Chapter Text
“Since the beginning of magic, attempts had been made to harness it in one form or another. The earliest recorded ones were acts of taming nature’s energy, merely for survival, with the most primitive one being documented in Muggle history as the ‘discovery of fire’. Wizardkind had made much progress since then with advancements in the practical and magical theory, but very few studies dove into celestial magic. Theoretical underpinnings of this branch of magic have been mostly laid out and studied by centaurs, and it has mostly been on the subject of Divination. This study aims to expand on the magical theory of celestial energy and to explore theoretical magical applications in the field of Alchemy.”
-Malfoy, D. (2010), The Alchemical Applications of Celestial Energy: An Exploratory Study
*
Year 2000
Theoretically, it should work.
Draco had read all the books. He had done the experiments. He had two years worth of knowledge in all the relevant fields imaginable under his belt. He had been terribly and incredibly thorough. House arrest had its benefits, after all.
The night was clear, the stars glittering like diamonds studding the sky. He had done the necessary weather charms to ensure a cloudless night.
Draco shivers slightly at the cool breeze, his nightgown wrapping around his legs slightly as he made the short trek on top of the hill behind the manor. The place where his parents’ graves stood.
Magical repositories.
This ritual required that. Theoretically, all beings are magical repositories. Some are more magically-receptive than others and a threshold would determine whether one would be Magical or Muggle. Repositories come in all sizes and a bigger size would mean a bigger capability to store magic. Draco is just average.
It didn’t matter, though. He had other talents. Channelling, for one. A skill most vital, since tonight’s ritual needs the utmost precision in leading magic to flow from one vessel to another.
Draco finished the runic symbols needed for the whole debacle, plus a little bit extra for stability, safety, and anchorage. He knew things would happen very fast once it began, and he wouldn’t have much of a reaction time to do anything else, much less draw perfect runes.
Satisfied, Draco takes a step forward, standing at the center of his work. He then points his wand to the heavens and casts.
A few seconds later, stars rain from the sky.
*
Year 2010
The oven timer dings and Harry, with stiff, mechanical precision, pulls out the pot roast before placing it on the counter to cool. He returns to portioning the mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, carefully dividing it into different containers. He glances at the sink, overflowing with the bowls and pots that he used to whip up today’s spread.
Beef pot roast for Ron. Peach and apple cobbler for Hermione. Lasagne for Ginny. Homemade treacle gelato for Hugo and Rose.
He had gone a bit overboard and now, there was too much to wash. Ron had promised to help with the clean-up after dinner but, well, he can’t help if the dinner was cancelled, can’t he?
Harry wraps the untouched cobbler in foil. There was an emergency in St. Mungo’s and Hermione was called in immediately.
Harry partitions the lasagne to keep in separate containers. He might send out a few to Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. He’ll keep a serving for tomorrow's breakfast. It's all good. Both Rose and Hugo suddenly fell sick with the flu, after all. Ron had to take care of them.
Harry heaps a serving of pot roast on a plate. The rest would go to the freezer to become a week’s worth of meals. Ginny was detained at Quidditch practice and wasn’t sure if her nightmare of a coach would even let her go home.
All of these were perfectly valid reasons. Harry had no excuse to be upset. Besides, he could still have pot roast and treacle ice cream and maybe that elf wine he bought for the occasion.
He settles in front of the television, turning the channel to one playing an obscure black-and-white movie. It was nice. A light comedy. The main character was a child who lived with his parents and the movie was all about their shenanigans. Harry laughs at all the right moments. And when the credits rolled to close the curtains on a happy scene of a family frolicking about on a beach, there was a pang of disappointment that Harry made sure to quickly shoot down.
There was nothing to be sad about.
He has a good life.
He has friends.
He was relatively wealthy, with the Black and Potter inheritances at his disposal.
He was safe; no more maniacal dark lords out for his life.
All was well. Yet Harry finds that he has lost his appetite.
*
The doorbell rang just as Harry was about to clear the dishes, his pot roast left untouched. He was excited for a brief moment before realizing that all of his friends were connected to his Floo and can apparate directly into Grimmauld. Nobody he cares about ever bothered using the front door.
It rings again, somewhat impatiently, and Harry had half a mind to just cast a Silencing Charm and leave whichever idiot standing in front of his house to their futile attempts. He doesn’t do this, however, because he’s a considerate neighbor. Instead, he vanishes his untouched food, leaves the dishes on the sink, and makes his way to the front door where his unannounced visitor was still ringing the bell, this time, aggressively and consecutively.
“Coming!” Harry calls out, angrily. Whoever this was will definitely be getting a piece of his mind.
Harry yanks the door open with more force than needed, a snarl already beginning to form on his face, a sharp insult already ready on his tongue.
He stops.
When Harry opened his front door, it felt like being transported back to 1991. The boy in front of him was pale, lanky, blonde, and pointy in a way that Harry attributed to one person and one person alone. Despite not seeing the man in person for the past decade, the haughty look in his eye and the self-assured demeanor were already unwillingly ingrained in Harry’s memory, and seeing it now again on his doorstep disoriented him. ‘Maybe I should report this to the Department of Mysteries,’ Harry muses, for what else could this be but the work of a time turner gone wrong?
“Hello,” says the boy, breaking Harry’s train of thought while managing to sound polite yet indifferent simultaneously. “You must be Harry Potter.”
Even the drawl was the same. Harry says to himself in quiet wonder. He clears his throat and finds himself nodding. “I guess I am.”
“A pleasure to meet you. My name is Scorpius Malfoy. Son of Draco Malfoy. Won’t you invite me inside, Mr. Potter?”
*
The boy – Scorpius – was seated in Harry’s shiny, new sofa (gifted to him in exchange for an honest review) while Harry sat opposite him, observing the boy carefully. It felt every bit of surreal as Harry would have expected. After testifying for Draco Malfoy in his trial in the Autumn of 1998, Harry had not seen him since. Life had went on as normally as anyone could have predicted and Harry had only heard of Malfoy in passing in the recent years.
From what he can remember, Malfoy never left his home, the same place where he was put on a two-year house arrest, ever since his sentencing.
From what he knew from idle pub chit-chat, he had become some sort of hermit. A recluse who only had his needs delivered via owl and rarely (if not never) accepted visitors.
From what he read in the Daily Prophet, he had become some sort of respected academic. He made research breakthroughs that astounded his peers, and his naysayers had labelled him as stark, raving mad when it came to theory. But his work in his specialty spoke for itself. Draco Malfoy focused on the niche connection between alchemy and stars, and Harry was never really sure how those two topics even linked up.
And so, Harry felt extremely out of his depth when, out of the blue, a ten-year-old spitting image of his schoolyard rival decided to grace him with his presence on one chilly November afternoon to enlighten Harry on falling stars and their magical properties.
“Aren’t falling stars pieces of rock from outer space?” Harry finds himself saying, latching on to a piece of Muggle astronomy that he managed to retain from Dudley’s old science tapes.
Scorpius looked at him with unconcealed pity, making Harry second-guess every little thing he learned in his brief Muggle education. “How…quaint.” He pauses a bit to consider Harry. “But Father did say that you had, for a while, a Muggle upbringing.”
That piqued Harry’s interest. “Your father talked about me?”
Scorpius waves him off. “Here and there. It wouldn’t be much of an education if he didn’t tell me about the Wizarding World’s savior, wouldn’t it?”
Harry briefly wonders if Scorpius is being brought up in the same pureblood drivel that Draco was indoctrinated to. The crisp, white shirt, matching black vest and slacks, and shiny leathers were decidedly Muggle. Too formal for a boy to wear on an ordinary weekday, but still Muggle. The attire, coupled with his familiarity with the Muggle appliances in Harry’s home, however, suggested that the boy might have been raised in a slightly more modern (and less divisive) environment. “Right. An education. You’ll be off to Hogwarts soon, won’t you?”
Scorpius shrugs. “Father wishes it to be the case.”
“You don’t sound too excited.”
There was a faraway expression on the boy’s face. “I do not want to leave Father alone at the manor,” he says quietly.
And wasn’t that the sweetest? Harry cannot claim to know the sort of man that Draco Malfoy has become, but his son’s obvious attachment to him was rather cute, in Harry’s opinion. “It’s only a few months a year,” he reassures the boy. “Besides, your father can leave your house anytime he wants. His sentence was over years ago. Merlin knows why he’s set himself up to be recluse.”
Scorpius visibly straightens, clarity settling in his features. “Ah, and that is the crux of the matter, unfortunately. Mr. Potter –”
“Harry.”
“Very well. Harry, will you come with me to Malfoy Manor?”
*
A visit to Malfoy Manor on a random Tuesday afternoon was definitely not something Harry could have predicted in a million years, but he is in the middle of (yet another) career break and, well, dinner plans had been cancelled anyway. Besides, he can’t deny that he was just a little bit curious over what Draco Malfoy was up to these days. He was a bit of a creature of habit in that respect.
Scorpius steps across the threshold with a slight wobble but still looking pristine while Harry tries to discreetly brush off the ash on his trousers from Floo travel. He reaches out to steady the boy with a single hand but Scorpius holds out his palm. “Thank you. Floo travel sometimes makes me woozy, but it goes away.” The boy shakes off the nausea and continues with the same sure tone he had previously. “Father will be in his study at this hour,” he says, leading Harry through the manor’s rooms. It was nothing like Harry remembered, though admittedly, he never really got around to appreciating the manor’s interior decoration during their escape from Voldemort. Harry wonders if it’s because of the light of day, or the absence of Dark Magic, or the renovations, but despite its obvious opulence, the manor did not feel imposing at all. In fact, it felt almost warm and homey just like how the Burrow feels like for Harry.
He watches in amusement as Scorpius makes tiny ‘tsks’ of disapproval, tidying up randomly misplaced sheafs of paper, straightening throw pillows, and wandlessly magicking dirty teacups clean as they go. That earned a raised eyebrow from Harry. A ten-year-old competent at household cleaning spells? Not to mention wandless ones? This boy will be a prodigy at Hogwarts.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Scorpius says as he vanished a half-eaten scone with a wave of his hand. “Father has a bad habit of dropping whatever it is that he’s currently doing whenever an idea strikes him. He doesn’t like letting go of trains of thought when it takes hold. Claims that it’s bad for the ideation cycle.”
“No house elf?”
“We keep one on retainer. A free elf named Mitsy. She comes every end of the week to do general household cleaning.”
Malfoy without a servant to wait on him? That was news to Harry. He had always thought that the man had kept his pampered lifestyle despite being on house arrest. Harry pities the poor woman who married Malfoy and now had to do an entire manor’s worth of housework. “He leaves the cooking and cleaning to you and your poor mum, eh?” Harry says a bit disdainfully. Draco Malfoy may have been minor coerced to being a Death Eater, but that doesn't mean he wasn't a spoiled kid who grew up to being an entitled adult.
Scorpius looks at him oddly. “I’m not sure what you're talking about since it's only me and Father here most of the time. And it's him who does most of the housework, actually. Though, for a potioneer, he’s rotten at cooking. But his laundry charms are pretty good, and his cleaning spells are decent enough.”
The mental image of Draco Malfoy doing menial house chores was so out of the field of possibility that Scorpius’s statement left Harry stumped. He was saved from replying by a voice interrupting them. He’d know that nasal drawl anywhere.
“What is this disparagement of my culinary abilities? You are a terrible, horrible, ungrateful son.”
And despite the harsh words, there was an amused smile in Draco Malfoy’s face that betrayed his fondness for his son. Scorpius, for the first time since Harry met him, grinned as he flung himself to the man Harry had not seen for years. Tall, thin, and seemingly severely under-exercised, Draco Malfoy wobbles a bit as he finds himself suddenly with an armful of energetic child. “Father!”
It was an endearing display and Harry's heart aches with familiar envy as Scorpius nuzzles against his father while Malfoy plants a soft kiss on the boy’s blonde head. The two of them looked so much alike, but even if they didn't, the way Scorpius clung to his father and the way Malfoy welcomed his affections signalled to anyone who sees just how much they belonged with each other. A tightness gripped Harry's heart, but he was unwilling to look away, and he was strongly reminded of the times that the Dursleys took Dudley inside the candy store while Harry watched longingly from the outside, pressed against the store’s windows.
How was it that Draco Malfoy, someone who hadn't even set foot outside his house for the past decade, has the one thing that Harry has ever yearned for? Harry thinks of all the failed relationships and disastrous first dates and meaningless sex that comprised his life. He thinks of Hermione and Ron who have built a life together with their children. He thinks of Ginny and her successful career and how she seemed to have it all figured out. He thinks of Neville and Hannah and how they have settled. He thinks of Luna. Of George. Of Seamus and Dean. And Harry's happy for them, he really is. It's just that, when looking at his own life (alone) and career (ex-Auror, ex-Quidditch player, ex-ice cream salesman, ex-Knight Bus conductor, part-time furniture reviewer and currently unemployed), he wished he had some place to belong to. And now, even Malfoy seemed to have his life even more put together than Harry does. In fact, Malfoy seemed to be happy. He didn't think that he was one to rub in his past sacrifices to save the Wizarding World, but a mean little voice in his head screamed that this hardly seemed fair.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, guilt welled in Harry's gut. Was this really the kind of person he’s become? Someone who begrudges people of their own happiness? Harry's ears burn in shame and he hopes that his thoughts hadn't been too plainly displayed on his face.
He needn’t have worried.
It appears that in the middle of his crisis, the father and son pair had released each other from their embrace and were currently engaged in a rather heated argument.
“I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again, Scorpius: I’ve got it handled,” Draco says, tiredly, the bridge of his nose pinched by his thumb and forefinger.
“You say that but I know for a fact that you don't!”
“Don't shout at me, young man!”
“I’ll stop shouting when you stop being stupid about this!”
Well. That was a bit too harsh. Even Harry, who didn't necessarily grow up with a proper parental figure, knew that that wasn't the way to talk to one’s dad. It was a complete one-eighty from the loving display earlier and it almost gave Harry a whiplash.
“Are you calling me stupid, Scorpius?” Malfoy's voice dropped dangerously. Scorpius seems to pick up on it and Harry watches the boy falter. It didn't last long.
“No! I'm calling this whole thing – your whole plan – stupid!”
“It is not! I have explained to you over and over; it is completely safe and I’m almost ninety percent sure that it will work–”
“And then? What about the ten percent?” Scorpius asks, the challenge evident in his tone. “What happens if, on the ten percent chance, it fails?”
Harry watches Malfoy look away, no longer able to look at his son. “Then I have made arrangements for that…unfortunate outcome.”
Scorpius lets out an anguished wail before the boy runs out of the room, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone with each other. Harry had absolutely no idea what just happened here, but at this point, he was already too curious to simply leave. Besides, he had nothing waiting for him at home but to finish a sofa review anyway. He watches Malfoy stare at the door Scorpius left through. The man sighs deflatedly before, finally, addressing Harry for the first time.
“Kids, am I right? I suppose I should offer you some tea, at least.”
Harry finds himself nodding. “Earl Grey would be lovely.”
*
Harry discovered a lot of things about Draco Malfoy in the past hour.
He learned that Malfoy picked up celestial study as a hobby during his house arrest. Having libraries full of books meant that Malfoy was not without reading material. Alchemy, however, came slightly later.
Why didn't he go out? Harry asked. His sentence was already over, after all. Malfoy shrugs. There was no reason for him to. His study is here and so is Scorpius. He didn't need anything else. Malfoy didn't elaborate much on Scorpius's mother. In fact, he didn't mention any woman at all, just that it's only him and Scorpius now that Lucius and Narcissa are both dead. They were buried in a plot in one of the gardens and would Harry like to visit? Harry confirms that he would rather snog a Blast-Ended Skrewt, thank you very much.
That got a chuckle out of Malfoy and Harry found himself grinning as well. It was surprisingly easy to talk to Draco Malfoy, especially when he wasn’t treating Harry like the scum at the bottom of his shoe. Now, Harry got a glimpse of the Draco Malfoy that the Slytherins saw and willingly followed. The man was charismatic, witty, and funny when he wanted to be and Harry found that he enjoyed seeing Malfoy’s easy grins and animated storytelling. Besides, there was also the fact that he doesn't go out, and so, Harry's exploits still seemed like news to him.
“What do you mean you never knew I was gay?” Harry asks with an amused laugh. “That was all over the papers years ago. I couldn't even go to Diagon Alley without getting weird looks.”
Malfoy huffs. “I could hardly be bothered reading celebrity news, Potter. Some of us are out here pushing the boundaries of academia.”
“You haven’t even been ‘out’ in the past decade, Malfoy.”
“The garden counts.”
Harry argues that it most certainly does not. Malfoy's retort, however, was cut off by a small voice. “Dad?” Scorpius peeked uncertainly from the sitting room’s doorway, eyes wide and posture drooped. The hesitation reminded Harry of his own childhood, always fearful of rejection and yearning of acknowledgment at the same time.
Scorpius needn't have worried. Harry watches relief flood Malfoy's face as he opens his arms, beckoning the boy to come closer. In an almost perfect rewind of the day’s earliest events, Scorpius runs to his father and flings himself into Malfoy's open arms. Thankfully, this time he was seated and didn't stagger.
“I'm sorry for shouting, daddy,” Harry hears Scorpius say, a slight wobble in his voice.
“It's okay, my little star,” Malfoy whispers, soothingly as he arranges the boy on his lap. “I know it upsets you so. Are you feeling quite alright?” Scorpius nods in assent and that seemed to satisfy his father. The worry lines on Malfoy's face smoothened and he resumed stroking his son's hair at a leisurely pace. The boy was at an awkward height and being perched on his father's knee already seemed to look uncomfortable, but the father-son duo didn't mind. Soon, Harry thinks Malfoy won't be able to do that. Scorpius was as thin and frail-looking as Malfoy did in youth and if the boy really took after his father, he would probably shoot up like a bean pole a few months after starting Hogwarts and then stop growing at sixteen.
After a few minutes of this, the two shared one last tight hug before Scorpius pushed himself off Malfoy's lap and announced: “I made dinner. Harry is invited.”
Malfoy frowns. “I thought I said I’ll make dinner tonight.”
Scorpius pulls a face, which he immediately smooths out to a snooty expression. The swift transition made Harry chuckle. “I'm terribly sorry, father, but I do not fancy serving burnt pasta when we have company.”
The switch from fragile, young child to well-mannered pureblood scion seemed to be a norm because Malfoy took it in stride. “First off, I have never burnt pasta. I burnt the sauce and that was only because the stove was broken.”
“Of course. The stove that magically breaks itself whenever you enter the room. How could I forget?” Scorpius replies, nodding sagely. “Harry? Are you partial to seafood or vegetarian pasta?”
“Oh! Um, I like it either way,” Harry replies, surprised at the attention suddenly diverted to him. Scorpius looked pleased at his reply.
“Splendid, I’ll set the table. Father, take Harry to the dining room, please.”
For the second time that day, Scorpius leaves Harry alone with Malfoy again. “I hope you don't have dinner plans,” Malfoy said with a sigh as he rose from his seat. “But if you have to leave, just go ahead. I’ll explain to Scorpius.”
A weight settles in Harry's gut at the thought of leaving. At the thought of returning to an empty home, that seemed so much darker and colder now that he's seen familial warmth recently. Besides, now that dinner had been offered, his stomach began to grumble in protest. He was not able to eat his meal before Scorpius arrived. “I could stay,” Harry affirms. “Besides, wouldn't Scorpius be upset if I just up and left? He went through so much trouble.”
“Oh, he will be in trouble once you go home, Potter,” Malfoy replies, airily. “He’s not supposed to bring you here.”
That piqued Harry’s attention. “Why? Are you hiding something from me, Malfoy?”
Malfoy eyes him, suspiciously. “I thought you’re retired from the Auror gig?” He waves Harry off. “Anyway, it's not nefarious or anything. You’re invited to check. Your lot comes poking their noses here every once in a while and my laboratory has received all necessary certifications to operate.”
“Then why warn him from me?”
“It's not so much as me warning him not to get close to you for my own good, as much as it is your own. Look, if you must know, I’m experimenting with something that needs a pretty high magical reservoir. So far, I’m having difficulty but I’m already close to a breakthrough. I might have told Scorpius a few things about you and I might have mentioned that you have unnaturally high magic stores. He’s just trying to help.”
Harry frowns. “I have unnaturally high magic stores?”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Of course, you fixate on that. Yes, Potter, you do. And before you ask how I know, any pureblood worth their salt would do a quick magic scan on their rivals regularly just to know if they're still ahead. I measured you in school. It's a pretty standard spell, nothing dark.”
Harry, surprisingly, finds that he is not even bothered by the fact that Malfoy was giving him secret magic scans to gauge his magical capacity in their youth. He supposed it's because, as far as Malfoy's actions went before, this was one of the relatively harmless things he's ever done to Harry.
“Why won't you want me to help you then?” Harry finds himself asking. “If you say that I have stronger magic.”
“More magic, Potter. Not stronger. There's a difference, and you would know it if you cared enough to listen to Flitwick’s magical theory discussion in second year. Besides, why would you even want to help me?”
Harry stopped at that. Why, indeed?
*
Harry finds that Scorpius is an excellent cook and an even more excellent host.
The two adults enter the dining room to find their places set and two platters of pasta and a basket of garlic bread laid out on the table. A pitcher of pumpkin juice was levitating in the air, gently guided by Scorpius’s fingertips to pour in their glasses.
“He’s pretty good at that, isn't he?” Harry says, gesturing to Scorpius who has now refilled the pitcher with a click of his fingers. “Wandless magic doesn't even get discussed until after OWLs maybe?”
“They were definitely before OWLs. You should go back to Hogwarts with Scorpius. Maybe this time, you’ll actually learn a thing or two. But to answer your question, yes. Scorpius really is a prodigy, and I’m not even saying this to brag. I had to teach him control really early because he might blow things up, and then we'll be out of a home. His magic is just so powerful.”
“Powerful magic, then? Not more magic?”
“Yes, Potter. Stronger versus more magic. There is a difference. Glad I was able to succeed where Flitwick failed in drilling that tidbit.”
“Are you going into the magical theory discussion already?” Scorpius asks, his eyes shining. “I'm afraid I’ll ask you to resume talking shop later; as you can see, dinner is ready.”
“There will be no talking shop later,” Malfoy says in a tone that brooks no argument. “I’ve already discussed this with you, young man, and I don't want to get into it again tonight. I’ll tell you what's going to happen instead. Mr. Potter will have dinner with us and then after the delightful meal you prepared, you will take him to the Floo– and to the Floo only– where you will bid him goodbye. You are then grounded from leaving the Manor until further notice.”
“But–”
“No buts, Scorpius. I will no longer be discussing this with you.”
“Fine,” Scorpius says, sulkily. As soon as Malfoy turns away, however, the boy sneaks a look at Harry and winks. ‘Later’, he mouths. Harry swallows back a laugh. Kids these days.
*
Malfoy bids Harry good night and retires to his study as soon as dinner is over. The goodbye was polite, brief, and one clearly made with the thought in mind that he would not be seeing Harry again in the future. The idea of this left a sinking feeling in Harry’s gut, more prominent than he cared to admit. He easily shakes it off, however, when he sees the mischievous smirk on Scorpius’s face. If Malfoy preferred never to see Harry again, then he should not have left Harry alone with his son. As it was now, the boy seemed to be up to mischief reminiscent of Harry's own teenage hijinks, and Harry couldn't help but be hit with a pang of nostalgia. Whatever Scorpius asks of him, Harry was almost certain that he would fully go along for the ride, just for the fun of it. Besides, Harry wouldn't be the respectable adult that he is if he weren't there to keep an eye out on a kid getting up to no good, wouldn't he?
As soon as Malfoy was out of sight, Scorpius heaved a huge sigh and gave Harry a look as if asking see what I have to deal with? It was so out of place on a ten-year-old’s child-like face that Harry had to smother a giggle.
“Right,” Scorpius declares, straightening his vest. “We haven't got much time. Walk with me, Harry.”
Scorpius took him through a slightly different path, claiming that they would use the upstairs Floo. After all, his father didn't specify which Floo they needed to use, just that Scorpius would take Harry to the Floo directly. “As you’ve seen,” Scorpius began as they made a sharp turn to a corridor that, to Harry, honestly looked the same as the others. “Father is a bit…difficult.”
“Oh, I know,” Harry agrees. After all, he’s had years of experience on Malfoy being an absolute arse. Scorpius glares at him at the slight at his father, and Harry raises his hands in mock surrender. Apparently, the boy can shout at his father and call him stupid, but Merlin forbid Harry even agree to calling him difficult.
“As I was saying. There is something Father is working on. Something…close to his heart. And I’m afraid he will fail. To cut a long story short, he cannot do it alone, Harry.”
“The thing you were arguing about earlier? That thing?” Harry raises a brow skeptically. He knew Draco Malfoy didn't engage in dark magic these days, but who knew just how far academics went in the pursuit of knowledge? If Hermione was anything to go by, curious and determined wizards are scary.
Scorpius nods. They turn another corner. It looked like the same corridor, and Harry began wondering if Scorpius was leading him in circles.
“He said the odds of him succeeding were high, right? Ninety?”
“Ninety,” Scorpius affirms.
“There you have it.” Those were pretty good odds in Harry's opinion. He gambled for much less and quite frankly, he wasn’t very much invested in the thrilling breakthroughs of academia, much more Draco Malfoy’s.
“You haven't asked what happens if, on the ten percent chance, he fails.”
“What?” Harry asks, still not seeing why he's in this conversation in the first place.
Scorpius abruptly stops walking in front of a tall window, the glass letting in the light from the moon. From where Harry stood in the shadows, the boy's skin was ghastly pale, almost shiny and translucent. His expression was somber as he stared straight at Harry.
“He dies.”
Well. That was a bit grim. Harry, now, understands Scorpius’s outburst and can't help but be annoyed at his old rival. How could he even consider risking his life for this when he has a son who absolutely adores him to leave behind? It was one thing to risk one’s life for others during a war. But this, during peacetime? What was Malfoy even to gain from this little experiment other than a little more prestige in a field where he's already well-respected? Harry looks at Scorpius in pity. Malfoy didn't deserve such an adoring son who thought the world of his father. He was, however, still confused about where he fit in this narrative.
“Do…you want me to, maybe, stop him?” Harry guesses. He supposes he could try. He still had some pull with the Aurors, but if Malfoy wasn't engaged in anything dark and if he wasn't in danger of harming anyone but himself, there wasn't much that Harry could do.
Scorpius shakes his head. “He can't be stopped. This is too important for him.” And it was at this point that Harry breaks as he notices the tears welling at the corners of the boy's eyes.
“Have you tried telling him your feelings about this?” Harry asks, tentatively reaching a hand to stroke the top of Scorpius's head. The boy nods and manages to say with gritted teeth:
“He won't listen.”
“I see.” Malfoy, you selfish git.
The boy’s shoulders were shaking now, in an attempt to keep himself from full-out crying. Wordlessly, Harry reaches out and pulls him into a hug. He was warm and trembling in Harry's arms as Harry lightly rocked the boy in an attempt at comfort. While children hadn’t been in the cards yet for Harry, he'd always known that he wanted at least one. He’d swallowed the envy quietly every time one of his peers announced that they were expecting. He’d forced a smile and focused on looking genuinely happy while something ugly gnawed at his gut. And when he carried Ron and Hermione’s first child for the first time, he was filled with so much longing that he had to step out for a while in fear that his feelings will show on his face. Since that day, Harry’d wondered what it would feel like to embrace his own child.
It would feel exactly like this, Harry’s mind supplies.
“Shhh,” he whispers soothingly, copying what he saw Malfoy do earlier today to calm down the boy. “It will all be alright.”
“It won't,” Scorpius sobs. “It won't.”
Harry's shirt was wet with tears and snot, but he didn't mind. His heart clenches in pity for Scorpius. He knew what it was like to be alone, and he didn’t wish that on any child. He felt anger at Malfoy for putting Scorpius through this. “It will be, I promise. I won't let anything happen to your father.” Harry would chain him if needed. He might not have any fond feelings for Malfoy, but he won't allow Scorpius to end up an orphan.
Scorpius pulls away slightly and peers up Harry, tearfully. “Do you promise?”
“I promise, Scorpius.”
The boy holds out a pinky. “Pinky swear at me.”
Harry grins and holds out his own pinky, linking it with the boy’s. “Swear that you’ll keep him safe?”
“I swear to keep Draco Malfoy safe,” Harry says, humoring Scorpius. There was a slight tingle where their fingers connected.
“Even from himself?”
“Even from himself.” Another tingle.
Scorpius face splits into a grin as a buzzing feeling envelops Harry. It seemed to originate from their fingers, slowly creeping up his limbs like vines. As soon as it reaches his chest, the sensation vanishes and Scorpius launches himself back into Harry's arms in an embrace much like how he did with his father earlier.
“Thank you, Harry!” Scorpius exclaims. Harry felt his heart warm with joy. How could Malfoy even consider leaving this behind? He watches the boy reach inside his pocket and pull out a leather bracelet. Looped through it was a piece of metallic-looking, glassy shard. “For you,” Scorpius offers. “Consider it my thanks.”
Harry’s heart warms as he accepts the gift. How sweet was this boy? “Thank you, Scorpius. I’ll be sure to treasure it.”
“I know,” the boy says cockily as he holds Harry’s hand and they walk the remaining path toward the Floo. He regaled Harry with stories of how he spent time in the manor and how his father taught him how to read and write and fly on a broom. He told Harry stories about each room and any interesting objects they passed by. He had a few colorful tales about a couple of portraits, in particular. Harry was just happy watching him prattle on gleefully.
When they reached the fireplace, Harry was a bit sad to leave.
“Thank you,” the boy says, sincerely, as Harry throws Floo powder into the grate. The flames flashed green and Harry spoke his address.
“You're welcome, Scorpius.” He gives the boy one last hug. “And I promise to keep an eye on your father.”
“I know.” The boy grins, disentangling himself from Harry's arms. “I'm not worried.”
Wasn't that sweet? Harry thinks. This little boy, so trusting of him. Harry wouldn't let him down. Harry would do his best to keep an eye on Malfoy and keep him alive, for the sake of this boy.
Scorpius’s innocent grin curves upward a bit further. What was once angelic now looked borderline devious and Harry was suddenly reminded of the Weasley twins and their shenanigans. Scorpius speaks cheerfully: “The pinky swear we made is an Unbreakable Vow, after all.”
*
Twenty-three seconds. Draco counts, making a quick note on his scroll. Twenty-three seconds before the vessel made any sign of volatility. This was close to the average value, but still way below target. Meanwhile, the brass lamp he was working on thrummed angrily in a corner. A faint, wispy smoke was leaking from the lid and he knew from experience that it wouldn't take long before the magic would give. The thing gave a particularly violent jolt and Draco, on reflex, reached out to push the lamp back on the counter before it fell to the ground.
He jolted back instantaneously, hissing in pain, as the blister on his palm burned red-hot. He glares at the lamp, which now seemed to emit a satisfied sort of glow, the energy inside quite appeased at having hurt Draco somewhat. Devious sort of thing, with quite a mean streak, those things are. Draco gives the thing another sneer before going back to his references. His palm burned uncomfortably, and it worried him. He knew this wasn't even close to how the real thing would feel later on, but it still hurt like hell. He’d have to find a workaround for that.
The lamp emits more and more smoke and Draco uses a stick to poke and prod at it. Time was limited now but it makes sense to glean as much information as he can from the lamp’s energy before it eventually blasts itself to smithereens from inside out.
“Hush, you insolent wretch,” Draco mutters after a particularly violent prod. His stick caught on fire, in retaliation.
Draco sighs. This seems to be the most he would be getting tonight.
“Fine, fine,” he says as he levitates the lamp towards his open window. “I'm done with you. Try not to wreck the lamp too much, I’m almost out of brass.”
The lamp gives an angry quiver and explodes violently as soon as the metal hits the window ledge. There goes some more good quality brass, Draco thinks as he crouches down to inspect the wreckage. Bits of coppery metal were strewn on the floor, but right in the midst of it all was a single glassy, metallic shard still glowing white. He reaches for the piece and holds it close to his chest. The magic was still alive and thrumming and, despite being but a fraction, Draco can still feel the intensity and rawness of the power that was contained within. It fills him with a surge of hope.
He was nowhere near finished, but this will have to do for now.