Disclaimer: The characters here belong to JKR, and the plot is adapted from the famous film Sunset Boulevard. Also, I'd like to thank Anachonistic Anglophile for both proposing that the plot be done with HP characters and beta'ing this.

London, England

December the Eighth, 2026

Hello, and welcome.

You may not yet understand the irony that rests within the mere fact you are reading these words, but fear not, it will strike you when the time is nigh. Since I put down these words, you may ask yourself, 'What is strange in my reading?' Allow me just a moment to compose myself, to contain my smile and carry on in a dignified manner.

You seem distracted. Ah, is that what you're staring at? That body, over there? Well, it really shouldn't cause you undue concern; he was far less important than you might imagine. He wanted to write, you see. He was a dreamer, that one, but little more. He may have dealt with important men (and of course, women) in the span of his short life, but he himself had very little significance. Now, let us move on.

No? You wish to learn why there is a body here? It is a strange tale indeed, but not the one that I intended to tell.

You insist? Very well. I am intimately familiar with the story, and can easily tell you why that man is deceased, but you may not fully understand unless I start at the beginning.

--Six months earlier--

My dearest,

I'm owling only to send my love, not the three hundred galleons you so subtly requested. Your father and I will give you our affection always, but must continue to tell you that we do not agree with your decision to abandon the family business. Your darling brother, Ophiuchus, insists that he will be willing to bear the burden in your place, but you are your father's heir and it is your rightful place.
My son, we miss you terribly, especially since we have seen none of your writings published for over a year, though I scour the Prophet and the Wand every morning in case a misplaced sense of modesty keeps you from telling us of success. Please dear, we will all overlook this departure as youthful exuberance, and laugh about it in a few years once you are married and settled into the corporate life. It is what you were raised for; not this foolish obsession with words.

All the love in the world, your mother,

Astoria Malfoy

Scorpius Malfoy crushed the parchment in his fist, thinking how handy a blazing hearth would be in this moment. Instead, he had to settle with hurling the note into a rubbish bin; it was far less satisfying than watching it curl into ash. But never mind that-- he let his frustration with his mother slip away. She would never understand the urge to succeed, to struggle past obstacles, as her great goal in life had been to marry a wealthy Pureblood man- and she had done so with little difficulty. She'd married his father.

Draco Malfoy. He'd not been pleased when his oldest son had declared his desire to move to London and become a freelance writer for The Daily Prophet or, if they would have him, The Wizard's Wand. He had informed him of his disapproval, but would not deny him the opportunity. However, he would deny funds. Undoubtedly, Draco had expected Scorpius, the pampered prince of the Malfoy legacy, to come crawling back within the week.

Incredibly, he did not. Scorpius's first piece had been published in the Wand, for it had been written on a topic people still longed to know more about: Scorpius's own grandfather, Lucius Malfoy. Though decades had passed since Voldemort had fallen at the hands of Harry Potter, there were still whispers about the last surviving Death Eater of the Inner Circle, and Scorpius had given them only a tiny peek into the man's life. It had been a sensation. People were still talking about it.

However, shortly after its publication, he'd received a letter and package of sweets from his grandmother, kindly asking that he never write about her or her husband ever again. Unable to deny the request lest he cause tension within his family, he agreed and moved to other topics.

What remained were only those that the public found far less appealing, apparently. He'd had only two other articles published since then, small pieces on sibling relationships and parental influence. No morefollowed, once his popularity faded and proved him a one-hit wonder. He'd moved from his moderate-sized flat to a cramped apartment that he shared with two roommates, and hadn't paid his full share of the rent for months.

As it happened, this was his current concern at the moment. He had only one possession to his name valued at over ten galleons on its own, and that was his Nimbus 6000. It was not the newest or sleekest model on the market, but he loved it dearly; it was the broom his father had given him when he made the Slytherin team, and it had been the best of its time.

It was worth about three hundred galleons now, and that happened to be the exact amount he owed for rent-- the exact amount that his mother refused to loan him.

He glanced at the dingy clock hung precariously on the thin plaster wall. Jerome and Gavin would be back from work any minute. He pulled out his wand and strode into his bedroom, if the cramped, closet-sized space could truly be considered a room, and cast the most powerful Disillusionment Charm he could manage on the broomstick. It would, at least, keep the two mediocre warlocks from discovering it before he took it out at six o'clock for his meeting with Stewart Ackerly, the Editor-in-Chief of the Wand.

The click of the lock alerted him to his roommates' return. Hastily, he went back into the living room, and began innocently shuffling papers.

"Hey, Scorp," Gavin's jeering voice reached him first, and he clenched his jaw in irritation at the crass shortening of his name.

"Yes?"

"Rent's due today," Jerome informed him, entering behind his brother. "You're up to three hundred, Malfoy. We can't keep covering for you. Pay up."

"Look," he inhaled sharply, pushing a hand through his cropped blond hair. "I don't have it right now. But I'm pitching a new idea to Mr. Ackerly today, and I know this is the break I've been waiting for- I'll have the money in a week."

"Too little, too late," snapped Gavin, glancing around. "We could sell that broom of yours today, though..."

"Wouldn't you know," Scorpius said quickly, "I've loaned it to a friend. Won't have it back for ten days."

"Liar," hissed Jerome, lips curling as his eyes combed the tiny flat. "It's ours the second we see it," he warned.

"You'll have your money by then," he promised. Gavin rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he gestured to his brother. "Let's head out to the bar. It's obvious we don't have a chance of seeing any galleons tonight." They both glared at Scorpius as they headed back out. When the door was closed, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Scorpius watched from the window until the saw the two take their own brooms and shoot off before retrieving his own, lifting the charm, and swinging it on to his shoulder.

"Here goes," he muttered as he locked the door of the flat behind him and descended the reeking, claustrophobic stairs. The street outside was busy and crowded, and he was jostled as he made his way to the curb and mounted his broom. This was his last chance, and he couldn't afford to not have this newest piece published.

"Scorpius. Nice to see you again." Steward Ackerly waited until Scorpius closed the office door behind him before continuing. "It's been a while, and I've read your new article."

"Yes?" Scorpius prompted eagerly.

"It was awful. I've told you, kid, the only thing people are interested in from you is your family history. No one cares about petty little observations or theories on magic that you concoct. I'll tell you another time: If you want to write more on your grandfather, you'll have a steady income. Make it a biography, and I'll get in contact with publishers that'll make you rich on your own standing, not through your family's gold. How about it?"

"I've told you, Mr. Ackerly," he managed through gritted teeth. "I can't. Did you even get a second opinion? I didn't think it was so bad."

Stewart gave him a long stare before calling, "Hey, Rosie."

After a moment, the door cracked open and a pretty face peeped in. "Yes, Mr. Ackerly?"

"C'mere a second."

She entered, and with a start, he recognized Rose Weasley. She'd grown into a very appealing woman, but did not bother to even glance at him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Ackerly?" she asked primly, her expression that of a person wanting to please.

"Did you read that bit that came in on Tuesday morning? The one about breaking through limiting expectations?"

"I did."

"What did you think of it?"

"Dry and unoriginal. Not at all up to par with our usual publications."

"Ouch," Scorpius cringed ruefully, and she turned to acknowledge him at last.

"Rosie, meet the author, Scorpius Malfoy."

"Nothing like an honest opinion," Scorpius muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," though he could tell from her tone that she was not, "but surely you see that topic has been thoroughly covered. We're not interested in repeats here."

"I think I'll just go now," he snapped. "And I'm sorry I wasted your time. Have a nice day, Mr. Ackerly." He did not bid Rose Weasley farewell as he stormed from the office.

What do they know, anyway? he thought angrily as he reached the street below the grand headquarters and mounted his Nimbus 6000. As he zipped along close to the ground, wondering if perhaps The Daily Prophet would like his writing any better, a strange movement caught his eye.

No. As if his day had not been bad enough- Gavin and Jerome, apparently having caught sight of him from the sidewalk, were now hastily clambering on to their own brooms, and taking pursuit.

Scorpius swore under his breath and swerved off the main street, on to a wide boulevard. It was a very wealthy part of town, they type his grandparents would undoubtedly own real estate in, and had a quiet, untended feel to it. He zipped along, glancing over his shoulder and realizing, with a stab of panic, that the two brothers were close behind.

One of them drew his wand and bellowed, "Accio!"

Broomsticks were made with enchantments upon them to defend from opposing spells, but even the best began to fade with time, and Scorpius's broom was by no means new. The shaft itself was not pulled back, but a clump of twigs from the tail was ripped away, instantly throwing him off balance.

Truly fearful now, as he rounded a bend in the street, he made a sharp turn into a narrow driveway, lined by overgrown hedges. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and he pressed himself into the untamed shrubbery as Jerome and Gavin soared by. It would be only minutes before the pair realized they'd been duped, and when the doubled back, he vowed to not be found crouched in a stranger's drive. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, beginning the trudge along the winding pathway that led to the manor house beyond.