Chapter 6: Of FourthComing Revelations

Of Fourth-Coming Revelations :

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my OG OCs. All characters belong to JKR; I just tinker-tanker.

AAA.

One April morning, Al woke to the sound of rapping at the window by his bedside. He blinked blearily against the sunlight streaming in and realized that there was an owl staring back at him, its head cocked quizzically to the side. It certainly was no owl he recognized. He had often received post from Carpathia during his years at Hogwarts whenever they'd been too lazy to make the trek across the castle to see each other but her owl had been a black, silky thing and this fluffy, white rendition was not her style—certainly Carpathia would have keeled at the sight of its heavy-looking sequin-studded collar. Nevertheless Al opened the window and pried the parchment from the owl's beak. It uttered a deflated hoot and flapped away.

He unfolded the parchment and read:

Meet me in the common-room in five.

Too early for this, muttered Al in his head, identifying the impeccably flowing letters instantly. He rolled out of bed and tugged on his sneakers half-heartedly before hopping down the steps to the Slytherin common room.

The common room was unusually bright today, with the curtains all drawn open, allowing the green walls to shimmer in a manner akin to leaves under sunlight. Someone had taken the trouble to arrange the mantelpieces of serpent figureheads into the shape of an 'S'.

"Bonjour," whispered a husky, female voice from behind him.

Al leapt, nearly tripping over the leg of a table in the process. "Merlin!"

"Oh. It's you," said Chantal Gerhardt, blinking rapidly and stepping back as though he carried the plague. She waved her wand and muttered a spell, shifting the table back to its original place before Al had accidentally bumped into it.

"Yes. Me. I got your message," said Al irritably, shoving the note into her hand and trying his best not to stare. He'd discovered in the past year that hormones were troublesome things and Chantal was never the best solution for male hormones early in the morning. She was very beautiful, even with her caramel-colored hair all tousled from bed and wrinkles still present under her eyes.

"It wasn't meant for you, obviously," she sighed, thrusting her full lips out into a mournful pout and pocketing the note into her—Al didn't even want to look.

"Well, I apologise for being so rudely woken up," replied Al, rolling his eyes. "You two have to find a better way to communicate. It's probably the—I don't know—billionth time this has happened."

"Please, it's the most excitement you're ever going to get," she sneered, eyes glinting maliciously. Her attractiveness evaporated in an instant.

Al shrugged and headed back for the stairs. "He's not here anyway. Try again later or, you know, don't." He paused, his hand on the stairwell railing, something having caught his attention. It was the floor, he realized, the marble had been swept so clean that he could see his own reflection.

"Did you clean in here?" he asked incredulously, whirling around to face Chantal. He couldn't picture that hoity-toity princess picking up a feather-duster to save her life. Not that he wanted to, he quickly reminded himself.

"Every morning," said Chantal with a sniff, "The house-elves do an atrocious job in my opinion. At Beauxbatons the maids used premium fairy dust. Much more efficient than those silly creatures."

Al fought to keep his lips from twitching. "You lost me at 'every morning'."

"It's the best way to wake up. I used to clean my room at Beauxbatons before classes," continued Chantal in a tone that implied she was very pleased with herself, "And after seeing the state of the Slytherin common-room when I first moved in last year, something had to be done. Mon dieu." She shuddered as though the very memory terrified her. "Mamanalways used to say that there was something wrong with me, but look at how tidy and lovely everything is now!"

Al shook his head in wonderment and left the girl standing there in her bunny pajamas with an annoyed expression on her face. Mental. He headed back to his room and without a second's hesitation, dove headfirst into his pillows.

Ah, sleep.

AAA.

Scorpius had left the boys' dormitory earlier that morning with the Marauder's Map tucked in his front shirt pocket. Al had of course no idea he'd swiped it the night before from a pair of Al's boxer shorts. Over the years it had become a hide-and-seek routine of theirs, but no matter how much the poor sod attempted to conceal the Map, Scorpius was always able to find it in the end.

He consulted his watch, realizing it was closer to breakfast than he thought, and picked up his pace. The Map indicated that the pitch was still empty but he had just under half an hour to get some last minute practice in before pre-match preparations.

It was surprising how few people got up at seven-o-clock on a Saturday morning. Scorpius was used to being an early riser and relished the fact that these were the few hours during the day where he could actually be with his own thoughts. He scanned the Map again and a dot labeled 'James Potter II' immediately stood out to him. That was odd, he frowned, what was James doing near the Potions storeroom so early in the morning?

The dot hovered near the Potions storeroom and then began to meander slowly towards the Hogwarts kitchens. A second dot floated next to the first a few moments later labeled 'Fred Weasley II'. Thanks to the Map, Scorpius had observed this early-morning routine before and knew sneaking into the kitchens before breakfast was rather common for those two. He was convinced they had the metabolism of two gorillas, which would explain why they needed to consume all the protein they could get their hands on before a match.

The Quidditch pitch rose into sight from a distance. Finally. Scorpius sped down the corridor with a skip in his step before glancing down at the map and screeching to a halt. He had just realized, with a pang in his gut, that he wasn't going to be alone.

Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he stared down at the parchment as two dots labeled 'Rose Weasley' and 'Carter McLaggen' spelled out plain as day. Merlin's sake, they weren't there a second ago. Why did she always have to ruin his plans?

So they have become an item now, came the second revelation as an afterthought. Scorpius smiled, amused at the irony. He and Carter McLaggen got along just about as well as matches and firewhiskey, which made the whole situation rather apt for Rose Weasley. If anything, he was certain they'd have a lot to talk about concerning him.

Still frustrated over having gotten up so early over nothing, Scorpius stalked back to the Slytherin dormitories to change for the upcoming match.

AAA.

Al found himself brutally awoken yet again by a sharp sting to the ear. An object had landed on his pillow, precariously close to his face. He struggled to consciousness. "Whozzat?"

"Me, arseface. Don't stay in bed all day."

Albus groaned and tossed a pillow in the general direction of the voice in response. "Where did you get off to? Your girlfriend woke me up at bugger-o-clock this morning looking for you."

"She's not my girlfriend," said Scorpius automatically. Al rolled his eyes into the recesses of his pillow. "What did you tell her?"

"The usual, that she should go find herself a better bloke," said Al, his voice muffled.

He could hear the smile in Scorpius' voice. "Excellent. Now get up."

"Fuck off."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"There aren't any classes today," Al replied by way of explanation, his voice muffled through the sheets.

"Astute as ever, Potter. In case you've been living under a rock over the last few weeks, today is the Quidditch match final. Make sure you're wearing green." Scorpius said the last sentence with a smirk in his tone as if he sincerely doubted it. There were footsteps and then the door slammed shut with an impressive bang, causing Gareth and Lucas to sputter awake.

"What happened?" Lucas mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

The words 'Quidditch match' rang in Al's ears like a deathbell. He opened his eyes blearily and registered the object that Scorpius had thrown at his head. It was an obnoxious, lime-green pin the size of a tennis ball. He didn't need to read the pin to know what it said; the pins had been distributed from the Slytherin Quidditch team among the student body over the last few weeks leading up to the match and had been nothing but a source of trouble.

"Up yours, Gryffindor!" the pin squeaked. Great. Had they been enchanted with voice-boxes now?

Al chucked the pin under his pillow, smothering its obscenities, and groaned. He hated Quidditch.

AAA.

AAA.

You could always tell what sort of a match it was going to be from the state of the Banquet Hall during breakfast, Al thought, walking into the grand room with Lucas and realizing that it was a complete clash of green and maroon. Judging by today the match was most certainly not going to be a tame one. Almost instantly, Al could spot out James, who was sitting next to Fred with his silver captain's badge shining proudly on his chest like a fluffed peacock. They were drawing gold and red stripes on each other's cheeks and laughing boisterously above a crowd of Gryffindor well-wishers, which seemed to mount them on a spotlight. James-with his windswept good looks and the feel of a hundred students' eyes on him—was especially at home. Al shook his head and looked away. Some things didn't change.

Granted there were a lot more supporters wearing maroon than green, but the Slytherins—with their cunning and silent ferocity—had also geared quite a fearsome reputation this season and created nice odds for those betting on the winner of the Quidditch cup this year. The Slytherin team sat at their significantly quieter table in their green uniforms and black boots, shoving breakfast into their mouths without so much as a word exchanged. At the head of the table Slytherin Captain Zak Barrons was discussing last-minute Quidditch tactics in low tones with Head Chaser, Gemma Plighton, who also happened to be his girlfriend. Al observed the calm behavior of his peers, while glancing over at the ostentatious Gryffindors, and felt a swell of pride. You could always count on the Slytherins for humility.

Feelings of envy pricked at him and memories of soaring through the pitch with the wind in his hair shuffled through his head in little flashes. The words of a certain Slytherin Captain drifted in as if from a dream.

You'd make a damn good Chaser, maybe even a Seeker…

No, Al told himself firmly. That was a long time ago. He doubted anyone would remember.

"Nice outfit, Potter," sneered Gareth from somewhere down the table. Al ignored him. As usual, he had chosen to wear a neutral color that displayed no partiality to either team. This year it was black.

Good old Lucas shot Gareth a glare. "Shove off." Gareth hmmphed and diverted his attention back to his bacon.

"Thanks," said Al in surprise, smiling at Lucas in appreciation.

"No problem, mate."

Things had certainly changed over the last year. Al was beginning to spend less and less time with the Gryffindors and had drifted apart from Drew and Rowan in favor of Lucas and Carpathia's company. He had realized quite early on that they had more in common with Rose than they did with him, whether it was a result of their inherent 'Gryffindor-ness' or if they simply just had more to talk about. He and Lucas, however, shared many common interests—including their affinity for Quidditch without having to play in an actual team (though with Lucas it was more because he possessed a lack of ability). Carpathia, of course, had proven herself to be an unwavering friend over the years. Al couldn't imagine Hogwarts without her softspoken counsel, flat humor and quiet bravery, even though Carpathia insisted that there wasn't much she offered.

With a sudden jolt, Al realized that he hadn't seen Carpathia all of yesterday, or the day before for the matter. In the midst of their schoolwork they had barely spoken to each other over the last week, something he found quite bothersome. He scanned the Gryffindor table, searching for that familiar lone figure in black amongst a sea of red.

Several things attracted Al's notice. There was Rose sitting next to Carter McLaggen—her boyfriend of three months—and laughing at something he'd just whispered in her ear. There was Lily amongst her first-years friends, her unmistakable red hair braided into two endearing pigtails. To Al's amusement, she shot James a glare that was scarily similar to their mother's, annoyed that he was creating such a scene. No Carpathia.

Al's eyes landed inadvertently on the Ravenclaw table before he could stop himself. He glimpsed the familiar fall of amber-brown hair and a leaping sensation rose up in his stomach.

Ah, Isabel. Al wrenched himself away from self-pitying thoughts. Their last encounter at Hogsmeade had ended cordially, but 'cordial' seemed to be all that Isabel was interested in. "I'd love to be friends" were her parting words, but Al had discovered very quickly that this was easier said than done. Why didn't she see anything more in him? And why couldn't he just bloody get over it? She was still all that he could think, even when he wasn't trying to think about her. Life was horribly unfair.

"Hi Albus," uttered a cheery voice to his left and Vera Zabini plopped down next to him, ponytails swinging. She was wearing green ribbons in her hair and had drawn a silver heart on her cheek with the initials S.S. (Salazar Slytherin) in them. "You look very un-Slytherin today." She drew out several markets and fanned them out for the table in a display. "How about a little house spirit?"

"Thanks, Vera, but I'm not really a face paint kind of bloke."

Lucas snorted into his cereal. "Little desperate, aren't you, Vera?"

Vera glared at Lucas, her cheeks tightening. "I was just trying to be friendly, Rosier." But she looked significantly more peeved as she walked off.

At that moment Scorpius entered the hall in full Quidditch uniform. Even without trying, his presence immediately set off a reaction among his Slytherin teammates, who scooted over to make room for him next to the Captain. I suppose that's the kind of treament you get when you're Seeker, thought Al, or when you behave like a pompous git.As though he'd heard his thoughts, Scorpius looked up and caught Al's eye with a faint curl of his lips. He patted his pocket subtly.

Only Al could have known what it meant. Even now the Marauders' Map was still their secret.

Al glared daggers at him. The bastard had nicked it again.

"Hey, look who just arrived," commented Lucas.

" 'His Holiness'?" grumbled Al, jerking his head towards Malfoy.

"No. Carpathia," said Lucas with a frown. He pointed. "And she's got company."

Al turned in his seat and, sure enough, spotted Carpathia walking into the Banquet Hall amongst a group of five older students.

And not just any ordinary group of students. He identified the black flyaway curls of sixth-year Ravenclaw Devon Lynch, who was leading the group with a swagger to his step. A mixture of uneasiness and surprise boiled up inside Al.

What are you doing withthem, Thia?

Even James, who liked to associate himself with everyone, avoided speaking to Devon Lynch and his clan. They were an engimatic, troublemaking lot, often keeping to themselves and maintaining an air of mystery over their daily activities. The latest on the rumor mill was that Devon had attempted to start a cult and, as a result, was on academic probation for practicing Dark Magic. Al didn't believe such rumors; he was certain Devon was just thick and students fed on bad rumors like hungry vultures.

Al watched Carpathia avidly, waiting for her to notice him, and noticed himself the changes in her behavior. She had never been one to display emotions in public but here she was, smiling widely as though she'd been hit with a Cheering Charm on her way in. Merlin's beard, was that a skip in her step? He watched as Devon lightly punched her arm, which prompted her to give him a rather playful shove. Physical contact? Now that was practically unnatural.

Carpathia's face angled towards Al and when she spotted him looking at her, she smiled in acknowledgment. Al waved and gestured at the seat next to him.

She gave the tiniest of shakes with her head and mouthed, see you later. Then she turned and resumed her conversation with the older students.

Lucas whistled. "Looks like Carpathia's been inducted."

Al sharpened his gaze on Devon's haughty, aloof expression as he reacted slowly to something Carpathia had said. Her hands animatedly created a story and, when she paused, he burst out laughing. Inducted. Right. The bloke looked entirely too smarmy for Carpathia's own good.

AAA.

It was dreadfully humid. Scorpius was already sweating under his shoulder pads as he huddled with the rest of the Slytherin team near the outer rim of the Quidditch pitch. The Gryffindors were already up and about for their usual pre-match warmup. James Potter stood at a distance, a clipboard attached to his hand, blowing sharp whistles every now and then. From what Scorpius could see, the Gryffindors were admittedly in fine form.

He glanced up at the sky. It had been sunny this morning but ominous black clouds had begun rolling in, casting a gray shadow on the pitch.

He jiggled in impatience. The straps of his cap were digging into the back of his skull. What was taking Barrons so long? Gareth, looking equally uncomfortable, was staring at their Captain with a peeved expression on his face. They should have started their warm-up ages ago

"Has anybody seen Blakeley, Nyx or Roswell? They haven't changed yet," called out Katie Milch—the team's current and most terrifying Beater—as she strode towards them, her bat leaning off her shouder. No one answered her.

At the sound of her voice, Captain Barrons put down the clipboard he had been peering so anxiously over and jogged towards them with a grave expression on his face.

"What's the matter?" asked Gemma, Head Chaser, eyeing the look on her boyfriend's face with a frown.

Barrons halted before his team, his arms crossed, suddenly very serious. "Has anyone contracted dragon-pox lately and failed to mention it at practice?"

The team immediately voiced their vehement denials. Barrons was usually an agreeable bloke, but at this moment, he looked like he was ready to murder someone.

"Why dragon-pox?" questioned Gemma.

"Because that's what's currently plaguing our entire bloody reserve at the moment," said Barrons with gritted teeth. "I just went to visit Blakeley, Nyx, and Roswell at the Hospital Wing and all of them are too busy vomiting their insides out to play. So either they've been moonlighting as dragon-wrestlers and just happened to have contracted the disease together, or we've been tampered with."

Dragon-wrestlers? Blakeley and Nyx were so skinny they could have been broomsticks themselves. Besides, you didn't need dragons to contract dragon pox. Any institute could kept vials of dragon pox on hand as a common ingredient for brewing potions, since the potency of the disease was substantially nulled when it reacted with other magical materials. A raw dose of dragon pox disease, however…

Like replaying a tape reel in slow-motion, Scorpius suddenly recalled the image of James Potter's dot on the Marauders Map this morning, hovering around the Potions storeroom and then making its way to the kitchens. Merlin. He couldn't have.

"James," said Scorpius abruptly. "James fucking Potter."

The entire team shifted their heads simultaneously towards Scorpius.

"How do you know?" demanded Gemma, her cheeks beginning to turn pink.

"I…" Scorpius began, before realizing what he was about to say was going to sound ridiculous. "I saw him outside the kitchens today looking…erm, sinister." Gemma raised her eyebrows. "Either way you knowit's something only he could do."

"Wanker," swore Gareth.

"Can't we report him to Hopkirk?" demanded Katie with a flinty look in her eye.

Barrons shook his head wearily. "Scorpius' outstanding testimonial aside, we don't have any proof of foul-play and the match starts in fifteen minutes." He glanced up at the sky and then back at his teammates. "I sincerely hope we won't be needing any reserve players with this storm coming in so play safe, you lot. Don't be doing any fancy tricks to antagonize the players, especially James Potter." He gazed at Scorpius directly. "That means you. We'll be counting on you, Scorp."

"As ever," Scorpius replied coolly, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. As the team murmured their assents to Captain Barrons, Scorpius turned to look at the red-caped players in the sky, hackles raised.

He had never felt a greater urge to win than he did now.

AAA.

"James!" called out Al, spotting the familiar profile of his older brother on the field. James had his hand shielded over his eyes and was monitoring his players' movements across the pitch.

James turned and sighed melodramatically. "What, Al? I haven't got time to be all brotherly and mentor-y right before the biggest match of the year."

Of course, O Wise One. For some reason, James was always the most unbearable when there was a broomstick in his hand.

"Right. Well. I just wanted to wish you good luck, that's all." I was going to ask you what you know about Devon Lynch, since he's in your year and all, but since you can't see anything beyond your own fat head, I guess not.

"Why?" demanded James, whirling around, "Do you think we need it?"

Antagonizing his brother when he could were rare opportunities. Al shrugged. "Maybe."

James narrowed his eyes at him, looking at him up and down. "What's Slytherin planning on doing?"

Al sighed. "Nothing, James." Did he always have to be so paranoid?

"Come on. If Slytherin had tricks up its sleeve, you'd tell family, right?" James glanced upward towards Fred and Rose, who were passing the Quaffle to one another, as if to make his point.

Al gritted his teeth, hating James once more for pulling out the trump card. Family. It was always bloody family, wasn't it?

"Slytherin's not planning anything. They're just trying to win fair and square. Why do you always have to be such a prick?"

"Bloody hell, calm your tits," said James with a condescending whistle. His face broke into a good-natured grin. "I'm only joking. Didn't realize you had such a soft spot for those buggers. Anyway, it doesn't matter what Slytherin has or hasn't got planned…"

What was so attractive about that face anyway? All the girls in the year above couldn't stop harking on about it, but when Al looked he could see only selfishness and spite.

"…because I can guarantee that Slytherin's not winning the house-cup this year. Not on my watch, at least."

There was something supercilious in his voice that made Al's ears prick up. It wasn't just arrogance talking now. It was…certainty, and James was never certain about something unless he had orchestrated it that way.

Al studied his brother with new eyes as if he was just seeing him for the first time. It couldn't be. James wouldn't tamper with Quidditch. It was the holy cheese to him, to both of them, to their whole bloody family. Then he saw the glint in James' eyes, the same glint of mischievous glee that James exuded after executing a particularly successful prank, and Al knew.

"What did you do?" asked Al slowly. "Did you do something, James?"

James' eyes danced. "Maybe."

James had cheated. Al stared at his brother, whom he had given up four years of Quidditch for out of respect and grudging admiration, not sure whether he was truly hearing the words coming out of James' mouth.

"You don't deserve to be Captain," said Al, suppressing the shudder of rage in his voice.

James frowned at Al's tone, realizing he had poked a nerve. "Nobody wants Slytherin to win. I didn't even think you would have minded so much. You don't even like your house-mates."

How the hell would you know? We've barely spoken the last four years at school.

"I can't believe I…I gave up flying for you," retorted Al, a wad of spit flying out of his mouth. All he could think about was how excited the Slytherins had been the night before, the gleeful look on Malfoy's face when he told the boys in their dorm that it was the first time in five years that Slytherin had made it to the final. Al wished he could have said something to perturb James, really perturb him, but James had an uncanny ability to stay unperturbed as if the world would somehow fix his problems as long as he smiled the right way.

James exhaled and looked down at his clipboard."As if you would have made the team. You're puny."

"I'm a damn better flier than you'll ever be!" the words left Al's mouth in a loud yell, prompting the players hovering above to stop what they were doing and look curiously down at the Potter brothers.

That had been a dangerous move. James Potter could handle his ego if it was just between him and his brother, but when there was an audience…

"Watch it," he said, his voice low and tight, shoulders squaring forward. Al stared back, fuming, and then James straightened and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright, mentoring time over. Slither along now and enjoy the match from the stands with everyone else." He turned and blew his whistle, not even bothering to spare even a second glance at the younger Potter.

Something had snapped inside Al. He stared blankly at his brother's back, memories from the last four years passing through his mind fleetingly. All those years of sitting idly by the pitch and watching the joy on Rose's face when she flew, wishing it were him on the pitch instead…that one holiday when Dad had bought James a new broomstick and not Al because Al hadn't shown any interest in Quidditch…all those years of people asking him why he'd never bothered to try out, what had happened to that talent he'd shown as a first-year-

What was it all bloody for?

Al suppressed an inner scream and stalked towards the bleachers in a blind haze. More importantly, he just wanted to kick something and pretend that it was James' stupid face.

AAA.

The match had begun.

Scorpius hovered above the rest of the Slytherin team, shivering slightly as a column of chilly air swept through him. His teammates below were working furiously to combat the Gryffindors, who seemed to have kicked off the game as a domineering force of pure brutality.

From a purely strategic perspective, this had James Potter written all over it. The Chasers had no regard for formation or defense but had apparently been given plenty of leeway to execute flashy tricks and solo maneuvers in attempts to score goals.

Unfortunately, with the Slytherins playing for survival due to their complete lack of reserves, it was working.

We're too defensive, thought Scorpius as he watched Katie Milch deflect a Bludger off to the side of the pitch. Normally the girl would have swung right for Fred Weasley's teeth, but with Barrons instructions hanging over everybody's heads…

Play it safe.

Scorpius gritted his teeth and pulled into a small dive, straying just the right distance away from the action. He knew he couldn't afford to be injured,but it was just so damn hard. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gryffindor Seeker Lee Chapman tailing him cautiously, a precautionary measure to assure himself that Scorpius hadn't spotted the Snitch.

Scorpius rolled his eyes. Idiot.

He focused on watching the stands, noting how the mass body of scarlet supporters overpowered the significantly smaller circle of greens. Rowan Thomas was commentating as usual, but his voice—which normally resonated quite impressively across the field—was barely audible under the rumble of stormclouds rolling across the sky.

All of a sudden he registered a flash of red hair—where had that come from?—and heard a crack to his left. A black ball hurtled towards his vision and, in panic, he swerved to the right.

Out of nowhere Gemma Plighton's arm clamped on his, dragging Scorpius upwards. A Budger narrowly zipped by his ear.

Scorpius swiveled to see Fred Weasley eyeing him with a grin. He twirled his bat once and shot off. Git, he thought furiously. Beaters weren't meant to target Seekers this early in the game.

"Goddammit be careful Malfoy," hissed Gemma, shaking the sweat out of her eyes. She turned towards the referee and threw her hands up in exasperation. "Oi! Ref! Are you going to call that or what?"

Barrons swept by them, shooting Gemma a furious look as he shouted: "Don't get yourself ejected from the pitch, Plighton! Malfoy, don't forget you're unexpendable."

The match got progressively dirtier. James Potter had evidently allowed his team to play as aggressively as possible, resulting in a rampage of fouls for the Gryffindors that were clearly aimed to knock any Slytherin off his or her broom. It was forcing the team into a tight corner, limiting them into executing only the simplest moves.

Gemma, aware of the risks, began to lose the Quaffle to James Potter as he performed increasingly ostentatious feints. Her curses resonated across the pitch and the team thanked the cover of thunder clouds from what would otherwise have been a penalty for profanity. On two occasions Scorpius almost collided into Rose Weasley, and on the second he heard her whisper snakily:

"Gryffindor for the cup."

Then the storm arrived and all hell broke lose.

As rain fell thickly, soaking into Scorpius' clothes and chilling his bones, he wondered how in Merlin's name he was going to see the Snitch. More importantly, how was Slytherin going to keep holding off the Gryffindors the longer he couldn't? There was nothing worse than two opposing teams doing their earnest to beat one another in order to end the match as soon as possible. The Gryffindors—now also discomforted by the rain—had upped their game even more.

Scorpius' heart stopped. He'd seen the flash of gold. Before he could think on it for another second he pulled into a dive, hoping this would grant him a few seconds' advantage before Chapman noticed. Thunder rumbled over head and the rain pierced his skin like knives.

Scorpius spat out water, accelerating his velocity, and the glint of gold drew desperately closer and closer. He could hear Chapman panting behind him, struggling to keep up—

"MALFOY, WATCH OUT!" roared Gemma again. This time the Chaser crashed into him, knocking him off his course and causing him to inhale a mouthful of hair. Another gleeful Bludger whizzed past them.

Scorpius swore and quickly regained his bearing, having half in mind to yell at Gemma for being such an overprotective bint, but when he whirled around on his broom she had disappeared from view.

"Somebody catch her!" yelled Barrons from somewhere in the distance, his voice desperate. Scorpius' heart dropped to his stomach as he watched their Head Chaser plummet down to the grass, her robes flapping in the wind. He could practically hear the smirk on James Potter's face.

Then she landed on the ground with a thump and all was silent.

AAA.

It's a messy game, thought Al darkly. He was seated at the edge of the box on the far corner, associating himself away from the cheering Slytherins and making a point even to avoid Lucas. What was the point really? He hadn't come out here to support Slytherin and he definitely couldn't support Gryffindor, not after what James had done. James, who represented everything he hated about Gryffindor.

"Hi, Al."

He could barely make out the voice over the ruckus of the crowd, but his heart instantly sputtered to life and goosebumps rippled over the flesh of his arms.

"Oh, erm. Hi," he muttered, glancing upwards into the face of Isabel Marrieto, who was sitting in the row above him with an awkward expression on her face. Her curly-haired friend (Trish, or something of the other) could barely suppressed a smirk.

"Crazy atmosphere, isn't it?" Isabel said, raising her voice louder as applause roared from around them, signaling the start of the match. Her r's trilled gently, a reminder of her Italian roots. Al found it unbearably endearing.

"Sure," he answered, smiling at her. "Bit stressful for me though, as you'd probably imagine."

Isabel laughed and said, "'Course it is. You must be proud of James though. He hasn't lost a match yet." He could feel his smile drop and her expression instantly tightened nervously. "Not that you're not…I hear that you're an amazing flyer yourself," she added hurriedly.

He nodded and feigned another smile. "Thanks. Enjoy the match." He wasn't sure if she regretted her words or even if she cared that he hadn't been too pleased by what she'd said; he just wanted to put his mind elsewhere. He turned back towards the pitch.

It was better just to focus on the mechanics of the game. Al was good at that. He had a trained eye honed from years of flying and reading sports magazines. He could spot strategy before it was executed and identify the strengths and weaknesses of teams five minutes into any match.

Yes. This was definitely better.

"…and the Quaffle is taken by Plighton, who tosses it over the shoulder to O'Reilly —AND Potter intercepts! Brilliant! There it goes to R. Weasley, who's pulling into a dive-"

Al barely noticed when Carpathia slid into the seat next to him, matching his neutral attire with a long, black coat.

"Al?" she said, waving a hand across his face. He jumped. "God, took me ages to find you."

"Oh. Hi," he said rather curtly before turning back to the game. Slytherin had dialed down on their attacks and was on the defensive. Milch—usually a cannon on the pitch—was doing everything in her power to deflect Bludgers from her teammates but wasn't bothering to beat them in the direction of the Gryffindors. They couldn't afford to lose a player.

"What's the matter with you?" said Carpathia, concern lacing her voice.

"Nothing," Al responded in clipped tones. "Is it wrong that sometimes I just want to commit fatricide?"

"Oh," she hummed in sympathy. "I'll hold him down and you get the poison?"

"If James goes, there has to be at least a few broken bones," replied Al bitterly.

Carpathia placed a hand tenderly on his arm. "Ignore him."

"I can't anymore."

"So do something about it."

Al exhaled. "I can't do that either."

"Well." A sharp edge had crept into Carpathia's voice, concealed judiciously by the smoothness in her tone. "You've got yourself in a pickle there, Potter."

Al did not fancy the abrupt change in the air between them. When he looked at her, she met his eyes as impassively as ever and the ambiguity of the situation brought forth a sudden desire to confront her.

"Where were you this morning? I saw you walk in with Devon Lynch."

Guilt flickered briefly across Carpathia's eyes. She shrugged. "We're friends."

"Malfoy misses a close-call from F. Weasley—ah, let the bloke sulk over his bat for a mo' there—there's Plighton shaking her fist at the referee, feisty Head Chaser the Slytherins have there—and here comes Barrons to cool the situation-"

"Why are you friends with him?"

The disdain in his voice prompted her to stiffen. "Why can't I be?" she challenged.

"I dunno, I just don't-" Al hesitated, and then continued, "I don't think they're the sort of people you should be chumming with."

Carpathia rolled her eyes. "I can have other friends, you know." A flare of anger had erupted in the last syllable.

Where the hell had that come from?

The blare of the buzzer momentarily invaded the silence between them, followed by an enormous roar rising from the red supporters around them.

"And Potter scores! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

Al managed to glimpse his brother conducting his customary gloating lap around the pitch before returning to the matter at hand. "He's bad news, Thia. I thought you'd be smart enough to know that."

"That's awfully judgmental, Al."

Why was she being so adamant about this? She'd never been so keen to disagree on a subject. "I don't have to. I bleedin' well know what sorts of people I'd like to associate myself with."

The buzzer sounded again, signaling ten more points to Gryffindor.

"Do you?" exclaimed Carpathia with a sarcastic laugh, and two red spots appeared on her pale cheeks. Her eyes had turned into a violent, stormy gray. "Oh Merlin, Al, I can't keep doing this for you. It's too bloody difficult!"

He gawked at her, abandoning his attention towards the match completely. "What is?"

"Babying you," she stated flatly.

Al threw his hands up, exasperated. "Can't you ever just say what you mean?"

"I am."

"No you're not. You're being cryptic. As usual."

"Malfoy pulls into a dive! He's seen the Snitch! There's Chapman, right on his tail. It looks like it might be a short match, ladies and gents-"

Carpathia clenched her fists in frustration. "I mean, I can't always be there to help you grow a backbone."

Al felt like he had just been decked in the stomach by a double-decker bus. "What did you say?" he pronounced slowly. A drop of water splattered on his hand, leaving behind a clear trail as it slipped to the floor.

"Oho get your parasols out, it looks like the storm just arrived—and Malfoy pulls out of the dive, having lost the Snitch—poor chap, it'll be difficult having to spot anything in this weather-"

Carpathia shook her head and shot him a scathing look. "Don't lecture me on who I can or can't associate with when you've never even come close to figuring it out yourself. What do you want, Al? Who are your friends and who are your enemies?"

Al stood in his seat abruptly and gazed down at her with cold eyes. Not her too. The red hot itch behind his ears had transformed into a cold trickle down his back. "You don't understand. My family-"

"Your family? And what about mine?" Carpathia interrupted sharply, standing to meet him with level eyes. The rain was falling thickly now, leaving damp trails on Al's clothes. As the people around them scrambled to retrieve their umbrellas or conjure up a shelter, neither of them moved a muscle. "You forgot, didn't you? At least your mum and dad accept you for who you are. Your brother's a prat but at least he gives you the time of day."

She stepped closer to him. The rain had glued her black, jagged hair down the sides of her face. "The difference between you and me is that I decided what I wanted for myself a long time ago. I know who I want to be, who my friends are, and who I would hex to the ends of the earth if they ever came near me. To me that is everything, and if it were me in your place and it were James instead of Gareth, I wouldstill stand my ground against him because that is the price for that kind of freedom. Fuck James."

The buzzer honked again in the distance, muffled by the patter of rain. Al couldn't even distinguish which side had scored.

"So that's what you think of me, is it?" demanded Al quietly, "You think I'm a coward."

"Prove me wrong," she said fiercely, her eyes full of fire. Water trickled down the nape of her nose. "Don't waste another chance to be heard and to be who you want to be with without consequences." His face contorted and she ploughed on, mercilessly, "You're not a coward. You're just behaving like one."

Her face hed blurred into a haze of raindrops and he stood up and walked off the stands without another word. The heaviness that had settled in the space between his sternum and ribcage was intolerable.

"Al," he heard her cry behind him, "I didn't mean it. Come back."

His feet carried him away faster. Each step burrowed into the damp earth and imprinted tiny puddles. Come back? He thought bitterly, You weren't supposed to be the one that I'd never have to defend myself to.

The storm boiled above and a fork of lightning splintered the sky. It was only then when Al noticed that the pitch had become remarkablu quiet. There was a growing sound of murmuring among the students, like the buzz of a thousand bees, and the figures in red and green were bustling towards the edge of the bleachers, the fleshy dots of curious faces all angled downwards.

Something catastrophic had happened.

Al squinted through the rain and spotted the familiar figure of Gemma Plighton splayed motionlessly on the ground, her green robes melding into the grass.

AAA.

"This is bad," said Barrons, looking visibly distressed as the medics paraded an unconscious Gemma on a stretcher towards the entrance of the castle. The poor bloke had lost his grip on being Captain, thought Scorpius, but Scorpius couldn't blame him. His girlfriend was on that stretcher.

The Gryffindors were huddled several ten meters away, regarding the scene with apologetic looks on their faces. Only James stood apart from them, his arms folded across his chest with a rigid expression on his face. Scorpius hands itched for his wand. Merlin, he wanted to hex that git into oblivion.

"This is bad," repeated Barrons, his hands twisting his Keeper's cap into a taut coil.

"She'll be alright, Barrons," comforted Katie, gently prying the cap away from his fingers.

"I know that. Gemma heals so fast she's practically a lizard," Barrons replied with a faint smile. "But she's our Head Chaser and we're one short now of playing. What in Merlin's bleedin' name are we going to do?"

The team was silent.

"Is there anyone who knows an extra player?" Katie addressed the team helplessly.

Silence. The weight of what was to come next washed down on them worse than the torrential rainfall.

"Well that's it, then," announced Barrons, his voice hollow and heavy. "I'll go tell Hopkirk we forfeit." The words sank on the heads of the Slytherin players, dragging down the countless months of grueling training into the damp earth.

"Wait," uttered Scorpius with gritted teeth. The idea had come to him while he'd been staring at James Potter's rainwashed form in the distance, but it was only when he noticed a familiar redheaded boy stalking off from the pitch that it solidifed into a fully-fledged option. "What about Potter?"

Barrons raised a confused eyebrow. "Potter? As in James?"

"As in Albus."

"Albus? He's never even been to tryouts," Jack Avery retorted derisively. Several members of the team echoed his sentiments.

"Hang on. Wasn't he that kid that Joe Davies wanted to recruit?" mused Katie thoughtfully, glancing at Barrons. "Remember? He flew circles around some poor arse on the pitch a few years back and Joe wanted him on the team right then and there. Joe never wants anyone that easily. The kid had amazing technique."

"That poor arse was me," said Scorpius smoothly, and Katie covered her mouth in an attempt not to laugh. "And yes, I sincerely vouch that he's still a damn good flier." He ignored the look of shock that Gareth tossed him and gazed straight at the Captain. He wanted Barrons to know that he believed they could still win this—that they could still wipe that smug look off of James Potter's face and secure a place for the trophy in the Slytherin common room where it so rightfully belonged.

Barrons nodded, new fire in his eyes. "Alright, Scorp. Go get him – and be quick about it."

As Scorpius sped off towards the redheaded figure in the distance with Quaffle in hand, he reflected upon the moment with an ironic sense of amusement. He would not have reocgnized the person today, a person having previously been governed by an unreasonable sort of jealousy for Albus Potter, now staking his own reputation on the basis that Albus would come to his aid - again. Was this amusement or mortification?

Al was just a few steps ahead of him now. Scorpius cupped a hand around his mouth and called out:

"Oi, Potty! We want you to play!"

Al stopped his tracks and there was only the sound of falling rain for several seconds. Without turning he said, in surprisingly even tones, "No. Thank you."

Scorpius frowned. Did I approach this incorrectly? "Sorry, did you just say 'no'? We're about to lose this bleeding match and you're saying 'no'?"

"Well you lot should have had better players."

Scorpius rolled his eyes in irritation. "This is an odd situation so don't flatter yourself," he drawled, sauntering towards the halted figure. "I'm not asking this for me. I'm not even asking this for the team. Normally I'd rather eat Longbottom's underwear than admit it, but you're not bad—at least you've got a killer arm and can throw a Quaffle a decent distance without pissing yourself. So, please, do yourselfa favor and play."

"Not interested, Malfoy," muttered Al, his teeth clenched. Scorpius studied the boy's back with curiosity. This wasn't Al's normal reaction. He had detected a whirlwind of emotions in Potter's tone; hurt, anger, betrayal, loathing. For Merlin's sake, what catastrophe had befallen him now?

"What's the matter?" Scorpius called out, feigning concern in his voice, and then without missing a beat he threw the Quaffle viciously at Al's back.

With astonishing speed, the boy whirled around and caught it with his hands.

"I said I wasn't interested!" Al yelled, hurtling the Quaffle back in Scorpius' direction with such force that Scorpius could barely duck out of time.

"Bloody hell, Potter!" cried Scorpius indignantly, now aptly shaken. He quickly mopped up the loose strands of his hair that had fallen out of its impeccable structure. "I'm glad you're finally doing it but, Dumbledore's arse, this is not the situation to grow a pair!" He managed to storm up to within a meter of Albus before Albus placed both hands on Scorpius' chest and shoved him brutally, fixing on him a crazed expression that Scorpius had never seen before.

"When did you realize I was no longer useless, Malfoy? After all those times I lent…no, you stole… my dad's Map? After I saved your arse from failing second-year Potions? Or was it after providing you endless chances to boost up your fragile ego by being a bloody human experiment? " Al's voice was flat and hardened, almost devoid of emotion. "You want to talk about growing a pair? Well, maybe I should just let you and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team forfeit because I don't owe you or them anything." Al's voice lowered to a threatening murmur, "I don't have to care."

Scorpius stood still, watching Potter's icy green eyes pierce his own with an expression of pure contempt, and suddenly remembered—as if he were unearthing a piece of himself that had been buried deep—why he'd hated Albus Potter that moment they'd met outside that jokeshop.

"Hey Potter," he said softly, eyes glittering. "You don't have to like me. Merlin, all I want to do right now is turn you into a bug and squash you beneath my feet so you're right, you don't owe me anything because I'd hate to think I was tied to a scared little brat. But you owe the house of Slytherin. You owe them because for the last four years your own bloody arrogance has made you fail to acknowledge a place that fed you and housed you and helped you feel—yeah, admit it—accepted."

"You think you can just walk around feeling sorry for yourself because you can't go skipping in the rain with all 'yer wee cousins'? Everybody bloody well knows you hate that sodding excuse of a brother anyway. You think you can wear that Slytherin badge only when you feel like it? You are a part of something that's bigger than yourself and the sooner you get that through your thick head, the quicker you'll learn not be such a pathetic, smarmy wanker!"

He ended his tirade screaming and realized that he was shaking. For the first time in his life, Scorpius had lost control of himself in front of another person.

That piece of knowledge was rather astounding.

"Fine," said Al, so quietly that Scorpius almost couldn't detect that soft syllable.

"I didn't—I didn't hear that," said Scorpius, straining to get a grip over himself. He was still trembling.

The redheaded boy leveled him with his eyes, his jaw set, and all Scorpius could think was, I've actually gotten through to him. Whatever it was, whatever I said, I struck a chord. "I'll do it, Malfoy. I'll play the bloody game."

AAA.

It was easily one of the most crushing defeats in Hogwarts history. With Gryffindor in the lead 120-10, there was nothing that could have been in store for the Slytherins but a swift end to the match.

And that was exactly what happened.

At first there was only confusion. The student body watched Albus Potter mount his broomstick behind Scorpius Malfoy, wearing last-minute tailored robes with the name 'Blakeley' incorrectly emblazoned on the back, and immediately a cloud of whispers rose and pervaded the air. So stunned was the audience over this turn of events that when the whistle blew to signal game play there was only a smattering of applause.

Then, at long last, the leash was lifted and Albus broke into a magnificent dive. A few seconds later the applause erupted into thunderdous cheers and Slytherin House slowly began to stand in their seats because they knew, along with every other spectator on the pitch, that from the indomitable grace the boy held himself on his broomstick that the game had changed.

Al flew as if the last four years without Quidditch had caught to him. He flew with rage and with joy. For the first time in his life he saw each player on the Gryffindor team not as individual familiar faces but as opponents, momentarily, for a game he loved. His head was wiped clear of clashes between love and loyalty and he knew exactlywhat he wanted. A bloody trophy made out of bloody gold.

When Rose later recounted the last few minutes of the match to her roommates later on that evening, she remarked that she had not touched the Quaffle once. Al had just as well stolen it from her, and more importantly he had stolen it from James,the brother who had inadvertently stolen Quidditch from him. The scarlet ball seemed to be glued to Al, leaving his hands only when he was hurling it through a Gryffindor goal and then falling lovingly back into his embrace when he swept low to catch it as though he'd conjured it out of air. He was—as Rose put—untouchable.

Rowan Thomas could barely keep up with the score. Before long it was 120-110 and, like a tidal wave, the tens kept on coming.

The younger Potter swept across the pitch, his face knotted in nothing but fierce fortitude, and the Gryffindors gaped at him in silence. Then, as if someone was turning up the volume on the stadium, they began to join the rest of the school in adulation, clapping and stomping their feet in amazement. It didn't matter if they were losing; they were watching an art form come to life before their very eyes. It was spectacular.

When Slytherin was leading ahead of Gryffindor 200-120, the Gryffindor players stopped altogether and hovered on their brooms, watching their Captain (the only player who still had the will to resist) battle his little brother like a pair of frenzied mosquitoes. A moment later the a glorious three-toned chime reverbrated across the pitch and Scorpius Malfoy soared over the screaming crowd, his face jubilant as the Snitch flapped feebly in his gloves…and that was it. They had made history.

After dismounting his broom Al found himself lifted into a sea of hands like a hero. He blinked as if he were waking up from a dream, looking in astonishment at the many faces lit up and screaming at him and feeling as if he could not remember what he had done to deserve it. In the midst of his disorientation, he registered Isabel and her eyes on him, a look of shock and admiration displayed all over her pretty face.

The story became a legend and it was told countless times even months after. What the redheaded boy could not understand at that pivotal moment, filled as he was with incredulity and joy, was the look on James Potter's face when he saw his little brother elevated on a platform of glory. Nor did Al understand, until several years later, why that moment had placed an insurmountable distance between him and his elder brother.

AAA.

A week later, when the topic of Albus Potter's stupendous performance on the Quidditch pitch had died down but was still ventured occasionally amongst the students, Scorpius Malfoy left his dorm bright and early and headed for the pitch. Unlike the day of the match, when the air had been heavy and ripe with humidity, it was crisp and full of light. A cool wind shuffled through the grass, rippling through Scorpius' robes.

Scorpius mounted his broom and kicked off, enjoying the scope of the world beneath his vision and the shower of condensation as flew higher and higher into the clouds. He ambled lazily through the air, enjoying the pure sensation of weightlessness. Who could say that they were able to do this and do it well? Sometimes, flying was just that—and it was wonderful.

When his feet landed on solid earth and the sensation of gravity upholding him again dug into his knees, Scorpius sensed a presence behind him and turned.

"Hello Malfoy," said Rose, "Didn't expect to find you here."

He surveyed her appearance briefly. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, hands on her hips, broomstick poised on the ground in front of her.

"Same could be said for you, Weasley. Is that that moldy, old contraption of yours you call a broom?"

"Yes. You're intruding on my favorite time of day to fly, you know."

I do know, thought Scorpius in amusement. The Marauder's Map seemed to nod against the pocket of his trousers in agreement.

Rose kicked the grass gently with her feet. "Congratulations on winning the House Cup. Good match, last week."

"We obliterated you."

"I know. Thanks," she countered sarcastically, but her face remained oddly softened. "Don't let it get to your head, though. You had Al."

For once Scorpius had to agree with her.

The two of them stood in awkward silence for several moments and Scorpius counted backwards from ten internally, ignoring the little buzz at the back of his brain that was hinting at whether or not he should question if Rose had known anything about the deliberate sabotage on Gryffindor's part.

Well. He knew she hadn't done it because Rose was only ever intentionally malicious to him and no one else. All the same, he hated fake cordiality, and he certainly hadn't expected that with Rose Weasley in the aftermath of the match. "Well." He coughed. "I should be heading back to my dorm-"

"Wait," cut in Rose erratically, and all of a sudden she looked very, very flustered. "I've been meaning to say this to you for awhile now—well, not awhile, but rather more in light of recent events, and—I suppose you could say that I have been looking for you to—well, ah, hum." She gulped.

"Would you like a comma with that sentence?" quipped Scorpius dryly.

Rose inhaled deeply and paused as though she was trying to reorganize her thoughts. Then she shook her head in self-exasperation and blurted out:

"Thank you for what you did for Al."

Scorpius opened his mouth. Then closed it. Definitely not what he'd been expecting. "I didn't do anything." Just called him a pathetic, smarmy wanker and threw a Quaffle at his back.

"No, I expect you wouldn't think so, but you did. I don't know what it is about the two of you but, somehow, you're the only person that's ever managed to push him off the edge."

"Ah. That's…good?"

"Yes," smiled Rose, her voice soft, "Whatever it is you said, whatever it is you did…well, he'll be happier now for it, and that's all I've ever wanted for him." She was watching him with earnest deep brown eyes, taking in his surprise with a look that very much resembled that of Al's when he encountered a difficult homework question.

"Oh sod it," she said and before he could think on it, she abruptly closed the distance between them and put her arms around him in a very stiff, very clumsy hug.

"Gah," said Scorpius, petrified. Immediately, Rose pulled away as though she'd been stung by a bee.

"Right, okay," muttered Rose, wringing her hands. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and her cheeks were on fire. "You get the idea." She turned on her heel and walked off the Quidditch pitch at a speed fueled by mortification, disappearing into the distance before Scorpius could say anything.

Later on as Scorpius trekked back to his dorm with his mind still whirling in shock, he pulled out the Marauder's Map and searched for the dot that represented what seemed to be the bane of his existence.

He found Albus Potter almost instantly near a grove of trees by the Hogwarts grounds, distant enough from the castle that it almost disappeared off the edge of the Map. A small smile quirked up his lips; it was a place he recognized, a place where he had once gone as a angry, naïve second-year to obtain a cluster of Bowtruckle wood-lice. Hovering beside the dot of 'Albus Potter' was another dot labeled 'Carpathia Nott' and they were so close that the two almost seemed to meld as one.

Scorpius stared at the map, unsure of what he wanted. There was a time when he would have made it his mission to make Albus Potter's life hell because he was angry at the world and thought he'd been given nothing—a time when taunts and insults came naturally to him and preying on the weak wasn't such a moral dilemma. It had been time when he'd found pleasure in hexing a redheaded boy with his back turned, a boy who was so driven to misery that he had been headed for the owlery to mail his father a note asking to send him back home.

He knew, at once, that that time had passed.

How can I be better than him if he's glad to be who he is and I'm not?

And so, after long last, the Malfoy boy pocketed the map and turned away, leaving the Potter boy he'd antagonized for so long to reconcile with his best friend in conversations of pesky family members and paving their own paths. For the first time since Scorpius had come to Hogwarts, he decided to let Al be happy.

AAA.

I know I've been posting a lot of chapters lately, and it's not because I've been speed-writing them. I just finally had some time to touch up some writing and I decided to get it all over with during the summer holidays, so enjoy.

Anyway, I've always enjoyed the Quidditch aspect of Hogwarts, so here's a particularly Quidditch-centric chapter, not to mention a huge turning point for the Potters and Malfoy.

(Sidenote: a point to remember is that whatever Scorpius was trying to find with the Marauder's Map earlier on in the chapter will be revealed later on.) Also, in case nobody picked up the implication, Al and Carpathiadomake up at the end of the chapter.

Thanks for bearing with the first four years of Hogwarts for these characters as an overextended introduction. And now for some fifth-year drama.

As always, reviews are appreciated.

Love,

MissusWitch