Chapter Text
13 October 2020
MINISTRY CALLS FOR CALM AMID “UNFOUNDED PANIC” OVER EXTREMIST CLAIMS
By Marcellus Suziato, Senior Political Correspondent
Following the release of a controversial exposé by Daily Prophet columnist Astrid Marchmont, the Ministry of Magic issued a formal statement this morning urging the public to “remain calm and exercise discernment” when engaging with reports of extremist movements.
Harry Potter, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, addressed the press from the Atrium steps: “The Ministry is aware of fringe groups that seek to spread divisive or prejudiced rhetoric. Such groups have existed in one form or another since the end of the Second Wizarding War. While we will not tolerate hate-based ideology or threats to public safety, I urge all citizens not to give power to rumors or panic.”
Potter emphasized that the Ministry “maintains strict oversight of any organization promoting discriminatory beliefs” and reminded readers that freedom of assembly and speech “remains a cornerstone of the post-war world.”
He further noted that “the misuse of historical grievances to stir fear or resentment” only benefits those seeking chaos.”
When asked whether the Ministry has confirmed the existence of a group calling itself Corpus Vitalis, Potter declined to comment directly, stating only: “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement continues to investigate all credible leads. At this time, there is no verified threat to public order.”
Officials also noted that the Ministry remains focused on the upcoming Minister for Magic elections, set to begin in early December, encouraging citizens to “direct their energies toward shaping the future through the ballot, not the rumor mill.”
The full statement closed with reassurance that the Ministry’s “commitment to justice and transparency is stronger than ever.”
Wednesday rolled around and still Albus had not heard any more from his father. Maybe James decided not to tattle, Albus wondered. Or perhaps he just has his hands full already.
After Marchmont’s article on Saturday, there was a whole exposé about the Corpus Vitalis on Monday’s front page. Half of which Albus knew was wrong, but enough of it was correct that Harry finally had to address the public. It must take a lot of effort to have to lie to people so much. I guess his spare son will just have to wait, thought Albus bitterly.
He and Scorpius had retired to their dorm early after dinner. Scorpius exclaimed he had something special to prep for Knight’s Club. Just as well, Albus had an essay for herbology. One that was already a week late. Mr. A had been really generous by giving him extra time to finish it, but Albus was really struggling to get started. He hoped the Silvervine discovery would buy him some extra credit points, but it turned out to be Artemsia.
“But I’m very proud of your determination, Albus,” Mr. A had praised. “I certainly won’t forget it.”
Albus tapped the blank parchment in front of him and sighed. Scorpius had turned the radio on low knowing it sometimes helped Albus to focus.
Usually it did, but tonight Albus’s mind couldn’t stay on the task at hand. With a sigh, he pushed his herbology notes to the side and rummaged through his bag instead. Pulling out Blood and Betrayal, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Scorpius was deeply engaged in his project, so he wouldn’t notice.
Albus knew Scorpius was still unhappy with the decision for Albus to write his grandfather's essay. Not that Scorpius doubted him, but he didn’t want Albus exposed to all the hatred his family believed in.
He has to know that I don’t think he believes this stuff, Albus thought. Just the same, he tried to work on it mostly when Scorpius wasn’t around. However, sharing a dorm with his friend and spending more free time with Dany was greatly cutting into Albus’s time to work on it. I only have till Christmas holidays, Albus reminded himself.
He flipped the book open to chapter three and pulled out the beginnings of the essay that he’d folded and shoved between the pages. Poising his self-inking quill above the parchment, he began the arduous task of decoding the text. The language was so academic that it often took Albus three or four passes to understand what he was reading:
The first reliably documented instance of a Muggleborn wizard appears in the surviving Athenian records of 330 BCE, though it is widely accepted that such individuals existed long before this point. The destruction of the Great Library of Alexandria alone accounts for the loss of innumerable early magical treatises, many of which scholars believe contained references to untrained magic arising in non-magical populations. Early magical societies responded unevenly: some ignored these anomalies entirely, others isolated them, and only a rare few attempted instruction. This period of neglect produced mixed outcomes. On the one hand, it prevented the propagation of unstable traits often observed in certain magical bloodlines; on the other, it coincided with the earliest accounts of Obscurial manifestations–violent magical corruptions born of repression rather than inheritance. It was not until 428 CE that Eldric of Caerleon formally proposed the structured training of Muggleborns, arguing that controlled instruction posed less risk than continued suppression. Thus began what later chroniclers would call the dilution of wizardkind. Within a century, the first recorded case of Maledictus affliction emerged, an affliction many scholars now attribute to the reckless mingling of incompatible magical bloodlines.
Albus paused, rereading the last lines for the third time. Dilution of wizardkind. He wasn’t entirely sure what the author meant by that. But the words felt heavy in his chest. It reminded him too much of what Scorpius stated the CV wanted. To go back to the time before non-purebloods were accepted into the community. The author presented a strong argument for why they should. And it worried Albus at how persuasive it sounded.
“How much of this is actually true?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, what’s a Maledictus?”
Scorpius didn’t look up from his work, his fingers still busy with whatever final adjustments he was making. “It’s a type of blood curse,” he said easily. “The afflicted involuntarily transforms into an animal. Over time, the transformations become permanent. Eventually, they can’t be human again.”
Albus frowned. “So… like an Animagus?”
“No,” Scorpius corrected at once. “Animagi transform by choice. A Maledictus doesn’t have one.” There was a brief pause, just long enough for him to consider the thought. “There are even some scholars who argue that those afflicted lose their human soul in the process… if you believe in that sort of thing, of course.”
Albus stilled. “Do you?”
Scorpius hummed thoughtfully, still focused on his project. “There are plenty of well-documented cases of Maledicti,” he said, a touch brisker now. “It’s one of the blood curses Mr. A is particularly interested in curing.”
“Oh,” Albus said quietly. Scorpius hadn’t answered his question.
He turned back to his parchment, the quill scratching as he resumed his notes, though the words came more slowly now. Reckless mingling. Incompatible bloodlines. He didn’t like how easily the book slipped from observation into judgment, or how neatly it wrapped fear in scholarship.
Behind him, fabric rustled. Then footsteps. “TA-DA!” Scorpius cried victoriously.
Albus jumped, twisting around just in time to see Scorpius spin in place, arms flung wide in triumph. “Well?” Scoprius asked expectantly.
It took Albus a moment to understand what he was looking at. Scorpius stood in the middle of the dorm, hands planted on his hips, fabric falling in long, elegant lines that caught the candle light as he turned. For a second, Albus’s brain refused to label it at all, only registering movement and texture.
“Is that…” He blinked. “Is that what the Order of Merlin used to wear?”
Scorpius laughed, the bright, delighted sound filling the dorm. “Oh, absolutely not. Merlin was notoriously exclusionary. Wizards only, despite the fact that some of the most powerful practitioners of the era were witches.”
Albus straightened, listening despite himself.
“This,” Scorpius went on, giving the hem an appreciative tug, “is a reconstruction of what Morgan le Fay is believed to have worn. Or at least a close approximation. She had her own following of sorceresses, scholars, healers. Entire circles devoted to her work. She’s the reason witches were eventually admitted into more prestigious magical societies at all.”
He pivoted, entirely pleased with himself. “For a time, commendations awarded to witches were called the Morgana Medal of Honor. Didn’t change until 1868, when everything was consolidated into the Order of Merlin and opened officially to witches and wizards alike.”
Albus nodded slowly, his mind still catching up. He took in the long sleeves, the careful tailoring, the way the fabric flowed instead of clung. “So…” he said at last, eloquence failing him entirely. “That’s a dress? Like, for… women?”
Scorpius didn’t even blink. “I spent weeks researching the proper textiles,” he said, turning toward the door and reaching for the handle. “Natural fibers only! Linen and early wool blends. The dyes are period-accurate, too. No synthetic saturation. And the cut allows for far greater range of motion, especially for wide-cast wand patterns. See?” He demonstrated absently, arm sweeping in a smooth arc.
Albus’s eyes widened. “You’re… You’re wearing that out there?”
Scorpius shrugged. “It’s for Knights Club. I thought we might do a unit on historical magical fashion. With Halloween coming up, it could even turn into a group costume project.”
Albus swallowed. Selwyn. Rowle. The memory of last year flared sharp and unwelcome. How they’d humiliated Scorpius at the Halloween feast, sneering and destroying his costume even when he’d been wearing nothing more scandalous than a King Arthur tunic.
This would be worse. So much worse.
“We have to go through the common room,” Albus said faintly. “Then up four staircases. And at least seven corridors.”
Scorpius glanced at him, utterly unfazed. “Yes?”
Albus hesitated. “Scorp… others might think…”
Scorpius tilted his head, grey eyes bright, curious rather than defensive.
Albus exhaled, then finished, “They might be jealous of all that fabulous style.”
For a heartbeat, Scorpius just stared. Then he laughed again, completely delighted and unguarded.
Albus felt the familiar spike of fear settle in his chest. This—this—was social suicide. With the whispers already following him, the slurs, the looks… walking beside Scorpius now would cement every rumor.
He straightened anyway. Shoulders back. Feet planted. He stepped to Scorpius’s side. “Okay,” Albus said, voice steadier than he felt. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to be late.”
At first, no one noticed. The Slytherin common room was half-asleep in the post-dinner lull with low voices, a chessboard mid-argument, and someone dozing in an armchair near the fire. Scorpius crossed the threshold without fanfare, the hem of his dress whispering softly over the stone floor.
Up close, the craftsmanship was undeniable. The fabric was heavier than it looked, woven to drape rather than cling, dyed in deep, earthen tones that caught the green glow of the lake-filtered light. The sleeves were long and practical, the cut elegant without being too delicate. They were intentionally designed for movement, for casting, and for command. This was no mere costume. It was pure, fine artistry. Albus took it in with a strange mix of admiration and dread.
They were almost to the exit when a voice cut through the room. “What the hell are you wearing, Malfoy?” Barnaby Harris had looked up from the sofa at last, eyebrows knitting together as the picture finally resolved in his mind.
Albus turned to him before Scorpius even had time to register the comment. “An authentic replica of Morgan le Fay,” he said sharply. “You ignorant arse.”
A ripple of laughter followed. Someone snorted. Someone else whispered. Scorpius didn’t react. If he heard it at all, he gave no sign. He adjusted the skirts with practiced ease, already scanning ahead, mind clearly elsewhere.
Albus heard everything. The giggles. The murmurs. The sharp intake of breath when a slur hovered and went unsaid. He stepped closer to Scorpius, close enough that their shoulders brushed. They left the common room without another word.
The corridors beyond were quieter, the castle in one of its merciful periods of inactivity. A few students glanced up as they passed with double takes, raised brows, and the soft scrape of shoes slowing just long enough to stare. No one spoke, though. No one stopped them.
Scorpius walked on, unhurried, posture easy, utterly himself. Albus stayed at his side. And though his heart hammered in his chest, he didn’t falter, not once, as they climbed the stairs and disappeared deeper into the castle.
Professor Everly opened the classroom door and paused. His brows lifted, just slightly, before settling back into their usual calm arch. Whatever he thought, he didn’t say it. He simply stepped aside to let them in, tapping his wand against a desk as he did. “Mind the floors,” he said mildly. “The castle’s old enough without you lot scarring it up.”
Scorpius beamed and swept inside with the utmost care, lifting the hem just enough to clear the threshold. Everly watched him go, lips twitching in something that might have been amusement.
“Kids these days,” he muttered, already turning back to his papers.
Noah arrived moments later, flanked by Anthony and Jayson, all three first-years still riding the boundless energy of having permission to be somewhere interesting after hours. Noah took one step into the room, stopped short, and stared.
“Whoa,” he breathed. “Is that a dress?”
Scorpius spun on the spot, delighted, fabric fanning out with practiced ease. “Yes! What do you think? I paid extra attention to the cut and the lines. Those were essential for freedom of movement.”
Anthony and Jayson snickered behind their hands, but Noah didn’t laugh. His eyes stayed fixed on Scorpius, wide with something closer to awe.
“But why are you wearing it?” he asked, genuinely curious.
Scorpius opened his mouth to answer just as others began filtering in. By the time he spoke, Bryn, Owen, and Dany had all reached the doorway.
“I was inspired by a tapestry,” Scorpius said, warming to the subject. “It depicts Morgan le Fay ferrying Arthur to Avalon after Camlann. For healing.” He said the word with reverence. “Healing,” Scorpius went on, glancing briefly toward Albus, “is one of the most noble magical arts. Morgan’s contributions are often overshadowed by Merlin’s, but she saved Arthur when no one else could. I wanted to honor that.”
Owen scoffed, already stepping back toward the corridor. “If I wanted to join a fashion design club, I would’ve signed up for one,” he said flatly. “I’ve got an essay to write.” He turned on his heel and left before anyone could answer.
Bryn lingered, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I don’t know about this,” he said.
Albus felt his shoulders tense. He’d expected the ridicule in the common room and throughout the hallways. He didn’t think Scorpius’s own Knights would turn on him so quickly.
Then Bryn stepped closer, crouched slightly, and lifted the edge of the overskirt with careful fingers. “This stitch,” he said, peering at the hem, “isn’t quite right. That technique didn’t come into common use until at least a century later. You’d want a looped backstitch. It’s simpler but stronger. That’s why older garments have stood the test of time more than newer ones.”
Scorpius’s eyes lit up. “Oh,” he said softly. “That’s brilliant. I hadn’t considered regional variation in needlework traditions. I should look into that.”
Noah perked up. “Is this what you want us to wear for Halloween?” Anthony and Jayson gasped beside him.
Scorpius laughed. “Only if you want to. I’d like us to research authentic styles of witches, wizards, knights, kings…” He paused, then added brightly, “Even Muggles.”
The room hummed with quiet interest. Noah and Bryn began fishing through Scorpius’s bag, pulling out the volumes on historical attire. Jayson found a design dating from the time of Hogwart’s founding and announced he wanted to make a replica of Godric Gyrffindor’s cloak he wore at the school’s opening ceremony.
Albus smiled softly. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. But that was when he noticed not everyone was joining in.
Dany stood just inside the doorway, one hand still on the frame, as if he hadn’t quite decided whether to enter. He hadn’t said a word. His gaze was fixed on Scorpius caught somewhere between confusion and fear.
Albus felt the shift in his chest before he understood it. Something had changed.
He waited until Scorpius was deep in discussion with Bryn and Noah before he crossed the room. Dany still hovered near the doorway, one hand braced against the stone as though the room itself might tip if he stepped any farther inside.
“Hey,” Albus said quietly. “Are you okay?”
Dany looked at him, then away again, jaw tight. “Are you?” he asked. “I mean, are you okay with all this?”
Albus stared back confused. “With—?” He glanced back toward Scorpius, who was gesturing animatedly with his sleeves as he spoke. “I guess. I mean… it’s not really my thing, but most of the history stuff isn’t. You know that. It’s boring to me, but Scorp makes it more interesting, I suppose.”
Dany shook his head slowly. “But why… why is he—” He stopped, exhaled sharply, and tried again. “Why that?”
Albus frowned, genuinely confused. “You heard him. He wants to know everything. The literature, the music, the battles, the food…” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And yeah. The fashion. It’s all important to Scorp.”
Dany nodded, but it didn’t seem to help. His voice dropped. “Yes, but why… that? I mean… is he…?”
“Scorpius is just Scorpius,” Albus said at once.
Dany closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded like they hurt. “I really am. I just… I’ve been breaking a lot of… expectations lately. And this—” He gestured vaguely toward the room. “This goes too far. It crosses too many boundaries.”
Albus stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
Dany swallowed. For a moment, it looked like he might not say anything at all. “It’s haram, Albus,” he said finally. “I… I can’t take part in it.”
“You don’t have to,” Albus said quickly. “Just come in and listen. You don’t have to do anything–”
Dany shook his head, already stepping backward. “I couldn’t,” he said, his voice tight. “Forgive me. Please. I’ll come back next week. Or when all the Halloween things are done. I just—” He hesitated, dark eyes shining. “Please don’t hate me.”
“I don’t,” Albus said at once. “I just… but couldn’t you—”
Dany’s expression twisted, pained and resolute all at once. “I thought I could make allowances,” he murmured. “Little ones. I thought I could bend things. And now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I can’t do this, too.” He looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry, Albus.” He backed away slowly, his face contorted with guilt and hurt. Finally, he turned away and left.
Albus stood there, heart aching, torn between two instincts pulling him in opposite directions. For one awful moment, he thought about running after Dany. Calling his name, saying something, anything, that might make this easier.
Behind him, Scorpius laughed. Albus closed his eyes. Then he turned back toward the classroom and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.
By the time the last of the chairs were stacked and pushed back into place, the room felt cavernous. Professor Everly had departed with a satisfied nod and a reminder about closing the door, leaving Albus and Scorpius alone to straighten the remaining desks. The earlier hum of conversation lingered only as an echo now as the candles burned low.
Scorpius folded a length of fabric over his arm with careful precision. “Dany didn’t stay,” he said lightly, though his eyes flicked up as if already knowing the answer.
Albus shook his head. He stared at the floor for a moment too long. “No.”
“It was because of me,” Scorpius said quietly. He gestured to himself, to the dress. “Because of… this.”
Albus picked at his cuticles. He didn’t want to tell Scorpius the truth, but it was clear he already knew. “It’s not you,” he said. “Dany likes you. He does. I just think… all of this conflicted with his—” He faltered, searching for the right words, “with what he’s allowed to do. To be.”
Scorpius nodded slowly, absorbing that. “I didn’t mean to make things difficult,” he said. “For you.”
“You didn’t,” Albus said at once. “Things with me and Dany are fine. Really. You don’t need to worry about it.”
Scorpius gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. They finished putting the classroom back in order in silence after that. It wasn’t until it was time to leave that Scorpius spoke again.
At the doorway, Scorpius hesitated. The buoyant energy colored by his delight and easy certainty that had carried him through the evening had finally worn thin. He wasn’t upset for himself. That wasn’t what troubled him. “Albus,” he said. “You can go on ahead.”
Albus turned. “What?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Scorpius said softly. “I know how the others are… I know the things they say. I don’t want to make it harder for you. I don’t want to be the reason—”
Albus grinned. “No way, José.” Before Scorpius could protest, Albus hooked his arm through his and said, “We’re going back together.”
For a heartbeat, Scorpius just looked at him. Then he smiled, followed by a laugh. They stepped out into the corridor side by side, their strides falling naturally into sync as the door closed behind them.