It was a very nice day; the air was crisp and warm and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The fresh green grass shone with dew as if it was covered by glittering jewels. The trees cast long, chilly shadows on the old manor. Cepheus stood on the porch for a moment, feeling the refreshing breeze ruffle his gelled curls, before stepping over his broom and kicking off, the wooden porch creaking in protest.

The wind howled in his ears as he soared above the forest. The gold Quidditch goals that were set up in the yard gleamed red in the morning sunlight. Cepheus kind of wanted to go get a Quaffle from the shed, but he was already flying.

I wonder... Cepheus squinted his eyes at the goalposts. He laughed as he leaned forward and sped towards the middle goal, making himself small as he could against his broom. The tip of the broom glided through the large hoop effortlessly; unfortunately, Cepheus' body was not so lucky.

There was a painful crash-clang as his forehead collided with the metal and he felt the broom fly out from between his legs.

"Ow!" He whimpered, clutching his throbbing forehead with one hand, and holding onto the goalpost for dear life with his other three limbs. The broomstick had crashed right into the ground. Looking down caused a clump to form in his throat; he cried as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact that he was stranded 50 feet in the air. This wasn't fun anymore.

"HELP!" he shrieked. "MUMMY! DADDY!"

With a whimper, Cepheus hugged himself tighter around the goalpost as the breeze picked up, sharp gusts assaulting and tangling his hair and causing the goalpost to shudder.

He tried to lift himself up to sit inside the hoop, but he didn't have the upper body strength, so he just sat there, eyes squeezed shut, his heartbeat whirring in his head, drowning out every other sound. Suddenly, he felt arms around him; Mother had transfigured the goalpost into rubber and brought him down. He clung to her, shaking, as she returned the goalpost to its original state, summoned Cepheus' broomstick, and carried him inside.

"You should be more careful! You could've gotten seriously hurt!" She lectured him in a soft voice as she pulled him off of her in the middle of the ornate kitchen.

The boy looked down at his shifting feet. "Yes, Mother."

A smile crept across her face as she bent down and brushed a platinum curl out of Cepheus' eyes and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

He looked up at her. "Yeah. I'm fine. I was just trying to see if I could fly through the goal! But then I got caught..."

With a nod, Mother kissed his forehead. "Why don't you go sit at the table and I'll bring you some breakfast."

Cepheus nodded and walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The table was exceedingly long, yet it only had one chair on each side; one on each far end for his parents, and one in the center of each long side for him and Draco. The high-backed chairs were soft and springy. They had a silver floral pattern that sort of matched the wallpaper, which was decorated with the sleeping portraits of his ancestors, who didn't fancy being woken up by "obnoxious children", so he figured he should try not to bother them.

Occasionally looking back towards the kitchen door, which was painted to blend in with the wall, anxiously sniffing the air though he couldn't smell the food.

A loud yawn sounded from the archway that led to the main house; Father had come downstairs; he sat down on his chair at the end of the table and Cepheus ran and jumped onto his lap, wrapping his small arms around him. "Good morning! Hey! Wanna play some Quidditch after breakfast with me and Mum? I think I'm getting better! At least that's what the house elf said last year; I might've gotten a bit worse but I'd say I'm still pretty good. Besides, he was a rubbish Quidditch player anyway. Hey! The World Cup is coming up! You've already got our tickets, right? It would be quite disappointing if you forgot; I don't think Draco would-"

"Yes, I've gotten the World Cup tickets," Father rubbed his temples and gently nudged Cepheus off, "now settle down; you know I can't keep up with you until I've had my coffee."

"Yes, sir," the boy nodded and sat back down in his seat, "but how 'bout a game of Quidditch after breakfast? It's a nice day, and the broomsticks are in nice condition- though yours has a little spider sack. I left it so you could use your wand to take it off so we don't hurt the baby spiders."

"That's nice..."

"And then maybe we could go to Diagon Alley? The toy shop's got a new dragon! The Sudanese Samdbiter! I don't have that one yet- it's super rare. Then maybe, hmm, maybe we could go to the theater and see 'Crikey and Crook' in person!"

"You're getting a bit too old for Crikey and Crook, dear," Mum came out of the kitchen, levitating several trays of food to the table.

"No I'm not!" Cepheus helped himself to some eggs and sausage and a cherry muffin, "I'm eleven! I've seen people at least fifteen at their shows! And they didn't even have kids with them! So I'm not too old if they're not too old!"

"What your mother is trying to say, son," Father leaned forward, gripping his coffee mug tightly, "is that we don't want to see another Crikey and Crook show. Okay?"

"Aw, okay." Cepheus took a bite of eggs and looked to his father again with a grin. "What do you want to do today?"

"Sleep until we have to go to King's Cross."

"But that's no fun!"

At this point, several of the portraits started to wake up; they were very grumpy. "Will someone shut that boy up?" one of them barked.

"I'm trying, Daedalus." Father looked at the painting with pain in his eyes. "I've been trying. Since he learned how to talk."

"Well obviously you're not very effective!" the gruff-voiced portrait scoffed, "if he were my child, he'd have welts on his arse right now!"

Cepheus gasped and looked at his father. "You wouldn't hit me, would you? You've never hit me before! Well I mean once when I interrupted your tea with the Minister, but honestly I deserved that and-"

"I'm not going to hit you, Cepheus!"

"Shame," Daedalus shook his head, "to think this is the future of the Malfoy family: a loudmouthed half-breed."

"If he were my son," another portrait chimed in, an old woman whose canvas was far older than Daedalus', "I'd have disowned him by now."

"Well he's not your son," Father growled.

"Pity," she replied as an owl swooped in and dropped the mail in the center of the table.

Jumping up, Cepheus grabbed at the bundle, "anything for me?! Is my Hogwarts letter in there?"

Father pulled it away from him and flipped through the mail. "No, I'm afraid you have not received an invitation to Hogwarts. There's a postcard from your Grandfather Malfoy," he slid a brightly colored postcard to Cepheus, who picked it up.

My dearest grandson,

My adventures have brought me deep into jungles of Ghana, where I've met the most fantastic tribe of nomadic wizards! It is quite fascinating how these people live; they call themselves the Muggle Protectors; they roam from village to village using magic to improve the lives of Muggles! At first, I was appalled at the thought of helping Muggles, but after watching them in action, and seeing the Muggles' sincere appreciation for their services, I realized just how brilliant helping them is; they will begin worshipping us as they should and eventually submit to wizardkind!

Anyway, I love you and miss you,

Your grandfather,

Abraxas F Malfoy

On the other side, there was a moving photograph of a brightly-lit jungle with a little wooden house tucked away in the corner, critters happily ruffling the foliage. Cepheus put the postcard down on the table and shoved another cherry muffin in his mouth, following it up with a forkful of eggs before even swallowing.

"Slow down, sweetheart," Mum said in a soft but firm voice.

After swallowing, Cepheus promptly apologized. Sometimes he didn't realize how fast he was eating, or how unbecoming he appeared.

"Father, are you almost done with the Prophet?" He leaned over the table towards his father, eyes fixed on the newspaper in his hands.

"I've only just picked it up," Father replies flatly.

"Can I read it when you're done? I wanna see the Quidditch scores! I'm really rooting for Ireland, of course; I'm sure they'll beat out Sweden! Although the Swedes've got a new Keeper this season; Märta Axelsson; she's very good; could mean trouble for us. Peru might have a chance against Bulgaria, but Bulgaria's got Viktor Krum, so you never know," he took another bite of eggs and a swig of pumpkin juice. "I'm kinda disappointed that Egypt did so poorly this year. If I were Mostafa, I never would've retired; he carried that team and everyone knows it! Hey, remember when we met him? The '89 World Cup in Austria? Remember?"

"How could we forget?" Mum smiled, her eyes focused dreamily on some other time, "Mostafa started playing for Egypt when I was in my seventh year at Hogwarts; I think he deserves to retire."

"But he loves Quidditch! Why would he stop playing! Surely he knows how many people he's letting down! I'm disappointed and I'm not even Egyptian! If I was, I just know I'd be pissed. Absolutely steamed! Thanks, Father!" Father had tossed the paper to him, most likely just to shut him up. He opened it to the sports section and began reading the article on the World Cup when another headline on the next page caught his eye:

Albus Dumbledore knowingly appointed a werewolf to teach at Hogwarts School

It was another hate piece by Delores Umbridge,- though Cepheus doubted she had actually written it herself- but through the hate, Cepheus learned that the facts were as followed: this past year, Dumbledore hired a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, a man whom he knew was a werewolf. Excited, not even looking up from the paper, Cepheus asked his parents, "hey, so, in order to teach at Hogwarts, you have to have gone to Hogwarts, right?"

It was Mum who replied; "yes, dear, I believe so. Why?"

The boy was rocking back and forth in excitement. "Read this!" He pushed the article in her face, "Mum, look! Do you know what this means? I'm going to Hogwarts after all! See, this man went, so I'll get to go too!" His voice was verging on shouting now, though he didn't really notice.

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, "Cepheus, darling, I know you really want to go, but honestly, we don't know when this, uh," her gaze shifted down to the paper and back to Cepheus' cheek, which was as close to eye contact as he had ever generally allowed, "this Mr. Lupin was even bitten. I'm sorry to be the one to say this, but he was probably bitten-"

Cepheus slammed his fist on the table several times, scrunching his face and loudly chanting, "NO! NO! NO! NO! HE WAS BITTEN BEFORE! HE HAS TO! I HAVE TO GO TO HOGWARTS!"

"CEPHEUS!" Father interjected sharply.

"WHAT?!" His voice echoed off the walls throughout the house, still ringing in the momentary silence that followed. The portraits' subjects shuffled around, whispering to one another; the sound was unbearable to Cepheus and he fell back into his seat, squashing his ears with his hands and breathing heavily, face still bright red in anger.

"Go to your room," Father demanded, "go to your room and think about what Ms. Scamander said about redirecting."

With a huff, Cepheus turned and marched upstairs, muttering under his breath.

_____________

Hey guys!

Sorry that took so long!

But I mean hey, you got a longer chapter for your wait!

So anyway, quick authors note:

This is my first time actually writing an autistic character, and I think I did okay, but I would appreciate some positive feedback.

Love ya!

CC