'There's a boy with the snake in his eyes!' James whooped, his dark hair analogous to a thorny bramble, a cowlick standing to attention at the back of his head. He sprinted ahead, sidestepping Grandma Weasley's exasperation and abandoning the Potters' luggage trolley to Albus. One of its crooked wheels screeched as his younger sister bolted, hopping from her seat nestled atop his trunk, shrieking 'It's in his eyes! It's in his eyes!' The relentless teasing about breaking the Potter tradition of Gryffindor had continued, with Albus waking up to find an emerald pennant flag suspended over his door, a clumsily-stitched 'S' distinct in one forked corner that morning. The first of September had materialised with a crisp wind that provided relief from the stale warmth of the summer. His navy-striped rugby jersey, embroidered with the Guinness harp underneath his twill collar (his Uncle Ron's beloved Muggle spirit according to Rose), was cemented to his skin with perspiration. He mused, apprehensively, on his possible future in Ravenclaw: was he clever enough to join them? What about the Ellis adolescent? Where would he be?
"Albus'll be fine," his mother's concerned voice cut through the commotion on the walkway between the platforms. "James survived his first year-"
'I was the only one who noticed it from the start... There was a serpent sense, I swallowed to my heart,' Fred snickered as he overtook them. The laidback cousin who Albus admired for his composed self-assurance had a broomstick slung across his back, shrouded in a Concealing Charm so it appeared to be a tennis racket kit. 'And as he wore the Hat, a thought had come to mind... There was a green banner, I dared not look behind!' He stuck his tongue out over his shoulder, his spray-painted Dr. Martens boots thundering in front of Albus. A pack of Muggle teenagers, armed with rucksacks and brightly coloured rain-jackets, gawked at Fred, one of the older boys watching him with examining eyes.
"Fred!" Albus' father called, admonishingly.
"Slytherin's not that bad," remarked an animated Rose, her elongated hair entwined into narrow cornrows, weaved into a bun. Emerging at his elbow, he noticed she was already attired in her tie and blouse, her sleeves neatly rolled up. Everything about his cousin spoke of organisation and correctness. "Teddy sent half of them to detention a few years ago, d'you remember? They were fuming for months after that," she giggled, a dimple plain as day in her left cheek. Albus gulped at the memory; his parents had prohibited the pair of them from meandering throughout the castle's corridors, fearing misplaced retaliation from them. They'd been corralled into Harry's pocket-sized office, obliged to entertain themselves in silence whilst he taught his lessons.
"James is an intrinsic trouble-maker, Gin, it's Albus I'm worried for. The Yorkists…" His father's voice was subdued, rigid with uncertainty despite the strain in his voice. The Auror Office had petitioned for his presence on several occasions in the midst of August and Albus had watched him edge away from their evening dinners with guilty anguish. The protracted days in the Ministry from his early childhood had returned, casting a sense of unease over their household. As he endeavoured to hear the rest of his father's muttered sentences, a tannoy announcement chimed, authoritatively informing passengers that their ten thirty-two Great Northern train to Kings Lynn was delayed.
Rose prodded him with her wand listlessly. "Earth to Potter! Houston, we have a problem… Look, it's Malfoy. Is that his son?" Gaping, she pointed at the reticent threesome, the shortest of which was the heir, his hair acrimonious against his silky black Hogwarts robes.
"Rose, it's rude to point!" Auntie Hermione whistled at her, her magenta blazer and gown swishing around her ankles. Her alabaster wand darted into her hand, directed at the covert barrier, indiscernible from the surrounding area to Muggles. The electrified trains, gleaming with polish, vanished as they passed its boundary, the sooty mist forcing Albus to cough. Although Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had been expanded to fit larger numbers of students and their families, its enchantments had a worrying tendency to produce ruby sparks when they struggled. His father had wistfully disclosed how small it'd been when he was a child, evoking homesickness and yearning in Albus for an era he'd never experienced. He scanned the bustling assortment of witches, wizards and other such creatures for his parents or James, scampering to Uncle Ron whose ginger head careened through the masses, bellowing jovially. "Don't listen to your dad, they're not gits!"
Rich daylight erupted across his vision, gushing into King's Cross Station from the semicircle vaulted roof, so he almost missed the head of an astoundingly violet dash through the hordes. "Teddy!" he called. "Oi, Teddy!"
"Mate, I wouldn't bother! I caught him snogging Victoire! Victoire!" his brother hollered back, blushing, a disgruntled boy with a prominent nose alongside him. "She's practically our cousin. Our cousin!" Flustered, he repeated the noun, his olive-green eyes widening as he realised the implications. "Sling your hook, Slytherin snake! I want my trunk."
Rose hissed, scowling at his brother. "Piss off with the Slytherin bollocks!"
"Language!" he mockingly answered, heaving his battered trunk onto the Hogwarts Express. "Don't let our grandmother hear you defile your lovely mouth with that sort of language. You were still blowing bubbles for a month afterwards last time." She glowered, her hand unconsciously thrust into her robes for her wand.
Albus mumbled in her ear, focused on shifting his trunk. "Not here! Not with your mum…" He knew she'd catch up with James eventually; the cocksure Gryffindor was condemned to one of Rose's proficient hexes. His cousin was a magnet for overhearing her mother refine her spellwork.
Finished with his trunk, his older brother careered towards him, belting out his grating chorus again. 'There's a boy with the snake-' He coughed, halting his refrain as he grinned balefully at him. "Slytherin Serpent... I'll see you at the Sorting. Don't fuck it up." Their father had appeared from the deluge of blue-clad third and fourth-years behind them, despondent at James' persistent badgering. Albus had sidelined telling his father about it, anxious that he'd have to open up about the lurching in his stomach whenever he thought of Hogwarts.
"James," their father warned, fretfully glancing at Albus.
"Being honest, Dad!" was the response, fractious in its manner as James loped away, his classmate following.
"Write to me if he tries being a wind-up merchant the whole nine hours there," Harry sighed, yawning loudly. He pared his voice down to a whisper, as if they were colluding, divulging enigmas in codes. "Look, the Hat takes your choice into account, if you want it to. I chose Gryffindor over Slytherin but there's no disgrace in deciding that's where you go. To be honest, mate, I could do with a break from all of the red and yellow."
Albus smiled, his lips locked in what felt like an ill-fitting grin. Tendrils of quiet agitation writhed inside his stomach as he wondered about the Sorting again. Where would he go? "You can pick…?"
"It won't put you somewhere you don't want to be. Your mum and I will still be proud wherever you end up. Although be warned, your uncle might rugby tackle you at Christmas… Albus, look at me." He swallowed and squinted at his father. The sun was blinding him. "In the long run, your house won't matter. It's your mates, the stuff you learn outside of the curriculum, the stupid, shortsighted and idiotic ideas you put into practice that teach you who you really are… Your Hogwarts house puts you on that path. It's up to you to figure the rest out." Harry pushed the gunmetal frames of his glasses up his nose. "Anyway, send us a letter when you get there, yeah?"
Albus nodded dutifully. "Is Hogwarts safe?" It was the single, viable conclusion he'd carved out of the hours he'd listened to his dad pace late at night in his office. The shy query didn't make Harry hesitate as he placed his son's trunk on the Hogwarts Express. "Why do you say that?"
"Work," he replied, the single syllable arduous.
His father recognised his need for reassurance and clasped him in a hug, the rich scent of pine and freshly-baked vanilla sponge cake engulfing him. "I'll be there after Christmas for my guest lectures to the OWL lot. It'll be just like any other year, only you'll be a student." His stomach wavered. It hadn't answered the question.
"I'm itching to try out that Stinging Jinx on James," Rose declared, scratching the inside of her collar with a chipped fingernail. Presumably, Grandma Weasley had exacted one of her sanctions through an irregular degnoming session. The thought of the disarrayed backyard with its muddied boots littering the patio made Albus smile. "Absolutely itching. Dad made me learn all of the Quidditch fouls last week. Said there'd be a test when we get there… Did you know there's seven hundred of them? Mum didn't approve… Did your parents give you a speech on upholding family honour or did you get off lucky?" As she rambled, demonstrating her eagerness with her hands, she slammed a door open in her feverishness, prompting a muffled yell from one of its occupants.
"Fuck a duck!" The Malfoy had spoken, the lilting consonants evocative of a Gwynedd cadence. His intonation conjured up the memory of the only camping trip Albus had ever been on, a tiny weekend wedged into the end of February with his classmates. They'd propped up a tent holier than the religious hymns they warbled each morning, its poles rust-covered from disuse. Lachlan had tripped over it and carved a gash into his knee.
Rose glared at the pair, her arms crossed over her chest. "If either of you plan to join Gryffindor, we're disowning you with immediate effect. Which means you piss off, Malfoy."
"How awkward." Malfoy smirked sardonically. "That was part one of our plan for global domination. Sky, we've been scuppered." Stowing their trunks under the seats (Rose's was coated with pictures of Colwyn Nitherscott, his polished Cirrus Cairngorm folded under a burly arm), Albus turned to the two to murmur an apology. Straightening up to stretch his back and doubting whether it was wise to have taken the majority of his bookshelf, he instantly recognised the second occupant. It was the juvenile bookkeeper from the Ellis Emporium, his iron grey eyes and freckles enveloped in a morass of brown hair. Floundering, Albus installed himself next to the window. They'd been coached in the art of mastering the Hogwarts Express: a tiny accomplishment here in making friends would award dividends further on. What if he faltered at the first hurdle?
"As if you were competent enough to do that," his cousin replied drily, extracting her wand. "'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.' The Art of War, chapter three, verse eighteen-"
Malfoy grimaced, his royal blue eyes trained on the floor whilst Sky snorted, affording her a silent round of enthused applause. "Guess we'll have to settle for friends then, Granger-Weasley. I'm Scorpius. What're your names?"
"Al," Albus relinquished the first syllable of his name, anticipating the rumbles of questions about his surname. He quickly looked out of the window, hoping to parry them with his disinterested body language. The London scenery with its enmeshed backdrop of concrete high-rises and steel skyscrapers, enveloped in glass panels that hinted at productivity, acquiesced to the undulating greenery around Knebworth House. Clusters of rosemary, his grandmother's favourite herb, its periwinkle sprigs usually dotted around her kitchen from late spring onwards, hurtled past his line of vision, planted along the railway lines.
"I'm Rose, Malfoy," his cousin delivered her name, a trace of indignation manifesting in her voice. She slid her tie out of its impeccable Windsor knot.
"As Malfoy said, I'm Sky," the Ellis spoke, pronouncing Scorpius' name with jesting irritation. "Bloody hell, Malfoy, you knob, you've told them all about the calamitous cosmocracy we were planning. Looks like we're advancing to part two. Death by reading-" There was an obscure, almost imperceptible layer of anxiety and stiffness which dissipated as they laughed, Albus lured into the conversation again.
"Oh no, we can't possibly surrender! Defeat at the hands of a Malfoy… Think of the shame, Rose!" he groaned, inelegantly frowning. "We need a barricade… Will this do?" He raised his clobbered copy of Avant-Garde Atlas of European Legerdemain, each of its eight hundred and ninety-seven pages delineated and questioned with post-it notes. The Malfoy winced, probing the volume with astonishment, trailing his fingers along the clean lines he'd made in pencil. Grinning carelessly, Albus dove into his enthralment with Charms and what he'd learnt about Merseburg Incantations and Elder Futhark, lumbering over some of the terminology.
"Potter's a Ravenclaw," Scorpius stared at him, bewildered. "There was me thinking it was about what your favourite colour was but he's revised."
"Who's he? The cat's mother?" croaked Albus, his face burning as he realised his mistake. Their discussion had meandered into Hogwarts house territory for the second time, startling him as he'd begun to like the two boys.
Malfoy took a breath, scratching his broad chin with his wand. "I don't fancy my chances in Slytherin," he weakly confessed, rasping before he cleared his throat. "Ha- Have you seen their Quidditch team? I wouldn't last five seconds against Hufflepuff-" Albus gnawed at his lip. Fuck, not that- "Which is ableist, I know, but I don't think I care enough about birthrights or inherited pureblood status or any of that bollocks to warrant being a snake. And I'm not clever or brave or loyal. I'm just me."
"Wave your wand, magic boy, you'll get there," Rose counterattacked. "Nobody's ever been evicted because they weren't Sorted; that's a myth. My mum told me that once you had your Hogwarts acceptance letter, you'd been acknowledged as having magic. See, you don't have to be a brainiac, as you've just proved-" her words elicited a cuff across the head from the smirking Malfoy. "You're like a jellyfish, Malfoy... Proving that wizards can live without brains… Amazing."
"Rose! You're supposed to boost my self-confidence, not lower it!" he protested, his blue eyes boring into Rose's, eyebrows hoisted like the British flags they'd seen quivering above King's Cross that morning.
"Like you need any encouragement," she chortled. "Actually, 'Jellyfish Malfoy' suits you…"
Indulgent recollections of their summer holidays and bartering over Cockroach Clusters and Chocolate Frog cards ("Not another Ronald Bilius Weasley one, here, Malfoy, I want your Colwyn Nitherscott card, they're limited edition...") trickled into the afternoon. Around five, a spiritless Prefect, one of the older Hufflepuffs, stuck their head around the compartment door, muttering about Albus' brother, as they hastened through Northallerton, lodged between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors.
As the soothing September sun began to fade by seven, Sky gazed out of the compartment window, a shabby copy of Constructing the Constitutions: Understanding Wizarding Legislation lying on his lap, a Gringotts bookmark poking out. His face was serenely composed, his head lolling against the glass. At the same time, Rose and Scorpius were hungrily discussing the Wizarding Literature lessons rumoured to be starting at Hogwarts for first and second years. It'd incited controversy in the letters to editors section of the Daily Prophet, conservative-minded augurers and reformist warlocks locked in disputes over the minutiae. Aunt Hermione had read through each paragraph of reasoning with interest, a drafted outline for the qualification's teaching specification inscribed in red ink next to her.
As much as Scorpius was enthralled with what concepts might be covered, Rose nudged the conversation to Quidditch and her predictions for promotions and relegations in the National League. Albus did his best to tune her out. "I'm surprised there's no youth league for the summer season; it'd really push the boundaries of the game. Last year, the Hufflepuff Seeker won on a technicality, after eleven - eleven! - fouls," she jabbered excitedly, fastening her robes. "If we had a local, regional and national system before players left school, individuals - I won't be naming names-" she coughed a hacking noise that sounded oddly like 'Greer', the name of the current Seeker. "-wouldn't be so inclined to abuse the rulebook. Eleven fouls! What were they thinking, letting them get away with it? Not over my dead body."
Albus fixed his black plain-crested tie, nervous to be ready before the train pulled into Hogsmeade. "Will you calm down and do yours up?" he offered Rose hers, the floor quivering as the driver braked.
"I am calm!" she sharply asserted. "Oi, you don't have to remind me you're not interested but the gamesmanship values embedded in the game are what distinguish it from Muggle sports. The rise of individualism is killing our society…"
"Fuckin' hell," Scorpius muttered to Sky inaudibly. "D'you think this is going to be a recurring theme?"
The Ellis boy sniggered, tucking the bookmarked paperback into his trunk. "Two sickles say yes."
"Encouraging self-interest and egotistical competition through sponsorship and brand representation is a very roundabout way of disrespecting the game-" Her voice grew needlelike as she defended her frustration over the lax rules.
"Three and you're on," Scorpius said, evoking a nod from Ellis.
"The IQA rulebook demands fairness, integrity and honesty- How can we instil sportsmanship in new generations when this is the expected standard?" The belligerent shrieking continued as they disembarked, joining the rear of the group of first-years heading towards the horseless carriages. "How can we define 'fairness' when the bar is buried six feet underground?"
James yelled, bounding towards Albus, a gaggle of Weasley cousins accompanying him, braying the discordant verse. 'There's a boy with the snake in his eyes! It's in his eyes! It's in his eyes!'
"Piss off, Potter! Mucus ad Nauseam!" Rose shouted before lowering her voice to resume her dissatisfied torrent on Quidditch. "As I was saying…" She painted an invisible circle with her wand, intended for James. A coruscation, jade green in colour, emitted from its tip, buffeting him squarely in the chest. Nothing materialised, then-
Albus' heart faltered as he saw his older brother stumble backwards, ensanguined phlegm and saliva exploding from his nose and mouth. Louis and Roxanne, their tightly knotted Gryffindor ties already flecked with blood, propped him up, lugging him towards the safety of the coaches. "Disappointingly, he'll live. Part of the responsibility of any educational establishment is instructing its pupils-" Their classmates glowered at Rose, skittering away from their shared transport to the castle.
"Four sickles we lose points for the tie?" Sky wondered out loud as hundreds of cartwheels rumbled along the gravel road. "And another one for the rule-breaking, do you think?"
"The St Petersburg Pogrebins committed six infractions in a professional match that year but eleven at that level is unheard of…"
"Is this journey going to be any longer? We've befriended sodding Napoleon Bonaparte… I'd hate to be with Rose in the dormitories tonight," Scorpius quipped, biting his lip. "I appreciate Quidditch, but this is a new level of obsession." Their travel was shorter than they'd anticipated, lasting roughly ten minutes, although it felt endless. The two stern-looking witches in charcoal blazers who'd met them on the platform, their backs turned to Rose's curse, guided them through the iron-wrought gates. The castle's turrets soared into the dusk sky above their heads, drawing a ripple of 'Oohs!' from the first-years. After their solemn contemplation of their new home, as dignified and imposing as it'd looked before the Second Wizarding War, the hundred-odd eleven-year-olds were ushered into the Entrance Hall.
Mounted upon the wall above the opulent doors was the wizened Hogwarts crest, designed and erected by Salazar Slytherin and fractured during the Battle of Hogwarts. It had been repaired by the survivors, a resplendent golden line blazing through each fissure, symbolising unity. Each of the stone steps of the colossal staircase was engraved with the names of the fallen from Voldemort's regime. This was the start of the rest of his life- There was no capacity for 'fuck-ups', like James had said.
"All seven-hundred infringements'll be committed this year unless-"
A familiarly austere voice resounded across the Entrance Hall. "Where is your tie, Miss Granger-Weasley?" Auntie Minerva - Professor McGonagall, Albus corrected himself, was positioned on the final step, gripping a compact bundle of vellum. Albus could sense the heat smouldering in Rose's cheeks.
"I- I'm so sorry, Professor!" she yelped, groping around her pockets. "I- I must've left it on the train!" Eventually, she felt the lump where he'd stuffed her tie inside her robes, pulling it across her blouse collar.
"Thank you," McGonagall stated, addressing her and the rest of the first-years. "All of you - any failure to meet Hogwarts' distinctly clear uniform requirements will result in the docking of points. Our start-of-term banquet will start shortly, with the commencement of your Sorting when I allow you into the Great Hall. From then, you will be considered full Hogwarts students. You will belong to one of four houses - I, myself, am a former Gryffindor, a house that values bravery and courage, and I hope those of you Sorted into my house act accordingly. Slytherin, on the other hand, favour ambition and cunning, whilst Hufflepuff prefer loyalty and hard-work above all else and Ravenclaw demand curiosity and wit. These houses will act as your in loco parentis, but they will not act as your sole refuge. We're immensely proud of the friendships enjoyed across these divides and expect this to remain the case."
She cleared her throat, scanning their startled faces. "No need to look so frightened. The Great Hall is ready for us."
The behemothic oaken doors swung open, exposing the hundreds of students craning their necks to see them as they strode forwards, led by the Headmistress, past the four extensive tables. Enthusiastic chattering saturated the Hall's space, appearing to be as assuaging and warm as Grandma Weasley's kitchen. Pillar candles hovered over surfaces, dispersed in two-feet intervals at irregular heights. At the High Table, there were faces Albus recognised: Neville, his godfather, the Yorkshireman, Mullard, and the Ellis bookkeeper, whilst the rest of the staff seemed genially mellow.
McGonagall halted, a three-legged stool with the patched and ragged Sorting Hat settled upon it. His cousins had described their befuddlement at its annual melody but it hadn't offered so much as a whisper. "When I call your name, sit here and wait for the Hat to decide your house," she declared. "Adelisa, Christine!" A girl with a thatch of swarthy gold scampered towards the Hat, where it'd hardly grazed her head before designating her a Ravenclaw.
A protracted string of Gryffindors, broken by a solitary Slytherin by the name of Owen Crossgrove, ensued before there was another Ravenclaw. An Asian adolescent, "Dewan, Kavyansh!", brushed past the mass of first-years to perch on the stall. The Hat occasionally took a worryingly long time to conclude where individuals belonged, whereas others, like Adelisa, had their outcomes predestined the moment they'd set foot at Hogwarts. For Dewan, who looked as though he was bickering with the Hat, it'd been ten minutes of harrowing waiting, the hum of speculation growing louder with each passing moment.
"Hatstall," Scorpius whispered sympathetically. "Happened with McGonagall."
Dewan represented the last of the 'D's as he marched to the Ravenclaw table, to somewhat intimidated applause. There were twelve letters before McGonagall reached the 'P's; Albus tried to locate James' grisly face out of the corner of his eye. Would he become a Slytherin like his brother had said?
"Ellis, Sky!"
"See you on the other side," Sky breathed, his grandfather leaning forward impatiently. Ravenclaw was his likely path. The Hat overtly agreed, barking out his new house. Grinning in relief, he ambled to his new classmates, Dewan's lithe arms extending a clap on the back. Six Gryffindors, three Slytherins, five Hufflepuffs and one Ravenclaw later saw Rose's name selected from the list. Albus squeezed her hand before she traversed the five feet between McGonagall and the Hat, aplomb oozing from her. Hardly seconds later, the Hat bellowed its answer.
"Slytherin?!" an aghast James Potter squawked, his collar speckled with crimson, as the Slytherin table cheered for her. Not to be outdone by his antiphon to Pseudo Echo, they warbled Chris De Burgh's altered lyrics. 'The girl with basilisk in her eyes… Oh, oh, oh, on and on she goes…'
Scorpius was next, tantalising minutes stretching out into an abyss of infinity before the Hat declared him a Gryffindor. A stunned lull permeated the air as he sauntered off to join the Gryffindors, smirking. James and Louis shook his hand respectfully, a rambling round of applause subduing the heckling from some of the seventh-year Slytherins. A Malfoy flying in the face of family tradition… There was hope for Albus yet. Six more Ravenclaws were added to the minute group of first-years at Sky's table before his name was exclaimed. "Potter, Albus!"
Fuck, it was his turn. Should he prevail on the well-trodden path or plod his way into the unknown? Was he able to disregard his legacy for whatever quality he possessed? What did he value? His cynical mind told him 'Fuck all'.
The Hat smelt of mustiness. "Curious, how curious," it murmured. "Not too headstrong… There's astute cunning but where to apply it? No fear of donkey work or drudgery either as long as it gets you where you want to be- Oh, but that hunger... There's no famine of knowledge, Potter, yet that itch crawls and burns. You ought to be careful with that, lest you reduce everything in your path to ashes." He thought of the Ellis Emporium and the jumble of books in his trunk stuffed with annotations, theories organised to try out when he could. "You don't think you're capable? At eleven, all you have to your name is potential... Ravenclaw will help you forge that with its fire and brimstone." Did he belong there? His parents had expected Slytherin. "Ah. I see. Assumptions with no foundation… You would do well to refute the Gryffindor fantasy. Ravenclaw!"
Albus planted his eyes on the flagstones, his shoulders unyielding as he scuttled to the Ravenclaw table. His new classmates applauded him contentedly whilst his elder cousins Lucy and Victoire graciously beamed at him. "Good one, Potter!"
Another five first-years swelled their ranks, taking his estimation to seventeen, before McGonagall positioned herself at the High Table. Briefly, she introduced a litany of staff members, Professor Ellis presented as the Deputy Head of Ravenclaw and their Potions professor, with a specialism in alchemy. Her voice dwindled into silence before announcing "Food!"