The Many Musings of Albus Potter

xii. pixies

xii. pixies

Albus had already anticipated his final September at Hogwarts to be a quieter affair than usual, but he could not have predicted the sheer number of students who have not returned.

"Moaning Myrtle's death almost destroyed the school's reputation," Rose murmurs to him when they board the Hogwarts Express together and find that there are plenty of isolated compartments to choose from. "It's damn near a miracle Nora Longbottom's death hasn't gotten it completely shut down."

Albus hopes to discuss more of this with her and Scorpius together. The whole thing seems more than a little fishy, and he's been itching to go over the details with the both of them. He knows nothing will come of it – and how could it? The Ministry probably know a hell lot more than they let on to the public and even they haven't been able to find the culprit, or a proper explanation for it all. Still, it'd be worthwhile to let off some steam and fuck, Merlin knows this summer has been a summer of built up tension, of angry murmurs across dinner tables and deafening silence and this deep, aching longing to be away from it all.

Already he's beginning to feel the familiar flutter of excitement intertwined with this irrational, deep-seated paranoia that somehow Scorpius has changed and he won't want to be around Albus anymore. It's especially poignant this year, seeing as they haven't set eyes on each other since that long-ago day in June—or was it July? All he can discern from those times was how parched and dry his mouth always felt, and the unpleasant taste of his sweat building up on his upper-lip as he and the Weasley children set about de-gnoming the Burrow together.

Albus knows it's stupid, but he wonders if Rose can somehow sense—maybe even be able to hear—the deep and heavy thrums of his heart against his chest as they set themselves down in front of each other in their usual compartment.

It's funny and, yet unsurprising at the same time, that they've chosen this one. They'd always complain, every year, how they were forced to sit in this particular compartment, it being smaller and more musty-smelling than the other ones, because the rest filled up so quickly. Despite their freedom of choice this year, they've chosen this one again. Sentimentality runs through the whole family, he muses to himself with a slight grin.

"You don't look too nervous anymore," Rose observes.

"When did I look nervous in the first place?" Albus asks, though he's well aware that he's been twitchy all morning. Rose is bound to have noticed, the nosy bugger.

"All morning," she says, predictably. Albus shifts in his seat, casting a glance outside the window. A few parents are milling about; some look as though they're ready to jump into the train and haul their children back outside because they've changed their mind suddenly. Is it any surprise? It took ages just for Harry to convince their mother that Albus and Lily were grown up and, therefore, sensible enough, not to go looking around for trouble.

Ginny had huffed at that, and pointed out that being a biological Potter made it genetically impossible for any of her children to be sensible and not go looking around for trouble.

"She isn't wrong," James had pointed out, rather unhelpfully Albus thought, from across the kitchen table. He'd grinned, then, and took a bite out of his toast when Lily and Albus shot him a glare.

"He'll be here soon." Rose's voice pierces through his thoughts again and Albus jumps slightly. He casts her a furtive glance before looking back outside again.

"I know he will," he says. Albus is irritated now, because it hadn't even occurred to him that Scorpius might not show up, despite what the letters have said, and why did Rose have to put that thought into his head? Like he didn't already have about a thousand other things to obsessively worry over.