Chapter Text
His family thought Harry was working.
If he was recognised, his excuse would be simple: he was working. He was observing. He was on surveillance. A lead, for an investigation. His files were confidential and solitary, ever since he could only work as a consultant. No one would ask him too many questions.
That said, he always put on a glamour when he appeared in the neighbourhood. The one he wore that night made him look a little younger, with lighter, longer hair, changed his features, erased his scars.
Despite this, Harry would not be completely at peace until he reached the familiar bar. He hurried on, hands in his pockets, glowering to avoid being approached by the muggle men smoking or staring on the pavements.
He was only a few steps from the bar when he passed two young men talking excitedly. A man in his thirties in a three-piece suit that was a little out of place even in this chic corner of the gay district - it screamed 'wizard' - and a young man with a blond, moon-like pallor. He was wearing dark, tight jeans, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a slightly open collar, in seemingly effortless Muggle fashion.
It was Scorpius Malfoy.
At two in the morning? Here?
Without thinking, Harry tried to get his attention by touching his arm. Scorpius turned, his hand going straight to his thigh, where Harry could perceive, with much concentration of his magic, the invisible, impalpable holster of his wand. With both of his apparently available neurons connecting, Harry realised that he was unrecognisable - in Scorpius' eyes, he had just been grabbed by a complete stranger. He quietly presented his Auror badge to him. The document still felt alien to his hand - it was no longer his heavy, silver Chief Auror badge, but a rectangular, grey, plain consultant's tag. His name and picture were on it.
Scorpius glanced at him suspiciously, so for a few seconds Harry lifted his glamour, just for him, and the hint of a smile marked Scorpius' trust.
"I'll meet you inside," he said to his companion.
The wizard didn't seem as trusting as he was, but obeyed, turning one last time at the doors of the club where Harry had intended to spend the evening.
"Mr Potter," greeted Scorpius in a low voice.
"Everything all right, Scorpius?"
His question was silly. The other man had complied with him easily, had walked away with no trouble. Obviously Scorpius was there of his own free will. He was seventeen years old, the wizarding age of majority. Even if he drank in a Muggle bar without being eighteen, Harry couldn't legally blame him. Nor could he stop him.
"Everything is fine." He had dark circles, though. "I'm coming off shift."
Harry knew very well what he was talking about. For the past three years, Albus had been despairing very loudly about the unavailability of his best friend during the summer holidays. Scorpius was doing apprenticeships at St Mungo's. He had a seemingly outstanding dexterity. He was destined for a brilliant career as a surgeon.
"I'm sorry," said Harry, embarrassed. "I thought..."
"That I was being pressured to do something I didn't want to do?" Scorpius smiled, "I don't need rescuing, Mr Potter. Ulysses is a work colleague. But thank you."
Harry nodded. Scorpius' silver eyes were peaceful, the curve of his mouth amused. He was the spitting image of his father at his age, if he hadn't been in a war, if he'd always eaten enough, if he'd been happy. His skin was a little less pale. His cheeks were a little rosier. His build was more pronounced, less slender and thin than Draco's had been. His medium-length hair was let down, not glued to his head, which revealed its slightly wavy nature. Other than that, Harry felt like he was looking twenty years into the past.
He lost his nerve. He didn't even think to explain what he was doing there at that hour. He didn't think to ask if Draco knew what his son was doing, where he was.
Scorpius gave him a bewitching smile.
"Have a good evening, Mr Potter."
He turned and joined his friend in the bar, leaving Harry frozen on the pavement. He wasn't sure what had happened, but something had happened.
Harry hesitated, but his curiosity was too strong. He changed his glamour, his clothes. He didn't want Scorpius to know he was there. He wanted to observe without being seen. What if Scorpius was putting himself in danger? He could be drugged. He could be coerced. Harry figured that if his son was at the Light after two in the morning, he'd want an adult to keep an eye on him.
He sat down at his usual table, ordered a whiskey. He wasn't ready for what was ahead.
Scorpius was perfectly at ease. He sometimes kissed newcomers. He danced happily and talked loudly to cover the noise of the music. He bought a round of drinks for what seemed to be his group of acquaintances. Once he went to the bar and slipped some notes, but left with nothing. The barman served a dark-haired man in his thirties and pointed at Scorpius. The Muggle swallowed his drink and got up to join Scorpius. They moved a little away from the crowd of partygoers. Harry lost sight of them in the crowd. When he saw blond hair again, Scorpius and the man were kissing on the dance floor. When they left together, Harry wanted to stop them, but what could he say? They had the right to.
Harry left the bar. He didn't want to go home just yet. Should he warn Draco, perhaps? An anonymous note? Your son is spending the night with men twice his age? Did Draco even know his son was gay? Albus had never told Harry, or he would have remembered. Maybe it was a secret.
Harry returned the following week, same day, same place, same time. Every Thursday night until school started. Ginny suspected something. She didn't say anything. That was the way she handled things. Just like she hadn't said anything when Harry had woken her up one night, before they were even married, to tell her that he was gay. Well, she had said something. "But you love me. And you want a family." She wasn't wrong. It wasn't as if the female body disgusted Harry. He'd managed to do it often enough to conceive their three children. Being a father had been so important to him. Precious. Magical. He hadn't regretted keeping his secret then.
He forbade himself to even begin to think that he was starting to regret it now.
Every Thursday night Scorpius danced and laughed and drank and kissed men. He never overdid it - never got very drunk, never went beyond kissing and dancing close together in public, never did drugs. Harry was jealous. If he could have done the same at his age. If he could have been free to be himself. Not the Saviour. Not the fiancé of war hero Ginny Weasley, whom all straight men envied. Not being heterosexual hadn't even been an option at the time. Not settling into a fixed relationship was unthinkable. He was already a Weasley. All that was left was to sign the marriage papers.
Scorpius sparkled. One night, after a few drinks, he cried. His most regular companion, Ulysses, whom Harry had heard from spying discussions that he was a young surgeon in the same department as Scorpius, took him in his arms. "It happens," he told him. "You can't save everyone." Scorpius nodded. Even with tears in his eyes, he had the same poise, the same glow. Other friends noticed his distress and consoled him and took his mind off it. Scorpius went home alone that night. It was rare.
Harry admired him for not using any glamour. For being proudly himself, with his true face. He wondered how Scorpius had managed to keep his nocturnal activities away from the tabloids. Even in the Muggle part of town, someone might bump into him one day... This questioning was intensified at a theme night, when Scorpius danced most of the night in a white lace bralette and a short skirt, glitter on his eyelids. He had no fear.
Harry wondered how a long, long line of Malfoys could have led to Scorpius' existence.
When Harry returned home to Grimmauld after those evenings, he always took the same path. He opened the doors and poked his head into the bedrooms to check that all was well. Lily was sleeping peacefully in her violet room, her Doc Marteens carelessly discarded in the way of the door. Albus slept fidgeting, the blanket most of the time on the floor. James' room had been empty for almost two years now, but Harry couldn't help but open the door anyway. In the beginning, after he'd left home to start his professional Quidditch training, he'd often come home unexpectedly to eat dinner and sleep. That hardly ever happened anymore.
In a year's time, Albus would probably leave too. And in three years, Lily. Harry couldn't even fathom the house without them. Breakfasts, TV nights, warm afternoons in the garden, alone with Ginny?
Harry went to the bathroom, took a shower to wash away any suspicious odours of tequila, sweat or aggressive male perfume that might have remained after his cleaning spells. He looked at himself in the mirror with a sigh, and removed his artificial arm. He winced when he saw his stump. Two years after his amputation, his reaction hadn't changed, and he doubted it ever would. He forced himself to apply the potion to the flesh, then bandaged it, and went to bed, sliding under the covers as quickly as possible so he wouldn't have time to think too much about the weight imbalance between his left and right sides. Ginny didn't even move as he shifted the mattress.