Chapter Text
There’s a familiar comfort about Malfoy Manor, one which Albus believes few people get to experience. It’s extensive, truly, sometimes Albus thinks it’s magical in its own sense. Most people would associate bare walls and tidy, practically untouched, living rooms with a feeling of emptiness and distance. Some would see the walls of Malfoy manor as ones which hold no more than melancholy memories of a mother lost too early and a father lost in himself; stories of a family cursed and broken.
But Albus knows it’s nothing like that.
It's not barren or cold. the rooms don’t feel daunting to enter and the kitchen clock doesn’t tick drearily in-between the pauses of half-hearted conversations.
Malfoy manor is bright, it’s golden in the evenings as the sun swims through the large panel windows and the floor warms gently. The rooms are pleasant, welcoming and affectionately littered with memories of love and passion, only done so passively as if not to alert anyone who doesn’t need to be. Malfoy manor is tender; quiet and soft. the floors don’t creak and the doors don’t whine. The comforters are thick, delicately covered in soft fabric with embroidered flowers at the base, a garden of beauty at the foot of every bed. Malfoy manor is melodious, as the shy notes of a grand piano dance through the halls, echoing prettily, occasionally accompanied by the crisp turning of sheet music.
Malfoy manor is enticing and safe and Albus would stay there forever if the world had allowed it.
But Albus would stay anywhere which holds a feeling of-
“You’re gone again.”
- Scorpius.
“I'm right here.” Albus replies simply, flicking the notated paper gently.
“My playing is just too alluring, I see.” Scorpius muses, Albus nods.
“I get lost in most things you do.”
And Scorpius's nimble fingers are back on the keys before more words can be exchanged.
The skylight above them mellows as scorpius plays; light turning from a deep yellow to a kind blue which makes the room turn ever so slightly darker. Scorpius doesn’t seem to notice as his playing doesn’t once halt and Albus can’t be asked to care.
A sigh comes from behind them, not the deep and disappointed kind, one of exhalation and relief.
“Boys,” Draco starts distantly and Scorpius falls into mezzo-piano , “lights exist for a reason you do know.”
Scorpius chuckles, Albus turns the page.
“You won’t be laughing when you need glasses,” Draco comments in a very fatherly tone and somewhere in Albus , it becomes warm.
The light turns on, slowly building into full vibrance.
Sitting on the worn piano chair with the cordial lighting flooding the room like this, Albus can’t understand how anyone can perceive the Malfoys as anything but whole. Both in heart and soul. There's nothing broken here. there’s pain and memory of all that’s been hurt in the past, but who lives their life without a dormant ache in the back of their minds? Albus finds that despite all the chipped pieces of Scorpius's heart and all that’s happened to him, he’s the most whole person Albus has ever met. whole in love and whole in life.
Malfoy manor is far from cold or broken. malfoy manor is home to the hearts of many; Albus included, Albus
“C'mon, I smell dinner.”
The tug at Albus ’ sleeve brings him back as he meets Scorpius's eyes with his own and Scorpius smiles. Full and kind and Albus feels content.
-Albus’ especially
Albus likes spending some of the summer in Malfoy manor; he truthfully, much prefers it over his own house or the burrow.
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The burrow is hectic and bright and loud and all the other words the daily prophet uses but above it all it’s warm. Scorpius loves the warm. He loves warm colours like orange and red, which are scattered through the burrow in the blankets, the extra wool, the freckles on bright cheeks and the family photos. Sometimes scorpius wonders what it’d be like if he would be holding red between his fingers at night when he slept.
During summer days he can find solace from the beating sun inside. There's always glasses, freshly washed and mismatched, collected over years and generations, standing on the kitchen table next to a never-empty lemonade jug. The house always smells fresh, flowers in window sills and baked goods always seem to stain the air.
Scorpius loves the busyness of it all. the family members that come and go, a different day, a different Weasley. He loves the trinkets Mr Weasley collects from the muggle world and scatters through the house; little portals into a world so close to his own but never the same. one’s eyes may never rest in a home like the burrow. There's always something new to spot, something added or something old which reveals itself to you as your eyes turn from dinner time conversation. Some sort of open secret, but no less intimate.
The burrow feels like home to scorpius. his heart swells with pride at being allowed in so freely as if he truly belongs there. The creaky stairs and whining doors greet him when he returns after a busy year at Hogwarts as if to say, “welcome back, we missed you.”
But even a home like the burrow sleeps at times. Molly's never been an early riser and Arthur needs all the rest he can get. So on days where there are few cousins around and parents off on some mission, Scorpius finds a stroke of serendipity in the scarce stillness of the burrow.
The window in the attic isn’t too big but the view from it makes it seem larger. it has no blinds so the sun spills through without a hint of hesitation. Scorpius thinks he loves it like that. It pulls him from sleep and guides him into a gentle consciousness.
In moments like these the burrow feels endless; like if time had stopped scorpius wouldn’t even notice and would spend all of eternity enveloped in tranquillity.
“Hm, get up.”
Albus’ voice is always rough after sleep, scratchy but quiet as if he has yet to wake up.
Scorpius all but hums, huffing slightly as he turns to face Albus, never giving a true indication of being awake but Albus knows.
“Coffee.” Albus would whisper, this time voice solid but light, never pressing into Scorpius; a gentle caress of a word but an instruction at its core.
Albus’ first words in the morning always slide off Scorpius, because Albus is a morning person and will wake as the sun. but the promise of coffee, or tea, or just the press of a glass against Scorpius’ cheek always brings him to.
“-nk you.” Some of his words are drunk with the coffee but they’re still enough to bring a smile to Albus’ face before he resumes his morning activities.
Scorpius finds himself in a haze often when in the burrow, there’s too much to absorb at times so he feels airy and inconsequential. But this haze, the haze of brown skin glowing in the dawn sun and the faint sounds of scuffs and grunts as Albus moves about the small attic and lets Scorpius sit there and just be, this haze is kind. So kind it makes him want to say a few words of thanks. To whatever power is letting him live in a moment so delicate.
And as the day goes and he grows more present, mouth falling comfortably into discussions and lungs growing tired of laughter, he basks in the company of the sun and wishes it would never leave him.
And even when summer ends and school starts again, even when snow coats the grounds of Hogwarts and Christmas pudding becomes regular, even when the leaves start to brown and crunch under his shoes in configuration, even then, the sun is by his side.