"D'you read the Prophet this morning?"

George said, as Ron walked into work that morning. Work was a loose term for it. Could you call it work if you were running the most successful wizarding joke shop in the United Kingdom south of Leeds? You probably had to, even if it was fun. Ron wouldn't trade working here for anything, especially having seen and experienced what working for the Ministry was like.

"Not yet. Had to see Rose off to Hogwarts. It feels weird, to be honest. She's growing up. Her mum was crying."

"You're getting soft, Ronald. There won't be any tears when me and Angie see off Fred and Roxie next year. There'll be celebrations! The little menaces! Never have twins, brother."

The two of them laughed, and then a moment of silence was shared. It was only last year that their mother had passed on. It had been their father three years before. There had always been an empty absence at the Burrow after Fred, but now the two brothers could barely bring themselves to go back there. How Percy managed to live there Ron didn't know.

"Anyway, what is there to read in the Prophet? Something has you all excited this morning."

George placed the front page on their shared desk. Ron looked down at it. The front of the paper was dominated by a picture of a lone man, with slick, greasy white-blond hair, worn long, with a clean shaven jawline, and grey eyes, which looked dead to the world around him. Clutched to his side was a ten year old boy, who had many of the same physical characteristics.

"What's Draco doing on the front page? I saw him today. Scorpius. What a name to give a kid. He must want him to get kicked at school."

"Watch what you say, Ron. Old Lucius has died. Was reported last night. Apparently he fell from a high point in a Transylvanian ruin the family was visiting."

The picture of Draco was biting his lip, and kept pulling the boy closer to him. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't be missed. He had somehow survived being sent to Azkaban, but had never truly abandoned his blood purity beliefs. Still, that didn't mean Ron enjoyed watching the little boy losing his grandfather.

"Rita Skeeter wrote a piece later on about how big a loss he would be to the wizarding community. Its been coming though, hasn't it? Wouldn't surprise me if someone got sick and tired of his opinions and threw him to his death."

Ron flicked through the paper, only semi-listening to what George was saying. There were pictures of Lucius littered throughout it, with various luminaries of the Wizarding World offering their insight into his death. Rita Skeeter thought it a tragedy, whilst Elphias Doge thought it was about time. Even Gwenog Jones had an opinion on the matter.

"Poor Draco."

Ron muttered the words under his breath, not loud enough for his brother to hear them.

"Draco?"

"Mother."

Draco Malfoy found himself sat on an ornate bench looking out at the gardens of Malfoy Manor. The house had gone into much disrepair since the Dark Lord's death. The Malfoy name had meant little in the new world, and their wealth had soon vanished. Draco hadn't minded.

His father had. Lucius Malfoy had not been one for an early retirement before working in his garden, planting shrubs and flowers and then watching them grow. His resentment had festered. He would blame anyone that he could for his family's demise, be that muggleborns, blood traitors, or Harry Potter himself. A lot of the time he had blamed Draco.

"A Malfoy man should have a proper job and a proper wife. That Greengrass girl is beneath you, and collecting trinkets is the work of a Borgin or a Burke, not a Malfoy."

He could hear those words in his head now. His father had told him them on his wedding day. Draco had never forgotten them. He had never forgotten the face on his father's face when Astoria lay on her deathbed either. Gone. It was all gone.

And despite all that, despite everything that his father had done both for the Dark Lord and without him, he couldn't bring himself to hate the man. He couldn't beat away the feelings of loss that now plagued him. It had been worse when Astoria died. Was that sick? Comparing the feelings of loss after the passing of different loved ones.

He found that his mother had sat herself won on the bench next to him. She was clad all in black, to commemorate his father. It was the same dress that she had worn to Astoria's funeral. He should feel closer to his mother now, probably. This year had made widows of them both.

"The Prophet are asking for a few words from you-"

"The Prophet?! Father is dead, mother. Astoria is dead. Scorpio is gone, and now you want me to think about the wills and whims of Rita Skeeter and her accursed newspaper?"

He found himself standing, though he didn't remember rising. There was rage in his voice, and in his blood, but he didn't feel it in his brain. He just felt loss and apathy to the world around him. Maybe that was why he was angry. Was it because the world cared? The same world that had taken his wife and his father from him.

"We must look strong, Draco. The Malfoy name-"

"The Malfoy name? You think I care about the Malfoy name? Do you still cling on to the idea that our name means anything in this world. For all that father was, at least he understood what place our family now has. You dress up in your fineries and attend your parties and pretend to yourself that the Malfoys are anything more than insignificant. You're lying to yourself, mother."

Narcissa Malfoy looked at her son, before rising herself and walking off. In her defence, she didn't run, but walked, in the same proud way that she always had. Draco found himself sobbing now, and he had sunk back down to the bench. He took off the locket that he wore around his neck, and opened it.

Inside was a picture of his Astoria, as beautiful as the day that he had fallen in love with her, smiling back at him. He couldn't help but smile back, as his tears stained the glass.

"Gryffindor!"

The Sorting Hat bellowed the words for the entire Great Hall to hear, and Rose Granger-Weasley ran off to the table where people had risen to their feet in applause. Albus watched it happen, from the group that was yet to be sorted. He saw Neville- Professor- Longbottom applauding from the staff table.

"Scorpius Malfoy!"

The words were called out by Professor Flitwick, and a hush fell on the room. The same would have happened any other day, because the Malfoys had supported He Who Must Not Be Named during the Second Wizarding War. Today the hush felt even deathlier, however, as new had filtered through the students of Hogwarts that Lucius Malfoy had just been announced dead.

The boy that stepped forward didn't look like much of a monster. He was thin, but not lean, with shimmering grey eyes and slicked back blond hair. He had a sharp jawline, and thin lips. He looked like a Malfoy, but there was something about his eyes that made Albus understand that the boy was both sad and scared.

The Sorting Hat sat on his head for a few seconds, before letting out its assessment on where he should go.

"Slytherin!"

There wasn't much in the way of applause for the boy as he shuffled off to take his place at the Slytherin table. Even the usually rowdy and hollering Slytherin students were quiet. Was that out of respect? Fear? Contempt?

Two more names were called forward. Aaron Finnigan was sent to Gryffindor, whilst Amelia Bones was allocated to Ravenclaw. They were both children of people that had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Albus Potter!"

There was another hush as Albus' own name was called out by the diminutive professor. He felt all the pressure in the world as he stepped up and took his place on that stool. He looked out over the four house tables. There was Ravenclaw, for the smart, Hufflepuff, for the friendly, Slytherin, for the ambitious, and Gryffindor, for the brave. That was where everybody would expect him to go.

The hat started to speak to him as it took its own place atop his brown hair.

"Hmmm… Yes… A powerful bloodline here… Ambition aplenty… To overcome your father's name? Potter? Definitely brave, but also clever too… There's a lot of Weasley in you, boy… I can feel it… I've seen enough Weasleys in my time… Yes… Yes… I see it clearly… There can only be one choice for you, Potter…"

He crossed his fingers. He knew what he wanted. He knew what he wanted the hat to say.

"Hufflepuff!"

The hat bellowed into the Great Hall. The words were met with instant cheers from the yellow and black table, the badger of Helga Hufflepuff fluttering above them. Albus found himself beaming as he walked towards their table. He was so happy with the choice that he almost didn't hear the sound of boos coming his way from the Gryffindor table.

They were silenced quickly by an embrace from his cousin.

Victoire's arms surrounded him before he could take his seat, and he felt her lips on his head. She had told him on the train that she wanted him to join her in Hufflepuff. She had been the only person that he had told which house he secretly wanted to be. Now they were here together.

"Ignore James."

She said. There was a hint of French to her accent, but she was trying to get rid of it. She preferred to be called Victoria when not in earshot of her mother.

"Take your seat, Albus Potter. Welcome to Hufflepuff House."

The gravestones of Little Hangleton cemetery rose high into the night. The darkness surrounded their bases, but the moon shone light on the names that were written there. Tom Riddle Senior. Frank Bryce. Tom Riddle Junior. This was where the bones of the most deadly dark wizard of all time had been laid to rest. This was one of the darkest places in the Wizarding World.

The old Riddle House sat at the top of the hill, looking out over the place. Tonight, just like every other night for the past eighteen years, there was no light in the window. The Riddles were all dead.

And yet something moved between the gravestones. It was a shadowy shape, vaguely human, and it walked with some speed. It stopped before the simple stone with the name Tom Riddle Junior etched into it, and placed a hand on the cold slate. It was just a few seconds, and then it was moving again.

In the centre of the cemetery there was a few feet of empty space. There the figure stopped, and there he waited. Soon he was joined by one more, and then another. They were three shadows, hidden in darkness. They were three.

A snake passed along the ground, past the stone that bore the name, that bore his name, that bore Voldemort's name.

The three figures stood and waited for it, and when it came they waited some more. A few seconds, though they felt like minutes, hours, days. A few seconds more they waited, under the slit eyes of the watchful snake. A few seconds more. Then they stepped forward. Then they stepped out of the shadows.

And then Harry Potter woke from his sleep, a cold sweat on his brow. A cold sweat where the scar had used to burn. The shadowy figures were gone. The snake was gone. Just a few more seconds. Just a few more seconds.