Hello there, readers. Another story from me, this time about Scorpius Malfoy. Any ideas for who I should write about next? That's the reason for the long-ish gap between my last story and this one, you see- I couldn't think of who I could do a present-tense, rather introspective (am I using that word right? Maybe it should be pensive) one shot about.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or locations or events that are not the product of my rather over-productive imagination.
Well, anyway, without further ado, I present to you: The Sorting of Scorpius Malfoy!
The Sorting of Scorpius Malfoy
Professor McGonagall's voice is loud and clear from the front of the Great Hall, but at this moment, I want to pretend I can't hear her. I want to pretend I'm not here. I want to pretend that I can't hear the buzzing of hundreds of voices, all discussing me and my name. The buzzing grows, an endless swarm of wasps and flies flitting around the Great Hall, all saying the same thing: "Malfoy?"
"Scorpius Malfoy," Professor McGonagall repeats, a hint of a sad, pitying smile on her lips. She knows, just like I know even as an eleven year old, that I will never escape the connotations of my name, never escape the expectations people have of me because of what Draco and Lucius and Abraxus Malfoy did. I don't even know much about what they did do; anything about their misdeeds I heard through the gossip that passed down the Hogwarts Express on the way here. Now I understand why my father didn't let me go into the Wizarding World if he could help it, why last week, we went to Diagon Alley early in the morning or late at night. He was shielding me from this.
I want to run away from it all, to hide or to disappear. But I know that I can't and I won't. I'm braver than that. So shakily, I place one foot in front of the other and move forwards towards the battered, old stool and the worn hat that sits on top of it. I try to ignore the noise and the words, because now that I'm closer, I can hear exactly what's being said. It all makes sense now. The whispering behind hands. The disparaging looks. The odd, wordless conversation that passed between Dad and Harry Potter.
I'm here. I sit down on the now empty stool, and I feel Professor McGonagall place the hat on my head. Please, I beg it, put me in a house that will allow me to shake off my father's reputation. Not Slytherin, please, not Slytherin.
Not Slytherin? Odd, the hat comments, a sly voice in my ear, another pupil, not so unlike yourself asked the same thing exactly a quarter of a century ago.
Did you listen to him? I ask, hope creeping into my voice.
Oh yes, the hat tells me, and I think I shall do the same for you as I did for him- put you in the other house that suits you.
Who was the other person? I wonder.
Harry Potter, comes the reply, and I can almost hear the laughter in the voice.
But that means-
A/N: I think I might have played around with the times very slightly, as by my calculations (always wanted to say that!) Harry would have been sorted 26 years ago, instead of 25. It was "about a quarter of a century" but that didn't quite fit, so shall we imagine that the epilogue took place eighteen years later, as opposed to nineteen?
Ps. If you have a moment to give me your thoughts, drop me a line?