Falling In Love and Other Adventures - Ladderofyears - Harry Potter (2024)

What was your most transformative experience during your first year at Hogwarts?

Most stories begin with ‘there once lived a prince’ or ‘a long time ago, in a far and distant place’, don’t they? This story doesn’t start like that.

For one thing, my story didn’t happen a long time ago. It happened last year, to me, during my first year at Hogwarts. For another thing, it doesn’t star a prince. It stars two wizards, and their names are Harry James Potter, and Draco Lucius Malfoy. They are my parents.

As I say these words aloud, and my Quick-Quotes Quill writes them onto my parchment, I can see them in the garden. They’re playing with Hydrus, our Crup, and Dad has got red cheeks from laughing so much. I’d like to be out there as well, but Dad – that's Draco - told me to use this afternoon to finish my summer homework, because school begins again next week.

Madam Penhaligon, the Head of Slytherin, asked us to compose a story telling her about our ‘most transformative experience’ during our first year, and this is mine. I had to look up transformative in the dictionary, but when I read ‘to cause a big change in somebody’, I knew this was the tale I had to tell.

After all, I wasn’t the only person whose life went through a big change last year. Dad and Harry’s did too.

So, here goes. My most transformative experience, during my first year of Hogwarts, was my parents getting back together, and the three of us becoming a family. I’ve just broken another rule of storytelling, haven’t I? You already know my story will have a happy ending. Fingers crossed; you’ll stick with it. There’ll be romance, broomstick rides, and lots of serious adulty stuff. But more of that later.

I’ll begin by introducing myself, because it’s polite, and because every story needs a friendly narrator. My name is Scorpius Narcissus Malfoy, which is a bit of a mouthful.

Dad and Gran call me Scorpius, but most everyone else calls me Scorp. I’m twelve years old, and I live on the outskirts of a village called Hadden on the Wolds. I love reading, love Quidditch – Appleby Arrows forever! – and love playing board games. My best mate is Drucilla Clementine Parkinson-Nott, who is a sort of cousin, but not by blood. My dad and her mum have been friends forever.

Hadden is a teeny-tiny wizarding village, not far from Durham. Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of it. Most people haven’t. Back when this story began, Dad, Hydrus, and I lived in a brick cottage together, and our nearest neighbour was my Gran. My life in Hadden was quiet, but I never had any complaints.

Every morning I’d Floo to Dru’s house and have lessons with her tutor. Then, in the afternoon, I’d watch Dad in his workshop. People from all over the country send him magical objects, which he repairs, and makes as good as new. When the evening arrived, after we’d eaten dinner, Dad and I sometimes read, sometimes walked, or sometimes played chess. Sometimes all we did was talk. My life was great, even though we didn’t have much money. I couldn’t have asked for a better Dad.

True, Dad could be a bit overprotective sometimes, but that was because of our family name, and because of what the Malfoys had done in the war before I was born. Dad told me about my grandfather, who’d died in prison years before, and about how Grandfather’s love of power had led him to betray his family. Dad said those years had been the darkest of his life. In fact, that was why Dad called me Scorpius, because I was his ‘bright star, who had brought light back into his life.’ It sounds a bit silly, saying that sentence out loud, but I don’t care. Dad’s words have always left me feeling very warm and loved.

Another reason Dad could be overprotective was because they’d only ever been the two of us. Yes, we saw Gran regularly, and we saw Dru, and Aunty Pansy and her husband lots, but I didn’t have another parent. That is very rare in the wizarding world. It’s even more unusual in a back-of-beyond place like Hadden. Most people didn’t ask, probably because they assumed I’d had a Mum who’d left or died. I hadn’t, but I let them think what they wanted, because the truth was too difficult for me to explain, and because it wasn’t really my business.

You see, when I was eight, Dad and I had been playing Hide and Seek, and I’d had the bright idea of hiding beneath Dad’s bed. There had been a box there, an old, dented silver thing, and I’d knocked the lid off with my hand. I wasn’t snooping, I swear to Merlin, but there were photographs inside, and even though I knew I was being naughty, something made me look at them.

One was of Dad, and he was sitting in a deck chair in Gran’s garden, his shirt tight over a huge swollen belly. I watched as Dad waved awkwardly at the camera, and then I turned it over. Written on the back, in Gran’s fancy letters, was a date from the month before I was born. Another photograph was of Dad in a green hospital gown, his hair sweaty, and a look of exhaustion on his face. I’m in the picture too, in Dad’s arms. I’m impossibly tiny and swaddled in a blanket. This time, Dad didn’t acknowledge the photographer. He was too occupied gazing at me. When I turned over the photograph, the nineteenth of May was written there, my birthdate.

I had discovered, hidden beneath Dad’s bed, that Dad had carried me. It was too much to comprehend, so I shoved the knowledge down to the bottom of my brain, rolled out from underneath the mattress, and ran to give my dad a hug. It didn’t matter how I got here. All that mattered was the life we had.

Sadly, my happy, ordinary Hadden life couldn’t carry on indefinitely. I’m a wizard, and when my Hogwarts letter arrived, I knew life would change forever.

I’ll admit, part of me was delighted. I’d grown up listening to Dad and Aunty Pansy talking about midnight feasts, about spying the Giant Squid in the Great Lake, and about their Saturday expeditions to Hogsmeade. Part of me was itching to leave on the Hogwarts Express. But another part of me was scared stiff. Dad, Gran, and Hadden were all I’d ever known.

Experiences beyond my imagination were waiting ahead, and I had to be courageous enough to face them.

~

The first two weeks of term flew past in the blink of an eye. I was Sorted Slytherin, even though the Sorting Hat tried to convince me I’d make a fantastic Gryffindor. Schoolbooks, timetables, homework planners, and lists of afternoon clubs were thrown in my direction, and information swirled around my head, leaving me baffled and bewildered. Thankfully, Dru was in most of my classes, and she reminded me where I needed to be, who my Professors were, and what time dinner and assemblies began.

A few of the older students tried to give me a hard time about my surname, but Madam Penhaligon put a stop to that at once. She said bullying wasn’t remotely acceptable. I’d been worried about homesickness, but I didn’t have time to miss Hadden. My life was too full, and every night, when I went to bed, I was asleep the instant my head hit the pillow.

If I’m honest, the only smudge on the parchment were my flying lessons. They’d begun badly, and they’d quickly gotten even worse. It all started with a mistake that Professor Potter, the school flying instructor, made during the first lesson. He placed me in a group with Dru, and two other students from all-magical families, and of course they were all already brilliant at flying.

I, however, was not. I've never flown alone before.

Dad is terrified of flying, and even more frightened of me getting hurt, so we don’t have broomsticks at home. Professor Potter saw his mistake quickly, but the damage was done. I heard Scorp the Scaredy-Cat uttered by one of the Gryffindors in a stage whisper, and the other kids snorted with laughter. It was embarrassing, and I blushed up to my hairline.

After that, nothing seemed to go right. Even the Muggleborn children had better natural ability than I did. The broom wouldn’t rise when I told it to, and I couldn’t get a handle on how to mount the thing. After that, I must have used too much magic, because the broomstick started to twitch in my hand, trying to fly by itself. Professor Potter had to run over, and Accio it, and he told me to ‘be more careful’ next time. I tried to say I couldn’t help it, but the words wouldn’t leave my mouth.

Professor Potter was famous. Everyone knew the story of how he’d saved our world and vanquished Voldemort when he was only seventeen. I’d made a horrible first impression on him.

It soon became apparent Professor Potter didn’t like me at all. A week later we had our second flying lesson, and he scowled when my class arrived on the Quidditch pitch. He refused to look directly at me, and never said my name, not even when he took the register. Unfortunately, knowing Professor Potter thought I was inept only made my flying more hopeless, and I managed to bash brooms with Meg Hardwick and fell onto my backside.

My third flying lesson was even more awful. In my defence, it was a Friday afternoon, it was windy, and I was still a rank amateur on a broomstick. When I’d managed, finally, to get my broom more than a few metres in the air, I overbalanced, and nearly tumbled onto Dru’s head. I landed on my shoulder, and the shock of pain which followed made me feel sick. The whole class chuckled, and I wished very hard that the earth would open and swallow me. It didn’t.

Katie Sedgewick helped me to my feet, asked me if I was okay, and Professor Potter called the class to attention with his whistle. He demonstrated a hovering manoeuvre which I already knew I’d struggle to copy.

“Your turn now,” Professor Potter instructed, once he’d finished. “I want to see everyone giving this their best effort.”

Dutifully, I picked my broom up, ready to give flying another attempt, and grimaced when I realised how much my shoulder was still hurting. By then, Professor Potter had crossed the grass and was standing beside me. Internally, I winced. This couldn’t be good. Was he going to tell me off, or say I was clumsy? Was he going to send me inside to get changed?

But when he spoke, Professor Potter didn’t raise his voice. “Not you, Scorpius. You’ve had a bit of a bump, and I don’t want you flying again today. Wait after class. I’d like to talk to you.”

The rest of the lesson sped past as I watched my class flailing through the air. Butterflies danced inside of my tummy and disaster scenarios played out in my brain. Maybe I was just too useless to be worth his time teaching or worse, maybe he was going to take a point away from Slytherin. Everyone knew the Professors preferred their own houses, and Professor Potter, with his red and gold scarf, was Gryffindor through and through. By the time Professor Potter blew his whistle, and sent the others off to change, I’d worked myself up into a complete tizzy.

Professor Potter waited until the last of the other students had vanished through the door before gesturing to the bench which ran around the side of the pitch. I dutifully sat, and Professor Potter dropped onto the seat beside me. Compared with the racket of twenty excited eleven-year-olds, the pitch felt unnervingly quiet.

“I owe you an apology,” Professor Potter said, his brows knitting slightly. He stared forwards, looking at nothing. I didn’t answer. Sorry was the last thing I’d imagined leaving his mouth. After what seemed like ages, he spoke again. “We’ve gotten off on a bad foot, and it’s my fault. I assumed, because of who your father is… But you don’t know how to fly, do you, Scorpius?”

Hot, humiliating tears threatened to leak out of the corners of my eyes, and I rubbed them hard, wanting to be more grown up than I was. Professor Potter thought I was a failure, which meant he thought Dad was a failure too, because he’d never taught me how to use a broomstick.

I wished then that I’d never heard the name Hogwarts or Professor Potter. I wanted my dad, and Hydrus, and to be home, safe in my bedroom. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I didn’t dare speak anyway. Professor Potter would have heard the tremble in my voice, and I couldn’t bear it. All I could do was nod.

For the first time, Professor Potter turned his head and looked briefly in my direction. “Not knowing how to fly isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” he said, gentler than before. “You know, I couldn’t fly before I came to Hogwarts. I’d never even seen a broomstick before. Lots of the children in your year haven’t. But you’ll learn, and you’ll be brilliant, I promise.” A fleeting smile flashed across his face. “I’ve never met a student I couldn’t teach to fly before. I don’t think for a minute that you’ll be the first one. We’ll have you playing Quidditch before you know it.”

This was much better than the telling-off I’d been dreading. Professor Potter didn’t think I was clumsy, useless, or unteachable. “I’ll do better next time,” I answered in one breath, trying to grab my broomstick and stand up, all at once. If our conversation was over, I wanted to hurry to the Great Hall. On Fridays they served chocolate pudding, and the longer I was here, the less chance I had of getting a bowl. “Promise.”

“Hold your Hippogriffs,” Professor Potter said, face drawing into a frown again. It seemed the conversation wasn’t finished. “That wasn’t the whole reason I wanted to talk to you. You’ve had two falls, in two consecutive lessons. School policy states I’ve got to report that, both to Headteacher McGonagall, and to your dad.” He pointed towards the castle walls. “The rules here are a bit more rigorous than they used to be. Parents like to know what’s happening to their children.”

My fleeting relief ebbed away as quickly as it had come. This was terrible. This was worse than a telling-off, or Slytherin losing points. Professor Potter was going to talk to Dad, and to the Headteacher, and both were going to find out how rubbish I was.

“Am I going to be sent home?” I managed, my voice hardly more than a squeak.

Professor Potter’s face softened unexpectedly. He shook his head. “You’re not in trouble, and you’re not going to be sent home,” he answered. “Please, don’t fret. This happens all the time. We’ll have a short, routine meeting, and then you’ll be able to get on with your day.” His eyes skimmed across towards my shoulder. “Do you need me to take you to the Hospital Wing? You fell to earth with a bang.”

My shoulder wasn’t hurting any longer, and the last thing I wanted was to be poked and prodded by Madam Pomfrey. I’d met her during induction, when she’d warned us the consequences of doing anything daft would be very serious indeed. “I’m okay,” I said, standing. The conversation was over and I wanted to leave.

I dashed to the changing rooms, feeling puzzled. Did Professor Potter really dislike me as much as I’d thought? Why had he expected me to be good at flying? I pulled on my robes quickly, and decided to think about simpler things, like finding a seat in the Great Hall, chocolate pudding, and beating Dru at Exploding Snap.

It was finally the weekend, and I was ready for a rest.

~

I was sitting in my Charms classroom the following Monday, when an older boy knocked on the classroom door and gave Madam Sadavir a note. Her gaze swivelled across the room, quickly finding me, sitting a row before the back.

My heart skipped a beat because I didn’t need to be told what the note said. This was the meeting Professor Potter had said would have to happen, and what my thoughts had dwelled on, ever since Friday afternoon. Madam Sadavir told me to collect my things and to follow the Prefect to Headteacher McGonagall’s office. Everyone’s attention was on me as I left the room, and I had to be careful not to stumble over the flagstones. As much as I dreaded speaking directly to Headteacher McGonagall, which I hadn’t before, I was excited to see Dad.

The Prefect walked fast, and before I knew it, he’d deposited me at Headteacher McGonagall’s imposing door. A stained-glass cat, built into a panel in the middle of the wood, gave me a disinterested scowl before curling up and going to sleep. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Swallowing my nerves, I knocked. Headteacher McGonagall told me to enter, and, with my heart in my mouth, I did.

Happily, Dad was already waiting. The instant he saw me, he jumped to his feet, enveloping me in one of his famous body-squashing, breath-stealing hugs. Dad didn’t give a stuff that the Headteacher was there and, after a moment, neither did I. Dad smelt so familiar, like the lavender stuff he always put in the washing, like apple shampoo, and like his basem*nt workshop. Dad smelt like home.

“I’ve missed you,” Dad said, once he’d reluctantly let me go. “You’ve grown. You’re taller than when you left.”

Dad placed his hands on my shoulders, his grey eyes focusing as they scanned my face and expression, looking to see if anything was different in the two weeks that we’d been apart. Dad hadn’t changed. His hair – much straighter and lighter than my own – was scraped up into its usual knot, and his clothes were his usual shade of black. I noticed, surprised, that he’d changed into a formal shirt and waistcoat, but then I dismissed the thought. Obviously, he wanted to look presentable for a meeting at Hogwarts, especially as Headteacher McGonagall had been his Professor, back when he’d studied here.

“It’s brilliant to see you,” I said, half-hoping he’d pull me into another hug. “Is Gran okay? And Hydrus? When you wrote, you didn’t say whether he’d gotten into Mr Philpott’s garden again. You know how cross he got last time.”

Dad smiled, let go of my shoulders, and brushed some non-existent creases out of my robes. “Gran is fine. She misses you terribly and has sent a box of your favourite butter biscuits. Hydrus is also fine, and please don’t worry about Mr Philpot. I’ve fixed the wards on the fence between his and Gran’s garden. Not even a snail could breach it now.”

Headteacher McGonagall coughed, reminding Dad and I why we were there.

“Professor Potter has been delayed by a few minutes,” she said, taking up her wand and flicking it once. A teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits Levitated, before landing smoothly on a small table in the middle of the room. There were chairs surrounding it, and the Headteacher gestured towards them. “Please take a seat and help yourself to a chocolate cream. Our meeting shouldn’t take long, Mr Malfoy. I apologise for having called you here on such short notice. However, both the Governors and I are adamant that Hogwarts should be a much more open place than it was in the past. When potential issues crop up, we like to involve parents from the outset.”

I watched Dad pour a cup of tea and take a sip before speaking. I ignored the biscuits, because I knew I’d get crumbs all over myself, and over the Headteacher’s office. Dad’s expression was serious, a little bit worried, and a little bit ferocious. It was the same expression he’d worn when I was six and had to stay overnight in St Mungo’s with a bad case of Red Dragon Pox.

“Professor Potter’s owl said that Scorpius had fallen from his broomstick twice,” Dad said, at last. “I’m pleased you called me, Headteacher McGonagall. Scorpius is… As I’m sure you’re aware, he is my only child, and I care very much that he’s happy and safe here.” Dad shifted in his chair, turning to face me. “Scorpius, can you tell me exactly what happened? You mentioned those boys in your first letter home. Those unbearable names they called you. Are you being bullied? Does that have something to do with you falling off your broomstick? Please, tell me everything.”

Blushing hard, I shook my head. “That was only in the first few days,” I explained, wanting Dad to believe me. “But Madam Penhaligon stopped all that. She’s been great. They’ve left me alone ever since.” Some of the heat left Dad’s face, thank Merlin, and I relaxed a little. “The thing is, and I don’t know why, but Professor Potter thought I’d be some sort of amazing flyer. He put me with other kids who were… But then, when I wasn’t, I got nervous. So, it was all a bit of a mess.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed, the second he heard my teacher’s name. “Has Professor Potter been unfair to you?” Dad asked. “Has he been cruel?” He shifted his focus over to Headteacher McGonagall. “You don’t have to have any prior broomstick skill before starting here. It says so in the school brochure! If that was the case, I would have sought lessons for Scorpius.” As he spoke, his voice began to rise. “If Professor Potter has been giving my son a hard time, then I shan’t be best pleased! I don’t give a stuff whether he’s the Saviour!”

This reaction wasn’t like Dad at all. My dad had always been the calmest, kindliest person you could ever meet. Once, when I was small, and didn’t know any better, I picked up his wand and waved it. I managed to smash a window that day and knock down a shelf of books. Even then, Dad didn’t raise his voice to me.

I tried to salvage the situation; very aware Professor Potter would be there any moment. “It’s not like that,” I defended, as soon as Dad paused. “I did think Professor Potter hated me at first because he frowned a lot, and he wouldn’t say my name, but then, at the end of last lesson, Professor Potter was nice to me. He said he was sorry, that it was his fault we’d got off to a bad start, and that he couldn’t fly when he got to Hogwarts. He wasn’t horrible on purpose,” I reassured Dad. “He reckons I’ll be a good flyer one day.”

Headteacher McGonagall interjected, looking at Dad and I in turn. “I think it’s best if I collect Professor Potter,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’m sure this can all be cleared up very easily. If you’ll excuse me.”

The Headteacher left, and, as the door closed, I could sense some of the fight leaving Dad. His shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry. It’s tough, being back here. It’s making me anxious. This office is almost identical to how it used to be, back when I was at school… I remember I stood in here with Har- with Professor Potter a fair few times, too. We didn’t always have the easiest relationship.” Dad exhaled slowly. “But I trust you, Scorpius. If you say your falls were simple accidents, then I believe you.”

Dad changed the subject and asked me about my other classes. I told him about Charms, and about how, that morning, I’d been attempting to make a piece of paper fold by itself. Dad’s eyes sparkled, because magical origami was one of the things we did together. Dad is amazing at it. He could enchant paper to fold itself into a boat that sailed around my bath, into a mouse for Hydrus to chase, and – my personal favourite – paper cranes enchanted to fly to my bedroom when my dinner was ready. “I was practically there,” I boasted. “A bit more practice, and I bet I’ll be as good as you by Christmas.”

Dad beamed because there was nothing in the world he enjoyed more than practising magic with me. I knew, strictly, I shouldn’t cast spells outside of school, that I was too young, but Dad thought it was important to know some basic magic. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the door opened, and Headteacher McGonagall and Professor Potter entered.

Straightaway, I saw Dad’s hackles rise once more. He put his tea down, half drunk, and folded his arms over his chest, purposely forming a barrier between the two of them. Professor Potter wasn’t cowed by Dad, however. He began to speak, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. He nodded to me and gave me the smallest smile. Headteacher McGonagall asked Professor Potter to take the remaining seat, and he did so.

“Mr Malfoy, thank you so much for coming up to school today. First, I wanted to apologise again, both to Scorpius and yourself. I made a greenhorn teaching mistake, based on presumption, and I’m sorry. The last thing I want is for Scorpius to dislike flying. It should be something he enjoys, not something he dreads.” Professor Potter held up his hands, palms facing upwards, as if he wanted to counter Dad’s defensive stance. “I want to make this up to you,” he said, addressing me. “I’ve got some free time on Saturday mornings. I could give you a few extra lessons, if you’d like, and only if your dad agreed. You’ve got the potential to be a brilliant flyer, Scorpius, if that was what you wanted.”

Dad didn’t blink, unfold his arms, or otherwise show any sort of reaction while Professor Potter was speaking. He only listened, his expression blank.

At last, when Professor Potter had finished, Dad spoke. “Scorpius has assured me that his falls were simple accidents,” he said, his voice calm, but curiously flat. “I’m very aware flying and Quidditch are a massive part of life at Hogwarts, and I wouldn’t wish Scorpius to not experience that.” He paused and looked towards me. “You don’t know this, but flying meant a great deal to me, back when I was here. It was my escape. If you wish to have these extra lessons with Professor Potter, I give my permission. I love you too much to countenance the thought of you falling from your broomstick again.” His face became very serious. “But you have to work hard and listen to everything Professor Potter says.”

“I will,” I promised, hoping I sounded as earnest as Dad did. Truthfully, I was flabbergasted as to how the meeting had played out. Three days ago, I’d assumed Professor Potter hated me, but now it seemed like the opposite was true. I’d only been at Hogwarts a short while, but I knew already that the Professors had little in the way of free time. Professor Potter must like me, at least a little bit, if he was willing to give his free time up for me.

“Then it’s settled,” Headteacher McGonagall cut in, the relief obvious on her face. She glanced at her watch. “Scorpius will have extra lessons with Professor Potter and, I’m sure, will be flying excellently in no time. Now, it’s ten to eleven, which means lesson three will soon start. The first year Slytherins have Potions, I believe,” she said, looking towards me. “If you say goodbye to your dad now, I’m sure you’ll make it in plenty of time.”

Leaving Dad again was the last thing I wanted, but Headteacher McGonagall wasn’t the sort of person I could refuse. Dad and I hugged tightly, and he kissed the top of my head. “I’ve loved seeing you, even if my visit was far too short,” Dad told me, giving my shoulder a final squeeze. “Be good, be careful. I’ll owl you tonight.”

I thanked Professor Potter and Headteacher McGonagall and took one last look at my dad. Christmas was still months away, and I wouldn’t see him until them. It wasn’t fair.

As I shut the door behind me, a wave of homesickness rolled through me. Dru had told me about the Muggle children in her village, and how, at eleven, they started at a school nearby. Each evening, at the end of lessons, they walked home, and back to their parents. I wanted to do that, wanted to go home, and tell Dad about my day. We'd sit at the dinner table together, chatting, laughing, and eating biscuits.

That was when I remembered: Gran’s butter biscuits. Dad hadn’t given them to me.

Stopping, I wavered. I’d only gone two steps, so I could knock on the Headteacher’s door and ask for them. Immediately, I threw that plan away. I was supposed to be going to Potions, not fussing over biscuits. The thing was, Dad was right. They were my favourite, and I really fancied them. Nothing they served at school was quite as tasty.

My brain fizzed. Suddenly, a cunning plan, worthy of Salazar Slytherin, himself popped into my head. Hung opposite Headteacher McGonagall’s office was a tapestry and behind that an alcove. If I hid myself in there, I could wait until Dad emerged, grab the biscuits, and, hopefully, grab another hug.

Amazed at my uncharacteristic ingenuity, I hid, just in time.

The door opened, and Professor Potter emerged. Unfortunately for me, he wasn’t alone. Dad was with him, and his calm, composed expression was gone. Now, he had a face like thunder. Only once, in my entire life, had I seen Dad look like this. Once, when I was six, Gran made a trip to London, and a horrible man hexed her. The Aurors had refused to do anything, and Dad’s face had looked the same as it did right then. Eavesdropping is wrong, I know that, but in my defence, I was trapped. Somehow, I knew that neither Professor Potter nor Dad would be chuffed to know I was listening.

I hid, hardly daring to breathe, and certainly not daring to move. Unluckily for me, they stepped over towards the tapestry, began to talk, and I could hear every word being said.

“…I’m not the young, naïve idiot I once was,” Dad hissed, his words hardly above a whisper, yet perfectly clear. “I don’t know what sick game you’re trying to play here, what kind of… of diversion this must be for you, but my son isn’t to be toyed with! You don’t have the right to swan in and play the big hero act! It doesn’t wash with me. If anything happens- “

“Nothing is going to happen!” Professor Potter interrupted; his usual relaxed tone gone. “All I want to do is help. You’re talking like I’ve got a… I don’t know, a nefarious ulterior motive! I don’t! All I want is for Scorpius to enjoy flying like we both used to. You were fantastic on a broomstick. Remember our inter-house Quidditch games? You’re still the best flyer I’ve ever met. Doesn’t Scorpius deserve to experience all that, too?”

Dad was quiet for a moment, and all I could hear was my heartbeat. It felt unnaturally loud, like a drum beating in my chest, and I wondered, madly, whether Dad and Professor Potter might hear it.

Finally, Dad spoke once more, and every word was as sharp as a snake’s fang. “You don’t get to talk about the past! Not to me! Not after... I remember trusting you. I remember believing everything you said.” Dad sighed, before speaking again. “And the worst part is, I know there’s nothing I can do about these Saturday morning lessons… You've trapped me between the cauldron and the fire, haven’t you? Scorpius needs to learn to fly safely, and he’d be inconsolable if I forbade them… All I ask is that you help him, and don’t hurt him. Scorpius is a person. He isn’t your plaything, or an amusem*nt to throw away once you’re bored. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

Professor Potter laughed, but the sound was hollow, closer to a sob than anything resembling happiness. “I’m not the monster you believe me to be,” he answered, his voice sad. “I know I deserve your loathing, but you must know I’d never hurt a child… I couldn’t. I swear, I won’t hurt Scorpius. When I saw his name on my class list, I didn’t have any idea…”

But Professor Potter didn’t finish his sentence. He cut himself off, in the middle of his words, as if he knew whatever he said next would only provoke Dad further.

The silence between Dad and Professor Potter dragged on and on, thick in its emptiness, and I thought their conversation must, at last, be over, and I could make my escape. The school bell rang, and I knew hundreds of students would flood out into the corridors in moments. Professor Potter knew that too.

“I’m sorry,” Professor Potter said, his voice softer and less fraught than it’d been before. “About today… About everything. This isn’t any kind of stunt. What happened in the past stays there. I won’t let it impact me now. Scorpius is a fantastic boy, a credit to you.” There was warmth in his words. “He looks so much like you. Whenever I see him, I do a double take… He’s your spitting image.”

I heard the banging of doors opening, excited chatter, and footsteps hammering as students moved between lessons. I thought Dad would say a polite goodbye, or even stalk away furiously, but he didn’t do either. He spoke, instead. “Not entirely. His eyes aren’t grey like mine and Mum’s. They’re green. I notice them every time I look at him.”

On that note, Dad did leave. I watched him walk away, through the tiny gap in the curtain, his back straight, and his head held high. He didn’t look back once, even though I thought Professor Potter might have been watching him too.

~

Over the next few weeks, I thought a lot about Dad and Professor Potter’s conversation. Dad had sounded so distrustful, and so sad, and none of it made much sense at all.

I’ll confess, I was confused. Being a Slytherin, and allegedly wily and cunning, I tried to sort it all out in my head, but thinking didn’t help. Whenever I did that, I ended up with more questions than answers.

The first mystery concerned flying.

My dad - who shuddered whenever broomsticks were mentioned - had been brilliant at Quidditch? He’d played for Slytherin in inter-house matches and said it meant a ‘great deal’ to him? Why had Aunty Pansy and he kept that hidden, and never spoken about it, whenever they reminisced about Hogwarts?

The second mystery concerned Professor Potter and Dad’s obviously shadowy past.

I, like everyone else in the world, knew that they had been schoolboys together, and that they hadn’t been friends. That’s all covered in Hogwarts: A History, which I’ve read three times already. Their whispers, however, hinted at something much more complicated than the few sentences written on its pages. They’d both called each other by their first names, which was significant. It implied a much closer relationship than the history books knew about.

The third mystery was how sceptical Dad had been about Professor Potter’s motive for giving me extra flying lessons.

To me, that said Professor Potter must have done something awful to Dad, and now Dad was worried he would hurt me as badly. Here, my imagination got even more tangled. Professor Potter was only a Hogwarts Professor. He wasn’t an Auror or a Wizengamot Judge. Yes, he could give me detention, or he could take away house points, but he couldn’t do me any actual harm, not without getting into serious trouble. What was Dad worried he’d do?

The fourth – and to me, the biggest – mystery was Dad saying he’d trusted Professor Potter, and had, once upon a time, believed everything he said.

That didn’t tally with what I’d read in Hogwarts: A History. They’d been enemies, hadn’t they? Adversaries? When had Dad known Professor Potter well enough to trust him? Dad lived the quietest existence imaginable. His friends consisted of Aunty Pansy, Uncle Theo, and the odd visit from Gregory Goyle whenever he was in the north. Otherwise, Dad’s only acquaintances were other Hadden villagers and the occasional customer. The person Dad saw more than anyone else in the world was Gran. Not to be mean, or anything, but Dad’s basically a hermit.

I’d have known, I’m sure of it, had the most famous wizard in England ever been a part of Dad’s life. Therefore the only deduction I could make – using everything I’d learnt from reading Dru’s copy of Sherlock Holmes – was that Dad and Professor Potter had known each other after Hogwarts and before I was born. That was the only period of time unaccounted for.

I couldn’t let it go. Sherlock Holmes said, ‘there is nothing more deceptive than obvious facts,’ so I decided to take the famous Muggle detective at his word. Dad, I already knew lots about, so perhaps Professor Potter was the heart of this puzzle. Maybe, if I followed all the obvious facts, I could find where the deceptions were hidden as well.

Dru – always my willing partner-in-crime – and I set to work, investigating the truth about Professor Potter. We soon discovered our problem wasn’t too little information: it was too much. Professor Harry James Potter had more books, magazine articles, and newspaper reports than anyone else in the Hogwarts Library, and, after a week, we had pages full of notes but were no closer to solving the mystery.

As far as we could see, Dad and Professor Potter’s paths hadn’t crossed since they were teenagers.

Professor Potter was a little bit younger than Dad, but not by much. Their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different. While Dad had been brought up with his parents, and known he was a wizard since childhood, Professor Potter had been brought up by his dreadful Muggle relations. He’d been kept apart from the magical community. He'd been hidden away and denied the truth about his family. When he was seventeen, Professor Potter had played an important role in the Second Wizarding War. His bravery was legendary. He had fought Voldemort, and almost died.

After the War, Professor Potter had spent a final year at Hogwarts before joining the Auror Academy. Coincidentally, he’d married Ginny Weasley, the famous Harpies Quidditch player, on the day I was born – the nineteenth of May 2000 – but their relationship hadn’t lasted very long. They’d broken up, and officially divorced when Professor Potter was twenty-five. He’d left the Auror Department the same year and joined the staff at Hogwarts.

My dad’s life had followed a very different trajectory. My grandfather had been a loyal Voldemort supporter - he'd even let the family Manor be used by Voldemort for his base - and, as a result, Grandfather pulled the rest of his family into his rabid quest for power.

After the War ended, Dad and Gran were both arrested, and held in the Wizengamot until their trial. While Professor Potter finished his education at Hogwarts, Dad was locked in an eight-foot cell.

Luckily, the Wizengamot showed compassion. Professor Potter gave testimony on Dad’s behalf, and Dad’s young age and vulnerability were taken into consideration. He was given the penalty of four years house arrest, and allowed to serve most of it in Hadden, where he could be closer to Gran.

The rest, as the Muggles like to say, was history. Dad hadn’t sat any N.E.W.T. exams. He hadn’t been an Auror, and he certainly hadn’t been free to socialise in Wizarding London after the War. Even the testimony that Professor Potter gave had only been a statement submitted to the Wizengamot. He hadn’t given it in person. Dad and Professor Potter shouldn’t have known each other. Their paths hadn’t crossed.

Glumly, I put my notes away, and decided to focus on my flying, my homework and all the things in my life I could control. Hogwarts was full on, and my schoolwork had piled up while my mind was occupied elsewhere.

The simplest thing would have been simply to write home, tell Dad the truth, and admit I’d been hiding behind the tapestry. Dad wouldn’t have been cross with me. He knows my fondness for butter biscuits better than anyone. I couldn’t do it, though. Every time I dipped my quill and brought it down to the parchment, I ended up filling my letters with trivialities. I told Dad about Moaning Myrtle flooding the second floor, and about the upcoming Halloween feast. I told Dad about the books I was reading, and the latest Muggle trends – yoyos and collecting Pokémon cards – sweeping the castle. I even told him how well my flying lessons were going, because they really were.

I didn’t ask Dad about Professor Potter, or why he’d never told me about playing Quidditch – and he had, I'd discovered he’d been the first choice Slytherin Seeker for years – because, somewhere along the line, he’d chosen not to tell me. His past had grown into a taboo subject and a door which I’d been barred entry. I loved my dad too much to push it open.

But I was very soon to learn that locked doors had a terrible way of being forced to open, whether you wanted them to or not.

~

My world came crashing down around me exactly two weeks later, when I was least expecting it: during my Thursday morning Magical Creatures lesson. Professor Broadoaks was standing at the front of the classroom, and I was in my usual seat, quill in hand, copying the fiddly diagram of a Welsh Green Dragon from the board.

As he drew, Professor Broadoaks chatted aloud about the beast, telling the class noteworthy facts which might be on the exam.

“As we know from other magical creatures like the Thestral and the Unicorn,” Broadoaks dictated, “magical talents are only partly based on natural ability. Nature and nurture are of equal importance. A significant measure of a dragon’s magical capacity is inherited through their family line. For example, Welsh Greens from Cardiff, and the surrounding villages, are known for their particularly powerful jets of flame, whereas those from the north of Wales are better known for their long lifespan. It’s the same with magical folk.” Professor Broadoaks paused to let the class catch up on his musings. “If one were to track both sides of your families back through several generations, then you would be able to track particular magical abilities.”

Broadoaks smiled. “In fact, before I forget, that’s your homework for the remainder of this term. I want you all to produce family trees, for both your parent’s families, for six generations at least. The Muggleborn children, too. This will be an excellent opportunity to learn more about our classmates, and all the different kinds of families we come from. We’ll take turns talking about what we’ve discovered.”

I don’t think Professor Broadoaks had the first clue how much his announcement had upset me. For him, the homework was a harmless bit of research, and a chance for a few lessons off while we talked about our family backgrounds. But the homework wasn’t harmless to me. I felt sick. The ink tracked from the end of my quill, spoiling my diagram, but for once I didn’t care.

My mind flashed back to the photographs hidden under Dad’s bed. Him being pregnant was another secret, another chapter of his story that I wasn’t supposed to know about. A blush, red as dragon scales, crawled up my neck, and sweat prickled beneath my armpits. Standing at the front and talking about Dad carrying me, and how I didn't have another parent to the rest of my class wasn’t remotely possible. I’d sooner run away.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. If Professor Broadoaks noticed how dismayed I was, he didn’t say a word. As covertly as I could, I pulled out the page of notes about Dad and Professor Potter’s early lives, unpicking the dates in my head. I was born in May 2000, making Dad only nineteen. He’d been young, a teenage father.

Then, another and more upsetting thought occurred. While he’d gotten pregnant, my dad had still been serving house arrest in London. The bell rang and Professor Broadoaks dismissed us for dinner. I couldn’t eat, though. I ran to the Slytherin dungeon, knowing I’d have the place to myself.

Crawling onto my bed, I pulled the curtains around me. If Dad had been under house arrest, then whoever… whoever the other person was who’d helped put me inside Dad’s belly had to come from a very narrow list of contenders. Stuck inside his home, a convicted prisoner, my dad had been vulnerable. Had my other parent been a bad person? Had he been somebody who had frightened Dad?

I shuddered, imagining the awful implications. Had he been a comrade of my grandfather’s? Or somebody out for revenge, wanting to punish and humiliate one of Voldemort’s so-called supporters? Panic and fear curled inside my tummy. Was that why Dad lived such a quiet, subdued existence? Was he protecting us from something, or somebody he was ashamed of? I’d never found any hints that my dad had a boyfriend before I was born. There were no hidden love letters, no well-thumbed Valentine’s cards, or anything hinting Dad had ever had a love life. On some level I’d always known Dad was gay, but this was the first time I’d considered how that had impacted upon my creation.

Worst of all, I didn’t have the first clue how wizard-and-wizard babies were made. I had a decent understanding of the witch-and-wizard love making process, because Aunty Pansy enjoyed Muggle romance novels, which Dru stole, and read me the raunchy parts. I expected baby making would be broadly similar, whether or not you were magical.

But two wizards getting pregnant seemed infinitely more complicated. For one thing, magic must be involved in the procedure. After all, my dad didn’t have all the biological bits required. For another thing, I knew Muggleborn males couldn’t carry babies. I supposed that narrowed my other parent down to a magical person, but that fact didn’t help me whatsoever. Had Dad, or my other parent, taken some sort of risky potion? Or cast a Dark magic spell? Had the process been dangerous, or frowned upon?

Sitting on my bed, as my dinner hour ticked steadily by, I realised I was completely naïve and, until I knew a little more, I couldn’t ask Dad who my other parent was. If – and I hoped and prayed to Merlin that this wasn’t the case – my other parent had hurt Dad in some terrible way, I would never forgive myself for reminding him of them. I was as green as Gillyweed and only now realising how little I knew.

Professor Broadoaks could have a history of the Malfoy lineage which went back to the Norman Conquest if he liked, but until I’d done a bit more digging, the other side of my family tree would have to remain blank.

~

As soon as lessons had finished for the day, I collared Dru. She was the cleverest person I knew and, having two younger brothers, was sure to know more about where babies came from than most of the other first-years.

“Could we talk about something important?” I asked her, eyeing the rapidly filling Common Room. “Somewhere private?”

Dru has known me my whole life and knew immediately I was serious. “Let’s go to the Library,” she answered. “It’s always empty straight after school. Nobody can be arsed to get their homework books out yet.”

It was a splendid plan. I grabbed my satchel, and we made the quick journey over. Dru, as she was about most things, was right. Other than Madam Pince, and a couple of exhausted looking sixth years, the Library was deserted. “The Ancient Carpathian history books,” Dru murmured, pointing a finger towards the back of the room. “Nobody ever looks at those. Nobody will hear us there.”

As soon as we were alone, I gathered my nerves and asked Dru my question. “This is going to sound really silly, but thing is… I wanted to know a bit more about, um, sex,” I said, my blush of earlier returning, and turning me as red as a phoenix feather. “Not how you do it… Lady Arabella’s Secret taught me everything I needed to know… But how it all works. How the baby gets there… How, er, your dad put Marcus and Hyperion inside of your mum.”

Dru really was the perfect best mate. If I’d have asked Katie Sedgewick, or any of the other first-years, they’d have squealed, giggled, and made me feel like the silliest prat in all of England. But Dru wasn’t like that. She stood for a moment, thinking, and cleaned her glasses with the sleeve of her robe before she answered. “So not the mechanics of it,” she clarified. “How babies are conceived.”

I nodded, silently thanking Merlin and all the other deities for Aunty Pansy, who had raised such a forthright, easy-going daughter.

“So, the man puts his willy in the woman’s vagin*,” Dru answered assertively, “and if we can trust Lady Arabella’s Secret then their, erm, passion crashes through the man like a tidal wave, and he reaches his… crescendo. His org*sm. Then his sperm races its way to the woman’s womb. If they're lucky, the winning sperm pushes their way inside and grows into a baby.”

That all made sense, but it didn’t help me with my problem. “What about wizard-and-wizard babies?” I asked, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “I remember, er… I remember seeing a pregnant wizard in Hadden once, when I was younger. What do you think… How did that baby get inside of their Dad? Wizards don't have the right bits.”

Dru pulled a sceptical expression and, if I’m honest, I didn’t think she believed my co*ck-and-bull story for a second. She didn’t question me though, and I’ve never been more grateful.

“Men have sex by putting their willy in the other man’s bum,” Dru answered. “Mum had a book called The Gentleman’s Club, and they did that in chapter two… And chapters six and seven. But I’m not sure how that would lead to a baby. Maybe Transfiguration?... Or some sort of charm?” She frowned, considering all the same possibilities I’d already thought of during my dinner hour. My heart sank. Dru didn't know any more than I did. But then, abruptly, the confusion cleared from Dru’s face, and was replaced by Slytherin cunning. “I don’t know how wizards get pregnant,” Dru said, “but we’re in the perfect place to find out.”

As soon as Dru suggested it, exploring the library books seemed obvious. Unfortunately, after ten minutes of searching, it became equally obvious the school Librarian didn’t think magi-medical textbooks belonged in the general collection.

It was Dru who found what we were looking for. “Look up there,” Dru hissed, gesturing towards one of the higher shelves. “The Family Way: Wizard Pregnancy and Fatherhood. That’s the book we need, Scorp.”

If it were possible, my heart sank even further. My answers might as well have been on the Moon, because there was no chance Dru and I would be allowed to read it. The Family Way, and all the books around it were in the restricted section, and only allowed to be borrowed by sixth- and seventh-year students applying for St Mungo’s apprenticeships.

But Dru – unfamiliar with being denied the right to read anything she desired – didn’t hesitate. Before I could tell her not to, my best friend had pulled her wand out of her belt. “Accio book,” she demanded, waving her wand sharply. “Accio The Family Way.”

The next few seconds seemed to play out in slow motion. For half a second, it seemed Dru’s Accio had worked, and that she’d beaten the Library charms. I watched The Family Way slide out from its spot, and, for a moment, hover in mid-air, like it was waiting to decide where to fly towards. The breath caught in my throat.

Sadly, the traitorous textbook didn’t leap into Dru’s waiting hands. Instead, The Family Way flew across the Library before landing on Madam Pince’s desk with the loudest thump I’d ever heard in that solemn, serious space.

“Mr Malfoy and Miss Parkinson-Nott!” Madam Pince shouted, not caring about her own keep quiet rule. “I’m outraged! Go to my office this instant!”

Using magic to circumvent Library rules was an automatic detention, as was trying to read restricted books. We’d been caught wand-in-hand, and Madam Pince was rightly angry. However, as soon as Madam Pince entered her office, a thunderous expression on her face, our situation became rapidly worse. Madam Pince had got the wrong end of the broomstick about why we’d been trying to read The Family Way. The witch believed we wanted to look at it for a spiteful joke.

“There’s a very good reason books like this are in the restricted section,” Madam Pince snapped, tapping the cover, and looking at us both with beaded eyes like a Wizengamot Judge. “Wizard pregnancy isn’t wicked or disgusting, despite what some sections of our society still want to believe. Prejudice against it is reprehensible, and I won’t stand for it in my Library. I’ve a good mind to tell Madam Penhaligon, and owl your parents.” She pursed her lips crossly and paused for dramatic effect. Honestly, I could have cried, and very nearly did. Possibly Madam Pince saw my face and took pity on us. “But I won’t… Instead, I’m giving you both a week of detentions, and I’m taking five points from Slytherin.”

Dru and I scarpered, running back to the Slytherin dungeon as fast as our legs could carry us.

I was devastated. This had been the worst day I’d had since starting at Hogwarts. I’d gotten my best-friend in trouble, gotten a week of detentions, been accused of bigotry, and I still had to work out how I’d talk to Dad about who my other parent was. Professor Broadoaks’s homework was now the least of my problems.

I was famished, but the thought of going to the Great Hall and pretending everything was okay filled me with dread. I couldn’t pretend to be happy, not when everything was falling to pieces.

All I wanted was my dad. If only Dad had been there, everything would have been okay. I missed his hugs, and his daft dad jokes, and the wrinkles at the side of his eyes whenever he smiled. Christmas and Hadden both seemed very far away.

~

The following day didn’t improve matters much. The other Slytherins – furious about the loss of five points – weren’t talking to Dru or I, the weather had turned rainy, so our outdoors Herbology lesson was cancelled and moved to a stuffy classroom, and Peeves had dumped a great pile of desks into a narrow corridor. By the time I got from Herbology to the Great Hall, they’d run out of pudding. I didn’t think this dragon dung sandwich of a day could get much worse but, apparently, the deities had it in for me.

The same Prefect that’d collected me for the meeting with Dad arrived during my final lesson to escort Dru and I to our detention. When he left the castle by the side entrance and hurried down the rain-slippery path towards the Quidditch changing rooms, my worst fears were confirmed: Professor Potter was on detention duty.

“In here,” the Prefect announced, gesturing to the scruffy side room where the school Quidditch teams met, pre-match, to talk tactics. “Professor Potter isn’t back yet,” he added, already sounding bored by us. “He’s finishing up with the fourth year Ravenclaws but won’t be long. Find a seat and get out your homework.”

The Prefect left in a hurry to get back to the warmth of the castle. I pushed the door open, and Dru and I entered cautiously. I’m a bookish nerd of a person, so this was the very first – and optimistically, the very last – time I’d been in any sort of trouble.

But my heart almost stopped beating when I realised who else had detention with Dru and I. It certainly skipped a beat. Freddy Boscombe, an enormous fourth-year Gryffindor was sitting, smack-bang in the middle of the front row of desks, with two of his obnoxious gang flanking his sides.

Panic, raw and dreadful, engulfed me. Freddy Boscombe was the boy who’d cornered me during my first week of Hogwarts, and who’d told me that ‘dirty Death Eaters shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as decent people.’ Madam Penhaligon, thank Merlin, had seen everything, and put a stop to Freddy Boscombe's bullying. Unhappily for me, Madam Penhaligon wasn’t here now, and neither was Professor Potter.

I turned, hoping to make for the door, but it was already too late. Freddy’s eyes had found mine and instinctively sensed my fear.

“Well, look who’s arrived to keep us company,” Freddy said, fake-jovial, and very loud. “The mini-Death Eater, and his little girlfriend. Tsk, tsk Malfoy. Getting detention already? Daddy will be proud.”

Giving his two goons a silent signal, Freddy rose out of his chair, knocking his desk out of the way. It clattered as it fell over. “Penhaligon isn’t here this time,” he snarled. “We need to examine these little Death Eaters,” he said, taking another pace forward, “and make sure they’re not Marked.”

Beside me, I heard Dru make a small, frightened noise.

I was just as scared, but I knew I couldn’t let those enormous idiots hurt my best friend. My defensive spells weren’t brilliant yet, but I supposed I might be able to cast a Confringo, and smash one of the desks? That might give us the chance to run away. It’d be breaking about a million school rules, and I’d probably be expelled, but none of that really mattered, did it? I’d gotten Dru into this disaster. I had to get her out of it.

Trembling, I pulled my wand out of my belt, willing my stupid fingers to work. Freddy Boscombe wasn’t cowed. He laughed, and it was a horrible sound.

I opened my mouth to cast the spell. Inside, I was praying silently to Circe, Merlin, and every divine being in the sky.

The deities must have been listening.

“Expelliarmus,” rang through the classroom, clear in its intent, and my wand leapt out of my fingers. In a flash Professor Potter was at my side, and he held mine and his own wand in one hand. With the other, he held my forearm in a vice-like grip. Belatedly, I noticed the Prefect who’d abandoned us a minute before. He stood by the door, expression sheepish.

Professor Potter’s face was red, and his eyes, behind his infamous glasses, were wide. “I saw everything,” he stated, face flicking between the Gryffindors, Dru, and myself. “Boscombe, Smythe and Barrowclough, get your backsides back on your seats. I’m sick to my back teeth by all of you. You’re not vigilantes. You’re pathetic bullies.” He turned his attention to the Prefect. “Adey, keep an eye on these three idiots, and don’t even think about shirking again, otherwise you can wave goodbye to your badge.”

With that, Professor Potter led Dru and I outside. First, Professor Potter told Dru to run straight to Professor Longbottom’s quarters, so he could collect Boscombe, Smythe, and Barrowclough. Then Professor Potter took me into his office, told me to take a seat, and slammed the door behind him.

The disappointment and anger on his face were evident, and he stomped around the room, too mad even to sit down.

“You absolute fool,” Professor Potter said, coming to a stop behind his desk, and slamming my wand down onto the blotter like it repulsed him. “You complete child. This isn’t a toy. A wand used thoughtlessly can hurt, maim, kill.” He took a deep breath, and finally sat down. “You could have easily hurt Boscombe badly, and trust me, you don’t want that on your conscience.” Professor Potter looked at me, frustrated. “Those scars, on your father’s chest? I made those, Scorpius, back when your father and I were schoolboys. A stupid unknown spell, cast in a moment of madness, and then it was done. It couldn’t be undone. I can’t take what I did back even if I live another hundred years. There hasn’t been a day since when I haven’t regretted them.”

I’d been holding myself together until that point, but when Professor Potter mentioned the silvery scars that patterned my dad’s chest, I felt something break inside of me.

When I was younger, I used to trace them, following the dips and trails with my finger. Dad’s scars had always been there, as much a part of him as his blond hair, or the freckle below his left eye.

A sob rocked me, making my shoulders shake. Dad had never told me how he’d gotten scarred, and I’d never asked. Now I’d found out they were Professor Potter’s doing. They were another one of Dad’s secrets, and another part of his life I wasn’t privy to.

The last drops of adrenaline drained away, and tears began to roll down my cheeks. It wasn't fair. Professor Potter – who’d sliced my dad open with his wand – knew more about my life than I did. I’m not sure why I decided to trust Professor Potter. Maybe I decided to trust him because he’d made the same mistake as I had. Maybe I decided to trust him because my dad had too, once upon a time.

But I think, truthfully, it was less a decision and more because of plain, simple exhaustion. I'd just raised my wand, terrified. Before coming to Hogwarts, my life had been a simple and happy one. Now it was a mess of secrets, detentions, and worries.

Professor Potter’s confession encouraged mine, and I found myself talking. Once I’d begun, I couldn’t stop. My words poured from me, a tumbled cauldron spilling and staining everything.

Between tears, I told him about the photographs under Dad’s bed, and how I’d known for three years that he’d been the one who'd carried me. I told him about Professor Broadoaks’s homework, and how I had no idea who my other parent might be. I even told Professor Potter about the Library, and The Family Way, and how I’d only wanted to read it to understand what might possibly have happened to my dad.

The moment I finished speaking, I was horrified. Of all the teachers at Hogwarts, I’d picked Professor Potter – whom Dad shared a secretive and sketchy past with - and I’d spilt Dad’s most personal secrets into his ear. No magic in the world could vanish them from existence. I was an awful person. A terrible son. My dad was a reserved, private man, who would have been heartbroken, had he known the tale I’d told. I'd blabbed his most private secrets to a man Dad didn't trust.

I raised my eyes, searching Professor Potter’s face, trying to work out his response to everything I’d said. To my surprise, shock was the only emotion I recognised. The colour had drained from his skin, his jaw was slack, and his brows were raised.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I pleaded. “Please don’t tell my dad.”

When Professor Potter eventually answered, his voice was unbearably gentle. All the anger from before was gone. “I can’t keep this a secret. I’m not allowed. I'm in loco parentis.” he told me. “While I’m your teacher, Hogwarts and Headteacher McGonagall entrust me to look after you like… As if I was your dad.” He sat behind his desk and picked up my wand, rolling it over his palm. “What kind of parent would I be, if I let you go, knowing all the worries you were carrying?”

I sniffed. “I don’t know.”

“I’d be a bad one,” Professor Potter countered. “That’s why I’m going to Firecall your father. I’m going to ask him to come in for a meeting tomorrow, at the same time we'd usually have our flying lesson. This is more important. I don’t think Drac- I don’t think your dad would be happy, would he, if he knew you were feeling like this? I know I wouldn’t be.” He lent back in his chair. “Everyone here is on your side, Scorpius, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. We’re going to get this sorted out.”

~

That conversation was how I came to find myself standing at the wrought iron school gates the following morning.

Thank Salazar, it was a Saturday, which meant I didn’t have lessons, and I could intercept Dad before he and I met with Professor Potter. I knew I couldn’t let my teacher casually introduce Dad’s deepest, darkest secret into our discussion without any warning. That would have been the cruellest trick in the world.

Shivering in the thin autumn sunshine, I peered through the railings, watching for the tell-tale shimmer in the wards that showed a wixen was about to Apparate inwards. My stomach grumbled, because I’d been too nervous to eat breakfast, and I yawned, because I’d scarcely slept. I was ridiculously early too, because I had to be. Dad is compulsively good-mannered, and although Professor Potter had booked Dad’s visit for ten, I knew he’d arrive long before that.

My craftiness paid off. Fifteen minutes before the hour, I felt the prickle of magic in the air, and saw a glittering just outside the school boundary.

Seconds later, a loud pop heralded Dad’s arrival. He materialised, robes flapping behind him, wearing the same smart waistcoat as he had worn before. My stomach rolled, this time more from nervous tension than hungriness, and I waved.

“Dad,” I shouted, as soon as he’d found his feet and stuck his wand back inside his sleeve. “Over here.”

Professor Potter had arranged for the school wards to welcome Dad, and the castle gates swung open to receive him. Dad rushed through them, gathered me into his arms, and gave me the biggest, deepest hug. My guilt clashed with relief, because my dad was with me, and I’ve never felt anything except safe when I’m at his side.

After too short a moment Dad released me and, in his usual manner, scrutinised my hair, face, and clothes, looking for anything which had changed. I must have passed his inspection, because the anxious lines of his face softened, and we began to walk in the direction of the castle.

“Your Professor’s owl didn’t say very much,” Dad told me. “A vaguely phrased note wanting a conversation about your progress, saying something ambiguous about a problem you’ve had with your Magical Creatures homework?” He frowned. “I wasn’t aware Professor Potter had branched out into teaching other subjects. Doesn’t Professor Broadoaks still manage the department?”

Our conversation had already veered off course and, with every step we took, we got closer and closer to the Quidditch changing rooms, and Professor Potter’s office. Gods, but this was difficult. Taking Dads arm, I pulled him off the path, and across towards a little allotment area used by the older students to grow magical plants. Luckily, it being a Saturday, the garden was deserted. There was a bench, and Dad and I sat down.

“Professor Broadoaks does, Dad,” I said. “Thing is, this homework he’s set, I can’t do it…” Halting, I wondered how to phrase what I had to say next.

Dad looked at me, reassuringly. “Carry on. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

I carried on. “I can’t do the homework, because he said we have to make a family tree for both our parents,” I explained. “That means finding out about the person who made you pregnant.” I blushed, uncomfortable even saying the word aloud. Eleven-year-olds shouldn’t have to think about such big adulty subjects. “Dru and I tried to borrow a book about pregnant wizards, but then Madam Pince caught us ‘cause it was in the restricted section.”

The worst was over, and neither Dad nor I had crumbled into a million pieces, so I ploughed on. “Madam Pince gave Dru and I detention, but when we arrived, Freddy Boscombe was there too. He tried to bully me again. Professor Potter intervened, I got upset, and I told Professor Potter everything. I’m so, so sorry, Dad,” I finished, remorse and relief mixing in a foul potion inside my belly. “I shouldn't have told him you got pregnant. I know that it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

My relief was short-lived and premature. I dared to glimpse at my dad, and I could tell my confession had left him staggered. He was grasping the side of the bench so hard that his knuckles were white. I was glad he was sitting, because had he been standing, I would have been frightened of his legs giving way.

“How did you know?” Dad questioned, his voice quiet but deadly serious.

“I’ve known since I was eight,” I told him. “We were playing Hide and Seek, and there was a picture of you in Gran’s garden. You had a…” I began, but didn’t finish, not wanting to say the word bump.

“That bloody photograph,” Dad answered. “I told your grandmother not to take it, but she will insist on documenting everything.” After breathing deeply, Dad closed his eyes. “And you’ve talked to Harry,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Have you told Drucilla?”

“Not really. I never said you were the person who’d been pregnant, and I haven’t told anyone else, I promise.” Dad hadn’t noticed that he’d switched to Harry for Professor Potter, and I didn’t tell him. “And I won’t. I swear to Merlin.”

Dad exhaled, and I could feel relief radiating off him. “I wish you’d owled me when Professor Broadoaks set the homework. I could have written to him and explained that I’d raised you alone. There was never a good reason to involve Dru in book stealing shenanigans and detentions. Friends don’t get other friends into trouble, Scorpius. Pansy will flay me alive when this gets back to her.”

Taking his wand from his sleeve, Dad sliced it through the air, casting a Tempus. A silver dial appeared in the air in front of us, telling us that we were already five minutes late for Professor Potter. Dad cast a Finite, slid his wand away, and reached over to ruffle my hair.

“Come on,” Dad told me, standing up. “Let’s get this damned meeting over with.”

~

Professor Potter was waiting outside of his office when we arrived, and even though I’m not the most observant wizard, I could tell he was anxious. His arms were folded, and an unusual nervous energy radiated from him. Even so, he was doing his best to pretend this was a regular teacher/parent appointment.

He smiled – I noticed it didn’t reach his eyes – and welcomed us inside. He offered us seats, and, without preamble, began talking.

Much of it was a repeat of everything I’d just told Dad, and I thanked Merlin I’d had the chance to give my own account in advance. Professor Potter said how well I’d been doing since I began at Hogwarts, the friends I’d made, and how well I was doing in my studies, and at flying. The elephant in the room was my dad’s pregnancy. Professor Potter avoided that subject steadfastly.

My dad listened quietly, not interrupting, his face giving nothing away about how he was feeling.

“-I’ve spoken to Professor Longbottom,” Professor Potter continued, turning his attention to me, voice professionally neutral. “Boscombe, Smythe, and Barrowclough have all been castled for the remainder of term. It’s a pattern of behaviour we’ve seen repeatedly from those boys since they began at Hogwarts. If they wish to visit Hogsmeade again, they’re going to have to prove they can behave. You have my word, Scorpius. They won’t bother you or Miss Parkinson-Nott again. As for Scorpius taking out his wand against them, I’ve spoken to your DADA teacher. We’ve agreed that two pages of parchment about the dangers of miscast spells by Friday is an appropriate punishment. Does that seem fair?”

I nodded my approval. The punishment was more than fair. By rights, I could have faced a term of detentions for raising my wand. Dad found my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

Dad spoke next. “I appreciate you taking such prompt action. However, the cause of this series of regrettable events was the homework Professor Broadoaks gave. As I’m sure you’re aware, I raised Scorpius alone without another parent present. We're a family of two. The homework doesn’t allow for a more diverse family structure. I don’t feel that’s appropriate.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what my dad had said, but I felt the tension in the office skyrocket. Any pretence that this was a regular teacher/parent meeting vanished in the blink of an eye. Professor Potter glared at Dad like he’d sworn during prayer. I tried to catch my dad’s eye, to find out what exactly had changed, but I think he had forgotten I was there.

My heart pounded. The office felt suffocatingly small and, for the first time, I could see the intensity that hid behind Professor Potter’s placid, teacherly façade. I could see the teenager who had beaten the evilest wizard alive. Dad wasn’t remotely cowed by the sight. He didn’t look away. He didn’t deflate. Dad looked at Professor Potter like he could see through him, like he could see all the way to his soul.

“I need to talk to your dad alone for a minute,” Professor Potter told me. “Could you wait in the Slytherin changing room?”

Part of me had expected this. I complied and made for the door. Dad cast a Silencio as soon as I was gone, so I didn’t overhear. However, I was wise to his trick: Dad often cast that spell to spare the blushes of his customers when it came to discussing how their magical items had found themselves broken. Phillip Goldsworthy, the boy who slept beside me in the dorm, had loaned me his Extendible Ears, and all I’d had to give him in return was a chocolate mouse.

As quickly as I could, I poked the Ear beneath the door, before scarpering to the changing room, hoping very much I’d be alone there. Thank Merlin, I was. My hands trembling, I brought the other Ear up to my own.

Immediately, I was bombarded with noise, and it was obvious that the brittle civility of their last meeting was no more. Dad was speaking in a voice I didn't recognise. It was rough with anger, white-hot and fizzing.

“I knew this would happen!” Dad shouted, so confident of his Silencio that he didn’t bother to moderate his volume. “One month with you, and it’s all detentions, rule breaking, and bloody Gryffindor recklessness! Every day, I’m on edge, waiting for the next owl to arrive. Waiting for the next disaster to happen! You don’t have the first idea what it’s like being a father, Harry! What it’s like being apart from the most precious person in your life!”

There was a long pause after Dad finished speaking, and all I could hear was heavy breathing. I wasn’t sure from whom the sound came from.

Abruptly, Professor Potter answered, breaking the silence.

“How can you say that,” Professor Potter stated, his words eerily calm, “when I’ve spent eleven years being apart from Scorpius? Eleven years, and every single day that passed, I thought about him! Eleven years of looking for his face, every time I walked down Diagon Alley. Eleven years of wondering what he looked like… You’re right, I don’t have the first idea of what it’s like being a father, but I am one. I’m his, and I’m sick of pretending I’m not. I’m sick of lying to him.”

My whole world tilted, and I almost dropped the Ear. The blood in my veins turned to ice, and even though I wanted to run away, I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot. The room around me swayed, and I gasped. Dad didn’t deny Professor Potter’s statement, but he didn’t have to, did he? It was the truth, and I think, somehow, there was a part of me that already knew.

Dad’s words from a few weeks before flew back into my brain. They hadn't made any sense at the time, but they did now. They confirmed the stark truth of Professor Potter’s words. His eyes aren’t grey like mine and Mum’s. They’re green. I notice them every time I look at him. Dad noticed them because they were the same as Professor Potter’s. Every time he saw me, Dad saw Professor Potter looking back at him.

Dad responded, as furious as Professor Potter was calm. “You’re sick of lying?” he snorted derisively. “That’s rich. You didn’t have a problem lying when I got pregnant. You were happy to lie to the whole world, and they devoured every word. You and Ginny put on quite the show. The big white wedding. The photo shoots. The Prophet articles where you professed your love. Even I might have been fooled,” Dad scoffed, “if I hadn’t been busy raising our baby.”

Professor Potter was quiet, and this time the silence seemed to stretch on for years. “You don’t need to tell me what I did. Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life. Pretending to be somebody I wasn’t. Marrying Ginny. Living the life I was told to, instead of the life I wanted. Even on my wedding day, I knew I was making a mistake. My heart, my conscience, everything was telling me to run away, telling me to come and find you… I’m sorry. It sounds trite, but I am. I’m sorry.” He sighed, and although it was still early in the day, he sounded exhausted. “And I want us to tell Scorpius the truth,” Professor Potter repeated. “I think it's time.”

There was quiet, and even through the Extendible Ears, I could feel the tension between them, thick as syrup. My head was spinning with everything I’d heard, everything I’d learnt. Dad was so silent I thought he must have Apparated away, even though I knew that it wasn’t possible inside of Hogwarts.

“Don’t you dare say a single word to Scorpius,” Dad uttered, breaking their silence, his voice more subdued now but, if anything, more biting. “You relinquished your rights before Scorpius was born. I offered you the chance to be part of our lives, but you didn’t want us, did you? You wanted to play the Saviour. You wanted your bride. I was scared! I was scared, alone, still under Ministry supervision, and forbidden to leave my home. My body was changing, I couldn’t keep anything down, and I hardly dared to seek help! I loved you, but my love was a poor prize, wasn’t it? Scorpius was a poor prize, compared to the picture-perfect existence you chose-”

“It wasn’t like that-” Professor Potter interrupted.

But Dad wasn’t remotely finished. “-and now you’re here, years down the line, wanting to play parents! I can’t risk it. I told you before, and I’ll tell you again: Scorpius isn’t your plaything. I can’t risk you breaking his heart like you did mine... I loved you, but you took my heart, and took everything we had, and tore it to pieces. I’d rather gather up Scorpius, and take him home today, than let you betray him. I can’t let that happen. So, no, Harry. You don’t get to tell him anything at all.”

My head was spinning, and I dropped Phillip’s Extendible Ears before carefully rolling them up. There’s a saying about eavesdroppers never hearing anything good and, until today, I’d never considered how true it was. I couldn’t bear to hear anything else Dad had to say. I felt sick. I stared at the scratched benches, the green leather uniforms, and the old Quidditch equipment with unseeing eyes.

My dad, the lovely, kind bloke who still drew a chocolate smile on my pancakes, and who devotedly made my bed, because he didn’t want me getting in under wrinkled blankets, had loved Professor Potter. Dad had a love affair, had gotten pregnant, and ended up left with nothing except me, and his broken heart.

I could see it all so clearly, like it was written on the back of one of Aunty Pansy’s romance novels. Professor Potter had been Dad’s one true love, once upon a time, and in all the years since, his heart hadn’t healed. There’d been no boyfriends, no dinner dates, and no bouquets of flowers.

Worst of all, I’d been the cause of Dad’s suffering. I’d ruined Dad’s life, long before I was born, and that was that. I couldn’t unhear Dad’s words. He’d been scared, poorly, and terrified of the consequences of being pregnant. I’d changed the direction of my Dad’s life forever, just by existing.

Knotting my fingers tightly, I pressed my palms together as hard as I could, wanting to shout, scream and smash things, but I couldn’t do any of that, not without attracting unwanted attention. Gods, I hated Professor Potter. I hated his stupid glasses, and his stupid lessons, and his stupid, stupid apologies.

Conscientiously, I composed myself. I wasn’t supposed to have heard their conversation, so I knew I had to keep what I'd discovered to myself. Dad was upset enough as it was. The last thing he needed was me adding problems to the potion. Carefully, I arranged my expression into something which resembled my usual cheerful self. Just as I’d done when I was eight and had found the photographs that had marked the beginning of this story, I shoved my new knowledge down to the bottom of my brain, knowing now wasn’t the time to deal with it.

When Dad had gone back to Hadden, I’d think about the ramifications of Professor Potter being my other parent. Until then, I had to wear my best brave face, and pretend that my whole life hadn’t been flipped on its side.

~

The next few weeks were a bad dream and though I wanted to, I couldn't wake up. Life at Hogwarts continued however, regardless of the chaos inside of my head. Mindlessly, I followed my timetable, brewing potions, transfiguring objects, and casting charms, but I wasn’t really in any of my classrooms. Instead, my days were spent in a haze, the voice in my head telling me, over and over, that I was the son of Professor Potter.

I didn’t want to be. When I saw Professor Potter in the Great Hall, I averted my eyes. When the Slytherins had their flying lessons, I refused to meet his gaze, even though I could feel him watching me. When I attended our Saturday morning flying practices, I rushed away, as soon as they were finished, frightened if I stayed even a minute, I’d blurt out everything I’d overheard.

Whenever I found myself alone in the dormitory, I inspected myself in the mirror, unpicking my reflection, and finding new traces of Professor Potter in my person. He was the reason my hair was curly, rather than straight like Dad’s. I saw Professor Potter in the curve of my jaw, in my knobbly knees, and in my shortsightedness, cured by a healing spell when I was nine. I longed for all those parts of me to vanish, and for everything to go back to how it was before. Nothing changed of course. My life wasn’t a phoenix, able to burn itself to ashes and begin again.

Three times I began letters to my dad, wanting to confess I’d eavesdropped, and three times I didn’t say a word.

I wanted to tell him I hated that half of me was made from my teacher. I wanted to say that Professor Potter was supposed to be a hero, was supposed to be courageous, but that I didn’t believe a word of it. Professor Potter was nothing but a fraud. He was a sham, who’d used my dad when he was at his most vulnerable, and then thrown us away like two broken wands. I wanted to tell Dad he was twice the man Professor Potter was, and that we hadn’t needed him, that we hadn’t just managed, we’d thrived.

But I didn’t say any of these things. I couldn’t. Dad’s heart had been broken by Professor Potter, and the wound had barely healed. If I tore it open, I’d ruin his life, all over again.

~

Outside of Hogwarts, the weather grew colder, and the crisp Scottish autumn was steadily replaced by winter. One early November afternoon, sat in the Library with Dru, my head aching after a long day of difficult Arithmancy sums, and complicated potions, the page of notes about Dad and Professor Potter’s early lives fell out of my folder.

Picking it up, I examined it for the umpteenth time, trying to bend the facts I already knew into a narrative. I traced the dates with the tip of my finger and thought hard. I was born in May 2000, which meant Dad and Professor Potter must still have been lovers the previous September. I presumed their breakup had happened a few months after that, when Dad discovered he was pregnant with me. What had been happening in Professor Potter’s life during the last few months of 1999? Why had he treated my Dad so callously?

I looked across at my friend. Dru wasn’t paying me any attention. Her interest was centred on the list of Ancient Runes we were supposed to have translated before tomorrow’s lesson, her quill scratching over the parchment. I decided Dru wouldn’t mind if I left her to work alone for five minutes.

I got up, pushed my chair back, and made my way over to the Magical Media Studies area. Copies of the Prophet were kept there, bound in massive volumes, and I waved my wand, Accio’ing the edition which held the latter months of 1999. Inside, the newspapers were yellowed, older than me, and absolutely jam-packed with stories about Professor Potter.

Annoyance curdled inside of me as I flicked through the pages, imagining how it must have felt for Dad to read about Auror Potter everyday – as he was titled back then – and the other life he had been living.

Auror Potter must have sold a lot of newspapers, because there was barely a day when he didn’t make the front cover. Predominantly, Professor Potter was pictured with Ginny Weasley, his ‘childhood sweetheart and true love,’ – a phrase the Prophet enjoyed repeating ad nauseam - but often he was pictured with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, or other school friends.

It didn’t really matter what Auror Potter was doing – shopping, sitting outside of a pub, or even waiting at St Mungo’s – everything was worth writing a detailed article about. Despite everything I’d discovered about Professor Potter, I couldn’t help the tiny flicker of sympathy I felt for him. Reporters and paparazzi must have followed him every minute of every day.

Dust rose from the papers, getting into my nose, and making me sneeze. I was wasting my time. Whatever had happened between Dad and Professor Potter, the answer wasn’t in the Prophet. The newspaper painted Professor Potter’s life as idyllic, gossiping everyday about his heroic Auror exploits, his upcoming wedding, and about how his future as Minister for Magic was assured.

In fact, the only snippet of genuine news came from late November 1999. Looking very much like a deer who’d spied a dragon flying overhead, Auror Potter was photographed with Gawain Robards, the heavyset, red-faced Head of the Auror Office, on the Prophet front cover. ‘Saviour Made Auror Department Deputy: Potter Ministry Future Looks Bright’ was the adjoining headline.

Determined that my search wouldn’t be a waste of time, I jotted the date of the newspaper, and wrote Potter given Auror promotion in my notes.

The moment I closed the volume it hit me like a dozen lead cauldrons. It was obvious how Dad and Professor Potter had met after the War. Professor Potter had been an Auror, hadn't he? The job of the Auror Office was to protect the magical world from Dark wixen, and those who had associated with them.

A cold, nauseating wave rolled down my spine. It was the job of the Aurors to protect the magical world from wizards like my dad. Wizards who had been convicted by the Wizengamot. Their affair must have begun after Professor Potter visited Dad as part of his daily work.

I waved my wand furiously, sending the volume back to its empty spot on the shelf. I knew I had to be right: nothing else made sense. There must have been an Auror responsible for Dad’s conduct whilst he served his house arrest, somebody who monitored the wards, and who visited him to make sure he hadn’t somehow circumvented the spells. That could easily have been Auror Potter’s job.

Professor Potter would have been one of very few visitors my dad got. Aunty Pansy and Uncle Theo had lived in France after the War, Gran had already moved to Hadden, and I expect Dad’s other Slytherin friends were keeping their distance: the Malfoy name had been mud. It wasn’t any wonder Dad had fallen in love, was it? He must have been very lonely. A kind face, and a few friendly words, and he would have given his heart away in no time at all.

When I arrived back at the table, Dru pushed her finished Ancient Runes homework at me, called me a lazy git, told me to get it copied, and informed me I owed her a Fizzing Whizzbee for doing all the hard slog. I agreed and, as I copied out her translations, I pondered my discovery.

One thing was for sure: Professor Potter shouldn’t have been having an affair with my dad. I might only have been eleven, but even I knew what he’d done went completely against the rules.

I bit my lip, my quill skittering over the parchment, and my brain working overtime. Back in 1999, Professor Potter had been the biggest celebrity in the wizarding world. He’d been featured in the Prophet almost daily and touted as a future Minister for Magic. If news of his affair with Dad had gotten out, all of that would have been ruined. His clean-cut fairytale wedding to Ginny Weasley would have been exposed as a pile of lies, and his reputation – and his posh promotion – would have been in tatters.

I decided that must be why Professor Potter was so repentant and rueful with Dad when he’d last visited Hogwarts. He must have been trying to wheedle his way back into Dad’s good books. He mightn’t be as famous as he once was but, even now, if their love affair became public knowledge, Professor Potter would still be in seriously hot water. There’d be an enormous scandal and weeks of Prophet front covers.

Copying the last rune, I felt the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle slot into place, and I finally saw the whole picture. When Dad had told Professor Potter that he was pregnant, my teacher must have dropped Dad faster than a hot coal. He’d run away, denied all knowledge. He’d known it was Dad’s word against his, and who would believe a Marked criminal against the Saviour of the world? Nobody would.

The last bit of proof, in my opinion, was Dad being allowed to move up north to Hadden before his house arrest had ended. That was unorthodox. Clearly, Professor Potter had pulled a few strings. He’d wanted Dad – and me, of course – out of his way. If we lived in a remote village, the chances of anybody linking Dad to him were small. If Dad and I were out of sight, we were out of mind, and Professor Potter could pretend we hadn’t ever existed.

After blotting my homework, I rolled it up, and placed it in my bag. Dru linked her arm through my elbow and whispered something about getting to the Great Hall before the third years arrived. Alfie Blewitt, the Ravenclaw who was the current object of her affections, would already be there, and she wanted to get a decent seat close beside him.

We made our way out of the Library, while I wondered how, exactly, I was going to get through tomorrow’s Saturday flying practice with Professor Potter without telling him he was the lowest form of life, and that the average Flobberworm was more gallant than he was.

~

When my flying lesson arrived the next day, I didn’t say those things to Professor Potter. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to, and I’d have liked to say more besides, but I knew I couldn’t.

Dad would have been horrified if I had gotten detention after a half-baked, impulsive attempt at defending him. Good manners have always meant a lot to my dad, and he’d taught me how important they were from a young age. ‘Your mood shouldn’t dictate your manners,’ had been one of Dad’s favourite mottoes when I was younger, whenever I couldn’t ride my bicycle or spell out a word, and the words had stuck.

Even so, Professor Potter must soon have realised I was angry. Unwisely, I hadn’t eaten breakfast because my belly was already full of hurt and resentment, which only made my bad mood worse. The atmosphere between us could have been cut with a knife. I kept my gaze pinned to the faded scar on Professor Potter’s forehead and didn’t meet his eyes.

Half of me hoped Professor Potter would get bored of my prickliness and dismiss me early. He didn’t. First, we practised hovering, and keeping our broomsticks steady. Then Professor Potter had me fly around a course through hoops. Flying had been a big challenge when I’d first arrived at school, but it had gotten easy enough that I was able to perform the flying drills intuitively. I didn’t want Professor Potter’s compliments; I only wanted our lesson to finish.

Unfortunately, Professor Potter was as stubborn as I was. The pair of us flew for forty-five minutes and only then did he suggest we took a break.

“I’ve brought Pumpkin Juice, sandwiches, and fruit,” Professor Potter said, gesturing to the wooden bench we’d sat on before. “I think we both need to take five, rehydrate, and get our breath back.”

Although I didn’t want anything from Professor Potter, sandwiches, and pop both sounded brilliant. Flying on no breakfast was exhausting, I was famished, and my legs felt like they’d been hit with a Jelly Legs Jinx. I needed a sit down so, half-heartedly, I took a seat and watched Professor Potter as he unpacked our picnic.

From this perspective, I could see the shape of Professor Potter’s ears, see the muscles in his neck, and observe how thick and untameable his hair was. Instinctively, I brought my hand up to my own hair, exploring its texture, and remembering how easily knotted it was. When I was littler Dad had despaired of it, tsk’ing as he brushed the tangles from it, and calling me his unruly creature. Dad must have known he was brushing the curls out of his ex-lover’s hair, but he hadn’t once objected.

Professor Potter handed me a Pumpkin Juice, and I took a sip, the bubbles fizzing in my mouth and, as I drank, my thoughts drifted even further.

Who would I look most like, I wondered, when I grew up? I glanced at the backs of my hands, wrapped around the bottle. They were still smooth, soft, and childlike, but perhaps they’d start to sprout dark hairs on their backs, just like the ones that covered Professor Potter’s.

Then, a mildly more alarming thought occurred. Would I have to start shaving soon? Professor Potter’s chin was often bristly, and I imagined he must need to shave daily. When puberty arrived properly, would my body transform into something that resembled Professor Potter’s? Would my voice break, and his emerge? These were strange, disconcerting images, and I didn’t want to dwell on them. Growing up was a worrying enough prospect as it was.

Instead, I speculated what, exactly, it had been about Professor Potter that had made Dad fall so deeply in love with him. Surely it couldn’t just have been proximity, loneliness, and a few kind words. There must have been something else, but Merlin, I couldn’t see it.

Everything about Professor Potter, from his scruffy Muggle trainers and tracksuits to his love of flying, was different to my dad. Their appearances, upbringings, and even their mannerisms were poles apart. Dad was reserved, Professor Potter was outgoing. Dru’s romance novels had taught me opposites attract, but it was hard to imagine Dad and Professor Potter laughing, cuddling, and kissing, and yet they must have done, once upon a time. I was the living proof of that.

Placing the bottle on the bench beside me, I picked a sandwich up and took a bite.

I supposed I didn’t know much of anything about love; after all, I was only a kid. How did I know who fit together, and who didn’t? Uncle Theo and Aunty Pansy weren’t remotely similar people but, doubtlessly, they loved each other deeply. When they’d been a couple, had Professor Potter vanished the aura of solitude that sometimes drifted around Dad? Had Professor Potter, with his Muggle trainers, and his old-fashioned glasses, and his ridiculously curly hair, been the one person who could make my dad happy?

Hopelessly lost in my deliberations, I swallowed my bite of cheese-and-pickle and spoke before thinking. “Do you ever think about Dad?”

Frankly, if I’d asked Professor Potter what it felt like to vanquish Voldemort using only an Expelliarmus, I think he’d have been less astonished. His face swivelled around so that it was facing mine, and his hand, still holding his own sandwich, hovered in mid-air. His green eyes stared, and I wished I was anywhere else in the world. That moment, I’d rather have been trapped in a locked room with Freddy Boscombe than have to wriggle out of what I’d just asked.

Belatedly, Professor Potter realised he was brandishing his sandwich, and he placed it back onto the brown paper it’d arrived in.

“Your Dad?” Professor Potter questioned, red creeping up his neck, his blush matching my own. “Draco Malfoy?”

I was glad that he and I were alone on the practice field. Had anyone seen us, they might have thought how alike the two of us looked.

“Do you ever think about being a dad?” I corrected, hoping I’d covered up my mistake. I hated how on the nose the question was, but that couldn’t be helped. Slytherins are supposed to be quick and cunning, and for once, I think Salazar might have been proud of me. “Professor Broadoaks and Madam Penhaligon both have children,” I improvised. “They came to Hogwarts.”

I expect you’re thinking that dishonesty and secrets were the cause of this gigantic mess, and that, surely, being honest was the path to take? But I couldn’t. If I hadn’t told Dad that I knew yet, I certainly wasn’t going to tell Professor Potter. My anger was still very powerful, even though it wasn’t as red hot as it’d been while I was flying. I was still coming to terms with the identity of my other parent, and I wasn’t ready to be out about the fact yet.

If Professor Potter was confused by the swerve the conversation had taken, he didn’t show it. He picked his sandwich back up, took another bite, and chewed thoughtfully. Then, after he’d swallowed, he answered. “I often think about being a dad,” he answered, his words surprising me. “Professor Broadoaks and Madam Penhaligon are both lucky, living at Hogwarts and having their family around them.”

I bristled. Why were they lucky? Professor Potter could have been lucky, had he not thrown Dad and I away. I picked up my Pumpkin Juice, just so I’d have something to do with my hands. I hoped Professor Potter’s answer was the end of it, but he continued. It was obvious I’d touched a nerve.

“Sometimes it feels like everyone in the world knows my story,” Professor Potter said. “How my parents both died when I was a baby and how, afterwards, I was placed with relatives who were… Let’s say they were indifferent about my welfare.” He shook his head, and I got the feeling these were words which had circled around his head for a long while. His expression was distant. “Even before I ever knew I was a wizard, I knew I wanted a family, Scorpius… I wanted the husband, the children, and the dog kipping in front of the fireplace.” He shrugged, and it was as if he came back to the present. “It was a silly daydream… Something to while away the days while I lived with people who disapproved of magic, and every other thing about me.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I concentrated on eating my sandwich, although I couldn’t taste anything anymore. Professor Potter’s words had left me discombobulated.

On one hand, my heart ached for the little boy he’d been, and how badly he’d been treated. He was right, I did know his story. I knew about the cupboard under the stairs, about the cruelty, and the Dursley’s lying about how Professor Potter’s parents had died.

But, on the other hand, didn’t his past make his treatment of my Dad even worse? Professor Potter had known how it was to be lonely, how it was to be afraid, and he’d recklessly inflicted those experiences onto my kind, lovely Dad. It didn’t matter what Dad had done in the War, or whether he was Marked. Professor Potter shouldn’t have treated him the way he had. He ought to have known better.

Another wave of anger rolled down my spine. Family and fatherhood hadn’t been a silly daydream at all, had it? That life had been there, presented on a plate, but Professor Potter had rejected it!

He’d rejected Dad, and he’d rejected me. Dad and he could have built a life, had only Professor Potter been braver. We could have lived in Northumberland, or France, or anywhere. Merlin, but Hydrus would kip in front of the fireplace wherever. Something shifted inside of me, when I imagined our daft old Crup, and thought about my dad walking him alone every evening while I was at Hogwarts.

Suddenly I didn’t care that I’d get into trouble for eavesdropping, and I didn’t care if Professor Potter put me in detention. I needed to take the step I hadn’t known I was ready for.

“You could have had a family,” I told Professor Potter, proud my voice didn’t wobble. “You could have, if you’d stayed with my dad.”

I’ll give Professor Potter credit. He took my comment, and all its implications, in his stride. He’d realised, I think, that I knew his and Dad’s secret. A crow had taken interest in our sandwiches, and he tore off a corner of his, and threw it down for them to eat. They swooped on their prize and flew away with it in their beak.

When he spoke again, Professor Potter’s voice was matter of fact. “You know, don’t you?”

“That you’re my other parent?” I answered, with a nod, not wanting to use dad, or father, because he didn’t deserve that title.

The crow returned just then, hoping for another prize, and I threw them the remains of my sandwich. They pecked it, pleased, and Professor Potter and I watched them. It seemed ludicrous that a thing so commonplace had happened in the middle of a life altering conversation. Time had slowed to a trickle, and the heat of my anger had been doused with sadness. I was trying very hard not to cry.

“How long have you known?” Professor Potter asked, his face very composed.

“Not long,” I said, figuring that now the owl was out of enclosure, I might as well tell the whole truth. “Only for three weeks. I listened in, when Dad came to Hogwarts. Phillip Goldsworthy lent me his Extendible Ears,” I explained, the words all coming out in a rush, “and I heard everything. I heard how you left him, and how scared he was, and I heard about the Prophet, and the wedding, and- “

The lump in my throat was too big, and too hard for me to speak any longer, and suddenly I couldn’t stand to be sat there anymore.

Not caring about good manners, I stood, and began running back towards the castle.

~

I spent the rest of Saturday hiding in the Slytherin dungeons. I skived the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Quidditch match and ate sweets instead of going to the Great Hall for meals. I did the Potions homework I’d been avoiding, read a couple of chapters of The Hobbit and, in the evening, Dru, Katie, and I played a couple of rounds of Cursing Chimaera. It really helped. The Chimaera cards insulted the three of us dreadfully, and I laughed so much my sides hurt.

By the time I was getting ready for bed, I felt lighter, and I realised that telling the truth to Professor Potter had been a good thing. The burden of his, and Dad’s past had been a heavy weight on my shoulders, and now it had lightened. Perhaps Professor Potter wouldn’t ever mention it again, and we’d carry on as we had, student and teacher, for the rest of my time at Hogwarts. Perhaps he’d owl Dad and insist on another meeting. The Quaffle was his to play with.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long. Night fell, and I pulled the curtains around my bed, changed into my pyjamas, and was just about to pull back my sheets when I noticed an envelope propped up against the photograph of Dad on the nightstand.

My heart fluttered. I recognised Professor Potter’s handwriting from the notices in the Slytherin changing rooms.

Quickly, I tore it open, letting the envelope drop to the floor. There was one piece of parchment inside. My dormitory was chilly, so I climbed in bed, and tucked the quilt around me. I set a Lumos on my wand and listened to the sounds of Phillip and the other lads settling in for the night. They wouldn’t question my wand being lit, because I often read for an hour or so after lights out.

Dear Scorpius,

I’m not the wordiest wizard in the world, so this letter might not be very eloquent. I’m sorry about that, just like I’m sorry about lots of other things. I’ve made so many mistakes.

I suppose the best place to start is to say thank you. Thank you for telling me you knew I was your father – is that an okay word to say? I don’t even know! – and thank you for telling me you’d overheard Draco and me talking.

I’m sure you don’t think much of me right now. I don’t blame you for being angry at me. All I can say in my defence is exactly what I said to Draco. There hasn’t been a day during the last eleven years where I haven’t thought about you, and imagined what you might be doing, saying, and thinking. Every Christmas, every birthday, every day, I’ve yearned to be a part of your life. Even though I’d never met you before September, I’ve missed you terribly.

I can see how much you love and care about your Dad. It’s obvious, just seeing the two of you together. Draco loves you fiercely; if you were in danger, he would walk on water to get to you. I loved him too, loved him with everything I had, and even though you mightn’t believe it, I’m glad you’ve had each other, for all the years you've been alive.

Today, you said I could have shared in that, been part of your family. I only wish I could have been, Scorpius. You, and Draco, were all I ever wanted.

If you overheard our whole conversation, then you’ll know I said I wanted to tell you the truth. I’m glad you know who I am. Ever since you began at Hogwarts, I’ve wanted to tell you everything. When we’ve met every Saturday, I’ve had to swallow the words.

As for the future, what happens next, that’s completely up to you. I promised Draco I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. I won’t put any pressure on you: that’s a given. I, however, would love us to get to know one another better. The Saturday mornings we’ve spent flying together are the highlight of my week. It wouldn’t have to be anything heavy; an hour or so eating sweets and playing cards sounds brilliant to me.

When – and if – that sounds like a good plan, I’ll be here.

Harry.

I read the letter twice, flabbergasted.

I was supposed to loathe Professor Potter, but I found that I couldn’t. If Dad, and his pregnancy with me was such a disaster, why would he want to pursue a relationship with me now? Even more importantly, why would Professor Potter say he’d loved Dad? That we were all he’d ever wanted?

I turned the parchment over, looking for any sign or letter that I’d missed, or any indication Professor Potter was lying. There wasn’t any.

Cautiously, I slid out of bed, refolded the letter, and hid it in the bottom of my trunk. I couldn’t risk an idiot like Freddy Boscombe getting hold of it and selling it to the Prophet for a bucket of Galleons. It wasn’t only Professor Potter’s privacy at stake, but mine, and Dad’s too.

I got back into my bed, and Nox’ed the light, more confused than ever before.

~

During the next week, Professor Potter’s letter, and his suggestion of getting to know me, weighed heavily on my mind. Like he’d promised, he didn’t pressure me, and didn’t mention his request, even during our Saturday flying lesson.

On paper, my answer ought to have been easy: a clear-cut, resounding no. In eleven years, I hadn’t needed another parent. Dad was all I needed. In real life, my answer wasn’t anywhere near as simple.

Professor Potter was genuine in his offer, I was certain of it. Nothing in his letter fitted with the picture I’d carefully pieced together of a conniving, fame-hungry, heart-shattering fraud. The very fact the letter existed ran counter to that theory. It was a confession of sorts, wasn’t it? Not only did the letter confirm his and Dad’s love affair, but it was definite proof of my parentage. Professor Potter had taken a huge risk writing this down and leaving it beside my bed.

The letter, hidden in my trunk, irritated the edge of my consciousness like a midge bite, and I read it so often I memorised every word.

~

The path out of my puzzlement arrived a few days later, from a very surprising source: a copy of Witch Weekly which Katie Sedgewick had brought to History of Magic with her.

It was the second lesson of the day, still forever until morning break, and Professor Binns wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to us. He was distracted by something outside of the classroom and kept fading away for minutes at a time. Even when he was present, he appeared more transparent than usual, and his voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.

We'd been studying the Hundred-Year Goblin War for three lessons already and, after he’d waffled about Europe’s borders in 1582, or something equally mind-numbing, Professor Binns set us the task of listing the causes of the war in our schoolbooks. Then he promptly disappeared.

As soon as she was sure Professor Binns was gone, Katie pulled the magazine from her satchel, and flicked it open on the desk, so that she, Dru, and I could all see it.

“Something decent to read,” Katie murmured, grinning. “Latest issue. Mum sent it this morning. There’s an interview with Blake Grey!”

Blake Grey, Seeker for the Thetford Thunderbirds, was the favourite crush of nearly every girl – and most of the boys – in the first year. I’m very unsure of where my preference lies regarding fancying people, but I must admit, I was interested in reading the article: after all, Blake Grey is a whizz on a broomstick, and he’d be playing my precious Appleby later in the season. Without hesitation, I pushed away my history books.

Moments later, when I saw the article, my heart skipped a beat. Witch Weekly had an exclusive, and their headline loudly proclaimed it to the world: Blake Grey To Marry Ginny Weasley: ‘A Love Match Made To Last.’

Dru and Katie squeaked in excitement, before devouring the celebrity gossip. Neither of them looked at me, thank Merlin. My face was hot, and I didn't doubt I was blushing. It seemed that wherever I went, I couldn’t escape reminders of Dad, Professor Potter, and the letter still hidden in my trunk.

Ginny Weasley was the reason Professor Potter had left my dad. She was his childhood sweetheart; the witch he’d married on the day I was born. Ginny Weasley was beautiful, even I could see that. I watched her in the magazine photographs as she and her new lover left a restaurant. The paparazzi cameras flashed and her face gazed at Blake Grey with unmistakable adoration.

Professor Binns materialised back in the classroom, and Katie quickly hid the magazine under her history book. He droned on, starting in the middle of a sentence like he’d never left the room and, surreptitiously, I pulled the magazine towards me. Some things in life were more important than the History of Magic.

I wasn’t interested in the Hundred-Year Goblin War any longer. The article went into detail about both player’s pasts, and I wanted to know all about Ginny Weasley’s. The witch was a big part of Professor Potter’s past, so she was a part of mine and Dad’s too.

Luckily for me, the interviewer - a columnist called Romilda Vane - hadn’t been afraid to snoop.

This isn’t the first trip down the aisle for either Ginny or Blake, Vane had written. Famously, Ginny’s first husband was the legendary ‘Boy Who Lived’ Harry Potter. Their marriage was considered a beacon of light in postwar Britain, and a triumph of love over evil. Indeed, many commentators at the time claimed the event marked the start of a ‘new golden age’ for the wizarding world.

Any dawn heralded was, however, a false one. Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter divorced five years later, to the shock of the country. The Saviour moved to Scotland, and has subsequently lived a quiet life at Hogwarts School, whereas Ms Weasley chose a different path and remained in London. Ginny focused on building her successful Quidditch career and has led Britain’s national Quidditch team to some of their greatest successes in the last fifty years.

When I asked Ginny how her new betrothal to Blake compared with her previous experience, this was her answer. “It’s night and day. A completely different situation. I loved Harry, of course I did, he was my childhood sweetheart … But I sleepwalked into our wedding. I was a teenager, grieving for my brother, and trying to do what would make my family, and everyone else happy… The night before the wedding, there were fireworks over London, and I remember watching them out of the window, thinking about all the crowds who had already gathered. That’s when I knew it was too late to call things off… This time around, I don’t have any doubts whatsoever. This relationship is ours. Nobody else’s. It isn’t a sticking plaster, or a publicity stunt. This love affair,” Ginny said, gesturing first to Blake and then to herself, “is my happy ending.”

These were strong words from the famous Harpy, and it was obvious to everyone how deeply in love both Quidditch players were with each other. After Ginny’s declaration, Blake Grey gave his fiancée a passionate kiss, apparently unable to resist any longer.

Perhaps I’m an idealist, but if this isn’t true love, I cannot fathom what is-

Abruptly, I shoved the magazine away, aware that Professor Binns had hovered over to our table. The last thing I wanted was more points taken from Slytherin. The rest of the first years had finally forgotten the five Dru and I had lost in the Library. Picking up my quill, I copied the dates out of the textbook, schooling my face to appear studious.

It must have fooled our teacher, because he floated away without speaking. Ginny Weasley’s words repeated in my head, giving me pause. She’d called her marriage to Professor Potter a sticking plaster, and a publicity stunt.

There’d been tremendous external pressure for them to marry, that much was evident. Their marriage had been at the behest of other people. I thought back to the yellowed Prophets I'd read in the Library. The wedding had been massive news, and every aspect had been reported on. A live broadcast of it had even played on the wireless.

That was when it hit me, a startling revelation whilst sitting in a draughty classroom, the ink drying at the end of my quill. I wasn’t a love expert, but it was obvious: there wasn’t anyone else for either Dad or Professor Potter, was there? There never had been.

Dad hadn’t loved anyone else since Professor Potter. His whole life had revolved around fixing magical objects, around our small Hadden home, and around building a happy life for the two of us.

But Professor Potter’s life had been equally lonely. His marriage to Ginny Weasley hadn’t been a loving, fulfilling partnership and, as far as I could tell, there hadn’t been anybody else for him either. He lived in a Professor’s apartment in Hogwarts castle. He spent his free time refereeing Quidditch games.

Professor Potter was alone. My dad was alone. Neither had a significant other in their lives. The words swam on the page of my history book, and I couldn’t read a word.

I’d had the best idea ever.

My brain fizzed and buzzed. Dad was lonely, and it was in my power to change that. A surge of excitement vibrated through me. I could get them back together.

Professor Potter was Dad’s One True Love.

Ginny Weasley had called Blake Grey her happy ending; it was within my power to give Dad the same outcome. All I had to do was say yes to Professor Potter’s suggestion. By getting to know him better, I could scope out what had really happened before I was born. I would poke, probe, delve, and find out why Professor Potter had really left Dad and, more importantly, discover whether Professor Potter still loved Dad, like he said he did in the letter.

If his motives were genuine - and I hoped they were - then my idea could be accomplished. First, Dad and Professor Potter would have to realise their feelings. Then I'd have to find a way to get them together again. I wasn’t daft. I knew that’d be the complicated part. Professor Potter had hurt Dad badly, which meant he very much wasn’t Dad’s favourite person right now.

I decided I’d have to worry about that obstacle when I got there. If Aunty Pansy’s romance novels weren’t fibbing, happy endings only occurred after you’d conquered a few gigantic stumbling blocks. Dad wouldn’t like the idea of me matchmaking on his behalf, but he didn’t have to know, did he? Until I was sure of Professor Potter’s feelings, I wouldn't say a word to anyone, not even Dru.

Gravely, I reminded myself I wouldn’t be agreeing to the meetings with Professor Potter for myself. Not at all. I’d never longed for a perfect, traditional family. I’d be doing this for Dad, because of the air of loneliness which surrounded him, and because if anyone deserved a happy ending, it was him. If Professor Potter was the shape Dad’s happy ending came in, then so be it.

It was all I could think about for the rest of the lesson. Katie and Dru rolled their eyes and teased me for swooning over the pictures of Blake Grey.

“Get your own copy,” Katie giggled, snatching her magazine back, and dropping it back in her satchel.

I laughed along, pretending to confirm their suspicions when, in reality, my brain was whirring. Part of me wanted to scarper, just as soon as the bell rang, and run to Professor Potter’s office, but knew I couldn’t. If my plan was going to have the slightest, teeniest chance of working, I’d have to use every ounce of Slytherin cleverness I possessed. I needed to play the long game.

Even so, the rest of the day was a torture of waiting. I couldn’t focus on my lessons or follow any threads of conversation. Dru called me a dunderhead during lunch, because I missed an entire discussion about whether our house Quidditch team had a chance against Hufflepuff.

Even Charms, usually my favourite lesson, didn’t capture my attention, when it really ought to have done. We were charming our spell books to remember the page we’d finished reading up to, and to open onto the right page. It would have been a terrifically useful skill to know. Madam Sadavir was confused by my lack of progress and, at the end of the lesson, said “I’d been a million miles away.”

But I hadn’t been a million miles away though. I’d been far closer, daydreaming about Hadden, and wondering what Dad was doing at that very moment.

Likely he'd have been downstairs in the workshop, goading a smashed enchanted mirror into telling the truth once more, or fixing the locks on a jewellery box that deliberately stole its owner’s possessions. Perhaps the wireless would be playing in the background, and Dad would be humming along, or maybe he’d stop, partway through the afternoon, and take his tea out into the garden. He'd cast a warming spell over himself as he sat on the cracked wooden bench that I knew was one of his favourite places.

I wondered if Dad’s mind ever drifted back to Professor Potter. Did he remember their time together with fondness? Did he smile, secretly, when he remembered their conversations? There’d been something powerful between them, and I was sure their flame wasn’t yet extinguished.

At last, after a school day that had lasted half a millennia, dinnertime arrived, and as always, the first years congregated in the least popular part of the Great Hall: nearest the stage, and luckily for me, nearest the Professors.

Dinner was fish, chips, and peas, and bread-and-butter pudding – usually a treat – but today I couldn’t eat much, and I pushed the food around my plate. I had no appetite. Professor Potter was sitting amongst the other teachers, between Professors Broadoaks and Longbottom, and I felt his presence keenly. All around me the conversation buzzed, but I only picked up the occasional word. Dru and Katie – both bored of my odd behaviour – giggled about something or other. Twice, three times, I glanced at Professor Potter. The last thing I wanted was for him to leave, before I got a chance to talk to him.

Finally, I got my opportunity. Three quarters of an hour had passed, the hordes congregating around the tables had thinned, and the school House Elves were darting around, Levitating plates and bowls onto trolleys. I overheard Professor Potter tell one of them how much he’d enjoyed his food.

Hastily, I gathered my satchel. I’m doing this for Dad, I told myself, over and over. Professor Potter was Dad’s One True Love. Uncertainty wasn’t an option. I forced myself to step over to where Professor Potter had stood, still talking to Professor Longbottom. Their conversation paused when they saw me. He waited courteously, his manner professional, giving me time to speak.

“Sir,” I said, my tone hopeful, trying to ignore the writhing knot of nerves that wriggled in my belly, “I’ve been thinking about that thing you offered me… The extra lessons? I’ve thought about it a lot, and, um… Yes. I’m up for it. If you’re still willing.”

If Professor Potter was surprised about my sudden change of heart, he didn’t show it. His demeanour didn’t change, and his expression didn’t alter. Beside him, Professor Longbottom waited, oblivious to the significance of my teacher’s answer. Time slowed, and the dull sound of chattering around us faded away.

“More than willing,” Professor Potter answered, and I noticed the smallest hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Shall we begin this Saturday?”

~

After that, my days seemed to race forwards, slipping past as quickly as sand in a timer. The next three weeks were the most settled I’d known since starting at Hogwarts. My daily routine of meals, lessons and friends became second nature and, for the first time, I began to understand why Dad had enjoyed his school days as much as he had.

My classes were all going as well as could be expected. Madam Sadavir said my Charms work was outstanding and even my Potions grades were good. Thanks to all the extra tuition my flying improved, and the sense of freedom being in the air gave me was addictive. I still wasn’t the perfect flyer, not by any definition of the word, but there was no doubt I was slowly getting better: nobody had called me Scorp the Scaredy-Cat in ages. Katie Sedgewick said I’d be the Slytherin Seeker one day, but I think she was pulling my leg.

Outside of lessons, I was enjoying myself too. Phillip Goldsworthy – Extendable Ears owner and chocolate mouse enthusiast – had become a good friend, and the two of us had joined the Muggle film club together. Freddy Boscombe gave me the occasional nasty glare, but he never spoke to me, or to Dru, which suited us both just fine. I was excited about a January trip to the Orkney Islands to observe Hippocampi in the wild which Professor Broadoaks had announced and, best of all, Hogwarts Castle had been decorated for Christmas. Four of the largest fir trees I’d ever seen were placed in each corner of the Great Hall, and each was decorated in the charmed sparkling colours of one of the four Hogwarts houses.

Every other day, I’d write to my Dad, telling him about my lessons, my flying, and the adventures I had with my friends, and I always made sure to fill the parchment with good news. I didn’t want to give Dad anything to worry about. There was one glaring omission in my letters, however: my weekly getting-to-know-one-another meetings with Professor Potter, or as I was allowed to call him when the two of us were alone, Harry.

At first it felt odd, calling a Professor by their first name, a bit discourteous. But I couldn’t very well call him father, or papa, or anything like that, so Harry was a good compromise.

Publicly, nothing had changed between Harry and me. During lessons he was still Professor Potter, I was still his student, and he treated me exactly as he always had. Our Saturday flying lessons were the same, too. We ran through the same practice manoeuvres, then threw a Bludger between us, and ended the hour racing towards the goals and back. Afterwards I showered, dressed in my weekend togs, and made my way back up to the castle, where Harry would be waiting.

We met in the Room of Requirement, a place I'd heard rumours about, but wasn't sure was real. But Harry, who had a knack for finding it, told me about the times he’d used it as a student, and how he and his friends had used it for spell practice, and even as a place to sleep.

The Room of Requirement, Harry told me, remade itself every time it was used, recreating itself into exactly what was needed. For our getting-to-know-one-another meetings, the Room recreated itself into a small sitting room which bore more than a little resemblance to my home at Hadden.

The fireplace would already be lit, warming the room but never oppressively. Its furniture consisted of mismatched, squashy settees, a small table, and a vast pile of board games.

Harry would bring a small picnic of cakes, sandwiches, and Pumpkin Juice, which we’d share between us before we decided which game we’d play. We soon discovered it was easier to play, and have something to do, rather than focus only on talking.

I introduced Harry to Cursing Chimaera - he laughed so hard at the insults that he needed to take off his glasses and rub his eyes - and he taught me how to play Crazy Eights, a Muggle game he’d learnt before he ever knew he was a wizard.

Harry was interested in every aspect of my life. He wanted to know all about my favourite books, my favourite foods and what I got up to with my friends. Harry never butted in, belittled me, or seemed to think anything I said was silly. He asked lots of questions, but was rather less keen to talk about himself, his past, or his life before Hogwarts. “I’d rather listen to you,” was Harry’s usual remark, whenever I tried to probe. “You’re far more interesting.”

Our conversations ranged from the profound: Harry’s regret at missing my childhood, or how little the Wizarding World had really changed since the War, to the insignificant: the latest Appleby success, how much homework I’d been given, or Peeve’s latest exploits. I discovered I was learning a lot from him too: Harry knew more about Muggle history, and Muggle sports than Dad did. He told me about footy matches, about the Channel Tunnel, and promised, one day, he’d take me on an aeroplane.

Sometimes – often – I’ll admit, I felt guilty. Had Dad known I was playing cards with Harry, calling him by his first name, and playing happy families, he’d have been devastated. But I steeled myself against my worries, and promised myself it was all for a good cause.

Unfortunately for me, my dad was the single subject that stayed completely and utterly taboo during our getting-to-know-one-another meetings. Every time I brought Dad up - casually mentioning a book Dad had read that Harry might enjoy, or telling Harry about an interesting magical object Dad had fixed - Harry deftly changed the subject, sidestepping Dad entirely.

It was all a bit disappointing. If my dad wasn’t up for debate, my matchmaking plan couldn’t proceed, and both he and Harry would stay stubbornly lonely.

~

It was during our fourth week of getting-to-know-one-another meetings that I decided to take the dragon by the horns. Time was ticking on, Christmas was rapidly approaching, and if I wasn’t careful, I knew I’d be getting back on the Hogwarts Express without having made a single bit of progress with the matchmaking plan. By now Harry and I had talked about all sorts of things, but Dad hadn’t been one of them.

A more direct approach was required. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, and once we’d finished flying for the day, Harry and I met in the Room of Requirement. I’d been nervous all morning but paying attention to staying airborne had taken most of my concentration. Now though, my heart was hammering against my ribs. I was nervous, but I was resolute; it was time to brew the potion or put away the cauldron.

Harry, who’d already been there for a couple of minutes, was spreading custard creams onto a plate as I entered, and I felt a small wave of fondness for the wizard I was getting to know. They weren’t Gran’s butter biscuits, not by a long shot, but I’d told Harry I liked them, and he’d remembered.

“I thought your pivoting had really improved this morning,” Harry said, acknowledging my presence with a smile. “Takes a bit of practice, getting that manoeuvre really fluid. But you’re getting there.” Harry plonked himself onto his usual settee. “What d’you fancy playing today? There’s Exploding Snap, if you’re not particularly fond of your eyebrows.”

Usually, I’d have loved a game of Exploding Snap – Dad taught me aged six, and I’m a whizz at it – but today I shook my head. Worried I’d lose my nerve, I’d come to the Room of Requirement prepared, and I reached into my satchel. My fingers found their prize almost immediately: a photo album, given to me by Gran the day before I came to Hogwarts. My gran adores snapping pictures, and takes them at every birthday, Christmas, and random celebration. Dad and I complain, but we don’t mind, not really. Not that Gran would ever stop. In her words, “life is too short to miss a moment.”

It was too late to doubt myself. I pulled the album out and thrust it at Harry, who took it from me automatically, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“Photographs?” Harry asked, opening the album randomly on a picture of my sixth birthday. Gran had made me a cake shaped like a duck – my obsession at the time – and caught me at the very moment I blew out the candle stuck in the middle of its head. A magical photograph, it repeated over and over, and Harry watched as Dad clapped gleefully, before leaning over to kiss me on the cheek.

Harry’s cheeks coloured pink, but I couldn't tell what he was feeling, or what reaction he’d have to being confronted. More than once he’d voiced his regrets about missing my childhood, but that was a very different thing to seeing it play out in front of me.

“You were so small,” Harry murmured, more to himself than to me. He turned the pages slowly, his eyes never leaving the images stuck neatly within. I knew each one by heart: most were copies of framed photographs decorating the walls at home. There were pictures of Dad and me, gathering vegetables in our Hadden garden, and another of me dressed as a scarecrow for Halloween. There’s one of Dad and I, wrapped in a blanket, whilst he reads me a story. In another, from even further back, I’m still a baby, fast asleep, chubby, and content. In the same picture, my dad was asleep too, impossibly young, and exhausted, caught unawares by Gran’s camera.

Inside my head, I whispered a quick prayer to Circe, promising both brilliant behaviour, and the sacrifice of six Chocolate Frogs if the next moment was successful. I crossed my fingers. “I thought you’d like to look at my album,” I said, all the words leaving my mouth in a rush, “because it’s the best proof I’ve got that my dad still loves you.”

I paused, daring to look at Harry. He’d raised his gaze, and was looking at me, but his fingers were still curled around my book, holding it protectively. I decided I may as well be hung for a curse as a hex, so I ploughed on.

“This is my whole life,” I told Harry. “Eleven years of birthdays, and Christmases, and there’s never been anyone else. There’s just me, Dad, and Gran behind the camera.” I gathered my courage, which wasn’t all that much, not when you were talking to Harry Potter, and all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. My voice, when I spoke again, had taken on a defiant edge. “Dad has never had a boyfriend, or gone on a date, or anything, not in all those years. You were his One True Love, but you won’t even say his name.”

Across from me, Harry exhaled slowly and reluctantly put aside the photo album. I think part of him had known it was only a matter of time before we had a conversation like this. Entertaining getting-to-know-one-another meetings where we ate biscuits and played cards were all well and good, but without Harry talking about Dad, and explaining the circ*mstances of how I’d come to exist, I knew I’d never know him, not genuinely.

Harry took off his glasses and cleaned them, playing for time, but I wasn’t about to let Harry wriggle off the hook.

Eventually, Harry broke the silence. “Because I’m not sure what good talking about Draco would do,” he said, his tone sincere. “The relationship we had was eleven years ago, and I learnt long ago that dwelling in the past doesn’t do anyone any good.” Pausing, Harry lent forward. “Even if there were still… Still feelings on either mine or Draco’s part, it doesn’t matter. Too much time has passed and there’s been too much hurt. It’s bone-deep, Scorpius… You must understand I hurt your Dad very much.”

Infuriation made my skin prickle. Harry was blathering about dwelling in the past, and bone-deep hurt, but my dad was lonely right now. I wasn’t going to let this drop.

“So you admit you have feelings too?” I answered, quick as a hex. “In your letter, you said you loved Dad with everything you had… And my dad loved you too! When I eavesdropped, he said that exact thing! Feelings like that don’t… They don’t just die, even if you do something terrible! What does eleven years matter? It doesn’t, not if you could be happy right now.”

“My feelings really aren’t the point,” Harry snapped back, his face frustrated. He pressed the palms of his hands together, a little like he wanted to pray, but instead he brought them up, pressing the tops of his fingers into his chin. “The point is the hurt I inflicted. Remember what I told you about the Sectumsempra? The spell I cast, which left the scars on Draco’s chest?”

I nodded, not understanding where Harry was going, but glad he was finally talking.

“Remember how I said they couldn’t be undone? That there hasn’t been a day where I didn’t regret them? What I did to Draco, when he got pregnant, was exactly like that spell. You can’t see his scars, they’re inside of him, but I know they’re still there.” Harry sighed deeply. “Think about how your dad had been with me, both times we’ve met. Prickly, wary, suspicious… He questioned my motives in wanting to help you fly. Asked me not to hurt you. Made it very clear he doesn’t trust me. Tell me, what would Draco think, if he knew we were meeting?”

“He wouldn’t be happy,” I answered, hating how Harry had easily unpicked my perspective. “That’s why I haven’t told him.”

“We’ve got to be happy with what we have. I’m really enjoying getting to know you. I never thought I’d get this chance, and I’m so thankful,” Harry brushed the photo album with the tip of a finger before pushing it an inch towards me, “but I can’t be part of your family, not even if I wanted to be… I can’t be part of this photo album, Scorpius. I can’t be anything more to Draco. Not anymore.” Harry smiled sadly. “I’m sorry.”

I must have looked despondent. I certainly felt despondent. Bloody adults were supposed to be grown up and mature, but they weren’t. They were far more childish than any of the Hogwarts first years, and Harry Potter was the worst of them. They went on and on about honesty and forgiveness, but then, when real life came knocking, they didn’t follow their own rules.

Dru’s mum’s romance novels had lied. Love was supposed to overcome anything, but Harry wasn’t even prepared to try. “You’re not sorry,” I said. “If you were, you’d try and make things better with Dad. You’d send him an owl. Apologise fifty times, until he can’t stand to hear you say it again! But all you want to do is sit here, in this stupid castle, waiting for your life to pass! What’s that, if it isn’t dwelling in the past?”

I waited for Harry to pack up his things and tell me our getting-to-know-one-another meeting was finished for the day. He was still my Professor, after all. Harry didn’t, though. He picked up one of the custard creams and took a bite. The fire popped and crackled, and I wondered if this would be our last time meeting here. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I wasn’t sure I was ready for them to end.

But, unexpectedly, Harry’s expression softened. “Alright,” he said. “If you really want to, we can talk about Draco, but it’ll be the only time he’s discussed. He isn’t here, so he can’t put his perspective across, and this is his story, just as much as it’s yours and mine. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed,” I echoed. This was what I’d been waiting for, ever since I’d eavesdropped and found out that Harry and Dad knew each other. Nerves coursed through me. This was it. I was going to find out how I’d come to be.

“Fine,” Harry said. “We’ll start here, at Hogwarts. I expect you know a bit of this part of the story already, but back when we were schoolboys, your dad and I hated each other. The Headmaster stoked the rivalry between our houses, and both Draco and I brought into it fully. We were competitive over everything: flying, friends, schoolwork, insults… You name it, we could turn it into a row. There was no love lost between us. You may not credit it, but your dad could be a vile sod, and he did some horrible things to me, and to my mates. I, of course, reciprocated. I wasn’t much of a treat myself. I had plenty of flaws, believe me.”

“I’ve read Hogwarts: A History,” I confirmed. “It said you were enemies.”

Harry nodded. “They don’t know the worst of it,” he responded. “Our upbringings, our family backgrounds… Draco and I had nothing in common whatsoever. I suppose, in a different world, in a different life, we’d have stayed like that, two unalike people forced together by circ*mstance. But the world we lived in was this one, and neither of us had a choice about what happened next. The War began, and the two of us were on different sides.” Harry frowned. “Has your dad told you much about your grandfather, Lucius Malfoy?”

“That he’s dead now, and can’t hurt us,” I said. “Dad said he was a very frightening person… That, um, he didn’t tolerate anybody disagreeing with him. That he was a Voldemort supporter,” I admitted. “Dad says that he loved the man my Grandfather was when he was a small boy… But that Grandfather got all tangled and twisted up, trying to make the Malfoy family powerful.”

Sympathy flickered across Harry’s expression. “That tallies with the Lucius I knew,” he answered. “Lucius… Your grandfather absolutely hated me. Thing was, a prophecy had been made, which tied Voldemort and I together. It said one of us would die at the other’s hand. Lucius saw me as an obstacle to Voldemort’s ascendency, and so did everything in his power to hurt me. Lucius’s hatred, in turn, was passed onto Draco. Your dad believed what he was told.” Harry’s tone was dark. “Yes, we were enemies, but we were children too. Both of us were manipulated and used by adults who ought to have been better and done better.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I’d known a bit of this, pieced together from stories Dad had told me, the history books in the Library, and the insults Freddy Boscombe had thrown at me. It was tough to hear. My grandfather – my own flesh and blood – had tried to murder Harry when he was hardly any older than I was now.

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry replied. “It wasn’t as if I knew any difference, and if Dumbledore had been a Dark wizard, I think I would have blindly followed his path. My whole life had been spent fighting and the same, I think, was true of Draco. All he’d known was Lucius’s hatred… He’d been steeped in it. But underneath, neither of us wanted the other to die. In the last months of the War, I was brought to the Manor by Snatchers, and your dad refused to identify me. Draco was so brave, Scorpius. He defied his upbringing. I would most certainly have been killed, but because of him, I survived. He let me live, and by doing that, Draco changed the course of the War.”

My breath was caught in my throat. I didn’t dare make any noise, in case Harry stopped telling his story.

“Then, during the last hours of the Battle of Hogwarts, I was able to repay the favour. I saved Draco’s life.” Harry waved a hand, gesturing to the room we were both sitting in. “The Room of Requirement was on fire. Vast enchanted flames that engulfed everything. I swooped down and pulled Draco onto the back of a broomstick. His friend, Vince Crabbe… He wasn’t as lucky. We didn’t get to him in time. I suppose you could say we were even, after that, but I’m not sure that was the case.”

I shivered, and my eyes darted around the room. Part of me expected to see the Room still ablaze. I hadn’t known any of this before, but it made perfect sense. It wasn’t any wonder Dad feared broomsticks and flying. They were indelibly linked to the death of a best friend, and the experience of almost dying himself. I was thankful to Harry for saving Dad’s life and giving him the opportunity to be so much more than his narrow upbringing had prescribed.

Harry's face was far away. He wasn’t here, with me, any longer. Emotionally, Harry had returned to the past, and I was starting to understand why he’d said that dwelling there didn’t do anyone any good. Harry’s – and my dad’s – pasts were dark, grim places, full of grief, guilt, and anguish.

“After the Battle ended, I didn’t see your dad for the better part of two years,” Harry resumed. “I returned to Hogwarts, and played at being a teenager, but it was all a pretence. A façade. Self-sacrifice, heroism… Call it what you will, but it was all I’d ever known. As soon as I could, I left Scotland, and joined the Auror Academy. Gods, but I was Shacklebolt’s golden boy. I was their shining prize. The Ministry wanted me fast-tracked to the top, but Robards - Gawain Robards, the Head of the Department – vetoed that. He forbade any special treatment. He said I had to start at the bottom, like everyone else.”

My ears picked up. I’d heard the name Robards, but at first, I couldn’t remember where. Then it hit me where I’d seen his face. He was photographed in the Prophet article about Harry’s promotion.

“I didn’t care. Joining the Department was the only ambition I’d ever had, and my friend Ron had signed up too.” Harry shrugged. “Truth was, I wasn’t suited to the work at all, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

“But you didn’t leave for years,” I interjected.

“Because I didn’t think leaving was an option,” Harry answered, “but I’ll get to that part in due course. So, yes… I joined the Department, and Robards was my Commander. Bloody hell, but the man hated me on sight. Thing was, as Head Auror, Robard’s team had been the wizards in charge of arresting Death Eaters after the War. It was Robards who arrested all your family, Scorpius: your gran, your grandfather, and your dad too.”

My tummy clenched, like it always did when I imagined Dad and Gran imprisoned in a damp little cell. Dad never closed a door at home if he could help it and, even in the winter, slept with the window open.

“Robards never forgave me for giving evidence on your dad and gran’s behalf,” Harry told me, irritation prickling his features. “Even though everything I said was the truth. In private, Robards called me a collaborator and a hypocrite. Said I had no right to be an Auror. He hated having me on the team, but knew his hands were tied. Shacklebolt had big plans for me. I was too valuable a prize for the Ministry to lose.”

I thought about all those Prophet articles, and about how everything Harry did made the front page. The public’s interest in him had been enormous. Anything associated with Harry would, without question, have gained an aura of desirability and, more importantly, respectability.

“Then, one rainy Wednesday, my life was to change forever. It was an ordinary, boring day. Ron and I had been out patrolling the shops on Half-Moon Alley, and I was considering whether to treat myself to a cup of tea when I heard Robards shouting my name. I didn’t think anything of it, Scorpius. Probably I thought I was going to get another telling-off. I didn’t have the faintest idea that the whole path of my life was about to diverge.”

“What did he want?” I asked, rapt. I’m not ashamed to say I was hanging off Harry’s every word.

“To dole out what he assumed was petty revenge,” Harry said. “Robards informed me that, since I’d been the one to spare Draco Malfoy an Azkaban sentence, he didn’t think I’d mind being responsible for his behaviour whilst he served his house arrest. I was to check on him twice a week, ensure that his wand was only used for very basic magic spells, and check the wards on the property. He smirked as he gave me the job. Robards knew Draco and I had been rivals at Hogwarts. He wanted to make my life difficult.”

Inside my chest, my heart fluttered. I’d been right, all those weeks before. That was why the newspapers, and Harry’s adoring public had never cottoned on to their relationship. Their whole affair had been held behind closed wards.

“But it wasn’t like that.” Out of the blue, the clouds cleared from Harry’s expression. He smiled, appearing more youthful than I’d ever seen him. “Away from Hogwarts and Lucius, your Dad wasn’t remotely the same person. He was smart, thoughtful, funny. Forthright about his, and his family’s role in the War… But, of course, being me, I immediately decided Malfoy was up to something. So, I doubled my visits, waiting for him to slip up, and be the same man he used to be. But he never did.”

“Was that when…” I began, before abruptly stopping. I couldn’t ask the really burning question of how Dad had come to be pregnant without blushing.

“When I fell in love with him?” Harry finished for me. “I’m not sure when I finally admitted that to myself. I think, at first, visiting Draco felt like a reprieve. Then, later, it became more. We’d drink tea, sit, and talk for hours, about anything and everything… It was the only time in my life I could just be, without the Prophet taking pictures, or the public asking for my autograph. It was an oasis. A place to breathe. The two of us were trapped, but together it was like we’d found a piece of freedom.” Harry shook his head. “Gods, but that sounds cliché, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, because I didn’t.

“Draco was braver than me,” Harry continued. “I was utterly scared of admitting I was gay - even to myself, sometimes – but your dad was at peace with who he was… After a few months, my visits to Draco became the highlight of my weeks. Then, out of nowhere, we were kissing. I still don’t know who kissed who first. It started casually, just an interlude, but soon became more serious. Draco told me about the plans he’d made for when his house arrest finished... How he was going to travel, study, and be more than his father’s narrow expectations. I listened, and realised I wanted to be part of his plans. It was a giant mess… A ridiculous, awful, mess of a love affair, but what we had was real. Two people who had hated each other for a very long time had found each other in the most ludicrous situation. Nobody could know. Falling in love wasn’t part of our plans, It was against everyone’s rules.”

I was on the edge of my seat. “What happened?”

Harry looked at me with green eyes that were the mirror of my own. “Before I tell you, I have a confession. Directly after the War, I wasn’t well. My childhood, Voldemort, and the final battle had left me damaged. My Mind Healer said I had a Saviour Complex. I was scared stiff of failing those around me, of letting them down. That, combined with Shacklebolt’s expectations, the Prophet, and the public talking about me as if I was some kind of superman… The pressure on me was immense. I was living two different lives. In public I was an Auror, engaged to my childhood sweetheart, and set on a course to be Minister of Magic. In private I loved Draco, wanted to run away with him, and quit public life for good... Do you know what happens when you’re living two lives, Scorpius?”

I bit my lip and didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I knew what Harry was going to say next. It was as inevitable as the tide.

“When you’re living two lives, fate always forces you to choose.” Harry exhaled slowly, sadly, dwelling in the past he hadn’t wanted to revisit. “The months passed and, out of nowhere, Draco felt under the weather… Tiredness, headaches, odd bouts of nausea, and I was concerned. I arranged for a St Mungo’s Healer to visit, and they gave us the news neither of us were expecting. Without potions, or enchanted amulets, or even a bloody charm, we’d gotten ourselves pregnant.” Pausing, Harry massaged his temple, this part of his story making him emotional. “The Healer told Draco it was exceptionally rare but it could happen if the two wizards had unusually compatible magical signatures. You were lightning caught in a jar. A one-in-a-million chance,” Harry said, his eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. “We were shocked out of our skins. We couldn’t believe it. You – a baby - were the last thing we expected.”

I trembled, even though the Room was warm. I dug my fingers into the arms of the settee. Dad must have been scared stiff. He’d been little more than a child.

“Straightaway, I knew what I needed to do,” Harry said, his voice dark. “First I had to tell Shacklebolt and Robards about Draco, about the affair, and about you. Then I had to resign my post and call things off with Ginny. Gods, but I was going to be a dad! My mind was flying at a million miles a minute. The three of us were going to be a family. After Draco’s house arrest finished, the three of us would move away, leave London and England forever, and we’d be happy. I knew there’d be headlines, and I knew my friends would be stunned, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t care… Fate had decided. My path had been fixed for me, and I was glad. I was relieved. The very last things I did, before leaving Draco behind, was to kiss him, tell him I loved him, and tell him that I’d be in contact, just as soon as I’d handed in my notice.”

“But that didn’t happen,” I said, scarcely more than a whisper.

“It didn’t happen,” Harry repeated, a shadow falling over his expression. “That evening, when I met Shacklebolt and Robards, they already knew about Draco’s pregnancy. Robards had got to the Healer, and he’d Obliviated their memory. Turns out, Robards’s hatred of me ran much deeper than I’d realised. He’d been tracking my visits to Draco, looking for anything suspicious, and waiting for his chance to strike. Now Robards had everything he needed to ruin Draco and me. He’d briefed Shacklebolt before I arrived. Merlin, but the First Minister was livid. But Robards, that utter cretin… He was gleeful. All his Christmases had come at once. He wanted me publicly disgraced and up before the Wizengamot on charges. He wanted me out of the Department.”

“Robards arrested you?” I asked, confused. That would surely have made its way onto the front of the newspapers. There would have been a huge scandal.

Harry laughed, but there wasn’t any humour in the sound. “Gods, no. Shacklebolt would never have allowed that. I was Harry Potter! I was the Ministry’s sparkling star. Their shortcut to credibility, without having to do a stroke of anything. Robards and Shacklebolt laid it on the line. Nobody bar them, Draco and I knew I was your other dad, and that was how it had to stay- “

“But how?” I interrupted.

“Robards reminded me I’d been on duty when the love affair had begun and told me that was the single fact the Wizengamot Judges would focus upon, if Draco was to come back before them. Shacklebolt said all they’d see was a convicted Death Eater trying to ruin mine and the Department’s good reputation. That if I knew what was good for Draco and me, I would never willingly see him again, and that, if I opted to defy them, Draco would face immediate, horrible consequences. Robards promised he’d arrest Draco for breaching his bail conditions and that, afterwards, the Wizengamot would transfer him directly to Azkaban to serve the rest of his sentence… Then Shacklebolt told me the fragile post-War peace rested solely on my shoulders. That it was my duty to marry Ginny and build a better world… I wasn’t foolish. I knew they were deadly serious and meant every word. I knew they’d let your dad rot in Azkaban, just to keep me in Ministry shackles.”

Gods, but I could hardly believe the words leaving Harry’s mouth. He was Harry Potter, for Circe’s sake! He was supposed to be the bravest wizard of his generation. The consummate Gryffindor. There was a statue of Harry in the Ministry of Magic, wearing the Order of Merlin. He’d saved our world from annihilation at the hands of the wickedest wizard in history, yet he’d let himself be cowed by two pathetic little bureaucrats sitting behind a desk?

All I could think about was Dad, still in shock after finding he was pregnant, still under house arrest, and unable even to send an owl to Gran. No wonder he still felt bitter! How long had he waited for Harry’s letter? Had it been days before he’d realised Harry wasn’t coming back, or had it been longer? How must Dad have felt, watching as the media frenzy grew around Harry’s wedding to Ginny Weasley? Every day there’d be a new headline about it. Dad must have believed he was nothing but Harry’s fling, his experimentation, cast away the instant he’d had the potential to ruin Harry’s life.

“And that was it?” I asked, incredulous. I’d wanted the truth, but I hadn’t wanted this. “You just accepted their terms? You just left Dad to rot?”

Harry held up his hands in a futile gesture of defeat. “You don’t know how it was, those first few years after the war. There was so much hatred. So much bitterness towards anyone deemed a collaborator… And you know Draco had a Dark Mark. You know Voldemort had lived at his Manor. It didn’t matter that Draco had only been a child. That Lucius had coerced him… Nobody would have batted an eyelid had he’d been sent to Azkaban. As far as I was concerned, there was no choice to make! I couldn’t let Draco go to prison. He was pregnant. Vulnerable. I agreed to their terms, and even though it shattered my heart, I don’t regret any of it. Marrying Ginny, becoming the Ministry’s lapdog… It saved Draco, and it saved you, and it was worth it. Meeting you, getting to know you… It was all worth it.”

I wiped my wet cheeks, unsure of when I’d begun to cry. Grief, for both Dad and Harry, clashed with my anger at the waste of it all. Hastily I gathered my things. I hadn’t a clue how long Harry and I had been talking about the past, but I didn’t want to live in it any longer.

Harry was right: dwelling in the past didn’t do anyone any good. All it did was hurt you. All I wanted now was to hide behind the curtains of my bed, cast a Silencing Charm, and pretend I wasn’t burdened with my parent’s story. I wanted the most important things in my life to be Quidditch, homework, and Christmas. I wanted to be a silly, mindless first year.

I hated that Harry’s decision hadn’t changed a single thing. The wizarding world was worse than ever and still full of bullies and bigotry. Harry’s marriage hadn’t ushered in a new Golden Age. All it had done was fail, because neither Harry nor Ginny had truly loved the other. Harry hadn’t even stayed at the Ministry! He’d left, as soon as Shacklebolt was no longer Minister for Magic, and Ginny and he were divorced. Worst of all, both Dad and Harry had been left lonely. There wasn’t anyone else, for either of them. Eleven years of being together, of love, of building their lives, had been snatched away from them.

Suddenly I didn’t want to be in the Room of Requirement any longer. I was exhausted by the weight of Harry’s story, and the tangled web Harry and Dad had got themselves stuck in. I got up and left, without even saying goodbye.

It was only later, when I got back to the Slytherin dungeon, and I was unpacking my satchel that I felt the sickening lurch of having forgotten something important. I’d left my album, and all my precious photographs in the Room of Requirement.

~

Even though Christmas was hurtling toward me, I couldn’t get into the festive mood. Harry’s story reverberated around my head, and all the talk of gifts, of eating too much on Christmas Day, and going home in a couple of weeks couldn’t shift it.

Snow had fallen, and the grounds of Hogwarts looked like a Christmas card. The other Slytherin first years whooped for joy and declared a snowball war on the Gryffindors, but I didn’t feel up to playing. My heart was too heavy. Dru, Katie, and Phillip all asked me what was bothering me, but I couldn’t give them a straight answer.

Nothing made sense and, try as I might, I couldn’t detangle my thoughts. I was stuck.

Part of me struggled to forgive Harry. Meekly submitting to Shacklebolt and Robards instead of fighting felt unforgivable. Another part of me struggled to forgive myself for my callous attitude. Compared to Harry and Dad, my life had been simple. I hadn’t had to contend with would-be murderers, megalomaniacs, or terrifying trips to the Ministry of Magic. I hadn’t been a child soldier. Harry had said I didn’t know what life had been like after the War and he was right. I didn’t.

But there was somebody else at Hogwarts who had been there, a contemporary of Dad and Harry: my Herbology teacher, Professor Longbottom. My Herbology was on a Wednesday, four days after Harry’s revelations. Outside of the Greenhouse, the snow still lay thick, but Warming Charms had left the classroom stuffy. Dru was beside me, cautiously trimming the leaves on her Moonflower plant, and Katie and Phil were gossiping about Christmas, both sure that their family’s traditions were the best ones.

But I was neither working nor chatting. Instead, I was watching Professor Longbottom make the rounds of his classroom. His ample form and relaxed, benevolent expression belied the truth. Once upon a time, Professor Longbottom had been a fearless war hero. Hogwarts: A History had a whole chapter about his exploits. He’d known Harry, and Dad, back when they were schoolboys. Unfortunately, because I’d been so busy daydreaming, I hadn’t done a scrap of work. My Moonflower plant wasn’t clipped, and I hadn’t copied the diagram out of my textbook either.

Professor Longbottom, when he arrived at my desk, was visibly disappointed. “You’ve not even written the title,” he said, voice exasperated, gesturing to my exercise book. “Now, I know it’s almost Christmas, Mr Malfoy, but that’s no excuse for slacking off. Show me your book before you leave,” he requested. “Or you can come back at lunch and finish it then.”

My face burned with embarrassment. I hated being told off. “What’s wrong with you, Scorp?” Dru hissed, as soon as Professor Longbottom was out of earshot. “You’ve just been sat there, staring into space. Whomever you’re fantasising about isn't worth it!” She shoved her book across the table. “Here, copy mine. That way you won’t miss lunch.”

I set to work, grateful to my friend. As luck would have it, I finished the last sentence at the very moment the bell rang. While Katie, Dru and Phillip hurried to tidy the desk, and clean away the trimmed leaves, I waited in my seat for Professor Longbottom. He was Levitating the Moonflowers to a high shelf, and I watched quietly, until the rest of my class had run off for dinner.

Only once the last plant had been put away did Professor Longbottom turn his attention to me. “Thank you for your patience,” he said, ambling towards the nearest desk. He sat and took my proffered book. His critical eye scanned the page. “Very good,” was Professor Longbottom’s verdict. “You managed to copy everything Miss Parkinson-Nott wrote in the space of ten minutes, including her idiosyncratic spelling of chlorophyll.” He smiled, gently. “Don’t look so nervous, Scorpius. I’m not going to dock house points or tell Madam Penhaligon this time. I do, however, have some concerns, and I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t ask you about them. There’s been occasions during the last few weeks when you’ve been distracted, been a million miles away. That isn’t like you. I must ask, have Freddy Boscombe and his gang been giving you a hard time of it again? I try my best to keep tabs on them but, with the best will in the world, it’s a big castle. If you’re being bullied, you need to talk to someone. We can’t do anything about it, otherwise.”

I blushed hard, ashamed of being caught cheating, and mortified because I’d given Professor Longbottom – who’d never been anything except decent with me – cause to worry. “It’s not Freddy,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s not said a word to me, I swear … And I won’t copy Dru again either. I’ve had a lot on,” I fibbed. “Lots of homework and extra flying practice, but I swear on my Crup’s life I won’t let it affect me in class again.”

Professor Longbottom wrinkled his brow, obviously not believing a word. “I jolly well hope not! I’ve known your father for more years that I care to remember, and was very much looking forward to telling him what a talented herbologist I’d trained you to be, and that, without a doubt, you should sign up for the Herbology O.W.L.”

Getting caught copying had left me on edge, so when Professor Longbottom mentioned my father, out of nowhere, the impact on me was more powerful than it would have been normally. I thought he was talking about Harry for a second. After all, they were good mates, weren’t they, and had been for a lot of years. I spluttered, because my jittery brain told me Harry had been telling all his buddies about Dad. Then, once I realised it was Dad that Professor Longbottom was talking about, I turned it into a coughing fit. Merlin, but I must have looked like a complete idiot.

Thankfully Professor Longbottom didn’t laugh or, far worse, call for Madam Pomfrey. He Accio’ed me a glass of water, told me to drink it slowly, and said, very kindly, that although he wasn’t my Head of House, it didn’t matter, that I could still tell him if I had something on my mind. “I’ve been at Hogwarts for ten years,” he said. “I’ve heard all sorts of things. Nothing you can say will surprise me.”

Horrified by my overreaction to one innocent word, I sipped my water, feeling ridiculous. Professor Longbottom had no idea what he was talking about. I was the secret son of a close colleague and trusted friend. I imagined that fact would have surprised him plenty. Thinking about what to say, I stared out the window. The snow had stopped, and the sky was overcast, laden with further flurries. In the distance, I could see the grey outlines of the Quidditch rings.

Perhaps I couldn’t tell Professor Longbottom about Robards’s ultimatum, or Harry’s choice, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t ask for his advice. After all, Professor Longbottom was a war hero. He’d beheaded Nagini – one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes – with a single swipe of the sword of Gryffindor. If he hadn’t done that, Harry wouldn’t have been able to finally defeat Voldemort. Professor Longbottom, I reckoned, must know a lot about bravery.

“Alright,” I said slowly, picking a piece of old dry leaf from the desk, and rolling it between my thumb and finger. It was easier to focus on that than on Professor Longbottom’s penetrating expression, “there’s a person in my life… A person in my family, and the thing is, everyone thinks the world of them. Thinks they’re brave.”

I paused, cringing inside. Had I already said too much? I’m a Malfoy, for Circe’s sake! Having hearts like lions isn’t really our forte. I looked at Professor Longbottom carefully, wondering if he’d already worked out who I was talking about, but his face was carefully neutral and didn’t give anything away.

“But you feel differently?” Professor Longbottom prompted.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “He… This person did something awful, years ago, to another person I care about... And the person says they don’t regret it, because it was to keep the other person safe… But that doesn’t help the person who they hurt, does it? They had to live with the consequences. They’re still living with the consequences.” I crumbled the leaf into dust between my fingers. “How can that be brave?”

Professor Longbottom’s expression was reflective. “So this person of yours… Did their awful thing have any kind of consequence for them?”

I nodded, thinking back to the words Harry had written in his letter. I’d read it so many times that I knew it off by heart. There hasn’t been a day during the last eleven years where I haven’t thought about you, and imagined what you might be doing, saying, and thinking. Every Christmas, every birthday, every day, I’ve yearned to be a part of your life.

“They didn’t get to have the life they wanted… And the life they ended up with didn’t fit either. Nothing good came of doing what he did. It didn’t make anybody happy.” I asserted, trying to convince myself as much as my Professor. “It was just a massive waste.”

Professor Longbottom leaned back in his chair, considering everything I’d said. He tented his hands and tapped his two forefingers together. What he said next surprised me. “But was it a waste though?” he said, tone reflective. “You said it yourself. This person did what they had to, to keep somebody you care about safe. That’s a consequence, isn’t it, Scorpius? Their choice meant you’ve had the luxury of that person for your whole life.” He smiled, but there was a sadness to it. “I don’t know how much you know about the First Wizarding War, but my mum and dad fought in it. They were Aurors, and everybody I’ve ever spoken to who knew them said they were two of the bravest wixen they’d ever met. Fearless and bold are what I’m usually told. But do you know where that fearlessness left them? Committed to St Mungo’s and left me without my parents, and growing up with my gran… And when I was growing up there wasn’t a day when I didn’t curse their so-called bravery. Why did both of them have to fight? Why was the Order more important than me?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you what to do, or give you a proper answer, because I don’t know the particulars of your person’s choice. All I know is that you’re an optimistic, kind-hearted young man whose family loves him. That’s a privilege that some don’t get to experience.”

Professor Longbottom was correct, of course. I’d been so busy being cross with Harry that I hadn’t thought of why he had felt trapped into making the decision he did. “Do you think I’m being too hard on them?”

“That’s your decision to make,” Professor Longbottom said. “When I got older… Thirteen, fourteen, that kind of age, I grew to appreciate the sacrifice my parents had made. To understand they didn’t think they had a choice. I forgave them but, even then, I still felt a small speck of resentment which has never left me. Sometimes, I think, in the fullness of time, the courageous choice isn’t necessarily the right one. This person of yours, you said everyone thinks they’re brave?”

“They do,” I agreed.

“Well, that’s the funny thing about bravery. Lots of people think bravery means action. Slaying a snake. Throwing a punch. Fighting in a War. Raising your wand… Stuff like that. But bravery isn’t any of those things. To be truly brave means triumphing over fear. Bravery isn’t always a virtue. Sometimes it’s a mask for foolhardiness and recklessness. So, perhaps your person, when they were out doing all their daring, valiant things, perhaps those actions came easily because they didn’t have anything they truly feared losing. Perhaps later, when they did this awful, unforgivable thing, that was when they’d finally found something, or someone, whose loss was too terrible to contemplate.”

Professor Longbottom wasn’t aware of it, but he’d hit the wand on the head. That’s what Dad and I had been to Harry, eleven years before. Hot tendrils of shame curled in my belly. We’d been the two people Harry couldn’t bear to lose.

Robards had threatened Dad with a long stint in Azkaban, and if I was truthful, I knew next to nothing about the place, except that Grandfather had died there. Azkaban was a taboo word at home, its grim shadow hanging over Hadden like a phantom, and I realised more research was required.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about… And I’m sorry again, about copying Dru. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Professor Longbottom smiled genially, and stood, finishing our conversation. “I’m very sure it won’t. Ms Parkinson-Nott is an able Herbologist but her spelling leaves much to be desired. Now, shall we make our way to the Hall? It’s Toad in the Hole today, my favourite.”

~

That afternoon, once classes had finished, I fibbed to my friends, telling them I’d gotten behind on my homework, and I needed a stretch in the Library to catch up with myself. Dru offered to accompany me – the Library is her favourite place in the whole school – but I said I wouldn’t be long and promised to share my last Cauldron Cake with her later.

If I was being honest with myself, company was the last thing I wanted for this bit of investigation. Even now, Azkaban isn’t a word you can say in polite company. It’s taboo, like the worst sort of swear. People use nicknames when they talk about it, like Monster Mansion, or the Devil’s Nest. Even saying Azkaban to myself was repulsive, like the mere word would leave a nasty taste in my mouth.

Even so, I made my way determinedly to the Library, and once I was there, to the shelves holding Modern Wizarding History. Robards had threatened to send Dad to Azkaban if Harry didn’t cease all contact, and I needed to see for myself what kind of threat that had been. I soon found what I sought, pulling The Darkest Arts: Crime and Punishment in Wizarding England from the shelf, and sticking the heavy volume inside the folds of my robes before anyone saw me.

What I uncovered, during the following hour and a half, was horrible.

Time passed as I read, but I was unaware of it. I turned the pages, and every new paragraph told me something evermore loathsome. After the War had ended, and Voldemort had fallen, the regime at Azkaban – already draconian – had fallen under Shacklebolt’s remit. The Minister for Magic, concerned that my grandfather and all his fellow Death Eaters were being held together, had felt more vigorous punishments were needed. According to the author, Shacklebolt had stated publicly that a prisoner whose spirit was broken wouldn’t conspire to undermine their shiny new regime.

Resultingly, Azkaban had become closer to a facility for torture than a prison. Food had been rationed, and what there was of it was rotten and mouldy. Arbitrary violence was common and took place at the whim of the guards. Worst were the dank isolation pits, where prisoners would be thrown for days at a time with no light, little space, and no knowledge of when their torment might end. Most prisoners didn’t last very long. I found Grandfather’s name near the end of the chapter. He was listed, aside ten others, as having been driven out of his mind by the Dementors.

By the time I’d finished reading, my hands were shaking and my head was pounding. In the years since, Azkaban had been reformed. The Dementors had been banished, and the regime transformed. Neither would have helped Dad, though, because Robards’s threat hadn’t been an idle one. Harry’s voice, sat in the Room of Requirement, echoed through my head. Draco had a Dark Mark. Voldemort had lived at his Manor. It wouldn’t have mattered that my dad was pregnant, or that he was still a teenager. Not a single soul would have cared. Marked Death Eaters were considered the lowest of the low, and Dad had been the son of Voldemort’s greatest devotee. Dad wouldn’t have survived Azkaban. A tear rolled down my cheek and splashed onto the page, staining the parchment in a perfect circle. My dad would have died, and so would I. I’d have never even been born.

Now I knew what I did, waiting for Saturday to talk to Harry simply wasn’t an option. I decided to break one of our cardinal rules: talk to him about family stuff outside of our getting-to-know-one-another meetings. There wasn’t any time to wait. I slammed The Darkest Arts shut and fumbled my wand from my pocket to cast a Tempus. It wasn’t long past five, so perhaps, if I were lucky, Harry might be in his office, the constant snow having made Quidditch practice unlikely.

Luck, for once, was on my side. Harry was in his office, talking to three burly seventh years about an upcoming Quidditch match against Beauxbatons. If Harry was surprised to see me stood in his office, shaking because I hadn’t thought to collect my outside clothes before running to his office, he didn’t show it. Instead, Harry gestured for me to sit in one of the visitor’s chairs and continued to debate tactics. Only when I’d heard Hogwarts’s entire winning strategy did he send the older boys on their way. Harry waited for a couple of beats, closed the door, and cast a Notice-Me-Not on it.

“Merlin, but you’re frozen,” Harry exclaimed, hearing my teeth chatter. He cast a Warming Charm over me, and then he grabbed a red and gold woolly scarf from a hook on the wall. “Put this on,” he said, smiling. “I know it isn’t Slytherin colours but needs must. You’re an icicle. Draco would have a Kneazle if he saw you right now, wrapped up like a proper lion.”

I hadn’t realised how cold I was, until I suddenly wasn’t. Harry’s magic was warm, and it enveloped me completely. I sighed, pleased I could feel my feet and fingers again. “Dad wouldn’t mind too much.” I answered, wanting to tell Harry that Dad was forever chiding me for failing to wear enough clothes whenever we walked Hydrus. I didn’t though. I had more important things I needed to say to Harry, and they couldn't wait. “I’m sorry I disturbed your meeting… And I’m sorry I ran away, last Saturday, without saying goodbye. I really enjoy our getting-to-know-one-another meetings. I don’t want to stop them.”

Harry waved away my apology. “It was almost finished anyway,” he said, dropping down into the chair opposite me. “It’s great to see you, Scorpius. I’ve been in bits since last Saturday,” he acknowledged. “I don’t want to stop meeting either. And about everything I told you, about Gawain Robards… I shouldn’t have told you that story. It was far too much. I didn’t so much cross the line as Confringo it into cinders.”

That was as good an entry as I was ever going to get. “But I think I needed to hear it. All that stuff, about you and Dad, and Robards, and Azkaban… Thing is, leaving Dad, before I was born… You didn’t have any choice, did you, and if you hadn’t told me why you did it, there’s no way I could ever have known… And I needed to know.” I was rambling, but I couldn't help myself. “And I really do think, if Dad knew about your old bosses, and their threats, he’d understand, too… And I’m not going to promise I still won’t want you and Dad to get back together, but I won’t push it. There won’t be any more photo albums,” I finished lamely. “No more trying to shoehorn you into my family.”

Overall, I thought my speech had been an excellent one and very grown up. Harry must have thought so too, because he smiled again. “Your album. Don’t worry, I’ve kept it close,” Harry said, leaning forward, before tapping his desk with his wand. One of the desk drawers opened and, after an Accio, my photo album leapt out and swooped into Harry’s arms. Harry glanced at the cover, and I heard him swallow, and take a deep breath, as if what he wanted to say next was very difficult.

“I’ve looked at this more than I ought to have done. I even, briefly, contemplated casting a doubling charm so that I’d have a copy of my own… I didn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t, not without your permission… What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that I don’t blame you for wanting Draco and I to be together again… For wanting the three of us to be a family.” Harry took another, even deeper breath. “Ever since that conversation, I’ve thought about it too. How it might be, to be part of another volume of photographs… To share Christmases and birthdays, and all the boring in-between days with you and Draco. These last few days I have done the one thing I never allow myself to do: I’ve wanted, and I’ve wished.”

Inside my heart, hope flared, bright as a firework. If Harry could wish, then surely it was only another small step to picturing himself back where he belonged, with Dad, Hydrus, and me. Once a thing could be imagined, it could be accomplished.

Harry held out my photograph album, and I took it, and wrapped my arms around it, holding it close to my chest. His office was so chilly that I could see puffs of air with every breath Harry took. But I wasn’t cold. The red Gryffindor scarf must have been charmed, because it radiated heat. In front of me, Harry’s eyes were large, their green so much like my own.

But, as soon as my hope had sparkled, it was extinguished. Harry shook his head, as if were deliberately dislodging any thoughts of that kind.

“I won’t ever hold your wish against you, Scorpius. I spent my whole childhood daydreaming about having my parents. I understand why you wanted what you did, but Draco and I can’t happen. That broomstick has flown. Don’t waste your time on false hope. It’s an empty promise that won’t ever be fulfilled.”

~

The next two weeks swirled past. The first part of the winter term had been busy but, as Christmas approached, my days became a blur of festive hustle and bustle. Never had my life been so hectic.

As well as Harry and my getting-to-know-one-another meetings and extra flying practice, I had homework, schoolwork, and my gaggle of new friendships to balance. I’d discovered Phillip Goldsworthy shared my obsession with the Appleby Arrows, and the two of us had grown rather close. We spent a lot of time chatting about the team, and debating who the manager ought to play. Dru teased me, saying I had a crush, but I didn’t. My best friend was just being her usual daft self.

We watched A Christmas Carol in the Muggle film club, had a midnight feast, and Slytherin won their final Quidditch match of the term, beating the cheating Ravenclaws gloriously. Our Magical Creatures trip to Orkney was booked, and on the school calendar, and – I’m ashamed to admit, best of all - Freddy Boscombe had gotten into a fight with another, older Gryffindor, and been suspended for the remainder of the year. But, as well, I was delighted I’d see Dad, Gran, and Hydrus soon, sleep in my own bed, and tell them a million stories about everything I’d learnt. School was great, but Hadden held my heart.

Overall, my life was good. I discovered that the more I talked to Harry, the more he opened up to me. Harry told me about his childhood, and how he’d only discovered he was a wizard in the weeks before he came to Hogwarts. He talked about his own schooldays, about flying cars, terrifying trips to the Forbidden Forest, and duelling contests, and after the Room of Requirement heart to heart, Dad was no longer the elephant in the room. Harry’s shields had fallen, and his motto about refusing to dwell in the past wasn’t followed.

When I grumbled bitterly about the referee in the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match, calling him a biased git for ignoring Ravenclaw’s blatant dives, Harry chortled. “You sound just like Draco,” Harry smiled. “He used to say the same thing, back when we were kids. It wasn’t bloody true then, either.”

Another time, I complained about getting a coffee flavoured Every Flavour Bean – I’m not a coffee buff - and Harry grinned. “Same as Draco,” he’d said. “Once, when we were together, I took a jar of instant around, so I could drink it when I was there. Draco called it sludge, if I remember correctly. Refused to be budged from his rotten Lapsang Souchong tea, even though it smelt like the worst kind of ashes.”

I loved it whenever Harry reminisced about Dad. Not only did Harry’s tales give me a different perspective on him, but they also gave me a sneaky method of sliding more and more information about Dad into our conversations, and I began to believe the Sorting Hat was wise to place me in Slytherin. After his referee comment, I told Harry all about Dad and mine’s tradition of listening to games on the wireless, betting on which of us would guess the final score. After his Every Flavour Beans comment, I told Harry that Dad frequently drank Earl Grey nowadays, reserving his precious Lapsang tea leaves for special occasions.

Truth be told, I hadn’t quite given up on my matchmaking plan. I’d listened, of course, when Harry had talked about false hope, and it being an empty promise, but every so often, when Harry didn’t think I was looking, I saw a faraway look in his eyes. His expression was affectionate, fond, and I knew – well, at least I hoped – that I wasn’t the recipient.

There’d been something special between Dad and he once, something magical, and even though eleven years had passed, I didn’t think it would take that much to reignite their spark.

~

Before I knew what had hit me, the final Saturday before the Christmas hols arrived. Harry and I – our getting-to-know-one-another meetings now returned to normal – met for a final meeting in the Room of Requirement before I returned to Hadden the following Monday. To celebrate, Harry organised a little party for the pair of us, the table loaded with Bertie Botts, jellies, cake, and Pumpkin Juice. I told Harry there was no way on Merlin’s green earth we’d ever be able to finish it all off, but he only laughed in response.

“My sweet tooth is pretty legendary,” Harry answered, before biting the head off a Chocolate Frog. “When I was a first year, I could get through two, three bowls of Treacle Tart without blinking. My mate Ron nicknamed me the Incredible Human Cauldron. Said he couldn’t understand where I put it all.”

I grinned because, in the past, Dru has given me similar epithets. Sweet things are my downfall as well. Dad isn’t a fan: he prefers savoury, and besides, he worries about me ruining my teeth. It was hard to fathom that a proper adult like Harry would enjoy the sugary stuff but, I reckoned, my preference must be something I’d inherited from him. Briefly, I thought about other things my well-brought-up dad couldn’t comprehend – biting my nails when I was nervous, or dunking my Hob-nobs in my tea until they broke into pieces – and realised that, they too, were Harry’s mannerisms.

“It’s biscuits that are my favourite,” I replied, nicking one of Harry’s Muggle chocolate ones to better demonstrate the point. I brandished it in his direction. “These ones are nice and all, but Gran’s Butter Biscuits… I swear, if I ever learn to brew Amortentia, it’ll smell exactly like Gran’s biscuits. Once, she got some out of the oven, and left them in the kitchen, cooling on a rack. They smelt so great, and I couldn’t resist, and I decided, I’d just steal one… But one led to another, and another, and before I knew it, half of them were gone.” I giggled at the memory. “Gods, I know I shouldn’t have, but when Gran came back, I blamed Hydrus. The poor Crup was dispatched to Dad’s workshop for the rest of the morning, literally in the doghouse, and you know the bit I feel most guilty about? Gran gave me a couple of biscuits afterwards for resisting temptation.”

Harry guffawed and so did I. When he’d got his breath back, he called me a tricky Slytherin, and said he felt sorry for Hydrus, living with a pair of sly snakes like Draco and me.

“Crups adore me,” Harry declared, helping himself to a second Chocolate Frog. “I’m still Hagrid’s go-to dog sitter for Fang the Third. It’s a pity that we can’t take him for a walk around the Black Lake together. I know a couple of stunning spots, totally out of the way, where you can sometimes hear the merfolk singing. The views are breathtaking too. I’d love to take you.”

I nodded; my own mouth full of a banana-fudge flavoured jellybean. Harry’s offer was very tempting. Like every Slytherin for a thousand years, I’m intrigued by the Black Lake merfolk. Now and then you imagine you’ve seen one of their kind, a fleeting glance, outside of the Slytherin Common Room windows but, so far, for me, it’s only been shimmers and shadows.

Once I’d swallowed my sweet, I answered. “Dad would love that too. He saw a merchild once, when he was in fourth year. They came right up to the Common Room window, sneaking a quick look inside, not yet fearful of us. I wish Dad and I could Floo over, during the hols… We could even bring Hydrus. Take him for a walk together. You’ll still be here, won’t you?”

Harry smiled, but there was a small tension in his eyes at my suggestion. “Actually, I won’t,” he explained. “I did my fair share of Hogwarts Christmases back when I was a kid. Eating your Christmas grub with Sir Nick and the other ghosts staring isn’t precisely a riot.” Harry sighed, resigned. “I’ll be at the Weasley’s, as per the usual. My best mates, Ron, and Hermione, as well as his brothers will all be there. There are dozens of them, and more with every year that passes. No one pays any mind to an extra guest.”

I got the impression that Harry wasn’t entirely thrilled about his plans for Christmas. “But not just mates and brothers,” I reminded him, thinking about Katie’s copy of Witch Weekly and Romilda Vane’s article. “Will Ginny and Blake Grey be there? Won’t that be weird?”

Harry drank a mouthful of Pumpkin Juice before responding. “Oh they’ll be there,” he confirmed. “I wouldn’t say it’s weird, being at the Weasley’s with Gin and Blake. We’ve been divorced a long time now, and there weren’t ever any hard feelings between us. More awkward, I suppose, for want of a better word.” He paused, gesticulating with a hand, trying to find the right phrase. “Gins and I have always got on great. Getting on together was never the problem… We were always better at being mates than we were at being a couple… And don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted she’s got Blake, he’s a top-notch bloke… But, the thing is, Christmas is a time for family, and I’m not their family, at least not anymore. I’m the tricky bit of jigsaw that they don’t know where to slot.”

Me being me, I answered before thinking. Honestly, if foot-in-mouth was a curse, then I’d been afflicted with it since I discovered how to speak. Besides, I’d already pushed the door open with my remark about Dad and I visiting Harry at Hogwarts, so I reckoned I might as well walk right through it. No harm, no foul. “Then come to Hadden for Christmas instead,” I told Harry, as nonchalantly as I could manage. “You’d slot right in. Dad cooks dinner, and he always makes too much. Half gets given to Hydrus. Then, in the afternoon, Gran, Dad, and I play Magicopoly. Dad always wins. He knows every spell, even the ancient ones… But I think, if you and I teamed up, we could take him.”

“Brilliant proposal,” Harry smiled, possibly amused at the idea of trouncing Dad. “One teensy problem with it. In case you’ve forgotten, Draco doesn’t know about our getting-to-know-one-another meetings, or that you know I’m your father. As much as I’d love to meet Hydrus, and consume my body weight in turkey and parsnips, I think your dad would be a bit shocked if I rocked up on Christmas Day.” Grabbing the bowl of Every Flavour Beans, he rifled through it, as if looking for a particular colour. He wasn’t. He was playing for time. When he finally spoke again, Harry’s voice was softer. “Draco wouldn’t want me there, and I must respect that.”

My spirits dropped a notch at Harry’s statement. Dad mightn’t, but I knew I did.

Harry must have noticed I was crestfallen, because, with a flick of his wand, the remains of our picnic packed themselves back into their pots and bottles, clearing a space and, after that, Harry Accio’ed a familiar set of cards from the depths of his bag.

“Cursing Chimaera?” Harry proposed. He knew very well it was my favourite card game, and that there was nothing better at putting a grin on my face.

Harry’s idea was a brilliant one. We played three rounds, and my sadness left me further with every one of the Chimera’s insults. It’s hard to stay sad when you’re laughing hard enough to split a seam. By the time the Chimaera rolled their eyes at Harry and scoffed that his glasses were so thick he could see into a different dimension, I was happy once again. I had come to an internal conclusion: that, perhaps, it would be better if Harry didn’t come to Hadden during the Christmas hols.

Three weeks alone with Dad would be a perfect opportunity to dig further and find out exactly what feelings Dad still held for Harry. Besides, I conceded, Harry visiting Hadden had been the longest of longshots, and, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t have worked. My dad detests feeling hoodwinked and I reckon the pressure would have closed him up tighter than a clam.

Patience, I reminded myself. Sometimes the slow and steady broomstick won the race.

Before I was really ready, the time arrived for me to depart. Dru and Phillip would be waiting for me in the castle quadrangle and we’d planned a final, epic snowball battle before getting our trunks packed for Monday’s early start. Harry packed away his Chimaera cards, while I ate the last two Ice Mice. It was going to be very odd, not seeing Harry for three whole weeks. I’d gotten used to our getting-to-know-one-another meetings, and I realised, surprised, that I was going to miss him.

“Sorry about my suggestion,” I said, getting out of the armchair, and putting on my coat. “I know you visiting me at Hadden isn’t a practical one, and you’ve got the Weasley’s who I’m sure would miss you if you weren’t there… It’s just… It’ll be strange not seeing you during Christmas.” I shrugged. “Going to miss the sight of your face.”

Tentatively, I slid my hand into my pocket. I’d wrapped up my photograph album as a Christmas present for Harry – he’d said he wanted it, after all, and it wasn’t as if I could afford to give him anything else, as I only had six Sickles left from my allowance – but I wasn’t sure whether to give it to him. The last thing I wanted was for the pair of us to go into Christmas on the back of another lecture about the pointlessness of false hope, and how the past was best left where it was.

“So, I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas now,” I resumed, wanting to fill the sudden silence, “I might see you on the platform on Monday, but it’s always such a big kerfuffle, getting on the Express…”

I looked at Harry, not entirely sure what reaction I wanted from him. He’d ceased packing our bits and pieces away. He was standing still, watching me with an odd expression.

“Going to miss the sight of your face too. The last few weeks… Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas present than getting to know you- “ Harry halted abruptly and began to rummage through his bag. Moments later, he pulled out a box wrapped in festive purple paper, straightened his back, and held it out to me. “And, about me visiting Hadden…” he said, voice earnest, and I realised, disconcerted, that Harry was nervous. “I will be there, sort of, with you, and with Draco, because neither of you are ever far from my thoughts.” Harry seemed to come back into himself then, noticing that he still held his gift between us. “Oh, yes,” he said, placing it in my hand. “For you, to open on Christmas morning… Think we’d better keep this between us. I’m not sure your dad would be too chuffed.”

I pocketed the present, hoping very much that the smile on my face reflected how grateful I was. “Thank you so much,” I said, getting out my own gift, and placing it in Harry’s hand. It was wrapped, inexpertly, with brown paper and green string. “It isn’t much,“ I added, trying to be gracious and failing miserably, “but I really wanted you to have it. I’ll be thinking about you too… I think, of all the other parents I might have got, I’m glad that you’re you.”

That was when Harry did something I wasn’t expecting, but which was welcome, nevertheless. Harry closed the space between us, and he gave me a hug. It was warm, all-encompassing, and so close I could feel the vibration of Harry’s magic radiating from his skin, powerful but familiar.

Only one other person in my life hugged with such intensity, and for a moment I forgot, and thought I was hugging my dad.

It was only when our hug ended, and I was making my way back to Phil and Dru that it hit me: I had been.

~

Dad’s hug, when I got off the Hogwarts Express, was so strong, and so jubilant, it almost felt as if we hadn’t seen each other twice during the term.

“You’ve got taller,” was Dad’s first comment, “You need to stop growing,” was his second, and “Gran has been busy making all your favourites for days now, so I hope you’ve got a big appetite,” was his third.

I let out a sigh of relief that I hadn’t known I was holding. Dad had occupied so much of my attention and anxieties, over so many weeks, that having him close to me again was a blessed relief. I hugged him again, as hard as I could manage, not giving a fig that we were standing in the middle of the platform and getting in everyone’s path. Dad meant home for me, and there wasn’t anywhere that I’d rather be. “It’s brilliant to see you,” I exclaimed, because it honestly was. “And yep. I’ve been on a train for six hours. Gran’s cooking sounds absolutely amazing. Gods, but I have got so much to tell you.”

But before we could leave there were jobs still to do. First, my trunk had to be taken off the train. Next, Dad had to speak to Madam Penhaligon, and officially tick me off the still-to-be-collected list. Then I snatched Phillip, pledged to owl him before and after every Appleby match, and told Dru that I’d see her on Boxing Day, and that we’d swap presents then. After all that, cheerfulness bubbling in my belly, I could finally stuff my tie into my robe pockets. The Christmas hols had officially begun.

Dad asked if I was ready to depart, and I nodded. He shrank my trunk until it was the size of a wallet, popped it into his robe pocket, and offered me his elbow. I took a final look at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and Dad Side-Alonged the two of us back to Gran, Hydrus, and my straightforward Hadden life.

I don’t quite know how it happened but, without me quite realising, the first week of my holidays slipped away without anything of note happening. Beforehand, I’d been chock full of plans, ready to have my parents back together before the week was out. Reality, however, was very different. Life in Hadden was a warm bath of familiar sights, faces, and places, and, after a tough few months at school, I found all I wanted to do was soak it up.

Dad hadn’t planned anything extravagant – he’s not an extravagant sort of bloke – but I didn’t mind one bit. The two of us fell into the same routine that had been my life before Hogwarts. We read together, racing each other to the bottom of the page, walked Hydrus up and down the winding paths around Hadden, played chess – I’d improved, I was certain of it – and helped Gran with her enchanted flower garden.

Every so often, in the afternoons, Dad and I worked together in his workshop. His current project was a music box, enchanted to play the favourite song of the witch who owned it. Unfortunately, the charm had broken, and now it played whenever it chose. Between us, Dad and I found the problem, and together we fixed it. When the owner – a witch called Mrs Jenkins – arrived to pick it up, she was overjoyed. It’d been a present from her late husband when she’d been young. “That’s the best part of the job,” Dad told me, after Mrs Jenkins had left. “Hearing the stories. Every object has one.”

Christmas grew ever closer and, a week before, we decorated the tree. Dad insisted on putting the wonky star that I’d made when I was six on the top, and even though I claimed it could easily be fixed with magic, Dad wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s perfect as it is.” Gran, Dad, and I made mince pies, ate far too many, and we took the rest to Mr Philpot who lived down the road.

Life in Hadden was relaxed, and familiar, and it was only as I was opening my advent calendar on the morning of the twenty-third that it hit me like a ten-tonne broomstick: I hadn’t made one stick of progress towards helping Dad remember that he was in love with Harry Potter.

“Utterly, utterly rubbish,” I chided myself, dressing quickly for breakfast. If I weren’t careful, I’d wake, discover it was the last day of the holidays, and Dad would be as single as ever. “Today has to be the day,” I vowed, frowning at my unbrushed mop of hair, which became untidier, and more Harry-like with every day that passed.

Fortunately for me, the perfect way to broach the difficult subject came during our breakfast. Dad and I were eating pancakes – predictably, I had cinnamon, treacle, and sugar, while Dad chose lemon – when I heard a recognisable tapping at the window. The owl post typically arrived around this time, and Dad rose from the table, collected a handful of treats, and opened the pane. The owl was carrying her usual array of Christmas cards, notes from clients, and bills which Dad unhooked from her leg. After feeding the bird, petting her feathers, and sending her on their way, Dad carried our mail back to the table. A large, cream coloured, posh-looking envelope caught both of our attention, being far fancier than anything else.

Frowning, Dad ripped it open. As he read the elaborate handwriting on the card within, the confusion lifted from his face. “Ah. Blaise and Astoria’s tenth wedding anniversary celebration,” he said, handing the invite across to me. The two names were vaguely recognisable, old school chums that Dad seldom saw. “If Zabini has his name on it, the evening will be canapes, string quartets, and champagne flutes,” he told me, hardly caring to hide his disdain. “Scarcely my scene anymore. I can’t comprehend why they still insist on inviting me to these things.”

I turned the card over, examining it. Dad often got cards like these, remnants of the Pureblood realm he’d lived in before the War. People who his family had known and mingled with, once upon a time. Some of his old school friends – the Zabini’s, the Greengrass’s, even the Parkinson-Nott’s – were still part of that sphere. The card, heavy and striking, was a totem of that unknown, unfathomable world. We request the presence of Draco Lucius Malfoy & Guest was written in fat silver letters.

“Maybe because they’d like to see you?” I suggested. “Nothing wrong with canapes and string quartets. You could Floo over, stay for an hour or two. If you didn’t like it, you could always come home.” I brightened, feeling my Slytherin cunning jolt into life. I’d sworn to myself that today was the day I’d make progress in helping Dad’s life to be less solitary, and I realised I held an opportunity in my hand. “Who would you take for your date?” I asked, wearing the most casual, guileless expression I could manage.

As predicted, Dad paused, glanced with a grimace at the invite, and sucked in a breath. His reactions didn’t surprise me in the least. If you knew my Dad like I do, you’d know he is the expert at evasion when put on the spot about his love life. Once, when old Mr Philpot innocently asked whether there was a Mrs Malfoy, Dad actually scarpered back into the house, leaving Gran and I to fumble through an answer. This time however, Dad couldn’t run anywhere. The clock ticked, whilst Dad tried to think of an answer.

At last, Dad spoke. “There isn’t a Kneazle in hell’s chance that I’m attending Zabini’s ‘do,” he began, all huff and bluster. “For one thing, I don’t have formal robes. For another, I don’t have the first clue about what passes for polite conversation nowadays. The Zabini-Greengrasses are social butterflies. The last thing they’d want is a scarecrow from the countryside turning up.”

“Dad!” I retorted, because he’d answered without actually answering, an archetypal dad-move. “They invited you, which means they want you there.” I rolled my eyes at Dad’s stubbornness. “And anyway, you swerved my question! Who would you take for your date?”

Dad stabbed a piece of pancake with his fork like it was his worst enemy, and ate it, chewing very slowly. Only after he’d washed it down with a mouthful of tea, did he deign to reply. “There aren’t a horde of single wizards in Hadden. It’s all couples and old folks. The only singleton is Mrs Bacon, and she’s a hundred-and-ten if she’s a day. I can think of a couple of reasons why she’s not really my type. If I were to go, and I’m not, I’d take your grandmother as my guest,” he concluded, wearing an infuriating smile. “She’s always enjoyed a party; she knows Blaise’s mother. The perfect solution.”

It wasn’t the perfect solution, not by a long way, and both Dad and I knew it. What thirty-year-old man willingly takes his mum to a party, just to avoid the spectre of an actual, real-life love life? Bloody hell, but Harry and he were as bad as one other, and the absolute worst part was, Dad was correct. There weren’t a horde of single wizards in Hadden, and if he continued his Miss Havisham, country-mouse act forever, he’d continue to be lonely forever. Dad wasn’t going to trip over Mr Right walking Hydrus around the village. It was clear the subtle path wasn’t the one I needed to take. Taking a sip of orange juice, I steeled myself. Dad and I had to have a proper conversation, and there was no time like the present.

“Don’t you miss it?” I asked, watching Dad as he cut the remainder of his pancake into neat little squares. “Having someone of your own, I mean?”

For a moment, Dad was puzzled, and his fork and knife froze in mid-air. His eyes met mine, and they were big, and treacherously bright. “Define someone of your own,” he asked. “A date for Zabini’s ‘do? A suitor? Or are you talking about something else?”

Harry was who I was talking about, but Dad didn’t need to know that.

“Someone,” I repeated, sounding teenagerly. Dad’s full attention was on me now, his flawless pancake squares neglected. “A suitor, I suppose. A boyfriend. You’ve never had one before. It’s so quiet here, which is fine, and I love it, but now I’m at Hogwarts, I think about you being here, with only Gran and Hydrus for company, and I worry.” I gestured around us with my fork. “The biggest event here is the Harvest Festival, and I know you won a rosette for your courgettes, but even so… If you had someone of your own, you’d have company. Somebody you could take to the Harvest Festival! It gets really lonely here, Dad, and I just want you to be happy.”

Dad being Dad, he didn’t hear a syllable I’d said. Instead, his first inclination was to worry about me. He pushed his plate away, furrowing his brow, his brain flying instantly to the worst-case scenario.

“Where is all this coming from?” Dad questioned, voice sounding agitated. “Eleven years, and this is the first time you’ve broached this subject. Has somebody been giving you a tough time at school because there’s only the two of us? Because I’m a single parent? Throwing their unwanted opinions around? You know you can tell me anything.”

Momentarily, I felt remorseful. I could tell Dad anything, and for the first time in my life I had an enormous secret that I couldn’t share with him. Guilt gnawed at my insides. “That’s not it,” I told Dad. “Nobody has said anything horrible, and if they did, I’d hex their ears off.” I smiled, hoping Dad would know I was joking. “But what I’m trying to say, very badly I think, is that if you were to meet someone special… And you know, you could because, honestly, thirty is no age for a wizard, I wouldn’t mind. I’d be happy, because I’d know you were happy.”

There was silence between us then, while Dad sipped his tea, considering everything I’d said. I could almost see the cogs moving in his head. I didn’t rush him, because I knew, in the fullness of time, he’d answer. Whenever we had momentous, grownup conversations like this one, Dad always listened properly, and never talked down to me. Because my grandfather hadn’t considered Dad's opinions, Dad made it a point of pride to break the cycle.

After a minute or so, Dad spoke. His smile was bittersweet.

“I know you would be, Scorpius. You’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I know, far far bigger than mine was at your age, and I know that all you’ve ever wanted is the people you care about to be happy.” He paused, picked up the Zabini-Greengrass invite, and turned it over in his hands, running the tip of his fingernail across the edge. “I’ve always tried my best to be honest with you, and I don’t propose to change that today… Accordingly, I’m not going to fib. From time to time I do think about what it might be like to have a relationship. To have someone of my own, as you so elegantly stated.” Dad positioned the card on the table, giving it an indifferent tap. “Not, I might add, for attending snobby shindigs like this, but more to have someone to share the small and the big things with, someone to wake up to- “

“Someone to cheer for your prize-winning courgettes,” I said, approving Dad’s words. I could hear Harry echoing in them, how he’d said he’d love to share his Christmases, and birthdays, and boring in-between days with Dad and me. Both my parents wanted the same thing. Enthusiasm pinged inside of me. Dad’s response to my question had been better than I could have imagined. “Someone to bring you a mug of coffee in your workshop.”

Dad gave me an odd, curious glance at my last comment. Inwardly I cringed. Coffee wasn’t Dad’s thing, was it? It was Harry’s. I’d said that because I was daydreaming. “Tea,” I amended. “Although, what if your special someone drank it? You’d have to get used to it then.”

“He’d have to be an extremely special somebody for me to put up with coffee breath,” Dad answered, shuddering in mock-horror. I think, now that he’d been honest with me, and realised I wasn’t being bullied, Dad had relaxed. “No, thank you. I’m too stuck in my ways for a someone of my own. Besides, why do I need anyone else? Ever since the moment of your birth, you’ve always been my priority. You and me, we’ve always been enough, and even though you’ve gone up to Hogwarts… That isn’t going to change.”

I bit my tongue. Usually I loved hearing Dad speak like he just had, loved how his words always left me feeling warm, safe, and loved. Today, however, they left me with a flutter of sadness in my belly. I wanted to tell him no, that our little family of two wasn’t enough, not anymore. I wanted to tell Dad his reasoning was faulty.

Pulling my plate back towards me, I contemplated my now-congealed pancake. Love wasn’t like pancakes, where you get two or three, and that’s all you were permitted. Love wasn’t limited. Dru had two younger brothers, Marcus, and Hyperion, and I was quite sure Aunty Pansy didn’t love Dru any the less because they existed. Love grew, love stretched, and Dad falling back in love with Harry didn’t mean anything would have to change between Dad and me.

Breakfast – as well as our conversation – was finished, and Dad cast a Tempus. “How can it possibly be past nine already?” he grumbled. Standing, Dad tapped the invite, and the other letters with the tip of his wand. They swept through the air, landed in a neat pile on the windowsill, and I drank the last few drops of my orange juice.

The best option, I resolved, was to let matters of love drop for now. I wasn’t dissuaded. Stupid stubborn adults. Dad wanted someone to wake up with and, as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single reason that person couldn’t be Harry.

~

I know I’m eleven-years-old, and officially close to being grown up, but all that adulty stuff goes out of the window on Christmas morning. Every December the twenty-fifth I’m the same. I turn back into an excited little kid again.

I wake up absurdly early, check outside of the window to see if it has snowed – not precisely sure why I do this, it’s not as if I’m bothered the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days - and then I rush downstairs to see if Santa’s been. I mean, I’m not daft. I know it’s Dad and Gran who leave the pressies under the tree, but there’s something magical about finding them waiting, each box more brightly wrapped and intriguing than the last. A big part of me would like to rip the paper off them there and then, but I don’t, of course. In my family, the big presents are opened after Christmas dinner. We are, however, allowed to empty our stockings. After unhooking mine, I bounded up to Dad’s bedroom, and launched myself onto his bed. He opened a bleary eye and smiled.

“There’s presents under the tree,” I announced. “Masses of them.”

“Fancy that,” Dad smiled, sitting up, sticking a pillow behind his head, and accepting my enthusiastic hug. “Think Santa’s been working overtime this year.”

“Definitely,” I agreed, delving into my stocking, and pulling out my prizes. There were three Chocolate Frogs – Dad and I immediately ate one each – as well as sweets, a new quill, and a pair of woolly socks. These I put on straightaway, because December in Northumberland gets very cold indeed. The only thing that could have made my morning better would have been if Harry were there too, waking Dad with a kiss.

As they often did, my thoughts wandered to my other parent, and I wondered whether he’d woken alone at Hogwarts, without anyone to wish him Merry Christmas, or whether he’d been woken by a dozen rowdy Weasleys. Either way, I decided Harry ought to have been here, with Dad and me.

Christmas Day, in Hadden on the Wolds, is a very traditional, old-fashioned experience, and honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the mediaeval wizards and witches who lived here before us would have recognised our customs as the same ones they had practised. In the morning, Dad, Gran, and I took our customary walk to Hadden stone circle.

Once there we met with the other villagers, raised our wands to give thanks for the season, and ate mince pies. Snow hadn’t fallen, worst luck, but it was so cold you could see your breath. Dad and Gran drank mugs of spicy mulled wine – not me, unfortunately: I had warmed fruit juice, but Dad put a cinnamon stick inside it so at least it looked the part! – and we ended by singing Christmas carols.

Then, afterwards, Gran and I walked Hydrus, and played board games whilst Dad finished the Christmas dinner. Splendid smells came from the kitchen, making me hungry. Everything was cosy and comfortable, but I was aware of an absence too. I imagined Harry, ensconced between two redheaded Weasleys, sat amongst a riot of noise and colour, and wondered whether Harry was thinking of us too, as he’d promised he would.

Mid-afternoon, Dad served dinner and, as usual, my eyes were far bigger than my belly. It was hard to believe that Dad hadn’t cooked for himself as a child or teenager, because his food was the finest I’d ever tasted. I really missed it at school and felt sure that if only Harry could taste it, he’d find an excuse never to leave. As we ate, I let the rhythms of the conversation wash over me. Dad and Gran gossiped about the villagers, about local politics, and dull Ministry matters which seemed far away from Hadden. I couldn’t contribute, so I daydreamed instead.

Perhaps, had Harry been there, sitting in the empty chair beside Dad, he’d have taken his hand by now, drifting his thumb across Dad’s finger. Perhaps, if he were tipsy after one too many glasses of wine, he’d lean over, and whisper something flirty in Dad’s ear. That’s what suitors tended to do in Dru’s mum’s novels. However Harry chose to behave, it’d surely be more meaningful than Gran telling Dad he’d outdone himself, like she always did.

As soon as our plates were cleared, and the cleaning charms were cast, the three of us made our way through to the living room. It was time to open presents and it went without saying that Dad had spoiled me. Every year was the same: he would tell me that everything was too pricey, that I’m getting too old for a pile of pressies, and that this was the year he’s reigning himself in but, every year, Dad would decide he couldn’t resist. I was given a new knitted jumper – royal blue, very fuzzy – a new Slytherin scarf, and a telescope I’ve coveted for months.

Dad loved the biography of Nicolas Flamel I’d brought for him, and Gran pronounced herself very satisfied with her favourite ginger-orange bonbons. She took lots of photographs and, just like every other year, declared it the finest Christmas the Malfoys had ever had. Lastly, once our wrapping paper was cleared away, the three of us played Magicopoly and, as I’d predicted to Harry weeks before, Dad won the first two games easily. After we’d played for an hour Gran stated she was much too weary to continue. The Floo sounded, announcing a Firecall from Aunty Pansy and Uncle Theo.

I excused myself, and made for the stairs, and my final Christmas present, concealed in the bottom of my trunk underneath a pile of old Martin Miggs comics. This was my one perfect chance: I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed. Once Aunty Pansy started gabbing, she could easily chew Dad’s ear off for over an hour.

After shutting my door, I knelt on the floor and pulled my trunk out from beneath the bed. Dad was incredibly conscientious of my privacy, and I know he’d never look in there, but, even so, when I closed my fingers around Harry’s present, my heart was beating ten to the dozen. Harry and my getting-to-know-one-another meetings were all fine and dandy at Hogwarts, miles away in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, but I wasn’t in Scotland now. I was in my bedroom, nestled in the sanctity of my home, about to open a gift from the one person who’d changed Dad’s life irrevocably.

I checked the door a final time – still closed – and, heart knocking against my ribs, I ripped off the purple paper.

Inside was a worn, and obviously old velvet box, like the ones Gran has on her dressing table. For a second I was confused, not understanding why Harry had given me jewellery. Then, when I opened it, I twigged. Inside wasn’t jewellery but was, instead, an old-fashioned wizard’s pocket watch, substantial, a bit scratched, and instantly the oldest thing I owned.

Plonking myself on my bed, I took it out of its box, turning it over, examining the front and back. The face was a light marbled grey, embossed with a pattern of very tiny stars, and the back – dented, but beautifully polished – was brass. It told the perfect time and, when I held it up to my ear, I could hear it ticking, regular as a heartbeat. After glancing once more at the door, I opened a note Harry had folded, and hidden beneath the watch.

Merry Christmas Scorpius!

I hope you’re having a brilliant holiday, and that you like your watch. I know it isn’t trendy, or new, or anything like that, but please don’t fret. I’m not trying to fob you off with something I found in a junk shop. I’m sure Draco will have told you this already, but when a wizard comes of age to practise magic outside of school, it’s customary to give them a pocket watch.

Clearly, in this case I’m years too early, but bear with me. I do have a good excuse.

I was given this watch when I turned seventeen, and it’s always meant the world to me, because, on the day I was given it, I grasped for the first time what it felt like to be part of a family. To be loved unconditionally. These last few months, during our Saturday morning meetings, I’ve started to feel like that once again. I’m really glad we’ve got to know each other, and I hope you know you mean the world to me.

I promise, when you turn seventeen, I’ll buy you a shiny new watch worthy of the occasion, but until then, this one has never let me down. I hope you enjoy using it as much as I always have.

Enjoy the rest of your hols, and I shall see you in the New Year.

Love, Harry x

I read my letter for a second time, before folding it, and placing it back into the box.

As Harry had promised, the watch told the perfect time, the hour hand pointing almost to the four, and I marvelled at my present, tracing the smooth metal with my finger. Wizarding society has many, many traditions, and rituals – a legacy, I reckon, of generations of us living in the shadows, terrified of persecution – and being given a watch on the day you’re lawfully allowed to practise magic is an important one. Dad says, decades ago, your seventeenth birthday was the day you officially began your apprenticeship, so you needed a timepiece to keep track of your day.

In giving me his pocket watch, Harry wasn’t only giving me a present; he was giving me a message too. The object held significance. Fathers gave their sons watches, exactly as Harry just had.

Harry wanted to be my father, and not just by blood, or circ*mstances, or because he still loved Dad – which, unquestionably, he did – Harry wanted to be my father-father. Harry’s ambitions had grown beyond sharing sweets, flying lessons, and stolen Saturday getting-to-know-one-another meetings. Harry wanted to be my father, in every sense of the word.

Harry wanted to comfort me, when I asked my crush to the Christmas Ball, and they refused, and I thought my heart might shatter. He wanted to pester me, when he didn’t think I was working hard enough towards my O.W.Ls and all I seemed to care about was Quidditch and mates. Harry wanted to give me a hangover potion after my first, disastrous experiment with Firewhisky.

Harry wanted to lay claim to the half of me that was his, the part was his blood, his bones, and his magic, and be at my side for all the important parts of my life.

In my palm, Harry’s pocket watch ticked steadily, dependably, and it hit me, there and then, the force of it briefly knocking my world from its axis: I wanted all of that, too.

A shuffling noise outside the door startled me and, quickly as I could, I placed my watch back into its box, and back into my trunk. Fortunately, it wasn’t Dad or Gran. It was Hydrus, bored after napping, and hoping to play. I gathered him onto my lap, and scratched his ears as I gathered my thoughts.

I’d been focussed, for weeks and weeks, on the idea of metaphorically banging Dad’s and Harry’s heads together and making them remember why they’d loved each other as much as they had, when what I really wanted was the three of us to be a family.

That was why I’d thought about Harry so often, not only today, but ever since the holidays had begun. There was a space in Hadden, a jigsaw slot that Harry fitted into perfectly, and I missed him. I didn’t know how it was possible to miss a person you’d never really had, but I knew I did, deeply.

I smiled, because the truth of it was undeniable. I know I’m only eleven, and pretty green about the realities of life, but sometimes the truth hits you like a Bludger to the head, and there’s nothing you can do but face your fate. I had a fantastic Dad – I couldn’t ask for better – but I wanted more. I was tired of procrastinating and playing this ridiculous game. Nothing was going to change otherwise. As soon as an opportunity arose to talk to Dad, I was going to seize it.

My opportunity came that evening. Gran, citing tiredness, had Flooed back to her cottage, Hydrus was fast asleep and snoring in front of the fireplace, and Dad and I were sitting together on the settee, idle and sedate, full of hot chocolate and biscuits. We’d watched a Pensieve picture story that I’d been looking forward to – Morgana the Voyager – but now, close to midnight, it was time for bed. But I was curiously reluctant, hyper aware of Harry’s pocket watch, concealed upstairs, and everything it signified. I’d been preoccupied since opening it, lost in a haze of daydreaming.

Turning my head, I peeked at Dad, at the light laughter lines beside his eyes, and the reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose.

“D’you want anything else to eat?” Dad asked, catching me looking, and meeting my glance with a smile. “There’s a couple of biscuits left. Otherwise I’ll cast a Stasis.”

I shook my head and patted my tummy. “No, thank you. Couldn’t eat anything else if I tried.”

“Fair enough,” Dad answered, casting the Statis wandlessly. “Perhaps we ought to go to Bedfordshire.” He eyeballed the stairs but didn’t make any attempt to raise himself off the settee.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, not making a move either. I didn’t fancy the trek to my chilly bedroom, and even colder bedsheets. Tonight was a bed socks and extra blanket type of night, and no mistake.

“Have you enjoyed today?” Dad asked gently, surprising me. “You seemed a bit subdued, after we played Magicopoly. I was a bit worried that you were disappointed with your presents.” He turned his attention to our Pensieve, levitating it back to its vacant spot on the shelf. Only once it was situated, and out of an inquisitive Hydrus’s way, did Dad elaborate. “I expect being at school has been a bit of an eye opener, hasn’t it? You and I live humbly, and I’m sure the other children will have been bragging about the expensive broomsticks and costly Quidditch leathers they were going to receive... I know that I used to. I’d boast to anyone who’d listen about my vast pile of gifts.” He scoffed, quietly, and I watched the reds and green Christmas tree lights flickering across his face. “I was a terrible show-off.”

I’d had countless reflections and thoughts during the day, but not once had I felt let down, or unappreciative of the presents Dad and Gran had given me. “I love them all,” I said, sincerely so Dad would have no doubt, “and I can’t wait to use the telescope with you as soon as possible.” I chuckled. “Can’t wait to show off everything I’ve learnt in Astronomy.”

Dad chuckled, and the tension left his face. “I doubt you’ve been taught a thing this term you didn’t know already,” he answered. “You’ve known all the constellations since you were six.”

“Five,” I corrected, grabbing the edge of the throw, and dragging it over my lap. Midnight had come and gone, the temperature in the room was dropping steadily, but neither Dad nor I had made any move towards leaving the settee. “I knew them before I could read.”

“Of course,” Dad agreed, removing his reading glasses, and pinching the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was tired. It’d been a really long day. “It’s a matter of principle, Scorpius: no son of mine shall remain ignorant about such a crucial matter.”

I remembered Dad saying that, when I was little. He’d taught me all sorts of things when I was younger: my constellations, how to knot a tie, how to read, and how to iron a shirt. He’d taught me how to be the absolute best version of myself. Nonetheless, my thoughts still flew back to Harry’s pocket watch. There was another, much more crucial matter I needed to talk with Dad about, and there was no better time to talk about it than the present.

Time, I decided, to seize the nettle.

Knotting a loose piece of the throw’s woolly fringing around my fingers, I took a deep breath and, in the most earnest tone I could muster, said my piece. “There is one more thing I’d like for Christmas,” I told him, “but you’re free not to give it to me, not if you don’t feel ready.”

Dad nodded, listening closely, his full attention trained on me. “Well, I’d need to know what it was first,” he answered, purposely not making any promises. Dad never did, not unless he was sure he could follow through on them.

Gathering my nerves, I thought about Harry’s watch, and how it might be, one day in the future, if I were to have both of my parents here with me. “I’ll be twelve this year,” I reminded Dad, “so I’m almost a teenager. I’m growing up… and I think… I know that part of me growing up is knowing where I came from. My Father… My other Father, obviously… It never really bothered me before, not when I still lived at home, not when it was just me, you, Hydrus, and Gran.” I glanced down at my hand. I’d pulled the fringing so tightly around my fingers that the skin was blanched, and all I could feel were pins and needles. “But since I went up to school, I feel like everything’s changed… Will you tell me about him? He’s half of me, the same as you are.” I swallowed. There was a large lump in my throat. “I’d really like to know.”

My nerves ran out, and I released the thread tied around my hand. I’d never acknowledged the existence of another parent before: this was uncharted territory for both Dad and me.

Beside me, Dad stared into the middle distance, gazing at something only he could see. His face wasn’t sad, but it was pensive. He looked young and uncertain, and I hoped very much that I hadn’t ruined a Christmas Day he’d worked hard to make special for me.

But, when he spoke, Dad’s voice wasn’t sorrowful. “It’s odd,” Dad told me, giving me a brief, tight smile. “I’ve waited years for you to ask that question. Ever since you first learnt to speak, I suppose. When you first met Dru, and realised she had two parents. After that we visited the village, and met other local families… I’ve waited, and waited, and yet, somehow, it’s still more difficult than I’d expected.” Dad halted briefly, shivering slightly, and pulled the two sides of his dressing gown closer together. I hadn’t noticed, but the room had grown even colder. “I knew this day was coming, but I didn't… Now it’s arrived, it’s damnably difficult to know what to say. I never meant to keep you in the dark, Scorpius. He was… In the beginning, it was hard for me to talk about, and the older you grew, the less confident I became.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” I said, because that hadn’t ever been my intention.

“And you haven’t,” Dad replied, sounding more assured. “And you’re right. You do deserve to know where you came from, and about your other father, and I swore to myself that, when this day came, I’d be completely honest. I will be Scorpius, I promise. All I ask is one day’s grace before we talk about this properly.” Dad waved in the direction of our clock, and I realised, surprised, that it was nearer now to one a.m. than midnight. I didn’t know where the last half an hour had gone; it felt like mere minutes had passed since we’d finished Morgana the Voyager. “But I need to disentangle my thoughts first… Work my way up to the conversation. Do this the right way. Would that be okay?”

It was more than okay. I looked at Dad, and I could see the upset, and the sincerity there. I didn’t resent my dad wanting to wait for a day. Harry was Dad’s story, as much as it was mine, and I didn’t want to push or pressure him.

“’Course it is,” I told him, before burrowing my head into the crook of his neck, and giving him the biggest, hardest hug I could manage, hopeful Dad could sense the depth of my feelings through it.

Whatever happened tomorrow, or in the future, I already had the best Dad in the world.

~

The next day was Boxing Day and, in my family, we always do exactly the same thing: Floo over to the Parkinson-Nott’s house for dinner and a bit of a party. I can’t remember a time we didn’t visit. Dad wouldn’t admit it aloud, but I reckon he looks forward to it more than Christmas Day. His and Aunty Pansy’s lives are always so busy, and they never get to see each other as much as they’d like.

Yawning, I rolled out of bed and straightway checked in my trunk for my new pocket watch. It was precisely where I’d left it, and I posed with it in front of my mirror for a moment, feeling very grown up, and wondering whether any other first year Slytherins had a real wizard’s watch.

Dad – the earliest of risers – shouted that the bathroom was free. Regretfully I placed my watch back into its box, and back into my trunk. Three minutes later, I was brushing my teeth, and my day had officially begun. My tummy thrummed with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see Dru and had really missed her.

Before I knew what had hit me, Dad and I were stepping out of Aunty Pansy’s Floo and into the busy, friendly chaos that is Dru’s living room. The bonkers thing is, I’ve actually spent far more time at Havenbrook Hall – the Nott family manor house – than Dad has. Before Hogwarts, I used to Floo here almost every morning, and take lessons with Madam Rose, Dru’s tutor. It was a godsend for Dad, firstly because Hadden is far too small for a wizarding primary school, and secondly because there wasn’t a chance he could have afforded a tutor by himself. Without Aunty Pansy, I’d have had to take lessons with my gran.

I glanced around, happy familiarity flooding through me. My mornings spent here with Madam Rose and the Parkinson-Nott siblings had been brilliant fun, and I remembered them fondly.

“You’re finally here,” Dru cried dramatically. She seized me as I stepped out of the hearth and pulled me into a hug. “Christmas Day seemed to last for a thousand years. It was horrendous. All Dad’s ancient crusty relations were here, the whole lot of them frowning and complaining. Merlin, but Aunty Margarete actually told Mum I ought to already be betrothed!” Dru chortled. “Mum informed her it wasn’t the seventeenth century anymore, that I’d marry whomever I wanted, and that if Aunty Margarete didn’t like it, she was welcome to take her archaic views elsewhere!”

I grinned, because Pansy’s home was always like this, the opposite of quiet, sedate Hadden. Everybody was talking at once. It was loud, it was boisterous, and unless you were quick, you wouldn’t get a word in edgeways.

The rest of the Parkinson-Notts were on Dad and me in seconds, crowding us with kisses and handshakes, demanding our coats, and offering food.

“Scorp!” Hyperion yelled, leaping to my side. He was nine, noisy, and had been very cross when Dru’s Hogwarts letter had arrived. However, Hyperion appeared happy enough now and was wearing a Christmas jumper patterned with broomsticks. “I got a new train set for Christmas, and a chemistry kit, and a big box of Chocolate Frogs!”

Hyperion pulled on my sleeve, wanting to get me away from the adults while Marcus – five, curly haired, and the official baby of the family – took my other hand. Dru batted her brothers away effortlessly, an accomplished older sister. “Good gods, give Scorp some space,” she demanded, shooing them away. “We’ll play with you two later! Now scram, before I turn both of you into Guinea pigs and feed you to the cat.” Dru’s threat was undone by her giggle. “First things first, we’re going to the kitchens. Cook had made the most fantastic gingerbread witches. I reckon they’ll still be warm.”

As always, I had the best time at Havenbrook Hall. The Parkinson-Notts might have been wealthy, but they weren’t the least bit stuck-up. Dru and I ate two gingerbread witches a piece, and then, the sugar racing through our blood, we dashed through the corridors to her bedroom. We played Hide and Seek, Tag, and Catch the Snitch. Unfortunately, the Snitch knocked over an antique vase that had belonged to Uncle Theo’s side of the family, and it had to be saved with a nifty bit of magic. After that, Aunty Pansy dispatched us to the playroom, calling us little hellions, and claiming that she’d never heard such a din in her life.

Marcus and Hyperion had been given the most impressive train set for Christmas that I’d ever seen. It filled half of the playroom and was set with an enchantment which made actual steam rise from the engine’s funnel. Dru and I set to work arranging the train set for her brothers, organising the station of the tiny figures, and the time sped away quickly. It didn’t matter that we believed we were too grown up for toys, because there wasn’t anyone from Hogwarts to see us playing.

The funniest part of our visit to Havenbrook Hall occurred just before dinner. Marcus had a burst of accidental magic and turned Hyperion’s hair a bright cerulean blue. Aunty Pansy fell about laughing the moment she saw him. Luckily, it was easily sorted, and we soon settled down to eat. Hyperion and Dru spent half the meal flicking peas at one another, and giggling, and I realised how much I’d missed the hubbub of other children chatting and messing about. When I’d first begun at Hogwarts, I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the constant noise, but now it was second nature.

Dinner tasted brilliant too. The cook had magicked the jelly so that every mouthful had a different taste, but each was equally yummy. “Absolutely fantastic nosh,” was Uncle Theo’s judgement. Once we’d all finished eating, he took Marcus and Hyperion out into the gardens, wanting to burn away their excess energy before bedtime. Aunty Pansy nattered in Dad’s direction, gossiping about old school chums who weren’t a part of his life any longer. It didn’t matter. Dad listened amiably, sipping from his glass of Butterbeer occasionally. He was happy to enjoy her company and the sound of her voice.

“Come on,” Dru murmured in my ear, taking my hand. “Mum’s just getting started. Let’s go and look at the new romance books she had for Christmas. I know where she’s hidden them.”

I nodded, and we slipped, unnoticed, from the table. I reckoned we’d have half an hour, at the very least, before we were missed. We raced across the hall, and into the library.

The Havenbrook library wasn’t anywhere near as formal as the one I’d grown used to at Hogwarts. Books were piled in higgledy-piggledy heaps, without any attention paid to the subject. Aunty Pansy’s new romances were squashed between Dru’s old exercise books, and a stack of Uncle Theo’s university textbooks.

“The sequel to Lady Arabella’s Secret!” Dru shrieked, grabbing a pastel-hued book from the pile. “When Lord Ashley Bronson loses his memory, can Lady Arabella’s passion bring him home?” she read aloud from the back cover, “or will the ill-starred lovers be fated to spend the rest of the years apart?” Dru rolled her eyes, giggling. “The latter, I assume! It’d be a short read otherwise.”

Flicking through the pages, Dru began her usual search for the brooding eyes and heaving bosoms her Mum’s books typically yielded. Any other day I’d be giggling right alongside my best friend but, suddenly, my heart wasn’t in it.

My attention had been caught by the covers of Aunty Pansy’s books – a couple huddling under an umbrella, a couple eating in a candlelit restaurant, and a handsome, dark-haired man toasting his unseen beloved with champagne – and, collectively, they made me feel gloomy. Dad hadn’t enjoyed a big romance with Harry, had he? He’d never been courted with tender gestures, taken out for dinner, or been the lead in his own love story. Instead, he’d had to watch while Harry romanced Ginny Weasley, and married her, the whole universe watching eagerly.

I smiled at Dru, and glanced through another of her mum’s books, feigning interest. Boxing Day had been so busy I hadn’t had the opportunity to think about the conversation I’d asked Dad to have with me. Now though, I could think of nothing else. Anxiety roared in with all the force of a Firebolt. There was a very real chance that Dad would say horrible things about Harry when we talked, and I wouldn’t blame him if he did. From Dad’s viewpoint, Harry had treated him abysmally. He’d broken promises, and left him alone, pregnant, and vulnerable. Dad was in the dark about Robard’s threats.

I wondered if I’d be able to keep Harry’s secret. I wasn’t an accomplished liar, and especially not to Dad, who believed in honesty above everything. But if I told Dad about Robards, then all my other secrets would start to unravel: my knowledge of Harry’s identity, our getting-to-know-one-another meetings, even the pocket watch I’d opened the day before.

Dad’s voice pulled me out of my trance. While I’d been daydreaming, the sun had set, and Marcus and Hyperion’s bathtime was rapidly approaching. Dad and Aunty Pansy were propped against the library doorway. “We’ve impinged on the Parkinson-Notts long enough,” Dad told me, glancing at his friend. “It’s high time we thought about going home.”

Aunty Pansy scoffed, but even I could see she was tired. “But we loved having both of you. Promise you won’t leave it as long next time. You know you’re just as much part of the family as any of Theo’s prehistoric relatives. Felt quite like old times to have Scorpius pop through the Floo.” Her face brightened, and she pulled her wand from belt. “Merlin, darling, but I almost forgot!” She waved her wand through the air. “Accio Scorpius’s Christmas present.”

A slim red volume flew from a high shelf, and Aunty Pansy caught it easily. “Mendip’s Constellations,” she said, placing it in my hands. “Just a knackered old copy that's been knocking about but, when Draco said you didn’t own it, I decided you absolutely must. It’s completely essential. Wouldn’t have passed my Astronomy O.W.L. without it.”

It was a lovely, thoughtful gift. Mendips was on the reading list for school, but Dad hadn’t really been able to afford the astronomic price Flourish and Blotts demanded. I’d told him I didn’t mind – that I’d borrow it from Hogwarts Library – but, secretly, I was thrilled to have my own copy.

“Thank you,” I exclaimed, pulling Aunty Pansy a tight hug. “It’s brilliant. I love Astronomy.”

“I know, sweetheart. You deserve all the good things, Scorpius,” she answered, pleased. “It’s clear this evening, not a single cloud to be seen. Cast yourselves matching Warming Charms when you get home and collect your telescopes. Your darling father never missed an opportunity for stargazing when we were youngsters. Dru says you’re the same.”

“Marvellous idea,” Dad concurred and the pair of us bade our best friends goodbye.

As soon as we arrived home to Hadden, Dad and I put Aunty Pansy’s plan into action. I raced upstairs and collected my new telescope from its pride-of-place position on my bedside table whilst Dad made us both hot chocolates and packed our heaviest jumpers and the outside blanket. There was a little bench in the garden and, as far back as I could remember, Dad and I sat in that spot and gazed at the stars.

First, Dad cast Warming Charms over both of us, and then he draped the blanket over our knees. “If you start to get cold,” he said firmly, “tell me. We’ll head back inside.”

I nodded, but going inside was the last thing I wanted. Aunty Pansy had been correct: the night was clear, without a single cloud in the sky, perfect for finding every constellation in the sky. I fiddled with my new telescope, rotating it at the base, and holding it up to my eye. It was every bit as good as I’d hoped it would be, and familiar constellations seemed more dazzling than I’d ever seen them. I found Orion the Great Hunter, and Taurus the Bull. Both Dad and I were quiet, but the silence wasn’t unpleasant. I was so intent on my task that I didn’t feel the slightest bit cold.

Dad was the first to put down his telescope. He tapped the side of his wand against the tray holding our drink, breaking the Stasis spell. The scent of delicious hot chocolate filled my nose, stealing my attention.

“Time for a break,” Dad said, leaning across and picking up a mug. “Careful, it’s hot,” he informed me, placing it carefully in my fingers.

“Will you tell me the story of Aquarius?” I asked, blowing away the steam that rose from my drink.

“I’ve told you that a million times,” Dad smiled. “You know it off by heart.”

Dad was right, I did, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to hear it again. Hearing the tales of how the constellations came to be named was another one of our stargazing rituals. I’d learnt far more from Dad than I had from Professor Montague, my stuffy, stale Astronomy teacher.

“Please,” I added, before taking a small sip of my scalding hot chocolate.

“Ganymede was a shepherd,” Dad told me, his words familiar, “and the most beautiful youth in all of Athens. Stories of his beauty spread for miles around and were even heard by the Gods. One day Zeus, god of the sky and god of thunder, heard of Ganymede, and decided he had to see him for himself. One sight, and Zeus was smitten. He turned into a giant eagle, swooped down, and lifted Ganymede from the ground, his sheep, and his mortal life. They flew all the way to Olympus, and Zeus placed Ganymede in the sky forever. He became cupbearer, and companion to Zeus for the rest of time.”

Aquarius was a tricky constellation to see without my telescope, but I looked to where I knew the stars were. “And they’re still together now?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “That’s the legend,” he answered. “Your gran told me that story, when I was far younger than you. Eight or so, I think. I remember that I wished, fervently, that I’d find a love like that of my own, a romance to span the ages… That’s what I believed I’d found, with your father.”

My pulse picked up, and my fingers curled tightly around my mug. Dad had asked for one day’s grace before we talked about Harry, and now it was happening. This was what I’d wanted, but now it was happening, I thrummed with nervousness. I wanted the three of us to become a family so much.

“You’re going to tell me all about him?”

“I promised I would,” Dad said gently, “and now I’m ready. I’m going to be as honest as I can be. The only thing I’m not going to tell you today is his name. I want to talk to him, before doing that, and find out what kind of relationship he wants to have with you going forward. What his intentions are towards you. You’re the most important person in my life, Scorpius. I won’t risk you getting hurt.”

A wave of frustration rolled through me. I wanted to tell Dad that I already knew my other parent was Harry Potter, and that I already knew his intentions were good ones. I didn’t have a shadow of doubt that he was all in and wanted to be my dad. My mouth stayed firmly shut, however. As always, Dad was looking out for me, being protective, cautious, and managing my expectations.

“Okay,” I agreed, shifting the blanket where it had slipped off my knees. Dad noticed, and with a blink of wandless magic, refreshed the Warming Charm.

“I’ve thought of very little besides this conversation today,” Dad admitted, as a way of an opener. “Even when Pansy was gabbing my ear off, I scarcely heard a word she was saying. I was thinking of what I was going to say. What you might like to know.” Dad turned his face towards me, expression reflective. “What can I say about your dad… In lots of ways, you’re both very alike… Your dry sense of humour. The way you always see the best in people. The way you pick at a problem, examining it from every perspective, and can’t rest until you’ve solved it… Even the way you hum sometimes, out of tune, but don’t even notice it.”

I leant over, taking Dad’s hand in mine. I could sense how difficult saying all of this was for him. “How did the two of you meet?”

“We were together at Hogwarts,” Dad answered, a small smile showing he understood very well that he’d given me a substantial clue as to Harry’s identity, “but we’d met once before we started. I was in Madam Malkins, getting my uniform robes tailored, when he entered.” Dad shook his head, as if, even after so many years, he still couldn’t believe it had happened. “Straightaway, I noticed him. I couldn’t help myself. It’s ridiculous, but… Even with his too-large, too-scruffy clothes, and a head that appeared too big for his body, your father intrigued me.”

“You pashed on him when you were eleven?” I couldn’t help myself: my dad had impressed me. I hadn’t even been able to deduce yet whether I liked boys, girls, or both, but it seemed Dad had met the love of his life, and decided there and then he was the one.

“No, no, nothing at all like a pash,” Dad said, saying the word as if it tasted rotten. “Intrigued as in I couldn’t work him out. He wasn’t anything like the children I’d grown up knowing, but he didn’t seem to give two stuffs about the fact... I couldn’t work him out, and because I was an irritating, spoiled so-and-so back then, stuffed full of self-importance, I decided I loathed him. I threw a few choice insults, he threw a few back, and suddenly that too-skinny boy who I’d met on Diagon Alley was my avowed rival.”

My mind spooled back to what Harry had said, when we’d had the same conversation. We were competitive over everything: flying, friends, schoolwork, insults… You name it, we could turn it into a row. “Not exactly love at first sight,” I observed.

Dad chuckled. “Obsession at first sight, perhaps? Neither before nor since had there been another being who could get under my skin the way your father did. For years and years I thought I loathed him. There wasn’t a single thing about him that didn’t rile or fixate me. I didn’t know whether to kiss or kick him, and most days it was both. The best of enemies. That was how it was for the first few years of our education, at any rate.”

My heart sank. I knew the next part of the story only too well, and hated that Dad had to talk about the worst few years of his life. “There wasn’t any love lost between you,” I replied, intentionally copying Harry’s words.

“None whatsoever,” Dad confirmed. “Had the world continued as it ought to have done, I don’t believe your father and I would have ever been anything except adversaries. I think we’d gone our separate ways and been nothing more to one another than student memories. But the world didn’t continue as it ought to have done. The War started, my father pledged allegiance to Voldemort, and my life was changed forever. I, being a cowardly, craven boy who’d been raised to put my family’s reputation above all other things, followed him down that same dark path.”

Dad rolled up his sleeve, showing me the Dark Mark that still marred his skin. “After my trial… Whenever your other father and I talked about the war, he would always say the same thing: that we’d both been children, exploited by adults using us to fight their battles.”

Dad pulled down his sleeve, hiding his worst mistake once more, and I shivered, despite Dad’s Warming Charm and the blanket wrapped around my knees. Harry had said that to me too, hadn’t he? Both of us were manipulated and used by adults who ought to have been better and done better. I wondered whether Dru, Phillip, or I would do anything differently, were our circ*mstances the same as my parents.

A faraway expression on his face, Dad continued his tale. “But I didn’t, and still don’t agree with him, Scorpius. I know I ought to have done more. Asked more questions. Fought Voldemort from the inside. Resisted in any way, shape, or form I could. But I didn’t… I was too cowardly, and too in thrall to your grandfather, even though, in my heart of hearts, I knew he was leading us down a fatal path.” Dad shook his head ruefully. “Listen to me. Talking only about myself, when I’m the last person you want to hear about.”

“That’s not true,” I protested. I understood Dad’s and Harry’s stories were entwined, and their wartime experiences were fundamental to the people they later became.

Dad picked up his mug. He took a sip even though his drink must have gotten cold. “I suppose it is relevant, because your father fought for the other side. He was a hero and fought bravely, selflessly... And he was the first person to tell me I wasn’t a monster, that I hadn’t thrown my life away the day I was Marked.” Dad paused and smiled sadly. “That I wasn’t defined by the mistakes I’d made in the past, but by what I did with the rest of my life. By this point I was on house arrest, and my Wizengamot trial concluded. Your father and I used to talk, and talk, and somewhere along the line all the antagonism we’d carried since childhood fell away.”

Dad – lost in his story – hadn’t realised how many pieces of jigsaw he’d given away. Even if I hadn’t known who Harry was, I’d have been able to work it out with all the clues he’s unwittingly let slip. “That was when the two of you fell in love? After the war?”

“I fell in love,” Dad corrected. “Even now, I’m not a hundred percent sure how your other father felt about me... I know he visited because he was forced to, in the beginning. But the more often he visited, the more often he appeared to want to come. He stayed longer each time.” Dad sighed deeply. “I was allowed little company, so of course I encouraged him. We read together, listened to Quidditch games on the wireless, played chess… In retrospect, I think, perhaps, that what your father enjoyed most was the quiet simplicity of our time together, rather than my company. He called our time together his sacred space, Scorpius. Said it was the place where he was happiest.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Dad was correct about their hours in each other’s company being Harry’s sacred space, but that was because they’d been together, and because Harry had loved him. “Of course he was in love with you,” I blurted, knowing it for the absolute truth.

But Dad wasn’t convinced, and why would he be? In his mind, Harry had left both of us behind. He’d run away, just as soon as Dad had needed him. My heart ached, knowing Dad still laboured under the misapprehension that Harry had left him behind voluntarily.

“I’ve had almost a dozen years to dwell on it since. I’ll never know for sure. Honestly, even if your father was only using those visits to calve out some moments of peace for himself, I don’t blame him. He was under a huge volume of pressure during those first few post-war years… I never fully appreciated the weight of expectation he felt he had to carry. He was a good person, a kind person, but he still had lots to work through. He’d endured a war, been badly abused by his childhood family, and was still deeply closeted.”

Dad shrugged his shoulders before placing his mug back onto the floor. “Sometimes your father would tease me. He’d say I was the only person who cared enough about him to not place him on a pedestal... I’d tease straight back, tell him he didn’t have to be their idol if he didn’t want to be, that he could jump from their pedestal any time he wanted.” Dad blinked, returning to the present. “But, in the end, his pedestal proved too alluring.”

I didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“That your father picked the pedestal over the two of us. Picked the more straightforward path. After our friendship grew into something…” Dad blushed lightly “Grew into something more intimate, the two of us started making tentative plans for after my house arrest finished. Nothing set in stone of course, but real enough that I started to believe them... Travelling abroad was one possibility, somewhere neither of us would be easily recognised.” Dad huffed out a small, sad chuckle. “We even discussed snapping our wands and throwing our lot in with the Muggles! Can you imagine, Scorpius? I’d have learnt to drive one of their cars and we’d have flown in the clouds in an aeroplane! Gods, I know I was so young, and naïve, but it was as if, whenever we talked about the future, I could see it, in full colour, as if it were playing out in my Pensieve.”

There was so much regret and sadness in Dad’s voice. None of Dad and Harry’s plans had come true, and that was all because of me. I felt sure that if Dad hadn’t gotten pregnant, Robards wouldn’t have made his vile threat. Dad would have finished his house arrest, and my parents would have forged a brilliant life for themselves. I nodded in lieu of an answer, not trusting that my emotions wouldn’t show in my voice.

Dad gestured toward our home, our small patch of garden, and the harsh Durham countryside that surrounded us, bathed now in darkness. The only light came from the kitchen window, and the Lumos Dad had cast on the tip of his wand.

“But, as you can see, I’m neither Muggle nor French,” Dad continued. “Out of nowhere, my life pivoted in a direction I hadn’t anticipated. Without potions, or magic, or anything, a visiting St Mungo’s Healer informed me I’d gotten pregnant. Merlin, but you could have knocked me down with a feather. All those plans we’d made, all those conversations… Everything shifted, with one word. The Healer was astonished too. You were a statistical improbability, Scorpius. My tiny miracle.”

As he spoke about getting pregnant, the tone of Dad’s voice changed. It was brighter now, warm with emotion. I looked up at the sky, the inky darkness bright with stars. “The instant the Healer left, your father and I began making plans about what we’d do next. Merlin, but he appeared so elated… Dumbfounded yes, but elated. He called you and I his family and said that we were the only thing he’d ever genuinely wanted. I remember that he said there were things he needed to do, conversations he needed to have. He had to resign his job, talk to his superiors, and pack a few of his belongings. He said that he'd send an owl, as soon as he could. The final memory I’ve got is of him kissing me, and telling me he loved me, just before he stepped into the Floo.”

Dad’s last memory until I’d begun at Hogwarts, and gotten Harry Potter for my flying instructor, at least. I thought back to that first meeting, after I’d fallen off my broomstick, how Dad’s hackles had risen the moment Harry had walked into Professor McGonagall’s office, and how wary his body language had been. How must it have felt for Dad, seeing the man he’d loved, after eleven years? His whole body must have been pulsing with nerves, yet he’d kept himself together flawlessly. His voice hadn’t even trembled.

“It took me three days before I understood he wasn’t coming back,” Dad continued. “And even then I couldn’t bring myself to fully believe it… I couldn’t eat, couldn’t read. In all the months I was under house arrest, my home never felt as much like a prison as it did then. I’d stare out of the window, hoping he might walk past, that I’d catch a glimpse of him. Eventually it dawned on me that I was wasting my time. I was alone, pregnant, and scared out of my wits.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling like the worst person on the planet. Tears pricked at the edges of my eyes, but I wiped them away. If I cried, I knew Dad would comfort me, and I didn’t have any right to receive his comfort, not when I’d been the one to instigate this difficult conversation. “If you hadn’t got pregnant-“

“Gods, no,” Dad said, cutting me off before I could finish my sentence. Sensing how upset I was, Dad pulled me into a hug, and I buried my head into the crook of his neck. That was when my tears came, thick, and fast, both for Dad and for Harry. They’d wanted nothing except each other but Robards and Shacklebolt had kept them apart. “You were, and remain, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. There aren’t any hadn’ts, wouldn’ts, shouldn’ts when it comes to you! You’re my Scorpius, who brought the light back into my life! I loved you, from the very first.”

I didn’t speak – I couldn’t – and just cried harder. Dad rocked me, as if I were six, and had scraped my knee. My Dad resumed what had now become the story of the two of us.

“Soon afterwards I had a spot of good fortune,” Dad explained. “Not long after I found out I was expecting you, the Auror in charge of supervising my house arrest changed. She was an older witch, a Mrs Thistle, and I believe one of her distant relatives was a wizard that’d carried a baby; I’m not sure, but then she never told me the whole story. In any case, I believe she must have felt sorry for me, because she suggested I make an application to the Wizengamot to vary my bail conditions and be allowed to serve the rest of my sentence here at Hadden, in your Gran’s home… I mean, I scoffed, because the likelihood of two co-accused Voldemort sympathisers being allowed to cohabit was vanishingly small, but Mrs Thistle insisted. She said it’d be good for you, fresh air, family, a clean slate. I agreed it was worth a shot.”

Dad sighed. “After that, everything happened really quickly. The Judge rubber stamped the application, and I found myself packing my meagre box of belongings the very same day. I was happy to leave. Every bit of my old home reminded me of your father, and Hadden was my escape. A day later three red-robed Auror officials came to my London digs, magicked magical cuffs onto my wrists and ankles, and side-Alonged me to Durham.” Leaning forward, Dad kissed the top of my head gently. “And, except for accompanying you to King’s Cross, I’ve never had to return to London. There’s nothing left there for me.”

I sniffed, unwilling yet to let Dad go. It was obvious Dad’s good fortune had been anything but. Mrs Thistle had been briefed by Robards to ensure Dad and his growing baby bump were hidden as thoroughly as possible. Hadden had been far away and as convenient as anywhere else. I doubted she’d ever had a wizard relative who’d gotten pregnant, but she’d given Dad that impression to win his trust. Dad held me tightly, knowing that I needed the reassurance of his arms around me.

At last, Dad loosened our hug. He was exhausted, and I wondered how late it had gotten. I’d lost track of how long Dad had been talking for. “There’s not much else to tell you,” he said, casting a Tempus. The dial, glowing brightly in the dark, showed we’d been in the garden for over an hour. “Your other father might have disappeared from my life but he’d left me with the best memento possible. I knew you were coming, so I had to prepare. My heart was broken, but every day you grew bigger, grew stronger, and I felt myself healing alongside you. You were my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, and my reason for taking care of myself.”

Dad yawned, masking it behind his fingers. “The months passed. My house arrest was almost ended, and my inheritance had been taken in reparations by the Ministry, so I needed to find some money before you arrived. Your gran suggested that I try fixing some of the other villager’s broken magical objects, because I’d been good with my hands as a child. Turns out, Mum proposed the perfect occupation. Anything I didn’t know, I taught myself, and it meant I didn’t have to go out to work while I was pregnant.” He smiled. “Hadden wasn’t my childhood dream, not by any stretch, but it kept us both safe.”

I’d assumed that marked the end of Dad’s story. The Warming Charms must have faded, because the night felt colder than it had before, and goosebumps pricked my skin.

Dad had told me so much that I hadn't known, told me things that he had kept private for the entire duration of my life. Even if I hadn’t known that Harry was my other parent, I would still have been pleased we’d talked like we had. I’d learnt so much, and it was a privilege to have discovered more about the wizard that he’d been all those years ago. I saw him in a hugely different light. Dad had been the source of hugs, the source of hot chocolate, good advice, and tasty food: the steading force at the centre of my childhood, and, like all children, I had assumed that was the only person he had ever been. Now I knew he’d had a desire to be something more than just a parent; he had ambitions and dreams that were all his own.

I leant down, picking up my mug, and my telescope, confident I’d be asleep the second I got into my bed. Dad, however, hadn’t quite finished. He still had something else to say. Picking up his wand, he refreshed the Warming Charm, bathing both of us in warmth. “I’d been in Hadden five or so months by the time of May, and your birthday,” he told me. “My term of house arrest had finished and although part of me had half-expected the Wizengamot to manufacture some excuse to drag it out further, they didn’t. I received an owl stating that I was allowed to travel wherever I wished.” He chuckled. “But you’ve seen your grandmother’s photograph. I’d gotten enormous by that point and was happy to stay hidden. When the nineteenth dawned, the sky was clear, cloudless, and blue, and I didn’t have the faintest clue you were coming… Not the slightest inkling. You weren’t due for another fortnight. There was a wedding, or something, scheduled to happen that day, and the wizarding world was waiting for it with bated breath. The Ministry for Magic had given everybody the day off as a special holiday.”

Harry’s wedding to Ginny Weasley, I thought to myself. The Prophet had grown more and more frantic in its reporting as the day had approached. Poor Dad. Whenever he’d opened the paper, or switched on the wireless, he must have been assaulted with Harry’s name. Even though he now lived miles away, Harry must still have been impossible to escape from.

“As you can undoubtedly imagine, the last thing I fancied was an afternoon celebrating the wedding of one of Shacklebolt’s darlings, so I did something rather foolish.”

“What happened?” I asked, frowning. I hadn't the foggiest what he was going to say.

Dad shrugged his shoulders, a faintly embarrassed gesture. “I decided to take myself away from Hadden for the day. Celebrate my newfound freedom, pack sandwiches and a bottle of water, and stroll around the woods for a couple of hours… I figured I wouldn’t run into any of our neighbours, that they’d all be happily listening to the wireless. Of course, it was an abysmal idea! I was massively pregnant, and scarcely in the peak of physical fitness after my house arrest. After half an hour my legs, back, and belly all hurt terribly and, panicking, I sent your gran a Patronus.”

The truth, I think, was that Dad had run away to avoid any hint of Harry and Ginny’s wedding. How upset must he have been, to take such an extreme, irrational course of action? My heart ached for Dad, and how terrified he must have been, trapped in the woods, uncomfortably pregnant, his body in pain. Dad can be prickly and proud when it suited him, so I knew he must have felt very vulnerable to ask for help like that.

“My mum was very cross with me, and rightly so. She’d found the note I’d left her and was about to come out looking for me when my Patronus arrived. She came to find me, and then Mum and I made the laborious, cautious journey back to Hadden… By the time we arrived home, my back pain had gotten worse, not better. I’m still not sure whether it was the stress I’d put myself under, or whether my time had just arrived, but I’d gone into labour.” Dad smiled fondly. “After that, my memories get a bit hazy, but I knew it, Mum was placing you into my arms.” Dad smiled affectionately at the memory. “You were the mirror of your other father; your smile, your green eyes, and your manner all matching. Two apples from the same tree. I felt sure your Gran must have known his identity straight away, but she’s never said a word, then or since.”

I couldn’t help it. Two tears slipped out of the corner of my eye. Ever since that day, my life had been brilliant. Dad had made it his life’s mission to put me first and make my life a happy one. “How could you love me,” I sniffed, “if I reminded you of him so much?”

“Oh, but loving you has always been the easy part,” Dad countered. “From the very first minute, loving you felt as easy as breathing. You wrapped your hand around my finger, and that was it for me. Love, in every colour of the rainbow.” Dad stood and gathered up the blanket from our knees, and I knew our conversation was nearly finished. Dad had been very candid and told me everything except Harry’s name. “There’s nothing like meeting your child for the first time. I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off you. I was glad you looked like your other father, because I’d loved – love – him, and even though that love was brief, it was nevertheless real, and that love made me a father. I’ve always reflected that, out of your other father and me, I was the luckier one, because I was the one who got to spend the rest of my life with you.”

~

After Boxing Day, it felt as if a spell speeding up the clocks had been cast over Hadden on the Wolds. While the days leading to Christmas had felt slow and languid, the days afterwards fell away like dominos, and suddenly there was far less holiday to go than had already passed.

The homework I’d been happily ignoring all had to be done, there were trips into the village to buy new shoes, and owl deliveries of new school robes to replace the ones I’d already grown out of. Dad hmphed and said that I needn’t continue growing as fast as I was, but I didn’t think he minded very much. The two of us worked for two days solid in his workshop, fixing a broken shell which, when you held it to your ear, no longer sang the song of the sea, and instead emitted a sorrowful wail. Fortunately, Dad and I were able to repair the magic, and restore the shell to its grateful owner before New Year arrived.

When the first of January arrived the sky above Hadden was grey with snow and, over breakfast, my Dad made the same solemn vow as always: to stop eating biscuits after nine o’clock. I, however, had only one resolution I wanted to achieve during the coming year, and that was to get my parents back together.

If I played my cards right – if I fulfilled the Sorting Hat’s prediction and became a legitimate Slytherin – then, this time next year, my parents would be a couple once again, and they could break their New Year’s resolutions together. The dilemma, as always, was how I was going to make it happen.

Ideas and schemes spun around my head but, as soon as I thought of them, I dismissed them. Talking was definitely, positively not going to cut it. I’d talked with Dad, and with Harry, and whilst I knew my story now, both wizards were still ignorant of the other’s feelings. Besides, even if Dad or Harry knew the other still carried a torch for them, I’m not sure either was brave enough to make the first move. Neither was willing to put their heart on the line.

Musing, I sat in the window seat of my carriage on the Hogwarts Express. Fields and cities rushing past the pane in a blur, every turn of the wheels taking me closer to Scotland, and Harry and, as we passed the border, I concluded the only imaginable way I was going to manoeuvre a happy ending for my parents was to get them in the same room again.

Breaking off a piece of the toffee Gran had given me for the journey, I placed it in my mouth. I needed a strategy, but my mind was frustratingly blank. Parent visits weren’t encouraged, because part of going to boarding school was learning how to live independently so, subsequently, the only dates they were invited onto the grounds were awards ceremonies and the Parent’s Day, when Dad would meet with my Professors, and learn how well I was doing in all my subjects.

For a moment, excitement flared in my belly. Was there any way I could manoeuvre Dad and Harry together for longer than their allotted fifteen-minute appointment? Get Harry to talk about the past, instead of my abilities on a broomstick? But the more I thought about it, the more my excitement slowly snuffed out. Parent’s Day appointments were held in the Hall, in full view of the other parents, the students, and all the other Professors. Dad and Harry were hardly likely to fall into each other’s arms, and declare their undying love in front of half the school, were they?

The closer the Express steamed towards the Highlands, the more ridiculous my ideas became. The first plan I considered was trying to sneak out of Hogwarts during a Hogsmeade Saturday, and asking my Dad and Harry to meet me in a café there…

But no, that’d never, ever work. The wards on the gate would know I wasn’t of age to leave the school grounds and would notify Madam Penhaligon straightaway. Dad would undoubtedly have to visit me at school, but his visit would take place in the Head of Slytherin’s office. He’d never come close to seeing Harry.

The second plan I considered was writing Dad and Harry similar letters, both pretending to come from the other… But, as soon as the idea bubbled, it popped. I huffed at my stupidity. It was an even sillier scheme than Hogsmeade! All letters out of Hogwarts went via the school owls and were postmarked thus. Dad hadn’t fallen out of the last tree: he’d know immediately I’d sent it, and besides, I didn’t know Harry’s handwriting well enough to copy it. If I were to try that trick, Dad would know instantly and, what was worse, he’d have been disappointed in me for the attempt.

As the miles vanished, and the sun began to set, I thought back over last term, and the two occasions Dad had come to Hogwarts.

The second occasion – when Dru and I had been caught trying to read a restricted book – had come with five points taken from Slytherin and, as a result, many of the other snakes were too cross to talk to us. I wanted to avoid that fate again, if at all possible. It’d taken some time to find my feet at school, and now I had my gang of Phil, Katie and Dru, I wanted to stay in their good books. For the moment, I put a pin in the idea of intentionally breaking a school rule.

Phillip and Dru – their card game abandoned – dozed in their seats, lulled to sleep by the vibrations rumbling from the tracks. We hadn’t long passed Loch Trummel, and I knew there’d still be a couple of hours before we reached Hogsmeade Station, so I broke off another piece of toffee, and forced myself to concentrate.

If I wanted Dad, Harry, and I to become a family, I had to be the one who made it happen, and as much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, it was becoming clear the only way I could be sure of both my parents together in the same room, was to take another tumble off my broomstick. Then, Dad would be here in a shot, Harry would comfort him, and voilà: the tension between them would melt away. It was a hairbrained plan, and entirely reckless, but there was nothing else for it.

If it were to be convincing – and it needed to be, because a little broomstick tumble wouldn’t necessarily mean Dad being owled – then it would need to look the part. My fall had to be sufficiently dramatic; I had to make a scene.

My nerves were an unruly tangle as I slid out of my seat, checking my pocket at the same time. The spending money Gran had given me was still there, and though it was meant to last for the next few weeks, I decided I was going to spend it now. If I bought a Skiving Snackbox, I supposed, I could take the contents before I kicked my broomstick away from the ground. Then – and my belly did a horrible, fearful flip – I would be certain to fall. If I didn’t, my innate fear of dying and injury would stop me from falling from a great height.

Being careful not to wake my friends, I slipped out into the corridor. The happy chaos at Kings Cross had quietened now, most students were either napping, talking quietly with their friends, or had their nose in a book. Nobody paid the least bit of attention to me.

After peering into three carriages, I found the person I’d been looking for. Eris McCaffery, a fourth year Ravenclaw sat amongst her mates, her thick dark hair twisted into a braid that fell over her shoulders. She scowled though her thick, dark-framed glasses as I slid open the door, unhappy to be disturbed. I, however, refused to be intimidated. School gossip had it that Eris was the girl to see when you wanted to skive a test or lesson, and that – for a fee, of course – she could set you up with anything you wanted.

“Carriage is full,” smirked one of her friends which, in turn, made the other students laugh. “Bog off back to wherever you came from.”

Deciding my best course of action was to ignore them, I turned towards Eris. “I was wondering if you could, um… If you could help me.” I cleared my throat, knowing very well I sounded like a complete greenhorn. “People say… People say that you’re the witch I should ask.”

Obviously, my attempt at sounding grown up had failed miserably, because Eris guffawed, and so did her friends. “People do?” Eris repeated, enjoying her fun. “Which people?”

Half of me wanted to bolt back out of the door. I was a million miles outside of my comfort zone and having serious second thoughts about the feasibility of my plan. “All sorts of people,” I gulped. “Like Janet, er, Marchant, in Slytherin?... People said she wanted to miss a Transfiguration test, and you, um, helped her.”

Apart from Eris, the carriage chuckled again, amused at my awkward jumpiness. At the mention of Janet’s name, Eris’s face had transformed, from entertained to shrewd. “You’re interested in that kind of help?” she asked, voice unsmiling. “A squeaky little bookworm like you?”

My heart hammered in my chest. This was the critical moment. I could still dive back out into the corridor, run back to my friends, and pretend to myself I’d been messing about, that I hadn’t ever been truly serious.

I didn’t. I stood my ground. This was the only scheme to get my dad to Hogwarts that had the remotest chance of succeeding. “I want something that’ll make me lightheaded,” I said. “Something that’ll make me sleepy.”

Erin chucked, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “That I can easily do,” she answered, “but, thing is, I have a little rule I like to follow: first years pay double.”

This was going to be more expensive than I’d feared. “I’ve got money,” I told her, and like an idiot, got out all the spending money Gran had given me. Erin’s eyes glittered with greed.

Before three minutes had passed, I was back in my carriage, feeling extremely foolish. Erin had taken all of my spending money, and all I had to show for it was two small phials of purple potion.

Dozy Doses was what Erin had named it, before telling me it was guaranteed to knock any wizard’s socks off. I grimaced; glad I trusted Harry to catch me when I fell.

A bell rang in the corridor, rousing my friends from their sleep, and I shoved the phials deep into my pockets. We’d be arriving in Hogsmeade in less than thirty minutes, and I wondered whether Harry would be waiting at the station with the other Professors.

~

Gods, but the next two days weren’t much fun.

Despite January being grey and drizzly, and Ravenclaw having twenty house points more than us, Slytherin house was in a boisterous mood, enthusiastic about being back at school. Everywhere I went, people were laughing, messing about, and gossiping about what they’d got up to, and been given during the Christmas hols. Even Dru and Phillip were in high spirits. But I couldn’t join the fun. All I could think about were those two purple phials which I’d hidden in my trunk, next to Harry’s watch.

Ten times a day I changed my mind, told myself I was being an idiot, and that the best course of action was to flush them down the toilet. Then, another ten times a day, I’d vacillate, and decide that having my parents together was worth taking the risk. If this was what life was like as a Gryffindor, they could keep it: once I’d pulled my little stunt, I was finished with recklessness and wildness forever.

Fortunately, my wait wasn’t a long one. The Slytherin and Gryffindor flying lesson was the second lesson, the second day being back and, my heart in my mouth, and pulse racing I changed into my flying leather, my hands hardly able to lace my books because my fingers didn’t want to work.

I’d only seen Harry briefly when he’d met our class at the changing room door. He’d ticked off our names as we entered, but he’d paused for the smallest moment when he’d gotten to mine, and I’d seen the hint of a smile playing around his lips. He didn’t acknowledge my presence otherwise, but my heart had still lurched, because I knew that what I was about to do was very wrong indeed, and it was highly likely I wouldn’t see one of Harry’s smiles for a long while.

For what felt like the millionth time that day, I’d reached onto my robe pocket, feeling the smooth glass phials. The end justifies the means, I told myself, over and over. All that mattered was my parent’s happiness, and it was now or never. If I didn’t drink the Dozy Drops now, I knew I never would.

Apprehension coursing through me, I slipped into the toilet, locked myself in a cubicle, and unscrewed the bottles. I sucked in a deep breath, counted to five, and then, in one fluid move, swigged both potions. Salazar, but they were powerful. They raced down my throat in a cold cascade, straightway making me feel woozy. I had to grab for the door handle to stop myself falling over.

After that, things moved quickly. As soon as I was dressed I mindlessly collected my broomstick and followed Phillip and the others out onto the Quidditch Pitch. They were talking, but my brain had shut off my ability to understand a single word which was being said. My mouth dried when I grasped just how tall the Quidditch rings were. Surely they hadn’t always been as high as that? I wasn’t sure if I was swaying on the spot, so I hid myself amongst the taller boys, trying my best not to be noticed.

Harry snapped his planning folder closed, muttered a few words to the older Gryffindor boy who was assisting, and strode towards us. The last of the conversations ended, as he took in the sight of us. “Good to see you all again,” he said, his broomstick hovering beside him. “We’re going to start with some straightforward exercises today and get ourselves properly warmed up. Everyone, I’d like you to fly three times around the pitch, counterclockwise. Stay approximately twenty feet from the ground.”

I’m still not sure how I managed to mount my broomstick, but somehow I did, and though my head was spinning, and the horizon was blurry, I rose into the sky with the rest of my class. My arms quivered, the blood thrummed in my ears, and an icy chill spread slickly across my skin. Frantically, I tried to dig my fingertips into the small grooves of my broomstick, but each time they slipped uselessly away.

The last conscious thought, before everything went black, was just how stupid I’d been.

~

At first, it felt as if I were dreaming.

My name was being whispered, over and over, in a soft, melodic voice. Part of me wanted to answer, truly it did, but my mouth refused to do my bidding. It just wouldn’t open. Neither would my eyes, for that matter. They were heavier than cauldron lead. My limbs felt weighty, like they were filled with treacle, and although I tried to move them, I couldn’t. They wouldn’t register messages from my brain, and though you might think that ought to have panicked me, it didn’t. I was comfortably numb. Wherever this was, I knew, instinctively, that I was safe.

Go back to sleep, my brain encouraged, a treacherous siren murmuring languidly, urging me to ignore the whispers getting louder and louder. Scorpius, they repeated. Scorpius. We know you can hear us.

I vacillated, slipping between comfortable numbness, and trying to wake. It was only when the starchy scent of washed sheets assailed my nose that I managed, with a herculean effort, to finally open my eyes.

But, when I did, nothing made an iota of sense.

Dad was beside the bed but this couldn’t be my Hadden bedroom because the walls were coated in a harsh whitewash, and my Appleby posters were gone. But, then again, this surely couldn’t be Hogwarts either, even though Harry was there too. The green curtains around my dormitory bed were missing, and the sheets were much starchier than I was used to.

Bright daylight streamed through a large window, which meant wherever I was, it wasn’t the Slytherin dungeon. This room was altogether too clinical, too clean, too modern. There was a smell of disinfectant in the air. Almost like St Mungo’s, or even the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

My stomach lurched. This was very like the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, because that was exactly where I was.

Slowly, I came back into myself, like I was swimming to the surface of the Great Lake and, like a slow-motion Pensieve playing inside my head, I remembered everything: Eris McCaffery, swigging the Dozy Drops, and that sickening lurch when I knew, for sure, I was going to pass out. My mouth was dry as ashes, and suddenly I was frantic for a drink. I tried to raise my arm, and reach for the class, only to realise that my limbs still weren’t obeying my brain.

Fortunately, because panic did rise within me then, that was the moment Madam Pomfrey joined Dad and Harry at my bedside.

“Don’t try to speak,” the witch ordered, her voice clipped. She waved her wand through the air, and the weight lifted from my arms and legs instantaneously. “Stay very still,” Madam Pomfrey ordered, before dragging her wand through the air above my body. Greens and yellows flickered, fleetingly, iridescent, and shimmery, blazing bright before they were gone.

Madam Pomfrey hmphed, shaking her head briefly, as if she could scarcely believe her eyes. “The last of the potion had been eliminated from Scorpius’s system,” she stated, aiming her words towards Dad and Harry, “and I’m pleased to report there doesn’t appear to be any ill effects. We can only hope that this knocks a bit of damned sense into your son!”

The witch turned her attention back to me, and I recalled how, at the beginning of the year, she’d said the consequences of doing anything daft would be very serious indeed. “Mr Malfoy,” she began, her face a mix of disappointment and livid, “in all the years I’ve been Matron, I’ve seen injuries that’d blow your socks off. Potion burns! Mangled limbs! Bites and bruises galore! You name it, it’s come through these doors! None of those were self-inflicted though! Whatever possessed you to drink two phials of Mumford’s Dormancy Dose? A mere sip is enough to fell an adult! If it wasn’t for Professor Potter’s quick action, you would have been seriously injured, or even killed. This was folly of the highest order, and mark my words, young man, there’ll be consequences.” Madam Pomfrey hmphed again, and obviously deciding I wasn’t worth any further words, she addressed her next words to Harry. “Scorpius is a lucky young man. His only injury is a bruised ego. I’m going to keep him here for the remainder of the day for observation but, after that, he is free to go.”

With that, Madam Pomfrey stalked away, her starched skirts rustling behind her. Part of me wanted to call her back, seeking to be told off further. As long as the Matron was there, I could avoid facing my dad, and seeing his pale, distressed face. I’d gotten my wish – Harry and Dad were sitting together – but it hadn’t been worth the cost.

Guilt raced through me, hot and viscous. Both Dad and Harry had been nothing except kind and forthcoming, and I’d repaid them with selfishness and stupidity.

The very first, most basic lesson of magic is never to mess about with anything you don’t understand and, of course, Eris McCaffery’s potion had been exactly that. I didn’t deserve Harry’s watch, because, by taking Erin’s potions, I’d shown how much of a baby I still was. Tears sprang to my eyes, and began to drop onto the bed sheets, each leaving a dark circle.

Taking out his wand, Dad cast a Muffliato around the three of us. His hand movements were slow and deliberate, and I knew without being told he was in a state of terrible shock.

“I’m sorry,” I began, my voice trembling. I really, really was. All I wanted was for Dad to put his arms around me, and for the last few hours never to have happened. But Dad didn’t. He slid his wand back into his sleeve, and folded his arms across his chest, defensive body language that he’d never used towards me before.

The minutes passed, and only then did Dad answer, his voice drained, troubled, and strangely flat. “This had been, without a doubt, the worst day of my life.” He made a small sound of incredulity. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be Firecalled, and told your child is in the Hospital Wing? That it’s imperative I go there without delay, because I might be asked to make decisions about your treatment?” Dad’s voice broke on the last word, and the silence that followed was heavy with hurt. “And then to get here, and discover that this was on purpose?”

For the life of me, I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t know how Dad had felt. “I’m so sorry,” I repeated, wanting to say more, but not having the words.

I felt hollowed out, like my bones had turned to ash. I was frightened that I’d damaged mine and Dad’s relationship forever. More tears raced down my face, each droplet adorning my bedsheets. I wished, more than anything, for the blankets to swallow me whole.

“Don’t say sorry,” Dad answered, his eyes rising to meet mine. “I- Harry and I, we’re the ones who ought to be apologising. We’ve spoken at length and Harry has told me everything... The watch. The getting-to-know-one-another meetings. That you already know he’s your father. He’s been very forthcoming. Perhaps I should have been equally so, during our Boxing Day conversation… But none of that matters now, does it? All that matters is you, and what happens next, and why you did such a rash, foolish, self-injurious thing.”

Dad looked like he was about to cry too, which was the most dreadful part of all, because however bad things got, Dad never let himself be overwhelmed by his emotions.

My heart sank. Dad knew about all the secrets I’d kept from him. He knew that my secrets stretched back for weeks. He’d been ferociously honest, and I’d lied by omission. I balled my hands in the sheets, willing myself to stop crying, and to pull myself together. Having Dad and Harry together was the reason I’d done what I had and, if I ever wanted Dad to trust me again, it was time I began being honest about my behaviour. I needed to start telling the truth.

“I wanted this,” I said, my gaze flicking between Dad and Harry’s equally distraught expressions. “I wanted the two of you, together, talking.” I sniffed, trying to find an inherited hint of Harry’s Gryffindor bravery. “It was the only way to get Dad to Hogwarts. Letters, Firecalls… None of those would have worked… It needed to be something stupid to catch both of your attention!… And, after that, I thought you’d realise how much you both still mean to each other.”

Neither Harry nor Dad had interrupted me, but their expressions had altered, shifting from distraught to bewildered. I ploughed on. This was exactly what I’d planned for, after all: my parents together, side by side.

“You’re both totally fixated on what happened before I was born,” I justified, looking at my dad. Some of the sadness had left his face; I think that he knew me well enough to realise I wasn’t lying. “Dad, you hide away, fixing your magical objects, not daring to dream you might, actually, be worth loving!” I turned towards Harry. “And you’re just as bad! You’re crippled by mistakes that you made years ago, and petrified of being honest about what you actually want.”

I gulped. I’d said far more than I’d thought I was capable of, or probably should have, and my parents were looking at me like I’d sprouted wings. Still, for the first time in weeks, I was being fully honest, and that felt brilliant. “I’d like Harry to be a proper dad to me,” I continued, swallowing my fears, and looking back towards Dad, “and a proper partner to you. The three of us should be a family. Harry should share his Christmases, and birthdays, and boring in-between days with us.” I was warming to my subject now, and the words were coming more easily. “Nothing that happened before I was born truly matters anymore. That was a whole lifetime ago. What matters is now, and being happy, because a wizard’s life is a really long one, and it isn’t worth being alone and sad, not when you could be with the person you love.”

I collapsed back on the sheets, exhausted by my big speech. Dad and Harry stared at each other, both of their faces equally red. Twice Dad opened his mouth to answer, but twice he closed it again. “I’m sorry that I took the potions,” I finished, because I was. If I could go back, I’d have told Dad the minute I’d known Harry was my other parent. I’d wasted so much time keeping secrets. “But I’m not sorry I’ve said all this. I know this is what both of you want.”

A small, naïve part of me hoped it’d be enough, that Dad would take Harry’s hand, and that they’d fall into each other’s arms. My potion-induced idiocy would be forgiven – and forgotten – and, in a matter of weeks, they’d be sending out the stiff ivory-shaded invites to their wedding. My usual ridiculous hope flared for an instant. Surely it couldn’t really be this easy?

Alas, my speech, heartfelt as it was, wasn’t enough.

Dad might have been too flabbergasted to answer, but Harry, silent so far, stepped in to reply and, when he spoke, it wasn’t the kind-hearted man who’d given me his pocket watch and packed picnics for us to enjoy. It was the voice of a very cross Hogwarts Professor, authoritative and imperious.

Inside I cringed. Gods, but I’d given Harry a horrible morning as well, hadn’t I? I’d let him down, both as his son, and his student. Harry must have been just as scared as Dad but been forced to wear a professional veneer over his emotions.

“Unfortunately, this incident isn’t about what Draco and I might want. That is entirely irrelevant. It’s about a first-year student who decided to break the school rules for his own ends. A first-year student who put his life at tremendous risk, who ruined a lesson, and who could, through his own selfishness, have injured one of his classmates, and hurt or killed himself. You’re lucky you aren’t being suspended for this, and if it wasn’t for your extenuating circ*mstances-“

“My extenuating circ*mstances?” I interrupted, not following.

“That, had Draco and I exchanged a few words like the adults we’re supposed to be, rather than nursing our own grievances, you mightn’t have felt pushed into doing what you did,” Harry answered, with a small shake of his head. “The two of us blame ourselves, as much as anything. You’re eleven, you’re a child, but we’ve both given you far more to carry than we ought to have done.”

His irritated Professor face eased slightly, and I saw the smallest hint of the kind man I’d gotten to know over the last few months, my other parent whom I’d missed terribly over Christmas. “But there still need to be consequences. Your father and I both agree, Scorpius. You’ve proved yourself unworthy to be trusted to ride a broomstick for the time being. Therefore you’re grounded for the remainder of the year. Our Saturday practices are to stop, and instead of attending your timetabled flying lessons with the rest of the Slytherins, you’ll be reporting to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey has a long list of odd jobs for you to do.”

Gloomy frustration rose up, making my tummy twist in disappointment. Yes, I knew I deserved consequences, but I’d really grown to enjoy flying, and the powerful freedom it bestowed every time I kicked the ground away. There were still two terms left before my punishment finished, and the weeks and months stretched out in front of me, never-ending.

But there wasn’t anything for it. All I could do was grit my teeth and get on with my punishment. I swallowed my sorrow, because Harry was correct, wasn’t he? I could have easily woken up in St Mungo’s, with potions knitting my bones back together, and a long road to recovery still to travel. Worse, Dru, Phil, or Katie might have been the ones in hospital, and if that had been the case, I don’t think I’d ever have been able to forgive myself. I nodded meekly, accepting my punishment, and wondered when, if ever, Harry’s trust in me would recover.

“I’m going to leave you two to talk,” Harry said, and abruptly got out of his chair. Dad and he shared a pointed glance, but neither spoke, and then Harry left. He strode quickly away, not even sparing a goodbye for Madam Pomfrey. I turned back to look at Dad. His fingers were knotted together, taut with tension, and pressed against his chin, and suddenly I didn’t give two figs about broomsticks or flying lessons. As far as I was concerned, I’d spend the next six years doing odd jobs, if only Dad would smile at me again. The shock had left his face; now only unhappiness remained.

“I wish you’d told me you knew Harry was your father,” Dad said, voice tightly controlled. His grey eyes were dark, almost black, and gave nothing away. “We’ve always been so honest with each other, you and I… And I couldn’t stand it if that was to change. From here on in Scorpius, I want only truthfulness. Can you promise me that?”

Absolutely I could. I’d learnt my lesson. “I promise,” I vowed. “Promise on my life.”

“Don’t promise on that, particularly after today. Your life is too precious to me.” Dad frowned and, with a deep sigh, he unknotted his fingers before taking my hand across the bedsheet. He squeezed it hard. “I want another, second promise from you. Will you swear to never place yourself in deliberate harm again? Will I ever get another Firecall like I did this morning?”

“Never.” I shook my head, feeling the tremble in Dad’s hand. It was matched by my own. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t apologise. Harry and I talked for quite some time before you awoke… And you were right. We’ve all made mistakes. I was bitter, and I shouldn’t have forbidden him to tell you he was your father. But you and he shouldn’t have met behind my back either… I felt like the rug had been pulled from beneath my feet.” Unexpectedly, Dad’s face softened, and he flashed me a brief smile. “None of us have communicated like we should have done.”

Across the room I watched as Madam Pomfrey glanced in our direction, before gathering a pile of starched white linens, and Levitating them into a cupboard with her wand. It would be obvious that we were talking behind a Muffliato, and I was grateful that she’d given us privacy. Guiltily, I realised I’d have to both apologise to and thank her. She’d taken such good care of me and gotten my dad just when I needed him. I promised myself that I’d try my best to be helpful when I spent my flying lessons here, even though I knew I’d spend most of my time daydreaming about being back in the sky.

“We didn’t,” I answered.

“But I think I understand why you didn’t tell me,” Dad continued. “It makes sense that you want Harry in your life, that you want to get to know him.” I felt the soft tingle of his magic where our hands met, so familiar and so similar to my own. It comforted me. “Every child wants to know his parents… Like you rightly said on Christmas Day, you’re growing up, and part of growing up is knowing where you come from, knowing both sides of your story… So, that’s why, when Harry and I spoke, I gave my permission for your meetings to continue. I won’t deny the two of you a relationship. It’s obvious that he loves you deeply. He was absolutely beside himself when I arrived in the Hospital Wing… I’ve known Harry for many years but I’ve never seen him lose his nerve like he did today. Gods, but Harry was trembling. He was as white as parchment. He even offered Madam Pomfrey his magic up for a transfusion, if you’d believe it.”

I bit my tongue because I did believe it. That sounded exactly like the Harry I knew, the wizard who’d gone through with a sham marriage just to save the love of his life from Azkaban. That was who Harry became, when the idea of losing somebody he cared about was too much to contemplate.

Dad cleared his throat, and I wondered if he thought he’d said too much. Perhaps I was imagining it, but there seemed to be a new understanding in his voice when he spoke about Harry.

When he spoke again, his voice had returned to normal. “But I assure you, this doesn’t mean you get to wriggle out of the cauldron. You’re still in hot water Scorpius, and on your final chance. Harry has agreed to keep me in the loop with a twice weekly Firecall about your progress. If there’s the merest hint you’re going to pull another trick like the one you played today, you’ll be packing your trunk and returning home with me. I’m not messing about. Harry and I shared a very civilised, very reasonable conversation, and we’re both in agreement. Not a hair on your head will be out of line.”

I knew Dad wasn’t fibbing. He’d take me back to Hadden in the blink of an eye. But that didn’t matter, because, from here on in, I had the greatest motivation in the world to behave.

Twice weekly Firecalls would be a lot to fill, but I intended to give Harry lots of lovely things to say to Dad during those conversations. As long as I was at Hogwarts, Dad and Harry would be talking, and if they were talking, they might talk about other things. Perhaps they’d reminisce and remember why they’d fallen in love in the first place. I schooled my face, hiding the silly grin that threatened to bubble across it: it wouldn’t do for Dad to think I wasn’t taking him seriously.

“I won’t let you down,” I vowed, and the last of Dad’s reserve broke.

Only six months before my dad wouldn’t have let me remain at Hogwarts. He’d have swooped me up and stolen me away. But I was growing up, and making mistakes, and Dad understood that. He pulled me into a deep hug, and I let myself melt into it, so thankful because even if he hadn’t fully forgiven me yet, his love hadn’t diminished.

Dad’s shoulders shook, and I knew he was crying.

~

The next three months certainly had their ups and downs.

To begin with, my classmates weren’t very chuffed with me, all having been scared terribly when I’d blacked out, and tumbled off my broomstick. All sorts of rumours spread – that I was unwell with a blood malediction, that I’d been poisoned, and the worst, that I’d been hexed because my dad had a Dark Mark – and some of the more distrustful Gryffindors took to avoiding me and giving me a wide berth when they passed me in the corridors.

I only thanked Merlin that my punishment hadn’t lost us further house points. Even Dru and Phil were wary of me. They knew I wasn’t telling them the full story of why I’d fallen, and been banned from flying, and that made a blot on our friendship which had never been present before. One day I’d tell them everything, but I couldn’t yet.

Then there was Harry’s punishment which, as the weeks passed, I found harder and harder to bear. I hadn’t realised how much I’d grown to love flying until I wasn’t allowed to do it anymore. I’d listen to the other Slytherins bragging about the stunts they’d pulled and the speeds they’d reached, and I’d feel an almost feral sense of desire.

I craved the adrenaline rush, the wind rushing past my face, and the intense magic rushing through my body. Sometimes, when I saw the others rushing towards the changing rooms, broomsticks thrown casually over their shoulders, my belly would ache, and I’d have to turn my face away, because all I wanted was to join them so very much. I couldn’t, though. I’d leave them and make my way to Madam Pomfrey and the Hospital Wing where I’d spend the next hour washing potion bottles, rolling up bandages, and folding linen without using my wand. The Matron wasn’t unkind – in fact, I grew to enjoy her quiet, reserved company – but she kept me busy, and only rarely did I watch Dru, Katie, and Phil through the windowpane, swooping, and whizzing through the air, having a whale of a time.

But life didn’t stop, and Hogwarts continued on its merry way. Phil and I got the shock of our lives when the Bloody Baron materialised in our dormitory, gave us a filthy glare, and vanished through into the Common Room. I went on my Magical Creatures trip to the Orkney Islands, and stayed overnight in a very smelly, very damp tent with sixteen other boys. Dru and I attended Muggle film club every week, and we especially enjoyed One Hundred and One Dalmatians. We played card games, shared sweets, and read magazines. Dad had told me once that having friends made Hogwarts and I couldn’t imagine what I’d do without them.

February arrived, and with it came Valentines Day. It felt like the whole of Hogwarts went love crazy. The Elves served us heart-shaped cakes, two enterprising third years sold flowers magicked into the four house colours and, when the big day arrived, the owls strained under the weight of the cards they’d been tasked to deliver. The following Saturday I almost asked Harry whether he’d gotten any anonymous cards but, at the last minute, I bit my tongue, not wanting my question reported back to Dad.

As I ticked the weeks off my calendar Dad and Gran both wrote frequently, sending me biscuits, scraps of local gossip, and their love. The tone of Dad’s letters was upbeat, and I felt his love whenever he wrote I’m thinking about you. Each time Dad wrote, I felt our relationship knitting back together, and that his trust in me was growing once again, and that was wonderful. However grownup I might get, Dad would always be my safe space. My only frustration was that Dad never mentioned Harry’s Firecalls, and he must have known perfectly well how impatient I was to hear about them.

But the best times of the week were Harry and my getting-to-know-one-another meetings. Truthfully, I thought we’d gotten to know each other quite well by then, so most of our time was spent playing Cursing Chimaera, drinking Pumpkin Juice, and eating sandwiches.

Frustratingly, Harry never mentioned his and Dad’s Firecalls either, but I knew for a fact that they still happened because, every so often, Harry would mention something that the two of us hadn’t spoken about. Once, for example, Harry made a joke about Hydrus getting into our neighbour, Mr Philpott’s, garden. Then, a few weeks later, Harry mentioned the music box Dad and I had fixed over Christmas.

Finally, one rainy Saturday in March, I ran out of patience. Harry and I had just played a very intense game of Cursing Chimera – the cards had compared Harry’s hair to the head of a mop! – and I’d laughed so much my sides had hurt. My breath had only just retuned when a question fell out of my mouth. It must have been rolling around in my subconscious, because I hadn’t known I was going to ask it. “How are the Firecalls going with my dad?” I asked. “Dad never mentions them in his letters, but I hope they’re going well.”

Just for a moment, Harry looked like he was going to clam up. He took the last sips of his Pumpkin Juice, lined his Cursing Chimera cards up so that they were neat, and then polished his glasses with the hem of his jumper. I wasn’t fooled in the slightest. Over the months I’d gotten to know Harry, I’d gotten to know his tells as well. He was playing for time; trying to think of the right answer to give me.

Harry settled into the comfy chair that the Room of Requirement had provided and started to speak. “Good,” Harry said. “They’re going brilliantly. Twice a week, Wednesdays, and Saturdays… Draco and I… We’ve talked a lot… Very civilised, very friendly. There isn’t all that much to report.”

That answer was like a red rag to a Chinese Firebolt. It made no sense! How could there not be much to report when they shared twice weekly conversations? That was a lot of words, and I wanted to know what my parents were discussing. “But what are you talking about?” I probed. “If it’s about my behaviour, you ought to tell me,” I added, pulling the excuse out of the air, “then I’ll know what I have to change. What can I improve?”

Harry blushed, just a little, and that was when I knew he was going to spill. “Apart from the unfortunateness earlier this year, your behaviour is absolutely fine,” Harry assured me, obviously being careful about how much he said. “We… The two of us haven’t really been talking about Hogwarts. Draco… You dad’s been telling me some stories about when you were younger.” His expression turned soft. “Your first words. Your first accidental magic… That sort of thing. Filling me in on all the things that I’ve missed.”

“Oh,” I answered, because that wasn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d hoped they were staring into each other’s eyes, and whispering sweet nothings, like the heroes in Aunty Pansy’s novels, not telling twee and mortifying stories. Merlin, but I couldn’t understand why adults were interested in such things. But, even so, it was something. Tired of being patient, I cut to the chase. “You should ask Dad to dinner, or Hogsmeade, or something. He said at Christmas that he’d like somebody to talk to, somebody to share the big and small things with, somebody to wake up to. He’d say yes, I’m sure of it.”

My voice and tone were determined, and Harry’s face was frozen, caught between incredulity and rebuttal, their game of Cursing Chimera forgotten. “We’ve talked about this subject loads, Scorpius,” he said. “You should have been sorted into Gryffindor. You’re persistent enough! You’re really determined for us to be together, aren’t you? Even after you’ve fallen off your broomstick, found yourself in the Hospital Wing, and gotten a half-year flying ban, you’re still settled that this is what you want?”

I remembered a phrase I’d read in one of Aunty Pansy’s novels. “A faint heart never won a fair lady,” I told him, “or my dad, for that matter. If we’d both been honest with him, then I wouldn’t be spending my lessons folding towels, and you mightn’t be alone still. You could have been together for months already. You’re both in your thirties, which is practically ancient, and you’ve both wasted too many years already.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but I didn’t let him get a word in edgeways. Truth was, I could easily have been sorted into Gryffindor, had that have been my wish. Like I said at the very beginning of my tale, the Sorting Hat told me that I’d do well in Gryffindor Tower, that the house of the courageous was mine if I wanted, and that bravery was in my blood. The Sorting Hat had dithered over where to put me for five long minutes, the rest of the school ogling restlessly in our direction, until I’d begged to be placed in Slytherin like Dad and Aunty Pansy.

“I am settled on this. I want you to be my official dad too,” I said. I sighed, frustrated, wondering when Harry would give up his façade, and let himself be happy. “I want to see you during the holidays. To spend Christmas Day with you. None of this is as difficult as the pair of you seem to think it is.”

That, I think, was the specific moment Harry’s armour started to crumble. His eyes were still large and sceptical, and I knew for a fact I hadn’t won him over entirely, but he nodded slowly. Honestly, my heart soared, and I felt rather smug. If I’d only been this assertive earlier, Dad and Harry might already be a couple. For all I knew, Harry might already have moved to Hadden. It was surely possible.

I seized the nettle. “When you talk this week,” I said, my Slytherin brain working overtime, “you should manufacture some excuse for Dad to visit Hogwarts… Tell Dad you want to talk about the upcoming Parents’ Day… Or something about my Hospital Wing detentions… It doesn’t matter, tell him anything, just as long as you get him here. Then, when Dad arrives, you tell him the truth.”

Behind his glasses, Harry frowned. His forehead was wrinkled, half-perplexed, half-exasperated, his cheeks were flushed, and his mouth was set in a very straight line. He wasn’t angry, though. I knew I’d overstepped the line by about a million miles, but Harry didn’t appear to have minded too much.

The silence between us hung in the air, and finally, after a minute had passed, Harry answered. “Okay I’ll admit it, the idea of getting back with Dra… Getting back with your dad is something I’ve thought lots about. Talking to him every week has reignited some strong feelings, and yes, the idea of us-“ Halting briefly, Harry gestured towards me, and back towards himself, “living together is a lovely one, and something I’d love very much… But still, I don’t know… Real life isn’t a romance novel, is it? Draco and I, we both have homes, and jobs, and responsibilities, and so much water has run under the bridge… Happy endings don’t just write themselves- ”

“But you don’t know that unless you try,” I insisted, cutting in.

“-And even if Draco and I were to try again,” Harry continued, “there’s no reason to expect things between us to work out in the end. Maybe we’re just too different now. Maybe we’ve changed too much. We’re not the same people we were a decade ago… And wouldn’t that be the worst possible outcome? I-We couldn’t risk it. Not for us, not for you. We couldn’t build your expectations up like that, only to dash them. You’re in your first year of school; an important part of your education, and our relationship has already affected you in so many ways. If Draco and I were to pursue each other now, how would that be fair on you?”

It was a rhetorical question, nor requiring an answer, but I gave one anyway. “I suppose you’ve got a point,” I conceded, because the last thing I wanted was Harry reporting this conversation straight back to my dad.

Of course, in truth, I didn’t believe anything of the sort. I could hear the untold I’m absolutely petrified in Harry’s voice, as loud as anything. Didn’t adults understand that love was a force of nature, and that standing in its way was pointless?

Harry nodded, so I did the same. I believe he was expecting me to fight him, to think of a dozen counterarguments, but I didn’t. What would be the point? There was nowhere else for our conversation to go after that, so we stopped talking, played another game of Cursing Chimera, and I ate the remaining three jellybeans.

~

Despite badly missing flying, the weeks began to whizz by. March turned into April, and unexpectedly, Spring had arrived. Dull grey skies gave way to beautiful blue, the frost thawed, and the arctic Scottish air lost its bite. I was able to fall asleep without covering my bed with extra blankets and was able to skip the second vest I’d always worn underneath my school shirt.

Best of all, as the term proceeded, the days got longer, and our bedtimes were put back by an hour. It meant more time for homework, for reading, and for playing chess with Phillip. He was really brilliant at it and kept me on my toes. I was improving all the time, and was sure that, when next saw Dad, I’d be able to beat him easily.

I wouldn’t have admitted aloud to anyone, but, as the weeks passed, I even began to enjoy my detentions in the Hospital Wing. Well, enjoy is a strong word, but tolerate them, certainly. It felt satisfying to watch my fellow students getting better, after their various bumps, scrapes, and magical accidents, and observe Madam Pomfrey as she went about her work. A career in St Mungo’s hadn’t been something I’d ever considered before, but, as the weeks passed, I was beginning to wonder whether Healer was a job I’d like to do.

Other things were happening too. We’d started studying space exploration in Muggle Studies, and I was fascinated by the idea of astronauts. I couldn’t for a moment believe they’d really been wizards like my grandfather who’d believed magical folk were innately superior to Muggles. Their arguments didn’t make any sense. Muggles had made incredible strides forward in the fields of technology and science, and they’d done it all without wands.

I was even doing better in Potions, too. When I’d first begun at Hogwarts, I’d been daunted by the heat and size of the cauldrons, and the outlandish ingredients we were expected to use. Dad, however, had helped me, giving me advice that his Potions Professor – his godfather – had given him. Break the formula into small steps, Dad had written. Nothing is difficult if you take it one step at a time. Imagine it’s the two of us, cooking in our kitchen. Potions are scarcely different.

I don’t quite know how it happened, but suddenly it was the last week of April, and the day that I’d been simultaneously anxious and excited for had arrived. It was Parent’s Day for all of the first years and, as soon as breakfast was over, I, alongside Phil, Dru and all of the others would be ushered back to the Common Rooms where our families would all be waiting.

To say I was a bundle of nerves would be the understatement of the century. The last time Dad and I had seen each other, I’d been lying in the Hospital Wing, and the weeks since had been the longest time I’d ever gone without being in his company.

Would Dad bring up the Firecalls he shared with Harry, or would that be up to me? I knew very well that they still occurred, because Harry had mentioned Dad’s latest work assignment – an enchanted harp whose music was always melancholic – and the only person he could have heard about it from was Dad himself, because I certainly hadn’t commented on it.

Waking far in advance of the morning bell, I jumped out of bed, and made sure I was first in the ice-cold showers. Then I dressed as neatly as I could, making sure there weren’t any wrinkles in my uniform, and my hair was charmed tidily.

Breakfast was a nightmare – I didn’t eat more than three mouthfuls of the stodgy school porridge, and Dru and Phillip’s conversation across me was a blur of noise – but happily it was over quickly. Madam Penhaligon stood, tapped her wand on the table, and made an announcement for the first years to make their way back towards the Common Room.

My heart thumped in my chest, and my eyes skirted the room, looking for Harry, my mind making silly leaps, and wondering if he and Dad had already met. Dru – adding two and two together and making five – took my hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t look so worried,” Dru said, in a misguided attempt to bolster me. “You’re the worst sort of swot, Scorp. All your Professors will say wonderful things.”

I bit my lip. Dru wasn’t to know that I cared about the opinion of one Professor in particular.

When we arrived at the Common Room, Dad was waiting, and standing a little to the side of the other parents. My nerves fell away, and I rushed across to him, and let myself be enveloped by a powerful hug. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, feeling safe, and enjoying how the scent of his apple shampoo smelt just like my home. Dad ruffled my hair, and then, reluctantly, I stepped backwards.

Like always, Dad’s shrewd gaze took in every inch of my being, missing nothing. “You’re looking skinny,” he grumbled, his opening gambit. “I hope the House Elves are giving you plenty to eat.”

I grinned. “They feed us plenty,” I answered. “I’m just getting taller. I’ve grown out of one pair of school trousers already this term. Soon I’ll be out of my other pair.”

“We’re together for a single minute, and already I need to buy you more uniform. Merlin, but you’ll be taller than me soon, and that’ll never do.” Dad creased his forehead ruefully, but I knew he was joking. His grey eyes were sparkling, amused. “Your grandmother has sent sweets,” he said, pulling a small bag out of his pocket, and handing it to me slyly, knowing as well as I did that Madam Penhaligon wouldn’t be pleased if she saw us. “But I’ve brought you something rather more cerebral,” and pulled the newest issue of Astronomy Today from his satchel.

I was about to say thank you and tell Dad about the occasions Phil and I had been stargazing, but I didn’t get the chance. Madam Penhaligon cleared her throat, deftly gaining everyone’s attention, and every eye in the Common Room swivelled towards her.

“Good morning parents and first years,” she announced, “and welcome to your very first Parent’s Day. Now, whilst I see many familiar faces in the crowd, I also see many for whom today is a new occurrence. For those, please allow me to explain how today will unfold.” Madam Penhaligon paused, satisfied she had the ear of the crowd. “Every parent should have received, via owl, a timetable of meetings with all of your child’s Professors. If today is to run efficiently, then it is imperative that meetings begin on time. Lunch will be served at twelve-thirty. If everything goes to plan, there will be a couple of free hours later this afternoon for you to spend with your families.” A ripple of approval ran around the Common Room, and Madam Penhaligon beamed. “To conclude, I hope today is an illuminating, and hopefully enjoyable experience.”

Beside me, Dad took out a piece of paper; it was the timetable Madam Penhaligon had mentioned. He cast his gaze over it for a moment before refolding it. “Transfiguration first,” he said, placing it back in his pocket, “then Defence, Muggle Studies, and Potions before lunch. Will you lead the way?”

I nodded, arranging my face into a smile, and swallowing my disappointment. Harry was nowhere to be seen - which did make perfect sense, him being a Professor himself – but it did mean the potential for Dad and him accidentally meeting wasn’t significant.

I forced myself to focus on the meetings and listen to what my Professors were telling my dad, and overall, the picture my Professors painted was a positive one. Professor Delacroix, my Transfiguration Professor, said I had some resounding successes so far, and he particularly admired the teapot I’d transfigured into a throw cushion. My DADA teacher opined that my posture needed more work, but my Potions Professor was full of praise for my brewing technique, and Dad – always a complete Potions nerd – glowed with pride.

Then, sooner than I’d have wished, it was lunchtime, and a special buffet had been laid on the Common Room. Aunty Pansy was there, as well as Uncle Theo, and they’d saved a couple of seats beside them. I looked around, and although I saw Professor Broadoaks and Madam Penhaligon milling around the tables, unfortunately, I didn’t see Harry. I expected he was eating with Professor Longbottom in the Gryffindor Tower, but I would have liked to have told him how well I was getting on in my subjects. After skipping most of breakfast, I was ravenous, and I wolfed down my Shepherd's Pie.

Sadly, I only managed three bites of my Treacle Tart before Madam Penhaligon was back on her feet, tapping her wand on the table. “The House Elves will be along in five minutes to tidy all this away,” she said. “Students, please accompany your parents to your next scheduled meetings. Tea and cake will be served in the Great Hall at three.”

The next appointment on Dad’s timetable was History of Magic, a meeting I’d worried Dad might feel awkward about, considering Professor Binns had been his Professor too. Honestly I needn’t have worried. Professor Binns appeared more transparent than ever, and seemed to believe Dad was the student, not I, and told him off for his lackadaisical attitude. Dad didn’t correct him, but instead apologised, and told Professor Binns he’d try to do better in the future.

Afterwards, Dad whispered that his behaviour hadn’t always been top-notch during History of Magic, and that, one time, his friend Greg Goyle had double dared him to charm every chair in the room to stick to the floor.

“Gods, but I could be horrible,” Dad admitted. “My father was Head of the Hogwarts School Governors, and most of the staff were terrified he’d hex them, so I used to get away with things the other children didn’t.”

Happily, the rest of my Parent’s Day meetings were more straightforward. As he’d promised months before, Professor Longbottom told Dad I was growing into a talented herbologist, and Dad was pleased. He told my teacher that my green fingers must have been inherited from my gran, because he struggled to keep even the smallest houseplant alive. My Charms appointment was more than okay, and so was Care of Magical Creatures.

Using a nub of pencil he kept on his person, Dad ticked off the meeting as completed. It was close to three o’clock, and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Harry, but I didn’t let myself feel saddened about that. Parent’s Day had been a pleasant experience. With the exception of Professor Binns, my teachers all liked me, and today was a rare opportunity to spend time with Dad.

“Should I get my chess set?” I asked Dad, as the two of us paused beside an impressive tapestry of a stag. “We could swing past the Great Hall, get a slice of cake, and then I could give you a game. Phil and I have been practising. He’s brilliant.”

But, unexpectedly, Dad frowned at my suggestion, and he handed me a timetable that he’d kept close hold of the entire day. “I’ve missed our games,” he said, “but we’re not finished yet. You’ve still got one other Professor whom I haven’t yet met.”

I wasn’t sure who Dad could be talking about, because as far as I knew, we’d filled all the allocated slots. Tracing a finger down Dad’s neatly ticked-off list, I found one more name: Professor Harry Potter, Flying Instructor.

Enthusiasm, mingled with confusion, made me check once again, but it wasn’t a trick or a joke. Harry’s name was still written there. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. Three months had passed since I’d sat on the back of a broomstick, yet Harry had booked us an appointment. Surely that was a good sign? It must mean that Harry wanted to see Dad again; I was certain of it.

Rather than wait for an answer, Dad turned, and started to walk towards the Quidditch changing rooms, and Harry’s office. For a half of a second I was too astonished to follow, but when it became clear Dad wasn’t stopping, I hurried to close the space between us. Dad’s pace was determined, and it only took us mere minutes to arrive.

Since my no-flying sanction had started, I hadn’t visited the changing room, and any other time, I reckon I’d have felt a pang of regret at the familiar sights and smells of the place. Today, though, I didn’t have a chance to. Without a beat of hesitation, Dad knocked on Harry’s door, and he called us in and, for the first time since they’d both been at my bedside in January, both of my parents and I were together again. Harry stood already, his stance more awkward than I was used to, wearing a bulky jumper and jeans. Dad and he shook hands, smiling clumsily, sharing a fleeting look.

Even though I was still only eleven, I could understand something significant when I was faced with it. It was obvious: Dad and Harry had hatched a plan, and only now was I catching onto the fact. I waited; happy we were all together – this was everything that I’d wanted, after all – but anxious to know what was going on.

Dad was the first to speak, and when he did, there was a practised edge to his words. This was a speech he’d prepared beforehand. “As you know, Harry and I have been in regular contact with each other,” he stated, glancing at Harry once more, as if for confirmation. “And, well, just last week, the subject of today came up, and I mentioned I’d be visiting, meeting your Professors, and learning a little about how you were fairing – and you’re fairing awfully well indeed, I’m pleased to say – but it didn’t seem fair that Harry be excluded…” Dad took a breath, briefly running out of words. “Not when he’s demonstrated how committed he wishes to be, and how much he obviously cares about you.”

Harry was leaning against the side of his desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Dad paused, his eye flicking over to where Harry was waiting, wordlessly asking him to take over. “But after I reminded your dad I had my own appointments to manage, he suggested we spend the next few hours together, as a family. I said there was nothing that I’d enjoy more.”

As he talked, Harry straightened himself, took his hands from his pockets, and took a small step towards my dad and me. He peeled away the guise of Professor as he did so and became my other parent again. “Taking tea and cake in the Common Room would cause far too many tongues to wag, so Draco suggested we take you somewhere a little more private. I said I knew the perfect place, one that I can’t wait to share with the both of you.”

There was a small wicker basket that I hadn’t seen before sitting on Harry’s desk. He picked it up, untied the handle, and crossed it over his body.

“I’ve packed a picnic,” he informed us, “so we’ve got plenty to eat. Now we just have to get there.” He cleared his throat, sharing another meaningful glance with Dad before his eyes pivoted towards me. “Now, I know you’re prohibited from riding your broomstick for the rest of the year, but I’ve decided to make an exemption, only for today. After all,” Harry explained, “it is Parent’s Day, and I am your flying instructor, and both of us want your dad to see how much you’ve learnt this year.” Harry waved his wand, Accio’ing one of the school broomsticks from a pile in the corner of the room. He caught it with practised ease and handed it to me.

Taking it instinctively, a frisson of magic radiated from the wood and into my hand. Merlin, but it felt brilliant to hold a broomstick once more and I swore I wouldn’t do anything as stupid as get myself forbidden from flying ever again. Harry smiled and, casting a second Accio, had his Firebolt leap into his hand. I was mystified. What was happening? Were we going to have a picnic, or was I going to give a flying demonstration?

“We ought to get a wriggle on,” Harry said to Dad and me. “You remember how quickly the light fades this far north. We don’t want to get caught out flying in the dark.” Harry led the way from his office, and to a little patch of ground beside the Ravenclaw changing rooms. “Up,” Harry ordered and his broomstick did his bidding. “Stay close behind me, Scorpius,” Harry told me. “If I need to give you instructions, you need to be able to hear them.”

Harry climbed onto his Firebolt, and then, to my utter, utter disbelief, Dad climbed on behind him. Honestly, just for a moment, I legitimately wondered whether someone had slipped a potion into my orange juice during lunch, or if, somehow, I’d slipped into a parallel universe. Like I’ve said before, Dad is scared stiff of flying. I’ve seen him shudder at the very thought of getting on a broomstick, yet here he was, clambering onto one? It scarcely made sense. Dad was nervous – his face was pale, and his movements were stilted – but just like he’d strode resolutely to Harry’s office, he was resolute about doing this too.

Dad wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and I watched them rise into the air. It was only as the broom holding them rose another metre that I realised I remained on the ground still. Not wanting to miss any opportunity to fly, I ordered my broomstick up, mounted it, and kicked away the ground.

I’m not entirely sure how long we were in the air, but the experience of following Harry and Dad was a surreal one. As instructed, I kept close, monitoring my dad in case he became stressed. Happily he didn't. Harry flew at a gentle, steady speed, and although the evening was a cool one, I wasn’t ever uncomfortable. Somehow, Harry must have finagled it so that we were able to breach the magic enchantments guarding the perimeter of Hogwarts, because very soon we left the school behind. The scenery beneath the three of us was magnificent. We passed hills whose peaks were still capped with snow, vast dark lochs, and dense woodlands.

After around ten minutes, Harry began to guide his broomstick downwards, and towards a rocky ridge which jutted from the side of a small mountain. Dad and he landed, and I did the same.

“This is your special place?” Dad asked, looking shaken as he dismounted unsteadily from the broomstick. “Gods, but when you said you had a secret mountain hideaway I wasn’t expecting it to be quite as remote as this! You never did anything by halves, Harry.”

Harry nodded, smiling, before gathering together the two brooms, and taking out his wand. Twisting it through the air, he cast a warming charm over the three of us. I shivered, enjoying the familiar magic. “Remote, but very private. Don’t worry, it might seem underwhelming now, but it gets better, I promise. Follow me but be careful of the floor. It’s a little uneven.”

Nothing in my life could have prepared me for what I saw next.

Taking Harry at his word, Dad and I stepped through an opening in the rock, and behind the entrance was a cavern, twenty metres deep, and twenty metres wide. True to his word, Harry had made it special for us indeed. Small jars, each one filled with a small, charmed light, were dotted around the edges of the walls, creating a plethora of dancing shadows. The rough stone floor was covered with blankets and there were five or six large, squashy beanbags scattered on top of them.

“You like it?” Harry asked, an edge of apprehension in his voice. “The local Muggles call it McLean’s Point but they don't come here much. Without broomsticks it's virtually impossible to access. I discovered this place when I came back to Hogwarts for my eighth year,” he explained, as Dad perched himself on one of the beanbags, looking around wide-eyed, and I dropped down beside him. “I used to jump on my broom whenever I got the chance, just trying to lose myself. The school was so noisy and chaotic, and sometimes I just craved silence. I’ve come back, periodically, ever since… But this is the first time I’ve ever brought anyone else.”

Finishing his sentence, Harry paused, as if he were uncomfortably aware of how much he’d revealed. This was his special, secret place, and he’d brought Dad and me. McLean’s Point was a small slice of Harry’s psyche, and we’d been made privy to it. That had to mean something, didn’t it? Dad’s expression, as Harry talked, was soft and open, and quite unlike any I’d seen him make before. I thought Dad must be falling back in love with Harry, if he hadn’t already.

Harry – feeling self-conscious, I believe – busily began unpacking the picnic hamper, and magicking the contents back to their usual size. Merlin, but he’d brought plenty, and I was delighted by the fact. Not enough breakfast or dinner, followed by a surprise flight, had left me ravenous and, judging by the way Dad and Harry began to eat, they felt the same.

The three of us were quiet as tucked into the feast, so I took the opportunity to bask in the extraordinary situation I’d found myself: both of my parents, at once, enjoying a congenial meal. Any residual awkwardness soon faded. Most other children had this experience every day of the holidays but for me, this was a first, so I was determined to let myself enjoy it. This was what my life could have been, had Robards not issued his vile threat.

Eating the crust of my cheese and tomato sandwich, I considered both of my parents in turn. They weren’t anything alike. Harry was half a head shorter than Dad, beefy and muscular, his dark hair a wild curly disorder, while Dad was neat and posed, his hair soft and straight, and his body angular. Even so, they were suited, a yin and yang, neither truly complete without the other.

I scoffed at myself. I sounded like one of Aunty Pansy’s novels brought to life. Part of me wanted to tell them just to snog already, but I knew for certain that wouldn’t work. Dad was far too bashful a chap to kiss in front of me, although I was less sure about Harry. He kept stealing glances towards Dad, who did likewise. Watching the way Harry kept glancing at Dad’s lips, I was fairly sure he wouldn’t mind having an audience.

Very soon, our food had vanished, but none of the awkwardness of before returned. I was content to not speak very much, because listening to Dad and Harry talk was more fascinating than anything I might have said. Their manner, and body language was so different to how it had been previously that they might have been two different people sitting beside each other on beanbags.

It became obvious that they’d shared lots of conversations during the last three months where my conduct hadn’t been the main topic, because Dad already had a fair idea of Harry’s opinions on the recent Ministry reforms, about who would top the Quidditch League, and about whom the next Minister for Magical Transport might be.

For his part, Harry knew the details of Dad’s latest work projects – the melancholic harp having been restored and returned to its owner – and asked after Hydrus, Gran, and even some of our Hadden neighbours. Conversation flowed between them, easily and amicably, and I was satisfied simply to let the sentences drift around me, each word more magical than any incantation.

After a while, the discussion rotated back to Parent’s Day, and Dad – predictably – went into his proud-parent mode, telling Harry everything my other Professors had said.

“Apart from old Binns,” Dad said. “He thought I was the student, not Scorpius, and told me that my awful attitude towards my schoolwork would give my father an apoplexy. I didn’t wish to tell him that my father wasn’t likely to care, what with him being dead for over a decade. I thought, what with Binns being a ghost, he might find a comment like that enormously offensive.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry,” Harry answered, not bothering to hide his amusem*nt. “Binns gets confused over most things nowadays. He must have been teaching at Hogwarts for a hundred years, give or take. The Headteacher can’t do a thing about him.” Harry grinned. “D’you remember the second year? When you, Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass brought a box of frogs to history, and let them go free when Binn’s back was turned? The whole class rioted!”

Dad had the decency to blush. “We’d liberated them from the potion laboratories the lesson before,” he explained, turning to face me. “And the plan was to release them in the Hall during dinner, but when I spied Harry, sat with his Gryffindor friends, I convinced Pans and Daph to play our practical joke earlier.” He shook his head wryly. “Even then, I never could resist getting a rise out of him.”

“Well, it worked, just like always.” Harry laughed, but it was a kind sound, full of affection. He pulled a face, like he was about to say something else, but instead, Harry shook his head, took out his wand, and cast a Tempus. The glowing dial showed it was half past four, and later than any of us had expected. “Time’s run away with us,” Harry said, frowning. “We ought to be getting back. Dusk will fall soon, and the dinner bell rings in half an hour. We don’t want Scorpius to be missed.”

Harry’s words broke the gossamer spell between Dad and he and, after that, both wizards were a whirl of busyness. Neither spoke as they tidied the cavern. Dad and I packed up the remains of the picnic, and Dad vanished all the remaining crumbs. Then Harry collected the blankets, and the beanbags, magicked everything tiny, and put them all in his bag. Lastly Harry broke the wards on the entrance, Finite’d his enchanted lights, and prepared our broomsticks for flight.

As I scrambled onto the handle, I couldn't help but feel sad. For such a short amount of time – less than two hours – I’d had both my parents, and it’d been wonderful. We’d been a family, and it’d felt right. It felt natural. Now we were all going our separate ways once more, and I felt a baffling grief. I think I’d have been content to remain at McLean’s Point forever, as long as Dad and Harry were there alongside me.

But I didn’t have time to meditate upon unhappy things. In the brief time we’d been at Mclean’s Point, the wind had picked up, and dusk had fallen, and so flying back was more challenging, and I had to focus much more to control my broomstick. Even so, I still managed one last sneaky peek at my parents as the Hogwarts turrets first came into sight. Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed as if there was less space between Dad and Harry than there had been before.

We dismounted where we’d set off, in the little patch of ground beside the Ravenclaw changing rooms. Crossing my fingers, I hoped madly that this was where they’d snog goodbye but, of course, my hopes were dashed. Instead of the romance novel kiss I’d been daydreaming about, Dad told me he planned to make his way back to the Apparition point beside the school gates and that, instead of accompanying him, I ought to go back to the Slytherin dungeons, to make myself presentable before the dinner bell rang in five minutes time.

“After all,” Dad said, ineffectually sweeping a tuft of hair from my forehead, “right now you look exactly like you’ve spent the last ten minutes flying, which is the one thing you’re forbidden to do. Best brush your hair and wash your face.”

Dad was right, but still, I didn’t want him to go. I hugged him hard and told him that I’d had the best afternoon I could remember. Dad kissed the top of my head, told me not to forget to write, and then, with a swish of his robes, Dad and Harry left me.

Even though I knew I ought to be making myself fit to be seen, somehow I found myself fixed to the spot, unable to draw my eyes away from the retreating figures of my parents.

Neither touched – in actual fact, there was a respectable distance between them – but I knew something had changed between them.

~

After Parent’s Day, life at Hogwarts returned to normal, or at least as normal as things ever were in a school full of teenage witches and wizards.

If Dad and Harry were engaged in an epic romance, I wasn’t privy to any of the details. Dad’s letters were filled with details about his work, about Hydrus’s naughty antics, and about Hadden, but Harry wasn’t mentioned. On Saturdays, Harry and I played board games, ate sweets, and talked about Quidditch together, but when Dad was commented on, it was only in passing. As for me, I kept my mouth shut on the subject of love, not wanting to upset the apple cart. I knew for a fact they still Firecalled twice a week, and that was good enough for me. As long as they still spoke, my dream of Harry, Dad, and I becoming a family could still come true.

Besides, matchmaking was a time-consuming business, and time was the one resource I never seemed to have enough of. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom how Harry had been able to spend his school days battling evil tyrants and smashing dark plots. All I could think was that Harry must have been given considerably less homework than I was.

My days were packed with revision, assignments, trips to the library and the occasional card game with my friends, and I fell fast asleep just as soon as the bell for lights out rang. We watched Jurassic Park in the Muggle Film Club, and I was extremely glad to discover it was all made up. That T-Rex was far scarier than any of the dragons I’d seen in my short life.

In fact, life was so frantic it was a surprise when I woke on the nineteenth of May, and I recalled why I’d drawn silver stars all around the date. Today was my twelve birthday, and with all the excitement of school, the day had crept up on me.

A small, babyish wave of disappointment quivered in my belly. In years past, my birthdays had been special and fun, with Gran decorating me a cake and Dad cooking my favourite dinners. Today, however, would be a school day, filled with the same old lessons, the same Professors, and the same classrooms that I knew like the back of my hand.

Happily, my friends hadn’t forgotten it was my birthday. They ambushed me whilst we made our way to the Great Hall for breakfast, giving me hugs and ruffling my hair. Dru presented me with a hastily wrapped box, containing a Chocolate Frog and the latest Martin the Mad Muggle comic. I think she’d read it already – the word search was half-completed – but it was a nice gesture, nevertheless.

Katie Sedgewick gave me a comb, and Phil gave me a badge that he’d enchanted himself. 12 Today was written across it in garish orange letters and, every so often, the letters would vanish and be replaced with a scary-looking scorpion. I pinned it to my robes as we entered the Hall, grabbing the nearest tray.

That, however, was only the start of my birthday celebrations. The Hogwarts school owls arrived a couple of minutes later, just as my Dru, Phil, Katie, and I had settled into the last empty spots on the Slytherin table. Spotting me, the owls swooped downwards, depositing cards and parcels around my breakfast bowl, and only narrowly missing my mug.

Eagerly, I tore them open. Aunty Pansy had sent me the latest Appleby Arrows stats book – not a massive surprise, since she gave me the same gift every year, but I was still very pleased – and Gran had sent me a card with a picture of Hydrus on the cover. Inside was a Galleon and instructions not to spend it all at once. I pocketed that quickly, glad to finally have spending money to my name. Since buying those potions from Eris McCaffery I’d been stony broke. Honestly, watching my mate’s owl-ordering a bag of sweets or the latest novels had sometimes felt like a bigger punishment than my Hospital Wing detentions.

But, most curiously, there wasn’t a present from Dad, only a card, my name written across the front in his fancy handwriting. Inside was a typical Dad-card, with the words You’re worth more than gold to me written beneath an illustration of a Niffler struggling to keep hold of a gigantic coin. I couldn’t help but smile. Cheesy cards were a longstanding in-joke between Dad and I, both of us completing each year to find the tackiest pun, and this card would be tough to beat.

Opening it, I read the message inside: To my Brightest Star on the occasion of his twelfth birthday. I wish I could have been there this morning to wake you with your favourite birthday breakfast of pancakes and orange juice, but I’m afraid that lumpy Hogwarts porridge will have to suffice.

I expect, by now, you’re wondering where your birthday present is, and whether the school owl has lost it. Don’t worry, they haven’t. Your present will come later today. First, however, you have a full day of lessons to enjoy. Work hard, do your best, and remember how proud I am of you. All my love, Dad. xxx

I read Dad's message two more times, hoping to grasp what he meant by Your present is coming later today. How could he get a present for me? The Hogwarts owls delivered once a day, and once all the parcels were dispatched, that was that.

I even turned the card over, wondering perhaps if I’d missed an additional message, or if my present was tiny, and had somehow gotten stuck to it. But it was to no avail. Besides a sticker from the small shop in Hadden where Dad had brought the card there wasn’t anything there.

Confused, I placed the card on top of Aunty Pansy’s book, listening to the clatter of cutlery, and the chatter of my friends around me. They were talking about the Transfiguration assessment we had during our second lesson and trying to guess what we’d be asked to do. I decided it might be sensible to listen, and not give Dad’s cryptic message another thought. Dad probably meant that my present would arrive later in the week. It was certainly possible: Hadden was so far north of London that orders often took ages to arrive, what with the owls roosting, and sometimes getting lost.

At the front of the Great Hall, Madam Penhaligon swished her wand, and a chime echoed all around. It was a reminder we only had five more minutes left before we were expected to leave for our lessons. In all my birthday excitement, time had run away with me, and I’d barely touched my porridge. I shoved Dad’s card, and the rest of my gifts and treats into my satchel and made haste with my breakfast.

The rest of my birthday was thoroughly good fun, and I hardly missed Hadden at all. For the Transfiguration assessment the Slytherins were tasked with magicking a fork into a quill, and I was able to dip mine into the inkpot and write a sentence. Professor Delacroix told me I was improving all of the time and gave me an A grade.

The next lesson was Potions, which was the most fun I’d had in ages. We were tasked with brewing a Laughing Tonic, and it must have been strong, because even the lavender-scented steam made me giggle. The class begged our Professor to let us try a teensy sip, but the answer was a categorical no. They’d had children chortling for a week afterwards. For some reason their answer was hysterical, and I, Dru, and the rest of the Slytherins giggled uncontrollably until the bell rang ten minutes later.

My birthday afternoon was pretty decent, too. We had Herbology first and in the few days since my last lesson in the Greenhouses, my Alihotsy plant had grown three new leaves. Professor Longbottom said that he thought it would have flowered by the end of the month.

Even detention in the Hospital Wing was enjoyable. I was usually given the task of folding towels on Wednesdays but since it was my birthday, Madam Pomfrey took pity on me, and set me the task of cheering up Lucien Woodleigh, a second-year boy who was recovering from a severe bout of Red Dragon Pox and feeling very sorry for himself. I’d had Red Dragon Pox when I was younger, so there wasn’t any chance of catching it again. Lucien and I played a spirited game of Exploding Snap and, by the time I had to leave him for dinner, my eyebrows were scorched, I’d made a new friend, and the fact it was my birthday was virtually forgotten.

That evening, when I returned to my dormitory, I was tired out but cheerful. My first birthday at Hogwarts had been a happy one, and except for not seeing Dad or Gran, I wouldn’t have changed a single thing about it. My only smudge of sadness was the fact I hadn’t had a chance to talk or even see Harry, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. Harry taught a full timetable, and supervised clubs most evenings, so it wasn’t unusual for our paths not to cross during the school day.

I changed into my pyjamas and was just hanging up my school uniform when, in the corner of my eyes, I noticed something unexpected. Propped against my pillow, and glinting brightly in the candlelight, was a Harry Potter Chocolate Frog card, which definitely hadn’t been there when I’d left that morning. Baffled – nobody ought to have been here during the day – I leant forward and picked it up.

It wasn’t a Chocolate Frog card. Instantly I felt the tingle of magic against my palm as Harry’s serious, heroic image transformed into a message: Happy birthday Scorpius, I read. I couldn’t let this special day pass without celebrating it with you. Come to the gargoyle statue beside the portrait of Mad Maud the Sorcerer at nine p.m. Can’t wait to see you. Love, Harry xxx

My hand trembling, I cast a Tempus. It was eight fifty-four, and when nine arrived, I would be forbidden from leaving the Slytherin dungeon. If I left my dormitory, went to meet Harry, and was caught by a Prefect, I could get into real trouble. Losing house points would dampen what had, so far, been an amazing birthday.

That being said, Harry was both a Professor, and famously notorious for sneaking around when he was supposed to be in bed. I decided to risk it; after all, a wizard only has one twelfth birthday and, after I stuck my wand in my pocket, I pulled a jumper over my pyjamas.

Toeing on my slippers, I made for the door, feigning confidence I didn’t really have. My roommates – all reading, finishing homework, or playing cards – didn’t pay me the least bit of attention, and before I’d had the chance to decide whether this really was a wise idea or not, I skittered out of the entrance, and into the corridor.

I swallowed, unexpectedly nervous. Most of the lights had been dimmed, and those which were left cast eerie, dancing shadows. Without the bustle and noise of the other students, the corridor felt intimidating, and as I began to run toward the gargoyle statue, I heard the echoes of my feet slapping against the flagstones.

The only noise I heard was the faint muttering of the portraits, wondering what I was doing out of bed, and chiding me for my impudence. I didn’t dare stop or look at them directly. All I could do was pray Harry would be where he’d promised he would be.

Skidding to a halt in front of the gargoyle, I cast my eyes around, my heart drumming loudly in my chest, Mad Maud’s wild eyes moving over me. Harry wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and I was alone.

Except, as I found out a second later, I wasn’t alone.

All of a sudden, I felt a shifting of the magic in the air, and the soft rustling of cloth, as Harry materialised beside me, a shimmering silver, gossamer robe in his hands: a cloak of invisibility. I, of course, was instantly awestruck, knowing straight away that it must be one of the three Hallows that Dad had taught me about when I was little, and Tales of Beedle the Bard had been required reading before bedtime.

Harry, however, didn’t notice my awed demeanour. “You’re here,” he whispered, delighted. “I wasn’t sure you’d get the note in time, but I’m glad you did! Happy birthday Scorpius! It’s brilliant to see you.” His green eyes twinkled with mischief and opened his arms to pull me into a brief, deep hug.

Harry’s hug was wonderful, but it was over far too fast. “It’s brilliant to see you too,” I responded, whispering too, and telling the truth. If I could only have seen my Dad too, then this would definitely have gone down in history as the best birthday of my life. “I’ve had a great day.”

“Ah, but your day hasn’t quite finished yet,” Harry replied, narrowing his eyes, and looking all around us. He must have been satisfied with what he saw, because he smiled. “I’ve arranged a bit of a surprise for you. I couldn’t let your day go past without marking it.”

I admit, I was intrigued. We’d talked about my birthday last Saturday, but Harry hadn’t given away any clues that he was planning something. “I won’t get into trouble, will I?” I asked, worried about my absence from bed. “I don’t want to get caught.”

“You won’t,” Harry promised me. “My dad’s old cloak let me have free reign of this place when I was your age. The Prefects never cottoned on. Don’t worry, I promise to get you back to your dorms without anyone being any the wiser.

“Alright,” I said, nodding my head to show that I agreed. If Harry was willing to let me be a one-night rule breaker, I was down for that, and besides, what wizard in their right mind refuses to have an up-close encounter with one of the most famous magical artefacts there’s ever been? My inner nerd cheered as Harry arranged the cloak over the two of us and told me to stay close behind him. I supposed that, in actual fact, a cloak made by Death himself ought to have been in a museum or something, not concealing a wizard sneaking out after hours, but I wasn’t about to start complaining. Holding tight to Harry’s waist, the two of us took small, careful steps so as not to fall over.

I’d presumed we would be going to the Room of Requirement – our customary meeting place – but Harry didn’t pause when we walked past the usual place he summoned it. Instead, he took a left down a dark, shabbier corridor, and then a right, and before I knew it, I’d lost all sense of direction. This was a part of Hogwarts I’d never seen before and wouldn’t have a reason to visit. The walls here weren’t covered with rich tapestries or paintings but were instead roughhewn stonework. Instead of the school I’d grown used to, this part of Hogwarts felt much more like the ancient fortress it’d been, once upon a time.

At last, we reached an imposing wooden door, where Harry paused, pulled the cloak off his head, and left me veiled underneath it. “Apple Crumble,” Harry stated, tapping his wand where the handle ought to have been. Responding to his magic, the door swung open. “The staff accommodation,” Harry whispered. “Most of the professors with families live outside now but, years ago, that was forbidden. To teach here, you were required to live in the castle. A few of us live here full time.”

My tummy was in absolute knots. I’d often wondered what Harry’s private world was like, but to tell the truth, I’d never imagined I’d actually see it. Officially, he was still my Professor, and their apartments were a strictly forbidden location for all students. It hit me forcibly that Harry had actually taken a big risk in bringing me here, and that he must trust me very much to keep this secret.

We climbed a flight of narrow, steep steps that twisted and turned, before coming to another corridor. There was another door here, identical to the one downstairs, except this one was painted burgundy, and had the word Potter stencilled in gold letters at Harry’s eyeline.

“Home sweet home,” Harry smiled, squishing me with a side-hug before tapping the letters with his wand. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

Stepping over the threshold, I released a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Eagerly, I looked around, my brain greedy and curious for every detail of Harry’s life. Incredibly, it reminded me of Hadden. There was the same higgledy-piggledy collection of photos on the wall, the same warm colours, and the same mismatched furniture.

But the biggest, most mind-boggling part of the whole experience was the fact I wasn’t Harry’s only visitor.

Rising from the settee in one fluid moment, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes moving from mine to Harry’s, and back again, was Dad.

The message written on my birthday card - Your present is coming later today – suddenly made perfect sense. This wasn’t a spur of the moment thing that Harry had thrown together because he hadn’t seen me during the day. This had all been planned.

My traitorous, overjoyed brain refused to form words, and all I could do was drive across the room and throw my arms around Dad as hard as I could. None of this felt entirely real, and I needed his touch to ground me.

“You’re here,” Dad said, unknowingly repeating Harry’s first utterance, his words muffled as he kissed the top of my head. “Harry was gone for ages, and then I heard the bell ring confining everyone to their houses… I felt sure you’d have missed Harry’s note.” Reluctantly, Dad broke our hug, and stood looking at me, hands curled around my shoulders. “Happy birthday.”

“Tonight… This was all my idea,” Harry said, stepping over to our side. There was the same uncertain expression on his face that I’d last seen before Christmas, when he’d given me my pocket watch. He looked younger than his years, and very unsure of himself. “When Draco mentioned how this would be the first weekend you’d not been together on your birthday, and I replied how much I wanted to celebrate with the pair of you, I realised I had the perfect solution… A little get-together, here in my room. I thought we could eat cake, and maybe play a few games of cards? We can’t stay too late, of course… We’ve both got a full day of lessons tomorrow- “

Harry paused, abruptly understanding, I reckon, that he was rambling. He was nervous. “I hope you don't think I’ve overstepped the mark. You’re growing up. Maybe having a party with your parents was a daft idea.”

But Harry hadn’t overstepped the mark. “This is the best present I ever could have asked for,” I answered fiercely. “Both of my dads, here together.” Harry blushed, and he hugged me hard, and it was only afterwards I realised I’d called him Dad for the very first time. The term of affectation had slipped out, quite unconsciously, but it hadn’t felt like a mistake.

“I’m famished,” Dad said, smiling at Harry and me. “Cake first, and then a game of this Cursing Chimera the two of you spend half your lives banging on about.”

The next couple of hours passed in a blissful, happy haze. Dad had made a splendid chocolate cake, which we all stuffed ourselves silly with, and then, as requested, Harry introduced Dad to Cursing Chimera. The Chimera insulted Dad gleefully – saying his chin was pointy enough to take someone’s eye out! – and Dad snorted so hard he sputtered on his Pumpkin Juice, gave himself hiccups, and begged for a drink of water from Harry.

As Dad carefully sipped from the glass – his cheeks still red from laughing – I thought back to Christmas and how much I’d missed Harry’s presence. Now, though, there wasn’t any sense of absence. The three of us belonged together. Together we felt like a family.

Best of all, Dad and Harry had even brought me a joint gift – a teeny, newly-hatched owlet called Persephone, with downy feathers and a sharp beak. “You’ve worked hard to prove how responsible you can be,” Harry said, giving Persephone a gentle stroke. “You’ve always gone to your detentions with good grace. You've never complained. We wanted to show you that we’d noticed.”

Persephone – a baby snowy owl – was beautiful, and I loved her immediately. “I won’t let either of you down,” I vowed. I couldn't take my eyes away from my pet, and couldn't wait to show her off to Dru, Katie, and Phillip.

Despite my excitement, I felt my eyes growing heavier, and although I tried to fight my sleepiness, it was a losing battle. My birthday had been a busy day, full of friends, lessons, and pressies, and now my tummy was full of rich chocolate cake.

Wanting to prove how conscientious I could be, I made sure to place Persephone back in her enclosure, and then I cuddled into Dad’s side. Dad was so warm, and his jumper smelt like home, and I yawned, feeling comfortable. A moment later I yawned again and I decided to close my eyes for one single minute before asking Harry to take me back to the Slytherin dungeon.

But, when I awoke, Harry’s room was shadowy; far longer than a minute had passed. The lights had been Nox’ed, and the only source of illumination were the tips of Dad and Harry’s wands, propped up against a pillow. I was going to speak, and draw attention to myself, but a sixth sense told me not to.

Dad had moved, to allow me space to lay down, and sat now on the settee beside Harry. They were having a whispered conversation but, so close, I could hear every word. It sounded very affable, and I feigned sleep, wanting with every fibre of my being not to disturb them.

“- had a fantastic birthday,” Dad was saying. “His face was a picture, when he came through the door. Thank you, Harry, for inviting me. I admit I did feel rather distraught when I realised I’d miss all Scorpius’s future birthdays… Boarding school might shape a wizard, but Merlin, it breaks a parent’s heart. Watching the Hogwarts Express leave… It’s as if a piece of your heart is leaving too.”

Dad sighed. “It’s odd, seeing him asleep. He looks so young. I feel like scooping Scorpius up, and tucking him into his bed, like I used to when he was little… He’s growing up. He’s different, every time we meet. It’s a hard thing for a father to accept. But I’m glad he’s got you, Harry. It’s important to him, getting to know you.”

When he answered, Harry’s voice held a smile. “I love him more than anything,” he said, easily and sincerely. “There hasn’t been a day since I left you when you and he weren’t the first thing I thought about in the morning, and the last thing I thought about at night. My heart was always with you, even when I couldn’t be.”

Dad took a million years to respond. Honest to Salazar, it took every piece of patience I had not to jump to my feet, and inform Dad that, Harry having confessed his everlasting love, now might be the perfect time to kiss him.

After what felt like a decade – but what, in reality, was probably only a matter of seconds – Dad replied, voice quieter than before, less wistful. He was scarcely whispering now, his voice no more than a murmur. “There wasn’t a day I didn’t miss you too. When I left London, I tried so hard to avoid everything that reminded me of you. I stopped taking the newspaper, because seeing your face broke my heart. I stopped listening to the wireless, because I could bear to hear your name spoken… I wanted to escape so badly, but I couldn't, because twelve years ago today Scorpius arrived, and you were there, in him… He was you; you were him… You see, you never did leave… I never… I never once hated you. Not for a minute. I couldn’t. Not when you’d given me Scorpius.”

“That’s more than I deserve,” Harry said, in the same hushed tone as Dad. He sounded so forlorn now, the opposite of his earlier positivity. “If only I’d been braver. Told Shacklebolt and Robards where to shove their intimidation... Stood beside you, refused to let you go. Lived the life I ought to have, rather than the one they wanted. I was cowardly, Draco. Weak. I should never have let you and Scorpius leave my side.”

Harry’s voice was rough, and I could hear in every word how difficult all this was for him to say. I had a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow, and my fingers crossed in my fists. If Harry had told Dad about Shacklebolt and Robards’s threats, then he also knew the reason why Harry had been forced to leave him. Surely Dad saw Harry hadn’t had any choice?

My heart drummed loudly in my chest. Dad didn’t answer, and the silence in the room was profound, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock above the hearth.

Everything was going to come crashing down now, wasn’t it? I felt sick. I wished I hadn’t found Harry’s note in time to meet him, or that I’d carried on sleeping throughout this conversation. Why wasn’t Dad saying anything? I wanted – needed - both my parents, and I wanted them to be together. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it if everything was to end at this very moment.

But, when Dad finally spoke, I realised that not even five seconds had gone by. “It wasn’t weak,” he said. “Not weak at all. If they’d… If I’d have been flung into Azkaban, I wouldn’t have survived… Scorpius wouldn’t have ever been born. None of it bears thinking about. You did the brave thing, the heroic thing… The quintessential Gryffindor thing… And the fact we’re sitting here today, full of birthday cake, with our sleeping son? That’s because of what you did. You saved both our lives.”

“It was the only path I could take to protect you,” Harry answered. “Nothing afterwards was real. Not one day apart from you was true… You and Scorpius were the best things that's ever happened to me. You’re still… I promise you, Draco, I- “

There was real silence for a few beats. My nerves were ragged, and I hardly dared to breathe. I encouraged Dad and Harry mentally, willing them to choose happiness with everything I had. My own heart was racing and I wondered if, maybe, Dad and Harry could hear it too, but then there was a sigh – whether it was from Dad or Harry, I wasn’t entirely sure – and a shuffle of bodies, and a ruffle of clothing and-

Dad and Harry were kissing.

True, I’d never actually seen a kiss in real life, except for a few pecks on the lips between Uncle Theo and Aunty Pansy, and I’d certainly never heard one before but I’d read enough romance novels to know what snogging must sound like. I kept my eyes tightly closed, not daring to move a millimetre.

This wasn’t wishful thinking, or a too-active imagination. This wasn’t a dream, where I’d wake up to cold disappointment. Dad and Harry were kissing – properly kissing! – only a tiny distance from my head. Joyful warmth infused my entire body. Nothing had ended. On the contrary, Dad and Harry’s love story - and our lives together as a family - was only just beginning.

~

But this isn’t quite the end of our tale.

Nothing else in their had ever been straightforward for Dad and Harry, so it stands to reason that actually being in love didn’t go perfectly smoothly either. However, I did promise you a happy ending on the first page of this story, and we’re getting very close to that now. There was one more act remaining for Dad, Harry, and me, and I first became aware it had begun during a regular Tuesday Herbology lesson that was much like any other.

I was cheerfully copying notes from the textbook, despite the fact that Dru and Phillip were squabbling around me, when I heard a knock at the Greenhouse entrance. A Prefect entered, but I scarcely gave them a second glance. Professor Longbottom was always getting called away on Gryffindor business, so the visit wasn’t all that odd. I focused my mind onto copying a diagram of a gardenia leaf and didn’t think more about it until I felt Dru’s elbow poke my ribs.

“Professor Longbottom has called you twice,” Dru hissed in my ear. Even then, I didn’t think it was anything momentous. Most likely it was a message from Madam Pomfrey, telling me which chores I was to do in the Hospital Wing that afternoon. I was so confident it wasn’t anything, I didn’t bother to close my textbook: I was positive I’d be back in no time to finish my drawing.

The first inkling that everything wasn’t good was Professor Longbottom’s expression. His usual affable smile was missing, and his brow was furrowed. “Headteacher McGonagall wants to see you at once,” he told me, voice low so that only he, the Prefect, and I could hear it. “It’s a matter of urgency, so don’t drag your heels. Miss Parkinson-Nott can collect your things at the end of the lesson.”

A couple of my nosier classmates, sat at the front of the room, had dropped their conversations, and were staring in my direction, wondering why I’d been brought to the front, and doubtlessly hoping for a diversion from their schoolwork. Usually I’d have been uncomfortable by the attention, but today I couldn’t bring myself to care very much. Panic had seized me, making the echoey noise of the Greenhouse fade away, and my body refused to obey my brain. Professor Longbottom was still speaking, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying.

The Prefect led the way and I followed, head hazy, unable even to tell Dru and Phillip where I was going. A million thoughts whirled around my head as we walked the short distance to the Headteacher’s office. I wasn’t foolish: I knew full well that students were only called to Headteacher McGonagall’s office when something horrible had happened at home. Had Gran been taken to St Mungo’s, or Dad? My stomach lurched. Some of the items he fixed held hazardous curses, and they’d been some close calls before. Dad took all the precautions possible, but accidents still happened, didn’t they?

Before I was properly prepared, we were at the same door I’d knocked on months before. Gods, but that first meeting between Dad and Harry felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed since then, and so much had been revealed. The same stained-glass cat gave me the same disinterested gaze, and I knocked, my heart in my mouth.

“Enter,” came the Headteacher’s voice almost instantly, and I did. I stuck my hands deep in my robe pockets, awake that they were trembling.

Everything had been going so well: Dad and Harry had kissed, and I was enjoying being at school. Now, though, all I wanted was for the people I loved most to be safe. I promised Merlin, and every God and Goddess listening I’d trade all my happiness, if they’d make that possible. The deities must have been in a bountiful mood, because the moment I pushed open the door, familiar arms pulled me into a hug. Relief washed through me like a tide. Dad was here, as steady, solid, and present as he always was, and thank Salazar, he was all in one piece.

“It’s good to see you,” Dad murmured, giving my shoulders a brief squeeze. “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

As my initial heady relief abated, I became more aware of my surroundings. Headteacher McGonagall’s office hadn’t changed since my first visit, and just like before, Harry was also in attendance. Dad took the seat opposite him and gestured for me to sit between them. Harry glanced towards me, and smiled briefly, but his expression didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Another witch whom I’d never seen before - her hair tied back in a severe bun, and her formal robes arrayed like armour – was sitting beside the Headteacher. Momentarily her face flashed with distaste, and she pursed her lips, as if I were something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. “Now the young man concerned has finally arrived,” the witch said, each word enunciated officially, “I wish to begin. The governing body is beyond furious that this improper, unprofessional, and frankly-“

“Muriel, please,” Headteacher McGonagall interjected, a shadow of irritation crossing her own features. “We’re all very aware of your opinions on this matter, having heard them in their entirety once already. Scorpius Malfoy is a child of only twelve! A tirade attacking his parents is the last thing he ought to be exposed to. The point of us meeting is to decide what needs to happen next, not to dwell on what ought to have been done differently.”

Honestly, I don’t know if I’d ever been so bewildered in my life. This odd, angry witch, whom I’d never even seen before, knew Harry was my other parent? As did Headteacher McGonagall? And this lady, whoever she might be, was angry about that fact? The injustice of it made my skin prickle, and if I’d been braver, I’d have shouted that it was absolutely none of her business. And what did the Headteacher mean by what needs to happen next? Why did anything have to change?

The witch – Muriel – prickled visibly, annoyed by Headteacher McGonagall’s interruption. “Scorpius Malfoy might only be twelve,” she sputtered, “but he is fundamental to this entire catastrophe! Minerva, the governing body’s position is final, and what happens next is already decided. Professor Potter and Scorpius Malfoy cannot both remain at Hogwarts.” She huffed contemptuously. “This school is the foremost institution for magic in the world! We cannot, and will not, allow ourselves to become mired in gossip, scandal, and headlines.”

If I’d been confused before I was doubly so now. What on earth was this red-faced witch talking about? Dad took my hand, and squeezed it, but try as I might, I couldn’t catch his or Harry’s eye. They were both still as statues, their body language cold and closed off.

Sitting across from me, Headteacher McGonagall seemed to be trying hard to keep her composure. Her mouth was a hard, straight line, and her cheeks were two spots of colour on her otherwise pale expression. “That isn’t my first concern,” she answered, in a dangerously low voice. “My first concern is first and foremost the wellbeing and welfare of my students, as yours ought to be.”

Muriel scoffed. “How dare you attempt to shame me! I’ll have you know- “ she began, but was cut off, mid-sentence, by Headteacher McGonagall bringing her palm down loudly on the desk. The noise rebounded around the office, shocking the enraged witch into silence.

Headteacher McGonagall met my gaze. “First, my apologies,” she said. “I can only imagine how confused you must be feeling right now. I’m truly sorry to have brought you here from your Herbology lesson, but I’m afraid I saw no other option.” She glanced away, drawing my attention back to Muriel, who by now was glowering at me, at my Headteacher, and at my parents. “Introductions first, I think. This is Muriel Moone, and she is Lead Governor here at Hogwarts. In layman’s terms, Scorpius, that means Muriel’s job is to hold the school, as well as myself, to account.”

With a small sigh, Headteacher McGonagall’s eyes flicked briefly towards Harry, and then back towards me. “I’m sorry to say, this academic year, I fear my performance has fallen very short.” She leant back in her chair, suddenly looking terribly sad. “Earlier today, Ms Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet sent owl letters to me, and to all the members of the governing body. She sent a copy of the front page they expect to run on Sunday… The damned rag has planned a full week of revelations. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Revelations?” I repeated, still not understanding. Dad was squeezing my hand so hard that it hurt, and I held on for dear life. The ground had been pulled away, and I was in free fall. Nothing made sense anymore. I’d heard the name Rita Skeeter before. She had written most of the articles about Harry’s Auror career and was famous for her brutal exposés.

“Perhaps it would be better if you saw it for yourself,” Headteacher McGonagall said, picking up her wand, and tapping the front drawer of her desk. It sprung open, and she took out a large roll of parchment. Decisively, Headteacher McGonagall opened it, and laid it out on her desk. It took me a moment to work out exactly what I was looking at, but when I did, all the air seemed to fly out of my lungs.

War Hero And Death Eater In Scandalous Secret Love Affair shrieked the title, above a blurry photograph of Dad and Harry kissing through a Muggle pub window.

We expose the secrets Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have tried to hide, the article continued beneath. Their clandestine meetings, their love child, and the shamefully illicit beginning of a relationship which will rock the wizarding world to its core. Our expert reporters have unearthed the whole story: you’ll be stunned, you’ll be appalled, but you won’t be able to tear your eyes away. Turn to page two for an in-depth background on Harry Potter, and his wartime exploits…

But I couldn’t bear to read any further. Tears rolled down my face, but I didn’t make any move to wipe them away. The stupid reporter didn’t have the first clue. They’d painted a horrible picture of my parents. Dad and Harry weren’t a horrible, dirty secret. They’d found each other again and, if the Prophet front cover photograph was any indication, things had been going well. If the circ*mstances were different, I’d have been ecstatic. My dad and Harry wouldn’t be lonely anymore, and the three of us would get to be a family. “It’s not like that!” I fumed, angry and crestfallen, furious with everyone: Rita Skeeter, Muriel Moone, and the stupid, stupid Prophet. “It isn’t fair!”

Headteacher McGonagall’s face was sympathetic, but her answer wasn’t anything that I wanted to hear. “No, it isn’t fair,” she agreed without hesitation. Muriel Moone hmphed, but my Headteacher ignored the sound. She seized the newspaper as if the very sight of it was distasteful and tossed it back into her drawer. “But life can sometimes be very unfair indeed. The fallout from these articles is likely to be considerable, and as much as I’d like to ignore the Prophet muckrakers, I simply cannot. It is incumbent upon me to act.”

A shiver ran down my spine, and the tension in the room seemed to ratchet up another notch. The line of Dad’s back was tense, and I half-imagined I could feel the crackle of Harry’s powerful magic.

After a blink, Professor McGonagall continued. “Professor Potter has already told me that everything Ms Skeeter plans to publish is the truth... That he and your father fell in love whilst he was responsible for Mr Malfoy’s house arrest, that a pregnancy was the result, and that the two of you hadn’t ever met until you arrived at Hogwarts... Many of the Professors are also parents. That isn’t the issue here.”

The Headteacher sighed heavily. “I only wish I’d known before this morning! Unfortunately, I did not, and therein lies the problem. By keeping all of this private, meeting you in secret, and not telling a soul, Hogwarts has been placed in a challenging position. The wizarding world is very old-fashioned, Scorpius. It’s narrow-minded. People's prejudices die hard… And the governors have decided: if both Professor Potter and you were to remain at the school, that would be tantamount to condoning Professor Potter’s actions twelve years ago, and- “

Time seemed to slow, and even though the Headteacher continued to speak, I couldn’t hear her.

I was utterly, entirely heartbroken. “We have to leave?” I gasped, my voice trembling. Would I even get to say goodbye to Dru and Phillip? Would I be travelling home to Hadden tonight? I could hardly believe all this was happening. Life had been ambling along so happily, but now it’d been thrown catastrophically off course. Disorientated, the room spun, and if I hadn't been holding Dad’s hand, I think I might have shattered into a million pieces.

To my surprise it was Muriel Moone who answered me. “The governors don’t require both Professor Potter and you to leave Hogwarts,” she explained, her lip curling with dislike. “If one of you were to remain, the controversy would eventually fade away, but if both of you remain, Hogwarts will remain in the eye of the storm… No, we simply cannot allow that. Either Professor Potter steps down from his job and leaves the castle, or you can transfer to Beauxbatons. It’s a simple matter of filling in a form, young man. All that would be required is Mr Malfoy’s signature.”

“That isn’t happening. Scorpius isn’t going anywhere,” Harry interjected, voice and body language equally firm. “We’ve already discussed this! I’ve told you; I’ll leave immediately. You can take this as my notice. Scorpius stays here: I won’t have him punished for mistakes I've made. This isn’t up for discussion.”

Every solution seemed worse than the one preceding it. Harry shouldn’t have to leave Hogwarts. He was brilliant at his job, he was loved by the students, and Hogwarts was the only school of magic in Britain. I felt nauseous. If Harry left Hogwarts there wouldn’t be a position waiting for him elsewhere. He'd have to go abroad. Dad and I would lose him again.

Dad and Harry belonged together, that much was obvious, and they’d only just found each other again. This was supposed to be their happy ending. Why couldn’t Muriel Moone, and the rest of the damned governors understand that? If real life had been one of Aunty Pansy’s romance books, then this ought to have been the epilogue, relating to the reader everything they’d do in the years afterwards; the memories they’d make, their successes, their laughter, and every moment of love.

Before I’d even prepared what I was going to say, I spoke, surprised at just how calm I sounded. “I can speak passable French. If I can start the first year again, it won’t be very hard for me to catch up. I’ll go to Beauxbatons, if that means Harry gets to keep his job here.”

“Scorpius, you don’t have to-“ Dad began, but I knew I did. His face was ashen, and even Headteacher McGonagall was surprised I'd made this decision.

My mind was already made up: I could stop Harry, who’d saved the world, who’d been so brave when he was hardly older than a child, from being forced apart from Dad once again. I wasn’t going to let Harry make the same mistake he’d made before I was born.

“It’s just one signature,” I told Dad, resolute. “Please. This is what I want to do.”
~

I know what you’re thinking: if the whole reason this story was written was summer homework for Madam Penhaligon, I didn’t leave Hogwarts. However, I didn’t know that at the time.

Dad had signed my transferral form, and all that remained was for me to leave Hogwarts forever. Headteacher McGonagall had me return to the Slytherin dormitories, so that I would be able to pack my trunk while the rest of my friends were still in their classes. I threw in books and uniform haphazardly, not worrying if they bent or crumpled. What did it matter? I’d need everything new at Beauxbatons.

A sad weight settled in my chest as I thought about Dru, Katie, and Phil. They’d have finished Herbology by now, and moved onto Charms, and would have saved me a chair on their table. It wasn’t fair. Other Professors were parents and had taught their children. The only dissimilarity was how I’d come to be born. I’d never really hated anyone before, but at that moment I really hated Robards and Shacklebolt. Why hadn’t they just let Dad and Harry be together, let them have me - and a bunch of brothers and sisters – and have their happily ever after…

And then it struck me, an idea so enormously terrific that my copy of Hogwarts: A History fell out of my hand, bounced off my bedcovers and fell with a smack onto the floorboards. I didn’t care, and I didn’t lean over to pick it up.

Instead, I bounded out of the door, and ran, as fast as my legs would carry me through the empty corridors. I stumbled on the stairs, banging my shin, the pain making me wince, but I didn’t dare to pause. Time was of the essence. All I could think of was a happily ever after, the words repeating over and over in my head, just the romance novels on Aunty Pansy’s shelves. That was why Robards and Shacklebolt hadn’t let Dad and Harry be together, because magical London had needed their happily ever after. That was the key to this whole mess, I was convinced of it.

I knocked hard on Headteacher McGonagall’s office door, and like they’d promised, Dad and Harry were still there, waiting for me, their hands entwined, and their eyes red-rimmed. “You’ve packed your trunk?” Dad asked, puzzled. “It’s only been ten minutes since you left us.”

“A happily ever after,” I stated, gathering up all the loose ends of my courage, determined to explain myself to my parents and Headteacher. “That’s how we both get to stay at Hogwarts. Everyone loves a happily ever after, don’t they? You just have to get married! If you did, that’d be the end of it. The papers, and Muriel Moone wouldn’t have anything else to say because I’d be legitimate, you’d be all boring and official, and then everything would be all right!”

But I didn’t get the whoops of joy or the hoorays for which I was hoping. Harry looked at me forlornly, while Dad put a comforting hand on my arm. This wasn’t working out at all like I’d imagined it would. Getting married would let the world know what I did already: that what Dad and Harry had was as true and as real as any other relationship. Why should it matter how or when it had begun?

Harry lent into Dad’s shoulder, his hand resting lightly on Dad’s forearm, rubbing it with calming fingers. There was so much emotion in Harry’s gesture, and I didn’t think I’d ever been witness to such intimacy and sense of belonging before.

“Oh love, it’d take more than a ceremony to fix everything,” Dad said gloomily. “The wizarding world has a long memory. Even if we did marry, the circ*mstances of your birth wouldn’t change… And everyone who reads the Daily Prophet is going to know them. It’s better if you do leave Britain. Your future is still so bright. You don’t deserve for your life to be ruined by this too.”

Dad sounded so hopeless and so broken that something shattered inside of me. It was only for a fleeting moment, and it was only very faint, but when it was over, I felt a tremendous sense of loss. My last thread of hope had snapped.

In just a short amount of time, I’d be taken to Beauxbatons, and I’d scarcely ever see my friends or my family again. Dad and Harry would be hounded by the newspapers, and their every move scrutinised and talked about. The pressure on them would be immense. Dad’s business would suffer from the bad publicity, and Harry wouldn’t be able to leave Hogwarts without being hounded. What if the students turned on him, now they knew the truth about him? I remembered how I'd been bullied and I shivered. Their newly found love was still a small green shoot, not fully in bloom, and I hoped dearly it would be strong enough to withstand the burden it would face.

“In fact-“ Headteacher McGonagall’s words broke the deep silence in the room. I turned to her automatically, but without expectation. “Yes, that's true, the circ*mstances of Scorpius’s birth wouldn’t change, that’s correct, but that doesn’t mean-“

She stopped abruptly, and I wanted to explode, and tell the Headteacher to get to the point already, because my emotions had been through the wringer and I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I watched, biting my lip hard, as Headteacher McGonagall cast as Accio, summoning a records book from a high shelf. She flicked through it, wearing an expression of intense concentration. I tried my best to keep my hope in check. There was little she could do. Undoubtedly she was clutching at the flimsiest of straws.

“Ah!” Headteacher McGonagall said, pointing her finger at one of the notes. “I wasn’t entirely sure, but I had an inkling… And this entry here confirms it. Written by Headmaster Ambrose Swott, 1734. An unalloyed genius.”

She turned the book around so that my parents could read the twisting, faded handwriting. I squinted but couldn’t make out what was so crucial.

Dad and Harry read carefully, their demeanours giving nothing away. Abruptly, Harry smiled, his face breaking into its very widest grin. “A happy ending! We get our happy ending! It’s brilliant, Scorpius. Absolutely brilliant.”

Headteacher McGonagall turned the book back towards herself, and I couldn’t draw my gaze away from her. I was desperate to hear what she said next, because if she’d produced this spark of hope just to dash it again, I don’t know what I’d have done. Fortunately for my poor heart, I wasn't tormented for very much longer.

The Headteacher shook her head, as if in awe at what had been written centuries before. “Back in 1734, Headmaster Swott was faced with a not-dissimilar issue,” Headteacher McGonagall explained. “A young witch was forbidden entry to Hogwarts because she was born from her parent’s second marriage. Her father’s first wife had died, and back then, any subsequent marriage wasn’t considered valid.”

Headteacher McGonagall huffed. “Gods, but the wizarding world was a puritanic place… Not that it’s much better nowadays.” She brought her eyes back to the book and read the entry again, as if reminding herself of the matter at hand. “Nevertheless, the young witch’s parents were determined that she get a good education and plead with the heads of the school to reconsider her case. Headmaster Swott informed them Hogwarts would take her, but on only one condition: that he would cast a bonding spell on the parents, as proof of their enduring love.” Headteacher McGonagall looked at Dad, at Harry, and at me in turn. “I believe the governing body would reconsider their position, were the two of you to choose to be bonded. But, of course, it is a big, life-altering decision. You’ll need to discuss it as a family, and-“

But Headteacher McGonagall never finished her sentence, because Dad and Harry had stood, and were giving her the biggest, squishiest hug possible. A bond wasn’t a spell to be taken lightly: they were lifelong, and pretty unbreakable, but neither Dad nor Harry looked very put off by the fact. In fact, both of them looked pretty delighted. Happiness radiated through me, and I jumped out of my seat, wanting to celebrate alongside them.

I wrapped my arms around my parents, overjoyed.

~

And, after that, things seemed to move pretty fast.

Muriel Moone wasn’t best pleased with Headteacher McGonagall, but there was no arguing with history. She grudgingly agreed to the deal, and the rest of the governors quickly fell into line.

I tried to convince Dad and Harry to hold a big wedding, but neither wanted that. All they wanted was to be together, they said. They didn’t need a party, not when they had the rest of their lives to enjoy themselves. Every time Dad and Harry looked at each other, they had a beatific, smitten expression on their faces, and I decided that absolutely nothing could be better than that.

The next day, Gran Flooed to Hogwarts, and so did Aunty Pansy and Uncle Theo, as well as a whole bunch of red-haired Weasleys. Most thrillingly – well, according to Dru at least! – was the arrival of Ginny Weasley, who came to give Harry away.

The Room of Requirement had been pressed into service for the occasion, and dozens of small candles hung in the air, illuminating the dark greens and golds that decorated the walls. Dad and Harry wore matching robes – with Dad looking more dashing than I’d ever believed possible – and neither could stop gazing at the other.

Dad and Harry had gotten their happily ever after, and I couldn’t help but feel the teeniest bit smug. After all, I've done my fair share to help them, haven't I? If I hadn't poked around ancient treasures like the Hogwarts history books or my dad's well-hidden family photographs, I'd never have discovered the heart of my parents' secret. And without my courage to confront Harry, we might still be merely teacher and student to each other. Admittedly, some of my attempts were perhaps a little naïve or dangerous, but in the end they did bring my two parents, and the three of us as a family, back together.

When Headteacher McGonagall cast the bonding spell, a magical golden thread bound them together, so thin it was barely visible but so powerful that it was palpable in the whole room. When Harry’s and my dad’s hands touched briefly after this, I imagined seeing a brief golden glow where they touched, and the witch who had warmly introduced herself to me as Molly Weasley later whispered with my gran that, for a bond to glow like that, it would take true love.

It was altogether the most romantic thing I’d ever seen, and far better than anything Aunty Pansy’s romance novels could conjure up.

~

After that, things weren’t always sunshine and roses. Life has this annoying habit of carrying on, even after a happy ending.

Rather than whisk Dad away on a honeymoon, Harry had to go back to coaching Quidditch while Dad and Gran returned to Hadden. They’re going to move to Hogsmeade, just as soon as the right house comes on the market. It needs to have a big garden for Hydrus to play in, three bedrooms at least, and a big kitchen for Dad to cook in. Fortunately, Dad can fix magical objects anywhere. All he needs is a basem*nt, his wand, and a couple of protective wards.

For a brief time I was the gossip of Hogwarts. How could it not be, Rita Skeeter’s articles spared no detail, and within days every student knew how I’d come to be. There was a fair bit of name-calling and snigg*ring whenever I walked down the corridors, but I chose not to let any of that bother me. I had my friends, and I had my dad and Harry, and that was all that mattered.

It got a little worse when the newspapers found out about the bonding ceremony. There was a flurry of owls, and a couple of interview attempts by unscrupulous journalists. They soon gave up, though: Headteacher McGonagall strengthened the wards on the school, leaving them stranded at the ates and unable to get any closer.

But the days and months passed, and Hogwarts continued, just as it had for hundreds of years. Moaning Myrtle flooded the boy’s toilets, and Peeves continued his campaign of mischief. Before I knew it, the world had turned, and suddenly Dad and Harry’s whirlwind bonding was old news. That suited me just fine. There were end of year examinations to study for and every bit of spare time was spent in the library, pouring over books.

The exams themselves passed in a blur of rustling parchment, ink-stained fingers, and questions where I wasn’t completely sure what I was being asked. I think I did well – I certainly wrote plenty! – but I won’t know my results until my report arrives next week. Dad says it doesn’t matter what the grades say, and that I had a very big year, but I want to make him and Harry proud of me.

I suppose this means I’m all caught up with Harry and Dad’s story. Gods, but I’ve written rather a lot, haven’t I? My Quick-Quill is blunt, and my voice is almost gone. Dad and Harry finished playing with Hydrus ages ago, and I can hear them in the kitchen, laughing and talking. I’m ready for my dinner: my belly is grumbling like mad, so I’d better leave it here.

Thank you very much for reading my story. My life is transformed, and I'm happier than I ever thought possible.

Scorpius Malfoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~