Chapter Text
Harry spat on the ground. No matter how much whisky he’d drunk over the past week, he still couldn’t get the taste of this night out of his mouth. The two other Aurors were silent. He had no idea whether they approved of their mission or not. He didn’t want to know. He’d already had too many fights over the Minister’s order, and he had the scabs on his knuckles to prove it.
The rain was slashing down. There were lamps lit on the first floor of the Manor and in one window on the third floor. That must be where the nursery was.
Draco was never going to believe that Harry fought the arrests tooth and nail. He’d only know that it was Harry who came to the door that rainy night and took him and his wife into custody. Everybody knew that there wasn’t going to be a trial. Both Draco’s and Asteria’s parents had been summarily executed. It now seemed fitting to the Wizengamot that their children should spend the rest of their lives in Azkaban.
Why in God’s name had Draco kept his father’s books and artefacts? It gave the powers that be all the evidence they needed for the arrests, and then there were the accusations: Draco and Asteria (as well as her sister) were accessories to assault, murder, kidnapping and torture. A life sentence merely required proof of association with Voldemort. Under that standard, most of the Pure-blood Slytherins were culpable – even if they’d been teenagers at the time and under extreme duress, it didn’t matter. They were the spawn of Death Eaters, and the wizarding world would not be safe until every one of them was locked away for good, their Gringotts vaults seized, and their estates confiscated and auctioned off.
“What do we do with the children?” he’d asked Kingsley earlier that evening. His boss was standing with his arms crossed, looking out his office window. He’d been staring at the lights of London for at least ten minutes.
“I hate this as much as you do,” he said.
Harry nodded. He knew that Kingsley had done everything he could, including threatening to resign, but the Minister’s mind was already made up. And so was the public’s.
He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered with an Impervius, and his hair was plastered to his face. The driveway was long and muddy. His boots and the hem of his robe were spattered and dirty by the time he got to the front stairs.
He banged on the door. “Aurors! Open up!” he shouted.
They waited a long time, and he was about to knock again, when the door opened, and he found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy. His usually pale complexion was ashen, and his eyes looked haunted. News of the night’s other arrests must’ve reached him already.
“Potter,” he said. “To what do we owe this honour?”
Harry didn’t smile. He was here to do his fucking job.
“Draco and Asteria Malfoy, you are under arrest. Come with us voluntarily, and we will not Stun you.”
Behind Draco, a woman started crying and a baby wailed.
Jesus Christ. What was he now? The Dark Lord in an Auror robe? He was doing to the Malfoys just what Voldemort had done to his family.
“What about our baby,” Malfoy said. It wasn’t a question.
Harry swallowed hard. In many ways, this was the worst news he’d deliver tonight.
“He’ll be placed in a state run foster home.”
Asteria screamed, and her baby cried even harder, no doubt sensing his mother’s anguish.
“I hear you too have an infant son,” Draco said with the same eerie calm with which he’d greeted them.
Harry nodded.
Draco looked at him for a long time, searing his pale grey eyes into Harry’s soul.
“Promise me one thing, Potter,” he said, his voice as cold as a Dementor’s Kiss, “when he’s old enough to understand, tell Scorpius his parents are dead.”
The infant was blond. He had his mother’s golden hair, but his eyes were all Draco. He cried all the way to Bulcher House. Harry had decided not to Apparate because he didn’t want to traumatise him any more than he already had. The Auror who hadn’t taken the Malfoys into custody drove the Muggle car with Harry and the baby in the backseat. The boy’s tiny hand reached out of his blankets, and Harry gave him his pinky finger to hold on to. He felt sick. Kingsley had ordered him to take the next week off. “Go somewhere with your family, Potter,” he’d said.
The nurse who greeted him at the door seemed kind. Harry liked her face; it was ruddy and freckled and laughter lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. But behind her, he could hear the crying of dozens of children, many of them calling for their parents.
He handed her Draco’s son. She opened the blanket. “He’s our youngest one yet – can’t be older than six months,” she said, smiling down at him. “What’s his name?”
“Scorpius Malfoy,” he said and saw her wince at the last name.
“Are there any special instructions from his parents?”
For the first time that night, he felt himself starting to break down.
“His . . . his mother said he’s still nursing and if there is someone here who could be a wet nurse, she . . . she’d be very grateful.”
He dropped his head into his hand and tried to pull himself together.
“You’re a brave man, Harry Potter,” the nurse said. “You faced the peril for all of us.”
He struggled to regain his voice.
“The only peril I faced was having my heart broken by the ruin my actions have caused tonight.”
The nurse didn’t respond for several moments.
“The children will be well looked after,” she said kindly. “They’ll be raised to know what is right and what is wrong.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself.
“He’s . . . he’s only a baby,” he said at last, his voice choking. “He’s done nothing wrong. He’s an innocent. Please promise me that you and all the staff here will treat him that way.” He paused. “That’s not a request from the Malfoys,” he continued, his voice steady once again. “It’s from me.”
* * * * * * * * *
Madam Cockle would always remember the day she entered the nursery and discovered a furious Scorpius Malfoy brandishing a green crayon. The whole room was in disarray: little children were running around shrieking and slapping at the sparks on their bottoms, tables and chairs were overturned, and the young teacher was in tears. Madam Cockle drew her wand.
“Expelliarmus!,” she shouted and the crayon flew into her hand. “Finite!” The sparks snuffed out leaving smoking holes in their wake.
Scorpius stared at his hand as though it didn’t belong to him.
“You will come with me immediately,” said Madam Cockle, seizing his arm. The child was small but strong – and very quick. She knew her grip had to be tight. When they got to her office she ordered him to sit down on one of the wooden chairs. The cushioned chairs were for adults, and if there was one thing that she wanted to instil in her young charges it was respect for their elders.
She handed Scorpius a glass of water and watched him drink it sloppily. Clearly he needed to be taught how to drink neatly, but that could wait for another day. There were more important things to discuss – mainly how on earth had the five year-old child, who’d never received any magical training, known how to channel his innate wild magic through a wand-like object and then use that focussed magic to cast such a sophisticated jinx?
“Scorpius,” she said, folding her hands on the desk before her. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
The boy gazed at her with those unnerving grey eyes of his. She was not unaware of the young Tom Riddle’s history.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said.
“What was going through your mind when you picked up the crayon?” she asked.
“I don’t know . . . I was really really angry, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Because Carlyle made fun of my name, ma’am.”
She sighed. This wasn’t a new problem. Aside from Fenrir Greyback, the Greengrasses and the Carrows, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had been the only people executed. It was the fact that Voldemort had operated out of their Manor. Everyone knew this. Even the youngest children at Bulcher House knew about the Malfoys and their wickedness. They’d been given books as soon as they could read that told of the Death Eaters and their fates.
“We’ve talked about this before, Scorpius,” she said firmly.
“I know,” he said. “Just ignore them . . .”
“. . . or tell a teacher.”
Scorpius looked down at his hands in his lap and took a deep breath.
“Harry Potter wouldn’t have ignored them,” he said confidently. “He would’ve fought back.”
Madam Cockle sighed again. Harry Potter. This was also not a new problem.
Ever since Bulcher House had partnered with Chocolate Amphibians, Inc., the children had been receiving Chocolate Frogs (and their accursed cards) every Friday after dinner. Not only were the cards a source of contention and hoarding (both of which were frowned-upon), they also sparked childish imitations and even crushes. Madam Cockle didn’t know which she was facing in Scorpius’s case, but the matter was greatly complicated by the fact that Harry Potter kept sending significant amounts of money every day on the anniversary of Scorpius’s arrival at Bulcher House. In fact, he was the home’s major donor, and it was due to his generosity that every child had a duvet, a comfortable mattress, and two uniforms, not to mention books. Piles and piles of Muggle books. The House relied almost exclusively on donated funds. The government was less than thrilled to spend money on the children and grandchildren of Death Eaters.
The one stipulation was that no one was to know the donations came from Harry Potter – or that a third of them were to be set aside for the health and welfare of Draco Malfoy’s son. This was Madam Cockle’s biggest secret, and it made her life hell with the financial auditors.
Harry Potter, himself, was also a problem. He seemed to be going steadily mad. Everyone knew he was growing more reckless all the time. It was rumoured he had a death wish, and the more the children heard about his adventures (because such things simply could not be kept away from them entirely), the more they emulated him.
Madam Cockle returned her attention to the fair-haired boy with the pale eyes.
“You have to remember that you want to be somebody when you grow up and go to Hogwarts, and fighting won’t help you,” she said sternly. “Who do you want to be when you grow up, Scorpius?”
The boy didn’t even blink. “Why, Harry Potter, of course.”
* * * * * * * * *
Harry crouched in the muddy grass with his wand held at the ready. The spells had come out of nowhere. He cast a Protective Shield but knew it couldn’t last long under a well-coordinated attack. His fringe was plastered to his forehead, and rain beaded on the lenses of his glasses. They’d already taken his partner down. A Confringo struck the rock he was hiding behind and sent sharp shards flying into the air. One slammed into his shoulder, and another grazed his cheek. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the shard free and wiped the blood off his face with the back of his wand hand. There were at least five of them. Not top-ranked generals, but wizards still skilled enough to cause serious damage. The things they did to the victims they took alive were rumoured to rival Voldemort’s most gruesome fantasies.
There was movement in the fog. To anyone but him, it would’ve seemed no more than a breeze, but his finely tuned instincts told him there was a person out there advancing slowly on his hiding place. He cast a Stunning Spell that caught the man completely unaware, but to Harry’s chagrin, he didn’t fall quietly. Suddenly the trees on the edge of the field seemed to surge forward. He knew he could Apparate before they reached him – in fact he probably should Apparate – but he’d be damned before he left his stunned partner to the mercy of sadists. Seizing his partner’s wand, he used one hand to deflect the attacks and the other to cast his own spells. When the fog finally cleared, there were thirteen bodies on the ground. He wiped his bloody hands in the grass and glanced up at the blue sky peeking through the clouds. He hadn’t slept in five days, and he could only, just barely, remember his own name.
* * * * * * * * * *
Scorpius Malfoy was no dummy. He knew he’d been called into Madam Cockle’s office that day two years ago because he’d done something that had surprised her – maybe even frightened her – with that green crayon. Ever since he’d been collecting them – along with his Harry Potter Chocolate Frog cards. The two seemed connected in some way, but exactly how, he couldn’t say. He only knew that both the crayons and the cards made him feel invincible, and when he thought of them, he didn’t care so much about people taunting him because of his name.
He also knew that he could make things happen. He could steal things from the kids he didn’t like and either keep them for himself or give them to his friends. He could do all of this just by thinking about it really hard. He could also make things invisible, which was why, when the staff made their weekly inspections, they never discovered his crayons or cards despite his having dozens of both.
And what was the best thing of all? He could sometimes make the bad kids do things he wanted them to do, like cut the queue for dinner and retrieve him a full plate and teacup. Other times, if he was really really really angry, he could make them writhe on the floor and scream. And after he was done, he could make them forget everything that’d happened.
* * * * * * * * *
Even though he hadn’t been back since the night he’d taken Scorpius there, Harry saw that Bulcher House hadn’t changed at all, except for peeling paint and a weedy lawn. He took a deep breath and pushed open the enormous front door. He was nervous, which seemed ridiculous in light of the fact he’d just returned from a mission in Brittany with a scar the length of his body from a wound that’d nearly killed him.
“Ah, Auror Potter,” said Madam Cockle, who looked much the same as well although a bit more harried. “Please come to my office. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
He nodded and looked around. To his great relief, the inside of the House looked spotless, and sunlight flooded the classrooms he passed. The children they encountered seemed healthy and even happy.
When they entered Madam Cockle’s office and she closed the door, he told her how grateful he was to see that his donations had been put to good use. Not having followed up on them, he’d always feared they may’ve ended up in administrators’ pockets.
“And Scorpius Malfoy?” he asked. “He’s been well, I hope.”
Madam Cockle gestured for him to take a seat and handed him a nice hot cup of tea. “He’s healthy and content and is growing just as one would expect of a boy of his age.”
He looked at her quizzically. “Then why have you asked me to come here today?”
Madam Cockle sat down at her desk. “I’ve debated contacting you for a long time,” she said. “After all, you’re neither a relative nor a guardian. But I know of your interest in the boy’s welfare, and, well, to be honest, I didn’t know what else to do.”
He frowned and set aside his teacup. “Continue.”
Madam Cockle took a deep breath. “In a nutshell, we’re concerned that Scorpius is . . . well, is showing some disturbing signs.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “In what way?”
“Well, it seems that he’s discovered his magical abilities . . .”
“That doesn’t seem unusual. I discovered there was something ‘different’ about me long before I went to Hogwarts.”
“It’s not just that,” she continued. “He’s discovered how to channel and use his magic – even nonverbally.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. If that was the “problem,” then he could easily handle it.
“I could do wordless spells when I was his age, even though I wasn’t aware I could direct them or control them. I don’t see what’s wrong.”
Madam Cockle took yet another deep breath. “Well, obviously, in your case, there was no chance of you becoming a . . . a Dark Wizard . . .”
The first thought that crossed Harry’s mind was that no one should’ve ever assumed such a thing, but that thought was quickly replaced by what Madam Cockle had actually said.
“What are you saying?” he asked. His voice had lost any levity it might’ve had.
“I’m saying that we might have a dangerous situation on our hands, and if it’s not taken care of, I may have to expel Scorpius from the home.”
“How has the situation become ‘dangerous’?” he asked in the same serious tone. His protective instinct for Draco’s child had been triggered.
“I’ve seen him cast Unforgivables. I’ve seen him with my own eyes, and I’m afraid we may have another Tom Riddle on our hands. His eyes seem dead most of the time – they never change their expression even when he’s hurt someone . . .”
Harry rose from his chair. “That’s a very serious accusation!”
“I know it is.”
He was already at the door before he spoke again. “Where is he?”
Madam Cockle wrung her hands. “Please, Auror Potter,” she said pleadingly. “Hear me out. I asked you to come today because I thought you could help.”
“What do you envision, exactly?”
“A tutor. He needs someone to talk to him, to mentor him, and I believe you’re the only one who can do that – the only one he’d trust and respect enough to listen to.”
His first instinct was to shake his head. “I don’t want to get closer to him than I already have,” he said. “It’s not fair to him. He needs a father in his life, and I can never play that role for him. I’ve got enough problems fathering my own children and staying alive for their sakes . . .”
“Please,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s got to a point where we’re going to need to expel him, and I hate to think where he’d end up, being a Malfoy and all.”
Harry stood considering her face for several moments. “This is serious.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It is. I wouldn’t have contacted you unless I was absolutely desperate.”
“Where is he?” he asked, remembering Dumbledore’s Pensieve memory of Riddle in his tiny room . . .
“He’s in his room. I can’t trust him to play safely with the other children anymore.”
Harry swallowed hard. How had Scorpius turned into a mini-version of his father and grandfather without even having known them? Was it something in the Malfoy blood?
“Take me to him,” he said firmly.
Having passed rooms with two beds, Harry had assumed Scorpius would have a roommate too, but when they knocked on his door, he realised that wasn’t the case. His heart squeezed into a fist. There were too many similarities . . .
“Scorpius,” Madam Cockle called. “You have a visitor.”
There was no answer. She knocked again.
“Go away!”
Harry gestured for her to leave. “I’ll handle this,” he said. He knocked on the door again.
“Scorpius, I’m Harry Potter, may I come in?”
There was silence on the other side of the door.
“No, you’re not,” the young voice said flatly.
“Well, open your door anyway and see if it’s really true,” said Harry.
There was a creak as the room’s occupant got up from his bed and then a shuffling sound. The door opened a crack and Draco’s eyes peered out.
Harry stepped back with the momentary shock but then quickly regained his composure. The boy’s eyes looked so much like his father’s.
“You see?” he said gently as though he was trying to coax a wild animal out of its hiding place.
But Scorpius didn’t answer. Instead he stood there like a statue with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“May I come in?” Harry asked.
Scorpius was still in a state of shock as he opened the door and let him enter.
“You really are Harry Potter,” he said with an awed breath.
Harry smiled and nodded. “In the flesh. May I sit down?” he asked, pointing to a small wooden chair next to a wooden desk.
Scorpius said nothing. Harry took a seat anyway.
“What? . . . Why? . . . You.”
Harry grinned. “It sounds like a Kneazle’s got you tongue.”
Scorpius continued to stare at him. Harry saw him swallow several times. He gestured for him to take a seat on his bed. The boy did as he was told.
Harry looked around the small but tidy room and was pleased to see that the large window let in plenty of light and there were numerous books on the sill. As he’d hoped, it looked as though Scorpius had become an avid reader. His bed was made and looked comfortable, and three spotless uniforms hung in his closet along with a kite.
“Do you fly that often?” he asked.
Scorpius nodded but then shook his head. “I used to, but I’m not allowed to go outdoors anymore.”
“Do you know why?”
“Because I do . . . things.”
“Like what?
Scorpius was silent.
“It’s okay,” Harry assured him. “I won’t get angry and I won’t tell Madam Cockle. It’ll be our secret.”
Scorpius beamed and looked down at his hands shyly.
“Sometimes I make things fly around,” he said.
“And what happens when you make things fly around?”
“They hit the mean boys.”
Harry nodded, careful to show no reaction to Scorpius’s words.
“Is that all?”
Scorpius looked up and stared him right in the eyes. It was disquieting.
“No.”
“Tell me about the other things, Scorpius, I told you I won’t get angry.”
“Sometimes I make the other children do things they don’t want to do.”
The Imperius curse. Harry struggled to maintain a neutral expression.
“Anything else?” he asked softly. He didn’t want to spook the boy.
“I sometimes I make them hurt,” Scorpius whispered. “But only if they’re being really bad to me.”
The Cruciatus curse.
“How do you do these things?” Harry asked.
Scorpius shrugged. “I think really hard about it, and sometimes I use this.” He stood up and lifted his mattress. Harry caught sight of several green crayons and Chocolate Frog cards. They all depicted him. Scorpius retrieved one of the crayons and held it out for his inspection.
Harry looked at it carefully although he didn’t need to. Obviously, Scorpius was using it as a wand. He was impressed.
“What happens when you make people do things or make them hurt?” he asked.
“The teachers get angry at me.”
“Do you know why?”
Scorpius shrugged again. “Because it’s bad.”
“Do you think it’s bad?”
Scorpius looked down at his hands. “I don’t know. But I think if it was bad, then I wouldn’t be able to do it.”
Harry nodded. “How do you feel when you do these things?”
Scorpius looked up with a guileless smile on his face. “Like you,” he replied.
There were no lights on when he returned home. It was Ginny’s way of telling him she was angry at him. Again. He sat down on the couch. The conversation with Scorpius had disturbed him. He realised that something did need to be done, but he was more than a little reluctant to do what Madam Cockle had suggested. Teaching the boy how to use his magic one evening a week. The commitment might not sound too onerous to anyone else, but it did to him. He was rarely home these days and was risking becoming a stranger to his children. What was more, he was almost always working in the evening. And on the weekends. He just didn’t have the time . . .
But then again, he shuddered to think what might happen if he didn’t intervene somehow. Scorpius was young, obviously gifted and just waiting for someone to tell him what to do. If he fell into the wrong hands . . .
Harry couldn’t let that happen.
That night he dreamed of Draco and Vanishing Cabinets and the chaotic disarray of the Room of Requirement. He also – for the first time in a very long time – dreamed of walking into a dark forest alone, certain that he was about to die without saying important things that needed to be said.
* * * * * * * * * *
Scorpius swished the wand. Nothing happened. It was the zillionth one he’d tried, and he was getting tired and hungry, but Mr. Potter showed no sign of giving up.
The wand maker with the strange accent handed him another wand.
“Think hard when you swish,” Mr. Potter told him. “Think about trying to make something float in the air.”
It’d been his first Apparation. Mr. Potter had held out his arm and told Scorpius to hold on tight. When they appeared in Romania, he’d felt sick to his stomach, and Mr. Potter had rubbed his back as he threw up his breakfast. Which was probably why he now felt so hungry.
He’d asked Mr. Potter why they couldn’t just buy a wand in England, and Mr. Potter had told him that it was illegal for children younger than eleven to purchase a wand there. So here they were in Romania, and Scorpius was swishing and flicking for all he was worth.
“How about a wand made from native wood and creatures?” Mr. Potter asked the wand maker. “Let’s try one of those.”
The wand maker reached into a glass case and pulled out a beautiful black wand. “Carpathian walnut with a Longhorn heartstring core,” he said. “We call it . . . well, in English it would translate to ‘an Old World wand.’”
Scorpius reached for it greedily. It was longer than any he’d tried already. He swished it . . .
. . . and the glass case exploded into sparkling dust. Both Mr. Potter and the wand maker backed away with alarmed expressions.
“Hhhhmmm,” said Mr. Potter. His voice sounded unsure. “I don’t know . . .”
“But, sir, it worked!”
“Yes it did, perhaps too well.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Potter took a long time to answer.
“I’ve never seen a new wand connect so powerfully with its potential owner,” he said. “I’m worried that it may be too strong for you to handle.”
Scorpius frowned. “But I want it,” he said and then added, “it’s pretty.”
Mr. Potter laughed. “Being pretty is not something one considers when choosing one’s wand. Comfort and recognition are what you look for.”
“What do you mean by ‘recognition’?”
“You need to feel like you already own the wand. Like it was yours in a past life or something.”
Scorpius nodded. He knew what Mr. Potter meant. That was exactly what he’d felt when he’d swished the black wand.
“Can I have it?” he asked. “Please, sir!”
Mr. Potter and the wand maker glanced at each other. Both of them seemed hesitant.
“May I hold it for a moment?” Mr. Potter asked, and Scorpius handed it to him. He watched intently as Mr. Potter inspected it closely and swished it a couple times. Each time he was able to levitate things and make them zoom around the shop, but it didn’t seem like he felt comfortable.
Mr. Potter thought for a very long time. “If I buy this for you,” he said sounding very serious, “you have to promise to use it only when I’m with you.”
Scorpius was ecstatic. Mr. Potter was going to come to see him again, maybe even a lot!
“I promise,” he said fervently. Mr. Potter smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Then say hello to your new lifelong companion.”
* * * * * * * * *
Harry hated to do it, but it’d got to the point where he felt he had no other choice.
Scorpius hadn’t been using his wand when they weren’t together as he’d ordered, but he was still “thinking really hard” and “making things happen.”
There’d been the window that closed on a bully’s hand, and the boiling shower, and, far more worrisome, another Cruciatus. Even though it had been weak and unfocused, it was still dangerous – not only for its victim, but for Scorpius as well. The last thing Harry wanted was for him to fall in love with his power to make people hurt.
“But I hate them, sir!” he cried at one of their weekly meetings. “They’re mean and stupid!” His spectral eyes filled with something that approximated fire.
“That may be,” Harry replied calmly. “But that doesn’t give you the right to respond to their cruelty with even greater cruelty.”
Scorpius stamped his foot in frustration. They’d been over this ground already on several occasions, and yet it seemed to make no lasting impression.
“I was Crucioed,” Harry said. “By people who thought I deserved it.”
Scorpius looked alarmed. “But they were wrong, sir!”
“Anyone who uses an Unforgiveable is always wrong,” he said, “and that includes me. I Cruicoed someone who I thought deserved it. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and I felt ashamed afterward. I felt like a little piece of me had rotted away.”
Scorpius looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear. “Do you think that’ll happen to me, sir?”
Harry had decided when he’d accepted the task of tutoring Scorpius that he was never going to lie or sugar coat things. If Scorpius was old enough to cast an Unforgivable then he was old enough to face the consequences.
“It may,” he said. “But only if you fail to realise how horrible what you’ve done is. Wand at the ready.”
Scorpius assumed a duelling stance, and once again Harry marvelled at his capacity to absorb their lessons.
“You’ve been casting rather weak Unforgivables,” he said, his voice as stern as he could make it. “So, I’ll do you the courtesy of making mine weak too.”
He took a deep breath. Just the fact that he didn’t want to do this made his Cruciatus almost painless. Almost.
Scorpius dropped his wand and fell on his knees, his limbs contorting into unnatural shapes. Harry said Finite, and Scorpius crumpled on the floor. It’d only lasted a couple of seconds and it was as anaemic as Harry could make it, but Scorpius nonetheless wet himself and whimpered in pain. Harry cast a cleaning charm and knelt down beside him.
“That,” he said firmly, “was a Cruciatus, and believe me it wasn’t nearly as strong as I could’ve made it. I want you to lie there for a moment and let the sensation sink into your memory. I don’t want you to ever forget this lesson.”
Harry was silent for a long time, listening to the child’s sniffles. Scorpius was immensely talented. He had a natural appreciation of magic’s capacity and an innate sense of his own power. None of Harry’s or his friends’ children had a fraction of Scorpius’s ability. He had the capacity to be a great wizard . . . and a very Dark one. It made Harry think of his grandfather who’d been of equal talent and used it only to benefit himself and torture anyone who stood in his way.
Harry would be damned before Scorpius followed in Lucius’s footsteps.
Scorpius’s sniffles turned into sobs and he clutched Harry’s hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. “I didn’t know,” he cried.
Harry stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.
“I know you didn’t,” he said softly. “That’s why I had to show you.”
“It hurt a lot,” Scorpius said, still sniffling but no longer sobbing.
Harry nodded. He could tell how deeply this had affected him by the way he’d dropped the “sir.” Usually, Scorpius was ridiculously formal.
“That’s why it’s called an Unforgivable,” Harry said, pulling his hand away and using it to push Scorpius’s fringe off his brow. “Not only will your victim never forgive you, but neither will society. And worst of all? You’ll never forgive yourself.”
“I feel so terrible,” Scorpius’s whimpered. “What can I do, sir?”
“First, you should make a solemn promise to yourself that you will never again cast an Unforgivable, and then you should apologise to Madam Cockle and to all the classmates you’ve hurt.”
Scorpius’s swallow was audible. “But I’m afraid to, sir. They already hate me as it is.”
“Their reaction is not what’s important,” Harry said. “What’s important is that you reach out and try your hardest to make amends. The gesture is as much for you as it is for them. Do you understand me, Scorpius?”
Scorpius pushed himself up off the floor and straightened his shoulders. “Yes, sir,” he said, fixing Harry with his preternatural gaze.
“You’re not just saying that to please me, are you?” Harry asked warily.
Scorpius shook his head. “I don’t want to be like my father, sir,” he said. “He was an evil man.”
Harry shook his head. “You’re father wasn’t evil. He was just misguided. Nobody stepped in to insure that he didn’t use his considerable abilities for evil purposes, but he, himself, in his heart of hearts, wasn’t evil. And what’s more – you don’t need to bear his sins. You’re your own person, Scorpius, and you have people who care about you. You aren’t ‘destined’ to make Draco’s mistakes.”
Harry stood up and offered Scorpius his hand. “I expect never to hear again that you’ve used your talent to do bad things, am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Scorpius said, standing up and straightening his uniform. Not for the first time, Harry admired his inherent pride, which, unlike their amorality, was a noble birthright of the Malfoys.
Scorpius’s pride, like Draco’s once had been, was a thing of beauty, and Harry had no intention of breaking it.
* * * * * * * * *
Scorpius could feel frustration welling in him, and he struggled to master it. He’d tried casting the same spell all evening, but it never worked. Each time, Mr. Potter commanded him in his “wizard voice” (as Scorpius had come to think of it) to shake out his hand and arm and try again.
“But I can’t,” Scorpius whined. “Besides, it’s a stupid spell. . . sir.”
Mr. Potter frowned at him, which made his stormy eyes look even stormier.
“There’s no such thing as a ‘stupid spell,’” he said. “Now assume the stance.”
Scorpius gripped his wand and slashed at the air. He was mad at Mr. Potter and wasn’t even trying now out of revenge. Of course, the spell didn’t work. Again.
As if he’d read his mind, Mr. Potter told him in that irritating wizard voice that he was only hurting himself by being surly.
“You sound like Madam Cockle, sir,” Scorpius said sulkily. “All you adults are the same.”
Mr. Potter laughed at that. “I thought very much the same thing when I was your age, but I can assure you we’re all different from one another in a million different ways. Now let’s try again . . .”
Scorpius dropped his wand and sat down on the floor with his arms crossed.
“Goodness, you’re being quite the brat tonight,” said Mr. Potter, but his voice sounded light and amused. “Get up. We’re going to stay here the whole night until you get it right.”
Scorpius groaned. “Do we have to?” he whined. “I’m tired.”
“I can assure you that after a day of slogging around in a thigh-deep fen, I’m rather tired too, but you don’t see me complaining. Now, wand up.”
Scorpius tried again, and again he failed. He felt tears of frustration spring to his eyes.
“Alright,” said Mr. Potter. “Let’s go about this in a different way.” He walked over to Scorpius and stood behind him. “Raise your arm . . . Ah! There’s one of your problems. You’re holding your wand wrong.”
Mr. Potter reached out his arm and took Scorpius’s hand in is. “This finger should be here,” he said, moving Scorpius’s pinky. “And your thumb should be here. Good! Now, I’m going to do the casting motion, just let your arm go limp. There you go.”
Mr. Potter wrapped his hand around Scorpius’s and swished the wand through the air with the whispered words of the spell. Scorpius’s mouth dropped open. It worked!
“Now you see what you’ve been doing differently?” Mr. Potter asked.
He did see what he’d been doing wrong, but he didn’t want to tell Mr. Potter. He wanted Mr. Potter to stay right where he was.
“Not really, sir,” he said.
“Okay, well then let’s try again.”
Mr. Potter’s body was warm. Scorpius snuggled into his arms. He felt safe and happy and sleepy. He couldn’t remember anyone ever being so close to him before. His eyes drifted shut, and only opened again when he felt, as much as heard, Mr. Potter’s chuckle.
“You really are tired,” he said. “One last time and then we’ll stop. I promise.”
He stepped away and Scorpius felt chilled by his absence, but he held his wand just as Mr. Potter had shown him, and swished it just like Mr. Potter had shown him, and said the words just as Mr. Potter had said them. His brain only just caught up with his actions when he heard Mr. Potter clap and tell him congratulations. Scorpius blushed.
“I doubt you’ll forget how to do that one,” Mr. Potter said. “It’ll become a muscle memory after tonight.”
Scorpius had no idea what a “muscle memory” was, but he knew for sure he’d never forget how he’d felt tucked against Mr. Potter’s chest, Mr. Potter’s hand covering and guiding his own.
* * * * * * * * *
Through a bloody haze, Harry saw a white ceiling and blinding lamps. All around him were urgent voices and the smell of bandages and several kinds of reeking potions. He didn’t need to ask. He knew he was in St. Mungo’s. Again.
“Water,” he croaked, and everyone looked relieved.
“He’s awake,” said one of the Healers. “Thank Merlin!”
Another Healer helped him to sit up and held a glass of water to his lips. Harry drank it sloppily.
“What was it this time?” he asked. “A curse or a wound?”
“Both,” said the Head Healer. “You’re lucky to be alive . . . again.”
“Is my family here?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
“Your wife left a message,” said the Healer awkwardly. “She said she was going to wait to see you until you were well enough to come home.”
Harry nodded resignedly. He wasn’t surprised by the message. Ginny had stopped visiting him in St. Mungo’s after Lily was born. I don’t want to subject the children to this anymore, she’d said. To the sight of their reckless – stupid – father, who doesn’t love them enough to keep himself alive. She’d been harsh, but part of him knew she was right. What he didn’t tell her – and probably never would – was that he was addicted to the adrenaline. It made him feel awake and alive and young. He doubted he could give it up, even if he wanted to. It was Voldemort’s cruel legacy. He’d never be “normal,” he’d never feel able to rest or relax. The urge to move – and fight – was with him all the time. Dogging his heels and sometimes even making him regret he’d started a family at all. He knew he wasn’t being fair to them. But the guilt could never outweigh the need for the rush of battle. Which in itself made him feel even guiltier. It was like a serpent chasing its tail.
“You also received another message. It’s from a child, judging from the penmanship. He says he misses you.”
He smiled. Scorpius. They’d been meeting for over a year. During that time, he’d increased in skill to the point where he outshone children twice his age. Despite the disruption in his schedule, Harry was very glad he’d taken on the task of tutoring him. Scorpius was learning to disconnect his magic from his negative emotions, which had been absolutely critical. He’d worried Scorpius might be inherently “bad” in someway, but he wasn’t. He was just a child who needed directing and coaching. Much like his own children if only Ginny would allow him to be alone with them for longer than an hour or two.
At their last meeting, Scorpius had completed his first Transfiguration, turning a book into a plate and back again. Although he was unable to replicate his achievement, Harry was very impressed and told him so, making Scorpius beam and those eerie eyes dance with light.
He’d made Scorpius promise not to tell anyone else about their lessons. It would seem too much like favouritism to the other children, which might make them dislike Scorpius more than they already did, and furthermore, Harry didn’t want their relationship anywhere near the papers. They’d have a field day with it. He could imagine the headlines: “The noble Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, takes time out of his busy life to mentor the poor child of a Death Eater!”
“How long am I going to be stuck here?” he asked the Head Healer who momentarily bristled at his choice of words.
“For at least another week,” he replied.
Harry frowned. “You make it sound like I’ve already been here a week,” he said.
“Well, you have,” said the Healer and left the room with Harry’s chart.
So, Ginny hadn’t come to see him in all that time, and she hadn’t allowed the children to see him either. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t deny it any longer: he was beginning to dislike his wife. He knew he was being irresponsible: this was the fourteenth time since he’d joined the Aurors that he’d ended up in St. Mungo’s with a life-threatening curse-sickness or wound or both. But he had a right to see his children all the same! You’re bloody selfish! he heard her shout at him as though she was a ghost in the room. Maybe she was right, but that didn’t change the fact that he loved James and Albus and Lily. He did. Fiercely. Which made him all the more driven to stamp out evil everywhere he saw it: He wanted his children to live in a safer world than he did.
Now that the healers were gone, his room was far too quiet. The thought of having to lie in bed for a week was unbearable. He had work to do, and a little boy to teach . . .
And then it hit him: There wasn’t any reason why he couldn’t teach Scorpius in his hospital room. He’d been meaning to introduce Scorpius to some magical theory, but whenever that were together, all they wanted to do was duel. Harry’s condition would force them both to be still. Plus Scorpius was ready for the more academic side of practising magic – not that Harry was the best teacher for such things. He was too impatient to learn why; he’d always wanted to learn how. Scorpius was different. He wanted to learn both. The boy was a sponge for knowledge, and Harry was sure he could teach him all the theory he knew from years of experience, and Scorpius, the little brat, would get it in a week.
He rang the bell dangling from the ceiling, and a nurse came in.
“Contact this woman,” he said, holding out Madam Cockle’s Floo address. “Tell her to send Scorpius Malfoy to me, and to use her usual discretion. And when he comes, I don’t want to be bothered. Is that understood?”
The nurse gave him a nod and left the room. He was there so often that St. Mungo’s staff was used to giving him what he wanted.
* * * * * * * * *
Scorpius breathed deeply. He’d never smelled the sea before. Or heard the sound of waves and gulls fighting over a newspaper, greasy from the fish and chips it’d once contained.
Beside him, Mr. Potter pulled his long black coat tighter around his shoulders and buttoned another button. It was cold, but Scorpius didn’t care. Until today, he’d always celebrated his birthday at the Home with a cupcake and a tepid chorus of happy birthday at supper. This was a thousand times better.
“You just had to go and be born in late October, didn’t you?” Mr. Potter teased. His cheeks were pink from the wind.
They walked down the crumbling concrete stairs that led to the strand. Scorpius felt the sand give way beneath his feet with every step.
“May I take off my shoes, sir?” he asked.
“Only if you let me cast a warming charm; down where the sand is firmer, you’ll find it very chilly. I don’t want to send you back to Madam Cockle with a cold.”
Scorpius stripped off his shoes and socks and felt a tingle when Mr. Potter wordlessly cast the spell. He ran down to where the waves lapped against the shore.
“Tell me again,” he called back. “What’s on the other side?”
“Canada,” Mr. Potter said, unshrinking the kite he held in his pocket. “But that’s a very long way away.”
“Have you ever been there, sir?”
“Once,” Mr. Potter replied.
“What were you doing there?”
“The same thing I’m always doing when I go places. Fighting bad guys.”
“Guys who use the Unforgivables,” Scorpius added automatically. Mr. Potter had drummed the response into him since their first tutoring session.
“Exactly,” Mr. Potter replied. “Now let’s see if we can fly this kite of yours. I’ve never flown a kite, so you’ll need to show me how to do it.”
Scorpius took the kite from Mr. Potter’s hand and unwound its string. Instantly the wind tugged it skyward. It was perfect kite flying weather, and he felt like he might fly away too with happiness. For two years, Mr. Potter had been teaching him things, and now he’d have the chance to teach him something.
“Come here, sir,” he said. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Carefully, Scorpius let the kite’s spool unwind, until the red dragon was sailing far above their heads. It was hard to hold on, so when he went to hand the spool to Mr. Potter, he didn’t let go until he knew Mr. Potter had a good grip.
In doing so, their hands touched, and he felt a tingle in his whole body just as he’d felt when Mr. Potter had cast the warming spell on his feet. It made him shiver with more than happiness. Their hands had touched before, many times, as Mr. Potter had guided him in new spells, but that was different somehow. Those touches had never made him feel such . . . joy.
They flew the kite until they were both frozen and went to find somewhere to eat. It was the first time he’d tasted curry, and at first he didn’t think he liked it – it was so different from the food at Bulcher House. But by the time he’d emptied his plate, he’d changed his mind. The unfamiliar spices reminded him of the unfamiliar sea, and he decided he liked unfamiliar things and that he’d been bored for a long time without even knowing why. After super, Mr. Potter bought him a bowl of strange dough balls soaked in rosewater. The name of the dessert felt as unfamiliar on his tongue as the curry had tasted. Gulab jamun.
“Happy birthday,” Mr. Potter said. “How does it feel to be eight?”
Scorpius grinned. “It feels great,” he said. “Better than anything ever.”
* * * * * * * * *
Specialis Revelio!
Scorpius cast the spell at the Quaffle rolling on the floor towards his feet. Immediately, the ball burst into flames.
Aguamenti! he shouted, and his wand shot a jet of water that put out the fire with a hiss.
“Bravo!” Harry called from the other end of the room. “Scorpius, I didn’t tell you before you tried it, but Aguamenti is a spell you won’t encounter again until your sixth year at Hogwarts!”
Scorpius blushed and smiled with a mixture of modesty and pride.
Harry crossed the room and Banished the smouldering ball. He was amazed. Scorpius wasn’t even able to practise the spells he learned in their lessons, and Harry was sure his success came from having learned it so thoroughly in their last lesson that he didn’t need to practise.
Scorpius never ceased to surprise him. He had the makings of a powerful wizard – perhaps even as strong and powerful as Harry was himself, although Harry didn’t tell him so. Such knowledge had to be discovered, not given, and furthermore, they weren’t far enough removed from the boy who’d casually cast Unforgivables at his classmates. Scorpius needed to be absolutely sure of himself and who he was before he learned how formidable his innate talent was.
“Are you ready to stop?” Harry asked him. “We’ve been at this for three hours.”
“Just one more,” Scorpius pleaded. “I’m not tired, sir.”
Harry groaned to himself. The nearly nine year-old boy might not be tired, but he was. It had been a long arduous week – even more than usual – and he was exhausted.
“Alright,” he said. He could never say no to Scorpius. “But just one more.”
Scorpius grinned, and Harry returned to the far side of the room. “Let’s try something new,” he shouted. “Something you’ve never tried before. I’m going to roll the Quaffle again, but this time it’ll have a very painful stinging spell cast on it. Believe me, you will not be happy if it hits you. You must protect yourself.”
“Something new, sir? But I thought we’d already done Protective Shields!”
“This isn’t a Protective Shield,” Harry called back. “Now, as the ball rolls near, I want you to think of something or someone you love and the best time you’ve ever had in your life, and then wave your wand in a broad sweep and shout Expecto Patronum. If nothing happens, then you must cast a Protective Shield.”
He set the ball rolling and held his breath. Scorpius called out the spell and . . .
. . . a stag, identical to Harry’s sprang forth, and when it struck the Quaffle, the ball evaporated like stream.
Harry was too stunned to speak.
It was only to be expected, he said to himself as he lay in bed beside a sleeping Ginny. After all, he was the only person Scorpius had in his life to connect with. But a Patronus . . . ? He rolled over. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was going to elude him again. It’s not that he loves me, he assured himself. After all, I am certainly not his father.
But if he wasn’t Scorpius’s father figure, then what was he? A mentor who looked forward to their lesson every week because being around such youth and talent made him feel alive? A teacher whose heart always melted when he made his pupil laugh? There was no way Scorpius couldn’t sense Harry’s own investment in their relationship . . .
Oh God. He hadn’t wanted this. He already had people who loved him, and all he did in exchange was break their hearts time and time again. He didn’t want another heart. He couldn’t bear the guilt of another heart. Especially the fragile heart of a child who was as good as orphaned.
Sometime around two o’clock in the morning, he got out of bed and went into the study. The letter he wrote was simple but (he hoped) kind.
Dear Scorpius,
It has been the greatest pleasure teaching you for the past two years. You are extraordinarily talented and have an exciting magical career ahead of you. It seems to me that, at this juncture, I have nothing more to teach you. I will miss our weekly meetings, but I think it is time I let you discover your capabilities on your own. I will always remain a friend, and if you should ever need me, just Fire call or write, and I will be at your side in an instant.
Take care of yourself and remember everything you’ve learned – not just spells, but values and ideas. You are capable of great and good things. Never forget that.
With eternal fondness,
Harry
He hastily addressed the letter to Madam Cockle with instructions to give it to Scorpius before he could change his mind. He knew it would break Scorpius’s heart, and the knowledge tore him apart. But it was far better to break his heart once than to break it a thousand times.