They were eleven years old. A boy and a girl.
And they couldn't be more different if they tried.
She was a bookish, passionate creature. Ordinary-looking. Eyes perhaps too large for her small freckled face. Long hair a tangled mess of colour.
If he had been looking, he wouldn't have chosen her. If she had been looking, she definitely wouldn't have chosen him.
He wasn't much to look at, he supposed – enough hours at the mirror scrutinising his skinny arms told him as much. His hair wasn't half-bad. It looked cool when his mother let him grow it out a little. And he liked his eyes, cool and grey. He just wished he had a little more muscle, wished he was just that little bit taller.
He had first noticed her on the train. She was dragging around a pathetic wet mop of a boy, telling him at the top of her voice that no, it was highly unlikely that he would be attacked by the Giant Squid. She'd read in some book that the Squid was a placid creature that enjoyed tickles.
He briefly wondered whether the boy and the girl were related. But they looked nothing alike. He was following them down the corridor now; they'd gotten on in the same carriage, and now all three of them were trying to find a compartment, which was easier said than done. He wondered whether they'd let him sit with them. He had no one else. He was only a few metres behind them now; all it would take would be a clear of the throat and the boy and the girl would turn around.
Maybe they'd know what he wanted. Perhaps they'd nod and smile without a word, and the three of them would share a compartment and eat the sandwiches his mother had packed. Maybe they'd have some better food and let him share with them. They would talk about what Hogwarts would be like, discuss the Houses, and he would tell them proudly that he came from a long line of Slytherins.
Sure, the boy was a Potter. Harry Potter's son, the very same. And Scorpius's father had voiced his dislike of Harry Potter on numerous occasions. Scorpius knew that. But his father wasn't here. Harry Potter was famous. Maybe he'd get to meet him. Maybe he'd be invited home to the Potters' for Christmas. Maybe the girl would be there, too, and maybe she would save the seat next to her especially for him.
He smiled and lengthened his stride. The girl and the boy kept walking and chattering between themselves. Her hair was swinging loose. He raised a hand to tap her on the shoulder, but it was premature, she was still an arm's length away. The words were forming at the back of his throat; he imagined he could already feel his hand on her shoulder.
And then the girl pulled on the boy's jumper and they both stopped, and he stopped too, and then she opened a compartment door. It was full of an assortment of redheaded people, all laughing and joking.
And then he realised who she was.
And he remembered his father pointing her out at the platform, scowling to show his displeasure.
"That's Weasley's daughter."
It was all his father had told him, in that stiff voice of his, but those three words said more than anything else ever could. Weasleys were lower than low, so-called heroes, self-righteous, arrogant, blood traitor scum. His grandfather had fed it to him all his life.
His father didn't voice his opinions on it. His mother certainly did not. He had sometimes thought, when his father and grandfather spoke of the Weasleys, that his father… maybe… just maybe… somewhat respected them. If not begrudgingly.
But even his father's respect did not mean an invitation to sit in their compartment.
"We do not associate with them," his father had said. "And neither will you."
He watched the Weasley girl and the boy, the Potter, he realised now, slip into the compartment and settle down in their seats. The compartment door was open. He hesitated, his body making an involuntary jerk towards the doorway.
But he could not join them. He knew that.
"Oi, shut the door, someone. That's just like you two to leave it open."
"There's a kid standing out there. Friend of yours, Albie?"
A ginger-haired boy glanced up. "Hey, stop gawking, will you? We're full up." The boy paused, then said a little more kindly, "There's a group of first-years next compartment up. You could go sit with them."
The girl looked up at him midway through laughing at something a gangly redheaded boy had said. She met his gaze. He stared at her. And then she looked away.
"Hey." A tall, blonde girl appeared in the doorway. She had her hands on her hips. "Do you mind? We told you, there's no room in this one. Sorry."
But she didn't look apologetic.
He mumbled something unintelligible and turned away from the compartment. The tall girl made a curious aha! sound and closed the door, but her voice still carried down the corridor.
"That was the Malfoy kid. Yeah, just outside! Can you believe it?"
Scorpius didn't want to go sit in a compartment of eager first-years. He wanted to sit with the Weasleys. He wanted to belong, like they did. He wanted to be part of something.
He thought of his own family: his father, carrying a grudge for twenty years, growing older and colder, his mother, distant and increasingly distracted…
Some family.
And that girl. The way she had looked at him. Pity? Hope?
It didn't matter.
She was a Weasley, he was a Malfoy.
They couldn't be more different if they tried.
A/N: I love this ship. Wrote this very quickly, though. I'll rewrite it later. Please tell me if you picked up on anything that needs fixing. Leave me a review and I'll love you forever.