A/N: I've been stuck on this penultimate chapter for many moons. In some very obscure way, it hearkens back to the first few chapters. The Potter kids are the very heart of this story, really, and I hope the middle one does his siblings proud.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, except the husbands, the Healer, and his enthusiasm for coloured markers.

xii. Like Father, Like Son

Albus

Albus Severus Potter had, at the age of eleven, decided quite of his own will to rise above his name, and so he had done and continues to do until this day.

They tell him that he can't be Quidditch Captain and Head Boy, so he turns down the latter to the horror of his parents and cousins. Only James and Lily say nothing about the matter; they have seen the plays he drafts and the way he sneaks out at night sometimes to fly for the simple joy of it.

Although he graduates with N.E.W.T.s to follow his father's accomplished footsteps, he chooses his mother's path instead. He loves the thrill of blood pumping through his veins, the wind in his hair, the feeling of his heart thudding against his chest as he speeds through brooms and people and cold, starry air.

"It's hereditary, this love of Quidditch," his Uncle Ron teases, ruffling his hair.

Albus grins and eats his apple pie but says nothing. He glances across the table at James, with the quiet, settled life itching under his skin; at Lily, who is two drinks in and ploughing on. They all love Quidditch, it is true, but what is hereditary is the addiction they all experience to the delight of adrenaline and fervour and stars exploding in eyes and against skin.

Fire and brimstone.

The Potter legacy.

He looks more like his father than his mother, with his dark hair and green eyes and skinny frame, but it is his mother's reputation that precedes him in the Quidditch world. "Ginny Weasley's son?" Helen says, peering at him keenly. "It'll do you no favours."

"She's a wonderful mother," Albus says quietly. "But other than that, it never has."

But they let him onto the team in the end, of course, because he flies better than even his mother had; more sunlight and wind than human when airborne, and he always catches the Snitch.

His Aunt Audrey is Muggle-born like Hermione, but much more interested in the sport. Sometimes, he brings her his plays and she asks him about this rule or that. As they talk, she sketches some numbers and lines on paper; what Albus recognises from his childhood as science. "Can you teach me some?" he asks, seeing immediately how the calculations of speed and angles can assist in his flights.

Audrey looks somewhat amused by his curiosity but only says, "Of course."

He flies at night, or draws his plays, or reads until his eyes burn, but he is determined that he should fly better each day, and he does.

It is a long way, he thinks, from the small boy he was on his fifth night in Hogwarts, after his first flying lesson, who had drawn a Snitch in the fog on the window with an index finger, against a starry night sky.

"You're not eating enough," Ginny says to him firmly, piling more pasta onto his plate despite his protests. "Is it the cooking? Are you having trouble with it?"

Lily is still up in her room and James, despite the situation, is smirking at him. "I am not having trouble with cooking," Albus says patiently. "I'm perfectly able to cook."

"Are you?" Ginny asks, and pinches his cheek in a way that is entirely demonstrative and not at all fond. "Look at you. Skinnier than the bone of a chicken leg."

"Oh, surely not," James says in a mocking tone of voice. "Surely not that skinny."

"James Sirius," Ginny says warningly and Harry refills everyone's water glasses. James Sirius, Albus mouths behind his mother's back at his brother, who makes an unmistakeably rude hand gesture in return.

Harry, having given up on curbing his sons' childish antics long ago, only says, "You do look thinner, Al. You haven't been ill, have you?"

"No, sir," Albus says promptly and turns his head so that his father can see the honesty in his face even as his brother sniggers at the words.

"Judas," Matthew exclaims when he sees Albus. "You look like a strong breeze could blow you away." Albus shifts uncomfortably on the doorstep as the other man stares at him. "Come in, come in," Matthew ushers. "Before any wind does happen to come along."

Inside, Roxanne is at the kitchen counter, mixing something in a bowl and bobbing her head along to the radio. "Drink?" Matthew asks, moving to the fridge. "There's juice or water or we have wine if you'd prefer?"

"Just water," Albus says with a smile. "Thank you."

Roxie looks up at the sound of her cousin's voice, sees him and blinks, then purses her lips. "I see. Vic's not exaggerating."

"Oh," Albus says with a laugh, "it's not so bad-"

"You look terrible," Roxanne says bluntly. "Have a seat so I don't have to worry about you keeling over, and you're not leaving this house tonight until you've had two portions of everything I serve."

"My family are alarmists," Albus says to Scorpius. "All of them – you'd think they'd be used to a bit of stress by now."

Scorpius looks keenly at his friend. "Is it stress? You don't seem particularly stressed to me."

They had met in their first year at Hogwarts, Scorpius and Albus, and had been inseparable ever since. Scorpius had not had a pleasant first few years at school; a Gryffindor Malfoy with a good heart, a knack for defensive spells and a long list of grievances held against him that belonged primarily to his father.

But it had never mattered to Albus who Scorpius' parents were; indeed, every holiday when Astoria Malfoy came to the station dressed in defiantly Muggle clothes to collect her son, she seemed as loving and quirky and attentive as Ginny Weasley had ever been, and Albus had (and still does) gotten along with her famously.

Scorpius had scars, Albus had seen that. They have whitened and cleared over time; some of them have even faded entirely. But some of them will stay forever, because Scorpius will never be rid of the Malfoy name or its history. "Is it wrong to wish I didn't have it?" Scorpius had asked Albus one long night when the fires of Hogwarts burned low. "The Malfoy name?"

Albus twisted his quilt between his fingers and stared at the bedpost. His parents were wonderful and proud and fierce and gentle and kind and nurturing and they had never asked for anything from him, but they didn't have to. The world shone a spotlight on the Potter name and demanded its bearers to perform. Scorpius had scars that had been inflicted unwillingly and possibly unknowingly, by his own parents. Albus knew what that felt like. "No," he had said finally, and to this day, they share something that even Rose cannot understand.

Scorpius has always read him like a book, and does so now, with a tilted head. "So if it isn't stress, then what is it?"

"It's nothing," Albus shrugs, then repeats, "It's nothing," as Scorpius lifts a dubious eyebrow at him. "I just…love it, that's all. I work hard at it."

Scorpius knows how Albus hates fuss, so he only says, "Be careful." And Albus promises, and they do not talk of it for the rest of the day.

He spiral dives towards the pitch field and the grass looms closer. And he pulls at the broom handle, but his fingers have a strange weakness in them. Dimly, he remembers that he hasn't eaten anything that day because he had slept a little late and rushed to get to practice.

This, upon reflection, had been a poor choice. A murky darkness edges his vision. Several voices are shouting in the background; he hears his name being called but his eyelids are growing strangely heavy.

There is a detached voice in his head telling him that this is going to hurt quite a lot, but in fact, the darkness eats through his vision before the broom hits the ground, and he doesn't feel a thing.

He wakes up in St. Mungo's and his cousins cry and his mother swears he is never to get on a broom again and Scorpius gives him a strange, discerning look and says, "That wasn't being careful."

Albus is subsequently sent to a Healer who specialises in what Muggles call psychology. He is a pleasant man, only a little older than Albus himself. They have a twice-weekly appointment schedule while Albus is recuperating at home.

"Is it helping?" Teddy asks curiously. Albus shrugs. The Healer – whose name, Archer, has caught Albus' attention (even now, in the age of wacky and weird, there aren't too many people who are named for stars) – is quiet and thoughtful and he, too, has turned down greater career prospects to do something he is passionate about. He asks insightful questions but Albus has never been good at talking about himself.

"I don't know if it's really for me," he tells his godbrother. "He asks very personal questions."

They are taking a walk through the park and Teddy laughs as he clutches his coffee. "Al, that's kind of his job." Albus wraps his hands around his own paper cup, the warmth seeping into his fingers, and says nothing. "You look better," Teddy says to him as they round a bend and the lake appears in the distance. "How do you feel?"

Itchy, Albus wants to say. Like his skin is too tight and his blood is too hot underneath, bubbling under the surface under the extremities. "Different," he settles with, because he doesn't want to alarm Teddy. "It's weird not flying."

Teddy's face is sympathetic and warm. "It's only for a little while, isn't it?"

Albus snorts. "Not according to mum."

Teddy laughs. "Of course. And far be it from you to defy your mother."

Albus brings the coffee cup into his chest, cradling it close so that the warms permeates the wool of his jumper and spreads across his torso. There is a lot that he would give up for his mother, but flying isn't one of them.

"Who's your best friend?" Archer the star-named Healer asks him and Albus opens his eyes.

The ceiling is a comforting dark rose colour and Albus has started lying down on the sofa, shoes off, as a sort of passive mockery of the situation. "Scorpius Malfoy. And my family. Although he sort of is family at this point."

"I meant outside of your family."

"I assumed you did."

Albus hears the rustle of paper and then Archer says in an inoffensive tone, "Can you tell me why it's such a problem for you to be here?"

Albus, startled, says, "What?" But Archer only waits, so Albus tells him, "I don't see why I should have to. My problem was purely physical. That's what I was in hospital for. I don't really have problems that can be fixed by talking."

Archer sounds genuinely curious as he asks – "Do you really think that your problem is purely physical?"

"Yes," Albus says, and his fingertips and ears tingle with the itch under his skin, and the lie on his lips.

He can't talk to Archer, because he hates sounding inarticulate in front of strangers, and he can't go to Victoire because she will freak out beyond imagining, so he calls Parker one mind-numbingly empty afternoon. "Are you working?"

"Nope." Parker's voice is relaxed. "Off today. What's up?"

"Want to come over?"

Albus makes cake – vanilla with icing – and puts it in the oven before Parker arrives. He boils water the Muggle way, in a kettle, and makes tea. His cousin's boyfriend arrives with a pop in the little alcove next to the fireplace, landing neatly on the cushy rug.

They trade information about the family and Parker laughs a lot, draped over one of Albus' armchairs like a strewn coat. "Is something the matter?" he asks, just as the cake is done, and Albus goes to cut them slices.

"I know that you specialise in curses," Albus says quietly, "but I wanted to ask you something else." He tells Parker about his fall, and then about the listlessness in his limbs since, and finally, about the Healer who keeps asking him questions about himself.

Parker frowns. "Archer Clarke?" Albus nods. "He's very good at his job."

"Is he?" Albus asks, lifting an eyebrow. "All he does is ask me bloody questions."

"But is he asking you the right ones," Parker says, although the small smile that plays at his lips shows his understanding of the Potter-Weasley reticence.

Albus considers this for a fair amount of time. Then, "I don't feel any better. Isn't that the whole point of the thing?"

Parker grins at him, and stabs another bite of cake with his fork. "Sometimes, things have to get worse before they get better." He smiles without any venom, his tone teasing. "We're not all blessed with your talents in life."

Albus comes to his next appointment with the remainder of the cake and Archer lifts an eyebrow at it. "I'm not very good at talking about myself."

Archer's lips quirk a little. "I've noticed."

Albus stuffs his other hand into his pocket. "Anyway, I apologise that I've been difficult."

Archer considers him for a moment before putting his pen and pad into his lap and accepting the box with both hands. "Dealing with difficult patients is my job. The cake is very unnecessary." He sniffs the contents. "Oh, vanilla's my favourite."

Albus sheds his coat and smiles. "There are some things I'd like to talk about." Suddenly, he feels uncomfortable, but he pushes that down and clears his throat. "Ever since the accident, I've had these…weird feelings." Archer folds his hands and waits. "Like my skin doesn't fit me properly anymore." Albus rubs his hands together. "My hands and legs get this…"

He pauses, struggling to find a word that doesn't sound absolutely insane, and Archer surprises him with, "prickly?"

"Yeah." Albus stares. "How did you know that?"

Archer gives him a smile. "Why do you think it's happening?"

Albus frowns at him without ire. "It only started to happen after the accident," he says finally. "I haven't been flying."

Archer's voice is soft like velvet. "Do you miss it?"

Albus clenches his hands together, interlacing his fingers tightly so that the joints turn white. "Yes."

"Much?"

"Yes."

Albus can track his own physical progress based on the proportional downward slope of James' civility. At last, one day, when James flings himself down on Albus' couch with no words but, "You look like shit," Albus knows that he is looking healthy again.

"Pot-kettle, brother," Albus says lightly. "And what can I do for you today?"

James considers this question with a furrowed expression. "How's therapy?"

"Not too bad," Albus replies. "Got off to a bit of a rocky start, but it's starting to level out a bit."

"Don't you feel like you never get any answers?" James asks. "They're always just asking and asking and asking."

Albus shrugs. "That's what I thought at first too – but I think maybe there are answers that we just have to find ourselves."

James rolls his eyes. "If you say so." He kicks his feet over the side of the couch and braces an arm under his head as he looks up at the ceiling. "I saw Delia the other day." Albus looks up from his book and lifts an eyebrow.

"How was it?"

Of all the cousins in the Potter-Weasley bunch, James is the only one whose marriage has not been a success, and he knows that his brother often sees it as his own failing. "Things fall apart," Albus told him one night as James had stumbled drunkenly out of the pub in front of him. "It isn't your fault." You can't hold everything together.

And things had fallen apart, so thoroughly that everything lay in pieces around their feet and the wild look in James' eyes for a while had shown how he had no idea how to pull them back together. But they are a mosaic type of family; a puzzle with edges that don't quite match, and they have always made room for each other anyway. And this is what James does with his life, day after day, picks at the pieces until the edges fit together again, and Albus would never say so, but it makes him admire his brother even more than before.

"It was alright," James says now. "It was nice. Delia seemed happy." Albus lowers his eyes to his book again but doesn't read any of the words, and waits for his brother to speak again. "I have this theory."

"Yes?" Albus says when James pauses.

James draws in a long breath. "I think maybe dad never left the war behind."

Albus frowns. "What do you mean?" He closes his book gently and places it on the coffee table. "Dad seems perfectly fine."

"I know he seems fine," James says. "And I think he is fine."

"How can he be fine if he still carries the war around with him?"

James closes his eyes. "Maybe he gave it to us."

"My brother has an idea," Albus tells Archer, who leans forward and nods for him to go on. "He thinks that my father's burdens have become ours now."

"Your father, Harry Potter," Archer says quietly. It is the first time he has ever acknowledged anyone in Albus' family by name and it is a slight surprise. "Those are heavy burdens."

"My father was a soldier. That doesn't go away overnight. It was bound to leak into our house."

Archer folds his hands together and says, "Your father had a war to fight and you have none."

Albus rubs a hand over his eyes. He has been thinking about James' words all night; he can feel the lack of sleep pressing at the back of his skull. "But we still fight so hard. My brother tried so hard to settle into a normal life. My sister went in the complete opposite direction, but she's fighting something too."

"And you wanted to be different," Archer says. So it isn't true, Albus thinks, that they only ask questions, for now here is an answer that has been with him all his life. "You wanted to be better."

"I wanted to be someone else," Albus says. "Someone who wasn't weighed down by the Potter name. So I put all my energy into Quidditch. It's true my mother was a good player, but in my mind, Quidditch belonged entirely to me." He goes to say something else, but there is an expression in Archer's face that shows Albus he understands.

"Nothing belongs entirely to you," Archer says. "Except for you."

Albus laughs. "That's profound."

Archer grins too. "It's my job to be profound."

Albus crosses his legs. "It is your job. So tell me. What comes now?"

Archer looks at him for a long moment with discerning dark eyes. "You said you wanted to be free of the Potter name, but that will never happen. You're a Potter, and you always will be." Archer unclasps his hands and takes up his book of notes again as he speaks, and Albus listens. "But you're Albus Potter. You need to figure out what that means. Eventually, it has to mean something different from Harry."

"You look better," Dom observes as soon as she sees him. "Loads and loads better."

Albus folds his coat neatly on the barstool next to him and smiles. "Thanks."

Dom makes him tea, and Hikaru his three-sugar-coffee and then props herself on the bar before the two of them. "Do you feel better?"

Albus rests his hands on either sides of the mug. "In a way."

Dom leans forward so that her eyes are level with his. "Don't speak in riddles to me, Albus."

He grins into his mug. "Sorry." She lifts a fine eyebrow at them both and gives him an expectant nod. He clears his throat. "I feel better, but I miss flying. And I'm worried about going back, because I want to but I don't think I know how to do it differently from how I was doing it before."

Dom nods slowly. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" Albus rolls his eyes and Hikaru laughs. "Why can't you just do it the same but…less?"

Albus runs a hand over the worn bar top and sighs. "I don't know if less is really something that I do."

Helen meets Albus at the changing room door. "Is your mother going to sit there for the whole practice?"

Albus sighs. It is his first day back, and he has promised his mother supervision rights whenever she wants them. So there sits Ginny Weasley, long red hair tied up, eating salad out of a Tupperware container and looking for all the world like the coolest overly-concerned parent on earth. "Probably, yeah."

Helen looks from him to Ginny, then back. "We're not going to let you spiral out of control again, you know."

Albus adjusts his glove. "I know."

Helen rolls up her sleeve. "Maybe you should tell your mother that."

They climb onto their brooms and Albus laughs. "Maybe you should tell my mother that. Because I'm pretty sure she's not going to believe anything I say."

Flying is like being at home again; like his skin fits and his blood sings again. The familiar feeling of stars in his eyes returns and he loses himself in it all too easily.

That night, Ginny makes him a full meal, and they eat together at his dining room table in comfortable silence. I love you very much, Al, she tells him before she goes and he kisses her cheek.

In bed, the tightness and prickle in his fingertips returns, but by now, it is a familiar feeling, and only confirms Albus' suspicions that it is not Quidditch itself that he has missed.

And he sits up in bed and decides that he does not want his life to be this anymore, whatever this is. Albus Potter is in there somewhere; the Albus Potter who wanted to play Quidditch and count stars and read books and eat Every Flavour Beans. Albus Potter is not someone who is never satisfied with what he has, and is kept awake by a fucking prickling in his fingertips.

"Well," he says aloud to the dark room around him. "That's enough now."

Harry's office is bigger than all the others on his floor, and on he, Ginny and their children have the password. Albus lets himself in without knocking, helps himself to tea from the sideboard and opens the fridge. "Oh, fudge," he says, helping himself to some delightedly.

"Can I help you?" Harry asks with a laugh. "Or are you just here to take away all my food?"

Albus brings his father a square as well and sits down on the chair opposite him. "Is this mum's fudge?"

"Molly's," Harry responds.

"Even better," Albus says with a grin. "I've got an appointment this afternoon nearby, so I thought I'd just drop in for a chat."

Harry looks over his glasses at his son. "An appointment with your therapist?"

Albus swallows his mouthful, detecting a note of something or other in Harry's voice. "Yes," he replies. "With my therapist. It's my last appointment."

Harry signs the page in front of him before setting it aside. "Do you want to talk about your therapy?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, good."

Albus laughs at that, and takes a large mouthful of tea. "I'm kind of thinking about work, actually." The relief on Harry's face is evident; work is a safe topic. "Obviously, you had mum, and me and James and Lil, and we all had lives to talk about, so your home life was very separate from work." He takes another bite of fudge. "But I can't seem to leave it behind when I go home." He licks some icing off his finger. "Got any advice for that?"

Harry shrugs. "My job is to fight Dark wizards. I've been doing it since I was eleven, and couldn't stop when Voldemort was dead – so I'm not really the best person to give advice on leaving work at the door."

Albus crams the last of the fudge into his mouth and wipes his fingers. Good talk, he wants to say, but that seems a little disrespectful. Talking to Harry has always come naturally for James and Lily, but although he loves his father with all of his heart, Albus has always found it difficult. Rose calls it middle child syndrome. Dom calls it emotional constipation.

Harry leans back in his chair and surveys his son. "I can't give you any advice," he says. "I have failings that I wouldn't ever wish on you." Too late for that, Albus wants to say, but once again keeps his mouth shut. "But I do realise that I may have passed some down to you unwittingly – such is parenthood." Harry breaks some of his own fudge off and rolls it between his fingers, watching his own hands intently. "Your mother and I realise that being part of our family isn't always easy. But we do want you to be better than us, and we've always tried to teach you accordingly."

"We aren't better than you," Albus says with a lump in his throat.

Harry continues. "There's a balance somewhere between the family, and yourself. It's not something that I think I've ever managed." Finally, he looks up and Albus sees something sad in his face. "But I hope you do."

Archer likes the idea of finding a balance, and smiles when Albus recounts his father's words. "What a clever man," Archer says. "Maybe he's in the wrong line of work."

Albus bursts out laughing at that. "You have no idea how terrible my dad would be at your job."

"So how do you propose to find this balance?" Archer asks.

"I have no idea," Albus admits. "I'm not even sure I know what it means."

Archer considers this carefully. "Well," he begins. "There's always good and bad in everything, isn't there?" Albus nods – this is a lesson that his father had taught him a long time ago. "And you have your own bad aspects - which is perfectly normal - and the bad aspects of bearing your family name on top of that. It's a lot. So maybe you should try to find a way to get rid of some of the bad parts."

"Get rid of some of the bad parts," Albus repeats quietly. That sounds like an ideal situation. "But how?"

There is a spark in Archer's eye. "Oh, let's make a plan. I'm all about plans."

And they do. Archer even pulls out coloured markers for Albus ("because now we're getting serious," he says while makes Albus laugh again).

They decide that Albus should have meals with his family at least twice a week, and set himself a bedtime ("write that one up the top," Archer chuckles, "and show it to your brother.") and that he shouldn't talk too much about Quidditch off the pitch. "Meet some more people," Archer suggests. "Someone who isn't family, and who isn't your Quidditch team. It would be good to have people to talk to outside of those two realms. Find another hobby as well," Archer recommends, scrawling it down in the corner of the page.

"A hobby?" Albus asks blankly. "What hobby?"

"I don't know," Archer says pointedly. "That's why I said find one."

"I feel like I'm planning a military campaign," Albus tells him, capping a blue marker.

"That's one way to look at life," Archer agrees.

At the end of his session, Albus is left with several pages of notes and coloured scribbling, and it is more of a mind map than a management plan. "Thanks," he says, holding it in his hand. "So. This is the end."

"It's the beginning for you, I should think," Archer says, and stands. "But it's been my pleasure. I've enjoyed our time together. Your life outside this room sounds very interesting." He hesitates before saying with a grin, "That's not always the case with patients."

"Well, I've enjoyed it too," Albus says honestly. "Which isn't always the case with Healers." Albus slings his bag over his shoulder. "Honestly, I've never talked this much to anyone outside my family."

"Well," Archer says with a nod. "I'm glad I could be of help."

They shake hands. "You've done more than that," Albus says, and then suddenly realises that he is reluctant to go before he asks a question that has been on his mind for a while. He spends a moment deliberating his next words, then says, "May I call you a friend?"

Archer's eyebrows lift at his question, but then he smiles warmly. "It would be an honour." Then, he adds, "But I suppose we'd better have another introduction, hadn't we?"

Albus shifts so that his papers are in his left hand and sticks out his right again to shake. "Albus Severus Potter. I go by Al."

Archer takes his hand in a firm grip. "Archer Clarke." He grins at Albus, who in that moment sees an entire new friendship stretch out before him in an exciting rush. "My friends call me Archie."

That night, he goes to his parents' house for dinner, and James and Lily bicker over who should get the bigger serving of pie, and Harry gives them a pointlessly quelling look, and Ginny rolls her eyes and serves the food. Albus rests his chin on his propped hands and closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of his family, and smiles.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" James asks him, flicking a pea at him when Ginny isn't looking.

Albus opens his eyes and rubs his hands together. The prickling in his fingers isn't so bothersome anymore. He tells them, "I made a friend today."

Archie comes to his Quidditch game, and naturally, they win. Afterwards, the Potter-Weasleys have one of their informal parties at the Burrow, and Albus waves his teammates goodbye and invites Archie to come with them.

"My friend, Archie," Albus says to Scorpius, who looks surprised but shakes his hand and strikes up a conversation with him about architecture, of all things, and within minutes, they are laughing together.

Albus goes over to get himself a plate and Hugo spoons him some salad. "Nice flying today, Al."

"Thanks," Albus says. "How goes the writing?"

"It goes well," Hugo tells him. "It'll be done soon."

Albus grins at his cousin. "So what's my character like?"

Hugo rolls his eyes at him fondly. "Really quite insane," he says. "But he's the best of them too."

Albus' cheeks flush at the praise and he opens his mouth to say something, but just as he does, Scorpius comes up behind him and hits him on the arm. "You never told me that you had another friend named after astronomy!"

Albus winces and rubs his arm. "Ow," he says sarcastically. "Is Rose teaching you to punch like that?"

"I'm an Auror, Albus," Scorpius says as Archie grins. "I punch people on the daily."

Hugo snorts. "We should use that as the new slogan for the Auror Department. We punch people on the daily."

"And what would the slogan of the writers be?" Albus asks. "We don't brush our hair?"

"Scorpius, punch him again."

Scorpius, laughing, says, "And what about Quidditch players?" He nudges Albus teasingly. "We fall off our brooms."

"My affection for you is an ongoing mystery," Albus returns, and Archie laughs as well.

Hugo wags a finger at Scorpius. "You're not allowed to talk to Albus about his work, remember? That's the new rule. Especially in front of his ex-therapist," he says, smiling at Archie to show that he is joking.

Scorpius hastens to make an over-enthusiastic apology, and he and Hugo then go on discussing the slogans of various professions, each more ridiculous than the last. Albus turns to Archie to make sure that he is alright (his family all together can be quite overwhelming at first) and finds him beaming. "So," Archie says in a quieter tone. "I see you figured out how to get rid of the bad parts."

"Mmm," Albus agrees with a smile, and looks around at his family. "Yeah, I did." James has Lily in a headlock and is ruffling her hair; Scorpius and Hugo have been joined by Rose and they are all laughing in the afternoon sunlight. Albus smiles. "I'll keep the good, though."