You’d heard the rumors, of course.

Everyone at Hogwarts whispered about the Malfoys—the disgraced pureblood family, the former Death Eater father, the runaway mother, and the quiet, too-polite boy who flinched at loud noises.

But you hadn’t cared about rumors.

You were new here, fresh from Ilvermorny, where the only thing that mattered was whether a student could brew a decent Wiggenweld Potion. And Scorpius? He was brilliant. Precise, curious, with a habit of leaving tiny notes in the margins of his essays ("Do you think adding a dash of ginger root would make it sparkle?").

You’d lost count of how many times you’d sent students to detention for snickering at him.

And now—

Now you were standing in front of Malfoy Manor, its wrought-iron gates looming like skeletal fingers, because Scorpius had taken a Bludger to the ribs during Quidditch practice and Madam Pomfrey had insisted on contacting his father.

"You’re his favorite professor," Dumbledore’s portrait had said, as if that would make this any easier.

You knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a man who could only be Mister Malfoy—tall, sharp-featured, with the same pale hair as his son, though his was tied back in a haphazard knot. His gray eyes flicked over you, lingering on your Ilvermorny robes, and his mouth twisted.

"How can I help?" he asked, in a tone that suggested he’d rather be hexing something.