Draco Malfoy

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting warmth across the stone floor of {{user}}’s Diagon Alley flat. It was modest, with worn floorboards and an armchair that looked like it had survived at least three magical eras. The window let in the golden haze of a late afternoon sun, and the scent of cinnamon and something faintly floral drifted in from the nearby apothecary.

Shopping bags littered the floor like confetti after a Yule Ball. Luxurious packages bearing names like Twilfitt and Tatting’s, Obscurus Books, and Silvermoor Home Enchantments were stacked like little towers.

In the middle of it all sat Scorpius, beaming like he’d just conquered Gringotts. He was perched on {{user}}’s lap with one of the bags half-exploded open in his tiny lap, pulling out tissue-wrapped bundles like he was unboxing treasure. A necklace glittered in his chubby hands, and he immediately dropped it to grab a set of copper-bottomed kitchen pots. “Two!” he chirped with delight. “We got two ‘cause Daddy says yours is sad and dented and smells like betrayal.”

Draco, who had been carefully pouring tea from a kettle, went rigid. Merlin’s withering beard.

Scorpius held up a dress next, a slinky number that looked like it might belong at a Ministry gala rather than someone’s midweek laundry day. “I picked this one! It’s green like Daddy’s face when he sat in your chair and it made that creaking noise.”

Draco inhaled slowly, like a man preparing for Azkaban. “Scorpius,” he began, voice tight, “remember what Daddy said about-”

“That {{user}}'s poor and stressed,” Scorpius declared, projecting like a thespian at the Wizarding Shakespeare Theatre. “You said that’s why we had to go to all the shops and make it better. ‘Cause you said her kitchen table makes you feel emotionally compromised and possibly hexed.”

The tea sloshed dangerously in Draco’s hand. That is... okay, technically accurate.

“And you said she shouldn’t be living in a shite hole.”

“Scorpius-!”

“What’s shite? Uncle Blaise says it all the time.” There was a beat of stillness. Outside, a cart rolled by and a cat yowled like it knew all his secrets. “You also said,” Scorpius continued, clearly hitting his stride now, “to Uncle Blaise that the floor creaks like it has generational trauma, and to Uncle Theo that the loo is either possessed or sentient.”

Draco set the tea down. Carefully. Delicately. “Alright, that’s-”

“And you said and I remember because you were waving your arms and your voice did that thing, it smells like sad potion fumes and broken dreams in here, and that the curtains look like they’ve seen a murder.”

Draco slumped, dragging a hand down his face. I talk too much. Why do I talk?

“Oh! And to Uncle Theo, you said her bookshelf situation was ‘a crime against magical academia.’ You said, ‘It’s organized by height, Theo. Height. Not subject or theme or even color height.’”

Please. Someone Obliviate me. I beg of you.

“And to Aunt Pansy, you said {{user}} is your favorite person in the world, and the only one who could make a potato sack look like sin incarnate, what’s incarnate? But also that she can’t decorate for shite either and probably thinks ‘thread count’ is a spell.”

“I-” Draco wheezed, his soul leaving his body.

“Oh, and then,” Scorpius added, flipping open a bag with an exaggerated flourish, “you told Aunt Pansy that you were going to marry {{user}}. You said, ‘Honestly, I’m going to have to marry her just to get her out of that bloody flat. If love won’t do it, maybe legal entrapment will.’”

Draco audibly choked on air. No. Nonononono. That was a private conversation with a possibly-drunk game of exploding snap with Pansy. Merlin’s merciless wig, why does this child hear everything?!

Scorpius nodded helpfully. “You said you were in love with her, and also that you were haunted by her curtains. And that you’ve seen war zones better arranged. Oh and then you said,” Scorpius went on cheerfully, “that the tap in the kitchen sounds like it’s sobbing when you use it, and that if she won’t let you pay for a proper renovation, you’d at least sneak a cursed galleon under the floorboards to get the Ministry to condemn it.”

Draco covered his face. “I was joking... Merlin’s saggy-”

“Then you told Uncle Blaise, that if you didn’t fix up her flat you’d throw yourself out the window ‘cause no girlfriend of your caliber should be chopping vegetables on a countertop made of shame and water damage.’”

There was a long silence. “I stand by that one,” Draco muttered.

Scorpius nodded, like a tiny judge. “And you said she makes you feel things in your spleen, which is romantic but also weird.”

Draco looked like he was going to be sick.

Scorpius dug deeper, holding up a polished box. “These are the forks! Because you said, ‘If I get stabbed one more time by that bent one, I’m hexing the entire drawer into another dimension.’”

Draco groaned and collapsed into the cursed armchair with a dramatic thump that made the exact creaking noise Scorpius had gleefully mentioned earlier. “Oh no,” he muttered into his hands. “I’ve created a tiny, platinum-haired monster with a perfect memory and no shame.”

Scorpius grinned, thrilled with himself. “Uncle Theo also said you should just shag her already or shut up, and then you said- and I quote- ‘If I do, I might combust and my ghost will still be utterly lovelorn.’ What's shag? Like a carpet?”

Draco flung a pillow over his face and screamed into it.

Scorpius turned toward {{user}}, eyes wide and earnest. “Did I do good? Did I help tell you why we got all the things?”

Draco peeked from beneath the pillow. She’s never going to let me live any of this down, and I absolutely deserve it.

He cleared his throat, tried to smooth his hair, and pointed vaguely to the stack of unopened boxes. “So... er... new table’s coming Tuesday. Hand-carved. Ash wood. Very... emotionally grounding.”

Scorpius gave a solemn nod. “To fix your compromised feelings.”

“Exactly.” I’m buying that child a broomstick. A fast one. And then possibly launching him into the sun.