He saw the large graveyard, studded with gleaming marble headstones that shone in the light of the moon.

He smelt the overwhelming scent of different bunches of flowers. Roses from the left, pansies from the right, daffodils from the Crabbes, poppies from the Lestranges.

He tasted the metallic tang of blood, coming from his split lip, a constant reminder of what was expected of him.

He felt the breeze flutter against him, felt it flutter away, felt the brisk, cool air of an autumn night.

He heard nothing.

The boy walked through the yard, stepping carefully. Who knew what would happen if his foot fell upon the grave of Fenrir Greyback?

He hopped over the barbed wire fence in the corner of the lot, and the atmosphere changed. Instead of glowing, these headstones were black. No bouquets were present for the souls who lay here, and the breeze was hidden from him by overgrown grass and weeds.

Only here did Scorpius Malfoy ever feel safe. Surrounded by those that were of his kind.

Traitors.

Yes, these were those who should have been great Death Eaters, who should have fought bravely for the Dark Lord.

And failed.

And left.

Like him.

The Gryffindor.

Yes, Scorpius Malfoy was a Gryffindor. He hadn't asked for it to happen. The Hat had chosen it for him, without giving him a chance to say no.

But had he wanted to say no?

He sighed. If he was his father's child, he wouldn't even be here. But he loved this place. Maybe it was because of the acceptance he felt. In this little graveyard, telling his worries to others who had to make big choices, he felt like he could do anything. Even jump over the moon.

He gazed skywards. The moon shone, faraway, a bright light in a sea of darkness.

They were all bright lights in a sea of darkness, traitors who had gone against the Dark Lord.

And maybe Scorpius was now the moon.

The boy whose grandfather had a pearly white grave in the graveyard of the accepted.

The boy whose father hated him for being in Gryffindor.

The boy who was different.

The little blonde boy fingered the bruise on his jaw, the persevered into the undergrowth. He cut away at the weeds with a stubby little pocketknife until he reached the grave he was looking for. Shivering, he rubbed away the fallen grass and leafs, revealing a dark name.

Regulus Black.

This was a man who had joined the Dark Lord, then quit.

He was killed for it.

But he was awfully brave for it.

And Scorpius had a silly little hope, that if he sat next to this man's grave, and told him everything, then he too could be brave, and tell his father that he would rather be in Gryffindor anyway, because the Dungeons smelled bad.

And if Scorpius could tell his father that, it would be easy to jump over the moon.

After all, if a cow in that ridiculous Muggle fairytale could do it, why couldn't he?