Scorpius Malfoy did not play Quidditch, much to his father’s chagrin. This disdain for the sport was, in his father’s opinion, entirely unfounded and quite silly. It may have started when his cousin hit him with a broomstick on his first attempt at flying. Or perhaps it was when the Bludger hit his tree-house. Whatever the case, his reluctance to go out for the Quidditch team, followed by his abysmal try-out, ranked somewhere amongst his misdemeanors between making Grandmother Narcissa very sad by commenting on her (decidedly) ugly blue dress and being friends with “that Potter boy”.
Needless to say, under such circumstances, Quidditch soon became the thorn in his side; in a particularly ill-advised burst of rebellion in their fourth year, Scorpius had even taken to attempting a Muggle sport called soccer, an event which had resulted in a warning from his father, the details of which included imminent disowning and removal from the family inheritance.
–
“Good luck, Albus,” Scorpius says as he lounges gracefully atop a dark blue, velvet-covered armchair. The rest of the House is bundling up in signature blue, a frenzy of excitement searing through the school as the Ravenclaw-Slytherin tension rises to an all-time high on this lovely morning of the Quidditch Final.
Gathering his broomstick and straightening his team uniform, Albus Potter tosses Scorpius a look of extreme disbelief.
“Ravenclaw’s in the Quidditch final for the first time in ten years! Are you sure you’re not coming to the game?” he asks, gaping at Scorpius in barely-concealed shock.
Oh, he knows all about Scorpius’ apathy towards Quidditch. He cannot claim to understand it; he follows in the fine Quidditch tradition of his father and grandfather. Alas, as much as hates to admit it, a pang shoots through his heart every time he thinks of Scorpius sitting alone in the Ravenclaw common room, his nose buried in some thick tome or other, as though ravenously devouring the print could mask the sadness that peeked through his clear gray orbs once in a while -
“Yes, I’m pretty sure. Now go out there and do Ravenclaw proud,” Scorpius replies, a smile playing upon his lips. “I shall just stay here and entertain myself,” he said, patting the cover of a thick, leather-bound volume of Muggle fairy tales, “for I have had little time to read of late.”
“Oh, alright. Five years and you’re still crazy,” Albus says in a mock-grumble. Against his will, a little smile creeps onto his face in light of Scorpius’ idiosyncrasies; the Muggle books that Scorpius reads often make for interesting, albeit occasionally disturbing, discussions regarding life, as he is so inclined to partake in. Albus shuts the door behind him, a flurry of blue and black robes, leaving Scorpius to his own devices. Scorpius gazes after his fleeting form, sinks deeper into the armchair, and cracks open the book.
–
“Books,” his father scoffs quite frequently, to no avail. “What does a Malfoy want with Muggle books?” his father thunders occasionally. The fact that he is interested in Muggle fiction is often a cause of great worry for his father; he suspects that on the list of offences, this particular fascination is soon surpassing his friendship with Albus.
Not that his father hadn’t made a hullabaloo about that particular incident. The owls over the summer, Christmas presents and various assorted birthday gifts, these all alarm Draco Malfoy greatly, the least of which because it reminds himself of his inability to fully apologize to Harry Potter for his faults of the long-gone past.
–
As Scorpius thrusts these thoughts out of his mind, his well-trained eyes devour the tales of swashbuckling adventure and good triumphing against evil. The stories weave a tantalizing web around him; things always seem so much clearer in the innocent simplicity of stories told to small children. The simple but effective phrase, “and they all lived happily ever after,” lingers in his mind as it sums up each tale as neatly as only love can.
Cinderella has always fascinated him. The concept of unwavering love was one he found overly idealistic and foreign to his own discerning eyes; yet, he could not help but admit that he found the idea beautiful and potentially…desirable. The prince has seen Cinderella at her most beautiful, under fairies’ enchantment, and he has seen her as a scullery-maid, languishing in darkness and wallowing in mud and dirt. Yet, that love remains unwavering, so unlike what he has seen, and he must admit, it feels…nice.
–
The door flies open, and the triumphant Quidditch team crashes through the door, shattering the film-like reverie that Scorpius has cloaked himself with.
“Ravenclaw 220, Slytherin 210!” Albus exclaims as the captain, Louise Jordan, hoists the Quidditch Cup high above her head to roars of triumph and unrestrained glee from the Ravenclaws.
As Scorpius meets Albus’ imploring gaze – come on, surely you must be happy – he breaks into an unrestrained grin. Albus approaches with pumpkin juice and gingerbread, and all in a flash, a realization dawns upon him, as clear as day. Putting down his book, he joins the masses of celebratory Ravenclaws; he lets out an uncharacteristic whoop of joy, partially for his House, and partially for the warm glow that fills his heart. If the prince could love a scullery-maid, well, there was no reason why the Potter name should be beneath the Malfoy name. Allowing himself to get swept up in the revelry of their triumph, he steals Albus in a bear hug, savouring the momentary sensation of his body against Albus’, his heart thumping in a scurrying, leaping pitter-patter, and wills it to last forever.
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