Chapter Twenty - Blood and Quills
Chapter Twenty - Blood and Quills
In the last weeks of the school term, sleep evaded him, like a snitch from a seekers grip, making exhaustion part of him like his shadow. Pathetically he was once more plagued by the dread of returning home for the holiday break. Staying was never an option, not only for the public backlash and speculation that would follow, but also because his parents would just never allow it. He wasn't as dramatic as last year; the fear of disownment didn't linger above him like a noose, yet it still tattered itself to the back of his mind, like a parasite, making him always aware of the possibility.
But now it was more if his father would become aware of his secrets. Unlike last year where the idea of him simply being disowned for being a snake was becoming faded, as it had become something of a non-issue. As much as rotting caracasses on the dinner table is non-issue. It didn't exist if nobody acknowledged its existence, but if someone dared to look at it, they could smell it’s putrid stench and no longer ignore it. The tension of skirting around it left him in a constant state of draining dread, always wary of slipping or accidentally drawing attention to it.
For now, though, he was content to let the carcass rot undisturbed, as he peacefully ate his meal in carefully crafted oblivion and ignorance. He had bigger fish to fry, as the Muggle saying goes.
Despite not sharing his family’s views on Muggles and their way of life, Albus had found his knowledge of their world surprisingly useful. It allowed him to connect with Muggle-born students, and, perhaps more satisfyingly, it irritated purebloods. For that reason alone, he supposed it was worth holding onto. But he wasn’t naive—his familiarity with Muggle culture only heightened the already hostile environment he faced in Slytherin, yet afterall he was already branded as a “blood traitor” and “mudblood lover" Some part of him was petty enough to feel it justifiable to at least try to earn the titles, afterall it didn't matter if he would make a shrine to the previous dark lord and curse muggleborns left and right, he would still be considered a blood traitor.
That was one of the issues he needed to solve, the harshness and death attempts had been eye opening—He didn't know that the hatred ran so deep. The information he had gotten from Scorpius, and his old book on pureblood traditions, was sparse . Could it really be just because his mother's side of the family had been accepting of muggles? Because his grandpa’ views and workplace as his mother had told him—When he had heard it whispered behind their back in public as a young child?
He needed more answers. He wasn’t particularly fond of the treatment he endured, but the notion of being a true “blood traitor” didn’t sit right with him either. The idea that the slurs were just a convenient excuse crossed his mind often. But why focus their ire on his mother’s lineage rather than his father’s? That thought stung more than he’d expected. It hurt even more that they targeted the side of his genes he actually liked—the side that didn’t come from his father.
His musing was abruptly interrupted by the conversation around the table.
“I’ll be spending the holidays at home,” Sam said in response to Scorpius’s question.
“You live in Muggle London, right?” Scorpius asked, his voice curious. Albus looked up from his parchment, his eyes following the conversation.
“Yes, on the outskirts,” Sam replied vaguely, visibly uncomfortable with the attention, avoiding further details on the matter. As the two continued their conversation, Albus’s gaze drifted to his wristwatch. He began packing his things, drawing the attention of the other two.
“You’re leaving?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I forgot I promised to meet James,” Albus said, allowing a trace of irritation to slip into his voice. Naturally, Scorpius began packing his things as well. Albus waved his hand in a manner that told Scorpius to stop.
“He wanted to talk alone,” Albus said, watching Scorpius pause, giving him a surprised look.
“Really?” Scorpius asked, a hint of surprise in his tone. It was expected. Normally, they always met Albus’s family together; they did almost everything together, after all.
“Yes, it’s about Rose,” Albus replied, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before dinner.” He waved his hand in a casual goodbye before heading out of the library.
Only he wasn’t going to meet James. His poor brother had no idea he was being used as a scapegoat. Albus knew that Scorpius wouldn’t have accepted another excuse, so he used the convenient mantle of family issues as one. Albus needed answers, and he knew exactly where to find them.
++++
Albus quickly made his way through the nearly empty Common Room, managing to leave without much incident—only a few slurs thrown his way, which he easily dismissed. As expected, their dorm room was occupied. The usual suspects were all there.
Zabini, Nott, and Bowker had turned the dorm into their hangout spot. Albus wondered if he should take offence to that. After all, it seemed to be a consequence of him and Scorpius spending less time there this term.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Zabini sneered from his desk, which was almost too organised.
Albus put down his back upon his trunk at the end of the bed. “I live here." He said simply as a response.
“Did you get through the Common room unscraped?” Another more cheery voice asked, Albus turned his head towards Bowker who was lying on top of his bed with a Quidditch mag in hand.
“Actually yes.” Albus answered truthfully.
Then another figure made their way into the room, only from the other end and through the door leading to their shared laboratory. Nott gave him an unimpressed look as usual, Albus only rolled his eyes as he casually made his way over and draped himself over one of the armchairs in their room.
“Where's blondie?” Zabini asked, voice showing signs of actual interest.
"Library." Albus answered lazily as he looked into their shared fireplace, which only held enchanted flames, which would never really make anything burn.
“Then why are you here?” Nott said in his usual posh tone which made Albus fill with slight irritation.
“Tell me about blood traitors.”
The room fell silent at Albus’s words, the air thick with a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago. Even Bowker lowered his Quidditch magazine, his carefree demeanor replaced by curiosity.
Nott snorted from across the room, his tone mockingly posh. “What’s this, Potter? Finally embracing the snake inside you?”
Albus tilted his head, his expression settling into deliberate neutrality. “Let’s call it academic curiosity.”
“Most importantly,” Zabini cut in coldly, his voice laced with bitter disdain, “you are one.”
“Don’t you say,” Albus drawled, feigning boredom as his fingers drummed lazily on the armrest of his chair.
Zabini wasn’t as amused. His tone turned darker, more spiteful, and biting. “Blood carries weight, Potter—or should I say Weasley?”
Albus’s jaw tightened briefly, but he forced himself to maintain composure.
Nott, who had been flipping through a book, spoke up with a bored air. “Potter, what is a blood traitor?”
Albus met his gaze, voice flat. “Blood traitors are those who betray their blood by marrying Muggles or Muggle-borns, by befriending them, or by defying Pureblood culture.”
“Morgana,” Zabini muttered, rolling his eyes before returning to his assignment.
Nott sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. “A ‘blood traitor,’ Potter, is exactly what the name implies. A traitor to one’s blood.”
“Traitor to one's blood, how?” Albus asked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest as he stared into the flickering flames.
“Those with pure blood are called the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Nott replied.
“I’m aware,” Albus said tersely, trying to hide his irritation at their mockery. He needed information, and he had expected this kind of response. That was precisely why he’d asked them; they never sugarcoated things when he lacked knowledge.
“You’re not,” Nott said coldly.
Albus glared at him. “Then please, enlighten me.”
Bowker snickered from the corner, clearly enjoying Albus’s ignorance.
Nott ignored him, his tone clipped. “Part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight made a magical pact—they vowed to produce dark wizards in their bloodlines and safeguard the legacy of dark magic and practices.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, his confusion evident. Before he could voice his question, Zabini cut in, his glare sharp and voice trembling with barely contained anger.
“The Weasleys were one of them,” Zabini said.
The room seemed to grow colder. Bowker stopped snickering, his amusement replaced by tension.
“Your family betrayed not only their bloodline and ancestry,” Zabini continued, his words venomous, “but their magic as well.”
“Lord Bilius Weasley married a light witch,” Nott added, his voice more restrained but tinged with quiet disdain.
Albus frowned, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “That’s all?”
Zabini laughed bitterly. “That’s all? Blimey, Potter!”
Nott’s expression remained calm, though his words carried weight. “When a dark wizard marries a light witch, their offspring can only possess grey cores. Which means, for your thick head, that—”
“That he turned his back on his dark heritage and doomed future generations,” Albus finished curtly.
Zabini nodded sharply. “Exactly. That’s why the Sacred Twenty-Eight intermarry and avoid outsiders—to protect the legacies and magic passed through generations.”
Albus suspected there was more to it, but he let it slide—for now.
Nott concluded grimly, “All descendants of the Weasley clan are, by definition, blood traitors.”
Albus kept his gaze fixed on the enchanted flames, their flickering dance mirroring the storm brewing in his mind. The tension in the room pressed against him as he processed their words. He felt tethered to a fractured legacy, one built on choices he couldn’t control yet was bound to by blood.
The Weasleys were blood traitors. That much, by their narrative, seemed indisputable. But if they had truly severed themselves from the dark, why had he—a descendant of that same line—felt such a deep connection to it? How could he, Albus Severus Potter, possess a dark core?
If his ancestor had made such mockery—a betrayal of magic itself, as they seemed to paint it—why had the magic accepted him so openly? Why did it help him so willingly? Unease began to creep into his gut as his thoughts spiralled. He was aware of the voices, the dark pull, the strange sight during Samhain. Something was there—forgotten or abandoned—and Albus didn’t know if he dared uncover why. He forced his mind to still, reigning in the dark musings that threatened to consume him telling him to delve deeper, to ask more questions, to try to reach for it. One thing was certain:
It didn’t add up.
He rose slowly, his figure outlined by the flickering green flames of the enchanted fire. “Is that,” he began mockingly, his voice soft but razor-sharp, “what your dear Death Eater parents have told you?” The sneer stretching across his face was unmistakable as he drank in the shocked and furious expressions of his dormmates.
A deathly silence fell. Even the flames seemed to hold their breath, as though waiting for the inevitable fallout.
“Why then,” Albus continued, his tone deceptively polite, though every word dripped with derision, “is Scorpius, a Malfoy, also called a blood traitor?”
It was Nott who answered, unflinching and accustomed to Albus’s calculated provocations. He closed his book with a soft snap and turned to face him, abandoning the pretence of indifference.
“Because of the aftermath of the war,” Nott said evenly. “The Malfoys stepped back politically at a time when the dark families needed leadership the most. Many saw it as a betrayal of their roots—especially now, with more dark magic being criminalised and more raids by your father targeting family heirlooms. Lords are being sent to Azkaban for possession alone.”
Albus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the explanation, though his expression remained inscrutable. “So they turned against the dark community?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Scorpius had been the one to teach him about the old ways, guiding him through traditions and even helping him pledge his magic, Albus was also fully aware that Scoropius had pledged himself to the dark through the Malfoy tradition. Albus knew firsthand that the Malfoys had not abandoned the dark; they merely operated in shadows, still upholding the traditions, and sharing it with the newer generation, they were no blood traitors.
Yet Nott was being uncharacteristically forthcoming. Too forthcoming. Albus’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze landed on him. There was something calculated in Nott’s candor, a subtle probe to gauge Albus’s knowledge—or perhaps his allegiance. It was a game, and one Albus couldn’t afford to lose.
Still, Nott’s words confirmed a suspicion Albus had harboured since Beltane; Since his pledge, the festival everyone of their house partook in afterward, the rituals Scorpius and Fawley had introduced him to, ones that were made for many—Fawley’s cryptic remarks during Samhain, the celebration and the explanation for the robes—all of it pointed to the existence of a deeper, more secretive community. One that predated Voldemort’s Death Eaters and perhaps even inspired them. Albus’s thoughts flickered to the traditional robes They had worn during Samhain; eerily reminiscent of Death Eater garb. It couldn't not be a coincidence.
But before Albus could probe further, Zabini snapped.
He shot to his feet, his movements abrupt and ungraceful, closing the distance between them in just a few strides. His wand was already in hand as he seized Albus by the front of his robes, yanking him close.
Hatred burned in Zabini’s eyes, the flickering green firelight casting sharp shadows across his striking features, making him look all the more menacing. His sneer deepened, veins pulsing visibly in his temples.
“Enough, Nott,” Zabini barked, his voice a sharp warning. “You’re telling a blood traitor too much. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. He’s too much of a mudblood lover.”
Nott met Zabini’s anger with a pointed glance but said nothing more, retreating into silence.
Albus, however, didn’t flinch. His sneer mirrored Zabini’s as he locked eyes with him. “It’s good to know where you stand, Zabini,” he said, his voice laced with venomous mockery. “Just like your family, I assume?”
The jab hit its mark. Zabini’s grip tightened, and the tip of his wand pressed against Albus’s throat.
“When it comes to blood traitors, yes,” Zabini hissed, his tone steeped in contempt.
“And you all think it’s acceptable, the way Scorpius and I are being treated?” Albus pressed, his voice steady despite the very real threat of the wand digging into his neck.
He didn’t flinch, his defiance an unspoken challenge. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more—to provoke Zabini into lashing out or to confirm just how deep the resentment ran.
Zabini’s lips curled into a sneer. “You really don’t get it, do you? Our families are marked by history. We didn’t have the luxury of pretending everything was fine after the war. We were hunted down, watched, punished for things we didn’t even do.”
“Lower your wand, Zabini,” Nott interjected, his voice constrained, clearly trying to prevent the argument from escalating.
“Or what?” Zabini shot back, twisting his wand slightly. His sneer widened. “What will this filthy half-blood squib and blood traitor do?”
Zabini laughed bitterly, though his eyes darkened with something deeper. “You don’t know anything,” he muttered in a low voice. “You sit there, high and mighty, pretending your family’s hands are clean. But war dirties everyone, Potter. You think your father never did anything he regrets?”
Albus met Zabini’s glare, his expression cool and calculated. He didn’t miss the deliberate shift—Zabini had called him Potter instead of Weasley.
“So you think it’s appropriate,” Albus said, his tone calm yet biting, his words less a question and more a confirmation of Zabini’s stance.
“Then, Zabini,” Albus continued, his voice turning icy, “don’t expect me to care about your family’s plight.”
The flicker of satisfaction he felt as Zabini’s face twisted in fury was fleeting, quashed almost immediately. The anger in Zabini’s dark eyes was theatrical, but the trembling in his hand—whether from rage or fear—betrayed how deeply Albus’s words had struck.
Zabini cursed under his breath, sharp and guttural in Italian, before shoving Albus back with a violent jerk. “You’re nothing but a blood traitor in disguise,” he hissed, his sneer a mask for the anguish clawing its way to the surface. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating, the tension lingering like smoke. Finally, Bowker let out a low whistle, cutting through the stillness.
“Well played,” he muttered, his tone hovering between genuine admiration and a mocking edge.
Albus turned to him, raising an eyebrow but said nothing.
Nott, still feigning disinterest, scoffed softly as he flipped another page of his book. “Of course,” he murmured, voice dry and amused. He didn’t bother looking up as he added, “You always know how to hit a nerve, Potter.”
Then, in a rare show of candour, Nott continued, his voice sharper and more deliberate. “The Zabini Manor was raided last night. His father’s been taken into custody—Your father led the raid personally.”
Albus’s expression didn’t falter, the revelation sliding off him like water on glass. “Not my problem,” he said coolly, his voice devoid of sympathy. “Zabini should learn to keep personal matters out of it.”
“Brutal,” Bowker muttered, though the smirk tugging at his lips suggested he wasn’t entirely serious.
Nott sighed and closed his book with a decisive thud “The faster you figure out that it’s actually your problem, Potter , the faster all of this will be over.”
Albus rolled his eyes, his disdain evident. He wasn’t about to waste time untangling whatever cryptic warning Nott was trying to drop. He’d gotten what he wanted—a rattled Zabini wasn’t a concern, nor were the Zabini family’s troubles. If his father had led the raid, there was undoubtedly something incriminating involved. Still, the timing was suspect. The Zabinis had recently backed the New Traditionalists in Italy, a controversial group. It wasn’t hard to imagine similar ties on this side of the continent.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing briefly as he passed Nott. “Any way I can rid myself of the title?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
Nott met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “No,” he replied flatly.
Albus nodded as though the answer was expected. Without another word, he strode toward the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back.
“See you at dinner,” he said, his voice calm, almost detached, before disappearing into the corridor.
++++
Scorpius’s expression darkened, his usual lighthearted demeanour hardening into something sharper. He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “It’s not something that happens lightly. No wizard with any sense of honour would go that far—except, of course, if there were some grave insult or deep-rooted feud. Breaking a wand hand is a deliberate act, not just an attack; it’s a declaration. To damage a wizard’s hand—their dominant one, at that—it’s practically severing them from their magic.”
Albus nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Sam, watching as the weight of the words sank in. “It’s significant to pure-bloods,” he added, studying the flicker of realisation in Sam’s eyes. “In our world, we train to use magic through a wand. Each movement, each spell—ingrained in our dominant hand’s muscle memory. But if that hand’s broken…”
Sam looked between them, his brows furrowing as he processed this new layer of severity. “It’s useless then, they have to relearn?”
Scorpius nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he seemed to choose his words carefully, weighing them. “For purebloods, the wand hand is almost as sacred as one’s wand. To break it is a grave insult.” His jaw tightening.
Sam swallowed, the gravity of the situation pressing on him, his discomfort unmistakable. “So, whoever did this wasn’t just angry. They were… making a statement.”
Albus’s mouth twisted into a cool smile, unruffled by the implications. “Or reestablishing the hierarchy.”
Scorpius’s voice softened as he added, “Or it might just be a thing of passion.” He glanced down at his textbook, his gaze fixed yet unfocused, as though he were contemplating something far beyond the pages.
Albus tilted his head, considering. “True. Anger could fuel it… but to crush the hand entirely?” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, before shifting his attention to Sam, noting the flicker of unease in his friend’s expression. “That’s not just a one-stomp kind of anger.”
He should know after all, because it was him who did it, one stamp would have been enough, but he wanted to be sure, sure that he had crushed the bones. He had wanted to watch Jenkin struggle with practical magic in the aftermath, which he did and it felt like some divine punishment, which made him want to laugh. He found the conversation interesting, wondering if he could somehow skew it into something it was not, who would know after all? It was only him and Jenkins there, no paintings, no ghosts. And Jenkin wasn't talking, wasn't it up to Albus then to somehow make up an interesting story? What would humiliate Jenkin further?
Sam’s face tightened as he struggled with the brutality of it all. “Revenge, maybe?”
“It would explain the brutal nature,” Albus replied, glancing sidelong at Scorpius with a slight, knowing chuckle. “The funniest part is, they think it was Scorpius.”
Scorpius’s expression remained calm, his voice steady. “They have no proof,” he said simply, as if practised, yet the truth.
Albus’s smile grew, and he shifted his gaze back to Sam, leaning back with an air of satisfaction. “Makes you wonder, though—what could’ve happened to keep Jenkins so silent? Not a word, even to our dear headmaster?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, a new sharpness in his gaze as he considered this implication, a shadow passing over his face. A faint smile, dark and thoughtful, touched his lips as he murmured, “Maybe… maybe Jenkins wasn’t the real victim after all.”
“Then there would be two beds occupied in the hospital wing.” Scorpius said simply.
“Or The other didn't get hurt.” Sam responded.
“Or Jenkin’ is simply smart enough to understand the consequences of talking.” Albus said.
“So someone powerful did it?” Sam asked.
“Well isn't that the rumours?” Albus mused.
“Why else isn't it out? Why hasn't the ministry sent at least one Auror?“ Scorpius said perplexingly.
“Knowing my father they probably have their hands full with much more delicate matters than simply a school bully getting what's coming to him—Or let's say Jenkins the victim, if he dont speak there is no case.”
Scorpius face morphed into a warm smile as he looked over to Sam, who had gone a few shades paler. “Don’t worry Sam, I'm sure it was a one time thing.”
“A crime of passion” Albus mused as he leaned in his chair totally unbothered.
“What if it is a message?” Sam stopped himself as he looked down and fidgeted with his secondhand robe.
“If, then to whom?” Albus said, looking into the roof.
“Jenkins is a pureblood.” Scorpius said simply as he turned his page.
“So not another Slytherin heir making a point of assaulting muggleborns.” Albus said with humour in his tone.
Sam seemed to relax only a bit, still a bit uncomfortable with the conversation. “A muggleborn taking revenge?” Sam said in a wondering tone.
“Jenkins did have a bit of a bias against anything he considered less magical.” Scorpius said.
“That’s saying it lightly.” Albus said as he rolled his eyes and swayed on the back legs of his chair.
“Funny, most think blood purity is an Slytherin trait, who could have thought a Hufflepuff was the one bullying muggleborns?” Scorpius said with dry humour.
Sam made a grimace “He wasn't cruel thought, just the usual run of the mill–”
“Realistically he doesn't need to, just a drop can overflow a goblet” Albus said simply.
“It could explain the crushed hand, maybe they don't understand the true significance.” Sam said.
“If that's the case, why didn't he speak?” Scorpious asked, a bit sceptical, as he leaned back crossing his arms.
“Humiliation.” Albus said simply, “It’s like you said, Jenkins is a Pureblood with bias against anything not, or less magical.” Albus laughs humorlessly. “Clearly, Someone with those morals would not flaunt if a muggleborn overpowered them.”
Scorpius only nodded, sceptical.
“So the message is against blood purity then?” Sam lights up.
“An interesting theory.” Scorupis drawled clearly not compelled,
Sam seemed to put things together in his head as he began to talk. “With the rising anti-muggle sentiment it would make sense, someone snapping–” Sam thought loudly.
“A crime of passion, you think?” Albus interrupted, his gaze narrowing. “The crushing of the hand—very Muggle-like. But whoever did it could still be fully aware of the weight it carries. It’s a statement.” He paused, letting the words settle into the room.
Scorpius’s eyes glinted as he considered the implications, but his voice remained level. “I’m not convinced it’s as simple as that.”
Albus rolled his eyes, “Ofcourse, heir Malfoy.” he said jokingly as he rolled his eyes then grinned at the pointed look Scorpius gave him.
“I think it's sensible.” Sam said quietly, fidgeting with his robe.
Albus nodded. “It is, most are just to blind to see it. People think muggleborns are to stupid, too weak, to be able to do it, that's why it’s not even a rumour, or theory, as Scorpius put it.”
“It’s just ignorance then, ignoring the most likely perpetrator.” Sam continued analytically with a bit of frustration seeping into his voice.
Scorpius looked at him understandably but still sceptical. “Whom would it help to spread that? clearly not Muggleborns.”
"I disagree." Albus said casually as he looked at Sam. “Afterall, what if it’s the truth?”
Sam sat quietly but his expression gave way to the inner workings of the younger boy, who was clearly contemplating the words carefully. Albus hid a smirk, he could see it in the other boy's eyes, the wheels turning in his head, the seed taking root—It was only a matter of time before the rumour would spread, hopefully like a fiendfyre. After all, they were in the library—a public space—and he’d intentionally left the conversation open for others to hear. He knew the eavesdroppers would catch on. That was the point.
++++
He had been right. By the next morning, the rumours had spread like wildfire. Purebloods moved more stiffly, glancing over their shoulders, while Muggleborn students walked with newfound confidence. The story had taken root, gaining momentum as it went. People loved an underdog, a champion for Muggleborns—especially when the underdog was framed as having outwitted a Pureblood bully.
The public opinion of Jenkins had shifted too. No longer the innocent victim, he was now viewed as just another bully. The truth of his long-standing mistreatment of Muggleborns was out, and it sent ripples through the school. Those who stood with blood purity recoiled in indignation, while Muggleborns, Half-bloods, and the "Muggle-loving" Purebloods saw the shift as a victory. Some Purebloods, especially those with an ingrained sense of superiority, grew angrier, their resentment bubbling to the surface, but of course they were smart enough to keep their composure.
Albus could hardly believe how easily it had all unfolded. He and Scorpius were no longer the primary focus of suspicion. No one seemed to care about who had actually done it anymore; the idea was the story now. The truth of Jenkins's actions had taken precedence over any lingering questions about the perpetrator. And as the rumour spread, it seemed as though no one cared to dig any deeper—As if they were content with the hidden identity of the assaulter.
As Albus forked a piece of his eggs, the telltale rustling of wings filled the Great Hall. Morning owls swooped down from the windows in an elegant flurry, delivering letters and parcels to the eagerly awaiting hands of students. Albus barely glanced up when his own owl Merlin dove towards him, dropping a tightly folded Daily Prophet right into the middle of his plate.
He sighed, staring mournfully at the smear of yolk now decorating the front page before shoving a small crust of toast toward the owl as payment. “You could’ve aimed for the table,” he muttered under his breath as he petted the owl, but the owl only gave him a dignified hoot before flapping away.
Pulling the soggy parchment free from his breakfast, Albus unfolded the paper. His eyes skimmed the bold headline, and a flicker of satisfaction tugged at the corner of his mouth as he read:
“SHOCKING TURN OF EVENTS! A NEW LIGHT ON THE SUPPOSED DARK MAGIC ASSAULT AT HOGWARTS!
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, long considered the safest haven for young witches and wizards, is once again at the centre of controversy. The recent dark magic assault on a second-year Hufflepuff student has taken a dramatic turn, with new rumours casting doubt on the victim’s innocence and reframing the narrative around the incident.
Initially depicted as a helpless victim of a malicious attack, the Hufflepuff is now being scrutinised for alleged behaviour that may have provoked retaliation. Whispers in the halls suggest the student had a history of targeting Muggleborn classmates through subtle but pervasive bullying—some even claiming the student used Muggleborns as dummies for spell practice.
The injury—severe enough to land the student in the care of Madam Pomfrey—has become a target for wandfire in the broader debate. While initially perceived as an act of unprovoked violence and dark curses, the nature of the injury and the underlying tensions it represents have led to speculation that the attack was a deliberate statement against blood purity prejudices. It seems the curse used was nothing more than a common boil curse.
One anonymous source close to the investigation commented: “He wasn’t openly cruel around teachers, but it was clear where his loyalties lay, making some of my friends scared to walk alone. He made Muggleborns feel unwelcome, and unsafe, as if they didn’t belong.”
The incident has also rekindled fears of a rise of new traditionalist beliefs among youth, especially Purebloods. The injury Jenkins sustained—a crushed hand—has since become a symbol of rebellion against blood purity ideology among students. According to circulating rumours, the assault might have been carried out by a Muggleborn student seeking to challenge Jenkins’s prejudice or to stand up against oppression. Some suggest that the method used, while brutal, carried a message of defiance that is impossible to ignore.
The shift in narrative has polarised the Hogwarts student-pool. Many Muggleborn and Half-blood students have hailed the incident as a long-overdue stand against discrimination. “It’s about time someone called out people like Jenkins,” one student remarked. “If the teachers won’t stop the bullying, maybe this will make them think twice.”
Meanwhile, the rumours have sparked outrage among Pureblood circles. “This is an attack on our heritage, plain and simple,” said a seventh-year Slytherin. “It’s one thing to stand up for yourself, but this is violence, and it sets a dangerous precedent—Read more on page 4 how this affects the current climate of wizarding politics, The Minister of Magic Hermoine Granger-Weasley, who is a muggleborn herself, has chosen to not comment. follows ups on the Zabini case can be read on page—”
The words blurred slightly as Albus scanned the article, the corners of his mouth twitching as satisfaction mingled with amusement. He could only imagine the rage Jenkins must be feeling as the entire school devoured the fresh scandal. Around him, reactions rippled through the Hall. Groups of students leaned over their own copies of the Prophet , their voices low but urgent.
At the Slytherin table, some Purebloods sat stiffly, their expressions cold and wary, while others whispered furiously amongst themselves. Across the Hall, a few Muggleborn students at the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables looked livelier than usual, sharing triumphant glances and nods of approval.
Albus fought to suppress the smirk threatening to break across his face—It somehow had worked.
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He felt a sharp tug on his robes, yanking him to his feet. Before he could react, he was being pulled out of the Great Hall and shoved lightly into the nearest private alcove.
“Scorpius!” he hissed, barely steadying himself before meeting the other boy’s intense gaze.
“What are you thinking—” Scorpius began in a low, frantic voice, his hands clutching Albus’s robes. “No—what are you playing at?”
Albus stared at him in disbelief, a bloom of dread unfurling in his stomach. The thought of Scorpius being mad at him filled him with unease. “Playing at?” He injected genuine confusion into his tone, hoping to stall.
“You know exactly what I’m—” Scorpius’s voice was strained, almost shaking as he pushed Albus further into the alcove. Their faces were close now, and Albus could see the tension etched in his features. Scorpius broke off abruptly as the sound of chatter echoed nearby.
“Enlighten me?” Albus asked, keeping his tone even as he searched Scorpius’s face for a better read of his emotions. He tamped down the irrational need to agree, to appease, even as the dread coiled tighter inside him.
“The article!” Scorpius whispered harshly, his composure fraying with every word. “The whole fake story about Jenkins—Merlin, I should’ve known. It was too convenient, you talking about it so openly!” He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the movement betraying his exasperation. “What in Salazar’s name were you thinking, making up—”
“It’s brilliant, Scorpius!” Albus interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “What’s the issue? Everyone loves it! It takes the suspicion off us!”
“What’s the issue?” Scorpius repeated incredulously, his frustration cracking through his normally composed demeanour. “You’re making the divide between Muggle-borns and purebloods worse!” he said, his voice frantic but still low enough to avoid drawing attention.
Albus felt a headache forming. It was too early—and too public—for this argument.
“I was just voicing a theory!” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “How was I supposed to know it’d blow up like this?”
Feigning ignorance was probably his safest move. He hated lying to Scorpius, but it felt like the only way to evade the piercing scrutiny of those gray eyes, locked so intently on his. Scorpius’s grip slackened slightly, though his expression remained firm. His brow furrowed, his eyes scanning Albus’s face as if searching for the truth hidden beneath his words.
“Don’t treat me like I don’t know you,” Scorpius said quietly, his tone soft but cutting. Of course, he had seen through him—if anyone could, it was Scorpius.
Albus forced himself not to linger on the sadness in Scorpius’s eyes, the hurt at being lied to. He pushed the feeling aside, meeting Scorpius’s gaze head-on. He couldn’t afford to falter now.
“What was I supposed to do?” Albus shot back, his frustration laced with guilt. “Let everyone think it was us? Let you get blamed? Keep letting people treat Jenkins like a victim ? This helps us, Scorpius! It’s a distraction, and I didn’t know it would spiral like this!”
“It’s not my fault if people can’t control themselves,” he added defensively.
“No, you just made it easier for them to justify it,” Scorpius replied, his voice trembling now, with something that felt like heartbreak bleeding through. His hands still gripped the front of Albus’s robes, but the force in them had softened, as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull Albus closer or push him away. “You’re so focused on yourself, you can’t even see the damage you’re causing.”
Scorpius’s words were heavy with something deeper, more personal, but Albus missed it entirely. He clenched his fists at his sides, his frustration bubbling over. “Why do you even care about some Muggle-borns? Look, the heat is off our backs—where’s your Slytherin self-preservation? You should be praising me, Scorpius! Stop acting like a bleeding-hearted Hufflepuff—”
“What are you two whispering about?”
The sudden interruption made them both freeze. Hugo stood at the edge of the alcove, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Behind him, Lily appeared, her grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat’s. Scorpius grip left Albus robes as quickly as wizardingly possible–Yet it didn't matter.
“Clearly, they’re in the throes of a heated moment before a snog,” Lily declared dramatically, clasping her hands over her heart with mock passion. She shook her head in exaggerated disapproval. “You wouldn’t understand, Hugo. It’s a complex, passionate—”
“We are not snogging,” Albus said flatly, cutting her off as heat rushed to his cheeks. He straightened his robes, throwing a glare in her direction.
“I didn’t say you were,” Lily shot back, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I said you were about to—”
“Lily, you interrupted it,” Hugo chimed in with a smirk. “Albus looked ready to confess everything. Very romantic.”
Lily turned on him, hands on her hips. “You interrupted it, Hugo! I was watching, Then you had to barge in—”
“I was protecting my cousin’s innocence,” Hugo retorted defensively, crossing his arms. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Albus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Beside him, Scorpius looked mortified, his face as red as a Howler. His hands twitched at his sides like he was seconds away from attempting to vanish into the wall.
“Lily!” one of the Scamander twins called out as he jogged toward the group, his twin not far behind. “You’re impossible this early—”
“Did we miss something?” the second twin asked, his gaze bouncing between Albus and Scorpius with barely concealed amusement. “Caught them red-handed, did you?”
“She did,” Hugo said cheerfully, earning an irritated glare from Lily. “I just got here.”
Albus sighed, shooting his cousin and sister a withering look as Scorpius visibly deflated, the tension in his shoulders replaced by resigned humiliation. Oddly enough, Albus felt a flicker of relief. His family’s absurdity, for now, had spared him from the argument he wasn’t ready to finish.
+++++
“Sam,” Albus said with a friendly nod as he sat down at their usual library table, tucked away in a quiet corner near bookcases that rarely saw much use. The younger dirt blonde boy looked up from his book with a friendly smile towards him.
“Is that third-year Charms?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Sam nodded simply. Albus shrugged as he pulled out his scrolls, propping his jaw on his hand. His eyes flickered to Sam’s notebook, where the younger boy was furiously scribbling with something that caught his attention—a Muggle ballpoint pen. Albus raised an eyebrow.
“A ballpoint pen?” he asked, amusement in his tone. Sam stopped writing abruptly, his expression slightly sheepish, as if expecting disapproval.
“Quills aren’t as quick—or practical—for note-taking,” Sam explained. There was a flicker of unease, of disapproval as though he feared he had crossed some invisible social line.
“Muggle pens are easier for sure,” Albus said casually, watching Sam visibly relax. “But don’t rely on them too much. You’ll need to get comfortable with a quill—every assignment has to be written with one.”
Sam made a slight grimace “I’m aware—It just seems so–” he struggled to find the right word, clearly still tipping around this new world.
"Old school? Out of date?” Albus mused amusingly. which earned a grin from Sam.
“Your words.” the other said feign innocence. Albus laughed.
“You know you can criticise the way wizard’s do stuff right?” Albus asked, his eyes studying the other. The word seemed to have struck some kind of nerve, as the younger boy seemed to grow a bit conflicted; as he fidgeted with his hand on his worn out robes.
“It’s just—” the other let out a breath, his eyes falling on the book laid out before him. “It’s hard to know what offends.” He said finally.
“It’s fine to offend.” Albus said simply.
“What is fine to offend?” Another voice quipped, making both the boys turn their head to the newcomer.
Scorpius sat down beside Albus with grace, putting down two heavy tomes on the table, which made Albus give him a side eye.
“I take it that you have done all the assignments?” Albus drawled.
“Yes, as would you if you had planned better.” Scorpius replied smoothly with a posh tone before continuing as he opened one of the books.”So what is fine to offend?” he said in his usual pureblooded learned haughtiness.
“Purebloods, wizards, the magical world.” Albus said with a smirk as he leaned back feeling less inclined to study. He took in the other expression, there was still a slight tension between the two after their argument the other day.
“Ah.” Scorpius’s tone was neutral, his eyes on the page before him.
“I don’t want to offend, though,” Sam interjected quickly.
“And I’m saying it’s alright,” Albus replied. “Muggles are behind wizards in some aspects, sure, but we’re behind them in others. It’s not offensive to point that out.”
“True,” Scorpius added, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “We’re not superior in everything. ”
Sam nodded, relaxing slightly. “It’s just—quills are so awkward to hold, and you can’t erase the ink.”
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. “Of course you can erase ink.”
Sam blinked, his confusion plain. “How? nobody has told–”
Albus rolled his eyes. “Because it’s second nature to kids who grew up around magic. They wouldn’t think to mention it.”
Sam looked like he was out of words, his expression changed rapidly. “What? that not fair—” he begun “It wasn't even in the mandatory muggleborn introduction books–” slight frustration bubbling in his voice at the unfairness–
Scorpius looked at him emphatically. “I suppose it’s a bit of an oversight—Considering the books are written by purebloods,” he said to the younger boy.
“That’s ridiculous! Why are purebloods writing introduction books—” Sam started but stopped himself, the implications dawning on him.
“They know the wizarding world best,” Scorpius said matter-of-factly, as though the answer were obvious. “Who else would write them?”
Albus let out a dry laugh. “Someone who actually knows what Muggle-borns don’t know. You’d think that would be helpful.”
Scorpius gave him a side glance, clearly unamused. “These books are written by wixen who have taught generations of purebloods. They know the intricate details of wizarding life, and all mandatory Muggle-born introduction books are ministry-approved.”
“They should at least have a Muggle-born review them—or, better yet, co-write them,” Sam suggested tentatively.
Albus let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Why would an ape need to review a book written about it? That’s how purebloods think of Muggle-borns,” he said with a biting edge. “And co-write? That’s never going to happen. Purebloods are way too proud.”
Sam deflated at his words, the hope in his expression fading. Scorpius made a grimace at the Albus crude comparison.
“There aren’t many Muggle-born academics,” Scorpius added, trying to steer the conversation “Most of the academic world is pureblood-dominated. It has been for generations.”
“There are plenty of Muggle-born writers,” Albus countered with an exaggerated eye roll. “The problem is that the publishing companies are owned by purebloods. They gatekeep the whole field—delaying, rejecting, or outright ignoring drafts from Muggle-born authors. Mother told me some of the older publishing houses even toss manuscripts straight into the bin if they don’t come from a ‘respectable’ family name.”
Sam did a grimace, Scorpius also looked offended at that.
Sam continued a bit raviled up “How would they even know–” He began.
“They use a pureblood directory to check surnames,” Scorpius said quietly, his jaw tightening momentarily before his mask of neutrality returned.
“And statistically,” Albus added, “Muggle-borns have the lowest income in wizarding Britain.”
“Which means they can’t afford to self-publish or wait,” Sam said, catching on.
Albus took in Sam's now less exited form, seemingly to have deflated in the face of the bleak reality.
“The purebloods still hold most power in the wizarding world, as they are the majority.” Albus said simply.
"Then it’s no wonder why nobody thought a Muggle-born could stand up to Jenkins, a pureblood," Sam said, his voice tight with restrained emotion.
“It’s ignorance and bias.” Albus said, trying to steer the topic away from that boiling cauldron of a topic. “Muggleborn don't have lesser magical cores, it’s not that they are worse than purebloods, only the pureblood gatekeepers the higher positions.” Albus continued.
Scorpius sat back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his open book. His usually sharp eyes had softened, unfocused, as he processed the conversation.
"Even Muggle Studies textbooks are written by purebloods," Albus added with a laugh, cutting through the heavy air.
Sam grimaced but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face. "That's why they’re so behind—I looked into some of the books, and they really just focus on the oddest parts of Muggle culture."
Albus chuckled. "Yeah, they see Muggles as exotic but ultimately lesser beings."
Scorpius remained silent, his expression carefully neutral, though the usual warmth in his eyes was tempered by something more introspective. Albus caught the flicker of thought beneath the surface in those tentative grey eyes.
"That's bullshit," Sam muttered with surprising boldness, snapping Scorpius out of his reverie.
"Don’t let a pureblood hear you say that—" Albus teased with a grin, Sam's face seemed to drop before Albus continued. "The correct word is 'Hippogriff-dung'. " The joke lightened the mood, earning a revived expression, which turned into an eye roll and then a laugh.
"Well, who knows—Maybe things will change now, after the Prophet picked up the story showing that Muggle-borns are not weaker than purebloods." A faint fire of resistance sparked in Sam's eyes, and Albus wasn't the only one noticing, Albus glanced at Scorpius who took in the younger boy's spirited expression.
Scorpius’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Before his mask returned, betraying the internal conflict stirring within.
Then Scorpius’s composed demeanour returned with a practised ease, though the contemplation lingered in his eyes as he smiled warmly. "Sam," he said softly, "would you like to know the spell for vanishing ink spills and erasing sentences?"
+++++
Sleep continued to evade him, but with the aid of some Dreamless Sleep Potion, Albus managed to feel marginally well-rested. It was the final week of term, a time when even the most lackadaisical students found themselves haunting the library or scribbling furiously over their last meals in the Great Hall, trying to complete assignments before the holidays. Predictably, some Ravenclaws were already tackling their holiday homework, which earned a roll of the eyes from Albus.
The so-called "Muggleborn Avenger" was still the hottest topic of conversation, not just within Hogwarts but across wizarding Britain. Students were eagerly penning letters to their families, who, in turn, were scrambling to extract more tantalizing tidbits to spread over their own gossip networks.
Jenkins had finally been discharged from the hospital wing, though he rarely ventured beyond the Hufflepuff common room. Albus couldn’t help but smirk every time the boy floundered in class, struggling to cast even the simplest spells with his now-healed hand. Though the bones had been regrown, the process hadn’t restored the muscle memory or magical precision he once possessed. Watching Jenkins bungle his spells felt like divine retribution.
Even so, Jenkins’s ordeal hadn’t ended in the hospital wing. Muggleborn students, emboldened by his impaired magic, had taken to teasing and hexing him whenever he dared cross their path. It was an ironic reversal of power that made Albus snicker quietly, though he noted that the Hufflepuffs, Jenkins’s own house, didn’t join in. Perhaps loyalty ran so deeply in their veins that they didn’t need rules to keep from turning on one another—Unlike snakes they didn't need the constant threat of punishment to not stab each other in the back, at least openly.
Sam, however, had once remarked that Ravenclaw was by far the most cutthroat house, and Albus had seen enough evidence to believe him. One incident stood out: Sam had entered the library with an essay he’d worked on for days, only to have it burst into flames the moment he unrolled the parchment. The culprit remained unknown, though the smug looks of his housemates offered enough of a clue. Sam’s reaction was little more than a grimace, as though such sabotage was a daily hazard.
It was. Ravenclaws seemed to have a sixth sense for sabotaging one another, especially when academic success was on the line. Stealing notes, vanishing ink, whispered counter-spells—it was all fair game to them. Albus found the ruthless precision of their antics strangely amusing, though Sam was less enthused, as he was the one actually having to put up with it. It was sobering, most would only view the Ravenclaws as nerds, know-it-all or those with eccentric-behaviours, also known as loonies. Nobody outside the house seemed aware of how deep the competitiveness went, and how far or dark some were willing to drip their fingers into to succeed, academically ofcourse, they were still Ravens not snakes–Their ambition seemed mostly to dwell within their knowledge and Academics, not politics, thought some stuck out.
Sam had also shared a small but telling detail—one that was surprisingly revealing. The reason the Daily Prophet had gotten hold of the Muggleborn Avenger story so quickly was because one of the fourth-year Ravenclaws, Elwin Beaufort, had connections to the newspaper. His uncle, Matthieu G. Beaufort, was a well-known columnist—though under a pseudonym—and had been the first to break the story. This was an open secret within the Ravenclaw house, one Sam had only revealed after Elwin had been particularly nasty to him about his “lack of manners.” Sam, in turn, had deliberately argued that it was a thinly veiled insult aimed at calling him a “Muggleborn.” Both Albus and Scorpius agreed, noting that while the Ravenclaws may have more class than to use terms like Mudblood , the subtlety was clear. It was almost a badge of honor to avoid the bluntness of Slytherin insults, but that didn’t make the sentiment any less toxic.
Scorpius had immediately launched into a tired but amused rant, clearly enjoying the chance to indulge in high society gossip. The Beauforts were an old, “sacred” pureblood family from France, he explained, one that had apparently intermarried with the Lestranges for generations. Elwin and Matthieu, it seemed, belonged to an offshoot of the family tree—one that had moved to Britain in an attempt to claim the Lestrange fortune. Or so the gossip went, anyway. The Lestrange lordship and fortune were now up for grabs since no one from the main branch was alive to claim it, their family either dead or rotting away in Azkaban.
It was a hot topic in pureblood circles, with the Rosiers also vying for control of the Lestrange legacy. But, as Scorpius had explained, that was only half the battle: magic didn’t care for legality. The Lestrange lordship ring had to accept the candidate as well, and if it rejected them, the claim would be nullified. Scorpius mentioned that a few years ago, a spare from the Trembley family had tried to claim the lordship, only to be rejected by the ring itself.
Scorpius continued his ramble, clearly enjoying the intrigue. He speculated that the Blacks probably had the strongest claim, as the late Lestrange brothers’ mother had Black blood in her near ancestry. Yet, the current holder of the Black lordship had not made any moves to claim the Lestrange fortune. Scorpius glanced at Albus, a little uneasy, as if expecting him to know more about the matter—or even who held the Black lordship in the first place. Albus, however, was still in the dark about that particular piece of the puzzle—So it was only met by him rolling his eyes at the gossip.
++++
Albus was caught in a mixture of relief and dread—Burke had not come after him again, which worried him more than if he had. As he sat in the train compartment moving through the Scottish highlands with Sam and Scorpius, he feared what that might mean.
“It’s only two weeks.” Scorpius said calmly and emphatically to Sam who seemed to be as anxious as Albus felt.
“It's just—” The younger boy stopped himself and breathed in. “I don't understand why we cant use magic at home–I will fall behind and then they will become much more–” the boy went on clearly very upset about the ministry rules about the trace and magic in muggle areas.
“I’m sure you won't fall behind that much, didn't you say that you already did most of the practical you need for the homework assignments?” Scorpius said softly as he sat beside the boy who seemed very stressed. “Yes! But Travers keeps teasing me about it, saying that muggleborns should just give up–That we can never compete with purebloods.”
“The Travers have always been blood–purists, don’t take what he says to heart.” Scorpius said.
“Clearly he feels threatened, I'm sure you will beat that little prat even if you can’t practise magic during the holidays.” Albus said towards Sam who responded, not convinced—
“It’s just unfair, how pureblood seems to be able to do it, even if none is supposed to be able to.” he said as he crossed his arms.
“The trace doesn't work in old wizarding homes, as they usually have anti-surveillance runes built into the wards.” Scorpius explained.
Albus let out a dry laugh. “Clearly the rules are made so muggleborns will fall behind.”
Scorpius gave him a look, a bit uncomfortable. “Those runes were placed before the trace became mandatory, and it’s important, Muggleborn are more likely to break The Statute of Secrecy” he said pointedly towards Albus, before catching himself and turning towards Sam with a regretful but albeit warm smile “It’s just a security measure, it’s only two weeks.”
Both Albus and Sam held in the important part of the information, that it wasn't just two weeks, but the whole summer holiday which seemed to escape Scorpus' mind.
Instead, Scorpius quickly shifted the topic. “So, Sam, do you think your parents will let you visit?” he asked, his tone bright and eager. His excitement was infectious, and Sam seemed to catch it, his face lighting up at the thought of being invited to Malfoy Manor.
Albus, however, fought to hide his own jealousy. He stared out the window, letting the passing landscape blur as he tried to occlude his thoughts. The fear that had settled deep in his stomach seemed more tangible now, gnawing at him, making his jaws ache with tension. He tried to rationalise it, to push it away—but the dread felt permanent, lodged somewhere deep.
It wasn’t until the sounds of the train’s movement became distant, and his thoughts drifted further inward, that he was fully submerged in his mindscape. The dense forest, now thick with snow, stretched endlessly before him. He walked through it, searching for somewhere to bury his fears and the unsettling truths of the past week. He didn’t hear the rest of the conversation.
“Can’t I practise the spells at your manor, then?” Sam asked hopefully.
Scorpius shook his head gently. “I don’t think you’re allowed to travel with your wand,” he said simply, his voice understanding.
Sam furrowed his brows. “How would they even know?”
Scorpius gave him a sympathetic look, sighing quietly. “Most don’t know—but when it comes to muggleborns the Trace also tracks the location of your wand.”
“Why?” Sam asked, clearly caught off guard.
“Well, I suppose the official reasoning is for the protection of muggleborn minors,” Scorpius explained. “It was implemented after a lot of Muggleborn students were kidnapped during the First Wizarding War—it was hard to track them, and most ended up—” Scorpius stopped himself before continuing. ”But now with the Trace, they can follow a wand’s location and find them!”
Sam nodded, but there was a lingering discomfort on his face. “I still don’t like that. Even if it's for a good reason.”
“Well—” Scorpius said, trying to lift the mood, his smile returning. “It’s only until you’re seventeen, and they don’t check your location all the time, don't worry–That would take way too much man power.”
Sam seemed to relax at that information.
Scorpius leaned back, clearly eager to steer the conversation back to something lighter. “And, even if you can’t have your wand, we can still do other things! Like flying, if you’re into that—we have a whole Quidditch field–”
He continued to talk about the luxuriousness of his family’s estate, his words painting an image of wealth and grandeur. Sam looked at him, almost dreamily, imagining it.
Albus was pulled back into reality by a soft but cold hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “—Albus?” the voice said.
Albus turned to look at Scorpius and blinked. “What did you say?” he asked, resigned to the fact that he couldn’t remember hearing anything of the conversation.
“Are you alright? Seems like you didn’t hear Sam’s question,” Scorpius said with slight concern, watching Albus carefully.
“I’m alright. Don’t worry, Scorpius—what was the question?” Albus replied, turning to Sam as he leaned back into his seat, trying to appear relaxed. In reality, his mind was swirling—how much time had passed? He hadn’t realised he had sunk so deeply into his thoughts.
Sam glanced at Scorpius before meeting Albus’s gaze. “How do you feel about the holiday break?” the younger boy asked.
Albus thought about it for a moment. “Well, let’s say I’m hoping for more sleep—and hopefully some quiet and calm.”
Scorpius gave him a sympathetic look, while Sam raised an eyebrow.
Albus shrugged. “Holidays at my place are, let’s say, as rowdy and loud as a Quidditch game.” He said the last part with distaste. Sam grimaced sympathetically.
Not wanting the conversation to steer towards his home life—something he hadn’t shared with Sam yet—Albus pressed on. “Though—what I’m more worried about is how in Merlin’s beard I’m going to get a snake for Lily.”
“Buy it, I presume?” Scorpius raised an eyebrow, and when Albus shot him a look, he chuckled.
Albus couldn’t help but laugh too, but then he groaned and covered his face with his hands. “They’re going to think I’m some kind of dark wizard for giving her a snake.”
The other two boys laughed at that. Scorpius gave him a knowing glance, which seemed to slip past Sam unnoticed.
“Didn’t Lily say she had it under control?” Scorpius asked.
“Scorp, you should know one thing—never trust my sister. She’s awful at keeping her word,” Albus rolled his eyes.
“Well, you can always return it if your parents don’t approve. That way, Lily can’t blame you either,” Sam said, his tone calculated. Albus looked at him.
“True, Iguess you can always count on a ravenclaw to have the best advice.” Albus said with a grin, which Seemed to make Sam brighten up a bit more and return the childish grin.
As his gaze shifted toward the other lighter blonde dread returned to his stomach as he noticed Scorpius's expression, it had subtly changed, and there was a slight hint of uneasiness and fear in the other's eyes—In the way the boy's lips seemed to twitch. Albus knew this was the moment to ask. He needed to be sure.
“What about you, Scorp?” Albus asked, his voice casual.
“What about me?” Scorpius replied, snapping back to reality and quickly fixing his expression.
“How do you feel about this Yule break?” Albus asked, trying to sound casual.
Scorpius’s smile faltered for a brief moment, his eyes clouding with something Albus couldn’t quite decipher. But just as quickly, that bright smile returned. “I’m excited, of course! This year, we’re doing something special—” His voice picked up, and he beamed as he began describing the elaborate celebrations his family had planned. Albus listened, nodding along, but deep down, he sensed something wasn’t quite right.
It only seemed to confirm Albus’s fears—if Scorpius’s mind was occupied by what Albus thought it was, there really was no silver lining.
The hours seemed to slip away after that, as they talked and laughed. But when the time came for them to part ways, Albus found himself wishing for more time, dreading the return to his family, to home. He wanted to stay with Scorpius and Sam and just be him—just be another student, not Harry Potter’s disappointment of a son, not Harry Potter’s Slytherin son, the dark horse of his family, the Hippogriff in the room at family dinners, which most people seemed to dance around with their jokes, making it seem like he was overreacting.
As the train pulled near King’s Cross, Albus regretfully stood up, retrieving his trunk from the overhead storage shelves. He said farewell to the two boys.
“Greet your parents for me?” Albus added as he stepped toward the door.
“Of course! Don’t worry about it. Happy Yule, Albus,” Scorpius said.
Albus smiled back and waved to both of them, Sam seeming a bit perplexed over what was going on. But Albus was sure Scorpius would clue him in without revealing too many details.
Albus paused at the door, glancing back one last time at Scorpius. “Happy Yule, Scorpius, Sam,” he said. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped into the corridor, leaving his friends behind.
Now, another battle of wits awaited.