Post-match, from Scorpius and Dorian's perspective…
Dorian spotted his father sitting in the stands, his head in his hands and his back slouched. He sighed and climbed the steps, stomping his feet slightly to announce his arrival.
Theodore Nott looked up at his son and stood to meet him. Neither of them made any move to embrace, simply exchanging a brief nod and a hesitant, quick smile from Dorian.
"It's been a while," Theodore said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "You've grown."
"What do you know?" thought Dorian, but he nodded, turning his head slightly, hoping Draco would come over to join them. But Draco was busy talking with Daphne Greengrass and Scorpius. He wasn't looking their way.
His father continued:
"You didn't answer my letters."
"I did, at first."
His father let go of him and stepped back slightly.
"Did you think about my offer? I'd like—"
"Did you see the match?" Dorian interrupted.
He didn't want to talk about the letters right now. It felt like meeting a stranger who was asking him to live in his house. It made his stomach churn. He barely knew the man and refused to answer his questions for the moment.
Theodore sensed the distance; he couldn't have missed it. But from the sharp breath he took, Dorian knew the change in topic wasn't to his father's liking.
"I saw you playing for Gryffindor. You could've told me yourself that you were sorted into that house. Do you know how I found out?"
"Draco told you," Dorian said flatly, without guilt.
Theodore lifted his chin, his eyes darkening, and his lips pressed together in silent anger.
"And you think that's normal?"
His tone was calmer than his outraged expression suggested. Dorian shrugged.
"He's the one who kept you informed during the six years we spent at that Muggle house. I didn't think things would change now that I'm at Hogwarts."
Nott absorbed his son's words in silence, without a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. None of this affected him, Dorian was sure of it. Only appearances mattered.
His father sat down and gestured for his son to do the same, pointing to a seat next to him. Dorian chose a seat further away, and Theodore pretended not to notice.
"The choice of a house is very important for wizards," he began softly, looking his son in the eyes. "You must know that."
"Oh, please! No one cares about that anymore. My house doesn't determine my future. It's just a school. No one gives a damn about what happened there once you leave."
"My entire family was sorted into Slytherin!" Theodore hissed. He gripped the hat on his lap, twisting it like a rag. His face lost its composure, and his eyes grew wild. *That madness again* Dorian thought. "For us, that tradition is of the utmost importance!"
"For us? You mean for pure-blood bigots? Because I don't recognize myself in that at all."
"You're going to make your grandfather sick with all this," Nott muttered.
Dorian felt anger creeping through his body. He vividly remembered the dark cell, where even his childhood drawings pinned to the wall couldn't brighten the gloom. He remembered the fragile figure that wandered inside it, growing weaker each day.
"He's already sick. He's dying! And if I can give him the final blow, I'd be happy to. Even he would prefer to die than rot for another year in his cell, and he couldn't care less about which house I'm in at Hogwarts."
"That's what you think! But you're bringing disgrace upon our family…"
"Old fool. I'm the one bringing shame to this family? Have you looked at yourself? Your shirt is wrinkled, your coat has no shape, and your trousers are worn out. You should go to a tailor—or even a barber. But admit it, father, the money's gone! Your manor is practically empty, and without house-elves, it's crumbling under the weight of dust. Our possessions were sold off to pay 'war debts,' and that's what angers you today. Back then, you didn't care about the war, and you were one of those Slytherins who fled Hogwarts before the battle. You never had to breathe in your own filth."
"Watch your mouth, boy!"
"Draco realized how rotten his dream was the day Voldemort stood in front of him. You never had to question your beliefs. You made a bed out of them and wallowed in it."
"They took my son from me!"
Dorian didn't know who his father was referring to: the Malfoys, the victors of the war they had fled, the Muggles? Did his father even know himself?
"No. You abandoned me."
Theodore lowered his head, taking a deep breath. He ran a hand over his face, lingering on his tired eyelids. He looked more and more like a walking corpse, a being on borrowed time. His emaciation, gray and dull complexion, pronounced cheekbones, and the nearly transparent skin covering the bones of his fingers—a frightening portrait in the pale autumn light. Dorian was now taller than him, only slightly, but enough to gauge him without fear, and he couldn't stop himself. This man didn't even inspire pity.
"I just want us to be a family," Theodore finally said.
"I already have a family."
His father let out a dry, scornful laugh.
"You'll never be Scorpius's equal."
"I've never wanted to be," Dorian replied, holding his father's gaze confidently. "I'll never be Draco Malfoy's son, but he's been more of a father to me than you ever were. Some of the worry lines on his forehead are because of me. Yours are just the result of your selfishness and madness. You want the truth? You're afraid of ending up alone, and now you're looking for a son. Go adopt a dog. It'll give you more than I ever could."
When he saw his father's shoulders slump, Dorian regretted his words. He remembered Scorpius's advice to be kinder. After all, this man was his father.
He exhaled and hesitantly placed a hand on his father's shoulder, offering a brief moment of comfort.
He withdrew it, but Theodore grabbed his hand. Dorian wanted to pull away, but his father's grip tightened.
"Spend Christmas with me," his father implored. "Like a family. I can make an effort. I can be a father to you. You have to give me a chance."
Dorian wanted to say no, wanted to run away. He looked down at their clasped hands and nodded, without conviction. He just wanted his father to let go.
A little farther away, Nicolas Greengrass was tugging on Scorpius's hair, while Daphne made a horrified face at the state of the boy's haircut. She muttered something to Draco, who dismissed her request with a casual wave. She was probably offering to cut his hair herself. Dorian wished he could be with them at that moment.
"By Merlin, what a horror! You almost look like a boy!"
Blaise Zabini eyed Scorpius from head to toe, his arms spread in a dramatic pose of indignation at Malfoy's appearance.
He turned sharply toward Draco.
"And you're letting him ruin himself like this?"
Zabini was wearing a black velvet coat lined with emerald green silk. That coat alone cost as much as an apartment in Knightsbridge.
A master tailor, he had taken over a ready-to-wear gallery that his mother had created and managed more as a hobby, primarily to torment the employees and play the role of a true dictator than out of real interest.
Soon enough, Blaise had transformed the boutique into a full-fledged fashion empire and a thriving couture industry. Black Widow—a nickname linked to his mother, who had had seven husbands, all of whom died under mysterious circumstances, leaving her with ever-increasing wealth—had become a luxury brand known for quality in Great Britain.
And to Draco's great annoyance, Scorpius had been one of its models since he was five years old.
"You're the only one who wanted him to stay ambiguous," Draco replied. "It was fun for a while. I don't think Scorpius is interested anymore."
"Why would you say that?!"
"All the photoshoots were your idea. Scorpius agreed, but now it's enough. I want him to have a normal adolescence."
"A normal adolescence?" Blaise raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Remind me of your name again?"
He ignored Draco's eye roll and continued:
"I know it was all my idea, but those Muggles were doing photoshoots in a cottage practically next door to you! Muggle fashion is becoming increasingly popular with our crowd. It was the best way to launch Scorpius's career from a young age, and then I would have taken it from there!"
"That could have waited a few years."
"The required age for modeling in the wizarding world is 17. I don't care for Muggles, but they at least have the decency to understand that a boy's golden age is from 12 to 16, and that's it. After that, they're too much like men! Girls become like women too early, but boys don't look like men. They're a category of their own! A gold mine! And you're ruining it!"
"I'm not ruining anything—puberty is taking care of that."
Blaise sighed, shaking his head, looking genuinely regretful.
"At least he's keeping a perfect figure."
"Don't encourage him with that. He looks like a walking skeleton."
"I can hear you!" Scorpius finally interjected, letting the adults know he was standing right in front of them and that a little tact would be appreciated. "Thanks for the compliments on my weight, Dad. And Blaise, I'm sorry, it was fun, but I'm not interested anymore."
"But everyone wants to be famous!" Blaise protested, even more offended as Draco smiled, agreeing with his son's words.
Scorpius shrugged.
"Think about it, boy, you have great potential. I know life at Hogwarts is comforting, and it's hard to imagine leaving one day. But when those gates close behind you, you'll be lost in the crowd and end up with a lousy job in some shop on Diagon Alley or at the Ministry of Magic."
"Blaise," Draco growled.
"And one day, you'll realize your life has no meaning and that you could have been the most sought-after celebrity on this blasted island."
"Blaise," Draco repeated, raising his voice. Zabini sighed, shaking his head.
"And may I ask, what career is so important that you're giving up the idea of being a model for my brand?"
Scorpius bit his lip, nervous, and shrugged again.
Blaise let out a shocked exclamation.
"You're turning down my offer, and you don't even know what you want to do after Hogwarts!"
"Blaise, please! Leave him alone!"
His mother had spoken. Scorpius was surprised she had intervened. He was even more surprised that she had been listening to a conversation about him. Her very presence at the match was exceptional.
"What can I say…?" Blaise finally said, visibly intimidated by the tall, slender woman standing behind her son. "My door is always open!"
"Come with me," his mother said, leading him down the stairs from the stands. "We're going to do something about that hair."
Scorpius hesitated, but eventually followed Astoria down the steps.
When they reached the locker room, Scorpius hesitated again. He was rarely alone with his mother. He couldn't even remember the last time that had happened.
Astoria's indifference and coldness had always worried him. He even wondered if his apprehension toward the opposite sex might have come from this woman. Gentleness and care had never been her example of femininity.
"Sit," she said, pointing to the center bench.
"Do you have scissors?"
"Small sewing scissors. And some thread, needles—everything for quick repairs."
"These scissors are tiny," he said, looking at the small pair (of course, made of gold) that his mother pulled from her handbag.
"Since we just need to even it out, they'll be perfect." Astoria stood behind him, running her long, slender fingers through his hair. "This is a total mess."
"I didn't intend to give myself a proper haircut," Scorpius replied dryly.
"No, because you did it out of anger."
Scorpius tensed up, and Astoria continued,
"Or out of sadness or frustration. Anything but consciously. I'll try to keep some length, though. Shoulder-length sound good?"
She didn't wait for an answer and started cutting. The locks of hair fell onto his shoulders. Some landed on his thighs, and Scorpius gathered them, rolling them into a small ball and tossing them as far as possible. He repeated the process with the other cut strands.
"I'm not a bad mother."
He froze.
Only the sound of the scissors echoed in the room, and Scorpius said nothing.
Astoria continued in an unusually soft voice:
"I'm simply not 'motherly.' I don't have the instinct. And you were never a normal child. Too intelligent, undefined. You didn't play your role, and I didn't play mine. It's as simple as that. I feel more comfortable now that you're growing up. You demand less attention. And yet, since you left... I worry."
Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Yes, I worry."
She moved in front of him. She fussed with a lock of his hair, brushing it aside, and blew gently on his face to remove the last cut strands. Almost a motherly gesture.
"This will do."
Scorpius brushed the hair off his sweater and pants.
"Scorpius." He turned toward his mother, who was putting on her mauve velvet gloves. "What I meant to say is that I'm here. If you need me."
Scorpius nodded. He held the door open for his mother to exit and followed her. Before he could close the door, Astoria spun around, pointing a gloved finger at her son's chest.
"One last thing. Let yourself fall through the air like you did again, and you'll have two deaths on your hands: your father's, whose heart will give out, and your own, because I'll gut you. Is that clear?"
"Very clear," he said, his voice tight.
Scorpius wondered how his own mother managed to give him such chills. But there was something about her he couldn't help but feel proud of.
End of Chapter 20