Archive of Our Own

The sky was the color of mulled wine. The city had begun its long slide into darkness, and only those who kept the company of moths and glowworms would traverse that umbra, moving quietly, largely unseen, until day would break again.

Albus Potter slunk like a cat as he rounded Victoria Coach Station, the toes of his boots scuffing softly on the uneven pavement. He wore double-pleat wool trousers, a silk shirt and jacket, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. Almost entirely in purple, he looked like a very dapper grape. Under his arm, he carried a rolled up newspaper, though it wasn't a publication anyone else in the transportation hub had ever read or seen stacked and bound in a kiosk. Stowed away in his pocket he concealed a magic wand.

He was quite a sight.

The wand came in handy when Albus arrived at the terminal for departures. He waded through of throng of people going home or away, grumbling when his shoulders were jostled and the backs of his shoes were trodden on, pulled away from his heels. He declined to respond to the whistles and taunts of asking whether the circus was in town, choosing instead to mumble choice curses under his breath, which caused the jeering Muggles to suddenly find that their shoelaces had bound their feet together before falling to hard ground. Barking a laugh that caused more heads to turn in his direction, he journeyed on before coming to stand in front of Gate 7.

Taking a quick look around and noticing only a few people nearby—a mother wrangling an overtired toddler and a man all in tweed asleep on his luggage—Albus dug out his wand and, with it cloaked in his sleeve, pointed it at the gate. The number lit up at once as a current of light zipped through it. The air became thick with magic, though Albus was likely the only one there who could feel it. And then the door slid open, revealing not the usual piss-smelling asphalt garage that housed the Muggle coaches and double-decker busses, but a slightly less piss-smelling, empty depot with one towering automobile, parked neatly, as washed and gleaming as Albus had left it early that morning.

"Hullo, my friend," Albus said, as he made his way to the triple-decker purple giant that was his steed. The door closed behind him, the Muggles just on the other side of the veil oblivious to the world Albus and the wizards and witches like him occupied.

Alone, Albus stood tall, shook his wand from its hiding place, and began his walk-around inspection of the the violently-purple roaring and rumbling monstrosity of a vehicle that was all his. Noticing a smudge on the door, Albus wiped at it with the sleeve of his jacket. "Departure time: twenty minutes," he said to himself, staring down at a beaten gold watch on his wrist. Finding the rest of the bus in good order, he pulled the door open and slipped inside.

A comfortable warmth greeted him, as did the familiar leather driver's seat, torn and mended and sagging in the center. Albus plopped down on it, stretching all the way back and swinging his legs so that his feet rested atop a steering wheel so massive that it was parallel to the ground, the thick steering box jutting up from the footwell. The velvet curtains which hung from each passenger window were drawn, and candles mounted on brackets on the walls were unlit, so Albus enjoyed a momentary respite from the outside world. A hidden peace before the night's journey.

Behind him, on each side of the aisle, were half a dozen twin bedsteads, brass and slightly raised from the floor so that luggage could be stowed underneath. A tray table lay on each bedspread, as did a freshly fluffed pillow, the evening's menu, and a one toothbrush. Each traveler who chose to sleep could leave open or draw close the curtains on the window just above their head. Should they wish to be higher, or if all the bunks behind the driver seat were occupied, they could take the narrow wooden staircase to the second and third floors, where they would find similar accommodations and modest bathrooms.

Ancient as it was, Albus had done a number of things to improve travel on the Knight Bus over the years. For one, he charmed the bus to rock counter to his erratic driving, meeting every swerve with one opposite, ensuring equilibrium and far less vomit. He also applied a cushioning charm to the floor and walls should he hit a pothole or jump a hatchback in traffic and throw his passengers about the coach.

There were also more amenities than ever before, thanks to Albus’s quickly depleting savings vault. He served full dinners between sunset and nine o'clock in the evening and light breakfasts for any stragglers just before sunrise, when the bus pulled back into London Victoria at the end of the route.

Albus was no Healer, so he installed a first aid kit, complete with anti-nausea potions, sick bags, plasters, and hot compresses. On the second and third levels were self-cleaning loos, and if one didn't want to get caught up in the soap and suds or the rapid swirl of a toilet hurtling through magical time and space, they'd better hurry up with their business.

Armchairs were available upon request, as were slippers, eye masks, and personal wirelesses. Children on board were to be in bed by nine, and at ten nearly all the candles were extinguished, so that the bus was cradled in a friendly darkness, luring travelers to their much-needed slumber. Should anyone need to wake and depart, Albus would call for them, his voice magically magnified, announcing the next stop.

Night after night Albus did this, his shift beginning with the bus's inspection and ending with preparations—the meals, the bedding, the comfort—for the next day. It was unglamorous, this job. Albus's life. A humdrum of a route that rarely deviated. But he was content, unbothered. He found inspiration in the needs and destinations of his passengers, in the quirks of Knight Bus itself, the way it tottered in the wind, the rattling noise the doors made at high speeds, and the sigh it gave when it came to a stop.

He was mostly happy.

Albus took up the post over a decade ago. He was just a year out of school and had no clue how else to spend his time. He'd loafed around his parent's house long enough, dodging his mum's ever-growing list of chores and his dad's incessant questions about what he was going to do next and who did he need to owl for a favor and what did Albus even like? Albus never had a good enough response. He didn't know what he wanted to do other than not work for his dad. He didn't want to take up more studies or go abroad either; learning and school were never really his thing, having bunked off more lessons than he took. And he didn't want to rely one of his dad's old chums or his mum's brothers or his already wildly successful siblings or cousins. It was only when faced with the reality that his sister would soon be leaving Hogwarts, and that Albus would truly be the last of the Potter children at home, did he make an effort to spend all day doing something.

In those days, Albus's parents didn't notice that he was rarely home. He'd leave before the sun rose each morning and wouldn't return until the dead of night. Sometimes, he wouldn't return at all, for days at a time. Sometimes he'd meet up with a Muggle man named Brom he'd met at a pub, helping himself to Brom's body, his bed, and his kitchen. Other times, when he'd outworn his welcome, as he felt he was oft to do, his back would become intimately familiar with firm seat of the hospital benches, the itchy patch of grass of the public parks, and the cold, rank concrete of the bus depot.

It was there, between the strides of the legs of passing Muggles, that Albus saw him—a wizard. Slightly hunched, and pointed hat askew, he was lingering around Gate 7, where a queue had formed to wait for a luxury coach service. He was one of the few wizards Albus had seen in Muggle London, aside from the brief glimpses of his parents back home or the inevitable shifty-looking individual making their way down Charing Cross Road. The robes, perfectly normal to Albus all his life, were surprisingly startling. Albus felt a twinge of homesickness mingled with embarrassment. Others in the depot had noticed the wizard, his odd dress, his seemingly purposeless puttering, and were pointing, momentarily amused while they continued on to their destinations. Once the queue had cleared, the wizard tacked up a sign. Albus guessed that the Muggles wrapped like thick cordon around the ticket stalls or reading the overhead monitors for the latest departure times couldn't see it. Or perhaps the words meant nothing to them.

But they meant something to Albus: opportunity. For in glittering black letters were the words DRIVER WANTED FOR KNIGHT BUS. EVENINGS ONLY. INQUIRE BY OWL—DEPT MAGICAL TRANSPORTATION.

Albus read the posting twice from his seat on the floor before brushing off his knees, getting closer, and reading it head on. He could drive, he thought. He'd never done so, but he'd flown a broom. He'd once had a go on Brom's bicycle. He could learn. And he could definitely work evenings. Hell, he'd prefer it! Life was softer at night, quieter. There were fewer people and he'd have a good excuse to skip family dinners and the uncomfortable conversations in which Albus usually found himself an unwilling participant. Writing to the Ministry wasn't ideal. He was pretty positive his uncle, Percy, had something to do with the Department of Magical Transportation. Percy was also the uncle he saw least, Albus thought. Perhaps he'd keep Albus's inquiry quiet.

From his bag that doubled as a pillow, Albus procured some parchment and a quill. Sat on the floor, paying no mind to the onlookers curious as to his feathered writing instrument, he scribbled out his interest (mild), his qualifications (lacking), and any references (Percy Weasley, unfortunately). Outside the station he found a pigeon, enticed it with leftover kourabiedes from a cafe down the road, and tied the letter to its leg. Fond of pigeons, and finding that they were just as adept as couriers as owls, Albus had no problem communicating to it where it should go and shooing it away, confident that it would make a successful delivery.

A week later, he'd received—from a handsome Ministry owl—a signed, embossed, and pressed letter inviting him for an informal interview.

Albus knew that Percy ended up giving him the job because they were related and because Percy rarely did anything that might piss off Albus's mum. "Oh, this isn't a favor," Percy had said, unconvincingly, when Albus said that he knew it very well was. They sat across from each other in a tight Ministry office, where Percy had lined every wall with towering, revolving bookshelves and filing cabinets with drawers that would loudly roll out, making loud banging noises until Percy deposited the right file or took out his next task. Rolling around on a railroad track that floated near the ceiling, encircling the room, was a miniature Hogwarts Express. Hovering above the hearth was a dense cloud of green smoke almost obscuring a badly-charred firebox, as if the Floo Network there had been utilized thousands of times. And, bizarrely, Percy had a number of seemingly ordinary objects that he'd warn Albus not to touch. A brass Peruvian Vipertooth paperweight, a blue ink bottle, a coatrack. Every one of them Portkeys.

All of it made Albus rather dizzy, and he worried about his fate on a moving bus.

"I have full confidence in you," Percy had reassured him. But this, Albus suspected, also was a lie. Percy went to great lengths to get Albus trained up for the job, blanching every time Albus admitted to not knowing something or having never worked any kind of job before. When his eyes, wide and worried, the creases around them deep and upturned, scanned a school report showing Albus's marks, Albus wanted to sink into the floor or take hold of the paperweight Portkey and have it hook him by the navel and fling to him somewhere very far.

"While you're taking driving lessons with the Muggles, I'll have a rotation of temporary drivers doing the route," Percy had said, choosing to clean his glasses instead of looking at Albus, who was rapidly taking notes. "Now, please pass your exam on the first try, because Ron was one of my calls and I don't really think the roads are safe with him on it." Albus paused his scribbling and glanced at the train whistling overhead. "And please, don't confund the examiners."

"Don't things just jump out of the bus's way?" Albus asked, glancing back down and quickly flipping through a large spiral manual Percy had dropped onto his lap as soon as he'd accepted the position. Stamped across the creased front was A Modern Wizarding Bus Service by Dugald McPhail. Inside were a hundred laws and regulations Albus feared he had to memorize, bus components he'd have to practice labeling and maintenance no class at Hogwarts had ever prepared him for, and an insert with a series of moving illustrations depicting bus accidents and Muggle interference, each more gruesome than the last, with a blood-red splatter Albus hoped wasn't actually blood that jumped from the page for added effect.

"Most times," said Percy. "But you're doing the steering, remember? You're the driver. And," he grimaced with a what-can-you-do sort of look, "because of budget cuts, you're the conductor, too."

Albus surely had his work cut out for him. Not only did he have to drive the bus, but he also had to clean it, make sure it was stocked with provisions for the overnight travelers, and usher people (and their luggage) on and off it. "How am I supposed to know when to make a stop?" he asked Percy, while wiping red splatter from his face. One hailed the bus by raising their lit wand. But how did the driver know who needed a ride or how to get there?

"That's what dispatch is for," Percy said. He tapped his chin, recalled a name. "They keep tabs on every request for the bus and will signal to you via the wireless mounted on your dashboard." So that was one less thing for Albus to worry about.

But worry loads he did. He left Percy's office that day (sneakily, avoiding the floor where his father's office was) promising to not let his uncle down, the weight of his words heavy on his head, which now wore a cap the same violet as the Knight Bus Albus could now call his own. "I still bump into your father in the lifts," Percy said, with that same grimace. Albus had wondered if he might be permanently constipated. "And sometimes he speaks to me, so please don't blow this up."

With the time he had left until he had to drive out of the depot and begin his route, Albus read the nightly news. Feet still perched on the wheel, he flapped the pages of his Evening Prophet and watched the letters of the headlines—thousands of them, varying typesetting, fonts, and sizes—scatter across the paper. Word entropy. Like soldiers resuming their posts, they found their positions again, letting Albus scan the columns for something to read.

A family of witches in Kent had set up their own private academy for magic in the Romney Marsh. Children who wish to attend must bring their own galoshes and hollow breathing reeds. Albus frowned. The idea of lessons being conducted in a bog, while swamp water flooded your pants was not appealing.

Albus had gone to Hogwarts, with nearly every other wizard in the area. Though not seeped in wetland, the castle was plenty damp. Low in the dungeons did Albus lay his head every evening, the black lake lapping outside his porthole window, his pillow wet with tears. He was a lonely boy, the only one in his family to be sorted Slytherin, that house hailing from ancient fen.

Dejected, he became withdrawn. He lacked confidence, and this manifested in poor performance. Clumsy and distracted, his potions became sludgy soup in his cauldron. Wand arm shaking, his voice cracking, his hexes sparked and then fizzled out. Neglectful, his flitterblooms withered under his care. And, worst of all, the broomsticks he commanded to rise rolled defiantly in the opposite direction, tumbling all the way down to the other side of the Quidditch pitch, as if, like a lot of people in Albus's life, they couldn't bear to be near him.

The other children were cruel about it, found it rather funny that a Potter could bungle all of his lessons, fail at even Quidditch and Exploding Snap. They poked fun at his oddities, called him a Squib, and tripped him in the corridors. Angry, and soured by his own inadequacies, Albus fired back, magic bubbling to the surface as his indignation grew. He launched the school brooms into the Whomping Willow, where they were ripped apart, splintered, and sent hurtling back toward the grounds, jagged wood scraps raining down on the heads of all who teased him. He poured potion stores down the toilets, tossed ingredients into the school fireplaces. He made the bottoms of cauldrons disappear, flung scales off the staircases so that they smashed, and let loose into the dorms a swarm of Blast-Ended Skrewts.

Albus was punished with detentions and hard labor and the threat of expulsion. By Fifth Year, when his peers were becoming Prefects and studying for their O.W.L.s, Albus had polished every suit of armor in the castle. When the other students were enjoying their Hogsmeade weekends, Albus was scrubbing toilets, shelving library books, and cleaning out droppings from the owlery (every task accompanied by Peeves , the residential poltergeist, blowing raspberries in his ear).

It was a marvel that he scraped by, barely, at the end. Bored with his own misery, he instead put energy into his readings, his essays, and his exams. What he lacked in practical magic he made up for in his writing, in theory, and a determination to get the fuck out of school. He left with half-decent marks and his professors bidding him good riddance, surely glad to see him go.

While he butted heads with nearly everyone at school and at home, Albus had never received a complaint at work. Never had Percy or anyone working in his department uttered a bad word about him. When he'd started, and he still lived at home, his parents would cautiously ask about his day, their eyes meeting over the kitchen table when he'd walk in, finally done and looking to shower and eat.

He'd tell them it was great, that he'd driven the entire country and then some, that he'd met interesting people and helped them on their way. Albus felt like a signpost for weary wayfarers. A last resort, maybe, for those who could not—or would not—Apparate, fly, or travel by Floo or Portkey, but necessary all the same.

His parents would stutter out their relief, congratulate him on a job well done. He'd bite back, tell them that they never believed in him, that they expected him to fail. The mornings in those early days were peppered with rows like this, with both Albus and his parents assuming the worst of each other.

It got easier the longer Albus stayed employed. For one, his family realized that this was real for him, this job. It was something he actually cared about and which left him in a better mood when he was done with it. What also helped was Albus moving out. He rented a flat of his own, a tiny thing above a pub called the Cog and Wheel. It had a bookcase, a bath, a bed, and a balcony where he could spend the daylight hours, sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed but otherwise content.

There was comfort in the same route, the same people, night after night. Albus was a mainstay to many, crucial to their lives. Even in the dark, he had company. Though he was going nowhere, he had been everywhere.

Though, when the last passenger stepped off, and the doors shut, and the bus's engine cut, Albus wished he had someone to take him home.

—

Ten minutes remained until departure, so Albus read on, turning the pages of his newspaper a bit quicker.

There was an advertisement for a new protein potion, a banana-fudge-flavored home-brew that promised the drinker four times the strength and eight times the abdominal muscles. Above a disclaimer that the draught could cause the user to gush from both ends, was a detailed illustration of a very beefy man wearing only a dragon-hide leotard, hoisting above his head a Muggle car. His pecs twitched intermittently, and his thighs flexed as he gave a little bounce. Albus snorted and kept flipping.

He read a piece on a budding wandmaker and a story on gnome infestation. The featured recipe was guanciale spaghetti carbonara and in a letter to the editor, someone named Elfrida Merwin ranted for three long columns about the lack of initiative and good manners of the wizarding youth.

Near the end, before the job postings (Quality Quidditch Supplies was hiring) and the obits (a retired professor had died at the young age of one hundred and seven) and the missed connections ("You were in slinky robes and nursing a sherry at the Leaky Cauldron and I was the scrofulous fellow at the next bar stool, covered in boils from a potion gone wrong."), was a short column. It never took more than a quarter of a page, but it was by far Albus's favorite.

Framed in crescent moons and shooting stars was the Nightly HoroScorp. It called itself A perilous prediction for every zodiac sign! and Totally true and trustworthy, too! The author, someone named Hyperion, published his astrological forecasts nightly. They were always ridiculous, clearly bollocks, and Albus loved them. It was refreshing, honestly, to know that someone in the godforsaken society had a sense of humor.

Chewing his lip in anticipation, Albus smoothed the last page of the Evening Prophet on his lap. He didn't dart around to find his own sign, no, Albus read the horoscopes for each, pausing to imagine someone crafting every word with with his quill, gazing serenely at the stars and the abstract shapes they made across the velvet sky in between every dip into the bottle, before scribbling out what everyone must consider a load of twaddle.

That evening, Aquarius was in for some fairly mundane news, to be delivered by singing cherub, which would serve to take the edge off a gruesome announcement that would be delivered in the form of a poo Rorschach test on their kitchen window.

Sagittarius was informed that they were the first person in history to meet their full potential.

And apparently it was a good time for Leo to run off into the woods and never be seen again, for the world would be better for it.

Still chuckling about the ill fates of Libra (toilet drowning) and Taurus (crushed by an Erumpet), Albus tossed his paper into the bin, turned over the Knight Bus's engine, and watched the beams of light flash ahead. Driving off, he gave a modest honk and then, after toggling a switch on the dash, spoke into the inlaid speaker.

"This is Albus, ready for his next stop. I'm about to circle London now."

Out of the dash came the firecracker voice of Linden Duckworth, the wizard in dispatch.

Duckworth, or "Ducky" as he was called, sat in a Ministry closet down the hall from Percy. Albus had been in his office only once, where he sat in a chair, his knees painfully pressed to Ducky's desk, the space was so cramped. Ducky had sat hunched in the dark, staring at a perfect, moving model of Britain in a large glass ball. When someone hailed the Knight Bus, a fleck of light appeared in the ball, hovering precisely where the hopeful traveler stood. Ducky then spoke into his wand, which transmitted the next destination to the built-in radio of the bus.

"Ay, Albus! Ready to go?"

Pressing down hard on the peddle, Albus accelerated, gathering enough speed to lurch off into the night and the crowded street outside the depot's garage. Turning his wheel this way and that, he avoided pedestrians, oncoming traffic, and a pharmacy.

He always traversed London first, listening to Ducky tell him exactly where to go. His usuals included Healers just coming off their shift at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the odd Ministry worker, Squibs who had no other way of getting around, and a lovely middle aged woman who always smelled of hair product and powdery fragrance as she stepped aboard, arms laden with shopping bags from Selfridges, and deposited fifteen Sickles into the tin at the doorway.

"Evening Mrs. Tuppence," Albus greeted, getting up to take her bags and follow her to her bed of choice.

"Good evening, Albert," Mrs. Tuppence said, sitting down with an oomph and kicking off her strappy sandals. Smiling politely despite the incorrect name she'd called him, Albus stowed her purchases beneath the bed frame. Only on the Knight Bus was Albus greeted by an approximation of his own name—Albert, Alfonso, Alfred—but he didn't mind. It was a peppering of anonymity in a world that otherwise knew too much. "What's for dinner tonight, dear?" She wiped large beads of sweat from her brow and cursed the last the days of summer.

"Orange-zested lamb meatballs," said Albus, making his way back to his seat, "with mint garnish, saffron rice, a cucumber tomato salad, and Dubonnet fizz to drink if you'd like."

Mrs. Tuppence lived in Exeter but made shopping trips to London several times a week. Albus had gathered that she was very well off and quite the socialite, bookending her days with brunches and charity fundraisers and dinner drinks. She usually came onto the bus, not with luggage or trunks, but with a day's worth of purchases. She couldn't Apparate like this, arms full, nor could she fly or hold on to a Portkey. So the bus it was, and she was a polite passenger who always paid for extra amenities, even if she did get Albus's name wrong nearly all of the time. Albus suspected that both wizarding and Muggle London owed her thanks for her contribution to the local economy.

There was static and then Ducky's voice broke through again, telling Albus where to go.

"Next stop: Portsmouth!" Albus called over his shoulder, and he heard shuffling coming from one of the homebound Healers. "Hang on!" he bellowed, and stepped on the gas.

The bus lurched into the road, causing a streetlamp to bounce out the way. One of Mrs. Tuppence's shopping bags escaped the legs of her bed and slid down the aisle. In the rearview mirror, Albus saw his departing Healer gripping the overhead rail, his feet planted on the floor, trying to remain upright. Albus steadied his wheel, dodged some more cars and a traffic light, and continued southwest.

The Knight Bus was rapidly gaining speed, the world outside a a rush of light, a swirl of color. Thunder pounded in Albus's ears as he drove, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. He came to a stop at the North End, slowing the bus in front of a tavern on Stamshaw Road. The Healer, who had changed out of his work robes and was now wearing flannel pajamas, yawned his thanks at Albus as he opened the door.

"You're next Mrs. Tuppence!" Albus said, though Mrs. Tuppence only grunted in response. In the mirror, Albus saw that she was dozing, a eye mask with comically large lashes pulled over her face. "Next stop: Exeter!" and the bus careened.

At that, Mrs. Tuppence bolted from bed and tugged down her eye mask. "Could I get dinner, dear? And could you slow down at all?"

"Sure thing on both counts," Albus said back. With one hand still on the wheel, and his foot easing on the gas just a little bit, he waved his wand. On Mrs. Tuppence's tray table appeared a warm plate of food and glass hissing with ice and fizz.

The bus tottered on, soon leaving Mrs. Tuppence and her shopping outside a guildhall, and then continued to Falmouth, where Albus dropped off a wizard in dungarees, cages and crates with unknown creatures growling and snapping as he descended the steps, and then to Bristol, where he swerved madly through the Clifton Bridge, enjoying the blurry view of the illuminated suspension chains and narrowly avoiding leaping into the river gorge below.

He stopped at a wizarding village tucked in the Leigh Woods. Climbing aboard was a smart gentleman dressed in sweeping black robes that almost caused Albus to miss him entirely, if not for the lit tip of his wand pointed in the air. Something in the man's carriage reminded Albus of a vicar, and he felt his face flush when the man deposited two Galleons into the moneybox and winked before taking a bed on the second level. Full bearded, with lush gray hair that curled around his ears, and a frown line creasing his forehead in almost equal halves, he was ambiguously old but undeniably handsome. In his rearview mirror Albus watched him retreat up the wooden staircase, wishing the man had more than a leather satchel so that Albus could help him with his things.

It had been a long, long time since Albus was in any sort of relationship. His schedule did not provide ample opportunity to meet many people, and when he did he found himself itching to get away once they figured out his last name and inevitably wanted either fame themselves or, worse, a reason that he was driving a bus. It was a shame really, Albus thought, thinking wistfully of the last time he let anyone have even the tiniest part of himself, because it was his personal opinion that he had a lot to offer, including a full head of hair and a steady income. And what a waste of his talents, too, for he could suck a nail out of a casket.

Shaking himself from thinking too deeply about his loneliness and how it stretched like the night ahead of him, Albus turned back the way he came, heading for London again. Owing to how many people were there, Albus always made his second London stop at this time, so it was a surprise when Ducky's voice crackled from the dash, informing him of a new stop he should attend to first.

"Where?" Albus asked, making sure he heard right. Craning his neck he checked the mounted compass.

"Wiltshire," Ducky repeated. "Not much out there. You'll see the wandlight."

Albus turned the wheel and headed south, wondering if he'd ever been to Wiltshire even before he'd taken over the Knight Bus. He wished Ducky had been more precise; circling the entire county in his bus was a bit annoying, even at the high speed the bus was capable of reaching, but he did eventually see it: a speck of light bobbing in the darkness. He continued driving, slowing the bus down as he circled a large stretch of downland and cut twice through the beech trees scattered across a dense forest. As the ball of light grew brighter, Albus's bus got slower, letting the landscape outside come into sharper focus and causing the few passengers inside to grumble their relief.

Albus brought the bus up an allée of wisterias before parking on the edge of a heath, where a lone figure sat on a massive trunk, lit wand still raised. Behind him were tall wrought-iron gates and a path, barely discernable for a layer of unpulled weeds, which led, Albus assumed, to the dark shape of a grand old house in the distance. The overgrowth creeping around the stone walls and nary a flickering candle in one of the manor's many windows hinted at an outright neglect of what Albus guessed could have once been considered wizarding triumph. 

Albus opened the door and stared down the steps to find someone about his age staring back, eyes almost as wide as the smile unfolding across his face.

"Hello!"

"Hello," Albus said. The bus's idle motor purred. A moth rammed itself into the lamp that hung above the door frame. "Er, are you coming in?"

Still smiling, the stranger slid off his trunk and began hoisting it onto the steps. Albus stood to help. "So this is the Knight Bus," the new passenger said, coming in to look at the bus's interior. In the light of the candles, Albus could take him in better.

Albus thought again that they couldn't be far off in age. He was probably not any older than thirty. He was very pale, especially next to Albus's own olive coloring. His hair, which was a light blond, was close cropped at the sides and falling in soft waves at the top, though the fringe was combed. Albus became suddenly conscious of his own hair, a wild tangled mass of black, damp and stuffed under his cap. The man's eyes were bright and glassy, and his voice waterlogged, as if he were overcome with emotion at having stepped foot onto public transport. Perhaps he was distressed.

"This is—so—cool," he said, almost choking on the words, and Albus had to bite back a laugh. He watched his newest passenger take in the assorted beds, the drawn curtains, the polished dinner plates of a guest already asleep, her snores bouncing off the low ceiling.

"Take any bed you'd like," encouraged Albus, for they really needed to get a move on. London was calling. The dust motes stirred awake by the flickering candles and the moonlight slicing through the windshield danced in midair. "After you pay, of course." He did have a business to manage, after all. It was nearly autumn, which was Albus's favorite time of year. The nights grew longer, as did his hours of labor. But he was paid more. Sunset to sunrise. Sickles on every sweep of the second hand.

"Of course!" said the man, and with more enthusiasm than Albus had ever seen anyone show at the prospect of paying for something, stuffed his hands inside his midnight blue robes and pulled back a large, jangling money bag. Albus had the impression that this lad didn't worry too much about finances. Or perhaps he'd saved a substantial amount of coin from not tending to the lawns and gardens of the home they'd just left behind. "How much then?"

"Fifteen Sickles for the fare and an additional ten for dinner." And because he sensed an onslaught of further questions, Albus decided give a pitch he hadn't needed to do in ages, for the majority of his passengers were repeat customers.

Clearing his throat, he said: "Welcome to the Knight Bus, where we can take you anywhere but over the sea. You'll need the Knight Ketch for that, or may I suggest a wand-propelled dink. Please choose a bed and enjoy a complimentary toothbrush and sleep mask. You will be awakened at your stop and fed at dinner time, which lasts for two hours, beginning at seven. Any pets must be caged or on a lead. Luggage stays under your bed. There are two first aid kits on board, one behind the driver's seat and the other upstairs on the third floor. You may use the loo at any time it is vacant. We will get you to your destination by sunrise, that's the Knight Bus Guarantee, though we are not liable for any bumps, bruises, or vomit stains. My name is Albus Potter and I will be your driver and conductor this evening."

He was met with silence. And then—

"Thank you very much, Albus Potter. My name is Scorpius Malfoy, and I am delighted to be here."

"Great, you can take a seat then." Albus turned back to face the front. This Scorpius fellow was very much exuberant, which wasn't the case for most of Albus's passengers, unless they were also drunk. Despite himself, Albus found it very attractive. It didn't hurt that Scorpius was quite good-looking. Though English, Albus assumed, his accent was tinged with something Albus could not place. Hands on the wheel, he sighed at the thought that Scorpius would soon be heading up to the top of the bus. Most newcomers found that to be the most exciting place. Hearing loud shuffling, Albus looked into his rearview mirror to see that Scorpius had chosen the bed right behind the driver's seat.

"Springy," said Scorpius, bouncing a little. His trunk barely fit under the bed. Albus considered telling Scorpius that the bed was in such good shape because it was the least popular one. Not many cared to sit behind Albus, probably fearing conversation or that he'd notice any rule breaking. "By the way—" Scorpius said again, speaking to the back of Albus's head, as the bus slowly rumbled down the dirt path leading away from the gates, swaying a little as it avoided some low-hanging vines. Scorpius steadied himself on the bed. "How do I know when to get off?"

"Where do you need to go?"

"Hogsmeade."

"Ah, well, that's usually my last stop." And Albus's least favorite. Of all the places Albus went, he liked going to Hogsmeade the least. Ten years out and he still felt the same rush of anxiety as he did going there when he was a boy. Nothing about it was warm or welcoming. Despite it being the only exclusively wizarding village around, it never felt magical to Albus. Perhaps it was the lonely weekends he'd spent walking up and down its streets, watching the other students laugh merrily inside the pubs, buying themselves and each other gifts from the shops, and racing outside between the thatched cottages, snowballs in hand, while he, determined to baste in his own unhappiness, bitter that he couldn't escape the teasing even outside the castle, remained alone.

"Live in the village do you? Or in Wiltshire, where I picked you up?" he asked Scorpius, as he swerved onto asphalt and began picking up speed. Scorpius had pressed his face to the glass of his window, the curtains swinging around his ears.

"I'm from Wiltshire," Scorpius replied, still looking out his window. The bus was traveling very fast now, making the landscape outside little more than dark smudges and shadows. "But I'm taking a job up at Hogwarts in September. Well, I hope to."

Albus glanced at Scorpius in the mirror again. "You're going to be teaching?"

"Yes, wands crossed."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine soon."

"Oh, me too."

"You went to Hogwarts then? Yes?"

"Regrettably," said Albus.

Scorpius looked sad. "Why would you say that? It's supposed to be one of the best schools in the world!"

"For some, maybe," said Albus, and he headed northeast, back toward London. "Didn't you go?"

What Scorpius said next confirmed Albus's suspicion that he'd spent much time outside of the country and relieved Albus of the effort it was taking to try to remember ever seeing this person at school, though most students Albus had tried very hard to forget. "I went to Durmstrang," said Scorpius, and there was something in his voice that made Albus feel he was being challenged, as if Scorpius was daring him to say something bad about the school. He'd have better luck with anyone else. Jolted into memories of Hogwarts, Albus was beginning to wonder if the bog school he'd just read about would have been a better fit.

"My parents didn't want me at Hogwarts," Scorpius continued, and Albus's interest was piqued again. "My name and all." Albus was about to ask what was so bad about Scorpius, but then he turned over Malfoy in his mind and recalled things he'd heard throughout his life, warnings against families entrenched in the dark arts. Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters and those obsessed with blood purity. Disgraced families who'd avoided Azkaban but gone into hiding. Yes, Albus had been cautioned against Malfoys and those like them, but he had never met one before.

"My name gets attention, too," Albus heard himself saying. He never really talked about it with anyone, but he felt like he could do so now. With this stranger who'd probably also been on the receiving end of rumor and speculation.

Scorpius got up from his bed and walked around to where Albus sat, stumbling as the bus continued to speed through the country. He grabbed onto the handle near the bus's door, planting his feet and swaying slightly. Looking at Albus, he asked, "Potter, you said?" Albus cast a furtive glance at Scorpius, his waist level with Albus's nose, and then nodded, determined to keep his eyes on the road. The Knight Bus, which he had charmed himself to remain an optimum comfortable temperatures, was starting to feel very warm. His hands slid easily around the wheel, his palms were so sweaty, and a thrill shot up his spine, far sharper than what he'd felt when he'd seen the handsome wizard come aboard in Bristol or preceding any encounter he'd had in Muggle London that ended with him naked. It was very unnerving.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look"—and Albus's stomach dropped. What had felt so different was just more of the same. He finished Scorpius's thought for him, still trying to not look directly at him or his smart Prussian blue robes and his tailored trousers. Even if he was an idiot, he was, with his searching gray eyes and flexing hand as it held on to the bus, still very attractive.

"Like my dad, yeah," Albus finished for him. "You can sit down now." And Albus pressed down on the gas a little harder.

Scorpius didn't move. Not one sway. He stood taller, his head almost touching the ceiling. "I was going to say," came his voice, low and gentle, and Albus fought the thrill creeping back, "that you look lovely in purple."

Albus nearly hit the main building of a university. He looked right at Scorpius then. "No you weren't, but I appreciate that."

"Forgive me," Scorpius said, smiling. "But you really do. You don't see purple uniforms much."

"Do you make it a habit to flirt with bus drivers?" Albus asked. He was still awfully nervous, but there was something about Scorpius's own awkwardness that made him feel him more at ease.

"I've never been on a bus before," Scorpius replied, and he looked out the front window. "Oh, we're in London!" Landmarks were quickly coming into view, headed straight for them as the bus traveled onward. Albus began to slow down, dodging traffic and pedestrians and causing a music hall to temporarily shrink so that the bus could amble around it.

"Yeah, I start in London, do a handful of pick-ups and drop-offs, and then come back. It's my busiest stop." With Scorpius still hovering over him, he listened as Ducky's voice crackled through the speaker, telling him where exactly his London travelers were waiting with their arms raised.

"The Muggles can't see us, can they?" A man and a woman appeared to be looking right at the bus as it drove by, but their faces showed no signs of recognition. It was as if they were looking through it, simply waiting for the signal on the other side of the road to change so that they could cross.

"Of course not," Albus said, "but they will feel it if I run them over so I've got to be careful."

"Do you take the same route every night?"

Albus could tell Scorpius that he could travel however he pleased, jumping across Britain like a flea, if he so wanted. Sometimes the night called for it, if it was slow and there were only a few passengers. But he didn't want to risk Scorpius asking if they could go to Hogsmeade next. No, for unknown reasons beyond his initial, shallow infatuation, Albus wanted to prolong Scorpius's steps off his bus and into the cool night air for as long as possible. If he got his way, he'd be seeing Scorpius off just as the sun rose behind the Scottish highlands and before he himself would have to face the harsh light of day and all the loneliness that came with it.

"More or less," he ended up saying. As he loaded up more passengers and their things, Scorpius insisting he'd help, Albus explained his job. He told Scorpius his usual stops, how he'd likely end the night in Hogsmeade and then hit maximum speed as he zoomed back to London to return the bus to the garage, picking up no one else in the process.

Scorpius was full of questions. How did Albus get started? What kinds of wizards and witches did he meet? Were people difficult? Were they pleasant? Did he like this sort of life, living while most others were tucked in bed, carting people around and making sure they were safe and cared for and some place, even if just for a moment, to call home?

Albus was taken aback. No one, not even his family, had ever expressed such interest in his job. Never had anyone framed what he did as something valuable, necessary, and almost noble. So, as they left London and headed to Oxford, leaving behind tall buildings and high streets and rows of flats, streaks of light practically obscuring them entirely as the bus sped on.

"People think this is an easy job," Albus said, "but there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with driving a bus that shrinks and expands and leaps and stays invisible to the Muggle eye." Scorpius had drawn up a stool with his wand and placed it next to the driver's seat. He was watching Albus intently, wondering aloud on how the gear shifts worked, what all the buttons meant to do, and even reaching out to lightly touch the wheel as Albus turned it.

"Loads of paperwork and training too," Albus said, taking Scorpius by the wrist and gently removing his hand from the wheel. At the contact, Albus felt surge of desire. "I have to keep my Muggle driving license current, of course, but also my Apparition license. I have to regularly report to the Department of Magical Transportation and—" he rolled his eyes—"the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where my father works."

"Is this where you see yourself?" Scorpius asked. "Longterm?" And then he jumped with excitement when his dinner arrived, popping into existence on a plate on his lap. A drink had appeared soon after, splashing a little down Scorpius's front.

"Yeah," said Albus, fully aware of how pathetic it sounded. He'd not told anyone this for fear of what they'd say. But it was what he wanted: to be exactly where he is. A part of him, the Slytherin part, was somewhat ashamed, as his complacency was not very ambitious of him. This shame led him to lie to his family. When they've asked how he was getting on, whether he's looked for something else or asked Percy to promote him to an office job in the Ministry, he promised that he does have dreams, aspirations to be someone better, someone worthy. He told them that he was going to apply to be the driver of a Quidditch team bus, one that not only travels the roads, but also the skies. He'd be among athletes and their fans, get to see different cities and countries, and share the glory of sports win. Whenever his family asked him his progress, he responded with more lies, told them it was coming along, that it was a long process.

He was fine though, really.

Of course, things could always be better outside of work, and he found himself confessing this to Scorpius. He missed a lot because of his schedule—birthdays, dinners, dating—and no one wanted to accommodate him. He felt left out, though he would never admit this to his family. He was also hurt by the strong suspicion that his parents and siblings didn’t tell others what he does, or if they do, they say it with embarrassment. He was just a bus driver, after all.

"But you don't know that they think that," Scorpius tried to tell him. "Could it be you're projecting?"

"Of course I'm projecting!" Albus bit back. "But why should that mean it's not true!"

Scorpius shook his head and excused himself for the loo upstairs. In the mirror, Albus watched his legs disappear as he climbed the narrow staircase, treading softly as to not wake those sleeping nearby. They had come into Cardiff in what seemed like no time at all, picked up a quartet of giggling witches fresh off a hen do and now snoring heavily, mouths wide open.

Albus hoped Scorpius wasn't about to call it a night. He was having too much fun simply talking to him, explaining his life, prattling on about his bus. Scorpius was captivated by it. He hated flying, he said. He was afraid of heights. Travel by Floo was too filthy and unpredictable, as not everyone had an accessible fireplace. And Apparition and Portkeys wrecked his guts. When Albus asked him how he was getting on with the erratic movement of the bus Scorpius insisted that Albus's driving was not that bad. Noticing that Scorpius was a tad greener than when he first stepped foot onto the triple-decker, Albus conjured a vial of anti-nausea potion, which Scorpius tipped back into his mouth immediately.

In a move that was mostly selfish so that Albus could prolong Scorpius's journey, but also in consideration of his newest passenger's propensity to vomit during turbulent travel, Albus slowed the bus down considerably. They had just reached midnight, so there was plenty of time left for the route; Ducky's announcements were sparse, and stops were becoming perfunctory rather than necessary.

So the bus trundled on, through cities and the villages in between. Scorpius soon reappeared at Albus's side, donning slippers and looking as bright as ever. While Albus drove, Scorpius pointed at everything he could make out in the velvet darkness outside: rolling fields and large estates, stone cottages set along riverbanks, and the many windows of bunched terraced houses, the lights inside going out one by one, casting into shadow cats dozing on the hood of cars.

At the first lull in conversation, Albus's steady grip on the wheel faltering, and Scorpius sat on his stool, swaying slightly, eyes fixed on a war memorial as they reached Norwich, Albus tried learn more about Scorpius, who'd been so taken with the bus that he'd hardly divulged anything about his own life. Not used to being so engaged, Albus felt ashamed for not having prodded sooner.

"What will you be teaching at Hogwarts?" Albus asked. "Should you get hired, of course." The bus's door rattled as he waited for Scorpius to answer.

"Astronomy," Scorpius said, beaming. "As much as an art as it is a subject!"

"Oh, like the stars and all that," Albus said. He vaguely recalled pressing his eye to a telescope on top of one of the school's tall towers and then stepping back to laughter from his classmates. They'd slathered ink onto the ocular lens and left him with a dark ring, so that he looked like he was wearing a crudely-made monocle.

"'And all that,' yes."

Trying to prove that he wasn't an idiot, Albus racked his brain for more. "Constellations and star signs and the position of the planets—"

"Not star signs, no," Scorpius said, frowning. "And not the position of the planets and how that might affect your day or life or whatever. That's astrology and better suited for a Divination class. I'm no silly Knut-arcade fortune teller."

Worried that he'd offended Scorpius, Albus tried to recover. "You should read this column in the Evening Prophet," he said, nodding toward the newspaper rolled up on the floor. "It's nonsense horoscopes."

Scorpius narrowed his eyes at the paper and then grinned. "Oh! That's me."

"What do you mean 'that's you'?"

"That's me!" Scorpius said again. "I'm Hyperion. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. The 'Scorp' in 'HoroScorp'."

Huh. "Well no shit."

"The column's like, um, supplemental income," Scorpius chuckled. "Celestina Warbeck can only use so many horoscopes a day before she grows tired of it."

"Do you make them up for her as well?" Perhaps Scorpius was ashamed of his dabbling in what he claimed was rubbish, and was therefore a bit hard on the subject.

"Of course!" Scorpius said, and he seemed offended again. "I don't have a price that could make any of that real."

Shocked slightly, Albus asked, "Isn't that a bit… unethical? Lying to her?"

Scorpius nodded his head as if weighing the options. "I suppose, but I do have clearly stated in all my contracts that my predictions are nothing if not fictional fun and that my customers are reading and directing their lives at their own risk. Celestina was given ample opportunity to read what she signed, which, yes, did contain a slight bit of blood magic that obligates my dick should I breach said contract." Scorpius said all this with his finger in the air and with a perfunctory droll that suggested he'd done so many times before. Albus was caught on one provision, however.

"Did you say that your dick is obligated?"

"Yes."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"If I don't fulfill my obligations, then my dick falls off."

Albus gaped. "Why the fuck would you sign something that said that?"

"To keep me honest!"

"Is that necessary?"

Scorpius was on his second plate of dinner, having wheedled out the additional serving from Albus with flattery and maddening lip smacking. Around a forkful of basmati rice he said, "Well, I don't want to find out, do I?"

Albus was baffled at the idea that someone would use their dick as collateral and that this ridiculous person sitting behind him could justify keeping his dishonest practice honest by doing such a thing. As if he could read his mind, Scorpius said, "Now don't let a contract's silly addendum have you doubting my cocksmanship!"

"I don't remember much of my own Astronomy lessons," Albus said, trying his best to ignore what Scorpius just said. "But I do recall the movement of the planets being something we learned. And star charts. I plotted so many bloody star charts. Is that what your lesson plans will be like?"

"Merlin, no!" said Scorpius. "I'm trying to teach something much deeper. I've got a whole new curriculum, mind you, and it's more than star charts and planetary movements and the names of moons. We're going to look at the entire solar system. We're going to interpret stellar spectra and learn how magic works within space matter and among dark energy. We're going to know the properties of starstuff and use that in our spellwork." Scorpius's eyes were huge, like big, big moons themselves. Albus had to take a sharp turn to avoid missing a kebab cart.

From upstairs came a thud and a loud swear.

Albus spoke into his wand, his voice reverberating off the bus's walls. "You all right up there? We're not liable! Remember that!" He motioned for Scorpius to continue.

"You're a driver of such a fine contraption that you'll appreciate that Muggles have actually deepened our knowledge of the heavens by making their own inventions that go up into a space and see stars closer than we wizards could ever dream."

"You know," mused Albus, as they flew past Leeds, "I reckon some Muggles can see my bus. Or they feel it, at least. Sometimes I'm driving and they stop what they're doing and just stare, like they know I'm there. I dunno. Maybe some have more magic in them than we realize."

"I wish we went to school together," Scorpius said, and then he stuffed his last lamb meatball into his mouth and looked away.

"You think we would have been friends?" Albus asked him. His heart was racing.

Scorpius swallowed and nodded. "Oh, yes." There was no hesitation. "I think I might have been in Slytherin, too, had my parents let me go."

"Why's that?"

"My dad always thought I was just conniving enough. I also enjoy a comfortable chill."

"My dad always told me that it didn't matter what house I'd end up in, but when I was sorted Slytherin, well—I'm pretty sure he hated it and still does."

Scorpius batted at the air with a dismissive hand. "Oh, who cares?"

And, as Albus turned his attention away from the road to look at him, cheeks pink, his fringe finally threatening to fall into his eyes, and a bit of meatball at the corner of his mouth, which was turned up in a easy grin, he too thought, Who cares?

He weaved onto a main road, the tires of the bus licking the asphalt, many of his doubts left inadvertently behind him.

They were due for Hogsmeade around very early in the morning. When Albus questioned if this was too late, Scorpius ensured him that it was not. "I'm staying above the Three Broomsticks for the night. Well, the morning, I suppose. Do you know it?"

Albus thought of the last time he was in the Three Broomsticks. He'd gone in alone on one of the weekends of his Third Year, sulking after a rowdy crowd of older students, hoping that no one would notice him. He'd managed to find a table and sat there, not quite sure what to do. When a barmaid came to take his drink, calling him sweet names and remarking on how his friends would join him soon, Albus became so flustered he knocked over a bowl of complimentary peanuts. Somehow, the clatter of the bowl on the stone floor turned every head in the crowded room to his direction. Where the tavern had felt cheery and warm before, it now seemed stuffy and confined. Albus had pulled his jumper away from his neck, and looked down onto the worn, oak table, determined to not look up until he was sure the attention was no longer on him.

He'd felt all right shortly after, sipping his ginger cherry soda and biding his time until it was socially acceptable to leave, until he caught the eye of a group of students sitting just a table away. There were several, all crowded together, pints of Butterbeer between them, and they were laughing at him, trading whispers and pointing.

Trembling with embarrassment and fury, Albus got up, his knees hitting the table and once again knocking over the peanuts and, this time, what remained of his soda. The students laughed harder and the barmaid, who'd been so friendly to Albus before, was loudly sighing while she waved a wand to clean up his mess. Albus left in a hurry, and no one him followed him out.

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he said, "I've been there, yeah."

"I'm sensing a story there."

"Not much to tell. I went there, didn't care for it. I left."

"I'm going to hazard a guess and say that's the abridged version."

With a sigh like the harried barmaid, Albus told Scorpius about his attempts at Hogsmeade weekends and his failure to have fun even when the opportunity was set in front of him on a pewter platter in a dimly-lit tavern.

Scorpius was a very good listener, and he shared with Albus more about his own childhood. How he'd been sent to Durmstrang because his family's reputation here was so poor. He'd had very few friends, as it was taboo there, too, to align with former Death Eaters. And if they could get past his family's past, the rest of the students still struggled with Scorpius's personality. "I was off-putting," he said, matter-of-factly and not the least bit bitter. "Weird. Too much. Overcompensating, probably."

Albus couldn't imagine that this man in his periphery who, had they gone to school together, might have been in his entire line of sight, his whole focus, could have ever been too much. The hours they had on this bus were already not enough.

He felt foolish thinking it, having known him for all of a bus route, but Albus considered Scorpius very decent. He was attentive and kind, and he spoke to Albus without any sort of motive. Well, he did badger Albus for another Dubonnet fizz, which Albus supplied by pointing his wand at the empty glass in Scorpius's hand. But they got on so well. Without preamble or conditions. It was its own kind of magic, this connection which, though new, felt to Albus as if it were carved into his bones.

And the longer they drove on, the closer Scorpius got. His knees brushed the driver's seat, he'd scooted the stool he conjured so far into the aisle. When passengers left, Scorpius had to stand so that they could move by, their luggage banging into his ankles. And when they came aboard they had to reach across him to drop silver into the tin. Albus told him that he'd have to move back to his bed soon, especially if he wanted to get some rest before his interview.

"I'll sleep during the day," Scorpius said, though he looked down the bus at his bed and all the others, barely discernible in the low light of the candles on the wall, and gave a sigh conveying deep longing. "That's what I'm used to." Cheerier then, he added, "Not much good telescope peeping will do when the sun's out. Besides, I don't have my final interview with the Headmistress until tomorrow evening. I'm giving a mock lesson. Look."

From the inside of his robes, Scorpius pulled out a piece of parchment, which he unfolded and dangled in front of Albus. The parchment was soft, creases where it had been folded and unfolded deep and permanent. Casting quick glances to it while he drove, Albus read:

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a second interview for the position of Astronomy Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We will reserve a day and time most convenient for you but keep in mind that term begins 1 September. Your interview will include a tour of Hogwarts, conversations with staff, a practical exercise, and, time and weather permitting, a mock lesson. We await your owl.

Yours truly,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress

"I sent an answer back immediately with one of my doves," Scorpius said. "You know," he went on, folding the parchment again and tucking it carefully back inside his robes, "my whole life I read about these great witches and wizards. These war heroes. And now I finally get to meet them." He spoke with the same awe that Albus often heard when people spoke about his father.

"Yeah, McGonagall's alright," Albus said, hoping Scorpius wouldn't bring up Harry Potter, "when she's not giving you detention."

"Maybe you could show me around your old school?"

"Sure, that'll be fun," Albus said dryly. "'Here's where I got pushed down the stairs' and 'here's where I ate all alone' will be really pleasant to revisit."

"Well I would have eaten with you," Scorpius said. "Every meal. Every day. Until you grew tired of me and told me to piss off."

"It's you who would've grown tired of me," Albus said. "Everyone has." Even his family, he wanted to add, but he didn't want to sound so pathetic. He also didn't want to admit that the distance was half his fault; where his brother and sister and cousins and parents found him sullen and withdrawn, he found them garrulous and overbearing. It was a chore for both sides, and Albus had no doubt that Scorpius would have likewise found him tiresome after a while.

"Nonsense," Scorpius said. "You know, I'll admit that I had grand ideas about coming home and meeting all the people I've read about, whose lives and stories I committed to memory while I hid away in another country. But here, on this bus, with you? This is grand."

Albus didn't have words.

Their life trajectories could hardly have been more divergent, but here they were, on the same road, in the same bus, their fates entwined.

Albus knew that he wasn't meant to set the world alight. But every night, for a moment, he lit the path for someone else. He came when called, summoned by the illuminated tip of a wand. He thanked all the stars in the sky, their alignment and the fortunes they bestowed, for flinging Scorpius in his path, for guiding him to that light in the darkness.

They stopped in a wizarding village on the outskirts of Newcastle upon Tyne, where they dropped off a grumbling wizard with skin like corned beef who'd come aboard in Manchester and picked up a pair of goblins in nightclothes heading for Glasgow.

They headed out of town, one side of the bus lifting off the ground as they took a hairpin bend. Albus thought that the sudden turn startled Scorpius into grabbing onto his shoulder but, no. Scorpius had seen a string of assorted shops on the side of the thoroughfare.

"Oh, look at that haberdashery!" he said, and Albus reminded him to shush. They'd driven into the following day, and most of the passengers were sound asleep. "And I think I saw the blur of an Italian restaurant. Can we stop? I know everything is closed, but we can look around."

"If I stop, you have to get off."

"Can't you take a break?" Scorpius looked so earnest as he said it, so delighted with the idea of it, that Albus's felt again that pang of desire.

"Not until the shift's done."

"When's that?"

"After Hogsmeade."

Scorpius hunched over in his stool, put his chin in his hand, his elbow balancing on a crossed knee. "I suppose that'll do."

"For what?"

"We can spend time together then, can't we? Your shift will be done, we'll have all of Hogsmeade—"

"There won't be much to do at—" Albus looked at the time displayed on the dash—"four or five in the morning."

"You sure about that?"

Scorpius was sitting up, tall and purposeful. Albus was glad that they were on a straight, deserted road, barren plots on one side and a thicket on the other. The Knight Bus was left to trundle on of its own accord, because Albus needed to turn in his saggy, worn seat to understand exactly what Scorpius was saying.

Which was not very much. Instead, he was softly smiling, his eyes dark, framed by thistledown lashes. It was unnerving for Albus, who was already wobbling on the keen edge of need.

"Please stop looking at me like that," Albus muttered, and he averted his eyes from Scorpius's to glance ahead. They were not yet Edinburgh. Maybe Albus should stop and see if he could get a drink somewhere.

"Like what?" Scorpius was impossibly closer to Albus, almost sitting in the driver's seat with him.

"The staring—" Albus said, and he turned back to the task at hand, narrowly missing a low fieldstone fence that separated the asphalt from the farmland beyond it. "I'm not—"

"Oh," Scorpius said, and as quickly as he had crowded Albus did he sit back, leaving ample space between them, thick and cold.

Albus had wanted to say that he wasn't sure that Scorpius would want to spend more time with him. That he probably would be no fun back at his old school, where little fun was had. But he'd come off as rejecting Scorpius and anything he was offering.

Friendship or more, Albus would take it.

"I mean," he recovered, and he gripped the wheel tighter. It had been so long since he done this. "I'm not sure where we'd go or—or what we'd do." He looked at Scorpius.

Albus hoped for anything. He'd help Scorpius practice for his interview if he'd like. Hell, he'd take him on a tour of the village and the outskirts of Hogwarts, that's how desperate he was.

"I told you I have a room at the Three Broomsticks," Scorpius said, his eyes shining again and his voice honeyed. "If you're up for it."

"I'm suddenly very up," Albus heard himself saying, and Scorpius laughed. It sounded like starfall.

They drove into a patch rain over Glasgow. Even with the Knight Bus's headlamps aided with Lumos Maxima it was growing increasingly harder to see. Albus and Scorpius had stopped their chatting. They had found themselves almost yelling over the thunder clatter and waking those who'd not yet stirred from the bus sliding on the asphalt, its speed lower but still, relative to the few Muggle cars traveling alongside it, in a furious rush.

Scorpius had vanished his stool and was on his bed, having heaved his trunk onto the space between his legs. Eyes mostly on the slick road but taking now and then to snap up at the rearview mirror, Albus watched Scorpius open his luggage. Aside from bundles of books and assorted stacks of parchment that cascaded off the bed and onto the floor, there was a bulky revolving solar system complete with planets and the sun, several collapsible and expensive-looking telescopes, celestial globes, and something small and glowing that Scorpius clutched tight in his hand, the only source of light aboard the midnight bus. Outside the rain fell in fat plunks.

Deeper into Scotland Albus plowed on. The storm subsided and the night became clear again, starts glinting in the distance. His bus was nearly empty, with Albus's only passenger having returned to the conjured seat as his side. Behind them, growing smaller, were all the places they'd been. On either side, sodden field. And ahead, against the threat of a rising sun, a wizarding village.

"I want you to have this." Scorpius was holding out his hand. Hovering above his palm was a glass dome, inside of which was a moving astronomical model of a galaxy. It was almost as lovely as the person offering it.

"Why?" Albus had taken a route he'd known to have spectacular views, even in the darkness, of mountainside, cliff edges, and lochs. He figured Scorpius would want to see this, the scenery that would surround his home for the foreseeable future.

Albus was invested in Scorpius getting the job now. If he had to write to every one of his old teachers and beg—hell, threaten—he would. He wanted this for Scorpius and, selfishly, for himself, too.

But Scorpius wasn't taking in the looming mountains, or the rippling dark of the water. He was looking at Albus, and Albus, road rules be damned, was staring back.

"I really like you," Scorpius said. "I've really enjoyed talking to you tonight. And I know we've only just met, but I don't want to get off this bus and never see you again."

"I don't want that either."

"So stay with me a little longer? Or," and Scorpius thrust the glowing dome, stardust swirling around it, into Albus's chest, "keep a memento at least, so you don't forget me."

"I couldn't forget," Albus said, and he had to turn back to road to say this. He couldn't look at Scorpius. "Never."

"Me neither, Albus Potter."

It was perhaps the first time Albus didn't mind hearing his surname said with such reverence.

"I've never had a real friend," Albus admitted. It felt necessary to say this. To come at Scorpius with honesty. 

"Me neither," Scorpius shrugged. "But you know what I would tell them if I did? I'd say that I met someone really cool and funny and that I've never felt anything like this before and, oh—are we here?"

Albus came to his senses—all of them, heightened. His skin was buzzing, his ears were ringing, his mouth dry. The outskirts of Hogsmeade, its cobbled roads and cottages bunched together, was coming into sharp focus. Even the smell of the place was seeping through the bus: warm hearths and sodden meadows. He plummeted back to his school days.

And then there was a hand on the back of his neck, a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. "Albus?"

Instinctively, Albus put his wand to his lips. "Next stop: Hogsmeade." He rolled toward Hogsmeade Station, where the train would arrive in a few short days, students poring out of its compartments, their entire magical lives ahead of them.

He parked in a nearby alley. Scorpius was on his feet before the bus powered down and Albus drew the curtains closed with a wave of his wand and made up the beds with a sweep of his hand. Together, they levitated Scorpius's luggage down the bus's steps and through a narrow block that ended with arched entryway to the village, glowing lanterns set into the brick at either end.

"Does it feel strange to be back?" Scorpius asked. Albus had of course made stops in Hogsmeade nearly every night, but he never got off his bus. Standing there with Scorpius he refused to look back at the castle that stood tall in the opposite direction.

"Yeah," he said, his face scrunched in distaste. Hogsmeade looked very much the same, save for a lack of people at this time. On the tailend of summer, the sky was clear, the temperature dropping. Magic rumbled under his feet. The air buzzed with more of it.

And on his side, pressed against him, was Scorpius. His new friend. Maybe more.

"You're not indebted to your past insecurities, you know." A thumb circled his wrist bone. Albus found it in himself to agree. His hand at the small of Scorpius's back, he guided them through the arch and into the main street, past the darkened shops and the empty stalls and toward the sleepy tavern that was the Three Broomsticks.

In the distance, beyond the mountains, a line of pink encroached on the expanse of black.

"I'm up here," Scorpius said, his voice drowning out the echoes of past jeers, of laughter not shared, of all those who came before them. 

The Three Broomsticks was set against a narrow passageway, from which a staircase led to a second level and a single door. "'Beds are upstairs,' the barman said. He told me it would be unlocked."

"I can help you carry your things," Albus offered, knowing full well that a hover charm would make his gesture wholly unnecessary.

"Let's leave them here a minute," Scorpius said, and he pushed his trunk to the foot of the stairs. "I don't think we have to worry about anything happening to a bunch of telescopes."

They walked up the main lane, and Albus pointed out all the buildings of his youth, their unswept entries, the contents displayed in the unlit windows. They pressed their noses to the glass of those new places, cafes and shops that had popped up over the last decade.

At the end, when the paved walk gave way to patches of earth, to worn paths leading to sparsely settled homes, they turned back. Behind them, that tangerine horizon.

They came to the edge of the village, past even the station and where the Knight Bus was tucked in an alley. There were tall, black iron gates, with statues of winged boars perched on stone mounts. The gate was locked, dozens of padlocks wrapped together. Beyond the bars was the castle, ancient and unyielding, splendid and fierce. Albus drew a shaky breath as he stared at it.

"Looks a bit different at this end," he said. "At this age."

Scorpius looked at him. "It's wonderful." When Albus said nothing, Scorpius continued, still staring at Albus instead of the castle he'd waited his whole life to meet.

"When I was a child I thought of little else besides going to Hogwarts and getting up to mischief with some mates. Just like Harry Potter." He paused, brought his lower lip under his teeth. "But I never got that."

"Instead you get to stand here with me."

"This might be better," Scorpius said, and Albus gave him an incredulous look. "You're better. I can already tell." Albus closed his eyes, imagined another version of himself. "This could be our second chance, you know? Me finally at this school and you with me."

Together, they looked out at the castle. Its turrets in the foreground of a rising sun, the spires piercing the sky, opening it up to the approaching daylight, the towers below casting long shadows over a lush sloping lawn beaded with dew.

"Shall we head up to your place?" Albus asked. Bravery had shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

"Oh, yes," Scorpius said.

They'd barely turned the corner of the hidden alley that led to the Three Broomsticks stairway when Scorpius pushed Albus up against the inn's brick wall. They didn't needs words. Albus needed Scorpius's hands to cradle his cheeks, to bring their lips together. Scorpius needed Albus to pull their bodies flush. They both knew just what to do. 

"You feel it, right?" said Scorpius in between slow, drawn out kisses to Albus's throat, his jawline, and just under his ear.

Walking backward, tugging Scorpius with him, and hoping that he wouldn't break his neck trying to get up the stairs, Albus said, "I certainly feel something." They both tripped when Albus unbuttoned Scorpius's trousers, falling against the railing and looking at each other before bursting out laughing.

They took things upstairs, Scorpius frantically searching his pockets for the key to his room before Albus nudged him out the way and pointed his wand at the lock instead. Inside could have been no bigger than Albus's childhood bedroom, with creaking chocolate-colored wood floors, a pilling rug, and a bulky walnut bed set against floral wallpaper. To the right was a tiny bathroom. And to the left was Scorpius, who stood there flushed, robe in a rumpled heap on the floor, clothes already half off. Albus led him to the edge of the bed and, one hand on his chest and the other on his knee, pushed him down.

"Lumos," Scorpius whispered, and ball of light balanced on the tip of his wand before pinching off and floating near Albus's head, like a glowing bubble.

Bathed in his light, Albus drew Scorpius out of his trousers. He slid one hand over the length of him, thumb teasing the head, while his other raked the fine hairs of his thigh and his teeth came down on a hip bone. Scorpius was still chatty, swearing "fuck, fuck, fuck" when Albus took him into his mouth, walked his fingers into the very heat of him, and saying, "Yes, please, like that, just take it," when it was ending, too soon for the both of them but with the all the anticipation that more would come.

And come it did .

Albus could not stay for long, though he desperately wanted to, and he told Scorpius so, pressed promises across his bare chest, spoke deep into the center of him. But he had to get the bus back to London, needed some hard-earned rest, before his route would begin again.

"You'll come get me?" Scorpius asked, kissing Albus's forehead, squeezing tight both of his hands. "If I raise my wand?" He kissed Albus again. One for the road, he said. 

Albus nodded, his whole heart thrumming with the thought of again finding that bright spot, his very own beacon.

The sky was streaked with gold when Albus traipsed around the village, back to the alley, giddy with the evening's—and morning's—events. He waved at a witch sweeping the entry of her shop, smiled at a family strolling a cobbled path, and nodded at a wizard who stopped mounting his broom to stare, undoubtedly recognizing a Potter, perhaps thinking he was Harry. Albus wondered if happiness left scars too.

He even took time to admire the castle on the other side of the gate, its enormous power, the hold it once had on him, and the morning light now softening its edges.

Perhaps he'd take the night off, ask Percy to call in one of the backup drivers, and return without his bus. He could see the village and his old school in the late afternoon sun, in full dusky grandeur. Scorpius had mentioned a cafe on the edge of the village, out of sight from Hogwarts but still near enough, should Albus wish to return. This time with a friend.