It was his job to make sure people didn't remember what he'd rather forget. Boots squeaked in their battle with the tacky kitchen floor in the long-abandoned restaurant, and with the smell of dust mixing with the tang of blood, he didn't want to think what made it sticky. Creaks of metal and the swish of distant cars were overlaid with the heavy breathing and groans of the four men, beaten and trussed up in a corner, and he could taste the sweat, the desperation.

But it wasn't their sweat and desperation, and most of it wasn't their blood. He'd taken only a quick look at the back room, so small a dozen people would have been like sardines if trapped in there. The lock, blasted apart, made that more 'when' than 'if'.

'The things they were saying,' said Detective Sergeant Beckett of the Metropolitan Police Service, 'made it sound like I should bring it to you, Mister White.'

The stupid code-names hadn't been his idea. But some discretion was needed when his work as an Obliviator brought him into contact with Muggles. Sergeant Beckett was far less stupid than most of the coppers he'd dealt with, but one of her carefully-selected superiors had been scrambled with enough charms and bribes to be convinced Albus worked for some mysterious government agency. It meant Muggle police didn't ask too many questions when their investigations got a bit weird. And it meant they called him.

Albus Potter's eyes swept from the broken makeshift prison cell to the four thugs. 'What sort of things?'

'All they can agree on is that one man bust in through the skylight,' said Beckett, pointing her pocketbook at the broken high window. 'One of them remembers nothing after that. Another one remembers throwing a punch only for it to feel like he'd hit a brick wall, then it goes blank. One of them claims he was tapped with a stick and sent flying. You know.' She gave him her steady, unconvinced look. 'That sort of thing.' One of these days he was going to have to obliviate Sergeant Beckett. She was too interested in doing an actual job, which meant she asked questions when clues didn't add up, and resented, instead of relished, a problem being taken out of her hands.

This isn't why I got into this job. Albus picked his way over broken glass and adjusted the uncomfortable tie of the Muggle monkey suit he had to wear for this part of his work. 'Thank you, Sergeant. We'll take it from here.'

She didn't leave, flipping through her pocketbook. 'I thought you might want to know these four run with the Kane Syndicate. One of them's already wanted in association with a drugs case. We can haul them in, but without any actual victims it's not as if we're going to be able to make charges surrounding human trafficking stick.'

'Human trafficking?'

'Nobody was locked in the back room for their health.'

He met her gaze, and just repeated, 'We'll take it from here.' Only when she was gone did he look at his partner, who looked even less at-ease than him. 'What's this Kane Syndicate?'

Bram Peasegood, walking institutional memory of the Obliviators, pushed his glasses up his nose as he advanced. 'An organised crime family in Muggle London. The one most recently risen to prominence.' Peasegood wasn't great with people, but he absorbed information from their briefing memos like a Pensieve with memories, down to the minutiae while Albus crammed strategic concerns in his head. 'The Met will want to question them thoroughly if these four have connections.'

'Then let's make sure they don't have any useful memories of a bloody wizard breaking in, beating them up, and releasing the poor souls locked up.' Albus glanced to the front door to make sure all was clear, and drew his wand. It was not his preference for Beckett to have extracted answers from the foursome only for him to now jumble those accounts. 'Why would anyone be this stupid?'

Peasegood looked at the shattered lock and the stinking cell of desperation beyond. 'Somebody might say you'd be stupid to not act.' He was big and burly where Albus was wiry, far more the poster child for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, but his gentle manner and fondness for contemplation over action had fallen him into the junior role in the partnership, despite his greater experience.

'Because what this community needs,' grumbled Albus, 'is another Stortford to strain the Statute further.' He was going to raise Beckett's suspicions more by fixing that lock and then breaking it in a more explainable manner.

They did their work in silence, because at this time of night Peasegood knew better than to argue and Albus had no desire to upset his gentle-natured partner by picking a fight. Peasegood focused on altering the memories, better at those sorts of subtle, technical magics, while Albus cleared the room of suggestions the laws of physics had been broken. In this sort of place, in this part of London, nobody would ask too many questions. But loose threads dangled, and he'd be damned if that happened on his watch.

It took a half hour before they were finished, emerging on the street with only the faintest hint of dawn tugging on the horizon. DS Beckett and her officers still waited, her with a steaming cup of coffee and a grumpy expression.

'You can sort it all,' said Albus generously. 'And don't worry about the fellow who did this. He's on our map, and we'll take care of him. You won't hear from him again.'

Beckett grunted. 'I don't worry about fellows like that,' she said. 'They might be the only person in the building all night who actually cared about doing the right thing. Truly a danger to life, limb, and community.'

'You're a fan of vigilantism, Sergeant?'

She took a judicious sip of coffee. 'I don't think you care about vigilantism, Mister White. I think you care about everything being quiet. It's amazing how much evil gets tolerated in this world so long as it's quiet.'

He was stung by the accusation despite himself, stung by the contempt dripping from her voice. He left with Peasegood as quickly as possible, heading down the street before anyone could ask too many follow up questions, such as 'where's your car?'

'So long as it's quiet,' he echoed to Peasegood once they were a distance away and making for a discreet alleyway for Disapparition. 'This clown keeps on like this, they're going to break the Statute of Secrecy wide open.'

'Maybe,' said his partner, honest brow furrowed. 'But until then it looks like they've done a lot of good for those people.'

'And after then,' said Albus, jaw tight, 'the world will be anything but quiet.'

§

His footsteps on the gravel path were in time with his heartbeat, thudding from adrenaline that spoke of what was to come as much as the lingering buzz of the night's activities. Luggage had been sent ahead, which was for the best as his aching body protested under the burden of even just his travel pack. That bulged with dirty clothes he'd have to keep hidden from his mother, lest she spot the bloodstains.

They said you couldn't go home again, but Scorpius Malfoy had done it many times. Home was different places. For a long time it had been the hallowed halls of Hogwarts where he'd known brotherhood for himself, and judgement for the stained and ragged legacy that hung about his shoulders. In recent years it was wherever he'd laid his head, a hundred hotel rooms in a hundred cities, from the luxurious indulgences that his name demanded to the frugal hardships his ambitions required. But all this time his heart had belonged to Malfoy Manor, and its pull gave him the last surge of energy needed to make it up the long, winding path this early October morning.

It was not what it had been. The fountain was a bare, granite monstrosity leering at him over an untrimmed hedge grown wild, turned to gothic foreboding without running water. Somewhere across the unattended lawn, a peacock with a feral look in its eye spotted him only to scurry back around a corner. Thick wooden shutters barred most of the windows, leaving the gleaming light of welcome spotty at best. The last was the least concerning, as the Malfoy family had always struggled to fill its manor, to make all its rooms and hallways feel lived-in rather than a mausoleum to past greatness. But it did not help his trepidation as he reached the grand front doors and reached up for the knocker.

He heard the snap from the other side, and pasted a smile that hid exhaustion when the door was opened by the elderly, well-dressed House Elf. 'Master Scorpius! You were expected last night!' scolded Tribby, ushering him in. 'Young master must be famished without the dinner that was prepared for him -'

'My Portkey delayed me in Paris; I had to put up with the French for an extra eight hours but I didn't actually die.' The lie came easy, as did sidestepping Tribby to ignore the House Elf's gestures that he'd take his bag. 'I'll never turn down breakfast but if my parents are awake they probably won't thank me for being more interested in toast than them. Are they awake?'

'They are now,' came a voice from the stairs, and he turned with a smile now genuine to see Astoria Malfoy descending in a dressing gown. She had to have heard the door, but it was unlikely he'd woken her with the distance of his parents' bedroom from the front door. 'You should have owled!'

'Every time I was going to, it looked as if I'd be on the next Portkey out, then the next, then the next.' Scorpius strode over to pull her into a warm hug. He'd been much taller than her for years, but after so long away there was nothing like a mother's embrace to make him feel like a twelve year-old boy home from school again, not a twenty five year-old man back after long journeys on company business. 'I don't know if they were lying to me or themselves, but I was definitely fooled.'

Astoria pulled back, bright green eyes piercing what felt like all his masks in a heartbeat. Delicate fingers came to his right cheek, and her gaze tensed. 'What happened here?'

'Nothing,' he sighed, pulling her hand away.

'It's looking to be a nasty bruise -'

'I lost a fight with a door, but it's fine, Mum. You should see the door. Honestly, I've not seen you since Christmas and you want to fuss over a little bump?'

For all of her gentle, aristocratic good looks that made her look a walking stereotype of idle rich indulgence, he knew it was only delight at his return that made her sharp mind veer away from suspicion. The apprehension in her eyes changed course. 'And you're staying for good? Truly?'

'Sure.' He gave a shrug he knew would be taken as dismissive as he pulled back. 'Doesn't everyone get tired of breakfasting in New York, hammering out business deals over cocktails in Saigon, starting new negotiations at beach parties in Thailand?'

She squeezed his hand. 'There's still plenty you can do here. You've not wasted any time, you know.'

Over ten thousand miles and two years and little to show for it but money. Scorpius cast his gaze to the forlorn front of the house. 'I see we remain the most stylish of hosts.'

Astoria grimaced. 'Since - well. No, we've hardly been in a position to host or attend dinner parties.'

Even though her voice held no accusation, his gut still twisted with guilt, and his eyes went to the stairs. 'Is Dad up?'

Concern returned to her gaze as she nodded. 'He rises early. Takes to his study with tea and the company's morning reports. Often with your reports.'

He kissed her cheek. 'How about you have Tribby sort out breakfast, and we'll be down by the time it's ready?'

She did not look as if she was used to having breakfast with her husband, but Scorpius had no intention of returning home for his family to scatter to the four winds, or the four wings of the manor. His father's study sat on the highest floor, with a view that could overlook the grandeur of the grounds and keep a wary eye on the entrance, and he'd spotted a light at the window on his approach. He knew he'd been seen, and so barely waited after his knock at the door before entering. It would have been ideal to put his bag in his room, but he didn't trust Tribby or his mother to not get a head start on laundry, so he kept it on him. It meant his shoulders slumped as he walked in, exacerbated all his exhaustion, and made him stoop with weary defeat instead of doing as he'd hoped and dreamt and coming home in proud, upstanding victory.

His father sat at his desk by the one window not shuttered, sconces lit at this time of day to keep the shadows from all but the darkest corners. A steaming teacup sat before him with folders and the morning paper, and it was only slowly that Draco Malfoy looked up from his morning affairs. 'Scorpius.'

Scorpius swallowed, but his throat remained dry. 'Dad. I'm back,' he said, as if it were unclear.

'So I see.' Draco leaned back and made an arch of his fingertips. His hairline had receded further in his absence, pale face more drawn and worn, and dawn light crept from behind to silhouette his gaunt form. Malfoy men tended to age with dignity, but fresh setbacks to the family had taken a heavy toll. 'Two years trying to elevate our family interests to the international stage.'

'Elevating our family interests on the national stage turned out to be a terrible idea, so there was nobody left to disappoint but the rest of the world.'

'Or not disappoint. Your reports have been timely. Accountancy's finance reports prove them to be more than hot air. Our physical fortunes, at least, are secure.' At last, the corner of his lip curled with what from Draco was the warmest of smiles. 'You've done admirably.'

I've been running. Only now when something loosened inside him did Scorpius realise it had been pinched in there for years. His exhale held relief at more than just his father's immediate reaction. 'The offices in New York and Shanghai can fend for themselves. There's not much international magical business that occurs where Malfoy Enterprises doesn't hold some sort of interest or contract.'

'Except for in Britain.'

Scorpius pulled up the chair across the desk. 'Dad, what's happened? I know things have been rough -'

'Twenty years.' His father's eyes were cold, but as Scorpius looked he saw more exhaustion than emotional distance. 'I spent twenty years clawing back the family name. Gave away half a fortune to good causes, invested in redeveloping Britain's magical infrastructure with so many old families dead or locked up or leaving, their contributions snatched away. And it lasted only until Britain found it useful to scapegoat us.'

'Because of my project.'

Draco's tea was set down firmly. 'The only thing of which you are guilty, Scorpius, is having the ambition to change the world. Until Stortford. Until wizarding Britain decided to tuck its tail and turn its back on the future, and skulk back to the shadows, and we were an easy target to blame, because for all our hard work there are very few people left who will defend the name "Malfoy".' His lip curled. 'What bitter irony that Granger, of all people, burnt with us.'

He wanted to tell his father that it wasn't over. That there was still time, that grief and isolationism might fade over the years, that the future marched on, and that there were still very few doors they couldn't force open with money, with the fortune he'd rebuilt these two years away. But he knew it wasn't just about that. All his life his father had been a figure of fire and vigour, saddened and worn by war and guilt but not bent or broken. But there were only so many battles a man could wage and taste bitter defeat, and that ached in Scorpius more than his bruised cheek or battered knuckles or worn shoulders.

He breakfasted with his parents in the main dining room as they all pretended it hadn't been freshly opened for his return. Tribby threw open the shutters and let the morning light stream in, anaemic as it was this time of year. The food spoke of a pantry desperately raided for something more than the basics, which was a true cause for concern as it wasn't much like his parents, even in hard times, to not give themselves the basic luxuries of good foods. The catch-up was about as pleasant as he'd expected; his mother still kept her old friends who would not turn their backs on her socially for the Malfoy name, but it seemed more like busywork to keep her entertained rather than the public interests and causes he remembered her championing in before. His father was even more isolated, his circles transformed over the years from fellow sons of Death Eaters to more outstanding members of society, only for them to turn their backs on him in recent months.

It made Scorpius unsure if he left for the company offices after breakfast out of desire to finish his business obligations, or if he already wanted an escape. Coming to central London in mid-morning light was like bursting to a surface of colour after drowning in the dreary grey of the unattended Wiltshire countryside. In the years when it looked as if magical Britain would join the twenty-first century, new developments in Southwark had been bought up by wizarding investors to be carefully nudged out of the Muggle eye, allowing magical companies to take up office space with good connections to the Ministry. What had at the time been the newly-fledged Malfoy Enterprises, his father keen to turn his inheritance into goodwill and prosperity for the community, had been among the first to take on the top floors of one of the high-rises.

Plenty of wizards might turn their noses up at a party with the Malfoys, but there were still enough who'd take their money for a good job. Most of them were even faces Scorpius recognised despite his absence, and as the boss's son and the cause of the company's continued fortunes, his hike across the floors to the top office was waylaid with repeated greetings. His bruised knuckles protested at all the enthusiastic handshakes, his bruised cheek protested at the continuous pasted smile, and with how little sleep he'd got he was bone weary by the time he got to the executive offices.

Annabeth Slade was his father's assistant and had been a few years above him at Hogwarts. She was a short woman who'd always been a bit too perky for his tastes, and he couldn't imagine how dour Draco had managed. 'Mister Malfoy; your father said you'd be coming in and making use of his office.' She stood from her desk outside the office door, already bearing a stack of folders. 'I took the liberty of preparing some briefing memos from the international offices.'

'You know, Annabeth, I was going to be satisfied with sitting down with a coffee and looking at how our finances have been going up on a pretty chart for the last few months,' Scorpius sighed, but took the folders. 'It's good to see you, too.'

'Yes, sir; I can go and get you a coffee but honestly your father doesn't keep much in. We usually send someone running down to the Muggle shop around the corner that does a decent Colombian, if that's your thing -' But she'd been following him into the office, and so almost walked into his back when he froze in the doorway.

The so-called executive office was supposed to be where the head of the company could access information on all business affairs at the snap of his fingers, where he could hold his meetings and receive all guests. It was supposed to be the beating heart of Malfoy Enterprises, only Scorpius found himself staring at bare walls and ancient furniture covered in dust. '…Annabeth.'

She poked her head around him. 'Sir?'

'When was the last time my father was in the office?'

'Um…'

Scorpius groaned, and went to toss the folders on the desk. This is why he wanted you back. He's sick and tired of running things. He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Step one. Coffee. Step two: consider importing that entire coffee shop into the lobby. Do I have anything lined up before lunch?'

'No, sir; you said you were going to acclimatise yourself once you were back from Albania.'

'Right. Keep it clear. And get me that coffee,' he groaned, sinking into the large chair behind the broad, ancient, leather-inlaid oak desk that was supposed to infer traditionalist grandeur and now made it look like he didn't know how to keep his offices clean. It was just as well he didn't have any meetings that morning. But he'd planned sensibly, planned for going over the reports he didn't have access to while abroad. In Albania he couldn't see the reports from Shanghai or New York, and while he knew the collective fortunes of Malfoy Enterprises were going up, for a long time he'd lacked an overall image.

It took him three hours to put one together. Or, in truth, it took him ninety minutes; the rest of the time was double-checking his maths, getting out reports from other offices, and trying to figure out what he could do with the one, inalienable fact that placed a tarred lining on the white, fluffy cloud of Malfoy Enterprise's fortunes.

'No way around it,' he muttered bitterly, draining his fourth cup of coffee - he suspected Annabeth had found a supply from somewhere in the building, rather than going on multiple runs to the Muggle shop - just as there was a knock on the door and his assistant stuck her head in.

'Your lunch appointment, Mister Malfoy.'

Scorpius put down the files with relish, and got to his feet as the visitor was ushered in, door shut behind him. 'Al! You're a sight for sore eyes!'

Albus Potter beamed as he crossed the office to greet him with a backslapping hug. 'So good to see you, Scorpius.' He pulled back, grin going wry. 'You're a bloody state.'

They had never been much alike in looks; Scorpius felt Albus was unfair to describe himself as 'average looking,' though he knew his oldest friend worked hard to not stand out in a crowd. Lean and dark haired, green eyes sat piercing and assessing in a face that better suited smiles than frowns, though by the looks of him Albus had done far more of the latter in recent years. Scorpius was taller, blond hair fastidiously tidy and more inclined to expensive robes tailored to his broader frame, grey eyes just as inscrutable as the usual expressions on his chiselled features. As children, Scorpius had always been the more outgoing and exuberant and that had changed little with adulthood, but there was a new tarnish to Albus' shine beyond his usual thoughtful nature.

'You try being stuck in Paris for twelve hours and be fresh as a daisy,' Scorpius said, lies easier with practice. 'I had to eat a day-old croissant, Al. The wine came with a screw-top, it was utter anarchy. And you're hardly bright eyed and bushy-tailed yourself; work keeping you up all hours?' They both sat, Annabeth due to deliver sandwiches soon.

Albus grimaced. 'I had a late night emergency. Some wizard decided to go vigilante on some Muggle thugs in Tower Hamlets, so we got the call at two in the morning.'

Scorpius fought to keep his expression studied. 'That's terribly dramatic. I assume it's new, and isn't the most recent fad in Britain nobody told me about?'

'This is new. You get hate crimes, of course, and those have only been on the rise since Stortford. And sometimes you get incidents where a wizard played Good Samaritan on a Muggle in trouble, but those are often self-reported. This was nothing like that, though. We're talking Muggle organised crime, in a place they were keeping the people they'd trafficked into the country. Someone knew what this was, where they were going, and made a surgical strike.'

'And I thought your job these days was more about wrecking Muggles' phones,' said Scorpius wryly, stacking paperwork. 'It's probably something personal, some friend-of-a-friend by some Muggle-born. I mean, I assume you confirmed magic at the scene.'

'Confirmed.' Albus shrugged. 'They're an idiot, anyway. Hitting a group like this Kane Syndicate isn't going to do anyone good. Unless they can get every single person they freed out, living somewhere secure with gainful employment, the reports suggest these people don't manage to get very far. A group like this is going to hunt them down again for the sake of their reputation. So unless this magical guardian angel fancies going to war with Muggle organised crime, all they've done is give these people one night of freedom and future nights of hell.'

Scorpius twirled his pen in his fingers, hoping the fidget came across more as disinterest. 'How've you been otherwise?'

'Sorry, yeah. You didn't call me up here for me to bellyache about work.'

'I said I'd be here so we could catch up.' Scorpius' lips curled. 'It's my mistake if my agenda was so non-specific it didn't forbid bellyaching.'

'There's a lot of it to do. For me and everyone. Britain's gone really miserable since you left - since Stortford. Everything we talked about at Christmas is true, Dad's still got people trying to push him into early retirement, Aunt Hermione is starting to become the butt of the Daily Prophet's jokes now it's fallen in behind Minister Edevane and she looks like some anti-establishment crank. At least Mum's still got Quidditch.' Albus sighed. 'There's talk of more stringent laws for handling Muggle-borns coming into Hogwarts. Just as the Statute is at its hardest to keep thanks to Muggle technology, wizarding Britain is running back to the Dark Ages.'

Scorpius' face set. 'Don't remind me.'

'Sorry.' He winced. 'You hardly need a lecture on the state of things. What about your end?' A glint of apprehension entered Albus' eye. 'Why are you back?'

You mean, am I staying? 'I only left because the company needed real leadership abroad to establish our international offices,' sighed Scorpius, and Albus did him the courtesy of not scoffing at the transparency of this claim. 'There's no way we could set these things up from afar, and if we didn't want the bottom of the company to drop out as British investors dumped their shares with the Stortford fallout, someone had to do it. It wasn't going to be Dad.'

'So you're saying you're done?'

'Every man sometimes tires of world-hopping in luxury and splendour, his money and name opening doors wherever he goes.' Scorpius gave a hapless shrug.

Albus' smile was cautious. 'Good. Look, I understand why you needed to be somewhere… not here… for a while. But I - but it's been rotten boring without you.'

'My end wasn't as exciting as it sounded on my own. More lone loser than dashing world adventurer.' Scorpius knew that was as close as they, friends for a decade and a half, would come to admitting they'd missed each other. 'But I need to be honest with you, Albus. I'd like to stay, only I'm not sure I'm going to have a choice.'

'What do you mean?'

Scorpius gestured to the stacked paperwork. 'I think Dad's been shoving his head in the sand about this, but I've been looking at our company-wide finances. Where's performing well, where isn't. And if something doesn't change, it's not going to be cost effective to keep the British office.'

'What's the problem?'

'That nobody wants to do business with the family name. That at best they think of us as pie-in-the-sky developers, thanks to the Renaissance Initiative, or at worst - well. You know what they think at worst.' Scorpius leaned forward. 'That's part of why I'm back. My work abroad is done. If I can set up successful offices there, I can maybe turn things around here. This is where it matters.' That last came with an emphatic stab of the pen.

Albus' brow had furrowed as he watched him talk. 'You know that if this country can't see past all the good your family's been doing the last twenty years - if they chase you out because of your grandfather and those who came before, and ignore what you and your dad have been doing - then that's on them, right? That's not your failure.'

'Maybe,' said Scorpius, meaning he completely disagreed. 'But this is the country we hurt. The land of the people we hurt. It doesn't much matter if we look good in New York if all our past sins lie festering in the sun in Britain, does it? Our legacy already has corpses; they don't need to be stinking ones.'

'You can't make amends for something you didn't do.'

'The Malfoy name used to be about power used to hurt others. Until it means power used to help, I've turned nothing around.'

'Sure,' said Albus, looking like he wanted to argue, but then Annabeth arrived with the sandwiches. The rest of lunch went pleasantly, Scorpius catching up with the bulk of Weasley family gossip, aside from a few judiciously avoided topics, Albus getting regaled with tales of world travel. But it was over too soon, Albus wiping his mouth with a napkin and getting to his feet after a half hour. 'I've got to get back to the office; this vigilante thing means a lot of paperwork. But I'll catch you later, right?'

'I was thinking Tornadoes game next week,' Scorpius suggested. 'Good luck with the vigilante.'

His smile disappeared the moment Albus had shut the door behind him.

The windows stretched from floor to ceiling and granted a dizzying view of tumbling London as he strode over, enough to cause vertigo if Quidditch hadn't given him a good head for heights. Years as a Beater had given him the build, too, which time abroad in sometimes remote parts of the world had only hardened. But he'd been across the globe to come back here, summoned by family and duty. And into the darker streets of London than the business district that shone before him, sent by friendship and exhaustion. Not a physical exhaustion, but one which tugged at his soul after years of trying to make a change, and then years of giving up. Exhaustion at settling for the hand the world was dealt. Exhaustion at doing nothing.

But Albus had hardly been wrong about anything. A group like this Kane family wouldn't just let escaped abductees go. And people smuggled into the country illegally didn't have many options, and even fewer if they wanted to stay hidden.

Scorpius looked down at his knuckles, where a bruise blossomed from the one punch he'd had to throw last night. Punching wasn't his first choice, but when he had two big and tough men bearing down on him, he'd only had a split second to act. One had taken a spell to the face. The other had needed something more hands-on. It had been fast, and ill-considered, and he didn't really know what he was doing with violence, but he'd promised Lukas he'd do what he could for his sister. Muggle authorities had been little to no help, so he'd taken matters into his own hands. One last time.

Like it had been one last time helping the young couple in Singapore with the mugger. Like it had been one last time with the flood in Pakistan.

That was different. Those were situations in front of you. You couldn't do nothing. Then he thought of the storage room behind the old kitchen, and the pale, demoralised faces behind it.

Time to do more.

But first, he had to do something important; something he'd put off all night and all morning with work, responsibilities, apprehension. First, he had to catch up on sleep.

A/N: So, this is my latest offering. I'm aware it's been a while and that I'm somewhat inconsistent on if I pop up anywhere. This little project is ideal for me because of its rather episodic nature; while it'll all remain in one fic, I have already written the first 8-chapter arc, and if it turns out I never write any more, I've at least put together a single coherent story. I hope to continue it in such a vein.

This doesn't mean I'm back-back. I know that Regeneration remains incomplete; there are various reasons for that and some of it is that when I sit down to write it, the characters feel very tired. Like every scene is just a sit-down conversation between two people and there's not enough new. While I really like the idea I had for the plot, it's possible I should have left the Gang carrying on with their lives after Oblivion. So we'll see what happens, but basically - don't hold your breaths.

This is something easier to write, not necessarily lighter! But with a more fast-moving, episodic sort of nature without years of baggage behind it. I feel cheap yet again producing a Next Gen fic with a Scorpius as a protagonist, but when I considered the themes and motivations of a protagonist it felt most natural being him. You may find certain similarities and differences between the Scorp, Al and Rose of Wild Hunt and those of the Stygian Trilogy. I eventually gave up trying to make them different for difference's sake, though Albus himself is very different.

And yeah. Before you ask. It's a superhero/vigilante story in the Potterverse. It seemed so very obvious once it finally occurred to me. Enjoy the ride.