Disclaimer: If I owned 'Harry Potter', I clearly wouldn't be reduced to writing fanfiction of it
A/N: To celebrate the release of the first part of 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows', here's the first chapter of Albus Severus Potter's story; I hope you all enjoy it! Please review!
Al's goal on that first train journey was to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't want to begin by being 'Harry Potter's Son', whatever that meant. He didn't want the preconceptions and expectations that such a name-tag would surely bring, yet he knew that he looked far too much like his father for it to be avoidable. So he kept his head low, gaze fixed on the thin blue carpet of the train floor as he lugged his trunk from one almost-full compartment to the next. He wanted somewhere quiet to sit, but nowhere was empty.
He ended up in the very last compartment, with four other students who looked as though they might be first years. One, a boy with tousled fair hair and wide, slightly protruding grey eyes, was humming tunelessly under his breath. A handsome, dark skinned boy with a mop of curly black hair was conversing in a low voice with a short, thickset boy whose eyes were the watery brown of sludge. A girl sat beside him with her knees pulled up to her chin, her face half-obscured by a , shiny curtain of dark russet hair. Occasionally, she would join in with the conversation half-heartedly, and was usually rebuked for doing so by the arrogant black-haired boy.
None of them paid the slightest bit of attention to Albus Severus Potter, which was perfectly fine by him, at least until he attempted to heft his trunk into the overhead compartment. He shoved and heaved, puffing and panting, until the sandy-haired boy unfolded himself from his seat and came to Al's assistance. Together, the two of them managed to haul the trunk into place.
"Thanks," Al told the boy breathlessly.
"Lysander Scamander at your service," replied the other, taking Al's right hand and shaking it distractedly before dropping back into his seat, "Oh look. We're moving."
Al lowered himself into the seat beside Lysander. His parents were waving to him from the platform, the light September breeze tossing Ginny's hair around her face as she called out something that looked suspiciously like, "Be safe, Al!" Safe? Hah. That was a laugh, considering the messes his parents had got themselves into during their time at Hogwarts. Al scowled and turned away from the window.
"I mean, could you imagine being in Hufflepuff?" the boy with the dark curls stretched out his long legs and arched his back in a yawn. "I think I'd die of shame, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah," his stubby, spiky-haired companion agreed, "think I'd have to get myself expelled."
They snickered. The first speaker turned to the girl, who had not yet offered her opinion. "What about you, Nott?" his eyes glinted, "Your whole family've been in Slytherin, haven't they?"
The girl took a deep breath. "Yes," she agreed evenly, "it would be something of a disappointment. Myself, I'm hoping to be in Ravenclaw, I think. I've always liked how they value wit and intelligence above all else."
The boys guffawed loudly. "Ravenclaw? Really? What a joke. You'd be sharing a dormitory with mudbloods."
The girl shuddered melodramatically. "Oh, how horrid!"
"Look, Parkinson!" the taller boy cackled to hi stout friend, "Nott here is losing her wits, it seems. Don't think you'll end up in Ravenclaw, witless. It'll be Hufflepuff for you, I think."
She still did not raise her head, but Al thought he could practically feel the heat of her face flushing pink. "Shut up, Zabini," she mumbled, picking at the frayed fabric on the sleeve of her cardigan.
Al watched this exchange uncertainly. "My dad knew a Hufflepuff, once," he blurted without thinking, "his name was Cedric Diggory, and my dad said he was very brave and loyal and honourable. But then he was killed by Voldemort."
"Can't have been a very good wizard then, can he?" Zabini said dismissively. "And who's your father, anyway?" his eyes roamed over Al, taking in his untameable black hair and small stature.
"He's Harry Potter's son, witless," the girl chimed in. She had finally looked up, and Al saw that she had pale skin and blue-grey eyes that blinked repeatedly, "Anyone can see that. Hello, Harry Potter's son, I'm Prosper Amoret Nott."
Al glared at her. "I'm Al," he responded shortly.
"Prosper Amoret Nott," Lysander Scamander repeated gleefully, "fellow first-year? Tell me, Prosper Amoret Nott, are you nervous? Is your stomach in Proper Anxious Knots?"
Al laughed despite himself. He found himself liking Lysander Scamander.
"She's always nervous," Zabini said mockingly, "that's why we call her Twitch, don't we, Parkinson? 'Cause of that nervous little –" he turned very suddenly toward her, and she flinched – "twitch she's got."
"Stop it!" said Nott, her voice rising in agitation. Al's anger at her revealing his identity abated just a little.
"Come and sit over here with us," he offered, motioning for her to join him and Scamander at the other side of the compartment. She nodded gratefully and began to stand, but Parkinson stuck out a foot and sent her sprawling on the grimy floor. Nott picked herself up as Zabini and Parkinson exploded into gales of laughter.
"Are you nervous?" she asked Al as she settled into the seat beside him.
Al thought of James, his elder brother, and how he would have answered this question. "Me?" he asked with forced cheer, "Nah. Not at all."
"Me neither," Lysander piped up, "the only thing that's bothering me is the amount of wrackspurts that are sure to be about. My mother says the school's infested with them."
Al looked nonplussed.
"What's a wrackspurt?" Prosper enquired, and as Lysander fell to explaining the noisome creatures, Zabini and Parkinson howled and hooted in the background.
"I wish they'd shut up," Al glanced over at them, annoyed.
"I know," Prosper suppressed a genuine shudder, "they're like animals... But I've had to put up with them for years; all of our families have been friends for years. They even gather at Christmas; that's when they congregate to gloat over the misfortune of others, as far as I can determine."
They continued in this vein for a while, poking fun at the Slytherins while Zabini and Parkinson glowered. All the while, Al's father's voice yammered away at the back of his mind, reminding him that not all Slytherins were bad. Al roughly dismissed the voice; he was having far too much of a good time to listen.
"Are you going to play Quidditch like your dad, then?" Lysander had wanted to know, after some time. Al shook his head.
"Probably not," he replied ruefully, "James does, but I don't think it's my thing. At least, I'm not very good at it when I practice at home." He remained to this day the only person in his family who possessed no skill for the sport; his father was an excellent Seeker, and his mother and sister made extremely good Chasers while James was a fantastic Beater.
This led them onto the subject of Quidditch teams (Lysander was convinced that the Appleby Arrows were all really goblins in disguise, while Prosper had come up with a theory that the Chudley Cannons were victims of some sort of bad luck curse) which lasted until long after they had devoured the cauldron cakes and every flavour beans bought from the smiling woman with her trolley. When the sky had grown dark as damsons, a prefect popped his head around the door and told them to change into their robes. Al pulled his over his head with a growing sense of foreboding; he was a lot more nervous than he let on.
Please, not Slytherin, he thought as the train screeched to a halt. He pushed the thought from his mind immediately (I sound just like my father) and tried to convince himself, as he jumped out into the cool, crisp air, that he would be happy wherever he ended up.