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Does Scorpius feel a pinch of twisting regret for inviting him in the first place? Of course not. Albus is his friend, his good friend. Well, perhaps a small pinch. Sometimes. Albus wants stories. Always. Anywhere, any time. From his very first visit until this very day — stories. Lucius' stories. War stories, histories, fantasies about muggles in the old times, any stories. He hangs on Lucius' every word. And Lucius loves to spin a tale. Some say his tales are spun from lies. If the lies paint a flattering picture of Lucius Malfoy, Scorpius thinks they may be true.

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They are both looking out, from the warmth of the bed, to the windows of the morning room, where the dust is dancing on pitched beams. He doesn't need legilimency to see, to know she is being cautious, gentle with him, yet quite ready to parse and peruse whatever he might say. "Will you tell me, Lucius? It may be helpful, important. For you. To be... better."

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Will a ‘bargain’ work?

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"You listened to my grandson's confessions, and you gave him ...comfort?" "I tried, sir." "Now Scorpius, tell me how he comforted you." "He — he petted me, held me - it seemed like — like he didn't want to let me go." Lucius hums. "And you liked that." "It made me feel wanted — desired." "That's good, a good start," Lucius says, and then he says nothing.

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#Ithoughtyouweredead

“Oh, Daddy, you’re okay, you're *okay*!” I laughed and hugged her back. “Of course I’m okay, sweetheart.” Now she pulled away and *glared.* “What do you mean, of course? You *scared* me, I thought you *died*!” “I'm sorry, Rose.” I tried not to grin so very broadly. “You’re not *sorry* and you —“ she hauled off and smacked me. Hard. “You *tricked* me!” “You tricked me first, Rose.” She glowered and grimaced while that salty elixir of youth still coated the flush of her cheeks. “You don't play fair!” “No, I don't. Not when it comes to you.”

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