AN: I haven't quit with my Hermione/Snape story. Don't worry. :) I've just had this plot bunny, and it won't let me be. It's going to be a long story, but I'm very excited. I hope you'll follow me in this adventure. Characters are property of J K Rowling. I do not own.

Scorpius Malfoy and the Ferryman's Mark

"Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry.
Mama's gonna make all your nightmares come true."

-Pink Floyd

-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-

Dec. 31, 2006

In 1685 it had snowed in London every day for five weeks. The Thames itself had frozen over, and the mess did not fully clear up until mid-April. Not to be outdone was the winter of 2006. In Whiltshire the snow was blanketed and banked in a way that England rarely knew. Villages, towns, and cities were shut down and floundering in the winter storm of Biblical proportions. December 31 marked the last day in a seven week period of constant snowfall, and it was also upon this evening that Astoria Malfoy rose cumbersomely from a family heirloom double-Windsor settee, circa 1705. Her knees went weak when she rose, and the silk material of her elaborate dressing gown was heavy: the filigree fabric of the settee bore a dark patch. The baby was coming, and Draco was in London, his license to Apparate revoked after he had Apparated one too many times while soused. This left the patriarch of Malfoy Manor snowbound on the night his son would be born.

Astoria fell to her knees, screaming in agony as the spasms of labor racked her body. Behind her the fireplace crackled warmly, but the air in the room had gone chill. Astoria screamed again, calling out for her midwife. She could hear the hurried click of heeled boots over marble, and in her line of vision, hot cheek pressed to the cold floor, she saw the pointed black tips appear and a flutter of skirt. The walls of the Manor seemed to quake and undulate around Astoria as the pains continued at regular intervals. The midwife transfigured an ancient Egyptian urn into a simple bowl, and filled it with water from the tip of her wand, then brought the water to boil with a simple spell. She stroked the ringlets of hair back from Astoria's sweaty brow, and urged her to focus on breathing.

Astoria looked at the woman, noticing one towel hung over her shoulder, and another tucked into her apron. Her eyes rolled deliriously as the pains continued coming closer, and closer together.

The walls seemed to breath in a hiss that tickled coolly up and down her spine, twisting around it in spirals of fear, and panic. Her heart was thundering. She could feel the blood in her veins stampeding at the pulse points at her wrists, and on either side of her pale, slender, neck. Vaguely she heard the midwife attempting to calm her, but she was being caught in the throws and flashes of a chain of memories that had led to this very moment.

"When, Draco!" Astoria screamed, brandishing her wand at her husband in a tearful rage. She was nearing her wits end with this particular problem, and she was growing to hate the man who was bound to leave her childless.

"I don't know!" Draco held his hands palms out in front of him, in a placating gesture. "We can't rush—"

"Rush?" Astoria exclaimed, unbelieving. "Rush? We have been trying to conceive for YEARS..." Tears rolled down Astoria's flushed cheeks, her eyes glittered brightly.

They knew the problem was in Draco. They had been to Mediwitches and Healers all over the UK, had tried various fertility charms, and potions, but nothing seemed to work for him. One Healer had been rather blunt, telling the couple that Draco was simply sterlie and there was nothing magic could do for it. Astoria had screamed a screech that could have rivaled the most furious rant of Draco's Great Aunt Walburga. Astoria had been physically escorted from the premises for hexing the Healer who had such audacity to say that horrible thing to her face.

The more Astoria and Draco tried, the worse the situation became. These days Draco could hardly become aroused by her. He claimed that intercourse only reminded him more of his failure, and thus it became a frustrating revolving door of trying, and failing. Astoria blamed the Malfoy and Blacks' inbreeding, sleeping with that harlot Parkinson in school (which Draco fervently denied), Draco's adoption of The Dark Mark, his abuse of Firewhiskey, and any other fantasy that came to her so she could vent her rage onto him.

Draco always looked so pathetically wounded after their verbal duels, which Astoria always won. She knew that in the end Draco had no balls—figuratively and literally, apparently—and he would always back down to her with his head bowed and shoulders slouched, like a kicked puppy.

Astoria flew past her husband in a flurry of velvet sleeping robes and tears. The walls had began their sighing as she careened drunkenly with her grief and anger down various corridors. She heard the sighs and whispers more and more lately, as if something inside the stone walls was trying to reach out to her. Her nails dragged along the smooth surface, now and then bumping old family portraits, sending them askew, and their occupants cursing and stumbling within the elaborate golden frames.

She made her way down to the dungeons beneath the house where she felt furthest away from her worthless husband and his failings. She collapsed onto the dirty stone floor, and wept among the shadows. The whispers and sighs were all around her now, hissing, caressing, threading in and out of her, speaking to her strongest desire;

Promise to me...and I will awaken your child.

She clutched her stomach where inside Draco's useless seed filled her, still sticky upon her thighs, the smell of him still on her and it made her feel sick.

Promise to me...and I will awaken your child.

Above Astoria's curled form there hovered the mirage of a child: ivory skinned with tiny kicking feet, hands balled into fists beneath his pointed chin, hair which was almost the color of fallen snow. He opened his eyes at her, and she saw that they were soft and gray like the down of fog kissing the edge of a frosted winter field.

Her lips trembled and her hands quaked as she reached out for her child, but he turned in on himself, into a swirling mist.

"No!" Astoria sobbed.

Promise him to me...

"Who are you!"

The mist reformed into a familiar symbol; one which her husband kept locked away beneath his shirtsleeve.

Astoria wriggled away from the skull and its sickly protruding serpent tongue.

If you wish to hold your deepest desire...then you must share it...or your desire will remain unsated.

No. He was her son. He was her child. Astoria squeezed her eyes closed against a sob, and her fingernails raked over her scalp. All other options had been exhausted, and she would not be childless. She wanted her son, and she would have him.

"Yes," She whispered, the word tremulous on the stale dungeon air. "Yes..."

Deep inside of her a heat began to build, winding, winding, tightening...

"Yes...yes, yes, yes!"

Her toes curled, and her hands grabbed hold of bits of rubble and dirt upon the floor, her head whipping side to side in the hot building hum of her womanhood coming to the greatest completetion she had ever known-

"YES!" Astoria cried, her back bowing up from the floor, mouth agape, nails broken against the stone floor. For what seemed like hours Astoria lay staring through her eyelashes at he dungeon ceiling, gasping, two syllables over and over;

My son, my son, my son...

"My...son..." Astoria said weakly, as the child was settled into her arms.

"He's smaller than I imagined, but he seems healthy enough," the midwife spoke with a smile in her voice. "Though thought we'd lost you, m'dear. It's good to have you back, love."

The midwife stroked Astoria's snarled hair out of her face, but Astoria hardly felt it. She was too busy staring down at her perfect little boy curled new, and naked, in her embrace. The only flaw upon his milky skin was the smallest mark just in the center of his chest: no larger than a fingernail sliver of moon hung over a dot of ink.

-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-

Scorpius was a blessing to his parents, and brought an end to his father's struggle with drinking. The boy was the light of Draco and Astoria's life, and it was their love for him, rather than each other, which held their marriage and family together through even the rockiest of times.

Scorpius grew up wanting for nothing. His parents were both of old money, and there was nothing too lavish for their long awaited child. Though Draco spoiled the boy as equally as Astoria did, Draco was dead set on raising his son in a better manner than he had been. Draco knew all to well the pressure of an only heir to a high society pureblood family, and he did not want his Scorpius growing up into a man created by the rules and pressures of status and blood. He wanted his son to have choices, not a predestined mold that he must wedge himself into, for fear of letting his family down, as Draco and no doubt countless other pureblood children had been victim to.

The differences in parenting led to many parental fights behind closed doors. Astoria was sure she had married an upstanding pureblood man, and that very man was bringing Muggle children's books into the Manor, was not impressing upon his son how important blood purity was, did not dissuade his child from playing with improper children, and allowed the boy to dress in whatever way he wanted. Astoria insisted Scorpius wear proper robes out in public, she checked his room twice a week for anything 'inappropriate' though she did not know that Draco and Scorpius had a secret hiding place for their special Muggle things. Nor did Astoria know that her husband made a habit of taking their son to Muggle London at least once a month for an outing.

She might have been jealous over the bond Draco and Scorpius shared, if the boy did not hold her in similar esteem. He seemed to be drawn towards things which were pretty, elegant, soft, and feminine. Astoria had been surprised when Draco did not mind nor try to change this trait in his son. The only family member to voice concern was one of the family portraits of a petite but fiery Malfoy called Abraxas: he had been Draco's grandfather, and he had enough to say about the softness of his great-grandson. Abraxas often glared down his hawkish nose, past his half-moon spectacles, at the toe-headed boy and threatened to march out of his portrait frame, and take the boy on safari, teach him martial arts, or how to wield a fierce looking bullwhip that was most likely longer than Abraxas was tall. Of course the offended great-grandfather was incapable of doing such a thing.

Instead of learning how to fence with his great-grandfather's favorite sword—a fine goblin made sword obtained from a high ranking officer Abraxas had captured and killed during WWII—Scorpius could be found at a small table with his mother, in front of a large window overlooking the Manor's beautiful blooming gardens, where the peacocks strutted lazily among blossoms. The two of them would play cards and have a snack of finger sandwiches brought by Smirky, the house elf, or they might play wizard's chess with Astoria's custom made chess set: One side fashioned of white diamonds set in rose gold, the opposing the rarer pink diamonds set in white gold. If neither of these pass times were in view, then it would be a tea party. Scorpius still willingly attended them with his mother though he was nearing eleven years old. He enjoyed the view of the gardens, the regal birds, the warmth of the tea, and the fine feel of the china in his slender fingers.

He sat across from his mother on the day of his eleventh birthday. Between them was a polished silver tea set with matching cups and saucers made of the lightest blue English bone china, covered with dainty white vines and blossoms, and silver-dipped rims. His mother seemed distracted, but he assumed it was because of his birthday. Eleven years old was quite the landmark for a young wizard. At any moment he could receive his owl from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

In the grand hall Smirky and a team of house elves were busy preparing for Master Scorpius' big day. Afternoon his friends and family would arrive to celebrate, and everything must be perfect. Scorpius was quite surprised that his mother had not been hovering about the elves all day, supervising the decorating, cooking, and gift-wrapping. Rather than overseeing them she had been sticking close to her son. He thought that it must be that she was considering the fall when he would board the Hogwarts Express and leave her and father alone in the Manor. Scorpius curled his pink lips round his teacup, and properly sipped from it.

"Are you certain you feel well enough?" Astoria asked her son, tugging a ringlet of dark hair around her finger.

"Yes mother, I feel fine," He answered, giving her small smile, and reaching for an almond hazelnut biscuit—his personal favorite.

His mother was asking how he felt because Scorpius had suffered from what his mother called 'a weak heart' since he could ever remember. She had taken him to several Healers throughout his childhood, and he even remembered father secretly taking him to a Muggle doctor when the Healers failed to find cause or cure. The machines they used to study him had been interesting to Scorpius, and in the end, he was diagnosed with something called an 'arrhythmia'. Arrhythmia simply meant that his heart did not beat correctly. Father had Smirky deliver the Muggle medication to Scorpius each morning before he left his room, as to keep Astoria in the dark, but it had never helped and Scorpius had long ago discontinued them. The tiny pills had only succeeded in making Scorpius lethargic.

His mother gave him a small nod at his confirmation, and gazed out the window nervously, watching the birds strut.

"What would you like for your birthday, dear?" Astoria asked, distractedly stirring her tea and making a soft jingling sound.

"The best broomstick on the market!" Scorpius exclaimed straight away.

"Scorpius!"

"I know. I'm too young to try out for Quidditch, and I can't anyway. It would be too much excitement."

His mother was always dutiful about keeping him from 'too much excitement' as she feared for his condition.

"I just think flying would be grand. Don't you think flying's grand, Mum?"

Astoria sniffed.

"I never liked it much, to tell you the truth. I believe it is highly overrated, as is Quidditch."

Scorpius gave her a rather serious look, and helped himself to another biscuit. If he couldn't have a broom, or experience flying, he was at least going to indulge his sweet tooth. His mother would not protest that.

"And father will be home later?" Scorpius asked after finishing off his third biscuit.

"Of course. Your father is far from perfection, but he would never miss your birthday—oh!"

The family owl swooped low over their heads, and dropped the post into Astoria's lap. The owl settled onto Scorpius' shoulder, and nuzzled the boy affectionately. Scorpius shared a biscuit with her in return.

"Is it here?" Scorpius asked eagerly, as his mother riffled through the post. She finally stopped, and the two locked eyes. Wordlessly she passed the envelope across the table. Scorpius tore into the letter, and forgetting his manners he leaned onto the table with his elbows as he read the entire letter aloud.

Scorpius leaped from his chair in excitement, and hugged his mother tightly.

"My Hogwarts letter!"

"Yes dear...now, please settle down and finish your tea-"

"Smirky!" Scorpius shouted, paying no attention to his mother who was now attempting to reign him in by the back strap of his waistcoat. Scorpius' magic caused the buttons to burst and fly off in all directions, and the seams unraveled, leaving his waistcoat in scraps upon the floor. He would apologize to his mother in a moment but not now—he was far too ecstatic.

Scorpius ran to the grand hall, waving his Hogwarts letter above his head.

"Master Scorpius!" Smirky chirped worriedly, wringing his nobby hands. "Master Scorpius must be calming himself lest he makes himself ill!"

"My letter!" Scorpius panted, kneeling and holding the letter up in front of the elf's bulbous nose.

"Yes Master Scorpius," Smirky nodded eagerly to please his Master. "It is being a wonderful letter, Sir. Now Master Scorpius must sit down! He isn't to be excited and is not to be seeing the great hall until it is time!"

Smirky glanced around anxiously at the hall which was in various stages of decoration.

"Smirky is hoping it will be so perfect for Master," The elf peeked at Scorpius' flushed face, and bit at his lip.

"Scoripus," Astoria stormed over to her son, who was now sitting due to the urging of several house elves who had pushed one of the dining chairs towards him. "Do not...you know better than this." Astoria smoothed her son's hair back from his forehead.

"I'm fine," Scorpius lied, his gesture of habit giving him away, when he placed one hand against his chest. He realized his mistake when his mother's eyes grew wide and alarmed. "Only a little flutter!" He confessed, but Astoria would have none of it. She took him gently by the wrist, and snatched the letter from him.

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, you go to your room and rest for the remainder of the day. Smirky will come get you and help you with your new robes when it is time to come down for your party."

Scorpius pouted, but he knew this was one matter where his Malfoy pout would not sway her. He couldn't possibly be too disappointed anyway: after all, he did have his letter. He would spend the day sending owls back and forth with Al Potter, and soon enough the time would pass, and Smirky would show up to fuss over him.

-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-

Smirky did help Master with his fanciest robes. Mother and Scorpius had chosen them just for the occasion, and had them perfectly tailored. It was Astoria who preferred the tradition of robes, despite the fact that robes and formal wizdaring wear had been on a decline in popularity—save among the elite—for many years now. Scorpius enjoyed Muggle clothing, and wizarding robes, but he would never be caught wearing something as basic and boring as a t-shirt and jeans. Scorpius liked to look well put together, and well groomed.

His ensemble was an icy blue with delicate silver and gold brocade. He had chosen it, and both his mother and the tailor had approved. He knew the colors brought out his pale features, and especially his eyes. The tailor had told Scorpius that he had quite the refined tastes for a young boy, and Scorpius took the compliment proudly.

Smirky helped Master Scorpius with all the buttons and fasteners. The cool silk of the shirt felt soft and fine against his skin, and the minute glitter of gold and silver design on the waistcoat and matching outer robe was just perfect and subtle. His hair was combed back from his face in a look that his father had advised him to enjoy while he had the time—given that Scorpius had inherited his father's high hairline which would begin to recede at a ridiculously young age.

Scorpius gave himself one final look over in his full-length mirror. He knew his friends would not be dressed as fancy as he was, but if his mother wouldn't allow him to run around and play many of their games with them, then he would enjoy his high fashion anyway.

His family and friends were waiting for him in the hall, and Scorpius greeted Al eagerly, giving him a hug straight away. Astoria said it wasn't appropriate for boys their age to be hug as greeting—they should shake hands—but Scorpius didn't care about his mother's opinion on that particular matter.

"Happy birthday, tosser," James Potter smirked, reaching down to muss up Scorpius' hair.

"Don't you dare!" Scorpius exclaimed, deftly dodging James' teasing.

"Such a priss," James said flippantly, looking Scorpius up and down. "No one wears robes like that anymore, save rich folks with silver spoons up their arses."

"I don't have anything up my arse..." Scorpius stated. "And you shouldn't wear red with your complexion. It brings out the blemishes."

James looked down at his red jumper, and then touched his face. Scorpius and Al grinned at one another, and walked away from James to carry on their own conversation. Al chuckled softly.

"Only you would call zits 'blemishes', you know?" Al gave Scorpius a small smile. "But that was pretty brilliant. James hates the outbreaks, and Mum hasn't yet gone to the apothecary to refill our stock of bubotuber puss."

"Good, I like seeing him suffer," Scorpius smirked. "He's a git."

"Yes, but he's my brother anyway," Al shrugged. "So...you're sure you'll get sorted into Slytherin?" Al rubbed the back of his neck nervously. His plastic blue framed glasses slipped down on his nose.

"Yes," Scorpius said, stopping to admire a long table which was overflowing with ornately wrapped packages for him. "My Mum and Dad's family have always been Sorted into Slytherin."

"And mine have always been sorted into Gryffindor," Al said, though Scorpius was well aware. "I don't want us to be separated. I've been thinking of asking Dad what he would think if I didn't get sorted into Gryffindor...I've heard the Sorting hat lets you have a bit of a say in it."

Scorpius stopped, staring at Al. He took Al's hands in his.

"You would do that for me?"

Al nodded slowly.

"I think so. I'm sort of nervous about going, aren't you? I mean my brother already has a reputation there and I'm not outgoing and fun like him. Then there's my Dad...practically the greatest Gryffindor ever and I'm just...not..." Al took a deep breath, and let it out. "I'm just not them."

"I wouldn't want you to be them," Scorpius said quietly, giving Al's hands a reassuring squeeze. "I think you're wonderful."

He let go of Al's hands, and left the boy sporting a pinkish blush as Scorpius left to great Rose and the rest of the Weasley clan. Astoria was off at a distance with her family and friends, turning her nose up at the Weasley's and Potter's. She had once told Scorpius that it literally made her skin crawl to be in the same room as them. Scorpius had over the years been very adamant that they were his friends—especially Al. The two had formed a tight bond at very young age—ever since that damned day Draco had invited the Potter's over for dinner without Astoria's consent. Scorpius had been merely three years old at the time, but he and Al had gone together just like a pair of socks. Scorpius knew that his mother could not refuse him his friends, as he was already so overprotected due to his condition, but he had come to the conclusion that she would forever remain in corners, glaring down her nose, and silently cursing them no matter what.

Scorpius also knew that his father and Mr. and Mrs Potter, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, had once been enemies. Since Scorpius had been old enough to recall, he had never seen much trace of this except that Mr. Weasley and his father still tended to get into heated arguments, though neither seemed to hold a grudge much longer than a month before shaking hands and moving on. Mr. Potter and his father, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable together. He looked around for them and took note of them in a corner away from the clumps of people who were mingling. They stood close together, heads bent a bit towards one another. His father was casually sipping a flute of champagne, while Mr. Potter kept rubbing at the scar on his forehead. Mr. Potter's hand dropped, and slid gently over the back of his fathers, and rested there for a moment.

Scorpius saw nothing wrong with such touches. He had noticed them shared between his father and Mr. Potter long ago, when the two men thought no one was looking. Scorpius however, had a knack for noticing things he wasn't meant to.

"Happy birthday, mate," Hugo greeted, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Yes, happy birthday," Lily echoed, smiling.

Scorpius began to thank them, but Hugo cut across him.

"Now that that's done with, let's go out to the gardens and play tag! We can go into the shrub maze!" Hugo made to take off, but Rose grabbed him by the ear.

"Not so fast," She said, as Hugo squirmed. "I think we ought to play Gobbstones. It's too cold to be running 'round in some ridiculous maze."

Lily and Hugo sat down on the floor obediently, and Rose gave Scorpius a knowing look. He returned her kindness with a smile—sincerely thankful that she was a smart girl and had taken care of the situation perfectly. Gobbstones was one game that Scorpius was not banned from by his mother, and he sat down to play against Hugo, and Al sat down across from his sister.

Rose passed out her collection of Gobbstones and used a piece of magical chalk to draw the circles on the polished floor—circles which would automatically disappear without a trace once the games were finished.

The teams began with Rose overseeing them like a mini-mother. Soon Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had appeared too, and were hovering over their brood, taking in the competition.

"You better kick Malfoy's arse, Hugo," Ron said, and Hermione elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to spill punch down the front of his jumper.

After much mingling, and a few more games of Gobbstones among the children, it was time for dinner. After dinner it was time for Scorpius' birthday cake. It took the entire team of house elves to bring it into the hall, and a lot of scowling from Mrs. Granger, Scorpius noticed.

"In just a few minutes," Astoria announced, placing her hands on her sons' shoulders. "It will be the exact moment eleven years ago that my beautiful baby boy was born."

There was polite clapping, and nodding, from most of the group though the snort from Ron did not go unnoticed. Astoria continued.

"He has been quite the blessing to us, and I thank..." Astoria seemed as if she was trying not to grimace as she looked at the Weasley's. "All of you for coming to the Manor to celebrate my Scorpius. Now Scorpius dear, I want you to blow out your candles at the exact moment..."

All eyes were trained upon the grandfather clock at the front of the hall. Draco stood on the other side of Scorupius, resting his hand at the small of the boys back. Scorpius watched the hands move, and in the complete quietness of the room, he could hear the tick, tick, tick of the clock. His heart seemed to link with that cadence. Tick, tick, tick. The little flutter from earlier was back, but this time Scorpius was aware not to give the trivial matter away by placing his hand to his chest. He kept his hands to his sides, twitching, feeling the beat of his heart echo the tick of the clock.

Both the clock and his heart seemed to be speeding up. Thump-thump-thump—and then a tight squeeze that made Scorpius gasp—and then back to the quickening thumps. Scorpius focused on his breathing, and the hands of the clock, trying to ignore the sweat that was breaking out on his skin and was crawling coldly down his back.

The hands on the clock were spinning faster, making him dizzy. Thump-thump-thump-SQUEEZE. No, not now! The squeezing sensation hurt, and took his breath away. Scorpius pressed his hand to his chest, glad that everyone was so focused on the clock they didn't notice. He knew it would pass momentarily—it always did. But he felt so shaky, and the hands were making him dizzy, and his heart just kept pounding faster and faster. He couldn't even hear the ticking clock anymore, just the swoosh in his ears.

"Now!" Astoria proclaimed brightly.

Scorpius took a big breath to blow out his candles, and lurched forward with a sob of pain, both hands pressed to the center of his chest. He was dimly aware of chaos beginning around him, but it seemed as though everyone else was moving behind a veil. The pain was horrible, like nails digging into his heart and squeezing with every beat. He couldn't breath, and he felt his legs melt beneath him, though he didn't feel like he had fallen. Vaguely he remembered that his parents were near, and his father had probably caught him and lowered him to the floor. Over the woosh in his ears, and the thundering plod of his pulse, Scorpius heard his name:

Scorpiussssss...my boy...

He didn't recognize the voice, and the high pitched laughter that followed chilled him to the bone, and sent the gray around the edges of his vision to blackness.

-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-

Reviews are so much love—thank you.