Chapter Text
Early in the summer of my eleventh year, I decided that I was depressed, aware that I rarely left my room, spent a lot of time in bed, read the same stupid newspaper articles over and over, ate infrequently and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about my surname.
Whenever you read The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly or any other shitty publication with a regular date of appearance in every witch and wizard's house, my family took up, at least, a whole page. If it wasn't for my father's advances in the eradication of the Dark Arts, it was because my brother, James, had passed his mid-term exams with something better than Ds, or because my little sister, Lily, had been "casually" found in the backyard trying to fly her little broom, and that "evidences that she will follow her parents' steps, destined as she seems to turn the Quidditch world upside down". And, if they didn't have any of those, my mother's outfits were a sure-fire way to fill the Potternews section.
Me? I didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want to appear in the media and have the whole magic community tracking every sneeze of mine down. In that sense, my semi-anonymity was comfy, and I didn't feel the slightest need to change that. But I literally didn't exist, which wasn't as comfy. All I was was "Harry Potter's second son". I didn't even have a name. "Harry Potter's second son". And that, when they remembered to mention I was a part of the family, too. I wasn't the first-born, I wasn't the girl, I wasn't worth of attention. I was the apparent reason for Ginny Potter's increasing belly for nine months between the births of the two third-generation Potter stars, but that was it. No one knew Albus. They only knew the surname. If anything at all.
A few weeks after my birthday, my mother decided that I was depressed, too, and took me to Regular Doctor Dean Thomas, who agreed that I was swimming in an immense and vast ocean of depression. I wanted to roll my eyes infinitely when he proudly stated the obvious, but I didn't because I kinda hoped he would give me some magical—or Muggle, I wasn't going to be picky—remedy. Maybe herbs, maybe a potion, maybe pills, but something that would make me jump to my feet psychopathically smiling like a cartoon and decide that I didn't care about being ignored and overlooked by the world. Mostly I wanted to get well the easiest and fastest way possible.
But did Regular Doctor Dean Thomas give me any fast way to get better? No. He patted me on the shoulder with his wand instead, which sparked in a creepy way, before telling Mum all I needed was summer to be over, so that I could go to Hogwarts and make friends.
Friends. I'm struggling with depression and the guy says I should make friends. Seriously?
The whole Hogwarts thing, at least in my mother's mind, featured loads of friends for her youngest boy, adventures that didn't break the rules like James' and a lot of sparkling happiness. Yeah, school was the perfect solution before my parents' eyes. For me, it was only an additional source of anxiety. What if I messed up? What if I failed? What if I was unable to get those friends my mother hoped for? What if I was sorted into the wrong house?
The house thing was what freaked me out the most. My parents, my uncles and my brother had all been put into Gryffindor. But what if the Sorting Hat decided that I was a pure-breeding Hufflepuff, or an evillious Slytherin? Because there was no way I could be clever enough to be a Ravenclaw. And so it went for hours, then days, then weeks, and then summer was over, it was September the first and I had to get in the Hogwarts Express. The thing was, I couldn't.
When I saw the train, my stomach clenched in fear and my feet refused point-blank to step forward. It wasn't voluntary—I just couldn't do it. The train was way too much. I missed my bed as if I had never left it until then, and trust me, our tragic lovestory had featured a lot of separations. It was the first time I thanked the odds for being so unknown, because had the media recognized me, I would've been done for. "Harry Potter's son has a panic attack when facing his first year at Hogwarts!" I could practically hear the Quick-Quotes Quills scribbling down columns and reports on parchment.
"Afraid that you'll be a nasty snake, Al?" teased James, patting my shoulder.
"I won't!" I protested, shaking his hand off me. "I won't be a Slytherin!"
If only I could believe my own words. Sadly, it wasn't as easy as pronouncing them. Stupid James had just said what I had spent the whole summer fearing: I could be sorted into Slytherin, house of the snakes and home to people like Lord Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange.
"James, give it a rest!" Mum told him.
"I only said he might be," said James, grinning at me. He was lucky that my fear had paralyzed me, because I would've slapped the smile out of his face otherwise. "There's nothing wrong with that. He might be in Slytherin."
After Mum threw at him a killer glance, James fell silent and ran into the magical barrier, vanishing in front of us. "You'll write to me, won't you?" I asked immediately. Grabbing my mother's sleeve felt childish and pointless, but I did nonetheless.
"Every day, if you want us to," Mum answered. Alri—Every day? No. Just no. There were so many things wrong with being written to daily that I didn't know where to start. I decided that blaming my brother was a good way out. It always was.
"Not every day," I pleaded. "James says most people only get letters from home about once a month."
"We wrote to James three times a week last year," she said, frowning.
Three times a week was moreless acceptable, specially considering that the first offer had been seven times a week. Unwilling to say anything else about the mail, I moved aside and let her help me push the trolley, speeding up. As the barrier approached us and we approached the barrier, I winced. We were going to smash into the wall like flies against a window, and we were happily consenting. Having already passed through it before when we all accompanied James to the train on his first year, I knew we wouldn't be sent to St. Mungo's with a severe commotion—but running directly into a solid brick wall still gave me the creeps.
All of a sudden, I smelled smoke. When I opened my eyes, I saw the famous Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, half hidden in thick white steam. The Hogwarts Express was bright scarlet, and blurry figures swarmed through the mist, into which James had already disappeared. Great. Being alone? Not helpful.
"Where are they?" I asked, anxious. I knew Uncle Ron, Aunt Hermione, Rose and Hugo would be there, as this was Rose's first year, too, and I desperately needed to talk to someone I knew besides my parents. Thank Merlin, they were close, and approached us the moment we appeared in the platform. "Hi," I waved, relieved.
Rose, already in her brand-new Hogwarts robes, beamed at me. I nodded in her direction, already feeling better at the sole sight of her ginger curls. Rose was so logical, you could never be afraid of anything in her presence. She always found a way to disarm your fear, or at least some random facts about Pelean volcanoes or the Canadian weather that were distracting enough.
"Harry, Ginny!" Aunt Hermione threw herself into Dad's open arms, laughing. "How's Albus doing? I've seen James jumping around, so I guess he's okay."
Uncle Ron ruffled Mum's hair. "Look, it's my least favourite sister."
"Look, it's my dumbest brother."
They always behaved like children when they got together, no matter how old they were. Specially Dad and my uncles—I guess they never left their quest completely, not even after the Dark Lord died for good. A part of them was still fighting darkness with only the other two by their side, and I suspected it would always be that way. There are things you can't go through without becoming friends, and defeating the Dark Lord is one of those things.
"Look who it is," Uncle Ron said, interrupting their chat. Everyone tilted their heads like confused owls, so it must be something really interesting. When I mimicked them, I spotted a family.
The man was dressed in a black coat and wore his sleek white-blond hair combed backwards, accenting his sharp features. There was something tormented about him, about the way he nervously looked at the train. Besides him, his wife looked stunning in her emerald green dress, wearing her fringe tied up in a complicated braid that served as a headband, keeping the rest of her jet black hair away from her face. Even though I couldn't see them clearly through all the steam, they looked like the blurry, wizarding version of Bonnie and Clyde.
"Bearing such genes, it surprises me that the boy is blonde," Rose absent-mindedly murmured. "I mean—black hair is dominant over blond hair, and look at his mother." I didn't really pay attention to her. Instead I looked at the guy she was talking about.
The white-blond hair he had inherited from his father was messier than the latter's, some locks falling over his forehead. How had they managed to scape from the hair gel was a mystery. He wore a short black coat, in which's pockets he sank his hands, and dark jeans blue enough to give away that they were new. His skin was pure marble, its colour not much darker than the steam that surrounded us'. It was like seeing Jack Frost, from that muggle movie my sister liked so much, with a poshier outfit and shoes.
"So that's little Scorpius," Uncle Ron said, burying his chin into his turtleneck. "Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains." Aunt Hermione protested and gave him her worst Death Glare, so he had to kind of take it back. Kind of. Uncle Ron wasn't the type to let go of his points easily, even if it was for his wife's sake. "Don't get too friendly with him, though. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood."
Maybe I was crazy, but I knew that Rose wasn't going to marry Scorpius. Call it instinct, call it my imagination, but I felt it the way I felt that my favourite characters were going to either die or suffer immensely whenever I started a new book: it was certainty. Scorpius and Rose were never going to happen.
Free of luggage and as the good blatherer he was, James popped up out of nowhere and started rambling about Teddy and Victoire and oh look they were snogging and do you think they will get together. Annoyed by the interruption, I mentally cursed him. I loved our "cousin" Teddy Lupin to the moon and back, but I couldn't care less about his sentimental life right then.
After what seemed like an age and a half, he finally felt satisfied with the amount of gossiping achieved. "See you later, Al. Watch out for the thestrals." I blinked, lost for a moment, but then I remembered.
Thestrals? My fear, which I had managed to tiptoe away from over the last minutes, came back and said 'Hey, you missed me?'. I didn't want to face invisible cannibal forces. It was an experience I could get through without. Though—"I thought they were invisible?" My voice was awfully shaky, but that didn't stop me. Running from a cannibal horse was bad enough, but running from an invisible cannibal horse was much worse. "You said they were invisible!" I accused him, trying to get a response. James just laughed and got away. Curse him a thousand times.
"Thestrals are nothing to worry about," Dad said to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "They're gentle things, and anyway, you'll be going in boats."
I frowned at the last sentence. Gentle things? Bloodthirsty beasts didn't match my concept of gentle things.
Mum kissed me goodbye, and Dad hugged me, too, but that only made me feel worse. I just couldn't. It was too sudden, too early, too much. I didn't want to face Hogwarts. Not yet. I didn't want to be eleven years old, and I didn't want to get into the train, and I didn't want to share a coach with a bunch of people I didn't knew and wasn't very sure I was interested in knowing, and above all, I didn't want to sit and have a talking hat sort me into...
"What if I'm in Slytherin?" I whispered. Dad, who was giving me advice about some Peeves guy, arched his eyebrows in surprise. What I had just done wasn't very polite, true. And I usually put on a very nice poker face and pretended to listen while I tuned in and out, true. But I needed to know. Everyone was a Gryffindor in our family, and I was very afraid of being the exception that confirmed the rule.
Dad crouched down, so that my face was slightly above his. He stared right into my eyes, which were exactly the same shade of green as his but a lot less short-sighted. "Albus Severus," he began, "you were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin, and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew."
Hystorical figures were nice, but how did this brave Albus or Severus relate to me? "But just say—"
"—then Slytherin House will have gained an excellent student, won't it? It doesn't matter to us, Al. But if it matters to you, you'll be able to choose Gryffindor over Slytherin. The Sorting Hat takes your choice into account."
No one had mentioned that detail before. Could you actually choose your house, instead of having it chosen by an ancient talking hat? Maybe I could consider leaving it to the hat, as long as I could hack his decision.
"Really?" I asked.
"It did for me."
Of all the stories he had told us about his school life—and he had told us many—, he had never said that he got to choose his house. Now it was a secret between my father and I, one which made me smile and calmed the roaring hypogriffs inside my stomach.
The doors were slamming all along, so I didn't have the time to say anything else. Together with Rose, who had been trying to loosen Hugo's firm grip over her tunic, I jumped into the nearest carriage, and Mum closed the door behind me. Most of the students inside were staring at my father. The Potter fever, I guessed. "Why are they staring?" I asked to no one in particular as I turned around. I already knew the answer, but anyway.
"Don't let it worry you," Uncle Ron said from the other side of the door, shrugging. "It's me. I'm extremely famous."
My sister and cousins all laughed, and I happily sniggered along. Uncle Ron was amazing, always ready to make us crack up with whatever comparison or joke he came up with. Plus, he always found a way to contraband with sweets when Aunt Hermione wasn't watching.
The train began to move, making me sick. My father walked alongside the train, watching me, smiling and waving, and never stopped. I lost sight of him when we rounded a corner, but kept on waving a few seconds more.
"Alright!" Rose clapped her hands together and grabbed mine, squeezing. "Time to look for a compartment. I suggest we go to the end of the train. There's proven data that they tend to be emptier than the rest. Mostly because people are too lazy to walk there."
Reassured by her touch, I laughed and squeezed back. "Won't be the one to question that. Let's go."
We elbowed our way through the crowd, which was excitedly talking about our parents.
"I heard Mr. Potter saved the school eight times!" one said. Wrong. It had actually been three times: during his first, second and last years. The other times, Hogwarts hadn't been at stake, though my father's life had.
"Well, rumour has it that the Weasleys had their fair share of heroicity, too. They helped Harry all along, and never left his side. That's even more admirable!" another one answered. True: Dad always said that, without his friends, he wouldn't have found the strength to do any of the things he did. Uncle Round proudly confirmed it, though Aunt Hermione liked to pinch him whispering, loud enough for everyone to hear, that he had lost heart once or twice.
That was one of the things I loved the most about my father. Even though he was a living legend, and one of the greatest heroes of all times, it hadn't gone to his head.
"I also admire Draco Malfoy, though," a girl whispered.
"Malfoy? But he was a Death Eater! I can't believe you, Kayleigh."
"I know, but you have to remember he was raised to be that way. Bellatrix Lestrange was his aunt, and Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort's most loyal servant, his father!" the Kayleigh girl said. "Plus, he wasn't bad to the core. When under Voldemort's direct orders, he constantly doubted whether it was the right thing to do, and even saved Harry Potter's life once."
"Harry saved his," an annoyed other corrected her. "From a great magical fire Malfoy's dumb friend provoked. Inform yourself before talking, Merriweather. My aunt died in that battle."
"I'm not talking about the fire," she replied. "When the Three were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix asked him to identify Potter so that they could turn him in to Lord Voldemort, and Malfoy didn't. Harry would have died hadn't he lied, and even though he had been his sworn enemy at school and it was going to earn him torture later, Malfoy lied. Beaufort Lesavant wrote a six-hundred-paged book on the Second Wizarding War and upholds that it happened this way. With evidence."
"Bah," someone said. "Death Eaters will be Death Eaters, and that can't change. If you work for the evil, you end up being evil, and that's the way goes. That whole family was, and still is, rotten. It runs in their blood."
Only when Rose pulled my arm I realized that I had been eavesdropping all along. Shame heated up my cheeks: it wasn't a very polite thing to do. In fact, it wasn't polite at all. I let her drag me to the end of the train, where, as she had predicted, the coaches were emptier.
"Choose," Rose said. "Two are completely empty, and there's only a boy in this one. He's sleeping anyway, so I don't think he'll be all over us."
Glancing over her shoulder, I saw the blond guy from before, his face half buried into a wool scarf. His chest, over which his arms were crossed, went up and down slowly. After the debate I had just heard I was curious about the Malfoys, so it didn't sound like the baddest idea to share a carriage with their son Scorpius.
"This one sounds great," I affirmed, touching the door. "We just have to make sure we aren't too loud."
Rose shrugged. "As you wish." She opened the door of the coach and slithered in, sitting in front of the Malfoys' only child. Patting the empty space besides her, she motioned me to come in, a request I fulfilled.
The padded seats were upholstered in red velvet, and at a corner was tuck away what must be Scorpius' trunk, one of which's silvery rivets shone under the light from the window. Houses flashed past on the other side. Whatever I was heading to, there was no going back now.
"So! What do you think Hogwarts will be like, Al?" Rose was the one who broke the silence. "I'm so thrilled! James' stories were breathtaking, and Mum and Dad's have always fascinated me. It sounds like a place where you can't ever get bored, can you?"
"Well, History of Magic is said to defy that." Uncle Ron always complained about professor Binns of History of Magic, and Dad always agreed. Only Aunt Hermione stood up for the teacher, but not even she dared say his classes were anything remotely close to bearable.
"Come on, we'll be learning about how other wizards fought cruent wars and made awesome discoveries! It can't be that terrible. Plus, Mom found a series called 'The Guardians of Magic' for me, which basically retold our history with cartoons. When explained well, it's very interesting."
"That's exactly the problem," I affirmed. "When explained well. According to our parents, the only thrilling thing he ever told them was the legend of the Chamber of Secrets."
Smiling, Rose rested her forehead against the window, watching as blurry trees rushed past. "Well, okay, that subject can be boring—but hey, there are many other things to do. Last year, Victoire wrote to me about this place..."
We went on talking about our families' anecdotes and how we expected Hogwarts to be for hours, stopping just once to buy some sweets from a gentle old lady who pushed a trolley. We weren't even hungry, but to the present day I still haven't met a wizard who can resist a chocolate frog. Thank Merlin, Mum had given me a galleon for the ride.
"I only hope that our housemates aren't too over us," Rose said, sighing. I choked on my chocolate frog, coughing. "What? Don't tell me you haven't thought of that. We're the children of living legends, of the three heroes that freed the wizarding community to be more precise. People are always going nuts about us."
Well, about you, Rose, I thought. But she was partly right about me—even if they didn't know Albus, everyone recognized the surname 'Potter' at breakneck speed.
I swallowed the last mouthful of frog, which tasted bitter now that somber thoughts lurked my mind. Uneasiness built up inside of me as I played with the Agrippa card I'd gotten. Do you know this sensation you get when someone's staring at you? Like there's something pricking you, somehow similar to a stick pressed against your side. That's how I felt.
When I raised my gaze, I found the blond boy looking at me. His eyes, which were a silvery grey, were fixed on me. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe he had recognized me as the peeping from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Whatever the reason was, it felt intrusive.
I reached for the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans box and started looking for a red one—cherry, my favourite—to keep myself busy. I hoped he would just look away at some point, but when I got the bean and rose my gaze, there they were, the silver full moons of his eyes. He was still watching me. Feeling uncomfortable, I glanced back down to the box. Maybe an empty carriage would've been a better choice.
After looking for three more red beans, I gave up my pathetic attempts at avoiding the situation and looked up again. Alright, let me say something: when a complete stranger stares at you relentlessly, it is, at best, awkward, and at worst, a form of assault. But when it's your family's enemy's son..., well. It's square awkward, at best, and at worst, a twice-as-violent form of assault.
Chewing my inner cheek, I handed him the box. "Good morning," I said. "Do you want some?" Stupid shaky voice of mine. Rose, who had been rambling some nonsense about her mental schemes on how she fitted—or didn't fit at all—in each of the four houses, quietened and looked at me.
"Thanks." Nodding, and took out a bright green one.
"Ew, grass," I said, recognizing it instantly. James had sneaked them into my peas too many times. "If you want to ditch it, I won't tell."
With a shrug, he smiled. "It isn't a very polite thing to do. Anyway, I've stumbled upon enough grass beans to grow used to them."
How sad is it to get used to grass beans? Seriously. Grass beans. The fact that the boy staring at me was used to such a miserable thing helped me relax a bit, although I still felt violent. And oh, surprise—he still didn't take his eyes off me.
"Thanks for asking, Al," Rose gently scolded me, sorting a bubblegum one. Lucky girl. "I love you, too." Chewing the bean, she looked at Scorpius. "Sorry if we woke you up."
Shaking his head, he smiled. "I wasn't sleeping, so don't worry, you didn't. Plus, you were having a really interesting conversation. I've also heard that the Fat Lady sings at night. I just hope I sleep as far as possible from her —my mother told me she can sing real loud. Can I?" he asked me, nodding towards the beans. I shrugged and stretched my arm so that he could get another one. "Thanks."
"Liver!" I exclaimed, horrified. "You're jinxed today."
"I think I'm changing this one," he said, carefully setting the candy aside. He got another one. Cinnamon. Alright, not bad. If only he could stop staring.
Finally, I decided that blonds didn't have a monopoly on the Staring Business, and stared back. I looked into his grey eyes for what seemed to be an infinite amount of time, until he rubbed his neck and broke the visual contact. It suddenly occured to me why it was called such. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself. Sorry. I'm Scorpius Malfoy," he said, stretching his hand out. Rose was the first one to shake it, and then I followed suit.
"Rose Weasley," she introduced herself.
"Albus Potter." For obvious reasons, I preferred to skip my second name. Scorpius offered us a crooked smile.
"This must be some destiny irony," he mocked. "A Potter and a Weasley sitting with a Malfoy."
Rose nonchalantly shrugged, leaning back and peering through the window. The sun played hide-and-seek in the forest we were traversing. "I have the feeling that stranger things will happen this year."