Disclaimer: Schroedinger's cat is a thought experiment. Say you have a cat in a box, it goes. I don't know why you have this cat in this box, but there it is. The box is closed. In the box with the cat is a small amount of a radioactive element, hooked up to a system that will discharge poison gas into the box if a single atom of the element decays. Schroedinger really hated cats, apparently. If you leave the cat in this box for an hour, when you come back, there is no way to know for certain whether the cat is dead or alive until you open the box. Thus, hypothetically and speaking from a probabilistic point of view, the cat is both dead and alive in equal parts until you open the box. It's a zombie cat!
Characters are similar to Schroedinger's cat; before you name them on paper (or on a computer, as it may be), they have no owner. They will either be your own characters or someone else's, but for now they simply exist, belonging equally to each, in your head. Once you put them on paper, though, and provide them with a backstory and context, a background and a world, they have a definite owner. I am not the owner of these characters. They belong to Ms. J.K. Rowling, along with the world that they inhabit. All of the other words and sentences in the story are belong to me, though, and I would very much appreciate if it remained that way. Thanks, and enjoy!
Prologue: Scorpius
Scorpius Malfoy was, to the surprise of pretty much everyone, a meek child.
"There has never been a meek Malfoy!" Draco would exclaim in private.
"Yes, dear," Astoria would agree for the millionth time.
"Malfoys are intelligent, attractive, wealthy, arrogant, condescending, well-informed, conniving, loyal, untrustworthy, scheming sons-of-bitches. No offense meant, of course, my dear – "
"None taken," was the bored reply.
"But we are not meek!"
"Of course, dear."
But Scorpius was. He hid behind his mother's skirts when they had company. He refused to play with any of their friends' children, preferring instead to amuse himself. Quietly, of course – he was never rambunctious. He didn't even boast when he learned to read before Pansy's young daughter, Azalea. Merlin forgive them, but he helped teach her to read, guiding her patiently to a basic understanding of these strange shapes and their attached sounds.
"No, 'Lea, the zig-zaggy letter makes a 'w-' sound. The triangle letter makes the 'ah' sound. Try it again . . ."
"W-ah-nnn-dd"
"See, it spells wand!" It was precious, really. Draco shuddered. Pansy was predictably over the moon.
"Look, Drakie, they already have nicknames for each other! They're soooo meant to be!" She laid her hand fetchingly on Draco's arm. He shrugged it off.
"Yes, because having nicknames for each other worked out so well for you two," Astoria snarked from the couch. She was ever the gracious hostess, but for Pansy she made an exception. Draco remained silent, still focused on his son.
"I think they should have a May wedding. May weddings are lovely," Pansy sighed.
"Save it, Pansy."
"For what?"
Draco and Astoria answered at the same time. Draco said, "For when they're old enough that having this conversation does not amount to condoning statutory rape!" Astoria's reply was, "For you to grow a brain." It was lucky Draco was the louder speaker, or Pansy may never have consented to bring her daughter over again.
Later, after Pansy had taken Azalea home ("Look, Mommy! 'Wand!' It says wand!" "No, honey, it says 'Malfoy.'" "No, wand!"), Draco had a long talk with Astoria. Well, Draco meant to have a long talk at Astoria, but he had never succeeded at doing that in the past. His hopes were fortuitously dim this time as well.
"There has to be a way to fix this. He starts Hogwarts in only a few years –"
"Eight."
"What?"
"Eight years."
" . . . Right. He starts at Hogwarts in eight years, and I cannot have my son going like . . . like that! He'll be shunned! He'll never be a Slytherin! I'll never live it down! Oh, Merlin, but what will my parents say? He'll be an embarrassment to the family name –"
"Let's be honest, now, dear. Your family name has already been about as embarrassed as it can be."
"That's not the point! He'll never have any friends, he'll wallow in angsty, quiet misery for his entire Hogwarts career, he'll start writing awful poetry, his professors –"
"Might actually like him?"
" . . . Well, er, that is to say . . . possibly." A long, meaningful silence ensued as Draco and Astoria both remembered Draco's rather disastrous days at Hogwarts. Draco could only dwell for so long in the past, though. He broke the silence first. "But it is absolutely unconscionable. I cannot allow my son to be meek. He has to develop a backbone. Pride. Condescension. Hell, he can even develop your sarcasm, and I'd call that a step forward!"
"Really?" Astoria's eyes gleamed. Draco had been on a roll, but he faltered a bit now.
"Yes, really. I suppose."
"How interesting." Astoria rose from her chair in the library, stretched her arms slowly above her head, arched her back, and made to leave. Draco was suddenly very nervous.
"Astoria, dearest, where are you going?"
"Away."
"Away where?"
"To go check on my son, of course." Her tone was full of concern for her little boy – perhaps he was sleeping fitfully? maybe he was having a nightmare? – but her eyes gleamed with inceptions of mischief. She made eye contact with Draco briefly, then turned and strolled out of the library and down the plush, carpeted hallway.
"Astoria?" he called after her fretfully. "Astoria, he's my son too! Astoria?" No answer was forthcoming. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Her "Yes, dear," floated back down the hallway placidly.
"I love that woman, but Merlin knows she will be the death of me," Draco grumbled as he turned down the lights in the library with a flick of his wand, and began the long process of preparing for bed.
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Eight years later, a slightly less meek Scorpius Malfoy stood waiting with his parents in front of a scarlet train. He had already changed into his black robes – he had disappeared off to the loo almost the second they had passed through the barrier. He was always a precocious child.
His robes were of the finest quality possible, not that anyone could really tell; they were simply black robes. His silver-blonde hair was meticulously trimmed, though he refused to wear it slicked back and sleek, as his father was wont to encourage. His grey eyes peered intelligently, hopefully, and, yes, slightly mischievously out from behind absurdly long lashes ("Can't we cut his eyelashes, Astoria? He looks like a girl." "Not on your life, dear."). Overall, he bore a striking resemblance to his father as a child, except for the fact that he remained quiet, choosing often to observe rather than participate. Also, his hairline was not receding, though no one made that observation to Draco's face.
The instant he spoke, though, his mother's influence and genetic contribution became clear. Under Astoria's careful and watchful eyes, he had grown into a polite, quiet, meek child. He minded his elders, he respected his peers, he fastidiously completed any task assigned to him. He loved to read. He became everything that Draco had feared he would for these long eight years. But at least now, occasionally, he snarked. He had a sarcastic streak at least half a kilometer wide. He was secretly hilarious, in an intelligent and understated way.
So there was a chance for him yet, Draco told himself optimistically as the three of them huddled in silence together, gazing at the train that would bear Scorpius off to a hopefully more illustrious Hogwarts career than his father had experienced.
The reminders of Draco's less-than-ideal time at Hogwarts were everywhere today. The crimson steam engine in front of him blared its horn, and he remembered the last time he had ridden it, back in his sixth year. He remembered boasting to Blaise and Pansy and the others about his 'special mission.' He remembered being full of confidence, naively certain of his success, paralyzingly terrified at the possibility of his failure.
Pansy waved gaily to him, standing with Azalea and her aging sugar-daddy – no, husband – only a few paces away. Draco remembered the superficial comfort of pretending they had a meaningful relationship. He remembered her exaggerated concern for him, her shrill cautions every time he left the dormitory after-hours (as if that was his biggest concern). He considered the slow decay of their insincere relationship into a true, if utterly flawed, friendship.
Draco caught Harry Potter's eye from across the platform. And his wife's, and the Weasleys'. He remembered the final Battle of Hogwarts, being saved unexpectedly and humiliatingly – twice! He remembered developing, over the course of six years, an increasingly complex combination of respect and revulsion for the Gryffindor trio. He remembered meeting a meek, polite boy in Madam Malkin's and making a horrible first impression. Now they exchanged curt nods across the distance.
Maybe having a meek child would not be the worst thing to ever happen.
"Scorpius," Draco began quietly. He knelt down to be closer to his son's height. These words were not for Astoria.
"Yes, Dad?" Scorpius turned to face his father, grey eyes grave and inquisitive. His gaze was open.
"See those families over there? No, don't be too obvious when you look. The redheads and the man with the infernally messy black hair. And the little boy who looks just like him. To your right, not your left. Your other right. There! You see them?"
"You mean the Potters and the Weasleys?"
" . . . Yes. How do you know who they are?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, Dad, but the Manor is not some rock that I've been living under for eleven years. Everyone knows who they are."
"Right. Well, they're clearly sending some of their . . . brood . . . to Hogwarts this year. Just do me a favor and try not to –"
"Infuriate or provoke the children of the most influential wizarding families in Britain?"
"Yes, that."
"I'll do my best," Scorpius solemnly promised.
"But if you could also try to –"
"Outperform the Weasleys' child in every subject?"
"Yes. That would be ideal."
"Duly noted." Draco sighed and put his hand on his son's shoulder. Sometimes, just sometimes, Scorpius's repressed Malfoy-ness shone through beautifully.
The platform's clock struck eleven times. The air thrummed even after the noise stopped. Draco looked at Astoria, and found her gazing calmly back.
"It's time to go, Scorpius," she said gently. She knew he was nervous, even if his stance and his eager half-smile said differently.
"I'll be fine, Mom."
"I know. So will I." They exchanged their own glance, and Scorpius's smile grew wider.
"Well, looks like I'm off." He hugged each of his parents in turn, and all Draco could think about was how small his son seemed in this moment. How quiet. Even his steps were quiet, despite the large trunk he dragged behind him, as he turned away from his parents and walked toward the train. He turned around and waved one last time, his face serious again and composed, before disappearing into the train, becoming just one small, quiet figure with his face pressed to a window.
So it was that Scorpius Malfoy, the first meek Malfoy the world had ever seen, boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time.