Just to recapitulate: Once Lucius Malfoy found out about Scorpius, Draco and Hannah, he went straight ahead and sued for custody of his grandson.

oooOooo

Naught but Grief and Pain for Promised Joy

Shaking with rage, his hands curled so hard around the edges of the Daily Prophet that the paper crumpled and ripped.

'How dare they?' Lucius snarled. 'How dare these imbeciles slander my name like that?' Whirling around to face his wife, he nearly lost his balance. He kept forgetting that these days, he really needed his cane. For a second he tottered, then he regained his footing. That only added to his anger. Face flushed, he shoved the paper in front of Narcissa's face. When his wife almost imperceptibly shrank back in the face of his fury, he had to clench his teeth to suppress the urge to scream at her. But he kept his temper. He did not raise his hand to her, merely tightened his grip around his cane.

'No Joy for Malfoy'—fat and smug the letters jostled each other in the middle of the front-page.

And beneath the headline, there were heads. Photographs. Three of them. To the left, a picture of Draco—his beautiful, beautiful son, smiling, alive—Lucius knew that picture so well, every angle, every nuance, every shadow… It was the last picture taken of Draco before he died. It sat in a sombre wooden frame lined in black on his desk in the study. Another, smaller version framed in gold was on his bedside table. And a third, miniature version pressed against his heart ensconced in a medallion and hidden in an inside pocket of the waistcoat he wore underneath his robes.

He stared down at his wife. Stiffly immaculate she reclined in her armchair. The ice-blue folds of her dressing gown clung in elegantly folds to her slender frame. But the paper in her hands was rustling ever so slightly as she couldn't keep her hands from trembling. Unshed tears softened her cool gaze.

Lucius looked away and scowled at the photo near the right-hand frame of the article. The picture showed a young woman with a round face, sweetly flushed cheeks and blond curls, kept short in a modern, Muggle-style haircut.

'Just look at that slut,' he hissed. 'Seducing my beautiful boy, subverting his convictions, stealing his seed…and they hail her as a heroine?'

He shuddered with revulsion. 'I need to Owl our lawyer again. It is absolutely impossible that it is taking so long to schedule an appeal with the Wizengamot. If they are not successful within a week, "Stryver and Carton" shall suffer my wrath…and have to do without the custom of our family in the future—after a mere 144 years.'

Lucius was about to turn laboriously and stalk off, when he noticed how Narcissa stroked the image of the laughing little boy in the middle with a gentle caress. Glancing up, she guiltily snatched back her hand.

'Such a beautiful child,' she said, her voice careful and calm. 'Just like Draco at that age.'

'He's a Malfoy, after all,' Lucius snapped. 'Though Draco's demeanour was far nobler, even at that tender age.'

Narcissa inclined her head and looked at the picture again. 'I wonder if he started talking early, like Draco...'

'If he is at all his father's son, of course he did. Draco was not even a year old, after all, when he spoke his first word—and already called me "sir".' Involuntarily, Lucius reached up and touched his robe just under his heart, where the medallion with Draco's picture was safely tucked away in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. He remembered Draco's tiny, triangular face tilted up at him. Those wide grey eyes. That endearing, sombre expression. And the high, sweet voice of a toddler…

oooOooo

Severus watched how Harry's nostrils flared slightly. Unerringly, the blind man reached out for his glass of Ogden's. Maybe his Auror training was not wasted after all.

He raised his own glass and took a deep swallow. Liquid fire blazed down his throat and oesophagus, filling the pit of his stomach with a fiery glow. For a long moment, Severus stared at Harry. He thought of Abbé Rigaud, and of Nihel.

I am not a Catholic, he thought. I do not even believe in God. Why then, do I feel the need to confess my sins—and why to Harry, of all people? If you will, the son of my greatest sin…

He swallowed again, but all he tasted was bitterness.

'When I brought Hermione back to Hogwarts,' he said abruptly, 'and she couldn't see the castle…I did not handle that well. I was…cruel. Violent.'

He wanted to close his eyes. Not that it mattered—Harry couldn't see him anyway, after all. But he did not. The silence felt cold and tight around his throat. His scar seemed to throb, almost like a snake slithering inside his skin.

'Well?' he demanded. 'Goddamn it, Harry. Say something!'

Harry put his glass on the table. A less observant drinking companion would have missed the quick gesture that ascertained the height of the table.

'Hermione says that she was hysterical. She says that you helped her.'

Black eyes met Severus' gaze. Briefly, he wondered what exactly it was that Harry was still able to see.

'That is enough for me,' Harry added.

Incredulous, Severus blinked. 'That is enough for you?'

Swallowing hurt, as if the scar was still new, the tissue tight and sore.

'How,' he asked softly, dangerously, 'can that possibly be enough for you?'

With a groan, Harry let himself fall back into his chair and slapped his right palm against his forehead. Sighing, he proceeded to rub his temples, carefully avoiding to touch his eyes.

'How can it not be?' he retorted. 'Would you feel better if I attacked you, insulted you, accused you of abuse? Wait a second—' Harry blinked at him, as he processed the idea. 'That's it, though, isn't it? You would feel better if I did.'

When Severus couldn't bring himself to reply, Harry shook his head. 'Wow, you're really messed up, do you know that?'

Severus reached for the bottle. 'Another whisky?'

oooOooo

A/N: The title of the chapter is a quote from a poem by Robert Burns.

'Stryver and Carton' are a homage to Charles Dickens.