Nineteen Years Later
An Alternate Universe Ending to Harry Potter
Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first of September was colder than the Malfoy sepulcher, and as the little family strode across the desolate platform towards the station, not only the soot and fog matched his bleak mood:
Draco's blood rang with the surety that a final visit to the family tomb would give young Scorpius some comfort before he boarded the train. The child's grandfather was tucked away soundly behind his marble slab. It was a pittance offered by the Dark Lord, a measure of comfort for his surviving family and a reminder what happened to traitors to the Cause. It had broken Narcissa to bear his body. She'd snapped her wand in a temper shortly after the incident. Her incoherent babbling about how she "should have lied," was a frequent feature of their dinner parties, or when she escaped her dungeon.
It was Draco who had levitated his father's mangled remains to its final rest, and Draco who had confunded MacNair to lay the inscription in the stone:
Lucius Malfoy. Post Tenebras, Lux.
Such things were not granted to merely anyone. The protection charms alone cost him his seat at the Ministry, but the Dark Lord's blind eye to their commemorative rituals was priceless.
Time had passed. They no longer spoke of it. Not even in polite whispers.
"He shant haunt you, father?" The question was delivered in the imperious, crystalline tones that the eleven year old had learned early from the house elves. Draco forced himself to loosen his fingers where they rested on the collar of his school robes.
"No more than usual, I would imagine."
They passed through the splintered remains of the barrier that once separated the muggle station from Platform 93/4. Parts of the threshold remained as scattered bricks, but there was no longer a need for the wards: the remaining muggles were gathered in Poland and awaiting execution.
Scorpius craned his head towards him, the flaxen glint of combed hair not the only thing that mirrored father and son. His curiosity for all things magical had become a financial investment as much as it was one of time.
Astoria claimed that Draco's appetite for the arcane had been particularly voracious as a child, but he could no longer measure the validity of his wife's claim: A particularly powerful self-affecting memory charm had seen to a measure of six years of his life. They were collected, of course; locked away at Gringotts in the event that Draco ever saw fit to revisit his school years at Hogwarts.
The remains of those memories were a hazy patchwork that emerged in dreams from time to time; striking like lightening, and vanishing as quickly.
He imagined that whatever had prompted such a decision was warning enough to prevent him from reliving it all. He only hoped that Scorpius would not suffer similar pains.
"You are certain that this is what you want, son? Durmstrang has a room waiting for you."
"Do not whine, Scorpius."
The child's mouth pinched into a pout. He produced his pet serpent from a robe sleeve to demonstrate his argument.
"Norway is far too cold for Lamia. Besides, twenty two generations of Malfoys have passed through the hallowed halls of Slytherin house."
The boy would have made Lucius proud.
"And what do we think of tradition?" Draco asked.
Scorpius preened. "The Dark Lord says it is only as strong as the blood that passes it on."
Narcissa Malfoy lied for Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest after both Harry and Voldemort had "killed" each other and returned to finish the Battle for Hogwarts. Voldemort, thinking Harry was dead, requested that Narcissa make sure that only one had survived as the prophecy demanded. After asking Harry if Draco had survived the fight, she told Voldemort that Harry was dead.