It was Christmas morning and Scorpius couldn't wait to finally open his presents. He was sure he'd get everything he'd wished for – even the weather had fulfilled his wishes and had given him a very snowy and white Christmas. But he was especially excited about his presents. They'd been lying there under the Christmas tree for weeks and it had taken all of Scorpius's strength not to open them early. But now the day had come and he could finally unwrap the broom he'd been wanting for months.
He ran down the stairs, almost falling over Tipsy, the house elf, who'd been about to come upstairs to wake him up. "Whoops, sorry!" Scorpius called before he stumbled into the living room where his parents were already sitting at the breakfast table, drinking tea.
Draco looked up when his son came in and raised a pale brow. Scorpius gave him a sheepish grin and took a breath, trying to compose himself. "Morning!" he said cheerfully, and Astoria chuckled into her tea.
"Come and have breakfast first," Draco said warningly as Scorpius reached for the long, thick package that just had to be the Hurricane 4007; the fastest racing broom out there.
Scorpius looked up and frowned at his father but Draco stayed firm. "Breakfast. Then presents."
Scorpius sighed and put the broom down carefully before he sat down with his parents. He wolfed down some eggs and bacon and drank some orange juice before swinging his legs impatiently, accidentally kicking his father in the shin.
"Scorpius!" Draco snapped, and Scorpius bit his lip.
"Sorry," he sighed, staring down at his plate.
His parents exchanged a look, and Astoria finally sighed heavily. "All right, all right. Go ahead and open your presents."
Scorpius looked up and beamed. "Really?"
"Yes," Astoria laughed, shaking her head as she watched him fondly. She turned in her seat, watching Scorpius go straight for the broom and unwrap it eagerly. The look of pure excitement on his face, however, was soon replaced by incredulousness and disappointment.
"What is it?" Astoria asked, frowning in concern.
Scorpius looked up at her and bit his lip, shaking his head. He didn't want to seem ungrateful but…
"This is the wrong one!" he whined. "I wanted the Hurricane 4007 – this one's totally outdated," he said, pouting. "This is the 4005 from last year. Can't you people tell the difference??"
Draco wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked at Scorpius. "That is a fine and very expensive broom, Scorpius. You should be grateful you're getting anything at all."
Scorpius considered this for a moment but the pout stayed in place. "But this is the old-fashioned one. It's boring and slow and I will suck at Quidditch next year! My class mates will laugh at me if I show up with this one, Daddy."
Draco gave him a look but Scorpius kept giving him those puppy eyes, combined with his pout that he knew would make his parents give him anything he wanted.
Draco sighed and then snapped his finger and a few seconds later, Tipsy appeared.
"Yes, Master? Master called for Tipsy?"
"Indeed, I did," Draco drawled. "I want you to go over to Scorpius and look at the inscription on the broom he's holding."
The house elf looked wary but obeyed, and a few seconds later, he read slowly, "Hurricane… 4005!"
Draco sipped some tea. "That's right," he said. "And did I not tell you to make sure to buy the latest version – 4007?"
Slowly, the house elf realised his mistake. His eyes widened and he wailed, grabbing the undesired broom and hitting himself on the head with it. Scorpius was still pouting but cheered up a bit at Tipsy's antics. "So am I getting the right one?" he asked excitedly. "Tomorrow? We could go to Diagon Alley – I'm sure they have some left…"
Draco sighed heavily but nodded, knowing that Scorpius wouldn't give up until he had that sodding broom.
"Weee! You're the best, Daddy!" Scorpius squeaked and threw himself at his father while the house elf continued to punish himself for not being more careful.
Draco rolled his eyes but stroked Scorpius's hair, wondering if he and his wife would always be powerless when confronted with that petulant pout.