The Cursed Second Child

Chapter Fifteen : A Warm Welcome

Sleep had just welcomed him into its warm grasp when a distant sound shook him awake. read filled his senses as unseen hands dragged his curtain open, and before he could even react or catch a glimpse, a sack was thrown over his face.

He thrashed instinctively, kicking out at whoever had grabbed him. His heart pounded violently in his chest, every nerve screaming in panic as the world around him disappeared into darkness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe properly—the thick fabric pressed against his mouth, muffling his cries.

But he regretted it as a fist slammed into his stomach. He let out an ugly cry as a menacing voice growled close to him.

"Shut it, Potter," the voice snarled, low and dangerous.

He felt a silencing spell hit him, followed immediately by an Incarcerous spell, making physical ropes appear and wrap around him like a snake, tying his arms to his upper body and gagging him beneath the sack.

He kicked desperately as he was yanked from his bed, dragged by his arm onto the floor with such force that he nearly lost his footing. He futilely tried to fight back, but he only earned a stinging hex in return. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged down the stairs into the common room. He groaned, but no sound came out—the rope was cutting into his flesh with merciless precision as he was dragged, his bare feet barely scraping across the stone floor. Albus’s heart raced, his mind spinning in confusion and terror.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hall—more than one set—moving with a terrifying urgency. He struggled to keep up, dragged faster, rougher—until they stopped trying altogether, and he felt an arm wrap around his stomach. Suddenly, he was lifted into the air. He wriggled helplessly, the binds burning against his skin as cruel laughter echoed around him.

"Don't worry, Potter,” someone sneered, amused. “Malfoy is coming too.”

Albus felt his heart stop. Terror gripped him even tighter, more unrelenting as ever, his heart beating loudly into his ears as panic flared within, only fueled by his sense of  terror.

Scorpius.

His breath turned ragged as he fought to control his panic. He could hear the muffled sound of his friend's struggles somewhere nearby. He wanted to scream for him, wanted to tear the sack from his head—but his captors didn’t stop.

Then, a sharp cry of pain.

"Let go of me!" Scorpius’s voice—high-pitched with desperation.

“Shut him up,” another voice commanded.

A harsh thud followed.

Then nothing.

Albus’s stomach twisted violently. He could no longer keep in the tears that now trailed down his face

He kicked harder, fought with all the strength left in his terrified body, but it only earned him another sharp jab to the ribs and a hateful laugh, followed by him being thrown onto the stone floor once again. His knees hit at a painful angle—yet they didn’t even give him time to breathe before he was yanked forward once more, the cold wind biting at his skin.

His mind raced—he had no idea where they were taking them. The ropes around him burned as he struggled, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps beneath the suffocating sack. His heart pounded faster. Desperation flared through him. He wiggled, kicked, did anything—

He could faintly tell how the terrain changed beneath his feet. First stone, then grass, then sand—until finally, wood.

He could hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Without warning, they threw him forward. Albus’s knees scraped painfully against the rough wooden planks, the impact jarring through his body. He winced, his skin burning as it dragged against the splintered surface.

“Remove the silencing curse... and the sack,” a voice commanded—sharp, authoritative.

The sack was yanked off his head, and Albus gasped for air, the icy night air biting at his tear-streaked face. His cheeks—slick with snot and tears—burned in the cold. He blinked rapidly, his eyes darting frantically, searching for any sign of Scorpius. His heart pounded, each thud a jarring reminder of the danger surrounding him.

A hand gripped his hair violently, yanking his head back until his shoulders slammed into a broad chest. Pain shot through his scalp, a fresh wave of fear coursing through him.

“Unmute him,” came another voice, this one further back—sounding bored and indifferent.

Albus let out a faint groan as the magical gag lifted, his mouth finally free. Saliva dribbled down his chin, and he felt a fresh surge of embarrassment, knowing how pitiful he must have looked to them. That only seemed to amuse his captors more. They sneered at him, vile slurs filling the air.

“Looks like Potter’s smart enough not to scream,” someone taunted, followed by cruel, jeering laughter.

Albus’s breath hitched in shallow, panicked gasps as a hand yanked him back again, his body forcefully pressed against the figure behind him. The heat of their body—so close—sent a shiver of revulsion up his spine. Their breath, hot and damp, brushed against the side of his cheek, making his skin crawl with disgust.

It was too much—too close.

He could barely breathe, bile rising in his throat.

He knew from the voices surrounding him—they were upper-year students. His heart sank deeper into terror. There was no chance of escape.

“You know, Potter,” the voice whispered against his ear, mockingly soft, laced with venom. “I was so disappointed when we couldn’t give you this welcome last year.”

The voice paused, and the hand gripping Albus’s hair tightened cruelly, pulling harder. Albus let out an involuntary cry, pain shooting through his scalp as if his skin were about to tear

“After all,” the voice continued, closer now, as if savoring every word, “no blood traitor scum should ever have been placed in Slytherin... and lived to tell the tale.”

Spit splattered across Albus’s face, warm and wet. He flinched, terror and revulsion clouding his mind as the words echoed in his ears.

Blood traitor.

His chest tightened, fear constricting around his heart, squeezing the air from his lungs. His breath quickened as a cold hand snaked around his chest, holding him tight. The pressure of the other’s front pressing into his back made it impossible to move. The grip in his hair became tighter, pulling his head backward. The burning pain in his scalp was unbearable; it felt as if his skin were being ripped apart, mercilessly, one strand at a time. The slow, twisting movement of the boy’s fingers in his hair made nausea rise in his throat—it felt too intimate, too close.

He wanted to scream, to vomit, to pull himself away; yet there was no escape. His body had betrayed him, paralyzed with fear and revulsion.

“Now,” the voice hissed again, mockingly sweet, as the boy leaned in, his breath hot against Albus’s ear. The hard grip on his hair made tears prick at the corners of his eyes, pain radiating across his scalp, unbearable.

“Why don’t you take a nice little swim with Malfoy over here?” The boy’s grip yanked Albus’s head to the side. Albus’s heart plummeted as his gaze fell on Scorpius—unconscious, crumpled on the ground—

“No!” Albus choked out, panic flooding him, overtaking the fear. “He’s unconscious! You can’t be serious!” His voice cracked with desperation. He thrashed in their grip, but they held him firmly in place, his terror only fueling their amusement.

Before Albus could react further, they were lifted into the air, weightless for a moment as the cruel laughter of his captors echoed over the dark lake.

“Enjoy the swim, Potter,” one of them sneered, and as the world tilted, for a short moment the two of them, Albus and Scorpius were weightless in the air, before carelessly thrown into the icy abyss below.

The cold hit him like a wall, the Black Lake swallowing him whole as he plunged beneath its dark surface. The freezing shock was like knives stabbing into his skin, his body seizing up immediately. The binds tightened around him as he sank deeper and deeper. He tried to scream, but water filled his mouth, choking him.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe.

And above him, in the distance, the last thing he heard before the water consumed him completely was their laughter, echoing through the night.

His limbs were heavy and unresponsive, the frigid water biting into his skin. No matter how hard he tried to break the spell holding him, it was useless. Panic flared as his lungs began to burn, his head throbbing with the growing desperation for air. The water pressed in on him, smothering every frantic attempt to escape—

Instinctively, his primary school swimming lessons kicked in. He began kicking his legs, praying that whichever way he was moving was up.

His head broke the surface, and Albus gasped desperately for air, coughing violently. The binds holding him vanished, and he finally managed to use his arms to swim—

A jolt of dread shot through him.

Scorpius.

His eyes darted frantically across the still, dark water. No sign of blonde hair. Nothing but eerie stillness, except for his own desperate breath and movements.

Panic surged, driving him back under. His eyes stung as he forced them open against the briny water, searching.

Then he saw it—blonde hair drifting beneath the surface.

Fueled by a desperation he had never felt before—and rage, so much rage—Albus swam towards him—

Please don’t be dead.

Please don’t be dead.

Please don’t be dead.

Please—

He reached Scorpius’s limp form and dragged him to the shore with strength he hadn’t known he possessed.

The moment they hit land, Albus collapsed beside him on the sand, his body trembling violently both from the cold and the adrenaline coursing through him. Without a second thought, he started to press down on Scorpius’s chest, trying to remember the first-aid techniques he’d learned in primary school. His movements were frantic, hands shaking as he pressed again and again.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered, his voice raw with panic. Tears blurred his vision, but he kept pressing.

One-two-three-four—

Scorpius was so pale—

Five-six-seven-eight—

So cold—

Nine-ten-eleven-twelve—

Panic clawed at his throat, threatening to pull him under. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think—

Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen—

Scorpius wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t responding. The aid wasn’t working—

Sixteen-seventeen-eighteen—

His hands pressed down, harder, harder—his entire body trembling with the effort. He was doing it wrong.

Nineteen-twenty-twenty-one—

Too slow—

Twenty-two-twenty-three-twenty-four—

Too fast—

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-Six—

His palms slipping against soaked fabric. He should know this. He should know what to do—

Twenty-Seven, Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine—

“Come on—come on—please—” His voice cracked. He was shaking too hard. His breath came in ragged, choked sobs.

Thirty—

wait, breaths, he needed— 

Albus’s mind raced, but there was no time, no time. He tilted Scorpius’s head back, pinched his nose, and blew two quick breaths into his mouth. Scorpius’s chest rose faintly, but there was no response.

“No—No—please—” His voice cracked. He was shaking too hard. His breath came in ragged, choked sobs as he started compressions again.

One-two-three-four—

Nothing. His breath hitched.

The world was caving in. His chest felt like it would cave in too, as if the pressure he was applying unto the other's chest was instead his own, he pushed harder–As hard as he could, no longer afraid of breaking bone–Only consumed with pure desperation turning into terror. 

He didn't move–

Scorpius didn't move–

He was so pale—Just as the certainty of the unthinkable took hold—just as the truth sank its teeth into him, hollow and cold, allconsuming—

Just like a prayer being heard from trembling lips, like a soul clawing its way back through it’s ribcage, just like a dying star flickering back to life—

Scorpius gasped. 

Albus froze, eyes wide, hands hovering, afraid to hope.

He taught his breathe, not breathing, afraid the sound of his own would make him miss hearing the others—

Had he just imagined it? Had he–

A faint, wet sound, a shuddering inhale. Scorpius’s body jerked weakly, his chest convulsing as water forced its way out. He coughed—a weak, broken sound—and more water spilled out, his body trembling with the effort.

Albus froze, watching the boy beneath him shuddering—

 “Scorpius?” he whispered, his voice trembling. The sounds of his own heartbeat becoming so overwhelmed he wasn't sure if he heard the others breathe—

Scorpius coughed again, harder this time, his body curling slightly as he vomited water onto the sand. His breaths were shallow, ragged, and his eyes fluttered open for a moment, unfocused and glassy, before closing again.

“Scorpius!” Albus’s voice broke as he pulled the other boy into his arms, holding him tightly. Scorpius was cold, so cold, and his body trembled violently in Albus’s grasp.

“It’s okay,” Albus whispered hoarsely, his own voice shaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” His hands rubbed Scorpius’s back, trying to warm him up, trying to reassure himself as much as Scorpius.

Scorpius coughed again, weakly, his head lolling against Albus’s shoulder. “Al…bus…” he rasped, his voice barely audible, slurred and disoriented.

“I’m here,” Albus said, his throat tight. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

Scorpius’s breaths were still shallow, but they were there—each one a fragile, precious thing. Albus held him tighter, his own body trembling with relief and exhaustion.

Scorpius shuddered involuntarily, tears mixing with the lake water on his face, mingling with snot and bile. “My chest… it burns…” he choked out, his voice strained and broken.

“I know,” Albus croaked, his own voice hoarse with emotion and exhaustion. Every word felt like a struggle, the tightness in his throat threatening to choke him. His entire body ached from the cold and the frantic swim, but in that moment, nothing mattered except the fact that Scorpius was alive. He hugged him closer, burying his face on Scorpius’s shoulder as sobs wracked his body.

Confusion and fear surged in Scorpius’s eyes, his usually calm demeanor shattered. “What ha—?” he creaked, vomiting out another round of water.

Albus didn’t let go, not caring that his already wet and dirty clothes were being soiled further. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around Scorpius while gently patting his back, helping him expel the water. He held in his own sobs, listening to the broken cries and the sound of Scorpius retching, each one a knife to his heart.

He felt his insides start to burn, instead of sadness, instead of terror, anger overtook him,

His blood pounded so hard he could feel it in every vein, in every limb. The horror of what had just happened coursed through him, and his fingers dug into Scorpius’s wet robes.

“They bound us with Incarcerous and threw us into the lake,” Albus said, his voice cracking with fury.

All the color drained from Scorpius’s already pale features, leaving him ashen. He trembled violently, his eyes still dazed, his voice hoarse and breathless. “They wouldn’t—” he whimpered, the words barely audible, as if saying them louder might make them true.

“They did!” Albus screamed, frustration surging within him. His fingers tightened around Scorpius, his heart pounding with a new intensity. A fire burned inside him—hotter than a dragon’s breath—

“They won’t get away with this,” he growled, his voice low and strained. His magic hummed with something darker, more suffocating than the icy water lapping at their feet. And for the first time, Albus didn’t try to suppress it.

He wanted them to suffer.

He would make them suffer.

He could feel it in his bones, in the very air around him—

Scorpius’s fists clenched weakly, then went slack as exhaustion overtook him. His eyes fluttered shut, his body slumping against Albus, who held him tightly, shielding him from the cold wind. Scorpius’s head rested in the crook of Albus’s neck, his shallow breaths warm against Albus’s skin. He smelled like lake water and something else—something sharp, almost like smoke.

Scorpius weakly scrunched his face, his brow furrowing as confusion flickered across his features. But before he could speak, Albus’s voice cut through the silence, bitter and raw.
“They called us blood traitors.”

Scorpius’s expression darkened, the confusion replaced by a new, gnawing terror. Dread coiled in his gut, snaking through him like a living thing. His breath hitched, and though Albus’s fingers dug into his skin, there was no pain—only warmth. A strange, grounding warmth that anchored him even as his mind reeled.

“I will make them suffer,” Albus said through gritted teeth, his voice low and trembling with barely contained fury.

And Scorpius believed him—like an idea, a truth, a God.

A reckoning.

++++

“Blood traitor!”

Albus was seething as he made his way past the common room, the taunts echoing in his ears like a relentless drumbeat, dredging up memories of his early days at Hogwarts when he first felt the weight of his last name, only now it was his Mothers he couldn't not escape from.

“Mudblood lover!”

He gripped his books tighter, his knuckles whitening as he walked faster, each step fueled by a growing sense of fury. His jaw was clenched so tightly it felt like it might shatter under the pressure.

Then, without warning, a sharp sting pierced his side. He barely had time to react before a tripping hex sent him sprawling, his knees crashing painfully against the unforgiving stone floor. The impact jolted through him, and he caught himself with his palms, the rough surface scraping against his skin. A strained groan escaped his lips as laughter erupted around him.

“That’s where blood traitors should be—on their hands and knees,” a voice jeered from across the room.

“What’s worse than a filthy mudblood? The blood traitors who bedded them,” someone spat, their words dripping with contempt. The laughter soared, filling the space with a mocking chorus that felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

Albus glanced over at Scorpius, who was also scrambling to gather his fallen books. He wasn’t the only one who had been hexed; humiliation washed over him like a cold wave as he realized they were both targets of this cruel mockery.

A flush crept upon his cheeks, burning with embarrassment. Just then, he felt a gentle touch on his hand. He snapped his head towards Scorpius, ready to push away any pity, but instead found his friend offering a reassuring smile, calm amidst the chaos.

Albus huffed, shaking off the anger that bubbled beneath the surface, and hurried to pick up his books. The laughter still echoed around them, but Scorpius’s quiet support anchored him, reminding him that they were in this together, even as the taunts rained down.

“Your blood is cursed Weasley”

“You are a disgrace to purebloods, Malfoy”

Each insult felt like a shard of glass, cutting deeper into Albus’s psyche. In that moment of fury and humiliation, all Albus could think of was one thing: 

“I will make them suffer.”

++++

The stillness of the empty classroom was broken by Scorpius' voice.

“Albus,” Scorpius began, his tone quieter, more serious—

“Blood traitors… in the eyes of the purebloods, it’s worse than being a Muggle-born. Worse than being a Muggle.” He swallowed hard, the fear evident in his eyes. “If they’ve branded us as such…”

A chill seemed to run through Albus, as if the freezing water still clung to his skin. Scorpius could see the way Albus’s shoulders tightened, a physical response to the weight of the words hanging in the air.

“It’s just the beginning, ” Scorpius continued, his voice grim, each word echoing ominously in the abandoned classroom.

“They won’t stop,” he added, his own voice trembling slightly, betraying the fear brewing within him. “Once they’ve labeled you a blood traitor, it’s a death sentence.”

As he looked at Albus, worry surged in Scorpius’s chest. He could see the darkness in Albus’s gaze—no light seemed to penetrate those usually bright eyes, making them appear so distant, so foreign. Albus seemed to choke on his words, the raw emotion spilling forth in his expression, revealing how deeply this hurt him.

In that moment, instinctively, Scorpius moved closer, wrapping his arms around Albus and drawing him into a tight embrace. He felt Albus hiccuping against his breath, and then the sobs came, raw and unrestrained. Unable to hold back any longer, Scorpius hugged him back fiercely, allowing Albus’s tears to flow freely into the fabric of his robes.

Through the cries, Scorpius heard a small, heartfelt whisper escape Albus’s lips: “Thank you.”

“For what, Albus?” he asked gently, his voice calm, terrified to say anything that might push Albus further into despair.

“For not dying.”

Scorpius’s heart shattered at the strained voice of his best friend, feeling the tremors that coursed through Albus’s body as he struggled to remain composed.

Albus blinked rapidly, fighting against the onslaught of tears that threatened to spill over. “No, I—I thought I was too late. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” His voice broke, unable to finish the sentence as he buried his face in Scorpius’s shoulder, the damp fabric soaking up his tears.

Scorpius could feel the sheer panic radiating from Albus, and he tightened his embrace, murmuring softly, “It’s okay, Albus, I'm here.” He felt Albus clench his fists tightly around his robes, as if afraid to let go, terrified of losing him.

Scorpius held him close, running his fingers through Albus’s beautiful, unruly locks, his heart aching as he listened to the painful sobs and cries.

They wouldn’t get away with this.

A fierce determination ignited within Scorpius as he clenched his grip around Albus tighter, his jaw tightening with resolve. 

They wouldn’t get away with this.

++++

Albus and Scorpius had developed a silent agreement to avoid the Slytherin common room and dormitories as much as possible. Leaving early in the morning and returning just before curfew had become their unspoken routine. It was simpler that way—easier to evade the sneering glances and venomous jibes from their housemates. The taunts from Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in the halls felt like child’s play compared to the sharp-edged cruelty they faced within their own common room. There was a unique kind of poison that only Slytherins knew how to brew, after all.

Their biggest bullies outside the house were Jenkins and his little gang of followers, who seemed determined to cause as much humiliation as possible for Albus. They went after Scorpius too, but they always seemed to relish it more when they could get Albus alone.

But even Jenkins and his gang couldn’t do much in the library, under the watchful eye of the librarian. So, for now, the library had become their sanctuary. There was one spot in particular, a small table tucked in an alcove behind a series of towering bookshelves. A large window nearby allowed the perfect amount of light to filter in, creating a cozy hideaway in a section few students ventured into. Small graces, Albus supposed.

One late afternoon, close to dinner time, they found themselves not as alone as usual. A first-year Ravenclaw, his secondhand robes neatly pressed, stood awkwardly in front of their table. The boy had clearly been watching them for some time, unsure how to approach.

The first-year was tall for his age and seemed more confident now than he had been during the sorting.

“I wanted to apologize,” the boy began, cheeks tinged pink. “It’s only after you left that I realized I hadn’t heard your full name.”

Albus studied him for a moment, noting the sincerity in his gaze. “That was on purpose, actually,” he replied, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “But I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now?”

Sam’s embarrassment deepened as he nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard... quite a bit. It’s hard not to, considering your family name and all the rumors.”

Albus leaned forward, intrigued. “And what have you heard?”

Scorpius, who had been quiet until now, glanced at Sam with mild disinterest. “Hopefully a Ravenclaw is smart enough not to base their opinions on rumors,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar pureblood drawl.

Albus shot Scorpius a look before turning back to Sam. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How much bias exists in the wizarding world?” he said, casually spinning his wand between his fingers.

Sam, taken aback for a moment, quickly regained his composure, not backing down from their scrutiny. “They... they call you the Slytherin Squib,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t know the word, so I had to look it up.”

“Ah!” Albus leaned back in his chair, his interest piqued. “Did you also read about how some pureblood families treat their Squib children?” He studied Sam closely, his voice laced with a challenge.

Scorpius shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation’s direction.

“Yes,” Sam replied, his brow furrowing. “It seems to be a serious issue.”

“It is,” Albus said, his voice growing quieter but no less sharp. “And it all comes down to upholding blood purity ideals.”

Sam nodded slowly, absorbing Albus's words. “And calling you a Squib... reinforces those ideals, doesn’t it?”

Albus grinned, impressed. “Exactly. It’s ironic, really. The first person to call me a Squib was a Hufflepuff. They probably don’t realize they’re reinforcing pureblood beliefs.”

“Why are Squibs considered so bad?” Sam asked, his face grim.

“They lack magic,” Albus said flatly, his gaze hardening. “And if a pureblood family can produce a Squib, it means blood purity doesn’t guarantee anything.”

Sam’s frown deepened as he processed that, realization dawning. “So it undermines everything they stand for.”

Albus leaned back, stretching his arms lazily before folding them behind his head. “Bingo.” He grinned before letting his chair fall back to the floor with a soft thud.

“It’s ridiculous, really. So don’t worry, Sam, I don’t let it bother me. It says more about them than it ever could about me .”

Scorpius’s scowl deepened, but he held his tongue, glancing at Albus as if to silently warn him. Albus ignored the look and offered Sam a poised smile, extending his hand.

“I’m Albus Potter, also known as the ‘Slytherin Squib,’” he said, his tone casual.

Sam returned the grin and shook his hand. “I’m Sam Marshall. The Ravenclaw Muggleborn, I suppose?” He added the last part with a hint of unease, which both Albus and Scorpius picked up on.

It was Scorpius who spoke first, raising an eyebrow. “Has anyone in Ravenclaw given you a hard time because of your blood?” There was a note of concern in his voice, though it was cloaked in his usual pureblooded poshness.

“Some,” Sam admitted, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But it’s no big deal. Like you said, Albus—it says more about them than me, right?”

Albus grinned broadly. “Exactly.”

Scorpius cleared his throat and extended his hand as well, his movements poised.

“I’m Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, Heir to the Most Ancient House of Malfoy. Well met.” 

His gaze lingered on Sam, clearly waiting to see if he knew the proper greeting etiquette.

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Albus let out a quiet laugh and glanced at Scorpius, who gave him a mock-innocent look.

“The correct response is ‘Well met, Heir Malfoy,’ then you introduce yourself,” Albus explained with a smirk.

Sam shot him a grateful look before turning back to Scorpius. “Well met, Heir Malfoy,” he said, a little more confidently. “I’m Sam Marshall.”

“Well met, Marshall. You can call me Scorpius.” Scorpius gave a rare, approving smile.

“Then please, call me Sam,” he replied, a bit more at ease now.

Albus grinned at the exchange. “So, Sam, how are the Ravens treating you?”

Sam’s eyes brightened at the question. “It’s been interesting. The pressure to succeed is pretty intense, but we have mentors who help us if we need it.”

Scorpius nodded, returning his gaze to his book. “It’s a good system. I wish all houses had that.”

“They don’t?” Sam asked, still standing awkwardly.

“Not that we know of. Slytherin and Ravenclaw seem to be the only houses that still uphold that tradition.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sam muttered, his anger flaring. “Everyone struggles with something.”

“Exactly,” Scorpius replied. “But many of the old traditions have fallen away.”

“Why?” Sam asked, intrigued.

“Some blame Muggleborns, but that’s unlikely. It’s more to do with changing values and the Ministry’s influence,” Scorpius said.

“Muggleborns seem to be the scapegoat for a lot of the wizarding world’s problems,” Albus mused.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t understand why. It’s not like we’re—”

“It’s ignorance,” Albus said with clear content in his voice.

Scorpius gave him a pointed look then interrupted “Some of it yes—But it’s more complicated than that. Let’s not dwell on it.” 

Albus merely shrugged, unbothered. Before continuing. 

“They’ve forgotten what matters,” Albus said, leaning back in his chair again. “It’s not about blood. It’s about magic. Embracing it, no matter where it comes from.”

“That makes sense,” Sam said, nodding thoughtfully. “Ravenclaw has study groups that focus on learning magic outside the standard curriculum. One of the prefects even went on a rant about the ‘degradation of Hogwarts curriculum.’”

Albus snorted. “They’re not wrong.”

Scorpius glanced at Sam. “Why don’t you sit down, Sam? What are you working on? Maybe we can help.”

Sam’s face lit up as he quickly sat down, his admiration for the two older boys clear. “I’m trying to wrap my head around some advanced Charms. There’s so much to learn.”

Albus grinned, his tone more teasing than harsh. “Such a Ravenclaw thing to say.”

Sam blushed, his cheeks turning pink as he grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Scorpius leaned over, intrigued. “Let me see,” he said, flipping through Sam’s notes. Albus, though more laid back, leaned in as well, ready to join in when he could.

++++

The Great Hall buzzed with life, a constant hum of chatter, clattering cutlery, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing from one table to another. The smell of breakfast—sausages, eggs, and toast—wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of fresh parchment and polished wood. Amidst the noise, Rose sat at the Gryffindor table, her eyes briefly scanning the room as students moved about, voices blending into a comforting background hum.

“Rose! There you are!” said Polly, a blonde girl with a huge grin as she bounced over and plopped down beside her. The scrape of her bench against the floor blended into the noise of the bustling morning.

Rose returned the grin, though a bit more reserved. “Polly, where else would I be?” she teased, picking at her eggs with a half-smile.

Polly leaned in closer, bumping Rose’s arm with her elbow playfully. “Maybe with Yann? You two have been getting awfully close lately,” she teased, her grin widening. Polly's beautiful brown eyes seemed to catch the morning light just right, and her long, silky blonde hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall.

Rose’s heart skipped a beat at the proximity, warmth creeping up her neck. She fought to suppress the flush rising in her cheeks, casting her hand back to fix her hair in a graceful motion before straightening her posture. “It’s not like that, Polly. I’ve told you already,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant as she took another bite of her eggs.

Polly rested her elbow on the table and leaned her head against her hand, studying Rose with a knowing look. “You know you could tell me, right?” Her tone was soft, almost too sincere, and it made Rose’s heart twist a little. But Rose shook off the feeling, forcing herself to focus on her plate.

“Polly, I’m not as obsessed with boys as you are,” she replied with a hint of irritation, though there was a teasing edge to it.

Polly shrugged it off, her smile never faltering as she turned her attention back to her own breakfast. “You’ve been hanging out with your cousin more,” she said, her voice noticeably flatter this time. Rose could sense the undercurrent of hurt beneath the words.

Sighing, Rose looked across the hall at the Slytherin table. Albus sat there, too close to the Malfoy boy for Polly’s liking, and Rose’s own feelings about it were complicated. “I’ve told you, Polly, it’s... complicated,” she muttered.

Polly’s eyes followed Rose’s gaze. “Which means you’re also hanging out with Malfoy,” she said between bites of toast, her tone now sharper.

Rose shot her a pointed look. “It’s not like that,” she began, but Polly cut her off.

“Complicated. Yeah, I get it,” Polly snapped, the warmth fading from her voice. “But it just feels like you’re the one making all the sacrifices, Rose. You and James are always worrying about him, and I’ve never seen him act like he cares about anyone but himself.”

Rose felt her heart soften, warmed by Polly’s concern. “I get that it looks that way from the outside, but Albus is... private. He doesn’t show it, but he cares.”

Polly wasn’t convinced. She glared across the hall at Albus and Scorpius, who were talking quietly. “Still,” Polly continued, her voice barely masking her disdain, “I don’t get how he can stand being around that .” Her eyes flicked toward Malfoy, disdain clear.

Rose’s grip tightened on her fork. “Scorpius means a lot to him,” she replied, though the words tasted bitter.

Polly’s gaze flicked back to Rose, sharp and probing. “More than you?” she asked softly, and their eyes met. Rose felt her chest tighten, and she couldn’t hide the hurt that flickered across her face. She looked down, trying to steady her breathing.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Polly stammered, her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “You know I say things without thinking sometimes—”

“It’s fine, Polly,” Rose interrupted, her voice tight. “I like that about you, and... it’s true, isn’t it?” She set her fork down, her appetite gone as anger started bubbling beneath the surface. “Everyone can see it, but he acts like we’re too stupid to notice.”

Her cousin had always thought himself above everyone, above their family. In the beginning, Rose didn’t mind; sometimes she’d even shared that sense of superiority, feeling like they were both just a bit more capable, more clever. But lately, it was clear Albus thought himself better than her too, and that realization cut deep. Where had her best friend gone? The one who had shared every secret with her since they were children? Why did he now treat her like a stranger?

Rose’s grip tightened on her fork as another thought slithered into her mind—one she had tried to ignore but could no longer suppress. She knew Albus hadn’t told them everything during the last confrontation. His evasiveness, the way he’d brushed off her questions, the cold, distant look in his eyes—it was more than just his usual brooding. He was hiding something, something far deeper than his supposed friendship with Scorpius Malfoy.

It wasn’t just the secrecy; it was the way he looked at Scorpius, how fiercely protective he became when anyone questioned their friendship. The anger that flared in him when she tried to bring it up, as though he couldn’t bear to hear the truth. No, Rose wasn’t naïve—she could see it now. Whatever was between Albus and Scorpius, it wasn’t innocent.

Her heart clenched painfully at the thought. How could he shut her out like this? After everything they’d been through, after all the years they’d spent as each other’s confidants, was she really so insignificant to him now? Did he trust Malfoy more than he trusted her?

The clattering noise of breakfast continued around them, but it faded into the background as Rose’s thoughts spiraled. She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her was jealous—jealous that Scorpius had somehow replaced her in Albus’s life, that he was the one Albus now shared his secrets with.

But more than that, she was hurt. Hurt that her own cousin, her best friend, had turned into someone she barely recognized. Someone who lied, who kept things hidden, who looked at her like she was just another obstacle to overcome.

She glanced across the hall, her eyes landing on Albus and Scorpius at the Slytherin table. They sat close, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. From this distance, she couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she didn’t need to. She could see it in their body language, in the way Albus leaned in slightly, his expression intense, as though nothing else in the world mattered except what Scorpius had to say.

Rose’s jaw tightened, and she gripped her cutlery until her knuckles whitened. 

Polly reached out, her voice softer with concern as she placed her soft hand upon Rose’

“Rose—”

Rose cut her off, She had already decided, If Albus wanted to play, two could play this game. 

“You and Yann are going to meet him,” she said suddenly, her tone sharp. “And you’re going to become friends.”

Polly blinked in surprise. “What—”

“It’s only fair,” Rose continued, her voice growing colder. “I have to act civil with Malfoy, so Albus should have no issue being civil with you and Yann.”

Polly made a face, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “But Rose—”

“No, Polly. You’ll do this for me,” Rose insisted, her eyes flashing. “And maybe then, I can show you the Albus I know .”

Polly studied her for a long moment, her gaze shifting before she finally sighed. “Okay, I’m with you, Rose. But if he does anything—”

“Don’t worry, Polly. He won’t,” Rose said, her tone softening just a bit. “He’s too smart for that.”

But even as she said the words, the anger inside her hadn’t fully ebbed. She wouldn’t let Albus’s self-importance ruin everything. She wouldn’t let his little crisis of identity tear their family apart— She would not let Scorpius tear them apart.

Even if she had to swallow her own pride.

++++

Albus's body ached from the latest round of hexes, bruises blossoming beneath his robes like dark flowers. His exhaustion weighed on him like a lead cloak, each step a reminder of the aggression they had endured. He was sure at least half the hexes they suffered were illegal—if only someone in authority cared enough to look into it. But no one did. He was sure that their head of House, Slughorn, was aware of it but let it slide, like the Slytherin he himself was. The library, silent and bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lamps, had become their sanctuary; in recent weeks, however, this refuge brought its own complications.

Albus's family could easily find them there. At first, it had been easy to play along with the banter and jokes while studying together. But as the hexing continued and more bruises made movement painful, his family’s insistence on physical contact became unbearable. Just to complicate matters further, his cousin had become annoyingly persistent about introducing him to her friends —two of the very people who had bullied them mercilessly the previous year.

Chapman had been the first on Albus's revenge list, the one who taunted him during the feast, questioning his place in Slytherin. Yann quickly followed, his vile behavior during their first flying lesson and his role in spreading the nickname “Slytherin Squib” around the school left a bitter taste in Albus's mouth. Albus genuinely despised them; he wouldn’t care if they died, he probably would be happy about it. In a moment of poor judgment—one he blamed on exhaustion from constant hexing—he had confided as much to Rose, further widening the rift between them.

It felt as if they were back to their pre-summer dynamic, with James now trying to persuade Albus to apologize. He was relentless, coaxing Albus to admit fault and hoping to bring Rose around to forgiveness as well. But Rose stood firm; she wouldn’t even consider reconciliation unless Albus apologized to both Polly and Yann in person. “They both mean a lot to me,” she insisted, her expression unyielding.

As Albus sat at the table, he felt an all-too-familiar urge to bang his head against it. James's persistence was maddening, wearing down every shred of his patience. He knew he couldn’t lash out; maintaining civility was essential. James held a crucial secret for him—that he and Scorpius were still friends. Albus was grateful for that, relieved to know he had at least one ally within the family.

Lily, on the other hand, was far too open with her thoughts. Albus had learned early on that sharing secrets with her was a lost cause. Her honesty was refreshing but often led to complications. She didn’t tiptoe around subjects like their parents or James; she spoke her mind, unafraid of the consequences. While she didn’t care much for Yann and Polly—whom she deemed stuck-up and had told them as much—she firmly believed that Albus should just apologize, even if he didn’t mean it. “Rose won’t let this go otherwise,” she warned, her tone casual, as if she were discussing the weather rather than family drama.

Lily was eager to focus on pranks and sneaking out to visit Hagrid, who always delighted in showing her the magical creatures he kept for class. She often teamed up with the Scamander twins, both in her year and proudly Ravenclaws. The twin sons of Luna and Rolf Scamander had inherited their mother’s eccentric intellect and both parents' passion for magical creatures. They were the perfect companions for Lily, whose laughter mingled effortlessly with their discussions of “Nargles” and “Gulping Plimpies.” Together, the trio seemed to inhabit their own magical world, blissfully unaware of the drama swirling around them.

Often, Albus would spot the trio in the library, where they seemed to prioritize reading about magical creatures or The Quibbler over their studies, their heads bent together in conspiratorial whispers. It baffled him. But he was relieved Lily wasn’t pressing him to “talk it out” with their dear cousin as James was. It warmed his heart to see her embracing her true self, discovering her place in the world, and having the freedom to explore her passions without the weight of family expectations.

He tried not to resent her for it. For all her quirkiness, she was still very much a lion, and that trait often shone through even more starkly when she was with the two Ravenclaw boys. Hugo often joined them but had also found his own friend group, often seen playing various wizarding games in the Great Hall. Albus knew that his cousin had recently become a member of some sort of magical gaming club, and he was wise enough to steer clear of any competitions against Hugo—especially if he didn’t want to lose a considerable amount of Galleons.

Their other cousins, Molly and Louis whom they were close in age to, didn't seem to want to hang out too much with Family. Molly, like James, had made the Quidditch team this year and that seemed to consume much of her time. Louis had tried out, more as support to Molly and James, he wasn't a bad flier, but he just wasn't that ambitious, and mostly liked to laze about, joining the Quidditch team would just take up too much time for him. 

Albus looked over to his close friend as he tried to mull out James spiel about how he and Rose needed to connect again—Scorpius looked even more tired than Albus felt, the boy seemed more distant, and just reading with a distant look on his face. Albus knew that one, it might fool others, to think that he was just very much reading but Albus knew better his friend was lost in his thoughts—

“Albus, are you even listening?” James said, too high in his ear. 

Albus made an effort not to roll his eyes “James? don't you need to work on your assignment, isn't it last day today? You haven't even begun yet.” 

“Merlin, you’re right! This isn’t the last of this, Albus!” James exclaimed, hurriedly gathering his things. “You and Rose will talk soon—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Albus replied dismissively, waving his hand at his brother as he bolted out of the library.

Albus rolled his eyes and went back to his own Potion assignment, happy for some peace and calm—Then a stack of books, hit the table, making him look up and shaking Scorpius back to reality, both boys grinned when they looked up and was met by Sam, who returned the grin before settling down and doing his own reading, there they sat quietly, studying. Sometimes getting caught up in an interesting conversation, which always seemed to flow. Sam seemed very interested in both boys' opinions, and took it all up like a sponge to water. 

++++

The room seemed to close in on Albus, each breath sharp and shallow, as if the very air had turned against him. Their vile insults, the disgusting sneers cutting into him like jagged glass, echoed in his mind. Their voices grated like harpies—shrill, ugly, painful. So vile, so inhuman. He hated them. Every single one of them. They were cowards, hiding behind their pack, feeding off each other’s cruelty.

Humiliation surged through him as the spell was finally released, sending him crashing to the cold stone floor. His body collapsed on its side, and his head snapped against the ground with a sickening crack. The sound echoed through his skull, reverberating painfully. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if the dizziness was from the pain or the shock.

Pain shot through his head, so intense and mind-numbing, he hadn’t known pain like that existed. The room spun wildly, and the faces above him twisted into grotesque, distorted shapes. Their laughter became distant and warped, like a cruel echo from a terrible nightmare.

A cry escaped his lips as his trembling hand instinctively reached up to his head. His fingers brushed against something warm and wet—blood. He recoiled, hissing in pain. It was bad. He could feel it. But none of them seemed alarmed. Morgana, they didn’t even care.

His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, exhaustion pulling at him, dragging him closer to the black void of unconsciousness. His head was spinning as though he were trapped on a wild Muggle carnival ride—the kind that sent your stomach lurching and your mind spiraling. Was he even breathing? Was he still conscious? Shit. He couldn’t fall asleep—not with a concussion. He had to stay awake.

“Looks like the blood traitor hit his head a bit too hard,” someone sneered, but the words slipped through his mind like water through a sieve.

Laughter rang out in the background, distant and warped, mingling with the sound of an irritated sigh. The noise stung his ears, but his awareness was slipping further, the edges blurring.

“Can’t believe I’m going to heal a fucking blood traitor,” a girl’s voice cut through the haze, dripping with disdain. The sound of her pompous tone only made the pain in his head flare even worse.

“Come on, Skeeter! Gotta train right, yeah? You’re gonna be a healer—you’ll have to treat blood traitors and Mudbloods someday,” another voice chimed in, male, loud, and full of cruel amusement.

Albus teetered on the edge of consciousness, the darkness beckoning him to let go, to give in. But then—there she was. Her boot nudged his face, forcing him to look up. His blood-smeared vision narrowed in on her disgusted grimace.

“Episkey,” she muttered, flicking her wand lazily. Suddenly, his head felt like it was on fire. Heat seared through his skull, burning through his thoughts, and then—it was over. The sharp, crushing pain subsided, dulled enough for him to breathe again. His body sagged with relief, no longer hovering on the edge of oblivion.

But the hate—the rage—boiled inside him, roaming like a fiendfyre, refusing to die—

He wanted to make them suffer.