Scorpius hadn't been able to sleep, and even though he knew it wasn't healthy to spend so much time awake, he couldn't manage to doze off. Every time he did, he would dream about Rose, and none of the dreams were pleasant. Most of them took place in St. Mungo's, but that only made them worse than the ones that took place in Hogwarts, and on that August night, just as on so many others that summer, he gave up on trying to sleep. Instead, he pulled a robe around himself and headed downstairs.
The house was silent, and he nearly held his breath as he walked, not wanting to wake his parents. His father had been busy at St. Mungo's, and his mother had been looking worried lately, and he didn't like the thought that they were worried about him. It was more likely him than anything else – though his father might be worried about his various patients – and lately Scorpius had been starting to worry about himself. He was thinner and paler than normal, and there were shadows under his eyes that told anyone who looked at him that he'd been having trouble sleeping. For all he knew, people thought he was dying.
Maybe he was.
As he walked down the hall, he was distracted from those thoughts by seeing the door to his father's study. His father barely used the room, since he spent most of his time at the hospital, so most of the time the door was closed. Tonight, however, it was open, and Scorpius couldn't resist his curiosity. He crept up and peeked through, really holding his breath this time, just in case someone noticed him.
His father stood in front of the bay window, staring out at the grounds. Scorpius would have just moved on and found someplace else to sit out the night, but then he noticed that his father's shoulders were shaking slightly, and that his father seemed to be leaning against the window instead of simply looking at it. He'd been looking rather pale and drawn too, lately, though Scorpius hadn't paid him much mind, and the guilt of not noticing that distracted him a little from his own sadness as he pushed open the door and went inside.
The study looked as though the house-elves hadn't gone in it at all; the desk was covered in unorganized papers, and there was dust all over the bookshelves. "Dad?" Scorpius whispered, sure he was speaking too quietly to be heard.
His father tensed slightly, then looked over his shoulder. "What are you doing up so late?" he asked, his voice as calm and pleasant as though they were two strangers meeting at King's Cross. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now? You need to rest." Unspoken was the fact that Scorpius likely looked like he was about to collapse where he stood.
"You should rest, too," Scorpius said.
His father gave him a small smile, and with a flick of his wand lit the candles all around the room. "I don't think that's very likely for either of us right now, is it?" he asked, and walked to one of the chairs by the desk. "Have a seat. I'd like to talk to you."
Scorpius sat in a chair covered in soft green velvet, and his father chose a harder chair that looked like it was made of ivory with gilded edges. With the light from the candles, the room grew slightly more welcoming, though the ivory and gilt wallpaper seemed somewhat cold, even with the yellow flames. Scorpius noticed a mirror on the far wall, and when he glanced into it, he saw that he looked surprisingly like old photographs he'd seen of his father at this age: pale, slender, and slightly too serious for how young he was. The only difference, of course, was that his father hadn't started to grow so serious for another few years.
"Scorpius," his father said, and Scorpius quickly looked away from the mirror. "Your mother and I have been worried about you lately."
"I'm sorry," Scorpius said at once, as though by apologizing he could erase everything that had happened over the summer. They could pretend he had been cheerful and had asked for second helpings at every meal and hadn't been found in the library some mornings, asleep with his head resting on a book.
"There's nothing you need to apologize for," his father said. "I think I ought to be the one apologizing. I haven't been the most attentive father this summer. Your mother's been here, but with her lectures, there's only so much she can do."
Scorpius nodded, a lump growing in his throat, and he knew that if he wasn't careful he would start crying. "It's okay," he said quietly. "It's just… last year…" His voice trailed off, but his father seemed to understand.
"Everyone's been shaken by that, I heard," he said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of." When Scorpius said nothing, his father reached forward and set a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with being afraid. What you faced would have terrified even an Auror… probably even Harry Potter himself." He smiled at a joke Scorpius couldn't quite understand, but then the expression vanished and he was somber again. "Professor Zahradnik sent out owls to the families of the students a few weeks ago. Your mother and I didn't tell you because… well, it hardly matters why. The letter said that she is planning to have the school open in September as usual."
Scorpius nodded again. He'd heard his parents whispering about whether they would wind up closing the school – his father had spoken often about the Chamber of Secrets – but he hadn't seriously thought that was something that could happen, even though some students had died.
His father cleared his throat and went on, "If you'd rather not return to Hogwarts next year, we would completely understand. Your mother and I would be willing to teach you here this year, or for as long as you need." His voice was calm, but Scorpius could see something that was almost terror around his father's eyes, and for just a moment, he thought he could see his father as a child, frightened and in too far over his head.
"I'll be okay," Scorpius said, but he spoke so quietly that he wasn't sure his father had heard him. Shifting nervously in the chair – which didn't feel quite comfortable enough, despite the cushions – he said, "I want to go back to Hogwarts."
"If you're sure," his father said, and Scorpius knew this would be his one chance to back out. If he changed his mind now, he could spend the rest of the year in Malfoy Manor, where he would be safe from anything that might try to kill him. He wouldn't have to walk through the halls where he had tried to escape the thing from another world, and he wouldn't have to think about what Rose had done for him. He could have a little sanctuary from the rest of the world, and maybe he would be able to sleep a whole night through.
He wouldn't have a chance to see Albus or Ruby, and for a moment he even wanted to see James, if only to learn how Rose was. He knew he could hear from Albus, but for some reason he thought James would be less likely to lie to him, at least about something like this. James cared about Rose, and just from looking at him, Scorpius might be able to tell what had happened to her.
"I'm sure," he said, and his voice sounded stronger than he was used to. His father smiled, and it looked so much like a real smile that Scorpius couldn't help returning it, even if only weakly.
"I'm proud of you," he said. "For being a Slytherin, and for being a Malfoy, and for being a better man than I ever was." The smile faded a little, but he still looked more relaxed than he had been. "I agree, by the way. You ought to go back to Hogwarts. It'll be good for you to be with your friends again. Staying locked in here isn't healthy."
Scorpius could have protested, but he knew his father was right. He had been staying locked up inside. Through all of June, he hadn't left the house, and even in July and August he had barely gone outside. The few times he did, he stayed close to shadows and kept away from people. "I've missed Albus and Ruby," he said, shifting again in the chair. It felt a bit strange to admit that, especially since they'd largely stopped writing to him. He hadn't given very good responses to their letters, and that could have been a good part of why, though he'd still thought they would keep writing to him. Maybe things would be different when he saw them again.
"I'm sure they've missed you, too," his father said, getting to his feet. Scorpius rose as well, though it was to keep his father from leaving. He hadn't thought he would ask, but now that there might not be another chance – he couldn't remember a time when they'd talked like this before, and it might not happen again for years – he wanted to try.
"Dad –" he said, and broke off, nervous that he would be told to go back to bed and get some sleep.
His father didn't dismiss him, though, but paused by the desk. "Yes?"
"How's Rose doing?" He tried not to sound too eager, but he could hardly help it. He wanted to believe that she was recovering well, that she would be at King's Cross on September first with the rest of the Potters and Granger-Weasleys, that she would run up to see him and apologize for not writing, that they would ride in the same compartment together and find something to talk about that wouldn't involve her having to stay in the hospital or him barely speaking to anyone except his own family. She had to be there, and there had to be some reason for his father not telling him that she was perfectly fine now and would be able to leave the hospital any day.
Maybe she already had left and was just too busy spending time with her family to get in touch with him, but she would soon, and as soon as she did, he would write the longest letter he could to her, and then he would write to Albus and Ruby, even if Apollo exhausted himself carrying all of them.
His father's face fell, and Scorpius knew at once that the news wouldn't be good. "That's right," he said quietly. "She's your friend. I should have known you'd ask about her sometime."
"Well?" Scorpius asked. His legs were shaking, and he knew that if the news was anything less than good, he would drop back into the chair. Even if the news was excellent, he might well lose whatever strength his legs had from surprise and relief, but he still had to know. Every second his father hesitated was like a hand pressing down on his throat, and he felt as though he would stop breathing at any moment.
"She's still alive," his father said finally, "but she hasn't regained consciousness. As far as I can tell, nothing's changed since she first arrived."
Scorpius heard his father's words, and he understood them, but they seemed to come from a long way off, and before he knew it, he was sitting in the chair, his head spinning. He could hear someone calling his name and feel a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't focus on whoever was trying to get his attention.
Rose was alive.
Rose hadn't woken up.
Rose wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts.
"I'm fine," he said suddenly, the words startling even him, and he realized just then that his father had been asking whether he was all right. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, he shrugged his father's hand away and added, "Really. I just… I'm fine."
"Scorpius, if something's wrong…" His father's voice trailed off, and he sighed before returning to the ivory chair. "I was only a few years older than you when the Dark – when Vol – when I was told to kill Albus Dumbledore. At first I was excited. I thought I would have a chance to prove myself, that I would finally show everyone what I could do, how strong a wizard I was. But I couldn't manage to do it, and after a while, the thought of death wouldn't stop hanging over my head. You've heard a bit of what happened, I suppose, but not everything, and you're too young to know all that happened during that part of my life. The only reason I'm telling you now is that I'm worried for you.
"What happened to you and what happened to me are two very different things, and I would never try to say that they're anything alike, except that they're both something no child should have to worry about. You're still a child, Scorpius, and even though I would never have allowed anyone to tell me so, I was a child then. You should be worried about some pretty girl and whether you'll pass your exams, not whether your friend will live or die."
The lump had returned to Scorpius's throat, but he wasn't sure whether he ought to cry. He hadn't cried in front of his parents all summer, not since that moment at King's Cross, and he felt uncomfortable with doing so now. He'd always been able to duck into another room or slip away quietly whenever he felt as though he might start crying, but he couldn't exactly do so now that his father was looking right at him.
His father sighed and got to his feet again. "I'm sorry. Your mother tells me I tend to talk too much late at night. I'm afraid my thoughts tend to get away from me." He smiled, and Scorpius tried to return the expression, but his mouth started trembling and he quickly pressed it into a line, hoping his father hadn't noticed. Whether he had or not, he went on, "I know it's not quite the right season, but would you like to join me for some hot chocolate in the kitchen? It might help you get some sleep."
"Sure," Scorpius said, and though his voice broke, he was able to keep his composure long enough for his father to head out the door. After a moment, he got to his feet and followed, trying to ignore the tears stinging at his eyes and how often he found himself sniffling and shaking.
This was far from the first time he had snuck out of bed late at night. The first time hadn't even been this summer; it had been when he was nine years old and couldn't sleep, though then it had been for some silly, childish reason. He couldn't remember what it had been, only that he had been too excited to go to sleep and had decided to creep about the house in his pajamas. That night had been like a great adventure, and he had somehow gotten away with going through every room in the house and returning to bed without getting caught. Everything had been strange in the night, but it had been strange and wonderful. Anything could have hidden in the shadows, and so he had imagined only exciting things. He'd let himself laugh as loudly as he wanted and run as quickly as he pleased, and when he had returned to bed, he had fallen asleep smiling.
Tonight, everything was still strange in the dark, but it didn't remain strange for very long. Every time they passed a group of candles, his father would flick his wand, and they would spring to life as the candles behind them extinguished themselves. They walked in a perpetual circle of light, and this time, when he looked at the shadows, Scorpius imagined either horrors waiting there or nothing at all, and he couldn't tell which would be worse.
There were house-elves awake in the kitchen, and one was more than happy to make two cups of hot chocolate, complete with a dollop of heavy cream and a sprinkling of cinnamon on top. Neither father nor son spoke as they drank, though Scorpius found it almost amusing to see that the chocolate had left an imprint of a mustache on his father's face. When he saw his father almost smiling, he realized he must have one of his own and quickly licked it away. Once the mugs were empty, the house-elf whisked them away, and the two of them went upstairs.
Scorpius's father walked him to his bedroom, gave him a quick hug, and said, "Good night." Scorpius mumbled something in reply before going into his room and closing the door. Whether it was from the hot chocolate or his lack of sleep catching up to him, Scorpius was exhausted, and he didn't even bother to pull aside the light blanket or take off his slippers before falling onto his bed and closing his eyes.
He still couldn't sleep, but his eyes wouldn't open and his body wouldn't move. For several minutes, it was almost peaceful to lie so still, but suddenly his own body became claustrophobic, and he wanted nothing more than to be out of bed again and roaming the halls. But he couldn't rise; he couldn't even make his finger twitch. He could only lie still, every breath catching in his throat, waiting for someone to decide that he simply wasn't going to wake up and wasn't worth the effort.
When he woke screaming, it was well into the day, and warm sunlight filled his room.