Chapter 1: Chapter One
Chapter Text
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Chapter One - Beginnings
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The noise on the platform was overwhelming for the young wizard, and the excited chatter of his family did little to help his rising tension. It wasn't like Albus wasn't excited to start his first year at Hogwarts, he was but it also filled him with worry and dread, mostly of not being what his family and the whole world expected him to be. It was a heavy burden to bear for the eleven year old, and Albus was breaking underneath the pressure of it all. He never cared for the attention that came with his last name, and it frustrated him that no one else seemed to share his discomfort.
His brother, James, leaned into it, playing the role expected of Harry and Ginny Potter's son. Naturally, James had been sorted into Gryffindor, acting as though it was the most obvious outcome. And His sister Lily, with her bright, fearless spirit, would surely follow in James’s footsteps. She was the epitome of a Gryffindor, even at ten. Albus loved his sister, but he couldn’t deny the jealousy he felt. She and James were everything their parents wanted—a mirror of their hopes and expectations. He, however, was not, and it was painfully clear, though his family acted as if nothing were amiss. They pretended he wasn’t different, but Albus knew better. He hated how he felt loathing and jealousy for his family, his siblings, after all Albus had little to complain about.
His life should have been perfect. He knew that everyone his age envied him, his famous mother and even more famous father. Albus was always given what he wanted, he never went hungry, he always had expensive and well made clothes, and his parents had never mistreated him or raised a hand, the only thing would be his relationship with his brother, who seemed to enjoy Albuses suffering and always made Albus the butt of every joke or victim of every prank, some more vicious than others. But really it could be summarized as a normal brotherly relationship, and it was really nothing compared to the horrible and abusive childhood his father had growing up. But something inside of him felt wronged, it felt different and surely something was very, very wrong, and if it wasn't his family, then it had to be him. Albus didn't know what he loathed more, his detestation for his family or for himself, for feeling it.
He often finds it hard to smile, even more as the years went on. Family dinners were the worst—he was always the odd one out. The dinners are always in high spirit, and rumbustious, where his family would laugh, James throwing his head back, lily adoringly giggling, Albus found it hard to put in an effort. it annoyed him how utterly Gryffindor his extended family was. It felt suffocating. The only relative who didn’t fit into the Gryffindor mold was Teddy, a proud Hufflepuff. But even Teddy fit the stereotype—kind, loyal, dependable. It made sense, given his parentage. But if Albus were sorted anywhere other than Gryffindor, what excuse would there be?
He hated how James teased him about the possiblity of him being sorted into Slytherin, calling it the 'House of the Death Eaters ' when their parents weren’t around. Albus knew his brother understood how much it troubled him, which made the teasing cut even deeper. That very morning, James had gone so far as to joke that Albus would be disowned if he ended up in Slytherin. Fortunately, their mother overheard and gave James a well-deserved scolding, which Albus had secretly enjoyed. She reassured him that it didn’t matter which house he was placed in—that they would always love him. Coming from her, it didn’t feel like a lie.
But Albus wasn’t naive. He knew his parents weren’t fans of Slytherin, even if they were wise enough not to voice it in front of the children. His Uncle Ron wasn’t as tactful. Albus knew all of James’s Slytherin jokes came from him, with Ron often referring to it as the 'House of the Death Eaters' during family gatherings. Albus didn’t want to admit it, but he was terrified of not being sorted into Gryffindor.
He tried to laugh along with the jokes, pretending to be unaffected but he knew he really wasn't fooling anyone, and the truth gnawed at him. Everyone, except his mother, seemed oblivious to his own distress. She always sensed when something was bothering him and was especially hard on James whenever she overheard those jokes, even though their father constantly tried to downplay the tension.
His father’s attempts to console him only made things worse. No matter what, he always seemed to say the wrong thing. Instead of feeling reassured, Albus’s fears were only deepened. His father would smile and tell him James was just joking, and that Albus was destined for the House of Lions. He already knew that his father thought of him like a poor excuse of a son, of a potter. He had overheard his parents talking about him and their concerns. His own father had asked what was wrong with him. to his mother when they thought nobody was listening in. His father always compared him to James, and to Lily.
Albus never let his parents know that he overheard their conversations. He didn’t want them to think he cared, although he did care about his mother. As for his father, he wasn't stupid enough to beg for love from someone who clearly didn't want to put effort into understanding him, he wasn't going to plead for his father’s love, he couldn't bear the truth yet, that he father loved him less than his other siblings.
A sharp whistle from the train jolted Albus back to the present. Looking around, he saw his mother still lecturing James, but Albus couldn’t summon the energy to care. Behind him, his father stood with Lily on his shoulders, chatting with Uncle Ronald and Aunt Hermione. His eyes searched the platform until they found the one person he actually wanted to be with—Rose, his cousin and best friend.
Rose understood him in ways no one else did. Sure, she could be a bit of a know-it-all, taking after her mother, but Albus didn’t mind. In fact, he liked it. Rose’s strong presence allowed him to fade into the background, something he was more than comfortable with. She knew his boundaries and never pushed him too far.
His parents had been concerned when they were younger, worrying that Rose was dragging him around. But that wasn’t the case at all. It only looked that way to outsiders. Albus never felt the need to correct their assumptions, then or now because their misperceptions worked in his favor. It had certainly gotten him a few more expensive things he wanted over the years to the dismay of his siblings.
His gaze fell on Rose, who stood near James, snickering as their mother scolded him. Albus let a smirk slip onto his face, realizing Rose had been the mastermind behind James’s latest trouble. As their eyes met, she grinned at him, and he returned the gesture. He was about to walk over when his father’s hand landed on his shoulder, gently steering him toward the train.
The moment of lightness vanished, replaced by the gnawing fear that had been eating at him all day. After saying his goodbyes, Albus mustered up some of that supposed Gryffindor courage he feared he didn’t have, and finally asked the question he had been too afraid to voice.
“Dad… what if I am put in Slytherin?” His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, and the vulnerability in it made him cringe.
He hated showing weakness, even to his own father. But in a final act of bravery, he lifted his eyes to meet his father’s. His father’s expression was unreadable—certainly not disappointment, at least. "Albus Severus Potter," his father began, "You’re named after two Headmasters of Hogwarts—One of them was a Slytherin. And he was the bravest man I have ever known" He smiled, but Albus could sense the hesitation behind it. “But what if I am?” Ablus spoke barely above a whisper, showing a rare display of vulnerability.
"And if you’re sorted into Slytherin, then The Slytherin House will have gained a wonderful young wizard."
Albus wanted to believe his father, he really did. But there was something in his father’s eyes, a flicker of doubt that made Albus’s heart sink. It felt rehearsed, like something his father had prepared in advance. The words fell flat. His father once again insisted that the hat would take his wishes into account, as it had apparently done so for him. Albus didnt believe him. Afterall wasnt his father the perfect Gryffindor?
Albus forced a small smile as he gave his father a quick hug before he boarded the train. He knew he’d performed well enough to convince his father, who waved happily as the train pulled away from the station. But Albus knew better. It wasn’t hard to fool his father—his father preferred to believe the things that were easiest to swallow.
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On the train, the air had changed. Albus wasn’t sure if it came from being away from his father or if his father’s words had truly reassured him. But it felt more real than ever now. Here he was, heading toward Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, ready to begin his academic career and step into the magical world as his own person. A smile crept across his face. The future was his to make afterall.
He and his dear cousin Rose had already planned most of their first year—well, mostly Rose had planned it. She was determined about how their "Hogwarts debut," as she called it, would unfold, almost frantic over every detail. According to her, the most crucial decision was which compartment they chose on the train and who they sat with. After all, their parents had met their lifelong friends on that very same train their first ride to Hogwarts. Albus was skeptical, doubting that the people he shared a compartment with on the first day would determine his future friendships. But he played along, not wanting to dampen Rose’s excitement.
“There you are, cousin!” Rose’s voice rang out from behind him, cheerful and insistent.
As Albus turned, he was met with a grinning Rose looking all too smug, her energy infectious. He felt himself being swayed by her enthusiasm, as he often did. He followed her as she dragged him down the corridor, talking animatedly about the importance of finding the right people and how she had even researched families beforehand. Albus suppressed a grimace; it felt a bit excessive, but he kept his thoughts to himself. They continued to check compartments, searching for their potential new best friends.
Saying that Rose could be a perfectionist was an understatement, especially when she considered the task important enough. Despite loving and tolerating his best friend and cousin, Albus was growing tired of her indecisiveness about where to sit. He could tell she was starting to annoy even herself. Not wanting to start their Hogwarts debut with an irritated Rose and no compartment to sit in, he took a deep breath and opened one of the compartment doors, stepping inside without checking if it was already occupied. Too tired to care, and to play along with Rose any longer, he started to lift and place his trunk on the overhead rack. Rose, aware of his move, followed him into the compartment but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the occupant.
Rose’s expression transformed into one Albus hadn’t seen in a long time—an unmistakable mix of disgust and hatred. As Albus placed his trunk overhead and turned around, he was momentarily stunned. The boy in front of him seemed almost angelic with his pale face, rosy cheeks, and soft silver-blonde hair. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and Albus found himself unable to breathe.
It wasn’t until Rose tugged at his arm that Albus snapped back to reality. He glanced at her, his initial confusion shifting to puzzlement as he noticed her intense disdain—not directed at him, but at the boy.
Albus’s gaze flickered between Rose and the boy, who sat with a book open on his lap and a bag of wizarding sweets beside him. The boy’s expression was a mixture of confusion and hurt, which tugged at Albus’s heartstrings. He felt as though he had missed a crucial part of their interaction, with both Rose and the boy now looking at him expectantly. Although he knew he should take down his bag and follow Rose out, an unexpected urge to stay and learn more about the boy held him back.
“Albus? What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you listen? Let’s go. I don’t want to sit with a Death Eater—and,” Rose spat out, her voice dripping with disgust, “supposedly Voldemort’s son.”
Albus winced, as did the boy in front of him, though for different reasons. Albus mentally kicked himself for getting so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t followed the conversation. He glanced at the boy again, and before he could think better of it, he asked, “Voldemort’s son?” His tone was a bit too light as in disbelief. Rose shot him an exasperated glare, but before she could respond, the boy spoke up. “Yes, here I am Scorpius Malfoy, otherwise known as Voldemort’s child.”
The acidity in Scorpius’s voice was sharp, and Albus thought it sounded almost foreign. Although this was the first time Albus had heard Scorpius speak, the tone felt strangely incongruent with the boy’s appearance. It seemed out of place, which was odd considering he knew nothing about Scorpius’s usual manner of speaking. Scorpius continued,
“Though it’s not true. My parents are Draco and Astoria Malfoy,” he added with pride, lifting his chin up in an attempt to look as pure-blooded as possible. Albus found the boy’s failed attempt at superiority somewhat charming—he actually found Scorpius himself quite charming. He mentally kicked himself for being so drawn in.
Rose scoffed. “Even if,” she grimaced and continued, "they're still blood purists and Death Eaters,” she spat with such hatred that Albus was momentarily taken aback. Her glare was fixed on him, but his eyes remained on Scorpius, who could no longer conceal the hurt on his face. Albus’s heart ached as he was reluctantly dragged out of the compartment.
He knew better than to cross Rose when she was this angry. She went on about Death Eaters, their parents, blood purists, and all sorts of grievances as they moved down the corridor. Albus found himself regretting his decision to go along with her, though logically, he knew he had no other choice.
A little while later, they found a compartment that Rose was satisfied with, which significantly improved her mood. She was already chatting with a pretty blonde girl named Polly Chapman and two other boys, whose names Albus didn’t catch. He was too lost in his thoughts, replaying the scene in the other compartment and lingerting on Scorpius’s hurt expression and those striking silver-blonde eyes.
Albus glanced over at Rose, who was sitting beside him, he bended slightly to the side and mumbles into her ear, “Lavatory.” Before standing and exiting the compartment, he looked back to see her engrossed in conversation with the other occupants. Instead of heading toward the lavatory on the train, Albus turns around and walks back down the corridor, his mind set on blonde hair.
He located the compartment door, took a deep breath, and opened the cabin door. As he stepped inside, his eyes quickly found the boy. Initially, the boy looked hopeful at the prospect of a new companion, but his expression soured when he recognized Albus. This made Albus feel a pang of insecurity about his decision to return. He turned around and pulled down the blinds on the compartment windows, not wanting anyone to recognize him, Harry Potter's Second son being civil with Voldemort's supposed child, he could only imagine the headline on The Daily Prophet. He sat down opposite of the boy, who now looked quite alarmed and guarded, Albus let his mask slip, feeling somewhat secure in the company of this new stranger, who he couldn't get out of his mind.
“I wanted to apologize for my cousin’s and my behavior earlier.” Albus said, his voice sincere. The boy’s guarded expression softened slightly, though he still looked puzzled.
“I’m Albus—Albus Potter, by the way. I’m really sorry we didn’t have a chance to properly introduce ourselves earlier,” Albus continued, extending his hand. Scorpius hesitated for a moment before shaking Albus’s hand and replying, “I’m Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, Heir to the Most Ancient House of Malfoy. Well met.”
Albus met his gaze and replied with a grin, “Well met, Heir Malfoy.”
Relief mixed with confusion and a spark of interest crossed Scorpius’s face, which made Albus feel a bit jittery. He was eager for this boy to show interest in him. Albus understood the confusion; he knew that pure-blood culture and customs were seen as foreign to him, as his family, the Potters and the Weasleys, were not heavily involved in such traditions despite holding several lordships. However, having grown up in a Black family home with a particularly old-fashioned house elf, Albus had acquired an old book on pure-blood customs and etiquette. Although he wasn’t an heir like James, he found the subject intriguing, especially since his immediate family had little interest in it.
“As I said earlier, I wanted to apologize for the way my cousin was behaving,” Albus said. Scorpius gave him a shy smile. “Apology accepted. To be honest, I expected that kind of warm welcome,” he sighed. “But you know, actually hearing it is a lot harder than just knowing it might happen.” His smile faltered, and his eyes dropped to the floor. Albus felt a surge of anger—not towards Scorpius, but for him, and towards Rose.
Scorpius, not wanting to dwell on negativity, quickly changes the subject as he ran his hand down the bag of sweets beside him while he spoke a bit more casually, still incredibly posh “I’ve also got some Shock-o-Choc, Pepper Imps and some Jelly Slugs—”
Albus eagerly accepted the sweets, as his mother rarely allowed them to indulge. The conversation flowed naturally, with Albus asking Scorpius about his taste in sweets and asking for somewhat of an sweets introduction, which Scorpius was happy to give, the other boy seemed to be somehow under the impression that Albus, like an muggleborn knew nothing of sweets and gave an very detailed introduction on wizarding sweets, and went into a ramble about how he disliked the rather lacking assortment of sweets on the trolley cart. Albus found himself just enjoying listening to the other boy talk, and quickly gained an understanding that Scorpius had a bit of a sweet tooth.
Albus was keenly aware of the time slipping away, but he didn’t want to leave Scorpius behind, especially now that the boy had relaxed and seamlessly engaged in conversation. He sighed. “Heir Malfoy, I’m terribly sorry, but I have to head back to my cousin before she gets too suspicious of my long stay in the lavatory,” he said, grinning and rolling his eyes. The thought of spending so long in the toilet was a bit embarrassing. “I really wish I could stay with you for the whole journey,” he added, letting a hint of vulnerability seep into his voice and a smile appear on his lips. Despite barely knowing Scorpius, the boy had managed to get past many of Albus’s defenses effortlessly.
Scorpius looked a bit deflated by the announcement but tried to mask it. “I understand. And there’s no need to call me Malfoy; just call me Scorpius.”
Albus’s grin widened. “Will do, Scorpius. You can call me Albus.” He stood up and headed toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back at Scorpius. “See you at the castle?”
Scorpius nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face, which made Albus hesitate to leave him behind. Still, he felt better overall—less anxious about his house placement. After all, if he could strike up a conversation with Voldemort’s supposed son that easily, who couldn’t he befriend? A newfound lightness entered his step as he made his way back to his cousin’s compartment. He felt ready to face the spell—or rather, endure conversations with people he didn’t particularly care about. Somehow, Scorpius had given him the push he needed—or maybe, the courage he hadn’t realized he lacked.
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Chapter 2: Chapter Two - The Sorting
Summary:
Albus returns to his cousin Rose compartment, tries to make a few friends, and then is taken across the magical lake and into the heart of the Castle—The Great Hall for his sorting!
Notes:
So, did I dream about Albus and Scorpius? Yes, my two hours of sleep before uni were very magical and confusing. Did I then come straight home and begin to write? Yes. Even though I should really be doing some uni reading? Yes. Well, anyway, I wanted to post a chapter today, and I’m somehow satisfied with it! I’m starting to really enjoy writing a mopey Albus lol! I also really adore Rose; I had fun writing her and showing the contrast between the two cousins!
In this chapter, you might find me experimenting a bit with wizarding metaphors, references, and sayings. I actually had a hard time picking ones that made sense—my own are just so terribly Muggle. Also, I’m not British, which makes writing British magical school kids a lot harder. I would love to hear your favourite Wizard Worlds sayings, expressions, metaphors etc!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Two - The Sorting
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To say Albus was overwhelmed would be an understatement. Any confidence he’d gained quickly vanished the moment he returned to Rose’s compartment. First, they commented on how long he'd been in the loo, and then, he had to pretend he'd actually gotten lost on the train. They bought it, which somehow stung even more. He didn't know if he should be smug that he told such a believable lie, or offended that they thought of it as something he would actually do.
To make matters worse, they realized Albus had only remembered Polly Chapman's name, forgetting the other two boys entirely. He could feel Rose's glare beside him. Instead of defending him, she acted surprised and apologized for his 'lack of social skills,' blaming it on his 'secluded childhood.' Her comment shifted the conversation to his family—the one topic he desperately wanted to avoid. And she knew that. He didn’t want to talk about his parents—especially not his father, which seemed to be the only thing anyone cared about. Some of the Quidditch fans asked about his mother’s time with the Holyhead Harpies, but Albus didn’t know much about Quidditch, and his ignorance was quickly exposed.
Talking to these kids was far more exhausting than talking to Scorpius. As the journey dragged on and the questions became even more irritating, Albus considered using the lavatory excuse again—maybe he could claim an upset stomach—but he didn’t want to be 'that kid' on his first day. He could already sense Rose’s disappointment, which felt unfair. It wasn’t like he was trying to be unlikable; he just didn’t like these people. And it was becoming obvious they didn’t care much for him either—except, of course, for his last name. They only tolerated his so-called “bad personality” because he was a Potter. The realization made his mood sour even more.
He wanted to roll his eyes. All this time wasted when he could’ve been with Scorpius instead. The more Rose spun pointless stories about their parents’ “Hogwarts adventures,” the more Albus's contentment and annoyance heightened. She even hinted that the others might be lucky enough to join their “future Hogwarts adventures”—as if epic adventures were passed down through their bloodline. To make it worse, like James, Rose soaked up the compliments, fully embracing the role of 'the perfect daughter of Hermione and Ron Weasley.
Albus’s stomach sank as he wished more and more to be anywhere but here. Doubt began to creep into his mind, and he hated feeling this way about Rose— his Rose. His best friend since birth. She had never acted this way around him before. They used to complain together about being overshadowed by their parents, about always being known as 'so-and-so’s kid.' They would laugh, roll their eyes, and glare at the cameras in shared frustration. Rose had always claimed to hate the limelight as much as he did. But now... her words didn’t match her actions.
A dark thought flickered inside him: had she lied to him all this time? Or was she, like him, just wearing a mask to fit in? It hurt and confused Albus that he couldn’t tell. He feared he didn’t know his best friend as well as he thought he did. His mouth felt dry as the uncertainty settled in.
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Thankfully, Albus’s torture and embarrassment didn’t last long. The train soon reached its destination: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As they arrived, Albus felt his nerves resurface, the dread he had tried to suppress wriggling its way back into his thoughts. His mouth felt dry as they began to disembark, and the chaotic movement of students in all directions did nothing to ease his nervousness. The sight of Hagrid, the half-giant and well-known family friend, did little to calm him either.
Albus didn’t have anything against Hagrid, but unlike the rest of his family, he wasn’t particularly fond of him either. He felt more impartial towards the half-giant. Albus planned to maintain a standard professor-student relationship with Hagrid and keep up appearances by attending the occasional tea time in the Hut, like the rest of his family currently at Hogwarts. However, he hoped he wouldn’t have to go alone. If he could, he’d tag along with Rose or James, letting them handle the conversation. Since he wouldn’t have Hagrid as a professor until his third year, he didn’t have to worry about it just yet. Albus wasn’t even sure if he wanted to take Care of Magical Creatures. It wasn’t that he disliked magical creatures—he found them as fascinating as his little sister did—but he preferred to admire them from a distance.
Hagrid, always easy to spot from afar, waved enthusiastically. He wasn’t exactly known for maintaining an unbiased appearance toward students. When Rose caught sight of him, she immediately abandoned her conversation with Polly and the other boys who had been discussing Hogwarts: A History. She stopped in her tracks and beamed, raising her arms above her head and waving wildly with a big smile that showed all her teeth.
Albus grimaced. His social battery was running dangerously low. He wasn’t used to maintaining this level of interaction for so long—back at home or during gatherings, he could usually sneak away to his room or hide in a quiet corner. But now, he had to keep up the appearance of being engaged, and it was exhausting. Forcing a smile, Albus raised a hand in a much smaller wave than Rose’s, more aware of the faces now watching them and whispering. Hagrid, as usual, returned the waves with a hearty laugh, then gestured for the students to follow the path that would take them down to the Black Lake, and onto their ride to the castle.
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He boarded a boat with Rose and the others from their train compartment. Although he tried to engage in conversation, his mind was elsewhere, intensely searching for that shade of pale blonde hair and pale skin stained pink. Traveling across the sea of faces of strangers, he sought the silhouette of the boy with the same intensity as a Seeker searching for the Golden Snitch, he spotted the boy as easily as a sailor found the North Star in the night sky. Scorpius wasn’t alone, which was a relief, but it also ignited a silent rage within him that he didn’t quite understand. The boys around Scorpius didn’t seem to harbor the same animosity toward him as Rose had earlier; they appeared to have known him for some time. It seemed to add fuel to the silent fire burning inside him.
His attention was momentarily diverted by the boat’s movement and the breathtaking view of the castle coming into sight. The castle’s beauty was awe-inspiring, and the magic around it felt tangible, like a living, breathing beast, with the castle as its pulsating heart. As they drew closer, Albus’s gaze wandered back to Scorpius. When he saw the expression on Scorpius’s face, he felt as though his heart had stopped beating, his veins pulsating painfully. The expression was something he would never forget. As his heartbeat resumed, it seemed to synchronize with the rhythmic pulse of the castle. His mask cracked, revealing a smile so truthful and pure that it shocked even him, filling him with a contentment he hadn’t felt in a long time. As if their hearts beat together, Scorpius’s eyes found his, and he returned a smile even brighter than the castle’s glow, making Albus’s magic dance to the rhythm of the castle.
He was taken out of the moment by a shouting in his ear, and a voice that could only belong to his dear Rose. His eyes traveled toward hers, and her expression was much alike his own, and she beamed at him, giving him a hug, and in that moment all the resentment he felt for his cousin melted away in the euphoria of the magical moment they shared together, their eyes meet each other and it was like they were small kids again, discovering magic for the first time. Together hunched over a nook they had stolen from Rose’s Mothers private library, Rose as the genius that she was could read and understand the complex text, and gracefully told Albus in words he could understand. They can have been no older than five, with all the childlike wonder in the world, acting out a first act of rebellion in stealing a book they shouldn't be reading, hiding away underneath roses blankets, the only light being a magical lamp Rose used to use to read under her blanket.
He felt as if Rose was the only one who truly knew him and loved him for it, who did not seek to change him and Albus returned the hug with equal emotion, certain that she could feel the magic just as he did—the warmth and sense of belonging radiating from their shared experience, a feeling of home in its purest and most truthful form.
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The magic around him made him feel a bit delirious. As he was moved through the castle, he stumbled in a haze of creeping dread. He needed to face the spell—within minutes, the large doors to the Great Hall would open for the Sorting ceremony, where the entire school, except for the first years, awaited. His brother would be among them. It was nerve-wracking. Albus couldn’t picture what his brother was doing at that moment. Was he snickering and talking to his friends about the disappointment of a brother destined for the snake pit? Or was he boasting about how obvious it was that Albus would end up in the proud and brave House of the Lions? Albus was anxious about not knowing which scenario was more likely and which was preferable.
His magic seemed to be adjusting to the castle's, pulling him more and more into the present. The chatter around him—most of which he knew was about him—grew louder, until it drowned out everything else. He felt sweat beading on his forehead, his heart racing, and his limbs trembling. It took all his concentration to maintain a calm exterior, with only the occasional small tremble that could be explained away. Thankfully, his companions had stopped trying to engage him in conversation, which made it easier to fake a composed appearance. He knew he couldn’t trust his voice right now, and the last thing he wanted was to sound weak in front of his new peers. He could not bear the thought of being seen as a disappointment.
Albus knew Rose could sense his distress. She was trying to soothe him, slipping her hand into his and tracing small circles with her thumb. It helped, just as it always had when they were kids, and for that, he was grateful. He wasn’t alone—not entirely—despite how hard those dark thoughts tried to convince him otherwise. Rose cared. She knew him, and she loved him. He managed a weak smile, which she gracefully returned without drawing attention to it. Now, she was determined to take as much of the focus as possible, so Albus wouldn’t have to. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow to a more normal rhythm.
Rose seemed to bask in the spotlight, loudly introducing herself as Albus’s cousin and efficiently taking over the limelight. She mentioned her surname countless times, clarifying it was not Rose Granger, but Rose Granger-Weasley. Unlike Albus, she excelled at making conversation and confidently stood in the spotlight, never second-guessing herself, standing bravely in the face of adversity.
She had already amassed a group of adoring students eager to listen to her, as if she were Merlin himself. Rose had always had a knack for leadership, and now it was clearer than ever how much of a Gryffindor she was—in the best sense. The eyes of the first years turned toward her, completely ignoring Albus, allowing him to finally breathe again. Truly, his cousin was a marvel, one of those people who drew others in like moths to a flame. But the more brightly Rose shone, the more Albus, like a bat in the shadows, wanted to escape from the rays. It was a weird feeling, he taught himself subconsciously slithering away from the light, from being seen. That was the reason that he was the least known family member of the Potter family, and he was determined to keep it that way. While he knew there was nothing wrong with wanting to be more private—a trait he grudgingly shared with his father—Albus’s reasons were different. He didn’t care what people wrote about him; he just didn’t want to be seen at all. The more eyes on him, the harder it was to keep secrets, to get away with things, and to do what he wasn’t supposed to. Being known would work against his interests, after all. The more pictures the Daily Prophet printed of him, the more people would recognize him, making it harder to disappear into a crowd. He knew he stood out—he looked like his father, after all, with the same dark, unruly Potter hair and nearly identical eyes, though his were just a shade darker, touched with a hint of his mother’s brown. But those were fairly ordinary traits, ones that could be hidden if necessary. Darkly, the brighter his siblings or cousin shone, the more he wanted a distance between them, it was like his mind feared he would be burned if the light was on him for too long. Like Icarus who flew too close to the sun.
But Albus knew he was like a planet orbiting a sun; he needed that gravitational pull to stay in his orbit. Without it, he would drift into the abyss.
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The castle did not wait for him, and the doors swung open to reveal a sea of faces. The first years were greeted with applause from excited students and siblings eager to see which house the newcomers would join. Albus could have sworn his heart was in his throat, but thankfully he wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure. Every first year was a mix of nerves and excitement. Rose, however, held her composure perfectly, walking in with the confidence of someone who had been here before, as if this wasn’t her first time in the castle.
Albus quickly shifted his gaze from the sea of faces to the ceiling, which wasn’t just a roof but a reflection of the night sky. He could hear voices behind him, whispering that it was exactly as described in Hogwarts: A History , though they marveled at how seeing it in person was far more breathtaking than reading about it. Albus silently agreed. He had, of course, read the book long ago, and while the pages made it sound magical, even Bagshot couldn’t fully capture the wonder of seeing it firsthand. The enchanted ceiling displayed a stunning view of the night sky, the bright stars twinkling above while candles floated just below, casting a warm glow—and Albus was utterly captivated.
He made an effort to keep track of the sorting, memorizing the names of those placed into each house so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself at the house table later. It was never a good look to forget the names of the people you’d be sharing a dorm with for the next seven years. Although Albus wasn’t planning on making many friends—he had imagined just following Rose and her mates, who would, out of kindness, tolerate him—his focus shifted slightly. Now, he found himself intrigued by a shy-looking boy who seemed openly as nervous as Albus himself felt. He envied the boy’s ability to be so unabashedly himself, his emotions laid bare. Even if the open display of feelings irritated him, Scorpius’s vulnerability drew him in just as much as it frustrated him.
Scorpius, the Malfoy heir, seemed on the brink of a breakdown, muttering to himself in a low frantic manner. The other children around him, the same children who had the privilege of being able to openly share the boat ride with him didn't look concerned, no they dared to be put off by his behavior. Albus felt a surge of anger, and a brief impulse to comfort the boy, but he quickly reined it in. Making a scene was not his style, even for Scorpius. He turned back to the Hat, noting Rose’s confident demeanor as she prepared for her sorting. Her gaze was fixated on the Hat and the person being sorted, a subtle indication that she was keeping track of the sorting, likely with a particular interest in Gryffindor and some Hufflepuff.
“Rose Granger-Weasley!” Her name was called, and she walked forward with a grace and confidence that made Albus wish he could borrow even a fraction of it. Her smile radiated with a fire in her eyes, and she approached the Hat as though she had been here a thousand times before. Albus couldn’t help but smirk in solidarity with his cousin, feeling a pang of envy. Merlin she really was a wonder, with her long ginger locks swaying in the wind, like she was in one of those muggle hair commercials, He truly did understood the crowds that seemed to gather around her, with her tanned skin glowing underneath the light of the candles, her striking weasley blue eyes dead set on a target, she had only gotten good genes and she wore them well. It was easy to be jealous of someone who did not only win the lottery in the brain department but also in appearance.
He would probably have to duel a lot of boys in their coming years, though Albus doubted that she would need it. She was as independent as Albus and could hold herself better than him. That much was clear.
It seemed like Rose was destined for Gryffindor before the hat even touched her head. She accepted the applause with effortless charm, tossing her hair and flashing a radiant playful smile at the crowd. The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers, and drumming on the table, some small firework spells could be seen from the table as Rose confidently made her way over to the lions table, who now was filled with applauds and lion’s roar. Albus, watching from the sidelines, felt a mixture of admiration and resentment. He didn't yearn for that kind of attention but it was hard to ignore the most human pull of being that well liked. The Gryffindor table could not possibly get any louder—Merlin.
After a few stern looks from the Professor's table, and a few spells flowing haywire, the Gryiffndors seemed to calm down a bit enough to continue the sorting of the next person. Albus didn’t find anyone particularly noteworthy until Scorpius’s name was called, and then the silence that followed was so suffocating you could almost hear a pin drop. Everyone held their breath, craning to catch a glimpse of Voldemort's supposed son. The only sound in the room was Scorpius’s own deep inhale as he braced himself to step forward, leaving the comfort of the crowd behind.
And he did—bravely. Albus couldn’t imagine himself carrying that same grace, even though it was clear Scorpius wasn’t unaffected by the unnerving stillness. Worse still, the silence soon gave way to whispers—rumors of his origins, vile speculations about his mother, and cruel remarks about his childhood. Albus overheard a group behind him discussing how Scorpius had led a secluded upbringing, rarely seen outside the privacy of Malfoy Manor. That isolation only added fuel to the fire. But Albus understood. If this was the reception Scorpius had to look forward to, it was no wonder his parents kept him hidden. Albus grimaced—perhaps they should have sent him abroad instead.
To no one’s surprise, the Malfoy heir was swiftly placed into Slytherin. At least someone was keeping up the family legacy. Albus, on the other hand, had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t be so lucky. He briefly entertained the idea of turning around and throwing himself into the lake—drowning seemed like a more appealing option with every name called, each one bringing him closer to his doom.
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The hat felt a bit bigger than it looked, and honestly, it did look big on most. Albus felt his cheeks flush the longer it stayed on his head, especially in front of so many people. He straightened his posture, trying to channel some of that Rose-like confidence. Horribly, he felt as if the Hat could see right through his façade, and Albus hated it. Growing irritated at the silent treatment from the Hat, and offended that it dared to try and embarrass him by becoming a Hatstall, he begged, “Please.” He knew that damn Hat could hear him. “Don't drag this out. My father is going to hear about it, which I’m not a fan of.”
He was smart enough not to try and scare the Hat, fearing it might place him in Slytherin just to spite him. Internally, he groaned. Why couldn't anything go right for me? He must be cursed.
That seemed to earn a laugh from the Hat, which made Albus jump, even more embarrassed by his own reaction. He felt the blush deepen. Albus grimaced. The Hat seemed to want to play, and he was not eager to engage.
Feeling an increasing need to be sorted and avoid becoming a Hatstall, he desperately tried to channel some Gryffindor traits. In an act of bravery, he looked over the hall. His gaze first fell on Rose, who was staring at him with her brows furrowed, clearly as perplexed as he was. Further up the Gryffindor table, he found James, gawking at him and scratching his head, like the twat he was. Albus wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t, for appearances, of course. The boys around James were whispering something, which made James look worried. Albus shifted his gaze, and it fell on Scorpius.
Albus felt like he could always find him, however big the crowd was. His eyes found Scorpius’s head as easily as a delivery owl finds its recipient. Albus’s gaze softened; he had Scorpius’s full attention. He was the only one who bore an encouraging expression. The idiot even offered him a subtle thumbs-up. Oh, how Albus wanted to laugh, touched by the boy's open support.
The Hat dared to laugh again and, without warning, shouted:
"SLYTHERIN!"
“Bloody hell, Morgana strike me down,” Albus muttered.
Notes:
SO THERE IT IS! I’m actually very happy with my depiction of Albus lol! And I’m sorry for kind of leaving it on a cliffhanger, but be assured that I will get back to writing after posting this! Haha.
Yes, I did some foreboding in this chapter—I just couldn’t help myself! i really love Albus bickering with the Hat, like albus dear that wont help you at all.
Also, I kind of want to incorporate my current uni studies into the story; it’s theology, if you’re wondering. We talked a bit about socialization theory and attachment theory, which I found could be relevant to the story. So let’s see if I can work it in!
Also again, i love when they use the term Morgana in fanfics, and i just felt like Morgana strike me down could be a saying???
Chapter 3: Chapter Three - The slytherin Squib
Notes:
Hi! Im very happy for you guyses comments! they make me want to write more!!! This time i decided to do a longer Chapter, truthfully, i didnt really know where to end it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Three - The slytherin Squib
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The silence was deafening. The clapping and excited whispers from earlier seemed like distant echoes, swallowed by the Great Hall’s sudden, unnerving stillness. It was as if no one knew how to react. Albus’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder that his worst fears had come true. At least they clapped for Scorpius—well, at least the Slytherin table and some at the Ravenclaw table did—He felt as if the ground had opened up beneath him, swallowing him into a realm where nothing made sense. His world where he was firmly rooted, once familiar and secure, had shifted irreversibly. He felt like a wizard without a wand, vulnerable. The eerie, deathly quiet hung over the hall like a suffocating spell, as if someone had cast an Unforgivable Curse that no one dared to acknowledge
And then—
"Slytherin?" Polly’s voice cut through the silence, louder than necessary,
The shock in her tone echoed the thoughts of many students, and her loud exclamation was met with a warning glare from Headmistress McGonagall. The damage was done. Albus’s face burned with a mixture of humiliation and dread. He felt as if he were on the brink of collapse, struggling desperately to hold back tears. There was no way he could cry, not with so many eyes on him. His pride could not take it—he was already humiliated beyond belief; he couldn’t let himself sink even lower.
Dazed and weak, his legs threatened to give out beneath him, but he forced himself to walk toward the Slytherin table with all the bravery he could muster. Each step felt like a lifetime. The thought of throwing himself into the Black Lake flashed in his mind—a cold, dark escape that seemed almost inviting compared to the continuous living nightmare he was currently trapped in. It felt like a cruel twist of fate. His entire world was collapsing around him, and he was powerless to stop it. All he could do was push forward, clinging to what little dignity he had left, determined not to humiliate himself further.
And then, as if the universe itself were mocking him, a voice rang out through the hall:
“Woah!” exclaimed a boy near the end of the Slytherin table, likely a first year. Albus recognized him—Craig Bowker Jr. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or disgusted that he could recall the names of his fellow Slytherins. Bowker, eager to cement himself as the class clown early, smacked a hand to his forehead. With a sneering, almost crude voice, he said, “A Potter? In Slytherin? Morgana!”
The cruel laughter that followed felt like daggers to Albus. Each one cutting deeper into Albus's already fragile composure. His anger flared, mingling with an all-consuming sense of dread, the emotions twisting and coiling inside him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to make everyone stop—but he could barely manage to keep walking, his legs threatening to give out beneath the unbearable weight of it all. It felt as though the very air around him was pressing down, a physical gravitational force crushing him.
“I suppose his hair isn’t that similar,” He heard Yann Fredericks call out from the Gryffindor Table. More laughter followed, a chorus of whispers spreading through the hall like Fiendfyre. Albus wanted to bite off the lion's head with his bare teeth.
Through the haze of humiliation, Scorpius’s voice broke through his fog of despair, somehow clear and steady. “Over here, Albus!” he said gently but a bit too loud, his voice was far too gentle.
The kindness in his tone was almost unbearable. Albus felt the sting of tears welling up and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might throw himself into Scorpius’s arms, seeking a comfort he didn’t think he deserved. He clenched his teeth with such force that he could taste blood in his mouth. It was grounding, in a way—the sharp pain a distraction from the turmoil. Albus took the empty seat beside Scorpius at the Slytherin table. Scorpius held a calm that Albus could barely comprehend, a grace that only made him feel more unmoored. Headmistress McGonagall finally put an end to the murmurs, continuing the Sorting Ceremony as if nothing had happened.
Food appeared on the table before he realized it, but Albus didn’t touch it. He didn’t speak, either. The noise, the clinking of cutlery, the endless chatter—it was too much. He shut it all out, retreating into his own misery. Even Scorpius’s gentle attempts to coax him into eating were ignored. Sensing Albus’s inner conflict, Scorpius gave up, silently placing food on Albus plate before turning to engage with the other first-years in conversation.
Everything was ruined. He would be disowned, his family would never speak to him again, and—what would happen next? Live with the centaurs in the forbidden forest? Join some wandering circus of magical outcasts? The thoughts tumbled over each other in his head, ridiculous but real in his panicked state. the different scenarios where making his head spin, he felt as like he was on a muggle roller coaster, and that he might need to puke. That damned hat had dared to laugh at him—and then to place him in Slytherin! Albus was seething, though he didn’t know at whom. The hat? His family? Himself? Anger felt better than the hollow ache of fear lurking beneath it.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, or better yet, fling himself into the Black Lake and be done with it. Wasn’t that what Slytherins did? Slip into darkness and never come back out? The thought almost made him laugh, but the bitterness caught in his throat instead. Albus couldn’t move past the storm brewing inside him. This was his life now—Slytherin, outcast, failure, disappointment. And there was no escape for now.
Albus found himself jolted back to reality when Scorpius gave him a gentle nudge to get up. It was time to head to the Common Rooms. Albus clenched his jaw, stiffened. Making the other boy release his soft grip, bit wearily. He followed Scorpius and the other Slytherins out of the Great Hall, feeling the eyes of the entire school on him. He wished they would move faster—he just needed to get out of sight before he broke down.
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He should have expected Rose’s ambush. Rose, always quick to assert herself, grabbed his arm with a force that nearly made him stumble. The sudden movement drew the attention of everyone nearby, ready to see the confrontation. All of the Slytherin First years, His prefects and the other students seemed to hang onto every movement and seemed ready for a show. finding pleasure in his further humiliation. When was it going to end?
Albus’s heart dropped when he saw the look on Rose’s face. Rose, with her characteristic lack of subtlety, seemed determined to make a spectacle, her eagerness to confront him in front of so many people felt like an additional blow to his already shattered self-esteem.
Albus’s anger flared, and the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, finally boiled over. This was the last thing he needed right now—another public humiliation. Rose knew he hated being the center of attention, yet here she was, worsening his misery. His rage was almost palpable, a seething, uncontainable force. How could she do this to him, right after everything that had just happened? It felt like she was twisting the knife in his already bleeding wounds.
He didn’t care anymore; he was already at rock bottom. He yanked his arm free with such force that Rose almost toppled forward, clearly caught off guard. She was used to dragging him around, always treating him like an extension of herself. He only voiced his grievances after the fact, never during—or before. The sense of betrayal and humiliation was so intense that he felt it might consume him entirely. The onlookers gasped at the sheer force of Albus's reaction. Rose looked at him, with a mixture of shock and hurt, and Albus felt a dark satisfaction in her growing distress. He took a deep breath, struggling to control the torrent of emotions within him. Her hurt ? How dare she? His left eye twitches uncontrollably with the intensity of his overwhelmed mental stage
“Albus–”
“No!” Albus cut her off sharply. The single word, laced with raw hatred, felt like a severing charm slicing through the fragile facade of his composure. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with tension. The looks of shock and fear from those around him didn't bother him. He could see the hurt in Rose’s eyes, but it only fueled his anger. How could she expect him to be anything but furious when his world had just been turned upside down?
“I don’t want to hear it, Rose!” he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and despair. The word came out colder than he intended, but it felt like the only way to shield himself from the overwhelming emotions threatening to engulf him. Rose looked taken aback, her mouth opening and closing in shock. Rose, true to her Gryffindor nature, quickly recovered and tried to push back, her voice rising with frustration. Their family arguments were usually loud and emotionally charged, but Albus couldn’t deal with that today. He didn't let her speak.
“Save it,” he snapped once more with the same cold venom dripping from his voice, the force of his words leaving her stunned and a look close to fear, Albus wanted to laugh bitterly. They both knew he was no match for her physically or magically; he was smaller, weaker, and she had always won every fight. The hall was now silent, every student watching with wide eyes as Albus’s outburst echoed through the Great Hall.
He sharply turned, trying to look at the Slytherin Prefect more respectfully, signaling silently that he was done and for them to lead the way. They complied, their face held an expression Albus didn’t bother to decipher. The other Slytherin first-years, watched with a mix of awe and apprehension, but he was too consumed by his own turmoil to care. The world felt like it was collapsing around him, and he was trapped in the ruins, struggling to make sense of the devastation.
No one talked to him during the march down to the dungeons, neither did they include him during the rules and announcements, nor did they speak with him as they reached the shared boy dormitory. Albus didn't even bother to change and threw himself head first into his bed and closed the bed curtains.
Albus couldn’t sleep, his mind replaying every moment of the day over and over. His anger had subsided, but he was still haunted by the humiliation and disbelief. The silence after the Sorting Hat’s decision was deafening—no claps, no cheers, not even from the teachers. It gnawed at him, the whole experience of the Sorting. Not only had he drawn unwanted attention, but Rose had also acted true to her Gryffindor nature—impulsive and reckless. He knew her better than that; she wasn’t usually so thoughtless. But he still resented her for making him the center of a public scene.
He let out a groan of frustration and pounded his head against his pillow. Not only had he let his emotions take control, but he had also lashed out at Rose—his cousin, of all people. This wasn’t like him. He needed to clear his mind, but it was clouded with excuses for staying in his bed, hiding from the world. He wasn’t brave enough to face anyone; he wasn’t a Gryffindor, as the whole world now knew. He laughed bitterly, the irony not lost on him. This was just perfect.
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“It wasn’t that bad,” Scorpius continued to ramble as they walked to the Great Hall for breakfast. “I mean, yes, it was bad, but—”
Albus appreciated Scorpius’s attempt to reassure him. He really did. But he couldn’t share Scorpius’s optimism. He dreaded stepping into the Great Hall and had nearly stayed in bed. Reluctantly, he had taken Scorpius’s warning seriously—Scorpius had threatened to drag him to the Great Hall if he didn’t go willingly. Albus was impressed by Scorpius’s cunning and awareness. The boy already knew how to blackmail him, threatening to make a scene. Since Albus didn’t know Scorpius well enough to judge whether he would actually follow through with his threat, he had reluctantly changed his robes and tried to look presentable.
Scorpius was right about one thing: Albus did look good in green. As Bowker Jr. had joked earlier, it really did bring out his eyes—eyes that, to Albus’s dismay, were nearly a copy of his father’s deathly green, though a tad darker thanks to his mother.
A laugh echoed behind them, followed by a cheerful “Oi! Potter!” Another Slytherin boy casually strolled up beside Albus. “Your little fight yesterday was fantastic. It really showed why the Hat placed you in Slytherin. Honestly, most of us were pleasantly shocked—we didn’t think you had it in you,” he said with a grin. His face showed no malice, but there was a glint in his eyes that hinted at something more than just praise.
“Thank you?” Albus replied, a bit perplexed. His cheeks flushed from the boy’s close proximity and his unexpected compliment—or what Albus assumed was meant to be one.
“Honestly, I’m a bit envious. That will definitely put you in the good graces of the upper years,” the boy continued.
Albus frowned. Why would the upper years care about what a first-year did? And why would his fight with Rose earn him their favor?
“Good graces? Why should I care?” he asked, already feeling exhausted by the day.
The other boy gave him a curious look, then grinned and laughed. “Ha! Potter! Of course you didn’t listen when Fawley talked about Slytherin Rules and Conduct yesterday!” He chuckled before reassuring Albus, “Don’t worry. Fawley said the Prefects will hold an introductory meeting tonight after dinner for all the first-years. There will be two more meetings where some influential people in the house will be introduced, and roles explained.”
The boy was right; Albus hadn’t caught any of that last night. Honestly, he was interested. He had never heard his father mention anything like that happening in Gryffindor House, and it might give him something else to focus on, which he desperately needed.
Behind Albus, who was engaged in conversation with their other roommate, Scorpius watched with concern, his eyes darting between the two boys.
The boy exuded confidence and an intimate knowledge of the house's inner workings, he already seemed well-versed in supposed house politics. Just before they entered the Great Hall, the boy stopped and extended his hand to Albus. “I’m Zachary Zabini, first son of Blaise Zabini, though I hold no Heirship,” he said with a smirk, trying to mask his own disdain. “Well met.”
Albus noticed the slight drop in Zachary’s tone when he mentioned his lack of Heirship. It didn’t shake him to learn that Zachary came from a pureblood family; if anything, it made his interest in politics more understandable. With the morning still early and few people around, Albus took Zachary’s hand and shook it.
“I’m Albus Potter, no Heirship either. Well met,” he said, ending the introduction with a grin, which Zachary returned.
Afterward, Zachary excused himself and entered the Great Hall alone. Albus wondered if it had been intentional—probably, he conceded. It was very Slytherin.
Albus took a deep breath. It couldn’t possibly be worse than yesterday. Scorpius, walking by his side, seemed to sense his unease. Carefully, he reached out and took Albus’s hand, as if he were comforting a frightened creature. Albus flinched at the contrast of Scorpius’s cool touch against his own warm skin, but he didn’t pull away. A quiet comfort washed over him, despite the chill of Scorpius’s hand, a sense of quiet reassurance settled over him.
He glanced to his side and offered Scorpius a small smile, childlike and hesitant, grateful that the other boy stayed by his side, even though Albus had been a bit of a git. Scorpius returned the gesture with a soft smile of his own—one that spoke of warmth and support without needing words. Albus felt his heart skip a beat. Morgana.
The silent reassurance eased his worries, transporting him back to the boat ride when everything had felt more certain and less overwhelming. Bracing himself, Albus turned his gaze forward, determination sparkling in his eyes, and began to move. He walked with a newfound confidence in his stride, a strength even he hadn’t realized he possessed.
Contrary to what his mind had made him believe, walking into the Great Hall wasn't as big of a deal as he feared. Sure, there were whispers and people pausing their conversations to sneak glances, but he was used to it by now—being Harry Potter’s son came with that sort of attention. Albus and Scorpius found a spot at the Slytherin table, and Albus swung his leg over the bench, sitting down with an air of casualness he didn’t quite feel.
The smell of food hit him, and his stomach growled in protest. He hadn’t eaten anything at the welcome feast, and now, he was ravenous. Without hesitation, he pulled food onto his plate, though with more grace than he would at home. He was a Slytherin now, and table manners were likely to be more important here.
Scorpius sat down beside him, his eyes lighting up when he noticed Albus actually eating this time. He seemed pleased—perhaps a bit too pleased—and yet there was a flicker of concern as he observed Albus’s table manners. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Albus could feel the scrutiny, subtle as it was.
It was still early, which worked in Albus’s favor. Most Gryffindors were late risers, so their table was sparsely populated. Albus knew he would face the brunt of the backlash from Gryffindor house, not just because of the house rivalry, but also due to the “spectacle” he had caused last night by apparently “hurting” Gryffindor’s most favored first-year lion. It would be like facing a Chimaera. Albus had heard enough from James to know that Gryffindors had little patience for snakes, especially those who crossed their lions. On top of that, being a Potter and a Weasley in Slytherin only intensified the animosity. His entire family—both immediate and extended—had been Gryffindors. They were the house of heroes, the winning side, and he had shattered that legacy all by himself by being sorted into their age-old rival house— Slytherin.
With all that weighing on him and the full impact of last night’s outburst sinking in, it felt like being struck with a bat-bogey hex. He swallowed hard, his appetite vanishing. He would face the full force of the Gryffindor lions, and he might actually need to fear for his safety. He felt like he might faint. Thankfully, Albus was rescued from his own dementors when he heard a voice behind him. It was their Prefect, Greengrass. The Prefect, who was in his sixth year, had golden blonde hair and blue eyes—typical Greengrass traits. He waited until both boys turned around to acknowledge his presence. Scorpius spoke first, his voice full of the poise befitting his pure-blood status. “Heir Greengrass,” he greeted politely with a small bow of his head.
The Prefect answer was just as elegant, but with a hint of disapproval and distance in his voice “Heir Malfoy. It’s nice to finally meet you cousin” He said with a smile that didn't meet his eyes. Albus could see Scorpious tense up. Interesting. Albus wanted to place a reassuring hand in Scorpius’ hand, but stopped himself, it would not be a good look. Albus was out of his waters, he knew some of the old pureblood customs, but the book was old. Scorpius gave his own stained smile and replied, with no familiar familiarity, “Yes, well met cousin. I have heard quite a lot about you.“ he said, but gave an honest smile back. Scorpius’s cousin gave a quiet answer “I’m Sure.” and then turned over to Albus, who had been quietly watching the whole scene. Greengrass now extended his hand toward him, and Ablus shook it “It's nice to meet you, Heir Greengrass.” Albus said politely. The Prefect seemed to take Albus in with his eyes, studying how almost like you would a potion. “It’s nice to have you in our House Potter.” he said curtly, before beginning to give them each their timetables, while also reminding them of the introduction meeting tonight. It was not officially mandatory, but seen as a Slytherin obligation. He gave them a polite goodbye, before heading toward other Slytherin first years.
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Fate wasn’t giving Albus any respite. Their first class of the day was an introductory flying lesson, turning into a relentless nightmare of humiliation. Albus almost felt like invoking some ancient magic or making a desperate, ritualistic sacrifice to appease the very essence of Magic herself, hoping for a bit of grace.
Albus knew he wasn’t exactly a natural on a broomstick. His mother often attributed this to a severe accident he’d had as a child, which had apparently left a lasting impact on his magic. According to her, his magic just wouldn’t let him fly properly as some type of protection, he just needed to overcome this fear through persistence. Both she and his father were proponents of a confrontational approach to healing—facing fears head-on to prove they weren’t so terrifying after all. But Albus, being stubborn and resistant, would always hide, run, or lash out when faced with such attempts. Eventually, they gave up trying. Albus had been smug then—Now he regrets it.
He had been dreading this since he received his timetable. Why did the first class have to be flying? The thought of it only intensified his anxiety—everyone would see just how much of a disappointment he was. He had never even had a fraction of his mother and father’s flying skills. For some reason, Scorpius seemed equally apprehensive beside him, his usual poise replaced by an anxious fidgeting that mirrored Albus’s own nerves.
As they waited outside for the teacher, Scorpius leaned in and whispered, so only Albus could hear, “I’m really not very good at flying.” There was a strain in his voice as he continued, “I’ve flown before—my father’s a big fan of Quidditch and flying—but I’m…” He trailed off, his face scrunching in discomfort. Albus could see him struggling with vulnerability. “I’m quite clumsy, especially on a broom.”
Albus was taken aback. He had always thought Scorpius wore his emotions on his sleeve, but here he was, struggling with a rare moment of vulnerability. It was a side of Scorpius he hadn't expected to see, and it made Albus want to offer comfort and support even more. Albus offered a reassuring smile and, carefully out of view, took Scorpius’s hand in his.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be alright.” He wanted to be a comforting presence for Scorpius, Albus wanted to be the lumos in the boy's darkness, much like Scorpius had been his
Madam Hooch emerged into the cool September day, looking more windswept than any human had a right to be. Her appearance immediately conveyed that she was not someone to be trifled with. Carrying herself with the poise of an Auror training leader, she addressed the students as though she had just come from a high-stakes mission, her authority clear in every word.
“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Madam Hooch said, casting a disapproving glare at the first-years. She sighed when nobody moved. “Everyone, stand by a broomstick. Hurry up!” she ordered with urgency. The first-years scrambled to position themselves next to a broom. Albus was relieved to see that Scorpius had managed to get a broom to his left.
Immediately, Rose’s broomstick flew obediently into her hand, and beside her, Yann’s broom followed suit. Both looked smug, as though this was second nature to them, and they exchanged a nod of mutual respect. Madam Hooch made a vague noise of approval, and Rose, basking in her superiority, surveyed the field with her chin held high.
When her gaze met Albus’s, he struggled to keep his face neutral. The sight of her effortless control over the broom stirred a pang of jealousy within him. Rose’s expression shifted from surprise to a flash of hurt, then to anger, and finally settled into a sneer of triumph. She mounted her broom with a final, dismissive glance at Albus.
His blood ran cold, and a shiver ran through him as he tried to suppress his shock. The sense of betrayal was overwhelming. Rose knew his insecurities about flying, and her display seemed to mock them. Albus wished more than ever for the day to be over.
“Come on now! I’ve got no time for shirkers. Say ‘UP,’ and mean it!” Madam Hooch commanded the first years.
Albus tried with all his might, but his broom refused to move. It remained stubbornly glued to the ground, showing no sign of lifting. It didn’t wobble or shake—it was as if the broom had decided to stay firmly put. Albus was horrified at his complete lack of talent.
Beside him, Scorpius was doing remarkably well, already holding his broom confidently. He glanced over at Albus with a mix of satisfaction and concern, clearly worried about his friend.
Albus felt conflicted. He was a bit annoyed with Scorpius for his earlier concern and envious of how effortlessly he seemed to handle the broom. Yet, at the same time, he was genuinely happy for him. Despite his usual tendency to relish in others' misfortunes, he didn’t feel that way about Scorpius. He wanted him to succeed, and shine like a patronus
Brooms around them began to rise, and the air was filled with students’ gasps of excitement as they finally managed to complete the task. The sound only deepened Albus’s sense of despair. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that his broom would remain stubbornly on the ground. Frustration welled up inside him; he wanted to curse magic herself—Maybe he was a squib afterall.
Then he heard a sneer from the front of the yard, a voice he recognized, uttering without any tact, “Oh Merlin’s beard, how humiliating!”
The voice belonged to none other than Polly Chapman, who had also been the first to break the silence yesterday. Albus felt a surge of anger. Chapman’s laughter was soon joined by others, who seemed to take perverse pleasure in his humiliation.
To add insult to injury, Chapman’s voice rang out again, gratingly high and full of glee, “He really doesn’t take after his father or mother at all, does he?” The laughter soared, and so did Albus’s anger. He was on the verge of grabbing the damned broom and smashing it over Chapman’s head, imagining the scene with a gleeful satisfaction. The more laughter he heard the more he began to think that it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Then an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, nastily declaring, “Albus Potter, the Slytherin Squib!” The lanky Hufflepuff boy’s taunt was like a knife twisting in Albus’s side.
The anger he had felt turned into sheer humiliation. All his earlier thoughts of violent retaliation faded as he wished fervently for the ground to open up and swallow him. His Hogwarts experience seemed to be exceeding even his most pessimistic expectations. Morgana, it couldn’t get any worse.
Just then, as if summoned by fate, Madam Hooch cleared her throat and commanded, “Okay, children. Time to fly.”
The first years scrambled into action, and every broom, except Albus’s, rose into the air. Albus bitterly thought she should have intervened sooner. Maybe she, too, took some twisted pleasure in his public disgrace.
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In less than a day, he had managed to earn himself the dreaded reputation of being "The Slytherin Squib." The flying lesson had been a disaster, but it was just the beginning. Charms class was no better. He couldn’t even make the feather lift, no matter how perfectly he pronounced the spell and its wand movements. Even Professor Flitwick’s had looked concerned. His first day at Hogwarts had stretched into what felt like an eternity, and it wasn’t even over yet. He had managed to avoid running into his family, though there had been a few close calls. He’d seen James’s concerned glances in the hallways, but he had kept his distance. He couldn’t handle any more family scrutiny. Whispers followed him in the hallways and snide remarks were passed around during classes. It felt as though his magic had turned against him. He knew he wasn’t a Squib; he could feel the magic pulsing beneath his skin and sensed its presence in the very walls of the castle. But it was as if his own magic refused to cooperate.
Dinner at the Slytherin table was no comfort either. He received disapproving looks, though they hadn’t yet openly mocked him with the "Slytherin Squib" label. But Albus knew it was only a matter of time. The upcoming introduction meeting, where a Prefect—probably Fawley—would go over Slytherin Rules and Conduct , loomed on the horizon.
Albus had learned that the rules were detailed in a pamphlet, charmed to incinerate itself if removed from the common room. The flames supposedly burned anyone who attempted to steal it, leaving bruises that would continue to ache for at least a day, even after healing. Albus found it a bit extreme and intriguing. the bruises from the flames would supposedly continue to hurt for at least a day, even healed. He found the prospect of that magic fascinating, and quite to his taste. He hadn’t had a chance to see the pamphlet yet, but his curiosity about the charm and its mechanism grew by the hour.
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Notes:
Im having alot of fun with making wizarding sayings, and metaphors!! i hope theyre not too silly!
Chapter 4: Chapter Four - The Slytherin Rules, Customs, and Traditions.
Summary:
Albus learns about Slyherin culture and rules, and tries to keep his head above water, while dreading the looming winter holiday break.
Notes:
Hello all! Here is another Chapter! i had alot of fun with this one, trying to make up how the hell Slytherin politcs would work, and how Albus was going to learn about it. I think i did alright though! Now a disclaimer. I do use the term Princess/Prince and Queen/King. The insperation came from a fanfic i read along time ago, and im not sure exactly about what it was called. It was a time travel fic, with Harry placing into Slytherin, pretty sure it was drarry! I think the closet are probably How Fate Intended, but it was a while ago i read it so im not sure! If anyone know pls tell me haha.
**Disclaimer, The character Fawley, is a canon character, but i had her aged up, and born in 2003, instead of 2006. This also means that her parents got married eariler.
Chapter Text
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Chapter Four - The Slytherin Rules, Customs, and Traditions.
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“I am most pleased that you could all make it,” Fawle intoned, her voice imbued with an air of refined satisfaction as she surveyed the first-years, who were seated on the meticulously arranged chairs in the center of the Common Room. Most of the young faces displayed varying degrees of excitement—some barely concealed, others more reserved—while a few betrayed an unsettling hint of apprehension. It was quite apparent to discern the blood status of the students, revealing which among them had pure-blood parentage or esteemed Slytherin lineage.
Fawley did not delay in commencing the introduction. After all, she had her own O.W.L. studies to attend to, and the professors had already, after just one day, assigned homework.
“I am confident that many of you are already acquainted with the esteemed culture that prevails within Slytherin. Unlike the other Houses, which have long forsaken the traditions and visions of their founders, we in Slytherin uphold our heritage with unwavering pride and respect.
We cherish our Traditions and our Legacy,” she continued, her gaze sweeping over the assembly.
“We honor the wisdom of those who came before us, placing our trust in their guidance and teachings. Do not be misled by the ignorance or disparagement of those outside our walls. Here, you will invariably find support and counsel. Remember this most crucial rule of our House: under no circumstances should we ever engage in conflict with our own beyond these walls.”
Fawley ensured that she emphasized the word “walls” with deliberate gestures, drawing the first years’ attention to their surroundings. “Any grievances you may have with a fellow Slytherin are to remain solely within these walls,” she instructed, her tone stern as she allowed the gravity of her words to settle. “To the outside world, we present a united front.”
She paused, letting the message resonate. “The manner in which you resolve your so-called grievances must, of course, adhere to the principles of our House—solutions should be cunning and discreet. We do not favor ostentation; it is paramount that your actions remain unseen and unknown by those outside these walls.”
“We are not Gryffindors,” Fawley declared with a hint of disdain. “We do not act impulsively and think later; we plan meticulously. Our House traits—Ambition, Resourcefulness, Determination, and Cleverness—are expected to guide your every action. Academic tardiness will not be tolerated. Should you find any subject particularly challenging, seek out a Prefect who will assign you a mentor from the upper years. Of course, you will be expected to repay them for their kindness and guidance.”
A smirk curved her lips. “Nothing is given freely here. We are not Hufflepuffs , naive enough to offer loyalty or guidance without cause. Every act of assistance must have an underlying motive. Never be taught to aid others if you cannot ensure that you will benefit in return. As the House of ambition, we understand the value of favors .”
She paused, surveying the young faces to ensure her words were understood. “Do not worry. Everything will be thoroughly explained in the subsequent introduction. For now, let us focus on what it means to be a Slytherin, what is expected of you, and the legacy you are inheriting.”
She surveyed the room, a satisfied smile gracing her lips as she observed the expressions of awe on the young faces before her. It reminded her of her own introduction—a moment she had eagerly anticipated as a Prefect.
“I trust you are all familiar with the pamphlet,” she began, her tone both authoritative and precise. “A copy was, after all, placed on each of your seats. I am confident you also understand the consequences of attempting to remove it from these walls.” She noted the winces from some and the glint of satisfaction in others’ eyes. Her smirk widened slightly. “By the end of this year, you will have committed the entire pamphlet to memory.”
With a deft flick of her wrist, she performed a wordless Tempus charm, briefly displaying the time. The seamless execution of magic elicited a few murmurs of awe from the first years, a testament to her skill and poise.
“Before I release you to attend to your assignments,” Fawley began, taking a deliberate breath for dramatic effect, “allow me to impart the fundamental rule of our house—” She paused, ensuring she had captured the full attention of the first years. Their faces were a mix of anticipation and intrigue.
“Secrecy. In Slytherin, we uphold each other’s secrets, no matter how unsavory or unlawful they may be. You can rely on this unwavering principle. We do not judge others for their darker fascinations , nor do we disclose them. Here, all magic is revered, and academic curiosity is always welcomed. Should you wish to explore magical areas beyond the standard Hogwarts curriculum, guidance is readily available.”
She allowed a moment for her words to settle before continuing, her gaze sweeping over the now more apprehensive faces of the students, some showing signs of concern, disapproval, or excitement.
“Additionally, I trust you will exercise caution in concealing your emotions. While the common room is a sanctuary, we cannot afford to have anyone betray the house through uncontrolled expressions.” She paused, then added with a gentle, yet authoritative tone, “You are dismissed—except for you, Potter.” Her eyes fixed on the small eleven-year-old, whose nervousness was evident. “Please stay behind.”
The other first years scrambled from their seats, chattering excitedly about what they had just heard. Fawley moved with an air of grace to a corner, with Albus following closely behind. Scorpius, looking particularly concerned, stayed nearby, fidgeting and casting occasional glances toward Albus.
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“Potter,” Fawley addressed him with a voice that was unexpectedly soothing.
“Fawley,” Albus replied, his tone tinged with apprehension. He was already overwhelmed with the flood of new information and wasn’t sure if he should feel excitement or dread.
“I trust you’re aware that your new nickname has even reached our house,” she said.
Albus nodded in acknowledgment.
“I didn’t pull you aside to reprimand you,” she continued, her voice warm and full of genuine concern. “I simply wanted to check on how you’re feeling. You seemed quite overwhelmed yesterday.” She placed a reassuring hand gently on his shoulder.
“Potter, everything I’ve said stands true. Here, you will find both guidance and support, including mental support if necessary. Hogwarts does have on-call mind healers, should you require their services.”
Albus winced at the mention. While he was undoubtedly struggling, the idea of needing a mind healer seemed excessive. It was as if Fawley could read his thoughts.
“Potter, seeking the help of a mind healer is something many witches and wizards find beneficial, and there is no shame in it. The stress of exams and other pressures can be overwhelming, and maintaining one’s mental well-being is crucial,” Fawley explained gently.
Albus absorbed this new information with a mix of relief and surprise. He had not been accustomed to such discussions at home. His father, in particular, had always been resistant to the idea of seeing a mind healer, dismissing it whenever his mother suggested it. Albus felt a wave of relief and allowed his shoulders to relax. He was quickly realizing that the world beyond his family’s narrow view was broader and more accepting of different beliefs.
Fawley observed the changes in Albus’s demeanor with quiet interest, her hand still resting reassuringly on his shoulder. The boy appeared almost disoriented by the conversation, and Fawley found his reaction both endearing and intriguing. She had seen glimpses of potential in Albus's mind—his thoughts were complex and intense, hinting at a depth that could be well-suited for the study of the mind arts. Fawley had previously glimpsed into his mind, just a fleeting look, and she recognized a dark , seething potential within him.
“I’m not merely addressing this because of your recent behavior, Potter. I am extending this offer to you because many may not realize the significance of mental well-being in a witch or wizard's ability to perform magic effectively. Sometimes, when magic seems unresponsive, it can be attributed to the state of one’s mind. Young witches and wizards often struggle with control, leading to accidental magic or deficiencies in magical performance. Magic relies on intent and confidence; without these, one cannot harness it properly.”
Fawley observed as Albus processed her explanation, the understanding evident in his expression. She smiled, her demeanor softening, and gently ruffled the boy’s hair with an affectionate laugh.
“We all have our Dementors, Potter,” she said calmly.
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Albus didn’t know how to feel about his conversation with Fawley. She had offered him the option of meeting with an on-call mind healer. Apparently, even as an underage student, you could meet with one without your parents’ approval or knowledge. Legally, Hogwarts—and usually your Head of House—would have temporary custody during the appointment, often sitting in as a chaperone. This way, students with difficult home lives could receive help without their parents being informed, for their own safety. It was also funded by the school.
After what Fawley had said about the importance of mental health when practicing magic, it all made sense. But why hadn’t his parents taught him this? It seemed like such a basic thing to know. When he asked his roommates about it, they all acted like it was common knowledge. Only he didn’t know.
It wasn’t like he was raised a Muggle—far from it. Ever since he’d opened his eyes, magic had surrounded him. The resentment at having such crucial information kept from him by his parents began to grow. What other things, things everyone else seemed to "just know," had they withheld from him?
True to her word, even when the other houses teased him with his newfound nickname, his own house did not. They didn’t find it amusing either, never laughing when they heard someone say it. After all, it was an insult to Slytherin too—as if a squib could ever be sorted into their house. No, his house gave him other troubles, like the pressure to actually do well in his classes, or at least not fail as miserably as he was.
It hadn’t even been a full week before he was assigned a mentor. Albus had no issues with the course material, assignments, or theory. In fact, he was on par with the best student in their year in Potions and was the top of their class in History of Magic—likely because the others found the subject boring. Albus didn’t disagree, but it didn’t bore him personally.
He hadn’t yet had Defense Against the Dark Arts, the class he was both excited for and afraid of. He was eager to learn about the Dark Arts —and, of course, how to defend against them—but he knew it was a heavily practical subject. He hoped the first lesson would be mostly theoretical.
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Fate didn’t like Albus. That much he knew, but now it seemed like Fate herself was out to get him. His first Defense Against the Dark Arts class included practical elements, taking up half the lesson time. His new teacher, whom he was quickly starting to resent, strongly believed in a "hands-on" approach to learning. So here he was, expected to learn and practice the Knockback Jinx. Thankfully, they wouldn’t be practicing on each other—not yet, at least. For now, they’d start with objects, then move on to dummies, and eventually, each other.
After yet another class ended in failure, Albus made his way to the second introductory meeting on Slytherin rules and customs. Despite his struggles, he was genuinely excited. All this new information felt like a breath of fresh air. His family had always been so against anything they deemed “evil” or “too pure-blooded,” but here in Slytherin, it felt different. He knew no one else in his family could have survived in the snake pit—they wouldn’t be able to handle the knowledge of what some students were up to, nor could they keep the secrecy rule. Albus smiled to himself. But he was different .
Even with all the insults from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff—about being a snake, friendly with Death Eaters, or dabbling in the Dark Arts—and despite his own family’s view of the green house, Albus found himself proud to belong here. It was like being part of a hidden game, knowing things others didn’t. It felt special. There was a sense of belonging and solidarity, especially after all the hate from the other houses. The comments and “concerns,” thinly masked as ignorance and stereotypes, didn’t push him away from Slytherin—they only made him embrace it more.
It was so utterly not Gryffindor, and that was something he liked. But most of all, he enjoyed the secrecy, the knowledge that it would be kept, and the possibility of learning things his family would never approve of. It was exhilarating and unnerving in the best possible way. And while there was always an underlying motive in everything, at least here, everyone was aware of it.
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The days of the week passed, and finally, it was time for the second introductory seminar about Slytherin’s rulers, culture, and traditions. Albus felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach; the time had come.
As he took his seat beside Scorpius, the chairs were once again arranged in the center of the common room. The first years filled the seats, and older students gathered in the back or lounged on nearby armchairs and couches. Their presence added a layer of anticipation and, perhaps, a hint of mockery. The older students’ faces bore expressions of amusement and excitement, clearly relishing the opportunity to observe the first years’ reactions.
Before long,The Slytherin Headboy Albus had seen but not yet spoken to strode confidently to the front of the room. Dominic Nott, heir to the most Ancient and Noble House of Nott, exuded an air of unassailable authority. He moved with the practiced grace of a seasoned leader, every gesture radiating command and confidence.
He cleared his throat, and the room fell into a hushed silence.
“Esteemed First Years,” Dominic began, his voice smooth and commanding, “I am Dominic Nott, heir to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and your King. I am not merely your Head Boy but the embodiment of our house's legacy. With that introductory formality addressed, let us proceed.”
His smile was coldly calculated, a predatory glint in his eye. “You are fortunate to witness this presentation, a longstanding tradition that marks the beginning of your journey with us.”
“Welcome to Slytherin House,” Dominic continued, his tone dripping with pride and superiority. “Here, excellence and ambition are not merely encouraged but demanded. This house is the crucible where leaders, visionaries, and individuals who grasp that success is not given but earned are forged. As a member of Slytherin, you are expected to rise to the occasion and exceed the ordinary.”
He cast a measured glance around the room before continuing.
“In your inaugural year, you will familiarize yourself with the workings of our house. Your focus should be on earning house points, establishing initial connections, and proving your worth. Every action is observed, and first impressions are lasting.”
“By your second year, you will witness the emergence of the ‘Top Girl’ and ‘Top Boy’—those who have mastered the art of influence and leadership. These titles are not mere honors but symbols of their command over their peers. Your ambition should be directed towards observing, learning, and positioning yourself for such acclaim.”
“As you advance toward your third to fifth years, the competition will intensify. It is during these years that you must solidify your alliances, showcase your prowess, and engage in the strategic maneuvers that will determine your future standing. Remember, in Slytherin, power and influence are not bestowed; they are claimed through wit and tenacity.”
“From your third year onward, the positions of ‘Prince’ and ‘Princess’ of Slytherin will be awarded. These roles are given to those who have demonstrated exceptional leadership and influence. Each year, new Princes and Princesses will emerge, representing the pinnacle of achievement within their respective year groups.”
“Your sixth year is pivotal. The roles of ‘Prince’ and ‘Princess’ will continue to hold significant weight, but the final battle for the ultimate title of ‘King’ and ‘Queen’ of Slytherin will begin. These prestigious positions are reserved for those who have excelled in leadership, command, and influence throughout their years at Hogwarts.”
“In your final year, the ‘King’ and ‘Queen’ will be determined from the pool of Princes and Princesses. The competition will be fierce, as all Princes and Princesses will vie for the top roles. The connections and power you acquire here will shape your future beyond Hogwarts. Your conduct during these years will have profound repercussions on your path in the magical world.”
Dominic let the weight of his words settle over the first years.
“Now, how do you achieve prominence? Let us begin with: The Mechanisms of Influence.”
“Achieving Prominence: Excel academically, participate vigorously in house activities, and cultivate strategic relationships. True influence demands not only talent but a sophisticated understanding of power dynamics.”
“Navigating Rivalries: Rivalry is inherent to our culture. Form alliances judiciously, engage in calculated competition, and always be prepared for the subtle machinations that define our house.”
“The Drama of Ambition: Embrace the drama and complexities of Slytherin life as essential components of your development. These challenges are mere stepping stones to greater achievements.”
Dominic’s tone grew more contemplative, but his superiority remained unshaken.
“Why, you might ask, should you pursue this? Let’s discuss: The Real-World Implications.”
“Beyond the walls of Hogwarts, the affiliations and alliances you build here will resonate throughout the wider wizarding society. From influential family connections to advantageous marital contracts, the relationships you forge in Slytherin will shape your future within the magical community.”
“A final consideration before I move on to another matter:”
“Be Astute: Every decision you make and every interaction you have is part of a larger strategy. Think critically and act with purpose.”
“Forge Alliances: Your success hinges on your ability to align with powerful and influential peers.”
“Embrace the Challenge: The path to greatness is fraught with trials. Embrace them with the poise and determination expected of a Slytherin.”
“Now then, esteemed first years,” Dominic’s voice took on a more personal tone, “It is my esteemed privilege to introduce you to the essence of our illustrious house and to clarify certain misconceptions that have been whispered about us. As you embark on this grand journey, it is essential to understand the true nature of our values and traditions.”
The older students at the back, drawn into the focus of the presentation, seemed particularly interested. More of them had gathered at the edges, their attention fixed intently on Dominic.
“Ah, blood purity—the topic that seems to ignite the most fervent debates,” Dominic said, his tone tinged with amusement, eliciting a few snickers from the older students.
“You may have heard the usual chatter about our house's fixation on blood purity. While some of it is warranted, it is not always for the reasons you might think. Salazar Slytherin’s disdain for Muggles and their ilk is often misunderstood. It’s not merely about the blood but about preserving the integrity of our magical heritage. In his time, Muggles feared and persecuted magic. Our founder was far more concerned with safeguarding our kind from those who would seek to destroy us than with excluding Muggle-borns based solely on their lineage.”
A few more snickers from the older students could be heard. They appreciated a well-delivered speech and a good turn of phrase, especially when it was at the expense of the naive.
“Let us not be too naive about our values,” Dominic continued. “Hogwarts was created not only as a bastion for purebloods but also as a sanctuary for Muggle-born witches and wizards. In an era rife with witch-burnings and Muggle persecution, it was Muggle-borns who suffered the most, lacking the protection of the magical community. Muggles, in their ignorance and fear of magic, often resorted to barbaric practices. It was not only our pureblooded ancestors who were at risk; Muggle-borns bore the brunt of this cruelty, exposed and vulnerable.”
Dominic’s gaze swept over the room, noting the nods of agreement and occasional amused glances from the older students. They understood the value of a historical context that reinforced Slytherin’s superiority.
“While blood purity has certainly been a part of our history, it is the qualities of ambition, cunning, and strategic thinking that truly define us. Our house does not merely celebrate one’s ancestry; it rewards those who are clever, ambitious, and, indeed, a bit ruthless. This is not to say that all Slytherins embrace the dark arts, but rather that our ideals resonate with those who understand and navigate the complexities of power and influence.”
“Being pureblooded is about more than just a name on a family tree. It is about embracing a rich culture and legacy meticulously cultivated over generations. While blood purity and pureblooded culture are often conflated, let us be clear: our culture is a testament to a lineage of excellence and tradition. To disdain this heritage is to spit in the face of our ancestors who have contributed so much to the wizarding world. It is not merely about the purity of blood but about upholding a legacy of refined culture and privilege.”
Albus looked around the room. Smirks adorned the faces of the older students, and the first years appeared awed by this version of their history. Albus felt a mix of awe and concern. If this was true, why was there so little understanding of it? It angered him that others viewed Slytherins and Salazar in such a skewed light due to ignorance.
Dominic surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the first years.
“Some of you may hold more traditional views on blood purity. How quaint,” he remarked with an amused tone, subtly suggesting that such views were perhaps outdated but not unwelcome.
“We are aware that such perspectives exist and will not reprimand you for them. After all, tradition has its place, though it is wise to keep such views discreet. Be cautious about where and to whom you express these sentiments. It is crucial to navigate these waters with subtlety and intelligence.”
“In Slytherin, you are welcomed not merely for your ancestry but for the strength of your mind and ambition. Embrace our legacy, and you will find yourself surrounded by hidden knowledge and opportunities that others can only dream of. Our house stands as a beacon of excellence and tradition. Value this heritage, and you will not only succeed but thrive in the true spirit of Slytherin.”
Dominic concluded with a flourish, “As you join our ranks, remember that Slytherin House values the individual’s contribution to the whole. Your success reflects not only on you but on our house as a collective. Strive to be an asset to our legacy, and you will find the power and influence you seek.”
Nott’s gaze swept over the group, ensuring the gravity of his words was understood. He then addressed the first years one last time before concluding.
“We all are well aware that this is a great deal of information to absorb,” he said, his tone softer but still authoritative. “More details can be found in these books.” He flicked his wand, causing a stack of neatly arranged instruction manuals to fall onto a nearby table. “Although you will each receive a copy of this book, it must remain in this common room. Do not attempt to remove it. The consequences are far worse than trying to take the pamphlet, and rest assured, we will know if you try.”
With a final, meaningful glance at the group, Nott dismissed them cheerily. Nott was immediately surrounded by both first years and older students, who eagerly fawned over him.
Albus, still seated beside Scorpius, noticed his friend’s unusual perplexity. Scorpius’s eyes met Albus’s, a look of uncertainty crossing his face as if he were unsure of what to say or do. Albus felt a similar sense of confusion and unease.
Despite the apprehension, Albus took a copy of the book, his curiosity piqued. He wondered about the enchantments or curses placed on it to make removing it a worse offense than taking the pamphlet. The dark warning from Nott lingered in his mind as he examined the small, neatly bound manual.
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Albus had not written back to his mother or father, nor had he opened their letters, despite his growing pride in being in Slytherin. He feared his parents' reactions. Each morning, he felt a surge of relief when no Howler arrived. He wasn’t ashamed or disappointed in his house—he was fitting in well and thought he looked good in green. But just because he had accepted this part of himself didn’t mean he was ready for his parents to. He had no idea how his family would react, especially if they found out he was proud of being in Slytherin.
The problem wasn’t just his family at home, who could be ignored for now. It was the extended family at school—cousins, siblings, and others who seemed either curious or eager to share their opinions. They always wanted to talk to him, and it was becoming harder to go undetected. Scorpius, for his part, had grown increasingly irritated with Albus’s habit of taking the long, less-traveled routes to avoid them. Scorpius, who valued punctuality, didn’t appreciate being late to class, and that was becoming the first "grievance" in their budding friendship.
Albus had finally pushed Scorpius to his boiling point. Scorpius really cared about their lessons, and Albus assumed it was partly because of all the teasing and bullying. Scorpius was coping by maintaining an impeccable academic record, becoming the classic teacher's pet. It was his way of staying sane—throwing himself into books and assignments to drown out the noise. Albus could understand it, even if he dealt with things differently.
Instead of studying, Albus spent hours exploring the castle, often getting lost more times than he’d like to admit. His adventures made him late to classes, caused him to lose points for Slytherin, and earned him several detentions. It didn’t take long before he found himself in trouble with his housemates. To get back into their good graces, he had to swallow his pride and do some serious damage control—starting with helping out his sixth-year Mentor Devon Burke by collecting some truly foul-smelling herbs in Herbology. The task was as tedious as it was disgusting, but it was the price he had to pay.
But now, thanks to all his exploring, Albus knew exactly which paths to take to avoid not only his family—who were actively hunting him down and growing increasingly frustrated with his constant evasion—but also the teasing and bullies from other houses. This newfound skill had surprisingly fixed things with Scorpius, who, although reluctant at first, was now quite pleased and relieved that they could avoid the worst of the bullies, at least outside of class.
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Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon summer had shifted into autumn, then autumn into winter. The first snow was now falling over the castle grounds, bringing a sense of dread to Albus. He realized he couldn’t keep avoiding his family forever. The winter holidays were approaching, and he’d have to go home. There, no secret paths would save him from the inevitable confrontation.
Albus couldn’t focus on his work. His mind kept drifting to the looming winter holidays and the inevitable confrontation with his family. His mentor, Devon Burke, who he had built quite a successful partnership with over the semester, noticed his distraction but gave him grace when Albus mumbled a vague excuse. Burke didn’t press for more details—one of the many things Albus appreciated about Slytherin's unspoken rules. In Slytherin, they stayed out of each other’s business unless invited in, and Albus was deeply thankful for that.
The last thing he needed was someone poking into his thoughts.
Albus hadn’t taken up Fawley’s offer for a mind healer, not feeling ready to take that step. She accepted his decision gracefully, reassuring him that the offer remained open whenever he needed it. Albus appreciated her not pressing further. Instead, he’d asked for advice on how he could help himself. Fawley had suggested meditation, explaining that a clear mind was essential to stabilizing his magic and core. She also promised to lend him a book from her family's private library on the subject.
Albus was grateful but wary. He knew a favor like that came with expectations in Slytherin. Still, he didn’t reject the help.
Not needing further mentoring for the term, Burke had given Albus some leeway, promising to resume their sessions in the new term. Yet, Albus found himself spiraling deeper into distress. The date of his winter break was approaching, and with it, a growing sense of dread. The workload was piling up, and he felt like he was being dragged underwater by inferi. He spent most of his time moping around the dorm, staying in bed except for classes and reluctant meals.
Scorpius, growing increasingly concerned, tried to offer comfort. Albus leaned heavily on him, pouring out his darkest fears and insecurities. He spoke of his family’s rejection, his fear that they wouldn’t understand or accept him for being in Slytherin, and the possibility of being disowned or thrown out. Albus nearly broke down in Scorpius’s arms, overwhelmed by thoughts of his father’s disappointed gaze and the fear that his family had already discarded everything he left behind, preparing to expel him from their lives.
Scorpius kept trying to reassure Albus, insisting that it was improbable his father would react so drastically. He went on about how Harry Potter would never disown him, how there was no way the famous hero could be so cruel. But that comment was the final straw. Albus was enraged. Of course, Scorpius was just like everyone else—utterly blinded by the glorified image of Harry Potter. To them, Harry Potter was a flawless figure, incapable of any wrongdoing. Scorpius’s comments felt like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder that everyone saw Harry as a perfect hero, and by extension, believed Albus’s fears and struggles were meaningless. It was as if his emotions were invalidated simply because Harry Potter was supposed to be infallible. Albus’s rage and despair only deepened, feeling more isolated and hated than ever before.
It was the night before they were expected to leave, and Albus had stormed out on Scorpius, leaving him distraught. Albus moved through the castle after curfew, his rage and anxiety fueling his steps as he climbed the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower. He knew he had been a complete jerk to Scorpius—gentle Scorpius, kind Scorpius, patient Scorpius who had listened to his endless worries and fears for weeks. Scorpius, who had stood by him through every bully, every prank, and every nasty comment from other houses. Scorpius, who had been by his side during all those jinxes and curses from upper-year students.
Albus felt a twisted sense of pleasure from making Scorpius concerned and distraught over him. It sickened him, the way he could derive some perverse satisfaction from seeing his friend’s worry and distress. He leaned against the railing of the tower, staring out into the night. He had fond memories of this place—Astronomy lessons where Scorpius would teach him about stars and planets, the moons of Jupiter. He recalled how half the information would go in one ear and out the other because he was more focused on studying Scorpius than the celestial objects they were supposed to be learning about.
Now, standing there alone, the cold night air did nothing to cool the turmoil inside him. He looked up at the stars, his only witnesses to his anguish. Their distant, indifferent gaze seemed to mock his pain, but also provided an odd sense of solitude. In the face of their quiet observation, Albus let himself cry, the tears mixing with the frigid air as he struggled with the weight of his actions and the growing despair that consumed him.
He took a deep breath that came out as a small cry, his eyes welling up and his body trembling. Beneath the vast night sky, with only the stars as witnesses, Albus broke down completely. He cried and screamed and trembled, collapsing to his knees as the snow began to fall softly around him. The cold, wet flakes settled on his shoulders and hair, mingling with his tears, while the silence of the tower enveloped him in its somber embrace.
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Chapter 5: Chapter Five - Reunion Part I
Summary:
Reconciliations and Reunions. Albus comes home and realizes that things may not always be as they seem.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter five - Reuinon Part I
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After his embarrassingly dramatic breakdown on the Astronomy Tower, Albus felt a surprising lightness. Letting his emotions out so freely had released some of the pressure that had been building inside him. When he finally made his way back to the dormitory, Scorpius was already asleep.
The next morning, Albus was met with the sight of a visibly exhausted Scorpius. His red, puffy eyes were a stark contrast to his usual early morning vigor. It seemed that Albus had inflicted more damage than he’d realized. Scorpius, who usually made it down to breakfast early, was now one of the last to emerge from the dorm.
Albus quickly offered his apologies, perhaps a bit too fervently. Scorpius, though still visibly tired, managed a sad smile and seemed to accept the apology with a weary grace
“Albus, I’m—I'm so sorry,” Scorpius said, his voice fraught with urgency. “I know how much it bothers you when people talk about your dad like that. I shouldn't have said it, and I see—how much it would hurt you.”
Scorpius’s frantic apology seemed to crack the dam of Albus’s restraint. Overwhelmed by the flood of emotions he had been holding back, Albus reached out and pulled Scorpius into a fierce hug. The suddenness of the gesture caught Scorpius off guard, and he hesitated for a moment, unsure how to react.
But as Albus pressed his face into Scorpius’s neck, the raw, unfiltered need for comfort was undeniable. Scorpius’s initial uncertainty melted away, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around Albus, holding him close. Their bodies, pressed together, conveyed a depth of emotion that words could not capture.
In the dark confines of the dungeon dorm, where the stone walls and lack of windows made the space feel even more enclosed, the hug became a sanctuary. The cold and oppressive atmosphere of the room seemed to dissolve as they clung to each other.
The embrace was a silent exchange of apology, understanding, and solidarity. They didn’t need to speak—each tight squeeze, each shuddering breath, said everything. The shared warmth and the simple act of holding on were enough to convey their gratitude and relief.
They were profoundly grateful for each other. The past months had been far from easy, and although they had tried to shield themselves from its effects, it inevitably took its toll. The strain made them both more irritable and quick to anger. They often found themselves bickering over trivial matters, with their frustrations reaching a boiling point on especially tough days.
Yet, despite the conflicts and the mounting tension, they always managed to reconcile. They faced every challenge side by side, their shared struggles forging a bond that grew stronger with each passing day. Their arguments were often followed by heartfelt makeups and collaborative schemes of revenge against those who had wronged them.
In their tumultuous journey through Hogwarts, they had been pushed into an unexpected closeness, and both boys cherished the bond they had developed. Albus began to think that maybe Rose hadn’t been entirely wrong—that perhaps he had indeed found his lifelong best friend during his very first year at Hogwarts.
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dread consumed Albus as the train drew closer to King's Cross. It felt as if he were walking toward a dementor's kiss, each mile intensifying the anxiety gnawing at him. Scorpius, sitting opposite to him, was desperately trying—though unsuccessfully—to soothe Albus’s frayed nerves.
As time dragged on and Albus’s mood remained sullen, Scorpius shifted from attempts at reassurance to damage control. He spoke with a forced cheerfulness, trying to paint a comforting picture of what could be if his worst fears came true.
“If your family does throw you out,” Scorpius began, his voice steady despite the concern in his eyes, “you can come stay with me. You’d be welcomed with open arms. You could spend Yule and New Year’s with my family.” Scorpius spoke with a practiced ease, weaving a comforting vision of a festive celebration far removed from the tension Albus was bracing for. “We’d play in the snow, decorate the Yule tree, burn the Yule log and do all the traditional Yule family rituals. And I’d show you my room and my astronomy—”
For a moment, Albus was drawn into the fantasy of a quieter, more intimate Yule with his best friend and his family. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic celebrations he anticipated at home. As Scorpius spoke about his mother, who sounded genuinely wonderful, Albus felt a surge of anger and frustration. The glowing picture of Scorpius’s family made the rumors about them feel even more unjust and infuriating. It seemed so unfair that someone so caring could be the subject of such malicious gossip.
Scorpius, sensing Albus’s shift in mood, handed him a piece of candy. The sweetness of the treat, combined with Scorpius’s rambling about his Christmas wishes, pulled Albus back from the brink of his dark thoughts. As he listened to Scorpius’s animated chatter, Albus found solace in his friend’s words. Albus could listen to Scorpius talk for eternity. The simple act of sharing candy and the comfort of Scorpius’s presence offered a momentary escape from his anxieties, allowing him to momentarily forget the dread of returning home.
As the train drew into King’s Cross Station, Albus felt a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach. Outside the compartment window, he could see a sea of parents eagerly waiting to collect their children, the joyous reunions making his own anticipation feel even more unbearable.
Scorpius, ever the steadfast friend, stayed by Albus’s side until the very last moment. He remained with him through the final moments on the train, offering silent support as the world outside grew louder with the bustling crowd. His presence was a small comfort in the storm of Albus’s growing anxiety.
Albus straightened his posture as the train came to a halt. He might not have felt even a fraction of the confidence or pride his mask projected, but he reminded himself of one fundamental truth: he was Slytherin—whether his family approved or not. He couldn’t afford to let his parents see his inner turmoil. His father knew how much he craved approval, and if he were to be disowned, he would do so with a semblance of grace. He would walk away with his dignity intact, ready to embrace his place among the Malfoys if it came to that.
Albus took a deep breath, steeling himself as he prepared to face the judgment of his family and the inevitable confrontation that awaited him. The mask of Slytherin pride was all he had left to shield him from the weight of his fears.
As the two boys stepped off the train, they were met by Scorpius’s parents. The sight of them was a stark contrast to the anxiety that had gripped Albus. Scorpius’s face lit up with a genuine, radiant joy as he rushed into their arms. The open display of affection was something Albus didn't expat from the pureblooded family, and it struck him deeply. Scorpius’s parents returned the embrace with equal warmth, their eyes reflecting a deep affection and pride for their son. Even if Scorpius's father seemed slightly uncomfortable with the public display of emotion, the overall sense of love was unmistakable.
Scorpius began to ramble excitedly to his mother, his words tumbling out in a cascade of enthusiasm. Then, turning to Albus, he directed his beaming smile and bubbling energy toward him.
“This is Albus, my first, only and best friend!” he announced, his voice high and cheerful, every syllable brimming with happiness. Albus felt his cheeks flush at the unexpected spotlight, overwhelmed by the warmth and pride radiating from Scorpius. The sincerity of the introduction and the genuine affection in Scorpius’s eyes made Albus’s heart ache with a mix of gratitude and envy. He found himself momentarily caught in the simple, unadulterated joy of his best friend's proud moment, feeling a pang of longing for such acceptance and love in his own life.
Albus felt the weight of Scorpius's parents' gaze as it settled on him, a mixture of curiosity and warmth in their eyes. He straightened his back, trying to project confidence despite the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. Astoria Malfoy, Scorpius’s mother, was the first to break the silence. Her smile was radiant and heartwarming, a clear reflection of the joy that Scorpius often carried. It was a smile that melted Albus almost instantly, revealing where Scorpius had inherited his own. The maturity in Lady Malfoy's smile spoke of years of kindness and understanding, and it was impossible not to be affected by it.
“Oh yes, dear, we are well aware,” Lady Malfoy said, her voice dripping with affection. “You do mention him so much in your letters.” Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischievousness and teasing, which made Albus’s gaze shift to Scorpius. The boy was now beet-red, darting panicked looks between his mother and Albus. The sheer lack of tact from Scorpius was endearing yet mortifying, causing Albus to blush even harder.
Lord Malfoy, sensing his son's discomfort, stepped in with a reassuring gesture. He extended his hand toward Albus, his demeanor calm and welcoming. Albus’s mouth went dry as he took Lord Malfoy’s hand, trying to maintain his composure. He felt a wave of nervousness wash over him but was determined to make a good impression. His grip was firm but respectful as he looked up into Lord Malfoy’s eyes, hoping his attempt at politeness and poise would be enough to win over his friend’s family.
“Hello, Potter,” Lord Malfoy greeted, his voice smooth and polished with a grace that left Albus awed. “As my wife mentioned, we’ve heard a lot about you, and we are very thankful for the care you’ve shown Scorpius at school.”
Albus was struck by Lord Malfoy’s poised confidence. This was how a pure-blooded Lord carried himself—elegant, composed, and undeniably impressive. Lord Malfoy was quite handsome, with his long, luscious pale blonde hair styled to perfection. His robes were impeccably tailored, clearly of the finest quality, and his eyes, though lighter than Scorpius’s, were just as captivating. For a moment, Albus was so captivated he nearly forgot to respond.
“Lord Malfoy, I’m the one who should be grateful to Scorpius,” Albus managed to say, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “You’ve raised an amazing son, sir.”
Lord Malfoy’s smile widened, and he gave Albus an amused, almost endearing look. As he withdrew his hand, he turned to Scorpius. “Scorpius, say your farewells to your good friend,” he instructed, before turning back to Albus with another warm smile. “Happy Yule,” he added, his tone genuine as he rejoined his wife’s side
Scorpius, now more aware of his parents observing the exchange, looked a bit awkward. He quickly gave Albus a brief hug and took his hand in a reassuring grip. “Remember,” Scorpius said softly, “if you need anything, just use the Floo to get to the manor. You’re always welcome.”
Albus, fighting the urge to kiss Scorpius on the cheek, refrained, not wanting to do so in front of the boy’s parents. Instead, he simply waved as Scorpius and his family made their way to the Apparition area.
As the Malfoys disappeared with a pop, leaving Albus alone on the platform, he felt a deep, sinking dread. The reality of facing his family, and potentially the end of his dream of a warm Yule with Scorpius, loomed large as he took his first hesitant steps toward the daunting reality that awaited him.
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Ginny Potter was a mother lioness, fierce and protective, and it didn’t matter to her if one of her cubs turned out to be a snake hiding among lions. She’d long suspected that Albus, her second child, might end up in Slytherin, and she was prepared for it. That’s why, when James poked fun at his brother, Ginny came down hard on him every time. While she couldn’t deny that she herself had once bought into the usual Gryffindor-Slytherin stereotypes, she wasn’t about to let that cloud her judgment or her love for her son. No matter what house Albus belonged to, Ginny was determined to make sure he never felt alone or unwelcome. And if anyone tried to make him feel otherwise, well, her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex was always at the ready to be casted, and everyone knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Of course, Ginny had been hurt when Albus didn’t write to her all term. She understood it—truly, she did—but that didn’t stop the sting of not knowing how her baby was doing. She relied on James to keep her updated through his own letters, and her concern deepened when he told her that Albus had avoided speaking to any of the family at Hogwarts after the first night. Apparently, Rose had made a rash, very Gryffindor-like mistake, and James had explained the whole thing in detail. Ginny was horrified. She knew how much her sweet boy hated being in the spotlight, so she could only imagine how that conversation must have gone. And then there was the Sorting. Ginny’s anger flared when James recounted how no one had clapped for Albus, not even the teachers, and the cruel remarks that had followed. She had wasted no time sending a Howler to the Headmistress, demanding answers as to why the staff hadn’t stepped in, questioning how they had allowed such a thing to happen to her son without even offering a show of support.
The Headmistress had been apologetic in her response and made sure to keep Ginny updated on Albus’s grades throughout the term. Ginny couldn’t help but find it amusing how good Albus seemed to be at Potions, especially considering how terrible both she and Harry had been at it during their own years at Hogwarts. Her second son truly took after his second namesake in more ways than one.
Ginny never had a particularly close relationship with Professor Snape beyond that of a typical student-teacher dynamic, but she did hold a deep respect for him. His endurance as a double-agent had been nothing short of extraordinary, and his mastery of Potions was a skill that even she could not ignore. The man could have easily become a renowned Potions Master, his talents far surpassing the role of a mere Hogwarts professor. And he had died protecting her husband, and for that she will be forever grateful.
Like a hawk, Ginny watched every exit of the train, her eyes scanning the sea of students for any sign of her little boy. The knot of concern that had built up in her chest loosened the moment she saw him, perfectly fine and in one piece, as though he had never been away at all. She observed the exchange between Albus and the Malfoys with a slight frown. James had mentioned that Albus was close to Scorpius, but seeing them together now, Ginny realized that they were more than just close. A knowing smile tugged at her lips.
Once the Malfoys had left, and after greeting James, Ginny wasted no time. She moved swiftly, crossing the platform with determined steps, and pulled her little boy—her baby—into her arms. Albus was stiff at first, but after a moment, he melted into her embrace, returning the hug. Ginny cupped his face, gently making him look at her before planting a big, wet kiss on his forehead. Then, with motherly care, she tilted his head, inspecting him for any scratches or damage, as though he had been away for years instead of just a school term.
She could see the apprehension and dread beneath the mask her second child worked so hard to maintain, and it shattered her. How had it gotten this bad? How had her little boy come to feel such dread at the thought of returning home—returning to his family? Guilt gnawed at her. Ginny was all too aware of the animosity her family, especially her brothers, harbored toward Slytherins. She knew why Albus felt nervous, but this level of dread tore at her heart. She felt a deep disappointment in herself for allowing her son to grow up in an environment where he didn’t feel safe being himself, where he felt judged for not being like everyone else.
And she knew her husband—Merlin, bless him—had some part in Albus’s struggles. But it wasn’t Harry’s fault. He battled his own dementors daily, facing the weight of memories that no one should bear. Harry had witnessed horrors, and he had faced death at an age where his biggest concern should have been school exams. Their relationship hadn’t always been easy, especially in the beginning. They had bonded over shared trauma—both having Voldemort in their minds, both grieving the loss of family and friends at the Battle of Hogwarts.
In those early days, they were each other’s rocks, trying to bring a sense of normalcy back into lives that had never truly known it. Rebuilding Hogwarts was one thing, but rebuilding themselves? That was different. For Harry, who had never experienced a typical childhood, baby steps were all they could manage as they slowly pieced their lives together.
Ginny never felt irritation at her husband for his anxieties; she understood the depth of his struggles. Harry's overanxious nature about every interaction with their children stemmed from a deep-seated fear of unintentionally causing them harm. His worries had started even before James was born, when the prospect of fatherhood had made him frantic. He was terrified of failing as a parent and hurting his children.
Despite his fears, Harry proved to be an exceptional father. He immersed himself in both wizarding and Muggle parenting books, committed to being the best parent he could be. He took equal responsibility in caring for their children and was a constant source of support for Ginny during the early, challenging years of parenthood. Ginny knew beyond a doubt that Harry loved their children with a fierceness equal to her own. He would go to any lengths—fight the world, risk everything, even die if necessary—to ensure their safety and happiness.
Albus was more like his father than his siblings in his struggles and sensitivities. From a young age, he had been an anxious, nervous child, often hiding behind Ginny's legs or seeking solace in Harry's arms with his head buried against his chest. Shy and quiet, Albus wore his emotions openly and was quick to tears. His heightened sensitivity made him easily overwhelmed, and he needed quiet—something hard to come by in their lively, large family. The very noise and chaos that made their home feel warm and welcoming often felt suffocating to him.
Ginny recognized that her own traits played a role in Albus's demeanor. As a sister to six older brothers, she had also been reserved and needed her space. She remembered feeling out of place and different, especially as her mother had always longed for a daughter and raised her with different expectations from her brothers. Ginny had felt the sting of disapproval when she exhibited more boyish tendencies, and that experience had shaped her resolve as a mother. She had promised herself to accept every part of her children, embracing all their traits—both the good and the challenging—without judgment.
Harry, with his unyielding and often obvious demeanor, struggled to understand the quiet battles of their second child. Having faced a harsh childhood of abuse and neglect, Harry equated happiness with having one’s basic needs met. To him, because Albus had never wanted for food, clothing, or love, he should be content. In Harry’s view, Albus’s dissatisfaction was a sign of being too spoiled, an oversight that pained Ginny.
Ginny, on the other hand, knew that true contentment and happiness went beyond mere physical necessities. Growing up in a loving, albeit not wealthy, home, she understood that emotional fulfillment was just as crucial. She had experienced her own struggles with identity and belonging, navigating a family environment that sometimes felt chaotic. She was aware that Albus’s challenges were not simply about material comforts but were deeply rooted in his emotional well-being and self-perception.
The differences in their views led to many heated discussions about parenting and Albus’s “troubling personality.” Harry found it difficult to recognize that Albus’s struggles mirrored his own in many ways—emotional battles that Harry, with his inclination to confront external challenges head-on, often avoided or hid from. Harry's nightmares and unresolved trauma were constant, and he relied on dreamless sleep potions and Ginny's support to cope. The Autumns, with their darker days and falling leaves, were particularly hard for him, often breaking him down emotionally.
Ginny understood Harry’s perspective but also saw the limitations it imposed on his ability to empathize with Albus. Their differing approaches to handling emotional struggles created tension, but Ginny remained steadfast in her commitment to support both her husband and her children. She worked to bridge the gap in understanding, striving to create a nurturing environment where Albus could find both comfort and confidence.
The growing rift between Harry and Albus had become a significant issue in their home life. It hadn't always been this way; at times, Harry and Albus had been inseparable. However, as Albus developed his own identity, Harry's anxiety and uncertainty grew. Albus was different from James and Lily, and the parenting techniques that had worked so well with his other siblings failed to connect with Albus.
As Albus retreated further into himself, hiding his true emotions, it only exacerbated the tension. Harry, grappling with his fears of failing as a father, became increasingly cautious, walking on eggshells around Albus. This only drove Albus further away, who, being a perceptive child, sensed his father’s unease and withdrew even more.
Ginny was deeply concerned about the trajectory of their relationship. She had suggested that Harry see a mind healer to address his fears and anxieties, but he was adamantly opposed. She had also proposed parenting sessions, hoping that they could work through their issues together, even bringing Albus into the process. Despite her efforts, Harry remained resistant to seeking outside help.
Ginny feared that their strained relationship might soon reach a point of no return, where the damage would be irreparable. She was determined to find a solution, worried that without intervention, the growing divide between Harry and Albus could have long-lasting effects on their family.
Ginny, overwhelmed by her emotions, showered Albus with kisses on his cheeks, making him squirm and blush with embarrassment. Despite the platform gradually emptying, the public display of affection left him visibly uncomfortable. She paused to take a long, lingering look at him. He had grown a bit since she last saw him. Although still petite and short, he had gained some inches, and his features had filled out. However, she noticed a troubling darkness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"I’m so glad to see you, Albus. I really missed you," she said, pulling him into another warm embrace. She wanted to know everything about his term, but she understood that now was not the time for questions. He needed reassurance, and she was determined to provide it in abundance.
Her gaze then shifted to James, who stood a bit awkwardly behind them. His stance was hesitant, and he seemed unsure of how to approach the moment. Ginny reached out, drawing James into the same hug, and enveloped both of her sons in her arms. "And James, I'm so glad to see you too," she said with heartfelt warmth, pressing a kiss to her older son's forehead.
They made their way over to the Floo point and she watched her children use the floo powder. Harry was still at the Ministry, where an upsurge in disappearances had led to increased workload for both him and Hermione. Lily was with her grandmother, which was a relief to Ginny. While she loved her youngest, Lily could sometimes be as rowdy as a Fiendfyre, and Albus needed a gentler reintegration.
Ginny gracefully Floo’ed after her children, brushing the ash off as she emerged into their home. They had settled into the old Black family home, Grimmauld Place, located in a lovely part of London. Ginny adored the city’s blend of muggle and magical life. They often visited muggle establishments for tea or other leisure activities, embracing the new world it offered.
Even though Harry had grown up as a muggle, his experience with the Dursleys had been bleak, leaving him deprived of many muggle joys. To compensate, they immersed themselves in muggle experiences whenever they could. Both Harry and Ginny were passionate about cinema and amusement parks. James, their oldest, was a big fan of waterparks, while Lily adored visits to the zoo. Albus, their middle child, showed more interest in museums. They had enrolled their children in muggle primary schools to ensure they were well-rounded and knowledgeable about the muggle world. They also incorporated muggle teachings into their home life. However, modern muggle inventions like “radiowaves” and the newer 4G and 5G technologies didn’t always mesh well with magic, leaving Ginny somewhat perplexed by these concepts.
Ginny ruffled the hair of both her boys and told them to take their things to unpack and later come down for dinner. She had decided to cook the dinner herself this time. Although she had never been particularly enthusiastic about cooking—much to her mother’s chagrin, who had always believed that “All witches need to know how to cook for their husbands and children”—Ginny had always felt that this view was outdated. A witch’s role extended beyond just managing a household and caring for her family. In their home, Harry was the primary cook. He enjoyed it as a stress-reliever and took pleasure in experimenting with new recipes. They had even adopted some muggle food health trends, aiming to limit sugar intake and explore gluten-free and vegan options from time to time.
Tonight, Ginny tried her hand at making a yellow curry with halloumi and lentils. She followed the muggle cookbook closely, and despite not being an avid cook, she managed quite well. Ginny was deeply supportive of Harry's connection to his heritage, given that the Potter family had roots in India. Harry’s upbringing had deprived him of knowing his own heritage; his guardians had only remarked on him being "tanner" without acknowledging the richness of his cultural background.
Ginny understood the prejudice he faced was akin to the muggle world's racism based on skin color, though this concept was more nuanced and complex in the muggle world compared to the wizarding world's blood purity issues. Britain, a significant force in colonialism, had imposed itself on India, committing atrocities and shaming the native culture. This colonial history influenced both muggle and wizarding societies. Many wizarding families, including the Potters, had fled to the magical communities in Britain to escape the muggle oppression and cultural suppression. Ginny recognized the importance of reconnecting with Harry’s heritage as a way to honor their family's past and provide a more inclusive environment for their children.
Just as the muggle rice cooker made its telltale sound that the rice was ready, Ginny heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She was relieved and pleased to see both her boys now on speaking terms again.
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Albus bolted for his room, desperate to escape before his brother could corner him. He felt a sense of relief after his mother's support, and her love had helped him push back the doubts that plagued him. It was embarrassing how easily he could spiral without constant reassurance, and he knew he had hurt his family by avoiding them. Even though he was guilty, he wasn't ready to face James just yet. The thought of seeing his father and the rest of the family loomed large, but knowing his mother’s love and support made it a bit easier to breathe.
He was nearly at his door when a windswept James stopped him by grabbing his arm. Panting, James made eye contact with Albus, clearly sensing his attempt to escape. “I’m not letting you go so easily now, baby brother,” he said. Albus felt a wave of overwhelming guilt; he hadn’t heard that familiar voice in months, and he had missed it terribly.
He put down his trunk and turned toward James, who enveloped him in a big hug. Though James was only two years older, he was a head taller, so Albus’s face was pressed into his brother’s chest. Albus wanted to pull away, but sensing the desperation in James’s embrace, he stopped resisting and hugged him back. It felt good to hold his brother again. Despite his fear of confrontation, Albus’s love for James was undeniable. He dreaded disappointing his brother, just as he had feared disappointing Rose.
“I missed you, little brother,” James murmured, still holding Albus tightly, as if he feared he might disappear. His voice was choked with emotion, and Albus could hear it crack slightly. James was afraid of losing him, and the rawness of his regret and love hit Albus like a Curse.
James continued, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I—I just wanted to apologize, Albie. I’m so sorry about the Sorting, what Rose did, and—” He took a deep breath. “And all those jokes I made about Slytherin! I didn’t mean any of it, and I felt so, so bad. You don’t get it—” His words tumbled out in a rush. “It plagued me the whole term. And with you avoiding me like dragon pox, I couldn’t even tell you how sorry I was.”
He continued, speaking faster now. “I was so mad at Rose when I heard about it. And when I saw how they teased you—calling you that awful nickname—I hexed them to the best of my ability.” James shifted, looking down at his little brother. “I even got into fights with my own best friends. You don’t know half of the chaos and drama that happened in the Gryffindor Tower. It was truly awful.”
He stopped his rambling, looking both scared and hopeful as he peered down at Albus. Albus stood there, speechless. He had spent the whole term believing his family hated him and wanted to confront him to humiliate him. Yet, the reality was so different from what he had imagined. He was utterly unaware of the chaos and turmoil he had inadvertently caused for James and his cousins in the Gryffindor Tower.
Albus’s mind flickered back over the past month, replaying memories of James. The look of frustration, hurt, and concern on James’s face whenever Albus had avoided him, the tension between James and his friends at dinner—everything suddenly made sense. A sob broke from Albus’s throat, and he pulled James into a tight embrace, burying his face in his brother’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Albus choked out, his voice muffled. “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry I never meant—”
James gently placed his hand on Albus’s head, brushing his hair with soothing strokes. “It’s okay, Albie. Don’t worry. Don’t cry, please.” His voice trembled, close to tears.
In the midst of his sobs, Albus let out a shaky laugh. “I missed you,” he said, which made the cauldron of emotions boil over for James. He began to cry, the tears spilling over as he held his brother close.
There they stood, in the hallway of their home, crying and laughing together. The emotional release was like a boiling cauldron finally finding its overflow, and they found comfort in each other’s arms, embracing the ridiculousness of the situation and the trials of the first term. Morgana, what a mess it had been. Amidst their tears and laughter, Albus finally felt the relief of being home.
Albus was relieved when his mother didn’t comment on the fact that he and James were now speaking, or on their flushed cheeks and red eyes. Instead, she gracefully moved the plates to the dinner table with a flick of her wand, and the food floated over to serve itself onto each of their plates. Normally, Ginny's cooking was decent, but tonight it was particularly delicious, and Albus was grateful for the comforting meal.
"Lily's with Granny. Your dad will pick her up before coming home. They should be back in about an hour," Ginny said.
Albus's grip on his cutlery tightened, earning concerned looks from both his mother and brother. To ease the tension, Ginny continued, "Albus, darling, if you're feeling tired, it's perfectly fine to call it an early night. I'm sure James can handle the dishes on his own."
She gave a knowing glance to both her sons. Albus sighed with relief, catching James's approving nod. Grateful for the out, he excused himself from the table after dinner. He was exhausted and had enough emotional turmoil for one day.
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Albus knew he couldn’t stay hidden in his room forever. His mother had checked on him before bed the previous night, her expression calm and unhurried, giving no indication she was concerned about his behavior during the term. She hadn’t pressed him, hadn’t questioned him at all—perhaps knowing he'd share when he was ready. Instead, she’d asked if he wanted to join her for some late Christmas shopping the next day.
Albus suspected she knew about the gifts he hadn’t gotten for anyone yet. To be fair, he'd completely forgotten about them. He had agreed to go. It would just be him, his mum, and Lily, who still hadn’t gone to Hogwarts yet. James, meanwhile, was planning to spend the day with his Muggle friends before the holidays. They were heading to a Muggle Christmas market and going ice skating—something Albus hadn’t done in years.
James had kept in touch with his Muggle friends from primary school, and Lily, being young and not yet part of the wizarding world, still played with them. Albus, though, had never really formed close bonds with Muggles. He remembered how they'd teased him about his name, and while he'd occasionally hung out with James and his friends, he'd never quite fit in. It wasn’t that he had anything against Muggles—it just seemed pointless to invest in friendships that would dissolve the moment he left for Hogwarts.
Still, he sometimes missed the simplicity of Muggle games, especially playing online shooters. He'd been pretty good at Fortnite, after all. But the internet didn’t work in a magical household—something about interference from magic, something about “ radio waves” or Bluetooth signals. It was a bummer, but nothing he could do about it. Not having his own phone or computer had made him stand out even more with his Muggle friends, who had been using iPads since they could talk.
Albus sighed, knowing he had no choice but to face the inevitable. He agreed to go with his mother and sister. Besides, he really needed to buy presents. If he didn’t, James would definitely prank him in retaliation—and his brother's pranks were never gentle.
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Notes:
Like many fans, I had some issues with Albus's name when I first heard it, especially his middle name, and I questioned how Ginny would have allowed that. So, in this chapter, I tried to offer a reason for it.
Another small issue I’ve had with Harry Potter fanfiction is how little emphasis there is on Muggle things, particularly for Muggle-born or Muggle-raised wixen. I see no reason why Harry, of all people, would forget the Muggle world entirely.
I also added more cultural background to the Potters. In my headcanon, the Potters originated from India and came to Britain during the colonization of India. I imagine that the British wizarding community served as a sanctuary for wixen who were being persecuted, and many Indian wizarding families took refuge there. Even though colonization was mostly a Muggle issue, it still affected magical communities, which I’ve touched on in the previous chapter. I plan to delve more into the witch hunts in later chapters, as I believe the wixen community’s struggles are the result of a long and complex history.
In Harry Potter, Pureblood ideologies are often compared to Nazis and white supremacy, but I see it differently. I interpret it more as a minority complex response to their former Muggle oppressors. Wixen hid away because they were hunted and killed, making them a minority group. It’s a complex issue, and I don't think it’s fair to condemn a group for being wary of those who oppressed them. However, when that group gains power and uses it to oppress others, like Muggle-borns, because they see them as too similar to their past oppressors, they become part of the problem.
Disclaimer*****
There won’t be a clear right or wrong side in this fic. Instead, there will be horrible actions and ignorant ideologies on both sides.
"This isn’t going to be a story where 'the dark side was right all along,' but rather one where everything is painted in shades of grey, as life often is. No one ever sees themselves as the enemy or the bad guys, even in wars. Most people fight for their side because it aligns with their ideologies, perceptions of reality, and upbringing. If a family member is killed by someone from the opposing side, it can easily lead to generalizing and assuming ill intent from anyone associated with them.
I also imagine magic as a tool—neither inherently 'good' nor 'dark.' How it is used, and whether that use is good or bad, depends solely on the person wielding it and their own morals."
Chapter 6: Chapter Six - Reunions Part II
Summary:
Albus do some late Christmas shopping, Albus have a confrontation with his father, and then Christmas at the burrows.
Notes:
So this is a 10k word chapter, i dont know if it too much, im still experimenting with the word count!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Six - Reunions Part II
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Lily didn’t seem to notice the tension that had lingered over the family ever since Albus’s Sorting. She was her usual, exuberant self, holding their mother’s hand in one of hers and Albus’s in the other. With a joyful skip, she swung their arms and grinned brightly as she took in the festive sights of Diagon Alley. Even Albus couldn’t help but appreciate the winter beauty of the place. Snow was falling steadily, draping the streets and shop fronts in a pristine, inviting blanket. They had just come in from the Muggle street after picking up some light Christmas presents for Muggle friends.
Albus glanced at his mother before asking, “Do you mind if I head off on my own for a bit? I need to pick up a few gifts.”
His mother’s face showed a moment of concern, but after a brief pause, she nodded. Albus was, after all, eleven now and a Hogwarts student. As he wove through the bustling crowd, the streets were alive with holiday cheer, though some were frazzled, darting about in a last-minute gift frenzy. Albus couldn’t help but smirk at the harried expressions of a few stressed shoppers, their flustered urgency providing him with a touch of amusement.
He wandered past various storefronts, trying to think of what gifts he should buy. It wasn’t long before something unusual caught his eye—a shop that was in the middle of setting up for its grand opening. The window bore an older, elegant sign that read A’s Athenæum , hinting at an establishment that would soon sell rare and vintage tomes. Albus paused, staring at the name. The shop wasn’t open yet, but there was a certain allure to it, the kind that whispered of hidden knowledge and treasures waiting to be discovered.
Albus made his first stop at Amanuensis Quills, where an array of new selections caught his eye. Among the neatly arranged quills were some unique additions, like a mood-enhancing quill that shifted colors based on the writer’s emotions. There were also the usual favorites: Self-inking, Spell-checking, Smart-Answer Quills, and the whimsical Love-Letter Quills. Albus's gaze skimmed over the vibrant displays until it landed on one in particular—a premium Self-inking Quill, limited edition, feateher styled and dyed in Slytherin green and silver, complete with the house emblem engraved on it's quill stand, and decorative wooden box.
He knew Scorpius already owned several quills but had a habit of dropping or losing them. A new quill, paired with some Pepper Imps, would make a fitting gift. Deciding on the Slytherin-themed quill, Albus moved to the counter to pay, but something behind the glass display caught his attention.
The shopkeeper noticed his interest and leaned in slightly, smirking. "Those are a special set. Quills enchanted so that only the owner can read what’s written, even a Revelio Charm wont show the writing. It’s completely invisible to anyone else."
Albus’s interest sharpened. The idea of secret writing was undeniably appealing. “And how can I be sure that's true?” he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
The shopkeeper’s smirk widened. “We only sell certified enchanted Quills here, lad. I'd show you, but the charm only activates after the quill is bonded to its owner. Once it's yours, no one can see the writing. Self-inking, of course, which accounts for the price. And if the enchantment fails, we offer a full refund.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, weighing the cost. Amanuensis Quills had a solid reputation, and the promise of a quill with such a unique enchantment was hard to resist. After a moment of consideration, he decided to indulge. It wasn’t his money, after all and his parents had more than enough.
He opted for both the Slytherin quill for Scorpius and the invisible-ink quill for himself, having each quill stand engraved with their initials: "A.S.P." for Albus and "S.H.M." for Scorpius.
As he completed the purchase, a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
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Albus was exhausted after returning home—they had been out in Diagon Alley for hours, but he had managed to pick up all the Christmas presents he needed. His mother helped him with a wrapping spell, leaving each gift perfectly packaged and ready. He quickly scribbled a note wishing Scorpius a happy Yule before wrapping the quill and Pepper Imps in a protective package charmed to guard against the snow. Setting Scorpius’s gift aside, Albus picked up some premium, elegant writing paper—a refined light gray that exuded sophistication.
As he settled down to write, Albus concentrated on his handwriting, carefully shaping each letter to appear neat and polished. The first letter was addressed to Fawley, the second to his mentor, Burke. In both letters, Albus thoughtfully crafted his words, striving for a tone that balanced warmth and formality. He wished them both a Happy Yule and expressed his gratitude for their guidance and support throughout the term. With every word, he was conscious of the impression he wanted to leave, hoping to show both respect and genuine appreciation for their help.
Once he was satisfied with the letters, he placed them in equally high-quality envelopes. The envelopes—a rich Slytherin green—felt smooth and luxurious to the touch. To add a final, thoughtful gesture, Albus included two small packages of holiday sweets—simple but considerate gifts he hoped would be appreciated. Satisfied, he sealed the envelopes.
With everything ready, Albus sent the letters and packages off with his owl, Merlin. As Merlin spread his wings and soared into the snowy sky, a wave of guilt washed over him. He hadn’t used Merlin much during the term and now felt the weight of his neglect. As he watched Merlin disappear into the distance, Albus silently hoped the owl would forgive him. A sigh escaped his lips, a mixture of relief from completing his tasks.
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The Drawing room was now adorned in warm Gryffindor red, with luxurious Persian rugs adding a touch of opulence. Traditional Bengal furniture, a legacy from Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, and was arranged throughout. The walls displayed a blend of old family portraits and recent photographs of the Potters and their extended family. The room bore little resemblance to how it had looked in his father’s youth, making it almost impossible to believe it was the same house. Yet, despite the changes, they still resided in the ancestral Black family home—a place deeply connected to his father, a cherished inheritance from his godfather.
Lily lay on one of the Persian rugs, engrossed in a magical picture book about fantastical creatures, her eyes wide with wonder. James was playing Wizarding Shack with their mother, while Albus sprawled on one of the traditional couches, attempting to focus on his Charms textbook, The Standard Book of Spells . He was determined to finish his holiday assignment early, hoping it would be a welcome distraction from the growing dread gnawing at him as the clock ticked ever closer to his father's arrival.
The words on the page blurred as his nerves frayed, and Albus could no longer concentrate. An overwhelming urge to retreat to his bedroom tugged at him, but he knew hiding would only delay the inevitable. It was better to face his father now, while his mother and siblings were around—surely, his father wouldn’t make a scene or disown him in front of them.
Despite being home for a few days now, no one—neither James, his mother, nor Lily—had mentioned his first term at Hogwarts. He suspected his mother had told them not to bring it up. Would his father follow suit? He doubted it. And his extended family, especially the Weasleys, would be even less tactful. The looming thought of spending Christmas Eve at the Burrow, facing Rose and the rest of the family, sent a fresh wave of dread through him.
He could already picture their reactions—the disappointment, the subtle judgment. And Rose… he didn’t even want to think about what she might say. The holiday was shaping up to be far more stressful than he’d anticipated, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up appearances.
Rose hadn’t spoken to him since the flying lesson. Whenever their paths crossed in class, she acted as though he had wronged her . Her new allies, Yann and Polly, seemed to have appointed themselves her personal guards—not just keeping her away from Albus but from Scorpius as well. At first, Albus had found the situation amusing. The idea that Rose needed to be protected from him? It was laughable. But as time went on, Yann and Polly’s behavior took a sharper turn.
They weren’t just cold or distant; they openly teased him whenever they got the chance, pulling small pranks that made him bristle. Sometimes it was harmless—like slipping enchanted parchment into his bag that shouted embarrassing phrases—but other times, it felt more pointed, like when they mocked his difficulty with certain spells. It was never vicious enough to attract a teacher's attention, but it was enough to make his blood boil.
What stung most was Rose’s silence. She wasn’t directly involved, but her quiet approval of their antics was clear. She allowed them to target him and Scorpius while she looked the other way. The whispers of a new “Golden Trio” only made it worse. To hear people compare Rose, Yann, and Polly to his parents' old group felt like a deep, personal slight—a reminder that he was nothing like them, no matter how much people expected him to be.
Albus lay on the couch with his book draped over his face, desperately trying to shield himself from the storm of emotions roiling within him. His irritation and anger—directed at Rose and her alliance with Yann and Polly—only fueled his growing resentment. The mounting anxiety over his father's impending arrival stoked the fire even further. It felt like a fiendfyre raging inside him, threatening to engulf everything, leaving him unable to focus on anything except his seething fury.
When his father finally stepped through the fireplace, looking haggard and worn, Albus was gripped by a twisted mix of dread and hope. Harry had been working relentlessly on a case of disappearing wizards, and part of Albus hoped his father’s exhaustion would make him too weary or indifferent to confront him. Yet another part of him yearned for an explosive confrontation, something to break the fragile silence that had grown between them. His mind churned with these conflicting desires; a darker part of him craved the raw intensity of a fight, something to shatter the uncomfortable calm.
His throat tightened as he swallowed nervously, and he slowly removed the book from his face, shifting into a sitting position on the couch. Lily dashed to greet their father with an enthusiastic hug, her smile radiant as she welcomed him home. Harry placed a hand on her head and returned her smile warmly, but Albus held his breath, bracing himself for what might follow. When Harry’s gaze skimmed over him with barely a flicker of recognition before returning to Lily, something inside Albus snapped. The indifference felt like a deliberate, cutting insult, and the storm within him surged with renewed fury. He had expected to feel anxious or guilty, but instead, he was overwhelmed by a fierce, unrelenting anger.
He wanted—no, needed—to see his father’s disappointment, his frustration, something that confirmed Harry Potter thought less of him. The thought of his father losing his temper, of seeing the cracks in his perfect façade laid bare, was disturbingly satisfying. Albus yearned for everyone to witness the imperfections hidden behind the public image of Harry Potter, to see him snap and reveal the dysfunction lurking beneath the surface.
Every muscle in Albus’s body tensed with the urge for confrontation. He craved a fight, driven by a desperate need to expose his father’s flaws and validate his deepest fears. The bitterness and resentment clawed at him, pushing him toward a confrontation he both dreaded and desperately longed for.
Albus loathed how his father had consistently chosen to ignore the hippogriff in the room—that he was different, that he was struggling. Harry acted as though everything was fine, dismissing the issues as if they were mere inconveniences, as if pretending they didn’t exist would somehow make them disappear. It felt like Albus’s pain, his struggles, and his frustrations were invisible to him. This constant avoidance only fueled Albus’s growing resentment.
As his anger boiled over, Albus felt a desperate need for his father to confront the truth. He wanted Harry to understand that his indifference wasn’t just passive ignorance; it was a denial of Albus’s very reality. The more Harry ignored it, the more Albus felt like a shadow in his own life, left to wrestle with his feelings and insecurities alone.
“Don’t you have anything to say to me?” Albus’s voice was jagged, a desperate laugh escaping as he trembled with a mix of rage and anguish. “I’m sure you’re disappointed. Who could have thought, right? That Harry Potter’s son would end up in Slytherin—”
“Harry Potter and his disappointing son,” Albus croaked with a cold, cruel tone.
“Harry Potter and his Slytherin son.” he spat, venom in his voice .
He let out a harsh, ragged laugh, the sound unsettling in the quiet room. “Is that why you didn’t even acknowledge me when you walked in? Are you going to pretend I don’t exist? That I’ve ruined your perfect image so much you act like—like you don’t even have a second son anymore?”
Albus’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he tried to mask his vulnerability with anger. He hated how exposed he felt, how his emotional walls had crumbled in front of his father. “Is that what it’s come to? You’re just going to act like I’m not here? Like I’m some sort of disappointment you can ignore?”
Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision as his emotions spiraled out of control. The room seemed to pulse with his volatile feelings, the once-cozy atmosphere now a sharp contrast to the turmoil raging inside him. His voice cracked as he struggled to maintain control, but the vulnerability seeped through. “Is that it? Am I really so much of a disgrace that you can’t even look at me? That I’m not worth a word, a glance?”
The shock in the room was palpable. Lily’s wide eyes filled with confusion and hurt as she clung to their father’s leg, sensing the tension, James had abandoned his game, his mouth hanging open as he stared at his brother, bewildered and concerned.
Harry stood frozen, his face a mask of disbelief and pain, his gaze shifting from Albus to the rest of the family. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the emotional storm unfolding before him. The silence was suffocating , thick and oppressive, pressing down on everyone in the room. Albus’s outburst had shattered the evening’s calm, leaving a fragile, uneasy quiet in its wake. The warmth of the room seemed to drain, replaced by the cold echoes of Albus’s raw, unspoken feelings.
Harry’s eyes darted to Ginny’s, who looked utterly horrified, frozen in place. They had agreed earlier that Albus needed space—no probing questions, just time until he was ready to talk. But now, Harry was struggling to reconcile the image of his reserved son with the raw emotional eruption in front of him. The sight of Albus’s pent-up anguish, magnified and intense, was shocking. It was like seeing the vulnerable boy he had known resurface, though now hardened by years of quiet resentment.
“NO—wait, Albus— ” Harry’s voice was strained, a desperate attempt to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened between them. “That—that’s not it. I didn’t mean to— ”
He fumbled for the right words, struggling to make sense of the torrent of emotions pouring out of his son. His mind raced as he reached for something that could break through the whirlwind of anger and pain. Gently, he placed a reassuring hand on Lily’s back, offering her a soothing pat as she looked up at him with wide, anxious eyes. Her concern mirrored the confusion and distress that gripped the entire family.
Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Albus’s gaze, his voice softening with regret. “Albus, I’m sorry,” he said, his throat tightening with the weight of his own emotions. “I didn’t realize how much you were going through. I’m not ignoring you—I’m here. Please, let me in. Let me help .” His words faltered as he tried to bridge the growing rift, reaching out with a desperate hope to mend the painful distance between them.
"Help?" Albus’ voice trembled, caught between rage and desperation. “Now that I’ve embarrassed you, now you are finally aware?” His laugh was jagged, echoing bitterly in the room's dead silence. It carried a note of cruelty, a twisted satisfaction that only fueled his anger further. “Didn’t you think I was spoiled ? That I had nothing to be angry or frustrated about? Just because I wasn’t raised like poor , little, sad orphan Harry Potter, with his horrid Muggle relatives who hit him if he didn’t do what he was supposed to?”
Albus felt his fury soaring, feeding on the distress in the room. “Little Harry-kins who didn’t even know his own name— ” The words tumbled out, sharper with every breath. He scanned his father’s face for any sign of hurt, watching for that crack in his façade. When he saw the pain etch itself deeper into Harry’s features, Albus’s cruel smile widened. The raw satisfaction of causing anguish washed over him, and he reveled in it.
“Little Frea—”
The word was cut off, the insult hanging in the air unfinished. Albus’s breath hitched as the spell hit him like a slap, wrenching the words from his throat. Silence clamped down around him, his voice snatched away before he could hurl any more insults. His eyes widened in shock, darting to find the source. His mother.
Ginny stood there, her wand raised, her face pale and stricken with horror and regret. Her hand trembled as if she couldn’t believe what she had just done.
Harry’s gaze flickered between them, his shock evident. “Ginny?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, disbelief wrapping around each syllable. Then he looked back at Albus, who stood frozen, stunned, and utterly betrayed.
Albus’s heart pounded wildly as he tried to speak, but he couldn't. His mother had casted a silencing charm on him. The realization hit him like a cold wave: the one person he thought he could turn to, had chosen to silence him rather than face the truth of his pain. The betrayal stung deeper than any wound his words could have inflicted. His anger and frustration gave way to an overwhelming, raw hurt.
The room was deathly quiet, save for the crackling fire and the heavy breathing of everyone present. Albus felt the weight of it all crashing down on him—the cruel pleasure of his outburst, now a bitter knot in his chest. He saw the sadness in his father’s eyes, the overwhelming regret in his mother’s face, and the accusing, confused looks from his siblings. His mother undid the spell and the reality of what he had unleashed, of how far he had pushed them, sunk in. His heart raced, panic creeping in to replace the anger. Surrounded by their shocked faces and the suffocating tension in the room, Albus’s mind became a storm of confusion and hurt, leaving him reeling.
In a blur of motion, Albus sprang from the couch. His legs carried him swiftly across the room, away from his mother’s wide-eyed regret and his father’s pleading gaze. He couldn’t stand to see their faces anymore, not with the weight of his own words suffocating the air between them.
Without a backward glance, he fled through the door and down the hallway. The cold of the corridor felt sharp against his skin, a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil that boiled inside him. He raced towards his bedroom, not caring about the echo of his footsteps or the muffled voices calling his name.
Reaching his room, he flung the door open with a force that made it slam against the wall. He stumbled inside, barely registering the mess of his belongings strewn across the floor. The once-familiar space now felt foreign, claustrophobic. Albus threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow as the tears he had tried so hard to suppress finally broke free.
His sobs came unrestrained, his body shaking with each breathless cry. Everything he’d been holding in—frustration, pain, rage—erupted all at once. The pillow muffled his voice, but not the ache that gripped his chest. The disappointment in his father’s eyes, the hurt in his mother’s—these images haunted him, deepening the well of pain he had plunged into.
As his sobs tore through him, his magic surged uncontrollably, crackling in the air like a storm. Objects in his room rattled, some flung from their places, creating an even bigger mess. But Albus was too engulfed by his emotions to notice. The chaos mirrored the storm inside him, as if his magic, too, had broken free of its restraints.
Slowly, as the intensity of his sobs lessened, the magic settled, leaving the room in disarray. But the calm that followed wasn’t soothing—it was chilling. The raw satisfaction Albus had felt while lashing out at his father now left him hollow and horrified. His tears kept falling, but with each one, a growing sense of shame began to take hold.
The harsh words he had hurled at his father, the cruel smile he’d worn—they were a reflection of a part of himself he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The satisfaction he had briefly tasted, in seeing his father hurt, now felt grotesque. It was one thing to be angry, but it was another to find a twisted pleasure in causing pain.
Burying his face deeper into the pillow, Albus tried to shut out the memories, but his mind kept replaying them. His father's wounded expression, his mother’s horrified silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out, but his thoughts clung to the scene like a curse. The person he saw in his mind, the version of himself that reveled in cruelty, felt like a stranger—and yet, it was him.
The satisfaction he’d felt now seemed like a dark stain on his soul, an ugly truth that left him questioning everything. What if this side of him—the anger, the cruelty—wasn’t just a momentary lapse? What if it was part of who he truly was, lurking beneath the surface? What if he was twisted and broken in a way that couldn’t be undone?
The fear that he had crossed an unforgivable line gnawed at him. What if he had irreparably damaged his relationship with his father, his family? The thought was almost unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. As his tears finally slowed, the emptiness that remained was far worse than any rage.
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In the aftermath of Albus’s explosive departure, Harry and Ginny swiftly moved to calm their remaining children. The room, once filled with festive cheer, now felt heavy with the aftermath of Albus’s outburst.
Ginny, her face pale and stricken, knelt beside Lily and James. Her voice, though trembling, was gentle and soothing. “It’s getting late, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lily’s face. “Why don’t you both head to bed? We’ll talk more in the morning.”
Lily clung to her father, her eyes wide and frightened by the emotional storm she had just witnessed. Harry, his face a mask of calm for the sake of his other children, gently but firmly encouraged them. “Go on now. Everything will be alright,” he said, though his eyes betrayed his own worry. With a reluctant nod, Lily took James’s hand, and they slowly made their way upstairs.
As the reality of the situation set in, Harry’s strong exterior began to falter. Once the children were in bed, he allowed himself to feel the weight of his worry and confusion. The image of Albus’s pained, angry face replayed in his mind, and Harry’s need to find a reason or blame for his son’s outburst became a heavy burden.
With Lily and James now settled, Harry and Ginny faced the daunting task of addressing the rift between them and their son. Harry’s need to rationalize and find a cause would need to be tempered with Ginny’s approach of empathetic support. As they prepared to confront the aftermath of Albus’s outburst, the flickering firelight threw long shadows across the walls, mirroring the turmoil that had erupted earlier.
Harry’s face was tight with tension as he paced the room, while Ginny sat on the edge of the couch, her posture rigid, eyes darting anxiously.
“I can’t believe he said those things,” Harry said abruptly, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. “I can’t believe our son, our Albus, would lash out like that. It’s like he’s been taken over by something—something dark .”
Ginny’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s like a nightmare,” she said quietly. “I’ve never seen him like that. It was as if he was someone else entirely—someone I didn’t recognize.”
Harry’s frustration was palpable. “There has to be an explanation. This isn’t just Albus acting out. Something has clearly changed. We need to understand what’s influencing him.”
Ginny’s eyes met Harry’s, filled with a mix of concern and reluctance. “What are you suggesting, Harry? That he’s been corrupted somehow?”
Harry’s eyes were intense, his mind racing. “Yes, exactly. We need to figure out what’s driving this change. It’s not just about his behavior; it’s about what’s causing it.”
Ginny hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “He’s been spending a lot of time with someone new—someone from his House. But, Harry, I don’t want to jump to conclusions…”
Harry’s expression hardened, his frustration mounting. “Someone from his house? Who? We need to know if there’s an influence here.”
Ginny’s voice was hesitant, her eyes darting away. “He’s made a close friend since starting at Hogwarts. I didn’t want to say it because I was afraid of how you’d react…”
Harry’s gaze was sharp, pressing her for more details. “Ginny, you need to tell me. Who is this friend?”
Ginny took a deep breath, her voice trembling. “Albus has become close with a boy named Scorpius Malfoy .”
Harry’s face went pale as his eyes widened. “Scorpius Malfoy? The Malfoys have always been trouble. Of course . If Albus is getting close to someone from that family, it could be influencing him in ways we can’t ignore.”
Ginny’s expression was conflicted, her voice filled with regret. “But blaming Scorpius alone won’t fix this. We need to understand what’s really happening with Albus, not just look for someone to blame.”
Harry’s frustration boiled over. “We need to confront this directly. If Scorpius Malfoy is involved, we need to address it. Our son’s safety and well-being come first.”
Ginny, her voice calming but firm, stepped forward. “Harry, we can’t just rush into things. It’s late, and going to the Malfoy Manor now would be reckless. We need to wait, gather our thoughts, and figure out the best way to approach this. We have to at least get through the holidays with the family intact.”
Harry’s expression softened slightly, though his frustration remained. “You’re right. We need to keep things together, especially for the sake of the holidays. But we can’t ignore this. We have to fix our relationship with Albus and address this issue before it gets worse.”
Ginny nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and weariness. “Yes, we need to focus on our family first. We’ll sort this out after the holidays. For now, let’s try to salvage what we can and be there for Albus.”
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Lily gently knocked on Albus's bedroom door the next morning. When she didn’t get a response, she quietly opened it. “Albus?” she said softly, her childlike voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Lils.”
She gently pushed the door open, revealing a room shrouded in darkness. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out any trace of daylight. The room was eerily quiet, the atmosphere thick with an uneasy silence.
Albus was curled up in his bed, the blankets a chaotic mess. Lily’s heart ached as she saw the state of his room—it seemed to mirror the heaviness she had sensed in him the night before. She tiptoed closer, trying to make as little noise as possible
"Albie?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She took another step into the room, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. "It’s me, are you awake?"
Albus shifted slightly but didn’t respond. Lily saw the tear stains on his pillow and noticed a crumpled piece of parchment on the floor. She picked it up, her curiosity piqued by the scribbled words that were hard to make out. The letter seemed to be a jumbled mix of thoughts, possibly an attempt to explain or apologize.
“Albie, I don’t know what made you say those things to Dad last night,” she began gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at the lump beneath the blankets. “But me and Jamie is here for you, if you don’t want to talk to Mom and Dad yet.”
She paused, giving him space but remaining close, her voice soothing as she continued, “Don’t be mad—Jamie told me about the teasing, and it must be hard.” Her eyes, filled with empathy, searched for any sign of acknowledgment from him. “But it doesn’t define you, does it?” she asked, not expecting an answer, letting her words hang in the air.
“ Mom and Dad —they’re not angry, just worried .” she added, her tone gentle but firm.
Slowly, Albus pulled the covers away from his face, revealing his tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes. He looked at Lily with a mix of exhaustion and regret. His gaze flitted around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, betraying the turbulence of his emotion
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I didn’t mean to… I don’t even know why I said all that."
Lily, sensing his struggle, nodded with understanding. “It’s okay, Albus. I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”
Albus shifted away slightly, pulling the blanket closer around himself. His body language was tense, and he seemed to shrink into the bed, trying to create distance even while remaining in the same space. His gaze dropped to the floor, his face flushing with a mix of shame and fear. It was clear he was struggling with his feelings, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully meet her eyes.
Lily’s heart sank as she watched her brother. She wanted to comfort him, but she sensed the internal battle he was fighting. Understanding his need for space, Lily quietly left Albus alone in his room- The silence settled back over the room, thick and suffocating, as Albus remained curled up under his blankets, lost in his own turmoil.
The stillness was abruptly broken by a soft pop. Kreacher, the Potters' house-elf, appeared in the room, his expression a mix of disapproval and begrudging compassion. He glanced around the dimly lit room with a hint of hesitation.
“Little Master Potter seems to have caused some issues,” Kreacher began, his tone carrying a grudging undertone. “House-elf heard things last night. Not good things.”
Albus stirred slightly but made no move to respond. Kreacher shuffled closer, casting a wary glance toward the door, as if fearing he might be caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Little Master has magic like Master Regulus,” Kreacher continued, his voice taking on a tone of reluctant understanding. “Unruly, a bit like Master Potter, but darker . Little Master does not seem to have control. His magic does not listen. Master Regulus was the same.”
Kreacher’s voice wavered, and he looked almost on the verge of tears. “Master Regulus’s magic did not listen to him. Mistress thought Master Regulus was a squib —a disgrace.”
The house-elf’s voice was tinged with sorrow, and he seemed to be fighting back his emotions.
“Master Regulus got into a lot of trouble because his magic did not obey him. Mistress could be cruel.”
Albus’s eyes widened slightly as he listened to Kreacher, the mention of Regulus Black striking a chord deep within him. The comparison to his own struggles with magic and control made him feel a strange mix of fear and solidarity. He had never expected Kreacher to show such vulnerability.
“Little Master must understand,” Kreacher said softly, his voice filled with an unusual gentleness, “that even when magic seems uncontrollable, it does not mean Little Master is a disgrace. Master Regulus faced many troubles, but he was not without value. Neither is Little Master.”
With a final, sympathetic look, Kreacher gave a small bow and prepared to leave, his presence fading with another soft pop. The room fell back into its heavy silence, but Kreacher’s words lingered in the air, offering an unexpected yet meaningful connection to the troubled young master.
Albus remained still, grappling with the house-elf's revelations. The unexpected comparison to Regulus Black left him with a mix of emotions—Amidst his own darkness, Kreacher’s insights offered a strange, bittersweet comfort.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus felt as though he was walking towards a Dementor’s kiss for the second time since returning home for the holidays—The emotional exhaustion from the previous night’s outburst had left him hollow and drained. The impending confrontation with his family weighed heavily on him. He wished he could escape the ramifications of his actions, but he knew he had to face them.
He was troubled by how he had reacted to his father’s silence. Wasn’t that what he had wanted? He had assumed that his mother had advised Harry to keep his distance, but the lack of confirmation didn’t ease his self-reproach. He could have chosen to retreat to his room and avoided the confrontation altogether, but he had allowed his anger to spiral out of control. It felt as if he had let down not only his family but also his house. The outburst was a glaring deviation from the self-control expected of a Slytherin. It was humiliating.
It was the 23rd of December, and the family was preparing to travel to the Burrow that evening to join their extended family for the Christmas celebrations. The thought of facing his relatives after the scene he had caused filled him with dread.
As he walked down to the dining room, the smell of his father’s home-cooked meal greeted him, a stark reminder of the normalcy he was failing to embrace. Albus knew that if he could salvage the situation today, he would need to make it through the day without further incident. He had resolved to fix things with his family before they left for the Burrow.
Entering the dining room, he was met with a strained attempt at normalcy. His mother, Ginny, was trying to maintain a sense of calm, while his father, Harry, looked as if he were barely holding back his frustration.
“Morning,” Albus said quietly, avoiding eye contact as he took his seat. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a painful reminder of the previous night’s emotional upheaval.
Ginny greeted him with a weary smile. “Good morning, Albus. We’re heading to the Burrow tonight. I hope you’re feeling a bit better.”
Harry’s gaze was intense, a mixture of frustration and concern. “Albus, we need to talk about what happened. It’s important we understand each other before we head to the Burrow. We can’t have this lingering.”
Albus nodded, feeling the weight of his actions pressing down on him. The heaviness from the previous night’s events still hung over them, making the family’s preparations for their Christmas celebration feel awkward and strained. His only hope was to make amends and restore some semblance of peace before they joined the extended family for the holidays.
Albus steeled himself, pushing aside his lingering doubts and fears. He knew he had to maintain a convincing front, relying on his Slytherin trait of diplomacy to navigate the tense situation. The last thing he wanted was to face disownment or further alienation from his family. If he could manage to play the part of the remorseful son convincingly, he might salvage what remained of their fractured relationship.
Taking a deep breath, Albus approached his parents with a carefully constructed façade. “I’m— I’m sorry,” he began, his voice quivering as he forced his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know why I said all that—” He let his words trail off, letting visible distress seep into his demeanor. “It was horrible,” he stammered, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t even believe the words that came out of my mouth—”
Albus attempted to mimic the frantic display he had seen from James earlier, his tone and mannerisms reflecting genuine discomfort. He swallowed his pride, understanding that to make amends, he needed to be as humble as possible. “Dad—I…” His voice broke deliberately, the use of “Dad” was a term he hadn’t used in years, meant to evoke a sense of nostalgia and earnestness. A false sniffle escaped him as he continued, “I’m so sorry—”
Albus took another deep breath, crafting his next words with precision. “I’m sure that— that James told you, but—” He hesitated, letting his discomfort show. “I’ve been struggling at school,” he confessed, allowing a real grimace to slip through. “My magic just isn’t working like it should—” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “And people—they tease me—saying I’m a squib.” He let the term hang in the air.
With a final, controlled breath, Albus dared to lift his eyes to his parents, searching their faces for signs of softened resolve. His performance was a calculated risk, but it was crucial for repairing the rift and restoring some semblance of normalcy. He hoped that his portrayal of vulnerability and struggle would be enough to convince them and ease the tension that had built up between them.
Harry’s expression was caught somewhere between frustration and a flicker of something softer—concern, maybe? His brow was furrowed, the usual intensity in his eyes still present, but it was no longer the hard, cold anger Albus had expected. His father’s jaw clenched, and Albus could tell he was wrestling with what to say.
“Albus,” Harry finally began, his voice low but not as sharp as before. “I didn’t realize things had gotten so difficult for you at school.” He hesitated, as if weighing every word. “I— I should have known something was wrong, and I’m sorry if I didn’t see it sooner. But we can’t keep going like this—this is more than just being upset. You’ve got to let us in, let us help.”
Harry’s voice wasn’t as harsh as it had been earlier, but there was still an edge to it, a restrained frustration simmering beneath the surface. The words ‘let us help’ made Albus want to distance himself further, they wouldn't understand .
Beside him, Ginny’s gaze softened in a way that made Albus feel more exposed than anything. Her eyes were brimming with concern, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in that nervous way she did when something was really wrong. She hadn’t spoken yet, but Albus could feel her emotions swirling in the air around them, a mix of guilt and uncertainty.
Finally, her voice, when it came, was quiet but firm, a contrast to the earlier panic in her movements. “Albus, we’re here for you,” she said, her tone almost soothing, though her own doubt wasn’t far beneath the surface. “I’m sorry if we added to your pressure—if I did.” Her voice wavered ever so slightly on the last part, and Albus knew she was thinking back to last night, to when she’d raised her wand at him.
She took a shaky breath, her fingers curling on the table. “We’ll work through this together. But you need to be open with us, and we need to be open with you.” Ginny’s face was a mixture of guilt and determination, her voice a plea for reconciliation.
For a long moment, Albus didn’t move. He felt trapped between relief and the weight of his own lies. His carefully constructed apology had worked—better than he’d thought. But at the same time, sitting there under their gaze, he felt as if the mask he’d put on was starting to crack from the inside out.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he dared to look up at them. Harry’s expression was still guarded, but there was no anger left in his eyes, just a deep, gnawing worry. Ginny’s face had softened, but there was still a tightness in the corners of her mouth, as if she didn’t fully believe everything was fixed but was willing to try. They were both watching him, waiting for something more—waiting for him to let them in.
Albus forced himself to nod, just once. He didn’t trust himself to speak again, not without giving more away than he wanted. He had said enough for now—more than enough to ease the tension. He knew that. And yet, as he stood there, watching his parents’ faces, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole he might never climb out of.
Ginny’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently, pulling him back into the moment. “Let’s just focus on getting through the holidays, okay?” she said softly, her voice kind but tinged with a weary sort of hope. “We’ll talk more later, but right now… we just need to be a family.”
Albus nodded again, the guilt and fear still swirling in his chest. He was playing his part, just like always, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the truth: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
As they sat around the dinner table later that evening, the atmosphere felt thick with unspoken tension. The warmth of Harry’s homemade shepherd's pie filled the air, but it did little to ease the weight pressing down on Albus’s chest. The clinking of forks and knives on plates was the only sound, awkward and unnatural in the Potter household. Usually, there was chatter—James making some loud joke, Lily rambling about school—but tonight, it was as if everyone was walking on glass.
Albus sat between his parents, feeling every bit of the distance between them, despite their physical closeness. He tried to act natural, keeping his head down, pushing food around his plate without much appetite. His earlier performance still hung in the air like a heavy curtain, and he knew he’d bought himself some time—at least for now.
Across the table, Ginny took a careful sip of her pumpkin juice, her eyes flicking over to Harry every now and then. She was trying, Albus could tell, but the strain was obvious. There was something in the way her shoulders were tense, like she was holding herself back from saying something. Maybe she was still processing everything. Albus couldn't blame her—he was still processing too.
Harry was the hardest to read. He ate in silence, cutting his food with precision, but his gaze kept drifting to Albus every few moments. Albus could feel it, even without looking up. His father's eyes were filled with a mix of concern and something else—a quiet sort of scrutiny that made Albus’s skin prickle. Harry wasn’t as easy to fool as his mother. Not for long, at least.
“So,” Ginny finally broke the silence, her voice tentative. “Tomorrow morning we’ll head to the Burrow… right after breakfast.”
Albus nodded, keeping his focus on his plate. He knew what she was doing—trying to smooth things over, trying to create some sense of normalcy. They usually went the night before—but he imagined his parents wanted to wait until it was a bit “safer.”
Harry cleared his throat, putting his fork down. "Albus," he began, his voice serious but not as harsh as before. "We need to make sure we’re all on the same page. The Burrow... it's family. We can't have any more... outbursts like the one from last night."
Albus stiffened, his stomach twisting at the mention of the argument. He gave a short nod, not trusting himself to speak without sounding defensive. He’d already apologized—what more did they want?
Ginny shot Harry a look, as if warning him to tread carefully. “Let’s just... take things one step at a time,” she said softly, her gaze shifting to Albus. “We’ll all try to get through Christmas. Together.”
The silence settled again, more awkward than before. Albus felt the weight of their expectations, and the frustration of knowing he was walking a tightrope. He couldn’t afford another mistake, not right before the holidays. He’d already pushed his luck too far.
They ate in near silence after that, each pretending not to notice how forced it all felt. Ginny made a small comment about the food, but no one really picked up the conversation. Harry remained quiet, though every now and then, Albus could feel his father’s eyes on him, watching him closely, as if waiting for something—another misstep, another lie to slip through.
But Albus kept his mask firmly in place. He played the part. He nodded when spoken to. He smiled when necessary. Diplomacy, after all, was a Slytherin trait. And right now, it was all about self-preservation.
He needed self-preservation to keep him grounded, to get him through Christmas without any more outbursts, without losing control. He couldn't afford to slip up again, not here, not in front of his family. His mask needed to stay firmly in place, no matter how much everything inside him churned with frustration.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Burrow was as lively and warm as ever, its mismatched charm overflowing with the chaotic energy of the Weasley family. Albus stood at the edge of the scene, his nerves twitching beneath the surface as he watched everyone gather and hug, voices overlapping in excited greetings. The towering structure, as familiar as it was comforting, felt suffocating this year.
He hadn’t been sure what to expect. After the disaster of the past few days, the thought of being surrounded by so many people made his stomach twist. He’d always felt like an outsider at these gatherings, but now? Now it was worse.
As soon as Albus and Rose greeted each other at the Burrow, the tension between them was palpable, but she masked it well—at least at first. Rose had always been quick on her feet, but the strained effort of keeping up appearances showed. Their initial hug was practiced, a performance for the family, and for a moment, Albus almost believed it. Almost.
After that, though, Rose kept her distance, hovering around the other cousins, laughing with James and Lily, but always staying far enough away from Albus. He noticed the way she made a point not to interact with him, not to look at him, avoiding any hint of a connection between them. It was subtle, but he saw right through it.
Albus sat at the dinner table, his mind racing as the Weasley-Potter clan settled into their usual loud, boisterous meal. His father was at the far end of the table, and every now and then, Harry would glance his way, his expression unreadable. Albus hated those looks. They felt like probes, like his father was waiting for him to crack.
The air was thick with warmth and chatter, but Albus felt distant, barely able to focus on what anyone was saying. Rose was doing her best to avoid him, while James, seated nearby, kept trying to shift the conversation away from anything that might involve Albus. A part of Albus appreciated the effort, though it made him feel even more on edge.
Ron, however, had had a little too much Firewhisky, and that was when the trouble began.
“So, Al,” Ron said, his voice a little too loud as he leaned forward with a grin. “How’s Slytherin treating you, eh? Bet it’s full of… interesting folks down there in the dungeons.” He chuckled to himself, clearly thinking he was being clever.
Albus tensed, forcing a smile. “It’s fine, Uncle Ron,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
Ron nodded, taking another swig of his drink. “Yeah, bet it is. Bet they’re all teaching you how to talk to snakes, eh? Always knew those Slytherins were a slippery lot.” He winked, nudging Hermione, who rolled her eyes.
James quickly jumped in, his voice brimming with false cheer. “Yeah, you know, Al’s probably been giving them all a right run for their money! Slytherins won’t know what’s hit ‘em with a Potter in their midst.”
Albus shot James a grateful glance, but Ron wasn’t done.
“Come on, Al, tell us about your housemates. Who’re you hanging out with? Bet they’re all up to some dodgy stuff, huh? Dark magic and all that?” Ron's attempt at humor was painfully awkward—or at least that's what Albus thought, though his relatives didn’t agree, as snickers and laughs could be heard. Ginny shot her brother a warning look, but Ron was oblivious.
Albus clenched his jaw, feeling every pair of eyes at the table shift toward him. His father’s gaze was particularly sharp, and Albus knew he had to tread carefully.
“Actually,” Albus began, his voice steady though his heart was racing, “my housemates are pretty normal. We mostly just focus on schoolwork, like everyone else.”
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Normal? Slytherins?” He laughed, though it lacked humor. “Come on, Al, they’re all about ambition and power. Bet you’ve got some real characters down there.”
Albus forced himself to stay calm, pushing down the rising anger. He could feel his father watching him closely, likely expecting another outburst. But Albus wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Not this time.
“They’re not so different from everyone else,” Albus said carefully, choosing his words with precision. “Ambition doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
Rose, who had been avoiding eye contact the entire dinner, suddenly jumped in, her voice a little too enthusiastic and concerned. “Albus has been hanging with the Malfoy boy!”
Albus wanted to curse her. She just had to ruin everything, didn’t she?
Silence fell over the otherwise loud table. “Malfoy boy? As in Scorpius Malfoy, Dracos kid ?” Ron said with a sneer, like he had tasted something foul. He was ready to continue but stopped when he met Ginny’s death glare.
Ron, however, wasn’t letting up but took Ginny's warning into account. “Oh, really? That caught me a bit off guard—haha.” He forced a laugh, then continued, “But you can’t deny there’s always been a bit of… a reputation with Slytherin, hasn’t there? Dark magic and all that.” He leaned in closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You be careful, Al. Don’t let them drag you into anything dodgy.”
Albus’s stomach twisted. His thoughts flashed to his real friends—Scorpius, the only person who truly understood him. And here was Ron, lumping them all together as if Slytherin was nothing more than a breeding ground for dark wizards.
He managed a tight smile, though it felt like his face might crack under the strain. “I’ll be careful, Uncle Ron. Don’t worry.” His voice was taut, and he could feel his composure slipping, but he held on. He couldn’t afford another outburst. Not here. Not now.
Sensing the growing tension, James quickly steered the conversation away, talking about Quidditch and their plans for the holidays. Albus was grateful for the reprieve, but the damage had already been done. The scrutiny, the judgment—it had been there all along, lurking beneath the surface, and now it was out in the open for everyone to see.
As dinner dragged on, Albus’s mind was elsewhere, lost in thought. He replayed Ron’s words over and over, each one stoking the fire of resentment he felt. His family—his own flesh and blood—saw him as a ticking time bomb, a Slytherin who might, at any moment, turn dark.
They don’t understand, he thought bitterly, picking at his food. They never will.
A bitter satisfaction settled in. If his father hadn’t believed his apology earlier, then maybe it was for the best he hadn’t told the full truth.
They don’t deserve the truth, he told himself, his mind hardening. Not if they’re going to judge me before they even know who I am.
Albus leaned back in his chair, letting the conversation swirl around him, doing his best to blend into the background. It was Christmas, but all he could think about was getting through it without losing control. Afterward, maybe he’d escape to the Malfoys—where at least he wouldn’t have to pretend.
For now, though, he’d wear the mask. He’d play the part. It was what a Slytherin did best, after all. And it wasn’t like they were wrong.
Some Slytherins were probably practicing the Dark Arts, and there was that unspoken introduction to blood purity and pureblood traditions. Secrecy was paramount, and of course, there was the intricate, mock-political system that ruled their house—the games, the power struggles, the ambition that pulsed through every conversation and interaction. It was all there, as real as the food on the table in front of him.
But Albus could never tell. Not just because of house loyalty and pride, but because his family—so utterly Gryffindor in their hearts—could never comprehend it. They were too blinded by their heroic ideals, by what they thought Slytherin was, never bothering to dig deeper, to see the other side of it.
His father, his mother—they’d be horrified. To them, Slytherin was synonymous with darkness, cruelty, and everything they’d fought against. But to Albus, the truth was more complicated. Blood purity wasn’t just about power or superiority; it came from a complex past and a need to pass down legacy. There was a quiet pride in it. And though Albus knew better than to say it out loud, especially here at the Burrow, surrounded by his family, part of him had begun to understand why it mattered. It wasn’t about hate; it was about heritage, about something ancient and powerful, something his family could never understand.
They’d see it as dangerous, ignorant, wrong. But to Albus, it was something more—a way to belong, a place where he wasn’t the black sheep, but someone who could carve his own path. A place where he could thrive.
His fingers tightened around his fork as the conversation continued around him, but his mind was far away. Slytherin had shown him a different world. One his family would never be a part of. And in that moment, as Ron made another off-color joke about “snakes,” Albus felt more detached from them than ever.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The atmosphere at the Burrow was warm and festive, with Christmas Eve nearing its end. The family had gathered in the living room after dinner, the excitement of unwrapping presents filling the air. Laughter and cheerful chatter mingled with the sound of wrapping paper being torn apart.
Albus tried his best to blend into the background, watching as James made a show of his gifts and Rose, ever the polite Gryffindor, engaged in light conversation with family members. Albus was relieved to let the evening pass quietly, hoping to avoid any further discomfort.
But as always, fate had other plans.
Merlin, Albus’s owl, swooped into the room, his wings flapping as he carried several letters and a small package. With the grace only Merlin possessed, he landed on Albus’s lap and dropped the items before perching nearby. The room fell silent as everyone’s attention shifted to him.
Albus’s heart raced. He recognized the letters immediately—M. Fawley and D. Burke—each bearing simple Happy Yule wishes and candies. Innocent enough. But the third package, wrapped in elegant green paper with a silver ribbon, was from Scorpius.
James, ever curious, was the first to break the silence. “Oh, what’s that mate? Who’s the gift from, Al?”
Albus swallowed hard, his mind racing for an excuse—anything that would keep the attention off the names on the card. But his delay only made it worse
Albus’s grip tightened around the package, feeling heat rise to his face. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with judgment. Harry’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and worry.
Albus felt his heart pound harder, the pit in his stomach growing heavier. He forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to himself. “It’s just a gift,” he said, trying to sound casual. “From some friends at school.”
But the damage was already done.
“Friends at school?” Ron repeated, eyebrows raised.
Rose, who had been quietly observing from the side, leaned in and took a closer look. “It’s from M. Fawley, D. Burke, and the gift is from Scorpius Malfoy.”
“ Burke? Fawley? Bloody hell, Al, they don’t sound like the friendliest crowd.”
Ginny, noticing the pause and trying to ignore her brother's comment, chimed in with a warm but insistent tone. “Go on, Albus. Open it in front of us. We’re all dying to see what’s inside.”
The room’s gaze bore down on him, making the heat rise to his face. Albus gripped the package tighter, trying to steady his hands as he slowly unwrapped it. The elegant green paper fell away, revealing a beautifully crafted silver box. He glanced at the card, it's simple message: To Albus, from Scorpius .
Ron cleared his throat “Let’s see it then,” Ron said, leaning in with a forced cheerfulness. “What’s Scorpius sent you?”
Albus hesitated, then carefully lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a sleek, dark green leather-bound journal. The journal had intricate silver embossing on the cover in the form of the Slytherin house crest, with the initials "A.S.P." engraved underneath it.
The sight of the journal hit Albus like a spell. A surge of warmth and pride washed over him. Only Scorpius could make him feel so supported and understood, even from afar, especially when surrounded by people who didn’t—Scorpius had given him his first real item that showed pride in his house, in Slytherin. and Albus was deeply touched. But reality soon set in again as he heard his brothers voice.
James tried to lighten the mood, forcing a laugh. “Blimey, that’s posh. Didn’t know Slytherins had such fancy taste.”
Ron, always quick with a comment, couldn’t resist. “Huh, a Malfoy giving a journal to a Weasley. Haven’t seen that one before.” He snarled
Ginny’s face went pale. The reminder of Lucius Malfoy slipping Tom Riddle’s diary into her books during her shopping for her first year hit her like a punch to the gut. She stiffened, her eyes flashing with a mix of pain and anger. The memory of being possessed and nearly killed by that cursed diary resurfaced, casting a shadow over her expression.
Harry noticed the change in Ginny’s demeanor and his own face darkened, the concern in his eyes deepening.
His father with a serious voice uttered “Albus, don’t touch it. We need to check it for curses.”
Albus couldn't hide his shocked expression and his family's reaction to a Journal.
Albus’s eyes widened in protest. “It’s just a journal, Dad!” he cried, feeling frustrated.
Harry, ignoring his protest, drew his wand and muttered the incantation for a curse detection spell that indicated that the journal was clean, but Harry’s frown remained.
His eyes remained fixed on Albus and the journal, a storm brewing behind them. The name Malfoy had triggered something deep within him, and Albus could see his father’s mind working, leaping to conclusions.
It was happening again—he was losing control of the situation. His Slytherin instincts kicked in, urging him to think quickly and salvage the moment before it spiraled further.
Ginny, sensing the escalating tension, stepped in with a soothing tone. “Harry, it’s alright. It’s just a gift. Let’s not make a scene.”
Hermione, always quick to mediate, added her voice. “ Harry, Ron, let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s just a journal, there's nothing suspicious about that. We should focus on enjoying the evening.”
The conversation continued onto other topics, but the suspicion lingered in the air, thick and unspoken. Albus kept his distance, focusing on the journal and trying to push away the nagging doubts about how little his family understood his world. The Slytherin culture, the politics, the secrets—they were all parts of him that he couldn’t share. They wouldn’t understand, and maybe it was better that way.
As the evening wore on, Albus welcomed the distraction of unwrapping presents and engaging in small talk. Yet beneath the surface, something darker simmered. He couldn’t believe how his father had overreacted to a simple journal—the insult of using a curse detection spell, and the suspicion, even the mere thought, that Scorpius would have wanted to harm him, and would have done it in such an obvious way, felt almost mocking. Still, Albus was relieved that he had managed to keep the true complexities of Slytherin life hidden. Whether the whole ordeal had been a success or a failure, he wasn’t quite sure.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Burrow was quiet in the late hours of the night, the warmth of the fire crackling softly in the living room. Albus, unable to sleep, crept down the stairs. He was merely seeking a drink of water, but as he reached the kitchen, he was drawn to the muted murmur of voices coming from the living room.
He edged closer, careful not to make a sound. Peeking around the corner, he saw Harry, Hermione, and Ron seated by the fire. The scene was warm, but the conversation was anything but.
Harry was leaning forward, his face etched with worry. “It’s not just the journal from Malfoy,” he said, his voice low but strained. “It’s everything. Albus’s behavior—his outbursts, his hostility. It’s like he’s slipping into something darker .”
Hermione, holding a glass of wine but clearly uneasy, nodded thoughtfully. “Harry, we have to remember that Albus is under a lot of pressure. He's struggling to find his place. We can’t let our fears make us see him as a lost cause.”
Ron, his face flushed from too much Firewhisky, cut in with a sharp edge in his voice. “I understand that, but it’s hard not to worry. Especially with the Malfoys involved. Slytherins have a reputation for a reason, and it’s not a good one. We’ve seen the trouble they can cause.”
Harry’s gaze was fixed on the fire, his expression troubled. “It’s not just the Malfoys. It’s Albus’s outburst the other night. He was almost frantic, He said things that were unsettling—like he’s on the brink of something dangerous. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
Hermione’s face clouded with concern. “Harry, we need to consider that he’s dealing with intense pressure. The need to fit in, to meet expectations—it could be affecting his behavior. It’s not an excuse, but it’s something to consider.”
Ron’s expression darkened, his voice becoming more urgent. “But we can’t ignore the warning signs. Slytherin has a history with the Dark Arts. If Albus is getting involved with that or with people who are, it’s a serious issue. We can’t just sit back and hope for the best.”
Harry sighed, his face lined with anxiety. “I know. Ginny and I have been discussing it. We think it might be wise to reach out to the Malfoys, try to understand what’s happening with Albus. Maybe we should keep a closer eye on him.”
Hermione’s voice was steady but firm. “Harry, involving the Malfoys could be risky. They have their own agendas, and it might make things worse if Albus feels like we’re spying on him or judging him more. We need to handle this delicately.”
Ron’s frustration was evident. “It’s just hard to see how things will improve when we’re kept in the dark. I can’t stand the thought of Albus getting mixed up in something dangerous because we weren’t vigilant enough.”
Harry’s eyes were filled with a deep, troubled concern. “I know. We want to do what’s best for him, but we have to be careful not to drive him away. It’s a fine line to walk.”
As Albus listened from the shadows, the weight of their anxiety and suspicion pressed heavily on him. The warmth of the fire seemed distant compared to the cold reality of their doubts. He felt a surge of guilt and isolation, realizing how little they understood his struggles and the precarious choices he was navigating.
Turning slowly, Albus crept back up the stairs, the conversation echoing in his mind. He climbed back into bed beside James and Teddy, the night’s earlier events replaying in his thoughts. The unease from his family felt like an insurmountable barrier, and he lay there in the darkness, feeling more alone than ever in his struggle.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
Albus be like "I want trouble always" for real, sometimes (most of the time) he is his own biggest enemy 😭
Also poor Scorp lmao, but honeslty i feel like Harry and Ginny do have some grounds for freaking out about the journal a little, like add that with his outbrust earlier, possesion? i could totally see that concolusion be drawn lol.
Chapter 7: Chapter Seven - The Old Ways
Notes:
Hi, guys! Sorry I took a bit longer to update! I needed to finish an essay for my uni, and I kept banging my head against the wall trying to figure out how I wanted this chapter and the ones after it to go. I'm not sure if I'm proud of it; I'm having a hard time trying to keep it somewhat canon-compliant. Maybe I'm rushing the plot? (I say this as I have around 40k words and it's only May in Albus's first year, lmao.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Seven - The Old Ways
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After returning from the Burrow, the Potter family had tried to maintain a sense of normalcy. Albus, determined not to have any more outbursts, mostly kept to his room as the days passed and buried himself in homework and revisions of the term. He went down to eat, but the tension lingered. His brother and sister seemed to have returned somewhat to normal, and his parents too, holding the usual dinner conversations. Albus had never felt more alone. He could feel the scrutiny in his father’s gaze, the concern in his mother’s. Albus could also sense that his parents were going to talk to him—it was evident from their glances to each other. And tonight was the last night before he and James returned to Hogwarts.
His father asked him to help with the dishes after dinner, which he obliged. Albus knew what was coming. As he stood washing dishes, the water burned his hands. He didn’t see why they had to do this—they had a house elf, after all. Both his parents were determined not to use him. Albus rolled his eyes, grateful that his father had his back turned.
Just as he placed the last dish on the drying rack, his father asked him to come into the study for a chat. He followed without much of a word. His mother was already in the study, and she had placed three chairs in the room, all facing each other, like some sort of therapy setup. Albus wanted to grimace. He braced himself as he sat down, knowing he had to play this right. His parents took the other two chairs, sitting down in front of him. Albus held his demeanor carefully controlled, though for appearance’s sake, he let some unease slip out. His parents needed to believe him, even if he was dead set on lying through his teeth. He waited for their probing questions.
Harry took a deep breath, his voice tinged with frustration. “Albus, we need to talk about what happened before Christmas. Your outburst was completely out of character, and it’s not something we can ignore.”
Ginny nodded in agreement. “We’re concerned about you. The way you reacted, the anger—It was extreme. We need to understand what’s really going on.”
Albus kept his gaze steady, his expression a mask of calm, though a bit weary. “I’m fine. I was just frustrated. It’s been a tough time at school.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s not just about being frustrated, Albus. Your reaction was more than that. We know you’ve been having issues at Hogwarts, but this seems deeper. It’s almost like you’re hiding something.”
Ginny’s tone was softer but no less intense. “We’ve heard rumors, and then there was the gift he gave you on Christmas. We’re worried about your close relationship with the Malfoy boy. Is there something you’re not telling us? Is there any influence there that might be affecting you?”
Albus swallowed. He couldn’t get too defensive—it would only worsen the situation. “I understand your worry, but Scorpius—he’s really kind, and a geek, he’s really not—”
Harry cut him off, his voice firm. “We’ve made our decision. For your safety, we can’t allow you to continue seeing Scorpius. This isn’t up for debate.”
Albus’s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his shock. He knew arguing would be pointless, but something inside him couldn’t let them treat Scorpius like that. Scorpius was the reason he hadn’t fallen too deeply—he was Albus’s lumos, his patronus in the face of all the dementors, the teasing, bullying, and hexes. “You can’t be serious. Scorpius has been nothing but a friend to me.” His voice broke, real emotion seeping in. “He’s the reason I even made it past this term—it’s been really awful, but Scorpius, he–he was always there, like a light—”
Harry cut in again, his voice brooking no argument. “This isn’t about your feelings or our judgment of Scorpius. It’s about ensuring you’re not getting mixed up in things that could endanger you. We need to take a stand now to prevent any further issues.”
Albus’s heart sank. “You’re making a mistake. Scorpius isn’t like that.”
Ginny’s eyes were full of concern, but her tone remained firm. “We understand you might not see it this way, but we’re making this decision based on what we believe is best for you. We’re not trying to push you away, but we can’t ignore our concerns.”
Albus struggled to keep his voice steady. “So, what am I supposed to do? Just cut him off without an explanation?”
Harry’s expression softened slightly, but his resolve was unyielding. “We’re asking you to do what’s necessary to stay safe. If you need help managing this, we’re here for you. But you need to respect our decision.”
Albus felt the weight of their decision press heavily on him. He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “I understand. I’ll handle it.”
As he left the room, Albus felt a mix of anger and resignation. He knew his parents were acting out of concern, but their decision felt like another barrier between him and the life he was trying to navigate. And he was absolutely not stopping his friendship with Scorpius.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus followed behind his family, his posture slouched and his face arranged into the mask of weariness they expected from him. They thought he was still upset—still grappling with the complexities of how to distance himself from his Slytherin friendships, from the Malfoy heir. If they only knew the truth.
The more time passed, the more he felt like an outsider in his own family. Distrust bubbled under his skin, especially towards his parents, and his fallout with Rose only made things worse. It was all a mess. The only thing keeping him grounded was the thought of seeing Scorpius again. Scorpius, who never judged, who never made him feel wrong for who he was or what he felt.
After murmuring goodbyes and hugging his parents, sister, aunt’s, and uncle’s, Albus turned towards the train. And boarded the train together with James and their cousins. Who wasted no time to find their own friends and compartments and too wrapped up in their excitement to notice the quiet Slytherin not following. Not that Albus minded. He wasn't going to anyway. As the train rumbled to life beneath him, he made his way down the corridor, his focus sharpening on one thing—finding Scorpius. The thought of his friend steadied him, calming the storm of frustration and loneliness that had been swirling inside him since Christmas. Scorpius wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer. He wouldn’t demand explanations.
When Albus reached the compartment, he saw Scorpius through the glass window, sitting quietly but with an air of subdued happiness from the holiday break. There was a shadow of concern in his eyes, though, likely because he hadn’t seen Albus on the platform.
Albus had deliberately stayed out of sight. He couldn’t risk Scorpius running up to him in front of everyone. But now, as he stood outside the compartment, he allowed himself to exhale. His shoulders relaxed, and a genuine smile broke through his usual guarded expression.
He slid the door open. “Miss me?” Albus asked with a grin, the tension that had been gnawing at him loosening as soon as he stepped inside. Finally, he was where he belonged.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Welcoming Feast went better this term. For once, Albus actually ate his food and kept up a decent conversation—not just with Scorpius, but with some of his other yearmates as well. It felt strangely normal, almost as if the weight of everything at home hadn't followed him back to Hogwarts. They’d gotten their schedules that evening instead of the next morning, which only reminded him of how much more important this term would be.
Revisions and studying for exams loomed ahead, and Albus couldn’t shake his dread about it. He was still utterly horrid when it came to practical magic, and the last thing he wanted was a report card full of Trolls.
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It was two days later, while he and Scorpius were doing revision in the common room, that Fawley approached Albus and asked for a moment. With all the recent chaos, Albus had almost forgotten about Fawley’s offer of help from before the holidays. His stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and concern—he feared that whatever Fawley was about to show him might be something dangerous, just like his parents had always warned him about. Why else wasn't the book part of the Hogwarts library?
“I trust you had a pleasant Yule and Winter Solstice, Potter,” Fawley greeted him brightly, her tone light and genuine. It was Albus who forced a polite smile in return.
“Yes, I did. Thank you, Fawley. I hope yours was even better,” he replied, trying to sound pleasant.
Fawley’s smile widened slightly, her eyes twinkling, but she quickly handed him the book.
"I'm sure you remember our conversation before the holidays. This book is only an introduction to self-learning, but I still recommend you consider consulting a mind healer. We wizards need to protect our minds, after all. Physical wounds can be healed, but the mind is much more delicate. Mind healers act more as guides than fixers."
She emphasized her point as she handed him the book, Calm the Inner Storm: A Wizard’s Guide to Shaping Mental Barriers.
Albus took it carefully. The book looked old but not too daunting. The title was far less ominous than he had expected, and that intrigued him. Maybe this was exactly what he needed—some way to calm the storm that constantly raged inside him.
“Thank you, Fawley. I appreciate this. I’ll take care of the book as if it were my own.” Albus was conflicted. Since the holidays, his mind had been in turmoil, overrun with emotions that surged out of his control. What he needed most was order, control.
“I might take you up on the offer of a mind healer later on, but for now, I’ll try on my own. If I don’t manage—”
“You know where to find me,” Fawley interrupted with a knowing smile, before she gave a polite goodbye and walked back to her dorm.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The term moved forward, his mentoring sessions with Burke resuming their usual routine, and Albus laid more focus on self-learning from the book Fawley had lent him. In some ways, life at school hadn’t changed much. The other students still teased him and Scorpius, and they still had to sneak around to avoid pranks or worse—hexes. Yet, oddly, Albus found a strange calm in the consistency of it. Even though his home life had spiraled into chaos, at least school was predictable. The only thing that was different this time was his relationship with James. They actually had one now. It was a tentative truce, but they studied together at the library, walked around the grounds when the weather started to warm, and James seemed to be making an effort.
Time moved too quickly for Albus’s liking. Winter melted into spring, and his birthday was fast approaching. He’d sent regular letters home to keep his parents from worrying, but each one was full of carefully constructed lies. He and James had come to an agreement at the start of the term: James would keep quiet about Albus’s ongoing friendship with Scorpius, even though their parents had expressly forbidden it. Albus hoped that only their immediate family knew about the restriction; if Rose found out, she would’ve ratted him out by now for sure.
But as usual, things couldn’t stay peaceful for long. James, in his new role as the overprotective older brother, had been sticking his nose into Albus’s business more than Albus liked. It all came to a head one afternoon when James invited Albus to visit Hagrid with him. Albus, not sensing anything out of the ordinary, agreed. But instead of going to Hagrid’s, James led him to a secluded spot on the school grounds.
Once they were alone, James turned to him, his face tense. “Albus,” he started, his voice low but sharp, “you told me you were going to slowly distance yourself from Scorpius!” His voice rose, breaking from a whisper to something closer to a frustrated shout. “I let you off and didn’t tell Mum and Dad because you said you had it under control!”
Albus had anticipated this moment for a while now. He had rehearsed different ways to handle it and ultimately settled on what he thought was the best approach: don’t lie—at least, not entirely.
“I’m sorry, James. I should’ve been honest with you," Albus began, adopting a softer tone. "But I was scared. You know how much time I spend with Scorpius, and you know the bullying hasn’t stopped. He’s my only real friend.” He paused to gauge his brother’s reaction, noticing James’s expression waver.
“Mum and Dad... they’re wrong about him,” Albus pressed on, trying to keep the frustration in check. “They think he’s a bad influence, but Scorpius wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’ve seen it yourself—he’s light, he’s bubbly. He's the complete opposite of everything they’re worried about.” He looked James in the eyes, searching for any sign of understanding.
“They don’t get it,” Albus continued, his voice tinged with frustration. “They don’t understand how things really are for me.”
James grimaced, clearly feeling for Albus but still holding firm. “I get it, Al, I really do. But it doesn't sit right with me, keepin’ all this from Mum and Dad.” His voice lowered, like he didn’t even want to say it. “And I’m telling you, we should trust Dad on this. If anyone knows danger, it’s him—”
“No, James!” Albus cut him off, his voice rising with pent-up emotion. “Not you too!” He could feel his anger boiling over, and though he hated himself for it, he knew how to use it to his advantage. “I don’t care if our parents or our relatives think I’m destined to become some dark wizard just because I’m in Slytherin—but I didn’t think you’d be the same. I thought you were different.” His last words were laced with venom, a calculated sting to make James feel guilty.
And it worked. James’s expression crumbled into a mix of hurt and conflict. Albus could see his brother wrestling with his feelings, torn between loyalty to him and their parents. Albus didn’t like playing on his emotions like this, but it was necessary.
“Look, I’m not saying you’re gonna go dark or whatever,” James said, his words rushed now, trying to explain himself. “God, you know what I mean, Al!” He huffed, exasperated. Albus knew James liked throwing in Muggle references to sound clever, but half of them didn’t make sense in a world where real magic existed. Still, Albus got the gist.
“If you really believe me,” Albus said, locking eyes with his brother, “Then don’t rat me out to Mum and Dad. I’ll fix everything this summer, I promise. Please, James, trust me... Even if no one else does.” He held his gaze, letting his sincerity linger in the air between them.
That was it. He saw the shift in James’s face, the internal struggle finally tipping in Albus’s favor. Once again, Albus had managed to pull his older brother back onto his side. He felt a twinge of guilt for the manipulation, but the stakes were too high to worry about that now.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus sat alone in his dormitory, the soft sound of pages turning occasionally breaking the quiet. Scorpius had gone to the Owlery to send his parents yet another letter—Scorpius was one of those kids who made it a point to keep his parents updated on everything, sending multiple letters a week. Albus, on the other hand, was content to enjoy the quiet.
His Defense Against the Dark Arts notes lay untouched on the desk in front of him, the detailed diagrams of werewolf bites and the characteristics of dark creatures like Gytrashes and Imps barely catching his attention. Instead, his focus was entirely on the book he had pulled from his bag— Calm the Inner Storm: A Wizard’s Guide to Shaping Mental Barriers.
Albus was still in the early stages of reading the book, but even from the introduction, he could tell this was something that could help him in more ways than one. The mind arts were a mystery to most wizards, but here, laid out in clear terms, was a guide to how the mind could be shaped just like any other magical tool. Albus's shortcomings with practical spells had been weighing on him for some time, and the thought of honing his mental strength intrigued him.
He scanned the passage that had caught his attention earlier:
“Wizards and witches often think of their magic as something born purely from their wand, their incantations, or their bloodline. Yet, perhaps the most powerful and least understood tool lies within us all: the mind."
Albus paused, taking in the weight of the words. Magic wasn’t just about technique or heritage; it was about mental control, about shaping your thoughts and emotions just as precisely as you would a spell. He read on:
"For wixen, meditation is not just about calming the mind; it is a tool for enhancing magical ability. The more control you have over your own thoughts and emotions, the better you can control the flow of magic through your wand. A clear mind means a clear focus, and clear focus means stronger, more precise spellwork.”
This is what he needed, he realized. His struggles with traditional spellcasting weren’t just about technique—they were about focus. Albus knew his mind was often a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts, always drifting somewhere between doubt and frustration. If he could clear that mental clutter, maybe everything else would fall into place.
The book went on to describe mental barriers, and Albus found himself absorbed by the description:
“Mental barriers, much like a well-placed ward around a home or a protective charm over a loved one, are invisible walls that exist to protect the sanctity of our thoughts and emotions... By shaping and strengthening our mental barriers, we ensure that our minds remain calm amidst the storm, clear amidst confusion, and resilient amidst adversity.”
He imagined his mind as a grand library, each memory and emotion a book. But instead of being orderly and neat, his shelves were a mess. Some books were torn from their places, scattered across the floor, with no system to keep them safe. The idea of mental barriers as shelves that could organize and protect his thoughts resonated with him deeply. As he continued reading, the practical exercises in the next chapter caught his attention:
“The beauty of meditation is in its simplicity... One effective technique for beginners is to visualize clearing the mind, much like tidying a room. Picture your mind as a space cluttered with scattered thoughts, worries, and emotions. As you sit in meditation, imagine yourself gently picking up these distractions and placing them in a box or cabinet, to be dealt with later.”
Albus could already see how this exercise would help him. His thoughts often felt too overwhelming, a jumble of worries and expectations—about school, about his family, and about himself. He hadn’t really thought about sorting through them, but the idea of setting some of them aside, even temporarily, was appealing
.
He closed the book, his fingers resting on its worn cover for a moment as he stared off at the shadows flickering on the walls of the dormitory. Scorpius would be back soon, but for now, it was just him and the quiet. Albus straightened in his chair, closed his eyes, and let his breath slow.
For the first time in a long while, Albus focused on nothing but the rise and fall of his chest, breathing in, breathing out, clearing the storm within his mind.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus made meditation a core part of his daily routine, carving out time each morning for a quick session and a longer, more focused one at night. During those evening meditations, he worked on building his mindscape—a mental space where he could compartmentalize and store his emotions. It was a slow, painstaking process, often feeling like he was getting nowhere. But with persistence, Albus started noticing subtle changes.
His emotions, particularly the anger and resentment that had once flared up so uncontrollably, now simmered just beneath the surface. Instead of boiling over, he found he could acknowledge them, set them aside, and continue on with his day. He wasn’t rid of those feelings—he doubted he ever would be—but he had them more under control, like books locked away on a shelf in his mind.
After months of practicing, there were even tangible improvements in his magic. His spellwork was still far from impressive, but at least now, his wand would sometimes respond to him on the first or second try. He could actually manage a few simple spells, though they weren’t always perfect. His classmates didn’t pay him much attention, but Albus couldn’t help but notice the subtle reactions from his professors.
Professor Flitwick in Charms and Professor Spindlewheel in Transfiguration seemed especially pleased with his progress, even though it was minimal compared to his peers. A successful levitation charm or a partial transformation might not seem like much, but to them, it was a victory. Flitwick had awarded him house points on multiple occasions, his beaming smile almost embarrassing, while Spindlewheel, normally strict, had shown a rare glimpse of approval when Albus managed to transfigure a matchstick halfway into a needle.
Albus wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or humiliated. On one hand, his hard work was paying off, and the praise meant something. On the other hand, it was hard not to feel a little pathetic when the bar was set so low. Most students his age didn’t struggle with practical magic like this—why was he so different?
But then again, he reminded himself, it was progress. Slow, frustrating, and nowhere near what he wanted, but progress nonetheless. Maybe, if he kept at it, one day his magic would listen to him like it did for everyone else.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
As the months turned into spring, Albus's twelfth birthday was fast approaching. When he had mentioned his birthdate to Scorpius during the previous term, Scorpius had first looked surprised, a hint of intrigue flickering in his eyes. He had brushed it off at the time, but as the days crept closer, Albus noticed that Scorpius occasionally gave him perplexed glances, as though he wanted to ask something but couldn’t find the right words. The tension was unnerving, but Albus didn’t push. If Scorpius wanted to share something, he would. Albus had learned to be patient with his friend.
A week before his birthday, the two were lounging on Albus’s bed, doing some light reading. Scorpius had been unusually quiet, and Albus could tell something was on his mind. He turned the page of his book, waiting for Scorpius to speak.
“Albus?” Scorpius's voice was gentle, but there was a note of concern in it. “Your birthday... falls on the first of May, right?”
Albus, wondering where this was going, glanced up at his friend, who had now set aside his book. “Yeah, why?” he answered, his curiosity piqued.
Scorpius hesitated, his brow furrowed as though weighing whether he should say what was on his mind. “And your parents... they haven’t mentioned anything about the date?”
Albus shrugged. “Not really. Why?” He turned another page in his book, feigning disinterest, but the air between them had become heavier.
Scorpius opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, clearly struggling. Finally, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he asked, “Albus, what do you know about the Wizarding Sabbats? The Wheel of the Year?”
Albus frowned, now intrigued. He put his book down, watching his friend’s serious expression with growing curiosity. “No one’s really told me much about it,” he admitted. “Why?”
Scorpius looked conflicted, as if he was unsure whether he should continue. “It’s not really my place to tell you if they haven’t...”
“Scorp,” Albus interrupted, his voice a bit sharper than intended. “Just tell me.”
Scorpius gulped, avoiding Albus’s gaze for a moment before finally caving in. “Well, it’s just... your birthday falls on Beltane. The date First of May is significant. It’s an important day for those who follow the old ways—The practitioners of the Sabbats.”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “My family has never talked about it, what does that have to do with my birthday?”
Scorpius hesitated again, fidgeting slightly. “It’s just... it’s rare for magical children to be born on days like Beltane. Magic is... stronger during these times. The belief is that children born on these days are affected by that magic.”
Albus’s curiosity deepened. “Affected how?”
Scorpius took a deep breath, like he was mentally preparing himself to explain. “In some Pureblood families, there are ancient traditions and beliefs about festival births—Children born on days like Beltane are thought to have a powerful connection to magic. Beltane, in particular, is a day when the magical and natural worlds are more intertwined—A time when the flow of primal magic is stronger. Those born on dates like these are believed to carry a stronger magical aura.”
Albus leaned forward, his interest fully captured now. Scorpius continued, his voice softer, as if reciting a lesson he’d memorized long ago.
“These children aren’t just seen as powerful. They’re thought to be marked by fate. In Pureblood tradition, children born on Beltane are believed to be harbingers of change or transition—catalysts, if you will. It’s said they can shift the course of magical history, whether through renewal or... destruction. ”
Albus swallowed, the weight of Scorpius’s words sinking in. “So... what? You think I’m destined to bring about some kind of change? That I’m... special?”
Scorpius quickly shook his head. “I’m not saying that. It’s just... Some Pureblood families take this kind of thing seriously. They believe that those born on festival days like Beltane carry the potential for... something bigger. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know.”
Albus processed this in silence, his mind reeling. He had never given much thought to his birthday beyond the fact that it happened to fall on the first of May. Now, it seemed like there was something much deeper behind that date, something tied to ancient traditions and beliefs he had never been told about.
“Albus,” Scorpius said gently, breaking the silence. “How many people here in Slytherin know about your birth date?”
Albus frowned, still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Only you, I think. I’m not really close to anyone else, and my parents have kept all of our birthdays private from the public, so I’m pretty sure only my family knows.”
Scorpius looked relieved at that, but there was still a flicker of worry in his eyes. “It’s probably for the best. Some people in Slytherin... they might have their own ideas about what it means.”
Albus nodded slowly, still processing the idea that his birthday—something he had always considered mundane—might carry more weight in the magical world than he had ever imagined.
Scorpius continued, his voice more tentative now. "And... you're turning twelve, right?" He hesitated for a moment, glancing at Albus as if trying to gauge his reaction. "Albus, do you have any knowledge of Numerology?"
Albus raised an eyebrow, feeling a bit out of his depth. "No, not really," he admitted truthfully. "Why?"
Scorpius leaned forward, his voice dropping a little lower as he spoke. “You know... in some Pureblood traditions, turning twelve is considered a huge deal. It’s not just a birthday—It’s a kind of rite of passage.”
Albus furrowed his brow, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Well-” Scorpius continued, “In families like mine—old Pureblood families, twelve is often when a young witch or wizard is introduced to their family’s deeper magical traditions. It’s the age when they start learning about their Ancestral Magic, which is kept secret from outsiders. It’s when they might be initiated into certain magical practices or rituals that are connected to their bloodline.”
Albus felt a strange flutter in his chest. “Initiations?”
Scorpius nodded. “Some wixen perform special rituals where they formally declare themselves to magic—like a pledge. They might ask for blessings to delve into a certain type of magic or align themselves with a particular path. It’s seen as the beginning of a wixen’s personal journey into their own power and connection to magic herself.”
Albus blinked. “So... it’s kind of like starting down your own path as a wizard?”
“Exactly,” Scorpius said, his tone thoughtful. “It’s a big day in our culture. It marks the start of your own spiritual or magical path—when you start to explore and define what kind of magic you want to practice or develop.”
Albus sat back, letting the weight of Scorpius’s words sink in. “And... this happens at twelve?”
Scorpius nodded again. “When you turn twelve it's the end of the first life circle , it symbolizes the end of one stage and the beginning of another. It’s the first age that magic recognizes your resolve–You’re ready to begin exploring deeper, more personal connections with magic.”
Albus’s mind raced. “So... if I were following those traditions, I’d be preparing for some sort of ritual or initiation soon?”
Scorpius gave a small, cautious smile. “Yes, exactly. And considering you’re born on Beltane , with all the significance that date carries... it could mean your initiation or spiritual path is even more powerful than usual. Beltane is already a time of heightened magical energy, and being born on that day makes your connection to magic even stronger.”
Albus swallowed hard, feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. “So... my twelfth birthday might not just be another day.”
“No,” Scorpius agreed, his voice serious. “It could be the beginning of something much bigger for you. A deeper connection to magic, maybe even to something... ancient. Especially if you start exploring your family’s magic or your own rituals. Purebloods see this as a time to make a formal step into their family magic, and declare themselves to that legacy.”
Albus felt his mood plummet as the realization hit him. “There is no way my family practice that, though,” he muttered, a wave of disappointment washing over him. “There’s no way they know about any of this... about any family magicks either.”
He slumped back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. Scorpius’s words weighed heavily on him. This was supposed to be something important, something ancient and connected to his ancestral magic, and yet... he knew nothing about it.
Scorpius gave him a sympathetic look, sensing his friend's frustration. “I’m sorry, Albus. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just... these traditions are pretty old. Maybe your family’s been distanced from them for a long time.”
Albus nodded, but the ache in his chest didn’t go away. “It’s just... I don’t want to be disconnected from it. I want to know more. If there’s some family magic or anything like that, I should know about it, right?”
Scorpius shifted uncomfortably. “Well, even if your family doesn’t believe in it or hasn’t passed it down, that doesn’t mean it’s lost to you forever. You could still learn about it—explore the old ways, maybe even try to find if there’s anything in your family history that’s been forgotten.”
“Forgotten,” Albus echoed bitterly. “Or abandoned.”
The weight of it all settled over him like a dark cloud. His twelfth birthday, the supposed start of his magical journey, would be nothing special in the eyes of his family. No initiations, no rituals, no deeper connection to magic. Just another day, another year older.
Scorpius spoke again, and this time his frustration mirrored Albus’s. “There are rites,” he began, his voice tinged with hesitation. “Rituals that can show your affinity. But they’re complex, and I’m pretty sure the Hogwarts library doesn’t have any information on those types of rites... they’re seen as—well, not light.” He grimaced, sensing how his words might come across, and quickly added, “There are some light ones too, but...”
Albus cut in, a bitter edge in his voice. “None that you know of, and it’s probably too ‘traditional’ for Hogwarts to even have.”
Scorpius nodded, looking down. “Exactly.”
Albus’s mind raced. If there were rituals that could reveal his affinity, the kind that could help him understand more about his connection to magic, then he needed to find them. But if Hogwarts didn’t keep information on them... that meant he’d need to look elsewhere.
A knot of determination tightened in his chest. There had to be someone here who knew—someone at Hogwarts. He began to think, his eyes narrowing in focus. The professors? Some of them had to be more in touch with the old ways of magic, didn’t they? No it was to risky of getting back to his parents—
“Scorp,” Albus said quietly, “I need to find someone who does know these affinity rites.”
Scorpius looked at him with wide eyes, unsure. “Who? Who would even know about them here?” His voice sounded strained.
Albus’s mind drifted, If there was anyone who would know... it had to be someone within their house. Maybe one of the older students—Albus's eyes suddenly brightened as he recalled something Fawley had mentioned. “Scorpius, remember what Fawley said about Slytherin’s approach to exploring magic beyond the standard curriculum? She talked about how all forms of magic are respected here.” A devilish smile spread across his face, this was it.
Scorpius looked up, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face. “Yeah, I remember. But you’re thinking of going to her for this? I mean, are you sure that’s wise?”
Albus’s expression grew determined and more frantic. “I don’t see another option. If I want to understand what my birth date means, I need to dig deeper. It’s more than just curiosity—it’s my birthright—it’s about connecting with my heritage and what I might be capable of.”
Scorpius scrunched his face “Albus, i don't think Fawley is a good idea—It’s kinda a open secret that she pledged herself to The Mind Arts—I dont think it wise to trust her with something like this,”
Albus frowned, sensing the underlying worry in Scorpius’s tone. “But if I don’t seek out Fawley, where else am I going to turn? My family would never support this. They don’t believe in these old traditions or any of that ancient magic. They wouldn’t even consider helping me.”
Scorpius sighed, his frustration etched across his face. "I get that your family isn’t open to it, but asking Fawley for help is risky too. Nothing comes without a price in Slytherin, and you could end up owing her a big favor."
Albus felt a familiar surge of panic crawl up his throat. His breathing grew shallow as the words tumbled out, “I don’t have time to wait for another option! I don’t have time for this!” He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing. Two weeks. That was all the time he had. “My birthday is in two weeks, and I need to complete the ritual before then! So I can pledge myself to magic. I can’t afford to wait or hesitate—”
Scorpius’s face tightened with worry, his voice cracking slightly. “And you think rushing into this without fully understanding the consequences is a good idea?” There was a tremor of fear in his tone. “Albus! You knew nothing about this before I told you! This kind of magic is ancient and dangerous! It’s not something you commit to unless you’re fully aware of what it means—and its complications!”
Scorpius surged forward, the tension crackling like magic in the air.
Albus’s skin prickled with frustration, but beneath it, there was fear—fear of being stopped, fear of losing control. He had to do this. He needed this. The deadline loomed like a shadow over him, suffocating. His chest felt tight, his stomach twisting. But Scorpius didn’t understand the desperation eating away at him.
His hands balled into fists, knuckles white, trying to hold onto the sliver of composure that was rapidly slipping away. His voice grew higher, raw with desperation as he shot back, “I need to take this chance. If I don’t act now, I’ll miss my chance to understand my affinity and complete the ritual.”
Scorpius’s frustration only seemed to mirror his own, but underneath it was something deeper—concern. It twisted in the air, making Albus want to scream and push it all away. “And rushing into this without understanding the full consequences is reckless!" Scorpius retorted. "I understand that you’re desperate, but this is not the way—Diving into this kind of magic without fully understanding it can be extremely dangerous. These practices are dark, Albus! They work on intent—You could pledge yourself to something you don’t even understand!”
Albus’s pulse quickened as Scorpius’s words hit like a curse. The weight of them pressed down on him, pushing the panic deeper. He felt the familiar, sharp edge of fear creeping up, twisting in his chest.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be this lost, this desperate for answers.
The looming deadline of his birthday felt like a noose tightening around him. Albus’s heart pounded, but he couldn’t show any sign of doubt, not now. He wouldn’t back down—
“I don’t have time!” Albus’s voice cracked, rising above the heavy tension between them. His hands shook as he wiped the sweat from his palms onto his robes. His body was thrumming with nervous energy, his skin crawling with the unbearable pressure of being misunderstood.
Scorpius’s gaze was hard, but the crack in his voice, the concern just barely masked by frustration, made Albus grit his teeth. “This is reckless! Albus! You're playing with forces that have ruined people before. Magic like this—ancient, dark magic—doesn’t care about your desperation. It demands control, focus, understanding—If you don’t know what you're committing to, you could end up enslaved to something far more powerful than you bargained for!”
Albus's throat tightened, and his frustration reached a boiling point. He couldn’t afford to think about what-ifs, about the dangers. He couldn't afford to be stopped. "But I have to! I have to do something. If I wait—if I hesitate—I’ll lose my chance to pledge myself and figure out who I really am!"
The words came out harsher than intended, but they were the truth. And that truth cut deep.
But Scorpius wasn’t finished, his anger and concern boiling over. “You’re not just performing a spell; you’re making a lifelong commitment. Magic doesn’t treat these pledges lightly—They become you. You become them! They change something in you, Albus, something permanent. You can’t take it back. It's one thing with family magics, but for affinity magic... it’s different, and you need to be absolutely sure!”
Scorpius’s words struck deeper than Albus wanted to admit, but that only made his frustration sharper. He cut Scorpius off with a mix of rage and determination, his face hardening like stone. “I need to do this. I don’t care about the risks. I need to know my affinity and make my pledge before my birthday. I don’t have time to waste. I won’t lose my chance.”
He saw the way Scorpius’s expression twisted, the worry etched into every line of his face, but Albus couldn’t stay in that room, couldn’t stand to see the doubt in his best friend’s eyes.
He turned on his heel, storming out of the dorm, his mind set on finding Fawley. The sharp click of the door echoed like a final cut, a wedge driven between them.
As soon as the door slammed behind him, Albus’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and fear gnawing at his insides. But he forced himself forward. He had to keep going. He couldn’t let Scorpius’s worry, his own doubts, pull him back from this. Not now.
Whatever it took, he would not let anyone—friend or foe—stand in his way.
Meanwhile, inside the dorm, Scorpius let out a frustrated scream into a pillow, fists clenching the fabric.
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Notes:
There it is! I really love your guesses and opinions! I had a really hard time choosing between Walpurgis and Beltane as Albus's birthday, but I picked Beltane because it has more Celtic origins! Hope you’re all excited to see more dark magic in the next chapters!
Also, what do you think of the book? What do you think about mental state and self-confidence being connected to people not being able to perform magic? I had this idea when I first heard about Neville's traumatic experiences and how his uncle literally pushed him out of a window when he thought he was a squib. That was when Neville first showed magical abilities! Kind of crazy, actually. And yes, I’m aware that I haven’t focused on classes much; please let me know if there’s anything more you’d like to see—I might be able to throw it in!
Chapter 8: Chapter Eight - Decisions
Notes:
Shorter chapter this time! but i felt it was needed! Dont worry! the next will follow soon! Im just checking it for mistakes!
This was also one of the scenes that i have been banging my head over, it was so hard to choose how to go about it! Hope you guys like it!!!
*Disclaimer
The making of the circle is inspired by Vichan Evitative!!! I feel like it could have been the same universe - only that Harry didnt do the things in Evitative, he never found that library.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Eight - Decisions
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“I don’t trust her,” Scorpius said as they made their way to their second class of the day.
“I do,” Albus snapped, irritation evident in his voice. “And if you can’t trust her, then trust me.” His annoyance with Scorpius’s pessimism was evident, it was rather unfamiliar for Scorpius to act this way, he was usually cheerful even when they had rough days.
Scorpius fell silent.
Albus’s gaze sharpened. “ What? You don’t trust me now?” he snapped, quickening his pace.
“No—Albus, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—”
Albus let out an exasperated groan, “Ugh! Just trust me, Scorpius! Don’t let it trouble your pretty head. I’ve got everything under control!”
Scorpius blushed, momentarily flustered. “W—what? Pretty?” he stammered, getting caught on the unintended compliment. Albus rolled his eyes.
“If you don’t trust me, you don’t have to be there,” Albus said dismissively.
Scorpius abruptly stopped, his face turning a deeper shade of red as he shouted, “No!” His voice was louder than intended. “I want to be there, Albus—I just—”
“Then be there—and stop worrying!” Albus said sharply.
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“James?”
“Yeah, what’s up, Albie?” James answered casually, lounging under a tree by the Black Lake. It was one of those perfect spring days—sunlight spilling through the leaves, the gentle ripple of the lake creating a calm, lazy atmosphere.
Albus shifted beside him, eyes following the ripples on the water. “Did you do anything special for your twelfth birthday?”
James kept his gaze on a group of birds soaring by, seemingly lost in thought. “Not really. Just another birthday, y'know? I mean, we went to see that new movie remember? But other than that? Not much.” He gave a sly grin and nudged Albus with his elbow. “Why, Albie? Afraid you’ll miss out on a proper birthday now that you’re at Hogwarts?”
Albus didn’t respond right away, but James caught the glint in his brother’s eyes, something hard to place. He figured it was just Albus being his usual quiet, brooding self. That’s Albus for you, he thought with a fond smile.
“Look,” James continued, stretching his arms out behind his head, “you’ll get used to it, mate. That’s how it goes when your birthday’s in the middle of term. Most kids at Hogwarts don’t really make a big deal out of it. Just a few friends, maybe some cake. Nothing fancy.”
Albus was silent again, the look in his eyes still lingering, darker now, as if there was something he wasn’t saying. But James didn’t press him. Albus had always been different from him, a bit of an enigma. And honestly, it didn’t bother James anymore. How could anyone think he’s anything but a Slytherin? he mused with a small, fond smile as he ruffled Albus’s hair.
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“Have you memorized the instructions?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It’s an easy rite. It doesn’t need any spells, only your blood.”
“I really don’t like this,” another voice broke the stillness, soft but filled with tension as the three wixen wandered deeper into the Forbidden Forest. The towering trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches twisting together, forming a thick canopy that barely allowed any moonlight to filter through. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and earth, and every now and then, the sound of rustling leaves or distant, unidentifiable creatures made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end.
“We don’t have much choice, Scorp,” Albus replied, his tone sharper than intended, his breath clouding in the cool night air. The forest felt alive around them, as if it was listening. “This affinity rite is the only one we can do on such short notice. And it will show if I have a dark core.”
“It’s reckless—what if you don’t? The magic could turn on you—” Scorpius’s voice was tight with worry as he stepped over a fallen branch, the faint crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot making the silence between his words even more pronounced.
Fawley interjected, her voice steady and emotionless, like the calm before a storm. “There is a high likelihood of Potter having a dark affinity.” She moved with quiet confidence, her wand casting a soft Lumos, the faint light illuminating their path at her side, as though she had walked this way a hundred times before.
Scorpius spat, his frustration barely contained, the tension between them thickening with every step. “Oh, I’m sure you’re well aware. Have you had a look?” His sarcasm was biting, his eyes flicking towards Fawley, full of distrust.
Albus rolled his eyes, feeling the weight of their anxiety pressing down on him, trying to suppress the churn of unease and excitement building inside him. He could feel the forest closing in, as though it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
“Guys, please stop,” he muttered as they finally emerged into a small clearing.
The space was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustling of the trees surrounding them. Albus stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. The dense shadows of the Forbidden Forest loomed like silent sentinels around them, and he could feel the magic thrumming beneath his feet, like the pulse of something far older than Hogwarts itself. This was the place—the site of the rite.
“We’re here,” Fawley said softly, her voice barely disturbing the thick air around them. She glanced at Albus, her dark eyes unreadable, face illuminated in the silver glow of her Lumos. “Are you ready?”
Albus swallowed hard, his fingers brushing against the small knife tucked into his robes, the cool metal sending a shiver up his spine.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, though his voice betrayed the flicker of doubt creeping in, even through his determination.
Sensing his unease, Fawley responded, her voice steady but detached. “Let’s do this as we practiced, shall we, Potter?” There was something unsettling about how calmly she spoke, as if the gravity of the ritual was lost on her.
Scorpius hesitated, his eyes locking onto Albus’s, pleading silently. “We could still—”
“No.” Albus interrupted, his voice firm. “I want this.” His tone left no room for argument.
The moon hung high above them, casting its pale glow over the clearing, the leaves casting strange patterns across the ground. It felt like they were stepping outside of time, the world beyond the forest impossibly far away, irrelevant to what was about to unfold.
The three wixen took their positions in a rough circle, the tension thick between them. Fawley, now all business, raised her hands, her wand gripped tightly in her fingers. Her voice took on a formal tone, a certain authority vibrating through each word. “As the wixen declared the longest, I oversee this rite.”
"Quod est superius, est sicut quod inferius"
(“As Above, so below”)
A chill swept through the clearing as she spoke, the air itself seeming to hum with anticipation.
“Per tenebras vivo.”
(“Through darkness, I live.”)
They turned to the right, wands pointed to the ground, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they walked the circle. The leaves crunched softly beneath their feet, a rhythmic sound in sync with the chant. Their voices rose in unison, carrying a weight that seemed to thicken the air, the dark magic stirring beneath the surface.
“ Vocamus tenebras ut nos circumdent, ”
(“We call upon the dark to surround us.”)
A shift in the air. Something stirred—a presence, palpable and cold, but strangely inviting. The surrounding trees swayed unnaturally, as though they, too, were participants in the ancient rite.
“ Esto nobis Protector et Dux, ”
(“Be our Protector and our Guidance.”)
A warmth, foreign and ominous, spread across their skin like a feverish caress, an unnerving contrast to the cool night air. It felt as if something ancient had awakened, observing them, considering their worth. The shadows stretched and thickened, blurring the edges of the clearing as though reality itself bent to the will of the magic.
“ In tenebris, ”
(“In darkness.”)
The air seemed to pulse with life, responding to the ritual, as though the very essence of the Forbidden Forest answered their call. Fawley moved with purpose, stepping into the center, her wand raised high, one arm reaching skyward while the other pressed firmly toward the earth. The magic around her swirled—alive, sentient, as if waiting for her command.
“ In tenebris; Petimus approbationem ritus Affinitatis, ”
(“In darkness; We ask for the approval of an Affinity rite.”)
Fawley stepped out of the circle, her movements precise, almost ritualistic in their grace. The moment she did, the magic that had been gathering burst forth, encircling them like a tangible force. It was no longer just a presence; it was something alive, a dark, humming entity. It pressed against Albus's chest, a weight that seemed both alien and intimate. He could hear it—whispers at the edge of his consciousness, words he couldn’t quite decipher but felt deep in his bones.
And yet, he wasn’t afraid.
He should have been—any rational part of him should have been screaming to stop, to turn back. But the anticipation drowned out the fear, an intoxicating mixture of exhilaration and dread. It called to something deep within him, something that had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface.
The magic’s grip tightened, and for a fleeting moment, Albus felt as if it recognized him. He felt the flicker of something ancient stirring within, an echo of a connection long forgotten.
With a measured breath, he stepped into the circle.
The sensation hit him immediately—intoxicating, electric. His skin prickled with the thrill of the magic wrapping around him, the world outside the circle blurring into insignificance. Albus retrieved the ceremonial dagger from his robe, its silver blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
“In tenebris,”
(“In darkness.”)
He pressed the blade to his palm, gritting his teeth as it cut through his flesh. The pain was sharp but fleeting, an offering demanded by the ritual. Blood welled up in thick droplets, trickling down his hand as he raised it above his head.
“Per sanguinem meum,”
(“Through my blood,”)
His heart pounded in his ears, beating in time with the pulse of magic coursing through the clearing. The ground beneath his feet thrummed with energy, as though it, too, was alive.
“ Affinitatem meam ostende. ”
(“Show me my affinity.”)
The blood, thick and dark, began to rise, defying gravity as it coalesced into a sphere above him. It pulsated grotesquely, a twisted heart that beat with erratic rhythms, growing larger with each agonizing pulse. It devoured the blood hungrily, pulling more and more from the wound, until it seemed to draw not only from his flesh, but from his very being.
The sphere shuddered, expanding and contracting as if it were alive, writhing with a sickening intensity. Darkness began to creep through the crimson mass, ink-black tendrils snaking outward, clawing at the edges of the sphere, desperate to escape.
Albus stood transfixed, his breath shallow as the blood turned black—so dark it seemed to devour all light, There was no reflection, only a void—It pulsed endless and all-consuming like an abyss–As he gazed into the depths, it felt cold and unrelenting, daring him to lose himself within. The sphere quivered, expanding, and for a terrifying moment, it seemed as though it might devour him entirely—and then, for just a short moment, the abyss stared back.
Then, with a deafening crack, it exploded— blood splattering across the circle, drenching the ground and everything within. His breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears. The world spun around him, but instead of fear, an overwhelming wave of power surged through him.
The magic surged like fiendfyre through his veins, burning but with a pleasure so intense it left him trembling, gasping for breath. It whispered to him in a thousand tongues, all at once—its voices clawing at his sanity, promising things he couldn't yet comprehend. A twisted smile curled his lips as he collapsed to his knees, utterly consumed by the sensation.
Power. Power like he had never known.
His head spun, and the edges of his vision darkened, but the magic still pulsed in his veins, more potent than anything he had ever felt. He could barely stay conscious, but even as he fought the darkness threatening to overtake him, his chest heaved with exhilaration. He trembled violently.
“Albus!” Scorpius’s frantic voice broke through the haze.
Albus barely registered him, swaying as he tried to rise. Fawley’s voice sliced through the air, cold and commanding.
“Malfoy! Don’t move!” she snapped. “We need to close the circle!”
Scorpius froze, panic etched into his features as he watched Albus, torn between his instinct to help and the fear that any wrong move might endanger them all.
“Get it together, Potter!” Fawley hissed, her voice sharp. “You must exit the circle—the ritual isn’t over yet!”
Albus fought to regain control of his trembling body, his limbs uncooperative as he forced himself to stand. His jaw clenched, tasting iron as he stumbled out of the circle, gasping for breath. His legs barely held him upright, but his mind screamed with determination. He couldn’t fail—not now.
Fawley wasted no time, her chant precise and unwavering as she began the closing ritual. Scorpius, still pale with fear, joined her, their voices blending together as they circled back, undoing the steps they had taken.
“In tenebris,”
(“In darkness,”)
“Nunc hoc circulum et ritum clausimus,”
(“We now close this circle and rite,”)
“Quod inferius est sicut quod est superius,”
(“As below, so above.”)
The magic withdrew, leaving a suffocating stillness in the clearing. The only sound that remained was Albus’s ragged breathing as he slumped forward, barely able to stay conscious.
Scorpius rushed to his side, his hands trembling as he cradled Albus’s head in his lap. With shaking hands, he uncorked a blood-replenishing potion and carefully poured it into Albus’s mouth.
“I did it,” Albus rasped, his voice hoarse, his eyes wide and gleaming with something dangerous. Something other. “Scorp—it worked.” His lips curled into a wild grin, and then he began to laugh, a raw, unsettling sound that echoed in the night air.
Scorpius clutched him tighter, his own body trembling as relief and terror warred within him. “Yes—you did,” he whispered, barely able to keep his voice steady. His eyes flicked nervously to the circle, still drenched in blood, a reminder of the darkness they had just witnessed.
Fawley stood off to the side, her expression cold and unreadable as she surveyed the aftermath. A small, calculating smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Without a word, she began to clear the space, removing any trace of what had transpired—ensuring no one would know how deep into the dark they had ventured.
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Notes:
THERE IT IS!!! It's hard to write blood magic guys, also what do you think of Fawley??? Also how i write James??
Chapter 9: Chapter Nine - The Pledge
Chapter Text
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Chapter Nine - The Pledge
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The day after the ritual, Albus felt an exhilarating rush of power. The magical residue from the rite still lingered, making his spells more effective and earning him an abundance of praise from his professors. His mood soared as he reveled in newfound confidence, feeling a sense of invincibility that he had never experienced before. But the euphoria was fleeting, and soon, the high began to wane.
In the days following the affinity rite, Scorpius's concern grew. He had been keeping a close eye on Albus, noting that while the rite had appeared successful, there was something unsettling about it. Scorpius insisted that Albus take blood-replenishing potions, though Albus dismissed his concerns with a roll of his eyes. He felt invigorated, his excitement for his birthday and the upcoming pledge only intensifying.
Later that evening, Albus, Scorpius, and Fawley would gather in a private study room in Slytherin's common area to discuss the details of his dark pledge. Albus had decided on a private, intimate ritual rather than a public declaration.
He wasn’t doing this for anyone else—no matter what those pureblood beliefs claimed about his birthday being significant or special. He didn’t care what others thought of him; this wasn’t about becoming someone who would bring change. No, this was for himself, for his magic, and for a sense of control. He craved that autonomy, a way to assert his own identity in a world that often sought to define him by his lineage.
Fawley entered the study room gracefully, a stack of books in hand, and set them down on the table. “Hello, boys. I trust you’ve completed your reading?” she asked, her tone light but carrying an undertone of professionalism.
Albus met her with a grin, barely containing his excitement in their private setting. The bond he had formed with both Scorpius and Fawley was solidifying; they knew secrets that no one else did, and he felt genuine trust in their companionship.
Scorpius, usually reserved and cautious around their peers, seemed to have warmed to Fawley as well. His skepticism was tempered by a growing sense of camaraderie.
“I’ve decided to go for a private pledge to the dark,” Albus announced with determined confidence.
Scorpius’s face tightened with concern. “Albus, are you sure? What if something goes wrong?”
“No, Scorp, I need to do this on my own. I need you to trust me,” Albus insisted, his tone brooking no argument.
Scorpius opened his mouth as if to protest further but then fell silent, his reservations clear but unspoken.
Fawley, sitting down and opening a book, nodded in support. “Pledges are typically intimate affairs, usually performed within close family circles. Since we’re not bound by traditional family practices, we’ll focus on selecting a ritual that’s effective without requiring obscure or hidden practices.”
She laid out two different books for Albus and Scorpius, while she herself delved into a third. The study room fell into a contemplative quiet, punctuated only by the rustling of pages and the soft sounds of breathing.
“I found something,” Scorpius finally spoke up, his voice tinged with excitement.
Fawley leaned over to inspect the page. “This could work—it’s general enough and simple.”
Albus couldn't hide his intrigue. “Let me see,” he said, taking the book and reading through it. “No blood magic?” he asked, his tone a mix of perplexity and disappointment.
Fawley picked up on his tone. “Most pledges don’t traditionally use blood magic. Some obscure rites might, especially if they focus on the importance of blood or specific types of magic,” she explained, flipping through her own book.
Scorpius glanced between Albus’s perplexed face and Fawley. “Most people who pledge to the dark don’t use blood magic in their pledges,” he added quickly.
“But Potter,” Fawley interjected, “if you feel a pull towards blood magic, it might be a sign from the magic itself. We need to trust our intuition. This could be the dark guiding you towards your intended path.”
Scorpius looked conflicted. “Well—sure, but performing blood magic without much knowledge is reckless. It’s not exactly safe.”
Fawley laughed, adding with a hint of amusement, “A bit Gryffindor-ish, yes.” Scorpius let out a small laugh in response.
Albus made a face. “I’m not exactly Gryffindor-ish, but…” he sighed, resting his head on his hand on the table. “I feel a pull towards it. It’s hard to explain.”
Scorpius and Fawley exchanged a knowing look.
“Well, then we’ll just have to make you more knowledgeable, won’t we, Malfoy?” Fawley said with an amused glance towards Scorpius.
Scorpius sighed in resignation, understanding that he had lost the argument. “Fine, but if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.”
Albus smiled happily and dove back into his book, which focused on blood rites. The weight of his decision seemed to lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of anticipation and determination. The delicate, mysterious texts promised to unravel the complexities of dark magic, each page a step closer to the power he sought.
Scorpius watched him, a mixture of concern and resignation in his eyes. Fawley, meanwhile, returned to her own book with a satisfied nod, clearly pleased that they had made progress. The room fell back into a quiet rhythm of study, each of them immersed in their own thoughts, the air charged with the quiet hum of impending change.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“There you are, little bro!” James said, practically jumping out from an alcove and slinging an arm around Albus’s shoulders. Albus’s face stayed neutral as he glanced at his brother.
“Seriously, Albie, no excitement? Aren’t you thrilled to see your dashing big bro?” James said with a cheeky grin.
“Not when my big bro reeks of sweat,” Albus shot back, wrinkling his nose and shoving James’s arm off him as they started walking briskly. James just laughed, unfazed.
“I’ve been training with the Quidditch team,” James said, clearly buzzing with excitement. “They’re going to need a new Chaser next term when McLaggen leaves. They reckon I’m their best bet. If I play well, I might even be a reserve this year!” James’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and Albus couldn’t help but smile for him. He knew how much James loved Quidditch and wanted to be on the team.
“So, what are you doing for your birthday? On Sunday, I mean,” James asked.
Albus played it cool. “Not much, really. Probably just hanging out with Scorp in the common room in the evening.”
James’s grin widened. “Brilliant! That means you’re free around One, right?”
Albus eyed his brother with suspicion. “Yes—”
“Fantastic! Meet me at the south castle gate at One!” James said, beaming.
“Alright—” Albus started to reply but was cut off.
“Bloody hell! Gotta dash, Albie, or I’ll be late for Charms,” James said, waving as he sprinted off.
Albus called after him with a smirk, “Make sure you shower before class—you really stink!”
James threw a final wave and a laugh as he disappeared down the corridor. Albus shook his head with a smile, heading in the opposite direction.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus couldn’t catch a break. After his brief, somewhat cheerful encounter with James, he found himself cornered by a group of Hufflepuffs, led by none other than Karl Jenkins—the boy who had dubbed him “the Slytherin Squib.” Jenkins was a formidable presence: attractive with his golden blonde hair that fell effortlessly into place, a sharp jawline, and a growing height that put Albus’s own 4.7 ft to shame. Jenkins towered over him at 5.1 ft, and his confidence matched his stature.
Albus’s back hit the castle wall as Jenkins and his gang closed in like predatory hyenas. His pulse quickened; he’d grown complacent, used to slipping through shadows unnoticed. Clearly, his guard had been down.
“Oh, if it isn’t the Slytherin Squib!” Jenkins sneered, leaning in too close for Albus’s comfort. “I almost thought you’d been expelled. Seems like you’ve been a good little snake, skulking around in the dark, hmm?” His tone dripped with mockery.
Albus remained silent, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. His defiance only seemed to fuel Jenkins’s anger. With a shove, Jenkins slammed Albus harder against the wall before stepping back, pulling out his wand with a flourish. The other boys followed suit, their wands drawn and eager.
Albus knew better than to reach for his own wand—his magical skills were lackluster at best, and he was severely outnumbered. Even James would have struggled in his place. He bit his cheek, trying to stifle his rising fear.
“Ha! The Squib won’t even draw his wand!” one of the boys jeered, and the group erupted into laughter.
“Does he know that he’s a squib?” another chimed in, their laughter growing louder.
Jenkins continued with a smirk. “We all see how dreadful he is in class—it’s a miracle he hasn’t been expelled yet.”
“Probably some favoritism ,” someone suggested, the group’s laughter reaching a crescendo.
Albus’s fingers dug into his book, pressing it against his chest as if it could offer him protection.
“Maybe we should show the Squib what real magic looks like,” Jenkins said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Right, boys?” The group cheered in agreement.
Without waiting for a response, Jenkins flicked his wand and muttered, “Wingardium Leviosa!” Albus felt himself being lifted off the ground. Instinctively, he kicked his legs, trying to grasp at anything to steady himself. The cruel laughter around him only amplified his humiliation as Jenkins maneuvered him through the air, his book and belongings falling from his grip.
Albus’s face burned with embarrassment as he was jerked around. Jenkins eventually released the spell, letting Albus drop hard onto the stone floor. He landed painfully on his backside, a cry of pain escaping his lips as he tried to hold back tears.
Jenkins’s laughter echoed as he levitated Albus’s bag and books, making Albus stumble as he reached up in a futile attempt to retrieve them. The blush on his face deepened with each passing second, as the boys continued to mock and taunt him, their laughter mingling with his own feelings of frustration and helplessness.
Albus struggled to his feet, his face burning with a mix of pain and humiliation. He glanced up at Jenkins, who was still grinning with malicious delight, and then at the other boys, who were cheering him on. The torment was almost unbearable, but Albus was determined not to let them see him break down.
“Look at him, trying to act all tough,” one of the boys sneered, watching Albus fumble with his belongings.
Gritting his teeth, Albus reached for his bag, but Jenkins was making it impossible. “Let’s see if you can catch this,” Jenkins taunted, levitating Albus’s bag higher into the air. Albus jumped and swiped, but it was just out of reach. Frustration made him flush red as he struggled to grab it.
Someday, he thought, someday he would have his revenge.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus stormed into the library, frustration evident as he slammed his books down beside Scorpius at their usual table. The librarian, already giving him a disapproving look, shushed him with a sharp gesture. Albus rolled his eyes but kept his voice low.
Scorpius looked up from his notes, concern etched on his face. “You’re in a bad mood.”
Albus let out a deep sigh. “I just got cornered by bloody Jenkins and his gang, who were not exactly kind.”
Scorpius frowned, grimacing. “Cornered? I thought you knew how to avoid them by now?”
Albus grimaced, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been a bit distracted lately. I got careless.”
Scorpius tilted his head, concern deepening. “Albus, you know, I still think we’re rushing things. It feels like we’re—”
“Scorp, I’m not in the mood. Just trust me.” Albus cut in, his tone edged with frustration.
“Albus—I don’t want it to seem like I’m not trusting you, it’s just I’m worried.”
Albus’s expression softened, and he looked down at his book, his voice almost shy. “I know, Scorpius. I really do appreciate it. It’s just… I need to do this. I need you on my side. Things are already tough enough, and I wouldn’t be able to keep my head straight if it weren’t—” He trailed off, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “—if it weren’t for our friendship.”
Scorpius’s face flushed as well. “Me too, Albus. You are really imp—I mean, our friendship is really important to me,” he stammered, his voice rising in pitch as he tried to keep his composure.
A loud shush from the librarian broke their awkward moment, and both boys quickly looked away, their faces hot with embarrassment.
“Let’s just get through this term,” Scorpius said quietly, attempting to regain his usual calm. “I’m sure next term will be better.”
Albus nodded, giving a small, grateful smile. They both turned to their homework, a comforting silence settling between them, punctuated only by the soft rustle of pages turning.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The winter months had passed in a cold blur, and now it was the height of spring—Beltane, the halfway point between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. The sun shone brightly outside, and birds filled the air with their song. Albus stood by the south entrance gate, waiting for James. He wasn’t too worried about whatever James had planned for him; his mind was on what would come later, after nightfall—his pledge.
He had promised Fawley he’d be back by five to prepare and go over the ritual one last time. Later, under the cover of night, they would head into the Forbidden Forest for the Beltane celebration. Celebrating the old ways and the Wheel of the Year wasn’t forbidden, but neither did the school officially acknowledge it. A large bonfire would already be waiting in a clearing, set up by older students from various houses, most of them from traditional pureblood families. For many, the celebration was simply about honoring tradition and magic—not something inherently dark. Albus would go with Scorpius and Fawley, under the guise of "academic curiosity," though he had other plans—ones known only to Fawley and Scorpius.
He felt magic thrumming inside him, more alive today than ever. Beltane was a time of change, of rebirth, and it resonated with him deeply. Nature itself seemed to hum with life, the fertility and transformation of spring at its peak. Perhaps he was more attuned to it because this day marked his birth—the day his own magic had come into being, intertwined with the earth’s energy. Albus felt as though he could hear the earth breathing, feel the plants growing, as if nature itself was celebrating his existence.
He was so caught up in these thoughts that he didn’t hear James approaching until his brother threw an arm over his shoulder. “Of course, you’re early! That’s just our Albie,” James teased, his cheerful grin infectious as he pulled Albus along. “Did you enjoy breakfast? Any nice letters?”
Albus let himself be dragged along, still lost in thought, until they reached the Black Lake. Beneath a tree, a picnic blanket was spread out, and familiar faces gathered around it. His cousins—Molly, Fred, Victoire, Dominique, and Louis—were all there. A simple cake sat in the center, alongside tea and treats. Albus felt a pang of nerves; he hadn’t really spoken to them much over the term or during the holidays.
But as they waved and smiled at him, his unease began to melt away. James led him to the blanket, and as soon as he sat down, everyone started singing “Happy Birthday.” A blush crept up Albus’s cheeks as he sat in the center of their attention. It felt overwhelming yet comforting.
His cousins handed him small presents, each a reminder of simpler times. As he unwrapped them, he couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, the warmth of their affection pushed away all the doubts that had clouded him in recent months.
The conversation flowed easily after that. Laughter echoed as they teased each other, played Exploding Snap, and fell back into the rhythm of family. There were no mentions of difficult topics—no talk of last term, Christmas, or the growing distance between Albus and the rest of the family. For a few blissful hours, everything felt normal, like it used to be.
As the sun began to sink lower, casting golden light across the lake, Albus knew it was time to leave. He had his own plans for the evening, ones he wasn’t ready to share with them. His cousins waved goodbye, still smiling, still warm.
Walking away, a mix of emotions churned inside him. The gathering hadn’t made him question his decision about the ritual—it was too important. But the warmth of his family left a lingering hope. Maybe—just maybe—they could still accept him once they understood. If he could make them see the path he was on, maybe he wouldn’t have to lose them after all.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The air in the clearing buzzed with anticipation as Albus moved deeper into the Forbidden Forest. The night was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant calls of nocturnal creatures. From afar, he could hear the laughter and music of the Beltane celebration echoing through the trees, the glow of larger bonfires illuminating the night. But this was not where he belonged—not yet.
He sought a secluded spot, one that his magic agreed was right—a place where he could connect with the energy stirring within him. After a moment of contemplation, he shed his wizarding robe, feeling the cool night air against his skin. Underneath, he wore a simple white tunic, its fabric thin and light, perfect for a ceremonial rite. He knelt to gather kindling and small branches, creating a structure that felt just right.
Once satisfied with the structure, Albus kneeled before it. Albus took a moment to breathe, feeling the energy pulsing around him. He had always struggled with spells, but tonight felt different—magic was calling to him, wrapping him in its embrace. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself. The warmth of the earth beneath him and the distant celebration heightened his senses. He felt a connection to something powerful—Beckoning him closer –
With newfound determination, he raised his wand, his heart racing. “Incendio ,” he whispered, channeling all his focus into the incantation.
To his astonishment, instantly, a small flame came out of his wand igniting the tinder. As
The fire crackled to life, it sent shadows flickering and dancing around the clearing and painting Albus face in a warm glow. He watched as the flames leaped upward, casting an orange glow around him, stark against the encroaching darkness.
He felt the fire call to him, whispering secrets he had longed to hear.
“Per sanguinem meum, et per voluntatem meam, voco te.”
(“Through my blood and through my will, I summon you.”)
With a steadying breath, he retrieved the ceremonial dagger. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its edge sharp and inviting. He pressed it to his palm, feeling the sting as it broke the skin, warmth pooling in his hand. Albus tilted his palm over the flames, letting his blood drip onto the fire.
The moment his blood touched the flames, they surged higher, morphing into an intense crimson hue that illuminated the clearing. He could feel the dark magic swirling around him, responding to his offering, alive and hungry.
“ Per tenebras, te invoco.”
(“Through darkness, I invoke you.”)
As he continued to chant, the fire shifted, dancing. He gazed into the heart of the bonfire, and the flames gazed back—
“Tenebrae, amplectere me, ad profunditates tuas se do.”
(“Darkness, embrace me, I surrender to your depths.)
With each drop of blood, the fire roared, shifting and twisting. Albus felt an overwhelming wave of heat envelop him, consuming the air around him—
“In umbris tuis, potentiam meam quaero.”
(“In your shadows, I seek my power.”)
The flames began to rise, licking at his tunic—
Sanguinem meum, animam meam offero—fac me vas tuum.”
(“I offer my blood, my soul—make me your vessel.”)
The fire pulsed with energy and engulfed him , it traveled over his body, as if it were acknowledging him, it embraced him—as one of its own. He felt the dark magic intertwining with his essence, as skin and cloth was set aflame, he could hear, whispering promises of strength and understanding. The heat enveloping him like a lover's embrace, intoxicating and dangerous. He felt alive in a way he had never experienced before, tethered to the dark magic that flowed through him.
The whispers grew louder, urging him to delve deeper, to embrace the power that had chosen him. His blood felt like it was boiling , he felt as if he breathed fire —He watched in awe as the flames danced upon his skin, laugh exiting his mouth,
The flames pulsed with energy, Albus felt the dark magic intertwining with his essence, burning away the remnants of his old self. The heat was overwhelming yet seductive, whispering sweetly everything he longed to hear, drawing him tantalizingly close to the edge of madness.
As he surrendered to the flames, they became him. He couldn’t discern where he began and where the flames ended. An ecstatic sensation filled him, threatening to consume him entirely. In the depths of the fire, something darker loomed—something all-consuming , something familiar . As he stared into the space between the flames, it stared back, urging him to plunge deeper, to embrace the power that had chosen him .
“Per tenebras vivo.”
(“Through darkness, I live.”)
And then, as suddenly as it began, the flames vanished, leaving him panting and in disbelief. Albus sat there, vulnerable and exposed, amidst the remnants of the blaze, ashes swirling around him like a shroud. He felt alive in a way he had never experienced before, tethered to the dark magic that flowed through him. The magic still thrummed in his veins, a wild, euphoric energy surging through every fiber of his being.
High on the sensation, Albus dressed quickly and made his way back toward the larger bonfire, feeling invincible. The magic pulsed beneath his fingertips, electrifying and intoxicating, urging him onward as he embraced this newfound power.
Albus's eyes found Scorpius as quickly as a sailor finds the North Star, and he drew him in—like a moth to a flame. Scorpius looked beautiful, almost divine in the warm light of the bonfire. Albus couldn't breathe; Scorpius's wide smile was unburdened by worries, a drink in hand filled with something Albus didn’t recognize. He moved closer, legs feeling almost like spaghetti, before throwing himself into Scorpius’s arms, wrapping his own around his shoulders.
“Scorp—I did it!” Albus giggled, his face beaming as he panted against Scorpius.
Concern flickered across Scorpius’s features but quickly melted into relief as he steadied Albus, pulling him into a deeper hug. Scorpius breathed in his scent—a mix of dark magic and smoke.
“Albus—” Scorpius started, but a voice from the crowd interrupted him.
“Morgana! How much did Potter drink? He’s totally out of it!”
At the voice, Albus turned away from Scorpius, laughing and extending his hand toward the other boy. “I’m just happy!” he exclaimed, still giggling. The boy took his hand, grinning widely. “Let’s dance!”
Intoxicated by the magic in the air, Albus intertwined his fingers with Scorpius's. Together, they walked toward the bonfire, joining others as they danced in a circle, laughter spilling from their lips as they got lost in the haze of celebration, wild and free, surrounded by the warmth of the bonfire and the energy of their friends.
The three boys collapsed onto the ground, each intoxicated from magic or the concoction they had shared. They lay there, panting, soaking in the childish joy of the moment, the night growing more frenzied, the dancing becoming more ecstatic and wild.
Two more boys approached, grinning, and dragged Bowker up to his feet. “Blimey, mate! Thought you had disappeared!” one dark-haired boy said.
Bowker laughed. “NO! I was just dancing!” He grinned and pointed at Albus and Scorpius. “With these two!”
Albus recognized the newcomer as Zabini and grinned. “Hi, Zabini!”
Zabini’s smile widened. “Morgana, Potter! How much did you drink?”
The boy beside Zabini stayed quiet but wore a small smile, seeming equally out of it.
Bowker held out his cup. “Let's toast!” The other boys joined in, all raising their cups, grinning.
As the bonfire crackled behind them and the air filled with Beltane magic, Albus grinned “To Beltane!” he toasted, his voice ringing out above the joyous din.
“And to magic!” Scorpius added, his eyes bright with excitement.
Albus paused, a smirk dancing on his lips. “And to not having been expelled yet!”
The other boys laughed, thinking he was referring to the revelry of the night, but he and Scorpius shared a knowing glance, understanding the deeper truth behind his words.
“To us!” they all cheered, their voices mingling with the crackling fire and the distant sound of music.
As the cups clinked together, Albus felt a surge of warmth spread through him, bolstered by camaraderie and the intoxicating atmosphere. He glanced at Scorpius, who met his gaze with a smile.
Zabini turned to them, mischief glinting in his eyes. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? Are we dancing until dawn?”
“Absolutely,” Nott replied, his enthusiasm infectious.
Bowker leaned in. “But first, we need more drinks!”
They all laughed. “Let’s raid the supply!” Zabini chimed, excitement igniting in his voice.
Scrambling to their feet, laughter echoed as they made their way to the makeshift bar set up nearby. Albus felt lighter than air, buoyed by the sense of freedom and mischief that filled the atmosphere.
As they approached the table, Albus noticed an array of colorful potions and drinks. He poured himself something vibrant and shimmering, while Scorpius opted for a darker concoction that bubbled ominously.
“Careful with that,” Albus warned, “You might turn into a bat.” he chuckled.
Scorpius shot him a playful glare, lifting the cup to his lips. “If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
They shared a laugh, their bond strengthening in that lighthearted moment. Bowker, Nott, and Zabini joined them, sipping from each other’s drinks, and soon they found themselves back in the circle, dancing under the stars.
Albus felt a deep sense of belonging, his worries momentarily forgotten as he swayed to the rhythm. Intoxicated not just by the drinks but by the magic, he knew this was a moment he would cherish.
It was in this blissful chaos that Fawley found the boys moments later, a knowing smile curling at her lips. “Ah, it seems you’ve all indulged a bit too freely,” she remarked, her gaze resting briefly on Albus, who only responded with a soft giggle.
“Now then, I believe it’s time for our younger students to make their exit—before the evening’s revelries take on a tone a touch more... mature,” she continued with a refined grin, casting a glance at the lively crowd around them.
With reluctant agreement, Albus and the others set down their concoctions and followed Fawley as she rounded up the younger students, leading them back to the common room. Once they reached the safety of the common room, Fawley planned to slip back out into the wild celebration later, ready to join the revelry once more.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Nott, Bowker, and Zabini snuck back toward the Forbidden Forest after Fawley had left the common room, not ready to let the evening end.
As the door to the dormitory closed behind them, a heavy silence settled in, starkly different from the chaos of the celebration. The room was dimly lit by the glow of a single lantern, casting warm shadows across the walls. Albus felt a thrill of excitement surge through him as he turned to Scorpius, the magic of the night still buzzing in his veins.
“Can you believe we actually danced with everyone?” Albus said, his voice light and airy.
Scorpius chuckled, his smile brightening the dim room. “Yeah, you were quite the spectacle, Albus! I thought you might float away!” he added a bit too loudly.
Albus grinned, warmth spreading through him. “I was just having fun!”
“Speaking of fun,” Scorpius began, reaching into his bag, “I got you something!” He grinned wider. “A birthday gift.”
Albus’s heart raced. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he replied, though a spark of anticipation flickered in his eyes.
“I wanted to,” Scorpius insisted, retrieving a small, intricately wrapped box. The wrapping paper was a deep green, shimmering faintly in the lantern light, and a delicate silver ribbon hugged it like a whisper of elegance.
As Albus unwrapped the gift, he uncovered a breathtaking necklace featuring a radiant silver pendant enveloping a deep black onyx. The pendant was intricately crafted, its delicate rays shimmering and shifting as if alive, evoking the mesmerizing dance of celestial bodies. The onyx at its center pulsed with a subtle energy, drawing the eye like a black hole, inviting yet enigmatic.
“It’s beautiful,” Albus breathed, his fingers brushing over the pendant’s cool surface. “Where did you find this?”
“Well—I saw it in Diagon Alley, and—I thought of you,” Scorpius stammered, his voice softening. “The stone is an onyx. It’s a powerful protector and often given to those pledging to the dark by their families.” He blushed slightly, looking away. “I know I’m not your family—but I hope it’s still okay.”
Albus felt his breath hitch, a rush of warmth and gratitude swelling within him. If only Scorpius knew that the reason he always found his way in the dark was because of him.
As he fastened the necklace around his neck, their eyes met, and the air between them crackled. Albus leaned in slightly, a gesture that felt natural, charged with an energy he couldn’t quite place. He tucked a loose strand of Scorpius’s hair behind his ear, their closeness drawing out an unfamiliar heat that made his heart race.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and in bursts Craig Bowker Jr, Vincent Nott and Zachary Zabini, laughter echoing through the dimly lit room.
“Guess who’s got caught!” Craig announced, brandishing a bottle of Firewhisky he had presumably “borrowed” from the celebration. “Have you two always been that close?” he asked, spotting Albus and Scorpius.
Albus and Scorpius instinctively moved apart, cheeks warming as their moment shattered. Scorpius shot Albus a quick glance before turning to their friends. “He just had something on his face!” he said, a bit too quickly.
“Sure,” Craig said, giving Scorpius a smug side glance while holding up the bottle. He quickly changed the subject. “Who’s ready for a little more celebration?”
Albus raised an eyebrow but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Isn’t it a bit late?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun! You know the upper years are still at it in the woods!” Zabini replied, taking the bottle from Bowker's hand and taking a swig before passing it around.
As the bottle made its way to Albus, he hesitated, eyeing it warily. But the buzz of the night and the magic still thrumming in his veins urged him on. He took a gulp, the whiskey burning down his throat. He grimaced, then passed it to Scorpius.
Scorpius laughed and took a sip, and for a moment, Albus couldn’t help but watch him, feeling an ache he couldn’t name. The Firewhisky felt like a key, unlocking something deep inside—a thrill, a fear, a whisper of something he didn’t quite understand.
They played Exploding Snap, laughter mixing with the crackling tension in the air. With each sip of the whiskey, warmth spread, but so did confusion. Albus found himself stealing glances at Scorpius, heart racing at the thought of their earlier moment. Was it the magic? The whiskey? Or was it something else entirely?
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The next morning, Albus, Scorpius, Bowker, Nott, and Zabini stumbled tiredly into the Great Hall, sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling, illuminating their disheveled hair and weary faces. Each step felt heavier, the remnants of last night’s escapades weighing them down.
Albus rubbed his eyes, still feeling the lingering buzz of the Firewhisky. Even though he couldn’t shake the throbbing headache that pulsed in rhythm with the chatter around him, he felt amazing—like he was in control, as if he could feel the magic inside of him.
“Why does everything feel so loud?” he groaned, sliding into a seat at the Slytherin table.
Scorpius slumped next to him, his blonde hair slightly askew. “I think I’m still dizzy,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, taking a long drink to chase away the remnants of the night’s revelry.
“Anyone else feeling like they’ve been hit by a Bludger?” Bowker quipped, stifling a yawn as he grabbed a piece of toast and took a huge bite, chewing slowly as though every movement required effort.
Vincent Nott looked exhausted as he running a hand through his dark hair.
Zabini winced, trying to massage the tension in his temples.
As they began to eat, their conversation turned to lighthearted banter, each recounting silly moments from the night before in hushed whispers. Albus felt a warm sense of camaraderie bloom between them, a bond solidified under the Beltane magic. Despite the exhaustion, the lingering excitement made the air feel electric.
“Next time, though, we should stick to Butterbeer,” Albus suggested, raising his cup in mock seriousness.
“Agreed,” all the boys replied, clinking their goblets against Albus’s with grins.
“At least until we’re a bit older,” Nott added.
They laughed together, the sound blending with the lively atmosphere of the Great Hall. Yet Albus’s mind wandered, trapped in the fog of last night’s festivities. His head throbbed from the Firewhisky, and he squinted against the bright light, trying to piece together the chaotic memories—the rite, the intensity of the magic, the euphoric feeling. A smile crept onto his face as he surveyed the table; new couples were scattered among the students, evidence of the fertility magic from Beltane.
“Hey,” Scorpius said, nudging him gently. “What’s so funny?”
“Looks like more than just friendships are blossoming,” Albus remarked with a smirk, pointing out a new couple.
“Yeah, it’s like the whole school is caught up in the magic,” Zabini added.
Scorpius laughed at Zabini, but then his eyes darted back to Albus, and he leaned in, whispering, “Uh, about last night…” He hesitated, then added, “Never mind.”
“Yeah, never mind,” Albus echoed quickly, his cheeks flushing at the memory of their earlier moment. He felt a surge of panic, desperately trying to rationalize what he had planned to do before their moment was interrupted. It was just the magic, he told himself. It had to be. He’d never thought about Scorpius like that before—not only was Scorpius his best mate, but he was also a bloke. Surely it was just the magic, not some hidden feelings, right?
“It was just… the magic, right?” Albus blurted out, eager to downplay the moment.
Scorpius’s expression faltered, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “Yeah… just the magic,” he replied, but the pain behind his forced smile was unmistakable.
Albus’s stomach twisted with guilt. Something inside him ached at Scorpius’s disappointment. He tried to push the feeling down, telling himself that nothing had changed.
“Yeah, it was just the magic,” he repeated, more firmly this time, though it felt like a lie.
Bowker elbowed Albus in the ribs, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.
“Mate! I just remembered—I didn’t finish my Charms essay before yesterday!” Bowker exclaimed dramatically, his eyes wide with horror.
“Really, Craig?” Zabini asked, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a grin.
“I didn’t have time, and then—well,” Bowker grinned and threw his arms up theatrically. “The prefects will literally skin me alive for my academic tardiness! I mean, do they not understand that we were at a wild celebration last night? Priorities, people!”
Vincent Nott snorted from across the table. “As if they care about your priorities. You should be more worried about what Professor Flitwick will say.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Bowker,” Scorpius laughed, shaking his head. “They’re not actually going to skin you alive. You’ll survive.”
“They might give you grace and just hang you upside down in the dungeons” Zabini said with a wide grin as Bowker feigned horror.
“Such kindness,” Albus added, grinning.
Bowker’s gaze flicked between the two boys, genuine concern etched on his face. “Really? You think they would do that?”
Nott smirked. “If they do, I’ll make sure to tell everyone how brave you were while hanging upside down.”
Albus and Scorpius exchanged amused glances, the earlier tension between them easing as Bowker’s antics lightened the mood. As Bowker started to clear his side of the table, he pulled out his essay, desperately trying to finish it before they had to leave.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter 10: Chapter Ten - Final preperations
Summary:
Final preperations before Albus goes home for the summer, on the train Albus learn about some new ideas.
Notes:
Hello!!! Here it is!! the last chapter of Albus first year!!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Ten - Final Preparations
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The next few weeks went smoothly for Albus, as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. He had been reborn in fire, blessed and embraced by the dark, and now his magic flowed through him with newfound ease. His control had never felt so precise, his magic so willing to listen. Between the meditations and the careful construction of his mindscape, he was even managing to do decently in his classes, though practical magic still eluded him at times.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Exams were fast approaching, and the pressure was mounting. Albus felt confident about the theory; he could pass that in his sleep. But practical spells? Even with his magic cooperating now, he was wary. He had felt this surge of power before, right after the affinity rite, only for it to fade. Yet now, almost three weeks had gone by, and the magic still thrummed within him, lingering like a quiet hum beneath his skin. He wanted it to stay, to keep growing stronger, but a new concern weighed on him: how would he hide it when he went home for the summer?
His father would surely sense the shift, the darker edge creeping into his aura. The thought of being scrutinized—of Harry seeing what he had become—sent a jolt of dread through him. Hiding his magic was becoming a priority, but with O.W.L. revision taking up every fifth year students time, Fawley was too preoccupied to help. That left him and Scorpius to sift through spellbooks, searching for ways to cloak the traces of dark magic. There were plenty of reasons a dark wixen might need to hide their aura, especially if the Dark Arts was being considered illegal. But none of the spells they found felt reliable enough.
Meanwhile, Rose had inexplicably begun trying to talk to him again, her attempts to rekindle their friendship as persistent as they were unwelcome. Albus hadn’t forgotten how she had treated him before, and he certainly wasn’t ready to forgive. His grudges clung to him, feeding the growing darkness inside, just like his magic. He wasn’t ready to let go—not yet.
++++
Albus felt time slipping through his grasp, pressure mounting as exams approached. He had distanced himself from James, tired of his brother’s misguided attempts to “fix” things between him and Rose. It was as if James and Rose thought they could undo everything that had happened, as if a few apologies and reconciliations could erase the distance that had grown between them. Albus resented them for it, but deep down, he knew he couldn’t entirely blame James. Family meant everything to James—far more than it ever could for Albus.
Blood was thicker than water, but not in a way that tied him to his family. Albus didn’t give his love, care, or trust freely. He wasn’t foolish like the Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, tossing around loyalty as if it came without cost. No, everything had a price. And if there wasn’t one, then you were the product. His family seemed to believe that, just because they shared blood, just because they had created him, he owed them unconditional love. But why should he, when they never treated him the same?
He could always sense their emotions—when they were hurt, when they were happy, when they were concerned—without them saying a word. Yet none of them could do the same for him. If they truly cared, they should have seen through it all—the mask, the walls, the defense mechanisms. They should’ve known the things he never voiced, not because he told them, but because they should’ve understood him that deeply, sensed the struggle beneath his surface. But they didn’t.
And it infuriated him. He was only twelve; his mask wasn’t even that impressive, yet they believed it and never bothered to look deeper. No one saw through him the way he saw through them. No one understood his pain, his anger, his fear. They accepted the version of him he presented, oblivious to the turmoil underneath. It was as though they lived in a world where Albus didn’t exist beyond the surface, a ghost in his own family.
That isolation… it was unbearable. But magic? Magic made him feel seen, truly seen, even in his solitude. It didn’t just see the turmoil—it accepted it. It embraced him as he was. That was magic. Magic was personal. It was unconditional love, the only real kind. His heritage, his legacy—they mattered to him because they were tied to who he was, not because of family. Respect, loyalty—those had to be earned. The notion that family deserved them simply because of shared blood disgusted him. It was all an illusion. At least when it came to his own.
He once thought his mother was different, someone he could rely on. That was before the holiday, before she raised her wand and cast a silencing spell on him. That moment shattered the illusion. Something inside him broke when she did that. Her loyalty would always lie with his father, and his father—who looked at him with nothing but judgment and disdain. Albus wasn’t James or Lily, and Harry made it painfully clear, in a thousand different ways, that he wasn’t the son he had hoped for.
Albus could feel the contempt simmering beneath his father’s attempts to be kind and understanding. It was all a show. The Chosen One couldn’t admit to disliking his own son, could he? But Albus knew the truth. It hurt even more that Harry pretended otherwise. If his father had just been honest, if they could tolerate each other without the charade of love, things might’ve been easier. But no—Harry had to act like he cared, like he trusted Albus, while every action screamed the opposite.
His father always said he cared, that he loved him. But when Albus showed them the truth—like during the outburst over the holidays—they recoiled. They stared at him like he was a monster. When he finally let the mask slip, when the anger and frustration exploded out of him, they hadn’t understood. And they never would, because he would never tell them again. They looked at him with shock and disappointment, as if he had broken something. But he knew the truth—they had broken him long before.
His mother had raised her wand against him. His father had looked at him with disbelief, as if Albus were a stranger in their home. The one time he gave them a glimpse of who he really was, they couldn’t handle it. They didn’t want to see the real him.
The only person who truly saw him—who really understood him, no matter how hard Albus tried to hide it—was Scorpius. Scorpius embodied everything family was supposed to be. Their connection was sacred, a fragile light in Albus's shadowed world. Scorpius understood the darkness beneath the surface, and he didn’t judge; he just gently guided. But his family couldn’t see that. They only saw Scorpius’s last name and green tie, judging him without knowing. Their suspicion came from ignorance.
They thought Scorpius was a dark influence to be eliminated. They knew nothing. If anything, Scorpius held Albus together, grounding him when the whispers of darkness grew too tempting. They wanted to rip him from his sun—but without Scorpius, Albus would be pulled into the abyss. He hated them for it. Hated their ignorance, their refusal to understand.
That thought ignited a deep, seething rage within him.
Albus clenched his fists, feeling the heat of his anger bubbling just beneath the surface, a reminder of how deeply his family’s betrayal cut. He unconsciously gripped the pendant around his neck, stroking it like it was his lifeline. The smooth surface of the onyx felt cool against his skin, grounding him in a world that often spun out of control. Each gentle caress reminded him of Scorpius's unwavering presence, the way he saw through Albus’s carefully constructed façade and still chose to stand by him. In that moment, the pendant wasn’t just jewelry; it was a tangible connection to the light that anchored him, a symbol of resilience against the encroaching darkness.
He shook his head, slapping his cheeks in an attempt to snap out of it. Albus had gotten into his own head again, letting his thoughts spiral down dark paths. The dim light of the private study room seemed to close in on him, its heavy silence amplifying his frustration. He could barely focus on his revision; the words danced mockingly on the pages, fading in and out of clarity.
He let out an angry groan, his voice echoing in the stillness. How long had he been sitting there, staring blankly at the notes? Time felt irrelevant, like it had slipped through his fingers while he spiraled deeper into his worries. He had let his family get into his head again. They weren’t worth it, not when the darkness threatened to seep through the cracks of his carefully built defenses.
Albus stretched, feeling the tension in his muscles as he pushed himself to regain control. The exams were next week, and he couldn’t afford to let his mental barriers fall like that. He needed a sane—well, at least clean and calm—mind to do well on his tests. With a deep breath, he forced himself to refocus, pushing aside the shadows that loomed just beyond the edges of his thoughts.
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He needed to tell Scorpius. Albus had long strategized how to navigate the summer, especially given his parents' behavior during the holidays. There was little chance they would easily accept his friendship with the “Malfoy boy.” Albus had to prepare Scorpius for what lay ahead. They couldn’t appear friendly when they left the train; no more hugs goodbye on the platform. And worst of all, they wouldn’t be able to send each other letters over the summer. It was truly awful, but Albus was determined to show his parents that his friendship with Scorpius was safe.
He had planned to enlist James as a voice of reason, but with the whole Rose situation, he wasn’t sure his brother would side with him. Perhaps he could negotiate with James: if his brother helped convince their parents to accept Scorpius, Albus would mend things with Rose. But James, being a Gryffindor, was unlikely to see relationships in such a pragmatic light. They didn’t do compromises like that, much to Albus’s dismay.
Maybe he could enlist one of their new friends to act as a proxy for their letters, but that meant revealing this whole “spectacle” to someone else—something Albus was reluctant to do. He also didn’t want to burden Scorpius. The boy had been so stressed during exams, and it would break his heart to learn that Harry Potter disliked him. Scorpius adored his father, and while Albus might have detested that in anyone else, he let it slide for Scorpius—as long as it stayed quiet enough for Albus to ignore.
Despite everything, Albus felt he had done decently on his exams. He wasn’t overly worried; he even managed to make a pineapple dance across a desk during the Charms exam—though it took him three tries.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
It was soon time for the End-of-Term Feast, where the winners of the House Cup would be announced. This year, the competition was tight between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. The Ravenclaws had claimed victory in the Quidditch Cup, but Slytherin had amassed the most house points throughout the year, creating a palpable tension as students buzzed with anticipation.
Albus stood in the dimly lit Common Room, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd. He clutched a tome against his chest, its pages worn from careful handling. He needed to find Fawley before they left for home tomorrow; he was determined to return the book she had kindly lent him. Albus had treated it with utmost care, memorizing as much as possible and taking detailed notes in the journal Scorpius had gifted him for Yule. Naturally, he had used his invisible ink quill, which made his meticulous entries feel like a secret only he could read. Alongside this, he had documented some darker areas of study he intended to explore further over the summer. At first, he had been wary, wondering if simply writing about it would leave some trace of the magic. However, after testing a charm that detected dark auras and finding the journal to be clean, Albus finally stopped worrying.
Just then, Fawley entered the Slytherin Common Room, exuding her usual grace, now laced with an air of confidence likely stemming from her successful O.W.L. exams. Albus wasted no time approaching her, his heart racing slightly in the busy atmosphere.
“Good evening, Fawley. Could I borrow some of your time?” he asked, offering a poised smile that masked his nerves.
“Why, of course, Potter,” she replied, leading him to a quieter corner of the Common Room, where the chatter was muted. She cast an anti-eavesdropping charm, ensuring their conversation remained private.
He handed her the book, a smug look crossing her face as he did. “Did you find it helpful?”
“Immensely, thank you, Fawley,” he replied, relief washing over him.
“I do hope you’ve taken adequate notes,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
“Of course.”
“And this isn’t the sole reason you sought me out, is it?”
“No, I wanted to discuss— Fawley , please don’t try to look into my mind. It’s quite rude,” he interrupted, feeling a prickle of embarrassment.
She smirked playfully. “Then I suggest you avoid looking me in the eyes. A rather elementary mistake, I must say. I can see you’ve made commendable improvements to your shields—quite impressive.”
“Yes, I suspect my pledge contributed significantly to that.”
“How splendid! So, did you and Scorpius manage to discover a spell to cover the traces?” Her tone held a teasing edge.
Albus swallowed hard, the weight of her gaze making him uneasy. “No,” he admitted, feeling a flush creep up his neck.
“Thought as much. It truly isn’t straightforward without the right connections, is it?” she said with a gleeful grin.
“I assume you already knew this would happen?” he replied, trying to regain his composure.
“Of course. You are still both first-years, despite your promising abilities in blood magic. A pity you cannot use that to conceal traces of dark magic, hmm?”
Her words hung in the air, and Albus felt a mixture of frustration and determination surge within him; she was testing him—to see if he could keep up appearances.
“Sadly not, though I have a feeling that you might?”
“Indeed, I do, Potter.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder gracefully before tilting her head. “The question is, should I assist you?”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t benefit you if anyone got a hint of the things I’ve done this term, especially since you’ve been a part of it,” he said, lacing his voice with a subtle challenge, relishing his newfound upper hand.
Fawley’s smirk widened, revealing her teeth. It shocked him slightly; she always kept her composure. “How cunning. I’m so proud of our little snakes learning to dance.”
Albus felt his cheeks flush as he struggled to not make eye contact. “How did you do that?” he asked, intrigued. “Making me want to look into your eyes?”
Fawley let out a laugh. “It’s no fun when you can actually catch those things. I suppose it’s the dark protection? For your knowledge, compulsion is a mind art, and a very useful one.”
“Compulsion? Like a spell, then? I haven’t eaten anything.”
“Yes. Compulsions can happen in many ways—normally, people put the charm on food or drinks. But spells are different, more complex, and usually not as strong, unless you want to cross into more unforgivable territory, of course,” she said, her eyes gleaming. Albus felt a shiver run down his spine. “So the compulsion you—”
She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “As much as I am all for academic inquiry, Potter, the Feast is about to commence.”
“Right,” he said, trying to regain his composure.
Fawley continued, “Now then, back to the main topic. While a spell would be the simplest method to conceal magical auras and traces, we are both aware of your ability, even with the dark’s assistance.”
Albus tried not to grimace at her words.
“Therefore,” Fawley said, reaching into the pocket of her school robe and pulling out an arm brace. Albus took it into his hands, intrigued. “It’s sufficiently common not to draw undue attention. I wasn’t particularly familiar with your usual fashion, though I hardly believe this will clash too much.”
He examined the arm brace as Fawley spoke. “The easiest method to obscure traces is through magical objects. These have runes embedded that make the onlooker perceive a neutral core. However, it’s not foolproof, so I advise you to exercise caution. Do not allow others to grow suspicious of you, Potter,” she added sternly.
Albus nodded as he put on the arm brace.
She rolled her eyes, smiling with amusement. “Secondly, never don a magical item without first checking it for spells, love potions, or compulsions. I can’t believe that Harry Potter wouldn’t teach his son this.”
Albus felt his cheeks grow even redder as he looked down at the floor.
She huffed lightly. “And before I take my leave, Potter, I wished to impart some friendly advice. The one most likely to ascend to the new king isn’t particularly fond of your father’s policies, so do be mindful that the house may treat you differently next term. Now then, have a splendid summer, Potter. I trust it will be the most fruitful.” With that, she broke the anti-eavesdropping charm and briskly walked away, leaving Albus standing there, the weight of her words heavy in his mind.
Albus stood frozen for a moment, the arm brace feeling oddly heavy on his wrist. Fawley’s warning echoed in his mind, a lingering reminder of the precarious balance he was trying to maintain within Slytherin. The notion that his housemates might turn against him next term sent a wave of unease coursing through him.
He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Why did it always feel like he was one misstep away from losing everything? The thought of being judged solely based on his father’s legacy gnawed at him. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t Harry Potter; he was Albus Severus Potter, trying to carve out his own identity amid the shadows of expectations.
As the noise of the Common Room swirled around him, he felt a mix of determination and dread. He’d worked hard this year, diving into dark magic with Scorpius, testing boundaries he never thought he’d approach. Now, with Fawley’s ominous words ringing in his ears, he couldn’t help but question everything.
He glanced around, noticing a few of his housemates engaged in light-hearted banter, laughter ringing out like a distant echo of a life he felt increasingly disconnected from. Albus took a deep breath.
“Next term,” he muttered to himself, resolve hardening within him. “I’ll show them who I am.”
With that thought propelling him forward, Albus strode toward the entrance of the Common Room, determination etched on his features. He wouldn’t let anyone define him—not Fawley, not the whispers of his housemates, and certainly not the legacy of his father.
As he stepped out into the corridor, the weight of uncertainty still loomed, but he felt a spark of hope. He had plans for the summer, for deeper studies, and he wasn’t going to let fear hold him back. With a mixture of defiance and purpose, he set off toward the Great Hall, ready to face whatever awaited him at the feast.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Last Feast of the Year went splendidly. Slytherin had won the House Cup, much to the chagrin of the other houses. Albus felt a swell of pride. He had worked hard to earn house points throughout the year, and had managed to avoid any detentions or point deductions this term. It felt great to contribute to his house's victory.
He allowed himself to savour the final moments of the year at Hogwarts. It had certainly been a rough start, but with determination, he had earned respect. No matter what happened next year, he was confident he could do it all over again. He enjoyed the banter with Scorpius and their new friends, relishing the chance to act like the kid he truly was.
After they returned to the common room, the first-years decided to hold an Exploding Snap tournament. Albus quickly found himself outwitted and sat on the sidelines, watching the others play with an amused expression. Scorpius joined him, having also been bested. “I can’t believe they’re that good!” Scorpius huffed, his tone far too light to pull off annoyance. He smiled as he caught Albus’s eye. This was the moment.
“Scorp? Can you follow me? I want to tell you something.” Albus noticed a faint flush creep onto Scorpius’s cheeks as he replied, “Oh! Of course!”
The two boys made their way back to the dorm, an awkward silence stretching between them. Scorpius fidgeted nervously, almost as if he was expecting something. Albus pushed that thought aside.
He dramatically flopped onto his bed and let out a breath. Scorpius quickly followed, kneeling beside him on the bed. Albus looked up at him with a soft smile before resting his head in Scorpius’s lap.
Albus let out a soft sigh, feeling both comforted and anxious in Scorpius’s lap. The warmth of their friendship wrapped around him, but the weight of the conversation he was about to initiate loomed large between them.
“Scorp, I’m sure you’re already well aware—” Albus began, his voice a mix of confidence and uncertainty.
Scorpius paused his gentle movements through Albus’s hair, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “Well aware of what?”
Albus’s heart raced. “Of how much I value our friendship. It means more to me than I can say. This year has been… different.” He shifted slightly, trying to gauge Scorpius's reaction, but his friend’s expression remained unreadable, as if bracing for something profound.
“Different how?” Scorpius’s tone was light, but an undercurrent of seriousness twisted Albus's stomach.
“I just—” Albus hesitated, searching for the right words. “I wanted to thank you for being there for me, for always having my back, even when I felt like I was drowning.”
Scorpius’s expression softened, his fingers pausing momentarily before resuming their soothing motion. “You don’t have to thank me, Albus. That’s what friends are for.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s more than that,” Albus said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He felt the tension rising between them, a palpable energy that quickened his pulse. “You’ve always seen me for who I am, not just Harry Potter’s son.”
Scorpius chuckled lightly, though it lacked his usual buoyancy. “Well, you’re pretty hard to ignore with all your Slytherin charm and reckless ambition.”
Albus rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at his lips. “Seriously, Scorp. I’ve been thinking about how much you mean to me, and… I don’t know, I guess I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate you.”
The sincerity in Albus's words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, silence enveloped them. Scorpius looked down at him, his gaze searching, and Albus felt his heart race again as he sensed a shift in the atmosphere.
“Albus, I—” Scorpius began, his voice slightly shaky. Albus's breath caught in his throat. He could see the hesitation in his friend’s eyes, and suddenly, a thousand unspoken words filled the space between them.
Scorpius hesitated, his cheeks tinged with color. “I just—there’s something I’ve wanted to say too, but I didn’t know if you’d feel the same.”
“Try me,” Albus urged.
“I think… I think I might feel something more for you than just friendship.” The words slipped from Scorpius's lips, trembling and honest.
Albus’s breath caught, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. He felt an intoxicating mixture of excitement and fear surge through him. “You mean—”
“Yeah,” Scorpius replied, his voice steadying. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have, but I can’t keep pretending it’s just friendship.”
Albus’s heart soared at the admission, but the reality of it also sent a shiver of anxiety through him. “I feel it too, Scorp,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve just been scared to say anything. You feel so much more than a friend—it’s like—”
Expectation and something deeper flickered in Scorpius’s eyes. “Like what?”
Albus smiled and closed his eyes, feeling at home in Scorpius’s lap. “Like a brother. I guess it’s just so much deeper. I feel like we belong together—”
“Like a brother?” Scorpius echoed, his tone light but edged with hurt. Albus opened his eyes at the tone, confusion washing over him as he sat up, now staring into Scorpius’s eyes.
“Yeah—oh, sorry, Scorp! I guess you don’t get it, being an only child and all,” he trailed off, now nervous. Had he misspoken? Maybe Scorpius didn't feel the same…
“It’s just… you’re like family to me,” he said with an exhale.
More confusion crossed Scorpius’s face, looking truly perplexed. Then his expression softened, but there was still an edge of hurt lingering in his eyes.
“No, I get it,” he finally said, and Albus smiled, laying back onto Scorpius’s lap again.
“Great! So, does that mean I can borrow your stuff without asking?” Scorpius pressed, but there was an edge to his voice. “What if I want to steal your dessert at dinner? Is that allowed in this new family dynamic?”
Albus grinned, not catching the hint of hurt. “Absolutely. Just don’t expect me to share my sweets willingly!”
“Perfect!” Scorpius said, though his smile faltered slightly. “And what about those embarrassing family photos? Am I stuck in those too? ‘Malfoy and Potter, the ultimate duo—complete with matching jumpers!’” He tried to keep it light, but his heart wasn’t fully in it.
Albus burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Now that’s a nightmare I’m not sure I can handle!”
“Exactly! And what if I start picking up your bad habits? Like overthinking everything or getting lost in my own head?” His voice was teasing, but a shadow of uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
Albus, still caught up in the banter, replied, “I think it’s too late for that. You’ve already done it!”
Scorpius forced a laugh, but it felt hollow. “Oh no! Albus has infected me with overthinking!” His tone was playful, yet a layer of vulnerability seeped through. He glanced away.
“Well, as a new family member, this next part will be easier to explain—”
Scorpius raised an eyebrow as he resumed stroking Albus’s hair.
“During the holiday, it was actually way worse than I let on. You see, my family—well, they’re very narrow-minded, really, Scorpius—” he paused, then stopped himself. “Well, anyway, they wanted me to distance myself from you during this term.”
Concern showed on Scorpius’s face, and he stopped stroking Albus’s hair for a moment—until Albus spoke again.
“Of course, I didn't listen, and I don’t care if they approve of us, Scorp, really.”
Scorpius’s expression turned to one of disbelief. “What? Why don’t they like me? What did I do?” Unease crept into his voice.
“You didn’t do anything!” Albus said a bit too high. “Ugh, it’s just—because of our families’ shared history, the house rivalry and all that.”
Albus let out a laugh in disbelief. “They actually think you’ll turn me dark—imagine that!” He laughed again. “I mean, you were the one that told me it was reckless this whole term!”
Even though Albus laughed, Scorpius’s unease grew.
“But Albus, I did tell you about all that—” he said, his voice uncertain.
“I’ve already told you! It’s not your fault. I would have found out eventually! You just saved me and told me before my important day!” he muttered under his breath. “Like a true brother. ”
“Anyway, they think it’s a bad influence. They want me to focus on being a ‘proper Potter,’ and they think that means cutting ties with you,” Albus said in a satirical tone.
Scorpius was quiet before uttering in disbelief, “That’s ridiculous, Albus.”
“I know!” he said, sitting up quickly, his own anger rising. “It’s infuriating! Don’t worry, I will fix it this summer! But—until then, we can’t really be seen as friends. Which means—” He took a deep breath and looked down at the blanket. “We can’t say goodbye on the platform. I can’t greet your parents and—no letters.”
Scorpius looked almost heartbroken, so Albus went in for a hug. “Don’t worry, just trust me. I will make them see reason—somehow,” he said, trying to believe his own words.
Scorpius hugged him back, gripping him tightly and resting his face on Albus's shoulder. Scorpius breathed heavily, holding on, feeling a yearning for something more. Albus moved to stroke Scorpius's hair.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Hogwarts Express was buzzing with excited students, all eagerly anticipating the summer holidays. Albus and Scorpius sat with their compartment mates—Bowker, Nott, and Zabini—who made the space feel smaller than usual. The typical calm and quiet of their journeys was replaced with rowdiness and overlapping conversations about summer plans. Surprisingly, Albus didn’t mind. He laughed along with the others, feeling a lightheartedness he hadn’t felt in a while. Being around them made him feel his age, not in a childish way, but like he could let go and be a bit dumb sometimes.
“Merlin, Albus, you mean you actually spend a lot of time around Muggles?” Zabini asked, looking at him incredulously.
“Yeah,” Albus replied, rolling his eyes. “I don’t really hang out with them, but I spend a lot of time in the Muggle world. My parents think it’s safer than the magical one.”
“I’ve never been in the Muggle parts,” Nott said.
“Me neither,” Scorpius added quickly.
Albus grinned. “You should try it. Go to an amusement park, ride a rollercoaster—maybe visit an internet cafe. Though, I doubt you lot would understand how to use the internet.”
Zabini frowned. “What’s the internet?”
Before Albus could answer, Bowker jumped in with a smirk. “Don’t bother, Albus. They won’t get it.”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “You know about the internet, Bowker?”
“Yeah, I'm half-blood.”
Nott blinked in surprise. “Really? I didn’t know.”
Albus’s gaze sharpened. “What? Got a problem with that?”
Scorpius quickly intervened, sensing the tension. “No, it’s just—Bowker never mentioned it before.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Nott chimed in nervously.
“Well, it never came up,” Bowker said casually. “But yeah, my grandparents were No-Majs.”
“No-Majs?” Albus asked.
“Right, sorry. It’s what we call Muggles in the States—MACUSA lingo.”
“You’re from MACUSA?” Scorpius asked, sounding a little too enthusiastic.
Bowker shifted uncomfortably. “We moved here when I was a kid... for reasons.”
Albus, sensing his unease, changed the subject. “Anyway, you play Fortnite?”
Bowker grinned. “Fortnite? Mate, I can’t believe you play that! Nah, I’m more into PUBG.”
As the two of them launched into a heated debate about video games, the others watched with varying degrees of interest and confusion. But then Nott, clearly curious, changed the subject.
“So, Craig, Potter,” he began hesitantly. “You’re not worried about how Muggle stuff might affect your magic?”
Bowker shrugged. “I’m not around Muggles that much.”
Albus frowned. “Why would I be worried?”
Nott leaned in, his voice dropping as if revealing some well-kept secret. “They say too much time around Muggles weakens your magic.”
Albus laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve spent plenty of time around Muggles, and I’ve still got my magic.”
But Scorpius still looked uneasy. “I mean, there are stories... about how being around Muggles can dampen magic over time. Something about interference?”
Albus rolled his eyes. “That’s because it’s illegal to do magic around Muggles, not because it weakens magic.”
Nott shrugged. “My father says that if we immerse ourselves too much in the Muggle world, we lose touch with who we are—our magic, our history. We become diluted.”
Bowker snorted. “That’s just pureblood propaganda. Magic isn’t gonna fade because you spend a summer near Muggle tech.”
Zabini, who had been quiet for a while, suddenly spoke up. “But Potter, you do struggle with magic, don’t you? Maybe all that Muggle exposure is catching up to you.”
The mood shifted instantly. Albus’s laughter vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp glare. “What did you say?”
Zabini leaned back, smirking. “I’m just saying. You’re not exactly top of the class in practical magic, are you? Maybe that’s why.”
Scorpius, sensing the growing tension, quickly defended Albus. “That’s not fair, Zabini. Albus doesn’t—”
“I don’t need you to defend me, Scorpius,” Albus interrupted, his voice tight.
Zabini’s smirk widened. “So, you admit it then? Maybe all that Muggle influence is messing with your magic.”
Albus’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm. “No, it’s not that. I just don’t care about the same things you lot do.”
“Sure,” Nott muttered under his breath.
Bowker, sensing the rising storm, tried to defuse the situation. “Alright, let’s calm down. Everyone struggles with something.”
But Albus couldn’t shake the doubt gnawing at him. Was that it? Could his struggles with magic really be because of the time he spent in the Muggle world?
He flexed his fingers, staring down at them as if expecting some kind of change. “You really think that? That spending time around Muggles is why I struggle with practical spells?”
Zabini raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Maybe. People say being around Muggles dilutes your magic, and you’ve been around them more than any of us.”
Albus nodded absentmindedly, though his mind was racing with the idea. Was there truth in it?
Bowker, trying to bring the conversation back to normal, added, “I don’t think Muggle tech does that. But my dad buys into those ideas too, especially with all this ‘Traditionalist’ talk.”
Nott nodded. “Same here.”
“Actually,” Bowker began, “that’s why we left the States. The No-Majs were getting too violent, and even though our worlds are more separate there, tensions were rising. My dad was an Obliviator for MACUSA, but with all the shootings and racial discrimination... we moved here.”
Albus felt a pang of sympathy for Bowker. “I’m sorry, mate.”
“What’s racial discrimination?” Scorpius asked innocently.
Bowker sighed. “It’s when No-Majs discriminate based on skin color. Like how blood purity works in the magical world.”
Albus added, “I’ve dealt with that too in the Muggle world. Some shopkeepers look at me suspiciously, like I’m going to steal something.”
Bowker met his gaze with sympathy. “Yeah, it’s the same in the States. A lot of our community—Black people—have been targeted.”
Scorpius and Nott listened with wide eyes.
“Black Lives Matter, right?” Albus asked.
“Right. My dad had to deal with it a lot, working around No-Majs. That’s why we moved here.”
Nott frowned. “I don’t get why they’d care about skin color.”
Albus shot him a look. “Like blood purity is any better?”
Nott bristled. “I didn’t say that. For the record, I don’t believe Muggle-borns are worthless .”
“But you’re still worried about Muggles,” Albus pressed.
Nott hesitated. “I mean, have you heard what they’re doing to the planet? Like, all that oil stuff?
“Not really” both Albus and Bowker answered.
As the Hogwarts Express sped along the tracks, Albus leaned back in his seat, staring out the window but not really seeing the passing landscape. His friends’ words replayed in his mind, nagging at him like an unfinished puzzle. The idea that his connection to magic might be weakening because of his time spent with Muggles seemed absurd—Pureblood propaganda, as Bowker had called it—but it still left a sour taste in his mouth.
Nott’s offhand comment about Muggles and oil didn't help either. What did that even mean? Albus wasn’t ignorant of the non-magical world—he’d spent plenty of time in it, after all—but there were still parts of it that felt foreign to him. Conversations like this reminded him of how much he didn’t know, how far removed he really was from both the magical and Muggle worlds at times.
On one hand, he understood why families like Nott’s were wary. The Muggle world was a chaotic and unpredictable separate world. But on the other hand, the idea that Muggles were inherently dangerous, that they were somehow a threat to magic itself, felt wrong. It reeked of the same pureblooded elitism and paranoia that his dad had fought against for years.
And yet… here he was, getting close to exactly the kinds of people his parents had warned him about.
His thoughts drifted to Scorpius, who had sat quietly for much of the conversation, always careful to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. Scorpius wasn’t like the rest of them. Albus knew that. But still, being surrounded by Purebloods like Nott and Zabini… Wasn’t he just as much of a product of his environment as they were?
The compartment shifted again, the atmosphere a mixture of laughter and lighthearted bickering. Albus felt the pressure building within him, a weight that he couldn’t quite shake. This was supposed to be a carefree journey back home, a time to unwind and enjoy the company of friends. Yet the conversation had spiraled into something darker—an undercurrent of tension that hinted at everything he struggled to understand about himself, his friends, and the world around them.
But then Scorpius’s hand brushed against his, a silent reassurance that grounded him. Albus turned to him, catching the flicker of concern in Scorpius’s eyes. It was a reminder that, even amidst all the chaos, they were in this together.
But the doubts wouldn’t leave him. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe all that time around Muggles was affecting him in ways he didn’t understand. Or maybe—just maybe—this was exactly what his parents had feared.
"Let's play some Exploding Snap before we reach the station," Bowker suggested with a gasp, stretching as he woke from his nap. His voice still sounded groggy, and he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.
Albus blinked, surprised Bowker had managed to doze off at all, given the conversation they'd just had. His own mind was too restless for sleep. Still, a game might be a welcome distraction, something to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts.
"Sure," Albus said, "Why not?"
Scorpius looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow. "Exploding Snap? You know it’s going to end with Bowker blowing up half the compartment again."
Bowker grinned, wide and unapologetic. "It's all part of the fun, isn't it?"
"Fun for you, maybe," Scorpius muttered under his breath, but he closed his book and set it aside anyway.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Before they reached the final stretch into King’s Cross, Albus stood and pulled down his trunk. “I’m gonna go find my brother,” he said with a grin, trying to sound casual. "Have a great summer." He waved at his mates and stepped into the corridor, making his way toward the exit doors. He placed his trunk down by his feet, waiting for the train to stop.
His parents couldn’t know what he had done this term—especially his father, who would probably throw him in Azkaban if he found out. Albus had been careful with his letters, never revealing too much, never letting anything slip. Hopefully, James hadn’t snitched on him, even after Albus had distanced himself from him over the past months.
Merlin, just thinking about it, gave Albus a headache—how they’d all pretend everything was fine, how his dad and Aunt Hermione would quietly push for him and Rose to make up, to "fix things." They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. Rose wouldn’t ever see his side, not after what he’d been up to.
He couldn’t afford any missteps. His mask had to stay flawless—no cracks, no room for suspicion. One slip, and the delicate balancing act he’d been playing could come crashing down.
As the train slowed and the station drew near, Albus inhaled deeply, preparing for the next performance—the perfect son, the perfect brother, the one who had nothing to hide.
But just as the train began to decelerate, a door opened, breaking the stillness of the empty corridor. Out rushed Scorpius, who ran toward Albus, and before he could react, Scorpius threw himself into Albus's arms with a force that nearly toppled him over his trunk.
The hug was tight, desperate—like a lover’s embrace before going to war. Albus breathed out, all the tension escaping him as he wrapped his arms around Scorpius, pulling him closer. He let himself inhale his scent one last time before summer separated them. Their breaths mingled, and in that moment, everything unspoken hung between them.
When Scorpius finally pulled away, Albus felt as if a piece of his soul went with him.
“I will miss you, Albus,” Scorpius said, his grip on Albus’s robe turning his knuckles white. After a moment, he briskly let go, straightening his robe before walking back to the compartment. He glanced back at Albus, a lingering look filled with unspoken words.
Albus was left standing there, wide eyed, breathless with a pounding heart.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
Scorpius be like ???Sweet Home Alabama????? Like ?? What do you mean??? Albus???
Albus: Oblivious, like his father (at least in love).Okay, so I added some real-life politics into this. I’m not sure how it will be received, but I feel it’s necessary for this story to really understand Muggles and wizards. This is 2018, and we all know how those years went!
Honestly, can you even imagine Trump knowing about magic and trying to work with MACUSA? Jesus!
Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven - Summer holidays I
Summary:
Summer starts for Albus, and like all holidays, it leads to confrontaions as he can no longer run away.
Notes:
I apologize for not updating! I've been grappling with how I want the summer to unfold. I've written over 30,000 words just about the summer, but I've decided not to use nearly 20,000 of those words yet. That said, I’m somewhat happy with these scenes in this chapter. I’m unsure how long I’ll wait before uploading again, as I want to finish the first term of Albus and Scorpius's second year.
Thank you all for your comments! I plan to go back and edit some chapters. It turns out I’m a bit of an idiot; I didn’t realize that a quill is like a feather! Well, I’m not English, so that’s my defense. I honestly thought it was like a ballpoint pen—it's been too long since I watched the movies.
Lastly, rest in peace to Maggie Smith. She will forever be an icon, making so many of our childhoods magical—not just as Professor McGonagall, but in many other roles as well. She was an incredible actress, and there will never be a better Professor McGonagall.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter 11 - Summer holidays
༚☽𖤓☾༚
In a daze, Albus stepped off the train, still feeling a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t really expected Scorpius to hug him like that. He had to force himself to not try to find the blonde boy in the crowd. Letting out a sigh, he reinforced his mental shield. This was not the time to dwell on that. Albus surveyed the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of his mother or any Weasley—after all, his extended family mostly consisted of redheads.
“Albus!” He heard a cheerful voice behind him. Turning around, he couldn’t mask his surprise as Teddy approached, one hand in the air, signaling,
“Over here, mate!” Albus quickly moved toward him, allowing the older boy to bear-hug him. His cheeks flushed a bit at the public display of affection.
“Sorry, Albie! I know you hate hugs in public, but I just couldn’t hold myself! It’s been forever since we saw each other! You’ve really grown, you know!”
Teddy grinned, patting Albus on the shoulders and then measuring his height.
“Well, not that much lengthwise, but your features, I guess.” He stood there looking perplexed as his hair changed color to purple.
“Ha-ha, funny, Ted,” Albus said, playfully hitting him on the arm, which earned him a playful, “Ouch!”
“Where are the others?” Albus asked, looking around for the rest of the family before returning his gaze to Teddy.
“It’s only me here today,” Teddy said casually, furrowing Albus’s brow and stirring a slight sense of concern beneath his skin.
“Why?” Albus asked.
“Oh! Did your mum not tell you in a letter? Lily had a big drama play today, so I came to pick you and James up instead,” the now green-haired boy replied.
She probably did but Albus must have missed it.
“Where’s your brother? You didn’t ride together?”
Before Albus could answer, Teddy nearly fell into him as another boy hugged him from behind.
“TEDDY!” James exclaimed with joy.
Teddy, looking a bit startled at first, let a grin creep in as he looked at Albus. “There he is!” He turned to greet James.
Albus rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a smile from escaping his lips. He was somehow relieved that his parents weren't here. As Teddy and James began to play-fight, Albus let his gaze roam the crowd, looking for that familiar head of silver-blonde hair, disappointed that he couldn’t find it.
“What are you looking for?” Teddy asked playfully.
“Oh, nothing really,” Albus said.
“Let's go! i know a good muggle street food place nearby, they have the most banging kebabs”
“What about our trunks?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow; he didn’t want to haul a big trunk around Muggle London.
Teddy grinned and pulled out his wand. With a flick, both trunks shrank down to the size of a Snitch, making them easy to pocket. “There, problem solved,” he said teasingly as he turned to walk away.
“Wicked!” James exclaimed.
Teddy was right; they really did have some of the most “banging” kebabs. After eating, the three of them strolled around the city center for a bit before deciding to take the tub home. Albus would usually be annoyed by the slower travel option, but today he didn’t mind the extra time it gave them before he had to meet his parents.
Sitting on the tub, Teddy gently nudged Albus with his elbow and leaned closer to whisper in his ear, “Don’t worry too much, Albie. Everything will be alright.”
Albus tensed slightly and glanced at Teddy, who looked sincere. He let out a breath, allowing his shoulders to sag against the seat.
“I sure hope so,” he muttered. Teddy offered him a supportive smile before launching into a story about a new Muggle movie he had seen.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Beginning of June, 2018
Teddy had been somewhat right. When they finally set foot inside 12 Grimmauld Place, the lively atmosphere greeted them immediately. Their parents and Lily were already there. Lily, still in her play outfit, raced around the drawing room, her laughter ringing out as their dad pretended to chase her, his own laughter mingling with hers. Their mother stood to the side, a bright smile on her face as she watched, her eyes sparkling with joy.
As they entered, their mother enveloped all three of them in a warm hug, her embrace lingering as she checked them for injuries—just like she did every time—showering them with kisses. It was a familiar routine that both comforted and annoyed Albus.
Harry soon joined them, pulling both boys into a proud hug, his presence a solid reassurance. Lily, ever the whirlwind of energy, leaped forward, her eyes wide with excitement as she chatted animatedly about her drama play and how it had gone.
Albus felt a mix of relief and suspicion at this warm reception. He glanced at James, who caught his eye at the same moment. A knowing silence passed between them—James hadn’t ratted him out yet, but they needed to talk, and soon.
The first weeks of summer had been enjoyable with Teddy around. Though Teddy was years older, he never treated Albus like a kid. He showed him the ins and outs of Muggle London, introducing him to cool spots and the alternative scene. Teddy had a passion for vinyl records, telling Albus it made him feel closer to his dad, who had also loved Muggle music. Together, they explored unique shops in Diagon Alley—some offbeat stores that were nothing like the usual Wizarding fare. They visited Muggle amusement parks and even took trips outside London to the beach, creating memories Albus cherished.
But like all good things, their time together was coming to an end. Teddy was starting his Auror training and would no longer have the freedom to hang out. Albus felt a pang of disappointment, acutely aware of the reasons behind Teddy’s company. He knew that His parents likely had told Teddy to hang out with Albus, because he didn’t have many Muggle friends like James and Lily did. Yet, Albus didn’t care; he enjoyed spending time with Teddy. He felt a sense of maturity around him, appreciating how Teddy never treated him like a child.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Late June, 2018
As dinner came to an end, Albus climbed the familiar staircase, each step echoing with the fading laughter and chatter of his family. The warmth of their gathering felt like a distant memory as he entered his room, closing the door softly behind him, creating a barrier between him and the chaos below. Just as silence enveloped him, a knock interrupted.
“Come in,” he called, forcing a friendly tone despite the turmoil swirling inside. He clung tightly to his grudges; forgiving Rose felt impossible right now, her betrayal echoing in his mind like a haunting melody he couldn’t shake.
James entered hesitantly, his usual casual demeanor replaced by an unusual seriousness. A fire burned in his eyes, making Albus swallow hard. His brother could be stubborn—an all-too-familiar trait in their family—and just as fierce as a lion.
“Finally done running away?” James asked, irritation creeping into his voice. Albus bristled at the accusation, sinking onto his bed, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air like a looming storm cloud.
“Not while you’re trying to play peacemaker with me and Rose,” he shot back defensively, crossing his arms.
James sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead as if trying to massage away the tension. “Stop it, Al. I won’t be fooled. You know you can’t keep this up with Rose!”
“Me? Keeping it up? Rose is the one in the wrong!” Albus matched his brother’s rising tone, anger flaring inside him like a fire igniting.
“She knows, Al! She’s trying to fix things, but you—” James stumbled over his words, emotion choking him. “You haven’t even given her a chance!”
“I—” Albus began, but the words caught in his throat. He needed James on his side. “I don’t know how to face her, James. You know what she did really hurt.”
James’s expression softened as he moved closer, sitting down on the edge of Albus's bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and Albus felt a shift in the room’s energy, the air thick with unspoken feelings.
“I know,” James said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Trust me, I’ve shouted at her about it many times. But Al, you can't let this tear the family apart. You and Rose—you’re not just cousins; you were best friends!”
“Exactly! That’s why what she did stings even more! You should understand that!” Albus shot back, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
“You're always so defensive, Al! Why can’t you just admit to some fault?” James’s tone was firm but laced with concern.
“Why are you taking her side, James?” Albus snapped, the sharpness of his words hanging heavily between them.
James exhaled loudly, his frustration palpable as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “I’m just trying to fix this family, Al! Someone has to at least try. I—I don’t understand why you can’t just listen to her, hear her out—”
James leaned forward, urgency in his eyes. “I don’t want to see you two hurt each other anymore. Families fight, but they also forgive.”
A swell of emotions surged within Albus—anger, sadness, and a flicker of betrayal. He looked away, unable to meet his brother’s gaze, the weight of his resentment pressing heavily on his chest. Deep down, he knew James was right.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, reminiscent of their father’s often poignant pauses when they had done something wrong, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. Albus hated how much James reminded him of their father at that moment.
“You're going to talk to Rose, Al,” James said softly, his voice firm yet comforting, a grounding presence in the storm. “You’re going to listen to her, and afterward, we’ll figure something out. We can’t let this drag on. We’re heading to the Burrow in two days, and Rose will be there. You two will talk.”
With that, James stood up, leaving Albus alone with his thoughts. In the quiet of his room, Albus threw his head into his pillow, feeling the weight of resentment rise like a tide. Yet, as he began to stroke the pendant Scorpius had given him, a flicker of determination sparked within. He could do this. He needed to. For Scorpius, for their friendship.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Like always, the day for a heart-to-heart with Rose had come far too quickly. He was grateful that their parents didn’t seem to know about the rift between the cousins—small mercies, he supposed.
The Burrow looked the same as ever: tall, homey, with a warm light magic seeping through the walls. Before, Albus hadn’t given the magic much thought, but now it felt uncomfortable, unnerving—foreign. He’d never felt like this here before. As he passed through the Burrow's magical barrier, he had to hold back a flinch and stifle a grimace. The light magic —it just felt wrong and oppressive.
Their other extended family were already outside, and usually, James would have been straight off to the Quidditch field. But not today. James was determined to see this Albus-Rose reunion through. Albus just hoped Rose wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. He was ready to play along, offer some fake apologies, talk about how rough school had been—blah, blah. Hopefully, that would be enough to satisfy them. He had no intention of actually making up with Rose, but he knew he needed James on his side. For future plans.
It was a warm June day, and the house was empty—everyone was outside in the garden, enjoying tea and sweets while watching the broom-happy family members play Quidditch.
The brothers stepped into the room—the same one he, James, and Teddy had shared last holiday which was Uncle Percy’s old room. Rose was already inside, waiting. Albus' heart sank when he saw the look on his cousin's face. James clearly hadn’t told him the full story. Albus shot a betrayed glance at his brother, who seemed a bit nervous. James quietly shut the door behind them, and cast a simple anti-eavesdropping charm.
Rose sat with her usual grace, which radiated an air of importance and confidence that made Albus feel like a mere pleb beside her. She was seated on one of the beds, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, leaned back on her arms, looking calm and casual, she was anything else, which could be seen from her gaze—that burned with a fierce determination, as if she were ready to battle a dragon.
"Albus," Rose sneered, "Seems you've finally found some courage to actually talk this out?"
Albus winced, turning away. He wasn’t going to have this conversation, not like this. But James stopped him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a sharp warning look. "Albus," he whispered into his ear.
Sighing in frustration, Albus turned back around to face Rose, he gracefully dragged a chair out, and sat down across from her.
"Really, Rose? You’re going to act all high and mighty?" His tone was biting. "I thought you wanted us to fix things." he leaned back into his chair, with arms crossed. He wanted this to be over before it had already begun.
Rose let out a huff of disbelief. "Yeah, well, I’m aware you’re keen to keep this rift between us—" Her voice trembled, sadness creeping in. "which hurts , you know."
Albus scoffed in disbelief. "That hurts ? How do you think I felt after your little spectacle ?" His voice rose, cracking with anger. leaning forward in his chair
Rose’s brow furrowed. "Oh, come off it, Albus! You can’t still be bothered by that! You can be such a whiny baby sometimes!" she bit out, her voice surged with frustration.
Albus was ready to fire back, but before he could, Rose continued, her words spilling out with raw emotion.
"How do you think I felt ? I tried to defend you , you know, to my friends–I told them you were just in a bad mood , that it was my fault! " Her voice wavered. "But then you kept avoiding me! Looking at me like I was an ant you wanted to step on!"
"And then," she continued, almost shouting now, "you started hanging out with that Malfoy kid!" She spit out,her voice breaking as she fought to keep control. " And —and then I heard someone say they saw you leaving his compartment on the train! You lied about going to the lavatory! You lied to me!"
Her voice cracked completely as tears welled up. " You know what his family did to my mum! How could you ever even speak kindly to him? She still has that scar, you know," she choked, overwhelmed. "She still has that scar that says 'Mudblood' It’ll never disappear!"
Rose let out a cry, her voice quivering with the weight of it all.
Albus froze, the weight of Rose’s words sinking in like a heavy stone in his chest. He hadn’t expected the conversation to go this way, hadn’t expected her to hit him with that . The scar. His throat tightened as he tried to form a response. Rose was going to play dirty, and now she had gained the upper hand.
Albus swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her eyes. his frustration rising again. “Scorpius is not his family” he said sternly, with an iciness creeping into his voice, why couldn't anyone see that? “I thought better of you Rose, I didn't think you were one to just pull everyone over the edge just because of a name” if she wanted to play dirty, he would go even lower, “Just like all those blood purists who draw all muggleborns over the edge.”
Rose’s eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly as if she couldn’t believe what Albus had just said. Albus held her gaze, refusing to back down now that he’d decided to push back.
"How dare you," she whispered, her voice shaking with anger. "How dare you compare me to them ." Her face flushed, the fierce confidence from earlier now replaced by something darker—hurt, and a deep, simmering rage. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you understand what you're saying? "
Albus clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep his composure. He knew the comparison was a low blow, but part of him didn’t care. Part of him wanted her to feel the sting of it, wanted her to understand how it felt to be judged for something beyond your control.
"I hear myself just fine ," he replied, his voice cool and detached, masking the storm brewing inside him. "You’re doing the same thing they did— judging someone by their name, by their family. You don’t even know Scorpius, Rose. You haven’t given him a chance."
Rose blinked back angry tears, her voice rising. "You don’t get it, Albus! This isn’t just about a name. This is about what his family stands for—what they did to my mum ! How could you expect me to just forget that?"
"I’m not asking you to forget," Albus shot back, his voice sharper now. "But I’m asking you to be better than them. To see past it. You’re Rose Granger-Weasley . You’re supposed to be smarter than this."
Rose flinched at his words, and for a moment, the room was silent, the tension between them palpable.
"I am smarter than this," Rose finally said, her voice quiet but trembling with emotion. "I’m smart enough to know that some things can’t just be forgiven, Albus. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re the one who’s changed—not me."
Albus stared at her, his chest tightening with something like regret, but his pride wouldn't let him back down.
“Ha!” Albus let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his voice dripping with satire. “I can’t believe I just heard a Gryffindor say some things can’t be forgiven! Rose, are you sure you aren’t really a snake too? ”
Her face twisted in fury, but there was something wounded in her eyes. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, standing now with clenched fists. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face. I’m not the one betraying my family!”
“ Betraying the family? Is that what you think this is about? Because I won’t hate someone just because you tell me to? You’re more like those blood purists than I thought.”
“That’s not fair!” Rose shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. “I’m not like them! I’m trying to protect you, to protect us. You think they won’t turn on you, just like before? You think the Malfoys have changed? You’re being naive, Albus!”
Albus’s jaw tightened, his voice lowering to a dangerous calm. “Maybe I am. But I’d rather be naive than blinded by hate.”
Tension crackled between them, like a charged spell waiting to go off. He knew what he had said didn’t fit Slytherin, and frankly he surprised even himself. The silence deepened, thick with unspoken feelings and the fractured pieces of their once-close bond.
Rose's chest heaved as she fought to maintain her composure, but her anger was still evident in the tightness of her jaw. She wasn’t the first to speak—her Gryffindor pride wouldn’t allow it—but her eyes, filled with a mix of betrayal and disappointment, said everything. She took a step forward, voice shaking with barely restrained emotion.
"You’ve changed, Albus," she said, each word laced with pain. "And not in a good way."
Albus felt his chest tighten, but he forced himself not to look away. "Maybe," he replied quietly, almost resigned. "But maybe I had to. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re wrong. You can’t see past your own anger, Rose. You don’t know what I’ve been through, what Scorpius has been through. I’m not going to cut off my only real friend just because you can’t let go of the past."
Rose’s face crumpled, and for a moment, Albus thought she might cry. But instead, she took a sharp breath, straightening her back with that fierce confidence again. “I hope, for your sake, you’re right about him. But don’t come crying to me when you find out you’re wrong.”
She turned sharply, moving toward the door, but James put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. He had quietly taken in the conversation, never jumping in. “Rose, you’re not leaving like this. Remember you’re here to mend things. You two—” he looked at Albus “—are family. There’s no deeper bond.”
Rose froze, her hand hovering over the doorknob, but she didn’t turn around. Albus could see the tension in her shoulders, her posture rigid as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will. James kept his hand on her shoulder, his voice calm but firm as he continued.
"Rose, don’t let this spiral further. You’re hurt, I get it, but running off now will only make things worse." James’s gaze shifted to Albus, who sat silently, watching the scene unfold. "And you, Al, don’t think you’re off the hook either. This… this isn’t how you fix things."
Rose let out a shaky breath but still didn’t turn around. “James, it’s not that simple.” Her voice was quieter now, almost fragile. "It’s not like we can just pretend this didn’t happen. He—" she hesitated, her voice catching in her throat, "he’s choosing them over us. Over me."
Albus almost flinched at her words, of how accurate it was, and how close she seemed to be able to see through him. But he remained silent.
James didn’t relent. "It’s not about choosing sides, Rose. It's about understanding each other. And right now, neither of you are doing that." He glanced at Albus again, his expression softening, as if he were trying to bridge the gap between them. "Family’s more than blood . It’s about trust , about being there for each other—even when it’s hard."
The room felt heavy with the weight of James’s words, and for a long moment, no one spoke.
Recognizing an opportunity, Albus decided to take it. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he said, his voice softer now. “I should have talked to you. I shouldn’t have run away—but I was scared that you…” He hesitated, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “That you were disappointed in me, that you’d see me differently—just because I was sorted into Slytherin.”
His voice cracked, and he let out a sob, trying to make it sound as genuine as possible, it seemed to work and break the tension. He kept his gaze low, not meeting Rose’s eyes.
The silence stretched out, the air thick with the shared pain they had both been avoiding. James shifted slightly but remained quiet, sensing this was a moment for Albus and Rose to navigate on their own.
Rose’s eyes softened a little as she studied him. She wasn’t entirely convinced, but the rawness in his voice began to chip away at her anger. Though still standing rigid and guarded, something in her posture loosened.
“You really think that’s what this is about?” she asked, her voice quieter now, less sharp. “Albus, it was never about you being in Slytherin. I don’t care about that. I was… angry because you shut me out. You pushed me away, and then you went straight to Scorpius Malfoy, of all people. It hurt. ”
Albus’s breath hitched, and he finally looked up at her. “I didn’t mean to push you away, Rose,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to deal with everything. I felt like—like I didn’t belong. Even with you.”
Rose’s expression wavered, her anger faltering in the face of his honesty. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words got caught in her throat. Instead, she walked toward him and enveloped him in a hug, which he returned, letting out a pent-up breath.
James, still standing by the door, gave a small nod, relief washing over him as he witnessed the fragile bridge forming between his cousins.
Realizing the significance of this moment, Albus knew he couldn’t let this chance slip away. With Rose and James raw with emotion, their minds seemingly unguarded, it was the perfect opportunity for some subtle manipulation. He could sense the cracks in their defenses, the way their feelings hung in the air like fragile glass, ready to shatter.
As he pulled away from Rose, wiping the remnants of his tears, a flicker of determination sparked within him. This was his moment to shape the narrative, to guide their perceptions while they were vulnerable. He took a breath, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
“Rose, James, I just need you to trust me” he let out a strained sound to his voice “You need to trust me about Scorpius.” “I haven't been honest with you—because i know you probably wouldn't understand–” “Being in Slytherin is difficult–” “there is so much rules and expectation, with school work with etiquette, with how you speak—” “and there is those who do hold awful opinions about muggleborns, and i have many times gotten into arguments about it!” “But Scorpius isn't one of them, he is always by my side, supporting me! I know him, he doesn't believe those things!”
They didn't seem fully convinced, he needed something else–
“We live in a new era, one of peace—One different from our parents, and I don't want to make their mistakes—I will not hold the sins of a father over his son.” “Just like how we are not our parents, neither is Scorpius.”
James studied Albus intently, his brow furrowed in thought. The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, it seemed like the tension might lift. “I get that, Al. I really do,” he said slowly. “But it’s not just about Scorpius. It’s about how you’ve been handling all of this. You shutting us out made it feel like you were choosing him over us.”
Rose, still processing Albus's words, shifted her stance, her arms crossed tightly. “It’s hard to trust someone when it feels like they’re hiding things from you,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I want to believe you, Albus, but it’s difficult. I care about you, and seeing you with him… it’s just been overwhelming.”
“I was scared, Rose. We all know how our families view Slytherins” He glanced toward Rose. then continued “James you even used to call it the house of death eaters.” he glanced at his brother who grimaced “I–I just felt so different from everyone, and then the holiday came.”
“It’s not like I wanted to keep things from you; but I just felt like you wouldnt understand.” He pressed on, trying to add weight to every word. He glanced at his brother and cousin, and saw what hit and what did not. “I felt as if I told you how Slytherin really was, then you would just use it to justify your belief more, about Slytherin, and i didnt want that to happen. I felt like I couldn't trust you–I was already on thin ice with dad, he was like a hawk, looking for me to say something bad about my house, so he could use it. You all saw what he did with the journal!” Rose– you don't know but—” he breathed in, eyes scanning them subtlety. “I actually got into a argument with dad —I was just so overwhelmed and well everything just come out—” he let a hurt expression show “I–I know what i said was awful, but–“ he hitched “But i never would have thought that my own mother would raise her wand at me ” he let those last word feel into the silence, he looked over at James who looked almost ready to run away and Rose, she looked horrified. he breathed in for dramatic effect. “My parents—they treat me like i'm going to turn into a dark wizard, and start hating muggle-borns”
"Then they used that to force me away from my only friend—the only person who actually stopped me from jumping into the Black Lake." Albus watched their faces carefully, seeing the shock ripple through their expressions. He knew it wasn’t entirely true, but they didn’t need to know that. What mattered was making them understand how important Scorpius was to him—and how guilty they should feel.
“And then you two did the same thing. You tried to take him away too. I felt so... alone,” he added, his voice softening, just enough to let the words sink in. He bowed his head slightly, allowing a few tears to fall, perfectly timed.
Rose's face twisted from shock to guilt, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Albus, I—” she stammered, moving closer, her arms starting to reach for him instinctively. “I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought I was protecting you.”
James, running a hand through his hair, looked conflicted. “Mate, we didn’t know. We thought we were all on the same side.” His voice was quieter now, his earlier frustration fading into something softer. “You should’ve come to us, Al. We’re family. We’ve got your back.”
Albus didn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough for his tears to do their work. When he finally looked up, he knew he had them both exactly where he wanted.
His gaze met Rose’s, and he could see her resolve softening, her fierce exterior beginning to crumble. “You’re not alone, Albus. We’re here. We want to help, but you have to let us in. You need to trust us, too,” she said, her voice gentle but pleading.
James stepped forward, earnest and sincere. “I get it, Al. Slytherin has a reputation, but you’re not defined by that. You’re still you. We’re still family, no matter what house you’re in. I promise I won’t let my fears push you away again.”
Albus let their words wash over him, the weight of his earlier manipulation hanging in the air, though neither of them seemed to notice. Their concern enveloped him, the warmth of their support tugging at him. Yet, beneath it all, he remained cautious. He could still mold this moment, still steer them where he wanted.
“Thank you,” he finally said, his voice trembling with just the right amount of relief and vulnerability. “It means a lot to me that you both care.”
He lowered his gaze again, letting them think he was overwhelmed. In reality, he was already planning his next steps. His tears had done their job, but he knew how to keep them on edge—how to play into their fears of losing him without giving too much away. This wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about control. And right now, he had the upper hand.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Beginning of July 2018.
Albus sat at the breakfast table, lazily munching on cereal. The house was unusually quiet—James was off at a Muggle sleepover, and Lily was still away at camp. The only company he had were his parents, who sat across from him, absorbed in their morning routine. Though there wasn’t any obvious tension, Albus could feel the awkwardness simmering beneath the surface. They were trying too hard to act normal, exchanging glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, their movements careful, as if they were afraid of triggering something in him.
It was infuriating, but he hid his emotions well. He’d grown accustomed to this game—keeping everything under control, playing the long strategy. Initially, he had thought Rose and James would be useful to convince his parents that Scorpius wasn’t dangerous, that his friendship with him wasn’t some rebellious phase or a sign of darker things. But as future considerations unfolded in his mind, he began to wonder if his parents would even find their opinions valuable. After all, Rose and James were still children, so that plan was shelved. Instead, he would pretend that his friendship with Scorpius had ended for now. It was easier that way. Let them think his gloomy behavior stemmed from missing his friend and complying with their wishes.
To distract himself from the spiral of his thoughts, he focused on the Muggle radio, which his parents had oddly taken a liking to. The familiar voice of the news anchor crackled through the room.
“Good morning, everyone! This is Will Robinson with your latest news on BBC Radio 4. Get ready, because Britain is in for a heatwave like we’ve never seen before! Meteorologists are predicting that this summer will break records, with temperatures expected to soar past 40 degrees Celsius in some areas. Yes, you heard that right—this could be the hottest summer ever recorded in the UK!”
“If you’re heading outside, remember to stay hydrated and wear sunscreen. Local councils are urging everyone to avoid strenuous activities during peak heat and to check on vulnerable friends and neighbors.”
Harry glanced up from his copy of the Daily Prophet and muttered, “I hope Lily’s well protected at her camp.” His eyes flicked to the headline on the front page, a brief flicker of unease crossing his features. With a quick motion, he turned the page, trying to hide his concern. Albus noticed the subtle shift, even if his father thought he had concealed it well.
“I’m sure the camp leaders will take precautions,” Ginny said with forced casualness, though her voice carried an edge of concern. She fiddled with her cup of tea, as if trying to shake the tension that had settled over the table.
Albus nodded absently, barely absorbing their words. The radio’s cheerful chatter about the upcoming heatwave did little to distract him from the discomfort of being alone with his parents. Finishing his cereal, he leaned back in his chair, glancing out the window at the blazing summer sun. The thought of dealing with the heatwave on top of everything else made his skin prickle with irritation.
Harry stood up, kissed Ginny on the cheek, and gave Albus a quick, almost reluctant ruffle of his hair. “See you later,” he said, stepping into the fireplace and vanishing in a flash of green flames.
Albus stared at the spot where his father had disappeared, feeling a wave of relief now that the house was a little emptier. He reached across the table for the Daily Prophet, flipping it back to the front page. His eyes skimmed over the headline: Uprise in a New Magical Traditionalist Movement Sweeps Across Europe.
He read the article with detached curiosity.
“A wave of renewed magical traditionalism is sweeping through Europe, with growing factions advocating for a return to ancient magical practices and values. From Poland to Italy, this movement is gaining traction, promising to reshape the magical landscape in ways not seen since the tumultuous eras of the past.
One prominent figure in this growing movement is Dr. Evelyn Blackwood, an expert in historical magical practices and a leading advocate for the return to traditionalism. ‘Magical traditions have been diluted over time,’ Dr. Blackwood asserted in a recent symposium. ‘It is imperative that we return to our ancestral practices to preserve the true essence of our magic.
The movement’s support is expanding rapidly, with many magical communities expressing a desire for a return to the values of the past. In Italy, traditionalist groups are gaining significant influence within local wizarding councils, while in Poland, there are efforts to integrate traditional rites into everyday magical life.”
Albus's eyes lingered on the name: Dr. Evelyn Blackwood. A chill ran down his spine. He leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window again. He really hated the summers.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
So?? Did any of you miss Rose?? What do you think?? is she valid? and did Albus really fool them?
Also Nick Robinsson is just some random dude, and the name BBC Radio 4 = i just googled some british radio channel, i have no idea if they do weather??
Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve - Summer holiday II
Notes:
Hello! Here’s another update—your comments really motivated me to create a timeline that I’m satisfied with! I hope this meets all of our expectations!
Also, a mild disclaimer:
Themes of discrimination and depressive episodes may be present.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Twelve - Summer holiday II
༚☽𖤓☾༚
July, 2018
Albus hated the summer—every sticky, sweltering second of it. The humid heat felt more unbearable than ever, beads of sweat trickling down his back by the time he trudged from their house to the local library. With all his schoolwork done, he had little else to occupy his time, and staying in bed all day with the blanket drawn over his head only invited his parents’ concern. So, he ventured into the Muggle world, thoughts drifting toward Diagon Alley. He wanted to escape there, to the familiarity of magical life, but his parents wouldn’t allow it. Not alone.
Yet, here he was, roaming Muggle London unsupervised. Hypocrites.
They acted as if the Muggle world was somehow safer. As if Muggles couldn’t be just as dangerous as wizards. The idea was absurd, and it irritated him more than he could explain. It wasn’t just ignorance—it was willful blindness.
Albus’s interest in magical history had piqued after his first year at Hogwarts, but now he found himself curious about Muggle history, too. He wanted to explore where the two narratives overlapped, especially when it came to figures like Merlin. Muggles regarded such wixen as myths— That had led him to research Muggle beliefs around witches, and what he found was horrifying. He had learned a bit about witch burnings back in primary school, and Nott had touched on it briefly during the Slytherin introduction lesson, but the reality was far more terrifying than they let on. The deep-seated hatred Muggles harbored filled him with a fear he couldn’t quite identify.
Standing before the library, its imposing stone façade loomed over him like a fortress. For a moment, he felt too small to enter, as if the knowledge within was somehow forbidden to someone like him. As he crossed the threshold, the intense gaze of the librarian at the front desk caught his attention, her eyes trailing after him as if she knew he didn’t belong. It made his skin crawl.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the librarian could sense something off about him—that she could see through the veneer of normalcy, that she knew he wasn’t one of them, that he wasn't a Muggle. His mind spiraled into darker thoughts. Images of witches being dragged to their deaths filled his mind, and the fear, the hatred, the suspicion of anyone different clung to him like a shadow. The memories clawed at him, suffocating, a visceral reminder of how easily fear could turn into brutality.
Albus abandoned the idea of searching for books and wandered back out into the oppressive heat, aimlessly drifting through the streets as the sun beat down on him. He didn’t know where to go; he just knew he had to keep moving, the heat mirroring the unrest brewing inside him.
Eventually, he ducked into a small corner shop, desperate for something cold. The wave of cool air from the A.C. washed over him, a welcome relief from the stifling heat outside. But even here, he wasn’t free from scrutiny. The shopkeeper, an old man with tired eyes and a permanent scowl, watched him closely as if waiting for him to cause trouble. The old man didn’t even try to hide his disdain, practically making a spectacle of his scrutiny.
As Albus walked down the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves for something refreshing, the weight of the shopkeeper's gaze pressed on him, scrutinizing him as if he were a potential thief. It was infuriating, souring his mood and heightening his paranoia.
Finally, he grabbed a bottle of lemonade, the bright label promising a burst of citrusy relief. As he approached the counter, he forced himself to meet the shopkeeper’s eyes, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
"Just this, please," Albus said, setting the bottle down with deliberate calmness.
The shopkeeper took the bottle without a word, but his eyes never left Albus, watching him as though he were some kind of threat. The resentment simmering beneath Albus’s skin threatened to boil over. He paid quickly, wanting to leave, but just as he turned to go, he heard the man mutter something under his breath. A slur. A vile insult Albus had heard too many times before.
Rage surged through him, burning hotter than the sun outside. It coursed through his veins like fire, drowning out everything else. His hand clenched the bottle so tightly he thought it might shatter. He wanted to turn around, to shout, to demand the respect he was owed. Instead, he slammed the door hard behind him as he left, the sound echoing through the quiet street.
The anger didn’t fade as he walked. It grew, festering inside him with every step—The Muggles were even worse than the blood purists. Albus couldn’t comprehend how his family seemed to enjoy this world so much. All he felt when he was out was suspicion, all because of his ethnicity. How were they all so blind? They romanticized the Muggle experience, but Albus saw the prejudice and fear that lay just beneath the surface. His parents acted as though living among Muggles was some noble gesture, but all Albus felt was rage.
Muggles—they were so foolish, acting high and mighty. They walked around oblivious to the magic that lay just beneath the surface, yet they dared to judge him. It was infuriating. Albus shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, but the weight of his frustration only grew heavier. He wanted to shout, to make them see. But instead, he clenched his fists.
Maybe the Purebloods were right after all— maybe there was a reason to keep their world separate.
A wash of relief came over him. There was really no reason for him to be around Muggles— Not anymore.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
July, 2018
James’s birthday was always a grand affair, one that Albus despised— not out of jealousy , but more out of discomfort. James was a social being, thriving in the spotlight, while Albus was anything but. Albus's own birthdays had always been small and intimate, quiet gatherings with just family. But James? James was having three different parties this year—one for family and relatives, which would be a big ordeal, another for his Hogwarts friends, and a final one for his Muggle mates. To Albus's dismay, he was expected to attend all three, like the rest of their immediate family.
In earlier years, Rose had been a welcome companion during these marathon celebrations. She always went along for all three parties, but Albus knew that her presence was more for his sake than James’s, not that James ever noticed. They’d stick together, often sneaking away from the crowd when things become too overwhelming. This year, though, Albus wasn’t sure what he loathed more—being forced to mingle with all those people or having to pretend that he and Rose were still the same as before.
There had always been a reason why the two of them had gravitated toward each other more than toward their other cousins. Their parents likely thought it was a case of "opposites attract," but the truth was far less simple. He and Rose were two sides of the same coin. Sure, Rose took to the limelight like a moth to a flame, and Albus preferred the shadows, but their thoughts often mirrored each other. One shared glance, and they would know what the other was thinking. They understood each other in ways that didn't need words. They had a rhythm—until they didn’t.
They were more alike than either wanted to admit, especially now–Rose, despite how much she liked to ignore it, had a Slytherin streak. And Albus had a temper—a fierce one he tried to suppress, but like a lion’s roar, it was hard to keep in check. After their first term, things had changed. There had always been tension, sure, but this was different. They both knew it. Albus had secrets, and Rose was fully aware of that. She wasn’t easily fooled, not like James. She had inherited her mother’s sharp mind, and unlike his brother, she wasn’t blinded by family loyalty. What clouded her judgment were her own biases and her refusal to ever admit she was wrong.
Albus knew he’d crossed the line first. He had gone behind Rose's back on the Hogwarts Express and befriended Scorpius, despite Rose making it abundantly clear that she loathed him—even if her reasons were shallow, based solely on the Malfoy name. But Albus didn’t share her prejudice, nor the rest of his family’s. They were too blinded by the past. Scorpius, like him, hadn’t chosen his parents. Still, Albus knew they were different—Scorpius loved his parents, whereas his own feelings were far more complicated.
He didn’t consider his friendship with Scorpius a betrayal. If Rose couldn't see beyond old biases, that was her problem, not his. But after what she did after the Sorting? She had meant every bit of that. Rose knew how much Albus hated being thrust into the spotlight, how anxious he had been about getting Sorted, yet she still managed spectacle out of him in front of everyone. And worse still, during their first flying lesson, She had openly mocked him and did nothing when he was called a squib, and then befriended Yann and Polly . Who took every opportunity to remind people of his lack of practical abilities, and how he was a disgrace to the Potter name.
Her apology hadn’t been real. She’d brushed off his feelings, acting like he was being childish for feeling them, as if the teasing was no big deal. Then she’d pulled out her trump card: her mother’s scar. That move had been calculated, manipulative. Albus had almost admired how ruthlessly she’d played it.
But just as he saw through her, she saw through him. Though if he were honest, he considered himself the better manipulator, she would always be a lion afterall, even if she had some cunning tendencies. Rose had gotten too close to uncovering his secrets for his comfort. He liked walking the line, playing the game of who would slip up first—it thrilled him. But he wasn't in the right headspace anymore. His mind was in disrepair, mental walls weak, and meditation had become nearly impossible. His thoughts raced, paranoia gnawed at him, and there was something else...the magic. It was becoming aggravated, likely because of the lack of offerings. And he knew why, he couldn't give any offerings during Litha , one of the eight sabbats in the year of the wheel.
But what could he do? He couldn’t risk practicing anything in the house, not so close to his father. The magic was possessive, leaving behind a residue that wasn’t easy to hide. He hadn't been able to offer the magic any offerings, though he had made a fire, trying to appease the magic gagging at him from the inside. It was making him irrational, and harder for him to control his emotions, leaving him exhausted, just trying to swim above the water.
He didn’t want to play mind games with Rose. He didn’t want to attend James's parties or pretend to be the dutiful, happy brother. Truthfully, he’d rather take a field trip to Azkaban than deal with any of it.
But he had no choice. This was his life now, pretending to be someone he wasn’t, all while his mind fell apart under the strain. Summer had been rough, worse than usual, and most days he found it difficult to care about anything. Yet here he was, expected to smile, to perform, to play the part everyone wanted him to play.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
15 of july, 2018
“Hey, mate! What’s got you so down? It’s a party!” Teddy bellowed into Albus' ear, far too close, his breath reeking of firewhisky.
“Teddy—are you drunk?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Me? Drunk? Never!” Teddy declared dramatically, with a lopsided grin. Albus rolled his eyes, scanning the lively scene. Everyone seemed to be having a blast— except him.
The sun blazed in the sky, making the heat unbearable. They were gathered in the Burrow’s sprawling garden, which had been decked out with balloons and several long tables, each filled with food. A massive cake had just been served, and James, as usual, was soaking up all the attention from their relatives and friends. Even Professor Neville was there, along with a few others who had fought with their parents during the war—people whose names Albus couldn’t be bothered to remember. Not that they paid him any mind. He was the lone snake among lions. Well, not exactly—the thought of Gran Andromeda popped into his head, though she was currently deep in a heated debate with Uncle Bill, while Gran Molly and Grandpa Arthur sat nearby, looking half-interested, with a few too many butterbeers in them.
Albus sulked, still annoyed that he was seated at the children's table while James had secured a seat among the adults. It wasn't fair. They were only two years apart, and James was turning fourteen after all. Rose, stuck next to him, was chatting with Hugo, while Lily was talking Molly’s ear off. Molly, of course, looked even more envious of James than Albus. Louis, meanwhile, took delight in watching his cousin’s annoyance, egging Lily on with conversation about the most trivial things.
“I thought you were with Vic, Teddy,” Albus muttered, shifting slightly as he felt Teddy lean in closer, the warmth of his body adding to the discomfort.
“Nah, she’s arguing about the properties of dragon’s blood with Dominique and Fred. Not really my scene, so I thought I’d come over here!” Teddy flashed a mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he gestured wildly, nearly knocking over his drink in the process.
“Teddy, now that you can do magic outside of school, would you put a cooling charm on me?” Albus asked, fanning himself with his hand, the heat making his skin prickly. “I’m sweating like a vampire at sunrise!”
Teddy laughed heartily, his laughter infectious, almost causing Albus to smile. “Sure, mate!” He waved his wand a little too dramatically, a flair that often accompanied his antics.
A refreshing coolness washed over Albus almost immediately, a blessed reprieve from the oppressive heat. He let out a sigh of relief as the air around him chilled, making the party atmosphere slightly more bearable. “Thanks,” he muttered, half-hoping Teddy would wander off and leave him in peace.
“No problem, Al!” Teddy threw an arm around him, nearly knocking over Albus’s drink as he did so, his enthusiasm unyielding. “Now, what’s up with you? You’ve been moping around since you got here. This is supposed to be fun!”
Albus glanced toward the adults’ table, where James continued to bask in the spotlight, animatedly chatting with Dad, Uncle Ron, and others. They all seemed to thrive in the warmth of familial bonds and laughter. Albus, on the other hand, felt as if he were observing a performance from the sidelines. “It’s nothing,” Albus shrugged, dismissing Teddy’s concern, “just… it’s hot.”
“C’mon, mate, you can do better than that. I know that look.” Teddy squinted at him, adopting that infuriating all-knowing expression that Albus couldn’t stand. “It’s not about the heat, is it? Is it James again? He’s been in the limelight all day, but it’s his birthday. Don’t let it get to you.”
Albus scowled but said nothing. He didn’t want to engage in this conversation; he simply wanted to disappear into the background.
Just then, Rose, seated next to him, jumped into the conversation. “It’s not about James; it’s about the party.” Her voice cut through the tension, a hint of camaraderie in her tone as she glanced over at the adults.
Albus shot her a grateful glance, silently appreciating her effort to divert Teddy’s attention.
“I can’t believe we have to sit through two more of these,” Rose continued, shaking her head as she surveyed the chaotic gathering. The laughter and chatter of their family echoed around them, punctuated by the distant sound of fireworks being set off. Colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across the grassy lawn of the Burrow.
Teddy grinned, his excitement evident in the way he bounced slightly on his heels. “Well, only one more for me! I have Auror training, so I can only go to the muggle one.” His eyes sparkled mischievously as he surveyed the scene.
“Lucky you,” Albus replied, a small grin breaking through his earlier mood.
“It’s going to be at the muggle bowling place again this year?” Rose asked, her brow furrowing as she scanned the other table where James held court, effortlessly charming their relatives with his stories and antics.
“Yeah. James really likes the pizza there, and he’s pretty good at bowling,” Teddy replied, his enthusiasm undeterred.
“I don’t like it at all,” Rose said with a grimace, her eyes darting nervously to the adults. “You think we could talk ourselves out of playing?” She looked at Albus, her expression hopeful but aware of the futility of their request.
“Well, Teddy was almost banned from the place after throwing a ball through the ceiling,” Albus said with a neutral tone, trying to at least seem a bit eager in the conversation.
“I can’t believe you actually did that,” Rose said, giving Teddy an amused grin that transformed his mock-serious demeanor into an exaggerated display of offense. He clutched his heart dramatically, a wide smile creeping across his face.
“It was not my fault!” Teddy declared, his eyes glinting with mischief, his voice rising above the din of the party.
“It’s good that we are rich and that Dad paid for the damages; otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to get back,” Albus remarked flatly. Despite the humor of the moment, a flicker of desire to escape the event entirely crossed his mind, and he welcomed the idea of never returning.
“Yes, imagine the horror,” Rose said, rolling her eyes, her tone playful but the underlying tension of the day evident in her smile.
As the three of them laughed, Albus felt a small weight lift off his shoulders, even if just for a moment. Teddy, despite his drunken antics, always had a knack for lightening the mood. And for some reason, Rose acted like their earlier fight had never happened, and Albus was more than happy to play along.
Teddy leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Al, you should really try to have some fun. Just because James is the star of the show doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself too.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes as he tried to coax Albus out of his shell.
A cheeky grin broke across Teddy's face. “And hey, if all else fails, you could always pull another stunt like I did at the bowling alley. Maybe make it a chandelier this time.”
Albus felt a familiar pang of disconnection. He wasn’t a kid anymore; the carefree days of feeling overshadowed by his brother felt distant. He thought about correcting Teddy, but part of him found comfort in the excuse that Teddy’s words provided for his lack of amusement. Why burst that bubble?
Albus chuckled despite himself, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “I think Mum would kill me if I did that.”
“Totally worth the risk,” Teddy replied with a wink before downing the last of his firewhisky in one go, the vibrant red liquid glinting in the sunlight as he tossed the glass aside, momentarily distracted by a passing tray of treacle tarts.
Rose watched Teddy stumble toward the platter, her expression a blend of disbelief and amusement. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder how he’s going to survive Auror training.”
Albus shrugged, his gaze trailing Teddy. “Maybe Dad will pull a few strings.”
“Nepotism at its finest,” Rose quipped, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Like you’re one to talk,” Albus shot back, a smile creeping onto his face.
“Seriously though, haven’t you noticed?” Rose whispered, her brow furrowing with concern as she surveyed the chaotic gathering around them. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the air, but a cloud of unease seemed to hover over their corner of the party. “There seems to be something going on. Our parents are doing a good job at hiding it, but I can tell my mum is getting more stressed lately.”
Albus blinked, the weight of her words settling over him. He had noticed but didn’t care to dwell on it. It wasn’t as if his parents let him navigate the wizarding world on his own, anyway; he viewed it merely as a convenience that gave him more leeway to mope around.
“No, I haven’t,” he replied bluntly, his tone clipped.
Rose gave him a pointed look, her eyes narrowing slightly. Albus rolled his eyes, irritation simmering just below the surface.
“Okay, fine. Yes, I have noticed. It’s clearly about that New Traditionalist Movement. Father has been awful at hiding his distaste for all the Daily Prophet headlines,” he said dismissively, annoyance creeping into his voice.
Rose raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Mum’s been tight-lipped about it, but I’ve overheard things. Meetings late at night, discussions about old laws, even Pureblood families—ones like the Notts and the Zabinis.”
Albus's stomach knotted at the mention of those names, his thoughts flickering briefly to Scorpius before he quickly shoved them aside. Rose hadn’t mentioned him, and he wasn’t about to bring him up, either.
He huffed, irritation brewing as he sensed Rose’s attempt to pry information from him. “I’m pretty sure those are just speculations. Dad’s been very annoyed that he can’t make any arrests after all.”
Rose crossed her arms, her expression shifting from concern to determination. “Speculations or not, it doesn’t mean there’s nothing happening. You can’t just brush it off because it’s inconvenient for you.”
Albus rolled his eyes again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. “I’m not brushing it off. I just… I don’t want to get involved in whatever political drama my father is dealing with.” His irritation flared, and he felt a surge of annoyance at what Rose was insinuating.
“Drama? Albus, be serious. If those families are getting involved with Uncle Harry's job—”
“Rose! This is exactly what I meant. I know what you’re implying,” Albus hissed quietly, his tone barely above a whisper, trying to keep their conversation under wraps to avoid drawing attention from the surrounding festivities.
Rose raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Fine,” she said calmly, though the curiosity in her eyes flickered beneath the surface. Albus could feel her probing for more, and he knew he needed to deflect before the conversation dug any deeper.
“Anyway,” he said, shifting his tone and leaning in slightly, “it seems like the New Traditionalist Movement’s influence is coming from abroad.”
Rose’s expression changed immediately, her curiosity piqued. “Yeah, there’s been a lot of talk about traditionalist parties gaining power in different ministries across Europe. It feels like something bigger’s brewing. There haven’t been murmurs like this since—” She lowered her voice, glancing around as she leaned in conspiratorially, her arms crossing protectively over her chest.
“Since Grindelwald,” Albus finished darkly, his eyes narrowing as the implications of their conversation settled in. “The ideas… they sound familiar.”
The British wizarding community had long stood apart from its European counterparts, who were more tightly connected through groups like the EWA—the Eastern Wixen Alliance—and the MUOE, the Magical Union of Europe. Those alliances often collaborated on international treaties, making the rise of Traditionalist movements in Poland, a country under the EWA, and Italy, a MUOE member, all the more troubling. Unlike Britain, the rest of Europe had not been ravaged by the two wars with Voldemort, which they dismissed as Britain’s internal affairs.
“Honestly, it’s like they want to drag everything back a century,” Rose muttered, shaking her head, her expression a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “And here we are, just hoping it doesn’t spill over to us.”
“Europe’s always been more… traditional,” Albus replied, frowning as he considered the broader implications. “Like the Scandinavian Union of Magic. They’ve been leaning that way for ages.”
Rose snorted in disbelief. “It’s so ironic, considering how progressive their Muggle governments are.”
“Well, the British wizarding world has always kept itself more isolated. I doubt the movement will stick here the same way—especially after everything with Voldemort.”
“I’m not so sure, Albus. The way tensions are rising on the continent… it’s unsettling.”
Albus gave her a grim smile, his attempt at levity falling flat. “Well, let’s just hope another war doesn’t start before we’ve finished school, yeah?”
Rose rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smirk. “You’re terrible at humor, Albus. You know that, right?”
Before Albus could respond, a loud crash echoed across the yard, the sound of splintering wood drawing their attention. Both cousins turned to see Teddy sprawled across the wreckage of a table, dishes and drinks scattered everywhere. It was clear he’d indulged a bit too much. Teddy lay snoring amidst the chaos, blissfully unaware of the mess he’d created.
Harry surveyed the scene with an exasperated expression, his hands on his hips, while Andromeda raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow at her grandson.
James was the first to break the silence, bursting into laughter, his infectious joy cutting through the tension. Soon, Albus and Rose were giggling along with the rest of the guests, the earlier weight of their conversation fading into the background. Even Harry couldn’t help but crack a reluctant smile at the absurdity of the situation, and Andromeda’s lips twitched in amusement as she took in the sight of Teddy lying amidst the wreckage.
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Summer, 2018
Albus loathed summer. Each day bled into the next, a formless blur that seemed to drag him further into the depths of his own despair. The passage of time had lost all meaning—days, dates, and even meals blurred into irrelevance, marked only by Kreacher’s silent, dutiful visits, as the house-elf delivered trays of food that Albus barely touched. He’d given up on getting out of bed, retreating from the world outside his window. The black curtains in his room were drawn tight, casting his sanctuary into an eternal night that felt safer, more bearable than the brightness beyond.
Here, in the dark, the rest of the house carried on without him. His siblings’ laughter and footsteps drifted through the silence like echoes from a world that no longer felt real. His parents, engrossed in work and long hours, seemed oblivious to the unraveling taking place under their roof. Kreacher, however, lingered—never asking, never prying, simply ensuring Albus didn’t starve. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a quiet agreement that Albus’s retreat into the shadows was better left undisturbed. Kreacher, too, preferred the quiet, forgotten corners of the house. They shared that, at least.
Curled up in bed, knees drawn to his chest, Albus absently stroked the pendant hanging from his neck. It felt heavier now, as if its weight had grown with each passing day. The small piece of jewelry was a constant, tangible reminder of Scorpius—a reminder of how much he missed him. The ache in his chest was persistent, sharper than he ever thought possible. How ridiculous, he thought, to miss someone so intensely. He missed Scorpius’s laugh, the way his voice cut through Albus’s bleakness like a beam of light in a darkened room.
More than once, Albus had considered writing to him, pouring out the confusion, the bitterness, the fear that gnawed at him. But he knew better. His parents would catch wind of it somehow, and then all the careful lies he’d woven about distancing himself from Scorpius would unravel. He couldn’t risk it, not now. Not with so much at stake.
His thoughts drifted toward Bowker, whose steady presence had become something of a lifeline. Albus found himself scribbling the occasional note to him—and sometimes to Nott or Zabini, though their replies came slowly. Zabini was off in Italy for the summer, and Nott had retreated to his family’s estate in the countryside, leaving Albus feeling more isolated than ever. He didn't even consider sending anything to Fawley–Not after their last conversation.
In the oppressive stillness of his room, his mind wandered back to Scorpius. He imagined him at the Malfoy villa in France, basking in sunlight, surrounded by warmth and laughter. The contrast to his own existence was almost painful—Scorpius in the golden light of the French countryside, while Albus remained entombed in his self-made darkness. How effortless it seemed for Scorpius to escape, to live in a world unburdened by the weight that clung so heavily to Albus.
The more he thought about it, the further Scorpius seemed to drift from him. It was as if the warmth of their connection was slipping away, dissolving into the sunny hills of France, leaving Albus trapped in his shadowed room, alone. He gripped the pendant tighter, his eyes squeezing shut as emotions churned within him, threatening to spill over. But the silence remained unbroken, and with every passing hour, he felt another thread of that connection pull away until the one person who had made life bearable seemed impossibly distant.
Darkness swallowed him whole, a consuming void that made him question his own existence. Panic fluttered in his chest like a trapped bird, its frantic wings beating against his ribs. Fear gripped him, and he didn’t dare to leave his room, terrified of what waited outside. His breath hitched, each inhale becoming shallower, more ragged. He felt detached from his own body, as if he were an observer of a dying star; was he dead? Had he succumbed, starving himself to death? His mind spun, racing in chaotic circles, and his trembling hand traveled up to his nose—he was still breathing, though it felt hollow, distant, as if he were trapped in a dream from which he couldn’t wake.
His heart pounded, a relentless drumbeat echoing in his ears, fierce enough that he feared it might leap from his chest. The walls seemed to close in, each breath growing more constricted, the air thickening around him. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the world narrowed to a suffocating tunnel of shadows and uncertainty. What if he never escaped? What if he faded into nothingness, lost to the silence? His breath quickened, each inhale sharp and shallow, tightening his throat until it felt as though a vice were clamped around him.
A sudden noise—a faint pop—jolted him from his spiraling thoughts, but it was drowned beneath the roaring tide of panic. As if emerging from water, he clawed at the surface of his mind, struggling to grasp the reality that flickered just beyond his reach. In the chaos, a vial was pressed into his trembling hand. Like a man who had been deprived of water for days, he swallowed the liquid in one desperate gulp. The taste was horrid, thick and acrid, coating his throat like soot. It smelled of sulfur, biting and rancid, but he didn’t care; he needed something to pull him back from the brink.
The effects were immediate, and Albus felt as though he had been dragged from the depths of an ocean, gasping for breath. Before him stood Kreacher, looking even more worn than usual, worry etched across the elf’s ancient face.
“Thank you, Kreacher.” Albus uttered, his voice strained and cracked, unsure when he had last spoken.
“Little Master reminds Kreacher of Master Regulus.”
Albus took the old elf in, remembering that he had always had a soft spot for him, perhaps due to his age, or the way he had been treated, or maybe simply because he was the one house-elf his father disdained. Albus recalled how Kreacher had uttered this sentiment before, during the Christmas holidays, after his own outbursts.
“Why do you say that, Kreacher?”
“Master Regulus always fought with Dementors. They ate his mind.”
“What did Master Regulus do to stop it, Kreacher?” His voice came out desperate, a plea cloaked in urgency.
Kreacher hesitated, the weight of his response lingering in the air. “Master Regulus,” he began slowly, “He found a way. He sought the truth hidden in dark places.”
“Tell me, Kreacher.” His voice was strained, hoarse.
“Kreacher can’t tell. Master Harry will not allow.”
Even with the potion easing his mind, Albus could feel anger bubbling beneath the surface.
“Kreacher, I order you to tell me,” Albus said in a dark voice, a dangerous mix of anger and desperation lacing his words.
Kreacher flinched at the sharpness of Albus’s tone, his ears drooping slightly as he shifted back, a blend of fear and disapproval crossing his ancient features. The air grew thick with tension, the dim light in the room casting long shadows that mirrored the darkness within Albus himself.
“I… I cannot, Little Master,” Kreacher stammered, his voice quavering. “Master Harry would be most upset if Kreacher disobeyed him.” There was a tremor in the elf's voice, a sign of his loyalty to Harry Potter that clashed with the vulnerability he sensed in Albus.
“Then leave, Kreacher,” Albus spat coldly, before letting himself fall back into the bed, the weight of his anger and despair sinking him further into the abyss.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
Funny thing i also hate the summers!
Also! dont worry: i have another chapter coming right up!!!!
Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen - Summer Holiday III
Summary:
Albus finally returns to the magical world, but things have changed. Ginny and Harry's concerns for their son deepen as he seems increasingly distant
Notes:
Yes! Im giving you another chapter!!!!! And a longer one this time!!!!!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Thirteen - Summer Holiday III
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Mid-August, 2018
James had to practically drag Albus out of bed. “Mate! When was the last time you even showered? —You stink!” James exclaimed, tugging Albus from the tangled sheets that seemed to cling to him like the weight of the world. Each pull felt like a reminder of the fatigue he couldn’t shake, a silent protest from his weary body.
Albus just shrugged, his heart heavy as he trudged toward the bathroom. The dull ache in his chest seemed to tighten with every step, a familiar pressure that threatened to envelop him. He turned the water on and let it cascade over him, hoping the warmth could wash away the suffocating sense of despair. Twenty minutes later, he emerged, showered and dressed, but the world still hung around his shoulders like an inescapable shroud.
As he made his way down to the entrance hall, the vibrant chaos of the house surged around him. There stood his mother, seemingly lost in a frantic search for something, her movements quick and erratic, a flurry of misplaced papers and lost items.
“Merlin, Al! You look awful! Don’t tell me you’ve spent all your time inside?” Ginny's voice was a mix of concern and exasperation as she assessed her second child. “You said you were going out!” She shot a look at James, her worry palpable. “James—didn’t you keep an eye on your brother?”
James shrugged nonchalantly. “Albie’s gonna be a second year—he can take care of himself.”
“James—” Ginny began, but Albus felt his head throb at the noise, the chaos of family life swelling around him like an overwhelming tide. Each voice felt like a separate, discordant note in a symphony that was getting louder and more frenetic. The familiar knot of frustration tightened in his gut, twisting until he felt like he might be sick.
“Do I have to go?” Albus asked, irritation creeping into his tone as he tried to rein in the rising tide of panic that threatened to pull him under. It felt like a vise was clamping around his chest, the world spinning in chaotic circles.
His mother turned, still halfway through her lecture. “Yes, Albus. You need to buy your school supplies.” Her voice faded into a dull hum as the pressure in his head intensified, drowning out the rest of her words. The room swayed slightly, and Albus pressed a hand against the wall, grounding himself in the familiar roughness of the brick.
By the front door, Lily was a whirlwind of energy, bouncing on her toes like a small, sugar-fueled tornado. “I want a snake pet!” she squealed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Lily! I’ve already told you snakes are not—” Ginny started again, her patience clearly wearing thin, her voice a sharp blade that cut through Albus’s frazzled nerves.
Albus felt like banging his head against the wall. The family theatrics could be suffocating; could they never have a calm day? It was all too much—the sound, the movement, the expectations. He forced a small smile, attempting to mirror a fraction of his siblings' enthusiasm, but it felt like a fragile mask that could shatter at any moment.
As he stood quietly, the cacophony of voices swirled around him like a storm, each shout and laughter a gust of wind pushing him closer to the edge. The walls felt like they were closing in, each breath becoming more labored as the chaos intensified. He waited for the storm to settle, for the tumult to fade so they could finally leave, but with each passing moment, the din only grew louder, feeding the panic that bubbled within him.
“Albus!” Ginny’s voice pierced through the chaos once more, pulling him back into focus. “Are you even listening?”
The pressure built to a crescendo, and Albus struggled to keep himself anchored in the moment, heart racing, breaths shallow and quick. “I—I’m fine,” he managed to say, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. The world felt like it was tilting, and he fought to regain control, to pull back from the brink as the noise enveloped him like a suffocating fog. “Can we just go?”
His mother’s expression shifted, concern deepening as she moved closer, hands on her hips. “Alright, but you need to talk to me later, Al. Promise?”
He nodded, the words stuck in his throat as he felt the weight of her gaze press down on him, squeezing him tighter. All he could do was swallow hard, hoping he could hold it together long enough to escape the chaos swirling around him.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, bracing himself for the day ahead, as if stepping onto a battlefield instead of a shopping trip for school supplies.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
As they wandered through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, surrounded by laughter and chatter, Albus felt detached, like a ghost drifting through his own life. The sun hurt his eyes, its brightness overwhelming, while the vibrant shopfronts blurred into a dull haze, doing little to shift his mood. Even the prospect of new robes or supplies seemed hollow, as if they were mere distractions from the storm raging within him. He was just going through the motions, his mind elsewhere, longing for the summer to end, for Scorpius, for an escape from the pretense he maintained around his family.
James was prattling on about something supposedly Quidditch, a topic that had become his sole focus lately—Albus barely registered the words, annoyance simmering beneath the surface at his brother's carefree banter. “James, I’m going to shop on my own. See you later,” he muttered, slipping away before James could respond.
Albus drifted through the crowd, feeling like a specter among the living, aimlessly floating until his gaze fell upon a familiar shopfront: A’s Athenæum. Memories flooded back of passing it during the winter holidays, only to find it not opened yet, the door sealed and the windows fogged over with a sense of secrecy. Now, it stood open as if it had been there for years, the same strange allure tugging at him, as if the shop had been waiting for him all along.
Without hesitation, Albus stepped inside. The cool air greeted him like a whispered welcome, a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat outside. The change in atmosphere was instant; the noise of the street vanished behind him as the door closed, replaced by the soft crackle of a fire somewhere deep within the shop and the faint, soothing scent of parchment and incense. The space was lit by low, golden light that flickered like candle flames, casting long shadows that danced along the rows of shelves.
Albus let his eyes wander, taking in the eclectic mix of books, scrolls, and tomes. Some were ancient, their spines cracked and worn, while others were newer, bound with elegant designs that shimmered under the soft light. Titles in Latin and other languages he couldn’t quite place whispered promises of arcane knowledge and forgotten magic. Each seemed to hold its own story, waiting for the right reader to uncover its secrets.
His curiosity piqued. This was more than just a bookshop; it felt like an archive, a treasure trove of vintage tomes—some preserved, others bound to be lost to time if not for this refuge. There were books here on subjects he’d never heard of, magic that felt beyond his understanding.
Yet, what struck him most wasn’t just the variety of the texts but the energy they seemed to radiate. His magical senses tingled, almost overwhelmed by the sheer volume of magic in the air. Each book seemed to hum with its own aura, some crackling like lightning, others whispering softly like a breeze. The atmosphere itself felt alive, pulsing with centuries of power, history, and secrets.
As he stood in the hushed stillness, Albus realized that the shop was completely empty. No other customers wandered the aisles, no one browsed the shelves. For a place brimming with such knowledge, it seemed almost deserted. The silence added to the mystery, making it feel like a sanctuary that existed outside of time.
Albus moved deeper into the store, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet underfoot. His fingers brushed against the spines of the books, and he felt the faint crackle of magic each time. It was as if the tomes themselves were alive, humming with anticipation. His magic, always somewhat restless within him, seemed to spark and stir in response. He could feel the pull of the place, the unspoken invitation to lose himself here, to delve into worlds he hadn’t even imagined.
The air grew heavier the further he ventured, the lights dimming slightly as the bookshelves grew taller. A faint whisper brushed against his ear, beckoning him closer. And then, he felt it—a subtle pull, almost imperceptible, but enough to make him pause. Albus closed his eyes, letting his magic guide him, the quiet hum growing stronger as he followed the feeling.
His magic guided him like a soft breeze forward, and his eyes fell upon a worn book: “Blood Maledictions: Origins, Practices, and the Inheritance of Malefactions.” Albus grew perplexed; he had little to no knowledge of blood curses. He turned it over to read the back:
“Blood Maledictions: Origins, Practices, and the Inheritance of Malefactions is a comprehensive examination of the ancient and often misunderstood field of blood curses. Dr. Avius Quill explores the origins of these maledictions, tracing them back to ancestral practices in Asia and Africa, where legacy and karma shape the very fabric of magical bloodlines.”
“Through extensive research into the transference of familial curses, this text provides insight into the methods by which these maledictions are passed down through generations, often seen as a reflection of ancestral sin or karmic retribution. From the ill-fated Animagus curses of the Eastern Archipelagos to blood debts among African tribes, Dr. Quill offers a chilling glimpse into the dark history of wixen families plagued by these malevolent legacies.”
A shiver ran down Albus's spine as he absorbed the description. The idea of inherited karma and ancestral sins lingered uncomfortably in his mind, as if stirring something deep within. His magic tingled faintly, almost as though the book was calling to him, urging him to explore its pages further.
“Found anything exciting?”
Albus nearly jumped; he hadn’t heard anyone walk up, nor any doors opening. The voice was melodic, rich with a subtle accent. He turned to see a striking young woman standing beside him, her dark hair cascading in soft waves and sharp, intelligent pale blue eyes that seemed to see right through him.
“I... I was just looking,” he stammered, feeling a flush of unease creep up his neck.
The young woman stepped a little closer, her presence magnetic yet oddly comforting. “Ah, Blood Maledictions, ” she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.
“Like I said, I was just looking,” Albus replied more sternly, attempting to brush off her interest.
“Non, mon petit . I’m sure your magic guided you to this book, hmm?” she said, her smile warm yet perceptive.
Albus fell silent, unsure how to respond. He had been so careful all summer to hide his interests, and now it felt as if he had unwittingly revealed everything.
Ella noticed his hesitation, her expression softening. “Do not fret; your secrets are safe with me.” Her voice was smooth, reassuring. “There is no evil magic, only minds that have yet to understand. All magic deserves exploration, don’t you think?”
With a gentle smile, she turned toward the counter. “Are you coming?” she asked, beckoning him to follow.
“I’ll put a Glamour Charm on the tome,” she continued, “so it will appear as a history book on the outside. I’ll also add a Disillusionment Charm to keep prying eyes away; these charms will only last until you go to Hogwarts, though.”
Albus smirked. “I assume there’s an extra cost to these?”
“Of course,” Ella replied with a playful smile, flicking her wand to make the book package itself in a shroud of shimmering light.
As Albus watched the book transform, he felt a spark of excitement ignite within him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in far too long. The oppressive weight that had clung to him began to lift, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility. Perhaps this encounter was the escape he’d been seeking, a doorway into a world where he didn’t have to pretend or fit into the narrow expectations of his family.
“Have you ever felt as though a book was waiting for you?” he asked, surprising himself with the openness of his question.
Ella turned, her pale blue eyes sparkling with understanding. “Absolutely. Books have their own magic, just like we do. They can sense when a soul is searching for something—answers, solace, or even darkness.”
Albus found himself leaning closer, drawn in by her words. “I’ve felt... disconnected lately. Like I’m wandering through life without purpose.”
“Ah, the shadow of expectation,” she mused, tilting her head. “You know, embracing the darkness isn’t always a bad thing. It can be illuminating, freeing even.”
Her words resonated within him, striking chords he hadn’t known were there. Albus felt a rush of adrenaline, a flicker of rebellion against the constraints he felt suffocating him. “What do you mean?”
“Just that sometimes,” Ella said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we find our truest selves in the shadows. That’s where the magic lies —where you can discover who you really are, not who others want you to be .”
Albus swallowed hard, feeling the stirrings of something deep and raw within him. A sense of camaraderie formed between them, the kind that felt electric, as if she was illuminating pathways within his mind he hadn’t dared to explore.
“What if I want to dive into the darkness?” he asked, emboldened. Hesitantly and vulnerable, he whispered the words, a dull sense of warning tugging at him for being so open. Yet, he felt an undeniable connection, as if he could trust this beautiful stranger.
“Then remember that this is always a place open for such inclinations, ” she replied, her voice warm and inviting, like a soft caress.
Ella's gaze held his, steady and reassuring, as if she were weaving a spell around him, binding him to her words. “Knowledge is power. To explore the darker aspects of magic is to understand not just the world around you, but also the world within you. It can reveal truths that light may blind you to.”
Her tone was earnest, but there was a playful edge to her smile that hinted at a deeper intrigue. Albus felt his heart race again, the unease that had once clouded his thoughts transforming into a fierce curiosity.
“Some would call that dangerous” he murmured.
She laughed softly, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space. "Ah, danger is merely a perspective, isn’t it? The real danger lies in ignorance, in denying what you desire to learn. If you seek knowledge, you must be willing to embrace all of it—the light, the dark, the chaos. ”
A shiver danced down his spine. He considered her proposition, weighing the thrill of delving into the unknown against the fear of the consequences, like he so previously had always considered, what Scorpius so often talked about. Her words resonated with the unvoiced questions he had carried all summer. The isolation he’d endured began to ebb, replaced by the promise of discovery.
“What if I want to learn more?” he found himself asking before he could stop himself. Barely above a whisper—
Ella’s expression shifted to one of intrigue and encouragement. "Then come back." and he found himself ensnared.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Exiting A's Athenæum, Albus felt a rush of exhilaration unlike anything he'd experienced before. His skin tingled with excitement, every nerve alive, humming with energy. He moved through the alley with a renewed sense of purpose, his school shopping suddenly infused with new vitality. It was as if he’d just shaken off the Imperius Curse, he felt like he was in control for the first time in months.
For the first time in a while, he truly noticed the world around him. Diagon Alley seemed different—tense, charged with something unspoken. The usual bustle had morphed into hushed whispers, people seemingly afraid to be overheard. A faint crackle of magic hung in the air, hinting at a brewing storm. Change was coming, and Albus could feel it.
His gaze drifted from face to face, picking up on the strained looks, the fleeting glances exchanged between witches and wizards. It was like the alley itself was holding its breath. As he continued down the cobblestone street, his attention was drawn to a gathering crowd near a small stage. Curiosity piqued, Albus edged closer, slipping into the throng.
On the stage stood a sharp-dressed wizard, his voice smooth and compelling as he addressed the crowd. Behind him, a banner unfurled with the words:
The New Traditionalist Party—Preserving Magic, Protecting Our Future .
The wizard was speaking with passion, gesturing dramatically. "The Muggles, they tear apart the earth, devouring its resources, poisoning the air and water we all depend on. And what happens when their greed goes unchecked? When their machines and their wars strip the world bare? Magic suffers—we suffer. They are blind to it, of course, but we wizards can feel it. The very magic of the earth is weakening! Ebbing away with every tree they fell! Every river they poison! Every mountain they mine!"
The crowd murmured in agreement, and Albus found himself perplexed, unable to look away.
The speaker continued, his voice rising with urgency–
"We do not call for war—no, we call for wisdom! For separation! It is time to stop pretending that Muggles and wizards can live side by side. Their greed, their destruction—these are not our ways! We must protect our world, preserve magic for future generations, and that means we cannot let the Muggle world continue unchecked!"
Albus’s mind raced. He remembered the train ride home, Nott and Bowker talking about a traditional movement. He recalled the Daily Prophet headline about the rise of the new Magical Traditionalist Movement sweeping through Europe—along with the muggle news about heat waves, his parents’ breakfast conversation, his and Rose' conversation— His Father's increased workload . It all hit him at once. He cursed himself for being so absent-minded. Fear began to creep in. He knew no one had yet noticed him, but what would they do if they did?
Dread curled in his stomach. He knew he needed to leave, to disappear before anyone recognized him–
Before he could act, a hand gripped his arm, yanking him into a nearby alley. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat as he recognized the figure dragging him away.
Nott slammed him against the wall, his posh voice dripping with mockery. “Potter, Merlin, you look like you’ve spent the summer in Azkaban. ”
“Hilarious,” Albus muttered, his tone flat.
The speaker’s voice grew louder in the background, but Albus couldn’t focus on the words. He was too aware of Nott’s grip, the intensity in his eyes.
"Muggles are drawn to power, are they not? They know, somewhere deep down, that they are missing something. That something is magic. And in their greed, their insatiable hunger for control, they will destroy anything they cannot have. Look at their history—wars, corporate empires, endless consumption. They crave what we possess. But we cannot let them destroy it. We must act, for the sake of magic itself!"
Nott’s expression shifted from his usual smugness to something more severe. He inspected Albus, as though trying to figure out what exactly he had been doing. “What on earth were you thinking, attending a New Traditionalist rally, Potter?” His words carried a mixture of shock and irritation, but his tone remained clipped and posh.
Albus pushed himself off the wall, straightening his posture. “It’s really none of your concern, Nott. Unless you tell me what you were doing there?” he replied with an amused sneer. How he loved these little social games—wasn’t it Fawley who called it ‘dancing’?
Nott shot him a withering look, but avoided the question. “Potter, you’re delusional if you think I’d associate with that lot.”
“I never made such claims, Nott.” Albus responded, feigning innocence.
Nott’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering. He crossed his arms, glancing back towards the crowd, where the speaker’s voice still rang out. “You’re not making claims, Potter, but you’ve got a way of looking for answers in all the wrong places.”
Albus smirked but could feel the tension rise between them. He maintained his calm façade. “I was simply intrigued. No harm in looking, is there?”
Nott's frustration showed as he stepped closer, closing the gap between them once again, forcing Albus’s back against the wall. “You should thank me for dragging you away, Potter. Not act so smug. Have you completely lost any sense of self-preservation?” His voice was colder, more biting. “Spent too long with a house full of lions? ””
Albus’s breath hitched as Nott’s grip on his arm tightened, his face mere inches away. It wasn’t painful, but it made Albus feel small, cornered. His heart raced, but he couldn’t let Nott see it. Not now.
“I don’t need your help , Nott,” Albus said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I’m not that delicate .”
Nott didn’t budge, his eyes narrowing as they flicked between Albus and the crowd behind them. “You think this is a joke? Merlin, Potter, wake up. That lot out there—if they realized who you were, it wouldn’t matter whether you’re on their side or not. They’d string you up for your father’s misdeeds.”
Albus glared, refusing to give Nott the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Nott scoffed, finally releasing him, though the tension between them remained palpable. “You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with, Potter. This—” he gestured towards the rally, “is far bigger than you think.”
Albus adjusted his robes, brushing off Nott’s words with a dismissive laugh. “I never asked for your opinion.”
“You didn’t need to,” Nott shot back, his voice sharp and clipped. “Things are changing, and fast. You might be in Slytherin, but the second they figure out you’re not on their side, you’ll be finished. All that talk about ‘preserving magic’? It’s only the beginning.”
Albus studied Nott, his mind spinning. He didn’t like being treated like he was clueless, but there was something unsettling in Nott’s tone—a mix of fear and urgency that made him wary.
“Why do you care?” Albus asked, quieter now, more curious than confrontational.
Nott hesitated, a flicker of something crossed his face before he replied, “Because I can’t afford to get dragged down by Harry Potter’s son .”
Albus scoffed. “Self-preservation, then?”
“Self-preservation, Potter, and a bit of common sense—something you clearly lack.” Nott’s voice hardened, irritation flashing across his features. “You’re playing with fiendfyre, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get burned.”
A dark satisfaction crept into Albus’s expression. “You seem overly concerned, Nott. More than just self-preservation. What if someone saw you dragging me away? What if your father saw?”
Nott’s face blanched, and for a brief moment, his mask slipped.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Nott snapped, stepping back as if Albus had burned him.
Albus’s smirk grew darker. He had hit a nerve. “Really? Because I’m starting to wonder if your father isn’t just interested in the New Traditionalist movement but perhaps even a driving force behind it.”
It was reckless—Albus had no idea if Nott’s father was so interconnected with the movement, he only had a small suspicion, but Nott’s reaction confirmed he had struck a chord. The mention of Nott’s father hit home, and the way Nott backed up made it clear Albus’s guess wasn’t far off the mark. Nott’s expression hardened, but his earlier confidence had cracked, just a little.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Nott said, his voice cold, though a shaky undertone betrayed him. “You don’t know a thing about my father.”
Albus shrugged, his smirk widening. He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Reckless, isn’t it? To play both sides. Must be exhausting.”
Nott’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and fear. For a moment, it looked like he would retaliate, maybe shove Albus against the wall again, but instead, he took a deep breath, trying to regain control.
“You’ve really lost it, haven’t you? I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s not going to end well for you.”
“There you are wrong. You see, I’m not playing; I’m not even on the board. I won’t let my father ”—he spat the word—“drag me into more of his issues.”
Nott's eyes narrowed, clearly unsettled by Albus's growing confidence. He studied Albus for a moment, trying to gauge how much he truly understood, how much was bluff. The air between them was thick and charged like a storm about to break.
“You’re not on the board ?” Nott repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s exactly what people say right before they’re swept up in it. You think you can just stay out of it, pretend it doesn’t concern you? You don’t get to choose, Potter . Not when your name carries that kind of weight.”
Albus sneered, stepping closer again, sensing he had the upper hand. “Do not worry your little head about it, Nott. I’m sure you’ve got bigger dementors to fight” he spit.
“Though—back to your father. It’s very interesting… I wonder if my father knows? Doesn’t your father work at the Ministry?” He felt a dark satisfaction as the mask on Nott’s face broke, if only for a brief moment. Nott’s expression twitched, the flicker of fear unmistakable.
Nott’s expression faltered, his eyes flickering with something close to panic. “Don’t you dare—”
“Do me a favor, Nott,” Albus said, his tone almost sweet now, stepping away from the wall and allowing Nott space to breathe.
“A favor?” Nott’s voice was thick with suspicion.
Albus smiled, casually adjusting his robes. “Just a simple one. I need a proxy to send a letter.”
“To who?”
“Scorpius,” Albus said smoothly, watching Nott closely. Nott’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t ask any more questions. He was too smart for that.
“You’re mad, Potter,” Nott muttered, shaking his head as he finally stepped away, casting one last wary glance at Albus before disappearing into the crowd.
Albus exhaled, feeling the weight lift slightly. He glanced toward the stage, the speaker’s words still echoing, but all he felt was irritation—irritation at Nott, at the rally, and, most of all, at himself for his father’s shadow that seemed to follow him everywhere.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
After his confrontation with Nott, Albus felt lighter, almost as if a forgotten part of himself had reawakened. The vibrant streets of Diagon Alley bustled with life, the crowd alive with energy. Thanks to his smaller frame, he slipped easily through clusters of people, avoiding the curious gazes of anyone who might recognize him. He was painfully aware of the ticking clock; he needed to finish his shopping before his family noticed his extended absence.
Albus made quick work of collecting his supplies, opting for pre-packaged kits that included everything required for the upcoming school term. He indulged himself, spending freely from his father’s vault. Each item disappeared into his extension-charmed bag, bringing a sense of satisfaction tinged with guilt as he passed Muggle-borns struggling under the weight of their uncharmed bags, oblivious to the magic easing his own load.
With his “Premium Ingredients” for second-year Potions safely stowed away, Albus made his way towards the bookstore, the final stop on his list. As he wandered through the shops, something shiny caught his eye—a pair of silver bracelets displayed in a window, radiating a subtle magic. They seemed to hum with significance, as though they promised something more profound than mere friendship. A flash of blonde hair crossed his mind, and before he knew it, he was stepping inside to examine the bracelets up close.
A shop assistant, no older than eighteen, approached with an eager smile. “Looking for something special?” she asked brightly, following his gaze to the bracelets.
Albus nodded, his eyes fixed on the jewelry.
“These are enchanted to heat up when the other is touched,” she explained. “They’re sold as a pair, meant to—”
“I want them,” Albus interrupted, his voice firm, though excitement buzzed under the surface.
The assistant hesitated. “They’re quite expensive and are typically—”
“I don’t care,” Albus cut her off, his impatience clear. “I want them.”
With a nod, she fetched the bracelets, guiding him to the counter. “Would you like one gift-wrapped?” she asked.
“Yes. Premium wrapping.” Albus barely paid attention to her as his mind wandered to Scorpius’s birthday. He’d initially planned to give him a rare book, but this felt more meaningful.
A smug grin tugged at his lips as he left the shop, the weight of the cost meaningless. His final stop was Flourish and Blotts, where he filled his basket with the best editions of his school books. He moved leisurely through the aisles, a title in the history section catching his eye: The Rise and Fall of the Wizarding Dynasties by Bathilda Bagshot. It seemed innocuous enough not to raise suspicion, so he added it to his pile.
He moved to the Charms section, picking up a few other books that piqued his interest. As he exited the bookstore, his foot caught on something, and he nearly tripped over a young Muggle-born boy, who had dropped his pile of secondhand books. Frustration flickered in Albus’s chest as he looked down at the flustered first-year, scrambling to pick up his scattered belongings. The laughter of nearby witches reached his ears, mocking the boy’s clumsiness.
“Idiot—definitely a Muggle-born!” one of them jeered, while others joined in the ridicule.
Albus sighed internally, feeling the weight of his family’s reputation press on him. He knelt to help the boy, forcing a smile. “Here you go,” he said, handing him the last book. “Be more careful next time.”
The boy looked up, gratitude mixed with embarrassment in his wide eyes. “Thanks,” he stammered.
Albus swallowed the urge to roll his eyes. "Are you a first-year?"
The boy nodded. “It’s all just... new,” he mumbled. “My parents are—”
“Muggles,” Albus finished for him. “Yeah, that’s what wixen calls non-magical people, which makes you a Muggle-born.”
The boy blinked, processing the unfamiliar term. “So, are you...?”
“I’m Half-blood,” Albus said nonchalantly. “Father’s side has some Muggle ancestry.”
“Oh,” the boy said, clearly trying to make sense of the social hierarchies of the magical world.
“You’ll get used to it. There’s always going to be someone judging you for your blood, but it’s best to ignore them. They’re no different from racists in the Muggle world.”
The boy nodded, looking somewhat reassured. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he admitted. “I thought everyone would be... welcoming.”
Albus shrugged. “Some are, but Hogwarts will sort itself out. Don’t worry, you’ll find your place.”
The boy brightened slightly, nodding in gratitude. “I’m Sam, by the way.”
“Albus. See you at Hogwarts, Sam.” Albus offered a brief smile before turning to leave, glancing back briefly. Something about the boy’s uncertainty tugged at him, but he brushed it off.
As he walked, a simmering irritation towards the fixation on blood purity welled up within him. It was absurd that something as arbitrary as blood could determine worth. Muggle-borns were like blank slates, untouched by magical society’s biases, open to learning and adapting in ways others couldn’t. Albus smirked at the thought.
“Who was that?” Lily’s voice startled him as she hurried to catch up, her eyes curious.
“Just a new first-year,” Albus replied with a grin. “You might end up sharing a house.”
Lily glanced at the boy, concern flickering in her expression. “He looked a bit lost.”
“He’s fine,” Albus said dismissively, though he could feel her lingering concern.
“Albus!” His mother approached, worry etched across her face. “You can’t just walk away like that!”
“Mom, please, it’s fine. I’m already done with all my shopping.”
“That’s not the issue. Albus, you can't walk around alone!” she insisted, glancing back at the bustling streets as if expecting trouble to leap out from behind the crowd.
Albus rolled his eyes. “Really, I’m fine.”
His mother sighed, clearly unconvinced. “Just be careful. You never know what could happen, especially with—”
“Especially with what?” Albus interrupted, curiosity piqued if his mother was going to mention the New Traditionalists.
Ginny opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it, sensing she had the attention of all three of her kids.
“Just promise me you won't do that again,” she urged, her eyes narrowing slightly, concern etched in her features.
“Got it, Mum. I’ll be careful.”
As they continued walking, James playfully punched Albus in the side before putting him in a semi-chokehold from behind. Albus maintained a neutral expression, despite the clear discomfort of his brother’s hold. Thanks to all that Quidditch practice, James had grown stronger and seemed oblivious to his own strength.
“You can’t just run off on me like that, mate,” James said casually, a teasing grin plastered across his face.
Albus rolled his eyes but kept his expression in a poised smile.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Mother, Father, could I have a word with you?” Albus’s voice was calm, almost distant, as he stood at the entrance to the drawing room where his parents sat.
"Sure, Al! No need to be so polite," Harry replied, but Albus didn’t acknowledge the familiar warmth in his father’s tone. He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor, and made his way to the armchair across from them, sitting down without lifting his gaze. He kept himself at a deliberate distance, choosing the chair farthest from the fireplace where his parents sat together on the couch.
“I want you to reconsider your decision... about my friendship with Scorpius,” he said, his tone flat, nearly emotionless. He didn’t look up, his eyes fixed somewhere on the lower part of his mother’s face, avoiding anything more personal.
“I thought you'd be over that by now,” Harry's voice cut through the room, sharper than he intended. Albus didn’t react, keeping his face blank and composed, though his fingers dug into the arms of the chair, tightening their grip.
“I just want you to reconsider,” he repeated, his voice tight but controlled. “I did what you told me. I distanced myself, and it was hard.” His knuckles whitened as his fingers pressed harder into the armrests. “That’s why I’m asking again. Please... think about my feelings this time.”
Harry’s expression softened, but tension remained in his posture as he leaned back, crossing his arms defensively. Ginny’s brow furrowed, her gaze darting between the two, but she said nothing.
“Al... it's not that easy,” Harry said after a pause. “The situation’s even more tense now than during the second term.”
“Are you talking about politics? What does that have to do with me and Scorpius?” Albus asked, his tone still devoid of warmth, as though the conversation wasn’t truly his concern.
Ginny’s voice broke through, soft but unsure. “It’s not Scorpius we’re worried about, Al. It’s... it’s his family. We just want to keep you safe.” Her words were laced with hesitation, but Albus only sank further into his seat, as if the weight of her worry meant little to him.
“What if you met him?” Albus asked quietly, his voice more measured than hopeful. He shifted slightly, glancing up briefly before lowering his gaze again. “Maybe if you got to know him, you’d see him differently. I could write to him, invite him over. You could meet him here.”
“That will not happen, Al,” Harry responded, his tone firm.
Albus’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked briefly to his father, then to his mother, searching her face with a silent, distant plea.
Ginny’s heart twisted at the sight of him—her son sitting there, so controlled, so closed off. His posture spoke more than his words, the way he held himself so stiff, so detached. She glanced at Harry again, but the silence stretched unbearably.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Ginny finally said, leaning forward slightly, her voice gentle. “Your dad and I will reconsider, seeing how much this means to you.” She forced a small smile, though Albus’s eyes didn’t lift to meet it. “But we need you to accept whatever decision we make, okay?”
Albus’s expression barely shifted. His eyes flickered, a fleeting moment of acknowledgment, but the lingering doubt in his gaze never left. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice distant, as though rehearsed. There was no relief, no hope—just a nod, as if he were conceding rather than agreeing.
Ginny reached out, placing a hand gently on his knee, but the gesture felt hollow against the space between them. “We just want what’s best for you, Al.”
“So I’ve heard, countless times,” Albus replied softly, without any trace of spite. His gaze dropped back to the floor, his face betraying nothing. The weight of the conversation still hung heavily in the air, like a storm waiting to break.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Later that evening, as the soft glow of the fire flickered in the drawing room, Ginny sat quietly beside Harry, who was leafing through the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. Yet, her mind drifted far from the cozy space wrapped in warmth and familiarity. The earlier conversation with Albus lingered, the unease in his eyes haunting her. His sadness clung to him like a shadow, evident in the way his shoulders had slumped and how he barely met their gazes. The weight of it pressed heavily on her heart.
The winter holidays had been tough, but when Albus had returned home, there had been a spark in his eyes—a glimmer of joy that lit him up, especially when he spoke about Scorpius. Now, after a term of enforced distance, that spark had dimmed to a flicker, and Ginny couldn’t shake the guilt settling in her chest. Had they truly made the right decision?
She could never fully trust the Malfoys. How could she? Their history was marred by sneers and insults, a bitter legacy that made her skin crawl. Even though Draco had distanced himself from the darkness of his family's past, the scars remained; some things could never be forgiven. She respected the Malfoys' loyalty to family, but their methods were unforgivable. The stinging memories of being called a blood traitor for her father’s work at the Ministry and the taunts aimed at her Muggle-born friends still echoed in her mind.
The thought that Albus might be influenced by the same twisted ideals filled her with dread. He was already vulnerable, ensconced in Slytherin, surrounded by children whose families had stood on the wrong side of the war. Death Eater legacies, pureblood heirs—Ginny couldn’t bear the idea of her son being swept into that world.
Yet, how could she ignore the change in Albus since they’d forced him to pull away? That summer had brought a flicker of hope after their visit to The Burrow; Albus had played with James and Rose like the little boy he used to be. But as tension in the wizarding world grew, so had the demands on Ginny and Harry’s time. They were consumed by work and politics, leaving Albus feeling increasingly isolated.
James was always out, reconnecting with friends, and Lily basked in the last remnants of her Muggle childhood at summer camp. But Albus? Day after day, Ginny returned home to find him curled beneath his blanket, curtains drawn, retreating further into shadows. This wasn’t just sadness—it was complete withdrawal. The familiar ache of helplessness gnawed at her, reminding her of the Albus she had seen struggle before but had never seen this profoundly lost.
She had asked James about Scorpius, fishing for insights. Though James hadn’t met him, he painted a picture of a boy who made Albus light up in a way that others couldn’t. The guilt of having taken that away gnawed at Ginny. Had they been too harsh? By forcing Albus to distance himself, they had hoped to protect him, but all they had done was leave him more isolated than ever.
Sitting in the quiet room, Ginny felt her heart ache with doubt. Terrified of the consequences of their decisions, she whispered into the heavy silence, “He’s clearly upset, Harry. Maybe we were too harsh in forcing him to distance himself from that Malfoy boy.”
Harry looked up from the paper, the crease of concern etched on his brow. “He just looked so... sad,” Ginny continued, her voice softening. “I thought he’d be happier after spending the summer with family, but now it feels like something’s been missing all along.”
The flames crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room. “I think it’s Scorpius. He’s been worse since we made him stop seeing him,” she admitted, a tremor of worry threading through her words.
Harry sighed, running a hand over his face, revealing the strain etched in his features. “Seems that boy had more influence than we originally thought. Even though Albus is clearly in pain, I don't believe we made the wrong choice.”
Ginny nodded, her heart heavy with understanding. “I get that, but seeing how much this friendship meant to him... I wonder if keeping them apart was really the right thing.”
The fire crackled in response, a reminder of their struggle as Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re against him or that we don’t trust him to make his own decisions. Maybe we need to reconsider.”
“It hurts me too, seeing him like this,” Harry confessed, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “Honestly, it broke my heart—the way he talked was so polite, distant.” Harry glanced into the flames, the flickering light reflecting the turmoil in his eyes.
“I wonder where that little boy went. Sure, he had always been more closed off, shy. But now it’s different.”
Harry leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the flames as if searching for answers. “I wonder where I went wrong. Why can’t he see that we only want to protect him?”
“I miss that little boy. I wonder where he went. I wonder if we somehow made him disappear,” Ginny said, barely above a whisper.
“We can't believe that. There has to be some kind of influence we are not aware of.”
“I'm not sure, Harry. Maybe it is really him? Maybe we just need to accept him?”
“No, that can't be. I don’t—Ginny, the thing he said during Christmas, it was like it was someone else. You don't change like that so quickly.”
“Maybe we can ask someone else?”
“Who? Albus is so closed off.”
“Scorpius. The Malfoys.” Ginny suggested, her voice low yet hopeful. “You’ve always been great at judging others, at sensing if something’s off. Maybe we really should try harder— for Albus. ”
Harry’s gaze met hers, and she could see the conflict in his eyes. Years of mistrust and a long history between their families clashed with the fierce love he felt for their son. “For Albus,” she repeated softly, her gaze steady. “I don’t want him to keep feeling like this. If it means talking to the Malfoys, maybe it’s worth it. At least we’d know more about what’s really going on.”
Harry sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture familiar and grounding. “It’s not easy, Gin. Especially with the new tensions in the wizarding world and the rise of this new traditionalist party. I somehow think the Malfoys are connected.”
Ginny’s heart quickened. “Really? You think Draco is part of it?”
“I’m not saying he is the one behind it, yet we know how the Malfoys usually operate.”
“Through funds.”
“Exactly,” Harry said grimly.
“And it makes sense then, why Draco would try to get our boys to become friends, so they could somehow use him against us.”
“You really think so?” Ginny said with a concerned voice.
Harry nodded and continued
“We don't have proof. But like that last traditionalist rally, I have become more suspicious.”
Ginny gulped. “I was so scared that day —when Albus somehow got away in Diagon Alley and I couldn't find him. There was a big rally—that turned violent. ”
“Yes, I remember. I needed to send some Aurors over; we did seize a few individuals that day.” Harry's face turned to anger. “But we had to let them go. We didn't have enough evidence to hold them.”
“I fear for our children even more now. That this will affect them.”
“We won't let that happen. Always vigilant, right? Therefore, we can't let that Malfoy boy gain more influence. Albus is still young; he will get over it.”
“He won’t like this,” Ginny said sadly. “But you're right. What matters most is their safety.”
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen window, its warm rays illuminating the space, but Harry felt as if he hadn’t truly seen it at all. He had been awake for hours, tossing and turning in bed, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and fears. The weight of the previous night’s conversation with Ginny clung to him, a suffocating reminder as he attempted to prepare breakfast.
Standing at the stove, the sizzle of bacon and the aroma of frying eggs filled the air, but Harry hardly registered the comforting scents. His movements were mechanical, driven by a desperate need to stay busy rather than any sense of routine. He felt utterly drained, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the restless night he had endured.
As the children began to shuffle in, Harry forced a smile, but it felt brittle on his lips. James was the first to enter, yawning widely as he plopped down at the table. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep as he glanced at the spread before him.
“Your favorites,” Harry replied, attempting to infuse some enthusiasm into his tone. “Bacon, eggs, and toast.”
“Brilliant!” James grinned, eagerly loading his plate, his excitement momentarily brightening the atmosphere.
Lily followed, her hair a wild mess of tangles. “Did you make pancakes, Dad?” she asked hopefully, her eyes sparkling with expectation.
“No pancakes today, but there’s plenty of everything else,” Harry said, pouring her a glass of juice. The brightness of her smile was a small comfort, yet it did little to ease the tension building in his chest.
Ginny was the last to enter, her gaze immediately landing on Harry. She noticed the exhaustion etched into his features and the subtle slump of his shoulders. Offering him a small, knowing smile as she tied her hair back, she settled into her seat at the table.
Albus took his place between his siblings, his head bowed, looking as worn out as Harry felt. There was always a heaviness about him in the mornings, but today it felt more pronounced, as if the weight of the entire world had settled on his slight frame.
Ginny cleared her throat gently, her tone carefully warm as she broke the silence. “So, Al, as you asked, we’ve thought about your request.” Her voice was steady, yet Harry could sense the tension rippling beneath the surface.
Albus’s eyes flicked up, though he remained silent, an unspoken storm brewing behind his gaze.
Ginny took a breath, her hand resting on the table as she spoke carefully. “We’ve thought long and hard about this, Albus. But with everything going on in the wizarding world right now, we don’t think it’s safe for you to see him anymore. We need you to keep your distance from Scorpius.”
The room seemed to still, the quiet settling around them like a thick blanket. Albus stiffened, his jaw clenched, tension radiating off him. “Of course,” he said, sarcasm creeping into his tone as he struggled to keep his eyes from rolling.
Harry leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “I don’t like that tone, Al. You agreed to accept our decision, whatever it would be.”
Albus’s eyes were dull, almost lifeless as they met his father’s gaze. “You can't blame me for being upset.”
Lily and James exchanged uneasy glances, shifting in their seats as they watched their brother with concern. The tension was suffocating, pressing down on them all as the conversation hung precariously on the edge of something more explosive, clearly anticipating another outburst.
“Albus,” Ginny interjected softly, reaching out to touch his hand. “We know how much he means to you, but sometimes friends can lead us down dangerous paths. We’re trying to protect you, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
“I get it,” Albus replied, his tone devoid of emotion. “I will continue to keep my distance.”
James shot him a pointed look from across the table, but Albus ignored it, his focus solely on his plate. The silence that followed was thick, and for a moment, it seemed as if his parents had expected more resistance—more of a fight. But Albus remained quiet, returning to his toast.
Sensing the absence of an argument, Ginny slowly relaxed her shoulders, exhaling as though she had been holding her breath for too long. She exchanged a brief glance with Harry, who, despite her relief, looked far from reassured.
Harry turned his gaze to Albus, searching for any sign of what was truly going on behind those tired eyes.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The evening sunset cast a warm, golden glow through the bedroom window, but Harry felt as if the warmth had eluded him all day. He lay on one side, surrounded by scattered work documents and books, while Ginny sat nearby, engrossed in a novel. The gentle rustle of pages turning contrasted sharply with the weight of worry pressing down on Harry's chest.
“He’s never that accepting, Ginny,” he murmured, glancing at her, hoping for a hint of reassurance.
“Maybe he’s finally come to terms with it,” Ginny reasoned, her eyes still fixed on her book. “We can’t fault him for listening to us.”
“It just feels a bit suspicious…” Harry trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought.
“Like last Christmas? Yes, I see your point. But I think this could be a good change for him, Harry,” she replied, finally meeting his gaze, her expression a blend of hope and concern.
“It feels like he’s distancing himself even more,” Harry said, his voice tinged with anxiety. Just as Ginny opened her mouth to respond, a knock echoed through the door, breaking the tense atmosphere.
“Come in!” Ginny called sweetly, instinctively putting her book aside.
The door creaked open, and James stepped inside, his expression betraying a swirl of emotions. He walked over to the bed and climbed in between his parents, the familiar comfort of their presence momentarily easing his anxiety. Harry’s arm instinctively wrapped around him, drawing him closer, while Ginny exchanged a knowing glance with Harry.
“Long time since you did this, huh?” Harry said, a grin breaking through the worry etched on his face.
“I almost thought you were too old for that now!” Ginny teased lightly, her tone playful.
James laughed softly, but the ease in his demeanor faded, replaced by something more vulnerable. He shifted, the weight of his unspoken words palpable in the air.
“Mom... Dad... I have to tell you something, but before I do—” he paused, taking a shaky breath, the vulnerability in his eyes growing. “Please don’t get mad at me or Al. I don’t want to make things more difficult.”
Ginny leaned in, her expression softening with concern. “James, whatever it is, we’ll listen. We just want you to be honest with us.”
Harry kept his hand on James’s shoulder, a steady presence. “We won’t get mad. We just need to understand.”
James nodded, the conflict evident on his face. “Al… he hasn’t been honest with you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And neither have I.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, but she remained silent, encouraging him to continue.
“I’m sorry,” James rushed out, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve been feeling so guilty about it for a while. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I was afraid—afraid Al would pull away again, and... and that he’d never let me see him!” The words spilled out in a frantic rush, the pressure of keeping secrets weighing heavily on him.
Ginny’s brows furrowed, confusion growing. “Wait, James—you’re not making sense,” she said softly, her voice laced with concern. “Just slow down.”
Sensing his son’s distress, Harry tousled James’s hair gently, a comforting gesture. “Breathe,” he encouraged, his tone steady.
James took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing. “Albus... he didn’t distance himself from Scorpius like you asked. They’ve been hanging out all term,” he confessed, guilt flooding his words. “I confronted him about it, but... he made me promise not to tell you. After the Christmas holiday, I just—” James paused, his voice trembling. “I was afraid to lose him again, so I kept quiet.”
Ginny sat back, her expression a mix of surprise and sadness. “James…” she began softly, her voice filled with empathy.
Harry remained quiet for a moment, processing the information. His hand stayed on James’s shoulder, a gentle, comforting presence. “You didn’t want to betray your brother,” he said quietly. “I understand that.”
James’s voice steadied as he spoke, tears brimming in his eyes. “I didn’t want to lie anymore, especially if you think it’s unsafe. I care so much for him… I just want him to be safe,” he said, his determination evident. “But Albus… he’s hiding something. I can tell. Something happened this term. I don’t want to say he’s changed—more like something’s shifted.”
Ginny’s expression softened as she listened, though her concern was palpable. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier, Jamie?” she asked gently.
James hesitated, biting his lip. “Honestly? I think he had a point… You two don’t know how it was for Al last time. I barely do, but I saw how the others treated him. And I saw how close he and Scorpius seemed to be. Honestly, I was jealous—there was this understanding between them. Just these glances, grins, and small touches that you’d miss if you weren’t really looking.”
He took a shaky breath. “After I confronted him, he was just… so good at making me feel guilty, at making me want to take his side.”
Ginny’s eyes widened slightly, and Harry’s jaw tightened, concern deepening in both their expressions.
“He made it seem like no one else could understand him, like Scorpius was the only one who did,” James continued, frustration creeping into his voice. “I didn’t want to betray him, but now… I don’t know. I’m worried. I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
Harry let out a slow breath, exchanging a glance with Ginny before turning back to James. “You’re right to be concerned, James. We need to understand what’s really going on between them. But more than anything, we need to make sure Al knows we’re here for him.”
Ginny reached for James’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for telling us,” she said softly. “We’ll figure this out, and we’ll do our best to help Al. But you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
James’s voice trembled with uncertainty but grew resolute. “I don’t want you to confront him, Mum and Dad. I think that’ll just make everything worse. I’m sure he’ll keep seeing Scorpius this term, and... I want him to feel like he can trust me, so he can tell me what’s really going on. But I also don’t want to lie to you.”
He paused, searching their faces. “Can you trust me? To keep an eye on him? If anything happens, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
Ginny exchanged a look with Harry, her concern clear. She wanted to protect both her sons, but James’s earnest plea tugged at her heart. She sighed softly, reaching out to place a hand on James’s shoulder.
“We do trust you, Jamie,” she said gently but firmly. “But this is a lot of responsibility. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
James nodded, though the weight of the situation was evident. “I just… I feel like I’m the only one who can get through to him right now.”
Harry, who had been silent, spoke up, calm yet serious. “We trust you, son. But you need to understand—if something feels off, if Al’s in real danger, you can’t carry this alone. You come to us, no matter what.”
James swallowed hard and nodded. “I will.”
Ginny leaned in, pressing a kiss to James’s forehead. "That’s my little lion, always so brave and caring," she said fondly, her voice warm with affection.
Harry nodded in agreement, a soft smile forming on his lips. "I’m proud of you, James. It takes a lot of bravery to be honest with us like this."
James smiled, though tension still lingered in his shoulders. “Thanks, Dad. I just... I want to do the right thing.”
Ginny smoothed a hand through his hair, her eyes filled with both pride and concern. “You are, sweetheart. And we’re here for you, every step of the way.”
James gave a small nod, the weight of the conversation lingering, but for the first time in days, he felt a little lighter.
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Notes:
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Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen - The Hogwarts Express
Notes:
Hi everyone! Thank you all for your kind comments <3 this will be a short chapter, i hope you dont mind too much! i will try and upload the next chapter early next week!!
Chapter Text
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Chapter Fourteen - The Hogwarts Express
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Sep 1. 2018
Albus boarded the train alongside his siblings and cousins but soon slipped away, wandering through the corridors in search of that familiar silver-blonde hair. His breath caught when he spotted Scorpius sitting alone in an empty compartment, a book in hand. The usually bright expression on Scorpius’s face had been replaced by a somber look that felt so out of place. Concern flickered in Scorpius’s eyes as he noticed Albus, and a sudden rush of emotion surged through him—Without thinking, Albus yanked open the compartment door a bit too forcefully, startling Scorpius.
“Albus!” Scorpius exclaimed, his book slipping slightly from his grasp.
Albus dropped his trunk to the floor with a thud, almost throwing it aside, before lunging forward to pull Scorpius into a tight hug. For a moment, Scorpius froze, shock evident on his face, before melting into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Albus as if he had been waiting for it. The familiar scent of old books mixed with a faint hint of something floral and vanilla filled Albus's senses, grounding him in the warmth of their friendship.
“Whoa, Albus! You scared me!” Scorpius chuckled, pulling back slightly to look at him. The somberness that had clouded his expression earlier faded into a small smile, though a trace of concern lingered in his pale blue eyes. “You almost knocked me off my seat.”
Albus laughed, the weight of the summer's loneliness lifting. “Sorry. I just—I missed you.”
Scorpius's eyes softened, and Albus seized the moment to really study him. Scorpius had grown a bit over the summer; his features were sharper, and his voice had deepened slightly.
In that instant, Albus felt he could stay in his best friend's arms forever. All his dark thoughts seemed to melt away in the warmth of Scorpius's kind gaze.
“You've grown a bit, Albus,” Scorpius said warmly, lifting his hand to tuck some of Albus's wild dark locks behind his ear. “Especially your hair!” he added with a grin, making a flush creep up Albus's face.
Albus became slightly more aware of their proximity, and then the train suddenly lurched around a curve, sending them tumbling. Scorpius fell back into his seat, and Albus landed on top of him, both startled. Scorpius's hands instinctively found their way to Albus's waist, holding him protectively, steadily, while Albus placed his hands on the other's shoulders, one of his legs awkwardly resting on the compartment seat amidst Scorpius'.
Albus shyly met Scorpius's gaze, who seemed equally aware of their position and flashed a grin. Albus let out a nervous laugh as he steadied himself and plopped down in the opposite seat. “Did you like your birthday present?” he asked hesitantly, still feeling his heart race from their previous closeness as he turned his gaze out the window.
“I did, Albus! Of course I did!” Scorpius replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper by the end.
Albus turned back to study him closely. “Scorp?” he asked, concern creeping into his tone as he noted Scorpius’s conflicted expression.
Scorpius looked at him with such determination that it sent a shiver down Albus's spine, filling his stomach with butterflies. “Albus—”
Before Scorpius could say anything more, the compartment door slid open again, revealing Rose with James right behind her.
“There you are, mate!” James grinned, practically bounding into the room. Rose, however, shot an unimpressed look at Scorpius, who shifted in his seat, annoyance creeping in.
Rose flopped down beside Albus, leaving James to sit next to Scorpius, who exchanged an uneasy glance with Albus, clearly less than thrilled with the new company.
Albus sighed inwardly, giving Scorpius an apologetic glance.
“James, this is Scorpius,” Albus said, trying to sound casual, though his voice was tight with frustration. “Scorpius, this is my brother.” He hoped Scorpius wouldn’t be offended by the lack of a formal introduction.
Scorpius stretched out his hand toward James, who looked at it before shaking it. “Hey, Scorp! I’ve heard so much about you, y’know.” He grinned, oblivious to the appalled grimace Scorpius tried to suppress. “Our Al here really doesn’t stop talking about you, does he?”
He glanced at Rose, who responded with an amused huff, then looked to Albus, whose death glare could’ve melted stone. But James was relentless.
“You see, our little Albie has been heartbroken all summer 'cause he couldn’t see you—”
“Shut it, James!” Albus snapped, his face heating up instantly. “I was not heartbroken.”
Rose shot Albus a smirk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, no, of course not. You were just severely depressed that your lo—”
Albus immediately slapped his hand over her mouth, his face now beet red. Rose licked his hand in retaliation, causing him to jerk back in disgust. “Ugh, Rose! Gross! How old are you?”
“Says the one who’s too embarrassed to admit—” she began, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
“Please, Rose, stop! Or I’ll leave!”
Rose chuckled. “Really? You’d leave your darling little snake alone with us lions?” she gave a dangerous grin—
Scorpius glanced nervously between Albus and his family, trying to figure out where to jump in. “Well—”
“I’m Rose, by the way,” she interrupted sharply. “But I won’t be shaking your hand, even if our Al likes you. You’re still a Malfoy, so don’t expect us to be friends. I’m barely tolerating your presence as it is—you should be thanking Albus.”
James groaned dramatically, giving Rose an exasperated look. “Rose! Would it really hurt you to be a bit more kind for once?”
Albus shot her a look of disbelief, but considering Rose's usual sharpness, this was practically a win. “Are you two going to sit here the entire ride?” he asked, the hope that they’d leave clear in his voice.
James smirked, picking up on Albus’s discomfort. “What, Albie? Want to be alone with blondie over here?”
“Of course he does, Jamie,” Rose chimed in, her smirk wicked. “I’m sure they’ll get really chummy after a whole summer of not seeing each other–” she tossed her hair behind her shoulder.
James gasped dramatically, as if the thought had just struck him. “Rose! They’re way too young to be snogging! I won’t allow this! Not as your brother, Albus! I forbid you to be the first one to snog!”
Albus groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please just shut up before I actually hex you.”
“We all know you won’t, Albie—not just because you suck—” James teased, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated mimicry of Albus's usual expression.
Beyond annoyed, Albus muttered the incantation for a Stinging Hex, and to his surprise, it actually hit James square in the shoulder.
“Ow! Hey, I was joking!” James exclaimed, though his grin never faded.
Scorpius jumped to his feet, beaming with excitement. “Albus! Was that the first time you actually succeeded with that spell?”
The genuine enthusiasm in Scorpius's voice deepened the flush on Albus’s face. His best friend’s innocence made him feel oddly self-conscious, especially under the silent gaze of both James and Rose, who were now watching the exchange with raised eyebrows.
“Well, blimey!” James interrupted, rubbing his shoulder where the hex had hit. “Guess I’m a great teacher!”
Albus groaned, glaring at James as he tried to ignore the embarrassed warmth creeping up his neck.
Then the door flung open again, revealing two more redheads. “There you are!” a voice called out, belonging to their little sister, Lily, who stood dramatically in the middle of the compartment, pointing at Scorpius. Scorpius nearly winced at the sudden attention.
“So that’s him?” piped up a smaller voice from behind her—Hugo, peeking in with wide eyes.
Lily grinned excitedly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yes! That’s the boy who has my brother under compulsion! Clearly the use of a love potion!” she declared with such confidence that James and Rose burst out laughing.
Scorpius looked mortified, his pale complexion flushing crimson. Albus considered jumping out of the window to escape the embarrassment.
“I would never!” Scorpius stammered, nervously glancing from Lily to Albus, who was now staring longingly out the window, desperate to avoid the situation. “Not that I don’t like you, Albus! I mean, I wouldn’t use a— ”
Albus buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Merlin! Lily, please stop!”
Rose was still in stitches, tears forming in her eyes. “You’ve got to admit, Al, you are acting like you’re under some kind of spell.”
“Yeah, mate!” James chimed in between snickers. “Can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?”
Scorpius, now redder than any of the Weasley’ hair, mumbled incoherently, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. Albus groaned again, desperately trying to regain even a shred of dignity.
Rose crossed her arms, rolling her eyes in amusement. “Really, both of you are beet red.”
Hugo snickered from behind. “So you mean it's actually true then?”
Albus glared at his younger cousin. “No! Scorpius and I are just friends!” His gaze darted to Scorpius, stammering, “Scorp! I’m sorry, my family… they’re just joking—” His voice trailed off as he caught the amused stares of James and Rose.
Before he could say anything else, Lily piped up, her face scrunched in genuine confusion. “I wasn’t joking though?”
The room fell silent for a moment, everyone staring at Lily in stunned disbelief. Then, like a dam breaking, Rose and James erupted into laughter, loud and uncontrollable. James was nearly doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping between bouts of laughter. Rose wiped tears from her eyes while her body shook so hard it looked like she might fall from her seat.
Scorpius, still blushing, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly wishing to disappear. He glanced at Albus, who threw his hands up in frustration.
"Honestly, will you lot just leave?" Albus snapped, his patience thinning with each passing second.
Rose, still chuckling, took a deep breath. "Not a chance. You’re our entertainment for the ride."
James leaned back with a playful shrug. "Yeah, Al. It’s not every day we get to watch you blush like a tomato over your little snake friend."
Hugo chimed in, his grin wide. “But Albie, we’re having so much fun! You’re really going to kick us out?”
Albus groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m serious! It’s not funny.”
Scorpius, trying to salvage some dignity, cleared his throat. “Honestly, it’s fine, Albus. They’re just… joking,” he said, though his voice wavered.
James smirked, leaning closer to Scorpius with mischief in his eyes. “You sure, Scorpy? You’ve got that ‘Deer-in-the-headlights’ look. It’s cute. I can see why Albie—”
Before he could finish, Albus lunged at him, fueled by embarrassment. “Shut up, James!” he groaned, tackling his older brother, who let out a playful scream as they crashed onto the floor, limbs tangling in a messy scuffle.
James, despite his teasing, didn’t put up much of a fight at first. He knew all too well how Albus could be when worked up. Albus, however, was unrelenting, landing punches harder than usual, fueled by pent-up frustration.
"Oi, Al! ease up! " James chuckled, dodging a swing aimed at his shoulder. "What’s the matter, Albie? Don’t like me complimenting your boyfriend?" James grinned.
That did it.
Albus’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his fists tightening. He wanted to wipe that smirk off James’s face, but James was quicker, pinning Albus down with ease.
"Alright, alright, you win, mate!" James declared, holding Albus down effortlessly. "Feelin’ better now?" looking down at his brother with a grin.
Albus, panting, glared up at his brother, flushed with both exertion and embarrassment. “No,” he spat, wriggling to free himself, though it was useless.
Scorpius sat frozen, wide-eyed, shifting uncomfortably between concern and awkwardness.
Hugo, with a mischievous grin, broke the chaos. “Now, why don’t we channel all this energy into a game of Exploding Snap? Let’s make it interesting—how about some bets? ”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Hugo, how many times have I said—”
Hugo interrupted, undeterred. “No bets, I get it! But Rose! We're at Hogwarts now—”
Lily laughed, plopping down next to Scorpius and glancing at her two brothers still tangled on the floor. “Dummy, we’re not there yet! We’re on a train!”
Hugo rolled his eyes, unfazed. “I know that, Lils! I just meant we’re not at home anymore! It's the bigger picture!”
James, catching his breath, glanced at Albus with a teasing smirk. “Look at that! Your bad personality has even affected our dear younger cousin! He’s doing your eye roll!”
Albus shot back, “Shut it, James! We all know he takes after your childish pranks more!”
James feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “Childish? Me? Never! I prefer to think of them as… strategically creative!” He winked at Scorpius, who couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity.
Hugo nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I’m just following in the legendary footsteps of our family! Keeping the tradition alive.”
Rose rolled her eyes again, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Legendary? More like a family curse.”
"Oh, on the topic of pranks, I actually have something planned together with Louis—" Lily’s eyes lit up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face that almost bordered on maniacal as she rubbed her hands together.
Albus rolled his eyes at her excitement, which earned him an amused look from Rose. "Lils, please don’t. I don’t want to be an accomplice to any crimes," he replied, feigning exasperation.
James leaned in, eyes glinting with interest. "Oh, this I’ve got to hear! What’s the plan? Please tell me it involves something explosive!"
Lily gave a dramatic sigh, clearly relishing the attention. “Alright, fine! If you win a round, I’ll tell you all about the plan,” she declared, throwing a cheeky smile at James. then turned a conspiratical glance toward Hugo.
Hugo waved the cards in the air, chiming eagerly, “Also, a minimum bet of at least one Galleon! What do you say? ”
Rose raised an eyebrow. “That’s too high! Lower it to a few Sickles.”
Hugo rolled his eyes dramatically. “Why? We’re all rich, aren’t we?”
Just then, the compartment door swung open again. “There you are, Potter,” came a poised, posh voice that silenced the rowdy compartment. Fawley stood at the entrance, looking impeccably polished as always.
Albus glanced up from beneath his brother, still on the floor—clearly taken aback by her sudden appearance and embarrassed for his current position. He quickly threw James off, who also looked surprised–Albus composed himself and flashed an appropriate smile. “Fawley! To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said with practiced grace.
Fawley looked down upon him amusingly, and let a small grin be glimpsed on her face. Albus felt his cheeks heat up even more.
Scorpius and Albus’ cousins exchanged glances, the latter half looking suspiciously between Albus and Fawley.
Ignoring the rest of the siblings entirely, Fawley offered a quick, elegant nod to Scorpius. “Malfoy,” she greeted.
“Fawley,” Scorpius replied, his tone measured, trying to gauge her intentions.
“Potter,” she said, her gaze now fixed on Albus, causing all three siblings to turn in unison. “Let’s have a private chat, shall we?”
Albus gave his cousins and siblings an assuring look, trying to quell the curiosity brewing among them, before reluctantly following Fawley out of the compartment.
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As they stepped into an empty one, Fawley elegantly kicked out the two first-years who had been seated there, sending them scurrying away with wide eyes.
“Honestly, what is it with first-years and their astonishing sense of entitlement?” she remarked with a wry smile as the door closed behind them, her voice dripping with a refined amusement.
Albus watched warily as Fawley waved her wand, casting an anti-eavesdropping charm and locking the door with a swift flick. With an effortless motion with her wand, she drew the curtains across the compartment, shrouding them in privacy.
He regarded her with suspicion. “I thought you weren’t going to talk to me this term?”
Fawley settled herself onto the plush seat with an air of grace, her expression one of playful amusement. “The situation has changed, and I find myself questioning whether you will manage on your own after all.”
Albus rolled his eyes. “Really, Fawley? You think I believe that?” Yet despite his words, a warmth spread through him at the notion that the older girl actually cared.
“Of course you should believe it,” she replied, her tone teasing yet sincere. “After all, you are my favorite first-year. Don’t you want to know who will become the new king?”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “So the choice is already made?” he asked, trying to mask his curiosity. The words slipped out before he could stop himself, revealing just how invested he was in the conversation.
Fawley leaned back, a smirk playing on her lips as she regarded him with a mix of amusement and intrigue. “Oh, it’s not as simple as that, Potter. The game is far more complex than merely declaring a king.” She paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. “There are alliances to be formed, reputations to uphold, and, of course, a delicate balance of power to maintain.”
Her expression shifted, her eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. “But yes, it is already decided: The new king is Burke.”
Albus felt a rush of relief wash over him, and he realized he must have let that slip through his mask.
“Don’t be so relieved, Potter,” Fawley said sternly, her voice cutting through his moment of triumph. “I know that Burke acted as your mentor last term, but that was only because Nott held him in check. You see, that was actually a punishment for Burke.”
Albus looked shocked at this new information. “I thought—”
Fawley stopped him with a raised hand. “I’m well aware of your assumptions. But, Potter, you need to know that Burke will make you wish for Dementor.”
Albus let his confusion show, and Fawley rolled her eyes dramatically. “Really, Potter? I had anticipated a far superior response from you. Pray tell, what on earth have you been doing all summer? How can you possibly act so utterly surprised? Morgana, what would you be without my guidance?”
Albus let out a frustrated groan and sat down opposite her. “I—”
Fawley’s expression softened slightly, revealing a hint of compassion. “Do refrain, Potter.” At that, Albus felt his gaze drawn to hers, and before he could react, he sensed an intrusion into his mind—one he couldn’t repel.
“As I suspected, your defenses have crumbled. Your mindscape is in complete disarray. You ought to have sought the counsel of a mind healer as soon as you became aware of your situation.”
Anger surged within him, mingled with a sense of vulnerability as Fawley glimpsed the turmoil of his summer—the darker thoughts he had buried deep. “You know I couldn’t!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in a desperate yelp. No one, not even Scorpius, knew how fully withdrawn he had become over the summer.
“Don’t place the blame on me, Potter,” Fawley replied, her tone sharp yet measured. “Do not play the victim here. You were well aware of the gravity of allowing your defenses to crumble, and you knew how to prevent it, yet you surrendered to your own doubts and weaknesses.”
All Albus could muster was a mean glare directed at Fawley.
“This is far worse than I imagined. Your mind is in no condition to confront Burke—your magic… it will consume you before he even has the chance to strike.”
“Then what am I to do?” Albus asked, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerable and raw.
“Fear not, Potter. I shall assist you. Now, look into my eyes once more. Together, we shall make sense of this disarray.”
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Albus felt mentally exhausted standing in the corridor—He wasn't aware that someone could help restore his mindscape like that; it was unnerving and eerie, an invasion that left him feeling both vulnerable and oddly grateful, and with a mind-numbingly headache, but he knew—Without Fawley’s intervention, he would be worse off. This summer had been awful, and he had let his mental walls fall apart. It was embarrassing, but now he could see things more clearly; he didn’t feel like he would lose it every second anymore. Still, his magic churned painfully beneath his skin, clearly upset at his lack of offerings.
He knew he shouldn’t trust her too much—but at the same time, he felt grateful to her. He couldn’t, however, share that with Scorpius.
He wouldnt understand.
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When Albus finally made it back to the compartment, he found Scorpius looking uncomfortable and beet-red, clearly having endured a round of questioning from his family. The way Scorpius fidgeted with the hem of his robes told Albus all he needed to know about the interrogation he’d just faced.
“Did they grill you about me?” Albus asked, a teasing smile creeping onto his face, hoping to lighten the mood.
Scorpius rolled his eyes, but the blush remained. “You have no idea,” he muttered, avoiding Albus's gaze. “They wanted to know everything—what you were up to, who you were spending time with...”
James, who had been sitting nearby, looked almost betrayed. “Scorpy! You can’t just tell him that!? Have you no loyalty?”
Scorpius glanced at him, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Really, James?”
Albus chuckled, feeling the tension ease slightly. “So what did you say? Did you tell them about our brilliant plans for world domination?”
“Of course not,” Scorpius shot back, a smirk finally breaking through his embarrassment. “I didn’t want them thinking we were plotting anything.”
Albus playfully rolled his eyes, trying to hide his exhaustion. He sat down in the free seat between James and Scorpius, as Lily had moved over to his old place and was now sleeping.
James flung his arm over Albus’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “So? What did you and Fawley chat about?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly looking to tease. “I didn’t think you two were that chummy—Fawley’s proper fit isnt she?” He said dreamlike before continuing, “what did you two get up to alone?”
Albus felt his cheeks heat up and turned to face Scorpius, hoping for an escape from James’s banter. “We were just talking about the upcoming term,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “Nothing major.”
“Hmm, really? You were gone a for a while—” Albus could see the gears shifting in his brother's head, jumping to conclusions he did not like. “Merlin! Albus, please don’t tell me you were snogging—”
“I can’t have my little brother beat me to it! Especially not with a sixth year!” James looked dramatically horrified for a moment before shifting into a mock-concerned expression. Then he flashed a cheeky grin. “Blimey, Al, you proper heartbreaker, huh? First blondie over here” he pointed at Scorpius, ”—Then Fawley—Wait, are blondes your type?”
At that, Albus sent another stinging hex at his brother, feeling a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. His cheeks flushed crimson as he shot a quick glance at Scorpius, who actually looked almost sad—and was that anger flickering in his eyes?
Albus turned back to James, who was now rubbing the spot Albus had hit with the hex. “Really, stop it. Like Fawley would even look at me in that way! I’m only in my second year!”
James shrugged, unfazed by the protest. “Fawley jumped a year, right? So she’s only fifteen. Sure, it’s a bit of an age difference, but—”
“Stop it, James! I don’t want to imagine that!” Rose interjected, grimacing at the thought.
Albus shot her a look, feeling a surge of irritation mixed with embarrassment, but she continued unabated. “Also , do you really think Fawley, one of the most popular girls , would fancy our gloomy Albie?” Her disbelief was evident, and he could sense the hint of jealousy lurking beneath her words.
“I’m not gloomy!" Albus protested, his voice rising slightly. He shifted his gaze downward, unwilling to confront the truth that hung in the air. “She just… she cares, alright? It’s not like that!” He made a conscious decision to avoid looking at Scorpius’s expression, afraid of what he might see.
James raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Scorpius cleared his throat, eager to redirect the conversation. “Can we talk about something else? Like the Sorting, maybe?” His gaze shifted to Hugo, who was engrossed in counting his winnings from the game they had probably played while Albus was gone. “Hugo, which house do you think you’ll end up in?” Scorpius asked with a hint of excitement.
Hugo looked up from his pile of galleons, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Definitely Gryffindor! I mean, look at my family—can’t let them down, can I?” He puffed out his chest, as if already sporting the iconic red and gold colours.
Albus laughed along with the others, desperately trying to mask how much that comment actually stung. He felt a knot tightening in his stomach, but he focused on the banter, determined to ignore Scorpius's concerned gaze and hoping that the train would reach the station soon, bringing with it a chance to escape the weight of his own thoughts.
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Hugo' name was the first one to be called that Albus cared for, despite his cousin's quiet nature—at least compared to the rest of the boisterous family—he, too like all had before except Albus, was placed in the golden-red house. Albus forced himself to cheer, his palms stinging slightly from the effort, to his side stood Scorpius and cheered just as loudly, earring both a few looks from their own house. Albus ignored Scorpius' slightly concerned gaze as their eyes looked into another, quickly Albus turned his eyes back towards the Gryffindor table and found the faces of his cheering family, the longer he watched the more his resentment seemed to rise.
“Sam Marshall!”
Albus turned his head toward the Sorting Hat, and sure enough, there was Sam, the Muggleborn he had helped in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago. The boy had grown since then, exhibiting the traits of an early bloomer—something that sparked a twinge of jealousy in Albus. Sam was probably taller than him now. He looked nervous, hands fidgeting as he scanned the room, and when their eyes collided, Albus felt a surprising push against his mental shields.
It wasn’t strong, but if he hadn’t practiced his defenses with Fawley, he might have been caught off guard. Instinctively, he pushed back against the probing, noting that Sam didn’t seem aware of what he was doing. Albus managed a polite smile before breaking eye contact, a mix of intrigue and confusion swirling within him. How could this Muggleborn possess such an ability? He had read that some witches and wizards could be born with a knack for Legilimency, but he had never heard of it in someone without magical ancestry.
“RAVENCLAW!” The hat finally called, and Sam nervously made his way to his new house, a tentative smile breaking through his nerves. Albus glanced over at Scorpius, who seemed lost in thought, staring down at the table. It was unusual; Scorpius had been so animated on the train, discussing the Sorting with palpable excitement. Now, however, his mind seemed elsewhere, and Albus felt a sinking dread.
His focus was only once more drawn towards the center of heads standing before the hat, as his own sister's name was called. He watched how Lily beamed with excitement as she marched towards the sorting hat, without even a trace of nervousness.
“GRYFFINDOR!”
The Great Hall erupted with cheers as Lily made her way over to the lion table joining Hugo, and the rest of their family. Albus clapped for his sister, yet each clap sting more and more, as resentment overtook any happy emotions for his sister, afterall he knew it-–Lily was just like James—a mirror reflecting their parents' hopes and expectations. He doubted they would ever want two or any for that matter of their children in Slytherin; after all, the Weasleys and Potters were born roaring, except for him, of course.
He shook his head inwardly, feeling his mental defenses strain against the storm that seemed to rise within, as if his magic was somehow feeding off the ugly growing resentment he felt for those he loved.
As cheers filled the hall, Albus turned to clap, forcing his mind to stop, as he joined the The Slytherins in their cheer and polite acknowledgment of another snake joining their table. He chose to ignore the eyes on him—gazes dripping with ill will.
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Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen - A Warm Welcome (Start of Year Two)
Summary:
Albus and Scorpius get a warm welcome back by their fellow Slytherins, of which their families remains unaware of.
Rose, hatches up a plan, while Albus and Scorpius makes a new companion.
Notes:
Okay. This is a dark chapter. I will put up a warning for this. Like i have previously said, this is a dark story, and while i have been foreshadowing it a bit---I still want to put out that some scenes are pretty brutal-
The first scene is inspired, by the wonderful nani_punani's The Race for Immortality. A wonderful work, which i love, it is though abandoned (not updated since 2021)
TRIGGER*
Violence, grapic bullying
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Fifteen -A Warm Welcome
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sleep had just welcomed him into its warm grasp when a distant sound shook him awake. read filled his senses as unseen hands dragged his curtain open, and before he could even react or catch a glimpse, a sack was thrown over his face.
He thrashed instinctively, kicking out at whoever had grabbed him. His heart pounded violently in his chest, every nerve screaming in panic as the world around him disappeared into darkness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe properly—the thick fabric pressed against his mouth, muffling his cries.
But he regretted it as a fist slammed into his stomach. He let out an ugly cry as a menacing voice growled close to him.
"Shut it, Potter," the voice snarled, low and dangerous.
He felt a silencing spell hit him, followed immediately by an Incarcerous spell, making physical ropes appear and wrap around him like a snake, tying his arms to his upper body and gagging him beneath the sack.
He kicked desperately as he was yanked from his bed, dragged by his arm onto the floor with such force that he nearly lost his footing. He futilely tried to fight back, but he only earned a stinging hex in return. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged down the stairs into the common room. He groaned, but no sound came out—the rope was cutting into his flesh with merciless precision as he was dragged, his bare feet barely scraping across the stone floor. Albus’s heart raced, his mind spinning in confusion and terror.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hall—more than one set—moving with a terrifying urgency. He struggled to keep up, dragged faster, rougher—until they stopped trying altogether, and he felt an arm wrap around his stomach. Suddenly, he was lifted into the air. He wriggled helplessly, the binds burning against his skin as cruel laughter echoed around him.
"Don't worry, Potter,” someone sneered, amused. “Malfoy is coming too.”
Albus felt his heart stop. Terror gripped him even tighter, more unrelenting as ever, his heart beating loudly into his ears as panic flared within, only fueled by his sense of terror.
Scorpius.
His breath turned ragged as he fought to control his panic. He could hear the muffled sound of his friend's struggles somewhere nearby. He wanted to scream for him, wanted to tear the sack from his head—but his captors didn’t stop.
Then, a sharp cry of pain.
"Let go of me!" Scorpius’s voice—high-pitched with desperation.
“Shut him up,” another voice commanded.
A harsh thud followed.
Then nothing.
Albus’s stomach twisted violently. He could no longer keep in the tears that now trailed down his face
He kicked harder, fought with all the strength left in his terrified body, but it only earned him another sharp jab to the ribs and a hateful laugh, followed by him being thrown onto the stone floor once again. His knees hit at a painful angle—yet they didn’t even give him time to breathe before he was yanked forward once more, the cold wind biting at his skin.
His mind raced—he had no idea where they were taking them. The ropes around him burned as he struggled, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps beneath the suffocating sack. His heart pounded faster. Desperation flared through him. He wiggled, kicked, did anything—
He could faintly tell how the terrain changed beneath his feet. First stone, then grass, then sand—until finally, wood.
He could hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Without warning, they threw him forward. Albus’s knees scraped painfully against the rough wooden planks, the impact jarring through his body. He winced, his skin burning as it dragged against the splintered surface.
“Remove the silencing curse... and the sack,” a voice commanded—sharp, authoritative.
The sack was yanked off his head, and Albus gasped for air, the icy night air biting at his tear-streaked face. His cheeks—slick with snot and tears—burned in the cold. He blinked rapidly, his eyes darting frantically, searching for any sign of Scorpius. His heart pounded, each thud a jarring reminder of the danger surrounding him.
A hand gripped his hair violently, yanking his head back until his shoulders slammed into a broad chest. Pain shot through his scalp, a fresh wave of fear coursing through him.
“Unmute him,” came another voice, this one further back—sounding bored and indifferent.
Albus let out a faint groan as the magical gag lifted, his mouth finally free. Saliva dribbled down his chin, and he felt a fresh surge of embarrassment, knowing how pitiful he must have looked to them. That only seemed to amuse his captors more. They sneered at him, vile slurs filling the air.
“Looks like Potter’s smart enough not to scream,” someone taunted, followed by cruel, jeering laughter.
Albus’s breath hitched in shallow, panicked gasps as a hand yanked him back again, his body forcefully pressed against the figure behind him. The heat of their body—so close—sent a shiver of revulsion up his spine. Their breath, hot and damp, brushed against the side of his cheek, making his skin crawl with disgust.
It was too much—too close.
He could barely breathe, bile rising in his throat.
He knew from the voices surrounding him—they were upper-year students. His heart sank deeper into terror. There was no chance of escape.
“You know, Potter,” the voice whispered against his ear, mockingly soft, laced with venom. “I was so disappointed when we couldn’t give you this welcome last year.”
The voice paused, and the hand gripping Albus’s hair tightened cruelly, pulling harder. Albus let out an involuntary cry, pain shooting through his scalp as if his skin were about to tear
“After all,” the voice continued, closer now, as if savoring every word, “no blood traitor scum should ever have been placed in Slytherin... and lived to tell the tale.”
Spit splattered across Albus’s face, warm and wet. He flinched, terror and revulsion clouding his mind as the words echoed in his ears.
Blood traitor.
His chest tightened, fear constricting around his heart, squeezing the air from his lungs. His breath quickened as a cold hand snaked around his chest, holding him tight. The pressure of the other’s front pressing into his back made it impossible to move. The grip in his hair became tighter, pulling his head backward. The burning pain in his scalp was unbearable; it felt as if his skin were being ripped apart, mercilessly, one strand at a time. The slow, twisting movement of the boy’s fingers in his hair made nausea rise in his throat—it felt too intimate, too close.
He wanted to scream, to vomit, to pull himself away; yet there was no escape. His body had betrayed him, paralyzed with fear and revulsion.
“Now,” the voice hissed again, mockingly sweet, as the boy leaned in, his breath hot against Albus’s ear. The hard grip on his hair made tears prick at the corners of his eyes, pain radiating across his scalp, unbearable.
“Why don’t you take a nice little swim with Malfoy over here?” The boy’s grip yanked Albus’s head to the side. Albus’s heart plummeted as his gaze fell on Scorpius—unconscious, crumpled on the ground—
“No!” Albus choked out, panic flooding him, overtaking the fear. “He’s unconscious! You can’t be serious!” His voice cracked with desperation. He thrashed in their grip, but they held him firmly in place, his terror only fueling their amusement.
Before Albus could react further, they were lifted into the air, weightless for a moment as the cruel laughter of his captors echoed over the dark lake.
“Enjoy the swim, Potter,” one of them sneered, and as the world tilted, for a short moment the two of them, Albus and Scorpius were weightless in the air, before carelessly thrown into the icy abyss below.
The cold hit him like a wall, the Black Lake swallowing him whole as he plunged beneath its dark surface. The freezing shock was like knives stabbing into his skin, his body seizing up immediately. The binds tightened around him as he sank deeper and deeper. He tried to scream, but water filled his mouth, choking him.
He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe.
And above him, in the distance, the last thing he heard before the water consumed him completely was their laughter, echoing through the night.
His limbs were heavy and unresponsive, the frigid water biting into his skin. No matter how hard he tried to break the spell holding him, it was useless. Panic flared as his lungs began to burn, his head throbbing with the growing desperation for air. The water pressed in on him, smothering every frantic attempt to escape—
Instinctively, his primary school swimming lessons kicked in. He began kicking his legs, praying that whichever way he was moving was up.
His head broke the surface, and Albus gasped desperately for air, coughing violently. The binds holding him vanished, and he finally managed to use his arms to swim—
A jolt of dread shot through him.
Scorpius.
His eyes darted frantically across the still, dark water. No sign of blonde hair. Nothing but eerie stillness, except for his own desperate breath and movements.
Panic surged, driving him back under. His eyes stung as he forced them open against the briny water, searching.
Then he saw it—blonde hair drifting beneath the surface.
Fueled by a desperation he had never felt before—and rage, so much rage—Albus swam towards him—
Please don’t be dead.
Please don’t be dead.
Please don’t be dead.
Please—
He reached Scorpius’s limp form and dragged him to the shore with strength he hadn’t known he possessed.
The moment they hit land, Albus collapsed beside him on the sand, his body trembling violently both from the cold and the adrenaline coursing through him. Without a second thought, he started to press down on Scorpius’s chest, trying to remember the first-aid techniques he’d learned in primary school. His movements were frantic, hands shaking as he pressed again and again.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered, his voice raw with panic. Tears blurred his vision, but he kept pressing.
One-two-three-four—
Scorpius was so pale—
Five-six-seven-eight—
So cold—
Nine-ten-eleven-twelve—
Panic clawed at his throat, threatening to pull him under. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think—
Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen—
Scorpius wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t responding. The aid wasn’t working—
Sixteen-seventeen-eighteen—
His hands pressed down, harder, harder—his entire body trembling with the effort. He was doing it wrong.
Nineteen-twenty-twenty-one—
Too slow—
Twenty-two-twenty-three-twenty-four—
Too fast—
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-Six—
His palms slipping against soaked fabric. He should know this. He should know what to do—
Twenty-Seven, Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine—
“Come on—come on—please—” His voice cracked. He was shaking too hard. His breath came in ragged, choked sobs.
Thirty—
wait, breaths, he needed—
Albus’s mind raced, but there was no time, no time. He tilted Scorpius’s head back, pinched his nose, and blew two quick breaths into his mouth. Scorpius’s chest rose faintly, but there was no response.
“No—No—please—” His voice cracked. He was shaking too hard. His breath came in ragged, choked sobs as he started compressions again.
One-two-three-four—
Nothing. His breath hitched.
The world was caving in. His chest felt like it would cave in too, as if the pressure he was applying unto the other's chest was instead his own, he pushed harder–As hard as he could, no longer afraid of breaking bone–Only consumed with pure desperation turning into terror.
He didn't move–
Scorpius didn't move–
He was so pale—Just as the certainty of the unthinkable took hold—just as the truth sank its teeth into him, hollow and cold, allconsuming—
Just like a prayer being heard from trembling lips, like a soul clawing its way back through it’s ribcage, just like a dying star flickering back to life—
Scorpius gasped.
Albus froze, eyes wide, hands hovering, afraid to hope.
He taught his breathe, not breathing, afraid the sound of his own would make him miss hearing the others—
Had he just imagined it? Had he–
A faint, wet sound, a shuddering inhale. Scorpius’s body jerked weakly, his chest convulsing as water forced its way out. He coughed—a weak, broken sound—and more water spilled out, his body trembling with the effort.
Albus froze, watching the boy beneath him shuddering—
“Scorpius?” he whispered, his voice trembling. The sounds of his own heartbeat becoming so overwhelmed he wasn't sure if he heard the others breathe—
Scorpius coughed again, harder this time, his body curling slightly as he vomited water onto the sand. His breaths were shallow, ragged, and his eyes fluttered open for a moment, unfocused and glassy, before closing again.
“Scorpius!” Albus’s voice broke as he pulled the other boy into his arms, holding him tightly. Scorpius was cold, so cold, and his body trembled violently in Albus’s grasp.
“It’s okay,” Albus whispered hoarsely, his own voice shaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” His hands rubbed Scorpius’s back, trying to warm him up, trying to reassure himself as much as Scorpius.
Scorpius coughed again, weakly, his head lolling against Albus’s shoulder. “Al…bus…” he rasped, his voice barely audible, slurred and disoriented.
“I’m here,” Albus said, his throat tight. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”
Scorpius’s breaths were still shallow, but they were there—each one a fragile, precious thing. Albus held him tighter, his own body trembling with relief and exhaustion.
Scorpius shuddered involuntarily, tears mixing with the lake water on his face, mingling with snot and bile. “My chest… it burns…” he choked out, his voice strained and broken.
“I know,” Albus croaked, his own voice hoarse with emotion and exhaustion. Every word felt like a struggle, the tightness in his throat threatening to choke him. His entire body ached from the cold and the frantic swim, but in that moment, nothing mattered except the fact that Scorpius was alive. He hugged him closer, burying his face on Scorpius’s shoulder as sobs wracked his body.
Confusion and fear surged in Scorpius’s eyes, his usually calm demeanor shattered. “What ha—?” he creaked, vomiting out another round of water.
Albus didn’t let go, not caring that his already wet and dirty clothes were being soiled further. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around Scorpius while gently patting his back, helping him expel the water. He held in his own sobs, listening to the broken cries and the sound of Scorpius retching, each one a knife to his heart.
He felt his insides start to burn, instead of sadness, instead of terror, anger overtook him,
His blood pounded so hard he could feel it in every vein, in every limb. The horror of what had just happened coursed through him, and his fingers dug into Scorpius’s wet robes.
“They bound us with Incarcerous and threw us into the lake,” Albus said, his voice cracking with fury.
All the color drained from Scorpius’s already pale features, leaving him ashen. He trembled violently, his eyes still dazed, his voice hoarse and breathless. “They wouldn’t—” he whimpered, the words barely audible, as if saying them louder might make them true.
“They did!” Albus screamed, frustration surging within him. His fingers tightened around Scorpius, his heart pounding with a new intensity. A fire burned inside him—hotter than a dragon’s breath—
“They won’t get away with this,” he growled, his voice low and strained. His magic hummed with something darker, more suffocating than the icy water lapping at their feet. And for the first time, Albus didn’t try to suppress it.
He wanted them to suffer.
He would make them suffer.
He could feel it in his bones, in the very air around him—
Scorpius’s fists clenched weakly, then went slack as exhaustion overtook him. His eyes fluttered shut, his body slumping against Albus, who held him tightly, shielding him from the cold wind. Scorpius’s head rested in the crook of Albus’s neck, his shallow breaths warm against Albus’s skin. He smelled like lake water and something else—something sharp, almost like smoke.
Scorpius weakly scrunched his face, his brow furrowing as confusion flickered across his features. But before he could speak, Albus’s voice cut through the silence, bitter and raw.
“They called us blood traitors.”
Scorpius’s expression darkened, the confusion replaced by a new, gnawing terror. Dread coiled in his gut, snaking through him like a living thing. His breath hitched, and though Albus’s fingers dug into his skin, there was no pain—only warmth. A strange, grounding warmth that anchored him even as his mind reeled.
“I will make them suffer,” Albus said through gritted teeth, his voice low and trembling with barely contained fury.
And Scorpius believed him—like an idea, a truth, a God.
A reckoning.
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“Blood traitor!”
Albus was seething as he made his way past the common room, the taunts echoing in his ears like a relentless drumbeat, dredging up memories of his early days at Hogwarts when he first felt the weight of his last name, only now it was his Mothers he couldn't not escape from.
“Mudblood lover!”
He gripped his books tighter, his knuckles whitening as he walked faster, each step fueled by a growing sense of fury. His jaw was clenched so tightly it felt like it might shatter under the pressure.
Then, without warning, a sharp sting pierced his side. He barely had time to react before a tripping hex sent him sprawling, his knees crashing painfully against the unforgiving stone floor. The impact jolted through him, and he caught himself with his palms, the rough surface scraping against his skin. A strained groan escaped his lips as laughter erupted around him.
“That’s where blood traitors should be—on their hands and knees,” a voice jeered from across the room.
“What’s worse than a filthy mudblood? The blood traitors who bedded them,” someone spat, their words dripping with contempt. The laughter soared, filling the space with a mocking chorus that felt like a knife twisting in his gut.
Albus glanced over at Scorpius, who was also scrambling to gather his fallen books. He wasn’t the only one who had been hexed; humiliation washed over him like a cold wave as he realized they were both targets of this cruel mockery.
A flush crept upon his cheeks, burning with embarrassment. Just then, he felt a gentle touch on his hand. He snapped his head towards Scorpius, ready to push away any pity, but instead found his friend offering a reassuring smile, calm amidst the chaos.
Albus huffed, shaking off the anger that bubbled beneath the surface, and hurried to pick up his books. The laughter still echoed around them, but Scorpius’s quiet support anchored him, reminding him that they were in this together, even as the taunts rained down.
“Your blood is cursed Weasley”
“You are a disgrace to purebloods, Malfoy”
Each insult felt like a shard of glass, cutting deeper into Albus’s psyche. In that moment of fury and humiliation, all Albus could think of was one thing:
“I will make them suffer.”
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The stillness of the empty classroom was broken by Scorpius' voice.
“Albus,” Scorpius began, his tone quieter, more serious—
“Blood traitors… in the eyes of the purebloods, it’s worse than being a Muggle-born. Worse than being a Muggle.” He swallowed hard, the fear evident in his eyes. “If they’ve branded us as such…”
A chill seemed to run through Albus, as if the freezing water still clung to his skin. Scorpius could see the way Albus’s shoulders tightened, a physical response to the weight of the words hanging in the air.
“It’s just the beginning, ” Scorpius continued, his voice grim, each word echoing ominously in the abandoned classroom.
“They won’t stop,” he added, his own voice trembling slightly, betraying the fear brewing within him. “Once they’ve labeled you a blood traitor, it’s a death sentence.”
As he looked at Albus, worry surged in Scorpius’s chest. He could see the darkness in Albus’s gaze—no light seemed to penetrate those usually bright eyes, making them appear so distant, so foreign. Albus seemed to choke on his words, the raw emotion spilling forth in his expression, revealing how deeply this hurt him.
In that moment, instinctively, Scorpius moved closer, wrapping his arms around Albus and drawing him into a tight embrace. He felt Albus hiccuping against his breath, and then the sobs came, raw and unrestrained. Unable to hold back any longer, Scorpius hugged him back fiercely, allowing Albus’s tears to flow freely into the fabric of his robes.
Through the cries, Scorpius heard a small, heartfelt whisper escape Albus’s lips: “Thank you.”
“For what, Albus?” he asked gently, his voice calm, terrified to say anything that might push Albus further into despair.
“For not dying.”
Scorpius’s heart shattered at the strained voice of his best friend, feeling the tremors that coursed through Albus’s body as he struggled to remain composed.
Albus blinked rapidly, fighting against the onslaught of tears that threatened to spill over. “No, I—I thought I was too late. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” His voice broke, unable to finish the sentence as he buried his face in Scorpius’s shoulder, the damp fabric soaking up his tears.
Scorpius could feel the sheer panic radiating from Albus, and he tightened his embrace, murmuring softly, “It’s okay, Albus, I'm here.” He felt Albus clench his fists tightly around his robes, as if afraid to let go, terrified of losing him.
Scorpius held him close, running his fingers through Albus’s beautiful, unruly locks, his heart aching as he listened to the painful sobs and cries.
They wouldn’t get away with this.
A fierce determination ignited within Scorpius as he clenched his grip around Albus tighter, his jaw tightening with resolve.
They wouldn’t get away with this.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus and Scorpius had developed a silent agreement to avoid the Slytherin common room and dormitories as much as possible. Leaving early in the morning and returning just before curfew had become their unspoken routine. It was simpler that way—easier to evade the sneering glances and venomous jibes from their housemates. The taunts from Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in the halls felt like child’s play compared to the sharp-edged cruelty they faced within their own common room. There was a unique kind of poison that only Slytherins knew how to brew, after all.
Their biggest bullies outside the house were Jenkins and his little gang of followers, who seemed determined to cause as much humiliation as possible for Albus. They went after Scorpius too, but they always seemed to relish it more when they could get Albus alone.
But even Jenkins and his gang couldn’t do much in the library, under the watchful eye of the librarian. So, for now, the library had become their sanctuary. There was one spot in particular, a small table tucked in an alcove behind a series of towering bookshelves. A large window nearby allowed the perfect amount of light to filter in, creating a cozy hideaway in a section few students ventured into. Small graces, Albus supposed.
One late afternoon, close to dinner time, they found themselves not as alone as usual. A first-year Ravenclaw, his secondhand robes neatly pressed, stood awkwardly in front of their table. The boy had clearly been watching them for some time, unsure how to approach.
The first-year was tall for his age and seemed more confident now than he had been during the sorting.
“I wanted to apologize,” the boy began, cheeks tinged pink. “It’s only after you left that I realized I hadn’t heard your full name.”
Albus studied him for a moment, noting the sincerity in his gaze. “That was on purpose, actually,” he replied, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “But I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now?”
Sam’s embarrassment deepened as he nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard... quite a bit. It’s hard not to, considering your family name and all the rumors.”
Albus leaned forward, intrigued. “And what have you heard?”
Scorpius, who had been quiet until now, glanced at Sam with mild disinterest. “Hopefully a Ravenclaw is smart enough not to base their opinions on rumors,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar pureblood drawl.
Albus shot Scorpius a look before turning back to Sam. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How much bias exists in the wizarding world?” he said, casually spinning his wand between his fingers.
Sam, taken aback for a moment, quickly regained his composure, not backing down from their scrutiny. “They... they call you the Slytherin Squib,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t know the word, so I had to look it up.”
“Ah!” Albus leaned back in his chair, his interest piqued. “Did you also read about how some pureblood families treat their Squib children?” He studied Sam closely, his voice laced with a challenge.
Scorpius shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation’s direction.
“Yes,” Sam replied, his brow furrowing. “It seems to be a serious issue.”
“It is,” Albus said, his voice growing quieter but no less sharp. “And it all comes down to upholding blood purity ideals.”
Sam nodded slowly, absorbing Albus's words. “And calling you a Squib... reinforces those ideals, doesn’t it?”
Albus grinned, impressed. “Exactly. It’s ironic, really. The first person to call me a Squib was a Hufflepuff. They probably don’t realize they’re reinforcing pureblood beliefs.”
“Why are Squibs considered so bad?” Sam asked, his face grim.
“They lack magic,” Albus said flatly, his gaze hardening. “And if a pureblood family can produce a Squib, it means blood purity doesn’t guarantee anything.”
Sam’s frown deepened as he processed that, realization dawning. “So it undermines everything they stand for.”
Albus leaned back, stretching his arms lazily before folding them behind his head. “Bingo.” He grinned before letting his chair fall back to the floor with a soft thud.
“It’s ridiculous, really. So don’t worry, Sam, I don’t let it bother me. It says more about them than it ever could about me .”
Scorpius’s scowl deepened, but he held his tongue, glancing at Albus as if to silently warn him. Albus ignored the look and offered Sam a poised smile, extending his hand.
“I’m Albus Potter, also known as the ‘Slytherin Squib,’” he said, his tone casual.
Sam returned the grin and shook his hand. “I’m Sam Marshall. The Ravenclaw Muggleborn, I suppose?” He added the last part with a hint of unease, which both Albus and Scorpius picked up on.
It was Scorpius who spoke first, raising an eyebrow. “Has anyone in Ravenclaw given you a hard time because of your blood?” There was a note of concern in his voice, though it was cloaked in his usual pureblooded poshness.
“Some,” Sam admitted, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But it’s no big deal. Like you said, Albus—it says more about them than me, right?”
Albus grinned broadly. “Exactly.”
Scorpius cleared his throat and extended his hand as well, his movements poised.
“I’m Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, Heir to the Most Ancient House of Malfoy. Well met.”
His gaze lingered on Sam, clearly waiting to see if he knew the proper greeting etiquette.
Sam’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Albus let out a quiet laugh and glanced at Scorpius, who gave him a mock-innocent look.
“The correct response is ‘Well met, Heir Malfoy,’ then you introduce yourself,” Albus explained with a smirk.
Sam shot him a grateful look before turning back to Scorpius. “Well met, Heir Malfoy,” he said, a little more confidently. “I’m Sam Marshall.”
“Well met, Marshall. You can call me Scorpius.” Scorpius gave a rare, approving smile.
“Then please, call me Sam,” he replied, a bit more at ease now.
Albus grinned at the exchange. “So, Sam, how are the Ravens treating you?”
Sam’s eyes brightened at the question. “It’s been interesting. The pressure to succeed is pretty intense, but we have mentors who help us if we need it.”
Scorpius nodded, returning his gaze to his book. “It’s a good system. I wish all houses had that.”
“They don’t?” Sam asked, still standing awkwardly.
“Not that we know of. Slytherin and Ravenclaw seem to be the only houses that still uphold that tradition.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sam muttered, his anger flaring. “Everyone struggles with something.”
“Exactly,” Scorpius replied. “But many of the old traditions have fallen away.”
“Why?” Sam asked, intrigued.
“Some blame Muggleborns, but that’s unlikely. It’s more to do with changing values and the Ministry’s influence,” Scorpius said.
“Muggleborns seem to be the scapegoat for a lot of the wizarding world’s problems,” Albus mused.
Sam shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t understand why. It’s not like we’re—”
“It’s ignorance,” Albus said with clear content in his voice.
Scorpius gave him a pointed look then interrupted “Some of it yes—But it’s more complicated than that. Let’s not dwell on it.”
Albus merely shrugged, unbothered. Before continuing.
“They’ve forgotten what matters,” Albus said, leaning back in his chair again. “It’s not about blood. It’s about magic. Embracing it, no matter where it comes from.”
“That makes sense,” Sam said, nodding thoughtfully. “Ravenclaw has study groups that focus on learning magic outside the standard curriculum. One of the prefects even went on a rant about the ‘degradation of Hogwarts curriculum.’”
Albus snorted. “They’re not wrong.”
Scorpius glanced at Sam. “Why don’t you sit down, Sam? What are you working on? Maybe we can help.”
Sam’s face lit up as he quickly sat down, his admiration for the two older boys clear. “I’m trying to wrap my head around some advanced Charms. There’s so much to learn.”
Albus grinned, his tone more teasing than harsh. “Such a Ravenclaw thing to say.”
Sam blushed, his cheeks turning pink as he grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Scorpius leaned over, intrigued. “Let me see,” he said, flipping through Sam’s notes. Albus, though more laid back, leaned in as well, ready to join in when he could.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Great Hall buzzed with life, a constant hum of chatter, clattering cutlery, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing from one table to another. The smell of breakfast—sausages, eggs, and toast—wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of fresh parchment and polished wood. Amidst the noise, Rose sat at the Gryffindor table, her eyes briefly scanning the room as students moved about, voices blending into a comforting background hum.
“Rose! There you are!” said Polly, a blonde girl with a huge grin as she bounced over and plopped down beside her. The scrape of her bench against the floor blended into the noise of the bustling morning.
Rose returned the grin, though a bit more reserved. “Polly, where else would I be?” she teased, picking at her eggs with a half-smile.
Polly leaned in closer, bumping Rose’s arm with her elbow playfully. “Maybe with Yann? You two have been getting awfully close lately,” she teased, her grin widening. Polly's beautiful brown eyes seemed to catch the morning light just right, and her long, silky blonde hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall.
Rose’s heart skipped a beat at the proximity, warmth creeping up her neck. She fought to suppress the flush rising in her cheeks, casting her hand back to fix her hair in a graceful motion before straightening her posture. “It’s not like that, Polly. I’ve told you already,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant as she took another bite of her eggs.
Polly rested her elbow on the table and leaned her head against her hand, studying Rose with a knowing look. “You know you could tell me, right?” Her tone was soft, almost too sincere, and it made Rose’s heart twist a little. But Rose shook off the feeling, forcing herself to focus on her plate.
“Polly, I’m not as obsessed with boys as you are,” she replied with a hint of irritation, though there was a teasing edge to it.
Polly shrugged it off, her smile never faltering as she turned her attention back to her own breakfast. “You’ve been hanging out with your cousin more,” she said, her voice noticeably flatter this time. Rose could sense the undercurrent of hurt beneath the words.
Sighing, Rose looked across the hall at the Slytherin table. Albus sat there, too close to the Malfoy boy for Polly’s liking, and Rose’s own feelings about it were complicated. “I’ve told you, Polly, it’s... complicated,” she muttered.
Polly’s eyes followed Rose’s gaze. “Which means you’re also hanging out with Malfoy,” she said between bites of toast, her tone now sharper.
Rose shot her a pointed look. “It’s not like that,” she began, but Polly cut her off.
“Complicated. Yeah, I get it,” Polly snapped, the warmth fading from her voice. “But it just feels like you’re the one making all the sacrifices, Rose. You and James are always worrying about him, and I’ve never seen him act like he cares about anyone but himself.”
Rose felt her heart soften, warmed by Polly’s concern. “I get that it looks that way from the outside, but Albus is... private. He doesn’t show it, but he cares.”
Polly wasn’t convinced. She glared across the hall at Albus and Scorpius, who were talking quietly. “Still,” Polly continued, her voice barely masking her disdain, “I don’t get how he can stand being around that .” Her eyes flicked toward Malfoy, disdain clear.
Rose’s grip tightened on her fork. “Scorpius means a lot to him,” she replied, though the words tasted bitter.
Polly’s gaze flicked back to Rose, sharp and probing. “More than you?” she asked softly, and their eyes met. Rose felt her chest tighten, and she couldn’t hide the hurt that flickered across her face. She looked down, trying to steady her breathing.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” Polly stammered, her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “You know I say things without thinking sometimes—”
“It’s fine, Polly,” Rose interrupted, her voice tight. “I like that about you, and... it’s true, isn’t it?” She set her fork down, her appetite gone as anger started bubbling beneath the surface. “Everyone can see it, but he acts like we’re too stupid to notice.”
Her cousin had always thought himself above everyone, above their family. In the beginning, Rose didn’t mind; sometimes she’d even shared that sense of superiority, feeling like they were both just a bit more capable, more clever. But lately, it was clear Albus thought himself better than her too, and that realization cut deep. Where had her best friend gone? The one who had shared every secret with her since they were children? Why did he now treat her like a stranger?
Rose’s grip tightened on her fork as another thought slithered into her mind—one she had tried to ignore but could no longer suppress. She knew Albus hadn’t told them everything during the last confrontation. His evasiveness, the way he’d brushed off her questions, the cold, distant look in his eyes—it was more than just his usual brooding. He was hiding something, something far deeper than his supposed friendship with Scorpius Malfoy.
It wasn’t just the secrecy; it was the way he looked at Scorpius, how fiercely protective he became when anyone questioned their friendship. The anger that flared in him when she tried to bring it up, as though he couldn’t bear to hear the truth. No, Rose wasn’t naïve—she could see it now. Whatever was between Albus and Scorpius, it wasn’t innocent.
Her heart clenched painfully at the thought. How could he shut her out like this? After everything they’d been through, after all the years they’d spent as each other’s confidants, was she really so insignificant to him now? Did he trust Malfoy more than he trusted her?
The clattering noise of breakfast continued around them, but it faded into the background as Rose’s thoughts spiraled. She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her was jealous—jealous that Scorpius had somehow replaced her in Albus’s life, that he was the one Albus now shared his secrets with.
But more than that, she was hurt. Hurt that her own cousin, her best friend, had turned into someone she barely recognized. Someone who lied, who kept things hidden, who looked at her like she was just another obstacle to overcome.
She glanced across the hall, her eyes landing on Albus and Scorpius at the Slytherin table. They sat close, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. From this distance, she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she didn’t need to. She could see it in their body language, in the way Albus leaned in slightly, his expression intense, as though nothing else in the world mattered except what Scorpius had to say.
Rose’s jaw tightened, and she gripped her cutlery until her knuckles whitened.
Polly reached out, her voice softer with concern as she placed her soft hand upon Rose’
“Rose—”
Rose cut her off, She had already decided, If Albus wanted to play, two could play this game.
“You and Yann are going to meet him,” she said suddenly, her tone sharp. “And you’re going to become friends.”
Polly blinked in surprise. “What—”
“It’s only fair,” Rose continued, her voice growing colder. “I have to act civil with Malfoy, so Albus should have no issue being civil with you and Yann.”
Polly made a face, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “But Rose—”
“No, Polly. You’ll do this for me,” Rose insisted, her eyes flashing. “And maybe then, I can show you the Albus I know .”
Polly studied her for a long moment, her gaze shifting before she finally sighed. “Okay, I’m with you, Rose. But if he does anything—”
“Don’t worry, Polly. He won’t,” Rose said, her tone softening just a bit. “He’s too smart for that.”
But even as she said the words, the anger inside her hadn’t fully ebbed. She wouldn’t let Albus’s self-importance ruin everything. She wouldn’t let his little crisis of identity tear their family apart— She would not let Scorpius tear them apart.
Even if she had to swallow her own pride.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus's body ached from the latest round of hexes, bruises blossoming beneath his robes like dark flowers. His exhaustion weighed on him like a lead cloak, each step a reminder of the aggression they had endured. He was sure at least half the hexes they suffered were illegal—if only someone in authority cared enough to look into it. But no one did. He was sure that their head of House, Slughorn, was aware of it but let it slide, like the Slytherin he himself was. The library, silent and bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lamps, had become their sanctuary; in recent weeks, however, this refuge brought its own complications.
Albus's family could easily find them there. At first, it had been easy to play along with the banter and jokes while studying together. But as the hexing continued and more bruises made movement painful, his family’s insistence on physical contact became unbearable. Just to complicate matters further, his cousin had become annoyingly persistent about introducing him to her friends —two of the very people who had bullied them mercilessly the previous year.
Chapman had been the first on Albus's revenge list, the one who taunted him during the feast, questioning his place in Slytherin. Yann quickly followed, his vile behavior during their first flying lesson and his role in spreading the nickname “Slytherin Squib” around the school left a bitter taste in Albus's mouth. Albus genuinely despised them; he wouldn’t care if they died, he probably would be happy about it. In a moment of poor judgment—one he blamed on exhaustion from constant hexing—he had confided as much to Rose, further widening the rift between them.
It felt as if they were back to their pre-summer dynamic, with James now trying to persuade Albus to apologize. He was relentless, coaxing Albus to admit fault and hoping to bring Rose around to forgiveness as well. But Rose stood firm; she wouldn’t even consider reconciliation unless Albus apologized to both Polly and Yann in person. “They both mean a lot to me,” she insisted, her expression unyielding.
As Albus sat at the table, he felt an all-too-familiar urge to bang his head against it. James's persistence was maddening, wearing down every shred of his patience. He knew he couldn’t lash out; maintaining civility was essential. James held a crucial secret for him—that he and Scorpius were still friends. Albus was grateful for that, relieved to know he had at least one ally within the family.
Lily, on the other hand, was far too open with her thoughts. Albus had learned early on that sharing secrets with her was a lost cause. Her honesty was refreshing but often led to complications. She didn’t tiptoe around subjects like their parents or James; she spoke her mind, unafraid of the consequences. While she didn’t care much for Yann and Polly—whom she deemed stuck-up and had told them as much—she firmly believed that Albus should just apologize, even if he didn’t mean it. “Rose won’t let this go otherwise,” she warned, her tone casual, as if she were discussing the weather rather than family drama.
Lily was eager to focus on pranks and sneaking out to visit Hagrid, who always delighted in showing her the magical creatures he kept for class. She often teamed up with the Scamander twins, both in her year and proudly Ravenclaws. The twin sons of Luna and Rolf Scamander had inherited their mother’s eccentric intellect and both parents' passion for magical creatures. They were the perfect companions for Lily, whose laughter mingled effortlessly with their discussions of “Nargles” and “Gulping Plimpies.” Together, the trio seemed to inhabit their own magical world, blissfully unaware of the drama swirling around them.
Often, Albus would spot the trio in the library, where they seemed to prioritize reading about magical creatures or The Quibbler over their studies, their heads bent together in conspiratorial whispers. It baffled him. But he was relieved Lily wasn’t pressing him to “talk it out” with their dear cousin as James was. It warmed his heart to see her embracing her true self, discovering her place in the world, and having the freedom to explore her passions without the weight of family expectations.
He tried not to resent her for it. For all her quirkiness, she was still very much a lion, and that trait often shone through even more starkly when she was with the two Ravenclaw boys. Hugo often joined them but had also found his own friend group, often seen playing various wizarding games in the Great Hall. Albus knew that his cousin had recently become a member of some sort of magical gaming club, and he was wise enough to steer clear of any competitions against Hugo—especially if he didn’t want to lose a considerable amount of Galleons.
Their other cousins, Molly and Louis whom they were close in age to, didn't seem to want to hang out too much with Family. Molly, like James, had made the Quidditch team this year and that seemed to consume much of her time. Louis had tried out, more as support to Molly and James, he wasn't a bad flier, but he just wasn't that ambitious, and mostly liked to laze about, joining the Quidditch team would just take up too much time for him.
Albus looked over to his close friend as he tried to mull out James spiel about how he and Rose needed to connect again—Scorpius looked even more tired than Albus felt, the boy seemed more distant, and just reading with a distant look on his face. Albus knew that one, it might fool others, to think that he was just very much reading but Albus knew better his friend was lost in his thoughts—
“Albus, are you even listening?” James said, too high in his ear.
Albus made an effort not to roll his eyes “James? don't you need to work on your assignment, isn't it last day today? You haven't even begun yet.”
“Merlin, you’re right! This isn’t the last of this, Albus!” James exclaimed, hurriedly gathering his things. “You and Rose will talk soon—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Albus replied dismissively, waving his hand at his brother as he bolted out of the library.
Albus rolled his eyes and went back to his own Potion assignment, happy for some peace and calm—Then a stack of books, hit the table, making him look up and shaking Scorpius back to reality, both boys grinned when they looked up and was met by Sam, who returned the grin before settling down and doing his own reading, there they sat quietly, studying. Sometimes getting caught up in an interesting conversation, which always seemed to flow. Sam seemed very interested in both boys' opinions, and took it all up like a sponge to water.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The room seemed to close in on Albus, each breath sharp and shallow, as if the very air had turned against him. Their vile insults, the disgusting sneers cutting into him like jagged glass, echoed in his mind. Their voices grated like harpies—shrill, ugly, painful. So vile, so inhuman. He hated them. Every single one of them. They were cowards, hiding behind their pack, feeding off each other’s cruelty.
Humiliation surged through him as the spell was finally released, sending him crashing to the cold stone floor. His body collapsed on its side, and his head snapped against the ground with a sickening crack. The sound echoed through his skull, reverberating painfully. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if the dizziness was from the pain or the shock.
Pain shot through his head, so intense and mind-numbing, he hadn’t known pain like that existed. The room spun wildly, and the faces above him twisted into grotesque, distorted shapes. Their laughter became distant and warped, like a cruel echo from a terrible nightmare.
A cry escaped his lips as his trembling hand instinctively reached up to his head. His fingers brushed against something warm and wet—blood. He recoiled, hissing in pain. It was bad. He could feel it. But none of them seemed alarmed. Morgana, they didn’t even care.
His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, exhaustion pulling at him, dragging him closer to the black void of unconsciousness. His head was spinning as though he were trapped on a wild Muggle carnival ride—the kind that sent your stomach lurching and your mind spiraling. Was he even breathing? Was he still conscious? Shit. He couldn’t fall asleep—not with a concussion. He had to stay awake.
“Looks like the blood traitor hit his head a bit too hard,” someone sneered, but the words slipped through his mind like water through a sieve.
Laughter rang out in the background, distant and warped, mingling with the sound of an irritated sigh. The noise stung his ears, but his awareness was slipping further, the edges blurring.
“Can’t believe I’m going to heal a fucking blood traitor,” a girl’s voice cut through the haze, dripping with disdain. The sound of her pompous tone only made the pain in his head flare even worse.
“Come on, Skeeter! Gotta train right, yeah? You’re gonna be a healer—you’ll have to treat blood traitors and Mudbloods someday,” another voice chimed in, male, loud, and full of cruel amusement.
Albus teetered on the edge of consciousness, the darkness beckoning him to let go, to give in. But then—there she was. Her boot nudged his face, forcing him to look up. His blood-smeared vision narrowed in on her disgusted grimace.
“Episkey,” she muttered, flicking her wand lazily. Suddenly, his head felt like it was on fire. Heat seared through his skull, burning through his thoughts, and then—it was over. The sharp, crushing pain subsided, dulled enough for him to breathe again. His body sagged with relief, no longer hovering on the edge of oblivion.
But the hate—the rage—boiled inside him, roaming like a fiendfyre, refusing to die—
He wanted to make them suffer.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
Hello, this is me back editing! If someone ever rereads this then you might notice that i have redone the openeing scene! It's still the same, nothing major is different i just fixed the language etc. I did add some new things, but once again nothing major!!
I'm planning on fixing every chapter, but it does take alot of time so we will see!
Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen - Resolve
Notes:
Hi everyone! Here is another chapter! I been struggling tihs week, with how i wanted the term to play out, but now im quite happy with what i have written. Another update might come this weekend.
And thank you for all of your comments they made me very happy ❤️😊
Also to all those who are reading this and live in Florida, or Mexcio where hurriance Milton went through; i hope your all safe.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Sixteen - Resolve
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus had not gone anywhere near the Black Lake since that first day. Even the thought of water sent a wave of fear through him. When he showered, if his head dipped under for even a second, panic would rise in his chest. He felt ill —His mind, pathetic as it was, seemed to bring back the memory at the worst possible times. Often through nightmares, sometimes a vivid, unwanted flash while he was sitting in class.
He had not told Scorpius. He knew Scorpius would never judge him for it. Scorpius had been a victim, too. But—he had been unconscious . It wasn’t him fighting in that cold water. It wasn’t him thinking his best friend was dead, trying his hardest to keep him alive, to keep himself alive.
Albus’s breath shortened, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He couldn’t breathe—his chest felt tight, like a vice. A strangled cry escaped him, a horrible sound that made him feel even weaker. His body began to tremble, shaking in a way he couldn’t control. Pathetic, his mind spat at him. So pathetic. His nails dug into his skin, sharp enough to draw blood as he tried to force himself back into control, but it wasn’t working—no, he wouldn’t let it affect him like this, he couldn’t—
Then the memory of Scorpius’s lifeless body, floating so still, so peaceful in the water. flashed before his eyes and–
He felt liquid surge up within him, almost choking him, he gagged painfully, as bile rose from his throat–He barely made it in time to vomit onto the floor.
His breath hitched, coming in short, rapid gasps as his bed frame seemed to close in around him, his eyes tearstained only seemed to produce more–
He pulled the blanket over his head, as if the soft, warm fabric could protect him from the cold, clawing panic inside his chest. But the blanket, warm as it was, couldn’t erase the memory of that freezing water. His body shuddered violently beneath it.
“They will not get away with this,”
Albus whispered, again and again, like a broken chantra. Rage, hate —those were the only things strong enough to cut through the suffocating weight of his fear, to free his mind from its own torture
The darkness around him thickened, mirroring the growing rage inside. His magic, ever-present and restless, surged in response, feeding off his fury. The need for vengeance burned in him–hot and primal.
He wanted them to pay —He wanted them to suffer—To see their faces twisted in agony , to hear them scream —His breath was shallow, ragged, his body curling in on itself beneath the blanket, closed off to everything except the fire burning in his chest
“I will make them suffer”
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Sep. 22. 2018
“It’s finally Mabon!” Albus whispered with a quiet cheer, his voice breaking the heavy silence in the abandoned classroom.
Scorpius glanced over at him, equally worn out, but less enthusiastic. “Don’t remind me,” he muttered, his brow furrowed.
“Come on, Scorpius! This is something good!” Albus pressed, trying to lift the weight of their recent days.
“We are not doing any blood rites, Albus!” Scorpius hissed back, his voice strained yet resolute as they sat on the floor, their backs pressed against the cool, stone wall. The classroom was filled with cobwebs and layers of dust that coated the old furniture.
Albus rolled his eyes, exasperation bubbling inside him. “We’ve already been over this! I have to do it!”
“That’s not true.” Scorpius’s voice was stern as he stared down into the book resting in his lap, the pages worn and faded.
Albus let out a groan, his back sliding down the wall as he let out an exhausted huff. “You don’t need to be there.”
Scorpius shot him a pointed look, “We’ve been through this. We don’t go anywhere alone anymore,” he insisted, his tone a mix of concern and frustration.
Albus felt the heat of his frustration rising. He turned to face Scorpius fully, grabbing his shoulder. “It’s Mabon! Everyone will be too busy celebrating—they won’t come after us!” His voice cracked with desperation.
Scorpius flinched slightly but kept his gaze steady, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “It’s not just about today, Albus,” he replied, his voice softer now, filled with a gravity that made Albus’s heart sink. “It’s about everything. We can’t risk it.”
Albus took a deep breath, the tension between them palpable, the weight of their decisions hanging in the air like a storm cloud. “Either you’re there or you’re not,” he said bitterly, his tone laced with frustration.
Scorpius met his gaze, eyes flashing with defiance, and hurt. “Then go alone!” he shouted, his frustration bubbling over. “Go alone! And don’t come crying to me afterward!” With that, he shot up from the floor, his movements sharp and angry, and stormed out of the room.
The door slammed behind Scorpius, reverberating in the silence left in his wake. Albus stared at the empty doorway, his heart pounding in his chest. Anger mixed with a deep sense of loneliness, leaving him feeling hollow and lost. He couldn’t believe it had come to this—one moment they were laughing, the next, they were at each other’s throats.
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. The dim light of the abandoned classroom cast long shadows, amplifying the weight of the situation. Albus felt the walls closing in around him, the isolation settling in his bones.
Then he let his walls crumble. A horrible cry erupted from his throat, echoing through the vast, forgotten room. He felt himself fall inward, his fear, anger, and hurt consuming him, a dark tide he couldn’t escape. It was all too much—the mounting pressure, the relentless sense of humiliation, the burden of being the punching bag. His magic burned beneath his skin, a wild, untamed force clamoring for release. Scorpius didn’t understand —he didn’t know the dementors Albus fought against daily, the shadows that lurked in his mind.
Scorpius was privileged; he could celebrate the old ways without fear of hiding it from his family. Albus had missed two celebrations, each absence deepening the chasm of frustration inside him, each passing moment fueling his magic’s anger. It wanted to be unleashed, to be recognized and honored.
Albus sank to the floor, his fingers digging into the cool stone as the reality of his situation washed over him. He needed to appease it tonight —he couldn’t ignore it any longer. With a shaky breath, he focused inward, feeling the surge of power within him, a raging storm waiting to be unleashed. There was a way to channel this pain, to use it —He wiped his tears away, the anger and hurt morphing into resolve.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus smuggled some food into his bag from the feast, his heart racing with excitement and nervous energy. The common room was mostly empty when he made it back—most had gone out to the Mabon celebrations. He seized the moment, sprinting up to the dormitory, letting out a grateful breath when he found it empty.
He quickly unpacked his offerings, placing the food alongside the other items he had gathered: fresh red apples plucked from the small garden tended by the house-elves, and bits of cinnamon he had carefully crumbled into the apple's hollow. He hesitated before laying down the sacrificial dagger that Fawley had lended him on the train. He had everything he needed.
With meticulous care, he tucked everything into a sling bag and draped a dark robe over it, concealing his treasures. He set off through the castle, navigating the lesser-traveled passages until he reached the hidden forest, enveloped in the cloak of night. He was careful to avoid stumbling into any other celebrations, moving deeper into the woods until the distant sounds of merriment faded.
The Forbidden Forest was never truly calm; the sounds of the night surrounded him, a chorus of rustles and whispers that sent shivers down his spine. But he pressed on, breathing out as he pulled down his hood, finally feeling the cool air on his face. He began to clear a small space for the rite, his magic thrumming beneath his skin, now a familiar warmth rather than the painful burn it had been before.
Once the area was prepared, he carefully laid out his items before a small pile of firewood and leaves he had collected. He took a deep breath, focusing his energy as he whispered, “Incendio. ” Flames sprang to life, dancing merrily among the leaves and twigs. The warm light on his face felt like home, a beacon of comfort in the dark. A hum of contentment slipped from his lips as he prepared the offerings, his gloves set aside, his hands feeling free and connected to the earth.
The calm that washed over him was intoxicating, banishing any lingering fear as he began the ritual. He whispered, his voice steady:
“In tenebris, invoco te,”
(“In darkness, I invoke you.”)
The air seemed to pulsate, swirling around him—alive, sentient, as if waiting.
“Tributum solvo,”
(“I pay tribute.”)
Albus felt as if it recognized him, the flicker of warmth stirring within,
“De hoc Mabon,”
(“On this Mabon.”)
The air hummed, clearly pleased and waiting—
“Ad tenebris,”
(“To the dark.”)
It was as if everything around him held its breath—
“Per sanguinem meum,”
(“Through my blood.”)
With deliberate care, Albus took the dagger and dragged it across his left hand, wincing slightly as the sharp edge broke the skin. He let the deep red liquid fall into the fire, watching as the flames danced higher, absorbing his offering. He placed the dagger down, heart racing with anticipation.
“Accipe dona mea;” he finished, holding the remaining offerings in his other hand.
(“Accept my gifts;”)
One by one, he let them fall into the fire, the scent of cinnamon, pumpkin and apples mingling with the smoke, filling the air with warmth and a sense of purpose. The flames crackled, a primal energy surging around him, filling the air with a thick, intoxicating magic that embraced him as a mother's hug. In that moment, there was truly nothing better—nothing else mattered in its embrace. It was all-consuming, a mind-numbing relief from the chaos that swirled in his life.
The magic— it wanted to give him more.
“In tenebris, praesidium et fortitudinem peto,”
(“In darkness, I ask for protection and strength.”)
His voice strained, vulnerable, trembling. As the words hung in the air, he felt the magic respond, wrapping around him, coiling like tendrils of smoke. It whispered promises of safety and power, offering the very things he craved. He let his breath hitch, and cries flowed out of him, laying his heart bare for the magic.
The flames flickered wildly, shadows dancing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Albus closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment, allowing himself to be enveloped by the dark magic he had longed to embrace once more. Each heartbeat resonated with the forest's power, making him feel more alive than ever. When he opened his eyes, he stared into the flames, unwilling to leave their burning embrace.
He reached into the fire, feeling the flames travel around his hand, as if they recognized his pain and sought to heal him. The sensation enveloped him, warm and caressing, dancing over his skin and burning away the remnants of his anguish. It felt as though the magic were mending every scar, every bruise he had ever endured. Tears streamed down his face as he surrendered to the warmth, allowing the magic to cradle him.
He didn't care if it consumed him, if it ate his soul —magic like this could never be evil. In that moment, the magic responded with a hymn, a melody that resonated deep within him. A light, carefree laugh escaped his lips, and he knew—that this was love . A fierce, undeniable love that transcended pain, fear, and loneliness. It was a connection that filled him with purpose, weaving through the very fabric of his being and binding him to the dark.
Here, in this sacred communion, he found not just solace but a sense of belonging. The dark magic enveloped him like a warm embrace, and he was home.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Albus!” Scorpius's voice echoed through the empty dormitory as Albus quietly returned. The boy looked almost frantic, his eyes wide and filled with unspoken worry, as if he hadn’t been able to relax for a moment. In an instant, he sprinted from his bed and engulfed Albus in a deep hug, pressing his face against Albus’s shoulder, inhaling his scent—
Albus felt no hesitation, only warmth as he wrapped his arms around Scorpius’s waist, pulling him closer. He rested his head against Scorpius's shoulder, which felt reassuringly higher than his own.
As Scorpius slowly pulled away from the embrace, their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them. Scorpius crept back beneath his blankets, and Albus made his way over to his wardrobe, changing into his pajamas—a simple Muggle T-shirt and gym shorts—Once dressed, he turned back toward Scorpius and slipped into his bed, letting the other boy pull him into his warm embrace once more. The cocoon of blankets and their intertwined bodies created a sanctuary where their fears could momentarily dissolve.
Scorpius buried his head in Albus's neck, inhaling again—his brow furrowing as he tensed. “You smell like smoke,” he murmured, his voice laced with unease.
Albus chuckled softly despite the tension, the sound tinged with melancholy. He knew what Scorpius was smelling of him–what was radiating so strongly, making him still light headed—it was the residue of the dark magic. It had left a dark residue that clung to him like a shadow. As if sensing the weight of that darkness, Scorpius hugged him tighter, a flicker of fear in his eyes, as if he were afraid of losing Albus to the allure of that possessive magic— In that embrace, Albus sought solace, holding onto Scorpius as if he were the anchor in a tempest.
There was something unspoken–-And he feared it would tear them apart.
As Scorpius began to drift off to sleep, Albus carefully slipped out of his friend's bed, pulling the covers over him before heading back to his own. He could feel the magic still buzzing beneath his skin, a restless energy dancing inside him. He hoped that, for once, it would allow him a night of peaceful slumber—one without nightmares.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Mabon had been a strange turning point. Ever since that quiet, personal ritual he'd conducted in secret, Albus had felt something shift in him. His magic seemed sharper, more in tune with the world around him. The hexes thrown his way seemed to miss him more often than they struck, veering off course at the last moment. But that strange luck came at a cost—what missed him often hit Scorpius.
And Albus didn’t know how to feel about that.
He hadn’t told Scorpius about his Mabon celebration, about the way the magic had stirred inside him. But he was sure the other had noticed. He’d expected questions, maybe even concern—a lecture about being more careful of him being reckless. yet there had been none, and that unsettled him. Even more disturbing was the change in Scorpius. Normally, Scorpius was the bright one, always laughing and deflecting their troubles with a joke. Now, more often than not he was quiet, withdrawn, his mood souring in ways that Albus had never seen before.
It felt as though they had swapped roles, a thought that would have seemed ludicrous to Albus just weeks ago. Yet here they were—Albus, feeling almost lighthearted despite everything, and Scorpius pulling further and further into himself. Albus knew his own change was due to the magic from Mabon, the grounding it had given him, but Scorpius’s withdrawal? That was something else entirely.
Even the relentless bullying from their housemates—the curses hurled their way, the whispered slurs, and the near-constant threat of hexes and their near brush with death—shouldn’t have affected Scorpius like this. Scorpius had always brushed those things aside, feigning an almost insane optimism. No, this went deeper. Albus watched him with growing concern, trying to understand what had changed in his friend, and for all the magic in the world, Albus didn't know how to fix it.
And his magic seemed aware of it too—Late nights had become unbearable for Albus. There was a pull, a magnetic force tugging at him, growing stronger with each passing day. His magic was trying to guide him somewhere, to show him something, but Albus resisted. He didn’t want to push things further, not when Scorpius was already fighting dementors Albus couldn’t see—Dementors that clung to him like shadows, sucking out his usual happiness. Whatever darkness Scorpius was grappling with, Albus feared that meddling with his own would only make things worse.
Yet his magic was growing impatient with his hesitation. It pulsed beneath his skin, crackling with barely-contained frustration. He could feel it lurking, demanding his attention, and when magic felt neglected, it had its own ways of punishing those who ignored it. It was becoming relentless, cruel, even.
By the fourth night of sleeplessness, Albus couldn't take it anymore. His eyes were heavy, body aching from exhaustion, but his mind refused to quiet, his magic buzzing in his veins like an incessant whisper. He had tried to block it out, but it wouldn’t let him rest, and the longer he resisted, the more unbearable the tension became.
That night, something inside him snapped.
Without fully understanding why, Albus let his magic take control. It dragged him from his bed, his feet moving on their own accord as if guided by an unseen hand. He moved silently through the dormitory, careful not to wake Scorpius and the others, whose breathing was shallow and uneven in sleep. His magic knew where it was taking him, even if he didn’t.
It led him to his own trunk.
Albus hesitated for just a moment, but the pull was too strong to resist now. His hand reached inside, digging past the old robes and schoolbooks until his fingers brushed against something cold and familiar. A Tome —one he had long tried to not think about. The book slid out easily, its worn leather cover rough beneath his fingertips. The title, barely visible in the dim light, seemed to shimmer in the darkness. He knew this book. It was not one he could easily forget:
Blood Maledictions: Origins, Practices, and the Inheritance of Malefactions .
His exhaustion did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach. Why had his magic led him here? A question he'd been asking himself since he first felt that pull in the shop. But something inside him, deep and unshakable, reassured him that the answer was near —and that thought filled him with dread.
He ran his fingers over the title, feeling the eerie, almost living pulse beneath the leather cover. The book had been waiting for him.
Blood maledictions—dark, ancient curses that bound families for generations. Their origins were lost to time, their effects devastating and unpredictable. Some were inherited, passed down like a twisted legacy, while others could be invoked intentionally.
His throat tightened. Forcing himself to breathe, Albus opened the book, the pages brittle and yellowed with age. He knew he would not find sleep tonight, not until he had read every word.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus had become hyper-aware of Scorpius’s every move, every subtle shift in demeanor, every calculated silence. All of it led him closer to unraveling the mystery that Scorpius so desperately tried to keep hidden. Albus felt a twinge of guilt for his probing questions—asking about the letters, his family, their summer, and even his holiday plans for Yule. Every time, Scorpius would tighten up, though no one else would notice, of course. Scorpius was a pureblood heir, raised in one of the most noble houses of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. His mask was impeccable, worthy of someone of his birth.
But it didn’t fool Albus. Just as Scorpius could see through Albus’s own mask, Albus had learned to see through his.
As autumn settled in, the days growing darker and colder, Albus’s magic felt different—stronger, somehow. Mabon had grounded him. The teasing and the hexes from the other students didn’t matter so much anymore. His nightmares were less frequent, his attention drifting elsewhere. He felt a slow-burning desire inside, a need to play the game. He wanted revenge. To show them all what happens when they mess with him.
They were such pathetic beings , unable to think for themselves, content to drift along with the crowd. Albus knew the reason for it, of course. He, too, had clung to self-preservation in his first year, holding tightly to the belief that it was the only way to survive. But now he saw it for what it was— weakness. A weakness he could exploit. The same cowardice that had turned his house against him was what would ultimately lead to his own success.
So what if they turned their robes with the wind? He would just become the wind.
But that was easier said than done. The whole house was against him. Even with his quiet allies who lurked in the shadows, he knew he held little influence. He hadn’t been playing the game, after all. He hadn’t wanted to. But that conversation with Nott over the summer haunted him.
"You’re not on the board?" Nott had repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That’s exactly what people say right before they’re swept up in it. You think you can just stay out of it, pretend it doesn’t concern you? You don’t get to choose, Potter. Not when your name carries that kind of weight."
Albus had hated how smug Nott had been, how sure of himself. He’d declared that he wasn’t playing the game, that he wasn’t even on the board. But maybe Nott was right. Maybe it wasn’t a choice. But he would let himself become a piece on a board, in a bigger game, no he needed to be the player.
He would carve his own path. The future was his to make, after all.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Scorpius stopped abruptly behind him, nearly making Albus stumble. “Albus, you’re doing it again,” he said, concern etched across his features as he studied Albus’s face.
“What?” Albus snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended.
“Your eyes,” Scorpius replied softly. “They’re…different. You look like you’re about to explode.”
Albus clenched his jaw, forcing himself to take a breath. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but the lie felt heavy on his tongue. Scorpius knew him too well, and Albus hated how easily he was read.
“Let’s just go to the library,” Scorpius suggested gently, his voice soothing. “We can study or something.”
Albus sighed, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “Yeah, okay. But I don’t think studying is going to help much,” he replied, trying to inject a bit of humor into the moment, though it fell flat.
Scorpius offered a small smile, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “We’ll figure it out together, right?”
Albus nodded, grateful for his friend’s unwavering support. As they walked toward the library, Albus couldn’t shake the darkness curling at the edges of his thoughts, but for now, he would cling to the warmth of Scorpius by his side.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Al! Come on! You can't keep letting this go on–”
Albus's irritation flared, a heat that radiated through him. “I’m not the one letting this go on! It’s Rose; she clearly wants to prove some dumb point, and I won’t be a part of it.”
“Come on, Albus! You can't let this rift come between you.” James's voice was urgent, almost pleading, but Albus felt his resolve hardening.
He breathed out, trying to calm the storm brewing within him. He knew there was no use getting mad at his brother; it would only lead to more frustration. James was family, after all, but Albus was acutely aware of the secret James was keeping for him. Even if James hadn't used it against him yet, the knowledge weighed heavily on Albus's mind. He had to navigate this carefully.
“I’m fine with Rose. You can’t force me to befriend her friends.”
“But Al! Rose befriended Scorpius!” James's eyes were wide with exasperation.
Albus shot him a pointed look. “James, you were there on the train! She told him to his face that she wouldn’t become friends, that she’d only act civil because of me.”
James grimaced, the reality of the situation setting in.
“Then why can't you–”
“I can,” Albus interrupted sharply, “I just won’t apologize.”
James groaned, burying himself in his assignment, frustration etched across his features. Albus rolled his eyes, but a flicker of sympathy surfaced.
“James, you don’t have to play the peacekeeper. You’ve got enough on your plate. Haven’t your grades been really bad this term? Won’t you be taken off the team if you don’t get good enough marks?”
James let out a low groan, the weight of expectations pressing down on him.
“Look, James,” Albus said more seriously, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I understand what you’re trying to do and why. But it’s not your responsibility. Please let me deal with Rose. Focus on your own life, yeah?” His voice softened, a genuine concern threading through it.
James raised his head, showing a tired expression. “Thank you, Albie. I just want everyone to be happy.”
“I know,” Albus replied, his heart aching for his brother. “But I want you to be happy too. That means I don’t want to see you stressed over this. I’ll try to handle it, okay? But you have to let me do it my way.”
“Now,” he added with a sly grin, “you won’t leave until you finish this assignment.” The teasing tone cut through the tension, but it was met with James's horrified expression.
From the other side of the table, laughter erupted from Scorpius and Sam, who had clearly witnessed the entire exchange.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The Forbidden Forest loomed around them like a beast poised to strike. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of twigs, sent Scorpius flinching, his eyes wide with terror. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the trees themselves were closing in, preparing to swallow them whole. Above, the pale light of the moon barely penetrated the twisted canopy, casting long shadows that seemed to move on their own. The oppressive silence, broken only by the distant call of creatures, made the situation feel all the more perilous.
For the second time that term, Albus and Scorpius found themself in a life or death situation, and it wasn't even Samhain yet.
Albus should have expected this . He really should have. And yet, as they sat bound to the tree, dangerously close to the acromantula colony, Albus felt a strange detachment settle over him. Scorpius was visibly shaking beside him, his breath coming out in sharp, shallow gasps. “This can’t be legal,” Scorpius whispered, his voice trembling, his words edged with frantic disbelief. “We could actually die this time—someone has to know, right? They wouldn’t just leave us here?”
Albus didn’t bother pointing out that they very much could have died in the lake. That reminder wouldn’t help Scorpius. He only managed a grimace as a response. His focus was elsewhere, his mind turning over the intricacies of the ropes binding them. Enchanted, obviously. Could they break free without wands?
“We’re going to die,” Scorpius muttered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.
Albus shrugged trying to break the tension, he offered a weak attempt at humor, “You think the spiders are going to get us first?” he asked, The joke fell flat, met with Scorpius’s horrified stare.
“No!” Scorpius shook his head, silver strands of hair sticking to his clammy skin. “We can’t just give up! Someone will come looking for us!” His voice cracked with desperation, but his hope was thin—frayed like the edges of his resolve.
“We have to stay calm,” Albus finally muttered, forcing the words out like they were part of some script. He met Scorpius’s gaze, who’s eyes were panicked– “Panicking won’t help.”
Scorpius’s eyes were wide, frantic. “Albus! How can you be so calm—this is insane!” His voice cracked, hysteria seeping in with every word.
Albus didn’t answer. He wasn’t calm—not even close. Every nerve in his body was on high alert, coiled tight, ready for something—anything—to leap at them from the shadows. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, and his ears strained to pick up every noise, every whisper of wind. But panicking wouldn’t help. He couldn’t afford to let it take over, not now. Why couldn’t Scorpius understand that? They needed to think, to act—and fast. There would be time to break down later. But Scorpius was falling apart already, too scared to think straight. Albus could see it in his trembling hands, the wild, darting eyes.
Scorpius let out a hollow laugh, the sound desperate, jagged. “It’s just a prank, right? They wouldn’t really leave us here—” His laughter died in his throat, turning into a weak whisper. “We aren’t… we aren’t really in danger, are we?”
Albus rolled his eyes, irritation fraying the edges of his composure. “Scorpius—”
Scorpius swallowed hard, his voice barely holding steady. “Even if they did leave us—someone has to come. They can’t just… leave us out here. Someone will come, right?”
“Scorpius, no one’s coming,” Albus cut in, sharper than he intended. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, but he didn’t have the patience to sugarcoat it. “The only ones who know about this are Slytherins.”
Scorpius’s face went pale, his eyes widening in horror. The reality of their situation finally hit him. “No! No, that can’t be true! They wouldn’t just leave us here, would they?” His voice trembled as he looked at Albus.
Albus sighed, feeling anger boil inside of him. “Scorpius, think about it,” he said, his tone heavy with bitterness. “They threw us into the lake the first night back. They hex us every chance they get. They throw tripping hexes at us on the stairs—I don't think they care about our safety.”
“This is mad,” Scorpius muttered, his voice barely audible. “They weren’t like this last term.”
“Of course not,” Albus snapped, his voice bitter and sharp. “Nott kept them in line. But now? Now we’re fair game. We’re blood traitors to them, Scorpius. Targets for all their ill will and anger.”
Scorpius’s breath hitched, panic fully setting in as he pulled at the ropes. “Albus, we have to do something. We can’t just sit here and wait for them to come back and… and finish us off.”
Albus glanced toward the shadows of the forest, the distant rustle of something moving. He chuckled, dark and humorless. “Pretty sure the spiders will get to us first.”
Scorpius flinched at the mention of the spiders, his body trembling. “No… no, please don’t joke about that. We can’t just sit here.
Leaning his head back against the tree, Albus let out a sharp, unsettling laugh. The fear, the tension—it all started to feel surreal. It all felt strangely distant, yet so overwhelming at the same time. “Scorp,” he said, voice strained, “this is so fun.” His grin was wide, unsettling, as if he had lost touch with reality.
Scorpius stared at him, horrified, as if he were looking at someone who had completely lost their mind.
And maybe Albus had.
But as the wind howled through the trees, and the darkness pressed in around them, Albus could feel it. The magic. His magic. It pulsed beneath his skin, deep and dark, alive with energy, so close to Samhain. He grinned wider, feeling it coil inside him like a serpent ready to strike. They had underestimated him.
Albus felt the magic pulsating, thrumming in the air around them, a dark force licking at his skin. It was everywhere, surrounding them like a cloak, seeping into the very earth beneath their feet. Samhain was so close, and with it, the veil between life and death, light and dark, was thinning. The energy was palpable, seductive in its whispers, and it called to him— beckoned him to reach out, to take hold of it, to unleash it.
His heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. No, this was something else. Something raw and untamed, coiling inside him like a serpent ready to strike.
“Do you have anything sharp, Scorp?” Albus’s voice was disturbingly calm for the chaos that surrounded them and inside of him, an eerie contrast to the rising tension. It was as though he were asking about the weather, not plotting an escape from near-certain gruesome death.
Scorpius blinked, confused and startled by Albus’s sudden shift. “What? Sharp? What are you talking about?” His voice was shaky, his fear clear in the tremor of his words.
Albus’s grin only widened, the thrill of the moment wrapping around him like a vice. “We were at the Owlery, remember? You must have something—like a letter opener.”
“Albus…” Scorpius’s voice wavered clearly with anger—uncertainty and concern filling his features. “I really don’t think—It’s reckless to use blood magic without a proper circle, you can’t just—”
“Scorp, we don’t have time for this,” Albus spat out, his patience slipping, the hunger for power gnawing at him mixed together with his nerves. His eyes gleamed with a manic intensity, his mind already made up. “You have something sharp, don’t you?” His tone left no room for argument, and Scorpius could see the determination, the dangerous edge, in his friend’s eyes.
With trembling hands, Scorpius hesitated, then slowly reached into his robes, pulling out a small letter opener. The blade glinted faintly in the moonlight, sharp and thin, barely more than a sliver of metal.
Albus’s grin widened as if he had just won some secret game. “I knew it,” he said softly, almost playfully, though his voice carried an undercurrent of something darker—something feral. Scorpius stared at him in disbelief, his expression a mixture of shock and dread.
“Cut my hand, Scorp,” Albus instructed, his voice low and edged with a dangerous excitement. “Make it deep.”
Scorpius recoiled, his hands shaking more violently now. “Albus, no—this isn’t the way, you can’t—”
“Do it,” Albus snapped, his tone laced with impatience, the fire in his veins begging for release. The magic was swirling around them now, almost visible in the air, whispering to him, promising him power. His grin twisted, becoming more manic, more dangerous. He welcomed the thought of the pain. He craved it. “ Now .”
Scorpius looked at him, defiance filled his eyes. “Albus, I won’t—”
“You’d rather let the spiders have a feast?” Albus’s voice cracked, his anger spilling over. His words sliced through the tension like a blade. “I’m sure you hear them too!” he yelled, his desperation and fury breaking through his normally cold exterior. His voice echoed off the trees, sending birds scattering into the night.
Scorpius’s breath hitched. as if he could hear them, the faint rustle of legs in the distance, the eerie skittering that made seemed to make his blood run cold.
With trembling hands, Scorpius obeyed. He flicked open the blade, the moonlight glinting off the sharp edge. His heart pounded, his stomach churning with nausea as he raised the letter opener to Albus’s hand. His fingers shook as the blade met skin.
The cut was deep. Blood welled immediately, warm and thick, and Albus’s eyes fluttered shut as if he were savoring the pain. His breath hitched, but instead of wincing, his lips curled into a smile.
It was as if the pain had fueled the dark magic surging inside him, and Albus gripped the rope binding them, muttering under his breath.
“ Per tenebras, te invoco ,” he whispered, his voice steady, powerful.
(“Through darkness, I invoke you.”)
“Tenebrae, amplectere me.”
(“ Darkness, embrace me.”)
“In umbris tuis, potentiam meam quaero.”
(“ In your shadows, I seek my power.”)
“Estuans funem.”
Albus’s blood shimmered, then ignited, transforming into flame. The fire snaked its way along the ropes, devouring the bindings as though they were drenched in oil. The flames licked at the air, burning impossibly hot, and Albus stared at them, mesmerized. The fire was his—it was born from him. It was him.
The ropes crackled and burned, Albus’s breath was ragged, the fire didn’t stop. It spread, creeping over the rope, engulfing the and the very air around them.
Albus could feel it—He welcomed it —as if the flames were an extension of his own being.
The flames licked dangerously close to his skin, searing the edges of his robes, yet he didn’t flinch. His breath quickened, a dark thrill running through him as the fire burned hotter, hungrier. He could hear a scream—a high, panicked sound that cut through the night, but he couldn’t pull himself away from the flames. He was caught in their spell, unable to distinguish where the fire ended and he began.
Then it was gone.
The fire vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only smoldering ash. The ropes had crumbled into dust, their ashes scattered in the dirt. Albus sat in the aftermath, chest heaving. His hands were blistered, his skin scorched, but the pain was distant, numbed by the raw euphoria still coursing through him.
Suddenly, rough hands grabbed him, shaking him violently—Scorpius. His heart raced as he registered the look on his friend’s face. Scorpius wasn’t just pale, his expression was contorted with concern and barely restrained anger.
“Albus!” Scorpius’s voice broke, harsh and raw. “What did you do ?!”
Albus, still intoxicated by the magic, grinned wildly. “Did you see that, Scorp? Did you see what I just did?”
Scorpius didn’t answer. His eyes scanned Albus frantically, as if searching for something familiar. He stared at Albus as though he were looking at a stranger—someone he no longer recognized.
Albus’s grin faltered, his chest tightening as anger boiled inside him, rising so fast he couldn’t control it. The fire that had blazed within him moments ago hadn’t gone out; it was still there, simmering, feeding off his frustration, off the look of fear in Scorpius's eyes. And that look—it infuriated him. He could feel it gnawing at the edges of his sanity. His insides churned with something darker, a betrayal that twisted into fury.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that!” Albus snapped, voice sharp and venomous. “I saved us! I did something! What did you do? Sit there, crying like a baby, while I saved us again !”
Scorpius's face twisted in a mix of concern, anger, and irritation. “Saved us?! You nearly killed us, Albus! You don’t even know what you’re playing with! Dark magic like that—it’s dangerous!” His voice was rising, a storm of emotions crashing through him—fear, anger, confusion— betrayal . “What were you thinking?!”
Albus’s rage flared hotter. “What was I thinking?” he spat and laughed bitterly as he gripped Scorpius by the shoulders, his hands tight and unyielding. “I was thinking of a way out of this mess! While you were too weak to do anything ! You just sat there, pissing yourself !”
Scorpius's face contorted with anger as he yanked Albus’s arms off of him, shoving him away with more force than either of them expected. He took a step back, fists clenched, his whole body shaking as he struggled to keep himself in check. His voice trembled with emotion as he shouted, “You reckless idiot ! You don’t understand! You could’ve—” His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence lost in his throat.
Albus's eyes darkened, his expression hardening. He took a step back, his voice dripping with venom. “You sound just like them ,” he spat, his tone laced with bitterness and hurt.
Scorpius flinched at the accusation, his anger faltering as he stared at Albus, disbelief etched across his features. “That’s cruel , Albus,” he said in a voice filled with betrayal.
The air between them was thick with tension, charged with emotions neither of them fully understood. Albus stepped forward again, closing the gap between them, his expression twisted in a mixture of defiance and desperation. “I did something . I saved us.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest, his gaze burning into Scorpius’s eyes.
He reached out, gripping Scorpius by the collar of his robes, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, after I saved us. Again .”
Something in Scorpius's gaze made Albus hesitate—a flicker of disappointment. Albus froze, his grip tightening involuntarily. The rage that had been fueling him faltered, giving way to something darker— fear, guilt . He let go, his hands falling to his sides, trembling as his voice cracked in a low whisper. “I saved us.”
Scorpius didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The silence hung heavy between them.
The rage inside Albus began to crack. His voice wavered, the anger splintering into something raw, something painful that clawed at his insides. Albus could feel the weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. He hated the silent treatment—the look Scorpius was giving him. It was too much like the looks he got from his parents, from his father’s disappointed eyes, his mother’s silent disapproval. The similarity hit too close to home, ripping him open. It hurt—something deep inside—and it was breaking him.
His vision blurred as tears stung his eyes, his body shaking from the force of everything he had been holding back, from the fear of losing Scorpius. Losing him to this—this disappointment , this scrutiny.
He shook as the fury dissolved into something deeper, something far more unbearable: fear, guilt, vulnerability—all the emotions he had been trying so desperately to bury. A sob—raw and jagged—tore from his throat before he could stop it, before he could shove it back down where it belonged. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound, trying to hold himself together, but it was useless.
And then, in a single moment of vulnerability, Scorpius pulled him close. The embrace wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, filled with all the emotions neither of them could voice. Scorpius held him tightly, so tightly Albus thought he might choke, but he didn’t care. He wanted it, craved it, and needed the solidity of Scorpius’s arms around him. It was the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart.
“I’m sorry, Albus,” Scorpius whispered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean—”
Albus shook his head, his face buried in Scorpius’s robes as sobs wracked his body. Scorpius’s arms tightened around him, holding him as though the embrace alone could shield them both from the weight of everything that had happened.
“I’m sorry, Albus—I’m so sorry,” Scorpius whispered again, his voice soft, trembling with guilt, regret, and a desperate need to make things right.
And Albus—who had fought so hard to keep it all in—finally let go. He let himself break, crumbling into Scorpius as the tears came. He sobbed, his body trembling uncontrollably as everything he had been holding back poured out in painful, gasping breaths.
He buried his face in Scorpius’s robes, the fabric quickly soaking with his tears, as all the anger, the fear, the confusion drained out of him, leaving him hollow, empty, and exhausted.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to let someone else carry the weight for him. And in that moment, as he clung to Scorpius, his grip so tight as though he was afraid of losing him, Albus felt the crushing weight of everything—his darkest fears, his deepest insecurities, and the terror of losing control—finally overwhelmed him.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
Sorry to all that hoped for some revenge this chapter! Dont worry it will happen!
Also i dont know latin, this is all just google translate 😔
Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen - Samhain 2018
Notes:
Hey! So, sorry for the late update!! iI have had alot of uni work, and i wasnt satisfied with alot of scenes, which made me rewrite them. But now i feel good enough about them to publish, hope you like them! ❤️❤️🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Seventeen - Samhain
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The lights flickered in the dorm as Albus and Scorpius trudged in, exhaustion etched across their faces, their robes caked in mud and marred with burn marks. Their eyes were red, as though they’d been crying.
“At least you’re not soaked this time,” Bowker said with a light tone from his bed as he watched the two boys enter the dorm.
“I think it’s worse—they look burned,” Zabini mused, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
“We’re fine,” Albus snapped, his light tone betraying his fatigue.
“Albus! We are not fine!” Scorpius exclaimed, clearly just as exhausted.
“We’re alive,” Albus muttered, rolling his eyes.
“That’s a pretty low standard,” Nott quipped from his bed, lazily flipping the pages of a book, his tone dripping with indifference.
“These pranks are getting out of hand,” Bowker added, his voice almost sounding concerned.
“Bowker, they’re not pranks. They’re death attempts,” Zabini drawled, his voice flat and uninterested.
“Glad someone’s finally grasped that,” Scorpius retorted, feeling the irritation bubble up.
“Albus—” Scorpius began, but Albus slammed the bathroom door behind him, effectively ending the conversation.
“Oh? Trouble in paradise?” Bowker teased, grinning at Scorpius, though his eyes held no mirth.
Scorpius, looking like he might break down at any second, ignored Bowker’s jab, his face a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.
Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open, and Albus stood in the doorway, shirtless, catching everyone’s attention. His skin was bruised and marked with fresh burns, making it clear just how brutal the attack had been.
A low whistle escaped Bowker. “Morgana, Potter, those are some scars.”
“Nott, did you still have that burn salve?” Albus shouted. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.” His tone was casual, almost unconcerned, as his eyes shifted to Scorpius, whose face flushed as he caught sight of Albus’s bruised bare torso. Concern settled across Scorpius’s face as he noticed the old bruises mingled with fresh burns from the ropes.
“Aren't you coming?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow. Scorpius’s face flushed even deeper as he glared at Zabini amused expression, then met Albus' gaze.
Albus looked at Scorpius then Nott “Please, Nott, the salve?” he called again.
Nott rolled his eyes but hopped off his bed and rifled through his trunk, tossing a jar of salve to Albus, who caught it easily. “Nice. Cheers,” Albus said before turning back to Scorpius.
“Half expected you to follow me. Come on, we’ve got to put this salve on. You know we can’t go to Pomfrey with these,” Albus added nonchalantly. then retreating into the bathroom once more.
The other boys exchanged amused glances before turning to Scorpius.
“So, aren’t you going to join him?” Bowker teased, an expectant grin on his face.
“Don’t take too long, and make sure to clean up after yourselves—” Zabini continued.
Scorpius, flustered, grabbed some clean clothes and marched toward the bathroom, shooting a glare at the others before slamming the door behind him.
For a moment, the room fell silent before laughter broke the tension.
Albus emerged from the bathroom first, pulling on his shirt a bit too big and more expensive looking than his usual. He ignored the others’ stares and flopped onto his bed, stretching out as though the earlier ordeal had been nothing. “What’s happening on your end? Any news about the upper years?” he asked, eyes half-closed.
Zabini leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Oh, you mean besides the usual?” His tone dripped with amusement.
Albus grimaced, recalling the hexes he’d been on the receiving end of. He could still faintly feel the sting from the hexes earlier that day and throughout the week when Zabini got a bit too carried away with his spells.
“Something tells me you’re enjoying yourself a bit too much with those, Zabini,” Albus bit out, irritation edging his voice.
Zabini smirked. “Just playing the part, Potter.”
"After Zabini’s little hex stunt, we’ve earned a bit more respect," Nott remarked, lounging back on his bed. "I expect they’ll let us in soon enough."
Bowker grinned. “It’s a competition between Nott and Zabini for Top boy.”
Albus raised an eyebrow “Not you?” He asked back to bowker, who just shrugged before saying “I'm half blood." Like that would be enough of an explanation.
Yet it was. It was not only Scorpius and Albus who had been branded blood traitors, the new king Burke also held more traditional values, which meant that Half-blood was treated accordingly as well.
“You know who’s really in charge,” Nott replied, casually flipping through a book, completely unbothered.
“Come on, you must know more than that,” Albus pressed.
“Well, Potter, be grateful we’re even helping you. We could easily join them instead,” Zabini said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. Albus wasn’t entirely sure whether the hexes would actually intensify if they did.
Albus rolled his eyes. “Really Zabini? Seems to me you’re enjoying yourself as it is already.” He spat out clearly annoyed.
Nott, with his usual posh tone, added, “Potter, you should care more about your position.”
Albus shot him an incredulous look. “It’s not your lot getting hexed left and right.”
Scorpius had just made his way out of the bathroom and grimaced. “Or getting tripping spells cast on you on the stairs.”
“My favorite was when they burned your assignments,” Zabini quipped, with a grin.
“Pretty sure that was you, Zabini,” Albus snapped, his patience wearing thin.
Scorpius shot a death glare at Zabini. “That was my first late essay,” he muttered.
Zabini shrugged, unbothered.
Then Nott interjected, clearly unimpressed. “They’ve been planning something, presumingly Rosier.”
The energy in the room shifted.
“Great,” Albus said, rolling his eyes again. “Another big thing. Perfect. You’d think nearly drowning in the Black Lake was enough.”
“It’s hilarious that Malfoy looked more horrified over a late assignment than he did after being bound and thrown into the Black Lake,” Bowker snickered.
“It’s only because he wasn’t awake! I had to do all the lifesaving,” Albus shot back.
Nott grimaced. “Can’t believe they actually tossed the Malfoy heir into the Black Lake unconscious.”
“Can’t believe none of the Professors noticed. They dragged us all the way through the castle,” Albus said, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“For now, they seem calm,” Nott mused. “I doubt they’ll pull anything else this month.”
“Great, so we can expect something next month then,” Scorpius replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
“Looks like little Malfoy has finally picked up on Potter’s eye roll,” Bowker teased, a gleeful grin on his face. Scorpius shot him a glare.
Once more, Albus ignored the banter. “Whose idea was tonight’s outing?” he asked.
“I’d put my money on Burke,” Bowker suggested.
“Why not Rosier?” Zabini raised an eyebrow.
“He’s more dramatic, isn’t he?” Bowker replied.
Then Zabini shifted targets. “By the way, Malfoy, did you have a good time in there? You’re glowing more than usual,” he smirked, amusement dripping from his tone.
Scorpius shot Zabini a glare, his face turning a deeper shade of red. “Shut up, Zabini,” he muttered, clearly flustered.
“Relax! I’m just saying… you’re practically radiating, ” Zabini continued, his teasing grin widening. “Must’ve been a really thorough shower.”
Albus, lounging on his bed, was only half-listening to the conversation.
Bowker stifled a laugh, while Nott rolled his eyes from the corner, not bothering to look up from his book. “You’re ridiculous, Zabini.”
Zabini chuckled. “What? Just appreciating how refreshed our Malfoy looks.”
Flustered and thoroughly embarrassed, Scorpius tried to change the subject, but the boys were relentless.
“Did Albus help you apply that salve, or did you help Albus?” Bowker added, grinning and clearly enjoying the teasing.
Scorpius’s face flushed an even deeper red, “For Merlin’s sake, Bowker! It’s not like that!” he snapped, his voice cracking just enough to draw another round of amused looks from the others.
Bowker raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Zabini, who chuckled softly. “Right. Just a friendly rubdown after a near-death experience,” Zabini added, still smirking. “Perfectly normal.”
Albus, lying back on his bed, sighed loudly and stretched his arms overhead. “Would you lot shut it already?” he muttered, sounding more irritated than amused. “We got burned, we helped each other apply the salve—end of story.”
“Come on, Potter, you think we don’t know how you sometimes sleep in each other’s beds?” Zabini said, his glee unabashed.
Albus’s eyes snapped open, his expression darkening instantly as he pushed himself up from the bed. “What are you trying to say, Zabini?” he asked, his tone sharp, a far cry from the casual irritation he’d shown before.
Zabini, unfazed, leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “Oh, nothing at all, Potter. Just that you two seem awfully comfortable with each other. Sharing beds, late-night strolls, patching each other up, and now you are wearing his shirt—”
Albus had quickly shot a stinging hex at Zabini, cutting him off, and was now blushing, his expression flickering as the implications sank in. The room went quiet, everyone staring in disbelief at Albus’s reddened face. “Morgana, Potter, did you just realize—” Bowker began, his voice filled with disbelief mixed with amusement.
Albus turned an even deeper shade of red, visibly trying to compose himself. “It’s not like that! We’re—” He faltered, before blurting out, “Like brothers!”
The room erupted into laughter. Zabini nearly doubled over with amusement as Bowker gave Albus a mock-pitying look.
“Brothers, eh? Is that what you’re calling it now?” Zabini said through chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Morgana, Potter, you really are clueless, aren’t you?”
Albus's face flushed an even deeper red, frustration evident as he clenched his fists. “I’m serious!” he snapped, his defensiveness doing little to quell the laughter. “It’s not like that!”
Scorpius looked genuinely concerned—there was something else in his eyes, something closer to fear.
Albus, struggling to regain control of the situation, only made it worse. “We’re just... we’ve been through a lot together, alright? Doesn’t mean there’s anything—”
“Romantic?” Bowker interjected, raising his eyebrows, his eyes gleaming with mockery. “You don’t have to justify it to us, mate.”
“Yeah, we’re all very open-minded here,” Zabini added, his grin sharp and insincere. “No judgment. ”
The words sank into Albus like a knife, twisting painfully. Blood rushed to his face, heat rising up his neck and burning his skin. His stomach churned violently as shame clawed its way up his throat. “It’s not like that!” Albus screamed, his voice cracking, raw with anger and something far worse—humiliation.
But the words were out of his control now, tumbling out before he could stop them. He was filled with disgust. Embarrassment. The overwhelming sense of being seen, judged—like all those times they had been cornered, forced to endure vile things hurled at them. The whispers. The mocking. His hands trembled, feeling like his skin was too tight, as if he would explode from the pressure of it all.
“It’s not like that, That’s disgusting .” The word slipped from his lips before he even registered saying it, the spite clear in his tone, and in that instant, the room went cold.
Laughter died out immediately. Zabini’s smug smile faltered, his raised eyebrows now betraying surprise. He exchanged a glance with Bowker, whose grin had faded as well. Nott, still lounging in the corner, gave Albus a knowing, almost pitying look, as if he could see right through the layers of Albus's defense, as if he knew exactly what was going on inside him.
Albus stood there, frozen in place, face flushed with a mixture of anger and shame. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, but it didn’t matter. Nothing helped. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and the room felt like it was closing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of what he’d just said.
But worse than the silence, worse than their stares, was the flood of memories that suddenly overwhelmed him. The things Rosier had spat at him, the slurs, the insinuations. All the times they’d mocked him for being too close to Scorpius, twisting their friendship into something ugly and vile. He could still hear their voices, sharp and venomous in his mind, tearing at his sense of self until he didn’t know what was real anymore. He could feel disgust crawling up his skin, seeping into his bones—not at Scorpius, never at Scorpius—but at the way they had poisoned everything.
The connection between him and Scorpius wasn’t like that. It wasn’t some vile thing or a joke to be sneered at. But in that moment, standing there with all eyes on him, Albus couldn’t untangle the knots of shame and anger that twisted inside him. All he could feel was that creeping, insidious doubt planted by their tormentors, the same doubt that had festered and grown into something uncontrollable.
He didn’t dare look at Scorpius.
He couldn’t. Because whatever expression Scorpius had now—whether it was hurt, betrayal, or worse, agreement—Albus knew he wouldn’t survive seeing it. He didn’t know what would be worse. His mind raced, flashing back to first year, to the moment when Scorpius had given him that birthday gift—before everything had been tainted, before Burke and the others had twisted it into something grotesque. What had been a simple moment of friendship and trust had become another weapon used against him.
Albus hated it.
He hated how they had turned something precious—into something disgusting, something to mock and throw back in his face. He hated himself for letting them get inside his head, for letting their words corrupt what had been so pure. He hated how weak he was for lashing out now, for letting them control him like this.
He didn’t know if it was shame or humiliation that burned in his veins, fueling his self-loathing. His chest ached with the weight of it, and he couldn’t bear the idea of facing Scorpius now. Not after what he’d said. Without another word, Albus turned on his heel, his movements stiff and jerky as if he could barely keep himself together. He made a beeline for his bed, throwing himself onto it and yanking the curtains closed with trembling hands. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear their whispers or their laughter, didn’t want to face the reality of the damage he’d just caused. He lay there, curled up, fists still clenched tightly, hating himself with every fiber of his being.
Pathetic.
That’s all he was. Weak, spineless. He had let them win. He had let them ruin everything.
As the night stretched on, Albus’s mind wouldn’t let him rest. The fear gnawed at him, unrelenting. Fear of what Scorpius was thinking. Fear of the look on his face, the one Albus hadn’t been able to bear seeing. The thought of it haunted him, and the uncertainty—the guilt—twisted inside him like a blade, making him sick to his stomach.
He hated himself for what he’d said, for what he’d done, but more than anything, he feared that he had just destroyed the one thing that mattered most to him.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
It was evident to anyone in the great hall during breakfast that something had happened between Albus and Scorpius. They kept a conspicuous distance from each other, the tension thick enough to slice through the air.
In the corridor, Scorpius finally broke the silence. “I need some space,” he said flatly, detached. The words cut deeper than Albus had expected. He struggled to mask his hurt, knowing he had no right to feel upset.
“Scorpius—” Albus replied, the words spilling out even as his heart begged him to reach out, to hug Scorpius and reassure him that he didn’t mean it.
Scorpius gave him a sad smile which made Albus stop, and look down into the ground “I understand.” He said quietly.
He hardly even cared about Samhain anymore, why did it matter without Scorpius? all that consumed him was how much he missed Scorpius, how much he loathed himself—How he hated himself, he wished he could go back in time and stop himself—His stupid weak self—He dreaded that he had destroyed it all, it made him drown in his own anxiety. He touched the bracelet, but that familiar warmth did not return. He hated himself for being so affected, for letting them affect him like this. This feud had dragged on too long, creating a chasm in his relationship with Scorpius, his best friend, his brother.
If there was one thing Albus excelled at, it was going unnoticed and allowing his grudges to simmer beneath the surface. Revenge consumed his mind, it was easier than the guilt— That swirling like a dark cloud. With determination, he made a beeline toward the common room, then towards their dorm. He rifled through his trunk frantically, pulling out his journal, His heart stung as he pushed away the thoughts of the journal itself being a gift from Scorpius. He clutched it tightly, willing the pain to subside before forcing himself to focus. He tucked the journal and his quill into his school bag and headed straight for an abandoned classroom.
Despite the tension with his yearmates in Slytherin, he knew they would cover for him. After all, they stood united outside the common room.
Once inside the dusty classroom, filled with old, unused furniture and cobwebs, he settled into a quiet corner. He spread his notes across the table, referencing the book Fawley had lent him. At that moment, he began to meditate, closing his eyes and envisioning a forest where the library once stood—a sanctuary from the chaos swirling around him.
He didn't know how long he stayed in his mind, his determination would not let himself leave before his mindscape was perfect, or until he fainted from exhaustion.
It wasn’t until his body finally gave in, his mind clouded by exhaustion, that he slumped forward, He regretfully exited his mind.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The corridor was eerily quiet as Albus made his way out, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. His vision blurred, blackness creeping in at the corners of his eyes. He leaned heavily against the wall, fighting against the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, he forced it down, trying to steady his mind, raising his mental shields despite the burning exhaustion in his skull.
Suddenly, his magic flared, a warning, screaming at him that he wasn’t alone. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He pushed away from the wall and turned to face whoever had dared to approach him.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Fawley,” he greeted with a tone that masked his fatigue, his voice carefully poised.
Fawley leaned casually against the stone wall, her shoulder brushing the cold surface, arms crossed in her usual effortless manner. "If it isn’t my favorite little first-year," she quipped, her tone laced with playful condescension. "You look dreadful, more so than usual."
Albus grinned through the pain. “How kind of you, Fawley. But you'll have to come up with a new nickname—I’m not a first-year anymore.”
"Oh, I’m well aware. Time has a curious way of slipping by, doesn’t it?” Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement as they flicked over him, taking in his disheveled appearance.
Albus glanced down at the floor, his exhaustion pressing in from all sides. “Are you going to read my mind?” he asked casually, though the edge in his voice betrayed the vulnerability he tried to suppress.
Fawley let out a soft, almost predatory laugh as she stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?” she purred, her voice sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. She paused before adding, "I suppose I could test your shields. See how much you've improved."
Albus lifted his gaze to meet hers—those dark, all-consuming eyes. He felt the gentle prod at his mental barriers, a subtle probing. She was testing him. The pressure mounted as the intrusions became more aggressive, more insistent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his jaw tightened as he concentrated, refusing to let her break through easily.
But Fawley was relentless . She breached his shields with a final push, her presence slipping into his mind. Albus wasn’t finished, though. He tried to divert her attention, steering her towards insignificant memories—ones that held no importance. Still, the dull ache in his temples grew with each passing second, and frustration bubbled beneath the surface.
“I’m rather impressed, Potter," Fawley remarked, her voice dripping with aristocratic superiority. "I’d expected your shields to be in worse shape, given your state."
“Are you mocking me?” Albus muttered, barely holding back the pain gnawing at his skull.
“Not at all,” she replied smoothly, her expression teasing yet condescending. “You actually put up a fight this time. Do keep it up.”
“I don’t believe this is all you wanted,” Albus countered, forcing his voice to stay steady. But the exhaustion was creeping back, his reserves nearly depleted after holding her off.
Fawley’s smile widened. “You seem to have fallen out with Malfoy?” Her tone softened, her eyes gleaming with interest as she studied him, savoring the thought.
“Do not worry about it,” he shot back, trying to maintain his composure.
"Can’t I be concerned?" she asked, her voice light but her gaze sharp and unrelenting.
“You’re not concerned, Fawley,” Albus said firmly, though deep down he felt the familiar sting of doubt.
“Oh, but I am, ” she replied smoothly, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Especially about how this... disturbance might affect you. And tonight’s celebrations.”
“I haven’t—”
“I know,” she interjected, her voice sharp but calm. “That’s why I’m here. Consider this an offer of assistance.”
“Why?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone, his exhaustion clouding his judgment.
Fawley took a step closer, standing mere inches from him now, her presence overwhelming. “Because it’s important,” she whispered, her voice a low hum that curled around his senses. “Our old ways—and your magic, it craves them, doesn’t it?”
Albus hesitated, his chest tightening. “You... you saw it?”
She gave him a knowing look. “No. Just a guess.” She smirked, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “But you just confirmed it.”
Albus clenched his fists, cursing himself for being so easily manipulated. He couldn’t help the next words that slipped from his mouth. “Is it normal?” He needed to know.
Fawley tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “That depends on the magic one pledges to, Potter. But such a strong pull? No, that’s rare.”
Before Albus could respond, she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "That’s why tonight is so important. Why you must answer the call."
He felt his magic stir uneasily within him, swirling and pulling in ways he couldn’t fully understand. "I suppose..." he murmured, his voice trailing off, though he knew Fawley had her own reasons for pushing this, reasons that likely had little to do with his well-being.
Fawley leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Can’t you feel it, Albus?” she murmured, her voice soft, intimate. Her perfume clung to the air between them, intoxicating and overwhelming.
“Don’t ignore that gift,” she whispered, her lips so close to his skin that it sent a shiver down his spine. Then she straightened, her gaze never leaving his. “Tonight is vital for your path. Aren’t you curious? About the secrets in your blood?”
Albus’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "What about Burke?" he asked, too tired to fight any longer, knowing he had already lost this round.
Fawley’s smile widened, triumphant. “Leave Burke to me. Meet me at the south gate of the castle tonight, after darkfall.”
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The two figures made their way deeper into the Forbidden Forest, the silvery glow of the waxing moon casting long, eerie shadows around them. The night was still, but Albus felt a thrumming beneath the surface of the earth, a pulse of magic that heightened with each step. He and Fawley passed through the dense, knotted trees until they reached a small clearing—one Albus faintly recognized from his first blood rite. The memory brushed against his mind like a whisper, sending a shiver down his spine.
As they crossed the threshold into the grove, Albus felt something shift. The air seemed heavier, saturated with a magic older than Hogwarts itself. He breathed in deeply, as though inhaling the essence of the ancient trees and rites long forgotten.
“You see, Potter,” Fawley began, her voice soft but commanding, “The forest is far older than Hogwarts. We really don’t know how long it’s been here, what creatures it has seen, or what secrets it holds. But one thing we do know—this place has always been a sanctuary for magic. Druids, wizards, centaurs—they’ve all felt its call.” Her tone took on an almost reverent quality. “Groves like this are sacred places, where magic lingers just beneath the surface. Has it always been this way? Or is it the result of centuries of rituals, of rites like the one we’re about to perform?”
Fawley’s dark gaze gleamed as she spoke, her lips curling into that familiar, knowing smile. She exuded confidence, as though she were part of the very magic she spoke of.
Albus stood still, absorbing the atmosphere around him. The weight of the magic hung in the air like a heavy fog. His senses attuned to it, as though something deep within him was drawn to this place. He focused, trying to center his thoughts, trying to reach for the magic Fawley spoke of.
“I can feel it,” he muttered under his breath.
Fawley smiled approvingly. “It’s a gift to feel magic like that, Potter. Not everyone does.”
Albus hesitated. “I don’t really have anyone I’d like to call upon,” he admitted, his voice low and uncertain.
Fawley circled the clearing, her eyes sharp and deliberate as if she could see the lines of magic etched into the earth beneath her feet. “You don’t need a specific person to call,” she replied, her voice smooth and practiced. “Let whoever wishes to come, come to you.”
Albus nodded, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ease. The grove, ancient and pulsing with forgotten magic, felt calming, like the magic was watching, waiting for him to accept it.
“It’s a simple rite,” Fawley explained, her tone turning instructional. “One to honor your ancestors. As we don’t know when these rites were last performed by your family, it’s hard to predict whether you’ll receive a response. But if the magic favors you tonight…” Her eyes locked with his. “You may uncover truths about your legacy, perhaps even your family magicks.”
The thought stirred something in Albus—a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
“Now,” Fawley continued, her voice commanding, “I need you to enter a meditative state. Clear your mind and let the magic come to you. I’ll prepare the space.”
Albus found a spot within the grove and lowered himself to the ground, legs crossed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sounds around him: the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the hum of the forest’s magic. He tried to push aside thoughts of Scorpius, of Rosier, of the darkness growing within him. He needed to focus on the rite and the ancient energy that seemed to settle around him.
Behind him, Fawley moved with practiced precision cleared the clearing of the fallen leaves, with a swing of her wand candlelights appeared around the circled space—making it light up in the dark october evening–the flames flicked with the wind–but magically enchanted they did not simmer out.
“The veil between worlds is thin tonight,” Fawley’s voice cut through the stillness. “If ever there was a time to seek answers from the past, it is now.”
Albus remained still, sinking deeper into his meditation. His breathing slowed, and he felt the magic of the grove swirl around him. The temperature dropped slightly, and a chill breeze brushed his skin.
And then, in the depths of his mind, he heard it—a whisper, faint and distant. He almost doubted he’d heard it at all, but the sensation sent a shiver down his spine.
“This will not be your first time in a traditional circle, Potter,” Fawley said, her tone clipped. “And while it’s not always necessary, tonight it will act as a safeguard—for both those within it and those outside.” Her eyes swept over the intricate markings she had drawn. “We will be calling upon those who came before you—your ancestors—and we have no way of knowing who or what might answer.”
Albus swallowed, his hand tightening around the hilt of the dagger hidden in his robes.
“Therefore,” Fawley’s gaze sharpened, locking onto his, “remember one rule above all—We must always close the circle.”
She let the words hang in the air, making sure he understood. The magic of the circle was unpredictable. One mistake could unravel everything.
Satisfied, she stepped back. “Come here,” she said.
Albus obeyed, his heart quickening as he approached.
“You have the dagger?” Fawley asked calmly.
“Yes,” Albus replied, his voice steadier than he felt. He withdrew the dagger, its blade gleaming in the moonlight.
“Good.” She gave a nod of approval. “Then let’s begin.”
They moved to opposite ends of the circle, wands raised. Fawley lifted hers first, her eyes gleaming with the energy of the night.
“As the wixen declared the longest, I oversee this rite.”
A charge filled the air, like the tense anticipation before a lightning storm.
“Quod est superius, est sicut quod inferius,” she intoned.
(“As above, so below.”)
A chill swept through the clearing as she spoke, the air itself thrumming with raw magic.
“Per tenebras vivo,” Fawley continued.
(“Through darkness, I live.”)
Together, they turned to the right, wands lowered to the earth. Their footsteps were slow, deliberate, as they walked the circle in unison, their voices rising with the rhythm of their steps, the ancient words thickening the air, pulling the magic from beneath the ground.
“Vocamus tenebras ut nos circumdent,” they chanted.
(“We call upon the dark to surround us.”)
The forest seemed to stir around them, the trees swaying unnaturally as if they too were participants in the rite.
“Esto nobis Protector et Dux,” they called.
(“Be our Protector and Guide.”)
A warmth spread across Albus’s skin, a feverish contrast to the chill of the night air, the magic of the circle enveloping him.
“In tenebris,” they finished.
(“In darkness.”)
The air pulsed, alive with magic, the Forbidden Forest itself answering their call.
Fawley moved gracefully to the center, the magic swirling around her, alive and sentient. She unrobed her own dagger—its intricate designs glowing faintly in the dark. She drew a clean line across her hand, letting the blood drip down onto the ground.
“In tenebris, tributum: reddo, invoco vos. Mater mea vocatum exaudi.”
(“In darkness, I pay tribute. I invoke you; Mother, hear my call.”)
Albus felt a rush of energy. The magic that Fawley summoned was overwhelming in its sorrow and beauty, so raw that he forced himself to close his eyes. He knew this moment was not his to witness—Fawley had trusted him to see something intimate, a connection between her and a loved one long gone. For the first time, she appeared unguarded, stripped of her posh façade, only sorrow and loss left behind.
Some time later, Fawley rose from the ground, her expression somber as she moved out of the circle. Albus didn’t meet her gaze, instead bracing himself for his turn. He readied himself and stepped into the sacred space, where death and life intertwined once more.
Albus’s breath came in ragged gasps as the world around him sharpened back into focus. His body was rigid, his muscles tense as if they were fighting an invisible grip that had only just loosened its hold. His hand throbbed, the blood dripping steadily from his cut into the earth, but the pain felt distant—an echo against the overwhelming tide of sensations that still coursed through him.
The red. The endless red.
He had felt it—seen it with a clarity that made his skin crawl. Millions of eyes, all around him like a dome, all staring at him, daring him to look back, to see them. The whispers had been deafening, an indecipherable hum that coiled around his mind, pulling him deeper into a place he wasn’t meant to be. The presence had been suffocating, pressing down on him with the weight of forgotten knowledge, forbidden power, and madness. It had wanted him to submit, to reach into that place and pull something back with him.
But amidst that terror, something else had stirred. Something different.
A flicker in the void—a warmth, like a fire in the dead of winter. It had been there, just out of reach, but he had felt it's call, urging him to hold on. And when he had reached for it, it had anchored him, pulled him from the edge before he could be consumed by the red abyss.
Now, back in the circle, Albus could feel traces of it still—this warmth, this fire. It lingered in his veins, faint but present, calming the dread that still clung to him. The magic around him had shifted again, more stable now, less wild. Whatever had answered his call— both presences—they had left their mark.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, unsteady, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t yet form. He could feel Fawley’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t meet her gaze—Not yet. He had no answers to give, no understanding of what had just transpired. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to move, stepping out of the circle with trembling feet, trying not to stumble, trying not to let panic seize him.
When the ritualistic circle was finally closed, Albus collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged in the oppressive silence that followed.
“Don’t ask.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Fawley, to his relief, gave him a curt nod, her expression unreadable.
“We’re not done. Help me clean,” she said simply, drawing her wand to clear the remnants of the ritual. Albus, still dazed, pulled himself together enough to help, his hands moving almost mechanically as he followed her lead.
"Potter," Fawley called out after a few minutes. She moved to her school bag, pulling something from it. Albus glanced up, startled, as she tossed one dark robe and—mask? His confusion must have shown on his face because her gaze softened ever so slightly as their eyes met.
“I have a surprise,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Change, and then I'll explain," she instructed, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. Without another word, she turned and began changing into her own robes. Albus hesitated for a moment before following suit, feeling the weight of the fabric as he slipped into the robe and pulled on the mask.
“This is traditional clothing,” Fawley said as she adjusted her mask. “Dark wixen have worn them during many public celebrations, especially in ages when it wasn’t safe to reveal one’s identity. The tradition has persisted, and every year, there is a feast, a gathering to honor those before us. We wear these as part of that remembrance.”
Albus shifted uncomfortably, his voice barely audible as he asked, “If I speak—”
“You won’t, I want you to watch tonight. listen to the voices, but also to the magic, i want you to feel it—feel the magic from the others—Wixen all have a distinctive magic, one even masks cant hide.”
They emerged into a larger clearing, the one that had hosted the Beltane celebration earlier that year. But unlike that joyous occasion, where laughter and music filled the night, this gathering was somber, almost reverent. A towering bonfire crackled in the center, its flames casting flickering shadows on the robed figures gathered around it. Every person present was dressed in the same dark ensemble Albus now wore—robes and masks concealing their identities.
There was no laughter here, only soft murmurs that barely reached above a whisper. The air was thick with something ancient and powerful, a pulse of magic that seemed to hum just beneath the surface of everything, vibrating through Albus's skin. The weight of it pressed down on him as they moved closer to the fire, and for a moment, he found it hard to breathe.
This wasn’t like Beltane. This was something else—deeper, darker. A night of remembrance, yes, but also of unity, of shared purpose among those who gathered in secret, bound by tradition and ritual.
He tried to focus on the magic, trying to feel its current. Though it was hard—He could only feel it slightly during the sabbats, while he could feel the swiftness in his own magical aura, it was different trying to notice others. His gaze flicked to Fawley, who walked beside him with her usual grace, her mask obscuring any hint of emotion. Did she know? Did she feel it too?
As they neared the fire, Albus’s pulse quickened. He could hear the whispers of others, their voices low and murmured, some that sounded familiar yet none that he could place. It was a start he thought–he tried to find any trace of magic–yet with many people around it was hard to focus on a singular—No he didn't need to, it was overwhelming, and he needed to focus on that—on just the feeling of feeling it. His hands trembled slightly, though he did his best to hide it, the weight of the magic so raw–mixed together with different distinct auras—made his mind swirl, it was hard to focus on anything else–one he found started. His headache–it was becoming too overbearing and even with his shields high, he could not push it out—He touched Fawley hand–a desperate sign that he needed to leave— now.
As they made their ways into the trees from the clearing, he hunkered down feeling his mind swirl, he didn't know if he was upside or down, bile arose from his throat, he found himself removing the mask as it splattered on the wet ground—-his headache. his breath hitched—yet the magic, of the forest somehow seemed to try to calm him down—and there it was something else a flicker he had felt before from behind himA familiar aura—
He laughed, he felt Fawley's magical aura , and it felt so utterly like her.
“So?” Fawley asked, her tone expectant, eyes fixed on him.
Albus spat out the lingering bile from his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his robe.
"I don’t know what you’re expecting, Fawley—" he groaned, his voice strained and weak, exhaustion weighing on every word.
"Your magic.. . fits you perfectly," he drawled out.
There was a faint surge in her magic—
She only gave him an amused smile.
Yet he knew that there was something more—something she wasn't telling him.
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Albus found himself standing in a vast, moonlit clearing. The snow stretched out endlessly, untouched, glistening like shards of crystal beneath the cold light. The air was heavy with silence, thick and suffocating, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Before him stood a fawn, its body grotesque, twisted by some unnatural force. Two heads sprouted from its delicate neck, one angled downwards toward the snow, the other staring straight ahead with cold, lifeless black eyes—eyes that looked more like dull stones than anything living. Its movements were stilted and wrong, like a marionette clumsily pulled along by invisible strings.
Beside it, the mother lay sprawled, her body grotesquely opened, entrails spilling from a jagged wound that marred her soft underbelly. The snow beneath her was painted red, a thick pool of blood that oozed slowly, painfully. The smell of death clung to the clearing, sharp and acrid—decay mingled with fresh blood, putrid and raw. Maggots wriggled in the open flesh, yet despite the sight of them, the wound felt fresh, the blood still steaming in the icy air.
The fawn remained unmoving, hooves sunk into the pool of its mother’s blood, indifferent to the death at its feet. Its heads shifted slowly—one continuing to gaze into the distance, the other turning toward Albus. Or had it always been looking at him? Time felt distorted, as though it had no beginning or end. Its black, bead-like eyes seemed unnatural, unreal, unfazed. Yet the gaze penetrated him, unsettling and all-consuming.
He took a step back, heart hammering in his chest, too afraid to disturb the unnatural stillness of the clearing. As he glanced down, his breath hitched—his hands were slick, dripping with thick, dark red blood. It ran down his arms in rivulets, warm and viscous, staining the snow at his feet. It wasn't just on his skin—it was in his skin, seeping into his pores as if he had torn something apart with his own hands.
The air was sharp with the scent of iron, overwhelming and thick. He could taste it on his tongue—the unmistakable flavor of blood, metallic and cold, yet strangely pure. His stomach churned, a violent spasm, as something dark and alive wriggled within him, clawing its way up his throat. He collapsed to his knees, doubling over in agony, as he heaved—bile blended with red chunks of skin, intestines and flesh poured into the snow—Demanding to be seen.
The air thickened with a rancid stench, choking the breath from his lungs. Tears blurred his vision, and the edges of the world grew hazy, unreal. But the scene before him—this horrifying, visceral tableau—He couldn't have done this. He couldn’t have.
Yet the blood soaked his arms. The taste lingered on his lips, the flesh stuck in his teeth.
In desperation, his gaze flicked toward the fawn. One of its heads remained locked onto him, unblinking, cold. The other rested against the mother’s ruined body, tears streaming silently from its eye. The tears started clear, but by the time they hit the ground, they were blood—red, slow, and unrelenting, staining the snow further.
Albus scrambled backward, his hands finding something solid. His heart jolted in terror when he realized what it was—the mother’s corpse. The blood was still warm, clinging to his skin, sticky and thick. Maggots crawled up his arm, cold and wet. He recoiled in horror, but the body held him fast, the warmth of death still fresh.
Then In his terror he felt it—a cold breath against his neck reeking of putrid decay, chilling him to his bones. His head snapped upward, and there it was—the fawn, it's dark gaze locked onto him, a silent judge in the dead of night. Albus lurched away, only to fall deeper into the carnage of the mother’s body, the warm, slick blood wrapping around him like a mother’s embrace, pulling him onto the wound. The smell clung to his breath, mingling with the foul taste that lingered on his tongue, as he tried to stop the pull—
And then the fawn screamed.
The sound was otherworldly, piercing, like a cry torn from the deepest pits of despair—unnatural, relentless, a scream that clawed at his soul.
Albus woke with a violent gasp, drenched in sweat, heart pounding wildly in his chest. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, but the taste of blood still clung to his mouth. His hand shot to his throat, bile rising once more, but the dream refused to fade. His arms still felt coated in the thick, warm liquid, and the terror still clawed at his insides—the forest, the fawn, the blood. It felt too real, too close.
He cast a quick tempus with a trembling hand. 3 a.m.
Another sleepless night.
He already knew there’d be no more rest. Exhaustion clung to his skin like a second layer, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it, his body thrummed with a frantic adrenaline, as if the dream had been a reality—every detail etched into his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He had truly been there, standing in that cursed clearing, surrounded by the chilling silence of the snow, the fawn’s haunting gaze locked onto him.
What could it mean? Did it hold any significance at all? Or was it yet another cruel trick of his own mind, a relentless tormentor weaving nightmares that gnawed at his sanity, taunting him with visions he couldn’t dispel and emotions he couldn’t comprehend?
Yet there was something more lurking beneath the surface, a sense of dread that coiled tightly around his heart. Whatever it was, he feared it was not the last time it would force itself upon him.
With a soft groan, he sat up in bed, his body still trembling from the aftermath of the dream, the remnants of horror clinging to him like a shroud. He reached for his journal, his fingers brushing against the familiar leather cover, and he began to write down everything he could remember. The dream felt too real, too visceral.
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As Albus stared down at his plate, all he could taste was blood and bile. The sight of the meat, glistening under the light, sent a violent wave of nausea through him. It was too much like the dream—too much like the torn flesh, the blood-soaked snow, the rotting corpse. He had to stop himself from physically recoiling. The smell of it, the visceral reminder of that twisted scene, made his skin crawl.
He forced himself to take a bite, but his stomach churned in protest, twisting and heaving as though daring him to push it further. The taste of the meat coated his tongue, but all he could think of was blood—warm, thick, and metallic. He gagged, unable to swallow, the flesh sticking in his mouth like some grotesque mockery of what he had witnessed. His body rejected it with such force that he spit it into a napkin, shaking as the memory of the dream clawed at him.
His appetite vanished. He felt ill, unclean, the bile rising in his throat, the taste of iron still clinging to his senses. He couldn't do it—he couldn’t eat. Not after that. His mind whispered the unthinkable, and he recoiled from it, the thought sending him rushing out of the Great Hall.
Once back in his dorm, he went straight to the sink, brushing his teeth with frantic urgency, as if scrubbing away the remnants of something dark, something real. He couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have.
It was just a dream. It was just a dream–Yet nothing felt more real.
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Notes:
There it is! Samhain!! yay!! also what do you all know about dream interpretations? I find it very interesting as i also have very vivid dreams!
Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen - Confrontations
Notes:
Hi Everyone! I'm so happy with all the engagement and i love to read your comments! So here i give you; another 10k chapter!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Confrontations
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Albus flailed against the hands gripping his robes, dragging him through the mud and rain. He fought desperately, panic surging through his veins. The lake again, he realized with horror. His heart pounded, the familiar terror choking him more than the bindings they used to keep him quiet. His voice, trapped behind the gag, was useless.
The sound of waves drew closer, the biting cold of the lake air filling his lungs with dread. Albus clawed at the ground, nails digging into the wet earth, scraping against rocks and roots—anything to stop their momentum. He caught hold of something, dirt and plant matter tangled in his fist, and for a brief, frantic moment, he tore himself free.
Adrenaline surged through him, his breaths shallow and ragged. He crawled through the mud, scrambling to his feet, just about to break into a run—when a boot slammed into his back. The force sent him crashing forward, face first into the mud, sharp stones tearing into his cheek. He groaned, his head spinning, before he could even attempt to push himself up, he was yanked into the air like a ragdoll.
Panic took hold, raw and overpowering, as the memory of being tossed into the water flashed behind his eyes. He thrashed wildly, desperate to avoid the inevitable plunge, screams muffled by the gag. Their cruel laughter echoed around him, louder, bolder now. They didn’t even bother hiding their faces anymore.
They didn’t see him as a threat.
That thought—that truth—made his blood boil, but the fear was stronger.
If they didn’t care to hide their faces, maybe they didn’t plan on letting him survive this time.
At least... They hadn’t taken Scorpius. That was the only blessing. He couldn’t let them break him. He wouldn’t show his fear. With a shuddering breath, he stopped struggling.
Silence.
“Aww!” A female voice broke through the quiet, cruel and mocking. “Is our little Albie trying to act tough?” More laughter followed. And then, without warning, they dropped him again—hard. He landed with a jarring thud, his ass colliding with the frozen earth. Pain shot through his body, but he swallowed the cry that nearly escaped. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
“Morgana, what a death stare,” someone chipped, and laughter followed.
The female voice returned, dripping with mockery. “How cute! Look at the little blood traitor trying to act all strong.”
Albus’s throat tightened, swallowing back the bile rising.
Don’t let them get to you.
He forced his breathing to steady, forced the fear down—until a voice slithered through the crowd, one that haunted his nightmares—Rosier.
His entire body tensed, and despite his best efforts, he shuddered involuntarily.
The laugh that followed sent chills crawling up his spine. He was petrified.
“Aw, Rosier’s got the blood traitor domesticated,” another taunted, and vile laughter rippled around them.
Albus’s breath hitched as Rosier came closer, stepping into his space, their bodies almost touching. Albus could feel the heat of his breath on his skin, too close, suffocating. He clenched his jaw, eyes glued to the ground, every muscle in his body taut with fear.
Rosier crouched in front of him, so close Albus could smell and feel—the faint scent of decay. He shuddered invulnerability. Cold fingers curled around his jaw, forcing Albus’s head up. He tried to resist, tried to look anywhere but into Rosier’s eyes, but the grip tightened, painfully dragging his face up until their noses almost touched.
“Are you going to keep making this hard, Albie?” Rosier whispered, his voice low, mockingly sweet, dripping with cruelty. The intimacy of his touch made Albus’s stomach churn with revulsion. Rosier’s breath ghosted over his lips, the unbearable closeness suffocating him. Albus shuddered, His magic felt revolting—he tried to pull back, but the grip on his jaw tightened. Fingers dug painfully into his skin as Rosier forced his head back, making him look into those dark, gleaming eyes.
Rosier’s face twisted into a smile, a sick gleam in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against Albus’s cheek. “Don’t struggle too much,” he purred, the false sweetness in his voice nauseating, “It’ll only make it worse for you.”
Before Albus could even process the words, Rosier’s hand shot to his hair, cruelly twisting the strands—the sudden pain was blinding, a sharp cry escaping his throat. His scalp burned, the skin pulling painfully as Rosier dragged him toward the lake, his body trembling uncontrollably. He tried to stay still, to suppress the terror rising inside him, but the overwhelming pain made it impossible.
“You think you’re special, don’t you?” Rosier’s voice dripped with malice, and Albus could hear the sick pleasure in every word. He was enjoying this. Enjoying him. Albus’s skin crawled with disgust, bile rising in his throat as the other boy pulled him closer to the water’s edge.
The others’ laughter echoed around them, sharp and cruel. Albus could barely think through the fear clouding his mind, his body thrashing weakly in Rosier’s grip. Every time he tried to scream, the gag muffled his voice, trapping his terror inside him. He was powerless.
They knew it.
He knew it.
Just as the water touched his feet, Rosier suddenly let go, and Albus’s body hit the sand hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. His face hovered just inches from the cold waves. He gasped, heart pounding, choking on air and his own panic as he scrambled to pull himself away from the shore. But Rosier stepped down on his back, pinning him there, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.
“You should’ve drowned the first time,” Rosier said, his voice devoid of any warmth now, colder than the water seeping into Albus’s clothes. His words cut through Albus’s mind like a blade, sharp and vicious. Albus shook his head desperately, snot and tears mixing together in his panic. His vision blurred, the fear wrapping around him like a noose.
"Remove the gag," Rosier ordered, his voice dripping with cold amusement. "Let’s hear his last words, yeah?"
Laughter echoed through the shore, sharp and cruel, biting through the damp air. Another flick of a wand, and suddenly Albus’s mouth was free. He gasped for air, his lungs burning as he struggled to fill them, his voice, raw and trembling, cracked with terror.
"No, no, no, please," he begged, the words stumbling over each other, barely coherent in his desperation. "Please, I’ll do anything, anything... just don’t—" His breath hitched, a sob cutting through his throat as his pride shattered beneath the weight of his terror. Each word tasted bitter, soaked in humiliation, but he couldn’t stop. His survival instinct, self-preservation had taken over.
Rosier didn’t move. He stood above him, eerily still, his boot pressed firmly into Albus’s back, pinning him down against the wet sand. The freezing water of the Black Lake lapped dangerously close to Albus's face, the cold moisture seeping into his skin. He could feel every shift of Rosier’s weight, every deliberate breath the older boy took, as if savoring the moment—relishing in the control he held over him.
Then, without warning, Rosier knelt down beside him, his fingers once more tangling viciously in Albus’s hair. A sharp yank jerked his head back, forcing Albus’s gaze upward. His neck strained painfully, the sky and stars above spinning in his vision. Almost like they mocked him—his weakness.
“You hear that?” Rosier called out to the others, his voice venomous, sending an involuntary shiver down Albus’s spine. “That’s the sound of a Potter begging.”
Laughter erupted around them, cruel and echoing. It twisted Albus’s insides with shame, each cackle a dagger to what was left of his pride. He had never felt so small, so utterly broken. He cursed himself for begging, for letting them strip him of every ounce of dignity.
Rosier leaned in closer, his breath hot against Albus's ear as his fingers tightened their grip, pulling hard enough that it felt like his scalp would tear. Their faces were only inches apart now. Humiliation flooded him in a wave so intense it made his stomach churn. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but he couldn’t. The fear paralyzed him, locking his body in place, betraying him.
“Look at you,” Rosier sneered, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. His eyes, cold and devoid of any empathy, bore into Albus’s soul. “Pathetic. Crying for mercy. And what’s worse? You think it’ll actually save you.”
Albus’s breath hitched again, his chest tight with fear. He wanted to spit in Rosier’s face, to shout that he wasn’t weak, but his throat was dry, the words dying before they could form. The suffocating shame and terror wrapped around him like chains, holding him down.
“Beg all you want, Albie” Rosier continued, his voice dropping to a mockingly tender whisper. “It won’t make a difference. No one’s coming to save you, certainly not your Daddy.”
And then, something snapped.
The fire inside him surged, hot and uncontrollable, drowning out the fear that had shackled him for so long. Without thinking, without hesitation, He jerked his head forward. Before Rosier could react, Albus’s teeth sank into his nose—hard, deep. He felt the skin give way, the hot taste of blood flooding his mouth, metallic and bitter. Rosier screamed, a horrible, primal sound that cut through the night, and Albus bit down harder, his jaw locking as he felt the warm blood gush, coating his tongue running down his throat.
The sudden blast of magic hit him, making him gasp and lose his grip—His body spasmed, convulsing violently as the curse flung him backward. Albus gasped, his vision flickering from the shock of the impact. His back hit the ground–Stone, his body trembling from the aftershocks of the curse.
As he lay there, his body throbbing in pain, the taste of Rosier’s blood still fresh on his tongue—he felt it.
A dark, twisted pleasure bloomed in his chest, washing over him like a wave of cold fire. The fear, the humiliation, the shame—it was gone. In its place was something far more dangerous. A hunger. He could feel it building inside him, feeding off his rage, his hatred.
He had hurt Rosier. He had made him scream. And it felt good.
His body was still shaking from the curse, but his mind was clear—clearer than it had been. His eyes found Rosier, stumbling backward, one hand clutching his bloodied face, his nose mangled and dripping with crimson.
The sight of it—of Rosier, the one who had tormented him for so long, now writhing in pain—sent a dark thrill through him.
Albus’s lips twisted into a grin, unnerving and manic, a reflection of the chaos bubbling within. He let out a laugh, a sound that erupted from deep inside him—a laugh filled with something broken, something wild. It started small, but as adrenaline surged through his veins, it grew louder, more frenzied.
Rosier stared at him in disbelief, his hand still pressed against his bleeding face. The others, who had watched with smug satisfaction just moments before, now stood frozen in disbelief. None of them moved. None of them spoke. They all just looked at him —covered in mud and blood, hair disheveled, eyes wild, mouth smeared with Rosier’s blood —and laughing like a madman.
“I will fucking kill you, Potter,” Rosier spat, his tone dripping with deadly intent. Albus met his glare with a challenge, unfazed.
“You’re too weak,” he laughed, feeling no fear.
An oppressive silence fell over them, The air thickened, tension palpable, until Rosier flicked his wand. In an instant, Albus felt an invisible force grip him, yanking him forward, towards Rosier. The other wasted no time, dragging him into the water, the cold surface lapping hungrily at his calves. Panic surged as Rosier shoved him under, the world above disappearing in a blur of coldness and darkness.
He fought against the pull, his heart pounding wildly, but Rosier’ grip was relentless. He struggled, thrashing as the icy water enveloped him, choking him. All that could be heard was the sound of his muffled desperation, the panic rising like bile in his throat. Just when he thought he might drown, they lifted him back, his head breaking the surface with a gasp as he coughed out water.
Rosier leaned in close, a cruel grin stretching across his face. “I’ll make you beg, Potter,” he hissed, his breath hot against Albus’s frozen skin. The words sent a shiver of disgust down Albus’s spine, but anger flared within him again, brighter, hotter.
Then he was shoved under once more.
Albus gasped for air as soon as Rosier pulled him up from the water, coughing and spluttering, his throat burning from the icy lake water that had filled his lungs. His hair was soaked, sticking to his face, mud and blood dripping down his chin. The cold water numbed his limbs, making his body shiver uncontrollably.
“You think you’re tough?” Rosier sneered into his ear, his voice venomous and low. His breath was hot against Albus’s neck, a stark contrast to the freezing water he had been drenched in.
Albus let out a wheezing laugh, his voice hoarse from the water and the violence. “Tougher than you,” he spat through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with mockery. He was shaking, every muscle in his body screaming in pain and exhaustion, but the adrenaline was still there, keeping him upright, keeping him alive.
Rosier’s grip on his hair tightened, and Albus winced, the sharp pain shooting through his scalp. But even through the pain, he grinned, a twisted, broken grin that only seemed to enrage Rosier further. The older boy’s face contorted with rage, his eyes wild with fury.
Without warning, he shoved Albus’s head back under the water, holding him down with cruel force. The cold water filled Albus’s nose and mouth, and he thrashed desperately, his lungs burning for air.
There was no laughter anymore—just deadly intent. The only thing that could be heard was Rosier’s breath and Albus’s struggle beneath the water.
Rosier held him under longer this time, his hand gripping the back of Albus’s hair with an iron grip. Albus’s chest screamed for air, his body convulsing, but his mind was still sharp, still focused on one thing: don’t give in.
He knew—he knew that Burke was there with them, watching, even if he let Rosier and the others do all the work. Albus needed him to know.
When Rosier finally yanked him back up, Albus gasped for air, coughing and choking, his vision blurry and his head spinning. His throat was raw, his lungs aching. His mind was filled with the instinct to survive, taking in as much breath as he could before being plunged into the water again.
The cold bit into his bones, and his lungs screamed for air.
Finally, Rosier threw him toward the shore. He coughed violently in the shallow water, he could do nothing but convulse, heaving for air and throwing up water, His vision blurred, and his head spun, the edge of unconsciousness tugging at him, his vision fading—
But then Rosier’s hand shot out, gripping his hair and dragged him unto the shore—
“You’re just making things worse for yourself, Albie,” Rosier hissed while pulling him close enough that Albus could feel the heat of his rage, blood dripping from the wound he had inflicted.
Albus could barely see him through the haze of pain, but he still managed to somehow grin, which only seemed to enrage Rosier further.
“You want to play?” Rosier sneered. “Let’s see how long you last.”
With a violent shove, Albus was sent sprawling into the mud once more. He gasped for breath, the need for air was overwhelming. He fought to stay conscious as the world blurred around him.
“Don’t forget, Albie, ” Rosier taunted, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted to be tough. You wanted to prove yourself.”
The edges of Albus’s vision darkened, and he heard voices, distant and distorted. There was a struggle, raised voices—a female voice, sharp and filled with anger.
“You went too far!”
“That blood traitor deserved it! look at my nose!” Rosier shouted, and Albus could feel a kick to his abdomen.
“Enough Rosier.” A male voice said,
“Look at him, why did you hurt his face? they will notice.” Another angry, more irritated voice said.
“That’s why Skeeter is here—to heal,” Rosier spat.
“I won’t Rosier, he’s disgusting, I'm not touching that!” She spit out, in disgust.
The sounds faded, the voices mumbling together and swallowed by the encroaching darkness—
༚☽𖤓☾༚
When Albus finally woke, he found himself back in his bed, though the room felt suffocating, alien. His clothes were still soaked through, the damp fabric clinging to his skin, chilled with lake water, mud, blood, and grime. They hadn’t bothered to dry him off or clean him up. His head pounded, the pain sharp with every pulse. He groaned as he pushed himself upright, as his muscles screamed in protest as he staggered to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance as he made his way to the dormitory lavatory. The room swayed slightly, his vision blurred, but he managed to reach the sink, gripping its edges for support.
When his eyes met the mirror, the reflection staring back at him was unrecognizable. His face, pale and hollow, was streaked with dried blood, his cheeks marred by cuts. Mud and water matted his hair, plastering it in disheveled clumps across his forehead. His lips were cracked, and the corners bruised from the gag, his throat felt so sore–
Trembling fingers traced the bruises and cuts across his face, lingering on the faint streaks of dried blood. Every inch of him hurt.
His hand fell to the sink, gripping it tightly, knuckles white as he tried to steady his breath. Memories of the lake, of Rosier’s voice in his ear, the feel of the other’s magic, the suffocating water—all of it came rushing back, crashing over him like a wave. His stomach churned, but he swallowed the nausea, forcing himself to stand.
Suddenly, the door creaked open behind him. Albus’s heart leapt in his chest, panic flaring as he spun around, body tense as if bracing for another assault. His breath hitched, but he froze, eyes locking onto the figure in the doorway.
Nott.
Albus turned back to the mirror, still feeling the lingering fear and adrenaline. Nott’s face, usually cool and composed, was etched with horror. His eyes widened, and his pale complexion seemed even more ashen as he took in Albus’s state. A thick, uncomfortable silence hung between them.
“Morgana, Potter.”
Albus hated it—hated how Nott was seeing him like this, so vulnerable. His grip on the sink tightened. “What do you want?” he snapped, his voice hoarse, each word painful to speak.
The humiliation burned through him under Nott’s scrutiny, the weight of their argument in Diagon Alley hanging like a dark cloud over them. His knees buckled, and he sank to the cold floor, exhaustion overwhelming him despite his best efforts to maintain some shred of dignity.
Nott took a hesitant step forward, almost as if to help, but he stopped himself, quickly regaining his composure. His expression slid back into the practiced mask befitting someone of his Pureblooded birth.
“They sent me to check on you,” Nott said, his usual posh drawl tinged with an undercurrent of mockery.
“More like they sent you to see if I was still alive,” Albus shot back bitterly. His voice strained from all the water he had taken in.
Nott shrugged. “That too. And to heal you. We can’t have you walking around looking like that without anyone raising questions.”
Albus eyed him warily. “Why you?” he spit out.
Nott’s facade faltered for a split second, “None of your business, Potter.” he muttered, bitterness heavy in his tone.
Albus groaned, pain shooting through his body. “Heal me then” His voice came out strained, almost desperate.
Nott replied with a nod, clearly not wanting too, but he stepped forward with a quiet determination.
Nott’s fingers grazed his jaw, turning his face to inspect the bruises. Albus flinched at the touch but fought to hide his reaction. The cold of Nott’s hands on his skin sent a shiver down his spine.
“I can only do a mild Episkey,” Nott said, his tone flat, as though this was routine. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. After that, scar salve.”
Albus gritted his teeth, determined to stay composed, battling the urge to recoil from Nott’s touch. Each flicker of pain brought back waves of humiliation, stirring the raw anger he felt toward himself for needing help.
Nott worked in silence, methodical, almost clinical. He didn’t comment on Albus’s suppressed whimpers or flinches as he healed the visible wounds. Once done, he gave a curt nod. “The ones on your body won’t be seen, so I left them.”
Albus groaned softly, exhaustion overtaking him. “Can’t you heal those too?”
Nott hesitated, his composed mask slipped for a moment. “I could, but...” He trailed off, clearly weighing his words.
“What?” Albus asked, his tone laced with frustration.
“I’d have to see them,” Nott explained, a slight edge in his voice. “Which means you’d need to undress.”
Too tired to care, Albus nodded, fumbling with the buttons of his robe. His fingers, clumsy from fatigue, struggled. Frustration surged through him, and he glanced at Nott, who awkwardly sat crouched down in front of him.
“Can you help?” Albus muttered, irritation creeping into his tone, though there was an underlying note of desperation.
Without a word, Nott reached out, deftly unbuttoning the shirt with surprising ease. The cold air hit Albus’s bare skin, and he shuddered, the proximity of Nott sending a new wave of vulnerability crashing over him. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still as Nott continued, his hands brushing against Albus’s skin.
“Almost done,” Nott murmured, his voice steady, though the tension between them felt palpable. Albus focused on anything but the touch, fighting the shame gnawing at him from within.
“Just... hurry,” Albus muttered, each moment feeling painfully drawn out.
“Hold still,” Nott replied, his tone firm and a bit irritated as he finished. Albus squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the self-loathing that weighed heavily on him.
The warmth of Nott’s magic settled over him, and Albus let out a shaky breath, hoping—just for a fleeting moment—that this would be the last time he faced that kind of torment.
“You need to shower.” Nott said pointedly, which made Albus flinch, as he began to shake his head “No–the water, I can't–” his voice broke as he began to tremble.
“You cannot go out like that, you need to clean yourself.”
“Fuck off, Nott.” Albus spit out with anger.
“Do I need to force you?” He scoffed in disbelief. “Really Potter, i don't want to see more of you—” Nott said with an disgusted grimace.
Albus let out a groan, as he forced himself up, using the wall as a help, he tried to push away the fear.
Pathetic, he couldn't even shower—
Nott let out an annoyed sigh. “Just let the water run, just don't put your head beneath it, or use a washcloth.” Nott dwelled on, clearly not wanting to be there.
Nott lingered as Albus took a shower, clearly expecting him to faint, or have a panic attack at any moment. When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, he met Nott’s gaze, the silence between them thick with awkwardness.
“Don’t tell Scorpius,” Albus said, his tone firm.
Nott scoffed. “Why would I?”
Awkward silence fell between the two boys, as Nott clearly tried to look anywhere but Albus.
Albus let out a sigh, clearly trying to hide his own unease and terror after the shower, that took way too long. He fixed his composure not waiting to show Nott more of his pathetic weak self. His voice was strained, from taking in water and the screaming. “So? What did they say? Fill me in.”
“They didn’t give me much detail,” Nott replied, leaning against the wall. “But Skeeter looked like she’d seen a ghost.”
Albus snorted, and Nott gave him a pointed look. “And Rosier... well, he was furious. There were still bloodstains on him—”
A slow grin spread across Albus’s face. “And Burke?” he asked, as he stared at himself in the mirror. Clearly deep in concentration.
Nott hesitated, clearly astonished. “He... he actually seemed a bit impressed.”
Albus laughed, the sound bouncing off the bathroom tiles. Nott’s mask cracked slightly, a grin slipping through. “You’re mad, Potter, you know that?”
Albus turned to him, his grin widening. For the first time since the first time by the lake, he felt a surge of control. If he played this right, he might just turn the tides. He had made an impression, showing Burke he was ready to play.
“What time is it?” Albus asked.
“Five in the morning,” Nott replied, his voice tired.
Albus groaned. “Morgana—”
“You could always pretend to be sick.” Nott replied.
Fury pulsed through him, igniting a new vigor. “And show them that they got to me? No,” he said vehemently. “You still have those Pepperup potions?”
“Yes—”
“I’ll buy them.”
Nott raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t even say—”
“Don’t care,” Albus interrupted, a grin tugging at his lips. The game had begun, and he wasn’t about to fall after the first move.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
"You look awful," one of the Scamander twins remarked. Albus didn’t bother figuring out which one it was.
"How kind," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Seriously, Albie. What happened?" Lily asked, concern lacing her tone.
"Don’t call me that," Albus snapped, his words icy as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a shiver.
"Where’s Scorpius, anyway?" James chimed in, wobbling on the back legs of his chair. "Is he on the loo?"
"Why should I know?" Albus bit out, feeling the effects of the Pepper-Up potion wearing off. The creeping exhaustion gnawed at him, and he knew he’d need another dose soon.
The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. Albus immediately felt defensive.
"What—" he started, but the thud of books being dropped on the table made him jump. He shot a glare at Rose, who clearly thought his reaction was over the top. Well, it wasn’t her who nearly drowned just a few hours ago.
"Where is Scorpius?" she asked casually, raising a brow.
"Why are you here?" Albus spat, irritation flashing in his eyes.
"Al said he didn’t know, nor cared," Lily piped in.
"I didn’t say I didn’t care—" Albus began, cutting himself off with a sharp look at Rose. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you just sent James as a messenger," he said, more spiteful than he intended.
Rose, unimpressed, merely lifted an eyebrow as she sat down. "I was going to ask you about Malfoy. You two don’t seem close these days."
Albus let out an uncharacteristic groan, the migraine dulling his senses and shortening his already fragile patience. "I’m sure that gladdens you," he spat at Rose, shaking his head as he cut himself off again. "Why do you lot care so much?"
One of the Scamander twins gave him a knowing look. "Because the two of you are always together," the other one added. "Like you’re connected at the hip—"
"We had an argument, and no, I won’t tell you about it," Albus interrupted, cutting off any more questions. "Are we going to study or not?" He forced his focus back to his essay, though the words blurred on the parchment as his mind struggled to keep up.
Rose and James exchanged wary glances before turning back to their work. The tension around the table lingered, thick and heavy, but for now, no one dared to push Albus any further.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus’s eyes shot open, chest heaving as if he’d just resurfaced from drowning. The dark room pressed in on him, suffocating not from the absence of light, but from the weight of his own shame. Sweat coated his skin, clinging to him as memories of the nightmare thrashed against his mind like a trapped animal. That night replayed over and over: the water, the hands, the taunts.
A quiet, choked sob escaped him as he wrapped his blanket tighter around himself, desperately seeking comfort, but it only intensified the storm inside. Why? Why did he let them get to him like this? Again. The rage pulsed within him, mixing with the ache of fear and self-loathing.
His breath hitched, bile rising in his throat as he buried his face into his knees, feeling the shame swirl violently inside. How could he still let them haunt him? How could he still be so weak, so pathetic, that their words—their hands—held this power over him? They wanted this. They wanted him to break, to shudder in fear, to be paralyzed by the memories.
And every time he woke up like this—drenched in sweat, heart pounding, barely able to breathe—he knew he was giving them exactly what they wanted. The realization made his stomach churn with disgust. At himself.
He slammed a fist into the mattress, frustration flaring through him. “Get it together!” he hissed under his breath, venom lacing his voice—not directed at them but at himself. Why couldn’t he shake this?
Every time the nightmares clawed their way back into his life, he felt like he was proving them right. That he was weak. That he deserved it. His tormentors were winning, and every fiber of his being hated himself for allowing that. Albus clenched his jaw, trembling as he sat up. “I shouldn’t be like this,” he muttered through gritted teeth, fingers trembling as they tangled in his damp hair. “I shouldn’t let them...”
But no matter how much he tried to push the memories away, they came back, clawing at his mind, reminding him of how powerless he had been. How powerless he still felt. What was wrong with him?
His fingers dug into the fabric of his blanket, knuckles white, aching with the pressure. He wanted to scream, to tear apart the darkness wrapping around him. He should be stronger than this. He should be able to shake it off like it meant nothing. Like they meant nothing. But he couldn’t.
The thought of them sneering, watching him unravel like this made his blood boil. His hatred wasn’t just for them anymore; it was for himself. For being so weak, so easily hurt. They weren’t here, and yet they still controlled him, still loomed large in his mind. Every shudder, every tear, every time his heart raced with panic—it was all proof. Proof that he was giving them what they wanted. And he despised himself for it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his breath, but the rage simmered, a constant reminder that no matter what he did, they had gotten under his skin. That was something he could never forgive. Not them. And certainly not himself.
Fawley was right. He was in no right mind to fight, to play the game—he was too weak, too pathetic. The realization sank in, heavy and suffocating. He needed help; he needed something—anything—to pull him back from the edge.
A familiar pulse of magic surged inside him, whispers curling around his thoughts, promises of power and everything he desired. It was intoxicating, seductive, like a dark lullaby beckoning him to surrender.
He could feel it crawling through his veins, a swarm of fire ants feeding on his misery, urging him to let go, to embrace the chaos. And maybe he would. Just maybe. The thought sent a thrill down his spine, terrifying yet strangely exhilarating. The magic offered a way out, a chance to reclaim control over his life—over his pain. But at what cost?
He could feel it wrapping around him, promising strength, vengeance, an escape from the torment that had become his existence. But he’d seen what that path could lead to. What it could consume.
Yet, the flames of his anger burned brighter, merging with the magic that pulsed within him, battling for dominance. The familiar ache of self-hatred mixed with a dangerous thrill, creating a cocktail of emotions he couldn’t ignore. He was losing himself, but part of him craved it. Craved the power that danced just out of reach, tantalizing and dangerous. Maybe this was the answer.
He had hurt Rosier. He had made him scream. And it felt good.
Albus's eyes flared with a manic intensity as he recalled the thrill of that moment—the taste of blood, the chaos that surged through him like an intoxicating drug. He would not let them break him. Not again.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Unlike last year, Albus no longer struggled as much in practical lessons. His professors credited this to his hard work and discipline, yet Albus wasn’t naïve. While he had been determined and diligent, his efforts had been channeled into areas they hadn’t considered. His professors seemed to view him as an underdog, a sentiment he found almost amusing.
He and Scorpius still sat together most lessons, more by necessity than choice, as they weren’t particularly well-liked among their peers. Before, this had never bothered Albus, but now it pained him deeply. The emotional distance Scorpius had put between them felt overwhelming—when they were apart, Albus could almost manage to push the ache into the back of his mind, but sitting so close, with their shoulders nearly touching, he could think of nothing else. He kept up his composure, but beneath the surface, he felt himself slowly The teasing, too, had shifted focus. It was no longer directed at Scorpius; instead, it centered squarely on Albus. In a way, he felt relieved. It felt like a punishment he deserved for causing this wedge between them, for being so weak. Yet he knew the real reason was Burke’s relentless probing, testing how far he could push Albus before he broke. Rosier had stopped taking part directly in the torment, choosing instead to observe, watching Albus with a predatory gaze that made Albus's skin crawl. Rosier would position himself in Albus’s line of sight, his voice rising just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.
Albus found himself unable to eat, the food turning to ash in his mouth. He felt as if Rosier was sizing him up, and it filled him with disgust and a profound sense of vulnerability. He knew that if Rosier wanted to do something, he could.
"Welcome, children!" Professor Bullwark’s booming voice echoed through the classroom, jolting Albus from his thoughts. "Today, we will have the practical part of the lesson!"
The students were already seated, but they quickly scrambled to their feet as Bullwark made a dramatic sweeping motion with his wand. Albus was slower to rise, his limbs heavy with fatigue, and he nearly stumbled as the desks and chairs slid across the room, stacking themselves neatly against the walls. Bullwark gave another flourish, and a magical dummy appeared in the center of the now-open space.
“Form a line!” Bullwark ordered with glee. Albus let out a sigh and drifted to the back of the line. He didn’t dislike Bullwark, but the professor’s enthusiasm for practical lessons had often led to more than a few mortifying experiences last year. Despite his struggle, Bullwark had always rewarded him with points for effort, even as Albus failed spectacularly. Now, thanks to extracurricular practice, he was now at least decent, and in his year level.
Yet the pressures surrounding him—His own House constant bullying, Scorpius’s distance, and the growing violence from his peers—made it harder to control his magic. His mind shields helped him avoid complete humiliation, but he could feel his grip slipping under the mounting strain.
"As we discussed the theoretical aspect of Petrificus Totalus —the Full-Body Bind Curse—yesterday, it’s time to put that theory into practice!" Bullwark’s booming voice pulled Albus back into the present. The professor paced before the class, dramatic as ever. "The spell itself isn’t difficult, but precision is key. Remember the wand movement—" Bullwark demonstrated with a sharp flick of his wrist—"and focus on the incantation."
The professor cast the curse at the dummy, the words rolling off his tongue smoothly. “Petrificus Totalus! ” The dummy’s limbs snapped together instantly, frozen in place.
"Now, remember the pronunciation— pe-TRI-fi-cus to-TAH-lus! The emphasis is important! Who’s first?" Bullwark’s gaze swept over the students, waiting for someone to step forward.
Albus stood there, waiting for the class to finally end, every second dragging on. When it was finally his turn, the weight of the stares and snickering from his classmates clung to him like a suffocating fog. He could hear the whispers, the mocking comments just quiet enough for Bullwark to ignore. It made his anger simmer beneath the surface, a slow burn he couldn’t seem to shake.
“Quiet, class!” Bullwark snapped, his sharp tone silencing the room. Albus appreciated the professor’s strict stance against bullying, but it only fueled the whispers and rumors outside the classroom. It fed into the idea that Albus was given special treatment because of his father’s fame. That somehow, he didn’t deserve to be here.
Albus took his place, positioning himself in the proper dueling stance. His wand felt cold in his hand as he raised it toward the dummy. Closing his eyes for a moment, he exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to quiet the noise around him. He knew the wand movements, the incantation—he’d practiced relentlessly. Still, the doubt lingered, thick in the air. Even Bullwark, despite his encouragement, probably expected him to fail.
Albus could feel their judgment, the expectation of yet another misfire, another mistake. He clenched his wand a little tighter, forcing the anger down. Not today.
“ Petrificus Totalus! ” The words left his lips with perfect precision, his wand sweeping in a smooth, controlled motion.
A cold, ice-blue mist shot from the tip of his wand, hitting the dummy square in the chest. For a split second, everything was still, and then the dummy froze, its limbs snapping together as the mist wrapped around it like frost on a windowpane. The thud of the dummy hitting the ground echoed through the room, its rigid form a testament to the spell’s success.
The classroom fell silent, as if the entire class held its breath in disbelief.
“A perfect demonstration, Potter! Ten points to Slytherin!” Bullwark announced cheerfully, his voice cutting through the tension.
Albus stood still for a moment, allowing the triumph to settle in before schooling his features into a carefully constructed smirk, mimicking the composure of the proud purebloods he’d grown accustomed to observing. He raised his chin slightly, meeting Bullwark's praise with a poised, “Thank you, Professor,” his tone calm but sharp enough to show he had taken the victory in stride. With practiced grace, he moved to the side to join the other students who had successfully cast the spell.
Despite his outward composure, Albus’s heart raced. He couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding over to Scorpius. For the briefest moment, their eyes met. Scorpius looked… surprised, but he smiled warmly at Albus, the kind of smile that softened the rigid coldness that Albus had been trying to maintain. Albus returned it, feeling his cheeks warm with an unbidden flush. His first successful spell on the first try—and in front of a room full of people who thought him little more than a squib. The weight of that realization made his chest swell with pride.
His nose stayed high, his smirk still in place, his pride ignited like a fire stoked by the success. He would show them all.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Don’t be too proud after just one successful spell, Potter!” Jenkins sneered, shoving Albus hard into the wall. Albus clenched his jaw but quickly schooled his features into a poised smile, meeting the taller boy’s glare with an unnerving calm.
"Words travel quickly, Jenkins. I’m pretty sure you weren’t in that class,” Albus remarked boredly. He had grown used to the taunts from Jenkins and the rest of the Hufflepuff boys. They rarely bothered him anymore. His smirk deepened. "Seems to me like you’re a bit obsessed."
Jenkins’ grip on Albus’s robes tightened, his knuckles whitening as he pushed him harder against the cold stone wall. His cheeks flushed, betraying the embarrassment bubbling beneath the surface, but Albus barely flinched. He had faced worse.
"Where’s your little boyfriend, Potter?" Jenkins drawled, earning snickers from the students gathered in a half-circle around them. "Did you break up?"
A few laughs could be heard from the crowd—followed with foul whispers.
Albus’s eyes flickered with a dangerous gleam. He knew how to play this game now. "Why? Are you interested?" he shot back, the smirk curling even wider across his lips.
The sharp retort earned him a few more chuckles from the crowd, and Jenkins’ face darkened. Albus could see the boy’s hand twitch, as if he was considering throwing a punch or casting a hex. But even Jenkins wasn’t that stupid —not in front of all these people. He wasn’t reckless enough to cause a scene.
Albus straightened up, pushing back against Jenkins' hold ever so slightly, enough to show that he wasn’t intimidated.
Albus felt Jenkins’ grip falter, and he couldn’t help the twisted satisfaction that bloomed inside him. For once, he had the upper hand, and the audience was eating it up. Usually, he was the one being humiliated, but now… now the tables had turned.
"Don’t be too disappointed, Jenkins," Albus continued with a low chuckle, "You’re just not my type."
Jenkins’ face contorted with disgust, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "Don’t flatter yourself, Potter," he spat. "Like I’d ever be interested in a squib."
The whispers and laughter around them grew louder, feeding the tension, and Albus felt his anger simmer just below the surface. These idiots, parroting blood purist insults without even realizing the weight of what they were saying. He clenched his fist, his nails biting into his palm as he fought to keep his composure.
He leaned closer, their noses almost touching now. His voice dropped, low and intimate, filled with mocking sweetness. "Then why," Albus whispered, his lips barely moving, "are your hands gripping so tightly on my chest, Jenkins?"
Jenkins recoiled as though Albus’s words had burned him, his hands falling away like dead weight as he took one step back.
"You’re fucking disgusting, Potter," Jenkins growled, his face red with both embarrassment and rage.
Albus just smirked, the dark satisfaction of victory thrumming through him. He could feel the eyes on them, the whispers turning in his favor, and for once, he relished the control. He smiled unbothered. "I’m not, not like you" he said, his voice calm but dripping with venom.
Jenkins' face turned a deeper shade of red as he jabbed his wand into Albus’s neck, the pressure sharp and insistent. Albus almost laughed at the sheer stupidity of it, but he held his composure, letting his eyes drop to the wand before meeting Jenkins' gaze with a taunting smirk.
"Careful, Jenkins," Albus said, his voice low and mocking, "I can feel your stick poking me."
There was a ripple of laughter from the surrounding students, and Jenkins' grip tightened on his wand, the tip digging further into Albus's throat. Albus’s heart raced, but not out of fear—it was something else. A dangerous thrill of control, of turning this moment, this humiliation, back on Jenkins.
"Back off, Potter," Jenkins hissed, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes now, as if he realized how badly this could go.
"Why?" Albus's smirk widened, his voice a soft, venomous murmur. "Getting a bit too excited?"
Jenkins looked like he was ready to snap, his wand trembling slightly against Albus’s skin. But with so many people watching, he couldn’t afford to lose it—not here, not like this. The tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating, before Jenkins finally pulled back, his expression twisted with disgust and fury.
“Disgusting freak–” Jenkins spit out.
Just then, Professor Spindlewheel appeared at the end of the corridor, his presence cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade. The murmuring crowd instantly dispersed, pretending as though they hadn’t been watching with such fascination moments ago. Jenkins backed off fully now, his shoulders stiff as if he hadn’t been seconds away from losing his temper.
Professor Spindlewheel, his thin brows raised in suspicion, glanced between Albus and Jenkins with an unimpressed, knowing look. His eyes swept over the students who now fumbled with their belongings, whispering innocently amongst themselves.
"Everything all right here?" he asked, his tone deceptively light but edged with a clear warning.
No one said a thing. Albus straightened up, the ghost of his smirk still lingering on his lips as he calmly dusted off his robes, as if nothing at all had happened. Jenkins kept his head down, avoiding eye contact.
The professor let his gaze linger a moment longer, clearly not buying the innocent act, but after a heavy pause, he finally relented. "Inside, all of you. Now."
The group shuffled into the classroom without a word, and as Albus passed Jenkins, he allowed himself one last sidelong glance. Jenkins looked shaken, his bravado gone, and Albus couldn’t help but feel that rush of triumph once more.
He had gotten under Jenkins’ skin—and that, for now, was enough.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
"Fawley,” a voice greeted, pulling Fawley’s attention from her book. She looked up to find Burke settling into the opposite sofa, a smirk playing on his lips. The warmth from the crackling fireplace flickered against their faces, casting shadows in the otherwise empty common room.
“Burke,” she replied gracefully, her demeanor cool yet inviting. As she set her book down beside her, the fire illuminated her striking features, highlighting her long, straight blonde hair that she flicked behind her shoulder before crossing her legs elegantly.
“So, how is being King treating you?” Fawley asked, her tone casual yet laced with intrigue.
Burke grinned, leaning back with an air of confidence. “It’s good, thanks to you.”
Fawley’s smirk deepened as she arched an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “And how has our favorite little first-year fared so far?”
Burke stretched, arms draping over the edges of the sofa, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly? I was getting bored. I thought it might be too much for him.”
“Yet you let Rosier play with him?” Fawley’s tone was sharp, a hint of disbelief threading through her words.
Burke chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I need to let my followers have what they want, right? What kind of king would I be otherwise? Though, Mel, that is precisely what got our little favorite first-year to finally act.”
Fawley’s smile morphed into something predatory, her interest piqued. “Can I see?” she asked sweetly.
Burke nodded, his eyes looking into hers.
“I see,” Fawley murmured, a note of pride in her voice. “See? Dev, I told you, didn’t I?”
Burke regarded her, the weight of her gaze holding him momentarily. “You really think he could be the one?”
Fawley’s look turned cold, her eyes glinting with a determination that made Burke shift uncomfortably. “Well, that's your job to prove, isn’t it?”
A heavy silence fell between them, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fire. Burke finally broke it, looking into the flames. “Have you heard anything new from them?” he asked quietly.
Fawley turned her gaze to the flickering fire, her expression contemplative. “Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you during the Yule Ball—if you continue to keep up your end of the bargain.”
“Of course,” Burke nodded, a smirk returning to his lips. He stood, preparing to leave, but paused as Fawley’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Also,” she said, her tone suddenly serious, “don’t break him too much. I quite like him, after all.”
“Don’t worry,” Burke replied with a grin, confidence radiating from him. “He’s not that delicate.” With a final nod, he took his leave, leaving Fawley to stare into the fire, replaying the memories Burke had shared, a dark smile dancing on her lips.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The days grew shorter, and autumn quickly turned darker, with the weather becoming colder and more rugged, eventually giving way to the first fall of snow. Albus could feel the weight of the season pressing down on him, mirroring his internal turmoil. Scorpius still hadn’t forgiven him, and the silence between them was suffocating.
Albus found himself on edge, torn between conflicting emotions. Some days, he imagined cornering Scorpius, backing him into an alcove where he couldn’t escape, desperate to apologize, to pour out his regret and guilt. Other times, the anger would bubble to the surface, and he pictured himself shouting at Scorpius, letting all the hurt and betrayal spill out in a torrent of frustration. But he did neither. He couldn’t. The situation was too delicate, and it was clear that Scorpius held all the power now. Albus would do anything—everything—to go back to the way things were before he’d uttered those careless words. But he didn’t know how, all he could try to focus on was getting back at Burke. A naive hope that it would fix the things between him and Scorpius.
His family had noticed the shift in him. They’d started worrying more, especially as his once-cold and composed mask began to crack. Every mention of Scorpius was like a raw nerve being exposed, and Albus found it increasingly difficult to keep his emotions in check. Rose was still insistent on introducing him to her “friends,” and his irritation only grew when James joined in, trying to push him to reconsider. James had taken up the role of peacekeeper again, now that his detentions were behind him and grades good enough, and Albus hated how effective it was. He could feel himself wearing down, almost ready to give in just to stop their relentless nagging.
Chapman and Fredericks had backed off too, likely because of Rose’s influence. Albus could surely be able to play them easily enough if he wanted to. The teasing from other houses had lessened after his confrontation with Jenkins, yet he felt Jenkins gaze following him, surely planning something. That little display had only sparked more rumors, rumors that had inevitably reached his family. They had, of course, questioned him about the incident. Public confrontations were not his style, and they all knew it. His family had taken it as yet another sign that something was off, and their suspicions were only growing. It seemed ludicrous to Albus that no matter what he did, it was never good enough. If he stayed quiet and kept to himself, they were suspicious. If he stood up for himself, they were suspicious. There was no winning with them.
Fawley, on the other hand, had become more demanding. She wasn’t unimpressed with his mental defenses—no, those were still solid, a direct result of her relentless attacks—She had a way of launching surprise assaults on his mind, her Legilimency strikes coming at the most unexpected times. It kept him sharp, always on guard, and while he resented her methods, he couldn’t deny that it was effective. Fawley took a twisted pleasure in her teachings, as if pushing him to the brink was some sort of personal challenge. No she was unimpressed in how he seemingly got his mask cracked more often, and how even with his shields, he let Rosier and Burke affect him.
Ever since his falling out with Scorpius, Fawley had doubled down on her "offers of assistance." Albus suspected she saw this as the perfect opportunity—an opening to mold him into something she could use. Whether he wanted her help or not was irrelevant. When Fawley summoned him for training, it wasn’t up for debate. She gave him a place and a time, and he was expected to be there—no questions asked. He had no choice.
So, with a mix of regret and suspicion swirling in his chest, Albus found himself at the Southern Gate one evening, a few hours before curfew. He kept his head low, slipping through the shadows to avoid being noticed. Fawley arrived soon after, not even sparing him a glance before she started walking, fully expecting him to follow. And he did.
But then he stopped.
His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm quickening as realization dawned. They were heading toward the Black Lake. The same path he had been dragged along twice before. His breath caught in his throat.
Fawley, noticing his hesitation, turned to face him, her expression unreadable except for a slight flicker of disdain. She regarded him with her usual superior air, eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing his weakness.
"As I thought," she drawled, her voice carrying that signature posh tone. "You still fear the lake." She said it so matter-of-factly that it hit Albus like a well-aimed spell.
How did she know? Of course, she knew. She was Fawley.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by Albus’s ragged breaths.
“Pathetic. Compose yourself,” she spat, disgust lacing her every word.
Anger flared in him—how could she be so dismissive, as if none of it mattered? But the truth stung. He was pathetic, wasn’t he? Afraid. That fear had made him a target, kept him awake, trembling under the weight of nightmares. It was why he couldn’t eat on the days Rosier’s magic felt too close, too suffocating. His fear was their power over him.
Albus clenched his fists, forcing the shame down, fighting to clear his mind. He took a deep breath, focusing on the crisp chill of the evening, the crunch of leaves beneath his feet. He shoved the haunting thoughts of the lake to the back of his mind. Steeling himself, he began walking again, desperate to shed the weight of his anxiety, even if just for a moment.
Fawley glanced back, a faint smirk curling her lips as she quickened her pace. She knew. She always knew. He hated how easily she could read him, how his every weakness was laid bare before her. Yet, something about her contempt sparked a flicker of defiance in him.
The wind whispered through the trees, the waves of the lake lapped softly against the shore, and their footsteps echoed in the cold air. Late November had come, yet the lake remained unfrozen, much to Albus’s dismay. It would have been easier if the surface had been sealed in ice, if he didn’t have to see the water again.
Fawley led him onto the old wooden pier—the very one where Rosier had taken him. The sight of it made his legs weak, the memories rushing back in waves more violent than the lake’s gentle currents. His stomach twisted as he fought to keep his composure, his pulse quickening with every step closer to the water.
“Do you like being weak?” Fawley’s voice was calm, yet it cut through the silence like a blade. She faced the lake, her back to him, waiting. Albus glared at her, but she didn’t turn, the moonlight casting a silvery glow around her silhouette, making her seem untouchable. Almost otherworldly.
“You think you’re the first?” she asked, each word dripping with contempt. “You think you’re special?”
Each word hit him like a hex, relentless and piercing. Fawley was tearing into him, stripping away the fragile defenses he had painstakingly built around his insecurities. Anger surged within him, warring with the hurt and betrayal. How could she weaponize his darkest thoughts like this? He had let her in—
She advanced, her words sharp and mocking. “You think yourself so much better,” she sneered, her voice dripping with contempt.
“Yet you cry like a baby beneath your covers.”
Her laughter was harsh, predatory, echoing through the cold night air. She circled him like a predator, and he could feel the weight of her every word pressing down on him.
“You can’t even eat—beneath his gaze.” she continued, her tone low and dangerous. “You think you’re better than your daddy, better than your whole family .”
The mention of his father stung like a curse. He clenched his fists, trying to hold back the rising tide of emotions, but she was unrelenting.
“Yet you let yourself be dragged, played with…” Fawley’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she watched him squirm under her scrutiny. “You let his hands haunt you.”
“You are weak, pathetic, and everyone knows it.”
Humiliation flared within him, her words cutting deeper than any spell. She was exposing him, tearing apart the façade he had desperately fought to keep intact.
“You begged and cried—like a baby.” Her laughter rang out like a bell, cruel and cold, echoing across the still waters of the lake. It crashed over him like the waves at the pier’s edge.
“Shut up,” Albus growled, his voice low and trembling as he tried to regain some semblance of control.
“You are desperate. Desperate for acceptance,” she continued mercilessly, her voice like poison seeping into his mind. “Desperate for your father’s.”
The word hung in the air, a dagger aimed at the rawest part of him.
“Pathetic.”
“You destroy everything—just like with Scorpius.”
“You push everyone away, act cold, and yet, deep down, you care more than anyone, don’t you?”
“You’re just a scared little boy,” she hissed. “You think it’s so unfair. ”
Her words struck like lightning, each one tearing through the walls he had built around himself, leaving cracks that spread deeper and deeper.
“You let yourself lose control. You let your emotions take over.”
“And what did that get you? A broken relationship with your parents. A broken friendship with Scorpius.”
“You let the thinnest things affect you, and then you take it out on the ones you claim to care for most.”
“It’s pathetic—the actions of a weak man.”
Albus’s breath quickened, his chest tightening as her cruel tirade echoed in the hollow chambers of his heart. He knew what she was doing—manipulating him, trying to break him. But it hurt. It made his blood boil. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to make her feel something.
She laughed, a cold, derisive sound. “Little Potter… you think you could take me on?”
In a sudden movement, she stepped in front of him, her hand snapping out to grab his jaw, pulling him closer to her. The force of her grip sent a jolt of shock through him. Without warning, she pushed against his mind, brutally tearing down his shields, her mental assault more vicious than anything he had ever experienced.
“Pathetic,” she spat, her eyes glittering with triumph. “How many months have you trained? Reinforced those shields? Yet you let them crumble when you need them the most?”
She released him with a shove, her contempt burning through the cold air. In a single, fluid motion, she drew her wand.
“Fear is deadly, and you need to kill it before it kills you,” Fawley said, her voice sharp as she cast Incarcerous, binding and gagging him in one swift movement. With a flick of her wand, she dragged him along, the rough wood of the pier scraping beneath him as they moved toward the end.
“Focus on your magic. Trust it to protect you. Don’t let the water break your resolve.” Her words hung in the air for only a moment before her wand flicked once more, sending him hurtling into the icy waves below.
The water hit him like a wall, its freezing grip suffocating. Panic clawed at his chest as he plunged deeper into the blackness. The cold shocked him into stillness; he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His mind screamed at him to focus—focus. He fought the rising tide of terror, the weight of it dragging him under.
He needed to trust his magic.
His mind flickered back to Samhain—he had felt it then, bubbling under his skin, powerful and raw. Desperately, he tried to summon it again, reaching for the same control. He imagined a bubble around his head, warm, filled with air. But it wouldn’t come. His magic flared beneath his skin, then faltered.
Darkness pressed in as his lungs screamed for air. His vision blurred, and he felt the edges of consciousness slip away.
Trust your magic.
With one last surge of will, he tried again. He forced everything into it, every fiber of his being, willing the magic to obey him.
A small bubble formed around his head—just enough. He gasped, taking in as much air as he could before it burst.
It was enough. The breath steadied him, pushed him upward. He kicked with everything he had, refusing to let the water take him.
His head broke the surface, and before he could catch his breath, he was yanked from the water like a ragdoll. The cold wind bit into him, but warmth quickly enveloped him as Fawley cast a drying and a warming charm. Gasping for air, he collapsed onto the pier, legs trembling as he tried to stand.
Fawley stood nearby, her gaze no longer predatory, but contemplative. “We can’t control what’s done to us,” she said, her voice quieter now, “But we can control how we react to it. We can let it fuel us, or we can let it pull us under.”
Albus met her gaze, his heart pounding.
“Will you let it pull you under?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with challenge.
The question hung in the air. Albus swallowed hard, his chest still tight, anger from Fawley’ actions still simmering beneath the surface, mixed with something deeper—something uncertain. He thought of Rosier’s taunts, the nightmares that haunted him, and the way fear gripped him when he was alone.
“No,” he said, the word escaping before he could fully believe it. “I won’t.”
Fawley nodded, her expression hardening again, though there was a trace of empathy in her eyes. “The world is not kind, Albus,” she said, her tone firm. “Many will try to break you because of who you are, because of your name. And some will do it just because they can.”
He flinched at the truth in her words.
“But never let their cruelty destroy you,” she added. “You have more power than they do. But you need to trust yourself, trust your magic.”
Her gaze bore into him. “How will you deal with Rosier? Are you going to let him play with you?”
He laughed bitterly. “What can I do? He’s a seventh year.”
Fawley raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Albus blinked, confused.
“What did you just do, Potter?” she asked, irritation seeping into her tone.
“I... I survived,” he said, unsure where she was leading.
“In the lake,” she pressed. “You did something. I’m sure you’d be dead if you hadn’t.”
He glared at her, still feeling the chill from the water. “I made a bubble of air. How will that help me with Rosier?”
“You foolish child,” Fawley said, her tone sharp. “You used wandless, wordless magic.”
His eyes widened. “But I didn’t mean to. It just... happened.”
“Exactly,” she said, her voice filled with a strange excitement. “You have a natural connection to your magic. Something most people never have. Use it.”
He felt a spark of hope, a flicker of potential igniting somewhere deep within him. “What does that mean for me?” he asked, breathless.
She smirked, but before she could respond, she flicked her wand again, sending a stinging hex through his side. He jumped, startled.
“Do I need to tell you every little thing? You’re making me regret helping you,” she spat, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a fluid motion before striding away.
Morgana, does she really call this help? She had nearly drowned him—she had obliterated his confidence and humiliated him—
He blinked, staring at the waves crashing against the pier—yet, astonishingly, he felt no fear.
Suddenly, laughter bubbled up from within him, startling even himself. It surged forth from a place he hadn’t known existed, a release of all the pent-up frustration and pain he had been carrying.
In the distance, Fawley rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Glad you find this funny,” she called back, her tone laced with mock dryness. “Let’s see how you feel when Rosier comes knocking.”
He wiped the smile from his face, shaking his head as he struggled to regain some semblance of composure. “You’re mad, you know that?”
The moonlight sparkled in her eyes. “A trait we share, I believe.” Then, her mask slipped, revealing a terrifyingly wide smile that sent a chill coursing through him. Yet, he couldn’t help but laugh more maniacally; she was right, as always.
The laughter spilled from him, almost uncontrollable, mingling with the remnants of his fear and doubt. The absurdity of it all—her brutal methods had actually worked, much to his disbelief and anger.
In that moment, with the waves crashing rhythmically against the pier and the night air thick with tension, he felt a surge of liberation, and he knew—
He would make them suffer.
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Notes:
Well, alot of things happened in this one! What do you think?
Your comments really makes my day ❤️❤️❤️😊
Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen - Snakes and Badgers
Notes:
Hello! Sorry for the late update—I’ve been pulling my hair out over these scenes, trying to tie everything together. Hopefully, they come together well!
For an upload schedule: I’d say I can probably manage a chapter every week or two, so you’ll know when to expect updates. I’m very thankful for all the engagement and your interest in the story!!! I have a lot planned for the Yule break! Which will be next chapter!
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Nineteen - Snakes and Badgers
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Albus sensed the presence before he saw or heard him. Instinctively, his body froze, a wave of terror washing over him. He allowed himself a brief moment to tremble, releasing just enough tension before he slipped quietly behind a tapestry that stretched from floor to ceiling, concealing him completely. Rosier hadn’t spotted him yet, but Albus knew too well that this luck would not last. Hopefully, Rosier was merely passing by, unaware, rather than seeking him out. His decision to hide had been swift: he knew what set Rosier off, and running would have been a sure mistake. Like a predator sensing prey, Rosier would have only become more alert, more intent. All he could do was hide and remain silent.
He hated it; hiding like a prey, trembling in fear, terror. Yet there was nothing he could do yet; he would lick his wounds, planning his revenge that surely would be sweet enough.
Rosier wasn’t alone. Yet Albus couldn’t quite make out the other’s magical aura—familiar but indistinct. They moved with a confidence that dripped with entitlement and superiority, their laughter loud, untroubled, careless. Their voices, full of light-hearted jokes about crushes and unfinished assignments, felt sickeningly normal. Albus clenched his fists, feeling revulsion creep through him. To any passerby, they were only students, laughing as they passed, unmarked by the cruelty he knew they were capable of. The sound of their carefree amusement echoed down the corridor, too familiar in its mocking tone. Albus resisted the urge to shudder. He’d heard that laughter too many times, from the other end of it. He waited, counting the seconds, until he was sure they’d moved out of earshot, then carefully stepped out from behind the tapestry.
But before he could move far, he was abruptly shoved hard against the wall. Panic flared inside him—had Rosier somehow concealed his aura? He looked up quickly, but it wasn’t Rosier. It was Jenkins, and this time, he was alone. Albus felt the sharp press of Jenkins’s wand tip against his neck, the threat unmistakable. Jenkins smirked, clearly enjoying himself.
“How interesting. Hiding from your own housemates?” Jenkins taunted, his voice filled with mock curiosity.
Albus sneered, leaning his head to the side; trying to lessen the tick point of the others wand from sticking him in the neck—Only the others pushed in more harshly as his body moved closer, the point pressing into his neck hard enough to draw blood; he cursed beneath his breath. Jenkins clearly meant business and he had taught in an unfavorable position; he had witnessed him hide from Rosier and his party.
Just how much Albus wanted to think the other as dumb and stupid; he wasn't Jenkins was one of the best in their year group, he could clearly had made it into Ravenclaw, somehow he was placed into Hufflepuff. He knew from experiences that the boy was quick to anger.
He might use that to throw him off his trail. He masked the that discomfort flooded within him; through enforcing his defenses. Suppressing the swirl of panic and vulnerability, pushing into the back corners of his mind, he forced a steady, almost defiant smile. Tilting his head just slightly, he looked up at Jenkins with calm, feigned disinterest.
“Were you following me, Jenkins?” Albus replied, his voice steady, betraying no hint of the tension bubbling beneath the surface. He let a small grin tug at his lips, noting with satisfaction the irritation that flared in Jenkins’s expression. The boy clearly hadn’t mastered the art of hiding his emotions, and it wasn’t hard to imagine their previous encounter still lingering bitterly in his mind.
“Stop playing your little games, Potter.” Jenkins spat, and Albus made an effort not to grimace as flecks of spit hit his cheek. “There’s no professor here to save you this time.”
The wand pressed harder against his throat, drawing a stifled cry from him. But Albus forced himself to maintain the mask, meeting Jenkins's eyes with false bravado. “Then—what are you waiting for?”
Jenkins’s smirk only widened, unperturbed by Albus’s attempt at bravado. “Oh, is that an invitation?” he mocked, his tone sickly sweet, brimming with malice.
“Careful, Jenkins, or some might get the wrong idea.” Albus’s grin grew sharper, noting with satisfaction the way Jenkins’s face twisted into an ugly grimace.
“Good thing nobody’s here, then,” Jenkins shot back, the air between them charged, the pretense of banter melting into something far darker.
Albus’s hand began to creep toward his wand—but Jenkins was faster.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
In an instant, Albus’s body locked, limbs snapping together as he collapsed to the floor, paralyzed but fully conscious. His gaze was frozen upward, staring at Jenkins’s triumphant sneer as the boy loomed over him, relishing his control.
“How a squib like you could even manage a spell like this is beyond me,” Jenkins sneered, looking down at Albus’s immobilized form with mocking disgust.
“Accio, wand!” Jenkins’s voice was smug, and Albus’s wand shot from his pocket into Jenkins’s outstretched hand. He twirled it, eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction as Albus’s fury simmered below his frozen exterior.
“That a squib even gets a wand…” Jenkins drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. Albus’s anger clawed its way through him, though he was helpless to react.
Then, with a careless flick, Jenkins tossed the wand aside. The clatter as it skittered across the floor echoed through the empty corridor, punctuating the cold disregard in Jenkins's smirk.
“You know, Potter, I've been quite bored without you as my practice dummy,” Jenkins taunted, leaning down, his sneer close to Albus’s frozen form.
“Heard something interesting recently—a spell combo I’m itching to try.” He moved his wand toward Albus’s mouth, a cruel gleam in his eye.
“You see, when a simple Scourgify is cast on a person, it makes the mouth fill with soap. But I wonder,” he grinned, “what happens if they’re under a Petrificus Totalus at the same time?" Jenkins’s voice was gleeful as he straightened, pointing his wand directly at Albus’s mouth.
“Seems fitting for a filthy mouth like yours, don’t you think? Let’s clean it up.” His voice was sugar-sweet, mocking. “Scourgify!”
Albus’s mouth filled instantly with the rancid, stinging taste of soapy liquid, choking him. Immobilized, he could only feel the vile stuff creeping down his throat and pouring out his nose, his panic surging as the mixture burned painfully, even seeping from his eyes. The acrid tang of soap overwhelmed his senses, he was drowning and he could do nothing—
“That looks painful,” Jenkins remarked with a twisted smile, clearly relishing Albus’s agony. With a casual flick of his wand, he released the Petrificus Totalus. Albus gasped, coughing and retching up the foul, dark soapy water that spilled from his mouth and nose as he heaved. His heart raced painfully in his chest, each beat echoing his rising fury.
Jenkins’s laughter echoed in the corridor, fueling the fire within Albus.
Anger boiled within him, a dark spark inside him pushing him to act.
Trembling but resolute, he gathered his strength.
“Accio wand! ” he rasped, summoning his wand.
To his shock, it flew to his hand, and he saw a flash of shock etched on Jenkins’s face.
Not wasting a second, Albus aimed. “Expelliarmus! ” he croaked, his voice raw.
Jenkins’s wand shot out of his hand, clattering across the floor. Startled, Jenkins dived after it, but Albus was faster, anger sharpening his focus to a razor’s edge.
Rising, Albus pointed his wand, the spell already on his lips. “Conjunctivitis!” His voice cut through the air like a whip, and the curse struck true.
Jenkins let out a guttural scream as his eyes began to swell shut, filthy pus oozing from them like something rotting. His pain was raw, undiluted, reverberating off the empty corridor walls. Albus stood over him, grimly fascinated as Jenkins staggered, clawing helplessly at his inflamed eyes. A sick satisfaction filled him as he took in the scene—horrifying and grotesque, yes, but it felt just.
Jenkins dropped to his knees, his cries growing more pitiful as his hands, now trembling, traveled up to his disfigured face. Albus’s lips curled into a smile, and a laugh escaped him, starting as shock but transforming into genuine, almost delirious glee. He coughed, spitting dark liquid onto the floor as the soapy taste lingered bitterly on his tongue. Jenkins deserved this—no, he’d earned it. More rage surged beneath Albus’s skin, mingling with the thrill of seeing Jenkins suffer, of finally showing him the cost of cruelty. His magic hummed in response, filling his fingers with electric energy, urging him on, intoxicating him with its promise of power.
Dark thoughts swirled as he stepped forward, approaching Jenkins, who was now a twisted, trembling wreck on the floor. A predatory grin crossed Albus’s face. He raised his wand and cast a silencing spell, his voice low and dangerous as he taunted, “What was it you said, Jenkins? ‘Good that nobody’s here?’” His grin widened as he let out a cold laugh, leaning close. “Still think so?”
Jenkins tried to reply, his face a mask of agony, but only a pitiful sob escaped.
Albus raised his wand again, his tone dripping with menace.
“Consider this a warning." His voice grew darker. “Furnunculus!”
Jenkins’s cries intensified, his face erupting in boils—large, grotesque pimples that swelled with pus, adding layers to his already distorted appearance. Albus laughed, the sound pure and unrestrained, reveling in Jenkins’s anguish.
“Seems like you finally look like your true self,” he sneered, savoring the sight. Between laughs, he added, “Looks like we’ve switched places, hmm?” He planted a swift kick into Jenkins side, forcing a sharp gasp. “Tell me, Jenkins, who’s the practice dummy now?”
He straightened, his gaze flickering over Jenkins’s crumpled form, each tremble fueling the rush of dominance he felt. His wand twitched in his hand as he glanced around.
“Let’s see,” he mused, feigning thoughtfulness as he looked down at the mess of a boy before him,
“Is there any other spell I’d like to try?” The thrill of it, the power, it surged through him, primal and intoxicating, the thrill of being the hunter, of controlling the pain, of making the rules. He laughed again, the sound echoing in the empty hallway, as Albus reveled in the suffering he’d unleashed.
He moved closer to the boy writhing on the floor, watching as Jenkins tried to crawl away blindly, hands outstretched and shaking in a pathetic attempt to escape. Albus followed with a cruel, deliberate stride, humming softly under his breath as if this were no more than a game.
“And you call me pathetic,” Albus spat, circling around to stand directly in front of Jenkins’s path.
With a twisted smile, he bent down, taunting, “Consider this an early Yule present.” Without hesitation, he raised his foot and brought it down sharply onto Jenkins’s dominant hand, the crunch of bones cracking under his heel sending a surge of dark satisfaction through him. For good measure, he ground his heel down, savoring the scream that tore from Jenkins’s throat, sharp and raw, beforing raising his foot once more and bringing it down, the scream was even more ear-piercing than before.
Albus wondered if his silencing charm would keep it contaminated.
Smirking, Albus dropped Jenkins’s wand a few meters ahead, watching as the boy flailed for it, his movements desperate and disoriented. When Jenkins got close, Albus nudged the wand further away with his foot, laughing coldly as he reveled in the other’s helplessness. Finally, he knelt beside Jenkins, gripping a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back to meet his gaze. “If you speak about this to anyone,” he hissed, his voice cold and deadly, “it won’t just be your hand I crush. I’ll make you a squib.”
Satisfied, Albus released him and straightened, leaving Jenkins behind, broken and desperate. As he walked away, the image of Jenkins stumbling blindly, maybe even falling down the stairs, hitting his head just enough to never wake up.
Oh one could dream. The thoguht brought a twisted smile to his face.
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By the next day, rumors had already spiraled out of control. Jenkins hadn’t shown up for classes or meals and was reportedly being treated by Madam Pomfrey. Albus allowed himself a slight smile on his way to breakfast that morning. After all, Jenkins had practically tried to kill him; two well-placed curses landing Jenkins in the hospital wing for a few days was hardly anything to feel guilty about. Under Madam Pomfrey’s care, Jenkins wouldn’t suffer any lasting damage, just a temporary punishment to match his cruelty.
In Albus’s opinion, Jenkins deserved far worse after the torment he’d inflicted on both him and Scorpius. A few days confined to the hospital wing seemed a small price to pay for a year of unprovoked brutality. Yet not everyone saw it that way. Speculation swirled through the student body, most quick to paint Jenkins as the innocent party. After all, what harm could a Hufflepuff really do? Rumors that dark curses had been cast only fanned the flames, sending students and professors alike into a quiet frenzy, intent on uncovering whoever had dared break the rules.
Older students were dragged into the gossip, their histories and grudges tossed into the fray. Though a few noted Jenkins’s frequent clashes with Albus, they dismissed him as a suspect—after all, wasn’t he the Potter boy labeled a squib, incapable of casting anything substantial? Instead, attention shifted to Scorpius, who carried the weight of his name like a curse of its own. He was a pureblood heir, the son of a former Death Eater, and a Slytherin, and the rumor that he was Voldemort’s child surfaced yet again, carried by whispers that traveled faster than spells.
Teachers didn’t help matters either, calling Scorpius in repeatedly under the guise of concern. Yet each new accusation only fed the rumor mill, the crowd eager to see him as guilty. Jenkins, however, kept his mouth shut, offering no details. The injustice of it all made Albus’s blood boil. Scorpius had done nothing wrong—if anything, he was just as much a victim.
Albus’s gaze found Scorpius across their table; the other sitting far away from him–Yet not far enough–Albus focus was solely on the blonde boy—noting the exhaustion in his expression, the way he avoided eye contact tore at him-clawed at him. An uncomfortable pang of guilt twisted in his chest–The attention Scorpius was getting, the whispers of the newfound interest in his birth—The crude gossip about his Scoirpius mother, it was all Albus fault. dread, fear and terror filled him. The knowledge that his action had affected his friend this way was too much to bear–to know—A void grew inside him, one that left Albus drifting away from the light; from sanity. It was like he was being pulled off his course, He was slowly being pulled into an abyss, a horrifying one. Albus’s stomach churned with each day that passed, each time Scorpius looked away.
It felt as though his whole world was collapsing, and he was powerless to stop it. All he could do was push forward, clinging to the hope that he and Scorpius would return to what they once were. In the meantime, he would fix things; erase whatever it was that had driven a wedge between them. Once he had Scorpius back, he would never let his own weakness—or the darkness that now lay so close to the surface—come between them again, like it had before.
As the day wore on, whispers of the confrontation outside the classroom began to bubble to the surface, twisting conspiracies back around to Albus himself. How could it be? A squib using dark magic? Speculation flourished, fueled by disbelief: perhaps he’d turned to forbidden spells or somehow coerced an upper-year to carry out his dirty work, like a cowardly, slithering snake hiding behind others’ strength.
The rumors slashed through his already tarnished reputation; he could practically feel his dignity hemorrhaging away. As the gossip took root, Albus's image morphed in the eyes of his peers—from pathetic squib to pathetic coward. It stung worse than he would ever admit. The sneers from the younger students dwindled, replaced by wide-eyed apprehension, while the older students now looked at him with a disgust that was somehow worse, laced with contempt fit only for a coward.
And then if things weren't bad enough: the universe itself decided to mock him; the press had caught wind of it all and deemed it headline-worthy.
“BULLYING AT HOGWARTS! A REPORTAGE OF THE SUPPOSED DARK MAGIC ATTACK ON A STUDENT!”
“Hogwarts, long regarded as a bastion of safety for young witches and wizards, has found itself at the center of a shocking scandal following a violent altercation involving dark magic—could darkness be brewing once again within its walls?
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, often hailed as the safest place for magical education, is now under scrutiny after multiple vicious dark curses left a student gravely injured. The victim, A second year Hufflepuff known for his friendly demeanor, was reportedly subjected to a series of dark curses that landed him in the care of Madam Pomfrey, where he currently remains in recovery. The student still in shock; his eyes gleaming with fear, too afraid to name his assaulter.
Eyewitnesses and unnamed credible sources suggest that The student was targeted in a premeditated attack. Whispers echo through the hallowed halls of the school, alleging that dark magic was used—specifically, a curse so sinister that questions of legality have already been raised with the Professors.”
Albus tried not to roll his eyes. Jenkins? Friendly demeanor? A smoldering irritation simmered beneath his calm exterior. A vicious dark magic attack? Please—it was two spells most students knew and used. Both the Furnunculus and Conjunctivitis Curses might be considered curses, but dark? Hardly.
He kept reading through his rising irritation.
“But what truly sends chills through the wizarding community is the rumored mastermind behind the attack: Scorpius Malfoy, son of Draco Malfoy—or should we say, the supposed son of the most feared dark wizard in British history, Lord Voldemort? Voldemort, whose brutality and terror earned him the title He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is believed to have fathered a secret heir. Now, it seems his bloodline may once again be linked to sinister events.
Sources speculate that Malfoy’s heir, harboring dark inclinations inherited from his infamous lineage, orchestrated the attack on Jenkins, using dark magic to sow fear and chaos within the school. The Daily Prophet has republished a special edition article revisiting the long-circulated rumors about the Malfoy family’s dark legacy—read more on page 3.”
Albus’s blood ran cold. Then fury surged within him, just beneath his carefully composed expression a fire was burning, spreading, engulfing him—He clenched his jaw.
How dare they speak like that about Scorpius ? How dare—
His mind raced in tandem with his heartbeat. How could they get away with such slander? And another article about that disgusting rumor about Scorpius’s mother somehow impossibly traveling in time; enough to become pregnant with Voldemort's child? The most beautiful, kind woman he’d ever met—the very reason behind Scorpius’s smile and gentle nature—
His eye twitched as he let out a controlled breath as he continued to read.
“The Prophet has learned of another student’s involvement—allegedly manipulated by the supposed Malfoy heir. The student, unnamed due to legal concerns, has been dubbed ‘The Slytherin Squib.’ This so-called squib is believed to be under Malfoy’s influence, with some theorizing that this student was coerced into participating in the attack. The brewing scandal has ignited calls for an investigation within Hogwarts. Concerned parents are already clamoring for swift action, with many demanding the immediate expulsion of Scorpius Malfoy. How could Hogwarts, the very institution meant to keep young wizards safe, become a breeding ground for dark magic and dangerous alliances in this day and age?
Stay tuned for more updates as this story develops.”
Albus’s fists crushed the newspaper in his grip, his rage searing through him like an unstoppable inferno. His magic spiraled wildly, a Fiendfyre feeding on his emotions—consuming his restraint, devouring every sliver of composure. The paper in his hands burst into flames, its ashes crumbling into his untouched lunch. He didn’t notice the gasps from those around him or the startled stares from nearby tables.
His gaze swept the crowded hall, searching for that familiar head of pale blonde hair. Nothing else mattered; the others in the room were mere obstacles, faceless intrusions. But Scorpius wasn’t there. He had already left.
Albus shot up from his seat, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms, drawing blood. The sharp tang of iron filled his mouth as he stalked out of the hall and into the corridors, each step accompanied by whispers and turned heads. The shield he had crafted around his emotions was gone, leaving only raw intensity spilling over the edges for everyone to feel.
He had to find him.
His breath came in ragged bursts, hands shaking as he quickened his pace. He wanted to scream, to curse everyone who dared speak such vile lies about Scorpius—his Scorpius. Gentle, kind, patient—Scorpius, who had listened to his every worry, who had stood by him through cruel pranks and snide remarks from other houses. Scorpius, who had shielded him from jinxes and hexes, who had been beside him when they’d stared down danger together. Scorpius, who had given him the necklace he now gripped, a gift so intimate that Albus could still feel its weight against his chest.
Scorpius was everything. He was Albus’s sun, his anchor. The one who understood him in ways nobody else ever could. Scorpius, who could make him laugh even as darkness loomed, his presence a constant that grounded him, kept him steady in his storms.
And yet they dared to paint him as a monster, someone to be feared, someone to be expelled. Those pathetic, ignorant, unworthy creatures—how dare they?
The thought thundered through Albus's mind, leaving nothing but a burning need to find Scorpius, to hold him, to protect him from the lies swirling around them.
When he finally found him in the abandoned classroom where they’d spent so many moments together, Albus’s heart ached so fiercely it was hard to breathe, to see, to move. His legs trembled beneath him as a wave of emotion crashed over him. Scorpius looked utterly worn, fragile—had he been crying? Albus's body moved before his mind could catch up. The sight of those puffy red eyes, his pink runny nose and cheeks, broke something inside him. Without thinking, Albus nearly stumbled into him, pulling Scorpius into a desperate embrace, drawing him as close as he could. But even then, it didn’t feel close enough.
His hands trembled as they clung to Scorpius, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, the tears now spilling freely down his face. The anger still burned, but it was buried beneath an overwhelming wave of sadness and guilt. He couldn’t control it anymore—the flood of everything he’d been holding in.
He held onto Scorpius as tightly as he could, gripping as if letting go would shatter everything he had left. But Scorpius didn’t hug him back—his hands hung by his sides, his silence louder than any spoken words. The inaction struck deeper than any unforgivable. Albus felt his heart twist painfully as he pulled away, hesitantly, painfully—retreating from Scorpius, from the warmth, from his sun.
Fear constricted his chest; he could barely breathe. The silence, the lack of return in Scorpius’s embrace, was like a blade twisting inside him, tearing him open, his insides falling away as he stood there, exposed. He began to shake, feeling the weight of his own insecurities pressing down on him—he was weak, pathetic, unworthy, and he knew it in his very bones. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Scorpius’s gaze; he was too afraid of what he would see there, of an expression that would confirm his deepest fears.
The article had torn into Scorpius and it was Albus'fault. He could almost feel the weight of the blame pressing down on him, a heavy shroud that suffocated him, like a dementor drawing away any light or happiness. He felt shame, disgust at himself. How could he have hugged him after all this? After causing all this? He almost wished he had drowned in that lake, that Roiser had just gone ahead and done it; kept his head beneath just a little longer. Then this wouldn't have happened to Scorpius, his Scorpius.
Death seemed almost kinder in its embrace than to face the disappointment; the reality of what he had done to the person who mattered the most to him.
The realization hit him, cold and cruel. Darkness stirred within, whispering of his weakness, of how pathetic he was for even hoping. It was already too late—Scorpius would never look at him the same way again. He could see the anger, the disgust, the disappointment. The darkness clawed at him, feeding off his fear, telling him he was beyond redemption. The urge to give in, to just let it consume him, crept up, freezing him in place, yet pulling him further down.
“Albus—” Scorpius began.
“Please—” Albus’s voice came out raw, terrified of whatever Scorpius might say. He wasn’t ready to hear it, couldn’t handle it. Dread twisted inside, battling with his desperate need for comfort. His heart pounded, and his thoughts swirled, reality slipping like sand through his fingers.
“Please,” he repeated, his voice unraveling, barely coherent, “don’t… don’t hate me. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, Scorpius…” His words turned into a choked cry, his shoulders shaking. “I should never have—I should have just taken it… let him—” The thoughts tumbled out, spinning together, making him feel faint and breathless.
Scorpius’s face was a mixture of hurt, confusion, and frustration. “Albus,” he said softly, his voice edged with concern, “stop, please—you’re not making…” Scorpius paused, shaking his head. “You didn’t cause this. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it is!” Albus nearly shouted, his voice cracking. He could barely keep himself from breaking down entirely. Shaking his head, he fought to reject Scorpius’s words, rejecting reality itself. “You don’t understand,” he managed through the panic, “I could have stopped it—I should have seen it coming.”
Scorpius took a step closer, and Albus felt himself leaning in, as though caught in a pull he couldn’t resist. Scorpius’s gaze fell to the pendant around Albus’s neck. His hand moved forward, wrapping around the jewelry gently. Albus’s breath caught, and, for the first time, he found himself meeting Scorpius’s eyes fully. The expression he saw almost undid him. Scorpius was looking back with such raw emotion, a depth of pain that mirrored his own.
“You still wear this?” Scorpius’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I never took it off,” Albus replied.
“Never?” There was something fragile, almost pained, in Scorpius’s voice.
Albus nodded, looking up into his face. “Never.”
Scorpius’s hand tightened around the pendant, his expression hardening. “You’re so cruel, Albus.”
Albus didn’t fully understand, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. If Scorpius thought he was cruel, he accepted it without question. “Yes—yes, I am,” he replied urgently, grasping at the air between them. “I’m cruel. I’m sorry—”
Scorpius let out a deep, bitter laugh, tinged with frustration and worry. His hand trembled as it held the pendant, and without thinking, Albus wrapped his fingers around Scorpius’s, as if anchoring them both.
“You really are an idiot,” Scorpius murmured, voice layered with something deeper—hurt, maybe even anger. “Pathetic.” His gaze fell, unreadable, and in a swift motion, he released the pendant from his grip and pulled Albus close, his arms encircling him as he buried his face against Albus’s neck.
Albus nearly broke, feeling the warmth of the embrace he had missed so much.
“Yes, yes, I am,” he answered, voice rising with an almost joyful certainty as he held Scorpius tightly, pressing them closer together.
“I’m the biggest idiot, the most idiotic—”
But before he could continue, Scorpius pulled away, leaving Albus feeling momentarily hollow, like something essential had slipped from his grasp. Fear prickled at him again, but when he met Scorpius’s gaze, the other’s softened expression melted every ounce of tension, leaving his limbs weak.
“Idiot,” Scorpius murmured, shaking his head with a faint smile before pulling him back into a fierce hug.
In that moment, Albus truly felt like an idiot—not fully understanding what had passed between them, but not caring either. All he knew was that Scorpius was back, and if Scorpius called him a cruel, pathetic idiot, he would gladly accept it as if it were gospel truth.
"I'm sorry," Albus started, dread tightening in his chest. "The article—”
Scorpius cut him off, his face hardening as he stepped back. “I don't care about that, Albus. The press has been dragging my name through the mud long before we were friends. There’s a new story every other month.”
The words stung, but Albus nodded, glancing away. He felt the weight of the previous day’s events and, finally, dared to voice his deepest fear. “They’re talking about expulsion—” His voice shook, a mix of fury and fear. “Maybe I should just tell them.”
“So it was you?” Scorpius asked, studying him intently.
Albus’s head dropped, but he nodded. "Yes—" He didn’t miss the hint of a smile tugging at Scorpius's lips.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Scorpius replied, crossing his arms. “They don’t have proof it was me, and they can’t expel you based on a few angry parents.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” Albus said, his voice darkening with conviction. A smirk spread across his face as he met Scorpius's gaze. “You should have seen it—You would’ve loved it! It was even better than we imagined.” He laughed, his tone filled with glee.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Scorpius replied, his snicker echoing with relief. They fell easily into their usual back-and-forth, the tension from their time apart fading like a distant memory. Albus felt a wave of reassurance wash over him, grounding him in their shared mischief.
Scorpius’s eyes glinted with excitement as he asked, “So, what did you throw at him?”
Albus beamed. “Furnunculus and the Conjunctivitis Curse!”
Scorpius let out a genuine laugh. “And they’re calling those dark curses?” He shook his head, half amused, half exasperated.
Grinning, Scorpius placed his hands on Albus’s shoulders, giving him a playful shake. “Still—those aren’t easy spells, Albus! Not for someone our age!”
“I know,” Albus replied, his grin widening with pride. “I surprise even myself.” The two shared a laugh, their friendship feeling as strong as ever, as if the month of distance had never happened.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Harry wanted to bang his head against his desk; the paperwork felt like a nightmare, worse than facing a damned Dementor. He groaned as he leaned back in his comfortable desk chair and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. If he had known this much paperwork was part of the job, he would never have taken it. Even Hermione was starting to grow frustrated with it. There had been many nights at the pub when the two of them vented angrily about how behind wizards were. Why not create a magical computer with some AI? It would save them all so much time. Yet, no—wizards were too good for Muggle technology, so they had to suffer. Or they were seen as “Muggle-friendly.”
Harry groaned as he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, laying his eye sockets into his palms as he leaned on the table. He hoped he could come home early tonight; there was so much to do. He had spent too many nights overworking, and they were nowhere close to stopping the mess.
The new traditional movements had roots so deep—and they were making their way into the government. Everyone was so blind to their dog whistles and anti-Muggle sentiments; all but the Muggle-borns, who knew most of the dogma was untrue or had been shifted to appear negative, like climate change.
Then there was pressure from abroad. Right-wing traditionalist sentiment was sweeping the continent, leading many to seek refuge in the British Isles, which meant even more paperwork. Many feared another war was looming close on the continent as groups were becoming more violent, either taking over governments or winning elections democratically. The traditionalists now had the majority of votes in the EWA (Eastern Wixen Alliance). Thankfully, it seemed to be limited to this part of the continent; the Middle Eastern Federation of Magic was not involved and instead had issues with MACUSA, as they had been for decades, clearly too busy to deal with these new traditional ideas. It didn’t seem like the Asian federations or countries were biting either, which made the rising ideology primarily a European political issue.
Yet there was little they could do if they wanted to keep the international treaties and trades, and anyway, that wasn't Harry's department. Still, it bled into his. He was jolted from his exhausted musings by a knock on the door.
“Blimey—mate, you look awful,” a cheerful, familiar voice said, instantly lifting Harry’s spirits and making him grin.
“Ron!” he exclaimed. “What brings you to my humble quarters?”
“To kidnap you away from work, of course! This is your third all-nighter!” Ron grinned, though his tone held concern. “Ginny wouldn’t shut up about it, so I had to come to the rescue of my best mate.”
Harry laughed, raising an eyebrow at his best friend's theatrics. “Really, Ron? If you have your way, we’ll drink until sunrise.”
“Well, yeah!” Ron grinned as he moved into the room with the ease of someone who’d been there a million times before, plopping down in the guest armchair.
Harry rose and stretched. “That isn’t all, is it?” he asked, clearly seeing the signs in his best friend.
“Have you read the papers?” Ron asked hesitantly.
Harry looked exhausted. “No, I haven't had the time. What now?”
Ron removed a crumpled newspaper from beneath his coat and tossed it to Harry, who caught it and grimaced as he sank back into his chair. “Merlin—” he began, staring at the headline.
Ron only grimaced in return. “It gets worse, mate. Read the article.”
Harry’ expression grew darker the more he read.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Stop that,” Yann muttered, glancing over at Rose, who shot him a glare in return.
“What?” she snapped, her irritation simmering under the surface.
He let out a laugh, spreading butter onto his toast casually. “You’re looking as salty as the Black Lake that your cousin's made up with Malfoy.” His teasing smirk widened as Rose's expression darkened further.
She huffed, crossing her arms and giving Yann an unimpressed look. “The Black Lake is made of fresh water,” she deadpanned, not denying his accusation. Her gaze drifted back to the two Slytherin boys sitting closer than ever, practically shooting daggers at them. Yann was amazed that neither Potter nor Malfoy had turned around.
He rolled his eyes at Rose’s comment, well aware that the lake was fresh water; he wasn’t stupid. He only said it to rile her up, enjoying the way her unimpressed expression made her look.
“You need to eat,” Polly chimed in from beside Rose, flashing Yann a mischievous smile. He couldn't help but laugh—Polly was just as unsettled by the idea of Potter and Malfoy patching things up as Rose was. Rose had spent the entire term trying to coax Yann and Polly into at least meeting her cousin, hoping they could become friends—Something they both dreaded.
Yann thought it was a terrible idea. In fact, he almost wanted to thank Potter for his stubborn refusal. He had no fondness for the boy, and he was sure the sentiment was mutual. Though he kept his tongue in check for Rose’s sake, just like Polly did. He couldn’t hide his disdain when Rose wasn’t around, unlike her.
Truth be told, Albus Potter was insufferable. Not just in his mediocre school performance, but in his personality. He strutted around like he was better than everyone else—just like all the Slytherin heirs and spares he surrounded himself with. No matter how much Rose tried to justify her cousin’s behavior, Yann couldn’t get past his own resentment.
After all, they’d shared a train ride for hours, and Potter hadn’t even bothered to remember his name. He walked around like a king, expecting everyone to entertain him. Yann had no idea what Rose saw in him—or why she was so willing to bend over backward for the loser.
Especially after how Albus had treated her that first year. Yann remembered vividly how Rose had approached him after the Sorting, only for Albus to scream at her in front of everyone. Then he’d ignored her for months, acting as if she didn’t exist while cozying up to the one person Rose despised most—Scorpius Malfoy. Not just any Malfoy, but the son of the Death Eater, who had been there while Bellatrix tortured Rose’s mother during the war. As if that weren’t enough, there were rumors Scorpius was somehow linked to Voldemort himself.
It made Yann’s blood boil. How could Potter— a Potter —side with Malfoy over his own family? Worse still, Albus stood idly by while other Slytherins bullied Muggle-born students, barely blinking. That was unforgivable in Yann’s book.
He treated his own family poorly; clearly, he was a selfish prat—just like the rest of the snakes. Rose was so much better; she had such a bright future, one that Potter seemed intent on tarnishing. Yann had seen how depressed Rose had become during their first year, how she’d almost cried on bad days when they saw Potter and Malfoy laughing together, leaning in close while sneering at others. They’d witnessed how much Potter mattered to Rose, and the way he treated her made them furious, which only fueled Yann’s disdain for him.
If Albus weren’t such an arrogant, self-centered prat, maybe Yann would have tried harder for Rose’s sake. But Albus acted like he was above everyone else, so Yann didn’t see the point. He hoped Rose would give up after the holidays.
“Are you going to the Yule Ball, Polly?” Yann asked, steering the conversation away from his frustration. Not that he was particularly keen on attending himself—his parents always dragged him along, and it was always boring.
“Of course,” Polly rolled her eyes. “My dad wants to turn it into another political circus, so we all have to go and be on our best behavior.”
Yann hummed, “You are so lucky, Rose, that your parents don’t take part in society.”
Rose looked at him, unimpressed. “Well, my mother finds those gatherings a waste of time, mostly just filled with purebloods and their nonsense–Plus we celebrate Christmas, and the Yule ball is on that date.”
“It’s kind of funny our Minister of Magic would say that. I love her even more.” Yann mused
“You need to stop crushing on my mum, Yann. It’s weird.” Rose raised an eyebrow.
Polly laughed. “Let him have his little innocent crush.”
Rose gave her a pointed look. “It’s not your mum that he fancies.”
“Come on, Rose, wouldn’t it be funny if I became your new stepdad?” Yann joked.
The face Rose made nearly sent both Yann and Polly into fits of laughter. Polly struggled to wipe away her tears, controlling her breathing. “More like you’d be her boytoy , Yann,” she said between giggles.
Yann looked like he actually considered it. “A mistress, huh?” That made Polly almost cry, and the whole table seemed to turn toward them, a few snickering as Rose looked horrified.
Hugo glanced over; he and Lily had been within earshot of the conversation. “I think our dad will kill you before that, mate,” Hugo snickered.
Lily jumped in, “Though imagine the drama” she mused. “I think you should go for it, Yann! You’ve got my support!”
Yann beamed at her. “Really?”
Then everyone erupted into laughter, loud and rowdy, and Rose couldn’t keep her composure, laughing along with them. A teacher eventually had to shush them, taking a few points before they all calmed down.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
"Finally,” Lily said as she plopped herself down at the opposite end of the library table. Albus shot her a pointed look, but she simply rolled her eyes, grinning. Her gaze flitted to Scorpius, and her smile widened.
“Hi, Lily!” Scorpius beamed, his face lighting up with his usual enthusiasm.
Cute, she thought.
His cheery greeting didn’t go unnoticed by her brother. Lily’s laughter bubbled up as she caught the fleeting trace of jealousy on Albus’s face.
"Hi, Scorpie!" she responded with a gleam in her eye, deliberately using the nickname to poke at Albus.
Albus’s gaze shifted suspiciously between them before landing back on Lily. “When did you two get so chummy? ” he asked.
Lily smirked, feeling a thrill of amusement at his discomfort. “You really need to take your head out of your own arse sometimes, brother–” she mused, clearly enjoying herself.
“Lily, language,” Lorcan interjected with mock seriousness as he sat down beside her, handing over the latest issue of The Quibbler, which she accepted eagerly.
“Any news on those Wharmpy Nutcks?” Scorpius chimed in with an excited lilt to his voice.
Lorcan met his gaze with a conspiratorial grin. “Not in this issue, but my mum’s got some leads,” he said in a low voice, as if revealing classified information, Scorpius leaned in as well; while nodding clearly interested.
Lily let their conversation fade into the background, flipping through the paper absently, her mind already wandering.
“I’m glad, Allie,” she mused, catching the small hints of irritation flickering across her brother’s face. “Seems like our Scorpie has forgiven you?”
“Our?” Albus repeated, frowning in confusion.
“Allie?” Lysander’s voice suddenly cut in from behind. Lily blinked—when had he gotten here? He was already grinning like a Cheshire cat, clearly entertained by the new nickname.
“Allie doesn’t like to be called Albie anymore,” she said breezily, deliberately ignoring her brother’s glare.
“Anyway,” she continued, growing bored of the teasing, “I have no idea what to get for Jamie. Allie, what have you gotten him?” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling searching for nargles.
“Lily, are you even listening?” Lorcan’s voice broke through beside her, sounding a touch exasperated.
“What?” she said, slightly annoyed. “I almost saw one this time.”
Lorcan sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile, while Albus groaned, pressing his palms into his temples, clearly trying to ward off the chaos his sister always seemed to bring.
“Lily, you need to focus more to see them–” Lysander began, his voice calm but knowing.
“I was trying,” she muttered, her gaze drifting back to Albus. “Allie, you can’t give him that—he got that as a birthday present this summer, remember?”
“I was thinking of something more... Like an experience,” she added, gesturing vaguely with her hands.
“Like a prank, you mean?” Lysander piped up knowingly.
Lily shot him a conspiratorial grin. “Not exactly. But we all know our little Jamie has been rather down this term.”
Lorcan nodded as he leaned back in his chair. “He nearly failed his classes.”
“And almost got kicked off the team,” Lysander added with a sympathetic nod.
“Not to mention the detentions,” Scorpius chimed in. Albus glanced at him in disbelief.
“Exactly! And we all know it’s because of his silly little crush,” Lily continued.
“Kinda rude to call it silly,” Scorpius muttered.
“Well, it’s not like he has a chance,” Lysander grinned, leaning forward on the table.
“What, Lils? Are you planning on giving him a love potion? Or to slip some into this supposed crush’s drink?” Albus asked skeptically.
Lily just grinned, her gaze falling on Scorpius, who suddenly looked a bit paler than usual. “No, I’m not dosing anyone like Scorpius is—”
“Lily!” Scorpius cried out, face flushed. “I told you to stop with that joke!”
She burst out laughing, earning them a stern “shh” from the librarian.
“Scorpie, you look so cute every time and I still” she continued.
“I’m not cute,” Scorpius cut in, clearly uncomfortable.
“I think our little Allie might disagree,” Lysander purred with a grin.
Without warning, he jolted as Albus sent a stinging hex under the table, then looked away innocently.
“Those nargles are going to get you, mate,” Lysander grumbled angrily, rubbing his leg.
Albus just rolled his eyes, Lily laughed. Her brother truly didn’t know fear.
“I like your idea though Allie, it could work.” She said as she thought about the practicalities, as she stroked her chin, like she had a beard.
“How? We don't know anyone in that House.” Lorcan said, bursting the bubble.
“Talk about a party popper.” Lysander said to his brother while sticking out his tongue.
“Sam might help.” Scorpius chimed in.
“Who is the crush anyway?” Albus asked, clearly trying to hide his exhaustion.
“I don't kiss and tell.” Lily said shaking her head, which only resulted in another pointed gaze from her brother—
“We are all aware that all you do, Lily, is kiss and tell.” Lysander mused.
Lily just grinned and held up her hands in a shrug—
“Anyway, Allie, I think it might work—by the way can you get me a pet snake? I really want one but you know our mum”
“No.” Albus said flatly.
“Come on! or I will ask Scorpie.”
Albus gave her a glare “You wouldn't dare.” She looked definitely back, a bit annoyed. She really wanted a snake after all. she shifted her gaze to Scorpius.
“Scorpie, can you please give me a pet snakey?” She asked as she closed her hands like she was praying ”I really want one”
“Lily.” Albus said sternly.
“So you will get me one?” She beamed at her brother.
She could see how her brother tried to keep his emotions in check. It was easy, he always had a slight twist in his left eye, she wondered if he was aware?
"Okay, Allie, I know you little snakes are always so pragmatic, let’s make a deal, hmm?" Lily said, trying to stifle a laugh at the perplexed look her brother shot her.
Albus raised an eyebrow, clearly not in the mood. "What deal?"
"Let’s say I won’t tell Mum and Dad about your close relationship with Scorpie... and you get me a snake!"
Albus gave her a skeptical look, while Scorpius’s concerned gaze flicked to him—adorably worried, as usual. "Lils, you’re the worst person to make deals with. You never keep them." Albus replied, irritation lacing his tone.
"That was in the past! And I really want a snake." she insisted.
"She really does," Lorcan chimed in, looking up briefly from his book.
Lysander, drawing some sort of creature on a piece of parchment, added, "Make it a Magical Rattlesnake."
Lorcan shot a look at his brother “No, please they always make that rattle noise with their tails.”
Lily’s eyes lit up. "Ooh, yes! I want an albino one, like Scorpie!"
"I'm not an albino, and arent those venomous?" Scorpius replied, sounding shockingly offended and slightly concerned.
Lysander looked up, genuinely surprised. "Really? I thought all Malfoys were."
"Same," Lily said, nodding as if she’d just been proven right.
Lily laughed at Scorpius’s indignant response, her teasing tone evident. "I mean, you’re practically one," she added with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying how flustered he was becoming.
Scorpius frowned. "I’m not an albino," he repeated firmly, casting a helpless glance at Albus, who seemed too exhausted to back him up, but did so anyway. “Scorpius is not an Albino.” He stated flatly. arms crossed, looking like he was barely holding on to his patience.
"Could’ve fooled me," Lysander said, smirking as he shaded in the creature he was sketching. "He got the hair for it. Maybe that’s just a Malfoy thing."
Scorpius sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a headache. "It’s not." he mumbled, though his protests only seemed to fuel more teasing.
Lily was relentless. "An albino snake named Scorpie? Oh, it would be perfect!" she declared, clapping her hands together as if she’d just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world.
Lorcan snorted. "A female snake named Scorpie? Isn’t that more fitting for a male?"
Lily pursed her lips, considering. "Okay, fine—Scorpinissa... hmm, no, too much."
"What about Scorpilina?" Lysander suggested, not even looking up from his sketch.
"It does sound like a snake name," Lorcan agreed, nodding as he turned a page in his book.
"Perfect!" Lily exclaimed, beaming. "An albino Magical Rattlesnake named Scorpilina!" clapping her hands together.
Albus rubbed his temples in resignation, as though trying to stave off an oncoming headache. "Mother is going to kill me," he muttered.
Lily waved a hand dismissively. "Details, details. Don’t worry your pretty head, big brother. I’ll figure it out."
Albus sighed. "If I get you the snake, will you lot please leave us alone?" His voice was heavy with fatigue, his disdain barely concealed.
"You wound us, Allie!" Lysander said dramatically, shaking his head as he finished his scribble, which had started to move across the paper.
"We’ll leave," Lily announced triumphantly as she stood up. "So you two can snog in peace."
The sudden movement sent her chair crashing to the floor, causing the librarian to come over, face twisted with irritation. Before they knew it, she was tossing Lily, Lysander, and Lorcan out—Lorcan was desperately trying to avoid being kicked out, quickly shifting the blame to Lily, throwing her under the proverbial bus.
In response, an annoyed Lily bit his arm, causing him to yelp and lose any chance of appeasing the librarian. As the trio made their hasty exit, Lily grinned mischievously.
"Let’s head to Hagrid’s," she said, as if nothing had happened. "I want to ask him more about that dragon egg he had during Dad’s first year."
Lysander beamed, trailing behind them. "Great! Do you think he’ll show us the Thestrals?"
"Dummy, we can’t see them," Lily said with a roll of her eyes.
"We can still touch them!" Lysander countered with enthusiasm.
“They are all boney and sticky.” Lorcan said with a resigned grimace.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus let his head fall onto the table with a dull thud once his sister and the twins, whom he still couldn't tell apart, finally left. He let out a low, frustrated groan.
Scorpius placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She means well,” he said warmly.
Albus slowly sat up, facing Scorpius. Now that the whirlwind of Lily and the twins had cleared, he allowed a bit of vulnerability to seep into his voice. “When did you two get so close?” he asked, a hint of curiosity mixing with fatigue.
Scorpius smiled faintly, looking down at his book. “Your sister really is something,” he mused. “She was the one who came up to me first. I was a bit suspicious at first, especially when she kept talking about that love potion.” He gave a sheepish look, caught between embarrassment and annoyance. “I honestly have no idea why she’s so stuck on that—”
He glanced over at Albus, then quickly shifted back to his book, as if realizing how ridiculous it all sounded. “But anyway, after I explained I had in fact not dosed you with any love potion, she just... started hanging around. Like we’d known each other forever. It was weird.”
Albus let out a small chuckle, nodding. “Yeah, she does that a lot.”
Scorpius nodded thoughtfully. “She, well, I think she noticed I was... alone. And after that, she just kept showing up.”
Albus’s expression softened as guilt settled in. “Scorpius, I’m really—”
“I’m not angry, Albus,” Scorpius interrupted gently, cutting off whatever apology Albus had been about to make.
Albus leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath of relief. For a moment, his face remained unreadable, but then a flicker of concern broke through. “Did anyone try anything while I wasn’t around?” he asked, hesitant, clearly afraid of what the answer might be.
“No,” Scorpius reassured him quickly, genuine in his response. “Weirdly enough, they left me alone—except in the common room, of course.”
Albus nodded, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “Good.”
Scorpius’s face softened even further, concern lacing his voice. “Did they do anything to you?”
The sincerity in Scorpius’s tone made Albus’s heart twist. He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, they didn’t.”
Scorpius visibly relaxed, as if some weight had been lifted from him as well. “Good, good,” he murmured, though something still lingered in his gaze—something that didn’t go unnoticed by Albus, stirring an even deeper sense of guilt within him.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
There! At least we have one revenge scene! For all of you who have been waiting, I hope it was good enough! Don’t worry—more will come…
What do you all think about other POVs? I’m not really comfortable writing them, but I feel they’re needed. I’ve always hated other POVs in stories, which is why I try to keep them short. 💀💀
I also know I should go back and edit some chapters for grammatical errors, but I’m too lazy! I hope you all had a great Halloween—or should I say Samhain? 👀 I had a blast; I got super drunk with my mates. 😎😎😁 Good times!” (Had an awful hangover though; which only fuelled my writing, lmao)
Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty - Blood and Quills
Notes:
Hi everyone! Apologies for the late update – I’ve been in a bit of a writing slump these past few weeks. I wasn’t entirely happy with what I had written so I decided to focus on creating some new scenes instead. I’m feeling much better about the direction the story is heading now, and I hope it adds more tension and world-building as we move forward!
I might have mentioned in the last chapter that the next one would be about the holiday break, but that’s not the case – the boys are still at Hogwarts!
I really hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you so much for reading! ❤️🙏
As an apology i give you another 10k word chapter ❤️🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Twenty - Blood and Quills
༚☽𖤓☾༚
In the last weeks of the school term, sleep evaded him, like a snitch from a seekers grip, making exhaustion part of him like his shadow. Pathetically he was once more plagued by the dread of returning home for the holiday break. Staying was never an option, not only for the public backlash and speculation that would follow, but also because his parents would just never allow it. He wasn't as dramatic as last year; the fear of disownment didn't linger above him like a noose, yet it still tattered itself to the back of his mind, like a parasite, making him always aware of the possibility.
But now it was more if his father would become aware of his secrets. Unlike last year where the idea of him simply being disowned for being a snake was becoming faded, as it had become something of a non-issue. As much as rotting caracasses on the dinner table is non-issue. It didn't exist if nobody acknowledged its existence, but if someone dared to look at it, they could smell it’s putrid stench and no longer ignore it. The tension of skirting around it left him in a constant state of draining dread, always wary of slipping or accidentally drawing attention to it.
For now, though, he was content to let the carcass rot undisturbed, as he peacefully ate his meal in carefully crafted oblivion and ignorance. He had bigger fish to fry, as the Muggle saying goes.
Despite not sharing his family’s views on Muggles and their way of life, Albus had found his knowledge of their world surprisingly useful. It allowed him to connect with Muggle-born students, and, perhaps more satisfyingly, it irritated purebloods. For that reason alone, he supposed it was worth holding onto. But he wasn’t naive—his familiarity with Muggle culture only heightened the already hostile environment he faced in Slytherin, yet afterall he was already branded as a “blood traitor” and “mudblood lover" Some part of him was petty enough to feel it justifiable to at least try to earn the titles, afterall it didn't matter if he would make a shrine to the previous dark lord and curse muggleborns left and right, he would still be considered a blood traitor.
That was one of the issues he needed to solve, the harshness and death attempts had been eye opening—He didn't know that the hatred ran so deep. The information he had gotten from Scorpius, and his old book on pureblood traditions, was sparse . Could it really be just because his mother's side of the family had been accepting of muggles? Because his grandpa’ views and workplace as his mother had told him—When he had heard it whispered behind their back in public as a young child?
He needed more answers. He wasn’t particularly fond of the treatment he endured, but the notion of being a true “blood traitor” didn’t sit right with him either. The idea that the slurs were just a convenient excuse crossed his mind often. But why focus their ire on his mother’s lineage rather than his father’s? That thought stung more than he’d expected. It hurt even more that they targeted the side of his genes he actually liked—the side that didn’t come from his father.
His musing was abruptly interrupted by the conversation around the table.
“I’ll be spending the holidays at home,” Sam said in response to Scorpius’s question.
“You live in Muggle London, right?” Scorpius asked, his voice curious. Albus looked up from his parchment, his eyes following the conversation.
“Yes, on the outskirts,” Sam replied vaguely, visibly uncomfortable with the attention, avoiding further details on the matter. As the two continued their conversation, Albus’s gaze drifted to his wristwatch. He began packing his things, drawing the attention of the other two.
“You’re leaving?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I forgot I promised to meet James,” Albus said, allowing a trace of irritation to slip into his voice. Naturally, Scorpius began packing his things as well. Albus waved his hand in a manner that told Scorpius to stop.
“He wanted to talk alone,” Albus said, watching Scorpius pause, giving him a surprised look.
“Really?” Scorpius asked, a hint of surprise in his tone. It was expected. Normally, they always met Albus’s family together; they did almost everything together, after all.
“Yes, it’s about Rose,” Albus replied, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before dinner.” He waved his hand in a casual goodbye before heading out of the library.
Only he wasn’t going to meet James. His poor brother had no idea he was being used as a scapegoat. Albus knew that Scorpius wouldn’t have accepted another excuse, so he used the convenient mantle of family issues as one. Albus needed answers, and he knew exactly where to find them.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus quickly made his way through the nearly empty Common Room, managing to leave without much incident—only a few slurs thrown his way, which he easily dismissed. As expected, their dorm room was occupied. The usual suspects were all there.
Zabini, Nott, and Bowker had turned the dorm into their hangout spot. Albus wondered if he should take offence to that. After all, it seemed to be a consequence of him and Scorpius spending less time there this term.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Zabini sneered from his desk, which was almost too organised.
Albus put down his back upon his trunk at the end of the bed. “I live here." He said simply as a response.
“Did you get through the Common room unscraped?” Another more cheery voice asked, Albus turned his head towards Bowker who was lying on top of his bed with a Quidditch mag in hand.
“Actually yes.” Albus answered truthfully.
Then another figure made their way into the room, only from the other end and through the door leading to their shared laboratory. Nott gave him an unimpressed look as usual, Albus only rolled his eyes as he casually made his way over and draped himself over one of the armchairs in their room.
“Where's blondie?” Zabini asked, voice showing signs of actual interest.
"Library." Albus answered lazily as he looked into their shared fireplace, which only held enchanted flames, which would never really make anything burn.
“Then why are you here?” Nott said in his usual posh tone which made Albus fill with slight irritation.
“Tell me about blood traitors.”
The room fell silent at Albus’s words, the air thick with a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago. Even Bowker lowered his Quidditch magazine, his carefree demeanor replaced by curiosity.
Nott snorted from across the room, his tone mockingly posh. “What’s this, Potter? Finally embracing the snake inside you?”
Albus tilted his head, his expression settling into deliberate neutrality. “Let’s call it academic curiosity.”
“Most importantly,” Zabini cut in coldly, his voice laced with bitter disdain, “you are one.”
“Don’t you say,” Albus drawled, feigning boredom as his fingers drummed lazily on the armrest of his chair.
Zabini wasn’t as amused. His tone turned darker, more spiteful, and biting. “Blood carries weight, Potter—or should I say Weasley?”
Albus’s jaw tightened briefly, but he forced himself to maintain composure.
Nott, who had been flipping through a book, spoke up with a bored air. “Potter, what is a blood traitor?”
Albus met his gaze, voice flat. “Blood traitors are those who betray their blood by marrying Muggles or Muggle-borns, by befriending them, or by defying Pureblood culture.”
“Morgana,” Zabini muttered, rolling his eyes before returning to his assignment.
Nott sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. “A ‘blood traitor,’ Potter, is exactly what the name implies. A traitor to one’s blood.”
“Traitor to one's blood, how?” Albus asked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest as he stared into the flickering flames.
“Those with pure blood are called the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Nott replied.
“I’m aware,” Albus said tersely, trying to hide his irritation at their mockery. He needed information, and he had expected this kind of response. That was precisely why he’d asked them; they never sugarcoated things when he lacked knowledge.
“You’re not,” Nott said coldly.
Albus glared at him. “Then please, enlighten me.”
Bowker snickered from the corner, clearly enjoying Albus’s ignorance.
Nott ignored him, his tone clipped. “Part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight made a magical pact—they vowed to produce dark wizards in their bloodlines and safeguard the legacy of dark magic and practices.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, his confusion evident. Before he could voice his question, Zabini cut in, his glare sharp and voice trembling with barely contained anger.
“The Weasleys were one of them,” Zabini said.
The room seemed to grow colder. Bowker stopped snickering, his amusement replaced by tension.
“Your family betrayed not only their bloodline and ancestry,” Zabini continued, his words venomous, “but their magic as well.”
“Lord Bilius Weasley married a light witch,” Nott added, his voice more restrained but tinged with quiet disdain.
Albus frowned, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “That’s all?”
Zabini laughed bitterly. “That’s all? Blimey, Potter!”
Nott’s expression remained calm, though his words carried weight. “When a dark wizard marries a light witch, their offspring can only possess grey cores. Which means, for your thick head, that—”
“That he turned his back on his dark heritage and doomed future generations,” Albus finished curtly.
Zabini nodded sharply. “Exactly. That’s why the Sacred Twenty-Eight intermarry and avoid outsiders—to protect the legacies and magic passed through generations.”
Albus suspected there was more to it, but he let it slide—for now.
Nott concluded grimly, “All descendants of the Weasley clan are, by definition, blood traitors.”
Albus kept his gaze fixed on the enchanted flames, their flickering dance mirroring the storm brewing in his mind. The tension in the room pressed against him as he processed their words. He felt tethered to a fractured legacy, one built on choices he couldn’t control yet was bound to by blood.
The Weasleys were blood traitors. That much, by their narrative, seemed indisputable. But if they had truly severed themselves from the dark, why had he—a descendant of that same line—felt such a deep connection to it? How could he, Albus Severus Potter, possess a dark core?
If his ancestor had made such mockery—a betrayal of magic itself, as they seemed to paint it—why had the magic accepted him so openly? Why did it help him so willingly? Unease began to creep into his gut as his thoughts spiralled. He was aware of the voices, the dark pull, the strange sight during Samhain. Something was there—forgotten or abandoned—and Albus didn’t know if he dared uncover why. He forced his mind to still, reigning in the dark musings that threatened to consume him telling him to delve deeper, to ask more questions, to try to reach for it. One thing was certain:
It didn’t add up.
He rose slowly, his figure outlined by the flickering green flames of the enchanted fire. “Is that,” he began mockingly, his voice soft but razor-sharp, “what your dear Death Eater parents have told you?” The sneer stretching across his face was unmistakable as he drank in the shocked and furious expressions of his dormmates.
A deathly silence fell. Even the flames seemed to hold their breath, as though waiting for the inevitable fallout.
“Why then,” Albus continued, his tone deceptively polite, though every word dripped with derision, “is Scorpius, a Malfoy, also called a blood traitor?”
It was Nott who answered, unflinching and accustomed to Albus’s calculated provocations. He closed his book with a soft snap and turned to face him, abandoning the pretence of indifference.
“Because of the aftermath of the war,” Nott said evenly. “The Malfoys stepped back politically at a time when the dark families needed leadership the most. Many saw it as a betrayal of their roots—especially now, with more dark magic being criminalised and more raids by your father targeting family heirlooms. Lords are being sent to Azkaban for possession alone.”
Albus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the explanation, though his expression remained inscrutable. “So they turned against the dark community?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Scorpius had been the one to teach him about the old ways, guiding him through traditions and even helping him pledge his magic, Albus was also fully aware that Scoropius had pledged himself to the dark through the Malfoy tradition. Albus knew firsthand that the Malfoys had not abandoned the dark; they merely operated in shadows, still upholding the traditions, and sharing it with the newer generation, they were no blood traitors.
Yet Nott was being uncharacteristically forthcoming. Too forthcoming. Albus’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze landed on him. There was something calculated in Nott’s candor, a subtle probe to gauge Albus’s knowledge—or perhaps his allegiance. It was a game, and one Albus couldn’t afford to lose.
Still, Nott’s words confirmed a suspicion Albus had harboured since Beltane; Since his pledge, the festival everyone of their house partook in afterward, the rituals Scorpius and Fawley had introduced him to, ones that were made for many—Fawley’s cryptic remarks during Samhain, the celebration and the explanation for the robes—all of it pointed to the existence of a deeper, more secretive community. One that predated Voldemort’s Death Eaters and perhaps even inspired them. Albus’s thoughts flickered to the traditional robes They had worn during Samhain; eerily reminiscent of Death Eater garb. It couldn't not be a coincidence.
But before Albus could probe further, Zabini snapped.
He shot to his feet, his movements abrupt and ungraceful, closing the distance between them in just a few strides. His wand was already in hand as he seized Albus by the front of his robes, yanking him close.
Hatred burned in Zabini’s eyes, the flickering green firelight casting sharp shadows across his striking features, making him look all the more menacing. His sneer deepened, veins pulsing visibly in his temples.
“Enough, Nott,” Zabini barked, his voice a sharp warning. “You’re telling a blood traitor too much. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. He’s too much of a mudblood lover.”
Nott met Zabini’s anger with a pointed glance but said nothing more, retreating into silence.
Albus, however, didn’t flinch. His sneer mirrored Zabini’s as he locked eyes with him. “It’s good to know where you stand, Zabini,” he said, his voice laced with venomous mockery. “Just like your family, I assume?”
The jab hit its mark. Zabini’s grip tightened, and the tip of his wand pressed against Albus’s throat.
“When it comes to blood traitors, yes,” Zabini hissed, his tone steeped in contempt.
“And you all think it’s acceptable, the way Scorpius and I are being treated?” Albus pressed, his voice steady despite the very real threat of the wand digging into his neck.
He didn’t flinch, his defiance an unspoken challenge. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more—to provoke Zabini into lashing out or to confirm just how deep the resentment ran.
Zabini’s lips curled into a sneer. “You really don’t get it, do you? Our families are marked by history. We didn’t have the luxury of pretending everything was fine after the war. We were hunted down, watched, punished for things we didn’t even do.”
“Lower your wand, Zabini,” Nott interjected, his voice constrained, clearly trying to prevent the argument from escalating.
“Or what?” Zabini shot back, twisting his wand slightly. His sneer widened. “What will this filthy half-blood squib and blood traitor do?”
Zabini laughed bitterly, though his eyes darkened with something deeper. “You don’t know anything,” he muttered in a low voice. “You sit there, high and mighty, pretending your family’s hands are clean. But war dirties everyone, Potter. You think your father never did anything he regrets?”
Albus met Zabini’s glare, his expression cool and calculated. He didn’t miss the deliberate shift—Zabini had called him Potter instead of Weasley.
“So you think it’s appropriate,” Albus said, his tone calm yet biting, his words less a question and more a confirmation of Zabini’s stance.
“Then, Zabini,” Albus continued, his voice turning icy, “don’t expect me to care about your family’s plight.”
The flicker of satisfaction he felt as Zabini’s face twisted in fury was fleeting, quashed almost immediately. The anger in Zabini’s dark eyes was theatrical, but the trembling in his hand—whether from rage or fear—betrayed how deeply Albus’s words had struck.
Zabini cursed under his breath, sharp and guttural in Italian, before shoving Albus back with a violent jerk. “You’re nothing but a blood traitor in disguise,” he hissed, his sneer a mask for the anguish clawing its way to the surface. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating, the tension lingering like smoke. Finally, Bowker let out a low whistle, cutting through the stillness.
“Well played,” he muttered, his tone hovering between genuine admiration and a mocking edge.
Albus turned to him, raising an eyebrow but said nothing.
Nott, still feigning disinterest, scoffed softly as he flipped another page of his book. “Of course,” he murmured, voice dry and amused. He didn’t bother looking up as he added, “You always know how to hit a nerve, Potter.”
Then, in a rare show of candour, Nott continued, his voice sharper and more deliberate. “The Zabini Manor was raided last night. His father’s been taken into custody—Your father led the raid personally.”
Albus’s expression didn’t falter, the revelation sliding off him like water on glass. “Not my problem,” he said coolly, his voice devoid of sympathy. “Zabini should learn to keep personal matters out of it.”
“Brutal,” Bowker muttered, though the smirk tugging at his lips suggested he wasn’t entirely serious.
Nott sighed and closed his book with a decisive thud “The faster you figure out that it’s actually your problem, Potter , the faster all of this will be over.”
Albus rolled his eyes, his disdain evident. He wasn’t about to waste time untangling whatever cryptic warning Nott was trying to drop. He’d gotten what he wanted—a rattled Zabini wasn’t a concern, nor were the Zabini family’s troubles. If his father had led the raid, there was undoubtedly something incriminating involved. Still, the timing was suspect. The Zabinis had recently backed the New Traditionalists in Italy, a controversial group. It wasn’t hard to imagine similar ties on this side of the continent.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing briefly as he passed Nott. “Any way I can rid myself of the title?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
Nott met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “No,” he replied flatly.
Albus nodded as though the answer was expected. Without another word, he strode toward the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back.
“See you at dinner,” he said, his voice calm, almost detached, before disappearing into the corridor.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Scorpius’s expression darkened, his usual lighthearted demeanour hardening into something sharper. He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “It’s not something that happens lightly. No wizard with any sense of honour would go that far—except, of course, if there were some grave insult or deep-rooted feud. Breaking a wand hand is a deliberate act, not just an attack; it’s a declaration. To damage a wizard’s hand—their dominant one, at that—it’s practically severing them from their magic.”
Albus nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Sam, watching as the weight of the words sank in. “It’s significant to pure-bloods,” he added, studying the flicker of realisation in Sam’s eyes. “In our world, we train to use magic through a wand. Each movement, each spell—ingrained in our dominant hand’s muscle memory. But if that hand’s broken…”
Sam looked between them, his brows furrowing as he processed this new layer of severity. “It’s useless then, they have to relearn?”
Scorpius nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he seemed to choose his words carefully, weighing them. “For purebloods, the wand hand is almost as sacred as one’s wand. To break it is a grave insult.” His jaw tightening.
Sam swallowed, the gravity of the situation pressing on him, his discomfort unmistakable. “So, whoever did this wasn’t just angry. They were… making a statement.”
Albus’s mouth twisted into a cool smile, unruffled by the implications. “Or reestablishing the hierarchy.”
Scorpius’s voice softened as he added, “Or it might just be a thing of passion.” He glanced down at his textbook, his gaze fixed yet unfocused, as though he were contemplating something far beyond the pages.
Albus tilted his head, considering. “True. Anger could fuel it… but to crush the hand entirely?” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, before shifting his attention to Sam, noting the flicker of unease in his friend’s expression. “That’s not just a one-stomp kind of anger.”
He should know after all, because it was him who did it, one stamp would have been enough, but he wanted to be sure, sure that he had crushed the bones. He had wanted to watch Jenkin struggle with practical magic in the aftermath, which he did and it felt like some divine punishment, which made him want to laugh. He found the conversation interesting, wondering if he could somehow skew it into something it was not, who would know after all? It was only him and Jenkins there, no paintings, no ghosts. And Jenkin wasn't talking, wasn't it up to Albus then to somehow make up an interesting story? What would humiliate Jenkin further?
Sam’s face tightened as he struggled with the brutality of it all. “Revenge, maybe?”
“It would explain the brutal nature,” Albus replied, glancing sidelong at Scorpius with a slight, knowing chuckle. “The funniest part is, they think it was Scorpius.”
Scorpius’s expression remained calm, his voice steady. “They have no proof,” he said simply, as if practised, yet the truth.
Albus’s smile grew, and he shifted his gaze back to Sam, leaning back with an air of satisfaction. “Makes you wonder, though—what could’ve happened to keep Jenkins so silent? Not a word, even to our dear headmaster?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, a new sharpness in his gaze as he considered this implication, a shadow passing over his face. A faint smile, dark and thoughtful, touched his lips as he murmured, “Maybe… maybe Jenkins wasn’t the real victim after all.”
“Then there would be two beds occupied in the hospital wing.” Scorpius said simply.
“Or The other didn't get hurt.” Sam responded.
“Or Jenkin’ is simply smart enough to understand the consequences of talking.” Albus said.
“So someone powerful did it?” Sam asked.
“Well isn't that the rumours?” Albus mused.
“Why else isn't it out? Why hasn't the ministry sent at least one Auror?“ Scorpius said perplexingly.
“Knowing my father they probably have their hands full with much more delicate matters than simply a school bully getting what's coming to him—Or let's say Jenkins the victim, if he dont speak there is no case.”
Scorpius face morphed into a warm smile as he looked over to Sam, who had gone a few shades paler. “Don’t worry Sam, I'm sure it was a one time thing.”
“A crime of passion” Albus mused as he leaned in his chair totally unbothered.
“What if it is a message?” Sam stopped himself as he looked down and fidgeted with his secondhand robe.
“If, then to whom?” Albus said, looking into the roof.
“Jenkins is a pureblood.” Scorpius said simply as he turned his page.
“So not another Slytherin heir making a point of assaulting muggleborns.” Albus said with humour in his tone.
Sam seemed to relax only a bit, still a bit uncomfortable with the conversation. “A muggleborn taking revenge?” Sam said in a wondering tone.
“Jenkins did have a bit of a bias against anything he considered less magical.” Scorpius said.
“That’s saying it lightly.” Albus said as he rolled his eyes and swayed on the back legs of his chair.
“Funny, most think blood purity is an Slytherin trait, who could have thought a Hufflepuff was the one bullying muggleborns?” Scorpius said with dry humour.
Sam made a grimace “He wasn't cruel thought, just the usual run of the mill–”
“Realistically he doesn't need to, just a drop can overflow a goblet” Albus said simply.
“It could explain the crushed hand, maybe they don't understand the true significance.” Sam said.
“If that's the case, why didn't he speak?” Scorpious asked, a bit sceptical, as he leaned back crossing his arms.
“Humiliation.” Albus said simply, “It’s like you said, Jenkins is a Pureblood with bias against anything not, or less magical.” Albus laughs humorlessly. “Clearly, Someone with those morals would not flaunt if a muggleborn overpowered them.”
Scorpius only nodded, sceptical.
“So the message is against blood purity then?” Sam lights up.
“An interesting theory.” Scorupis drawled clearly not compelled,
Sam seemed to put things together in his head as he began to talk. “With the rising anti-muggle sentiment it would make sense, someone snapping–” Sam thought loudly.
“A crime of passion, you think?” Albus interrupted, his gaze narrowing. “The crushing of the hand—very Muggle-like. But whoever did it could still be fully aware of the weight it carries. It’s a statement.” He paused, letting the words settle into the room.
Scorpius’s eyes glinted as he considered the implications, but his voice remained level. “I’m not convinced it’s as simple as that.”
Albus rolled his eyes, “Ofcourse, heir Malfoy.” he said jokingly as he rolled his eyes then grinned at the pointed look Scorpius gave him.
“I think it's sensible.” Sam said quietly, fidgeting with his robe.
Albus nodded. “It is, most are just to blind to see it. People think muggleborns are to stupid, too weak, to be able to do it, that's why it’s not even a rumour, or theory, as Scorpius put it.”
“It’s just ignorance then, ignoring the most likely perpetrator.” Sam continued analytically with a bit of frustration seeping into his voice.
Scorpius looked at him understandably but still sceptical. “Whom would it help to spread that? clearly not Muggleborns.”
"I disagree." Albus said casually as he looked at Sam. “Afterall, what if it’s the truth?”
Sam sat quietly but his expression gave way to the inner workings of the younger boy, who was clearly contemplating the words carefully. Albus hid a smirk, he could see it in the other boy's eyes, the wheels turning in his head, the seed taking root—It was only a matter of time before the rumour would spread, hopefully like a fiendfyre. After all, they were in the library—a public space—and he’d intentionally left the conversation open for others to hear. He knew the eavesdroppers would catch on. That was the point.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
He had been right. By the next morning, the rumours had spread like wildfire. Purebloods moved more stiffly, glancing over their shoulders, while Muggleborn students walked with newfound confidence. The story had taken root, gaining momentum as it went. People loved an underdog, a champion for Muggleborns—especially when the underdog was framed as having outwitted a Pureblood bully.
The public opinion of Jenkins had shifted too. No longer the innocent victim, he was now viewed as just another bully. The truth of his long-standing mistreatment of Muggleborns was out, and it sent ripples through the school. Those who stood with blood purity recoiled in indignation, while Muggleborns, Half-bloods, and the "Muggle-loving" Purebloods saw the shift as a victory. Some Purebloods, especially those with an ingrained sense of superiority, grew angrier, their resentment bubbling to the surface, but of course they were smart enough to keep their composure.
Albus could hardly believe how easily it had all unfolded. He and Scorpius were no longer the primary focus of suspicion. No one seemed to care about who had actually done it anymore; the idea was the story now. The truth of Jenkins's actions had taken precedence over any lingering questions about the perpetrator. And as the rumour spread, it seemed as though no one cared to dig any deeper—As if they were content with the hidden identity of the assaulter.
As Albus forked a piece of his eggs, the telltale rustling of wings filled the Great Hall. Morning owls swooped down from the windows in an elegant flurry, delivering letters and parcels to the eagerly awaiting hands of students. Albus barely glanced up when his own owl Merlin dove towards him, dropping a tightly folded Daily Prophet right into the middle of his plate.
He sighed, staring mournfully at the smear of yolk now decorating the front page before shoving a small crust of toast toward the owl as payment. “You could’ve aimed for the table,” he muttered under his breath as he petted the owl, but the owl only gave him a dignified hoot before flapping away.
Pulling the soggy parchment free from his breakfast, Albus unfolded the paper. His eyes skimmed the bold headline, and a flicker of satisfaction tugged at the corner of his mouth as he read:
“SHOCKING TURN OF EVENTS! A NEW LIGHT ON THE SUPPOSED DARK MAGIC ASSAULT AT HOGWARTS!
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, long considered the safest haven for young witches and wizards, is once again at the centre of controversy. The recent dark magic assault on a second-year Hufflepuff student has taken a dramatic turn, with new rumours casting doubt on the victim’s innocence and reframing the narrative around the incident.
Initially depicted as a helpless victim of a malicious attack, the Hufflepuff is now being scrutinised for alleged behaviour that may have provoked retaliation. Whispers in the halls suggest the student had a history of targeting Muggleborn classmates through subtle but pervasive bullying—some even claiming the student used Muggleborns as dummies for spell practice.
The injury—severe enough to land the student in the care of Madam Pomfrey—has become a target for wandfire in the broader debate. While initially perceived as an act of unprovoked violence and dark curses, the nature of the injury and the underlying tensions it represents have led to speculation that the attack was a deliberate statement against blood purity prejudices. It seems the curse used was nothing more than a common boil curse.
One anonymous source close to the investigation commented: “He wasn’t openly cruel around teachers, but it was clear where his loyalties lay, making some of my friends scared to walk alone. He made Muggleborns feel unwelcome, and unsafe, as if they didn’t belong.”
The incident has also rekindled fears of a rise of new traditionalist beliefs among youth, especially Purebloods. The injury Jenkins sustained—a crushed hand—has since become a symbol of rebellion against blood purity ideology among students. According to circulating rumours, the assault might have been carried out by a Muggleborn student seeking to challenge Jenkins’s prejudice or to stand up against oppression. Some suggest that the method used, while brutal, carried a message of defiance that is impossible to ignore.
The shift in narrative has polarised the Hogwarts student-pool. Many Muggleborn and Half-blood students have hailed the incident as a long-overdue stand against discrimination. “It’s about time someone called out people like Jenkins,” one student remarked. “If the teachers won’t stop the bullying, maybe this will make them think twice.”
Meanwhile, the rumours have sparked outrage among Pureblood circles. “This is an attack on our heritage, plain and simple,” said a seventh-year Slytherin. “It’s one thing to stand up for yourself, but this is violence, and it sets a dangerous precedent—Read more on page 4 how this affects the current climate of wizarding politics, The Minister of Magic Hermoine Granger-Weasley, who is a muggleborn herself, has chosen to not comment. follows ups on the Zabini case can be read on page—”
The words blurred slightly as Albus scanned the article, the corners of his mouth twitching as satisfaction mingled with amusement. He could only imagine the rage Jenkins must be feeling as the entire school devoured the fresh scandal. Around him, reactions rippled through the Hall. Groups of students leaned over their own copies of the Prophet , their voices low but urgent.
At the Slytherin table, some Purebloods sat stiffly, their expressions cold and wary, while others whispered furiously amongst themselves. Across the Hall, a few Muggleborn students at the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables looked livelier than usual, sharing triumphant glances and nods of approval.
Albus fought to suppress the smirk threatening to break across his face—It somehow had worked.
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He felt a sharp tug on his robes, yanking him to his feet. Before he could react, he was being pulled out of the Great Hall and shoved lightly into the nearest private alcove.
“Scorpius!” he hissed, barely steadying himself before meeting the other boy’s intense gaze.
“What are you thinking—” Scorpius began in a low, frantic voice, his hands clutching Albus’s robes. “No—what are you playing at?”
Albus stared at him in disbelief, a bloom of dread unfurling in his stomach. The thought of Scorpius being mad at him filled him with unease. “Playing at?” He injected genuine confusion into his tone, hoping to stall.
“You know exactly what I’m—” Scorpius’s voice was strained, almost shaking as he pushed Albus further into the alcove. Their faces were close now, and Albus could see the tension etched in his features. Scorpius broke off abruptly as the sound of chatter echoed nearby.
“Enlighten me?” Albus asked, keeping his tone even as he searched Scorpius’s face for a better read of his emotions. He tamped down the irrational need to agree, to appease, even as the dread coiled tighter inside him.
“The article!” Scorpius whispered harshly, his composure fraying with every word. “The whole fake story about Jenkins—Merlin, I should’ve known. It was too convenient, you talking about it so openly!” He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the movement betraying his exasperation. “What in Salazar’s name were you thinking, making up—”
“It’s brilliant, Scorpius!” Albus interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “What’s the issue? Everyone loves it! It takes the suspicion off us!”
“What’s the issue?” Scorpius repeated incredulously, his frustration cracking through his normally composed demeanour. “You’re making the divide between Muggle-borns and purebloods worse!” he said, his voice frantic but still low enough to avoid drawing attention.
Albus felt a headache forming. It was too early—and too public—for this argument.
“I was just voicing a theory!” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “How was I supposed to know it’d blow up like this?”
Feigning ignorance was probably his safest move. He hated lying to Scorpius, but it felt like the only way to evade the piercing scrutiny of those gray eyes, locked so intently on his. Scorpius’s grip slackened slightly, though his expression remained firm. His brow furrowed, his eyes scanning Albus’s face as if searching for the truth hidden beneath his words.
“Don’t treat me like I don’t know you,” Scorpius said quietly, his tone soft but cutting. Of course, he had seen through him—if anyone could, it was Scorpius.
Albus forced himself not to linger on the sadness in Scorpius’s eyes, the hurt at being lied to. He pushed the feeling aside, meeting Scorpius’s gaze head-on. He couldn’t afford to falter now.
“What was I supposed to do?” Albus shot back, his frustration laced with guilt. “Let everyone think it was us? Let you get blamed? Keep letting people treat Jenkins like a victim ? This helps us, Scorpius! It’s a distraction, and I didn’t know it would spiral like this!”
“It’s not my fault if people can’t control themselves,” he added defensively.
“No, you just made it easier for them to justify it,” Scorpius replied, his voice trembling now, with something that felt like heartbreak bleeding through. His hands still gripped the front of Albus’s robes, but the force in them had softened, as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull Albus closer or push him away. “You’re so focused on yourself, you can’t even see the damage you’re causing.”
Scorpius’s words were heavy with something deeper, more personal, but Albus missed it entirely. He clenched his fists at his sides, his frustration bubbling over. “Why do you even care about some Muggle-borns? Look, the heat is off our backs—where’s your Slytherin self-preservation? You should be praising me, Scorpius! Stop acting like a bleeding-hearted Hufflepuff—”
“What are you two whispering about?”
The sudden interruption made them both freeze. Hugo stood at the edge of the alcove, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Behind him, Lily appeared, her grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat’s. Scorpius grip left Albus robes as quickly as wizardingly possible–Yet it didn't matter.
“Clearly, they’re in the throes of a heated moment before a snog,” Lily declared dramatically, clasping her hands over her heart with mock passion. She shook her head in exaggerated disapproval. “You wouldn’t understand, Hugo. It’s a complex, passionate—”
“We are not snogging,” Albus said flatly, cutting her off as heat rushed to his cheeks. He straightened his robes, throwing a glare in her direction.
“I didn’t say you were,” Lily shot back, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I said you were about to—”
“Lily, you interrupted it,” Hugo chimed in with a smirk. “Albus looked ready to confess everything. Very romantic.”
Lily turned on him, hands on her hips. “You interrupted it, Hugo! I was watching, Then you had to barge in—”
“I was protecting my cousin’s innocence,” Hugo retorted defensively, crossing his arms. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Albus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Beside him, Scorpius looked mortified, his face as red as a Howler. His hands twitched at his sides like he was seconds away from attempting to vanish into the wall.
“Lily!” one of the Scamander twins called out as he jogged toward the group, his twin not far behind. “You’re impossible this early—”
“Did we miss something?” the second twin asked, his gaze bouncing between Albus and Scorpius with barely concealed amusement. “Caught them red-handed, did you?”
“She did,” Hugo said cheerfully, earning an irritated glare from Lily. “I just got here.”
Albus sighed, shooting his cousin and sister a withering look as Scorpius visibly deflated, the tension in his shoulders replaced by resigned humiliation. Oddly enough, Albus felt a flicker of relief. His family’s absurdity, for now, had spared him from the argument he wasn’t ready to finish.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
“Sam,” Albus said with a friendly nod as he sat down at their usual library table, tucked away in a quiet corner near bookcases that rarely saw much use. The younger dirt blonde boy looked up from his book with a friendly smile towards him.
“Is that third-year Charms?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Sam nodded simply. Albus shrugged as he pulled out his scrolls, propping his jaw on his hand. His eyes flickered to Sam’s notebook, where the younger boy was furiously scribbling with something that caught his attention—a Muggle ballpoint pen. Albus raised an eyebrow.
“A ballpoint pen?” he asked, amusement in his tone. Sam stopped writing abruptly, his expression slightly sheepish, as if expecting disapproval.
“Quills aren’t as quick—or practical—for note-taking,” Sam explained. There was a flicker of unease, of disapproval as though he feared he had crossed some invisible social line.
“Muggle pens are easier for sure,” Albus said casually, watching Sam visibly relax. “But don’t rely on them too much. You’ll need to get comfortable with a quill—every assignment has to be written with one.”
Sam made a slight grimace “I’m aware—It just seems so–” he struggled to find the right word, clearly still tipping around this new world.
"Old school? Out of date?” Albus mused amusingly. which earned a grin from Sam.
“Your words.” the other said feign innocence. Albus laughed.
“You know you can criticise the way wizard’s do stuff right?” Albus asked, his eyes studying the other. The word seemed to have struck some kind of nerve, as the younger boy seemed to grow a bit conflicted; as he fidgeted with his hand on his worn out robes.
“It’s just—” the other let out a breath, his eyes falling on the book laid out before him. “It’s hard to know what offends.” He said finally.
“It’s fine to offend.” Albus said simply.
“What is fine to offend?” Another voice quipped, making both the boys turn their head to the newcomer.
Scorpius sat down beside Albus with grace, putting down two heavy tomes on the table, which made Albus give him a side eye.
“I take it that you have done all the assignments?” Albus drawled.
“Yes, as would you if you had planned better.” Scorpius replied smoothly with a posh tone before continuing as he opened one of the books.”So what is fine to offend?” he said in his usual pureblooded learned haughtiness.
“Purebloods, wizards, the magical world.” Albus said with a smirk as he leaned back feeling less inclined to study. He took in the other expression, there was still a slight tension between the two after their argument the other day.
“Ah.” Scorpius’s tone was neutral, his eyes on the page before him.
“I don’t want to offend, though,” Sam interjected quickly.
“And I’m saying it’s alright,” Albus replied. “Muggles are behind wizards in some aspects, sure, but we’re behind them in others. It’s not offensive to point that out.”
“True,” Scorpius added, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “We’re not superior in everything. ”
Sam nodded, relaxing slightly. “It’s just—quills are so awkward to hold, and you can’t erase the ink.”
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. “Of course you can erase ink.”
Sam blinked, his confusion plain. “How? nobody has told–”
Albus rolled his eyes. “Because it’s second nature to kids who grew up around magic. They wouldn’t think to mention it.”
Sam looked like he was out of words, his expression changed rapidly. “What? that not fair—” he begun “It wasn't even in the mandatory muggleborn introduction books–” slight frustration bubbling in his voice at the unfairness–
Scorpius looked at him emphatically. “I suppose it’s a bit of an oversight—Considering the books are written by purebloods,” he said to the younger boy.
“That’s ridiculous! Why are purebloods writing introduction books—” Sam started but stopped himself, the implications dawning on him.
“They know the wizarding world best,” Scorpius said matter-of-factly, as though the answer were obvious. “Who else would write them?”
Albus let out a dry laugh. “Someone who actually knows what Muggle-borns don’t know. You’d think that would be helpful.”
Scorpius gave him a side glance, clearly unamused. “These books are written by wixen who have taught generations of purebloods. They know the intricate details of wizarding life, and all mandatory Muggle-born introduction books are ministry-approved.”
“They should at least have a Muggle-born review them—or, better yet, co-write them,” Sam suggested tentatively.
Albus let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Why would an ape need to review a book written about it? That’s how purebloods think of Muggle-borns,” he said with a biting edge. “And co-write? That’s never going to happen. Purebloods are way too proud.”
Sam deflated at his words, the hope in his expression fading. Scorpius made a grimace at the Albus crude comparison.
“There aren’t many Muggle-born academics,” Scorpius added, trying to steer the conversation “Most of the academic world is pureblood-dominated. It has been for generations.”
“There are plenty of Muggle-born writers,” Albus countered with an exaggerated eye roll. “The problem is that the publishing companies are owned by purebloods. They gatekeep the whole field—delaying, rejecting, or outright ignoring drafts from Muggle-born authors. Mother told me some of the older publishing houses even toss manuscripts straight into the bin if they don’t come from a ‘respectable’ family name.”
Sam did a grimace, Scorpius also looked offended at that.
Sam continued a bit raviled up “How would they even know–” He began.
“They use a pureblood directory to check surnames,” Scorpius said quietly, his jaw tightening momentarily before his mask of neutrality returned.
“And statistically,” Albus added, “Muggle-borns have the lowest income in wizarding Britain.”
“Which means they can’t afford to self-publish or wait,” Sam said, catching on.
Albus took in Sam's now less exited form, seemingly to have deflated in the face of the bleak reality.
“The purebloods still hold most power in the wizarding world, as they are the majority.” Albus said simply.
"Then it’s no wonder why nobody thought a Muggle-born could stand up to Jenkins, a pureblood," Sam said, his voice tight with restrained emotion.
“It’s ignorance and bias.” Albus said, trying to steer the topic away from that boiling cauldron of a topic. “Muggleborn don't have lesser magical cores, it’s not that they are worse than purebloods, only the pureblood gatekeepers the higher positions.” Albus continued.
Scorpius sat back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his open book. His usually sharp eyes had softened, unfocused, as he processed the conversation.
"Even Muggle Studies textbooks are written by purebloods," Albus added with a laugh, cutting through the heavy air.
Sam grimaced but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face. "That's why they’re so behind—I looked into some of the books, and they really just focus on the oddest parts of Muggle culture."
Albus chuckled. "Yeah, they see Muggles as exotic but ultimately lesser beings."
Scorpius remained silent, his expression carefully neutral, though the usual warmth in his eyes was tempered by something more introspective. Albus caught the flicker of thought beneath the surface in those tentative grey eyes.
"That's bullshit," Sam muttered with surprising boldness, snapping Scorpius out of his reverie.
"Don’t let a pureblood hear you say that—" Albus teased with a grin, Sam's face seemed to drop before Albus continued. "The correct word is 'Hippogriff-dung'. " The joke lightened the mood, earning a revived expression, which turned into an eye roll and then a laugh.
"Well, who knows—Maybe things will change now, after the Prophet picked up the story showing that Muggle-borns are not weaker than purebloods." A faint fire of resistance sparked in Sam's eyes, and Albus wasn't the only one noticing, Albus glanced at Scorpius who took in the younger boy's spirited expression.
Scorpius’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Before his mask returned, betraying the internal conflict stirring within.
Then Scorpius’s composed demeanour returned with a practised ease, though the contemplation lingered in his eyes as he smiled warmly. "Sam," he said softly, "would you like to know the spell for vanishing ink spills and erasing sentences?"
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Sleep continued to evade him, but with the aid of some Dreamless Sleep Potion, Albus managed to feel marginally well-rested. It was the final week of term, a time when even the most lackadaisical students found themselves haunting the library or scribbling furiously over their last meals in the Great Hall, trying to complete assignments before the holidays. Predictably, some Ravenclaws were already tackling their holiday homework, which earned a roll of the eyes from Albus.
The so-called "Muggleborn Avenger" was still the hottest topic of conversation, not just within Hogwarts but across wizarding Britain. Students were eagerly penning letters to their families, who, in turn, were scrambling to extract more tantalizing tidbits to spread over their own gossip networks.
Jenkins had finally been discharged from the hospital wing, though he rarely ventured beyond the Hufflepuff common room. Albus couldn’t help but smirk every time the boy floundered in class, struggling to cast even the simplest spells with his now-healed hand. Though the bones had been regrown, the process hadn’t restored the muscle memory or magical precision he once possessed. Watching Jenkins bungle his spells felt like divine retribution.
Even so, Jenkins’s ordeal hadn’t ended in the hospital wing. Muggleborn students, emboldened by his impaired magic, had taken to teasing and hexing him whenever he dared cross their path. It was an ironic reversal of power that made Albus snicker quietly, though he noted that the Hufflepuffs, Jenkins’s own house, didn’t join in. Perhaps loyalty ran so deeply in their veins that they didn’t need rules to keep from turning on one another—Unlike snakes they didn't need the constant threat of punishment to not stab each other in the back, at least openly.
Sam, however, had once remarked that Ravenclaw was by far the most cutthroat house, and Albus had seen enough evidence to believe him. One incident stood out: Sam had entered the library with an essay he’d worked on for days, only to have it burst into flames the moment he unrolled the parchment. The culprit remained unknown, though the smug looks of his housemates offered enough of a clue. Sam’s reaction was little more than a grimace, as though such sabotage was a daily hazard.
It was. Ravenclaws seemed to have a sixth sense for sabotaging one another, especially when academic success was on the line. Stealing notes, vanishing ink, whispered counter-spells—it was all fair game to them. Albus found the ruthless precision of their antics strangely amusing, though Sam was less enthused, as he was the one actually having to put up with it. It was sobering, most would only view the Ravenclaws as nerds, know-it-all or those with eccentric-behaviours, also known as loonies. Nobody outside the house seemed aware of how deep the competitiveness went, and how far or dark some were willing to drip their fingers into to succeed, academically ofcourse, they were still Ravens not snakes–Their ambition seemed mostly to dwell within their knowledge and Academics, not politics, thought some stuck out.
Sam had also shared a small but telling detail—one that was surprisingly revealing. The reason the Daily Prophet had gotten hold of the Muggleborn Avenger story so quickly was because one of the fourth-year Ravenclaws, Elwin Beaufort, had connections to the newspaper. His uncle, Matthieu G. Beaufort, was a well-known columnist—though under a pseudonym—and had been the first to break the story. This was an open secret within the Ravenclaw house, one Sam had only revealed after Elwin had been particularly nasty to him about his “lack of manners.” Sam, in turn, had deliberately argued that it was a thinly veiled insult aimed at calling him a “Muggleborn.” Both Albus and Scorpius agreed, noting that while the Ravenclaws may have more class than to use terms like Mudblood , the subtlety was clear. It was almost a badge of honor to avoid the bluntness of Slytherin insults, but that didn’t make the sentiment any less toxic.
Scorpius had immediately launched into a tired but amused rant, clearly enjoying the chance to indulge in high society gossip. The Beauforts were an old, “sacred” pureblood family from France, he explained, one that had apparently intermarried with the Lestranges for generations. Elwin and Matthieu, it seemed, belonged to an offshoot of the family tree—one that had moved to Britain in an attempt to claim the Lestrange fortune. Or so the gossip went, anyway. The Lestrange lordship and fortune were now up for grabs since no one from the main branch was alive to claim it, their family either dead or rotting away in Azkaban.
It was a hot topic in pureblood circles, with the Rosiers also vying for control of the Lestrange legacy. But, as Scorpius had explained, that was only half the battle: magic didn’t care for legality. The Lestrange lordship ring had to accept the candidate as well, and if it rejected them, the claim would be nullified. Scorpius mentioned that a few years ago, a spare from the Trembley family had tried to claim the lordship, only to be rejected by the ring itself.
Scorpius continued his ramble, clearly enjoying the intrigue. He speculated that the Blacks probably had the strongest claim, as the late Lestrange brothers’ mother had Black blood in her near ancestry. Yet, the current holder of the Black lordship had not made any moves to claim the Lestrange fortune. Scorpius glanced at Albus, a little uneasy, as if expecting him to know more about the matter—or even who held the Black lordship in the first place. Albus, however, was still in the dark about that particular piece of the puzzle—So it was only met by him rolling his eyes at the gossip.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus was caught in a mixture of relief and dread—Burke had not come after him again, which worried him more than if he had. As he sat in the train compartment moving through the Scottish highlands with Sam and Scorpius, he feared what that might mean.
“It’s only two weeks.” Scorpius said calmly and emphatically to Sam who seemed to be as anxious as Albus felt.
“It's just—” The younger boy stopped himself and breathed in. “I don't understand why we cant use magic at home–I will fall behind and then they will become much more–” the boy went on clearly very upset about the ministry rules about the trace and magic in muggle areas.
“I’m sure you won't fall behind that much, didn't you say that you already did most of the practical you need for the homework assignments?” Scorpius said softly as he sat beside the boy who seemed very stressed. “Yes! But Travers keeps teasing me about it, saying that muggleborns should just give up–That we can never compete with purebloods.”
“The Travers have always been blood–purists, don’t take what he says to heart.” Scorpius said.
“Clearly he feels threatened, I'm sure you will beat that little prat even if you can’t practise magic during the holidays.” Albus said towards Sam who responded, not convinced—
“It’s just unfair, how pureblood seems to be able to do it, even if none is supposed to be able to.” he said as he crossed his arms.
“The trace doesn't work in old wizarding homes, as they usually have anti-surveillance runes built into the wards.” Scorpius explained.
Albus let out a dry laugh. “Clearly the rules are made so muggleborns will fall behind.”
Scorpius gave him a look, a bit uncomfortable. “Those runes were placed before the trace became mandatory, and it’s important, Muggleborn are more likely to break The Statute of Secrecy” he said pointedly towards Albus, before catching himself and turning towards Sam with a regretful but albeit warm smile “It’s just a security measure, it’s only two weeks.”
Both Albus and Sam held in the important part of the information, that it wasn't just two weeks, but the whole summer holiday which seemed to escape Scorpus' mind.
Instead, Scorpius quickly shifted the topic. “So, Sam, do you think your parents will let you visit?” he asked, his tone bright and eager. His excitement was infectious, and Sam seemed to catch it, his face lighting up at the thought of being invited to Malfoy Manor.
Albus, however, fought to hide his own jealousy. He stared out the window, letting the passing landscape blur as he tried to occlude his thoughts. The fear that had settled deep in his stomach seemed more tangible now, gnawing at him, making his jaws ache with tension. He tried to rationalise it, to push it away—but the dread felt permanent, lodged somewhere deep.
It wasn’t until the sounds of the train’s movement became distant, and his thoughts drifted further inward, that he was fully submerged in his mindscape. The dense forest, now thick with snow, stretched endlessly before him. He walked through it, searching for somewhere to bury his fears and the unsettling truths of the past week. He didn’t hear the rest of the conversation.
“Can’t I practise the spells at your manor, then?” Sam asked hopefully.
Scorpius shook his head gently. “I don’t think you’re allowed to travel with your wand,” he said simply, his voice understanding.
Sam furrowed his brows. “How would they even know?”
Scorpius gave him a sympathetic look, sighing quietly. “Most don’t know—but when it comes to muggleborns the Trace also tracks the location of your wand.”
“Why?” Sam asked, clearly caught off guard.
“Well, I suppose the official reasoning is for the protection of muggleborn minors,” Scorpius explained. “It was implemented after a lot of Muggleborn students were kidnapped during the First Wizarding War—it was hard to track them, and most ended up—” Scorpius stopped himself before continuing. ”But now with the Trace, they can follow a wand’s location and find them!”
Sam nodded, but there was a lingering discomfort on his face. “I still don’t like that. Even if it's for a good reason.”
“Well—” Scorpius said, trying to lift the mood, his smile returning. “It’s only until you’re seventeen, and they don’t check your location all the time, don't worry–That would take way too much man power.”
Sam seemed to relax at that information.
Scorpius leaned back, clearly eager to steer the conversation back to something lighter. “And, even if you can’t have your wand, we can still do other things! Like flying, if you’re into that—we have a whole Quidditch field–”
He continued to talk about the luxuriousness of his family’s estate, his words painting an image of wealth and grandeur. Sam looked at him, almost dreamily, imagining it.
Albus was pulled back into reality by a soft but cold hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “—Albus?” the voice said.
Albus turned to look at Scorpius and blinked. “What did you say?” he asked, resigned to the fact that he couldn’t remember hearing anything of the conversation.
“Are you alright? Seems like you didn’t hear Sam’s question,” Scorpius said with slight concern, watching Albus carefully.
“I’m alright. Don’t worry, Scorpius—what was the question?” Albus replied, turning to Sam as he leaned back into his seat, trying to appear relaxed. In reality, his mind was swirling—how much time had passed? He hadn’t realised he had sunk so deeply into his thoughts.
Sam glanced at Scorpius before meeting Albus’s gaze. “How do you feel about the holiday break?” the younger boy asked.
Albus thought about it for a moment. “Well, let’s say I’m hoping for more sleep—and hopefully some quiet and calm.”
Scorpius gave him a sympathetic look, while Sam raised an eyebrow.
Albus shrugged. “Holidays at my place are, let’s say, as rowdy and loud as a Quidditch game.” He said the last part with distaste. Sam grimaced sympathetically.
Not wanting the conversation to steer towards his home life—something he hadn’t shared with Sam yet—Albus pressed on. “Though—what I’m more worried about is how in Merlin’s beard I’m going to get a snake for Lily.”
“Buy it, I presume?” Scorpius raised an eyebrow, and when Albus shot him a look, he chuckled.
Albus couldn’t help but laugh too, but then he groaned and covered his face with his hands. “They’re going to think I’m some kind of dark wizard for giving her a snake.”
The other two boys laughed at that. Scorpius gave him a knowing glance, which seemed to slip past Sam unnoticed.
“Didn’t Lily say she had it under control?” Scorpius asked.
“Scorp, you should know one thing—never trust my sister. She’s awful at keeping her word,” Albus rolled his eyes.
“Well, you can always return it if your parents don’t approve. That way, Lily can’t blame you either,” Sam said, his tone calculated. Albus looked at him.
“True, Iguess you can always count on a ravenclaw to have the best advice.” Albus said with a grin, which Seemed to make Sam brighten up a bit more and return the childish grin.
As his gaze shifted toward the other lighter blonde dread returned to his stomach as he noticed Scorpius's expression, it had subtly changed, and there was a slight hint of uneasiness and fear in the other's eyes—In the way the boy's lips seemed to twitch. Albus knew this was the moment to ask. He needed to be sure.
“What about you, Scorp?” Albus asked, his voice casual.
“What about me?” Scorpius replied, snapping back to reality and quickly fixing his expression.
“How do you feel about this Yule break?” Albus asked, trying to sound casual.
Scorpius’s smile faltered for a brief moment, his eyes clouding with something Albus couldn’t quite decipher. But just as quickly, that bright smile returned. “I’m excited, of course! This year, we’re doing something special—” His voice picked up, and he beamed as he began describing the elaborate celebrations his family had planned. Albus listened, nodding along, but deep down, he sensed something wasn’t quite right.
It only seemed to confirm Albus’s fears—if Scorpius’s mind was occupied by what Albus thought it was, there really was no silver lining.
The hours seemed to slip away after that, as they talked and laughed. But when the time came for them to part ways, Albus found himself wishing for more time, dreading the return to his family, to home. He wanted to stay with Scorpius and Sam and just be him—just be another student, not Harry Potter’s disappointment of a son, not Harry Potter’s Slytherin son, the dark horse of his family, the Hippogriff in the room at family dinners, which most people seemed to dance around with their jokes, making it seem like he was overreacting.
As the train pulled near King’s Cross, Albus regretfully stood up, retrieving his trunk from the overhead storage shelves. He said farewell to the two boys.
“Greet your parents for me?” Albus added as he stepped toward the door.
“Of course! Don’t worry about it. Happy Yule, Albus,” Scorpius said.
Albus smiled back and waved to both of them, Sam seeming a bit perplexed over what was going on. But Albus was sure Scorpius would clue him in without revealing too many details.
Albus paused at the door, glancing back one last time at Scorpius. “Happy Yule, Scorpius, Sam,” he said. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped into the corridor, leaving his friends behind.
Now, another battle of wits awaited.
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Notes:
There!!!!!! I had fun doing worldbuilding and finally after what 100k words? putting in concepts and infromation i have had since day one of writing this fic lol
Also did anyone catch my very *subtle* social commentry and analoges to the real worlds issue with academia? Haha
What can i say, i am a simple gal who loves to see and find social commentary in media....
Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty One - A Mother's Love
Notes:
Hello! Here i finally give you another chapter! I have been trying to puzzle all these parts together, and now i think they are ready to be released! Another Chapter will follow right up, i felt like a 12k Chapter might be too much, so instead you get 2!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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C hapter Twenty One - A Mother's Love
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“Where have you been?” she asked softly, her attention lingering on the lamp post outside, its warm glow illuminating the evening, casting shadows across the darkening sky.
Albus stopped in his tracks and looked over at her, watching the way her hands encircled a steaming cup of tea, fingers tightening, as though seeking comfort in its warmth.
“I just went for a walk,” Albus replied, keeping his tone flat as he took in his mother’s tired form.
“A long walk.” she replied simply. Yet there was something there, in her tone.
“I lost track of time.” His words came out like a reluctant confession, his eyes dropping from hers to the edges of the table, where his mother’s hands had tightened around her cup. It wasn't a lie; yet it wasn't the truth either.
She looked at him finally, a small, warm smile on her face. “You must be cold; come and have some tea with me. It’s a new Christmas blend.”
He quietly moved into their dinner room, and sat down in the seat before his mother—She flicked her wand, and another cup appeared, the kettle pouring steaming tea into the cup before him. The fragrant blend filled the room, laced with the faint aroma of spices.
“Thanks,” he said. She gave him a soft smile, and silence fell between them, her gaze once more found the window. No questions came, a silence not unusual, they had shared many moments just like this before—A break from the chaos around them, and once he had found these times special, one where he felt seen, understood. His mother never had acted like his silence had been an issue, his need for the quiet, like she understood it on some part; like she also found the silence sometimes needed. and in that silence, where only their breath and the old sounds of the quaking house could be heard, Their unspoken language had been something special, a space where he felt he belonged, loved, and truly seen.
His gaze flickered towards the teacup, its warmth warming his cold fingers and its aroma creating a comforting feeling.
“I just wanted to get away for a bit,” he murmured, his voice small, quiet, as if the very words might unravel something inside him.
His mother met him with a smile, warm and tender, the kind that seemed to envelop him in a soft cocoon of love. Her pupils widened, the dark abyss of them pulling him in, and for a moment, he felt as though he were lost in the depths of her gaze, drowning in the affection he once could always count on.
“I understand that,” she said, her voice gentle, more a suggestion than a command. “Just tell me next time?”
He nodded, the gesture automatic, as though that small action could return him to the simplicity of their connection. Her smile deepened, a quiet kind of contentment. She turned her gaze back to the window, lifting her cup to her lips with the delicate elegance that had always marked her movements.
And so they sat there, side by side, cocooned in an unspoken bond, the silence stretching between them like an old, familiar blanket. There was no need for words, no need to fill the air with incessant chatter. It was enough, this comfortable quiet, this shared solitude. Albus leaned back in his chair, the weight of it sinking into him, and for a fleeting moment, he felt himself breathe again. The air tasted sweeter here, unburdened, as though he could finally exhale.
But then, like a slow creeping fog, something unpleasant began to settle in—a gnawing unease that he couldn't shake. Guilt, sharp and cold, mingled with a quiet ache of loss, a grief that pressed against his chest, suffocating in its subtlety. It was the kind of grief that had no name, no clear face, only the realization that something precious had slipped through his fingers—Of change.
Just a few months had passed, and yet it felt like a lifetime had carved its mark on him. The moments that had once been his, that had always been freeing, grounding. One of the few moments that was only theirs, that had been special. He had been robbed of them, not by time, but by something within himself, something that had shifted so quietly, so irrevocably. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause—What had done it, what had changed it, could he blame the things that he had been through since he started Hogwarts—Or was he himself to blame?
For the distance. For the resentment. For the tension that grew between them, thick and unyielding. For destroying this moment—For ruining it, distorting it, letting it slip away. Emotions, raw and jarring, clawed at him from all directions, one voice screaming louder than the rest, telling him that he wasn’t to blame, that the fury he felt was justified. It was their fault—his parents, the bullies, his father. Especially his father—For shaping him into someone who felt this way, who burned with a fury he could neither name nor extinguish. A fury that had held no name, a fire that raged inside him, untamed and uncontrollable, consuming him. A fury that threatened to devour him whole, to ignite everything it touched. But there was something else; a flicker, small, insistent, fragile yet uncompromising, like a matchstick lit in a snowstorm—a flicker of fire that even the harsh cold winter winds could extinguish, the flicker fighting against a force much bigger, much greater—A flicker of reason, of understanding—that whispered truths he didn’t want to hear, truths he wasn’t ready to face, of things he had buried deep within, to afraid to face.
Was he not the one to blame?
Fawley’s words, so clear and forceful, resonated in his mind like a commandment. They had become his mantra, his guiding principle—a rule he turned to as a lifeline, as gospel, a compass, a god; “ We can’t control what’s done to us—but we can control how we react to it.”
“Don’t you like the tea blend?”
His mother’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, soft yet perceptive, her gaze lingering on his still-full cup. It was only then he realized the tea had grown cold, untouched.
He blinked. He had not realized how much time had slipped—His mind had wandered, much like it used to when he was younger. His gaze found hers, and for a moment, they seemed to think the same thing. A genuine smile crept onto his lips, mirroring hers.
He had been told—and he knew—that he shared his mother’s smile, her lips. But that smile, so familiar once, had become a stranger to him lately. Its sudden appearance felt almost too vulnerable—a crack in the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.
“I’ve missed that smile,” she said, her gaze holding a soft, maternal warmth that seemed to cut through his defenses, exposing him. He knew the meaning of her words, words that almost felt cruel in their sincerity. His eyes dropped, and with that, the smile faded.
She was stripping him bare, peeling back the layers he had worked so desperately to maintain—and yet, in the depths of his heart, he craved it. The flicker within him seemed to roam freely now, melting the snow, the ice, the cold that had settled so deeply within his bones. It was as if the touch of her words, her gaze, could undo everything he had built.
“Do you think I’ve changed?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper, vulnerable against his will, betraying a desperate need for her approval, for her love. His gaze remained fixed on the now-cold tea, the cup a poor reflection of his feelings—forgotten, abandoned. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.
Her voice, soft and melodic, seemed to carry a grace that enveloped him, though it was tinged with something bittersweet. “Yes and no.” He could feel her, shifting slightly, the way the words lingered between them. There was a warmth in her smile, a tenderness that made him feel both cherished and fragile. She continued, her tone more reassuring now, yet still carrying that undercurrent of something deeper. “Change is sometimes needed. It’s natural. But no matter how much you change, no matter how you change... you will always be my child. I will always love you. I will always see you as my little boy—the one who would hug me so tightly, the boy—” She placed her hand gently over his, and the warmth of her touch spread across his cold fingers, a comfort he welcomed, even as it stirred something painful inside him. “My boy, who clung to my skirt with tiny fists, hiding behind me, as though I could shield him from everything. I can still see that boy, the one who would bury his face into my chest whenever the world became too much. That small boy who felt like mine, like an extension of me... like everything good.”
Her eyes met his, and he felt himself choking on something raw, something that seemed to lodge itself deep in his throat. His vision blurred, and tears welled in his eyes, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from hers. There was something in her eyes too—something that flickered, that burned with a kind of fire he didn’t fully understand, but so deeply longed to believe in.
His voice cracked, his hand shaking faintly beneath hers—beneath the warmth, he felt an overwhelming ache. There was a part of him that wanted to give in, to let himself be held, to once more be embraced by his mother, to retreat into her embrace once more, to hide from the world.
“Then why—” He began to speak his voice with such vulnerability the air almost seemed to crack, as his defenses crumbled, beneath the suffocating, freeing flood of his mother’s love. Laughter echoed from the hallway—bright, forceful, brutal in its intrusion. It shattered the fragile warmth, Instinctively, he pulled his hand back, feeling a sudden chill. an ache settling deep within crying for the loss of her touch, her warmth. Yet a warmth he knew; he couldn't afford. His arms quickly wiped his eyes, wiping away the wetness, the vulnerability.
Through the connected Hallway, his brother, father and Teddy strolled, their voices loudly filling the space brutally, taking everything with it as if the silence never stood a chance. Albus stood abruptly, his gaze fixed on anything but his mother, he turned and ran up the stairs, before the others made it into the dinner room.
His mother stood, her voice a gentle call to him, yet she did not follow. Instead, she sank back down, as though defeated, the weight of his departure pressing heavily on her. Her heart pounded in her chest, a flicker of grief visible in her eyes, a grief that could be seen by anyone who dared to look closely into those pretty brown eyes. The moment had shattered, the air changed—shifted to something colder, more distant. The quiet intimacy they had shared, so fragile, slipped through her fingers, leaving only a strained silence between them.
The distance that had grown so painfully familiar in their household was now more pronounced, thicker, like an invisible wall she could not reach. Albus had retreated, and with him, the space between them had expanded. She let her gaze fall from his back to his untouched cup of tea, its once comforting warmth now forgotten. Her eyes closed briefly, surrendering to the exhaustion that she had tried so hard to hide, to mask.
Before her other child, her husband, and Teddy entered the room, she allowed herself to feel it—the weariness, the ache, the sense of being so near yet so impossibly far from her son. She had reached out, tried to hold him, but he had slipped away, taking a piece of her heart with him.
A soft, sad smile tugged at her lips, bittersweet, filled with something tender yet mournful.
And yet, even as the household around her swelled with its usual noise, its laughter, its chaos, she clung to a fragile hope—a thought that refused to fade, even in the face of her pain. Albus had heard her. Somewhere deep within him, she knew he had heard the truth of her words, even if he hadn’t acknowledged them. Despite the ache that gnawed at her chest, she held onto the certainty that no matter how far he strayed, no matter the distance between them, Albus would always be her little boy.
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Harry’s hand felt strained beneath the quill. He had been reading and signing documents for hours now, and the worst part was that he was doing it at home. afterall, work didn’t wait as crime never seemed to take holidays. Reports of a new, supposed terrorist group had been increasingly frequent, with whispers that it might have ties to the New Traditionalist Party. They seemed to be planning something, fueling an atmosphere of tension and piling onto an already overworked department. Resources were stretched thin as they increased patrols in popular wizarding areas, with the threat level raised for potential holiday attacks. Suspicious reports and unusual movements were pouring in from all over the country, and coupled with a surge in disappearances over the past two years—Not to mention the Zabini’s suspected relation to the new traditional party, it felt like the calm before a storm. Harry hoped—nearly begged—that it was just paranoia born from his, Ron’ and Hermione’ wartime instincts, but the signs were too glaring to ignore. So, for now, they put in the extra hours, keeping their concerns within the Ministry, with the public blissfully unaware–Well except the Zabini debacle, which they couldn't keep out from the paper, the outrage and howlers he had gotten for that from pureblood families was simply outrageous–He was just doing his job.
Then there was the other issue: Albus. Daily Prophet reports had hinted at troubling rumours, and though Harry had long since learned to distrust the press, he knew how much the wizarding public seemed to trust it. He needed to get to the bottom of it, straighten the facts from the rumours, there was little change that there had been some actual dark magic in use, not only would Mcgonagall not let that happened, but his department hadn't even been requested, it was surely simply a prank gone wrong, or a bully dealing with a nasty—Though not illegal—Curse, otherwise an report would have been filed. He had decided to waiting, hoping that talking at home would be more comfortable than talking on a visit or through a letter.
A creeping dread gnawed at Harry. He and Ginny had been so preoccupied over the summer that there had been little time to focus on Albus. He’d noticed his son withdrawing more than usual, slipping into what he suspected was a depressive episode. It wasn’t entirely unusual—Albus had always been more introverted than his siblings, and Harry had told himself that was alright—Usually, it was alright.
But now, everything about Albus felt... off. Coupled with the unease in the wizarding world lately, Harry’s concern had begun to fester. Seeing Albus on the platform had only made it worse—Harry had felt his stomach drop.
Albus looked ill. His once golden tan had faded to a pale, almost sickly complexion. His face, once full of youthful roundness, had thinned alarmingly, making him look older than his years. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, a sight that painfully reminded Harry of himself at Albus’s age—though Albus carried it in a sharper, more polished way, a far cry from Harry’s ragged appearance back then. Still, it was like staring into a reflection of his own past or an old photograph came to life.
The weight loss struck Harry the hardest. Albus looked even worse than he had over the summer, and yet... there’d been no sign of this in his letters. No mention of struggles or stress, nothing from his siblings either. Lily and James had said nothing to suggest something was wrong. It didn’t sit right with Harry, not one bit.
They might not have noticed. It wasn’t uncommon for changes like these to go unnoticed when they happened gradually. After all, James and Lily had been with Albus all term; they might not have seen the subtle shifts in his appearance.
He needed to talk to James, see what his eldest could report. Was it something to do with Draco’s kid? Or the Slytherins? Harry’s jaw tightened. He knew the parents of those children weren’t particularly fond of him. The idea that Albus might have been the target of their ill will—some twisted form of revenge against him—made his blood boil.
His thoughts spiraled and for a fleeting moment, he imagined rounding up all those pureblood parents, tossing them into Azkaban, and throwing away the key. Better yet, let the Dementors have a feast. Harry snorted quietly at the absurdity of the image; Dementors in chairs hunched over a table, plates piled high with those self-important bigots bound and writhing, their outrage over the lack of etiquette greater than the terror of being served as the main course.
The fleeting humor did little to quench the anger simmering in his chest, an anger he couldn’t quite rationalize. Maybe it wasn’t even anything so dramatic. Maybe it was just Albus being his usual troubled self. Or puberty—was it that? When did that happen? James had been a bit of a late bloomer, come to think of it. Harry grimaced, recalling his own second year; At least Albus—no. Nobody had to deal with that. Not anymore. They had won the war. No child should have to face what they had.
Harry shook his head, trying to steer his thoughts away from the downward spiral. He felt the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him, a deep, familiar ache. He sighed, not noticing the faint tremor in the objects on his desk as his magic rippled—an unconscious expression of the turmoil within. His magic had always had a mind of its own, and by now, he had mostly learned to accept it.
Closing his eyes, he tried to find a semblance of calm in the storm raging inside. But it wasn’t easy. How could it be?
The image of Ginny at the platform flickered in his mind like a ghostly echo. He had seen the silent alarm in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around Albus, the protective way she held him as if he were something delicate, fragile, something on the verge of breaking. Her gaze had found his in a flash, the unspoken concern passing between them. He hadn’t needed the eye contact to understand. It was in the faint change in her breathing, the subtle tension in her movements—that spoke that something was amiss.
A knock on the door broke through his thoughts, grounding him back in the present. Right.
Harry had summoned Albus to his study at eight o’clock—
He allowed himself a brief moment to release his exhaustion, a deep sigh slipping out before he pulled the mask back on. He needed to be steady, dependable, the kind of father his son could trust, depend on, an anchor in a storm, a patronus in a swarm of dementors.
But with Albus, it always felt like walking on eggshells. His son had an uncanny ability to say exactly the right thing—or perhaps the wrong thing—to derail him, to stir up old memories best left buried, to reopen wounds that had long since scarred over. Harry didn’t know how to handle it. He didn’t understand what had caused this shift in Albus: the guarded demeanor, the sharp words, the ever-present shadow of something darker.
Albus was loved. They had given him everything he could need, some might even say spoiled their children. Food, money, warmth—none of it had ever been an issue. Not like it had been for Harry growing up. And yet...
“Come on in,” Harry called out, his voice warm despite the turmoil beneath. He smiled as Albus stepped into the room, though the sight of him only deepened the ache in Harry’s chest, he wanted to hug him, hold him close, protect him from whatever troubles that seemed to drain him worse than any dementor.
“How have you been, Al?” Harry asked, his voice calm as he observed his son.
Albus moved with a practiced grace, one that seemed to have developed since starting at Hogwarts. There was something deliberate in his posture, something too composed for a boy his age. It reminded Harry uncomfortably of the purebloods who carried themselves with a quiet, almost imperious confidence. Harry couldn’t help but notice how his son kept his gaze averted, focusing on his upper chest or shoulders, never meeting his eyes directly. Another subtle habit he’d picked up from the Slytherins, no doubt.
“I’ve been well,” Albus replied evenly, his tone devoid of warmth but equally free of anything overtly negative. It was neutral—perfectly so—a response that offered no insight and left no room for probing.
Harry nodded, though his chest tightened at the sound of it. This tone had become his son’s default, even with family. Polite, detached, almost businesslike. It wasn’t what Harry wanted to hear, but he told himself it was fine. Ginny had reminded him time and time again that Albus was simply different—maybe even a little like Percy had been at that age.
And that was alright, wasn’t it?
Harry tried to give Albus a warm smile, though it felt a little forced even to himself. He hesitated, unsure how to start or how his son might react. Should he ease into this with small talk, or would that only make Albus retreat further?
“No need to stand! Come on, sit,” Harry said, his voice tinged with a small, hopeful laugh.
Albus nodded wordlessly, his movements deliberate yet reluctant as he sank into the chair opposite Harry. There was an air of detachment about him, a shield that seemed to grow thicker every time they spoke. Harry sighed, feeling the weight of the invisible wall between them.
“Al, is there something—” he began, trying to sound casual, though his own concern seeped into his voice.
“No. I’m fine. Just tired,” Albus interrupted, his tone flat, almost mechanical. It was an answer Harry had heard too many times before, so polished it felt rehearsed. And just like before, he knew it wasn’t the truth.
Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. “I didn’t call you here to lecture you, Al—” he began again, carefully choosing his words, hoping to dispel the tension in the room.
“Then why am I here?” Albus replied curtly, his voice sharp and unfeeling, his expression blank.
"Al, I just wanted—" Harry began, then faltered, a familiar headache creeping up as frustration simmered beneath the surface. He stopped, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an effort to ground himself. "Sorry," he laughed tiredly, the sound hollow, an attempt to dissolve the tension that hung heavy in the room. "Work has been—" He hesitated, unsure whether to finish the thought or pivot. Instead, he said softly, "You know you can talk to me, right?"
For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Albus's expression—hurt, perhaps, or something more elusive. But it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a practised, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
The sight sent a chill down Harry's spine, a deep and instinctive unease at how detached his son seemed.
Harry returned the smile, though his was genuine, tinged with an almost desperate yearning to bridge the growing chasm between them. “I missed you, you know,” he said, injecting as much warmth into his voice as he could muster.
This time, a flicker of something else crossed Albus's face—uncertainty, hesitation, or maybe even guilt. But just like before, he smothered it swiftly, leaving behind a mask of composure that felt eerily out of place on someone so young.
Harry’s stomach twisted. That flicker, however brief, told him everything he didn’t want to admit aloud. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
“I missed you too,” Albus said, the words precise but hollow, devoid of the warmth Harry had been hoping for. His tone was flat, transactional, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the sting of its emptiness.
He forced himself to accept it, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. Maybe his son just wasn’t expressive. Maybe that was simply who Albus was.
That was fine. It had to be fine.
But as Albus sat there, his posture poised yet distant, Harry couldn’t shake the vague, gnawing dread that something was slipping out of his reach—and he was powerless to stop it.
“I called you here to talk about the article,” Harry said, his voice steady but with a note of weariness he couldn’t quite hide.
“Article?” Albus repeated, his tone light with confusion, but the slight tightening of his posture betrayed him.
“Al, come on—” Harry started, trying to keep his patience, but the strain of the day let irritation slip into his voice.
“I genuinely don’t know which one you’re talking about,” Albus interrupted, his words clipped and detached, as if the entire conversation was already beneath him.
Harry took a steadying breath, forcing himself to stay calm. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a newspaper from the cabinet behind him. The paper floated through the air and dropped into Albus’s lap.
Albus unfolded it slowly, scanning the front page. The tightening of his jaw was the only reaction Harry could see, his irritation barely concealed.
“Tell me what happened,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his voice firm but measured.
“You think it was me?” Albus replied, his tone defensive yet still detached, as if the accusation didn’t really bother him–As if the offense was simply an act.
Harry’s patience faltered. He wanted his son to care, to react, to be something other than this impenetrable wall. “Al, you’ve told us they call you a Squib—”
“Oh, so now you remember that?” Albus cut him off sharply, a flicker of bitterness flashing in his voice. His face remained calm, his expression blank.
Harry groaned softly, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No—I… Albus, it’s fine—” he began, forcing his tone to soften, attempting to de-escalate.
“What’s fine?” Albus cut him off sharply, his voice low and challenging. “So you do think it was me?” Disbelief underpinned his words, but there was an edge that bordered on mockery.
“Who else—” Harry started, but stopped himself, realising too late that he was losing control of the conversation.
“Clearly some Muggle-born?” Albus said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Have you not kept up with the story?” The way he spoke—too sharp, too polished—reminded Harry of the purebloods who treated others as though they were dim-witted, beneath them.
Harry narrowed his eyes, immediately catching the deflection. “Albus, we both know that—” He paused, gathering himself, then leaned forward. His voice softened, though his frustration simmered beneath the surface. “Stop it, Albus. Just tell me what happened.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, his expression almost smug. “Jenkins got what he had coming,” he said, his tone casual.
Harry’s chest tightened, a flicker of hope sparking—until Albus added, “At least, that’s what the rumors say. Some Muggle-born took revenge.”
Harry exhaled sharply, the flicker extinguished. His eyes narrowed further as he leaned forward. “Don’t lie to me, Albus. I just want your side of the story; you’re not in any trouble,” he said, his voice calm but strained, trying desperately to hold onto the last threads of his patience.
Albus’s expression hardened, a wall slamming down behind his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, the words clipped, his tone defensive but resolute. “It wasn’t me.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. It hung between them, heavy and unresolved, like a storm waiting to break. Harry watched his son, searching for some crack in his armour, but Albus gave him nothing—no regret, no vulnerability, not even a flicker of honesty.
Harry exhaled slowly, the futility of pressing further settling heavily over him. He could see it—the barriers going up, the quiet withdrawal. Pushing harder now would only solidify them.
Frustration coiled within him, rolling through his veins like a restless Bludger. He tightened his grip on the leather arms of his desk chair, willing himself to stay calm, though the magic simmering under his skin felt anything but.
“I believe you,” he said, managing a forced, tight smile. “You can leave if you—”
Albus nodded sharply, the smallest flicker of relief crossing his face as he quickly slipped out of the room, as if the very air had become too heavy to breathe. He was gone before Harry could even finish his sentence.
The moment the latch of the door clicked shut, Harry’s smile dropped, replaced by a barely-contained storm of emotion. His magic, wild and untethered, ripped through the room in a sudden surge, latching onto everything it touched. Objects rattled, papers flew, a framed photo shattered, glass scattering across the desk.
His hands found his hair, gripping it tightly as he fought to rein in the inferno within. His chest ached with a mix of exhaustion and helplessness, the same swirling emotions he could never seem to shake when it came to Albus. Why was it always like this? Why couldn’t he get through to him?
Slowly, his breathing evened out, and the magic calmed. Glancing around at the destruction, Harry took a steadying breath. Wordlessly, wandless, he repaired the room, restoring each broken piece with a familiar, practiced motion.
Once the room was as it had been, Harry let out a tired, bitter laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the now-pristine silence. He wiped a hand over his face, trying to push down the anger, the frustration, the pain that kept resurfacing with every interaction with his son. The bond they used to share, the trust that once came so easily—it had slipped away, and Harry had no idea how to repair it.
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Albus kept to his room, as if the walls could shield him from the chaos of his family. Their noise grated on him—loud, obnoxious, a constant buzzing in his skull, matching the tension simmering beneath his skin.
Since the confrontation in his father’s office over the article, things had only worsened. The quiet suspicion in their presence felt heavier, more suffocating, like a storm about to break. His father’s gaze lingered on him at every opportunity—stern, questioning, and unrelenting. It filled Albus with a dread that was sharp and personal, like a blade cutting closer to the bone.
His father knew. Albus was certain of it. The weight of his father’s piercing gaze was unbearable, a silent accusation. Worse was the magic. His father’s presence carried an oppressive power, a force that felt as though it could tear the truth from him. It had been suffocating during their last confrontation, almost breaking through his mental shields. Albus had to summon every ounce of focus to resist, to keep the truth buried beneath the surface. The compulsion to submit, to confess, had been overwhelming.
The fear that his defenses might not hold was enough to keep him away. Whenever his father tried to speak to him, Albus made excuses. He avoided dinners and only left his room when he was certain his father was elsewhere—preferably in his study.
Yet the calm at home was deceptive, a false lull that unsettled him further. His body and senses betrayed him, longing for the relaxation he had denied himself at Hogwarts. The constant fight-or-flight mode he had lived in during term had left him brittle, frayed at the edges, and now, as if with a will of its own, his body began to unravel—mentally and physically.
Exhaustion seeped into his bones, and his appetite turned ravenous. Yet, when he tried to eat, his body rebelled. Meat made him gag, his stomach rejecting it as though it were poison. Hogwarts had been a battlefield, but here—beneath the fragile safety of his childhood room—he felt the unraveling deep within, a force he could no longer hold back.
It felt like revenge, like a last-ditch rebellion from within.
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Notes:
Next up Diagon Alley!
I also loved writing Harrys pov!!!
With the last part i kinda wanted to show the effects of stress on the body and how even if you won't let it the body will force itself and you into some rest, usually for me this is by becoming sick!
Chapter 22: Chapter 22 - Holiday shopping
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Two- Holiday shopping
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“Blimey, Albie!” James exclaimed as he stepped into the dim room. “Can’t you at least open a window?” His voice carried a note of exasperation as he flicked on the ceiling lamp. The dark wooden floor, paired with the deep pine-green tapestry and drawn black curtains, made the room feel even gloomier.
From beneath the heavy Slytherin-green blanket draped over the older, dark-wooden poster bed, Albus let out a faint grumble. His response was too muffled for James to make out.
James raised an eyebrow at the bed frame. “When did you change the color?” he asked.
“I asked Kreacher to do it,” Albus muttered bitterly from under the blanket. “And don’t call me that.”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side—though I suppose you always do,” James teased, far too loudly. He narrowly dodged the pillow Albus hurled at his face.
“Merlin—” James exclaimed, putting his Quidditch reflexes to use. “I thought we were past needing polite lies,” he added, mockingly mimicking Albus’s usual tone and eyeroll. “The green looks wonderful ,” he said with a grin, ducking as another pillow flew his way.
A mess of black hair emerged from beneath the blanket, followed by a pale face etched with dark circles under haunted eyes. “Says the one whose room looks like a Gryffindor mascot exploded,” Albus retorted flatly.
James grimaced at the mental image. “Blimey, you look awful—might need to borrow some of Mum’s makeup,” he remarked, wincing at Albus’s disheveled appearance.
“How kind,” Albus replied with biting sarcasm, his face twisting into a mocking grimace.
“I always am!” James shot back with irritating energy, ignoring the jab entirely. “Come on, Al, get up! Or we’ll be late!” With that, he left, still in his pajamas, leaving the door ajar.
Albus groaned as irritation flared. For a fleeting moment, he considered burrowing back into his makeshift sanctuary of warmth. But the thought of their mother storming in—or worse, dragging him out—drove him to his feet.
Reluctantly, he shuffled across the cold wooden floorboards to his bathroom. As he lazily peeled off his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He looked worse than horrid. His hollowed cheeks and gaunt frame made his features unnervingly striking. The golden tan of his skin had faded, replaced by a sickly, sallow tone with an olive undertone. Sharp ribs jutted out, and fresh scars overlapped older ones, a grim patchwork on his once-unblemished skin. His deep, shadowed eyes stared back at him, haunted and accusing.
With a sharp breath, he forced his gaze away. A new fire burned within him, as hot as the scalding shower water that followed. It wasn’t anger—no, it was something deeper, more corrosive. A resentment taking root, sinking deeper than ever before.
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The holiday spirit was in full swing in Diagon Alley as shoppers hurried to check off the last items on their gift lists. The Potters moved through the bustling crowd, which seemed to pause just to stare at them. Today, their father had come along, and Albus couldn’t help but think there was a hidden reason for it—whether it had to do with the rising political tensions in the British wizen community or simply to keep a closer eye on him . Either way, Albus knew he could slip away unnoticed eventually, and he was fairly certain his father wouldn’t be able to blend in with the crowd as easily to follow him. Yet, it was almost like His father anticipated Albus’s attempt to sneak off, walking especially close to him, which only fueled Albus’s irritation. No matter, an opportunity would come. Albus had some shopping he wanted to keep private from his family.
He glanced at his mother, suspecting she was the real reason their father had tagged along. She was still worried after the last time they’d gone shopping and Albus had disappeared for a while. This time, they had been given a strict lecture about not wandering off alone, and if they needed to, they were to go in pairs.
“Can I and Lily go off on our own? We need to get your presents,” Albus said, attempting to sound casual, though not too far from his usual tone.
Ginny shot a glance at Harry, who looked like he was ready to refuse. Albus quickly turned to Lily, giving her a look.
“Come on, Dad! We’re just going to be in the main square,” Lily said brightly, managing to sway him as usual. She was, after all, their father's favourite. Harry relented, giving them an hour to shop alone.
“Let’s head to the Magical Menagerie,” Albus said after they had picked out some presents for their parents, wanting to waste no time.
“What, Allie? You’re going to buy my present with me there?” Lily teased, a grin tugging at her lips.
“Please, Lils, you already know what I’m getting you. Might as well help me pick it out,” he replied. “But I need you to stall afterward. There’s something I need to do on my own.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Dad said we’re not supposed to go off alone.”
“Which is why I need you to stall,” Albus said condescendingly, rolling his eyes.
Lily’s playful tone shifted to something more serious. “Allie, I don’t want to lie to them too much. I’m fine covering for you with the Scorpius thing—”
He cut her off “this is a Scorpius ‘thing’, we made a plan to meet up.” He lied.
His sister seemed to relax. “Then I can come!” she beamed.
“No, i want to be alone–” Albus resorted
Lily grinned as she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “What are you going to snog–”
Albus glared at her, yet fixed his gaze as he cut her off. “I just don't want my little sister with me when I'm meeting my friend.” Albus resorted.
Lily gave him a childish pointed look “Then you can’t see each other!” She said simply as she started to walk faster, head raised.
“Aren’t you annoyed that they’re so overprotective? I just want to meet a friend alone.” he made it a point to say friend.
“It’s not a great time for that, Al,” she said, sounding more like their parents than he liked.
“Not you too, Lily. You don’t have to believe everything they say,” Albus muttered, his irritation growing.
“They know best, Allie.” Lily said confidently
“They don’t. Not always. Look at how they handled things with Scorpius.”
“That’s different,” Lily replied sternly.
“It’s really not. I can handle myself, and so can you. There’s no danger in being alone in Diagon Alley.”
She shook her head “I can't, Mum and Dad said—”
“We’re wasting time,” Albus said, cutting off the conversation as they entered the store. Just as he expected, Lily’s focus was immediately drawn to the snake enclosures, her eyes lighting up with childlike excitement. She practically bounced over to them, scanning the small, noodle-like creatures.
Albus, on the other hand, approached a shop assistant. “Do you have Magical Rattlesnakes? Preferably an albino female,” he asked, his voice flat and detached from the earlier tension.
“Yes! We actually just got a new ship—” the assistant began, but Albus impatiently waved his hand, cutting them off. He didn’t care for the chatter. They should just do their job without the constant rambling.
The two moved closer to where Lily stood, already captivated by the small snakes. The assistant, undeterred by Albus’s dismissal, continued, “We have a whole batch of them, three are female.”
Albus nodded curtly. “You heard that, Lily? Pick one.”
“It’s so hard to choose!” she squirreled, her eyes darting between the delicate snakes.
Albus turned back to the shopkeeper, his tone business-like. “We’ll take one, along with all the necessary snake care and feed.”
Lily, still engrossed in the choice, piped up, “I want a magical enclosure that’s bigger on the inside.”
The assistant began listing all the different types of enclosures, but Albus’s mind was already elsewhere.
"Lils," Albus interrupted her quiet focus, his voice cutting through the sound of bustling shoppers. "I'll be back in a bit. Just saw some Housemates over there by the owls. Take your time picking, alright?"
Lily barely glanced up from the enclosure, her attention fully captured by the snakes within. "Sure" she murmured absentmindedly, already lost in her world of creatures.
Predictable. Albus smirked inwardly, knowing how easily his sister could become absorbed when it came to anything involving magical creatures, especially ones she was about to bring home. If he timed it right, he could slip away, make his purchases, and return before she even realised how much time had passed.
Quickening his pace, Albus weaved through the crowded alley, the swirl of voices and laughter creating the perfect cover for his escape. Diagon Alley was alive with activity—students making last-minute purchases for term, parents herding their children through the shops, and vendors shouting their wares. But none of it slowed him down. He moved swiftly, expertly avoiding any familiar faces.
His destination was a small, unassuming apothecary tucked into the far end of the alley. The place had an air of age about it, dust and shadow clinging to its corners, as though it had seen centuries of secrets pass through its doors. Shelves sagged under the weight of vials and jars, each one labeled in cramped, precise handwriting. The scent of herbs and parchment filled the air, blending into an oddly comforting aroma. It wasn’t didn't seem to be a popular shop, which suited Albus just fine.
Shaking the snow off his cloak, Albus approached the counter, a thick pane of glass separated him from the shopkeeper like one of those older sweet shops. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard, had deep-set eyes that seemed to have witnessed more than their fair share of strange requests. His robes were decades out of date and style, and his gaze held something that hinted at more than a simple apothecary owner.
His destination was a small, unassuming apothecary nestled at the far end of the alley. The shop exuded an air of age, with dust and shadows clinging stubbornly to its corners, as though centuries of secrets had seeped into the very woodwork. Shelves sagged under the weight of vials and jars, each labeled in cramped, precise handwriting. The mingled scents of herbs and aged parchment filled the air, forming an oddly comforting aroma. It didn’t seem to attract much foot traffic, which suited Albus just fine.
Shaking snow from his cloak, Albus stepped inside and approached the counter. A thick pane of glass separated him from the shopkeeper, reminiscent of the old-fashioned sweet shops he'd visited as a child. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with deep-set eyes and robes decades out of style, studied him with a gaze that hinted at far more than a simple apothecary’s expertise.
“Do you stock scar paste?” Albus asked, his tone clipped and direct. He was tired of buying it from Nott, who kept raising the price.
The shopkeeper’s expression tightened, almost offended. “I don’t stock ,” he said sharply. “I brew everything fresh.”
“Of course,” Albus replied smoothly, undeterred by the man’s prickly demeanor. “I’ll take the strongest you’ve got.”
The old wizard raised a questioning eyebrow. For a moment, Albus felt the slightest tremor through his spinner, an instinctive sense of being watched or probed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—any sign of impatience could get him thrown out. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the shelves, mentally cataloging the ingredients and potions on display. “Do you also carry growth and nutrition potions?” he asked casually, though his tone was deliberate.
The shopkeeper’s gaze sharpened. Growth and nutrition potions were restricted, requiring either a prescription or an adult wizard’s signature. Albus knew most students resorted to Knockturn Alley for such things. If this apothecary had them, it would save him a riskier trip. Yet, as he glanced around the shadowy shop, he doubted how strictly the rules were followed here.
The shopkeeper didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he scrutinized Albus with renewed interest, weighing him carefully. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, as though the air itself were closing in.
Finally, the old wizard gave a slow nod. “Do you have a prescription?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Albus forced a boyish smile, his lips curling just enough to seem disarming. “I’m picking it up for my mum,” he said, injecting a touch of youthful innocence into his voice. He scrunched his face, feigning confusion. “She didn’t mention anything about needing a prescription.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed, skepticism evident. Still, he nodded curtly. “It’ll cost more—got to cover the fee,” he said dismissively, flicking his wand with a practiced motion.
Albus returned the nod, his expression polite, though inwardly he bristled. He knew perfectly well there was no such “fee.” The price hike was a thinly veiled extortion for the risk of bypassing regulations. Yet he had little choice; growth potions were strictly controlled, and students like him weren’t supposed to access them at all.
“Thank you,” Albus said, his voice smooth as he forced a poised smile. Relief seeped into his posture as he let his shoulders relax slightly. Yet even as he accepted the old man’s terms, his sharp eyes followed every flick of the wand, studying the spellwork with meticulous care.
The shopkeeper moved with practiced precision, his hands steady as he gathered vials and jars. Each container glimmered faintly under the dim light, the contents inside casting subtle hues of color. It didn’t escape Albus’s notice that the wizard seemed annoyed by his watchful gaze, so he let his eyes wander again. His attention briefly snagged on a dusty shelf holding faded potion labels. Some names he recognized, though a few were obscure enough to make him wonder whether they were still legal—or if the Ministry had simply forgotten they existed.
When the shopkeeper returned, he placed a small collection of salves and potions on the counter with meticulous care. “How much do you need?” he asked, his eyes flicking toward the galleons Albus had casually poured out earlier.
Albus considered for a moment, tapping a finger against the counter. “Depends on how effective they are. How much will that get me?” He gestured lazily to the pile of coins.
The shopkeeper didn’t hesitate, his calculating gaze moving between Albus and the money. “A month’s supply of the scar paste, if applied daily. Half a month of the growth and nutrition potion.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Albus said, “Let’s make it four months’ worth of the paste.” He wasn’t about to risk running out mid-term—not with the likelihood of things getting even more challenging. The thought of enduring another spell-inflicted injury without proper treatment was enough to make him preemptive.
“How long does one need to take the potion before it starts working?” he asked, his tone casual as his sharp eyes tracked the shopkeeper’s wandwork. More jars of the scar paste floated from the shelves, landing softly on the counter.
“These are of an older variety,” the shopkeeper replied, his voice turning more serious. “Stronger than the watered-down nonsense you’d find at bigger shops. Two drops mixed into another liquid, twice a day for nearly a month. Beyond that, you’ll need to pause for at least a month before resuming. Overuse will only build resistance—and weaken your results.” He gave Albus a long, appraising look. “Though in your case, you might need two months to see a noticeable difference. But remember: one month on, one month off.”
Albus bit back a retort at the man's veiled judgment but nodded curtly instead. He watched as the vials floated forward, each filled from a larger container before sealing themselves with corks. The packaging wrapped itself around the jars with crisp efficiency, settling neatly on the counter.
The shopkeeper’s expectant gaze followed, and Albus responded with a composed smile, letting a few more coins tumble from his coin pouch. The older man counted them with practiced ease before flicking his wand. A small business card flew from a nearby drawer and landed on the counter.
“If your mum needs a restock,” the shopkeeper said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Albus pocketed the card with a polite nod, gathering the neatly packed bundle into his bag. “Thank you,” he said, his tone poised and unreadable. With the transaction complete, he turned briskly and headed for the door.
The cold hit him harder as he stepped outside, the snowfall thickening with every passing moment. Fat flakes clung to his cloak, melting into dark patches as he trudged down the slick cobblestones. Albus tightened his Slytherin-green scarf around his neck, the fabric shielding him from the biting chill. His breath fogged the air in steady puffs as he cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning the bustling crowd with practiced care. Shoppers moved briskly, huddled against the winter’s grip, their faces blurred by the storm.
Satisfied that no one had taken notice of him, he slipped into the shadows of the alley. Here, the noise of Diagon Alley faded into a distant hum, replaced by the muffled crunch of his boots against the snow.
His destination was clear: A’s Athenæum. The name alone sent a faint thrill through his chest, though he couldn’t tell if it was excitement or trepidation. The shop had lingered in his thoughts for weeks, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He knew—deep down—that returning was reckless, especially doing it now and its close proximity to Knockturn Alley, but the pull was undeniable.
He needed answers—not half-truths or fragmented knowledge, but real, tangible answers. The book his magic had drawn him to felt like a call to action, a summons he couldn’t ignore. Yet it had offered only hypothetical solutions, empty promises that confirmed the worst of his fears: there was no cure for a blood curse.
Still, something gnawed at him. A relentless hunger, stoked by the very magic that had guided him, pushed him to delve deeper, to uncover what lay hidden. It was like an itch that refused to be scratched, an insistent pull that told him there was more—there had to be more.
And if anyone could help him, if anyone could provide the answers he sought, it was that Shopkeeper.
Without hesitation, Albus stepped inside. The warmth of the shop enveloped him immediately, and the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The noise of the bustling street vanished as the door clicked shut behind him, replaced by the soft crackle of a fire somewhere in the back of the shop and the faint, almost hypnotic scent of parchment and incense. Yet, something more lingered in the air. The magic here felt alive—tangible, like threads of energy weaving through the space. Albus’s skin prickled at the sensation, as if the magic were aware of his presence, brushing against him in greeting—or perhaps in warning.
The shop was lit by a low, golden glow that flickered like candle flames, casting long, wavering shadows along the rows of shelves. It struck him as odd, the dimness making it difficult to read the titles of the books and tomes, but perhaps that was intentional. There was something secretive about this place, a deliberate obscurity that demanded one search for knowledge rather than stumble upon it.
Albus’s gaze swept the room, expecting the shopkeeper to materialize from the shadows at any moment. But, just like before, the shop appeared empty.
He exhaled slowly, focusing his senses. Over the past months, he had grown more adept at perceiving the subtle differences in magical energy. Objects carried a quiet, stagnant pulse, steady and unchanging, while living beings held something more fluid, more volatile. Albus tuned in to the shop’s magic, letting the vibrations guide him; There was no signature that told the sign of a living presence. Interesting. Perhaps the shopkeeper was using enchanted jewellery or another form of concealment—wouldn’t be surprising in a place like this. It seemed fitting, given the mysterious aura she liked to project.
With no sign of her yet, Albus let his instincts guide him. He wandered down the rows of shelves, fingers brushing lightly over the spines of books and tomes, feeling the soft pull of magic in some of them. His hand lingered on a few that seemed to hum faintly under his touch, but none of them called out as strongly as before.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried something else—focusing inward. He reached out to his own magic, trying to see if it would lead him like it had the first time. The sensation was strange, a mixture of surrender and control as he felt the faint tug of something deeper in the shop, pulling him forward.
Albus' stomach fluttered as the familiar pull of magic stirred within him, faint yet undeniable. It was the same undercurrent he’d felt before—like a thread connecting him to something deeper, something waiting to be found. His steps moved unconsciously in time with the rhythm of that magic, guiding him through the aisles. He let it lead him, surrendering to the sensation of being pulled toward something unknown yet significant.
His shoes brushed against the base of a bookcase, and the feeling sharpened. Albus opened his eyes, his gaze immediately drawn to a shelf just above eye level. Without hesitation, he reached up and pulled down a tome bound in dark, weathered leather. The title, etched in silver letters, shimmered faintly in the dim light:
Obscure and Undetected Curses: A Encyclopedia.
Albus's fingers tightened around the spine of the weathered spellbook, the weight of it solid in his hands, a smirk letting unto his features. The book was not extraordinary. It was an old tome, sure, but outwardly unremarkable for a book on curses, yet the magic felt anything but. It intrigued him. Albus opened the book, the pages stiff from age, releasing a faint scent of dust and ink, yet the magic radiating from it, magic that made Albus feel a bit overwhelmed as he closed the book.
The voice, thick with a French accent, drifted through the air, smooth yet unsettling. Albus froze, his pulse quickening as the woman rounded him, coming into view with a graceful ease. Her gaze flickering down to the spellbook in his hands. Interestingly he felt no magical aura.
“Ah, Obscure and Undetected Curses , a classic,” she mused, her voice lilting with a soft, almost melodic amusement. Her lips curved into a faint smile, as though recalling a private joke. “A favorite of mine... very nostalgic. Though I would strongly advise against attempting the particularly nasty little spellwork on page 147. That one caused me quite a hassle once.”
She glanced down at him, her eyes sharp and glinting with mischief, before tilting her head ever so slightly. A confident grin spread across her face—poised, almost unnervingly beautiful—as if she found the entire exchange both amusing and entertaining.
“Then again,” she added, her tone playful, “who knows? You might find it easier to wield.”
Her words hung in the air, light but laced with an undercurrent of intrigue. Albus caught the gleam in her eye—a knowing look that seemed to test him, to weigh him.
He raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment on how she had appeared so suddenly or how effortlessly she seemed to slip into his space. It was, after all, part of the peculiar charm of this place—a detail he had come to expect, even if he wouldn’t admit to liking it. Most wizen thrived on their mysterious airs, and begrudgingly, Albus found himself drawn to this particular version of it.
“Oh?” he finally replied, his tone carrying just the right balance of curiosity and skepticism. His fingers moved deftly over the worn edges of the book, flipping through the brittle pages until they landed on the infamous 147.
The curse described on the page was both obscure and disturbingly brutal, forcing him to suppress a grimace. He could feel her eyes on him, a playful amusement lingering in her expression as she leaned slightly over the tome, her dark hair cascading in soft waves that framed her face. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear, her movements deliberate and poised.
“Told you. Quite a nasty one,” she murmured, her grin widening as she studied his reaction.
Albus was uncomfortably aware of how close she was—close enough for the faint scent of her perfume to reach him, a rich, warm blend that was almost alluring. He didn’t feel fear or dread, only a flicker of embarrassment and a newfound, disconcerting awareness of himself under her piercing gaze. His own eyes stayed stubbornly fixed on the page, though the tips of his ears burned with a heat he blamed entirely on the thick scarf around his neck.
“Not sure what use I’d have for it,” he said simply, breaking the tension as he tried to wrap his head around the intricacies of the curse. It seemed excessive, even for him.
Her grin turned striking, her features sharp and deliberate as if she relished the effect her presence had on him. “Hopefully, none. My curiosity got the better of me, but as they say—curiosity killed the kneazle,” she said, her voice rich and sweet, carrying the trace of a French accent.
Albus felt his cheeks heat further, the scent of her perfume curling around him. He smirked despite himself. “But satisfaction brought it back, no?”
Her eyes gleamed as her grin softened into something almost approving. “Exactly,” she replied smoothly, straightening up with an elegant ease that left him with the distinct feeling she’d won some unspoken exchange.
“Have you been here the whole time?” he asked intrigued and made his gaze meet hers again.
“Well, the shop is open isnt it mon petit?” she said with a smile that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Well, I wonder—You always seem to come when I find a book, is there some spellwork that notifies you when someone touches one?” he asked.
“Curious little thing–” she said with a glimpse of an intrigue in her eyes. Then she spinned around “I'm afraid that’s a trade secret.” she said lightly. “Now let’s pack this book, If you feel satisfied?” she looked back over her shoulder and smiled at him, waiting for a response.
Albus looked down at the book and closed. “Actually I’m looking for a book about wards, especially focused on warding objects.” He continued “none dark—Hogwarts dorm friendly.” He clarified a bit too quickly–Which earned him a grin from the shopkeeper, which made his cheeks flush even more.
She led him towards another part of the book store and with a flicker of her wand another book shot out from the bookcase and handed in his hands. “This one should check your boxes, otherwise there is another–But it’s more advanced, and certainly would be considered dark-leaning, though not too dark for a certain dorm I imagine” She said with a professional smile as she eyed the Slytherin green scarf around his neck.
He nodded at her, looking down at the book in his hands. before starting to follow her over to the counter.
The shopkeeper began to work, flickering her wand and casting the usual glamour spell over books.
Albus took a deep breath before he spoke. “I know why my magic guided me to the book this summer,” Albus said, his voice steady despite the weight of his revelation.
The shopkeeper paused mid-motion As a somber expression crossed her face, her eyes narrowing with genuine concern as she lowered her wand. “I’m sorry, mon petit, ” she said softly, her voice tinged with regret. “I had hoped you wouldn’t.”
A knot tightened in Albus’s stomach, twisting with apprehension. “It’s not me that is afflicted—” he began, though his breath hitched. The vulnerability of the moment caught him off guard. The woman leaned back against the desk behind the counter, her posture relaxed yet attentive, offering him the space to speak.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The act of saying it aloud felt like turning it into reality. “It’s someone close to me. Someone in their family, I believe,” he admitted hesitantly, his words trembling as they hung in the air. His eyes flickered toward the woman, almost as if hoping for her to say something—anything—that could make the truth feel less heavy. Their gazes met, and for a moment, she simply sighed, a sound of sympathy and understanding. Then, pushing off from the desk, she straightened and gestured for him to follow. “Follow me” she said, her tone calm but firm, as she moved towards a door Albus had never noticed before.
She opened it and led him through to a room unlike any part of the shop he’d seen before. Albus’s gaze roamed over the space, his dread and curiosity blending in equal measure. It looked like a study—warm and inviting, with a crackling fire in a large hearth that could accommodate a Floo setup. A cosy sofa and armchairs were arranged before it, and behind them stood an old mahogany desk, piled high with books, scrolls, and letters. The floor shared the same organized chaos, a scattered array of papers that somehow didn’t feel out of place.
On one wall, a staircase was embedded into a towering bookcase, leading up to what seemed to be living quarters. Albus followed her to the sofa, where she gestured for him to sit. With a flick of her wand, a tea set floated to the small table before them, pouring steaming tea into delicate cups.
“Strawberry,” she said with a smile. “I know—it’s winter, but it’s my favorite no matter the season.”
Albus nodded absently, his eyes wandering the room. The warmth of the space was hard to reconcile with the gnawing unease in his chest. He wrapped his hands around the teacup, the heat seeping into his skin and soothing his nerves, though his mind raced to maintain the emotional shield he clung to.
“Excuse the mess,” she said, leaning back into the sofa. Her voice was calm and unhurried, easing some of the tension that gripped him. “This is a private space. I don’t entertain guests here often, but I thought it would suit the conversation better.”
“I don’t mind,” Albus murmured. The teacup felt reassuring in his grasp, its warmth anchoring him even as his thoughts churned.
The tea set responded to her wandless magic, the spout tilting as her cup refilled itself. She raised it to her lips with practiced ease, the motion so casual it didn’t feel performative. Albus’s eyes followed the movement, his usual awe of such skill dampened by the gravity of the moment. Yet her presence and the soft hum of the fire had a grounding effect, chipping away at his guard as he prepared to continue.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice warm and filled with an understanding that was almost intoxicating. “Is it in its late stages?”
Albus looked down at his cup, then took a sip, the warmth of the tea grounding him even as his mind raced, trying to figure out which words to use, how much to reveal. He tilted his head slightly, her gaze meeting his. There was a glint of sympathy in her eyes, but beneath it, something else lingered—something that connected with him in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I’m not sure,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “I believe it’s starting to become more severe.” The enormity of the situation pressed down on him, and he clenched his jaw to keep himself from breaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft with sincerity. It wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. She didn’t press him further; instead, she let him take the lead, which, in a strange way, made him feel understood.
“Is there really nothing? Nothing that could be done?” His voice cracked, betraying the turmoil he was struggling to contain inside.
Her eyes softened, and her demeanor shifted, taking on a gravity that made her seem almost regal in her empathy. “Magic can work wonders, but it is not without its limits.”
Albus absorbed her words, letting the weight of them settle over him. “There’s a lot we don’t know... There might be a cure.” The words came out uncertain, almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. It was a last hope, something to cling to, a reassurance that, despite everything, it might not be as bad as it seemed. Maybe with time, they would find a way.
“I feel it inside me. My magic is—there has to be a way, and I need to find it.” he uttered into space.
Ella watched him for a long moment, her expression shifting from concern to something that seemed like resignation. After a pause, she nodded slowly. “There is research on the topic, as you know from the book.”
Albus nodded, his mind spinning, trying to remember what the book said. “Blood curses, also known as blood maledictions... are bound by blood, and passed through generations, but it’s a mystery who will be afflicted. Sometimes, there will be generations without a single member being afflicted.”
“And others where there is a loss every generation, or ones where a whole generation is afflicted,” she continued.
He tightened his jaw at the injustice of it, the cruelty of never knowing when it might make itself known. “The writers believe that it’s a form of ultimate revenge or vengeance.”
She nodded in agreement. “It’s the most popular theory in research circles, but also the most disliked. It would shed an entirely new light on the families and legacies suffering from them, victims turned into villains”
Albus’s voice grew grim as he continued, “The book—it described the curse as a mark, a mark of the family’s so-called sins. A legacy that can never be erased, never forgotten.”
“The writer of that book believed the cure lies in the families remembering the reason for the curse,” she said, her tone quiet but resolute.
“Which is just another way of saying there is none,” Albus replied bitterly. “Hope is lost if we’ve lost the history, lost what our ancestors did.”
She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Even if our lives are short—not as short as Muggles, but short enough—we forget. We lose knowledge. But magic... Magic never forgets.”
“If magic never forgets... there could be another way to find a cure.” Albus’s words were firm, yet they carried a thread of doubt that tangled his thoughts.
She hesitated for a moment before her eyes met his, steady and unyielding. “From what I understand, there is a researcher—Sallow. He’s come the closest to a real cure.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the front of the room, as if gathering her thoughts. “Though his reputation is awful. He’s steeped in unethical studies and experiments, so much so that he’s long been cast out of respectable circles.”
Albus furrowed his brow, intrigued despite the caution in her words. “Is he still active?”
Her answer was brief, yet heavy. “Yes.”
His eyes locked onto the bookcase in front of him, his mind racing with possibilities. “How can I reach him?” he asked, shifting his gaze back to hers with an expectant intensity.
“He doesn’t just reply to anyone,” she said, her tone laced with a quiet warning.
Albus nodded, settling back into the plush sofa with the cup still in his hands, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim. “A blood curse has never been cured,” she continued, her voice softening as the weight of the truth sank in. “But I can help you contact him. If he responds, I’ll send you a letter.”
Albus sat straighter, a flicker of excitement igniting within him. The quiet hope he had been clinging to suddenly felt more tangible. “How much?” he asked, the words spilling out almost impulsively. His voice betrayed his age, the eagerness of youth rising to the surface.
She laughed lightly, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to fill the space between them. With a graceful turn, she placed one hand on her hip, her gaze playful yet calculating. The way she moved was effortlessly confident, every motion deliberate and assured. "See it more as a favor,” she said, her tone warm, yet tinged with a certain coolness. “As I can’t promise any results.”
Albus’s cheeks tinged with a faint blush as he looked at her, the heat of his embarrassment mingling with his determination. But it was hard to focus entirely on his own words with the way she stood before him, the way she seemed to command the room with just the subtle movement of her body. Her posture—straight, unyielding—spoke volumes of her confidence, an easy allure that seemed to radiate from her. “I understand that. I’m not a naïve child,” he said, his voice steady despite the slight flush.
She moved across the room toward her desk, her steps measured and deliberate, as though she knew the weight of her presence. Albus watched her, his gaze following the fluid grace with which she navigated the space. Her fingers grazed the edge of the desk as she swept over the papers, a simple action that somehow seemed imbued with an elegance that made the air feel thicker. "The book; the one that your magic guided you to this time, I hope it will be useful."
"I just wish I could get some practice in before going back to Hogwarts."
“Don’t you live in a wizarding home?” she asked, her eyes still scanning the papers before her, but the slight raise of her brow suggested she was already weighing his words carefully.
“I do,” he said. Her gaze rose, locking with his, a spark of something unspoken passing between them as her brow lifted. Albus felt the need to explain himself, the urgency of his desire to be understood making his words come out more quickly than he intended. “My family is strict on us performing magic while underage.”
She nodded, barely a flicker of reaction, then returned her attention to the papers scattered across the desk. It was as though the weight of her focus was all-encompassing, and Albus couldn’t help but find himself drawn in by it.
“It’s ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping in.
She glanced up from the papers, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment before returning to her work. “You can work around it. At least there shouldn’t be a problem with the trace, as the magic of the house will hide it from detection.” She tilted her head slightly, and Albus watched as she flipped through a few more papers with smooth, calculated movements, her hands never hesitating. “Your only worry then is the wand history and hiding it from your parents.”
Her words held an edge of amusement, though her tone was still focused, almost clinical. The way she said it—like a riddle just within reach of being solved—made Albus feel both intrigued and unsettled. “One is easier than the other,” she added, almost as an afterthought, her eyes never leaving her task.
Albus’s breath caught as he realized just how much power she held over this conversation, her unspoken confidence adding layers of meaning to every word she said.
“Wand history?” he asked, a bit perplexed. He had never heard the term before, though he had seen flickers of the notion, as older years seemed to cast a triad of normal charms after a particularly nasty curse.
She nodded, her movements smooth and deliberate, almost like a dance as she began to explain. “The trace is not individualistic; such a charm would be too complex. The trace picks up on magic around an underage witch or wizard through their wands, which are registered to the Ministry. Old, generational houses usually have protection against the trace, like those Muggle telephones and Wi-Fi signals; it simply cuts off the connection. Though the spells can still be seen through wand histories.” She leaned back on her desk with an effortless grace, her fingers lightly resting on the edge of the paper, her posture perfectly balanced. There was a confidence in her that made it clear she belonged in this role. It wasn’t just the words she spoke—it was the way she carried herself, a sort of quiet command in her every movement.
As she spoke, she shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other, and Albus found himself momentarily distracted by the fluidity of her motions, the elegance with which she seemed to navigate the space around her. Even in a mundane moment, she exuded a calm intensity, as though the world were hers to understand. She glanced at the paper she was holding, and a subtle, almost mischievous smile tugged at the corners of her lips before she lowered it, her eyes locking with his.
“So then what?” he asked, his voice coming out more breathless than intended, and he forced his gaze away, not wanting to appear as transfixed as he felt.
“There is a way to remove it—the trace outside of the home and sever the wand's connection to the Ministry, which cuts off the wand history—making the spells used non-traceable.”
“How? Is it a spell?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. He had known the trace was removed once one reached seventeen—but wand history? This was the first time he had heard that the Ministry kept records, and the thought both unsettled and intrigued him.
Her eyes brightened at the question, and for a brief moment, the professional mask slipped, replaced by a glint of something far more enigmatic. “Ah,” she said, her voice lowering, almost like a whisper shared between old friends, “Don’t even think about it; one must be a master at spellwork, and give years to the craft to even try.”
Albus felt the shift in the air, as if the room itself had leaned in closer. Her words wrapped around him with an intensity that both unsettled and intrigued him. “So, some kind of spellbreaker?” he asked, his voice steady despite the rapid flicker of curiosity igniting inside him.
She nodded, a knowing gleam in her eyes that spoke volumes. As she stopped looking through the letters, she turned toward him fully, her posture straightening as though she had just stepped into the very heart of her element. The way she carried herself—so assured, so deliberate—made Albus feel as though the room had suddenly grown smaller, as if her presence filled every inch of it. “Exactly. They must possess the ability to untangle the magic woven into the trace. But be cautious—finding a skilled spellbreaker isn’t easy.”
Her words, while practical, were wrapped in an air of danger, making his pulse quicken despite himself. Albus smirked, trying to suppress the quickened beat of his heart, his mind racing with possibilities. “Somehow, I have a feeling you know someone who can help.”
Her lips curved into a smile, slow and knowing, as if the question had been one she was expecting all along. The smile, though small, was confident and teasing, making him feel as though he were standing on the edge of something far greater than the conversation. “I do. A lady, a bit peculiar, but an incredible spellmaker and breaker.”
“So how can I find her?” Albus asked, leaning forward slightly, unable to resist the pull of her words.
The shopkeeper flicked her wand with a fluid, almost absent grace. A piece of paper shot out from a drawer, landing neatly in front of him as if guided by an invisible hand. She looked at him, her gaze sharpening like a blade, her presence growing even more magnetic. “It has a point-me charm,” she said, her voice low but deliberate, each word seeming to carry weight far beyond its simple meaning. “It will pull you toward the shop.”
Albus reached for the card, the cool edge of it sending a small thrill through him. But as he lifted his gaze to her, her eyes were focused entirely on him, sharp and unwavering. “I must warn you, mon petit,” she continued, the words slipping from her lips like silk, “keep your hood up if you decide to find her.”
Albus nodded, his mind quickly piecing it together. The business had to be tucked away somewhere hidden, far from the bustling crowds. It could only be in Knockturn Alley.
“Say that Ella sent you,” she added, her smile turning a bit softer, more personal, as Albus picked up the charmed paper, feeling the weight of it in his hand.
“Thank you,” he said earnestly, meeting her gaze, which held a quiet understanding as if she had just entrusted him with something important.
She smiled back, warm and genuine, her presence still filling the room even as she moved toward the door. “Come on,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, as though urging him to embrace the path ahead. “Let’s get you moving, hmm?”
Albus tucked the business card into his pocket, feeling the coolness of it press against his side. He followed her, a growing sense of anticipation swirling in his chest. He could already see the steps he needed to take, each one closer to unraveling what he sought. After he paid for his books and stood at the door, ready to leave, Ella called out to him one last time.
“Remember, you are always welcome here,” she said, her voice sincere, almost like a promise, as though offering more than just her help.
Albus turned back, meeting her gaze once more. He offered a smile in return, before stepping out into the cold December air. The chill nipped at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire of his thoughts, already spiraling toward Knockturn Alley.
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Notes:
Though i forgot about the blood curse??? Hehehe next up; Knockturn!!!
Also so rude of Nott to higher the price?? It's like he is earning of Albus mistreatment?? well it is a smart business plan and realisitc--Almost like one CEO who is no longer with us...
Thought and Prayers to Luigi Mangione 🙏❤️
Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty Three - Wand and Boils
Notes:
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! A new year filled with more Next Gen fanfic i hope! I really do love the community being small, but i would love even more fanfic and more ppl to become interested in these kids <3
Next update will be next week <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Three - Wand and Boils
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Albus surveyed the scene cautiously, the narrow streets of Knockturn Alley stretching before him like a shadowy labyrinth. He had no business being here—not only because of his age but also because most who ventured into these parts were up to no good. If anyone recognized him, it would raise more questions than he could afford to answer. Thankfully, Knockturn had many entryways, and the charmed parchment he held guided him toward one of the less frequented paths.
Pulling up the hood of his cloak, Albus made sure to keep his face hidden as he slipped further into the alley. The path here was more rundown, the cobblestones uneven, and the buildings crumbling with neglect. Fewer people lurked about, but Albus made it a point not to let his gaze linger on anyone. He moved with purpose, though his heart hammered in his chest, aware of how easily things could go wrong.
He grimaced as the stench of rot and sewage filled his nostrils. The bustle and noise of Diagon Alley had long since faded behind him, leaving only the eerie silence of this forgotten part of the wizarding world. His hand tightened around the parchment. His mind drifted briefly to Lily. By now she would know that he wasn't actually chatting with some friends by the owls, and would surely be furious, yet Albus couldn't find it in himself to actually care enough to not continue on. Afterall he will make up a lie and She’ll surely forgive him.
The parchment glowed faintly in his hand, pulling him toward a small side street, even narrower than the others. He followed it, the air growing colder and more oppressive. The buildings leaned closer together here, casting long shadows that obscured much of his path. Finally, the parchment came to a halt, its glow fading as he stood before a small, decrepit shop. Its windows were grimy, and the sign above the door had long since faded into illegibility.
Yet he was never one to judge a book by its cover, and as he entered the shop, it appeared surprisingly cosy, filled with an old charm. As the doorbell rang, he looked around to see an older woman seated behind a desk fitted into the story behind the counter, seemingly engrossed in her work. Albus approached the counter and politely waited for her to notice him. A few moments later, she turned toward him.
“What can I help you with?” she asked in a calm tone that revealed nothing.
Albus handed her the charmed parchment, the business card he had received. “I was referred to here by Ella,” he said, gauging her reaction.
“Ella, you say?” The older woman chuckled wickedly, her eyes gleaming with intrigue. “You must tell that child to visit me more often,” she said.
“Then, as a friend of Ella, how can I help you today?” she asked, her demeanour shifting slightly.
“I need my trace and wand connection to the ministry removed.” He stated, now that the referral was made known and accepted.
“Remove your hood , child,” she instructed, her voice strained by old age.
Albus complied, revealing his face. The older woman inspected him for a moment, her sharp, weathered eyes narrowing slightly. She muttered something under her breath, more to herself than to him, as she continued her assessment. Albus felt a flicker of discomfort but maintained a neutral expression, refusing to show any signs of unease. He knew his youth would raise eyebrows, but there was no turning back now.
“Quite young to venture into these parts. What is Ella thinking?” she muttered again, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no softness in her words—only a distant, hard edge that indicated she wasn’t particularly bothered by the ethics of it all. Her focus shifted back to the task at hand as she straightened up, brushing a few stray strands of grey hair behind her ear.
“I need your wand, child,” she said.
The older woman’s voice was steady, almost clinical, as she continued her explanation. “All wands bought at Ministry-approved sellers are registered with the Ministry, linked to the witch or wizard who owns them. This is manually removed when the wizard or witch comes of age” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over Albus.
“Not only does the ministry keep a backup history of the spells cast of each registered wand,” she continued, “But the wand's whole history, spanning years, can be retrieved if the right spellwork is used, tracing back to when the wand was first obtained. All magic performed outside the wizarding community is detected and traced, then reported. You can imagine the amount of paperwork it would take to keep track of every single wand. Most wands' histories are never reviewed unless the owner is under suspicion, involved in criminal activities, or, in cases like yours, underage–As you might have guessed–The link itself to the ministry is not severed when a wizen turns seventeen, only the trace. As by law; all wands need to be registered and linked to the ministry.“
Albus shifted slightly, gripping his wand tighter. He’d known the risks coming in, but hearing them laid out so plainly intensified the danger of his decision. Yet he was no stranger to dark magic and the edge of legality.
The woman studied his expression, her sharp eyes piercing through his calm facade. “Now, child,” she said, her voice softening just a touch, “I always recommend to my clients that instead of breaking the trace and the linkage, that they obtain a second wand—one that is not registered with the Ministry.”
Albus shook his head, his response quick and firm. “I don’t have the time for that.”
The old woman shrugged, as if she had expected that answer. “I see,” she replied, her tone returning to its detached neutrality. “Well then, child, you need to be aware that if anyone from the Ministry, or anyone with the skills to perform the wand work, checks your spell history, they will know the trace has been illegally removed and the link severed. However, they won’t be able to read your spell history anymore.”
Albus kept his expression neutral.
She continued, “It’s a criminal offence to own a wand that isn’t registered with the Ministry, as well as owning a tampered wand that’s been detached from the trace and Ministry records. If anyone ever tries to review your wand’s history, they will find it… empty.” She gave him a pointed look. “That will raise questions. It will be investigated— If you ever were to be in a situation where the wand was about to be investigated it is better to destroy it. ”
Albus let that sink in for a moment. The risk was higher than he had anticipated, but he couldn’t back out now. He couldn’t afford to. “I understand,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside him.
The woman gave him one last appraising look, then turned her attention to the wand on the counter. “Very well, Let’s proceed.”
“I recommend you sit down,” she added in the same calm tone, gesturing to a worn but sturdy chair nearby. “This is an intricate and complex spellwork sequence, and it will take time. Tea?”
She waved her wand, and a chipped teacup floated over from a dusty shelf, filling itself from a hovering kettle that poured steaming tea before settling neatly on the small table beside Albus.
Albus didn’t reach for the cup, his attention drawn to her movements as she prepared to remove the trace and linkage from his wand. The air around her seemed to hum with the anticipation of magic, a silent tension building as she cleared her workspace. A thin, silver wand emerged from her sleeve, and with it, she began to trace runes in the air above his wand, each glowing symbol hanging in space like a constellation.
Albus watched as she circled the wand with delicate motions, her hand never wavering as more runes filled the space around it. She began muttering a series of complex incantations under her breath, the words blending together in a rhythm that sounded almost musical, like a chant of intricate spellwork. Each incantation seemed to lead into the next, like a chain of equations building on one another—every line of magic pulling from the last.
The runes surrounding his wand began to pulse with light, and the wand itself started to shiver in response. He watched her work as his mind strayed.
He knew there was a risk, and the knowledge of its illegality was not a shock. No, what concerned him was the understanding that each spell could be traced—not just on underage witches' and wizards' wands but all wands. How could the Ministry justify such an invasion of privacy? How aware were the regular public of the extent of Ministries surveillance? He wondered if owning two wands was more common than not. It would certainly be easier to explain away than having an illegally tampered wand. Yet Albus didn't have a choice; he needed the trace gone. He briefly pondered whether his wand had picked up magical usage from his blood rites. He clearly needed to do more research on the matter.
Albus's mind was once again drawn back to the spellwork as he sensed a shift in the magic. It grew denser around the wand, like invisible threads tightening and loosening in intricate synchrony. The woman continued her incantations, her words flowing seamlessly into one another, the spellwork unfolding into a delicate dance of command and control. Albus couldn’t quite believe it; he could actually feel and see the undercurrents of the magic at work.
Each incantation she uttered was like a key turning in an unseen lock, the layers of magic folding and unfolding with precise timing. The air thickened with magic, and Albus felt slightly ill from the sheer force of it.
He noticed beads of sweat forming at the edges of her brow, the intensity of her focus evident as she navigated and commanded enchantments far beyond ordinary spellcasting. At last, she uttered a final, elongated incantation, her voice trailing off into a whisper. His wand floated softly back onto the workstation, appearing unchanged—yet Albus could feel the difference. The trace was gone.
It was truly ironic how one could only recognize a presence once it had vanished.
“The work is complete; the trace and linkage is no more,” she announced, her tone flat as she wordlessly floated his wand to the counter. Albus stepped closer and peered down to observe his wand.
Her wand hovered above his, her thin fingers tracing a faint mark that marred its otherwise flawless surface. “This mark,” she said, her voice sharp and warning, “Is a sign that the wand has been tampered with. Do not let anyone knowledgeable see this; it will be a dead giveaway. Never let anyone touch or hold your wand. I also recommend using a glamour to conceal it.”
Albus stared at the mark, a barely visible scar on the wood, but to a trained eye, it was a beacon of illicit activity. He knew that if his father ever saw it, he would undoubtedly recognize the significance.
“Now,” she continued, her tone suddenly colder, as a smile grew “The price.”
He met her gaze with a smirk. “Of course,” he replied calmly, retrieving his money pouch from within his robes. The pouch was connected to the vaults their parents had set up for them, which meant that money never really was an issue.
Her eyes gleamed as he produced the Galleons. He wasn’t bothered; after all, she could be ripping him off—though the price was steep, it wasn’t shocking given the level of spellwork and its illegality.
“Now, to be clear,” Albus said, “if I use the wand and magic in a Muggle area, will it be picked up on?”
The older woman leaned back slightly, her gaze sharp as she reassessed him. “Ah, that’s a pertinent question, isn’t it?” A hint of amusement danced in her voice, though the weight of her words hung heavily in the air. “Once the trace is removed and the connection swerved, your wand will no longer be linked to the Ministry's records. However,” she added, leaning closer, “This does not mean that it will be invisible to the magic that exists beyond the Ministry’s oversight. If you use it in a Muggle area, the magic itself will still resonate—accidental magic, enchantments, and spells cast may leave traces. The Ministry simply won’t know it was you who cast it and it won’t be reported as fast without the trace.”
“So be quick, and conceal?” He said lightly. She nodded. He continued.
“Hypothetically, if one were to use other kinds of magic—say, rites— in Muggle areas, would the Ministry be able to trace it enough to pick up on it? Especially during Sabbats, when magic is more potent and blends together?”
Her expression shifted, intrigue flickering across her features as Albus posed the question. “Ah, now we’re getting to the heart of the matter,” she said, her voice a mix of caution and fascination. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone were to conduct rites in Muggle areas—especially during Sabbats when magic pulses with heightened intensity—the situation becomes quite complex.”
Albus leaned forward, eager for her insights. “So, the magic during those times would be more detectable?”
“Indeed,” she replied, nodding. “Ritual magic has its own signature, resonating differently than standard spells. When the energies are heightened, they can weave together in ways that Muggle sensors—though unaware—might still perceive as disturbances: unusual occurrences, strange weather patterns, or even unexplainable phenomena–Which will draw the ministres attention”
“Then, hypothetically, is there another way to conceal that kind of magic?”
The woman regarded him with a mix of amusement and caution. “Hypothetically, there are indeed methods to obscure the signatures of ritual magic,” she said steadily. “It requires a deft hand and a deep understanding of both the magic and the environment in which you operate.”
Albus leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Such as?”
“Firstly, you could employ a masking spell,” she suggested, her tone becoming more instructional.
“These enchantments can help obscure the traces left by your magic, blending them with the ambient magical energy. However, the effectiveness of such spells can vary greatly, especially in areas rich with magical residue or during significant celestial events.”
“Interesting,” he mused, thinking aloud. “But what about the actual rituals themselves? Could they be altered to conceal their nature?”
“Certainly,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with approval. “Yet, that is a field I’m not particularly well-versed in.”
He nodded, absorbing the information. “What about places in the Muggle world that are already steeped in magic, like certain forests or haunted houses?”
“Ah, now that’s an astute observation,” she said, her voice brightening with interest. “Indeed, there are locations within the Muggle world that possess their own latent magical energies—places steeped in history, folklore, or significant emotional resonance. Forests with ancient trees, for example, often hold echoes of past enchantments, while haunted houses are typically infused with the residual magic of their histories.”
“Would these places then conceal or make the magic stand out more?” Albus probed.
“Just as magical houses can absorb and interact with the magic of their occupants, these enchanted locations in the Muggle world can act as conduits, blending their inherent magic with yours. If the area is steeped in rich magical history, it can shield your intentions, effectively masking your activities from the scrutiny of the Ministry's trace.”
“I see; it would then obscure the caster’s presence?”
“Precisely,” she affirmed, her tone encouraging. “The magic of such places can weave a protective shroud around your actions, making it almost impossible for the trace to pick it up; However, the effectiveness of this concealment hinges on the depth of the location's magical history and the intent behind the magic being cast.”
Albus leaned back, contemplating her words. “So, in essence, using these locations could allow one to operate under the radar of both Muggle and Magical authorities.”
“Correct,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of respect and caution. “But remember, just as these places can offer protection, they can also pose risks. If the magic you’re attempting to perform clashes with the existing energies of the location, you could invoke unforeseen consequences–Then the ministry is the least of your worries.”
“Interesting,” Albus said. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Indeed, hypothetically,” she replied.
“Keep the card,” she added, flicking her wand over it. “Now it will lead you out of here, then return to its usual charmwork.”
He nodded. “Then I will take my leave. Thank you again for accepting me as your client.”
The woman gave him a final look, one that lingered longer than before. “I feel we might see each other again,” she said, then added, “Now be on your way, child, before Knockturn swallows you whole.”
Albus dipped his head in acknowledgment, pulling up the hood of his cloak once more. As he stepped toward the door, the charmed card in his pocket began to pulse faintly, guiding him toward the exit. He quickened his pace, having lost track of time in their engrossing conversation. Excitement surged within him at the possibilities ahead, and with his newfound freedom.
Then, without warning, Albus was seized and slammed against a cold, unforgivingly crooked stone wall. Pain shot through his back as the impact knocked the breath out of him. He cursed inwardly—he had been so close to escaping Knockturn Alley.
His body reacted on instinct, even as his mind lagged behind. The stench hit him next—rotting, thick, suffocating—it clung to the air around him, making it harder to breathe. His throat constricted, and panic surged, tightening in his chest.
“Missed me, Albie?” Rosier’s voice cut through the haze, dripping with malice. He loomed over Albus, pinning him to the wall with a force that made his blood run cold. The cruel, satisfied grin on Rosier’s face sent a sickening jolt of dread through Albus's veins. “I was so sad I couldn’t give you a proper send-off before the holidays.”
The chill of the wall bit into his skin, but Albus refused to let fear consume him. His heart hammered in his chest, loud enough that he could hear it in his ears, but he fought to keep his mental barriers intact. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Rosier see him crack. He clenched his jaw, muscles tense with defiance.
“Get off me, Rosier, You reek.” he spat, forcing steel into his voice, though the sharp edge masked how vulnerable he felt beneath it.
Rosier's grin only deepened as his fingers dug into Albus's robes, yanking him closer, their faces almost touching. The sour stench of stale sweat and decay swirled around them. Albus’s stomach turned violently, his body rebelling against the proximity, the disgust.
“Oh?” Rosier’s voice was low, the word stretching out with sickening amusement. His fingers coiled around Albus's chin, the leather of his gloves scraping roughly against Albus's bare skin, sending a shiver of discomfort through him. The grip was firm, unyielding, and it dragged Albus's head upward, forcing his gaze to follow. Albus turned his face away, defiant, but Rosier's grip only tightened, pulling his face back toward him. The movement was almost slow, deliberate—Rosier enjoying the struggle, savoring the control.
The proximity was suffocating, his breath hot against Albus's cheek. The stench of him—sweat, decay, rot—lingered like a foul miasma, crawling into Albus’s lungs with each breath. Albus's chest tightened, his stomach turning, but still, his gaze remained fixed somewhere on the ground, refusing to meet the malice in Rosier’s eyes.
The other let out a mocking laugh, and Albus felt his gaze compelled upward,
The intrusion hit him like a bludger—a violent, searing pain that split through his skull, forcing its way into his mind. Albus almost screamed, his body locking up under the onslaught. It was nothing like Fawley’s calculated yet cold and unyielding intrusion. This was wild, unrelenting, and cruel, like claws raking through his thoughts without care for the damage.
His mental walls wavered under the force, the pressure relentless. His breathing grew ragged, and a cry tore from his throat. The panic clawed at him, threatening to drown him. Rosier was searching, tearing through his mind with brutish determination. Albus bit down hard, tasting blood as he forced his way through the pain, instead of wavering he took control, control of the memories of what was shown.
The memories surfaced in a rush—Rosier’s sneering face, the mocking words from that day. The memory of how Albus had laughed, how his teeth sank into Rosier’s nose with visceral pleasure. The blood smeared across Rosier’s face, the horror in his eyes—The absolute feeling of triumph he felt inside a flicker of power in the midst of helplessness, of fear dying.
That feeling—the absolute delight of having control, of taking something back from Rosier, of hurting him, causing him pain and that wicked enjoyment—poured through him like acid, hot and sharp.
Rosier faltered, a tremor running through the hold he had on Albus. The pressure began to waver, just for a moment, and Albus seized it. He focused harder on the rush, the sickening satisfaction as the blood had pooled in his mouth. He forced that memory into Rosier’s mind, and just like that, the pressure broke.
Rosier growled low in his throat, the sound guttural and animalistic. His fingers tightened cruelly around Albus’s chin, twisting his head back at an unnatural angle. Pain lanced through his neck and spine, his body screaming in protest.
Gone was the mocking amusement that had once encompassed Rosier’s features. In its place was a cold, predatory fury, an expression that mirrored the murderous look he’d worn by the lake. It was feral, savage—like the moment before an animal strikes its prey.
“You kept me out, so what?” Rosier hissed, his voice a low, venomous rasp, the words drawn out with twisted pleasure. There was something in the sound of them, a promise of pain. “Only a fool would try to egg on the person who’s got them pinned against a wall.”
Albus’s lips curled into a sneer, but it barely concealed the dread gnawing at his insides. His anger flared as he met Rosier’s eyes, the fury enough to spit back, “What, Rosier? Afraid I might bite off your nose this time?”
Without warning, Rosier’s grip tightened, his fingers crushing into Albus’s jaw as he yanked his head forward. The sickening sound of skull meeting stone split the air as Rosier slammed Albus’s head hard against the crooked, jagged wall. Albus’s breath caught in his throat, a violent cry escaping him before he could swallow it. The stone jagged edges biting into the back of his skull, sending a shock of raw pain spiraling through his mind. A flare of white-hot agony shot through him, leaving him gasping and disoriented.
“What do I reek off, Potter?” Rosier’s voice was mocking, his words like a poison, as he pressed Albus’s head even harder into the stone. The pressure built, unbearable. Each breath Albus took felt like he was suffocating.
“Come on, Potter,” Rosier hissed again, his voice lower now, more guttural, dripping with madness. His eyes gleamed with manic intensity, as though he fed on the pain he caused. “Still playing tough? You’re not fooling anyone.” He leaned in closer, his body pressing against Albus’s as he forced him to feel every ounce of the pressure against his skull. The stone’s sharp edges cut into Albus’s skin, like the teeth of a predator. He gritted his teeth, trying to endure the searing pain, his thoughts scrambling in confusion.
Albus opened his mouth, his mind a blur, but before he could say anything, Rosier’s fingers tightened like iron, jerking his head forward once more, and back. The blow hit Albus so hard, it rattled his brain, sending a wave of dizziness crashing through him. His vision blurred, the world spinning as a warm trickle of blood dripped down the back of his head. He felt a sharp, crushing pain, like his skull might split open.
His head swam, but Rosier didn’t stop. The next slam forward felt like it might crack him in two.
Survival instincts, raw and primal, surged through Albus’s mind. He barely had the clarity to form words, but he rasped, “Like… death,” the words ragged and weak, tasting like iron on his tongue. His vision faltered, barely able to focus on Rosier’s face as it loomed just inches from him. Rosier paused, his grip loosening just enough not to hurt, the grip now almost caressing on his jaw.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Rosier’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and the cruel intimacy of it made Albus’s blood run cold. It was sickening, as though Rosier enjoyed this, as though the pain and terror he inflicted were some twisted form of pleasure. Albus’s skin crawled, the sound of Rosier’s voice felt like a snake coiling around him, tightening its grip with each word. In a moment of almost delirium, Albus laughed bitterly, gathering the blood that had accumulated in his mouth, and spat it at Rosier.
Rosier flinched slightly as if in reflex when the blood mixed saliva hit his face, for a moment he froze, then his jaw tensed. The next moment, Rosier’s hand moved—slowly, deliberately, delicately—toward Albus’s throat, down and undoing his scarf as the leather made contact with his skin. His fingers brushed lightly, teasingly at first, making Albus flinch, every nerve in his body screaming to pull away. But before he could, Rosier’s grip clamped down, fingers like iron, cutting off his breath in an instant.
Albus’s vision blurred at the edges as the pressure on his throat increased, the world closing in around him. The walls seemed to shrink, the air thickening, and with each breath, it became harder to draw in enough air. A wave of nausea swept through him, rising from deep within his stomach, making the room spin. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else, while the pain at the back of his head pushed against his skull like a vice. Rosier’s grip continued to tighten, each squeeze suffocating Albus’s very will to fight. His bravado began to crack, his mental defenses straining against the tidal wave of overwhelming fear and pain.
Rosier leaned so close to Albus's ear that Albus could feel the other’s hot breath, the words whispered with mocking intimacy, “Why don’t you beg like last time?”
The words hit Albus like ice water, and the rush of humiliation, shame, and regret flooded him. A cold fury built beneath the layers of emotion, a fire igniting in the pit of his stomach.
Rosier pressed even closer, his breath rancid against Albus’s skin. “I can still remember it—let’s see,” he purred, a mocking edge in his tone as he mimicked Albus’s previous pleas: “Please, I’ll do anything, anything... just don’t—”
Albus's body trembled, his skin crawling with disgust.
“No, no, no, please,” Rosier mused, almost purring, his breath sharp and mocking in Albus's ear. “Come on, Albie, I can feel you shaking. Don’t you want to beg, like last time?”
This time, Albus couldn’t stop the tremble—but it wasn’t fear. It was raw, unbridled rage. He felt the fire build inside him, smothering the fear and seizing his defiance. His anger surged, fueling a wave of resistance that met Rosier’s predatory gaze head-on.
“Don’t you remember, Rosier?” Albus spat, his voice steadier than he felt. “You told me yourself—begging wouldn’t help.”
Rosier laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “Ah, little Albie, always so clever,” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Now tell me, what are you doing down this street, hmm?”
Albus let out a bitter laugh. Good Rosier hadn’t seen much of his memories then. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he spit out.
“Has the holiday made you forget fear? Talking back like this, walking around Knockturn Alley up to no good, don't you know what happens to small little kids like you in these alleys?” Rosier said with a predatory grin, and to make a point, he shifted his body slightly—which Albus felt all over, as Rosier was still tightly pressed to him.
“You’re disgusting, Rosier,” Albus spat out.
Rosier flashed an unnerving grin in response, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his expression shifted, a flicker of interest crossing his features as he turned toward the other end of the narrow alley.
Before Albus could process what was happening, Rosier had already drawn his wand, casting what appeared to be a Disillusionment Charm, cloaking them from view. Two silhouettes emerged from the shadows at the far end of the alley, clearly caught in a heated argument, blissfully unaware of the two schoolboys. Rosier cast a silencing charm wordlessly, the tension in the air thickening as the argument continued.
Albus strained to hear the words, though the conversation was hushed. There was one taller figure, and the other, shorter, seemed to hold the power in the exchange, pushing the taller one back with a quiet but undeniable authority. Albus could tell something serious had happened—something the taller one had messed up, and the smaller one was not pleased.
The hushed words drifted toward him in fragments: “Supposed to be—alive—” the smaller voice murmured, a sharpness to it. “Not—fault—They” the taller one replied, but with more reluctance, almost apologetic, though still defiant.
Albus’s gaze shifted away from the argument, landing on Rosier, whose attention was entirely consumed by the heated exchange. The distraction was the perfect opportunity. Albus, heart pounding, carefully reached into his robes, his fingers brushing against his wand. Rosier remained oblivious, too caught up in eavesdropping to notice Albus’s every movement.
Albus suppressed a smirk, willing his racing heart to steady. He couldn’t afford to draw Rosier’s attention. In a swift, calculated motion, he retrieved his wand, glancing one last time at the argument before focusing entirely on Rosier.
“Petrificus Totalus,” Albus whispered with deadly precision, the words flowing from him as his wand arced smoothly through the air.
The spell hit Rosier squarely, and in an instant, the other boy froze, his expression one of stunned disbelief. For a moment, Albus couldn’t help but revel in the shock that flashed across Rosier's face before he fell to the ground, completely immobilized, undoing his own spells. The thud of his body hitting the cobblestones was enough to catch the attention of the arguing figures, and Albus didn’t hesitate.
He quickly pulled up his hood, adrenaline surging through him as he bolted in the opposite direction, his steps light and swift. His heart hammered in his chest, but the rush of excitement filled him with a strange kind of thrill.
On impulse, and without thinking too much, Albus flicked his wand again, sending the boil curse at Rosier’s prone form. The thought of Rosier being caught off guard, stuck frozen, yet feeling the effects of the curse made his heart race, his steps feeling lighter than air. A giggle escaped his lips as he envisioned the chaos that would ensue when they discovered Rosier sprawled on the ground, frozen and vulnerable.
Making him forget the painful hammering at the back of his head, and the now dried blood in his hair. He knew there would be retaliation when they returned to school—he was sure of it. But that was a problem for another day. Right now, all Albus could think about was the exhilaration of his narrow escape, and the hope that Rosier wouldn't make it back to school at all.
It wasn't until he stepped out of Knockturn Alley and faced the reflective shop window that he truly saw the damage that Roiser had done. Rosier's grip had left a raw, angry bruise on his face and neck, and his scarf was askew. Albus grimaced as he ducked into a nearby alley, swiftly rummaging through his bag for the scar paste. He cursed under his breath as he applied it over the deepening bruises. He hoped it would work fast enough to hide the marks.
His fingers brushed through the bag again, and he found a knitted winter cap. He put it on carefully to hide the dried blood and the wound on the back of his head, the cap concealed the damage to his hair, and the scarf, tightly wound, would hide the rest for now—at least long enough for the scar paste to work its magic.
After ten minutes, he glanced into the reflective window again. The bruises on his cheeks had faded, the paste doing its job. But his neck still bore the unmistakable handprint, the mark stark against his skin. A curse escaped his lips as he tugged the scarf tighter, wiping the greasy salve off his face with the sleeve of his robe.
Without another thought, he turned and sprinted toward Magical Menagerie, the sense of urgency pressing against his chest.
Notes:
I was very much inspired by internet search history when making the wand trace and history? I've always wondered how the Trace works and how they know unforgivables are used? This is the way I think it makes the most sense—well, as logical as magic can be, I guess? Really it's so complexed how it works, i wanna bang my head in the wall like how does it work outside of magical areas? But i hope this kinda makes sense to canon as well?
Also, who missed Rosier? I wonder why he smells like that? And really, what's his problem? Will he make it back to school? Hahaha, Albus really hopes not! And I can't really blame him.
See you next week and i love to read your comments and thoughts! <33
Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty Four - Murder and deals
Notes:
Hello!!! I'M BACK WITH ANOTHER CHAPTER!!!!!! so alot happens in this one, i want to give a slight trigger warning here.
***TRIGGER***
Depiction of murder, death and slight gorey imagery.****TRIGGER***
The story is building up now!!! What does it all mean? Is it somehow connected?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Four - Murder and deals
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“This one can really run.” A voice said, darkly, yet with a hint of amusement following the words punctuation.
“Looks like it has a wand.” Another voice said boringly.
“A mudblood?” The first one uttered, a dark glee now colouring their voice.
“Aren’t they all?” The other responded with disgust.
Red flashes of light cut through the air, piercing through the falling swirling snow, parting for the light like the red sea. The light hit an invisible wall in the air just in front of the two hooded figures.
"Perfect. I prefer when they struggle." the first voice said cheerfully.
“Stay away!” A shaky voice broke through the air, her hand held her wand, which was raised against the pair, her eyes focused, yet the slight tremble of her wrist betrayed the fear that lay beneath.
Like Dementors sensing weakness, the pair struck, painting the white air in a symphony of colourful light, spells broke through the air, colliding, dancing, splitting, sharp sounds hitting walls, leaving dark burn marks, debris flying from the old stone, hitting shields made up from nothing.
Short, rapid breath filled the air between the words of latin, the girls wand lowered slightly, a sign of exhaustion. The shorter hooded figure lunged forward, slashing their wand of light wood through the air, the curse hit the girls conjured up shield charm with an visceral force, making the air swirl around them, the shield gave way in a shattering blast of light. Even before the last yellow shards of the protective shield charm had faded completely, the second, taller attacker followed through, weaving seamlessly into the opening.
A streak of red tore through the swirling snow, striking the shoulder of the girls wand arm. A sharp cry escaped her, her fingers convulsing, making her wand slip from her grasp. With a quick swing of their wand the shorter hooded figure made the girl’s wand flew through the air, landing in their other palm.
The girl fell to her knees as her hand held the now bleeding wound on her shoulder, her breath rasp as red flooded down her thick brown coat, painting the snow beneath her. Her eyes darted around, like prey desperately scanning for an escape, and with an last desperate attempt, she scrambled to her feet and started to run.
“How boring.” The taller hooded figure said disappointingly as the girl ran, with a slash of their wand, a shriek tore through the air, as the girl stumped forward hitting the soft snow beneath her. Tears poured down her pink flushed cheeks as her eyes trailed towards the source of the newfound excruciating pain. A strangled sob was forced out of her, as bile arose from deep within the pit of the girl's stomach.
Her leg, was bent, sickeningly contorted and mangled in unnatural angles, making it appear in a grotesque zigzag pattern, her dark stocking was torn, showing glimpse of deep purple flesh beneath, bile splashed over the now red spotted snow, her cries tore through her throat, raw and torn, as her body trembled.
“Such pretty cries” the taller figure mused as they pierced over the girl's trembling form, eyes transfixed on the grotesque twisting of her leg, like an artist studying their handiwork.
The smaller figure only bent their neck, their hand covered in a black skin glove playing with the girl's wand like an unimportant twig picked up from the earth.
“Let’s end it now, we have taken too long.” The shorter one only said with the same bored tone, lacking any sense of emotion, unfitting of the sheer yet delicate light voice.
“It's pretty, don't you think?” The taller one uttered now hunkered down close to the girl, their voice as dark as their gloves, as the girls ripped stocking, the figure's hand trailed delighted over the girl's skin, the leather as harsh as the biting cold as it trailed from the grotesque wound towards the hemline of her skirt.
“We don’t have time for you to engage in your fantasies.” The shorter hooded figure replied. Ignoring the tremblingly desperate strained pleas from the girl, face now ruined with tears and snot, her makeup undone, making her tear stains coloured black.
“I wish I had another partner, you are so boring.” the taller one replied as their hand was now grasping the warmth of the girl's upper thigh, making small circles with their thumb on her warm skin, each movement earning a sob, a plea and a cry.
“I’m not your partner but your overseer.” the smaller responded more curtly.
The tall figure rose with an exaggerated dramatic sigh as their hands went up in the air, a cheeky smile could be seen from beneath the hood.
An annoyed click of the smaller hood figures the mouth split the air. “You played too much, it looks like it’s going into shock.” They said, voice showing strains of irritation as their gaze bore into the mangled mess that littered the alley floor, with a pool of red beneath leaping from the it’s shoulder, now shaking uncontrollably.
The taller figure turned, their grin faltering as their eyes flickered over the trembling mangled mess. Her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last, a desperate, choking sound tore the air, her lips parting, forming words that sound had forgotten, hot tears ran down her cheek, Her spine arched in one final convulsion, breath catching in her throat. A last, shuddering exhale left her lips in a pale mist, before fading into nothing. Her form still yet the red liquid continued to swell and pour out of her wounded shoulder like a leaky faucet.
The taller figure crouched, eyes narrowing. They reached out, fingers curling into the girl’s thigh, grasp hard enough to leave a bruises, their lips turned into a thin line.
“I wasn’t even done playing.” The figure said as they stood once more, then began to kick the broken form.
The smaller figure exhaled sharply. “It’s dead,” they said, stepping closer, their tone as flat as before, unaffected by the taller one's growing agitation.
The taller figure watched for another moment, eyes locked on the girl's face—those wide, frozen eyes, the gaping mouth still shaped around a silent plea. With a sneer, they stopped, brushing imaginary dust off their cloak as irritation curled their lips.
“How delicate.” The words were spat like a curse, like an insult. “I barely even started.” Their gaze flickered once more to the mess of torn stockings, toward the hem of the short skirt now showing more of the girl then what would be deemed proper, they scoffed, as if dismissing a ruined toy.
“It wasn't supposed to die.” The shorter hooded person said curtly as they breathed out. With a swift motion, they snapped the girl’s wand, the crack of splintering wood swallowed by the howling wind. The pieces were tossed onto the corpse, landing carelessly among the blood-stained snow before they turned on their heel, walking away without another glance.
The taller one lingered a second longer, jaw tight. Then, with a muttered curse, they followed, their boots crunching through the frost, leaving nothing but the sound of the howling wind and snow in their wake.
++++
Laugher could be heard as the two individuals loomed closer to the boy laying on the alley ground, mud and slash meddled together tainting his dark robes—One of their gaze followed the small figure running out of the alley, only catching a small site of him beneath the pulled hood, a flicker of green eyes. The taller figure hunkered down to the boy laying on the ground immobilized by a totalus petrificus curse. He laughed condescendly, “Now, now, what do we have here? if it isn't Roiser Junior—” his smile bore his teeth in an amused way.
The other smaller figure let out a sigh as they leaned to the wall, crossing their arms boringly. “He eavesdropped.” the voice said, without any real heat, only stating the fact.
The other laughed again. “Didn't your brother and Daddy teach you not to eavesdrop Rosier?” The taller one taunted with glee before continuing. “Oh wait, right! Your Daddy is in Azkaban—such shame–” he said as he looked down at the boy. The smaller hooded figure rolled their eyes and threw the counter curse at the boy.
Rosier breathed quickly irritation across his face–”That little–” He said, before huffing and turning his gaze.
“Don't you dare talk about my father Avery .” He spit, clearly not intimidated by the other
The tall figure laughed, before ignoring the taunt, his smile grew broader as he removed his hood, eyes filled with relish, “Now what were you doing with a kid Rosier?” Avery continued with the same taunting glee. “Is this a new habit of yours? Is it something your dear brother is aware of?” Avery continued to taunt, As Rosier ignored him, gaze stuck instead on the shorter hooded figure who held their arms crossed, looking on boredly.
“Where are you trying to channel some of your brother's brutality?” Avery continued condescending while snickering. “Is that what you were doing?” Avery said as he leaned his head to the side, observing the shifting expression on Rosier. “With that little thing? Trying to act like your brother?” His voice turned more and more tauntful, Rosier gaze was once more on Avery, his jaw tight as his expression darkened, hands slightly tightening around his wand.
The other figure leaned lazily against the wall flickered with their wand “Accio.” they said with a bored gasp and Rosier was quickly disarmed. Rosier clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed.
Avaery snickered as he watched the exchange, still leaning over Rosier half sitting form on the ground. “Did you do the tricks he taught you; the ones he did on you?” Avery continued his voice clearly enjoying making the other angry—
Rosier raised his face closer to the other sneering, “You think you are so better now Avery, don’t you? Just because they finally accepted your sorry arse” He spit. Then his eyes wandered to the other figure as he let out a cruel laugh “Clearly, you're still on a leash. Otherwise, you wouldn't have an overseer, would you?” His smile turned into a wide grin “And what was that little confrontation? Did you mess up your mission? Did you get lost in the high again?” Rosier said with glee, “Ah, I see. So that's why you were arguing? Because you failed the mi–”
A flash of light cut him off, and Rosier started to scream when the curse hit his form, making his body fall down on the ground once more, his strained screams blending together with Avery’s mad laughter.
“You really should be more careful, maybe it’s the lack of a father figure–” Avery said as he let go of the curse, the iris of his eyes big as a black hole, his cheeks flushed, with a gleeful smile that hinted at madness on his lips. Rosier laid panting and trembling as the aftereffect of the curse took their toll.
“We will bring him with us. He needs some punishment for eavesdropping.” The shorter person leaning against the wall uttered, as Avery looked down with a sadistic grin at Rosier, his eyes gleamed before continuing to speak “Yes, we should let his brother give out the punishment.” He said with cruel enjoyment.
The other figures' gaze went toward where Albus had run off.
“What about the little bird, who is he?” The voice asked toward the panting mess on the ground. Avery gave Roiser a kick when he didn't answer–Yet it didn't help, the Rosier kept his mouth shut. Avery raised his wand once more as a sick unnerving grin entered his features.
"Don't. We will let his brother deal with him." the lighter voice said before a pop could be heard and they disappeared. Rosier managed a slight whimper as Avery irritatingly clicked his mouth before grabbing Rosier by his arm and appariting.
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After the chaos of holiday shopping in Diagon Alley had finally quieted down, and with full stomachs, evening descended quietly upon the Potter home. Harry and Ginny sat together in the drawing room, the warmth of the space cocooning them. The soft flicker of the fireplace cast a gentle glow, filling the room with a peaceful ambiance. In one corner stood a grand Christmas tree, its majestic branches dripping with Gryffindor reds and golds, the lights glowing so brightly they seemed to cast long, looming shadows against the walls. The decorations, vibrant and full of life, evoked the spirit of the Gryffindor common room—something that had inspired the renovation of their home. Old furniture, lovingly uncovered from the Potter vaults, added a layer of nostalgia to the room. Harry couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Sirius. He would have adored the changes to what had once been the Black family home, a place now filled with warmth and love.
Albus was slouched in an armchair, his dark hair falling untidily into his eyes, a sharp contrast to the soft, inviting atmosphere of the room. He seemed entirely out of place, the warmth of the space only accentuating his distance. His body language screamed defiance—the casual slouch, the deliberate avoidance of their gazes, the calculated indifference etched into his expression. His dark blue wool sweater, high-end and impeccably chosen, clung to his form, the turtleneck pulled up just enough to hide his neck and part of his face, as if intentionally shielding himself.
Harry’s heart ached at the sight. Even at home, Albus seemed so guarded, so distant. His polished attire was a strikingly formal choice compared to him and Ginny, who lounged in cozy, mismatched festive wear. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in his clothes, an air of deliberation in how he presented himself, of perfection. It reminded Harry uncomfortably of the way old pureblood families carried themselves, even in the privacy of their homes—reserved, poised, impenetrable, it was like he didn’t quite belong in their world of homemade hand-knitted jumpers and warm, unguarded smiles. Harry’s chest tightened at the thought.
“Why isn’t Lily here?” Albus asked, his tone deceptively mild. But Harry could hear it—the faint edge beneath the words, a carefully veiled irritation cloaked in curiosity.
“This is about you, Albus, not Lily,” Ginny replied, her voice warm yet steady.
Albus’s gaze shifted, skimming over them without ever settling anywhere. “I was under the impression that both of us were in trouble?” he said, his words careful, almost too measured, as if testing the waters before diving deeper.
Harry studied him closely, his son’s deliberate avoidance stirring something uneasy within him. Albus had mastered that blank expression far too well for a boy his age.
A flicker of irritation sparked in Harry. That evasiveness, that calculated tone—it struck too close to home, too close to someone else whose name he rarely allowed himself to dwell on anymore. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the boy in front of him.
“Lily already explained her side,” Harry said, his words sharper than he intended.
“So, you’ve already decided that I’m the one to blame?” Albus asked, his voice steady, devoid of outright defiance, but carrying an undercurrent of bitterness that made Harry’s stomach twist. It was subtle, sly—so easily missed by anyone who wasn’t listening closely. But Harry was listening. He had spent too many years reading between the lines, trained to pick apart voices and understand the words left unsaid.
Harry leaned forward, his elbows pressing into his knees as he released a tired sigh. “You’re older, Al. We’ve told you both, over and over again, not to wander off. Yet you decided to ignore that and leave your sister behind. What were you thinking? She’s only eleven!”
Albus didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget the way most kids his age might when confronted. Instead, he sat utterly still, exuding an unsettling calm. His face remained blank, detached in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist. He’d seen that look before—calculating, dispassionate. It wasn’t the look of a child being scolded; it was the look of someone assessing the situation, weighing his options, biding their time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Albus finally replied, his tone light, almost bored, as though the entire discussion was beneath him.
Harry’s irritation deepened, but before he could respond, Ginny’s voice cut through the tension.
“Albus, please,” Ginny pleaded, her voice soft but strained. Beneath her calm tone, Harry could hear the emotions she was trying so hard to suppress—the fear for Lily’s safety, the deep disappointment in Albus’s carelessness. “Lily told us everything—how you disappeared for ages and left her alone. She was scared, Albus.”
There it was—a flicker in Albus’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. Harry couldn’t quite identify it, but it left a sour unease curling in his chest.
“She’s overreacting,” Albus said, his tone clipped, cold in a way that made Harry sit up straighter.
“Overreacting?” Harry echoed, his voice sharpening with disbelief.
Albus shrugged, the motion so casual it bordered on insolence. “I only went outside the shop to talk to a schoolmate.”
That lie. Harry could feel it hanging in the air, it was too smooth, too rehearsed. His frustration finally cracked through his restraint, his voice rising despite his effort to remain calm.
“You left her alone in Diagon Alley during a time when we’ve repeatedly warned you about the dangers out there! What if something had happened to her?”
Beside him, Ginny placed a steadying hand on his arm, a silent plea for patience. He exhaled slowly, trying to temper the anger bubbling just beneath his skin.
Albus’s expression didn’t waver, though Harry thought he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a flash of suppressed annoyance.
"Please, she didn't leave my sight. I was just outside, having a conversation." Albus replied, his voice carefully measured, as if explaining something obvious to someone being unreasonable. ”And you know how she is—She loses track of time, and is so featherhead—”
“Don’t speak like that of your sister, Albus!” Ginny cut him off sharply, her voice firm yet tremulous with emotion. Harry could hear the pain in her words, the rising frustration. “She might not have been in immediate danger this time—”
Ginny’s voice faltered slightly, and Harry’s hand sought hers, squeezing gently in silent support. He could see the strain etched across her face, the weight of her concern pressing down on both of them. He had to keep himself steady—for her, for Albus, for their family.
“It’s about what could have happened,” Harry said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “You’re her big brother, Albus. It’s your job to protect her. Not leave her to fend for herself because you felt like wandering off.”
Albus’s gaze finally settled on him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Harry thought he might argue further, might push back with that infuriating indifference he seemed to wear like armor.
Albus’s face remained unreadable as there was a moment of silence, heavy and uncomfortable, before Albus finally sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone tinged with guilt.
“You’re right,” Albus continued, his voice softening. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have made her worry or left her alone.”
His son’s words were earnest, his expression remorseful. But Harry, who had spent years honing his ability to read people, couldn’t ignore the nagging sense that it was all a performance. Albus was too calm, too composed, his apology just a bit too perfect–It lacked the rawness, the guilt, the regret.
Ginny spoke then, her voice softer but still full of that familiar concern. "Albus," she said, "We know you’re trying to find your own way, that you're growing. But tensions are rising, and as a family, we need to protect and take care of each other.”
Harry nodded in agreement, trying to soften his voice. "We’re not trying to punish you. We just want you to understand the risks. We’ve seen too much in our lives, too many things can go wrong in an instant." He wasn’t sure if Albus was even listening anymore. His words were strained, the weight of fear clinging to them. Fear not just for Albus, but for what had become of their relationship. Had they already lost him?
Albus clenched his jaw and nodded, the gesture barely perceptible, but Harry saw it, the stiffening in his son’s posture. “I understand, it was wrong. I won’t do it again,” Albus said, and Harry could almost see the lie in the way his son said it.
There was something too rehearsed in the delivery. Albus was good at this—too good. And part of Harry felt himself falling for it, wanting to believe it. It would be easier to dismiss the nagging doubts, to lessen his worry and ignore the truth his magic whispered to him. It would be easier to let go of the constant ache in his chest that told him there was something more lurking behind that practiced expression.
He exchanged a glance with Ginny, and for a brief moment, her gaze calmed him. There was hope in her eyes, a trust that Harry desperately wanted to believe. She still had faith in Albus, a fire that burned bright despite the shadows of uncertainty. She believed in him, and that made Harry's worries slip, if only for a fleeting second. Maybe, just maybe, he was being paranoid. Maybe Albus was truly sorry. He was just twelve, after all, still a child, a boy.
The guilt hit him then, sharp and suffocating. What kind of father second-guessed his own child like this? What kind of man looked at a twelve-year-old and wondered if his remorse was real or just another performance? The dread that had haunted him for years now turned inward, curling around his thoughts like a dementor’s chill.
The dread settled into his bones, cold and familiar, like a dark cloud hanging over him. How cruel he was to think like this about his own son. Albus wasn't a mastermind; he was a child, still figuring out who he was in a world that had been peaceful for the better part of his life. Harry clenched his fists, fighting the guilt that swelled with the shame. His son was just trying to find his place. His display must just be from awkwardness with showing emotion.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides, trying to fight back the tidal wave of shame. He had spent so many years learning to read people, to sense danger in subtle shifts, to trust his instincts when his life and others’ depended on it. That instinct had saved him, had saved his family, and had won the war. But now, it made him question everything, even the sincerity of his own son’s words.
Albus didn't understand the danger of leaving his eleven-year-old sister alone in Diagon Alley. He didn't know what could have happened, how quickly the world could turn upside down. It was a reality Harry knew too well, a reality he lived with every day as he read reports of violence, of people being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and of children slipping from their parents' grasp without warning. He could still feel the sting of loss, the faces of those he couldn't save, and the voices of those who would never speak again, he remembered them all.
Harry couldn’t let go of the fear. The peace they’d fought for was fragile, and it took only a moment of carelessness for everything to shatter. He knew it too well—the sharp, unrelenting reality of lives snuffed out too soon. He had lived with the aftermath: the missing, the mangled, the hollowed-out families left behind. He had seen the faces of children whose innocence had been stolen, the bodies too small to be so cold, lifeless, mangled and bruised, bones bent unnaturally, eyes that screamed of the horrors that had been their last moments.
And now, Albus had left Lily alone in Diagon Alley, an act so reckless that Harry’s mind had immediately filled with the worst possibilities. He had felt the terror rise, unbidden and unrelenting, as his imagination conjured horrors that had never come to pass.
But none of that justified this—this lens of suspicion through which he now viewed his own son.
It wasn’t Albus’s fault that Harry couldn’t let go of the past. It wasn’t Albus’s fault that Harry’s instinct to protect had twisted into something sharper, something colder. Albus didn’t deserve to be scrutinized like this, didn’t deserve to feel the weight of Harry’s unresolved fears.
He didn't know what it was like—what it had been like for Harry. Their children had grown up in a world without the constant threat of death, without the terror of never knowing who might be lurking in the shadows. They had been born into peace, a peace that Harry had fought for, bled for, and feared would never last.
Albus didn’t know that world, and Harry hoped he never would. He didn’t carry the scars of a childhood spent fighting for survival, of nights spent on the run, of friends taken too soon.
This—this peace Albus lived in—was what they had fought for. What Harry, Ron, and Hermione had bled for, what so many had died for. It was the reason they endured loss and pushed for change. They had envisioned a future where their children wouldn’t know war, where they could grow up without fear.
Wasn’t Albus’s naivety a sign that they had succeeded? That the peace they had clawed their way to was holding, however imperfectly? Harry had wanted this for him, for Lily and James—for all the children who came after him.
But peace didn’t erase the underbelly of the world, the dark corners Harry knew too well. He worked tirelessly to keep those shadows at bay, to make the streets safe for every child regardless of blood status. Yet, the world was far from perfect. And Harry’s fear—that one slip, one moment of carelessness, could shatter the fragile safety they’d built—was rooted in the harsh realities he couldn’t forget.
Albus didn’t understand that. How could he? He hadn’t seen the monsters that lurked in plain sight, hadn’t stood in the aftermath of tragedy. And wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that why Harry and the others had fought so hard—to spare their children from ever having to know that world?
Albus had left Lily alone in Diagon Alley. It was careless, yes, but wasn’t this proof of the very world they wanted? A world where such an act could be seen as thoughtless rather than dangerous and deadly.
Harry exhaled slowly, the guilt settling like lead in his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the tension that hung between them. But what could he say? That he was sorry for doubting him? That he was sorry for letting his own ghosts bleed into their relationship?
Something stopped him, a force much bigger, heavier, so instead, he did what he always did. He swallowed it down, buried it under layers of resolve. It didn't matter. Even if Albus resented him for acting this way. The most important thing was their safety, and for that Harry would do anything—And maybe, just maybe, love would be enough to bridge the chasm that would grow between them.
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He traced his fingers over the embossed cover of Obscure and Undetected Curses: An Encyclopedia . His heart raced, steady and deliberate, as he crept silently to his bed. The moonlight filtering through the window painted faint silver streaks across the room, soft and cold against the shadows. He reached for his wand, murmuring, “Lumos,” and the warm yellow light illuminated the pages. The book was enchanted as it held more pages than the thickness would indicate. True to its name, it was an encyclopedia, yet something far greater. The entries didn’t merely describe curses; they provided intricate instructions for casting, delving into the precise nature and effects of each spell.
It was exactly what Albus needed, he smiled.
If Rosier had somehow clawed his way out of that filthy alley, still alive, Albus knew he would return more vicious than ever. That thought gnawed at him, sparking a restless need to prepare. His magic had guided him: the more obscure and undetectable the curses, the better. And he didn’t disagree, he was in desperate need for a better repertoire of spells, and a plan.
Even if Rosier’s pathetic life had ended there, on the grimy cobblestones of Knockturn Alley, Burke remained. Rosier had always been just a pawn, though a particularly cruel one, reveling in torment as if it were a sport. Albus shuddered, bile rising in his throat as memories clawed at him—Rosier’s hands, his breath, the putrid aura of his magic.
A dark part of him hoped the other had somehow managed to survive. It would be an opportunity, another chance to inflict pain—But even as the thought teased him, he recognized its futility and its reckless nature. It was better this way, better if Rosier had met his end in that alley, surrounded by the muck and grime and death that suited him so well.
Still, Albus couldn’t suppress the fleeting, wicked fantasies. He hoped Rosier’s death had been slow, agonizing—perhaps a Crucio prolonged to the brink of madness, or a drowning spell to choke the life out of him with cruel irony. Albus’s mind wandered, his lips curling into a giggle as he pictured it, the vivid details painting themselves before his eyes.
Rosier’s screams. His agony. The poetic justice of it all, of his body broken, bent coloured in different hues of reds, purples and black, a masterpiece of bruises of suffering.
The image brought a strange satisfaction, though a flicker of unease whispered at the edges of his consciousness. He brushed it aside with practiced ease, turning another page as his focus narrowed on the spells before him.
There was still so much to learn.
Flipping through the enchanted pages, Albus's eyes scanned eagerly, searching for something—something that could make his imaginings a reality. His brow arched in intrigue as he stifled a quiet laugh at some of the entries. The curses that brought pain in subtle, clever ways captivated him the most. They were fascinating concepts, after all—spells that didn’t announce themselves with a flash of light or an obvious wound but unraveled their effects slowly, insidiously.
Some mimicked natural illnesses, like a curse that aligned its symptoms with dragon pox, ensuring the victim’s death appeared to be from a mundane disease. Others were so obscure, so ingeniously designed, that no one could trace them back to their caster. A few were bewildering in their complexity, their very existence a curious enigma.
He smirked at the thought, his fingers brushing over the curling script as he jotted notes into his journal, listing the spells and their corresponding pages. Time slipped away unnoticed, the hours devoured by his fascination as he imagined the possibilities. His mind wandered, crafting scenarios where these curses might be wielded with precision—where they might serve as justice. Or vengeance.
When he finally eyed the clock on his bedside table, he was made aware that the time was far later than he’d anticipated. Exhaustion settled into his limbs, but a reluctant regret tugged at him as he carefully closed the book and his journal, stashing them beneath his mattress.
He crept back into bed, drawing the covers over himself as his mind swirled with possibilities. His thoughts lingered on Rosier, dark fantasies weaving themselves into the fabric of his dreams.
If Rosier were still alive, Albus thought, then he would find a way to make him suffer.
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“Good morning Teddy.” Albus said as he sat down around the breakfast table.
Teddy, who had been in some heated but lighthearted debate with James, quirked up at the arrival of Albus.
“Mate! it's good to see ya, how's the term been?” He chipped cheerfully.
Teddy had been there since they got home, but had been busy with work and whatever he and James and their father did for him to ask about Albus' time at Hogwarts. Albus had always known Teddy liked James more, yet facing the reality of it stung.
Albus gave a glance towards his brother before reaching for the pitcher with apple juice and pouring it into a cup. “Oh well, I'm not as awful with spells anymore–”
James let out a bark-like laugh, which made Albus give him a pointed look before continuing. “What about you teddy, how's the Auros treating you?”
Teddy grinned, “Treating me like a dog, that's for sure.” Teddy spoke as he gave a glance toward James who snickered with food in his mouth.
Albus lifted his eyebrow slightly. “Though you would get the vip treatment, because of father–” Albus trailed off purposefully.
Teddy’ brow raised the formal title Albus used for Harry before he replied. “Merlin no, it's like ya dad going extra hard on me, trying to show i’m not getting special treatment.”
Albus gave Teddy a probing look. “So, you’ve had a lot going on these past few months then?” he asked lightly, reaching for some food on the table.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Teddy replied, eyes wandering towards James who gave him a knowing look. Teddy’s voice carried a hint of exhaustion mixed with excitement, like the heavy workload was starting to weigh on him—but worth it.
“Did you work last night?” Albus asked, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
It would be great if he could get any details if something happened.
Something swifted with Teddy’s expression, a dark somber look before it disappeared. “I had the day shift, though it was desk work, in the evening a lot of us were called in, so had to work double.” the said in his usual casual voice, yet there was a strained undertone, as if Teddys mind was elsewhere.
“Really? This close to Christmas?” Albus raised a brow skeptically, like he disapproved of being called in during holidays.
Teddy grinned as he made eye contact with Albus ”I know – They really treat us like house elfs,” he took a short pause, as he leaned closer over the table,his previous expression returned, his voice now gone of the casualty it was known for, replaced with a much more serious tone. “There was an attack down near Knockturn–” His face contorted with anger as he continued with a more strained voice “We got there too late—We didn't get any calls before the eve–”
“Teddy, please don’t talk about Auror stuff around the table,” Ginny interrupted with a small light strained smile, failing to hide her disapproval to anyone acute enough to notice.
Albus piped down as his mother made it to the table. If anyone noticed it. they didn't speak of it. Albus turned back to his food. Deep in thought, he tried not to think of the slight exhaustion shown on his mother, her little sad smile following his silence. Instead he forced himself to go through the new information Teddy had given him. He had to hide a smile from his lips. It had to be about Rosier, he glanced at the newspaper on the table, searching for any mention of the event. The headline, however, was mundane:
“ Magical Creatures at Risk: How Muggle Pollution Threatens Our World.”
Whatever had happened, it hadn’t reached the press yet. Albus suppressed a smirk, hoping that whatever had gone down was horrid enough that the press could not fully describe the horror. His eyes lingered on the article’s headline, and he pulled the paper closer to read it more thoroughly.
Teddy noticed. “Al, don’t believe any of that,” he said, his tone disapproving, like Albus was reading some gossip mag like witches weekly.
Albus slightly raised his eyebrow. “Why? Isn’t muggle pollution getting worse? It’s even destroying the habitat of magical creatures.”
Teddy let out a sigh, shaking his head. “It’s a dog whistle, Al. Those articles are designed to stir up anti-muggle sentiment.”
Albus gave him a glance, “But it’s true isn't it? Even Muggles are worried about pollution, and the destruction of animal habitats.”
Teddy made a disapproving face and was just about to answer when Lily came down the stairs like a tornado, looking like she had just woken up. She took a seat, and the conversation shifted elsewhere. He continued to read the article, despite the glances from Teddy and James. He entirely missed the look they both seemed to share as he continued to read. He didn't agree with Teddy’s viewpoint. Yet he knew better than to voice that opinion.
His eyes glanced towards the missing silhouette in the room as he ate his breakfast. Their father wasn't here, which meant he was called in. Whatever had happened was enough to keep his father presumably through the night at the Auror office, if Teddys words are to be believed. His eyes carefully observed the scene of his family before him, his mother seemed to have been awake for quite some time, yet it was only nine. Something had clearly happened, and judging by the looks that James kept giving Teddy, James knew about it, and they were hiding whatever happened from him and Lily. Hopefully Rosier had died then, hopefully gruesomely.
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Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 24 December, 2018
Harry sat at his desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the clutter of paperwork surrounding him a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in his mind. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the desk, though his attention was elsewhere. There was always too much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him like a storm cloud, but it wasn’t the pile of paperwork that had his mind scattered. No, it was the most recent case, a lynching of a muggle born school girl, which body had been found only late last night, her form had been covered by the heavy snowfall, and a drunk on their way home from a pub had stumbled over her, the attack had happened only a few streets from the busting heart of Diaogn alley, her pronced time of death was calculated to be around mid day, while hecting shopping for the holidays was happening not far away. It was brutal, not far from her body her shopping bags could be found, the carefully wrapped gifts spilling out beneath the snow.
The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts and the viewed images of her body found, brutalized and broken. Harry's eyes snapped up. Draco Malfoy stepped inside, his presence unmistakable. He exuded an effortless charm that always seemed to catch Harry off guard. Draco’s tailored robes clung to his tall, lean frame, and every movement seemed calculated to highlight the grace in his posture. His silver-blond hair fell just so, and those stormy grey eyes—sharp and focused—were enough to make Harry momentarily lose his train of thought. For a brief second, it felt like nothing had changed, but Harry knew better than to let appearances deceive him. Beneath Draco’s polished exterior lay years of history, tension, and words left unsaid.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, his voice smooth and deliberate, laced with an unmistakable hint of superiority.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, shaking himself from his reverie. He gestured to the chair opposite him, his own tone colder, more measured than he intended. “Please say you didn’t just walk through my secretary.”
Draco snorted, unfazed, as he took a seat with an air of relaxed confidence. His leg effortlessly crossed over the other, and he leaned back in the chair, a perfect image of nonchalance. Harry tried not to focus on how Draco’s slim legs, framed by his perfectly tailored robes, made the whole scene seem almost... elegant. The premium leather shoes Draco wore shined brighter than any snitch, almost taunting Harry with their perfection.
Harry could feel his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “This isn’t a joke, Draco. You can’t just waltz in like this—I’m a busy man.” He dragged a hand through his messy hair, the motion one of irritation, which earned him an all-too-pleased smirk from Draco.
Harry let out a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging as he leaned back. “So, what do you want?”
Draco’s lips curled into a knowing grin, his words measured and cutting. “Oh, Potter, you must know what I want.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot release Mr. Zabini.”
At this, Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, leaning further back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. The playful smirk that had previously adorned his lips disappeared, replaced by a look of measured annoyance, as if Harry’s refusal was both tiresome and predictably beneath him. “It’s Blaise we’re speaking of,” Draco said, his voice laced with derision, as though the very suggestion that Zabini could be involved with the new traditionalist movement was laughable. “You cannot seriously believe he has any connection to that insipid new traditional movement.”
The words were sharp, dripping with mockery, daring Harry to entertain such a ridiculous idea. Harry could feel his jaw tightening, the tension in the room becoming palpable.
“That’s not for you to decide,” Harry said, his voice colder than he’d intended.
Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he gave a soft sigh and flicked his wrist, effortlessly performing a tempus charm to check the time. “Look, Potter, I don’t have all day. You’ve a bill you wish to see passed at the next Wizengamot meeting, yes?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion building.
Draco allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to cross his face. His voice, smooth and carefully calculated, carried the weight of an unspoken promise. “You shall have my vote,” he said, his tone deliberate, with just the right amount of gravitas.
Harry’s suspicion flared. “You haven’t used your Malfoy vote in years. Why now?”
Draco’s smile grew, though it did not reach his eyes. “Let us say it is a favour to an old acquaintance,” he replied, his voice rich with formality as he tilted his head slightly. “And, frankly, I’ve been rather eager to re-enter the political sphere. With Scorpius now safely ensconced at Hogwarts, I find I have a great deal more time on my hands.”
Harry’s gaze hardened. Trusting Draco completely was never an option, but the situation was dire—they needed this bill to pass. “We need another vote to have a majority,” he said, his voice quiet but insistent.
Draco’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with that same sharp calculation. “I can certainly help you acquire another vote—Once Blaise is released, I’m certain Pansy will be more than willing to lay the Parkinson vote in your favour.”
Harry’s eye twitched involuntarily. “How soon?” he asked, his tone bordering on urgent.
Draco looked at him “Release him this evening, or I can’t promise Pansy will support your bill.”
“You’re sure of that?” Harry pressed, his gaze unwavering.
Draco rolled his eyes in a manner that was almost theatrical, then stood gracefully, adjusting his robes as if the entire room required his attention. Harry’s gaze followed the movement involuntarily, his eyes tracing the luxurious fabric of Draco’s suit, grimacing at the sheer opulence. Draco fixed his posture with ease, the elegance of his every gesture drawing attention.
“Of course,” Draco said smoothly, as though the matter were already settled. He walked towards Harry’s desk, standing before it with a knowing look. “A deal?” he asked, his voice now warm with the certainty of an agreement already in place.
Harry took a long, deliberate moment, weighing the decision in his mind. Reluctantly, he nodded, the words leaving him almost against his will. “We have a deal.”
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Notes:
So there it is! Another chapter!!! Is it bad to say that i had fun writing this? My own fav part is ofcourse Harry actually being right about Albus, but questioning his own insticts that have saved him so many times before, and the shame and guilt he feels over veiwing Albus this way!
Also DRACO!!! Finally another appearance of this DIVA!! What is the bill Harry want to be passed??? Hmm....
I love to read your comments and they are really heartwarming to me <3 thank you for all the support for this work!!! The next chapter is on it's way, don't worry it won't take as long for the next update as this one did!!! I have alot more lore and stuff i wanna put out! The winter break is prob going to be two more chapters!
Also you might notice the writing style is a bit different? I tried another style, hopefully it works? And im sorry if there are any errors in the text, usually i try to proof read more but i wanted this chapter out so it might not flow as much as usual.
I actually wrote the first scene today, and the confrontation, the breakfast scene and dracos scene are ones i wrote like months ago! So that might be the reason why they read a bit differently?
Chapter 25: Chapter Twenty Five - Happy Yule
Notes:
Here it is!! the long awaited CHRISTMASSS CHAPTER!! that should have been out a few months ago!! hahaha, man i changed this scene so many times, in the end i went back to this one, i felt it was first a bit silly, yet i come to love it, and why not give you all some fluff?
Please give me your thoughts! I love to read them!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Five - Happy Yule
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Albus sat sloped into the cozy couch, his home knitted wool sweater pickled at his skin, irritated he harshly scratched his collarbone, leaving red trails behind. It gave him a headache just being at the burrows. Everyone seemed to be in the Christmas spirit—Everyone execpt him, instead his mind was transfixed on the upcoming term and how to deal with Burke. He didn't like not knowing whether or not Roiser would return, afterall it hindered his planning.
There had been no news following what went down, their father came home an hour or so before they left yesterday to the burrows, yet spilled no news about what had taken place the day before. It irritated him, the not knowing, the glances between his father and Teddy felt close to stab wounds, of not being trusted, his resentment feeling worse than ever. It itched his skin almost like a physical rash, but in reality there was no such thing.
There was no sign that anything had ever been amidst, no sign that their father had spent the last few days in the office, when he should have been home, not that Albus cared much–He preferred when his father wasn't home, yet it felt suffocating in a different sense, the way nobody commented on it, acting as if it was normal. Their family seemed like the perfect picture to anyone looking in, to anyone else but him. His uncles and aunts acted the same way they always did, and the holiday grand meal went through like every other year. With a practiced grace Albus carefully maneuvered his family's questions about his time at School, about Slytherin, about who he spends his time with.
Chaos embodied their family like nothing else, all around was loud obnoxious voices and laughter, never leaving any room for silence, for any peace of mind. Even retreated into his mind didn't work like it used too, his shield had fallen, they took a lot more mental strain to keep up within the burrow, within the house surrounded by an almost uncomfortable heavy suffocating fog only he could feel, the air felt heavier in his throat, the nosies, grating, louder—
He breathed out, trying to regain control, his own magic helping little, instead roaming within ablaze alike a raging fire, burning him from the inside out, as if it too could feel the magic so unwelcome that surrounded the house and wanted, needed to lash out, to make itself known.
He had known that The Burrow was surrounded by light magic—woven into the very structure of the house and its wards, built into the foundation itself. Yet he had underestimated his own ability to feel its hostility, light magic, like dark, was possessive, unyielding, He had never known magic could feel so hostile, so alien, so entirely unlike him.
He still wore the bracelet Fawley had given him, a lifeline of sorts. He had tried many times to study its properties, the runes carved into it—but without knowing any detection spells, he’d had no success. It turned out that glamour items, objects designed to hide or alter one’s magical presence were rare and difficult to find, which also meant that they weren’t easy to study. He even wondered if it was legal. Logically, it would fall under the category of dark magical objects, at least in the eyes of the law. Not in magic itself, but in the law, As illegal had become synonymous with “Dark magic” A term encompassing every banned item. Afterall if an object were dark in nature it would carry a residue of dark magic. Which the bracelet didn't, after all if it did, it would go against its own nature and function—how could it possibly conceal one's magical aura to neutral if it left a dark magical residue?
No, the magic had to be at least gray. The laws had become more extreme under his father and aunts’ policies. Simply owning dark magical objects could land someone in Azkaban, and speaking out about it would just bring suspicion towards you. If his family ever found out about his extracurricular activities, which hinged on the edge of legibility if not outright illegal, it would be a one-way ticket to Azkaban—no matter the blood that ran through his veins.
His mind wandered back to his summer readings about the witch trials, to Nott’s older brother’s speech. Muggleborns had been the ones burned—those poor magical people born to Muggles, born outside the protection of Purebloods and their concealment magic. The horrors they must have endured, the brutality from those they thought were their own, who had seen them as nothing but monsters—simply because they had been blessed with magic, simply because they had been chosen, simply because they were better.
Albus felt the coach shift as a new weight settled beside him. He turned and gave a soft smile to his cousin, Hugo, who had plopped down beside him.
“So? Did any adults catch you?” Albus asked knowingly. Hugo only let out an annoyed huff. before he began to speak.
“I don't understand why they are so against bets.” he said annoyedly, flaring his arms half dramatically, half bored.
“Gambling is illegal.” Albus deadpanned as his gaze went over to the trio of his father, Ron and Hermoine, talking loudly and boisterously, all with a drink in their hands–His mother was by George and Angelica in some heated discussion—Possibility, more likely than not quidditch related.
Hugo let out a laugh which turned back Albus' gaze. “Like we haven't seen them doing bets during games,” he said ironically. Albus just gave him a smirk.
"Don't you know? Different rules for different people."
Hugo slumped back into the couch with a sigh, crossing his arms like the child he where. "Why doesn’t that nepotism work for me too?" he asked, his voice laced with disappointment.
"I wonder that as well, cousin," Albus said, grinning as he leaned back, feeling slightly more comfortable. Hugo returned the smile, lifting Albus' mood.
“So, about the snake—” Hugo said with intrigue as he lowered his voice.
“Is fine, for now. We'll see when the adults decide it's time for us to start opening gifts,” Albus interrupted, voice casual.
“I’ve been waiting for that all evening,” Hugo mused, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Imagining the outrage—”
“Don’t remind me,” Albus muttered, exhausted. “Mother is going to flay me alive.”
Hugo made a disgusted face at the thought. “Such a dark imagination,” he said, though he didn’t seem the least bit concerned.
Albus let out a light laugh.
“Is it true that you are going to give her that book as well?” he asked nonchalantly as he took some homemade christmas candies from the bowl on the table.
Albus gave him a side eye. How did Hugo know about that? It was a deal he regretfully had to do for Lily to make her shut up about him going off on her in Diagon alley, yet it didn't seem like it mattered, afterall she had snitched on him when they had gotten home, earning him a lecture from his parents. He felt his mood sour at the thought of it. How his parents had already made him into the villain, the one in the wrong, how dramatic they acted about him leaving her in Diagon alley during daytime, it was ridiculous, their mind clouded by paranoia.
“What else? Burning it would be a waste of spell power” Albus said as he leaned back, though the idea of burning it up before his sister's eyes was quite an inviting thought.
“Merlin—most would just return it, you know,” Hugo remarked with a grimace.
“Return what?” came a voice from behind them. Both boys turned their heads toward the sound.
“Nothing,” Albus said, offering a poised smile toward Victoire, who raised an eyebrow before walking around to join them on the couch.
Hugo just grinned. "You’ll see," he said smugly, making Victoire laugh.
"So, how's Hogwarts treating you now that I'm gone?" she asked, a playful smile curling on her lips.
“Horrible,” Albus replied, earning another laugh from his cousin.
“I can imagine that,” Victoire said, her tone teasing.
“How's the mentorship treating you?” Albus asked, genuinely interested.
“Well, the French Ministry is a bit different—looser, some might say. I actually feel more at home there.” Albus nodded, understanding. Victoire had creature blood, and classified as “Half-creature” and with his father’s and aunt's multiple failed attempts at changing the policies, the law in wizarding britain was quite restrictive for those with creature blood, and the prejudice was widespread; the British public still feared those with creature inheritance like they were a Boggart—Imaging them more as creatures than wizards, like the creature part could just take over and run amok. Like they had less intelligence and prisoners to their creature blood's nature.
“That’s rubbish,” Hugo huffed.
Victoire smiled, pulling him into a half-hug. “I’m fine, really. It doesn’t bother me that much anymore.”
“People will always be ignorant,” Albus said, his voice cold. “Creature inheritance is a gift, and they’re blind not to see it.”
“True,” she agreed. “Being normal isn’t all that fun, is it?” she added with a grin, prompting the boys to laugh.
“Do you think you’ll stay in France?” Albus asked, watching as she turned her gaze to the fire, clearly deep in thought.
“I think so, if my mentorship goes well.”
“It will,” Albus said confidently. Victoire gave him a warm smile.
“And then we’ll visit France a lot more!” Hugo added with a grin. Victoire laughed as she ruffled his hair. “I’ll even show you the French Ministry—the building’s far grander than the British one.”
Hugo, delighted, playfully tried to swat Victoire's hand away as she nearly spilled her glass of wine on the carpet. Albus simply watched them, feeling something he couldn’t quite name—a fleeting warmth in his chest, a small reminder of what family should be, his lips twitching into a smile at the dramatics of his cousins.
Then, the adults seemed to join them around the couch, and all their other cousins followed suit. It was time for the gift exchange. Everyone gathered around the fire and the Christmas tree, some sitting on the floor as there weren't enough couches or chairs for the large family.
Laughter filled the room as the joke gifts were unwrapped, some of them setting off fireworks, others turning the person into a vivid array of colors, or even causing their faces to morph into animal characteristics. Teddy, as usual, joined in and changed his appearance, to match.
“Here! One to Al!” Molly Junior said as she gave him a present, seemingly wrapped in muggle gift paper. He turned the package over and looked at the Christmas card that was attached, a muggle one with pictures of santa.
“Merry Christmas Albus! Or should I say Happy Yule?
I wasn't really sure what to give you as a christmas present, but i wanted to thank you for this term and how helpful you have been! On the note that you parents aren't letting you guys eat sweets, I decided to give you a few, both muggle and magical!
Good wishes and kind regards,
Sam Marshall.“
Albus smiled down at the writing, he knew the other’s financial situation wasn’t great, which made the gift all the more thoughtful. Hopefully, Sam would enjoy the gift Albus had sent him. He had decided to give him a special edition of the charm book Sam had talked about wanting all term but couldn’t afford, even secondhand. Sam had been disappointed when he found that Hogwarts didn’t stock it. Albus had talked with Scorpius about it to make sure they didn’t give him the same gift.
Scorpius, instead, would give him a pair of dragon hide gloves since Sam’s were secondhand and barely usable—so much so that they had nearly cost him a hand in Herbology–And after the whole Quill conversation they decided to give Sam a magical ink eraser brush. Those were not common at Hogwarts, As most by that time knew the charm to vanish the ink, as it was an easy one, and only worked on ink. The eraser brush was used for children too young to own a wand but still needed to learn writing, they told as much in the letter–Letting him know it would give him side glances if he took it to school, it was more for him to have at home where he couldn't use the spell to vanish the ink.
And yes, Albus did indeed like sweets. His mother, however, did try to limit their intake, and now most of the sweets they had, even the christmas sweets were homemade "healthier" variants. Albus opened the package with a smile on his face. Sam had given him quite the muggle confectionery bag, with a few less magical ones mixed in. It wasn’t strange, considering Sam’s limited knowledge of wizarding sweets and the fact that the currency exchange was currently awful.
Albus snacked on Sam's sweets, watching as his cousins unwrapped their gifts, each one thanking him with bright smiles. Albus exchanged similar gestures in return, his heart lightened by the rare feeling of family warmth around him. Then, finally, it was time for Lily’s gift.
A pang of dread prickled through him as he glanced at the carefully wrapped box he’d labelled “To Lily.” He could almost picture his parents’ reactions. His mother had vehemently forbidden her from getting a pet snake last summer—and here he was, giving her one. But Lily had been insistent, telling him with a glint in her eye to; “Leave it to me.” Now, though, he wondered just how she planned to handle the situation.
Lily’s grin was mischievous, her eyes practically twinkling as she tore off the paper with an exaggerated flourish. The box opened to reveal a beautifully enchanted terrarium that expanded as she lifted the lid. The interior transformed into a miniature habitat—a lush, sandy oasis with warmth and humidity magically calibrated to mimic a rattlesnake’s natural environment. The terrarium’s space was enlarged from the inside, giving the snake plenty of room to slither freely.
Nestled within, a small magical rattlesnake laid curled up, barely bigger than a worm. It had a pale, strikingly albino complexion, its scales shimmered in the light, almost christal white. Unlike their Muggle counterparts, the snake’ rattles didn’t just serve as warnings; their rattling emitted a soft, melodic chime that sounded more like bells. It was said that these magical rattlesnakes could communicate with other snakes through their musical rattles, each sound carrying emotions from excitement to anger–These sounds where also picked up easily by the human ear, which made it easy for their owners to read their moods, as the snakes where magical they were of higher intelligence than their muggle counterparts, making them almost able to communicate with their owners, which made them a popular pet and familiar.
Lily beamed with pure delight, looking as if she’d just received the world. She practically leapt at him, pulling him into a hug as if she hadn’t known exactly what the gift was. Albus couldn’t help but smile, feeling his previous sour mood with her lighten, he was rather impressed and proud by her convincing play. Yet that quickly disappeared as he felt his parents’ gazes burning into him, he focused all his strength on keeping his gaze away, praying to magic herself that Lily really did have a plan to pull this off.
He could feel the shift in atmosphere and so could surely everyone else. As the mostly chaotic Christmas present gift openings had gone quieter than before, their family took in Lily’s gift, the small snake.
Lily released him, turning back to the terrarium with stars in her eyes. She leaned in closer to inspect the little creature, her fingers tapping softly on the glass as if they might respond. The snake stirred slightly, lifting its head as its rattle gave a gentle, chiming sound that seemed to captivate Lily completely.
“Oh, she is perfect!” she whispered, excitement spilling over. She shot a quick look at Albus, a silent thank-you in her eyes. But the lightheartedness was quickly broken. It was their uncle who spoke first.
“Blimey–Is that a snake?” Ron said with a light tone, that hinted at a faint concern. With a drink in hand and dropped over one of the arm chairs, he eyed the terrarium as if it might spring to life and release its occupants.
“Yes! A Magical rattlesnake!” Lily replied with enthusiasm as she studied her new pet through the glass, the small baby reptile body wrapped around itself, sleeping.
“Albus, I know you’re aware of how I—” Their mother began, her voice tight, but hinted at not wanting to make a scene.
“Lily knows enough about creatures to care for it,” he said simply trying to withhold his irritation.
“Aren't Magical Rattlesnakes venomous and poisonous?” Rose added, crossing her arms and grimacing down at the snake.
“Only venomous, though not deadly,” Lily said rolling her eyes, as if it was somehow common knowledge.”They are harmless as long as you carry a bezoar, which everyone should do anyway” Lily responded breezily, clearly unaware of the tension, or ignoring it. Then something in her eyes glinted, and Albus saw his sister change slightly, her voice becoming a bit more childish—
She turned towards their parents with big eyes “Mum, Dad—don’t blame Albus! He’s just being kind. We all know you’d never let me have one, and that has nothing to do with my ability to handle magical creatures! Come on, ask Hagrid! I’m really good at—” she said with the voice that almost worked all the time, spoiled as she was getting the things she wanted.
“Lily, stop it. This isn’t about your ability—” Ginny interrupted, her tone firmer now, clearly not amused and aware of her daughter's subtle sly try of manipulation. “It’s more about your brother getting you something you weren’t allowed.”
Albus suppressed an eye roll and just sat quietly, of course they would somehow always find a way to blame him. he hid his irritation and just continued to watching the scene; Lily wasn’t backing down, her face turning red as she stepped protectively in front of him, a bit dramatic for his own taste, yet he didn't stop her.
“Don’t blame him! I was the one who asked him! If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me!” she nearly shouted, a fierce determination in her voice, her Gryffindor side was out in full force.
“Lily, it’s great that you’re pro—” Ginny began, trying to diffuse the tension, but James jumped in just as dramatically.
“It was her idea, honestly! You should scold her for forcing Al into buying the snake!” he added with a mischievous grin, casting a glance between Lily and Albus.
Lily didn’t look the least bit offended by her brother’s words. Instead, she grinned wider and nodded as she placed her hands on her hips. “Exactly! Al had no choice! It was like I’d cast an Imperius on him!” she declared dramatically, earning snickers from the room.
In the back, their father stood with an unreadable expression as he took in the scene, quietly he walked over beside Ginny and wrapped his arm around her waist. Ginny let out a sigh as her hand found her forehead massaging it, clearly frustrated, but also exhausted, blended together with amusement of her daughter's antics as she suppressed her lips from forming a smile..
“Fine,” she relented, her tone still stern but softened with a trace of a smile. “But we will talk more about this at home—That snake will not be let loose.”
“Thank you, thank you! I’ll keep her safe, I swear!” Lily beamed as she threw her arms around Ginny in a gleeful hug. Which Ginny answered with a warm smile as she stroked her daughter's head.
“Shouldn't you keep us safe from it?” Rose grimaced. As her brother piqued up. “You think she is going to let it loose in our common room?” he whispered teasingly to his sister who gave him a horrid grimace.
Then Lily sprang over towards her other gift, and began to frantically unwrap the package. Albus had almost forgotten he had gotten her that book. Another headache came on his body, tensing once more. He shifted his gaze over to his cousins who had once more returned to the gift giving—But was quickly taken back to his sister as she literally squealed loudly, making almost all head turns toward her as she hugged the book to her chest, and began to roll around on the floor in excitement.
This time Ginny raised an eyebrow and moved over looking down at her daughter, suspicion in her gaze “Is that book the one–” she began, clearly not amused.
“Yes! It’s the one with the Romeo and Juliet concept—” She began to ramble on, Albus heard Victoire try to keep down her laughter from beside him, Hugo seemed to take in the scene as if he was watching a movie, now holding the candy bowl and eating out of it. His gaze returned as his mother promptly fought Lily's arms away and confiscated the book. Lily looked as if their mother had taken away her most precious belongings, but their mother huffed and stood tall “A snake, fine!” She said as she crossed her arms “But this book? No!” she said clearly over her daughter's dramatics.
Her gaze turned towards Albus, “Albus! You can’t give your sister a mature rated romance book!” she said almost red in the face, Albus sighed, there was no other choice, he gave his sister a regretful look before childishly pointing his finger at her accusingly “She forced me!” He said loudly, and Lily looked like he had sold her out, which in all fairness he had. Her expression was priceless. Their mother turned all ire against Lily, scolding her about using coercion on a family member—Yet Lily's gaze was stuck on him, with a deadly intent.
Albus should have seen it, but alas, he was not all-knowing, so when Lily ignored their mothers rant and literally jumped and threw herself on him and dragged him to the floor, he was shocked.
Lily, in full dramatic mode, pushed harder, her face scrunched up in mock fury. “You’ve betrayed me, Albus!” she declared, practically dripping with melodrama as her hands gripped his collar, lifting him upward.
Albus raised an eyebrow, but leaned in closer, giving in to the dramatics, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper as he spit out each word laced with utmost venom, pronouncing each syllable with deadly intent “Says the snitch.”
Lily froze, her face turning an even darker red that rivalled her red dress. “I did not snitch!” she hissed through clenched teeth, looking like she might explode with fury.
Albus, unfazed by her outrage, pushed back, gripping her wrists as they began to tug at his hair, trying to get the upper hand. “You literally ratted me out!” he shot back, struggling to hold his ground while Lily found a way to get her fingers back into his hair, he quickly gave up the attempt and instead drove his own hands towards her pulling on her ponytails.
"I didn't rat you out! I made a strategic decision!" Lily yelled, her competitive streak kicking in as she overpowered him, using her experience as a Muggle football team captain to her advantage. She was stronger than Albus, and it showed.
Their wrestling and shoving escalated into full-on brawl mode, insults flying as hands tugged and legs kicked. They were an absolute mess—rolling on the floor, wrestling like there was no tomorrow. Ginny stood frozen, her eyes wide in disbelief, clearly torn between horror and amusement blending into tired resignation.
Their cousins weren’t much help as they took sides and cheered, Teddy even seemed to make a bet with Molly Jr, Fred and Louis. Victoire was clutching her stomach, desperately trying to stop her laughter, almost spilling her red wine on the carpet while Hugo, candy bowl in hand, watched the scene like it was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen. James, of course, had the grimace of someone trying to act mature but failing miserably. His hand hovered near the two, trying to break them up, but only managed a yelp when Lily, in true Lily fashion, bit his hand.
“Oi! Enough!” James called out, trying to play the peacemaker, but it was futile. Lily and Albus were locked in their squabble, neither willing to back down.
Albus yelped when Lily bit down on his arm, her grip like that of a piranha. He dragged her hair back in retaliation, but she didn’t let go. He cried out again as her elbow collided with his jaw, making him bite his tongue in the process. “Okay, okay, peace!” he yelped, hands up in the air in defeat.
Lily finally let go, dramatically striking a victorious pose as she sat on top of him, her grin wide with triumph. Their cousins cheered around her like she’d just won the Quidditch World Cup. Teddy, always the showman, lifted Lily onto his shoulders and paraded her around. Louis and Fred looked a bit disappointed, which meant they lost the bet.
Around them their other cousins and family members let out laughs and amused disapproval head shakes. Their Aunt Angelica went on amusingly about “Kids.” while shaking her head as she grinned. Aunt Hermione had made an eye roll before going up to Ginny and whispering, his mother gave her an amused smile and gave her the book, which their aunt promptly opened, and began to read, their grandma Molly came up beside her and read the book as well.
Albus groaned, rubbing at the bite mark on his arm. He glanced down at himself in horror—his clothes were wrinkled, making him look unkempt. Lily did nor fare much better, her red dress had gone from looking perfectly polished to ruffled as badly as her usual bedhead.
James looked down at his brother sympathetically, shaking his head. “You know better than to fight with Lily. She always plays dirty, and you can never win.”
“Shut it, James,” Albus muttered, letting himself flop back onto the floor with a dramatic sigh.
”I didn't fight her, she attacked me!” he said irritatingly.
Rose’s unimpressed face appeared above him, arms crossed as she leaned over him looking down. “Really? You can’t beat your little sister?” she said tauntingly.
Albus rolled his eyes, struggling to sit up. “Try taking her on yourself. She was the football captain of her school team!” he spat out.
“Well, Cousin,” Molly piped up cheerfully, “You know what they say; Don’t fight a dragon without a wand!” She grinned down at him as she leaned over with her hands behind her back, her expression not hiding the fact that she was clearly enjoying his defeat more than necessary.
Albus rolled his eyes but grabbed James’ hand, letting his brother pull him to his feet. As he stumbled up, his gaze flicked over to his mother, who had somehow managed to finish her wine glass and was already pouring another. There was a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her lips, but she kept a calm expression.
Albus could feel his father’s eyes on him, weighing something, but he pretended not to notice, engaging in conversation with his cousin to keep his pride intact. He insisted he’d ‘let her win.’ while Rose only rolled her eyes at, and Hugo only snickered.
They turned their attention to the premium Exploding Snap card deck Hugo had given Albus, a gift for which Albus had reciprocated with strategy gamebooks that Hugo seemed to appreciate. They began to make a game out of hiding their bets during the card game, which proved much more challenging than the game itself, especially with Aunt Hermione stalking Hugo like a hawk, ready to catch him in the act at any moment, highering the stakes a whole lot.
After a rather close call to them getting caught by aunt Hermine Albus excused himself before moving towards the front door.
“Going out?” A voice said from behind, making Albus turn as he put on his boots. He smiled when he saw that it was Victoire, standing leaned against a wall with wine glass in hand.
“Yeah, to get some air.” Albus answered as he began to put on his winter coat.
“Can I join you?” Vic asked after another sip of her glass, Albus looked back and gave her a simple nod as an answer. With a grin she began to put on her own fashionable french designer coat.
The air was cold and biting, yet fresh. The dark sky made the stars seem sharper, and his breath curled into the night in small, misty clouds.
“Beautiful isn't it?” Victorie said, her gaze on the stars above. Albus turned his gaze towards her, then followed hers back to the sky. “Yeah.” he said after a pause, then the pair began to walk down the property line, and went into the shoveled road.
As they stepped onto the road, the snow beneath Albus’s boots vanished, swallowed by the enchantments that kept the path clear. No footprints, no ice. The magic of it hummed just beneath the path, a quiet presence.
“You know,” Victoire mused, exhaling mist into the cold air, “this used to be nothing but fields. Just after the war, before you lot were around, we had to trek through knee-deep snow just to reach the Burrow.”
Albus glanced at the untouched path. He’d heard the stories—his mother’s, Uncle’s—about the wild land that once surrounded them. The woods had crept closer back then, before the new houses, before magic shaped the land to convenience.
As they left the Burrow behind, something in Albus eased. The air was lighter here, less suffocating. The house’s magic, bright and suffocating, had been grating against his own since he arrived. Now, without it pressing against him, the tension in his temples dulled. He let his mental barriers slip for the first time in days, and as he glanced up at the sky, his eyes landed, unconsciously, on the Scorpion. His heart clenched.
He hoped Scorpius was having a good time. The Yule celebrations would be over by now, but still, a creeping unease poisoned the thought. He prayed Scorpius’s mother wasn’t too ill.
A soft tap against his arm pulled him back.
“Do you mind?” Victoire asked, holding up a cigarette between her fingers.
“No.”
He watched as she flicked open a Muggle lighter, the flame briefly illuminating her face. The scent that drifted toward him wasn’t the usual sharpness of tobacco—it was sweeter, earthier.
“It’s a Wiggenbush blend,” she said, catching his glance. “Traces of Silverweed. Smells nice, doesn’t it?” A smirk played at the corner of her lips.
He nodded, turning his eyes back to the road. The night was quiet except for the sound of their footsteps and the soft exhale of smoke.
“So, about the mentorship—” Albus started, but trailed off when he caught the look on her face.
Her head was tilted back, eyes slightly diluted, a permanent soft smile resting on her lips. The red stain from her wine made her mouth look sharper, her posture looser, shoulders dropping with every slow inhale of smoke.
“It’s really great,” she said, finally. “Less regulations. And looser rules around which spells we can use in curse-breaking, making it a lot easier.”
She cast him a glance before letting out a quiet laugh, as if the absurdity of the world itself amused her.
“Yeah, don’t tell Ted that. He’d lose it—you know how he gets about ‘dark magic’ and all that,” she said, grinning. taking another inhale of smoke.
Albus’s fingers twitched. “What kind of dark magic?” He tried to keep his voice casual, but his heart picked up its pace. He was relieved when Victoire didn’t comment on it, instead being too focused on turning the smoke into shapes.
“Oh, well—when it comes to curse-breaking, sometimes you need a little dark theory to undo the magic. You have to understand a curse, its intricate layers, to unravel it properly.” She began before taking another long drag, her pupils blown wide.
Albus nodded, mind drifting to the spellbreaker in Knockturn. His wand felt heavier in his pocket.
Victoire continued, slipping into a slightly slurred, impassioned spiel. “You know, most of Europe thinks the British Ministry’s restrictions are ridiculous. In other countries, there isn’t nearly as much stigma about ‘dark magic.’” Her voice took on a sharp edge. “It’s all about perspective. Like banned magical items and herbs, what’s so bad about some cigarettes?” she said as she flickered ash from her cigarette.
Albus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Victoire cast him aside glance before exhaling heavily.
“Sorry,” she said, sheepish now. “If talking about this makes you uncomfortable—I just get a bit worked up.”
“No, it’s fine,” Albus murmured, inhaling the sweet scent of her cigarette.
There was a pause before she spoke again.
“Ted broke up with me.”
She said it like she was commenting on the weather. No shift in tone, no anger. But Albus noticed how her fingers tensed slightly before she took another slow inhale.
“He doesn’t really approve of me curse-breaking. Or of the French magical ministry.”
Albus hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
Victoire exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night. Then she laughed. “Don’t be. Some things just don’t last. They work when you’re young but not when you’re older.”
Albus stared at the ground. She continued, voice light.
“So don’t feel bad,” she mused, “if some relationships don’t work out.”
Albus shot her a sharp look, lips pressing into a thin line. Victoire just smiled before laughing again.
“Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, you know?” she said casually. “It’s alright to feel different. I know it’s awful at your age, but it’ll work out.”
Albus let out a heavy breath, his heart hammering. He hesitated, then finally spoke, voice taut with frustration.
“They all act like—” He stopped, struggling to find the words. “Like there’s something wrong with me for not fitting in.”
Victoire nodded. Said nothing, gaze ahead
Albus inhaled deeply, then admitted, “I’m not actually ashamed of being in Slytherin.”
Victoire exhaled another stream of smoke, then simply nodded. “Good.”
Albus’s heart skipped a beat. One word, and yet, it meant everything.
He let out a breath, lighter now. “I like it, I like that it’s not Gryffindor, I like that I feel like I fit in.”
Victoire grinned. “I get that, it’s important to feel like you belong.”
Albus nodded as he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Rose and James–” he took a short breath “Well they don’t get that.”
Vic gave him a sympathetic look. “I don’t blame you for being angry or scared. After all, you’re walking a path that hasn’t been laid out yet—I know how hard that is.” She said, eyes on the stars.
Albus followed her gaze towards the sky and they walked in silence. She continued. “Curse Breaking is dangerous, and even if my dad is supportive, well–He’s really the only one, Teddy means well, but he wants to create a family.” she snorted. “He wants children.” She sighed. “And I just don’t see that for myself.”
Albus looked at her, and for the first time saw her with a new lens. “Is that why? Why you choose mentorship in France instead of here at Gringotts?”
Victorie nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not the only reason. In France I have family, friends, people who act like being part creatures isn't really a big deal.”
Albus began to fidget with his hand in his pocket. “But Teddy?" he began a bit hesitant.
“Teddy—” Victoire exhaled. “He doesn’t get it.” she said finally. “But enough about me, I just wanted you to know that–Well I get it somewhat, being different.” she said with a grin as his eyes found hers.
“Being normal isn’t all that fun, is it?” Victoire said, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Albus couldn’t help but grin. Before he could respond, she ruffled his hair, making it even messier than usual.
"Oi! Quit it!" he yelped, swatting at her hand.
Victoire just laughed and pulled him into a headlock, effortlessly trapping him despite his squirming. "What? Can’t handle a bit of fun, little cousin?"
Albus gritted his teeth and jabbed his elbow into her side. "Oi—!" she yelped, loosening her grip just enough for him to slip free. Her cigarette slipped from her fingers, landing with a faint sizzle on the ground.
For a moment, they just stared at it. Then their eyes met—and they both burst into laughter, breathless and grinning under the night sky.
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Notes:
Ngl, i love both Lily and Vic, i really don't know who i like the most??? I really love Lily chaotic energy but i also love Vic, i don't know maybe because she feels more human now? Honestly i wasnt planning on writing that last scene, but it just came to me! So please tell me what you think???
Did the chapter feel to silly?
Also please ignore any wirting errors i wanted this out so i didnt put as much time editing it!!! Tell me if you notice something (I actually do edit spell errors and such in prev chapters!)
Chapter 26: Chapter Twenty Six - The House Elf
Notes:
Hello! Here comes another chapter! I'm really excited about this one!!! I hope you all like it!
Spoiler* but not really, this chapter will only be Albus POV!
****I FORGOT TO PUT IN A VERY IMPORTANT SCENE, AND I JUST REALISED THIS LMAO SO YEAH I'M ADDING A NEW END SCENE. SORRY IF THIS CAUSED ANY CONFUSION.****(2025-06-08).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Six - The House Elf
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A house-elf existed to serve, and what was a creature like Kreacher without that purpose? Yet his father, with his unyielding sense of morality, denied the elf the fulfillment of that role. Cooking was strictly off-limits; the elf’s duties were confined to the hidden corners, the shadows, and the unused rooms of the house—places no one in the family ventured. Kreacher, in many ways, was like a ghost—A presence that lingered on the edges of their awareness, only surfacing in rare moments, a relic of a life long past.
When James had been younger, he’d taken to pranking the ancient elf, the kind of harmless mischief that only encouraged Kreacher’s sharp tongue and muttered slurs. James had found it hilarious, of course, laughing as Kreacher sputtered and cursed under his breath, retreating further into the sanctuaries of Grimmauld Place that the Potter children couldn’t access. Albus often followed his brother, not out of any love for the pranks but because he found the elf intriguing. There was something about Kreacher’s bursts of anger, his muttered threats to tell Mistress Walburga, calling James, Sirius; hinted at a life far richer than the one he now endured.
James, of course, laughed it all off, calling the elf senile whenever Kreacher mistook him for Sirius Black. But as they grew older, even James seemed to find the elf’s bitter retorts more upsetting than amusing, and the pranks gradually ceased until they stopped completely. For Albus, though, Kreacher remained a source of fascination, of intrigue. He wanted to understand the creature—not just the elf himself, but the history he carried. What stories lay buried in his sharp remarks and his silence yet worn gaze? Who had walked these halls before, leaving traces of their lives for Kreacher to cling to as the last, loyal keeper of the Black family’s name?
There was something hauntingly admirable in the elf’s dedication, however warped it had become. Albus couldn’t help but wonder about the people who had lived here, the steps that had echoed in these corridors, and the countless generations who had shaped this house into a monument to their pride. Kreacher was the last link to that legacy, a thread frayed and worn but unbroken, and Albus couldn’t help but feel drawn to unravel it.
Though the elf was bound by strict rules—magical ones, Albus assumed—set by his father, the so-called "Lord Potter, the master of the House" Albus had an inkling that Kreacher bent those rules for him. The tea Kreacher brewed for him, the warm traditional pureblood meals he knew his father never cooked; the carefully plated sweets, and even the potions that mysteriously appeared during the long summer months when Albus had barely dragged himself out of bed—these small gestures felt too intentional to be mere coincidence. The house-elf's magic fascinated him. It was unlike wizarding magic yet just as powerful, though it carried an ancient, almost grim weight.
House-elves needed to be bound to wizards to thrive, to remain sane, their very existence tied to servitude. To a Muggle, the arrangement might look like slavery, but Albus had come to think of it more as a twisted form of symbiosis, after he had actually talked to an elf. Still, the thought unsettled him, something deep within his core, his beliefs—How had this bond come to be? Most pureblood academics dismissed such questions, writing as if elves had simply been born to serve, an immutable fact of magical history. Yet Albus couldn't help but see the gaps in their reasoning. Elves wielded magic in ways that seemed almost superior to wizards—they needed no wands, no incantations. Their magic was fluid, instinctive, like breathing. What held them back, Albus thought, was not some inherent limitation but the magical contracts that bound them.
He often wondered if those contracts had been born out of fear. Perhaps, in a time long forgotten, pureblood wizards had seen the raw, untamed power of house-elves and sought to contain it. Maybe those ancient agreements were forged in an age before the lands had names, when wild forests ruled and "half-breeds" and Muggles mingled freely with magical creatures. Back then, the bindings might have been a necessity for survival, but over the centuries, the reasons had faded, leaving only the ritual. And yet, as Albus knew, magic never truly forgot.
Curiously, families who mistreated their house-elves often suffered strange misfortunes—madness, accidents, or even the birth of a Squib. Purebloods, quick to assign blame, claimed their elves cursed them, though the truth seemed more complicated. Albus had read of foreign scholars who suggested that the misfortune came from the magic itself, a kind of karmic backlash from the ancient contracts. Of course, purebloods rarely accepted that theory. Many, fearing retaliation, would kill the elf outright, as if erasing the source of their bad luck, ironically it only made it worse. Those families, supposedly, often disappeared soon after, their bloodlines dying out like extinguished flames.
Contrary to what most people—including his own family—believed, the oldest and most prominent pureblood families treated their house-elves with respect, if not kindness. To own a long lived elf like Kreacher was itself a symbol of status, proof of a family's grace and adherence to higher morals. Elves were nearly immortal, after all. The oldest known elf still served the same family, tracing its lineage back to the Islamic Golden Age. Before Grindelwald’s war, there had even been an Egyptian family whose elf’s origins supposedly predated the pyramids.
Albus tapped with his quill on the pile of parchment that laid in front of him, his homework, which he had regretfully procrastinated in doing. Scorpius would surely had disapproved if he was aware—Yet Albus didn't really find an interest in human transfiguration, and the dangers; Transfiguration was his worst subject, only after charms. He leaned back with a groan.
“Kreacher” He uttered lazily eyes on the ceiling.
Within a second, a pop was heard and the old house elf stood to his side.
“Little Master called Kreacher, what can Kreacher do for the Little Master?” The elf asked.
“Bring me some refreshment and tea.” He said. And the elf popped away. Leaving him once more, his gaze fell, returned towards the parchment that laid before him.
The elf popped in, just like before, but now with a tray in hand, which he carefully and orderly put down beside Albus on his desk.
The elf stayed, as if he was waiting for another order–For meaning.
Albus knew he was the only one to call the elf to ask for things, to order him. It was clear the elf was lonely, missing being of use. Albus hands went towards the laid out scrolls on his desk, his gaze settling on his undone charms homework.
“Kreacher, I have this homework about wards.” Albus began. the elf piquped up. Albus continued, taking in the elfs expression, playing lazily with his quill “Which made me interested in our wards.” he said. “What can you tell me of them?”
“The wards of grimmauld place are the Black wards.” the elf said proudly.
Albus raised an eyebrow as he reached for the hot tea cup and put it up to his lips, taking a sip before continuing. “There arent any Black living here though? Dont blood wards, such as what I suppose the Black wards are, need someone with black Blood to keep the wards up, or atleast write others into them?” Albus asked the elf, who nodded tight lipped.
“There is Black blood living here, Little Master.” The elf answered.
“Who, Kreacher?” Albus asked curiously as he leaned slightly toward the elf, his mind going towards Teddy, who supposedly could be considered Black, through his Grandmother Andromeda Tonks née Black.
“Kreacher shouldn't tell if the Little Master doesn't know.” The elf said, clearly a bit bitter.
“It’s alright,” Albus said as he smiled. “I know, I'm just testing you and your loyalty to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” he said manipulatively.
Kreacher fixed his posture, as much as an ancient elf with a hunch could do. “Kreacher lives to serve The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” The elf uttered.
“You do.” Albus replied as he carefully nodded approvingly.
“All Potters, except the blood traitor—” Kreacher begun. he must mean their mother, a Weasley ”—Are of Black blood.” The elf finished.
“That's a lie Kreacher, there has been no Black blood that has married the Potter line for generations.” He said, trying to remember the family tree, or the little knowledge he knew, at least three, possibly four generations there was no direct blood link to the Blacks that he was aware of.
“Little master is not aware.” the elf said, a bit bitter about being tricked. But continued still, maybe, in spite of his father; or maybe because Albus was the only one speaking to the elf, and actually listening to him.
"Previous blood traitor Master, Sirius Black blood adopted current Master Harry Potter, making him the last heir of the main family line.” the elf uttered a bit regretfully, spite and disgust seemed to almost make him grimace at even calling Sirius Black for Master.
Yet that wasn't the most surprising part, nor the one that shocked him, he had no idea that Sirius Black had blood adopted by his father, as he had never mentioned it.
“Kreacher, when did this blood adoption happen?” he asked. Blood adoptions were part of older traditions, and surely considered dark, even back then. His father had always spoken of Sirius as a hero, a Gryffindor, a man of the light. Who despite his upbringing did not hate muggle borns, and kept his way from the dark magic which had consumed the rest of his family and driven them all into madness. Even if his father sometimes admitted that his godfather Sirius, shared some of his family madness, but his father spoke of it as if it was more an aftereffect from being in Azkaban.
“When Master Potter was little, and Mistress and Master were still alive.” The elf said almost mournfully at the mention of his previous Master Orion Black and Mistress Walburga Black.
That was before Voldemort went and tried to kill his father, and before he had killed his grandparents—
Albus blinked. The revelation started to bear down on him; this wasn't what he had been after, sure there had been a curiosity about the wards that surrounded him, and overall about the history of the house, and who had walked the halls before him—
Yet his question had been just that; wanting to know more about the Blacks, not coming upon such a revelation.
He narrowed his eyes. This could not be well known information could it? Was he really that naive? He grimaced beneath his carefully constructed appearance, maybe it was as Nott had said; that he was in fact very much naive. Irritation flared within at the prospect, the notion of Nott being right. He pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they rose.
“Kreacher,” he said calmly even though his heart beat hard against his chest. A poised smile hanging on his lips “How many know of this? The Blood Adoption?” He clarified.
Kreacher thin lips were a line, and he stood quiet, for a moment, as if he was considering whom, or if he should tell at all.
The House elf breathed in, “Little master, Everyone who knew is dead. Kreacher is not sure if Master Harry knows.” he said, his voice showing the toll of the years, of his age.
“How then does my father hold lordship?” Albus asked, perplexed.
“Master Sirius was Master Harry's Godfather, and the magic accepted Master Harry as heir.”
“Because of the blood adoption.” Albus concluded with furrowed brows.
He knew somewhat why Kreacher had not uttered that part, saying it out loud felt as if he spoke it into existence—The magic had accepted his father, not simply because of Sirius Black being Lord Black and made his father the written heir—No, the reason the magic had accepted him was because of the blood adoption.
Adding to it, the only ones aware of that fact were the ones in this room.
It seemed to dawn on the house elf as quickly as for Albus and Albus could almost swear he saw the house elf ashen as his ear fell even lower, eyes becoming rampant as he realised his mistake.
Kreacher made a sound of disagreement and muttered “Kreacher has told too much,” and then the elf began to hit himself.
Albus just stared.
Then blinked.
“Kreacher, you have done no wrong. Father does not know this; hence you have not gone against him.” Albus said calmly towards the elf. Who seemed to calm down a bit.
“You did well Kreacher—Well to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” Albus continued carefully yet strongly taking in the shifting emotional display of the creature. Planning his words carefully—
“Mistress Walburga would be proud, that you’re teaching the new generations the right way.” he continued, as he watched. His chest begins to hammer, hot boiling blood pumped out into his veins. He took a quick inhale to calm his nerves before finally uttering the last words;
“Kreacher, you need to teach me.”
“Master Harry will not agree.” Kreacher said weakly, as if he already was worn down.
“Master Harry does not need to know.” Albus finished curtly, heart beating in his eardrums.
Albus watched, as the elf before him changed, the dull doom that had become natural, constant in his big eyes, where now replaced with a burning fire. His form no longer hunkered as before, it was as if the years returned towards him, as the magic softly hummed, as if meaning had returned.
Kreacher only nodded, before he popped out of existence.
Albus stared at the place the elf left behind. After a few minutes, he ran his hand through his hair as he breathed out, nerves relenting.
Yet his mind never wavered, trying to make sense of it all. He felt another rush of adrenaline flow through him, so overwhelming, he feared his heart might cumburst; as if he might explode.
He let out a nervous laugh.
Blood adoption.
The words swirled in Albus’s mind, pieces of the puzzle snapping together in rapid succession. Sirius Black had blood-adopted his father, and his grandparents—Albus’s own grandparents—had been alive at the time. They must have known, must have been involved somehow. Could they really have consented to it? It didn’t match the image of them he’d always been told—the bright, righteous Potters. Or maybe that image was never entirely accurate. Maybe they’d held on to more of those old traditions than anyone knew.
It made sense, though, didn’t it? Blood adoption was blood magic, and blood magic was considered dark, and back then not illegal, but still... considered tainted. It wasn’t something light families were known for, not unless they were desperate. And it was rare, especially outside of pureblood circles. It wasn’t just some ceremonial thing—it was deeper, older.
The ritual did more than just adopt a child in name; it tied their magic, even their blood, to the adoptive parent. Albus frowned, the thought of what that really meant prickled at the edges of his mind. It altered you, surely—The genes, the magic, the core—it all shifted, taking in a third influence. Not enough to erase what was already there, but enough to make you... part of them—Recognized by magic.
This was how the old pureblood families had preserved their lines, wasn’t it? Back when heirs were scarce—when tragedy or infertility loomed—they’d blood-adopt someone close, someone with at least a drop of the same blood. The closer the relationship, the better. That way, the House’ magic would accept them and the mainline wouldn’t die out.
And now—Now it all made sense. His father wasn’t just Harry Potter, the Chosen One. He was a Black, too, even if only partially. The blood adoption had made sure of that. It had to be why the Black family’s magic had accepted him as the new Lord Black after Sirius’s death.
Albus’s thoughts snagged on the implication, his chest tightening. If his father carried that legacy, then so did he. It was strange to think about, he was not quite a Black—but close enough that the magic wouldn’t argue if he tried to claim it. Close enough that the mainline didn’t end—
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair once more. His grandparents had consented—or maybe even arranged it. He still couldn’t wrap his head around that part. What else about his family wasn’t as light as he’d been told?
He swiftly moved over to the wardrobe he had stuffed his trunk into, and dragged it out into the floor. He opened the trunk and rummaged through it, until his fingers grasped at a book. He swiftly opened it, tracing the side numbers in the reference before turning up the page about lordship, and heirs.
Traditionally The first born male is the heir, following male and sometimes female children after are so called ‘spares’. Though in powerful families, or families where one has been accepted by multiple lordships, most holding a maximum of two, if not three, more is simply unheard of. Then traditionally the second male child, the so-called first spare, will inherit the second lordship, and be an heir. The firstborn always, if the magic didn't reject them of course, would be the heir to the main House, in their case, James, to the Potter lordship, him then would be heir to the second House or lordship; The Black lordship.
The rules seemed still to be followed, as he could gather from his memory and Scorpius spiel or ‘gossip’ about pureblood families and their inheritance troubles. Together with the faint information Albus held about his two uncles Bill and Charlie concerning the Weasley Lordship. Bill was the firstborn hence heir to the Weasley lordship, as it was their father's House. Charlie was heir to the Prewett lordship through his mother, Albus grandmother Molly Weasley–Nee Prewett, the last living member of the Prewett main branch after her twin brothers had died during the first war with Voldemort.
The Prewett were an old family part of the Sacred twenty eight, and mostly seen as a grey family, which meant they often married freely with dark and light wizarding families, as if Nott and Blaise was correct in their information meant that they could produce all cores, but the main line always seemed to marry others with grey cores, keeping it cores grey, making the spares and female offspring be the ones to marry freely regarding of core.
When—Molly Prewett, his maternal grandmother, married Arthur Weasley, his maternal grandfather, and thus married the Weasley line, they too were labeled blood traitors as the Prewetts did not disinherit Molly.
Albus could feel a headache building as he tried to piece it all together. If he remembered correctly, and if Nott was telling the truth; the Weasleys’ reputation as blood traitors had begun with Bilius Weasley who had broken the family’s pledge to produce wizards with dark cores by marrying a light witch and therefore broke the sacred pledge to magic that they would produce dark cores and protect the legacy.
This was seemingly generations before his great maternal grandfather Septimus Weasley, who had married his maternal great-grandmother Cedrella Weasley nee Black, who had been disowned after marrying into a ‘Blood traitor’ line, another part of the infamous Black tapestry that was blazed off. Albus vaguely recalled meeting Septimus when he was very young—an old man who had died of dragon pox when Albus was still young. He didn’t remember much about him, just snippets from large family gatherings where Septimus had occasionally mentioned his wife who by that time had already passed.
His thoughts shifted uneasily. For years, he had assumed he wasn’t tied to any heirship, a small mercy that had offered a sense of freedom as he approached wizarding age. But now, the realization gnawed at him. If he wanted the Black lordship, he would need to play a careful game: earn his father’s trust, somehow appease him, and convince him to name him the official Black heir.
But what of James? Was he already the official Potter heir? Did he even know? Their father had never mentioned anything about titles, inheritances, or the responsibilities of heirs. Not once.
Irritation flared, hot and sudden, souring his mood. It was so typical of his father’s neglect. How could he ignore something so important? Both he and James should already be aware of their roles, and should have started heirship training long ago. Instead, they lagged behind their peers.
Albus grimaced. His father would never hand him the Black lordship now, not with the suspicion hanging over him. If he asked outright, nothing good would come of it. No, he needed to bide his time, gain his father’s trust first, let him lower his guard—
Albus sighed, running a hand through his hair and leaned back. He would rather deal with Burke and Rosier.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus found it all endlessly fascinating, the interwoven histories of magic and servitude. He often wondered what secrets Kreacher carried within him, what memories lingered of the house’s former masters, and how many generations of Blacks the elf had outlived. Kreacher’s loyalty might have been born from binding magic, but Albus couldn’t help but see it as something deeper—something forged in the unseen layers of history and magic that few cared to understand.
Dead elf heads had once adorned the hallways, a macabre sight his father had often recounted in stories about the cruelty that once lingered within the walls of Grimmauld Place. The tales usually centered around the dreadful portrait of Walburga Black, his father's godfather Sirius's mother, and the oppressive legacy of the Black family. Yet, Kreacher had told him a different tale—
According to the elf, those severed heads were not relics of cruelty, as his father believed, but symbols of honor—memorials for elves who had served the family faithfully until death. In older generations, it was customary for house-elves to choose to die alongside their masters when a branch of the family fell from power or when the lordship passed to a new heir other than the main family. The mounted heads were a way to connect the past to the present, a tangible testament and tribute to their servitude and unwavering loyalty to The Most Noble and Pure House of Black.
His parents, however, had chosen to remove the heads, burying them with the intent of granting the souls peace. To Kreacher, this act was not one of mercy but of disgrace, erasing the legacy of their service and severing the bond between the family’s history and its future. What his parents saw as kindness, Kreacher saw as ignorance and an insult.
Albus nodded along, taking mental notes. After the elf had left him that day, Albus felt a slight unease that it might blow up in his face, that he hadn't persuaded the other, But the elf appeared and began to give small, yet insightful lessons about the Black family legacy, and its traditions. The elf had seemed quite satisfied when Albus revealed that he had read the book the elf had given him the summer before his sorting. Then the elf eased more into it, giving more intricate teachings, and even scolding him when he did some etiquette wrong, seemingly falling back into the position of teaching previous heirs and spares.
It was the week before Albus returned to Hogwarts the elf had woken him up in the middle of night and made him follow him; the elf led him to another room, a part of his home that he never ventured, the building which had been left mostly in its original yet clean form, the tapestry walls on the floor weren't red like the shade he had come to know, but green, Albus took in the decorations, even if old and a bit neglected felt more right in the house. The elf moved them along to a door, one Albus had not seen before, or noticed; perhaps it was beneath a charm. The elf opened the door and went inside, leaving the door open for Albus to follow which he did, with a snap of the elfs fingers the old detailed ceiling light flickered on and the door closed behind them with a soft quiet thud. Albus turned towards where the elf was looking and he was taken out of breath; before him was the infamous black family tapestry. Albus had thought his parents removed it, leaving him shocked.
The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded, Albus moved towards it, letting his fingers trace over it; he felt a slight magic beneath the seams, it felt alive, and dark. Albus leaned his head slightly to the side as he tried to untangle the seams, there was something else, it was easier to tell apart as it was newer, a preservation charm perhaps? the golden thread with which it was embroidered still glinted and thrummed with magic.
The other was too complex to decipher, yet his magic subtly spoke to it, blood magic perhaps? As he had as Fawley had told, a slight ‘alignment’ to it. He hummed out loud as his eyes traced over the branches of his ancestors, he stepped back, to look over it as a whole, his eyes found the main branch and interestingly, out of the burned tapestry came his father's name, then his and his siblings. He raised an eyebrow. The other burned spots lines did not continue after all. He looked at Kreacher.
“Mistress in anger only burned The blood traitor, never disowned.” Kreacher answered as if he knew the question on Albus' mind.
Albus only nodded, eyes once more on the tree branches. To the side of Sirius's name and burnt picture was Regulus, depicted with a skull that most of the family members on the tapestry had. Further were their first cousins, which technically both Regulus and Sirius were to each other—
Albus did not linger on that thought.
There was Bellatrix Lestrange, Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy. With Andromeda's picture burned off and withered, Bellatrix a skull, and Narcissa’ was bright, showing that she still was around. Albus took a step closer, furrowing his brows.
Beneath Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, where there should only have been one head—
were two.
To the side of Draco Malfoy, was another burned off portrait. Albus blinked. Wondering only for a slight moment before realisation hit him like a cold wave, of course—It must have been a squib. Albus let his eyes continue down. Beneath Draco Malfoy and Astoria Malfoy was Scorpius. Albus fingers traced over the figure for a while as he considered touching the bracelet, but stopped himself as it was night.
Albus didn't want to think about the reality that he and Scorpius were distant cousins, he felt conflicted, a weird feeling in his stomach, after all shouldn't he be happy that they were related? Distant cousins? Afterall if he saw him as a brother—
He traced over the name. Why wasn't he happy?
Why did it bring him unease?
Instead of letting his thoughts spiral he forced his eyes away; gaze wandering lower on the tree, trying instead to find his great maternal grandmother who married into the Weasley line. He found her beneath Arcturus Black and Lysandra Yaxley, Cedrella's portrait was burned and withered like that of Andromedas, stopping the line.
“Does the magic stop recording family members that are burned off? Are they considered dead?” he asked the elf.
Who answered through a flicker of his wrist and Albus' eyes grew bigger as new names beneath the burned portraits came forward. He swiftly composed himself and smirked at the showing of the complex magic. Beneath Cedrella's portrait continued the line, showing Arthur Weasley and his two brothers both skulls, then the interconnection with the Prewetts Molly, and finally his uncles and mother showed beneath, and all offspring, the magic seemed to recognize the connection making the tree connect his mother and his father’s marriage relation as well.
“How fascinating.” he mused aloud. Watching the magic shift and change the tree lines in real time. He turned towards Kreacher. “Thank you for showing me this Kreacher.” he said, voice soft, tone telling nothing but the truth.
He returned to studying the tapestry, his curiosity unquenched. He traced the line that connected to the Potters with his eyes. Dorea Black had married his paternal great-grandfather's brother, Charlus Potter. The two had apparently had one child, now long gone—a child who would have been his fraternal grandfather James Potter's cousin.
Another soul lost to the war perhaps? Yet the age, could even line up with Grindelwald's war, as his paternal great-grandparents Fleamont and Euphemia Potter had been quite old when they had James, who all were still on the tapestry, meaning that the Potters were not considered blood traitors—Well until Harry Potter married his mother and into the Weasley line.
Yet their portraits weren't burned, as there was no one else left to do it, except of course his father.
This all confirmed his previous thought, and regretfully did not disprove Notts and Zabini’ tellings, might even further it as Cedrella was burned off.
A smirk widened on his features as his gaze found the creature one more “Kreacher, I have some spells I want to try out, is there any unused room I could use? Where my father wouldn't be able to… notice?” He asked with a sweet tone to his voice.
The elf nodded. “Kreacher lives to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” He said before moving out of the room Albus followed, only to stop in his tracks when his eyes went towards the malfoy branch, beneath the squib there was a line that continued, yet it was nothing alike the others, the names seemed not only foreign to british tongue, but written in a language, an alphabet he could not decipher—
A creek of the wooden board made his gaze return to the elf staring at him outside the door, Albus quickly shot Kreacher an apologetic smile and moved once more, yet his eyes didn't stray from the space beneath the burned picture, until he had no other choice but to walk away.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus's fingers traced over the aged parchment of Obscure and Undetected Curses: An Encyclopedia, his eyes absorbing the dense text with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The movements of his wand, carefully mimicked from the diagrams, had become second nature after hours—Days of practice.
The fluid flick and precise twist felt effortless now, as though his wrist were an extension of his intent.
It was only two days before departure, and already the book had proven invaluable. Several curses had been perfected, each one crawling under his skin with the seductive pull of untapped power, of erratic magic screaming at him to unleash it, to feel its toll. He had learned, the darker the spell, the more naturally it came to him—With an almost unnerving ease that felt as though his magic craved it–As if it was meant to be.
His gaze shifted to the mouse scurrying nervously in the glass enclosure before him. With a slow exhale, he raised his wand and uttered the incantation, his voice sharp and deliberate:
“Ignis Fictus.”
The red light shot from his wand and struck the mouse squarely. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The mouse froze, its tiny body trembling lightly, Then—Violently. Its movements turned frantic as it darted in wild, erratic circles, squeaking in distress. It rolled onto its back, its legs kicking furiously as if trying to extinguish invisible flames. Albus watched with cold fascination as the creature’s instincts betrayed it, the illusion forcing it to enact the desperate, futile motions of a victim engulfed in fire.
When it finally stilled, the mouse lay on its side, chest heaving, its small body shuddering with residual terror or tremors as a psychological aftereffect? Albus furrowed his brow as he wrote it down in his notes.
He clicked his tongue, unimpressed. Fifteen seconds.
Barely enough to make an impact. He scribbled the result in his notebook, annotating the duration and the vividness of the effects–Aftereffect?
He leaned back, gaze once more in the encyclopedia.
The tome described Ignis Fictus as a curse of masterful subtlety. The illusion attacked the nervous system, distorting the signals until the brain believed it was engulfed in flames. Heat, pain, even the acrid stench of burning flesh—all fabricated with agonizing detail. And yet, the victim remained physically unharmed, their suffering purely mental.
Its undetectable nature made it lethal in its own way. No magical residue. No visible effects. To the outside world, the victim might appear mad, caught in the grip of a psychotic break. Few would suspect a curse, and fewer still could break it without advanced Occlumency. Even then, the sensory manipulations made it nearly impossible to distinguish reality from illusion.
He snorted, laughed to himself—
Maybe he should teach Scorpius the spell, so he in turn could use it on Albus—As a test of his own mental defenses. He was really interested in knowing exactly how good his own defenses were and if they could withstand the spell. Yet he knew Scorpius would never do such a thing, and Albus knew painfully better than to teach the curse to Fawley—
Well, he didn't exactly have good faith in his ability to keep it from her, if she really tried—Yet that in itself could be a value practice, he mused as his eyes fell on the little mouse before him.
He raised his wand again, a faint smile curling his lips. His tone grew colder, devoid of hesitation. “Ignis Fictus.”
The new wave of red light hit the mouse. This time, its agony was more pronounced, and the warmth that spread inside Albus more predominant. The creature flung itself around the enclosure, colliding with the glass walls in its frantic bid for escape. It rolled violently, pawing at its face as though trying to smother invisible flames. The pitiful squeals rose in volume, then tapered off as the mouse collapsed, twitching on the floor.
Albus kept his eyes fixated on it, counting the seconds silently in his head. Twenty-five. Progress. But not enough progress. It wasn’t nearly enough.
He looked down at the mouse, its chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. His expression was unreadable as he called, “Kreacher.”
The house-elf appeared immediately, his bat-like ears twitching as he surveyed the scene.
“Take this one,” Albus instructed, gesturing to the enclosure, half lazily, “Feed it to Merlin, and bring me another.”
Kreacher eyes flicking between Albus and the trembling mouse. with no hesitation he nodded. “Yes, Little Master,” the elf rasped. He scooped up the mouse and vanished with a sharp pop, reappearing seconds later with another.
The fresh mouse was placed into the enclosure, its small frame quivering as it sniffed hesitantly at its new surroundings. Albus stared at it, his grip tightening around his wand.
It wasn’t as though he enjoyed this. The thought of torturing animals should have been distasteful—unethical, even. But necessity outweighed sentiment. He needed to test the curse’s limits, refine its duration, and ensure its effectiveness. The Muggles used mice for experiments all the time, didn’t they? And at least he wasn’t wasting their suffering for something as simple as makeup products.
He exhaled slowly, raising his wand once more. Albus knew he should feel disgusted, guilty even. His hand should tremble with revulsion; his conscience should scream at the cruelty unfolding before him. He should feel dirty, ashamed of what he was doing. Only, he didn’t.
He didn’t have the privilege of such sentiments; guilt, and mercy, was a weakness he couldn’t afford, not when his enemies played with different rules, with different morals.
The mouse froze, sensing the shift in the air, its whiskers quivering as it shrank back into the corner of the enclosure.
“Ignis Fictus,” Albus whispered, his voice devoid of warmth.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Albus let out a frustrated groan as his body slumped forward hitting the wooden floorboards with a dull thud, around his half-sitting, half-crouching form lay papers, sluggish with writhing and carefully drawn symbols—Some left unfinished, with lines half drawn as if they were disregarded over the simplest stroke drawn wrong.
The room was lit up with a dim ceiling light, which hung above his sprawled form on the floor. His fingers clawed into his hair, gripping at the roots, tugging harshly as though the action itself could remove his brain's inability to properly work. His breath came sharp and uneven sharp and uneven, his body trembling with the weight of exhaustion and anger. His clothes were as disheveled as his hair, beneath his eyes lay deep shadows, etched into his youthful features his eyes clouded yet sharp.
With soft ragged breath his hand stopped moving, then with another thud, Albus hit his head into the floor groaning in frustration, his hands clenched into themselves, nails breaking flesh.
With the same drive that made him scream out in frustration he straightened his posture once more into a sitting position, his body was sore, and tense from spending hours sitting on the floor, hunkered over a book, scrolls and papers, his hands stained with ink—Ached from hours of carefully drawing carefully constructed lines.
It was the night before departure, and he found himself unprepared for what that would bring—
He lacked what he most needed, a way of protection. Between the few hours of the day he could disappear from his family's eyes he had practiced spells—perfecting them, and now he found himself loomed over another book. He knew with utmost certainty that nowhere was safe at school, and that even meant his sleeping squatters, how many times had he not found himself dragged from his sleep to only face Burke’s and his sycophant's mercy?
This term would be different—he could no longer allow himself to be so vulnerable, so helpless and weak, therefore, he had found himself bent over books on warding, his main source, the one time he brought from Ella was certainly helpful, yet at the same time useless, he thought with naivety that warding would come easy to him, like the curses he had practiced before, and while some did, they were not the kind he could be found using by anyone, his luck and affinity laid with blood wards, but where their greatest strength laid, it was also their greatest weakness.
Blood wards were heavily regulated, and if not approved, considered illegal, the few exceptions are blood wards laid generations ago, or ones that are old family heirlooms, and while he could use his blood to create simple yet effective wards, these were not ones that he could be found using, the notion of layering wards to hide them was complex, and one needed to have an intricate understanding of the inner workings, and understanding of the language in use, most common was using runes, yet Albus knew very little about them.
Unconsciously his hand was moved towards his mouth, and he began to bite on his nails as his eyes roamed over the texts he had spent the two hours reading and trying to copy.
It was simple, yet he couldn't do it. He was too weak, to stupid to magically inept.
With a frustrated hiss, he rubbed his eyes, but the motion only made it worse. His body betrayed him. His posture slumped forward before he caught himself with one hand against the floor, panting as dizziness clouded his mind. Dark spots swam at the edges of his vision.
Then, a sudden, sharp stab—a pain so intense it felt as though thousands of tiny needles pierced through his skull at once.
A strangled groan escaped his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain away.
A faint drip found his ears, a soft splatter against parchment.
Blinking, he forced his eyes open, confusion settling in—until he saw it.
Scarlet streaked the paper beneath him. A thin stream of red dripped from his nose, staining his notes.
His mind and senses dampened due to his exhaustion made him unaware of the presence that had been watching him for a while, until the voice spoke up.
“Little Master needs to sleep.”
Albus didn't even let his eyes stray from the notes before him, he only took his own hand up to his nose to stop the bleeding.
“I already told you, Kreacher, I can't. Not yet.” Albus bit out voice strained from exhaustion and frustration.
“This is no good for the little master.” Kreacher resorted as his eyes observed the room, from the cushions that had fallen to the floor from the couch, the used dishes, left half eaten and mugs half empty, the elf gaze flickered towards the desk whom surface was filled with books and scrunched parchment, then finally towards the center of the room, on the old cashmere rug almost covered by parchments and bottles of ink, some tipped and empty, others still leaking dark ink—quills left in ink, others thrown on the mat, scattered, discarded like the plates of half eaten food and cups of cold tea.
“That doesn't matter Kreacher, and didn't I order you to stay away?” The small scrunched form in the middle of it all replied, the blood now patchy and dried on his face as his hand once more began to draw careful lines of ink—
“Little master needs to wake up soon.” Kreacher continued to push.
Albus shook his head frantically after his hand gave out, causing the line to be too heavily inked.
“The ward I need–” Albus mumbled, his other hand flew towards his mouth—as his front teeth tore into nails.
“I need to perfect this warding rune.” Albus muttered, eyes flicking toward the pages, to his drawings. Causing his eyes unnaturally concentrated.
“Little Master is not there yet.” The elf said.
Albus turned his head quickly, giving the elf a death stare. “I know!” he screamed in a raw voice, before he started to bite his nail once more in frustration. “I need–”
“Little master needs to sleep.”
“No! I need my hand to perfect this rune!” Albus bit back, voice breaking.
The elf stood quietly, before he popped away. Making Albus turn his gaze once more towards the book, and pulling a fresh parchment towards himself.
With a pop, Kreacher returned into the room, before Albus, making him look up from his half written rune. From Kreacher’s fingers hung a small dark green velvet pouch. The items made Albus stop his meticulous drawing as his green eyes wandered to the dark green velvet pouch—hanging, slowly dangling, from Kreacher’s thin boney fingers. From a thick black leather string that bound the pouch together.
Albus' eyes found the Elf's once more with slight dazed confusion.
“Little Master is not there yet, but little Master still needs protection, So Kreacher will give Little Master a Black protection Heirloom”
Albus' eyes grew wider, his ink stained quill thrown as his hands carefully went towards the pouch. Kreacher let go of the pouch, making it fall into Albus’ palms, whose piercing gaze was on the small pouch, quietly waiting for an explanation, like a child.
”How does it work?” Albus asked, his voice wavered, strained from exhaustion, more so than what he had previously thought, or let himself feel.
Kreacher continued to speak. As Albus began to unravel the leather string.
“Little Master will use this instead of a ward.” Kreacher explained.
Albus’s fingers tightened around the cool metal now in his hand, “What do I do with it?” he asked.
"Little Master holds the coin," Kreacher muttered, his fingers twitching, “For Little Master to use he must press it; the coin on to the surface little Master wants protected. A wall, a door, anywhere the little Master wishes to keep safe. Must be a space that can be closed, yes, sealed.”
Albus nodded slowly.
“Then...” Kreacher’s voice dropped, “Little master put his blood on it, just a drop, and speak the Family motto.”
The house elf’s hands gestured in the air as if the very motion would make Albus understand.
“The coin, once it touches, will disappear into the surface like a brand. You’ll see the mark, the insignia of the Mighty, and the most Noble and Pure House of Black.”
Albus ran his fingers over the cold, smooth surface of the coin, As the elf continued,
"Once it is placed, Little Master, the space will be guarded—When Little Master wishes to end it, all you need to do is return your blood, put it on the mark, and repeat the words once more."
Albus's gaze lingered on the coin, and then to Kreacher’s face, his fingers tracing over the coin's surface, his eyes went towards the floor, the laid out papers, the half done runes, the spilled ink and dried blood. With a sharp breath his shoulders slumped inwards on himself, then darkness took over his gaze, he slumped forward, yet his body was caught in mid-air.
"Yes—No harm will come to little Master" Kreacher mumbled, hand outstretched towards Albus, slowly moving his hand downwards which made the small form carefully lowered onto the floor.
“Master will now sleep.” The elf uttered. before going and placing a hand on Albus and with a pop leaving the room empty.
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Notes:
SO THERE!! very much info in this one, and some big reveals, i hope you found them exciting! Or maybe you already had a feeling of it's going this way? HAHA i love to hear your thoughts on the chapter <3
NEXT WILL BE START OF THE SECOND TEERM!!!
lmao, it took a while and very much wikipedia reading to figure and do the family tree.
*No real animals where harmed in this chapter <3
Chapter 27: Chapter Twenty Seven - Maddening Blood
Notes:
Hello!!! HERE IS ANOTHER CHAPTER!!! I'M SO EXCITED FOR THIS ONE!!! Maybe a bit too much actually!! Well hope you will find it as exciting as i do!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter Twenty Seven - Maddening Blood
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Albus’s steps faltered as he slid open the compartment door, his eyes narrowing at the sight before him. Zabini was there, and lounging far too close to Scorpius, their voices entwined in what appeared to be light bickering.
Scorpius rolled his eyes in exasperation as a response to Zabini comment, Albus narrowed his eyes slightly. There was something in the exchange—a casualness, a familiarity, a smile—that gnawed at Albus. He’d never seen them like this before.
“Albus!” Sam’s voice pulled him out from his thoughts, the younger boy’s enthusiasm was bright as he set aside the book he’d been reading. Albus offered a friendly smile in return, but his attention snapped back to the two other Slytherins in the compartment as they turned to look at him.
The moment Their gaze interlocked, Scorpius stood–His bright warm smile laid prettily on his soft features. It soothed the unease he felt just moments before. He let himself be pulled into a tight hug, the embrace felt as if the world stopped on its axis, or if he only existed for this simple thing, for the warmth now embracing him, he felt his body untense and ease into the warm embrace of the other, of Scorpius.
Albus clung to the comfort, to the warmth that was pressed against him, as if they had never been apart. He felt the steady rhythm of Scorpius’s heartbeat, he breathed in the familiar scent of him. It was grounding as the scent of damp earth after rain fall, as if he had returned home, to where he was supposed to be.
As they pulled apart, Albus caught the sharp look Zabini was throwing his way, Yet he ignored the other boy and schooled his features into a lazy smirk as he casually bent his head slightly to the side.
“Zabini,” he drawled, letting go of Scorpius, and gracefully slipping into the opposite seat of the two with a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. Zabini’s only response was to cross his arms and glance away, his posture exuding disinterest, yet Albus could tell by the other boy's gaze that he was annoyed. Scorpius, meanwhile, resumed his seat beside Zabini–As if that in of itself wasn't an issue, as if it was normal, the casualness of it left Albus uncomfortably aware of the space between himself and Scorpius.
Raising an eyebrow, Albus directed his unspoken question to the blond, but it was Sam who spoke.
“Albus, did you know Scorpius and Zachary were childhood friends?” Sam’s voice was light, but his words hit like a curse.
Albus’s smile tightened, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “No, I wasn't aware, given their interactions during our first year” he said, forcing a casual tone that barely masked his annoyance.
Zabini smirked, his voice dripping with disinterest. “Didn't think you were important enough to tell.”
Scorpius' gaze flickered between the two, before it landed on Albus giving him a warm smile. “Our families… had a fallout, but now they’ve—” He hesitated, catching the pointed look from Zabini.
“They made up. The Parkinson's-Zabini's stayed at our Manor during the break, rekindling an old friendship. Hence why Zachery is here, look Albus–” he began voice a bit strained. “I know you and Zachary have had–” Scorpius began to ramble like he always did in that high pitched, wobbly way, and oh—How much Albus had missed that—
Yet his mind seemed to linger over the casual way the other spoke of Zabini’s first name, irritation festered deep in his stomach as his chest tightened, the words had struck a chord. He felt driven by the unsettling feeling in his stomach, which bled into his heart—
His lips curled into a smirk to mask the feeling spreading through him as a wildfire as his eyes met Zabini’s.
Albus’s words cut Scorpius off mid-sentence, “Oh? I thought your family didn’t like blood traitors. Now you even stay at their Manor?” he mocked, voice cool with a sneer.
Temperature in the compartment plummeted.
Scorpius froze mid-sentence, eyes wide. His lips still parted mid-word, the sentence still dying on his tongue. A faint blush spread on his soft delicate cheeks, painting him tender.
The silence that engulfed the compartment cut sharper than the Severing charm. Sam fidgeted uncomfortably as Zabini’s sudden, icy gaze found him. Zaibin's eyes roamed, looking him over, like he was dirt. Like he wasn't supposed to hear, Albus smirked as Zabini gaze went towards him once more.
“You’re going to talk about this around a filthy—” Zabini’s voice cut off abruptly as Zabini’s voice cut off as Scorpius’s glare snapped to the side, hitting his arm sharply.
With a theatrical eye-roll, Zabini’s expression slid back into something smoother, more smug “—Around a Ravenclaw,” he corrected smoothly with a poised smile, though the venom in his tone lingered.
Albus smirked, fingers twitching against the armrest. his tone biting, “Sam can be trusted, unlike some.” he replied flatly.
Scorpius nodded, subtle and hopeful, yet none acknowledged his action, as the tension between Albus and Zabini was unmistakable.
Zabini leaned back, his gaze calculating as he seemed to consider his next move. After a beat, he leaned forward with a newfound glint in his eye, with his lip slightly uplifted “Seems like nobody thought it important enough to tell you—not that many would—” he trailed off mockingly, his posh tone pronouncing each word as a deliberate condescending jab.
Albus’s hand drifted toward his wand, his jaw tightening.
Scorpius' gaze darted between the two, face in a grimace as if he could smell the tension, feel it against his throat—His grimace turned into one of scowl disapproval.
“—The Malfoys aren’t blood traitors anymore.” Zabini added smoothly, with a self-satisfied smirk, delighting in the shift in Albus’s expression.
Albus blinked, his shock betraying him just for a slight moment before his expression hardened and turned neutral.
“Oh?” He said, with a bored tone, but there was a bitter edge to it now, one he didn't hide. “I thought ‘blood traitor’ wasn’t a title easily thrown around. Or removed.”
“It’s not. And not for the types of you to judge” Zabini began, his confidence was unwavering, his tone condescending and posh, showing his beeding. “The title cannot be removed, yet it was never placed on the Malfoy name by the council to begin with, but only by some families.” Zabini shot back, his confidence was unwavering.
Albus tilted his head, his lips curling into a thin smile. “I see,” he murmured as his mind went over the information that Zabini had given, the way of which the others tone had been, struck him harder than what he would ever admit, he hated not knowing, he hated lacking—
Yet even with the swirl of emotion, festering, biting, clawing his insides, even with the shame, embarrassment of being found lacking, his mind roarmed at the information he had been given—A council.
Even within the fiendfyre that tore at his ribcage, like prisoners against bars, his heart thrilled. He wanted to laugh, Zabini didn’t even seem aware of the slip, of the information he had given, of the ears it fell upon.
A council; a dark council presumingly, his mind flashed back to Samhain to the people dressed, masked around a fire, with cloth that seemed far older than the mimicry that that been the death eaters, the way it all; the rituals, the festivities, the old ways—How it all spoke of something larger; something older, at a community, one with moving head—One that had delivered the judgement from magic herself on his ancestor, who had stained their blood, made them blood traitors—
A Council; that could undo it, if magic herself would approve.
The thought alone was electric, racing hot and bright through Albus’s veins. He didn’t bother hiding the smirk that twisted across his face.
“You know,” he began, almost lazily—but there was a harshness beneath the silken tone, “I always thought it was curious—” he drew out the word like a wand from it's sheath, “—when my father released yours.”
He tilted his head, gaze sharp and unblinking, the smile on his lips appeared too still, too intentional.
Then he leaned forward, just slightly, like he was about to whisper a secret, but pitched his tone so the whole compartment could hear.
“Tell me, Zabini” he purred, soft as silk, “is it true that there was voting fraud in Italy?”
A beat.
Zabini’s face twitched—barely—but it was enough. A crack. Albus’s heart soared at the sight of it. It was all the proof he needed. He'd won.
Zabini’s expression darkened, a flicker of something murderous behind the calm.
The air thickened. Heavy. Suffocating.
Albus breathed it in like incense.
Scorpius’s eyes locked on his—a silent, desperate plea. His expression was torn between concern and warning.
But Albus didn’t look his way. Didn’t flinch. He leaned back into his seat, all lazy nonchalance and twisted amusement, eyes never straying from Zabini.
“Whatever the case between the Zabinis and Malfoys,” he said coolly, voice sharp and deliberate, “there’s still one blood traitor in this compartment.”
His gaze stared into the others.
“And a Muggle-born,” he added, with a casual flick of his fingers toward Sam. “Aren’t you afraid, Zabini? Afraid your little reputation might suffer? People might start calling you a Muggle-lover.”
He smiled, small and serpent-like.
“And oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought “you wouldn’t be in the top spot for Top boy anymore, then, would you?”
The silence was as biting as the frost on the window, as the thick, snow festering, blizzarding the world outside in white.
Scorpius exhaled sharply, his eyes darting to Sam—who had shrunk back in his seat, trying to vanish into the fabric. But Sam’s gaze was locked on Albus, and it wasn’t fear that glinted in his eyes, no his eyes told a different story, one of intrigue.
Albus felt a flicker of satisfaction—control was intoxicating. But the thrill was fleeting, quickly consumed by the gnawing unease coiling tighter in his chest. Even as his lips twisted into a smirk, the bitter taste of jealousy lingered, a dark, unshakable presence. Especially the way Scorpius gaze had shifted, no longer on him with concern, but on Zabini wearing that same expression that had been on him—
Zabini broke the silence, his composure unshaken. “I have a proposition,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with condescension.
Albus arched his brow. “Oh? Do enlighten us.” he answered mockingly.
“This term—stay away from Scorpius.”
Albus’s anger ignited like a spark catching fire, roaring to life like a fiendfyre before he even realised it, he was on his feet, his wand pressed firmly against Zabini’s throat. Zabini didn’t flinch; instead, he leaned back leisurely, as if Albus were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
“What—” Albus and Scorpius said in unison, their shock evident. Scorpius’s expression twisted into one of equal parts anger and something else as his eyes flickered toward Zabini.
Zabini remained maddeningly calm, raising a single brow. “Think, Potter,” he spat, his voice dripping with derision. “Malfoy is no longer a blood traitor. Staying close to you will only put him in danger—unless you want him to end up hexed—”
His gaze shifted momentarily to Sam, who had his book strategically placed before him, gaze down as if he was reading, yet his body language told all the signs that he was indeed listening—Before Zabini gaze returned to meet Albus’s burning glare. “or worse.”
Scorpius moved to protest. “I would never even if—”
“Stop.” Albus’s voice cut through the compartment like a blade. He forced himself to step back, jaw clenched, wand lowering with a tremble he tried to hide. His heart beat so painfully it felt as if it was clawed at his ribcage. Every movement was deliberate, but his eyes never left Zabini, burning holes into him as he tried to smother the fury boiling in his veins, boiling him alive.
He fell back into his seat, the picture of composure, though his clenched fists betrayed his fraying state.
“Go on,” he said, voice dangerously calm.
Scorpius shot him a glare—sharper than usual, irritated at being sidelined a second time.
Zabini seized the moment.
“After last term’s little spectacle,” he drawled, smugness curling at the corners of his mouth, “everyone in the House knows about your rivalry with Burke. This term will be worse. They’ll see Malfoy as your weak spot. And with what you just did—” he gestured lazily to Albus’s wand hand, who’s grip on the cushion had turned his tanned complexion white “—you’ve made that painfully obvious.”
A memory flashed—unbidden, vicious forcing it’s way through his mind—
The image of Scorpius caught in the crossfire of Slytherin’s hostility—The freezing weight of water pulling at his limbs, the ghostly pallor of Scorpius’s skin as he floated just beneath the surface—Blonde locks drifted like strands of silk through the murky green, framing a face too still.
Albus’s lungs burned, not from lack of air but from panic, from the bone-deep terror that he might be too late. He remembered the way his hands trembled as he dragged Scorpius onto the rocks, the brutal thump of his own heartbeat, the bruising press of his hands on Scorpius’s chest, trying, pleading, begging, for him to breathe—
Then—The forest, the panic, the sound of long spidery limbs—The blood, the fire; The feeling of godhood, indestructibility—until Scorpius’s face carved through his mind visceral as the terror on Scorpius delicate features that night, the way he had looked with terror—At not only the fire but; at him.
HIs mind flickered to the aftermath, the angry red scars spiraling across porcelain skin, tainting him—His own hands, shaking as he applied salve.
The guilt had carved deep, where once more to visceral to ignore.
He gulped—Yes, it was like Zaibin had said, his achilles heel was nothing other than the other, than Scorpius.
He tightened his grip on the seat fabric beneath his fingers, as if trying to anchor himself to reality, to ignore the desperation that boiled his veins, that coiled around his heart. He clenched his jaw and blinked, forcing his mind shield up, pushing all the emotion, fear and dread behind it. He felt his heart waver, slowing—The reality around him, the sounds of trains wheels over track, of wind houding against the window, the way the engine howled, the metal grinded felt airy, distant dream like—He let go of the fabric and fixed his composure without difficulty. The first gaze he met was Scorpius, who looked at him with concern.
Yet the gaze did nothing, so he only returned a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes, before he turned back to Zabini with a new stoic tone “I see the prospects, yet I can't help but wonder—what would you get out of this?” he uttered, as his eyes, mind calculated with an almost unnerving ease, his eyes gouged the others reaction with a deadly calm.
Zabini only smirked back. “Oh don’t try to understand with your feeble little mind, let’s just say it's equally rewarding, yes?” the other said poised as ever. The two boys then glared at each other, seemingly in a match to decipher the others true motivation.
“Hello?” Scorpius snapped, his voice tearing through the tension like a whip. He crossed his arms, glaring at both boys. “I’m not some object you can trade—” He began as he scolded his features, offended, “I’m not abandoning Albus. Forget it. I can handle whatever—”
“No,” Albus interrupted, his voice monotone but resolute. "Zabini is right.”
In the back of his mind, the admission felt like betrayal of sorts, only given the way Zabini ugly mug smirked at his words.
Scorpius turned to him, disbelief and slight hurt etched across his face. “What?”
“You can still meet in our dorm,” Zabini offered, his tone smug, as though presenting a perfectly reasonable solution.
Scorpius looked ready to argue, but Albus had already made up his mind. “It won’t be for the whole term,” he said, locking eyes with Scorpius. His voice softened, yet it felt hollow.
“Only until I deal with, or make a deal with Burke.” His words were steady.
Zabini arched a brow, his scepticism clear, but said nothing. Across the compartment, Sam shifted, finally looking up, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
Scorpius’s expression darkened, his irritation boiling into anger. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice exaggerated, as in disbelief.
“Think, Scorpius,” Albus began, his tone colder than he meant, yet with his mental shields so high, it was as if he was devoid of emotion. “The lake, the forest.” he said with almost a clinical tone, making Scorpius look taken aback. “You are simply too weak.” Albus said with finality.
He saw the hurt look on the other, the anger, yet it didn't faze him like it usually would.
“It hurts me as much as it hurts you.“ He responded, monotone. Albus would have grimaced at himself for sounding so cold, distant, yet he didn't really care for the moment as he continued.
“It’s better for you to be on the inside like the others—” He stopped himself before saying ‘protected’
“It will work out better, no loose ends.” he finished.
Scorpius’s anger ebbed, replaced by another emotion Albus could not decipher. There was a subtle flicker of hurt in those grey eyes as Scorpius seemed to consider it. He sighed, clearly resigned, though his expression remained stormy.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “And if they try anything like the lake or the forest again, this plan is over.”
Albus nodded. Yet When Scorpius searched his eyes, they came off as distant, distracted.
Concern etched Scorpius features once more.
“Come on then,” Zabini said abruptly, rising to his feet and breaking the moment. He smirked as he grabbed Scorpius’s bag.
“What—” Scorpius began, taked out his own thoughts, but Zabini cut him off smoothly.
“Clearly, we’re going to join Nott and Bowker. Like the blood traitor said, we can’t be seen here. Not with him—” His eyes flicked toward Sam. “—or the Mud—Muggle-born.” The mistake was barely concealed, but Zabini’s posh veneer masked it well enough.
He swung the compartment door open and strode out as if nothing had happened.
Scorpius hesitated, his fury shifting to discomfort. He turned back to Sam, his gaze softening.
“I’ll make him stop—and apologise,” he promised apologetically before following Zabini out the door.
Sam waved him off, his expression more amused than offended. “Sure.”
The door slid shut with a finality that settled heavily over the compartment.
Silence lingered. Sam gave him a look of concern, then spoke;
“Clearly, you have a lot to explain.”
Albus nodded, mentally he took down his walls, which seemed to come with much more difficulty than raising them. Then it all hit him at once, and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Dread, shame and jealousy churned inside him, twisting together in a storm he couldn’t escape, as fiendfyre he could not control, burning him, choking him. The look Scorpius had given him made him want to drown himself into the lake.
“I’m not sure you actually want to know.” Albus said with an exhausted bitter laugh.
Sam grinned “Yeah–Me neither.” He said promptly, “Now, what was that? Why did you suddenly turn so robotic?” Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.
Albus' gaze wandered to him and smirked knowingly.
“I will tell you when the time is right, also don't use the term robotic, the purebloods will clutch their heirlooms” he said as he rolled his eyes.
Sam laughed at that.
“Now tell me how it was at the Manor? Did they have Stuffed elf heads hanging on the walls?” he asked the other who gave him a grimace at the imaginary and began to tell him about his time at the manor.
Sam began to recount his time at Malfoy Manor—how unexpectedly normal it had been, how startled both he and Scorpius were when the Zabini-Parkinsons had shown up to stay for a few days, following Mr. Zabini released from his holding cell.
“They were… fine, actually,” Sam said, clearly still puzzled. “Surprisingly nice, at least while I was there. Honestly, I don’t get why Zachary is being such a prick now. He wasn’t like that last week.”
Albus only hummed as a response.
He knew exactly why Zabini had changed, knew too well the power plays and performances that ruled their House. Zabini was only showing his true face now that it mattered—Whenever it had been now here with them or at the manor, he couldn't not say–Not that he much cared to know.
Deep down, Albus hated how familiar that felt. He bit his tongue, and kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he shifted slightly, watching Sam’s face for a beat longer.
“Still, how come Scorpius acted so casual with Zabini?” he said, carefully neutral.
“I told you didnt I?” Sam recounted. “They were childhood friends, their parents were supposingly close when they were younger, something happened that is now resolved.” He said his gaze now on Albus, clearly also fishing for information,
So very Ravenclaw of him, Albus smirked as he leaned back.
“It’s Interesting that the visit happened to align with Zabini's release.” Albus said with a casual tone.
Sam nodded, his eyes were softly cloudy, as if the boy was thinking. “I thought so too–” He began. “Lord Malfoy had previously gone to the Ministry and got back looking very smug—More than usual.” the boy quickly clarified. Albus snorted, Sam continued his retelling,
“Then a few days later the Parkinson-Zabini's were there.”
Albus nodded, his fingers tapping lazily against the arm rest. “The bill my Aunt and Father wanted to pass, got passed, I believe it might have something to do with the release.”
“Why?” Sam asked gaze sharp, as if his mind were puzzling together the pieces and he wasn't aware of his tone.
Albus smirked, “You can actually get the paperwork on which families voted on what, the copies exist for those in the Wizengamot that could not be at the meeting.” Albus explained.
He smirked widened as his gaze found the others a bit teasingly. “I just happened to stumble across it in my father's study–” he trailed off, letting Sam fill in the rest.
“So you mean that The Malfoys voted for your Fathers and aunts bill?” Sam asked, puzzled etched into his features as his hand rested beneath his chin.
Albus nodded. “Not only that, also the Parkinssons.” Albus revealed with a grin.
Sam blinked. “You mean–” he begun—
"Exactly, My father–” Albus said bitterly “Released Zabini in exchange for the Malfoy and Parkinson votes.”
Sam got quiet, his mind calculation as his eyes flickered towards the sides. “Now that you mention it—” he began. mind trailing “Lord Malfoy did thank Lady Parkinson during dinner.”
Sam looked at him a bit more concerned now, clearly showing his younger age. His eyes flickered, as if unsure as if to ask his coming question.
“Is that–” He began, “how The Ministry functions?” he asked, voice smaller.
Albus' gaze softened as he looked at the other boy. “Zabini release could just have been a coincidence, say lack of evidence, and both the Malfoys and Parkinssons might have been for the bill, after all it’s not a bill that they would be against.”
“What kind of bill was it?” Sam asked, his tone less hesitant, more calm.
“It was a bill about lessening the work restriction placed on those with creature blood, the bill was invoked at the start of this new year.”
Sam furrowed his brow “I didn't know there were work restrictions.”
“It’s mostly within the Ministry, the Auror department, like those with lycanthropy cannot become Aurors, same with other types of ‘dark’ creature inheritance’” Albus said bitterly.
“What–” Sam began, “That's discrimination.” he said, offended. Albus snorted.
“The Ministry of Magic is actually not that progressive when it comes to creature rights, neither is the British public, my Father and Aunt have tried to push bills like that forever.”
Albus' mood soured, his mind flashing the conversation he had with Victoire during Christmas, about how the French ministry was not as ‘restrictive’. His mind flashed another memory, one of when Teddy was fresh out of Hogwarts and wanted to join the Auror training program, but got rejected after the Prophet had done a ‘cover story’ about Teddy’s late fathers lycanthropy and how the children could “inherit” the disease. It was only a year after Teddy had proved himself “clean” to the Auror office that he got accepted.
“That’s good at least, someone trying to change it.” Sam said as he untensed slightly.
“So anyway–” Albus directed, not wanting to think of his father—Instead, he shifted the conversation, to get to the root of his curiosity, “How was Lord and Lady Malfoy?”
Sam brightened, the seriousness momentarily dropping away. “Oh! Wonderful. They really did everything to make me feel at ease — even let me practice magic with a spare wand.”
That earned Albus’s full attention, though his tone stayed the same. “Interesting, what kind of core?” Albus probed lightly.
Sam narrowed his eyes slightly, as if trying to recall the wand's properties, “Black Walnut, Unicorn Hair I believe, very different from my own, but it worked surprisingly well.”
Albus nodded. “Have you looked into wand lore yet?” Albusa asked casually.
Sam cheeks flushed slightly, as if the lack of knowledge were somehow embarrassing. “No I haven't–” He began, voice wavering slightly.
“Purebloods, well most wizen place a great emphasis on their wands, which wood, core—” Albus began, yet his tone was somewhat lazy. “Even if they are just instruments for power.”
Sam looked at him, as if he was considering the words. “Doesn't the wand connect to the wizard?” He asked a few moments later.
“I’m not saying wands aren't important, afterall–Compatibility is extremely important, yet many wizards have different wands throughout their lives, only a few keep to their first wand.”
His mind wandered towards his own father, and how he had been one of them—Who still flaunted their childhood wand, the ones lucky enough to have found the perfect combinations early, while for most wizen, finding a wand who will listen, who bounds so greatly was rare.
Sam blinked, caught off guard. His mind paused in that split-second gap, “I thought most kept theirs.”
Albus snorted and leaned back. “It’s more weird if they keep the same, after all who are the same from when they are eleven and fifty eight?” Albus snorted.
“I suppose.” Sam answered, yet his tone told him that he was wavering slightly, as if unsure.
Albus felt his mood souring the more they talked about it. “Anyway–” he began “Don’t tell others that.” he cautioned.
Sam blinked again, as if thought off guard, his gaze stopped for a moment, and Albus could see the boy's gears turning, before it dawned on him.
“About the spare wand?” He asked, as his hands found each other, fidgeting slightly.
Albus nodded, yet his eyes were on the vast white outside their compartment window. ”The Malfoy were very kind, lending you one.” He said.
Sam nodded, as if he began to understand the weight of the action.
He began to speak again, with a soft smile on his lips. “It was really amazing, though, to see how different Scorpius acts at home compared to school. It’s like he’s more free.”
Albus smiled at that, and he began to imagine it, Scorpius, with his mother, both sharing the same smile, probably laughing as Scorpius shared some unknown fact about some useless creature or knowledge. He felt the imaginary cipher away the gnawing resentment he felt so bitterly in his chest when he thought of his father, of his fathers bound to his wand–And his own lack of it.
Sam, still mulling his own thoughts over, added, “—Especially with his mother.” The statement was casual, but Albus’s focus sharpened.
“How was she?” Albus asked, voice softer, gaze alerted.
Sam hesitated, glancing at him for a beat, as if sensing something shift but not knowing what.
“She was like Scorpius, in a way. I didn’t see her much though, she was either in their private chambers or away at meetings, I think. I don’t know what she works with.”
Albus nodded, his jaw tensing slightly.
He knew she didn’t work. Not really—Not many Ladies of pureblood houses did something as plebeian as work. No they were too noble for that, too pure.
Instead they spent most of the time in charge of the house and their vast grounds, planning important decorations and dinner menus for their husbands, important political friends or clients. As if which flowers were placed in big ornate china would be the thing shifting the client, or political partners mind, instead of the bribery handed over the expensive china costing more than a wizen average ministry salary.
And if searching for the meaning of flowers through magazines of what's in wizarding vogue that season was too much work, then they would hold, host or attend social events, soirees with either ladies just as pure and noble as themselves—Though that didn't seem like something Scorpius Mother, Lady Malfoy would do, The so called ‘meetings’ she attended, where much more likely medical ones.
His mood soured again.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The noise of the great Hall was loud, as it were during every start-of-term feast. Sprawling with excitement after the Yule break and the new term to come. It was the start of a new year. Which for most students meant starting to study for exams. Yet alike the enchanted ceiling above showing a dark snowy sky, the view obscured only by the hundreds of floating candles beneath it– There was a lingering atmosphere of something else—Given only away by soft whispered condolences, sad gazes, not partaking in the excitement around them, staring blankly into nothing.
Green eyes surveyed over the sea of faces, of students talking, whispering excitedly, sad—Neither concerned him nor did dwell over the haunted gazes that lingered blankly—Instead his mind was preoccupied with a single task.
His gaze swept the crowd of faces alike that of a major league Quidditch seeker, looking for the snitch in a storm, only his where the faces of small students and bubbling youngsters—
His heart skipped. There was no trace of Rosier. He did not see the other ugly, gritty mug. A soft genuine smile entered his features, spread across his lips, as his eyes, for a second time, flowed over the faces of students.
For the first time back, he let his shoulder untense, there was a lightness inside, a feeling of pure joy, that presented itself as a jittery feeling inside of his stomach, as if the joy could not be contained within his small frame, it ventures into his veins, his limbs, making them feel light—
Though, within the joy, another emotion existed, one burning almost as heavy, as the joy was light—Disappointment roamed, the feeling of missing out. Disappointment that he hadn't seen the others end, the way he had screamed; The way the light had exited his eye, his features morphed into a visceral expression of terror, of pain—
He mused at his imagination, vivid as it was visceral, as his mind wandered back to that day—To that alley, to the last look on Roiser face as the spell struck; The way his expression had morphed contorted into that last look of Anger as his towering silhouette froze, as it fell—As Goliath before David. only Albus didn't take his head, did not sever it off, instead he had only left him, a simple goodbye, a gift for his parting, a curse that felt light on his lips, that morphed the others features, making Rosiers outwards match the monstrous within—
In his mind the last moment flashed in slow motion, how undignified, vulnerable, young–Rosier had looked sprawled in muddled and dirty snow beside waste and dead rats, of the two figures' gaze turning, of the moment he knew, that Rosier would not survive—
Albus covered his mouth, stifling the soft, giddy laugh rising in his throat. His chest hummed with the lingering thrill, through his veins.
He utterly missed the shift around him, in the faces of his peers, too lost in his own morbid imagination, of his own felt righteousness—
Only, when a cry broke out through the silence, through the Headmistress speech, the way her own voice broke–Only then was Albus once more there, standing before, within hundreds of faces, and not in that alley, where Roiser lifeless mutilated body laid as lifeless as the torn rats on the cobblestone, stained in dirt and human excrement—
His heart beat, the regret, the shame of forgetting himself, of where he was, of getting lost in his own mind hit him.
Yet thankfully to lady Magic none of the faces of hundreds where on him, no they all were on their loved Headmistress as she gave the final words, the doom. The announcement of death;
But not of Rosier no—
His mask tracked—He blinked, lost, out of bound.
Not Rosier—
No, Some stupid bint—Some muggleborn girl—given her plain last name.
His nail dug into his palm, not caring about the way his nail broke flesh—He closed his eyes aggravated, as his heart pounded within his bones, his ribcage as a prisoner against their cages of steel.
Some stupid muggle born bint had died, and made him think, made him hope, had made him sure that—
He saw red within his sockets, red burning red, a whistle alike the sound of a train horn, wail—
He wanted, no he needed to curse her from above the grave, how dare she—
He would find a way to resurrect her, only so he could kill, no tore her again, more gruesomely more—
He felt himself lose his control in the fire that where his ire, alike a wizard losing control of their fiendfyre, he too almost lost it over his own raging ire that swell within him, that boiled—He raised his mental walls with a desperate speed. he only let himself open his eyes, when he was sure, when he felt numb within, as the sound of mourning, of crying—reached his ears he no longer bore a death wish for someone already dead.
No, his mind shifted as a stroke of sweat made itself known on his temple. He swallowed, as once more his eyes flew over the people, the faces now lost in grief, feeling every beat of his own heart lead him closer to doom—He wanted to roll his eyes at the dramatics of the sea of faces around him, he turned his gaze towards where the most wail sound came from, only out of curiosity, and not to try and stifle the coming dread—
At the center of the Gryffindor table sat a group of fifth-year girls huddled together, their red-and-gold scarves tangled between them. One had her face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling.
Another stared ahead blankly, eyes rimmed red, as though she had run out of tears to shed. But the girl in the middle—blonde, tall, gripping the table as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, keeping her from lashing out—there was a sorrow in her gaze but most noticeably was the anger as her fingernails dug into the wooden table.
Around him, the great hall was steeped in mourning, even his own table put up the fake sadness, only one more betting such purebloods as themself and their way of grieving, yet he could tell from their eyes that they were far from sad, some seemed almost happy about the fact.
His eyes ventured from face to face, each one faking their grievances, yet none bore the features he desperately wanted to forget—He felt a chill down his vertebrae, his gaze flew towards the tall wooden doors before it opened—
The creaking sound of the door only being partially opened, did not bring much attention, as most were more interested in performing fake tears–Yet for him, time stopped, the walls zoomed in—
Albus felt his stomach plummet as his pulse pounded in his ears so overwhelming he feared his head might explode painting the green around him red—
Rosier slid through the gap with effortless ease. Wearing an expression of polite apology.
Rosier's gaze found Albus likeness like a seeker finds the snitch during a clear day—Their eyes met across the Great Hall, Albus face fell—
Rosier only smiled.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
He went over the instructions given by Kreacher in his head, as he stood before his bed, sweat dwelled on his forehead festering his black locks to his skin. His teeth clenched, heart sharply pumping blood through his veins—
He had gotten out of the Dining hall as quickly as possible after being given his class schedule, when he was no longer beneath the watchful eye of no other than ghosts and portraits he had ran as quickly as he could down the steps, down towards the dungeons, through the common room, towards his dorm.
He knew with utmost certainty that what he was going to do, now desperately needed more than ever—Given the cruel joke of a reality that was Rosier not dying when he should have—Was in fact not something anyone else should witness.
Not only was he sure that it was illegal—Being what he assumed a Black Blood magic Heirloom—Which did Salazar knows what to those foolish enough to try to break or study its properties without having any drop of Black blood.
He had, for a moment, considered telling Scorpius—Though that was before the whole ordeal with Zabini on the train, and before he knew Rosier was actually alive—He had come to the conclusion that it would lead to questions he was not ready to answer, even to Scorpius.
He breathed out and opened his eyes, there was no time to zone out, no he needed to finish the ritual before anyone else would waltz in, best case would be any of his roommates, worse would be Rosier wanting revenge, for Albus little stunt leaving the other immobilised, left for dead in a alley in Knockturn.
Yes. The faster the ward was in place, the better.
His hands went towards his pocket—Kreacher had given him the sound advice to keep the heirloom on him during the Hogwarts express, rather than leaving it with his other luggage. And that he was now glad for, as the luggage had for the time being not been delivered to their dorm, to the edge of their beds.
He carefully pulled up the soft velvet pouch from his inner pockets, beneath his robes.
With careful hands he undid the tie, and poured out the coin onto his palm. He stared at the heirloom for a moment, it was nothing to really bat an eye at, it was shaped, and looked like a common coin—The only difference was that instead of having a number on it, there was a very old version of the Black Family crest.
The coin felt heavy in his hand, despite the light material. His heartbeat rose to his ears, pounding them like drums.
Within, existed a slight concern, a dread, that the magic—The Black family magic, would reject him. He knew it was a pretty foolish concern, given the fact that Kreacher had given him the coin. But the concern lingered, festered alike a poison slowly spreading, corrupting his mind, his thoughts—This was his first—His first real connection to his family magic, and while it filled him with excitement, it also brought him dread—Dread, that he was not enough—
That he was not going to be accepted, afterall he knew—
He was not pure.
Not only was his blood tainted from being half-blood, but also from being a blood traitor, he feared, within his paranoid mind that the magic might reject him, and feel such offense it takes revenge—
Albus lowered himself onto his knees before his bed, stature like that of a child before Prayer.
Carefully, with a finger, he placed the coin, silver against wood, and pressed it lightly to the board beneath the bedding, against the wooden side frame.
Softly, gently, he withdrew his touch, letting it fall. His eyes followed it’s descent, hand catching it, just before silver could kiss the rug beneath.
He removed his wand from it’s holster, and with a unnerving, practiced calm, directed the wand towards the tip of his point finger, with only a slight whisper; a mumble—a seamless light cast out from his wand, feeling more than a breeze than a slash across the air.
The spell hit it’s target, making a thin slash across his finger, that alike a papercut—Only deeper. Indicated by the colour, the thickness of the blood. By the way it broke the skin, how the wound heated, pulsated as it stayed open, refusing to close—the red combining, creating a dot, a circle that became larger and larger, catching the light from above.
He stared at his finger, at the coin which laid in the same palm.
The spell was one he had learned over his Yule break, it’s purpose wasn't like the others, instead this only held necessity, for convenience.
For this.
The spell was dark, yes clearly but—Undetectable, as it ironically enough was as it’s light; as a mist, like a feather, soft like the breeze. it’s cut did not create deep, nor big wounds. As were common with cutting curses. Many being modifications to the well known and used diffindo curse. This curse, with practice and precise concentration of the caster, made the cut shapeable, it’s depth customizable. The cut was not sharp, it’s violence was soft, like a dementor's breath.
The origin of the spell, according to the tome had been for just this, for blood rituals, and for that it held it’s intended purpose.
Before his blood could spill onto the green carpet beneath his bent knees, he holstered his wand; and placed the coin once more against the wood, with only a deep breath, he replaced the grip from one finger to the finger pooling red.
He collected his mind, before with precise careful words uttered;
“ Toujour Pur”
His breath hitched as he closed his eyes—He could feel it, the magic coming to life. It was unfamiliar, yet familiar, a strange mixture he had felt before, known before—He had grasped at it in old parts of his home, against tapestry, inside the walls—It hummed.
It became clearer in his mind, the magic—It was the same that filled the air in their home, that hummed—intervinded, beneath—within the boards, the stone—The wards that surrounded the tall, looming structure of Twelfth Grimmauld Place.
It had been in the tapestry as his fingers moved across it’s surface, over names of ancestors long dead—Yet the intensity, that was new, something almost overwhelming sacred in the way he could feel it—
The magic, the coin, the silver, dragging, sucking, stealing, consuming the blood from his wound, from his veins, from his beating heart, from his core—
He felt it in the air around him, something stirring, waking, coming alive—eyes watching, searching his veins, his blood, his being—
Observing, judging—
If he belonged,
If he was deserving,
If he was one of them.
Albus felt lightheaded when the pressure broke, he could not suppress the smile that came across his features, wicked in the way it altered his features, a smile so unlike him, yet one he felt had always been his.
A soft childish laugh slipped from his lips—As the magic swirled within.
Laughter that tore into the silence, laughter twisting upon itself, rising in pitch, laugher that was not fully anchored, not fully his—
The magic, was overwhelming in the best sense, in exhilaration, in delirium—Warmth surrounded him, burning him like it was trying to purify him, to remove the impurities, thick—As if his lungs were cleansed, deprived of oxygen—
Then it hit him, first a quiver, then another, laughter tore through his throat. It came in waves, cracking, warping, twisting as if the sound itself was intoxicating.
And it where, the laughter, the magic, the delirium, it’s taste, the feel of it—Was as if what he lacked breath, as if he was no longer breathing air, oxygen but a thick, warm liquid—
It was maddeningly delicious.
The way the magic seemed to take over his lungs, as if it were alive—As if it was taking root. His mouth tasted of metal, of sweetness. It filled his lungs better than oxygen. Better than anything before.
Another laugh wrenched through his throat—
Cackling laughter, his arm warped, coiled around his stomach, as if the action could halter it—the way his muscles hurt, grew stained from the sound of it, from the laughter that left, that came from his lungs, that he wasn't sure was his own.
He opened his eyes—Before him, he could see it, the ward taking place, the blood freely given had turned the coin red as it begun to grind in a slow circle, the sound of silver grinding wood pierced the air—
He could not help but marvel at the simple, old magic that took place before his eyes, that came alive before him. Soon it stopped it’s circulation, as there was nothing left to turn, nothing more to engrain.
It had become anew; an engraving of wood, it’s edges not raw, alike freshly carved wood, but dark red—red like blood.
He slowly removed his finger with a trembling hand. He knew without looking, the wound was no more, after the magic, the ritual had taken what it deemed enough, it closed the wound.
He felt light-headed, as if he had been outside too long during a heatwave. He laughed, He understood, finally, as if whispers had given him a revelation of old, of truth only found in this, in blood.
His blood wasn't pure—
No—
He chuckled.
It was diluted—Therefore, the magic had needed more, alike a miner panning for gold in a river, the magic had searched, panning his blood until it found gold; the pureness; the blood that connected him to them.
He laughed, hands curled around his waist, muscles sore as his voice.
Afterall he wasn't toujour pur—yet it didn't matter, not for the magic, not for them and therefore not for him—What mattered was not that it was dilated, but that it was there, the purity tainted, but there.
That it connected him, that—
It had accepted him as worthy.
He laughed, breath hitched, the delirium thick behind his eyes, flowing through his mind, his veins. His hands trembled as they rose to his face, fingers shaking over the grin etched into flesh, to the laughter that rang out of burned lungs.
He laughed as if the air itself were poisonous, he gladly inhaled, willingly filled his lungs with the taste so sweet, so heavenly—
The madness;
That he had welcomed, within his veins, within his mind—
That had accepted him, that burned him as if he were one of their own—
A madness;
That clung to blood, to lungs—
To The Most Ancient House Of Black.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
THERE YOU HAVE IT!!! AAAAHHH
I WAS COOKING!!! (maybe to much with this last scene, idk something possessed me)
What do you think??🥺🥺🥺🥺
I love to hear your options!! give me!!!!
Honeslty i'm glad i could get this one out before tomorrow which is my birthday actually!!! But it's not nice as i have been sick in influensa and have an exam tomorrow, which honeslty i should have stuided for instead of this, but it's alright! I'm planning an all-nighter 😈😈😈😈
Pray for me 🙏🙏🙏💔💔😔😔😣😣Like Albus prayed to lady magic <3
Chapter 28: Chapter Twenty Eight – Smoke and Red Herrings
Notes:
I have risen from the dead 💀🙏 (influenza, finals)
Yeah, I didn’t plan on taking such a long time to update—life just got in the way, I guess! Anyway, I didn’t totally forget about my dear little darlings, Albus and Scorpius. I’ve been writing a bit on and off this month, since I’ve had issues with the timeline I want for this term, but I think I’ve finally got it all planned🙏🙏😈😈
****Also: before reading this new chapter, I recommend going back to Chapter 26, which I’ve UPDATED AND ADDED A SCENE AT THE END (2025-06-08).****
Funnily enough, I only noticed the chapter was missing a scene when I reread it looking for errors💀 So I added it in. It gives a bit more background to Chapter 27, so I do recommend reading it first. 🥺
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Chapter Twenty Eight – Smoke and Red Herrings
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Following the announcement at the Welcome Feast, a somber cloud hung over Hogwarts like a Dementor, over every lesson, every face downcast. From the usual gossipy mouths of the students came another somber tune, its pitch creakingly theatrical as corridors brimmed with sniffles, sobs—students erupting into tears mid-class, mid-meal. Every soul that sang the mangled tune received the sympathy, the attention, the empathy they so desperately craved.
The more delicate the artist appeared, the more indulgent the audience became—like herds of sentimental sheep, all eager, desperate—to hand over their attention to any pale-faced and trembling performer—as they were led offstage, towards the Hospital Wing.
The staff, of course, took the mental wellbeing of their beloved student population very seriously—or at least, they had little choice but to—once the Daily Prophet began to release piece after piece on the ongoing investigation about the assumed accidental death of a Muggle-born student, plastering the question into every mind—if truly had been accidental then why the delay in the release of the cause of death?
The Daily Prophet’s questions only worsened the hysteria—causing it to spread like dragon pox even outside of the School, as parents began to send letters and Howlers to the staff, and to the Headmistress herself.
As a response and to try to calm the hysteria, Headmistress McGonagall made the decision to call in mind healers specialized in grief care—both from St. Mungo’s and private firms—all equally eager to hand out warm cocoa to any face that looked even slightly downcast. Whether their sorrow was sincere or staged was not anyone else’s to judge—grief, after all, took different forms.
Rumors and the false flattery of the dead girl spread like fiendfyre through the school, but he was immune to the sickness that spread–the disease that caused the hysteria and uncontrollable sobs. He did not care that the dead student had supposedly been a bright witch. That she had been loved by everyone who supposedly knew her—and did not.
He did not cry imagining the tragedy of her fate—he did not dwell that she had been taken too soon—laid to rest, before her prime, before she could really give back.
He snorted at the ridiculousness of it—
At the fact that they hailed her as a bright star. Sang her praises in the field of Astronomy, as if she had been a pioneer, the one who was supposed to lead the discipline into a new age.
The one to restore the ancient lost art of deciphering the way of weirds in the stars that laid way for prophecy—
Albus wondered faintly if she had seen it, her own ending, there in the stars?
He mused, had her habit of watching the sky above, instead of the path ahead, been what had caused her premature death?
Had she seen her supposed fate spun by the weirds in the stars—in the rotation of distant planets in her calculations of light from stars already dead?
Had the skies marked her for greatness, only to flaunt her demise?
Was that the last thing she saw? As she took her last breath, as her soul found its rest?
Had it been the sky above? Or the snow irritating her eyes, obscuring her sight?
Or did the falling snow appear like stars to a dying one?
To a skilled eye?
Whose last breath rasped, fogged, blended and rose into the sky above?
Did her last dying breath, brought forth from dying lungs—become one with the sky?
With the canvas she couldn't tear her gaze from?
Did she see it?
The reason her eyes always took to the sky instead of her path ahead?
Maybe—it all was written there, in the stars—the death of a girl who became more famous dead than alive—like the myths of old, who gave names to the stars she could not tear her gaze from, that had shown her demise.
He knew distantly, rationally that something fundamental was wrong with him—with the way he couldn't care less. He knew that was a fault on the human level, of the soul. It should concern him yet it didn't—He couldn't afford to, he had no room, no empathy to spare nor energy to care.
Especially about a stranger already dead.
His ribs stung as another curse hit—the pain, was worse than the sting on his cheeks covered in red blisters—His breath ragged as he dully shifted his attention away from pain, from the sneers that rang out clear around him, toward the group of upper years standing a few meters away. Circling none other than the smug form of Augustus Bulstrode. Whose golden locks were long and luscious—a clear sign of his vanity. The way his features caught the light hinted at cosmetic charms. His nose was raised high in the air, on his arm hung two equally pretty, equally painted girls.
“Come on, why can’t you tell us?” the blonde girl purred, batting her dark lashes.
Bulstrode smirked, his eyes flickered down to the swell of her unbuttoned shirt and lingered on the white lace.
“Can’t, darling. Closed source, sworn to secrecy,” he uttered, voice posh, smug.
A younger boy chimed in, one whose name Albus had not bothered to remember. His voice cracked with curiosity, “Is it true? That it has something to do with the new vigilante group?”
Bulstrode let the words hang as he deepened his smirk. “There’ve been rumors,” he began, his tone slow and theatrical, “of a resistance. One that wants to bring the British Wizarding World back to the old ways—”
He paused for effect, glancing around at the wide eyes fixed on him, on the pause of every breath—
He smirked, “But whether they had a hand in this... well, that I cannot say.” he said half solemnly.
“Is it true that they broke her wand?” another girl asked breathlessly.
A snort of laughter went through the group.
“Makes a statement, doesn’t it?” The blonde on Bulstrode's arm purred, as her grip tightened, pushing her bosom more into Bulstrode’s arm.
“One can hope,” someone else added, his eyes on the girl's bosom, his voice sharp with contempt. “It’s really a disgrace that they let mudbloods own something as sacred as a wand.”
Collective agreements rippled through the crowd.
“I heard it was an untraceable curse.” A voice proclaimed.
“It’s true.” Another one confirmed. “My aunt–” they conceded, making the others' heads turn like birds, “—Says the Aurors think it was the killer’s own invention.”
“Wicked,” someone breathed out, as a slow grin spread across their young features.
Albus cried out as another hex hit him in the ribs, doubling the pain—violently, he turned toward his side as he began to hurl like a Kneazle.
Thick mucus-like texture conjured from his stomach, and spread to his throat as slugs forced their way up and out onto the carpet beneath, wiggling slimy and thick—
Laughter erupted from the group around him as his face turned sickly green.
“Didn’t someone teach you Potter?” A voice taunted close by, “Not to eavesdrop?” They finished with a laugh.
A wave of laughter and disgusted sneers and shrills erupted around him as slugs continued to pour out of his mouth.
He ignored the taunt, as he clenched his hands to his stomach. The slugs continued to pour out of his mouth, he shut his eyes, hoping, desperately that the action would prevent his eyes from watering, he didn't want to cry, he wouldn't, couldn't let them see—
No, he wasn't going to give them what they wanted—he was already humiliated and disgusted beyond belief, the only saving grace was the pain which was so vivid, that he did not have the time to think about the sneers, the voices, how he appeared, face covered in snot and slime as he threw up distinctly thick and long slugs—
He forced away from the humiliation—creating a distance in his mind from the sneers and insults that rang out around him. He strained his ears back to the conversation happening close by, towards the cruel mocking of the dead:
"Apparently, when the mudblood was found, she was beneath so much snow, only her torn leg could be seen.” Some girl mused, her tone seemed almost proud of the fact—
Whether it was from the way the dead girl had been found, or that she had the information, Albus could not decipher.
“Torn?” another voice probed. As the gazes turned towards her.
The proud girl looked even more smug, now that she held the attention. “Oh yes–” she began, staring at her polished nails. “In the report, her leg was torn, contorted quite viciously, though what I found most interesting was the fact that her stockings were equally as torn..”
“What a slag.” Someone barked out.
Cruel murmurs of agreement swept through the group, some more enthusiastic than others.
“So that's the reason she was in Knockturn?” Someone else wondered.
Laughter rang out around the group.
“Salzaar—” a sweet voice added, with a wide grin on their face. “How crude, didn't it happen during the 23rd?”
Another nodded, with a sneer. “It did, I was in Diagon Alley, it was horrible—packed with mudbloods and their muggle parents.”
The busty girl on Bulstrode's arm sneered, “I heard that they found her bag filled with–” she grimaced, “‘Christmas’ gifts.’”
“Vile—to celebrate such a hateful muggle holiday.” the girl on his other arm cut in, with a grimace.
“Exactly—” a younger girl replied, “She got what she deserved. Celebrating a muggle holiday? Especially one celebrating the killing of wizards? ” She scoffed.
A hum of agreement swept around the group.
A male voice spat, “How can they even be allowed here?”
“Did you know that they use the heads of wizen and magical creatures as decorations for the Yule tree?” another girl's voice blurted out, as her cheeks flushed.
“Such beasts–” a girl remarked, turning slightly pale.
An older male voice snapped harshly, “Taking such a sacred part of Yule and defiling it–”
Silence followed. Then a slow, simmering anger began to rise among the group, each letting fear and fury fester.
“Hopefully, another victim will be found.” a girl said sweetly, smiling.
“Sad, isn’t it?” a voice near his ear sneered. “That you weren’t the one they got?”
Albus turned his gaze dully, breath ragged as snot, spit, and slime dripped from his face.
A girl nearby shifted her gaze from the upper years to him. “Hopefully when they have taken a few more mudbloods they will come after you blood traitors too.”
Laughter echoed around him.
“The most moral thing to do would be if you did it yourself,” another girl added with a grin. “Who knows? might scrub the stain off your soul.”
The previous boy barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t it be such a nice gift? To see Slytherin’s little blood traitor dangling in the common room?”
The group continued to laugh as Albus' mind swayed, ill and breathless from the continuous vomiting of slugs.
“Idiot,” A familiar voice announced as they joined the group, causing Albus to finally turn his gaze to his classmates.
Zabini didn't even spare him a glance.
“Even if Potter is a blood traitor, hanging is too muggle.” Zabini's voice chippied.
“Zach!” the boy grinned.
Zabini greeted him with a smirk, “Lars,” as the taller boy slung an arm around his shoulders.
One of the girl's eyes turned dreamy, as her hands pushed some of her dark hair behind her ear. While the other freckled girl rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, “That’s the point Zabini.” she scoffed out.
Zabini didn't answer her and instead only smiled, as he greeted them, “Bulstrode. Rookwood,” he said, naming them in turn.
Rookwood only rolled her eyes again as she hooked her arm together with Bulstrode, and dragged the other girl away.
“See you in class, Zabini,” Bulstrode called as they left the common room.
“Told you,” Lars said with a grin, “Bulstrode’s got a crush.”
The two continued to talk as they exited the common room to the Great Hall for breakfast, their chatter fading behind them.
Albus heaved heavily as another slug made its way out of his mouth, he spit out the slime that etched to his throat like bile, and thick snot, then wiped his mouth with his School robe.
With staggered breath he positioned himself into a sitting position, as he tried to collect himself and stop his heavy breathing. Exhaustingly he watched how the Slytherin common room emptied out.
He coughed—eyes watering—as another slug crawled out of him. Like a Kneazle, he bent and retched, watching as it wriggled from his lips, and splashed onto the carpet below.
He clenched his fists into the carped panting, as his eyes tracked the slug’s slow, glistening crawl away from him.
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Albus rolled his eyes as he watched a bleed-hearted pathetic Hufflepuff erupt into a sobering mess. His nails dug into the flesh of his hand beneath the bench—why did that bint have to do her performance now? It was their last lesson of the day, of the week—yet she could not hold to common decorum and had to bother them all with her failure.
Albus found it all very dramatic and very annoying. Each burst of tears pushed him further toward the edge of losing the little patience he had left—the grief the other displayed so openly, so vividly, seemed more like a strategic play, a ploy to escape schoolwork and avoid assignments than any real sorrow.
As if any of them knew, of sorrows so deep in your bones—in your soul, that makes you appear more as the soulless thing left behind a Dementor's kiss, than anything living.
He knew of such grief, he had seen it in the way it appeared on faces—how it morphed expressions when tongues spoke of names long dead, of people buried, of portraits never renewed—of kin he only knew through others.
He knew how real grief lingered, the kind of pain, sorrow that cannot be forgotten.
He had seen it in those left behind—in his mother's gaze when she spoke about his uncle Fred long dead, in his uncle George, who deep into bottles saw a dead man in his own reflection.
Yes.
He knew grief, and he knew when others made into a mimicry, a caricature.
He ignored how nails broke the skin, how the red liquid began to pool.
The girl beside her—someone he didn't remember the name of—patted her back sympathetically, as if the girls crying were anything other than a ploy to be let out of class early.
Albus watched dully as the Professor stopped his teaching to console her. Irritation grew as he saw the expression of his Professor change, shift toward understanding—
Great.
Now another ten minutes would be wasted of their class time, because the Professor could not see through the act—the mimicry.
Albus wanted to snarl, to break bones—
He began to tap his fingers into the old wood of his desk. He turned his gaze towards the window to his side, towards the darkened sky, toward the wind that blew with such force against ancient stone and glass—making the snow appear more like projectiles than soft white flakes.
The force, the violence felt familiar, almost as if the glass was a mirror. Yet the frost that appeared on the glass, turning it white, did not.
His eyes shifted back towards the girl. Restlessly he tapped his fingers against the wood. It prickled his skin, the irritation that spread.
Oh how he hated her—her pathetic sobs, rasps for air, tears flowing so freely—He hated her for causing a scene, for taking away the minutes he so desperately needed.
His eyes returned to the board, reviewing the instructions. He understood the theory behind the defensive spell. He knew his wand movement and pronunciation were perfect; so much in fact that he could do it blind, in his sleep—
Yet his magic didn't listen.
He began to bite the inner part of his lips, chewing the flesh with his front teeth. The only time it flowed was with curses–with blood, never with standard charms and spells. He still struggled with simple lumos.
It was humiliating.
Albus' eyes moved back to the sideshow happening a few desks ahead him.
More pathetic than that Hufflepuff bint, who couldn't contain herself.
Finally—the farce was over and the girl was sent to the Hospital Wing.
Albus gave her a side glare as she passed his desk. Yet her gaze didn't flicker, nor did it lift from the ground, the stone beneath her soles.
Gaze lowered as if she knew he could see through her—As if she was guilty.
The professor turned his eyes from the girl, who closed the door behind her. His gaze shifted to the clock hanging above the door. He swept his gaze over the room, over the reminding faces of students, as he smiled before he spoke,
“I trust everyone has taken notes from the board and done the assigned readings?” He asked the room as he took another glance around, catching the eyes of a few students who quickly looked away. “Good, because we won't be revisiting any more of the theory behind the spell today!”
Some Hufflepuff students' eyes widened almost comically as they began to hurriedly scribble down the notes from the board ahead, Professor Bullwark gave them a knowing smile. Before he glanced around the classroom landing on a face in the front.
“Miss Fowler!”
The girl who had been seated with the circus act turned her head like a bird, her eyes wide and pale skin flushed.
Professor Bullwark gave a soft smile and asked, “Can you tell me the usage of the Fumos duo charm?”
The Hufflepuff girl’s cheeks flushed, “The Fumos duo charm, or more commonly known as the advancement variant of the Smoke Screen spell, is used to create a smokescreen, in case one needs to escape.” she answered, voice soft, and quiet.
Professor Bullwark gave her a soft nod. “Correct, Miss Fowler. Five points to Hufflepuff.” he said as he smiled,
A faint murmur of satisfaction stirred among the Hufflepuffs.
Albus let out a quiet exhale, bored, he pressed his cheek against the back of his palm and leaned into it.
The Professor's gaze went toward the few students who still appeared to be in a hurry to write down the class notes—
"Mr, Zabini.” He called out, turning towards the Slytherin side. “Can you tell me how Fumos duo is different from Fumos? ”
Zabini straightened lazily, unfolding from his seat like it required no effort at all. His posture was calm but deliberate, chin lifted just enough to mark the difference between himself and the rest of the room.
“The Fumos duo charm —” Zabini began smoothly, “Is the advanced version of the previous Fumos charm—Instead of just producing a grey smoke, Fumos duo produce multiple clouds of a dark red smoke—which can stretch over a wider area.”
“Indeed Ten points to Slytherin,” Bullwark answered, as he nodded, and turned “Mr Jenkins.” he called out, making Jenkins stand. “—What is the determining factor for the smoke's width?” Bullwark asked the tall boy.
Jenkins answered as he stood, “It is the caster's own proficiency Sir.”
Bullwark nodded as he walked before his desk and leaned against it. "Correct Mr. Jenkins, Five points to Hufflepuff.” he said as his gaze roamed.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he called out. which captured Albus attention as he turned his gaze longingly towards the head of silver blond. His mood soured as he saw Zabini to Scorpius' side.
“What is the correct pronunciation for the spell?”
Scorpius stood, with the same grace all of the heirs of noble houses did, “The correct pronunciation of the Fumos duo charm is FYOO-mos DYOO-oh. ”
“Correct.” Bullwark nodded, “Five points to Slytherin."
Scorpius smiled before sitting down.
Bullwark leaned off his desk with a new vigor,
“Now—up and find a partner!” he announced, clapping his hands together, making every student jump to their feets, not waiting, Bullwark flickered his wand in the air, making the desks and benches rumble, before each and everyone shot into the air and moved and stacked against the walls of the classroom clearing the large space in the middle off the room.
“I expect all of you to at least cast the spell correctly today,” Bullwark said as he moved into the room, the students standing by the furniture in a line on both sides.
“We will only have one more practical element next week on monday, after that we will begin with the theory of some offensive dueling spells, before moving into learning about Dark Creatures. This term will be much more intense than your previous."
Bullwark eyes went over the students, “It appears as if we are one short due to Miss Dowe needing to leave early—” He said as his eyes roamed over the students, his gaze finally settled on Albus, who was the only one standing without a partner.
“Mr Potter,” he called out as he smiled, “Seems that I will be your partner for today.”
“It would be an honor, Professor,” Albus replied, his voice silkier than necessary.
Bullwark nodded before commanding the class once more, “Now, line up! Maintain dueling distance, and don’t forget your stance!” his gaze returned toward Albus.
“Mr. Potter, please come to the front.”
Albus moved up, taking the correct duelling stance.
“I will do a demonstration with Mr. Potter.” Bullwark explained to the class after everyone stood in the right stance.
“But before! The most important thing while casting Fumos Duo is to perfect the precise movement. Today we will only focus on getting the spell right, next week we will incorporate the spell into active dueling—So no other spell fired!” he said as he looked around the class.
“Is that clear?” The students nodded, some less enthusiastically than others.
Albus’s posture became rigid as he shifted into the stance. As if every muscle became hyper-aware of every gaze, now on him and the Professor.
He hated, dreaded this part. Being made into the practice dummy—Someone to laugh at and mock—
Bullwark met his eyes. “Don’t worry, class,” he said, though his attention remained on Albus.
“This spell won’t harm the opponent—though some may find the smoke irritating.” A few students snickered. “Remember! This is a defensive smokescreen, designed to conceal your retreat. While it can be used to disorient in an active duel, that is something you will learn in third year!”
Bullwark turned fully to Albus, and called out “Mr. Potter.”
Albus nodded as he by instinct tightened his grip around his wand.
“Now, let me demonstrate.” Bullwark took a short breath, speaking loud and clear:
“FYOO-mos DYOO-oh!” He swirled his wand in a precise upward movement, followed by a swift downward flick.
Albus widened his eyes as dark clouds of red smoke enveloped him. His heart thudded in his chest, The smoke was far denser than the regular smoke from the Fumos charm—fully obscured the surroundings from his view.
The lack of sight, caused an immediate fight or flight response in his bones—the lack of knowledge of where the others stood made his insides twist and morph. His mind spun as his head snapped towards all sides. Every muscle in his body screamed that something would leap out, that pain would follow—he hated it, the vulnerability. The way his heart pounded against his ribcage like prisoners against steel bars. He held his breath, hoping—desperately, that the action would ground him, rein in the fear. He tried to remember where he was as the horror gripped him, at his flesh like inferi swarming out of crimson waters to pulled him under—
Altering the dark red smoke to an abyss to his mind—the withheld breath as a forced one, as a drowning one, beneath cold waters—
He shook his head as he instinctively inhaled, sharply, desperately in a futile, primal last effort to ground himself, yet the crimson smoke burned his throat, his lungs, just as violently as the lake water—
He began to cough harshly, as the smoke spread through him like the dark murky water that had forced its way down his esophagus, through his nose—
He felt the phantom grip on his hair, nails digging into flesh as Rosier laugh ringed in his ear as he held him down—as water pressed in, his ears rang as the water compressed against his eardrums, before finally erupting them—forcing its way in even there, into his mind, into every part—
Bullwark removed the spell with a flick of his wand, and the classroom—along with the Professor—reappeared before Albus’s eyes.
He blinked, the change in scene caught him off-guard, as if ripped from cold waters. His breath rasped as his body continued to tremble, the laugh still echoed in his ear, tethered to his mind—
“Are you alright Mr Potter?” Bullwark asked.
His voice sounded distant, as an echo—
Albus wrenched the memories back into their cage and forced a smile—too wide, too brittle.
“I’m alright Professor.” Albus bit out, as he coughed and he covered his mouth as a pink flush appeared on his cheeks.
His Professor did not seem to believe him, there was a distrust in his eyes, but worse there was a pity—
Albus cheeks turned red, out of anger, or shame he wasn't sure—
He hated it—the pity lacing Bullwark’s voice. With clenched fists, with nails digging into flesh beneath long robes—he stared into the ground, the stone beneath his soles.
He bit into his inner lip, trying, desperately to ignore the whispers, as heat crawled up his neck—the humiliation down his spine.
“I was just caught a bit off-guard.” Albus replied with a bright smile, too smooth, too controlled–too eerie.
Like a mimicry of the human tongue.
He recognized his error instantly—the way his tone changed too quickly. How his voice sounded too smooth, how his smile appeared too bright and how quickly his face washed off fear, embarrassment, emotion.
Momentarily he could see it in his Professor's gaze, an emotion he could recognize anywhere—the way eyes did not lie—the same emotion he could find in his father's eyes—
Repulsion.
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After living through the absolute humiliation of being the test subject for his DADA Professor's demonstration, he had only been able to create a faint smoke that appeared more like a pink mist, a fog—than any defensive smoke, supposed to conceal any target or caster.
He should not have such a hard time with it—Everyone else, even those phony Hufflepuffs, had gotten the spell correct during their DADA lesson—even those he knew didn't study nor revise the class notes.
He groaned as he threw his head forward—hitting his notebook that laid atop of his pillow. He did not care that his forehead crumbled the parchment nor how the still not dry ink stained his face.
The late hour of the night, and time spent in bed bent over his notebook and any books he had found in the library about the spell had begun to show its weary signs of exhaustion on his body, who even sitting in bed, on soft cushions had become stiff. His exhaustion extended him, it felt too deep, as if it had made its home in his bones.
He bit his lip, tearing away the flesh before he started to chew on it.
How hard did he not try? How many hours had he not spent hunched over his assignments, over theory, always reading every note, every page before his every lesson—Only to still fall behind?
Only to still be behind his classmates who didn't even put in a crumb of his effort?
With a heavy breath he pushed himself upright, curling into a loose hunch, gathering the notebook into his hands, ignoring the ache of his neck, of his shoulders—the strain of his hands, as he once more strained his eyes to focus, to read his own notes.
He tried to find the meaning in the ink, in the invisible space left around it, between it—
Fumos Duo was not an advanced spell; its structure was not that different from the Fumos, which he had not had such issues with.
He furrowed his brows.
He knew his pronunciation and wand movement was perfect—He had spent hours correcting them, yet still it did not reach his magic—It was as his his magic itself rejected the spell—
He snorted bitterly, if he didn't know better, he would believe himself to be a squib.
Yet he knew better, he knew that he wasn't, that he was blessed with magic—by magic herself, he felt it, in his blood, in his core—in the air he breathed.
He stared down at his notes. Slowly he put down the notebook and took the quill, which laid to his side, into his hand.
He ignored the ink that stained his bedding—his flesh as he began to scribe on the next page.
Fumos, he knew, was the latin name for smoke. Duo translated to two, but when combined in spellcrafting the Duo acts as an amplifier of the spell, like other amplifiers such as Maxima . The Duo amplifier was common. Due to its effectiveness and simple structure, it was safe, not much room for catastrophic failures…
He stopped his quill as he furrowed his brows. The more obvious difference between the two versions of the charm, Fumos and Fumos Duo was the red smoke, its hue, thickness and width—
Was the smoke red due to the usage of Duo?
He ignored the pain, the ache of his muscles as he continued to write—
In basic colour theory—of what he could remember—the colour red meant traditionally, intensity, heat, caution, intent?
He bit his lip.
The change of color could be a mental illusion made only to cause more distress in the mind of the subject—or an aftereffect, one not really important at all to how the spell had been amplified.
He stared down at the notebook, the ink dripped from the tip of the quill suspended in mid air.
Not being able to pinpoint the exact reason why the change of the colour occurred filled him with unease. Though rationally, if he followed the basic principles of spell law—the darker the color, the more dense, or stronger the spell.
Albus' eyes widened.
That could explain why his own had only been a light hint of red—
Yes. He nodded as he once more began to write, that must be it.
If true—the structure of the spell was very simple.
He smirked, It would be easy to create something similar if he so wished, given that it actually was the correct structure of the spell…
He bit his lips until it stung, yet he only licked up the blood that seemed to come out of his wounds.
He pondered, a similar structure just, one he could yield, and not have such issues with—
He began to scribble once more.
Circling in Fumos, as it was the important factor, as it held the smoke creating effect.
Duo was only secondary, even if it did advance the spell and did turn the colour red…
Presumably if he was correct with the spells structure, he needed another amplifier, possibly a dark one, if he would actually be able to use it—
Did he even know any dark amplifiers?
His mood soured, his exhaustion catching up to him, the sting in his wrist, the ache in his muscles, shoulder blades from his slumped position was starting to become impossible to continue to ignore.
If he was on good terms with his House, he could easily find out more information about dark amplifiers—
But to try to reach out to Fawley first was a risky move. And one he knew she wouldn't like.
He chewed on his lip,
Even if he found some dark amplifier which would work, was that all he needed? All that he wanted?
His mind flickered back to the day’s lesson, to when he was surrounded by red, how in a slight panic he breathed in the fumes, the smoke—
How it burned like—
He shook his head. The irritation was only an aftereffect, but the possibility—
What if he made it not only an aftereffect, but a core component? Smoke that not merely obscures the sight, but to attack.
To suffocate?
His raw-bitten lips twitched into a smile as a soft childish laugh escaped him.
He mused the thought—If the smoke’s irritation of the lungs was actually an intended feature... If it was meant to be breathed in, only to attack from within? Transforming the spell from a mere defensive smokescreen meant to blind to one meant to cause more than only slight distress?
He laughed again, as his fingers slightly shook from excitement, as he scribbled down his thoughts.
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Notes:
As always i do love to read your comments<333
This chapter actually went through alot of revisions! Thats also why it took me so long to update lol😔
Love you guysss ❤️❤️❤️😍😍
Chapter 29: Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Beetle and The Hare
Notes:
Hello! I have risen, i am back from the dead, (from summer vacation)
I apologise for not updating and not giving any notice, that was mostly because of my own belief that I was in fact not taking a break, because in actuality I was working on it lol.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
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The Beetle and The Hare
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To outsiders, the Slytherins appeared as a united front. As if there existed almost an unnatural, unspoken structure—an understanding which made the students appear more as an organism in symbiosis than individuals who only shared a School House. Above all other grievances he had with the Slytherin House, Albus was still a snake, as proud as many, more than most.
That's why he still played part of it, of the united front. Why he never took his grievances outside of their common room and still sat and ate with people who hexed him, who called his blood dirty and traitorous—people who acted disgusted behind closed doors then smiled and talked to him politely beneath the gaze of outsiders. Albus wondered if Slughorn, their Head of House, was aware. Surely he was. Yet looking at the old fool, one could be fooled to believe that he did in fact not know what took place beneath his own supervision. If one could call what Slughorn did supervision. As it was rarer to spot the man in the common room than to see merpeople outside their window into The Great Lake. The only time Albus had seen the old Professor outside of Potion class had been when all students had been called for a mandated private counseling session regarding the tragic death of another student with their Head Of House.
Slughorn's meeting had been nothing but a poorly conceived attempt at counsel. As his Head of House appeared to be more interested in talking about Albus' father, rather than giving him any guidance on how to handle the ‘tragic’ news regarding the dead student. Only at the end of the twenty-minute spiel did Slughorn bring up that mindhealers were there for every student who needed it. Yet his tone indicated that he thought such things weren't needed—not for him, the son of Harry Potter. Albus answered with simple replies and small nods, as he appeared to take small polite sips of the warm chocolate his Head of House had offered. Any Slytherin, even those considered blood traitors, was aware of the rumour that their dear old Head of House had a small habit of spiking drinks with truth serums, more often than not.
Albus hated it, how the old man saw his father in his own features. It had made him want to ignore all forms of politeness. In reality, he wanted to curse the man, to hurt him to such a degree that he could not lie to him. That all he could do was to beg—beg him—for his life to be spared or ended. He had wanted the old man spasming on the floor beneath him. He wanted him screaming and begging. He wanted him humiliated, he wanted him to squeal like a pig before slaughter.
The man had done nothing—nothing, when he and Scorpius had been taken, hauled from their beds kicking and screaming down to the lake. He had done nothing—did nothing—about the hexes, the curses, the remarks, the humiliation that took place in their common room, the place that was supposed to be their sanctuary.
Albus wasn't a fool. There was no way Slughorn wasn't aware of the things happening beneath his own nose. The man was a Slytherin himself. The man knew the rules in Slytherin, that even blood traitors like Albus had to follow—of the system, the order which was upheld within the House.
And Slughorn allowed it. He was complicit in it. Why else would he leave all supervision to the Prefects? To the King and Queen to rule? He let them uphold the hierarchy which reigned, which was seen, within every step, every position within their House. Slughorn knew how those in the lowest caste were treated—always mocked, always last in line, always sitting behind the rows of benches, of desks, of their housemates, of their betters with purer blood—of the Heirs and Spares playing Lords and Ladies.
Of children mimicking the way their parents socialised—the way in which they were seated at grand dinners. The order of greetings and speech. The order of hierarchy that came from blood and last names just as old and rich as they were pure. And through this mimicry, through imposing the taught order of pureblooded society—they made the game of the vipers a brutal one. All for the promise of a taste of it, of the pride, of the power of being at the top. It was a physical sign of the ambition that ran—that pulsated within every member placed in the proud House Of Slytherin.
That's why, like a viper waiting to strike, Albus bided his time in the back. Beneath the boot, in the promise of the taste of it, of trial through hardship, of shredding his old skin, of proving himself more—more than his traitorous blood—more than his fathers name.
To change, and morph the system from within.
That was the reason why he always sat in the back, when in reality he needed to sit in the front. Why he strained his eyes to see over the heads of his Slytherin housemates, and he could only catch small glimpses of the board ahead. It didn't matter as the sound of his Professor's voice still carried through the room—still wandered the same—like the winds that leaked through the old stone walls and creaked the old boards beneath their desks.
Albus tapped his finger into the worn wood of the desk as he read through the small notes he had managed to obtain from only listening. The theory or knowledge was not much different from last class, as they were currently still in the process of turning beetles into buttons. He bit into his inner cheek as his eyes roamed over his own notes, which held the words of his Professor and the writings he had copied from their textbook, and others. He did everything correctly, every movement was pristine—just as his tone of voice and incantation.
Anger flared within as the rows ahead of him began to gossip which made him unable to hear their Professor clearly enough to follow his teachings. Yet his gaze did not leave the parchment beneath to scorn at the two girls who sat in front of him. No, such an action would break the rules—the imagined united front—and the chain of command that refined within their year. Someone of a lower caste could not scorn those higher, and everyone was higher than him in the social order. So he could do nothing about the two girls gossiping ahead. It would have been a different matter if the two before him had been halfblood, or from poor families. But of course Albus wasn't so lucky, in fact the only halfblood they had in their year was Bowker, who due to his friendship with purebloods as Zabini, with two members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Nott and Malfoy, who was also an heir, made it so Bowker was allowed to be seated with them in the front, in the best seats. Of course such rules did not apply to blood traitors, who were stained and contaminated any friendship.
He felt the strain of his previous late night readings as his eyes began to grow wearily. He didn't care about the two girls gossip, instead it only added to the ache in his head. He lowered his gaze, and the black ink appeared to leak and blur before him. To try to appease the ache, he moved his hand and put some pressure against his temple. Hoping the action would help.
“Well class!” His professor's voice cut through the classroom and quieted the two housemates before him. Spindlewheel continued to speak after he was sure he held the attention of each and every one of the students in the room.
“We’re at the halfway point of today’s lesson—so at last, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Time to transfigure our theory into practice!” He said with a smile as he gazed over the rows of benches and small young faces.
He smiled at the small reactions to the wordplay, before he continued to speak. “I expect all of you to complete the transfiguration today—as this will be our final lesson on it, as for next week, we will move on to Vera Verto!” he spoke as he walked around the room in the front, the announcement made some of the students light up and whisper in excitement.
“Remember!” he uttered a tad bit more seriously, quieting the whispers and regaining all the attention of the room ”This transfiguration will be on your examinations.” His eyes went from face to face, as to make the matter sink in. “Which means that I want all of you to have the movement and the pronunciation by heart.”
His gaze shifted to those in the front row. “And those who want top marks—you should be able to turn a beetle into a button in your sleep, is that understood?” He said as his expression changed, and cracked into a smile, as if humoured by the way some colour drained from some of the students.
He clapped his hands once, briskly. “Now then! Before you begin, see to it you stretch your legs.”
Just as their Professor finished, the sound of chairs creaking against wood mixed with the sound of young voices. Albus turned his gaze and began to watch the students start to form natural social groups, some smaller, others larger—yet all had one thing in common, all were divided by tie colour. There was no intermingling between the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, even if some appeared as if they wanted to. To the side where Zabini stood with Scorpius, Bowker and Nott were a group of Hufflepuffs girls who made starry-eyes towards Zabini. Albus felt bitterness rise, as he watched Scorpius laugh from a joke made by Zabini.
He lowered his gaze and began to chew on a chewy piece of flesh that his teeth had torn from his inner lip. He focused on his notes lying on his bench. He wanted to laugh, as if some stretching could be enough to help him—the only one who hasn't even been able a hint of transfiguration on the beetle. As if just standing and walking around could help with his abysmal spell casting, help him turn a beetle into a button. No it would not. He turned his gaze from his notes towards the beetle trapped within the glass on his desk, and for a moment he watched it.
Their assignment was simple, both in execution and in theory. The transfiguration of a beetle, a small insect into that of a button was not complicated. Not only due to the low intelligence and sentience of the creature—which lessened the complexity due to lack of resistance to transfigurations—but also the shape of the beetle, big and black, was already close enough to that of a common button.
In simple terms, to turn a beetle into a button would be to turn something living into something not. Yet the loss of conscience, even how little that of a beetle was—was not something their assignment textbook had gone much into depth about. It seemed like that part of the transfiguration was not something of importance.
There were different forms of transfiguration, those spells who only altered the appearance, and those that altered the form, structure of the DNA. Not that wizards called it DNA, instead they talked about objects or subject’s natural primary qualities. And that was for a reason, not simply because wizards seemed to ignore muggle scientific methods—given the facts that what muggles saw as “nature's laws” did not exist in the same way for wizards.
But that, in magical transfiguration theory, what transfiguration changed was not the ‘primary qualities’ of a subject or object, that is to say their core or essence of a thing. Which most wizards seemed to believe. What transfiguration changes are only a part of the primary qualities. Transfiguration, especially that one taught in Hogwarts and in the lower years, was transfiguration of secondary qualities. Which meant the secondary properties of objects such as color, taste, smell, sound or perceived form— qualities that can be described by how they are perceived. Transfiguration uses the magic power of reflection in order to change how things are perceived by minds, it could in theory be said that part of transfiguration is a form of illusion magic.
If one were to change the form of an object, the structure, its core—the DNA, as muggles say—that would be the field of alchemy which focuses on turning not only primary qualities but cores of objects. There existed places where transfiguration and alchemy did overlap. Some of these areas were taught to sixth and seventh years, or those who take both fields in electives.
He remembered that basic magical theory and their textbook, “A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration” by Emeric Switch stated—that each transfiguration leaves a footprint of the primary core, and when one "transfigures" the objects back to its original form. One simply only taps into that core. Instead of imagining one was transforming the object or subjects back to a "believed" primary form. Switch explains in their textbook, that one does not need to know the original form—only how to find the footprint of the core.
More information about the essence of the objects or subject are not mentioned in the book, nor seem to be in the extended reading recommended by their Professor. So while they would in theory be transfiguring a beetle into a button—what they were actually doing would be transfiguring the secondary qualities of the beetle into appearing like a button.
So one does simply not turn the essence of a thing from living into something not. Even in other forms, the essence still exists in the transfigured object. Which meant one can in practice trace back all the previous transfiguration done on both objects and living things. As all transfiguration, leaves behind a footprint on the core. Switch explicitly states that for this reason one does not need to worry about the core of an object changing, or the footprint left there, but one does need to keep it in mind when transfiguring living things. One could in theory transfigure a thing until the core is left damaged, which while transfiguration Masters and researchers are not sure of its effect, they strongly advise against it.
Especially with subjects with high intelligence and sentience. Due to the fact that most research and experiment in the field of transfiguration on human subjects is restricted by the Ministry of Magic, such knowledge is lost. Even the practice of turning highly intellectual creatures or humans into objects has long been illegal in the United Magical Kingdom and could land one in Azkaban.
He found it interesting, the theory behind it, and that for transfiguring objects back to their original form, one needed to “feel” the magic within, the core and reach into it. That was not something most could in practice do, instead there existed spells, which would locate the core, and through this one was able to point at the core and bring forth the original essence.
He stared down at the beetle, who moved its body against the glass barriers. He watched it stretch out its wings, and how it failed to fly within the small space. He watched as it flinged its body against the glass, over and over. He snorted, it was a sign of low intelligence—to do the same thing over and over—yet expect different results. Maybe the creature was even considered dumb for its own species. Which ironically made it perfect to be transfigured into a button, as at least then it wouldn’t be able to hurt itself.
In reality he was more interested in this supposed beetle's original form, so to say—it’s natural primal qualities, it’s core—was it really a beetle? Or was it originally an object?
And if it had been an object to begin with, was it truly living, or not simply a magical object spelled to move, to act like a beetle? Could it reproduce, could it eat? Surely not even magic, at least not legal or known ones could recreate consciousness or life.
The muggle also had a name for it, they called it a robot, something robotic, something that could act and appear to be something not, like animatronics—yet they were only that, shadows of the original thing. He wondered faintly if this beetle was the same. Was it truly a beetle, or just a shadow of one? Or was it only a stone whose secondary qualities appeared to be a beetle? If true, then he would not turn something living into something not—only turn the secondary qualities of a stone that appears like a beetle to appear like a button instead.
If that was true—then it made sense that wizards didn't care enough about the creature, or what appeared to be a creature they transfigurated from living to something not, as it might truly have never lived anyway. It was more ethical when he thought of it—Yet he knew that their own pets that they would use to turn into other objects were in fact real creatures, at least he knew his own was. Or maybe Merlin was indeed also a transfigurated object?
It hurt his brain to think about—and while he could wonder over the intricate details, why give it any more thought when the answer existed before him? It was simple to know, one only needed to locate the core and one would know if the creature, the objects—had ever lived before or not.
Yet he found it hard, straining to locate the core of the beetle. There was too much magical interference in the room. What was the magical signature of a supposed beetle in relation to a wizen? Even though the challenge was intriguing—to be able to reach it, to feel it even with this much magical interference—
He knew in reality he had no time for it, at least not now. What he needed to do was not reach within the subject's core and bring forth its original essence and know of its origin. What he needed to do was simply to transfigure its secondary qualities to appear as a button.
Something that was supposed to be so very simple. Yet he had failed to even transform the beetle at all in the last lesson. Two lessons is considered more than enough for this simple transfiguration to be taught and learned—yet he could not do it. Most had even finished the transfiguration during the last half of their first lesson.
Yet here he was struggling even during the second and final lesson. Albus removed the glass from the beetle, yet like fleas placed beneath a lid, the beetle did not try to move outside of its learned limits.
He raised his wand towards the small black beetle now calm on his desk.
The beetle didn't seem to know of its fate, of what awaited them. Faintly he wondered how it would feel—being transfigured from something living, moving, into something that appeared to be not, and lost its ability to move, to fly if it truly was a beetle, of course.
He uttered the incantation keeping his pronunciation pristine, exactly how their Professor Spindlewheel had taught it, if not better. Yet, the beetle before him only wiggled slightly as the spell hit. As if the spell had not been a spell at all, only a breeze of wind. Albus wasn't deterred, the second time he cast it, he focused more on the wand movement, instead of his sharp flickering, he tried in a more smooth movement—
It seemed to work better, as when the spell hit the beetle it began to convulse slightly, erratically, as if it was in the state of being transfigured—
Then it stopped.
Albus' lips turned into a straight line. He kept it from twitching, by biting into his inner lip. It went against all magical logic. He had felt it. The shift in the magic. The beetle should have been transfigured into a button, yet it was not. He suppressed the irritation and pushed it behind his mind shield. He knew that neutral and light magic needed a calm mind, a lightness—
One he didn't think he actually possessed. One harder to force each day.
He tried once more, yet instead of transforming the beetle—it became erratic as wiggled and jumped off his desk. His eyes widened and followed the creature as it moved down to the floor. He quickly tried to grab it, only to miss. So he went after it, hand following the flying beetle down towards the wooden boards, along the path in the middle of the benches. The beetle flew forward, keeping itself close to the floor, before suddenly it landed and stopped.
With a smirk he stretched out his hand to catch it, but just before he could grasp it—a pair of shiny oxfords stomped down right where the beetle had landed and crushed it beneath its sole.
For a slight moment, he felt nothing, yet his cheeks began to burn in humiliation, as he felt the attention of the room swift towards him—towards his pathetic lowered form. The whispers around made his gaze sharply shift from his crushed beetle upwards. The humiliation burned through him like a fiendfyre, burning, causing his skin to feel ablaze, he wanted to spread it, the fire, he wanted to turn whoever had dared to humiliate him like this—whoever dared to laugh at him to ashes beneath his own boot. He wanted to crush them—crush them and watch how their eyes popped out from their skulls—He didn't care of the rules, or what would follow—he wanted them all to burn, burn and roast—He wanted them hurt, he wanted them suffering beneath him as they had made him suffer beneath them, and he would laugh, more, even more than they had done—How dare they—How dare these filthy little—
Yet as he gaze shifted upwards he saw polished robes, and silver blond locks.
And the anger, his humiliation vanished instantly. Before him stood the familiar sight of wide grey eyes. Before him stood Scorpius. It had been Scorpius that had crushed his beetle. That calmed him. That was good. Scorpius would never do such a thing with malice, not to anyone. It had been an accident. Albus watched Scorpius stare at him with wide eyes. Albus suppressed his smile as Scorpius appeared like a deer in a wandlight. As if he hadn't seen him and was now unsure on how to proceed ahead. Scorpius' gaze shifted from his own, down towards his sole and moved it was almost comedic. Albus' gaze followed the others and saw how the red smashed insides of the beetle now painted both the underside of Scorpius sole and the dark wood beneath.
Yet Albus did not care about the beetle. Instead his mind filled with another matter—how to proceed ahead—It was clear that they had an audience. He could feel the eyes still watching, still festered on his lowered form. He knew that this was a perfect moment to show them, to really ward in their ploy, their supposed end of friendship. He bit the inside of his lip, the way they were positioned was good. It was almost ironically so. Their positions of him, the blood traitor lowered, and Scorpius, the pureblooded heir standing tall—were too perfect.
When Albus lifted his gaze once more to the moons of the others—he felt calm, like he was rocking on a windstill sea. No longer did he feel the fire within, as if only the presence of the other had been enough. Enough to calm the fire that always seemed to burn within. It was unnerving in a way—the way that Scorpius' presence seemed to calm, how for the first time that week, he felt clear-headed. As if he could finally really think.
With more clarity he understood the importance of where they stood. how they appeared. If they played this just right and their plan would come to its full fruition. He wondered if Scorpius understood—that it was now time for them to finalize their ploy. If their performance was subpar, the Slytherins would not be fooled and soon, Scorpius would be back as a social pariah. Back as a target—it wouldn't matter then if Scorpius' blood traitor title was gone. Anyone close with one was considered a blood traitor by association. Albus felt his heart tightened at the thought of it, Of Scorpius vulnerable, helpless beneath Burke and his henchmen and sycophants, with Albus just as vulnerable and helpless to stop it, to help him—
Yes. such things were not to come to pass.
He knew the other only put up a brave front. He knew that Scorpius couldn't handle it, not the way Albus could. That had been clear when they had been tied up in the forbidden forest. Albus needed Burke’s attention solely on Albus, if his somewhat formed plan of how to deal with Burke and Rosier were to work.
His own eyes never strayed from those grey moons, yet Scorpius' own was not on him. No, they were lowered—down on the boards beneath. Stuck on the sight of it—of the insides of crushed beetle’ beneath his own sole. His facial expression held a hint of disgust, and from what Albus knew—It was from the fact that Scorpius didn't do too well with seeing the insides of things. Yes, this made it even more clear, Albus needed Scorpius out of it, even of knowing the plan. Scorpius would surely not approve. He didn't know if Scorpius was aware of it—that they needed to act—he hoped desperately that even Scorpius had realised how pivotal this moment was. Yet maybe it didn't matter—to the others the disgust on Scorpius face will appear to be for him, and not the beetle entrails.
Surely the Slytherins loved the scene before them—the blood traitor lowered at the boot of a pureblooded heir. He was somehow aware of the fact that beside Scorpius stood Zabini, Nott and Bowker. It made it better, it really showed the hierarchy. Yet he feared, hoped that this would not be seen as breaking the rules, the appearance of a united front. And if it did, hopefully, they would blame Albus for it. For once he was glad—that the Slytherin in his year hated him. They would surely blame him, if not for the sole reason of hating him, but also to try to score some points with Scorpius.
Now, even the rows of benches that had been in conversations of their own had turned. They all watched with hushed whispers and hungry gazes. Albus withheld a smirk, it was too good—He now only needed Scorpius to play the part well. He opened his mouth, ready to finalise the act—
Yet as Scorpius shifted his gaze from the beetle crushed back to Albus. It made him feel an uncontrollable chill down his spine. As it was no longer the grey silver moon that met his gaze. Instead it was a gaze that was unfamiliar, at least on Scorpius.
It was as if his own mind had been tricked, as if he found himself beneath the confounded charm—he felt his insides twitch, morph and turn as he became ill. He felt his heart beat loudly in his chest, in his veins in his head—
It appeared too real, the gaze, the coldness in its depths—so familiar, yet not.
He wanted to shake, to stop the dumb plot, he wanted to scream. To make it clear that it wasn't real. Yet a part of him stopped him, it was fear—the fear that it might not be a ploy.
Maybe, just maybe, it was real.
Zabini had done something—
Had turned Scorps away.
Away from him—
He felt his heart constrict as if squeezed, crushed slowly by a snake.
It wasn't real, no, he knew it was just a performance, one they had agreed on—
So why—why did it hurt like this?
Why was his heart strung, why was his palms wet?
He knew why—It was not the gaze in itself, no—he had seen that gaze before, many times, every day on the faces of the other Slytherins.
The issue was that he had never even imagined a moment where he would see it on Scorpius. on his Scorpius, whose eyes were moons illuminated.
He never thought that he would see those moons dull—cold and biting as cracking ice, as a whip against bare flesh—and as pure as the gaze of a proud and pure heir.
It was the first time, the first time he felt truly dirty.
He lowered his gaze in shame, as heat overtook and flushed his cheeks raw. The expression that he held wasn't part of it, of the performance, of the stunt. He wanted none to see it—to bear witness to his shame, to what of him he couldn't hide.
That he felt less—less than even the flicker of dirt on the board. less than even the beetle torn, crushed and forgotten before him. He felt just like it—as if he had been crushed as if it was his insides that was laid bare for everyone to see.
To gawk at, to mock, to shame.
It stirred something deep within, that made his breath hitch—disappear as the world seemed to dissolve, blur around him. As the sound of his heart beating loudly against his ribs overtook all other sound. He wasn't aware of how unprepared he had been, of how fragile—how pathetic—
He could feel it. How his mindscape cracked. It was horrible, how the fear overtook him with such brutality, as if he was beneath invasion. He felt how it flooded him, how it drenched him, how he was once more struggling beneath water. He could not swallow it, the fear as he felt it against his ear drums. It was about to break through, the water would finally enter into his skull, his brain, his mind. Panic flared within and he focused on it, on the pressure, on the swarm of waves of emotions and he forced it out. He would not let it undo him. Not like this, not here.
He felt it all at once, how the waves crashed into him—then he felt nothing.
He felt hollow, untethered, undone, and covered in sweat as if the waves had been real.
He blinked, the noise of the world dawned on him once more and it was louder and more deafening than the ringing of a mandrake's scream. Albus dazedly acknowledged that the presence that had been before him was gone, and he felt cold, as if the sun had moved behind clouds.
As if it had never existed, as if he had been drained of it.
Scorpius had walked away. He felt his stomach turn, he gagged back the sickness. He could not look, he did not dare to see, to hear Scorpius laugh at jokes made by someone other than him.
Albus lowered his gaze, down towards what was left behind, towards the crushed beetle. He turned his gaze away and ignored the whispers as he stood as tall as he could as he moved back towards his desk.
It didn't matter, he was used to it, the laughs, the snickers, he swallowed hard.
It didn't matter.
It was fake, Scorpius was just acting—
He clenched his jaw.
He was used to it—
So why did it feel so different?
In the background distantly he heard a bell, he was dimly aware how the students blurred and became only moving faces—bodies pouring out through tall wooden doors. Yet, he didn't miss how everyone passing by took a moment to gawk at him. He could feel it, the way their eyes moved over him, alike as if he was some sort of bizarre grotesque magical creature in a zoo. He gripped his parchment a bit too harshly, the action made the corners crunch as he stuffed it into his bag.
“Mr. Potter.” Professor Spindlewheel said, as he stood to the side of his desk, Albus stopped his movement, as he raised his gaze upwards towards the man. Now once more aware of it, of that he had been in class.
Whispers of the last students exiting the classroom become nothing more than an echo, leaving only the two of them there.
“Yes Professor?” he answered, voice neutral.
The man smiled. “I’m sorry I wasn't able to come to your desk today, how did the transfiguration go?”
Albus didn't look at his Professor, instead his gaze was on the crunched parchment in his hand. His movements changed, as he began to carefully gather his things into his bag instead of throwing them in.
“The beetle wiggled slightly.” Albus said, “I tried to smooth the movement, which set it off running—” he explained, yet his voice wavered as he recalled what happened.
The professor only nodded and did not remark on the fact Albus did not finish his sentence, nor spoke up to clarify.
“Come towards my desk, bring your wand.” Professor Spindlewheel directed.
Albus nodded and obediently did as he was told.
“Now try it again, the movement you mentioned.” Spindlewheel uttered, eyes on one beetle, now on his desk.
Albus nodded and raised his hand and did the same movement, the same pronunciation. They both watched the spell hit its target, how the beetle started to move violently, a bit irregular before jumping away from the desk.
“Curious” His Professor replied, Albus turned his head towards him.
“Curious?” Albus repeated stupidly, he held his tongue. It was not curious, it was pathetic.
The Professor laughed, as if unaware of what Albus really thought.
“Yes, curious.” Spindlewheel repeated, “Curious indeed, as you have perfected the pronunciation, I dare say it’s the best not only in your class, but year, even better than most fourth years. Then we have your movements, which are better than the standard taught, a modification most six years often cannot think of—yet the spell does not work, against all odds. “
Albus didn't know whether to feel better for the praise or worse that his magic didn't listen, to him it sounded more like he was a squib. He didn't have the energy to blush, to wonder whether his teacher’s complement was backhanded or not.
“Then what is the reason Sir?” he asked, hiding his exhaustion from his tone. He felt drained, and all he wanted was to leave. He knew what had happened just a few moments before was not good, it was pivotal, he needed to retract into his mind and fix the crack that had appeared.
Spindlewheel only smiled towards him, as he laid his hand on Albus shoulder, “Curious isn't it?” He continued with a gleam in his eyes.
Albus only stared, slightly uncomfortable by the Professor's hand, yet too exhausted to really think more of it.
“Don’t worry Mr. Potter.” Spindlewheel said in a more understanding tone as he smiled, “I'm sure we can figure this out. Now I think it’s time for you to head towards your next class, do you need a permission slip?” he asked.
Albus eyed the hand on his shoulder before he began to speak, “It’s alright Professor, this was our last lesson of the day.”
Spindlewheel nodded, as he removed his hand “Splendid!” He said, “Then I will not keep you here any longer.” the man said as he gave a reassuring smile.
Albus nodded, and his Professor turned around moving to his desk.
Albus took the action, as his cue to leave.
Yet Spindlewheel began to speak once more, “It’s curious, your issue does not lie with the movement, nor the pronunciation, but with reaching the magic—” the man said as he turned back towards Albus. The Professor stopped for a moment, as if he took him in, then his gaze shifted from his form to Albus eyes.
“Mr. Potter, have you ever considered looking into a new wand?” The Professor asked.
“I haven't thought of it, sir.” Albus replied back politely.
Albus watched how Spindlewheel’s eyes shifted over him, over his form, and then towards his wand.
Albus felt a need to shudder, and hide his wand, away from the prying eyes of his Professor.
Spindlewheel continued to speak, as if the previous lesson was not over.
“Sometimes we change too quickly for our own wands, you see.” Spindlewheel’s said with a knowing gleam in his eyes, as he leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms, “I have seen many wizen over my years who struggle—not because they lack control, but simply that their wands that choose them at a young age doesn't answer like it used to.” He explained as he watched Albus, watched how he took in the information, and how he responded.
When Albus didn't, the man continued, “Many wizen feel a shame over it—to change wands as they are considered sacred. As many believe that a wand should only be replaced once destroyed.” His Professor said as he stared into Albus.
Albus didn't like the man stare, he knew what it was. It was a probing one. He was considering him, and how Albus answered the question would be vital.
The question appeared tame to most, but within it held pivotal information not only about once belief, but character. Albus narrowed his eyes slightly, he considered his options, how they would read. In the end, the way the man acted slightly unnerved him, as if Albus couldn't read him.
“I don't believe that.” Albus answered truthfully, unsure on how to proceed. He gave the man enough information, yet not. Most would lap at clarifying their point, or to moralise their own option, thought on the matter. He wondered what the man would think of him for not doing it.
Hopefully he would be seen as a bore, someone not important, not worth a second glance.
“A forward-thinking sort, then—much like me.” Spindlewheel said cheerily. The man didn't break from his smile, there was nothing in his expression nor body movement that could indicate anything.
Albus watched the man before him, feeling a chill down his spine as he gave the man a polite smile and laugh. He had never really considered his Professor before. Yet by the way the man spoke, by the way his gaze lingered on his wand, on the part of wood close to where he held his hand—to where the mark was carved into wood, made him regret treating the man as only that.
He wanted to curse himself. How had he not realised it sooner? Before Albus could think of anything more about the man—his Professor pushed himself away from his desk and walked towards him, stopping only a few steps before him. Albus blinked, yet he did not flinch, or take a step back, even though he felt his skin prickle.
The man was too close.
“May I see your wand hand, Mr. Potter?” His Professor asked politely, as he struck out his hand.
Unsure, Albus did as he was told, and stretched out his wand hand over his Professors. He flinched slightly as the Professor touched him and took Albus hand into both of his own. The man appeared to study it, his movements were slow and strong, yet not painful.
Albus smiled through the panic of his mind. Not only was the situation of his Transfiguration teacher massaging his hand weird and off-putting. But his mind screamed at him repeating the warning of the old woman who had undone the trace on his wand.
Skilled wizen could be able to tell just from a glance of the mark. Had his Professor seen it when he cast the spell? Did that mean Albus needed to destroy his wand? Did he even have enough time? Could his Professor confiscate his wand if he thought it had been tampered with? What was protocol?
Albus withheld a flinch and a twitch of his lips as the Professor began to press down on a sore point in his hand.
This surely wasn't normal was it? The man must be aware, aware of what he had done—
No. He had been careful. He always covered the mark with his hand. Did the man detect some magical residue?
He felt his body tense as another uncomfortable thought made it to the forefront of his mind, His eyes shifted from his Professor's action, to his gaze. Could the man trace it? Could he feel through the bracelet? Could he feel his core?
Albus felt a sweat drop accumulate on his temple as his whole body felt hotter than before.
If he could, what was Albus supposed to do?
What could he do against a teacher, a full grown wizard?
The best option was to just destroy his wand here. It would be suspicious but it would destroy the evidence surely—
Spindlewheel’s words broke through his thoughts, “You don’t take great care of your hands, do you, Potter?” the professor asked as if it were a question.
“I..” Albus began unsure of how to properly respond to that.
His professor continued, as he pressed on different spots, muscles in his hands,
“Your wand hand shows signs of excessive use.” his Professor explained as he pressed down on another point, “Here—” he as Albus held back the grimace from the slight pain.
“You see. many wizen ignore the health of their hands.” Spindlewheel explained as he finally released Albus' hand.
Albus quickly hid his hand beneath the long arm of his School robe. He could still feel the phantom touches as his hand pulsated where the man had pressed down. Albus felt weary, he couldn't decipher the man’s intentions, was it as simple as his Professor only helping him? Or had the man sensed something?
Albus' gaze took in the man once more, which made the man chuckle.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
The sound of howling winds and his own fogged breath was the only thing to be heard as he made it through the thick layer of white. Fog appeared on the sky as if it had taken over it whole, painting him and the surroundings in forever dimly white. The snow coiled around him, spinning in the whipping wind who made his woven green scarf slash the air like a lash.
He clung to his long coat, hands were in thick mittens, too big to grasp at anything, but thick enough to not feel the biting winds. The snow reached almost up to his midriff, but he continued on with panting breath and clumsy, slowed movement through the undisturbed sea of white.
Through whistling winds, through a blizzard, where the snow appeared to dance together as he stared into the sky above, the white around him, surrendering him whole. He felt an ease wander through him as his steps slowed, until they stopped. Relaxation settled in his bones as the blizzard raged on in a chaotic swirl of flakes and whipping wind around him. The biting air cooled the fire storm that raged within, that boiled his veins, and ran through him whole. It was a fire that each day was harder to be contained within his frame, his flesh, it pounded against his ribcage as a prisoner against iron bars. He could not remember what had reigned before the burning, had it always existed there? In his blood, or is the fire one he had created himself?
It had become a habit, him wandering into blizzards, into storms, into places most would deem inaccessible. Where others turned, he walked on—only there, in an all encompassing isolation could he find enough solitude to relax to leave his body behind.
Only there where the snow surrounded him could he truly feel calm enough to fully ease into his mind, to leave his body unattended. It had become the way he could force control, to keep control—of what raged within what had become more chaotic, restless—unstable by each day.
He let his body fall into the snow as he slipped from consciousness and retracted within his own mind. He had finally gotten to the proficiency of the mind where he could fully go within his mindscape, like one would a dream. The feeling was not unwelcome, yet it was eerie, like falling out of consciousness into a dark abyss—only to still feel the slight connection to one's limbs, one's mortal flesh.
Even within his mind, the place he had shaped, materialized as desired—The forest that before was surrounded by green, now, appeared like the outside. Yet undisturbed even as he moved beneath a blanket of white.
The trees loomed high there, their branches as tall as the sky, their width telling them apart, as did the branches that lingered, coiled and twisted, both old and others newly sprouted—most somewhere in between. They appeared like his memories, the further within the forest of his mind laid the things more of value, as it was the standard for keepers of the mind.
It was common because of its usage, yet it being so widely used meant it was the first place invaders would try to come within. But it was also the hardest part to breach, some needing to tear apart the mind, causing almost irreparable damage, and such force was rarely used.
He breathed in the air within the forest, it was not cold like the biting winds he could numbingly feel outside on his mortal flesh—The breeze here held a scent, a familiar smell that ventured, flowed—He smiled, he knew of that smell, it was his own—of his magic, his signature, an almost intoxicating scent that smelled like a burning fire, of incense and now of a new note, one alike ripe fruit.
Albus looked around as he walked within his mind, it had changed—morphed, shifted slightly—without him doing the changes. He knew what had caused it, it was the same which had conjured up the small black birds sitting on the tree branches, making nests in his trees, heckling him—his mind. But he let them be, as they loomed above, pearly eyes black like beads following, watching his every move, chirping a horrible sound, one unnatural, as if it were a convoluted form of laughter. As a skinwalker failed attempt at mimicking the human tongue.
The bird had appeared in his dreams after the warding ritual, and began to create nests within his mind, tearing off small branches to create homes for themselves there, causing slight damage to his memory. His irritation grew by each horrible chirping, each laugh as he moved. He didn't want to admit to the fact that it was indeed a problem, one he had no knowledge how to fix, the birds acted as if they were independent as he could not control them, even how hard he tried.
Instead of futilely trying to regain the memories made into nests—or those freshly being ripped off to create new ones, he set out to do what he had come into his mind to do, he was in desperate need of finding and repairing the crack in his mind's defense. It was embarrassing, and pathetic, how he could have become so affected by a fake act, by something they had planned. He blushed as he moved more quickly, he needed to find the crack soon—as he could already feel how the doubt, the doubt and the fear that it might have been real started to eat at him, at his heart.
After walking through his mind towards the inner parts, he came to the point of which he had been searching for. It appeared strange even to him. He had somewhat thought it would look differently from the crack. Which was funny because that was what his mind scape was, his own imagination of his mind, wasn't the crack supposed to look like what he thought?
Yet that didn't matter. Maybe it was the same reason why he couldn't deal with the birds–it was something that belonged to the subconscious, which was out of control and existed outside of one's landscape. Only masters in the arts could go into their own subconscious and bend it to their will.
Yet he could feel it. Or he knew that was what he was staring at. A big dark crack had opened up the ground, and split the trees. It looked as if a natural disaster had rummaged through his woods. The only difference was the thing in the center of it, the crack itself. It appeared almost as an abyss, a black hole that seemed to suck the surrounding in. The more he stared into it, the harder it was to look away. It drew everything in. He felt it, how the abyss licked at him, how it twisted him, how it began to sow fear, unease.
He took a few steps back from it. The smell was horrible, the stench of fear, horror, of every negative that drove one to madness.
He needed to close it quickly, he didn't want to risk it destroying more parts of his mind, he could not let it grow wider, bigger.
Closing the rift was something that was easier to do within the mind instead of outside of it. Where outside the control was only imagined, if one was physically inside, one held more control over the mindscape. He dropped down, and his knees sank into the snow beneath as his hand dug into the snow. He felt his fingers grasp at it, at the earth, the soil, and he gripped it harshly, as if just through movement alone he could move the earth.
Beneath he felt it, how the earth started to shake and move beneath his will. Slowly he sensed how the scent became dimmer and how the fear was pushed away, as if something was dragging it back down into the abyss.
When he opened his eyes, the crack was no more before him, only what it had left behind, the trees were still fallen and uprooted. Yet that was a mission for another day—as he felt faint headed.
Closing the rift, the crack that had appeared had taken more magic and concentration than he thought. He could see the effects of him overdoing it. How the distance of his mind became blurry, as if he no longer could hold its shape. That if any was a sign to leave. He had used too much magic, and the longer he stated within his mind the faster it would drain. It was slightly annoying, as he had wanted to go through the material they had studied that week. It was amazing in a way, the way one could use a mindscape as a personal pensive. How he could go through and witness his memories again, and notice the things he hadn't before—when it had occurred. Yet such mental tasks were already straining for his mind on their own. To do that now would leave him too weak to walk back, which was not ideal.
The trees had to wait another day as well, hopefully tomorrow he could come back. The only bad thing about leaving the trees would be that his mind was a bit blurry concerning the memories and feelings that those trees held...
He felt a soft tremor through the mindscape as he felt a painful ache in his own head. Yes, it was something he would leave to the morrow.
He could hear from above how the crows started to gawk at him, as if they were laughing.
He gave them a nasty look before closing his eyes and slowly put a distance with his mind as he drew on the connection to his limbs, feeling them more and more until finally his breath mixed with the sky above. As it shifted, the blizzard calmed as the light fell over the horizon, welcoming the dark.
The snow was as calm as the darkened sky, as the moon, the stars that illuminated above and below, leaving a blanket of calmness, almost unnatural, yet peaceful, as if nothing living existed where he laid, the only sound was that brought forth from his own lungs, that painted the sky above in a soft white fog with every exhale. Before him was the vast canvas of shining dots, of celestial wonder, shining brighter than he had ever seen.
His eyes wandered over the stars, from the celestial bodies of myths he tried to remember, of whom he mused, and as a child had loved. His eyes found the stars, the constellation as quickly as most would the north star, only his were the Scorpion. His chest warmed despite the cold, which meant that the crack truly was healed, no longer did the fear linger in, when he thought of him.
Despite the hours he had laid there. He had not grown cold, thanks to magically enchanted cloth. Snow fell softly on his face, it wandered into his gaze. The snow had fallen over his form, covering him white, only some parts were still of him, of a black coat and serpentine green scarf, of black locks frozen stiff, yet still not entirely white. He only watched the way his breath fogged and blended into the air.
Suddenly he felt the need to laugh, He now understood, faintly he mused—how her last moments had been—
He knew that it had not been the sight before him, of stars shining brightly against the dark canvas. Hers had not been beneath any star, no it had been during noon. On a dirty alley floor, littered with dead rats, snow tainted by rot, waste and human excrements. Her last breath had been a painful one surely, if he was to believe the Slytherins gossip of what had been done to her. It made his stomach curl in disgust, the way they spoke of her, of the rippings of her stockings, of her cloth undone, of limbs mangled. Her last look had surely been one of horror, of pain. And in the short distance, the bustling crowds of Diagon alley were during noon, he wondered if she heard them faintly, if she had prayed to any Gods, or magic herself–if muggleborns did that for someone to hear, to find her before her last breath left her deprived lungs and mangled body. Surely someone had seen it, it had been in Knockturn alley, not far from one of the side entrances supposedly to Knockturn from Diagon alley, and it had been noon—surely someone would have seen or heard anything—
He felt the need to shudder, to almost puke as it dawned on him and he rose from his man-made coffin of snow, heart beating against his chest and ear ringing, disturbing the calm of the landscape around—
She had died during the same time he had been in Knockturn.
His eyes widened as his breath caught, no longer fogging the air, instead it burned his lungs within.
He stared into the white below, She had been found, killed in an alley, so much alike the Rosier had dragged him into—
He swallowed as he faintly recalled—
The hooded figures, the way they had talked, acted—
How could he have missed this!? Had he really been so occupied with Rosier that he—
He threw himself into his mind, he felt how his eyes rolled into the back of his head as his limbs went limp, body falling back in the snow as he forced the memory of that day to play before him—
Rosier grip on his body now appeared as clear, as visceral, as vivid it had been that day. Yet his focus was not on the fear nor the slight pain he could recall, but instead steadily towards the other side of the alley where the two figures would soon emerge from—two silhouettes could be seen making their way into the alley at the other end. The two figures were hooded, covered as they engaged in what appeared to be an argument.
Albus ignored how Rosier cast a silencing charm wordlessly. instead he strained his ears, trying to listen to the words that echoed through the alley. One of the figures was taller, and leaner, towering over the other, yet their stature appeared to be weaker as their body shook slightly. Their body moved almost unnaturally, as if intoxicated. The other hooded form was smaller and eerie still, there was no sign of aggravation, of anything at all—until they moved swiftly and pushed the taller figure back with a force unnatural for their stature.
The words were no longer hushed exchanges in his ears as it had been that day, no, now he heard it clear.
“Our order was to leave it mangled, but alive.” the smaller voice said without any emotion.
The taller figure let out a nervous laugh.
“I didn't think that the mudblood would be that weak.” The figure bit out, voice far darker and lower than the shorter figure, there was a hint of nervousness in his tone, yet that was covered by bitterness, “I had planned to play with it a bit more.” the voice said, getting more aggravated. “I hadn't even touched her—” He bit out, annoyed, “How was I know that the bint would die from shock?” the taller one bit out finally.
"It was already bleeding out from the first wound, you shouldn't have sent that second curse of yours.” The shorter figure stated.
“I wanted to try it!” The taller replied, and continued to explain themselves growing more aggravated in their motions, “—Though the little mudblood slag was good enough practice.” The figure bit out sounding almost like a small child, angry that their favorite toy broke.
He did not hear the shorter figures reply as the memory haltered, and his gaze was forced back towards Rosier, as he cursed him. Yet when he ran, Albus didn't linger his gaze on Rosier's pathetic dirted form on the ground, instead he watched as the two hooded figures turned towards the sound, towards them. He watched their heads move, he saw the faces beneath the hoods.
He saw how their eyes were not on Rosier—but on him.
He felt a shiver down his spine as he exited the memory, now back in the snow. He began to slightly heave in panic as his head stung. He felt the wetness of his nose dropping a warm liquid, the air filled with a metallic tang as it continued to drop and stain the white snow beneath. His eyes wavered down, to where the red painted the white snow beneath his sitting form.
How could he have missed such a detail? He clenched his teeth, as his breath came out more ragged, exhausted. His choice of giving one final curse to Rosier had made his own face visible, known to the figures—
That had without any doubt killed Esther Finnerty only moments before. His brows furrowed as the panic rose within, he had no mental energy to push back all the emotion and fears that exploded within, that seemed to freeze and boil his blood at the same time, his heart beat so loud, he wondered slightly if he had really overdone it this time and would cause a heart attack—
He felt his own body drop back down into the snow beneath.
Why—
Had the two figures left Rosier living?
After all, the only witnesses were Rosier and—him.
He, just as much as Rosier had been a witness, and they knew his face.
And he had seen theirs.
༚☽𖤓☾༚
Notes:
So that was it, sorry but I felt that I needed to end on a cliff-hanger once at least! Hihi
I am planning on finishing the next chapter soon, so I promise the wait will not be as long, hopefully the next will be in one to two weeks.
I didn't want to babble on too much in the intro note, instead i will do it in the ending. Yes, the classroom scene is long, but I really did have a fun time coming up with the transfiguration theory, that is all my own btw, and how I have decided transfiguration works, as the canon one just has so many plotholes.
And also wtf is up with Spindlewheel? Also small note but i need to go back in the chapters to change his pronouns, i think i used she before lmao becuase i wasnt sure if i wanted them to be a male or female.
What do yall think of the mindscape???
Of the reveal?? Hmm ... I wonder how this will affect Albus ...
Also! Scorpius!!! I know some of you have missed him, which I have too, but not really as he takes up a lot of my notes! Who knows maybe we will have more Scorpius scenes in the next chapter ... or maybe not ...
Sad, rip Esther, you are missed! I actually forgot if this is actually the first time I dropped her full name?? Hahah, it was intentional thought, to withhold it, it adds meaning i think.
Also like always i love your comments and to respond to them!!!
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