A/N: Thank you for the response to the first chapter of this fic! It's something I've been wanting to write for a couple of years, even having a false start after the publication of Cursed Child last year, and it's a relief that it's finally coming together! For anyone who's come here after reading 'A Child Called Draco', this is pretty much a sequel and a lot of stuff I had planned for that fic will be fitted into this one. It's canon-compliant to my own extensive head-canons of the Malfoys and everyone around them.
Enjoy!
Ch.2: Avoidance
Their routine is almost mechanical; Draco and Scorpius move through it – day by day, hour by hour – automatically, loving every moment because it's all theirs and all good. If anyone had told Draco that one day he would be living in the city, in a single, rented room above a pub, he would've suggested that person might be under the influence of a strange curse. If anyone had suggested that London life would afford him more peace and contentment than the country ever had, he would have looked away and changed the subject. Draco's life has never been one of options – any deviation from the strict traditions that came with the Malfoy name were hard fought, rarely won, and never worth it.
Draco had accepted the design of his life and future passively, wearily; Wiltshire and commuting, the job and office that had once been his father's, and a wife he didn't know how to talk to. He didn't know how to do or how to be anything else. He didn't know that happy – really truly genuinely happy – could be an option.
Arms up, Draco gestures and wrestles a dark green jumper over Scorpius's head, laughing when the static makes the boy's hear stand to attention. Scorpius's own laugh is loud and infectious, ringing through the small room like a bell. It's always a relief when sound comes from his mouth, even if words won't. It gives Draco hope that maybe one-day Scorpius will talk again. There's no hurry, though. They have their own language, and it does the job more than adequately. It's other people who have the problem, and other people are of no concern to Draco.
The walk between the Leaky Cauldron and the Ministry is short, but they bundle up in hats and scarves and gloves anyway; late-November air crisp on the tips of their noses and ears. Before the move, Draco rarely ever walked anywhere or went outside. There was no need, with a direct floo-route from Manor to Ministry; all stale air and soot. Even on the briskest, most wintery of mornings, Draco feels more awake and more alive, and he breathes it all in – the smells of bacon grease and coffee, the frozen flecks of mist and dew, and the sharp tang of smoking fireplaces.
Pressed to his side, Scorpius holds tight to his father's gloved hand as best he can in his thick, woolen mittens, more like oven-gloves than outerwear. This life isn't new to him as it is to Draco. The pub with its noise and heat and small room is as much home as the Manor ever was. He doesn't miss his mother, barely even thinks of her until Wednesday afternoon comes round again and she buys him ice-cream. He looks forward to ice-cream much more than he looks forward to her. They pass Florean Fortescue's, darkened windows and empty stalls at this time of morning, and he twists to stare at it longingly until it's too far away. Draco always pretends not to understand his requests for ice-cream, though Scorpius knows he knows. His father knows everything.
They shed their layers the moment the revolving doors sweep them into the Ministry; instantly too hot after being too cold. Whilst the streets of London are still sluggish, still rousing, the Ministry of Magic is always awake with the constant pop of commuters in the countless fireplaces and the steady stream of the latest editions of the Prophet flying into hands that move automatically to catch them. One follows them through the auditorium, trying to catch the attention that Draco refuses to give. He moves purposefully, with long-strides and an air that forbids the attempt of small-talk. Scorpius skips to keep up, grabbing the persistent newspaper out of the air. They aren't late – are never late – but Draco always pretends to be. He doesn't like to talk to anyone unless it's absolutely necessary. It is very rarely absolutely necessary.
Scorpius stares, safe from the eyes of adults at only three feet tall. It's like being invisible and he makes the most of it. Everyone is interesting and no-one pays attention to the small boy at Draco Malfoy's side. It makes Scorpius feel invincible. The only people who make him look away are the goblins, who stare back at his own eye-level. Scorpius likes to look but he doesn't like to be looked at. Just as he likes to listen but he will not talk.
They pause just before the room set aside for daycare; the waves of people moving and merging around them mindless, as though they are a rock in a rushing river. Scorpius can already see the black-haired Potter brothers in there, and he's itching to join them. But his father's hand squeezing his shoulder keeps him still for a moment longer. Draco always struggles at 7:06am. Scorpius used to struggle too, couldn't imagine anything in the world worse than being separated. But now he has friends, and a game they've been playing for more than a week, and there's never much time in the day to play it because the Potters always arrive hours early than they do and always gets picked up earlier too.
Draco crouches and looks Scorpius in the eye. I'll be back at lunchtime, okay? he signs, face lined as though it might not be okay when it's been okay for pretty much forever now. Be good, Draco continues, earnest and anxious. Be safe.
Scorpius wonders what his father thinks could possibly happen. Maybe he means watch out for papercuts. He is always good, though. Another benefit to not talking. From all his watching, Scorpius knows that trouble comes on the back of words. He doesn't have that problem.
But he promises anyway with a nod and a kiss, and – when the lines finally ease away – Scorpius twists and runs the last few steps to the brightly coloured room and his friends.
Draco rises slowly, watching Scorpius for as long as he can. Watching Scorpius settle into his own, independent life. Sometimes – oftentimes – Draco is certain he needs Scorpius more than Scorpius needs him.
"Mr Malfoy, good morning." The daycare director, Melissa Winters, moves to join him in the rush, smiling bright with all her teeth in a way that children like.
Draco steps back. She is too much for him. But she takes care of his son so he feels compelled to make an effort for her. He clears his throat. "Busy day ahead."
Melissa laughs. "Every day is busy. You try minding twenty-odd under-sevens for twelve hours a day every day." She hides it well but bitterness cracks her voice.
"You need help," says Draco. "You need to ask—"
She laughs again, without humour this time. "You think I haven't? It was hard enough getting this set up in the first place. There's no budget for anyone else and no-one who can do anything who cares. It's fine." She steps away holding up her hands, curly hair a mess coming out of her bun. "It's doesn't matter. You have a good day now, Mr Malfoy."
"Wait." He catches her elbow as she tries to turn back to her charges. He feels her flinch and releases her immediately with a quick apology. "Let me see if there's anything I can do," he murmurs. "I can't promise when or even if, but I'll try." And he presses three galleons discreetly into her hand. "Good morning, Miss Winters."
Draco works diligently for four hours, leaving his secretary – June – with firm instructions not to let anyone disturb him. He works as though it's important, as though there is someone watching and judging. He likes to feel useful even if he isn't.
It took June a long time to acclimatize to the new Malfoy after more than a decade of guarding Lucius Malfoy's office, which was only ever occupied when the elder Malfoy really needed to be persuasive. It isn't used to seeing real work. Nor is June. She remembers Draco as a small boy sitting in that office, waiting for hours with forced patience to be remembered and taken home, back in the days before daycare had been a consideration. She borrowed books from her own children and kept them in her desk for him. She remembers his expression when she pressed the battered paperback into his hands, all wide-eyed and shocked, as though she'd given him a precious gift and not just the lend of something to pass the time. She remembers the tiny, almost stammered 'thank you', and the hurried way he'd hidden it when Mr Malfoy came back; the precious gift transformed instantly into something dangerous. June was glad to hear that Draco had gone to Hogwarts instead of that awful-sounding Bulgarian school Mr Malfoy had been harping on about. Hogwarts would do that child the world of good. It did, and it would have done more if the front-line of the Wizarding War hadn't been fought on its doorstep. June's youngest had graduated Hogwarts two years before – her children were all safe – but she found herself scouring the Prophet and the list of the dead, praying not see Draco Malfoy there. She was always surprised when she didn't, all too sickeningly aware of the role Mr Malfoy was playing. Draco would be perfect collateral. It seemed impossible that he would survive it.
But against everything, after losing her employer to Azkaban and her job and purpose along with him, a year after Voldemort's defeat as the world slowly found its new normal, a letter arrived sealed with a familiar 'M'. It was Draco. Eighteen-years-old and asking if she wanted her job back. I am not my father, he had written in case it made a difference, in case she thought he would be. June has made Draco tea every week day since.
At the four hour mark, she knocks once and enters with the robust mug that Draco has ten of. Milk, one sugar. She leaves it by his elbow without a word and removes the old one, forgotten and left to go cold. Draco leaves more tea than he drinks.
"Thank you," Draco mutters absently, remaining stooped over his work; reading glasses slipping dangerously down his nose. He is dimly aware of June, of his tea changing from cold to hot, of the door closing behind her once more.
Then voices. Indistinct in their words, but unmistakable in tone.
Draco rises automatically as his mother strides in, shutting the door in June's protesting face.
Narcissa Malfoy stands tall, a whole head shorter than him, and glares with her arms folded tight across her chest.
"I'm busy," says Draco.
"It's lunchtime," Narcissa responds crisply. "Eat with me."
"I already have plans."
"Astoria has taken Scorpius out already."
Draco's fist slams down on his desk, teeth clenching so hard his head aches. "She has no right—"
"She is his mother, Draco. She has every right." Then Narcissa softens and she reaches for him. "Please," she says. "We need to talk."
"I don't want her alone with him," Draco grinds out, every bit of him tight. "You know this."
"Draco—"
"Mother." He hurls it at her like a curse.
Narcissa sighs. "I thought you would be pleased—" she starts before Draco throws back his head and laughs, a sharp bark that sounds so much like Lucius it hurts.
"Pleased? Really?"
"Pleased to be informed, to be warned, before the papers and reporters and everyone else comes bothering us. We need to be united, Draco. We need to have a plan."
"I have a plan," Draco snaps. "It's a perfectly good one."
"What?" Narcissa's lip curls into a sneer she can't control. "Hide away and hope he doesn't find you? When has that ever done you any good?"
Draco stares at her for a long moment, with that impossible, fathomless expression of his. Then, very quietly, "Get out."
"Draco, for Merlin's sake—"
"I said get out!"
Narcissa doesn't move. She doesn't even flinch. Draco is just a child – will never be anything more than a child – he is nothing to be afraid of.
She lets her eyes slide meaningfully to the left, to the coat-hook on which two winter outfits are hung. Draco follows her gaze then swears sharply. He stalks over and snatches up Scorpius's coat, shrugging his own on and throwing his glasses down on the desk, trying not to notice his mother's soft smirk, knowing full-well that he is being played for a fool.
"Have a note sent down to Melissa Winters," he snaps at June as they pass. "Make it clear that Scorpius is not to be removed by anyone but me without express and prior permission. Even and especially his damn mother."
"She misses him, you know," says Narcissa, matching Draco's pace evenly. "She misses you both. I do too."
"She misses not having to find excuses for our absence," Draco returns. "That is entirely different. She only misses what she no longer has. She complains about barely seeing him, yet when she has the opportunity she either passes it up or she gets bored within the hour." He throws a look over his shoulder. "It is not fair on Scorpius, and I am tired of pandering to it. He needs consistency."
"And you think cooping him up in that awful little place, with no-one but you for company is better?"
Draco considers this all the way back along the foyer. He thinks of Scorpius's peeling laughter this morning, and the grin and the love on his face below a mop of messy hair. He thinks of the grip on his hand as they take their route through Diagon Alley and the persistent tug as he takes in as much of the life around them as he can. He thinks of Scorpius's pure joy, radiating and infectious, and the flush of colour in his cheeks. There have been few tears since they came to London, and the unavoidable few have been temporary and quickly solved. Draco knows – beyond any doubt at all – that he has done the right thing.
"He is happy," Draco tells his mother simply. "We both are." He feels her eyes upon him; scrutinizing for the proof of the statement. He doesn't care. He doesn't need to prove anything to anyone.
"You are angry, Draco, not happy," Narcissa corrects.
"Of course I am angry. I have a right to be angry." His fists twist into Scorpius's coat. "I just… I do not understand."
Gentle fingers rest on his arm. "I wanted to explain it to you," Narcissa murmurs. "I wanted to prepare you. It's been a week since I wrote to you. You had every opportunity to understand. You chose not to. And that's no-one else's fault."
"But mine."
She squeezes, and he feels the warmth of her hand through his sleeve.
"He misses you. He is looking forward to seeing you again."
Draco jerks away from her touch.
"You never visited," Narcissa continues, almost tripping to keep up as Draco picks up the pace. "You should've. He asked for you. You know that."
"I don't care."
"He is your father. Scorpius's grandfather—"
Draco rounds on her with a snarl. "I do not care. This is your doing. I don't care how you did it. I don't care that's it's happening, just keep us out of it. Do you understand?"
She doesn't. Or she refuses to. She is tenacious, just as Pansy said.
"You cannot just stop being a Malfoy," says Narcissa. "No matter how hard you try. You are who you are. You always will be. And that boy is a Malfoy too. He deserves to be with his family."
"I am his family."
"He needs more just you."
"He has Theo. And Pansy, and Blaise—"
Narcissa makes a hissing sound between her teeth. "They aren't blood."
"How can that still matter so much to you?" Draco fights not to raise his voice; eyes are already flicking their way as they move through the day-to-day crowd. Alone, it's easy to avoid attention, but two Malfoys together always draws the eye. He hates it. "They love him," he continues quietly, stiltedly. "As though they were blood. More than." He glares sideways. "I know it's always been an impossible concept to grasp, Mother, but there are more important elements than sharing genetics."
Narcissa stops abruptly, forcing him to stop too. "Speak plainly, Draco."
She's angry, he realises. And more in control of her temper than he has ever been.
"I need to get this to Scorpius—"
"I will not be ignored," she snaps. "Not by you. You purport to be better than us all but you haven't a shred of common decency—"
"I cannot talk about this. I do not know how." His anger burns down into sincerity, looking his mother in the eyes; hers several shades bluer than his own. "I am sorry," Draco tells her. "Truly. I know what you want from me, what you think I owe you, but I can't. I can't. And you can tell Father that." He crosses the street without waiting for a response; the lights in the ice-cream parlor now bright and welcoming. People need sweet treats even in the most bitter depths of winter.
They are sitting at a tall table in the window. Scorpius sits on his knees leaning into the enormous confection between them. His face is at least thirty percent covered in chocolate. Astoria props her head up with one hand, a long spoon in the other, watching indulgently as the boy consumes his body weight in sugar. They make a very pleasant picture, and Draco can breathe a little easier along the last few steps, knowing disaster is not as imminent as he feared.
They both glance up as the bell chimes above Draco's head. Scorpius's face breaks into a chocolatey grin at the sight of him. He drops his spoon with a spatter of cream and sprinkles to sign, Daddy!
It's not Wednesday, Scorp.
The grin fades a little. She said you said it was her day.
She must've got confused, signs Draco, eyeing Astoria whose face is smooth of guilt as she rises to face him. It happens. It happens too often.
"Draco." Astoria rises with a hesitation that means she knows she did wrong. "How are you?"
He steps back and away from the attempted kiss on reflex. "Don't do that again," he says quietly. "Don't just take him like that without asking me."
Her smile crisps and her dark eyes flash a warning. It was part of their fragile arrangement – in public, everything must be as it should be. Draco is not good at keeping his side of the deal. "A mother may treat her son whenever she pleases," she says smoothly, combing her fingers through Scorpius's hair. Then, very quietly, "I do not need your permission."
Scorpius stares between them, and at Narcissa who's joined them with a tight, irritated expression. Draco notices him stiffen and, as much as he wants to tell them both to go to hell, he swallows it. It hurts his throat.
"You forgot this," he says, passing Scorpius's coat over. "It's too cold to be without out it. Perhaps, when you're finished, you would like to join me in my office for tea? Mother?"
Narcissa smiles thinly. "It would be a pleasure."
Draco doesn't want to leave, but Scorpius's eyes are deep with questions directed straight at him, and this isn't the time or the place and it's getting harder to breathe.
Are you okay with your mother? he asks Scorpius. Is she being good to you?
Scorpius nods, still searching for answers to questions he isn't sure of yet.
Go straight back to Miss Winters when you're done. Make sure she takes you straight away. Promise me.
I promise, Scorpius signs.
"Good boy." Draco presses a warm kiss to the top of his son's head. "I love you."
Love you too. Scorpius feels cold suddenly as Draco steps away with a nod to Astoria and Narcissa. And when he turns and makes the bell chime again, he has the overwhelming urge to run after his father. They were supposed to have lunch together. That's what Draco said this morning. He had been excited for ice-cream when his mother appeared to pick him up even though it wasn't Wednesday, but now the thought of it makes him feel sick.
Scorpius clambers back up onto the high seat and picks at it listlessly, until all the flavours and all the toppings merge into a single.
"Has Draco seen the papers yet?" his mother asks, draping Scorpius's coat over the back of her chair.
His grandmother shakes her head. "I don't think so. I believe he would've been more willing to talk if he had."
"Do you think he'll listen to sense?"
Narcissa sighs. "Yes. Eventually." She rests an absent hand on Scorpius's shoulder. "Draco isn't as immovable as he likes to think. It's just a matter of the right leverage in the right amount."
Scorpius sucks the chocolate off his spoon, keeping his eyes down. They think because they can't understand him, he can't understand them.
Grownups are stupid.