This story is my response to Juniperwing's "The Meaning of Names" challenge, and is dedicated to my friend, Love From A Muggle, in celebration of her good work on the Hogwarts Online forum. My character is Lucius Malfoy, and for those of you who didn't know, his forename is derived from the Latin word 'Lux', meaning light.
OoOoO
"Welcome to the family jewels
Coal to diamonds, sold to fools.
Welcome to the family jewels
Simmer and suffer, can't keep his cool."
-Marina and the Diamonds, 'The Family Jewels'
Throughout his life, Scorpius had been made increasingly aware of one thing; the Malfoy name. He had to conduct himself appropriately both in public and in private, because it was the Malfoy way. He had been told that he had to be consistently successful, because it was the Malfoy way. Theirs was a great family; his father had told him before he had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, and so he should be proud of it regardless of the comments that would inevitably be made by others. As his mother embraced him, Scorpius looked to his father over her shoulder – he had wanted confirmation before clinging to his mother, showing a little of the fear that had been growing inside him as September drew closer – only to find that he was staring into the distance, a slight sneer upon his face. Distressed as he was, Scorpius' usual perceptiveness had failed to kick in as he surrendered himself to making the most of his last moments with his mother for the foreseeable future.
Although they had slipped from his mind during the excitement of his journey to Hogwarts, Scorpius was soon given an altogether unpleasant reminder of his father's words.
Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin – please, please, Slytherin.
This had been his mantra as he had approached the Sorting Hat; after all, it was the Malfoy way. His wish had been granted as soon as the tattered material had touched the tip of his head, and in his state of jubilation, the comparatively weak levels of applause almost escaped his notice. Almost.
As he had sat down at his house table, where he belonged, Scorpius heard a raised voice call out; "Just like his father, that one!"
Laughter erupted and more catcalls followed, even after the Headmaster called for silence. Indignant, Scorpius had turned to face whoever it was that had insulted him (and worse, his father) with their backhanded comment. If he had known how to use his wand, he would have waited until the unfortunate individual left the hall and hexed them. What he saw forced Scorpius to cease plotting. James Potter the second, seated over at the Gryffindor table and surrounded by friends, sent him a cocky grin. In that moment, Scorpius had started to understand the status quo.
Malfoys were not great, as his father had led him to believe.
The Potters and the Weasleys, on the other hand, were.
The glory and the grandeur that his life was built upon was nothing more than a delusion of his father's. But where had it come from?
This was the question that plagued Scorpius throughout his first year.
Trying to push the doubts from his mind, Scorpius had wondered what his father's response to James Potter's never-ending taunts and jibes would be, and allowed the answer to guide him. He pictured the cold glint of fury that would occasionally appear in his father's eyes when an unpleasant situation arose and resolved to be similarly fearless – what did he care that James Potter was older and more experienced with magic? Their duel was observed by a considerable portion of the school, and when he sliced open James' cheek, Scorpius felt a satisfaction unparalleled as a rivulet of shocking red liquid had rolled down his opponent's cheek.
Scorpius' malicious pleasure had lasted until his father's owl had arrived from home, bringing with it a letter and what he could only interpret as cruelty.
Instead of being proud that his son had taken his duty to defend their family name so seriously, especially in light of recent allegations, Draco had filled two sheets of parchment with every form of the word "ashamed" known to the English-speaking world. And it had hurt. Scorpius ached with the bruising injustice of it all, and being a "spectacular disappointment" (as outlined in the closing lines of his father's letter) was considerably more painful than any one of James Potter's juvenile insults.
Of course, he continued to stand his ground – it wouldn't do to lose face, especially not to the swaggering, posturing Potter heir. It was impossible to imagine his methodical, analytical father from backing down, and so Scorpius wouldn't let himself allow anyone, let alone James Potter the second, get away with taunting him. However, his heart wasn't in it. Their rivalry meant very little in light of the revelation that his family were considered to be little better than traitors. Scorpius had stopped believing that his conduct had any bearing on the world, or that it was important to impress others.
He worked hard in every last one of his classes because he didn't know what else there was to be done, and he tried his best to be the heir his father had raised, because to think of himself as anything less was to admit defeat. Originally, Scorpius had planned upon staying at Hogwarts until the summer holidays forced him to consider his father more carefully, but he had failed to take his mother into account. She always knew exactly what to do and say, and although she would smile and tell him that she was glad that he was making friends, Scorpius knew that she would be hurt if he didn't come back to celebrate the festive season at home. And perhaps it wouldn't be too horrible to let her kiss his forehead again, if it made her happy.
And so it was that Scorpius found himself sitting on the train, trying his best not to look dejected as the Scottish countryside flew by. The world outside of his compartment was a cold, harsh white, covered by a blanket made of snow and frost, which suited him perfectly well. If everything was a uniform in its wintery state, then he didn't have to acknowledge the fact that he was speeding towards London, drawing closer to his home with every passing second. He ignored the mundane conversation that was taking place between Nott and Zabini, instead pretending to focus on the potions textbook carefully balanced upon his lap. They had given up on trying to include him in their conversation and were, by now, used to his prolonged silences.
A knock on the door of the compartment drew Scorpius from his thoughts.
"Anything from the trolley, boys?" A wizened old witch smiled at them, causing the lines on her face to deepen, and Scorpius wondered if she was capable of standing up without the trolley she was pushing.
"Pumpkin pasty." Nott managed a disdainful sneer as he handed over the correct money. The witch's smile vanished as she slipped the money into a pouch and handed over the food.
"Nothing for us – right, Scorpius?" Zabini shot him a curious glance, which Scorpius ignored save for a slight nod of his head. His stomach was churning, and the last thing that he needed was some kind of overly sweet food to contribute to his nausea.
Resting his head against the soothing cool of the window pane, Scorpius saw his friends exchange a worried look. It seemed unlikely that either one of them had been raised to believe in the greatness of their own heritage – his father had told him that the Notts and Zabinis were respectable, but not that they were important. Then again, he hadn't been right about everything.
Now that he knew his father wasn't infallible, the world seemed a lot less solid. Things didn't fit into the neat little boxes that he'd imagined. Scorpius closed his eyes and didn't wake up until the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station. The train became increasingly noisy as students thundered through the corridor, luggage and pets in tow, eager to be reunited with their families. After taking his trunk down from the overhead rack, Scorpius joined the queue leaving the train, his frustration mounting as he was jostled by people on every side. It was too hot, too loud and he wanted to be alone. Sadly, that wasn't a possibility.
Despite the way he dragged his trunk along behind him and did everything in his power – surprisingly little – to avoid looking for his parents in the crowd. Against his better wishes, Scorpius' eyes were drawn to his father's pale blonde hair, and when he saw the pure delight on his mother's face, he couldn't help but feel churlish for attempting to stall. Inwardly cursing decorum, he hoped that she understood why he could only increase his pace and not break into the ungainly run that so many of his peers had opted for.
"Scorpius!" Astoria Malfoy pulled him close, planting a brief kiss onto his forehead before pushing him back slightly in order to better examine him. "I am glad to see you again."
"Yes, Mum." Surreptitiously, he wiped the smudge of her dark red lipstick from his brow, grateful when she shrunk and pocketed his trunk.
"Son." Draco nodded, and Scorpius realised that he would have to acknowledge his father.
"Dad." He tried not to let his bitterness show, to keep his voice suitably expressionless. The last thing that his father would want was a gushing display of emotion, which suited Scorpius perfectly well – although he had always been taught to keep a tight rein on his feelings, he didn't think that he'd manage to stop his anger from spilling into a prolonged conversation.
"Shall we go home now?" His mother placed a gloved hand on Scorpius' back and guided him from the platform, oblivious to his inner-turmoil as she filled him in with the goings on of her life. Ahead of them, his father stalked through the crowd, cutting an impressive figure in his rich black travel robes. "Scorpius, are you listening to me?"
Astoria shook her head good-naturedly, rolling her eyes.
"Yes mum." He gave a weak smile, feeling guilty that he wasn't really paying her any attention at all. She had answered every one of his homesick letters without mentioning them to his father, and sent him everything he had forgotten to pack without having to be asked.
"How about you tell us about your time in school? It's been years since your father and I last saw the Slytherin common room, so we want to hear every detail." Astoria paused, her bright blue eyes flickering towards her husband. "Don't we, Draco?"
Scorpius tensed as his father slowed his pace to walk alongside them. The family passed through the barrier and into the muggle world, and he could tell from the slight wrinkling of his father's nose that he was not impressed by the sight of the non-magical domain. As Scorpius watched the muggles queue, using their tickets to open the metal turnstiles, he couldn't help but think of cattle.
"Certainly." Draco's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly as though to say he thought the conversation unnecessary, and Scorpius knew that nothing he could say would interest his father more than the various goings on of the Ministry. He felt disinclined to share his thoughts, especially considering the way in which his father's eyes had already started to cloud over with disinterest. However, he couldn't afford to rock the boat; Scorpius was too afraid of all the things that could go wrong.
"I think that Potions is my favourite class, although I don't think that old Slughorn thinks much of me, because -"
"Professor Slughorn, Scorpius." His mother shot him a disapproving look. For a moment, Scorpius looked towards his father to see if he too objected to the disregard of the Potions Master's honorific title, but Draco was staring straight ahead. Scorpius huffed angrily, his breath rising before him in a rush of fine mist.
"Fine. I don't think that Professor Slughorn thinks much of me. That's not much of a surprise, though – his precious Slug Club is packed full of Weasleys, and that -"
"Then you have failed to prove to him that you are their better, Scorpius." There was an underlying edge to Draco's voice, quiet so that it didn't echo around the station's sandstone walls. Although his father hadn't raised his voice, the words jarred Scorpius.
Adjusting his robes to better protect himself from a sudden, sharp breeze, Scorpius allowed himself to fall behind. He could hear his mother reprimanding his father over the foreign sounds of the station, her voice soft yet urgent. Draco grunted in response before turning away from her – it was obvious that his father was searching for him. Realising that Scorpius had fallen behind, Draco paused and turned to face him, extending one of his large hands. Ducking his head, Scorpius approached rapidly and allowed his father to grasp his shoulder. On his father's index finger was, as always, a silver snake's body, coiled into a ring. In its mouth glittered an emerald the size of a raisin held in place by both of the carefully sculpted fangs.
"Let's go home, shall we?" With false cheer, Astoria led them out of Kingscross Station and out into the street. His mother's soft blonde curls and rosy cheeks looked out of place in the dirty city, but she stepped around the litter that blew into her path as though it wasn't there, ignoring the dilapidation of the alleyway they had chosen.
She winked at Scorpius before disapparating, leaving him alone with his father. A faint hint of her jasmine perfume reached his nose, soured slightly by the nearby rubbish bins.
"Are you ready?" Draco's frown deepened when Scorpius remained silent. Realising that provoking his father was never a good idea, especially without his mother to divert his attention, Scorpius jerked his head, giving a stiff little nod. "Good."
Scorpius squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the unpleasant sensation brought about by apparating. He felt his insides contract, as though he was being crushed. For a fraction of a second the pressure was almost unbearable, but then it was gone as suddenly as it had come. When he opened his eyes, Scorpius was greeted by the familiar sight of his own home.
The foyer was spacious yet warm, with a large fire burning behind the grating, and it had been decorated in honour of the holiday season. Scorpius recognised his mother's tasteful hand behind the pine tree in the corner, adorned with red velveteen bows and slender white candles, and there were garlands of holly attached to the panelled walls at regular intervals.
"What do you think, Scorpius?" Astoria gestured to the decorations as she descended the stairway, her fur coat and gloves nowhere to be seen – he guessed that she had put them away manually, a task his father believed to be the responsibility of their servants – their absence revealing a set of deep green dress robes that matched the ornaments perfectly. Draco gave her an indulgent smile.
"Really nice, mum. You've done a great job." He grinned. It occurred to Scorpius that her outfit suggested his parents were heading out to socialise. "Are you going anywhere special this evening?"
Astoria's smile dimmed, and she clasped her hands as though uncomfortable.
"Well, only if you don't mind. We wouldn't want you to be lonely." His mother regarded him carefully as though to determine whether or not he required her company.
"Merlin's beard, Astoria, the boy's eleven years old; he can look after himself for a couple of hours." His father took a few steps towards the staircase, stopping by Scorpius' side. "Can't you?"
It was a little disappointing that he wouldn't have the opportunity to eat with his parents, but Scorpius reasoned that he could begin looking for some kind of clue that his father wasn't really suffering from delusions of a grandeur that didn't exist.
"Of course, father." Scorpius tried his best to look as though the idea of being alone didn't bother him at all, and it earned him a thin smile. Although his father loved him, praise was hard to come by, and he found himself savouring the moment of understanding between them.
"As I had thought. He'll be just fine." The matter settled, Draco continued up the stairway and into the depths of their townhouse, presumably to get ready.
For a moment Astoria appeared uncertain. She looked Scorpius over, as though checking for some unknown quality, and nodded.
"Your father's right – my little boy's growing up." Astoria sighed, and he hoped desperately that she wouldn't become overly emotional. Scorpius poked his tongue out in disgust. Much to his amusement, Astoria returned the gesture. It was the kind of thing that passed between them only when his father was elsewhere. "Oh, alright, I'll stop embarrassing you. I was going to suggest that we had hot chocolate before I need to go out, but you're probably too adult to spend time with your boring old mother -"
"No." Scorpius flushed as he realised how much feeling he had injected into that one word. He really, really did want to continue with their tradition of hot chocolate and a slice of cake on the harshest days of winter. Even on the days that weren't too cold to venture outside. "That would be nice."
"I think so too." Astoria beckoned for him to follow her up the stairs. "I've missed you, Scorpius."
Although he didn't reply, Scorpius willed his mother to understand that he had missed her during every single one of the days that he had spent at Hogwarts. He decided that his research could wait – he was going to enjoy his afternoon.
OoOoO
They were gone and he had hours on end to comb through the house in search of answers – it was the best possible outcome that he could have hoped for, yet a small part of Scorpius wished that his parents had stayed. Shaking his head to banish all such foolish thoughts, he went down the stairs and into the formal living room, trying his best to ignore how quiet the house was in comparison to the castle. Although the constant chatter of Hogwarts had grated on his nerves, Scorpius had found it strangely reassuring.
He had never spent much time in the room – it was where his parents and their guests retreated to with guests after dinner – and because of this, Scorpius decided that it was a good enough place to start looking for things that his father had purposefully hidden from him. Scanning the books stacked on the walls, Scorpius saw only a couple of books on wizarding genealogy that could prove useful. Carefully, he lifted the leather-bound tomes from the shelves and set them down before the fire.
The first dealt primarily with the theory of blood purity, and although Scorpius found it intriguing, it wasn't what he was looking for – however, it took him a while to realise this as the pages were yellow with age and crackled ominously when he turned them. Scorpius was careful despite his irritation; his father would be less than impressed if he returned home and found a potentially priceless antique book ruined. Although it was tempting to toss the book into the fire, Scorpius closed it gently and returned it to its place on the shelf.
The second book, a slim and slightly tattered hardback, was much more useful. The first few pages opened out to provide extensive family trees with titles that he recognised; Avery, Black, Bones, Greengrass, Malfoy, Nott, Parkinson, Rookwood... and they were all interconnected by a branch or two. Strangely enough, beside the name Weasley, the words 'blood traitor' had been written in a flowing script that Scorpius couldn't recognise. It appeared that the author of the note had also scored out every member of the family following Septimus and Cedrella Weasley, which meant that it couldn't have been published within Scorpius' lifetime – not one of the Weasleys that he went to school with were mentioned; nor were Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, arguably the clan's most famous additions by marriage.
Placing a finger against the name Malfoy, Scorpius traced his finger through the intricate pattern, searching for his father. Sure enough, the name Draco Malfoy was near the bottom of the page, written in the same curling font that had annotated the Weasley section. Above it was Narcissa, whose name was linked to both the Black and Malfoy trees. She had died the year before his birth, at fifty one years of age. In the space where his father's father – Scorpius' grandfather – should have been, someone had all but vandalised the book. Angry strokes of a quill in bright red ink, the colour of blood, had nearly worn through the page, leaving no hint of the name beneath.
Beside this, in the same ink, was the word 'disgraced'. It had clearly been written by his father's hand. He couldn't tell if there was a date of death or not, beneath the scribble.
"Scourgify!" Scorpius tapped his wand against the parchment. The page rippled slightly, but nothing else happened. He tried a few other spells, none of which were successful.
Giving up, he flicked through the pages. There were notes on each family, and in the back there was a concise list of family members who had been blacklisted. After checking each of them, including Andromeda Tonks – who was, he discovered, still living and sister to Narcissa – Scorpius realised that not one of them was a candidate for his grandfather.
Scorpius could think of only two options; contact Andromeda Tonks, who was bound to know the identity of her own brother-in-law, or keep looking. He didn't fancy sending an owl to a total stranger, especially not one that has father would most likely consider to be an enemy (even though she was his aunt, according to the book), and there was plenty of time to kill until his parents returned, so Scorpius decided to continue his search.
Briefly, Scorpius considered putting back the book with the family trees, but he wanted to read more of it later on. Besides, inscribed on the flyleaf was the name Brutus Malfoy, which meant that it didn't technically belong to his father. It was shaky logic at best, but Scorpius felt as though he had as much claim to it as any other Malfoy.
He climbed to his feet left the warmth of the fireside behind, the book clenched in one hand, as he entered the corridor. The formal lounge was an acceptable place for Scorpius to be, in the sense that he had never been told that he wasn't allowed to be there, but his destination was another matter altogether. His father's study was strictly off limits. Even his mother hesitated before interrupting Draco when he was there. Scorpius didn't know what it was that his father did in there, other than work for the Ministry, and he could count the number of times he had been in the room using his fingers. Every one of his previous visits had been supervised – in fact, they had been specifically requested by his father because Scorpius had either misbehaved or achieved something or other.
As he approached the mahogany surface of the door, Scorpius wondered how he would be punished if his father found out that he had managed to sneak into his private study. He couldn't recall having done anything worse than breaking and entering, not even the time he had, at age seven, called Carol Creevey a filthy half-blood.
It was a term that he had heard his father use with more vehemence in his voice than Scorpius had ever heard, at that time in his life, and he had known by the way that his mother had become flustered afterwards, the way that his father had bowed his head and gritted his teeth, that it was a bad word. A taboo word. And when his father had taken great pains to explain to him, with a forced joviality in his voice, that whether someone was muggleborn or of non-magical decent was irrelevant to their skill or value, Scorpius had known instinctively that it was a touchy subject.
And touchy it had been.
His father had been livid, asking over and over again where people were supposed to assume his child had picked up such language. The rest of it hadn't made much sense, and all Scorpius had been able to think about was whether or not his father would still love him, in that distant way of his that was less reliable than his mother's, after what he had done. And how he was to be punished. When he had sent a pleading glance to his mother, who could generally be relied upon to prevent even the most severe of punishments, she hadn't been looking at him. Her eyes had taken on a glazed look, and the corner of her mouth was trembling as though her smile was broken and trying to right itself.
That hadn't been the worst of it; instead of shutting Scorpius in his room or insisting that he give up his broom, his father had stopped shouting long before any kind of punishment could be given. He had sagged over his desk, lifeless, and clasped his hands behind his head. He had looked weak and vulnerable – not at all like the figure of permanent strength that Scorpius had imagined him to be – which was worse than going to bed without dinner, or even provoking his father into to crossing the line that had never been crossed and hitting him.
His mother had ushered him from the room, caressing his father's back and whispering into his ear as though she could encourage him to be invincible once more. Scorpius had bolted from the study, not quite sure what it was that he was afraid of witnessing, and certain that something altogether bigger and more adult than he could understand was happening – a force more powerful than his parents had entered his home, and it scared him.
Blinking in order to rid himself of the memory, Scorpius reminded himself that he was eleven, not seven, and old enough to live away from home. His grip had subconsciously tightened around his wand.
"Alohomora." Unsurprisingly, the door didn't open. Trust his father to have wards in place. Of course, his magic wouldn't be nearly powerful enough to break through them. The thought left a bitter taste in Scorpius' mouth.
Impulsively, he tapped the handle with the tip of his wand, and was ready to walk away when the door swung open. The dim light of the corridor barely dented the absolute darkness inside the study. With a flick of his wand, Scorpius lit the candles inside the room. He stepped across the threshold before he could change his mind, aware that valuable time was ticking away – he had assumed that his parents would return in the early hours of the morning, but really they could appear at any given time. Especially considering how anxious his mother was to care for him now that he had returned.
The room was slightly smaller than Scorpius remembered, and there were more books than he had anticipated on the shelves.
Scorpius felt the back of his neck prickle. It was almost as though he was being observed. Intent on his investigation remaining a private matter, he rounded his father's desk and closed the curtains, shutting out the neon glow of the streetlights. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the room's appearance, yet the thought that he was being observed couldn't be quashed. Scanning the room, Scorpius noticed a second, smaller pair of curtains, cut from the same material. There couldn't possibly be a window behind curtains that size...
Telling himself that he wasn't nervous in the slightest, Scorpius approached, dragging his feet on the carpet. His heart was hammering much closer to the vicinity of his throat than his chest cavity, and as he reached out to push back the material, Scorpius saw that his hand was trembling. Irked by his body's apparent unwillingness to cooperate, he yanked the curtains back in one swift motion.
There was nothing remotely terrifying about what they had concealed. It was a portrait of a rather beautiful woman, probably a little older than his father was now. She had long blonde hair that seemed to glow due to a source of light that he couldn't see, and her dress robes were made of a sheer black material, the ruffles of which had been painted as intricately as every other aspect of the woman. The darkness of her well-tailored outfit only served to highlight the paleness of her skin. She was seated in a room that he didn't recognise – it appeared to be more spacious and stately than even his own home, richly furnished in a style that Scorpius couldn't name.
She was looking directly at him with slightly narrowed eyes, her bright blue eyes suggesting a keen mind.
"H- Hello," Scorpius coughed, not used to stammering, "How do you do?"
"You're not Draco." It was a statement laced with curiosity. The woman ignored his question, tilting forward and perching her chin on her hand in one fluid motion. There was something almost dangerous about her elegance.
"No, no. I'm..." Scorpius couldn't quite bring himself to identify Draco as his father, and would have been content to lapse into an uncomfortable silence were it not for the woman in the portrait's next words.
"You're Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy – I know that." Her expression softened slightly, but this did nothing to soothe Scorpius; she had been expecting his father, and would most likely tell him about their exchange.
"How?" Fear spiked his voice with a hint of aggression. The woman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. It was a disturbingly familiar gesture.
Glancing downwards, Scorpius saw that there was no plaque to identify the subject of the portrait.
"Draco told me. I've been expecting you, although I hadn't imagined that it would take you nearly this long to come to me. I was told that you were a bright young man." Her lip curled in what could only be described as a mocking sneer.
"Yes, well – hang on, my father said that?" It was Scorpius' turn to scowl. He folded his arms, pressing the reassuringly firm form of the book against his chest.
"Amongst other things, yes." The woman appeared unconcerned by his anger, which made Scorpius bristle. She was so... haughty. "Tell me, what brings you here?"
"Is there any reason that I shouldn't be?" Scorpius lifted his head with all of the Malfoy pride that he could muster, which was no easy task. It certainly didn't help that the witch in the portrait shifted so that her mouth was covered by her long fingers – Scorpius could have sworn that he'd heard a brief burst of laughter.
"Why not ask your father? Considering that this is his private office, I'd imagine that he's far better qualified to answer your question than I." To her credit, the woman in the portrait was no longer smirking or laughing at him. In fact, she was no longer looking at Scorpius at all, but rather the book clasped between his hands. "Where did you get that?"
"What's it to you?" Scorpius knew that he should try and be polite to the portrait in order to convince her not to tell his father, but he was profoundly irritated, and as a result, beyond caring.
"It was nothing to me, in life, but it was significant to another." She sighed softly, and Scorpius felt guilty for being rude to her – the witch looked rather unhappy, in that regal way of hers.
"So, you're dead then? Who owned the book?" Scorpius spoke quietly, as though addressing a volatile animal. "Brutus Malfoy?"
She favoured him with a sad smile.
"Yes, I am no longer living, and no, in my lifetime I never once met Brutus Malfoy."
"Then...?"
"Then I'm not quite certain that it's my place to tell you, Scorpius." There was something odd about the way she said his name – fondly, affectionately – when Scorpius could have sworn that he'd never met her before in his life. "Now, off to bed with you. We can continue this conversation another time."
Unsure of the correct protocol in such situations, Scorpius brushed the curtain with his fingertips. The woman observed him steadily, giving nothing away. It was as though more secrets lay behind her eyes than he could ever begin to guess.
"Hang on – what about my father?" Scorpius hesitated. He saw the witch begin to open her mouth and knew instinctively that she was going to come out with 'What about Draco?', or another equally condescending witticism. "Are you going to tell him that we spoke, or that you saw me tonight?"
She pursed her lips and looked upwards, as though considering the question carefully. Scorpius shifted his weight from foot to foot, acutely conscious that he was fidgeting.
"That depends on one thing – can you tell me my name?" There was a teasing light in her eyes, and Scorpius made the shocking realisation that she was beautiful.
"The name of your portrait or the name you had when you were a witch?" The look of surprise on her face was immensely satisfying.
"Touché. The name I was given when I still lived."
"How am I supposed to work that out?" Turning his back on the portrait, Scorpius began to pace back and forth like he had seen his father do. He didn't think that the repetitive motion was especially conductive to thought, but it was better than remaining stationary; doing nothing.
"I'm hardly going to tell you that, dear boy."
Scorpius turned quickly, doing his best to conceal the strange mix of emotions that he caused her to feel.
"Well, who will?" Scorpius could see the grandfather clock nestled between bookshelves, and was conscious that he had spent quite a long time talking to the mystery woman in the portrait.
There was no answer. He gave in to the temptation to throw the book across the room, watching with satisfaction as it collided with his father's desk and landed on the floor. If it hadn't been the only clear cut lead that he had possessed, Scorpius would have cheerfully set it alight with his wand.
The answer hit him like a sledgehammer.
Her name would be in the book.
Dropping to his knees, Scorpius flicked through the family trees.
"Anna Rookwood?"
No answer. He continued to search frantically, looking at all deceased witches older than his father.
"Bellatrix Black – or do you prefer Lestrange?"
"Bellatrix Black... No, I'm not." A pained expression crossed the witch's face, which made him look around the name, because the answer was bound to be close by. There was a scribbled mess beside it, but it was doubtful Draco would hang up a portrait of anyone disgraced in his office.
"Narcissa Bla- Narcissa Malfoy?" If his guess was right, then she was his father's mother – his own grandmother.
"You're right. I -" Whatever she was about to say was cut short by the distant opening of a door. Scorpius heard his mother's laughter floating up the stairs. He scooped up the book and looked at the portrait, stricken. "Goodnight, Scorpius."
The curtains closed of their own accord, and the candles all flickered out. Scorpius left the room as quickly as he could without making any noise. Once more, he tapped the door handle with his wand and was pleased to hear the lock click shut. His parents' voices were audible, although it didn't sound like they were coming up to the floor he was on. Scorpius made his way across the hallway and up into his bedroom. He got into his pyjamas, fumbling with the buttons in his hurry, and had just managed to slip between the sheets when his mother opened the door.
"Scorpius? Are you asleep?"
He gave a yawn that wasn't forced in the slightest, the excitement of his evening catching up with him.
"No, mum. Come in." He watched as she crossed the room, stumbling slightly due to a combination of her stilettos and the champagne she would doubtlessly have been drinking since she had left. Astoria perched on the edge of his bed, stroking his fringe away from his forehead just as she had done when he was a little boy.
He was considering the merits of telling her about his research, but before he could reach a decision, Scorpius had been lulled to sleep by the familiarity of her touch.
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