Shortly after “The Sherrinford Incident” life has gone back to normal in Baker Street. With one exception: Sherlock is avoiding Molly Hooper much to John’s frustration, Mrs Hudson’s despair and Mycroft’s amusement. Will the stubborn Detective get his head out of his arse and finally acknowledge a truth he’s been hiding far too long?
Scorpius hanging out at Albus's house and Ginny is being all motherly makes Scorp emotional :(
Sorry it took me so long, but I hope you enjoy!
It takes its toll on him in random moments. Sometimes Scorp will be fine, and then the death of his mother will come and hit him in the face like a bludger. Most of the time, it is at night when he goes home to visit his father, and Scorp resigned himself to the fact that he’d never have a mother again.
He sits in the Potter kitchen, poking at a plate of eggs, when he feels the telltale signs of an impending attack. Tears form in his eyes without his consent, and he takes a shaky breath, hoping that he can get it over with before anyone notices.
“Scorpius?” a voice asks suddenly. “Are you all right, darling?”
Mrs. Potter’s tone is soft, quiet, but not pitying, which Scorp is grateful for. If he has inherited anything from his father, it’s his pride.
Initially, he intends to nod his head, that yes, of course, he is all right, but his mind is out of his control and he finds himself shaking his head with a despairing, “No, Mrs. Potter, I’m not. I’m a boy without a mum.”
She says nothing after that, only comes up behind him and rubs his back gently before nudging at his shoulder to get off the stool he sits on. Forgetting his eggs, he follows her silent motions dutifully, and Mrs. Potter envelopes him in a gentle but fierce hug.
It lasts a long time, but Scorp doesn’t mind. He buries his face into her soft stomach and breathes the comforting smell of a mother who cares, a scent he’s not smelled for ages.
“Scorpius Malfoy,” Ginny Potter says after a while, kissing the flurry of platinum white hair atop the boy’s head, “you will always find a mother here.”
Hi! If you ever have any free time, can I request a prompt from you? Some small Stanley and Ma Pines bonding? Stanley is sick and his mom is taking care of him. "I can't believe I got sick before Ford." "What I can't believe is you're actually sick" "If you didn't believe I was sick then why did you pick me up from school?" "Eh, I didn't have anything better to do." And they watch tv and he falls asleep.
This answer was not meant to be more than a few lines, but that’s what happens when I spend the weekend watching the Star Trek: TOS marathon. Anyway, bless this trash mom and her trash son, I love a lot, bye.
“Alright, somebody better quick explain why I was dragged away from work,” Mrs. Pines strutted into the principal’s office, hands strung loosely over her hips, heels clicking furiously against the tile. “I gotta be home before Mrs. Proffitt finishes her spiel, so that gives us, oh, forty minutes tops.”
From where he sat, miserable and hunched, Stan’s headache increased tenfold. Great, now he was in for it. Across from him, Principal Burbridge – a squat man with bushy sideburns, who obviously had it out for Stan – seemed to relish in his despair.
“Mrs. Pines, please take a seat. This shouldn’t take long,” he said smoothly. Mrs. Pines marched up to his desk but didn’t sit, instead gazing down at her son in exasperation.
“What did you do?” she demanded, as if reading from a practiced script.
Before Stan could get a word in edgewise, the principal crashed through his defense with the single accusation, “Your son claims to be ill.”
Unruffled, Mrs. Pines’ eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch. “Claims?” she said anticlimactically. It definitely wasn’t the worst charges brought against Stan in his five years of schooling.
“Stanley has visited the nurse four times this month alone, complaining of temporary deafness, mathematical amnesia, and most notably, the plague.” The principal’s brow rose sharply. “And let’s not forget the incident with the fake vomit.”
That the cafeteria’s chowder made for a believable puke substitute should be the thing currently under fire, Stan thought ruefully.
Rolling her eyes, Ma Pines eyed her son discerningly, watching him quell under her glare. Whatever she saw, however, stunted her growing irritation; she brushed the back of her hand over his forehead, frowning at the heat.
“Did you take his temperature?” she asked the principal, flatly. “Because he feels warm. Really warm.”
(And I can’t NOT mention Malcolm, who is not lacking in either rage or despair – or suffering* – but Peter’s explosive physical performance of him, is, well, kind of a whole other Bafta winning thing.)
*that’s he’s mostly brought on himself, don’t get me wrong