and — "
"Why do I have to hold it by the stem?"
"Because it's manners. Now, inhale the aroma. What do you smell?"
"Wine."
Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. "What does the wine smell like?"
Scorpius looks slightly panicked, as if he's sitting for an exam that nobody told him about. "It's — sort of — uh — sweet?"
"Yes! Yes, exactly. Notes of fruit, yes? Orchards, perhaps?"
"...Yes?"
"Perfect. Now take a drink — don't scull it, for Merlin's sake — yes, take a sip. And what does it taste like?"
Scorpius has that vaguely panicked look again. "Fruit? Orchards?"
"We've covered that already, you can't just repeat what I said. You'll be expected to have cultured opinions."
Scorpius opens and shuts his mouth several times, stares at the wineglass, looks around the room, and then ventures, "...a type of fruit?"
"What type?"
"...Apples?"
"Yes, exactly! It's got that crisp taste, doesn't it? Refreshing and quite summery, isn't it?"
Scorpius pauses, then nods.
"It can take a while to detect all the subtle notes, but wine-tastings will be an expected part of luncheons and dinners and so on. And speaking of social events, I’ve prepared a list of activities for you.” He holds out the crisp paper.
Scorpius warily accepts it. "Activities? Why?"
"Well, it's nice to meet other people, isn't it? Extracurricular activities can be fantastic for networking."
"I play Quidditch," Scorpius says, picking at a button on his cuff.
"That's a good start," Draco says, and it is. Quidditch is universally enjoyed and a perfectly acceptable hobby amongst the Pureblood classes. "But perhaps another hobby...? You can pick any you want. From the list, obviously," he adds.
"Hunting," Scorpius reads aloud from the list. "Hunting what?"
"Game, generally. Drag hunting can be quite a bit of fun."
"Oh." Scorpius moves onto the next offering. "Cricket. Well, I guess cricket is all right." He brightens. "What about football? Mum used to watch it with me, she went for the Spurs but I was a Claret — "
"No, it's not on the list," Draco says hurriedly, not understanding a word and keen to move on. "Pick something."
"Chess, I guess."
"Good. I'll organise a tutor. And I’ll sort out your elocution lessons.”
”My what?”
”Elocution.”
Scorpius looks blankly at him.
”The way you speak,” Draco clarifies.
“What’s wrong with the way I speak?”
”Well...it’s more to do with your accent. The way you talk. People can tell a lot from the way you talk. Don’t worry, a tutor can fix that too.”
Scorpius says nothing.
As the meeting with the Selwyns rapidly approaches, Scorpius seems to become more and more restless. The day before the meeting, Draco decides to take him to Diagon Alley; while Draco runs some errands, perhaps Scorpius can browse Flourish and Blotts or visit the astronomy shop and relax a little.
It doesn’t seem to work. As they take a break at a little cafe, Scorpius seems even more agitated.
”I’ve got something to tell you,” he says at last.
Draco pauses halfway through sipping his coffee. That phrase never bodes well. “All right,” he says, setting down his cup.
“Well, there’s this girl,” Scorpius says, and he stops there, evidently floundering. Draco waits patiently.
“Ah, Mr Malfoy!” a cheerful voice sings out, and Draco turns. It’s one of the antique dealers he’s been speaking with recently.
”Mr Gaudie,” Draco greets him, rising to briefly shake his hand. “You’re well, I hope?”
”Oh, yes. And this must be your son, Scorpius. Well, isn’t he your spitting image!”
“Yes, he is.”
”You know, I’m glad I’ve run into you today — that beautiful necklace I purchased, the one with the star sapphires — you mentioned a matching bracelet? I’ve got a very interested buyer willing to pay an extremely reasonable sum — “
”Well, that is good news. However, perhaps we might discuss it later...?” The last thing Draco needs is for anyone to overhear the conversation and realise he’s selling off family heirlooms to keep his finances in order.
”Oh! Oh, yes, of course! I do apologise,” Mr Gaudie says hurriedly. “I’ll send you an owl. Lovely to meet you, Scorpius.”
Scorpius watches him disappear with a frown, then turns to Draco.
”You’re selling Mum’s jewellery?”
”No.”
Scorpius’s frown deepens. Draco sighs.
”My mother’s jewellery. Very good quality, most of them are pieces handed down through the generations.” Draco pauses. “It’s just jewellery, Scorpius. It’s nice to think of someone enjoying it, rather than it sitting dusty in an old box.” He tries to smile but knows he falls far short. “And it’s worth every knut — we need this money for your future. For your success.”
Scorpius looks upset and Draco can’t figure out why. He tries to cheer him up.
”Well, do you know what that sapphire necklace helped me to buy? An international portkey. You and Celia will be going to Italy in the summer to attend the Quidditch World Cup.”
Several expressions shift over Scorpius’s face, and then at last he says, “Oh. That’s...wow. Thank you.”
Draco smiles at him. “You’re welcome. So, you were telling me about a girl...?”
”What? Oh. Yes, I...I was going to say...there’s a girl who...is very good at chess. So I thought perhaps she could teach me, and you can save money on a tutor.”
”Oh? Well, that’s good. Is she a professional player?”
”I’m — I’m not sure. Yes, I think.”
”Good.” Draco takes another sip of his coffee.
”Good,” Scorpius echoes.
Draco's not sure what he said or did right, but to his (pleasant) surprise, Scorpius turns into the perfect Pureblood for the remainder of the Easter holidays. He meets Celia and the date goes swimmingly; Scorpius listens attentively, chats about her interests, and is charming to her parents. Mr and Mrs Selwyn seem equally impressed, for they are keen to arrange more social events.
Back at the manor, Scorpius spends most of his time sequestered in his room. He doesn't talk much, but when Draco presses, Scorpius explains he's just tired.
"I've got a lot of studying to do," he says.
Draco hesitates. "You're not still learning those Muggle subjects are you?"
Scorpius picks at the rough edge of his thumbnail. "No. Not anymore."
Draco smiles, relief rushing through him. "That's fantastic. I mean — I just want to make sure you've got all your options for a magical career."
"Yes."
Draco pauses. Outside, it's a clear spring day. The last day of the holidays. "Fancy a game of Quidditch?"
"I'm fine."
"Chess maybe?"
"I'm fine," Scorpius repeats.
"At least spend some time out of your room.”
Scorpius dutifully follows Draco to the kitchen, silent and slow. He sits at the table and reads his books while Draco works on a family tree commissioned by a Pureblood family.
”Put the kettle on,” Draco says, and Scorpius makes two cups of tea. When he sets Draco’s cup down, he glances briefly at the family tree.
”The Yaxleys,” he says slowly. “I’ve heard that name.”
”Very good friends of our family. They have a daughter your age, actually. It’s a shame she’s not suitable, otherwise I would have arranged something between you two.” Draco sips his tea.
“Not suitable?” Scorpius echoes.
”Well. She’s dating a halfblood, unfortunately. Her father’s sent her abroad to live with relatives in Switzerland, hoping to sever the romance. Quite the drama.” Draco takes another sip of his tea.
Scorpius says nothing. He picks at his sleeves. “Would you send me away?” he asks.
”Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not dating a halfblood,” Draco says absently, preoccupied with spelling the name of a particularly ancient ancestor.
“But what if I do end up with a halfblood? Or a Muggleborn.”
Draco finally glances up at him. “Do you know what your mother’s family motto is? The Greengrass motto?”
Scorpius shakes his head.
”Astra inclinant,” Draco says. “It means, the stars incline us. Which means that your fate is influenced by things beyond your control. And you are the last Malfoy in a very long and proud line.” He reaches out and puts a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “You will marry a Pureblood. The tradition will continue. The stars will see to it. Don’t worry about it, Scorpius. You’ll see. Everything will work out in the end.”
It’s a comforting speech, Draco thinks, but Scorpius looks anything but reassured. He stares at his feet.
”I might go back to my room for a bit,” he mumbles at last.
”All right. Don’t forget to write to Celia.”
Scorpius nods and leaves.
That night, at dinner, Scorpius pokes at his meal and seems entirely uninterested. Draco chats about the arrangements for the World Cup trip, hoping to brighten Scorpius up.
”...and you’ll be staying in the Selwyns’ holiday villa, which is apparently very nice. Separate rooms, obviously,” Draco says, and then it suddenly occurs to him, with mild panic, that he hasn't had The Talk with Scorpius yet. He clears his throat. "This is perhaps a good time,” he says, “to discuss physical relations, isn’t it?”
Scorpius looks around with a hunted look, as if trying to locate the nearest exit. “Not really.”
“There's no need to be embarrassed,” Draco says delicately. “There comes a time in every young man’s life when certain questions - amongst other things - are raised — “
“Could we perhaps talk about anything else?” Scorpius pleads.
"But you do know how everything works?"
"Yes!"
"And you'll be quite...er...safe, won’t you?"
"Yes," Scorpius says, his face scarlet.
"Good. I'm not quite ready for grandchildren yet."
Scorpius picks up his wineglass and finishes it in one swift motion, then stands up and leaves.
James returns from the brief Easter break in a buoyant mood; it was nice to catch up with all his cousins at the annual egg hunt, and Harry had been in a good mood. In fact, he’d given James a book about automotive mechanics and refused to answer any questions about the subject, just saying it ‘might come in handy’ which has James very excited. He’s heard all about his grandfather’s famous flying car and wonders what Harry might be planning for summer.
James does ruin his first week back, however, when he gets into a scorching argument with the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. He’s noticed Scorpius has been withdrawn since they returned to school and that weekend, he decides to seek him out after Quidditch practice. But the Ravenclaw team is practicing without Scorpius, it seems, and they act rather uncharitably when James asks about Scorpius's whereabouts.
"Classified information, Potter," the captain says condescendingly.
"What? Just tell me if he's sick or something, stop being a git — "
"You are the worst spy ever. Tell the sad little Gryffindor team that if they want to find out our strategy, they're going to have to try a lot harder — "
"I'm not even on the team, you idiot!"
"I will die before I tell you a single game strategy!"
"Oh, I would love for you to get out of the gene pool."
"Oh, really? Well..." The captain trails off. "You're...stupid."
"I've had better insults from my five-year-old cousin. Sparring with you is practically charity work."
"Your face is charity work!"
"Oh, really? I'm ugly, am I?"
"That's what I said, Potter!"
"I'm going to find your girlfriend," James says, "and date her."
“What?"
"I won't even like doing it, but I'll just do it anyway. Because that's how much I don't like you."
The captain's jaw drops.
"You wouldn't dare."
One of the Chasers clears her throat and steps forward. “Hi,” she says. “I’m his girlfriend.”
James turns and gives her his most winning smile.
The potion churns in its vial, turning the colour of a swamp.
He glares it.
"Come on, Potter. Down the hatch," Pomfrey says crisply.
He glares at her instead.
"No need for that sour expression, thank you very much. You won't even taste it, anyway."
No, he won't. That bloody Quidditch captain knew quite a few creative jinxes, and now everything James consumes tastes like pond-water. At least Pomfrey already fixed the jinx that had turned James's hair to lichen.
Still, James got his own revenge. A few beds away, the Quidditch captain glares into the distance. He's waiting for his eyebrows to crawl back out of his ears.
James drinks the potion in one swift gulp. "Can I go now?"
"No, you've got to serve your detention. Professor McGonagall has given you the option of cleaning cauldrons in the dungeons or helping me organise my vials."
"Vials," James says immediately. Cleaning cauldrons always leaves him with aching arms, making his swim practice terrible the next day.
"Very well. O'Dell, you can report to Professor Slughorn for cleaning cauldrons," Pomfrey says to the captain. He scowls at her. An eyebrow tentatively emerges from his left ear.
James suppresses a smirk.
Detention isn't insufferable. He's beginning to suspect that despite Pomfrey's complaints about James being as stubborn as his father, she's really quite fond of the Potters. James is interested in the potions and what each one does, and Pomfrey tells him about each ingredient and its healing properties. Scorpius shows up to check on James.
"I heard you were looking for me? I wasn't feeling well this morning, had to skip practice."
"That's what started the whole fight, you prat. That bloody captain, carrying on like I was some sort of secret Quidditch spy. What a nutcase."
"Out you go, Malfoy," Pomfrey says, trying to usher Scorpius away. "Potter's got detention, he certainly isn't supposed to be chatting."
Scorpius gives Pomfrey an intensely sorrowful look. "I've hardly seen him all week."
"He's busy with detention," Pomfrey repeats, but she sounds less firm.
"I promise I won't distract him. I'll even help him."
"Oh...go on, then! Only for a little while. My goodness, I'm getting soft," Pomfrey mutters, bustling over to check on a nearby student.
Scorpius sits beside James and smooths the vial labels for him. "Did you really steal O’Dell’s girlfriend?"
"Well, I think I made an unforgettable first impression."
Scorpius starts laughing. "But do you like her?"
"That's not the point. The point is that O’Dell can go jump off a cliff." James pauses. "You're not mad at me? I picked a fight with your Quidditch captain, I didn't even think about you getting kicked off the team."
"I don't care a bit," Scorpius says, smiling. "I win too many matches and he cares too much about results to kick me off the team. He'll be nice to me, otherwise he knows I'll resign."
"What? You can't do that! You'd be devastated!"
"I love flying, not Quidditch. As long as I'm still flying, it's fine." Scorpius pauses. "You'd better keep playing matches with me, though."
"Oh, yeah. It's one of my favourite things," James says without thinking, because it really is. He has just as much fun flying with Scorpius as he does playing football with the boys or playing games after swim practice with his team.
"Same," Scorpius says, handing James another label.
James accepts it. "How'd your dad take the news about Miriam?"
"I’ll talk about it later.”
James doesn’t push the matter. He picks up another label.
”You know what was really awful though?” Scorpius asks. “My father tried to give me the talk.”
"Oh yeah, about not taking fly-high potion no matter what the cool kids say?" James grins, remembering Harry's awkward talk about it.
"No, the other talk."
James starts laughing. "He didn't. You're sixteen! That's a little too late, isn't it? I mean, I'm pretty sure you and Miriam have done a lot more than just kissing."
Scorpius's face burns, but he starts laughing too. "It was terrible. I just left. I couldn't deal with it, I thought he might start explaining things."
"Drawing diagrams."
"Dragging a blackboard out."
"And as you can see here," James begins, pretending to draw something, and they dissolve into uncontrollable laughter.
Pomfrey comes over, stern-faced, her hands on her hips. "Might I ask what's so funny?"
They hold onto each other, tears in their eyes, and Pomfrey gives up. She tuts at them and tells James he'll get another detention, and ends up kicking them out of the infirmary.
James doesn't really care. It's the hardest Scorpius has laughed for a long time.
It's worth it.
But Scorpius’s melancholia creeps up softly again that evening as they’re in their enchanted room, Scorpius poring over a physics textbook while James practices transfiguration on a quill.
”I remember first year,” Scorpius says without lifting his gaze from his textbook. “When I taught you to change a needle into a match.”
“I’m quite certain you built my entire foundation for Transfiguration and Charms,” James laughs. “The always brilliant Scorpius Malfoy.” He swishes his wand and the quill levitates, shrinking into a little silver moon that floats away. He picks up another quill, repeats the charm, and then sends it spiralling upwards where it explodes into tiny stars. He glances up and realises Scorpius is watching him.
Scorpius drops his gaze and turns the page of his book. After a beat, he says, “I didn’t tell my father about you.”
”What about me?”
”He made me promise not to talk to you.”
James is a bit disbelieving. “What, am I a bad influence or something?”
Scorpius turns another page although James is certain he hasn’t read a single line. “I didn’t tell him about Miriam either. And he thinks I’ve dropped my Muggle subjects.”
”What? Scorpius — “
”I couldn’t. He’s been selling heirlooms to afford all this Pureblood stuff —”
”Yeah, and you didn’t ask him to do that.”
”My mother sold her wedding rings.”
James sits up a bit and closes his Transfiguration textbook, sensing a shift in the air. Scorpius is gazing unseeingly past his book, a pensive look on his face. “Why?”
Scorpius lifts one shoulder, perhaps a shrug, but then he speaks. “We’d just moved again. New school, again. I didn’t want to go. I threw a tantrum over the second-hand uniforms and said I was sick of wearing them. Sick of getting teased about it. Other kids were always so mean about it. I told my mother it was all her fault. Said she didn’t care about me.” Scorpius tilts his head slightly, his eyes following a leftover star. “She came back the next day with another school uniform. Everything, even the proper socks. Brand new. It was a couple of weeks before I realised the wedding ring was gone from her jewellery box. I felt like it was the last link I had to my father. Couldn’t believe she’d sold it. I was furious. Called her selfish. God, I was so ungrateful.”
“You were just a kid.”
”I was still awful to her.”
”I’m sure when she thought of you, she didn’t remember that.” James hesitates, because he’s not really sure if Astoria was a good mother, if Scorpius had a good relationship with her, and he doesn’t want to make assumptions. “Do you remember that time in the greenhouse, when you asked me what I thought of when I heard your name?”
Scorpius finally looks up at him. “Stars, you said,” he says. “I was just waiting for you to say ‘Death Eater’, but you surprised me like you always do.”
”Right. Because when you’ve got a million memories of someone, it’s all the good stuff that you think of first. Even when they’re a bit of a prat sometimes.”
Scorpius laughs then, and reaches out to catch the star. When he opens his palm, nothing is there. The enchantment has ended. “You know, I really, really wish you could have met my mother. More than anything else,” Scorpius says. “If you ever figure out a time-travelling spell, let me know.”
”Well, time-turners used to exist. They’re all destroyed, though.”
Scorpius straightens up, eyes brightening. “Tell me. What’s a time-turner?”
”Oh, wow. I’ve got stories for you.”
And James doesn’t mind wasting an evening sharing those stories — especially if it takes Scorpius’s mind off all his problems for a while.
Harry puts a saucer of jam next to the rather lovely spring roses, eyeing them suspiciously.
One of the roses leans down and eats the jam.
“It’s weird,” Harry says.
“Look, if you’re going around enchanting plants, you’re going to get some odd side-effects.” Draco prowls along the rows of roses, hunting for fairies. He plans to immobilise them as decorations; wizards take the term ‘fairy lights’ quite literally. Though Scorpius’s party is still a month away, he needs to begin preparations. Unlike most of the Pureblood guests, Draco must do much of the work himself to reduce costs. Hence, he finds himself in the manor gardens, poking suspiciously at plants.
Harry puts down another saucer of jam. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m only helping because Scorpius is a nice kid.”
“Don’t move.”
“What?”
“I said don’t move!”
“I’m not - “
A spell sizzles past Harry’s left ear; there’s a squeal and a thump.
“Got one,” Draco says with satisfaction, picking up the frozen fairy and adding it to a growing pile.
“Is that humane?”
“Yes, and you can comb through Granger’s new creature rights laws if you don’t believe me.”
“Weasley. Not Granger. She married seventeen years ago.”
“I can’t just say ‘Weasley’ though, there’s millions of them now. Like ants. Ginger ants. Annoying, ginger ants.”
Harry puts down another saucer of jam and gives him an exasperated look. “So, I’ve been thinking...”
”Not a good idea.”
”...I’ve been thinking that perhaps James might attend Scorpius’s birthday? After all, if I’ll be there — “
Draco makes a noise of non-comittal. Truthfully, he’s been receiving advice from the event planner, Ethel, who is very good at her job despite her ill-timed comments about colour schemes. Firstly, she’d strongly advised him to repair his friendship with Harry, since Harry’s attendance at Scorpius’s party would be seen as a mark of significant prestige — Harry doesn’t attend any birthday parties or personal events other than those of his close friends — and would certainly vanquish any lingering doubts the modern Pureblood might hold about Draco’s allegiances. Draco had agreed readily to that. Privately, he’d quite missed the Monopoly games and cups of tea.
They had, however, argued about James Potter. Ethel had noted that recently, James had developed a reputation as an excellent athlete and popular student, and — with his high social status as the only child of Harry Potter, and rumoured vaults of gold — his attendance at Scorpius’s party would most certainly be noticed and envied.
Draco had refused to budge, however, and Ethel had — primly, with just a touch of resentment — struck James’s name from the guest list.
“...I just thought perhaps it might be a good time to forgive — “
Draco swishes his wand, capturing another fairy. “There’s just been a rather overwhelming amount of evidence, you must agree,” he says, “of James and Scorpius having a rather...hostile relationship. And very little evidence of friendship.”
“Right, yes, I can see how you might think that - ”
“And why are you bringing this up again, anyway? I told you, Scorpius has moved onto other friends.” Draco regards Harry with a faint look of suspicion.
“Nothing. Just...James has written to me lately. Saying he feels a bit lonely.”
“I’m sure he’s got plenty of friends.”
“Scorpius was the first friend he made at Hogwarts, you know.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying, Scorpius was the first person to offer James friendship. And James accepted.”
I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
Draco turns back to the roses and says nothing.
Chapter 21: A Perfect Night
Summary:
Draco hosts Scorpius's sixteenth 'birthday' party — Harry voices several concerns — James finally finds the perfect date — Scorpius builds more lies for his father — the boys finish fifth year.
Chapter Text
Two weeks after Easter, Scorpius ends up in the infirmary, and James is willing to admit it’s partially his fault. It happens on an overcast Saturday, when they’re preparing to fly together, and Scorpius — full of Quidditch knowledge — is telling James all about Ginny’s broom.
“There’s actually some benefits to having a vintage broom,” Scorpius tells him. “Take speed, for example. Because of regulations introduced a couple of decades ago, modern brooms have enchanted limits. Your broom can actually go nearly twice as fast as mine.”
“That’s cool,” James says casually, because he’s had plenty of old brooms to practice on — Uncle Bill has a fifty-year-old antique that most certainly wouldn’t pass regulation today. But then he remembers Scorpius has only ever had the most recent broom models, and he grins. “Bet you want to try it out, then.”
“Oh, no, it’s your mother’s, I don’t want to risk it,” Scorpius says politely, but there’s a spark of excitement in his eyes and James laughs as he holds out the broom.
“Go on. One quick lap.”
“A really quick one,” Scorpius agrees happily. “I promise, I won’t get a single scratch on it, I’ll be really careful.”
And then he’s off flying. And definitely not slowing down. He gathers speed during the first lap, but James can tell the broom can go faster still, so he’s not bothered when Scorpius does a second lap, then a third, until he’s nothing but a blur. Scorpius circles widely around a goalpost — investigating how fast the broom can change direction, James guesses, though he doesn’t think that’s the best idea. The old brooms might be fast, but they definitely lack the accuracy of modern brooms.
And James is right. Scorpius circles the goalpost again, but this time he loses control and clips it. Both broom and rider tumble to the ground, hitting the goalpost again, and James draws his wand quicker than he probably ever has before.
“Molliare!”
The charm works, effortlessly absorbing the brunt of Scorpius’s fall and bringing him to rest gently on the pitch, and James races over to him. Scorpius is pale, cradling his right arm carefully — he must have broken it when he clipped the goalpost. But Scorpius doesn’t even look at it, just grabs ahold of James with his other hand and says, sounding absolutely distraught, “James, I broke it.”
“I reckon you did,” James says ruefully. “Madam Pomfrey can probably fix it, though. Does anything else hurt?”
“No, your broom. I broke your broom! It was your mother’s and I broke it —”
“What? It’s a broom, I’m sure I’ll get over it. Are you all right? Besides your arm, I mean.”
“I’m so, so, sorry —”
“It’s fine, you numpty. I think I might immobilise your arm before we start walking. If that’s the least painful position for it, stay still.”
Scorpius finally quietens down then. James casts an immobilisation charm, then helps Scorpius to his feet. They make their way to the infirmary, where Scorpius is ushered away by Pomfrey; James feels a bit useless standing around, so he returns to the pitch to collect his mother’s broom before another student kindly liberates it. Scorpius did damage it quite a bit. The tail is noticeably broken and James inspects the snapped fibres critically. The broomstick now has a cobweb-thin crack running lengthwise, and when James touches the point of impact, the lacquer crumbles away.
“What happened?”
He turns. Paul’s arrived, his broom slung over one shoulder. He’s dressed in his Quidditch uniform — the Gryffindor team must be getting ready to practice.
“Scorpius crashed it,” James says, picking the broom up.
“Seriously? That was a mint condition ‘95 Cleansweep, wasn’t it? I’d be fuming.”
“It was an accident. I’m just happy he wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“Oh. Well, yeah,” Paul says, looking a shade embarrassed. “Yeah, that’s good.”
“Any chance I could fix it, though?”
Paul brightens again. “Oh! Let’s have a look at it.”
He seems happy just to examine the broom (“This is so cool! This braking charm is illegal now!”) but he gives James the address of a broom-maker specialising in older brooms. James parcels up the broom, ready to owl it, then returns to the infirmary.
Scorpius is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently as Madam Pomfrey casts a few enchantments on him, but he looks up at James and gives him a beatific smile.
“Oh, James. This is wonderful,” he says.
“Is it?”
“Everyone should have one.”
“A broken arm?”
“The potion. The orange one. The lovely, orange potion.”
Madam Pomfrey gives James a wry look. “Your friend responded well to a dose of Fortis Levatio.”
James’s eyebrows rise. “That’s a regulated painkiller potion, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, Potter.” Pomfrey goes to a nearby cupboard and locks it. “You must know your potions well.”
“Got a bit interested in those healing potions when I was writing labels here last detention,” James admits.
Pomfrey gestures to Scorpius. “Off you go. I've mended the broken bone, but healing magic like this needs a lot of care or it becomes unstable. You’ll need to keep it still for at least one month. Don't break that cast. Potter, you can accompany him back to the Ravenclaw tower. No more Quidditch!”
Scorpius hops off the end of the bed. He’s still smiling at James, and James can’t help but laugh.
“Come on, Scorpius. I’ll make sure you don’t wander off somewhere.”
“No, no, I feel fine.”
“I bet.” He gives Scorpius a very gentle push on his back, nudging him towards the door.
“Better than fine, actually. I’m not sure my arm’s broken at all, to be honest.”
“Pretty sure it is, Scorpius.”
“You’re really not mad about your broom?”
“For Merlin’s sake. It’s a broom, you idiot. Brooms are easily replaced. Stupid Ravenclaw friends aren’t.”
Scorpius gives him another beaming smile.
James rolls his eyes.
He does worry about how Scorpius might feel when the potions wear off. After all, he might properly think about it and realise he won’t be able to play Quidditch any more. The Quidditch final — Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw — is scheduled to take place in two weeks. James feels immensely guilty about that, and the next time he sees Scorpius — at lunchtime, just outside the Great Hall — he apologises.
“Why?” Scorpius asks, looking bemused.
“For your Quidditch final! The biggest match of the year, and I’ve made you miss it.”
Scorpius shrugs. “The reserve seeker will cover me.”
James is disbelieving. “You honestly don’t mind? At all?”
“I told you, I just like flying. They won’t let me play while my arm's still healing, but I can still fly whenever I like.”
“Pomfrey will murder you if she catches you on the pitch.”
Scorpius smiles at him and holds up his arm. “Sign my cast? The Homework Club wanted to sign it last night, but I said you had to be first.”
“You went to Homework Club? Scorpius, you were a bit loopy yesterday.”
Scorpius’s smile graduates to a laugh. “Yes, I had to concentrate very hard on not saying something stupid yesterday. Someone asked me how I broke my arm and I couldn’t remember the word for ‘Quidditch’. I ended up calling it ‘sky sweeping’.”
James gives him a sidelong look. “You’re honestly not mad about missing the final?”
“Not a bit.” Scorpius narrows his eyes. “And don’t you dare blame yourself. I was being careless, we both know it was my fault.”
“Yeah, but I — ”
“You did not break my arm.”
“But I shouldn’t have — ”
“Be quiet and sign my cast.” Scorpius holds out his arm. “And don’t write ‘get well soon’, that’s what everyone else will do.”
James doesn’t write that. He writes something else and won’t let a suspicious Scorpius see it until he’s done. Scorpius inspects it, then laughs wryly.
“You’re stubborn.”
“I know.”
Scorpius turns and hurries to his next class, and James grins to see his handiwork on the cast: James Potter broke my arm, and all I got was this stupid cast.
Of course, it creates a mild scandal that James hadn’t even considered. The next evening, as they practice spells in their room, Scorpius seems particularly amused about something.
“What?” James asks.
“O’Dell — remember him?”
“Yeah, your stupid Quidditch captain. Turned my hair to lichen.”
“Yes, the one who seemed to think you were trying to somehow spy on the Ravenclaw team or sabotage us.”
“Yes?”
Scorpius gives him a long look and holds up his cast.
“What? I — oh. Oh. Come on, did you tell him I wrote that as a joke?”
“He’s mental. Convinced that you staged the whole thing. He went storming off to McGonagall to report you. Seemed to think expulsion was the only reasonable outcome. The second outcome was to postpone the final until I was better. In a month. During summer holidays.”
“What did McGonagall do? Did she say anything about me?” James feels a flash of fear before Scorpius gives him an exasperated look.
“What do you think I did, stood there and agreed? I followed him to her office and explained it was an accident. She was inclined to agree with me. We all know O’Dell is mildly unhinged when it comes to Quidditch.”
“Mildly?”
“Well, some might argue that you’re mildly unhinged about swimming.”
“I’m not.”
“You get up at five in the morning to swim in the lake.”
James has to concede defeat.
It does, as James suspected, eventuate into a fight between him and O’Dell. One morning, as he’s making his way to the greenhouses to check his cactus, he’s confronted by O’Dell, who has some rather choice things to say about him. James returns the favour with an uncouth suggestion about where O’Dell can safely store his broomstick.
At least it doesn’t escalate, though a few students start cheering for a fight. But O’Dell has the final match coming up and would never do anything to compromise his position on the team, and James manages to keep his own temper in check. He’s just a few weeks away from the end of the school year, and he won’t ruin it now.
O’Dell storms off, and the students — some looking rather disappointed — begin walking away. One girl remains, however, and smiles at James. He offers a polite smile in return.
“I’ve broken up with him, you know,” she says.
James looks around. After an awkward moment, he suddenly remembers. The last confrontation he had with O’Dell, he’d threatened to date his girlfriend.
“Oh,” he says. “So you’re…?”
“Olivia.” She offers another smile. “If your offer still stands…”
He gives her another blank look. “My offer?” he ventures.
“To date me. There's a little get-together on Saturday. One last celebration before exams.”
James is hit by a sense of déjà vu as he remembers the last end-of-term-party he attended. “Oh, yes,” he says cautiously.
“Oh, wonderful! I’ll see you there.” She winks at him and leaves.
James groans. “Great,” he mutters, realisation dawning.
“What’s so great?”
He turns. Rose is beside him, looking curious.
“I’m sick of accidentally dating people.”
“Ooh! You're dating Olivia Callahan? Oh, James, she’s perfect! I’m so happy for you. Just don’t mess this one up, all right?”
James gives her an unimpressed look.
He goes to the party. Olivia’s dressed nicely; James probably should have put more effort in. At least he bothered changing out of his uniform, he supposes.
To his joy, he recognises at least one person at the party: the Slytherin boy who was at the last party James attended, the one where Scorpius had been cruelly gifted the Dark Mark. The Slytherin had, ironically, been the nicest person there.
“Hi,” James says to him, smiling. “You probably don’t remember — ”
“No, of course I do! You had some brilliant comic book recommendations.” The boy extends his hand. “We never met properly, did we? I’m Rowan.”
James shakes his hand. “James. So, I’m quite sure you were the one who recommended that Norse mythology series — “
“Oh! You actually read it?”
Olivia clears her throat. James withholds a sigh and bids farewell to Rowan, though only after they’ve arranged to attend a book signing in Hogsmeade next Saturday.
Olivia isn’t impressed.
“I thought we might go to Hogsmeade on the weekend.”
“Yeah, we can still do that. But they’ll have signed copies, they’ll sell out really quickly — you’ve heard of Morris Whittleway, haven’t you? What, you honestly haven’t? Author of the The Dueller’s Second series?”
Olivia gives him a blank look.
James gloomily pours himself a cup of pumpkin juice, but at least he manages to not ‘ruin everything’, as Rose so kindly put it, and Olivia eagerly agrees to meet him after the book signing the next weekend.
Which, James supposes, counts as a success.
James is more excited about the book signing than the date with Olivia, a fact which he tries not to think too hard about. At least Rowan seems equally excited about it, and afterwards, they laugh about their star-struck attitudes.
“I know it’s the whole point of a signing, but I just kept thinking, ‘oh, no, don’t bother him, he’s probably sick of autographs — ”
James laughs. “I know exactly what you mean. And I always think I’ll say the stupidest thing, or start rambling about what a fan I am — ”
“Oh, Merlin, yes. Because you know once you open your mouth, that’s it. You’re destined to embarrass yourself.”
“And the author's sitting there thinking, ‘Here we go, another nutcase’.”
They start laughing together as they round the corner; Rowan pauses by the Three Broomsticks. “I forgot to do my Quidditch tipping for next week — do you tip?”
James pauses, but he still has a little time before he meets Olivia. “You can show me how it’s done.”
“Come on, then, let’s go.”
They find a table in the Three Broomsticks near the fireplace, and Rowan fetches two sheets from the bar, handing the bartender a handful of knuts.
“I’ll pay you back,” James promises.
Rowan waves a hand dismissively. “You can get them next time. All right, so next week, it’s Italy versus Germany. What do you think?”
“Uh…Germany will win?”
“All right. And the margin?”
James has no idea. “Say…forty points.”
“Bold guess, but I like it.” Rowan scrawls across his sheet.
“Do you play Quidditch?” James asks as he fills out his own sheet.
“I was chaser for the Slytherin team until I got hit by a bludger last year. Broke two ribs.”
James winces. “That sucks.”
“Yes, and I know it’s really stupid, but I just can’t seem to enjoy it anymore. Spend too much time watching out for bludgers and making sure I’m not near them. Captain asked me to take a break for a bit until I can concentrate on scoring goals again." Rowan touches a hand to his side as he speaks, subconsciously checking an old wound.
"No, I can understand that. One of the swimmers in my junior club used to love open water. She was an amazing swimmer, one of the best. Then she got a bad leg cramp and nearly drowned out in the ocean. She never went back to professional swimming after that.”
"You can drown from a leg cramp? That's terrifying.”
"It's rare. Most cramps are manageable. I've had a few while swimming. It's not pleasant, but you deal with it."
"Like most things in life," Rowan says.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“What do you want, then? I’ll shout you.”
James laughs and stands up. “It’s fine, you bought the tipping sheets. I’ll get the butterbeers.”
He orders two drinks from the bar; as he’s waiting for them, he hears his name.
“James! I’m so sorry I’m late — ”
Olivia has arrived, breathless and red-cheeked from the cold, unwinding her scarf. James only just withholds a groan of disappointment, and he surreptitiously checks his watch. Olivia is late. Time has apparently flown.
He glances back to the table, but Rowan has spotted his predicament and is already rising from his chair.
“Some other time, perhaps,” Rowan says to him as he passes by, and James can’t help but reach out quickly, touching his shoulder.
“Hang on — next week, same place? They’ll be releasing preorders for the next Lightchaser.”
Rowan’s gaze flickers to Olivia, then back to James, as if he can’t quite figure something out.
“Sure,” he says at last. “Sounds good, James. I’ll see you then.”
“Great. See you then.”
Rowan settles his cloak around his shoulders and leaves. Olivia picks up the two butterbeers and steers James towards a cosy booth.
“Sorry again,” she says. “I was looking for a new quill and completely lost track of time.”
“It’s all right,” James says. “I didn’t mind at all.”
Olivia smiles at him.
The closer the party gets, the more doubts Harry begins to have about it. Ron and Hermione, though perfectly all right with his odd friendship with Draco, seem lukewarm with the idea of Harry's attendance, and Harry has always trusted their judgement. One Saturday afternoon, after he’s finished helping Draco practice a range of catering spells, he visits his friends afterward. As he’s sitting in their living room picking crumbs out of his hair, Hermione gives him a look. It’s a very particular look and he knows it well.
Ron rustles his newspaper but doesn’t look over the top of it, which tells Harry that he knows exactly what Hermione is about to say.
“Yes, I know,” Harry says, before she can begin. “I’m too nice, I shouldn’t be helping him because it’s Malfoy —”
“I haven’t got a problem with you helping him because he’s Malfoy,” Hermione says, “and neither does Ron.”
The newspaper rustles again, slightly more violently.
“We haven’t had a problem with you helping him in the past,” Hermione goes on. “When he was renovating the manor so Scorpius had a nice home. Or when he started his genealogy business again and started tracing Muggleborn families, when people wanted to know about any magical ancestors. Or even when everything happened with Lucius Malfoy and Draco was trying to shelter Scorpius from it all. Not a single problem with any of that, Harry. But right now, you’re helping him...and his only motivation is joining the Pureblood world again.”
Harry glances at the newspaper, then frowns and reaches out, pulling it downward to reveal Ron’s slightly guilty expression.
“Yes, I do actually agree,” Ron says resolutely. “And not just because she’s my wife. She’s got a point, Harry, admit it. Why’s he throwing this party? To win points with the old Pureblood club.”
“No, he thinks he’s helping Scorpius,” Harry retorts. “It’s misguided, yes, but he genuinely thinks — “
“Does he? Genuinely? Or does a little bit of him know that it isn’t really what Scorpius wants?”
Harry pauses. “Sometimes,” he says, thinking of his own son, “you convince yourself that everything is all right...we all wish we had the gift of foresight, but we don’t.”
Hermione studies him for a moment. “Why are you attending this party?” she asks.
“Well — I’ve been invited, and he is my friend...” Harry trails off. He knows that’s a lie. Draco had at least been honest — he hadn’t dressed it up in a lie, nor had he misled Harry. “They’re all still a bit skittish about Draco’s history," he mutters. "My attendance would fix that.”
Hermione nods. “Well, as long as you’re making an informed decision.”
“Enabling,” Ron mumbles into his cup of tea.
“What?” Harry asks, perhaps a touch sharply.
“Nothing. Had something stuck in my throat.” Ron raises his newspaper again.
Hermione rolls her eyes and takes a sip of tea. “Anyway. How’s James?”
And just like that, they slide into casual conversation again. They’ve been friends far too long to delve into petty arguments. As much as they might disagree on occasions, Harry knows his friends always have his best interests at heart.
He idly pokes at the crumbs of leftover biscuits, doubt nibbling at his mind.
By the time he visits Draco a few days later, the doubt has become a brewing storm that won’t leave his mind alone.
Harry had initially accepted the party invite, knowing his invitation had been a strategic move rather than a gesture of friendship, but overlooking it because — he kept telling himself — Draco had changed, and they were friends.
But Draco rarely has time for him these days unless he’s helping with party preparations. Otherwise, he’s far too busy keeping up with his newfound Pureblood friends. And he must know, he must, that Scorpius isn’t truly, completely happy. It’s everything Scorpius isn’t. He’s shy, but the party will put him in the spotlight. He loves science, but there’s little room for that in the Pureblood world. And he’ll be expected to gratefully accept the first cushy Ministry job offered to him, regardless of his own aspirations.
Harry remains lost in anxious thought until Draco makes a loud, displeased noise.
“Potter! Concentrate! All the linen has to match.”
Harry glances down at the plain bed sheet he’s currently transfiguring into a crisp white tablecloth. “Will the guests really care?”
Draco stares at him. “Potter,” he says evenly, “this is the event by which every other Pureblood will judge me. If there is even the slightest hint of anything less than the best — “
“Does Celia’s family know you’re poor?”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Draco’s mouth falls open and he stares at Harry in shock.
“Poor?” Draco manages after several silent seconds. “Poor? Poor?”
Harry gets a bit concerned. Years of enmity, and this is how he breaks Draco? “Er…well…middle class, I suppose? I mean, you do have a manor — ”
“Oh, yes, my middle class manor. For Merlin’s sake, Potter. I might be taking the time to do a few things myself, but I’m hardly living in rags.”
“Obviously.” But there’s a big difference, Harry suspects, between a Pureblood who purchases lengths of luxurious table linen, and Draco, who must secretly transfigure old cloths.
“Don’t forget all the table-runners need to have silver trim.”
“Not gold, because that’s tacky.”
Draco laughs, despite their bickering. “Yes,” he agrees. “Very tacky.”
Harry actually wishes they had progressed to an argument. It’s difficult when Draco’s like this, fussing over everything like a proud peacock, and making light gibes. He’s so clearly pleased with his work, and he chats to Harry as if they’re old friends.
Maybe they are, a little voice protests. Maybe nothing's changed.
He manages a smile and turns back to his work.
James can hardly wait until the weekend, and the Saturday trip goes swimmingly. He mills around the bookshop for a while with Rowan, chatting about their favourite authors, and they stop by the Three Broomsticks to check the Quidditch tipping.
“Oh, wow. Seriously?” Rowan starts laughing.
“What?”
“Germany did win. Your margin was the closest.”
“Oh! Do I win something?”
His name is moved up the scoreboard, and Rowan buys him a drink and another sheet.
“Here, fill it in for me.”
“Come on, I haven’t a clue about it.”
“No, you’re my lucky charm now.”
James laughs and good-naturedly fills out the tipping sheet. “You’re going to lose spectacularly next week, and then I’ll have to buy you a drink.”
“Sounds good to me.”
James grins, but then he spots the clock on the wall and realises he’s running late for his date with Olivia. “Got to go,” he says to Rowan, “but we’ll catch up again, yeah?”
“Sure. Here, give me your address and I’ll owl you over the summer holidays.”
James’s expression falls. “Oh. I’m not — I can’t give my address out. Sorry.” He feels embarrassed about his father’s paranoia, but then he brightens up. “But if I send you an owl, it’ll know where to come back to.”
“Perfect. Here’s my address,” Rowan says, scribbling it down on a scrap of paper. “Don’t lose it, okay?”
“I definitely won’t.”
“Good,” Rowan says, and he smiles at him.
James grins back at him.
Their final afternoon of term blooms bright and hot. The boys all switch to shorts and the girls’ skirts are noticeably shorter. Scorpius and James seek refuge in the dappled shade of a young willow tree by the lake; James is amused by the way Scorpius shamelessly stares at the girls wandering past.
“Haven’t you got a girlfriend? Two, actually,” he says, and Scorpius reddens and drops his gaze at once.
“Don’t be so loud, James!”
“Stop ogling, then, and help me with this letter.”
Scorpius pulls his gaze away from a well-endowed Hufflepuff girl. “I wasn't ogling! And what letter?”
“The broom repairer has sent a quote. You know more about brooms than me — do you think it’s a fair price?”
Scorpius picks up the letter and scans it, his expression looking more and more aghast. “James...this is my fault, I’ll have to pay this. Oh, God, five galleons for fibre replacement?”
“See, that seems like a bit too much.”
“No, it’s — it’s what you’d expect for an antique broom.” Scorpius sets the letter down. “Look at the total! Do they accept regular payments? So I can pay it off bit by bit, I mean.”
“You’re not paying a single knut of it,” James says firmly, reaching out and retrieving the letter. “It was a mistake, Scorpius.”
“I was careless, it shouldn’t have happened. I can pay it — it might just take a while.”
“If you try to take responsibility for this, then I’ll take responsibility for your arm,” James says, nodding at Scorpius’s cast. “I’ll develop a guilt complex and everything.”
Scorpius sighs and lays back to look up at the young green leaves of the willow. “You’re stubborn,” he says.
“So I’ve heard. Mostly from you.” James searches for a change of topic before Scorpius decides to revisit the argument to change James’s mind. “Looking forward to your birthday party?”
“My birthday was seven months ago.”
“Your not-birthday party,” James amends, and Scorpius smiles though he doesn’t look away from the leaves. He stretches luxuriously across the grass instead, like a cat basking in the sunlight.
“There’s already fifty confirmed guests, apparently. I won’t even know any of them.” Scorpius glances at James. “I’m awfully glad you’ll be there.”
“Well, I haven’t received my official invitation yet. Maybe I’m not invited,” James teases him.
Scorpius nudges James with his foot. “Of course you’re invited. It’s my not-birthday and you’re my best friend. Your invitation must have gotten lost. Don’t worry, I’ll get Dad to send out another.”
“All right.”
They lapse into comfortable silence for a while, Scorpius laying on the grass while James sits next to him and idly feels the grass brushing his fingertips. He gazes at the lake, watching a bird swoop across it. He’s already missing the water.
“When’s the European School Championships?”
James glances downwards. Scorpius is studying him. “Hm? Oh, middle of August.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The aquatic centre in London.”
“Can I come and watch?”
James laughs. “If you want. Don’t feel obliged, though. It’ll be very boring, you’ll spend most of the time waiting around.”
Scorpius looks indignant. “I don’t feel obliged. You cheer me at all my Quidditch games. I want to cheer you for once. And I’ll just bring a book for the boring bits.”
“Ah, of course you will.”
“And you’re always ravenous after swim practice. I’ll bring some snacks too,” Scorpius adds decisively. “All your favourites.”
“Or,” James says, “we could get something to eat afterwards. We can try a Muggle cafe, if you’d like.”
Scorpius props himself up on his elbows, looking excited. “That’s a brilliant idea!”
“Maybe we can go to some of those Muggle science shops afterwards. The ones you like so much.”
“Yes! I’ll have to see if Dad can pick me up from London afterwards, though. Or maybe I can catch a train back to Wiltshire at least.”
“You could just stay the night at my place.”
Scorpius sits up properly then, eyes wide. “Really? I’m dying to see your house, I’ve never been and it’s not fair.”
James laughs. “It’s not that exciting. I don’t live in a castle or anything.”
“Yes, but I’ll finally see the real field! Our field. The one I made for you, in our room. Oh...will your father let me stay? He’s a bit funny about people visiting, isn’t he?”
James pulls a face. “Paranoid about someone leaking the address to the press, and being bothered by unwanted visitors. But you’re my best friend. It’s different. I’ll talk to him about it.”
Scorpius’s face falls. “It probably won’t happen, then.”
“He’s not Draco. He’ll listen to me,” James says without thinking, then feels bad. He gives Scorpius an apologetic look. “Sorry, I didn’t mean — ”
“No, it’s all right. It’s my fault, anyway. I don’t speak up.”
"He should be able to tell, anyway, that you're not happy," James mutters.
“I am happy.”
“Are you?”
“Right now, in this very moment? Yes. Look, lay back on the grass, let’s look at the sky.”
“See, that sounds nice, but I know you’re going to start telling me about the chemical composition of the stratosphere.”
Scorpius grins at him.
Draco stands on the platform, watching students disembark the Hogwarts Express. He hides his impatience, schooling his expression into a tense look. It feels like forever since he’s seen his son. As he scans the crowds, he spots James, who appears to be chatting to a lanky, dark-haired Slytherin boy. Good, he thinks. Further proof that James needs no new friends — especially not Scorpius.
There’s a flash of white-blond hair nearby, and Draco exhales with relief, unable to stop himself from smiling.
“Scorpius!”
Scorpius turns to glance at him just as the girl beside him — a mousy-haired Hufflepuff — leans forward and kisses his cheek. A look of guilt crosses Scorpius’s face and he mumbles something to the girl, who gives him a hug before leaving.
Draco waits, his eyes narrowing, as Scorpius approaches him.
“Hello,” Scorpius says quietly.
Draco pushes him toward the barrier, finds the Disapparation point, and takes them both home in a Side-Along.
“She’s - ” Scorpius begins, but Draco cuts him off.
“Not now.”
Scorpius falls silent as they walk up the long driveway to the manor. Once inside, Draco sends Scorpius’s luggage upstairs with a flick of his wrist, then goes to the drawing room and flings a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace.
“Off you go,” he says curtly. “Go to the Selwyns, and tell Celia that you’ve been seeing another girl. Tell her parents that you’re very sorry you disappointed them. After that, you can come back here and tell me to cancel the party I spent over a thousand galleons on.”
Scorpius doesn’t move. He drops his gaze, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to Celia for lying to her. Perhaps your other girlfriend deserves an apology too. I’m sure she’s unaware you’re cheating on her.”
“It’s not — I’ve barely seen Celia — ”
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to know that’s your reason for betraying her trust. Go on, Floo to her home and explain to her and her parents what you’ve been doing.”
“I don’t want to do that! It’s all — it’s just — I made a mistake — ”
“So sort it out, then.”
Scorpius glances into the green flames, then looks down at the floor again. “I’ll...I’ll break up with Miriam.”
“That’s what you told me two months ago, Scorpius. Is this just another lie?”
“No. I’ll do it.”
“Tonight. Send her an owl.”
Scorpius looks up. “What? But — ”
“Or you can visit the Selwyns right now. It’s your choice.”
Scorpius exhales slowly. “I’ll go and write the letter,” he says.
Draco extinguishes the flames.
He regrets beginning the summer holidays on such a sour note, but how could he possibly just brush it off? Firstly, Scorpius had come very close to ruining everything (what if a Pureblood attending Hogwarts had seen Scorpius with Miriam and word got back to the Selwyns?) but secondly, he’d also broken Draco’s trust. He’d lied to him. Miriam had been conveniently omitted from all Scorpius’s letters, and Scorpius had clearly kept it secret. Beneath Draco’s anger is deep hurt at the betrayal.
He does try to resolve it, but they have another explosive argument that very night over the dinner table. Draco spots the cast on Scorpius’s arm; it had been hidden earlier by his long-sleeved robes, but now he’s wearing a light shirt. Draco had received an owl informing him that Scorpius had broken his forearm during a Quidditch incident, but Scorpius had responded to his concerned letters by saying it was perfectly fine and healing nicely.
“I thought that would have been healed by now! It’s been six weeks - if Hogwarts is providing subpar care, I’ll send you to St Mungo’s in the future — ”
“It’s fine. The cast comes off next week, I’ve got an appointment with a Healer.”
Draco frowns, watching Scorpius clumsily eat one-handed. “How did it happen, exactly? You never elaborated. If those beaters are being too aggressive — ”
“No, it was — it was my fault. I was showing off, actually, and going too fast.”
Draco peers at the cast. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“On your cast!” Draco stands up and leans across the table; Scorpius moves away from him. “Right there! It says, ‘James Potter broke my arm and all I got was this stupid cast’...did he do this? Did he corner you and write that?”
“No! Stop — stop shouting at me! James was actually — it’s a joke. What he wrote on the cast. Just a joke between...between friends.”
Draco says nothing. Scorpius waits, fork still in one hand, and after a long moment he puts the fork down, pushing his plate away, his appetite evidently lost.
“Is there anything else,” Draco asks coldly, “that you’ve lied to me about?”
“Dad, I’m sorry — "
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But — ”
“I do not want to hear it!”
Scorpius stands up and leaves.
Draco is left alone at the table.
James is in a quiet mood, Harry notices. He seems preoccupied about something, distracted by his own thoughts, and he spends a lot of time in his room. Well, whatever it is, James will tell him when he’s ready, Harry thinks.
James writes quite a few letters too; Harry discreetly checks the return address of a letter that arrives for James one morning. It’s from one ‘Rowan Viney’ apparently.
“You haven’t told him our address, have you?” Harry asks cautiously.
“Who?”
“Rowan Viney.”
James looks up sharply. “What?”
“Your new pen pal,” Harry says, nodding at the envelope.
James frowns and picks it up, moving it close to his bowl of cereal. “No. I’m not stupid. I know the rule.”
“All right, just checking,” Harry says mildly.
"Although...speaking of people knowing our address..."
"God, what did you do?"
James rolls his eyes. "Nothing. Not yet, anyway. But Scorpius really wants to visit..."
"Maybe."
James gets angry then. "That's not fair. Dad, I've never had any friends stay over — "
"I said maybe!" Harry protests.
"That's what you say so I'll be quiet and leave you alone! I know 'maybe' means 'no', I'm not stupid!"
Harry falls silent then, and picks at his toast. James is right. He's never had any friends from the wizarding world visit, and he's sixteen years old. What about his girlfriend? He'll want to bring his first serious girlfriend home to meet Harry...what's Harry supposed to do, forbid her from visiting? "James," he says at last, "I promise I'll think about it."
"Yeah, sure."
"I mean it. Ask me again in a week."
James considers that. "Okay," he says, his voice softening a bit.
Harry picks up a slice of toast. "So...anybody else you'd like for a visit?"
"No."
"Not even Olivia?" Harry asks, pleased he's remembered the name from James's letters.
James gives him a shrewd look. “How's your love life? Maybe you should start dating again.”
“I do date!”
“I mean besides all the dates Uncle Ron sets up for you. Proper dates.”
“Fine. I’ll go find a stepmother for you, then you’ll be sorry.”
“I hear Rita Skeeter's single."
"James Sirius Potter, don't even joke about that!"
But James is already laughing, and after a moment, Harry joins in.
Yet there's still one cloud on Harry's horizon: the approaching party.
Can he really — in good faith — attend it? The Pureblood world is still very insular and Harry’s certainly not a part of it. And though many of the families are ‘reformed’, it doesn’t change the fact that many of Draco’s guests will be from the same families who brayed for Harry’s blood. The biggest issue is Draco’s own admission that Harry will be there not so much as a friend, but a convenient ally.
James, on the other hand, seems thrilled about it. Two weeks before the party, he organises a trip to Diagon Alley. “None of my dress robes fit any more, I’ll have to get fitted for new ones,” he tells Harry.
“Just wear your old ones, nobody will notice if the hem’s a bit short.”
“Dad, come on. I know it’s a stupid party that’ll be incredibly boring, but Scorpius is stressing out about it. We’ve got to actually put some effort in. Besides, I’ve got to pick up Scorpius’s present. I commissioned it weeks ago and it’s finally ready.”
Oddly enough, it’s James’s attitude that makes up Harry’s mind. James is determined to do right by the Malfoys, even though he clearly dislikes Draco, and he’s putting in a lot of effort and money. Yet he doesn’t know that Draco won’t even invite him simply because he believes Scorpius should have better friends.
Harry takes his invitation down from the mantle. James looks over his shoulder.
“Harry James Potter, you are cordially invited — ha, look! They’ve got Scorpius’s full name, bet he’s having a sulk about that...” James trails off. “Actually, that reminds me. I haven’t got my invite yet, I’ll have to send Scorpius an owl about that.”
Harry pauses. “I’m about to head over there, actually, so I’ll remind Draco. You can come along if you want, but Scorpius won’t be there. He’s spending the morning with Celia.” It’s a lie, but he doesn’t particularly want James to overhear his conversation with Draco.
James takes another bite of his toast. “Hope Miriam doesn’t know about her.”
“Who’s Miriam?”
“Scorpius’s other girlfriend. His Muggleborn girlfriend.”
Harry swaps a look with James. “Ah. I see. Well, I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t forget, you promised to take me to the pool.”
“Haven’t forgotten.” Harry tousles James’s hair — ignoring the fact he has to reach upwards slightly to do so — and grabs his cloak.
When he arrives at the manor, he's expecting a flurry of activity, but everything is quiet. Scorpius is in the drawing room, reading a book, but he stands up when Harry appears in the fireplace, and he immediately smiles.
“James?” he asks hopefully.
“Hello, Scorpius. No, it’s just me, I’m afraid. James couldn't come."
“Oh.” Scorpius’s smile fades and he sits back down again. “Father is in the study.”
“Ah. How’s your year been, then? Long time, no see.” Harry can sense a certain disconsolation around Scorpius; a little aura of misery. He wishes he could cheer him up — then he remembers James’s request. Harry had promised he’d think about it, and now he finds himself saying spontaneously, “Looking forward to visiting James? I think it's a good idea."
Scorpius stares at him, and then his whole face lights up. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much, I promise you won’t even know I’m there —”
“Isn’t that half the fun, though, making far too much noise and casting stupid spells? Anyway, I’ve got to have a word with your father about something.”
Scorpius nods and looks back down at his book, still smiling to himself. Harry goes to upstairs, to the study, and finds Draco poring over the accounts.
“I thought I heard your dulcet tones,” Draco says idly, signing a cheque. “Just doing the final accounts. There we go, that’s the musicians paid.” He seals the envelope, pressing the Malfoy seal into the soft wax, and sets it aside to dry.
“Ah. Well, it sounds like it’ll be very successful.”
“Oh, yes. Quite a few guests of honour will be coming.” Draco picks up a fresh envelope.
This is going to be difficult; Harry takes a deep breath of Gryffindor courage. “I’m sure you don’t need me there, then. I’ll only embarrass myself in some way — or get hideously drunk,” he adds lightly.
Draco doesn’t smile. He stares at Harry, then sets the envelope back down. “What are you talking about? You said you’d be there — “
“I know, I know, but it’s just — it’s not me, all this Pureblood stuff — “
“It’s not like that any more, they’re not all lords and ladies — it will be fun — “
“It’s — it’s not about that — “
“Is it Scorpius?” Draco asks, his tone almost beseeching, and Harry wishes he were mad, because it’s much harder like this, when Draco is upset and bewildered. “Because honestly, it’s fine — we did have a bit of an argument about it, but it’s fixed now, he is happy — “
“No, it’s not that. It’s the principle of it, Malfoy,” Harry says quietly. “You’ve changed — “
“Yes, I have — for the better, we’re friends now, aren’t we? And you promised —”
“You had changed. We used to talk about Muggles and how maybe they were our equals. You’d started making friends with Muggles and Muggleborns — remember doing those family trees for them? And James. When he was first friends with Scorpius, you thought it was perfectly fine. When they were enemies, you were more concerned with Scorpius being upset about it than anything else. And that's what finally made me change my mind about this party.”
“What did?”
Harry looks at Draco. “I know you think perhaps James is a bad influence, but I think it’s more than that. I think you don’t want Scorpius to have a Halfblood as a best friend.”
“That’s — that’s preposterous — James has a long list of offences — that temper of his — “
“And I think it applies to me too,” Harry continues, ignoring Draco’s indignant protest. “You invited me to this party as the token Halfblood. You told me that yourself. And ever since you’ve decided to rejoin the Pureblood world, you’ve stopped being friends with me. You haven’t written, you haven’t invited me over unless it’s for party preparations...we haven’t played a single game of Monopoly in weeks.”
Draco’s gaze flickers over to the dusty board game, packed up and placed onto a shelf, but he says nothing.
"Tell me honestly," Harry says. "Does James's Halfblood status have nothing to do with your dislike of him?"
Draco's gaze drops. The silence rests heavy over the room.
Harry picks up his cloak. “There’s silver lining, at least,” he says. “You’ll still get to have your token Halfblood. James is absolutely thrilled to be attending his best friend’s party, and unless you want an enormous argument with Scorpius about it, I would advise letting him attend without fuss.” Harry clasps his cloak and waits, but still Draco says nothing. He won’t even look at Harry.
After a long moment, Harry leaves.
James's invitation to Scorpius's party turns up two days later.
It's just one, however, in a sea of invitations. The summer ahead will no doubt be busier; James seems to be very popular this year, Harry thinks. Numerous owls arrive and drop off birthday and social invitations and Harry finally, finally gets to meet all James’s friends. They go all the way to Wales to meet Iwan, a broad-shouldered boy who lives on a farm with his eight siblings — none of whom are magic. Iwan is the only wizard in his family. Nevertheless, Harry is reminded strongly of the Weasleys and takes an instant, strong liking to Iwan’s friendly parents.
Then there’s Paul, a scruffy boy with very busy parents who has a birthday party Harry strongly suspects is unsupervised; when James returns the next day, he’s wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothes and appears to be suffering nausea.
“Okay,” Harry says to the little lump of sad James on the sofa, “just tell me the truth. Did you drink alcohol?”
James peers at him. “Yes,” he says at last. “Not as much as Paul, though. He got wrecked. We ended up giving him shots of cordial and telling him they were hard spirits.”
“I’m glad you did that.”
James looks apprehensive. “Are you mad at me?”
Harry considers that. “No,” he says. “I kind of wish I’d been able to have normal teenager experiences like that, to be honest. But I do hope next time you’ll drink in moderation. And take care of your friends, all right?”
“All right,” James says, looking as if he can’t quite believe his luck in escaping a lecture.
But Harry vastly approves of the rest of James’s friends, at least. Next week there’s Nate, who lives with his foster parents in a small suburban home and takes his friends to a Muggle zoo for his birthday. James raves about that all day, clearly impressed with the experience. Then Rose’s birthday party, where James and Hugo spend most of the time snickering together as Rose slow-dances with her boyfriend, Andrew. Harry has to admit it is rather amusing, the way Rose and Andrew gaze moon-eyed at each other.
But then, of course, there’s Scorpius’s party.
The afternoon preceding Scorpius’s party is mild and warm. The sky is a cloudless blue and the fields are lush with the midsummer rains; James goes for a walk in the nearby woods and Harry worries that he'll wander back in time to be very late to the party.
But James returns early. "Saw the badgers on my way back," he tells Harry casually. "There’s a new litter.”
Harry goes to the cupboard, planning to make toast. “Where’s the bread? Only bought a loaf yesterday.”
“Oh, I took it with me. Fed the ducks at the stream.”
“You fed...you fed the ducks? James, that was my nice bread! I bought it fresh from the bakery yesterday!”
“Yeah, the ducks enjoyed it.”
“You don’t feed them nice bread, you feed them stale bread!”
“You’re horrible,” James says, looking far too amused, and he turns and disappears up the stairs, leaving Harry to grudgingly eat a bowl of cereal. Although James had gone to Diagon Alley recently to pick up his dress robes, Harry still has a fear of James sauntering downstairs in tattered jeans and a t-shirt.
But he doesn’t. He reappears looking razor-sharp in black robes with a ruby-red trim, clearly tailored to exactly fit him, and his hair is combed neatly. It suddenly strikes Harry that James is nearly an adult now; the softness has long melted from his face, and he’s the same height as Harry now - the years of swimming have given him broad shoulders and an athletic build.
James rolls his eyes. “Are you going to cry? You’ve got that stupid proud look on your face again.”
Harry glares at him. “I was just thinking how grown-up you are now, and I was proud of you, but then you ruined it.”
“Did I? Oh well. Hurry up, get the camera out so you can do that thing where you take my picture and cry about how time goes fast.”
“Just you wait until you have children. Then you’ll understand.”
“I won’t have children,” James says dismissively. “Too much work.”
“You will. You’ll change your mind once you’ve met the right girl. Besides, you can’t deprive me of grandchildren. That’s the only good thing about growing old — having grandkids.”
James doesn’t smile at the joke. “Hurry up and take the picture,” he mutters instead.
Harry gets the camera out. “Smile, for Merlin’s sake,” he says.
The flash goes off.
Everything is perfect, Draco thinks.
The manor is resplendent. The gardens are in full bloom, and the meandering pathways of the rose garden and the flowerbeds are lit up with strings of fairy lights. In the centre of the garden, beneath a marque studded with tiny stars, guests laugh and gather round a champagne fountain, glass flutes held in their hands. Indoors, in the parlour, they enjoy the luxurious food. The table is piled high with delicate pastries and hand-crafted treats, clustered around the centrepiece: a tiered cake enchanted to change flavour according to individual preference. The atmosphere is thoroughly enjoyable — the echo of laughter and noise of light chatter makes that apparent.
The guests are all arriving in various fashions: ornate carriages, golden portkeys, even on purebred Hippogriffs — all aiming to impress. A sure sign, Draco knows, that they expect to see other important and high-status guests. Celia’s family arrives on a richly embroidered flying carpet. Her parents greet Draco, smiling and full of compliments. Scorpius — dressed in tailored robes of navy blue that contrast strikingly with his fair complexion and white-blond hair — catches Celia’s attention at once.
“You look very nice,” she says, turning pink and gazing at him.
“So do you,” Scorpius says. Celia looks radiant in a glittering dress of periwinkle blue, clearly designed to complement Scorpius’s robes. Draco catches Scorpius’s eye and mouths ‘say beautiful’, but Scorpius gives him a blank look. To Draco’s embarrassment, Mrs Selwyn catches his gesture, but thankfully she seems amused.
“Nerves, the poor dear,” she tells Draco. “Leave him alone. I’m sure there’s plenty of times a beautiful girl left you speechless.”
“The rose gardens look beautiful,” Celia says.
“My grandmother grew them,” Scorpius replies.
He’s hopeless. “I’m sure Celia would love a tour,” Draco says meaningfully, at the exact same time Mrs Selwyn says, “Perhaps you two should go for a walk?”
“All right,” Scorpius agrees, and Celia eagerly steps forward to take his arm. Scorpius moves as if to shift away, but thankfully seems to stop himself. Draco watches as they leave, realising Scorpius really isn’t an affectionate person anymore. When did that change? He can’t remember the last time they hugged.
“Stop watching them like a hawk, you’ll scare them.”
He shakes his thoughts away and laughs. “I’ll leave them alone, then. So, how's the itinerary for the Italian trip?" he asks Mrs Selwyn.
The conversation flows easily. This is a perfect match, Draco thinks. After all, to the Selwyns' knowledge, Scorpius is wealthy. The family estate is large and impressive. And Scorpius has a reputation for having remarkable magical strength and keen intelligence worthy of the finest Ravenclaws. Draco just wishes Scorpius could shake off the dark cloud that seems to be hanging over him lately.
He's not looking forward to the arrival of James Potter and had planned a short, curt greeting, but in an effort to bolster his spirits, Draco partakes in just a little too much champagne. By the time James arrives, Draco is very amiable.
“James Potter,” he says, gesturing too boisterously and spilling his champagne. “Welcome, welcome. Oh thank Merlin, you look like you actually put effort in.”
James stares at him. “Are you drunk?”
“Mildly inebriated. Off you go, then, and try not to do anything stupid.”
Scorpius materialises then, so quickly that Draco wonders if he has some sort of magical James-sensor. Scorpius stares at James as if he's a dragon, and Draco seizes the silence to ask exactly where Celia has gone.
"What?" Scorpius asks, still staring at James.
"Celia? Where is she?"
"Hi," Scorpius finally says to James. “I was kind of expecting you to show up in jeans and a t-shirt, to be honest.“
“Thanks for setting the bar low," James says, smiling at him.
"Scorpius, go find Celia,” Draco says with exasperation. “You can talk to James any time.”
Scorpius obediently leaves. James smiles brightly at Draco and picks up a glass of champagne from another tray.
“Another drink, Draco?”
He gives James a faintly suspicious look and accepts the glass. “Far too informal. It's 'Mr Malfoy'. Now go socialise, will you?”
“All right,” James says cheerfully before departing.
Draco takes a rather unrefined swig of champagne.
The evening drifts onward, with the adult guests getting steadily more cheerful and tipsy. The cake — lit up with candles burning bright with enchanted colours — is handed out to eager guests and later on, the quartet strikes up a lively tune suitable for dances. James is a popular choice for a dance partner, which doesn’t surprise Draco. He’s grown into a young man with his mother’s high cheekbones and straight, narrow nose. Draco almost intervenes, though, when two girls have a fight over James’s next dance; they argue bitterly with each other, James standing politely between them. Thankfully, an embarrassed parent shows up to usher their furious daughter away.
Scorpius seems loathe to dance at all.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he tells Draco.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone knows how to dance.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I won’t, I’ll do a terrible job.”
“Go and dance with Celia,” Draco says, pouring himself a glass of the non-alcoholic punch. He's thought it wise to cut back on the champagne for a bit. “You can’t just stand around and refuse to dance, it will be seen as very rude.”
“Maybe Celia doesn’t want to dance either,” Scorpius says hopefully.
Draco gives him a severe look. Scorpius trails away reluctantly.
At least he does dance with Celia; three times, to be exact, and then another girl quickly approaches Scorpius and asks for a dance. Celia has a few other dance partners too, but she keeps glancing back at Scorpius with a look of faint jealousy.
“Celia seems very charmed by your son.”
Draco turns to Mrs Selwyn and raises his glass slightly. “And I’d say he’s equally charmed by her.”
“Quite a match.” She raises her glass in return.
Draco smiles.
James seizes his chance when the musicians pause to change their sheet music. He escapes the gaze of several girls already heading towards him for the next dance and taps Scorpius on the shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
Scorpius doesn’t even pause, just follows James quickly as they duck through a nearby doorway.
“Servant’s stairs?”
“Oh. Yes, this way.” Scorpius opens a small door that, at first glance, could be mistaken for a cupboard. James closes the door behind them and they both stand on the narrow stone stairs. Scorpius exhales then, the tension leaving his shoulders.
“Yeah, thought you might like a break,” James says, amused.
“It’s just all the...” Scorpius gestures. “Stuff. Being really careful what I say and do and...everything. Don’t shrug, don’t slump, don’t mumble, don’t say ‘yeah’, don’t eat too much or it’s rude, don’t eat too little or it’s rude, don’t talk to that person, don’t discuss these subjects...I feel like everything’s made of glass and I’ll just shatter it all.”
“Well, I’ve got something that might distract you.”
“Like what?” Scorpius asks sceptically.
“A present.”
That works. Scorpius’s whole face lights up. “Really?”
“Obviously. It’s your not-birthday.”
“Where is it?”
“This way.” James climbs the stairs, his shoulders brushing against both walls. He opens a small door and checks the hallway beyond it, making sure it’s dark and empty.
“You hid it in my bedroom?” Scorpius asks, figuring it out.
James walks down the hallway and opens the bedroom door, amused as Scorpius immediately steps inside and begins looking around as if expecting a brightly-wrapped present on his bed.
“Look harder.”
“I’m not seeing anything, what...” Scorpius trails off, peering at his desk. “Wait...what is that?”
James had snuck away earlier and placed the pensieve there; it hadn’t felt right, adding it to the pile of shiny gifts downstairs. This gift is personal and James doesn’t want it ruined by intrusive questions from Draco or other curious guests.
Scorpius taps the lamp with his wand, switching it on, and stares at the pensieve. It’s made of cobalt-blue marble, polished smooth and flecked with silver, mimicking the night sky. The constellation of Scorpius is carved into one side of it, the cobweb-thin lines delicate and subtle. Currently, the liquid within is clear as air, bereft of memories.
“What is it?” Scorpius asks, glancing up at James uncertainly.
James smiles at him. “You’ve never heard of a pensieve?”
Scorpius shakes his head.
“It’s a place where you can keep memories. There’s a certain spell you can use to draw memories from your mind, and you can keep them in the pensieve and revisit them whenever you want.”
“Oh,” Scorpius says, looking interested.
“Other people can visit them too.”
Scorpius looks blankly at him, and James grins.
“Well,” he says, “didn’t you want me to meet your mother?”
Then Scorpius realises what the gift really is, and James — expecting a smile — is taken aback when Scorpius lunges forward and yanks James into a crushing hug. “Thank you,” Scorpius says, his voice muffled.
“Want me to show you how to do the spell?”
“Yes,” Scorpius says immediately, and James steps away from him in order to lift his wand to his temple.
"Just concentrate on what you're thinking about..." He pauses, and after a moment, a drift of silver substance unfurls from his wand. He gently ushers it towards the pensieve and it disappears into the stone, settling into it like a small translucent puddle. "All you have to do is touch it, and you'll see the memory," he says.
Scorpius lifts his wide-eyed gaze from the pensieve to James's face. "That's a memory from you?"
"Yes."
"And I can see it?"
James nods. Scorpius gives him a hesitant look, then slowly brushes his fingertips across the silver surface.
James had picked what he thought was a good memory, a fun memory: when he first stepped into a compartment of the Hogwarts Express and met Scorpius. He chose well, he thinks; Scorpius surfaces from the memory with a thrilled expression.
"You picked that memory," he says, looking absurdly happy.
James grins. "You were so tiny."
"You were even tinier."
"Rubbish, I've always been taller," James teases.
"You were so different back then."
"Oh? What was I like, then?"
A smile tugs at the corner of Scorpius's mouth. "Loud. Chatty. You never shut up. You never sat still." He pauses. "You took everything so personally."
"You're making me sound like a complete prat."
Scorpius laughs. "No, you had quite a few good traits. You were really fun to be around, and so friendly to everyone. I wanted your confidence so badly."
James stares at the faint ripples in the pensieve memory. After a moment, Scorpius speaks again. "So, what was I like back then?"
"When we were eleven? Hm." James tilts his head, thinking. "Quiet. At first I thought maybe you were shy, but then you were so..." He gestures. "Cold, to be honest. You could be very cold and distant."
"I'm sorry. It was self-preservation."
"How do you mean?"
Scorpius looks down at the pensieve. "You can't lose a friend," he says, "if you don't have one to begin with."
James's smile fades. He looks down at the pensieve too. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I was completely awful."
"I didn't exactly take the higher ground," Scorpius says wryly. "I was very quick to retaliate."
"But I started it."
Scorpius reaches out and touches his shoulder lightly. James finally looks up again, and he's surprised to see Scorpius smiling at him.
"You also finished it," Scorpius says.
They stand in silence for a moment, then Draco suddenly barges into the room, glass of punch in hand.
“Scorpius, there you are! Celia’s been looking everywhere for you.”
“Oh.”
"Come on, hurry up, go back downstairs," Draco orders. "The girls are waiting. And don't drink the punch, somebody's spiked it. Probably that loathsome Potter boy."
"Do you mean me?" James asks archly.
Draco does a double take. "Oh. How long have you been here? What? No. A different...a different Potter boy." He turns and hurries away.
Scorpius glances at James as they follow him. "What?" James whispers. "It wasn't me."
"I know," Scorpius murmurs. "I did it. I need something to make this party bearable."
James starts laughing. Scorpius grins at him.
”You know,” James says, “this is the perfect time to ask Draco if you can stay overnight with me after the swim meet.”
”I was going to let him have one more cup of punch.”
Well, James thinks, this party is all right after all.
It’s past midnight when the party finally begins to wind down. The carriages leave the driveway, the cloakroom is slowly emptied. The string quartet packs up and the champagne fountain slows to a trickle. Draco had hoped that by the end of the night, Scorpius would have kissed Celia — there were plenty of romantic settings, from the fairy-lit trees to the lush rose gardens — but it seems like no such luck. But Celia accepts a kiss on the cheek as she leaves, settling onto the flying carpet with a faint blush staining her cheeks. Mr Selwyn shakes Draco’s hand; Mrs Selwyn compliments him on the party.
“I’m sure our respective children will see each other again soon,” she says.
“I’m sure, too.”
Draco watches as the family leaves, then turns to Scorpius. “Should’ve kissed her. Nerves get the better of you? Maybe next time.”
“Maybe,” Scorpius says.
“Never mind. Oh, there’s the McGregors — wait here while I say goodbye.”
But when Draco returns from farewelling the McGregors — the last family to leave, the faintly embarrassed husband trying to usher his inebriated and very talkative wife into the carriage — Scorpius is nowhere to be found. Probably away star-gazing, Draco thinks as he glances up into the clear night sky.
He sets about tidying the gardens after he’s sure everyone’s left. This task would, of course, be outsourced to a house elf, but Draco can’t afford one. Any budget-saving measures he could use, he did. The decorations are all rented, and the fairies were wild ones that Draco spent days catching and collecting.
As he’s wandering around the gardens, slowly sobering up and trying to track down the last few fairies, he finds James and Scorpius sitting by the ornate water fountain, James listening as Scorpius speaks earnestly. As Draco nears, he picks up tidbits of the conversation.
“...only once every fifty years, it’s going to look amazing...“
“For Merlin’s sake, Scorpius,” Draco interrupts. “I hope you chose better topics when you were taking to Celia. I think we’re all sick of hearing about that upcoming comet.”
Scorpius shuts his mouth, fixing his gaze on the ground. James frowns at Draco.
“I quite like hearing about it,” James says. “It’s a lot more interesting than what others like to say.”
Draco is fairly certain that’s a pointed remark, but he can’t be sure. James has a subtlety that his father lacks.
“Shouldn’t you be gone already?” Draco says instead, and now Scorpius is frowning at him too.
“James can stay longer,” he says, but James shakes his head.
“I should probably go, I’ve got swimming practice early tomorrow.”
They say their farewells, though each one keeps stopping to mention something to the other, until Draco gets fed up and practically shoves James down the driveway.
“There. Finally,” Draco says as he ushers Scorpius inside. "That boy is far too talkative."
Scorpius picks at a thread on his robes. "I thought Harry was going to be here too."
"Yes, well, he's quite busy."
"That's a shame."
Draco pauses for just a second before abruptly ripping down an overhanging decoration. "Not really. There were plenty of other guests. Now, off you go. To bed.”
“Yes, Father.”
Scorpius departs.
Draco surveys the remnants of the party. It won’t be fun, cleaning it all up, but it’s worth it.
A perfect night.
Chapter 22: One Good Reason
Summary:
The boys begin sixth year — James's dating life gets rather complicated — Scorpius makes several mistakes regarding his own romances.
Chapter Text
Draco spends the next morning with a cold flannel over his forehead, lying on the sofa and feeling sorry for himself.
"Some absolute twat spiked the punch," he tells Scorpius, who is dutifully making a list of recipients for thank-you notes. "You didn't drink any, did you?"
"Had a few glasses."
Draco sits up a bit and frowns at him. "I hope not."
"I've never had punch before, I just assumed it was supposed to burn.”
Draco frowns a bit more but feels slightly too headachey to pick a fight. "Is that an actual golden snitch?"
Scorpius glances over at the pile of presents and picks up the snitch. "Yeah."
"How many karats?"
Scorpius turns it over, looking at a little mark on the bottom of it. "Ten."
"Send an extra nice thank-you note. Scorpius, fetch me a glass of water, will you?"
Scorpius gets up and reappears a minute later, glass in hand, and sets it down on the coffee table. "I've nearly finished the notes."
"Good." Draco takes a sip of water.
Scorpius sets his quill aside. "There was a letter this morning," he says, a little carefully. "It was on the kitchen table, perhaps I misplaced it — "
"I threw it out."
Draco can feel the tension, can feel Scorpius staring at him, but he settles back onto the sofa and looks resolutely at the ceiling.
"You threw it out? My mail?"
"It was from Miriam. I assumed you didn't need it."
"That was my letter!"
"Keep it down, I've got a headache the size of a dragon!" Draco snaps. "And you dumped her. She should have no reason for contacting you."
"We can still be friends!"
"Well, I'm afraid the letter's gone," Draco says firmly, adjusting his cold flannel.
Scorpius leaves. He has never slammed a door in his life, so Draco jumps when he hears the noise; it reverberates all through Draco's aching skull.
He glares at the ceiling.
Silence begins to reign at the manor; all of Draco’s attempts at conversations fall flat. Scorpius sequesters himself away in rooms that Draco knows are practically hiding places: the observatory, the greenhouse, and spare bedrooms.
It’s frustrating. Draco can’t figure out what’s happened. It’s like living by himself again. Silent and empty and alone.
A week after the party, Draco goes to Scorpius’s bedroom to remind him of the upcoming departure date for Italy, and he spots a pensieve on Scorpius’s desk.
He can’t believe it.
“Where did you get this from?”
“James.”
“What? He bought you a pensieve? Merlin’s beard, he’s careless with his money, isn’t he?” Draco touches the polished rim of the pensieve. A unique marble, acquired only from the dens of Welsh dragons. Hand-carved with constellations, set with silver. This isn’t a pensieve bought, already carved, from a stonemason, though those are expensive and rare enough. No; this one must have been commissioned and ordered weeks before the party. Draco is somehow irritated with the gift. Celia had bought Scorpius a very advanced Dobsonian telescope with all the latest enchantments, and now the gift appears to have been upstaged. “You must remember to thank him,” Draco says for the sake of courtesy. “Though the money could have been better spent on a different gift. I’ve no idea what you’ll do with a pensieve.”
“Put memories in it.”
Draco raises his eyebrows. “People use pensieves for memories that are very...big. Important. Or stressful. You’re sixteen, Scorpius. Trust me, you haven’t been stressed yet.”
Scorpius says nothing.
“Make sure you’re ready to leave next Friday,” Draco adds, and then he turns and departs.
The Italian trip comes and goes. Scorpius spends a week with the Selwyns and comes home sunburned. He spends the next week lying on the sofa, smothered in aloe vera and looking very sorry for himself, but he seems to be in a better mood on the following Saturday. Draco is most pleased; there’s a date with Celia today and it’s clear what the source of Scorpius’s good mood must be.
“Looking forward to the Wompley Cup today?”
Scorpius looks up. “What?”
“You know, the Hippogriff races. With Celia.”
“Today?”
Draco sets his newspaper aside and waves his wand, bringing the calendar zooming toward him. “It was a last-minute addition to the schedule, but honestly, I can’t believe I forgot about the Cup —“
“Dad, it can’t be today. I asked you ages ago about going to visit James - “
“What? I don’t remember that.”
Scorpius leans across the table and points at the calendar. “I wrote it in there, you said it was fine, I made sure — ”
“Well, you’ll just have to reschedule it,” Draco says, crossing out the large ‘James’ written in Scorpius’s neat writing. “Now, it doesn’t matter if you know nothing about Hippogriff racing - “
“I can’t reschedule, Dad. It’s the European School Championships. This is the biggest day of the year for James — ”
“It’s just a game, Scorpius, for the love of — ”
“I promised James! And this is important. He’s has been working so, so hard for this moment — ”
“I’m sure he’ll have plenty of others to cheer him on.” Draco adds a dollop of jam to his toast. “Now, the races are fairly casual, so you can dress down with a pair of slacks and a blazer.”
“He cheers me at every match, it’s only fair.”
“Those matches are during school term, it’s hardly inconvenient for him. Now, I’ve polished a pair of quarter brogues for you to wear, and pick a nice cloak — ”
“Dad, please listen to me. Just once. James is my best friend and I promised — ”
Draco frowns and sets his butter knife down. “Scorpius,” he says, “I am listening. You are feeling bad about missing James’s...swimming race.”
“The championships.”
“Right. But there’s no need to feel bad about it. James probably won’t even notice your absence. You can go ahead and enjoy your time with Celia without feeling guilty.”
Scorpius is silent.
“See? It’s fine. Go get dressed - nicely dressed, I don’t want to see a single t-shirt in your wardrobe by the end of summer.”
“Yes, Father.”
Scorpius stands and leaves.
Draco frowns after him, wondering about that flat tone of voice, but perhaps he misheard.
He turns back to his paper.
Harry couldn’t be more proud. He fusses about, and makes sure James has a filling breakfast, and packs his swim bag and finds the camera. James rolls his eyes at it all, but Harry thinks he’s secretly pleased with all the attention.
As he should be.
“Five races! Your coach picked you for five races,” Harry says.
“Why are you packing another camera?”
“What if the first one breaks? Pass me that spare film roll.”
“God, you’re going to embarrass me. You’re not going to use up two whole rolls!”
“I might. Now, is Scorpius meeting us there?”
“I suppose so. We didn’t really make proper arrangements.”
They take a portkey to an out-of-order bathroom at the London pool, specifically set up for incoming wizard arrivals; nevertheless, they arrive at the same time as another swimmer and their proud family, and they get plenty of odd looks from Muggles as they all squeeze out of the stall.
The poolside is buzzing with activity, and James is immediately greeted by a group of cheerful boys; Harry recognises Iwan among them.
“Here you are! It’s good to see you!”
“James! You don’t have a spare pair of goggles, by any chance?”
"James, come over here!"
Harry gets left by the wayside, though James does have the courtesy to introduce his coach, Saltworth.
“Saltworth, this is my father, Harry,” he says.
Harry frowns at James; a proper name would be helpful. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Saltworth.”
Her eyebrows disappear into her rather severe hairline. “I’m certainly not a Mrs," she says. "Now come along, Potter,” she adds so authoritatively that Harry automatically starts following her.
“I’m Potter,” James says, smirking at him.
“Oh, shut up,” Harry mutters, going red and retreating to the sideline again. He watches Saltworth march away, her swim team following single file, and he’s not surprised that James’s swimming has improved remarkably. He has the feeling Saltworth does not tolerate excuses nor laziness.
James does some laps in the warm-up pool with his teammates, though he occasionally pauses between laps to look around. Looking for his best friend, Harry knows, but Scorpius seems to be nowhere in sight.
He glances up at the clock.
James is happy to see his friends, though he wonders where Scorpius is. "Sorry?" he asks Thomas, who'd just asked him a question.
"I was just asking who's representing our junior team.”
”I’m not sure, I think...” James pauses as someone taps his shoulder, and he turns around.
”Hello,” Scorpius says, smiling at him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Just had a bit of bother getting here. I didn’t miss anything, did I?”
“No, not at all. There’s still a bit of time.”
“Oh, good.”
James wishes Thomas good luck and wanders off to catch up with Scorpius; he’s caught by surprise when they call his event.
“That’s me!”
Scorpius wishes him luck and seems so genuinely excited about it that James laughs. He goes to the waiting area, milling around with his team mates until the starting blocks are ready. Standing on the edge of the block is always his favourite moment. There's something about these few seconds that makes him both thrilled and nervous: his fellow swimmers waiting, poised on their own blocks. The quiet tension that fills the air. The pool below him, rippling gently, waiting for his fingertips to break the surface. Waiting for movement, waiting for all that energy to be released.
He inhales slowly and deeply, eyes trained on the water, every muscle tense.
The whistle pierces the air.
He dives into the water and it feels as if the first lap is over within mere seconds. He concentrates on absolutely nothing but the movement of his body, his rhythmic breathing, the constant rise and crash of water around him. When he surfaces at the end of the second lap, hand resting on the edge of the pool, he doesn't glance up at the scoreboard nor look at his fellow competitors. He just exhales for a moment, feeling the adrenaline fade.
"James!"
He glances up. Thomas had been swimming a few lanes over, but he crashes his way across two lane divides to yank James into a crushing hug of victory.
"You smashed it!" Thomas shouts.
"What?" James asks dazedly.
"The record! You smashed it!"
Saltworth comes over looking as if she might burst with pride. “One entire second, Potter! You shaved an entire second off the record!”
James manages to climb out of the pool. He can see Harry taking far too many pictures and Scorpius is looking ridiculously proud.
“They’re saying you broke the record!” Harry says.
“Oh, yeah. I did,” James says casually, trying to act unfazed.
Scorpius doesn’t even bother. He hugs James, full of joyful congratulations, then asks Harry to take a picture of them.
“Come on, you two are embarrassing me,” James complains half-heartedly, but he poses for the picture anyway. “I’ve still got four events left, you know.”
“And now we expect new records for every single one,” Harry says, grinning at him.
“No pressure, then."
James doesn’t break any more records, but he certainly makes his rivals sit up and take notice. He wins first place in both his other freestyle events, and places a respectable fourth for butterfly (his weakest stroke). For the final event - the relay - they do remarkably well until Thomas loses his lane and they’re all disqualified. Thomas looks like he might cry and won’t stop berating himself about it until James takes him aside.
“Thomas — ”
“I know, I don’t know how it happened, it’s such a stupid thing to do — ”
“ - you did a brilliant job, you’ve got amazing results for all your other events, everybody makes mistakes and we’re still a good team. So shut up or I’ll punch you again.”
Thomas’s face falls. “Here comes Saltworth,” he says miserably.
“Yeah, 'cause she’s about to tell you what an awesome job we did.”
“Come on, James, you know — ”
“Pearson! Potter! Why aren’t you celebrating with your team? Potter, you’ve done us all very proud today - and Pearson, that was your personal best for backstroke and I’m not surprised with all your hard work — ”
“I’m sorry about the relay,” Thomas interrupts.
Saltworth looks at him blankly. “Why? It was a mistake. Potter makes mistakes all the time and I don’t see him having a sulk about it.”
“It’s true, I make loads of mistakes,” James says brightly. “You should know, Pearson, you’re always reminding me of them.”
Thomas looks at James and finally offers a tentative smile; he pulls James into a brief hug and slaps him on the shoulder. “Good work today,” he says.
“Yeah, you too.”
They return to the rest of the team.
Harry waits while James and his team debrief. Scorpius is restless with energy, a welcome change from the withdrawn mood Harry has spotted lately.
"He did amazing," Scorpius keeps saying. "Isn't he brilliant in the water? I could never dream of being that good at something. He's incredible."
Harry laughs. "Don't let him hear that, he'll get an enormous ego. So, I hear you want to visit Muggle London?"
James returns from his debriefing and — despite Harry's advice — Scorpius heaps praise upon him. Harry can't begrudge it though; James looks slightly embarrassed but accepts the compliments gracefully.
"Where are we going?" James asks Harry.
"Well, I'm going across the road to the park," Harry says, "where I plan to find a nice shady spot and finish my book." He hands James a very generous amount of Muggle money. "Off you go. I'll see you in a few hours. We'll meet near the pagoda." James is old enough to enjoy the city without a chaperone, Harry thinks, and Scorpius is well-versed in the Muggle world. He'll know how everything works.
He's rewarded when James gives him a brilliant smile and Scorpius says, sounding envious, "You're so lucky, James," as they turn and wander away.
They don't reappear until three hours later, when the sun is low in the sky, and they’re full of good cheer. Scorpius is eating an ice cream while James is carrying a few bags.
“What did you get?” Harry asks, nodding at the bags.
“We went to a science shop,” James says excitedly. “Look at this!” He shows Harry a curious hourglass filled with spiky, gravity-defying sand that immediately fascinates Harry.
“Magnets and iron filings,” Scorpius explains around a mouthful of mint chocolate-chip.
Harry rifles through the rest of the bag with equal fascination. Some of the items are classic staples from his own childhood: there’s a can of slime, a small sports kite, and a bag of water balloons. Other items are a little more serious - there’s a pair of binoculars and two compact multi-tools.
“Always wanted one of those,” James says happily, picking up the multi-tool and extending the different tools: a corkscrew, a file, a screwdriver. “And of course as soon as I bought it, Scorpius couldn’t stop playing with it, so I had to buy him one too. It’s even got a little compass in the handle, look.”
“Which way’s home, then?” Harry asks.
“Here, I'll show you," Scorpius tells James, trying to wrestle the tool off him.
"I know how to use a compass, you numpty."
“You're a numpty."
It’s nice to see Scorpius so relaxed, Harry thinks. Every time he’s seen him lately, he seems...too formal, somehow. Dressed in his neatly-pressed trousers and button-up shirt, speaking carefully, each word considered. It’s good to see him happy like this, chatting away and wearing James’s European School Championships jumper.
“Well,” Harry says, “shall we go home?”
The boys smile at him.
Scorpius is clearly excited about visiting James’s home, and somehow it’s contagious. James finds himself full of energy despite the busy day; they race up and down hallways, pretend to push each other down the stairs, and generally act like they’re children again until Harry goes, “Merlin’s great white beard, will you both shut up?” and kicks them outside.
They don’t mind at all, on account of James sneaking the water balloons out. As the bright heat of the August day simmers into a warm, still night, they chase each other across the fields, tackle each other in the long grass, and of course hurl the water balloons at each other’s backs. Harry spots them trying to sneak back inside and immediately tells them off.
“James Sirius Potter! You are dripping water everywhere - no, no, no! Footprints all over the hallway rug - stop moving, I’ll go get the towels!”
Scorpius looks panicked for a moment. “I’m so, so sorry — ”
“Don’t you apologise, you’re a guest,” Harry says, loading Scorpius up with warm fluffy towels. “James! You can strip off in the laundry. Scorpius, the bathroom is upstairs if you want a nice warm shower.”
James peels off his wet clothes while Scorpius meekly goes upstairs. By the time James has gone to his room and gotten changed again, Scorpius is already dressed and hovering around the kitchen. Harry repeatedly waves away his offers to help, then — after serving dinner — gives him a double helping of pudding. James is amused.
"I don't think I'm the favourite son any more," he says.
"Your dad is a really good cook," Scorpius says happily.
James laughs. "Does Draco burn all the bacon or something?"
"He's better than he used to be. The house-elf used to do all the cooking. My father was really proud when he first started cooking, I didn't have the heart to tell him." Scorpius pauses, then glances at Harry. "My father hasn't fire-called or anything, has he?"
Harry shakes his head. "No. Did he say he would?"
"No, I was just wondering."
James finishes his last spoonful and tilts his head to the door. "Come on," he says, "let's go upstairs."
Scorpius brightens.
Scorpius is absolutely entranced by James's room. He seems utterly fascinated by the little bits and pieces of James’s life: the cluttered bookshelf, the Quidditch figures jostling for room along the ceiling beams, the self-shuffling cards that scuttle across the floor.
“It’s magic,” Scorpius says.
“Well, yeah. I’m not a Muggleborn, I haven’t got a nice fancy telly or anything.”
“No, I meant - it’s amazing.” Scorpius touches the Hogwarts Express lamp, watching as it lets out a puff of steam.
James is amused. “You should tell my dad that. He describes it as, ‘for God’s sake, James, would it kill you to do a load of laundry?’. I prefer your description, though.”
Scorpius sits at the desk, gazing at the mess spread across it. He picks up a pair of swimming goggles, then puts them back down as something else captures his attention: a framed picture of Ginny.
"Oh," he says. "Is this your mother? She's beautiful."
"Yeah, she was way out of Dad's league."
Scorpius picks up the picture. Ginny smiles and waves at him. "You look a lot like her."
"Do I? Most people think I'm just like Dad."
Scorpius studies the photograph a moment longer, then sets it back down. "I wish I didn't have to go back home," he says.
James frowns. "Why?" he asks, concern lacing his voice, but Scorpius shakes his head.
"It's nothing terrible, it's just...a bit tense at home. That's all."
James lets it go, picking up the multi-tool instead and playing idly with it. "We could explore the woods tomorrow. Take the compass and binoculars. There's a badger family not far from here. And we can take my dad's artisan bread and feed it to the ducks."
Scorpius laughs then. "Sounds good," he says.
They grin at each other.
Draco arrives in Harry's Floo at exactly midday to collect Scorpius. He's perfectly civil to Harry, declines the offer of tea, and takes Scorpius home without further ado. He doesn't mention the incident. He doesn't discuss the fact that Scorpius snuck out of the manor and went and caught the bloody Knight Bus to London.
It puts Scorpius on edge, that much is clear to see. He is hesitant, waiting for the lecture. Waiting for the reaction. Draco blocks the Floos from any departures, ensuring Scorpius can’t sneak away anywhere, but he doesn’t lecture him.
He just waits, watching as Scorpius begins fussing over his telescope collection in preparation for Comet Reyes. The comet he's been preparing for during the last three months. It's a spectacular event, apparently, that happens only once every fifty years. And, thanks to Celia's generous gift of a powerful Dobsonian telescope, Scorpius can capture it with astrophotography spells. The day before the comet, Scorpius spends hours in the observatory, cleaning filters, checking lenses, and arranging his star maps.
The following day, on the eve of the Comet Reyes appearance, Scorpius comes in from Quidditch practice and goes upstairs, presumably to set up the Dobsonian.
There’s a long silence. Scorpius returns downstairs, then stands in the doorway of Draco’s study.
“My telescopes are gone,” he says. "Not just the Dobsonian one. Even my beginner one."
Draco doesn’t look up. “I’ve taken them to a telescope technician, to be professionally cleaned.”
Scorpius doesn’t move. Draco sets his quill aside and picks up a recent letter from a fellow genealogist.
“If that will be all,” Draco says, scanning the letter.
Scorpius finally moves, turning and walking away.
“Scorpius,” Draco says, and Scorpius pauses.
“Yes?”
“Close the door.”
Scorpius does so.
Draco listens to his footsteps fade, then resumes reading the letter.
Scorpius doesn’t say a word about it. He goes up to the observatory and watches the skies.
Draco watches it too, from his study window. With the naked eye, the comet is nothing but a faint streak of light.
It fades into nothing.
One week before the end of the summer holidays, James has his final social engagement: he’s invited to a Muggle movie theatre by Rowan and several other friends.
“Which other friends?” Harry asks, still faintly suspicious of the slightly sketchy Paul and having visions of him sneaking a hip-flask into the theatre.
James rolls his eyes. “All of the worst influences, of course. No, Dad, it’s just Rowan and a girl named Melissa — I think that’s his girlfriend — and Thomas Pearson, a mutual friend. You know Thomas, he was at Iwan’s party and the swimming championships.”
Harry approves of Thomas, at least, so he arranges to drop James off in London.
“Whereabouts does this Rowan live?”
James shrugs. “London somewhere, I think. He says we can all stay the night at his place afterwards, if that’s all right with you.”
“I don’t see why not. But remember what I said about drinking in moderation —”
“Dad, it’s honestly just the four of us. I don’t think we’ll be getting wildly drunk and destroying Rowan’s house.”
“All right. Well…I trust you.”
And he does.
His trust is further buoyed by Rowan, whom he meets when he drops James off outside the cinema. Rowan is dressed quite nicely and he shakes Harry’s hand firmly.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter,” he says warmly.
“Likewise,” Harry says happily, deciding James is excellent at picking good friends. Except Paul. But everyone’s allowed one mistake. “Now, James has plenty of Muggle money for the cinema, but he might need a bit of help — he still gets the coins confused sometimes —”
“Oh my God, Dad! I’m sixteen, I know how money works! Can you leave already?” James mutters, going red.
“I’ll wait until the others get here, I haven’t met Thomas’s parents yet,” Harry says, but Rowan shakes his head.
“Sorry, but Melissa’s sick, and Thomas forgot it was his cousin’s birthday. So it looks like it’s just me and James.”
“Good, so you can leave now,” James tells Harry.
“All right, fine. Sorry if I’m embarrassing you,” Harry says mildly. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine o’clock — don’t forget, we’re visiting your Aunt Luna. See you later.”
“Bye,” James says firmly, and Rowan laughs.
“It was nice to meet you,” he tells Harry.
“Yes, you too. See you later.”
Harry returns to the Disapparation point, feeling pleased.
James is certainly very popular these days.
Rowan apologises again for his friends’ absences; James finds that he doesn’t mind at all, even though just yesterday he’d been looking forward to catching up with Thomas. Somehow, it’s better this way, though he’s not sure why.
There’s something very fun about going to the cinema. James hasn't gone in years.
“I’ll buy the tickets,” he tells Rowan excitedly. “How many? The little silver coins, how many of those?”
“No, just break a note,” Rowan tells him.
“Oh, the paper bits! I always forget about the paper bits.” James picks up a note, then tears it in half. “Right, it’s broken.” He looks expectantly at the cashier.
Rowan laughs so hard he looks like he’ll start crying. The cashier frowns at James.
“I’m not accepting that,” she says firmly.
“No, no. Oh God, you’re just - no, here.” Rowan breathlessly pulls another note from his own wallet. “Sorry, he’s just trying to be funny,” he tells the cashier. “Just a joke.”
The cashier’s disapproving expression doesn’t wane as she hands them their change. Rowan hurriedly ushers James away, still laughing a little.
"What did I do?" James demands.
"Nothing. I'll explain later. Do you want to share popcorn?"
James brightens.
He should really go to the cinema more often, he decides.
The movie — marketed as a tense thriller, but dissolving into a cheesy horror — is terrible, but there's something fun in whispering mocking comments to each other. Afterwards, they travel to Rowan's home via a portkey.
"Thought your parents were going to pick us up," he tells Rowan.
"No, they're both away on business trips at the moment. We'll have the place to ourselves." Rowan holds out the portkey.
They arrive at a sleek, modern-looking apartment building; Rowan swipes a keycard in the door and James is delighted.
"Can I have a go?"
Rowan laughs. "Yeah, okay."
After a few swipes, James finally allows them to enter the building. "Is that how Muggles get in and out of houses? I thought they still used keys."
"Most of them do." Rowan hits a button next to the elevator; the doors open and he steps inside.
James doesn’t. "I’m - I don’t like elevators.”
Rowan blinks at him. “What? But...it’s safe, I promise.”
“It doesn’t seem natural. Working without magic.”
“We just watched a movie, and that must've seemed unnatural.”
“I don’t plummet fifty feet if the movie stops working.”
Rowan groans. “James. We’re not taking the stairs. I live on the tenth floor!”
“Good exercise, then.”
“Please get in.”
“I’ll meet you up there,” James says, looking around for a stairwell.
“Yeah, in two hours.”
“Give me one good reason I should get in that elevator,” James says, leaning close to look challengingly at him.
Rowan leans closer too, until their faces are almost touching, and suddenly the air seems charged with tension.
“Because I'm in here," he says softly.
Well.
James can’t argue with that.
Harry arrives slightly late the next day, having overslept. It takes him forever to find the address James scribbled down; the street is full of apartment blocks, none of which seem to have numbers. After two false starts, he finally finds the right apartment block and then discovers the entrance needs a bloody key pass. He manages to duck in behind a resident and takes the elevator to the tenth floor, where he knocks on the apartment door and is greeted by a very disheveled, bleary-eyed James.
"What?" James growls.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, but I'm here to pick you up," Harry says. "Nine o'clock, like I said."
"You're supposed to ring the intercom! So we know you're here!"
"The intercom? Oh. I didn't see one."
"For Merlin's — yeah, okay, okay. Just — give me a second."
"Your shirt's inside-out."
"Give me a second," James repeats, shutting the door. Harry frowns at the door handle, rather peeved by James's rudeness. A few moments later, the door opens and James slips out, closing it quickly behind him.
"I wouldn't have minded being invited in," Harry says tersely. "Perhaps a cup of tea with Rowan's parents."
"His parents are already at work. Rowan's still asleep."
They go downstairs and Harry finds the nearby Disapparation point, hidden in a narrow alley. They go home; James immediately heads upstairs.
"Have you had breakfast?" Harry asks him.
"I'll grab something later."
Harry's frown deepens. "Did you have a nice time? You seem a little...grumpy."
James pauses midway up the stairs. "I did," he said. "I had a really good time. I'm just...just tired."
Harry accepts that.
He goes to the kitchen and starts making pancakes.
Always James's favourite.
James is busy having a crisis.
It started in the elevator.
Well before the elevator, actually. Probably one of the many times James was flirting with Rowan but didn’t even bloody realise it.
Until he stepped into the elevator, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, and apropos of nothing James had said, “Shame your girlfriend couldn’t make it tonight,” and Rowan pushed his floor button and said, “She’s not my girlfriend. You know I’m gay, right?”
And James had lasted approximately three seconds - just as the elevator passed the third floor - before shoving Rowan against the wall and kissing him rather passionately.
There hadn’t been time to think about it. They had their hands all over each other before the elevator even reached their floor - though when the elevator door opened, James had leapt away from Rowan as if burned, until Rowan said breathlessly, “We’re alone, remember, my parents aren’t home,” and opened the door to his apartment. James can barely remember what the apartment looked like; he’d been too busy fumbling with clothes and kisses. He’d had no clue what he was even doing, just that he wanted to do it - and Rowan evidently wanted it just as much.
And he hadn’t had time the next morning, when they'd been woken by knocking on the front door. James had mentally cursed Harry as he frantically crammed his clothes on and hurried for the door. He'd forgotten his wallet, though, and when he returned to the bedroom to get it, Rowan had grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“See you at Hogwarts?” Rowan had asked hopefully.
“What? I don’t...yeah, I guess,” James said, pulling his hand free, and Rowan’s expression fell a little.
And that had been the end of it.
Now James sits on the edge of his bed, in the quiet peace of his bedroom, and slowly picks at an unravelling stitch on his shirt, feeling all tangled up somehow. No; he hadn’t had time then to overthink it all, but he’s certainly got time now.
He’s gay.
He knows. He’s always known. He knew when he was ten years old and felt odd little flutters in his stomach when some of the boys in his class would chat to him. He knew when he was twelve and covered his room in pictures of male Quidditch players. He knew when he was fourteen and he couldn’t understand why his friends were so obsessed with girls suddenly. He knew it just a few months ago, after his sixteenth birthday, when he kept scoring date after date with some of the most beautiful girls in Hogwarts and yet he felt nothing for every single one.
Yes, he’s always known.
But he’d been able to bury it beneath little lies his mind fed him. What’s wrong with admiring athletes? Every boy has at least one picture of a Quidditch idol. And surely everyone acknowledged an attractive, fit person - whether male or female. And so what if he doesn’t really like the soft curves and rounded figures of his many girlfriends - everyone has a type, and he just hasn’t found his yet. And it doesn’t matter if he feels nothing but boredom or sometimes even mild dislike when girls kiss him. Maybe they’re not great kissers.
All of them.
Every single one.
How could he be so stupid?
There’s a knock on the door. James glances up. “What?” he asks, a little more harshly than he meant.
The hatch opens; Harry’s head pops up. “We’re leaving in an hour to see Aunt Luna.”
“Okay.”
Harry doesn’t leave. He frowns at James instead. “Everything all right?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure — ”
"Look, can you go and harass someone else?"
Harry looks at James, then disappears.
James listens to his footsteps fade, then exhales slowly.
James spends the rest of the holidays in a moody mess, Harry notices. At least there’s only one week left before the end of the holidays.
He thinks about prying, but he’s learned his lesson from James’s earlier and rather explosive years, so instead he shows his concern in other ways. He buys James the latest comic issues, and leaves cups of tea outside his room, and makes him pancakes for dinner on the last night of the holidays.
All of this has the opposite effect on James, and seems to make him downright miserable. He pokes at the pancakes and lets the conversation dwindle into silence. Just as Harry’s finishing off the last pancake, though, James speaks.
“Dad, have I ever disappointed you?”
Harry doesn’t know how to answer that. “Well...yes. Remember the time you broke Aunt Andromeda’s vase? And when you wrote comments in Rose’s secret diary and she blamed Hugo? And when you set Nan Weasley’s broom shed on fire —”
“Never mind,” James says.
Harry frowns at him, trying to find the words to say, But I still love you and I think you’re doing your best, but no doubt James will roll his eyes at the sentiment. “Your mother would be proud of you,” he says instead, and then brightens up. He knows exactly what might cheer James up. “I bet she would have loved to meet Olivia. You know, it's about time I met her. Next term break, you can bring Olivia home and —”
James abruptly stands up and carries his plate to the sink. Harry frowns after him before realisation sinks in.
Of course.
He’s had a row with Olivia. That’s why he’s been so moody. It makes so much sense.
“Ah,” he says. “Never mind, James. I’m sure you and Olivia will make up again. I bet you that in another week, you’ll be back to exchanging soppy letters and terrible poetry.”
James doesn’t reply.
James is dreading the return to Hogwarts, and by the time he boards the Express, his stomach is churning. The thought suddenly occurs to him that Rowan might actually tell people. What if he's already told everyone? What will James’s friends do? He pictures it all too easily - the dormitory boys avoiding him, and Thomas and Iwan politely suggesting James gets changed away from everyone else after swim practice, and -
“James!”
Scorpius is smiling and waving at him. James musters a smile.
”Hi,” he says.
“You’ve got no idea how nice it is to see someone who’s not a Pureblood,” Scorpius tells him. “It’s been a whole month of lunches and brunches and I hate cucumber sandwiches. I hate them. It’s always cucumber sandwiches, never sticky buns.”
“Oh.”
“How was the rest of your summer?”
“Good.”
Scorpius picks a compartment for them and puts his luggage in the overhead compartment. “Are you sure you don’t want my owl? I’m sick of all my wrist guards getting shredded.”
“I guess it would be handy for letters.”
Scorpius sits beside him. “You can re-name it if you want. Arcus is a Pureblood name. I don’t know how, but it is. You could call it something like — ”
“Do you have to sit so close to me?”
Scorpius stares at James. “I — I didn’t realise it bothered you...”
“Yeah, well, it does. It’s weird. And why are you talking so much? You never talk this much.”
“I’m happy to see you. Excited, I guess,” Scorpius says slowly, and he stands up and moves to the opposite seat.
They continue the journey in silence. It’s two hours to Hogwarts and by about the halfway mark, James’s guilt finally wins.
“Hey, Scorpius,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Scorpius glances away from the window, and relaxes slightly. “It’s okay.”
“No, I was awful. It’s just — I just had a row with Olivia,” James says, using his father’s convenient reason. “It’s put me in a black mood. Can’t stop thinking about it.”
Scorpius relaxes properly then, the tension leaving him. “I had an argument with Celia too,” he says.
“Oh? What about?”
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
“I probably will.”
“I criticised a painting, in her family’s formal dining room, of an overweight horse. And she got very upset and asked me exactly what my problem was with her mother’s two-million-galleon Cyril Bure painting.”
James starts laughing. “I’ve never even heard of him.”
“Exactly! But apparently the painting was a veiled criticism of the English Reformation, whereas I thought it was a veiled example of a fat horse.”
James laughs even harder. “I bet your dad loved your opinion.”
“He overheard the last bit of our argument and came charging into the room to tell me off. He told Celia sometimes I unsuccessfully try to be funny and he was very sorry she had to deal with that.”
“I wish I’d been there. ‘Please excuse my son, he sometimes has a sense of humour. It’s a dreadful affliction and I’m sorry you had to see that.’”
They disembark the train at Hogsmeade. The usual horseless carriages wait to take them to Hogwarts; when James sits in the carriage, Scorpius sits on the other side, leaving plenty of room between them, and James feels another pang of guilt.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, getting up and sitting next to Scorpius. “I was just in a bad mood and finding things to nitpick.”
Scorpius offers him a tentative smile.
“James! Our hero!”
The moment is ruined as Thomas and Iwan leap into the carriage, shouting dramatically and falling over themselves.
“Will you please autograph this for me?”
“James, I’m your biggest fan!”
“What’s it like, being so amazing all the time?”
“Are you two drunk?” James demands as Scorpius stares wide-eyed at them.
“Drunk? Absolutely. Drunk on your talent,” Thomas declares as Iwan snickers beside him. He holds out a magazine with a flourish and James glances at him suspiciously before accepting it. It’s a copy of Witch Weekly, open at a two-page spread covered with photographs of James at the Swimming Championships.
James can feel his face turning crimson. “Oh, no,” he mutters. “No, no, no…”
“It’s solid gold, James. Here, let me read it to you.”
“No!”
Thomas clears his throat and begins reading from the article. “You’ll need to take a dip in a cold pool too after seeing these pictures of James Potter! The rising star swam his way into our hearts — ”
“Kill me.”
“ — after breaking a backstroke record —”
“It was freestyle!”
“ — it looks like Harry Potter’s son has cast an enchantment spell on all his fans —”
“Oh, God, shut up.”
“ — according to our source, his nickname is the Heartbreaker at Hogwarts and he’s a real ladykiller—”
“What source? I’ll murder them!”
“Surprise, surprise, the source ‘chooses not to be named’. I bet it was Scorpius,” Thomas says cheekily.
Scorpius stares at him, his mouth agape, looking slightly traumatised.
James sighs as Thomas and Iwan cackle at each other.
Nevertheless, it’s a moment of reprieve that James would almost welcome, if he weren’t so embarrassed by the bloody stupid thing. Still, embarrassment is preferable to the constant anxiety that hangs over him now.
Rowan’s at the Welcoming Feast, though he’s at the far end of the Slytherin table and James can barely see him past everyone else. That’s a good thing, he tells himself, and he fixes his attention firmly elsewhere. Nevertheless, it will be difficult when classes begin; they share Defence Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures with the Slytherins, and it will be much harder to ignore Rowan in a small classroom.
But James doesn’t want to ignore him.
Across from him, Rose is making eyes at Andrew, who’s sitting at the Hufflepuff table; he winks at Rose and she giggles before glancing at James.
“I don’t know why I was so worried about Mum and Dad meeting Andrew, I should have known they’d love him,” she says happily. “He really is perfect, you know.”
“Good for you,” James says, and Rose’s smile fades a bit. She tilts her head, clearly trying to work out if he was being genuine or sarcastic.
“Is it?” she asks uncertainly.
James musters up a smile. It’s not Rose’s fault, he reminds himself. “Yeah. I’m really happy for you two.”
Rose’s smile returns.
His friends are good people. He knows this. And he’s fairly certain that none of them would call him names, or shun him, or act cruelly.
Yes; the boys will smile and say, Great, it’s fine, no worries.
And maybe Iwan and Thomas will stop wrestling in the water with him after swim practice. And maybe Nate will find excuses to skip their one-on-one study sessions they sometimes have, all the while telling James it really doesn’t bother him. And maybe Scorpius will say, You know what? It actually is kind of weird when we sit next to each other.
Over the next week, these thoughts haunt James. After lunch, Paul sneaks up and tackles him, then runs away laughing. Would he still play these games if he knew, or would he smile uncomfortably and maintain a safe distance? In Transfiguration, Martin can’t quite cast a spell right and James ends up standing behind him, repositioning his shoulders. “Hey, thanks!” Martin says as he casts the spell perfectly. If he knew, though, would he move away and whisper to the others that maybe James had tried something?
And Scorpius. James didn’t realise how much they touched until he thought about it. Scorpius is quick and careless with affection: slapping James’s back after a successful spell, readjusting James’s grip on his wand to show him the correct position. Leaning over his shoulder to read notes, sitting close to him to share textbooks, their shoulders brushing.
And James knows all of those casual touches, all the comforting signs of their friendship, would vanish in a moment. Oh, Scorpius would be nice about it, tell James he’s perfectly fine with it, but their closeness would slowly and deliberately fade as Scorpius carefully drew new lines, new boundaries.
One night, James is reading about a healing spell when Scorpius offers to be a test subject. “Here, I’ve got a graze,” he says, holding out his hand. “You can have a go healing it, if you want.”
“Really? Thanks.” He takes ahold of Scorpius’s hand, holding it still and steady as he casts with his other hand.
“So, you’re still going steady with Olivia Callahan?”
James glances up. Scorpius is waiting patiently, resting his hand in James’s palm. “Yeah, actually. She’s — she’s pretty, isn’t she?
“I heard she’s part-Veela.” Scorpius catches James’s eye and smiles. “You’re lucky.”
James lowers his wand as the spell comes to an end. “Yeah, I reckon.”
Scorpius holds up his hand. “You’re a natural. You should be my new Healer.”
James tries to smile.
A meeting with Rowan is inevitable, though, and James gloomily steels himself one afternoon when Professor Grubbly-Plank partners them up during Care of Magical Creatures and cheerfully sends them off across the school grounds to hunt for Flobberworms.
“Hi,” he says to Rowan, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Hello.”
They’ve been assigned the south-east corner of the grounds, which is tucked behind the castle and out-of-sight from other students, so James supposes if they have an argument, at least nobody will hear them. But Rowan doesn’t seem interested in arguing; they walk in silence instead, occasionally pausing to lift a rock or peel bark from a tree.
"Sorry,” James says eventually, after he’s wrestled a particularly difficult bit of bark from a tree and uncovered a nest of worms.
“It’s fine, I’ve already had a million of those worms fall on me.”
James turns and gives him a look of disbelief.
“Oh, you mean for being rude to me and acting like you wanted absolutely nothing to do with me?”
“Yes, actually.”
“How about,” Rowan says conversationally, “you go jump in the lake, and I’ll go find someone with decent manners, and then we’ll both be happy?”
“Decent manners? Decent manners? You know, what about me?” James snaps, accidentally dropping the nest. He pauses, looks at the writhing Flobberworms, then keeps walking. “I had no idea any of that was going to happen, do you know how it feels like when you’ve spent your entire life trying to convince yourself you are straight? I’m sorry if I had to take a while to process that! It’s not like sexuality is a switch I can just turn on and off…” He trails off, realising Rowan isn’t following him. He’s still several metres away, staring at James.
“You thought you were straight?” Rowan demands.
“Obviously.”
“No, James! Not obviously! You — you were flirting with me — we went on dates together —”
“They weren’t dates! They were just — we were friends!”
“We bought each other drinks!”
“Friends do that!”
“We were flirting. We were definitely flirting.”
“Okay, whatever, clearly that’s your perspective.”
Rowan’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” he says.
James pauses. “Why?” he asks cautiously, unprepared for this change of direction.
“This is my fault. I didn’t realise…Look, I’m really, really sorry. Can we start again?”
“No,” James says firmly. “I’m not doing all the little Hogsmeade visits again and all the other stuff. Can’t we just skip straight to the kissing?”
Rowan looks at him.
Professor Grubbly-Plank is not happy.
“Where have you two been?” she demands as they arrive back at the clearing. All the other students have left, and the new class is just starting to arrive.
“Dropped a nest and had to chase the Flobberworms everywhere, Professor,” Rowan says smoothly.
She looks at their empty specimen box.
“They were too fast,” James says after a moment.
“Right,” Grubbly-Plank says, frowning. “Well, I can see that you were certainly on a difficult chase. Viney, you’ve got bark all over the back of your robes. Potter, I think you’ve got a nasty insect bite on your neck. There’s quite a mark there.”
“Is there?” James asks, and Rowan elbows him. “Oh, yeah. An insect…bit me. Stung me. Whatever it is they do.”
“Goodness, I’m not surprised you received an Acceptable on your last essay.” Grubbly-Plank turns away from them, and they gratefully make their escape.
“See you after last class?” Rowan asks as they pause to go their separate ways.
“Sounds good.”
Rowan winks at him, which is a stupid gesture that should have no effect on him, James tells himself.
And yet his heart races anyway.
There's something reassuring in the way the school year always unravels the same way. The first-years, spending the early weeks with eyes wide as saucers, anxiously peppering older students with questions. The professors crisply reminding students that ‘This year will be the hardest one yet’ and ‘It’s never too early to start thinking about exams’. The faint echo of summer’s warmth slowly fading over the hills and mountains.
What isn't reassuringly familiar, James thinks miserably, is the new challenge of balancing two relationships. Olivia seems to be getting more and more serious about him, and he has no idea what to do. It puts him in a bad mood; he’s especially sullen one Friday night after a date with Olivia and it seems Scorpius is equally moody.
“What’s your problem, then?” James asks as they step into their room together.
“Girls,” Scorpius mutters. “You?”
“Yeah, same.”
“Oh, come on. You’re dating a part-Veela who already has a junior modelling contract, she’s one of the best Quidditch players at Hogwarts, and she recently started a charity for endangered flora on the south-east British coast. Yeah, what a burden, having her for a girlfriend.”
James gets a bit shirty then. “Go date her then, if you like her so much.”
“Do you know what happened today?” Scorpius asks conversationally. “Miriam slapped me. Came up to me, slapped me, and said ‘I know you dumped me because I’m a Halfblood.’ She told me to go to hell.”
A biting retort is poised on James’s tongue. But he stops himself and sighs instead, looking at Scorpius’s miserable expression and slumped shoulders. "That sucks," he says instead.
"Yeah."
After a moment, James stands up. “Come with me,” he says.
Scorpius glances up at him. “Where?”
“Go get your broom. Let's go for a fly."
Scorpius stares at him. “Fly?” he repeats. “That…that sounds amazing, actually.”
He departs for his dormitory and James waits for him to return; when he does so, he pauses, looking at James’s empty hands.
“Where’s your broom?”
“Still getting repaired.”
Scorpius’s expression falls. “Oh.”
James shrugs. “I don’t care,” he says. “We can still fly together.”
They share Scorpius’s broom. James doesn’t mind letting Scorpius take control; he’s an exceptional flyer anyway, his skills far more honed than James’s, and he does quite a few adventurous moves that have James clinging onto him and half-laughing, half-shouting into the cold night air. At those times, he can feel Scorpius’s shoulders shaking with laughter too. They fly higher, higher into the sky; James tilts his head back, looking at the stars. He can see them all, so clear and distant, and he thinks of the light years between them and him.
Then Scorpius dives steeply, and James hurriedly tightens his grip. He can feel Scorpius laughing again, the vibrations between his shoulder blade, and he laughs too. Scorpius must enjoy scaring him, the little prat.
Scorpius slows the dive as they near the pitch; despite his flashy moves, he’s clearly remembered his lesson and handles the broom with caution, allowing plenty of time for the braking charms to take effect. The landing is smooth and James disembarks first, nearly falling - he’s slightly dizzy from the steep dive.
Scorpius turns to smile at him, cheeks flushed with cold, eyes bright, his expression full of happiness.
“Feeling better?” James asks, smiling.
“Yes.”
Scorpius picks up his broom and they make their way back to the warm castle. As they cross the threshold, Scorpius says, “Next time, perhaps your broom will be repaired?”
“I reckon.”
Scorpius pauses. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop it. I told you, I don’t care if it gets scratches or snapped fibres. It adds character,” James says, grinning. “Tells a story. I like it.”
Scorpius smiles at him. “Goodnight, James.”
“See you later.”
They go their separate ways.
Chapter 23: Fireworks and Flowers
Summary:
James chooses between two relationships — Harry reminisces about the past and begins thinking about Draco’s motivations — Scorpius has to start making serious and permanent decisions about his future.
Chapter Text
Halloween rapidly approaches; the pumpkins fatten in the gardens and the Hogwarts ghosts take special care of their appearance. The Bloody Baron seems even more bloodstained than usual, and Peeves starts leaping through walls and cackling at terrified first-years. Carved pumpkins begin to dot the corridors, and cobwebs seem to multiply at an alarming rate.
James is melancholy, as he always is at this time of the year. Scorpius joins him by the lake one windy autumn afternoon, when the lake is bitterly cold and other students have scurried inside.
"Miss them?" he asks, picking up a pebble and skimming it across the lake. The water is too wild from the wind, though, and the pebble only skips once before sinking.
"Not really," James says. "Never knew them."
"It's sort of odd, reading about them in the history books. All this stuff about important historical figures, and it's got Lily and James Potter. It's weird to think they're your grandparents."
"Yeah. They're more like historical figures to me, too. I never met them. I mostly just get sad thinking about my dad. His relatives weren't great. Never really talks about it but I can tell. Wish my grandparents had lived just so my dad had a nice family."
"He has got a nice family."
"Well, except my mother died."
Scorpius sits beside him. "Your dad," he says, "had a really depressing life."
James laughs wryly. "Yeah, there's an odd pattern of everyone he loves dying. Do you think I'm next?"
"Not even funny. If you die, I will murder you."
James starts laughing; he shoves Scorpius hard in the shoulder, pushing him over. "It's more likely you'll die. I know exactly how, too."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You'll be a hundred and twenty years old. You'll slip and fall off a cliff while looking through a telescope, and take some of your obnoxious grandchildren with you."
"I know how you'll die. You'll get absolutely sloshed at a pub one night and you'll pick a fight with some half-giant and get the absolute snot beaten out of you."
"Oh, come on! I gave you a cool death!"
"Because I do cool things."
"Oh yeah. So, how's Homework Club going? How's your private chess lessons? Finished your physics homework yet?"
"I'm also a seeker!" Scorpius protests.
"You're a colossal swot, that's what you are," James says, making an attempt to grab Scorpius and put him into headlock. Scorpius laughs and ducks away; they tussle for a moment, both trying to pin each other down. "Guess what I'm buying you for your birthday? A new graphing calculator. Don't pretend you're not excited." He finally succeeds in getting Scorpius into a headlock, if only because Scorpius is laughing too hard to fight him off.
"I'm actually really excited," Scorpius says, his voice muffled against James's side.
"And a polar planimeter."
Scorpius mercilessly pokes James in the side, exactly where he knows James's ticklish spot is; James concedes defeat and drops his grip.
"Okay, okay," he laughs, stepping back.
"Are you really getting me a polar planimeter and a graphing calculator?" Scorpius asks breathlessly, trying to fix his ferociously-ruffled hair.
"You are tragic."
"Are you? Come on, you can't make promises like that."
"Have I ever broken a promise?"
"Loads of times."
James starts laughing again. "You are such a prat. Why am I friends with you?"
"Because I get excited about calculators. The better question is why I'm friends with you."
James picks up a handful of dry leaves, eyeing Scorpius's collar. "Because...actually, why are you friends with me?"
"If you stuff those leaves down my robes, I will throw you in the lake."
"Hey, that's okay. I can swim." James lunges forward and Scorpius laughs and jumps out of the way; they chase each other around the tree, where Scorpius manages to shove James into a pile of dry leaves, trying to stuff handfuls of them down his collar. They wrestle with each other for a moment, then James gets an enormous armful of leaves and crams them down the front of Scorpius's shirt.
"That's it, you're going in the lake!" Scorpius scruffs James by the robes and tries to drag him to the bank; James knows he is stronger, but he's laughing too hard to successfully fight Scorpius off.
"No! No, you prat, it's freezing!"
"You might break a new record swimming to shore, then."
James starts laughing uncontrollably; they really should've checked those leaf piles before attacking each other with them. "You've got a dead spider in your ear," he wheezes, and Scorpius lets go of him with a horrified expression.
"You did that on purpose!" he says, frantically shaking his head. James doubles over with laughter; Scorpius steps forward and with a mighty shove, sends James off the bank. James flails wildly, managing to seize hold of Scorpius's arm, and they both tumble into the lake with a splash. To James's surprise and amusement, the usually civil and impeccably polite Scorpius lets out a stream of absolutely filthy profanities.
"Never heard you say that word before," James says conversationally, dragging himself onto the bank.
"It's cold, James! Bloody hell! And you put a spider in my ear!"
James starts laughing again, until his stomach hurts. Scorpius looks like a bedraggled rat as he crawls up the bank, a murderous expression in his eyes.
"Wait, wait, wait. Before you kill me, I have to tell you something."
Scorpius's eyes narrow. "What?"
"It's a rechargeable calculator with infrared capabilities and a full colour touch-screen."
Scorpius pauses, blinking at James while water drips down his face. "It's electronic? You numpty, I can't use electronic devices here."
"I know. It's for when you go to university."
James waits for Scorpius to laugh, say that maybe James is forgiven, but he doesn't.
"I don't think I'm going to university," he says instead, and James jumps to his feet, concern flashing through him.
"What are you talking about? Scorpius, what happened? Is it something to do with your Muggle studies? You didn't fail anything, did you?"
"No." Scorpius shakes his head and swishes his wand over both of them. In seconds, James's clothes are perfectly dry and pleasantly warm. Another powerful spell, James knows, even though it mightn't seem flashy. Drying spells are tricky, especially with thick material or multiple layers.
They begin the slow walk back to the castle. James waits patiently until Scorpius finally speaks.
"I just don't think I'll end up going. Best not to get my hopes up."
"But you've always wanted — "
"Well, things are different now."
"How?" James demands, although he has a sinking feeling.
"I'm only studying Charms this year. Everything else has been dropped to make room for my A-levels. Next year, I'll have to finish the rest of my A-levels and go to London to sit my exams and...and that's it. I'll be completely unqualified in the magical world. I won't complete a single NEWT subject from Hogwarts."
"So? You don't have to work in the magical world."
Scorpius laughs, short and dry. "My father has sold nearly every family heirloom making sure I'll become the perfect Pureblood. Shall I just tell him it was all a waste, then?"
James says nothing.
"Go ahead," Scorpius says.
"No."
"James, go ahead and say it. I should've told him months ago, it's all my fault. If you were me, you would've told your father to go jump off the pier."
They reach the tall doors of the castle; both of them pause in the shadows. "I know you," James says, frowning at Scorpius and not liking the self-loathing in his voice one bit. "Don't forget that. I know you. I know you hate confrontation, and you feel like you owe your father something because he's the only parent you've got left, and you're afraid of ruining everything. Don't compare me to you. That's not fair."
Scorpius looks down at his feet, then up at James again. "I'm sorry I threw you in the lake," he said.
"No, you're not." James turns to walk into the castle, nudging Scorpius with his shoulder. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"You'll use that graphing calculator."
Scorpius says nothing as they step over the threshold together.
Extracurricular activities are becoming rampant at Hogwarts; professors are encouraging students to undertake activities in the hopes of 'broadening horizons'. James can't complain too much on account of the activities actually being quite interesting. Iwan joins a weekly workshop on wand-making, and Nate signs up for a confectionary-making course held once a fortnight in the Hogwarts kitchens. James, after deliberation, takes up a first-aid course offered by Pomfrey.
Though he's certainly enjoying other, less respectable extracurricular activities at Hogwarts: namely, Rowan. They'll pass each other in a corridor, and Rowan's mouth will curl into a little half-smile, or James will raise an eyebrow, and the next moment they're emerging from an empty classroom and running very late for class. James thinks it's a rather brilliant arrangement, but his first hint of trouble arrives on a stormy November afternoon after one such rendezvous. James is buttoning his robes again, preparing to leave, when Rowan says, "Perhaps we can do something else next time?"
"Oh?" James says with interest, entertaining numerous ideas.
Rowan laughs. "Get your mind out of the gutter. I was thinking...you know, maybe actually having a conversation? I really like talking to you."
"We're having a conversation right now."
Rowan's smile fades a bit. "Well...we could go to Hogsmeade next weekend, have a drink at the Three Broomsticks — "
"Like a date?"
Rowan's smile is completely gone now. "You don't have to sound so appalled," he says.
James, sensing his error, hurries to remedy it. "I'm not. It's just...people will see us together. And they already know you're gay, so..."
“It’s actually good, you know,” Rowan says. “It sucks trying to hide it all the time. I felt better after I stopped trying to hide it. And nothing changed. Things are pretty progressive these days, and - “
“Nothing changed?"
"Not really, so — "
"Your friends and family treated you exactly the same?"
Rowan opens his mouth again, closes it, and glances away from him. “I...well...of course things changed. My dad...he tries, but he’s really uncomfortable and awkward now. Been two years and he still can’t bring himself to ask if I’m seeing anyone. My friends — they’re nice, they really are — but you know what it’s like. The girls act as if I’m a walking stereotype now. My best mates are more distant now. Friendly, but distant. Sometimes they’ll organise things without me. They used to love staying the night at my place, because my parents are rich and we could do whatever we wanted.” Rowan shrugs. “Now they’ll find any excuse not to visit me.”
“Is that what happened the night we went to the movies?”
Rowan laughs then. “No, you idiot. I lied, I hadn’t invited anyone else.”
“You sneaky Slytherin,” James says accusingly. “You lured me to your fancy apartment - “
“Yes, because it was so hard to convince you - “
James kisses him, effectively stopping the conversation, and Rowan doesn’t argue with that.
They don’t bother with words for quite some time.
It becomes an effective strategy which James shamelessly uses at every opportunity. Every time Rowan suggests organising a date, or maybe something romantic, James just kisses him or slips an arm around his waist or — if he’s feeling particularly forward and they're somewhere private — start undressing him. Every single time, it has the desired effect. Rowan can never seem to resist the invitation.
James tries to convince himself it's fine, but he knows he's ignoring an incoming disaster — especially in regard to Olivia Callahan.
His girlfriend, he reminds himself.
She loves their Hogsmeade dates. Looks at him a lot with very fond expressions. Loves being close to him, resting her head on his shoulder or holding his hand. After one lazy afternoon spent chatting in the library, Olivia looks at him almost shyly and says, "You know, every day I think how lucky I am."
Oh, God. James feels sick to his stomach suddenly. The shame and guilt trickles through his veins, thick and heavy as tar. "Yeah," he says at last. "Me too." And the lie feels so flat, so horribly insincere, that he thinks she must see through him at once. She must see that he's a liar, and a cheater, and full of deception.
But Olivia smiles and leans forward and kisses him. James closes his eyes automatically, like he always does. He closes his eyes too when Rowan kisses him. He never really noticed — he was always too busy focusing on the pure sensations of it.
But he thinks about it now. He opens his eyes after a moment and looks at Olivia. Her eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering. She looks completely lost in the moment. Completely in love.
James closes his eyes again, going through the motions.
Afterward, when they've parted ways, James drags himself into the dormitory. It's not exactly the sanctuary he was hoping for; Martin is crying, and not in a mildly upset way. More of a crying-from-pure-rage way, judging by the way he's ripping all of Paul's Quidditch posters from the walls and shredding them to bits.
Nate's lying on his bed with a disconsolate expression. "At least now you know what a prat he is," he mutters.
"A prat?" Martin seethes. "He's absolute scum! He's a traitorous, snivelling little berk that deserves every last curse that comes his way — James! James, come over here. I want to ask you something."
James glances at Nate, who just sighs. No help there.
"Yeah?" he ventures cautiously.
"If your girlfriend told you she had to cancel a date, and you went looking for her, and you found her snogging your best friend — "
"Oh."
"I trusted them! My girlfriend and my best friend! I hope Paul dies in some sort of horrible stampeding Hippogriff accident — "
Nate props himself up on his elbows and peers at James. "What's wrong? You look like you've just gotten dragged out of a troll den."
"Girl problems," James says. That's not a lie, at least.
Nate offers a wry smile. "Well, that makes two of us. Jennifer dumped me today."
"Sorry. That sucks."
"You can't trust anybody!" Martin tears Paul's pillowcase in half from sheer rage.
Nate exchanges a look with James, then sits up properly. "You know, Martin," he says, "I've got some butterbeer stashed away — "
"Butterbeer? Oh, great, because weak pond-water is going to help," Martin snaps.
"Oh yeah, because we've all got hard liquor stashed away," Nate retorts.
Martin pauses, then lifts up Paul's mattress and pulls out a bottle of something dark.
Nate and James swap a look.
James stares at the stars. They're moving, he's certain of it. And there seems to be far too many. He's getting dizzy just looking at them.
"...and now I just don't think I'm capable of love...James? James, listen — listen — you're not listening!"
"M'listening," James mutters to Nate, blinking slowly to make the stars disappear. He's beginning to wonder if it was the best choice to drink outdoors, next to the lake. It's started raining lightly.
"Good. What was I saying? Oh yeah, a void in my soul, and now I just feel nothing...oh, it's raining. James! James, look. Look. James. James. It's raining."
James sits up with great effort and looks around. "Nate," he says, concentrating on his words, "I think Martin's dead."
“Oh. Is - that’s not good - is he all right?”
James peers down at Martin, who’s slumped in the wet grass, still half-clutching the bottle. Then, very carefully, James kicks him.
Martin sits up. “That bloody traitor!”
“No, no, James! Don't set him off again!" Nate says with alarm.
“...I hate him! He’s my ex best friend! He’s the worst thing ever! He’s - he’s worse than a million hexes - worse than poison - worse than Voldemort - worse than wet socks - “
James pulls the bottle from Martin’s unresisting hands, takes a swig, then passes it to Nate.
“...worse than a Dementor’s Kiss, worse than first years - “
“What’s so bad about first years?” Nate demands.
“You know. They’re all ‘oh, hello, professor!’ and their shoes are disgustingly shiny.”
“I don’t feel so good,” James mutters.
Martin lunges towards him and grabs him by the shoulders. “James, listen to me - James. This is important. You’re - oh, God, you’re such a good friend - both you and Nate - you didn’t deserve this, mate, I lied to you and I’m so sorry - you know how I - James, listen! - you know how I told you this was top-shelf whiskey?”
“Oh my God, you fed us boot polish,” Nate says.
“No, no, it was just Captain Slorrice’s Finest Rum.”
Nate grabs ahold of James. “James. Listen to me. We’ve just had a large amount of boot polish.”
James groans and tries to shove them away. “Let go of me, both of you! I want some space!”
“Yeah, that’s right, we all need some space,” Martin declares. “That’s right, James. Good — good point. It’s not - it’s very - what’s the word? - it’s mentally healthy - “
“No, you stupid idiot, I’m going to be sick.”
Nate yowls like a frightened cat and leaps backwards; Martin stumbles and clutches at James.
“Help! Help! I’m falling!”
“No, you’re just drunk,” James offers helpfully just as Martin grabs ahold of him and they both topple off the bank and into the shallows of the lake.
Nate peers down at both of them, then slowly climbs down the bank and into the water.
Martin and James stare at him.
“What are you doing?” Martin asks at last.
“Oh. I thought everyone else was - oh. Are we - are we not swimming?”
At that exact moment, a bright wand light falls across their faces, and they all look up into McGonagall’s rather terrifying expression.
McGonagall speaks with them one by one; James is the first called into her office, where he stands slowly dripping lake water onto the rug.
McGonagall keeps it short and succinct.
“Who supplied the alcohol?”
“Couldn’t say, professor.”
“Do you have any in your possession right now?”
“No, professor.”
“Do you know of any other student with alcohol in their possession?”
“No, professor.”
“Very well. Attend to the infirmary.”
“Yes, professor.”
He leaves. The walk to the infirmary is unpleasant and the moving staircases make his head spin. Pomfrey must have heard from McGonagall; when she sees him, she looks unimpressed and unsurprised. She measures his blood-alcohol content, then assigns him a bed.
James falls asleep within seconds.
He wakes the next morning feel tired and mildly nauseated but otherwise all right, which actually seems to irritate Pomfrey.
“It’s your youth,” she says disapprovingly as she checks his blood again. “Without that, you’d be suffering far more.”
Martin’s certainly suffering far more. He’s throwing up in his bed pan. Pomfrey draws the curtains around him, then orders James out.
“Up you get, Mr Potter! Fresh air will do you a world of good,” she says, brutally yanking the window curtains open. James recoils from the bright sunlight as if he's a vampire. "Come on, up! A brisk walk is the perfect medication, I'd wager."
James is too sensible to argue and hurriedly dresses. Nate, on the other hand, isn’t so sensible.
“My head hurts, I think I should lie here for a bit,” he tells Pomfrey.
“Nonsense, off you go. Have a lovely big breakfast.”
Nate pales. “I’m a bit too sick for that.”
“Oh, you poor dear. In that case, I’ll give you a nutrient potion instead,” Pomfrey says, reaching for a large bottle filled with bubbling brown potion.
Nate quickly joins James, and they leave the infirmary together. They go down to the Great Hall and miserably nibble at bits of toast.
“Bloody Martin,” Nate mutters.
“I am so, so grateful,” James says, “that I don’t have swim practice today.”
“Might never have it again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you really think last night’s three-second lecture was the end of it? She’ll summon us right after breakfast, I reckon, and deal with us properly now we’re sober.”
James pales. “I’m not losing my swimming.”
“Don’t reckon you’ll have a choice. She looked furious yesterday. What about me? I’m a bloody prefect, James! She might take my badge off me!”
“Ooh, who’s taking your badge off you?” Paul asks, sitting next to them and reaching for a pumpkin juice.
Nate gives Paul a very icy look and pointedly turns away from him. Paul stares at him, then glances at James.
“Looking forward to the Quidditch game this afternoon?” he asks James.
James gives him the same icy look. “Don’t bother talking to us,” he tells Paul shortly. “Not until you’ve apologised to Martin, at least.”
“Oh, come off it! So you’re all taking his side? Look, I’ll admit I made a mistake - ”
“Martin was your best friend,” Nate says angrily. “You snogged his girlfriend. That’s not a mistake. You’ll get no sympathy from us, mate.”
Paul gets up and leaves without another word, only to be immediately replaced by Scorpius.
“Hi, James,” Scorpius says.
“Hey,” James says. “Feel like sitting with us Gryffindors today?”
“What? Oh, no, I was just stopping by to tell you that McGonagall asked for you and Nate.”
Nate and James swap a look.
McGonagall doesn’t shout at them, which actually might be easier to deal with. She just sits there with a look of utter disapproval on her face. There’s two student files in front of her; James suspects the much thicker one belongs to him.
He’s right. McGonagall picks up the thinner one and opens it. “Nathaniel Bellamy,” she says, and Nate winces. “Shall we deal with you first? Potter, if you’d be so kind.”
James leaves. He stands outside the office for twenty minutes when the door finally opens and Nate emerges. He looks as if he’s been crying, and he hurries past James without another word.
James takes a deep breath and walks into the office, closing the door behind him.
“Potter, have a seat.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
McGonagall arches one eyebrow.
James sits down.
McGonagall studies him for a moment, then opens up his student file. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
“I’d much rather we didn’t.”
McGonagall purses her lips and turns the first ten pages, ignoring them. “I note your swimming is going remarkably well. Your swimming coach has informed me that you’re an asset to the team and we will be very proud to have you represent the school again at the next championship.”
James can’t figure out if she’s about to drop him from the team or not. He says nothing.
McGonagall turns the page. “And your grades have improved substantially. Professor Sprout has high praise for your Herbology work.”
James nods.
McGonagall glances at the page again. “I suspect your friend, Scorpius Malfoy, has given you some tutelage in your charm work? Professor Flitwick has also been very impressed by your grades lately. You’ve been conducting yourself admirably, Potter.” She closes the file. “You are setting a fine example to your younger cousins and family. Would you care to explain this unusual lapse?”
James looks down at the floor for a long moment. “It was stupid,” he says at last. “A stupid thing to do. I wasn't in a good mood and I just - I made a mistake. But please don’t tell my cousins, professor. Lucy and Molly, they’ve only just started - and Hugo’s always copying me too - I don’t want them to know, I don’t want them thinking I did it for a lark. I know you’ll have to give me a million detentions and dock points and probably cut swimming, but as long as my little cousins don’t know. They look up to me.”
McGonagall studies him for a long moment, then adjusts her spectacles. “I will, of course, have to owl your father, Potter.”
“Yes, professor.”
James waits, but there’s only silence. McGonagall sets his file aside, pulls a stack of essays towards herself, and begins marking them. After a moment, she glances up.
“You may go.”
James hesitates, then gets up and leaves slowly, still waiting for McGonagall to call him back and dole out the punishment. But she says nothing, and he closes the door quietly behind himself before pausing and hurrying away.
Scorpius has always been observant though, and later on, he tracks James down in the greenhouses.
"You look beautiful," James is dutifully telling his cactus when Scorpius arrives.
"Thanks, you're not bad either," Scorpius says.
"Funny. And don't make jokes around the cactus, it takes everything personally."
"Sorry." Scorpius gives the cactus a very careful pat. "Wow, look at those spines! They look amazing."
The cactus preens. James turns to Scorpius and rolls his eyes. "Thanks. If you're here about the Charms test, I have no notes for you to borrow."
Scorpius puts his bag down and perches on the nearby table, pushing a potplant to one side. "Did you get drunk and fall in the lake?"
James groans. "Great. Martin and Nate need to keep their mouths shut."
"They're not spreading the story. I checked the infirmary to see if you were there working on your first-aid course. Martin was there puking in a bucket and ranting about Paul."
"He's still going on about it? Seriously?"
"Yeah. He figured I was looking for you and explained what happened. Made me promise not to tell anyone else, he's terrified of his parents finding out."
"Bad news for him. McGonagall's already sent the owls off."
Scorpius studies James for a moment. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah."
"James."
"It is. I'm just — sorting out some stuff at the moment. It's okay. I mean — it's not great, but I'm not..."
"...getting drunk on cheap rum?"
James gives him a look.
"Sorry," Scorpius says. "But honestly — you'd tell me, wouldn't you? If something was really wrong?"
James understands what Scorpius is saying. "Yes," he says. "Promise."
"Good." Scorpius hops off the table. "You know, you should really think about getting a job at the Magical Botanic Gardens when you graduate. That's seriously the best Over-Sensitive Cactus I've ever seen."
"Thanks, but it's not me. It's all the cactus's hard work."
The cactus suddenly straightens up; its spines seem to actually multiply. Scorpius grins at James.
"Very smooth," he says. "No wonder poor Olivia's head over heels."
James's smile fades a little.
Harry frowns down at the letter.
Unusual behaviour from James. Harry really hadn't expected to get a letter from McGonagall regarding his son's underage drinking. He ponders the possible responses — a reprimand? A letter demanding explanations? He can't just brush this off, that would send a rather poor message even if Harry's actually not extremely concerned. A lot of his friends indulged in drinking at Hogwarts. Harry had never been able to — he'd had too many other responsibilities dumped on his shoulders.
Like saving the world.
A part of him is actually relieved James is having a normal teenage life. Going to parties, having a few drinks, just being a typical adolescent. Still, Harry will need to have a dutiful word with James...
He reaches for the Floo powder, then sighs and withdraws his hand. His first instinct is still to seek advice from Draco, despite the fact they haven't talked in months.
Seven months, to be exact.
Draco hasn't bothered contacting him. Too busy planning his schedules, Harry thinks. Fussing over luncheons. Arranging dates. Polishing silverware.
Harry really misses Monopoly.
He distracts himself by picking up the nearest magazine instead. It's a copy of Witch Weekly. Ron enjoys leaving a copy whenever he visits, just to antagonise Harry, though these days Harry's mentioned far less. It's James they seem to be targeting, he thinks grumpily. Last summer they'd published the most awful article about him. He's sixteen, for Merlin's sake! A child! And they had photographs of him by the pool accompanied by quite suggestive comments. Harry had fire-called the editor and given him a piece of his mind. By the end of it, the editor seemed to be in tears and had apologised in a rather terrified way.
Harry had later sent a letter to James, just to gauge how traumatised he was, but James had brushed it off with an amused comment. Well, I do look fit, he'd said. Next time I need a date, I'll ask them to publish another article.
Harry worries about him sometimes.
He flips through the magazine, just to make sure there's no more articles about James. There's not, but he spots a familiar name next to a fashion spread. By Pansy Parkinson. She'd kept her professional name even after marrying, he thinks, and he tries to remember her husband's name. Cameron or Christopher or Connor, he thinks. He only remembers her marriage because he'd visited Draco the day of the wedding. Draco had walked through the manor doors, wearing a suit soaked through with rain, a limp invitation in one hand, looking as if he'd been hit by a train.
Harry frowns.
There was something about that day.
He stares down at the magazine.
The next day, he goes to Ron and Hermione's house.
"Thought it was about time for a bit of reminiscing," he says casually, and Hermione's face lights up while Ron looks horrified.
"Why?" Ron asks.
"Because it's quite nice, looking back," Hermione says fondly.
"Oh, yeah. What year shall we look at? The one where I threw up slugs? What about when I got chased by a giant spider? Or when I wore a moth-eaten dress to the Yule Ball?"
"That lace collar looked lovely on you," Hermione says, and Ron looks at her.
"Nice. Let's look at the year you got hit by that dental hex by Malfoy, then."
"I don't remember that," Hermione says quickly.
"Really? I do. You were crying and trying to cover up your teeth. You looked like a beaver."
"So, where's the photos?" Harry asks loudly.
They drag out the albums. Most of the photographs were taken by Colin Creevey, whose brother had kindly given them to Harry after the war. Harry remembers being so irritated by the starry-eyed Colin, always ready with his camera, but he'd never been more grateful when he realised his years at Hogwarts had been captured so thoroughly.
"Oh, look, my favourite picture!" Hermione taps a photograph of the three of them laughing. "We were celebrating your first Quidditch win, Harry, remember that?"
They turn the pages idly, remembering each moment. A few times, other students are caught in the background. In one of them, Harry spots Draco behind him. He's frowning down at his feet, a letter clutched in his hand — probably from his father. When the Harry in the photograph glances around, Draco quickly straightens up and throws a scowl at him.
It makes Harry wonder how many little moments he missed.
They reach the inevitable pictures from the Yule Ball, flipping through them despite Ron's protests. In the background, there's quite a few glimpses of Draco and Pansy holding hands.
"They dated, didn't they?" Harry asks, tapping the picture.
Hermione leans closer. "Oh...I don't think so."
"Really? But they went to the Yule Ball together."
Hermione gives him a pitying look. "Pansy managed to cajole Draco into it. She'd been pining after him for years. He reckoned she was beneath him, though."
Ron snorts.
Hermione crinkles her nose at him. "Don't be crass. You know what I mean. Draco always thought he was better than everyone else. Destined to marry some insanely rich Pureblood witch with a classy family. Pansy's family had a few Halfblood scandals in recent years, and they were wealthy but hardly filthy rich."
"How do you know all this?" Ron demands.
"Well, Parvati does like to gossip about the years at Hogwarts — "
Ron groans. "You're still doing those lunch dates with her?"
"Oh, Ron. We've all matured now, it's been decades since school."
"She thinks it's funny to still call me Ron-Ron!"
"It is." Hermione smooths her robes. "Anyway. Pansy was always horrid, but I have to admit there's a certain satisfaction knowing Draco went crawling back. Tried to court her after the war ended."
"Imagine their children. Like blond toads," Ron says, and Harry does have to laugh at that.
"Well, fortunately there won't be any little Parkinson-Malfoys running around," Hermione counters. "Draco's side lost the war. Pansy's family was more neutral. She couldn't marry him, it would make people talk about her alliances. So he got rejected."
Ron looks far too pleased about that. "And then everyone died poor and alone."
Harry gives him a reproachful look.
"What? Oh, come on. It was a joke."
"Pansy's married to some rich Muggleborn bloke. Seems happy. Has a kid," Harry says. "She's not poor and alone."
The teasing grin on Ron's face fades as he studies Harry. "And what about Malfoy?" he asks shrewdly.
Harry frowns at him and says nothing.
Hermione raises her eyebrows and sips her tea.
November deepens into an unusually cold December. Winter's chill is biting and the winds are bitter; swimming practice is halted two weeks earlier than usual, leaving James a little restless.
But December brings him far worse problems than a little cold and an iced-over lake. Olivia greets James after class one day and invites him to spend Christmas with her, and he's hesitant about it. Which immediately hurts her feelings, that much is clear even to the usually oblivious James.
"It's just..you know, I haven't seen my dad for ages..."
"Oh, you can still spend the holidays with him," Olivia says quickly. "It's just...we've been dating for eight months now...and I talk about you so much in my letters..." She gives an embarrassed laugh. "My parents are really looking forward to meeting you. So I thought perhaps...Christmas lunch...?"
That's what James was fearing. Meeting the parents. Things are apparently getting serious.
"Well...I'll have to ask my dad..."
"Of course." Olivia brightens. "Or...I can spend Christmas Day with you and meet your parents." She turns crimson. "Parent, I mean. Because...oh, James, I'm sorry, I can't believe I just said that — "
He laughs, mostly to dissolve the tension. "It's fine."
"I feel like such an idiot."
"It's fine," James repeats.
"So, Christmas. I'll spend it with you, then?"
"Sounds good," James says, at a total loss.
Olivia kisses his cheek and hurries to her next class.
James gets a sinking feeling.
And he's right about that feeling, as it turns out.
A week later, as he hurries down a corridor with Rowan after their last rendezvous, Rowan invites James to spend Christmas with him.
"Oh," James says.
"What?"
"I can't."
Rowan pauses halfway down the corridor. "You can't? Oh. Are you going abroad for the break?"
"No, I mean...I kind of promised Olivia...she wants me to meet her parents..."
Rowan draws back slightly. "Olivia?"
"Well...she is my girlfriend..."
"Right. I'm just a friend. Well, not a friend, really, because I'm not even allowed to be seen in public with you."
"Oh, come on. You know me and Olivia don't have a real relationship. Not like you and me,” James says, keeping his voice quiet despite a noisy crowd of students drowning out their conversation.
“Oh, right. We’re real, because we make out in empty classrooms. Unlike the meaningless thing you have with Olivia, since all you do with her is hold hands in public. And kiss. And other things, I assume. Oh, and dates. All the dates you go on. And you’re going to stay with her for Christmas, to meet her parents. It's a really convincing charade, I have to admit.”
"I'm gay, you know that — "
"And that's supposed to magically make me feel okay, is it?"
“Look, I get it — “
"No, you don't." Rowan grabs ahold of James’s shoulder and pushes him around to face the other direction. “See that girl? The one with the red hair.”
James looks. There’s a very pretty, very voluptuous Hufflepuff. She's smiling and tossing her copper-coloured hair over one shoulder. “Yes,” he says.
“She’s a good friend of mine. Tell me honestly, you wouldn’t be too mad if I dated her, would you? Snogged her in corridors, took her on dates, agreed to make things serious? It’s just a fake relationship, though. Don’t take it personally. Just remind yourself, whenever you see me making out with her, that I'm gay. Problem fixed.”
James says nothing for a moment. By the time he's finally collected his thoughts, Rowan's already left, striding away to disappear into the crowds.
James doesn't follow him.
James spends the evening sitting near the lake, feeling miserable. He'd felt guilty about his relationship with Olivia and known he was hurting her, but he hadn't even considered Rowan's feelings.
Because, to honestly answer Rowan’s question, he’d be furious if Rowan dated a girl. And heartbroken if it seemed things were getting serious, and no amount of reassurance would help him feel okay about it. He’d wonder why Rowan couldn’t just pretend to be single, at least. He’d wonder exactly what happened on all those cosy dates and romantic meetings. He’d drive himself crazy wondering why he’s not good enough.
“Hello.”
James looks up. It’s Lorcan and Lysander. Always together, never one without the other. He suddenly thinks of his uncle, George. The empty space where another should be.
“Hello,” James says.
“You’re sitting under a very imaginative tree.” Lysander glances upward, his pale blue eyes searching the leaves.
James follows his gaze. It’s a young willow tree, small and verdant green. “Oh,” he says.
“Prone to daydreams.” Lorcan picks up an acorn next to James’s feet. “Many of the acorns from a nearby eight hundred year old oak tree end up here. So the willow thinks it must be an oak tree, and dreams of becoming centuries old.”
"Oh. How long do willows live?"
"Thirty years."
James considers that. "It might live for centuries," he says.
Lysander shakes his head. "Impossible, I'm afraid," he says.
"No, I mean — if it gets turned into a wand. Willow is a common wood for wand-making, isn't it?"
"Oh! You're quite right. The solution's quite easy when you ask someone else, isn't it?"
James laughs wryly. "I guess so."
But somehow he does take the advice to heart.
For the first time ever, James seeks relationship advice from his Gryffindor friends.
"Iwan," he says that night as he walks into the dormitory, "I need advice. About girls."
Iwan stands up on his bed. "Boys!" he bellows. "Did you hear that?"
"Oh, great," James mutters.
"Attention! James Potter needs relationship advice!"
"Can we not do this?" James asks.
Martin stands up slowly, letting his blanket fall from him dramatically. "You mean...the great James Potter...serial heartbreaker, famous for his dashing good looks and charming personality — "
"James?" Nate adds, joining the small crowd gathering around Iwan's bed. "James Potter? Wants our advice? But James, I fear we are not worthy — "
"I'm going to bed," James says, trying to escape, but Iwan wraps an arm around his shoulders, preventing him from leaving.
"No, no. You've asked, and now you shall receive — "
"This was a stupid idea. I don't know what came over me. You broke up with your last girlfriend by sending her an owl. Which she received at breakfast in the Great Hall when you were sitting across from her," James tells Iwan.
Martin and Nate start laughing. "I forgot about that," Martin wheezes.
Iwan looks abashed. "Wasn't my proudest moment. But...hang on...you want advice on how to break up?"
The boys stare at him, their laughter forgotten.
"With...with Olivia Callahan?"
"Yes," James says.
Iwan blinks. "Oh," he says.
"But...why?" Nate asks.
"I just don't feel a spark."
Martin considers that. "Well," he says. "I mean, I feel like you're an idiot, but each to their own."
"The thing is," Iwan says carefully, "Olivia likes you a lot, James. We've got mutual friends and Olivia's friends never shut up about how much she loves you."
"I know," James says miserably. "That's why I thought I'd better stop it now."
The boys give him pitying looks.
"Well," Martin says. "I'd just start cooling off."
"Cooling off?"
"You know. Get a bit distant, bit busy with other things...see her less and less...she'll eventually get fed up and dump you."
"You bloody coward, I don't know how you got sorted into Gryffindor," Nate retorts. "Don't do that, James. Send her a letter. I mean, not how Iwan did it, that's just mental. But write out everything, explain it all. It's much easier to do in a letter. That way she can't shout at you."
"Come on, I learned from my mistake and I'm telling you, James, don't do that," Iwan says. "Sit her down, tell her. Be honest."
They look at him expectantly.
"Thank you," James says. "You've been helpful."
He goes to bed with a pounding headache.
The next day is a chilly Sunday, the final day of term, and everything might still be a mess, but he's still got his friends. He spends most of the Sunday in the common room, playing games of Exploding Snap and Gobstones with Iwan and Nate, and then goes to the greenhouse to check on his cactus. It handles the cold perfectly well but it gets absolutely anguished if James doesn't make a big show of checking on it with great concern. He spends about an hour with it, blending the perfect winter fertiliser for the cactus. Just as he's finished feeding it to the cactus and is scrubbing his hands, Rowan shows up.
James glances up at him, then finishes rinsing his hands beneath the icy water and turns off the tap. "Hi," he says.
Rowan offers a tentative smile. "Nicer greeting than I was expecting."
"Yeah, well." James flicks the water off his hands. "You made some good points."
"Did I?"
"Don't push your luck." He picks up his bag. "Anyway. What time?"
"What?"
"What time should I come over on Christmas Day?"
It's worth it just to see Rowan — generally smooth-talking and effortlessly flirtatious — suddenly look flustered. "Oh? You — oh, are you — I thought — wasn't — did you change your mind?"
"Someone hit you with a tongue-tying jinx?"
"Prat. I'll pick you up at three."
"You know the rules. My location is strictly classified."
Rowan laughs and leans forward; James ducks away and frowns at him.
"Not here."
"Nobody's around."
"For now. Anyway, I'll come over at three, then." James takes a step backward, thinking they're still too close. He wouldn't stand this close to any of his friends — bar Scorpius, of course — so he takes another step backward just for good measure.
Rowan studies him for a moment, then nods. "I'll take what I can get," he says.
A Hufflepuff comes around the corner, watering can in hand, and James turns and walks away.
It feels wrong, leaving on the Hogwarts Express without Scorpius. He'd apparently decided to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; James doesn't comment on that decision, although he's sure Draco most certainly will have words to say about it. Scorpius does come down to the Hogsmeade station to say goodbye, at least.
"It just feels odd," James says. "Leaving without you."
"Well, someone has to take care of your poor neglected cactus."
James laughs wryly. "I suspect it thinks it's very mistreated, the poor ignored thing. By the way — I left the invisibility cloak in our room. I assumed you were going home for Christmas and thought you could use it to hide from your father.”
Scorpius laughs dryly. “Thanks. It’s appreciated. See you in the new year?”
"See you." James pauses. "Your Christmas present's in our room."
"I did one better," Scorpius says with a grin. "Snuck mine into your bag."
"Should've guessed."
They wave goodbye; James boards the train and sees a smirking Rowan.
"What?" he asks.
"Should I be jealous?"
"Very funny."
"Well, he is smart, kind, attractive...ticks all the boxes."
James narrows his eyes and Rowan laughs.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of stealing your Scorpius. Besides, there is one thing wrong with him."
"Oh?"
"He's straight as an arrow."
James laughs. "Very true. You should see him gawking at the girls in summer. He's shameless."
"James! Are you single yet? Back on the market?" Thomas has arrived, draping an arm around James's shoulders; James groans and tries to shake him off.
"Knock it off, Pearson! That article was six months ago."
"But James," Iwan says, appearing on James's other side and draping an arm over his shoulders too, "you've swum your way into our hearts — "
"The mighty Hogwarts Heartbreaker strikes again — "
"I know this might seem rushed, but I am overwhelmed with urges — "
"Many urges." Thomas nods solemnly.
James's ears burn. "Will you both shut up and go away?"
Iwan drops his arm. "Did you just reject me? Fine. I'm swimming my way back out of your heart."
Thomas bursts into laughter. James sends a sharp elbow into his ribs, but it doesn't seem to deter him. "Oh, it's so good. So good," Thomas tells Iwan between laughter. "Anyway, Potter, don't go breaking too many hearts. See you after Christmas."
Rowan watches them wander away, looking bemused. "On the other hand," he says, "I genuinely can't tell if they're gay or not."
"They're both absolute prats, that's what they are," James mutters. "There was a stupid article in Witch Weekly — "
"Oh, that one. Yeah, I cut out the pictures and put them on my wall."
James can't tell if he's kidding. "You better not have," he says uncertainly.
"Well, next time you're in my bedroom, you'll just have to check," Rowan says, and he steps forward as if to kiss James. James moves quickly, stepping back so hurriedly he nearly trips over himself.
"Not here," he hisses, glancing around the aisle.
Rowan's smile fades. "I was just going to move one step closer."
"Why? You don't need to be that close to me."
Rowan steps back.
"No," he says. "I suppose I don't."
A rush of late students suddenly pours through the train doors, and both of them are lost in the crowd.
James goes to a compartment to find his friends.
Harry picks James up from the station. James doesn't know why, but suddenly he's immensely relieved to see Harry. Especially when he gets such a warm welcome — Harry's already got a roast dinner waiting at home, and an early Christmas present of the latest issue of James's favourite comic.
"Rose is coming over tomorrow, to help with the Christmas baking," Harry says as they clear the plates away after dinner.
"Oh, cool. Speaking of which, I do have a favour to ask."
"Oh?" Harry flicks his wand at the sink, making the detergent foam ferociously.
"Do you mind if I visit a friend on Christmas?"
Harry hands James a bowl full of pudding. "Yes," he says pleasantly.
"Good, just thought I'd check. So what time...hang on...you do mind?"
"Oh, yes. You're not visiting anyone these holidays," Harry says, still sounding far too cordial.
"What? Why?"
"Well, I wouldn't want you to get wildly drunk on cheap rum and fall in a lake."
James stares at him for a moment, then groans. "I forgot. I can't believe I forgot!"
"While I appreciate that you were indulging in a rather typical teenage activity, I do have to set an example."
James doesn't know what to do. His father is being reasonable about the whole thing. He can hardly throw a tantrum about this. He is sixteen, though, and perfectly capable of defiantly storming off to visit Rowan anyway. But James finds himself realising he doesn't want to do that. It'll disappoint his father.
Oh, God. He's becoming responsible, he thinks with dismay.
"Fair enough," he says at last.
Harry blinks at him. "You're not going to shout about it?"
James shrugs. "No."
"Slam a door?"
"Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back."
Harry laughs then. "Well. Be quiet and eat your pudding, then."
James doesn't object.
He does tell Rowan; he owls him that night and Rowan sends his reply the next day. James can tell he's disappointed, though he accepts the cancelled plans without protest.
Olivia is more difficult. He'd planned to tell her that his father planned a surprise trip abroad, hence him not being able to make Christmas after all, but now he thinks the real excuse is even easier.
Olivia doesn't seem to think so. She asks if she can visit him, then, and quite a few owls are sent back and forth before James — after pleading his case with Harry — is allowed to spend New Years Eve with her. He doesn't really want to, but Olivia seems terribly upset about the cancelled Christmas visit and won't leave the matter alone.
Harry seems faintly suspicious. "Trouble in paradise?"
"What?"
"You seem a bit stressed out about Olivia."
"Well, girlfriends are stressful, aren't they?" James says rather defensively.
Harry thinks about that, then says feelingly, "Yes."
He leaves it alone after that.
Christmas comes and goes. James enjoys playing with his smaller cousins and chatting to the older ones. Rose is tragically pining over Andrew; he wasn't able to visit her for Christmas. She spends the day draped over a sofa, looking miserable, and Hugo and James roll their eyes at each other. Everyone else is cheerful, though, and James gets the usual pile of presents. He opens Scorpius's present last and is baffled to find a small, blue orb. It's accompanied by a scrawled Christmas card that reads, You always say 'Come for a fly?' when things get rough, and I wish I could return the favour.
"What is it?" Rose asks, finally perking up with a bit of curiosity.
"Dunno."
"A globe? It's a globe."
"Of what? The earth, missing all its countries?"
"Oh, that's interesting. Uncle Harry, look! Scorpius gave James a water globe."
"For Merlin's sake, Rose, it's not a bloody water globe." James gives it a shake. It glows briefly and he nearly drops it with alarm.
Harry pokes it. "What is that?"
"Some kind of Auror thing?" Hermione asks.
"Could be an alarm. Like a Sneakoscope," Ron suggests.
"Is it edible? James, see if you can bite it," Victoire demands.
"I'm not biting it!"
"It's a gobstopper," Victoire says decisively.
Percy comes over, looking affronted. "You're all mad. It's clearly some sort of toy. George, you're the expert on toys."
"That? Looks like a prank thing. You throw it and...something happens."
"James, throw it," Hugo says. "Hard as you can. At Rose."
Rose's eyes narrow.
James puts it away. "I'll ask Scorpius later," he says.
As it turns out, he doesn't need to. Later on, long after the stars have set into the night sky and everyone's sleeping dinner off, James gets the orb out again to look at it in peace. His nan, who he assumed was asleep in her favourite armchair, opens one eye.
"Oh, aren't you lucky?"
"Sorry?"
Mrs Weasley nods at the orb. "I would've paid good money for one of those after Fred's death. Dreadfully expensive, though."
"Does it help when people die?"
Mrs Weasley settles back in the armchair, closing her eyes again. "Helps with a lot of things, dear. It's a meditation orb."
"Oh. Like...it's a calming spell?"
"Press on it. Hard as you can."
James pauses, then presses on the orb. He's afraid of making it shatter, but it begins to give way beneath his fingers, and then suddenly he's surrounded by water.
Miles and miles of it. Every direction. It's still and calm, reflecting the soft sunrise above it. James exhales slowly.
He's always loved the water.
It feels like he's truly immersed, the water lapping slightly at his skin, cool and refreshing. James looks down at his hands, then skims them lightly across the surface of the water, watching the ripples fade.
"Well?"
He surfaces into the cosy, fire-lit room of the Burow. Mrs Weasley is looking at him.
"It senses what you find most calming," she says. "It's very nice, isn't it? A little bubble of serenity."
James smiles to himself.
Come for a swim?
He definitely needs the meditation orb after New Years Eve.
He meets Olivia in the Leaky Cauldron, where all the portkeys to the wizarding fireworks are being arranged. He didn't even think it was capable of being a romantic location but the elderly proprietor of the pub has actually made it festive. There's strings of fairy lights twinkling all around them and they're surrounded by cosy couples lining up to pay for their portkey. Olivia looks very beautiful and James wouldn't have thought twice about it except Rowan's hurt expression is stuck in his mind. Tell me honestly, you wouldn’t be too mad if I dated her, would you? Snogged her in corridors, took her on dates, agreed to make things serious?
She smiles at him. "You look nice."
"You too."
They take the portkey to the remote moor where the fireworks will take place. As the crowd counts down to midnight, James knows he's made a mistake.
He has. As fireworks explode into the sky, Olivia kisses James passionately. Enchanted bubbles of gold and silver float amongst the crowd, and the charmed fireworks create enormous flowers as they explode: roses and chrysanthemums and carnations, and each petal falls away to become a new firework.
This is the most romantic thing he's ever done.
And it's completely wrong.
As the last spark fades and the last bubble pops, the crowd begins to disperse. They join the flurry of people returning to Diagon Alley, where plenty of little cafes and cosy restaurants are still open for those wanting to continue the celebration. James expects Olivia to suggest such a place, but instead she leans close to him and murmurs, "Come back to my house? My parents aren't home, they've gone to a party."
And he tries to say something, an excuse or reason to decline, but what he says instead is, “I think we should talk.”
Five little words, and the colour drains from Olivia’s face. Her smile drops. Her shoulders tense. She steps back, shock and dread written across her face.
“About what?” she asks, speaking as if the words are dry sawdust in her mouth.
James puts his hands in his pockets. “Should we go somewhere warmer? It’s a bit cold —“
Olivia shakes her head, even though her nose is red and she’s huddling against the wall. “Tell me," she says, a plea in her voice. "Tell me, James."
He takes a breath.
"You're back early," Harry observes.
"Yeah."
"It's only half twelve."
"I know."
Harry's eyebrows rise but he returns to his newspaper without another word.
James drags himself upstairs. The meditation orb sits on his bedside table, glowing softly as if sensing his misery and exhaustion.
Suddenly, he misses Scorpius so much it hurts.
Chapter 24: Dinner Parties and Dates
Summary:
Draco has several arguments with Scorpius — James has his first heartbreak — Harry considers his own love life (or lack thereof).
Chapter Text
Draco is furious.
Scorpius has abruptly cancelled his Christmas visit, exactly one day before the break begins. He squashes the urge to immediately charge into Hogwarts and shake some sense into Scorpius, and instead eventually sends him a Howler. It’s the first Howler he’s ever sent. He doesn’t do anything so crass as shouting, but his terse, clipped voice is more pointed than any lecture Draco’s ever given before. Has Scorpius considered that Draco made plans for the holiday? Shall Draco apologise to the Selwyns for all the visits he’ll now have to cancel? And Celia hasn’t seen him since summer! Draco would like to invite Scorpius to reflect on exactly how selfish and inconsiderate his actions are.
Scorpius sends back a reply, which Draco receives on Christmas Day. It’s apologetic but short and does nothing to improve Draco’s mood. Especially when he’s sitting alone in an empty manor, Scorpius’s presents unopened beneath the lush tree that Draco only bought to brighten Scorpius’s visit.
Is his homework so important that Scorpius really can’t make Christmas? Draco can hardly tell him off for being too scholarly, but he’s not impressed. And, to be honest, quite hurt. He hasn’t seen Scorpius for four long months. Doesn’t Scorpius want to spend time with him? Doesn’t he miss him? Deciding to forego his usual stoicism when it comes to letters, he sends off another letter outlining his sadness at not seeing his son.
To his surprise, Scorpius seems rather guilty and arranges to come home. Draco picks him up from Hogsmeade the day after Christmas, and they take a portkey home.
“Now, first things first - Celia is dying to see you —”
Scorpius sets his bag down in the hallway. “Dad...I really do have a lot of homework — ”
“I’m sure you can spare an hour or two to say hello to your girlfriend.”
“But I thought...it’s just that I...I kind of need a break from everything — ”
“You are having a break. It’s the Christmas holidays.”
“I know, but in your letter you said you wanted to spend time with me, and I thought...that’s why I came home, you sounded miserable — ”
Draco’s hurt. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.”
“Right, I know, it’s just — ”
“I thought you decided to come home because you wanted to.”
“Yes, but...” Scorpius trails off. “I’ll go get changed then.”
“Good idea. That jumper looks terrible, go pick out something respectable.”
Scorpius tugs at the hooded jumper and says nothing. Draco has no idea where he even bought it; it’s a size too big, navy blue, and emblazoned with the words ‘European Schools Championships’.
“Come on, the Selwyns are waiting,” Draco says.
Scorpius turns and walks slowly upstairs.
Scorpius’s mood doesn’t improve over the break, and it culminates in a rather bitter argument on New Years Eve. They visit Pureblood friends to watch the fireworks; Draco isn’t pleased with Scorpius’s behaviour and as soon as they get home, he tells him off.
“You don’t need to be rude,” he says irritably, hanging up his cloak.
“I wasn’t rude!” Scorpius protests.
“You were. Standing in the corner, hardly speaking to anyone...the whole point of the evening was to introduce you to the Rosiers’ son, Samuel, he’s your age and if you bothered speaking to him — ”
“I did, we talked for a bit about school — ”
“You could have been a bit more social, Scorpius. I’ve arranged a trip to a Quidditch game for you and Samuel and you need to make more of an effort — ”
“I thought I was courting Celia.”
Draco gives Scorpius a searing look of disapproval. “That’s not funny at all, Scorpius. You need more friends, that’s what the point of this is — ”
“I’ve got friends.” Scorpius pauses. “Of course, they’re all Muggleborns and Halfbloods,” he says slowly.
Draco hurriedly squashes that idea. “No, it has nothing to do with that — it’s just that you hardly have any mutual friends with Celia, and the Rosiers are quite close with the Selwyns. Samuel would’ve been a good match for Celia, actually, but he’s got a childhood sweetheart. Anyway, Scorpius, you need more friends. Someone you can really talk to — ”
“I’ve got James.”
The pause is slightly too long before Draco says, “I suppose so.”
Scorpius looks at him. “Shame he’s not Pureblood.”
Something in his tone makes a flicker of anger run through Draco’s veins. “Go to bed,” he says abruptly, and he swishes his wand.
Scorpius frowns and says nothing, but goes upstairs. Five minutes later, he returns.
“You Vanished my books.” He looks incredulous. “Why? Because I said James isn’t a Pureblood? That’s a fact!”
“You said it was a shame,” Draco snaps. “I don’t appreciate being accused of being a bigot, Scorpius. You’re allowed to be friends with him, aren’t you? I haven’t forbidden you from ever speaking to him again, have I? You know, you’ve had a real attitude since you got home — ”
“I’m just finding this Pureblood stuff hard!”
“It’s not hard! It’s — it’s going to lunches and dinners and talking to people! How is that hard?”
Scorpius falls silent. Draco waits, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I need those books,” Scorpius says at last. “Please. Some of them are textbooks, I really need to study them.”
“It’s only another week until term starts again. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“I’m sorry about what I said. I’ll go to that Quidditch match, I promise I’ll make friends with Samuel, I just really, really need those books — ”
“I’ll think about it,” Draco says reluctantly, feeling a little guilty about upsetting Scorpius so much.
“Okay,” Scorpius says, and he goes upstairs.
Draco goes to his study, where the books have been relocated, and studies the titles for a moment. Perhaps he is being unfair, he decides. Scorpius does love his books.
He selects all the magical textbooks and returns them with a swish of his wand, then retires to bed.
James is sitting by the fire, a book in one hand, yet he hasn’t read a word. He stares into the distance, lost in thought, when he hears a soft whoosh.
Incoming fire-call. He frowns, then accepts it and kneels next to the fire place.
It’s Scorpius.
James brightens. “Hello! Thanks for your meditation orb, I’ve already used it a million times.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Scorpius says, but he sounds a little listless and James frowns.
“Why’d you call?”
“Oh. Just to say happy...happy new year...” Scorpius’s smile wavers and James doesn’t even think about it, just says, “Floo through now,” and ends the call.
Scorpius tumbles through the hearth seconds later; they hug immediately.
“Sorry,” Scorpius mumbles into James’s shoulder.
“It’s fine.”
“I can’t stay.”
“You can stay as long as you want.”
Scorpius says nothing. After a while, he withdraws from the hug and says, “I’ll stay a little bit.”
James doesn’t push it. He makes two cups of tea and they go upstairs, to his room, where Scorpius rearranges all the Quidditch figures and pokes at the Hogwarts Express lamp and then peruses James’s bookcase.
James sits on his bed and waits.
“He took my books,” Scorpius says at last. “Took them all away.”
James straightens up. “I thought you were at Hogwarts.” Then he feels stupid — how could Scorpius have Floo’d from Hogwarts? “Obviously not,” he adds.
“Dad said he missed me. I felt bad.”
James manages, with a lot of effort, to withhold a sigh.
“I said I had homework so he returned my textbooks. All the magical ones. He thinks I’ve gone back to studying all my magical subjects.”
“You need to tell him.”
“I know!”
James jumps as a picture frame on the bedside table cracks. It’s a photograph of him and Teddy; the pane is cracked and so is the frame.
Scorpius looks stricken. He picks up the frame.
“James, I’m so sorry — ”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m just so stressed right now, but that’s no excuse for losing control of my magic like that — ”
“Scorpius. It’s fine.”
“It’s not, I can’t believe I broke it — ”
James eases the frame from Scorpius’s hands and sets it down. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Come and sit down and drink your tea.”
Scorpius finally does so, leaning back on the pillows and accepting the mug. He seems to calm down at last as he drinks the tea; by the time the mug is empty, he’s looking far more composed — albeit tired, James observes aloud.
“You look tired too,” Scorpius says, and then he frowns. “How was your evening?”
“All right.”
Scorpius gives him a look. James sighs.
“Awful. Olivia and I had a very romantic evening, and then she invited me back to her place because her parents weren’t home. So of course I chose that moment to dump her.”
Scorpius looks shocked. “But...why?”
“Just didn’t feel the chemistry.” Not a lie, James thinks.
“Oh.”
“She bawled her eyes out and asked if it was her fault. Then she begged for a second chance. I feel like a complete berk.”
“That sucks,” Scorpius says.
“Yeah.” James switches subjects. “How’s your Muggle subjects going, anyway?”
It was the right question. Scorpius seems to forget his worries as he speaks of his beloved astronomy. He explains a black hole to James, and infinite loops, and the fabric of the universe. What happens when stars are born, when they die, when they crash into each other. James doesn’t mind just quietly listening to it all, though his eyelids grow heavy.
He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up, Scorpius is asleep beside him. He pulls the blankets off him and blearily tries to shake him awake.
“The guest room is downstairs,” he says, but Scorpius makes an irritated noise and pulls the blanket back up.
James doesn’t argue; he falls asleep again.
The next time he wakes, though, Scorpius is sitting on the edge of the bed in the faint light of dawn, lacing his trainers. James sits up, still-half asleep.
“Going back home before Dad wakes up,” Scorpius whispers.
“Hm? Tell your dad to go jump,” James mumbles.
Scorpius lets out a little huff of amusement and leans over, pushing James gently back down onto the bed. “Get some more sleep. I’ll see you at Hogwarts.”
James lets sleep steal over him as Scorpius’s footsteps fade.
Draco gives Scorpius a bit of space; he knocks on his door the next morning, expecting a surly reply, but Scorpius surprises him by opening the door.
“Yes?”
“Do you want any breakfast? I’ll tidy up the breakfast table otherwise.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Scorpius closes the door again.
Scorpius does come downstairs. He seems calmer, Draco thinks, though he’s not sure why. Still distant, but he’s perfectly cordial for the remainder of the holidays. He goes to the Quidditch match, and is nice to Samuel, and he goes on dates with Celia and makes polite conversation with her parents.
Draco can’t complain, and yet it still feels like something is missing from it all.
But he says nothing, and neither does Scorpius.
James returns to Hogwarts in an anxious mood, assured only when Scorpius greets him with a smile in their room.
”How were your holidays?” James asks without preamble, setting his bag down.
”All right.”
”All right?”
”Tolerable,” Scorpius amends.
“Did you get your books back?”
”Sort of.”
James tilts his head. Scorpius looks slightly abashed.
”I snuck the books back into my room and replaced them with books from the library. I cast illusionment charms so Dad couldn’t tell the difference.”
James raises his eyebrows. “Wish I had half your magic. I’d get away with murder.”
Scorpius opens his physics textbook and pushes it toward James. “Can you quiz me? In my Muggle subjects, I mean.”
”Sure.” James flips through the pages. “What’s Hooke’s Law?”
Scorpius paces around the floor for a moment and abruptly asks, “Exactly how Pureblood do wizards like to keep things?”
”We’re not studying biology. Define Hooke’s Law.”
”It’s not biology, though, is it? You can’t measure how ‘pure’ blood is, can you? Physically, and biologically, there’s no way you could tell the difference between a Pureblood and a Muggleborn.”
James sets the textbook aside and waits, but Scorpius looks at him expectantly.
”That was a question,” Scorpius says after a moment.
”You’re seriously asking if Purebloods are biologically better?” James gives Scorpius an incredulous look. “Of course not, Scorpius. Why on earth would you even think...what rubbish is your father feeding you?”
”Nothing,” Scorpius says hurriedly. “It’s just...they seem so obsessed about it...I thought there must be something...I had to spend the whole break with these Pureblood families, and they talked about it for a bit and kept telling me it makes sense — ”
”Don’t do that,” James says sharply. “That’s how Voldemort got his followers. Don’t you listen in History of Magic? That was actually one of the interesting bits, Professor Binns got another Hogwarts ghost to cover Modern Events. Lavender Brown, that’s her name. She died at the Battle of Hogwarts. And she told us that a lot of people on the wrong side of the war were just common wizards and witches who believed the Purebloods spreading lies about blood purity.”
”There wasn’t a wrong side,” Scorpius says.
The air goes very still. Scorpius looks suddenly frightened and anxious.
”It’s just — sorry, I just said that automatically because that’s what Celia’s dad always says, he says there’s no wrong side, just different views — ”
”I would not,” James says, “repeat that sentiment to anyone else here. Or you’ll find ‘death descendant’ becomes your nickname again.”
Scorpius says nothing. James sighs.
”I’m just trying to warn you, Scorpius. You need to be careful about what you repeat. Especially from these Pureblood friends of yours.”
”They’re not my friends,” Scorpius says, his voice suddenly fierce. “You’re my friend.”
James tries to soften his earlier words with a smile. “Yeah. Now, about Hooke’s Law...”
”Force is proportional to extension. Come on, give me a difficult one.”
James goes right to the back of the textbook just to be annoying, but Scorpius gets all the answers right anyway.
Spring arrives at last, huddling against winter’s chill. James couldn’t be happier to return to his swim practice, and Saltworth seems especially pleased with his progress.
”You’ll clean up at the championships again, I should think,” she says crisply on a particularly overcast morning when James has been annoying Thomas by beating him in every lap.
It’s probably the nicest thing she’s ever said to him.
”Thanks, coach.”
Saltworth walks away to pack up the lane divides. Thomas pulls an exaggeratedly earnest expression. “Oh, gee, thanks coach,” he repeats in a mocking voice.
“Go jump in the lake. Oh, don’t, actually. You don’t know how to swim.”
Iwan laughs loudly; Thomas looks tragic. “You’re mean, Potter.”
”You’re worse! It took me two weeks to figure out someone removed the anti-fogging charm from my goggles.”
They laugh and jostle and mock each other all the way back to the castle. James feels better than he has in weeks. Breaking up with Olivia was horrible, but it feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. And everything else is going so well. His grades are great — he’s even doing well at his first-aid course — and days like this, when he’s with his friends, it’s easy to forget his other troubles.
So, of course, fate is waiting for him.
It strikes on a dull and rainy April evening, when James is awaiting Rowan in the History of Magic classroom — a room that other students never bother with. James is certain that if boredom had a smell, it would be this room: dusty and stuffy and yellowing pages.
He frowns at the clock. Rowan is never late to their little meetings. After another minute or two, James sighs and unlatches one of the windows, opening it and letting in the sharp night air.
“Sorry.”
James turns. Rowan steps through the door, closing it behind him.
“It’s fine,” James says. “Didn’t get caught by a prefect, did you?”
”I am a prefect.”
”Oh. Well, that’s convenient.” James crosses the room and pulls Rowan into a kiss, intending it to be fast and hard as usual. But Rowan softens the kiss into something sweet and slow, which he’s never done before, and when James opens his eyes he can see that Rowan’s eyelashes are wet, and he abruptly steps away.
“No,” he says impulsively. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” Rowan says quietly. “I’m so sorry, James — ”
“Why?” James asks; it sounds like a sad plea and Rowan looks wretched.
“It’s not you — “
“Oh, God, don’t you dare use that line on me.”
“It isn’t you. But it’s not me, either. It’s us. We just don’t — it’s not working.”
James turns away from him as if he can simply pretend this isn’t happening. He goes to the window; he feels like he’s suffocating. The silence is heavier than the stuffy air.
“Is it because I’m not out?” he says at last.
He hears Rowan sigh. “James — ”
“What if I did come out?”
“This isn’t an ultimatum, I’d never ask you to — ”
“But if I did — ”
“It wouldn’t work anyway. There’s other things — ”
“Like what? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. We just don’t work.” Rowan sighs again, a long and slow exhale. “I’ve always been the romantic type, and you’re — you’re not. You’ve never even held my hand. You’ll never buy me flowers and plan romantic dates and celebrate anniversaries and you’d roll your eyes if I tried to do any of those things. And that’s fine, it is, but it’s not what I want.”
James doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” Rowan says again.
“It’s fine.”
“James — ”
“It’s fine. You said what you wanted to say. You can go now.”
“I wish things could’ve worked out, I do, and you’ve honestly been amazing — ”
“You can go now,” James repeats.
There’s a long silence, then quiet footsteps. The door opens, then closes.
And James is alone.
He eventually goes to the dormitory. The second he drags himself through the doorway, Iwan jumps to his feet.
”Oh, God, you got dumped,” he says.
James stares at him. “What?”
Nate glances over at them. “Oh, mate,” he says sympathetically. “Want a butter beer?”
Martin brightens. ”I’ve still got some of Captain Slorrice’s Finest — ”
“No,” Nate says instantly.
James goes to his bed, wanting nothing but to be left alone, but Martin sits on the end of the bed. “So, who was it? You’ve dumped Olivia, it must be some secret girlfriend — ”
Iwan frowns at him. “Don’t make him talk about it. Leave the poor bloke alone. We all remember the first time we got dumped.”
They all crowd onto James’s bed. Nate hands out the butterbeers; Iwan produces a pack of cards.
”You need a distraction,” he tells James firmly, dealing the cards. “Better than being alone.”
”No, I think I’ll just — ”
”Your turn.”
They play games well into the night, sipping their butterbeers, the boys occasionally giving James a sympathetic slap on the shoulder. Nate recounts getting dumped by his first girlfriend.
”First serious one,” he tells James. “Really cut me up.”
”I know,” Iwan says. “You played Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Only A Love Potion Can Save Me Now’ for two weeks straight and sung along to it with the most tragic expression. You sounded like a strangled vulture.”
“What about when Clare dumped you? You hexed all the photographs of you together, so her face had terrible acne. Oh, she was raging about that!”
Iwan chokes on his butterbeer. “Forgot about that.”
By the end of the night, though James is still miserable, he’s actually grateful for their company. Iwan is right.
Better than being alone.
At least the timing is good, he consoles himself, because Easter break starts the next day. With all the homework for the end-of-year tests coming up, James had been planning to stay at Hogwarts. Now, however, he makes the last-second decision to leave. He couldn’t think of anything worse than spending the break at Hogwarts, where he’s surrounded by happy couples. As he stands on the platform at Hogsmeade, he watches Rose and Andrew kiss each other goodbye and feels the resentment burning him. All these oblivious couples, all the boys and girls hugging and holding hands around him without a second thought about showing public affection. They don’t know how easy their lives are, he thinks angrily.
He goes home, catching a lift with Rose as he didn’t have time to owl Harry to pick him up. He’s forced to listen to Rose pining after Andrew already; he’s thankful to escape it when Harry picks him up.
The rest of the week passes too quickly. For the first time in a while, he’s dreading returning to Hogwarts; he makes the mistake of visiting his cousins the day before the break ends, hoping to be distracted by a game of Quidditch with Rose and Hugo.
Unfortunately, instead Hugo is visiting his girlfriend, and Rose is still talking about Andrew. James sits in the kitchen, already pondering exactly how much trouble he’ll get into for casting a silencing charm on Rose.
”...it’s so unfair, he was supposed to spend Christmas with me too but his grandmother booked a family trip to Copenhagen. And now he can’t do Easter either! I never get to spend time with him.”
”What about the summer holidays?” Ron asks, rifling through a cupboard. “Tea, James?”
”Thanks,” James says.
”The summer holidays? He’s only staying for two weeks,” Rose grumbles.
Ron pokes the kettle with his wand. “Yes, and then you’ll be staying with his family for two weeks. A month is more than fair, Rose.”
“And we were supposed to see the Quidditch World Cup together. You know, like a couple. But his little brother won’t stop begging to come along too. And he’s annoying, he makes kissy faces every time I hold Andrew’s hand and he pesters me endlessly about what kind of wedding we’ll have. He thinks we should have a dinosaur-themed wedding.”
”Wow, what a burden,” James mutters.
Rose turns and gives him a hurt look. “Excuse me?”
”What a burden,” James repeats. “Sounds like you’re having a really tough time with your relationship.”
Rose’s hurt expression hardens into a scowl. “And what would you know about relationships?”
”Rose,” Ron says warningly.
”You’ve got seventeen exes — eighteen now, counting poor Olivia. You know, there’s something really wrong with you.”
Ron looks up sharply. “Rose! Don’t speak to your cousin like that. Go to your room.”
”He started it! He was being mean about me and Andrew — ”
”I’m not telling you again. Go to your room.”
“Fine! I don’t want to be here anyway!” Rose storms out of the kitchen, slamming the door on her way out. Ron sighs.
”Been moody as a bloody Hippogriff lately. Fighting with her mum all the time.” He hands James a cup of tea. “Your dad will be here soon.”
James doesn’t reply.
Harry’s surprised when he gets a fire-call from Ron.
”I think your son wants to leave.”
”Oh! Give me a moment.” Harry Floos through, squeezing out of the kitchen hearth and spotting James sitting at the table with a cup of tea. “James, I thought we might take a trip to London. One last visit before you go back to school. What do you think?”
James shrugs, not looking up from his cup.
“Oh, well, don’t get too excited,” Harry says wryly.
”Rose had a go at him,” Ron mutters. “She’s been in a real mood lately.”
”Oh?” Harry decides to give James a moment and retreats to the lounge room, leaving the door open as an invitation.
Ron follows him. ”She wants to pursue a career in Quidditch. She’s got her mother’s brains though, and Hermione thinks it’s a total waste of her intellect. They were fighting about it every single day over Christmas break. I’m surprised Rose came home for Easter, really. Hermione’s not happy.”
Harry looks around surreptitiously.
”She’s at work,” Ron says, looking amused.
“Ah. And what do you think about it?”
Ron scoffs. “I’m not stupid, mate. Staying well out of it, thanks.”
Harry raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, but what do you think about it?”
Ron glances upstairs, then lowers his voice. “Rose loves Quidditch. And I know it’s going to sound brutal, but she’s...good at it. Not great. Not amazing. Just good. She keeps attending the Junior Nationals try-outs and she never gets selected. She’s competing with kids that are spectacular on the pitch.”
”So what are you going to tell her?”
Ron leans back in his armchair. “Nothing. Are you mad? That would go down like a broomstick made of bricks. I’ll encourage her to give Quidditch a go, because it’s what she wants, but it’s a lesson she’ll have to figure out on her own.”
“Ah. Well, at least it isn’t boy troubles,” Harry says, lightening the conversation. “Apparently Lucy just got her first boyfriend, and Percy hates him.”
”Her first boyfriend? Isn’t she...I dunno, eight or nine?”
”Twelve. Her boyfriend’s the same age. Likes collecting bugs and eating chocolate. According to Percy, he’s ‘a scrawny little specimen with no career prospects’.”
They swap a look and start laughing. “Bloody Percy. I don’t think he was ever a child, you know. I don’t remember it. I reckon he hatched out of a prefect’s badge one day.”
Harry takes a sip of his butterbeer. “See, at least Rose has made a good choice with Andrew.”
”Oh, yeah. He’s an upstanding citizen and all that. Won’t be surprised if they end up married.”
”You might have your first grandchild in a few years.” Harry raises his voice. “Wish James would get a move on.”
There’s no reply from the kitchen. Ron takes a swig of butterbeer. “He’d better hurry up, he’s in seventh year soon and it’s trickier meeting new girls once you’ve graduated.”
”That’s what I keep telling him. He had a girlfriend, but I think she was too perfect or something.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I should’ve bought him a manual for dating girls.”
”Buy one for yourself while you’re at it.”
Harry laughs. “Watch it.”
There’s a faint whoosh; Ron frowns and stands up, peering through the doorway. “Sounded like the kitchen Floo.”
”What?” Harry follows him, peeved to discover an empty kitchen. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! You know, he’s gotten all moody again lately but this is just rude!”
”Kids, eh,” Ron says. “Go and sort him out, then. S’pose I should go see what Rose is sulking about.” He glances gloomily at the stairs.
”Next time,” Harry says wearily, stepping into the hearth.
”Yeah, come round for dinner soon.”
The flames flicker as Harry vanishes.
Harry arrives, thoroughly peeved, in the lounge room. James is already making a beeline for his room; Harry strides after him.
”James! That was very rude, leaving like that!”
”You know what’s rude? Talking about me like I’m not there,” James snaps.
”Excuse me? We weren’t even talking about you — ”
”You were saying I need to hurry up and get a girlfriend — ”
”Oh, for God’s sake. Learn to take a joke, James. Are you really going to get offended about that?” Harry retorts, following James up the stairs.
”It’s about the millionth time you’ve said that! It’s all I ever hear — I swear if I hear ‘when are you going to bring a girlfriend home?’ one more bloody time — ”
”Oh, pardon me for daring to ask about your personal life! You know, you dated that Olivia girl for months and I never once met her — ”
”You said people aren’t allowed to come over!”
”I’d make important exceptions,” Harry says. “I’d hope one day you might graciously allow me to meet your future wife — ”
”Will you shut up about marriage and grandkids?”
Harry steps sharply in front of James, preventing him from storming into his room. “Don’t talk to me like that! You know, you have been in a horrible mood since Christmas, James, and I’m sick of it. Marriage and kids are part of your future so I’m sorry that I’m awful enough to mention them — ”
”They’re not part of my future!”
”Oh, for Merlin’s sake, I am not going to sit here and listen to some self-pitying whinge about how you’ll never find anyone — ”
”I’m gay.”
Harry falls silent. James looks absolutely horrified at himself, as if he can’t quite believe what he just said.
”Is that a joke?” Harry asks at last, his mind blank.
James stares at him. “Why would it be a joke?”
Harry doesn’t reply.
After a long moment, James pushes past him and goes to the attic, shutting the hatch behind him.
Harry goes to his own room.
It’s a shock. He never even thought about this possibility. He’d just assumed...
And he wants to brush it off and say ‘nothing’s changed’ and act like he’s not affected at all, but he is. He’d just assumed James was straight. He wondered about what sort of girl James would settle down with. Pictured the wedding, the bride wearing Ginny’s beautiful white dress — a new family heirloom to be passed down through the generations that would follow. The children, of course. How many grandchildren? Just one? Or perhaps a family size to rival the Weasleys...
He spends the rest of the evening flipping through the old family photographs. Him and Ginny, getting married under an ancient oak tree. Building their first home together. James, of course. The first picture ever taken of him. A tiny infant wrapped up in a blanket, nestled in the arms of an awestruck Harry.
But then the pictures start to change. Ginny starts looking more thin, the bones in her face more pronounced. The last picture taken of her and James before she slipped into palliative care. She’s crying in the photograph. Smile, for James, Harry had begged her, but she hadn’t. He’ll grow up without me, she’d sobbed. He’ll need me, Harry. Even then, in so much pain and exhaustion, she’d still thought only of James and how he’d be affected by her inevitable death.
Suddenly, Harry feels a pang of bitter remorse. He’s being selfish, he thinks. Sitting here feeling upset because he has to adjust his assumptions about James’s future. Whereas James will be far more affected. The world is more progressive than it used to be, Harry knows, but he’s under no illusion that James will somehow live a life free of discrimination and inequality.
He plays the conversation over and over in his head. The way James had looked so hurt and sounded so devastated when he’d asked Harry, Why would it be a joke?
Harry shuts the album and puts it away, suddenly realising how long he’s been there. Darkness has fallen, triggering the lighting charms. He glances at the clock; it’s midnight.
He goes to James’s room anyway, but it’s empty. Harry has a brief moment of panic as he hurries through the empty house, but he finds a note on the kitchen counter. Gone to Scorpius’s.
Harry knows better than to follow him, and at least he knows James is safe. Scorpius will look after him.
He goes to bed, but his night is restless.
Draco is exhausted.
He’s gone to plenty of luncheons and brunches and dinners, but he knows the Selwyns are waiting for him to host a meal. He’s spent an entire week polishing silverware and enchanting table linen and dragging the dusty, very fine china out of storage. He spent the night before cooking all the meals (the Selwyns would assume he has a chef in the kitchens, he knows). He’s set up intricate spells that ensure dishes magically appear when desired and wine glasses refill themselves — a job that would normally be designated to one of the domestic servants.
As a result, he’s practically falling asleep in his soufflé, but at least the Selwyns appear to be enjoying themselves and haven’t noticed anything to indicate a lack of wealth. Scorpius is patiently listening to Mr Selwyn tell a very long story about a lost Cyril Bure painting; Celia is smiling at Scorpius and raising her eyebrows, indicating she’s heard that particular story many times before.
There’s a soft chime of the wards followed by the distant noise of a Floo.
Draco frowns and sets his wineglass down.
”I do apologise, I wasn’t expecting any visitors,” he says, standing up.
Mr Selwyn waves a jovial hand. He’s on his third glass of very expensive wine. “My Ministry friends arrive uninvited all the time,” he says dismissively.
“I imagine that’s the case,” Draco lies. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
Scorpius gives him a speculative look but returns to the conversation. Draco departs swiftly.
He goes downstairs, his mild curiosity replaced by anger the moment he sees James stepping out of the fireplace.
”What are you doing here?” he asks sharply.
”I...” James trails off. “Sorry...is Scorpius here?”
”He’s otherwise engaged. Where is your father?”
”He’s...he’s not here...”
”Obviously. Look, whatever textbook Scorpius has borrowed, it can wait. I’m in the middle of a very well-planned dinner party and I won’t have you being a general annoyance — ”
”James Potter?”
James and Draco both look to the doorway. Celia’s standing there, looking thrilled.
”I’ve heard so much about you! It’s really an honour to meet you. Are you joining us for dinner?”
Draco glances at James, then frowns and looks a bit closer. James looks pale and quite unwell, and for a moment Draco thinks with horrified fury that James is about to do something uncouth like vomit on the rug.
But James slips on a polite smile like it’s a well-worn mask, and says, “You must be Celia. I’ve heard so much about you, too.”
Celia blushes.
Somehow — and Draco can’t quite believe it — everything turns out swimmingly. Ethel was right, all those months ago, about James’s presence at a party. The son of the wizarding world’s saviour does lend a certain prestige and a certain atmosphere of excitement. James is perfectly charming and keeps up effortlessly with the conversations. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt but even that apparently has charm to it; the Selwyns comment how humble and down-to-earth he seems.
“We did see you at Scorpius’s sixteenth,” Mrs Selwyn tells James, “but you were rather busy with all the girls...your dance card was rather full, it seemed.”
James laughs politely with the rest of them. “Oh, yes. I think there was only one girl I didn’t dance with.”
“Quite right. Celia’s spoken for, I’m afraid,” Mrs Selwyn says.
“That’s a shame,” James says, and Celia blushes.
Yes; everyone seems rather pleased with their unexpected visitor.
Oddly enough, Draco thinks, except Scorpius. When Draco had first brought James to the room, Scorpius had immediately stood up and smiled. But then James and him had looked at each other — no more than a glance, but apparently enough for a silent conversation to occur. Scorpius’s smile had fallen and he’d sat back down without further fuss. James had sat next to Scorpius but there has been no idle chatter or laughter between them.
They eventually finish dessert; as per protocol, Mr Selwyn, Draco, Scorpius, and James retire to the study (aged whiskey for Mr Selwyn and Draco, ginger ale and bitters for Scorpius and James) while Mrs Selwyn and Celia retreat to the drawing room for tea. Mr Selwyn and Draco get involved in a rather rambling conversation about the state of the finance department. He expects Scorpius and James to start boisterous conversations about Quidditch or make idiotic jokes with each other, but both of them are quiet. When Mr Selwyn finally finishes his whiskey and winds up the conversation and they reconvene with the women, James is looking exhausted and Scorpius’s face is drawn.
Nevertheless, the goodbyes are cordial.
”You must visit again,” Mrs Selwyn tells James sincerely.
”Oh, yes, I had no idea you were a good friend of Scorpius’s,” Mr Selwyn adds. “Know each other at school, do you?”
”Oh, it’s charming, isn’t it, to have such a good friendship?” Draco says quickly.
James and Scorpius both stare at him with raised eyebrows, their unimpressed expressions identical. To Draco’s relief, James says nothing.
Scorpius does.
”Yes, you’ve always admired my friendship with James,” Scorpius says. “Now, you don’t mind if he spends the night, do you, Father?”
Scorpius certainly has elements of Slytherin in him, Draco thinks with exasperation. The Selwyns are looking at him expectantly. “Oh, no,” Draco says. “Of course not. I’ll set — I’ll arrange to have a guest room set up.”
“Perfect,” Scorpius says.
Draco lets him get away with it. After the Selwyns depart, he wordlessly goes to a linen cupboard, dumps a pile of sheets and blankets in Scorpius’s arms, then bids James a terse, ‘Goodnight’.
James follows Scorpius upstairs; both of them wait until they’re in Scorpius’s room before speaking.
”I’m so sorry you had to sit through that stupid dinner. What happened?” Scorpius asks at once, dropping the linen on the floor.
”Nothing.”
Scorpius accepts it without question. “Are you all right?”
”Yeah.” James pauses. “I don’t know. Let’s talk about something else.”
”Sure. Did you know that disarming charms aren’t about speed? The fastest spell caster won’t necessarily be the winner. I’ll tell you why. See, it’s all about the path the magic travels...”
James sits on the floor beside the bed and stretches his legs out, listening to Scorpius’s soft voice as he explains the science of Expelliarmus. It’s easy to forget everything else, he thinks. Just sit here and listen.
Is that a joke?
His father’s expression had been horrified. As if James had said something awful. Something terrible.
”...and it refracts...James?”
James shakes his thoughts away. “I’m listening.”
Scorpius reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Keep listening. So, if the spell refracts, then the light disperses...”
James concentrates again. At least exhaustion begins to blur his thoughts, anyway. He was tired when he arrived, but the mental exhaustion of keeping up the facade during a mentally taxing dinner party is taking its toll. He manages to jerk awake again a few times, but finally gives up and leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes.
Scorpius shakes him awake again a few minutes later. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
”Where’s the guest room?” James demands groggily.
”Just take my bed.”
James doesn’t argue, falling asleep within moments of pulling the blanket over himself.
He wakes the next morning to a knock on the door; the handle immediately turns and James is startled from his slumber. He can feel a warm weight against his back; Scorpius is next to him, he realises, and he can only imagine Draco’s reaction to discovering Scorpius sharing a bed with him. Draco would kick up a fuss and the innocent closeness would be ruined; James can only too easily picture Scorpius looking mortified and becoming uncomfortable with any future sleepovers.
But the door handle just rattles uselessly, and Draco calls out in an irritated voice. “Scorpius! You know, next time you lock this bloody door, I’ll take the whole thing off its hinges!”
Scorpius sits up, his hair sticking in all directions, and sloughs off the bed.
“Scorpius! I haven’t got all day! Get up, the Hogwarts Express leaves at eleven sharp. You’re going to run late — ”
Scorpius opens the door very slightly, just enough to have a brief conversation. James can’t see Draco at all, but he can certainly hear his exasperated voice, a brash contrast with Scorpius’s soft murmur.
”What? No! I’m not running a bloody taxi service! He can Floo home, we’ve got a perfectly functional fireplace — ”
Scorpius says something, his voice too quiet for James to hear.
“Convenience? What about my convenience? Scorpius, I’m tired, it was a long day yesterday, I’m not...what? Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t look like that...fine! You’ll both be ready at half ten or I’m leaving without either of you!”
The door snaps shut. Scorpius returns to the bed, climbs back in, and closes his eyes as if preparing to fall asleep again.
James can’t quite believe that. If his father had spoken to him like that, he’d be raging about the place and storming down the stairs to sort it out. “Your father’s a ray of sunshine in the mornings,” he says.
”Mm.”
”Are you going back to sleep?”
”If it’s nice and quiet.”
James takes the hint. “I’ll go downstairs, then, and have breakfast.”
Scorpius stretches lazily. “You don’t want to do that. My father will be in the kitchen.”
”Oh, good. We can get to know each other. Have a little chat.”
That makes Scorpius’s eyes fly open, and he sits up with alarm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
”Why not? I’ve got plenty of things to say to him,” James says mischievously.
”James, come on. Don’t provoke him.”
”I’m not. I’m just going to be polite, make some conversation...”
”James.”
”I’m sure he’s got some things to say to me, too.”
Scorpius frowns at him. “Why are you avoiding your father?”
“What?”
”I know you’ve argued with him, but you’ve never left home after an argument. So what happened?”
James loses his playful mood and turns away from Scorpius. “I told you. Nothing.”
”Exactly. Stay out of my problems, I’ll stay out of yours.”
That stings. James gets up, picks up his overnight bag, and walks toward the door. Scorpius sighs.
“James, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — please don’t —”
He shuts the door and keeps walking.
Draco’s in a bad mood.
He always seems to be in a bad mood these days, he knows, and he doesn’t know why. He feels tense all the time, like the slightest misstep will set off a cascade of curses. Tension headaches creep up on him now. He sleeps restlessly.
Everything has to be perfect.
James Potter’s appearance had certainly thrown him into a panic yesterday, but fortunately everything had turned out fine. He’s under no illusion, though, that it shouldn’t happen again. James is the token Halfblood friend that lends Draco and Scorpius a bit of respect and discreetly wipes away the memories of certain other allegiances, but he’s also a novelty. Someone to occasionally appear, perhaps share some stories of his father’s high-status friends, and then disappear again. Even the neutral Selwyns prefer to keep their inner circles strictly Pureblood.
Somebody clatters down the stairs. James, Draco thinks. He can’t seem to go anywhere without introducing a certain energy into the room.
“Good morning,” Draco says with just the right amount of icy politeness.
”Sorry, I’ve got to go,” James says, a bag slung over one shoulder. “I know you offered to give me a lift to the station, but I thought it’d be nice to take the Knight Bus instead.”
”Perfect. I’ll show you to the Floo.”
”I know where it is.”
Draco inclines his head toward the door, a subtle dismissal. “Well. Do come again, Potter. Although I’m afraid as Scorpius has a very busy schedule, you won’t be able to visit often. Especially not without prior notice.”
”Got it.”
”He’s got quite a few friends these days, you know. You’d know Samuel Rosier, son of the property mogul Cygnus Rosier? And he’s becoming fast friends with Francis Bulstrode — the Bulstrode family owns half the broomstick manufacturers in Britain — ”
”All the old Pureblood families,” James says, and his gaze is as piercing as a Legilimens charm. “Like I said, got it.”
Draco frowns and glances away. He underestimated James, he realises. Draco had always viewed him as being like his father, a brash and loud Gryffindor. But it seems something has changed now. If James used to leap into arguments like an angry lion, then now he waits silently in the long grass.
James holds out his hand. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, his tone neutral.
Draco shakes his hand.
James turns and leaves, and moments later there’s the soft murmur of the Floo.
Scorpius arrives not long after. He walks into the kitchen and Draco — reading a letter from a genealogy client — waves a hand.
”Toast and tea in the breakfast room.”
Scorpius disappears, but judging by his footsteps, he’s not going to the breakfast room. Draco absently listens to him trail down various hallways and rooms before he finally reappears.
”You haven’t seen James anywhere, have you?”
Draco glances up. “James? He’s gone home.”
”Home?” Scorpius repeats, looking taken aback.
”Yes, home.” Draco turns the letter over. “Whatever he’s forgotten, you can give it back to him at Hogwarts.”
Scorpius nods and turns away, then pauses. “Did he...did he speak to you? Before he left?”
”Obviously. He apologised for leaving early and thanked me for letting him stay.”
”Oh.”
”Hurry up, Scorpius. Your tea’s getting cold.”
”Yes, Father.”
Scorpius leaves.
James misses the train back to Hogwarts; he’d caught the Knight Bus and elected to take it all the way to Hogsmeade. The conductor and driver argue with each other about it.
”We can stop at Kings Cross,” the driver tells James. “Just in time, I reckon...”
”Thanks, but I’ll just skip the train ride.”
”It’s a long trip to Hogsmeade, I reckon you should just — ”
”I don’t mind.”
”He said he don’t mind,” the conductor interrupts hastily. “So come on, get going. Someone just signalled us in Bath.” He turns to James. “Wiltshire to Hogsmeade, that’ll be seven galleons and ten sickles, mate.”
The elderly witch across from James makes an indignant noise. “It’s outrageous, how much you charge these days! I remember paying three knuts and sickle when I was a little girl — ”
”Yeah, ‘bout a century ago,” the conductor mutters, accepting James’s money and handing him a handful of knuts in change. “Settle in, you’re in for the long haul.”
The conductor is right. James ends up having a long nap and easily finishes the book in his bag; he starts doing homework eventually, helped by an eccentric wizard (who turns out to be a Potions genius) who boards in Leeds, and later on a vampire who actually manages to make History of Magic interesting.
”Oh, the Nithercott Rebellion, I was there for that,” he says cheerfully to James. “Your professor’s dead wrong, the trolls didn’t arrive until the fighting was nearly over. Later on, they reckoned they won the battle for us! Total rubbish, but what are you going to do, tell a ten-foot troll with two brain cells and a giant club that they’re a lying sack of sludge?”
“I would,” James says. “Just to see what’d happen.”
The vampire peers at him. “You know,” he says, “I reckon even if I gave you a chomp right now and you became immortal, you’d only last a century.”
The conductor pops up like an indignant slice of toast. “Strictly no chomping! Come on, you know the rules.”
The vampire settles back in his seat, wrapping his robe around him. “Calm down. Wake me up in Harbottle, will you?”
”Harbottle?” James asks. “We’re not even in Scotland yet?”
”Well, we’re jumping all over the bloody place today,” the conductor mutters, setting a cup of tea down beside James. It immediately sloshes everywhere. “We’ll reach Edinburgh in an hour, I reckon.”
James drinks what little remains of his tea.
He arrives in Hogsmeade late that night. The meandering roads of Hogsmeade are foggy, the street lamps glowing like little lighthouses. It’s deserted and James wraps his cloak tighter around himself as he walks down the cobbled streets. Just a few hours ago, the station would have been bustling with students. Now, they’re all in their dormitories, having long since finished dinner.
He walks to the gates of Hogwarts. It’s a long walk and exhaustion is tugging at him as he follows the winding path, making him trip and stumble.
The enormous doors of Hogwarts are locked; James sighs and waits until he hears the clanking of keys and sees the furious face of the caretaker, Grimble.
”Hi,” James says.
”And what time do you call this?”
James checks his watch. “Half past ten.”
”Oh, you’ll be losing that attitude tomorrow morning! I’ll be letting the headmistress know first thing that you...what’s your name?”
”James Potter.”
”Right. Well, Mr Potter, you’ve started your term on the wrong foot. Get inside, boy!”
”I’m trying to.” James manages to squeeze through the tiny gap Grimble has allowed.
”What did I say about losing that attitude? That’s the problem with children these days. My predecessor — a marvellous man, Argus Filch — he knew how to run a tight ship. If you’d done this back in the old days, I would’ve just left you out in the cold to slowly succumb to the Scottish weather,” Grimble says, sounding far too wistful. “In the morning, I’d drag your frozen body inside and we’d have to chop off all your frostbitten fingers...”
James slowly backs away from him. “Oh, cool. Listen, I’m going to bed now, so...”
Grimble straightens up. “What was that?”
”What?”
”Did you hear that? Someone’s out of bed! Oh, if I catch them breaking curfew — ”
And he hurries away, leaving James to slowly exhale and make his way to the dormitory.
At least he wasn’t murdered by a sociopathic caretaker, he tells himself.
He sleeps in, waking just in time to grab breakfast before class, but he only manages to sit down at the Gryffindor table and eat exactly one bite of toast before McGonagall arrives.
”Mr Potter.”
The students around him raise their eyebrows and look at each other. James stands up.
”Professor,” he says.
”My office.”
He nods and follows her, surprised to find a small gaggle of students following them. He hardly needs an audience, he thinks with irritation, but he pauses when they all file into McGonagall’s office, then joins them as they line up in front of the desk. There’s nine of them in total, including a first-year who looks like they might combust from terror.
”Well, you all know why you’re here,” McGonagall says crisply. “You are reminded that the summer term commences at five o’clock sharp on the fourteenth of April when all students are to attend dinner in the Great Hall.”
The quivering first-year raises their hand as if in they’re in class.
”Excuse me, but what happened was — ” they begin, but McGonagall interrupts.
”I’ve already contacted everyone’s parents and guardians. Anyone affected by circumstances beyond their control has been excused. Your mother made it quite clear, Quimbley, that your disorganisation should not be considered ‘beyond your control’. Perhaps next time you should pack your belongings with more than ten minutes to spare?”
The first-year drops their hand, their face burning.
”Ten points deducted from each of your respective houses,” McGonagall says. “You may go.”
The first year pauses and moves as if to raise their hand again, but the student next to them treads heavily on their foot and they hurriedly drop their arm.
”First years,” the seventh-year next to James mutters to him as they file from the room. “It’s like they enjoy being stupid.”
Somehow, the group punishment actually makes James feel better.
It’s nice to know other people are struggling too.
Harry paces the lounge room, waiting for the sound of the Floo.
It doesn’t come. He glances at the clock. The Hogwarts Express leaves in half an hour. Where on earth is James? He ends up fire-calling Draco, who answers it looking a little frazzled. “What?”
”Hi,” Harry says. “Is James there?”
”He left. Went on the Knight Bus, he said.”
Harry’s heart sinks. James doesn’t want to come home, not even to get a lift to the station. “Oh.”
Draco shouts over his shoulder. “Scorpius! Stop dawdling around! We should’ve left ten minutes ago!” He turns back to Harry. “Anything else?”
”Well...actually...did James seem all right?” Harry asks.
Draco glances over his shoulder again. “If I have to tell you one more time to move...” He turns back to Harry. “Sorry, what?”
”It’s just that I’m a little worried about him, so — ”
”Hang on — Scorpius! Are you deliberately trying to miss the train? I will drive you to Hogwarts myself if I have to!”
”Never mind,” Harry says. “See you later.”
Draco ends the call.
The house is silent again.
Silent in a way that it hasn’t been for years. The last time Harry felt like this, he’d just finished farewelling eleven-year-old James. He’d stood on the platform, knowing he had seven long years ahead of him without his son, and he’d felt anxious and lost and alone. The feeling had faded over time. The house had stopped being silent and just become quiet. The thought of spending time alone eventually felt calming and not terrifying.
And now it’s all come back again.
Harry walks from room to room, restless and uneasy. He goes to James’s room, and he hasn’t really bothered going in there for years. Only to cast a few dusting spells or put laundry away. But he goes there now, and just as he’s about to pull the hatch down he suddenly thinks of Draco raging at Scorpius’s locked door. He’s suddenly afraid of that. A locked door. A sign of distrust, and distance, and dislike.
But the hatch opens smoothly. Harry exhales and climbs up the little ladder and into the attic.
James has acquired new belongings and new trends and tastes throughout adolescence, but he’s never started completely anew and Harry is grateful for that. The room is a hodgepodge of James’s life, not a neat summary. There’s things left over from infancy — the little paintings that used to be in James’s nursery, the pictures of the badger family. The Hogwarts Express lamp that Harry bought for James’s fifth Christmas. Picture books leftover from childhood, crammed next to thick textbooks. The Quidditch figures that Teddy used to gift to James all the time when he was a child. They’re gathering dust now, standing unused along the rafters, but they’re still there. On James’s bedside table, there’s a compass, a pair of swimming goggles, and a plate with sandwich crusts left on it. Harry smiles wryly despite it all and picks up the plate, then pauses and picks up some dirty laundry dumped at the foot of the bed. Yes, James is old enough to do all his chores, and perhaps Harry should let the laundry go musty and the crusts go mouldy just to teach James a lesson.
But one day, Harry knows, there won’t be any plates or dirty socks. James will live somewhere else, perhaps somewhere far away. He’ll have his own career, his own life. In ten months, he’ll turn eighteen; he’s balancing on the very cusp of adulthood. He won’t need Harry anymore.
So Harry washes the plate, and does a load of laundry, and casts a spell to clear the dust from James’s room, and cleans the floor, and opens the window to air it out.
Then he goes to his study and writes a letter to James. There’s a lot to say, he thinks, but James has never been one to read long letters. So Harry keeps it short and light, and after careful consideration, keeps it vague. If James doesn’t want others to know he’s gay, he would be furious to find the letter intercepted or accidentally delivered to the wrong person.
Dear James, he writes.
How was your Knight Bus trip? It does tend to give people terrible motion sickness but on the other hand, you can meet what your mother would call ‘interesting people’. I met a hag on the bus once, she sat opposite me and ate an entire plate of raw kidneys. It’s probably the most traumatic experience I’ve ever had, including dying.
I’m sorry that I didn’t take you to the station myself, though I understand why you might not want to talk to me. I was surprised and said something stupid, that’s all. Just remember that all I want for your future is happiness.
I wish we could’ve talked a bit more, but I understand if you don’t want to.
Dad.
P.s: Seeing anyone yet? My offer still stands for a summer visit if you have anyone special.
He seals the letter and scrawls James’s name across it.
Four days later, he gets a reply. James says he fortunately did not encounter a hag, but he did meet a helpful vampire and a man he suspected was a warlock. His swimming is going well; he broke a personal best record for his backstroke last week. On the next line of the letter, there’s a large blot that tells Harry the quill nib rested there for too long — James had hesitated for a long moment.
Then the line begins, I don’t have anyone special. I did have someone. We broke up. Partly why I’ve been in such an awful mood lately, sorry about that.
And James signs off, his name a quick scribble.
Harry folds the letter up and puts it in his desk drawer.
Harry’s mood gets better then. He feels lighter, which he never does around this time of year; the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts is only a few weeks away. London will be full of memorial services, which Harry never cares to attend. Too many people, too many Ministry officials walking around with sprigs of gladiolus flowers pinned to their lapels, looking suitably solemn. People posing for photographs with candles in their hands. Long and rambling speeches about remembering sacrifices.
Instead, Harry will do his usual routine. He’ll visit Ron and Hermione, and Neville and Luna will be there too. They’ll get the photographs out, drink wine, and talk long into the night. Remembering their friends and families, the professors who protected them, the fellow students who raised their wands in battle.
Harry goes to the wine cellar to select the wine. He always supplies it. Ginny’s contribution to the event, he thinks.
The cellar is cool. Dust gathers thick on the bottles. All these bottles that Ginny had picked when she was still alive. Anticipating parties and birthdays and weddings and anniversaries.
Well, the anniversaries are still there.
But it’s only Harry who sits at the table now. One wineglass, one meal. One candle.
He glances around, then suddenly raises his wand. “Scourgify!”
The dust rushes and eddies through the air like a windstorm, then vanishes. The bottles glitter in the dim light now, like rows of emeralds.
Harry reaches up and picks out four bottles of wine, then pauses.
He adds a fifth bottle.
“You’re early,” Ron says, glancing at the armful of wine bottles as Harry steps through the fireplace. “It’s still another week away.”
”Thought I’d drop the wine off early.”
”Fair enough.”
Harry pauses. Ron raises his eyebrows.
“Go on, mate. Ask the favour.”
”It’s not really a favour...”
”Come on, out with it.”
”Well...I mean, you always seem to know someone...”
”Right.”
”You know...someone single...”
Ron draws back, looking surprised. “What...a date?”
”Never mind,” Harry says quickly, but Ron pounces on the conversation.
”No, no, I was just surprised! You always reject all my suggestions, that’s all. Can’t remember the last time you went on a date. No, it’s good, it’s really good...here, there’s this Muggle friend of Hermione’s — Jenny, you’d like her, she’s a single mum, she’s got two kids — older one’s around James’s age — ”
”Can Hermione introduce us?”
Ron grins at him.
Harry takes a deep breath.
Fine, he thinks. He looks fine. Jeans and a t-shirt. It’s a casual coffee-shop date.
“Rather under-dressed for a date,” his mirror says disparagingly.
”Yeah, well, nobody asked you.” Harry looks past the mirror, to his bedside table. There’s a framed photograph of Ginny. She’s smiling at him, waving.
All I want for your future is happiness.
He takes another breath and goes downstairs, readying to Disapparate.
It’s fine if it’s mediocre, he reminds himself.
He won’t imagine anything better.
“It was brilliant, though, I actually — I had fun, she was really nice — and funny, you didn’t tell me she was so funny either — ”
It’s two days later and Harry’s pacing around Hermione and Ron’s kitchen, unable to stop himself rambling about the date. Hermione and Ron are both looking entirely too smug and smirking at each other, but Harry can’t bring himself to tell them off.
”...and that’s the thing, I have been on other dates since Ginny died, but I always felt so guilty about it, and I’d get home early and feel miserable, but it’s different now, I felt — I dunno, like Ginny would actually be mad at me for waiting so long — ”
”It was the right time,” Hermione says firmly. “You needed to wait for the right time for you, Harry.”
”Only took you thirteen years,” Ron adds, and Hermione frowns at him. “Well, it did. So what changed?”
Harry pauses. “I don’t know. I just...I was thinking of James a lot, and how I just want him to be happy, you know? And then I was thinking of Ginny and how much she loved us — me and James — and I don’t know. I just thought suddenly that it’s about time.”
Hermione’s still looking smug. “Well? Did you get a second date?”
”Yeah,” Harry says, and Ron starts laughing.
”He’s going all red! Like a school kid.”
”Oh, Ron, leave him alone!”
Harry musters up some dignity. “I’m leaving.”
”Oh, come on, don’t be like that. Here, have a butterbeer,” Ron says consolingly, and Hermione frowns at him.
”Ron,” she says warningly, “if that’s one of your stupid prank prototypes and it’s going to explode in Harry’s face — ”
”Oh, no. No, no, no,” Ron says, smiling.
Harry narrows his eyes.
Chapter 25: This Will Break You
Summary:
James and Scorpius finish their sixth year — Scorpius has an explosive fight with his father — Draco questions the choices he’s made — Harry and James make amends.
Chapter Text
The end-of-year tests are soon upon the Hogwarts students. James feels confident about them and is far more relaxed than some of his peers. Thomas works himself into a frenzy over a failed Potions practice test and James ends up spending a lunchtime casting calming charms over him; Iwan is certain he’s going to fail Herbology even though his grades have been perfectly fine. Nate sets his Transfiguration homework on fire in a pique of frustration, and Martin nearly does the same.
None of them really compare to Scorpius, though, who James hasn’t seen for days and days. When he does see him, he’s buried in textbooks and piles of notes and he greets James with a sharp, “What?”. Things have been a little cool between them, anyway, since their brief argument at Easter.
James learns to avoid him.
He doesn’t want to. He could really do with a friend right now. He’s still sad about Rowan, and he feels inexplicably guilty about everyone else as though he owes them the truth. As though it’s his fault he’s too afraid to tell his friends he’s gay. At least his father’s letters have given him comfort, though he still worries that somehow things will be awkward between them during summer.
One cool evening, as James sits by the lake, Scorpius surprises him by seeking him out.
“Thought you’d be here,” he says, joining James at the end of the pier.
“It’s nice and quiet.”
“Is that a pointed remark?”
“Yes, actually.”
Scorpius withdraws, looking stung. “Nice. I’m your best friend — ”
“My problems are my own, remember? And your problems are yours.”
“You know I didn’t mean that,” Scorpius says. “I was just a bit stressed when I said it. Obviously it’s not true, we tell each other everything —”
“Trust me, Scorpius, you have no idea what’s in my head.”
“Because you won’t tell me,” Scorpius snaps. “Though I suppose I forgot — you’re only friends with Gryffindors.”
James can’t believe it. That single line had destroyed their friendship six years ago, and Scorpius knows how guilty James feels about it. “That is low, Scorpius,” he says, his voice seething. “Perhaps I should only be friends with Gryffindors.”
“That’s fine. I’m only friends with Purebloods,” Scorpius retorts.
James stares at Scorpius. The silence between them is heavier and harder to breathe than water.
After a long moment, James leaves.
Scorpius doesn’t follow him.
He spends the rest of the evening in the dormitory, laying in bed and staring at the canopy above.
Martin seems to sense his thoughts. “I’ve still got some of Captain Slorrice’s Finest — ”
“No,” Nate says with exasperation. “I am getting worried about you, mate. Every time someone comes in here looking mildly sad, you start dragging out the rum — ”
“Yeah, because I want to get rid of it! I can’t smell the stuff without wanting to puke my own eyeballs out.”
“James doesn’t want to drink your bootpolish.”
The dormitory door opens; Paul walks in.
“What are you doing here?” Martin asks snidely.
“I sleep here, mate. If you don’t like it, go sleep somewhere else.”
“Like your girlfriend’s bed?”
Paul launches himself at Martin; Nate tries to separate them.
“Leave it! Just leave it, Paul!”
“Stop it!”
James gets up.
“I’m going out,” he says over the noise of Paul and Martin brawling across the floor.
He shuts the door just as a flying textbook crashes into it.
He wanders the corridors aimlessly, evading the ever-vigilant Grimble, and finally goes to his and Scorpius’s room. It’s nothing an apology won’t fix, he tells himself firmly. They threw away their friendship six years ago over five stupid words, and he’s not about to let that happen again.
But Scorpius isn’t in their room. There’s a long line of crushed stalks in the enchanted grass, though, and James realises Scorpius must have been pacing here for hours before giving up and leaving.
He sighs and returns to the dormitory, thinking he’ll just need to sort it all out tomorrow. At least the dormitory is quiet and peaceful now. Iwan and Martin are asleep, and the curtains are drawn around Paul’s bed. Nate’s sitting up in his bed, writing a letter by the glow of his lamp.
“Good to see they sorted it out,” James comments, and Nate glances up.
“Hm? Oh, no. Paul punched Martin, and Martin cursed him. Now Paul can only speak backwards and his nose is full of daisies.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Paul’s gone to the infirmary. Apparently the daisies won’t stop growing.” Nate picks up his quill and resumes writing his letter.
James goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, changes into his pyjamas, and returns to the dormitory to set an alarm for his swim practice tomorrow. Smothering a yawn, he opens the curtains around his bed.
Scorpius looks up at him, the invisibility cloak folded neatly beside him.
James starts laughing. Nate calls out.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thought of something funny.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, drawing the curtains closed again, and waves his wand, letting a silencing charm settle over the area.
“Come here and give me a hug, then, you numpty,” he tells Scorpius. “Typical. I’ve been looking everywhere for you and it turns out — ”
The rest of the words are crushed from his lungs as Scorpius yanks him into a hug.
After a long time, Scorpius speaks, letting go of James as he does so. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
”It’s not. I’m turning into someone I hate.”
James frowns. “Well, you’re not calling me a Mudblood yet, are you?”
“Not yet.” Scorpius looks down at his fidgeting hands. “I have these nightmares where I just blurt out that word. It’s horrible. I’m surrounded by it. Even the Selwyns — they’re supposed to be progressive but even though they never say anything about Pureblood superiority, it’s always implied. It’s all I ever hear. And sometimes when you hear something often enough, you end up mindlessly repeating it...I hate it, I hate it so much, I feel like everyone’s just cutting bits of me away so I’ll fit perfectly...”
James studies Scorpius. “Come stay with me for the summer. You need to get away from it. You need a break.”
“I can’t. My father’s made all these plans, I’ll only disappoint him — ”
“Scorpius. This is going to break you.”
Scorpius falls silent. They sit together, staring into the dark.
“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says at last.
“It’s fine — ”
“No, I meant for bringing up that stupid argument from first year. It was petty of me.”
James won’t lie; it had hurt him. “I thought you’d forgiven that.”
“I have. I promise, James, I was only — I was being awful, that’s all.” Scorpius straightens up suddenly. “Here, I’ll show you something.” He searches his pockets for a moment, emptying a startling amount of items from them: pencils and erasers, a slide rule, a protractor, and folded graph paper.
“Have you heard of a pencil tin?” James says conversationally.
“That’s where I learned to keep my compass, after an incident involving the pointy end of it.” Scorpius holds out something silver and shiny. “There we go.”
James takes it. It’s a little silver rat, intricately detailed. Its delicate whiskers tremble slightly, and the paper-thin ears twitch. It sits in his palm, chin raised, sniffing the air.
“You made it for me,” Scorpius says. “In first year. First thing you ever gave me. You’d spent weeks working on it in your spare time.”
James turns it over in his hands. “This is far beyond the handiwork of eleven-year-old me, though. You’ve improved it.”
“Couldn’t have done it without your foundation.”
The rat turns around a few times, then curls up and closes its eyes. James stares at the eyelashes, each one an individually crafted enchantment.
“I kept it,” Scorpius says. “The whole time. Just couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”
James glances up at him. “Can I borrow it?” he asks suddenly.
Scorpius tilts his head. “Yes, of course.”
“Thanks.” James carefully places it onto his bedside table. “It won’t run away, will it?”
“Not from you.”
James nods.
He’s got a plan.
The end-of-year tests arrive. These tests will determine what NEWT classes students can take next year and it appears some students are actually paralysed with anxiety.
Scorpius’s exams are held separately, James learns. The Board of Muggle Studies sends an exam invigilator to Hogwarts especially to supervise the exams of students hoping to gain their A-levels; because of this arrangement, the exams are packed into a single two-day period.
”That sounds stressful,” James says; his exams are spread over two weeks.
”It is,” Scorpius says feelingly.
James leaves Scorpius alone for the week preceding the exams, letting him concentrate on his studies. On the morning of his first exam — bright and early at nine in the morning — James finds him. He’s lined up with the rest of the A-level students outside a large classroom. Most of the students are frantically reading through their notes at the last moment, but Scorpius is standing still, his little plastic case of mathematical instruments in one hand, a pencil and pen in the other. During James’s exam, he’d simply walked through a magical ward designed to detect cheating devices like enchanted quills, but the exam invigilator here does things the Muggle ways. To prepare the students for university, when they will need to obey the rules of Muggle exams, James supposes.
But it’s rather intimidating. As they start filing into the room, the invigilitor stares at each student with a piercing gaze, and each of them has to roll up their sleeves to show they haven’t written anything on their hands or wrists. A student with an opaque mathematics kit has to open it to show there’s nothing hiding within. The students are silent as they queue into the room.
As Scorpius passes James, he holds out his wand. “No wands allowed in the room,” Scorpius whispers. “Or I’ll be automatically disqualified. Instant fail.”
James accepts the wand. “Good luck.”
Scorpius gives him a shaky smile and turns, stepping into the room.
James waits.
He goes to the greenhouse to check on his cactus. “I don’t know why I’m so worried, he’s the smartest wizard I know,” James tells the cactus. He pauses. “Maybe that’s why I’m worried. Because I don’t know if he’s the smartest Muggle.” He glances at his cactus. “You’re the smartest cactus I know, though. Actually, the smartest plant.”
The cactus looks far too smug. James gives it a careful pat, then gets up and walks around the grounds to occupy his mind. He stops by the lake, watching the calm water for a while, and gets Scorpius’s wand out of his pocket.
The survivor’s tree.
It rests in his palm, feeling light and warm as sunlight, and James swishes it. “Aqua permoveo.”
The lake ripples toward him and rises up, sending gentle waves cresting along the otherwise calm water. James tilts his head, smiling, and swishes the wand again. As each wave crests now, tiny golden fish leap from it before disappearing beneath the surface again.
“Volito.”
And now the golden fish erupt into butterflies as they leap from the waves, disappearing into wisps as they flutter toward skyward. Then the wisps collect together, becoming a rain cloud that dissolves into water, cascading back into the lake. An endless cycle.
”Brilliant water magic.”
James looks up, startled, and the waves dissolve. The enchantment ends.
Scorpius looks guilty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
”How’d your exam go?” James asks immediately.
Scorpius exhales. “All right, I think. I mean, there was nothing unexpected, at least. I reckon I passed.” He glances at the lake and offers James a smile. “Can’t believe you don’t think you’re good at magic.”
”I’m not. I was using your wand.”
Scorpius laughs then. “James, it’s a piece of wood. You’re the important bit.”
”A piece of magical wood.”
“If I took your wand,” Scorpius says, “and cast magic with it, would it still be my magic? As good as anything I’ve ever cast before?”
”Of course,” James says.
“So it is the wizard, not the wand.”
James gives him a grumpy look. Scorpius smiles back at him.
”I hate it when you win arguments,” James mutters. “You get smug.”
“Me? You should see your face whenever you think you’re right.”
“I know what it looks like. I practice it in the mirror.”
Scorpius laughs again and James brightens. It’s a welcome change from Scorpius’s recent tenseness.
“Listen,” James says, “I’ve got something for you.” He withdraws the little silver rat from his pocket and holds it out.
“Oh, thanks.” Scorpius accepts it, then pauses and looks down at it. He frowns, shifts his hand as if checking a subtle change in weight, and then looks closer.
James grins.
“Something’s different,” Scorpius says slowly. “There’s magic...heavy magic. Something...” He turns it over in his hand. “Something that’s changed the fabric of it.”
“It’s a portkey.”
Scorpius’s mouth falls open. “You turned it into a portkey? James, that’s illegal! It’s also...I mean, it’s beyond complex magic, you need to have a specialist wizard perform that enchantment...”
“My dad’s got an Auror handbook, and it has instructions for making a portkey for emergency use,” James says offhandedly.
“It’s still very powerful magic. You must’ve spent every spare second working on this...you didn’t neglect your studies, did you?”
James laughs. “Calm down, professor. I’m not going to fail anything. Anyway, there’s something else about the portkey.”
“Like what?”
“It’s tied to a person, not a destination.”
Scorpius stares at him, looking shocked. “That’s the most difficult portkey to make.”
“I know. But I was thinking about how miserable you’ll be this summer, and...well, it doesn’t matter where I am, it’ll take you to me.”
Scorpius looks down at the portkey, then up at James. “Thank you,” he says. “Seriously, James. Thank you.”
“That’s all right. Just promise me you’ll use it.”
“Of course.”
James smiles at him.
On a bright June morning, an owl wings its way toward Harry’s bedroom window. He frowns at it, then recognises the owl. It’s Scorpius’s very expensive owl; Draco must have borrowed it, he thinks, suddenly brightening at the thought of a letter. Apart from the brief fire-call two months ago, it’s been nearly a year since he last spoke to Draco.
The slip of parchment rolled around the owl’s leg is small, containing only a few words.
Dear Harry Potter,
The family tree ‘Evans’, commissioned by you, is now ready for collection (please note: visitors accepted during business hours only).
Kind regards,
Draco Malfoy.
Harry reads it again, then sets it aside. He sits up, rubbing wearily at his eyes.
”You need a haircut,” the mirror says reprovingly.
“Thanks.”
”Perhaps a dye job. You’ve got a grey hair, did you know that?”
There are some aspects to the wizarding world, Harry thinks, that he could really do without.
He stands up and walks past the mirror. His morning is going to be better than this; his day can only improve.
Because James is coming home today.
Draco is waiting for Scorpius at the train station. Harry watches him from a distance, lost in thought. He used to stand alone in earlier years. Then a few Muggle parents started chatting to him. Now, however, he’s surrounded by Pureblood friends. There’s a tall woman with broad shoulders — Millicent Bulstrode, Harry remembers. There’s the outrageously wealthy Henry Rosier, and a man who isn’t Pureblood but Harry recalls as having a very important Ministry job. Draco does indeed have people in high places now.
Scorpius steps off the train with James. Draco hasn’t noticed them, he’s too busy nodding at something Rosier is waffling on about. Scorpius looks anxious. Harry thinks. Worse than anxious, actually. A nervous wreck. Harry watches as he turns to James and reaches for him.
James hugs him. There’s a brief conversation between them, then they separate and Scorpius begins walking slowly to his father. James, meanwhile, walks briskly to Harry.
”Hello,” Harry says. “How’d your exams go?”
”Very funny. I know we didn’t have exams this year.”
Harry pauses. “You didn’t?”
”No, apparently they were all cancelled. Luckily a Slytherin prefect was nice enough to tell me not to bother showing up to any of the exam rooms.”
A wild panic seizes Harry for a moment. “You believed him? God, James! No, no, no! How naive are you? Did anyone else — did you ask — we have to owl McGonagall — ”
James starts laughing.
Harry’s eyes narrow.
”Get in the car,” he says shortly, striding out of Kings Cross and into the busy, bright London afternoon.
”You’re parked in a no-standing zone.”
”I put a space-squeezing charm on it, nobody will notice.”
”Why’d you drive, though? Oh, just what I wanted after a day-long train trip. A three-hour drive back to Devon.”
”James. Get in the car.”
James gets in the car. Harry climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the engine.
”Still mad at me?” James asks after a moment.
”You gave me a heart attack, James! I’m old! You can’t joke around like that! I’ve got half a mind to return your present,” Harry snaps.
James straightens up. “What’d you get me?”
”Not a ghoul.”
James slumps in his seat. “Just return it, then.”
”Why are you so obsessed with getting a ghoul?”
”You can set them on people you don’t like.”
”Oh, lovely.”
”Dad, you can’t take a left — you can’t turn left! Bloody hell, did you not see that sign?”
Harry swerves around a car. “It’s fine, it’s fine!”
”That light is red, Dad!”
Harry brakes hard. “I was distracted by that stupid left-turn sign — why is it there anyway?”
”I don’t know if you’re aware of this,” James says, adjusting his seatbelt, “but traffic lights are a legal requirement, not a polite suggestion.”
“Yes, thank you for enlightening me.”
”Glad one of us knows how to drive, then,” James mutters.
”When are you going to get your Apparation licence?”
”Believe me, I am counting down the months.”
”Well, you might not need it anyway,” Harry says, just to torment James.
It works. James sits up with excitement. “What? What’d you get me? Is it a car? Did you get me a car? Dad, you have to tell me — ”
”Wait and see.”
”Wait? For three hours?”
Harry makes a cheerful noise of affirmation and settles back in his seat, watching the strings of brake lights before him. “Traffic’s bad today. Probably four hours.”
James narrows his eyes.
James doesn’t mind the bickering. It’s actually a relief. His father isn’t acting awkward around him. Nothing seems to have changed. His father isn’t mentioning the (very brief) conversation they’d had at Easter, when James had come out, but James isn’t sure whether he’s actively avoiding it or honestly doesn’t care. James takes his cue and doesn’t mention it either, though.
So he’s rather taken aback when his father asks, as they’re driving through the rolling hills of Wiltshire, “Got a boyfriend yet?”
James blinks. “No,” he says cautiously.
”Why not?”
James almost laughs, the moment seems so surreal. “Uh...I don’t know.”
”Thomas seems nice.”
”Thomas Pearson? Dad, he’s a friend.”
”I’m just saying, he seems like a very nice young man.”
”He’s a friend. I’m not interested in him in that way.”
”What about Rowan, then? He seemed very nice too.”
James pauses, just for a moment, but Harry seems to notice.
”Ah,” he says. “Sorry. Was he the one who dumped you?”
”Yeah.”
”Well,” Harry says, “as long as you’re not interested in Paul. What an awful boy, I thought. No manners — ”
”Paul? I’d rather drink a pint of pond-water. Anyway, can we stop talking about this? What about your love life?” he adds just to be petty. “Seeing anyone?”
”Oh, yes.”
James laughs uncertainly, then stops. “You...you are?”
And Harry actually looks a bit nervous then, as if James might suddenly fly into a rage about it. “Well..it’s nothing really serious...there’s this very nice woman, friend of your Aunt Hermione’s, actually...it’s just been a few dates...I haven’t brought her over, of course, she’s a Muggle and it’s impossible to hide all the enchanted things in our house...but of course I’d never invite her over anyway, not if you weren’t all right with it — ”
James gives him a bewildered look. “Why wouldn’t I be all right with it?”
”Well — your mother — ”
“Dad. It’s fine. I’m actually happy for you.”
”Are you?” Harry’s grip relaxes on the steering wheel.
”Yeah.”
And James means it.
The drive is long, and James is tired by the end of it, but as soon as they arrive home he unbuckles his seatbelt and jumps out of the car.
”Where’s the present?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Have a look for it.”
James checks the house first, certain his father was just joking about the car. He can’t spy anything in the lounge room or kitchen, and there’s nothing in his room. “Is it wrapped?”
”Merlin, no.”
James goes outside and checks the broom shed, feeling a slight pang of disappointment — if it’s a racing broom, it’s nice but it’s not really what he wants. He’ll probably end up discreetly gifting it to Scorpius.
But the broom shed is empty. James pauses, then — feeling doubtful — goes into the garden shed.
It’s been cleared out. There’s something in the middle of it, draped in canvas, and James glances at his father.
”Go on,” Harry says.
James drags the canvas off it.
”No way,” he says, awestruck. “Are you serious?”
Harry starts laughing. “You like it, then?”
”Dad, this is amazing. Is it really mine?”
Harry gives the motorcycle a fond look. “It used to belong to your namesake, Sirius. Hagrid took care of it for a while, then it took a lot of spell damage during the wizarding war. It’s been sitting in storage, and then I finally thought, well...I think Sirius would be very happy to see it in your care.”
James circles the motorcycle. “I don’t know the first thing about repairs,” he admits.
”Neither do I. So I’ve bought a few manuals,” Harry says, nodding to a stack of tattered books on a shelf. “Bought some tools. Thought we could learn together.”
James smiles at his father.
”Sounds good,” he says.
The next day, James gets started right away on restoring the bike. Harry joins him; they drag the bike outside into the bright daylight and pore over the manuals together.
”The energy charms have worn off,” Harry says, poking about with his wand.
“Hm?” James is already busy dismantling the carburetor.
”Energy charms. Can’t use a battery, that’s Muggle electricity. Messes with the flying spells.”
”The what?”
”The battery, it’s a thing that holds a charge — ”
”No, the flying spells.”
”Oh. Did I not mention it flies?”
“This is so cool,” James says, inspecting the jets and gaskets. “Yeah, we’re going to have to rebuild the carburetor — ” He pauses as one of the gaskets cracks loudly. “Get some replacement bits.”
”I’ll add it to our list.” Harry goes over to the piece of paper nailed to the shed wall and adds a note to it.
There’s something oddly soothing about it, James thinks. Tinkering about, occasionally consulting the yellowed pages of the manual, sometimes muttering to each other about a certain issue or obstacle. It’s nice, too, that Harry is learning as well; James doesn’t feel stupid asking questions. They halt work at midday for sandwiches and tea, and as they sit at the table, Harry says, “You don’t have to work on it, you know. If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”
”If I didn’t like it, I’d say so,” James says with a shrug, taking a bite of his sandwich.
Harry smiles wryly. “That’s true. You’ve always been honest about how you feel.”
James gives him a suspicious look, unsure if Harry’s actually making a joke, but Harry’s expression seems distracted, his thoughts elsewhere, and after a moment he says, “How’s Scorpius?”
Ah. “It must be bad if you’ve noticed,” James says, taking another bite.
Harry sighs. “I do worry about him.”
”Well, I won’t lie. He’s bloody miserable. Wouldn’t dream of telling his father, though.” He glances out the window, watching a starling swoop by. “I hope he’s all right.”
”Do you want to visit him?”
James thinks about it. “It’s only the first day of the holidays.”
”All right.” Harry finishes his cup of tea. “I’ll be visiting in a couple of days, anyway, to pick up my family tree. You can come with me if you want.”
”I’m sure Draco would be delighted.”
“Draco needs to seriously reassess his choices,” Harry says pleasantly, but James knows that tone. His eyebrows rise.
Well.
That’s going to be a very tense visit.
So when Harry offers to take James with him two days later, James declines.
”Are you sure?”
”Yeah. Scorpius knows he can owl me if he needs to.” James thinks of the portkey. “He’s got other ways of contacting me if he needs me.” If Scorpius starts feeling too suffocated by his overbearing father, James is certain he’ll use the portkey for a quick retreat.
”All right.” Harry clasps his cloak. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
”See you later.” James turns the page of his comic. “Tell Scorpius I said hi.”
”I will.”
And Harry vanishes through the Floo.
“Good weather for it,” Draco says conversationally.
Scorpius glances out the window and says nothing, but Draco is used to these silences now.
It’s a bright summer day, and the skies are clear. Perfect for the Quidditch match Scorpius is attending with the Rosier brothers. Scorpius is wearing the correct clothing — not a pair of jeans or worn t-shirt in sight, Draco is pleased to note — and he’s looking every part the wealthy Pureblood. The only problem is his expression.
”Will you cheer up already? You love Quidditch.”
Scorpius drops his gaze from the window and takes another bite of his marmalade toast. “I’m just tired.”
”Well, find some energy. Your ticket cost quite a bit of money. You’re supposed to be having fun today.”
Scorpius takes another slow bite of toast. Draco frowns at him.
“Hurry up. You need to leave in ten minutes. Scourgify,” he adds, the spell whipping away the crumbs on Scorpius’s robes.
“You’re not supposed to cast that on skin,” Scorpius says.
”I didn’t.”
Scorpius touches his collarbone; the skin there is abraded. A drop of blood beads along the skin.
Draco sighs. “Sorry, I suppose I was a bit clumsy with that spell. Put some antiseptic on it, it’ll be fine.”
Scorpius doesn’t move.
”Scorpius? The antiseptic.”
”Oh. Right.” Scorpius stands up and leaves.
When he returns, Draco ushers him to the front door, handing him a portkey. “Remember to walk right to the property boundary or the wards will catch you.” He pauses. “Have fun, won’t you? I know you enjoy Quidditch. I thought it might be a nice break from all the fussy lunches and dinners.”
Scorpius nods and turns away, clutching the portkey.
Not ten minutes after Scorpius has left, Harry appears.
They haven’t spoken for so long that Draco has no idea what to say, but then he remembers the owl he sent Harry.
”Here for your family tree? Yes, it was quite tricky — Muggle records aren’t as well-maintained as the wizarding ones,” he says, slipping into polite professionalism. “And unfortunately there was a fire at a parish church in 1789, destroying all pre-existing records. I was stuck there for quite some time.”
”Sounds frustrating.” Harry, too, seems to be nothing but civil.
”Yes. I’ll be right back,” Draco adds, leaving Harry standing in the entrance hall. He goes to his study and fetches the completed tree, then returns downstairs.
Harry looks taken aback. “That’s it?”
Draco hands over the small glass vial. Within it is a single emerald leaf. “Tap it with your wand. It will expand. To go back another generation, keep tapping. I’ve traced over one thousand ancestors so it’s quite a large tree.”
”Thank you.”
There’s a slight pause. Draco holds out his hand. “Well, goodbye. Nice to — ”
”Is Scorpius here?” Harry blurts out.
Draco drops his hand. “At a Quidditch match.”
”Oh. That sounds fun.”
”Yes.”
”And he’s...he’s well?”
Draco exhales sharply, irritation edging it. “We have had this conversation, Potter. You know exactly how it will end. I know what’s best for my son, despite your apparent —”
“Right,” Harry says quickly. “No, that wasn’t what I — never mind.”
Draco feels a pang of regret suddenly. “Well. How’s James, then?” he says in lieu of an apology.
”Good. How’s — ”
Already asked that question, Potter.
” — Pansy?”
Draco pauses, taken aback. “Pansy?”
”Pansy Parkinson.”
Draco tilts his head, still bewildered by the unexpected name-drop. “Pansy Clayton, you mean.”
”Ah, right. Her husband, Christopher. And she’s got a little girl now, doesn’t she?”
”I suppose she’s well. I haven’t spoken with her for some time.”
”Do you miss her?”
Draco frowns at him. “No, Potter. Look, what is this about?”
”Well,” Harry says, “I was looking back at some old photographs the other day, and just thinking about the way everyone used to be.”
“Best not to look back,” Draco says crisply.
Harry doesn’t heed the dismissal. He goes quiet for a bit instead. “Did you ever wonder about how things could’ve turned out differently?”
”Everyone wonders that.”
”Especially when Scorpius got taken away. Raised in the Muggle world. You didn’t want that.”
”Of course I didn’t want that. He’s a wizard, not a Muggle — ”
”Well, this is sort of...a second chance, isn’t it? You don’t have a time-turner, but...now you can finally have the perfect Pureblood son you should’ve gotten. Instead of Scorpius.”
Draco thinks he should be raging, telling Harry how dare he say these things, how dare he, they haven’t spoken in months and now he turns up and says all these horribly personal things —
And perhaps he would, if Harry wasn’t standing there looking sad instead of angry, and speaking so quietly and wearily.
”I have got the perfect son now,” Draco says at last.
“Now,” Harry repeats, and the word hangs between them. The silence suffocates them for too long before Harry speaks again. “I should go.”
”Yes. You should.”
Harry turns and walks to the Floo, stepping into the emerald flames.
Draco walks to his study. Halfway up the staircase, he encounters Scorpius.
”Scorpius,” Draco says, his mouth suddenly dry and heart galloping like a Thestral. “What are you doing here?”
”The match was cancelled.”
”I didn’t hear you come back.”
”Sorry.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Just now.”
”I’m going to Diagon Alley later on,” Draco says, grasping at the nearest subject. “Do you need anything?”
”No,” Scorpius says, “but thank you.”
Draco nods.
Scorpius turns away and continues his ascent.
James is having another good summer. There’s all the parties to attend, and birthdays to celebrate. Paul throws another wild party, inviting both his magical and Muggle friends; both the Muggle police and Magical Law Enforcement show up at various points regarding noise control, though James isn’t aware. There was a very friendly Muggle boy at the party and he ended up sneaking off to a room with James for most of the night.
”What’s your number?” the boy asks James before he leaves.
”My what?”
”Your number. You know, your phone number.”
”Oh. Er, I’m actually — ” He’s aware enough to know that not owning a phone would be seen as very peculiar. “I broke my phone, actually, and I’m waiting for a replacement, so — ”
The Muggle boy’s face falls. “Oh.”
”I don’t have a number right now, sorry — ”
”You don’t need to explain.” The boy summons a weak smile. “You can just say you don’t want to see me again.”
He leaves. James sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for enough time to pass so he can go downstairs and nobody will make a connection between him and the Muggle. No, he hadn’t planned to see him again, but it had been a fun night. James can’t do that at Hogwarts, where he’s the son of a famous wizard and an easy target for blackmail. But, it seems, Muggle partners come with their own set of challenges.
The door opens. James swears loudly and snatches up a blanket to cover himself.
Nate and Iwan start laughing. “Oh, James! We’re so proud of you!” Nate says with a smirk.
”Hang on, it depends. Who was she, then?” Iwan asks. “Merlin, it wasn’t that Slytherin girl wearing that little purple dress, was it? Because Paul reckons she has a scorching case of — ”
”No, it wasn’t. Can I have two seconds of privacy?”
“No,” Nate says casually, “because Paul is being arrested right now.”
“What?”
“Come on, mate, you’re missing the show!”
James throws his jeans on but can’t find the rest of his clothes. Giving up, he races down the stairs with the boys. There’s a crowd of party guests gathering in the front garden, all looking rumpled and some of them still clutching drinks; the neighbours are all twitching their curtains. Across the garden, littered with empty bottles, Paul is swearing loudly as a grim-faced Muggle police officer tries to wrangle him into the car. The other officer is arguing angrily with someone James quickly recognises as a Magical Law Enforcement officer.
“I am telling you,” the Muggle officer is saying loudly, “I saw it. He had some kind of weapon — disguised as a stick, it looked like — and it discharged a very bright light — ”
“I saw it!” a nearby girl pipes up. “And it hit Jack and covered him in warts!”
“Right, yes, and if both of you would like to just step aside for a moment,” the Magical Law Enforcement officer begins, before muttering discreetly into his lapel. “Memory modification team required.”
The boy next to James nudges him and hands him a beer bottle. “S’cuse me, mate. Hold that for me, will you?”
James politely accepts it.
“Might wanna move,” the boy adds after a second.
”What?”
Nate yanks James backward just as the boy vomits violently onto the grass.
And that, of course, is the very moment Harry arrives to pick up James.
”Now, I’m not one to dictate your friendships, but I’m just saying — ”
”Dad, it’s fine. He’s not even a friend, really. More like an acquaintance.”
”Yes, well, I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to control you, but — ”
”Dad,” James says patiently. “It’s fine.”
Harry frowns at him. They’re working on the motorcycle and Harry has not shut up about the incident since James arrived home an hour ago.
”It’s just...Paul really is a...well, you know, he’s quite a...a troubled youth — ”
”A troubled youth?” James starts laughing.
Harry frowns and wipes his face, inadvertently leaving a streak of grease across his forehead. “Where are his parents, exactly?”
”Holidaying in Leeds.”
”Nobody holidays in Leeds,” Harry mutters. “And they just left a child alone in their house, did they?”
”He’s nearly eighteen.”
”You are not attending another party. Not one of his.” Harry gives James a suspicious look. “Surprised you’re not hungover, actually.”
”Only had a couple of drinks.”
”What was the point of going, then?” Harry inspects the brake pads.
”I found other things to do.”
”And I can’t believe you lost nearly all your clothes. That was one of your nice shirts, James. And your trainers! How did you lose your trainers?” Harry frowns. “Look at this! These brake pads are wafer-thin. We’ll need to replace them. And...oh. Oh.”
James grimaces. His father just figured it out. He swears, if Harry starts giving him some awful talk about safe sex, he’ll cast a Deafening Curse on himself.
Harry looks at him, then clears his throat. “Add brake pads to the list, and bring over the manual, will you?”
James gratefully fetches the manual, and no more is said about it.
Though, a couple of days later, a rather informative booklet and a few particular supplies appear on James’s bedside table. He stashes them away and doesn’t mention it, and neither does Harry.
Thank Merlin, James thinks.
Draco hasn’t sold all the heirlooms. There’s at least a couple of items which need to be kept for very important reasons.
He summons Scorpius upstairs one afternoon to outline those reasons.
”This,” he says, “was your grandmother’s wedding ring.”
Scorpius looks at the ring, heavy with diamonds and nestled in a little silk-lined box. “Oh.”
”One day,” Draco adds after realising Scorpius isn’t quite getting the point, “it will belong to someone else. Someone special.”
Scorpius says nothing.
”Well?” Draco prompts him.
”It looks nice.” Scorpius pauses. “Isn’t it...I mean, I’m only seventeen...”
”Well, of course the wedding is still a couple of years away. I just thought you might like to keep the ring.” Draco holds out the box. “Put it somewhere safe. And when you feel the moment is right...”
”I don’t want to lose it. You can keep it safe for the next few years.”
Draco is disappointed; this was supposed to be a father-son bonding moment. “Celia won’t wait around forever,” he says.
”I wouldn’t expect her to.”
”You’ve been dating her for nearly two years now, Scorpius. You’ll be expected to grow up when you graduate and make certain commitments.”
”I’m only seventeen,” Scorpius repeats. “Things might change.”
Draco regards him coolly. “You’d be a fool to leave Celia.”
“Like you were a fool to leave Pansy?”
Draco stills. Scorpius’s bland expression doesn’t change one bit.
”You overheard my conversation with Harry,” Draco says slowly, carefully.
”Yes.”
”Well, I don’t know what you thought you heard, but — ”
”It was nothing that was unexpected, Father. I’m perfectly aware of how you regard me.”
”Scorpius, that wasn’t what — ”
”Anyway, James is attending his swimming championships on the third of August,” Scorpius says, his voice betraying nothing. “I would like to attend.”
”Scorpius. I wasn’t saying that I regretted my life or you — ”
“And stay the night afterward, if possible. I haven’t owled James yet with arrangements but I’m sure he’ll agree.”
”I just want you to know that — ”
“I would like to stay longer with James, of course, but I understand I have other obligations. I’d hate to disappoint you yet again.”
Draco falls silent. Scorpius waits.
”Yes, you may go,” Draco says dully.
”Thank you,” Scorpius says, and he leaves.
James breaks another record at the swimming championships; Harry is embarrassingly emotional about it.
“Are you tearing up?” James asks in disbelief as his father hugs him.
”I wish your mother were here. We’re both so, so proud of you. I know you’ve worked so hard for this, James.”
To his mortification, James gets a lump in his throat too. “Here, I’ve got to get changed. I’ll meet you outside.”
Harry nods and leaves with armfuls of James’s ribbons and his medal. James rushes to dress quickly, though he’s delayed by Thomas and Iwan congratulating him, and even Saltworth stops him by the reception area.
”Your father looked very proud of you, Potter,” she tells him. “As he has every right to be.”
James has no idea how to accept praise from Saltworth. “Oh, thanks. Any tips about my backstroke form?”
To his horror, Saltworth actually looks amused. “Off you go, Potter. Enjoy your celebration.”
“Yes, coach.” He hurries out the door and into the bright summer’s day.
Harry and Scorpius are both waiting there, smiling at him.
Harry listens to the distant pop and whistle of fireworks.
The boys think they’re being sneaky, but it would be impossible to miss the fireworks. They’ve gone to the farthest field to set them off; Harry can hear the occasional shout followed by laughter.
Scorpius seemed fine, Harry thinks. Chatty and friendly during dinner, and complimenting Harry on the meal, and smiling at James’s jokes. But there had been a feeling of tension Harry just couldn’t shake away, and by the end of dinner he’d realised Scorpius was putting on a very good facade but he was clearly upset about something. Harry — his skills honed through years of Auror interrogations and interviews — thought perhaps he should let James know.
But just before Harry cleared the table, he saw James glance at Scorpius, lean a little closer, and nudge his shoulder. Scorpius looked up at him and tried to smile.
”I’m all right,” Scorpius said.
“Liar,” James murmured.
And then Scorpius mustered a smile and asked Harry if he needed any help with the dishes, and Harry realised James needed absolutely no help decoding Scorpius’s moods.
Now he stands at the kitchen window, curtain askew so he can glimpse the violet pinwheels and cherry bombs explode across the night. The last firework is a silver salute that soon fades away, the sparks disappearing into darkness. Harry watches for a while, but the night is silent and still. After a few minutes, he frowns and glances at the door. The boys should be back by now, hurrying inside to get ready for bed. One of them didn’t get hurt, did they? He opens the door leading to the back garden and takes a few steps, listening. No talking, no laughter. After another minute, he ventures out into the dark fields.
Then he sees them, silhouetted by the moonlight. They’re sitting next to each other, facing the fields. Scorpius points skyward.
”Tell me another story, James,” he says. “You know all of them. What about that one?”
”Which one?”
”Mine.”
“Scorpius, hey? Named after Scorpio. The great hunter Orion claimed he could kill every living creature, but the scorpion fought him and defeated him. Scorpio was raised to the sky and immortalised in the stars, but the gods decided to raise Orion too. They kept them far away from each other, of course. Orion hunts the sky in summer, but retreats when Scorpio arrives in the wintertime.”
“Sirius was one of Orion’s hounds,” Scorpius says.
“So you know all the stories too.”
”Only yours.”
Harry retreats then, though he’s partly curious to hear the rest of the constellation myths. He’d told James about the Scorpio constellation years ago, but he’s unfamiliar with the rest. Still, it’s a private conversation (albeit a casual one) and he’s there uninvited.
So he walks quietly back to the house, satisfied all is well.
James seems reluctant to see Scorpius leave; the farewell is long and lingering. They talk quietly just before Scorpius steps through the Floo, James turning his back to Harry in an attempt to block him from the conversation.
“It’s just three more weeks,” Scorpius says softly. “That’s all.”
“Scorpius.”
”Three more weeks. I can get through it.”
”Have you still got the portkey?”
Scorpius nods. They look at each other for a moment, then James sighs and they hug each other briefly.
”See you soon,” James says.
”See you soon,” Scorpius echoes.
He steps through the flames and is gone.
”James,” Harry says pleasantly, “have you, by any chance, given Scorpius an illegal portkey?”
James looks at him. “No.”
Harry waits.
”Yes,” James mutters.
“He’s perfectly capable of using the Floo.”
”Draco’s blocked it before.”
”What? When?”
”Last summer. Said he didn’t want Scorpius just going wherever he wanted.”
Harry’s very concerned about that, though he tries not to show it. He tries to forget his own memories of standing in a locked bedroom, staring at the bars Uncle Vernon installed on his window. Draco’s not like that, he reminds himself. He wouldn’t ever mistreat Scorpius.
”Right,” he says slowly. “Well. Do you want a cup of tea?”
James is giving him an unnerved look. “That’s it? Dad, I created an illegal portkey.”
”Yes, well, quite impressive magic. Do you want tea or not?”
James’s eyebrows rise, but he just nods.
“Good,” Harry says, going to the kitchen.
No, Draco’s not like that, but regardless, Harry is suddenly glad James has given Scorpius another way out.
It’s been a particularly warm summer. The heatwaves come and go. Draco hates the trips to London, the sweat making his shirt stick to his back and dampening his hair. The city radiates heat; it reflects from the concrete and asphalt, and the streets seem to become narrow and suffocating.
But to London they must go, for the romance between Scorpius and Celia is growing and the Selwyns are making every effort. By mid-August, Draco thinks they’ve visited nearly every swanky restaurant in London. And during the final week of the school holidays, it’s evident Scorpius has had enough too.
“Another restaurant,” Scorpius mutters one evening.
”Oh, and where would you take Celia? To the aquarium? To an ice cream parlour?”
”Yes.”
”Well, I’m sure she’d feel very special.” The heat is making Draco bad-tempered. “Are you taking that tie off?”
”It’s hot.”
“It’s also dinner at Vescor, which has a two-month waiting list. Put it back on.”
Scorpius puts the tie on like he’s settling a noose around his neck.
They step outside together and Draco clamps Scorpius firmly to his side before Disapparating.
The dinner goes well, at least. Scorpius orders a nice wine and eats the tiny but artfully-arranged food. Conversation is lively. The music is enjoyable.
There’s only one problem, and Draco glares across the table at it. He is very tempted to use Legilimens to send Scorpius a vivid message about paying attention. Mr Selwyn has started chatting about Ministry contacts.
“...ah, yes, Shrivels is an old friend of mine,” Mr Selwyn is saying. The treasurer, Draco remembers. “Went to the Hippogriff races last week with him. You know, the finance department is looking for some junior assistants soon...”
“Really? What a wonderful opportunity,” Draco says, graduating his glare into a line of pure seething frustration. Scorpius stares into his soup, evidently fascinated by a floating olive.
“Oh, yes. Now, your boy has quite the intelligence, doesn’t he?”
“Scorpius is excellent with numbers,” Draco says, a sharp emphasis on his son’s name, and Scorpius finally snaps to attention.
“Ah, that’s what I thought. I said to Shrivels, I know a bright young man who would be very interested in the position.” Mr Selwyn glances at Scorpius. “What say you, Scorpius?”
Scorpius stares at him. Draco narrows his eyes.
“Scorpius is very mathematically minded,” he says pointedly.
Scorpius finally takes the hint. “Oh? Oh, yes. I am. I quite like maths.” He pauses, looking faintly lost. “Is there a problem that needs solving?”
“It’s already been solved, my boy,” Mr Selwyn says cheerfully.
Scorpius looks relieved. “That’s good.”
“Yes,” Draco says. “It is.”
He does verbally shred Scorpius after they’ve returned home, though. Scorpius seems to be aware of an inevitable lecture, for he tries to escape to his room, but Draco steps through the bedroom doorway quickly before Scorpius can cast a locking charm.
“Mr Selwyn was talking to you. In civilised, decent situations, we pay attention to conversation instead of staring at soup! It’s called being polite, Scorpius, you might want to read a book on it.”
“There was an olive.”
“What?”
“In my soup. There was an olive.”
“Obviously. It was picadillo chilli soup. Now next time, it would be perfect if you didn’t embarrass yourself — “
“The olive was supposed to be there?”
“How? How is my son this uncultured? For Merlin’s sake. Now, how many NEWT subjects are you expecting to receive? You need a minimum of five to accept a Ministry position — ”
“I’m sorry I’m uncultured,” Scorpius says. “But unfortunately I am Astoria’s son, and not Pansy Parkinson’s.”
Draco folds his arms, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “That is a separate conversation, Scorpius. Now, how many NEWTs?”
“It’s the same conversation, Father, because it’s also about how much of a disappointment I am.”
“I told you, that was not what —”
Scorpius hangs his cloak on the door hook. “Zero.”
“What?”
“Zero NEWTs. That’s how many I’m getting.”
Draco subsides into a momentary and rather dangerous silence. “Is this some kind of joke? Why, why, why wouldn’t you tell me this?” Draco could shatter with the rage and frustration that suddenly seizes him. “What the bloody hell have you been doing? Lying to me for three years while I bled the family fortune away?”
“I was afraid!”
“Afraid of what? Telling me the truth? So this is better, is it? Oh, you have no idea. No idea what you’ve done. You selfish, selfish — ”
“I’m selfish?”
“Lying to everyone like a coward, letting me do all of this! Sacrificing everything — ”
“I never asked for it!” Scorpius shouts.
“I gave it to you anyway!”
Scorpius’s telescopes suddenly topple over; his mural of stars on the wall disappear, the illustrations exploding like confetti. Scorpius stumbles backward, but doesn’t quieten his voice.
“I was never going to accept a Ministry job!” he retorts, his voice sharp and bitter. “Never. I was never going to be the perfect Pureblood —”
“Well, thank you for telling me. Thank you for ruining everyone else’s life, Scorpius. Right now, in this moment — yes. You are a disappointment. You are not the son I wanted.”
The silence falls between them. Draco feels exhausted suddenly; he takes another step away, and another, until his back is against the wall. It’s the one that, seconds ago, had been enchanted with stars. They’re all gone now, reduced to a fine dust of leftover magic gathering on the floor.
“Since I’m already disappointing you,” Scorpius says flatly, “I’ll tell you.”
”Tell me what?” Draco asks dully, not lifting his gaze from the piles of useless magic.
”I don’t want to be with Celia.”
Draco doesn’t move. The revelation doesn’t even surprise him at this point.
Scorpius speaks again. ”Almost exactly six years ago,” he says, “I was about to begin my first year at Hogwarts. I was sitting in an empty train compartment feeling completely alone. And then a boy walked into the compartment and introduced himself.”
Scorpius waits. Draco doesn’t speak.
”James,” Scorpius says. “The moment I saw him, that was it. Head over heels. I knew I would never, ever want anyone else. And I was right.”
Another pause, and Draco waits, but it becomes apparent Scorpius isn’t going to speak again.
”You’re gay,” Draco says flatly.
”Bi.”
Draco laughs bitterly. ”What difference does it make? You’ve chosen a future with a dead end. You could have had it all, Scorpius — ”
“Had it all? How could I possibly be happy with someone I don’t love —”
”Because the alternative is to be alone forever, Scorpius! Stay where you are for years and years, then, while everyone else moves around you! James will move on! A schoolyard friendship is very quick to fade after graduation, let me tell you that. If we’re telling truths tonight, then hear mine: James will soon be busy with other things. He’ll graduate. Get a job. Meet someone. Soon he’ll be too busy with her to pay any attention to you. You’ll be the best man at his wedding though, and you’ll stand there and clap politely as he kisses his bride. Watch from a distance as he buys a house, raises a family. Soon, you’ll be nothing but a friend he once had. Someone he sends an obligatory Christmas card to, once a year. That’s your future, Scorpius. Stand still and watch James fade into the distance.”
Scorpius looks at him, his face set in stone, and for a moment, Draco thinks he didn’t hear a single bloody word.
But then his face suddenly crumples like paper and a sob is wrenched from his mouth, and then he turns and flees, the door slamming behind him. Seconds later, there’s the faint chime of the wards. Scorpius has left.
Draco doesn’t follow him. He knows exactly where Scorpius has gone.
To James.
As always.
Draco’s mind churns that night; he roams the halls restlessly, unable to sleep. Scorpius never even loved Celia. The whole time...James. It seems blindingly obvious but at the same time, Draco is nearly numb with shock. Six years?
Six years.
In love with James Potter.
Every time he recalls the fight, he thinks of more and more details. The heirlooms he sold...for a future Scorpius never even intended to have. Has he betrayed his ancestors? His mother, she had given him those pieces to save for his grandchildren...
What grandchildren?
He paces in front of the fireplace.
No NEWTs. What will Scorpius do? Why, why, why did he do this to Draco?
He regrets it, all of it. Everything Scorpius said, but everything he said too. He thinks of Scorpius’s crumpling face, the quiet sob that escaped him. Why did Draco say all of that?
But there’s nothing to do now. Draco knows Scorpius, and he knows Scorpius needs time and distance.
So he lets Scorpius stay the night with James, and he waits.
And waits.
The morning dew melts from the leaves, warmed by the rising sun. Draco watches the water droplets slowly fall from the ivy climbing the window panes. He makes endless cups of tea but doesn’t drink them. He paces the manor, a restless ghost. He walks through the long hallways lined with the faces of stern ancestors. His parents’ bedroom, the bedcovers fresh and clean. He’s spent months and months religiously scrubbing this manor. It had to be presentable at all times; at a casual glance from the Selwyns, it needed to look as if a housekeeper had just finished her work.
All this deception.
Draco cleans. It’s mindless work and stops him thinking too hard about things. He polishes the silverware piece by piece. Casts deep cleaning spells on the elaborate carved picture frames, where dust gathers easily in ornate nooks. He waves his wand at the mop, sending it furiously scrubbing over the entrance tiles, and he strips all the beds and washes the linen.
When evening comes and Venus arrives to light the night, Draco finishes the last few chores. He goes to his study and tidies the desk, then opens the drawer and takes out his mother’s jewellery box. She had so many of these boxes, and now they’re all empty and neatly stored away. This is one of the last ones. In the bottom of the box, on a bed of crushed velvet, is a sapphire pendant, the shape of a teardrop, on a chain of pure silver. It looks deceptively small and simple, but it’s the most valuable piece in his mother’s collection. It was gifted to a fourteenth-century ancestor with royal connections, and Draco had been relying on the piece to bring in enough money to pay for the final year of social events. That’s all he needed. One last little bit, and then Scorpius would settle into a cushy Ministry job and the money would slowly but steadily build up. There would be enough left over from the pendant to help pay for the large and elaborate wedding, and the subsequent honeymoon.
Just twelve more months.
That’s all he needed.
He glances at the clock. It’s late. Scorpius will be staying another night, it seems.
Draco goes upstairs, to his study, and pours himself a neat whiskey.
The next morning is bathed in a bright summer day. The enchanted flowers bloom, glittering beneath the sunlight.
Draco eats breakfast. The marmalade is congealed and the butter an unforgiving lump.
After breakfast, he dresses slowly and then steps into the study Floo. He pauses, then steps back out.
He goes to Scorpius’s room. He picks up the fallen telescopes one by one and sets them back upright, and repairs a broken lens.
Then he looks across the room.
At the wall.
Draco stares at it. It’s blank, a sea of navy blue. The stars have vanished. Draco had been the one to decorate the wall. He’d done a cute little enchantment for eleven-year-old Scorpius’s room, plastering the wall with big silver stars. Over the years, Scorpius had modified it to become a sea of wonder. The stars had become small and delicate and detailed. A Milky Way had appeared, sending brilliant plumes of indigo and violet across the wall. Constellations had formed. Meteors had appeared. Distant Mars had a tinge of red and tiny dots marking its ice caps. Venus had risen, bright and sharp. The moon — originally a cartoonish crescent — had become cratered and shadowed and textured.
Draco waves his wand.
Big silver stars plaster the blue wall.
He stares at it, then waves his wand again. A moon appears, round and yellow.
Draco waves his wand again.
Again.
Hours pass and he just can’t let go. He needs to fix this. He needs to put everything back just how it used to be. He can’t walk away. But no matter how many spellbooks he fetches from the library, and how many charms and transfigurations he casts with aching arms, he can’t do it.
The sea of wonder has washed away, leaving nothing but a few remnants.
He returns to his study, his heart heavy, and steps into the grate.
It’s been nearly three days now.
Time for Scorpius to come home.
He arrives in Harry’s living room. The sun has already set, but the windows are open, letting a gentle breeze drift through the room. A lamp casts a crooked glow; there’s a Chudley Cannons scarf draped over it. On the sofa, there’s a tartan rug and a half-read book. There’s a Wizarding Wireless tucked into the corner of the room, tuned to a slightly-tinny Quidditch commentary.
Draco goes down the hallway. There’s a spiced aroma floating from the kitchen, suddenly reminding him of his childhood Christmases. Rosemary and sweet garlic, peppercorns and roasted meat. Harry is stirring something on the stove; James is poring over an ancient book, his index finger resting on the yellowed page.
“You’ve checked the measurements a thousand times, I think we’re okay,” Harry says.
James takes a deep breath. “I just don’t want to make a mistake,” he says, turning to a mixing bowl and beginning to ladle the contents into a pudding tray.
“Make a mistake?” Harry sets his stirring spoon down and puts his hands on his hips. “On this roast we’ve spent five hours preparing? My God, James, you know what’ll happen if you make a mistake, don’t you?”
James looks apprehensive. “What?”
Harry picks up the spoon again. “I’ll laugh at you and order takeaway.”
James rolls his eyes, though he’s smiling now. “Out of the way, I need the oven.”
Harry moves out of the way, turning to face the doorway, and that’s when he spots Draco. Surprise flashes across his face, followed by a guarded expression. “Draco,” he says, and James glances over at Draco and frowns, shutting the oven door with a little more force than necessary. “What brings you here?”
“I’m here to pick up Scorpius.”
Harry glances at James, a bewildered look on his face. “Scorpius? I haven’t seen him.”
”Not since my swimming championships,” James adds, looking equally confused.
Draco stares at them.
Chapter 26: Willows and Acorns
Summary:
James asks his friends for help — Draco has to deal with the unpleasant reality of Scorpius’s departure — Harry goes on a shopping spree — Teddy lends a hand.
Chapter Text
James sets the mug down on the kitchen counter.
Hard.
It cracks in two.
“I understand,” Harry says quietly, glancing over his shoulder. He’s grateful that Draco is out of earshot.
”No,” James says shortly. “You don’t.”
“Yes, you’re feeling frustrated — ”
”Frustrated? I’m angry! He did something!” James tilts his head toward the hallway. “Three days, Dad. Scorpius has been missing for three days. An argument? Draco can go fight a dragon if he thinks I’ll believe that. Scorpius wouldn’t vanish for three days just because they argued.”
”Look, there’s no point blaming anyone — ”
”Three days.”
”We’ve alerted Law Enforcement, they’re tracing his magic right now. He’s most likely caught the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade and gone to Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall is still there, and so’s the caretaker.”
”That’s rubbish. If he’d turned up there, McGonagall would’ve owled someone. Don’t feed me stupid lies just to reassure me.”
”I’m not,” Harry says. “I’m just trying — ”
”I want Draco out of this house. He did this. Scorpius is missing because of him.”
”Focus your energy on helping Scorpius. If you can think of anywhere he might have gone — ”
”Me,” James says, and he abruptly turns away to busy himself with another mug of tea. “He always comes to me. I’m his best friend — this doesn’t make sense — he promised he would, he said he’d use the portkey — why didn’t he come to me?” he asks, the anger melting from his voice, and Harry instinctively hugs him. He expects a furious rejection but James returns the hug.
”We’ll find him,” Harry says. “I promise.”
James doesn’t reply.
They all go to the manor. Draco hardly seems to pay James’s presence any attention, which Harry takes as a blessing. The last thing anyone needs is a petty flurry of insults. Harry uses his Auror abilities to help Draco search for clues about Scorpius’s whereabouts, though he’s starting to get a sinking feeling about it. He casts complicated tracing charms over the Floo, but it reveals Scorpius never travelled through it.
”What about an illegal Disapparation?” Draco asks, agitation sharpening his voice.
”We’ll have to wait for the Law Enforcement report, they can trace any magical activity from his wand.” Harry pauses. “I’ll check for any portkey use...”
”A portkey? Scorpius didn’t have a portkey.”
Harry involuntarily glances at James, and that’s all Draco — pacing to and fro, wound tighter than a spring — needs to snap.
”You gave my son a portkey?” he demands, rounding on James.
”You blocked the Floos last summer,” James says coldly. “I was trying to help him.”
”Help him? You idiot! He could’ve messed around with it, given it a new location — ”
”If you hadn’t kept him stuck here, I wouldn’t have done it!”
”Let’s just wait for the Law Enforcement report,” Harry says quickly, but both Draco and James ignore him.
”He could be anywhere! He could’ve used the portkey to travel right across the country — ”
”Would you prefer he illegally Disapparated? He could be bleeding out in a field right now,” James snarls, and Draco pales.
”James, that’s enough,” Harry says firmly. “Go home.”
James gives him a seething look. “I’m going to Scorpius’s room,” he says, turning away and walking up the stairs.
Harry lets him go. Draco doesn’t raise a protest; he goes to the sofa instead and sits down, his head in his hands.
”We’ll have the report any moment,” Harry says. “It’ll be all right, Draco. You’ll see.”
Draco says nothing.
James is grateful for the quiet darkness of Scorpius’s room. Here, he can finally let his anger melt away.
He sits on the edge of Scorpius’s bed, his face remaining expressionless. It won’t do him any good to sit here and cry about it. Scorpius is missing. He could be anywhere.
You promised, he thinks, gazing at the picture on the bedside table. Scorpius and his mother, smiling at the camera. Scorpius looks impossibly young. But happy, at least. James picks up the picture, looking at it for a while, then sets it back down. There’s a dog-eared book next to it, and James’s latest letter to him. James had only rambled about a few things. Stupid things. Things that didn’t matter. But the letter looks well-creased; it’s been read many times.
James stands up, takes a breath, and walks across the room, pulling the door open. As he does so, the travelling cloak on the back of the door sways slightly and there’s a faint noise of something solid hitting the door.
James frowns and inspects the cloak.
James didn’t think it was possible, but Draco has gone even more pale.
Harry stares at the wand.
”It’s definitely his?” he asks Draco.
”Yes,” James says before Draco can respond.
Harry gives him a look.
“We came straight home after a dinner,” Draco says, his voice barely audible. “He hung up his cloak...it must’ve still had his wand in the pocket. He’s out there somewhere without a wand. Without magic.”
Harry sets the wand back down. “Let’s wait for the report — ”
”There won’t be a report. He left his wand here, Potter. You can’t travel without a wand. Can’t signal the Knight Bus. Can’t Disapparate.”
”You can take a portkey,” Harry says. “It won’t show up on the magical activity report — that only tracks his wand — but they can check for any illegal portkey use.”
“I found it,” James says before Draco can have another meltdown, “in the other pocket.” He sets the little silver rat onto the kitchen table.
”That’s the portkey?” Harry asks.
”Yes.”
Draco looks nauseous.
“No, no, this is actually good,” Harry tells Draco quickly. “He must have stayed local. He can’t have travelled far. We’ll check the nearby woods. The village too. It’s a long walk but it’s possible.”
”I’ll go to the village,” Draco says at once.
Harry nods. “I’ll scour the woods.”
“You can search the east, I’ll take the west,” James begins, but Harry shakes his head.
”Someone needs to stay here. In case Scorpius comes back.”
”Dad — ”
”No, wait here. It’s important.”
”It’s not important. I want to be useful.”
”James. Somebody needs to be here for Scorpius.”
James falls silent. He wants to help. He needs to do something. He can’t just sit here and wait.
But it seems to be his fate. He watches Draco and Harry leave, then sits in front of the fireplace and stares into the low flames. The manor is empty now. He can hear a ticking clock, and the occasional soft pop as a pocket of sap explodes.
After a while, he stands up and paces around. He goes from room to room. The kitchen, with one of Scorpius’s scarves draped over a chair. The breakfast room, all laid out ready for two people to eat. The library, with Scorpius’s latest books piled onto an armchair.
He finally stops roaming when he goes to the observatory. He stands there and looks up at the stars. Scorpius’s telescope is pointed west, the lens cap still covering it. James doesn’t stargaze, but he stays there for a long time before slowly descending the stairs again and going to Scorpius’s bedroom. The covers of his bed are still rumpled, and the pillow still has a faint hollow from Scorpius’s head.
James lays down and closes his eyes.
Just for a moment, he thinks.
When he opens his eyes again, he has no idea how long he’s slept. There’s dim light filtering through the curtains. Scorpius’s lamp still glows faintly, illuminating the bookcase. James gazes at the pensieve on one of the shelves, its depths thick and smoky, then shifts his gaze to the photograph of Astoria and Scorpius again. Maybe Scorpius took a time-turner, he thinks sleepily, and went all the way back to a happier time.
His mind clears a bit.
He sits up. In the light, he can see Scorpius’s room a little better. There’s something off about it. The telescopes line the window. The desk is littered with homework and textbooks. The bookcase is crammed full.
He lifts his gaze to the far wall. The stars are scattered across it: childish, simple shapes.
James frowns at it.
The door opens, letting sunlight stream into the room. “I’m glad you got some rest,” Harry says.
“Did you find him?”
“Not yet.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven. Do you want some breakfast?”
“No. Did you hear back from Law Enforcement?”
Harry comes into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I really think you should eat something, James. Maybe get some more rest — you’ve only slept three hours — “
“The report?”
Harry sighs. “He didn’t take his wand, James. There’s nothing they can trace. No spells, no magical activity. He didn’t Disapparate, or take the Knight Bus, or use the Floo. We’ve checked the broomshed, all the brooms are still there. He just walked out.”
“So what? You’re just giving up?”
“Of course not. We’re still searching. He’s gone somewhere.” Harry pauses, then clears his throat and goes over to Scorpius’s desk. There’s a framed picture of Scorpius and his father, taken recently. Harry eases it from the frame, then taps it with his wand. “Geminio.”
The photo duplicates. James frowns at Harry. “What are you doing?”
”Law Enforcement want a recent photo of him.”
James stands up and follows his father downstairs. There’s an officer sitting at the breakfast table opposite Draco, an auto-inking quill and little form set out in front of him.
”Blond,” Draco says, his voice bland, not looking at the officer. He’s staring down at the form instead.
The officer scribbles it down. “Eyes?”
”Grey.”
”Complexion?”
”Fair.”
”Any distinguishing features?”
”No.”
Harry clears his throat. “Here’s the photo.”
The Law Enforcement officer looks at the picture, then waves his wand, removing Draco from it. “Good. Nice, clear one.”
”How long?” Draco asks, his gaze still trained on the form.
The officer glances at Harry and James, then tries to offer Draco a reassuring look. “Young people go missing all the time, Mr Malfoy, after a family argument. Statistically, most will return within twenty-four hours of leaving.”
”It’s been a lot longer,” Draco says, “than twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll go put the kettle on,” Harry says, his voice too loud in the small room.
James turns away.
They don’t find Scorpius that day.
Or the next.
Nobody’s sleeping and everyone is tense. Harry tries to send James home numerous times, which always ends in an explosive argument. When James does manage to catch some sleep, he naps in Scorpius’s bed and is plagued by restlessness. Every tiny sound wakes him up.
On the sixth night of Scorpius’s disappearance, Harry forces everyone to eat dinner together. Draco sits at the kitchen table and stares at his plate. James has barely seen or heard him these past few days. He’s been silent and pale as a ghost.
“We’ll keep searching the woods tomorrow,” Harry tells Draco. “There’s still a few hard-to-reach areas we haven’t canvassed. And the officer will be coming back tomorrow with a Niffler again. Those things can track any scent.”
“It didn’t find anything last time,” Draco says, still staring at his plate.
“It has been a while since Scorpius left. And if he walked through a stream or anything like that, it would be much trickier.”
“Did you put a plate aside for him?” Draco asks. “Just in case he comes home tonight...”
“Yes, of course,” Harry says soothingly, and James snaps.
“Don’t patronise him,” he spits, and Draco finally glances up.
Harry puts his cutlery down. “James, let’s not — ”
“Tell him why, Dad. Tell me why. Stop tiptoeing around and just say it.”
“I think you should take a moment to calm down,” Harry says quickly, but Draco is staring at James.
“Tell me what?” Draco asks.
“Oh, come on. Dad’s still checking the nearby woods even though Scorpius left six days ago? He could’ve gone anywhere. Could’ve gone to the village, caught a bus, then caught a train — he could be in London. Could be anywhere. But Dad’s still searching the woods. He doesn’t think Scorpius went in there with camping supplies,” James says bitterly. “He thinks Scorpius went in there with a length of rope.”
Draco stares at James. He looks as if he might be sick. Harry stands up abruptly, his chair clattering backwards. He grabs James by the scruff of his collar, drags him to the fireplace, and Floos home with him.
“Get off me!” James stumbles over the hearth, falling onto the grate; Harry lets go.
“That was cruel, James!”
“You don’t even care! Giving Draco stupid reassurances, telling me to get some rest, making meals — “
“Someone has to!” Harry shouts. “Someone has to be the one keeping it all together — for Merlin’s sake, James, you think I don’t care?”
James falls silent.
Harry’s shoulders slump. When he speaks next, he sounds tired and defeated. “Please, please, get some sleep. I am begging you. You haven’t slept properly in days.”
“No, I’m not — ”
“Please.”
James looks at his father. Suddenly, he feels utterly exhausted. His whole body aches as if he’s run a marathon. “Sorry,” he mutters after a moment.
“It’s all right.”
James goes to bed. His father turns the lamp on and pulls the covers over James as if he’s five years old again. The last thing James hears is the distant sound of the Floo as Harry returns to the manor.
He sleeps deeply. When he dreams, he dreams of rain. Endless against the window, a soft patter of raindrops.
He’s always loved the water.
In the morning, Harry returns.
It’s been a week now.
A whole week.
James paces across the attic, unable to focus; Harry is busying himself packing James’s things for Hogwarts.
”I’m not going,” James says abruptly.
“Well, you’ve got three more days to make up your mind,” Harry says firmly. “Where’s your potions kit?”
”I am not getting on that train,” James says, “until Scorpius is standing next to me.”
Harry picks up a robe, his movements methodical. ”It will help. Returning to routine.”
”That’s what you said when Teddy died.”
Harry picks up James’s swimming goggles. “Where’s your potions kit?”
James sits on the edge of his bed and says nothing.
Harry keeps packing silently.
James leaves for the manor. There’s no point being at his own house, he thinks. It’s evident Scorpius isn’t about to turn up there.
Draco doesn’t react to his arrival. He watches him ascend the stairs, a dull look on his face. “They’ve already looked,” he tells James. “For a note. They searched his room.”
“I’m not searching for anything,” James says firmly. “I’m going to fix this mess you’ve made.”
He goes to Scorpius’s room. He starts with the telescopes. They’ve been set upright but not by Scorpius. He can tell. He readjusts the tripods, setting them to the correct lengths. An altitude rod has been clumsily put back into place; he fixes that, slowly turning the screw. One of the telescopes is missing its lens cap. Scorpius wouldn’t stand for that, James thinks as he hunts across the floor. Scorpius has always been careful about protecting his expensive lenses and filters.
James retrieves the cap from beneath Scorpius’s bed, and sets it back into place.
Then he looks at the wall.
Well.
Scorpius would be very upset to see those stupid silver stars and the flat yellow moon, James thinks.
He gets out his wand.
Harry finishes packing James’s things and goes to the manor. James has apparently been in Scorpius’s room for hours; hopefully sleeping, Harry thinks. Draco is sitting at the kitchen table, a map of Wiltshire set in front of him, but he’s staring unseeingly at it. When the clock chimes midnight, he starts and glances up.
“It’s the thirtieth,” he says.
“Yes.”
Draco drops his gaze again. “The train leaves in two days. Should I pack Scorpius’s things?”
“If you want.” Harry stirs the sugar into his tea. The repetitive movement is somehow soothing.
“Should I pack his wand? He might need it.”
“I think,” Harry says carefully, “you need some sleep.”
Draco doesn’t argue. He vanishes upstairs.
This sheer apathy and silence is more concerning than the arguing and desperate searching, Harry thinks.
He keeps stirring, though the sugar has long since dissolved.
At six in the morning, he goes upstairs to check on James.
James is asleep. He’s kneeling on the floor, half-collapsed against the wall in sheer exhaustion, his wand held loosely in one hand. Harry crouches beside him.
“Wake up, James.”
James doesn’t stir.
Harry manages to clumsily pick him up and put him onto Scorpius’s bed. James doesn’t even wake. Harry pauses, then closes the curtains to block out the morning sun. James needs the extra sleep.
Then he turns to leave, glancing back once to check on James. He’s still sleeping deeply.
Behind him, the wall of stars glitters. Each star unique and different. The planets are set among belts of meteors and clouds of dust, each one beautifully detailed. The red desert-like surface of Mars; the soothing greys and browns of Jupiter. The moon is waning, cast in shadow, cratered and rough.
Harry closes the door quietly.
James dreams of the stars. They’re cascading around him, and he thinks of the duel he challenged Scorpius to years ago. Despite the fact it was a duel, Scorpius had refused to hurt him. He’d managed to win without firing a single jinx or hex. Stars, beautiful and bright, falling around him...a sea of snitches, a song of magic...
He blinks awake. There’s sunlight filtering through the curtains.
He stares at the ceiling, grateful he had dreams instead of nightmares. He suddenly remembers Lorcan telling him once that trees dreamed. Maybe that’s why the Whomping Willow is so angry, James had said. It has nightmares.
And later, the little willow that perhaps dreamed of acorns and oak trees...
The solution is easy when you ask other people, isn’t it? Lysander had said, pleased with James’s observations about the trees.
But James is alone now. His best friend is gone.
He rolls over. There’s a little rip in the lampshade on the bedside table. The book is still there, a folded page keeping it bookmarked. There’s the framed picture of Scorpius and his mum. James studies it. The way Scorpius is standing on the very edge of the footpath, one foot forward as if about to step off the curb. The creases in his t-shirt. His brightly-coloured trainers, one pair of laces half-undone. There’s a little woven bracelet of rainbow threads around his wrist. Astoria is standing beside him, smiling, but slightly blurred, as if she’d only just managed to pose for the picture. It must have been timed, James thinks. Astoria set the timer and rushed to get into the photograph.
He pauses.
Why did she take that photograph, then? It must have been a notable occasion. There must have been a reason.
James leans forward and eases the picture from the frame, turning it over. Written in unfamiliar but neat handwriting across the back of it: Our brand new flat! 21st June 2014.
Astoria died just one year later, and Scorpius was sent to Hogwarts. James turns the photograph back over and stares at it.
He needs help.
The solution is easy when you ask other people.
He goes downstairs, finding Harry in the kitchen.
“Dad, I’m just going to visit a friend.”
Harry blinks at him. “Which one?”
“Iwan.”
“Oh. He lives in Wales, doesn’t he? Do you need a portkey?”
”Got an old Floo connection from our house. I visited him last summer.”
”Oh. Well, seeing your other friends might actually be a really good idea, James. I think right now, being able to talk with others about — ”
“Thanks,” James says, and he leaves.
“So...the fire doesn’t hurt you?”
“Go away,” Iwan tells his little sister. “We’re trying to figure something out.”
“But why do the flames go green?”
“Go away!” Iwan shuts his bedroom door and turns back to James. “Sorry. I’ve had plenty of wizards visit but every single time the Floo gets used, everyone here loses their minds. Now, back to what you were saying.”
“Cardiff. I know it’s in Cardiff.” James hands the photograph to Iwan.
There’s a knock on the door. “Yes?” Iwan asks wearily.
His mother comes in. “Biscuit, James?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Take it,” Iwan mutters to James. “Or she’ll come back and offer it to you again at least three times.”
James accepts the biscuit.
Iwan resumes looking at the photograph. “Well, it’s not familiar. I mean, I go to Cardiff all the time, but I couldn’t just look at a building and tell you where it is.” Iwan taps the picture. “If I had to guess, I’d say maybe Grangetown or Splott. Bit rough around the edges. You said it would’ve been a council flat?”
“Yeah, Scorpius never talked about it a lot but I know he grew up really poor.”
“Well — ”
Iwan’s mum arrives again. “Tea, James?”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, I already made you a cup.” She puts it on Iwan’s desk.
Iwan gives James a look and waits until she leaves. “Anyway. You know who you should ask? Thomas.”
“Thomas? He’s not Welsh.”
“He’s got a cousin who spends a ton of time in Cardiff. Can’t remember their name. Thomas could tell you, though. Have you got his Floo connection? Here, use mine.”
James leaves, but not before Iwan’s mother gives him a slice of chocolate cake wrapped in paper, two scones, and a little tin of biscuits.
He waves goodbye as he steps through the flames, Iwan’s numerous Muggle siblings gathering around the fireplace to gasp and cheer as he vanishes.
Thomas’s house is a little quieter. He lives in a seaside cottage near Sutton-on-Sea with his parents. His father is a gruff man who shakes James’s hand very firmly.
“This is James. He’s my friend on the swim team,” Thomas tells his father.
His father grunts.
“Nice to meet you,” James says politely, and offers the scones.
Thomas’s father accepts them and goes back to his newspaper without another word.
“Should I leave?” James whispers to Thomas.
“Oh, no, he’s like that with everyone. Can’t handle the idea of expressing emotion.”
They sit at the little kitchen table. Thomas listens to James, then studies the photograph. As James waits for the verdict, he looks at the window. It has a small stained glass panel. There’s a lighthouse, a cresting wave. A gull flying high.
He suddenly wants to swim.
“So,” Thomas says, “I’m going to be absolutely useless here, James. I’ve been to Cardiff, like, twice. But yeah, my cousin spends a lot of time there. His father is a Quidditch coach, he owns the Cardiff Harriers. I can give you his Floo connection.”
“What’s his name?”
“Oh, you’ll know him, he’s in a few of our classes at Hogwarts. Rowan Viney.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll go with you, if you want. I can introduce you properly.”
“That’s all right. We know each other.”
Thomas goes to a kitchen cabinet and pulls out a little box, rifles through it, and produces a crisp packet. “You’ll need a portkey. Rowan lives in an apartment, there’s no fireplace.”
“Thanks.”
Thomas’s father rustles his newspaper briskly.
“He hates it when I use portkeys, he thinks it messes up the fabric of space-time or something,” Thomas whispers, rolling his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise because he’s a grumpy Muggle,” Thomas says, and the newspaper rustles even harder.
“What did you say, Thomas?” his father asks.
“I said, ‘I love you, Dad’,” Thomas says loudly.
His father grunts. “I’ll make some tea.”
Thomas winks at James.
James arrives just outside Rowan’s apartment and doesn’t bother pausing before he knocks. He’s so close to finding Scorpius, he’s certain of it.
Rowan answers the door. He stares at James, then says, after a long moment, “Oh. Hello.”
“Hi,” James says. “Scorpius is missing. Thomas said you could help?”
There’s another pause.
Then Rowan steps back, opening the door properly. “Well,” he says. “You’d better come in.”
Rowan frowns down at the photograph, his elbows resting on the glass-topped kitchen table.
”Give me a minute,” he says. “It’ll come to me.”
James feels a flicker of hope. “You recognise it?”
Rowan traces a finger across the skyline. “This is familiar. These buildings.”
James waits, then gets up and makes a cup of tea. He gives it to Rowan, along with the slice of chocolate cake; Rowan brightens.
”Oh, thanks. I skipped dinner. My parents are working late again.” He takes a bite of the cake, then lapses into silence again, tilting his head. “You know, there was a little bakery...my mum used to take me there, whenever Dad was busy coaching...it reminds me of this skyline.”
”Splott?” James asks, remembering the names Iwan told him. “Grangetown?”
Rowan’s expression clears. “That’s the one. This picture was taken facing...hang on...” He moves the photograph, angling it away from him as he studies the buildings. “South-east Grangetown.”
James jumps to his feet, unable to keep still. He’s this close. “I need an address,” he says. “That’s all. Just a street name would do...”
Rowan frowns, deep in thought. “That friend of yours.”
“Which one?”
“The short one.”
“What, Paul?”
“No. The other short, less insane one.”
“Oh, Nate.”
“Yes, him. My father hates his dad. Nate’s father is a Muggle who used to work for the Cardiff Council — my dad once got into a raging argument with him about getting a building permit.”
“All right,” James says uncertainly.
Rowan shakes his head. “No, you see? He works for the council, specifically for property permits and applications. I reckon Nate can get you a list of council flats in the area.”
“Oh! Do you have his address?”
“No, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” James says suddenly. “I went to his birthday party last year. I’ll have to see if I’ve still got the Floo connection.” He stands up.
Rowan stands up too. “Good luck,” he says, holding out his hand.
James ignores that, and hugs him instead. Rowan looks surprised, but he doesn’t step away.
”See you at Hogwarts?” Rowan asks.
”Yes,” James says. “Of course.”
Rowan smiles tentatively at him.
He goes home, finds the connection, and Floos to Nate’s house. Nate’s mother is home; she chokes on her tea and nearly falls out of her armchair as he arrives in the fireplace.
“Nate!” she calls, sounding rather panicked. “The fireplace is producing people again!”
Nate wanders into the room, a stack of laundry in his arms. “Oh, the Floo. Hey, James. What’s up?”
James tells him.
Nate sets the laundry down, nods decisively, and disappears. James is left alone with Nate’s mother, who peers at him with a faintly anxious expression.
”Biscuit?” he asks, handing her the tin.
”Oh! That’s lovely of you. I wish all of Nate’s fireplace friends brought gifts.”
Nate reappears then, ushering along a frowning man in a tartan dressing gown.
“Nate, I don’t just know these things...I think you’re really expecting a bit too much here...”
”Just look at the picture.” Nate hands him the photograph.
“I can’t just look at it and spout off an address. I’m not a phone directory. Look, it sounds like your friend should really contact a community housing association or perhaps the Department of...oh, yes, I know that place. I approved the permit for its demolition, actually. Social housing flats, built in the 1950s...absolutely does not meet today’s living standards, of course, should have been condemned years ago — ”
“Yes, yes, what’s the address?” Nate asks.
Nate’s father peers at James over his spectacles. “You must be James. Got a pen and paper, lad?”
Nate grins at James.
James goes home. His father is there, frowning at a map on the table. It’s of the area surrounding Draco’s property, James sees. Some areas are highlighted, others have question marks scrawled over them. The radio is tuned to the Wizarding Wireless; bland pop music plays.
“Dinner’s on the counter,” Harry says absently. “Fish and chips.”
“Okay.”
“Was it nice to see your friend?” Harry’s quill hovers over a copse of trees, then he crosses it off.
“Yeah.”
“Good, I’m glad it helped.” Another part of the woods is crossed off.
James goes to the kitchen drawer, where Harry keeps the Muggle money for shopping in the local village. “I’m visiting another friend,” he says, taking out some coins and banknotes.
“Bit late, James. Be a bit more considerate to their parents, leave it until tomorrow.” Harry rubs his chin, leaving a smudge of ink on it, then sighs and turns the map slightly. “Leave some money, don’t take it all. I’ve got to buy bread and milk tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
James goes upstairs.
Harry finishes modifying the maps. Draco is having a meeting with a Law Enforcement officer tomorrow regarding the progress of the search. They should share as much information as possible, making sure they’ve covered all the flagged areas. He returns to the manor to drop the maps off; Draco frowns at them, then points out several unmarked areas.
“What about here?”
“The Law Enforcement covered that in their initial search with the Niffler.”
“They might’ve missed something. I’ll search it.”
Harry doesn’t argue. Draco puts the maps on his desk.
“James has been quiet,” Draco says. “Could you fetch him from Scorpius’s room and take him home?”
Harry blinks at him. “James isn’t here, Draco. He’s been visiting a friend.”
Draco looks at him. “He’s been visiting friends?”
“Draco — ”
“That’s what he’s been doing? Socialising? Having fun?”
“I’m glad he’s been with friends,” Harry says firmly. “He needs the support. It’s healthy.”
“How can he even think about that right now?”
“Draco,” Harry says wearily.
Draco snaps his desk drawer shut. “Is he coming to the meeting tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure...he’s going to visit a Muggle friend, I think. He took some money to go out for lunch.”
“Going out for lunch? While we’re sitting in an office discussing the fact Scorpius has been missing for eight days?”
“It’s what he needs right now — ”
“He doesn’t even care! He’s always going on about how Scorpius is his best friend but he doesn’t even care. I knew it, I always knew that friendship was one-sided — ”
“It’s late,” Harry says. “I’m going home.”
He leaves, ignoring Draco calling after him.
Everyone’s tired, he thinks. Arguments won’t solve this.
Nothing will solve this.
He arrives home and collapses onto the couch, sleep claiming him almost instantly.
Harry wakes up groggily. He’s cold, there’s a crick in his neck, and his back hurts. There’s a tinny noise that he thinks must be the television.
But it’s been twenty-three years since he last woke up to hear the sound of a television, blaring out the breakfast news as his uncle read the paper and his aunt scrubbed at the kitchen counter, her lips pursed in perpetual disapproval. Funny how, all this time later, he can still wake up and hear the morning newscasters and smell lemon disinfectant.
Harry stands up slowly. He goes over to the radio, where the hosts are laughing and chatting about light morning news.
He switches it off.
Silence fills the air.
He goes to the kitchen counter. Yesterday’s leftovers are still sitting, cold and clammy, on the counter; he puts them in the bin, wipes down the counter, and puts the kettle on. Every noise seems crystal clear this morning. The faint clink of the kettle lid as it shuts. The scrape of the spoon against the sugar bowl. The rustle of the bread bag, the rasp of the butter knife against the toast.
Harry sets his breakfast down on the table, then does the same for James. He really doesn’t feel like eating, but he’ll choke down the toast anyway and drink the tea. He should set an example for James.
He glances at the clock.
Half seven.
James always rises early, a habit for his swim practice, but with Scorpius’s disappearance he has been keeping a very irregular sleeping schedule.
Harry waits a little while longer, then goes upstairs and gently raps on James’s door.
“James?”
No answer.
“James. Come on, mate. I know you don’t feel like it today, but you need to get up and have something to eat.” Harry pauses. “The train leaves tomorrow morning. Come on, we’ll finish packing together.”
He waits. The silence seems even more noticeable now. No footsteps, no creaking floorboards. No drawers opening and shutting, no shower running.
Harry pushes open the hatch.
Harry sits at the kitchen table, his breakfast slowly congealing before him. He reads the note for the fiftieth time. It’s short and matter-of-fact: James has left to find Scorpius, and expects to be back soon. Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly fine, James has written. Please don’t follow me.
Harry puts the note down.
His first instinct had been to follow James, but that’s proven impossible. James has taken a leaf out of Scorpius’s book, it seems, and travelled without magic; he left his wand laying neatly next to the note. And he’s taken the Muggle money with him. His messenger bag — the one he uses for overnight visits to his cousins — is also missing. James, unlike Scorpius, left prepared and calm.
Still. He’s only seventeen, Harry thinks, and he’s so bloody hopeless with the Muggle world. He gets confused just looking at a bus timetable, and he’s never navigated the Muggle transport system alone.
Harry glances at his wand. He could Disapparate, go to Law Enforcement, and ask them to track James. James’s friends — the ones he visited yesterday — would no doubt be able to shed some light on James’s whereabouts.
He looks down at the note again. Please don’t follow me.
Harry sighs.
It's raining in Cardiff. James stands in the middle of the empty car park, the rain slowly darkening his hair. The nearby streetlight catches on broken glass nearby, making it glitter. In the distance, taillights fade. It’s early in the afternoon, but heavy rainclouds have darkened the sky.
The building is abandoned. There's a council sign across the boarded-up doors; the building is slated for demolition in six months.
He finds a way in easily. Others have been before him. Inside, the linoleum is slowly peeling away from the concrete floor. Dry leaves crunch beneath his feet. He catches the occasional glitter of an empty glass bottle, but it’s difficult to see. As he ventures farther into the building, passing flats with their doors missing, he loses all visibility. The boarded windows allow for little light.
James steps into the sixth flat. The door is missing, like many others – fallen victim to curious urban explorers, or careless vandals. As he steps over the threshold, though, the flat suddenly wavers before him and he catches a glimpse of a different world: the gleaming counters of the little kitchen, the window framed by cheerful yellow curtains. A coat-rack next to the door, a school jersey hanging from it. Photographs line the walls, tracing the lives of Scorpius and Astoria, their smiling faces filling the frames.
Then the illusion vanishes, collapsing into darkness once more. The window is boarded up. The kitchen cabinets are half-destroyed, hanging open to reveal the empty shelves within. The wallpaper peels away from the damp, mildewy walls.
James blinks. Magic, faint but lingering, hangs in the air. Without a wand, even a transfiguration prodigy like Scorpius couldn’t cast that illusion deliberately. Either Scorpius has acquired a wand, or he’s unable to stop his feelings bleeding into his magic and manifesting in the enchantments.
“It won’t stop.”
James turns. Scorpius is leaning against the wall near the hallway, nearly hidden in the shadows. For a moment, James automatically steps forward, already opening his arms in anticipation of a hug, because that’s somehow what he thought would happen: a reunion filled with relief and happiness and reassurance.
Scorpius doesn’t move. After a moment, James drops his arms to his side. “It’s your magic,” he says, his words sinking into the darkness.
“I left my wand behind.”
“Your magic is too strong. It’ll find a way to create things, even without a wand.”
Scorpius is silent. After a moment, he says, “I suppose I’ll never escape the magical world.”
The room flickers again, for a moment filling with sunlight and childhood memories; James crosses the room then, stopping just short of touching Scorpius. “Magic isn’t like that. You can’t leave it behind. It’s part of you. And this place — it’s going to be destroyed, you can’t live here — ”
“I wasn’t going to. I only came back to see my mother.”
James glances around them, as if Astoria will step from the shadows. But Scorpius shakes his head.
“Ghosts are supposed to linger if they have unfinished business. I never got to say goodbye to her. I thought...” He trails off, then gestures around the empty room. “I should have known.”
James does reach out, then, but Scorpius takes a step away from him.
”I don’t want you here,” he says.
The air flickers again. This time, just for a moment, James feels a warm breeze and sees stars glittering overhead; the long grass of the field brushes his fingertips, and butterflies dance around him. Their room. Their memories. Scorpius’s words say one thing, but his magic is betraying him and revealing his true thoughts. James won’t let Scorpius vanish into the shadows, and he reaches out one last time and pulls Scorpius to him, almost crushed with relief when Scorpius finally half-collapses against him. His complete exhaustion is almost palpable; he clings tightly to James, resting his head in the crook of James’s neck.
“You’re tired,” James says, one hand resting on Scorpius’s back. “Come home and rest.”
Scorpius shakes his head, his hair brushing James’s jaw. “No.”
“Not to the manor. To my home.”
“I don’t want a portkey.”
“I haven’t got one. Came here the Muggle way.”
Scorpius shifts against him. James waits patiently.
“What about your wand?” Scorpius asks at last.
“Left it behind too.”
There’s another long pause. Then —
“All right,” Scorpius says.
James exhales.
They walk to the train station and catch the next train to Bristol. James remembers that bit of the journey from his trip to Cardiff, but beyond that he’ll need to consult the bus and train schedules again.
On the train, Scorpius falls asleep. Beneath the lights of the train carriage, James can see him properly; the scratches on his face, his bruised knuckles, scrapes along his wrists. It tells a story James knows well: anger and bitter rage, expressed through uncontrolled magic. He remembers the shattered glass scattered across the flat, and the broken cupboards, and wonders yet again what Scorpius argued with his father about. Something had created that tempest.
James turns away and watches the scenery go past, the late afternoon sun glimmering over the Wales River, lighting it up like hammered gold. Rivers and roads, leading to a thousand different places. The sleepy villages give way to suburbia. The cities are still small here, the skylines low and flat. Bristol rises like a coastline; cliffs of apartments, and the cathedral tall as a lighthouse.
James wakes Scorpius.
“Do we need to catch another train?” he asks.
Scorpius peers sleepily at him. “Don’t you know the way home?”
“Not well.”
Scorpius rubs at his eyes and stands up. They disembark; the train platform is bright and crowded, filled with people trying to get home from work. James spots a cafe and makes a beeline for it; he orders a late lunch and Scorpius is remarkably patient when James tries to pay for it, determined to figure it out himself.
“This coin?” James asks him.
“Yes, four of them.”
“Four? Are you sure?”
“Yes. And the note. You need the note too.”
James brightens. “Oh yeah, I forgot about all those paper bits.”
The cashier takes the money, bemused. “Whereabouts are you from?” she asks him.
“Devon.”
The cashier blinks at him; Scorpius touches James’s elbow, nudging him away. They sit at a table and eat their lunch while Scorpius pores over a stack of different timetables and figures out the route home.
“Whittlewick...I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a tiny village. Near Little Strickwell.”
“Never heard of that either.” Scorpius finishes his coffee. “I’ll be right back.”
He vanishes into the crowds, though James spots him a few seconds later, talking to a train worker. Scorpius returns five minutes later with three different bus timetables, a train schedule, and an old receipt with several instructions scrawled onto the back of it.
James gets up and orders more coffee.
Harry waits.
And waits.
The rest of the day crawls along. Surely James should be back by now? He keeps James’s note next to him. I’ll be all right. I promise.
James is good at keeping promises.
Early in the evening, he hears the wards chime, and glances out the window.
James and Scorpius are walking down the driveway.
His first instinct is to rush out the front door, usher them inside, ask a million questions — where has Scorpius been? And how did James find him? Are they okay? Why was the journey so long? Why did Scorpius leave? Did James catch buses and trains? Did he figure it out all right? Was the trip safe?
But then he pauses, hand resting on the front door, and forces himself to let go and take a step backward. There was a reason James had so carefully ensured he wasn’t followed. Scorpius probably wants time, and space, and quietness.
So when the door opens, and they’re standing there, Harry says very calmly to James, “Are you both all right?”
“Yes,” James says.
“Hungry?”
“Just a cup of tea would be nice.”
“What about you, Scorpius?” Harry asks.
“Thanks,” Scorpius says.
“I’ll put the kettle on. Towels are upstairs,” Harry adds, tactfully avoiding telling the boys outright they both smell like mildew and need a shower.
James takes the hint. “You can have the first shower, Scorpius.”
Scorpius disappears upstairs. Harry waits until he hears the hum of water, then hugs James tightly.
“You’re crushing me,” James says, his voice muffled.
“I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks.” James hesitates. “For not making a fuss.”
“I can’t believe you found him. Here, go and find a change of clothes for Scorpius, will you? You’re roughly the same size.” Harry starts hurrying towards the fireplace. “Merlin, I’m just so — this is such a relief, I’ll go tell Draco right away — ”
James grimaces. “Dad...Scorpius does not want to see him.”
Harry falters. “Well...he might change his mind when he actually sees Draco — ”
“Dad. He will walk out that door and he will not come back this time. I’m telling you.”
“But...well...Draco has to know, you’ve seen how worried and frantic he’s been...”
“I know, but Scorpius made it very clear he will leave if there’s the slightest indication Draco is so much as thinking about visiting.”
“He...but...” Harry has no idea what to do. “Draco needs to know. I can’t let him go on like this, thinking the worst possible things have happened to Scorpius. What...what if I tell him, but let him know Scorpius just needs a bit of time — ”
“He won’t listen. You know that, Dad.”
Harry falls silent.
He goes the Ministry first, and requests to speak with the officer managing Scorpius’s case.
They talk for a little while.
Then he goes to Draco’s home.
When he arrives, Draco is poring over the maps across the kitchen table. Night has set, activating the dim lighting spells.
“Hello,” Harry says.
Draco makes a noise in greeting and turns to another map.
“I’ve got news,” Harry says. “Law Enforcement offered to send a family liaison officer, but I thought you might like to hear it from me.”
Draco stands up, his chair clattering backwards. “What?”
“James found him. He’s safe and well.”
“Oh,” Draco says, a single rush of overwhelmed relief, and he collapses back onto his chair. “Oh, thank Merlin. Thank Merlin. Where was he?”
“He’s not disclosing that information,” Harry says, finding it easier to slip into Auror-like professionalism.
“But — but he’s all right, he’s safe now — you said he was well?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Draco, listen to me — ”
“Where?”
“Look, it’s — ”
“He’s with James, isn’t he? At your house.” Draco jumps to his feet again and hurries toward the Floo, throwing a handful of powder into the flames, and he says Harry’s address clearly.
But the flames remain orange.
Draco stares at them, then turns to give Harry a bewildered look. “There’s something wrong, there must be a blockage — “
Harry sits down at the kitchen table. “I’ve blocked my Floo network, Draco.” He takes a breath. This is the hard part. “Scorpius has made it clear he...wants some space. Away from...away from others.”
“He’s my son. I have to — I have to see him, you’ve got no idea — ”
“You had an argument, you said, before he left. I don’t think he’s...quite ready to make amends.”
“Yes, but...but he’s my son,” Draco repeats, returning to the table. He doesn’t sit down. He just paces around it, his expression beseeching, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “We can — we can fix it, we can talk about it — we’ll sort it all out — ”
“He doesn’t want to see you, Draco,” Harry says quietly.
“Yes, but — if I could just see him for five minutes, that’s all — and I’m his parent. He’s not staying with you, he needs to come home — ”
Harry takes a breath. “He’s seventeen. Legally, he no longer requires your consent to live elsewhere. You could try to force him to live with you, but you should know the courts very rarely rule in the parent’s favour in those sorts of cases.”
Draco stops pacing then, looking aghast. “You think I’d drag my own son through the family courts?”
“No, I’m just...just letting you know what your options are.”
They lapse into silence. Draco starts pacing again.
“Just five minutes,” he says at last. “Please. Just to see him.”
Harry hates repeating the words, brutal in their honesty. “He doesn’t want to see you.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Just to tell him I’m sorry.”
Harry wavers. “I don’t think that’s...it’s...well, he’ll be asleep right now, but I’ll ask him when he wakes up.”
“He can come back here,” Draco says, and hurries to continue when he spots Harry’s expression. “The train leaves tomorrow morning. He’ll need his school things. His books. His robes, his wand. Maybe...maybe he could come back to pack it all? He can come back in the morning, just to pack his things. And...and I could see him, then...”
“All right,” Harry agrees. It’s true; Scorpius needs his wand, at the very least. Every Hogwarts student is required to have one even if they’re mostly doing Muggle studies.
Draco exhales. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’ll see him tomorrow, then,” Harry says, then adds, “if he says it’s all right.” Though he can’t see why Scorpius would disagree. He does need his wand, and his other things. And whatever argument he’s had with Draco, he’s always been reasonable. Five minutes would mean the world to Draco, and wouldn’t inconvenience Scorpius.
“Of course,” Draco says.
Harry leaves, walking through the front door and into the cool night air.
James feels far better after a very long, very hot shower. He dresses in his pyjamas and goes to his room. Scorpius is there, standing on the far side of the room and looking at the pictures on the wall, but he glances at James when the hatch opens.
“Want anything to eat?” James asks.
“Your dad made me some toast while you were in the shower.”
James nods. “Hope he didn’t fuss too much.”
”Not really. Just wanted to know how I took care of myself.” Scorpius doesn’t lift his gaze from the pictures. “There was a youth charity nearby, they gave me food and clothes. I was all right.”
“Were you?”
Scorpius reaches out, touching the picture of the badger family; there’s a large chip out of the frame. “It’s broken,” he observes.
James walks across the room and stands next to Scorpius. “Yeah. That was my fault. I threw it across the room.” He reaches up and unhooks the picture from the wall, examining the damage. “Second year. Dad gave you my racing broom. I threw an absolute fit.”
“Second year,” Scorpius murmurs.
“Yeah, long time ago now.”
“Seventh year starts tomorrow.”
James leans against the wall, facing Scorpius. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
Scorpius looks at him, then away. “I had an argument with my father and left quickly, there was no time to get the portkey — ”
”We’ve been friends for six years, Scorpius. You don’t need to lie to me.”
”I’m not — ”
”Have I done something wrong? Because that’s what it feels like. Like you suddenly don’t want to be friends.”
”I do, it’s just...it’s really hard to be around you sometimes, you’ve no idea — ”
”So it is something I’ve done — ”
”No, not like that — I just — I can’t explain it — ”
”Try. For me.”
Scorpius’s gaze drops to the floor. Silence settles across the room.
”Okay,” James says.
”James — ”
”It’s fine.” James crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed. “You should get some sleep. The train’s leaving tomorrow.”
Scorpius nods without looking at James, then silently departs. James listens to the hatch shut, then lies down. He tosses and turns for a while. Harry’s been gone a long time. Is he going to come back with Draco? Will Draco make Scorpius leave? He listens hard for the sound of the Floo, but there’s nothing. Besides, Harry did block it before he left. James takes small comfort from that. He closes his eyes, trying to trick himself into sleeping.
It doesn’t work.
After a while, he sits up with a sigh, then taps his wand against his lamp, illuminating his room. The floorboards are nice and cool against his bare feet. He can hear the reassuring tick of his clock. He’s had the clock since he was seven; it’s in the shape of a dinosaur. Harry had bought it for him after he won his first ever swimming race. He’d only won because it had been terrible weather that day and hardly anyone else showed up. James’s only other opponent got a leg cramp. But Harry had been so proud of him, as if he’d won the Olympics. He’d made James feel like a champion.
He glances past the clock. The light glints off his recent swimming medals and trophies.
After a long moment, James leaves his room. He walks quietly along the soft carpet of the hallway, then stops outside the spare room. The door is ajar.
He pushes it open.
Scorpius isn’t asleep either. He’s lying on the bed, face crumpled with misery, tears running down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking silently.
James goes over to him, pulls the covers back, climbs in, and pulls Scorpius into a hug. He doesn’t say anything.
Scorpius eventually falls asleep, James’s arms still around him.
Harry wakes up feeling optimistic.
Today is the first of September. James will be boarding the Hogwarts Express with Scorpius. A return to routine, to normalcy. Everything will be all right. Scorpius can pack a few items this morning, perhaps patch things up with Draco before he leaves.
James and Scorpius are already awake; James is in his room, searching for a lost textbook, looking annoyed, while Scorpius is gazing out the window at the fields below.
“Hello,” Harry says lightly. “You probably need to pack a few things too, Scorpius. There’s plenty of time to pop into the manor and — ”
Scorpius glances at him. “No.”
Harry pauses, taken aback. “But...your father, he’d really like to see you. Just to say sorry. And it’s only for five minutes. Just five minutes. You’ll need things — robes, and books — and your wand, you can’t go to Hogwarts without your wand.”
“No.”
Harry turns and gives James a pleading look: Help me, will you?
James doesn’t look up from his task of rifling through his desk. “I’ve got a spare wand Scorpius can borrow.”
No help there, then. “You don’t have a spare wand,” Harry mutters.
“Yes, I do.”
“I think I’d remember buying you a second wand, James.”
James empties another drawer and doesn’t reply. Harry waits, but nobody speaks.
“Well...Scorpius, perhaps you’d like some more time to think about it? Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” Scorpius says.
“Oh. Right.” Harry hovers uncertainly, then turns to James. “James, finish packing and wash the dishes downstairs, will you? I’ve got to run some errands.”
James frowns at him. “What errands? Dad, the train leaves in an hour.”
“Yes, but I — I’ll be back before then.”
James raises his eyebrows, but returns to his task.
Harry hurries downstairs.
James watches his father depart, then turns back to his desk and starts the arduous task of tidying it again. Scorpius resumes his window-gazing, though after a while he picks up a book and begins reading it. James glances at his clock; the train’s going to leave in fifteen minutes. Harry’s going to need some very quick Side-Along Disapparations.
James clasps his trunk closed. “You’ll need a wand, at least,” he tells Scorpius.
Scorpius closes his book. “I know it was a lie, but thank you for saying you had a spare one.”
“Why would I lie to you?” James goes over to his bed and fetches a box from underneath it. Family photographs spill out. The postcard of Gibraltar. The last birthday card his mother wrote to him. All his memories. Then he picks up a slender wooden box and carefully opens it, revealing a wand nestled in the tissue paper within. “Here,” he says, handing the box to Scorpius. As he does, the lettering along the side of the box shines in the sunlight. Property of Teddy Lupin.
Scorpius stares down at it. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, it belonged to him, it — it’s yours now, it’s important — ”
“Give it a swish.”
“James, this is one of the most important things you own — ”
James takes the wand out of the box, puts it in Scorpius’s palm, and wraps his unresisting fingers around it. “That’s why I’m giving it to you. Now cast a spell.”
Scorpius looks at him, then swishes the wand. “Lumos.”
A little glow emanates from the tip. Scorpius exhales.
“There you go. I know it’s not your wand, but it’ll do, won’t it?”
Scorpius nods.
The attic hatch suddenly opens and Harry appears, lugging shopping bags behind him.
“Come on, lend a hand,” he puffs, dragging the bags into the room.
James hurries over. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know. Come on, Scorpius, pack your things.”
Scorpius gives them both a bewildered look, then tentatively opens one of the bags. Brand new robes spill from it.
“Go on, see if they fit,” Harry says. “I had to guess your size. Just slightly smaller than James, I thought.”
“These are for me?” Scorpius asks slowly.
“Here’s all your textbooks and stationery,” Harry adds, unstacking the books from a Flourish and Blotts bag. “Couldn’t remember if you were taking any magical subjects, sorry. Oh, those bags are just the rest of your uniform, Scorpius — ties and blazers and shirts and all that. Those bags over there are casual clothes, for your weekends. All plain t-shirts and jeans, I’m afraid — I don’t know what you like to wear.”
Harry seems to have purchased everything Scorpius could possibly need — including a little collapsible telescope and a racing broom. However, his Muggle studies haven’t been overlooked, with a bag full of graphing paper, notebooks, and pencils.
”You take maths, right?” Harry asks uncertainly. “You can’t use quills for that work.”
“What about his Muggle textbooks?” James asks.
“Well, I didn’t really think about that — ”
“What if Scorpius writes you a list? I think you have to buy them from one of those special Muggle shops in London, don’t you? Then you can owl them to him.”
Harry frowns. “Owl him textbooks? I think the owl would die of exhaustion about two minutes into flight. Let’s forget the train, we’re going to miss it anyway. I’ll arrange a portkey to Hogsmeade instead. There’ll be plenty of time to stop in Muggle London for textbooks.”
“All right. What do you reckon, Scorpius?”
They both look expectantly at him.
Scorpius stares back at them. He looks as if he’s about to cry again, James suddenly realises with concern. He touches Scorpius’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong? Did Dad forget something important?”
Scorpius shakes his head. “No,” he says at last. “No, it’s just...thank you. This is really...thank you so much.” He sounds very overwhelmed.
“Well, we can’t send you to school with nothing,” Harry says briskly. “Come on, James, help me clean up the kitchen downstairs. Then we can leave.”
James departs without argument, understanding Harry’s subtle suggestion to give Scorpius a moment alone.
He gives Harry a hug when they’re cleaning up the kitchen; Harry looks bemused.
“What’s that for?”
“Thanks,” James says. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well. We can’t send him off empty-handed.” Harry pauses, looking regretful. “I did think about buying a wand, but they’re just so tricky...the wrong wand can be completely awful to use. We’ll have to sort something out.”
”That’s okay, I gave him my spare wand.”
”James, you don’t have — ”
”Teddy’s wand. Can’t believe you forgot about that.”
Harry stares at him for a moment. “You gave Teddy’s wand to Scorpius?”
For a moment, James thinks his father is about to berate him, and he straightens up, ready to have an argument. But then Harry says, “James, that’s...that’s very thoughtful of you.”
”Well, like you said, couldn’t send him to school empty-handed.” James wipes down the counters. “I guess you talked to Draco?”
“He understood.”
James’s eyebrows rise, but Harry nods firmly.
“He did, James. He does love Scorpius, despite everything you think. He only wanted Scorpius to come home this morning so he could apologise for the argument.” Harry leans on the counter, watching James. “Do you know what it was about? Must’ve been something colossal.”
“No. Scorpius doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Harry hesitates, but asks the next question anyway. “Where did he go?”
James pauses, then wrings the dishcloth and gives the counter a slightly-too-vigorous scrub. “Place he used to live. With his mum.”
“Any idea why he went there?”
“No. Maybe he missed his mum.”
”He didn’t say?”
James sighs. “He’s barely said two words about it, Dad. He’s not talking about it. No, not even to me.”
“What about you?” Harry asks. “Are you all right?”
”Why wouldn’t I be? Scorpius is here. Everything’s all right.”
Harry subsides into silence.
Draco waits.
He waits, and waits.
The sun rises, light streaming across the gardens. The clock ticks away the seconds. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock.
He paces the manor. Carefully arranges Scorpius’s clothes, his robes.
Half past ten.
Scorpius won’t have time to pack now. So Draco does it for him, carefully packing the trunk. The same one he used to have when he was a boy attending Hogwarts. He neatly folds the robes, the cloaks. He closes it, shuts the clasps, and then sets Scorpius’s wand on top of it.
Ready to go.
A quarter to eleven.
All of the students will be boarding the train now. Waving goodbye. Settling into their seats, listening to the train engine rumble to life.
Ten to eleven.
Draco checks his watch, then exhales and picks up his cloak.
He Disapparates to Kings Cross and rushes to the platform as quickly as he can. The students are still boarding the train, but there’s no sign of Scorpius, James, or Harry. Is Scorpius already sitting in a compartment, ready to leave? Draco hurries onto the train; a conductor steps in front of him.
“Students only,” she says briskly. “If your child needs help with their luggage, I can — ”
“No, I just — I’ve lost my son in the crowds, I need to know if he’s here — ”
The conductor peers at him, then swishes her wand. A long list of shimmering names appears in the air.
“Name?”
“Malfoy. Scorpius,” Draco says anxiously.
The conductor scans the list, occasionally making a flicking motion with her wand. “He hasn’t boarded yet. Final call in another minute.”
“Wait — what about James Potter?”
The conductor peers at the list again for another long moment. “No,” she says at last. “I’d recommend finding your children very quickly. Thirty seconds until departure.”
A whistle pierces the morning air, followed by the loud voice of another conductor. “Stand back! Train ready to depart! Stand back!”
Draco steps off the train and hurries back to the platform. He scans the crowds, spotting the usual gaggle of photographers in the corner; they like to turn up and get shots of celebrity parents. They’re always near Harry. But today, they’re milling around a famous Quidditch coach instead.
Harry’s not here.
Has he left already?
Draco pushes through the crowds. Smiling parents, grandparents waving goodbye. Young children shouting out to their siblings on the train. Babies in prams, toddlers clinging to their mothers.
Another loud whistle, and then the train lets out a puff of steam. The little children cheer. There’s the familiar old noise of the side-rods rotating as the train begins to move. It slowly chugs its way out of the station, students waving through the windows at their parents.
And then it’s gone.
The families wave until the very last carriage has slipped from sight. There’s a moment of quietness, then the crowd begins to disperse. The photographers vanish. Mothers push their prams away. Families chat to each other as they slowly dawdle toward the exit.
Soon, Draco is alone on the empty platform, surrounded only by the debris of others’ lives. Scraps of parchment litter the ground. A lost hat. A newspaper.
He waits, but Scorpius never arrives.
Thanks to the portkey, James and Scorpius arrive in Hogsmeade far ahead of the train. The horseless carriages await them, ready for any early students.
The journey is quiet. Something has changed, James thinks. Sometimes there’s little moments — like when James handed over Teddy’s wand — when it feels perfectly fine. Friends like they’ve always been. But then Scorpius becomes distant again. Quiet and reserved.
“Have I done something wrong?” James asks at last as Hogwarts comes into view, rising like mountains peaks.
“No,” Scorpius says, and his voice is heavy. “It’s me.”
James waits, but Scorpius doesn’t elaborate.
Overhead, the clouds drift across Sirius, obscuring it from sight.
Chapter 27: Impossible Dreams
Summary:
James and Scorpius begin their final year — Draco learns of a death — James and Scorpius argue and end up in detention — Rose has a crisis — the Room of Requirement is discovered along with its ghosts — Harry finds a new job.
Chapter Text
James’s final year at Hogwarts isn’t exactly what he imagined it to be.
His grades are excellent, his friends are good company, he’s been exceeding even Saltworth’s expectations of his swimming — but the one problem is Scorpius. He’s been distant ever since term began. Some days he sits next to James and says nothing, other days he vanishes completely into the hidden depths of the castle. James is trying to be understanding — clearly there was a catastrophic argument between Scorpius and his father — but they’ve been back at school for a whole month and Scorpius still won’t tell James what’s been going on.
Today marks the first day of October, and the weather is already grey and sullen, ready for winter. James shivers his way through a bitterly cold swim practice, then goes to breakfast. Scorpius is absent, but that’s expected. He’s been arriving very late to meals lately; whether it’s a way to avoid James or merely a coincidental change in routine, he can’t tell.
Someone gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He glances up.
“Mate,” Martin says very sincerely, “want me to beat him up?”
“What?”
“Scorpius Malfoy. Don’t know what’s happened between you two but I’ll punch him for you. Right in the face.”
James blinks at him. “Er...no, that’s all right.”
“He’s dating Olivia, isn’t he? I can tell by your expression. You don’t have to say it, I just know it’s the exact same thing that happened with me and Paul. Some things are unforgivable, even when they’re done by your best friend.” Martin pauses. “Especially when they’re done by your best friend.”
James adds another slice of toast to his plate despite his absent appetite. “Nothing like that. I dunno, he’s just been...not himself lately.”
“Could be meeting Olivia in secret.”
James gives Martin a wry look. “It’s nothing to do with any of my ex-girlfriends. Family stuff, that’s all.”
“I can still punch him for you.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Fair enough.”
They eat in silence for a while. As James finishes his toast, he glances across the hall at the Ravenclaw table. “So,” he says, “how did you become friends with Paul again?”
“What are you talking about? I still hate him.”
“Oh. But it’s been ages — ”
“Nope,” Martin says almost cheerfully. “No, no, no. He decided a couple of dates with my girlfriend was worth our friendship. Like I said, some things are unforgivable.”
James pushes his crumbs into a neat little pile on his plate.
Scorpius has forgiven a lot of things. All the stupid, reckless, petty, and downright spiteful things James has done.
So what’s changed?
The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year arrives with October. Scorpius is burying himself in his books, which James is beginning to suspect is an avoidance tactic more than anything else, so he doesn’t bother asking Scorpius to come with him. He spends the morning with the dormitory boys, playing a chilly game of football, and then goes to Hogsmeade with Thomas and Iwan; Thomas has just had his eighteenth birthday and is very excited about having a drink.
“Why?” James asks as they wander into the Three Broomsticks and pick a table. “You’ve had plenty of drinks already.”
“A proper drink.” Thomas says loftily. “A legal drink. Not a lukewarm bottle of Captain Slorrice’s Finest Rum that your cousin has been hiding in the airing cupboard for six months.”
“You’ve had a traumatic Captain Slorrice experience too?” James demands, and Iwan laughs.
“I think it’s practically a rite of passage, isn’t it?”
Thomas goes to the bar, looking entirely too smug, and orders a firewhiskey; at the barmaid’s faintly suspicious request, he puts his hand on the counter. His handprint glows green, signalling his age, and he saunters back to Iwan and James with a firewhiskey in one hand. After a sip or two, though, he looks less smug, and James and Iwan grin at him.
“Enjoying your proper drink?” Iwan asks.
“It burns.”
“That’s what real alcohol does, I think,” James says soothingly. “Don’t worry, Thomas. I’ll buy you a nice lemon cordial instead. Comes with a free toy Hippogriff.”
“Shut up, Potter.”
“Look out, here comes your girlfriend,” Iwan says, grinning at a pretty Hufflepuff prefect; she waves and comes over to them.
“Hello,” she says, smiling at Thomas.
“Oh, hi,” Thomas says casually. “I was just drinking some firewhiskey. Celebrating my eighteenth and all that.”
His girlfriend peers at the glass. “Isn’t that stuff a bit strong?”
“Oh, is it? I didn’t notice.” He finishes the glass; the others stare at him.
“You don’t look well,” James says after a moment.
“I feel great, actually.”
”James is right,” his girlfriend says with concern. “Maybe we should save our date for the next weekend?”
”No, no,” Thomas manages to say through a contorted grimace. “It’s fine. I might order another, actually.”
“Well, have fun, you two,” Iwan says brightly. “I need to go pick up some stationery I ordered.” He waves farewell, making a hasty retreat.
“Yeah, I’ve got something waiting for me at the bookshop,” James adds, taking a receipt from his bag.
”No, no, you can stay,” Thomas’s girlfriend says quickly, looking faintly alarmed at Thomas’s queasy expression.
“Wouldn’t want to interrupt,” James says, following Iwan’s cue and standing up. “See you both later. Thomas, don’t order another.”
Thomas lifts his chin defiantly; James suspects the date is going to be rapidly derailed by a series of poor decisions on Thomas’s part. He gives Thomas’s girlfriend a sympathetic look, then turns away. As he makes his way towards the door, however, he spots Rowan sitting alone at a table. After a moment’s thought, he goes over to him.
“Waiting for someone?” he asks Rowan, who glances up at him with surprise.
“What? Oh...no, I’m not.”
James sits down. Rowan gives him a wry look.
“Are you sure? People might think we’re dating. We’re sitting together. In public.”
James stands up. Rowan sighs.
“Sorry,” he says. “I was being a prat, wasn’t I? Sit down, we’ll have a drink.”
James gives him an amused look. “I forgot something. Be right back.”
“Oh.”
James retrieves his forgotten receipt from the other table (Thomas is, very unwisely, having a second firewhiskey to impress his decidedly unimpressed girlfriend), then sits back down opposite Rowan. “I wanted to say thank you,” he says. “For helping me find Scorpius.”
“Yeah, well. You looked so bloody miserable, what else could I have done?”
James shrugs. “Shut the door. Told me to go away.”
Rowan takes a sip of his butterbeer. “I regretted it, you know.”
“What?”
“Breaking up with you. For weeks afterwards, I was certain I’d made a terrible mistake. You wouldn’t even look at me, though. I thought you’d probably chuck me in the lake if I tried to tell you, ‘oh, sorry, made a mistake, please take me back’. So I just...” He shrugs. “Tried not to think about it.”
“You regretted it?” James asks, frowning.
“Yeah. What about you?”
James gives him an incredulous look. “I got dumped. Obviously I regretted it.”
“What about now?”
James isn’t sure whether Rowan is planning on trying to revive their relationship, but he’s surprised to find himself saying, “No, actually. I think...I think you were right to end it.” It’s true, he realises. They broke up five months ago now, and while he was devastated at the time, everything seems to have changed now. “What about you?” he asks.
Rowan takes a lot longer to think about it. He drums his fingers on the table and looks out the window, and then says, “I still think I made a really big mistake.”
“Oh.” James pauses, wondering if he should leave. “Am I making this easier or harder?”
Rowan finishes his butterbeer and gives him a sudden grin. “Well,” he says, “you’ve always been good at making things harder.”
James laughs, breaking the slight tension. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m sitting here, trying to offer friendship, and you’re flirting with me.”
Rowan looks back down at the table, and his smile fades a little. “I don’t think we can be friends right now,” he says.
“Oh.”
“I mean — one day. Just...give me some more time.”
James nods and stands up. “I’ll leave you alone. Let me know if you ever want to catch up.”
Rowan looks up and offers him a tentative smile. “I will. Thanks, James.”
James leaves, bumping into Martin as he’s halfway out the door. “Oh, hello,” he says.
Martin grins at him, looking amused. “Were you just chatting with Rowan Viney?”
“Yeah.”
Martin starts laughing. “James, he’s gay. You’re so oblivious sometimes. Be more careful next time, mate.”
“Careful?”
“Yeah. You know how it is. People like to talk.” Martin pauses. “I mean, not that I judge,” he adds hastily. “One of my cousins is gay. It’s just...you know. You wouldn’t want people to think that about you.” He glances past James, waving at someone. “Anyway, see you later.”
“See you later,” James echoes.
James is in a low mood for the rest of the week, which is perhaps why he gets a bit cold towards Scorpius. He feels like he needs his best friend more than ever, yet Scorpius isn’t there. This was supposed to be their final year together, but Scorpius seems determined to spend it apart without a single explanation. Towards the end of the week, Scorpius actually tracks him down in the library and attempts to start a conversation, which takes James all of three seconds to shut down.
“Hi,” Scorpius says, sitting next to him. “What’re you studying?”
“What do you need?” James asks flatly without looking up from his book. He doesn’t see Scorpius’s expression, but there’s a long pause and Scorpius shifts away from him slightly.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see what’s wrong. You’ve seemed a bit miserable this week.”
“Well, like you said to me last year — my problems are my own.”
There’s another long pause. James turns the page. “You’re angry with me,” Scorpius says after a moment. James is irritated by Scorpius’s soft tone; he’d expected Scorpius to get defensive, in that usual icy way of his.
“Yeah. You argued with your dad, suddenly I’m no longer your best friend. Doesn’t take much to work it out. He’s told you to stay away from me before — only this time you decided to actually listen. Sorry I can’t drink a magic potion and become a Pureblood for you.”
Scorpius does get icy then. “That’s not what happened — ”
“Then what? That’s the only explanation I can think of — ”
“I told you, I can’t explain it! It’s just — you don’t understand how hard it is to be around you — ”
“No, I do. I really do. Can’t be easy, with your father telling you to have a perfect Pureblood life and here I am, getting in the way — ”
“It’s not that! It isn’t! Why would I be listening to a single word he says? You know I’m not talking to him, not even reading his letters — ”
“So tell me the reason, then!”
James’s book suddenly slams shut; his quills and parchment rush off the desk and into his bag. He turns around, surprise momentarily vanishing his anger.
Madam Pince stands there, swishing her wand, lips white and thin with fury.
“The sanctity,” she says, voice trembling with rage, “of the library.”
James writes out another potion label.
His first detention in forever, and it’s not even for something worth it, like a prank. Just an argument with his best friend. James is beginning to suspect McGonagall has a soft spot for him, though; he was set to work helping Pomfrey in the infirmary. The first-aid course he completed last year had been very interesting and James thinks McGonagall’s perfectly aware that he’s content sorting through medicine vials and rolling bandages. Scorpius, on the other hand, had been sent off to organise star-charts in the Astronomy Tower.
He does have two companions for his detention: the loathsome Sinclair, who is currently scrubbing out the medicine cupboard and complaining bitterly about it, and — very unexpectedly – Rose, who is evading all questions about her detention.
“I told you, James,” she mutters as she cleans empty vials, “it was just an argument.”
“Nobody gets a detention just for arguing with someone.”
“You did.”
“That’s different. It was in the library. You know how Madam Pince is.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it something embarrassing? Why won’t you tell me?”
Sinclair waves his hand at Pomfrey. “Madam Pomfrey! Potter and Weasley are talking! No talking allowed in detention! Besides, it’s very distracting — ”
Pomfrey looks up from her current task of soothing a hysterical second-year sprouting hair all over their eyeballs. “For heaven’s sake. You’re all nearly adults. Sort it out amongst yourselves.”
Sinclair scowls and throws an empty vial into the cupboard; it shatters.
Pomfrey narrows her eyes.
Sinclair ends up with an extra hour of detention, giving James and Rose the gift of leaving the infirmary without him. Though Rose is hardly an improvement on the company of Sinclair; she’s sullen and withdrawn as they make their way back to the Gryffindor tower.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” James asks.
“I told you, it’s nothing!”
“I’m just a bit worried about you, that’s all,” James says defensively. “This isn’t like you, Rose. Is everything all right?”
Rose’s shoulders slump. “I was trying out a new strategy for Saturday’s game, that’s all, and the captain didn’t like it. We argued about it, she went and told McGonagall.”
James frowns at her. He knows the captain — Clare, Iwan’s best friend — and she’s always seemed reasonable and polite. “McGonagall gave you detention for disagreeing with your captain? That doesn’t seem right.”
Rose still won’t look at him. “It was a stupid strategy,” she mutters at last. “Mazur’s Tumble. You won’t have heard of it. Anyway — ”
“Wait a minute,” James says sharply, because he has heard of it — Scorpius showed him that move once. I’ve never performed it in a game, because it’s considered a dirty move, he’d told James. And James can see why: it’s a fake fall, and opposing players might stop playing and rush to the apparent victim’s defence. “You wanted to use that tactic on Saturday? You’re playing against Ravenclaw! Scorpius is your friend, he would’ve dropped everything to try and help you!”
Rose says nothing. She knows, James realises. She’d calculated this. The strategy might not have worked on the Slytherin seeker, who strictly played to win and might have ignored Rose’s seemingly accidental fall, but Scorpius — far more trusting and caring about others — would have easily lost the game as he rushed to help Rose instead.
“That is low,” James says angrily. “Really low, Rose.”
“It’s not cheating! It’s not an illegal move, I checked the rule book — ”
“It’s a dirty way to win a game. I’d be ashamed to win that way.”
“You don’t understand! He always wins, every single match! I’ve lost every Ravenclaw game for three years now, James! It’s not fair — ”
“It is fair, because he’s not winning through dirty moves!”
Rose says nothing, but her face begins to crumple and James sighs, his anger dissolving beneath the weight of concern, and he leans against the wall. “What’s going on?” he asks.
Rose gestures at herself. “I’m not good enough,” she says. “My mum’s right. I’ve argued with her for years about it. Quidditch is my dream. I don’t want to become a Healer or a lawyer or some other stupid Ministry job. I just want to fly.” She gestures again, a dismissive wave of her hand. “But I’m not good enough. I’m not. Do you know what it’s like when your own mother keeps telling you that your dreams are unrealistic, and it turns out she’s right?”
“No,” James says, and Rose looks at him before bursting into tears.
“I’m horrible,” she says through sobs. “Complaining about my mum, when Aunt Ginny died when you were barely old enough to remember her — ”
James starts laughing then. “Rose. You’re not awful. It’s fine.”
“It’s not! Don’t laugh, James — how can you laugh?”
“Remember when Teddy used to take me to Diagon Alley and pat me on the head while asking shopkeepers if they had orphan discounts? And the shopkeepers would look so uncomfortable and guilty, they’d give him half-price coupons just to make him go away.”
Rose stares at him, then says tentatively, “Uncle Harry found out, I remember that. He went off like a firecracker at Teddy.”
“And Teddy just stood there, shaking his head sadly, and said it was really disappointing that Dad didn’t want me to get free ice-creams and half-price toys.”
Rose starts smiling then, despite the fresh tears on her face. “Merlin, he was absolutely shameless sometimes. Some of the stuff he said and did...”
“Aunt Andromeda’s wedding veil,” James says, and Rose shakes her head.
“Oh, I’d forgotten! We were pretending to be ghouls...you accidentally tore it and Teddy took the blame because you were absolutely petrified of Aunt Andromeda finding out.”
“Oh, the broomshed fire, do you remember that? Teddy wasn’t allowed near firecrackers for a year afterwards.”
Rose laughs, then quietens. “I can only imagine what he’d say to me right now,” she says. “He’d be so disappointed.”
James studies her. “He wouldn’t be. He’d understand. You’re upset,” he says eventually. “We do stupid things when we’re upset. Trust me, I know. Just promise me you won’t do it again, Rose. This isn’t you.”
“I promise.” She pauses, then adds, “Please don’t tell Scorpius. I know how close you two are, you share everything.”
Used to, James thinks.
But he reassures Rose that her secret is safe.
Rose performs well at the Quidditch match; James cheers her on along with the rest of the Gryffindors. She watches Scorpius like a hawk and mimics his movements, performing daring dives and hairpin turns, but none of her moves quite match Scorpius’s dexterity and skill. As the game continues, Scorpius suddenly bolts towards the goalposts; Rose turns and chases him, and James can see the desperation and determination in her expression. Then she catches up to Scorpius, giving it her all — starts to even surpass him —
Scorpius is letting her get ahead, James suddenly realises. Scorpius is the fastest player on the team — possibly of all the teams — and there’s no way Rose could catch up to him so easily. There’s no snitch. Scorpius has realised that Rose is diligently copying his every move instead of searching for the snitch by herself, and he’s feigned a race to victory.
James is right. Just as Rose passes Scorpius by, a triumphant look on her face, Scorpius does a turn, so sharp and quick that James nearly misses it. He races away towards the pitch, nothing but a blur, and reaches out to almost casually grab the snitch. By the time Rose has caught up to him, it’s all over. James sees the expressions flashing across Rose’s face: anger, embarrassment, and despair. She’d been so fixated on Scorpius that she hadn’t even looked ahead to realise there was no snitch — now she’ll have to answer to her disappointed team mates. She flies to the pitch, where her captain waits with a disbelieving expression. They exchange only a handful of words; the captain shakes her head. Then the Ravenclaw team arrives, and Rose manages to politely shake hands with them. James watches as she shakes Scorpius’s hand and repeats, “Good game,” to him.
But as she walks away, her shoulders slump and her head hangs low.
Afterwards, James goes to the greenhouse to tend to the cactus. It straightens up when it sees him, bristling all its spines in a display of smugness, and James has to hide a smile — he thinks that if it could purr, it would.
“Here, let’s relocate you,” he says, moving the cactus away from a first-year’s wilted Lovesick Daisy. “You deserve a spot all to yourself.”
The cactus bristles a bit more. James selects a sunny spot next to a rare Ghost Blossom; the cactus seems to approve.
“I didn’t see you at the game.”
James jumps, then glances behind him. Scorpius is leaning against a shelf of watering cans, still dressed in his Quidditch uniform.
“I was there. Cheering Rose.”
“You usually cheer for me too.”
James turns back to his cactus, adjusting the pot slightly. “Rose needed it more today.”
Scorpius says nothing. James taps his wand against the cactus’s pot, casting a spell designed to catch and hold the sun’s heat.
“Sorry,” Scorpius says after a while. “For getting you a detention.”
James puts his wand away and picks up his bag. “Why are you here, anyway? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, acting like we’re not friends. Now you’ve gotten what you wanted.”
“James — ”
“Don’t bother.” James leaves.
Scorpius doesn’t call out again.
Scorpius seems miserable after that, but James determinedly ignores him. Besides, James has got his other friends to rely on. Thomas and Iwan cheer him up with stupid pranks during swim practice; the dormitory boys give him plenty of laughs too. Lorcan and Lysander spend lunchtimes sharing their odd theories about the world, and Rose asks James to help her practice Quidditch moves. James obliges, knowing how important it is to her, despite the chilly autumn air giving him frozen hands and a numb face as he flies around the pitch.
“I can do it,” Rose tells him with determination. “That was my mistake last time. Trying to copy Scorpius. I’ve got to find my own strategies. Throw the snitch again, James.”
He does so, watching it arc overhead before it takes flight and vanishes skywards.
“Count of three,” Rose says.
James prepares for another race, readjusting his achingly cold hands on the broom, but he’s saved at the last minute by an appearance from Lysander; with his wispy blond hair, he looks like a stray dandelion blown onto the pitch.
“Hang on, let’s go see what he wants,” James says, and he flies downward, Rose following him. He lands rather gracelessly on the pitch as he calls out. “Lysander! What’s wrong?”
Lysander gives him a tragic look. “I’ve lost Archimedes.”
James stares at him. “He’s been dead nearly two thousand years.”
Lysander blinks. “My pet rat.”
“Oh. Right. Obviously.”
Rose smirks at him.
They split up to search Hogwarts. Evidently there’s already a search party enlisted by Lysander, and the most likely areas have been searched; James volunteers to explore the more distant and dusty parts of the castle. He takes his Marauder’s Map with him, studying it as he walks along, but he can’t see any little rat paw prints anywhere. Privately, he wonders if Archimedes has met an untimely end.
Farther and farther into the corridors he wanders. The sun is setting now, the candles lighting. He gets stuck on several moving staircases, which makes him suspicious; he knows the castle can have a mind of its own and often leads students to particular places. He’s going to be very annoyed if the castle decides to drop him down a trapdoor for a laugh.
This part of the castle is very quiet now. The corridors are empty, and dust gathers on the handles of empty classroom doors. There’s no portraits on the walls. A solitary suit of armour creaks as James walks past it.
He glances down at his map just in time to see a set of footprints around the corner. A second later, he collides with the owner of them.
“Were you following me?” James demands as he stumbles backwards.
Scorpius straightens his robes and gives him an incredulous look. “Yes, James. I’m spending my evenings stalking you through very remote areas of the castle. You know, not everything is about — ”
“All right, sorry,” James mutters. “It’s just...I didn’t even know this part of the castle existed.”
Scorpius gives him a reserved look. “Neither did I. I was only looking for someone’s rat, and then I got stuck on staircases...”
James’s suspicions about Hogwarts intensify, but he says nothing about it. Instead, he turns away and resumes walking along the corridor. “Personally, I think the rat has gone to live in a lovely little cage beyond the veil,” he says. “It’s not on the map anywhere.”
“Hogwarts is huge, the map only shows a certain distance around you. You’d have to walk around the entire castle.”
“Yeah, well, I still think...” James trails off as he rounds the next corner.
This corridor is dark and clearly damaged; old bricks lay in piles along the floor, thick with dust. Not a single candle lights the way. Halfway along the corridor, a long scorch mark begins as a faint line and grows larger and larger until it creates a large, jet-black shape on the wall — a perfect rectangle. James walks slowly over to it, stepping over the fallen bricks and stones.
Scorpius’s footsteps echo through the dark as he catches up to James. After a moment, he reaches out and touches the wall. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know,” James says uneasily. He looks down at his map. “There’s not supposed to be anything here...”
Scorpius drops his hand. His breath hangs white in the air; a deep chill surrounds them.
James stares at his map, then back at the wall. “Think hard,” he murmurs to himself, “about a place you need.”
Scorpius glances uncertainly at him. After a while, there’s a faint murmur of magic and a mangled, half-destroyed door appears.
“The Room of Requirement,” Scorpius breathes. “I thought this place was destroyed.”
“It is.” It must be; his father had always been adamant about that. James reaches out and opens the door, pulling on the half-melted handle.
They step inside.
The room is cast in darkness, gloomy and cavernous. The walls are charred, and broken enchantments litter the floor: half-transfigured chairs, books with no pages, a lamp with no light. The smell of acrid smoke hangs in the air, as if the room is still burning after all this time. Scorpius gives a little shiver and pulls his cloak closer around his shoulders.
“It’s cold,” he whispers.
There’s a faint creak. They turn their faces upwards and watch a blackened rafter suddenly snap and collapse, falling into the gloom with an echoing boom that makes them both jump. Cold grey ashes rise into the air, a looming cloud.
“We should go,” Scorpius says edgily. “This room isn’t — ”
“Malfoy? Potter?”
They both turn. A hulking ghost stares at them, dressed in tattered and charred robes. The Slytherin crest is barely visible. The ghost drifts towards them, then pauses.
“You did come back for me. I knew you would, Malfoy, I knew you wouldn’t leave your oldest friend to burn...”
And then a spectral flame, green and vivid, suddenly erupts along the ghost’s robes, and he screams, writhing for a moment before vanishing.
Scorpius’s face is a white gleam in the darkness. His breathing is quick and shallow; he bolts toward the door but the ghost reappears.
“Don’t leave me here, Malfoy...the flames, they burn...”
Scorpius tries to dart around the ghost, but it reappears right in front of him, leaning close, opening its mouth wide in another scream as the flames begin anew. Scorpius cries out in horror.
“Leave me alone!”
“Don’t leave me here to die again, Malfoy...”
James catches up to Scorpius and pulls him close, hugging him and at the same time pushing Scorpius’s face into his shoulder, shielding him from the apparition. “Don’t look. It’s okay, Scorpius,” he whispers. “I promise, it’s okay.” Scorpius nods, the movement barely perceptible against James’s shoulder, and James tightens his arms around him. “It’s just a ghost. It’s okay. Close your eyes. You’ll be all right.”
The ghost moves closer, staring at them; its face begins to melt like a grotesque carnival mask, its mouth yawning wide in a silent scream of agony and its eyes melting, leaving empty sockets. James presses a hand to the back of Scorpius’s head, preventing him from lifting his face to look.
“Leave us,” James tells the ghost. “We are not our fathers.”
The ghost vanishes, then returns inches away from James, resuming its initial appearance. It stares at him intensely, then drops its gaze to Scorpius, still held close in James’s arms.
“You’re not Potter,” the ghost says slowly. “And you’re not Malfoy...”
Scorpius’s grip tightens on James though he says nothing. The ghost begins to slowly fade, and James watches until he’s staring at thin air. He waits, just to be sure, then loosens his grip on Scorpius.
“It’s gone.”
After a long moment Scorpius steps back, but he still maintains an almost painful grip on James’s arm. James doesn’t mention it, just starts nudging him towards the door until it opens and they step back into the charred corridor.
Scorpius doesn’t let go until they’ve rounded the corner and stepped into the brightly-lit corridor, and even then he doesn’t speak until they’ve left that silent, empty part of the castle and they’re back within earshot of the distant chatter and footsteps of other students. Then he finally relaxes, his shoulders slumping, and to James’s surprise he says, sounding exhausted, “Can’t we be friends again?”
James studies Scorpius’s pale face, the terror from the encounter with the ghost still evident, then sighs. “You’re the one who’s been avoiding me.”
“I’m trying to...” Scorpius trails off. “It’s just...you were right, you know. I am still listening to my father. He told me some things just aren’t possible...and I know he’s right. So I’m just trying to...”
”What? What’s impossible?” James asks.
Scorpius hesitates. “Do you think we’ll still be friends after graduation?”
James finally realises why Scorpius has been avoiding him lately, and he feels a flash of irritation and anger. “Is that what this is about? You and your bloody self-preservation. Did Draco tell you that all your friends would drop you the moment we graduated? And you listened to him and decided to just cut me out of your life right now.”
Scorpius drops his gaze. “He’s right, though. We’ll hardly see each other after graduation, we’ll go our separate ways — ”
”Can you have a little faith in our friendship?”
Scorpius says nothing, but he looks so defeated and miserable that James automatically hugs him; he’s almost overwhelmed with relief when Scorpius returns the gesture.
”Don’t do this,” James says. “It’s our final year. Our year.”
Scorpius holds onto him so tightly it nearly hurts.
Harry waits for a message from Draco — a letter, a fire-call, a quick visit — but there’s nothing. He wonders whether he should visit him; he’s worried about him, but no doubt Draco would bristle at the very idea of Harry checking on his welfare.
So he waits.
He does receive two letters in the first week of September, and he hopes they’re from Draco if only for reassurance. But the first letter is from James — a casual missive about his first week — and the second is from Hogwarts. It’s only a brief courtesy letter, letting him know that Scorpius has requested for Harry to be nominated as his primary contact for any matters Hogwarts might have.
Harry stares down at the letter for a while. He’s becoming quite entangled in the fight between Scorpius and Draco, and he does wish they’d settle it between them. It’s a family matter, and he can’t help but feel he’s intruding. Yet he can hardly refuse to help Scorpius, so he slowly writes a brief letter to McGonagall, accepting the request.
After he sends it, he sits down and writes a reply to James. The letter from him is a pleasant surprise; James generally used to write only to request things or ask for news of his numerous cousins. Harry appreciates the gesture. He remembers the cheerful letters young Scorpius used to send Draco, and wonders how many letters Draco is receiving now.
Unfortunately, it’s an easy guess.
September passes by, and then October — and still no word from Draco. Harry is beginning to get concerned. They weren’t particularly on good terms when Scorpius went missing, but after everything that happened afterwards, Harry had at least thought things might change.
Nevertheless, he determinedly tells himself not to interfere. He’s got plenty of other things to keep him busy: slowly continuing work on James’s motorbike, and occasionally helping Ron and George with the shop, and he volunteers his Saturdays to referee the local junior Quidditch games. He doesn’t realise, though, that he does miss working until one afternoon when he’s visiting Ron and Hermione.
“Looking forward to the Christmas rush,” he tells Ron casually, and Ron gives him a horrified look.
“What, at the shop? Why would you look forward to that? It’s madness.”
“Good though, isn’t it? Keeps you busy.”
“Harry,” Hermione says pityingly, “you need a hobby.”
“I’ve got one. I’ve got several.”
“A job.”
Harry gets a bit defensive. “I had a job. There’s a reason I quit it.”
“Right, because it’s one of the most intense and demanding jobs available. You know, there’s plenty of other, slightly less insane jobs.”
“I’m not qualified for anything else.”
Hermione exchanges a look with Ron, then takes a sip of tea. “It would benefit you economically,” she says.
“I’m not poor,” Harry says, and then realises with horror he sounds exactly like Draco.
“Well, no. But you’ve given very generously to charities over the years, and James has never been left wanting for anything his entire life.”
“I don’t spoil my son.” Still sounding like Draco.
“I’m just being rational, Harry. Your savings must be running low now.”
“Look, I don’t need anyone’s charity...oh God, why can’t I stop talking like him?”
“Like who?” Hermione asks, and Ron gives Harry a worried look.
“Nobody,” Harry mutters. “Fine. I get it, you’re just trying to help. I’ll think about it.”
Neither Hermione nor Ron look any less concerned.
Harry goes home and heads to his study. It’s still lined with old files and paperwork. The pensieve is locked in the cupboard — purely for professional use, used to store memories of interviews with suspects and possible evidence. He’s still maintained his workplace despite his resignation.
Still, there’s a few personal items. The drawer where Harry stores James’s letters, and there’s the family tree Draco made for him. It’s a vast and sprawling tree with thousands of leaves, each one unfurling with the tap of a wand, and it’s fascinating to follow the lives of his ancestors. Draco has managed to uncover some very interesting life histories, extracted from lengthy immigration records and newspaper archives. Harry can’t fault his attention to detail.
Currently, it sits in the centre of his desk, a single emerald-green leaf with one name engraved on it:
James Sirius Potter
17 Feb 2004 —
A little dash, and then one day, it will have an end date engraved next to it. A life bookended by two sets of numbers. Harry pauses, then taps the leaf. Two new leaves grow above it:
Harry James Potter
31 Jul 1980 —
Ginevra Molly ‘Ginny’ Weasley
11 Aug 1981 — 9 Feb 2008.
The first leaf with a death date, and it’s so close to that first tiny leaf. It just doesn’t seem fair. James had four short years with his mother. Four years is nothing, Harry thinks. Four years is a drop of water in the vast river that should have been James and Ginny’s time together.
He taps Ginny’s leaf. The leaves that sprout are numerous now, listing all her siblings and her parents. Another death date appears here: Frederick ‘Fred’ Weasley.
Harry remembers Mrs Weasley telling him she felt lucky, years after the war. Lucky for only losing one son. There were families who had lost all their children. Families who didn’t even know what happened to their loved ones. People had mysteriously vanished all the time during the reign of Voldemort. Even today, families are still searching for hidden graves and Obliviated relatives.
Harry studies the leaves.
Scorpius does try hard to mend things, James thinks. He’s still got that melancholia hanging over him, but he does his best to close the distance between them that he created. He goes flying with James, and helps him learn the trickier spells, and casts new enchantments in their room. Still, it doesn’t feel like things are properly back to normal.
Not until James organises Scorpius’s birthday present.
It takes him a while. He has to get permission from McGonagall, who in turn has to get permission from Harry. Scorpius will be eighteen by the time the present — a few days after his birthday — will be given, but James is still seventeen and not allowed to leave Hogwarts without his father’s permission.
Harry evidently grants it without so much as a single question about it, which makes James find newfound appreciation for his father.
The fifteenth of November comes and goes without much attention from James; he can tell Scorpius is a little disappointed.
“Sorry, was I supposed to get you something?” James says innocently as they practice enchantments in their room that evening.
Scorpius gives him a faintly suspicious look and almost casually fires off a rapid series of spells; the oak tree suddenly sheds all its autumn leaves and becomes coated with silver frost. “You usually get me something.”
“I’ll buy you a drink at the Three Broomsticks this weekend.”
“I’ll have to buy it, seeing as you’re still seventeen.” Scorpius flicks his wand offhandedly at the tree; parts of the frost melt together to become glittering stars. He’s performing transfiguration well beyond seventh year and he’s not even studying magic any more, but James doesn’t comment on it. “Anyway, I promised Lorcan and Nate I’d study with them this weekend.”
“Well, you’ll need to cancel those plans. I’m taking you to the Three Broomsticks and making you buy your own birthday drink.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “How nice.”
“Great, it’s settled. See you then.”
Scorpius makes an impressive swishing motion, bringing the stars whirling through the air to create a snowstorm effect. “Fine,” he says.
James grins.
He wakes early on Saturday morning and sneaks into the Ravenclaw tower; Lysander lets him in, as pre-arranged. Keeping the invisibility cloak wrapped tightly around himself, he slips upstairs to the dormitory and finds Scorpius’s bed easily enough; Scorpius, ever the late riser, is fast asleep.
“Scorpius,” James whispers, nudging him.
Scorpius murmurs something and rolls over.
“Scorpius.” A slightly harder nudge.
Scorpius blinks slowly, looking confused. He props himself up on his elbows and glances around; James tugs the invisibility cloak away from his head and nudges Scorpius again for good measure.
“James? What’s going on?”
“Come on, get up.”
“Why?”
“We have to go soon.”
“Go where?”
James grins at him. “Wales.”
Scorpius stares at him.
It was a good choice, James decides. Scorpius won’t stop chatting the entire time they walk to the gates of Hogwarts, where the portkey will take them to Cardiff, and his expression is as bright as the new day.
“But how?”
“Asked McGonagall for permission. She helped me make all the arrangements.”
“The whole weekend? Where will we stay?”
“Dad’s booked the accommodation,” James says carelessly. “He’s sent me some Muggle money too. We can spend the whole weekend in Muggle Cardiff.”
“We could watch a movie,” Scorpius says, as if James is offering him the stars and moon. “A movie. It’s been years and years...a football match, we could go to a football match!”
James laughs. “We can do whatever you want.”
They reach the gates. McGonagall is waiting there, the portkey in one hand. “Good morning,” she says crisply. “As arranged, Potter, you’ll have the weekend. You are expected to return to Hogwarts by five o’clock sharp Sunday evening.” She hands him the portkey; he offers it to Scorpius, both of them holding onto it. “Ready?” McGonagall asks.
“Yes, professor,” they say simultaneously.
She taps her wand against it, sending them away in the blink of an eye.
Scorpius is like an excited child in a sweet shop, James thinks with amusement. He wants to do everything. They start with a visit to a cinema and James laughs when Scorpius picks a children’s animated film.
“I thought you’d choose some serious arthouse film. Something cultured,” James teases.
“Popcorn,” Scorpius says, ignoring him. “Lots of popcorn. And the pick-and-mix. I was never allowed to get the pick-and-mix when I was a kid, it was too expensive.”
“What’s the pick-and-mix?”
Scorpius points behind James, to an area filled with glossy containers of sweets.
“Ah. Should’ve guessed.”
James thinks Scorpius is happy just to have the experience and re-live his Muggle childhood rather than watch any particular movie. After the movie, they go to a local football match — and just like the cinema, Scorpius doesn’t seem fixed on any particular aspect of it. He doesn’t even seem to care which teams are playing. He’s just thrilled to go to a game and join in the shouting and cheering.
As the afternoon darkens into dusk, though, James reminds Scorpius he did promise to buy him a drink.
“I’m buying it, you mean,” Scorpius says.
“Come on, then, let’s go to a pub.”
Scorpius pauses. “Oh,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I haven’t got any identification. They ask for it in Muggle pubs. It’s not like the magical ones, where you can just put your hand over the age wards.”
“Oh.” James hadn’t thought of that. “Sorry, it’ll have to be a magical one, then.”
Scorpius looks taken aback. “There’s not any in Cardiff, though, is there?”
James smiles at first, then realises Scorpius is serious. “Well...London isn’t the only city with magical shops. That would be inconvenient.”
“There’s a place like Diagon Alley here?” Scorpius demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you’d just want to do Muggle things, not magical.”
“Why not both?”
James can’t really argue with that.
Though it’s late in the evening and most shops are closed, the nightlife is just beginning to light up the wizarding streets of Cardiff. They debate their choices and skip a seedy-looking pub in favour of a brightly-lit inn named the Mended Cauldron; James wonders if it’s a counterpart to the Leaky Cauldron. Scorpius goes to the bar, looking far too smug about having his first drink, and returns to James with a slightly sticky list of drinks.
“Look,” Scorpius says. “I can pick anything.”
They pore over the list. James is adamant that Scorpius has to buy the most embarrassing drink available; Scorpius is rather endearingly aghast about it.
“Can’t I just try one of the normal drinks? The spiced rum looks nice.”
“No, no. It’s tradition. Worst drink on the list,” James says, pointing to one of the more creative cocktails.
Scorpius looks appalled. “I’m not going up to the bar and asking for a Lusty Hag!”
“Do you want to have Sex in a Cauldron instead?”
Scorpius goes bright red. “That’s not even a drink! You’re just making it up!”
James leans back in his chair, evading Scorpius’s attempts to snatch the list from him. “Come on, Scorpius, no need to be shy. Don’t you want to try a Mouthful of Magic?”
Scorpius lunges across the table and snatches the list from James, his face scarlet. “I’m going to murder you. That’s what I’ll order - James Potter’s Inevitable Death.”
“Doesn’t sound as fun as a Naughty Dragon.”
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Scorpius says, settling back into his chair and evidently trying to scrape some dignity together. “I’ll order an Invisibility Cloak, I think. Wipe that smirk off your face or I won’t get you anything.”
“Oh, fine. I’ll have a butterbeer.”
Scorpius looks disappointed. “Oh. Don’t you want to have a terrible drink too?”
“I can’t, you numpty. I’m still seventeen, remember? And don’t order something for me, the bartender will kick us both out.”
Scorpius slumps in his chair. “It’s no fun doing it by myself.”
“That’s why you need a Lusty Hag.”
It works. Scorpius laughs and stands up. “Fine. I’ll have a drink and then we’ll go.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s your eighteenth. Have a good time.”
Scorpius gets up and disappears into the crowd, eventually returning with their drinks. James frowns at Scorpius’s glass. “It’s empty.”
“That’s what I said, and the bartender laughed at me. I did order an Invisibility Cloak.”
They peer at the glass together.
“Do you want to try a bit?” Scorpius asks, glancing quickly at the busy bartender.
“You first.”
“Thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”
“We’re also honourable. I can’t drink until I’m eighteen,” James says loftily; Scorpius rolls his eyes.
“Coward. Fine, I’ll drink.” He raises the glass to his lips, appears to take a long swig, then sets the glass down. “Oh, that was quite nice. Try a bit.”
“Oh, was it?” James picks up the glass and proceeds to drink some absolutely vile concoction that tastes like bleach poured over daffodils. He chokes and reaches desperately for his butterbeer. “That was absolutely disgusting, Scorpius!”
Scorpius starts laughing. “I know!”
“Oh, you sneaky little git.”
They follow it up with the much nicer Love Potion Number Ten; although James teases Scorpius when the bright pink drink arrives, complete with a tiny umbrella, it’s a sugary improvement. After that comes a Merlin’s Hat and a Neon Curse, and then Scorpius decides he’s had enough. James is a little surprised.
“It’s your eighteenth. Sure you don’t want another?”
“No, no. Can’t — got to keep a clear mind. Can’t say something stupid.”
“You’re perfectly capable of saying something stupid while sober,” James says cheerfully as they leave.
“Something — something really stupid.”
“All right, let’s go then. Dad said he booked accommodation in central Cardiff for us.”
Scorpius grabs his arm. “Is it one of the tall glass things?”
“What?”
“A metal tower.”
“What are you talking about? Are you trying to describe a skyscraper? There’s not really...it’s Cardiff, Scorpius.”
“I want to go on one of those,” Scorpius breathes, watching a double decker bus go past.
“On a bus? Sure, I’ll — ”
“The special bus. On top of another bus.”
“Yeah, a double decker. And — ”
“I want chips.”
“God, you’ve gotten drunk on four cocktails.”
“Chips!”
“All right, calm down and stop acting like an angry seagull. We’ll go on the bus and get you chips.”
Scorpius couldn’t look happier.
They spend the Sunday lazily, with a late breakfast at a nearby cafe. Scorpius seems content to amble around the city, pausing by familiar landmarks: the school he attended as a child, and particular shops his mother used to frequent, and the park where they fed ducks every Saturday. No matter how little money they had, Scorpius’s mother always put aside a handful of change to buy a loaf of stale bread for their weekend trip to the park.
Scorpius and James sit on a bench in that same park, watching people come and go. The sky is overcast and the cold biting, but there’s plenty of people braving the weather to feed the ducks and walk around the pond.
“Nothing ever changes much,” Scorpius says distantly as he watches a toddler chase the ducks. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Seven years ago, my mother was alive and I was a Muggle.”
James shivers against a chilly breeze and puts his hands in his coat pockets. “Do you wish you could go back? If you had a time turner right now...”
A light rain begins to dampen the air. The mother scoops up the toddler, carrying them to shelter. “No,” Scorpius says at last. “There is nothing for me there.”
“You miss your mum, though.”
Scorpius glances up at James, his grey eyes matching the overcast sky. “I’ve got a memory,” he says. “Once I get my pensieve back, I’ll give it to you.”
It’s a cryptic non-sequitur, but James accepts it without comment. Instead, he nudges Scorpius with his shoulder.
“Come on, it’s getting cold. Let’s go somewhere warm.”
“Like where?”
James shrugs, mentally rifling through ideas. “Any museums nearby? Or maybe — ”
Scorpius sits up. “Oh! The National Museum! Can’t believe I forgot. Come on, let’s go.”
They stand up together and hurry away, leaving the now empty park behind.
The sky is already dark by the time they return to Hogwarts, arriving just in time to abide by McGonagall’s curfew. Scorpius is still smiling and speaking about the weekend; as they go to the Great Hall for dinner, readying to part ways and go to their respective tables, Scorpius thanks James.
”You don’t have to thank me, you numpty,” James says, amused. “It’s your birthday. I had to get you a present.”
”Yes, but...” Scorpius gestures inarticulately, then says, “I know I’ve been awful this year.”
James frowns at him. “Not awful. You just...need to stop listening to your father.”
”I wish I could. It’s like having a little negative voice in the back of my mind all the time.” Scorpius touches his shoulder, a gesture which which soon turns into a hug. Scorpius has always been affectionate, but he seems even more so these days, as if he thinks James might suddenly vanish any moment.
Or, at least, after graduation.
But Scorpius is still trying hard, and so James returns the hug without another word about it.
Time goes on despite Scorpius’s silence. Draco must still run errands, and work, and do the chores.
Most of his work is too easy these days. Tracing Harry’s Muggle tree had been a refreshing challenge. Bootmakers and washerwoman, traced only by census forms, and shipping records, and the marriage licences. Good, honest lives. Children were raised; the women married, the men inherited the family occupation. On and on it went. The occasional prison record from a family member who got into a drunken state or picked a fight in the street. A fine for running an unlicensed inn. All the little details from tiny lives that Draco had to carefully unravel through scraps of overlooked records.
Now it’s all earls and barons. The Pureblood families with their lofty lines and royal connections. Wills written in Latin, estates meticulously divided between families, land deeds and little biographies written into books detailing the lives of England’s landed gentry. All laid out, easy for Draco to simply transcribe into a family tree. If he uncovers any family secrets — an illegitimate son, an ancestor who abandoned his family and started a new life abroad — he ignores them. His Pureblood clients don’t really want a family tree. They want a pedigree certificate.
So he spends the long nights poring over wills and deeds, waiting for the faintest whisper of wings.
Waiting for a letter.
Scorpius’s birthday comes and goes. Draco sends him a birthday card and a present, but — as with all his other letters — there’s no reply.
At least it’s not coming back with ‘returned to sender’ stamped across it, he consoles himself.
Still, a week after Scorpius’s eighteenth birthday, he finds himself Flooing to Harry’s house.
It’s blocked.
Draco finds he’s not surprised, somehow. He Disapparates instead, walking up the long driveway to Harry’s ramshackle home. Harry opens the door before Draco can knock.
“Hello,” Harry says, guarded and slightly distant.
“You haven’t heard from Scorpius, have you?” Draco asks, skipping niceties.
Harry sighs, then opens the door a little more. “Come in,” he says.
Draco waits. Across the desk, Harry is frowning and rifling through a stack of letters. His study is small and disorganised. Paperwork is stacked everywhere. Books line the walls, not in any particular order. The desk is a mess of quills and papers and empty mugs.
Draco stares at the stack of letters. All from James, apparently. He tries to calculate them as Harry skims each one. Twenty in total.
That means two letters a week.
“James writes often?”
Harry glances up at him. “Not long letters. Mostly asking about the motorbike — Sirius’s old motorbike. We’re repairing it together, though I’ve gotten his permission to work on it in his absence. I keep him updated on progress. And his swimming, he likes to tell me his results. Oh, and he’s got this cactus — had it since second year, and it is honestly the most annoying plant I’ve ever encountered, but he loves it to bits even though he’d never admit it, and...” Harry trails off and looks at Draco’s expression, then glances back down at the letters. “Let’s see...James wrote in October to say that Scorpius won the first Quidditch match of the year...” He scans the next few letters. “He wrote in early November...mentioned that he and Scorpius had fun at the Halloween Feast...ah, and here, just two weeks ago. James asked me to help organise a birthday gift for Scorpius.”
“That’s it?” Draco asks. A Quidditch match. Halloween. A birthday gift.
That’s all he’s got.
Three little bits of Scorpius’s life.
Harry sighs. “What do you want me to say, Draco? James isn’t going to write me letters concerning Scorpius’s innermost thoughts and feelings.”
Draco doesn’t say anything. After a moment, Harry stands up.
“I’ll go put the kettle on,” he says.
Draco listens to his footsteps fade. The letters are scattered across the desk like dry leaves; Draco stares at them. Lines and lines of James’s scrawled handwriting. Every now and again, he can make out a few phrases.
...and Saltworth reckons I could even try the open water events...
...the carburettor still needs work? I thought we were finally done with it...
...nearly died laughing, of course Martin was bloody furious though and chased Peeves down the corridor...
The casual anecdotes, the little asides, the insignificant stories.
Draco misses all of it.
He stands up, planning to leave, but then a letter catches his eye. It’s got the official arms of Hogwarts stamped in the right corner, and it’s written in a beautiful cursive script.
Scorpius.
Draco can read the name, faint and upside-down, and he pauses before slowly pulling the letter towards him.
Dear Mr Potter,
Our records show that Scorpius Malfoy altered his enrolment details on the eighth of September; he removed the primary contact and emergency contact and replaced them with you. Please respond with a request to have your details removed from his file if you do not consent to be contacted by Hogwarts regarding Scorpius’s welfare.
Kind regards,
Minerva McGonagall.
Footsteps. Draco pushes the letter away again.
“Here you go,” Harry says, setting the cup of tea down.
Draco looks up at him, then down at the tea. “Thank you,” he says.
Harry nods and starts collecting the letters into a neat pile. He spots the Hogwarts letter near Draco’s elbow and pauses for a moment before casually sweeping it under another letter and adding it to the stack.
“Listen,” Harry says, “I understand you want to know how Scorpius is, but...I’m not going to ask James to send letters about him. It just seems a bit...I don’t know. I don’t want James to feel like he has to spy on his best friend.”
Harry waits, as if expecting a rebuttal, but Draco says nothing. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s milky and weak, but he drinks it anyway.
“Well,” Harry says after a moment. “I hope you hear from him soon.”
Draco stands up. “Yes,” he says. “Well, I should leave. I’ve got some errands to run.
“Right, yeah. Of course. See you later, then.”
Draco picks up his cloak and settles it around his shoulders.
There’s a faint pop in the fireplace one morning, when Draco is preparing to go to Diagon Alley to run a few errands. It’s the Selwyns, dressed impeccably as usual and full of idle chatter: apparently, the Bulstrodes have had a death in the family. The elderly patriarch, Bartholomew Bulstrode, has died. Draco recalls him as being a bitter old man who hadn’t a shred of morality. He’d held a high position on the Wizengamot and during the wizarding war, he’d spoken in defence of those charged with the crime of being Muggleborn...as long as their families were able to pay him a hefty bribe for his mercy.
“What a loss to the community,” Mr Selwyn says.
“Oh, most certainly. His family is lobbying for a full state funeral, of course — he was the Vice-Chancellor for years,” Mrs Selwyn says, taking a bite of a biscuit.
“He won’t get a state funeral,” Draco says matter-of-factly.
Mrs Selwyn looks taken aback. “Why on earth not?”
He’s not sure if she’s being obtuse or has simply forgotten. “There was that Wizengamot business,” he says at last. “The matter regarding money exchanging hands...”
“Mere rumours,” Mr Selwyn says briskly. “They couldn’t prove anything. Bartholomew was an old friend of mine, in fact. Good man.”
“And he did serve the Ministry loyally for many years.” Mrs Selwyn sets her teacup down. “He deserves our respect. A magnificent memorial service, at least.”
He deserves to be tossed into a pauper’s grave, Draco thinks, but clearly Bartholomew’s crimes have been forgiven and forgotten — at least by the Selwyns. After all, being friends with the Vice-Chancellor of Wizengamot is a nice bragging point at dinner parties.
He says nothing, though. He learned long ago, as a young child, the value of keeping his mouth shut.
“Anyway,” Mr Selwyn says, “how’s young Scorpius?”
“He’s well, thank you.”
“Only Celia says he’s not replying to any of her letters,” Mrs Selwyn adds quickly. “It is rather upsetting her, I’m afraid.”
There’s a slight pause, and then Draco says, “Oh, yes. It’s actually — Hogwarts recently relocated the owlery and a lot of post has gone awry.”
“Oh, poor thing! He must be thinking Celia hasn’t sent him a thing. Tell him that Celia thinks of him every day, won’t you?” Mrs Selwyn says sympathetically.
“That school really is quite shameful,” Mr Selwyn says, brow furrowed in disapproval. “It’s outrageous that they lose students’ post like that. I hope they apologised to you.”
“It’s why we sent Celia abroad, actually,” Mrs Selwyn adds. “The quality of education here...it’s not the same, really. We did think about Beauxbatons but it’s quite common, isn’t it? They accept everyone. No, we found a lovely private academy in Switzerland, and Celia has just flourished there.”
Draco smiles politely.
That evening, he’s working on another Pureblood family tree when the wards suddenly sing and there’s a knock at the door. Draco frowns and sets his quill aside, then goes to the door.
It’s Harry. Draco frowns at him. “Oh,” he says. “Hello.”
Harry attempts a smile. “Don’t seem too overjoyed. Can I come in?”
Draco takes a step back, allowing him to walk into the hall. Harry hasn’t visited since the disastrous events of summer; Draco can’t imagine he’s here for a social visit.
Harry crinkles his nose. “Smells like old lady perfume in here.”
“Mrs Selwyn is very keen on her lavender water.”
Harry pauses. “They’re still visiting you?”
“Yes.”
Harry hesitates. “I assumed,” he says, in an annoyingly careful voice, “that perhaps your argument with Scorpius was about the Pureblood — ”
“Best not to make assumptions, then.”
Harry takes the hint and drops the subject. “Anyway. I’m here to ask for some help.”
“Help? With what?”
“Well, you’re very good at finding records, aren’t you? Tracking down relatives.” Harry hesitates. “There’s plenty of families still looking for lost relatives from the wizarding war. The Ministry’s funded an organisation to help the families, and I’ve sort of joined it...I thought some of my Auror skills might be useful, but what we really need is someone who specialises in locating lost records.”
Draco frowns at him. “I’m busy with plenty of work, Potter — ”
“I’m not suggesting it as a way to help you,” Harry says, looking indignant. “If you don’t want the work, then at least show me how you do it. How you manage to get all the information.”
Draco glances upstairs, to the study, where there’s a hefty will on his desk carefully allocating the treasures of a fifteenth-century rich Pureblood wizard.
“Send me an owl,” he says at last. “With more details about the organisation.”
Harry nods. “Thank you,” he says.
Draco doesn’t reply.
In the end, Draco agrees to undertake work in the new year, when he’s completed his current commissions. Harry keeps thanking him; Draco wishes he wouldn’t. He doesn’t want anyone’s gratitude.
In the meantime, Christmas is rapidly approaching. In the local village, the shop windows are festooned with twinkling lights. Wreaths appear on doors. The little toy store is bustling with business.
At first, Draco still hopes. He waits, and he waits, for that letter to arrive. He looks at the Christmas trees in the village square, freshly cut and smelling of pine, and considers which one Scorpius will like the most. He pauses by the little Muggle shop filled with glittering decorations, and spots a little owl ornament that he’s sure Scorpius would find rather endearing. He thinks about which presents Scorpius might like that year, and starts writing out lists of what to make for Christmas lunch. Oh, and all the little treats around the manor, of course, like he does every year — a bowl of bon-bons in the library, by Scorpius’s favourite reading spot, and sugar mice on the sideboard, and chocolates in the entrance hall for guests (though Scorpius eats all of them every year).
But the days creep past, becoming shorter and shorter as winter darkens the sky. And still there is no letter.
He stops looking at the Christmas trees and mentally calculating how they’ll fit in the drawing room. He doesn’t slow down to look at the kitschy ornaments. He stops making the meal plans and grocery lists, and doesn’t buy any sweets.
There’s no point without Scorpius.
Christmas Day dawns grey and overcast, the clouds threatening sleet or, perhaps if the temperature drops low enough, a light snow.
Draco spends most of the morning filling out a family tree. At midday, he stops. Right now, he should be seasoning the potatoes while Scorpius sits at the kitchen table, reading his book and occasionally glancing up to check on the progress of the roast. There should be the smell of pine in the drawing room, and the glitter of lights, and the brightly-wrapped presents piled under the tree.
Draco gets up and paces around the kitchen, then leaves it, shutting the door on the empty room. He heads towards his study, then pauses and stops by the sewing room. It used to be his mother’s. She was never particularly keen on sewing, but she was a skilled embroiderer and made many beautiful tapestries. Now, the shelves of coloured thread and blank canvases have made way for boxes of records and photographs. There’s a whole shelf that should be filled with memories, but it only has two albums on it. The first album, for when Scorpius was a baby and then a toddler. The second album, which begins when Scorpius returned home.
Six years.
Six missing years between those two albums.
Draco takes the first album down from the shelf and opens it. Even when Scorpius was a newborn, and so small that he fitted easily in the crook of Draco’s arm, there’s still the very faint beginnings of the person he would become. Something about his eyes, the shape of his mouth. The very tiny hint of what Scorpius might one day look like.
Astoria looks tired in the photographs. Draco hadn’t really noticed at the time. He’d been swept up in the joy of welcoming his son into the world. But even back then, when he thought they’d still been happy, Astoria just looks sad and tired.
You wish it had been Pansy Parkinson, Harry had implied, but Draco doesn’t. He just wishes things had been easier. His family had lost the war, and everything had changed for him so abruptly. He was used to being treated like nobility everywhere he went, and yes, perhaps he was spoiled, but it had been terrifiying to suddenly plummet so far in status. Seemingly overnight, the same people who scrambled to open doors for him were now spitting in his face. He should have just put up with it, he thinks, but marrying into the very respectable Greengrass family had been the easy way out. Of course, her parents made it clear they considered the disgraced Malfoy family to be far beneath them, but Astoria hadn’t changed her mind. She’d been so determined to try and make it work.
At least their marriage had one saving grace, Draco thinks as he looks down at the photograph of his son.
He turns the pages of the album. The pictures of a sleeping newborn give way to an alert baby, and then a toddler clinging to coffee tables and window sills, slowly learning to walk. Then a young child, wide-eyed and looking at the world.
The last picture. Scorpius atop Draco’s shoulders, arms in the air as Draco carefully holds him in place, trying to catch butterflies. He’s laughing; Draco’s smiling.
If only he’d known that after that photograph, there would be pages and pages of blank white.
He puts the album back and picks up the next one. The first page. An eleven-year-old boy, small and thin for his age, looking afraid but clearly trying to be brave as he stands on a busy train platform. The luggage beside him is, comically, almost as tall as him. Scorpius’s first day at Hogwarts.
Draco frowns, then looks a little closer at the photograph. There, in the background. A boy with a shock of unruly black hair, his skin glowing with a summer tan, smiling and laughing and moving confidently amongst the students. James Potter, also about to embark on an adventure of seven years. Harry’s standing to one side, chatting to the Weasleys. Scorpius stands just a few metres in front of James, posing for the camera, oblivious to the boy behind him. In just a few minutes, Draco thinks, Scorpius would have boarded that train and met James for the first time.
He sighs and shuts the album.
As Christmas draws near, James invites Scorpius to spend the holidays with him.
Scorpius blinks at him. “All of it? The whole two weeks?”
“No, I was planning on forcing you to catch the train back to Hogwarts after two hours. Like a true friend.”
“But...I wouldn’t want to intrude — ”
“If I thought you’d be intruding, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“What about your dad?”
“Already asked him about it. He got furious with me for implying you weren’t automatically invited for Christmas.”
Scorpius looks as if he’s not sure whether James is joking or not. “I can’t just stay for two weeks, eating all your food — ”
“I feed my dad’s artisan stone-milled bread to the ducks as a joke.” James pauses. “Come to think of it, I’m surprised I’m invited home for Christmas.”
Scorpius hesitates. James looks at him.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to — ”
“No, I do,” Scorpius says quickly. “I really, really do.”
James smiles at him.
It’s almost amusing, really, how nervous Scorpius seems about the entire visit. During the train trip, he slowly edges closer and closer to James, his expression becoming nervous as they near London. James grins at him.
“Scared?”
“Oh, shut up,” Scorpius says, but he chews at his lip and stares out the window as they pull into Kings Cross. “I just hope I bought enough gifts, that’s all...should I have bought one for Rose? You mentioned last year that you saw her at Christmas...”
“Oh, didn’t I mention? We’ll go to the Burrow for Christmas, don’t even bother with Christmas presents or you’ll waste all your money. There will be about fifty relatives there, give or take.”
Scorpius stares at him. “Is that a joke?”
“Bet you two galleons that my nan will adore you.”
“James, I’m serious. Tell me you’re joking.”
“Oh, but just ignore my Great Aunt Muriel. She’s actually my great-great-great aunt, I think. Anyway, she’s quite racist, especially after she’s had a brandy. Also smells like cats and mothballs.”
“Oh, God, you’re serious.”
James claps Scorpius on the back. “Come on, we’re here.”
At least Scorpius seems soothed by the familiarity of James’s home. Harry’s set up the spare bedroom for him, but — as usual — he makes a beeline for the attic with James. They while away the rest of the evening idly chatting and playing card games, sprawled across the bed.
“How’s Transfiguration going?” Scorpius asks him. “I know you were struggling with that pattern charm.”
James tosses down a card and rolls his eyes. “Awful. I just don’t see the point. When will I ever decide to give my cutlery an argyle pattern? It’s useless. Wish McGonagall would teach us something cool. An Animagus, that would be impressive.”
“The preparation for that is insane, though. You have to hold a mandrake leaf in your mouth for an entire month.”
“What? How do you brush your teeth?”
“With difficulty, I imagine.” Scorpius adds a card to the pile. “Did you ever keep up with your Patronus practice?”
“Oh, not a bit.”
“What? James, I spent ages teaching you everything you had to know.”
“What about you?” James says, smoothly redirecting Scorpius’s annoyance. “Ever finally achieve a corporeal form?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve always been able to cast a corporeal Patronus. Snap!” Scorpius slams his hand triumphantly onto the pile before it can explode in their faces, though a tendril of smoke ominously escapes between his fingers.
James gives him an odd look. “No, you haven’t. When we first started practicing, back in fourth year, you said you couldn’t cast one. You even showed me...did you lie to me?” He straightens up, the game forgotten. “Why? You must’ve weakened the memory and everything, so it didn’t appear properly...”
“It’s not — I didn’t — I don’t...”
It’s rather endearing, really, to watch Scorpius stammer and stutter, getting flustered as he realises James has caught his lie.
“Is it embarrassing?” James demands. “Is it a flea? A flobberworm?”
“No!”
“Then why...” James pauses, then grins. “It’s me, isn’t it?” he asks gleefully. “It’s a memory of me. That’s why you hid it. Especially when we first started learning the Patronus, because we were barely friends at that point...” Which means it must be an early memory, James thinks. Something from first year, before all the nastiness of their second and third years. “Which memory? I want to know.”
“No. Go away,” Scorpius says resolutely, not looking at him.
“Was it when we met?” James guesses, and the way Scorpius turns scarlet tells him the answer. “Oh, that’s actually nice! Why on earth are you embarrassed about it?”
Scorpius stares at him. “Nice? Don’t you think it’s...odd?”
“Why would it be odd? We’re best friends, makes sense that we’ve got happy memories to use for a Patronus.”
“I thought...” Scorpius trails off. “You really don’t think it’s...”
“What?”
Scorpius pauses. “Nothing,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Cast it, I want to see,” James says excitedly.
Scorpius still looks a little embarrassed, but he lifts his wand and gives James a quick look, as if still waiting for James to laugh or mock him or suddenly change his mind and say it is odd. But James just waits, and after a long moment Scorpius swishes his wand.
“Expecto Patronum!”
James remembers the first time Scorpius cast that spell; slow wisps of silver had gathered. He must have really weakened the spell for that demonstration, though, because this time there’s an immediate flash of light so bright that it blinds James; every corner of the room is illuminated white. He waits for it to fade, shielding his eyes. Within seconds the light implodes, rushing together at the centre of the room to create a bright outline.
A dog.
It races over to James and gambols playfully around him. With its long, slender legs and solid build, he guesses it’s a hunting breed — perhaps an English pointer.
“I remind you of a dog?” he asks Scorpius, smiling as the Patronus races through the air, running laps around him.
“James Sirius Potter.” Scorpius too has his gaze trained on his Patronus. “Sirius. Also known as — ”
“The Dog Star.”
After a moment, the Patronus begins to slowly fade until nothing but a fading glow is left, and then finally even that vanishes.
“That’s awesome,” James says. “I’ve got a Patronus in my honour.”
“You don’t have to look so smug about it.”
James laughs. “Can’t help it. I still don’t understand why you thought it would be weird, though.”
Scorpius glances away. “Never mind.”
“I never even thought about our friendship when I was practising the Patronus,” James says, and a hurt expression flashes across Scorpius’s face. He covers it up quickly, but James has already spotted it and he reaches out to touch his arm — a gesture of reassurance. “You told me, when I first started practising the Patronus, that happy memories couldn’t be tainted by other, sadder memories. I’d tried using a memory of Teddy and you said it was too affected by his death. And we — well, we destroyed our friendship in first year. So I knew there was no point thinking of any happy memories of us.”
Scorpius’s expression clears a bit. “You were trying to cast a Patronus less than a year after Teddy’s death. It was too soon.”
“But we were being horrible to each other right up until just a few months before you taught me the Patronus,” James argues. “Surely that would have interfered with your memory.”
“That’s a bit different. We were just being unkind to each other. Teddy died. That’s going to have a much bigger effect. Anyway, if the happy memory is really powerful, it can overcome nearly anything.”
“What, including years of hostility?” James pauses. “And it’s the memory of when we met?” It’s a nice memory, but not powerful. Scorpius had been impossibly shy and had barely said two words; James recalls the memory fondly, but it’s hardly a spectacular moment. “Oh. Well, I guess I made a really good first impression.” He grins, but Scorpius’s expression remains impassive.
“It’s all right,” Scorpius says. “I always knew the memory meant far more to me than it did to you.” He spots James’s expression and adds lightly, “You were my first real friend, after all. Whereas you’d always been popular.”
“I suppose,” James says slowly. He lays a card down between them, beginning a new pile. “Your turn.”
Yet he has the feeling he’s missed something. He searches Scorpius’s face, but there’s nothing in his expression.
He gives up and waits for Scorpius to play a card.
Chapter 28: Last One Standing
Summary:
Scorpius meets his great-aunt and learns more about his family — Dudley demonstrates somewhat shaky understanding of the wizarding world — James delves into Scorpius’s memories — Draco attends a funeral.
Notes:
Character death; description of a completed suicide.
Chapter Text
Rose and Andromeda arrive the next morning to begin the Christmas preparations. It’s an unsaid tradition now, with Rose taking Teddy’s place by James’s side. James thinks it might be slightly awkward; he knows Rose is trying hard not to resent Scorpius, the current all-round Quidditch star. But as it turns out, Scorpius barely spends three seconds with Rose, because James has actually forgotten an important bit of information: Andromeda is Scorpius’s great-aunt. The only daughter of the infamous Black family who didn’t worship the Dark Lord, and was therefore estranged from her sisters Narcissa and Bellatrix.
And as soon as she walks through the door and spots Scorpius, she stops in her tracks.
”Oh,” she says, and there’s a whole world of heartache in that single syllable. “Oh, you look just like...Harry, you never mentioned — ”
Harry pauses halfway through hanging up Andromeda’s cloak, looking caught off-guard. “I didn’t realise — I forgot, I can’t believe I didn’t think to mention it — this is Scorpius Malfoy, he’s a friend of James’s — ”
James hadn’t paused to think about it either, and for a moment he’s anxious, wondering what Andromeda will say.
But Andromeda’s expression suddenly softens, crinkling into a smile. “Look at you,” she tells Scorpius. “Narcissa’s grandson. It’s a shame it’s taken us eighteen years to meet, but here we are.”
”Hello,” Scorpius says, a little guarded, but Andromeda won’t have any of that.
”Come and sit,” she says, tilting her head towards the table. “You never met your grandmother, did you? Oh, she would have spoiled you terribly.” She turns and frowns at Harry. “I would have brought photographs, Harry — why on earth didn’t you tell me Scorpius would be here...? Scorpius, come and tell me about your father. My dear nephew, I did worry so much about him sometimes, especially during the war — wasn’t allowed to see him, of course, but that was your grandparents’ choice.”
”I don’t...” Scorpius looks helplessly at James. “I don’t know much about my father’s past...”
”Well, I’ve got plenty of stories about all your family,” Andromeda says firmly. “Your grandmother, of course — your great-grandparents — oh, your cousin, Teddy — and if James is your friend, I’m sure you’d love to hear all sorts of childhood stories about him — ”
”No,” James says quickly.
Scorpius’s face lights up. “Are there pictures?”
”Oh, yes. James, be a dear and fetch the photograph albums.”
”No! I’m not enabling this.”
”Don’t be a spoilsport,” Andromeda says firmly. “Off you go, young James, and I’ll hear no argument about it.”
Andromeda’s always been formidable; some of her expressions precisely match McGonagall’s at times. So James finds himself automatically saying, “Yes, right, sorry,” and meekly going upstairs.
Scorpius looks very amused.
“They’re talking about me,” James mutters, violently kneading the dough as he watches Andromeda and Scorpius laugh and point at a photograph.
”Hope so,” Rose says cheerfully, fetching the rolling pin. “Ooh, I wonder if it’s that picture — you know, the one where you let me cast a Crimping Charm on your hair — ”
”I thought I burned that one!”
”Oh! Maybe it’s the one of you in that school play, the one where you played an angry koala — ”
”Not that one!”
”Or maybe it’s the one where we all went to the park, and you started bawling your eyes out because a goose chased you.”
”It bit me!”
”You were climbing up a tree and screaming hysterically. Teddy laughed so hard he fell in the pond.”
”I was six.” James gives the dough one final punch. “They’re laughing really hard now. What are they looking at? Rose, you distract them while I — ”
”Oh, let them have their fun,” Rose says indulgently. “Roll out the dough, will you?”
”Let’s get out your childhood pictures, then.”
“James, help me with the decorations,” Harry demands, arriving with a cardboard box. James glances at the tangled nest of tinsel within.
”No thanks.”
”Wasn’t really a request.”
James makes a show of sighing wearily, but leaves Rose to finish the biscuits and goes to the living room to help Harry. “Scorpius and Andromeda are laughing at me,” he says petulantly, beginning to unravel the tinsel disaster.
”They’re not. They’re still looking at pictures of Teddy.” Harry swishes his wand, sending the baubles towards the tree where they affix themselves to branches. “Personally, I think it’s nice. Scorpius hardly knows anything about his family. Never met most of them — I don’t think he ever met his paternal grandparents, let alone aunts and uncles and the rest of it.”
”He met Teddy,” James says. “He always said Teddy was very kind to him.”
”And it was terribly unfair that Teddy met his only cousin so late in his life.”
James says nothing, and Harry quickly amends his words.
”His cousin by blood. You were Teddy’s honorary cousin.”
James rolls his eyes. “I know what you meant. I’m not going to pitch a fit about that, Dad. Scorpius has hardly any family. I’m happy to share mine.”
From the kitchen comes a burst of laughter, followed by Scorpius exclaiming, “What is James wearing?”
”Bet you two galleons that’s your angry koala costume,” Harry says cheerfully.
”I’m going to set fire to every photograph in this house,” James mutters.
Deep down, though, he doesn’t really care.
It’s nice to just hear Scorpius laugh.
Christmas Day begins a little unsteadily. James had assumed everyone would welcome Scorpius with open arms; after all, in James’s slightly biased opinion, Scorpius is very easy to like.
The older Weasleys, apparently, feel differently. While the younger cousins cheerfully welcome Scorpius and chatter away at him, it’s clear James’s aunts and uncles are a little guarded — and his nan seems downright unfriendly. When Scorpius politely introduces himself, she looks him up and down and says, “Spitting image.”
”Pardon?” Scorpius asks.
”Spitting image of Draco Malfoy.”
Scorpius’s smile dims. Next to Mrs Weasley, George and Percy swap a look.
”Exactly what I thought,” George mutters to Percy.
James frowns at them. “He looks like his mother, too.”
”Who’s she, then?” Mrs Weasley asks briskly, turning and walking into the kitchen to check the roast.
“Astoria Greengrass,” Scorpius offers, giving James an uncertain look as they follow Mrs Weasley.
”Oh, the Greengrass family. I remember them. Snobs, the whole lot. And what was your name again?”
”Scorpius.”
”Odd name.”
”After the constellation,” Scorpius says.
”Some Purebloods like doing that, don’t they? Naming their children after stars. High and lofty. Far above the rest of us.” Mrs Weasley starts bustling about with the pans. “That’s why I gave my children good, honest names. Bill, Charlie, George...James, be a dear and fetch the good china from the hallway cabinet.”
”I’ll do it,” Scorpius says quickly, turning and fleeing.
James leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. “Scorpius,” he says, “is a guest.”
”Of course he is,” Mrs Weasley says, stirring the gravy.
”I’d like him to feel welcome.”
Mrs Weasley sets the spoon down and sighs. “James,” she says, “there’s some things you won’t understand. He’s the son of Draco Malfoy. You weren’t there during the war — ”
”And neither was Scorpius.”
”He’s not our sort — ”
”Then I’m not either. He’s my best friend.”
Mrs Weasley’s mouth thins. “He’s one of those Purebloods. What’s he doing here, anyway? I’m sure he’s used to much finer things — ”
”His mother’s dead and he’s not on speaking terms with his father,” James says flatly.
There’s the sudden sound of something shattering, followed by hurried footsteps; Scorpius appears in the kitchen doorway, his face pale. “I’m so sorry,” he says, “I dropped one of the plates...it just sort of slipped out of my hands...I’m so, so sorry — ”
Mrs Weasley looks at him, then sets her hands on her hips, evidently making up her mind about something. “For heaven’s sake,” she says. “They’re just plates, dear. Don’t worry about it. Off you go, James can introduce you properly to everyone.”
James steps forward. “Come on, Scorpius,” he says. “Let’s go annoy all my cousins.”
Scorpius’s shoulders relax, but only a little.
But thankfully, James’s cousins soon put Scorpius at ease. Molly and Lucy are easily fascinated by a few simple but flashy spells Scorpius shows them, and Hugo and Rose invite him to join their game of Exploding Snap. Dominique and Louis excitedly chat to Scorpius about his Quidditch skills and earnestly ask for advice. Roxanne, the youngest cousin, won’t stop following Scorpius around and staring at him, and she tugs on James’s sleeve to tell him something.
”What?” James asks patiently as Roxanne turns pink.
”He’s very pretty,” she whispers.
James laughs. “You should tell him that,” he says.
Roxanne looks at him uncertainly, then shyly approaches Scorpius, who is playing a game of Gobstones with Hugo. “Excuse me, Scorpius,” she says very politely, “You’re very pretty and I want to marry you.”
Scorpius blinks at her; Hugo struggles to hold back laughter. “Oh, Roxanne, how nice,” Hugo says. “Maybe you can borrow Nan’s old wedding dress, it’s in the attic. Quick, go get it.”
”I’m not going to wear somebody else’s dress,” Roxanne protests. “It’s going to be a princess dress. With gold flowers all over it.”
Hugo does start laughing then. “Go on! Tell me about the colour scheme.”
Roxanne finally figures out she’s being mocked, and she turns red; her lip trembles slightly. Scorpius, on the other hand, leans down a little so he can see her face properly.
”That sounds very nice,” he says gently, and swishes his wand. Within moments, Roxanne’s plain black robe has been transformed into a white dress. Scorpius flicks his wand again, adding the tiny details with ease: a silk sash, tiny pearl buttons, and of course golden embroidered roses.
Roxanne’s face lights up with amazement and awe. “A tiara!” she demands with excitement, then remembers herself. “I mean...could you please make a tiara?”
Scorpius laughs and taps his wand to a nearby Gobstone piece; the roughly-carved rock transforms into a tiara of golden ivy and roses. Roxanne sets it upon her head, does a little twirl, and races away shouting, “Mum! Look, I’m a princess! Look! Aunt Hermione! Uncle Harry! Look!”
James grins at Scorpius. “That was sweet of you.”
Before Scorpius can respond, though, George appears by his side. “Hello,” he says smoothly. “So, that was a very complex transfiguration that you just casually cast on my daughter.”
”Oh,” Scorpius says, looking slightly panicked. “There’s nothing harmful about it, I promise — ”
George waves a hand dismissively. “Let’s have a quick word, shall we?”
Ron materialises on Scorpius’s other side then. “Yeah, that sounds good,” Ron says, and they leave, Scorpius stuck between them and looking very apprehensive.
James frowns.
Scorpius returns just in time for the Christmas dinner; James pounces on him at once.
”What happened?”
”What?”
”Uncle George and Uncle Ron, what did they want to talk to you about?”
”Oh,” Scorpius says. “They...they offered me a job.”
”What?”
”They want me to work for Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, casting enchantments and spells for them. When I declined, they doubled the salary offer.”
”Wow,” James says blankly. Then — “Wow.”
”I know. It was just a transfiguration charm, that dress. Easy to cast, anyone could do it. I don’t understand why — ”
”Scorpius,” James says pityingly, “It’s not easy to cast. That kind of enchantment is something that other wizards our age would’ve spent hours working on. You really need to remember that McGonagall — acknowledged as the greatest Transfiguration teacher in a hundred years — has called you a magical prodigy.”
Scorpius goes a bit pink. “Well. I still declined the offer,” he says, as if James will admonish him for it.
”Obviously, because you’re going to become an astrophysicist instead.” James pauses as Mrs Weasley bustles over to start piling more potatoes onto his plate.
”You need to eat more,” Mrs Weasley tells him firmly.
“Nan, I’m fine — ”
”And Scorpius,” Mrs Weasley adds, giving Scorpius a very generous serving of the potatoes too. Yes; she’s certainly warmed up to Scorpius now, James thinks. “Percy, pass me the gravy.”
Percy pauses midway through telling Hugo that he is never too young to think about his superannuation. “There’s only a bit left.”
“Pass it to Scorpius.”
“I was planning on having another serving, Mum.”
“Don’t be silly, you don’t need it. You’re getting a bit soft around the middle these days,” Mrs Weasley says, and Percy’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.
“I am not, I go for a walk every evening — ”
“ — around the kitchen,” George finishes.
“Looks like someone’s hit your jumpers with a shrinking charm,” Ron adds, snickering.
“Mum, are you hearing this?” Percy demands, and Mrs Weasley pauses halfway through pouring Scorpius another glass of pumpkin juice.
“For heaven’s sake, boys! You’re all over thirty years old, if you still need your mother to sort out your squabbles — ”
“Wow, Nan, are all your kids that old? You must be ancient,” Lucy says, wide-eyed.
“She’s a hundred and fifty years old,” Roxanne informs her. “I asked Dad, that’s what he said. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
George stares wide-eyed at Roxanne. “Er...no, I don’t recall — ”
“Yeah, don’t you remember? You laughed and said ‘she’s well over a hundred’ and I said ‘really?’ And you laughed a bit more.”
Mrs Weasley turns to George, her eyes narrowed. “If I’m a hundred and fifty, it’s because I’ve aged ten times quicker than I should thanks to you boys! That incident with the flying car...and which one of you set my broom-shed on fire?”
“That wasn’t us! That was your precious grandchild, James!” Percy retorts, and Mrs Weasley frowns and leans over to James, patting him on the head.
“Don’t you dare drag the children into this, Percival Weasley...”
“The children? He’s taller than me!” Percy turns to Harry. “Tell her, Harry. How old is your son, now?”
“Oh, he’ll always be my little James,” Harry says sweetly, and Mrs Weasley nods.
“Exactly,” she says firmly, giving James one final pat on the head.
James smirks at Percy.
They finish the evening, as always, with a visit to Dudley in Byfleet. James thinks Scorpius might be bored by the bland Dudley and his neat little three-bedroom home, but Scorpius seems to actually enjoy Dudley’s house. He seems oddly comforted by the telly, and he smiles when he sees the power outlets.
“It’s been ages since I’ve been in a Muggle house,” Scorpius tells James.
“Yeah, they’re quite interesting. I used to examine the dishwasher and poke the washing machine when we first started visiting. Dad told me to knock it off because I was making Uncle Dudley uncomfortable.”
They play with James’s cousin, Daisy, who is now a bossy six-year-old. James can’t believe it.
“I remember when you were a baby,” he tells her.
“I wasn’t a baby. I don’t remember it. Read me a book,” she commands him.
“All right. So, this one’s called Princess Ladybug — ”
“Not that one. This one.”
“Right. So, once there was a — ”
“No, sit over here.”
“For Merlin’s sake,” James says under his breath. Scorpius is smiling at him across the room.
“Who’s Merlin?” Daisy asks.
“A wizard.”
“Like Uncle Harry?”
“Yeah, but Merlin was a great wizard. Uncle Harry couldn’t cast his way out of a wand shop.”
Harry — busy talking about automotive repairs, of all things, with Dudley — pauses and gives James a look. Scorpius is laughing now.
“Really?” Daisy asks. “Daddy says Uncle Harry’s an important wizard.”
“We just say that so he feels important.” James waits for another glare from Harry, but instead he turns back to Dudley.
“You told Daisy that?” Harry asks Dudley, looking surprised. “That’s really...thanks, Dudley, I know how – ”
Dudley quickly clears his throat. “Actually,” he said, “I sort of had to. I’ve been meaning to ask you a few questions about it.”
“About what?”
“Magic.”
A picture book suddenly leaps off the shelf and flies towards James, coming to rest by his hand. Harry turns and frowns at James.
“James. I’ve told you, no magic at Muggle houses — ”
“It wasn’t me!”
Harry blinks. Daisy smiles and hands the book to James. “Read this one,” she tells him.
“Oh,” Harry says. Then — “Oh. That’s — wow. Well. What do you want to know?”
“Well,” Dudley says cautiously, “most importantly, is the war still going on? Because I don’t want Daisy involved in that sort of thing — ”
”What? The war that I was fighting when we were children? Dudley, why would it take me twenty years to defeat the Dark Lord — ”
”I don’t know how magical wars work! And I thought that if you were in charge of defeating the Night Lord — ”
”Dark Lord. Voldemort.”
” — that it might take you a while to gain enough strength, seeing as you looked like a toothpick with a wig stuck to it — honestly, who chose you to fight the magic Hitler?”
”You don’t need to have broad shoulders to be a powerful wizard!”
Scorpius suddenly bolts towards the kitchen, shutting the door behind him; James hurries after him and finds him doubled over the kitchen counter, laughing so hard he’s nearly crying.
”Shh! Shut up, I want to hear the rest of it!” James tells him, putting his ear to the door.
He can just hear Dudley’s voice. “...a Death-Eater? How? How do you eat death?”
”It’s not — it’s not literal — how could it be literal?”
”I don’t know! Maybe there’s some sort of Grim Reaper figure that wanders around, and they sort of...nibble at it...”
”Grim Reaper? Why would there be...do you think the magical world is some sort of fairytale land? Honestly, Dudley — ”
”Are there unicorns?”
”What? Well...yes, but — ”
”So it is a fairytale land!”
James is laughing too hard, at that point, to hear any more.
”Your family is amazing,” Scorpius tells James.
“Well, that’s not really the word I’d use.”
Scorpius starts laughing again.
Oddly enough, it’s Andromeda that seems to be the highlight of Scorpius’s holidays. She visits nearly every day and together they pore over sepia photographs and handwritten letters. James generally leaves them alone as they discuss wayward great-uncles and distant cousins. Andromeda’s knowledge grows scant, however, as the ancestors become more recent.
”I was cast out, you see,” she tells Scorpius one rainy afternoon as they sit by the fire, surrounded by photographs. “So unfortunately I can’t tell you much about all your cousins...” She distractedly rifles through a box of photographs, then gestures to James; he’s lounging on the sofa, reading a book. “James, dear, pass me that stack of letters.”
He dutifully passes it to her.
“Now, your father would know all about them,” Andromeda murmurs to Scorpius. “My sister Cissy was quite fond of passing the family stories along to Draco.”
”Why were you cast out?” Scorpius asks, frowning.
“Married a Muggleborn. Oh, my mother cried for weeks. Poor, dear Mother. She was heartbroken that her grandchildren were going to end up tainted.” Andromeda holds up a letter, peering at it. “Never mind. Cissy married Lucius, and my mother got her long-awaited Pureblood grandchild after all — Draco.”
Scorpius shifts uneasily. “How long were your parents mad at you?”
Andromeda pauses, then pats Scorpius’s hand. “Oh, no. Marrying a Muggleborn is unforgivable, dear. It’s spitting on your ancestors’ graves. Staining the family honour. My parents and my sisters never spoke to me again. I do wish I could have attended my mother’s funeral, at least. I would have liked to see her one last time.”
”I’m sorry,” Scorpius says, but Andromeda just pats his hand again, then turns away and picks up a photograph.
”Look, there’s my Ted. Married twenty years, we were. Look, here’s us on our wedding day.”
Scorpius touches the faded picture. “You look happy,” he says.
“We were,” Andromeda says, and she smiles.
But Scorpius’s troubled expression remains.
That night, Scorpius spends hours rifling through the photographs Andromeda left behind. He seems pensive, perhaps slightly melancholy. The night deepens and the fire burns low, but still he remains sitting on the sofa, studying remnants of his family.
”Coming to bed soon?” James asks, sitting beside him.
Scorpius glances up at him. “Soon.” He turns his attention back to a photograph of the Black family: Narcissa, Bellatrix, and Andromeda all lined up in a formal portrait, their smiles fixed on their faces. “It’s odd. You know my family better than I do. You grew up with Andromeda and Teddy, but I barely knew them...and Sirius, my cousin. You have a stronger connection to him than I ever will. Even my family belongs to you.”
”That’s not true,” James begins, but Scorpius shakes his head.
”I’m not mad about it. Just...” He trails off. “Andromeda seems nice. What about my other great-aunt, Bellatrix?”
”Er,” James says articulately. “She was a bit...”
”What?”
”Well, she was a really enthusiastic Death Eater. She tried to murder my mother. Don’t worry, though, my nan sorted that out. Duelled Bellatrix and killed her.”
Scorpius smiles uncertainly, then looks horrified. “Oh, God, that wasn’t a joke.”
“Yeah. Bellatrix was mildly unhinged.”
Scorpius looks down at the picture. “Does it ever seem,” he says, “that we were absolutely not destined, under any circumstances, to become friends?”
“Maybe a little,” James laughs, but Scorpius’s expression stays serious. He sets the photograph aside.
”Astra inclinant,” he says. “The stars incline us. It means fate controls everything.”
“Sed non obligant,” James counters.
”What?”
”The other bit. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant. The stars incline us — but they don’t bind us. Maybe fate influences us a little, but we can still change it. You don’t truly believe fate controls everything, do you?”
Scorpius lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Why not? I never believed in fate when I was a child. Then it turned out magic is real, after all. What else could be real?”
James frowns at him. “You’re going to be an astrophysicist, not an astrologist. Study your stars, but don’t wish upon them.” He stands up. “Anyway, I’m tired — I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Scorpius.”
Scorpius doesn’t reply immediately. He stares at James for a long moment, then finally says, “Goodnight, James.”
James turns and leaves.
The thirty-first of December is overcast and cold, the morning giving way to an afternoon iced with sleet. Outside the manor, the ice roses slowly bloom; one of the few signs of life in the winter-withered gardens.
Draco sits on the corner of Scorpius’s bed.
Christmas has passed without so much as a single letter. Scorpius’s room is exactly as it was left last summer. The telescopes line the wall, growing dusty with disuse. Scorpius’s wand sits on the bedside table. His Hogwarts trunk sits in the corner of the room, still neatly packed. On the bookshelf is the pensieve, its surface silver and smooth.
Scorpius isn’t coming home.
The winter sky soon darkens into a bitterly cold night. Draco recalls the last New Year’s Eve. He’d spent it mingling with Purebloods, and gotten into an argument with Scorpius afterwards. Scorpius hadn’t been social enough, Draco had decided. They’d argued about it — Draco had been determined for Scorpius to make proper friends with other Pureblood boys.
I’ve got James, Scorpius had said defiantly.
Draco had confiscated all his books as punishment.
He tries to remember the New Year’s Eve before that one. That’s when it all really started, he thinks. All the Pureblood introductions. Scorpius had been plied with gifts that Christmas — tailored robes and racing brooms, and a calendar stuffed full of meetings with some of the most prominent Pureblood families. And when Scorpius had returned to school after the break, Draco had made him promise one thing.
To stay away from James Potter.
Don’t bother with him. Find other friends. Better ones, he’d said. Scorpius had looked at him, hesitated for a moment, then promised he would do so.
Yes. Perhaps that was when it all started. All the secrecy and silence. The distance and deception.
Somewhere in the manor, the grandfather clock strikes twelve.
The new year has arrived, and yet nothing has changed.
Bit by bit, Draco packs up his son’s life. The telescopes are the first to be studied, with the mid-range Dobsonian telescope eventually being selected. It’s carefully disassembled and packed away. Then the clothes, neatly folded. Scorpius’s racing broom, tapped twice with a Shrinking Charm. After a long moment, Draco leaves the collapsible cauldron and potions kit; Scorpius isn’t taking Potions, after all. The magical textbooks remain on the shelf. Instead, Draco goes to Scorpius’s desk. Here are all the things he never understood, but seemed effortless to Scorpius. Maths and physics textbooks. Complicated-looking calculators. A pencil-tin filled with mathematical instruments.
He adds it all to the pile.
Scorpius’s room looks almost the same, bar the empty spaces on the bookshelf and the now-clean desk. Draco gazes around it for a long moment. This is the same room he stood in nearly seven years ago, anxiously awaiting his missing child. It had still been the nursery, back then. The walls had been robin-egg blue, with a little teddy-bear frieze. He hadn’t known how to transform it to suit a son who was no longer a young child. A son who he didn’t know.
He remembers asking Pansy to visit, to help soothe his nerves. Their friendship had been tepid at that point, but she had been his last remaining friend. There had been nobody else to turn to.
Things could have been so different, he’d told her as they stood in this room.
He still remembers her reply. That was a very long time ago, Draco.
And she had left, leaving Draco alone to deal with his son’s sudden return.
Draco shakes away the memory, then spots the pensieve on the bookshelf. No doubt stormy memories are hiding beneath that mirror-like surface. He walks over to it and pauses, then reaches out, picks it up, casts a stabilisation charm on it, and carefully adds it to the pile.
Those memories are not for him.
He arrives at Harry’s home the following day, on the first of January. He Apparates there, certain the Floo will still be blocked.
Harry answers the door and immediately looks flustered.
”Oh! Hello,” he says, hurriedly glancing over his shoulder. “Listen, it’s not really the best time...I’d invite you in, but...I’m actually...I’m about to run an errand, in fact, so — ”
”I’m aware,” Draco says, “that Scorpius is most likely staying with you for Christmas.”
”Oh,” Harry says, looking a little relieved. “Right. Well, it’s not — only because James invited him, you understand — I’m sure that with just a bit more time, Scorpius will be happy to see you again — perhaps at Easter, he’ll — ”
”I’m just dropping off a few things for him.” Draco picks up the trunk beside him and, with effort, hands it over to Harry. It’s quite heavy.
”That’s very — thank you, I’ll just — you know, maybe he will see you,” Harry begins, looking guilty and opening the door a little wider.
”It’s fine.”
”No, no, I can at least ask him — ”
”Potter,” Draco says, “it’s fine.”
Harry finally shuts up.
”Thank you,” Draco says after a pause, “for taking care of him.”
Harry nods.
Draco turns and begins the long walk to the end of the driveway.
James is lounging on his bed, reading a comic, and doesn’t think much of it when Scorpius — doing homework at the desk — is called downstairs by Harry. But when Scorpius reappears, he’s looking a bit anxious.
”What is it?” James asks.
”Dad visited.”
James sits up, setting the comic aside. “He’s here?”
”He’s left already. Apparently dropped off my school trunk.”
”That’s it? Didn’t ask to see you or anything?”
Scorpius shakes his head.
“Well, that’s good,” James says cautiously. “Isn’t it? Maybe he’s packed your wand, at least.”
”I suppose,” Scorpius says uncertainly.
They go to the spare room, where Harry has left the trunk. Scorpius unclasps it as if expecting a hex.
Instead, there’s neatly folded clothes. Hogwarts robes. A broom, a telescope — both charmed to tiny sizes. Scorpius’s wand, which he immediately grabs and holds tightly as if it’s a very sadly-missed friend. Then there’s textbooks and a pencil-tin and Scorpius looks at them for such a long time that James thinks something must be awfully wrong.
“He packed all the Muggle subject stuff,” Scorpius murmurs, touching each textbook as if they’re perhaps illusions. He frowns and digs around in the trunk. “No magical subjects.” He picks up a cloak, then draws back with surprise as it reveals the final item. “My pensieve!” He grabs it, as if worried it will spill, but the surface remains perfectly still.
“Probably stuck a stabilisation charm on it,” James offers.
“It’s heavy. I’ve never picked it up before. I left it where you put it, on the bookshelf.”
”Made of marble. What’d you expect?”
Scorpius traces the engraving along the side of it: the constellation Scorpio, laid in silver. “I always thought you were too generous with this gift.”
”Anything for my best friend,” James says easily.
Scorpius looks up at him. “Anything?”
”Sure. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
Scorpius opens his mouth, closes it again, then at last says, “A hug.”
James laughs and pulls Scorpius to him, obliging the request.
That night, Scorpius spends a lot of time laying on James’s bed, looking through a box of photographs Andromeda left behind. He seems to be in a melancholy mood. James keeps him company, sitting quietly beside him and reading a book as Scorpius leafs through the pictures.
“How did Sirius die?” he asks James, holding up a picture of a teenaged Sirius leaning on his motorbike, wearing a leather jacket and a smirk.
”War.” James glances to the attic hatch, making sure it’s shut. Sirius has always been a prickly subject for his father. “Dad doesn’t like talking about it. There was a big duel — the Death Eaters infiltrated the Ministry. Sirius was one of the Order of the Phoenix members who showed up. Bellatrix murdered him.” James hesitates. “Dad saw it happen. Witnessed the whole thing. He was fifteen.”
“What about my great-uncle, Ted Tonks?” Scorpius holds up Andromeda’s wedding photograph.
”He had to go into hiding during the second wizarding war, when Muggleborn wizards were forced to register themselves so the Ministry could track and interrogate them...” James looks at the picture. Ted is smiling, his hair combed back, waving at the camera. “He got caught and was murdered.”
Scorpius lays the photograph down and says nothing. Then he picks up another picture, of a couple smiling and holding a baby.
”And my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks?”
“Killed during the Battle of Hogwarts, along with her husband.” James tries to find the silver lining. “At least Teddy was born before the Battle, before his mother died.”
”But he only lived to be twenty,” Scorpius says disconsolately. “Just two years older than I am now.”
James reaches out and takes the photograph from Scorpius, studying the little baby held in the arms of his proud parents.
“How did he die?” Scorpius asks suddenly, and James glances up sharply.
”What?”
”Nothing — never mind – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — ”
”No, it’s fine. I just...I thought you knew.”
Scorpius shakes his head.
”Oh. He drowned,” James says. He tries to say the next bit matter-of-factly — he was with his friends, going down a river, he hit his head — but he’s suddenly reminded of the clinical words of the inquest: It was observed that a lot of water and froth was coming out of Teddy's mouth and nose...He was unable to be revived despite the efforts of his friends...At autopsy, the deceased had a head injury, a scalp laceration, acute subdural and subarachnoid haemorrhages...
— and his throat closes up and none of the words come out.
Scorpius puts the box of photographs aside, reaches up, and pulls James downwards until they’re both lying on the bed, tangled up together in an embrace. They stay that way for a long time.
“Wish we’d been friends back then,” James says eventually, when he’s feeling composed again. Teddy’s death would have been more bearable with Scorpius by his side.
“Me too.” Scorpius pauses. ‘It killed me to see you so unhappy. I was so worried you’d do something stupid.”
James frowns. “Suicide?” he asks.
Scorpius says carefully, as if concerned James will take offence, “You were very self-destructive back then.”
James shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The thought never even crossed my mind.” And he thinks of Scorpius desperately worrying about him, but unable to offer help — James most certainly would have angrily rejected it. “Sorry,” he adds.
”Nothing to be sorry about,” Scorpius says.
James falls asleep with Scorpius still holding him.
The last day of the holidays dawns bitterly cold, which doesn’t deter Scorpius from flying endless laps around the fields. James leaves him alone, though Harry is annoyingly worried about it.
”He’ll get cold.”
James shrugs. “He’ll come inside then, won’t he?”
”It’s freezing out there. He’s been flying for hours. I’ll go and see if he’s all right.”
”He’s fine, Dad. Just thinking about something.”
”About what?” Harry demands.
”I don’t know. He flies a lot when he’s thinking about stuff. Same as me and swimming.”
”He’ll get cold,” Harry repeats, as if he thinks Scorpius will happily fly until frostbite claims all his limbs.
James sighs and shuts his book. “Let’s go work on the motorbike.”
Harry finally tears his gaze away from the window. “Can’t. I’ve got to — er, see a friend.”
James rolls his eyes. “A girlfriend. Just say it, Dad. You’re going on a date.”
Harry reddens. “You’ve been to the cinema recently. What movie would you recommend?”
”Ugh. I’m not giving you dating advice.”
”Should I pay for her ticket? I don’t want her to think that I think she can’t pay for it herself — or would it be rude if I didn’t at least offer?”
”If you want advice on how to take women on dates, you are really asking the wrong person.”
Harry brightens. “Speaking of your love life — ”
”We weren’t.”
”I just wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. You never tell me anything about your life anymore, you know — ”
There’s a flurry of footsteps as Scorpius arrives; James hurriedly changes the subject. “Cup of tea, Scorpius?”
”Thanks. I’m freezing.”
Harry takes the hint. “I’d better go. Don’t want to be late. James, there’s leftovers for dinner — ”
”You’re not coming back home tonight?”
Harry coughs. “I might be back quite late.”
“Wow. You’re confident.”
Harry’s cough turns into a choked noise. “Anyway. Don’t do anything stupid, including fireworks.”
”Okay.”
”No fireworks.”
”I said okay.”
”Under any circumstances.”
”Okay!”
Harry gives him a faintly suspicious look, turns and picks up his coat, and — bringing a faint smirk to James’s face — checks his hair in the mirror before leaving. Scorpius watches with interest.
”Is your dad really going on a date?”
”Yeah. It’s tragic. He’s got a Muggle girlfriend and he’s hopeless. He’s been in the magical world so long that he can’t even remember how to make a phone call.”
”I think it’s nice.”
”Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for him. I just think that he’s going to slip up and accidentally mention wizarding stuff too many times, and she’ll think he’s a nutcase and leave him.” James glances out the window, checking his father has definitely left.
“He’s gone,” Scorpius says helpfully.
“Great. Fireworks?”
Fireworks have always been a summer tradition. But James is acutely aware of the summers of his childhood rapidly vanishing. This is their final year. Afterwards, there will be no summer holidays. His schooldays will soon be over. The end of summer will not mark anything special. The fireworks will no longer light up the sky on the last day of August.
So here and now, standing on fields of frost and exhaling white air, he lights fuse after fuse. Cherry bombs and rainbow fountains, gold brocade mines and lastly, a rocket which he gives Scorpius the honour of lighting. As it explodes overhead, showering the night with emerald green, Scorpius smiles. He’s been in a distant mood all day, James thinks, and it’s also why he chose to light the fireworks tonight. Something to cheer Scorpius up.
But as the last spark fades, so does Scorpius’s smile.
They begin the long walk back to the house, where James thinks steaming-hot tea is a good idea, but as they step through the door, Scorpius says, “You wanted to meet my mother?”
James glances at him. “Oh,” he says with surprise. “Now?”
”It’s fine if you don’t — ”
”I’d love to.”
They go upstairs, to the spare bedroom where Scorpius’s belongings are scattered haphazardly. James looks into the silver depths of the pensieve, then waits expectantly.
Scorpius shakes his head. “I’ll wait here.”
”Oh. I just assumed we’d go together...”
”It’s okay. I don’t need to see the memories again.”
James gives Scorpius an uncertain look, but reaches towards the pensieve anyway, pausing just a few inches from the surface. “I’ll have to try and find the right memory, though...you’ll need to lead me to it.”
”All the memories are for you.”
”All of them?”
Scorpius nods.
James hesitates, then lets his fingertips brush the surface.
There’s the sound of rain, quiet but constant, against glass. James glances up.
He’s in a car. It’s moving through a suburb. Outside, people are going about their business. A man is walking his dog. A woman is waiting at a bus-stop, peering out from beneath her umbrella.
Scorpius sits in the passenger seat and James can only stare at him. He looks so young. Surely he wasn’t that baby-faced when James first met him on the train platform six years ago? His hair is a little lighter, wispy and fine, and his face still soft with childhood. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a hooded jumper; there’s a skateboard wedged next to his legs.
“It’s nicer than our old place,” a woman says, and James’s attention finally snaps to her. She’s driving, one hand resting on the steering wheel, and even though she’s dressed casually too, there’s something inherently elegant about her. She has the same build as Scorpius, tall and slender, with high cheekbones and bow-shaped lips. It’s easy to see where Scorpius got his striking looks from.
Scorpius doesn’t say anything. Astoria glances at him.
“There’s a playground nearby.”
Scorpius picks at the frayed hem of his hooded jumper and says nothing. Astoria’s smile fades and they drive in silence for a while longer until she slows down for a school crossing.
“You’ll be starting there on Monday,” she says, nodding at a collection of small buildings. “They’ve got a nice library, I heard. What do you think?”
Scorpius gives the school a token glance. “It sucks,” he says sullenly.
“Come on, Scorpius. It might be fun.”
“It’s school. It’s not meant to be fun. And all the other kids will know I’m from the council estate and they’ll make fun of me.”
“No, they won’t. You can’t just tell if someone’s from the estate.”
“They’ll know,” Scorpius says stubbornly, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. “I won’t have the right uniform, either.”
“You will, there’s a charity shop nearby and I bet they’ll have something in your size — ”
“Yeah, and it’ll be old and faded and stupid, just like the school. And our new flat,” Scorpius adds. “I’m not going to school on Monday. I don’t care. I hate school, I hate the flat, I hate you.”
“That’s very sad, then, because I think you’re amazing.”
“No, you don’t.”
Astoria grins at him. “I do. I think you’re the smartest boy in the world.”
“Everyone else is way smarter.”
“And you’re brilliant and incredible and just perfect, really.”
Scorpius’s sullen expression finally crumples into a reluctant smile. “Stop it. That’s not fair.”
“You’re smiling,” she sings. “Means you can’t be mad anymore.”
“I’m not smiling!”
“You are.” Astoria pulls over; James recognises the block of flats nearby. “We’re here. Quickly, let’s get a picture before you go back to sulking.”
”I’m not sulking,” Scorpius retorts, but he follows his mother and stands on the pavement.
This is the photograph, James realises. The one that led him to Scorpius, after he’d gone missing.
As the sun suddenly breaks through the heavy clouds, the memory dissolves.
The next memory arrives; the first thing James notices are the voices, singing slightly out-of-tune.
”Happy birthday to you...”
The smell of burning candles. Balloons bobbing around the room, streamers draped along the walls. Scorpius is leaning on the kitchen counter, blowing out the candles on a little cake. James counts them: eleven. There’s a few children running around, and they all have the same look to them. Their clothes are just a little too faded, their haircuts just a little too crooked. The adults mill around with cups of tea, looking a little tired and worn, and after the cake is served they usher their respective children outside to play. Scorpius and his friends kick a ball around the asphalt parking area, laughing and jostling each other.
”What d’you reckon you’ll get?” a lanky boy with skinned knees asks Scorpius.
”Dunno. Probably the usual. New clothes. Socks.” Scorpius kicks a goal between two makeshift goalposts, marked by jumpers dumped on the ground.
“Yeah. I’m hinting for a new cricket set,” the boy says wistfully. “Probably won’t happen, though. Been dead broke since Dad lost his job.”
”Same. Mum used to do all the cleaning for that retirement home down the road. Then it closed down.”
”Rough luck.”
They play for a bit longer, then go their separate ways – evidently, all of Scorpius’s friends are from the council estate too. Scorpius goes inside, where his mother is cleaning up the leftover cake, but she pauses when she sees him.
”Go on, then,” she says, smiling. “Get your gifts.”
Scorpius grins at her and goes to the kitchen counter, where there’s three presents waiting for him: two illustrated science books and a pair of gloves for the upcoming winter. Scorpius thanks Astoria, looking genuinely happy, and James suddenly feels a rush of guilt. When he was a child, his birthdays were celebrated in the usual way — a big party on the weekend, with all his school friends — about ten or so — taken somewhere special. The zoo, or the pool, or the cinema. And there’d be so much food that Harry would end up throwing half of it away. James would receive piles and piles of gifts, and carelessly forget or overlook most of them within a week. And then, of course, there was the proper birthday party, celebrated on his actual birthday and attended by his many relatives. He’d receive racing brooms, toy wands, piles of sweets, all the free Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes his heart desired...
”There’s one more gift,” Astoria says, tilting her head towards the hallway, and Scorpius gives her a curious look before going to his bedroom.
James can’t see anything special, but Scorpius’s eyes immediately widen. Neatly folded, on his bed, is a school uniform. All brand new, the tags still attached. Scorpius picks up the blazer reverently.
“What do you think?” Astoria asks, leaning casually on the doorframe, and Scorpius laughs and hugs her tightly.
”Is it really all new stuff?”
”Of course.”
”But how?”
”Never mind about that,” Astoria says, and she smiles as Scorpius tries the blazer on. “Promise me you’ll take care of it. Heaven help you, Scorpius Greengrass, if you come home with mud all over it.”
Scorpius gives her a bright smile. “I promise.”
Astoria nods and leaves. Scorpius turns his attention back to the uniform, admiring each item of it and carefully removing the tags. After a while, however, he begins to frown at the growing pile of tags, and then he turns and slowly goes to his mother’s room. Astoria is sitting on her bed, reading a book, but she glances up and smiles at Scorpius.
”How’d you afford it?” Scorpius asks bluntly.
Astoria’s smile dims. “I told you, it’s nothing to worry about.”
”I want to know.”
”Does it matter?”
”Where’s your wedding ring?”
Astoria’s smile vanishes completely. “Scorpius — ”
”Where is it?”
”It’s — it’s being cleaned, I sent it to the jeweller — ”
”You’re lying! You sold it!”
Astoria sets her book aside and sighs. “Scorpius, it’s just a ring — ”
”Dad gave it to you! That was the last link we had to him — ”
”We need money, Scorpius. We’re getting into winter now — you’ll need a new coat, and I’ve got to put money aside for heating — ”
”I don’t care!” Scorpius shouts, and James flinches. He's never seen Scorpius throw a tantrum before. "I’ll never wear that stupid uniform! Ever! God, I hate this place! I hate you! Why did you have to do this? Why can’t we just go back?”
A defeated look settles over Astoria’s face. “You know why, your father — ”
“He won’t! He won’t hate you! He won’t be angry! You’d just have to say you were sorry, that’s all…why can’t we go back there? Everything was better back then! I'll do it myself, I'll get the telephone directory — "
“Scorpius,” Astoria says quietly, “you know you can’t find him that way.”
“Just tell me where he is, then!” Scorpius retorts.
Astoria exhales slowly and stares at the ceiling, as if it will somehow give her answers. James follows her gaze. There’s a discolouration mark on the ceiling. Water damage, he thinks.
“I wish you’d never taken me away,” Scorpius says angrily. “I wish you’d just left me with my father. We’d both be happy then.” He turns and storms away, slamming every door as hard as he can, and goes to his bedroom. As he sits on the corner of his bed, angrily swiping a sleeve across his face, there’s a tap at the window.
Scorpius stares at the owl waiting patiently on the other side of the glass.
”What?” he whispers to himself, looking disbelieving. After a moment, he reaches out and raps on the pane. “Go away. Shoo.”
The owl hoots softly. Scorpius looks around, then slowly pushes the window sash open. “Shoo,” he says again, this time a little more uncertainly. The owl sticks out one leg, the letter tied to it. Scorpius stares at his name written elegantly across the parchment, and reaches out to gently untie it.
The owl takes flight. Scorpius gazes down at the letter and reads it once, twice, his expression growing steadily more confused.
”Scorpius?”
He turns. Astoria is in the doorway, looking pale.
“What?”
”What’s that? That letter — where did it come from?”
”I...I don’t know...this owl — I know it sounds mental, but — ”
”Give it to me,” Astoria says quickly, holding out her hand, but Scorpius hesitates.
”It’s from a place called — it’s called Hogwarts — ”
”It’s not real. It’s made-up. Somebody’s playing a prank on you,” Astoria says.
”Oh.” After a moment, Scorpius gives the letter to his mother. Astoria manages a brief smile, then quickly tears the letter in two.
”I’ll put it in the bin.” She hesitates. “Scorpius — ”
”I’m still mad at you,” Scorpius says abruptly. “Go away.”
”I just — I’m sorry, I really am, I wish things could have been different — you know I love you, and — ”
”Go away.” Scorpius turns his back on his mother and slams the window shut.
Astoria hovers for a moment, then slowly leaves.
The memory ends there.
Condensation.
Little beads of water on the window.
James blinks. They come into focus, each drop a slightly different shape. Beyond the glass, there's a morning sky unfurling blue.
Scorpius is sitting on the end of his bed, staring at the condensation with a distant expression. He's so impossibly small; his pyjamas hang from his skinny frame. The room is silent, though James can hear a ticking clock somewhere. When Scorpius sighs and stands up, James nearly jumps from the unexpected noise.
Scorpius does a morning routine that seems second-nature to him, but foreign to James. He opens the curtains, makes his own breakfast, packs his bag, and washes a few dishes in the sink. All the little things that Harry would do for James, yet eleven-year-old Scorpius does them by himself.
Then Scorpius makes a second breakfast — toast and coffee — and brings it to his mother’s room.
Astoria is still in bed, the curtains closed, the room illuminated by the dull glow of her lamp. She manages a thin, tired smile when she sees Scorpius.
“I made you breakfast,” Scorpius says.
“That’s very sweet of you,” Astoria says, but she makes no move to eat it.
Scorpius’s shoulders slump. “Please eat something.”
“I will, darling. I’ll eat it later.”
Scorpius looks at her, then sets the plate and mug down. He goes to the bedside table and picks up Astoria’s purse, taking money from it.
“We need milk and bread. I’ll do the shopping on my way home. And don’t forget, Dr Miller is doing a home visit at one o’clock.”
“Scorpius,” Astoria says.
“What?”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. Scorpius sighs, glancing at the clock on the wall.
“What? Mum, I’m going to miss my bus.”
“Oh. Yes.” Astoria’s gaze clears. “I love you very much, my darling.”
“Love you too. Don’t forget, I’ll be home late tonight. I’ve got football practice after school.” Scorpius picks up his mother’s breakfast and leaves. He goes to the kitchen and dumps the toast in the bin, rinses out the coffee mug, and departs.
The memory blurs here, affording James glimpses of the little moments of everyday life — a bus trip to school, bells ringing, teachers writing on boards. And then the memory sharpens into a teacher reminding a class of an afternoon excursion.
“Now, don’t forget, you have the trip to the aquarium this afternoon. No permission slip, no excursion…”
Scorpius straightens up in his seat. As the lunch bell rings, he checks his bag, his pockets, and then looks around before quickly darting through the school gate and to the nearest bus stop. He’s going home, James realises.
James is beginning to get a sinking feeling.
The bus trip is another blur, but James can’t tell if it’s his own anxiety adding to it, or whether Scorpius has amended the memory. Scorpius walks up to the block of flats and goes to his door, unlocks it, and goes to the kitchen.
“Mum?” he calls out. “It’s just me. I forgot something.” He reaches out and grabs a bit of paper from the counter, then picks up a pen and forges a signature on it. “I’ll see you after school.”
Scorpius starts walking towards the door. Go, James pleads. Keep walking, Scorpius. Walk out the door, don’t look back.
But then Scorpius pauses and glances over his shoulder.
“Mum?” he calls out again, this time a little more uncertainly. “Dr Miller will be here any minute…are you up yet?”
Don’t, Scorpius, don’t…
Scorpius turns away from the front door and begins walking down the hallway. When he gets to his mother’s door, he hesitates. As if he can sense what is waiting for him on the other side of the door.
After a long moment, he reaches out and slowly pushes the door open.
In the dimly lit room, Astoria’s body almost blurs into the shadows. She’s lying on the floor, face-down, as if she collapsed while trying to get out of bed. James’s first thought — hopeful, stupidly optimistic — is somehow that scenario.
Scorpius stands in the doorway as if frozen. After a long moment, he steps forward slowly.
“Mum?” he asks, his voice quiet and barely audible.
Astoria doesn’t respond.
Scorpius reaches out and flicks the light switch on. Now the scene is fully illuminated. There’s vomit beside Astoria; empty medicine packets litter her bed.
Scorpius stares at his mother. He crosses the room in just a few short strides and kneels down next to his mother so quickly that James can’t tell if the movement was deliberate or if Scorpius half-collapsed. “Mum?” Scorpius asks again, and then he reaches out with trembling hands and touches Astoria’s shoulder, his face whiter than a December sky, his expression terrified. He shakes her by the shoulders, and cries out like a child frightened by monsters, and just when James thinks he cannot stand another second of it —
Astoria dies. James notices before Scorpius does. He sees the way her chest rises and falls ever more slowly, the way her breathing becomes shallow and irregular until, at last, there's a silence after one last breath that continues for too long. Scorpius is still crying out, trying to somehow wake her, but after a minute he notices it too. He quietens so abruptly that the silence in the room rings in James's ears.
Scorpius stares at his mother for a long moment, then slowly reaches out and grasps her wrist. Waiting for a pulse that has already stopped. Waiting for someone who has already left.
After a while, he stands up. He walks out of the room, to the kitchen, picks up the phone and dials a number.
There's another short silence, and then his voice. Calm and quiet and stripped of emotion as he states his name and address. There’s a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Scorpius listens for a moment.
”My mother is dead,” he says, still in that eerily calm voice. “She killed herself.”
The tinny voice says something, but Scorpius doesn’t reply. He puts the phone down and goes outside. It’s a young summer day. There’s the sound of passing cars. A radio playing. Little moments from the lives of others.
A car parks nearby and a woman steps out of it. She smiles at Scorpius.
“Hello, Scorpius. Shouldn’t you be at school?”
He stares blankly at her.
“Scorpius?” the woman asks, her smile fading. “I’m here to see your mother. She had a one o’clock appointment.”
In the distance, there’s sirens.
Dr Miller glances over her shoulder, then puts a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Scorpius,” she says quietly, “did your mother do something?”
“Yes.” Scorpius’s voice is barely audible.
“Wait here,” Dr Miller says quickly, striding into the flat.
Scorpius waits. The ambulance seems to take a long time to arrive. It leaves again, empty. Some neighbours come out to point and look. Scorpius goes back into the flat, then, and stands in the kitchen with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Every now and again, he gives an involuntary shudder.
The coroner’s van arrives at the same time as an elderly couple that James realises must be Astoria’s parents. There’s a portly man in a wheelchair, a tartan rug draped over his knees despite the warm weather, and a thin, anxious-looking woman. She looks elegant and graceful, but when when she sees the white sheet draped over her daughter’s body, she staggers as if she’s been hit. Then she breaks down, sobbing, her careful makeup dissolving beneath her tears. Scorpius watches silently, unmoving, his face blank.
Scorpius’s grandfather is speaking to Dr Miller in a low voice. After a few minutes he goes to his wife, takes her hand, and says something. She bursts into fresh sobs, then yanks the sheet from Astoria’s body, grabbing at her mottled hands.
“No! No, she would never — my daughter, my little girl — ”
Both Scorpius’s grandfather and Dr Miller quickly move. Dr Miller tidies the sheet, glancing at Scorpius, then takes Astoria’s mother by the arm and takes her away to the kitchen.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Dr Miller says.
Scorpius’s grandfather clears his throat, then puts a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder.
“Dreadful, simply dreadful,” he says. “I’m terribly sorry you had to see that.”
Scorpius stares at him, then moves away until he drops his hand.
“Dr Miller said you were here when Astoria died. How terrible. I simply can’t imagine.”
Scorpius still says nothing.
“You know,” his grandfather continues, “these sorts of…situations often lead to a lot of talk. A lot of speculation, particularly where we’re from. Considering all the…the factors, I think it might be best if we give our daughter — your mother — a little more dignity, don’t you think?” He waits, then nods to himself. “Yes, a bit of dignity. Now, we can’t say for sure how she died — ”
Scorpius begins reaching for the nearest empty pill packet; his grandfather stops him, grabbing his arm tightly.
“Perhaps it was an aneurism. We have a cousin who died in a similar way, in fact. Tragic, at such a young age — ”
“She killed herself too?” Scorpius asks, and his grandfather stares at him.
“She had an aneurism. And your mother had the same.”
“But she didn’t, she — ”
His grandfather tightens his grip even more. “Remember what I said about dignity? Is this what you want people to talk about? Don’t you care about your mother’s memory?”
Scorpius stares at the floor. “Yes,” he says softly.
“Good, good. And perhaps we should leave your involvement out too. You were supposed to be at school, weren’t you? You wouldn’t want people to think Astoria was a bad parent by letting you skip school, would you?”
“No…” Scorpius’s voice is getting quieter and quieter.
“Good. So if anybody asks — anybody, ever — what will you tell them?”
Scorpius says nothing. His grandfather frowns at him.
“What will you tell them?” he repeats sternly.
“That…my mum died of an aneurism…and I…I wasn’t here…”
And then Scorpius’s blank expression crumples and he bursts into tears. Dr Miller immediately appears in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” she asks sharply. “Scorpius, what’s wrong?”
“The poor boy’s mother just died,” Scorpius’s grandfather snaps. “For Merlin’s sake, he’s allowed to cry.”
Dr Miller gives him an odd look, then turns her attention to Scorpius. “Scorpius, you need to come with me,” she says.
“We’ll take him home,” Scorpius’s grandfather interrupts. “We can make arrangements.”
Dr Miller ignores him and leans down so she’s on eye level with Scorpius; she hands him a packet of tissues. “I’m very sorry you’re experiencing this, Scorpius,” she says quietly. “If you’d like to come with me to the hospital, we can give you a cup of tea and a chat with someone.”
Scorpius nods and reaches out, clutching Dr Miller’s hand.
She leads him away from the dark flat, out into a sapphire-bright summer’s day.
The memory fades. James is standing in the quiet bedroom again. Scorpius is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. He’s tall again, broad-shouldered, eighteen years old and nothing but a faded ripple of the small, afraid boy James saw just seconds ago.
“Why?” James asks at last, the only word his voice manages to find.
Scorpius shrugs as if they’re talking about the weather. “She was depressed.”
“But why?”
Scorpius shrugs again, but his voice betrays him. “I don’t know. I always thought if I did everything really well, and got really good grades, and cleaned up the flat, and was really happy, then it would be enough. I would be enough.”
“You were enough.”
“You must’ve watched a different memory. One where my mother didn’t kill herself.”
Scorpius’s light tone doesn’t fool James a bit. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says abruptly.
”It’s cold.”
”I want some air.”
Scorpius fetches his cloak. It’s bitterly cold outside, the ground silver with night-frost. The stars are high and white in the sky. Scorpius and James walk close together for warmth, shoulders brushing.
“My mum picked this place,” James says after a moment, gesturing around them. “Thought it was the perfect place to raise a family. She always wanted a big family. But it took them a long time to get me.” He pauses to draw his cloak tighter around himself. “And then she was diagnosed with cancer when I was three.”
“I’m sorry — “
“No, let me finish. The prognosis was...not good. But my mum...well, she never said no to a fight. She was strong. And my dad said she was never afraid of anything. So she knew — she just knew — that she was going to make it to my fourth birthday. She knew she was going to die, but not before the seventeenth of February. Because she loved me so much.”
Scorpius’s voice is soft when he says, “That’s amazing. That she did that.”
James glances up at him. “She didn’t, Scorpius. She died in hospital, on the ninth of February. Eight days before my birthday.”
Scorpius is silent.
“Doesn’t mean she loved me any less,” James says. “Doesn’t mean she just gave up. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t enough.”
“That’s different — ”
“It’s not. Cancer killed my mum, the same as depression killed yours. You couldn’t save your mum any more then I could cure mine.”
Scorpius says nothing, but he moves a little closer to James.
They walk onwards, the stars twinkling high above them.
Draco opens the newspaper one morning to discover the death of a fellow Death Eater. The death notice is tucked away in the corner of the Daily Prophet’s obituaries:
CRABBE, William. Beloved husband of Irma and father of Vincent (dec.), Robert (dec.), and Susanne (dec.). Private funeral.
Three children, Draco thinks as he looks at the obituary. Vincent had rarely mentioned his siblings, but Draco had once overheard Narcissa discussing it with Bellatrix. A weak line, Bellatrix had said contemptuously. Our lord deserves better followers than that family. Evidently Susanne had succumbed to an illness as an infant, while Robert — who had been the eldest son and the apple of his father’s eye — had died aged ten, accidentally drowning during a seaside trip. That left only Vincent, whose fate was to die aged seventeen, wreathed in flames and screaming as he burned alive.
William Crabbe had been a simple man, lumbering and thick-shouldered, with more brawn than brains. He’d blindly followed orders; the other Death Eaters used to make amused little remarks to each other. I’m quite tempted to see what would happen if I ordered him to cast the Cruciatus Curse on himself, Lucius had said one day, and Narcissa frowned at him while Bellatrix laughed.
Bellatrix had been right, in that usual cruelly honest way of hers. The Crabbe family had been too stupid to survive. When Voldemort said their families would be safe, Narcissa had immediately started making arrangements for Draco’s protection, while the Crabbe family had nodded in agreement. When Voldemort said that victory was the only possible outcome for the Battle of Hogwarts, Lucius and Narcissa had swapped looks while the Crabbes — their only surviving child included — marched off to join the battle without a second thought. When Voldemort had reassured them that after the war, they would occupy only the highest positions and be given their full and deserved reward, Lucius had already been making plans to escape — which he did successfully, living decades in freedom before finally getting caught. William Crabbe, on the other hand, had a life sentence handed to him and spent his days withering away in a corner of Azkaban.
So Draco puts on a respectable, somber cloak, and purchases a small bouquet of death lilies, and goes to visit Irma Crabbe.
The Crabbe home is not a manor, though it’s a fine property in its own right. It’s an old heritage house, set amongst the green fields of Somerset, and though it might seem small by some standards, Draco thinks it’s still far too large for the sole occupant living within. He remembers Irma as being a stocky woman, as heavyset as her husband and son, but she seems to be fading quickly away. She’s an elderly woman now, small and thin, her hair wispy and her skin stretched translucent over her bony hands and hollowed face. There’s a house-elf just as elderly as her, who fetches the tea tray, but Irma insists on pouring Draco’s tea herself as a point of courtesy. He watches her hands shake as she does so.
“It’s been such a long time,” Irma says, setting the teapot down carefully.
“Yes, it has.”
“It was lovely to hear from you. I don’t hear from anyone much these days.”
“I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Draco says, and Irma nods slowly.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without him. Sixty years of marriage...I’d always hoped, they said — they said he might get early release, with his health being as bad as it was towards the end...oh, I didn’t want him to die in a cell...”
“I’m sorry,” Draco says again, knowing the words are useless anyway.
Irma draws her thin shoulders back. “Well,” she says. “Tell me, how’s the Nott family? You know, I never hear from them. I know old Albert died quite a few years ago, but how’s young Theodore?”
Draco clears his throat. Theodore Nott committed suicide twenty years ago. “He’s passed away.”
“Oh? Oh, yes — he did — goodness, I don’t know how that slipped my mind — and the Zabinis, are they well?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see them much these days, not since Blaise died.” Draco hesitates, trying to recall all his old Pureblood friends. “I married Astoria Greengrass, if you remember her...”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I remember your wedding. Years and years ago, now. And you have a darling son, don’t you? A little boy.”
“Yes. He’s eighteen now, though.”
“Eighteen! Well, that went quick.” Irma manages a sip of tea, her hands still shaking with the effort. Arthritis, Draco would guess. “Has he made you proud, then?”
Draco looks down at the little table, covered in a starched doily. The grandfather clock ticks in the hallway. He can smell furniture polish; this house had been cleaned by the house-elf the old-fashioned way. Irma is one of the last traditional Purebloods.
“Yes,” he says. “He’s terribly clever. I don’t understand half the stuff he talks about. He’ll do far better things than I ever have.”
Irma nods approvingly. “That’s all we can hope for our children,” she says. “Each generation better than the last.” Her gaze flickers to a collection of photographs on a nearby table; the faces of smiling children fill the frames. Vincent, and Robert, and Susanne.
Draco can’t imagine outliving his child.
Irma looks away from the photographs and picks up her teacup. “And what Ministry department does he work in?” she asks.
“Oh, he’s still at Hogwarts.”
“His final year? How exciting. And which family?”
Which family. The old Pureblood way of asking, which Pureblood is he going to marry? The all-important question.
“Well, we have enjoyed spending time with the Selwyn family...”
Irma peers at him, thinking for a moment. “Are they Sacred?”
“Yes, still on the Sacred Twenty-Eight.” The last Pureblood families deemed to have truly untainted lines.
“Oh, yes! I know them. Henry and Sarah Selwyn. They’re very good friends of mine. I’ve known Sarah’s mother since we were school-girls...Oh, we were thick as thieves during our Hogwarts days! I was pleased when her daughter married Henry. What a noble line.”
“Oh? I didn’t realise you were friends.” Draco frowns; Purebloods love name-dropping. Surely the Selwyns would have mentioned Irma. Then again, the Crabbe family has fallen from grace, and far harder than the Malfoys did.
“Yes, and Henry Selwyn knew my dear William back in the good old days.”
The good old days. Voldemort’s reign.
“He did?”
“Well, the Selwyns never liked to pick sides. They wouldn’t declare support for our lord , of course, but Henry Selwyn visited us plenty of times and my William grew rather fond of him. Henry’s father had made some rather foolish investments, you see, and the family was in dire straits. William gave them a large sum of money to help them on their feet, and managed to pull some strings and get Henry a very nice treasury job.” Irma leans over and pats Draco’s hand. “You know how it is. We Purebloods look out for our own.”
“We do.”
Irma smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners, but after a moment her smile fades. “Tell them the funeral details, won’t you?” she says suddenly. “I had to put ‘private funeral’ because...well, you know how it is sometimes, with the Death Eater graves getting defaced and awful, uncouth things like that...but I did expect quite a few owls asking for details...”
It’s refreshing, in a way, to hear Irma speak so bluntly. Death Eater. Dark Lord. Not speaking in polite little euphemisms. They were Death Eaters, and they did serve the Dark Lord. For decades, everyone else has politely cleared their throat when it came to Draco’s past.
It’s all so progressive now, Pansy had told him.
Irma is not a progressive Pureblood. She’s one of the old ones. She made her choices long ago, and she has refused to hide them or re-write her history.
“I’ll tell them,” Draco says. “I’ll pass the details along.”
Irma pats his hand again.
He dresses for the funeral the next day. He wears a dark suit, and his finest robes of black, and picks the dewy roses from his mother’s garden. Irma will appreciate the gesture.
He stops by the Selwyns.
“You look like you’re off to a funeral,” Mrs Selwyn comments, smiling at him.
“William Crabbe has died.”
Mrs Selwyn’s smile fades. “Oh. Well, we’re terribly sorry to hear that.”
Mr Selwyn nods. “Rather unfortunate. Now, for the summer, we were thinking of a few trips abroad — ”
“It’s at one o’clock,” Draco adds. “Saint Augustine’s Chapel.”
Mrs Selwyn clears her throat, exchanging a glance with her husband. “Are you attending?”
“I know the Crabbe family well. Mrs Crabbe is, as expected, quite upset.”
“Oh, yes, and as we said, dreadful thing to happen,” Mrs Selwyn says. “But you have to admit they were rather involved in the war...”
“So was I.”
“Draco,” Mr Selwyn says, looking sympathetic, “you at least renounced your loyalties and made amends. The Crabbe family...well, they hardly saw the error of their ways.”
“So you’re not going to the funeral,” Draco says.
“Good heavens, no. And — in your best interests, of course — I don’t think you should attend either. It’s admirable that you’re willing to offer support to poor Mrs Crabbe, but think of your reputation. Others might see you.”
Draco looks across the room. Sunlight pours across the parquet floors and warms the hand-carved teak table. The family portraits line the walls: Mr and Mrs Selwyn, dressed in their finest robes, Celia standing proudly between them. He glances down at his hands, one resting on the fine bone china teacup, the other resting on the hand-embroidered tablecloth. A lifestyle and reputation that had only been achievable through the generosity of the Crabbes, of whom the last one is standing alone in a dusty old house, waiting to hear even the quietest murmur of a condolence.
Draco takes a sip of his tea. The movement pulls back his sleeve slightly, making visible the long-faded curl of a snake’s tail.
“Yes,” Draco says. “Others might see me.”
Mr Selwyn smiles at him. “Precisely,” he says. “Now, about these summer trips...”
Draco attends William Crabbe’s funeral.
It’s a small affair. The chapel is a small, modest place buried in the Somerset countryside. A far cry from the extravagant service for the Bulstrode patriarch, but as Draco had remembered, Irma is an old Pureblood. This is the old way. Burying ancestors in the old places, the places with the crumbling graves of all the generations who came before, because tradition and history has always been more important than piles of gold.
So Draco walks across the scratched floorboards, and sits on the musty pew with the velvet worn thin. The other attendees slowly trickle in: an elderly, blind witch who finds her way with a cane, and another elderly witch in a wheelchair. A wizard with a long grey beard and rheumy eyes, who Draco vaguely recalls as being one of his father’s old friends. A couple of latecomers, and finally Irma Crabbe herself, and that’s it. Draco is by far the youngest there.
It’s a small group. They barely fill the first two pews. The service is quiet and short. Afterwards, Draco offers Irma his condolences again.
“Thank you,” she says, clutching his hands. Her skin is paper-thin. There’s a long, thin scar across the back of her hand; Draco recognises it as a mark from a particularly painful hex — most likely a punishment from the Dark Lord for some perceived failure.
“Of course,” he says.
He leaves the chapel, stepping out into the unkempt gardens and past the gravestones slowly falling into ruin.
The morning is young and the gardens are green, and the air is crisp and clear here. He wanders through the long grass, pausing by the old wooden fence which is half-lost to time. There’s a little stone bench next to it, green with lichen, and he sits on it while he looks out across the valley. He can see a little hamlet in the distance; a scattering of little houses. The sky is washed clean with morning rain.
Draco sits for a long time and thinks.
He returns to the manor.
When things are suddenly considered finite, he thinks, it’s strange how much attention people pay to them. When Scorpius sent all those letters, and came home during the term breaks to set up his telescopes and make a general mess of the observatory, Draco never paid him much heed.
Now, of course, his absence and silence is painfully noted.
And now, as he steps into the manor, he is very aware of it. The slight echo of his footsteps on the oak floorboards. The walls, freshly painted by him just a few years ago. Egg-shell white, precisely as he wanted them to be. The little hall-stand that he never looked at twice, but now he studies it as if it’s artwork. It’s always been there. Perhaps his mother purchased it, perhaps it’s an ancient heirloom. Draco looks at the carved patterns on the legs, the shiny lacquer on its surface. He looks at the stairs, the balustrades so lovingly polished over the generations. The faint dip in the middle of each step, the wood worn out by countless footsteps. The little cupboard tucked away beneath the stairs, which is actually a hidden servant’s entrance. It hides a narrow stairwell, where the servants used to bustle up and down from the kitchen.
Draco goes to the breakfast room. He’ll miss this place the most, if only because it was Scorpius’s favourite place. Designed to catch the morning sun, bright and more inviting than the formal dining room. He rests a hand on the round table made of cherry; the morning sun brings out the rich amber of the wood. Draco spent countless mornings sitting at this table as a young boy, filching extra spoonfuls of jam while his father read the morning paper. And countless mornings as a father himself, pretending not to see Scorpius helping himself to extra spoonfuls of honey.
Draco lifts his hand from the table, then goes to his study and begins writing a letter.
Chapter 29: Redirect and Change
Summary:
Draco visits Irma Crabbe several times — Rose suffers yet another disappointment — Harry visits an old school friend —Ron and Harry discuss their days as Aurors — the Monopoly game makes an appearance — Scorpius helps James with his homework.
Chapter Text
Draco begins visiting Irma Crabbe regularly. He doesn’t know why. He’s not expecting to swap cheerful stories about his schooldays with her son; Vincent wasn’t exactly one for witty ripostes or classroom mischief.
But they talk about all the others instead. They sit in the parlour room and Irma always pours the tea herself, and one afternoon Draco comments on it.
“They don’t do that these days. Pouring the tea themselves, I mean.”
Irma sets the teapot down, her lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval. “Common courtesy. Goodness, manners seem to be quite lost these days. When I was a girl, getting the house-elf to pour the tea of a respected guest was a great disservice.”
“Oh, they don’t use the house-elf. There’s enchanted teapots instead that do everything.”
Irma peers over her spectacles at him. “No house-elves? Why ever not?”
“I don’t know. They don’t like it, I suppose.”
“Who doesn’t like it? The house-elves? Or the masters?”
As if on cue, Irma’s house-elf appears and begins returning their teacups to the serving tray. “Mistress is not to be talking about these things,” he says, his voice a gentle scold and his wizened face stern.
“Oh, be off with you, Mibbs,” Irma says, waving a hand heavy with rings. “It’s only a bit of fancy.”
The house-elf sullenly vanishes. Irma frowns at a crumb on the doily.
“His eyesight is going a bit,” she says. “Still, I shan’t replace him. Today’s house-elves all seem to have opinions. It’s ghastly. Mibbs won’t associate with any of them. He says they’ve forgotten the old ways of serving.”
Draco is certain that if Harry were here, he would be pulling that face of his. A polite grimace, Draco terms it: when Harry tries to both smile politely and privately frown with disapproval. It’s a rather amusing expression, and one that Draco enjoys provoking.
“The good old days,” Irma murmurs after a long moment, gazing down at her knotted hands. “Oh, we were admired, weren’t we? All the parties...and the Ministry...when my husband walked into the room, people scurried to make way for him. Your father, Draco, now he had a presence! He used to walk down Diagon Alley and the shopkeepers would be falling over themselves to gain his custom.”
“It wasn’t right, though,” Draco says, and Irma peers at him.
“How so?”
“What we did. The things we did to people, in the name of blood purity...”
“We had to. The sacred lines...we had to protect them. Keep the magic strong. It gets weak when tainted with the Mudbloods and half-castes — ”
“Children were murdered in our lord’s name.”
Irma falls silent. “We did what we had to do.”
Draco looks at her sharply, but Irma’s not looking at him. She’s gazing at the photographs of her dead children.
“William used to scream at night,” she murmurs. “During the war. He never said why. Night terrors, the Healers said. But I knew. My William, he was a strong man. Not the sharpest quill in the desk, but he was big and strong. The Dark Lord would send him away to do tasks all the time. Now, a man like my William — you don’t use him like a knife in the dark, you use him like the swing of a troll’s club. Simple, brutish tasks.” Irma drops her gaze to her scarred hands. “We did what we were told,” she says.
Draco thinks of his father. Lucius has similar scars.
“It was nice before that, though.” Irma says, her tone lightening as she looks away from her hands and out the window instead, where bright sunshine pours across the gardens. “Wasn’t it? The good old days. Before the war. I remember when you walked with your parents down Diagon Alley as if you owned every shop.” She smiles then, her face crinkling up. “Whatever happened to that walk, Draco? You stand with your shoulders hunched now. Lift your head and look at the world. Be proud. You’re a Malfoy.”
“The world has changed. There’s no pride in being a Malfoy now.”
Irma looks at him blankly. “Your darling little boy, didn’t you say you were terribly proud of him?”
“Well — yes —”
“So of course there’s pride in being a Malfoy, then. Your son — he’s yours. He’s a Malfoy. Take pride in your family.” Irma’s gaze softens as it falls, once more, to her children’s photographs.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says impulsively. “I can’t imagine.”
Irma shakes her head as she picks up a picture of Vincent. “We did what we had to do,” she repeats.
The afternoon light catches on the rest of the photographs, illuminating faces long faded.
Draco visits the Selwyns again.
Their antiques are all purchased, he thinks. He never paid too much attention to them before, but the expensive items aren’t heirlooms. They’re all pristine condition, clearly once kept in display cases. There’s no history to them. Mr Selwyn has purchased them with the money of the deceased William Crabbe. A simple man who silently did as he was told, and woke up screaming every night. And Irma Crabbe, with photographs of three dead children and hands that tremble too much.
Mr Selwyn strolls around the drawing room, comfortably rearranging his tailored robes. Mrs Selwyn fusses over the scones on the serving trolley. Her hands are soft and unblemished, her nails well-manicured.
“I’m rather glad you’re here, actually,” Mr Selwyn begins after niceties have been exchanged. “We were rather disappointed Scorpius didn’t visit during the winter break — ”
“School can be very taxing in the final year,” Mrs Selwyn adds soothingly, giving her husband a warning look. “I’m sure Scorpius has just been busy.”
“It’s still disappointing,” Mr Selwyn says firmly, pausing to stand next to Draco’s chair. “I expect he’ll make things up at Easter, though? Celia might require a few grand gestures to forgive his absence lately. Not even a single letter.”
Draco glances up. Mr Selwyn looks down at him, waiting for an answer, and abruptly Draco remembers, many years ago, anxiously perching on the velvet settee in the Greengrass parlour room. Mr and Mrs Greengrass had made it clear they disapproved of him and his disgraced family, and had arched their eyebrows at him and asked snide questions until Astoria loudly told them off, in that usual wilful way of hers. Her parents had always hated that about her. Astoria was never one to obediently play the role of the demure Pureblood girl.
He suddenly misses Astoria terribly.
“Scorpius has been rather unhappy lately,” Draco says.
“Yes, yes, exam stress and the rest of it,” Mr Selwyn says dismissively. “But we do need to make sure Celia is well cared for...”
“I don’t imagine he would perform any grand gestures.”
Mr Selwyn frowns at him. “I would certainly hope he does,” he says. “I know they’ve been courting for some time, but Scorpius still needs to prove his worth before any official decision is made — “
Mrs Selwyn hurriedly interrupts. “Celia has told me she is very, very fond of Scorpius,” she says, shooting her husband another look. “We do need to make sure she ends up happy.”
“There are plenty of other suitors lining up outside our door,” Mr Selwyn retorts. “As I said, Scorpius still needs to prove his worth.”
“I’m glad to hear there are other suitors,” Draco says.
Mrs Selwyn sits up, looking alarmed suddenly. “What do you mean?”
“Scorpius has indicated he would appreciate Celia’s friendship —”
“Friendship?”
“I understand it may be upsetting, given Celia’s desire for a courtship,” Draco says. “I know she’ll be quite distressed, and I apologise.” He rises and goes to the door; the servant, taken by surprise, rushes to hand him his cloak and scarf. “I’ll give you some time to discuss it between you —”
“Wait — just wait, Draco, we can sort this out,” Mr Selwyn begins, hurrying over to him. “Let’s not make any rash decisions —”
“Scorpius has spent many months making this decision. Please, rest assured it was a considerate and careful choice. Again, I do apologise, especially to Celia —”
“Come back, sit down, I’ll arrange for some more tea,” Mrs Selwyn pleads, but Draco settles his cloak around his shoulders and turns to the parlour door.
“Thank you. I can see myself out,” he says politely. The servant opens the door for him, but doesn’t close it in time to silence the burgeoning argument on the other side of it. Mrs Selwyn’s voice rises like a wrathful phoenix.
“Henry, why on earth did you have to say all that nonsense about other suitors —”
“There are others!”
“She wanted him! She said she loved him — oh, you have ruined it all! You selfish, selfish — ”
The servant shuts the door quickly and clears their throat. “This way, Mr Malfoy.”
Draco walks down the long hallway cluttered with polished side-tables and silver vases, and when he finally steps outside the Selwyns’ home for the final time, he breathes in the crisp winter air and feels just a little bit lighter.
That evening, when he goes home, he drags the photographs out. Not the ones of young Scorpius, but the older albums. Draco’s own childhood.
He waves away the dust and cobwebs, and turns the pages. The manor is lined with formal portraits but here, in the private family albums, the real moments have been captured. A blurry picture of Draco, about eight years old, fishing in one of the creeks in the nearby woods. His father stands beside him, wading into the creek to retrieve a fallen hat, his trouser-legs rolled up. And here, Narcissa trying to keep Draco steady on a toy broom. Draco can almost hear his parents voices —
“For Merlin’s sake, Cissy, let him fly himself — ”
“He’ll fall, he’s going to fall – ”
“Yes, about half a metre onto soft grass. Stop fussing so.”
He turns the pages of his childhood, watching himself grow up. And then there’s all the social pictures, many of them cut out of the pages of the Daily Prophet. Smiling at the camera, glasses raised, lights twinkling around them. Charity galas, balls, fundraising parties. But all the other parties too — the garden tea parties, and the evening drinks, and the picnics. Narcissa and Lucius chatting to all their friends. There’s Mrs Nott, Theo’s mother — oh, Theo had been the apple of her eye. My darling boy, you’ll achieve great things, she was fond of telling Theo, and Draco would tease him about it later: Hey, Theo, achieved anything great yet? And there’s Mr Goyle, grinning at some inside joke Lucius has just made. He had a mundane job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but he was proud of it, and his son was equally proud to follow his father’s very ordinary footsteps. And the Zabini family, swarming Narcissa to congratulate over some minor achievement. The Zabinis were the polar opposites of the plodding Goyles — they had a fascinating house filled with exotic pets and odd enchantments — and they held lavish parties nearly every weekend. Blaise Zabini had certainly inherited his parents’ personalities — he’d been an extroverted boy, quick to laugh and dissolve any conversation into theatrics. A born entertainer, Narcissa had said fondly, though Lucius had been somewhat more unkind and called Blaise a foolish clown.
Then the war had happened, and suddenly everyone had to make choices.
Draco flips back through the pictures, at the smiling faces trapped in time. Theodore Nott committed suicide. Tell them all I’m sorry, his note read in its entirety. Blaise Zabini, plagued by unwanted memories, had fallen into ruin and ended up killed in a mugging gone wrong. Gregory Goyle had moved abroad to escape his past. Vincent hadn’t even made it into adulthood, dying before his eighteenth birthday.
We did what we had to do.
January’s weather is bitterly, bitterly cold.
“I mean, really cold,” James says, unimpressed.
Rose gives him a cajoling look. “Please, James? I really need to master these hairpin turns, and I need to time myself against another player — ”
James moves closer to the common-room fireplace. “So go ask someone on the team, then.”
Rose looks a bit guilty. “They all said no.”
“Really? That’s so odd. I mean, it’s perfect weather.” James gestures to the window, where the snow is falling thickly. “Thanks for inviting me to go flying during a snowstorm, though. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a snowstorm! It’s actually — I think it’s getting lighter — ”
“You should go visit Pomfrey. Get her to take that Delusional Jinx off you.”
Rose crosses her arms and scowls at him. “Fine. I’ll go practice by myself.”
“Come on, Rose. Just leave it. Can’t you do it tomorrow?”
“The best players practice every day.”
“Scorpius doesn’t.”
Rose’s expression falls a bit.
James regrets his words. “Fine. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen, and don’t push it.”
“Thanks, James! You’re the best,” Rose says cheerfully. “Meet you on the pitch.”
“I’m way too nice,” James mutters to himself, giving the cosy fire a wistful look before going to his dormitory to wear, most likely, six layers of cloaks.
It is as bad as he expected. The pitch conditions are awful. Every snowflake is a little sting of cold. The wind is determined to cut through James’s robes, and despite his gloves, his hands go numb in about thirty seconds. But it’s almost fun, with both of them struggling and tumbling about in the air, laughing at each other’s terrible flying as they battle against snow and wind.
“You’re right!” Rose shouts to James, barely visible in the greying light. “This was a terrible idea!”
She laughs as they land, then laughs harder as an owl nearly flies right into her.
“Nice to know even the postal service is struggling,” she says, then pauses as the owl hangs grimly onto her wrist guard. “Oh? It’s a letter for me...” She unties the letter, then smiles happily.
James rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. From Andrew?”
But he doesn’t tease her too much — Andrew, a year ahead of them, graduated last year and has been travelling around Europe. James knows Rose misses him dreadfully.
“None of your business,” Rose says lightly, eagerly unravelling the letter. She reads it quickly as they scurry back to the castle. James waits patiently for her to finish the letter, but as they step through the great oak doors, he glances at Rose and realises something is terribly wrong.
“Rose? What happened?”
Rose shakes her head mutely, her mouth crumpling, tears forming in her eyes. Then she manages to say, in a very quiet voice, “He’s breaking up with me.”
“What? But — you’ve been together since forever — “
“Almost four years,” Rose says, still in that too-quiet voice.
It’s a long, silent walk back to the common room. Rose disappears to her dormitory without a word to James. Her friends, smiling and chatting around the fire, pause and watch as she ascends the stairs, then get up and follow her. James leaves them to comfort Rose and makes his way over to the boys, who are clustered around a table covered in homework.
“What happened?” Iwan asks James as he sits down.
“Andrew ended things with Rose.”
“Wow,” Iwan says blankly. “Feels like they’ve always been together. Rose must be crushed.”
Nate arrives then, and tramples cheerfully over the morose atmosphere. “Guess what?” he says airily. “I’m going to London.”
Martin looks outraged. “What? That’s not fair! I asked McGonagall if I could go there last weekend to visit friends, she said no and told me off for wasting her time with ‘trivial requests’!”
“It’s because of my Muggle studies,” Nate informs him. “I’m studying maths, remember? I want to work as an engineer in the Muggle world. Anyway, since I have to get ready for university, I’m being sent to London three days a week. The tutors train us how to learn properly in a Muggle classroom. We’ve got to learn how to use computers, we can’t do that here.”
“We?” James asks.
“Yeah. There’s other students taking Muggle subjects. The place they’re sending us is right in central London, I’m hoping we’ll get to see — ”
“Three days a week?” James demands.
Nate pauses and seems to realise who James is thinking about. “Yeah, Scorpius will be there too.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, so I’m hoping we’ll get some time to actually go and see London. You know, as part of our Muggle studies. I mean, if I want a job in the Muggle world then I have to know how it all works, right? Like catching the tube...”
James lets Nate chatter excitedly, his mind elsewhere. He’ll have to see Scorpius tomorrow, at the Quidditch game. And Scorpius will no doubt break the news to James with just as much excitement as Nate has.
James, very sternly, reminds himself to be happy for Scorpius.
He greets Scorpius before the match. It’s a Saturday morning, very crisp and cold, and Scorpius is dressed impeccably in his seeker uniform. Even though he was awarded the position of team captain this year, he still wears his seeker robes to each game rather than the captain’s uniform.
“Suppose Nate told you?” Scorpius asks after greeting James with a hug.
“What, about London?” James manages a bright smile. “That’s brilliant, you’re going to love spending time in Muggle London — ”
“I suppose.”
James’s smile fades. “You don’t want to?”
“I want to be here, with you,” Scorpius says matter-of-factly, trying to fix his wrist guards.
“Oh, good,” James says with relief. “I mean, not good — because you’ll be away every week — but I just thought you’d be really happy about it, so I was trying to be happy — ”
“You’re a numpty. Help me with my wrist guards, will you?”
James starts adjusting the fiddly clasps. “And you’ve got to do all your Quidditch stuff, too. And Astronomy Club.”
“I know. I’ve dropped Astronomy Club, it’s too much.”
“Anything I can help with?”
Scorpius tilts his head. “Just cheer extra loud today. I like hearing you.”
“All right.” James pulls the last clasp closed, resting his hands on Scorpius’s wrists a moment. “Good luck.”
Scorpius smiles at him, then drops his hands to his side and walks away. James turns away too, ready to search for his friends, but bumps straight into Rowan. He’s dressed in his Slytherin Quidditch uniform, his broom in one hand and a quaffle in the other.
“Oh! Hello,” James says. “Good luck on the pitch today.”
To his surprise, Rowan gives him a smirk.
“What?” James asks.
“Nothing. How’s your Scorpius?”
“He’s fine,” James says slowly, trying to figure out Rowan’s smirk. “What’s so funny?”
Rowan lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Just figured out something.”
“What?”
Rowan’s smirk widens. “See you later, James.”
“Wait — hang on — ”
But Rowan walks away, leaving James confused but hopeful — though a somewhat bewildering encounter, Rowan had seemed to be in a good mood. Perhaps he’d like to be friends again? James does miss their conversations about books and comics.
He shrugs to himself and heads down to the pitch.
Draco visits Irma Crabbe on the month anniversary of her husband’s death; another old Pureblood custom, performed as a point of courtesy. It’s fallen out of favour these days, it seems. It’s regarded as an old-fashioned rite.
Irma hasn’t forgotten. The other little customs are present: a photograph of her husband is surrounded by three white roses. White to represent the blood purity, and three of them to denote how many Pureblood children he produced. Always a point of pride with Purebloods: has the line been preserved?
Draco lights the candle, a tapered red one. Also a custom, though a far more discreet one. They used to light these particular candles whenever a Sacred Twenty-Eight member died. And one final tradition: there’s a Death Eater uniform, neatly folded, next to William Crabbe’s photograph. Traditionally, it’s kept until the twenty-eighth day after the death of the head of a house, to allow one of his children to pick up the mantle. If it remains unclaimed, it’s burned.
Draco misses these traditions. Not for what they represent, but for what they create: belonging. The old rituals. The old ways.
“There’s so few of us,” he says belatedly. He thinks of those photographs again. All those smiling faces. He’d loved the Pureblood parties and visits and lunches and social events. Not for what they represented. Just that feeling of belonging. And he’ll never get that back, and it’s something he can’t give to Scorpius. That feeling of knowing these people. Of being with them.
Irma lights her own candle. “You’re the last one left, Draco,” she says. “It’s a lonely place, I imagine. Being the youngest Death Eater.”
People called him that mockingly, after the war ended. The youngest Death Eater. A nickname from sneering mouths.
But Irma says it almost fondly, with just a touch of sympathy. He looks at her trembling hands, her eyes beginning to cloud with cataracts. Soon, he will be collecting white lilies from his mother’s garden and laying them upon yet another Death Eater coffin.
Yes, he thinks.
A lonely place.
He spends the next month finding other lonely places. Little graves on windswept coastal cliffs. A crooked white cross in the middle of a forest. A few names on a shipping list with no return ticket, surnames altered, false identities given. At the end of March, he has quite a tidy list; he Disapparates to Harry’s house.
“Scorpius isn’t here,” Harry says the moment he opens the door, and Draco stares at him.
“Why would he be here? It’s the middle of the school term.”
“What? Right, obviously. It’s just — I thought — I don’t know. Sorry, that was stupid of me. Had a moment.”
Draco waits. Harry gives him another blank look.
“May I come in?” Draco asks at last.
“Oh! Right, yes, sorry — of course.” Harry steps back.
It’s been a while since Draco was here. If anyone ever asked, he’d claim to find Harry’s house entirely nauseating. But it’s rather comforting, really. It’s undeniably a home. Photographs of all the familiar faces Draco recalls from his own Hogwarts days — Neville, Luna, Seamus, Dean — line the walls, along with the entire Weasley clan, of course. Judging from the number of new faces crowding the picture frames, the Weasleys are certainly reproducing at an alarming rate. And James’s presence seems embedded in the very fabric of the house, from the nocks in the doorframe measuring his childhood heights to the paper hippogriff stuck to the wall, clearly a sample of James’s very early art.
“I found some people.”
Harry looks startled. “Er — what kind of people?”
“The people you asked me to find, Potter.” Draco smooths out the bit of paper. “The Finnigan family. You said Seamus Finnigan never found his mother?”
“You found her?”
Draco shakes his head. “It’s not good news. I suspect she was murdered during the notorious —”
“How’d you find out?”
He smooths out the rough family tree he assembled. It’s only a small one, a tiny branch. “Seamus said he lost contact with her after she went to the Ministry to register herself as a half-blood, but she never registered, correct? But she did register. There’s a Margaret Gatchell — Margaret was her middle name, and Gatchell her grandmother’s maiden name.” Draco taps the family tree. “Too much of a coincidence. I’m certain she used this alias.”
“We actually did look at that lead,” Harry says, perhaps a little pleased with himself. “But if she was caught in the lie, the Ministry would’ve arrested her for falsifying documents, and then corrected her name. It would have shown up in the trial lists, the court records — but it didn’t.”
“It was April 1998, Potter,” Draco says patiently.
Harry gives him a blank look.
“The very end of the war. The Ministry’s control was beginning to...slip a little.”
Harry pauses. “The courthouse raids,” he says dully.
“Yes.” Several gangs of Snatchers had broken into the Ministry’s holding cells and murdered seventy-eight Muggleborns. The Ministry had kept the incident very tightly under wraps. The Snatchers were supposed to be under Ministry control, and the Ministry — Voldemort’s puppet though it had been — hadn’t quite gotten to the point where it could condone mass executions of Muggleborns and blood traitors. “The Muggleborn Registry staff were already drowning in paperwork at that point,” Draco says. “By the time they got around to processing the file of Seamus’s mother...she was already dead. So why bother making corrections or filing arrest charges?”
Harry’s shoulders slump. “I should’ve thought of that. Why didn’t I think...I could have solved it...nobody knows about those murders...the Ministry covered it up with a story of a violent Muggleborn starting a riot, which ended in a flash of Fiendfyre...”
”Conveniently destroying all evidence,” Draco says, nodding.
Harry looks at him. “I was only told the truth as part of my role as an Auror, cleaning up the post-war mess. Shacklebolt made me swear to secrecy. How do you know about it? You were seventeen...how could you have known?”
“Because the Minister came to the manor,” Draco says, “to discuss possible cover stories with Voldemort. Neither of them wanted chaos. Voldemort was equally motivated to cover up the incident. The Muggleborns were being obedient, thinking they’d be safe if they did the right thing and signed the Register and handed over their wands. The Ministry didn’t want anyone panicking. It’s easier to lead people towards their final destination rather than push them, isn’t it?”
Harry says nothing.
“Though I’m flattered,” Draco adds, “ that you forget my past so easily, Potter.” He removes a scroll of paper from his robes and unravels it, the names shining in black ink. “Now, the rest of them.”
“The what?”
“The rest of the names you gave me.”
Harry sits down abruptly and heavily on the nearest chair and stares at the list.
Harry can’t believe it. He’s been working with this organisation for months now, trying to track down relatives, and between himself and the other volunteers — all in all, about fifty total – they’ve managed to find five people.
And Draco — in less than a couple of months, working by himself — has left Harry with a neat little list of seven names.
He’s supposed to drop these off at the little office the Ministry lets them use, so the other volunteers can see the names, and then the secretary will send off owls to notify surviving relatives of the discoveries.
But Harry knows these names.
So he goes first to Seamus Finnigan’s house.
It’s a very busy flat in Killarney, filled with noise. It’s Saturday, and apparently the Finnigan family is getting ready for a local Quidditch match. Harry’s arrival almost goes unnoticed amongst all the noise, until a woman suddenly gathers him into a crushing hug.
“Harry! Well, hasn’t it been years and years. Come in, come in — Seamus never said you were coming — ”
Seamus’s wife, whose name Harry very guiltily can’t remember. Nor can he recall the names of the children racing around the flat, though he’s not even sure which ones belong to Seamus. There’s a few other adults milling around who are probably aunts or uncles.
“I’m sorry, this is a bad time,” Harry says. He can’t tell Seamus the news like this, with a house full of cheerful relatives painting each other’s faces with their team’s colours.
But it’s too late now; Seamus has spotted him. He barrels over, cheerfully shoving a few children out of the way. “Harry! Been way too long, mate! You haven’t met my brother, have you? This is Fergus, and his wife, Alannah — oh, and my cousin Erin, and her children — her son’s playing his first ever Quidditch match, we’re all here to cheer him — come join us, mate, we’d all love to have you there — ”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Harry blurts out, and Seamus blinks at him, then turns to his wife.
“Finish getting the kids ready, love, I’ll be back in a second,” he tells her, then leads Harry to the kitchen where he first has to remove two young children getting into the biscuit tin, and ask an elderly relative to leave the kettle alone. He closes the kitchen door; the joyful, loud noise becomes muffled and distant. “What is it? Don’t tell me someone’s died. If Neville’s gone and gotten himself strangled by that bloody stupid Devil’s Snare — I told him to get rid of it — ”
“Your mother.”
Seamus’s lopsided grin fades. He stares at Harry. “You found her? You found my mam? After all these years...”
Harry nods. “It’s not...it’s not good news, Seamus.”
Seamus drops his gaze, staring unseeingly at the floor. “After twenty years, I didn’t think it would be,” he murmurs. “If she’d found a way to escape, she would have come back to us by now...”
“She was involved in the courthouse raids.”
Seamus flinches. “The Fiendfyre got her, then,” he says dully.
Harry hesitates. “Yeah, it did. I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing I didn’t expect.”
They stand in silence for a long moment.
“Where’s she buried?” Seamus asks. “Tell me they at least buried her, Harry. I’ve got to go somewhere to pay my respects.”
Harry hesitates. “The bodies were all incinerated by the Fiendfyre...”
The kitchen door suddenly flies open and a woman bustles in, fussing about with teacups and biscuits. Three children follow her, chatting animatedly to each other, laughing and tossing a toy snitch around.
“Come to the game,” Seamus says suddenly. “Cheer for my little cousin, won’t you? He’ll be pleased as anything to have Harry Potter there.”
Harry nods.
It’s the least he can do.
He doesn’t get home until midnight. The Quidditch match had been followed by cups of tea and proper introductions to Seamus’s family, and then Seamus had told everyone the news about his mother and they’d all gone down to the local pub to raise a glass in memory. One glass had turned into quite a few as everyone swapped stories about Seamus’s mother.
It’s been a long time since Harry’s had this many drinks. He stumbles through the Floo, trips over the hearth, and knocks the photographs off the mantle; there’s the ominous crack of glass.
“Ah, damn it,” he mutters to himself, trying to pick up the photographs. Ginny waves at him. James laughs as he falls off a toy broom. Ron and Hermione smile as they proudly hold a baby Rose. For some reason, the pictures bring a lump to Harry’s throat. It’s the five glasses of whiskey making him emotional, he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop him gazing down at the gathered photographs of all his family and friends. He thinks of the expression on Seamus’s face as he heard the news of his mother’s death. If she found a way to escape, she would have come back to us by now.
Harry sets the pictures down on the mantle again, then manages to fish the list of names from his pocket. He picks up a quill and, with an unsteady hand, crosses off the first name. Siobhan Finnigan.
Only six names left.
Ron visits a few days later. It’s a chilly evening, the stars already beginning to speckle the sky. Harry gives the fireplace an expectant glance after Ron steps through it, but Ron shakes his head.
“She’s busy. Got to stay up late for a conference Firecall. International time zones are a pain.”
“Ah. Butterbeer?”
“Thanks.”
They settle in their usual armchairs in the living room. Ron seems morose; he’s unusually quiet.
“Trouble in paradise?” Harry asks at last.
Ron sighs and rubs wearily at his eyes. “Still stuck in the middle of Hermione and Rose. They’ve been at each other’s throats lately.”
“Hermione’s still telling Rose to quit Quidditch?”
Ron gives him a look. “Don’t look like that. Hermione’s not telling Rose to quit, just suggesting she focuses a little less on it. Now Rose has become obsessed with proving her mother wrong...she’s practising her Quidditch moves in every spare minute.”
“Is she getting better?” Harry asks tentatively.
Ron takes a sip of his butterbeer. “I’m really proud of her, you know. For trying, at least.”
They sit in silence for a while, then Ron gives a little shake of his head.
“Anyway. How’s James?”
“Good. Really good, actually. He was happy at Christmas...it was nice to see him smiling. That time of the year is usually hard for him, without Teddy. But he was really, truly happy. Thanks to Scorpius, I suppose.”
“He’s an interesting kid,” Ron says. “That Scorpius Malfoy.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asks, perhaps a little defensively. He’s grown rather fond of Scorpius.
“Looks like his dad. To be honest, it’s weird to see Draco Malfoy’s kid walking around shyly introducing himself to people and smiling at everyone. Not what I expected from Malfoy’s son, that’s all.” Ron picks at the label on his butterbeer. “He’s a really nice kid, though, isn’t he? Tell you what, he’s definitely in George’s good books. Little Roxanne is still going on about her princess dress.”
Harry relaxes a bit. “He is a nice kid. And him and James...they’re inseparable. Best of friends. Scorpius has done a lot for James over the years. I’m grateful.”
“It’s nice. Weird, but nice. Like I said, I just expected Malfoy’s son to be...like him.”
“Draco’s not that bad.”
“Still pushing the Pureblood stuff?” Ron asks shrewdly.
Harry drums his fingers against the table, listening to the soothing crackle of the fire. “He found Seamus’s mother,” he says eventually.
Ron straightens up. “What? She’s been missing for – what, twenty years now?”
“Yeah. You know that project I’m working on — trying to find long-lost relatives. Well, Draco found seven of them. In three months.”
“Wow,” Ron says blankly. “Well. That’s something. Never would’ve — ”
“Did you know much about the courthouse raids?”
“What?”
“April 1998. A riot started in the holding cells. Fiendfyre went through it.”
Ron blinks at him. “I spent most of the war on the run, Harry. With you and Hermione. We didn’t really know much about what happened — ”
“Afterwards. When we started working as trainee Aurors. Cleaning up after the war. We had to do a lot of...investigations.”
“Yeah,” Ron says slowly. “Let’s see...the courthouse raids...there wasn’t much to investigate, was there? The Fiendfyre destroyed any evidence, anyway. Couple of surviving witnesses said one of the prisoners got violent...”
“That’s what they told you?”
Ron shifts uneasily. “Well...it didn’t feel right. But there was no point questioning it. We only had two witnesses — the Ministry guards — and they wouldn’t change their story.” He sets his butterbeer down. “Wasn’t exactly fun, investigating that sort of thing. Part of the reason why I quit after only a few years. Maybe it’s not exactly a noble career — working in a toy shop with George — but at least I can sleep at night.” He glances at Harry. “Why? What did they tell you?”
“The truth.”
Ron leans forward slightly. “Which is...?”
“Snatchers. They broke into the cells, though evidently the Law Enforcement staff didn’t really put up a fight...practically let them in...they murdered everyone. None of the prisoners had their wands. Would’ve taken less than five minutes.”
Ron leans back and stares blankly at the cherry-red coals of the fire. After a long moment, he says, “How did Draco know this? If it’s top-secret Ministry stuff — ”
“The Minister visited the manor to plan the cover-up with Voldemort.”
Ron falls silent. He finishes the rest of his butterbeer in one swift gulp. “Merlin,” he says at last. And then, to Harry’s surprise, he adds, “Poor bloke. Imagine knowing that and then having to keep your mouth shut for the next twenty years. Watching Shacklebolt and all the rest get their applause and praise.”
“Don’t hate Shacklebolt,” Harry says wearily. “He had his reasons for keeping it secret too. What good would it do to reveal the extent of the past Ministry’s corruption? It would only stir up the hatred and resentment again. The Death Eater trials had only just finished. People needed to move on.”
Ron stands up and restlessly goes to the fire, harassing it with the poker. The coals stir and brighten. “I’m glad I quit,” he says. “I really am. Some of that stuff they told us to investigate...the victim statements we had to read...” He looks up at Harry. “What about you?”
Harry looks down at his butterbeer, the way the light glints off the glass.
“We did what we had to do,” he says at last.
Ron turns back to the fire and says nothing.
Harry sits in his study that night, slowly inking the words across a sheaf of parchment:
Dear Mrs Creevey,
I’m writing to inform you that several details have been found regarding the disappearance of your son, Dennis...
He remembers the Creeveys. A story as tragic as so many others during the war. Mrs Creevey’s husband had been murdered after Snatchers attacked a queue of Muggleborns lining up outside the Ministry to sign up to the compulsory Muggleborn Registry. The rest of the family had gone into hiding afterwards, but that hadn’t stopped Colin and Dennis showing up to the Battle of Hogwarts. Colin had been fifteen years old when an Avada Kedavra curse sliced neatly through his heart.
His little brother, thirteen-year-old Dennis, had never been found.
...a volunteer investigated several records...
Mrs Creevey’s hope must have dwindled over the years, but last Harry heard, she was still thinking perhaps Dennis had run away during the Battle and, traumatised by the events, had started his life anew.
...if you’d like to arrange a time, at your convenience, so I can inform you personally of the circumstances...
Harry finishes the letter and sets it aside. He pauses, then dips the quill nib into the inkpot, turns over another sheaf, and begins the next letter.
Dear Mr Clearwater,
I’m writing to inform you that several details have been found regarding the disappearance of your sister, her husband, and their two children...
He writes, and writes, and writes.
It’s a crisp March morning when Harry visits the manor again. He’s unsure of how he’ll be welcomed; Draco has been cordial lately, but distant. Besides, Harry’s choice of conversation topic isn’t exactly something Draco will be pleased about, he knows.
To his surprise, Draco already has a visitor — a witch smartly dressed in robes of teal. She doesn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by Harry’s arrival, nor does she seem particularly interested in him. Instead, she seems very charmed by the skirting boards, barely sparing Harry a glance as Draco makes the introductions.
“Harry, this is Violet Fortevoit,” he says dutifully. “Britain’s leading expert in Tudor and Elizabethan architecture. Violet, this is Harry. An acquaintance of mine.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Violet says distractedly. “This oak wainscoting, what a spectacular example...” She trails off, waving her wand; a clipboard leaps off a side-table and zooms towards her. She jots something down, then glances up. “But the plaster here has been repainted...?”
“Three years ago. I made some renovations.”
Violet waves a hand. “No matter. I wouldn’t concern yourself with it. I imagine it’s been repainted quite a few times over the generations.” She stares upwards. Harry follows her gaze.
“It’s a ceiling,” he says helpfully.
Both Violet and Draco turn to stare at him. Then Violet, in an apparent complete dismissal, turns to Draco and says, “What elaborate strapwork. Just beautiful.” She writes on her clipboard again. “And is that pendant light original? My goodness.”
“Potter,” Draco says, “why don’t you make yourself some tea?”
Harry takes the cue and retreats to the kitchen, somehow feeling like a chastened child. His refuge doesn’t last long. Violet and her clipboard soon arrive to investigate everything, from the oven to the light fittings.
“Renovated recently?” Violet asks, pulling open the oven door. “And far more extensively than the upstairs area...”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing, Mr Malfoy. As long as structurally, it’s retained its features...shame about the window, though.”
“The room did need more light.”
“Handmade glass would have been much more preferable,” Violet murmurs.
“And cost an absolute fortune.”
Violet doesn’t blink an eye, just joins Harry at the kitchen table. She opens her handbag, which must have a space-saving charm on it, and begins producing an alarming amount of files, notes, and even drags out copies of A Brief Look at Modern Magical History — which does not look brief at all — and The First and Second Wizarding Wars.
“Now, we’ve covered the physical features,” she begins, “but what really draws in clients are stories. History. The handmade, fifteenth-century glass windows are marvellous, but the fact it was a stronghold for the sixteenth century goblin uprisings is what will sell it.”
“You’re selling the manor?” Harry blurts out.
Draco’s gaze flickers to him. Violet opens the history book. “I believe Brynmor the Brave stayed here in the late fifteenth century...? And it’s rumoured that Raibert de Alba was very fond of visiting...and this is where he composed his magnum opus, O Muir Molach, during a frenzied week of creativity.”
“You appear to know far more about the manor than me,” Draco says.
“That’s my job, Mr Malfoy,” Violet replies, though she looks a little pleased. “But most infamously, this was also Voldemort’s final stronghold during the Second Wizarding War, wasn’t it?”
“Not the best selling point.”
“On the contrary. People are fascinated by these sorts of things, even if they won’t admit it. Adds a bit of spice to the history of the house. We sold an estate last week in Chesterfield, based solely on the fact there was a rather melancholy, blood-stained ghost wandering the halls. I don’t suppose there are any ghosts here, however?”
“No.”
“Shame. It would add to the value.” Violet begins writing a column of numbers, then hands it to Draco.
Draco studies the column. His expression doesn’t change a bit. “Of course,” he says.
Violet smooths her robes and stands up. “Thank you for your time, Mr Malfoy. It was an absolute pleasure to view the manor.”
Harry sips his tea and watches as Violet leaves, accompanied by Draco. When Draco returns a few minutes later, Harry expects a scathing remark about how uncultured Harry is. But instead, Draco goes over to the kettle and pokes it with his wand.
“How’s Scorpius?” he asks.
“Are you selling the manor?”
Draco measures a spoonful of sugar into his cup. Harry sighs.
“James hasn’t mentioned anything in his letters, so I assume all is well,” he says. “Scorpius seemed to be in good spirits when he left after Christmas break.”
“Did you use the last of the milk?”
Harry pauses. “I’ll replace it,” he says guiltily.
Draco frowns down at his cup of tea but nevertheless sets it down on the table, then sits down. “Yes,” he says. “I’m selling the manor.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Harry says helplessly. “Because this is your home. It’s where — it’s where you grew up. It’s been in your family for centuries. Your ancestors built this place! How can you just...sell it? And — and what are you going to do, live in a flat?”
Draco starts laughing. “You sound appalled,” he says. “Listen to yourself! You’d fit right in at one of my mother’s garden parties.”
Harry glares at him. “I’m serious, Draco. This is your family’s home. The sheer history — ”
“Yes, the history. Adds spice.” Draco seems amused. Harry wonders briefly if he’s having some sort of moment. After everything that happened with Scorpius, Harry wouldn’t blame Draco for having a personal crisis. “See that willow tree, Potter?” He points out the window.
Harry obediently glances out the window, then pauses and searches the scene beyond it. “No,” he says slowly, staring at the expanse of perfectly level lawn. “Er...I don’t think there’s a willow tree out there, Draco...”
“No, there’s not. My father ripped it out the moment he inherited this house.” Draco takes a sip of his tea and nods at the centre of the lawn. “Used to be right there. When my father was a child, and he misbehaved, his father would send him out to the willow tree to choose a switch. Then his father would beat him with it.”
“Oh. That’s...brutal.”
Draco ignores him. “When Abraxas Malfoy died and my father inherited Malfoy Manor, he got rid of that willow tree. Abraxas’ s study became a billiard room. The greenhouse was destroyed.”
“What was wrong with the greenhouse?”
“It was where my grandmother spent all her time. Evidently, relatives made amused remarks that she spent far more time with her roses than she did with her son. I suspect my father destroyed it as a final gesture to his mother.” Draco nods at the corner of the window, where the glass wall of the new greenhouse is faintly visible in the distance. “He didn’t want the manor at all, really.”
“And neither do you,” Harry guesses, but Draco’s expression softens a bit as he gazes out the window.
“I’m quite fond of it. As you said, it’s my family home. But my ancestors will remain my ancestors, regardless of where I live, and my memories live in my head, not in my home.”
“If you’re fond of it, though, why sell it?”
“Because,” Draco says, “one day Scorpius will inherit it. And it isn’t his home. He doesn’t know this place, not like I do. He grew up in the Muggle world. He won’t want the manor. But, just like my father, I suspect he’ll feel compelled to live here, however reluctantly, to keep the tradition going. Imagine the guilt of being the first person in five centuries to abandon the ancestral seat.”
“He mightn’t choose to live here,” Harry protests. “He’s been...well, he’s been speaking his mind lately, I suspect.”
“Imagine if he didn’t have the burden of choosing at all,” Draco says, and he abruptly turns away from the view. “Anyway. You visited for a reason, I assume?”
He did. He visited to ask what else Draco knows about the courthouse raids, and what other information he might have, and how did he know that Yaxley murdered Dennis Creevey at the Battle of Hogwarts and turned his body to fine sand? Did he see it? Did another Death Eater tell him afterwards? Did his mother tell him? What other operations, exactly, did Voldemort set into motion as he sat at the Malfoy table?
Harry says instead, “You owe me a game of Monopoly.”
Draco’s mouth curves slightly, and if Harry hadn’t been paying attention he would have called it a smirk rather than a smile.
The first day of March is an unseasonably bright day, the sky blue with a smattering of clouds, but the temperature carries a bitter chill typical of the Scottish springtime. James shivers his way through a game of football with the dormitory boys, then has a quick shower to at least scrape the mud out of his hair before meeting with Scorpius for a study session.
“Library or our room?” James asks him as they meet outside the Great Hall.
Scorpius crinkles his nose. “It’s a nice day. Let’s go somewhere with windows.”
They find a disused Charms classroom, lined with ancient desks, the air scented with parchment and old books and spilled ink. Scorpius sits at a desk right in front of the window, where he can enjoy the amber light of the afternoon sun, and James sits beside him. He chats about improving his Defence grades and Scorpius starts telling him about reflection and refraction.
“Most spells are made up of light,” Scorpius says. “If you use certain angles, your opponent can cast a shield charm but still get hit by the spell.”
“How do you mean?”
Scorpius smooths a sheet of parchment out across the desk, uncaps his quill, and draws ink into the barrel. “If this is your wand,” he says, making a small dot, “and the spell is cast at this angle...”
He draws a long line across the parchment.
And James is suddenly mesmerised by that small motion. The way the tendons in Scorpius’s wrist flex. The exact position of his fingers, curled around the pinion of the quill. The sunlight casting slight shadows across his knuckles, the light showing each tiny freckle. James follows the curve of Scorpius’s arm, his bicep, the long line of his throat, the angle of his jawline. The bow of his bottom lip, the straight slope of his nose. The way his eyelashes start as the colour of dark honey before tapering into sandy tips. The sunlight pours across Scorpius’s face, catching the colour in his eyes: a ring of slate grey around irises flecked with silver.
“...and as you can see, the spell would refract through the glass — and then it would impact here, here, and here...” Scorpius tilts his head and the sunlight illuminates another hundred tiny flecks of silver. “Yes, I’d say that’s the right angle.” He looks up, his gaze locking onto James. “Do you understand?”
James rouses himself from his reverie. “Refract, not reflect,” he murmurs.
“Right, and the difference is...?”
“Reflection...just redirects the light. Refraction changes it.”
Scorpius smiles. “You do listen to me.”
James touches Scorpius’s hand, the movement subconscious, and he only registers it when Scorpius pauses and looks at him quizzically.
“I...” James trails off, then says, “Sorry, I have — I have a Divination test tomorrow, on chiromancy.”
“Palm-reading? Can’t believe you’re still studying that rubbish.” But Scorpius lets his hand rest in James’s palm, unfurling his fingers. “Go on, then. Read my future.”
James returns his smile, small and fleeting, and begins with the fate line.
But his thoughts are elsewhere.
Chapter 30: Immortality
Summary:
Draco receives an unexpected visitor and uncovers a secret — he visits the Library of Magic — Harry complains about the problems of dating Muggles and gets no sympathy — Draco visits Wales and feeds some ducks — James chats to Rowan and Thomas — Scorpius burns his father’s letters — Rose quits Quidditch — Draco and Harry discuss their children’s futures.
Chapter Text
March is nearly over, the last of the freezing weather mellowing into something with a bit of promise. It’s a moody, overcast day when Daphne Greengrass arrives on Draco’s doorstep. He’s just about to leave, ready to visit Irma, when the wards ring out.
It’s an awkward welcome. The last time Draco saw her, it was at Astoria’s funeral. Daphne been dressed in black, meekly trailing after her parents like a chastened child despite the fact she was thirty-something and married.
In fact, she’s dressed in black again.
“Somebody’s died, then,” Draco says.
Daphne frowns at him. “Draco. It’s been a while. Might I come in?”
They go to the front parlour. Daphne is lugging a trunk behind her and for one surreal, dreadful moment, Draco thinks she’s somehow fallen out with her mother and has decided to move into the manor.
Daphne sets the trunk down and perches on the uncomfortable chaise. “I bring rather unfortunate news,” she says. “My mother died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Draco says, because he’s not a complete prat.
“She’s been dreadfully ill for months. It’s a blessing, really. She was a patient sufferer.” Daphne looks around, as if expecting a house-elf to pop up with a tea service. When no such courtesy is forthcoming, she frowns and adds, “You’re quite welcome to attend the funeral. It’s on Saturday. Saint Mogred’s chapel. And Scorpius can come too.”
“I’ll send a letter and let him know.”
Daphne smooths her robes, then says politely, “And how is he?”
“Fine.”
“Well.” Daphne smooths her robes again. A nervous gesture. She’s fumbling for small-talk now. “He must think it rather grand, living here. It must seem like a palace compared to that little flat.”
Draco stills. “What little flat?”
Daphne’s polite smile suddenly drops. Her gaze skitters away across the floor. She’s realised her mistake. “What? Oh, I meant...”
“You visited them?”
Daphne says nothing for a long moment. “Only once,” she says at last. “Just to see Astoria...I missed her, and — I wasn’t supposed to, you know how my parents felt about the whole thing —but it was her birthday and I thought...oh, it was such a tiny little flat, I did offer her some money but you know how proud she is — ”
“You knew where they were? The whole time?”
Daphne stands up, her face flushed. “Not until much later — my parents knew, but they wouldn’t tell me — they wanted me to stay out of it — ”
“Get out,” Draco says flatly.
Daphne doesn’t argue. She goes to the door, then pauses and nods at the trunk. “Astoria’s things,” she says. “That’s why I visited. I don’t know what to do with them.”
“What?”
“After Astoria died. Mother and Father went to the flat and cleaned it up. They packed away everything...Father kept it locked in the attic. After he died, Mother did the same. Wouldn’t look at it. I thought perhaps Scorpius might like to look through the things. She was his mother, after all.”
Draco opens the door wordlessly. Daphne steps outside, into the crisp morning air.
“Six years without him,” he says as she turns to leave.
She glances away. “I didn’t have a say in the matter. You know how my parents could be — I had to stay out of the whole business – ”
“Six years.”
Daphne looks at him. “I am sorry,” she says.
Draco shuts the door.
Daphne’s footsteps soon fade.
He should have known.
The tiny parcel Scorpius had received shortly after arriving at the manor. His personal effects, gathered from the flat. There had been so few things. Of course Mr and Mrs Greengrass had gotten there first, and taken care of it all. Mr Greengrass would have been horrified at the idea of anyone discovering Astoria had died in a dingy little Muggle flat. Of course he’d cleaned everything up.
And Scorpius was part of that mess, Draco thinks angrily. After Astoria’s death, nobody from the Greengrass family had sent so much as a single owl to Scorpius. He’d been raised Muggle. They didn’t want him. Their own grandson, and they didn’t want him. Draco had been told to go to St Mungo’s to collect Scorpius, as if he were a forgotten parcel. He still remembers how small Scorpius had looked, and pale, and afraid.
He waves his wand at the battered trunk, intending to send it upstairs, to Scorpius’s room. But it hardly budges. What on earth is in there?
He pauses, then unbuckles it. Inside, there are rows of tiny boxes. Typical. Mr Greengrass must have cast shrinking charms on everything. Making sure it took up as little room as possible. Couldn’t have cast a lightening spell as well, could he? Draco swishes his wand again, sending a Weightless Charm ruffling through the trunk like a breeze. A folder, resting across the boxes, catches on the magic and spills across the floor, the pages drifting around Draco like autumn leaves.
He picks up the scattered documents. It must have been paperwork that Mr Greengrass collected after Astoria’s death. Things that Astoria had kept filed away. There’s Scorpius’s birth certificate, and Draco pauses to look at it. He still remembers the day they left the hospital, with baby Scorpius cradled in his mother’s arms.
He shakes away the memories and sets it aside, picking up the other papers. An apartment lease, a copy of a school enrolment form —
— and an envelope with Draco’s name on it.
He stops and turns it over. There’s no address. No other details. Not even his surname. Only Draco, written in Astoria’s careful handwriting. The envelope is slightly singed around the edges, and Draco looks closer. The envelope is sealed shut with magic, he realises. Somebody — probably Astoria’s parents — had tried to break the seal, and the envelope had nearly combusted in response. Astoria had made it impossible for anyone but Draco to open it.
He hesitates, then touches his hand to the little wax seal.
The envelope opens.
Harry is pacing around Ron and Hermione’s living room, a rapidly-cooling cup of tea in one hand, slowly coming to the realisation that he should not have expected sympathy.
“Sympathy?” Hermione says angrily. “Sympathy? For dumping your girlfriend because she’s a Muggle?”
“That’s wrong. I never said that! It’s just — you don’t know how exhausting it gets. I’ve accidentally mentioned the Ministry so many times that I’ve had to pretend it’s a quirky nickname I’ve got for the Muggle government. And James...she asked where he went to school and I said Hogwarts. Had to convince her it was an alternative school in Norway run by a commune.”
“Oh, so you dumped her because you couldn’t keep track of your lies. Still waiting to hear about why you need sympathy, Harry.”
“I can’t even invite her over to my house! Can you imagine? Trying to stop all that magic leaking out would be like stuffing water back into a sieve. She thinks I’m hiding something.”
“Because you are! You didn’t even think about the logistics of dating a Muggle, did you?”
“I hadn’t thought this far ahead,” Harry mutters. He sets his cup of tea down on a pile of books; Hermione’s eyebrows climb higher.
“Harry, that is my signed copy of A History of House-Elf Rights.”
“Well, maybe if there was a single inch of table not covered in books — ”
“Hello!” Ron says cheerfully, popping out of the fireplace. “Work’s getting busy, we sold quite a few of those prank Easter eggs...oh, Harry, good to see you, mate — ”
“Harry’s dumping his girlfriend because she’s a Muggle,” Hermione snaps.
“I am not!” Harry turns to Ron. “Hermione’s wrong, it’s not — ”
“Sounds like a great story, Harry, but I just remembered I left something at the shop,” Ron says, not dropping a single bit of his cheerfulness, and he turns around and immediately Floos away again.
Hermione picks up a stack of books from a nearby armchair, sets them down elsewhere, and sits down. “Have a seat, Harry. I’m so, so glad to hear I’m wrong. So glad your relationship is breaking down for reasons unrelated to her being a Muggle. Let’s hear them.”
Harry opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “Actually, maybe I should see if Ron needs help at the shop — ”
“No, no. Have a seat, let’s have a chat,” Hermione says pleasantly.
Harry reluctantly sits down.
Though he’d never dare admit it, he visits Draco the next week in the hopes of finding a little more sympathy. But, to his annoyance, Draco is just about to leave the manor.
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” Draco says, picking up his cloak.
“I’ll come too.”
“If you must.”
“I got into an argument with Hermione, she thinks I’m an idiot — ”
“Library of Magic, St James Square.” Draco throws a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and steps into it, vanishing as the flames whirl around him.
Harry scowls at the empty fireplace. “We were mid-conversation, Draco,” he mutters, stepping into the flames.
He loses his train of thought as he arrives. The first time he ever visited the Library of Magic was almost exactly six years ago. The moment is eerily similar; he’d trailed after Draco, curious to see how he did all his family history research.
“I’m actually glad we’re here, it’s a chance to see more of the library,” Harry says, looking around the enormous foyer. He wanders closer to the shelves and peers at the book titles, considering which section he’d like to travel to. Herbology might be useful, the hydrangeas have gotten a bit too chatty lately. Or perhaps the Quidditch section...
He looks over his shoulder, slightly peeved when he sees Draco reaching for The Registry of Deaths. “More family research, then,” he mutters, hurrying over and taking ahold of the book too. In a moment they’re both whisked away.
The archives are underground; their footsteps echo across the stone floor, and they walk beneath several archways to get to their destination. The walls are soon lined with glass bottles preserving crumbling, ancient parchment, and a heavy tome in the middle of the floor is engraved with the word ‘Index’.
Draco ignores it. He keeps walking, ducking through a small doorway and down a little corridor until he arrives at a desk. There, an elderly witch is perched on a stool, her back hunched as she peers through a magnifying glass at a scroll of parchment. Harry thinks she hasn’t noticed them in the slightest, but when Draco says, “Good morning,” she doesn’t startle.
“Hello,” she murmurs without looking up.
“I ordered a document two weeks ago.”
“Name?”
“Malfoy.”
She puts the magnifying glass down, sets her shoulders back, and turns to the shelf beside her. “Malfoy, Malfoy...” she mutters, scanning the orders. “Ah. Yes. One galleon, please.”
Harry feels a bit guilty then. “You know, if you need to pay for any document to find out happened to those witches and wizards during the war — ”
“This is unrelated.” Draco passes the witch a galleon and accepts the piece of paper before turning away.
“Right. Anyway, so this Muggle girlfriend...I mean, maybe I should’ve thought about everything before I started seeing her but how was I to know it would end up so complicated?”
“Why do you avoid dating witches, anyway?”
“Oh, come on. They all get weird about the whole hero-of-the-wizarding-world thing, it gets awkward — ”
“All of them? Every single witch?”
“Yes,” Harry says firmly.
Draco stops beneath one of the archways and looks down at the sheet of paper. “Ginny used to be like that,” he says.
“What? Ginny was never — ”
“She wrote you that poem in second year. A terrible limerick, hero-worshipping you, that was delivered by an angry fat Cupid. I distinctly remember it because you died of embarrassment. I cried from laughing so hard.”
“God, that poem! I’d nearly forgotten it. George read it aloud at our wedding, you know. Ginny had a good laugh with everyone else but I swear I saw pure murder in her eyes. I’m surprised George wasn’t poisoned at the reception.”
“She was always trailing you around, blushing whenever you looked at her.”
“Yeah, well, she grew up, didn’t she?” Harry says, a bit indignant. “She changed, and once we got to know each other — ” Harry stops, looks down at the ancient stone beneath his feet, then up at Draco. “You’ve made a point,” he says at last, and waits for a bit of gloating.
Draco says nothing. He’s looking down at the paper again, reading it. Harry frowns at him and finally pauses to look properly. The way he used to, when he was an Auror. He sees the thin line of Draco’s mouth, the way his shoulders are just a bit too tense. The air of distraction around him.
“Something’s troubling you.”
Draco looks up at him, then neatly folds the piece of paper in half and tucks it inside his cloak. “Shall we leave?”
Harry waits just a moment longer, then nods. “Lead the way.”
They return to the foyer. Draco doesn’t go straight to the fireplace, however. “I just need to look something up,” he says instead, and he takes another book from the shelves. The portkey whirls him away.
Harry patiently waits. Draco returns a few minutes later.
“Got the information you need?” Harry asks.
“Yes.”
They leave, but not before Harry manages to catch a glimpse of the portkey Draco chose.
Medicine (Muggle).
When they return to the manor, Harry says his farewell. Whatever is on Draco’s mind is clearly preoccupying him.
Harry breathes in the rain-heavy air as he steps outside, wanting to walk down the long driveway rather than use the Floo. He wants to see the flowerbeds emerging after winter’s hibernation, and hear the melancholy cry of the peacocks. The heavy rains have lightened to a grey mist. The grounds of the manor look almost ethereal, the lawns dewy with water and the trees shrouded with droplets.
He’s going to miss this place.
Harry cannot imagine selling his own home. This is the last home Ginny ever had. The last room she slept in. The last hallways she walked. Here, in the kitchen — the last time she had the strength to pick up James and carry him. And the attic — the last time she tucked James into bed and kissed him goodnight.
It’s funny, he thinks. For years and years, he dreaded being left alone in this house. All those memories haunted him. He used to hide all of Ginny’s pictures, desperately trying to avoid the sadness they brought. He threw himself into work, missing time with James just to have a distraction from everything else.
Now, he finds something almost soothing in the silence. He wanders the rooms, recalling hundreds of memories with fondness rather than sadness.
James will graduate this year, Harry thinks, and soon he’ll be moving out and living on his own, and the thought isn’t as unbearable as it once was. It was Harry’s job, all along, to raise a child who would be able to confidently step forward into the world without him.
He sits down in his study. He should write another letter to James, he thinks.
One less regret.
Draco has read many, many death certificates. None of them have ever meant something to him. He reads them, checks the dates, and then adds it to the client’s family tree.
But this is different.
Astoria Greengrass.
She died aged thirty-two years. She was a cleaner. Draco hadn’t even considered Astoria’s occupation. Obviously she’d had to work, to support herself and Scorpius...why hadn’t that ever crossed his mind?
She had died at an address in Grangetown, Wales. A residential address. Draco wonders what it looked like. If it had a little garden. Somewhere for Scorpius to see the stars.
He glances at the next line. Cause of death: Toxicity to amitriptyline.
When Draco ordered Astoria’s certificate, it had only been to confirm what he already knew. Nothing but a formality. After he read the contents of that envelope she had addressed to him, he knew the truth at once. People didn’t write letters like that when they were expecting to live.
Not a letter, really.
A suicide note.
The deception of the Greengrasses should not surprise him at this point. Of course they had lied. Astoria had an undiagnosed heart defect, Mr Greengrass had told Draco at the funeral. It meant she was far more prone to aneurisms. It’s more surprising, really, that Draco had believed that. Accepted it without question.
He reads the line again. Amitriptyline. The word is not unfamiliar to Draco; it’s an active chemical in certain potions designed for improving mental health. Still, he’d checked the Muggle medical definition just to be sure. His guess had been correct. The Muggles use it in their own antidepressants.
He sets the certificate down.
Time dulls harsh words and sweetens bitter memories. But if there was one person Draco never thought he’d forgive, it is Astoria. She was so desperately unhappy, and he knew her parents were overbearing and difficult, and she despaired at being labelled a Death Eater supporter after she married Draco. Perhaps he could have found more empathy for her, and forgiven her for their acrimonious divorce.
But then she stole Scorpius from him. She took away hundreds of crayon drawings and bedtime stories and goodnight hugs. She took away birthday parties, and excited Christmas mornings, and seaside holidays. She took away six years.
And Draco can’t forgive that.
But tonight, he almost does.
He sits at the desk in his study. It’s normally cluttered with documents for his latest family tree. Right now he should be tracking down somebody’s lost great-uncle.
But instead he sits, a glass of firewhiskey on his left and the death certificate on his right.
Draco reaches out and picks up the certificate, reading it again.
The next day, he visits the Grangetown address in Cardiff.
He arrives in a small parking lot. The asphalt is cracked; weeds struggle through it. There’s a block of flats, but one glance tells Draco that there will be nothing inside. No remnants from Astoria and Scorpius’s life. He’s arrived too late, he thinks, as he studies the tattered noticed nailed to the fence. The building is scheduled for demolition in just one week. It has clearly been stripped in preparation. Nothing but an empty shell is left.
Draco manages to find a way in. The place has been emptied, with any possible fittings salvaged from it ahead of the demolition. Even the doors are missing, and he has to count them to make sure he gets the right number.
Scorpius and Astoria’s flat is just as empty as the rest of the building. Nothing but water-stained walls and concrete floor showing through the few shredded remainders of carpet.
“Morte locus.”
There, in the middle of a room Draco surmises was once a bedroom. A stain spreads across the floor, slowly taking shape. It’s not precise, but Draco can see the vague lines of a body. He’s seen a few people die, and most of them died curled up in the foetal position, especially after Voldemort was done with them. But Astoria died outstretched, one arm above her head as if she were desperately reaching for something.
Maybe for Scorpius.
The spell ends. The outline vanishes.
Draco goes to the window, where the faint sunlight finds its way between the boards. He pries the boards away, revealing a view over the suburbs. Grey rooftops, a glimpse of green between the buildings — perhaps a park. Cars pass by.
There’s nothing significant about it, only that it was probably the last view Astoria saw.
Draco turns around, leaning against the window sill as he surveys the room. It’s small and empty and Astoria shouldn’t have died here, he thinks.
The sun is warm on his back. The distant sounds of birdsong and traffic mingle together. It’s a nice day.
Maybe he’ll stop by that nearby park, he thinks, before he returns home.
When he does return to the manor, Harry is sitting outside, on one of the garden benches, with a disgruntled look.
“Finally. So, I broke up with my Muggle girlfriend, and...where have you been, anyway?” he asks as they walk towards the manor.
“Went to a park.”
“Why?”
Draco shrugs. “Fed some ducks.”
Harry says, after a beat, “It’s been years since I fed ducks. Funny, I never really thought about it...it’s only something you do with the kids, isn’t it?”
“I used to take Scorpius to the park all the time,” Draco says, suddenly recalling those bright, sunny afternoons. “He always wanted me to carry him on my shoulders.” Scorpius had been so tiny back then, Draco remembers. Picking him up had been the easiest thing in the world.
Harry stops by one of the flowerbeds, tugging out a young weed. “When James was a toddler, he used to love being carried everywhere. ‘A walking cuddle’, he called it. Most of the time I’d get exasperated and tell him he was perfectly capable of walking.” He pulls out another weed and adds pensively, “I wish I’d carried him more.”
Draco turns to look across the lawns. A breeze suddenly flits across the grass, quick and sharp, and Harry frowns.
“There’s a change coming,” he says, glancing into the deceptively clear sky. “Let’s go inside.”
They return to the manor, a faint chill nipping at their heels.
It’s late by the time Harry leaves. And the manor is quiet again, and empty, and Draco would never admit he was grateful for Harry’s visit. It was a comforting distraction.
He puts Astoria’s death certificate away, in the drawer of his desk. As he closes the drawer, he sees all the letters he kept over the years. All the letters Scorpius sent him.
He slowly closes the drawer. The letters disappear from sight. He remains at the desk and stares down at the scratches upon its surface. The words imprinted upon it through quills pressed too hard against paper.
My dear son...
Draco leaves, closing the study door behind him.
The weekends are always reserved for Scorpius. He’s in London most of the week, and James misses every moment; they’re practically inseparable as soon as Scorpius returns.
This weekend, however, Scorpius has Quidditch practice. James grudgingly leaves him at the pitch and goes instead to Hogsmeade, where a stationery order awaits him at Scrivenshaft’s. Afterwards, he stops by the Three Broomsticks, planning to kick a few lowly third-years out of the coveted seats by the fireplace. But then he overhears a conversation that proves impossible to walk past: Rowan is evidently giving Thomas dating advice.
“...too much confidence. That’s your problem,” Rowan is saying to a disgruntled-looking Thomas.
“Okay, so I need more self-esteem when I talk to the girls — ”
“Oh, no. Your confidence problem is you have too much of it. You are dangerously arrogant, considering how mediocre you are in every way.”
James sits down. “Hi,” he says, and Thomas gives him a scandalised look.
“Excuse me, Potter, I don’t recall inviting you to join us.”
“And yet here I am,” James says.
“Actually, I think James could really contribute to this conversation,” Rowan says. “Now, Thomas, you do this thing where you think you’re being cute but really, you’re being...well, I guess ‘repulsive’ is a bit too strong a word...any suggestions, James?”
“I’ve always thought of him as charmless.”
Rowan nods at him. “Yeah, perfect. Charmless.”
“I don’t like this conversation,” Thomas says uneasily. “James, go away.”
“Remember that time,” James says casually, “when Charlotte Lau was flirting with you, and you decided to impress her with how loudly you could burp?”
“When was this, Thomas?” Rowan demands. “Please tell me it was first year.”
“Two weeks ago,” James says brutally.
Thomas squirms. “Okay, okay. But — ”
“And the reason she was flirting with you,” James continues, “is because you were newly single after your girlfriend broke up with you — ”
“James, shut up.”
“ — because you wanted to impress her with how you could handle your liquor, and you got drunk on two firewhiskeys and vomited on her shoes — ”
“James! Shut up!”
“ — and then you got into a fight with a chair — ”
“I swear on Merlin’s pointy hat,” Thomas says, “if you don’t shut up, the next swim practice I am going to drown you.”
“How dare you threaten poor James,” Rowan says idly. “I am shocked. Shame on you, Thomas.”
“Yeah, shame on you,” James adds. ”Now, what was the name of that Ravenclaw girl? The one whose dress you tore while trying to show off a dance move — ”
“I’m going to buy a drink,” Thomas announces, standing up and retreating hastily to the bar.
Rowan looks pleased. “Nothing better than absolutely mortifying Thomas,” he says. “Thank you for your verbal contributions.”
”A slight but significant difference from my oral contributions.”
It’s worth it just to see the usually nonchalant Rowan turn bright red. James laughs and takes mercy on him by changing the conversation topic.
“Friends again, then?”
”Of course,” Rowan says, recovering. “Though it’s very irritating that you’ve finally mastered the art of flirting nearly a year after we broke up.”
“Sorry.” After a moment, James adds, his smile fading, “We are all right, though?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m well and truly over you,” Rowan says breezily, but after a moment his expression becomes pensive. “I did wonder, for a long time,” he says, “if it was something I did wrong. What was wrong with me. Or if the break-up was so bad, or I’d done it so awfully, that you’d decided you couldn’t ever forgive it.”
James is suddenly reminded of Rose, agonising over why Andrew ended things, and he feels guilty.
“But then I figured it out,” Rowan says. “And it was actually a relief. Especially since it had nothing to do with me, really. There’s nothing I could’ve done about it.”
James frowns. How could Rowan know the reason, when James himself doesn’t? He’d been devastated when Rowan ended things, and should’ve leapt at the chance of mending it. But when Rowan asked, months later, James just wasn’t interested anymore. It hadn’t felt right. “So what was the reason, then?”
Rowan opens his mouth just as Thomas returns, looking entirely too smug.
“Now, I know this is impossible because I’m apparently charmless,” he says, “but I just got a date.”
Rowan shrugs. “I’m not impressed until you tell me who.”
“Suzette Conley.”
Rowan gives a disinterested wave of his hand. “She’s all right, I suppose.”
“She’s nice. I dated her back in fourth year,” James adds.
“Oh, perfect.” Thomas leans forward. “Tell me what she likes.”
James gives him a blank look.
“Come on, Thomas,” Rowan says. “James has dated half of Hogwarts, you think he’s going to remember any of them?”
“Eighteen exes,” Thomas agrees. “Eighteen. Leave some for the rest of us, James.”
“Nineteen,” James says.
“What?”
“Nineteen exes.”
Thomas looks puzzled, but Rowan’s smiling as if James has just handed him a bucket of compliments.
“Who?” Thomas demands. “Let’s see...there’s Amina, Delia, Amy, Cora, Felicity, Theresa — ”
“Oh, wow. You know them better than me. That’s so sad,” James says, and Rowan starts laughing as Thomas protests.
“I don’t! It’s only so I can make fun of you — ”
“That’s why you’ve memorised a list of James’s ex-girlfriends?”
“Yeah, Thomas. Why are you so obsessed?”
“Oh, shut up,” Thomas says, looking annoyed as they start laughing. “I don’t know why I put up with either of you. I’m going.”
“Hang on, I’ll come with you. I promised Scorpius I’d meet him after practice,” James says.
They look at Rowan expectantly; he waves a hand at them. “I’ll catch up later. Got to do my Quidditch tipping.”
It’s still bitterly cold outside, the clouds ominous, and Thomas shivers as they leave the village.
“Not great weather for Quidditch. I don’t envy Malfoy.”
“He’ll be fine. What about us? We’ve got swim practice tomorrow.”
“Those warmth potions wear off way too quickly,” Thomas agrees gloomily.
They fall into silence, their footsteps crunching on the remnants of winter’s last snow, and just as they pass by a gnarled ash tree, James says, “It’s Rowan, by the way.”
“Hm?”
“My nineteenth ex.”
Thomas smiles reflexively, then pauses, and a look of confusion settles over his face. “What do you mean?” he asks at last. “But he’s...hang on, you actually dated him?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not straight?”
“No.”
Thomas frowns at him. “Oh,” he says. “Well, this is embarrassing.”
“Why’s it embarrassing?” James says rather aggressively, a panic suddenly seizing him. Why did he tell Thomas? Has he gone mad?
But Thomas just gives him a blank look. “Because I’ve clearly been completely oblivious...I mean, obviously I’m just the last person to get the owl. Can’t believe I’ve been rambling to you about girls for years, you could’ve at least told me so I didn’t look like such an idiot — ”
“What are you talking about? I am not out. I haven’t told anyone.”
Thomas stares at him, then his expression slowly curls into a smirk. “Hang on — I’m the first person you’ve told?”
“Besides Rowan. And my dad. Stop looking smug.”
“The first person who really counts, then. Oh my god, I’m beyond honoured — “
“Shut up.”
“I had no idea you treasured our friendship like this. Give me a hug.”
“Knock it off!”
“Come on, this is an emotional moment for both of us — ”
“I’ll chuck you in the snowbank in a minute!”
“Am I your new best friend? Am I? Do I get to demand Malfoy’s resignation?”
James does make good on his promise; as Thomas tries to grab him, they tussle for a moment before James manages to clumsily lob Thomas into the snowbank. Thomas isn’t the least bit perturbed and launches out of the snow again, bellowing at James.
“Get back here and appreciate our friendship!”
A third-year rounds the corner and stops dead in their tracks, staring at them.
“Move along, wasn’t talking to you,” Thomas tells them, shaking snow out of his cap.
The third-year stares a moment longer, then scurries along the path.
“You should keep it down,” James mutters.
“What? I didn’t say anything incriminating.”
James hates that he has to ask. “Just...please don’t tell — ”
“Calm down. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As they step through the castle gates, Thomas waves at a group of students and wanders off to join them. For just a moment, James watches — slightly guiltily — to see what Thomas does. He immediately starts chatting excitedly to a friend of his, gesturing wildly. But the friend doesn’t look in James’s direction. Nobody starts glancing at him or whispering. Briefly, as the cold wind picks up again, James catches a few words from Thomas’s friend — Come on, mate, as if Suzette Conley agreed to a date —
James readjusts his bag and continues towards the Quidditch pitch.
He doesn’t know why he told Thomas. Only that it had been nice, chatting with both Rowan and Thomas, and it had suddenly felt a bit lonely, in a strange way, when Thomas brought up girlfriends and James knew he had to lie yet again, and pretend he was something he wasn’t, yet again, and he desperately wished Thomas just knew.
And then he thought Thomas could know. James could just tell him, and watching Thomas chat easily with Rowan had lent him a little courage. There had been no discomfort there; Thomas clearly hadn’t cared a bit about Rowan’s sexuality. He’d expected to feel consumed with anxiety afterwards, but oddly he’s in an impossibly good mood.
“Hi,” Scorpius says as he lands on the pitch, turning to wave farewell to the rest of the team.
”Oh, I was hoping you’d practice a bit longer. I like seeing you fly,” James says, perhaps a little recklessly.
But Scorpius just smiles. “You’ll have plenty of time next weekend. We’ve got the Gryffindor game.”
”I predict you’ll catch the snitch in the first five minutes and win the game.”
Scorpius’s smile turns into a laugh. “You’re in a good mood.”
”What’s that mean? I only say nice things when I’m in a good mood?”
”No, no,” Scorpius protests, still laughing as James nudges him hard enough to make him stumble. They shove at each other all the way to the castle doors, until Scorpius accidentally pushes James into a first-year student, who manages to scurry away with a dazed expression.
“Sorry!” Scorpius calls after them, then turns to James. “I feel bad.”
”No, don’t. They’re like Blast-Ended Skrewts. Very bouncy, practically indestructible.”
Scorpius shakes his head, laughing. “Where are we going, anyway? Our room?”
”Owlery first. Dad promised he’d send me some new swimming goggles.”
”That’s a good idea, I’ve got a stack of letters waiting for me. I’m never here for the morning post, now that I’m studying in London.”
They go to the owlery. Scorpius is right; he’s got a stack of letters waiting for collection.
”When was the last time you checked your post?” James asks suspiciously.
Scorpius shrugs and flips through the letters, tossing nearly every single one aside. “I’ll keep that one, that’s from Aunt Andromeda...that one’ll be from Stargazer, my telescope filters should have arrived by now...” Then he turns to the pile of rejected letters and waves his wand casually at them. They erupt into blue flames, startling several nearby owls.
”Hang on, Scorpius! You didn’t even read those!”
Scorpius shrugs. “They’re all from my father.”
James rescues a letter from the outskirts of the flames. “You need to read this one, it’s got a black seal.”
Scorpius looks at him blankly.
“Someone’s died. Scorpius, if you read no other letters, you should read this one.”
“No.”
James gets exasperated. “I’ll read it, then.”
“You can make a paper aeroplane from it, for all I care.”
James frowns at him and opens the letter. It’s short and direct, only a few lines long. It seems Draco has given up trying to initiate conversation. “A relative has passed away,” he says slowly. “Draco wants to tell you in person.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “I haven’t got any relatives. I’m not going.”
“You’ve got Aunt Andromeda,” James says a bit sharply.
“Besides her. It’s probably some cousin I’ve never heard of. Obviously my father just wants to see me.”
“Or he knows it’s slightly rude to inform you of a death through a letter.”
“I told you, it’ll be a distant cousin.”
James drops his gaze to the letter again. “Haven’t you read any letters from him?”
”No, and I’m not about to start. Add it to the pile.”
”Not even one? You know this mess won’t fix itself — ”
”Add it to the pile,” Scorpius repeats.
James looks at Scorpius, then places the letter on the last few flickering flames.
Within seconds, there’s nothing but ash.
Draco visits Irma on a bright day that finally feels like spring has arrived. She’s been feeling poorly lately, but dismisses his concern.
“Another damned cold,” she says. “When you’re old as I am, it’s just one illness after another. Mibbs, fetch the tea service. Mibbs.”
The house-elf — mumbling to himself as he harasses the fire with a poker — turns and gives Irma a blank look.
“We have a guest, for Merlin’s sake,” Irma says impatiently. “If I ask again, you’ll get a beating.”
The house-elf draws himself up. “Mistress shan’t be giving beatings,” he says. “She is being too old and feeble. Beatings is not good for her heart.”
He turns and vanishes. Irma frowns. “Insolent little creature,” she mutters. “Biscuit?”
“No, thank you.”
“How’s young Scorpius?”
Draco settles into the armchair; he feels acquainted enough now to skip polite niceties. “He’s not speaking to me.”
Irma makes a sympathetic noise. “Children. They can be so contrary,” she says. “And not an ounce of sense!”
“No, I’d call it a difference in ideals,” Draco says as Mibbs appears with the tea-service, sullenly pushing it along.
“It happens around that age,” Irma says, pouring the tea. “You did the same to your father, if I recall. A certain difference in ideals. How is Lucius?”
Draco pauses, then says wryly, “I’m not speaking to him.”
Irma cackles. It soon becomes gravelly and turns into a terrible coughing fit, but she laughs anyway, ignoring Mibbs’ alarmed expression.
After a second, Draco joins in.
The argument with Scorpius — the argument, Draco thinks — had so quickly escalated due to the cascade of disappointments. And Draco hadn’t seen any of them coming. Within a matter of minutes, Scorpius had revealed that he had dropped every single magical subject, had zero NEWTs, had no intention of becoming a part of the Pureblood community, wanted to break up with Celia, was bisexual, and was in love with James. None of these things, by themselves, would have made Draco furious. These truths, revealed gradually over the years, would have been far easier to accept. Draco’s under no illusion that he wouldn’t have been disappointed, perhaps upset, but it wouldn’t have ended like this: an explosive fight, a week-long disappearance, and now seven months of complete silence.
Scorpius’s deception had been the main source of Draco’s outrage. Years of hiding things, keeping secrets, standing there silently as Draco made sacrifice after sacrifice. Not saying a single word.
After Draco’s visit to Irma, though, he’s beginning to understand. He never thought of himself as being like his own father. Lucius had been cold and distant at times, and other times overbearing. Lucius’s form of punishment had been simple and subtle: just a certain look, and those words that had always made Draco’s heart sink: You are not the son I imagined you to be.
Now Draco remembers saying those same words to Scorpius. You are not the son I wanted.
Draco had never, ever wanted to be like his father. He’d always promised himself he would be different. Better. He would do everything that his father didn’t.
It was never supposed to be like this.
And recently, he’s realised there may have been another reason for Scorpius’s silence over the years.
Draco unlocks his desk drawer and removes the envelope containing Astoria’s final letter. Her suicide note. He unfolds it, glancing down at the words he knows too well by now. I do still love you, Astoria had written. I’ve made so many mistakes, and I know you’ll never forgive me. It was never supposed to be like this, was it? I’m so sorry. Tell Scorpius, won’t you? Tell him I’m sorry. I know he’ll be sad, but it’s for the best. He’s better without me. I’m a burden to everyone, I know. I just wish I could see you one last time —
Draco abruptly folds the letter in two again, and puts it back in the drawer, unable to read another line.
It all makes sense now. Scorpius hiding secrets, trying to be the perfect son, evidently terrified of somehow disappointing Draco. Causing even a little bit of sadness or upset.
He shuts the drawer.
When Harry next visits Draco, he’s unsurprised to find him in another pensive mood. He’s been miserable ever since his fight with Scorpius, but lately something else has been on his mind. He’s quiet during their Monopoly games, and listens to Harry talk but rarely offers replies. Something’s happened. Draco gracefully evades all Harry’s attempts to discuss the matter, though, so Harry takes his cue and chats about other things.
”I’ve got a problem,” he says, producing a letter.
“I haven’t any advice about your Muggle girlfriend,” Draco begins, and Harry shakes his head.
“I broke up with her, remember? Two weeks ago.”
“You seem so distraught about her,” Draco says dryly, stepping into the study. He sits at the desk, pulling a copy of a church marriage registry towards himself.
“This is serious.” Harry holds out the letter.
Draco sighs and abandons the registry, accepting the letter and scanning it. “Your son thinks it’s sad that you’re asking him for dating advice?”
“Bit below that.”
“He heard you were asked to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts next year and thinks it’s a terrible idea because you’re a...” Draco squints, “...walking embarrassment.”
“Not that bit, the — ”
“Plus he says it’s always pathetic when washed-up celebrities try to relive their glory days — ”
“Give it here,” Harry snaps. ”I’ll just tell you — ”
Draco holds the letter out of reach and continues to read it. “Let’s see...he wants to know about his motorbike — “
“Thank you! That’s the problem! I gave him Sirius’s old bike to fix, and...and...now he wants to actually ride it! He was supposed to spend years occasionally wandering into the shed to work on it. He spent half his bloody summer fixing it, and made me promise to keep working on it, and now he thinks it’s ready for a test ride. What am I going to do?”
“Make sure he wears a helmet.”
Harry ignores that. “Would it make me a bad parent,” he says, pacing across the study, “if I slightly sabotaged the bike?”
“Yes.”
“Slightly.”
“Yes.”
Harry slumps into a chair. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “Just...what’s the best way to disable an engine? Not necessarily permanently, just until he’s...he’s...at a responsible age. Like...forty-seven. That’s a good age.”
Draco puts the letter aside and resumes copying the record. Harry gets up again, restless. He pokes at a few ornaments on the mantle, and scowls at a family portrait above it: Narcissa and Draco peer down at him with matching looks of mild confusion. It’s one thing, he thinks as he turns back to the desk, to let James out into the world. It’s another matter to let him out into the world riding a motorbike. A flying motorbike.
”He doesn’t make the best decisions sometimes,” Harry says at last. “That’s all. I do trust him, it’s just...kids can be so bloody stupid sometimes. Look at what I got up to! Took a flying car for a joyride when I was twelve — that car also had homemade enchantments on it, by the way, very shaky wandwork, could’ve dropped like a stone at any second...what was I thinking?”
Draco finishes writing down the groom’s name. Harry frowns at him.
”What are you working on, anyway?”
”Family tree.” Draco draws more ink into the quill. “This bride was glowing very much as she stood at the altar.”
”Glowing? Somebody hexed her?” Harry asks blankly.
Draco pauses and gives him a look. “She was eight months pregnant.”
“Oh.” After a moment, Harry adds shrewdly, “Wasn’t Scorpius born quite soon after your wedding?”
Draco gives him another look and resumes his work. “I imagine you were perfectly noble, as always, and James was born exactly nine months after yours,” he says.
“Four years. We both cried when we found out Ginny was expecting. She called James her little miracle baby.”
Draco falls silent then. Harry goes over to the fireplace, picks up the poker, and stirs the coals a bit, suddenly feeling guilty for dampening the conversation. He hadn’t meant to, but it had always been a prickly subject for both Ginny and him. They’d both wanted a big family — Ginny had loved growing up with so many siblings, and Harry had desperately wanted to make sure his children never felt the same loneliness he had during his own childhood. They’d picked out so many names together — James for a boy, Lily for a girl, and perhaps the next one could be called Albus, or Molly, or Luna...
But it was not to be. In the end, there was only James.
”At least you’ll have the grandchildren,” Draco says.
Harry recognises the tactful subject change. “If James wants to adopt,” he says, giving the coals one last poke.
Draco gives him an odd look. “He doesn’t want any of his own?”
Harry has a brief moment of panic. He’d never forgive himself if he accidentally outed James. “Oh — well — he might. But you know, there’s plenty of kids out there already waiting for parents...Ethically, it’s...I mean, he might not ever have kids, which is fine, by the way, completely his choice — “
“He’s barely turned eighteen and he’s discussing the ethics of adoption?”
“James likes to think ahead,” Harry says quickly. “Very focused like that.”
“No, he’s not.”
Harry scowls at him, unable to contradict an obvious fact. “Anyway, it’s not really important,” he mutters instead. “Like I said, maybe he won’t have any kids. It’s fine. So, this family tree — ”
“You wouldn’t care? At all?”
“No. Why would I?”
Draco frowns at him. “There’s a long list of reasons. Biological imperative, for one.” He nods at the family tree. “The desire to see the line continue. The family name, carried on. Your line unbroken through the years. Our children are our immortality. We die knowing a small part of us will live for centuries.”
Harry taps his fingers against the side of his cup and says nothing. He wishes he hadn’t asked. He’d been lying when he told Draco he hadn’t cared. There had been a deep and bitter sadness when James had told him he was gay, and Harry had to let go of the idea of James having a wife and children. These days, he knows there’s other ways to have a family, but he doesn’t make assumptions. He’s learned now the consequences of making assumptions about James’s future.
“Secondly,” Draco says, “grandchildren are what we’ve got to look forward to. You get to do all the fun things with them, then hand them back when they start crying or throwing tantrums. It’s parenting, but with no stress and a full night’s sleep. Thirdly, it gives you and your child something enormous in common. You’re both parents. And — ”
“Okay,” Harry says tersely. “Okay. Well, clearly you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it.” He stops, and forces himself to soften his words. It’s not Draco’s fault, he reminds himself. It’s not James’s fault either. It’s just what it is. He takes a breath and adds lightly, “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to look forward to. Scorpius will be a good father.”
Draco says nothing. He picks up his quill again and consults a death certificate. Harry casts around for a subject change.
“Whose death?”
“The groom. Killed five months after the marriage. The Second World War. Died in a muddy field in France.”
“Oh.”
Draco sets the certificate aside. After a moment, Harry speaks again.
“What about the baby? You said the wife was eight months pregnant.”
“They had a daughter. She had four children, and they — well, you can see it yourself.” Draco taps the single tiny leaf. Three more leaves erupt from it, and then each of those leaves produces more, and on it goes. Harry stares at the tree as it spreads across the table. “Fifty two descendants,” Draco says.
“Just from one leaf.”
“Just one.”
Harry watches as the leaves slowly vanish again. He suddenly wonders if Draco’s ever worked on the Malfoy tree. Perhaps he’s already created empty spaces, ready for the next generation.
Well, he hopes Scorpius has his heart set on a big family.
The day of the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor match arrives. It’s a cold day, overcast, but far improved from recent icy rains. There’s only one problem, James thinks.
Rose doesn’t show up. A reserve seeker takes her place, and James turns to his friends, bewildered.
”Where’s Rose? Is she hurt?”
Martin shrugs. “I haven’t heard anything. Maybe she’s sick.”
”She’d never miss a match,” James says adamantly, and excuses himself. He’s loathe to miss the match — Scorpius is playing brilliantly — but he’s too worried about Rose.
He finds her in the owlery, looking miserable, and she barely glances at James when he arrives.
“Just checking to see if...if he’s written me,” she says.
James’s heart sinks. “You never miss the morning post, Rose.”
“I know,” she says, “but maybe I somehow didn’t see a letter...”
“I don’t think he’s replying, Rose.”
Rose picks at her fingernails and says nothing.
”You‘re not at the match,” James says after a moment.
“I don’t...I’m not really that great at Quidditch, James. Someone else deserves my place. Someone better.”
“You are good at it! The reserve seeker today has nothing on you — ”
“I am good at it,” she says. “I’m good at a sport I want to play professionally, where try-outs are extremely competitive. Being good isn’t enough, and never will be.”
“Has Aunt Hermione been sending you letters?”
“No,” Rose says, and then her expression crumples a little. “I haven’t spoken to her since Christmas, when we argued...She’s going to be so, so smug...it’ll be unbearable. She loves being right. And she is right.” She turns away, busying herself tidying feathers away from students’ post. “Oh, look, there’s a letter here for Scorpius.” She hands it to James.
James looks down at the envelope. Yet another letter from Draco, destined to be burned, the unread words dying in a quick twist of flame.
He sighs and sets it aside. “Rose, I’m really worried about you.”
She gives him a wan smile. “I’m fine. Honestly. You should go back to the match, Scorpius always plays so well — ”
“I’m not going back to the match,” James says firmly.
He gives Rose a hug instead, and doesn’t complain when she cries all over his collar.
He leaves the owlery with Rose a little while later. They go their separate ways, Rose vanishing into the library to meet her friends while James heads down to the pitch to congratulate Scorpius and apologise for missing the match.
Scorpius waves off his apologies. “What happened to Rose?”
James hesitates. “This break-up with Andrew has hit her hard. She’s thinking about dropping Quidditch.”
Scorpius bends down to unbuckle his shin guards. “She can’t. She’s mad about it. Practices more than anyone I know.”
“She’s really unhappy.”
“What happened with her and Andrew, anyway?”
James shrugs. “Apparently Andrew just thought they weren’t right for each other. Here, I’ll help you with those,” he adds as Scorpius starts fiddling with his wrist guards. “Every time,” he says as he unbuckles the left guard. He takes it off; Scorpius’s skin is pink beneath it, flushed with warmth, damp with the sweat of hard play. “What did you do before we became friends again, walked around with them on all week?”
“No, I took them off myself.”
James pauses, then abruptly steps back and drops his hands to his sides. “I suppose you did,” he says, assuming Scorpius is making a point. But Scorpius doesn’t move. He holds out his other hand, waiting patiently.
”But I prefer it,” Scorpius says, “when you do it.” And he smiles at James.
James’s heartbeat quickens, just for a moment, as he returns Scorpius’s smile.
It’s midnight when an owl disturbs Draco, hooting softly at the window. He’s sitting at his desk again, the candles burning low as he finishes another branch of a family tree. The air outside is crisp and cold, and the owl flies away as soon as he accepts the letter.
The seal on the envelope is jet black.
News of another death.
Draco breaks the seal and opens the letter.
He settles the black cloak around his shoulders. The manor is quiet and filled with the bright morning light. Across the gardens, birds chirp faintly. Sunshine pours through the window, illuminating the grain of the walnut wainscoting. Draco picks up the silver clasp resting on the side-table and pins his cloak closed.
The mirror is silent as he checks his reflection. It’s an antique, set in a heavy ebony frame. It was made long before wizards invented chatty mirrors embedded with fun enchantments.
Draco turns away from it and picks up five white roses. He took them from the gardens earlier; they’re still heavy with morning dew.
One for each Crabbe. Three children, two parents.
The last of the line.
It’s the same ancient chapel in which William Crabbe was laid to rest. The smell of musty velvet and sun-warmed dust fills the air. An elderly vicar delivers the eulogy to the nearly-empty pews.
Afterwards, Draco sets one rose upon Irma’s casket. Then he goes out into the graveyard with its crooked fence and moss-covered benches, and lays one rose on each of the Crabbe’s graves. He steps back, surveying the five graves, one of them freshly dug. The sunlight catches on the last few drops of the morning dew. By the afternoon, the earth will be dry and the roses wilted.
Summer will be here soon.
Chapter 31: Home
Summary:
Graduation.
Chapter Text
Easter break arrives, but it brings little joy to anyone. Exams are approaching rapidly and everyone is beginning to get uneasy. James only goes home because he knows the younger cousins will be excited to see him. Scorpius gloomily stays behind; he’s got a mountain of study. Rose, equally gloomily, refuses to go home too.
“I can’t deal with my mum,” she says, but James firmly reminds her that all their cousins will be waiting to see them.
So they catch the train to London together, Rose looking miserable the whole time. As the train pulls into the station, she grabs ahold of his arm.
“Come back with me? Please? She won’t lecture me so much, not if you’re there.”
“Come on, it’ll be fine — ”
“Please,” Rose says beseechingly.
James looks at her. “All right,” he says.
They go to the Disapparation point together, joining the other seventh years, and James leaves first — slightly reluctantly. He’s only just gotten his Apparation licence and he’d much rather travel to his own home, which he can picture with crystal clarity.
Still, he manages not to Splinch himself and arrives in Ron and Hermione’s front garden in one piece. Seconds later, Rose lands on top of him.
“Ouch! Get your elbow out of my kidney!”
“Stop moving! My hair’s caught on your cloak clasp!”
They manage to disentangle themselves, James a little grateful Hugo isn’t there to laugh himself stupid at them.
“Where is your brother, anyway?”
“He’s spending Easter with his girlfriend,” Rose mutters, smoothing her hair. Then she takes a deep breath, sets her expression in stone, and opens the front door.
As soon as they step inside, Hermione is clattering down the hallway with a book in her hand.
“Oh, Rose,” she says. “The first heartbreak is always the worst. Come here,” and she opens her arms wide.
Rose’s stony expression crumbles immediately as she hugs her mother tightly, beginning to cry again.
“You’ll get through it,” Hermione says soothingly. “You’ll be all right.” She glances over the top of Rose’s head and adds, “James, put the kettle on.”
He dutifully disappears to make the tea. When he returns, Rose is sniffling on the sofa. “I really loved him,” she’s saying. “I thought we were going to marry one day. Like a fairytale...how could I be so stupid?”
“It’s not stupid,” Hermione says firmly. “Most first relationships fizzle out after a month or two. You and Andrew were together for years — ”
“Three years,” Rose says, and she bursts into tears again.
James knows he’s no longer needed.
He sets a cup of tea down next to Rose and tactfully disappears, going to the fireplace and Flooing home.
Harry’s pleased to see him at first, and James feels a little guilty that he’s got too much study and can’t spend any time with his father.
“Sorry,” he says one evening as he’s eating dinner with one hand and turning the pages of a textbook with his other. “I really need to understand these duelling techniques.”
Harry brightens. “Defence Against the Dark Arts? My speciality. What do you need help with?”
James pauses. It’s his weakest subject, and he’s acutely aware of the irony, being the son of an Auror famed for duelling and defeating Voldemort himself. “It’s all right,” he says, and Harry looks so disappointed that James sighs and takes pity on him. “Okay, fine. What are the three basic spells one should use in a simple duel?”
“Oh, that’s easy. First thing you learn as an Auror. Disarming, shield charm, and an obscuring charm.”
James flips through his notes. “Wrong. Last one is Disapparation, for emergency use.”
“What? That’s retreating! That is not part of a duel. It doesn’t count.”
“Says here it does.”
“Give me that book.”
“Dad, it says it right there — ”
“I don’t care what it says, it’s wrong!”
“I’m not wrong,” the book says angrily. “Your face is wrong. Get it out of my sight.”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“Just ignore it. It’s a Defence textbook, it likes to pick fights,” James says wearily.
“That’s the book they’re giving students?” Harry demands.
“Ooh, look at me, I’m an outraged parent,” the book says mockingly. “Going to write an angry letter to the school governor, I am — ”
“I’m going to tear your index out!”
“I’d love to see you try!”
“Dad! Stop it.” James snatches the book from him, exasperated.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the book says. “Go back to your sad little existence, where you realise you’re old and all your knowledge is outdated — ”
Harry lunges across the table.
“No! Stop it, I need that chapter!” James says angrily as Harry rips out a page.
“Is that all you’ve got? That was a tickle!”
“You’ll be obsolete in a year! They’ll release the next edition soon!” Harry snaps, tearing out another page.
“Dad. You are fighting with a book.”
Harry stops, looks at James, then drops the book and clears his throat. “More peas?”
“Thanks.”
Harry adds another ladle of peas to James’s plate.
James turns the page of the subdued book. After a short silence, Harry clears his throat again and speaks.
“Thinking of going into a career based on Defence Against the Dark Arts, then?”
“Yeah, I want to become an Auror.”
Harry looks horrified. “What? Don’t — I mean, it’s very — it’s a demanding job, the hours are awful — but, I mean, of course I’ll support you if it’s what you want, just...and this might sound a bit arrogant, but, well, you are my son, and you’ll end up with a lot of unfair expectations placed on you — ”
“It was a joke,” James says casually, scribbling down a note.
Harry frowns at him. “That’s not funny.” After a pause he adds, “What do you want to do?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” James glances up from his textbook, suddenly remembering the letters he’d sent to his father recently. “Oh, no. I’m really sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to take the motorbike for a test ride after all. You haven’t bought any gear yet, you said — I don’t think I’ll have time these holidays — ”
“Oh, that’s such a shame! Oh, no.”
“Yeah, and I don’t really want to ride it until I’ve got all the proper gear and a helmet and everything.”
“Yes, and all the shops are closed over Easter...suppose it’ll have to wait,” Harry says sympathetically.
James resumes his homework, but when he next glances up, Harry’s smiling.
“What?” James asks.
“Nothing. Can’t I just be happy?”
James gives him another suspicious look and turns the page.
Easter Sunday falls on the seventeenth of April.
It would have been Teddy’s twenty-fourth birthday.
James goes to Hermione and Ron’s home anyway, and smiles at his younger cousins and shows them neat tricks, and helps Hugo with a Potions assignment, and plays games with Lucy and Molly, even though he doesn’t really want to do any of these things. Later, in the evening, he waits until the cousins are distracted by some funny spells George is casting, and retreats upstairs. He goes to Rose’s room — somewhere nice and quiet, he thinks — but he’s surprised to find Rose already there. She’s flopped across her bed, an empty crisps packet next to her.
James joins her, following her gaze. The ceiling is white, pristine. He thinks suddenly of Scorpius and Astoria’s little flat. The water stains, yellow and warped. Cobwebs. The smell of damp.
“Want to go to Wales with me?” Rose asks, still staring upwards.
“To Cardiff?” James is still thinking of Scorpius.
“River Tryweryn.” Rose lifts one arm and gestures to the crisps packet. “I was asking Mum about it. The place Teddy drowned. She made a portkey for me.”
James props himself up on his elbows. He thinks for a long moment. Then —
“I’ll fetch my cloak.”
They arrive just as the sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the land. The first thing James notices is the noise of running water, an endless murmur. The faint bird calls. A breeze stirring leaves.
The river is smaller than he expected. Narrow but quick, the water tumbling over rocks, twisting and turning. The banks are steep and mossy green, slowly creeping up to firmer ground. It smells almost like a rainforest. The damp earth is thick with young ferns and carpets of clover. James glances upwards at the canopy of green. The late afternoon light is a rich amber, struggling through leaves.
“This exact spot,” Rose says. “Mum put the coordinates in.”
Teddy was here, once. Beneath the waters of this river, just a few metres ahead of James. His friends screaming his name, diving beneath the ice cold water. Trying to drag a lifeless body ashore, slipping and sliding on the mossy rocks. Blood washing away from cuts and scrapes. Sparks lighting up the treetops, desperate signals sent from wands. A kayak drifting empty downstream. And eight hundred kilometres away, James sat in a classroom and watched the dust motes dance in the sunlight.
James sits down on a fallen tree. It’s shambling into the earth, decaying slowly. Tiny ferns sprout along it, finding life. Their fronds are a delicate, pale green. The river tumbles onwards, endless, always moving. The sunlight catches on the water and shimmers across the wet rocks.
He puts his head in his hands. There’s the creak of ancient wood as Rose sits beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.
The river rushes on.
He doesn’t go home afterwards. Rose is a little concerned.
“You won’t have a way to go back home.”
“I’ve got my Apparation licence.”
“The distance is too far.”
“I can hop,” James says, referring to the practice of Disapparating several times to gradually cover a long distance.
Rose pauses.
“I’ll be fine. Honestly. Just want to sit by myself and think for a bit.”
Rose slowly picks up the portkey. “Don’t be too long,” she says. “Promise you’ll come home soon, James.”
“Of course.”
She vanishes along with the portkey. James looks at the empty spot for a while, then turns and looks out across the river.
It’s so small.
He’d imagined a vast river, thundering through an unforgiving landscape, tumbling down jagged rocks, sweeping up any debris. He’d imagined a merciless wilderness with towering trees, and thorny shrubs and creeping ivy.
But Teddy died in a river that James could swim across in just four or five strokes, and the surrounding forest is quiet and peaceful. The trees cast welcome shade with their lush green leaves. James’s feet sink into the beds of dewy clover.
He wanders alongside the river for a long time, watching the sunlight slowly fade from the water, turning it from a bright gold to a burnished copper, and then finally just a shadow weaving through the land.
It would be a pleasant place to haunt.
But there are no ghosts here.
He Disapparates to Cardiff. The place he knows best is the Grangetown flat, so he pictures it perfectly in his mind’s eye. But when he arrives, nothing is there. Just an empty parking lot.
It’s been demolished, he realises.
The final home Scorpius ever had with his mother. Just dust and debris.
It’s a stark difference from the forest. He can smell cigarette smoke, and exhaust fumes, and he can hear the distant screech of lorry brakes, and a group of people laughing and talking loudly as they walk along the street.
He leans back and looks up at the sky. The evening stars are rising, blotted by clouds and faded by the shine of the streetlights.
James closes his eyes and pictures home. The quiet tick of the clock. Coals in a cosy fireplace. His attic, his bed with its rumpled covers. Pictures on the wall. The little Hogwarts Express lamp. His father’s voice calling up the stairs, familiar as an old lullaby.
When he opens his eyes, he’s looking at the front door. The chipped frame. The flaking paint. He opens it, and light spells across him, and there’s the smell of aromatic herbs, something cooking in the oven.
“James?” Harry calls from the kitchen. “That you?”
“Yeah,” James says. “I’m home.”
He steps inside and closes the door.
It’s the first day of May when Draco signs the paperwork. The National Wizarding Trust has made its final offer. Negotiations are now complete.
Now, it all comes down to this moment. Sitting behind the same desk that hundreds of his ancestors used. He can’t imagine how many wills have been written at this desk. Letters, postcards, resumes, wedding certificates, death registrations, and — Draco knows — a small handful of suicide notes.
But never this document.
He initials each page, and there are many of them. The study is silent despite the crowd of people watching him. Real estate solicitors, property agents, representatives from the Wizarding Trust, and a couple of reporters keen to catch the historical moment.
Draco sets the document aside. A stately-looking witch hands him the final document: the deed to Malfoy Manor.
He picks up his quill, dips it into the inkwell, and draws the ink into the barrel. He taps the nib lightly against the inkwell, shaking off excess ink.
Then he touches it to the parchment and signs his name.
There’s a faint hiss of the oxygen gas igniting in the cameras, followed by a pop and a flash.
The manor is sold.
He has two months to leave the manor. Plenty of time, and yet not enough.
He writes a letter to Scorpius that night, as he always does twice every week. The manor has been officially sold now, he tells Scorpius. He’s almost frightened, really — the manor has always felt like an anchor. Sometimes a heavy weight, a burden. Other times, it makes him feel safe and sound.
But either way, he’s been set adrift now.
My favourite room is your room, Draco writes. Because that was once my childhood room, and somehow it becomes a place where we are unconquered by our fears and worries. It’s a place of only happy memories, of bedtime stories and fun games. A place where we never thought twice about what was around the corner, what lay in wait. When I was a teenager, I would retreat to my room. The battlefield could never reach it. War was not allowed in that little corner of my world.
He folds the letter in two and sends it away with Scorpius’s owl.
He doesn’t expect an answer.
He knows his letter is destined for a rubbish bin, or an incendio charm.
But he pretends otherwise anyway.
Draco begins to gradually remove his life from the manor.
It takes longer than he expected, and Harry manages — as usual — to involve himself in the process. He visits on the weekends, and he throws himself into the work with enthusiasm.
Yet he somehow makes the entire process longer.
“Draco! Draco, come look at this! Look what I found!”
“If you’re talking about the hidden room behind the tapestry, I know it’s there!” Draco shouts down the hallway, and resumes his task of packing away his books.
There’s a slightly disappointed silence. Then — “What’s this? Draco! You’ll never guess — ”
“Spring-loaded trap in the bookcase, yes.”
Harry appears in the library doorway, covered in cobwebs and dust. “Oh. Well, I’ve cleaned out the billiard room, at least. The billiard table is staying, right?”
Draco nods. Most of the furniture will be staying — all the heavy antiques, at least. The Wizarding Trust was delighted about that.
“What about the library?” Harry glances at the shelves.
“I’m taking a few select books with me.” Draco picks up a botany book and adds it to the pile. “Careful. Some of them bite halfbloods.”
“Lovely,” Harry says, picking up a leather bound book. “Wow, this cover is soft. Must be good quality leather.”
“It’s made of house-elf skin.”
Harry drops the book as though it’s a large spider. He looks revolted.
“That one can stay.” Draco picks up another botany book filled with specimens. One of his mother’s favourites. “I’ll take those books on ancient wizarding civilisations, though.”
Harry starts packing up the books. “Last time I was in this room, we had a terrible row. Do you remember? About James.”
“I remember.”
They work in silence for a while, then Harry sits back and says abruptly, “Why don’t you like him? Please, please don’t tell me it really is a Pureblood thing — ”
Draco sighs and picks up another book. “What do you want me to say? You know I was trying to build a place in the Pureblood world for Scorpius. There was no room for James.”
“You didn’t like him before that.”
“He had problems, Harry. You’d come to me for advice all the time about his problems. Having shouting matches with you, failing grades, getting into fights, constant detentions — ”
“He was working through some things,” Harry says defensively. “You should see him now. He’s an amazing kid, I couldn’t be prouder of him — ”
“And that’s fine,” Draco says, taping the box shut with a certain finality, “but I think Scorpius perhaps needs to move on to other friendships. Sometimes we outgrow certain people.”
Harry frowns at him and turns back to his task. Draco fetches another empty box.
The last words Draco spoke to his son were about James Potter, and Draco can understand everything else now — the Muggle studies, the unrequited courtship — but not that. Scorpius has set himself up for nothing but a lifetime of heartache. James Potter — star athlete, effortlessly confident, and (as Draco recalls from Scorpius’s birthday party) very popular with the girls — is destined to marry some famous, impossibly beautiful woman. Scorpius needs to move on, and quickly.
“Scorpius will miss it,” Harry says, and gestures around the library. “This was his favourite room.”
“He didn’t love the room,” Draco says. “Only the books that were in it.”
He starts neatly stacking astronomy books into the box.
The Saturday morning post arrives in a flurry of feathers and a few droppings.
Rose scowls down at her toast and pushes it away. “It’s unhygienic,” she says, looking irritated. “Pass me some more toast, James.”
James does so. “How do you feel, by the way, about rebound relationships?”
Rose picks up a pat of butter, considering the question. “Who?” she asks at last.
“I’ve had a friend express interest.”
She spreads the butter for a long time, clearly mentally running through names in her mind. “Anyone except Paul.”
“Never mind, then.”
Rose looks outraged. “You thought I’d date Paul? How many standards do you think I’ve dropped? What is wrong with you?”
James starts laughing. “Just a little joke. Not funny?”
Rose flicks a spoonful of jam at him. “You little git,” she says angrily.
“It was Nate, actually.”
Rose pauses midway through loading another jam missile. She peers surreptitiously down the table, then says hesitantly, “He’s kind of cute.”
“He’s nice. I’m willing to vouch for him.”
Rose sneaks another look along the table. “Foot hygiene?”
“Er...what?”
“Come on. You share a dormitory with him. You know how some boys take off their shoes and everyone dies, the plants shrivel up, milk curdles —”
“I don’t really...it’s a dormitory full of boys, it always smells like an unwashed gym kit sprayed liberally with Paul’s weird anti-fungal deodorant.”
Rose stares at him, then pushes her toast away, where it joins her first plate. “Boys are gross. I think I’ll stay single for a while.”
“What? Nate’s fine, he’s fungus-free.”
“That’s your main selling point for my potential boyfriend?”
“What? It’s a plus. A bonus. And his bed is also fungus-free.”
Rose looks at him, then says very carefully, “That seems to imply there is a bed that isn’t fungus-free.”
James shrugs and takes a swig of pumpkin juice. “Well, we did tell Iwan there was a weird smell for ages. When he did remember the damp swimming towel he’d left under his bed — ”
“No!”
“There were adorable tiny mushrooms.”
“You and all your friends are filthy degenerates who should be ashamed of themselves,” Rose says firmly, and she stands up and leaves.
Martin leans over. “What was that about?”
“She didn’t like Iwan’s mushroom field.”
“For Merlin’s sake! Are you insane? Why would you tell her that? Do you want to ruin our chances with every girl in this school?”
“What? She wanted to know about hygiene!”
“Then you lie! Tell lies! We all smell like pine forests on a new spring morning, the bathroom is spotless, and we definitely did not have to hold a dormitory meeting over whoever keeps clipping their toenails next to the toothbrushes!”
“Still think it’s you.”
“It’s not me! It’s bloody Paul, he’s like a cockroach. Leaves dirt everywhere, then scuttles away before you can hit him with your shoe.”
“McGonagall says you’re not allowed to throw your slippers at people anymore.”
“Hi. What’s going on?” Iwan asks, sitting next to James.
“James told Rose about the mushrooms.”
“What is wrong with you? Have you no sense of loyalty? Thanks a lot, James! If girls ever ask about the dormitory, our beds are like freshly-ironed clouds and there’s definitely not an ongoing issue with toenail clippings!”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Martin says smugly.
James rolls his eyes. “Come on. Rose has a little brother, she knows what to expect.”
“The mushrooms were a whole new level, you have to admit,” Martin says.
Iwan gets defensive. “I didn’t know!”
“We told you! I distinctly remember James saying there was a peculiar damp smell — ”
Iwan narrows his eyes. “I’m seventy percent sure you’re the one with the toenail issues, you grotty little cave troll — ”
“Just remembered a Potions assignment,” Martin mutters, and he flees.
Iwan leans forward. “Hey, James.”
James pauses midway through reaching for another slice of toast. Iwan’s giving him a very bright-eyed, mischievous look. “Yeah...?” he asks suspiciously.
“You remember when they cancelled swim practice last week because of the Grindylow in the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Thomas reckons that with raw steak and a bit of luck, we’d be able to catch it.”
“What exactly would you do with it? It’s essentially a bag of evil teeth.”
“Reckon we could find a place for it.”
“Where?”
Iwan shrugs.
James sets his toast down, leans back, and folds his arms across his chest. “Martin’s always complained about wanting a proper pet,” he says. “Owls are boring, didn’t he say?”
“He did, actually. You know, we’d practically be doing him a favour.”
They grin at each other.
James is jolted awake the next morning by a blood-curdling scream. It’s such a high and terrified shriek that he drowsily thinks a ghoul got loose in the girls’ dormitory again.
But then there’s a flurry of shouting, and things cluttering around the place, and another most ungodly shriek.
“Catch it!”
“Help! Help! It’s under my bed!”
“It touched me!”
James opens his curtains. Martin is standing precariously on his bedside table, his face white as he frantically scans the floor. Paul is standing on his bed, brandishing a broom, while Nate and Iwan are clutching each other by the window, as if planning to leap to their deaths at any moment.
“What’s up?” James asks.
Martin gives him a horrified look. “There was a demon in my trunk!”
“It ran past me and I felt it,” Nate adds, looking revolted. “I felt it, James. It was cold. And slimy.”
“You sure it wasn’t a slug?” James asks.
When Paul speaks, his voice is strained and high-pitched. “It grinned at me! It had rows of teeth! Not a row, James, rows. About six of them. Sharp, horrible little goblin-teeth.”
“Shut up!” Martin says hysterically. “Shut up, shut up about the teeth!”
Nate screams. The boys all jump, eyes wide. “I saw it! I saw it! It’s under Paul’s bed!”
“God, I’m trapped!” Paul starts wildly bashing the broom upon his mattress. “Get out! Get out!”
“Stop it!” Nate shouts, clutching onto Iwan with white knuckles. “It’ll come over here! At least you’re safe on the bed!”
“Unless it can climb,” James offers, and the boys all shriek at him.
“Why would you say that?”
“Can it? Can it climb? Watch out, Iwan!”
“Somebody get McGonagall!” Iwan orders, and James picks up his clothes.
“I’ll fetch her,” he says brightly, dressing quickly.
“Great idea, James. I’ll come with you,” Iwan adds, making a show of jumping from bed to bed and avoiding the floor.
They manage to make it to the corridor outside the Gryffindor Tower before laughter threatens to overwhelm them; they decide to quickly retreat somewhere quiet, where their fellow students won’t see them laughing, and get suspicious.
“Are we going to McGonagall?”
“After a stroll around the lake, I reckon. Thomas will want an update.”
They hurry outside, nudging each other and grinning, but it all falls apart as soon as they see Thomas standing on the pier. They all look at each other and collapse into uncontrollable laughter again. It’s not long before Rowan arrives, evidently searching for Thomas to give him some study notes, and immediately demands to know what’s so funny. And then Scorpius spots them on his way to Quidditch practice and comes over, looking curious.
“What? What is it? What’s going on?”
James only manages to get halfway through telling the story before Scorpius starts laughing so hard he cries, which sets everyone off again, of course.
“And then what happened?” Scorpius demands once he finally manages to compose himself again. “They’re not all still there, are they?”
“Probably,” James says, and he collapses into laughter again. “I said — I said I’d go — I’d get McGonagall for them — ”
Thomas and Rowan start wheezing with laughter. “You left them there,” Thomas says, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Merlin.”
“They’ve probably spent the past hour standing on their beds and hitting things with brooms,” Rowan adds.
“I’ll go back and see what’s happened,” Iwan says, and he jogs away. It doesn’t take him long to return, wide-eyed. “Bloody idiots, the lot of them! They tried shooting incendiary spells at it to chase it away, and accidentally lit Nate’s bed on fire. McGonagall’s interrogating everyone.”
“We should split,” Thomas says quickly, and they all look at each other and laugh before going their separate ways.
As they leave, Scorpius tells James, “I like your friends.”
“They’re your friends too.”
“I don’t really know them.”
“They’ll be your friends too,” James amends. “Come to the Three Broomsticks next Saturday. We’ll all be there.”
Scorpius hesitates, but then he smiles. “All right,” he says. “I’ll skip my study session, just for you.”
They walk into the castle together.
The eleventh of May marks exactly three years since Teddy’s death.
James isn’t sure whether he wants to mark the day, or just throw himself into study as a distraction. In the end, he goes for a long walk around the lake despite a very overcast sky, and he encounters Rose doing the exact same thing.
“Couldn’t focus,” she says to James.
She says nothing else, and neither does James. They wordlessly walk together until they reach the overgrown boundaries of Hogwarts, where the grass is lush with spring rain and the wild heathers grow in a frenzy of mauve. Rose picks the tiny flowers and crushes them slowly against her palm; James watches the field sparrows hop from tree to tree.
They return to the castle only after the drizzle turns into a downpour. Rose retreats to her dormitory with a handful of heathers. James goes to the common room and listens to the boys laugh and playfully insult each other as they practice for a Charms test. The raindrops patter against the window, racing each other down the pane.
It had been a sunny day when Teddy died. Dust motes in sunlight. A sleepy classroom. Footsteps, and McGonagall’s firm voice. James remembers walking to her office with a sinking feeling, wondering if he was about to get a detention. Until that day, he’d thought that was the worst thing he’d ever hear from a professor.
The overcast sunset sinks into darkness, and James joins the rest of the students going to the Great Hall. As he makes his way down a flight of stairs, there’s hurried footsteps and then arms slip around his waist.
“Missed you,” a familiar voice says in his ear.
James turns so he can hug Scorpius properly. His skin is cold to touch, his hair a little damp with rain, and he smells of the crisp evening air. He must have only just returned from London.
“You’re back early,” James says cautiously.
Scorpius leans back a bit so he can see James, though he doesn’t break the hug. “Pretended to be unwell so they’d let me come back today.”
Another student suddenly appears at the top of the stairs; Iwan, evidently late to dinner. Scorpius and James move quickly, both dropping their arms and stepping away from each other.
Iwan pauses, then says, “Thought you were still in London, Scorpius.”
“Came back early.”
Iwan nods, then continues on his way. Scorpius is staring at the floor, his face flushed pink, but after a moment he lifts his gaze and offers James a slightly tense smile.
“Come on, let’s go to the Great Hall. I’m starved.”
They descend the stairs together.
When he returns to the dormitory that night, he finds Iwan there. It’s a little early for sleep yet, and James recalls Iwan eating little at dinner.
“All right?”
Iwan pulls a face. “Just not feeling good. Think I might skip swim practice tomorrow.”
“I’ll let Saltworth know you’re under the weather.”
“Thanks.”
James fetches a book and reads for a bit, and the companionable silence is ruined only when Paul suddenly storms into the dormitory, picks up Martin’s pillow, opens the window, and tosses it out into the dark rain. Then he leaves without another word.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Iwan mutters.
“Come on. Surely they’re not fighting still.”
“He did steal Martin’s girlfriend.”
“Two years ago.” James turns a page. “Sometimes you just need to forgive and forget. Aren’t they supposed to be best friends? Like me and Scorpius.”
“Nobody’s like you and Scorpius.”
James frowns and glances up from his book. “What’s that mean?”
Iwan looks at him for a long moment, then returns to his book. “Nothing. You two are just...close.”
“Yeah. We’re best friends.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, that’s the whole point of a best friend, right? They’re supposed to be someone you’re close to — ”
“Okay,” Iwan repeats. “Just...forget I said anything.”
“Well, you must’ve said it for a reason,” James says defensively.
Iwan turns a page. “It’s fine, James,” he says. “I don’t care who you’re close with.”
James frowns at him, but Iwan doesn’t look up from his book. Before James can question him more, the door opens and Martin and Nate come in, loud and cheerful. Nate turns on his radio, keen to hear the results of a national Quidditch match, while Martin hums to himself as he gets ready for bed.
James draws the curtains around his bed, and drags out a dusty atlas from his trunk. He opens it, tracing the untidy handwriting inside the cover. To my favourite adventurer, James...
He misses Teddy especially tonight, and not just because it’s the anniversary of his death. James had always felt he could tell Teddy anything. Teddy had never judged him, or made him feel awful. He knows Teddy was his cousin by title (and not even that — an honorary cousin, really) but in reality, Teddy had been like a brother to him.
James reads the rest of the inscription. I know what you're thinking — 'oh, a bunch of maps, thanks Teddy, ever so grateful'. But whatever country I'm in, it will glow on this map. So no matter how far I travel — no matter how fast I Floo, or Disapparate, or fly from one country to the next — you'll always be able to see where I am. So in a way, you're always travelling along with me.
Except that final journey. Teddy had gone to the one place James couldn’t follow.
He slowly turns the pages of the atlas, looking at all the places Teddy went, and he falls asleep still holding the book.
The exams are finally upon them, and there’s a distinct tension that sharpens the air at Hogwarts. The younger students are relaxing, swapping plans for summer, and idly wandering the castle in their spare time.
The seventh years are, on the other hand, getting very quiet and short-tempered. They bury themselves in the library, angrily order chatty students from the common rooms, and expel passionate couples from empty classrooms in order to practice spells. Friendships are shamelessly exploited for any advantage: James practices duelling over and over with Thomas, known for his excellent defensive magic. He pesters Rose for her Charms notes, and coaxes Rowan into handing over his carefully guarded masterpiece: a handwritten timeline of modern wizarding history which he spent many hours constructing. In return, James finds himself continually harassed, bribed, and begged for his help with Potions and Herbology, his two strongest subjects.
Scorpius is equally harangued by his fellow students, it seems. Weekends are no longer casual drinks at the Three Broomsticks, idle walks around the lake, or fun flying sessions on the pitch. Instead, they study in intense silence in their room. Scorpius seems loathe to use the library, where he’s often accosted by desperate students asking him to explain concepts or check their work.
So James is surprised when, one Sunday in their room, Scorpius finds out James has borrowed Iwan’s Transfiguration notes and is immediately offended.
“You asked Iwan? McGonagall considers me a Transfiguration prodigy, and you asked Iwan?”
“You’re busy, Scorpius. You’ve got enough people badgering you.”
“You’re different. You’re my best friend,” Scorpius says firmly, rolling up his shirt sleeves and walking over to James. “Stand up, we’ll practice.”
“Come on, I know you’ve got your first exam soon and it’s that horrible mathematics one — ”
“This is important too. Now, what’s the most important thing to remember about Transfiguration?”
“Concentrate on what you want to change, not what you want to see.”
James is delighted when Scorpius turns pink and says, sounding absurdly happy, “You remembered?”
“Of course. Best bit of advice I ever got.”
“I told you that all the way back in first year.”
“You left quite an impression.” James smiles at him.
“So did you.”
James laughs. “What, by flailing around with my wand, looking like an idiot? I was so terrible at spells back then. I’m surprised you didn’t decide to forget me entirely and find a slightly less incompetent friend.”
Scorpius catches ahold of James’s wrist and gently tilts it upwards slightly, then touches James’s fingers lightly, readjusting his grip on the wand. Then he stands beside James, touching his forearm, helping him create a sweeping motion. The star overhead disappears in a rush of magic, then reappears beautifully detailed. A perfect replica of a real star.
“It would be impossible,” Scorpius says, “to forget you, James.”
James gazes at the ceiling, at thousands of stars that seem to shine just for him.
Exams officially begin the next week. The first one is Potions, which James thinks was actually quite easy. The students debrief afterwards, comparing answers and worrying over different results.
“Mine was the wrong shade, everyone else’s looked different,” Martin says anxiously.
“Looked the same to me.”
“I mean, it looked just a little more pale. Do you think?”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Iwan suggests. “It’ll only cause more stress.”
“Yeah, best to look forward,” Nate says. “Who’s ready for Defence Against the Dark Arts tomorrow?”
They all groan. James moodily kicks a broken quill aside, his confidence fading. “It’s my worst subject. My reflexes are awful. Just can’t get my shields up quick enough.”
“Yeah, it’s your weakest subject.” Iwan claps him on the back.
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“You’re welcome.”
“There is one way out of it,” Martin says. “The professor said anyone who can cast a Patronus gets an instant pass.”
“Nobody can cast one,” Nate retorts.
“There was a Hufflepuff prefect last year that got it.”
“Great. I’ll see if I can produce one by tomorrow,” Nate says dryly.
The boys head to the library, trying to squeeze in one final study session before tomorrow’s exam. James goes to his and Scorpius’s room instead; it’s an ideal space for casting spells. He’s still worried about Defence Against the Dark Arts.
He spends the evening practising spells over and over. He really wishes Scorpius were here, instead of hundreds of kilometres away in London. Martin’s words about the Patronus keep repeating in his mind. He still can’t cast one. He’d tried so hard, and Scorpius had coached him patiently, but that was three years ago. He’s long given up on the Patronus. The sadness of Teddy’s death stains every childhood memory he has. Still, he tries now. Again and again.
Nothing.
James sits under the oak tree, taking a break for a moment. He runs his hand through the silky grass, watching the butterflies flit away from his hand, then leans back and looks up at the stars. Each one a little piece of Scorpius’s magic.
James always thought Scorpius was different from anyone else. His magic was always a little stronger, and his charms more creative, and even his Lumos charms seemed to shine brighter than all the rest. And James had always wanted a little piece of Scorpius’s brilliance. Even after their friendship dissolved, he still badly envied Scorpius and his effortless, perfect magic.
And then they were friends again, and James always told himself he wanted to get closer just to learn that magic, whether it was practising Patronuses or just studying together. Even playing Quidditch games, or visiting Scorpius, or sharing memories, or a thousand other moments that James was always chasing.
And somewhere — James doesn’t know where — it wasn’t a little bit of magic he wanted anymore. It was Scorpius’s intelligence, the way he knew so much about the world, his fingers always stained with ink. Or maybe his conversations, the way his voice lilted slightly at the end of certain words, the way he’d listen carefully when James spoke. Or maybe it was his Quidditch skills, the way he’d always land so carelessly, or the way he smelt of grass and leather after practice. Or maybe it was just the way he’d smile at James every time he saw him, that little secretive smile reserved just for him.
Maybe James just wants Scorpius.
He stares at the ceiling a moment longer, then lifts his wand. He’d given up on his Patronus so long ago. He kept thinking of the wrong memories. Big ones, milestones or achievements.
He exhales, long and slow, and thinks of that moment, almost seven years ago, when the Hogwarts Express arrived at Hogsmeade and Scorpius had smiled at him for the first time ever.
Of course you’re a wizard!
And the image is like a wave carried to shore with an ocean of memories behind it.
I saved you a seat —
We could be best friends —
It’s all right, it’s perfectly all right —
We made a promise —
I can fix it —
I wanted to say thank you —
I’m sorry —
It’s getting cold, let’s go somewhere warm —
You were completely brilliant —
It would be impossible to forget you, James.
For a moment, the room lights up, illuminated so bright it hurts James’s eyes. Then the light fades, leaving a tiny silver Patronus crawling towards him.
James holds out his hand. The scorpion crawls over his palm, magic tingling his skin.
“Hello,” James says, and it’s only then he realises there’s a lump in his throat.
He sits and watches the scorpion until it’s faded from sight, the spell finally ending.
For all the weeks of preparation and planning and mild breakdowns, the exams seem to finish far too quickly. And when they’re over, the realisation seems to hit the seventh years like the Hogwarts Express:
There’s one week left until graduation.
There suddenly seems too much to do. Scorpius and James constantly fly together; Scorpius spends nearly every spare second in the air. James plays football with the boys, and sits by the lake with Lorcan and Lysander. He spends more time with his cousins, whom he always smiled and waved at in the corridors but now wishes he’d stopped to spend more time with them. He helps Hugo with advice about Charms, and gives Lucy and Molly all the things he won’t need anymore: library passes filched from professors’ desks, and coupons for Honeydukes, and textbooks with all the little tricks and tips he learned scribbled in the margins. They nearly brawl over his Transfiguration book, which has all of Scorpius’s brilliant advice scrawled on the pages; James makes them promise to share it and help each other. And, after consulting with Scorpius — who agrees it should be gifted to the next generation — he tells all his younger cousins about their room. They may have it, James tells them solemnly, next year. Use it wisely.
James’s last swim practice is bittersweet. Saltworth lets them play games for most of it and James is sure they must wake up Hogwarts with all the shouting and laughing and splashing. Afterwards, though, they get quiet as they walk back to the castle, and make sure they’ve all got each other’s addresses. James is suddenly hit by a wave of intense melancholy: that was the last time he’d ever swim in that lake. He stands on the hill and turns back, watching the sunrise glitter over the water. The others stop too, silently watching with him.
Hogwarts is nearly over.
Their final day dawns bright and brilliant. James wants to say a final farewell to his and Scorpius’s room, but they’ll have to suffer through extracurricular awards first: Scorpius for Quidditch, and James for swimming. The Quidditch awards have attracted a large crowd and Professor McGonagall herself is standing by the table laden with large, shiny trophies.
“I wonder which sport is valued the most,” James says dryly, giving Scorpius a hug goodbye before heading off to the lake — where Saltworth is standing impatiently with a handful of small medals.
“I definitely value it. I love watching you swim,” Scorpius says, and he turns and leaves before James can respond.
Thomas comes over to punch him on the shoulder. “Move, Potter. We’re waiting for you.”
“Huh?”
“Sometimes I think you’re so fast in the water because you’re so slow in every other area of your life. Especially when it comes to thinking.”
“What?”
“Exhibit A.”
“Right. Swimming, got it.” James finally turns and follows Thomas to the banks of the lake.
It’s nice to see nearly everyone get a medal. Saltworth isn’t the sort to hand out participation awards, but James wants to see his team-mates feel accomplished too. While James gets the medal for best swimmer, Thomas receives one for personal best, and Iwan gets ‘most improved’.
“And now,” Thomas announces, “for the graduation tradition.”
“What?” Iwan and James ask simultaneously, just as Thomas charges both of them and sends them hurtling over the bank.
“Thomas Pearson! That is most certainly not a graduation tradition!” Saltworth bellows as James and Iwan chase Thomas up the bank, seize ahold of him, and toss him into the water as he shouts at them.
“Bloody hell! It’s cold without those warmth potions! Get back here, Calthorpe! Potter!”
They all end up in the shallows of the lake, dunking each other and splashing about while Saltworth shakes her head at them. The freezing cold of the lake bites quickly, however, and after a minute or two they call a truce and hurriedly drag themselves onto the pier. There they lay, sprawled across the sun-warmed wood, gratefully soaking up the sunshine.
“That,” Thomas says, “was way colder than I expected. It’s summer.”
“It’s also Scotland, you numpty,” Iwan says.
Thomas sits up. “Oh, bloody hell. I think I’ve lost my wand.”
“Yeah, that happens in cold water. It’s called shrinkage,” James says, and Iwan laughs so hard that he nearly falls off the pier.
“Oh, very funny, Potter!” Thomas retorts. “I’m serious, I think it floated away.”
“Merlin, really? That is not normal. I’d go see Madam Pomfrey about that,” Iwan says, and then it’s James’s turn to start laughing.
“I hope both of you get hypothermia and die,” Thomas says, and James waves a hand dismissively, still laughing.
“Calm down. We’ll help you find it.”
“Might be a bit difficult, there’s tons of microscopic organisms in the lake,” Iwan says, which sets both him and James off again.
Thomas rolls his eyes. “Firstly, very original. Secondly...oh, never mind. I think it’s on the bank over there.”
James flicks his wand lazily. “Accio wand.”
Iwan’s wand flies from his pocket, clattering to a rest next to James.
“Genius,” Thomas says. “Pure genius, James.”
“Sorry, can’t hear you over the sound of my Best Swimmer medal.”
Thomas tries to wrangle him back into the lake again, although it’s very half-hearted. The sunshine has made everyone sleepy. There’s the distant sound of cheering; James bats Thomas away from him and peers over at the pitch.
“Just finished the awards, I’d wager,” Iwan says, sitting up and fetching his wand. “Bet Scorpius cleaned up nicely, James. He’s one of the best Quidditch players McGonagall has seen since Harry Potter, apparently.”
“He doesn’t care about awards. He just wants to fly,” James says.
“Same as you,” Thomas observes. “You just love swimming. You don’t care about anything else.” After a moment, he adds, “It’s something I always envied about you. You made swimming look effortless and fun. Breaking records and winning medals were just side effects.”
James is surprised. “Really? Trust me, there were times when it just felt like hard work.”
Iwan hesitates. “I just wanted to be good at it,” he says. “I was awful at the try-outs. I have no idea why Saltworth put me on the team.”
“Potential,” James says, and Iwan rolls his eyes, but James shakes his head. “No, it’s true. Six years later and you’ve gone from frantically paddling around in the lake to competing internationally with me and Thomas.”
“Let’s keep swimming,” Thomas says suddenly, then laughs at their expressions. “No, not now. But in the summer holidays. Once a week. We’ll all meet at the pool. Keep up with our swimming.”
They promise each other to do so, then Thomas straightens up suddenly, pushing his shoulders back, and Iwan laughs.
“I can tell without even looking that your girlfriend is here.”
“What? Well, coincidentally — ”
“You’re flexing your arms.”
“I am not!”
“Go on, then. Have one last little moment behind the greenhouses,” Iwan says, tilting his head towards a pretty Hufflepuff prefect waiting on the bank. “We’ll catch up later.”
“See you at the train platform,” James tells Thomas.
Thomas gets up and claps James on the shoulder. “See you then.”
“I should probably go pack, actually,” Iwan says as Thomas leaves. “What about you, James?”
“Already done it.”
“Come off it. You’re supposed to be the disorganised one.”
“Didn’t want to spend my last day folding robes and looking for textbooks.”
“Smart move,” Iwan admits. “Well, I’ll see you a bit later.”
James nods, listening to Iwan’s footsteps fade. It’s nice to sit in the sunlight and listen to the distant chatter of students.
There’s soon footsteps along the pier though, and he glances up, smiling at Scorpius’s armful of trophies.
“What’d you get?”
Scorpius sits next to James, dropping his trophies carelessly next to him. “Best captain, best seeker, fastest flier, most tactical flier. Got an engraving in the trophy room for breaking the altitude record too.”
“Aiming for the stars,” James says. “As always.”
Scorpius looks across the water, watching faint ripples spread across the lake. The water is relatively still today, shimmering blue beneath the summer sky. They sit together and gaze across the lake for a long time.
Then Scorpius says, “Well. Time to say goodbye to the room, then?”
They stand up together.
The castle has a chaotic energy; the younger students run around, chasing owls and runaway trunks, ignoring angry prefects and exasperated professors. A first year drops their trunk down the stairs, sending underclothes spilling everywhere; a third year miscasts a cleaning spell and sends hundreds of bubbles floating through the corridors. James and Scorpius dodge and weave their way through it all, finally finding refuge in their room.
“Limens.”
The last time he’ll ever hear Scorpius murmur that spell, but James refuses to be melancholy. Scorpius has kept his promise, right up until this final day, not to be distant or miserable about the end of their time at Hogwarts. James won’t let Scorpius down either.
“Shall we leave the enchantments?” James asks.
“These are our memories,” Scorpius says, surveying the field, the oak tree, the stars. “They can have the room, but they can’t have us.”
“We should leave them something. Just to show off.”
“The tree,” Scorpius says decisively. “But I’ll change it.”
James falls silent, studying Scorpius as he circles the oak tree. The oak tree is the most complex transfiguration of all, layered with enchantments. James remembers when they first built that tree, transfigured from old desks. He’d been so homesick, all those years ago. He remembers how eager Scorpius had been to help him. Looking back, James can see how desperately Scorpius had wanted a friend, but how afraid he’d been of rejection. How he’d slink along the corridor, eyes lowered, never chatting to other students.
He glances up. Scorpius stands straight and tall now, moving with confidence. He’s tugging at the transfiguration, readjusting the spells as easily as if he’s rearranging new robes. The leaves lengthen and change colour, draping across the floor. The wood becomes thin and smooth. Soon, a young willow tree has replaced the oak tree. Scorpius steps back and surveys his work, scanning the tree for any mistake.
“It’s perfect,” James says. “Like always.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “I make plenty of mistakes.”
“I think you’re brilliant.”
Scorpius frowns at the leaves. “There’s no dew.”
“Oh, well. In that case, it’s a wonder you passed second-year Charms, you complete squib.”
Scorpius finally laughs then. “Fine. I’ll admit that I’m a perfectionist.”
James tilts his head. “Come here.”
“So you can mock me more?” Scorpius asks, though he’s still smiling.
“Yes, actually.”
“Prat.” Scorpius taps the tree, sending dew sparkling across the leaves.
“Suppose I’ll just stand here by myself, then. I was going to give you a hug and a dramatic farewell speech.”
Scorpius turns away from the tree and comes over to him. “I’ll take the hug. Leave the speech.”
“Are you sure? I wrote it out and everything.”
“You did not.”
“I did! Look, it’s right here.” James gets a bit of parchment from his pocket and clears his throat. “It is with both great sadness and immense joy — ”
“You’re such a liar! Give that here.”
James holds it up, out of Scorpius’s reach, and continues reading. “ — that I look back on the tremendous journey I undertook as a young and eager student — ”
“Give that to me!”
“ — stepping into these hallowed halls of knowledge, wide-eyed and keen to learn of the ancient ways — ”
Scorpius snatches the paper from him. “I knew it, you git, it’s a list of overdue library books. Hope Pince hexes you to bits for stealing her books.”
“Why? I took them out in your name.”
“You better not have!”
James laughs, stepping back as Scorpius tries to grab ahold of him. “Maybe I did. Who knows?”
“You traitorous git. I’m leaving this room and you.” Scorpius waves his wand and the sky begins to roil and ripple, sending stars shaking loose. James dodges a falling star and laughs, trying to push Scorpius over, and they start scuffling with each other.
And then they’re laughing, breathless, trying to make each other fall down, and the moons are crumbling to dust and the stars falling like rain when, still laughing as they tumble to the ground, pushing and pulling at each other, they kiss.
It’s such a natural progression that it seems impossible to know who moved first. Just that they were apart one moment — James laughing into Scorpius’s shoulder, Scorpius murmuring playful insults, and then one of them moves upwards and the other surges downwards and they meet in the middle, laughter melting into a soft kiss. The room is illuminated only by the falling stars and magic coming apart like crushed embers, and James can’t really see Scorpius, only feel him. He pulls him closer, his hand curling around the warm nape of his neck, feeling the faint brush of Scorpius’s hair across his fingertips, and Scorpius presses close until there’s not an inch between them, and this is where they both belong, where they’ve always belonged. The kisses start to get deep and messy, but no more hurried; both of them taking their time.
James is the first to withdraw, pressing a final kiss to the corner of Scorpius’s mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. They lay on the floor together, Scorpius resting his head in the crook of James’s neck, James leaving one arm around Scorpius’s shoulders. He looks up at the ceiling, watching the sky collapse, the stars drifting bright and beautiful before burning away. The constellations fall apart, Scorpio disappearing first. Sirius, brightest of the night, disappears last.
Beneath his shoulders, the soft grass recedes. The breeze slowly dies. The summer-scented air becomes dusty and still. The butterflies lift their wings and try to dance on a breeze that no longer exists before spiralling to the ground, becoming old quills once more. A butterfly lands on Scorpius’s shoulder and James can see every detail; the faint powder of pollen on its legs, its delicate antennae, the slight darkening of melanin around the edges of the wings. It seems so real; how could it be anything other than a living creature?
It flits to James’s arm and there, it ceases to exist. The wings flatten and lengthen, becoming the mottled colour of a standard-issue quill. The body becomes the ink barrel. The antennae morph into a dull nib.
The enchantments have all faded now. They’re lying on the dusty stone floor. Overhead, the ceiling is full of shadows and nothing else.
James tilts his head down slightly and just manages to kiss Scorpius’s temple. The spell’s over, he means to say. Come on.
But Scorpius tilts his face upward again and they resume another kiss instead, long and soft and lingering, and then Scorpius breaks away and lays his head on James’s shoulder again.
“Last time we’ll ever be here,” Scorpius says. His lips brush against James’s skin.
Yes, James thinks.
Now it’s time to go home.
Chapter 32: Nowhere Hill
Summary:
Draco has a visitor — James receives a letter — Harry and James help Draco with the task of moving out of the manor — James speaks to a few portraits — Harry fixes a mistake Ginny made.
Chapter Text
Draco adds another book to the pile.
The library is almost done. Perhaps he should have started with a slightly smaller room, he thinks. One with less delicate items. He’s had to pack the library by hand; he’s appalled at the very thought of casting mass summoning charms on the fragile parchment and sixteenth-century books.
He checks the titles on the final shelf. That book can stay, he thinks as he passes by another Pureblood almanac. And the book on identifying goblin metalwork. And...
He pauses, then slides a book from the shelf and adds it to the pile. A book of gardening charms, gifted to him by Harry. It had been a slightly mischievous gesture, owled to Draco after he’d struggled terribly with fixing the manor gardens. Seven years ago now, he thinks. Harry had shown up in his crisp Auror robes, marched right in, and started immediately firing off questions about Draco’s family and friends, searching for any possible Death Eater connections that somehow survived the war. Draco had — rightfully so, he thinks — stuck Harry in the front parlour with its chilly draughts and horribly uncomfortable chaise. He should’ve guessed, somehow, that Harry would manage to weasel his way into the servant’s kitchen, with its cosy fireplace and endless cups of tea.
The wards sing out a warning and Draco stands up, setting the book aside. Speak of the ghoul, he thinks. Harry was supposed to be here early, at nine, to help him pack. There’s only three months until he moves out, and it seems every cupboard he opens is full of misplaced things.
But it’s not Harry.
Pansy stands on the front step. She looks tired, though she’s done her best to cover it up. Her hair is freshly styled, and her robes are pretty and pastel.
“Draco,” she says, and she holds up a copy of The Daily Prophet. There’s a picture of Draco standing next to the chairwitch of the National Wizarding Trust, both of them holding up the deed to Malfoy Manor, smiling for the camera. “What is this?”
“Looks like a newspaper.”
Pansy is unamused. She steps inside and shrugs off her cloak, then makes a beeline for the hallway that leads to the kitchen. It’s where they had a thousand conversations as teenagers, and snuck cooking wine from the pantry, and even — one memorable summer evening — had their first kiss.
“Where are you going?” Draco asks, and he opens the door to the front parlour.
Pansy stops mid-step. After a moment she says, “Old habit, I suppose.”
She returns to him and enters the parlour, sitting on the corner of the antique chaise and putting the newspaper beside her. Draco doesn’t sit. He stands by the window. Pansy rearranges her robes, smoothing the slight wrinkles from them, then at last says, “Won’t you say something?”
“Weather’s nice.”
“This is no time for jokes. Draco, it says you sold the manor! Your home! Malfoy Manor!”
“That’s correct.”
“Have you lost your mind? This is the last thing you need right now. There’s rumours — unsavoury things — the Selwyns are saying you promised them Scorpius — “
“The courtship did not work out.”
“Draco. You cannot afford to burn bridges. If the courtship didn’t work out, you should have at least put them in contact with another suitor. You know the etiquette! The way the Selwyns are carrying on, you didn’t end the courtship. You decapitated it. Look, the Purebloods have finally welcomed you back — ”
“Welcomed me back? I know none of them. The old Purebloods, the ones I knew — they’re all gone — ”
“Does it matter? A Pureblood is a Pureblood.”
“You wouldn’t remember them. The old ones. The way it used to be.”
“I’m a Pureblood. You can check my lineage yourself — ”
“You weren’t one of us, though.”
Pansy’s mouth thins. “Don’t be bitter that my family never declared their love for your Dark Lord. I’m sorry that you had to pay a price for your family’s choices.”
Draco doesn’t look at her. He stays where he is, by the window. It’s a young, sunny day. The lawns are green, fresh with spring rain. “Choices,” he repeats. “And you made some choices of your own, didn’t you? I remember when Hogwarts was besieged, and you demanded the students hunt down Harry and hand him over to Voldemort, to do with as he wanted.”
Pansy’s face darkens. “I wanted the war to end quickly. I wanted to avoid the inevitable bloodshed. I was trying to protect people.”
“Then where were you when we were being slaughtered?”
Pansy says nothing.
“Where were you?” Draco repeats, turning around to look at her.
“Draco, it doesn’t matter — ”
“Where were you?”
Pansy stands up abruptly. “Five hundred miles away, in my aunt’s cottage in Cornwall! What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to be there!”
“I was afraid!”
“Everyone was afraid! I was afraid! But I stayed, and I did my damned duty. I still hear Vincent dying, you know. Used to wake up screaming whenever my house-elves made breakfast and burned the bacon.”
“I don’t want to know — ”
“His mother died in February, by the way. Didn’t see you at the funeral.”
Pansy sits back down and says nothing. For a moment, silence suffocates the room. “I don’t want to fight,” she says at last. “Just...fix this, Draco. I invited you to return to the Pureblood world as a favour. I know it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
“All you’ve ever wanted. You always hated the fact you weren’t from one of the old families. That you were wealthy, but not old money. That your family wasn’t invited to certain parties and galas and balls.” Draco shrugs. “Now all those old families have gone to ruin. You can finally get those invites. I’m happy for you, Pansy. I really am.”
“You know what I think, Draco? You’re still bitter about the fact you didn’t marry me. My family wasn’t good enough, were they? Not the old Purebloods. Well, look at me now. I am getting those invites, and I— ”
“Your family was good enough,” Draco says curtly. “But you weren’t. You want to know why I wouldn’t marry you? You had no conviction, no loyalty, no ambition. You were a coward. I stood on the wrong side, but at least I stood.”
Several expressions flicker across Pansy’s face. “I’m happy,” she says. “I truly am. Are you?”
Across the lawns, the sparrows flit about, little shadows on the green grass. “If I had a time-turner,” Draco says, “I would leave it untouched.”
Pansy stands up. She pauses a moment, as if waiting for Draco to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
She walks away.
There’s the sound of footsteps, and then a closing door.
He goes to his study afterwards and sits at the desk, thinking about Pansy’s visit. Would he change anything?
He does have regrets. A whole drawer of them, in fact, and he opens it now.
The drawer is full of Scorpius’s past letters. The bright, easy words Scorpius scribbled down as a happy eleven-year-old. Draco should have treasured those words. He should have thanked Scorpius for writing them. He looks over them, just for a moment, catching glimpses of casual stories about Quidditch and classes and other students.
Then he sets them aside and picks up Astoria’s suicide note.
For years now, whenever he’s thought of Astoria, he’s thought of the final, bitter end to their marriage. But now he thinks of the beginning, not the ending.
Astoria’s parents had remained carefully neutral during the war, and Astoria had thought it cowardly. She had supported Voldemort’s cause, she’d told Draco once. It seemed fair — it was proven that Halfbloods and Muggleborns resulted in children with weak magic, after all. But when the war came to Hogwarts, she changed her mind. She helped lead the younger students to safety, unwilling to fight. Halfbloods might be inferior, but she was shocked at the idea of murdering them. After the war, when she understood the false studies the puppet Ministry had manufactured, and the propaganda machine The Daily Prophet had become, she felt intense guilt over her beliefs. It had helped contribute significantly to her growing determination that Scorpius be raised Muggle. The wizarding world was insular, she said, and cruel, and elitist, and she would not raise her son in that world. By the time she vanished with Scorpius, she had become utterly disillusioned with her own kind, and desperate to shelter her son from it all.
Her suicide note had been heavy with regret. Astoria had clearly felt like a failure, and desperately regretted taking Scorpius away. That was the most depressing part, Draco thinks. All the bits of Astoria that he once loved — her fierceness, and determination, and resilience — had been stripped away. Life had relentlessly worn away Astoria’s bright spirit, leaving only tired defeat.
Next to the suicide note is a small velvet box. He opens it, looking at the diamond ring nestled within.
It had been destined to become the wedding ring for Scorpius’s future bride.
Scorpius has the same determination as his mother — that same stubbornness, Draco thinks wryly. And he can be as chilly as Draco sometimes. Moody, irritable, distant, and he holds a grudge like a dragon clutches its treasure. He has been raised with one foot in the Muggle world and one in the wizarding world, and it had been a bitter realisation that Scorpius had zero interest in maintaining the ancient customs of the Pureblood community.
You are not the son I wanted, Draco had said.
But if a warlock appeared before Draco right now and offered to vanish Scorpius — with all his flaws and challenges and odd habits — and replace him with an obedient, perfectly behaved duplicate, Draco would recoil in horror, and order the warlock to leave and never return. Every moment in Draco’s past, and every action Astoria did, resulted in the Scorpius he knows today.
He turns the ring over in his hands, then puts it away. Perhaps Scorpius might marry one day.
Perhaps not.
Either way, one thing won’t change: Scorpius is Draco’s son, and always will be.
James comes home.
Harry is smiling when he greets him on the platform, and hugs him, and is full of congratulations. But James catches him lingering a little, casting glances around the emptying platform, and he suspects Harry’s covering up a faint melancholia.
“I remember when you left,” Harry says, “for the first time, seven years ago. I hated it. I thought Hogwarts was taking my child away.”
“Well, it brought your child back, at least.”
Harry looks at him, and when he speaks next, his voice is pensive rather than sad. “You’re not a child now, James.”
James pauses. He doesn’t feel like an adult, not yet. He still isn’t sure what he wants to do for a career, and he’s got no clue how to vote, and he wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to lodge a tax return. Perhaps Harry catches his look of worry, because he claps him on the back and says, “Come on, let’s go home. Is Scorpius coming with us?”
“No, I was planning on abandoning him at a bus stop in Croydon.”
Harry gives him an annoyed look. “You know what I mean. I thought perhaps he might be going to the manor — ”
“My father doesn’t seem to be here,” Scorpius says.
Harry frowns. “He did ask if you’d like him to come. Sent two letters, actually, to make sure you got them.”
Scorpius gives James a look, as if expecting him to say something along the lines of ‘I told you so’, but James isn’t that stupid. After a moment, Scorpius says, “I didn’t read them.”
“Oh. Well, I can always Disapparate and tell Draco to come pick you up — he’d be here in a flash — ”
James gives a tiny shake of his head.
“ — or we’ll leave it, get you settled in first,” Harry finishes a bit clumsily.
“Sounds good,” Scorpius says.
”If you’re sure you don’t want — ”
”I am,” Scorpius says firmly.
James glances around. The platform is quickly emptying now, the younger students scurrying away, safe in the knowledge they will return next year and needn’t think much beyond that. The seventh years linger, however. Delaying the moment they will step off the platform and never again set foot on the Hogwarts Express.
”Ready to go?” Harry asks.
James casts one final look over his shoulder, then nods.
The slight tension of Harry’s awkward conversation fades after a long, leisurely dinner. The bright, sunny day gives way to a golden evening, the shadows long over the land, and Harry brushes off both James and Scorpius as they offer to help wash up.
“No, no, go enjoy the weather,” Harry says.
They don’t need to be told twice.
“Come for a fly?” Scorpius asks James, and within moments they’re heading outside with their brooms.
The evening air is warm and heady with the first scents of summer: the dry grass, already turning pale gold, and the wild lilac and lupin dotting the field with bright pops of purple. The oak tree is lush with broad green leaves, ready for summer’s growth. Beneath the safe shadows of dusk, rabbits race through the field.
Scorpius and James dive and duck, soar and chase, their laughter rising high above them. At last, James tries to land his broom — but Scorpius is hot on his heels and crashes into him, sending both of them tumbling through the field.
“You did that on purpose,” James says breathlessly as he falls across the grass.
“Yes,” Scorpius says, and then he straddles James in one easy movement and smiles down at him. He dips his head to kiss James’s collarbone, his throat, his jaw, and then James turns his head and captures Scorpius’s mouth. After a moment, as the kiss deepens, James catches the faint taste of salt, and he draws back for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asks with concern, reaching up to catch a tear clinging to Scorpius’s eyelashes.
“Nothing,” Scorpius says, and at James’s expression, he adds, “I’m not sad. I promise. Just...”
James waits.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting,” Scorpius finishes. “For this. For us.”
James pulls him close, tangling their bodies together. He skims his fingertips along the long line of Scorpius’s torso, the curve of his shoulder, the length of his arm. He slows down at the pale skin of Scorpius’s inner wrist, traces the soft lines across his palm, and then gently unfurls Scorpius’s fingers to interlace them with his.
“Well, we’re here now,” he says, squeezing Scorpius’s hand, and Scorpius leans in to kiss him again.
They stay in the field for quite some time, and don’t return to the house until the stars have started appearing one by one.
James had always thought he’d known everything about Scorpius, but the first week of the summer holiday provides plenty of learning opportunities. Firstly, James discovers, Scorpius is very affectionate. James had thought he already knew that, but as it turns out, evidently Scorpius was holding back slightly during their friendship. Now he touches the back of James’s hand as he talks to him, cards his fingers through James’s hair at every chance, and — one of James’s favourite gestures, he’ll admit — walks up behind James and hugs him, resting his chin on James’s shoulder.
Another fact James has discovered is that he always wakes up before Scorpius. It’s a habit from swim practice, and one that he doesn’t mind. Five in the morning is a nice time to be awake, in the half-light of a new day, when the house is silent and still.
Scorpius tends to somewhat grumpily disagree with that opinion.
Like this morning, James thinks as he lays in bed and listens to the birds greet the dawn.
He’s content to stay where he is. He can look at Scorpius now. Properly, instead of letting his gaze slide away as he’s taught himself to do; he was never allowed to stare at boys the way they so blatantly did at girls. Now he can see Scorpius: the way the faint glow of sunrise slants across his face, creating a study of light and shadow. The shape of his mouth, the bow of his lips, the slight dusting of ever-so-faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. James reaches down and cups Scorpius’s face, feeling the faint hint of stubble creeping across his jaw. After a moment, he grazes his thumbs across Scorpius’s cheekbones, then turns his attention to his sleep-tousled hair and smooths down the strands of white-blond hair.
Scorpius opens his eyes and captures ahold of James’s hand.
“Sorry,” James murmurs. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay,” Scorpius says, and he kisses James’s wrist before letting go again. He seems to be trying to stay awake and struggling very much, to James’s amusement.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, leaning down and kissing Scorpius’s forehead. “It’s too early for you.”
Scorpius does. James listens to his breathing grow steady and slow, then quietly slips out of bed and goes downstairs.
Harry’s in the kitchen already, much to James’s surprise. He’s leaning against the counter, staring down at a letter, and his expression is so serious that for a moment James’s heart stutters and he thinks there’s been a death.
But the seal isn’t black, and the envelope isn’t yet opened.
“All right?”
Harry glances up, then gives James a reflexive smile. “Letter for you.”
James looks at him, then at the letter, and slowly accepts it. “From who?”
“Your mother.”
James turns the envelope over. There’s nothing on it, save for his full name: James Sirius Potter.
“She wrote it for you. When you graduated.”
“Oh.”
Harry pauses, then adds, “You don’t have to open it right now.”
James is relieved. If his reactions to re-reading Teddy’s old letters are anything to go by, he’ll probably cry, and he really doesn’t feel like crying at five in the morning in front of his father. “All right,” he says, and sets it back down. If Harry’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He turns back to the kettle and busies himself making a cup of coffee.
“Got swim practice today?”
“Yeah, meeting Iwan and Thomas at the pool.”
“Scorpius going with you?”
“Meeting us afterwards for lunch, along with Nate. We’ll be back by five.”
“I’ll organise a portkey. Or I can come and pick you up, if — ”
“We’ve all got our Apparation licences.”
Harry pauses, his back to James as he measures out the coffee. “So you have.”
James hesitates, then says, “Thanks for the letter.”
”Well, I didn’t write it. Your mother did.”
”Thanks for keeping it safe for me, I meant. For fourteen years.”
Harry turns around and offers him a smile. “That’s my job,” he says. “Keeping things safe.”
James picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“See you later,” Harry echoes, and James goes to the door.
It’s a crisp morning, dark and cold, but he’d wager a pleasant summer’s day awaits.
It’s tragic how excited they are to see each other, James thinks, considering it’s only been a week. He’s grateful they decided to have lunch afterwards; there’s not much chance for talking and catching up at the pool. At the little cafe in Diagon Alley, they’re joined by Nate, Scorpius, and Rose. James is curious about Rose’s arrival.
“Don’t recall inviting you,” he says, mildly confused, as they place their orders. The lunch had been a very casual arrangement; Thomas had mentioned it as they disembarked the Hogwarts Express, and the others — who had all been present — had agreed it was a good idea. He doesn’t remember Rose being there. “When did that happen?”
Rose exchanges a glance with Nate. “Well...I was just...Nate mentioned he was busy today, and I sort of...invited myself along...”
“You were talking to Nate?”
Nate clears his throat. “We’re dating.”
“Sort of,” Rose says quickly. “We haven’t really established anything yet.”
“What?” Nate whispers to her. “But last night, you said — ”
“It’s quite casual,” Rose says firmly.
“But you said — ”
“Heat of the moment, Nate.” Rose briskly rearranges her cutlery. “Let’s move on.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Iwan mutters into his pumpkin juice.
“Cheer up, Iwan. I, for one, am looking forward to this train wreck,” Thomas says.
“Anyway,” Rose says loudly, “So moving on. Exam results should be here soon.”
“I hope my results are in the first batch,” Iwan says, and he catches James’s expression. “They release them slowly over a couple of weeks, otherwise a massive flock of owls would wreak chaos in the skies.”
“Ministry,” Nate says.
“What?”
“Ministry of owls. Not flock.”
Scorpius corrects him. “Parliament, actually.”
Nate shrugs. “Same thing.”
Thomas scoffs. “Nate, that tells me you failed Care of Magical Creatures and History of Magic.”
“Didn’t take either of those subjects, actually. I’m becoming a Muggle architect, remember? I got my offer two weeks ago.”
“You never said anything!” James says, pleased for him.
Nate shrugs, though he’s smiling. “Well, it’s official. I’m off to study at university in September.”
“A toast to Nathaniel!”
Nate grimaces; they laugh. James turns to Scorpius.
“Doesn’t that mean you should have your offer? Haven’t you got the owls yet? The Muggle letters, I mean.”
Scorpius shrugs. “It’s all done online.”
“On what line?” James asks.
“The telephone line, idiot,” Rose says. “The things Muggles watch the telly on. That’s why they call it the telly phone.”
“You’re the idiot. They don’t have lines. I’ve seen Muggles take them out of their pockets,” James says smugly.
“They do have lines! Little curly ones. Like a pig’s tail. The Muggles tie them to the walls so they don’t lose them. Haven’t you ever looked at a Muggle Studies book?”
“Merlin’s sake,” Thomas mutters; Scorpius is laughing.
“Anyway,” James says, fairly certain Rose is wrong but not quite understanding the Muggle world enough to challenge her. “Scorpius, you’ll get the messages on the line?”
“Right,” Scorpius says, but then his smile fades. “I got them two weeks ago, like Nate. I’m not sure why I haven’t checked. I don’t know, I panic a bit every time I think about it.”
“I was exactly the same,” Nate tells him. “Everyone else was rushing away to check their offers, but it took me a week to look. Just afraid of what I might see, I guess.”
“I’ll do it today, then,” Scorpius says decisively.
Thomas raises his glass. “We’ll hold you to that.”
They laugh and fall into easy conversation then, lingering long after the meal has ended, and as they’re getting ready to leave, Thomas leans forward and tells James, “You seem to be in an exceptionally good mood.”
James shrugs. “Guess so.”
Thomas glances at Scorpius, busy arguing about a physics concept with Nate, then says, “Good. I’m happy for you.”
James picks up his bag, only half paying attention; he’s trying to signal to Scorpius that he’s ready to leave. “Thanks,” he says. “See you later.”
“See you later.”
James catches Scorpius’s eye and smiles at him.
Scorpius does keep his promise. As soon as they return home, he vanishes into the spare room and reappears with a bulky orange case with several combination locks on it.
“That’s the thing for the Muggle messages? I thought Muggles were good at making things tiny.” James eyes the neon-orange plastic. “And a little aesthetic.”
“It’s the anti-magic case,” Scorpius says. “The wards on this house alone would kill the laptop.”
“Oh.” That’s what it’s called. Laptop. James vaguely remembers a couple of his childhood Muggle friends mentioning them, and he carefully files the word away so he can impress Scorpius with it later on.
“I’ll have to go for a walk. Far away from all the magic. Plus I need to find a signal.”
“Signal for what?”
“I’ll explain later,” Scorpius says.
James searches through his scraps of Muggle knowledge and asks, “Does it involve a satellite?”
Scorpius is smiling, but James can’t figure out if he’s laughing at him or not. “I’ll see you later.”
He kisses James on the cheek as he leaves, which James finds unreasonably endearing. He leans against the wall of the hallway for a few moments, listening to the ticking of the clock. Harry’s not yet home — he’s written a distracted note saying he’s gone to help Aunt Luna de-gnome her garden. James should probably go help, he thinks. Or he should work on his motorbike; there’s been an issue with the energy charms, apparently. Or he should lavish a few compliments upon his cactus.
Instead, he goes upstairs, to his bedroom, and sits down at the desk.
Then he picks up his mother’s letter.
James scans it quickly at first, too impatient to wait, but then he goes back and slowly lingers over each word. Ginny has congratulated him on his graduation, said she would be proud of him, that she hopes he’s made lifelong friends, that he’s now a fully educated wizard and she knows he’ll do well in whichever career he’s chosen, that she loves him more than anything and wishes she were there to celebrate his successes and commiserate his setbacks.
And then she talks about girls.
Ginny speaks wistfully of missing all the important firsts. I can imagine you meeting your first girlfriend...your first awkward date at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop...your first love and first heartbreak...don’t worry, I’ll understand if you don’t bring your first serious girlfriend home for a long time, your father can be so embarrassing...
James sets the letter down.
His excitement has faded, though he tries desperately to bring it back, re-reading all the other bits of the letter. But over and over, his gaze keeps returning to those lines about girls.
Abruptly, he tosses the letter aside, stands up, and walks away.
He goes for a walk in the woods and fields he so loved exploring when he was younger, and finds Scorpius by accident. He’s sitting on a steep hill awash with sun-ripened grass; he looks like he’s adrift in a sea of gold. The view is vast, spanning the mountains and valleys, but Scorpius is frowning at a little silver, thin box perched on his lap.
“Hey,” James says, and Scorpius glances up.
“No magic!”
“All right.”
“You’ll fry this laptop. Have you got your wand?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t even think about using it.” Scorpius resumes peering at what James supposes is the laptop. He waits, then exhales, and says, “This is taking forever. Signal’s awful, but it’s all I could get.” He tugs at a small weed, then adds, “Did you visit your aunt?”
“Hm? Luna? Oh, no. Read my mother’s letter instead. She wrote me one. For when I graduated, apparently.”
“That must’ve been nice,” Scorpius says, glancing back at the laptop.
“Yeah.” James offers a tense smile. “So it’s kind of like an electric owl, that laptop? That’s how Muggles send messages?”
Scorpius looks at him, then puts the laptop aside, loops an arm around James’s shoulders, and pulls him close. “What did the letter say?” he asks. “Was it what you expected?”
James speaks reluctantly. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s disappointed. “It’s what I expected. Just...not what I wanted.”
Scorpius kisses his temple. They settle into silence for a while. The view is spectacular; the gullies are full of green ferns and young trees. Almost like tiny pockets of rainforest, James thinks. Like the river where Teddy died. James thinks of how he used to explore this land all the time with Teddy. They’d climb trees, and walk along ridges, and wade through the creeks and streams. The last thing Teddy saw was that rainforest in Wales. Maybe, just before he died, he was remembering being eleven years old and whistling as he followed the thread of a stream, five-year-old James on his shoulders. Maybe, as his lungs filled with water, he was dreaming of home.
He looks up. Scorpius is studying him, his brow a little creased.
“We had a name for this hill,” James says suddenly. Scorpius doesn’t ask who we is. “Nowhere Hill. Teddy reasoned that if you could stand here and see everywhere, the only place left was nowhere.”
“Spoken like a true Ravenclaw,” Scorpius says, and then he nods at the view. “What about other places? Did you name them?”
“Oh, we named everything. There was Raincloud River — barely a trickle, by the way — and that tiny hill over there, Teddy called it Whinge Mountain because I’d always complain endlessly when we climbed it. And — ”
“You should show me,” Scorpius says. “Come on, let’s go.”
James pauses. “Your laptop, we can’t leave it here — ”
“Who’s going to steal it, the foxes?”
“But — ”
“Race you to Whinge Mountain,” Scorpius says, and he leaps up and rushes away without waiting for a reply.
James bolts after him. They run down the hill, sending dry grass scattering, the stalks snapping, and the occasional dandelion exploding into the air. The dry earth becomes softer at the bottom of the hill, the grass becoming greener, and soon they’re rushing through patches of bilberry and wood-rush, the leaves crushed underfoot, leaving a fragrant scent in their wake.
They arrive at the foot of the hill together, though Scorpius maintains he won by half a stride.
“I let you win,” James says.
“Don’t even try that,” Scorpius retorts, tripping him. James shoves him and they scuffle in the grass for a few moments until James decides he’d much rather kiss Scorpius instead; Scorpius, it turns out, is in agreement with him. They kiss almost lazily, sprawled in the grass, the final rays of sunshine warming their skin. James briefly entertains other ideas, but the sun is beginning to set and Scorpius still needs to try and get those messages on his laptop.
So he breaks away and says, “Let’s go back, then.”
Scorpius smiles at him. “To the electric owl,” he agrees, then surges upwards and kisses James one last time.
James is suspicious. “You think I’m an idiot.”
“I think you’re cute.”
“I know lots of Muggle stuff, you know.”
“What’s the tiniest computer called? The ones they carry in their pockets.”
James is smug. “Calculators.”
Scorpius laughs and pulls James downward into a kiss that leaves him slightly breathless.
“What?” James demands. “What did I do? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You’re amazing, that’s what you are,” Scorpius says, and he gets to his feet. “Come on, then.”
They make their way back to Nowhere Hill, the return journey being significantly longer as they kiss beneath hazel trees and linger in patches of clover. By the time they arrive, the sun is nearly set. Scorpius finds his laptop, brushes a couple of ants off it, and checks the little screen.
“Finally,” he says.
James looks over his shoulder; his heart sinks. Beneath the coat of arms of what he knows to be the best Muggle university in Britain, the words are politely rejecting. We received a high volume of applicants...encourage you to re-apply at the next intake...
“You didn’t get in,” James says slowly, sitting back. It’s impossible, he thinks. Scorpius is so clever, and brilliant, and he’s worked so hard — how could this happen?
Scorpius doesn’t seem the least bit upset. “They’re extremely competitive, I didn’t expect to get in,” he murmurs absently. “Anyway, it’s very prestigious and all, but I wanted one that was really known for its physics programs.”
“You can choose another university?”
Scorpius does look up then, and he laughs and reaches out to touch James’s face. “Oh, James. I’m sorry. I should have explained. I applied to multiple universities, and — oh, here’s the one I really wanted...” He does something that changes the message on the screen, then suddenly jumps to his feet.
“What?”
Scorpius laughs then, and James knows. He gets up and sweeps Scorpius into a crushing hug.
“You got it!”
“Yeah, I did,” Scorpius says, smiling. “I did. I mean, I knew I would, it’s just — I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Going to university.”
“You’re going to study the stars.”
Scorpius glances up, as if reminded of their existence, and James follows his gaze. “There’s Sirius,” Scorpius says. “Always the brightest.”
They stand for a moment longer, arms around each other, looking up into the emerging night. Scorpius drops his gaze after a moment and smiles at James. “I couldn’t be happier,” he says.
“Not even a little bit?”
Scorpius’s smile dims.
“He’d be really proud of you,” James says quietly. “Maybe you can owl him — ”
“Let’s go. It’s getting cold now.”
“All right.”
They descend the hill, leaving the sea of gold to melt into the shadows of the night.
Draco has enlisted Harry’s help in packing away his possessions; he certainly won’t hire movers to rifle through the manor, gawking at Great-Aunt Gwenda’s collection of pickled gnome heads, and threatening legal action should they be bitten by an angry Pureblood almanac.
Harry’s late, of course, but Draco’s long learned that Harry’s reliability waxes and wanes depending on an assortment of unknown factors. He arrives at ten o’clock, looking very distracted and untidy. Draco ushers him into the kitchen, keen to begin work, but Harry seems oblivious to Draco’s impatience, as usual. He wanders slowly down the stairs, and rants the entire time.
“Bloody James! Thought it would be funny to go for a walk at six in the morning, find a wild Niffler, and levitate it through my bedroom window!”
Draco starts smiling despite himself. Harry looks outraged.
“I thought I was being attacked! I’ve got shiny things everywhere — the mirror, and my wedding ring, and silver picture frames — it went for everything, it was crazed, I was running around shouting and panicking, and James was outside crying with laughter, the ungrateful little berk — it took me an hour to sort everything out!”
“Well, you’ve got more things to sort out,” Draco says, setting a large scroll of parchment upon the table. “Here’s the list of the manor’s contents.”
Harry stares at the parchment and picks it up. It unravels, and keeps unraveling for a while. “That’s...I mean...we’ve only got until summer ends...”
“Turn it over.”
“What?” Harry turns over the parchment, then swears loudly. “There’s more? How much stuff do you have?”
“It’s not mine. It doesn’t belong to me any more than the manor does. It belongs to the Malfoy family, except for these items,” — Draco produces another list — “that have been purchased by the Trust. They plan to preserve the manor.”
“What — do tours?” Harry looks appalled.
“That’s the idea. And other events that highlight moments of historical significance. They think the gardens will be a very popular location for weddings too — ”
“They’re going to open the manor to the public?”
“Do you need your smelling salts, dear?” Draco asks sarcastically.
Harry shuts his mouth and glares at him. “It’s just — imagine people exploring your home. And poking through the gardens, your mother loved the gardens, you said — ”
“She’s always liked weddings. She would be happy, I think, to have her gardens live on forever in hundreds of wedding photographs.”
Harry pauses.
Draco smooths the list again. “I like it,” he says at last. “All those chatty portraits down in the gallery, with nobody to speak to...now they’ll have countless visitors. The handwoven tapestries will have people to admire them. The secret passageways, where children can run through them again. It’s a home that deserves to be explored, won’t you agree?”
Harry says nothing, but after a moment he taps the top of the first list. “The second parlour room, we’ve already done that. And that sitting room in the east wing. We can cross those off.”
Draco does so, the ink marking a thin, uneven line across the parchment. “The other sitting room, I’ll have to manage that one alone. Used to be Great-Great-Grandfather’s study, and he put a blood ward on it so only Purebloods can enter.”
Harry says, a little reluctantly, “I didn’t ask the boys to help today — they were both off to a Quidditch game with James’s cousins. I’ll ask Scorpius tomorrow, though.”
“Ask Weasley, he’s Pureblood. Should only take a day.”
“Ron?” Harry blinks at him. “But — Scorpius is — ”
“He won’t come.”
“He will. He has to. You’re selling the manor, he has to see his home one last time — ”
“He won’t,” Draco repeats. “It’s all right, Potter.”
“It’s been nearly a year — ”
“Ten and a half months.”
Harry frowns at him, then looks down at the paper. “He’ll be here tomorrow. You’ll see. Now, I see the lumber room needs to be done too...”
Draco lets the matter go.
He knows, though, and he doesn’t even entertain the slightest bit of hope anymore.
So he isn’t surprised when, early the next morning, Harry shows up without Scorpius.
He does show up with James, though, which annoys Draco somewhat. He sends James to the solarium, then complains to Harry about it as they attack a sitting room.
“You could have fire-called first,” he mutters to Harry as they investigate a billywig nest hiding behind a sofa.
“Fire-called? Why?”
“I didn’t know you were bringing James.”
“You should be happy I managed to convince him to come along. We need three people to deal with that angry armoire.”
“I would have liked a warning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know James’s presence would be so alarming — ”
“It is not alarming! It’s just — it would have been polite. You know we don’t exactly get along, don’t you?”
Harry doesn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed. “It’s a manor, Draco. It has a ridiculous amount of rooms. You can stick James in a dusty room and forget about him. Which, incidentally, is what you’ve done.”
There’s a loud crash.
Draco waits.
Harry valiantly ignores the noise. “A freezing charm, that’s what’s needed,” he says, peering at the nest.
“Also damages the sofa. This is a seventeenth century antique. You are not to cast a freezing charm — look, are you going to investigate whatever expensive item your child just destroyed?”
Harry shrugs.
Draco growls and straightens up. “Fine. I’ll go and shout at him, then. And no, Potter, certainly not an Incendio either.”
“I’m not stupid!”
Draco stares at him, long enough to make Harry glare at him. “When I get back, if that sofa is on fire, I am going to hex you into tiny little pieces.”
“The words you’re looking for are, ‘I’m so grateful you’re helping me move house, which is a difficult and thankless task’.”
“If it’s thankless, then you don’t need my gratitude,” Draco says smugly, and he turns and leaves even as Harry tries to get him with a tripping jinx.
He finds James where he left him: in the solarium. When he arrives, James is picking up little blue shards and gently scolding a marble statue of a tenth-century witch queen.
“It is considered rather impolite to suddenly lunge at guests,” he’s saying to the impassive statue. “Particularly if they don’t realise you’re enchanted, and they’re carrying stupidly fragile vases.”
Draco does feel a bit guilty. That witch queen has the charming habit of grabbing people while cackling maniacally, then abruptly returning to her graceful pose and frozen expression of deference. It used to scare the absolute daylights out of him when he was a child. “I should have warned you about Bathsheba,” he admits.
James jumps, dropping the shards again. He gives Draco a faintly exasperated look, but kneels to collect the pieces. “She’s charming, isn’t she?”
“Quite.”
“Does she need to be packed up too?”
“No,” Draco says, stepping forward but making sure to stay well out of Bathsheba’s reach. “The Trust can have her.”
“You’re leaving a lot of things to the Trust.” James waves his wand. The shards remain where they are.
“They’re going to restore and maintain most of the historical pieces — far better than I’ll be able to. They have the time, money, and professionals.”
James frowns and casts the repairing charm again. Nothing happens. “So it’ll be like a museum?”
“In a way.”
James lifts his wand again, and Draco takes mercy on him.
“You can’t fix it. The sculptor believed that if it were to be broken, it should remain broken rather than be fixed by a Reparo charm and never quite return to its natural, perfect form.”
James rolls his eyes. “That’s the poshest rubbish I’ve ever heard.” After a moment, though, he adds, “Sorry I broke it.”
Draco studies him. James has been oddly...courteous all morning. He’s not exactly being chatty and overly friendly, but he’s been polite and helpful. Draco knows that James is fiercely protective of Scorpius — that became apparent when Scorpius went missing last summer — and had expected James to be downright hostile. Draco wouldn’t blame him in the slightest; he had expected him to naturally side with his best friend.
So either James is staying out of the entire business and claiming neutrality, or he doesn’t think Draco deserves his wrath too. Considering how much Scorpius values the opinion of his best friend, Draco feels the first flicker of hope.
So he says — quite truthfully — “Never mind, it was an ugly vase. I never liked it.”
James Vanishes the shards. “I’m nearly done here, anyway. What’s the next room?”
“We’ll have a break for lunch.”
“All right.” He turns back to a shelf of slightly-wilted plants.
“There’s a compost heap by the old stables,” Draco says.
James gives him an indignant look. “You’re just going to throw them out?” He reaches up, touching a heap of withered leaves. “You look like a chatty chrysanthemum,” he tells it. “You shouldn’t be on your own.”
“You can adopt it. Or any of them,” Draco says. Herbology never was his forte.
James turns and looks at him, then nods. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Draco says, and he leaves.
He arrives back at the sitting room to find Harry red-faced, swearing loudly, and trying to cover up a small hole burning in the sofa’s upholstery.
“Potter.”
“What? What? Don’t look at me like that — it’s not my fault — ”
“Tiny little pieces.”
“No, no, you don’t understand — it wasn’t — I got rid of the billywig nest, that’s the important thing, with only the slightest damage — look, you can cover it up with a cushion — ”
“How are you an ex-Auror who cannot get rid of a billywig nest?”
“I did get rid of the nest!”
“And a bit of the sofa!”
“You think Aurors are known for their delicate wand work and preservation of antique furniture?”
“Between you and James, I may as well set fire to half the manor and just be done with it.”
“Thankless,” Harry mutters. “Absolutely thankless.”
“There’s lunch in the kitchens,” Draco says. “By the way.”
“Did you cook it?” Harry asks — rather rudely, Draco thinks.
“What’s wrong with my cooking?”
“Nothing. Did I say anything bad about it? No.”
“It was implied.”
“So did you cook it?”
“It’s only sandwiches and butterbeer, neither of which you deserve.”
“Oh, great. You didn’t burn anything, then,” Harry says, brightening, and he puts his wand down and strides out the door.
“Oh, that’s charming. Now who’s being thankless?” Draco mutters, trailing after him.
They arrive in the kitchens, still bickering a little. James is already there, helping himself to a cold butterbeer and examining the little Monopoly pieces on the table.
“Hey, I remember this,” he says. “Uncle Dudley gave it to me for Christmas, four or five years ago.”
“Six years ago,” Draco and Harry say in unison.
James blinks at them, then sets the dice back down. “How’s the sitting room?”
“Fine,” Harry says.
Draco rolls his eyes. “Your father is setting furniture alight.”
James shrugs. “I’m not surprised, really.”
Harry scowls at both of them and rearranges the Monopoly pieces.
Draco had thought it might be a little awkward, but between Harry’s occasional playful insults and James’s evident decision to exercise a little tact and politeness, the lunch is almost companionable. Draco and Harry end up discussing the latest Quidditch results, while James busies himself with a half-finished crossword Draco left on the table.
“Harriers are doing well this year,” Draco observes, turning the page of The Daily Prophet.
“Viney’s coaching them,” Harry says around a mouthful of sandwich. “He’s got a knack for finding talent.”
“He’s got a son at Hogwarts,” Draco says, the name familiar. The Selwyns were always asking if the Viney child was friends with Scorpius. The family was Muggleborn, but had oodles of money and plenty of connections for anyone wanting to push their child into a Quidditch career.
“Rowan Viney?” Harry says. “I’ve met him. He’s a nice kid.”
Of course Harry knows him, Draco thinks wryly. Of course James Potter would manage to make friends with the wealthy son of a renowned Quidditch coach. “Friend of yours, then?” Draco asks James.
Before he can reply, Harry interrupts. “Yes, they’re friends. Well, the Harriers might have talent, but we all know it’s the Harpies’ year — ”
“Dated, actually,” James says.
Draco gives him a nonplussed look. “What?”
“I dated Rowan.”
Draco pauses. James is waiting for a reaction. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his expression slightly defensive.
Harry, on the other hand, is choking on his sandwich.
“You really need to learn to chew your food,” James tells his father, finally glancing away from Draco.
Harry takes a swig of tea. “I didn’t think you were going to say that. You haven’t even told your Aunt Hermione or Uncle Ron — ”
“Oh, is there a hierarchy?”
Harry gets flustered. “What? Oh — no, of course not — I was just — sorry, I — ”
“A list I should be following? Am I not doing this right?”
“No, no, that’s not what — ”
“Well, since you’re clearly the expert — ”
“I’m not, obviously I’m not, I honestly didn’t mean to imply — ”
Draco takes mercy on Harry and intervenes. “Stop it,” he tells James.
James gives him an innocent look. “Stop what?”
“Tormenting your poor father. You’ll give him anxiety.”
James grins. Harry looks at him, then scowls and drinks the rest of his tea with a certain aggression. “You can do the gallery,” he tells James. “You’ll love it. They’re all very chatty.”
“Oh, come on! I hate portraits who won’t shut up — ”
“Off you go,” Harry says firmly.
James goes, very reluctantly.
Draco busies himself rinsing the teacups, because Harry’s looking at him expectantly and no, Draco is most certainly not going to have a conversation about James Potter’s sexuality.
“I was sort of expecting...I don’t know, some sort of reaction,” Harry says at last.
“What, I’d leap up and shout slurs at him? Thanks.”
“Any kind of reaction, to be honest. You’re not surprised he’s gay?”
Draco turns the tap off. “I don’t think James would appreciate us standing here, discussing his private life.”
Harry looks chastened. He stands up, Scourgifying the crumbs from the table. “No, of course not. Shall I do the rest of the sitting room, then?”
“All right.”
They go their separate ways.
“Well, aren’t you just the loveliest little thing.”
James frowns at the portrait. “Is there a sticking charm on you?”
The witch covers her mouth, her bejewelled fingers glinting in the candlelight of the picture. “And so forward. I haven’t had nearly enough wine.”
“Wine? You need no wine to excuse your lack of modesty, Cerella,” the aggrieved neighbouring portrait — an elderly wizard — mutters.
James sighs. Draco evidently found the talking portraits just as annoying, for the ones hanging in the manor hallways and frequented rooms are silent — either enchanted so, or they simply choose to seldom speak. It’s not a coincidence, he suspects, that all the portraits in the dusty gallery are chatty.
He lifts the portrait’s frame slightly, checking for a sticking charm. The witch gasps and collapses into giggles. “Please, someone will see us! Won’t you think of my reputation?”
“I’m a Halfblood,” James says, which worked very well for Scorpius’s coquettish Great-Great-Aunt Gerberga, who is still ranting even though her portrait is lying on the floor with a dustcloth over it.
It is somewhat less effective for this witch. “A Halfblood?” she breathes. “The apple tastes all the sweeter when it is forbidden...”
“Ugh, gross.” James unceremoniously yanks the portrait off the wall — no sticking charm at least — and dumps it on the floor. The witch shrieks and tumbles around the picture, dropping her wineglass.
He turns his attention to the elderly wizard, who looks alarmed. “Please, my good sir, I beg of you — do not lay my portrait upon that of Cerella! She is a rumpot and a strumpet, a stain upon the reputation of the great Malfoy estate!”
“I can add you to that area,” James says, gesturing to the far corner. Gerberga is still ranting; cries of ‘Unworthy Mudblood!’ and ‘Veins not of magic, but filth!’ can still be heard.
The elderly wizard descends into a mental struggle for some time, then finally says, in a pained tone, “Gerberga will do.”
James sets him down, putting a dustcloth over him, and goes to the next portrait: a young witch sits on a chaise, reading a book. When she sees him, though, she straightens up and sets the book aside.
“Well, hello. Aren’t you dishy.”
“I’m Halfblood.” James finds a sticking charm and sets about removing it.
“Fortunately for you, for my mind is not so narrow as — ”
“Also gay.”
The witch looks aghast, and silently retreats to her book again. The neighbouring portrait — featuring a young wizard wearing resplendent mauve robes, breaks into indignant shouting. “Immoral! Unnatural! The most terrible offence against both wizard and man!”
“Reglutino.” The sticking charm fades, and he picks up the portrait of the witch. She gives him a look of pity.
“Your poor mother and father,” she says. “Won’t you reconsider your choice? You must shame them so.”
Beside her, the wizard in mauve robes is still ranting. “I would rather burn than be handled by the likes of you! Flames would be more welcome than the presence of a disgraceful deviant!”
James wishes he’d never spoken. Idiot, he tells himself. He’d thought it would be funny to casually outrage these dusty old portraits. And he wishes he did find it funny, and could laugh at the passionate ranting. He thought he would laugh. But he just wants them to shut up, and he can feel the embarrassment heating his face, and he hates that he feels embarrassed.
He dumps the portrait onto the floor and goes to the other side of the gallery. He can still hear the disapproving mutters and shouted insults from the portraits, but at least he can ignore them more easily over here. He sets to work, quickly busying himself with a very large portrait. He keeps his gaze trained on the dark frame, unwilling to look at the portrait itself. He doesn’t want to see another expression of disgust.
“Hello.”
James ignores the voice at first. It’s soft and light, a woman’s voice, and if the witch isn’t about to call him names, then she’s probably about to flirt with him, and he’s thoroughly sick of the evidently very salacious Malfoy women.
“It must be terribly sad,” the voice continues, “to be so small and frightened. Instinctively leaping away from anything or anyone who is the slightest bit different. Don’t you feel pity for those frightened little rabbits?”
James finally looks up.
It’s a portrait of Astoria and Scorpius.
Scorpius is little more than a baby tucked in his mother’s arms. Astoria is in a nursery, sitting in an armchair embroidered with pink roses, but as Scorpius wakes and cries briefly, she stands up and slowly paces across the room.
“Imagine everything those little rabbits miss,” Astoria continues, pausing to smile down at Scorpius. “All the things they don’t see or hear. Too busy running.” She looks up again. “And it would be an awful shame, I think, to run past somebody like you.”
James has the irrational urge to speak to Astoria, to ask her why. She seems so happy — what happened to her? Why did she do it? What was she thinking? Why did she abandon Draco? Why didn’t she want Scorpius to be in the wizarding world? Would she be proud of him now?
But portraits can capture the personality of their subject and nothing else. Astoria here knows nothing of her past nor future. Only this snapshot of time.
“When he grows up, he’ll be my best friend,” James says instead, and Astoria’s face softens as she strokes Scorpius’s wispy hair.
“It’s impossible to imagine him grown. I suppose one day I’ll have to stop carrying him, won’t I?” Astoria kisses Scorpius’s forehead. “One day. Not yet.” She looks up, and her face melts into a fond expression. “Hello, darling,” she says, her voice full of affection. “Come look at our little boy. You know, I think he’s going to look just like you.”
James turns around. Draco is standing in the doorway, his expression inscrutable. “James,” he says. “Your father wants your help. He’s in the lumber room.”
James glances back at Astoria, but she’s busy smiling at Draco. “All right,” he says, and he crosses the floor. As he does, a portrait of a regal-looking witch glares at him.
“Disgusting degenerate — ”
Draco waves his wand. The portrait falls silent. She bangs her fist upon the canvas, wailing soundlessly. Draco gives her an impassive look, then keeps walking towards Astoria.
James leaves, but he pauses just outside the door, listening to Draco’s footsteps. A moment later, Astoria speaks again.
“Isn’t he just perfect?”
“Yes,” Draco says. “He’s perfect.”
James turns away and departs.
That evening, after dinner, James lays across his bed and re-reads his mother’s letter. Scorpius lays beside him, reading a letter from Nate about their upcoming university studies.
James wonders if Scorpius knows of the existence of his mother’s portrait. He thinks of Astoria, smiling and welcoming, and he knows Ginny would have been the same. She wouldn’t care.
And yet...
He tries reading the letter again, thinking he can focus on the other bits, where Ginny mused about which subjects he’d choose and the house he’d been Sorted into, but the concessions have been made there: All the houses have their strengths, and don’t worry if you don’t follow in my footsteps and become a Gryffindor. Whichever house you’re in, it’ll be perfect for you. And I know both myself and your father were Seekers, but you’ll find your own interests...
Then why, why did she write about him dating girls? He already knows he’s different, and he’s thought a million times that he’s not how he’s supposed to be — and now it feels, in a way, that his mother is telling him the same. That he should have been straight. And somehow the whole letter erases Scorpius, which James knows is stupid to feel sad about — but it does erase him. His best friend, the most important person to him — his Scorpius, and it feels like Ginny reduced him to one throwaway line: I’m sure you’ll make lifelong friends. Whereas whole paragraphs have been reserved for the nameless, faceless girl that will never exist for James.
“Are you mad at her?” Scorpius asks.
James glances up. Scorpius is studying him, his own letter abandoned. “Do you want to read it?”
Scorpius pauses, looking surprised. But then he reaches out, accepting the letter, and reads it silently. When he’s finished, he puts it down and says hesitantly, “Seems like she really loved you — ”
”I know,” James says a bit impatiently, “but there’s something missing, isn’t there?”
Scorpius glances down at the letter again. “You mean all the talk about girls? Well...I mean, she couldn’t know — ”
“I know, I know. It’s not her fault.”
Scorpius falls silent. He looks at James for a while, then says, “You’re allowed to be mad at her, you know.”
”No, I’m not. She wrote me a letter fourteen years ago, when she was dying,” James mutters. “I’m being selfish — ”
”You’re not. And you can be mad about it. I used to be furious at my mother after she died, and sometimes I still get mad at her.”
James sets the letter aside and sighs. “I really, really wanted you to be in that letter, that’s all,” he says at last. “Just a little. A tiny bit. ‘Or boy’, that’s all she had to write. Just the smallest thought of you.”
Scorpius reaches up and threads his hands through James’s hair, gently pulling him closer for a kiss, and it soothes away James’s thoughts.
For a while.
But long after Scorpius has fallen asleep, James lays awake and stares at the ceiling.
He thinks of Astoria again, pacing around the nursery, smiling at her son. He’s perfect, she’d said. And James has the feeling that if she could see Scorpius now, she’d have that same look on her face, and repeat the same words. He’s perfect.
James gets up. He’s displeased to find the house dark and quiet, and goes to Harry’s bedroom to unceremoniously shake him awake. Harry mumbles some bewildered profanities, accidentally knocks the lamp over, and drops his wand, which hits the floor and sets off a cheerful spray of sparks.
“Whassit? What — James? You all right? What happened?”
“Just wanted to ask you a question.”
Harry peers at him. James always thinks his father looks peculiar without his spectacles. It makes his face look smaller, somehow, like a little pygmy owl. “Ask a question,” Harry repeats after a moment.
“Yes.”
“At one in the morning.”
“Oh, is that the time?”
Harry stares at him, then sets the lamp upright, puts his spectacles on, sits up, and sighs. “Right. Go on, then.”
“Do you think Mum would be disappointed if she knew I was gay?”
“No,” Harry says, looking concerned. “What makes you think that?”
James hesitates, then hands Harry the letter. “Only she wrote a lot about girls...”
Harry reads the letter, then sets it down and frowns. “Well...I suppose that’s the unfair bit,” he says. “We tend to make assumptions. It’s unfortunate, but there it is. Ginny made an assumption. I made an assumption. I was very surprised when you came out.”
“It’s made me feel like she would be disappointed in who I am. Like it’s not what she wanted.”
“Oh, James,” Harry says, a trace of sadness in his voice. “She wanted you to be happy. If she saw your expression right now, as you looked at that letter, I’d know exactly what she’d do.”
James hesitates, wondering if he really wants to know the answer. “What?”
Harry leans over and finds a quill on his bedside table, then picks up the letter. He scans it, spots a mention of girls, then crosses it out and writes boys. A moment later, he comes to the phrase a serious girlfriend. He crosses the final word out, and writes boyfriend. And on he goes until he’s finished editing the letter. Then he hands it back to James.
“There you go.”
James looks down at the letter, now peppered with his father’s messy scrawl.
“Now, I obviously have nothing but the highest concern for your mental health, but if you could please keep your personal crises to daylight hours...”
James manages a smile. “Got it. Goodnight, Dad.”
“Goodnight.”
James leaves and returns to his room, sinking into Scorpius’s sleepy embrace.
Chapter 33: Birthdays
Summary:
James and his friends place a few bets — Scorpius finds out the manor is being sold — James considers his career options — Scorpius visits Draco — Scorpius asks his father a question.
Chapter Text
James has swimming practice the next morning. As his little hippogriff clock rattles around, Scorpius sits up and hits it. It skitters away; Scorpius moves to hit it again and James catches a hold of his arm, kisses a wandering line along his wrist, gently unfurls his fingers, and finishes by pressing a soft kiss to the centre of his palm.
“Don’t be mean to the hippogriff,” he says.
“All right,” Scorpius murmurs, all his annoyance evidently vanishing, and melts against him.
James is suddenly very tempted to skip practice.
But he promised his friends, so he reluctantly sloughs out of bed. Scorpius lets him go with equal reluctance; he trails a hand along James’s shoulder, down his wrist, then laces their fingers together for a brief moment before squeezing once and letting go.
“Will you make me a cup of tea?”
James smiles to himself as he pulls a pair of jeans on. “You don’t have to ask.”
“You are perfect,” Scorpius mumbles into James’s pillow.
James goes downstairs, still smiling, and makes Scorpius a cup of tea. By the time he returns, Scorpius is already lightly dozing again. He leaves him in peace and goes downstairs, out the door and past the wards, and Disapparates.
The other boys are already at the pool, laughing and jostling, ready to hit the water. Afterwards, while dressing in the change rooms, they speculate about the upcoming European Schools Championship.
“Last time we’ll represent Hogwarts,” Iwan says.
“I keep thinking it really isn’t over, not until the Championships are over. Then we’re done with Hogwarts,” Thomas admits.
“Stop it, you’ll make us all miserable,” James tells him, and Iwan brightens.
“I know what will cheer everyone up. Nate and Rose.”
“I am not discussing my cousin’s love life,” James says with a grimace, but Thomas looks delighted.
“Oh, I can only hope Nate brings her to lunch again today! I bet a galleon that Nate tries to call it a date and Rose gets annoyed.”
“I bet there’s at least five awkward conversations between them,” Iwan adds.
James interjects despite himself. “You’re both wrong. I bet Nate’s done some stupid romantic gesture and Rose is irritated about the whole thing but still trying to salvage it.”
“Bold guess, but I like it.”
“Flowers. Bet you anything he bought flowers,” James adds.
“Don’t get overconfident. I’ve got insider information that claims Nate isn’t too invested,” Iwan says.
Thomas gives him a suspicious look. “Well, we’ll find out at lunch. In the meantime, I’m going home to endure an interrogation from my father about my post-Hogwarts career prospects.”
James waves farewell as he steps outside, leaving the humid, chlorinated air behind him.
There’s another friend who joins their lunch that afternoon: Rowan, who is only too pleased to learn about the romantic saga of Nate and Rose.
“Doomed,” Iwan tells him. “Utterly doomed.”
“I love a train wreck,” Rowan says with delight. “As long as it’s not happening to me.”
“That’s what I said.” Thomas looks satisfied. “Complete train wreck.”
“Might just fizzle out,” Scorpius says. “They’ll both realise it’s going nowhere and decide to simultaneously give up.”
“Shall we place bets?”
“Are you kidding? Rose will murder us,” James retorts.
“I’m going to interpret that as ‘five galleons on a train wreck’,” Iwan tells him, scribbling something down on a napkin. “Scorpius?”
“I stand by my statement. Wet firework.”
“Fizzle out. Got it. I’ll agree with you there, actually.”
“Murder us. Slowly. And painfully,” James says casually.
“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Rose says, taking a seat; Nate is right behind her.
Iwan looks slightly panicked. “We were just talking about...murder.”
They stare at him.
“Right, I got that,” Rose says slowly. “Any more context?”
Iwan pauses.
“No,” he says finally.
“So, how’s everyone been?” Thomas says brightly.
“Murder-free, thanks for asking,” James says, and somebody kicks him under the table.
“And how’s your Scorpius?” Rowan asks, eyes suddenly brightening. Thomas is smirking into his butterbeer; James suspects a conversation has been had.
“Ask him yourself. He’s right here,” James says, nudging Scorpius with his shoulder.
Rowan gives Scorpius a look of exaggerated surprise. “Oh, you’re right! Look, everyone, he’s right there.”
“And he’s been right there the entire time,” Thomas adds, his smirk growing. “Amazing observational skills, James.”
Rose glances back and forth at them, then says, “I am not following this conversation at all. You boys are weird. I’m getting a butterbeer — does anyone else want one?”
After that, the conversations dawdle naturally along. As the others get into a lazy discussion of the latest national Quidditch match, Rose nudges James.
“Did you get your invite to Victoire’s wedding?”
James swears quietly. “I knew I forgot something! I haven’t responded yet.”
“What do you reckon? Dad reckons she’s moving too quickly.”
“It’s been four years since Teddy died,” James says. “She’s allowed to move on.”
“Yeah, but Dad means that nobody’s even met her new fellow. Have you?”
“I don’t know, people get lost in the Christmas crowd. I don’t think I’ve met him. I don’t even remember his name.”
“That’s what Dad reckons. Nobody knows anything about him.” Rose pauses, then adds, “I overheard Fleur and Victoire talking about it last Easter. Victoire was saying she doesn’t want people to know him. She’s worried we’ll all compare him to Teddy.”
James doesn’t envy Victoire’s position. “That sucks.”
Rose leans back and takes a sip of her butterbeer. “I suppose. Who’s your plus one?”
“Hm?”
”For the wedding. Your plus one.”
”Scorpius, of course.”
“I meant a proper plus one.”
“Scorpius, of course,” James says a bit slower, just in case Rose missed it the first time.
Rose rolls her eyes. “I’m being serious. If you haven’t asked anyone yet —”
“I would love to go with James,” Scorpius says, abandoning his conversation with Nate; he’s smiling and look very pleased about something.
“What’s this about?” Nate asks.
“Our cousin’s wedding,” James says; Rose is suddenly giving him panicked looks and shaking her head. “Scorpius is my plus one.”
Rose stares at James with a look of betrayal.
“Oh,” Nate says. “You didn’t mention a wedding, Rose. Are you...have you got a plus one?”
Rose makes a vague noise.
“Well...I could go,” Nate says hesitantly.
“Oh, that’s kind of you, but I thought I’d take a...a friend.”
“I am your friend.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. You bought me flowers last week.”
Nate colours. “I was just being nice.”
“Yes!” James says loudly, and everyone turns to look at him. He pauses, then lowers his voice. “Thomas! Iwan! I told you.”
“Damn it, Potter,” Thomas mutters, and he fetches his wallet and tosses a galleon across the table. “You little git.”
Rose pauses, gives James an odd look, then turns back to Nate. “Oh, really? Just being nice, is it? So you’d buy Iwan flowers too, would you? As a friend?”
“He has bought me flowers,” Iwan says cheerfully, joining the conversation and passing a galleon to James. “I’d always wanted a gnome-eating snapdragon, and he bought me one to cheer me up when my girlfriend dumped me.”
“He knits jumpers for my cactus in winter,” James adds. “Does that count?”
“We were partners for Herbology in third year, he told me I could keep our wailing wisteria,” Scorpius says.
Rose looks annoyed. “This is a private conversation.”
“So why are you having it at a cafe surrounded by all your friends?” Rowan asks with evidently genuine interest.
“Fine. We’ll go somewhere else,” Rose snaps.
“Go to Florean’s, they’ve got nice, quiet booths,” Scorpius offers.
“Yeah, I’ve got a coupon, you can share a sundae,” James adds, handing it to her.
“Thank you, we’ll go there then,” Rose says curtly, standing up and striding away, Nate hurrying to keep up. They watch them as they leave.
“How long,” Thomas asks casually, “will she sit in Florean’s, at a cosy little booth, sharing a banana split with Nate, until she realises it’s a date?”
They start laughing.
Scorpius seems to be in a good mood when they go home.
“Your friends are nice,” he tells James as they wander to the attic. “Thomas is brilliant.”
“Ugh, of course you would say that.”
“What? He’s very easy to like.”
“He’s not. He’s awful and I won’t hear a single nice word about him.”
Scorpius laughs. “So he’s your favourite, then.”
James grins at him. “He’s tolerable. Iwan’s too nice, isn’t he? I always thought he should’ve been in Hufflepuff.”
“And Rowan. He’s a bit like Thomas. Like peas in a pod, those two.”
“They’re cousins, they grew up together,” James says dismissively.
“I thought I saw a family resemblance. Who do you think is better looking?” Scorpius asks a bit mischievously.
“What? They look nothing alike.”
“You don’t see it?” Scorpius asks disbelievingly.
“I can categorically say I’ve never fancied Thomas. He’s like a brother to me. An annoying, obnoxious little brother.”
“What about Rowan?”
“Er,” James says, and he feels inexplicably guilty. “We...dated.”
Scorpius doesn’t like that. He stares hard at James, then goes to the bed, sits on the corner of it and says, his voice a little chilly, “You dated Rowan.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Er,” James says again. “Sixth year.”
“What do you mean, dated? Went to the Broomsticks for a drink once, or — ”
“Um. We...were together...for...most of sixth year.” James mumbles under his breath, counting. “Uh, nine months.”
Scorpius does get angry then. He stands up and abruptly starts pacing across the attic, and James watches him warily.
“There’s nothing to be jealous about, I promise,” James says.
“I’m not jealous,” Scorpius retorts, and then he mutters, “Not about that, anyway. I just can’t believe other people knew you were bisexual before I did! And that you hid a nine-month relationship from me, your best friend.” He glances away, his anger fading to a defeated expression. “Didn’t you trust me? Why did you tell others but not me?”
“Same reason you obviously kept things from me,” James says truthfully. “I could handle losing any of my other friends. But not you.”
Scorpius stops pacing; James thinks his expression is softening somewhat. “You wouldn’t have lost me.”
“I didn’t know. I couldn’t risk it. Like you said, you’re my best friend.”
Scorpius sits back down on the bed and James knows all is (mostly) forgiven. “All right,” he says, and James — rather amused at the earlier assumption but electing to wait until Scorpius was slightly less agitated before offering correction — speaks lightly.
“Not bisexual, by the way. I’m gay.”
Scorpius looks up slowly. There’s a glimmer of irritation returning to his gaze, and James tries to offer a bright smile.
It gets him nowhere.
“What? What about all your girlfriends?” Scorpius demands.
James shrugs. “Decoys.”
“What, all eighteen of them? For Merlin’s sake, James! Did you need to have eighteen?”
“Well, I kept going until I figured out what was missing from all of them.”
“Eighteen. Do you have any idea how bitterly envious I was? Of every single one of them?”
“How sweet,” James says, and Scorpius glares at him.
“It was torment. Eighteen of them. You prat.”
“So you’re bi, then?”
“As of this moment, no. I’ve decided men are useless.”
“I’m sure I can convince you that I have some uses,” James says smoothly, and he gently pushes Scorpius backwards until he’s laying across the bed, looking up at James.
“Not convinced yet. You’ll have to try harder than — ” He cuts himself off as James straddles him in one fluid movement.
“Don’t let me distract you,” James says casually. “What were you saying?”
“Uh,” Scorpius says eloquently, as James very deliberately shifts his weight. “I...I was...”
“Saying I’ll have to try harder,” James finishes helpfully, and he slides his hands beneath Scorpius’s shirt, running them along the flat plane of his midsection as he leans forward, sinking into a deep kiss. Scorpius breaks away after a moment, face flushed, and scrabbles for his wand. He picks it up, then stares blankly at it.
“All right?” James asks with mild concern, wondering briefly if he’s somehow broken Scorpius.
“I’ve...I’ve forgotten the — what’s it called? The charm, you know, the — locking one — ”
James tips his head back and laughs, then takes Scorpius’s wand from him and swishes it at the door. “Colloportus.”
Scorpius doesn’t seem to mind. “Glad one of us is still thinking with their brain,” he says, smiling, and tugs on James’s shirt. “Take this off.”
James happily obliges.
Harry comes home covered in dust and looking tired. A sure sign he’s been helping Draco move things all day, James thinks as he rifles through the kitchen, looking for food.
”Put the kettle on, will you?” Harry asks wearily.
James glances at him. ”You look tired.”
”Would’ve been nice to have had some help. Shame you were busy today,” Harry says, and James rolls his eyes.
”I said I’d help tomorrow.”
”What about Scorpius?”
”Yeah, sure, he’ll jump at the chance to have a cup of tea with his dad.”
“For Merlin’s sake,” Harry mutters. “Talk to him, will you?”
“Who?” James asks distractedly, gathering ingredients for a sandwich.
“Scorpius! This can’t go on forever. I can’t take it any more. What’s he going to do, ignore Draco for the rest of his life?”
“Probably.”
“This isn’t funny, James!”
“Optimistic of you to assume that was a joke.”
Harry paces across the kitchen. “There’s only eight weeks left until the manor is gone. What’s he think about Draco selling the manor? Does he even care?”
James gives him a reserved look. “I don’t know. There were articles about it all over the Prophet, but he hasn’t mentioned them at all. What did he say when you mentioned it?”
“I don’t know,” Harry grumbles. “I haven’t said anything about it yet. I’ve been waiting for him to ask for details, because then we might talk about how he really should visit it — ”
“You’ll be waiting a long time, then,” James says dryly.
Scorpius happens to enter the kitchen then, and Harry stares meaningfully at James.
James stares right back at him. There’s no way he’s going to tell Scorpius to see his father. He doesn’t particularly feel like sleeping alone tonight.
Harry has slightly less tact. “Scorpius, why don’t you come along with me to the manor tomorrow?”
“No, thank you,” Scorpius says politely, fetching a glass from the cupboard.
“Just — just to help move a few things.”
“I’m not particularly obliged to help him with his renovations.”
Harry frowns at him. “What? Why would Draco be renovating the manor? I’m helping pack up.”
“Pack up what?”
Harry looks a bit bewildered. “Scorpius,” he says, “Draco’s sold the manor. He sold it in May, to the National Wizarding Trust. I know he’s written many letters to you about it.”
”Selling it?” Scorpius asks incredulously. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, I think he explained it in the letters.”
Scorpius says nothing. His gaze flickers to James, as though he expects James to say something about it.
“It was in the Daily Prophet too,” Harry says after a beat. “A whole two-page article, all about the history of the manor —”
“I don’t read the magical papers,” Scorpius says abruptly, and he rounds on James. “You do! You could’ve said something — my father is selling the manor and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I thought you knew and were just ignoring it, I wasn’t going to force you to discuss it —”
Evidently displeased with James’s responses, Scorpius turns back to Harry. “Why is he selling it?”
Harry hesitates. “Perhaps you should ask him.”
“I am not,” Scorpius says coldly, “on speaking terms with him.”
“Send him an owl,” Harry suggests.
“No.”
James and Harry exchange a look, which seems to anger Scorpius. He turns and leaves without another word.
“Suppose that’s a no, then,” Harry says.
“I’ll go talk to him,” James says wearily.
He goes upstairs. Scorpius isn’t in the attic; he’s in the spare room. James regards that fact rather gloomily. It’s not a good sign. Scorpius hasn’t spent a single night in the spare room, and James hopes he isn’t about to start.
“Hello,” he says cautiously, sitting on the edge of the bed. Scorpius is rather brusquely filling out a lunar calendar.
“Go on, then. Tell me I need to forgive and forget,” Scorpius snaps, writing in ‘meteor shower’ so firmly that the pencil tip breaks.
“I was going to ask if you’re all right, actually.”
“Perfectly fine.” Scorpius writes ‘Asteroid, Vesta’; it nearly tears through the page.
“Oh. Well, that’s good.”
Scorpius pencils in another event. “This is infuriating. If I could use my laptop, I wouldn’t even be doing this. I could just go online and check. Even set up an automatic calendar. God, the magical world is useless! Quills, why do you all use quills? What’s so wrong with a pen?”
“Some of the Muggle students used them.”
“Oh, great. It’s amazing to see how thoroughly the wizarding world has leapt into the new century. You couldn’t even figure out a microwave, could you?”
James hesitates. “It heats things,” he says. “Right?”
“Brilliant. You’ve really studied it.”
James says nothing. Scorpius sighs after a moment, then sets his calendar aside. “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry. I’m mad at him. I mean, more mad. Not even about the manor — I barely lived there anyway — but who knows why he sold it. Whatever reason, it can’t be good — ”
“Like what?”
”I don’t know. He’s probably — probably planning on buying some awful posh place abroad, and dragging me there to live — away from you, and my university studies, and everything else — ”
“I think you should speak to him.”
“Stop taking his side!”
“There aren’t any sides,” James says. “This whole thing sucks and it’s making you miserable. I just want you to be happy.”
Scorpius slumps against the bedhead. “I should’ve read those stupid letters. But I didn’t. And I’m not even — I was hardly at the manor, anyway, I spent more time at Hogwarts than the manor — it’s just —it reminds me I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“You can stay here, of course,” James says, taken aback.
“I can’t.”
“You can, Dad doesn’t mind — ”
“I can’t. It’s — it’s got too much magic, what am I going to do when I need to study? Use my laptop? Email people? Call them? It’s constant. I can’t live here, or even at the manor if Father hadn’t sold it.” Scorpius pauses, then mutters, “I have to return the laptop and case by summer’s end, too. It’s not mine, it’s only been loaned to me by the Muggle pathway program.”
“We’ll figure something out,” James says firmly.
”It’s fine, I’ll deal with it — ”
”It’s our problem, and we’re dealing with it, remember?” James says, echoing the words he said so long ago when Scorpius once stood before him and wept over a Dark Mark on his wrist.
Scorpius looks up at him and manages a smile. “As long as I’ve got you,” he says. “It’ll be all right, as long as I’ve got you.”
James studies him for a moment, then says, “Do you mind if I tell my dad? About us, I mean.”
He’s taken aback when Scorpius shrugs and says, “I don’t mind who you tell.”
“Oh. I thought we were being discreet for your sake.”
“Really? I thought it was for yours.” Scorpius brightens a bit. “That’ll be nice. I don’t want to hide you. Us,” he corrects.
James is suddenly reminded of Scorpius’s happy expression during the conversation about Victoire’s wedding. That’s what Scorpius had been so pleased about: being chosen as James’s plus one. Part of him is still feeling a bit nervous — almost frightened, if he’s honest — about being openly gay. Some of his relatives have certain opinions and he’s not naive enough to expect the full acceptance of his extended family, nor perhaps all his friends.
But he’s got Scorpius, and his father, and — though wild thestrals couldn’t trample the confession from him — one of his closest friends, Thomas.
He can survive anyone else rejecting him, he thinks.
James wakes up to the sound of Harry knocking loudly on the door, evidently mid-lecture.
“...really use your help today, there’s some furniture that needs moving — ”
The manor, James thinks with annoyance. And admittedly it has been providing a chance to mend his relationship with Draco — who he gloomily accepts as the father of his boyfriend, and therefore someone he really needs to co-exist peacefully with — but currently he’s laying on a rumpled bed with a warm and sleepy Scorpius. He’s not much inclined to swap this current situation for one that involves hauling dusty side-tables down hallways.
Harry appears to disagree, judging by the way he’s still impatiently banging on the door. “James! Come on, we’re going to be late — ”
“Not going!” James calls out.
“Yes, you are!”
James disentangles himself and gets up, rather annoyed with his father; Scorpius makes a small noise of displeasure as James leaves the bed. He grabs a nearby robe, throws it on, and opens the door an inch. “I feel like this is the perfect time,” he says, “to tell you that I’m in a relationship with Scorpius. We’re busy, go away.”
“I am not moving that cursed credenza alone,” Harry says.
James pauses. He’d expected a sputter of indignation, surprise, bewilderment. “Me and Scorpius,” he repeats slowly, in case it’s not quite registering.
“Fine, don’t help, but I expect you to be at the manor tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp.”
James stares at him.
“What?” Harry asks. “Oh, right. You and Scorpius. Would it help if I acted shocked?”
“Yes, actually!”
“In that case, I am shocked. Now, don’t forget to unpack today, I’ve noticed your Hogwarts trunk is still dumped in the corner of the living room, where you left it nearly three weeks ago — ”
“Okay, fine!”
“See you later. Bye, Scorpius!” Harry adds, raising his voice rather obnoxiously.
James scowls at him and shuts the door; he can hear Harry laughing as he walks away. James returns to the bed, still irritated by Harry’s blandly accepting reaction to their relationship. Together with Thomas’s recent comments and the abrupt realisation of what Rowan meant every time he asked, ‘How’s your Scorpius?’ and James is beginning to feel very resentful that he somehow ended up being the last person to know he was in a relationship with Scorpius.
Scorpius is smiling at him.
James glares at him. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a bit funny,” Scorpius says, and he offers a few lazy kisses until James’s annoyance has melted away. They lay together in silence for a moment, and then Scorpius says, “I was never obvious about it.”
”I never noticed, but I’ve been told I’m oblivious to most things.”
“I do wonder,” Scorpius says hesitantly. “If you always wanted to be more than friends.”
“Oh, no, not always.” James frowns, thinking about it. “Kind of hard to say exactly when. Around April, I’d say.”
“April...?”
“This year, obviously.”
Several expressions race across Scorpius’s face: surprise, bewilderment, and then disappointment. Then he gives a tiny shake of his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and says lightly, “Just a few months, then.”
“Well...yeah.” After a moment, James says, “I get the feeling it’s been longer for you.”
“I suppose.”
James doesn’t ask questions. He presses a kiss to Scorpius’s shoulder instead, then along his neck, until Scorpius laughs and squirms against him. “Tickles,” he says.
“Hm. Does it?”
“You’re making a mental note of that right now, aren’t you?”
“No, of course not,” James says soothingly.
Scorpius looks at him, still smiling, and after a while James thinks Scorpius is looking at him the same way he studies Scorpius sometimes in the quiet half-light of a sleepy morning. Committing to memory all the tiny details.
“Since we met,” Scorpius says at last. “That’s how long.”
James would think Scorpius was telling a joke, but his expression clearly indicates otherwise. Surely not, James thinks, remembering all the insults they swapped, and unkind things said to each other, and even hexes and jinxes thrown in anger. “When we first met? Seven years ago?” he asks, just to make sure he understands.
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yes,” Scorpius says, “it is.”
James pulls him close again. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
Scorpius rests his head on James’s chest, just above his heart. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can’t help what you feel. Or don’t feel.”
The sunshine pours through the window, illuminating the dust motes in the air. James closes his eyes against the brightness, feeling the warmth on his skin and he remembers three months ago, watching Scorpius draw a line across the parchment, watching the sunlight dance over him.
He can’t imagine waiting seven years.
“Are you falling asleep?”
James opens his eyes. Scorpius is quite unashamedly looking him up and down. “I’m willing to hear other suggestions.”
“Good, because I’ve got a few.”
James laughs and draws him close.
“No James?”
Harry opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “He’s currently indisposed.”
Draco doesn’t press for details, much to Harry’s relief. “Right. Well, we’ve almost finished with the empty bedrooms — ”
“What? You promised to do the last one yesterday.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what? You’ve got eight weeks left. To leave the manor.”
Draco does look faintly guilty. “Genealogy work.”
“You can do that any time,” Harry says, exasperated.
“This particular project is rather time-sensitive, I’m afraid. The Callahan family has asked me to find a relative before summer’s end.”
Harry gives him a suspicious look. The Callahan family were Muggleborns when the second war broke out, and one of their relatives had been listed as missing. But they’d solved that one; Draco had found a small grave in Somerset. “We solved that one. Or rather, you did. Remember? They sent you a thank you card and a bouquet of flowers that made you sneeze constantly.”
“Another relative, lost long before the war. Their grandfather has a long lost sister. He’s dying and wants to meet her before it’s too late.” Draco picks up a quill and circles two rooms on the list. “I said I’d try my best. Now, you’ve got these rooms — ”
“That’s nice of you,” Harry says.
“It’s my job, Potter.”
“What are you charging them?” Harry asks slyly.
“I don’t discuss fees with other clients.”
“Just a rough estimate.”
Draco scowls at him. “None of your business.”
“Is it the goodness of your heart? Is that what you’re charging? Is it — ”
“Go away, Potter. Finish those rooms,” Draco says curtly, striding away.
“I always knew you were a good person — ”
“And you can do the games room,” Draco snaps over his shoulder, going up the stairs.
“Get back here! I haven’t finished mocking you yet!”
There’s nothing but a distant slam of a door somewhere, and Harry grins to himself.
He’s tired when he returns home that night, but his good mood remains. James and Scorpius seem equally happy as they chat and laugh during dinner, and Harry considers bringing up the suggestion of Scorpius visiting the manor again. Surely now is the perfect time, with Scorpius already being in a good mood.
“So, Scorpius,” he begins, and James immediately gives a small shake of his head.
“Yes?” Scorpius asks.
Harry glances away from James and clears his throat. “I’m going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, do you need anything?”
“No.”
There’s a tapping noise; James gets up and goes to the window, returning with a large envelope.
“What is it? Are those your exam results?” Harry demands.
“Yeah,” James says, ripping open the envelope without further comment. He reads the results, sets it aside, and picks up a scroll of parchment. “Graduation certificate,” he says. “You can hang it in your office, Dad, and cry at it when you’re feeling nostalgic.”
Harry glares at him. Scorpius picks up the results and reads through them. “You did really well,” he tells James. “Look — you scored really high on Potions! And Charms, which shows you how deluded you were every time you reckoned you were awful at it.”
“I want to see,” Harry says, and Scorpius hands it to him. “Look at Defence! I thought that was your weakest subject. You nearly got full marks!”
James shrugs. “I cheated, sort of. Cast a bonus charm and got a lot of extra credit.”
“That’s not cheating! Which charm was it?” Harry asks excitedly. “Must’ve been complex.”
“I didn’t do great with History,” James says, “and I expected better with Herbology — but that section on succulents was unexpected, I wasn’t happy with that.”
“You’re nitpicking. These are brilliant grades,” Harry says decisively. “You know, you could actually be an Auror.”
“I’d rather write tax laws,” James pulls a face.
“Nothing wrong with that either. Your Uncle Percy does that.”
“Exactly,” James says.
“Figured out what you want to do, then?”
“Still thinking about it.”
“Well, there’s no rush.” Harry pauses and then, deliberately looking at James only, adds, “Don’t forget. Nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay.” James picks up his plate and goes to the sink. Scorpius, still leisurely eating his dinner, reads through James’s results again. He seems entirely disinterested in the change of conversation.
Inwardly, Harry sighs. He’s beginning to think Draco is right.
Scorpius is never coming home.
James goes upstairs after dinner and sits at his desk, then picks up the heavy book he borrowed from Rose: The Young Wizard and Witch’s Guide to Magical Careers. He knows Harry doesn’t seem to care that he hasn’t thought about jobs yet, but everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing and it’s making him somewhat uncertain. He envies Scorpius, who evidently decided, very firmly at a young age, that he was going to be an astrophysicist and that was the end of the matter.
Scorpius arrives not long after and comes up behind James, looping his arms around him and resting his chin on his shoulder. “What’s that?” he murmurs.
“Career ideas.”
“There’s rather a lot of them.”
“It’s very comprehensive. Stuff I haven’t even thought about.” James turns the page. “I could be a baker, a barber, a barista...”
Scorpius crinkles his nose. “A lawyer?”
“No, not barrister. Though I could be one of those too, I suppose. But they like people to have high History of Magic marks.”
“You’re missing an obvious one.”
James turns and gives Scorpius a blank look. “What?”
“Swimming. I was talking to Thomas and Iwan about it last time we saw them, and they both reckon you could make a career out of it. Iwan said your freestyle times were starting to reach Olympic standards —
“No,” James says, and softens his next words with a light touch to Scorpius’s cheek. “Swimming is how I relax. Get rid of all my stress. It’s fun being on a swim team, and I love those quiet mornings on the lake, but I don’t want it every day. I don’t want it to become work.”
“But you’re so good at it.”
“You’re good at magic.”
Scorpius’s mouth twitches into a faint smile. “Point taken.” After a moment he adds, “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Something active, I don’t want to be sitting at a desk. Something interesting. Something that keeps me constantly moving and thinking. Challenging, I guess. I don’t want to get bored.”
Scorpius says, a little carefully, “Kind of sounds like you do want to be an Auror.”
“No,” James says firmly.
“If your only reason for not doing it is because of your father...you won’t be in his shadow, James. You’ll make your own name —”
“It’s not that.” James hesitates. “Dad has...seen stuff. Aurors really get to see what horrible people can do. I don’t want that. I don’t want a job that deals with the worst of humanity. I’m really grateful Dad — and the other Aurors — do it, because personally I couldn’t.”
“The worst of humanity,” Scorpius echoes. Then he adds, “He dealt with a lot of Death Eaters, I suppose. He’s keeping tabs on my father, obviously.”
James gives him a wary look. “I don’t know much about that. You’ll have to ask Dad.”
Scorpius pauses, then says slowly, “That ghost we saw. The one in the burned room. He said my father had abandoned him. Left him to die in the fire.”
“I don’t know,” James repeats, and it’s true. Harry has shared wartime stories, but he made them sound like fun adventures: swooping away, high above the flames, flying to safety. He’d never mentioned the fate of the boy who burned. “I’m sorry. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“What exactly did my father do during the war, anyway?” Scorpius pauses, then adds, “Sorry. You don’t know. Questions for my father, I suppose. If I ever speak to him again.”
“What did you fight about?”
Scorpius shrugs. After a few seconds, though, he says, “Everything, I suppose. I told him I wanted a Muggle career. That I wouldn’t graduate with any magical qualification. That I wanted to end the courtship with Celia, and,” — he hesitates — “that I wanted you.”
James frowns at him. “That’s a lot to tell someone at once.”
Scorpius gets a bit prickly. “So you think his reaction was justified, then?”
“I don’t know his reaction. You never told me.”
“He was furious. Said unkind things. Gave me a wonderful speech about how you’d marry some nice girl and I’d die alone and miserable.”
James looks down at his book, thinking about Scorpius’s words. After a while, Scorpius says, “You’ve never hesitated to call him a prat before.”
“He is a prat,” James says. “But he didn’t know, did he? Like my mother, writing about girls. He assumed I was straight. He was probably trying to tell you — in a very brutal way — to move on.”
Scorpius scowls at him but says nothing. He moves away, restlessly pacing the room for a while.
“Come with me to the manor tomorrow,” James says.
Scorpius stops at the picture of the badger family. The parents are tucking the children into bed, though they pause to smile and wave at Scorpius.
“Maybe,” he says, and turns away from the picture.
James supposes that’s the best he can hope for.
Draco is battling with an angry cutlery drawer when Harry shows up.
“Finally,” he says as Harry walks into the kitchen. “The kitchen is not cooperating.”
“James is here too,” Harry says.
“Oh, good, because I’ve got an unruly potplant — ”
“And Scorpius.”
That’s the only warning Draco gets before James arrives and, just behind him, Scorpius. While James makes a beeline for the kitchen table, Scorpius remains where he is, leaning on the door frame.
It’s the first time in eleven months Draco has seen his son.
He seems tall, even though Draco knows he’s still shorter than him. But that height difference is mere inches now. And his mother’s looks are more noticeable now. When he was younger, looking at him was like upending a time turner. But now he’s eighteen, and Astoria is present in the shape of his nose, his eyes. He’s got Draco’s hair, but it’s longer now — a little tousled, the slight waviness giving away Astoria’s touch. He’s got Draco’s long legs — Draco always hated that about himself, thought it made him look lanky and ungainly, but Scorpius manages to somehow have an air of elegance. He’s wearing Muggle clothes, and Draco doesn’t like that. Not because they’re Muggle, but because it’s all paired together very smartly: dark-wash jeans, a grey shirt buttoned at the elbows, and a silver wristwatch. It seems just a little too formal. Impersonal. Distant.
“Hello,” Draco says at last.
Scorpius looks at him. His expression gives absolutely nothing away. “You’re selling the manor,” he says, and his voice is just as flat and empty as his expression.
“Sold it, actually. To the National Wizarding Trust.”
Scorpius does not reply.
“Well, let’s go,” Harry says brightly. “Lots to do today, and I imagine you two have a lot to catch up on. James, why don’t we — ”
“I’ll pack up my bedroom, then,” Scorpius says.
Draco steps forward. “If you need any help — ”
“No,” Scorpius says, and he leaves.
Draco gazes after him, then turns back to Harry and James, smoothing his expression into a carefully blank one, and says, “The hallways. Several family pictures need to be removed.”
“At least he’s here,” Harry offers. “I mean — just give him a moment, bit of space, and it’ll be fine. You know, I think — ”
“I’ll take the east wing,” James says.
“Thank you,” Draco says. “I’ll take the west.”
They depart, leaving Harry standing alone.
Draco had imagined a hundred different scenarios in which he would see Scorpius again. He hadn’t imagined simple happiness; he wasn’t that deluded. He’d imagined anger — Scorpius shouting at him, snapping, demanding apologies. Or getting upset, or even anxious, or nervous.
He hadn’t expected nothing. Scorpius hasn’t seen him for nearly an entire year, yet he acted as though the moment was no more interesting than running an errand.
Perhaps it wasn’t.
Perhaps Scorpius truly does not care at all.
The day doesn’t improve. Scorpius sequesters himself away in his bedroom; Harry keeps urging Draco to go and offer to help him.
“No,” Draco keeps saying, until he’s ready to bite Harry’s head off; fortunately, James does it for him.
“Dad. Would you bloody leave it alone? You don’t need to fix everything, for Merlin’s sake. Scorpius has made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want to be bothered. Stop being an Auror for five minutes, will you? Not everything is magically fixed by jumping headfirst into a situation. Just be thankful Scorpius showed up at all.”
Harry blinks at him. “I’m not being an Auror.”
“You are.”
Draco stirs his tea and says nothing, though he offers James the last biscuit.
“I wanted that,” Harry mutters.
“I know,” Draco says.
Harry scowls at him and stirs his tea aggressively.
After lunch, as they go their separate ways again, Draco must admit he’s thankful to James. Clearly, he understands Scorpius — he’s obviously been far more tactful and patient than his father. And as much as Draco has disliked James at various points over the years, he’s still grateful to have found an unexpected ally in him.
Not that James is treating him as a friend, of course, but he’s been surprisingly polite and courteous, and —
Draco pauses midway through packing up the crockery. When James had, two weeks ago, mentioned dating Rowan Viney, Draco had been very surprised despite his nonchalant reaction. And part of him wondered if he’d been wrong. If Scorpius did have a chance at happiness with James after all. But he wasn’t about to make assumptions, so he tidied away the thought.
And now, he knows exactly what James’s behaviour reminds him of: himself. Sitting in front of Astoria’s father, making polite small-talk. Being on his best behaviour. Offering to help Astoria’s mother pour the tea.
Trying to smooth things over with the parents of his girlfriend.
It’s another week before Scorpius finds the time to return to the manor. He’s been going on very long walks with his laptop, looking irritated and muttering about preparing for university.
“It’s all done on the laptop,” Scorpius tells James after he’s gotten back from a particularly long hike. “Enrolling, and choosing courses, and all that stuff.”
“All on the line,” James says knowledgeably.
Scorpius sets down the hideous orange case. “Perhaps I should accept my fate, and go live on Nowhere Hill,” he says lightly.
But James knows how heavily the problem weighs on Scorpius’s mind and says, “They have dormitories, don’t they? Sort of like the Hogwarts ones.”
“Costs money. You have to pay board.” Scorpius goes into the kitchen and pours a glass of water. “And if I did that, I’d hardly ever see you.”
“James!” Harry shouts from his study. “Ready to go?”
“Where are you off to?” Scorpius asks.
“The manor. Only a few rooms left now.”
Scorpius pauses, then says, “I suppose I’d better finish my room, then.”
“Let’s go, then,” James says, leading the way to the fireplace, and he’s thankful when Harry doesn’t comment on Scorpius’s presence.
Scorpius goes directly to his bedroom again, not even appearing for lunch. Draco is silent, Harry is impatient, and even James is feeling exasperated. Nevertheless, he sets to work in one of the final rooms: the ballroom. It’s a cavernous room, thick with dust, but even then it’s easy to see the old glamour: the vaulted ceiling, the elaborate lights, the colourful murals of majestic griffins taking flight and galloping centaurs, bows and arrows at the ready.
“Well, hello,” someone purrs in his ear, and he jumps and swears. Scorpius looks amused, which is almost worth it. “Thought I’d see what you were up to.”
“Being scared by idiot Ravenclaws,” James says. “I thought you were a portrait for a second.”
Scorpius gives him a puzzled look. “What portraits have you been talking to?”
“The ones in the gallery are hideously flirty.”
“Oh? I’m almost tempted to visit.”
“You haven’t been to the gallery? Ever?”
Scorpius shrugs. “Never really bothered exploring the dustier, darker rooms. I preferred to stick to the gardens and observatory.”
James hesitates. “Maybe you should visit it sometime. With your dad.”
Scorpius changes the subject. “Why are you in this room, anyway? It’s empty.”
James searches along the mural until he can see the faint outline of a panel, then pushes on it. It swings open.
“Lumos.”
Inside, scenery and props haphazardly litter the floor alongside music stands and dusty instruments. Costumes lazily escape boxes, and fake jewellery glints in the wand light.
“The ballroom would have doubled as a theatre,” James explains. “Somewhere to entertain the guests with funny plays or dramatic sagas.”
“That’s kind of interesting,” Scorpius admits, gazing at a backdrop of a forest.
“Your dad wanted to donate all of it to the Wizarding Academy of Performing Arts,” James says, hauling a suit of armour out the door. “I’m not looking forward to all the spiders.”
Scorpius doesn’t look too pleased about that prospect either. “Suppose I can help. I’ve finished my room,” he says.
James pauses, wiping the dust from his hands. “Your dad’s sorting out the attic. If you wanted to help him.”
Scorpius shrugs, examining a wooden sword. “I’ll help you instead.”
“Maybe afterwards, then.”
“I’ll be tired, I’ll probably just go home.”
James sighs and sits on the edge of a wooden throne thinly covered in gold foil. “You need to try, Scorpius.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, and doing a great job pretending you’re not.”
Scorpius sets the sword down; the handle falls off it. “He hasn’t even apologised to me! Not once. And don’t bring up the letters again, they don’t count. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’m not going to speak to him — ”
James frowns at him, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Your little self preservation method,” James says. “Where you think you’re being clever by rejecting people before they can reject you.”
Scorpius picks up a laurel crown, puts it down, and then mutters, “I’m not afraid of rejection.”
James reaches out and catches Scorpius’s hand, pulling him gently into a hug. “If he does say horrible things to you,” he says, “I’ll be right here. Exactly where you left me. And we can Floo home and steal Dad’s firewhiskey and get disgustingly drunk. And I’ll kiss you a lot even if you turn into a sentimental drunk and cry all over me and get snot all over my collar.”
Scorpius returns his hug, holding on for a long moment, then he says, “Fine. I suppose I can at least be in the same room as him. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“A minute?”
“Yes,” Scorpius says firmly, and he leaves.
James picks up a skull. “Well, I suppose one single minute is still an improvement,” he tells it doubtfully.
The skull promptly says, “I am the festering shadow of death, the wound green with rot, the wretched whimper in the dead of night — ”
“Oh, that’s charming.” James sets the skull down.
“ — my eyes are blisters that bleed, my mouth is — ”
“No, thank you.”
“ — the heavy stench of decay — ”
“Please stop.”
The skull falls silent. James gives it one last suspicious look, then steps forward. In the gloom ahead, someone — or something — giggles.
James decides the prop room is really a two-person job, and promptly leaves to find his father.
Harry surveys the room.
“Yeah, that’s a death trap,” he says.
“It’s just scenery. And props, and costumes. It’s fun,” James says. “Come on. You’d love to help.”
“Fun? It’s creepier than that weird witch statue in the solarium.”
“Oh, you met Bathsheba.”
“Met her? I had my life permanently shortened by her.” Harry pokes a backdrop of a medieval castle; a turret tries to bite him. “Where’s Scorpius? He’ll help.”
“He’s promised to spend exactly one minute in the same room as Draco.”
“So he’ll spend sixty seconds standing in a doorway, coldly ignoring his father. Got it.”
“Scorpius is right to be angry. Draco said some awful things to him.”
“Like what?”
James frowns at him. “I’m not getting into specifics.”
Harry stops. “Can you hear something?”
“Yeah, it’s you talking.”
“Some sort of whispering,” Harry says, ignoring him. “Something...about putrid flesh — ”
“Ugh, that’s just the skull.”
“The what?”
“Ignore it. It’s just being dramatic. I’m more concerned about the giggling, personally.” James draws aside a luxurious drape of velvet and pops up a shield charm as something dark spirals towards him. It bounces off the shield and flops listlessly onto the floor: a dead Lethifold.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be an Auror?” Harry asks, kicking the Lethifold out of the way.
“Yes.”
“If this is about following in my footsteps — ”
“Why does everyone keep assuming that? Like I told Scorpius, I just don’t want to deal with the worst of people. It’s a horrible job, downright depressing, really —” James cuts himself off. “I mean, obviously it has its good moments,” he adds, feeling guilty.
“Well, it’s not for everyone,” Harry says, picking a large spider off his shoulder. “The burn-out rate is astronomical. You need to have a lot of energy — it never really stops —”
“I remember.” James hesitates, brushing away a gauntlet that tries to seize him by the throat. The move would be slightly more intimidating if it wasn’t made from paper mache. “Why did you resign?”
“Wasn’t enjoying it any more.”
“Really? It was that simple?”
“And Teddy had died. You really needed me there. I couldn’t be racing around, doing night shifts and leaving you alone.”
James scowls at him. “I never asked —”
“You didn’t need to.”
James passes a clown costume, giving it a suspicious look. “Anyway.You don’t regret it, though? Quitting your job, I mean.”
“No. Besides, I keep myself busy.” Harry brightens. “Draco and I are tracking down deceased and missing relatives from the war, actually. Draco’s showing me a few genealogy resources, it’s actually rather fascinating — ”
James starts laughing. “God, you like to imagine you and Draco are like a little superhero duo —”
“I do not!”
“That’s so sad.”
“It isn’t! We’re making a difference —”
“And saving the world!” James makes a little punching motion as he laughs to himself.
“Our work is important — ”
“Right, definitely, but how chuffed would you be if I got you matching capes for Christmas?”
Harry glares at him. “Only a little bit chuffed. Now go open that creepy wardrobe.”
“You open it.”
“You do it. My reflexes are getting rusty. You’ve still got your youth, you can easily leap out of the way of a flesh-devouring serpent.”
James gives him an unimpressed look and yanks the wardrobe door open.
The attic is one of the rooms Draco saved for last, as if — if he waited long enough — it would miraculously sort itself out. There’s hundreds of years of ‘I don’t know where else to put this’ stuffed amongst the eaves. A great chandelier rests on the floor, its crystal droplets cascading over the unpolished floorboards. A diver’s helmet rests atop a pile of moth bitten tablecloths, as if surfacing after a century beneath a lace ocean. An umbrella stand tries to trip Draco as he carefully edges through a maze of nursery furniture. He, too, has been guilty of stashing things in the attic. Things that just didn’t seem to belong. Things that had nowhere else to go.
Like the items before him now.
“Just throw it all out.”
Draco jumps; a herd of hatboxes scurry away in fright. Scorpius is standing nearby, leaning on one of the eaves, and looking so disinterested that Draco wonders hopelessly if he should spare himself an undoubtedly awkward, brusque conversation and just leave.
“Some of these things are important,” he says instead.
“Like what?” Scorpius asks coldly. “Those old hatboxes? That creepy painting? The...whatever those are?” He gestures to the sea of gifts in front of them. The wrapping paper — once bright and cheerful — is hidden beneath grey dust. The enchantments that made the patterns move have long since faded, although the occasional cartoon balloon gives a tiny, deflated bounce.
“Presents.”
“For who? The birds in the roof?”
“For you,” Draco says, staring at the little balloons twitching. “I always bought you Christmas gifts. Just in case you came home that year. And — and birthdays. A racing broom for your tenth birthday — ten’s an important one, you’d want to feel grown up, so I thought your first proper broom...and when you turned six, I remember that one, I bought a book of old wizarding fairytales — so I could read them to you every night. Now, your seventh birthday — that’s a big milestone, you see, because it’s the age when most magical abilities have manifested. So I got you a toy wand — it only made little sparks — and a potions kit — nothing like a real potion kit, all you could do was make things turn funny colours or explode — I wasn’t really sure what to get you, actually, but every child likes making things explode...” He pauses. “I was going to give them to you. When you — after your mother died. But I don’t think — it wouldn’t have been wise. You were grieving for her, and you — you looked at me like I was a stranger, so I thought perhaps later..but the right time never really came, so I...what would you do with a toy hippogriff?” Draco asks helplessly. “Or a potions kit, or a toy wand...”
He stops, because Scorpius’s expression has gone very tense, his jaw set and his mouth turning into a thin little line, and for a moment Draco thinks he’s done it again, gone and said all the wrong things, and why did he even try to speak —
But then he realises Scorpius is trying, very hard, not to cry.
Draco doesn’t know what to do. Scorpius isn’t a small child any more, wanting comfort; he’s eighteen years old — halfway to nineteen. Far too old for hugs. Draco should leave, and give Scorpius time alone.
But then he stops. He’s forty-two, for Merlin’s sake, and he still wishes he could hug his parents sometimes. He could be a hundred and three, and a small part of him would still long for his parents’ reassurance.
So he hugs Scorpius.
Scorpius doesn’t cry — or if he does, only a few small tears manage to subtly escape — but he returns the hug.
Chapter 34: Memories
Summary:
Scorpius and Draco visit the portrait room — Scorpius gifts Draco some memories — Scorpius and Rowan have a conversation about James — Harry discusses real estate with Draco and ends up having a minor crisis — Draco and James have several misadventures together and get rather good at collaboratively insulting Harry — Dudley makes everyone uneasy with odd questions.
Chapter Text
Scorpius has a birthday party.
Or rather, birthdays party.
Once James and Harry work out where the enormous pile of gifts in the manor kitchen has arrived from, they manage to find a few streamers to drape around the walls, and Harry won’t let Scorpius open the gifts until he’s hurried to the village bakery and come back with a slightly lopsided sponge cake.
“Candles? We need candles,” James says.
“No, no,” Scorpius says, but he looks both embarrassed and pleased when Harry transfigures cutlery into candles and they all sing him Happy Birthday. James is reminded of the memory Scorpius showed him, the little birthday party in the dingy flat, and how he’d felt sorry for Scorpius for not having the big, expensive parties James had.
But Scorpius is smiling as he unwraps a stuffed toy hippogriff. It leaps from his hands and takes flight, soaring around the room.
“You have to open them chronologically,” Harry orders, and Draco sorts through the pile, brow creased as he tries to remember.
“These ones, the wrapping paper is the same, they’re all for your sixth birthday...” Draco peels a bit of spellotape away and peers inside the wrapping paper. “Wait...that’s your...seventh, I think. I bought that one for your seventh birthday.”
James’s cheerfulness at the start of the impromptu party — buoyed by Scorpius smiling as he opened that first gift — soon fades into a feeling almost bittersweet, and judging by Scorpius’s expression, he’s feeling the same. Stuffed toys and cute picture books soon give way to more complex presents — toy wands and My First Spellbook — and then potions kits for brewing funny explosions and slime, until at last — for Scorpius’s eleventh birthday — there’s an impressive array of books, a practice snitch, and a telescope.
Scorpius stares down at the telescope for a while. Then he says, “It would have been my first ever telescope.”
Would have been.
But it wasn’t, James thinks, looking at all the gifts: the progression from cuddly toys for a six-year-old, to a racing broom that would impress any ten-year-old wizard. All of them carefully selected, purchased, wrapped, and labelled. All of them suggested a tiny sliver of hope: this time, Draco might be able to celebrate a birthday with his son.
But instead, the gifts had been stored in an attic to gather dust for years.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says suddenly. “Seven birthdays, and I missed them all.”
Scorpius offers him a wan smile. “Only six, actually, and it wasn’t your fault.”
“Seven,” Draco says, “and the last one was my fault.”
Scorpius goes quiet, and looks down at the table piled with toys and books. “What did you get me for my eighteenth, then?” he asks at last.
“I’ll give it to you later. By the end of summer.”
Scorpius looks curious, but he doesn’t press the matter. He accepts a slice of cake from Harry and says, “Thank you for the birthdays.”
“Second time you’ve had a not-birthday party,” James says, and Scorpius gives him a little smile.
“I much prefer this one. It’s — oh, bloody hell!”
“What?” James asks, alarmed.
“Celia. She sent me all these letters, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just...told myself I’d deal with it later, and —”
“You’re still dating her?” James says, his voice a bit strangled, and Scorpius looks horrified.
”I’m so sorry — it’s been over for months, I just never — I’ll write her, right now — ”
“No need,” Draco says. “I took care of it.”
“What?” Scorpius asks, looking bewildered.
“I took care of it. Last year. I visited the Selwyns and explained you were no longer interested.”
James stares at Draco, then starts laughing. “Your dad had to dump your girlfriend for you?”
Scorpius turns bright red and tries to scrape some dignity together by turning away and nibbling at a bit of cake, but James only laughs harder, and soon the bittersweetness fades away.
Scorpius gradually thaws after that. He’s still guarded at times, and can be a little frosty too, but he visits every day and looks through the manor. He wanders through the rooms, looking with interest at hidden entrances or interesting artefacts, and Draco leaves him alone.
After a week, however, he asks Scorpius to help him check the portrait room though he knows James has done a thorough job. He’s removed most of the portraits; the Trust wants to redistribute them throughout the manor. One portrait still remains upon the wall, however, and will not be left to the Trust.
“Hello, darling,” Astoria tells Draco, smiling at him. The smile she always reserved for him, full of affection and love. “You ought to visit more often. I miss you so.”
“Hello,” Draco says.
Scorpius stares up at the portrait. “Mum?” he asks after a long moment, tentative and unsure.
Astoria smiles at him, but it’s different from the one for Draco. Polite and friendly.
“It’s me,” Scorpius says after a moment. “Scorpius.”
Astoria shakes her head, though she’s still smiling. “No, no. This is Scorpius.” She gently rearranges the blankets around the baby sleeping in her arms. “My baby boy.”
“I’m grown up now,” Scorpius says, and Astoria looks up at him.
“No, not yet. Not for years and years.” She leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead. “I’ve got all the time in the world for my Scorpius.”
“All the time in the world,” Draco repeats softly.
Astoria paces to and fro, gazing down at the bundle in her arms, her expression soft. “Don’t grow up too fast, will you?” she murmurs to the sleeping baby. “Don’t leave me behind.”
Scorpius watches the portrait for a moment longer, then turns away. Draco follows him out into the hallway, wondering if Scorpius will be bitter about the encounter. Sometimes people forget that the portraits — as alive as they seem — are just enchantments and paint.
But Scorpius looks pensive rather than upset. “She looked happy,” he says.
“She was.”
Scorpius is silent for a while before he speaks again. “I forget,” he says. “I forget she was happy, once. Sometimes I only remember all the miserable bits.”
Draco pauses. “I’ve still got to do the sewing room,” he says. “One of the last rooms. Come on, I could use some help.”
Scorpius glances down the hallway for a moment, as if contemplating an excuse to decline. But then he shrugs. “All right.”
The sewing room no longer contains threads and spools; Draco has used it as a storage for documents and photographs. He’d delayed packing up this room — this is also where he stores genealogical documents, and he’d wanted to leave certain paperwork available, ready to access.
“You can start with those boxes,” Draco tells Scorpius, indicating the nearest shelf, and Scorpius obediently reaches up, picks up the box, and starts setting it aside. He pauses when he sees the label on the box; it simply reads 2003.
“That’s the year I was born,” Scorpius says uncertainly.
“Open it.”
He glances at Draco, then opens the box.
The photographs spill out. There’s photographs of a newborn baby cradled by a tired Astoria, and another one with Draco as well, one arm around Astoria and the other curled protectively around the baby.
“There’s hardly any photographs of the whole family,” Scorpius says, and something about that phrase makes Draco startle. The whole family.
There’s more than just baby pictures in the box, though, and Scorpius seems more drawn to the wedding pictures than anything else. There’s a photograph of Astoria, radiant in white, smiling and beautiful, and Draco standing beside her in formal robes. Scorpius studies the photograph, then turns it over.
Draco and Astoria, 25 May 2003.
He frowns at the date. “I was born six months later,” he says. “She was already pregnant when you were married?”
Draco attempts a light smile. “Life doesn’t always go according to plan.”
“When did you start dating?” Scorpius asks.
“A few months before that picture was taken.” Draco nods at the photograph.
Scorpius sets the photograph down. “Well. That explains everything. I was an accident, and you had to marry her.”
Draco gets a bit angry then. “It wasn’t like that — ”
“I know how the Pureblood world works. You couldn’t have an illegitimate child. You had to marry her.”
Draco picks up the photograph and frowns at Scorpius. “Yes, obviously I had to do the honourable thing and marry her, but you needn’t act as if I was dragged to the altar, kicking and screaming. I loved your mother.”
“What, after a handful of dates?”
“You said you knew as soon as you met James.”
Scorpius looks away. “Didn’t act on it, though. I wouldn’t marry anyone if I’d known them for only a couple of months. You didn’t love my mother. Not really.”
“You’re forgetting the happy bits,” Draco says. “That’s what you said yourself, back in the portrait room. You keep remembering Astoria as miserable. She wasn’t always unhappy, Scorpius. It was easy to fall in love with your mother. Back then, she was...” He trails off.
Scorpius waits. After a long moment, he says — not sounding angry at all anymore – “What? What was she like?”
“Happy,” Draco says at last. He doesn’t look up from the picture. Astoria and Draco smile up at him, their wedding rings glinting on their hands. The picture grows blurry; he blinks rapidly. “She was happy. So was I. We were both so happy.”
“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says, and Draco manages a wry smile.
“Why? None of it was your fault.”
“I’m sorry it ended the way it did.”
Draco puts the picture down and shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says matter-of-factly, forcing away the lump in his throat. “If all of it hadn’t happened, I would’ve ended up with a Scorpius quite different to you. So it ended exactly the way it was supposed to.”
Scorpius says nothing for a long time. He sorts silently through the pictures, setting each one carefully aside, then suddenly says, “It wasn’t fair, though. Five years.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t ever really forgiven her for that,” Scorpius adds guiltily, as if expecting Draco to rebuke him.
“Nor have I.”
“Oh.” After a moment, Scorpius says, “It gets a bit frustrating sometimes. Being mad at someone who’s dead.”
“It’s a complicated mess,” Draco agrees.
Scorpius picks up the next box, marked 2004. “The year James was born,” he says, more to himself than Draco. “Three months after me.” He opens the box and looks through the photographs, watching the little scenes unfold: Scorpius learning to walk, drawing on a wall, throwing a tantrum, staring wide-eyed and slightly terrified at a large owl. After that comes the box marked 2005, and so on —
— until they abruptly stop at 2009, the year Scorpius would have turned six.
Scorpius frowns at the empty space next to the last box. “You’re missing the memories,” he says.
“Not much I can do about that,” Draco says lightly, and he turns his attention to the other boxes. “Come on, we’ll cast shrinking charms on these ones.”
Scorpius draws his wand and silently gets to work.
When Harry arrives the next day, he arrives alone, to Draco’s disappointment.
“James has swimming practice, then lunch with the boys,” Harry says offhandedly. “Scorpius always goes with him.”
“The boys?”
“James’s friends. And Scorpius’s too, I suppose.”
Draco brightens a bit. “They’re nice, are they?”
“James’s friends are all nice. All of them except Paul,” Harry says firmly. “And James says Paul isn’t really a friend anyway, more of an acquaintance, so...” He looks pleased about that. “Oh, before I forgot — Scorpius did ask me to give this to you.”
Draco looks at the small vial filled with silver wisps. “Oh.”
“Hang on, that’s only the first one.” Harry scrounges around his robe pockets, handing over another vial, and another, until there are ten in total.
“These look like...”
“Memories, yeah,” Harry says. “Don’t ask me, I’ve got no clue what they’re about. Or how many. Looks like there’s multiple memories in each vial. He must’ve spent half the night doing this.”
“Oh,” Draco says, holding the vials carefully as if they’ll shatter at the slightest touch.
“Got a pensieve?”
“No.”
“I’ve got one. In my study.” Harry waits; when Draco doesn’t move, he says, “Go on, then. I can tell you’re itching to see them. I’ll be fine here, I’ll keep going with the sewing room.”
“Thank you.”
Harry waves him away. “Don’t rifle through my study.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Nosy bastard,” Harry mutters, turning away, but he sounds amused.
Draco throws a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace.
Harry’s right.
There are memories, and so many of them. So many memories that Draco could weep. Scorpius has given him Christmases and birthdays, even though the presents are small and few, and the celebrations modest, but he’s also given Draco thousands of little moments. Begging for sweets in a supermarket. Getting excited about winning an academic award. Running as fast as he can, racing against other children at some sort of school event. Panicking about a grass stain on his school uniform and trying to scrub it out with sugar soap before Astoria notices. Being proud of a report card. Making cups of coffee for Astoria in the mornings. Sitting in the passenger seat of a car, watching the world go by. Walking in the rain, playing in a park, feeding ducks near a pond. Sitting on a swing — higher, Mum! Higher! — and giggling as Astoria chases him through a playground.
And there’s so many moments with Draco. Scorpius argues with Astoria constantly — six years old and sitting on his bed, crying — I miss Dad, I want to go back, I miss him — and when he’s ten years old and shouting — it’s not fair! I wish we’d never left! — and a memory where Scorpius ransacks his mother’s room, upending drawers and tearing books apart — just one photo, that’s all I want, I can’t remember what he looks like, I just want one photo, I miss him all the time —
When Draco finally surfaces, his face is damp.
All that time. He’d only thought about how much he’d missed Scorpius, and had imagined that Astoria had neatly erased Draco from their lives. Scorpius had mentioned fond memories of Astoria, and had clearly felt loved, and Draco had thought Astoria had swept Draco away like the fragments of a broken vase. But Scorpius had remembered. For years afterwards, Scorpius had cried and yelled and grieved for the parent he had lost. He had stubbornly refused to let go of Draco, even when he could no longer remember him clearly.
Draco watches the memories again, and again.
“Helping people move house is the worst.”
James takes a sip of his butterbeer and nods at Thomas. “I know.”
“And it’s a manor, so I imagine it’s even more insufferable. Not just a weekend job.”
“The whole summer.”
“Well, better you than me.”
“Thanks.” James leans back in his chair, soaking up the afternoon sunlight. They’re at the little Diagon Alley cafe again, having their after-swim lunch. Rose and Nate are discussing yesterday’s Quidditch match, while Iwan is distractedly trying to fix his broken stopwatch. Rowan and Scorpius are deep in conversation, which James finds extremely alarming.
“I’d be worried too if I were you,” Thomas says, following his gaze.
“Thanks, that’s reassuring.”
“Two of my ex-girlfriends became friendly once. They ended up having detailed discussions about my bedroom performance.”
“Firstly, I never want to hear you say the phrase ‘bedroom performance’ ever again. Secondly, still not reassuring.”
“Did I ever tell you the story of Frances? You remember her, I dated her in sixth year.”
“Unlike you, I don’t keep spreadsheets on my friends’ ex-girlfriends.”
“No, you’ll definitely remember her. She was the — alternative one.”
James snaps his attention away from Rowan and Scorpius. “Oh, yes! How could I forget Frances,” he says with delight. “She thought the moon was hollow. A decoy moon, she called it.”
“Right. It had to be hollow — ”
“ — so the real Ministry could hide in it. And she had that theory about St Mungo’s — ”
“ — that the Healers were all actors and the whole thing was a front for the Ministry to run experiments on immortality, yeah.” Thomas pauses. “Not my best moment. I may have been slightly desperate.”
“She was interesting, at least.”
“Anyway. After I broke up with her — ”
“ — when you had that two-hour argument about Dumbledore only existing as Voldemort’s patronus.”
“ — slightly desperate. Anyway. So I broke up with her, and she started getting quite friendly with my new girlfriend, and tried to convince her I was a vampire.”
James considers that. “I don’t think Rowan’s telling Scorpius I’m a vampire,” he says at last.
“I see you smirking, but Alana panicked and dumped me when I told her I wasn’t a big fan of garlic.”
James gives him a pitying look. “Mate, you need to lift your standards.”
“Oh, yeah. I drop them like they’re hot coals,” Thomas says, standing up. “My shout, is it?”
“Thanks.”
Thomas disappears to buy the next round of butterbeers. James glances at Rowan and Scorpius; Scorpius is looking quite agitated, while Rowan shakes his head with an expression of sympathy.
James edges slightly closer.
“...and the birthday party, that was just...” Scorpius gestures, looking frustrated. “It was my sixteenth, and he showed up in dress robes, looking incredible, and I’m thinking he’s put a lot of effort in, and maybe he’s, you know, deliberately looking his best — ”
“And...?” Rowan asks with interest.
“So we’re doing all that awful dancing with the girls, and then he’s all ‘Oh, let’s get away from the girls’ and ‘Where’s somewhere private?’, and leads me into a stairwell...”
Rowan leans forward.
“And then,” Scorpius says, “he tells me he’s got a present for me. I look around, I can’t see it anywhere — ”
“Go on.”
“And he’s standing really close to me — looking really good, you know — and then he smiles and says the present is in my bedroom — ”
“And...?” Rowan waits expectantly.
“Nope.”
“Are you serious?”
“He’d actually gotten me a present. And kept it in my room, because he didn’t want it to get lost in the pile of gifts downstairs.”
“For Merlin’s sake!”
“I know.”
“I would have murdered him,” Rowan mutters, leaning back and taking a sip of his butterbeer.
“I couldn’t even be mad at him, though, because his gift was actually really thoughtful and sweet. And personal.”
“God, don’t tell me he did some very important, romantic gesture.”
Scorpius smiles wryly and pushes his plate away, then says, “Oh, and my eighteenth birthday. Don’t even get me started.”
“What? What did the idiot do? Tell me.”
“He got special permission to leave Hogwarts and take me on a weekend getaway.”
“Oh,” Rowan says, looking pleased, “So this was finally the moment — ”
“No, it was not. Apparently it was a purely platonic gesture from my best friend.”
“The whole weekend? Nothing?”
“I know. He was buying all the drinks too, but I couldn’t even get drunk because I was afraid I’d get careless and confess everything.” Scorpius takes another sip of his pumpkin juice. “You look at him and just wonder, how can someone so intelligent — ”
“ — be so completely stupid,” Rowan finishes.
They both turn and look at him.
“Hi,” James says meekly.
“Well?” Rowan demands. “Is that true? You took Scorpius on a bloody weekend getaway for his eighteenth birthday, took him out for dinner and drinks, went back to a hotel, then told him you really valued his friendship and went to sleep?”
“Uh,” James says. “I mean...that’s one way of phrasing it...”
“How else would you put it, then?”
James rearranges his cutlery, then says, “What about you? Seeing anyone?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Rowan says. “Incidentally, yes, but that’s not the — ”
“Oh, that’s nice. Anyone we know?”
“No, but we’re not talking about my romantic life, we’re — ”
“What’s his name?”
“Ugh. James, answer the — ”
“Oh, no, that’s so awkward. Same name as me.”
Rowan shuts his mouth and gives James a flat look. Scorpius is smiling into his pumpkin juice.
“See, this right here,” Rowan says, “is why I broke up with you.”
Thomas returns. “What are we talking about?”
“Idiots,” Rowan says.
Thomas gives James an annoyed look. “We don’t need to bring up Frances again.”
“Oh!” Rowan says with delight. “Frances.”
“Frances,” James agrees, smirking.
“Are we talking about Frances?” Nate says, abandoning his conversation with Rose.
“Who’s Frances?” Scorpius asks.
They exchange looks. “Well,” James begins.
“Just a girl I was dating once,” Thomas says hurriedly. “No need to — ”
“Look at him,” Rose says, giggling. “He’s still embarrassed about it. Tell Scorpius about the fake Wales. Go on.”
“The what?” Scorpius asks.
“Yeah, Thomas. Tell us about how Wales is actually an Auror training simulation.”
“Oh, this is my favourite conspiracy. Gets better every time,” Rowan says, settling back into his chair.
Thomas glares at them.
Summer is going by alarmingly quickly, Draco thinks. Though he never asked for help, he’s very grateful for the presence of Harry, James, and Scorpius.
Especially today.
“I swear you’re leaving the ballroom for me to finish,” James complains, which is entirely true. “I hate it.”
“The prop room isn’t that — ”
“Yes, it is that creepy.”
“It’s not,” Draco says as he sets off down the hallway. “I’ve taken care of the skull. And the haunted child’s rocking horse.”
“Oh, well, in that case I’m delighted to spend time in that windowless, dark room.”
The prop room is creepy, not that Draco would ever admit it, and a few hours later he’s also thinking it’s bloody annoying.
“It’s ever-expanding,” he mutters as he swipes away a lace ruff that is very keen on attaching itself to his collar. “It must be. I swear there’s ‘only been three costume boxes left’ for the past ten trips.”
“Even ever-expanding rooms have their limits,” James says, rifling through a box.
“And you could help a bit more, instead of poking suits of armour and laughing at old scripts.”
“Did you see that really weird one about the hungry Muggles?”
Draco glances up. James is looking entirely too smug. A tricorne hat has managed to crawl into his head and instead of looking ridiculous, it sits at a jaunty angle and gives James an air of playful roguishness.
Draco scowls at it. “Wipe that smirk off your face. And take that ridiculous hat off.”
“I’m trying. It seems to have taken a fancy to me,” James says cheerfully, trying to pry the hat off. It hangs onto his scalp with fierce determination.
“What do they eat, then?”
“I don’t know the nutritional requirements of hats.”
“The hungry Muggles.”
There’s footsteps, then someone steps into the ballroom: Harry.
Draco tries to hide his disappointment. “Where’s Scorpius?” he asks instead.
“Went home.” Harry stops, then says, “Went back to my house, I mean.”
“Oh.”
“Said he was a bit tired. Er, you’ve got a lace ruff on, did you know?”
“What? Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Draco rips the ruff off.
“You look annoyed,” Harry says, peering at him.
“I am very annoyed,” Draco snaps. “Enraged, actually.”
“What happened?” Harry asks with concern.
“He’s just sulking because I look good in a tricorne,” James says, sauntering out the door.
“Did you see that?” Draco demands. “Did you? He sauntered! And — and smirked, he looked unbearably smug — ”
“Hang on, are we talking about James or sixteen-year-old you?”
“I was not like that!”
Harry looks at him.
“And if I did happen to be like that,” Draco mutters, “then I was bloody annoying.”
Harry tactfully says nothing. He picks up the tricorne, dusts it off, and adds it to the costume box. “Listen,” he says, then stops.
“What? Ugh, you’re having another crisis.”
“I am not!”
“You are.”
“And even if I am, it’s about you. You are causing my personal crisis.”
Draco stands up, clasps his hands behind his back, and paces across the room slowly, pausing to look dramatically at the mural. “I always hoped this day would come,” he begins, and Harry looks infuriated.
“Stop it. I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
“I keep having these visions of you living in a tiny flat — ”
“Sounds like a boring prophecy, but keep going.”
“ —where are you going to live? Have you looked at other places?”
“Calm down, my vault is literally overflowing with gold now. After I sold the manor, I had to open another vault with Gringotts. I’m not going to be sleeping on the streets.”
“I did find a few places you might be interested in,” Harry says, handing over a stack of clippings from the real estate section of The Daily Prophet.
Draco stares down at them. “You seem more anxious about my residence than me.”
“Look at that one. Perfect.”
“‘Heritage-listed estate in Bedfordshire, has a rich history beginning in the sixteenth century’...Potter, this is a mini version of the manor.”
“See? Perfect.”
Draco frowns at him, sets it aside, and picks up the next clipping. “‘Gangell Hall, a stately home with a fascinating history’ — right. Can you only see me in a manor?”
“That one was a hall,” Harry says sullenly.
“I didn’t sell the manor so I could move into a different manor.”
“Hall.”
“Potter.”
“Fine, fine! Look at that one.”
Draco gives him a suspicious look and picks up the paper. “Merlin’s bushy beard, that is hideous!”
“What?”
“It’s gaudy. Gold leaf on everything! Ugh, marble columns. It looks like a dragon ate its treasure, then was violently ill on a Christmas tree.”
Harry snatches the paper from him. “It’s worth millions.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s vomited dragon treasure, I suppose.”
Harry gives him a look. “It might look better in person. You should go and inspect it.”
“Maybe I’d prefer to build my own house,” Draco says, for the sole purpose of being annoying.
“In that case, I have a whole page of display homes. There’s a lovely Muggle one in Swindon, but you could throw a few wards on it, connect the Floo, and call it home,” Harry says smugly, handing him an advert.
Draco turns it over and taps the advert on the other side. “Oh, I like this one,” he says just to torment Harry.
It works. “A bedsit? Is that some sort of joke?”
“Yes.”
“A bedsit? In Lambeth? You’ll get stabbed. You’ll do something completely idiotic and get stabbed. Like go for a walk at midnight and look at someone funny.”
“Tell me more about integrating myself into the charming, loveable world of Muggles.”
“You’ll die at a bus stop in Southwark!”
“A quintessential London experience.”
Harry glares at him. “You’ve got five weeks until the manor is sold. What are you going to do?”
“Calm down. If I haven’t found anywhere, I’ll move in with you.”
“You’re not having the attic, that will always be James’s room. You’ll just have to deal with the tiny spare room,” Harry says, looking annoyed.
“That was a joke!”
“What? Oh, yeah. I was joking too.”
“You weren’t. That is downright terrifying. Can you imagine waking up to deal with you every day?”
“Er, yes, actually.”
“Imagine it. On a daily basis, dealing with all your neuroses, your ongoing personal crises, your childhood trauma that you still haven’t processed — ”
“It wasn’t trauma! I just — had to be very quiet. And stay in my cupboard,” Harry mumbles, as though hoping Draco will mishear it.
“Oh, well. Who amongst us didn’t live in a small cupboard?”
“It was quite a large cupboard, actually!”
“Enough room for twice the trauma, then.”
Harry scowls at him. “No trauma!”
Draco opens his mouth, then closes it.
Harry gives him a scorching glare. “Go ahead and say it.”
“No.”
“Go ahead. You were going to say something, so say it.”
“It would be unkind.”
Harry looks at him in disbelief. “Years of enmity, may I remind you?”
Draco pats his arm gently. “It would emotionally devastate you.”
“Oh, really? When I was eleven, you made jokes about my dead parents. Now say it.”
“It’s worse than that.”
“Worse than the orphan jokes? Worse than insulting my mother, my intelligence, my friends, and my personality?”
“Yes.”
“You are being melodramatic. Just say it.”
Draco sighs. “Fine. Listen, Potter, when you...” He trails off.
Harry waits.
“When you get anxious,” Draco says at last, “you clean things.”
Harry laughs. “That’s it?”
Draco nods.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake. You are completely ridiculous sometimes. Look, just go through those clippings and tell me what you think.”
And he leaves, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
Despite his earlier good mood, Harry goes home that night feeling distinctly unsettled, though he couldn’t say why. He roams the house, starts absently scrubbing at a pot in the sink, then stops and glares at it. He goes to the living room instead, where James is reading a book.
“James,” Harry begins, and then he stops.
“Yeah?” James idly turns the page of his book. After a long moment, he glances up, impatient. “Dad? Dad.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You started this conversation.” James returns to his book. “Didn’t think your mind would start wandering this early.”
“Very funny. Listen, James...I was just wondering...I mean...this house is a mess, right?” Harry laughs uneasily, then gestures around. “It’s hardly sterile.”
James looks around the room. “Well, no. But it’s clean.”
“It’s not. It’s cosy and — and comfortable — look, there’s blankets on the armchairs, and books everywhere, and a scarf on the lamp, and the mantle is positively cluttered — ”
“Mm, yeah, but there’s no dust. Or dirty dishes. And the carpet’s clean.”
Harry shifts uneasily. “But not too clean.”
James gives him an odd look. “It’s clean.”
He goes back to his book. Harry hovers in the doorway for a long moment, then says, “I’ll just — I’ll go and — ”
“Do the dishes,” James says absently.
Harry stops. “What? How’d you...do I seem anxious to you?”
He turns the page. “A little, yeah.”
Harry says nothing, then finally leaves.
The next day, he goes to the manor perfectly normally, he thinks. He casually wanders into the kitchen, casually puts the kettle on, and casually sits at the table, where Draco is distractedly working on one of the missing war victims.
Draco glances at him once, then says, “No, no. I have not got time for — ”
“Time for what?”
“ — one of your weird crises — ”
“I have no idea what you’re — ”
“ —I’ve got a million things to do today — ”
“This is your fault!” Harry snaps.
“I told you, I said it would emotionally devastate you — ”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It hasn’t so much as emotionally dented me! It’s just — I’m sort of laying awake at night, thinking about it a lot — ”
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t have time for an emotional breakdown, I’ve got a manor to clean — oh, this is actually the perfect opportunity, then, for — ”
“Don’t say it.”
“ — you to — ”
“Don’t say it!”
“ — work off some anxiety.”
“I regret to tell you,” Harry says angrily, “that you’re about to have a tragic accident in the attic with a cursed chandelier.”
“After you’ve polished it.”
“You are such a prat!”
“You’re a prat!”
“Think my dad’s about to get a second divorce,” Scorpius says conversationally to James, walking past the kitchen doorway with a box of books.
“Ugh, I know. Like an old married couple,” James mutters, and they continue along the hallway.
“James! Get back here — ”
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Scorpius!”
There’s no response to either of their admonishments. Draco and Harry glare at the empty doorway, then Harry mutters, “I’ll be glad when he moves out.”
“You won’t,” Draco says. “You’ll do that thing, where you sit in your study and drink firewhiskey and stare at the wall and maybe cry a bit after your second glass.”
Harry colours. “Shut up and fix the kettle, it’s not boiling.”
“You fix it.”
“You do it.”
Somewhere beyond the doorway, someone snickers.
They scowl at each other.
That week is a busy one; the manor must be empty by the end of the next month. James finds he has little spare time between swim practice and helping out with the manor. Even his weekends — usually reserved for visiting his cousins — are taken away.
But he figures he might get into Draco’s good graces by withholding his complaints. Today, they’re doing the final checks of the library. James is taping up the boxes of books, checking each one, and he’s surprised to uncover a book about Muggle technology. Could definitely be useful, he thinks. He really needs to brush up on his knowledge, especially if Scorpius is going to be living in Muggle accommodation. He picks up the book, then turns to Draco, who is angrily wrangling a hissing bookmark.
“I want — ”
“You’re not getting that tricorne hat.”
James stares at him, then says, “I want this book. On Muggle technology.”
Draco snatches it from him as if it’s treasure. “It’s mine.”
“I need it more than you!”
“You’re Halfblood, you know about the Muggle world, I need this book — ”
“Halfblood only by technicality. Both my parents are magic — ”
“You know what a regenerator is!”
“What?” Confusion momentarily quells James’s outrage.
“A regenerator. Makes things cold. And the icebox, which makes them even colder. You know all this stuff —”
“Do you mean a refrigerator? And a freezer?”
“Of course, that’s so obvious,” Draco mutters to himself. “Freezer. It freezes things.”
“Look,” James says, holding up his hands, “I’ll just borrow the book for a bit.”
Draco gives him a suspicious look. “Why do you want the book?”
“Scorpius,” James admits. “He’s talking about living in the Muggle world.”
Draco looks completely panicked for a moment, and James quickly elaborates.
“No, not cutting off all contact and starting a new life or anything. It’s just...his university studies, apparently you need to use technology for everything. They won’t even accept handwritten essays,” James adds a touch resentfully. “It’s just not possible.”
“To what?”
“To live in a magical house.”
“Oh.”
James doesn’t say anything. Draco studies him, his expression unreadable, and then he says at last, “Perhaps Scorpius could enjoy a magical career instead. He could become a writer for The Daily Prophet — the fellow who writes the weekly Astronomy guides is about to retire. Or he could repair telescopes — ”
James draws back. “This is his dream,” he says angrily. “I would never ask him to give it up. Never.”
He expects a terse retort or an exasperated look, but Draco merely says, “All right.” After a moment he adds, “Well. Suppose you’d better get used to the Muggle world, then.”
“Yes, so that’s why I need the book.”
Draco gives him another long, considered look, and James has the feeling he’s just passed some sort of test. “I’d better get used to the Muggle world too,” Draco says.
“Truce?” James ventures, drawing on some Gryffindor courage. “We’ll share the book.”
Draco nods just as Harry steps into the library.
“Anyone seen a lamp hopping along? It’s got a stained glass shade and is very evasive,” Harry says, then pauses and peers at them. “What are you two talking about?”
James opens his mouth and decides he doesn’t want to tell Harry. As much as he loves his father, Harry has a way of charging into things and making them his; asking a million questions, and arguing over details, and offering unsolicited advice.
“I was just telling James he needs a haircut,” Draco says.
Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. Leave him alone.”
James feels a bit guilty about not telling Harry then. “Thanks, Dad,” he says.
“His clothes, on the other hand — would it kill you to learn an ironing spell, James? And you’re going to be in for a shock when you move out and your clothes don’t magically wash themselves. I don’t think you even know what a wringing charm is — ”
James scowls at him and tapes another box shut, his guilt vanishing.
Draco had been a little wary of sharing the book, but he has to admit James has been very useful; he understands Muggle concepts quicker than Draco, and he’s already oddly knowledgeable about a few select gadgets.
“I had to be,” he tells Draco as they sit at the kitchen table and pore over a diagram of a toaster one rainy Saturday morning; they’re supposed to be packing up the broomshed, but the weather has been off-putting. “I got Scorpius a calculator for his seventeenth birthday. Infrared capabilities and everything.”
Draco very strongly approves of that thoughtful gesture, but he can’t show it and therefore has to settle for a brusque, “Is that right?”
“Don’t even get me started on telescopes. They’ve got electronic ones these days, they can do all sorts of stuff.”
“Not much difference between the toasters, is there?” Draco says, pointing to the book. “Just have to pull a lever instead of casting a charm. I think the lever is far more efficient, really.”
“Let’s go back to the clothes microwave,” James says. “I didn’t really understand it.”
“The what?”
“Clothes microwave. You know, the microwave but it cooks clothes, not food.”
After a few minutes of flipping through the pages, they eventually find the dryer.
“What are you two doing?”
They glance up. Harry’s standing in the doorway, frowning at them.
“Reading,” James says offhandedly. “You might want to try it sometimes.”
Harry scowls at him. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Draco says. Harry opens his mouth just as something clangs loudly overhead.
“That bloody grandfather clock is on the run again,” he mutters, and hurries away. James watches him leave, then turns to Draco.
“We need somewhere to practice,” he says. “All this theory is doing my head in.”
“Where? There’s not exactly a nice Muggle house set up for people to visit and poke at things — oh, wait.” Draco pauses.
Then he smiles.
The real estate agent, standing beneath the hot July sun, is sweating profusely in his suit and tie but nevertheless remains determinedly jovial as he ushers Draco and James into the house.
“Now, this is from our Hampstead range. This particular display is our four-bedroom model, but you can expand it to include up to six bedrooms – or an extra study, a media room, whatever your needs are.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Draco says blandly, accepting the offered pamphlet.
“Looking to build, are you?”
“Thinking about it.”
“We’ve got another display home in Surrey that you might like to look at, then. Upgrading the family home?”
Draco steps inside, peering around the hallway. “Investment,” he says vaguely.
The agent perks up a bit. “Ah! Well, we build quickly and efficiently, you’ll have tenants in no time – oh, shoes off, please. We do sell the house when it’s no longer needed. The carpeting is rather expensive to replace.”
James, only half-paying attention, steps forward; the agent clears his throat and turns to Draco.
“Pardon me, but if you could remind your son to remove his shoes — ”
“My what?” Draco asks blankly, then looks at James. “James! Try to be civilised, will you? Didn’t your f— ” He stops, and corrects himself. “Your mother ever teach you manners?”
“Mum’s dead, remember?” James says brightly as he kicks off his trainers. “Today’s the anniversary of the mysterious and tragic accident.”
“What are you — yes, right. The accident,” Draco snaps.
“Right, the one where my twin brother went missing and left that cryptic note — ”
The real estate agent’s eyes have gone very round; he coughs and turns away to quickly greet a couple with a baby.
“What are you doing?” Draco hisses to James.
“We need a backstory.”
“We need you to be quiet! And normal!”
“I am normal. Plenty of people have mothers who die in mysterious and tragic accidents.”
“You’ll die in a mysterious and tragic accident in a minute!”
“Any questions about anything?” the real estate agent asks loudly, staring at them.
“No, thank you,” Draco says. “Come along, James.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” the agent says emphatically to James. “Any help. From anyone.”
“Oh, it’s fine. My father’s just stroppy because he hasn’t had his morning drink.”
The agent smiles uncertainly. “Ah, the power of coffee.”
“Hard liquor, actually.”
The agent stares at him, slowly edges away, and leaves. Draco gives James a scorching look.
“If you say one more thing about — about mothers or brothers or alcoholism — ”
“I said you hadn’t had hard liquor this morning.” James pats his shoulder. “Well done, by the way. We’re all really proud of you.”
“Are you always like this?”
James gives him a winning smile. “Look,” he says, “a power outlet.”
Draco can’t help but look around, keen to see his first Muggle artefact.
“I’ve seen loads of them,” James says offhandedly, but he does look a little excited. “That’s where they put the cords. To make things go.”
They poke around the living room (Draco keeps gazing at the television with a fascinated expression) and the bedrooms (James flicks the lamp on and off until a passing woman gives him an odd look) but it’s the kitchen they spend the most time in.
“A toaster. Oh, look! It has a little lever, just like the book said...”
“The kettle’s all fancy,” James says. “It has buttons, look. One for tea, one for coffee...”
Draco automatically makes a gesture as if to poke the kettle with an invisible wand. He’s grateful that James doesn’t laugh at him, only frowns a bit.
“The button? Push the tea button.”
They wait.
“It’s not doing anything.”
“That big silver button. Press that. No...? The tea button first. Then the...oh, hang on...”
A couple wanders through the kitchen. James and Draco momentarily straighten up and adopt expressions of polite interest in the countertops. The couple glance at them, then open all the cupboards, peer inside, and close them again.
“Why are they doing that?” Draco asks under his breath.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it some sort of Muggle custom?”
“Maybe they’re checking for something.”
“Like what?”
“Ants,” James says confidently. “Muggles are always complaining about ants.”
They quiet down as the couple look over at them, then wander away. Draco glances across the kitchen, then says, “Oh.”
“What?”
“I don’t know whether it’s ugly or not.”
James turns around and stares at the fridge.
“It looks a bit...boring,” Draco adds. “A blue one would look nice.”
“No, they’re only white or grey. It’s a bit odd, it’s like some unspoken Muggle rule. They don’t like it when you try to make the fridges colourful.” James steps forward and says, sounding pleased with himself, “I’ve actually used a few when I’ve visited my Muggleborn friends. They’re actually very simple to use. Like a cupboard. Look,” and he opens it with a flourish.
Draco peers inside. “Oh, look! There a little light. Does it stay activated the whole time?”
They stare at the fridge as Draco slowly closes the door.
“I think it does.”
“It seems to be.”
“Oh — hang on — ”
They peer through the tiny crack together, staring at the fridge light. Draco closes the door and pauses, then quickly yanks it open.
“It’s still there.”
“Open it again. Really quick this time.”
“What are you two doing?”
Draco and James both jump, knocking their heads together hard; they reel away from the fridge, swearing in unison.
“Learn some damn manners, Potter!”
“Thanks a lot, Dad!” James gingerly touches his temple, then glares at Harry. “What are you doing here? Wait — is Scorpius with you?”
“What? No.”
Draco looks relieved. “Good. You’re not going to spoil the surprise, then, like you do with everything you trample your way into.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re staring into a fridge as if it’s got a magical portal in it. Explain.”
“There was a light.”
Harry looks a bit alarmed then. “What sort of light? Did you follow it?”
Draco raises an eyebrow. “They generally advise against that. Don’t go towards the light, isn’t that what they say?”
Harry stares at him, then yanks the fridge door open. “What light?”
“You’re looking at it, Potter.”
“That light? Oh, for Merlin’s sake! That’s just a normal fridge light.”
“Why?”
“I...what? I don’t know, it’s...so you can see things better...”
Draco is unimpressed. “You don’t need a tiny light to tell a carton of eggs from a block of cheese.”
“Dad does, he’s blind as a flobberworm,” James says.
“I’ve told him to update his prescription. He squints at the paper.”
“He’s too stubborn.”
“Drives me up the wall,” Draco agrees.
“Stop. No. Just — stop. Both of you. I won’t be distracted, I want to know exactly what you’re doing in this — this...house,” Harry finishes, staring around it. “Er...you haven’t...”
They wait.
“...broken into someone’s home, have you?” Harry finishes weakly.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco says.
“See, this is what you get,” James tells Draco conversationally. “You try to do something nice, and he goes and puts his Auror robes on.”
“It is insufferable. Frankly, I don’t know how you tolerated it.”
“Insulting, that’s what it is. First thing he thinks of, apparently. Could we be visiting someone? No. Invited into a home? No. We’re apparently breaking and entering.”
“It doesn’t even make any sense. He’s a terrible Auror. No wonder he quit.”
“What’s he think we’re doing, robbing places by standing around staring at fridges?”
“There are many regrets in my life,” Harry says loudly, “of which the biggest is undoubtedly letting you two get along. I really wish you still hated each other.”
“Oh, that’s charming.”
“If you haven’t got anything nice to say, go away,” Draco says.
Harry’s mouth falls open. “If I haven’t got anything nice to say — ”
“Let’s look at the laundry next,” James says to Draco, and they both turn their backs on Harry.
“Wait a minute!” Harry protests. “Nobody’s answered my questions!”
“Potter. It’s rude to make a scene in someone else’s home.”
“If you can’t keep your voice down, go wait in the car,” James adds.
Harry glares at him. “Fine. We’ll discuss this later.”
He leaves. Draco frowns at James. “What car?”
James shrugs. “I don’t know. Somebody’s. The point is, he’s gone away.”
“Ah.” Draco turns back to the kitchen, then says, trying very hard to keep the excitement from his voice, “Now, where’s the laundry?”
James’s eyes light up. “The washing machine,” he breathes.
They hurry from the room.
When James goes home, he finds Harry sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a bad mood.
James grins at him. “Where’d you end up, then?”
“It’s not funny, James.”
“It is. Honestly, you are daft.”
“You told me to go wait in the car, I found an unlocked car outside and assumed —”
“That’s your fault.”
“I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life! That real estate agent seemed to think I was an utter idiot!”
“You got in the agent’s car?”
“I was annoyed! I wasn’t paying attention — ”
“Calm down.”
“I will not calm down! I received a court summons, James!”
“For sitting in a car?” James asks disbelievingly.
“Using a portkey to enter a Muggle abode!” Harry shoves the letter across the table. “I used that portkey expecting to pop up In Diagon Alley or somewhere — ”
“What portkey?”
Harry looks slightly abashed. “The portkey you made for Scorpius. It’s supposed to take me directly to you. I asked Scorpius if I could borrow it because I didn’t know where you were and needed to ask you something urgently.”
James looks at him, then starts laughing.
“It’s not funny! It’s not!” Harry snaps.
“It is. You thought you were being a clever, sneaky Auror — ”
“I didn’t! I just — I wanted to know — you were being all secretive — ”
“Could’ve just asked. But no, you wanted to play detective.” James holds his hand out. “I’ll take that portkey back now.”
Harry scowls and sets the letter down. “Draco confiscated it from me. So what exactly were you doing in a display home?”
“Researching.”
“What?”
“Muggles.”
“Why?”
“For Scorpius.”
Harry looks at him, then silently assembles the bits. James suddenly feels a bit of affection for his father when Harry’s expression goes all soft and he says, “Oh. That’s — really thoughtful. But why a display home?”
“We wanted to investigate a real Muggle house.”
Harry gives him a pitying look. “Really, James? You didn’t even think about him?”
James looks at him blankly.
Harry sighs.
Harry wants to come along for the visit, but if everyone was suddenly absent from the manor, Scorpius would get suspicious. After a brief argument, he grudgingly agrees to stay at the manor with Scorpius and finish the attic, while James and Draco use the excuse they’ve been telling Scorpius lately: Draco is going to have some antiques valued, and Harry is forcing James to go with him in the hopes they’ll get along a little better after spending time together.
Scorpius is suitably sympathetic to James. “That sucks,” he says as he drags a bug-eyed taxidermy fox from the attic.
“Yeah, I know. Dad’s being a real pain about it.”
“I mean, you’re civil to each other. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Dad’s not the easiest person to like. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you for coming up with an excuse to stay here.”
“It’s fine. I’ll just go along with it so my dad feels like he’s actually achieving something,” James says.
“Er,” Harry says, pausing midway through helping Draco wrangle the chandelier. “We’re both standing right here.”
James glances at him. “Yeah, we know.”
“Oh. Well, that’s lovely.”
“We’d better go, James,” Draco announces, dropping the chandelier on Harry’s foot and ignoring the resulting fountain of expletives. “See you later.”
Scorpius gives James a chaste kiss on the cheek. “My condolences,” he murmurs in James’s ear.
“It’ll be all right. I’ll ditch him somewhere in Diagon Alley.”
Scorpius smiles at him; James turns and leaves, Draco right behind him.
“You’re very good at lying,” Draco mutters suspiciously.
“I’ve got an Auror for a dad. I’ve learned to be good at lying,” James says with a shrug. “Side-along?”
“Soon as we get beyond the wards.”
They hurry out the door.
Dudley opens the door before Draco can even ring the doorbell, much to his obvious disappointment. He looks longingly at the little button, fingers twitching even though Dudley’s staring at them expectantly.
“Hi, Uncle Dudley,” James says cheerfully, nudging Draco hard; he’s now busy staring at the letterbox flap and looks as if he’s tempted to put his hand through it. “This is — ”
“We’ve met. Draco, isn’t it?” Dudley adds, giving Draco a handshake.
Draco looks away from the letterbox with a surprised expression. “Several years ago, yes. I’m surprised you remember.”
“Hard to forget a name like that.” Dudley frowns at him. “You were standing in the fireplace.”
“They’re quite useful for travel,” Draco says politely.
“Don’t you get all sooty?”
“Sometimes.”
“Daisy’s got asthma. I won’t be having with that sort of thing. Don’t you lot have transport that doesn’t involve smoke?”
“Brooms,” James supplies, idly wandering into the kitchen.
“What if she falls off and breaks her leg?”
“Side-along, then. Long as she doesn’t get Splinched.”
“What’s that? It doesn’t sound good.”
Draco elbows James. “It’s a lovely little side-effect. Makes you sneeze rose petals.”
Dudley gives him a faintly suspicious look. “Well. In any case — ”
“Come look at this,” James says with a flourish. “A dishwasher. Like a sink charm, but it’s all contained in the box. Doesn’t go crazy and fill the room with suds if you miscast the spell.”
“Ah,” Draco says, hands clasped behind his back as he peers at it. “A demonstration, perhaps?”
Dudley laughs uneasily, then stops when nobody else joins in. “Oh. All right.”
James is loathe to admit it, but sometimes his father does have good ideas.
By the end of the visit, Dudley is almost enjoying himself, James thinks; he’s proudly shown off all his Muggle possessions, and is showing them the ice-cube trays in the freezer.
“Remarkable,” Draco says, and Dudley looks absurdly pleased with himself.
“We’ll have a drink, then. I’ve got some questions of my own.”
James smiles obligingly, but turns and pulls a face at Draco. “His daughter is a witch. Nobody saw it coming. He’ll have a million excruciatingly obvious questions.”
“We’ve just spent ten minutes forcing him to demonstrate the central heating functions,” Draco reminds him. “Have a bit of empathy.”
It is a bit difficult, though, when Dudley says, “It’s the covens I’m worried about.”
“The what?”
“Covens. All that naked dancing under the full moon. It’s undignified and I won’t stand for it.”
Draco swaps a look with James.
Chapter 35: The World Has to End Somewhere
Summary:
Scorpius discusses his past with Draco and reads a letter — James and Scorpius find the end of the world — A wedding is held — Draco sees an old relative.
Chapter Text
They’re supposed to visit Dudley’s house again the following weekend, but Draco gets caught up with the final tasks involving the manor. He double-checks Scorpius’s room, which is neatly packed into boxes.
“Didn’t have much to pack,” Scorpius says. “Anyway, you got a head start.”
“What?”
“You’d already started packing for me,” Scorpius says, nodding at the boxes in the far corner. “Those were there when I arrived.”
“Those aren’t from the manor,” Draco says, and he hesitates. “I sent you a letter, regarding a relative’s death — ”
“I didn’t read it,” Scorpius says, and he glances away. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I was just writing to say your grandmother died.”
Scorpius stares at him, then says, “All right.”
“Er. Presumably you weren’t close, then.”
“Only saw her once, fortunately.”
Well, at least there’s absolutely no love lost. “Your aunt,” Draco continues, “left some items for you.”
“What, some hatpins and books on Pureblood etiquette?”
“Items that your grandmother took from the flat after Astoria died.”
Scorpius’s flippant expression dissolves and he straightens up. “Which items?”
“I don’t know. There’s a number of boxes. All for you. I didn’t open them.”
Several expressions flicker across Scorpius’s face before he says flatly, “I just assumed they’d thrown everything out.”
“They?”
“My grandparents.”
Draco frowns at him for a long moment. “How’d you guess that?”
Scorpius opens his mouth, then closes it. After a while he says, sounding almost guilty, “They arrived after Mum died. Within minutes, actually. I always wondered how they knew.”
“At least someone was there with you, then,” Draco says. Not ideal, but he hopes they were kind and comforting to Scorpius.
Scorpius erases that hope instantly. “I wish they hadn’t been there.”
They stand in silence for a while, then Scorpius kneels down, opens one of the boxes, and begins looking through it. After a moment, he glances up and says, “Well?”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to have a look?”
Draco does.
There’s photographs and postcards, artwork and old homework. There’s school portraits, Muggle ones, of a young Scorpius frozen in time. Draco smiles at one of them, unable to hide his amusement; Scorpius leans over and sighs.
“I know. That was the year Mum decided to have a go at cutting my hair herself.”
“She sent you to school like that? Cruel.”
Scorpius laughs. “I complained bitterly and told her she’d ruined my life. She eventually took me to the barber to fix it. Had to save up some money first.”
Draco picks up a little green folder and opens it; Scorpius pulls a face.
“Report cards.”
Draco reads through them. “Quite different to ours,” he mutters. “Where’s ‘Outstanding’ and ‘Excellent’?”
“Personally, I think it’s nice having a system that doesn’t include the rating ‘Troll’.”
”You liked Maths, I see.”
“It was interesting.”
“Low mark for English,” Draco observes.
“It was boring. And I was terrible at spelling. Mum used to play word games with me. Try to help me remember. Little songs she used to song, or silly poems.”
“Who’s this Mr Healey?” Draco demands, reading a short sentence from Scorpius’s teacher. “‘Scorpius will not progress sufficiently until he learns how to cooperate with others, listen to direction, and follow instructions’ — what’s that mean? All your other teachers said you were lovely! What’s his problem, then?”
Scorpius shrugs. “He didn’t like me.”
“Sounds like a bloody idiot,” Draco says disapprovingly.
Scorpius is smiling. Draco frowns.
“What?”
“Nothing.” After a moment, Scorpius adds, “It’s funny. Watching you get angry about my Year Five teacher.”
“Wish I’d been there. I would’ve given him a piece of my mind.”
“Don’t worry, Mum gave him plenty of pieces of her mind too.” Scorpius pauses, then digs around in the box and finally finds the target: a small bracelet, faded and wispy, made of rainbow threads. “This is why he didn’t like me. I wore it every day. That teacher got so annoyed. Acted like I was personally insulting him. He kept confiscating them, and somehow losing them, but Mum would keep making new ones.”
“It’s just a bracelet,” Draco says with bemusement.
Scorpius hesitates. “Rainbow colours. Like the pride flag. Mum made it after I told her about a crush I had on a boy at school. I made the mistake of telling someone I thought was a friend. Everyone found out.” He shifts uncomfortably, then adds — voice forcibly light and casual — “You know what they say. Kids can be cruel, and all that. Anyway, eventually Mum decided to move to Wales. Fresh start for me. And I learned my lesson, and kept my mouth shut. Still wore the bracelet, though. Under my sleeve.”
“You knew all the way back then? I wish you’d told me,” Draco says impulsively. “Right from the start, I mean. Then I wouldn’t have...” He gestures; Scorpius waits. “Been so awful about it,” Draco admits. “It was only because it was such a shock. Just one secret after another.”
Scorpius says nothing for a while. He picks at the loose threads of the bracelet, then says, “You said I wasn’t the son you wanted.” He doesn’t say it coldly. He says it defeatedly, the words full of hurt.
“It wasn’t what I meant.”
“Hard to misinterpret,” Scorpius retorts, not looking at him.
“I didn’t mean that you misinterpreted the words. I meant I said them wrong.”
Scorpius says nothing. Draco takes a moment to speak again; this has never been his forte. He’s always been excellent at compartmentalising. His father taught him well the benefits of stoicism. But if he stays silent now, Scorpius’s hurt will remain forever. So he says, with effort, “I thought you were someone else. Not necessarily better nor worse. Just someone else. Someone who wanted to be part of the Pureblood world. Someone who was in love with Celia. Someone who was interested in a magical career. And — when I was angry and not thinking properly — I said you weren’t the son I wanted, when what I meant was, you’re not the son I thought I had.”
Scorpius picks at the threads of the bracelet, his mouth in a thin line, but when he speaks it’s with upset rather than anger. “I tried telling you. In every way but the words.”
“Maybe you should’ve said the words,” Draco murmurs, and Scorpius throws him a sharp look.
“Maybe you should’ve listened,” he snaps.
“Yes, I should have. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
Scorpius opens his mouth and then pauses, as if he hadn’t been expecting that reply. “I told James,” he says suddenly, a note of challenge in his voice. “About — what I felt.”
“Did you?”
“We’re together now.” Even more of a challenge.
“I’m glad.”
“Are you? You were the one who told me I’d waste my life, watching him find happiness with someone else.”
“I panicked,” Draco says matter-of-factly. “I thought he was straight as a ruler and you’d end up devastated. I thought a bit of painful truth now would save you a future of heartbreak.”
“You panicked,” Scorpius repeats flatly.
“I’m not great with emotions.”
“I noticed.” After a moment, though, Scorpius adds — and Draco could swear there’s the slightest, smallest hint of very dry amusement — “Just try not to do it again.”
“I’ll make a note,” Draco says lightly, and he picks up a little journal, tattered and worn. “You kept a diary?”
Scorpius glances at it. “I was supposed to. For English. What I did on my weekend, all that rubbish. I never bothered, though.”
Draco flips through the pages. They’re either blank, or sparsely filled with lacklustre lines about mundane, everyday activities. “Nothing to write about?”
“I didn’t have time to write in stupid journals. What did my teacher think, I was visiting the zoo or going to the cinema? Mum was — she wasn’t well. I was...too busy doing stuff.”
“Stuff?” Draco echoes.
“Helping Mum,” Scorpius says evasively. “Doing the cooking, cleaning, groceries, you know how it is.”
Draco does know how it is — as an adult. Not an eleven year old boy. Perhaps Scorpius spots his expression and misinterprets it, for he suddenly busies himself flipping through old artwork and says defensively, “She was a good mum. Not the best, I guess, but she — she tried really hard. She wanted me to be happy. And I do have lots of good memories of her. It was only — it was towards the end, when her depression got really bad, and she couldn’t really take care of anyone, including herself...” He snaps his mouth shut, and fumbles with the artwork, and adds, “Not that it’s relevant, anyway. Her depression, I mean.”
“I know she committed suicide.”
Scorpius startles, as if Draco has suddenly grabbed him, and drops the artwork. Sheets of paper drift to the ground: painstaking pencil drawings, clumsy and simple, of trees and cars and dinosaurs.
“How — ”
“She wrote me a note.”
“A note?”
“A letter. Just before she died.”
Betrayal and anger flit across Scorpius’s face. “You hid it from me? You didn’t even tell me — ”
“I only received it recently. When your grandmother died. It seems your grandparents took everything from the flat.”
Scorpius looks angry then, really angry, and Draco thinks he’s going to shout at him and blame him, rage at him and storm away, but instead he says venomously, “I hate them. Both of them. They didn’t care a bit about Mum or you! Only their stupid reputations. Her funeral, do you remember her funeral? In that stupid fancy funeral home and all those expensive flowers...Mum would’ve hated that!”
“I know.”
“And they interred her in their family mausoleum — they weren’t her family! We were.”
“I know,” Draco repeats patiently.
“They wouldn’t even let us have that. A grave just for her. I was the one who was there, you know, when she — when she — ”
“Died,” Draco finishes.
Scorpius paces around the room, looking agitated. At last he stops by the window, and he says, “Can I read that letter?”
Draco considers the question.
Scorpius is in a pensive mood that evening, James notices. When he returns from the manor, he goes for a long walk. James accompanies him and is surprised when he realises the hideous orange case is nowhere to be found.
“Not going to Nowhere Hill to do things on the line?”
“No,” Scorpius says, and he reaches out to catch James’s hand. “Let’s see the other places. All the ones you told me about.”
James is happy to oblige. They cross over Raincloud River — no more than a tiny creek tumbling clear over small pebbles. Then through Troll Forest, so named because of the tall, hulking trees. Beyond that, there’s the Good Luck Sea (a field of green clover), and then they’re up and over Whinge Mountain.
“This is the end,” James says, wandering to a halt before a little patch of hazel trees. “We never went beyond here.”
“Why not?”
James hesitates. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’d ask and Teddy would just tell me the world has to end somewhere, so why not here? When I was little, I thought he was just being annoying about it. Now that I’m older, though, I think he was just making sure we didn’t wander too far from home and get lost.”
They look at the copse of trees. Beyond them, the woods grow wild with brambles and wood-rush. The hills roll away, on and on.
“The world has to end somewhere,” Scorpius repeats to himself, and then he suddenly smiles. “Wish I’d talked to him more. He had an interesting way of looking at things.”
“Yeah, he did.”
They linger a moment longer, then turn and retrace their steps. James shows Scorpius the wizened old oak tree with initials carved into it: JSP and ERL.
“Who’s ERL?” Scorpius asks bemusedly.
“Edward Remus Lupin.”
Scorpius looks a bit embarrassed. “I always forget he’s actually Edward. It doesn’t suit him at all.”
“I know. He convinced me until I was seven that his full name was Teddard Teddington Lupin.”
Scorpius laughs. “You’re so gullible.”
“I was seven!”
“Gullible,” Scorpius repeats, smiling.
They keep walking until they’re standing by the turnstile marking the tiny winding road that leads home. Scorpius rests a hand on the ancient wood for a moment, then says, “Venus is rising.”
James glances up, then looks along the winding country lane. The shadows of dusk blur the landscape, making indistinct the hedgerows and rambling holly shrubs. Down in the valley, James can see a small square of light flicker to life; Harry has activated a lighting charm on the porch of their home.
Their home.
For the first time, it strikes James that he might be leaving that home soon. He’s not sure where he’ll go, but he wants to be close to Scorpius. It’s funny, he thinks — he’s been teasing Harry about it for months, making fun of him — don’t spend too much time weeping softly over my childhood pictures after I move out — but now he stares at that little square of light like it’s the last star left in the sky.
Scorpius’s hand curls around his, and James squeezes it tight. If Scorpius is startled by the reaction, he doesn’t show it. He returns the squeeze instead and says, “Let’s go home.”
James takes a step forward.
The world has to end somewhere.
Later that night, as they lay in James’s bed — James setting his alarm for swim practice the next morning while Scorpius idly casts stars at the ceiling — Scorpius says, “My mother wrote a suicide letter.”
James pauses midway through winding up the little hippogriff clock. “You never mentioned that.”
“She wrote it to my father. My grandparents kindly confiscated it and put it in storage. They did try to open it, but my mother had put a ward on it.”
“Hope it hexed all their fingers off,” James mutters.
“At least they’re both dead now. My grandmother passed away in February, so my father finally got his letter back.”
“Did he read it?”
“Yes.” Scorpius casts another star at the rafters. Rose does that sometimes, on the rare occasion she visits the attic, only she plasters the ceiling with simple yellow stars. Scorpius, on the other hand, has just finished creating several reflection nebulae and is now adding some supernova remnants. “I read it too.”
“Oh.” James picks a loose star from his arm. It shines bluish-white against his skin, contrasting sharply with his summer tan. “Was that...really a good idea?”
Scorpius frowns at the wayward star, and gently ushers it towards a spiral galaxy. “Yes, actually. I finally know now.”
“Why she did it?” James guesses.
Scorpius nods. “I just...always wished I could have known what she was thinking. And I finally got that.” He studies the galaxy above, then begins adding a stellar halo to it. “She was really...suffering. She thought she was a terrible burden to everyone. To me.”
“She wrote about you?” James says a bit nervously, though he can’t imagine Astoria blaming Scorpius at all.
“A lot. She thought I was brilliant, and perfect, and she said — she said she was sorry for causing me so much grief, but she knew I’d be far happier in the long term. With a better parent. It really showed the state of mind she was in.”
“That must’ve been hard to read.”
Scorpius sets his wand down and pulls James into bed. “It was. But it was also an answer. To a lot of questions I’d had for years.” He nudges at James’s shoulder, a gesture that James knows well by now.
“This what you want?” he asks, rolling onto his side and spooning Scorpius.
Scorpius doesn’t speak, only makes a pleased little noise as James drapes an arm over him. James watches a few falling stars; they burn bright before vanishing into nothing. After a while, he says, “Coming to lunch tomorrow?”
But Scorpius is already asleep.
Swim practice goes a little longer than usual the next day; Thomas is disheartened by higher lap times.
“It’s just one bad day. We all have those,” James tells him over their lunch later on.
Thomas picks at the chips on his plate. “What if the one bad day happens to be the same day the Championships is on?”
Iwan frowns at him. “Don’t overthink it.”
“You sound like Saltworth,” Thomas complains. “Anyway. Fine, I’ll stop thinking about it. How’s that beautiful romance blossoming over there?”
They all look across the table, where Rose and Nate are muttering to each other.
“You wanted to be casual, you said — ”
“Yes, I know,” Rose says tersely.
“I offered to be exclusive, and you declined — ”
“There is a difference between being exclusive and taking me out somewhere nice and then snogging another girl right in front of me!”
“It wasn’t somewhere nice, it was Neon Potion and the dance floor was sticky — ”
“It was nice in comparison to other places.”
“Look, I only took you to Irish O’Reilly’s once and we left as soon as that bar fight broke out — ”
“Does Aunt Hermione know about all this?” James asks brightly, and Rose gives him a frosty look.
“Don’t even think about it, James. Or I’ll tell Andromeda the truth about who ruined her wedding veil.”
James gets his revenge. “Looking forward to Victoire’s wedding?”
Nate gives Rose a hopeful little glance.
“Thank you, James, for the reminder,” Rose snaps, and James gives her a winning smile.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and beside him, Scorpius snuffs a laugh.
“Is that soon?” Nate asks.
“Tomorrow, actually,” James says.
“It’s ages away,” Rose says at the same time.
Rowan and Thomas swap a look. Iwan raises his eyebrows.
“Seriously, Rose?” Nate asks. “It’s a plus one to a wedding, not some romantic night at a posh restaurant —”
“You don’t take dates to a wedding if you’re casual with them.” Rose looks around as if hoping a change of subject will helpfully spring from someone’s drink. “What about you then?” she asks James. “You’d better bring someone, or all the great-aunts will be complaining about your wasted youth.”
“I told you, I’m bringing Scorpius, obviously.”
“For Merlin’s sake,” Rose says, looking annoyed, and she stands up. “Come on, then, James, we’ve got a wedding to prepare for. Scorpius, you can help too.”
“Dad’s already picked up my tux,” James says lazily. “Scorpius’s too. We’re fine.”
“Nan’s assigned everyone tasks, we’re helping with the table centrepieces. We’ll pick the flowers tonight and put freshening charms on them.”
James gives her an appalled look. “I don’t remember this. Is this one of those things you kindly volunteered me for?”
“Yes. Now come on,” Rose says brutally, picking up her purse. “Let’s go.” She pauses, then turns to Nate and says, “Four o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
James smirks at her as they leave.
Rose wastes no time going directly to the garden. James has always been rather fond of it. His mother planted many different flowers, and Luna occasionally sends very funny-looking seeds for Harry to plant, and Neville stops by sometimes with large and exotic plants. It’s like a little collaboration, James thinks. A chaotic little kingdom of colours and scents.
“Most people have vegetable patches,” Rose mutters as she tries to untangle climbing peas from a rosebush. “A patch. A designated area for vegetables.”
James goes to his cactus. It’s sporting a mohawk and sitting at a jaunty angle.
“What have you done to your spines?” James demands, taking a tiny leather jacket from his pocket. The cactus straightens up a bit, managing to create an air of defiance. “You fix them right now! And don’t you dare bristle at me like that.”
“Don’t tell it off,” Scorpius whispers, looking alarmed.
James lowers his voice. “No, no. It’s entered adolescence. It gets very smug if it thinks it’s breaking all the rules. Gives it a sense of self-importance.”
Scorpius grabs his arm. “Don’t tell me our little cactus is growing up,” he says. “Feels like only yesterday I was angrily ignoring you as you picked it off the shelf.”
“Oh, I forgot! We weren’t even speaking back then, were we?”
“It came from such a broken home.”
“Oh, perfect,” James whispers. “Say it again, a bit louder. It’ll develop a complex about that. It loves developing complexes now. Thinks it gives itself a bit of mystery and intrigue.”
Rose comes over to them. “Stop doting on the cactus, help me with these centrepieces.”
“Hang on.” James drapes the tiny leather jacket over the cactus. “I’ll let you have your jacket back this time, but if I catch you with another mohawk, I’ll stage an intervention.”
Rose starts laughing. “Did Nate make that jacket? It looks ridiculous.”
“How dare you mock my son,” James says angrily.
Scorpius steps forward and folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, Rose. How dare you. You know, that cactus has worked so hard to be a part of this family — ”
“Stop it,” Rose laughs, waving Scorpius away.
“Unbelievable,” James says, picking up the cactus. “If I ever see you in this garden, talking to my son again — ”
“We’ll write a very strongly worded letter,” Scorpius finishes, nodding. “And tell your Lovesick Daisy to stay away from our cactus. He does not need that influence in his life.”
Rose stops laughing and looks slightly indignant then. “What? My Lovesick Daisy is charming — ”
“It’s a mess, that’s what it is. Wilting all over the place — ”
“Heard it pollinated a nearby plant last week. What a disgrace,” James adds.
“Yeah, Rose. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to take our cactus elsewhere.”
They leave together, the cactus firmly nestled in James’s arms. As they walk past a row of strawberry plants, Scorpius asks, “Should we go back and help with the centrepieces?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve never been so offended in my entire life.”
Scorpius laughs and puts an arm around James’s waist, pulling him close as they step into the house.
The next day dawns bright and blue: perfect weather for a wedding. James goes for a run in the morning, enjoying the quietness of the fields and woods, and has a short shower when he returns, which turns into a long shower when Scorpius steps into the steam and joins him.
They go downstairs to the kitchen half an hour later, where the quiet of the day is abruptly ruined by a grumpy Harry.
“A forty minute shower, James! Who pays the water bill around here? And have some consideration for the rest of us! Now, we’ll all be going to the Burrow at two, so everyone can finish getting ready. They’ve arranged to hire cars for the wedding party and family so we can transport the cake and centrepieces and all the rest of it.” He goes to the breadbox and opens it, frowns, then checks the cupboards. “From there, it’s a half-hour drive to the vineyard. Mrs Weasley is still stroppy about not using the Burrow, so try not to mention it. It’s just such a big wedding, though, and she’s seventy years old now and can’t keep up, much as she won’t admit...where is the bread?”
James takes a sudden interest in his bowl of cereal.
“There was half a loaf yesterday, I don’t...James? James.”
“Yeah?”
“If I go down to the pond,” Harry says evenly, “exactly how well-fed will the ducks look?”
“Very.”
Across the table, Scorpius is smiling hard at his cup of tea.
Harry narrows his eyes. “You can go and check the tuxedos,” he tells James. “I don’t want to see even a tiny bit of lint. And you can cast an ironing spell on the formal robes.”
“It’s high summer! Nobody’s wearing the robes.”
“Just in case,” Harry says meanly.
“Victoire specifically said no robes because we’ll all overheat and die — ”
“Just in case. And Scorpius can help you.”
“What did I do?” Scorpius asks, looking tragic.
“Off you go, both of you.”
They reluctantly go upstairs, to the spare room, where the formal robes are being kept pristine in the wardrobe. “They’re spotless anyway,” James complains. “Dad’s just being a pain. I hate weddings, everyone always gets stressed.”
Scorpius sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m looking forward to it. I get to see you in a tux. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.” He pauses, then adds, “Plus your dad said there’ll be an open bar.”
“Ah. Weddings are boring. Receptions are completely different, especially when my nan gets into the gin.”
Scorpius smiles, but after a moment it fades a bit and he says, “How are we doing introductions, anyway?” His voice is light and casual, but James catches the tension in his shoulders, the way he fidgets with the edge of the blanket. “I thought it would be easier if we were just friends.”
James blinks at him. “Why?”
Scorpius attempts a smile. “I just thought...I mean, none of your relatives know, right?”
“Right. So it’s the perfect time, really, when everyone’s in one place. Very efficient.”
Scorpius stares at him. “Oh. Are you sure?”
“Yes. If it’s all right with you.”
“Perfectly fine,” Scorpius says, though he’s still looking caught halfway between surprised and impressed. “If you’re sure,” he repeats.
Deep down, a bit of James is quite intimidated — if he’s honest, afraid — at the idea. But he ignores it determinedly. All the people who really, really matter already know. Anyone else is just a bonus, he tells himself, though he does feel a flutter of nerves at the thought of telling his grandparents and Andromeda.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “I’m sure.”
Scorpius gives him a smile, one of those little ones just for James, tinted with affection and fondness and something else.
James impulsively leans forward and kisses him.
Everything runs smoothly until they arrive at the Burrow, which is a flurry of chaos. Rose is having a meltdown over her hair (“All the other bridesmaids look beautiful, I look like a minstrel!”), Louis has only just seen the pageboy outfit and is having conniptions over it (“I look like a sickly Victorian child about to succumb to cholera!”), and Dominique has suddenly decided the responsibility of being the maid of honour is too much. Mrs Weasley is having a last-minute structural problem with the cake and everyone has been banned from the kitchen.
“But I want a drink of water,” Louis complains.
Bill pats his head. “Then I’m afraid you’re going to die of thirst.”
“Better fate than whatever is beyond the kitchen door,” George mutters, fiddling with his bow tie. “Mum hasn’t been like that since she tried a cleaning charm on Ginny’s wedding dress and accidentally melted the tulle.”
The cousins are all sent upstairs to change; they crowd the hallways and barge in and out of bedrooms. The girls take over every bathroom, scattering makeup everywhere. Fleur and Hermione bravely wade into the chaos to rescue tearful cousins from unruly hair or untimely pimples, while the boys are saved by roaming uncles lending a practised hand to fiddly bow ties, uncooperative lapels, and waistcoat buckles. Harry patiently folds James’s pocket square for him while George fixes Scorpius’s.
“Combed your hair?” Harry asks.
“Yes.”
“Hermione!” Harry shouts.
“No! Ugh, I don’t need Aunt Hermione’s hair spells!”
“It’s a little bit messy —”
“It’s supposed to look like that,” James snaps. “Don’t touch it, I’ve styled it perfectly.”
“Can you fix mine, James?” Louis asks plaintively. “Make it look cool like yours.”
Hermione arrives, brandishing her wand, and advances upon Louis; he tries to hide behind his father.
“No! I saw the side-part you gave Hugo! I don’t want it!”
Hugo, frowning at his outfit in the mirror, turns around. “Mum hasn’t touched my hair,” he says.
”Oh.”
”What do you mean? What’s wrong with my part?”
James escapes downstairs, before Hermione can discipline his hair too. He’s hoping to find less chaos, but instead he gets roped into helping Percy pack the cars with seemingly endless items. Eventually, Mrs Weasley emerges from the kitchen, carrying a tiered cake surrounded by an alarming amount of cushioning charms. “Out of the way!” she snaps, “Arthur? Arthur! Where’s my hat?”
It turns out Ron is sitting on it.
After a bit of shouting, a lot of last-minute checks in the hallway mirror, and a quick search for a missing cousin, Mrs Weasley starts bundling everyone into cars. James loses Scorpius and ends up wedged between two fidgety cousins.
“Wait! I don’t think I did my cuffs right —”
“Oh no, my button just fell off — ”
“Hang on, I’ve lost my — ”
“Too late,” Mrs Weasley says brutally, shutting the car door and tapping the driver’s window sharply, where Charlie is waiting patiently with one hand on the steering wheel.
“Everyone ready, then?” Charlie asks cheerfully.
“No!”
“Great,” he says, turning the engine.
And then they’re off.
The wedding is beautiful and very boring, but it’s a respite from the earlier chaos and James gets to sneak a lot of looks at Scorpius, who is looking very nice in his tuxedo. On his sixth or seventh glance, Scorpius catches his eye and winks, which only makes it worse, really.
“Stop it,” Harry mutters to him. “You’ll have plenty of time to flirt at the reception. If you don’t get blitzed first.”
James perks up. “You’re letting me drink?”
“You’re eighteen. Not much I can do to stop you. I let Draco know there would be an open bar, he said Scorpius is welcome to make his own dumb, fun decisions.” He stands up and applauds, and James glances up just in time to see Victoire drawing back from a kiss with her new husband. She turns to face the crowd, her smile bright and joyful.
James stands and applauds with the rest.
The reception is far better, as James predicted. The younger cousins giggle and chase each other; the older ones eye James, Scorpius, and Rose enviously as they (slightly smugly) wander around with glasses of champagne.
“It’s not very nice, though,” Rose whispers.
“It’s tolerable.”
“Tastes like weird wine. It’s okay,” Scorpius says.
“Really? I can’t stand it. What else is available?” Rose asks, glancing at the bar.
“Wine. Beer,” James says, surveying the room. “Victoire and...”
There’s a long pause.
“Erm,” Rose says. “Jacob?”
“Jason, I thought,” Scorpius offers uncertainly.
“...Victoire and her husband aren’t millionaires,” James finishes. “There’s not going to be hard liquor at an open bar.”
“Hi,” Nate says, arriving with a glass in one hand, and Rose gives him a very friendly look.
“You look nice in a tux,” she says.
“Thanks. You look good too.”
“Hello,” Dominique says, arriving in a waft of perfume. She sweeps her long, silvery hair over one shoulder, baring the smooth white sweep of her neck. “Just thought I’d stop by and introduce myself. Scorpius, isn’t it? Hard to forget a face like yours,” she adds, her voice dipping a little low as she touches his shoulder. “I remember you from Christmas — one of James’s friends, aren’t you?”
“Boyfriend, actually,” Scorpius says.
”Oh, stop it,” Rose says, smiling and shaking her head.
Dominique, on the other hand, doesn’t so much as blink. She drops her hand, turns to Nate instead, and says beguilingly, “In that case, James, you must introduce me to your other friend.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, this is Nate. Nate, this is my cousin, Dominique.”
“What a pleasure,” Dominique murmurs, reaching out an elegant hand. Nate accepts it, giving her an unnecessarily long and intense look, James thinks. He swaps a look with Scorpius; they smirk at each other.
Rose, however, is scowling. “Nate actually came here with me,” she says.
“As a friend,” Nate says quickly.
Rose opens her mouth, evidently has some sort of intense personal struggle, then closes her mouth again.
Dominique finally tears her gaze away from Nate. “James, you didn’t tell me you had so many good-looking friends,” she says. “And this one is single, I hope?”
Nate speaks before James can reply. “Straight and single. You know, I can’t believe I didn’t notice you at Hogwarts. You mustn’t have been in my year.”
“I’m in my seventh year at Beauxbatons. So, Nate — is that short for Nathaniel? I love that name. Can I call you Nathaniel?”
”Of course.”
”What? You hate — ” Rose begins, but Dominique cuts her off.
“I haven’t seen much of the vineyard yet. Perhaps a tour...?”
“Nate’s never been here before, he doesn’t even know where the loos are,” Rose says loudly, but Nate and Dominique are already smiling at each other and wandering away. “Damn it! That cow,” Rose mutters. “He looked so good tonight! Now I’ll have to find someone who isn’t a first or second cousin.”
“Or third,” James says.
Rose waves a dismissive hand at him. “Clearly we’ve got different standards. I’m going to get drunk. See you both later.”
She leaves just as Mrs Weasley arrives, clutching a goblet of something amber-coloured.
“What a beautiful ceremony,” she tells James, giving him a hug. “And don’t you clean up nicely. Where’s the photographer? Make sure you get your picture taken, dear. Oh, you look so grown-up I could just cry.”
“Thanks, Nan,” James says dutifully. “You’ve met my boyfriend, Scorpius. Last Christmas, remember?”
Mrs Weasley’s face freezes, just for a moment. She stares at James, then at Scorpius, then back to James. “Oh — oh, yes, right, of course,” she says, tripping over the words a bit. “Your — your friend — ”
“Boyfriend.”
“ — yes, right.”
There’s a long pause, then Mrs Weasley says, “There’s cake. Have you tried the cake yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll get a plate. And one for your — one for Scorpius.”
“Thanks.”
She scurries away. Scorpius has gone a bit pink; he’s giving James a little smile.
“What are you looking so pleased about?” James asks.
“Nothing.”
Mrs Weasley returns, carrying the plates. “Made it myself,” she says. “That was my wedding gift to Victoire and...Jared.”
“Thought it was Jason,” Scorpius says.
“Jordan?” James offers.
“Well. In any case. It’s lemon-flavoured. Good choice, I thought.”
“Thank you,” Scorpius says, accepting a plate. Mrs Weasley looks at him, then at James. She seems utterly lost.
“Don’t you — whatever happened to that nice girl your father mentioned...?”
“Broke up with her two years ago, Nan.”
She stares down at her cake, as if it will gently explain everything to her. “But you — I always thought you fancied the girls, James.”
“No, I’m gay.”
“Oh.” She peers at Scorpius again. “And Scorpius is your best friend — ”
“And boyfriend.”
“ — right. Right. Yes. Well, I suppose I’d better go and say hello to the others. It was nice to meet you, Scorpius — well, meet you again, this time as — as — as James’s — as — as his boyfriend,” she says, awkward but determined. James inwardly squashes the urge to give his nan a congratulatory hug for managing to finally get the word ‘boyfriend’ out.
“Yes, it was nice to see you again,” Scorpius says, and gives her one of his smiles. The one James knows can charm even a wild dragon.
Mrs Weasley rallies. “Oh. Well, you both look just lovely tonight,” she says, expression melting into a smile, and she pats Scorpius on the arm and leaves.
Mr Weasley takes her place. “Oh, hello! Good to see you, James, and...terribly sorry, I’m getting rather forgetful these days — Malfoy’s son, aren’t you?”
“This is Scorpius, my boyfriend. He visited last Christmas, remember?”
Mr Weasley leans closer, cupping a hand to his ear. “I’m going a bit deaf, James, you’ll have to speak up.”
“Last Christmas, he visited the Burrow — ”
“No, I got that bit. What else did you say?”
“Oh, he’s my boyfriend. So how’s — ”
“Ah, your best friend! Right.”
“Boyfriend.”
“Best friend?”
“Boyfriend, Grandad! I’m dating him.”
“What?”
“Dating him.”
Mr Weasley smiles uncertainly, then says, “Him?”
“Yes. Scorpius.”
“But he’s a boy.”
“Yes, it’s what I like most about him.”
Scorpius goes red, though he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Mr Weasley gives James a blank look. “He’s your friend?”
“Boyfriend.”
“Boy friend? Your friend, who’s a boy?”
James grabs a glass of champagne from a passing tray and finishes it in one gulp. “I have to go, Grandad, I’ve got to...be anywhere else.”
He leaves Mr Weasley with a mystified expression, retreats to the bar, and exhales. “Nope,” he says firmly. “I am not doing that all night.”
“I kind of like hearing you say ‘boyfriend’ a dozen times,” Scorpius says.
James grins at him. “Is that what you’re looking so pleased about?”
Before Scorpius can respond, Harry arrives, an empty plate in one hand. “Hello!” he says cheerfully. “James, if you see your nan, try to find out exactly where she’s getting all her brandy from. It’s only seven and she’s getting rather feisty.”
“Got it. Listen, Dad, I’ve got a favour to ask you.”
“All right.”
“Okay, so I thought it would be a good idea to let people know I’m seeing Scorpius, to prevent a hundred elderly relatives offering to set me up with their friend’s lovely daughter — ”
“But you’re finding it difficult,” Harry says sympathetically.
“Er, not really. More like...incredibly boring and tedious. This might sound bad, but...I just can’t be bothered. Coming out over and over again. I just want to drink free alcohol and have a good time.”
“Oh.”
“So if you could casually drop it into conversation, that would be great.”
Harry brightens. “I’m going to refer to you as ‘James, my gay son’ in every conversation.”
“Ugh, please don’t — actually, fine. Whatever stops elderly great-aunts telling me to find a nice young woman with childbearing hips.”
“All right. Oh, hang on — think I just saw your nan getting a bottle out of her handbag,” Harry says, and he hurries away.
Scorpius is grinning at him. “Outsourcing it to your poor father. Interesting technique.”
James shrugs. “Not my problem anymore. Let’s try all the wines.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Harry sips at his pumpkin juice and sighs. He’s sitting at a table in one of the courtyards. Fairy lights twinkle in the darkness; music faintly plays. Somewhere, a ponderous grandfather clock chimes midnight. It would be quite a soothing atmosphere, if not for all the drunken relatives roaming free.
Across the table, Ron nods. “I know,” he says. “Why did we agree to be designated drivers? I don’t care if Flooing or Disapparating will make them violently ill. Make them do it anyway.”
“Are you sure? In another hour, Hermione’s going to be falling down drunk. Imagine what would happen to your fireplace if you Floo’d.”
Ron glances across the room at his wife. She’s talking very animatedly to Fleur, gesturing wildly. “I’m quite sure Mum plied her with brandy.”
“What I want to know is, where’s the gin coming from? Somebody here keeps handing out gin and tonics.”
“That is a dangerous drink, mate. D’you remember Hermione’s thirtieth?”
They laugh, quietening down briefly as somebody falls down and shrieks loudly, then laughs like a hyena. Ron tilts his head, then stands up.
“Sounds like Rose is having a very good time,” he says dryly. “Back in a minute.”
He vanishes into the crowd. Harry takes another sip of his juice just as Percy sits in Ron’s chair.
“Hello,” Percy says. “You know, I’ve been thinking about funeral insurance — ”
George sits next to him, giving him a thump on the shoulder. “Reminding guests of their inevitable deaths, eh, Percy?”
Percy colours. “I just think it’s important to be organised, and not enough people — ”
“Great small-talk for a wedding,” George says, and he turns to Harry. “James is looking like a proper adult now. Can’t believe it. Time flies, eh?”
“Bit odd that he’s brought that Malfoy boy along,” Percy says, and Harry clears his throat.
“Not really. They’re dating.”
George smiles, stops, then opens his mouth. “Are — ”
“No, not a joke,” Harry says wearily.
Percy speaks then. “Is — ”
“Yes, he’s gay,” Harry adds.
“How long — ”
“Since he was born, presumably.”
“When did he — ”
“Not sure.”
“Oh. He doesn’t — ”
“ — seem gay, right. Would you feel more comfortable if he liked theatre?”
They both stare at him.
James was right, Harry thinks. Coming out is extremely tiresome, it turns out. Harry has been having variations of this conversation all night. He envies James and Scorpius; last time he saw them, they were chasing a drunken Rose around the champagne fountain and cackling madly.
Come to think of it, he’s quite sure all of them were drunk.
“Well, I for one have always supported gay rights,” Percy says a little pompously. “Just look at Charlie. We all thought he was gay for years, and I was perfectly fine with that. Didn’t think any less of him. I mean, he’s not, as it turned out, but still.”
“Oh, and Ron,” George adds.
”Oh, yes. We all thought Ron was gay because he was so inept with the girls we thought it had to be deliberate. Ginny even gave him a little speech about how we’d all accept him for who he was. He was very confused.”
“And you,” George says.
“What? Me?” Percy looks outraged.
“I dunno, there was just something about you.”
“Well, I thought you were gay.”
“You did not! You’re only saying that because I said it first.”
“I did,” Percy insists.
“You did not!”
“You both seem very offended at being called gay,” Harry observes, and they both hurry to convince him otherwise.
“Not at all — ”
“Nothing wrong with it — ”
“I signed the petition for same-sex marriage,” George says.
“I signed that too, you know,” Percy adds. “Well, I didn’t, but I was going to, I was on my lunch break, you see, and the line for minestrone was really long —”
Harry puts his hand into his pocket, withdraws a sheet of gold-star stickers he confiscated earlier from Roxanne, peels off two stars, and solemnly puts them on George and Percy’s lapels. “There you go,” he says. “Now, I have to go find my drunk children.”
He stands and leaves.
After forty minutes, the children are located, and Harry thinks they’re not drunk at all.
Rather, they are absolutely legless.
He manages to herd them to the car, which is an exercise in patience and takes twenty minutes. Eventually he shoves James into the car — James immediately sprawls face-down across the seat — followed by Scorpius.
“No! Careful — my drink,” Scorpius slurs as he falls on top of James.
“What drink?” Harry demands, and Scorpius pulls a goblet of something from his pocket. “What the — where did you — ”
“Oh, no. S’all gone,” Scorpius says, putting the goblet up to his eye and inspecting it.
“Yes, it’s all over your tux and the car seat! James, move over. James? James! Scorpius, get off him!”
Scorpius inelegantly falls to one side, then slowly slides out the car door.
“Ngh,” James says as Harry shakes him, followed by a slightly more indignant, “Ngh!”
“For Merlin’s sake, James! I thought you were dead.”
“Go ’way! I’m trying to eat,” James says.
“Eat what?” Harry finally succeeds in rolling him over. James glares up at him, nibbling at a croissant held in both hands like a rat might clutch a crust. “No, no! You’re getting crumbs everywhere — is that an eclair smeared across the door?”
James looks at it. “No,” he says.
“Empty your pockets right now! James!” Harry begins angrily patting him down, removing from his pockets three blinis, a small tart, and a handful of croutons.
“You’re ruining my life!” James complains, trying to shove him away. “They’re my snacks! Mine!”
“You’ve got a canapé all over the seatbelt!”
“Party!” Scorpius shouts joyfully from somewhere behind Harry, and he hears the sound of glass shattering.
“Oh, no. Stay here, James. Sit down, put your seatbelt on — your seatbelt, James — pick the cheese off it first. No! Don’t eat it!” He turns around just in time to see Scorpius running down the long, elegantly swept driveway, and gives chase. “No!” Harry shouts, racing after him and tackling him. “Back in the car! What did you break?”
“James!” Scorpius bellows, deafening Harry. “James!”
“He’s in the car.”
“Oh yeah!”
They return to the car, Scorpius pausing to touch everything along the way; Harry has to wrangle a holly branch off him, stop him from putting his foot through a hedge, and convince him not to approach a wild animal snuffling about in a bush.
“Whassat?”
“It’s nothing, it’s probably just a fox — ”
“A baby fox?”
“No! Probably an awful vixen that reeks, and you are not to go near it — ”
“Don’t talk about your mother that way,” Scorpius sneers, and then he collapses into giggles. “Look, I’m being Dad!”
Harry stares at him, then conjures a patronus.
“Ooh! Whassat?” Scorpius asks with interest, watching it gallop into the distance.
“A stag.”
“A fox?”
“A stag.”
“A baby fox?”
“Oh my God. Scorpius, get in the car,” Harry says, shoving him towards the car. He pauses as his feet crunch on glass shards. “Is this what you broke earlier? An entire bottle of gin?”
“Party!” Scorpius sings out, and throws another bottle on the ground.
Harry leaps clear, sending a shield charm around the bottle; it bounces off the ground and eventually comes to a rest in a small hyacinth bush. “Where did you — how — are you Summoning them?”
“James! James!”
“He’s in the car! Get in.”
“He’s not! You promised. I want my James,” Scorpius says sullenly.
“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, yanking the door open. “He’s right...oh, no.”
“You called?” somebody says dryly, and Harry whips around.
“Oh, thank Merlin you’re here. I am so, so happy to see you,” he says.
Draco raises his eyebrows. “Oddly, I don’t detect any sarcasm.”
“There’s none. I owe you,” Harry says emphatically. “Will you find James? Or babysit Scorpius.”
“Tropical party!” Scorpius throws a pineapple on the ground.
“Where did — give me your wand!” Harry demands.
“No!”
“Give me your wand, Scorpius!”
Scorpius gives a devious little giggle, gets in the car, and shuts the door. Moments later, a platter of shrimp flies past Harry and hits the car, showering shrimp and lemon wedges everywhere. Harry wrenches the door handle fruitlessly, then bangs on the window. “Scorpius! Open this door!”
“I choose James,” Draco says quickly, and immediately sets off before Harry can protest.
By the time Harry manages to regain access to the car, Draco has returned. He’s wearing a grim expression and dragging a rumpled James behind him.
“...and in the morning,” Draco’s saying angrily, “you’ll offer to replace the bride’s veil, apologise for causing a scene on the dance floor, and acknowledge you were the one who transfigured the cake-topper into a very lewd scene!”
“You’re a lewd scene.”
“I’m serious, you’re — ”
“You’re serious.”
“That’s what I just said! Now get in the car — ”
“You get in the car.”
“Knock it off, James!”
“You knock it off.”
Draco takes a very deep breath. “Get in the car,” he says calmly, “or I’ll murder you. I will hex you into tiny little pieces, put all those pieces in a box, and then throw the box into the middle of a lake, where it will slowly sink to a watery grave. I will feel quite conflicted about the whole business and Scorpius will go mad with the tragedy of it all, but it will be something that must be done. A necessity.”
James looks at him for a long moment, then says, “You’re a necessity.”
“Just get in the car!”
James opens his mouth; Draco yanks the car door open and shoves him in. James briefly fights with him, complaining loudly the whole time, then turns around and spots Scorpius. “Scorpius!” he says happily, pushing Draco away and climbing into the car.
“James!” comes the joyful reply.
Draco shuts the car door firmly and moves away; Harry waves a hand at him, looking alarmed.
“No, no. Don’t leave me alone with them.”
“Fine. You do owe me. And I’m driving.”
“I’m driving.”
“I hardly ever get the chance to drive,” Draco complains. “I’m driving, or you’re driving alone. With those two.”
Harry sullenly goes to the passenger side. “Your son insulted my mother earlier, you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Scorpius is a very sweet and kind child who wouldn’t even dream of insulting anyone’s mother.”
Harry scowls at him and gets in the car. “He did. He did an impersonation of you, with the perfect sneer and everything, and it was very frightening...aren’t you going to adjust the mirrors first? This is a hire car, if you — ”
“Yes, yes, all right,” Draco says, and adjusts the rear view mirror.
He stops, then turns around and looks at the empty back seat.
Fifteen minutes later, the boys have been extracted from the champagne fountain, dragged back to the car, and shoved inside while Harry angrily puts the child-safety locks on.
The journey home is interesting, but thankfully there’s no escapes. The boys whisper and giggle to themselves for a bit, spend a long time obnoxiously singing ‘Come Fly With Me’, and then go quiet for a while until Draco abruptly figures out why, twists around in his seat, and shouts at them.
“Absolutely not! Hands off each other or I’ll turn this car around!”
“Stop it!” Harry orders. “Stop that right now — ”
“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, you get back on your side of the car right now!”
“Aguamenti!” Harry snaps, casting the spell blindly behind him while trying to stop Draco swerving all over the road. “Aguamenti!”
“Potter! You’re not helping, you’re getting water everywhere — ”
“We’re nearly at the Burrow anyway,” Harry mutters, dropping his wand. “The boys can sleep there tonight, they’ll be throwing up for hours if they use the Floo now.”
They arrive at the Burrow ten minutes later. They drag the boys out of the car, wrangle them through the doorway, and up the stairs. Scorpius thinks it’s funny to grab every single thing within reach as they walk through the house; Draco prises ornaments, clocks, photographs, a set of keys, and a tin of biscuits from his hands. James, on the other hand, has finally reached his limits and appears to be quite content to be carried to bed after Harry casts a weightless charm on him.
“Here, take Percy’s old room, he’s going back home with Audrey and the kids,” Harry says, nudging a door open. “I’ll take James to Ginny’s old room.” He pauses as Draco tries to wrest Scorpius inside, and adds, “Good luck.”
“Thanks. Good luck with yours.”
The last time Harry carried James to bed, he was a toddler, and the contrast makes Harry smile wryly. He dumps James on the bed and takes off his shoes, then discovers that trying to get James out of his gin-and-croissant covered tuxedo is like trying to buckle an extremely uncooperative octopus into a car seat. After what feels like half the night, he manages to strip James to his pants, gives up all hope of putting pyjamas on him, and just dumps a blanket over him instead.
“You’re going to have a headache and a half tomorrow,” Harry tells him.
James mumbles into his pillow.
“Goodnight,” Harry says, and he tucks him in and leaves. On his way downstairs, he spots Draco very carefully and gently closing Percy’s bedroom door. “Asleep?”
“Almost,” Draco says, letting go of the door handle. “Little brat. Wouldn’t tell me how he managed to get a decorative teapot, three quills, and a cocktail shaker into the bed without me noticing.”
“Are you sure you put your child to bed, and not a Niffler?”
“Well, it’s too late to check now. Hopefully Scorpius won’t be waking up confused in a forest tomorrow.”
They go downstairs; Harry pours both of them a nip of brandy from Mrs Weasley’s pantry. “To the joys of parenting,” he says, raising his glass.
“How foolish and naive we were,” Draco says, “to think our duty had ended when they turned eighteen.”
“Never really stops, does it?”
“No,” Draco says, taking a sip of his drink. He touches the condensation on the glass, then says suddenly, “I’m thinking of visiting my father.”
Harry’s careful not to look too interested. “Oh? Any particular reason?”
“Not really.” He wipes away the last of the water droplets. “He’s old now. Elderly, I suppose, which is a word I never imagined using to describe my father. When you’re younger, you think of your parents as immortal. Always picturing them as they were in your childhood.”
“I can’t,” Harry says.
To his surprise, Draco looks at him and says, “No. You can’t. I’m grateful I at least have my childhood memories.”
Draco’s sympathy brings an odd sadness to Harry. He glances down at the kitchen table, covered with cup rings and burns and little scratches. “So,” he says. “Your father.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve forgiven him, then?”
Draco hesitates. “I always thought he was deliberately...harsh,” he says at last. “His political views were extreme. I know you think I’m similar in my beliefs — ”
“ — most certainly not, judging by the way you and James have been researching — ”
“ — but my own prejudices were far milder than his, and it was a point of contention between us. And in general, he could be cold, distant, difficult to deal with. At the time, I thought he was a truly awful person, deliberately pushing me towards choices I didn’t want to make.”
“And now?”
“Well,” Draco says, “It took twenty-six years and raising my own son, but now...I think he was just...misguided. Too influenced by his own upbringing.”
“Will you make amends, do you think?”
Draco shrugs. “We’ll see.”
They sit in silence for a bit, then Harry finishes his drink and says, “I’m rather looking forward to the morning, I must admit. Seeing those two staggering about, suffering. Does that make me an awful parent?”
Draco smiles lightly. “They’ll have absolutely monstrous hangovers.”
“We should make them go to the manor tomorrow, and finish the attic.”
“Oh, don’t be mean,” Draco says, and Harry laughs at him.
“Wouldn’t have guessed you’d be the soft one.”
“Not soft. Just remembering my own teenaged foolishness. Have a bit of sympathy, Potter.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? We forget what it’s like.”
There’s the sudden whoosh of the Floo, and then Andromeda is stepping into the kitchen, smiling about something. When her gaze falls upon them, Harry waits for a reaction, but she merely says, “Oh! Draco, what a lovely surprise. Are you here to see your son? He had rather a lot of fun at the champagne fountain.”
Several expressions fight to take ahold of Draco’s face; in the end, bewildered surprise wins. “Aunt Andromeda. I haven’t seen you since Teddy’s funeral.” He stops, then winces, as if just realising his words.
Andromeda waves him off amiably; her face is a little flushed, and Harry laughs at her.
”Don’t tell me you accepted a drink from Molly.”
”I did,” Andromeda says. “Only one, but by Merlin it was fortifying. I’m grateful I could still make it through the Floo. I was coming back to see poor, dear Arthur to bed...he’s at that point, Harry dear, when he starts dancing.”
”Oh, no.”
”He was supposed to follow me...I suspect he’s fallen asleep in the other fireplace again.”
”We were just having a nightcap,” Draco says. “Would you like one?”
”Oh, go on, then.” Andromeda sits down at the table. “I’m sure someone will rescue Arthur. I do wish you’d come along tonight, Draco. It would have been fun.”
“Oh, no, it was a family event,” Draco says politely.
”I’m afraid you’ll be family soon, dear, whether you want to or not — judging by the way our James was dancing with your Scorpius.”
Harry tries to remember whether Andromeda was amongst the many relatives he conversed with. “Oh, did I happen to mention — ”
”Yes, dear,” Andromeda says with amusement. “You distractedly began with ‘James, my gay son’, then spent several minutes trying to chase after Molly. It culminated in a rather exciting fight over a bottle of brandy, which you conceded when Molly hit you over the head with her handbag and you said quite an interesting word in front of young, impressionable Louis.”
“Ah.”
”He repeated it quite a bit.”
”Yes, I remember.”
”Fleur was very cross about it. She wanted to know exactly which filthy gutter-rat taught him such a word.”
Draco laughs, sharp and quick, looking almost surprised at himself for doing so. Andromeda looks at him; the corner of her lips twitches ever-so-slightly.
”In any case,” Andromeda says, “I must admit one of the highlights of my night was watching you, Draco, cuff James over the ear and drag him away from the wedding cake.”
”Oh, that little — the cake-topper — ”
”So I saw. What a creative use of transfiguration.”
”And the bride’s wedding veil, he was pretending to be a ghost, apparently — ”
“Ah, yes. Not the first time he’s done that. I’m afraid my own wedding veil never recovered.”
“Well,” Harry interrupts, “We’d better go home, to bed. I’ll come back to collect the children in the morning.” He waits expectantly, then adds, “Draco?”
Draco shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’ll have one more drink, I think. Go on, Potter. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Andromeda waves Harry away. “Off you go, dear. Be nice to poor James tomorrow.”
Harry hesitates by the fireplace, but Andromeda and Draco are already falling into conversation, the bottle of brandy between them, each one holding a glass.
”Goodnight,” he says, smiling, and he throws a pinch of Floo powder into the flames.
Chapter 36: Astra Inclinant
Summary:
Scorpius and James receive a gift — James casts a patronus — Harry visits Diagon Alley and reminisces — Harry speaks to James about goodbyes — Summer ends.
Chapter Text
Harry does end up being nice to the boys the next morning. The Burrow, full of leftover wedding guests and cheerful, loud cousins, isn’t the best place to recover from a fun night. He goes to Scorpius first, and finds him in a wretched state; he brings him a bucket, then goes to James, who seems to be faring a little better, though he evidently disagrees with that assessment.
“I’m dying,” he says, draped over the bed rather like a tragic heroine about to expire on a divan.
“You’re not dying,” Harry says, handing him a cool cloth and a glass of water. “Scorpius is dying.”
James sits up a bit, then clutches his head. “Do we have any Painless Potion?”
“I’ll check.”
“Is Scorpius all right? Where is he?”
“He’ll be fine. We put him in Uncle Percy’s old room. He’s just very unwell.”
“I’ll go help him.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to deal with him right now,” Harry says delicately.
But when he returns to the room with the potion, James isn’t there. He checks Percy’s room; the door is ajar, and Scorpius is slumped on the floor, leaning against the bed, his face pale and hair sticky and plastered to his temple.
James is sitting beside him, stroking his back and speaking quietly. “...so here’s the plan — we’ll get you into the shower, it’ll be nice and hot and you’ll feel a million times better, and I’ll come back here and clean everything — ”
“I threw up in the bed,” Scorpius says, looking nauseous at the very thought of it.
“That’s fine, I’ll take care of it. Nan will never know.”
“I feel awful. So, so awful. I think I’m still drunk. How can I be drunk and hungover?”
“Because you’re great at multitasking.”
Scorpius laughs very weakly. “Stop it. I look and feel disgusting, and you’re sitting there being perfect. I hate you.”
“Trust me, I am suffering for that gin,” James says. “Come on, I’ll help you get to the shower.” He stands, helping Scorpius get to his feet.
Harry steps away from the door and goes downstairs, where Rose is sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at a plate of eggs and bacon as if gazing into the maw of death itself.
“No,” Rose says at last, very firmly.
”You’ll feel better,” Ron says, standing by the stove, a spatula in one hand. “Trust me.”
”No.”
”It’ll settle your stomach.”
”It will make me throw up my own eyeballs.” Rose reaches out with one finger and slowly pushes the plate away. “You’ve burned the bacon, anyway. Where’s Nan?”
”She’s lying down very quietly in the dark. Says she’s suddenly got a very bad cold.”
”Didn’t know you could get a cold by drinking all night and bellowing terrible songs until three in the morning.”
Ron points the spatula at Rose. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll agree she has a cold.”
”Where’s Mum, then?” Rose mutters.
”Well, we lost her for a bit, but Fleur found her asleep this morning in the fireplace of Shell Cottage.”
”What? Why?”
”I don’t know. Nobody knows. I don’t think your mum knows.”
Harry clears his throat. “I was going to take Scorpius and James home,” he says, “but I think it’s a bit unkind to make them suffer through the Floo or Disapparate. Might leave them here to sleep it off.”
Ron shrugs. “I don’t think anyone will mind. Honestly, I’ve lost track of who ended up where. Rose, if you’re going to puke, go to the bathroom.”
”I can’t,” Rose says sullenly. “It’s occupied.”
”Use the one upstairs.”
”They’re all occupied. This house is full of hungover people, Dad.”
“I’m not hungover.”
”I noticed.”
”Did you?” Ron says, and he turns the nearby radio on and starts whistling cheerfully along to ‘If You’re A Seeker, My Heart’s A Snitch’.
Rose gets up and leaves.
Harry laughs. “Don’t be too awful. Anyway, I’m going home. Got to run a few errands today.”
Ron waves the spatula at him. “No worries. I’ll make sure the boys are all right.”
”Thanks.”
Harry goes over to the fireplace and steps into the Floo; as soon as he arrives home, he bumps straight into Draco.
”Bloody hell! What are you doing here?”
”Thought you’d be here with the boys,” Draco says, unperturbed.
”You should see them. It’s pitiful. I thought I’d leave them alone.”
Draco leads the way to the kitchen and pokes the kettle with his wand. “Pass me the Prophet, then. I want the crossword.”
“I’m doing it,” Harry says stubbornly, picking up a quill. “Five across. Potion for the fainthearted.”
“I’m not helping.”
“Thanks ever so much.”
Draco sits at the table. “Listen, Potter. I came over to discuss a particular gift I’m planning on giving to James.”
Harry glances up at him. “Right,” he says suspiciously. “Is it an acromantula?”
“What? No.”
“A blast-ended skrewt?”
“It’s not alive.”
“A rejection letter.”
“Rejection of what?”
Harry shrugs. “Just a rejection of him in general.”
“It’s a gift to both James and Scorpius,” Draco says irritably. “They’ll both benefit from it.”
“Is it your slightly distant and rarely given approval?”
“I’ll just tell you,” Draco snaps, and Harry rolls his eyes.
“So tell me, then.”
Draco does.
James is thankful that Harry lets him have a day’s rest from the task of the manor; he’s only too happy to spend the time in his room with the curtains closed, curled up with Scorpius. The day afterwards, though, there’s no such luck and he’s sent away to finish the broom shed. The rest of the manor is nearly complete, ready for the Trust to arrive and rearrange and restore and recreate. James is secretly glad that only the personal items are being removed, with most of the furniture, antiques, and tapestries left to the Trust. He can handle the manor looking slightly sparse; he cannot imagine it empty.
The broom shed, on the other hand, is cluttered with broomsticks. Evidently no Malfoy ever thought to throw out a broom.
“Didn’t your dad have money problems for years?” James asks Scorpius, who is very delicately poking through a pile of quaffles even though he claims not to be afraid of spiders in the slightest.
“Yeah, why?”
James holds up a broom. “Could be wrong, but this looks like the prototype of the first ever Comet broom.”
Scorpius swears loudly and drops a quaffle, leaping away from it.
“Spider?” James asks innocently.
“I thought it was a quaffle!”
James gingerly pokes it with the broom, then steps back rather sharply. “Is that a mummified gnome?”
Harry steps through the door. “Ah, there you two are. Draco’s asked for you. He’s in his study.”
“All right,” Scorpius says cautiously, swapping a look with James. “I’ll just — ”
“James first. Then you.”
“What? Why?” James demands, and Harry shrugs.
“I wouldn’t know. He’s sitting in there staring at papers and not saying much.”
James gives Scorpius a look. “All right. Well...have fun with the gnomes.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He steps out into the bright sunlight, feeling apprehensive.
He was right to be apprehensive, he thinks. When he steps into the study, Draco is sitting at his desk with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
“James,” Draco says, and James has the absurd feeling that he is about to turn on a banker’s lamp, steeple his fingers, and ask James what his intentions are regarding Scorpius. Instead, he says, “For Merlin’s sake, have a seat. Relax. Stop acting as if I’m about to ask you what your intentions are regarding my son. Quite frankly, I have a vague idea about those intentions and I’d much rather they stayed vague.”
“Oh.” James meekly sits down.
Draco uncaps the bottle, pours a dram, then says, “Drink?”
“What? Oh — no, thank you,” James says politely.
“Anyway. I wanted to say that although I never really warmed to you and regarded you as an obnoxious, selfish child with no consideration for others — ”
“Think I will have that drink.”
Draco pours him a dram without pause. “I realise, however, most children are selfish and obnoxious, and perform actions alarmingly reflexively, with little thought to consequences.” He looks at James expectantly, then takes a sip of the whiskey.
“Er,” James says. “Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Oh.”
“You’re no longer a child,” Draco says very patiently, as if explaining to a concerned toddler that the sun will come back in the morning, “so I’ve realised I should be judging you on your merits as an adult.”
“Oh, no,” James says with dismay.
Draco surveys him, then asks, “You don’t think you have merits?”
“I’ve got — er— attributes.” James has suffered through enough questions from his aunts and uncles to know what’s coming next: what’s his career plan? Is he studying at one of the wizarding academies next year? Why not? What’s he want to do with his life? Completely his choice, of course, but it would be wonderful if he could be something like a Healer or Auror...
But Draco doesn’t ask any of those questions. He just takes another sip of his whiskey, sets it down, opens his desk drawer, removes a thick folder of paper, and waits.
A few minutes later, there’s the sound of footsteps, and Scorpius steps into the study. He looks at James in askance; James shrugs.
“You wanted to see us?” Scorpius asks Draco, sitting down next to James.
“Yes. We’re celebrating. Drink?”
“Er,” Scorpius says.
Draco hands him a glass. Scorpius raises it hesitantly.
“And...what are we toasting?” James asks.
Draco nods at the folder. Scorpius looks at him, then opens it and reads the first page slowly, looking confused. “I don’t understand,” he says at last.
James leans over, stares at the page, and does understand. He looks up at Draco, wide-eyed. “This is real?”
”Of course.” Draco raises his glass. “Happy eighteenth, Scorpius.”
Scorpius looks at him blankly.
Harry must’ve known, James thinks, because he’s waiting outside the study and laughs as soon James emerges from it.
“You should see your face!” Harry says triumphantly.
“Still can’t believe it,” James says dazedly.
“Where’s Scorpius?”
“I’ve left him and Draco to have a moment.”
Harry is looking enormously smug, as if he were the one who planned it. “You’re going to love it.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Draco showed me the pictures yesterday. I had no idea what he’d been up to.”
Scorpius comes charging out of the study then, and crushes James into a hug. “Dad’s got a portkey. Let’s go!”
James laughs into his shoulder. Behind him, Draco is smiling and holding up the little silver rat James had made for Scorpius so many years ago. The first gift he ever gave him.
“Let’s see your home,” Draco says.
It’s a small terrace house in a Muggle suburb, near Scorpius’s university, but to James, it may as well be a palace. He tumbles through the front door and sees the scratched floorboards, the crooked ceiling light, a scuff mark on the hallway wall, and it is perfect. Scorpius races down the hallway, ends up in the kitchen, and stops so suddenly that James runs right into him.
“I took the liberty of furnishing it,” Draco says from behind them. “It’s always nice to have everything you need.”
Scorpius is staring at the kettle, the toaster. The dishwasher and fridge. The microwave. Round the corner of the kitchen, there’s a tiny laundry alcove, equipped with a washer and dryer. Scorpius’s gaze drifts to the door frame; there’s a light switch next to it.
“It’s...it’s all...Muggle,” he says. “We can’t use magic here.”
“Keep looking,” Draco says lightly.
Scorpius glances at him, then continues his exploration. The house is small — there’s a bathroom and two bedrooms, one larger than the other, and Scorpius turns to James and says playfully, “This one’s mine.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Ours, I hope you mean.”
Scorpius stares at him as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “Ours,” he breathes.
“The other bedroom is a study, anyway. For James, if he pursues a magical career,” Draco says, and Scorpius gives him a curious look.
“But the magic, it would kill the electricity — ”
“Depends how you modify the room. If you rebuilt it with anti-magic material and appropriately sealed the door — ”
“How much did that cost?” James blurts out, shocked. He knows Scorpius’s little laptop case alone is worth over a thousand galleons.
“I could afford it,” Draco says evasively.
“You sealed a whole room to contain magic?” Scorpius demands.
“It’s a house for you and James. It needed to be modified. There’s no wards on the house — none of the usual magical securities.” Draco points to a fireplace. “But James can come into this room and use the Floo as needed. It’s connected. Just always make sure you close the door first. As for you, Scorpius, there’s a bus stop just around the corner — I’m afraid the bus trip is a bit of a pain, it’s about thirty minutes to the university campus — ”
“Half an hour is nothing,” Scorpius says. “It’s nothing.”
That’s when James notices his voice is a bit choked and his eyes are a bit wet, and he tactfully ushers Harry outside to look at the tiny garden.
“I hope you said thank you,” Harry tells James as they survey the little square of grass.
“Thank you doesn’t even cover it. I take back every horrible thing I ever thought about him, and would like to nominate him for Order of Merlin, First Class.”
Harry laughs. “I wouldn’t go that far. Second Class, maybe.”
“You’ve got no idea how happy this will make Scorpius. Both of us, but especially Scorpius.”
“Draco knows. That’s why he did it.”
“Safe to say Scorpius has forgiven him.”
Harry hesitates, then says, “He told me yesterday that he bought the house two months ago. Originally just for Scorpius, since he didn’t know you two were together at that point. He assumed you’d be flatmates at least, anyway. But he waited until he was sure Scorpius had already forgiven him. He didn’t want this to be about forgiveness. Not trying to win favour, he said. He wanted it to be about trust. Trust that Scorpius will succeed in his Muggle career. Trust that you’ll want to live together — that’s a big commitment. Trust that you’ll stick around, James.” Harry pauses, then says, “So don’t let him down. Or me, or Scorpius.”
“I won’t,” James says at once. “You’ll see. I can’t prove it now, but wait and see.”
They give the garden one final look. James raises his arm and points to a patch of sunlight. “Right there,” he says.
“What?”
“That’s where the cactus is going.”
Harry laughs.
Scorpius is especially affectionate that night. He kisses James’s shoulder, his neck, his jaw. He kisses him slow and deep, winding his fingers through James’s hair, and it doesn’t take long for them to break out in the dark together. James always loves that he gets to see Scorpius fall apart, all graceless limbs and breaths that come quick and sharp with no real rhythm, and best of all, James thinks, is Scorpius’s face, with every single expression clear as light, every little crease of his brow, and the shape of his mouth, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes open, expression sometimes of concentration and other times exhilaration.
Then he gets to see Scorpius put himself back together again, curl in close to James’s side, his face becoming still, his entire body lapsing into content relaxation, and sometimes they talk and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes they laugh and nudge each other and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes James leaps out of bed because now he’s late for swim practice, and sometimes Scorpius gets up and leaves because he’s hungry or wants a shower, and sometimes they just linger.
Tonight, they linger.
James rests one hand on Scorpius’s hip — one of his favourite things, he thinks, that little jut of bone, rising up and then falling into a soft, slight dip that James occasionally torments with kisses. But for now James just rests his hand upon it and makes no movement.
Scorpius’s eyes are closed for a long time, and James thinks perhaps he’s gone to sleep, but then he catches ahold of James’s hand and smooths it out, unfurling his fingers.
And James doesn’t know if it’s because of all the events of the day, or the realisation that they get to keep living together, sharing each day, or even Harry’s little speech about trust, but he says apropos of nothing, “Do you really believe in all that rubbish about love at first sight?
Scorpius laughs, a sleepy rumble in his chest. “Clearly you don’t.”
“But I was such a little prat. I just don’t understand.”
“Yeah, go figure.”
James allows himself the luxury of a kiss to the back of Scorpius’s neck; Scorpius gives a little shiver. “Tell me about it.”
“About you being a little prat?”
James gives him a little nip this time, a kiss with more teeth than lip, and Scorpius laughs again.
“Okay, okay. Let me think.”
James waits patiently. After a while, Scorpius speaks again.
“Close your eyes.”
“God, if I’d realised you were going to turn this into an exercise — ”
“Close them,” Scorpius says with a laugh, wriggling around to face James and put his hands over James’s eyes.
“All right, all right,” James says, smiling and swatting Scorpius’s hands away. “They’re closed.”
“Okay, so picture somewhere dark.”
“Like under a bed?”
“What? No. Stop playing about or I won’t tell you.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“What are you picturing?” Scorpius asks suspiciously.
“The way I walk on my way to swim practice. It’s early in the morning. Still dark out.” James recalls those mornings by the lake well. Quiet and dark and still, with a silver frost on the ground and air so crisp it hurt to breathe.
“So you’re walking to the lake. And you see something,” Scorpius says. “Something bright. Flitting through the trees in the forest. Just out of the corner of your eye.”
“What is it?” James asks, curious despite himself.
“A patronus.”
“Whose?”
James hears the shrug in Scorpius’s voice. “Anyone’s. It’s racing away from you, heading into the forest. What do you do?”
“Follow it,” James says at once.
“Why?”
“I...” James searches his thoughts, then opens his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Scorpius is smiling at him. “Me neither. Maybe it’s just curiosity, or because you just know it could never lead you anywhere bad, but you end up following it. You don’t even think about the fact you’re leaving your familiar path and chasing something through the dark. You just know that you need to see where it goes.”
“Oh.”
“That’s what it was like,” Scorpius says. “Falling in love with you.”
James looks at Scorpius, then says, “I wish it had been that way for me, too. The moment I saw you, I mean.”
“It’s okay. You can’t choose when it happens.”
“I suppose. It’s up to fate, isn’t it?”
“Astra inclinant,” Scorpius says.
“Hm.” James sits up, leans over Scorpius, and picks up his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”
The light burns bright, taking a while to retreat and reveal the crisp outline of a scorpion. It crawls towards them, tail unfurled, ready to greet rather than attack.
Scorpius stares at it, then says weakly, “It’s me.”
“Don’t be stupid, you don’t have a tail.”
Scorpius laughs then, and the scorpion crawls along James’s arm and rests on his wrist, still glowing fiercely with light. Scorpius is full of admiration. “Look how corporeal it is! It’s perfect. Which memory?” he demands, his eyes bright.
“All of them, I suppose.”
“Oh, you linked a few?”
“No, I just —” James gestures, tries to find the words, and blurts out, “I just think of you.”
Scorpius understands, because he’s always been good at hearing the silences between words.
“I just think of you too,” he says.
They lay together in the dark, watching the patronus gradually fade, and then James says, “We’ll always be best friends, won’t we? No matter what happens.”
“Always.”
They fall asleep still holding each other.
Summer is coming to an end, much to Harry’s alarm. The temperature dwindles, ready for autumn. The fields of gold turn to pale green as the rain begins to seep back into the dry earth. In Diagon Alley, fresh-faced children clutch parcels and consult their Hogwarts lists. Harry pauses outside Ollivander’s as he wanders through Diagon Alley one day; through the dusty window, he can see a young child staring with awe at the wand in their hand as it omits a modest spray of red sparks. Next to the child, the mother is smiling and snapping a picture, ready to preserve the treasured moment.
“Stop it! I’m telling Dad!”
“Teddy, leave your cousin alone. This is an important moment.”
Harry watches a moment longer, then turns away. Farther down the street, there’s the Magical Menagerie, where James had once stared longingly at jewel-eyed frogs and fluffy Kneazles —
“Come on, we’ve talked about this. Maybe next year.”
— and then Madam Malkin’s, where the hems of the little robes still needed to be taken up to fit James’s scrawny frame.
“Ouch!”
“Well, sit still, dear.”
Harry blinks, and then just for a moment —
“Hullo. Hogwarts too?”
“Yes.”
He half-smiles, remembering the first words eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy spoke to him. At the time, he thought Draco an unkind little boy, as much of a bully as Dudley, but now he looks back and recalls how every sentence out of Draco’s mouth seemed to start with the words ‘My father says’.
He thinks of Draco now, speaking of his father in quiet and weary tones, referring to him as a misguided man ruined by his own upbringing.
“Hello.”
Harry glances up and smiles. “I was just thinking about you.”
Draco glances at Madam Malkin’s, then rolls his eyes. “You’re far too nostalgic. It’s nauseating.”
“You’re late.”
“Am I?” Draco asks unconcernedly, and Harry elbows him.
“You’re buying lunch, then.”
“Only because you can’t afford it.”
“You were poor not too long ago. Typical. You sell one little fourteenth-century manor and suddenly you think you’re filthy rich.”
Draco just grins at him and steps away, leading the way to the nearby cafe.
The European Swimming Championships come and go. Harry attends it and thinks of all the other swim meets he’s attended over the years. Ginny was the one who first took James to the pool, at just six months old. Babies like the water, she’d told Harry, and she’d been so proud when James had instinctively kicked his chubby little legs against the water, eyes wide with wonder.
Now, eighteen years later, James cuts through the water with strength and speed that Harry could never hope to match. He doesn’t win all his races, but he’s never far behind. And — in the most euphoric moment of the day, with both Scorpius and Harry on their feet, cheering themselves hoarse — James beats the freestyle record for both fifty and a hundred metres.
At the end of the day, James farewells them — he’s got a celebratory dinner with the swim team, followed by a less official celebration (sans Saltworth, Harry realises) at a nearby pub.
“Might be home a bit late,” James says to Harry, and then he turns to Scorpius and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight.”
A nearby middle-aged man stares at them pointedly, his mouth a thin line of disapproval, which for some reason enrages Harry.
“Can I help you?” he says loudly, and the man gets up and leaves, shaking his head.
“Dad,” James says, “if you fight another dad in the spectator stands at the swimming pool — ”
“Yes, you’ll be terribly embarrassed,” Harry mutters.
“ — I’ll be a bit impressed. But only a bit. Mostly embarrassed,” James says. “Can you put some dinner aside for me?”
“You’re going to a nice restaurant!”
“Yeah, but I know you made slow-cooked shepherd’s pie and it’s my favourite.”
“Fine,” Harry says grudgingly. As James walks away, he calls out, “Or maybe I’ll just feed it to the ducks!”
He expects an eye-roll, but James throws his head back and laughs hard, and despite the incident with the disapproving man, Harry goes home smiling to himself.
The last two weeks of summer marks a flurry of activity. Scorpius is preparing for his first term at university, James is attending a few birthday parties for his cousins, Harry gets side-tracked by another missing war victim who he’s on the cusp of locating, and Draco is giving the manor one last tidy before handing it over to the Trust.
And Scorpius and James are moving into their new home.
Harry tries not to think about it too much.
Neither of them request help, and Harry learns from Draco that Scorpius simply moved his conveniently-packed bedroom from the manor to the flat, and the boys have ventured out a couple of times to buy a few essentials, but little else.
Harry stops by to visit one morning, when they’re making a list of needed items. “Still got a way to go,” he says a bit uneasily.
James gives him an offended look. “We’re nearly done.”
“What? You barely have any furniture, besides what Draco bought!”
“We’ll get around to it eventually.”
“You’ve got to make it look nice. Put some pictures on the wall. Buy a rug. Some nice lamps.”
“Sounds a bit gay, no offence,” James says, and then he laughs; Harry rolls his eyes.
“Very funny. Do you even have tea towels? Pots and pans? How will you cook?”
“Order a pizza.”
“Suppose I’ll have to teach you how,” Scorpius comments, stepping into the kitchen.
“I’ll look it up online, find the website, and call the number, it’s not that hard,” James says casually. Scorpius stares hard at him, and James grins. “What? I might have studied a little bit about Muggles over the summer. Just so you don’t need to worry about teaching me how to use the oven and fridge and television — ”
Scorpius crowds James against the kitchen counter and kisses him until Harry clears his throat, shifts around for a bit, then decides he needs to go home and wash the dishes or do his taxes or something.
He ends up going to the manor instead, where he roams the hallways for a while before finding Draco.
“Oh, hello,” Draco says distractedly; he’s packing up his bedroom now, leaving only his bed.
“Hi.”
“Another personal crisis, then?”
“Not really.” Harry sits on the edge of the bed and watches Draco fold his clothes. It’s oddly soothing. “Have the boys moved in yet? They didn’t come home last night.”
“Wouldn’t say so. They’ve still got a few things to buy, Scorpius said. Plus they were planning to throw a little housewarming party, which I assume is an excuse to get drunk with their mates.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t do it, Potter.”
“Do what?”
“Get all maudlin. Sit at the window and gaze mournfully outside. Wait by the fireplace and complain that James never fire-calls you anymore.”
Harry scowls at him. “I’m allowed to be sad about it.”
“Yes, you are. But James is allowed to be happy about it too.”
“I know.” Harry picks at a thread on the coverlet. “What about you? Where will you be going?”
“Latvia. It’s a beautiful country, you know. Wouldn’t mind seeing it without the complications of a wanted fugitive.”
Harry doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but Draco laughs and says, “Calm down, Potter. I’m not going there to live. I’m not living anywhere for a while, I think. I just want to travel for a bit. See the world. I spent years and years forbidden to leave this country. Now I can go.”
“See where the world ends,” Harry says lightly.
“Well, it has to end somewhere, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” After a moment — perhaps to take Draco by surprise, or be irritating, or maybe it’s actually genuine — Harry says, “I’ll miss you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Draco says, neatly folding a set of dress robes. But then he adds after a moment — not looking up, still busily folding things — “I’ll write.”
“Send some postcards too.”
“Yes, yes. Are you just going to sit there, or make yourself useful and bring me a cup of tea?”
“What did your last house-elf die from?”
“Took too long to get the tea and had a tragic accident on the stairs.”
“I’m telling Hermione you said that.”
“And a biscuit!” Draco calls after him.
Harry’s smiling as he descends the stairs.
When he goes home that night, James is in the attic.
Packing things.
“Need any help?” Harry asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Reckon I’m fine.”
Harry says nothing. He watches James wander around the room, seemingly picking items at random: a few books, a couple of photographs, a pair of spare swimming goggles, and a little blue orb. At last he tapes the box shut, sets it on top of his Hogwarts trunk (in which Harry got a glimpse of just clothes and nothing else) and says, sounding satisfied, “Done.”
“What do you mean, done? You’ve got — everything else,” Harry says in disbelief, gesturing around the room at the cluttered desk, the Quidditch figures on the rafters, the bookshelf still lined with books, the bedside table with the Hogwarts Express lamp.
James frowns. “What? I don’t need all this stuff. I’d like to keep it here for when I visit. Don’t even need my bed — Scorpius moved his from the manor. I thought it’d work out great when I came back here for Christmas and New Year — oh God, don’t tell me you want it empty to make room for an extra study or something,” James says, looking both hurt and appalled.
“No! No, no,” Harry says weakly. “It’s actually— I was sort of dreading coming up here and finding an empty room.”
James stares at him for a bit, as if trying to figure something out. Then he comes over to the bed and sits next to him. “Dad,” he says very patiently, “you know I’m coming back, right? I’ll always come back. Might sound a bit weird, but I’m actually slightly fond of you.”
“Don’t get too carried away,” Harry says. But then he adds a wan smile and says, “Door’s always open.”
James stands up. “I know. You’re always telling me to stop letting all the bloody heat out.”
“Just wait until you have to redo your heating charms every week.”
“Muggle house, remember?” James says dismissively, climbing down the attic ladder.
“I certainly hope you learned about electricity bills during your Muggle enlightenment.”
“Obviously!” James shouts, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, and Harry makes a mental note to remind Scorpius of the existence of bills.
He sits on the bed for a while, looking around the room at the clutter of James’s life. After a moment, he gets up and looks at the pictures on the wall, the only remnants of the nursery. Ginny commissioned them from Dean Thomas, he remembers. The first gift they gave James. He hadn’t even been born then. Harry remembers thinking how strange it was that he loved James so much his heart ached, and yet he hadn’t even met him. Hadn’t ever seen his face or heard his voice. They hadn’t even picked his name by then. Harry had known nothing about him, only that he loved him.
“Do you mind if I take one of the pictures?”
Harry glances up. James has returned, the cactus nestled in his arms. “They’re your pictures, of course you can take them.”
“You did say the new house needed pictures.” James sets the cactus down and walks over to the wall, then reaches out and gently unhooks the drawing of the badger family. The badgers are fast asleep, curled around each other, and don’t rouse. James stares down at the picture, watching the baby badger give a tiny yawn.
“It’s exciting, isn’t it? Your own place,” Harry says. “And being with Scorpius too, I know you’ll be so happy.”
James puts the picture down, then says quietly, “I am, but I’m a bit sad too. I mean, I’m really happy, but at the same time...” He stops, then says, “This is where I grew up. It’s kind of hard to say goodbye. That’s why I...I’m not taking everything. I just want to keep a little bit of it, that’s all.”
Harry reaches out and pulls him into a hug. “I promise,” he says solemnly, “I’m not going to turn it into a study.”
“Thanks. God, have you always been this short?” James asks, his voice coming from just above Harry’s ear.
Harry rolls his eyes and steps back. “No. Draco hit me with a shrinking hex last week.”
“The terrifying thing is,” James says, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
Harry looks at him. James is tall, taller than Harry, and Harry thinks of all the times he used to pick James up effortlessly. All the times he’d casually scoop him up to soothe him after a fall. All the times he’d run through the house, carrying a giggling toddler on his shoulders. Look, I’m a giant, James used to say with awe. I’m tall when I’m on your shoulders.
Harry knows he’s got that look on his face, the one that always makes James laugh and tease him, makes him say, Go on, then, go cry over my baby pictures and Yes, yes, how I’ve grown, et cetera.
But this time, James touches his shoulder and says, “I was thinking Sunday dinner each week. Me and Scorpius. And Draco too.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Can’t miss the Sunday roast.”
They smile at each other, then Harry says, “Come on, then. I’ll help you move your things.”
They leave the attic, the light spells fading behind them, leaving the room in darkness.
The last day of summer arrives.
Everything personal has been removed from the manor. Harry walks through the rooms one final time, Draco by his side, both of them idly reminiscing. Ahead of them, Scorpius and James chase each other along hallways and down hidden staircases, their laughter echoing and bounding through the rooms. Harry and Draco move far more sedately, wandering in and out of sitting rooms and bedrooms. They go to Draco’s study, where Harry unexpectedly gets a bit nostalgic and Draco teases him for it.
“Are you crying over my study?”
“Oh, shut up, Malfoy. It’s just...it’s empty now,” Harry says. Though the Trust gained a lot of furnishings and the other rooms look quite nice, still furnished with antique furniture and tapestries, Draco has removed most items from the study. Only two upholstered armchairs remain, arranged by the fireplace. The mantle is empty of photographs, and the pictures have been taken from the wall. “And the desk is gone,” Harry says helplessly. “The room looks...odd without it.”
“Had to take it. It’s got a hundred letters engraved upon it. Those are my memories.”
Harry looks around. “If walls had words,” he murmurs, “this place would fill books.”
Draco rests his hand against the door with its ornate wooden carvings. “And now others can read them.”
Harry glances at him, and he smiles.
Draco smiles back at him.
The kitchen is the final room; Draco has left what he terms ‘the necessities of civilisation’: the kettle and tea supplies.
And the Monopoly board.
Draco packs up the tea necessities, then looks at the board. “I don’t know what to do with it,” he confesses. “Everything else is going into storage until I’ve finished travelling, but this...” He trails off.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll take it home and set it up on my kitchen table,” Harry says briskly. “Floo’s always open. Between holidays, I’m sure you’ll find time to pop in.”
Draco looks at him with something dreadfully close to fondness, but then he huffs and says, “You’ll cheat. That’s always how you win.”
“Stick a preserving charm on it.”
“I will. Several, in fact. If you meddle with the bank, I’ll know,” Draco says ominously.
“I’m the honourable one. You’re the one who stole Mayfair — ”
“That was four years ago. Learn to let go, Potter.”
Harry pauses. “It’s gone quiet. Where’s the boys?”
“Outside.”
“Now that’s an excellent idea. The weather is perfect.”
And it is.
They end up spending a leisurely afternoon on the lawns of the manor, lazing in the shade of a sprawling laurel tree. Harry had briefly departed to find replenishments at the local village and had returned with a selection of pastries and drinks to celebrate the last day of summer; Scorpius and James had descended like seagulls upon the impromptu picnic.
Now Harry and Draco sit against the sun-warmed tree and idly watch as the boys playfully wrestle across the lawns. James grabs Scorpius and says something to him; Scorpius throws his head back and laughs loudly.
“How do they have the energy?” Harry wonders aloud.
“They stole it from us.”
“I’m willing to accept that theory.” Harry takes a sip of his cider. “Don’t you wish you were young again?”
“Dear Merlin, no.”
Harry grins lopsidedly. “Me neither.”
“All those years wasted over worrying what others think.”
“Being way too nice to people, just because you didn’t want to seem rude.”
“Mm, no, never had that problem,” Draco says, and Harry laughs.
In the distance, James emerges from the hedge maze, then peers through the gaps in the foliage, evidently searching for Scorpius. He calls out indistinctly; there’s an answering shout, tinged with laughter.
“They seem very happy,” Harry observes.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of James, then?”
Draco pauses, then shrugs lightly. “He’s all right.”
Harry’s grinning. “I can see what you’re thinking. You adore him.”
“I do not!”
“You’ve gotten dreadfully transparent in your old age, you know — ”
“I am two months older than you.”
“Yes, but you’ve gotten very,” Harry drops his voice, “Senti— ”
“I am not sentimental. That’s absurd, it’s — Scorpius! Don’t you dare break that urn!”
Scorpius halts midway through lobbing the urn at a laughing James. “This vase?”
“Urn! It contains the ashes of Gumbles, my mother’s favourite peacock.”
Scorpius laughs once, uncertainly, then says, “Oh, right, yes, of course,” and sets the urn down gingerly. He picks up the vase next to it.
“No. That’s Bottie, my mother’s second favourite.”
“That’s...amazing,” Scorpius says, and he turns to James and mutters something. James throws a handful of weeds at him and bolts away laughing as Scorpius gives chase.
“They remind me of us,” Harry says suddenly, and Draco’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline. “No, not — not like that, just — stop it, stop looking at me like that, you know what I meant — ”
“I mean, I’m flattered, I truly am, but — ”
“Knock it off, you prat — ”
“ — unfortunately I only play for the opposing team, but I’d just like to say that I’m honoured you feel comfortable enough to divulge details of your intimate life — ”
“The act of throwing weeds at each other, that’s what reminded me of us!”
“Oh, yes, of course that’s what you meant,” Draco says soothingly.
“It is! And incidentally, you don’t play for the opposing team. You aren’t even playing. You’re sitting in the stands, staring blankly at the pitch as you try to think of that crossword answer that’s been annoying you all morning.”
“Seventeen down. Scottish mountain.”
“Ben Nevis.”
“Doesn’t fit.”
“Suilven?”
“No.”
“Damn it.”
There’s a distant, very outraged yelp; Harry watches as James staggers out of an ornamental fountain, wet and bedraggled, and chases after a cackling Scorpius.
Draco takes another sip of his wine. “Nothing wrong with being a spectator, anyway,” he says. “I’m quite happy staying in the stands, away from all the collisions and catastrophes.”
“Well, you might end up on the pitch soon.”
“You are persistent, aren’t you? As I said, I’m flattered — ”
“Are you? I wouldn’t be. My standards have dropped dramatically.”
“Well, you certainly know how to flirt.”
Harry rolls his eyes and sets his bottle of cider down. “Anyway. I was talking about Pansy Parkinson.”
“Clayton. She married.”
“Parkinson. She divorced.”
Draco sits up a little. “When? I saw her recently and she was waxing lyrical about her perfect life.”
“How recently?”
Draco taps a finger against his wineglass, thinking for a long moment. “About a week before my birthday...? Last week of May.”
Harry whistles low. “She moves fast. Divorced in April.”
“How do you know?”
“Hermione. She had lunch with Parvati last week. She likes to pretend she’s above it all, but she secretly loves a good gossip.”
Draco considers that, then settles back into the grass. “Why’d she divorce him?”
“Oh, no. He divorced her. She’s been really enjoying her social life lately. Christopher’s feeling very left out of all the little Pureblood soirées.” Harry wriggles his eyebrows. “I’d say it’s not a coincidence that she turned up on your doorstep.”
Draco shrugs. “She only visited to be outraged by the sale of the manor. Wanted me to fix things, she said.”
“I bet.”
Draco takes another sip of his wine. The sunshine pours through the leaves, sending shadows rippling across them. The smell of fresh cut grass lingers in the air. A starling hops close to them and away again, trying to gather the courage to collect their crumbs. The boys are out of sight now, playing silly games amongst the lilac hedges, but occasionally a snatch of laughter drifts out into the cloudless blue above.
“So?” Harry says.
“Hm?”
“This could be it. Your chance with Pansy. Are you going to fix it?”
Draco allows himself the luxury of sprawling across the grass. Above him, the leaves of the laurel are a frenzy of green. The sunlight lances through the leaves, illuminating imperfections: broken stalks, caterpillar bites, little patterns of spots.
“There’s nothing to fix,” he says.
Harry tilts his head back and studies the leaves too. After a moment, he sits up properly and finishes his cider in one long draught. “Ben Nevis.”
“Said that one already.”
“What’s the Gaelic word for it?”
“Ah!” Draco sits up. “Beinn Nibheis. I’ll write it in later.”
“Knew we’d get it.”
“Don’t let me forget.”
“I won’t.”
They look across the lawns for a while. The starling finally gathers its nerve and darts forward, triumphantly seizing a crumb. Harry sets his empty bottle aside in the grass and watches an ant crawl along it.
“Boys have been quiet for a bit,” Draco observes.
“Hm.”
“Should we see if they’re all right?”
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that, no.”
It takes Draco a moment. “Oh,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Another cider, then?”
“Might actually be refined,” Harry says, “and try the wine.”
“It’s wasted on you, but fine.”
“Do you actually like wine? You seemed more of a whiskey wizard.”
“I appreciate a good wine like every other civilised person.”
Harry ignores the gibe. “I’ve got a cellar full of good wine. Shame to let it sit there gathering dust.”
Draco searches his memories. “But isn’t that Ginny’s wine?”
“She’s going to have a very hard time drinking it.”
Draco looks at Harry for a moment, then starts laughing. Harry grins at him.
“She’d laugh about it too,” he says. “The whole thing, really. If I told her who James would end up with, she’d laugh until she cried. She always loved it when fate played games like that.”
”Astra inclinant.” Draco stands up, brushing the grass from his robes. “The stars incline us.”
Harry considers that as he picks up his cider bottle and brushes the ants from it. “I like it. It’s a bit reassuring, in a way. Fate leads the way.”
“Got to remember the second bit, though. Sed non obligant. They do not bind us.”
“And that’s the most important bit, is it?”
“Oh, yes. We’re nothing without free will.”
They stand for a moment, looking over the manor gardens. The bright sunshine of the summer day is mellowing into the deep gold of the evening. The sun is sinking lower and lower; its rays are creeping beneath the tree now. The ants are industriously carrying crumbs away, busy with their tiny tasks. The starling hops through the grass, then takes flight as a peacock screeches in the distance.
“Shall we go in, then?”
“It’s about that time, I suppose.”
“Beinn Nibheis,” Harry says. “Don’t forget.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Still coming round Sunday?”
“Five o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“Six.”
“I’ll make a note.”
They wander inside, leaving the day behind them.
Chapter 37: Epilogue
Chapter Text
James stands in front of the house, waiting patiently. It’s a beautiful little cottage, the front door framed by stained-glass panels. Roses bloom along the cobbled path, and an ancient apple tree casts dappled light over them.
His partner, Leigh, shifts her bag from one shoulder to another. James raises his hand to knock on the door again when it swings open, revealing an elderly man. He’s neatly dressed in a tweed suit, a pair of silver spectacles balancing on the end of his nose, and he reminds James of a faintly befuddled professor.
“Hello,” James says. “Emergency services.”
“You’re quick,” the man says, opening the door wider to allow them in. “I only sent the spell ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
“We try to be quick as we can,” Leigh says, smiling and stepping inside. “I understand your wife has taken a fall?”
The man nods and turns, setting off down the hallway. “I’m her husband, Harold. Sixth time this year Edith’s taken a fall. I can’t lift her myself, on account of my bad back, but it’s awful to leave her lying on the floor like that. I worry about her something dreadful, especially when I’m not here.”
They follow him into the bedroom. It’s a cosy room, a shrine to a life well-lived. There’s shelves overflowing with tattered books, and a dressing table with jewellery spilling from beautifully carved boxes. Photographs clutter every available surface, the happy faces of young and old alike smiling out from picture frames of tarnished silver. On the floor by the bed is Edith, nestled among pillows dragged from the bed, a tartan blanket pulled up to her chin.
James sets his bag down and crouches beside her. “Hello, Edith,” he says. “I’m James and this is Leigh. We’re emergency services.”
She stares at him. Her face is wrinkled and brown as a walnut, but she has startling blue eyes.
“Who?” she asks, her voice thin and afraid.
“Mediwizards, dear,” Harold says, going to her and touching her hand. She blinks at him. “They’re here to help us.”
“Does anything hurt, Edith?” Leigh asks.
“Who?” Edith repeats, and Harold looks up at James.
“Just a – just a touch of dementia,” he says, patting his wife’s hand. “Just a little confused sometimes, that’s all. But we’re all right. We’re fine. Aren’t we, dear?”
James draws his wand and helps Leigh get Edith back to bed, casting an immobilising charm until Edith is safely tucked beneath the blankets again.
“Now, I’ll just cast a few spells to see if everything’s all right, Edith,” Leigh says cheerfully, and that seems to remind Harold of something. He gives a little shake of his head.
“Goodness, where are my manners? Tea?”
“That would be lovely,” Leigh says, and James nods.
“I’ll help,” he says, following Harold from the room and to the kitchen. A plump tabby cat is draped over the rug near the kitchen hearth; James gives it a pat before putting the kettle on as Harold fetches mugs from the cupboard. Even the kitchen hasn’t escaped the piles of books that seems to settle around this house like drifts of snow, and James nearly knocks over a pile by the stove.
“All Edith’s books,” Harold says, measuring out the sugar. “She reads like other people eat. Devours words.” He pauses. “Sixty-five years we’ve been married, you know. But I remember the day I met her like it was yesterday. She was studying to be a nurse. Mind sharp and bright as a diamond. Her wit, that’s what caught my attention. Quick wit. She could make anyone laugh.”
“Sixty-five years? You must have some memories.” James accepts the cup of tea.
For a moment, a spark dances through Harold’s eyes. “Memories! Oh, I’ve got plenty of stories.” But then he stares down at his tea. “Sixty-five years,” he repeats, almost to himself. “Sixty-five years, and I never thought…I never thought her mind would go. I’d pay a hundred galleons just to hear her make another joke…”
Leigh comes into the kitchen then, tucking her wand away. “No need to take Edith to the hospital, I reckon,” she says, accepting Harold’s offered mug.
“Good to hear,” James says. “I think she’s most comfortable here.” He nods at the wall opposite, where a wooden train sits on a shelf. “Did you make that yourself?”
“Ah! I did!” The spark returns to Harold’s eyes as he talks about his carpentry hobby; evidently he made all the jewellery boxes on his wife’s dresser. James sips his tea and listens, nodding, as Harold explains the process of making them. “I’m so sorry,” he says suddenly. “Here you are, emergency services, being stuck with an old man nattering on about carpentry. I’m terribly sorry to be such a nuisance.”
“It’s fine,” James reassures him. “We’re just waiting for the next call, anyway. I’d rather be waiting here and having a bit of a chat than doing paperwork at the hospital.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Oh!” Leigh jumps up. James feels the same vibration in his pocket, and fetches the little green sphere from it. Tiny letters scroll across its surface: Two-year-old male, accidental poisoning. Name and address as follows. “Well, that’s our cue,” Leigh says. “Thanks so much for the tea, Harold. We’ll leave Edith in your hands.”
“But don’t hesitate to send off another spell if you need help, all right?” James adds.
They leave, picking up their bags, the potion vials and medicines clinking gently as they do so. Just as James is out the door, Harold calls out.
“Here,” he says, handing James a hand-carved wooden box, inlaid with a silver tree.
“Oh – I couldn’t possibly – ”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve made dozens of them, I’d be happy to give you this one.”
James accepts it and thanks him again, hurrying away. Leigh grins at him, taking a portkey from her bag.
“Lucky,” she says. “They always take a shine to you, don’t they?”
“Yeah. It’s my dazzling good looks.”
Leigh just laughs and taps the address code into the portkey. “Shall we?”
“Let’s go.”
The next hour is a busy one. They attend a toddler who got into his parents’ potion ingredients cupboard, a man badly Splinched during a drunken Disapparation, a brutal broom crash, and a witch wandering along Diagon Alley, having an episode. They portkey to St Mungo’s and take the witch over to the Psychiatric Evaluation Unit; afterwards, they sit in the tearoom and fill out the paperwork.
“Shift is nearly over,” Leigh notes.
“Thank Merlin.” James finishes the last of the forms. “One last call, I reckon.”
As if hearing his words, the sphere in his pocket begins to buzz.
The last call is for a little house in a leafy street, tucked away behind a wild garden. James stands with Leigh on the front porch, waiting to be let in. The door is painted white with a little pane of blue glass in the middle, and it reminds him of Edith’s eyes. That summer sky blue.
A middle-aged witch opens the door. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Lila’s carer. She’s taken a bad turn. It’s not looking good.”
”We’ll see what we can do,” Leigh says.
”She’s got an order,” the carer says.
”Ah.”
They make their way to Lila’s room. The curtains are pulled back, revealing the last golden rays of evening light. On the bedside table, there’s a glass of water and a framed photograph of a smiling young pilot, standing proudly next to a warplane. Lila herself is so emaciated and thin that she seems to disappear somehow, lost within the crisp white sheets of the bed. Only her breathing marks her presence, each inhale a laboured battle for air, each exhale a lingering rasp.
“May I see the order?” James asks quietly.
“Of course.” The carer hands him the forms. He looks over them. Do Not Attempt Resuscitation is written across the top in block letters, followed by Lila’s details.
“Thank you.”
James goes to the window and leans against the sill, feeling the warmth of the sun against his back. Leigh stands across the room, speaking quietly to the carer.
He waits. There’s nothing else they can do. He watches Lila for a while, wondering if her eyes are blue too. But she doesn’t open them.
He looks at the picture of the pilot instead. The carer seems to notice his gaze, for she speaks.
“Her husband. He died seventy years ago. She never remarried.”
“Seventy years?” Leigh repeats, sounding amazed.
The carer nods. “She’s ninety-six.”
James studies Lila’s hands, the way they clutch at the sheets. The skin is stretched paper-thin across her knuckles, the veins delicate as thin threads of ink. Almost like handwriting, he thinks.
The hands suddenly relax. There’s a pause in the air, like they’re all waiting for the next rattling breath, but it never happens. James straightens up and, in just two steps, is by Lila’s side. He reaches out and picks up her wrist. It feels warm and impossibly light in his hand, like he’s just picked up a sun-warmed feather. For a moment, silence reigns over the room.
James checks his watch, then nods at Leigh.
They leave the room. James and Leigh are ushered into the little kitchen, where they sit with cups of tea, filling in the paperwork.
“Seventy years,” Leigh says.
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time to wait.”
James takes a sip of tea and signs his name at the end of the form.
He goes home.
The house is warm and cosy; the kitchen lights are on, illuminating the intricate whorls and knots in the counters. They’d made them from wood salvaged from old London piers. The kitchen was one of the first rooms they’d decided to really make their own.
James kicks his boots off. The kitchen fire — burning brightly in the hearth — makes the house cosy and warm. He listens to the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece, finding a strange sort of serenity in just listening to the seconds go by. After a moment, he blinks and shakes his head. He’s just finished a twelve-hour shift and the exhaustion is heavy on him tonight.
He goes to the bathroom, stripping off and standing beneath the blissfully hot shower. Appreciative of the soothing warmth against his aching muscles, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes.
Footsteps.
James smiles as behind him, someone steps into the shower.
“Long day?” Scorpius asks, pulling James against him.
“Mm.” James leans back slightly, opening his eyes a little. “It’s good to be home.”
He closes his eyes again as Scorpius presses a kiss to his shoulder.
Scorpius is the first to leave the next day. He makes James a cup of tea before he leaves, setting it down on his bedside table.
“Come back to bed,” James murmurs.
“Can’t. I’m having breakfast with my fellow students.”
“At seven o’clock in the morning?”
“I’m not happy about it either.”
“Why does it have to be a celebration breakfast? Why not lunch or dinner?”
“Only time of the day everyone could make it.” Scorpius runs a hand through James’s hair. “I’ll be back soon.” He pauses. “You’ll be here, won’t you?”
“Of course, you muppet. I requested the day off months ago. There’s no way I’m missing it.”
Scorpius glances away, but James can see the smile uncurling in the corner of his mouth. He laughs and reaches out, grabbing ahold of Scorpius and dragging him back to bed.
“Just stay a little longer.”
Scorpius does. He lingers for a few moments, and then kisses James lightly before standing up again.
“I’ve got to go.”
“All right.”
James listens to Scorpius’s footsteps fade, smiling sleepily.
Today will be a good day.
“Today is going to be awful.”
Harry rolls his eyes, which only irritates Draco more.
“Come on, Draco. Everything will be fine.”
“Everything is going to go wrong. We’ll be an hour late, or all the pictures will turn out blurry. Especially if you’re taking them.”
“Mother of Merlin, will you shut up already? You know how Scorpius picks up on anxiety, if he sees you like this he’ll be nervous as anything.”
Draco gives Harry an annoyed look, but he has to concede that he has a point. “Scorpius will be nervous anyway,” he says. “He always gets nervous about this sort of stuff.”
“Not if he’s got James,” Harry points out.
Another good point, although Draco will be damned if he gives Harry the satisfaction of knowing it. James has a very uncanny way of soaking up Scorpius’s anxiety like some sort of reassuring sponge, and Draco’s not entirely sure what James learned during his Mediwizard training but it’s definitely had an effect. James has developed that comforting presence that all healthcare staff seem to have.
Well, the good ones, anyway.
“Aren’t you glad James is good at his job?” Draco asks, and Harry gives him an incredulous look.
“He’s brilliant at his job, thank you.”
“No need to get tetchy about it.”
Harry gives him a suspicious look. “If you’re trying to distract me, it won’t work. I can see you’re on Oxford Street. So pay up.”
Draco looks down at the Monopoly board. They’re sitting in Harry’s kitchen, idly playing the game, cups of tea by their elbows. It’s just after eleven, but Draco’s already counting the hours. At one o’clock they’ll be going to James and Scorpius’s home, where Rose will also arrive, and from there they’ll all be going to watch Scorpius graduate. Four long years of study, and in just a few hours, Scorpius will finally receive his degree.
“Rent,” Harry repeats impatiently, tapping the board.
“It’s always about my money, isn’t it?” Draco tosses a few notes at Harry. “Do you think we’d have been friends if I’d been poor?”
“Of course not, you’d still be a complete prat.”
“Quite right, you’d still have so many qualities to hate.”
They smile across the table at each other.
Come one o’clock, however, and it’s madness.
Draco is running late, and he’s not sure how that happened. He’s always prized punctuality and he’s got no idea how the time ran away from him. Harry looks quite calm at first, but then his nerves seem to fray.
“Why are you late?” Harry demands, standing in the front hall, impatiently jiggling his car keys in one hand.
“I don’t know! You’re always the one who’s late!”
“I know, that’s why it’s so unnerving! What are you looking for?”
“The camera,” Draco retorts, rifling through all the pockets on the coat-stand. “I had it, I put it somewhere safe.”
“Accio camera!”
“I’ve tried that. It must be stuck somewhere. Maybe it’s in a drawer.”
“I’ll check the kitchen.”
Draco hurries upstairs, then catches sight of his reflection in a hallway mirror and frowns. He’s done his best to abide by the Muggle rules of dress; he’s wearing a suit and tie, but now he wonders if he’s gotten it exactly right. Many of Scorpius’s Muggle friends and fellow students will be there today, after all, and what if Draco makes a major mistake or embarrasses Scorpius in some way?
Ten minutes later, Harry comes looking for him.
“For Merlin’s sake! What are you doing now?”
“Changing my tie.”
“Why?”
“The colour was garish. Completely awful.”
“What are you talking about? It was fine.”
“What about this one?”
“That’s fine too. Everything’s fine.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I hate to inflate your ego any more than it already is, but your clothes always look nice. Hurry up, you’re making us late.”
“You grew up with Muggles, didn’t you? I haven’t made a mistake with the Muggle dress code?”
“No, you look very Muggle.”
“But — not like a casual Muggle.”
Harry rolls his eyes again and Draco wonders if he’ll develop a muscle cramp by the end of the day. “No, Draco. Not like one of those casual Muggles.”
Draco pauses, then casts a critical eye over Harry’s clothes. But to his surprise, Harry looks perfectly acceptable; even his hair seems slightly more tamed.
“What did you do to your hair? It doesn’t look nearly as hedgehog-like as usual.”
“Trust me, it took three combing charms and an immobilisation hex. Now for the love of Merlin, would you hurry up?”
“All right. Oh! Where’s my wand?”
“You don’t need it,” Harry says briskly. “You’re going to a Muggle event, if it misfires or something you’ll mortify Scorpius.”
“But I always have my wand with me.”
“You’ll survive without magic for a few hours.”
Draco narrows his eyes. “Where’s your wand?”
“None of your business.”
“Insufferable git, as always,” Draco mutters.
They finally manage to make their way to the car.
Draco surveys it. “It’s small.”
“It’s a Ministry car.” Harry opens the driver’s door and gets in. “I had to remove those stupid little flags. What a pain. They put up quite a fight.”
“The Ministry?”
“The flags. Get in.”
They drive. Well, Harry drives. Draco checks the time obsessively until Harry removes his watch with a swish of his wand.
“I knew you had your wand! That’s not fair.”
“Might need it for emergencies.”
They arrive at the house fifteen minutes behind schedule. Harry knocks on the door; nobody answers. Draco frowns. They wait a ridiculous amount of time before knocking again, even more loudly, but still nobody answers.
“What,” he says eventually, “are they doing?”
Harry shrugs.
“Brilliant timing, as ever,” James mutters, snatching up a nearby pair of jeans.
Scorpius pokes his head out of the shower. ”They’re early. They must be.”
“I hope so. I mean, even Rose isn’t here yet.”
”She was refereeing the Harriers game this morning. She might be running late.”
James grabs his watch from the bathroom counter and glances at it. “Oh.”
”What?”
”Nothing. It’s fine.” He yanks the jeans on, hurries down the hallway, and pulls the front door open. “Hi,” he says brightly.
Harry gives him a look of exasperation as he steps inside. “For heaven’s sake! You’re not even dressed yet.”
”Won’t take long.”
”What have you been doing?” Harry demands just as the bathroom door opens and Scorpius steps out, wearing a towel and a sheepish expression.
“Each other, I imagine,” Draco says dryly, and Scorpius blushes furiously.
“I should get dressed,” he mutters before hurrying away.
“Honestly,” Harry begins, “I’d like to think that maybe you could keep your hands off each other for just a few hours. Now we’ll be very late.”
“We won’t be late,” James counters.
“We will.”
“Go put the kettle on. I’ll get dressed, we’ll be down shortly.” James turns and leaves.
He finds Scorpius upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come on, you should be getting ready.” He throws a towel at him.
“I can’t. There’s so much to do. We’re going to be so late now…I should’ve been ready ages ago…” Scorpius is beginning to get that anxious expression on his face, the one that still occasionally appears when he’s feeling very overwhelmed.
“So what? We’ll be ready when we’re ready.” James leans down and kisses him. “You can start with getting dressed.”
Scorpius’s hands are trembling slightly as he gets dressed, James notices, and when he looks up he finds Scorpius giving him a reserved look.
“It’s stupid, isn’t it,” he says. “I’m so nervous. It’s just a graduation. I don’t even have to do anything, just walk across a floor and accept a bit of paper. Why am I so nervous?”
“Because you’ve spent the past four years working towards this moment? And,” James adds, smiling, “in a few hours, I’ll be dating an astrophysicist.”
That works. Scorpius looks away, but he’s smiling to himself. “I didn’t know you were seeing other people,” he says.
“Very funny.”
They go downstairs shortly afterwards, wearing their crisp suits, their hair combed neatly, and both Draco and Harry nod with approval. Rose has arrived already, and is impatiently pacing around the kitchen.
“We’re half an hour late now,” Draco says severely, but James swears he can spot a glimmer of pride in Draco’s eyes. He grins and Draco frowns at him. “I don’t know what you find so amusing, James,” he says.
“Oh, nothing,” James says cheerfully, and Draco narrows his eyes.
They crowd through the front door and pile into the car, Scorpius speaking about the cost of gown hire. Draco is suspicious.
“I thought Muggles didn’t wear robes.”
“They do for special occasions.”
“The colours tell you what degree they’ve gotten,” James adds excitedly. “Scorpius will have a black-edged hood with sand-coloured silk.”
“Oh, no,” Harry says suddenly.
“What?”
“Where’s the camera? I think we forgot the camera.”
“You didn’t get it?” Draco demands.
“I thought you had it!”
“Just forget it, Harry,” Draco says impatiently. “We’re already running late. Where’s Rose gone? For Merlin’s sake.”
Harry retrieves Rose — still inside the house, reapplying lipstick — and gets back into the car. Draco and Harry sit in the front seats, still bickering; Scorpius, James, and Rose sit in the back.
“Did you spray that perfume, or just fill the bath and have a good soak?” James asks Rose.
She reddens. “I smell nice. This is very expensive perfume I’m wearing.”
“Sure you didn’t grab Nan’s lavender water instead?”
“Uncle Harry! James is being mean to me!”
“Be quiet,” Harry orders. “I am trying to drive.” He twists round, looking behind him as he reverses.
“Use the reversing charms,” Draco says. “Do it properly.”
“Well, this is the way I do it.”
“Don’t forget to put your seatbelt on.”
“For heaven’s sake, we’re not even out of the driveway.”
“You two sound like an old married couple,” Rose says, and Draco and Harry turn around to stare at her with identical expressions of annoyance. “I don’t know how you do it,” Rose mutters to James. “Put up with them, I mean.”
“Draco’s not so bad,” James says. “He took me aside for a heartfelt talk the other day, actually. Told me he’d always dreamed of having a son-in-law like me. Couldn’t think of a better person.”
Draco turns around, looking outraged. “You lying little…I most certainly did not!”
“What’s wrong with having a son-in-law like James?” Harry protests.
“Where do I start? He’s got the punctuality of a dead owl – ”
“It’s your fault we’re running late,” Harry retorts.
“ – and, speaking of dead owls, his hair – ”
“There’s nothing wrong with his hair! You want to talk about crimes against hair? Let’s discuss your early Hogwarts styles, shall we?”
“Ooh, let’s!” Rose says excitedly. “What did it look like?”
“I imagine a bouffant,” James says, and Harry laughs so hard he starts having a violent coughing fit; Scorpius’s shoulders are shaking silently.
“Very droll, James,” Draco says frostily. “It’s a good thing this car has inbuilt self-steering charms or we’d all be dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“Dead in a ditch somewhere?” Rose repeats. “You sound exactly like my mother, you know.”
“Oh, I often think Aunt Hermione has a lot in common with Draco,” James says cheekily.
“I am in some sort of awful nightmare,” Draco mutters. “Why do I feel like a world-weary parent with three unruly children giving me headaches?” He glances at Harry. “Four unruly children.”
“Yeah, I can see how your astrophysicist son might be considered an unruly child,” Harry retorts, and Rose beams.
“It’s so exciting,” she says. “Scorpius is an astrophysicist. It sounds so important.”
“It’s just a fancy word for the physics of the universe,” Scorpius says, looking slightly shy. “And I’m just majoring in astrophysics. Besides, it’s not really that important. James saves lives every day.”
James rolls his eyes. “Mostly, I tell drunks to please fall asleep somewhere besides a busy footpath where passers-by keep mistaking them for a corpse.”
“You still save lives.”
“And you can unlock the past and future of the universe,” James tells him.
“That’s so romantic,” Rose says wistfully.
They arrive at the university just a few minutes later, and Rose is delighted. “It looks like a Muggle Hogwarts!”
Harry laughs. James cranes his neck, trying to get a better view. He’s come here a few times to meet Scorpius after class, or surprise him with a lunchtime visit, but he never gets tired of seeing the beautiful buildings.
“It’s massive,” he tells Rose. “You should see the gardens. The botany students work there and it looks amazing. The cactus gets very jealous.”
Parking seems to be limited, but Harry just looks around furtively and somehow neatly fits the car in a very narrow spot. They make their way to the theatre; families throng outside, gathering around, chatting excitedly and taking photographs.
Harry groans. “The camera!”
“Oh, haven’t you got one? I brought one along,” Rose says brightly, and for the next moment she’s the centre of adoring gratitude.
They’re quite late, so they have very little time to collect their tickets and Scorpius’s gown and cap before he’s ushered away from them. “I’ll see you soon,” Scorpius says casually, but James catches the trembling in his hands again. He reaches out and catches Scorpius’s hand.
“See you soon,” he says, squeezing before letting go, and Scorpius smiles at him.
“Well,” Harry says, watching him walk away, joining the rush of other students, “I supposed we’d better go.”
Draco looks suspiciously emotional again, James thinks.
Though, at first, they’re all awed by the splendour of the theatre, and the solemnity of the ceremony, it soon gives way to boredom (though none of them are likely to admit it, James thinks). Much of the ceremony is conducted in Latin, it’s soon discovered; after listening patiently for twenty minutes, Rose turns to him and whispers.
“When are they going to start speaking English?”
“They’re not,” James says gloomily, flicking through the pamphlet given to him.
“I didn’t know Muggles spoke Latin so often.”
“They don’t. They’re just showing off.”
“Shhh,” hisses Draco.
It’s a while before Scorpius appears, anyway, firstly to be presented, then to be admitted. Draco’s taking countless pictures; Rose tries fruitlessly to wrest the camera away from him to take her own pictures.
“Let him have his moment,” Harry whispers to her, batting her hands away.
James can’t really see much — they’re seated quite high up in the theatre, and Scorpius is slightly lost among all the pomp and circumstance — but James catches sight of his brilliant blond hair, visible just beneath the mortar cap as he makes his way across the floor, and it makes him smile to hear Scorpius Malfoy spoken amongst the Latin.
They sit through the rest of the ceremony. They’re all impatient to see Scorpius but it takes them a while to find him anyway; everyone’s converging outside the theatre afterwards. It’s a good fifteen minutes before Rose finally spots him in the crowd.
“Scorpius!” she cries, waving madly, and the next minute they’re all hugging him and offering congratulations and he looks very embarrassed but quite pleased with himself.
“Did you see me?” he asks.
“Of course!”
“That’s the whole reason we sat through that insanely boring ceremony,” Rose says, and Harry nudges her.
“Rose,” he says reprovingly.
“At least you had translations in the pamphlet,” Scorpius says. “I didn’t even have that. Nearly fell asleep twice.”
“What? There were translations?”
“I told you twice, Rose,” James says.
“I’ve got pictures,” Draco says, “but you were quite a distance away. Shall we take some more now?”
“Good idea, the gown hire’s due back soon.”
They find a suitably solemn backdrop — one of the curved stone walls — and pose against it in various groups, briefly enlisting the help of a passing student to take a picture of all of them.
“I think I blinked in that one,” Harry says.
“Should we take another?”
“God, why didn’t anyone tell me that my hair’s such a mess?” Rose asks, gathering around the camera with Harry and Draco.
“Oh, I just thought that’s how it normally looks,” James says, and Rose hits him with her purse.
Scorpius catches James’s eye and smiles.
They go out to dinner later that evening to celebrate. Of course, Scorpius and James’s friends – Thomas, Iwan, Rowan and all the rest – had wanted to go the pub and have a few drinks in honour of Scorpius’s achievement, but it will have to wait for another night. They drop Rose off again, promising to see her soon, and Draco takes them to some upscale restaurant in Muggle London. James looks about the place, noting the gilded chairs and ornate centre-pieces, and whispers to Scorpius.
”I’m really glad we’re not paying.”
Right on time, Draco opens the menu and looks appalled. “Why is everything so expensive?” he complains.
“You picked this place,” Harry points out.
Scorpius is smiling. “Father,” he says, “the prices are listed in Muggle money, not galleons.”
“What? Oh.”
An ill-timed waiter appears as they’re bickering about conversion rates, and there’s a brief pause as everyone tries to order their drinks at once. James peruses the cocktail menu; Draco is appalled.
“They have thirty-two-year-old whiskeys, aged in oak,” he says.
“I don’t care. I want to try one of these martinis. This strawberry-basil one sounds interesting.”
“Strawberry basil? My God, James! If you’re going to have a martini, order something traditional.”
“Dad, just let him have what he wants,” Scorpius interrupts. He sets the menu down. “I’ll have the Penderyn single malt on the rocks, thanks.”
Draco orders a moscato; James gets his revenge. “A dessert wine,” he says. “How quaint. I didn’t know you were ordering off the children’s menu.”
Harry laughs and Draco concedes defeat with a wry look at James. “Sometimes,” he says, “you have quite the wit.”
Scorpius is smiling to himself as he flips through the menu. They toast him after the drinks arrive, all of them raising their glasses.
“To Scorpius,” Draco says. “Four years of very hard work and immense dedication. I’ve never been more proud.”
“To Scorpius,” James and Harry add solemnly. Scorpius has that look of faintly pleased embarrassment again.
“So,” Harry begins, “when are you going to get a job?”
“Dad!”
“Give him a break,” Draco adds. “He graduated two hours ago!”
“Yes, but what does a physics degree actually do? I’m just curious, that’s all. I mean, how do you become a physicist?”
“Well, ideally I’d like to become involved in research,” Scorpius says, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “But if I actually want to earn money right now, I’ll probably end up doing laboratory work.”
“What, like a science laboratory?”
James laughs. “He’s picturing you as a mad scientist,” he tells Scorpius. “Maybe I should buy you a lightning rod and a white coat for your next birthday.”
“I didn’t mean that!” Harry’s indignant. “I meant…I don’t know, actually. What do they do in laboratories?”
“Isn’t it just like a potions lab?” Draco asks, smirking. “Lots of pouring stuff, I imagine.”
“Yes, quite right,” Scorpius says. “I just pour things. It’s what I spent most of my degree doing, actually. I’m thinking of applying for the postgraduate pouring program.”
“And what’s that entail?” Harry asks, evidently being quite serious. James and Draco start laughing.
“He’s just being facetious, Harry. Honestly.”
Harry sulks for a bit, but it doesn’t last. They bicker and banter their way through the evening. Scorpius samples James’s martini and declares it far better than the aged whiskey, much to Draco’s righteous indignation; Harry gets into an argument with Draco about a recent Quidditch match. But by the end of the evening, the lively discussions have faded to idle conversation as they linger over dessert and coffee.
“It’s your birthday in a month,” Harry tells Draco.
“Don’t remind me.”
James finishes the last of his coffee. “How old are you?”
“None of your business,” Draco says, but the post-meal drowsiness appears to be settling over him like a cloak and his words hold no bite.
“I’m nearly a quarter of a century old,” Scorpius offers, finishing off a biscotti.
Draco looks aghast. “No! Don’t tell me that!”
“God, you’re not almost twenty-five. Are you?” Harry asks James, looking faintly alarmed.
“Twenty-two. Suppose that makes you feel old.”
“Old? It makes me feel bloody ancient.”
Scorpius touches James’s hand. “Almost four years.”
“What’s four years?”
“Never mind.”
“Four’s a good number,” Draco observes.
“Is it?”
“It has magical properties, according to arithmancy.”
They pay the bill – or rather, Harry sneaks off to pay it, much to Draco’s chagrin when he later discovers the betrayal – and leave. The journey home is quiet. Scorpius rests his head against the window, looking at the stars. James watches the city lights fade to rows of familiar houses.
”Well, here we are,” Harry says, parking the car.
“Staying a while?” James asks as he steps onto the footpath.
Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’m quite tired.”
“Yes, I think we’d best be off,” Draco adds.
They all exchange goodbyes. James and Scorpius stand on the front step, watching the tail-lights disappear from sight.
The hallway is dark and silent as they step inside, warmth still lingering from the dying coals in the fireplace. Scorpius stands in the darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the hearth, and James reaches out and catches ahold of his hands.
“Four years,” he says. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Scorpius looks at him and smiles. “No, it doesn’t.” He pulls James closer and they kiss.
It’s a soft and lingering kiss and James wants to stay here forever, standing in the dark, the coals burning like a distant sunrise.
Some time in the early hours of dawn, James wakes from a dream. Scorpius is warm against him, an arm draped around his waist, and the weight of it is reassuring somehow. James gently disentangles himself and sits up.
The curtains are still open, revealing a sky full of stars. Scorpius likes to sleep with the curtains open. Always stargazing, even in his sleep.
James moves to sit on the edge of the bed. What had he been dreaming about? He can’t remember. Maybe his body just decided to wake him up, certain he had a work shift today.
He takes a sip of water and sets the glass down. Next to it, there’s a few books. His swimming goggles. A work schedule. A framed photograph of him on his last day of Hogwarts, all his friends laughing and jostling each other, smiling into the camera. And, of course, the postcard. Teddy’s postcard. The Rock of Gibraltar. James picks it up. He can’t read the writing, not in this dim light, but the thin, dark lines of ink bring him comfort anyway.
“James?”
He glances over his shoulder. Scorpius is sitting up, blinking sleepily.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“It’s fine. Is everything all right?”
“Mm. Just woke up suddenly, couldn’t get back to sleep.”
Scorpius moves slightly, reaching out to touch a hand to the small of James’s back.
“James,” he says quietly.
“I’m all right.”
“Come here.”
James slowly sets the postcard down again and gets back into bed. Scorpius pulls him into his arms and they lay there, limbs entangled, James’s head resting on Scorpius’s chest.
“He’d be twenty-eight years old this year, wouldn’t he?” Scorpius asks after a moment.
“Yes.” Teddy would be twenty-eight years old, and he’d have travelled the world by now, and own a little cottage somewhere by the sea like he always said he would, and he’d be married to Victoire and they might even have children. First birthday parties and crayon drawings, letters sent to James accompanied with photographs of a smiling family, Christmas visits and gingerbread biscuits.
But that future was washed away by the currents of a distant river, eight years ago.
James can hear Scorpius’s heartbeat, soft and steady. He closes his eyes, concentrating on the way Scorpius’s chest rises and falls with each breath.
“Remember our promise?” James asks.
Scorpius lifts a hand and trails it through James’s hair. “Which one?”
“Best friends. Always.”
“Always,” Scorpius affirms.
“No matter what happens.”
“Even if we break up, or fall out of love one day. Even then.”
“Even if you die.”
“I won’t die.”
“Don’t leave without me, Scorpius. Seventy years is a long time to wait.”
Scorpius moves then, shifting slightly so he can kiss James. “No matter what happens,” he says. “We’re best friends, always.”
James listens to the beat of Scorpius’s heart until he falls asleep, Scorpius’s arms still around him.
Draco stands by the little fireplace in his bedroom, enjoying the warmth of the flames. On the mantlepiece is a framed photograph of Scorpius and James on their graduation day from Hogwarts, their arms around each others’ shoulders, smiling into the camera. Beside it is a photograph of Scorpius standing on a beach; it’s one of Draco’s favourite pictures. Though the sky is overcast and a breeze is rifling through Scorpius’s hair, he’s smiling into the distance as if it’s a lovely summer day, gazing out across the grey, choppy water. Draco had taken the picture last year, when they’d all gone to Brighton for the Easter holidays and it had rained all week.
Typical, Draco had said, and Harry had settled down with a good book, but James immediately disappeared to the beach for a swim. Draco had tried to talk him out of it – what a miserable time for a swim – but Scorpius had smiled and said James would swim in a puddle in the middle of a thunderstorm if he could get away with it.
So many memories lining this mantlepiece. There’s a picture of Narcissa as a little girl, giggling and chasing one of her sisters round the garden. There’s Lucius, awkwardly dressed for his first day at Hogwarts – no doubt he’d be mortified to have it displayed on the mantlepiece, considering it a reminder that once he was a small child, weak and uncertain, but to Draco it’s a bittersweet reminder of his father’s mortality.
Draco sets an empty frame in the middle of the mantle, pushing the other pictures closer together to make room. Here, he thinks, is where Scorpius’s graduation photograph will sit.
He goes to bed shortly afterwards, and he sleeps the deep sleep of an untroubled mind.
A few days later he goes to visit Scorpius, wanting to see if the photographs have been developed yet. He arrives early; Scorpius answers the door.
“Oh, hello,” he says.
“Hello. Just thought I’d drop by.” Draco steps inside. Bright sunlight pours across the floorboards; he can smell toast and the aroma of fresh coffee. “James at work?”
”Just got home, actually. Night shift. Tea?”
”Thanks.”
Scorpius vanishes into the kitchen; Draco makes his way down the hallway, pausing to step into the living room. There’s a little shelf there, lined with objects. Every time he visits, there seems to be something added to this shelf: stuffed toys and crayon drawings, an origami rose, a smooth pebble, a photograph of a rainforest, a knitted bear. Today, the latest addition is a beautifully made wooden box, a silver inlay of a tree in its lid.
“Another gift from one of James’s patients.”
Draco glances up. Scorpius has reappeared in the doorway.
“He’s got quite a collection now,” Draco says, surveying the shelf. “He must have an effect, especially since he only sees these people for a few minutes.”
“He listens. I think that’s what they like about him. He listens to their stories.” Scorpius picks up the box and traces a fingertip over the silver tree.
“He’s seemed a little quiet lately,” Draco observes.
“Yes. Next week, it will be eight years to the day of Teddy’s death.” Scorpius sets the box down again. “This time of the year is always a little hard for him.”
It’s difficult to imagine James feeling vulnerable. He’s always had a certain decisiveness about him, as if he knows exactly what he wants, but over the years it’s slowly matured into an easy confidence, a calm and reassuring nature. It’s difficult to imagine him upset or needing comfort.
“I’m glad he’s got you,” Draco says suddenly.
Scorpius touches a hand to the origami rose, then shakes his head as if to wake from a dream, and he smiles lightly. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a favour to ask you.”
“Oh?”
“Next month, James and I will be going away for two weeks. Could you mind the house for us? I need someone to compliment the cactus, collect the mail, all of that sort of thing.”
Draco nods. “I can do that. Where are you two going, anyway?”
Scorpius pauses, then adjusts the little knitted bear slightly. “The Mediterranean,” he says.
“Sounds nice. The weather will be quite mild this time of the year. I hope you’re planning on doing a lot of swimming — James probably won’t spend more than three seconds away from the beaches.”
“The beaches will be nice, but I plan on taking him to the Rock of Gibraltar.”
“Hmm.” Draco studies the photograph of the rainforest. “I read somewhere that it’s a hundred million years old.”
“Two hundred million, actually.” Scorpius gives Draco a little smile. “Don’t tell James about the trip though. It’s a surprise. I’ve been secretly saving up money.”
“Well, I hate to ruin all your romantic plans, but what about James’s work?”
“I contacted his supervisor a few months ago. She’s arranged for him to have two weeks off.”
Draco laughs. “You’ve thought of everything. James will be very happy, I’m sure.”
They go to the kitchen; Scorpius puts the kettle on as they talk idly about his plans following graduation.
“I’ve already applied for a few jobs as a laboratory technician,” Scorpius tells him. “Haven’t heard anything back from them yet, though.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Scorpius pours the tea – peppermint for both of them – and they sit down at the breakfast table. “Celebrated with your friends yet?” Draco asks.
“Friday night. Nothing too big, just a few drinks.”
“Where’s your certificate? I want a copy.”
“Of my graduation certificate?” Scorpius looks amused. “What are you going to do, add it to your mantlepiece?”
“It’s one of the most important milestones in your life,” Draco says severely. “I’m very proud of you, you know.”
“I know.” But Scorpius fetches the certificate anyway. Draco unfurls it, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, as though it’s somehow him who earned the degree.
“Look at that,” he says. “Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy – ”
“Wish they hadn’t put my middle name on it,” Scorpius mutters.
“ – Master of Physics, majoring in Astrophysics.” Draco sets it down on the table, smoothing his hand over the paper. “And what’s so bad about your middle name? Your mother chose it, you know. She wanted to give you an important name. Anyway, it could be worse. She wanted to call you ‘Diodorus’, but I talked her out of it.”
Scorpius gives Draco a suspicious look. “That’s rubbish. Nobody would inflict that upon a child.”
“I swear on my life,” Draco says, smiling. “She also had ‘Themis’ and ‘Prometheus’ on her shortlist.”
Scorpius considers that. “Well,” he says at last, “I suppose ‘Hyperion’ isn’t so bad.”
Draco takes a leisurely sip of his peppermint tea and smiles.
Later on, as he’s putting his coat on, ready to leave, he suddenly remembers the photographs.
“Oh,” he says, “the whole reason for my visit. You don’t happen to have the photographs yet, do you?”
Scorpius pauses midway through washing up the breakfast dishes. “Not yet. Give it a couple of days.”
“Has Rose still got the camera?”
“No, she gave it to me. You can take it, if you want, and get the pictures developed yourself. It’s upstairs on my dresser. James is asleep, do not wake him up.”
“I can get them done today,” Draco says decisively, going up the stairs.
He’s expecting to blindly shuffle his way through a dark room, but James is awake and dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he startles when Draco walks in.
“Oh, hello. When’d you arrive?”
”You should be asleep,” Draco admonishes him.
“In a minute. Is Scorpius busy?”
”Doing the dishes.”
”Here, I want your opinion,” James says, and he stands up. Draco realises he was looking at something in his hands.
A ring box.
”Is that — ”
”Yes.” James opens the box, removes a polished metal ring, and holds it out. “What do you think? I just hope he likes it. I wanted it to be unique. It’s made of meteorite,” he adds as Draco turns the ring over in his hands.
”What’s this?” Draco asks, peering at a little spray of dots engraved on the inside.
“The constellation Canis Major — that’s where Sirius is. And on my ring, I’ve got the constellation Scorpio.”
Draco looks up. James is watching him a bit anxiously. “You’re going to propose?” he asks at last, making sure he understands.
”Yes. Well, when the time’s right. I don’t know, I just want it to be perfect.”
Draco looks down at the ring one final time, then hands it back. “Scorpius will think it’s perfect,” he says, “simply because you’re the one doing it.” And then he smiles, and James’s anxious look dissipates at once, and he smiles too. ”Now,” Draco adds, “get some sleep. You’ll be saving lives again tomorrow.”
“Duly noted,” James says, still smiling, and he goes over to the bookshelf, picks out a book, opens it, and carefully hides the ring box in the hollowed-out pages. “Goodnight. Or good morning, rather.”
“Good morning,” Draco says, amused, and he walks to the door, then pauses. “James?”
”Yeah?”
”Wait until next month to propose.”
”Why? What’s happening in a month?”
Draco shrugs. “I just feel like it’ll be a perfect time.”
James considers that. “All right,” he says.
Draco closes the door and goes downstairs, where Scorpius is now drinking his coffee and absently scrolling through things on his laptop. He glances up at Draco and then says, “Did you get it?”
”What?”
”The camera.”
”Oh. No.”
Scorpius sighs. “You woke James up, didn’t you?”
”I did not,” Draco says indignantly.
“He was already awake, then, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to lecture him about how night shifts are unhealthy.”
”They are. Research shows — ”
“Dad, come on.”
”I just want to make sure James takes care of himself.”
Scorpius smiles a little. “Sometimes I think you’re almost fond of him.”
Draco pauses, then says, “Almost. Enjoy your holiday, won’t you?”
”We will.”
“Good. Yes. Well, I’d better go.”
“All right.”
“Don’t forget, Andromeda is joining us for dinner on Sunday.”
“I won’t forget. I’ve got a note on the fridge.”
They exchange goodbyes. Draco steps out the door, and he turns to glance at his son one last time before he leaves.
“It is going on the mantlepiece, you know,” he says, and Scorpius rolls his eyes.
”Of course it is,” he says, but as he turns away, he’s smiling.
Draco turns and leaves.
That night, James waits until Scorpius falls asleep, curled around him, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating them, and then he sneaks out of bed and goes to the bookshelf. He can’t see the rings properly by the dim light, but he can feel the engraved dots. Fourteen stars. The constellation of Scorpio.
I’d never be afraid of the darkness if I loved the stars so much.
He traces a fingertip along the metal surface, feeling the tiny hollow of each engraved star, lost in his thoughts until Scorpius stirs. Then he quietly puts the ring away and returns to bed. Moments later, Scorpius lifts his head and sleepily presses a kiss to James’s shoulder.
”Didn’t mean to wake you,” James says.
”It’s okay. I know how you are after a night shift.” Scorpius turns to face James properly, snuggling into his chest.
“So,” James says, tracing a light pattern along the smooth skin of Scorpius’s back, “you’re an astrophysicist now. Tell me something about the stars.”
“Hm.” Scorpius kisses James again, this time just beneath his collarbone. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Scorpius smiles; James can feel his lips curving against his skin. He’s silent for a moment, but then he speaks. He speaks of energy and how it never dies, of black holes and atom smashing, of the age of the world and the never-ending cycle of the universe.
James dreams of stars that night, cascading from the sky like a waterfall, the planets spinning and falling around him.
That night, Draco dreams too.
He’s standing atop a hill. Rain falls, silver against the dying light of the day. Beneath his feet, hundreds of daffodils bloom, an ocean of bright yellow petals.
In the distance, he can see them waiting for the train. There’s his mother, young and beautiful, smiling coyly at a handsome Lucius as he offers to carry her schoolbag. There’s Theo, waiting patiently for the train to open its doors. There’s Pansy, strolling arm-in-arm with Blaise, both of them chatting animatedly to each other. There’s Crabbe and Goyle, walking slow and steady through the crowd. There’s Teddy, tall and broad-shouldered, laughing and chasing after his younger cousins. There’s Harry and Ron and Hermione walking along the platform, Hedwig perched on Harry’s arm. There’s James and Scorpius in the middle of it, Draco sees. Smiling as the rain falls around them, their arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
He turns and studies Astoria. She’s beautiful as ever, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder, the rain speckling her skin like stars.
Aren’t you going to ask me?
Around them, the ocean of rain-damp daffodils rolls on and on. The train whistle pierces the air, steam billowing into the sky.
“No,” he says at last. “No. I don’t need to. I know why you did it.”
“I’m so sorry, Draco.”
“Don’t be.”
“I took our son away. You could have been so happy…you could have had everything…”
He follows her gaze. She’s looking at Pansy, he thinks. Watching her make her way along the platform, smiling and pretty.
He reaches out and touches Astoria’s face. “You’re looking in the wrong direction, Astoria,” he says softly. He turns her face slightly, so she gazes past all the crowds, past Pansy, and then they’re both looking at Scorpius, smiling at something James is saying, his face lit up with happiness.
Astoria begins crying then, but it’s quiet and small and there’s no sadness within it, and Draco’s hand finds hers.
They stand beneath the silver rain, the daffodils blooming beneath their feet, and beyond the scarlet train the railway tracks go on and on, disappearing into the great unknown.
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