They stumbled along the line of the hill. Bats circled around their heads, while light from a million glow-worms breathed softly on either side of the path and fireflies danced in front of their faces. He realised he hadn't been here once this summer and wondered why.
"This is really beautiful," Rose said conversationally, "but I keep turning my ankle. Are we going anywhere in particular?"
"Wait until we're out of the trees." A few seconds later, they emerged onto a firm expanse of clean turf. "This is the clearest spot for miles. Lie down."
"Why?"
"Just do it?" Close to her in the darkness, he sensed her resistance, and how quickly it turned to 'What the hell'. She fell straight backwards, her tall, straight figure landing almost silently next to him against the slope of the hill.
They counted six shooting stars in twenty minutes, by which time the mosquitos had found them. He got up first, and held out his hand. Rose grasped it, springing up as elegantly as she'd collapsed. "What now?"
"Do you need to get back? I can take you." He held onto her hand firmly, ready to Apparate again, but she twisted out of his grip.
"I've got plenty of time. This is where you grew up, isn't it? Take me to your house. I want to see it."
"I didn't grow up here. We only moved here when my grandfather died."
"But it's your home."
He thought about the ugly red-brick house he'd lived in as a little boy, and the stuffy attic conversion he shared now in a drab part of Muggle London. "Yes," he said.
"Let's go then."
He'd hadn't planned on calling in, but Grandmother would appreciate it. His mother and father were away until tomorrow, accompanying Granny Greengrass on her annual summer holiday, so he'd miss them comfortably. Father would take it out on mother, and Mother would cry, but he wouldn't be there to see it. "OK. It's this way. We went past the gates half a mile back there."
"I'd rather not meet your family with a broken leg," said Rose. "Allow me." Her thin arm encircled his waist again and they stepped sideways into nothingness.
The drawing-room was deeply shadowed. The chandelier was rarely lit these days. A slim figure stood by the window, turning in the direction of the open door.
"It's me, Scorpius." He drew his wand and walked over to the fireplace to light one of the lamps on the mantelpiece. Rose followed him into the room, and stood waiting as he went to kiss his grandmother. "This is my friend Rose Weasley. We were at school together."
"Good evening, Mrs Malfoy. It's a pleasure to meet you." Narcissa Malfoy turned slightly away and resumed her contemplation of the grounds.
He was glad he'd warned Rose not to expect a warm welcome. He enquired after his mother and father.
"They will be sorry they were not here when you called."
"I have to get back for work. They'll understand."
"They are your parents. You owe them an obligation." Family, duty—the mantra had been drummed into him since birth. Now they were just words, spoken automatically, with no emotion behind them. His grandmother could scarcely feign interest in the tenets she had once held so dear. Her will, however, remained undiminished. "You will stay tonight."
"I have to take Rosie home."
"Oh, don't worry about me, I can find my own way back…"
"The panelled room, I think, on the third floor will be most suitable for your guest." Narcissa closed the window and extinguished the lamp with an air of finality. "It will be pleasant to have visitors." The listlessness of her tone belied the words. "The house has been so empty since dear Lucius died."