February break, seventh year:

Scorpius:

As Father disappeared up the chimney, I turned to my best friend Albus Potter who has been staying here at Malfoy Manor for the week, "I can't believe we got him to leave us unsupervised!" Whenever Albus comes over, my father looks increasingly nervous. I can see why: my best friend is very curious, a little clumsy, and this place is like a muggle museum: look, don't touch. "Whadaya wanna do today?" Albus asked me as he examined a black and white fish swimming in our floating fish tank. "Hmm. We could just explore the house." I suggested, "I've lived here my whole life, however, there are still rooms I've never visited. There's a room on the third floor that Father has never let me in."

We went up to the third story and found the door I was thinking of. Albus tried the handle "It's locked." I suddenly remembered I was allowed to do magic at home. "Alohamora!" Click. The door opened. "I'm surprised that worked; Father must have forgotten I'm seventeen now."

"Your birthday was only a few weeks ago. How could he have forgotten already?"

It turned out that the forbidden room was quite large and served the purpose of an attic. It was brimming with old trunks, furniture, and artwork. "There must be something important hidden in this room," I said to Albus "why else would he not let me in here?"

After an hour of poking around and finding enough portraits of my ancestors to fill an art gallery, we found one that was well dusted and much more recent. It depicted my mother sitting in the garden on a lovely summer day. She waved to me. "Mum?" She smiled. "Hello, Scorpius. You haven't come to see me since I was moved."

"I would have, but I didn't know where you were, and dad keeps the door locked." Tears formed in my eyes. I managed to keep myself together, though. Al came over to see who I was talking to and put his arm around me.

"Oh, hello, Albus. I see you're looking more and more like your father. I would love to stay and talk to you boys, but I'm afraid I have some business to attend to. But Scorpius, you seem to have found a way in here, so please come visit again." My mum disappeared from her frame, and I started to cry a bit. Albus hugged me tighter.

A little while later, we found a portrait of my father as a young boy. It was just a regular muggle painting, thank goodness. He was sporting a hideous green hat. "Hey, there's a room at my place with loads of old Black family heirlooms. There's a family tree in there, and I think your dad has the same hat on in that picture." Albus said, running his fingers through his adorably messy hair. He reached up to tap the painting. Then, to our surprise, the picture moved to reveal an entrance, like the one to the Slytherin Common room. We crawled through and found a bedroom. It had a Victorian-style bed, a wooden desk, and emerald green curtains. "I think this is my father's old bedroom," I said "He keeps the regular door to this room locked as well." On the shelf were nineties editions of many books like Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Right on the end was a small, green journal with Draco written on the spine. I pulled it off the shelf. "Hey Albus, come look at this."

Dear Diary,

Today was my first day at Hogwarts, and guess who I met? The famous Harry Potter himself! I offered my hand, and he actually refused it! I can't believe him! How stuck up do you have to be to refuse someone's handshake? He doesn't even look special, though, with his stupid hair and stupid glasses. He's not very bright either. He's in my potions class, and Professor Snape asked him a basic question about wormwood and asphodel, and he was just, like "I don't know." Like even Crabbe and Goyle know the answer to that! It's probably because he was raised by muggles. Does that make him almost a mudblood then?

The next entry was from a few weeks later:

Dear Diary,

Today we had our first flying lesson. We had to pick up our brooms without our hands and I was the second one to manage it. Sadly, stupid Potter with his stupid scar did it before me.-

"Of course, my dad, youngest seeker in a century, got it first try. I was the last one to get it in our first flying lesson." complained, Albus.

-But the Weasley kid that hangs out with Potter got hit in the face by his broom! And some idiot called Longbottom (what a name, I mean, honestly, what were his parents thinking?) managed to crash his broom. He broke his wrist and had to be taken to Madam Pomfrey. He dropped his memory thingamabob, though, and Potter was trying to play the hero all like, "Give it here, Malfoy! It's not yours!" Long story short, I tried to put it on the roof, and Potter tried to stop me, so I threw it away, and stupid Potter just happened to catch it. Fortunately, McGonnagal saw him flying without supervision, so maybe he'll get detention. Can't count on it, though, because McGonnagal always gives the Gryffindors privileges. It's terribly unfair.

Albus laughed. "He thought McGonnagal was biased? My dad says Snape would give fifty points to Slytherin for just about anything and actually encouraged the bullying."

"I can't believe your dad named you after Snape!" I said, "Like, I know Snape was working for Dumbledore, but he was still a huge bully, and he was a death eater at one point." I remembered all of my family were death eaters too.

Albus nodded. "He could have named me after Remus, Teddy's dad. Albus Remus Potter. That sounds so much better, don't you think?"

We read a bit more of the diary which was mostly full of my father going on and on about 'stupid Potter'. I put it in my pocket, and we looked around the room a little more. There was a photo of my dad with Crabbe and Goyle when they were a bit younger than Albus and me. It looked like it was taken on the Hogwarts express, and they were comparing chocolate frog cards. It was odd seeing my father laughing as he'd hardly even smiled since my mother died. Then I noticed the time on the silver clock. "Al, we should probably go before my dad gets home. I get the feeling he wouldn't be too pleased if he knew we'd been in here.

We crawled back through the secret door and moved the painting back into place. We were downstairs drinking butterbeer before I realised my father's old diary was still in my pocket. We'd bought some curly, coloured straws in a muggle shop and Albus sat there slurping his butterbeer, gazing out the frosty window and looking perfectly imperfect. I looked at the time. 1:58. My dad was a very punctual man, and I knew he would arrive at precisely two o'clock. It was too late to return the diary now, so I'd just have to hold onto it until I got a chance.