Work Text:
Junior league Quidditch had its own rules, as Draco found when five-year-old Scorpius asked to join a youth team. It was played much closer to the ground, at about eye level for an adult; the field was half the length and width of a regulation pitch, and they were not allowed to fly higher than ten feet, enforced by a magical ceiling which caged the Snitch as well. The purple Quaffle was soft and the Bludgers were rubber that burst on contact like Muggle water balloons, drenching the player before they magically reformed.
Every measure was taken to protect the players from danger, as well as humiliation (there were no tryouts and enrollment was completely open). But what Draco could not protect them from was his own son.
In addition to the North Woolwich Nifflers being the absolute worst team in the league, Scorpius was the absolute worst player in their ranks. And perhaps, if he was honest, the worst that Draco had ever seen.
He and Hermione and Narcissa, who was visiting from Wiltshire, had taken Scorpius to his first practice and, with pride and amusement, watched him run to his broom and lift a small leg over it. As the team drilled ball carrying and weaving in and out of magically suspended poles, Draco looped his arm around Hermione’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. She tickled his ribs. It never grew old, watching their small person stumblingly explore the world. Scorpius was now their shared entertainment and bemusement, and through the looks they shared over his earnest head, and the laughter they succumbed to behind closed doors, they fell more in love with each other and with fate itself.
They both admitted they had received the child they deserved, stubborn and persistent and unstoppable, but with one feature neither parent shared: he didn’t have a temper. He never reacted to the world or its frustrations with bitterness or fury. He simply fell down or bumped his head, said Merwin, got up and tried again.
Hermione, remembering her tears when she could not understand an assignment, and Draco recalling his fury when he could not knot his tie properly, were humbled by their tranquil little child, never more than on the day he caught them raging at each other with wands out, their words hot and prideful, and asked if he could play too. They stopped instantly, dropping their wands and wrapped him in their arms. Later that night, Draco wept about his fears of turning into Lucius, and she assured him it would not happen, not now, not ever.
It was time for a scrimmage. Half of the Nifflers, including Scorpius, put on purple jerseys. The young parents and the grandmother watched the little ones take their brooms, holding their assigned balls. All had attended Quidditch matches or even in some lucky cases the World Cup, so they knew how the game worked. Draco had given Scorpius some flying lessons in the park and was satisfied that the child could stay on the broom. But his expectations were low; it was, after all, a youth league.
Then the game began. And first Draco’s, then Hermione’s, then Narcissa’s jaw dropped as they watched the talents that Scorpius had not been hiding…not appear.
Scorpius’s very first act as a Chaser with custody of the Quaffle was to score in his own goal. Draco shivered as he watched his son huff and puff down the field in the wrong direction, everyone screaming turn around, not that way, somehow evading the other small flyers with gentle feints and dodges until he deposited the Quaffle in his own side’s hoop. He then looked happily at his parents and grandmother and waved.
When he flew to the side to say hello, Hermione was deputized to tell him, “My dearest love, that is where you are trying to put the ball.” She pointed to the opposite side of the field.
“Oh. Merwin,” he said, turning around and flying back. This time, he flew in the right direction, but he didn’t listen when his teammates called for passes or participation, and a Bludger exploded against him, drenching him and causing him to drop the Quaffle.
The coach ran up to him and aimed a Drying Charm at him. It was as powerful as a Muggle hand dryer and his hair stood straight up in a fluffy white shock. Hermione collapsed into Draco’s shoulder, hiding her laughter there, as he stared with the infinite love and infinite dismay of a former star Seeker whose skills had clearly skipped a generation.
Narcissa, dressed warmly in a pink jumper with a flower pattern, blue jeans and some Muggle boots she had discovered called Uggs, shaded her eyes and stared at the field. “Are they changing his position?” she asked as the coach gestured to Scorpius to give up the Quaffle and take up a Beater’s bat, really just a glorified purple table tennis paddle.
Under Scorpius’s loving direction, the Bludgers ploughed into every one of his teammates, and several more heads of hair stood on end after being dried off.
“Sweetheart, aim at them,” called Draco desperately, gesturing to the other team. “Not at the people in purple.”
Scorpius was soon tactfully relieved of Beater duty and deposited in front of his team’s goal — just one hoop for the junior league — to guard it as Keeper. It went as expected, with him scoring several more times for the other team as the Quaffle bounced off his broom, his chest, and his head into his own goal again.
“Sawazar,” Scorpius said serenely, and Narcissa Malfoy excused herself to go for a short walk so that she did not laugh at her grandson in front of the good people of North Woolwich. Both Draco and Hermione being so fiercely talented at all they did — from Quidditch to potions to Healing — made it all more hilariously tragic to her.
Hermione went to speak to the coach, and Scorpius was made Seeker for the final portion of the practice. At least this way he could stay out of the way of the other players. The junior league Snitch flew more slowly and was larger so as to make it easier for the children to track it. Scorpius circled the edge of the field alongside the other Seeker, a small, intensely focused Indian girl with looped plaits and a T-shirt that read Seek and Ye Shall Find.
“Patil, next edition,” said Draco to Hermione, adding with a glare, “do not Confound that child.” She grinned and agreed not to interfere as he went over to speak to Padma, who shared that Purnima wanted to try out for a more elite junior league but wasn’t old enough, and had therefore resigned herself to languishing with the Nifflers for the upcoming year.
Scorpius and Purnima patrolled for the Snitch, and Purnima made a few quick dashes for it, without success. Draco noticed that her broom handling and agility were expert for a child of her age and size. He watched Scorpius trundle along humbly in her wake, never faster, never defter, and turned away and covered his face so that he, too, did not laugh at his precious son in a public place.
Narcissa returned from her walk to learn about Scorpius’s latest assignment. “Do you remember,” she said to Draco, “the time you ‘gardened’ for me and beheaded every one of my roses? You piled them in a basket for me — no stems, no leaves, no water even — for my birthday and not a bloom was left in the garden.” She’d had to magically restore the garden from Draco’s rampage before Lucius saw, but she’d kept the bottomless basket of blooms until they died on her dresser.
Hermione, who’d never heard the story, guffawed and asked Narcissa to tell her more. Meanwhile, Purnima was pitching a fit at the edge of the field, frustrated that she couldn’t see the Snitch. One of her plaits was coming loose — Draco remembered with affection how Hermione’s plaits used to unravel as she grew more annoyed — and her flying was growing erratic as she flew from side to side, then tried her luck with the magical ten-foot ceiling. She managed to stretch it by a few feet, but the surface tension bounced her back moments later like a trampoline, catapulting her toward the ground. She nearly missed ploughing into the grass and deftly reversed course, even angrier than before.
The coach blew a whistle and told Purnima not to test the barrier — she had words with him. The purple-clad Nifflers continued to limp along, letting Quaffle after Quaffle through the hoop as the practice wore on. Through it all Scorpius kept watch for the Snitch, but never seemed to reach for it or even roam anywhere near it. He just wafted happily along like a cherub circling a ceiling.
Hermione conjured cups of tea and handed one to Narcissa and another to Draco. As he sipped, a wave of feeling passed through him, knotting his gut.
A wave he recognized as fear of how Lucius would have responded to this innocent spectacle of incompetence. A wave he recognized as relief that Lucius was not here, would never be here. Would never see him or speak to him or take breath ever again.
His father was in the ground, his wand snapped, his power gone. Draco’s mind knew it, but his body didn’t know it. Not yet. His eyes fell to the grass and he tried to concentrate on the blades, the dew on the blades, the sunshine melting into the greenery, to distract himself.
Hermione sensed Draco tensing and placed her hand exactly where she knew the dread lived. He calmed and breathed again, slipping his hand in hers as he sipped tea.
Then he glanced up.
“Hermione. Mother,” he said. “Look.”
As Purnima hurled herself against the barrier again and again, screaming that she was sick of this stupid youth league and its stupid rules as Padma and the coach ran onto the field to talk her down, Scorpius, still flying sedately along, opened his mouth and yawned. The Snitch flew straight in and, surprised, he bit down on it. Then, as tranquilly as he did everything, he took it out of his mouth.
“Snitch,” he said clearly, holding it up.
Draco, Hermione, and Narcissa all spilled their tea.
“Game over!” called the coach, as Purnima was finally coaxed down, her black hair fully unraveled now and bouncing in angry spirals around her head. When she realized what had happened, she began hitting the ground with her broomstick and howling. Scorpius landed next to her and got off his broom.
“Here,” he said, handing it to her. The girl looked at him strangely as he closed her fingers around it and jogged back to his parents.
Draco knelt and opened his arms as Scorpius returned. “Well done, my darling,” he said, helping Scorpius pull off the purple jersey, shaking with emotion as small arms wrapped simply around him. “I’m so proud of you.”
Then Draco remembered how the rest of the match had gone.
“My love,” said Draco, “now that we’ve tried Quidditch, are you sure you wouldn’t like to try another sport? Perhaps football?” Maybe not a team sport next time. Maybe one where nobody else depends on him.
“How about tennis? Table tennis?” he inquired tenderly, smoothing down Scorpius’s hair and gazing into his clear grey eyes. “I’ll put up a table on the lawn. We can play whenever we want. I can charm the ball to make animal sounds whenever you hit it. How about that?”
“Quibbitch,” said Scorpius happily.
Draco felt Hermione’s soothing hands on his shoulders and as he stood up he saw his mother suppress a smile. Then Draco picked up his son, rested his head on his shoulder, and inhaled deeply. Scorpius smelled like grass and grapefruit juice and his mother’s rose-scented shampoo, which he insisted on using as well. Draco released his breath and then the family slowly left the field together.