arcade.

Scorpius had known what his father meant when he asked about the food. It was something easy to eat when his stomach was tying in knots as well, a further advantage. Hearing bring wine was music to his ears, given the occasion. He hadn’t had a drink when he got here, wanting to keep a clear head, but the thought of a decent glass of wine with dinner and maybe after now sounded appealing. “I’ll stop by the manor and visit Grandmother,” he said. “I was going to anyway, but I could bring a bottle of white from there?”

The softness in his father’s voice told Scorpius that he was seen, that he was understood. It also made him glad that they’d planned to spend that evening together, because he cared too much about his father to leave him alone. “It’s kind of stifling,” he said quietly, careful to keep it so only they could hear one another. “Like a weight on my chest somehow. Does it feel the same way for you, or different?” The glance away was something he’d seen before, when his father was addressing something painful. This time was no different, as it turned out. Mom. “Yeah, me too,” he said softly, reached out and briefly slung an arm around his dad’s shoulders before letting go, a show of affection that he gave easily. “Neither of us would wish it on others.” They’d already lived through it. They knew what it was like, how days could pass both too quickly and too slowly without Astoria.

Hearing the words I’m managing was as good as could be hoped for at that moment, and confirmed what Scorpius already thought. Not doing well, not by any means, but getting through it because it was something that needed to be done, a show of respect given. When the question was returned to him, though, Scorpius chewed his lower lip a little. “Worried about you and Al,” he said eventually. “He’s running around trying to do right by everyone else, and if today makes me remember, I think it’s worse for you.” With a scowl then, he added, “Don’t really like how some people seem to think now is the appropriate time to talk about why either. How could anyone possibly think that’s all right?” It was disrespectful at minimum, not to mention utterly ignorant towards the close family and friends who were grieving.

“You can’t steal your grandmother’s wine,” Draco replied playfully, eyes dancing momentarily. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you can, she’d be happy to give you advice and push so much bottles in your arms you can’t carry them, but it’s not good form when I too do own a few bottles myself.” He really only ever drunk wine in company and during dinner for he was more of a whiskey drinker, but he liked to think he developed decent taste with his mother’s guidance throughout the years. 

There wasn’t a single place in the entire castle to get some peace and quiet. Victoire craved solitude; she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away, out of everyone’s sight, and just breathe. But, of course, today was not the day for that. Today was a day of public mourning. It was a day for putting on appearances, smiling and nodding, thanking people for their offers to ‘be there when its needed’ or to cook another meal that the Potters and Weasleys wouldn’t even eat. She was trying her best to keep her head down and go unnoticed… but someone calling her name made it clear that she wasn’t doing a great job of it. “Healer Malfoy,” she greeted the man, attempting to keep her tone as pleasant as possible. He moved closer, and she didn’t pull back. He cared, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to put up a front. But then again, he was her mentor… or, was her mentor. He was a colleague, now – and one who knew her well enough to pick up on any fronts that she put up. Victoire wanted to lie to him but also knew that she couldn’t. There’d be too much of a mess to clean up if she did. “That’s – that’s kind of you to say,” she managed to get out, swallowing hard. “I’ve been given a few days off, all things considered, but I should be in by next week. I know St. Mungo’s will need me, and I don’t want to cause any problems or leave more work on anyone’s plate. Especially yours…”

Beyond any kind of uncomfortable feeling that Azolia could conjure, this whole occasion felt awkward. Being back in the place she grew up and seeing it changed into… well, a mourning ground. She had missed the melancholy years of recovery after the war, so to her Hogwarts had only been a place of joy and growth. Supposedly it was a comfort to some to see familiar faces, but none she could see were quite familiar enough. No best friends here, just vague acquaintances from the years above her at school and friends of her mothers’ that she’d never actually met. That is, until Draco approached.

“Mum never really talked about her.” Azolia shrugged, staring at a spot on the ground for a bit too long before giving in and making eye contact, struggling not to fidget. “Ma had a few stories when she heard, but…” It was easier to be honest with someone who knew her, who she could hopefully assume wouldn’t take offence to the way she approached things. History had taught her to be more careful around strangers, to hold her tongue and twist herself into odd shapes to find the right words.

“She was more of a symbol to me, y’know?” Proof that the search for knowledge wasn’t fruitless, didn’t make you aimless in life. Hermione Granger was smart, and constantly learning, and successful. “I dunno. How you doing? I mean, you actually knew her.”

Draco reckoned that Pansy, like him, wouldn’t say a word about Hermione Granger. It was bad form to speak ill about those that had passed. Narcissa had gotten that into him just after the war at occasions he was especially moody and dared talk ill of his late aunt Bella. It wasn’t going to change anything, so it was better to remember people in a good way than taint those good memories. Similarly, he hadn’t told Scorpius much either. He just knew what he already did, and for Draco that was enough. It was better for him to make up his own mind. “I think I get that,“ he replied tentatively. “You know Granger as the clever Minister for Magic, right?” That was really the best Draco could do. Other could share stories about Hermione as a wonderful human being, the most clever person, someone with a great vision and he didn’t know what else. He didn’t agree. That wasn’t necessary to say aloud. “If you saw her as a symbol, how do you feel about it?”

Harry examined the lengthy, wooden table they were seated at again, thinking of all the hundreds of thousands of Ravenclaws who had come before them, who sat at this very table just because the Sorting Hat labeled them as “more intellectual” than the rest of their peers. Perhaps Hogwarts had been playing into the larger issue all along: labels. Of course, being sorted into groups based off certain personality traits is a much softer example than being looked down upon for your blood status, but perhaps that was just the slippery slope necessary for the creation of people like Salazar Slytherin, who saw his house as superior to the rest. 

“I imagine by the time the Sorting Hat got to us, it had become extremely jaded in the sorting process,” Harry replied to Malfoy’s comment. “Surnames carried a lot more weight than actual personality. And all sorting did was provoke someone to act in a certain way.” What would Malfoy had been like had he not been sorted into Slytherin like his family before him? Would he have been casted out like a leper? Forced to find his own way? Would he be the same Malfoy sitting in front of Harry right now? 

And would have Harry had the resources or the sheer will-power to go on to fight the most evil, dark wizard of all time if he had been sorted into say, Hufflepuff? All these questions would never have an answer, sadly. But the more Harry thought about it, the more he realized the Sorting Hat assumed a much bigger role than the Hogwarts staff let on. And he was confident that Dumbledore knew that too. 

The last time someone had killed the Minister of Magic, Harry thought. Scrimgeour. The same night he, Ron, and Hermione had embarked on their mission that would change their lives forever. “Scrimgeour was different. Vol–” Harry wasn’t sure if the sound of His name would make Malfoy cringe, as it still did for some people. And Harry had made it a thirty-year plus habit of using the name whenever it wasn’t necessary. “You-Know-Who had been around almost three years before that happened. But now. This attack right now. This could be the catalyst for something else. Something bigger, darker. Or not. We really have no idea.” Harry realized he was thinking out loud now and hoped he wasn’t distressing Malfoy too much. 

All Draco could do was grin when Harry remarked about the Sorting Hat. He could hear the words that weren’t spoken and the implication that followed. On any other day, he would have jumped onto them. Draco knew all too well he was sorted into Slytherin because he was a Slytherin through and through. The way he acted throughout the war had proven it. He never impulsively jumped into anything. He didn’t have enough compassion according to some people. He protected his own, because that was what he was wired to do. He set an impossible task for himself and found a way around it to get it done and live. Did his surname help the Sorting Hat made his decision? For sure. But would he have been sorted into Slytherin regardless? Yes, because he hardly possessed any dominant traits from the other three houses. He had inherited Narcissa’s cunning and Lucius’ ambition, and was learned from young age on to protect himself and whoever he loved, because no one else was going to.  He shouldn’t jump onto it, really. But he did, even if the words he spoke were mild in comparison to the words he could have spoken. “Do you feel like you would have been sorted differently if you had a different last name?” he questioned, eyebrows raising briefly. “I can think of some people that I had questions about their sorting, I’ll give you that.” 

On the one hand, wizarding Britain as a whole was feeling the effects and reeling from the loss of its Minister for Magic. It created the kind of fear that came from the remnants of wars he’d never lived through. On the other, the loss ran far deeper and was much more personal for the handful of those who had really known Hermione Granger. Watching it was hard. Watching the pain of people Scorpius knew, people he cared about in some instances, and knowing that there was nothing he could do except be there while they felt and processed it. He was worried about Albus. On top of all of that, though, there was the persistent thought of how much this reminded him of his mother’s funeral; different though the circumstances were, a mother had still been taken from her children long before her time.

As though he knew exactly when Scorpius needed him (often the case), his father approached then, and Scorpius’ gaze scanned the older man’s face. The gratitude probably showed, because he’d been getting lost in his head, and his father more often than not had been his anchor. “Hi Dad,” he said, exhaled a sigh, because right there was the acknowledgement that life went on. It had to. The corners of his lips curled up just a little bit. “Pasta anything is always good, you know that,” he said, tone clearly appreciative. “Cheese sauce?” That was comfort food for certain, but it was the assurance that he would always be welcome behind the words that was more comforting still. “Do I need to bring anything with me?”

It was the words that came after which made Scorpius still briefly before nodding. “Something like that,” he answered, knowing that was as good as an admission that he was finding it difficult. “I keep thinking about Mom too.” He kept his voice down as he spoke, because that wasn’t for anyone else to know. “I don’t know if it’s the little things or just the environment. Do you know what I mean?” He remembered his mother’s funeral in details, in the flowers that he and his father had chosen, her favourites. Scorpius still missed her terribly, had just learned how to live with her not being there because there was no choice in the matter. “How are you holding up?” he asked, a younger image of Draco with his pale colouring and grey eyes, but a certain softness in his gaze that came from someone else.

Walking side by side with Malfoy through the corridors, without their normal gaggle of gang members surrounding them, was highly unusual. Not a word was uttered as they passed through the archway of the Great Hall, taking in the overwhelming sense of suffering and awkward silences pervading the room. Harry glanced over at his family, all sitting with their backs to him at the long, Gryffindor table with Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. He gave Ron a slight nod, then proceeded to follow Malfoy to an empty side of a table, where thankfully, Firewhiskey was being served aplenty. 

Hearing Hermione’s last name, the way Malfoy always referred to her (well, the way they all referred to each other, Harry supposed), being spoken in a slightly sentimental way was odd. But Harry raised his glass anyway. “To Hermione,” Harry replied, hoping Malfoy didn’t think he was correcting him by using her first name. Harry took a swig and felt the familiar burning sensation of the liquid on the inside of his cheeks. This was his first sip of Firewhiskey since Hermione’s death. He hadn’t had a moment to himself to even think about getting hammered. But Harry knew there would come a day, in the not-so-distant future, where he would need a big bottle all to himself. 

“Not to mention sitting at the same table with you,” Harry said, surveying the long, wooden table beneath their glasses. He turned around to count the number of tables behind them. “This is the Ravenclaw table. I guess neither of us really belong here.” Harry grinned, letting his hang there a moment longer than Malfoy did. 

Harry wasn’t sure what came next after this. He knew his Aurors were out there, searching for the bastard who committed this heinous crime. Harry would probably get called back to the Ministry, but just for an update on the investigation. “Using the word ‘work’ loosely,” Harry said, taking another sip. “I’m more of a mascot right now than anything else. ‘You’re the face of hope’ they keep telling me. ‘The people need to know everything’s going to be okay’ and all that rubbish. It’s eerie. I became the very politician I fought so hard to oppose.” Harry sighed, staring off into space. 

For some reason, the occasion didn’t feel strange. A muggleborn for Minister for Magic was never going to end well, and especially not one as progressive as Granger had been. The upper class, still bathing in their old money (the Malfoys included, yes) had their limits as far as progress and even before she came Minister Granger had been pushing it. There were things she had never understood and now she paid the price, it seemed. That didn’t mean it was fair, or justified - death was never any of those things. Draco only ever wished it on his worst enemy, and the man standing in front of him was the man who essentially killed that worst enemy. Granger deserved better, that much Draco knew. That didn’t mean he could change it, and it also didn’t mean the situation was any less strange. There were no circumstances under which he thought he would play nice with Potter. As it turned out there was still time for him to be wrong. Perhaps it was because Astoria had truly changed him. Perhaps losing Astoria meant he’d become more compassionate towards those who had also lost a big presence in their life, he wasn’t sure. When Potter made the remark about either one of them not belonging in Ravenclaw, he considered briefly whether it was a jab and concluded it wasn’t. After all there was no use in offending someone if you also offended yourself. “The Sorting Hat never really stood a chance of sorting me anywhere else than in Slytherin,” he conceded. “It was extremely obvious.” And he could not imagine Potter being sorted anywhere else either. “At least no one will think to try and find us here out of all places,” he offered with a short smirk, going along with the banter.

Harry mulled over Malfoy’s words about pity, then thought back to all those years ago, when no one did anything but take pity on him. That’s how Harry saw it anyway. Pity. All those years of Dumbledore, Snape, and everyone else lying to him in order to “protect him.” To Harry, their deception was a form of pity. He knew now that they might have been telling the truth, but at the time, their lies did nothing but anger him. 

“Couldn’t agree more,” Harry replied, reaching his glasses to wipe his eyes. Harry knew it probably wasn’t the first time that he and Malfoy agreed on something. For instance, he was sure that they could agree that Malfoy never had the nerve to murder Dumbledore that fateful night in the Astronomy Tower, a subject which they would most likely never discuss. But this, the subject of crippling, infuriating pity, was the first time that Harry had admitted any form of agreement with the former Slytherin.

Another first: Harry and Malfoy smiling simultaneously, even if Malfoy’s was ever so brief. “Crazier things have happened. Exhibit A, everything we’ve ever been through.” Harry could feel the intensity in Malfoy’s reply, as if his offer had been misconstrued. He didn’t think Malfoy understood the certain type of “people repellent” he was asking him to be. But he guessed Malfoy’s self-deprecating view was one way of looking at it. And he wasn’t in the mood for a disagreement or explaining himself to Malfoy. All he could do was take a deep breath, then say, “Well, let’s get this show on the road.”

She didn’t want to be there any longer. Did that make her a horrible friend and sister in law? Of course not, she didn’t even know why the thought would even cross her mind. Hermione would’ve understood, well she would’ve laughed and rolled her eyes at her and admired at how beautiful everything was. If she was here. If she was here, there would’ve no need to fill the Great Hall and give the current students a memory that would be burned into their minds forever. However, she wasn’t. She was murdered in cold blood and now Ginny felt the same way she did when she was sixteen, no longer secure. 

People meant well. They meant well when they offered their condolences to the Weasleys, they meant well when they sent over hundreds among hundreds of packages of food to their family. Ginny knew they did. A lot of people didn’t know what to say because words could simply not suffice.  Yet, if she had to hear one more “I’m sorry for your loss”, she was sure her head was going to explode. It was even worse when she was asked what she thought had happened. Who did think she killed her sister in law? The red headed woman was this close to hexing someone into oblivion. Her family was not to be messed with, especially now.  

On edge. Ginny just needed to breathe and not make a scene at a funeral, for Merlin’s sake. This led her on a journey to find alcohol of some sorts.  Immediately crossing paths with Draco Malfoy, she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing with him on something. Well, stranger things have happened, she supposed. “Oh, trust me. You’ve read my mind.” The woman rolled her eyes, she swore they were about to roll in the back of her head at any second. “If one more person asks me what I think happened, they’ll need to deal with a broken bottle and a hex into oblivion.” She could only joke before nodding her head. “Why not. It’ll make dealing with all of this more bearable.” 

Well, well. Ginny Weasley, or now Potter Draco guessed, both had changed and hadn’t changed a thing at all. The signature long red hair, how blunt and straight-forward she was and her expressiveness in general (Draco hadn’t seen that much of her, but it seemed to him that her thoughts and feelings were always right below the surface, true to what made Draco dislike Gryffindors so much; how could someone feel that much at once and want to express it?) were all very consistent. What wasn’t consistent was her agreeing with him, or not calling him a name or hexing him. It was a theme he could get used to, though, since neither of them were the kids they’d been when they last ran into each other at this castle. With practiced ease, Draco got Ginny a glass of firewhiskey and handed it over to her with his left hand, his right hand holding his own glass. “Here,” he said. “You’re probably right about the alcohol making this more bearable.” For him, alcohol always had some sort of tempting edge to it that he knew he shouldn’t give into. The more he drunk the easier dealing got, but the harder it got once the inevitable hangover hit. He’d tried alcohol, tried it directly after the war and again when Astoria did, but the first time he found a better method to cope and the second time he just knew the pity would get worse if he kept drinking and that was another version of something he couldn’t deal with altogether. 

Thirty years, Harry thought. Thirty years from now, if Harry was still living, would the memory of Hermione still bring him as much agony as it did in this moment? Did time really help the healing? Or did it only give the pain more time to permeate through the whole mind and body? Had Malfoy truly healed from the loss of Crabbe as his deadpan expression had seemed to reveal? 

“Seems to be a common theme,” Harry replied, studying Malfoy’s words. “Family crying, people avoiding eye contact. Death always seems to have that effect on people.” Harry thought back to Dumbledore’s funeral, located in the same part of the grounds that Hermione was memorialized earlier that morning. Nobody looked at each other. It was just tears and staring directly at the ground. 

“I guess that means there’s no pity left for me,” Harry noted, considering all of the people he’d lost in the past. “Everyone’s expecting me to go in there, put on my Gryffindor face, and somehow find the balance between being the best friend of the deceased but also the Minister of…” Harry choked up a bit, remembering the official title that Hermione had passed down to him. “Damn it, Hermione.” He felt a tear run down his face, and he could not believe he was standing there, tearing up in front of Draco fucking Malfoy. “Sorry, mate.” 

Harry sniffed, wondering why he had just referred to Malfoy as “mate,” and regained his composure. Harry couldn’t believe his ears, once he finally stopped crying and started listening to Malfoy’s words. “Thank you,” Harry said flatly. He sighed, then thought of a somewhat brilliant idea. “You wouldn’t mind walking in there with me, would you? I’m sure all the Weasley’s have taken their places, and having you next to me might keep unwanted press and such from running up to me. Firewhiskey, perhaps?” Harry smiled, for maybe the first time, up at Draco, who had grown to be a few inches taller than him over the years. 

Harry had become accustomed to people checking in on him for the past thirty or so years, which was one of the main reasons he was dreading walking into the Great Hall right now. But it was even weirder being asked about his feelings by Draco Malfoy, who still greeted him with the menacing, “Potter,” despite the fact, Harry assumed, they didn’t have any negative feelings towards each other. 

“Right, uh, sorry,” Harry answered, rubbing his fingers over his scar and through his thinning, jet-black hair. How was he feeling? Devastated, obviously. But Harry had been used to losing people closest to him since he was a baby. So, why did it still hurt just as much? “Better days, Malfoy. Better days.” Harry sighed. 

Even though he was alone with his arch-enemy from his Hogwarts days, he still, somehow, preferred being out here to being bombarded with questions and other words of encouragement. “I’m sure you can imagine though with losing Crabbe and everything.” Harry wasn’t sure why he was bringing up Crabbe, considering that was thirty years ago and losing Vincent Crabbe was not the same thing as losing Hermione Granger. But, Harry figured, losing a friend is still losing a friend, no matter how universally beloved they are. 

Before Harry could even think about entering the Great Hall, he made his way to the bathroom. But not just any bathroom. The second floor girl’s lavatory, where he, Ron, and Hermione had spent so much of their time at Hogwarts solving mysteries and literally cooking up schemes. He rapped on the ancient, wooden door, hoping to avoid running into any Hogwarts students who still had a month left of classes ahead of them. When no one answered, he slowly crept inside, and called out, “Is there anyone in here? Well, besides Myrtle, of course.” 

But not even the shrieking voice of Moaning Myrtle called back to him. “I’m coming in.” Closing the door behind him, Harry entered the bathroom and made his way over to one of the mirrors, staring into his reflection. He observed his own circular glasses. The same ones that Hermione had repaired that first day on the train. He had purchased other glasses since then, but he thought it fitting to don the original pair on this unfortunate day. He surveyed the rest of his face, which had once transformed into the face of Gregory Goyle, due to the Polyjuice Potion that Hermione had made herself in their second year. All these years, and Harry knew there wasn’t an inch of himself that didn’t hold a story about the late, great Hermione Granger.

He began to weep, which he promised himself he wouldn’t do, especially during the eulogy, but he couldn’t fight the overwhelming urge anymore. He removed his glasses and pressed his forehead against the mirror. “You were the best of us,” Harry murmured through his low, hoarse shrieks. “You were the best and now you’re gone.” Harry sniffled, through some sink water in his face, and put his glasses back on. He could not be missing for too long, or the whole bloody Ministry would come looking for him. The last thing they needed was two dead Ministers in the course of one week. 

Upon exiting the bathroom and shuffling down the stairs, Harry caught sight of a familiar face walking toward him, and attempted his best everything-is-okay face. “Just popped upstairs for a walk around the castle. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been here. How are you?”

According to Ministry records, [DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, 47, PUREBLOOD, CISMALE] has been considered innocent in the assassination of former Minister of Magic, Hermione Granger, and no further interrogation or a formal trial is necessary at this time. [HE/HIM/HIS] is free to return to their job as a [HEALER]. During their interrogation, they were found to be [OBSERVANT] and [LOYAL], but also could be [STUBBORN] and [CYNICAL]. >>> [jules, 24, cet, she/her, omitted]

hello friends! i’m jules, twenty-four, she/her pronouns and reside in the cet timezone - also known as usually asleep when others are around - and that’s about it for me. since we were encouraged to write up some sort of character intro, this is the headcanon section of my app for some in-depth info about drake: