A direct male line often passes along more traits than it allows to fall to the wayside. A particular shade of blond hair. A laugh that booms from the belly, if and when it is let free. A last name, feared.

The Malfoy line began with Bouvier Malfoi. A Frenchman turned English lord, Bouvier was known for his wealth, his charm, and his vicious persecution of those he felt were inférieur. It is believed that Lord Malfoi was responsible in part for a number of Edward I's leaves of absence from the country. He was a man best avoided.

Over three hundred years later, Abraxas Malfoy was the head of Bouvier's dynasty. He fathered two sons who, in turn, fathered one son each. The Malfoys were going strong. Their bloodline was pure, their pockets deep.

Then, Scorpius Malfoy was born. The traits of the line were in his corner, taking back room bets that he would be the next Abraxas – a man of unimaginable power in wizarding Britain and the world, respected and feared by all men. Their hopes were dashed when, at fifteen, Scorpius stood up at the dinner table to make an announcement.

"Mum, Dad," said Scorpius, his voice firm. The knife he had used to lightly strike his crystal water glass was still clenched in his fist, its silver surface glimmering in the light of a chandelier ten meters above. "Uncle Blaise and Auntie Daphne. Grandma, Grandpa."

As each name left his lips, he took one last look at the face it belonged to, memorizing the expressions. There was no telling what the slightly interested quirk of his mother Astoria's lips would become, a smile or a snarl. He did not want to consider how his grandfather Lucius would take his news, and pressed on to avoid reconsidering.

"I've thought about this a good deal, which may account for the drop in my grades you've all commented on tonight. Just kidding, Dad. It was Flitwick, he seems to think that I'm incapable of casting any – excuse me. As I was saying, I want you all to know that I'm... Well, I think I'm... I'm gay."

The square of lamb he had been chewing fell from Lucius's mouth. He did not move to pick it up, letting it sit on the expensive tablecloth. His eyes bulged, trained on his only grandson.

"What?" said Draco.

Scorpius looked down at the rich green linens. "As in, I may in fact like men."

"Oh," said Astoria.

Her slim hands sat folded on the table, their red nails digging into her flesh. With a great scraping noise, her sister Daphne rose from her heavy oaken chair. Blonde hair swinging to curtain her face, she bent and whispered to Blaise, "Try and say something intelligent when we go."

By the time Blaise was trying to clarify exactly who 'we' was, Daphne had bounded over to the far end of the table and whisked Scorpius from the room. Blaise peered around at his best mate's family, and the only thing he could think to say was, "At least he's not a father. We'd have to find another chair for the table."

.

The voice of her husband echoed dimly off of the walls in the manor's entryway, and Daphne couldn't help but roll her eyes. However, she was having an equally difficult time with finding something appropriate to say. She contented herself with a rather weak sounding, "That didn't go as well as you planned, did it?"

"Better, actually," answered Scorpius. "I was expecting to be thrown from the grounds in a parade of my cursed belongings."

Daphne was at loss for an answer. As much as she would have liked to say that Scorpius was being melodramatic, his prediction was just as plausible as stunned acceptance. The Malfoys were a tempestuous lot. "You'll just have to give them a while to digest the news, I suppose. They haven't dealt with anything like this ever before."

"Not entirely true."

Mouth open to speak, Scorpius was surprised when the unfamiliar voice rang through the hallway, sounding like no one in attendance that night. Turning slowly, he found himself face-to-face with the feline features of Permelia Malfoy.

His great-grandmother stared down upon the two of them, her kin and his aunt, a knowing smirk crinkling her dark eyes. She seemed to be the only portrait aware of their presence in the long hall; Abraxas Malfoy and his war decorations slumbered heavily a short stretch down the filigreed wall.

Scorpius was first to speak, incredulity evident in his voice.

"What? You can't be saying..."

"That you are not the first son of the Malfoys to find himself in this position?" said Permelia, a smile slowly catching at her lips. "I hate to tell you this, but you're not as unique as your – aunt, is it? – your aunt seems to think."

"That's all well and good," said Daphne, "But that little tidbit does nothing for us without a name and date attached, does it?"

"Who exactly are you under the impression you are speaking to?" asked Permelia. The cold glitter in her eyes seemed too accurate to be an effect of the oils she was painted in. Scorpius could recall seeing the same gleam in his grandfather's eyes all too many times; it was a look that meant you should stop talking immediately, if not sooner, if you wanted to continue living. "You may be invited to eat dinner with my family, but you are in no way entitled to know our secrets. If Scorpius wants to know which of his relatives I was speaking of, he should ask, not you."

The door at the end of the hall smashed against the wall with a deafening bang. Draco, the picture of rage, came pounding towards them, Astoria flitting beside him, hanging on his arm, Blaise trying to talk him down from his tirade.

A feverish intensity in his whisper, Scorpius asked Permelia, "Who was it?"

As his father came within arms reach, Permelia fluttered her painted eyelashes and cooed, "I'm not at liberty to say."

.

Forty minutes later, the sitting room was full of adults with strong, expensive drinks and irritated countenances. Scorpius hadn't been seen since Draco began yelling in the hall.

He was still yelling.

"Daphne, he's not your son!"

Face blank, curled up on a fainting couch, Daphne did not respond.

"I know you think he is, but he's not. He's mine and I love him, even if he goes and... and..."

"Sleeps with men?" suggested Blaise.

"You're not involved in this!" roared Draco. "So sod off, would you? Just bloody piss off."

"He was just trying to help," said Astoria. She crossed in front of the crackling fireplace and hovered by, unsure what to do with herself. "And he's just a kid. This might be just a phase."

Draco put his face in his hands. The tint in his cheeks and nose was suggesting that tears were not far off. "And if it's not?"

Astoria took his hands in hers, touched their foreheads together. "I don't know."

That night, Scorpius was not in bed. He slept curled amongst old wizarding journals, staring at a closed up wardrobe even in his dreams. There was a Penseive inside. All of the memories of his family from the eighteen hundreds on sat in neatly labeled bottles on the wardrobes shelves.

Did he really want to find out who was like him?