Even Unto the Seventh Generation

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry." - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, 756.

Prologue

Nestled against the window of an empty train compartment, an unremarkable-looking boy sat curled up with a heavy book. His dirty-blond hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were cast in shadow as he turned the book towards the window. He rubbed his freckled nose absent-mindedly. The fine, elaborate script and complicated diagrams which covered the pages were not easy to decipher, especially in dim light. Outside the window, he could hear the hubbub of students and parents laughing, crying, and saying goodbye before their journey on the Hogwarts Express.

He hadn't wanted to be a part of all that chaos: the noise, the crowd, and the exuberant greetings of friends who probably hadn't even written to each other all summer were overwhelming. Instead, he'd shaken his dad's hand and kissed his mum's cheek as fast as he could, then dragged his trunk onto the train to find a quiet corner to himself. So far, he'd succeeded. As the other children passed his compartment, most looked him over with disinterest and passed on, searching for their friends. When one or two had hesitated at the door, he'd given them a stoney look and pointedly raised his book even higher.

I might just pull it off, he thought, noticing that the crowd on the platform was gradually dissipating. I might just get all the way to Hogwarts without having to talk to anyone. He pushed away the thought that once he arrived, he'd have to face all the others. If nothing else, he could still have a few hours to himself.

Suddenly, a knock at the compartment door interrupted his thoughts. Irritated, the boy narrowed his blue eyes and looked up, hoping that the glare would discourage whoever it was that wanted to come in. Then, he lowered the book and smiled slightly. On the other side of the glass door stood a robust, barrel-chested boy with a dark-blond mop of hair.

"Hullo again!" the other boy called out, grinning. "May I come in? I don't know anyone else here, and the compartments are almost full-up."

The boy with the book nodded, and within moments the second soon-to-be-student had tumbled into the compartment, heaving his trunk into the overhead rack. "Good to see you again!" he exclaimed. "Pop and I would have been lost in Diagon Alley without you. And that ice-cream was fantastic. Pop wants to go back, but he can't find the entrance again. Thank you," he added with a laugh. Impulsively, he stuck out his hand to his new ally in the wizarding world.

"You're welcome, Hal," said the first boy, closing his book but leaving a finger between the pages to mark his place. After a brief hesitation, he shook the boy's hand.

Suddenly, he was glad his dad had approached Hal's father during their shopping trip, though at the time he'd been embarrassed. However, soon enough the boys had been wandering from shop to shop and chatting like old friends. Most of their conversation revolved around an endless series of questions from the bigger boy. Hal had strange ideas about Hogwarts that probably came from being a Muggle. Some of Hal's fears had been easy to allay.

"No, there are no flying staircases. They just move around a lot."

"No, quicksand in the hallways is just a rumor. Where did you come up with that idea?"

"No, detention doesn't involve having your fingernails pulled out or getting chained in a dungeon. Not anymore, anyway."

Other questions had been harder to answer. When their fathers walked out of earshot, Hal had leaned forward and whispered, "What about the war? Is it really over?"

"How do you know about that?" the blond boy demanded, turning to look at his companion sharply.

"Um. Well, I have some family that . . . uh . . . got involved." Hal hesitated. "I don't want to fight," he added more quietly.

"The war is over. But I hear students duel in the hallways, so we'll probably have to fight sometimes."

Hal could tell that his new friend hadn't liked that line of questioning, so he asked about Hogwarts' four houses instead. The answer he received was detailed, even well-rehearsed. He learned that his name would be called in the Great Hall just before the welcome feast, that he'd sit on a stool, and that a grubby old hat would be put on his head. It would read his mind and send him to the house that suited his character best. Hal's forehead creased a little as he thought this through.

Finally he asked, "But which house is the best? If you're put in one based on your character and abilities, then some houses must be better than others, right? What happens if you get into a bad one?"

Alarmed, the freckled boy glanced ahead at their fathers. He pushed his hair off his forehead and whispered vehemently, "All the houses are equal. Anyone who tells you different is a liar. Don't believe them. 'Cause people will tell you that your whole future is based on that stupid hat's decision. And they will judge you based on it."

They walked in silence for some time after that. Then, suddenly, the skinny boy grabbed Hal's arm, pulling him into an alcove near Flourish and Blotts, which their fathers had just entered.

"There's something else you have to know, Hal. All the houses are equal, but not all wizards are. Some are better than others. Some are evil, some are rotten to the core," he said urgently.

"But . . . w-w-we're just kids. How can any of us be e-e-evil already?" Hal sputtered.

"My father says that some wizards are the right kind, and some are wrong. It's a blood-sickness. You have to choose your friends carefully. Stay away from the wrong kind."

The two children stared at each other for a few long seconds, then the smaller boy looked away. "Tell my dad to pick up my books for me. I am going to go buy my wand now."

"You don't want him to come?"

"No."

"Will I see you later today?"

"No. We're almost done with our shopping."

"Oh." Hal hesitated. "So, I'll see you on the train?"

The other boy shrugged and quickly walked away. He'd made a fool of himself. He'd been rude. He'd probably lost his first friend. Well, at least his embarrassment gave him an excuse to pick out his wand in private, he reflected as he jingled the Galleons and Sickles in his pocket. He didn't want his dad watching, just in case the wand that picked him didn't have a unicorn hair core. Worse, he really didn't want his father to be there if no wand picked him at all.

Now, a week later in the cozy compartment on the Hogwarts Express, it seemed that Hal was ready to forgive him for his behavior in Diagon Alley. As the train pulled away, the boy relaxed a bit, closed his book, and prepared to be regaled by Hal, who had doubtless come up with a dozen new questions and wild theories about Hogwarts and the wizarding world. The urgency of Hal's first question took him aback, though.

"Before we say anything else," he said, flopping down on the opposite bench, "I have to know something. Who reads our names out during the Sorting Ceremony?"

"Huh? What does that matter?"

"I have to know! I have to know before the Sorting."

"Why?"

Hal hesitated. "It's just that . . . my real name is kind of embarrassing. You know? I don't want everyone in the school to know it."

His companion nodded. "In my dad's days at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall greeted the first years after they crossed the lake. Now that she's headmistress, I think Professor Longbottom does it."

The sound of the compartment door opening interrupted the boys' conversation. Framed in the doorway was a girl with a heart-shaped face and bobbed black hair tucked behind her ears. She looked from one boy to the other uncertainly.

"Hi," she said. The boys looked at each other, then back at the intruder. "We got lost on the way to King's Cross, and I almost missed the train," she explained. "I'll have to share your compartment. There's nowhere else left."

Hal nodded vigorously, though he couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, he helped the girl put her trunk away. The other boy stayed seated, staring and clutching his book. The girl sat down across from Hal, thanking him.

"No problem. My name is Hal. Hal Dursley." He paused, then threw out yet another of his never-ending questions. "You talk funny. Where are you from?"

"New York City. My name is Kiera Lestrange. It's a pleasure to meet you—"

The skinny boy with the book had suddenly stood up, his eyes wider than before. "I—" he started to say.

"—both," Kiera finished, rather lamely.

"I—have to go to the loo!" the freckled boy stammered, looking around frantically. He pushed his way past Kiera and Hal into the corridor. Hal ran after him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Do you think you're going to get girl-cooties or something?"

"You don't understand."

"I understand you're being lame. Are you going to leave us alone?"

Taking a deep breath and looking up at his friend, the smaller boy softly retorted, "Remember what I said about the right kind and wrong kind of wizard?"

"Yes, I do. I thought you were bonkers then, and I think you are bonkers now."

"Then maybe I'm the wrong kind of wizard."

Hal stuck his chin out and pressed his lips together, looking more stubborn and unyielding than he ever had before. "Yeah, maybe you are."

"I'll come back for my stuff later," the first boy said, turning on his heels and heading towards the back of the train. As he passed compartment after full compartment, his heart sank. He'd wanted to spend at least some of the ride watching the glorious landscape as the train sped by. Now, he realized that he really had no choice. There was no where else to go.

That is how Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, the heir of one of the last pureblood families, spent his entire first trip on the Hogwarts Express locked inside a loo. At least I have my book, he told himself. As the hours passed and the light faded, he softly closed the tome, leaned back, and shut his eyes. With the Hogwarts Express surging ever closer to the Sorting Hat, he repeated to himself over and over the phrase that had become his mantra:

I am nothing like my father. I am nothing like my father. I am nothing like my father.

DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Constructive criticism is welcome and wanted. I would be glad to return the favor with concrit in the future.