This scene takes place over the weekend after the first week of Albusʼs third year at school, depicting the funeral Albus has promised Scorpius to attend, i.e. shortly after the end of Act 1 Scene 4. Itʼs a bit too long, but I didnʼt manage to elegantly shorten it. If youʼre interested in Scorpiusʼs grief, skip to the next chapter.
Coming to a halt before an ugly stone gargoyle, Albus looked questioningly at Scorpius, who nodded. ʻBagpipes!ʼ said Albus and the gargoyle sprang to life. It hopped aside and the wall behind split in two. They stepped on a spiral staircase, moving slowly upwards, and were transported in many circles to a gleaming oak door. They looked at each other. Then Albus reached for the brass knocker and rapped on the door.
ʻEnter.ʼ
With a slightly ominous feeling, Albus pushed the door open and they stepped into a large circular room, the walls covered with portraits of former headmasters. Just over the Headmistressʼ chair hung the largest picture, showing an old man with a long silver beard and half-moon spectacles. He was fast asleep.
Albus had seen photographs of his namesake before, but never a picture. For a second, he wished he could talk to him, but Professor McGonagall had already got up from her chair and stepped to an ornate mantelshelf. She held out her hand and a little vase to Scorpius.
ʻIʼm very sorry for your loss. If you would go first...ʼ
Scorpius shook her hand awkwardly, apparently not willing to trust his voice. He took a handful of powder and threw it into the flames in the chimney that turned immediately emerald green. He stepped in, shouted ʻMalfoy Manor!ʼ and was gone.
Much to his discomfort, Albus was now alone with Professor McGonagall. He tentatively reached out for the vase, but she had put it back on the mantelshelf.
ʻMr Potter, I would like a word with you.ʼ
This was what Albus had dreaded during the whole week. He looked down at his feet.
ʻIt is obvious that you are not happy. Is there something I could do for you?ʼ
Albus remained silent.
ʻWe are all very worried. Only yesterday your father wrote to me that Lily complained you wouldnʼt talk to her anymore.ʼ
ʻMy sister wouldnʼt talk to me anymore.ʼ
Professor McGonagall frowned.
ʻI understand that your situation is not easy. You and your friend,ʼ (She nodded towards the chimney) ʻare mostly left alone. The other students taunt you and I am ready to do all in my power to stop this. Yet, I need you to want us to help you. You should really question how much it is your classmatesʼ fault and if it is not sometimes your own behaviour that leads to this seclusion. Most teachers report that you reduce your work to an absolute minimum. I am sure it would be for your teachersʼ, your classmatesʼ and, most of all, for your own benefit if you tried to be more cooperative.ʼ
Albus continued looking at his shoes. She didnʼt understand, she just didnʼt understand. Once, he would have liked to fit in, but he had long realised that he didnʼt. To fit in, he would have to be someone he simply wasnʼt. And there was no point in making that effort, it was painful and of no use. The more he tried, the more he was laughed at. He had absolutely no longing to please people he couldnʼt stand.
ʻYou should join Mr Malfoy. Believe me, Potter, I appreciate how much interest you take in your friendʼs grief. But, please, take also some interest in yourself.ʼ
Albus looked up at Professor McGonagallʼs stern expression. She gave him the smallest shadow of a smile and held out her hand. Albus shook it hesitantly, then took some of the powder. He climbed into the green flames and turned to look at Professor McGonagall.
ʻItʼs Malfoy Manor. Speak clearly,ʼ she said and raised her hand a bit.
Albus nodded, then shouted, ʻMalfoy Manorʼ, taking care not to inhale the ashes.
Before he was sucked through the chimney, he could hear a reedy voice he knew from the drawing room at home, saying, ʻI donʼt know why you make such an effort, Professor. Students want to wallow in their misery...ʼ The rest of the portraitʼs speech was lost to Albus as he started to spin very fast. He closed his eyes. He felt already completely dizzy when he started to slow down, but automatically stretched out his hands as he fell out of the chimney.
ʻFinally! I was already worried you got lost,ʼ shouted Scorpius and leapt to his side to help him up.
ʻMcGonagall held me back to tell me off,ʼ said Albus as he looked around. He was in a large, sinister drawing room with several groups of costly furniture and portraits of pale wizards and witches on the purple walls who eyed him critically. Albus gulped and looked back to the marble fireplace, noticing a huge mirror hanging over it. He saw his uncomfortableness reflected in his face.
ʻFather had to go again to prepare the funeral, but I am to show you to your room. Then we go down at eleven, over to our chapel.ʼ
ʻYouʼve got a chapel of your own?ʼ asked Albus, distracted by this bit of information.
ʻYes, well, the house is quite old. But the ceremony will be led like usual by a member of the Ministry.ʼ
Scorpius watched Albus, unsure.
ʻShould we go?ʼ
ʻI sʼpose.ʼ
Scorpius showed him up a broad staircase, then through a long corridor. Alongside it, there were many glass cases with different objects in them, among others several skulls, some daggers and a withered hand. Scorpius hopped all the way ahead, grinning back at his friend. Albus wondered at his friendʼs sudden cheerfulness while his own feelings, combined with the magnificent, cold house, grew steadily creepier. Finally, Scorpius stopped before one door.
ʻThis is my room,ʼ he said. ʻDo you need a proper robe from me?ʼ
ʻI... em, I didnʼt take anything else but my school robes...ʼ Albus went red, he had not thought about the necessity of dressing properly for a funeral.
Scorpius went into his room, Albus followed. The room was large, though not looking much inhabited. It contained few pieces of furniture, all made of dark, heavy, expensive looking wood, the walls covered in light grey velvet. The gloominess of the room was broken only by the bedstead in black and white on which a bird was pictured, beating its wings energetically.
ʻSince when do you support the Montrose Magpies?ʼ asked Albus, looking reproachfully at Scorpius.
ʻItʼs Dadʼs favourite team,ʼ said Scorpius, going slightly pink, before he quickly turned his back on Albus and crossed the room to his wardrobe.
Albus looked around in the room more carefully. The only personal belongings visible were large piles of books all over the floor so that narrow paths formed between them, and a pin-board on which several photographs were fixed. Albus carefully rounded the books and went nearer. They all showed people who had to be Scorpiusʼs family. Among them one showed a small woman with a baby, smiling happily; the same woman and a man Albus recognised as Scorpiusʼs father swung a little boy to and fro; the couple and an older couple with the woman holding the boy on her lap sat stiffly in the drawing room where Albus had just dropped out of the chimney; the young woman, looking worn out despite her smiles, embraced an eleven years old Scorpius in his Hogwarts robes.
Albus felt tears rising in his eyes as he looked at a picture that must have been taken at the marriage of Scorpiusʼs parents. Feeling suddenly ashamed to intrude in Scorpiusʼs privacy, Albus looked around. Scorpius just closed the wardrobe and Albus wanted to quickly go back to the door, but tripped into a pile of books. He bent down to put them back in order and when he straightened up, Scorpius thrust him a robe into his hands. Albus scrutinized the piece of clothing that, like the rest of the house, felt very expensive and cold. He looked up at Scorpius, embarrassed. However, Scorpius didnʼt pay him attention, but contemplated the photographs, his cheery expression crumbling.
ʻThis is me,ʼ he said unnecessarily and pointed at all the little boys. ʻThis is Mum,ʼ he added, pointing at the young woman, ʻand Dad.ʼ He pointed at the man. He then indicated the older couple. ʻThese are my grandparents. Grandfather died a few years ago and Grandmother... well, ever since he died, sheʼs become a bit strange.ʼ
During Scorpiusʼs explanation, Albus noticed that the half of the pin-board that was not occupied by the family photographs was full of extracts from the Daily Prophet, all concerning the new Minister for Magic, many of them still dating back to her time in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Scorpius followed Albusʼs gaze and turned slightly pink.
ʻIʼll show you your room,ʼ he muttered and skilfully made his way around the books to the door. Albus followed more clumsily.
Scorpius went to the end of the corridor and opened the last door.
ʻYou can sleep here,ʼ he said. ʻThe bathroom is through this door.ʼ He pointed at a door on the right side of the room, that was a bit smaller than Scorpiusʼs and contained but a bed and a wardrobe.
ʻIʼll be back in ten minutes. Okay?ʼ
Left alone, Albus wavered a moment, then crossed the room and went into the bathroom. A candle flickered to light as he opened the door. Albus turned the tap and let cold water run over his face. The house was frighteningly depressive. Its largeness weighed heavily on him and Albus wondered why the house so affected his spirits. His own home showed traces of a dark, gloomy past, after all. He had to grin a second, thinking of the portrait of the earlier owner of the house with which James had frightened him when they were younger. And later, they would always try to run as fast as possible through the hall without waking her.
But signs of cheerfulness that could be found all over Grimmauld Place were - apart probably from Scorpiusʼs bedspread - lacking in Malfoy Manor. Albus went over to the bed and put on the robes Scorpius had given him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and shivered although it was not at all cold.
Someone knocked on his door.
Albus froze, staring at it, nausea rising in him.
ʻAre you all right? Can I come in?ʼ came Scorpiusʼs voice from outside.
Albus had to laugh out loud at his sudden, pointless panic. He leaped to the door and ripped it open, relief flooding through him as he nearly ran Scorpius over. Scorpius looked at him, his red eyes slightly puzzled.
ʻEm, do you want to meet Grandmother?ʼ
Albus did not really know whether he wanted to meet that grandmother and in want of a better answer inclined his head non-committally. Scorpius led him over several flights of stairs through more deserted corridors, alway past glass cases, containing curious objects.
ʻScorpius?ʼ
ʻMmh?ʼ
ʻWhat are these things inside the cases?ʼ
Scorpius halted before one of them, a magnificent necklace of opals.
ʻTheyʼre just magical objects Father collects. Some of them are quite dangerous I think. But he always informs the Ministry what heʼs bought. And he lends it to museums.ʼ
ʻWhat kind of museums?ʼ
ʻJust the usual museums like the Museum of Magical History in Diagon Alley, or the Severus Snape Museum of Potions in Cokeworth. This necklace for example was used in an attempt to murder Albus Dumbledore.ʼ
Albus, who had reddened when he internally admitted that he had absolutely no knowledge of magical museums, was disconcerted by this last bit of information. ʻWho tried to murder Dumbledore?ʼ
Scorpius went very pink and bit his lip.
ʻWhat?ʼ
Scorpius pointed at the necklace, then to the ground, and made what he might have intended to be a significant cough. Albus looked helplessly at him until Scorpius finally muttered something.
ʻDacklefey?ʼ
ʻNo,ʼ whispered Scorpius, getting pinker, ʻDraco Malfoy.ʼ
ʻYour father?ʼ
ʻShh.ʼ
ʻOh, sorry,ʼ whispered Albus, turning himself red. He looked at the object again, shuddering internally at the strangeness of the situation, to stand before a device that had been intended to kill the man after whom he was named. He was very glad when Scorpius turned and hastened further down the corridor.
At last, he stopped before a double door.
ʻThis is the library, Grandmother should be in here. Itʼs now nearly eleven, we can go down together.ʼ Scorpius laid his hand on the door knob, but hesitated. ʻItʼs probably better if you wait outside. I donʼt know how she is at the moment.ʼ
He knocked, opened the door and stepped in. Albus saw into a high, bright room with shelves full of books on the walls that reached to the ceiling. Slightly dizzy, he let his eyes wander from the ceiling to the floor and they fell an armchair before the fire place just opposite from where he stood.
Scorpius slowly approached the armchair and sat down on a side support. A very skinny arm emerged and closed around Scorpius, drawing him closer, so that Albus could only see his friendʼs legs.
ʻScorpius,ʼ said a womanʼs voice, sounding as brittle as her arm looked, ʻwhy are you not at school? Itʼs September, isnʼt it?ʼ
ʻYes, Grandmother. I just came back for the funeral.ʼ
There was a momentary silence as if the information had confused her. Albus noticed to his own surprise that he was trembling as he leaned against the doorpost and watched the scene before him.
ʻGrandmother,ʼ Albus heard Scorpius say again, sounding muffled. ʻAre you - I brought my friend Albus from school. Would you like to meet him?ʼ
Albus held his breath and watched the chair from where the voices came, the irrational dread gripping him more and more.
ʻAlbus?ʼ the womanʼs voice asked, sounding confused, half frightened, half angry.
ʻHeʼs in my year, Grandmother. I told you about him, donʼt you remember?ʼ
The silence lengthened and Albus felt his hands getting sweaty. But then Scorpiusʼs legs wriggled and the rest of him appeared out of the armchair. He beckoned Albus nearer. Cautiously, Albus set one foot before the other, scared to make a noise. Scorpius got to his feet when Albus reached the back of the chair. Slowly, Albus edged to his friendʼs side and looked down on the woman in the chair.
Scorpiusʼs grandmother was extremely thin and would have conveniently fitted twice in the chair. Her white hair fell down to her waist, her pale face was wrinkled, making her look as if several cobwebs lay over it. Her blue eyes were sunken, but she sat very upright. Albus thought she looked ancient, far older than on the photograph in Scorpiusʼs room. He could imagine no stronger contrast with his own grandmother, the embodiment of hospitality, warmth and liveliness.
As he stood before her, the woman slowly lifted her gaze and scrutinized him. Her expression wavered in an eerie fashion between aversion, fright, haughtiness and guilt.
ʻSo,ʼ she finally said in a hushed voice. ʻYouʼre Albus Potter...ʼ The silence after she had spoken felt icier than before, making Albus shiver. Only after a long pause, the womanʼs lips parted into a thin smile and she gave him her hand. Albus flinched as her cold, skeletal fingers closed around his hand and she continued staring in his face. As she didnʼt let go, Albus started to shake, his eyes watering from her steady gaze that more and more didnʼt appear to see him.
ʻAre you all right, Grandmother?ʼ asked Scorpius finally, having sat down on the floor next to his grandmotherʼs knees. Slowly, she turned her head and looked down at Scorpius. Quite as slowly, she let go of Albusʼs hand who staggered back, relief flooding through him, and she laid her hand on Scorpiusʼs head, a warm smile spreading across her face that made her look younger again, even beautiful.
ʻShould we go down, Grandmother?ʼ
ʻDown?ʼ she repeated tonelessly, her face falling.
ʻFor the funeral,ʼ explained Scorpius, taking her hand.
His grandmother looked puzzled for a moment, but imitated Scorpius as he got to his feet, Albus retreating several steps. Scorpius took her by the hand and led her down, Albus following, the feeling of drowning in the sinister magnitude of the place never leaving him. After what appeared to Albus an endless journey, they came down to the hall where Scorpiusʼs father stood waiting for them. Like his mother, he seemed to have aged much not only since the pictures in Scorpiusʼs room had been taken, but also since the beginning of the summer when he had waited on platform nine and three-quarters next to Albusʼs mother. If Albus hadnʼt known it to be impossible, he would have thought him to be the grandfather from Scorpiusʼs photograph. His hollow expression didnʼt change as he watched his son and mother approach with Albus trailing behind. When they reached him, he turned and strode out of the house without saying a word.
Walking over the grounds in a wide circle around a pond, Albus felt lighter again and was starting to feel calm when they reached the left side of the manor. There was a small chapel built to the house and a group of people had congregated before it.
Albus didnʼt know any of the other funeral guests, but preferred to stay behind among them and not to walk ahead with the proper family. Some of his disquiet returned as he watched a sallow, young man with black hair approaching him.
ʻWhat are you doing here, Albus?ʼ
Amazed, Albus looked up at the stranger. But as he opened his mouth to ask the man who he was, he had to grin. He knew the man very well though he had admittedly never seen Teddy Lupin looking so depressive before.
ʻTeddy, what are you doing - I mean, Iʼm a friend of Scorpiusʼs. Why are you here?ʼ
ʻMy Grandma is Narcissa Malfoyʼs sister, didnʼt you know?ʼ
Albus shook his head.
ʻWell, Iʼm not very tight with Grandmaʼs family. You see, her other sister killed my mother.ʼ
ʻIʼve heard of that.ʼ
ʻGrandmaʼs over there,ʼ said Teddy, indicating a woman who just then turned so that Albus could recognize her. She held herself very upright too, he noticed as he returned her smile. Meanwhile, Teddy let his eyes wander over the assembled people and lowered his voice so that only Albus could hear him. ʻShe thinks I should come to the funerals. No idea why, they canʼt stand me. And then Grandma told me off last time because my hair was turquoise. Donʼt ask me why I should have mourned Lucius Malfoy but you see, today I listened to my grandmother.ʼ He made his black hair curl before it fell flat again around his face. Albus grinned, feeling far lighter than ever since he had come into the house. At this moment the other guests moved towards the chapel and Teddyʼs grandmother gave them a warning glance. Together they entered and walked past a coffin, made of massive ebony.
Scorpius was sitting between his father and grandmother in the first row together with what Albus supposed to be the parents and a sister of the deceased. He was glad for Teddy's presence and followed him to the last bench to sit down.
As Albus had feared, the whole ceremony was very sinister. A little, official looking wizard gave a speech and seemed to function like a parson at a Muggle funeral as Albus remembered from the funeral of his fatherʼs aunt years ago.
Then the Ministry wizard raised his wand and the coffin floated slowly down into a crypt. There was a shuffling of feet and everybody got up and headed out of the chapel. Albus kept close to Teddy and thus soon found himself at a large table full of food that had been placed on the lawn. A little house-elf was running around, seating people, handing food and drinks, tears in her huge, dark eyes. Unsure, Albus remained on his feet, but Scorpius drew out the chair next to him and beckoned to Albus. Teddy sat down on his other side.
Albus found the lunch even more depressing than the preceding ceremony. At the other end of the table the mother of the dead tried to make conversation, but she had mostly to rely on her daughter and a Mr Nott Albus didnʼt know. Neither Scorpius nor his father said anything. Scorpiusʼs grandmother stared serenely into nothingness, her sister next to her spent most of the time looking half disapprovingly, half amused at Teddy and his steadily brightening hair. Scorpius squeezed the bits of cheese on his plate one by one into an unappetizing mash while tears ran down his face. His father didnʼt eat at all, but seemed to have turned into a statue.
Albus was very glad, when everybody got up and a lot of hands were shaken. The woman Albus considered Scorpiusʼs aunt went over to Scorpius and his father. She bent down and kissed Scorpius before she straightened up, glaring at her brother-in-law. Wordlessly, she turned on her heel and hastened away.
Albus stared curiously after her when Teddy, his hair a bright blue, clapped him on the back.
ʻSee you at Christmas, Al.ʼ
ʻSee you,ʼ Albus muttered, the old feeling of depression quickly returning as the guests left one after the other.
Scorpius led him up to his room again and left. Albus sat down on the bed feeling hollow and cold. It was in the middle of the afternoon and yet, judging from the atmosphere, it could have been in the middle of the night, everything was silent. It was an extreme opposite to his home, where there was always noise and chaos caused by his siblings. He didnʼt like that mess either, but it didnʼt freeze him to the spot like this house. He laid down, exhausted as if he had to carry a massive weight. But with his head buried in a cushion, the weight increased and he had to gulp for air, panicking as if about to suffocate. He stumbled to his feet and hurried to the window, trying to open it with trembling fingers. After some very long seconds he could throw the window open and breath the clear air from the outside. He sat down on the windowsill and looked out into the grounds, a smooth lawn before him, tall hedges around the estate and above it the clear, blue sky. A white, large bird Albus identified after some consideration as a peacock calmly strolled over the lawn, here and there stooping down and pecking. The outside was peaceful, alive and by staring out at it, Albus forgot the menacing manor and its silent, gaunt inhabitants.
He didnʼt know how long he had been sitting on the windowsill when a knock on his door made him look around. He wasnʼt frightened now, but felt far more serene than he had for a long time.
ʻYes?ʼ
Scorpius opened the door a bit, some cardboard boxes in his arms. ʻCan I come in?ʼ
ʻSure. Itʼs your house.ʼ
Scorpius smiled dejectedly as he edged into the room. ʻIʼm sorry Iʼm being such a bad host,ʼ he croaked, his eyes still red. ʻI mean - there isnʼt much we could do here. So I thought if you wanted to play Gobstones or chess... unless you want a game of Quidditch.ʼ With a shadow of an ironic grin, Scorpius motioned to the open window.
ʻEm, thanks,ʼ said Albus. ʻI get along, you donʼt have to entertain me, I know youʼre not in the mood.ʼ
Scorpius smiled weakly. ʻI canʼt cry the whole day. So, if you donʼt mind spending time with me, we can as well...ʼ Scorpius indicated the boxes he carried.
Albus gulped. ʻOkay, letʼs try Gobstones then.ʼ
They played Gobstones at the window till the evening when Scorpius suggested they should go down to dinner which proved as depressive as every other thing in the house. The grandmother didnʼt join them, the father sat in the same immobile manner in his chair as after the funeral. Only Scorpius seemed willing to make an effort and tried to eat, speaking to Albus about their History of Magic essay. Thankful, Albus feigned for the first time in his life interest in medieval wizarding conventions while the house-elf served them, her large eyes still full of tears. He would never have thought that he would so much yearn for Hogwarts, only wanting to escape the sinister mood of Malfoy Manor. The next afternoon couldnʼt come soon enough.