Chapter Eight

The room was filled with flowers, vase after vase of lilies and carnations that wilted and dropped petals across the surfaces and carpet, their thick, heady scent filling the warm room. It was his mother's dressing room, he knew that, and he stood with his arms outstretched, his fingers trailing over the flowers. He was wrong - he'd been dreaming. She was still here, still with him. Any moment now she'd walk through the door, and she'd be there.

At the click of the door handle he turned, his heart racing, a smile already on his face as he took a step forward, reaching out with one hand to the figure stepping through into the room. Only it wasn't his mother.

His father stood, no longer bent and broken but as tall as he'd been when the boy was a child, a towering giant of black robes and silver hair. He still grasped the same silver-headed cane in his left hand, as the right pointed a shaky finger at him. 'You!'

He opened his mouth to reply, but his voice had left him, he could only stare in wordless terror as his father advanced on him. 'You! You! You drove her away! She left because of you! You will never see her again!' He raised the cane above his head, and the boy cowered, shielding his head from the oncoming blow.

The Hogwarts Express jolted around a corner, and Scorpius woke suddenly as his head hit the window. Blinking in the light, disorientated, he ran a hand over his face. It took a few seconds for the dream to fade, drift back in his mind, and for reality to settle over him. The others hadn't seemed to notice his nightmare, although he had a feeling that Albus had been watching him. He was very focussed on the game that Fitzroy and Langwith were playing, and Scorpius knew that it wouldn't be very interesting for him.

Rubbing his eyes again, Scorpius turned to look outside the window. It was dark already, the Cumbrian hillsides just a dark, snowy mass beyond the window. They'd been on the Hogwarts Express for several hours, and he'd spent most of it drifting in and out of sleep, always with the same dream.

He felt weak and ill, as if he'd recently recovered from flu, but he couldn't stomach any of the food that the others had ordered. In the end, he reached into his bag and quietly poured himself a glass of whisky - he had a bottle Albus had given him for Christmas. No one took any notice of this - they were drinking as well - and after a few sips his insides seemed to settle more, and he was able to feel a little calmer. He finished the glass, and poured himself another, taking this one more slowly as he stared out of the dark window.

He was on his way down to the dungeons after the Start-of-Term Feast, pretending to listen to the conversation Vittoria and Adelaide were having, when Professor Flint loomed ahead of them. Scorpius ducked his head and stared at the ground, but the next thing he knew a meaty hand had caught him by the shoulder and stopped him.

'Go on ahead Potter, Grey, I just need to exchange a few words with Malfoy here,' said Flint steadily, and the others carried on. Scorpius knew that Flint was looking at him, and stared resolutely at the opposite wall. 'I'm sorry to hear about your parents, Malfoy. It's a shame, it always is. Are you alright?'

Scorpius did look up now, forcing himself to stare directly into Flint's eyes. 'Of course, sir.'

Flint nodded. 'Alright. If you're sure there's nothing you want to talk about. Go on, now.'

'Thank you, sir.' He hurried on, again feeling as though Flint's eyes were boring into the back of his skull.

In the future, when he thought back to that period after the Christmas holidays of his Sixth Year, if anyone had asked what he'd done Scorpius wouldn't have been able to give an answer. He went to lessons, attended Quidditch practice, ate meals, that much he knew but not a single moment stuck in his mind. The only sensation that seemed real to him was the numbness. At least that was better than the ragged, tearing ache that came otherwise.

He'd found after that train ride back to school that whisky was particularly good at bringing on the numbness. And after the first confused, painful day of lessons he took to carrying a hipflask around in the pocket of his robes. He didn't drink much from it, he made sure of that, just the odd sip whenever the ache threatened to make an occurrence.

Albus was worried about him, Scorpius knew that. His best friend seemed to be by his side even more than usual, finding an excuse to follow him as much as he could. Scorpius appreciated that Albus was just trying to look out for him, and after the escapade in Val d'Isole he wasn't even surprised, but that didn't stop him from getting vaguely frustrated whenever Albus popped up unexpectedly. And when Albus appeared for apparently no reason while Scorpius was using the urinal, he couldn't help but snap at him:

'Will you give it a rest?'

'Give what a rest?' asked Albus, washing his hands for an exaggeratedly long time.

'Just - give me some space, alright?'

The workload was getting heavier as well, and although Scorpius was dying for distractions from his thoughts he found himself unable to focus. Sitting with books and parchment left too much space in his head, allowed other thoughts to creep in amongst the definitions and dates and incantations that he had to learn. Instead he threw himself into Quidditch practice, and ignored the fact that his grades were slipping.

One evening, perhaps a fortnight after the start of term, Scorpius found himself sat on the edge of his bed going through his trunk. He'd emptied his hipflask that day during dinner, and he was trying to find another bottle to fill it up with. It was strange - he was quite sure he'd come with several bottles in his trunk, but they all seemed to have disappeared. His hands rifled through robes, books, quills, and then finally a fingertip brushed over glass and he grasped it eagerly, but it was merely a bottle of pumpkin juice.

He dropped it in disgust, wondering why he'd ever bothered to pack a soft drink, and ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his fingertips against his temple. A headache was developing along with the now-familiar ache in his chest. Rubbing the heels of his palms in his eyes, he sat staring into dark for a few seconds, and then looked around the dormitory.

It was empty but for a sleeping Zabini and Albus, who was sat on his own bed with a book propped on his knees, his fingers absent-mindedly twirling a quill between them. Scorpius took a deep breath, and said as casually as he could muster with the growing migraine:

'Hey - Albus. You brought Firewhisky, right?'

'Yes.'

'You don't think i could buy a bottle of you, could I?'

Albus looked up, frowning at him. 'You want to buy a bottle of Firewhisky?'

'Yeah, please.'

'I know what you buy. You buy tobacco the whole time, Salamander Vodka before parties, and powders if you want a buzz. But you've got a whole pack of tobacco and the next party isn't until next week, so what do you want Firewhisky for?'

'Why do you care?'

'I don't, it's just weird. I've got to keep track of where my stocks are going, it's part of the responsibility.'

'I'm your best mate, Albus, you don't need to track me!'

'I don't discriminate…'

'Albus, stop being such a pedant and sell me the Firewhisky!' snapped Scorpius, unable to hold back his anger.

'No!' retorted Albus, clearly angry as well now. 'Not until you give me a proper reason why you want it. Are you giving it to someone?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'My - my father. I forgot to get him a Christmas present.'

'You told me your father doesn't drink, hasn't for years.'

'Oh for Merlin's sake, Albus, don't you trust me?'

'No!' exclaimed Albus, and suddenly they were both on their feet. 'Not in your current state of mind. Your parents are divorcing, your mother's left, it's all traumatic and it means no I don't want to sell you alcohol!'

'Fuck off!' roared Scorpius, and he lashed out. Albus dodged but Scorpius struck the nearest wood poster of his bed instead. Ignoring the sudden pain in his fist, Scorpius turned away from his friend.

'I'm going to go out for a while, Scorpius,' said Albus in a low voice. 'Let's talk when I get back.'

Scorpius didn't move, and a moment later there was the sound of the door opening and shutting. Allowing himself to clutch his bruised hand now, Scorpius threw himself onto his bed, muffling his yell in his pillow.

'What's going on?' mumbled Fitzroy. Scorpius stayed facedown in his pillow, and a few seconds later Fitzroy began to gently snore again. After counting to fifteen, Scorpius rolled over onto his back, and stared up at the canopy above him. He felt sick again, his tongue dry and sticky. Something sharp had poked against his chest as he'd lain on the bed, and he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out folded parchment.

He knew what it was - he'd already stared at it too many times to count. He'd tried to write a letter to his mother, but it was impossible to put how he was feeling into words and the whole letter just felt vapid, fake. He'd been carrying it about for days, telling himself he'd post it and even once starting towards the Owlery, but as always he stopped and turned back. Anyway, his mother hadn't written to him.

The parchment was becoming thin, the creases weak, but he unfolded it anyway, holding it as lightly as he could in his fingertips. The first line swam in front of his eyes: 'Dear Mother.' Suddenly his slanted handwriting disappeared into a blur and he shut his eyes tight, waiting until the tears that the dusty canopy and his thirst must've caused had subsided.

Dear Mother,

I hope you're enjoying Paris. I'm sure it's lovely there at this time of year. Hogwarts is bitterly cold, as it always is in January, but those fur-lined gloves you gave me for Christmas are keeping the chill off. Some of the other students get so cold they can't even hold their wands properly.

Val d'Isole was beautiful as well, it snowed on-and-off all week. Will you go this year?

I can't say much in a letter, and anyway I'm in a bit of rush to finish this. I've got Prefect duties soon. But I thought I'd write, and tell you how I am. Will you reply? I'd like to hear how you are in Paris, if you get the time. It feels odd that we didn't see each other on the 30th, but i'm sure you had to head off too quickly for goodbyes.

I guess that's all for now. Write soon.

Love,

Scorpius.

He folded the letter up again, but kept it held between his fingers. It was stupid. The letter said nothing - but how could he tell her the truth? How could he tell her how he was really feeling, how her departure had left a ragged wound in his chest that never seemed to heal, only got wider and more raw. You couldn't translate that into words, it wasn't possible. So he'd written a letter so vague and vapid it was almost a lie.

Closing his eyes, he lay in the dark for a few seconds, and then slowly closed his hand in a fist around the parchment, crumpling it easily into a ball. There were still embers burning in the grate of the dormitory fireplace, and he sat up, slowly and deliberately, and walked to the hearth. Without pausing to think, he threw the crumpled ball into the middle of the burning embers, and with a poker stirred the ash until flames burst across the parchment. Then he turned away and went over to Fitzroy's bed. Fitzroy was soundly asleep, sprawled across the top of his covers, and hardly stirred as Scorpius went under his bed and grabbed one of the many half-drunk bottles. It was cheap vodka, but that was better than nothing. Taking a deep breath, he drank until hardly a quarter of the liquid was left, and then stashed the vodka back under Fitzroy's bed. The boy would never notice anything was different.

During all of this, Rose had been quite oblivious to any drama in Slytherin House; she'd been cut off from almost all communication with Slytherins after the Professor Chang debacle, and anyway she had her own issues to deal with. Her mother hadn't said anything about the case with the terrorist attacks, but Rose knew enough to figure that the Ministry was under a lot of pressure. And all of it would be on the shoulders of her mother and her Uncle Harry. She rather wished she could help them out, but they'd both insisted that she was too young to get involved with anything like that, and anyway she should be focussing on her studies. It was a bit hypocritical in her eyes, as they were off fighting Voldemort at her age.

A few weeks after the Christmas holidays, she was lounging on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor tower, her legs across Daniel's lap and an essay on her knees, when she suddenly felt someone's presence at her side. Looking up, she found Lily stood by the sofa, a familiar look of determination on her face.

'Hi Lils,' she said, smiling at her. 'You after something?'

'Yes,' said Lily, crossing her arms. 'I want you to go talk to Albus.'

Rose stared at her - she had no idea that Lily was so involved in the issue. But she realised that of course Lily would find it difficult to have her and Albus at loggerheads with each other.

'What's brought this on all of a sudden?' she asked, setting her essay aside with only the faintest regret.

'Nothing much, I just think that you two have been acting far too immature for far too long, and you need to stop being such idiots!'

'Lily, it's complicated,' started Rose, but Lily interrupted her.

'No, it's not. I know the whole story now, and you're both in the wrong and you're both being selfish. So will you promise at least talk to Albus?'

Lily had always been known for the ferocity of her stare, and Rose found herself feeling the full force of it as she looked up at her younger cousin. 'Fine. I'll talk to Albus.'

'And you'll sort things out?'

'I said I'd talk to him, Lily, don't push it,' snapped Rose.

'Okay!' Lily grinned and tossed her hair back, almost bouncing across the room to where her friends were sat. Rose picked up her essay again and began to write again, but she'd hardly managed three words before Daniel spoke.

'You're really going to go talk to your cousin? And sort things out?'

She glanced at him from over the essay. He hadn't looked around at her, but his brow was so furrowed he was almost scowling. 'Well … I would like to fix things with Albus. He is my cousin after all, and it's been weird not talking to him.'

'But you always argue with each other.'

'That's because we're cousins! Anyway, it's more Scorpius Malfoy that I argue with, Albus doesn't like needless confrontation.'

'Yeah, Malfoy's not great either,' muttered Daniel. Rose narrowed her eyes at him.

'What do you mean, "Malfoy's not great either"? Why does he come into the equation? And what's with 'either' - do you not like Albus?'

'Rose, is it at all possible for us to talk without you tearing apart every word I say?' he snapped, his voice suddenly vicious. 'And no, I don't like your cousin, or that Malfoy kid. They're not like us, they get up to trouble the whole time, and frankly I've enjoyed not having them about.'

'How dare you!' cried Rose, loud enough that several people looked around curiously. She forced herself to lower her voice. 'For starters, that's my cousin you're talking about, and secondly it's my decision who I choose to spend time with, not yours! What's your bias against them, anyway? I don't think you've ever had a full conversation with Albus, let alone Scorpius!'

'Well of course I wouldn't! They're not exactly the sort of person I want to hang out with, belonging to that pack of serpents and all,' said Daniel, and she'd never heard such malice in his voice.

'If that's what you think, I don't think I have anything to say to you,' she said coldly, hoping that the disgust she felt dripped from every word. He looked at her, and his expression seemed to change suddenly, and he grabbed hold of her ankles, still stretched across his lap.

'Rosie, wait.'

'Let me go,' she hissed, wrenching her legs out of his grasp. 'If I didn't know you better, I don't think I'd ever speak to you again.'

She grabbed her essay and schoolbag and marched out the Common Room. It was only about eight in the evening, but she refused to leave her dormitory in case Daniel was still downstairs. Instead, she spent several hours sat on her bed attempting to read but actually fuming. How dare he try to dictate whether she could be friends with Albus? He was her cousin! And anyway, it was her choice what she did.

She was so angry that it kept her up through the night, the argument replaying in her head on a seemingly constant loop until finally she drifted off into an uneasy, confused sleep. The next morning she woke late and dressed hurriedly, dashing into the Great Hall just in time to pick up some toast before heading to her first lesson, Transfiguration.

Much of the class was already inside the classroom when she arrived, spread about in their various groupings and cliques. Albus was instantly noticeable, sat amongst the other lounging, detached Slytherins. She paused for a moment, suddenly a little apprehensive at the idea of going over to this undeniably intimidating group, and then forced herself to walk up to them. They turned and stared at her, sculpted eyebrows raised as half a dozen pairs of eyes looked her over. Albus faced her, but said nothing.

'Albus,' she said, staring him down. 'I want to talk to you. Alone, if that's alright.'

'What about?' he asked, casually cleaning underneath one nail with the point of a quill.

'Will you just talk to me?'

He shrugged, and then put down the quill and stood up, extracting himself from the others and walking over to a corner of the classroom. Rose followed, and the others watched the two of them go. As he stopped and turned to look at her, Rose noticed how pale he was, how dark the shadows between his eyes had become. She wondered if he was taking care of himself.

'Well?' he asked, looking at her expectantly.

'I want to call a truce. On - on our argument. Can we just apologise to each other and move on?'

He didn't reply for a few seconds, the silence stretching out between them, and then Albus shrugged.

'I suppose we are family. We should be able to sort these things out,' he said.

'Yes, we should,' she said. 'I'm sorry for the way I reacted to you … you and Chang. I maybe didn't go about it the right way.'

'And I guess I'm sorry that I was so harsh on you for it. And for telling your parents that you and Daniel were sleeping together,' he said, scuffing the floor with his toe.

'That did lead to a horrifically awkward conversation with my mother and father,' she said, shuddering slightly at the memory. Albus looked up at her, and she saw the hint of a smile playing about his lips. 'So are we alright.'

'Think so. But Rose,' he said, catching her arm. 'You have to make me one promise.'

'What?'

'You have to swear to never tell on me like that again. You have to be on my side, alright? Otherwise we're not family.'

'But Albus -'

'I'm not saying I'll ever incriminate you or get you into trouble. But you just have to promise to always be on my side.'

'Alright. I promise.'

Rose rejoined her friends, and the lesson passed fairly uneventfully apart from when Jemima Begbroke transfigured her nose into a duck's. It was an unusually nice day, which meant that even though it was still bitterly cold they were all ushered outside and left to shiver in the courtyards through the break time. Rose had taken to carrying a jam-jar about with her at all times in winter, as her mother had taught her the trick of casting bluebell-coloured flames.

She was just producing the jam jar and her wand when she felt someone tap her on the shoulder. Glancing around, she saw Daniel stood behind her, looking extremely sheepish. She quickly cast the flames into the jam jar and handed it to a friend before walking a few paces away with Daniel.

'I'm sorry,' he burst out as soon as they were out of earshot. 'I shouldn't have reacted like that about Albus, he is your cousin, I was an idiot.'

'It's alright,' she sighed, looking past him into the middle distance. He caught her gently by the cheek so she looked him in the eye.

'I really am sorry,' he said. 'I just feel so protective over you, I can't help it sometimes.'

'You don't need to protect me,' she said. 'Certainly not like that.'

'I know,' he said, and he looked so crestfallen and sad that she couldn't help but smile a little. She kissed him gently on the lips. 'So are we good?'

'We're good.'

January drew to a close, and with it passed Scorpius' seventeenth birthday. Scorpius had never been particularly excited by his birthday - he was always secretly jealous of the effort that Albus' parents always put into celebrating his - and this year wasn't much different. True, the presents that he received were particularly handsome, especially the engraved wristwatch he received - silver, with a black leather strap - but he was quite sure that his father's personal assistant had written the card attached, although she was very good at imitating his handwriting. His mother sent an expensive writing set, complete with quills and four different types of ink, but in an ironic turn wrote a very brief letter that said little more than just 'Happy Birthday'. His friends celebrated the day in the usual fashion, of all of them getting paralytically drunk, and the next morning he woke up with a sense that it had been a rather anticlimactic event.

Another Quidditch match was looming on the horizon, Slytherin versus Hufflepuff, and the usual currents of excitement were running through the school at the prospect. For Scorpius, it was a welcome diversion. Zachary Bowles was calling more practices than ever, and when he was pushing himself to the limits he found he wasn't thinking about his home life. He was still drinking, but he knew that that was only temporary, and anyway the physical exertion of the sport balanced it out.

In fact, Quidditch had made him feel so much better that he found himself walking up to the Owlery on the morning of the match with some parchment and the resolve to write to his parents. He'd heard nothing at all about the divorce, and he'd decided on impulse to just write to them. It was the early morning, and a heavy fog hung over the school. The Owlery was damp and musty, and filled with the sound of the owls sleepily shifting on their perches to try and keep warm.

Pulling his cloak tighter around his body, he leant against the windowsill of the Owlery and penned two letters, one to his father and one to his mother. They were almost identical - asking about the divorce, and filling in the gaps with some small talk to make it seem like he wasn't too invested. Rolling up the letters, he pinned one to the leg of his owl, Ignatius, and one to the leg of a school owl, and then carried them both to the window. Leaning against the cold stone, he watched until they'd both disappeared into the shadowy fog.

Once he was sure they were gone, he straightened up and prepared to go, but as he stepped towards the door it opened from the other side, and he almost walked straight into Rose Weasley. She was carrying a letter in her hand, and looked just as shocked to see him as he felt. It was hardly a fortnight since she'd resolved things with Albus, and he wasn't quite sure what their footing was.

Rose seemed to be in a friendly mood, however, and almost smiled at him. 'Hello, Malfoy. What're you up to here so early?'

'Writing a letter. What did you think I was doing, owl-whispering? Practicing interpretive dance?' he retorted. She rolled her eyes at him, and went over to a smart barn owl on a nearby perch. 'And I guess you're here to practice dancing too?'

'Alright, alright, it was a silly question. Why do you always have to be so sarcastic?' she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder and raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, sweeping a hand through his hair.

'I guess it's just my natural angsty demeanour.'

'Of course,' she took the owl to the window and threw it out so it followed the two Scorpius had sent, and then turned to face him. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she glanced over him. 'Are you alright, Malfoy? You're looking all peaky.'

'Yes, I'm fine,' he said in a curt voice, turning away from her and sweeping out of the room. 'Good day, Weasley.'

He went to the match with his team and their usual escort of friends and admirers, all heading in a green and silver stream down the lawn to the pitch. The match was always expected to be a success, but after their loss against Gryffindor they had to do extremely well to stay in the running. Scorpius found himself playing better than he had for a long time; the Quaffle seemed magnetised to his hands, and whenever he threw it, it went in a perfect arc exactly where he was aiming. By the time Fitzroy caught the whistle he'd scored six times, and the final score was 380 to 50.

Landing amid a storm of cheers, Scorpius embraced his teammates and started towards the edge of the pitch, ready to be born back up to the castle for a truly riotous night. He was stopped, however, by Professor Flint as he left the pitch.

'Scorpius, your father's here and he wants to see you. He's just through that door.'

He didn't think it was possible for his chest to expand with joy any more, as he left his teammates and hurried in the direction that Flint was indicating. His father had come to watch the match! He hadn't come for ages, even for the finals he almost always said he was too busy with work. What had changed his mind this time? Had he received Scorpius' letter already, and decided to come pay him some attention?

He reached the door and pushed it open. The room inside was a small, bare space built into the stands of the pitch and presumably meant for any emergency medical care that couldn't wait until the castle. His father was stood with his back to him when he entered.

'Father! It's so good to see you - what did you think of the match? Did you see my second goal, where I scored even though I'd just dodged a Bludger? Bowles said it was the best he'd seen in a -'

He fell silent. His father had turned to look at him, and his expression made a weight drop into Scorpius' stomach. It was more than angry, more than disappointed. There was something almost malevolent about the stare he gave him.

'Father?'

'I received your letter this morning,' he said, and he pulled it from his pocket. It looked a little battered now, as if it had been held too tightly in a fist. 'And I thought I'd come to ask what the hell was going through your mind?'

'You … you didn't come about the match?'

'No you idiot boy!' roared his father, taking a step towards him. 'I don't care about your silly little matches! I care about you betraying me, betraying the Malfoy name!'

'I - I didn't!'

'Don't talk back to me! It's here in writing, isn't it? You, asking me, bold as brass, whether there'd be custody arrangements for you regarding your mother? How dare you! You'll be staying with me, not that bitch!'

'But she's my-'

'I don't care what she is, she's a filthy, traitorous woman and you'll have nothing to do with her, understand? Nothing!' His father was shaking now, spots of red burning on his white cheeks, and he stepped closer again to grab Scorpius by the robes. 'I saw you didn't send your owl with this letter. Why's that, eh? You wouldn't be writing to someone else, would you?'

He grabbed Scorpius by the jaw, his bony fingers pressing into his cheeks. His bloodshot eyes were positively demented, and Scorpius could hardly recognise him. This wasn't his father, this wasn't even the man he'd seen during the trial, this was a madman.

'You wouldn't be writing to your mother, boy?'

Scorpius didn't reply, but that seemed to answer his father's question. With a roar of fury, he flung Scorpius away from him and struck him hard across the face. Involuntarily, Scorpius cried out and shielded himself from his father, almost cowering against the wall.

The three knocks came as shockingly as if there'd been a fanfare. Both of them froze, turning to look at the door, and then without a word straightened themselves and smoothed their expressions. Scorpius' father opened the door. Professor Longbottom, the affable and friendly Herbology teacher, was stood on the other side.

'Hello - I heard some yells and thought I'd just make sure everything was alright,' he said, smiling jovially at them both.

'Yes, everything is fine. I am just speaking to my son about … about the match,' said Scorpius' father stiffly.

'Ah, yes, well Scorpius played excellently. Brilliant second goal there, just brilliant. Surely you'll be wanting to get to a victory party, Scorpius?' said Longbottom.

Scorpius glanced at him, and nodded. He was scared to make eye contact, worried that Longbottom would see the truth if he did. 'I suppose so, sir.'

'Yes, I need to get back for business,' said his father. He grasped him by the shoulder, his grip painfully tight. 'Remember what we spoke about, son. I'll see you soon.' Sweeping past them, he strode out of sight.

'Are you sure you're alright, Scorpius?' asked Longbottom, but Scorpius was already moving past him in the opposite direction and hurried out of the pitch before he'd even finished the sentence.

Back in the Slytherin Dungeons, the party was already in full swing. Albus had clearly done a good trade, as alcohol covered the surfaces, along with a lot of other less savoury substances. At Scorpius' entry a loud cheer erupted, and he was dragged forward by a crowd of admirers. His first impulse was to run from it, to go and hide in his bedroom and drink himself to sleep in solitude. But someone, probably Langwith or Zabini, shoved a drink into his hand and he found himself downing it in one. That incited another cheer, and another drink was given to him.

He drank with an enthusiasm bordering on aggression, each mouthful dulling a minutiae of the raw and agonising pain that had opened up again inside his chest. He drank until the world blurred around him and he couldn't remember exactly what it was that his father had been angry about. He drank until it was almost funny that his father had struck him. The alcohol went down easier each time, and each time he felt a little less painful.

Time didn't seem to be moving quite right, but he found himself sat in one of the smaller anterooms of the dungeons, hunched over as the floor spun on a pivot between his feet. Someone's hand was on his shoulder, and he heard a voice say:

'You alright, mate?'

'Y-Yearghh.'

A chuckle of laughter. 'Here, have this. It'll perk you right up again.'

The hand left his shoulder, and someone poured out some purplish-tinged powder onto the coffee table and cut it into a line. Scorpius fumbled for the tube they handed him and clumsily he placed one end in his nostril and snorted the powder. It seemed to hit the back of his brain like a lightning bolt; suddenly the whole world, from each grain of wood to every dust mote that caught the flickering light, was perfectly visible to him. His body was shaking slightly as his mind shot through a thousand thoughts simultaneously. It was the most incredible feeling he'd ever experienced, that glorious clarity.

He noticed, amidst this, that his body was still shaking. His mind felt disconnected from his limbs, caught up with the ideas that filled his head, but he managed to force himself to look down at his hands. They were shaking, he wasn't imagining it, and now he noticed it his legs and arms were twitching too, spasming.

Voices crashed about his ears but he couldn't understand what they were saying, even as an unfamiliar face loomed in front of him, mouthing something. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and something hot and wet was dribbling down his face from his nose and eyes.

Albus heard the commotion from the next room; he was fairly intoxicated, sprawled on the floor with two girls and Langwith, but something in the shouting made him worried and he jumped to his feet. Moving as quickly as he could in his state, he ran next door just in time to see Scorpius pitch forward and collapse onto the coffee table.

'Fuck!'

His friend was twitching, gasping and choking for air as a bloody foam dribbled from his mouth. His eyes were open but unseeing, rolling about uncontrollably, and his hands and legs flailed in violent spasms. Albus knelt beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders, but it was useless.

'What's he taken? What's he taken!' he yelled at the others in the room, but they stared helplessly at him.

'It's … it's not meant to have a reaction like that, I swear!' cried one boy. 'He told me it was Billywig powder!'

Albus looked down and saw the remaining specs of the purplish powder on the coffee table. It was most certainly not Billywig powder. Swearing, he reached into the breast pocket of his robes and thanked every deity he could think of when his fingers closed around a small glass phial. Wrenching the stopper out, he forced Scorpius' mouth open and poured the potion down his throat. There was a final, terrifying few seconds, and then Scorpius went limp, his breathing becoming regular again.

He stayed kneeling down with his friend in his arms, until someone touched him lightly on the shoulder. It was Vittoria Zabini, with Adelaide Gray just behind. 'We need to get him to the Hospital Wing, Albus. You've … you've saved his life, but the nurse needs to look him over. Come on.'

'Yeah,' said Albus, and he was shocked to find himself struggling to speak. Brushing away the tears and hoping no one had noticed, he stood up and helped the two girls lift Scorpius onto the stretcher that Vittoria had conjured. The Common Room had fallen silent - clearly the news of Scorpius' fit had spread - and they walked through past a hundred pairs of staring eyes. Albus kept staring straight ahead, his hand resting on his friend's limp one.