- 2 -

Life isn't a fairytale—Hogwarts is rather too gothic—so Scorpius doesn't get around to befriending James Potter for quite some time, though not for lack of trying on his part. He never manages to scrounge up the courage to approach James in person (there are ever so many pairs of watchful eyes) but he does stare at the other boy ceaselessly at every opportunity, hoping to catch his eye. In fact, he almost doesn't blink, for fear that he'd miss his chance, miss some flicker of recognition, some minuscule sign that could reaffirm the fact that they had actually met and chatted and it wasn't all a dream.

But James is a Gryffindor and a second year and nice and therefore universally well-liked, which means that his friends and relatives and teammates and hordes of adoring first years constantly buzz around him like a swarm of bees. Scorpius never even gets a chance. Rather, he finishes his meals alone with painfully dry eyes and an even more painful sense of disappointment.

At night, Scorpius continues wandering the empty corridors, hoping for another run-in. James must be sneaking around somewhere, Scorpius figures, and he's prepared now, he likes to think. He rehearses various iterations of how it might play out, at times adopting a wry witticism like Father, at times all charming dimpled smiles like Mother, and at times shy and quiet just like himself.

But they somehow miss each other, or maybe James just chooses to never reveal himself (though Scorpius tries not to think that); all his rehearsed scenarios are whispered into the furry ears of old Mrs. Norris, and the memory of that night in September slowly begins to fade, overtaken and transformed by Scorpius's empty imaginings.

So no James.

No, Scorpius's first Hogwarts friend, if one could call him that, turns out to be a different Potter entirely.

*8*8*8*8*8*8*

It's late October when Hufflepuff is scheduled for Potions with Slytherin. By then, the first years have already begun to settle in, adopting familiar routines and forming lifelong friendships. Scorpius doesn't manage the latter, but he too has adopted a routine. It mostly consists of blearily attending classes during the day and wandering the halls late at night and napping on worn couches in between. He supposes it's a tolerable schedule; almost like his life at the Manor, except no Mother and Father. Maybe that's what it means to grow up.

He sits by himself in Potions, staring blankly ahead as Professor Slughorn begins his lecture. He tries hard to listen-he always does-but he's pants at Potions (much to Father's chagrin) and he invariably loses his concentration. When Slughorn declares it time to begin the brewing portion of class, Scorpius blinks awake only from the sound of moving desks and scampering feet.

Scorpius watches all the commotion for a few seconds with sleep-blurred eyes before it finally clicks that Slughorn had deviated from his usual assigning of partners and had permitted everyone to find a friend. Jonathan, Scorpius's usual partner, had summarily abandoned him for Ernie and is now glancing at him with some measure of apology, though clearly not apologetic enough to take him back.

A flash a panic hits Scorpius. Even though he's "used to it" by now, there's something powerfully distressing about being left alone and he can feel his pale skin burn from humiliation. He tries to school his face into one of indifference, but he knows he's failing from the mixed looks scorn, glee, and pity on his housemate's faces. The seconds tick by. His mind remains blank.

"Mister Malfoy." Slughorn's impatient voice cuts sharply into Scorpius's panic-induced trance. He stares at the plump professor, shamefaced, but Slughorn plunges on before he can explain his partner-less state.

"Kindly join Mister Potter here at the front, we don't have all day."

Scorpius blinks in confusion. He looks to the front and notices for the first time another boy standing by himself. Ah, that's right. Albus Severus Potter. The first year Slytherin looks like a miniature version of the Savior himself, all messy black hair and defiant green eyes. He catches Scorpius's gaze and quirks a brow. Scorpius is duly taken aback.

"Mister Malfoy," Slughorn repeats, louder. Scorpius jumps again, but this time, he follows up by packing his supplies and scampering to the front, trying his best to ignore the stifled laughter that follows him.

As he settles down at his new seat and as the other students are diverted to gathering their ingredients, Scorpius turns to Albus Potter and tentatively reaches out a small, pale hand. "Hullo. I'm Scorpius Malfoy."

Scorpius waits for a response; he's used to it. Sometimes there's no response. The younger Potter puts in moderately more effort than that though; he sweeps a dismissive gaze over Scorpius's hand before tossing out a nonchalant, "Al Potter. But you already know that, don't you?" Then he's turned away, already walking towards the supply cabinet. "Come along, let's get our ingredients."

*8*8*8*8*8*8*

"So Malfoy, are you any good at Potions, or ..."

Scorpius pauses in his chopping of the salamander tail to peer at Albus, who's been standing by idly since they'd begun the preparation process, not that Scorpius minds. He thinks it rather kind of Albus to not throw a ruckus about having to work with him, which Jonathan certainly had when they'd first been assigned as partners. And if Albus is anything like James, then maybe ... Scorpius smiles hesitantly and asks, "Or?"

"Or are you absolute shit at it like all Hufflepuffs?" Albus finishes with a smirk. "Wait, don't answer that. I can already tell from the way you chop. All your bits are uneven, can't you see?"

Completely taken aback, Scorpius lets Albus pull the knife from his hand without struggle.

"Oh don't look like that. It's just that I thought you might be good at this, but I would rather hate for our cauldron to explode," Albus continues blithely as he begins to slice through the salamander with a confidence and efficiency that Scorpius never possessed. "This whole partnership is sordid enough without that, wouldn't you agree?"

Scorpius's hands hang helplessly by his side as he watches Albus stir the brew expertly. He wants to retaliate, but he's too embarrassed because it's all, well, true, so he settles for a timid, half-apologetic "um."

"Um? That's all you've got to say then?" Albus lifts a brow—he seems an expert at that, the whole sardonic thing—"Pass the vanilla, please, thanks. You know, I would've thought a Malfoy would be a more capable conversationalist. And more...sinister, I suppose. That's what Uncle Ron predicted about you. But then, I suppose there's a reason you're in Hufflepuff. Along with being shit at Potions, I mean."

Scorpius recovers enough to frown at this. "I-it's not—I mean, I wish you wouldn't. Hufflepuff really isn't as bad as you seem to think—"

"Oh and Hufflepuff rears its head again!" Albus interrupts, cracking a smile toward Scorpius, though Scorpius misses the humor. "Defending your house even though your housemates all clearly hate you? You must be the most Hufflepuff of them all!"

"I-What?"

"Oh come on now, it's no secret. They don't talk to you, do they? They all run from you as quick as they can, don't they? I saw how fast Jonathan Surrey sprinted away. And yet still you defend them? Aren't you the loyal little fool?"

Scorpius feels a familiar burn on his cheeks. He bends forward slightly so that his silvery golden fringe falls over his blue eyes, obscuring them. The last thing he wanted was for Albus Potter to spot his emotions. "You needn't be so mean about it," he whispers.

"Mean?" Albus laughs quietly. "I rather thought I was being kind. I'm working with you, aren't I?"

Scorpius bites his lower lips. He forgets that he had possessed a similar thought just moments before. The words tumble out before he can censor himself. "Well, it's not like you have friends either so I guess that makes us even."

Albus stops stirring. "What did you say?"

Scorpius doesn't respond. He stares resolutely at the ground, even though he can feel Albus's green eyes glowering at him, piercing his translucent skin with their blazing fury.

"That isn't really what you think is it?" Albus's voice is dangerously quiet. "That we're the same?"

"Well, why else would you be alone then?" Scorpius retorts.

"You listen now, Scorpius Malfoy. My housemates don't hate me, as yours do you. They don't hate me because my father was a hero and not a bloody death eater like yours." Scorpius's head whips up but Albus doesn't even give him the chance. "And my housemates, if anything, fear me, only because they know I possess powers that they could only dream of." Albus's emerald eyes glitter brightly as he whispers all this to Scorpius, his lips curled into a malicious little grin.

Scorpius's heart thuds powerfully against his ribcage. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you read the newspapers, Malfoy? Or hasn't anyone told you—ah, but you haven't anyone to talk to, have you? Because you're death eater spawn and a Hufflepuff on top of all that. Completely. Utterly. Useless."

Scorpius's hands curl into a shaking fist beneath his robes and he glares at Albus, who smirks back insolently, a dare in his eyes.

"Albus Severus Potter, you're a real git—"

"—Mister Malfoy, how are we progressing?"

Scorpius starts in surprise as he feels Slughorn's hand on his shoulder. He sees Albus's smirk grow and knows he's been played. Through clenched teeth, he murmurs a deferential, "Professor."

Albus stifles a laugh and smiles innocently at Slughorn. "Professor, I believe we've finished."

"Ah, yes, it's turned that beautiful shade of gold. Well-done, Mister Potter," Slughorn beams. "As expected from the son of Harry Potter himself. Excellent job." Then, turning towards Scorpius, he adds drily," Mister Malfoy, you might try to learn something from your partner."

"Yes sir..."

And with that, Slughorn glides to the front of the room and announces that class is over. Scorpius turns to Albus with ready words, but settles for a glacial glare when he spots Albus's expectant grin. He won't dignify him with anything more.

"That went rather well, Malfoy, don't you think?" Albus chats light-heartedly as they flow out the room. It's almost as if he's forgotten their earlier conversation, as if they were long-time friends. Scorpius's hand on his bookbag strap tightens and his pale knuckles turn pink from the pressure.

"Say, I must be your first competent partner in Potions, no? It's alright, you don't have to thank me, but I suppose it would be the polite thing to do—"

"—Albus Severus Potter," Scorpius seethes, whipping around and staring straight into Albus's surprised eyes. "You're a complete arsehole, is what you are." Scorpius almost feels satisfaction at the way Albus's green orbs enlarge and the way his lips curl into a frown, but he has more to offer. "And you aren't anything like your brother. You can't even hold a candle to James Potter."

For a moment, Albus looks like he's had the wind knocked out of him, but he's back in a second and he looks more furious than Scorpius's ever seen him—or anyone really. He grabs Scorpius by the tie and pulls him so that they're face to face and his narrowed eyes can bore into Scorpius's soul. "Don't ever compare me to my brother again."

Scorpius watches breathlessly and with wide eyes as Albus pushes past a throng of Hufflepuffs and stomps out the room.

*8*8*8*8*8*8*

It's not until after dinner that Scorpius gets a chance to run to the library. He quickly locates stacks of old Daily Prophets, which he'd never bothered to read before, because Father harbored an intense antagonism towards newspapers and it was never delivered to the Manor.

Flipping through methodically, he finally happens upon one where the front page showcases a large photo of Albus Potter with the breathtaking headline: "Albus Severus Potter: A Dark Wizard?"

It has recently been disclosed through reliable sources that Albus Severus Potter, younger son of Harry Potter, possesses the ability to speak Parseltongue. Albus Potter ostensibly inherited this ability from Harry Potter himself, but it is without dispute that Harry Potter had acquired his ability from contact with Voldemort and had lost it after destroying the Dark Lord. It may be surmised that Parseltongue is a skill particular to dark wizards. Could Albus Potter's possession of such skill be indicative of his own inclination towards dark magic? Could remains of Voldemort's powers have descended through Harry Potter to his son? As a further point of suspicion, the younger Potter has recently enrolled at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry and has been sorted into the house of Slytherin, a house that has been associated with producing numerous dark wizards in recent years . . .

Scorpius's eyes widen as they skim the lines of ink.

And my housemates, if anything, fear me, only because they know I possess powers that they could only dream of.

Well, that much was truth. But there was also a lie. If children scorn Scorpius because his father had been a death eater, then they avoid Albus because they fear he is the embodiment of dark magic. So no, Albus Potter isn't any better off, really, despite what he'd like to believe.

Scorpius's gaze softens as it lands on the picture of Albus, taking up half the page of the Prophet. He bears so little resemblance to the malicious boy in Potions, minus the eyes that blazed as defiantly as ever. But he looks as frantic as any child cornered by the media, hands reaching up to shield his face and body contorting ever smaller to minimize exposure. Scorpius feels rather sorry for him, and it takes him a moment before he remembers his frustration with that stupid, slandering git.

A glimmer of a rueful smile hovers at his lips. He supposes Albus was right in more ways than one—he is rather a Hufflepuff, isn't he?