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If anyone had even a sliver of doubt that Christmas was just around the corner, they would need only visit Bosa Donuts, a location that could have claimed the titles of both cheapest and busiest storefront in all of Muggle London.
From every available inch of ceiling hung odd, shiny, spiral objects; from every corner stood an awkward, mismatched Santa Clause statue; from every chair hung a cheap, plastic bow of red, green, or silver. Every member of the serving staff wore a pointed red hat with garish fake fur embellishments, and swaths of patrons crowded in front of an over-stuffed pastry case bursting with red, green, and white confections.
The location might as well have been selected with the sole purpose of making Draco Malfoy singularly uncomfortable—which, given the nature of this meeting, may have been the case.
“Thank you for coming.”
The man across from him could very well have been his double; similar heights, same white hair, identically pale complexions. A bit of a curl and brown eyes were the only things ostensibly different between the two, save for around twenty years and a general sense of belonging, or lack thereof.
“The hourly pay was too good to pass up.”
Scorpius blew on what was now a lukewarm cup of coffee, an act made clumsy by the aggressive smirk contorting half his face. Draco had offered up the Malfoy inheritance in full were Scorpius to accept a one hour meeting at the location of his own choosing, and the fact that only fifty-three minutes remained was enough for Draco to tear out the scabs around his jagged cuticles.
“Yes, well, persuasion tactics aside, your presence is much appreciated. Do you also—do you like cold coffee?”
“Yeah, like mum. That’s what you were about to ask, isn’t it?”
“Yes… I recall her sharing that particular habit years ago. I didn’t mean to bring her up.”
“She’s my mum, why wouldn’t you bring her up.”
A hard look came over Scorpius’s face, aging him prematurely, reminding Draco that seventeen could be very old or very young. But recollection of some memory bubbled to the surface, and the muscles in his cheeks spasmed in an attempt to contain a rogue smile.
“She leaves mugs all over the apartment—full of coffee, just sitting there, overnight—and drinks them as she walks over for breakfast in the morning. Says she won’t make it twelve steps without some caffeine, so she couldn’t possibly survive the process of brewing a fresh cup without falling asleep. It’s bloody disgusting, but I’ve come into it myself by this point. And patience isn’t exactly one of my virtues—I’d rather just be able to finish a damn cup than have to drink it in little sips.”
“You get that from me as much as her—the lack of patience, not the disgusting morning habits.”
“Hard to pick up habits from a man you’ve never met.”
And the respite was over, squashed by the reminder of Draco’s perpetual absence.
“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome, after what happened between us. Between your mother and me.”
“Absolute bullshit,” the mug gripped in Scorpius’s hands would be lucky to survive the combined pressure of his grasp and his glare, “that’s absolute bullshit and you know it. First you didn’t want her, didn’t want me, then when you realized that no pureblood cow wanted to stick herself with a man who already had a potential heir,” he spat out the word with such disgust it may as well have been a severed fingertip, “you were too much of a coward to come back.”
“She never would have—“
“Of course she would. She would’ve let you come back, let you try to fix things. If there’s one thing we can all agree on, it’s that mum’s too much of a bleeding heart to have shut you out. Hermione Granger is an absolute sucker for lost causes.”
The pulse in Draco’s neck was sentient at this point, attempting to burst through his veins and allow him to die without continuing this conversation. He dabbed away at what was most definitely a horridly sweaty brow with a disposable, poinsettia-decorated serviette, took a stuttering breath, and met his son’s eyes.
“Did you even want kids?”
What was more painful? The idea that procreating was only to extend the family line, or the truth—that some children were welcomed, while others…
“Yes.”
A quick, forceful inhale answered that question.
“Your mother—your mum and I, we were… well, I’m sure she’s told you about it to a degree, but I never expected… anyways, I did want children, but we were very young, and it wasn’t the right time or the right… I was young. I was a kid. All of my decisions had been laid out for me, and hers was a path separate from everything I knew. My friends. My family. My culture. It was too much to take in, and I said some things I thought—still think—were unforgivable. Moving past that path felt final, and I didn’t look back.”
“Then why even start?”
“Have you met the woman? Have you tried telling her ‘no’?”
This was a perfect example of how a simple comment could be taken two entirely different ways. Draco’s mistake didn’t even register until he recognized that Scorpius was quivering with rage, not poorly-smothered laughter.
“So it was all her then. Her idea. Her relationship. Her responsibility. Did she knock herself up too? Somehow I feel like you had to have been involved at some poi—“
“STOP!” The packed restaurant—bakery, he inadvertently corrected—quieted from a bustle to a low buzzing as heads turned towards their table. An angry flush settled across both men, each staring into their cups until the noise picked up once more. Draco broke the stalemate, whispering into his coffee.
“I just meant—she’s Hermione Granger. I knew it wouldn’t end well, but at the time I-I couldn’t stop. I asked her forgiveness, she forgave me, and suddenly I couldn’t tear myself away. I don’t know what she’s told you over the last seventeen years, but I—“
“She didn’t,” Scorpius nearly yelled before checking himself, self consciousness creeping across his cheeks once more as he glanced around the room. “She didn’t say anything about you. Anything bad, that is.” With a deep breath, he settled his shoulders back from their previous hunch into the back of his chair. “Look, you can have more time if you want it. Another hour, after we settle all this. But we do have to settle it. I can’t sit here for any length of time and pretend to be okay with you insinuating anything untoward about my upbringing, or the welcome you would have hypothetically received. I mean, aren’t you even curious? About me? About mum? About what I think of you? Or do you just want me to answer a few banal questions about school?”
He had, in fact, wanted to live in a world of pleasantries and vague future promises. Inviting Scorpius to Sunday tea would have been a good next step. Maybe he could have asked after his studies or school friends, or seen if he’d like a broom for Christmas. Talking about Hermione and the seventeen years of silence preceding this meeting was not on his agenda. But things happen regardless of whether or not they’re planned. Disregarding the pounding in his chest and the rather persuasive urge to run, he conceded.
“Tell me about it. Tell me about—tell me everything.”
A genuine expression of—something settled over Scorpius’s features. Not a smile, but not a smirk or a scowl. It was the most Hermione Granger face he had ever seen on someone who was not, well, Hermione Granger. A look of being right about an answer to some nonexistent question.
“She named me Scorpius after the Black family tradition,” Fuck, the boy liked to go right for the kill. “Not just for you, but for Uncle Sirius as well. Harold for Uncle Harry—he’s my godfather. Ugly fucking name, isn’t it? Scorpius Harold? Especially the Harold bit.”
Draco snorted into his coffee, spilling disgustingly cool liquid over the plastic tabletop.
“Yeah—you agree, everyone agrees. But whatever. Scorpius Harold Granger. Every year on my birthday Uncle Harry tells the story of how I was born, and why his was chosen over the hoard of potential Weasley names.”
“And?” The question was ripped from him by some monstrous, disembodied curiosity before he was able to clamp his teeth around it. Through uselessly gritted teeth, Draco answered Scorpius’s expectant look: “The story. What’s the story.”
Scorpius snorted even as his lips twitched upwards.
“Alright, but it’s bloody embarrassing.”
Posture slipping in a way that would have disgruntled the deceased Narcissa Malfoy to the point of exhaustion, Scorpius quirked his head to the side like he was watching events play out on a loop just to the left of Draco’s head.
“She went into labor while drafting some legislation on Grindylow habitat conservation. Everyone knew she was working herself ragged through the pregnancy,” at this, the back of Draco’s neck burned, and his stomach dropped several inches from its rightful anatomical place, “so they took her to lunch on a rotating schedule to make sure she ate, went outside, all that stuff. Oh,” startled recognition shook Scorpius from his trance, “everyone means Uncle Harry, Aunt Luna, a whole bunch of the Weasleys—“
“Yes yes, I’m sure that Granger was surrounded by the rest of the Golden Trio and their Weasel entourage.”
“Well, yes, but it’s not quite as horrid as you’re making it sound. They’re lovely people. They raised me.”
“You’re… yes. You’re right. I—apologize. They make me rather uncomfortable. That group. Bad blood and all.”
“Got worse after all this,” Scorpius gesticulated between them, “didn’t it?”
“Clearly.”
“Am I to avoid telling stories that involve the Weasleys? Or may I continue?”
Petulance seemed to grow exponentially with each generation.
“Continue.”
“Right then.” A smug pinch took up residence over Scorpius’s features, and he settled back into his position of staring just beside Draco.
“It was Uncle Harry’s turn to take her to lunch. He was in a right panic when she didn’t show—went running through the ministry to find her. Finally caught her in a conference room, on the floor, arranging scraps of parchment like some sort of puzzle while avoiding the very prominent spot on the carpet where her water broke.”
The noise that escaped Draco was likely the most honest sound he had made in years, some some sort of pained chuckle twinged with undiluted fondness over the innate ‘Granger’-ness of it all. Scorpius persisted, pausing only to allow himself a small laugh.
“He sent a patronus to the minister—the minister—and threatened her at wandpoint under threat of firing. ‘Harry James Potter, my contractions are eight minutes apart. I have hours of labor left before this kid comes out of me. Hours. Do you know how many Grindylows die from water contamination every hour?’” The kid’s Granger impersonation was undeniably brilliant, and Draco could feel tears dampening his cheekbones as he sought to contain a his laughter.
“I assume he managed to convince her to leave for St. Mungo’s, then?”
“It’s like you don’t know the woman at all. Uncle Harry disarmed her while Kingsley threatened her job, and then he carried her to the floo while she slapped him repeatedly.”
“Sounds like the man earned his designation.”
“Of Godfather or head Auror?”
“Both. I’d rather deal with a gaggle of mad dark wizards than a pregnant Hermione Granger.”
It was a joke. It was. But a heavy silence ripped them out of whatever pleasant existence they had found just moments before.
“I didn’t mean—“
“I know. It’s… well it’s not okay, but I know you didn’t mean it. The way it sounded, that is. And you’re right, dealing with mum when she’s not in the mood to be dealt with is a noteworthy achievement.”
It was a kindness he did not deserve.
“Tell me more. Please.”
Scorpius smiled at him even while his jaw worked, strained with the pain of passivity.
“She talked about you all the time.” A tightening reminiscent of the cursed used to put his Aunt Bellatrix down held Draco paralyzed in his chair. Scorpius noticed the sweaty, shaking, un-breathing mess of a man in front of him, and was launched forward with the speed at which he tried to get through his next thoughts.
“Good things—no, really. Obviously I don’t remember the early stuff, but I’m told there was a Weasley ban for like a year or two because they wouldn’t stop bashing you. She told me about how you met again after the war, how she caught you reading that muggle book—1984, right?—how she brought you a cold cup of coffee once when you were looking peckish and you almost hexed her for it.
“She told me about leaving books outside your office door at the ministry with little notes on why you might like them. And the coffee you’d leave on her desk for when she came in each morning—guess I’ve got you to thank for that habit, yeah?”
Nervous. He was nervous. Scorpius pushed through these memories, these scraps of a father he’d never met, like at any minute Draco was going to shred them and not look back, treating the talks he’d shared with his mother about the man who’d left them—extensive, precious talks—like they were nothing. It shattered something inside of Draco that he didn’t even known was there, and forced him to listen to each word with seventeen years worth of care.
“She told me about cooking with you in her flat, and how you almost burned the whole thing down by throwing water on a grease fire. And every time she’d tell that story she’d get this worried look on her face, like she could see you doing it all over again and was trying really hard not to write you and make sure you’d learned your lesson. Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Learn your lesson?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Actually went back to asking the house elves to cook for me after that fiasco. It took a bloody month for my eyebrows to go back, and I thought I might starve if I waited for my skill to catch up to my appetite.” This earned him a small giggle, and left him hungry for more.
“I pay them, though—the elves. I pay them.”
“Thats—that’s great, Mr. Malfoy.”
Mr. Malfoy.
“What was your favorite story?”
This question was apparently tantamount to asking Hermione Granger to choose her favorite book (excluding Hogwarts: A History, of course). Righteous indignation settled over Scorpius as his head lolled forward and his eyes bugged out.
“Fav—favorite? Just one?”
“Okay okay, just—what’s one you like a lot? Doesn’t have to be a favorite. Just a story you like.” Draco had navigated these waters before, twenty years ago, with a different Granger, and was perversely happy that he still had a knack for backtracking.
“Hmmm…. I like the one of you blasting mum’s telly when she put on Lord of the Rings.”
“That’s—she—it’s—I mean, what a horrible choice of movie! It’s bloody terrifying! That fucking spider—“
Scorpius had rested his forehead against the little table in a horrid attempt to hide his cackling.
“Pick another. That one’s no good. It’s far too biased.”
Several minutes passed before the boy was able to communicate effectively again.
“Alright, alright… oh gods, she mentioned you’d react like that every time she brought it up, but I didn’t… I mean I should have… she really is always right…”
“Reacted like what?”
“Nothing, nothing… but, I mean, you even crossed your arms, just like she would when she imitated…” at this point Scorpius huffed dramatically and wound his arms across his chest, donning what was likely meant to be an imperial-but-flustered disposition and shaking with repressed giggles.
“Charming. Please, please pick another. I’d quite like to not die of mortification in this horrid little muggle restaurant.”
“Yes yes, settle down. I— well I liked the more sentimental ones, especially when I was young.” Blonde fringe hung over Scorpius’s eyes, and the tops of bright pink cheeks were just barely visible as he hung his head to stare into the surface of his coffee.
“Sentimental ones?”
“Yeah. There’s one I’d always ask her for. And I—well I stopped after a while, because honestly I think it hurt her, but I could tell she loved it too.” Every joint in Draco’s hands flexed at the same time as he felt, rather then realized, the story Scorpius was talking about.
“I mean I know how it all wound up, so I never really… well I never read too much into it, you know? But it sort of made me… wonder. I think. And mum’s face always got this look when she told it, like it happened in her favorite book but she couldn’t quite remember the ending.
“She said you used to brew potions together. Nothing big, really, just household ones. Stuff like pain potions and calming draughts. Not that you needed the help or anything, just so you could spend time together. She’d read to you sometimes, or you’d talk about your days. And one night she fell asleep in the chair, and woke up to you telling her about your father and how you wondered if he’d be disappointed if you wanted to teach. Said you liked that potions were methodical and precise, that the instant gratification of creating something that could help someone grounded you after the war. I think she knew she wasn’t meant to hear it, but she piped up anyways—“
“And told me that anyone would be lucky to learn from me. I remember.”
“Were you mad that she pretended to be asleep?”
“I said it because I knew she was awake.”
He’d been brewing Dreamless Sleep that night, wondering how many nights of naturally dreamless sleep he’d managed since the war. The thoughts slipped out of him as soon as Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, like she could somehow make them all come true.
“It’s my favorite subject at school.” Scorpius’s blush extended from his cheeks to his ears and the base of his neck as he spoke.
“Sorry?”
“Potions. It makes me feel—I like looking at things in small steps. It’s less overwhelming. And mum gave me some old books that you used to use. I guess it made me feel—“
“Connected.”
“Not just to you, to me, too. Like I can make something good out of every day.”
“I understand that feeling. Very well, in fact. It’s something I struggle with, the feeling of incompleteness when something doesn’t go well. I can—I have some old potions journals, if you’d like them. Never did make a career out of teaching, but I did try my hand at brewing some potions of my own. I could give them to you?”
“I think I’d like that.”
For the first time in sixty-two minutes, Draco felt like the connection to his son might live beyond the four walls of what must be the busiest bakery in London. So, of course, he pushed his luck.
“May I ask a question?”
Having already displayed an uncanny ability to mirror Hermione’s facial expressions, Scorpius must have decided it was unfair to represent only one parent, and so looked down his nose and narrowed his eyes in what could only be described as a perfect impersonation of ‘little git Draco’.
“I suppose. Ask.”
“Why did your mum say—not that I’m upset about it, quite the opposite, of course—but why did she tell you such nice things about me?”
Scorpius winced, shoulders twitching, So this was not a pleasant question. Peachy.
“It wasn’t easy. Growing up. Not having a dad. There aren’t many kids in the Wizarding world who come from single parent homes. And the kids who were fine with me having an unconventional home life were usually the kids who picked on me for having a Death Eater father.”
He should not have asked the fucking question.
“It was alright, really. Half of Hogwarts was Weasley by the time I went to school, and you should see those kids fight. I’m pretty sure Uncle Charlie lets them wrestle dragons when they visit him in Romania. And Weasleys take care of their own, you know, so I didn’t get much more than a few comments.
“Stuff about my home life never bothered me. I love mum. She’s everything. And anyone who says I’m lacking because she’s all I have has clearly never met her.
“But she knew I might not have as much reinforcement from the other comments. The ones about you. I guess she wanted me to have something to fall back on when the talk got too loud, or I started to doubt who I was or where I came from. It helped, really, knowing that the kids who were picking on me only knew a fraction of what I knew about you.”
Scorpius took an almost alarmingly deep breath, screwed his eyes shut, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m mostly talking about you and mum. It’s just—the stories—they help me. To talk to you. I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know what to say to you. I feel like I’ve known you all my life, but we’re only just meeting today. And I’m so angry—so fucking angry—that you never bothered with me. But the man in all my stories isn’t someone who would just leave his kid—or, at least he isn’t someone who would leave his kid and not regret it. So do you?” Scorpius eyed Draco as one would eye a sneezing Atlas, like the man could shake his entire world in a moment’s notice. “Do you regret it?”
“Every day.” It came out as barely a croak, but Scorpius nodded, settling back and staring at his cuticles—shredded, like his father’s. That neither man was bleeding by now was little more than a miracle.
“How should I talk to you?”
Just talk. Say anything. Say everything.
“How would you like to talk to me?"
“Are questions off limits?”
…depends.
“No.”
“Why didn’t you ever open our letters? Mum charmed them to notify her when you opened them. I got it out of her a couple weeks ago that they’ve never been read. We wrote you every Sunday.”
“I—well, why did you continue to write me if I never answered?”
“Mum wrote them after things ended between you, every week, and once I found out I practically threw a fit to be included, even though she warned me the communication would be one-sided. At first, it was like writing to Santa Claus, or having a diary. I never expected an answer. Just wanted to write to someone special, like a pen pal. After that, it was almost revenge. Like if I wrote you every week you’d someday realize everything you’d missed. Your turn.”
The room felt sickeningly hot, and Draco could feel sweat clinging to his collar, making his neck clammy and sending chills down to his tailbone. “I—at first I thought they were hate mail. Got a ton of that from the Weasleys, at least at the beginning.”
“And after that?”
“I’m not sure. It became a habit, honestly, not opening my mail. It’s not as though Malfoys have debs collectors owling regularly.”
Draco had hoped that evasion and light humor would offer him some reprieve from this particular question. He should have known better than to doubt the obstinance of a Granger and a Malfoy.
“That isn’t an answer, it’s an evasion.” Not even a moment’s hesitation. “Why didn’t you open them?”
“Because they were the one thing I could control.”
It came out in one great purge, like the words had festered over time in his subconscious, waiting for someone to question why Draco Malfoy hated to receive owls, why his unopened mail filled a room in the manor, why he had ignored envelopes painted with growing blue handprints for years, why—
“What does that mean? Control?”
“I hurt her. Your mum. When she told me about you. In a way that I didn’t think I could ever remedy. And I know you think I just deluded myself into believing I’d screwed up to the point of no return, but somewhere between the Weasleys’ outright hatred, rejected pureblood betrothal contracts, and realizing that you’d probably already learned to walk without me, I figured I’d already missed out on things with you. Decisions were no longer mine to make. And I kept getting these envelopes—these fucking envelopes—with tiny, sweet little handprints stamped on the front, undoubtably filled with all the details of the life I could have had, and I thought I’d save myself the pain of knowing how great things could have been had I just allowed myself the small perversions of a mudblood wife and halfblood son.“
Brown eyes narrowed at the slurs, but the floodgates on his subconscious were demolished, and Draco Malfoy could no more hold back than he could sprout wings and bathe naked in the vat of hot chocolate perched atop the bakery counter.
“And the best part? I haven’t believed in blood purity for years. Years. Since before you were born. Since I somehow—miraculously, and likely through nothing short of divine intervention—landed Hermione Fucking Granger. Since I almost killed two classmates while trying to murder an old man. It was all about doing what I thought was right, not morally but for myself. About not making too many waves. About not upsetting my mother. About not losing my inheritance.
“So I kept them—keep them—unopened, in their own room. Across from mine. In manor with one hundred twelve rooms and not another living soul.”
Draco was vaguely thankful for the charm he’d placed to alter eavesdropping muggles’ perception of any magical conversation. Patrons openly stared after this latest outburst. Parents herded their children away quickly after receiving little baggies of treats, and the kitchen staff seemed to be placing bets on whether a fist fight or a warm embrace was more likely.
He wondered whether it counted as a fight if he just played down and took the punches.
“Open them.”
The words came out as little more than a sigh, and the entire establishment seemed to wait with baited breath for them to settle in.
“What?”
“The letters. Open them.”
Incapable of anything else, Draco merely stared at Scorpius, with about as much comprehension as he would have had the boy spoken mermish.
“Please. Open them. I— you should open them. Read them. Just— you got me to meet you. It can’t be harder than that, right?”
Nothing could be harder than proffering every meager thing he had to offer to the one person he loved in exchange for minutes of his time.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Please open them. I won’t judge either way. But… well I still owe you an hour, you know? We spent this afternoon on things I wanted to bring up, so I thought maybe you could read them, and come up with questions. For next time.”
Next time.
“Next time?”
“Yeah, I’m meant to be home for dinner—mum’s making gnocchi, it’s my favorite—and, well I owe you an hour. So I thought you might be okay postponing. Until next time.”
“Yes.” The word came out before Scorpius had even finished his thought, swallowing over the quaffle in his throat and pointedly ignoring the muggles hovering anxiously nearby.
“You can pick the place—I picked this time.”
This time.
“I’ll—may I owl you?”
“You can owl, I might not answer though.”
Dread closed over Draco’s vision before a hand waved in front of his face.
“Ahh—joking, joking. You’re not the only one who can make poor jokes, you know. Yes, owl me. I’ll write within the hour. Promise.”
“Thank you. This—it means…”
“Yeah. To me, too. Just—show up, yeah?”
Seventeen years too late, but it was everything.
“Whenever you’ll have me.”
—
Across the hall from Draco Malfoy’s bedroom was a door no one else could enter. Despite not having a visitor for over a decade, the room’s wards were checked every Sunday, just after that day’s owl post had been deposited.
The room was once a spare bedroom, but had long since been divested of all furniture, save for several cabinets lining the far wall. Crammed into said cabinets were rows upon rows of overstuffed bins, filled to bursting with thick, aged letters—nine hundred and three of them, to be precise. And Draco Malfoy was very precise. In fact, he counted the letters every week.
Sitting in the middle of the floor, perched precariously over the oldest looking bin, Draco realized with some degree of morbidity that although this room had never been lived in, it was the most welcoming room in his house.
The letter that had taken up residence both in the bin and in his mind, the one he thought of on particularly good days (to moderate his joy) and particularly bad days (to remind him that joy could exist) was now clutched in his clammy, trembling fingers. It was from just after Scorpius’s third birthday, when Draco had realized he would never father another heir and would likely never know the one he already had. There was a single, bright blue handprint, smudged slightly from the impatience of the stamper, decorating the faded yellow envelope. Charming it open so as not to disrupt a fiber of the handprint, a tiny orange spark lit up the seal. The air seemed to warm, to rise in oxygen content, to somehow provide a more hospitable environment for life. Carefully pulling out the contents, Draco unfolded the aged paper inside and promptly collapsed, abandoning any remaining pretense of composure.
It was a picture of three people, two with white hair and one with brown—the brown-haired figure’s scowl extending beyond the confines of its face—with what most closely resembled ancient runes, but were contextually a three year old’s attempt at writing, decorating the border. In his mum’s handwriting, an annotation by the rightmost stick figure’s—Draco’s—foot spelled out Scorpius’s intended message: “mum makes me pick up my toys. please don’t make me clean if you visit me. love you daddy. Scorpius.”