epilogue fic.
Because mother had told him to use her name.
Father never spoke on it, never mentioned the past. Only when they'd stood on the platform as the train pulled up in smoke and grinding gears. “Keep quiet,” he'd hissed. “Say nothing, stay low. That way is best.” And mother had gripped his shoulder once, hard, and smiled her tight small smile.
“Better if he'd been born a squib,” father had said when the letter came, with its crest and its wax seal and its promises of something more. His father had torn it into confetti and touched it with the tip of his wand, made it burn and curl and die. But more had come, and father had locked himself in his study. Mother had taken him aside and told him he was going to go to school and instead of being exciting it had been terribly frightening, like a curse that couldn't be lifted.
Around him noise rose as families kissed each other goodbye, brushed tears small as diamonds from their eyes. Father had nodded once to a short myopic man, and then steered him away to another carriage. Mother pressed a wrapped gift to him, and Scorpius knew it would hold chocolates and liquorice.
“Now listen, do what your father says and hopefully you won't draw any attention.” She looked left and right, as if she were scared that some one might be eavesdropping, and then she'd kissed his cheek quickly and smiled.
And then they were gone and the train had shrieked as it pulled away. Scorpius sat alone in a compartment and pressed against the back of his seat. Voices from the carriage passage reverberated outside; shouts and cheers and laughter. It reminded him a little of the one time his father had taken him to see his grandparents and outside the room-cell-there'd been jeers and catcalls. They'd been thin and proud, and his grandmother had told him to be a good boy and his grandfather had asked him what kind of spells he could do.
And Scorpius had not been able to answer because no-one had given him a wand - not until a few weeks ago when his father had dug through the remains of the family vault and dug up the one that now sat in his trunk.
“But,” Scorpius had said, still holding his letter. “They say you can bring a pet - like a rat or an owl-”
“No.” His father had turned away. “Familiars only make you vulnerable.”
And that was that.
Scorpius drew his knees to his chest and hugged them close.
The door slammed open and a dark-haired boy, scruffy and about his age, peered in. “'Lo.” He glanced around the empty compartment. “Mind?” he said, as he settled himself on the opposite seat. “You know what brothers are like, well, older ones anyway.” He kicked at his trunk.
No, he didn't. Scorpius shrugged. “Yeah, they suck.”
“Albus,” said the boy. He grinned shyly.
“Scorpius.” And then he remembered. “Gamp.”
“Hey,” said Albus, “We're probably related.”
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