Scorpius Malfoy loves history.
His favourite subject is History of Magic. His friends laugh at him, and people wait for the nonexistent punch line when he tells them and an awkward silence ensues. It isn't exactly dinner table conversation. Who would enjoy a subject taught by a bitter, sleep inducing ghost? But he finds the Goblin Rebellion fascinating and the Giant Wars remarkable. Heck, he even enjoyed the class about the International Warlock Convention of 1289!
There is always one class in the year of History of Magic, however, that he does not enjoy.
Turns out, it's not all that easy loving history when you're a Malfoy.
To make matters worse, it is the one class his classmates are relatively alert in. Recent history- how exciting! Good prevailed, hooray! Oh, your parents fought against Voldemort? How admirable! Oh wait, isn't his father the one who defeated the Dark Lord? Scorpius, what did your parents – oh..."
The whispers, the looks, the sneers, the avoided looks, he hates it all.
He knows what his parents had done; he knows what his grandparents had done, he knows what his godforsaken aunts and uncles had done.
He knows it all.
His detestable family, their detestable deeds, his detestable heritage.
He hates it.
Sometimes he hates his family.
Sometimes he hates who he is.
Sometimes he hates his classmates.
But it isn't their fault. It isn't his fault.
It is not his fault.
He has to remind himself of that sometimes.
Over the years he has gradually come to terms with it. Gradually found ways of dealing with it. One way is just not showing up to class on that day. Cowardly perhaps, but nobody wants him there anyway. He is the elephant in the room.
So there he is, holed up in a particularly dark corner of the library, the abandoned history section. He will learn more reading by himself than in class anyway, he tells himself.
A book falls noisily off a shelf two aisles down.
Has someone followed him here to torment him?
Should he run?
No, take the bull by the horns.
An abundance of red hair. "Sorry, it just slipped." Her eyes widen as she recognises him.
"You aren't in class." He says without thinking. It's not a question.
She flushes, "Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing when everyone's talking about your family like that. I've heard it all before, anyway."
He nods. He hadn't considered that.
She doesn't return the question.
She understands.
Instead, she asks something else. "Do you know where the books about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911 are? I can't seem to find them anywhere."
He is momentarily stunned. She is actually here to read and not just because it's a suitable hiding place?
She interprets his look incorrectly, "Sorry, you must think I'm so weird." She says, blushing slightly, tucking a hair behind her ear. But she says it without shame, "I actually enjoy History of Magic."
He finds the ability to speak again, "Three rows down on the bottom left."
She gives him an unexpected smile. A surprised, appreciative, brilliant smile.
And it warms him down to his toes.