"Hermione Granger to see Draco Malfoy."

The desk-Auror gives her a cursory once-over then pushes the sign-in ledger across the counter. Hermione signs, hands her wand over and then, not waiting to be shown the way, stalks through the guarded doors on the other side of the partition. She has been here enough in the last fortnight to know the routine by now. So has everyone else. No-one within spares her so much as a cursory glance as she casts about, looking for her client; a far-cry from the out-burst of cat-calls and wolf-whistles that had bombarded her the first few times. They ignore her now just as effectively as she ignores them.

So, unfortunately, does Draco Malfoy. He is perched, stiff and straight-backed on the edge of the narrow bench he's claimed as his own; a scrap of personal space amongst the clamour of forced communal living. His face is angled away, though his eyes catch hers immediately and they follow her right up to the bars, until the guard calls, "Malfoy."

"I don't know why you're bothering," he says when, finally, she gets him into the visiting room and the guard removes the spell binding his wrists. He rubs them unconsciously; pink weals stark against pale skin.

"Neither do I," she says, flat and unimpressed. Then, "You look like shit, Malfoy."

Draco smiles. "Three weeks without bathing will do that to a person."

"That is no-one's fault but your own."

"I'm not signing it."

"You are no good to anyone in here. Least of all Scorpius."

"I'm no good to him out there either if I sign that damn contract."

"You are being selfish."

Malfoy sits back and angles his face away, arms folded tight across his chest. His eyes are shadowed, his face sunken. His hair hangs lank, heavy and unwashed over shoulders that have become sharp and bony where once they were merely slender. No-one is taken care of in a place like this, but usually inmates at least try to look after themselves. Malfoy, it seems, has given up entirely. A deathless suicide.

"Davinport is ready to post your bail," says Hermione. "Has been since day one. If you'd just sign—"

"No."

"Draco."

Grey eyes flash to catch hers, so sharp it jars her. "The moment I set foot outside this place," he tells her, just as he's told her every time they've seen each other since his arrest "I am going straight to my son. I will not pretend otherwise. I will not compromise."

"So you would rather stay in here?" Hermione says with a sneer. "You would rather remain caged than risk your pride?"

Both hands slam on the table between them. "I would rather remain caged than willingly leave my son in their hands." They have already caught the guard's attention. Her wand is already out. This meeting is already over. Draco sees it too, watches it judder through him before turning desperately back to Hermione. "Tell Theo, tell Potter—"

"Move it, Malfoy."

"—They should be doing more. They promised me—"

"Silencio."

Malfoy cringes when the wand tip jabs him in the throat, and his last expression as he's hustled away curls something in her heart. There is no defiance, no anger. Just fear. Help me. But how the hell is she supposed to do that if he won't even help himself?

"Dammit," she mutters, collecting her wits and hating this place with every bit of herself. Hating, most of all, that she'll have to return for another inevitably pointless attempt at talking sense into him.

The conditions for Draco's release were drawn up by the Malfoys' lawyer within a day of the arrest, so swift it had to already have been planned and prepared. He could not set foot within ten miles of the Manor, he was to have no contact with his family unless planned in advance. He was to have no contact with Scorpius at all. Breaking that agreement would land him immediately and irretrievably in Azkaban without trial.

And Draco refuses to sign, refuses to agree to the sanctions, even those which would free him immediately. Bail had been set absurdly high on the assumption that Draco would have no-one to advocate for him able or willing to pay the small fortune needed, all his contacts stripped away with his name and reputation. They were wrong. Pansy's husband, Andrew – to his credit – had only blanched a little when he'd heard the price before agreeing to pay every Knut. Three years into their marriage and that was the first moment Pansy could confidently, unflinchingly say she loved him.

That was three weeks ago.

And Draco Malfoy is still locked up.

They sit in what had once been their usual table in the Leaky Cauldron, though their numbers have changed recently. Instead of sitting opposite Draco and next to Blaise, Theo finds himself beside Harry and looking across at Pansy's husband Andrew, the older man distinctly uncomfortable and drinking tea; fingers thumping a thoughtless beat as he watches the door, waiting for Granger's return. Pansy, beside him, hasn't touched her spitting purple drink. Her shoulders are stiff, her expression inscrutable, though the shallow breath between parted lips betrays her unhappiness.

Harry and Theo are silently racing through their pints like they're chasing a Snitch. They have spent a shocking amount of time together in the last few weeks, Theo having moved in ten doors down from the Potters with the love of his life and beloved godson, and then promptly losing both within a few days. Being in the house alone is unbearable to say the least; every inch of the damned place a brutal reminder of his utter failure. After taking Albus home following Harry's arrest and telling Ginny the story, Theo stayed with her and helped with the kids as she scrambled to work out what the hell she was going to do now. She was, as ever, pragmatic and stoic – as hardy and brave as any born-Gryffindor – but it didn't change the fact that they had three young children and she was very abruptly on her own.

"I can't face them," she admitted softly when Theo mentioned her family – the Weasleys being the closest, most functioning familial unit he's ever known. "Not yet. I… I need to work out what's going on before I have to tell anyone else."

Not that they didn't already know, news having spread faster than the Prophet could report it.

Theo took that on too, fielding the bombardment of concerned owls, protecting Ginny and the kids from the nosiness and the well-wishes alike. There are even some for Draco, sitting on their new kitchen table, waiting for him. One bearing the familiar Hogwarts crest. When they arrive, Theo props them up, unopened by the vase of dying flowers to wait for Draco's return.

He'd rather focus on Ginny and the kids and their life than his own.

They're a good distraction.

He isn't allowed to see Draco. Family only.

Astoria could visit, any time she likes. And his fucking parents.

All the cunts who've ripped him apart, yet no-one who actually loves him.

It stutters Theo's heart every time it crosses his mind. Too often.

He drinks with his eyes shut – praying today will be different than yesterday and knowing it won't be – and wins the unspoken contest by slamming down his empty glass.

Harry shifts beside him, the sway slight but distinct. "'Nother?"

"Nah," says Theo. Then, amending, "Not yet."

He wants to be lucid to hear Granger explain why Draco's not coming home today.

Because that's why Andrew's tagged along, the outrageous bail sitting heavy in his pocket, ready to spring Draco free. But, apparently, Draco does not want to be free. He wants to sit in there, with every excuse not to fight, and just sulk. Apparently. Hasn't quite pegged that he is literally useless, sitting in there being a selfish shit.

Can't get Scorpius back behind bars.

Theo grunts, grinding the heel of a palm hard to his forehead.

So what's his own fucking excuse then? Why hasn't he Apparated straight to Wiltshire, stormed Malfoy Manor and snatched Scorpius up?

Because the line between sensible and cowardly is as fine as the one between brave and stupid, and Theo is seesawing badly.

Potter's release, though it occurred less than two days after his arrest, is restrictive and conditional, more-or-less house-arrest without the confinement. All privacy has been withdrawn, every spell and every movement monitored. And he cannot, under any circumstance, go anywhere near Malfoy Manor. Pansy is, as ever, the pragmatic voice that insists upon caution, upon playing the long-game. It mirrors Granger whose profession it is to Know These Things.

Theo knows without any doubt at all that they are both right – trying to get at Scorpius now will inevitably land him in the cell right beside Draco, and then they'll both be useless.

It's almost tempting.

But only in the most selfish sort of way.

But at least he'd've tried.

At least he could face Draco and say that.

In the most selfish sort of way.

Theo opens his mouth and turns to Potter, ready to say, "About that drink—" when the pub door opens and in stalks Hermione Granger, grim-faced and glowering. She comes right at them, and Theo and Harry barely have time to scooch before she throws herself down on the end of the bench and grabs for the last swallow of Harry's pint.

"Nothing?" says Andrew.

"Nothing," says Hermione.

Pansy makes a hissing sound of derision between her teeth. "Stupid, stubborn prick."

"How is he?" Theo asks, leaning to look around the barricade of Potter. "How does he look?"

But Granger only shakes her head. She is stingy with information, he's learnt; giving away nothing she deems unimportant. And apparently Draco's state is just that.

"Any progress on yesterday?" Harry tries but, again, she shakes her head.

"He won't even consider the agreement. And there's no way they'll release him without it."

"Did you tell him the bail money's ready to go?" Pansy asks, her own concern audible. "That he could be out within the hour?"

"Of course. It meant nothing. He says—" She licks her lips with a hesitant flick of the eyes between Harry and Theo. "He will not compromise. That the moment he's out, he's going straight to Scorpius and nothing, not even the threat of Azkaban, will stop him."

Heavy silence falls across the table, blanketing them all.

Then, softly, "He will not listen to reason."

"That's because it isn't reasonable."

They all look at once to Theo who hadn't even realised he'd spoken out-loud.

"Well, it isn't, is it?" he says. "You can't ask Draco to stay away from Scorp. You just can't. Even in the best circumstances. And now, when Scorp's stuck right in the middle of all Draco's been fighting to protect him from?" He sits back with a dry laugh, shaking his head. "There's no way. Absolutely no way." It's been hard enough for Theo, has had to force himself to listen to sense, listen to Granger and stay away from the Malfoys. Times that by at least a million – at least – and maybe he can understand a fragment of what Draco feels because Merlin. Theo had hated it, all those years when they'd been kids and he'd been powerless to help Draco, trapped in that damned house with those people. It had been hell, knowing what they were doing to him and being able to do absolutely nothing about it; witnessing the aftermath, his friend beaten into something too close to subservience; the deadened look in Draco's eyes and the marks deemed insignificant enough to bother healing, hidden by long sleeves and deliberate inattention. If he could function, he was fine.

"Don't touch me," Draco would snap, twitching away from concerned hands. "Stop fussing."

"Why won't you do anything?" Theo had demanded of Snape more than once. "Why do you keep sending him back there?" But Snape's powerlessness only mirrored his own. There was nothing either of them could do. Nothing any of them could do. Legality had them all bound up so tight it choked them.

Just as it binds Draco now.

The thought of it all going around again – Draco is Snape's place, Scorp in Draco's, like a cruel game of musical chairs – whips around Theo's throat and suffocates him.

No. It can't. It mustn't. But he can't see a way—

"So what do we do?" Potter asks. "What's the solution? Because – and correct me if I'm wrong, Hermione – but I'm pretty sure the longer he refuses to cooperate, the worse it's going to be, right? The only way to get Scorp out of that place is to get Draco up and running again."

"He needs to understand that the only way to proceed is with caution," Pansy murmurs. "The long-game is more important than instant gratification."

"A long-game that traps Scorp there with Lucius fucking Malfoy!" Theo rips free of the gentling hand on his shoulder. "No," he snarls. "No. This isn't theoretical. This isn't some academic problem. This is Scorpius. We can't—I can't—" I can't let Draco down again. "How the fuck are we going to convince him if this is your argument?"

"Scorpius Malfoy isn't alone with Lucius," says Hermione. "You talk as though they're trapped together, but that completely disregards Astoria and Narcissa. Surely they're tempering factors—"

"Draco tried to leave long before his father's return was even a consideration," Pansy tells her as Theo makes wordless sounds of disgust at the mention of the Malfoy women. "He never trusted them with Scorpius."

"Astoria is their willing puppet," says Harry. "That's the impression I get. She'll do anything they suggest. As for Narcissa—" His mouth pulls into an expression that Theo feels as his own. Potter gets it. Narcissa Malfoy is as culpable as her fucking husband. "I don't think we can count on either of them as far as Scorpius goes. I'm with Nott. The sooner the kid's out, the better."

Hermione sighs loudly. "I'm not debating that," she says. "I'm saying that rushing, that acting rashly will do far more harm than good. We need to be proactive – Draco needs to be proactive – but more importantly we need to be sensible. We need to keep our heads to save being sucked into whatever games the Malfoys are playing." She looks between them, her eyes dark and fierce. "You're all behaving like it's over, like we've already lost and we're just clawing back some semblance of dignity."

"Well," says Pansy, lighting two gold-tipped cigarettes and passing one to Theo, "aren't we?"

"No." The women glare at each other, then Granger throws up her hands. "For goodness sake, hope is not lost! And by acting like it is, we are digging our own graves. Scorpius needs hope. Draco needs hope. And it's our responsibility to give it to them. So, buck up. Merlin. Don't make me feel like I'm wasting my time."

Heavy silence settles around them, thick with smoke and solemnity. Only Andrew – sharing Pansy's thin cigarette – smiles in the certainty she is right and waiting for the others to realise it too. It isn't that Granger's wrong, as far as Theo is concerned, it's more that Granger's assessment – as astute as it is – offers no tangible solution. Pansy's in the same place, her brow set in a troubled frown. They both know from experience that theories and good intentions are all well and good, but they don't set things right. They don't incite change. Potter's not quite there but he's close. Having spent significant time in the company of Slytherins, he's starting to see the world their way – not in Dumbledore's simple black and white, but a complex maze in countless, barely distinguishable shades of grey. It takes a life-time to learn how to navigate the maze. Potter has a long way to catch up, but he's getting there.

"What do we do?" The question comes crisp and quiet, reluctant on Pansy's tongue. She meets Granger's eyes coolly. "How do we give Draco hope?"

Hermione, obviously hoping they would provide the answer to that particular question and falters.

It's Potter who, after a long stretch of silence, finally offers a solution: "We distract him."

"That's…not the same—"

"No, yeah, I know that. Obviously. But it's the next best thing, isn't?"

Theo scoffs. "You'll never be able to distract him from Scorpius."

"I know that too. But give him something to do, something that'll keep him sane and safe until—" He waves a hand at Hermione. "—all the shit's worked out. Because the main thing is keeping him from charging the Manor, right? And that's not going to happen if he's fixated. So, let's give him something else to be fixated on."

Pansy takes a long, considering drag on her cigarette. "And what do you suggest, Potter?"

Here, Potter looks a little sheepish. "Well," he says, "we had a plan, didn't we? Before all this happened. I think we should keep moving with that. And I'm not lying when I say I don't think I can do it on my own. I need Draco's help. Let him know that, Hermione, next time. Tell him I can't get the ball rolling 'til he's out. And who knows." Harry shrugs. "Maybe it'll even help. It's the law that's keeping him away from Scorp. And that's what we're trying to change. Tell Draco that."

Theo isn't sure. It feels absurdly convoluted, and he stands by the certainty that there's nothing in the world that can distract Draco from Scorpius. But Granger's nodding with that tight-lipped smile he's come to recognize as her version of a grin. Agreeing with everything Potter says.

So Theo forces a nod, an agreement with the Gryffindors. Because – at this point – anything is better than nothing.

With one arm over his face, Draco closes eyes and tries to sleep. It's a useless attempt. Even if it weren't for the board that serves as a bed biting into his back, even apart from the perpetual racket of the enclosure, even if he didn't know perfectly well it was mid-afternoon, his mind is in reeling chaos. Has been ever since the Ministry. Will be until he's out of here, until his son is back safe in his arms. Draco's heart stutters. He rolls over, pressing his face into the wood. His pulses races to the beat of Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius. Cannot – will not – think of anything else. They don't know him if they believe he will concede and compromise. He would rather be in Azkaban, rather be dead than willingly knowingly stay away.

Because Draco knows what that is like.

To be less important than everything else.

Not worth the risk.

Not worth fighting for.

Only when it's convenient and easy.

He knows what that feels like.

And he'll be damned if he'll ever let Scorpius feel that way too.

"Malfoy!"

Draco ignores the call. Pretends not to hear. It'll only be Granger again, ready for another round. No doubt certain that somehow it will be different this time, that she'll find him more persuadable. He nearly scoffs out loud. Granger is supposed to be the best. That's what Potter promised. With Hermione on your side, you stand your best chance.

As though that ever meant anything.

As though he'd had a chance to begin with.

The guard calls louder, patience with him long-spent over the weeks they've spent together. "Draco Malfoy. You're required."

Draco deigns to open his eyes. He doesn't see Granger. She's usually waiting, glaring right back at him.

This visitor refuses to step into the holding cell.

That can only mean it's someone else.

And that someone else can only be his parents' lawyer – Collette Luem. She and Granger have been his only visitors, the only two people permitted who aren't blood relations.

Draco wants to see Collette even less than he wants to see Granger. It was she who first brought the agreement to the table, making it quite plain that it was nonnegotiable. Already set in stone. She had smiled when he'd refused, as though she knew he would. As though that was the desired outcome all along. She spoke in his father's words, with his mother's voice. The perfect representative. He had no control, no power. Draco was entirely at her mercy.

He doesn't look forward to seeing her again.

Still, he drags himself up and, for the second time that day, forces himself the short distance to the door, presenting his wrists for the perfunctory binding.

"None of the shit you pulled earlier," the guard mutters, pulling the magic tight enough to make him wince. "You've been here long enough to know better."

He doesn't bother with a response. Will give her no excuse to steal his voice again. They need little motivation, these Aurors, their power minimal though wielded like swords. A glance will remove your meal, one word will take your voice. They would strip you of all that you are, given half a chance. As she leads him back down the hall, Draco smiles to himself. They haven't realised there is nothing left of him to take.

Turning the corner into the nicer of the visiting rooms, Draco braces for Collette's crisp smile and the jarring cheerfulness which inevitably accompanies bad news.

He is unprepared for his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy sits where he expected the lawyer and does not look at him; the blue eyes they share landing fixing on the Auror as she says, "Leave us."

The command from anyone else would've been denied flatly and immediately. That is not protocol. One guard must be present at all times.

Narcissa is obeyed with almost mechanical immediacy.

Hands still bound before him, he is left alone; as faltering and uncertain as if he were five-years-old on the threshold of his parents' rooms.

She waits for him to speak then, when he tries, "Mother—", Narcissa interrupts, "Sit."

Draco obeys, hooking the worn wooden chair with an ankle to pull it out. "Shouldn't our lawyers be present?"

One corner of her mouth curls and it's all Draco can manage to not sink down into himself. He hasn't often been on the receiving end of his mother's contempt, as consuming and palpable as his father's. They are a good match, he thinks dizzily.

"I wanted to see you," she says, the emphasis on 'you'. "I have no interest in Granger's perspective. An interesting choice in council, Draco."

It's impossible to meet her eye. "Not exactly a choice."

"No. I don't suppose it was. I don't suppose else is willing to touch you, and Granger does have a reputation for… pitiable cases."

"You sound just like Father." Every inch of Draco's skin prickles, ever muscle tightening in instinctive reaction against her. Against them. Lucius's presence every bit as visceral as hers. She speaks as though she despises him. "Why're you here, Mother?"

"I wanted to see you," Narcissa repeats. Then, a little softer, "I wanted to try and understand."

Because, of course, this is the first time they have seen each other since that fateful night – a lifetime ago – when everything changed between them.

Draco releases a long, steady breath and sits up, opening himself to her scrutiny.

He isn't ashamed of who he has become or the choices he made. At least, not in the manner she is expecting. He stands by it – all of it – with all the pride of his house and name. He is not crushed. He is not beaten. It isn't like all those times she visited him in his rooms after an altercation with his father, cowed and contrite and mumbling apologies through trembling lips when she inevitably asked, "What on earth were you thinking, Draco?"

"And do you?" he asks of her now.

Narcissa considers him, gaze sweeping through in a single breathless gust, and she says, "No. I don't."

"I can explain it if you'd like."

A twitch of the lips and he almost expects her to laugh. She doesn't, of course. "Why Potter?" Narcissa asks as her first question. "To go against me? I know you always hated the truce we reached."

"It had nothing to do with you. It wasn't personal." Draco sighs, the memory of the chilled, desperate night still stark – "This is the journey, Mr Malfoy, not the destination." – of standing on the curb with Scorpius limp in his frozen arms. "I…I couldn't think where else to go. Potter was a gamble."

"A gamble that paid off."

"More than you could ever understand."

"He would've done the same for anyone, Draco. You realise that, don't you?"

Draco smiles with a low chuckle. "I'm nothing special, you mean."

"Quite so."

Draco has always found it a strange incongruity – both his parents have always been keen to instill a sense of superiority afforded by the Malfoy name which sets them apart and above all others; yet, at the same time, in the same breath, they are determined to keep him firmly in his place – isolated, average, unimportant, unworthy of anyone's particular attention or affection. Worth nothing than that which is bestowed upon him with their grace.

"Why does that matter to you?" he asks with a tilt of his head.

Narcissa raises her chin. "You yourself have always criticized those associated with Potter for being held in higher esteem merited. I'd hate for you to fall into that trap."

He laughs properly at that. "Please don't pretend to feel anything resembling parental concern for me. It's a waste of both our time. My association with Potter does not require your approval. I went there because our children share a bond, and during our time together we realised we share more common ground than previously assumed." He can't help looking away as he says, "Friendship was inevitable."

"Friendship?" his mother scoffs as he knew she would. "Don't delude yourself. Why would Harry Potter want to be friends with you?"

Draco winces. He can't help it. Can't help the sting of her words aimed straight for the sensitive place in the back of his mind. Bullseye. And he hates that he doesn't have an immediate, certain response. Instead, he says, "You and Father have always hated that I've had friends. Real friends. Not just the shallow associates you tried to push on me."

"Friends like Nott?" Narcissa hurls straight back. "Is that the sort of friendship you have with Harry Potter, Draco? Is that why he is so willing to risk everything for you?"

"No." He knows perfectly well that he's beet-red, humiliation buzzing loud in his ears. He'd almost forgotten that she knows – that they all know – amidst the chaos and Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius. That this is the reason they cut him away like a rotted bruise. He isn't ashamed, Draco wants to tell her. Theo is one of the best things that has ever happened to him. Theo loves him. He loves Theo. The three of them together, the family Draco never believed he deserved. No matter what she says or thinks or the way she looks at him now.

It all sticks fast in his throat.

"Tell me about Scorpius," he says instead. "Is he alright? Is he—" Safe? Asking for me?

"Scorpius is fine," says Narcissa crisply. "And doing better every day."

"What does that mean?"

"It means there is a lot of damage to be undone in that boy."

Draco's heart lurches. "Why? What happened? Has Father—"

"From you, Draco."

As swift as a slap. He flinches, turning his face from her and closing his eyes.

Scorpius.

All the elation and love when he looked to Draco, eager fingers signing, Daddy! Bright, easy smiles and free and open in his affection and delight. Nothing to fear, nothing to make him hesitate. More happiness in that single little body than anyone Draco has ever met.

Scorpius clinging to him, hiding in his shoulder as curses flew around them. The two of them against the the world. The last thing Draco knew before Stupefy hit him in the back.

"What are you doing to him?" he hears himself ask, the question dry and dreaded on his tongue.

His mother remains tight-lipped, refusing the answer.

Draco jerks forward, bound hands trying to reach her. "Please," he says, begs. "Please don't hurt him. Protect him. Promise me. Nothing else matters. Just don't—Don't let—" Don't do to him what you did to me. Don't just stand by and watch. "B-Because… Because nothing will change, you know. He will turn out just like me, and I know… I know you don't want that. Please, Mother, do better with Scorpius. I-I know you care for him. Love him. Whatever Father's motivation, or Astoria's, I know you were only acting out of concern. I know you want what's best for him. Protect him. Not for me, just for him. Please."

Narcissa remains perfectly still and perfectly silent, her expression perfectly inscrutable.

But she remembers.

Falling to her knees before Severus and begging him, Protect Draco. He's just a boy. Just as Draco begs her now. He's right, as loathe as she is to admit it. Let Lucius have full-reign over the boy and history will inevitably repeat itself. This is her chance to do better, to make up for all her failings with Draco.

And she tells him, meaning it, "I promise."

"Open your mouth."

Fingers pry open his stubborn lips, the doctor's nails uncomfortable between Scorpius's clenched teeth. He glares at the doctor, and the doctor glares right back.

"The more quickly you comply," he says, "the less uncomfortable this will be."

Scorpius relaxes his jaw the smallest fraction, sees the smile on the doctor's face, believing he's won, then bites. Hard.

Behind him, the house-elf squeaks in time with the man's yell.

That doctor is just one more in a long string of professionals charged with 'working out what's wrong with him', and Scorpius is glad when the front door slams shut behind him. Even imagining the look his mother will give him when she finds out. Maybe even because of it. She will berate him, when she comes back and finds out, for wasting all their time. 'Why won't you just do it?' she'll say, in that exasperated voice that's been getting more and more annoyed with every person who's come and gone. 'Just speak. Just one word. And this will all be over.' Maybe she believes that, but Scorpius isn't stupid. He knows that isn't true. Just one word and maybe this bit'll be over, but it'd be the start of something else, and Scorpius has absolutely no desire to find out what that something is. One word would turn into another and another, and they'll ask more and more of him, and then there'll be conversations, and Scorpius is sick of conversations.

There is only one thing he wants and already knows perfectly well that no amount of words will get it for him.

Something hard and hot bubbles up through his chest and into his throat.

Scorpius bites down on his lip nearly as hard as he bit that man's finger.

Daddy.

He's stopped counting the days when they became more an infinite count-up than a hopeful count-down; when each day started with high expectation, and waiting waiting waiting for his dad and Theo and Mr Potter to storm the Manor and save him from the baddies, just like when he and Al played Aurors and Death Eaters. That's just what it was like, in the first days. Like one of their games. Bigger and scarier, but made better too by all those years of promises from his dad that they'd never be apart and there's nothing in this whole world that could keep me apart from you, you know that don't you?

Scorpius thought he knew. It had always been true before.

And then, slowly, somehow, it stopped.

Because it's been days and days, and people keep coming to examine him and he hates it and he hates them, and his dad isn't here. Hasn't come.

No-one even speaks of him. Like he just doesn't exist anymore.

Is that what happened?

Stupefy!

Just the memory makes him flinch, feels real all over again, and his dad falling, letting him go.

Scorpius doesn't know what Stupefy means and doesn't know how to ask.

What if his dad's dead?

And that's why he hasn't come.

Can't come if you're dead.

Scorpius squeezes his eyes hard shut, every bit of him seizing up.

Everything is still and silent in the nursery in the back of the house, too far away from anything or anyone to even hear murmurs or footsteps. No point even going sneaking around anymore. There's no fun to be had and no-one he wants anything to do with.

He can still taste the man's fingers, bitter like cloves.

"Scorpius Hyperion."

Scorpius doesn't open his eyes, even when the door shuts and he feels his grandfather coming towards him. He doesn't want him here, therefore he's just going to pretend he isn't. It worked with his mother. She leaves him more or less alone now, busying herself with stuff for Aunt Daphne's wedding, and his grandmother is out a lot, doing important stuff that makes her face look like a cloud, stuff she and Grandfather talk about in the lowest mumbliest whispers that even Scorpius struggles to spy on.

Grandfather is more stubborn than Mother. More stubborn than maybe anyone ever.

Not as stubborn as Scorpius though.

"I hear you sent away another one." A creak that means he sat down on the chair nearest the fireplace. "I know why you're being difficult, Scorpius. I know you're upset."

I hate you, Scorpius signs with sharp fingers in his lap, keeping his eyes squeezed up tight. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

"Wouldn't it be so much more satisfying if I could understand what you're saying?"

Scorpius peeks through a squint.

His grandfather considers him with a tilted head and a mildly amused expression. He doesn't know how he ever thought his grandfather looked anything like his dad. They're completely one-hundred-percent different. Every bit about them.

Scorpius huffs through his nose and makes one of the signs Theo taught him that his grandfather definitely knows.

The expression doesn't change, just as it hasn't changed since the moment he woke up in the Manor. Mother loses her temper quickly, as angry at Scorpius as he is at her, and Grandmother always makes her disappointment known. But Grandfather's different. Grandfather's patient. And it's nearly difficult to remember that Everything Is His Fault. Scorpius makes himself remember, even the bits that hurt more than he can stand. His dad's fear any time Grandfather was even mentioned, and the bruise on his face from the night they ran away, and making Scorpius lie about Albus's birthday, and when he'd turned up at the Day Care and the way he'd spoken to Miss Winters and Albus, and grabbing him from his dad, taking him away—

Scorpius signs again, teeth gritted so hard they grind, I hate you! and I want my dad. Which are pretty much all he's said since arriving. They're stupid if they don't know what those signs mean by now.

"I know there are things you want." Grandfather leans forward, hands clasped on his knees, long hair loose and heavy over his shoulders. "Questions you want to ask. I know everything must be terribly confusing for you, Scorpius. It would help you so much if we could talk. We're not doing it for us, you know. We're not doing it to be unkind. We only want what's best for you." He shakes his head like he's sad. "I can only imagine what your father has told you, and I know how easy it is to believe the person you love the most. But not everything your father says is true. Not even everything he believes is true. I would like very much for you to make your own assessments, Scorpius. You're an astute boy. I believe you capable of reaching your own conclusions. Given the opportunity. And the facts." One corner of his mouth twists upwards, and there's a glint in his eye when he says, "I'm not sure your father has given you much of either, has he?"

Scorpius hates that he can feel himself flushing. It isn't true. His dad doesn't lie. Never. Not to him. He keeps his promises always. Only tells the truth. Except when he doesn't, the snide little voice in the back of his head says. Like the Dark Mark. Like Death Eater. All those secrets. All those lies. Scorpius's heart thudders beneath his shirt, sweat prickling across his skin. Because, even apart from everything else that didn't really matter, the one thing that did was, 'There is nothing – not a single thing in this whole world – that could ever keep me from you,' and that isn't true anymore. A lie. His dad lied. To him.

The tears come in a wave that crashes through his whole body and knocks him down. It's too big to stand, to bear, to make sense of, and it hurts all over like it's new.

"Scorpius," he feels his grandfather murmur, gathering him up to hold him against his chest; fingers gentle in his hair. "I know it hurts and I know it's hard. Let me help you. I am not your enemy."

Against his will, Scorpius wants it.

Against his will, it feels true.

Lucius hasn't held a child like this since Draco was very little – too little for the boy to ever recall. Scorpius is a heavy, warm weight against his chest, head tucked up beneath Lucius's chin; relaxed despite is indomitable anger; desperate for contact – any contact – even if the person he wants most isn't here. This is how it should've been with Draco, Lucius realises, rocking his grandson in a slow, subtle motion. This is what he should've done after Severus left. How different it all might've been if only he'd tried to fill the hole instead of denying it completely. He knows, perfectly well, that it could never have been so. Father and grandfather are two different roles entirely and, even at that point, his relationship with Draco had been set fast in stone. He doubts Draco would've wanted it even if Lucius had tried.

It's easier with this boy.

Despite their rocky start and Draco's best efforts.

Scorpius hates him because he's been told to. That is an easy fix, and easier still if Scorpius is this desperate this quickly. It won't be long before his loyalty shifts.

The game, Lucius thinks, has been set up quite nicely. This child craves independence and Draco has crowded him. He can offer everything Scorpius wants and everything Draco was not willing to give.

Draco, as ever, will be his own undoing.

Lucius smiles and hums, the low, tuneless melody soothing the boy in his arms and, against Scorpius's will, he relaxes.