The first thing Lucius thinks is Draco, and something in his heart skitters. It's like the last twenty years never happened, and he almost thinks – dizzily – that his second chance is really that: he's been allowed to go back and start again.
But the child isn't looking at him the way Draco ever looked at him. His head is tilted up and to the side, and his staring with blatant, unabashed interest through deep brown eyes. His hair, though a familiar white-blond, has none of Draco's restraint, looking more as though it stubbornly refuses to sit flat. And when the boy smiles, it's wide and bright and happy.
Not Draco at all.
Lucius claws for the information he's sure Narcissa gave him, as sparse as she's been with details.
Scorpius Hyperion.
Four years old? Five? Can it really have been that long since Narcissa came to him with news of their first grandchild's birth?
He isn't at all how Lucius imagined him – and he imagined his grandson often, cooped up in that ugly, awful cell – he had imagined him more as he remembers Draco, serious and sullen, with his own sharp features. There is something that softens this boy, though he cannot quite place what it is, for he is very clearly mostly Malfoy in appearance apart from the eyes.
Lucius is keenly awkwardly aware that he should say something, that he should introduce himself and get to know the boy, that neither of them are speaking, and that actually he has very little idea of what to say or how to say it.
He has never been comfortable with small children. Or children at all, for that matter. Draco was at least six or seven before they had a real conversation. There was never any need for it. The house-elves dealt with the boy day-to-day, and what little time they spent together was never really the occasion for small talk. Draco was never much of a talker anyway. He avoided conversation with his father as much as Lucius avoided conversation with him. That was how it was supposed to be.
He doesn't know what to do with the expectation bright on this boy's face.
"Scorp–"
Draco.
Frozen midway down the staircase, staring in the same way he stared when he was five. Horrified. Terrified. Then he runs.
Scorpius goes to him at once, reaching up with open arms in anticipation of being picked up. And Draco does. Never taking his eyes of Lucius, he sweeps up the boy and holds him close. Scorpius rests his head of Draco's shoulder and continues his staring, still interested, still relaxed, entirely unperturbed.
Lucius finds he doesn't know what to say to Draco either, suddenly very aware that they haven't seen each other since the trial seven years ago, and the moment they left it at, and all the time that has passed since. He has grown out of the gangly teenager of Lucius's memory and into his body, though he looks no more comfortable with himself now as he did then. He has grown out his hair too, Lucius notes with interest, wearing it back and out the way, though not as well as he wears it himself. Draco looks like an adult now, but it's painfully clear that he has not grown up.
Lucius clears his throat, his voice rough from years of barely using it apart from Narcissa's visits, and steps forward. "Draco–"
Draco steps back immediately, angling the child in his arms away. "You're early," he says, accusing. "One o'clock, Mother said. We're not ready."
"I'm sorry," says Lucius tightly. "Would you like me to go and wait in the car, and then I'll come back in in a couple of hours? Would that be more convenient for you?" They haven't seen each other since the trial because Draco never came to visit him. Draco was always too busy. Draco could never be bothered. Draco would prefer to pretend that he had stopped existing, probably that he had never existed at all. Anger clenches Lucius's jaw. That the boy could be so selfish for so long, and stand there – on a day he had been looking forward to for so damn long – and tell him that it's not time yet, looking at him as though... as though...
He forces a swallow and a breath and stillness.
It will take time, Narcissa had warned the last time they had seen each other. It will take time for everyone to get used to each other again and for everything to go back to the way it's supposed to be
It's only a minute in.
There is enough time yet.
"Where is your mother?" All he wants is to get washed and changed and reconnect with Narcissa. He feels entirely unprepared at the moment
"I don't know."
Are you useless? Lucius wants to snap, but he holds his tongue. Any argument that can be avoided should be avoided. Instead, he snaps his fingers to summon a house-elf. He doesn't recognize the one that appears, but by the look on its face, it knows perfectly well who he is. "Inform the mistress I'm home," he orders, "and that she will find me in our room." He doesn't like the way its round, green eyes flick to Draco as though looking for permission to obey. He doesn't like the barely perceptible nod Draco gives it. He certainly does not like the little voice in his head – sounding irritatingly like Severus's – saying, You are not the master here anymore.
He tells it sharply to shut up. They are only two minutes in. It doesn't mean anything. There is enough time to change things. More than enough time.
Everything is fixable.
Draco sets Scorpius down, keeping a hand on his shoulder, watching his father take the stairs carefully. He doesn't fit here anymore, Draco realises. He doesn't look right.
He hates that he was caught unprepared. That nothing he'd done to feel ready had made a difference – all the words he'd planned to say had disappeared at the sight of him, all the certainty he'd forced himself to feel, gone and replaced by a trembling, throat-closing nausea.
And the sight of Lucius Malfoy with Scorpius...
"Come," he murmurs, gently steering Scorpius away to somewhere, anywhere, with a comfortable seat and enough space to breathe. "I need to explain some things to you."
Who's that? Scorpius signs when Draco collapses on the sofa in the small sitting room. The man in the paper?
Yes. That's your grandfather.
No it's not. Even though he only ever sees Grandfather Greengrass once a year, Scorpius knows what he looks like. Grandfather has a beard.
He's the other one, Draco signs with a sigh. Grandfather Greengrass is your mother's father. That's mine.
Scorpius supposes that makes sense, though he'd just sort of assumed that his dad didn't have one of his own. No-one's ever said anything about him before. Why is he never here? Does he live somewhere else? Is he visiting?
No. He's been– Draco hesitates, searching for the right way to explain. Scorpius doesn't understand why it's so hard. He's been away and now he's come back. To live.
Forever? Here? With us?
Yes. Though we won't be here forever.
Are we going back to London?
I hope so.
Why don't you know?
It's complicated.
Why is it complicated?
"Scorpius," says Draco in the way that means he's tired and questions aren't helping.
Is he why we had to come back? And why everything's weird?
Yes.
But 'yes' doesn't explain why. It isn't useful.
Where's he been?
Draco looks at him with a bit of a smile. Can I tell you when you're older? Which only makes Scorpius want to know more.
He glares at his dad. No. Tell me now.
And Draco knows he can't get out of it. Not reasonably. Lucky for Scorpius, Draco is reasonable ninety percent of the time. So even when Draco shifts and hesitates, and pulls Scorpius up to snuggle against him, Scorpius is patient. Draco always takes a long time to answer important things.
Their fingers thread together and Scorpius feels Draco's chin on top of his head, both their legs pointing towards the other end of the sofa as they lie lengthways.
The Draco tells him.
"You know the game you play with Albus Potter? Aurors and Death-Eaters?"
Scorpius nods, surprised that that's what Draco wants to talk about after being so angry over it yesterday.
"Well," says Draco. "Aurors are real people. Albus's father is an Auror. You know that, don't you? He's told you that. Well, Death-Eaters are real people too. Or they were. Not very long ago. There was a... a big fight. For a long time. Years, in fact. The Aurors, and other people on that side, wanted the world one way and the Death-Eaters wanted it another. The Aurors won, eventually, and all the Death-Eaters left over were caught and locked away so they, ah, they couldn't hurt anyone anymore. Recently – very recently – Albus's dad and others in the Ministry decided it would be okay to see if some of the people who had been Death-Eaters could be allowed to be free again, as long as they promised to be good and... and not be Death-Eaters anymore. Does that make sense?"
Scorpius isn't entirely sure that it does. Draco isn't the best at explaining things sometimes.
"Father– Your grandfather is one of those people, Scorp."
Scorpius twists, frowning, and somehow manages to sign, Grandfather's a Death-Eater.
"Used to be," says Draco quickly. "He used to be. But not anymore. They wouldn't let him out if he was still dangerous."
He was dangerous?
"They were all dangerous, Scorpius," says Draco. "They wanted to the world to be a certain way, and they were prepared to do whatever it took to make it so. They were... very caught up in what they wanted. And they followed a very evil man who forbade anyone who ever followed him from leaving. Once you were part of it, you could never leave. It was a very dangerous time. For everyone. Some of the Death-Eaters... they got caught up in it without really meaning to, and either they stayed or they were killed. There was no other option. Not really. It was a messy, ugly time, and no-one came out the other side undamaged."
Lying against his dad, Scorpius feels the tremble running through Draco's body. He wants to ask questions – he's got so many questions – but thinks better of it and keeps very still, very certain that if he interrupts, Draco will never finish his story.
"Everything is better now," Draco continues into Scorpius's hair. "Everything is getting better. They're making a better world for you, but some of the pieces are still broken and will take longer to fix. They think your grandfather is fixable and that's why he's allowed to come home. He won't hurt you. He can't hurt you. But you must be careful, do you understand? No more Auror, Death-Eater games, okay? We all have to give him the chance to be... to be..."
Good? Scorpius signs.
Draco stares at him, then smiles and nods, repeating the sign back. Good.
That doesn't sound so difficult, Scorpius thinks. And it's quite exciting, the thought of someone who used to be a real-life Death-Eater being right here. And if he's not dangerous anymore, then it's okay. If he's just like everyone else now, it doesn't matter what happened before. He can't wait to tell Albus. He'll be so jealous.
But you need to be careful, his dad continues. I need to know that you understand that, Scorp. I need you to promise to stay away from him when you're on your own. Just until we're all used to each other again. Can you do that?
Of course he can, and he tells Draco so, but he doesn't understand why he has to. He thinks Draco is being too serious. It doesn't seem like that big a deal.
Can I go play now?
I'd rather you didn't.
Daddy–
"Okay," Draco sighs. "Go. Go. But remember what I said. Don't disobey me, Scorpius. It's important. Please."
I already promised, didn't I?
Draco watches his son go, feeling no better than he had before. Scorpius doesn't understand, no matter what he says. How could he? He supposes he should be glad of it.
Hating that he cannot give Scorpius the trust he knows he deserves, Draco summons a house-elf. "Make sure Scorpius is kept away from Father," he orders. "Keep an eye on him but don't let him know you're there unless absolutely necessary."
Keep him safe.
Lucius lets himself into her bedroom but lingers in the doorway, not quite sure if he's welcome. Against his better judgement, he'd sought her out before anything else, and he knew the state he was in. He should've cleaned up first, made himself presentable and acceptable first, but knew also that he could do nothing until he'd seen her.
Can think of nothing but her.
She sits at her dressing table, face towards the mirror, eyes unseeing as she fastens an earring. Getting ready. Not expecting him yet. So relaxed. So beautiful. He's always liked her best here, away from everyone else where she is only herself.
He almost doesn't want to make himself known or disturb her peace. She doesn't need him to be happy.
But he needs to know where they stand with each other.
"Cissa?"
Her blue eyes flash up to meet his in the glass, then she turns and she's on her feet and running, tripping, and she's with him and touching – the first contact they've had in seven years – and when they kiss it's as though Azkaban and the war never happened.
If he closes his eyes, he can believe it.
Narcissa doesn't feel any different, still herself, still his. And it's as though her forgiveness is so complete, it was never necessary in the first place. Like she never hated him at all. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can believe it.
Fingers brush his face, like a blind person meeting someone for the first time, but when he opens his eyes, she's looking at him, taking him in, touching all the lines that weren't there before, down to the numbers marked permanently on the side of his neck; stark evidence that no matter how hard he convinces himself otherwise, everything is different now.
Her mouth curves into the smile he loves the most. "You look terrible."
"I know," he says. "Forgive me. I had meant to clean up first."
"I'm glad you didn't." She means it, too. He can hear it in her voice. Then, "You're early. We weren't expecting you until one. I had it all planned." Her head tilts teasingly. "You always ruin my plans."
Lucius smiles. "I've already been told off for being early. You'd think I was a ghost, the way Draco looked at me."
Something changes on her face. Narcissa moves back, drawing him into the room with her. "You've seen Draco?"
"I have." Lucius is still not sure what to think of him. "He's not pleased by my homecoming, I take it?"
"I told you, it will take time."
"It's been seven years, Narcissa."
"And he is still hurting."
Lucius's mouth tightens. He perches on the edge of her bed – their bed? – the duvet the smoothest, softest things he's touched in what feels like forever. "I don't know what he thinks he's hurting from," he mutters. "He's alive. He's free. He came through it more undamaged that most. He didn't lose anyone."
"Severus."
"I meant family." But in truth, he had forgotten. And to be reminded of Severus Snape did hurt. Despite all their issues, Severus had been family. Right from the beginning. It is hard to imagine a world without him and his persistent judgement and criticism to keep Lucius reasonably balanced. The prospect is a little daunting. "Draco still blames me?"
"Draco is still hurting," Narcissa says again, pulling a brush through her thick hair – free of any of the grey that has all but taken over Lucius's own. "Be patient with him."
How much time does he need? Lucius doesn't say.
"I met the child. Scorpius Hyperion," he says instead. "He's a... strange boy."
"How so?"
Lucius ponders on this. He still isn't sure, still can't pinpoint precisely what he was expecting and how the boy differs from that expectation. "What's his mother like?" he asks. "Greengrass, did you say?"
"Yes. Astoria. The younger of the sisters. You remember their father?"
In truth, he doesn't. There are too many fleeting faces of the past to keep track of. He couldn't be bothered to make the effort to remember most people then, and he's had little reason to make the effort since.
"She is a good choice," Narcissa tells him, swiveling on the stool before her dressing-table to face him, arranging her skirts around her. "You will like her, I think. She's very keen to do it all properly. She makes a good Malfoy."
A pleasant surprise. Lucius had been prepared to be very disappointed in Draco's choice of wife, had expected some sort of outlandish rebellion who would cause a thousand problems that would need fixing, especially when it came to raising the new Malfoy heir. Maybe freedom would be more relaxing than he thought it would be.
"So the boy is being brought up well?"
"Yes," says Narcissa, but there's a catch in her voice that sets him frowning.
"What?"
"What do you mean what?" She is a good liar but not to him. They know each other too well.
"Narcissa."
"Lucius," she returns. "Scorpius is delightful. You needn't to worry about him."
"Then who do I need to worry about?"
"No-one," she says firmly. "Everything is fine. Everything is as it should be. And you're home. Nothing else matters."
"You're glad I'm home?" It's a question he doesn't really want to ask, but it's been bothering him long enough that he has to. Has to know for sure. "You didn't just set this in motion for..."
"For what?" She arches an amused eyebrow. "For whom? Believe me–" She moves, languid and easy, and comes her fingers through his hair that dearly needs washing. "It was pure selfishness."
He laughs and feels lighter than he's felt in fifteen years. "Good." He reaches, tries to pull her closer, but she retreats with an order of, "Go and have a bath, Lucius. You're disgusting." thrown over her shoulder.
A Death-Eater. A real-life actual Death-Eater.
Scorpius can't get it out of his head. It's too exciting and there's too much possibility, and he wants to use it all but can't figure out how how (he wonders if his new grandfather's any good at playing) and his dad was so very adamant that he stay away from him, but that seems such a waste, and anyway Draco's always overreacting about things, that's what his grandmother's always saying, and he's heard his mother agree with it too. It's probably fine. Actually, he's certain it's fine. This is just another one of those times where Draco makes it seem bigger than it actually is.
And anyway, a real-life actual Death-Eater!
At the very least, he needs to ninja-observe so he can take back plenty of details to Albus next time they play the game. Between Al's dad and Scorpius's grandfather, they'll be set for life!
He turns right around on his way to his room but he doesn't get very far at all before there's a house-elf squeaking at him to go back to his rooms, something about Master Draco said, which makes Scorpius angry because he promised his dad twice and Draco still had a house-elf follow him. It's like Draco doesn't trust him. Which is stupid because Scorpius always keeps the promises he makes to his dad. Except this one time when he's pretty completely certain that Draco's overreacting and that makes the promise moot anyway.
Luckily, Scorpius is good at sneaking. And he's especially good at avoiding house-elves. Even the ones as sneaky as he is. He learnt all his tricks from them, after all.
He goes obediently all the way to the nursery at the back of the house, and even settles down with a book he's read ten times, and Scorpius times himself on the big clock hanging on the wall because he knows that house-elves always wait fifteen minutes before they have to go find something to do, and he gives it two minutes extra just in case, and when he's times himself seventeen minutes, he slips silently through the secret door behind the chest of draws and sneaks out.
All the way back through the halls, he listens carefully; never letting his guard down for an instant. His dad will be angry if he finds out Scorpius broke his promise, and yesterday's argument is still bright and sore in his memory. Draco doesn't shout often, but when he does lose his temper, it feels like the whole world is ending. He would do anything to keep that from happening again. Apart from doing what he's told. This is too big and the excitement too much to resist. He wonders if his grandfather will be able to understand him. Maybe Draco could teach him. Then Scorpius could ask questions (he's got so many questions) and then next time he and Albus play Aurors and Death-Eaters they could make it like it was real. He bets no-one else at Miss Winters's knows any real-life Death-Eaters.
Scorpius avoids the Entrance Hall, and the whole front of the house. That's where the grownups usually stay during the day – the most living part of the house. And he remembers his grandfather saying something about cleaning up. which means he went to a bedroom which means going upstairs and further back, though it'll take some exploring before he works out exactly where. He knows where his mother sleeps, and where Draco used to sleep, but generally speaking he's not allowed in the grown-ups' areas – on his grandmother's orders – so they're not quite familiar.
He listens as keenly for sounds behind doors as he listens for approaching house-elves, keeping each footstep as light and as silent as possible.
Suddenly a noise, and Scorpius darts around the nearest corner, pressing his back hard to the wall.
It's his grandmother, walking at her usual brisk pace, skirts making a swishing sound as she passes. Scorpius holds his breath. She's the worst one to be caught by. Her nails always leave marks when she drags him by the wrist.
But she doesn't see him. She's not even thinking about him, like he's not even a possibility in her mind. And once she's gone, Scorpius lets out a breath and grins. He remembers his grandfather saying something about wanting to see her. Maybe he's where she was.
The first Astoria knows of Lucius Malfoy's arrival is Draco's face and the half empty glass of wine set before him at the dining room table.
"Early?" she asks, pulling out the chair beside him.
He nods. "Of course. He was with Scorpius."
"Of course," she echoes, aware that maybe she should feel nervous and aware that she doesn't. "How was that?"
"I don't know." Draco fiddles with the stem, staring down into the wine as though it contains some deep truth he can't find anywhere else. "It threw me. He– Father's gone to clean up. And see Mother. I talked to Scorp. I explained Death-Eaters to him and made him promise to stay out the way. He promised though, I know he doesn't fully understand."
"Of course he doesn't," says Astoria softly. "He's five. He doesn't even know what death means."
"I know. And I know that's good. I want to keep it that way. But I also want him to be prepared. To be careful. Because I can't be with him the whole time. And I know him. His curiosity is boundless." Draco sighs, then drinks. "I've an elf on the lookout. Hopefully that'll be enough."
"How does he look?" Astoria asks, sharing Draco's glass without asking.
"Not like he's just spent seven years with dementors," Drao replies tightly. "But not quite himself either. Mother's right. He's different. I think."
"And what about you?"
He looks at her. "What about me?"
"Are you okay?"
"Of course."
"As okay as possible?"
Draco smiles thinly. "Something along those lines."
"Get up."
They both obey the command automatically as Narcissa comes marching is, followed by a small army of house-elves. She flaps her hands impatiently. "Out, out. Everything must be brought forward. Everyone needs to hurry up."
"What's the matter?" Astoria asks, stepping quickly back the house-elves begin to strip the table.
Narcissa looks at her, harassed. "Lunch."
"Lunch? It's only– What time is it, Draco?"
"Half past ten."
"Half past ten," Astoria repeats. "That's not lunch-time."
"Yes, well, clearly timing has gone out the window today." There's a large breeze as a new, clean table cloth flutters down to land upon the table, perfectly smooth and perfectly straight. "He would arrive and then we would have lunch. He has arrived, and now we must have lunch." As though that makes all the sense in the world. Narcissa pushes them both back even further, conducting the laying of the table. "Where is Scorpius?"
"I told him to stay in his rooms," says Draco, watching cutlery dance through the air.
"Is he ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"Lunch," Narcissa snaps. "For Merlin's sake, Draco, do try to keep up."
Draco looks as harassed as his mother. "I don't know. Were you expecting us to change again? I've already had to wrestle him into one of those ridiculous shirts you insist he wear. I don't much fancy another battle today."
"Well, if you'd raised him properly from the beginning, you would never need a battle at all."
"I'll go," Astoria offers quickly. Tempers are fraying already and there's too much of the day left ahead.
"No." Narcissa holds up a hand, halting her mid-step. "Stay here. Both of you stay here. There's no time. I wanted everyone together. I can't have you disappearing off now." She grabs an elf by the ear. "Fetch Scorpius. Make sure he's presentable."
Astoria and Draco exchange looks. Narcissa Malfoy likes plans, and she likes everything to go according to plan. Heaven help anyone who puts a rock in the way.
Draco approaches cautiously. "He looks well. Father."
"Don't be ridiculous, Draco," Narcissa snaps. "He looks like hell. Everything needs to be peaceful. Everything needs to be right. We need to start as we mean to go on."
"Mother–"
"I wasn't ready!" Her brittle voice rings through the dining room, chiming against crystal. She glares up at Draco as though blaming him. "He just appeared, and I wasn't ready. I had no warning. And he looks like hell. And none of us were there. We were supposed to be outside, waiting, together, and none of us were there."
Astoria watches Draco hesitate, then awkwardly put his arms around his mother in some semblance of an embrace. She watches Narcissa stiffen, then accept it, and they stand like that for a long while until the tension in the air softens. Then Draco takes a step back, still gently gripping her elbows. "It's going to be okay."
Narcissa looks up at him steadily, and Astoria almost thinks the rare sweetness between them to be continued. Then Mrs Malfoy sniffs and turns away with a brisk, "Of course it is. I never said it wasn't."
Draco shakes his head hopelessly and tries to sit down.
"Don't you dare, Draco Malfoy."
He gets up again quickly.
The table is almost set – transformed from breakfast to lunch with more elaboration that should ever really be necessary – when the house-elf sent to fetch Scorpius returns breathless and fretful.
"He's not there, Mistress," it stammers. "Master Scorpius... not in his rooms... can't be found..."
"What?"
"Draco, it's okay–"
He rounds on her with a snarl. "It is not okay, Astoria. It is not okay. I told him... I told him..."
"I know." She holds onto his arm. "But there's no point acting as though he's gone or as though he's in any real danger. He's just not where he's supposed to be. He's here somewhere."
"Yes." Draco snatches his arm back. "And I'm sure I know exactly what he's looking for."
He feels like himself again. Or, at least, what he thinks he remembers himself to feel like. Lucius had forgotten what warm felt like, the rock in the middle of the sea which made up Azkaban was kept perpetually damp and frozen, and hot water was a luxury he hadn't even realised he took for granted. And soap. And carpet. And towels. Clean ones. Clean everything. And clean clothes.
Everything is exactly where he left it, as though he'd never been away. Lucius takes his time, thumbing through his clothes, unable to believe that he used to not care, just ordered an elf to pick something appropriate and throw it on. He touches every piece, every shirt, every robe, wet hair dripping over his shoulders. Every item of clothing holds a memory he'd left behind, hadn't thought he'd needed. Nothing big or important, just pieces of the life he'd had before. Work, the Ministry, a book he'd read, a meal he'd attended, Narcissa, Hogwarts, Draco's Quidditch match, home... Everything smells like home. Warm and familiar and almost forgotten but streaming back and filling him up so fast he can hardly contain it. How is he supposed to choose. Narcissa used to insist they coordinate, but he wants to wear everything. And if he can't do that, he must pick his favourite. The pieces that are the most him. He chooses a dark burgundy shirt with delicate buttons and an intricate pattern woven into the cuffs and collar, pairing it with black trousers and a tie that matches the shirt. Nothing fits well; everything hanging a little too loose to be comfortable. He will have to have the house-elves adjust the whole lot.
He is struggling with his tie – fingers forgotten how to do it – when the subtle sound of a silent presence disturbs the stillness. At first Lucius thinks it's a house-elf – who else would be able to move so quietly? – but it never announces itself. They always announce themselves.
Lucius turns, fingers paused mid-knot, and looks and sees nothing. Then fingers curl around the door frame, and for just half a moment a pair of brown, human eyes look back at him. Then they're gone.
They boy shouldn't be here. Children stay downstairs. Draco would've been slapped for coming up here.
But Lucius finds himself more interested than angry.
"Scorpius Hyperion?"
He expects to here running feet retreating back down the hall, but instead of fleeing, the boy slips in and stands blatantly before him, head cocked with the same unabashed interest, the same open grin.
Lucius frowns down at him, unable to keep his own smile off his mouth. "Do you know that you're not supposed to be up here?"
But the look on his face, the boy knows. And the boy doesn't care. Lucius admires his courage.
"Do you know who I am?"
Scorpius nods.
"Are you frightened of me?"
The boy hesitates, assessing Lucius carefully as though the question requires serious consideration. Then he shakes his head, no.
Lucius decides he likes his grandson.
He offers a hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you Scorpius."
Scorpius's grin widens, and he shakes Lucius's hand eagerly.
Draco runs. He sprints, not even hearing the voices calling back, telling him it's okay, that he's being ridiculous. It's not okay. He's not being ridiculous. He told Scorpius to stay away, to stay safe, made him promise, and was stupid enough to believe that Scorpius understood. They had both lied to each other today. He had told Scorpius that Lucius Malfoy was harmless, and Scorpius had promised to be careful. Draco isn't angry. Just frightened. Deep dread at the very bottom of his stomach frightened.
Upstairs – two and three at a time – barely seeing where he's going, just running running running, desperate to find Scorpius before trouble does. And trouble will. Trouble is already here.
He fights the desire to shout, to call Scorpius to him. Knows it's better to find him and scoop him up and take him back to safety without drawing attention. It's always better to be silent in this house—
Daddy!
And Scorpius's sign is in his face, elevated, elated, being carried high in Lucius Malfoy's arms.
Draco freezes, unable to make sense of the vision in front of him. His son, smiling and happy, and his father, now looking exactly as Draco has always known him: immaculate and masterful, with the slight curve of triumph lifting one corner of his mouth. Draco lunges reaching for Scorpius, needing him with him now, but Lucius moves discreetly away, so smooth it might not even have been intentional.
"Is lunch ready?" Lucius asks, continuing on down the hallway. "We're both starving."
Guilt is the worst.
Scorpius swings his legs, never quite making contact with his chair, and fiddles with his soup spoon; half-listening to the animated conversation between his mother and grandfather which is something to do with trade in Europe and his other grandparents. His grandmother seems angry at everyone, so rigid she looks like she's about to break into ten different pieces. And his dad won't look at him.
He keeps trying to catch Draco's attention without drawing anyone else's, but Draco's being stubborn and angry, and this is ten million times worse that shouting. And a hundred percent not fair. Okay, so he did break the promise he'd been forced to make, but it was a stupid promise so really it shouldn't count. Anyway, nothing bad happened. Everything's fine except Draco's angry. And that's not Scorpius's fault. It's not fair to feel bad for something that isn't his fault.
Daddy.
But Draco's not watching. He hasn't look up from the soup he's not eating once.
Scorpius wishes his legs were longer so he could reach to kick his dad under the table. They're sitting opposite each other but there might as well be a whole world between them.
Everyone's happy, it's just his dad who's ruining it, and that's what's making his grandmother angry. So really it's Draco's fault. And it's not fair.
Scorpius shreds his bread-roll furiously, heart pounding; hating this and hating that there's nothing he can do. His father is the best at pretending something or someone doesn't exist when he doesn't want them to. It's not fair. It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair!
He can't help it. Scorpius thumps the table hard with a fist.
The china chimes. Conversation stops. And Draco stares at him.
Scorpius swallows, a little nervous, half tempted to just pretend it never happened and let the grownups just go on with their conversation and ignoring him.
But he has his dad's attention now, and Scorpius doesn't want to waste it.
He glares across the table. Why are you ignoring me?
This is not the time or the place to be having this conversation, Scorpius, Draco signs back.
Yes it is. Scorpius grits his teeth. Yes it is the time. It's not fair that you're angry at me. I didn't do anything wrong.
Draco stares at him, disbelieving and furious. You disobeyed me. You deliberately disobeyed me, after I told you to stay away. You promised me you would and you disobeyed me. I didn't ask you, I told you.
It was a stupid ask. Scorpius's face heats up. The others are staring at them, and he knows how much his mother hates being excluded when he and Draco are talking with their hands. It doesn't count. You shouldn't be angry. It's not fair.
"Excuse me?" Draco's voice rises sudden and loud. Then he flushes, embarrassed. How dare you? he signs furiously. You do not get to decide what counts or what is fair. You do as I tell you.
That's stupid! Scorpius can't keep his hands still. Draco's looking at him so hurt he hates it; hates that he put that look on his father's face. Hates himself. You're stupid!
He jumps when Draco thumps the table. Go to your room.
Scorpius doesn't move. He can't move. His legs are trembling. All of him is trembling and his throat feels like he's going to cry. He doesn't want to. Not with everyone looking. Not in front of his grandfather. It's not my fault, he signs again. It's not my fault you're angry. You've been angry ever since we got here. And it's not my fault you hate Grandfather.
"What is this?" his grandfather asks finally, when Scorpius's finger is jabbed in his direction. "What's going on?"
Scorpius hadn't exactly forgotten they were there, but he's suddenly sharply reminded of their audience. And by the looks of him, Draco is too. He looks like he's going to break. His mother looks utterly humiliated, and his grandmother just looks tired.
Lucius's flick between them, frowns at Scorpius, then settles on Draco. "Explain," he says in a tight hiss that makes Scorpius's stomach curl.
Draco looks as frozen as Scorpius feels, like he's stopped breathing. Like he's very nearly stopped existing altogether.
"This is what they do," says Astoria after a very long, very thick silence. She says it frustratedly, wearily, as though she doesn't want to say it at all. "Scorpius doesn't talk."
His grandmother looks very much like she wishes she could go backwards and start this day all over again.
The frown on his grandfather's face deepens. "I don't understand," he says, still looking directly at Draco. "That was supposed to be a conversation? Why doesn't he speak?"
Scorpius's face burns. He had hoped his grandfather wouldn't do this, wouldn't start treating him like he isn't there, the way his mother and grandmother do. As though, just because he doesn't talk, just because they can't understand him, he doesn't understand them. He had thought his grandfather would be different. It makes Scorpius's head hurt to learn that he's just like the others.
"Well?"
"We're not entirely sure," says Narcissa quickly. "No-one is. We've had people in, we took him to St. Mungo's, but–"
"And no-one can find out what's wrong with him?"
"There's nothing wrong with him," Draco snaps, as though he's just come back to life. "They can't find anything because there is nothing to find."
"Clearly there is."
Scorpius sinks down in his chair, wishing he'd followed Draco's order to go to his room. Every time someone speaks, it's getting louder and louder and filling the room and his head too full. And his grandfather looks like a completely different person than the one who carried him through the house earlier.
"The boy doesn't speak. There is something wrong with him." Metal eyes settle on him, the gaze heavy. "Unless he is doing it on purpose. Unless it is a choice. Which is it, Scorpius? Can't you speak or won't you speak?"
"Leave him alone."
"I wasn't speaking to you, Draco."
"I don't care. Leave him alone!" Then Draco taps the table, bringing Scorpius's attention to him, and beckons. Come here. Come to me. And Scorpius goes, quickly, shakily, letting his dad lift him and hold him and hide him away from all the eyes that can't and won't understand. Scorpius's closes his eyes, and lets his breathing slow to match Draco's, and the rhythm of the slow swaying and the hand on the back of his head. It's like the whole world stops existing, like it's just the two of them in the whole world. How it used to be. How it's supposed to be.
Lucius watches them, Draco and Scorpius, and sees for himself the moment the rest of them are shut out. They are both unreachable, together in the little bubble Draco has crafted. Not even Lucius can reach them there. It looks like the bubble Severus crafted when he first decided that Draco was be his responsibility; a tiny island in the middle of a tumultuous sea. Back then, Lucius had been arrogant; assuming that due to size and fragility, it would be easy to break that bubble and retrieve his son. He had been wrong. It had been stronger than anything else he had ever encountered, and once Draco was within it, he had been near impossible to reach. It was far stronger, far more resilient than any magic conjurable with a wand.
Love.
But Lucius is experienced now, and he always learns from his mistakes.
Draco is not Severus, and Scorpius is certainly not Draco.
Lucius always has enjoyed a challenge.
