The first Lie
Alas, I have no beta, so while I do try to catch all my mistakes, some will slip through. Feel free to tell me if you catch any.
Scorpius sat with the letter in his hands and stared at it blankly. He'd known, when the owl had arrived without a package. He pushed his plate away, leaving most of his food untouched. He didn't want to open the letter here, not around his housemates. He stood and slipped the unopened envelope into his pocket.
“You all right there, Malfoy?” Pascal Zabini had taken an almost proprietary interest in him once he'd discovered that Scorpius was no slouch on a broom.
“I'm fine, thanks. Just not feeling hungry this morning. I-I think I left my Potions textbook in my trunk.” Scorpius ducked his head and walked as quickly as he could from the Great Hall, down the steps and deep into the dank heart of the dungeons.
“Dominion,” he whispered before a stretch of blank wall, and then slipped into the common room when the door appeared. A few older students were still there, all busy writing out last-minute essays, and they barely paused as he entered.
Alone in the first year boy's dormitory, he pulled the folded parchment from his robes and cracked the wax seal. His father's writing. Scorpius sighed. Mother had had one of her turns again. He crunched the stiff parchment and rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand. A horrible part of him was glad that he was at school. The last time he'd been too young for Hogwarts, and he'd had to tiptoe around the house, not allowed to disturb his mother, while his father had spent most of his time either at work, or hiding in his study. Scorpius had eaten toast with jam for a week, until his father had seemed to realise that someone actually had to cook. After the one dismal dinner they'd shared, Scorpius had been put off fried egg for a lifetime.
He smoothed the letter against his knee, rereading the last lines: In good news however, your grandparents will be joining us come Christmas. I would suggest, in this case, that you cancel your invitation to Potter. Scorpius scowled and cast Incendio, watching his father's elegant script curl and blacken, the words eaten away. He'd just pretend he'd never received his father's letter, that's all. Dusting the fine ash from his school robes, Scorpius left.
Outside the common room door a small dark figure was leaning against the wall. Albus straightened as the door slid shut behind Scorpius.
“What are you doing down here, Albus?” Scorpius kept his head low, hoping that his eyes didn't look as red and puffy as they felt.
“I followed you dow - well actually, I'll let you in on a secret - all the Hufflepuffs know where Slytherin's common room is. Anyway, you looked upset. Everything okay?” Albus said, and Scorpius could hear genuine worry.
“Yeah,” he said, and forced brightness into his voice. “Just realised I'd left my potion's text behind, and that old bat has it in for me.”
“Rickard? Yeah, she hates everyone, doesn't she?” Albus said, as he fell into step alongside Scorpius. “James says she took ten points from Gryffindor the other day, and he wasn't even doing anything.”
Privately, Scorpius thought that James' version of nothing and Professor Rickard's were probably very different, but he said nothing, letting Albus chatter on until they reached the Potion's classroom door. The Ravenclaws were already there, reading ahead in their books while they waited outside.
“Well, I'll see you after lunch - double Herbology. Uncle Nev - Professor Longbottom told me we're doing a bit of outdoor work for a change.” Albus paused, then took in the bustling sharp-faced figure of Professor Rickard as she barrelled toward the Potion's Classroom. “Uh-oh, looks like I'm going to be late for Transfigurations. See you,” he yelled as he took off at run up toward the stairs.
The other two Slytherins smirked as Albus bolted past them. Rickard glared down her nose, but Albus appeared not to notice. Scorpius smothered his grin as the students filed into the classroom under the Professor's watchful gaze.
--
Halloween had come, and all the students were in the Great Hall, a cornucopia of food and treats spread before them on the house tables. The air was shrill with chatter and the teachers up on the head table were talking and laughing like children themselves. Scorpius rather thought that they might not be drinking pumpkin juice. His parents got like that sometimes.
“Hey, Malfoy.”
Scorpius looked up to see Cleo watching him from further up the table. She'd taken him aside earlier in the week and instructed him to start coming to Quidditch practise - not to fly, but to watch the plays, and learn what it was she expected of him. She had held his shoulder the whole time, and her nails were sharp enough to feel through his school robes. “Yes,” he said rather uncomfortably.
Cleo grinned. “There's a party after this, you want to come, firsty?”
Scorpius knew all about the party, everyone in Slytherin who was anyone was invited. That Cleo was extending the offer to him was odd. Augustin elbowed him in the ribs. “Accept, idiot,” he hissed.
“I- uh, yeah, that would be great.”
Cleo's smile widened, and Scorpius shifted in his seat. Pascal's sister was downright terrifying, in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. He grabbed at his glass of pumpkin juice and gulped the contents down. When he looked up again, Cleo was talking to someone else, her predatory gaze no longer on him.
“What did you do to get invited to that?” Augustin said. “She didn't even invite her own brother.”
“I'm right here next to you and can hear every word you say, Imago,” Pascal said, not even looking up from his plate, where he was slicing his pumpkin pie into tiny neat squares before stabbing them with his fork. “And anyway, I wouldn't want to go even if she did.”
“Um.” Scorpius cleared his throat. “Am I in some kind of danger?”
Pascal looked up from his massacred food and grinned slyly. “You're always in danger, Malfoy.” He speared a tiny segment of pumpkin and swallowed it. “You're to tell me everything my sister says to you. Understood?”
He nodded, and really wished he'd gone to Ravenclaw.
--
The party was held in a small storage room, not far from the Slytherin common room. Someone had gone to the effort of pushing all the mangy furniture against the walls and covering the worst of them with some sheets. Bats had been charmed down from the Great Hall, and they fluttered in panic among the cobwebs. The quidditch team was there, sprawled in a rough circle and they were drinking from a bottle of firewhisky. Craigson, a burly fourth year who played beater, bounced a knut on the ground and into a glass. There was laughter as the next person missed, and had to take a long swallow from the bottle. A few other students were also around, and there was a low buzz of chatter, the clink of glasses. Scorpius felt very small and out of place.
“Ah, you're here.” Cleo shoved a glass into his hand and led him toward a filthy couch. “Sit here. I'll be back.” Without giving him a second glance, she returned to the small crowd of students. There was a wireless balanced on a rickety chair, and classic rock blasted through the tinny speakers. The Weird Sisters, Scorpius even recognised the song; his father liked them.
Scorpius sat down tentatively and waited for the dust cloud to settle. He gripped his glass tighter. The pumpkin juice Cleo had handed him when he'd arrived tasted off, and he set it down after a few sips.
“Having fun, Malfoy?” Cleo had pulled away from the two older students she'd been talking to, and stalked over to him. She sat down next to him on the couch. “How's daddy dearest then?”
“Fine.”
“Still in transportation?”
Scorpius was just vaguely aware of what his father did for a living, but that sounded familiar, so he nodded.
“Good.” Cleo patted his knee. “The Zabinis and the Malfoys have always been friends, you know,” she said, her voice sweet and rich as dessert cream.
“They have?” This was news to Scorpius. “My father never mentioned yours.”
“Oh, they go way back.” Her hand was still resting on his leg, and Scorpius inched away from her. He stopped when she dug her nails deep into the flesh of his thigh. He flinched. The sharpened nails had broken his skin. “In fact, my dad wanted you to know that we're keeping an eye on you - call it protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“This and that,” Cleo said, and flexed her hand, driving the nails deeper. Scorpius gritted his teeth, determined not to make any sound of pain. “You never know what might happen in Hogwarts, it can be a dangerous place, you know.” She pulled her hand away, and Scorpius gasped in relief, then gritted his teeth. Cleo stood and stared down at him. “Tell daddy the Zabinis say hi,” she said, and then turned and walked through the small crowd, who parted before her.
--
Draco unrolled his copy of the Prophet on his desk and set down his tea. Aiden Brock had made the tea, which meant it was Tetleys and in the wrong cup. It also had sugar. Seven years in this department, and Brock still couldn't remember that Draco didn't take sugar. Or it was deliberate, which was entirely possible. He let the tea get cold and scanned the headlines.
Every day since that visit from Potter, Draco had kept his ears and eyes open. The threat to the American Wizarding world had never been mentioned again, and Draco was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined reading it.
Across from him Aiden had settled behind his own desk and was industriously sorting through the morning's requests for Portus charms. Draco shuddered, it was - he glanced up at the clock on the wall - barely ten-thirty, and Brock was hard at work. Draco could stretch a fifteen minute tea-break into a good half-hour break if he wanted to, which he did. He flipped through the rest of the paper, scanning for any relevant news.
“Brock,” he said, and the chubby wizard looked up from signing off a batch of scrolls. “You have relatives in America don't you?” Draco was sure he'd heard the man waffle on about it before.
“I do at that. An aunt married one of them. An American, I mean.”
“Do you hear from them often?”
Brock leaned back and rested his hands on his prodigious belly. “Well, now that you mention it, not so much these days. Haven't had an owl from them in a while. Probably the Trans Atlantic Albatross service messing around again, it's not unusual.” He shrugged. “Are you planning on leaving us for better climes?”
“No.” Draco folded the paper and evanesco'd the tea. “The thought couldn't be further from my mind.” He returned to his desk and eyed the mountain of paperwork glumly. “I've been hearing strange rumours about what happens to wizards in America.”
“Oh that.” Brock waved his hands, dismissing Draco's worries. “It's not true in the least. Some crack-pot muggle scientist there thought he'd discovered wizards, was talking about investigating bloodlines, that sort of thing.”
“What happened to him?”
“Obliviated, naturally. Can't have that sort of thing floating around.”
“No,” Draco mused. “We can't.” Something about the situation was still worrying him though. He sighed, he had more pressing things to worry about than what happened across the pond. He needed to sort out the last details of his parents' transfer. Scorpius hadn't owled back and that meant Draco was probably going to have to do something as horribly gauche as send the boy a howler just to get his attention. At least Mariet was up and about again, even if she was in a sulky mood and wanted to go to her mother's. Draco pushed the irritation away and pulled a file down, opening it to see which charms-impaired idiot needed a portkey, and when and why.
It wasn't a standard form, but an office memo.
Draco swallowed and got up to make himself a decent cup of tea, and made a point of not offering one to Brock.
The creation of all portkeys to the North American continent had just been summarily banned.
--
Scorpius sat with the letter in his hands and stared at it blankly. He'd known, when the owl had arrived without a package. He pushed his plate away, leaving most of his food untouched. He didn't want to open the letter here, not around his housemates. He stood and slipped the unopened envelope into his pocket.
“You all right there, Malfoy?” Pascal Zabini had taken an almost proprietary interest in him once he'd discovered that Scorpius was no slouch on a broom.
“I'm fine, thanks. Just not feeling hungry this morning. I-I think I left my Potions textbook in my trunk.” Scorpius ducked his head and walked as quickly as he could from the Great Hall, down the steps and deep into the dank heart of the dungeons.
“Dominion,” he whispered before a stretch of blank wall, and then slipped into the common room when the door appeared. A few older students were still there, all busy writing out last-minute essays, and they barely paused as he entered.
Alone in the first year boy's dormitory, he pulled the folded parchment from his robes and cracked the wax seal. His father's writing. Scorpius sighed. Mother had had one of her turns again. He crunched the stiff parchment and rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand. A horrible part of him was glad that he was at school. The last time he'd been too young for Hogwarts, and he'd had to tiptoe around the house, not allowed to disturb his mother, while his father had spent most of his time either at work, or hiding in his study. Scorpius had eaten toast with jam for a week, until his father had seemed to realise that someone actually had to cook. After the one dismal dinner they'd shared, Scorpius had been put off fried egg for a lifetime.
He smoothed the letter against his knee, rereading the last lines: In good news however, your grandparents will be joining us come Christmas. I would suggest, in this case, that you cancel your invitation to Potter. Scorpius scowled and cast Incendio, watching his father's elegant script curl and blacken, the words eaten away. He'd just pretend he'd never received his father's letter, that's all. Dusting the fine ash from his school robes, Scorpius left.
Outside the common room door a small dark figure was leaning against the wall. Albus straightened as the door slid shut behind Scorpius.
“What are you doing down here, Albus?” Scorpius kept his head low, hoping that his eyes didn't look as red and puffy as they felt.
“I followed you dow - well actually, I'll let you in on a secret - all the Hufflepuffs know where Slytherin's common room is. Anyway, you looked upset. Everything okay?” Albus said, and Scorpius could hear genuine worry.
“Yeah,” he said, and forced brightness into his voice. “Just realised I'd left my potion's text behind, and that old bat has it in for me.”
“Rickard? Yeah, she hates everyone, doesn't she?” Albus said, as he fell into step alongside Scorpius. “James says she took ten points from Gryffindor the other day, and he wasn't even doing anything.”
Privately, Scorpius thought that James' version of nothing and Professor Rickard's were probably very different, but he said nothing, letting Albus chatter on until they reached the Potion's classroom door. The Ravenclaws were already there, reading ahead in their books while they waited outside.
“Well, I'll see you after lunch - double Herbology. Uncle Nev - Professor Longbottom told me we're doing a bit of outdoor work for a change.” Albus paused, then took in the bustling sharp-faced figure of Professor Rickard as she barrelled toward the Potion's Classroom. “Uh-oh, looks like I'm going to be late for Transfigurations. See you,” he yelled as he took off at run up toward the stairs.
The other two Slytherins smirked as Albus bolted past them. Rickard glared down her nose, but Albus appeared not to notice. Scorpius smothered his grin as the students filed into the classroom under the Professor's watchful gaze.
--
Halloween had come, and all the students were in the Great Hall, a cornucopia of food and treats spread before them on the house tables. The air was shrill with chatter and the teachers up on the head table were talking and laughing like children themselves. Scorpius rather thought that they might not be drinking pumpkin juice. His parents got like that sometimes.
“Hey, Malfoy.”
Scorpius looked up to see Cleo watching him from further up the table. She'd taken him aside earlier in the week and instructed him to start coming to Quidditch practise - not to fly, but to watch the plays, and learn what it was she expected of him. She had held his shoulder the whole time, and her nails were sharp enough to feel through his school robes. “Yes,” he said rather uncomfortably.
Cleo grinned. “There's a party after this, you want to come, firsty?”
Scorpius knew all about the party, everyone in Slytherin who was anyone was invited. That Cleo was extending the offer to him was odd. Augustin elbowed him in the ribs. “Accept, idiot,” he hissed.
“I- uh, yeah, that would be great.”
Cleo's smile widened, and Scorpius shifted in his seat. Pascal's sister was downright terrifying, in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. He grabbed at his glass of pumpkin juice and gulped the contents down. When he looked up again, Cleo was talking to someone else, her predatory gaze no longer on him.
“What did you do to get invited to that?” Augustin said. “She didn't even invite her own brother.”
“I'm right here next to you and can hear every word you say, Imago,” Pascal said, not even looking up from his plate, where he was slicing his pumpkin pie into tiny neat squares before stabbing them with his fork. “And anyway, I wouldn't want to go even if she did.”
“Um.” Scorpius cleared his throat. “Am I in some kind of danger?”
Pascal looked up from his massacred food and grinned slyly. “You're always in danger, Malfoy.” He speared a tiny segment of pumpkin and swallowed it. “You're to tell me everything my sister says to you. Understood?”
He nodded, and really wished he'd gone to Ravenclaw.
--
The party was held in a small storage room, not far from the Slytherin common room. Someone had gone to the effort of pushing all the mangy furniture against the walls and covering the worst of them with some sheets. Bats had been charmed down from the Great Hall, and they fluttered in panic among the cobwebs. The quidditch team was there, sprawled in a rough circle and they were drinking from a bottle of firewhisky. Craigson, a burly fourth year who played beater, bounced a knut on the ground and into a glass. There was laughter as the next person missed, and had to take a long swallow from the bottle. A few other students were also around, and there was a low buzz of chatter, the clink of glasses. Scorpius felt very small and out of place.
“Ah, you're here.” Cleo shoved a glass into his hand and led him toward a filthy couch. “Sit here. I'll be back.” Without giving him a second glance, she returned to the small crowd of students. There was a wireless balanced on a rickety chair, and classic rock blasted through the tinny speakers. The Weird Sisters, Scorpius even recognised the song; his father liked them.
Scorpius sat down tentatively and waited for the dust cloud to settle. He gripped his glass tighter. The pumpkin juice Cleo had handed him when he'd arrived tasted off, and he set it down after a few sips.
“Having fun, Malfoy?” Cleo had pulled away from the two older students she'd been talking to, and stalked over to him. She sat down next to him on the couch. “How's daddy dearest then?”
“Fine.”
“Still in transportation?”
Scorpius was just vaguely aware of what his father did for a living, but that sounded familiar, so he nodded.
“Good.” Cleo patted his knee. “The Zabinis and the Malfoys have always been friends, you know,” she said, her voice sweet and rich as dessert cream.
“They have?” This was news to Scorpius. “My father never mentioned yours.”
“Oh, they go way back.” Her hand was still resting on his leg, and Scorpius inched away from her. He stopped when she dug her nails deep into the flesh of his thigh. He flinched. The sharpened nails had broken his skin. “In fact, my dad wanted you to know that we're keeping an eye on you - call it protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“This and that,” Cleo said, and flexed her hand, driving the nails deeper. Scorpius gritted his teeth, determined not to make any sound of pain. “You never know what might happen in Hogwarts, it can be a dangerous place, you know.” She pulled her hand away, and Scorpius gasped in relief, then gritted his teeth. Cleo stood and stared down at him. “Tell daddy the Zabinis say hi,” she said, and then turned and walked through the small crowd, who parted before her.
--
Draco unrolled his copy of the Prophet on his desk and set down his tea. Aiden Brock had made the tea, which meant it was Tetleys and in the wrong cup. It also had sugar. Seven years in this department, and Brock still couldn't remember that Draco didn't take sugar. Or it was deliberate, which was entirely possible. He let the tea get cold and scanned the headlines.
Every day since that visit from Potter, Draco had kept his ears and eyes open. The threat to the American Wizarding world had never been mentioned again, and Draco was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined reading it.
Across from him Aiden had settled behind his own desk and was industriously sorting through the morning's requests for Portus charms. Draco shuddered, it was - he glanced up at the clock on the wall - barely ten-thirty, and Brock was hard at work. Draco could stretch a fifteen minute tea-break into a good half-hour break if he wanted to, which he did. He flipped through the rest of the paper, scanning for any relevant news.
“Brock,” he said, and the chubby wizard looked up from signing off a batch of scrolls. “You have relatives in America don't you?” Draco was sure he'd heard the man waffle on about it before.
“I do at that. An aunt married one of them. An American, I mean.”
“Do you hear from them often?”
Brock leaned back and rested his hands on his prodigious belly. “Well, now that you mention it, not so much these days. Haven't had an owl from them in a while. Probably the Trans Atlantic Albatross service messing around again, it's not unusual.” He shrugged. “Are you planning on leaving us for better climes?”
“No.” Draco folded the paper and evanesco'd the tea. “The thought couldn't be further from my mind.” He returned to his desk and eyed the mountain of paperwork glumly. “I've been hearing strange rumours about what happens to wizards in America.”
“Oh that.” Brock waved his hands, dismissing Draco's worries. “It's not true in the least. Some crack-pot muggle scientist there thought he'd discovered wizards, was talking about investigating bloodlines, that sort of thing.”
“What happened to him?”
“Obliviated, naturally. Can't have that sort of thing floating around.”
“No,” Draco mused. “We can't.” Something about the situation was still worrying him though. He sighed, he had more pressing things to worry about than what happened across the pond. He needed to sort out the last details of his parents' transfer. Scorpius hadn't owled back and that meant Draco was probably going to have to do something as horribly gauche as send the boy a howler just to get his attention. At least Mariet was up and about again, even if she was in a sulky mood and wanted to go to her mother's. Draco pushed the irritation away and pulled a file down, opening it to see which charms-impaired idiot needed a portkey, and when and why.
It wasn't a standard form, but an office memo.
Draco swallowed and got up to make himself a decent cup of tea, and made a point of not offering one to Brock.
The creation of all portkeys to the North American continent had just been summarily banned.
--