Chapter Six - Reunions Part II
Chapter Six - Reunions Part II
Lily didn’t seem to notice the tension that had lingered over the family ever since Albus’s Sorting. She was her usual, exuberant self, holding their mother’s hand in one of hers and Albus’s in the other. With a joyful skip, she swung their arms and grinned brightly as she took in the festive sights of Diagon Alley. Even Albus couldn’t help but appreciate the winter beauty of the place. Snow was falling steadily, draping the streets and shop fronts in a pristine, inviting blanket. They had just come in from the Muggle street after picking up some light Christmas presents for Muggle friends.
Albus glanced at his mother before asking, “Do you mind if I head off on my own for a bit? I need to pick up a few gifts.”
His mother’s face showed a moment of concern, but after a brief pause, she nodded. Albus was, after all, eleven now and a Hogwarts student. As he wove through the bustling crowd, the streets were alive with holiday cheer, though some were frazzled, darting about in a last-minute gift frenzy. Albus couldn’t help but smirk at the harried expressions of a few stressed shoppers, their flustered urgency providing him with a touch of amusement.
He wandered past various storefronts, trying to think of what gifts he should buy. It wasn’t long before something unusual caught his eye—a shop that was in the middle of setting up for its grand opening. The window bore an older, elegant sign that read A’s Athenæum , hinting at an establishment that would soon sell rare and vintage tomes. Albus paused, staring at the name. The shop wasn’t open yet, but there was a certain allure to it, the kind that whispered of hidden knowledge and treasures waiting to be discovered.
Albus made his first stop at Amanuensis Quills, where an array of new selections caught his eye. Among the neatly arranged quills were some unique additions, like a mood-enhancing quill that shifted colors based on the writer’s emotions. There were also the usual favorites: Self-inking, Spell-checking, Smart-Answer Quills, and the whimsical Love-Letter Quills. Albus's gaze skimmed over the vibrant displays until it landed on one in particular—a premium Self-inking Quill, limited edition, feateher styled and dyed in Slytherin green and silver, complete with the house emblem engraved on it's quill stand, and decorative wooden box.
He knew Scorpius already owned several quills but had a habit of dropping or losing them. A new quill, paired with some Pepper Imps, would make a fitting gift. Deciding on the Slytherin-themed quill, Albus moved to the counter to pay, but something behind the glass display caught his attention.
The shopkeeper noticed his interest and leaned in slightly, smirking. "Those are a special set. Quills enchanted so that only the owner can read what’s written, even a Revelio Charm wont show the writing. It’s completely invisible to anyone else."
Albus’s interest sharpened. The idea of secret writing was undeniably appealing. “And how can I be sure that's true?” he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
The shopkeeper’s smirk widened. “We only sell certified enchanted Quills here, lad. I'd show you, but the charm only activates after the quill is bonded to its owner. Once it's yours, no one can see the writing. Self-inking, of course, which accounts for the price. And if the enchantment fails, we offer a full refund.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, weighing the cost. Amanuensis Quills had a solid reputation, and the promise of a quill with such a unique enchantment was hard to resist. After a moment of consideration, he decided to indulge. It wasn’t his money, after all and his parents had more than enough.
He opted for both the Slytherin quill for Scorpius and the invisible-ink quill for himself, having each quill stand engraved with their initials: "A.S.P." for Albus and "S.H.M." for Scorpius.
As he completed the purchase, a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
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Albus was exhausted after returning home—they had been out in Diagon Alley for hours, but he had managed to pick up all the Christmas presents he needed. His mother helped him with a wrapping spell, leaving each gift perfectly packaged and ready. He quickly scribbled a note wishing Scorpius a happy Yule before wrapping the quill and Pepper Imps in a protective package charmed to guard against the snow. Setting Scorpius’s gift aside, Albus picked up some premium, elegant writing paper—a refined light gray that exuded sophistication.
As he settled down to write, Albus concentrated on his handwriting, carefully shaping each letter to appear neat and polished. The first letter was addressed to Fawley, the second to his mentor, Burke. In both letters, Albus thoughtfully crafted his words, striving for a tone that balanced warmth and formality. He wished them both a Happy Yule and expressed his gratitude for their guidance and support throughout the term. With every word, he was conscious of the impression he wanted to leave, hoping to show both respect and genuine appreciation for their help.
Once he was satisfied with the letters, he placed them in equally high-quality envelopes. The envelopes—a rich Slytherin green—felt smooth and luxurious to the touch. To add a final, thoughtful gesture, Albus included two small packages of holiday sweets—simple but considerate gifts he hoped would be appreciated. Satisfied, he sealed the envelopes.
With everything ready, Albus sent the letters and packages off with his owl, Merlin. As Merlin spread his wings and soared into the snowy sky, a wave of guilt washed over him. He hadn’t used Merlin much during the term and now felt the weight of his neglect. As he watched Merlin disappear into the distance, Albus silently hoped the owl would forgive him. A sigh escaped his lips, a mixture of relief from completing his tasks.
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The Drawing room was now adorned in warm Gryffindor red, with luxurious Persian rugs adding a touch of opulence. Traditional Bengal furniture, a legacy from Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, and was arranged throughout. The walls displayed a blend of old family portraits and recent photographs of the Potters and their extended family. The room bore little resemblance to how it had looked in his father’s youth, making it almost impossible to believe it was the same house. Yet, despite the changes, they still resided in the ancestral Black family home—a place deeply connected to his father, a cherished inheritance from his godfather.
Lily lay on one of the Persian rugs, engrossed in a magical picture book about fantastical creatures, her eyes wide with wonder. James was playing Wizarding Shack with their mother, while Albus sprawled on one of the traditional couches, attempting to focus on his Charms textbook, The Standard Book of Spells . He was determined to finish his holiday assignment early, hoping it would be a welcome distraction from the growing dread gnawing at him as the clock ticked ever closer to his father's arrival.
The words on the page blurred as his nerves frayed, and Albus could no longer concentrate. An overwhelming urge to retreat to his bedroom tugged at him, but he knew hiding would only delay the inevitable. It was better to face his father now, while his mother and siblings were around—surely, his father wouldn’t make a scene or disown him in front of them.
Despite being home for a few days now, no one—neither James, his mother, nor Lily—had mentioned his first term at Hogwarts. He suspected his mother had told them not to bring it up. Would his father follow suit? He doubted it. And his extended family, especially the Weasleys, would be even less tactful. The looming thought of spending Christmas Eve at the Burrow, facing Rose and the rest of the family, sent a fresh wave of dread through him.
He could already picture their reactions—the disappointment, the subtle judgment. And Rose… he didn’t even want to think about what she might say. The holiday was shaping up to be far more stressful than he’d anticipated, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up appearances.
Rose hadn’t spoken to him since the flying lesson. Whenever their paths crossed in class, she acted as though he had wronged her . Her new allies, Yann and Polly, seemed to have appointed themselves her personal guards—not just keeping her away from Albus but from Scorpius as well. At first, Albus had found the situation amusing. The idea that Rose needed to be protected from him? It was laughable. But as time went on, Yann and Polly’s behavior took a sharper turn.
They weren’t just cold or distant; they openly teased him whenever they got the chance, pulling small pranks that made him bristle. Sometimes it was harmless—like slipping enchanted parchment into his bag that shouted embarrassing phrases—but other times, it felt more pointed, like when they mocked his difficulty with certain spells. It was never vicious enough to attract a teacher's attention, but it was enough to make his blood boil.
What stung most was Rose’s silence. She wasn’t directly involved, but her quiet approval of their antics was clear. She allowed them to target him and Scorpius while she looked the other way. The whispers of a new “Golden Trio” only made it worse. To hear people compare Rose, Yann, and Polly to his parents' old group felt like a deep, personal slight—a reminder that he was nothing like them, no matter how much people expected him to be.
Albus lay on the couch with his book draped over his face, desperately trying to shield himself from the storm of emotions roiling within him. His irritation and anger—directed at Rose and her alliance with Yann and Polly—only fueled his growing resentment. The mounting anxiety over his father's impending arrival stoked the fire even further. It felt like a fiendfyre raging inside him, threatening to engulf everything, leaving him unable to focus on anything except his seething fury.
When his father finally stepped through the fireplace, looking haggard and worn, Albus was gripped by a twisted mix of dread and hope. Harry had been working relentlessly on a case of disappearing wizards, and part of Albus hoped his father’s exhaustion would make him too weary or indifferent to confront him. Yet another part of him yearned for an explosive confrontation, something to break the fragile silence that had grown between them. His mind churned with these conflicting desires; a darker part of him craved the raw intensity of a fight, something to shatter the uncomfortable calm.
His throat tightened as he swallowed nervously, and he slowly removed the book from his face, shifting into a sitting position on the couch. Lily dashed to greet their father with an enthusiastic hug, her smile radiant as she welcomed him home. Harry placed a hand on her head and returned her smile warmly, but Albus held his breath, bracing himself for what might follow. When Harry’s gaze skimmed over him with barely a flicker of recognition before returning to Lily, something inside Albus snapped. The indifference felt like a deliberate, cutting insult, and the storm within him surged with renewed fury. He had expected to feel anxious or guilty, but instead, he was overwhelmed by a fierce, unrelenting anger.
He wanted—no, needed—to see his father’s disappointment, his frustration, something that confirmed Harry Potter thought less of him. The thought of his father losing his temper, of seeing the cracks in his perfect façade laid bare, was disturbingly satisfying. Albus yearned for everyone to witness the imperfections hidden behind the public image of Harry Potter, to see him snap and reveal the dysfunction lurking beneath the surface
Every muscle in Albus’s body tensed with the urge for confrontation. He craved a fight, driven by a desperate need to expose his father’s flaws and validate his deepest fears. The bitterness and resentment clawed at him, pushing him toward a confrontation he both dreaded and desperately longed for.
Albus loathed how his father had consistently chosen to ignore the hippogriff in the room—that he was different, that he was struggling. Harry acted as though everything was fine, dismissing the issues as if they were mere inconveniences, as if pretending they didn’t exist would somehow make them disappear. It felt like Albus’s pain, his struggles, and his frustrations were invisible to him. This constant avoidance only fueled Albus’s growing resentment.
As his anger boiled over, Albus felt a desperate need for his father to confront the truth. He wanted Harry to understand that his indifference wasn’t just passive ignorance; it was a denial of Albus’s very reality. The more Harry ignored it, the more Albus felt like a shadow in his own life, left to wrestle with his feelings and insecurities alone.
“Don’t you have anything to say to me?” Albus’s voice was jagged, a desperate laugh escaping as he trembled with a mix of rage and anguish. “I’m sure you’re disappointed. Who could have thought, right? That Harry Potter’s son would end up in Slytherin—”
“Harry Potter and his disappointing son,” Albus croaked with a cold, cruel tone.
“Harry Potter and his Slytherin son.” he spat, the venom in his voice palpable.
He let out a harsh, ragged laugh, the sound unsettling in the quiet room. “Is that why you didn’t even acknowledge me when you walked in? Are you going to pretend I don’t exist? That I’ve ruined your perfect image so much you act like—like you don’t even have a second son anymore?”
Albus’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he tried to mask his vulnerability with anger. He hated how exposed he felt, how his emotional walls had crumbled in front of his father. “Is that what it’s come to? You’re just going to act like I’m not here? Like I’m some sort of disappointment you can ignore?”
Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision as his emotions spiraled out of control. The room seemed to pulse with his volatile feelings, the once-cozy atmosphere now a sharp contrast to the turmoil raging inside him. His voice cracked as he struggled to maintain control, but the vulnerability seeped through. “Is that it? Am I really so much of a disgrace that you can’t even look at me? That I’m not worth a word, a glance?”
The shock in the room was palpable. Lily’s wide eyes filled with confusion and hurt as she clung to their father’s leg, sensing the tension, James had abandoned his game, his mouth hanging open as he stared at his brother, bewildered and concerned.
Harry stood frozen, his face a mask of disbelief and pain, his gaze shifting from Albus to the rest of the family. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the emotional storm unfolding before him. The silence was suffocating , thick and oppressive, pressing down on everyone in the room. Albus’s outburst had shattered the evening’s calm, leaving a fragile, uneasy quiet in its wake. The warmth of the room seemed to drain, replaced by the cold echoes of Albus’s raw, unspoken feelings.
Harry’s eyes darted to Ginny’s, who looked utterly horrified, frozen in place. They had agreed earlier that Albus needed space—no probing questions, just time until he was ready to talk. But now, Harry was struggling to reconcile the image of his reserved son with the raw emotional eruption in front of him. The sight of Albus’s pent-up anguish, magnified and intense, was shocking. It was like seeing the vulnerable boy he had known resurface, though now hardened by years of quiet resentment.
“NO—wait, Albus— ” Harry’s voice was strained, a desperate attempt to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened between them. “That—that’s not it. I didn’t mean to— ”
He fumbled for the right words, struggling to make sense of the torrent of emotions pouring out of his son. His mind raced as he reached for something that could break through the whirlwind of anger and pain. Gently, he placed a reassuring hand on Lily’s back, offering her a soothing pat as she looked up at him with wide, anxious eyes. Her concern mirrored the confusion and distress that gripped the entire family.
Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Albus’s gaze, his voice softening with regret. “Albus, I’m sorry,” he said, his throat tightening with the weight of his own emotions. “I didn’t realize how much you were going through. I’m not ignoring you—I’m here. Please, let me in. Let me help .” His words faltered as he tried to bridge the growing rift, reaching out with a desperate hope to mend the painful distance between them.
"Help?" Albus’ voice trembled, caught between rage and desperation. “Now that I’ve embarrassed you, now you are finally aware?” His laugh was jagged, echoing bitterly in the room's dead silence. It carried a note of cruelty, a twisted satisfaction that only fueled his anger further. “Didn’t you think I was spoiled ? That I had nothing to be angry or frustrated about? Just because I wasn’t raised like poor , little, sad orphan Harry Potter, with his horrid Muggle relatives who hit him if he didn’t do what he was supposed to?”
Albus felt his fury soaring, feeding on the distress in the room. “Little Harry-kins who didn’t even know his own name— ” The words tumbled out, sharper with every breath. He scanned his father’s face for any sign of hurt, watching for that crack in his façade. When he saw the pain etch itself deeper into Harry’s features, Albus’s cruel smile widened. The raw satisfaction of causing anguish washed over him, and he reveled in it.
“Little Frea—”
The word was cut off, the insult hanging in the air unfinished. Albus’s breath hitched as the spell hit him like a slap, wrenching the words from his throat. Silence clamped down around him, his voice snatched away before he could hurl any more insults. His eyes widened in shock, darting to find the source. His mother.
Ginny stood there, her wand raised, her face pale and stricken with horror and regret. Her hand trembled as if she couldn’t believe what she had just done.
Harry’s gaze flickered between them, his shock evident. “Ginny?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, disbelief wrapping around each syllable. Then he looked back at Albus, who stood frozen, stunned, and utterly betrayed.
Albus’s heart pounded wildly as he tried to speak, but he couldn't. His mother had casted a silencing charm on him. The realization hit him like a cold wave: the one person he thought he could turn to, had chosen to silence him rather than face the truth of his pain. The betrayal stung deeper than any wound his words could have inflicted. His anger and frustration gave way to an overwhelming, raw hurt.
The room was deathly quiet, save for the crackling fire and the heavy breathing of everyone present. Albus felt the weight of it all crashing down on him—the cruel pleasure of his outburst, now a bitter knot in his chest. He saw the sadness in his father’s eyes, the overwhelming regret in his mother’s face, and the accusing, confused looks from his siblings. His mother undid the spell and the reality of what he had unleashed, of how far he had pushed them, sunk in. His heart raced, panic creeping in to replace the anger. Surrounded by their shocked faces and the suffocating tension in the room, Albus’s mind became a storm of confusion and hurt, leaving him reeling.
In a blur of motion, Albus sprang from the couch. His legs carried him swiftly across the room, away from his mother’s wide-eyed regret and his father’s pleading gaze. He couldn’t stand to see their faces anymore, not with the weight of his own words suffocating the air between them.
Without a backward glance, he fled through the door and down the hallway. The cold of the corridor felt sharp against his skin, a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil that boiled inside him. He raced towards his bedroom, not caring about the echo of his footsteps or the muffled voices calling his name.
Reaching his room, he flung the door open with a force that made it slam against the wall. He stumbled inside, barely registering the mess of his belongings strewn across the floor. The once-familiar space now felt foreign, claustrophobic. Albus threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow as the tears he had tried so hard to suppress finally broke free.
His sobs came unrestrained, his body shaking with each breathless cry. Everything he’d been holding in—frustration, pain, rage—erupted all at once. The pillow muffled his voice, but not the ache that gripped his chest. The disappointment in his father’s eyes, the hurt in his mother’s—these images haunted him, deepening the well of pain he had plunged into.
As his sobs tore through him, his magic surged uncontrollably, crackling in the air like a storm. Objects in his room rattled, some flung from their places, creating an even bigger mess. But Albus was too engulfed by his emotions to notice. The chaos mirrored the storm inside him, as if his magic, too, had broken free of its restraints.
Slowly, as the intensity of his sobs lessened, the magic settled, leaving the room in disarray. But the calm that followed wasn’t soothing—it was chilling. The raw satisfaction Albus had felt while lashing out at his father now left him hollow and horrified. His tears kept falling, but with each one, a growing sense of shame began to take hold.
The harsh words he had hurled at his father, the cruel smile he’d worn—they were a reflection of a part of himself he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The satisfaction he had briefly tasted, in seeing his father hurt, now felt grotesque. It was one thing to be angry, but it was another to find a twisted pleasure in causing pain.
Burying his face deeper into the pillow, Albus tried to shut out the memories, but his mind kept replaying them. His father's wounded expression, his mother’s horrified silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out, but his thoughts clung to the scene like a curse. The person he saw in his mind, the version of himself that reveled in cruelty, felt like a stranger—and yet, it was him.
The satisfaction he’d felt now seemed like a dark stain on his soul, an ugly truth that left him questioning everything. What if this side of him—the anger, the cruelty—wasn’t just a momentary lapse? What if it was part of who he truly was, lurking beneath the surface? What if he was twisted and broken in a way that couldn’t be undone?
The fear that he had crossed an unforgivable line gnawed at him. What if he had irreparably damaged his relationship with his father, his family? The thought was almost unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on him until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. As his tears finally slowed, the emptiness that remained was far worse than any rage.
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In the aftermath of Albus’s explosive departure, Harry and Ginny swiftly moved to calm their remaining children. The room, once filled with festive cheer, now felt heavy with the aftermath of Albus’s outburst.
Ginny, her face pale and stricken, knelt beside Lily and James. Her voice, though trembling, was gentle and soothing. “It’s getting late, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lily’s face. “Why don’t you both head to bed? We’ll talk more in the morning.”
Lily clung to her father, her eyes wide and frightened by the emotional storm she had just witnessed. Harry, his face a mask of calm for the sake of his other children, gently but firmly encouraged them. “Go on now. Everything will be alright,” he said, though his eyes betrayed his own worry. With a reluctant nod, Lily took James’s hand, and they slowly made their way upstairs.
As the reality of the situation set in, Harry’s strong exterior began to falter. Once the children were in bed, he allowed himself to feel the weight of his worry and confusion. The image of Albus’s pained, angry face replayed in his mind, and Harry’s need to find a reason or blame for his son’s outburst became a heavy burden.
With Lily and James now settled, Harry and Ginny faced the daunting task of addressing the rift between them and their son. Harry’s need to rationalize and find a cause would need to be tempered with Ginny’s approach of empathetic support. As they prepared to confront the aftermath of Albus’s outburst, the flickering firelight threw long shadows across the walls, mirroring the turmoil that had erupted earlier.
Harry’s face was tight with tension as he paced the room, while Ginny sat on the edge of the couch, her posture rigid, eyes darting anxiously.
“I can’t believe he said those things,” Harry said abruptly, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. “I can’t believe our son, our Albus, would lash out like that. It’s like he’s been taken over by something—something dark .”
Ginny’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s like a nightmare,” she said quietly. “I’ve never seen him like that. It was as if he was someone else entirely—someone I didn’t recognize.”
Harry’s frustration was palpable. “There has to be an explanation. This isn’t just Albus acting out. Something has clearly changed. We need to understand what’s influencing him.”
Ginny’s eyes met Harry’s, filled with a mix of concern and reluctance. “What are you suggesting, Harry? That he’s been corrupted somehow?”
Harry’s eyes were intense, his mind racing. “Yes, exactly. We need to figure out what’s driving this change. It’s not just about his behavior; it’s about what’s causing it.”
Ginny hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “He’s been spending a lot of time with someone new—someone from his House. But, Harry, I don’t want to jump to conclusions…”
Harry’s expression hardened, his frustration mounting. “Someone from his house? Who? We need to know if there’s an influence here.”
Ginny’s voice was hesitant, her eyes darting away. “He’s made a close friend since starting at Hogwarts. I didn’t want to say it because I was afraid of how you’d react…”
Harry’s gaze was sharp, pressing her for more details. “Ginny, you need to tell me. Who is this friend?”
Ginny took a deep breath, her voice trembling. “Albus has become close with a boy named Scorpius Malfoy .”
Harry’s face went pale as his eyes widened. “Scorpius Malfoy? The Malfoys have always been trouble. Of course . If Albus is getting close to someone from that family, it could be influencing him in ways we can’t ignore.”
Ginny’s expression was conflicted, her voice filled with regret. “But blaming Scorpius alone won’t fix this. We need to understand what’s really happening with Albus, not just look for someone to blame.”
Harry’s frustration boiled over. “We need to confront this directly. If Scorpius Malfoy is involved, we need to address it. Our son’s safety and well-being come first.”
Ginny, her voice calming but firm, stepped forward. “Harry, we can’t just rush into things. It’s late, and going to the Malfoy Manor now would be reckless. We need to wait, gather our thoughts, and figure out the best way to approach this. We have to at least get through the holidays with the family intact.”
Harry’s expression softened slightly, though his frustration remained. “You’re right. We need to keep things together, especially for the sake of the holidays. But we can’t ignore this. We have to fix our relationship with Albus and address this issue before it gets worse.”
Ginny nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and weariness. “Yes, we need to focus on our family first. We’ll sort this out after the holidays. For now, let’s try to salvage what we can and be there for Albus.”
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Lily gently knocked on Albus's bedroom door the next morning. When she didn’t get a response, she quietly opened it. “Albus?” she said softly, her childlike voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Lils.”
She gently pushed the door open, revealing a room shrouded in darkness. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out any trace of daylight. The room was eerily quiet, the atmosphere thick with an uneasy silence.
Albus was curled up in his bed, the blankets a chaotic mess. Lily’s heart ached as she saw the state of his room—it seemed to mirror the heaviness she had sensed in him the night before. She tiptoed closer, trying to make as little noise as possible
"Albie?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She took another step into the room, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. "It’s me, are you awake?"
Albus shifted slightly but didn’t respond. Lily saw the tear stains on his pillow and noticed a crumpled piece of parchment on the floor. She picked it up, her curiosity piqued by the scribbled words that were hard to make out. The letter seemed to be a jumbled mix of thoughts, possibly an attempt to explain or apologize.
“Albie, I don’t know what made you say those things to Dad last night,” she began gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at the lump beneath the blankets. “But me and Jamie is here for you, if you don’t want to talk to Mom and Dad yet.”
She paused, giving him space but remaining close, her voice soothing as she continued, “Don’t be mad—Jamie told me about the teasing, and it must be hard.” Her eyes, filled with empathy, searched for any sign of acknowledgment from him. “But it doesn’t define you, does it?” she asked, not expecting an answer, letting her words hang in the air.
“ Mom and Dad —they’re not angry, just worried .” she added, her tone gentle but firm.
Slowly, Albus pulled the covers away from his face, revealing his tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes. He looked at Lily with a mix of exhaustion and regret. His gaze flitted around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, betraying the turbulence of his emotion
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I didn’t mean to… I don’t even know why I said all that."
Lily, sensing his struggle, nodded with understanding. “It’s okay, Albus. I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”
Albus shifted away slightly, pulling the blanket closer around himself. His body language was tense, and he seemed to shrink into the bed, trying to create distance even while remaining in the same space. His gaze dropped to the floor, his face flushing with a mix of shame and fear. It was clear he was struggling with his feelings, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully meet her eyes.
Lily’s heart sank as she watched her brother. She wanted to comfort him, but she sensed the internal battle he was fighting. Understanding his need for space, Lily quietly left Albus alone in his room- The silence settled back over the room, thick and suffocating, as Albus remained curled up under his blankets, lost in his own turmoil.
The stillness was abruptly broken by a soft pop. Kreacher, the Potters' house-elf, appeared in the room, his expression a mix of disapproval and begrudging compassion. He glanced around the dimly lit room with a hint of hesitation.
“Little Master Potter seems to have caused some issues,” Kreacher began, his tone carrying a grudging undertone. “House-elf heard things last night. Not good things.”
Albus stirred slightly but made no move to respond. Kreacher shuffled closer, casting a wary glance toward the door, as if fearing he might be caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Little Master has magic like Master Regulus,” Kreacher continued, his voice taking on a tone of reluctant understanding. “Unruly, a bit like Master Potter, but darker . Little Master does not seem to have control. His magic does not listen. Master Regulus was the same.”
Kreacher’s voice wavered, and he looked almost on the verge of tears. “Master Regulus’s magic did not listen to him. Mistress thought Master Regulus was a squib —a disgrace.”
The house-elf’s voice was tinged with sorrow, and he seemed to be fighting back his emotions.
“Master Regulus got into a lot of trouble because his magic did not obey him. Mistress could be cruel.”
Albus’s eyes widened slightly as he listened to Kreacher, the mention of Regulus Black striking a chord deep within him. The comparison to his own struggles with magic and control made him feel a strange mix of fear and solidarity. He had never expected Kreacher to show such vulnerability.
“Little Master must understand,” Kreacher said softly, his voice filled with an unusual gentleness, “that even when magic seems uncontrollable, it does not mean Little Master is a disgrace. Master Regulus faced many troubles, but he was not without value. Neither is Little Master.”
With a final, sympathetic look, Kreacher gave a small bow and prepared to leave, his presence fading with another soft pop. The room fell back into its heavy silence, but Kreacher’s words lingered in the air, offering an unexpected yet meaningful connection to the troubled young master.
Albus remained still, grappling with the house-elf's revelations. The unexpected comparison to Regulus Black left him with a mix of emotions—Amidst his own darkness, Kreacher’s insights offered a strange, bittersweet comfort.
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Albus felt as though he was walking towards a Dementor’s kiss for the second time since returning home for the holidays—The emotional exhaustion from the previous night’s outburst had left him hollow and drained. The impending confrontation with his family weighed heavily on him. He wished he could escape the ramifications of his actions, but he knew he had to face them.
He was troubled by how he had reacted to his father’s silence. Wasn’t that what he had wanted? He had assumed that his mother had advised Harry to keep his distance, but the lack of confirmation didn’t ease his self-reproach. He could have chosen to retreat to his room and avoided the confrontation altogether, but he had allowed his anger to spiral out of control. It felt as if he had let down not only his family but also his house. The outburst was a glaring deviation from the self-control expected of a Slytherin. It was humiliating.
It was the 23rd of December, and the family was preparing to travel to the Burrow that evening to join their extended family for the Christmas celebrations. The thought of facing his relatives after the scene he had caused filled him with dread.
As he walked down to the dining room, the smell of his father’s home-cooked meal greeted him, a stark reminder of the normalcy he was failing to embrace. Albus knew that if he could salvage the situation today, he would need to make it through the day without further incident. He had resolved to fix things with his family before they left for the Burrow.
Entering the dining room, he was met with a strained attempt at normalcy. His mother, Ginny, was trying to maintain a sense of calm, while his father, Harry, looked as if he were barely holding back his frustration.
“Morning,” Albus said quietly, avoiding eye contact as he took his seat. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a painful reminder of the previous night’s emotional upheaval.
Ginny greeted him with a weary smile. “Good morning, Albus. We’re heading to the Burrow tonight. I hope you’re feeling a bit better.”
Harry’s gaze was intense, a mixture of frustration and concern. “Albus, we need to talk about what happened. It’s important we understand each other before we head to the Burrow. We can’t have this lingering.”
Albus nodded, feeling the weight of his actions pressing down on him. The heaviness from the previous night’s events still hung over them, making the family’s preparations for their Christmas celebration feel awkward and strained. His only hope was to make amends and restore some semblance of peace before they joined the extended family for the holidays.
Albus steeled himself, pushing aside his lingering doubts and fears. He knew he had to maintain a convincing front, relying on his Slytherin trait of diplomacy to navigate the tense situation. The last thing he wanted was to face disownment or further alienation from his family. If he could manage to play the part of the remorseful son convincingly, he might salvage what remained of their fractured relationship.
Taking a deep breath, Albus approached his parents with a carefully constructed façade. “I’m— I’m sorry,” he began, his voice quivering as he forced his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know why I said all that—” He let his words trail off, letting visible distress seep into his demeanor. “It was horrible,” he stammered, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t even believe the words that came out of my mouth—”
Albus attempted to mimic the frantic display he had seen from James earlier, his tone and mannerisms reflecting genuine discomfort. He swallowed his pride, understanding that to make amends, he needed to be as humble as possible. “Dad—I…” His voice broke deliberately, the use of “Dad” was a term he hadn’t used in years, meant to evoke a sense of nostalgia and earnestness. A false sniffle escaped him as he continued, “I’m so sorry—”
Albus took another deep breath, crafting his next words with precision. “I’m sure that— that James told you, but—” He hesitated, letting his discomfort show. “I’ve been struggling at school,” he confessed, allowing a real grimace to slip through. “My magic just isn’t working like it should—” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “And people—they tease me—saying I’m a squib.” He let the term hang in the air.
With a final, controlled breath, Albus dared to lift his eyes to his parents, searching their faces for signs of softened resolve. His performance was a calculated risk, but it was crucial for repairing the rift and restoring some semblance of normalcy. He hoped that his portrayal of vulnerability and struggle would be enough to convince them and ease the tension that had built up between them.
Harry’s expression was caught somewhere between frustration and a flicker of something softer—concern, maybe? His brow was furrowed, the usual intensity in his eyes still present, but it was no longer the hard, cold anger Albus had expected. His father’s jaw clenched, and Albus could tell he was wrestling with what to say.
“Albus,” Harry finally began, his voice low but not as sharp as before. “I didn’t realize things had gotten so difficult for you at school.” He hesitated, as if weighing every word. “I— I should have known something was wrong, and I’m sorry if I didn’t see it sooner. But we can’t keep going like this—this is more than just being upset. You’ve got to let us in, let us help.”
Harry’s voice wasn’t as harsh as it had been earlier, but there was still an edge to it, a restrained frustration simmering beneath the surface. The words ‘let us help’ made Albus want to distance himself further, they wouldn't understand .
Beside him, Ginny’s gaze softened in a way that made Albus feel more exposed than anything. Her eyes were brimming with concern, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in that nervous way she did when something was really wrong. She hadn’t spoken yet, but Albus could feel her emotions swirling in the air around them, a mix of guilt and uncertainty.
Finally, her voice, when it came, was quiet but firm, a contrast to the earlier panic in her movements. “Albus, we’re here for you,” she said, her tone almost soothing, though her own doubt wasn’t far beneath the surface. “I’m sorry if we added to your pressure—if I did.” Her voice wavered ever so slightly on the last part, and Albus knew she was thinking back to last night, to when she’d raised her wand at him.
She took a shaky breath, her fingers curling on the table. “We’ll work through this together. But you need to be open with us, and we need to be open with you.” Ginny’s face was a mixture of guilt and determination, her voice a plea for reconciliation.
For a long moment, Albus didn’t move. He felt trapped between relief and the weight of his own lies. His carefully constructed apology had worked—better than he’d thought. But at the same time, sitting there under their gaze, he felt as if the mask he’d put on was starting to crack from the inside out.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he dared to look up at them. Harry’s expression was still guarded, but there was no anger left in his eyes, just a deep, gnawing worry. Ginny’s face had softened, but there was still a tightness in the corners of her mouth, as if she didn’t fully believe everything was fixed but was willing to try. They were both watching him, waiting for something more—waiting for him to let them in.
Albus forced himself to nod, just once. He didn’t trust himself to speak again, not without giving more away than he wanted. He had said enough for now—more than enough to ease the tension. He knew that. And yet, as he stood there, watching his parents’ faces, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole he might never climb out of.
Ginny’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently, pulling him back into the moment. “Let’s just focus on getting through the holidays, okay?” she said softly, her voice kind but tinged with a weary sort of hope. “We’ll talk more later, but right now… we just need to be a family.”
Albus nodded again, the guilt and fear still swirling in his chest. He was playing his part, just like always, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the truth: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
++++
As they sat around the dinner table later that evening, the atmosphere felt thick with unspoken tension. The warmth of Harry’s homemade shepherd's pie filled the air, but it did little to ease the weight pressing down on Albus’s chest. The clinking of forks and knives on plates was the only sound, awkward and unnatural in the Potter household. Usually, there was chatter—James making some loud joke, Lily rambling about school—but tonight, it was as if everyone was walking on glass.
Albus sat between his parents, feeling every bit of the distance between them, despite their physical closeness. He tried to act natural, keeping his head down, pushing food around his plate without much appetite. His earlier performance still hung in the air like a heavy curtain, and he knew he’d bought himself some time—at least for now.
Across the table, Ginny took a careful sip of her pumpkin juice, her eyes flicking over to Harry every now and then. She was trying, Albus could tell, but the strain was obvious. There was something in the way her shoulders were tense, like she was holding herself back from saying something. Maybe she was still processing everything. Albus couldn't blame her—he was still processing too.
Harry was the hardest to read. He ate in silence, cutting his food with precision, but his gaze kept drifting to Albus every few moments. Albus could feel it, even without looking up. His father's eyes were filled with a mix of concern and something else—a quiet sort of scrutiny that made Albus’s skin prickle. Harry wasn’t as easy to fool as his mother. Not for long, at least.
“So,” Ginny finally broke the silence, her voice tentative. “Tomorrow morning we’ll head to the Burrow… right after breakfast.”
Albus nodded, keeping his focus on his plate. He knew what she was doing—trying to smooth things over, trying to create some sense of normalcy. They usually went the night before—but he imagined his parents wanted to wait until it was a bit “safer.”
Harry cleared his throat, putting his fork down. "Albus," he began, his voice serious but not as harsh as before. "We need to make sure we’re all on the same page. The Burrow... it's family. We can't have any more... outbursts like the one from last night."
Albus stiffened, his stomach twisting at the mention of the argument. He gave a short nod, not trusting himself to speak without sounding defensive. He’d already apologized—what more did they want?
Ginny shot Harry a look, as if warning him to tread carefully. “Let’s just... take things one step at a time,” she said softly, her gaze shifting to Albus. “We’ll all try to get through Christmas. Together.”
The silence settled again, more awkward than before. Albus felt the weight of their expectations, and the frustration of knowing he was walking a tightrope. He couldn’t afford another mistake, not right before the holidays. He’d already pushed his luck too far.
They ate in near silence after that, each pretending not to notice how forced it all felt. Ginny made a small comment about the food, but no one really picked up the conversation. Harry remained quiet, though every now and then, Albus could feel his father’s eyes on him, watching him closely, as if waiting for something—another misstep, another lie to slip through.
But Albus kept his mask firmly in place. He played the part. He nodded when spoken to. He smiled when necessary. Diplomacy, after all, was a Slytherin trait. And right now, it was all about self-preservation.
He needed self-preservation to keep him grounded, to get him through Christmas without any more outbursts, without losing control. He couldn't afford to slip up again, not here, not in front of his family. His mask needed to stay firmly in place, no matter how much everything inside him churned with frustration.
++++
The Burrow was as lively and warm as ever, its mismatched charm overflowing with the chaotic energy of the Weasley family. Albus stood at the edge of the scene, his nerves twitching beneath the surface as he watched everyone gather and hug, voices overlapping in excited greetings. The towering structure, as familiar as it was comforting, felt suffocating this year.
He hadn’t been sure what to expect. After the disaster of the past few days, the thought of being surrounded by so many people made his stomach twist. He’d always felt like an outsider at these gatherings, but now? Now it was worse.
As soon as Albus and Rose greeted each other at the Burrow, the tension between them was palpable, but she masked it well—at least at first. Rose had always been quick on her feet, but the strained effort of keeping up appearances showed. Their initial hug was practiced, a performance for the family, and for a moment, Albus almost believed it. Almost.
After that, though, Rose kept her distance, hovering around the other cousins, laughing with James and Lily, but always staying far enough away from Albus. He noticed the way she made a point not to interact with him, not to look at him, avoiding any hint of a connection between them. It was subtle, but he saw right through it.
Albus sat at the dinner table, his mind racing as the Weasley-Potter clan settled into their usual loud, boisterous meal. His father was at the far end of the table, and every now and then, Harry would glance his way, his expression unreadable. Albus hated those looks. They felt like probes, like his father was waiting for him to crack.
The air was thick with warmth and chatter, but Albus felt distant, barely able to focus on what anyone was saying. Rose was doing her best to avoid him, while James, seated nearby, kept trying to shift the conversation away from anything that might involve Albus. A part of Albus appreciated the effort, though it made him feel even more on edge.
Ron, however, had had a little too much Firewhisky, and that was when the trouble began.
“So, Al,” Ron said, his voice a little too loud as he leaned forward with a grin. “How’s Slytherin treating you, eh? Bet it’s full of… interesting folks down there in the dungeons.” He chuckled to himself, clearly thinking he was being clever.
Albus tensed, forcing a smile. “It’s fine, Uncle Ron,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
Ron nodded, taking another swig of his drink. “Yeah, bet it is. Bet they’re all teaching you how to talk to snakes, eh? Always knew those Slytherins were a slippery lot.” He winked, nudging Hermione, who rolled her eyes.
James quickly jumped in, his voice brimming with false cheer. “Yeah, you know, Al’s probably been giving them all a right run for their money! Slytherins won’t know what’s hit ‘em with a Potter in their midst.”
Albus shot James a grateful glance, but Ron wasn’t done.
“Come on, Al, tell us about your housemates. Who’re you hanging out with? Bet they’re all up to some dodgy stuff, huh? Dark magic and all that?” Ron's attempt at humor was painfully awkward—or at least that's what Albus thought, though his relatives didn’t agree, as snickers and laughs could be heard. Ginny shot her brother a warning look, but Ron was oblivious.
Albus clenched his jaw, feeling every pair of eyes at the table shift toward him. His father’s gaze was particularly sharp, and Albus knew he had to tread carefully.
“Actually,” Albus began, his voice steady though his heart was racing, “my housemates are pretty normal. We mostly just focus on schoolwork, like everyone else.”
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Normal? Slytherins?” He laughed, though it lacked humor. “Come on, Al, they’re all about ambition and power. Bet you’ve got some real characters down there.”
Albus forced himself to stay calm, pushing down the rising anger. He could feel his father watching him closely, likely expecting another outburst. But Albus wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Not this time.
“They’re not so different from everyone else,” Albus said carefully, choosing his words with precision. “Ambition doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
Rose, who had been avoiding eye contact the entire dinner, suddenly jumped in, her voice a little too enthusiastic and concerned. “Albus has been hanging with the Malfoy boy!”
Albus wanted to curse her. She just had to ruin everything, didn’t she?
Silence fell over the otherwise loud table. “Malfoy boy? As in Scorpius Malfoy, Dracos kid ?” Ron said with a sneer, like he had tasted something foul. He was ready to continue but stopped when he met Ginny’s death glare.
Ron, however, wasn’t letting up but took Ginny's warning into account. “Oh, really? That caught me a bit off guard—haha.” He forced a laugh, then continued, “But you can’t deny there’s always been a bit of… a reputation with Slytherin, hasn’t there? Dark magic and all that.” He leaned in closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You be careful, Al. Don’t let them drag you into anything dodgy.”
Albus’s stomach twisted. His thoughts flashed to his real friends—Scorpius, the only person who truly understood him. And here was Ron, lumping them all together as if Slytherin was nothing more than a breeding ground for dark wizards.
He managed a tight smile, though it felt like his face might crack under the strain. “I’ll be careful, Uncle Ron. Don’t worry.” His voice was taut, and he could feel his composure slipping, but he held on. He couldn’t afford another outburst. Not here. Not now.
Sensing the growing tension, James quickly steered the conversation away, talking about Quidditch and their plans for the holidays. Albus was grateful for the reprieve, but the damage had already been done. The scrutiny, the judgment—it had been there all along, lurking beneath the surface, and now it was out in the open for everyone to see.
As dinner dragged on, Albus’s mind was elsewhere, lost in thought. He replayed Ron’s words over and over, each one stoking the fire of resentment he felt. His family—his own flesh and blood—saw him as a ticking time bomb, a Slytherin who might, at any moment, turn dark.
They don’t understand, he thought bitterly, picking at his food. They never will.
A bitter satisfaction settled in. If his father hadn’t believed his apology earlier, then maybe it was for the best he hadn’t told the full truth.
They don’t deserve the truth, he told himself, his mind hardening. Not if they’re going to judge me before they even know who I am.
Albus leaned back in his chair, letting the conversation swirl around him, doing his best to blend into the background. It was Christmas, but all he could think about was getting through it without losing control. Afterward, maybe he’d escape to the Malfoys—where at least he wouldn’t have to pretend.
For now, though, he’d wear the mask. He’d play the part. It was what a Slytherin did best, after all. And it wasn’t like they were wrong.
Some Slytherins were probably practicing the Dark Arts, and there was that unspoken introduction to blood purity and pureblood traditions. Secrecy was paramount, and of course, there was the intricate, mock-political system that ruled their house—the games, the power struggles, the ambition that pulsed through every conversation and interaction. It was all there, as real as the food on the table in front of him.
But Albus could never tell. Not just because of house loyalty and pride, but because his family—so utterly Gryffindor in their hearts—could never comprehend it. They were too blinded by their heroic ideals, by what they thought Slytherin was, never bothering to dig deeper, to see the other side of it.
His father, his mother—they’d be horrified. To them, Slytherin was synonymous with darkness, cruelty, and everything they’d fought against. But to Albus, the truth was more complicated. Blood purity wasn’t just about power or superiority; it came from a complex past and a need to pass down legacy. There was a quiet pride in it. And though Albus knew better than to say it out loud, especially here at the Burrow, surrounded by his family, part of him had begun to understand why it mattered. It wasn’t about hate; it was about heritage, about something ancient and powerful, something his family could never understand.
They’d see it as dangerous, ignorant, wrong. But to Albus, it was something more—a way to belong, a place where he wasn’t the black sheep, but someone who could carve his own path. A place where he could thrive.
His fingers tightened around his fork as the conversation continued around him, but his mind was far away. Slytherin had shown him a different world. One his family would never be a part of. And in that moment, as Ron made another off-color joke about “snakes,” Albus felt more detached from them than ever.
++++
The atmosphere at the Burrow was warm and festive, with Christmas Eve nearing its end. The family had gathered in the living room after dinner, the excitement of unwrapping presents filling the air. Laughter and cheerful chatter mingled with the sound of wrapping paper being torn apart.
Albus tried his best to blend into the background, watching as James made a show of his gifts and Rose, ever the polite Gryffindor, engaged in light conversation with family members. Albus was relieved to let the evening pass quietly, hoping to avoid any further discomfort.
But as always, fate had other plans.
Merlin, Albus’s owl, swooped into the room, his wings flapping as he carried several letters and a small package. With the grace only Merlin possessed, he landed on Albus’s lap and dropped the items before perching nearby. The room fell silent as everyone’s attention shifted to him.
Albus’s heart raced. He recognized the letters immediately—M. Fawley and D. Burke—each bearing simple Happy Yule wishes and candies. Innocent enough. But the third package, wrapped in elegant green paper with a silver ribbon, was from Scorpius.
James, ever curious, was the first to break the silence. “Oh, what’s that mate? Who’s the gift from, Al?”
Albus swallowed hard, his mind racing for an excuse—anything that would keep the attention off the names on the card. But his delay only made it worse
Albus’s grip tightened around the package, feeling heat rise to his face. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with judgment. Harry’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and worry.
Albus felt his heart pound harder, the pit in his stomach growing heavier. He forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to himself. “It’s just a gift,” he said, trying to sound casual. “From some friends at school.”
But the damage was already done.
“Friends at school?” Ron repeated, eyebrows raised.
Rose, who had been quietly observing from the side, leaned in and took a closer look. “It’s from M. Fawley, D. Burke, and the gift is from Scorpius Malfoy.”
“ Burke? Fawley? Bloody hell, Al, they don’t sound like the friendliest crowd.”
Ginny, noticing the pause and trying to ignore her brother's comment, chimed in with a warm but insistent tone. “Go on, Albus. Open it in front of us. We’re all dying to see what’s inside.”
The room’s gaze bore down on him, making the heat rise to his face. Albus gripped the package tighter, trying to steady his hands as he slowly unwrapped it. The elegant green paper fell away, revealing a beautifully crafted silver box. He glanced at the card, it's simple message: To Albus, from Scorpius .
Ron cleared his throat “Let’s see it then,” Ron said, leaning in with a forced cheerfulness. “What’s Scorpius sent you?”
Albus hesitated, then carefully lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a sleek, dark green leather-bound journal. The journal had intricate silver embossing on the cover in the form of the Slytherin house crest, with the initials "A.S.P." engraved underneath it.
The sight of the journal hit Albus like a spell. A surge of warmth and pride washed over him. Only Scorpius could make him feel so supported and understood, even from afar, especially when surrounded by people who didn’t—Scorpius had given him his first real item that showed pride in his house, in Slytherin. and Albus was deeply touched. But reality soon set in again as he heard his brothers voice.
James tried to lighten the mood, forcing a laugh. “Blimey, that’s posh. Didn’t know Slytherins had such fancy taste.”
Ron, always quick with a comment, couldn’t resist. “Huh, a Malfoy giving a journal to a Weasley. Haven’t seen that one before.” He snarled
Ginny’s face went pale. The reminder of Lucius Malfoy slipping Tom Riddle’s diary into her books during her shopping for her first year hit her like a punch to the gut. She stiffened, her eyes flashing with a mix of pain and anger. The memory of being possessed and nearly killed by that cursed diary resurfaced, casting a shadow over her expression.
Harry noticed the change in Ginny’s demeanor and his own face darkened, the concern in his eyes deepening.
His father with a serious voice uttered “Albus, don’t touch it. We need to check it for curses.”
Albus couldn't hide his shocked expression and his family's reaction to a Journal.
Albus’s eyes widened in protest. “It’s just a journal, Dad!” he cried, feeling frustrated.
Harry, ignoring his protest, drew his wand and muttered the incantation for a curse detection spell that indicated that the journal was clean, but Harry’s frown remained.
His eyes remained fixed on Albus and the journal, a storm brewing behind them. The name Malfoy had triggered something deep within him, and Albus could see his father’s mind working, leaping to conclusions.
It was happening again—he was losing control of the situation. His Slytherin instincts kicked in, urging him to think quickly and salvage the moment before it spiraled further.
Ginny, sensing the escalating tension, stepped in with a soothing tone. “Harry, it’s alright. It’s just a gift. Let’s not make a scene.”
Hermione, always quick to mediate, added her voice. “ Harry, Ron, let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s just a journal, there's nothing suspicious about that. We should focus on enjoying the evening.”
The conversation continued onto other topics, but the suspicion lingered in the air, thick and unspoken. Albus kept his distance, focusing on the journal and trying to push away the nagging doubts about how little his family understood his world. The Slytherin culture, the politics, the secrets—they were all parts of him that he couldn’t share. They wouldn’t understand, and maybe it was better that way.
As the evening wore on, Albus welcomed the distraction of unwrapping presents and engaging in small talk. Yet beneath the surface, something darker simmered. He couldn’t believe how his father had overreacted to a simple journal—the insult of using a curse detection spell, and the suspicion, even the mere thought, that Scorpius would have wanted to harm him, and would have done it in such an obvious way, felt almost mocking. Still, Albus was relieved that he had managed to keep the true complexities of Slytherin life hidden. Whether the whole ordeal had been a success or a failure, he wasn’t quite sure.
++++
The Burrow was quiet in the late hours of the night, the warmth of the fire crackling softly in the living room. Albus, unable to sleep, crept down the stairs. He was merely seeking a drink of water, but as he reached the kitchen, he was drawn to the muted murmur of voices coming from the living room.
He edged closer, careful not to make a sound. Peeking around the corner, he saw Harry, Hermione, and Ron seated by the fire. The scene was warm, but the conversation was anything but.
Harry was leaning forward, his face etched with worry. “It’s not just the journal from Malfoy,” he said, his voice low but strained. “It’s everything. Albus’s behavior—his outbursts, his hostility. It’s like he’s slipping into something darker .”
Hermione, holding a glass of wine but clearly uneasy, nodded thoughtfully. “Harry, we have to remember that Albus is under a lot of pressure. He's struggling to find his place. We can’t let our fears make us see him as a lost cause.”
Ron, his face flushed from too much Firewhisky, cut in with a sharp edge in his voice. “I understand that, but it’s hard not to worry. Especially with the Malfoys involved. Slytherins have a reputation for a reason, and it’s not a good one. We’ve seen the trouble they can cause.”
Harry’s gaze was fixed on the fire, his expression troubled. “It’s not just the Malfoys. It’s Albus’s outburst the other night. He was almost frantic, He said things that were unsettling—like he’s on the brink of something dangerous. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
Hermione’s face clouded with concern. “Harry, we need to consider that he’s dealing with intense pressure. The need to fit in, to meet expectations—it could be affecting his behavior. It’s not an excuse, but it’s something to consider.”
Ron’s expression darkened, his voice becoming more urgent. “But we can’t ignore the warning signs. Slytherin has a history with the Dark Arts. If Albus is getting involved with that or with people who are, it’s a serious issue. We can’t just sit back and hope for the best.”
Harry sighed, his face lined with anxiety. “I know. Ginny and I have been discussing it. We think it might be wise to reach out to the Malfoys, try to understand what’s happening with Albus. Maybe we should keep a closer eye on him.”
Hermione’s voice was steady but firm. “Harry, involving the Malfoys could be risky. They have their own agendas, and it might make things worse if Albus feels like we’re spying on him or judging him more. We need to handle this delicately.”
Ron’s frustration was evident. “It’s just hard to see how things will improve when we’re kept in the dark. I can’t stand the thought of Albus getting mixed up in something dangerous because we weren’t vigilant enough.”
Harry’s eyes were filled with a deep, troubled concern. “I know. We want to do what’s best for him, but we have to be careful not to drive him away. It’s a fine line to walk.”
As Albus listened from the shadows, the weight of their anxiety and suspicion pressed heavily on him. The warmth of the fire seemed distant compared to the cold reality of their doubts. He felt a surge of guilt and isolation, realizing how little they understood his struggles and the precarious choices he was navigating.
Turning slowly, Albus crept back up the stairs, the conversation echoing in his mind. He climbed back into bed beside James and Teddy, the night’s earlier events replaying in his thoughts. The unease from his family felt like an insurmountable barrier, and he lay there in the darkness, feeling more alone than ever in his struggle.