Chapter Text
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was the undefeated champion of the Malfoy Manor’s hide and seek competition. Ever since he could walk on his own, he loved exploring the untouched rooms of the upstairs floor and roaming the gated grounds of his family’s large estate, much to the dismay of his father. However, his mother shared her son’s enthusiasm. Whenever his father left the house to collect alchemical manuscripts for his collection, Scorpius and his mother would chase each other around the house, playing countless rounds until they both ended up on the ground, weak with laughter. In the evenings, they would lay outside and watch the sun disappear into the hills. This was his favorite part of those blissful days because as the sun set, for a brief moment its rays would warm the stone walls of the Malfoy Manor, casting the house in a golden glow. It was then that the manor seemed the most like home.
Looking back, Scorpius realized that it was during those quiet times with his mother that he felt truly at peace. When he was with her, all his worries would melt away. But ever since her death a few months prior, every familiarity of his home died with her. The manor grew hollow with her absence. The dark halls were empty of her laughter. Even the sunsets grew dim in their glow, as if they, too, mourned.
The worst part of her passing was how his father was handling it. Her death not only snuffed her life but also the light in his father’s eyes. Scorpius helplessly watched as his father descended into the chasms of grief. For weeks, his father sat motionless in his vacant bed, staring into worthless space. He drowned himself in pensieves, replaying every memory he had shared with his wife. He murmured to himself, conversing as if the love of his life was still there with him, listening.
Scorpius worried that it was only a matter of time before his father's despair broke him beyond repair. That his father would lose all sense of preservation and logic and do something that would only result in harm. A few days before his third-year had started, Scorpius caught his father wistfully staring at his time-turner. Scorpius knew of the damages the time-turner could cause, but he would not blame his father if he used it. If Scorpius had the chance to go back and see his mother, even if it placed his future at stake, he would not hesitate. The current pain was so agonizing and the sacrifice would have been more than worth it. Perhaps his father felt similarly.
But, Scorpius thought––what would happen if he lost his father too? What would he do then? He knew he should give his father more credit—he doubted his father would ever abandon him. His father loved him. Even though their lives were changed forever, his love for his son was constant. Yet, he still found himself hating how he could not help his father through his pain because he, too, was enveloped in the grief that enshrouded their hearts.
Scorpius had never felt more helpless in his life.
4 months later
The first half of the school year passed quickly for Scorpius. He made loads of friends, even people who were not in his house. He also had fairly high marks––well, they were not as high as his father’s were, but his marks were up there. However, his greatest accomplishment was his successful tactic in wooing the girl of his dreams. He had finally discovered what impressed the heavenly Rose Weasley: books. His father had explained to him that Rose’s mother had taken an interest in books during their Hogwarts years, so he figured that she had inherited her mother’s passion. After all, people said Rose was an exact replica of her mother. Luckily, his father was correct. When Scorpius casually mentioned that he read her favorite book––which he knew thanks to Albus–– her amber eyes lit up, and he felt a spark ignite between them. Scorpius had a difficult time focusing on classwork for the rest of that wondrous day. Simply thinking about her made his heart flutter, but the closer it came to celebrating the winter holidays, thoughts of Rose were gradually replaced with memories of his mother.
Those memories became an incessant buzz in the back of his mind the instant the train pulled away from Hogwarts and towards his more sorrowful home. To distract himself from them, Scorpius spent the ride reading book after book, losing himself in stories to avoid his own. By the time he arrived at the Malfoy Manor, his eyes refused to stay open. But that did not stop his shock in seeing his father waiting upon the porch of the manor, still dressed in his impeccable suit despite the time of night. He smiled down at Scorpius, lifting a small parcel in his hands. As Scorpius approached closer, his father’s smile began to more clearly resemble a grimace. A slight stab of grief pierced his gut. He did not mean to, but a small part of him had hoped that the emptiness in his father had eased, if only enough so they could finally move on together. Instead her death still loomed over him, present in the tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw.
Scorpius thanked his father for his welcome home gift, but they did not speak beyond those two words. His father had only nodded in acknowledgment, patting his son once upon the shoulder, before retreating back to his study. Scorpius had not expected a warm welcome but… a yawn and wave of exhaustion swept all thoughts from his mind. Trudging up to his room, he dumped all of his belongings unceremoniously on the ground before collapsing into his plush bed. He sluggishly noted that they smelled freshly washed before sleep enveloped him in gentle darkness.
…
Scorpius wandered into his father’s study late the next morning, content to sleep in now that there were no classes to be attending. He wondered what his friends were doing on their first days at home. Their mornings must be a lot livelier than mine.
“Son, I am headed to Diagon Alley to collect some manuscripts,” his father said, snapping Scorpius out of his thoughts. “Would you like anything?” His father's eyes were focused on his reflection, watching his charmed tie form a perfect Windsor knot. Even for the simplest of tasks, the Malfoys dressed to impress.
“Hm? No, I am fine. I am waiting on a letter from Albus,” Scorpius replied. He straightened his posture from where he was leaning in the doorway to face his father directly. “It has not arrived yet.”
“I see.” His father paused awkwardly. For a fleeting moment, they stared at each other, their unspoken words hanging in the air ridden with tension and despair. It was at this moment that Scorpius realized how much his father’s study had changed. The usual tidiness was swapped with fallen papers, displaced ties, and pensieve bottles. There was even a worn blanket draped on his velvet chair. Has father been sleeping in his study? Scorpius opened his mouth, a thousand questions caught in his throat.
“I suppose I will be off, then.” His father hurriedly grabbed his coat and gloves, rubbing his hands nervously.
“Wait, I–” Scorpius sputtered, reaching an arm toward his father, but it was too late. With a deafening crack, his father apparated.
Scorpius stared at where his father had been standing for a few more moments. ‘ Are you having trouble sleeping, too?’ hung on his paralyzed tongue, dead in its wake.
He dropped his outstretched arm, and turned to head towards his room. Perhaps his owl was upstairs waiting for him with Albus’ letter. He shuffled out of the great hall past the stoic paintings of his ancestors, his eyes following them absently. Every time he passed by these paintings, Scorpius made sure he smiled widely. It was a simple tradition that he had followed faithfully for years. He wanted the family ‘curse’ of never smiling to end with his grandparents.
His father had a reason to smile because of his mother’s influence. If it were not for her love, generosity, and compassion, his father would have become as emotionless as his ancestors. All Scorpius wanted to do is uphold that legacy, not the legacy of the Malfoy line.
Scorpius found himself slowing down, clenching and unclenching his fists. Whenever he thought of his mother, it felt like a double-edge sword stabbing him continuously in his heart. On the one hand, her undying love for him reminded Scorpius to stay strong and follow his heart. But, with love came pain, and the hollowness in his heart was a constant reminder that she was never coming back. But, gods, he missed her. Desperately. If he could just not think about her like he had all first term… If only he could just shove all the pain away for a little while longer–––
“It is our first Christmas without her,” he whispered, the words tasting like bile on his tongue. The morbid realization swirled in his head, eating away at his heart. As if in response to his words, the house darkened, a predatory silence seeping out of every nook and shadow. He was alone in his mother's absence. It is going to be fine. You are all right. You are all right. He struggled to move his legs, which were rooted to the ground as if by magic. Think of good memories. Think. Think. He racked his head for a soothing memory, but like golden snitches and girls, they all seemed just out of reach. His legs fumbled, and in an attempt to steady himself, he grabbed the closest object to him: his father and grandparents’ family portrait.
As if in slow motion, the portrait swung to the right, then to the left. Then, with one final swish, it fell. The glass protecting the prized portrait shattered across the marble floor while Scorpius stared numbly at the mess he created. Shitshitshitshitshit. He had to clean this and repair the portrait before his father noticed his foolish blunder. All he needed to do was recite reparo and the vacuum-cleaner spell , or whatever the incantation was, he could just look it up in his charms book. He drew his wand from his pocket, the word reparo was on the tip of his tongue, when he remembered that he was no longer at Hogwarts. Magic was banned outside of the school.
Scorpius huffed. There is no winning for poor Scorpius the Dreadless. It was inevitable: his father was going to kill him for this, or worse, his grandfather Lucius Malfoy would do the honors. He shuddered at the thought of his grandfather and the cane he wielded as a weapon. Scorpius had never held his grandfather in high esteem. Whether that was the cause of his mother who had a rather frail relationship with him or their blatant contrasting beliefs, he was not sure. One of his most prominent memories of the uptight man was the terse moments between him and his mother whenever they visited. His grandfather was disappointed in his father’s choice of a wife, which to this day, Scorpius was still incensed about. Not that his grandmother was any better, but Scorpius had a strong suspicion her actions toward her daughter-in-law were only to appease his grandfather.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned, scrubbing a hand through his white-blond hair. All there was to do now was wait in the great hall for his impending death sentence. However, as he took a step, something in the wall caught his eye. Peering a little closer, his eyes trained on what looked to be a bronze knob, perched right where the painting had been. Interesting. Scorpius rapped a knuckle against the wall. Deep echoes resounded within. Huh. It is hollow here. Minding the glass, he stepped closer, feeling an exhilarating buzz that distinctly reminded him of his childhood adventures and explorations with his mother.
“Woah...!” Scorpius muttered in awe. He drew a thin finger over the tarnished bronze knob. “What is this contraption?” Turn it. Turn the knob. You know you want to.
“What if there is something in there that could kill me?” Scorpius whispered timidly to himself. No, do not be ridiculous, there is nothing dangerous there. There could not possibly be. Maybe. He placed his ear to the wall, listening carefully to catch any sound from the other side. Silence. Perhaps it was safe after all. Gathering what little courage he had, Scorpius wrapped his fingers around the knob and turned it ever so slightly.
“AGH! SON OF A BLUDGER! ” he roared, snapping back his hand and glancing down at his pale palm. There was piercing pain in his finger and scarlet drops of blood began to bead there. Did that knob really make him bleed? It did not look sharp. He looked back at the smooth bronze, which was now glowing a fiery red. What in Merlin’s beard is happening? The light intensified and Scorpius shielded his eyes from the glare. As quickly as it had come, all signs of light disappeared and the knob returned to normal. Scorpius sucked in a breath as the knob vanished into the wall, locks clicking and gears shifting. After a few tense moments, the wall fell silent. He stared, eyes wide. Was there truly nothing there? Am I hallucinating now? What is next, I start having conversations with myself? Oh, wait…
Suddenly, the wall split into two, the halves smoothly sliding into the slitted portions of the wall. “Whoaaaa! Secret Door!” A goofy smile spread across Scorpius’s face as he tentatively entered the mystical room. “Albus would love to hear about this!”
A musty scent hit his nose before he took his first step into the room. He coughed a few times to rid his lungs of dust, waving a hand before his face. I have definitely gone mad. What is all this dust? The Malfoys had a strict rule of cleanliness, punishing their house-elves severely if there was even a speck of dirt visible, yet this room seemed to have been forgotten.
“What is this place?” Scorpius covered his mouth with his hand, a sneeze itching at the back of his throat. This place had to have been built far before him. Perhaps even before his father and his grandfather. There were broken chairs and a half-finished table in the center of the room set carelessly in a fashion of disarray. Scorpius took a hesitant step towards the table, gazing cautiously at the furniture as though it would come to life and attack him. His eyes were drawn to one of the chairs–––or more specifically, the brittle wooden box that sat upon it. He grabbed the box and placed it gently on the table. With his handkerchief, he wiped the grime clinging to the treen surface. He lifted it and floated distractedly through the magical doorway back outside. As he faced the filthy room from the immaculate staircase, he searched for anything to close the door on the other side. A couple minutes later, with a simple tap (that any gormless person would have done their first time) the two halves joined together seamlessly. He almost wondered if he had imagined the whole incident, but the bristly box in his hands reminded him otherwise.
….
With the help of one of his house-elves, Scorpius fixed the glass, repaired the painting, and hung it on the wall. No sign of his previous disaster was visible and he was proud of his work–––done without magic, might he add. He eagerly thanked the house-elf for her generous help (and her silence) with three galleons. Not wanting to waste another second, he bolted up the stairs and into his room where the box lay patiently, waiting to be opened by him.
There was something about the unknown that enthralled Scorpius. Even as a kid, he could not deny wanting to know more about the world he lived in, the mysteries hiding behind the nooks and corners of his house. He could not help feeling anxious, however, as he lifted the lid of the box and peered inside. There was a bundle of handwritten letters and what looked like a mildewy newspaper. He picked up the paper, blowing off the dust. In bold, black letters, the newspaper dated: 2 May 1998 . Just below read, Voldemort is defeated. Mother told me that father's family had fled towards the end of the Battle of Hogwarts. Perhaps, that room was some sort of hiding place for them to stay, in the case that Voldemort won and ordered their death.
He placed the newspaper on his desk, promising to himself that he would read through it later. His hands went back to the box and the first letter settled on top of the bundle. As he pulled out the letter, his heart pounded in anticipation. Unfolding the delicate paper, Scorpius began to read.
12 November, 1991
Dearest Mother,
I apologize for not promptly responding to your last letter. Lately, I have been trying to survive all of the ruckuses that Potter and his pathetic excuse of friends bring to this godforsaken school. It makes my blood boil how no one sees right through pathetic Potter; instead, they all fall on their incompetent knees whenever the ‘golden trio’ saunters by. Mother, please tell me that I am not the only one who can hear the pretentiousness trickling from that name. However, everyone else sees them as the mighty heroes who conquered a troll a few weeks ago. Pitiful. The only one in this school with a working brain is Professor Snape who can see Potter for who he really is: a dreadfully useless worm.
Nevertheless, I do not want to talk about Potter anymore. It is like I cannot escape his name for more than a mere moment in my life ever since he set afoot in Hogwarts. I should have known that day in the robe shop what an idiot he would turn out to be. Sometimes, I wish to be at Durmstrang, just to avoid all the frivolities that occur here on a day-to-day basis. Would not father just love that? However, I know that we would not be able to see each other as much, and I am willing to go through these annoyances just to be able to see you more. Even if my patience and will to live wears thin. Plus, there are some benefits at this school as I have enjoyed flying on my broom with Crabbe and Goyle.
Well… it was a wonderful experience, till that insolent Potter squeezed his way onto the filthy Gryffindor Quidditch team. I am enraged, Mother. As you well know, first-years are not supposed to be able to play on a Hogwarts quidditch team. Even worse, he is now their seeker, Mother! The only reason they allowed him to join was because he is the bloody boy-who-lived! I heard that he did not even have to try out! How unfair it is. I must discuss this with father. He shall know how to fix this preposterous issue, although I have a feeling it will come at the cost of my esteem (as all matters with him do). However, I am willing to undergo anything so long as I can wipe that smug smirk off Potter’s face. It is now that I finally understand what you meant in your last letter. I shall make you proud.
How have you-
Sorry, Mother, I must go, or Professor Snape will make me clean the Common Room (without magic, might I add, like a filthy muggle) after Slytherin beats the dreadful Hufflepuffs in quidditch. I would rather kiss a toad than pick up after these imbeciles. If you thought that my room was a disaster, Mother, you would faint at the sight of our common room.
Sincerely, your son,
Draco Lucius Malfoy
Scorpius placed the letter gently back inside the box, his heart hammering from the revelation of the letter’s contents. These were not just any letters, they were his father’s. Written, no doubt, when he had been younger than Scorpius himself. He knew that his father and Albus’s did not like each other during their school years, but he never realized the depth of his young father’s hatred for the famous Harry Potter. He did not know whether to be disappointed that his best friend’s father was his father’s adversary or impressed at how unyielding his father was. He did have to admit, though, for a mere eleven-year-old, his father’s vocabulary was far more advanced than his own, and Scorpius was in the middle of his third year. Desiring to read more, he loosened the next letter from the stack, leaving the box on his desk. He could tell from the outline that this letter was longer than the previous one. So, he sat comfortably on his bed, grabbed his silk blanket, and began to read.
8 May, 1993
Dearest Mother,
Thank you for preparing the bakewell tart. It was wonderfully prepared and scrumptious, as always. In regards to your last correspondence, I have suspicions to believe you are right. Hogwarts has managed to bring more trouble and disaster to its grounds than last year. Rumors are floating around that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened again. I recall you and father speaking briefly about the legend, and how Salazar Slytherin had constructed a hidden chamber in the castle, which the other founders knew nothing about. Father said that it was sealed and only Salazar’s true heir alone can reopen the chamber, releasing a creature of horror set to cleanse the school of unworthy wizards. Well, Mother, I think it is fair to say that the rumors and legends appear to be true. According to Marcus Flint, two muggle-born students were found petrified this evening. I was a bit nervous when I heard that the irksome camera boy that trails around Potter was found, petrified, but I have done some thorough research. I discovered that only muggle-born wizards are in danger, whereas I, being a pure-blood Slytherin, have no real need to worry. So, Mother, do not fear for my safety. Though, father must be delighted that his bedtime stories are finally coming to fruition.
However, he would not be pleased to hear of the most recent rumor circulating about the chamber: Harry Potter may be the heir of Slytherin. During our duel a couple months beforehand, all the second years, including myself, heard him utter parseltongue to my conjured snake. If I recall correctly, Salazar Slytherin was particularly known for his parseltongue. Is it possible that Potter is the heir? A lot of the fifth and sixth-year Slytherins have speculated that he is the main cause of all this hysteria. Yet, I spent all yesterday evening scouring through the school records and family trees, and I could not find a single connection of the Potter family with Salazar Slytherin. Not to mention, Potter does not have the guts to attack mudbloods. There has to be a mistake.
Besides the chamber being opened, nothing much has occurred. Oh, I completely forgot to mention Quidditch. The person I mentioned before, Marcus Flint, is actually the captain of our Slytherin team. Marcus and the others have asked me to play as the Slytherin seeker, though I am sure it is thanks to father’s generous gifts. I could have made it on my own, but that is irrelevant now.
Regardless, I have made some outstanding catches this season. I would have to say my favorite match was the Hufflepuff game during which Flint knocked someone off their broom and the snitch was right in my line of sight. So, I swooped down and did a flip, catching the snitch all while avoiding the falling girl. It was magnificent and the crowd would not stop chanting my name. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have been there.
It is late, and I have to head back to the common room. Dumbledore has enacted a new curfew and Professor Snape would have my head if I arrived a second late. Also, Mother, could you send me some more bakewell tarts, soon? I am certain that Crabbe and Goyle had a bite or two of the last one, even if they will not admit to such a crime.
Sincerely, your son,
Draco Lucius Malfoy
Scorpius sighed loudly. His father sounded so… antagonizing. Scorpius would never be friends with him if they went to Hogwarts together. As he folded the letter into the envelope, he heard a muffled snap followed by a groan. Instinctively, Scorpius gripped his wand tighter under his blanket. Please let it be father. Please let it be father. He shoved the letter beneath his pillow and cautiously got out of bed, tiptoeing to the door. He opened it warily, holding his breath and steeling himself for the worst.
“Scorpius? Would you come down, please?” His father called. Scorpius immediately released his breath and relaxed, loosening his iron grip on his wand.
“Yes, father. One moment.” The box. He needed to hide the box. His father would probably flay him alive with the letters burning beside him if he discovered that Scorpius had it. Additionally, it would lead to some questioning as to where and how Scorpius had found it in the first place. That would be disastrous, seeing how terrible of a liar he was. He needed to hide the box, now . Scorpius turned and raced back to his table, grabbing the letter from under his pillow on the way. Stuffing the letter inside, he abruptly placed the lid on the box.
“Scorpius?” his father repeated. Scorpius scanned his room frantically and his eyes landed on his bed. He got to his knees, grabbed his Hogwarts trunk from underneath, and shoved the box far beneath his bed. After moving the trunk back into its original position, he took a few steps back and checked if the box was visible. It was not. Perfect. Before his father could get suspicious, he slammed his door and bounded down the stairs.
Scorpius approached the dining hall where his father had already commenced eating dinner. He walked beside the long, obsidian table that had once seated Death Eaters and even the Dark Lord himself. Two decades later, it only seated a scrawny teenager and his melancholic father. Scorpius hopped in the chair across from him and as he placed his napkin on his lap, a house-elf immediately brought him some Boeuf Bourguignon . Mother’s favorite dish .
“Scorpius, I have something for you.” His father dabbed at the corner of his lips with his napkin. Scorpius’ interest piqued. What could father have gotten me while he had been out? His father reached into his black cloak and took out a thin, white envelope. “It seems to me that your school friend Albus’s letter was sent to me by mistake.”
Scorpius reached for the letter enthusiastically. “Thanks, father!” He struggled to suppress a ridiculous smile. Took Albus long enough. Perhaps in his next note, he should instruct Albus on how to properly send a letter. “I heard a groan, father, when you returned. Did something happen?” His father appeared fine, but Scorpius knew that appearances could be deceiving.
His father shook his head. “No. Sometimes, apparating makes me feel nauseous afterward, that is all.” Scorpius nodded, unsure if his father spoke the truth. These days, it was not uncommon for his father to lie about his well-being, but then again, Scorpius had never apparated before.
They ate the rest of their dinner in silence. Throughout the meal, Scorpius noticed his father distastefully poking at his food. It was clear that he could not eat the dish that was once so beloved by his wife. Not when she could not enjoy it with him. Scorpius chewed on his cheek throughout dinner, a nasty habit that he picked up when his mother died. He remembered the ephemeral moments he and his father spent together when his mother was still alive. His father had everything, yet, even then, his eyes were guarded and pained. He could not stop wondering what had happened to him. How did he transform from a spoiled brat to the breakable man sitting before him? Deep down, Scorpius knew where the answer lay. It was all in the letters.