Chapter Text
By the following weekend, Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy had settled into detention with the grim competence of boys who had discovered that punishment was less frightening when it became repetitive.
The trophy case had been the day before. Two hours of polishing brass mountings and glass and the inside of the case itself, which McGonagall had instructed them to clean thoroughly, with a small lift at the second syllable that Albus had heard in his sleep that night.
Halfway through, Colin Creevey had drifted up through the floor and stuck his head into the case beside the new Firebolt.
"I tried to tell you," he'd said.
Albus had looked at him. Then at the broom, which sat on its display pegs with the unbothered polish of an object that had never been near a dragon, a Dementor, or a Muggle museum cleaner. Then at Scorpius, who was making a great show of polishing a Quidditch trophy on the opposite shelf and not meeting anyone's eyes.
"You said you wouldn't ruin shenanigans," Albus had said.
"And I didn't," Colin said, looking pleased with himself.
Scorpius, still not looking up, said, "You meant the school's."
"What?"
"The school propping up a fake Firebolt with a new, unrelated Firebolt—"
"Perfect shenanigans!" Colin said. "I'm just glad I can finally talk to someone about it."
He had drifted off through the wall in the direction of the Great Hall, humming, off to terrorise Peeves once more.
The south courtyard was today. Several decades of moss, old potion stains, and weather-blackened grime had gathered between the flagstones with the quiet confidence of things that believed themselves permanent. Their task was to scrub it clean by hand. No shortcuts allowed, including magic. (Whether enchanted confetti counted as a mitigating circumstance was never discussed.)
The work was filthy, slow, and surprisingly easy to share.
Albus complained first about the dirt under his nails, holding up one hand as though presenting evidence in a trial.
"Tragic," Scorpius said, not looking up from the flagstone he was attacking with a brush. "Shall I clean them for you?"
Albus offered his hand immediately.
That had not been the expected next move. Scoprius looked at the hand, then at Albus, then back at the stone. "I withdraw the offer."
"Coward."
Albus did not retract the hand quickly.
A little later, Albus uncorked the water bottle they had been given and drank from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. Then he handed it to Scorpius without asking. Scorpius drank and handed it back. If either of them had been asked, he would have described the exchange as efficient. This, of course, was a lie, the kind sixteen-year-olds told because the truth hadn't a name yet.
No one had yet written a song about Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy's day off. No one would, in fact, write one. But the story had begun to travel anyway, in fragments, as these stories tended to do. A flying broom at the Wallace. Ginny Potter catching a rogue Firebolt mid-parade. A museum cleaner named Martin whose written apology had been so earnest and awkward that he had reportedly framed it in the staff room, though no one could remember why an apology was needed. By Monday, three first-years had confidently informed one another that Albus had ridden the Firebolt through the Great Gallery while Scorpius fought off three—no! six!—Aurors with a mop.
The truth was less tidy and worse in almost every way.
It was also theirs.
Near midday, the small plastic hair slide Scorpius used to keep his fringe out of his eyes lost its grip and clattered onto the damp flagstone. It was a ridiculous thing patterned with tiny, slightly faded Snitches—the parting gift of an enamored second-year that Scorpius wore with absolute, unbothered sincerity.
He reached up with a muddy hand to shove his hair back, succeeded only in leaving a greasy streak across his temple, and sighed with theatrical suffering. The movement dislodged the round Muggle sunglasses pushed up into his hair, sending them sliding crookedly down his nose, the left lens still spider-webbed with fine cracks from their sprint out of Manchester Square.
Scorpius tried to untangle the wire frames with fingers caked in wet moss, blinding himself entirely in the process.
"Hold still," Albus muttered.
Without waiting for permission, he dropped his brush and leaned close enough that his clean wrist rested for a fleeting half-second against Scorpius's cheekbone. His fingers swept the white-blond strands out of the wire frame, they caught on the small, fine curl at the very base of Scorpius's hairline, the single piece of soft texture that explicitly defied the flat, straight line of the Malfoy pedigree.
Albus cleared a stray flake of dried museum dust from the curl. He settled the cracked wire frames securely back against Scorpius's crown, then smoothly snapped the ridiculous plastic slide back into place to hold it.
Neither of them spoke while he did it.
Albus continued working.
Scorpius watched him for a moment, then said, "You know, being grounded suits you."
"What gave you that impression?"
"You seem to be enjoying yourself."
"Am I?"
Albus did not look up from his work.
Scorpius smiled at the flagstones and resumed scrubbing.
The afternoon lengthened. The courtyard emptied. The supervising staff member, having determined that neither boy could meaningfully endanger the school with a pair of brushes and a bucket, withdrew to the shade near the cloisters with a book and the air of someone who considered this a practical compromise.
Scorpius saw her first.
Lily Luna Potter stood at the courtyard arch with her arms folded, watching them as though appraising a future crime scene. She had the same red hair as her mother, the same steady eyes as her father, and the profoundly irritating stillness of someone who knew exactly how much she had done and how little could be proved. There was soot on her left cheek and a streak of something darker across one cuff, and she carried with her the unmistakable scorched-metal smell of cauldrons that had been recently and aggressively scrubbed.
Albus noticed none of it.
"Scorpius," she said. "A word?"
"If I don't return," Scorpius said, standing and wiping his hands on his already ruined trousers, "just assume she has taken my place in society."
"She'd improve it," Albus muttered.
Scorpius followed Lily a few steps beneath the arch, far enough that Albus wouldn't hear anything but close enough that Lily could pretend she was not being dramatic.
"Thanks for trying to help," Scorpius said. He caught the soot on her sleeve and decided, professionally, to say nothing.
Lily considered him. "So are we square? Does this count?"
"Yes," Scorpius said, hazarding a quick glance back at Albus, still scrubbing. "You're square."
She nodded, satisfied. Then she turned to go.
At the edge of the courtyard, she glanced back over her shoulder.
"Rotten luck about getting caught," she said. "Probably would have been the skip of the century."
Scorpius stared at her.
Lily was already walking away when she added, "Daddy always catches the details."
Then she was gone.
Scorpius stood beneath the arch for a moment longer.
When he returned, Albus was scrubbing again.
"Your sister," Scorpius said.
"Mm."
"You don't think—she wouldn't—would she?"
Albus glanced up at him. Then past him at the empty arch. "Oh, she absolutely would."
For a while, they worked in silence. Albus had sweat at his temple, and his hair had started to fall into his eyes again. He was focused on a stubborn patch of moss between two flagstones with the fierce concentration of someone who had decided the task in front of him was worth doing properly, if only because it was there and because someone he liked was beside him doing it too.
"I got something out of all this," Albus said without looking up. "Lily did too, probably. I feel bad that you were left with the short stick."
Scorpius did not answer immediately. He looked around the courtyard, at the empty benches and the sun-warmed stone, at the staff member reading in the shade, too far away to matter. The castle rose behind them, full of portraits and fathers and sisters and stories already changing shape in other people's mouths. There were no other students nearby. No crowd. No press. No parade. No one watching closely enough to take anything from them.
It was just him and Albus.
Which was exactly what he wanted.
–fin.