Chapter Text
Hogwarts 2022
Scorpius Malfoy bit his lip as he scanned the wall of Professor Heart’s office. All different sorts of seeds, nuts, leaves, feathers, eyeballs, tiny animal feet and flowers challenged him, stared back at him, daring the boy to steal from the potions Professor’s personal supply.
But he wasn’t interested in getting away with a quick crime. This wasn’t just a prank, Scorpius needed very specific ingredients.
With a sigh he checked the list he kept in his pocket, just in case he forgot something. That tended to happen more and more frequently lately, though he couldn’t be sure why. He’d drawn it up to fatigue.
Beetle eyes
Cinnamon sticks
Dragon blood
Rose petals
Honey
Water
Scorpius read the list over and over again as he leaned against the wall, exhaustion quickly taking him.
For fucks sake he could barely recall what he’d already acquired and he may have been tired but he knew if he were to be caught here his father would be called for sure.
Scorpius didn’t want that.
Suddenly he heard a click of the door behind him and a rush blazed through his bones. Fear set in that he might be done for, though he tried to calm himself quickly, with knowledge that the subtle alarms he’d set hadn’t been triggered (he would most definitely have heard if so), and if that weren’t enough, he’d taken extra precautions. According to his expensive informant, the Professor was all the way across the grounds until this evening.
So, then who might be in the classroom beyond?
Fearing the headmistress most especially, Scorpius considered his options as he grabbed a bottle of everything on his list. If he shrunk them down quickly enough they might not be discovered in his pockets where he’d have just enough time to hide them. Once he was back out in the classroom all hope would be lost but maybe, just maybe, his father would understand.
Maybe.
But as Scorpius gently pushed the door to the classroom open he was greeted by one of the last possibilities he might’ve considered.
Leopold Zabini, who infuriatingly had to go by Leo , like he wasn’t just as snotty as the rest of Slytherin, despite his mother’s house, was in that moment making his grand move. Sneaking around like a common criminal, Scorpius watched as he grabbed a cauldron from another station, and replaced it with his own.
Stunned Scorpius stared for just a moment too long before realizing the classroom door was past Professor Heart’s office. He couldn’t risk being seen.
Fear overtook his confusion and so Scorpius slipped back into the professor’s office just as he heard Zabini turning in his direction. When no words of indignation came, Scorpius let himself relax. That was close, the last thing he wanted was to be caught right now.
And perhaps Zabini feared being caught as well, because he didn’t pursue the door Scorpius had slipped through, instead the sound of his footsteps grew softer as he evidently retreated for the classroom door. His mission must have been accomplished.
But as the room fell silent once more, Scorpius’ thoughts were racing. Zabini's cauldron. Why would he sneak into a classroom just to trade cauldrons?
And of all cauldrons… her’s? That had to be a cruel joke. It had to be. She knew from Scorpius himself that Zabini was bad news, that the two of them could hardly stand to be in the same room most of the time.
In fact, Zabini should be so lucky Scorpius had also been in a compromising position, or else he would’ve had to do something to get Zabini in trouble for his crimes.
Breaking and entering, really.
The irony was not lost on Scorpius as he slipped out of the office and moved over to Zabini's spot, where he ran his hand across the cauldron sitting there.
What if he switched them back? Should he? Who would know? His head could barely keep up with the questions, they just kept flowing.
Why did he care so much? No seriously, why did this have to weigh so much on his shoulders? Was it possible this was all just over a cauldron and not something more? What if there was a logical reason?
But still, even if so, did it matter? And if Scorpius changed them back would anyone notice? If Zabini noticed, would he make a scene? How could he, without admitting guilt?
Regardless, it was the right thing to do, Scorpius knew this. No one was supposed to be trading cauldrons. Not that Scorpius was one to talk about rules, he had to admit at least to himself, but he knew from his father’s words that it was important not to use another’s cauldron and risk contaminants, among other safety precautions like magical signature and the like. And being who he was, he’d been told to do the right thing, always, since he was small.
But no, no, he couldn’t. Not without answers, and the longer he was lingering the angrier and angrier he was becoming.
How could she? Didn’t she know anything? How could she not know that if Scorpius found out she and Zabini were breaking rules for each other that it would hurt? Did she know? Did she just not care?
Fuck, and Zabini…Scorpius looked down at his pockets, full of ingredients for a potion that was supposed to- to help you sense if someone liked your or not. His blond hair fell like a curtain across his face as he kept his watering eyes trained on the ground.
Malfoy’s don’t cry , Father always used to say when Scorpius was little. He hadn’t said it like a scolding though. No, because sayings like that were ancient Malfoy family phrases, and something Father often said he intended to change. No son of his would grow up holding everything inside, he’d say. Instead Scorpius should know that he was stronger to cry, to be brave by letting his feelings out rather than keeping them in.
It was how Father had found the love of his life, or so he always said.
And yet here Scorpius was, trying with all he had to hold his feelings inside anyway. To feel braver still not to let anyone see him as weak, soft, unable to brave a battle. Strength came from knowing when not to cry just as much as knowing when it was proper.
But fuck this hurt so bad.
Groaning in frustration and trying to ignore his growing headache, Scorpius decided he needed to talk to her about this directly and headed for her common room. As he walked through the brightly lit halls he sent her a message that he was on his way.
It was time for answers.
…
End of Summer 1995
Flashbulbs fired one after the other, despite ample sunshine, threatening to blind Draco Malfoy permanently.
He resisted the urge to shield his eyes, and blinked his way through it until finally the majority of cameras were lowered. He stood on the steps of the Ministry, his father having been arrested and dragged through the doors of a court room floor only minutes before.
“Mr. Malfoy! With your father in prison, how will you carry on with daily life?” One stout reporter asked, grinning, excited. Surrounding him were at least five other reporters with pens at the ready.
Disgusting. Draco sneered but that didn’t deter them.
Or anyone else. There were dozens of other questions hurtled his way just as quickly and from all directions. “Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy!” Another reporter, a female, called out as she broke through the fray, “Are the rumors true? Was your father attempting to break into the Ministry to aid You-Know-Who?”
Draco didn’t answer, he merely waited and listened as another cried, “Mr. Malfoy! Will your mother remarry now that the Black family name is being disgraced to associate with the tainted Malfoy bloodline?”
What a stupid question, Draco almost laughed but he realized the urge wasn’t from joy, as much as mania. In fact, he was frightened enough by the machinations of his mind to turn tail and leave, until one name broke through, and he asked the reporter, in a sharper tone than he expected to be capable of, to repeat himself.
“Yes Mr. Malfoy!” The reporter repeated, looking grateful, of all things. He was on the shorter side, and definitely young. This might be his first day. “I’d asked, can you comment on the relationship between your family and Harry Potter?”
There it was. That name . Draco shook his head. “No. No comment.”
From where she stood behind Draco, he felt it as his mother gripped his arm tightly, for just a moment. It was long enough that he almost turned but quick enough that after two beats of his heart it loosened, and anxiously he imagined she was reprimanding him for speaking. So giving in to cowardice, he didn’t dare look to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Birds circled in the air above, and Draco felt it as clouds rolled in, the sky turning gray. He’d have brought an umbrella if he’d imagined it might rain.
Ignoring the rest of the reporters Draco continued to let his photo be taken as he counted down from ten. Then, without warning he turned to take his mother’s hand. Truth be told, as much as he’d promised her over the summer that he’d be her rock, he’d only half been able to keep that up. No matter how hard he tried he seemed to still be just a scared boy inside. Only more so now with his father gone.
Weakness. Cowardice. Everything his father had always accused him of.
With every effort to keep himself composed Draco moved to face her, only to find that at some point during this public humiliation, she had fled.
“Mother?” He asked out loud, startled. “Mother?”
He looked around but didn’t see her, panic beginning to rise, and quickly.
The reporters behind him started to sense this hadn’t been a rehearsed moment, and recognizing a moment of weakness, renewed their assault of questions.
Overwhelmed, nervous, and scared Draco turned his head down to hide and started to flee on foot. If his mother had run off, had chosen to skip taking him to the train, well then he’d take himself.
He was old enough to make his way to Hogwarts alone. Draco was old enough now to do a lot of things. But that didn’t mean he felt safe in this big world, this world he’d thought he understood, once.
Taking steps two at a time he rushed off to the train station, with all his composure failing him and with absolutely no one around to comfort him, tears began to flow against his will.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck !” Draco cried as he nearly tripped and fell, pushing his way now past muggles and wizards alike as his journey took him away from the wizarding world and into the ambiguous gray state of mutual existence. Grateful only as the train station finally came into view, Draco stopped at a railing and leaned against it, his eyes naturally trailing up to the sky.
Freedom, for now. His father couldn’t say the same. And if Draco didn’t soon succeed in a similar mission, he could kiss his own life goodbye, and that of his mother’s and father’s as well.
That’s why he had to avenge his family, had to follow this command he’d been given from the Dark Lord that his father and aunt worshiped so freely. Power came from sacrifice. There was no other choice, if he wanted to keep his life.
If Draco didn’t get that into his head, and soon, he’d be dead.
The very thought had shaken him to his core but what choice did he have?
Maybe he hasn’t asked for this, but there was no time now for weakness. There was no time now to have regrets. He’d been turned away by him at every opportunity, there was nothing left to seek there. And his great and powerful Dumbledore was just a decrepit old fool.
There was going to be a new dawn and if Draco made any wrong choices, it would all be over. His father had said so, his mother had said so, and who knew better than them? Everything was at stake, everything.
But doubling down and demanding bravery of himself didn’t stop the panic attacks, didn’t stop the shakes in his hands.
No, not even sleep could console him anymore. He was on his own, there were no answers, no one to tell him right from wrong this time.
Draco was out of chances and out of hope. All he could do now was get on the train, and try to keep it together.
…
End of Summer 1995
Slughorn’s class, the only thing Draco had looked forward to, and he was there.
Well, actually he wasn’t, at the moment. Since Draco had given him a bitter bloody nose the night before on the train, Potter had stayed well away from him.
Draco had half a mind to hope that would include class as well.
In fact, Draco had enjoyed a very pleasant morning, well, as pleasant as can be when the majority of Slytherins are all mildly teasing him about his loss of status among the families without one thought of Potter in his head.
But Pansy had been at his side, bless her, and Blaise as well.
Draco had never gotten along with Blaise before, but with Crabbe and Goyle becoming more…unhinged, with every conversation, Draco knew he needed new friends.
“I’m serious, Draco,” she said earlier, at breakfast, smacking him in the arm with a thin book as he was bemoaning losing his former best friends to differences in beliefs, “you’re better off forgetting those two for now, see if they come around later. They’re good , they are,” she made sure to say, “but they just- they’ve just become too loud , darling. No good can come of being so loudly and blindly supportive- of anything.”
Draco rested his chin in his hand and watched her as she continued speaking. But he wasn’t really listening. Sure, it was wrong to be too blind, but that was who they were, blind followers who’d always believed anything Draco told them. It had been nice when they were younger.
But now, Pansy was right. They were just as blind as ever, in all the wrong ways.
Draco sighed and moved to stand. “Shall we go to potions?” He asked, and Blaise smirked.
“What?” Draco had asked, but Blaise hadn’t had anything to say. All he’d given was Draco was a smirk, like he knew something Draco didn’t. Which, given how that was highly unlikely, because Draco of course had an excellent grasp of most things, made it easy for Draco to ignore Blaise and gather his things for class without giving it another thought.
And that had been that.
Until Harry Potter walked in the door of Professor Slughorn’s classroom.
Just the sight of him made Draco want to scream into a void, or shove around a first year. Nothing would satisfy him more than knowing Harry Potter was on a one way trip to Azkaban, for nearly destroying the Malfoy name, and Draco’s family.
How dare Potter and the Weasel stroll into class like kings. It was sickening.
Draco heard them taking out their materials at the table behind him as the Professor announced a contest for something called liquid luck, so he hunched over the book he’d grabbed and tried to turn to the page Professor Slughorn said they’d be referring to for today’s lesson.
Maybe he’d win. Maybe not. But it was still worth a try.
At least that’s how Draco felt until he began to look at the book in earnest. As soon as Draco found the page he needed, he frowned. There were so many scribbles and write-ins…the original recipe was unreadable.
“What?” Draco asked softly but it wasn’t like a book could explain itself.
Annoyed, Draco turned the pages until he found the one that said “this book is property of the Half Blood Prince.”
Who the fuck was the Half Blood Prince?
Well, at least now this made sense. Only someone insignificant could want to act all high and mighty. This must have been someone’s idea of a funny joke.
Though even Draco had to admit that wasn’t exactly the feeling he got just from holding the book in his hands. In fact it felt, alive somehow, magic infused though he couldn’t quite explain how he knew.
One thing he did know, though, was he wanted nothing more to do with it.
With a grumble about his time being wasted Draco moved over to the shelf and traded his book out, just in time to nearly slam into Potter on his way back to his seat.
“How’s your nose?” Draco asked with a sneer, before side stepping and leaving Potter behind him. Stupid Potter, hopefully he’d be the one to get that wretched book. Teach him a thing or two about being so late to class.
As he retreated, he heard Potter and Weasel get into a scuffle and he scoffed. Ridiculous.
Now that he was back at his work station, as much as he could Draco tried to clear his head. It was time now to focus, and make the potion Professor Slughorn assigned.
If Draco was going to make potions professionally someday, he needed to get good at it now . He’d done well in Snape’s classes, but this was his chance to prove he’d learned something real. He wasn’t going to waste it.
And yet, as the time ticked by, Draco began to notice with increasing frustration that his potion wasn’t making any progress. In fact, it wasn’t looking anything like the instructions said it should at all.
In his confusion, he glanced around and took in the state of the rest of the class. To his dismay, most potions looked as abysmal as his. Even Granger’s potion looked hopeless. And she looked downright dreadful, her hair all puffed up like a scraggly lion.
His potion was supposed to have a blue-ish hue by now and faint undertones and scents. But it looked like sludge. And sludge wasn’t going to get Draco a passing grade.
In fact, his only consolation was that everyone else seemed to be suffering as well. Maybe Slughorn would take it easy on-
“Why Harry, my boy!” Professor Slughorn exclaimed, smiling widely at Potter, “Your potion looks perfect!”
No fucking way. He did not just say that.
Potter , perfect?! Perfect?! Draco nearly stormed out then and there, as he looked around wildly for Potter only to find him looking just fine, completely unaffected compared to the rest of the class.
Internally cursing him, Draco felt his anger rising and rising until- until he realized what must have happened.
Potter couldn’t possibly have succeeded on his own, no. He wasn’t good enough at potions for that. As loathe as Draco was to admit it, dueling and spell work were Potter’s specialty, and classes such as DADA. None of which had anything to do with potions because Potter was terrible at potions, he always had been.
Which meant he must have used a special spell…or a book! That Half Blood Prince’s stupid snotty instructions!
But how? How could so many books have the wrong spell written in them? That didn’t seem likely.
There had to be some trick and Draco was missing it. But with the end of class approaching he had no clue what he was meant to do.
“Malfoy!” Granger hissed from beside him. She too was looking at Potter in stark confusion. “How did you follow the directions?”
Hmm, now maybe she was onto something. “I followed them as written,” Draco replied simply, before giving Potter’s table another glare. Perhaps those ramblings in the corner weren’t just scribbles, but redirections from the printed directions in the book.
That would explain why someone would ramble on and on in a potions book. This Half Blood Prince must be obsessed with potions to have gone on and on on so many pages.
Curious now, Draco wondered if there was a way he could steal that book from Potter.
He shot him a glance, only to find Potter was staring right at him. Surprised at having been caught, Draco quickly turned his head away. However as he moved he noticed that the surprise seemed to have been mutual. Potter’s cheeks had somehow turned pink.
But there was no more time to think about it now, or anything else, really. Class was ending and Draco needed to get down to the Quidditch Pitch. He’d not exactly been allowed to return to the team, on account of something political and stupid relating to his father being in Azkaban. Which was as ridiculous as the rest of the things that went on in this school, but at least he could attend practices, maybe try again next year.
It had been a hard conversation but Draco had decided not to let it get to him.
He was a Malfoy, after all.
…
End of Summer 1995
Down at the Quidditch pitch Draco couldn’t help but notice a fight was brewing.
The sky was turning dark, and Harry was attempting to address a group of players, with that stupid female Weasel at his side.
“Alright let’s get going on some drills!” Potter tried, but it was clear to everyone that his efforts were wasted. No one was listening, no one hardly seemed to care.
“We have a lot to get through!” He tried again, but his words had no effect.
A flicker of protective, unfamiliar frustration and anger rose in Draco and he shoved it down, before he could bother to try and comprehend the feeling.
It took a few minutes more before something was finally done. Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise as the youngest Weasel eventually had enough of the yelling and raised her voice, shutting down all the chatter at once.
“Well well,” Draco murmured from his seat in the stands. “She’s got bite after all.”
But it only went downhill from there. Potter had everyone organized into teams, all set for a scrimmage, which was fine enough.
Unfortunately, as the scrimmage game got going it quickly became clear that hardly anyone could be bothered to care. It was like they all expected their spot on the team.
People were careless, practically hanging off their brooms, showing poor form, looking like they hadn’t practiced once since the end of last season. Draco smacked his forehead when not one, not two, but three Gryffindorks hit the dirt within one minute of each other.
It was pathetic, it was sad it was-
it was like watching a bunch of entitled Slytherins.
Draco huffed and rolled his eyes, before fixating back on the only one out there worth watching at all.
Weasel. The one that was always at Potter's side. He was actually holding his own, compared to the showoff on the other side of the field. That guy was such a poser, and clearly only cared about impressing anyone who would look his way.
Draco actually smiled when his game started to spiral and he kept failing over and over again.
Served him right. Maybe Draco would’ve shagged him later out of pity, if he wasn’t so obviously a ladies man.
But Weasel? He was good. Like, really good. Draco supposed something had to come from being poor and having to work for everything in life. Sometimes it paid off, people could actually see how much care and effort was actually put into trying.
Alright, have to stop there, Draco reminded himself, that was entirely too much time spent thinking about a guy like Weasel, and anyway, Draco’s job was done. All he had to do now was report back to the Slytherin captain that Potter and the two Weasels were the only ones worth watching this year.
Although, Draco thought as he glanced at the sky and caught sight of Potter. Maybe another few minutes wouldn’t hurt.
Potter’s game was just getting good.
…
End of Summer 1995
A few days later, Draco found himself in Dumbledore’s office.
It wasn’t a particularly pleasant visit, and so Draco didn’t take the look of pity in the old fool’s eyes very pleasantly.
“Draco,” Dumbledore began. “I want you to know how sorry I am for how these times have affected you, specifically around your family.”
“You don’t need to keep looking at me that way,” Draco snapped. “I’m not some pitiful soul like Potter.”
He’d meant it like it was fact, not as a provocation for pity to be thrown in his direction.
But even still, Dumbledore's eyes actually changed at this. They brightened just a bit, and Draco wished fervently and immediately that he hadn’t brought Potter up at all.
“Draco,” Dumbledore said, giving Draco a warm look, warmer than in the past, “I’ve called you here for a reason.”
Draco nodded. “I hoped so, sir,” he answered honestly.
“What’s troubling you the most?” Dumbledore asked. “When it comes to Harry Potter?”
Draco shook his head immediately. “Don’t tell me holding hands and being friends with Potter was the ultimate goal of bringing me here.”
“Well, no,” Dumbledore admitted. “But now you share something in common.”
Oh no, Draco didn’t like where this was going. “You’ve both lost your family to cruelty,” Dumbledore finished. “And so I was wondering if you’ve found yourself looking at Harry in a new light lately.”
Cruelty? He didn’t know the half of it. A rational part of Draco knew he could’ve been far less kind, and yet, the urge to yell at him still rose.
But no, no matter how alike he may seem to Potter, Draco would never, ever admit to being similar. Much less to look at Potter as anything less than an enemy.
“I’m in pain you can’t imagine,” Draco snapped, surprised at how honest that felt. “But that doesn’t mean I need Potter as a friend.”
Immediately Dumbledore lowered his head. There was a long pause. “I disagree,” he said, finally. “Now Draco, on to more serious matters. I know what’s happening, I know you’re being pressured to be someone you’re not.”
What? How dare he?!
“No!” Draco snapped, realizing how fired up he sounded as the word left his mouth. “No,” he said again, in a lower, more controlled voice. “That’s not true. I simply have to be the man of my house now, with father gone.”
Dumbledore gazed at him with evident sadness. “And what does “being a man,” mean? Draco you’re just a boy.”
Draco nodded. “So is Potter, your big hero. What of it? I can do anything I want to. And soon I’ll be taken seriously, no one will laugh at me ever again!”
Nodding, Dumbledore was silent for a moment. “Draco, if you ever find yourself drowning, with your head maybe barely above water, you can come to me. I can protect you. But only if you let me. Do you understand?”
Draco shook his head. “That’s not how this works. You don’t understand anything. I’ve got to prove I'm the man my family needs.”
“Then you’re free to go,” Dumbledore said as farewell. “But I expect to see you here again next week. Shall we make this a standing appointment time?”
Shocked and almost offended, Draco glared at him. How dare he?! Maybe he really was going soft- maybe Voldemort’s order to take him out was just as sensible as it was vengeful.
“Why?” Draco demanded, coldly. “I know you don’t see me the same way you do other students, or Potter.”
“Because if you’re going to try and kill me, and I suspect you are,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the look of angry surprise on Draco’s face, “then I’d rather you get on with it here. Privately. As soon as possible. Unless I'm right and there's more to this than what I currently suspect.”
Draco was stunned, and a bit saddened to be right, that Dumbledore saw the worst in him. But he couldn't afford to show weakness. “But why? If you really think so low of me, then why?”
But Dumbledore only led Draco to the open doorway and spoke as Draco began to descend the steps. “Because my dear boy, I want to help you. Now good night then, and I’ll see you next week.”