Author: irrelevant
Title: Getting There (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Summary: In which Scorpius Hyperion temporarily Misplaces his temper, Harry learns to Hate His Mobile, and Malfoy cultivates the Elusive.
Warnings: Post DH, epilogue compliant, implied infidelity, and snark: lots of it.
Total word count: 14,200
Getting There Part 1 of 2
-and that was then, but this?
“Ready?”
“About.” Scorpius Malfoy arranged his flying leathers neatly in his trunk then lifted a pile of black fabric from his mattress. Shaking the crumpled material out, he looked at the girl stretched across his bed, head propped against one hand. “You?”
Laughter glinted in grey-green eyes. “Of course.”
From remarks made by fellow students, Scorpius deduced that as far as ocular endowment went, Rose Weasley was blessed. He couldn’t speak to the matter himself; in the five years they’d known each other, he’d yet to evade the mind behind said blessing long enough to form an opinion on such a superfluous matter as physical appearance.
“Thinking too hard about too many things at once is dangerous, you know,” said the bright, impatient girl with the presumably pretty eyes. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Case in point, thought Scorpius. Like called to like. One’s intellectual equal could and did cut one down to size in half the time it took one’s halfwit enemy to hit on an appropriate insult. And on that note: “Good advice from someone who knows first hand,” he said.
“Too right.” Rose reached out, trailed her ink-stained fingers down the formal robes draped over Scorpius’ arm. “I don’t know why you insist on doing it that way. We’ve wands.”
“And house-elves. But house-elves never get it right and in my experience, neither does magic.”
“You’re worse than the Slytherin fashion brigade,” Rose sniffed.
Scorpius’ lips curled into what some might have mistaken for a smile. “Yes,” he agreed, “but I’ve it on good authority that there are things even worse. While I’m undoubtedly a freak, at least I’m not Draco Malfoy.”
Rose’s mouth flattened into a tight line. Her much admired eyes darkened. “Someone ought to have put your grandfather out of your misery years ago.”
“It’s a thought.” Scorpius’ hands closed momentarily on soft fabric. He relaxed his grip and smoothed the cloth out, settling it atop his flying leathers and closing the lid of his trunk. He traced the monogram carved into Charmed cedar with one finger and glanced sideways Rose, his mouth once more curved around the not-smile. “The quote is Mother’s, though.”
“Your mother,” Rose started to say, but Scorpius shook his head, silencing her before conversation degenerated into rant.
“I’ve heard your thoughts on the subject, Weasley. They have been noted.”
“Noted and rejected, you mean,” snorted Rose. “I’ve often the urge to murder various and sundry of my relatives but it goes away after a thorough hexing on their parts. Your family, though… Remind me. Why is that lot still breathing? I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You’re not the only one,” muttered Scorpius.
“I heard that, Malfoy.” Rose slid off the bed and circled around to Scorpius’ side, propping a hip against the edge of the mattress. “I’m sorry,” she said in her abrupt way. “I was going to ask if you wanted to stay at ours this summer but-”
“But you’ve an opportunity you’d be daft to ignore,” interrupted Scorpius. “Don’t indulge in an orgy of misplaced guilt on my part, Weasley. I do very well on my own.”
“Yes, I know.” Rose transferred her scowl from the floor to Scorpius’ face. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Scorpius’ eyebrows rose. “Such drama.”
“Do shut it. I’m not here to lecture, only to say goodbye. And there’s this.”
He wasn’t expecting it, and when Rose wrapped her arms about him and squeezed, Scorpius was too astonished to move. He stood unresisting in her hold, staring in blank-minded surprise at the far wall. She let him go, grinned at his expression, and lightly cuffed his shoulder. “You’re an arse, Malfoy, but I like you. I’m even going to miss you. Take care of yourself, all right?”
“I’ll try,” Scorpius hedged.
“I suppose that’s all the reassurance I’m likely to get.” She gave him another fleeting smile then turned, dark robes billowing around her, and walked out the way she’d come.
“See you,” Scorpius called.
Rose lifted a hand. She didn’t look back. She disappeared down the Tower stairs, her voice drifting towards Scorpius on the air of her passage. “See you in September.”
“September,” echoed Scorpius, and grimaced. “Too bloody long by half.” Pushing the unwanted thought to the back of his mind, he inspected his small pile of possessions. Nothing there he couldn’t handle himself. He straightened his robes, tucked a stack of books under one arm and followed in Rose’s wake. A flick of his wand and his trunk slid off the bed and trailed after him.
He encountered few of his housemates. This being the last day of term, almost everyone was somewhere else: finalizing travel arrangements for those not going by train, taking leave of friends, completing those meaningless rituals that always accompanied the end of term. The Ravenclaw common room was deserted. Unfortunately, Hogwarts’ main corridors were not.
Later, Scorpius would extrapolate from numerous small tells the Trip Jinx that wound round his ankles and tangled his legs in his robes. In real time, he’d no room for thinking as the floor rushed up to meet his nose. He flung his hands out; his armful of books went flying. He heard his trunk crash down and felt the crack of his knees and hands impacting flagstone. Palms stinging, knees aching, he knelt on all fours, shut his mouth against the invective his pride denied him, and concentrated on breathing through his nose.
Hushed voices and muffled giggles drifted past him. Somewhere off to one side, someone sniggered. A flicker of movement caught Scorpius’ attention; his eyes tracked the brush of school robes against booted ankles. He lifted his head. Edmund Nott, fifth year Slytherin grinned nastily down at him.
“You want to watch your step, Malfoy.”
“Yeah, Malfoy,” said Winston Huxley, another Slytherin. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Scorpius didn’t bother replying. There was no point. He turned his attention towards his scattered books. Two of them had been personal loans from Madam Pince’s private collection. One was over four hundred years old. He could see the torn pages and damaged binding from where he knelt. Folding his protesting joints into a crouch, he reached for the text closest to him. Perhaps if he volunteered every spare minute of his time his last two years at Hogwarts…
“Oi!” A black-shod foot kicked at a copy of Venificus Universalis. “You deaf or what?”
He could ignore them. He’d done so many times before, and had the faded bruises and mended fractures to prove it. But books, unlike his body, could not truly heal. No matter how well Madame Pince repaired them, they’d still be that much closer to disintegration. Scorpius’ throat closed, constricting his building anger.
New footfalls sounded down the corridor. More dark robes swirled in Scorpius’ peripheral vision, then, “Nott? Huxley? What’s going on?” said a vaguely familiar voice.
Scorpius retrieved a grimoire, running careful fingers over the cover. Part of him calculated possible damage whilst another analyzed the content of Nott’s whinging. The newcomer, whoever he was, appeared no more impressed by Nott’s explanation than Scorpius.
“Grow up, Nott. And piss off. It’s summer holiday for fuck’s sake.”
Vagueness departed, leaving the familiar behind. Scorpius looked up from his books to confirm his tentative identification. Albus Potter. Bloody marvellous. Just as Scorpius thought his day couldn’t possibly get any worse, the paragon of Slytherin had to put in an appearance in time to do the Right Thing. Not that Scorpius personally disliked Potter. He’d no opinion of him, bad or good. But the notoriety that surrounded all three Potter siblings like too-heavy fragrance appalled and repelled him. He’d prefer none of it be wafted his way.
As Potter had suggested, the spectators buggered off after a minute, leaving the two of them watching each other. Potter gave Scorpius a tentative smile and extended a hand. “Sorry,” he said. “They’re giant twats, but all right if you catch them on a good day.”
Scorpius looked at Potter’s hand. He looked at Potter’s face. Potter’s smile was lopsided and sincere, a confident expression of his worth. To his house. To his family. Scorpius stared mutely at Potter from where he crouched over his pile of damaged books, and in that moment, he’d never hated anyone more. Disregarding Potter’s hand, he pushed himself to his feet.
Potter’s cheeks flushed. His hand dropped and he retreated several steps. “Look, I really am sorry for this.” He nodded towards the books. “If those are library issue, I’ll tell Pince it was my fault.”
The muscles in Scorpius’ neck and shoulders tensed. Within the loose sleeves of his robes, his fingers clenched and released in tight repetition. Did Potter think him a fucking charity case? To hell with that. And him.
“Thank you,” Scorpius said, stiffly, “but I’ll handle it myself.”
“Are you sure?” the oblivious Potter asked. “I don’t mind.”
Scorpius had never hurt anyone in his life, physically or otherwise. He’d never wanted to. His father had, though, and in one of Draco Malfoy’s more communicative moments he’d been moved to describe such an incident for his son’s enlightenment. Scorpius recalled the bite of Draco’s voice and the distance in his eyes. Draco had looked through Scorpius to someone who wasn’t there while he explained the flexible science behind a good punch, a formula which determined whether you or your opponent ended arse-first on the ground. And Scorpius, who liked his father rather better than he did the rest of his family, had listened.
Now, with his anger honed to a fine, hot point, Scorpius heard Draco’s words as clear in his mind as the day they’d been spoken. He knew little about sports, team or contact. Flying was as close as he came to either. But his memory was first rate, his knowledge of human physiognomy good.
Balling his fist, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy mustered every bit of the anger and tension inside him and planted Albus Severus Potter a scientifically correct facer.
This is now.
The acrid smells of burnt coffee, technomancy and old parchment flavored the air, the olfactory miasma all but visible. Harry Potter tried not to breathe too deeply, concentrating instead on putting one foot in front of the other without falling over or puking. A half bottle of Skyy on top of four pints was never a brilliant idea. Problem was, a bloke already three-quarters pissed couldn’t tell brilliant from arsehole. At least, Harry’d never been able to.
His mobile vibrated against his hip, sending a jolt of nausea upwards into his throat. Pulling the phone from its clip, he switched it off, ignoring its summons in the interests of remaining upright. He shoved it into one trouser pocket as he rocked to a stop beside his PA’s desk, willing the explosions going off behind his eyes to subside. “Call a necromancer. I’m dead—my corpse just hasn’t caught on yet.”
Moira Applegate peered at Harry over the tops of her angular spectacles. “And a fine, bright good morning to you too, me lord.”
“Christ.” Harry winced at the onslaught of sound. “Are you always this loud, Applegate?”
“Only when you’ve a head on you.”
“Bitch.”
“Twenty-four carat.” Applegate leaned back in her seat and grinned. “You want to watch the expression, boss. If the wind changes it’ll freeze up like that. Or so my gran always said.”
“Shut up and get me the damned potion or it’s back to Records for you.”
“Never happen.” Applegate plonked the requested potion down in front of Harry. “My filing system terrifies Dawlish. You, it’d have for elevenses.”
She was, thought Harry, too right about that. About a lot of other things as well. A good PA was worth five times their weight in Galleons, and Harry was pretty sure he’d got the best of the lot. Plus, Applegate brewed her own shop-worthy, prescription-strength cures, which made her priceless in more than just Harry’s eyes. Half the Auror department went to her rather than medical.
Uncorking the provided vial, Harry downed its contents in one go. There was a brief, exiting moment during which his stomach decided whether or not to give up the ghost. Then blessed, blessed relief rained down on him like water in the desert. The potion tasted like the hind end of an incontinent Kneazel, but Harry’s nausea had gone and the vise around his temples wasn’t quite so excruciating. He grabbed the water bottle Applegate held out and gulped. “Thanks, I think I’ll live. This time, anyway. All right, you sadistic wench. Hit me.”
“Got a positive ID on the Marked John Doe DOA taken to St. Mungo’s two nights ago.”
Tugging his coat off, Harry chucked it at the rack, which extended a hooked appendage and caught the garment with ease. “Going to tell me who?”
“Avery senior.”
“One less Death Eater polluting the world. And?”
“Forensics sent Strickland’s file through, and there was a double homicide in Soho last night that may or may not be ours.”
“Matthews?” Harry asked.
Applegate nodded. “His team took the call. Oh, and Crowley closed the Jeffner investigation—his findings are in there somewhere.” She jerked a thumb at the stack of file folders perched on her blotter.
“Really.” Morbid curiosity stirred within Harry’s abused brain. “He write it up himself?”
“Unfortunately.” Applegate lifted the thick stack of paperwork and dropped it into Harry’s reluctant hands. “Coffee in five. Black, two sugars.”
“Thank fuck,” said Harry, devout in his blasphemy. “You’re a price above rubies, love.”
Applegate rolled her eyes. “No woman is above rubies, but I’ll accept a week free of molestation from the loonies wandering in and out of here all day.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Talking of loonies, who wants a piece of me today?”
“Shacklebolt, for one. You missed another meeting. Also, Farringut from the DoM Flooed three times since yesterday afternoon and Hermione Granger-Weasley says to get in touch when you can. Headmistress McGonagall wants to speak with you immediately. Said it was urgent. Message slips are on your desk.”
“Farringut. Wonderful.” Harry pictured the Head Uspeakable’s pursed mouth and frigid expression. “Still hacked off over the Southwark cock up, do you think?”
“You know that level of classified is above my touch, Potter,” said Applegate. “I’d need higher clearance.”
The look Harry sent her was disbelieving at best. “When has that ever stopped you?” He flipped past Crowley’s dubious masterpiece, scanning the headers on the remaining folders. A sealed document detached itself from the pile; he caught it before it could fall, broke the wafer, and scanned the short message. Frowning, he held it up.
“Provenance?”
Applegate leaned forward to get a better look. “Not sure. Came yesterday. Private courier, I think.”
“Mn.” Harry folded the paper and tucked it into his trouser pocket alongside his mobile. Juggling file folders, he crossed to his office door and reached for the knob. “Anything else I should know?”
“Weasley’s waiting for you inside.” Two steaming cups popped into being next to Applegate’s word processor. Lifting one, she stood and swivel-hipped towards Harry, tankard extended. “But you knew that.”
Harry’s hand tightened on the knob. It protested the cavalier treatment, wriggling and whining in his grasp. He relaxed his fingers. “How long has he been here?”
“No more than ten.”
Harry took the proffered cup, took a breath, and opened the door. Ron grinned at him over the unwieldy stacks dominating Harry’s desk. “About bloody time.”
“You’re early,” Harry told him. “And get your lead arse out of my chair.”
Ron dropped his feet from the desk and rose, making for the only other seat available. “I’m not early, you’re late. Shacklebolt’s in a lather. Second meeting you’ve missed in three days.”
Harry closed the door behind him and threw a glance at the clock on the wall. “Shit. Damn it, Ron, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, mate, happens to all of us.” Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Some of us more often than others.”
Harry stifled the urge to laugh. Ron was usually the man with the hangover. Then again, it wasn’t Ron’s wife who-
Amusement sputtered and died. Harry clamped down on his thoughts and took the chair Ron had vacated, burning his throat on a long gulp of coffee and retrieving his mobile from his pocket as he did. Might as well switch the thing back on.
Ron looked a question at Harry from his sprawl of arms, legs and robes. “Problems?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Oh sodding hell!” Harry’s mobile began to vibrate the second it was able. He flipped it open, barking a brusque “Potter!” into the mouthpiece.
There was a slight pause. Then, “Having one of our little moments, are we?” drawled an all too familiar voice.
Harry shut his eyes. “Malfoy.”
“As ever was.”
“Where-?”
“Right where your lot dropped me,” Draco Malfoy informed Harry, “albeit not the precise spot. Cyprus is lovely, Potter. When next they let you out of the dungeon, you ought to give it a go.”
Harry pulled his glasses off and tossed them on his desk. “Look, Malfoy, I know you live to torment me, but can we pretend I’m already the sorriest bastard alive and that you’re going to get to the point right fucking now?”
“We might do,” Malfoy allowed, “if the price is right. As I recall, you owe me.”
“By your lights, the entire world owes you,” retorted Harry. “But I think we’re about even on that personal who-owes-whom-what level.”
Ron snorted. Harry flicked two fingers his way.
“What is it this time?” Harry asked Malfoy. “Have a row with the management of that posh place the tax-payers are footing?”
“I take it you’ve not checked your messages.”
“No, I just got in.”
Malfoy clicked his tongue. “Shameful. How are we to triumph over Darkness when our glorious leader can’t get his arse out of bed?”
“Piss off.”
“I’m about to.”
Harry was beginning to think he might have Seer blood after all. Because he could see the other shoe wobbling like mad. The foreboding in his gut wasn’t a threat: it was a promise and a half. “Malfoy-”
“Your little errand may have brought me to this isle, Potter, but my art demands I remain. The sun, the sea, the ruins… so stimulating. Are you listening? Then let me be clear.” Malfoy abandoned feigned enthusiasm for his usual sardonic accents. “I’m a month over deadline and my plot has emancipated itself. As the Famagusta airs are agreeable to my muses, I intend to extend my stay. However. A spanner has landed itself smack steady in the works. You, Potter, are going to have it out.”
“What do you-”
“Spawn. Kids, brats, child-things. Namely, yours and mine. They appear to have decimated a goodly amount of Hogwarts in an attempt to inflict same upon one another. Started with fists and escalated. Craters in the flagstones, I am informed. Smoking, gaping craters.”
“I.” Harry opened his mouth then shut it again. He frowned at Ron, who looked like laughing. “Which of my kids? I thought you said a fistfight?”
“The Slytherin. And I said it began as a fistfight. Apparently your spawn said something stupid enough that Scorpius floored him.”
“Are you telling me your son knocked my son down?” Harry demanded. Ron went off into whoops.
“That’s too much noise for just you, Potter. Who else have you got there?”
“Um, Ron’s here.”
“Oh, the Weasel.” Malfoy summed up and dismissed Ron in three words. “By the by, have you put him in the she-weasel picture?”
Harry felt as though every muscle in his body had turned to stone. If he could’ve kicked his own arse, he would have. Why he’d said anything to Malfoy, of all people, when he hadn’t the balls to tell Ron-
Caught me at a weak moment. Bloody Malfoy.
“You haven’t, have you? You’re raising procrastination to a fine art, Potter. Or is there trouble in trio-land?”
Jesus, Harry hated that smug tone. “Hermione knows,” he snapped. “I wish you didn’t.”
“Alas for your peace of mind, I do. You’re quite chatty when you’re pissed, did you know?”
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
“My, we’re in a foul mood today. It’s that office of yours. Nasty place. Get out into the fresh air, is my advice. Scotland’s beautiful this time of year. Go see Minerva, and whilst you’re at it-”
“How about you stop trying to foist your bloody kid off on me and do your job? Or have you forgotten what that is?”
“Fear not, Potter, I’ve not forgot my raison d’être, nor,” Malfoy added dryly, “am I like to. If you’re feeling neglected, I’ll dash you off a love letter to prove my devotion, but I won’t be in until I’ve pounded this plotline into submission. You don’t pay me enough to give up my day job.”
“Devotion my arse. I got your latest this morning. ‘Trailing pink clouds of rapture’? Malfoy, you’re slipping. That or you’ve contracted with Mills and Boon.”
“In which case, I’m sure the cipher boys are enjoying themselves thoroughly,” purred Malfoy. “Or shall be. Are you positive you want this little Device? If not, I could always heave it off the nearest cliff and save us both needless amounts of aggravation.”
Harry ground another layer of enamel off his molars. “Do it and I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Sack me? Have one of your delightful Hit-Wizards wrap me in concrete and sink me in the Thames? I must warn you, Potter, I think even you would have a spot of trouble plumbing our fair stream’s depths. No, best you be a good little Auror in Chief and strive for more patience. And in the meantime, keep your offspring from defenestrating mine, or some such. And vice versa. A nice flush hit, Minerva said.”
The trick to dealing with Malfoy, Harry had discovered, was to ignore ninety-nine percent of what came out of his mouth, and focus on the last sentence or two. “Did she say what the cause was, exactly?”
“No, but then she didn’t have to. If your brat’s half the self-righteous prick you were at that age, mine deserves a medal.”
Applegate’s folders rustled, calling Harry’s attention. He flipped the top one open. Crowley’s handwriting stared him in the face. “Why the fuck do I put up with you, again?”
“Because I deliver.” Malfoy was smirking. Harry could hear it in his voice. “Hey Potter.”
“What?” Harry squinted at line after line of cramped penmanship. Bloody Crowley and his shit grammar.
“In case you were thinking this little jaunt of mine has strengthened your chances, I just want you to know that progress has been made. I’m still going to get there before you.”
Harry woke from Crowley’s punctuational nightmare with a bang. “You are not,” he told Malfoy, “either.”
Malfoy snickered. “So predictable,” he said with something that was not quite affection. “Keep an eye on the kiddies. I’ll have Scorpius off your hands before you know it. Ta.”
“Hang on a minute, I-” The call disconnected. Harry pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it. “Malfoy you bastard, I never said I would!”
“Like the Ferret cares.”
Harry turned his displeasure on Ron, who was grinning like an idiot. “Not helping, Ron.”
“Not my job.” Ron nodded at the mobile. “What’s he wanting now?”
“For me to house his kid is what.”
“Going to?” Ron’s expression turned calculating. “He’s your sodding spy.” He might as well have said: ‘He’s your rabid Hippogriff.’
Harry ignored the spiteful undercurrent in Ron’s voice. When it came to Malfoy, Ron didn’t change. “He is my agent, yes, and a good one at that. Besides,” Harry shrugged, “better mine than someone else’s.”
“Yeah, but it’s fucking Malfoy, isn’t it?”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ron, we’ve been over this. He’s an impenetrable cover and entrée into a number of pure-blood circles DMLE can’t touch. He’s done this for ten years without a slip. The Unspeakables were right about him, okay? Leave it.”
Fishing his glasses out of the disaster area that was his desktop, Harry stood and grabbed his robes off their hook. “Let’s go yank Shacklebolt’s chain. He’s going to rip me a new one as it is.”
“Shacklebolt wouldn’t do something that stupid. This is your department.”
Harry glanced back at Ron as he opened the door. “It was his department first. Applegate?”
The PA looked up from her keyboard. “Yes, oh lord and master?”
“Shut it. Floo McGonagall. Tell her I’ll meet her in the Great Hall in three hours.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” Harry didn’t particularly feel like smiling, but he managed it. He jerked his chin at Ron and stalked away, pulling his robes on as he went.
Ron caught him up just outside the main bullpen, long-legged strides matching Harry’s. They answered shouted greetings without stopping, threading the mass of cubicles with the ease of practice. Ron batted a flock of interoffice memos out of his way. They flapped irritably; one tried to give him a paper cut but he flicked it into a spin. “So what is it Hermione knows?”
Harry glanced sideways, his gaze colliding with Ron’s. “What?”
“What you told Malfoy. ‘Hermione knows.’” Ron’s tone was light, but there was something in his eyes Harry couldn’t define.
Harry forced a laugh. “It’s nothing. Just Malfoy being a wanker.”
“As if he’s ever anything else,” Ron muttered, and the moment passed. They walked the rest of the way to the lifts in silence, waiting their turn amidst a crowd of fellow Aurors.
A chime sounded. Two sets of lift doors opened. Three witches, a flock of memos, and a wizard carrying an ornate bowl filled with unblinking eyes immersed in murky liquid got off. Harry and Ron stepped in. An impatient looking, Muggle-dressed warlock leant forward and hit Up. Harry leant against the wall and stared at the ash blond head in front of him, trying not to think about anything much and failing spectacularly.
After more than twenty years in magical law enforcement, Harry was damned good at his job. He knew how to run a tight, clean investigation. He knew several hundred defensive and offensive spells and their myriad variations. He knew his department backwards and forwards; he’d even mastered the fine art of delegation. He’d learnt to be good with faces, names and dates. Christ, most years he remembered his kids’ birthdays. In most ways, in most areas of his life, Harry Potter was in the know.
With one glaring exception. For all his competence, Harry had no notion of how one bloke went about telling another bloke that his sister—who just happened to be married to the first bloke—would much rather fuck Katie Bell than her husband.
Over the course of a thousand years, Hogwarts’ Headmistress’ office must have seen a great many students who wished themselves elsewhere. The two presently occupying a pair of very uncomfortable chairs were no exception. They’d taken seats as far removed from each other as possible, and were now staring straight ahead at the wall, avoiding eye-contact.
The boy furthest from the door turned his face towards the enormous clock next to the window. The small hand ticked off the seconds, the sound winding the knot in his stomach tighter with every aoristic notch. Queasy anticipation, combined with a comprehensive ache that seemed to encompass the entirety of his body had already made for several uncomfortable hours of waiting. He wondered which of his grandparents would come. He wondered if they’d contacted his dad, and if Draco had got the message.
Scorpius looked back down at his lap. If he tilted his head a bit to the left, he could see Potter out of the corner of his eye. Lucky sod. Scorpius doubted Potter had ever had to wonder whether or not his parents remembered his existence.
“Mr. Potter. What an unpleasant surprise.”
Scorpius dug his fingernails into his chair’s upholstery. His gaze darted from one corner of the room to the next, searching out the voice’s source. It found a previously unoccupied painting now full of saturnine disapproval. That disapproval was, it seemed, all for Albus Potter.
“Yes sir.” Potter ducked his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I expect this sort of behavior from your father’s other issue,” the painted likeness of Professor Severus Snape sneered. “Despite your unfortunate antecedents, I’d thought you exempt from their rash stupidity, but blood will out. How badly have you disgraced my house, Potter?”
“Sir, I…I…” Potter’s voice stammered to a shaky halt. The tips of his ears were bright red.
Scorpius, who’d had nothing against Potter previous to his presenting himself as a convenient target, felt that last to be taking things a trifle far. “It’s not his fault,” he heard himself say.
Potter and the painted Professor turned to look at him. Scorpius felt the skin of his face heat. In a moment he’d be as red as Potter’s ears.
Professor Snape arched one slashing eyebrow. “I must then assume the error was yours, Mr.-?” Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. Mr. Malfoy. Yet another genetic masterpiece.”
Irony dripped from the deceased Professor’s words. The flush spread down Scorpius’ face to his neck, but he met Snape’s eyes without flinching. “You’re right, sir. It was my mistake. Don’t blame Potter—I hit him first.” Scorpius glanced at Potter’s impressive black eye, then away. “For what it’s worth, Potter, I’m sorry.”
“Your sentiment does you credit, Mr. Malfoy,” a new voice interjected. “It is delightful to see house barriers coming down, is it not, Severus?”
Snape glared at something behind Scorpius. “Go back to sleep you hypocritical old windbag. Your preference for red and gold is well known.”
“As is your reputation for impartial judgment, Severus.”
Snape’s upper lip curled even higher. “I’m not having this conversation,” he snarled, and stalked off, disappearing from his frame.
Scorpius twisted around in his seat. The portrait of former Headmaster Albus Dumbledore smiled down at him. “Hello, my boy. I suppose you’ve been told how closely you resemble your father?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then I shan’t rehash old news. Mr. Potter. I hear your Chasing skills helped win your house the Cup this year.”
Potter reddened further. “I don’t know about that, sir. But we did win.”
“Excellent, excellent. It’s been too long since Slytherin took that particular honour. It was high time.”
“Thank you, sir.” Potter looked rather like a pickled beet. “There was a lot more to it than just Quidditch. N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. scores were higher this year than they have been since, well... since.”
“I am most gratified to hear it, Mr. Potter. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, it has reached my ears that the delightful Dawn Nymphs near Hufflepuff are hosting a carouse of some import.” Scorpius was sure that was a twinkle in the old Headmaster’s eye. “I think I shall wander over that way.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Goodbye, sir. Good luck!” said Potter.
With one more disconcerting twinkle, Dumbledore waved and was gone. Strained quiet filled the vacuum his departure left behind.
“Why won’t they just get here and be done with it!” The words left Scorpius in a burst. He was on his feet with no idea how he’d got there, his hands in fists, Potter gaping at him.
“Um.” Potter swallowed visibly, the muscles in his throat working. “Do you mean your family?”
Scorpius threw him a speaking look, the spoken part being: yes, fuckwit, who did you think I meant?
“Don’t you want them to, then?” Potter asked.
“If I knew it would be my dad… but he’s never around.” Scorpius shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes. “It’ll be one of my grandparents. Or both.”
“What about your mum?”
“She divorced Dad four years ago. Now she’s married to some rich Muggle with a title. She-” Scorpius turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see the pity in Potter’s eyes. “She lives in Austria with the Muggle and their daughter.”
I’ve a sister I’ve never seen. I’m not sure I even want to.
Potter said nothing. Scorpius told himself he was glad of it. Silence stretched between them, a near tangible line joining them together. Potter snapped the tenuous thread just as Scorpius was seriously considering banging his head against the nearest wall until the stress and uncertainty stopped.
“My mum’s leaving.” Potter spat the words as though he could banish them from his mouth and mind if he said them fast enough. “I don’t know what happened. She and Dad never tell us anything. Lil’s mad as fire, though. She hasn’t spoken to Mum since Christmas.”
“Oh.” It was all Scorpius could think of to say. Potter gave him a wry smile.
“I’m not pissing and moaning. I don’t want to hear sorry. Just saying I might—I might get some of it. You know?”
Scorpius blinked. He did know. “Do you like computer games?” his mouth inquired without the aid of his brain.
It was Potter’s turn to blink. “Uh-”
“Gentlemen.”
Scorpius didn’t jump or shriek. He was quite proud of that, considering his nerves were shot to hell and back. He straightened to stand before Headmistress McGonagall with proper decorum, pulling his shaking hands from his pockets and locking them together behind his back.
McGonagall let the door to her office close and advanced on her not-quite-cowering students. She stopped at a spot equidistant to both Scorpius and Potter, and surveyed each of them in turn. Scorpius felt her gaze on him, examining him head to foot, and was glad when it left him for Potter. After several minutes of silent scrutiny, McGonagall stepped back. Whatever she’d seen couldn’t have been too awful, as from somewhere about her person, she produced a pair of wands.
“Do you boys feel yourselves ready to have these returned?” she inquired.
Scorpius looked at eleven and a half inches of ash wood, unicorn tail hair core. “Yes, Headmistress,” he said. “Thank you.”
“And you, Potter?”
“Yes, Headmistress.” Potter stood and stepped forward to accept his wand. “I’m sorry, Headmistress.”
“We both are,” Scorpius added, and noticed that Potter’s posture wasn’t quite so stiff.
“You should be,” McGonagall replied tartly. “Though this castle is quite good at healing itself, that ability is not to be exploited. Next term, both of you gentlemen will be spending a great deal of time and energy on such structural improvements as I deem necessary. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Headmistress,” Scorpius and Potter chorused.
McGonagall nodded with apparent satisfaction. “You may come in, Harry,” she called, and the door opened once more.
“Dad!”
As Scorpius watched, Potter flung himself at the man standing just inside the room. The man didn’t seem to mind, only wrapped his arms around Potter and laughed. “Can’t leave you alone at all, can I?”
“You say that as though I’m in here every week, Dad. I’m not James,” protested Potter, and both of them laughed.
The office door closed on McGonagall’s retreating back. Potter’s father let go of his son and straightened.
Had Scorpius never seen Harry Potter’s famous profile splashed over the covers of various periodicals and newspapers, he’d still have known at whom he was looking. Aside from a pair of glasses, a lightning shaped scar and the grey threading black hair, Albus Potter was the image of his father.
“Hello.” The elder Potter smiled at Scorpius. “You’ll be Scorpius, then?”
“Yes sir.”
Harry Potter started to speak then stopped, hesitating a long moment before saying, “I’m a friend of your, er, father’s. I’m afraid he’s been delayed—he’s out of the country right now. He’ll be home in two weeks, but until then… I know you’ve family, but if you’d rather not… um.”
The awkward speech trailed off, leaving Potter looking uncomfortable indeed.
“He can stay with us, Dad.” Albus Potter nudged his father. “That’s what you’re going to say, isn’t it?”
Harry Potter muttered something that sounded to Scorpius like, “Sod Malfoy,” but he smiled at Scorpius again and nodded. “That’s only if you want to. I can always give you a Side-Along to the Manor if you’d-”
“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to accept your hospitality.” Scorpius knew he oughtn’t to interrupt his elders, but after the last few hours of sitting here, hoping his father would show and knowing it would be Lucius Malfoy walking through the door, he couldn’t say yes fast enough.
“Well. Good.” Now that he’d achieved his aim, Potter seemed at something of a loss. “I see you’ve your trunks, so we’ll Floo from here, shall we?”
“Yeah, Dad, that works. Hey, Malfoy likes computers. Can we use the one in the first floor office?”
The question evidently took Harry Potter by surprise, as he started, then looked towards his son just as he released his handful of Floo powder. Most of it went into the hearth, but a silvery cloud of the stuff dusted the stones, the air, and the man himself.
“I see you’re as clumsy as ever, Potter.” Professor Snape had returned.
The muscles in Harry Potter’s jaw flickered. He took his time brushing the dust off his hands before turning to face Snape’s painting. “Professor, I mean this in the politest way possible, but this has been an arsehole of a day, so could you let me get on with it without the commentary?”
“I could, but though one can do something does not mean one will.”
“Oh, sod off, Snape. I’m not here for your bloody entertainment.”
“Oi, let’s get out of here,” Albus Potter hissed in Scorpius’ ear. “They’ll go at each other for a bit. They always do.”
Scorpius looked doubtfully from Potter over to where Potter’s father was trading insults with Snape. “Are you sure we should just leave?”
“Fuck yes. Got your trunk? Then let’s go.” Potter grinned and shoved Scorpius towards the green flame in McGonagall’s hearth. “Budge up, Malfoy, I want out of this bloody room. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!” he shouted.
The world lurched around Scorpius and was… gone.
Bloody Snape! Bloody, bloody Malfoy! I left Hogwarts twenty-four years ago and I’m still surrounded by Slytherins. Like my son, the treacherous little git.
Harry Apparated into his front hall just as Albus and Malfoy’s boy disappeared up Number Twelve’s staircase. Seeing those two heads together—in specific that particular contrast of colouration—was oddly displacing. He’d the strangest sensation of looking down on himself from a distance spanning space and time; of seeing something that might have been.
If James and Lily had lived, would those heads have been Malfoy’s and Harry’s?
No, Harry decided. They wouldn’t. For one thing, this house would belong to the Blacks and Sirius might still be alive as well. For another, Malfoy at fifteen would have been an arrogant sod no matter what. Then again, Harry’s somewhat battered sense of fair play was driven to add, so might you.
“Well?”
Harry turned to see Ginny leaning against the lounge entrance, arms crossed. She’d braided her shoulder-length red hair back from her face and she wore her oldest denims. Her feet were bare. Aside from the suggestion of lined tightness about her mouth and eyes she looked no different than she had the day they’d exchanged vows. Appearances, as Harry knew, were fucking liars.
“Well what?” He wasn’t going to let Ginny dictate to him. Not now. Not after.
Ginny’s lips thinned. Her arms wrapped her rib cage, her hands curling over her sides in a protective clutch. “What is Draco Malfoy’s kid doing here?”
“His name is Scorpius.”
“So?”
“So, it’d sound better to call him Scorpius than ‘Malfoy’s kid’. He’s staying for a bit.”
“Staying here?”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Ginny’s accusing gaze followed the movement. “It’s just for two weeks,” Harry said. “Malfoy wants time to finish up a project.”
“And you expect me to hang about until then?” Her tone wasn’t quite shrill. Not quite.
“I’m past expectation.” Harry couldn’t keep the bitter exhaustion from his voice. “If you can put off leaving that long, I’d appreciate it.”
She was going to say no. Harry could see the word shaping her lips, so, “Please,” he said. He hated to beg, but he didn’t want a scene, not with the kids upstairs. “It’s not asking much.”
Ginny’s eyes dropped. She pressed a palm against her forehead as though attempting to hold an ache at bay. “No,” she said, “it isn’t.” Letting her hand fall, she looked back up at Harry and smiled. It was a worn, tired effort, but genuine for all that. “I’m sorry, Harry. You’ve been better about this than I’ve any right to expect.”
Harry’s breath poured from his lungs in a relieved rush. “Gin, I-”
“No, don’t.”
“Okay.” Harry’s gaze drifted from the walls to the floor, to the doorway of what used to be a dining room and was now the lounge. To anywhere but Ginny. “Where were you earlier? Minerva said she couldn’t reach you.”
Ginny lifted a shoulder. “Just out. I had some things to do.”
“You didn’t take your mobile?”
“Yes, but it was off.”
“All right.” He looked around, trying to focus on something. Anything. The house was too tidy: no scuffed trainers dropped carelessly down the hall, no coats and bags flung about. The telly was off, a rare circumstance with both James and Lily in residence.
Harry chanced a quick look at Ginny. “It’s pretty quiet. Jamie and Lils?”
“You never change, Harry. You don’t hear a thing I say.” Ginny was frowning again. “I told you three times this week alone. James is working with Charlie this summer, and Lily is at Sorcha Bones’.”
Now he thought about it, Harry could recall her saying something to that effect, but the memory had been buried by work and other concerns. Ginny watched him, obviously following his mental processes. “God, Harry, you have no idea who your kids are, do you?”
“That’s a rubbishy thing to say.”
“Is it?” Ginny turned her back and walked off. Harry trailed after, not sure what else to do. When he reached the foyer, Ginny had her trainers out and was tugging them on over her bare feet. She glanced at him from her bent over position.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know, this kind of thing used to drive me mad before I figured out it’s just how you are. You can’t help it. Hermione would say it’s the Dursleys’ influence, but I don’t know about that.”
The first shoe was on. Ginny reached for the second and spoke again before Harry could. “You never stop looking at the big picture,” she told him. “You can’t see the details, and guess what? People are details. You care for us, right enough, you just don’t know us. Al broke his arm in January. I’m sure you forgot about it two seconds after I told you. James is obsessed with dragons and Lily wants to be a professional footballer. Do you know? Does it matter to you?”
Ginny tied off her second set of laces and straightened. She looked as tired as Harry felt, but there was an odd serenity about her that Harry didn’t share. Her eyes were steady on his. Determined. “Did you know that Rose Weasley is studying with a friend of Hermione’s parents this summer? She’ll be at university, a Muggle university, after Hogwarts. Electrical engineering, I think. And Teddy, your godson, is getting married this August. Have you any notion to whom?”
Harry looked helplessly at her, unable to absorb the stream of fact and accusation. Ginny huffed in exasperation and reached past him for her bag. “I have training. I’m meeting Kate for drinks afterwards, and I probably won’t be back tonight.”
She made to brush by Harry, but he caught her wrist. “Ginny wait. God, please.” She stopped pulling against his hold and stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the place his fingers gripped her flesh. Harry let her go. “Our room. Our bed. Why?”
Ginny raised her head. Her eyes were blank. Harry didn’t know what she saw; he’d long ago learnt that he couldn’t follow her when she disappeared into herself.
“I’m not sure I know,” she finally said. Her eyes flickered back into focus. “It was the first time we’d done anything here. I think… I think I wanted you to see. I was so bloody sick of this.” The sweep of her arm encompassed the hall, the house, Harry, everything.
“Ginny.” Harry couldn’t think what to say. He searched Ginny’s face, one feature at a time. “I—what happened to us, Gin? I thought we were fine.”
“I know you did.” For the first time since he’d walked in on her giving Katie Bell mouth-to-mouth in their bedroom, Harry read Ginny’s banked but still warm affection for him in her eyes. “You’ve always been so oblivious. I’m a pleasant part of your life. A fixture, just like Ron or Hermione. I want more than that. I want someone who wants me because I’m me, Ginevra Molly. Not because I’m a Weasley.”
Harry’s head snapped back as though she’d slapped him. He could almost feel the burn of a handprint on his cheek. “Gin. God.” He was choking on words that wouldn’t come, unable to breathe past the hurt. “It’s not like that, I swear. It was never-”
“Not wholly, no. But I think a good portion of it is. Or was.” Ginny tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and with that so-familiar gesture, the pain in Harry’s chest burst and spread, coursing through his veins and bloodstream until his fingers pulsed with the aching beat of his heart.
“So that’s it.” His voice sounded flat and dead, even to him. “That’s all the explanation I’m to have. I’m a clueless sod who can’t see what’s under his nose, glasses or not.”
For a moment there was no sound but the distant tick of the hall clock and the dull thud of Harry’s heartbeat in his ears. Then, “She loves me,” Ginny told him quietly. “And I love her.”
Well. Not much he could say to that. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.” Ginny smiled again—a little sad, but hopeful as well. “Not anymore.”
Harry watched her walk away from him. The front door closed after her and he leant against the wall behind him, turning her words over in his mind. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, thumbed it open and punched a key.
“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy snapped, and in the instant between question and answer, Harry knew Ginny was wrong about one thing at least.
Harry didn’t need to see to know that right now Malfoy was sitting at his computer, reading glasses slipped halfway down his nose, banging away at his keyboard. Harry pictured the half-smoked cigarette clamped between Malfoy’s teeth. He might not keep a full mental tally of Hermione’s good works or remember how each of his kids liked their eggs, but Harry did know a few things beyond the obvious. One of them being that when Malfoy hissed like the ferret he’d briefly been, it meant he’d hit a streak of authorial brilliance and would hex the pants off anyone who dared interrupt.
Harry’s grin welled up past the pain in his gut. He’d always enjoyed pushing the envelope. Especially when the envelope getting pushed was Malfoy.
“Potter.” Malfoy was grinding his teeth. Nasty habit, that. “I repeat: what the fuck do you want?”
Harry closed his eyes most of the way, his vision narrowing to a crack in the painted wall across from him. “Maybe I called to tell you that Scorpius is here and, aside from a lot of bruises, okay,” he said. “He and Al are upstairs doing god knows what. Or maybe I just want to know what colour shirt you’ve got on.”
Silence.
More silence. Then: “My shirt. You want to know the colour of my shirt.”
“Sure.”
Malfoy breathed in, a deep promise of terror to come. “Today, Potter,” he began, “my shirt is white. My trousers are, again, white. But not my pants. Because you know what, Potter? I’m not wearing any fucking pants. I don’t like pants, Potter. They ride up, no matter how well made they are, and that annoys the bleeding fuck out of me. Just like people who call to inquire what sodding colour my sodding shirt is when I’m sodding well working annoy the bleeding fuck out of me. Actually, Potter, right now there are total strangers living three thousand miles away from this ruddy island who annoy the bleeding fuck out of me, so if I was you I’d… er. Potter? Still there?”
Harry was laughing silently, his gasps soundless against the mobile’s mouthpiece. “Here,” he wheezed when he’d got the air for it. “I’m here, Malfoy.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, and then, “Are you crying?” asked Malfoy suspiciously. “You had better not be crying. I’m not paid to put up with your hysterics. In fact, I’m terminating this call right bloody-”
“Malfoy.” The laughter had gone. Harry thought there might be a smile left. “Tell me a story, Malfoy.”
Malfoy seemed to consider this request. “Have you any idea how fucking mental that sounds?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “I do.”
“Fine, then. But don’t think this is something you can get away with twice.”
“I don’t, believe me.”
“Too right. Well Potter, this is not the Sugar Plum Twat’s kingdom. And it’s definitely not sodding fairyland. There’s just a man, and he’s-”
“This is the story?”
“This is the story. Shut up and listen.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you. Anyway, this man-”
“Because I was just, you know, making sure.”
“Fuck. All right, Potter. Since you are obviously the mental equivalent of a three year old, let’s try the kiddy version, shall we? Once upon a fucking time…”
And not. Not then or now, this is-
Scorpius looked from high, cobweb strewn ceilings to Potter’s grinning face. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
Potter shrugged. “Why not? Not like it’ll show.”
“Fine,” said Scorpius. “Just remember, this was your idea.”
“Whatever, Malfoy. If you’ve not got the bollocks-”
“More than you,” Scorpius put in. “On my mark.”
Two wands—one ash wood, the other ivory—rose in tandem.
My adored one,
I cannot express my desolation at this unnatural separation. I await eagerly the moment I shall take you into my arms and reaffirm our bond. I languish in darkness without you, but lo! Your dulcet tones call me from my eternal torment; I hasten to your side. I shall be with you anon.
-Ever your beloved
Harry dropped Malfoy’s nauseating epistle on his desk and rubbed his palm down his trouser leg in an attempt to rid his skin of sticky, sickly suggestion. When the bastard said love letter, he wasn’t having one on. Reaching for his wand, Harry pointed it at the paper. “Reficio.”
Instantly, Malfoy’s purple prose became something Harry wouldn’t understand in a month of Sundays. Malfoy was right. The lads over in ciphering were going to have a field day with this one.
Harry’s mobile buzzed beneath this quarter’s shift rotation. He retrieved it and flipped it open. “Potter.”
“Feeling loved?”
A grudging grin tugged at Harry’s mouth. “Malfoy, you are one sick bastard.”
“This cannot be news to you. Come, Potter, how many years have we known one another? And done our mutual damnedest to get the better thereof?”
“Not bloody long enough for you to be calling me ‘adored one’. Do people actually read hundreds of pages of this shit?”
“Yes, actually, they do. But if it makes you feel any better, vampiric romance is neither my forte nor my genre.”
Harry hunted through a drift of parchment for a quill. “If ‘I languish in darkness without you’ is your idea of romance, I’m not surprised.”
“Trust me, Potter, if I chose to dribble on about blood bonds and ripped bodices, publishing houses the world over would crawl before in me worship.”
“Because bored housewives need more sick-making drivel in their lives.”
“Because I am just that good.”
“You must be, or they’d have sacked your arrogant arse ages ago.” Harry pulled a roster from the pile and ticked off two names. “Hey Malfoy.”
“What?”
Harry signed off on the rotation and chucked the paperwork into his out box. It sat in the tray for a second then disappeared with a hollow pop. “Why me?”
“What are you on about?” Malfoy sounded annoyed. Good. Best thing to do with an itchy mood was spread it around, and Harry couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than Malfoy.
“Why’d you ask me to look after Scorpius? Your mum’s still at the Manor, right?”
“Yes, well.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Scorpius has an irrational dislike of the Manor. And his grandparents.”
Harry’s smile widened. Malfoy, think of someone other than himself? The whole of hell must have been wearing cloaks and gloves. “So Albus said. That still doesn’t explain why me. You’ve got to have a few friends.”
“Better ones than the great ginger git. I told you, Potter, you owed me.” There were equal amounts discomfort and irritation in Malfoy’s voice. “Never ask nicely for what you can blackmail out of an old enemy.”
Leaning back in his chair, Harry propped his free arm behind his head. “And?”
“And I trust you, you idiotic tosser! There. I said it. Happy?”
“Very.” And he was. Harry grinned at the ceiling of his office. The life he’d worked for since age eleven was in pieces around him, but Malfoy said, ‘I trust you,’ and all was right with Harry’s world.
Time crystallized around him. Harry was going back to the beginning of something; what, he didn’t know. Perhaps he’d already shot past world’s end and was seeing eternity from the balance of then and now. Whichever, he was certain he’d lost what was left of his mind. Malfoy’s voice summoned him from where he drifted beyond the abyss.
“Well Potter, now that I’ve fed your ego, which does not need feeding as it is already fatter than an Erumpet, I am ending this call. I’ve deadlines to meet, amongst other things. Oh and, before I forget…”
“Yeah?” said Harry, safe within his womb of comfortably numb.
“I’ve got there.”
Fuck. Wanker hung up on me. Again.
Somewhere else on the Ministry’s second level, someone was determinedly, and with much enthusiasm, resisting arrest. Applegate was speaking with someone in Harry’s outer office, the low, monotonous murmur of their voices lapping the edges of Harry’s awareness. The clock on Harry’s wall chimed twice and burst into flower. Yesterday had been daffodils. Today was roses. Red ones, with just a hint of purple.
Hello, thought Harry, my name is Harry James Potter and I’m obsessed with Draco Malfoy’s smartarse mouth. It’s been two minutes since I last talked to him, but I’ll probably call him tomorrow because I’m masochistic that way. Christ help me. Scribbling the chief cipher’s name on the back of Malfoy’s message, Harry tossed the thing in his out tray and watched it vanish. Then he shoved a random pile of paper onto the floor and dropped his head on his desk, resting his cheek against cool wood.
Someone rapped on his door. “Potter?”
Harry sat up, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease cramped muscle. “Come.”
The door opened. Applegate stuck her head in. “Your wife’s here.”
He stood too quickly, knocking his chair over in the process. “Did she say why?”
“Something about attics and brooms, but I-”
Harry bolted from the room without waiting for her to finish.
“Did you know that might happen?”
“No.”
“Not much of a Ravenclaw, are you?”
“Potter?”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck off.”