A/N: Thanks again, LittleBrawley. You're wonderful comments make my day - bless you, hun!
So, this is the second last - but kind of the last, I guess - chapter for this series. I'm posting the next chapter up straight after it, though so enjoy!
Chapter 22: The Culmination of My Work
The school of Hogwarts stood proud and regal, perched upon the side of the Black Lake. Walls that had stood the tests of time endured still, their impressive presence firm and stoic in the early morning light of mid-summer. Though it was only early in the day, the grounds were alive with movement.
House elves rushed across the perfectly mown lawns, erecting brightly coloured marquees and snapping long, wide tables into existence before shrouding them in draping lengths of tablecloth. Flags on flag posts fluttered in an idling breeze and colourful ribbons dangled from every static item of furniture. Already a melody of nostalgic and whimsical tunes were playing from an ambient source, rippling music across the grounds, spreading and rebounding off the onlooking walls of the Hogwarts castle.
To the side of the marquees in a sunlit pool of green, dozens of rows of hard-backed chairs faced a low stage boasting a podium and curtained backdrop depicting the words 'Class of 2023' hung in sparkling letters suspended ten feet tall.
It was not yet eight o'clock, yet graduation day had become a cause for early mornings and celebrations. It was perhaps a good thing that the school year had not yet begun and that the previous year had ended, for the noise of preparation echoing around the desolate grounds would surely have awoken every inhabitant.
Headmaster Tyril had held firm in his imagined idea of how the seventh year students were supposed to be sent off. Prior to his appointment at Hogwarts, the send off had been conducted in a low-key and muted setting at the Labough Wizarding Cathedral on the outskirts of Edinburgh. It was hardly worthy of the grandiose name, and Tyril believed that something more should be afforded to the departing students. They had, after all, been residents of the school for nearly half of their lives.
And even if nearly the exact same ceremony would be conducted the following year, and the year after that, it didn't mean that Tyril would ensure anything less for those current leavers. For customary as their departure may be, it was certainly special.
Their final day on the grounds of Hogwarts should be special too.
~Scorpius~
I'd never been one much for extravagance.
Growing up in a lifestyle of refined grandeur rather than vibrancy and blatant enthusiasm had left me sceptical of outlandish displays of party-like excitement. Fireworks had never particularly appealed to me, nor had I ever felt much inclined to partake in raucous partying. Loud music and the overuse of bright, clashing colours had always seemed a little excessive to me. I had, in my entire eighteen years of life, done my utmost to avoid becoming embroiled in such situations.
For Graduation Day, however, I would make an exception. The explosive crackles of fireworks that routinely sprung to life overhead were quite impressive, I'd admit, in that they were able to adequately and visibly spout in broad daylight more than anything else. The music was remarkably tasteful – not any of that pop culture crashing and blaring that most of my peers classified as music – and was hushed enough that the raising of voices was not required to hold a conversation. And the colours? Well, a mish-mash of those of all four houses was bound to be offensive to the cultured eye. I'd expected that. If anything, however, I feel that the house elves did a fair job n tailoring and moderating the mix of reds, blues, greens and yellows to something less than physically painful to behold.
I knew it was indulgent of me, but I am grateful that the Graduation Ceremony was less averse than it very well could have been.
Al and I had come together to Hogwarts, Apparating into Hogsmeade at half-past ten on the dot to make our way to the castle. Rhali and then Ozzy cracked into existence barely moments after us and we four joined the sparse throng of ex-students, parents and friends trickling into the distance. I exchanged nods with those that I hadn't seen since school had let out, a smile with a few who were slightly more agreeable – Winona, for one, and Rose – but the four of us largely kept to ourselves for the trek.
And after, too. For despite the camaraderie established from mutual survival of our N.E. , Al, Ozzy, Rhali and I were outsiders to our year. Perhaps other didn't see us so distinctly, but I knew for sure we all felt it.
Ever since the incident with Al, things had been different. It wasn't so much that we actively avoided the rest of our cohort. No, there was no active avoidance involved; it simply happened. I couldn't help but blame my peers to some degree, almost as much as I did the Daily Prophet, and the fact that none had tattled on what had actually happened did only a little to redeem them in my eyes. I had committed myself to my studies, conducting the bare minimum of social niceties, and that was that. I had no need for further interaction, as it wasn't beneficial to me. By mid-year our schooling would be over and I wouldn't ever have much cause to see most of my year mates ever again.
More than that, I didn't have to be particularly nice to them, either. The character I'd once assumed, of the prodigal son shaping himself into the respectable employee of the future, was gone. Over the weeks following my decision, my confrontation with Father, that much had become clear to me. Who I was had disappeared and I felt myself peeled raw and bare while simultaneously wrapped comfortably in the dressings of the 'new me'.
That 'me' was still trying to figure out whom exactly he was. I supposed only time would tell.
My N.E. had gone as well as I could have realistically hoped. I would never be able to claim that I was happy with them, for there would always be more that I could have done, moments of regret that I hadn't studied just a little bit harder, but I was content. Almost satisfied. It helped in some ways that Rose was of a similar mind; I'd discovered that what Ozzy called 'over-achievers' such as ourselves were prone to perfectionism and the constant need to improve our efforts and ourselves. It took a huge force of will to stop myself from saying that perhaps a little more 'over-achieving' in some wouldn't go astray. It would have been cruel to say as much to Ozzy, even if he would have simply smirked and laughed off my words.
I hadn't received my marks back yet. They would come soon. And even with this almost-satisfaction, I felt a constant nervousness, anticipation settling within me that renewed every morning. I doubted it would go away entirely until I received that fateful letter by owl.
That same nervousness was seen in the eyes of every graduate I passed as I stepped onto Hogwart's grounds. For the last time, I realised, and a touch of unexpectedly wistful sadness welled within me briefly. Everything around me would soon become simply a memory; the looming grey walls of the castle, the broad, open grasses of the grounds, the distant, tranquil surface of the Black Lake and the shadowed depths of the Forbidden Forest. I would never again sit in Yeong's classes and marvel over the sheer wealth of knowledge he hid beneath his soft-spoken words, never feel the hidden approval of Weatherwell as I mastered another transfiguration spell, never flick through the pages of my textbook in History as I pondered over the sense that kept Binns as the teacher of that class.
That, too, was saddening.
Sadness, however, was very obviously the last feeling the house elves – and likely Tyril, for he was always one to become involved in festivities – sought to induce with the outfitting for the Graduation Ceremony. Not only was every attendant dressed in a smile as wide as a Cheshire cat's, but the general atmosphere of joviality radiated about the marquee-dressed outdoors. And that was even before the food and the good-humour that accompanied it even arrived.
The ceremony itself was nothing particularly formal. All of us ex-seventh year students, dressed for the last time in our school robes and the archaic pointed hats worn for academic celebrations, seated ourselves as a group in the audience. Before a sea of beaming parents and snapping cameras, Tyril gave what sounded very much like a well-learned and likely reused speech about the excellence of us students of the previous year. Despite the obvious lack of revision to his words, I felt a little proud by the talk of 'excellence' and 'esteemed students' and 'perfect role models'. There was nothing lacking in the face-crinkling smile Tyril turned upon our group of waiting graduates that listened attentively from the front row of seats.
We each took our turns to cross the stage, pause at the podium to receive the formal yet very tokenistic scroll of 'Hogwarts Graduate'. It meant nothing, of course, save that we had completed seven years of study; the results for the N.E. were by no means guaranteed by the sentiment. Still, I felt that same pride well within me as I strode across the stage myself to the request of 'Scorpius Malfoy' and grasped Tyril's hand, shaking it firmly and receiving one of his crinkled smiles directly for myself. I'd never had much to do with the headmaster, considering him nothing much more than a figurehead. I still perceived Weatherwell as the brains behind the staff body; the witch herself watched with a surprisingly soft expression on her usually stern face from the opposite side of the stage. But even so, a modicum of affection for Tyril arose within me as our hands clasped.
After that, it was a simple matter of celebration. The multitudinous cracks of appearing house elves preceded the arrival of an array of snacks and party foods to rival that offered at Hogwarts' feast nights. The long, rectangular tables shaded by marquees and draped in house colours groaned under plates piled high, beneath platters and dishes, tea cups and steaming teapots, the smell of warm bread and freshly baked biscuits – both scents I had personally become quite familiar with of late – that rose into the air and drew gurgling grumbles from every belly.
It didn't take long before everyone, ex-students, families and professors alike, had fallen upon the offerings and retreated into their own seated groups, chattering animatedly.
I found a seat with Al, Rhali and Ozzy at a table that perfectly only seated about half a dozen. Rhali scavenged a whole three-tiered cake stand of muffins and cupcakes that she withheld from the rest of us for a moment before with exaggerated long-suffering had allotted us 'the ugliest ones' of the arrangement. Ozzy Accioed a floral teapot and matching cups and saucers and we settled ourselves to munching our way through a very sugary lunch with the exclusiveness that we usually found ourselves in.
It was actually remarkably comfortable. It was almost as though the rest of the world didn't exist. We could have been at Al's house in Godric's Hollow for all the difference it truly was.
"Okay, which house-elf thought it was a good idea to mix savoury muffins with the sweet ones," Ozzy muttered, placing one such muffin with a bite taken from the side back onto the platter.
"Ew, Ozzy, don't put it back on the plate," Rhali scolded, picking the muffin up once more and tossing it back towards him in a spray of crumbs.
"Hey, don't throw food at me."
"Don't be disgusting them."
"Oh, I'm disgusting? And I suppose sitting there picking the raisins out of your own muffin is entirely acceptable."
"Yes it is, because raisins are disgusting."
I couldn't help but disagree with Rhali on that one. The image of the little pellets scattered across the plate in front of her – and across the Slytherin green tablecloth surrounding it – a little too closely resembled rat droppings for my liking.
Al was similarly disagreeable, but for an apparently different reason. "Rhali, you don't hate raisins."
"Yes, I do." Rhali flicked one from her plate towards him. He dodged it neatly.
"Didn't you eat those cinnamon buns Al and I made last week?" I asked.
Rhali pouted, shooting me a glare. "Yes…"
"Did they have raisins in them?" Ozzy asked with more incredulity than was probably warranted.
"Well, they bloody well weren't chocolate chips," Rhali grumbled.
"Much to Rhali's distress," Al grinned, flashed me a conspiratorial glance that lit up his eyes in that brilliant way his genuine smiles always did. We'd both decided to keep the ingredients entirely secret from Rhali for that very reason. It could hardly be said that we didn't enjoy ourselves with our mutual baking experiences. Perhaps me a little more than Al; I truly had become quite fond of it.
I had to find something to do with my time these days since school had finished up. Independent searching for potential careers and future pathways – even before I'd attained my N.E. – was simply too unnerving to do all the time. It was distressing at times, too; I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself, and until I'd received a hardcopy of my results didn't feel comfortable enough to actively approach any masters or companies on the matter.
It was horrible, being left floating adrift with no clear direction in mind. Thank Merlin for Al; he was my anchor through it all, and seemed to have dedicated himself to distracting me from my thoughts. One day it was baking, another day he dragged me out to a nursery to do some scouting for the garden in his backyard, yet another day was spent on our knees in said garden. I wasn't particularly fond of getting my hands dirty – they made gloves expressly to avoid just that sort of problem – but I was becoming familiar with it if nothing else.
That wasn't our only endeavours. Al and I still went to Sahra's support group, and had even met up with the quiet little girl Evie a few times. She was nice enough, and actually had a relatively sound knowledge of Potions for one who'd dropped out of school in fifth year. Alongside that, we took to wandering around London, as much in the Muggle world as the Wizarding one, and just as often as not with Rhali or Ozzy in tow. A day at the Tower of London was followed by one at the Museum for Magical Inventions – which was actually more interesting than it sounded – and a few days later by a visit to Buckingham Palace to engage in the typical tourist exploits of our own city. We took a turn to the Globe Theatre to see a modern rendition of Shakespeare's Hamlet, which I found was very different to the Wizarding interpretation of the same story with significantly less use of Disillusionment Charms and Killing Curses.
We actually ended up taking a trip to Italy to visit Ozzy when he took a couple of weeks holiday with his mother to Rome. I'd never been before, but it was certainly an experience, and one I'd been keen to repeat when I was less prone to distraction and brooding.
I actually felt inclined to perhaps seek some temporary employment simply as a more thorough and productive distraction. Except that, well… brooding I may often find myself, but I was enjoying spending so much time with Al. We basically lived in one another's pockets; when not at his house, we were at mine. I believed that, if Mother could have her way, we would never leave. It was a good thing that Al quite liked her; I hated to think of how awkward things would be if he shrunk from the embraces she'd begun to shower upon him in recent weeks. He took them exceptionally well. I supposed he was probably fairly used to them, what with receiving similar affection from his own mother.
Turning away from my friends, who had begun to flick pieces of muffin at one another and giggling like children half their age, I cast a glance around the seating area. Little clusters of students and parents, or students and teachers or – just as often – teachers and parents, many of whom were ex-peers or students themselves, were seated around their own round tables. Some milled between the clusters, darting over with a call of greeting or flung statement and hastening to a new conversation partner, or perusing the buffet table and heaping laden plates with delectable morsels.
I recognised faces amongst the many, of those other than my fellow students. Some, like Mr Toff and Lady Jacarda, were familiar from my time becoming acquainted with the clients of my father's business. Others – Winona's parents, the Weasleys, a couple with faces such a perfect mash-up of Zachariah's features that they had to be his family – were vaguely familiar themselves. I nodded to a few that made eye contact with me, and even offered another smile to Winona when she happened to glance in my direction.
I caught sight of my parents across the room, too. Mother was, naturally, amidst a group of babbling suck-ups vying for her attention. Attention she was deliberately diverting to another worthy cause in the form of Ginny Potter. Mother was persistent when it came to Ginny; if Al's mother was in a mile radius, it was almost as though my mother could sniff her out and would be magnetically drawn towards her. Ginny, bless her, didn't seem to mind. If anything, I thought she actually seemed to quite like Mother's company; she certainly never shirked it, and just as often as not sought Mother out herself.
I'd actually had a word to my mother about her clinginess to the Potter family, something that no one but me seemed able to perceive. Since Al and I had finished school, she'd gotten worse, if it was possible. Should we happen to mention, upon leaving the Manor, that we were heading over the Godric's Hollow, Mother would inevitably pick herself up and invite herself over.
About a month ago I'd decided to put an end to such behaviour. I still remembered that confrontation so clearly, as though it had only happened that morning, for the mortification it induced within me. Al and I had barely made it halfway towards the door when she intercepted us in the hallway with a small smile and a knowing sparkle in her eyes. She didn't even have to say anything; I'd already known she knew where we were heading.
"Mother," I'd sighed, casting an exasperated glance towards Al. "Do you think perhaps you're being a little intrusive?"
Mother had tilted her head like a curious bird and raised a confused eyebrow. It was blatantly obvious to me that she was being deliberately ignorant. "Intrusive? How so?"
"Firstly, you've never actually asked before heading on over there –"
"Ginny never needs me to ask," Mother had interrupted.
"- and even without that," I'd spoken over her. "You come over all the time. Perhaps a little distance would do your relationship some good?" I'd felt like a parent chastising their wayward daughter to steer clear of catastrophic romances, but continued nonetheless. "I'm sure Ginny doesn't need to see you every day."
"Oh, you mean a little distance like that which you and Albus share?" Mother had turned pointedly towards Al, who was being decidedly unhelpful and looked to be struggling against a grin more than anything else.
A flush had threatened to rise in my cheeks, but I'd gotten remarkably good at denying such tell tale reactions over the past months. "Al's and my relationship is somewhat different, I feel."
Mother had pursed her lips, turning her attention back towards me. "Scorpius, I see absolutely no need to be so distant with my future family members. If anything, we'll only be seeing more of one another in the coming years." And after dropping that little bombshell, with only a murmured, "I'll just get my purse," she'd slipped past me and disappeared in an elegant sweep up the stairs.
As it turned out, I was not so in control of my blushing reflex as I'd thought. Future family? Could she be any more blunt? Thankfully, with the sound of Mother's footsteps departing, Al had only fallen into gales of laughter rather than his own embarrassment and, as I'd half expected, horror. He'd thought it was funny – hilarious, apparently – but it was with a moment of satisfaction that I realised he wasn't denying the possibility.
Watching her across the seated and standing heads of the milling crowd, I shook my head at the undivided attention that Mother focused upon Ginny. It was as though the men and women who always fluttered around her, bouncing and prancing about for the attention of Mrs Malfoy, were but dust on the wind.
Well, undivided except for Mrs Weasley, who had similarly become ensnared by my mother's unyielding tentacles. Rose's mother actually seemed to be more enthusiastically participating in the conversation than Ginny was, and Mother was replying with similar if less carefree attentiveness. She likely saw Mrs Weasley as potential family members too; I knew she was a Muggleborn, and had wondered if the old-fashioned prejudices would hold fast with my mother. Apparently, they did not.
Some prejudices did not appear to have died, however. Just to the side of where Mother and her exclusive pair of companions spoke, Father stood with his back half-turned towards the crowd, a cup of tea steaming in his hand and eyes drifting lazily towards Hogwarts. He would have appeared nostalgic and wistful, had it not been for the fact that Mr Potter and Mr Weasley not far away from him were boasting almost identical expressions of detached nostalgia. And, if the very deliberate avoidance of eye contact that was shared between the three of them were any indication, the reason was not terribly difficult to fathom.
No, some rivalries did not die quite so easily with a little time.
"What are you smiling about?"
I glanced towards Al, where he was picking crumbs from his fringe after finally extricating himself from the reserved food fight he'd shared with Ozzy and Rhali. The pair of them had moved on to some sort of dramatic play enactment, adopting pompous impressions of the highborn as they sipped their teas with little finger's splayed ridiculously widely.
I shook my head. "Nothing, just looking at Father."
Al glanced over my shoulder towards the direction I gestured. I idly pried another small dusting of crumbs from his hair; he didn't even seem to notice me doing so. "Oh, you mean our dads?"
I hummed. "And Mr Weasley."
Al rolled his eyes, assuming a smirk. "They're like little kids," he chuckled, very decidedly overlooking his own actions of the past few minutes.
"At least they're not fighting."
"I doubt your dad would be caught dead fighting with anyone in public."
"You'd be surprised," Ozzy broke in, taking a slurping sip from his tea that left Rhali sniggering. "Apparently your dads were quite famous in the day for starting up a duel or fist-fight just about anywhere."
I blinked at Ozzy in surprise. "How do you even know that? My father hardly ever speaks of his school days."
Ozzy shrugged, peering distastefully into the dregs of his cup. "I read."
"You do not," Al interjected.
"Fine, then I listen."
"You don't do much of that either," Rhali added.
"Why is it so hard to consider that I know things?" Ozzy glanced exasperatedly between the two of them, placing his teacup down with clattering force for emphasis.
"It's not that we don't believe you, Ozzy," Rhali soothed in a very unsoothing tone. "You're just full of shit half the time. That sort of makes people sceptical."
"I am not!" And he flicked one of his own raisins at Rhali, which lost itself into her tangled hair and set her to shrieking so loudly that it actually drew a few questioning gazes. Al fell to laughing hard enough to rock his chair backwards and, shaking my head as I automatically reached a hand out to stable it – just in case – I glanced absently back towards my father.
As though he'd felt my gaze, Father's attention drifted towards me. From such a distance between us there was little he could give by way of communication, but the slight inclination of his head, the brief flash of a reserved smile that was barely visible at all, was more than enough. I hadn't spoken to my parents since receiving my 'Certificate of Hogwarts Graduate', yet the pride and recognition he conveyed in that simple gesture spoke more than words.
Father and I had undergone a rocky sequence from my wary distancing to his lingering anger and disapproval that faded to neutrality and finally – to my relief – his acceptance. It had been an awkward first week moving back into the Manor after school let out; I hadn't spoken face-to-face to either my mother or my father since I'd briefly stopped into LeFay to announce my separation from the business. We hadn't exchanged words either, except for the single letter that Father had sent me.
Mother had been the one to pave the way to recovery. She'd acted as though nothing had happened at all, as though I hadn't turned the household upside down by subverting every expectation the Wizarding world held for the Malfoy heir. She'd offered me a welcoming embrace that lasted only a second longer than it perhaps otherwise would have, and had not spoken a word about it. It was actually a little eerie given that Father had remained at a blank-faced distance, simply offering me a nod and a muted word of welcome at my arrival.
By the end of that first week, Mother had evidently felt that enough was enough. Father hadn't made any attempt to mend the awkward void between us and I certainly didn't feel confident enough to do so myself. Even though I was officially classified as an adult, Father still held the power to intimidate me like a pre-schooler.
He did not, however, hold that same power over my mother.
She'd chosen a night when Al had been absent; he'd been called last minute to Professor Longbottom's house, something about spending the evening looking for Puffing roots in the forest out the back of his godfather's estate. Apparently he had a knack for magically identifying the location of the buried plants, and Longbottom had called on him numerous times before for such a reason.
At the end of dinner, Mother had uttered a very pointed sigh that succeeded in drawing both my father's and my own attention. She'd placed her napkin down on the table beside her plate and turned deliberately towards me.
"Scorpius, have you considered further on what areas you'd like to pursue hereon out in terms of career of future studies?"
Had I considered…? Had I done anything but consider, would have been a more appropriate question. Mother didn't know just how much simply because I wasn't one to verbalise my contemplations; I may take time to reach a decision, but when I did I was firm in that decision and it was entirely my own.
Finishing my mouthful of roast, I'd placed my cutlery down on the plate and cleared my throat. "I have, Mother."
"And?"
I'd glanced towards Father. He'd been staring at me with mild interest, as though I were discussing the weather, and I'd actually found that more disconcerting than something more distinct and final and accusing. "I have considered… perhaps future study. Or an apprenticeship, if I can find a suitable master."
"And in what field might that be?"
I'd snapped my gaze back to my mother's. She knew very well what field I would desire to go into. It was no secret in the Malfoy family that I favoured and was good at Potions. "I'm considering Potioneering, Mother."
"Ah yes, of course." She'd nodded her head as though understanding had finally dawned upon her. I hadn't had long to wonder what she was playing at, for the next moment she'd turned her attention towards Father. "Well, your father was always an lover of Potions. I'm sure he still has friends in the field who would be willing to assist in directing you."
I'd blinked in surprise, similarly turning towards my father. Father had enjoyed Potioneering? Why hadn't I heard of that? As far as I knew, he'd been committed to becoming a networker of purebloods since school.
The only indication that Father was in any way discomforted had been in the stillness of his expression. He'd stared back at my mother, fork still held aloft in his hand, and I'd gotten the distinct impression that they were holding a very long-winded, silent conversation. A conversation that featured both my mother's insistence and my father's exasperation.
Finally, Father had laid his fork down on his plate. Bowing his head slightly, he'd nodded. "Indeed. I was once an avid Potions student."
"Top of your year, as I recall it," Mother had added fondly.
Father had raised an eyebrow at her. "At times. Hermione Granger – or Hermione Weasley as she is now – was a sore competitor for primary position. I believe she even trounced me in our final year of brewing our Barruffio's Brain Elixir."
I'd had to fight to keep my jaw from falling slack into idiotic lolling. I'd never heard about this before. Father had always been close-lipped about his Hogwarts days; I'd always been under the impression he had little to be proud of in his actions, and history had it that the Malfoys had been something of temporary Voldemort sympathisers. That Father was a Potions students – more than that, a fantastic potions student – was… well, there was little that could change my perspective of my father and that was one of them.
"You were good at Potions?" My voice had been low, little more than a whisper. I'd felt a little betrayed, at Father's secrecy, at his apparent disapproval of my chosen field, and hoped it didn't show through.
Father had returned my gaze. "I was."
"Until a few years after you were born, he actually still attended Balthamos' Experimental Brewing classes, you know," Mother had chimed in. She'd turned a smile upon me, and I'd gotten the distinct impression she was feeling very satisfied with herself.
She had a right to, too. Father had obviously been very uncomfortable, perhaps even felt guilty, and I was still swimming up from a deep, pervading sense of shock. With barely a handful of words, Mother had unhinged us both. "Did you really?" At Father's nod, I'd shaken my head, baffled. "Why did you stop?"
Lifting one should in an uncharacteristically casual gesture, Father had shrugged. "For a number of reasons, lack of time being the primary one. LeFay Connected was fast becoming a leading business, and it was a priority."
"Did you… you enjoy it? I mean, even after you stopped experimenting?"
A small smile had settled upon Father's face. His eyes had become distant, faintly glazed, and he'd nodded. "Did I enjoy it? Yes. Yes, I still did. I'd hazard a guess that I would still enjoy it if I partook of such hobbies even now. I regret that I have not found the time to further pursue it."
That announcement had floored me more than anything else; Father had not only enjoyed Potions in the past, but felt that he still would. It made his silence towards me in the past weeks assume a decidedly different shade. I hadn't quite understand the feelings behind that silence, not what drove it, but… perhaps he was simply as uncertain of how to approach our relationship as I was?
Over the following weeks, the dynamics of my family gradually fell back into normalcy. Father and I, at the continued roundabout urging of my Mother, gradually overrode the awkwardness that had grown between us and even, dare I say it, grew a little closer. It was strange, possessing the knowledge of that one small piece of my father's past. Strange, but satisfying.
More than that, though, Father no longer seemed to hold back on what was evidently still a passion for him. Potions became a point of similarity between the two of us, something we could discuss and share enthusiasm for in a way we hadn't since I'd first taken up flying. We didn't go so far as to brew together in the stone cottage out the back of the Manor dedicated to such pursuits, but I did on one occasion glance up from the cauldron that Al and I stood beside and catch a glimpse of Father in the doorway. I hadn't commented on his presence, nor did I mention it to him thereafter, but I was under the impression it wasn't the first time he'd done so. Nor the last, most likely.
He was supportive in his own way, too. Little things, like dropping words of a conversation he'd shared via letter with Master Gebralski, Potions expert, who was apparently looking for an apprentice in the coming year. Or that he'd openly reminisce on his own considerations in his youth, when he'd contemplated the benefits of attending St. Kleo's College for Fine Brewing as opposed to Oxford's Potioneering University that more strongly emphasised experimental studies. Those little things, words that I often only realised the significance of after the conversation had progressed, were some of the kindest I'd ever received from my father.
Even gazing condescendingly across the marquee-shaded grounds, shaking my head at the antics of my father and his childhood rivals, I could feel affection well within me.
My attention was drawn from where Father had returned once more to very pointedly ignoring Al's father and Mr Weasley by the appearance of Rose at my mother's side. She, Mother and Ginny exchanged a few words before Mother scanned her surrounds, caught sight of me, and gestured with a sweep of her hand in our direction. Rose's face brightened as she made her way over to us. She fell into one of the spare seats a moment later, brushing aside the spill of crazy curls that seemed to have fallen loose of their careful styling since the ceremony.
"Hello, everyone. Beautiful day, isn't it?" She smiled around the circle of us, her smile wavering slightly as it fell on Rhali. "Rhali, you do know you have cake in your hair, don't you?"
"It's muffin, actually," Rhali sniffed, not even sparing Rose a glance as she turned her attention onto picking raisins out of another muffin. "And yes, I do. I'm saving it for later."
"Right…" Rose drew out slowly, a confused frown etching into her brow. No, Rhali and Rose had not become any more amiable in the past few weeks. I doubted they ever would; the sheer clashing of their personalities and of how Rhali treated Rose specifically was what actually helped me to fully realise for the first time that Rhali did actually quite like me these days.
Brushing aside Rhali's rudeness – because friend she may be, I could still perceive her actions as rude – and Ozzy's half-smile of apology, she turned towards Al. "I've been looking for you."
"Me? Why?" The wariness instantly raised Al's hackles.
"Oh, don't be like that," Rose sighed. "Although, I suppose in this instance your cautiousness is warranted." She paused, quirking her lips to the side in a disgruntled expression. "I was just talking to a couple of the ex-prefects."
"And?" Al's voice was still guarded, but he sounded more confused now, and curious.
"From what I can gather, they'd like to talk to you."
"From what you can gather?" Al slumped back in his chair, his shoulders hunching slightly and a small frown settling on his brow. "What would make you think that? And what do you mean by 'talk'. People don't usually want to talk to me."
That wasn't entirely true, I thought, though didn't say as much. People did like talking to Al – myself being a prime contender for 'Number One Person Who Most Enjoys Doing So' – but Al just seemed to be under the misguided impression that people just… didn't.
Rose pushed on through the scepticism in Al's words. "Well, they weren't exactly subtle about their intentions. Dillon and Grettle were actually quite blunt. They said they'd really like to talk to you, to apologise. That they would have liked to have done so earlier, except that you weren't at school and the exam period didn't exactly seem like the best time to do it."
That, too, wasn't entirely true. Certainly, exam periods were definitely not the most ideal times to bring up awkward topics, not with nerves running high and minds churning over essays and spells learned by rote. But in reality, I doubt that anyone could have approached Al and left with their heads intact, and not because Al would have bitten it off. From the instant he arrived on Hogwarts' grounds, as tightly strung as a bowstring and not entirely because of the exams, Rhali and Ozzy seemed to take on the roles of bodyguards. The glare Rhali directed towards anyone who even glanced at Al sideways was enough to induce heart failure, and Ozzy himself had adopted a fiercely deterring expression that was only made less intimidating because Rhali stood alongside him. Even I'd been wary to approach him; I could hardly blame Dillon and Grettle for their own hesitancy.
Surprisingly, Al didn't seem as averse to the prospect of talking as I'd assumed he would be. Oh, he certainly took a moment or seven to reach a decision on the matter, but finally he nodded and rose to his feet. "Okay. I'll talk to them."
"You will?" Rose blinked, seeming genuinely surprised by his leniency.
Al shrugged. "Why not, if it makes them feel better? It's not like I'm probably ever going to see them again."
"We're coming with you," Ozzy said, rising to his feet also. Rhali jumped up an instant later, her scowl already firmly affixed.
Rose appeared a little horrified at the prospect, but nodded her head in acceptance quickly enough. "I sort of assumed you'd want some back up, or whatever you call them. Come on then, I'll come too."
I was on my own feet before I realised it, but before we could take a step away from our table Rose turned towards me. "Oh, Scorpius, Yeong was looking for you I think."
"Sorry?"
"Professor Yeong. He's been looking for you to ask you something – not sure what – but he seemed pretty insistent. You might want to find him yourself. He was talking to Verne last I checked, so he'd probably appreciate the rescue."
I had to nod in heartfelt agreement at that. Anyone would be desperate to escape the Divination teacher's clutches, even the other professors. Yeong was generally quite mild and easy going when it came to difficult matters, but surely he wouldn't feel any inclination to remain within her grasp for longer than absolutely necessary.
Even so, I hardly wanted to leave Al at that moment.
Al, as he had recently tended to do, seemed to have overheard my unspoken dilemma. He nudged me with an elbow. "Go find him, would you? I'm all good."
"I'd really rather I come with you," I replied with a frown, but Al waved a hand at me, disregarding my concern.
"Don't be an idiot. It'll probably only take a few seconds anyway. Help them get whatever unfounded guilt they hold off their chests, you know?" He shooed me away with another wave, small smile on his face that spoke words of gratitude and fondness that he didn't voice. "Go. Off with you. I'm fine. Besides, I've got three loyal hounds to accompany me."
"Hounds?" Ozzy muttered, amused.
"Loyal?" Rhali parroted in a tone identical to Ozzy's. "I, my dear master, am far more likely to chew your heels."
"Your support it comforting, Rhali," Al said, smirking at her. He glanced back towards me. "Really. Go. I'll see you in a minute." And with yet another wave of his hand to me, he turned towards Rose, gestured at her to lead on, and soon disappeared into the crowd. Rhali and Ozzy followed on his tail, Ozzy doing a rather adept impression of said hound that Rhali watched with open disgust and a shake of her head.
Sighing, I turned my own attention to seeking out Yeong. Being at the taller end of the spectrum, I was able to see over the shoulders and half of the heads of those in the room. The bobble of Verne's ponytail was visible over by the fruit platter buffet stand, and I set to weaving my way through the crowd.
Yeong was indeed still talking to Verne. Or being talked to, as was perhaps the more appropriate description of their interaction. He simply nodded slowly, periodically, with an expression of mild interest touching his features. He must be about the only person with an ounce of wit I knew that was able to listen to Verne for minutes on end without a glazed expression.
"…could have told him that the stars aligned not this century but that three hundred years hence, which clearly skews his readings," Verne was saying. The bangles on her arms jangled as she gesticulated widely. Yeong leant back with practiced ease to avoid a swing of one arm, his expression altering not an ounce. "Fool of a man; I've always said Kirk's Institute churns out nothing but bumbling idiots. The nerve of him, to dispute me! So I said to him –"
"Professor, you wanted to talk to me?"
It was probably rude of me to interrupt Verne, but I figured she was no longer my professor so I was entitled to a little rudeness. Well, she hadn't really been my professor for years – no one in their right mind would consider Divination an examinable subject, making the study of it for formal purposes pointless – but still.
I thought I saw a brief flicker of relief dart across Yeong's eyes, but before he could reply Verne spoke. "Talk? To you?" She shook her head sagely. "No, my dear, I've no need to profess your future pathway. You are firmly set, I feel."
If I hadn't been dubious of Divination beforehand, that single statement would have done it for me. Verne truly was the bumbling idiot that she so accused other Diviners of being. "Actually, I was speaking to Professor Yeong."
"Oh." Verne blinked. "Oh, well then… is it urgent? I was just –"
"Expressly," I interrupted once more. "I'm sorry, I won't take up much time."
Blinking rapidly at me once more, Verne opened and closed her mouth for a moment before nodding. She glanced towards Yeong. "We'll continue this later, Guiren."
"It would be my pleasure," Yeong replied, bowing his head slightly at her departure as she swept into the crowd in a puff of sickly sweet perfume. Watching her disappear, Yeong shook his head slightly. "Such a riveting conversationalist, is Madame Verne."
I sincerely hoped he was being sarcastic; it was always a little difficult to tell with Yeong. Deliberately placing aside the horrifying possibility that he wasn't, I adopted a contrite expression. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Professor. Rose Weasley said something about you wanting to speak to me?"
Yeong smiled benevolently. "It's fine, it is fine, Mr Malfoy. No harm done. And yes, if I could I'll borrow a moment of your time."
I bowed my head in an obliging nod, striving to keep my discomfort from showing on my face – I felt the urge to fidget uncharacteristically, and not just because the need to follow Al was like a necessity. Though I'd renewed my passion and considered a future in Potions, I'd been unable to confess my change of heart to my favourite teacher. It left a discomforting tightness in my gut, of guilt and sadness, but I couldn't bring myself to approach him once more. Not after I'd so blatantly denied his assistance the previous year. It is because of that very reason that I found talking to him, especially one-on-one, so awkward.
"Of course, Professor. Was there something you needed?"
"Not something I need, Mr Malfoy." Yeong smiled and tilted his head slightly. In an instant I knew what he was going to say. "It has come to my attention that you have resumed your dedication to Potioneering."
I bit back the urge to cringe. Swallowing, I nodded once more. "I have, sir."
Yeong's smile widened. "Wonderful. That is truly wonderful to hear."
If I allowed myself to cringe I would surely have sunken to the floor in embarrassment. "I'm glad you think so, sir. I… I realise I perhaps should have mentioned this to you earlier, but I –"
Yeong held up a quelling hand. "Not at all, Mr Malfoy. You should feel no obligation to tell me anything."
Those words, said in kindness, actually made me feel worse. "No, Professor, but I would have liked to. I confess that I simply didn't know how to broach the subject."
Dipping his chin in an understanding nod, Yeong's smile softened. "That is entirely understandable. It is difficult to face that which you have already turned from. But," and he paused, his head tilted back the other way as though he were shifting his gaze to regard me from an alternate angle. "It may have perhaps proved beneficial to you, had you done so earlier."
Of course it would have. I would maybe heave been able to take up extra studies in the field, perhaps even going back to assisting Yeong in his personal brewing once more. I might have learned a little extra of how best to integrate myself into the field. I knew that, and it only made my regret more profound. "You're right, of course, Professor. I do regret that. Sincerely."
"Ah, but there is no harm done." With surprising intimacy, Yeong placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I just withheld from starting. "I have a number of friends who would be more than interested in taking on an apprentice. I recall that you were particularly partial to the works of Frances Helly, were you not?"
Frances Helly? Helly, as in my childhood idol for her work on mind potions? I had long struggled to force the image of the stout, greying witch glimpsed in the newspaper from my mind as an impossibility, but the memories remained. At Yeong's words, I could barely keep myself from quivering with anticipation. "I… yes, I am very… partial to her work."
The widening of Yeong's smile suggested he wasn't fooled by my mild reply. "Then would you perhaps desire a meeting with her, should I be able to arrange it?"
It would have taken me a second to reply in the affirmative, for affirmative was the only possible response I could have given. But that second was interrupted by an outburst that echoed piercingly loud across the grounds.
"YOU BASTARD! NO WAY IN HELL!"
Mine was not the only head that whipped around to the source of the voice. Conveniently enough, there was a very distinct parting in the crowd between where I stood and the situation that afforded me a prime view of Al, Rhali, Ozzy, Rose, and a number of other graduates. All of them were staring in a mixture of horror, terror and shock at Rhali.
Rhali appeared barely a twitch away from spitting fire, and was the only one in a ten foot radius of her not shrinking in a state of cowed. Poor Dillon, who seemed to be the direct focus of her rage, was nearly crumbling to the floor for the trembling of his knees.
Well, except for Al and Ozzy. They actually looked to be fighting back the urge to burst into laughter. A fight that they were evidently losing as I heard the very distinct and memorable sound of Al's laughter, breaking through the stunned silence of the marquee, clamped down upon as his hand clapped over his lips.
I had to do something. Only Al or Ozzy of the onlookers seemed in any mindset to be able to reign Rhali in from her quivering rage, but they hardly seemed inclined to at the present. With a glance towards Yeong, I tipped my head in another bow. "Thank you so much, Professor. That would be… that would be fantastic. Brilliant. I could wish for nothing more. But, um…" I cast a sidelong glance back at the situation behind me, still frozen in terror. "I'm sorry, I think perhaps I should…"
Yeong's smile had broadened wider than I'd ever seen it before. Crows feet crinkled in the corners of his eyes, giving him nothing if not a jolly appearance. "By all means, Mr Malfoy. Please do. I'll be sure to contact you by owl at the earliest possible moment."
Bowing my head once more and uttering another brief word of thanks, I spun on my heel and strode into the crowd. Of course Rhali would explode now, and of course the victim of her attack would need outsider support. And of course it would happen at just the moment when the most wonderful thing that could possibly arise for my future career had appeared.
How vexing.
And yet it was with a smile that I faced the cringing ex-prefects, struggled to calm Rhali, and scowled reprovingly at the still-laughing Al and Ozzy. Because there was precious little that could possibly dampen my mood in that instant. Very little at all.
~Albus~
The grandfather clock chimed for the second time since the letter had come. Barely a handful of words had been spoken since, and all of them had been short and stilted. My eyes were the only ones fixed upon the bleached parchment envelope; everyone else was deliberately ignoring it and waiting for my move.
I couldn't. Move, that was. My nervousness was roiling inside of me, tampered only by the phantom hands of my medication, but even those hands were struggling to muffle the rising wave. I was more nervous now than I had been since my exams and those were months ago.
All because of that single letter upon the table.
"Al, maybe you should just… open it."
Ozzy spoke up once more, with the exact same phrase he'd been repeating for the last half an hour. His expression was compassionate, but there was an edge of exasperation to it too. He didn't want to wait anymore, and not because the contents of that letter held any particular importance to him personally. I knew that my own nervousness was contagious when it hung around for too long, and right now, after nearly an hour of waiting, it was certainly hanging around. The jiggling of Ozzy's leg was shaking the dining table where he sat, Rhali's pacing had taken on an almost striding length, and even Scor had been reduced to fidgeting in his own seat. Mum had passed back and forth to the kitchen and living room by turns more times than I'd cared to count, and Dad had actually reached forward to touch the letter a couple of times, as though to encourage me to open it.
It didn't. I was frozen, and it didn't seem like I was going to move anytime soon.
"Sweetheart, I think it would be best to just do it quickly." Mum had paused behind my chair once more, her hands resting just behind my shoulders. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"If you don't get into this one, then there's always the other ones to come," Dad added. "The first letter is always the hardest."
I felt my gaze drawn towards Scor as they had so often over the past hour. As with each time prior, he was staring straight back at him. His expression was smooth, closed, guarded and likely unreadable to most, but I could discern the meaning of it anyway. He was nervous too; maybe not as nervous as I was, but certainly uneasy.
Because yes, there would be other universities, other potential acceptance letters after this one. But over the past weeks of contemplation, I'd realised one very important thing: I didn't want to go anywhere else but Edinburgh. And the reason for that was because Scor would be in Edinburgh.
It was probably the wrong reason for desiring as much, but I couldn't help myself. The more time I spent with Scor, the more I realised I truly didn't want to be separated from him. I'd grown accustomed to sleeping in the same room as him, the same bed, and those instances where we didn't sleep side-by-side I now found distinctly uncomfortable. As though something – some very big thing – was missing.
Scor had been offered a position working with Frances Helly, a Scottish Potions Master who was reputedly one of the best of her generation. She was, at least at present, based in Edinburgh and looked to be remaining there for some time. And Scor – he would not be her apprentice. No, Helly had been so impressed with his enthusiasm and knowledge upon their meeting – as well as his N.E.W.T marks; Outstanding, naturally, but more than that he'd actually topped the European charts – that she'd offered him a position as a Research Fellow and Junior Brewer in her department. The very fact that it was Helly's department meant that not only would he be paid remarkably well for a graduate level job but that he would get the opportunity to study pretty much anything he desired so long as he produced sufficient results.
I won't lie, I was a little envious of him. Happy for him, of course – so happy I sometimes wondered if I was actually happier about his employment than he was himself – but envious too. Of the certainty of his position, of the fact that he was doing exactly what he loved in the best possible circumstances.
Rhali, too. She'd gotten into Oxford; she knew she had, even though her own acceptance letter hadn't arrived yet. Her dad knew someone who knew someone who put in a good word for her, and she'd basically been guaranteed a spot. She wouldn't be completely content until she too received her letter, I was sure, but that knowledge had eased her own nervousness somewhat.
And Ozzy? Well, Ozzy was firm in his decision to make no decision at all. Following his carefree spirit, he'd instead settled upon the idea of travelling. For twelve months, he said, and just about everywhere, but I would hardly be surprised if he went for longer. Ozzy had the same itchy feet his mother did – quite literally at times, as he'd kept up his running regime and now became a little twitchy if he didn't get the opportunity to follow it – and I could think of nothing that would suit him more than just enjoying himself in doing exactly that. In seeing the sights. He was all for the journey rather than the destination, after all.
So no, none of my friends were in quite the same position as I was. I didn't begrudge them; not in the slightest. But still, though I appreciated their concern for me, just as I appreciated that my Mum and Dad afforded it, they didn't truly get it. I was barely keeping a hold on my nausea and upwelling anxiety.
Well, I wasn't. The Maintenance Draught still did that.
Silence ensued after Dad's words and the only sound was Rhali's pacing, Ozzy's leg jiggling, and the resulting squeak of the wooden chair beneath him. I was staring so hard at the letter that I couldn't even see it anymore.
Finally, it became too much for Rhali. Pausing in her step beside me, she snatched up the letter. "For God's sake, Al, if you won't open it then I will."
I felt a jolt of panic course through me instantly, but a second later it was stoppered by Scor's snatching hands as he relieved her of the parchment. "No, Rhali, I don't think you will."
"Well, someone has to." Rhali sighed, exasperated. "Al, you're a paranoid bundle of nerves. I've never known you to be able to hold off on something this long; you always have to know. Why the hell would you change that now?"
To the scowls and sighs of my family and friends – mostly directed at Rhali rather than in agreement with her, I felt – I muttered, "It's not me. Blame the medication. I'm sure it would be open by now, otherwise."
That caused another lull, silence seeping through the room. It was Scor who broke it. "Would you like me to read it first, then?"
I met his gaze once more. Yes. No. Maybe – I didn't know. Would it be better for someone – no, for Scor – to read it first? Swallowing down the dry tightening of my throat, I nodded hesitantly. "Y-yes. Yes please."
Everyone in the room with the exception of myself sagged in their seats. Or into a seat in Rhali's case. Scor held my gaze for a moment longer, as though ensuring that I was truly sincere in my request, before nodding shortly and peeling open the seal of the envelope. It unfolded with a crack and as he drew the bleached paper from the envelope he dropped his eyes to skim at the words.
Silence. Stupid, nail-biting, nerve-wracking silence. My breathing sounded far too loud, the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock's pendulum a gong sounding in my ear. I stared at Scor, attempting to gauge a response, to glean an insight into what he read.
When he glanced up at me once more, I could make out no such sign or indication. That in itself was unusual, for I knew I'd grown to be able to read Scor well these days. But… nothing. Without a word, he held out the letter to me.
Really? Oh, well done, Scor. You were supposed to tell me, not make me read it myself. I felt irrationally irritated by my boyfriend's actions, but couldn't even urge my face into a scowl or half-hearted glare as I accepted the letter. My eyes dropped to the parchment, scanning the computer-printed text in precise lines of black on white.
When I reached the end of the letter, I slumped back in my seat. The letter slipped from my fingers onto the table as I dropped my head into my hands. A heavy sigh escaped through my lips, nearly overridden by the flurry of "well?" and "what is it?" and "did you get in?"
I couldn't reply to any of them. Only three words seemed capable of falling from my lips.
"Oh, thank God."