note: If you feel like something isn't lining up with canon, it's intentional as this fic is canon divergence that diverged way before we are dropped into the story. Unless, of course, it's unintentional and I'm just taking an L by accidentally fucking a detail up.

Special thanks to Katie (dreamsofdramione on ao3 & tumblr) — my incomparable Alpha & Beta — who'd been holding my hand and assuring me that yes, she does like the idea and yes, I should try writing it. (Honestly, Katie worked through this chapter with a fine-toothed comb and fixed a lot of things I wasn't confident about. She also entertained my dumb Serpent King meme-inspired idea for a hot second, and that there, lads, is true dedication.)

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my past has tasted bitter for years now so I wield an iron fist
grace is just weakness, or so I've been told
I've been cold, I've been merciless
but the blood on my hands scares me to death
maybe I'm waking up today
I'll be good, I'll be good
and I'll love the world like I should, yeah
I'll be good, I'll be good
for all of the times I never could
— I'll Be Good by Jaymes Young

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chapter one: ill met by moonlight

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October was bracingly crisp and golden as an apple. Hogwarts grounds were bathed in earthy browns, burnt oranges, and buttery yellows of fallen leaves, and yet untouched by the autumn frost. The day had been fresh and bright, the gloaming sky was dipped in lavender and honey, but all of nature's beauty was lost on Hermione — she only saw red.

Nothing seemed to go her way today.

Brushing and braiding her hair into a demure plait was a particularly arduous task this morning, it had no doubt found the humidity of the castle highly disagreeable, her breakfast tea burned her tongue, and there was an awful, infuriating, hide-our-heads-in-the-sand-let's-blame-everything-on-the-demented-and-attention-seeking-Boy-Who-Lived article in the Daily Prophet she could barely stomach reading.

She'd forgotten her Transfiguration essay in the dorm and had to sprint all the way back to the Gryffindor tower to get it. On the way back, the right buckle of her t-bar shoes broke, tripping her over worn, smooth stones and causing her to spill the contents of her satchel all across the corridor. As she crawled on her hands and knees, picking up her books and parchments, and Vanishing the dark spill of her broken ink bottle, a gaggle of fourth-year Ravenclaw girls passed, pointedly snickering at her behind their hands.

Worse still, she was late for Charms because of the whole ordeal and even though Flitwick dismissed her apologies with a congenial smile, Hermione's cheeks still burned brightly as she was forced to take the only available seat left, all the way in the back of the class, next to Michael Corner, a dark-haired boy whom she found one-third cute and two-thirds creepy. He'd asked to borrow a spare quill from her because he'd forgotten his and Hermione just knew she'd never see that turkey-feather quill ever again.

Then, as if to add salt to her bleeding wounds, after lunch in Herbology class, Seamus accidentally sprayed some pungent sapling puss over her outer robes, which wouldn't wash-out with spells and she had to ask one of the retainer elves to clean it for her in the utility room.

Now, Hermione was doing her rounds of the halls of Hogwarts alone, because Ron had begged off his Prefect duty to sneak off with Harry to the Hufflepuff common room, where apparently the semi-finals of the autumn chess tournament were being held and he had an ongoing vendetta against Gillian Ossett, who'd beat him during a previous match.

Hermione had finished patrolling the western side of the fifth floor — responsibility that was originally assigned to Ronald — and was striding down the east corridor, having checked the Divination Tower for stray students, and making her way towards the Prefect's Bathroom; a regular, non-enchanted map of Hogwarts in one hand and her wand at the ready in the other. She didn't particularly like the look Graham Montague gave her when he shoulder-checked her on the way towards dinner and it was better safe than sorry when prowling the castle's empty corridors alone at night.

Her path was illuminated by the sparsely lined everlit torches, snug in their ornate sconces, their light soft and warm like buttered yam — it was oddly comforting sight, she thought, their flickering fire with its dancing shadows amongst the cool stone walls. That's when she heard it — a stifled sniffle and muffled rustle of robes. Hermione tensed and quietly pocketed her map; adjusting her tight grip on her wand, she rounded the corner to find—

Nothing. To find nothing at all.

Except the life-sized marble statue of Gregory the Smarmy on which moonlight from the nearby window cast its pale shine. She frowned, the sight of the ill-favoured thing tickled her memory, urging her to remember… something about it. Hermione pursed her lips and waited; patience was a virtue, or so people who couldn't immediately achieve results claimed. Four heartbeats later, she heard it again — a gentle little wheeze of someone struggling not to cry.

Ah, she thought with a prick of sorrow, recalling her own First Year and how lonely she'd been. Shoulders relaxing, Hermione confidently walked forwards. She remembered now, there was a secret passageway behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy; Fred and George had told her about it years ago, it must have slipped her mind. Hermione murmured a soft Lumos and the tip of her wand lit up, irradiating her immediate vicinity and dispelling the need to rely on dim moonlight.

She rounded the statue and peered behind it. There, shrouded in shadows, hid a boy, his knees drawn-up to his chest, his anxious-looking, erubescent face illumined by the cool, pale-blue light of her spell. He looked young, a First Year probably, his face fair and fine-featured with a high forehead and tapering chin; he had familiar blonde hair, but his red-rimmed eyes were a soft, pale blue, so unlike his brother's.

Oh, Hermione realised with a start, it was Malfoy.

She had been aware there was another Malfoy who'd joined Hogwarts this year — who hadn't noticed the appearance of the infamous Slytherin Prince's younger brother during the Welcoming Feast? — but, according to both Ginny and Lavender, he hadn't been seen by society since their Mother's unfortunate accident, spawning rumours of his untimely demise and — what Hermione was sure was infinitely worse for the rich, pureblood elite — supposed Squibhood.

The boy before her was neither dead or magic-less, he was, however, obviously crying. Alone. In a dark, secreted corridor. Merlin help her.

What was his name? It was another constellation name, she was sure, as equally old-fashioned and unusual as his older brother's. Hermione rummaged in her brain, but drew a blank.

"Hello," she said.

The boy kept silent. He just stared at her, his eyes round and full of trepidation. They flicked towards her Prefect badge, then her Gryffindor patch, and narrowed ever so slightly.

"Um," Hermione began, feeling out of her woefully depth. She was much better with younger students than Ronald, but they were all predisposed to heed her, since she was the Prefect of their House; none of them had been the younger Slytherin brother of her antagonistic, unrelenting academic rival, Draco Malfoy. "Are you all right?"

That, she immediately concluded, was a stupid question. The Malfoy boy's expression said as much, too.

Deciding she ought not be cowed by an eleven-year-old, Hermione deftly slid in the narrow gap between the statue and the wall, and into the hidden passageway. Once inside, she'd assessed her surroundings. It wasn't in terrible disrepair, no-doubt maintained by Hogwarts' army of elves, but it was dusty and she spotted a suspicious-looking stain at the foot of the statue, that could either be grease or blood or some other unfortunate bit of liquid.

Feeling the Malfoy boy's inquisitive stare on her, Hermione refused to feel awkward, and cast a quick Scourgify and a Tergeo, before gingerly sitting down by him and primly folding her legs at her side, crossing them at the ankles, and pulling the hem of her skirt over her stockinged knees.

"Hello again," she said, turning to face him, and extended her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Slytherins, she snorted inwardly, at the sight of his tapered gaze, so suspicious. Still, he tentatively took her proffered hand and shook it. Hermione was surprised by how icy his hand was. She wondered how long he'd been hiding here.

"A pleasure," he drawled, comparably to his brother, if with palpably less firm self-assurance and innate haughtiness, "Scorpius Malfoy."

"Well, now that we're acquainted, mind telling me what are you doing out of dorms at," Hermione mentally calculated, "roughly nine-thirty p.m., give or take? It's almost curfew."

"Nothing," he said, which was clearly a lie and they both knew it — his tear-stained, flushed face and hoarse voice spoke a different story. Then, "I was exploring."

"Uh-huh," Hermione said, drawing out her vowels. "All the way until curfew?"

To his credit, the boy didn't miss a beat. "Hogwarts is ten centuries old. Full of riveting stuff."

"Any reason you're tucked away behind the statue of the illustrious Gregory the Smarmy?"

"Got tired. Needed a bit of a breather."

"And your face?"

"Allergic to dust, it's quite terrible actually." Scorpius gave an insouciant shrug and immediately winced.

Caught you. "What's next? Your shoulder hurts because you've got chronic fibromyalgia?"

"Chronic fibro- what?"

"Never mind that," Hermione said, pulling at Scorpius's school robes and eliciting a squawk of incredulity out of him. "Where are you hurt?"

Scorpius had given her a look of such utter bewilderment and deep offense, one would think he was a blushing village maiden being ravished by a passing dissolute rake. "What in Salazar's name are you doing?" he gasped in as calm a voice as he could — which was to say, it was not calm in the least; as he tried to yank the collar of his school robes out of Hermione's grasp to no avail.

"Oh, don't whinge, I'm not trying to hurt y—Stop struggling! You are going to make your injury worse! Merlin, what delicate sensibilities you purebloods have!" Hermione huffed in frustration, then deciding to take matters in her own hands, she cried out in rapid succession, "Nox! Petrificus Totalus!"

Scorpius, who'd been half-way standing and trying to wrestle his robes back on, suddenly went rigid; his arms snapped to his sides, his legs sprang together, and he swayed like a pendulum for a moment. He was stiff as a board and before he could fall over onto his side, Hermione sprang forwards and caught him by his shoulders, internally wincing and hoping she hadn't pressed onto his injury.

"I'm not going to apologise for the spell. You ought to have listened to me, I'm just trying to help," Hermione said, matter-of-factly. She glanced down at Scorpius — his eyes were moving frantically, wide with distress, but his jaws were jammed together, so he could neither speak nor scream. "I am sorry if I frightened you, though. That was never my intention and I promise I'm not going to hurt you."

Scorpius's air of resentment hadn't quelled and Hermione quietly sighed. With a wave of her wand, she summoned a torch out of the hallway and it flew into her outstretched hand. Spotting an empty sconce nearby, Hermione stretched out, balancing Scorpius's paralyzed body with one hand, and deposited the illuminant into it. Then, she propped Scorpius up against a wall as delicately as she could and carefully pulled his robe off his left shoulder, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, to reveal the beginnings of a great violaceous bruise blooming across his shoulder and collarbone.

With conscientious, gentle hands Hermione prodded the contusion, determining its severity. With a steady wrist, she traced the injury with her wand and clearly enunciated, "Ekuhmonathai ." She watched with satisfaction as the condensed blood broke down and got reabsorbed into the boy's body. Then, with a flick of her wrist and a muttered Condeliquesco, the swelling dissipated, too.

"There now, all fixed," Hermione said, smiling brightly, as she buttoned-up and straightened up his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles on his robes. "No reason to fuss over."

Scorpius's aggrieved glare said otherwise, and, well, objectively speaking, he wasn't in the wrong, Hermione surmised. But it was for his own good — it was too late in the evening to visit Madam Pomfrey and healing spells were far too advanced for a First Year to perform.

With a muttered Finite Incantatem from Hermione, the boy's body slumped and slid down the wall into a graceless heap.

"You realise that had you explained what you wanted to do and given me a chance to respond, you wouldn't have had to incapacitate a First Year student and I wouldn't have been manhandled in a dark corner like a three-knut trollop," Scorpius hissed out as got to his feet and edged away from Hermione. She was about to object, but he barrelled on, voice rising in pitch, "I have a jar of bacta in my trunk, impeccably brewed and bottled by my own brother. I would have been just fine without your heedless meddling."

Hermione pursed her lips and tapped her wand against her hip. "You're a scornful child, aren't you? You remind me strongly of him, your brother."

Scorpius straightened up his spine and jutted his chin, he looked every inch a Malfoy. "It would be an honour and a privilege to be like Draco."

Of course it would, Hermione thought, sullenly. Still, if she wanted for Scorpius to open up about what happened to him, she ought to stop being inimical towards Malfoy while speaking to his own younger brother. She deftly slid her wand into its holster on her forearm as a sign of suspension of hostilities. It hadn't escaped her notice that Scorpius relaxed his shoulders at the action. Hermione grimaced, it didn't make her feel good to intimidate First Years.

"I suppose your brother is not without some charms," she acknowledged with a sigh, "he's—" authoritarian and obnoxious; disgustingly argumentative, actually; uncomfortably astute and remarkably "—clever, I'll give him that.

"You say he successfully brewed bacta for you?" Hermione's inquiry received her a succinct nod. "Quite impressive."

The compliment hadn't eased the last bit of tension out of Scorpius, but he looked decidedly less hostile. He moved to sit back down at the foot at the statue and motioned for Hermione to do the same. Once she did, he said, stiffly, "Thank you. For healing me. I didn't quite appreciate the way you've handled it, but I recognise your intent and I thank you for your help." He gave her a sharp look. "This is not an acknowledgement of whatever perceived debt you suppose I might owe you. Your actions do not behold me to you."

"Of course not," Hermione drawled, a wry look on her face, "wouldn't dream of it."

Scorpius nodded primly. "Right."

In the amber light of the torch, Hermione studied his face. There was something uncanny about how well-groomed and faelid-nordid the Malfoys looked — a harmonious amalgamation of sharp and angular features; all high planes and clean-cut angles. There was very little softness there, with exception of the curves of lips and distinct, arched eyebrows. And yet, Scorpius looked impalpably different from his brother. Most obviously, his eyes were round and limpid blue; a stark contrast to the almond-shaped Black eyes Malfoy had, as deep-grey as glowing embers of charcoal, equally bright and hazardous.

"Ready to tell me how you got a bruise the size of a quaffle?"

Scorpius's gaze cut away towards the floor and he shifted nervously. "Not particularly."

"Fair enough." She fished a bundle out of her robe pocket and unfurled her lace-trimmed kerchief, revealing three neatly stacked rubescent savory treats. "Want a pumpkin pastry? I nicked a few from dinner."

Scorpius gave her a pitying look, but took one nonetheless. "If that's a bribe, it's a poor one. Especially since you've revealed your agenda not even a minute ago."

"I make for a poor intriguer, yes," Hermione laughed, high and clear, "but I thought you might be hungry and it felt a shame not to share."

Scorpius eyed the pastry warily and bit into it. As he slowly chewed, healthy colour returned to his cheeks. "Huh, it's not bad."

"You've never eaten one?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"I'm not fond of squash," he said, wrinkling his nose rather cutely, "but beggars can't be choosers and Astoria insists I shouldn't look a gift pegasus in the mouth, which is a load of rubbish if you ask me. Brother says one ought to look the gift pegasus in the mouth, nose, and ears before letting it anywhere near one's proverbial stables. Ideally, also inspect all of the leg muscles, double check its pedigree, and maybe give it a good wash, too, just in case." He nodded smartly, looking Hermione straight in the eye. The gravitas he was trying to adopt was somewhat lost on account of a bit of pastry being stuck to his cheek. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, and all that."

Hermione swallowed a smile. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

By the time Scorpius had worked his way through all three pastries, quarter of an hour had passed and Hermione felt the chill of the castle's stones seep into her limbs. Once again, she wondered how long Scorpius had hidden here and whether or not he'd caught a cold. She had to instruct him to get a Pepper-Up Potion from the Hospital Wing first thing in the morning. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him just that when—

"It was the older kids, Sixth or Seventh Years. They caught me after Herbology, all alone. Pushed me around a bit, sliced my bag open, and then cast an Incarcerous on me," Scorpius informed her in a disturbingly detached tone of voice. "They left me there for hours, till the spell wore off — thought it was funny to tie a Malfoy up like a Christmas roast and serve him up to werewolves in the Forbidden Forest." At the sound of Hermione's horrified gasp, he hurriedly added, "I wasn't actually in the Forbidden Forest, mind you — they're plonkers, not mental — but, it was close to the border still and well..."

"You were still afraid," Hermione said and grasped Scorpius's hand tightly with both of hers. A trickling sensation of guilt clawed at her heart — she regretted her high-handed and aggressive approach to him and his situation prior. No wonder he'd begrudged her interference. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Scorpius shrugged. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have been caught on my own. A Slytherin must never be alone, that's the rule. Brother will be so disappointed, he warned me to be mindful and alert." He looked down, his hands clutching his knees in a white-knuckled grip, and it suddenly struck Hermione how terribly young and vulnerable he looked, much younger than his eleven years. "Not everyone in Hogwarts accepts me."

Odd that, Hermione thought. Tyrannical tendencies and insufferable behaviour aside, Draco Malfoy was a charismatic little shit, unequivocally the most popular Slytherin in the castle, a flock of minions and sycophants fluttering around him like a charm of finches. It seemed almost inconceivable that malignity would befall the youngest Malfoy with a patron like that. Or that his Slytherin Prince of a brother would permit it. Or perhaps he would, she thought, uncharitably. She hardly knew Malfoy outside of their academic encounters and found his character to be dubious at best; Harry and Ron certainly never had a kind word to spare about him. Mayhaps it was not beyond the realm of possibility for him to bear acrimony towards his younger brother, or simply, and probably most terribly, not care.

Still, she kept her thoughts to herself. It would not do to upset Scorpius further. "They have to be punished. If you know who they are, I'll report them to the headmaster."

Scorpius gave her a sideways look, but kept mum.

"You do know, don't you?" Hermione ascertained, shrewdly. She leaned closer towards the boy, a flare of righteousness urging her on. "If you know who they are, Scorpius, you have to tell me."

A shadow fell over them as moonlight bent around whatever—whoever—was suddenly blocking the entryway and Hermione's heart stuttered, froze, and leapt into a sprint as a cold wave of dread washed over her, prickling her skin. She felt the chill of his breath before she heard him.

"What does he have to tell you, Granger?"

Hermione slowly turned her head and there stood Draco Malfoy, all in black; he was a shadow amongst shadows, cloaked in unimpressed air, born of privilege and adroit competence.

"Draco!" Scorpius cried out, elated, and jumped up, rushing past Hermione and over to Malfoy in a blur. He rammed straight into his brother with such force that Malfoy reeled back into the corridor proper with a sharp exhale. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have been alone! And I shouldn't have hid afterwards!"

"That's quite all right, sweetling," Malfoy said, gently. From her vantage point, Malfoy's sharp-featured face held an expression of tender affection that was unexpected and foreign to her. Hermione bit her lip, feeling oddly uncomfortable by their display. "Calm now. Tell me — are you whole? Are you well?"

"Um…" Scorpius fumbled and momentarily Hermione thought he'd relay her coercive healing session, but he didn't. "I'm all right," he said, with poorly feigned confidence.

Malfoy's brow furrowed and he gripped his brother by the shoulders, peering into his upturned face for a prolonged moment. "Ah," he said, voice feather-soft. " I see."

Scorpius ducked his head and stepped away from the embrace, busying himself by straightening his robes.

Hermione rose unhurriedly, dusted off her skirt, and soundlessly slipped through the narrow entryway. "Malfoy." She greeted the Slytherin with a curt nod, fingers nervously flexing. When he responded in kind, she continued, "I was asking Scorpius who had attacked him."

"If you're referring to the three Gryffindors who assaulted him, then they're dealt with," Malfoy informed her, arching one dark-blond eyebrow challengingly. He was standing with his spine ramrod straight and his shoulders squared, as if one might forget the breadth of space he occupied if he didn't claim every bit of it at all times. "Twenty-five points from each and four weeks of detention in the dungeons with Snape."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. Seventy-five points was a substantial set-back for Gryffindor in the race for the Cup — Merlin! They were from her House! — but given how they'd left an eleven-year-old student tied-up by the Forbidden Forest, she couldn't find it in her to be particularly sympathetic about the loss. Still, something prickled in the back of her mind. "And you find that satisfactory?"

Malfoy snorted ungraciously. "For bearing ill-intent and violence on my flesh and blood, and insulting the son of a Great House? Hardly. But in the realm of Hogwarts, I suppose scrubbing potion cauldrons by hand for a month is adequate enough punishment, and I shall have to content myself with it." He put a beringed hand on the base of Scorpius's neck and the child shivered at the touch. "If you excuse us, Granger, we shall retire. It's well past curfew now, I have a child to put to bed, and you have rounds to finish."

Without so much as by your leave, Malfoy spun on his heel and strode south-east towards the stairwells, guiding Scorpius with a firm hand, their school robes billowing behind them. Idly, Hermione wondered if they were charmed to do so, she wouldn't have been surprised if they were.

Then, Scorpius Malfoy looked over his shoulder and waved in farewell.

"Your hand is cold," Scorpius said, once they turned the corner.

"Is it?" Draco asked, withdrawing it. "I apologise. I've been outside." At Scorpius's curious glance, he elaborated, "Searching. For you. Salazar's beard, I thought something had carried you off into the Forbidden Forest, Scor."

"I'm sorry. I should have told you where I was." Scorpius twisted the ring on his left pinkie finger, a brother to Draco's heir's black-gold signet ring. He'd felt it grow hot in the passageway several times, but he'd ignored the summons.

"Yes, you should have. It was childish of you to hide and ignore my messages, and as you're oft to remind me, you're a child no longer."

They descended the moving stairwells and Draco put a protective hand on Scorpius's back again, this time between his shoulder-blades. "I understand why you did it — you were scared—"

"Humiliated, more like," Scorpius snorted.

"There's nothing shameful about fear. Fear is for the wise, it can make you strong," Draco said, not unkindly. "I'm not mad—"

"Just disappointed, right?"

Draco shook his head. "No. Not disappointed. I was deathly worried, scared out of my wits—"

"That's a lark. You're never witless."

"Young man, will you ever let me finish or am to be interrupted in perpetuity?"

Scorpius gave a bright, innocuous smile and Draco laughed, ruffling his hair. "Cheeky imp."

"I am serious though," Draco continued. They stopped at an alcove, waiting for the stairwells to change. "I was scared beyond belief. Merlin, if something had happened to you, I wouldn't know what I would do. Scorpius, look at me and listen carefully: you mustn't do anything like this ever again. Don't go anywhere alone and don't ignore my messages. Promise me."

"I promise," Scorpius said, feeling meek and guilt-ridden. "I'll be good, I swear it."

"Good lad," Draco said, nodding. "I can forgive you anything — arson, murder, and skeeving off lessons — but I'm afraid I would never forgive you if your misadventures make me prematurely grey."

Scorpius laughed, instantaneously feeling better, his prior morose mood all but dissipating. Had Draco truly been cross with him, he would have mentioned Mother, bless her soul, and how it would have broken her poor heart to see her youngest son so unruly and ill-mannered. Mother was a sensitive topic in the Malfoy household — Father hardly ever spoke of her, contrastingly Draco — who wielded her name and authority with the best guilt-trippers out there — was full of stories and fond memories. Scorpius himself remembered Narcissa Malfoy faintly, but he missed her something fierce.

They had jumped over a trick step when Scorpius asked, "How did you find me?"

"Deductive reasoning and a little bit of help." Draco tapped the silver serpent on his necktie pin, it twitched and winked its green-malachite eye conspiratorially. Scorpius immediately grasped his own identical pin.

"You put a tracking spell on me?"

"Not quite. A tracking spell wouldn't effectively work in Hogwarts, there are too many magical interferences. In any case, it's a simple pairing charm — it wouldn't give me your exact location, but I can sense the trace amount of my own magical signature pulsating from your pin. Afterwards, it was just a question whether or not I could infer your location from what I'd gleamed." Draco grimaced. "Took me longer than I would like to find you. I tried Avenseguim first, but it took me to your bag by the Forest as the charms on your robes impede it — I wonder if I could circumvent that by imbedding a homing rune into the material — and then I spent Merlin-knows-how-long combing through the area. Did you bite one of them? There were traces of blood, but it wasn't yours."

"I did," Scorpius said, proudly.

"Smart. Never give up with a fight." They reached the bottom of the Grand Stairway on the ground floor and Draco took his hand off Scorpius's back. He watched as Draco tapped his signet ring and murmured into it. Then, "Speaking of your bag, here is it. I fixed it when I found it."

Scorpius hadn't noticed before, but Draco had his satchel slung over his shoulder. It was black-leather, high-quality and buttery soft, embossed with an elegant S.M. in gold ink on the corner of the front flap, imbued with a feather-light and self-refreshing charms, for cleanliness and ease of cary. Draco and he had received a twin pair of school satchels last Christmas, a gift from Scorpius's Nuncle.

"Don't worry," Draco added, as Scorpius took the bag with a quiet Thank you. "I removed the dirt smudges on your homework, you haven't lost your essays."

They weren't ten paces past the Great Hall when he asked, "Are you hungry? Do you want to stop by the kitchens?"

"No." Scorpius shook his head. "I ate."

"Ah, yes, Granger's pumpkin pastries. Good to know you can, actually, consume pumpkins, despite your multiple assurances to the contrary. Should I ask the elves to stop putting a pitcher of apple juice by your seat, hmmm?" At Draco's words, Scorpius blushed and ducked his head. Draco laughed. "Never knew all it took for you to cease to be a picky eater was a pretty witch's smile."

"She was pleasant enough. She didn't have to share with me, you know. I'm nothing to her."

"You're blood of kings, Scorpius, you've never been nothing," Draco said with unyielding assurance. "And Granger — pleasant? Self-righteous and intolerably peremptory, more like; count yourself lucky you've never shared classes with her — she acts like she's never wrong, which is a load of rubbish! Just last week she mucked up her Transfiguration assignment, but try telling her that she's got something wrong if your name isn't Minerva McGonagall! She—" Draco cut himself off and took a deep, steadying breath. "In any case, she trounced you soundly, buddy. Were you but a few years older, I would be decidedly concerned about how easily a girl had indisposed and stripped you in a dark and dusty corner."

"Draco! Stop!" Scorpius whined, hiding his face in his hands. "You're incorrigible!"

"And you're far too young to make me an uncle, so hold off from girls for a while, please."

"My two best friends are girls," Scorpius pointed out, just because he could.

"Ah, yes, the pulchritudinous Astoria Greengrass and the dynamical Ivy Warrington," Draco drawled, as they made their way into the dungeons proper. "Warrington had been the one who'd alerted me at dinner when she couldn't find you."

Scorpius looked down at his feet. Astoria had gotten a rash from the spores of Puffapods they'd been working with and Professor Sprout had taken her to the Medical Wing after class. Ivy had intended to keep him company as he was finishing up tending to his seed-pods — Herbology was his best class and Scorpius aimed to excel beyond the norm — but she had wanted to catch her brother, Cassius, before his next class, and Scorpius had dismissed her, telling her to not wait up. That had been a mistake. During the first night after Sorting, Professor Snape had informed the First Year Slytherins of rules they would live by throughout the duration of their stay at Hogwarts. One of them was: a Slytherin must never be alone. Hogwarts was not kind to serpents.

"Ah, so guilt motivated her," Draco said after Scorpius had relayed the situation.

"Don't punish her!"

"Scorpius," Draco began slowly, turning to face his brother, "do you suppose I would harm an eleven-year-old girl?"

"No," Scorpius huffed, "but I know you — you'll say something to her and make it sound like you don't mean anything by it, but she'll feel bad for days!"

Draco chuckled. "I see how it is. All right, I suppose that girl learned her lesson, too."

There was something odd about that, Scorpius realised, how contained Draco was keeping himself. His brother was not prone to fits of temper; he was a rational, cold-blooded being — but he was fiercely protective of those close to him and had a vicious streak a mile-wide. Scorpius expected avowal of just retribution for the affront dealt him, but... instead, Draco was suspiciously easy-going.

He frowned. "This is not the way to the dorms."

"No, it is not," Draco replied, but did not elaborate.

Swerving his head in confusion, Scorpius wondered where they were going. He supposed he would find out soon enough. There was no reason to ask stupid questions when he could excersise a bit of patience.

They snaked through the winding passageways and corridors that made up the labyrinth of Slytherin dungeons in silence. By the time they arrived at a thick, oak door of one of the unfamiliar, abandoned classrooms, they were on one of the underground levels of the dungeons, deep in the bowels of Hogwarts.

Scorpius looked up at his brother — he was lanky for an eleven-year-old, but Draco was much taller than most boys his age, and Scorpius had to crane his neck to meet his gaze. Draco's grey eyes were fever-bright and glinting savagely in the flickering torch-light.

Oh, Scorpius thought, understanding washing over him.

Draco knocked on the door, three short taps and a long one. It opened to reveal the curly-haired head of a grim-faced Theodore Nott Junior. "Hello, Scorpius," he greeted, pleasantly. "I'm glad to see you're all right."

"Yes, thank you," Scorpius said and gulped audibly.

"Come along now, little prince," Draco called over his shoulder as he entered. "Don't dawdle."

Scorpius did as was asked of him, jumping slightly when the door shut soundly by Nott, leaving the Malfoy brothers alone. Or so Scorpius thought until he saw the others. By the far east wall, three figures were strung up by their wrists like lamb-cuts at the butcher's. They were tied up at the ankles and wrists with thickly coiled rope, and white rags stuffed into their mouths, which hadn't deterred their impotent attempts at screaming.

Draco, who was making his way towards them with silent steps, placing each foot with care and precision of a stalking predator, fanned the fingers of his right hand almost lazily, then quickly made a fist, but never took his eyes off Scorpius. He must have cast some spell, Scorpius realised, because the three Gryffindors who'd but hours prior been laughing at Scorpius's own misfortune, were now wiggling about soundlessly.

"When Filch threatens to chain students up and dangle them by their ankles from the dungeon ceiling, he is not jesting," Draco explained, his voice deceptively mellow. "This is the old punishment. It fell out of fashion centuries ago. Ordinarily I wouldn't endorse something so crass, but tonight I'm making an exception."

Scorpius watched the three boys, caught between horror and fascination. They weren't that much older than Draco, nor taller or bigger, and they certainly didn't look like much now. Emboldened, Scorpius walked forwards until he was mere meters away from the boys who'd bullied him since September, who'd finally caught him today and told him he'd be lucky to have a werewolf snack on him.

"They were brass necked little tossers, weren't they?" Draco asked, his unruffled tone belying the cold look on his face and icy fury rolling off him in palpable waves. Scorpius nodded. "How shall we deal with them?"

Scorpius reeled back, whirling to face his brother. "We?"

"Yes, we. They've attacked you, Scor."

"I—I—I… I don't know… I don't want to do anything to them."

Draco studied him, intently. "Shall I let them go?"

"No!" Scorpius cried out. "Perhaps… leave them here? For the night? To scare them a little?"

"Is that what you want? For them to be scared?"

As scared as you had been?, Scorpius thought, recognising his brother's intent. Is that what I want? He wanted to get away from here, to not see the darker shades of his brother's nature. He wanted them to pay in sanguinary, to make them suffer as he had suffered. He didn't know what he wanted at all.

Scorpius nodded, and Draco took out his wand.

He watched as his brother strode forwards. Scorpius did not want to feel pity for the three Gryffindors, so he snuffed it out. They weren't in any real danger. Draco was just scaring them. But as Scorpius thought that, something shifted in the abandoned classroom. The air felt cool and biting, as if it was winter outside.

Scorpius glanced at his brother; he was wearing a disturbingly vampiric facsimile of a smile. Sparks of magic were dancing around Draco, like eels they whipped and slivered in the air, flashing blue and purple, and red and green. When Draco spoke again, he sounded eerily like Lucius Malfoy: "Now, gentlemen, did you honestly think I could stand idly by while someone hurts my brother? You've had your fun, now is the time to pay for it.

"Let me express myself as plain as pikestaff, you worthless cunts: If a hair is touched on Scorpius's head, I make you bleed." Draco's wand hadn't even twitched when two deep and wide parallel cuts appeared on the shortest boy's cheeks.

"For a single bruise on him, I break a bone." This time, the middle one's leg jerked, twisting at an unnatural angle, the white of his shinbone peeking through the pant-leg. He screamed, as soundless as a corpse, but Draco quickly moved past him towards the blond at the far left. He stepped closer until they were almost nose to nose.

"Had your actions caused any lasting damage to him, I promise you on the bones of my forefathers, I would have made you suffer in unimaginable ways." Draco dug his wand into the blond boy's chest, twisting it deeper and harder with every word. He must have cast a spell, for the ringleader jerked spastically.

Acid-green torch-light cast ghoulish shadows across the entire chamber, twisting palid faces into sun-bleached skulls and making Draco's shadow dance grotesquely.

The eyes of all three were filled with terror, but Scorpius forced himself not to look away, his mouth feeling dry and tasting of blood. "I think they're scared enough," he whispered.

Draco glanced at him over his shoulder and stepped away. "My brother possesses a quality of mercy I fear I myself lack. You best remember what I've said — I don't make a habit of repeating myself."

When they exited the chamber into the empty corridor, Scorpius asked, "What's going to happen to them?"

"They'll spend the night there, and in the early hours of the dawn, Theo will come by and take care of it." Scorpius nodded. Nott 'taking care of it' meant he would patch them up and send them back to their dorm, unable to share what had transpired tonight, but they would remember and they would fear. "As far as the rest of the castle is concerned, those three were dragged to McGonagall's office by Pansy Parkinson shortly after dinner, lectured thoroughly and punished by our illustrious Deputy Headmistress, and are currently sleeping away in Gryffindor tower, as secure as newborn lambs."

It was a long time before Scorpius finally asked, "Did I have to watch that?"

"Yes," Draco said, softly, his eyes as kind as their mother's had been. He gently grasped Scorpius's hand and the younger Malfoy drew strength from his brother's warm palm. He felt as young and lost as he had been when Mother had her accident. The world wasn't kind to those who didn't fight for their place in it, and Scorpius was foolish to forget that. "Everything has a price and actions have consequences. The price of today was your fear and their pain. Every failure is a lesson, Scorpius, and each lesson makes us better. You must learn from today."

They stopped before the entrance to the Slytherin dorms and Scorpius looked up to read the inscription above the threshold: unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno.

"Yes," he said. "I understand."

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.

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note: unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno — one for all, all for one.

Maybe it's the song I've been listening for days on repeat talking — Taylor Swift's exile (ft. Bon Iver), btw — but I'm gonna be real with you, dawg, I'm excited about this fic. Katie's enabling — and dare I say, encouraging — my self-indulgent concepts and I'm susceptible to coercion, so there really is no way out for me except buckled down and hope I can see this through to completion.

Strongly encouraging hitting me up on my tumblr astoria-malfoy, or on my twitter nocturnes. I'm primarily a gif-maker — I say that as if I haven't been slacking off this whole year due to health reasons, lmao — and thus I tend to make (hopefully) pretty looking Dramione AUs. You can look up my edits on tumblr: astoria-malfoy and tumblr: kyloren, and I post more often on twitter these days, but that bitch of a social media has no way for you to check out my content unless you go to my account and just scroll. Ugh, twitter, how I despise thee, and yet, seem unable to leave.

Anyway, I did the mandatory SM plug-ins and now [YouTuber VC] don't forget to like, subscribe, and leave a comment! asdfghjkl good god, I've become one of them.

Seriously though, reviews = love. I really wanna know what everyone thinks. 👀