A/N: For the Duct Tape competition.
Prompt: Butterflies.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
It's been Scorpius's motto since he was small, toddling along on unsteady legs beside his mum and dad, fingers stuffed messily in his mouth. He adopts it from his father, oddly enough. His mum is always the wayward one, the one with un-brushed hair until company comes over, who runs barefoot through the house and wears mis-matched socks outside. She tells him not to be so afraid to get dirty, ruffles his hair until he feels queasy with the urge to comb it. Makes constant messes for the hapless house elves to clean up, though she apologises all the while.
Draco, on the other hand, is fastidious. Not a hair or thread out of place. He always walks, never runs, and when Scorpius shyly inquires about a mud fight in the gardens when he is five, Draco's rebuttal is kind enough, but Scorpius can see the distaste in his father's expression, the scrunched-up nose and dubiously slanted eyebrows. He ends up slinging mud at his mum, glorying in getting dirty for once, and when he peeks at the parlour window, he can see Draco there, watching them.
As Scorpius grows up, molding into his role as heir and pureblood wizard, he has no more time for garden mud fights, for scampering through the grass when it's sopping wet and the scent of the flowers is so thick you can taste it. He hangs up such childish pursuits like his school ties, striped green and silver (of course). Like there was a chance of him Sorting into any other House, though his mum was a Hufflepuff.
His father approves, like he always does, but he can read the silent censure in Astoria's eyes, the disappointment when her immaculate son no longer has time for her, to pelt alongside her as they sprint down the length of the garden with their robes rolled up, to finger paint on the windows until Draco comes out to scold them. It's not much, but it's enough, and he can feel himself withdrawing from her, from his own mother, and somewhere deep inside, he hates himself just a little bit more.
When he brings Albus Severus Potter home for summer break, all hell breaks loose. Draco splutters, his face turning crimson in his anger, and Scorpius can't help but note that his ire is not directed at the fact that Scorpius has turned out to like blokes, but at the fact his current love interest is a Potter. He unconsciously turns toward his mum, pleading with every line of his body, but she has turned away, and only says, with a prim purse of her lips, that perhaps he should take his guest elsewhere.
Chastened, he rushes Albus into his rooms, his face burning and his hair a mess from how many times he's run his fingers through it. Albus whispers meaningless words of comfort, and perhaps they do mean something after all.
Dinner's awkward, and more than once, Scorpius longs to stand up, overturn the blasted table, and hex both his parents into the nearest wall. The war is over, he dreams of shouting. Your stupid rivalry is long dead. Even Harry bloody Potter has no problem with this. Why do you?
He wishes he knew the answer, but he doesn't. When they stand, and Al shyly kisses his cheek, he sees a slight glimmer in Astoria's eyes, and the way her lips turn up, and he thinks that maybe it's got a chance of being better after all.
"Mud fight?" he suggests, inwardly cringing at the thought of getting dirty, and the slight smile blooms into a full-fledged grin.
"Of course," Astoria beams at her son, ignoring Draco's snort of distaste. "And I'm sorry," she adds. It's not much, but it's a start, and Scorpius will take anything he can get.