Chapter Text
Mr Malfoy,
Thank you for your interest in our school. We regret to inform you that we are currently over-subscribed and therefore cannot accept your son's application.
We wish you every luck in finding somewhere suitable for him.
Warm regards,
Agatha Pole,
Headmistress,
Athelstan's Primary School for the Magically Inclined
Draco snarled and tossed the rejection letter to one side, not caring where it fell. He'd pick it up and file it properly later when he was in a better frame of mind. It wasn't the first rejection letter he'd received, but it was the one that cut the deepest. Not only was Athelstan's reasonably local, but it was also by far the best wizarding primary school in the UK. He'd not only applied to British schools, though; he'd even applied to a few in France, one in Switzerland, and two in Scandinavia but unfortunately, his reputation had travelled farther than he ever could have imagined. He'd foolishly managed to convince himself that the delay in response from Athelstan's meant his application had been successful—all the other schools he'd applied to hadn't wasted any time sending out their rejections—so the dashed hope only added to the pain of rejection.
Draco's hand trembled as he picked up his glass of wine, and he had to concentrate to make sure he didn't grip it too hard. The last thing he wanted to do was shatter it and get red wine all over his antique desk, although it would round off his shitty day rather fantastically. He thought of Scorpius, so young and innocent, sleeping soundly in his room upstairs, and screwed his eyes shut to keep the frustrated tears at bay. He felt sick from his desperate desire to protect this small, sweet child from the world. How was it fair that these schools were punishing his son for mistakes he himself had made? Scorpius was just a child!
Before the birth of his son, Draco's sole focus had been on rebuilding his life and reputation. He didn't crave power like his father, he just wanted to be treated like a person, with feelings, hopes, aspirations—not a criminal who didn't deserve a second chance. After completing his house arrest and gaining true freedom for the first time in his life, he'd drifted aimlessly, knowing he needed to do something to lessen his guilt, but unsure what that could be. Then Astoria convinced him to sign up to the Auror Academy after he'd mentioned in passing an idle boyhood dream he'd had of becoming an Auror. It seemed like the perfect way to atone for his sins and give something back to the society he helped almost destroy.
It quickly became apparent that no one wanted him there. Despite graduating from the academy at the top of his class, they had since confined him to desk duty. ‘This is just temporary. Wouldn't want to upset anyone, now, would we?' Robards had said with a patronising smile while Draco stared grimly at his newly assigned cubicle, hidden away in the back of the office. He was still in that same cubicle five years later, and still only a junior Auror.
Since Scorpius' birth, his priorities had changed. Everything he did was for his son, and all he wanted was for the world to treat his boy as it would any other child. So, he suffered through his soul-destroying job, politely putting up with either being ignored or treated like Erumpent dung and bit his tongue whenever anyone tried to get a rise out of him. It wore him down little by little every day knowing that no one really cared if he was at work or not. In his more morose moods, he was tempted not to show up at all to see if anyone noticed and Floo-called or owled to check if he was okay, but he knew that Robards was itching for any reason to sack him or get him shifted to the bowels of the DMLE, so he never dared put a foot wrong. He'd do nothing to jeopardise Scorpius' future.
Of course, Harry sodding Potter had made it to Senior after not even three years on the job. Draco had seen his test scores—there was no way he'd have climbed so far up the ladder if everyone wasn't so blinded by his reputation. Academically, he was distinctly average in most areas and yet because of his name, he'd landed a promotion and a large corner office, while Draco was stuck in a cramped cubicle in the arse end of the office. Where Harry got raids and chases and life-or-death duels, Draco had filing and organising and correcting the grammar on other people's reports. Apparently, those in charge thought it would upset the public if he was too visible. 'It's not that we don't trust you,' Robards had said once, 'it's that the public doesn't. My hands are tied.'. Draco hadn't bothered to push after that. He knew it was crap, and he suspected they were hoping he'd leave of his own volition if they made the job dull enough, but they had severely underestimated how stubborn he could be. So he'd dug in, carved out a little niche for himself in the Auror department, and turned up to work every day without complaint just to spite them, never daring to put a foot wrong or even nudge up against any boundaries. He was probably the only Auror who'd never so much as bent a rule—and what had it got him?
He finished the last third of his drink in one gulp, tilting his head back and tossing it down his throat. The alcohol burned unpleasantly as it travelled downward and he felt the beginnings of indigestion curdling in his gut. He wondered what Astoria would think of him now—sent to drink by an uppity headmistress who no doubt counted Umbridge as one of her muses. Knowing her, she'd probably tell him to stop moping and do something proactive. She'd always hated it when he wallowed. Unfortunately, knowing what he should do and actually doing it were two completely different things. He fumbled for a notepad and pen in his desk drawer—Muggle stationery was something of guilty pleasure these days—then jotted down a reminder to write to Astoria in the morning. They may not share a home anymore, but he still counted her as one of his best friends, and her wife was always good for a dose of American optimism when he was feeling sorry for himself or angry at the world.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour and Draco listened, counting off each shuddering bong. Ten o'clock. Earlier than his usual bedtime but he couldn't be bothered to stay up. He knew if he did, he'd only end up finishing the bottle of wine. Getting drunk alone while feeling so out of sorts didn't hold as much appeal as it used to. It reminded him too much of when his father would shut himself up in this very study with a bottle of expensive Firewhisky and emerge hours, or sometimes days, later smelling like a pub floor. Draco really didn't want to do anything that made him more like his father. It was bad enough they had to look so alike.
He scratched his hands over his face, his fingernails rasping over his day-old stubble. Being an adult was a hard, thankless task. Heaving a sigh, he pushed up from his desk. His bed was calling him, as was the Muggle paperback he'd picked up from a charity shop near work. It was another murder mystery, but he couldn't help it—Muggle crime-solving techniques were fascinating and he dreamed of one day implementing some of them at the DMLE (if they ever paid him any attention). As he strode around his desk, he caught sight of the rejection letter from Athelstan's and his heart sunk anew. He'd never been more ashamed of his name; a name he'd been brought up to value above anything else. He scrawled a quick note under his earlier one to remind himself to ask his mother how to go about finding a tutor. As much as he hated the idea of Scorpius being home-schooled until he reached Hogwarts age, he didn't have many options left. If all the tutors rejected him, then he'd have to send him to a Muggle primary school. His mother had offered to tutor Scorpius herself, but the thought of Scorpius being around his parents—well, his father more so than his mother—for so long while so impressionable filled Draco with horror.
He snatched the letter off the floor, and with a frustrated sigh, filed it neatly away with all the others in a depressingly beige folder that he kept on the bookshelf by his desk. As gratifying as it would feel to throw it into the fire and watch the flames eat those horribly patronising words, he wanted to keep it for his records. Maybe one day he'd feel strong enough to appeal their decision. With one last look to check everything was in its rightful place, Draco put out the lamps with a wave of his wand and slunk out of his study. He was confident Blippy would bank the fire and tidy away his glass like she always did.
The portraits muttered and glared down at him as he wound through the empty hallways toward his bedroom. He'd completely gutted and redecorated the Manor following the war, but for some reason—misguided family loyalty perhaps—he'd been unable to get rid of the portraits. As a compromise, he'd stuck the most disagreeable of his descendants in little-used areas, but since none of them were particularly friendly, he still had to deal with judgment almost daily. He'd made sure to remove all portraits from Scorpius' suite though—no need to make him suffer their disapproval as he had throughout his childhood. He wanted Scorpius to have the best chance to grow up well-adjusted.
He paused outside Scorpius' room, resting one hand on the door for a moment to calm himself, before slowly easing the door open so he could see his sleeping child. He knew people would say he was biased, but Scorpius really was perfect. He was such a bright, inquisitive boy, and he found joy in everything. Draco's mother called him her little ray of sunshine, and as twee as that was, it was true. Scorpius brightened a room with his presence. So how could these jobsworth head teachers and school boards reject him purely because he was unfortunate enough to have been cursed with the Malfoy name?
He approached the bed and carefully straightened out the blankets—Scorpius was as active in sleep as he was when awake and always managed to tangle his legs up in the duvet or twist around on the bed so he was laying with his legs dangling off the side. With a tender hand, Draco brushed the soft, blond hair from Scorpius' forehead.
"Please don't grow up to resent me, Scorpius. I'm doing the best I can," he whispered, gently pressing a kiss to his temple.
Scorpius snuffled, and burrowed deeper in his blankets, but didn't wake. Draco watched him a little while longer, letting the peaceful rhythm of Scorpius' breaths smooth out some of his tension.
Somehow he'd get Scorpius the normal life he deserved. He'd do anything.