He picks the stone up on a whim, deciding that if he's already here, he'd better enjoy this forest to its fullest. The bark of the trees is endlessly patterned, growing, spreading; this forest is home to creatures that make it alive with sound. He's afraid here, but that's why he came; to hear the wind whisper Scorpius in his ear, gently forcing him to realise the vastness of his surroundings- to fear that immensity so much that it becomes his friend. There's no question, really, about admiring a stone that catches his eye. The smallest details are of the most importance here, and he loves this place for it.
He turns the stone in the palm of his hand, and a soft chill on his face, a small breeze ruffling his hair, makes him look up. Straight into her smiling face.
She's appeared from a thought. He barely remembers her face, but her stories are vivid in his memory, a childhood of tales she invented and those she pulled out of the deepest parts of her past. She's smiling at him and eventually his disbelief turns to a wave of gladness; soon tears are caressing his face as he whispers grandma over and over, until he no longer recognises the word.
Narcissa says nothing, but reaches out to him, untouchable. She's a relief and a painful reminder at the same time. Her gaze soothes him, though he wishes for the touch of her soft, wrinkled hand.
"What is this?" he asks, holding up the stone. He can't think of anything else to say. What do you say to one you thought was lost?
She turns her smile to the ground, carefully wording her answer. "It's a stone of death," she says finally.
"It brings back the dead?" His words are edged with hope.
She shakes her head. "I'm just a very real image."
"Oh."
She's absorbing every detail of his face, the blond of his untrimmed hair, and the way he fumbles with the stone between his fingers. It is a strange gift of the forest. That stone, and this moment.
"You look more like your father every day."
His face glows at these words, eyelashes wet with tears. She hasn't seen him, at least not so up close, for years. Her only grandson, finally at Hogwarts, and he's meeting her like this. A mere echo of herself.
"How is your grandfather?"
He looks at the ground. "He's okay."
"I mean, how does he treat you?"
"Fine." He doesn't meet her eyes.
"If he's angry with you for talking to that Rose girl-"
"How did you-"
"Tell him I think she's very sweet, and perhaps he'd better give her a chance instead of judging by blood or family."
He nods, and then there's silence.
"Last time I was here, I saved a boy from death," she says. This is a story she's never told. He'd been too young, and there would always be time. The cancer couldn't be fatal, she'd been certain.
"How?"
"I lied. To the Dark Lord."
"Professor Longbottom says to call him Voldemort."
Even in death, her face pales at the mention of the name. "Professor Longbottom is right. Unfortunately, it's difficult to change one's habits after so long."
He merely stares at her, with that instinct he's had forever, of waiting, allowing her to answer the questions that boil in his mind. He was so young when she died, had only turned eight; the right age to forget everything other than what mattered. Her tales were what he held on to in his memories, so he waited.
"The boy I saved- he was Harry Potter. I told them he was dead."
"Why?"
"For your father."
She thanks the stars for her grandson's wonderful mind; thanks Astoria for loving this boy right. He doesn't ask, doesn't need more reasons, explanations, answers. He knows a mother's love, and he takes from Narcissa's words what is needed. This boy's ears were made for stories, made to listen to tales and to love them. One day he'll find the manuscripts she's left for him at Gringotts, somewhere beneath the galleons his parents had piled up for future use, and he won't need a single word more as his finger traces her signature on the yellowed pages.
"What's it like? To die?"
He's human, after all. One's mortality will always lead to this question.
"It's just like falling asleep."
"Is it scary?"
"Of course. Adventures tend to be."
He's staring at the stone, and she remembers that her time is limited. Not because of rules or ticking clocks or last goodbyes. Not this time. She must remember that she no longer belongs in this world, mustn't risk the false hope that she ever might. This is stolen time; stolen from another existence.
"Scorpius, one more thing," she says. "Leave this stone. It must never be found. The dead don't belong here anymore, and we must move on."
They must move on. The dead and the living.
She reaches for him, and her fingers slip through his. She feels the warmth of her grandson's hand, though his fingers touch nothing but loss.
Then, she's gone.