This is almost a one shot sequel to The Courage to Face a Scorpion. That's very ironic because I've barely started that story.

'I want to know what happened,' he says, and all Draco hears after that is the blood rushing to his head.

He looks purposefully down at the magnificent mahogany desk in front of him, as he tries to wrack his brain for excuses. The past is something he'd rather not dredge up. For Draco, it is full of broken lives and promises, and the painfully perfect childhood he'd lost in the face of a war.

(Of course, nothing was ever perfect; except to an eleven-year-old child with every obtainable object he could want and a mother who was wound tightly around his little finger.)

Unfortunately, he thinks; he's all but lost the quick wit and the sharp tongue of his youth. Not to mention that he's rather too old to be able to think of something that would cure his son's vivid imagination and endless intrigue. All that wit and sarcasm was probably wasted on Potter and his menagerie of followers; forever coaxing his burning flame of juvenile jealousy.

The mahogany gleams back at him, untouched and perfect despite its age. It's just another of the artefacts he recently procured from his father's estate, and it sits proudly within the comparatively modest study. It's an odd juxtaposition of the old and the new, as his past is with his reality. Almost as dissimilar as Lucius and Scorpius, aside from the obvious physical attributes which seem to run thick through the Malfoy blood.

Scopius does, in some ways, look as much like him as he did to Lucius. The boy on the other side of his desk has the white blonde hair of his grandfather, and the prominent chin and cheekbones which are unfortunately prevalent in all the Malfoys Draco's ever seen. He certainly looks more like a Malfoy than a Greengrass which, given the current attitude toward pureblood families, is probably more of a disadvantage.

However, there are bits of Astoria in there, thankfully. The thin wrists and slightly broader shoulders are Greengrass features, Draco's sure. They seem like rather trivial things to notice in a growing human being, but when he's honest with himself, he knows it comforts him more than anything else to think that even physically Scorpius is never going to be him. Scorpius is never going to make his mistakes, never going to have to carry that guilt and feel that shame.

The things that set them apart more than anything, are Scorpius' eyes. They're a rich azure, rather than a sinister grey. They're endless pools of curiosity and intelligence, rather than the cold, aristocratic iris' that stare back at Draco from the bathroom mirror. It sounds odd, but Draco's sure the difference sets them worlds apart. They're the physical sign that Scorpius is good, and that he's a completely different boy than the sixteen-year-old Draco was.

(Sixteen is hardly a boy, although Draco secretly wishes Scorpius could stay so untouched and innocent forever. Then perhaps he wouldn't have to delve into the sordid Malfoy past and prise open the tightly closed box of memories Draco carries around inside himself.)

'I want to know how it was for you. I want to know how you felt.'

It's a rather odd thing for Scorpius to be talking about feelings, Draco thinks. They've never had the verbose father and son relationship that Draco envisions Potter probably has with his children. Draco doesn't hug Scorpius much, even less so now he is older, and the closest they've ever come to talking about relationships or love was when Astoria forced Draco to give Scorpius the seemingly mandatory and supremely awkward sexual health speech.

Scorpius was, admittedly, never planned nor considered. Indeed, his life had been thrown in the balance, whilst Draco yelled and pleaded with Astoria to reconsider her seemingly immovable stance on the pregnancy. Draco had never even imagined fatherhood. He was sure, at that point in time, that being a parent would be the biggest risk he could ever take. He knew nothing of responsibility or care, only pain and sacrifice, and a child seemed far too innocent to be tainted by his hands and his seemingly equally repugnant surname.

(It may have also been something to do with having to share Astoria with someone else.)

There was no sudden outburst of emotion when he first held the child either, Draco remembers. He thought his son was a remarkably ugly baby and had thrust him hastily back at his fatigued wife the minute he had started crying. In fact, most of Scorpius' infant interaction with his father was filled with ear piercing cries for his mother. Draco was never his favourite.

Lucius had appreciated his grandson's upbringing as much as he approved of his daughter-in-law. He reprimanded Draco constantly about the boy's temperament, fostered evidently by Astoria's doting, and the appalling lack of discipline the child was given. Scorpius had never really appreciated his grandfather either, probably because he looked very similar to his father, and who most certainly wouldn't allow him to touch the shiny, serpent handle of his cane. It was the start of a very hostile relationship between the two, one that Draco had never really discouraged. In the end, Lucius was bitterly convinced that the Malfoy line would end with the oddity that was Draco's son and that by extension, Draco had never been properly taught the importance of pureblood preservation.

This apparent failure of Scorpius to live up to the standards of his grandfather was the catalyst for Draco's affections. He took great pride in every new quirk which appeared in Scorpius which was definitely adverse to Malfoy traits. Perhaps it was the start of his long overdue rebellion against the heritage which had stained him, or the unequivocal desire to detach himself from those long-standing traditions, but Draco found himself craving the refreshing personality of the growing child.

It wasn't long after Scorpius' third birthday that Draco decided he needed to be more involved. That despite the animosity with which Scorpius seemed to attribute to him; he was going to make bloody well sure that his son never made his mistakes. Scorpius needed a father figure too, he reasoned, otherwise he'd probably turn out like Longbottom, and that would be disastrous. After all, they shared blood, and a tiny genetic code, so surely they couldn't be polar opposites.

It took almost a year of bedtime stories for Scorpius to specifically request Draco at his bedside at night. When he did, it was only because Draco apparently read better than Astoria, and was able to voice the characters of the books realistically. At first, it seemed like a small victory, but then of course, it all snowballed. Scorpius climbing onto Draco's lap at breakfast, pretending to read the Prophet over the plate of eggs Florentine, and knocking the pumpkin juice everywhere. Scorpius cohabiting his study and playing noisily with his Hogwarts Express train set whilst Draco attempted to finish a tedious amount of paperwork. Scorpius flinging himself haphazardly into Draco's arms after unwrapping the miniature Firebolt Mirus broomstick one Christmas morning.

Somehow, Draco weaselled his way into Scorpius' heart. Secretly, Draco had never been so pleased with himself. After all, getting someone to love him was not an easy task.

At the time, he'd failed to notice how Scorpius had done just the same to him. Draco found he'd never cared about someone so much as he did Scorpius, and aside from Astoria, he'd never loved another human being as much either.

It was therefore difficult to describe the past to his son. Not when it painted him so dreadfully. Draco craved the adoration his son afforded him – adoration he did not particularly deserve.

With that thought, he wrenches his eyes away from the wood, the light dancing off it from the open window and forces himself to address his son. A sigh escapes his chest, and he folds his hands neatly on the desk in front of him.

Scorpius, in a clear display of their differences, flops himself lazily onto the armchair on the other side of the desk, and arranges his long limbs into a more comfortable position. He studies Draco with an expectant expression, as if Draco is about to give a long winded story which would include all the answers to the questions which the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes of last term had raised about the war, and Voldemort in particular. He knows about his family's involvement, how could he not? He's reminded of it every day by the cautious looks of classmates who don't know him well, and the first years who all but run in the opposite direction when he enters the Great Hall. Al has always reminded him that they make an odd pair of friends; the son of the wizarding world's golden boy and the son of the villain.

Scorpius has never attributed the role of the villain to his father. The idea feels foreign on his tongue, like an unpleasant taste, or something he would rather not think about. Of course, that is far from true; Scorpius spends his nights replaying those things over in his head. Had his father been at the table with Voldemort himself? Had he tortured anyone? Had he killed someone?

In some ways, his father is his hero. He's fantastic at Quidditch, and knows how best to annoy grandfather. He can answer more owls in one sitting than Scorpius could ever imagine, and read through a stack of legal papers as tall as him in a few hours, all whilst lazily rearranging books with his wand. He also makes the best hot chocolates Scorpius has ever tasted, although these are strictly their little secret, because he's sure mother would disapprove of the sugar content.

His father, in other ways, is an enigma. His life is an endless list of complications which all tie together in a way that creates an impenetrable paradox which Scorpius begs to understand. He feels, somehow, that after all their time together, he doesn't really know his father.

(Which really was unfair considering his father seemed to know everything about him.)

So he probes, and asks irritating questions, in the hope that somehow he will come to understand something of the past. Because, as he sees it, his father's past is also his past, and will be his children's past as well. It is only fair that he should comprehend it.

'It's complex Scorpius,' Draco begins, and pauses to think of the best way to address such a delicate issue.

'I want to know,' he states plainly, 'I want to understand.'

Draco sighs again, and unfurls his hands, 'It's hard to explain.'

Scorpius seems to contemplate this weak response for a minute. He bites his lip in contemplation and furrows his eyebrows.

'I want to see it,' he says, without a hint of doubt.

Draco sighs again, a little more exasperated. He'd always expected this kind of moment to come, where even the most painfully physical memories were exposed. Of course he would want to see it, it was so Scorpius.

'That,' he emphasises, 'is not going to get you any further towards the truth Scorpius. It's simply an ugly tattoo.'

'How do I know it's ugly if I've never seen it,' he challenges; his response almost eliciting laughter from Draco. It is just one of those unexpected things that Scorpius says, and that Draco can never premeditate.

'Why does it's appearance matter?' he retorts, picking up a picture of Astoria and himself on the desk, wiping the dust from it, and replacing it tenderly, 'it does not change its irrelevance.'

'If it is irrelevant, then why haven't you gotten rid of it?'

'Some magic, you will learn, is more permanent than others,' Draco replies, his forearm pulsing at the thought of the ugly, black blemish that covers it.

'Well then I'm going to see it at some stage aren't I? You can't hide something forever.'

Draco wishes he could. He's tried hard to keep it covered for years; never wearing sleeveless tops in summer, nor white or light coloured shirts to work without his black robes. On hot nights in summer he used to bandage it so Astoria didn't have to see it when he propped his head up on the pillow to look at her. That was until she sufficiently convinced him that no inkblot was going to make her love him any less.

'Perhaps not,' he smiles, 'but that doesn't mean that now is the time.'

'When then?' his son continues to contest.

'One day.'

Dissatisfaction clouds Scorpius' face for a moment. His brow furrows more and he picks absentmindedly at the brown leather of the armchair with his long fingers.

'Did it hurt? Getting it, I mean.'

'I can't remember,' Draco lies. Of course he can remember. Nothing to do with Voldemort was ever painless.

'You know what I think?' Scorpius challenges.

'What do you think?'

'I think that you cover up the truth, just like you cover up that,' he states, pointing to his father's forearm. He says it neither maliciously nor accusingly, but simply says it; a statement which hangs uncomfortably in Draco's mind.

'Sometimes it is for your own good.'

'How can deceit ever be for my own good?'

'You will understand one day,' Draco silences him with a dismissive wave of his hand. Scorpius does not accept it. In fact, he only becomes more pressing.

'I'm sixteen,' he challenges.

'That you are,' Draco says, flippantly.

'It's not so young.'

'It's still too young.'

'Not too young to join the Death Eaters though,' Scorpius says, playing his ace. The truth is, he found out this precious piece of information by eavesdropping on his parents conversation earlier that year. His father's past only surfacing as a justification for his argument; that Scorpius was at an impressionable age.

Draco grits his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing with frustration. Scorpius was never supposed to know that. How would he feel knowing that at his age, his father was doing shameful things, terrible things? How would he view Draco now, knowing the mistakes that he'd made? Did he know about sixth year? About that night on the astronomy tower?

'That was a grievous error Scorpius, and you'd do well not to dwell on such things,' he manages to grind out of his firmly locked jaw.

'But it still happened,' he contests, ignoring his father's growing discomfort; 'I need to know why.'

'Your grandfather was one,' Draco admits, 'I was requested to join him in the ranks, and I did, against my mother's better judgement.'

'So you didn't know that Voldemort was, well, bad?'

'Perhaps. However, if Voldemort was bad, then the Death Eaters were bad and back then, I was bad too,' he says, discomfort tingling within him unpleasantly. He's never wanted Scorpius to think ill of him, yet apparently, Scorpius has already discovered a lot for himself.

'You're not bad,' Scorpius says, in the same contemplative, yet neutral tone.

'I've made mistakes that I'd never want you to repeat,' Draco argues, 'which is why I never wanted to discuss this with you until you were ready.'

'I'm ready' Scorpius states with conviction, 'I don't want the blindfold over my eyes anymore. I want to know who you are.'

'I'm not particularly proud of who I was.'

'I don't particularly care.'

'Why not?' Draco asks, confusion lacing his tone. 'Does it not bother you that I might have done things that would disgust you?'

'You've never done anything that could turn me against you father,' he states baldly again. He says it with a kind of conviction only heard coupled with maturity, and somehow Scorpius seems much older than the years would indicate. His face suddenly appears much less childish, his voice deeper. Draco wonders whether he's been missing that transformation all along.

But then again, it's what he's saying that's really surprising Draco. It's what he's not saying that's filling him with some kind of blissful, warm feeling.

Scorpius says he'll never turn against his father. Scorpius is implying that he'll never turn against his father, because he loves him.

'Besides,' his son continues with that same sense of critical maturity, 'people are not split into good and bad. Everyone is a shade of grey.'

In that moment, Draco thinks about his iris'. He is definitely a shade of grey. But then, according to Scorpius, so is everyone. Perhaps, Draco thinks, things are not as dire as they seem, and it's only taken him sixteen years of realisation to get there.

Scorpius unfolds himself from the armchair and marches towards the door with the spring of victory in his step. He knows he's only one step closer to cracking the old man. He'll get to see that ugly tattoo one day, he can feel it.