(September 1st)

'What?'

'Don't you ever – 'Harry Potter shakes his head. Sighs. 'Your Uncle's birthday is a few weeks from now, there's a party.'

His eyes focus on his feet, which shuffle left to right, but he isn't nervous, not nervous, just uncomfortable, he doesn't look up but he says, 'Is there?'

His father nods his head, turning his own face to the side, closing his eyes. 'The nineteenth. Lily, Rose, Hugo are attending – from Hogwarts – a port key has been arranged.'

Albus nods his head, pretending to think about it, 'I see.'

Harry glances up. 'You are welcome, Albus.'

'I know that.'

'Yes, I know – you do – and yet – '

'I couldn't – '

'You could.' James Potter appears. Standing beside the father he looks nothing like. The only trait he inherited was the height, but his hair and eyes are all Ginny's. Harry and Albus look at him but James' cold eyes are focused on his brother. 'You could and you fucking know it. It's only a – '

'Sorry.' Albus interjects quickly, turning away from them, focusing on the train, 'Tell Uncle Ron that for me, tell him I'm sorry, and Happy Birthday.'

He nods at them. At their scowling faces. Before retreating to the train. His trunk pulled clumsily behind him.

There are no unoccupied compartments. So, after walking too many times down the same corridor Albus decides on the one furthest to the back. There's one person there, and they are sleeping, head lolled forward, back slumped. Albus stalks into the cabin quietly, keeping his trunk on the floor. He puts his feet on it and takes out a book. He sits across from the stranger.

It is only a moment later that noise interrupts his reading and he looks at the door. His cousin Rose stands at the window.

'What?' He says, opening the door halfway.

The half of her face he sees is turned down, she rolls her eyes up to him, dejectedly. 'Why are you whispering?'

He looks back at the sleeper, shrugs, 'He's asleep, what is it?'

Rose sighs heavy, like it's a task to be here, and to talk, 'Mum told me to sit with you.'

'Again?'

'Mmm, yeah, I know, she asked Hugo too but you know him,' her hands gesticulate between them, 'I can just tell her – '

He's nodding before she finishes speaking, 'Okay, Okay, yeah. I'll see you.'

He shuts the door –

-too forcefully, the old hinges click clack against the frame and the sleeper awakens dramatically. His legs and arms move in spasms, eyes startled, his hands grip his chest.

'Shit!' Eyes like plates, he swishes his head stupidly from left to right. Up and down. 'Shit!'

'Sorry. Door.' Albus murmurs ridiculously. He points to it, like the man has no clue there is in fact a door there. He shakes his head at himself and quickly sits down and bends his head into his book.

'Fucking hell, are we almost there?' The strangers voice is soft, delicate, the curses sound strange on such a voice. He wipes his hand across the condensation on the window, Albus doesn't look, but he hears it squeak.

'No. Just left.' He mumbles.

'No way, I've been asleep for hours.'

'We just left.'

'Well, shit.' He sighs heavily and leans against the seat.

They are silent. Albus is rigid in his seat, he breathes, deep and calming, or trying to be, but it is all for show. He can't settle, not with the stranger across from him looking, watching, watching him for no reason at all, but he isn't one for talking, never mind prying, so he pretends to read. But it does nothing to stop the feeling. The feeling of – other. That there is substance in their shared silence. It can't block out the very real occurrence of his heart racing in his chest, of his sticky hands clinging obscenely to the pages of the book. He doesn't know this person, has barely given him a glance, but the air around him is suffocating – but somehow in the most wonderful of ways. Like there are flowers blooming in his lungs, but whilst they are beautiful, he is choking. What is this?

He finishes a chapter. Skimming each page.

Then another. He is just turning pages.

'How old are you?'

It almost startles him. Even though he somehow expected it. Albus looks up. The other man is stretched out on the seat. Feet up. His head against the window. He's smiling, all glorious white teeth and big red lips smiling. He is so pale, the sun behind him makes him look angelic. But those eyes – so big and light, he's never seen eyes like those before – a pale grey, is everything about him so obviously pale, virtuous, delicate? He looks small, almost ridiculously so – yes, perhaps everything about him is delicate –

He coughs, 'Seventeen.'

'You are?' Those eyes widen, a dark ring encircles the grey, merlin – the flowers climb up his throat.

'Yes.'

Now he's staring at him, with those eyes. He's leaning over the seat so obviously. His big red lips pursed in confusion, or interest or something he can't decipher. He sucks in his cheeks, showing his angular cheeks. His pointed nose turns up a little at the end, it's unusual, unique, gorgeous. Everything – he shakes his head -

'You don't look seventeen.' He says finally, his hair spikes against the window, forming a too-blonde halo. He shrugs. 'Are you a student?'

Albus runs his hot hands down his face, 'Obviously.'

His white brows crease, 'Not obviously. I wouldn't know.'

'I am.' Albus feels the need to confirm.

'Okay yeah. Me too. I've just transferred from Durmstrang.' He rolls those intense eyes. 'Fucking place.' He pauses. Scrutinizing. 'You don't look my age. You look older.'

'Okay.' Replies Albus, not knowing what to say.

'What're you reading?' He turns, his legs fall onto the floor and he leans over, trying to read the cover. His hand comes out and a long thin finger strokes over the words on the front. Albus grits his teeth and tries not to jerk himself away. His own hands fist the book with the effort. But eventually Albus folds his page and shuts the book. He turns it and looks down; his finger traces the words himself. Somehow, he can't help himself, to touch where the other man fingers just were. 'Dante.'

'Dante,' The other boy nods and looks up at him. 'The Inferno? That's meant to be fucking dark, isn't it?'

Albus looks at him incredulously. His lips almost turn up into a smile. 'Not really.'

A beat.

'Isn't it about hell?' His eyebrows crease, and he turns his head slightly, like a cat, Albus thinks, like a curious little precious cat.

'A perception of it.' He nods.

His teeth come out and bite at his bottom lip. Albus' eyes strain as not to stare at them, he bites his own cheeks, as the man asks, 'A fictional one?'

'Perhaps.'

He leans back suddenly and his legs stretch out, his black boots tap against Albus' trunk. 'Can I have a look?'

Albus hands it over. He doesn't know why. He wouldn't usually.

The blonde reads the blurb. His pale fingers open the book. He reads, and the tip of his tongue runs along his top lip, slowly, Albus takes a breath, holds it, his eyes close - 'Could I read it? After you.'

He blows the air out of his lungs, 'Maybe.'

'Maybe?' The stranger looks away, a flush running up his neck. 'What does that mean?'

His cheeks are red, his neck, the tip of that nose, all flushed and – 'Okay.'

'Oh, thanks.' He throws the book into Albus' hands. Rubs his eyes, his face. Then says, 'I don't get to read much Muggle literature.'

'Oh.' Albus puts the book into his rucksack.

'Durmstrang didn't approve.' He rolls his eyes again. 'Do you take Muggle Studies?'

'I do.'

The man grins. Then he leans over again. Face full of curiosity. His eyes search Albus. Who wonders what he's trying to find. But realises he doesn't care. There's nothing to find. 'Is it as fascinating as I imagine it?' He beams. 'Do we see muggle inventions? An automobile? A telephone? Have you heard of airplanes? They fly, like us, like us, but transport hundreds of people at one time, you can eat on them, you can watch, oh, what is it? They can watch, the, erm – '

'Television?'

'Exactly! Precisely! How incredible, right? Can you even fucking imagine? Do we get to see those? Fucking wow.' He shakes his head.

'I doubt it.' Albus replies.

'Really? So, it's mainly theory?' He taps his black boots against Albus' trunk in some sort of rhythm. Dum, Dum, Da-dum, dum. Unlike Albus' relentless heart which bangs against his chest, dadumdadumdadumdadum…

'I suppose.'

He bites his tongue between his teeth, smiling, he says, 'Yeah?' Voice passionate, excited, 'What else do you take?'

Albus had never met anyone so talkative. It is the most he's spoken to anyone in – longer than he cares to remember. 'Erm, Potions, Defence, Charms and Transfiguration.'

'Same, well, 'he chuckles, 'not entirely. I don't see myself as much of a defence against the dark arts type, I chose Care of Magical Creatures instead.'

'Animals?' Albus raises his eyebrows.

'Yeah…what?' He kicks the trunk and laughs but his voice gets higher when he says, 'What's wrong with animals?'

'Nothing.'

He's still smiling, it's big, bright, all teeth and slight dimples on his pale cheeks. It's – it's really glorious. 'I love them, so interesting.'

Albus clears his throat, 'Interesting?'

'Oh yeah! It's so fascinating. Like, okay, take dragons. Man, how the fuck can they produce fire? Fire? From within themselves? Fire, which would kill them in any other circumstance.' He pauses, thinking, 'And unicorns, now, they're really fascinating, so pure right, something so pure that if killed, they curse you. But they will keep you alive anyway.' He shakes his head.

'But curse you.' Albus infers.

'Weeeell,' he taps his pointed chin with his pointer finger, 'you'd still be alive though, cursed or not, wouldn't you rather be alive?'

He bites his cheeks. His own shoes are near the other boy's thick dark boots on the trunk. He slowly moves them away. He still doesn't know. So, he only shrugs.

'I think I would, maybe, probably.' His hands flail as he talks, demanding attention, 'Despite my not knowing what it would be like, surely anything is better than death?'

Albus says nothing.

He continues, unperturbed by the silence. 'What would you rather be, a Dragon or a Unicorn?'

The randomness of the conversation almost makes him laugh, but he only says, 'I don't know.'

The blond scoffs, but he smiles, he hasn't stopped, 'Dragons maybe swing it for me. I fucking hate being cold.'

'Cold?'

'Dragons must be fucking boiling, don't you think? All that internal fire and shit. Like a built-in furnace. Sounds good to me. My house is always freezing, and I can't stand it. Is Hogwarts cold? Durmstrang too, was bitterly fucking cold, every part of it.'

Albus doesn't know what he means by that but doesn't ask either. He nods.

'Shit, what? Hogwarts is cold?'

'Depends.' Albus replies.

'On what?'

'Your house.'

'My house? Well, fucking great, my home is the literal arctic, my father, he insists – '

'Sorry, I meant school house.' Albus interjects, biting his lips.

'Oh, shit yeah! How could I forget.' He slaps his forehead. 'We didn't have those at Durmstrang, just all, you know,' his hands swirl 'together. Houses, gods, yeah. They sorted me back in July, I'm a snake, a Slytherin.'

'Me too.' Albus nods and moves his feet, pointing towards the serpent adorning the top of his trunk.

'Oh, shit, that's incredible.' The boy kneels beside the trunk, his fingers running over the green and silver scales of the thick python. His head in near Albus' knees and when he looks up and says, 'Did you draw this?' Albus can't help but look down at him.

'Long time ago.'

'This – it's, it's really bloody good.' They look at each-other, then there is a pause, where their eyes linger in the silence, and those flowers blooming and growing within him, they wind their way around his chest cavity and bloom so bright, it tightens, and he can't breathe. 'Honestly.'

'It's old.' Albus brings his feet back up onto the trunk, covering the art he did as a twelve-year old. The other boy stands and Albus realises, he is rather small. A head smaller than himself, if not more. The hair on his head is thick and practically white, angelic. But his features are strong, a slim long nose, pointed slightly at the end, a solid jaw, holding red plump lips atop his equally pointed chin. His skin is pale, porcelain pale, like the sun has never gotten to look at him. But he doesn't need the sun, Albus thinks, he shines bright enough.

'Are you Muggle-Born?' He looks awkward saying it, as if waiting for Albus to be offended at his question. He realises that perhaps one day, years ago, his blood status would have mattered, maybe it still did to some people, maybe to this man, it still mattered.

'Half-blood.' He replies, shortly, testing him. He has no place for many people in his life, but at the top of that group were those who stuck to the repulsive ideals of the past.

'Ah, sorry, I just thought - with all – well you know, some of – reading and – muggle – ah, never mind. It doesn't matter anyway, does it?'

'Not at all.' He says, eyes hard, ready to argue if the guy sours at his acceptance. But of course -

The blond nods. 'Yeah, no, yeah, Durmstrang, they thought it mattered.' His face contorts into nothing but disgust, it didn't suite him. 'Fucking place, their twisted ideals. They don't accept muggle-borns you know, teach against muggles. They believe we're superior as well, like, incredibly so. Just because what, we can use a wand? Well, I can't fucking drive a motor vehicle, I can't fly a plane, I'm in no way – magical people are in no way superior.' He drops his head into his hands and turns his face.

'I agree.' He clarifies firmly.

'Yeah, good, everyone should. Not everyone does.'

'You think?' Albus likes to think such ridiculous prejudices were now a mere stain on their history.

'I know so.' He mumbles. Then quickly, 'Like I said, we heard nothing else, Durmstrang endorsed it, that ridiculous prejudice.'

'I see.'

Then he laughs, this odd stranger with his laughter that can't seem to be contained. He clasps his hands before him. Then leans back against the seat. 'My mum once said that there are two things you should never talk about to a stranger.'

'Oh?' Albus wonders, 'What did she say?'

'Politics and religion, she said were a no go, if, she said, if I had any chance of meeting someone sincere. I think we've spoken about both.'

'Religion?' He squints at him, 'When?'

He waves his hand in Albus' direction. 'Hell, Dante, that's a little of religion, no?'

'Somewhat, yeah, I suppose' He nods.

'Exactly. We've covered the bases I swore never to cover. Damn you, my mother wouldn't be very impressed.'

'Hey, I never – '

'I'm only kidding.'

The man's eyes practically shine against the low light of the dismal morning. Albus nods. He bites his lips. He bites his cheeks. His eyes watch the outside world flash by in spectacles of colours. Blue. Grey. Green. Brown. Green. Grey. Grey. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Minutes pass, Albus feels light, somehow. His eyes stay closed.

'Are you going to sleep?' He wasn't going too, but he nods anyway. 'Oh, could I perhaps read your book, then, maybe, if that's okay?' Albus opens an eye and nods. He passes him the book.

'Thank you. Thank you. I won't keep it.'

'It's okay.'

He never falls asleep on trains, not anywhere but his bed and even then, it is barely sleep. In some messed up logic of his, he doesn't want to lower his guard in such a public place. But he feels placated, he doesn't feel vulnerable here. And tiredness seeps in. His mind wanders, but nothing dark flashes by, and he welcomes the relief of that. Just before his mind switches off, just before he drifts away, he hears,

'I didn't say before, sorry, I'm Scorpius.'

'I'm Albus.' He replies, before sleep takes hold.

Groggy and lethargic. He remembers why sleeping on trains has never previously appealed to him.

There is no movement. It is dark outside. The carriage is lightly lit. He momentarily wonders if he's been forgotten, if everyone's got off without him. Is he on his way back to London? His heart races, paces -

'I tried to wake you.' He gasps. Not expecting a voice. He stands by the door, illuminated in the darkness. His trunk in his hand. 'I tried to wake you up,' he repeats, 'you sleep like a log.' Again, with the grin. 'We're here.'

Albus nods. His head is full of fluff. Full of sleep. He shakes it. The boy at the door, merlin, he'd thought he'd dreamt him.

His trunk feels lighter than earlier.

They are the last on the train.

'Did you hear me before?' Scorpius asks as they walk towards the carriages in the moonlight. Albus leading the way.

'When?'

'Before you filled the compartment with incessant snoring.'

'What?' His eyebrows pull together, 'I did not.'

'No, you didn't.' His grey eyes watch him, then look away. 'I'm Scorpius.'

'I heard, Albus.'

He feels him nudge his shoulder, but he's small, so it brushes his arm instead, 'Nooo, you're Albus, I'm Scorpius.'

'I know that – '

His laugh is loud and bright in the patchy darkness, with only candle light leading their way. 'Albus, Albus, where have I heard that before?' He taps his chin, looking ridiculous and - endearing.

Albus tells him what he tells everyone who realises, 'Albus Dumbledore.'

'Of, course. Albus Dumbledore. We were taught aplenty about Albus Dumbledore, at Durmstang.'

Albus must look down, to meet his eyes. 'Really,' he says.

'Headmaster of Hogwarts School. Chief Warlock. Enthused by the Deathly Hallows. Yada yada yada, he was an old friend of Durmstrang, Albus Dumbledore.' For some reason, he wants to tell him to stop saying the name, but he doesn't. 'Did you know him?' Scorpius asks as they board the second to last carriage. They are alone.

'My parents did.'

'Did they? Did they know him well?'

'Must have.'

'Suppose, to name you after him. I was named after a constellation. Named from the stars. Most of my family are. A bit shit really, why couldn't they change it up a little? You know? Scorpius. My middle name is Hyperion.'

'Oh, The High-one.' Replies Albus. But really, he's thinking about how he's named from the stars and how poignant that seems. Stars are so bright and everywhere, so like him, Scorpius, how bright he seems, in body and mind, how he's suddenly everywhere.

'What?' Scorpius eyes him curiously.

'Hyperion.'

'Is that what it means – the high one?'

He nods. Then,

'Albus?' His grey eyes elsewhere. Looking at the front of the carriage. 'Can you see them?'

'I can.'

He'd become immune to sight of the Thestrals. He'd been seeing them for years.

'Me too.'

'Can you?' He hadn't expected that. 'Can you really?'

Scorpius turns to him. Runs a hand through his hair. It's thick and so blonde. It curls against his neck. Albus looks back at his eyes, he blinks. 'I can. Why are they – why – what are they?' He looks away, back to the horses, the creatures, and moves over toward the edge of the carriage and gently strokes the Thestrals long bony neck. Albus grits his teeth.

'Thestrals.'

'Thestrals. My gods, I've never seen anything like it.' He turns back to face him. 'Are they fed?'

Albus guffaws. 'Are they what?'

'Fed, do they feed them? My - shit, they're so bony, look, look, it's all they are. Are they even – alive?' He gasps and clutches the creatures neck. It snorts, puffing air from its nose.

'I – don't know.' He can't keep the distain from his voice. In what world would this man have to see these creatures. He shouldn't have experienced what is needed, to see them. How can a world be so ugly to permit that?

'They must be. But fucking hell, are they okay?' He strokes the neck of the creature which snorts at his touch. 'I've never seen anything like it! Albus, are we taught about Thestrals?'

'No.' He replies quickly and looks away.

'To have been here since I was that young,' his hot breath whispers into his ear as they watch Tonkin, Hilary take her seat at the Hufflepuff table to an array of honest cheer, 'it must be such an experience.'

Infinitesimally Albus leans closer, 'Durmstrang wasn't?' He asks.

'No, fuck that place.' His goblet of juice snaps against the table as he sets it down too quickly, liquid sloshing over the side. 'Shit, shit, sorry.'

'Don't worry about it.' Albus shakes his head and mops it up.

'This hall is really beautiful isn't it? The whole castle – just awe inspiring don't you think? I suppose you're used to it by now. Do you remember your first experience of Hogwarts?' Scorpius wonders.

'Vaguely,' Albus moves his food around his plate, 'It was a long time ago.' He'll never forget it. The dejection on his brothers face as the Sorting Hat announced his Slytherin fate. How Rose had cried for some reason, after sitting alone with the Gryffindors. He'd been welcome with the Slytherins and got drunk afterwards, he didn't remember the night after that.

'Dad told me beforehand he'd thought I'd get put into Ravenclaw, when I told him it was Slytherin I'd been given, he wasn't best pleased, even though that was where he was too.'

'My parents were in Gryffindor.' Albus replies.

Scorpius turns fully on the bench, he straddles it, then bites his thumb nail and looks at him. Albus watches him back, eyes straining not to admire what his thumb is doing and where it is. 'Were they? Is that unusual, for them to be Gryffindor and you to be Slytherin. I never asked, do you have any siblings, I don't – are they in Slytherin too?'

'I'm the only Slytherin, everyone else is a Gryffindor actually.' Scorpius frowns at him, his light eyebrows bowing down, his lips fall and a small little dimple appears on his chin. Those eyes are sympathetic, so disgustingly so that he looks away from them.

'Slytherin's the fucking best, though right?' He says eventually, his hand wrapping around Albus' bicep. He squeezes. 'We're conniving and ambitious and – sassy.'

A laugh bursts out of him, 'Sassy?'

'Damn right,' Scorpius flicks non-existent hair from his shoulders, 'Sass masters.'

And Albus laughs through his nose, a few puffs of air. But more that he's laughed in years. Butterflies accompany the blooming flowers in the previously empty cavity of his chest.

Professor McGonagall ushers Scorpius into her office as they are walking from the Great Hall. He insists he'll meet Albus in the common room. But it occurs to Albus that he doesn't know where that is. So, he stands awkwardly outside. Back against the wall as hordes of students rush past him. Then someone grabs his arm.

'Albus, Albus, there you are!' Rose pulls herself out of the crowd.

'Here I am.' He replies. He shakes her hand off.

'James, he said you weren't coming to Dad's birthday. He'll be forty-seven.'

'Will he?' He doesn't know that. He doesn't know why it matters.

'Yes, it's something big, everyone's going to be there, Albus, why can't you just come?' Her tone gives no room for argument, but alas -

He couldn't. He didn't want too. His father – his mother – he didn't want too. 'I'm sorry.'

'No, you're not.' Her face grows red, her eyes cold, 'You aren't sorry at all.' She steps up to him, her toes bang his toes. 'Why can't you just be normal Albus, it's a fucking party for – gods, why is it so hard for you to be normal!' Her brown eyes widen, they search his own out intrusively. He just stands, stoic, hands in his pockets, eyes on her face. 'Why are you like this? You have always been this way! Why! My gods, my gods, I'm sick of your shit.'

'Okay.'

She screeches, people rushing past them look over. But Rose just shoves his chest and groans. 'I'm fucking done. Don't come, fuck it, no one want's you there anyway, fucking lowlife.'

She retreats, her face redder, her fingers in her hair. Albus watches her go, and thinks, yes, why can't you just be normal?

They sit in the small alcove, under the window looking out onto the Black Lake. Albus reads Dante's Inferno. Scorpius copies his timetable in different colours into his diary.

'I asked Professor McGonagall about the Thestrals.' Says Scorpius slowly.

Albus hovers his finger over his sentence and looks up. 'Did you?'

He nods. 'She said it was unfortunate that I could see them.' He uses a green quill to write Potions, he uses a purple one to write Charms. Then Albus says,

'It is.'

Scorpius shrugs.

Albus casts his eyes back to Dante, he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to think about why Scorpius can see Thestrals.

'Was yours? Was yours sad? What you saw to – see them?' He bites the end of his red quill. Guiltily, like he knows how loaded such a question is. The ink drips onto his diary. One drop, two, three, six drops until Albus speaks.

'I don't want to talk about it.' He pretends to read. It's awkward for a moment. Something uncomfortable snakes up his spine, he doesn't want to reject his curiosity, but Scorpius shouldn't be marred by his own darkness.

'That's okay, sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Mum always said I was too fucking nosey for my own good.' He writes Transfiguration in Orange.

'Did she say, fucking nosey?' Says Albus because – because –

Scorpius laughs and Albus feels like laughing too but doesn't. 'Holy shit, no. She never swore.'

He doesn't miss his use of past tense. It makes him shuffle against the cold leather of his seat, 'Never?'

'Ever. She was very proper, very neat, very pertinent, in every way.' Grey eyes illuminate with feeling. 'She was beautiful.'

He nods, dumbly, fucking nods, then looks awkwardly back at his novel. His novel, he hasn't read a word of it all day. He tosses it on to the black wooden desk between them. 'Do you want it?'

Scorpius pulls the book towards him. 'Really?' He traces the creases in the cover and looks at Albus with his grey, unyielding eyes. 'Really?' He repeats.

'Yes, of course.'

'Thank you. Want one of my quills?' he rolls the colourful quills towards Albus, all have bright feathers, pink, blue, green, purple, orange, yellow. He could use them to draw, perhaps, but he hasn't drawn anything in so long. He shakes his head.

'Thank you, though.'

Scorpius rolls a green towards him. 'Come on, take it. Draw another serpent.'

Albus takes it, though he knows he won't.

(September 5th)

Scorpius watches the group of people filter into the room. Albus Potter towers above them all, his thick arms crossed over his muscular chest, he says nothing, he is silent, like a pillar, the others mill and mull around him, like a thick tall pole of cement, he is ignored.

'Albus,' he says just to get him moving, or talking, or noticed.

'Yeah?' He turns his head and looks at him, eyes squinted, as if someone calling his name was something unrecognised and foreign. Scorpius lifts his eyebrows, not knowing what to say, he could ask why he woke up last night, how he heard the sounds, he could ask if he's alright. He probably should and if no one else was here he might, but there are, and these people won't even acknowledge him, never mind ask why he cries when he sleeps.

'Where's the library?' he shows him his copy of Hogwarts: A History, 'My book says it's fucking huge, with a restricted section and everything.'

Albus nods, 'It's – I'll show you, it's not far.' And he moves from the wall. He's changed from his school uniform into black denim jeans and a grey t-shirt, dark trainers. It makes him seem darker, less approachable maybe, if Scorpius didn't feel so strangely at ease around him, he would probably be intimidated.

Their room-mates, the three other guys in the room, barely make eye contact with him, but their gazes aren't unsteady or coy, they just seem to look through him, indifferent. But as they are leaving, he turns back and notices the three of them staring at their backs, their faces poised in something like laughter.

They find an empty table right at the back of the library, between the Muggle Studies and Muggle/ Magical Universes sections. Scorpius' gaze lingers a little too long on the restricted section beside them, stacks of books upon books behind a six-foot glass wall.

He sits at the small two-seater table, his knee's knock into Albus' whose long limbs take up too much space, he settles in putting his own smaller legs between Albus' knees. It is only when he's emptied his backpack of its entire contents that he can meet his eyes.

'Did you know,' he says, 'this is the newest version of Hogwarts: A History, so you might know some people in it. There's a whole section on the battle.' Albus doesn't reply, so Scorpius says, 'You know, the Battle of Hogwarts.' And to that Albus lifts his head so Scorpius continues, 'Yeah, I'm sure you know all about it, but I'm just learning. My Dad doesn't talk about any of that, ever, so I barely knew it happened. But there are so many books on the Battle and the before and aftermath and everything. Do you know much about it?'

Something passes over Albus' face, but then he blinks and it is gone, but not missed by an unblinking Scorpius. He clears his throat, 'I suppose no one likes talking about it, it was war wasn't it, I'm not sure there's anything as brutal as war.' He pauses, considering, 'Or perhaps there are many brutalities of life, and for some people war is just one of them.'

'I don't think we can imagine what life is like amidst war.' Albus replies unsteadily.

'No, no, I don't think so either – ' he almost apologises, just for the look on his face, he shouldn't have said anything, he's always doing that, sometimes he has no filter, he doesn't think enough before speaking, especially to someone he barely knows, but for some reason, even though he knows he shouldn't, he says, 'But that's a good thing isn't it. We're the products of war maybe, the orphans of it, because our parents lived it and we just see them and how they deal with the war they lived. The new products of the people they are after war, that's all we see.'

Scorpius doesn't expect it, but Albus nods and even better he replies, 'Do you think so?'

Spurred on, Scorpius admits, 'I think I'd like to think – ' he rolls his eyes at his word choice, 'I mean, sometimes I know my Dad sees it again. I don't know what happened, like I say, he'd never tell me and I wouldn't expect him too. But sometimes noises scare him, certain spells he won't ever do, he shakes a lot. But I never saw any of those aspects of him as odd until I realised that maybe he wasn't always like that, he wasn't always so reserved and cold. There must have been a time in his life where he smiled, or laughed even, but I'll never know that person, because war happened and changed him. Changed so many people.'

'I've never thought of it like that.'

'Me either, I took the selfish approach and just thought my Dad was miserable, but there's always so much more to why someone is why they are, so many layers to them.' He looks at Albus as he says it, 'Layers accumulated by war, or hurt, or – anything, people are all different and react to different things – differently – oh my – ' he laughs, 'Man, am I even making any fucking sense right now?'

He doesn't laugh, he says, 'You are.'

'I had a diary at Durstrang, I have it somewhere, you'd laugh if you read it, it's full of shit like that, me trying to figure the mysteries of the world.'

'Did you ever solve any?'

Between the book shelves which held within them their own answers to entirely different mysteries, on their little table, in the corner of a crowded library, Albus' knee knocks against his and Scorpius grins, all teeth.