It is an unseasonably warm September evening, and Al Potter is terrified.
He's learned to hide it very well. His older brother James inherited his name from their grandfather and grand-godfather, and decided long ago to voluntarily inherit their mischief as well. It's not that he's a bully, really. Or mean or cruel. He's just...an older brother. An older brother that takes every chance to poke fun at everything in the world that breathes. He's so self-assured that he didn't even send a letter home on his first day to tell them which House he'd be sorted into. It was already inevitable.
Lily Luna is softer. She holds Al's hand when they go foraging for mushrooms, and her little grip is tight and unwavering. But she's the same brand of stubborn as the rest of them, stubborn and reckless and loyal, and Al knows in a few years when she attends Hogwarts there will be a Lily Potter in Gryffindor for the second time.
But Al is different. And he knows it. That's what makes him so afraid. Even if he's already quieter and more withdrawn and cautious than his family, they love him, but if there's a green and silver scarf around his neck in a few hours, he's not sure they will anymore.
It goes like this. Long long ago, in a war that his parents grew up in and then ended, the green and silver stood for "bad." No matter what. That's the Big Bad House, the one that spawned all the enemies, including Enemy Number One, Voldemort. They were just terrible people overall. Sure, there were a few exceptions, but there always are- hiding in the shadows. And his parents have fought too many Slytherins, been torn apart by their actions, too many times to care.
But Al's the one who sneaks into the study to read the forbidden books on the topmost shelves. He's the one who has a fascination with lineages and inheritances, who goes on long lonely walks to flop down in green fields and watch the snakes slither through the grass. He's the one that's least like a Potter. So, yes. He's afraid. And when he finally verbalizes it to his father, in the middle of a crowded platform with steam curling through the air and noise everywhere, it's not an admission of Sorting fear. It's an admission of guilt. What if I'm evil, Dad? What if I'm not like you? Would you still love me? And Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World and global hero, gets down on his knees and says, 'One of the bravest men I ever knew was a Slytherin.'
Al doesn't show it, but inside, he shrivels up a little.
He loves his dad. He loves his dad with everything he has, because his dad is the best father a person could possibly have. He's spent his life letting his family know that they're the most important thing in the world to him, and there has never been a safer place for Al than home. But he knows his father doesn't understand him sometimes. The way he longs to disappear and take on a new identity. Forget everything about being Albus Severus Potter and just be Al. So when his father tells him that he's still brave, yes, he's a little...disappointed. It just seems like Dad thinks brave is the best thing anyone can be, regardless of where they're from, but what if he's not?
What if he's not?
Rose has no such doubts, and Al can see it. Rose Weasley is his cousin, and after they've waved goodbye to their parents and promised to send a letter as soon as humanly possible and after James has already disappeared with his friends as the train speeds across the humid countryside, she drags him into an empty compartment and flops down without a care in the world.
Rose is something else. When they were kids and Aunt Hermoine wouldn't let them play cards, Rose drew a spreadsheet to show her why they should be allowed, and when they were denied, she set up a game in the attic anyway. Rose does what she wants and how she wants it. She won't be in Slytherin if she wills it, and also she'll have zero trouble making friends,which is another thing Al is immensely worried about. His only friends are his cousins, which isn't saying much since there are about two dozen total. But Hogwarts is the place you go and find the people you'd die for. There's no doubt about it, when you see how Dad and Aunt Hermoine and Uncle Ron act around each other. That's what he wants, more than Gryffindor. He wants his people. The ones you choose and hold on to with clenched fingers.
When the compartment door opens, Al takes a deep breath and looks up, trying to remember this moment. Maybe it's yet another kid starstruck by the Potter and Weasley names, here to cozy up to the popular kids....or maybe it's someone who'll walk into Al's life and make it all make sense.
Instead, damn the whole universe, Scorpius Malfoy is staring at them.
The Malfoys are notorious in the Potter household, in the main because his parents used to loathe them in days past. There's been some mellowing in the wall of ice since Draco Malfoy donated an eye-watering sum of money to the rebuilding of war damage. But like, doesn't excuse the cautionary stories Al's heard. And he's rumoured to still be kind of a pill.
Rose's eyes travels from Scorpius's trademark white-blond hair, to his faded leather jacket, to the Quibbler rolled up in the pocket of his jeans, right down to his immaculate black Converse shoes. Al wonders exactly what is going to come out of her well-known sharp mouth. But all that happens is Scorpius says in a mild voice, "Is there space here, please?" And she replies coolly, "Sure." Al starts to think it's because she's already sizing him up, the way an anaconda sizes up prey before ingesting them whole. Rose has clearly taken Uncle Ron's teasing seriously and has singled out Scorpius as her academic nemesis.
That's the entirety of the conversation with Malfoy. For the rest of the ride, Scorpius retracts into a corner and does his best to become one with the seat, and Al and Rose split Chocolate Frogs, and discuss if the rumour about the new Transfiguration professor being Viktor Krum is true, and then lapse into reading by themselves. Al wants to say something, but he's not sure what, and he's not fully trusty with his words. So when the train starts slowing and his heart begins thudding like it's murdered under Poe's floorboards, he simply changes into robes and lets his owl nibble at his finger through the cage. He hasn't named her yet. It feels like something that should be deliberated over, naming someone.
They're across the lake and waiting in front of the oak front door in what feels like seconds. He sticks close to Rose and keeps his head down, ignoring the stares, feeling sure his anxiety must be visibly sparking on his skin. Please, he prays, whatever happens, not Slytherin.
They're taken by a silver haired professor into the Great Hall, which Al knows from visiting James. He spots his brother at the Gryffindor table laughing with the people next to him, and there's Uncle Neville and Hagrid smiling warmly at him from the teacher's table. His heart eases a little. Maybe it won't be so bad. Hufflepuff would be fine, too. Loads of nice people are there. The Hat finishes its terrible song about the Houses which Al tuned out, and the Sorting begins. First years drift off to the raucous roar of their Houses after being sorted. When it's Scorpius Malfoy's turn, the Hat sits silently for almost five minutes, while the whispers rise. It shouts SLYTHERIN, and the green-and-silver table claps. Al thinks all of them look stiff. He's pretty sure he's the only one that notices Scorpius's momentary white face, though.
Then his own name is called, and he staggers to the stool. The Hat drops down on his head, and he closes his eyes.
Oh, my, says the hat. Now, here's another quick mind. Hmm, very resourceful, and quite a determined soul, aren't you?
Please, Al thinks. Anything but Slytherin.
There's a momentary silence. The hat seems to be thinking of the appropriate thing to say, and it finally whispers, 'Do you really mean that?'
Does he?
Al doesn't know what he means, is the thing.
"Well," the Hat says jovially, interpreting his silence, "Nothing wrong with a little ambition, eh? And I know the perfect place to hone that deep desire to do something and be someone." And before Al can gather his wits, the Hat has shouted "Slytherin!", and Al is frozen in the middle of everyone staring at him.
There's one thing about being a Potter, and it's that you'll get stared at all the time. He's used to it, but these are a different, less worshipful kind of stares. He sees, out of the corners of his eye, James with a downturned mouth, and Rose's rounded eyes, and he feels something twist inside like glass breaking.
There's a slow clap, and he whips his head around to see Uncle Neville wink at him. Slytherin students follow along, and Al trips his way towards them, sinking down as low on the bench as he can go, mortified. Scorpius Malfoy looks at him, eyebrows raised. The next name is called for Sorting, and the room's attention shifts again.
This is the worst day of his life.
He remembers his father saying, "The Hat will take your choice into account, if that's what you really want." Clearly, he didn't want it enough. He ignores the people at his table. Might as well start being rude and snobbish if that's what he's supposed to be. Everything is white noise that Al tunes out, as he focuses on his dinner.
On the inside, he's picturing Mum and Dad's face.
When dinner is over, and he's successfully ignored the godawful school song, they're led by the prefects to the common room. There's a view of the lake from a giant glass window, and Al sees a mermaid float past, baring its teeth when it sees him staring. The upperclassmen seem unbothered. One even bares her teeth right back.
On the whole, these people are much more subdued than Al thought. The Slytherins in his parents' stories are bullies, swaggering and powerful and cruel. These Slytherins walk around with spines ramrod straight and mouths curled in arrogance (or is it pride? Or is it simply a defensive posture?), but nobody's tried to bully him.
Yet.
Their trunks are waiting on their beds, and Al gratefully changes into pyjamas before pretending to be asleep when the rest of his classmates tentatively make their introductions to each other. Scorpius ends up in the bed next to Al and mercifully does not try to initiate conversation at all.
So Al falls actually asleep like that.
In the early predawn light, he's awakened by some mysterious reason, and after fifteen minutes of closing his eyes, he's accepted that going back to sleep isn't an option. Pulling on a dressing gown, he wanders down to the common room, where he curls up in an armchair next to the fire and stares dully at the portrait of Severus Snape haughtily ignoring him.
There's a reason Al didn't want to be a Slytherin. Despite what the world has told him, he doesn't think highly of his namesakes. Albus Dumbledore was a manipulator, and Snape was just straight up evil. This is an opinion Al keeps to himself, because it would kill his father if he knew. But Al hates, hates, hates his name. He hates the expectations it places on him. He hates that he was named for supposedly brave people that only seem like cowards to him.
"What are you doing up so early?"
A flash of blonde hair in the shadows. Of course, because he hasn't suffered enough. Al closes his eyes and listens to Malfoy's steps draw closer.
"Couldn't sleep," he says in as dismissive a tone as he can.
There's a beat of silence. "Me either," Malfoy says tiredly, and sinks into the chair opposite Al's. They regard each other warily. The room is turning green with the combination of mysterious sunlight and the lake's underwater plants.
Scorpius says with sudden vehemence, "Do you sometimes just- hate your dad?"
Al stares. "Are you insane?" He thinks that if Malfoy Junior is going to burst out with the same rehashed bigotry as his father, he's going to visit Madam Pomfrey sooner than expected for a bruised fist.
Scorpius shakes his head. "I mean- for being Him, you know. The Hero. Part of the most important story. They did these-these things, so many things, and I'm supposed to just exist with that-" he clamps his mouth shut.
Al considers the words. "Sometimes," he says slowly. "I don't hate him, exactly. Just wish-"
"That he was ordinary," Scorpius finishes eagerly. The boy's practically bursting at the seams. "I get it." Then he deflates. "You must be thrilled to be here. Atleast you have the chance to be different now."
"I've been different my whole life," Al says. His despondency has returned. "Imagine all these expectations on you, and imagine you're not who they thought you would be."
"Imagine if you were exactly who everyone thought you would be, even though you do everything humanly possible not to be that," Scorpius returns. They sit in silence, and Al feels a botched understanding about the other boy. Here they are, legacies. Still stuck in others' shadows, others' names. Still running. Here they are, alone.
***
By the time breakfast comes and goes, Al's stomach has done some unpleasant swooping and diving, wondering about the letter his parents will send in the mail. Last year, he watched them fill a parchment's worth and a Gryffindor-themed package for James.
Nothing arrives. His mood worsens.
Al trails moodily behind Scorpius, who has turned out to be a terrible chatterbox. The boy shuts like an iron chest when anyone comes into earshot, but alone with Al, he talks nonstop. Al supposes it must be lonely being an only child in a whole big mansion. By the first lesson Al has learnt of Scorpius's favourite colour (blue), his favourite Quidditch Team (Holyhead Harpies), the subject he is most looking forward to (Charms), and so on. Al draws into himself with every judgemental stare they get, and nearly loses it after encountering James in the corridor where his own brother turns away without speaking to him.
He thought Hogwarts would be his place, but clearly he's some miserable background character in someone else's grand adventure. Atleast Rose seems the same- she waves at Al from across the courtyard when she's heading outside to Herbology and he's on his way to Potions.
The end of the day can't come fast enough. Al zooms back to the safety of the dormitory, glaring at Snape's portrait as he goes, and flops into bed with a textbook. Scorpius follows with a piece of parchment and a quill, and he proceeds to pen a letter to his mother while telling Al all about his childhood broomstick.
Al hasn't sorted out what he feels about anything yet, but he knows he's endlessly grateful for Scorpius.
The next day, he's up bright and early again. Today, the crushing weight of self-loathing has lessened, and he wants to escape. So he puts on robes and sneakers and goes for a long walk around the grounds. He sees the Quidditch field, cold and green and fresh, and he remembers with homesickness the overly competitive flying matches his parents get into. He sits at the edge of the lake for a few minutes watching the sunlight reflect off the water. This is where his dad and mom and their friends created history, but also where they found belonging.
Lost in thoughts, he doesn't notice the three people sneak up on him until their shadows fall in front of him. He twists around. Two Gryffindors, one Hufflepuff. He thinks one of them is named Smith.
"Hi," he says, and when they don't reply, he stands up slowly. Maybe it's because he's being rude. Al can rattle off frog species in his sleep, but he's not very good at remembering people.
"Um, I'm Al," he ventures again, nervously. They advance upon him, and Al's hackles go up. There's something sinister in their gazes.
"We know who you are, Potter," one of the Gryffindors says. "Or are you?"
"Am I what?" Al edges toward the lake. Any more steps backwards and he'll hit the sand.
"A Potter," the other Hufflepuff says. His beady eyes are roving over Al. "Not much of a credit to your surname, are you?"
"I'm really just new," Al says helplessly. Drat it all. It's abundantly clear these kids are crazy, but there's also no one around, and he doesn't know any spells.
"I bet your dad must be ashamed of a traitor like you," the third Gryffindor sneers, taking out his wand and pointing it at Al. "What a travesty, having a Slytherin kid. I bet he's going to pretend you don't exist, now. My grandma died in the War and your people killed her, you know? I bet your parents won't complain if we mess you up just a little bit-"
Al ducks before the spell hits. His hands scrabble at the ground, and he gathers a fistful of soil before throwing it at their faces. There's three identical yells as they bend over gasping, wands falling away. Al seizes his chance and runs.
Really, satisfaction shouldn't be the first thing he feels. But he's nothing if not Harry and Ginny Potter's son, and the first thing they taught him when going to Muggle primary school was to use your environment to your advantage in a fight.
He runs until he's reached the Owlery and slumps against a wall, breathless. There's no one around this early, but Al feels safe. Wait until James hears-
Then he remembers that his brother is icing him out, and his exhilaration dissolves.
All the school owls are staring at him distrustfully, but there's a low delighted hoot, and a small barn owl zooms down from her perch to land on Al's shoulder. She hoots again and rubs against his hair.
"All right, all right," Al says, laughing, and he produces a few treats from his pockets along with a parchment. Maybe his parents don't want to talk to him, but Al feels secure that Lily will be dying to know all about his first day. They walk to the Great Hall like that, Al and his owl, and Scorpius is waiting at the breakfast table where there's already a heaping plate and an opened letter in front of him.
"Mail came early," he mumbles through a full mouth. "Nearly thought you ran away."
"Nearly did," Al says, helping himself to a piece of toast off of Scorpius' plate. "You got a quill? I want to write to my sister."
A shadow falls overhead, and he looks up in time to see the Potter family owl soar into range. She's accompanied by an unfamiliar mail owl, and they're tugging along a hefty box that they drop in front of Al. Al's owl hoots happily.
"Thanks, Minnie!" Al exclaims, surprised. The owl allows him to stroke her head affectionately and shreds a slice of bacon before she takes off again. Al watches her go before opening the careful wrapping. There's a long, long letter and another package inside the box. He slits open the letter, seeing his father's scrawl, and the rock in his chest lightens. He wasn't aware, until now, of how much he feared his family writing him off. He wasn't aware of how much he cared.
Dear Al,
I'm sorry you didn't get something on the first day. We should have sent sweets immediately, but it took a day to find the perfect gift to go along with them.
I want to confess something to you. On the platform, I lied. There were so many people around, anyone could have easily listened in, so I went with what we tell everyone, and said that I wouldn't mind you being in Slytherin because Snape was in that house, and he saved Hogwarts.
The truth is, I don't take kindly to the man's actions. Being a father now, remembering how he used to act with kids your age, makes my blood boil. And perhaps he saved countless lives by working for the Order, for risking his neck for years just to keep me safe, but he was also a terrible person who would have happily stood back and let Voldemort win if it hadn't been my mother he was targeting. I don't think he cared for goodness. The only thing in the world he cared about is my mother, and keeping me alive by extension. He died for it, even, and I have struggled my whole life to understand that. Dumbledore was the one who thought of the greater good, but that wisdom came after a history of arrogance and power and death and grief that I will tell you someday. He was the best teacher I've ever had, but his hands are not bloodless. I won't fault either of them for it, because people are always capable of change, but I don't idolize them either.
I could have named you something else. There are some many of them. Fine, wonderful, beautiful names with excellent meanings. But the minute you were born, my sweet-faced baby that didn't cry but looked at the world with a serious gaze, that I knew you were special.
I've guessed that you feel different all the time, Al. It's in the way you talk about yourself. Maybe there's a reason.
You know Dumbledore taught me not to put too much stock in names. Being afraid of Voldemort's mere name gave him power over the psyche of a lot of people. He chose his name, and he chose to terrorize the world with it, but names are just names. It's what you do with them that matters.
We named you Albus Severus so you could do something with those words. Not to create impossible standards for you to live up to.
Al, you've always been destined to be someone extraordinary. I want you to know we're sorry if we ever made you feel like Slytherin is a bad thing to be. You'll have a hell of a time there, not because you're the first Slytherin from a line of hard-core Gryffindors, but because the Hat once told me, a scared 11 year old kid, that Slytherin would help me along the path to greatness. It wasn't my path, but it's yours, like it was Sirius's. That's what's your destiny.
When I said Slytherin would be lucky to have you, I meant it with every fiber of my being.
We've never wanted you to be like Albus Dumbledore or Severus Snape. In fact I'd like you to steer as clear from becoming either of them as possible. But I meant what I said. Snape was the bravest Slytherin. Dumbledore was the wisest Gryffindor. Pettigrew was a cowardly idiot, and he was in Gryffindor. And you, our baby, were the most serious child we've ever known. We didn't name you Albus Severus just because we wanted you to be a living reminder of the people we've lost, but because those names nearly died with the men they belonged to. We named you that so you could be Al Potter and let those words belong to you now. So you could make those names something great, not inherit their histories.
It doesn't matter what anybody else thinks. People always talk. All my life I've been struggling with the legacy of the name Potter, because my parents were the best people I've ever known. People kept telling me, 'you have your father's face and your mothers' eyes.' I was never just Harry except to a few people. I was a Potter. I was Lily and James' son. I was The Chosen One. People expected things from me that I couldn't give, because they were expecting James or Lily, and I was just Harry.
I like to think, if they were alive today, they'd be saying the same thing to me that I'm saying to you.
Names come and go. The question is, what will you do with the mouthful of a name that is Albus Severus Potter? What mark will YOU leave on it?
You know it doesn't matter to us if you're Gryffindor or Slytherin, right? Because your House is also sort of a name. Because, in the end, it's you. Whatever House you're in, you're just our Al, and I'm so excited to see what you become.
And just to reiterate- no duels, no sneaking around at night, and absolutely do not fall prey to Professor Slughorn's charms. Your mum says to tell you not to start a fight, but if someone ambushes you, be the one to end it. Please send a letter to Lily post haste as she will mount a broomstick and fly to Hogwarts to yell at you if you don't. Don't forget about Friday tea at Hagrid's. And we miss you. You won't forget about your silly old boring parents while you're there having adventures, will you?
Have fun, Al. We're always there for you.
All my love,
Dad
Al folds the letter and smiles quietly. For the first time, he feels like someone understands what it's like to be him. Or maybe, finally, he understands what it's like to be his father. Over at Gryffindor table, he looks at James as he folds up his own letter, stares at it for a long moment, and then looks up and tentatively smiles at Al.
Al smiles back. He's missed his brother.
The package is sitting there and breakfast is still ongoing, so Al rips through the paper wrapper. Inside lies a gigantic bag of Al's favourite candy- Every Flavour Beans- and something folded and dark-
Al draws it out. The scarf makes him gasp, the softness of it. Green as dew-wet grass, silver thread woven in to shimmer in the light. It's the edge, though, that takes his breath away. The border in a darker green, Albus Severus Potter in proud silver lettering.
It must have taken his mom all night for such intricate work.
She's not as given to talking about stuff as Dad, but this is her silent way of reaching out across the distance and giving him a wordless hug, smelling of broom polish and fudge like she always does. This package, this letter- they're the most important thing Al's ever received.
He smiles and holds out his palm with more bacon fragments. His owl lands on the wrist, her large yellow eyes affectionate as she nips at him gently before picking at the pieces. She's so tiny and enthusiastic and delighted about life.
"I know just what to name you," he tells her.