'It is a pity that the best part of life
comes at the beginning—
and the worst part at the end.'
Everything will change, Scorpius.
For better or for worse.
Take it in stride.
As gracefully as you can.
-o-o-o-
She's been thinking more and more about the sun's inevitable demise.
Despite the illusion of the ceiling above her—which glitters with thousands of old, twinkling lights—she knows that the sun is the only star in their solar system. This one star, although the center of their entire existence, is, in fact, average among all other stars.
One day, as all stars do, their sun will die.
Forget the explosive arguments between civilizations that set fire to cities and reap families from homes. Forget mourning. The sun's death won't matter, in the way that a dear grandmother passing away slowly matters. There will be no time for grief when the star passes through them. There will be no revenge to take upon themselves.
There is unspoken beauty, and undeniable tranquility, in total annihilation.
It has been an especially difficult month for Kiara LeClerc. Perhaps it's because she finally feels as though she has settled in, five years later, that she's begun to think of how scary everything actually was back then. For years she quickly went from one project to the next, staying distracted from her tragedy.
For her, comfort comes with paranoia.
Complacency inspires thoughts of obliteration.
Accepting this, she decides she'd much rather think about all the stars collectively. The ones that exist surreally, abstract and intangible—so far away, their gravity means nothing to her, even if they do boast more luminosity. Many, she reckons, have died long ago. She likes this idea, that these dead lights have not disappeared from Earth's sky. It gives her a sense of security, even if it doesn't truly mean anything—just that they're very, incredibly, extremely faraway.
Thoughtful and at complete rest, she silently thanks the wizard that enchanted this ceiling all those years ago. She wonders if they could have known at the time that it would bring such warmth to an undistinguished witch, and uninspired girl, in the middle of an existential crisis. It is admittedly a small contribution to everything that Hogwarts has to offer, and yet an elegant reminder to always look up when the road ahead appears impassable.
All at once thousands of stars wink in her direction. It can be difficult not to feel a type of way about the night sky—even for such a practical witch as Kiara. Sometimes she catches herself wanting to wish upon shooting stars. But rather than whispering glittery stories to a witch that hardly gets any attention from other humans, wouldn't the stars rather find something worth twinkling for?
They're just stars, she scolds herself. They don't have stories.
She rolls onto her stomach and pores over her maps. Through her eyelashes she looks up and sees one constellation that always seems to be watching her around this time of year. The scorpion looms over her as a giant would, hefting its large poisonous stinger like a thorny club. It brings her a strangely soothing feeling that washes over her skin and into her heart, like a cool night breeze through a window that shouldn't ever be open. She feels, if anything, that this constellation could destroy her—if she let it.
Perhaps it is the knowledge that she doesn't have to fall to her knees for this scorpion that brings her contentment. There is power in her ability to make this choice, but she must be careful. . . . Despite the constellation's promise of overcoming her own faint luminosity, she still finds herself almost magnetically attached.
With great care, she draws tiny circles that represent each light in their exact measurements, their exact place, exactly as they appear. She connects the dots with lines that represent the scorpion's claws; then body; then violently sharp, curling tail.
The finished sketch looks nothing of a scorpion, as the constellation is named for. Only her imagination can picture something more than dots and lines. Lingering beneath her love of astronomy is a desire to be able to draw out the creatures and people and symbols; the centaur and Perseus and the little dipper. Unfortunately, her drawing skills are nonexistent. She can never breathe that kind of life into her maps.
Placing her quill down, she then stumbles to her stockinged feet. Kiara rarely sleeps more than a few hours every night. She walks across the surface of the huge dining table with little toe-heel, toe-heel steps. Pausing in her destination-less travels, she stretches upward and reaches for the lowest floating candle she can.
She brings the candle closer to her face and watches as the flame flickers calmly, its melting pattern favoring one side. A drop of hot wax threatens to drip onto the table, but stops right at the base and hardens immediately. Although she hardly uses her own wand (magic is, well, frightening) she finds herself at least appreciating what's constantly at work. Witches and wizards have been able to enchant something as simple as eternal candles that never melt to stumps. Every drop of wax never wasted, never fallen, until the heat of the flame eats up the candle and slowly disappears with time—as all things do.
With a hint of a smile she blows out the candle. Just like last time she tried, and all the times before, a spark from nowhere catches and the wick is lit once more. She often wonders where the energy is coming from. She lets the candle go, watching as it floats directly back to its designated spot just above her head.
Once she's stifled a persistent yawn, she sits on the table and leans back on her hands. She wishes the flames of the hundreds of candles didn't try so hard to imitate the stars above, so that she could see them in all their magnitude. Magic is lovely in theory, but curiosity—something the stars give her—has a beauty that's indescribable.
And the wonderful part of indescribable beauty is that it only makes her more and more curious.
-o-o-o-
Scorpius walks briskly past the Great Hall, not thinking twice about the large doors cracked open. It doesn't even cross his mind that someone may be in there, as he has a specific destination he's headed toward: A small alcove in the wall he passes to get to Defense Against the Dark Arts. His three-legged cat, Jamie Button, lopes behind him. Her pink nose sniffs the air, as though she senses someone nearby.
"Come along, Button," he whispers to her, hushed as they sneak through the school together.
In his hand he clutches a drawing pad, worn at the seam, and a single quill. In the other, a bottle of magic blue ink. The shade is so majestically layered and shimmering, it can easily be mistaken for the entire Atlantic sea poured carefully into a little glass pot.
His gait is confident and purposeful, exactly what anyone would expect of a Malfoy. Scorpius's chin is held steady and high, and his emerald Quidditch robes billow around his feet like a few dozen serpents heeding his every command. Like many other nights before, he manages to avoid Filch and Mrs. Norris, Headmistress McGonagall, Peeves, Professor Longbottom, and all the annoying prefects and Headboys and girls that would be quick to deduct points from Slytherin and throw a detention his way as well.
He reaches the alcove and places his treasured items on the ledge, pushing aside dust and an old candle that still flickers—the flame sputters noisily as it moves. He pulls himself up. Resting on his stomach, he reaches down for his little white cat with only three legs, who complains mildly from the ground.
He lifts her languid body until she's nose-to-pink-nose with him, then places a gentle kiss on Jamie Button's soft forehead before setting her carefully down beside him.
His long, slender fingers brush through platinum blonde hair and he angles himself so his back is up against the wall and his feet touch the opposite side. Jamie Button positions her small, warm body beside his legs, curling into a tight ball and purring as she rests—she's like a personal space heater that follows him around even the coldest parts of the dungeons. Placing his drawing pad on his thighs, which is turned to a fresh page, he then dips the nib of his expensive quill into the ink. With a bite of his lower lip, he begins to draw.
Scorpius starts by dragging a thin, gracefully jagged line across the parchment. He stares so intensely at his work, his eyes practically glaze over. Blinking hard to dispel the fuzziness, he pulls his wand out—a twelve inch willow, with phoenix feather; slightly springy—and whispers an especially hushed, "Lumos."
With light coming from the tip at a faint glow, and his wand held gently between his teeth, he continues to draw the chunk of rocky island floating in the sky. He's incapable of resisting the details before he's gotten all his simple lines down, and the drawing pours out perfectly with all the mesmerization of spilled pumpkin juice over a white tablecloth.
Scorpius adds strange clouds in the background and, as a final touch, draws in a spindly pine tree. Content enough with the final design, he signs his middle name under the island. 'Hyperion' dries into the paper. Even his signature is brilliantly crafted; lovely, in its modesty; a juxtaposition of simple manuscript against extraordinary shading.
Drawing has become as necessary as breathing, and he can't imagine ever being unable to grab up a quill and create a whole world with some ink and paper. Above any other art medium he prefers the stability of ink-and-pen, where his grip around it can be strong—as opposed to a brush. There isn't enough control with paint. If there's anything Scorpius knows about himself, it's that he wants to be in control.
Things are black-and-white in his world. His drawings reflect the sentiment.
Once the ink pot is sealed and his quill's nib is cleaned with a soft square of cloth Scorpius keeps in the back of his drawing pad, he rests his head against the wall and gazes thoughtfully at his piece. A desolate landscape. If he could launch himself into the sky and live alone upon a piece of rock, he would.
His drawings show vulnerability so clearly, Scorpius always regrets signing them—even if no one but his parents know of his middle name. If anyone were to find out, he would surely be mocked. Everyone, he's certain, would figure out all his weaknesses in a single drawing. And because he is not necessarily a friend of many, these people would surely use it against him. The same way he uses others' weaknesses against them.
Scorpius is safely guarded. Rarely does he speak of his life, or ever indulge in temptation. The more time he can spend by himself, the better.
He sits there in silence for another half an hour, staring at his drawing and stroking Jamie Button's spine. He only sneaks back into the Slytherin common room when he hears a distant grandfather clock strike twelve times upon the witching hour.
-o-o-o-
The next morning, most thankfully a Saturday, Kiara LeClerc wakes up fifteen minutes late. Stricken joints crack and sigh in relief as she stretches. Like most nights, she is refreshed after just three hours of sleep. She glances around the room at all the other Ravenclaw girls sleeping peacefully in their beds. From the foot of her own comes a slight hissing.
"Good morning, Basil," she say warmly, smiling when her full-grown, five-and-a-half foot long black rat snake uncoils itself and slithers toward her open palm. She has had Basil since she was eight years old, long before Hogwarts—and though not a traditional pet, she was allowed to house him here on the grounds that he is a non-venomous creature and never pays any mind to cats, birds, and most rats.
With the sweet pressure of a baby's grip, the docile snake wraps its slim body around Kiara's arm, tickling her as he travels up to around her shoulders. He is about the width of a clementine. Basil hisses again, adoringly. His tongue flicks rapidly like the House flags do at windy Quidditch matches.
Dressed in her regular black robes, Kiara brushes her hair carelessly with her fingers and silently exits the girl's dormitory. The soles of her worn and supple boots pad quietly along the steps.
Basil becomes restless and hungry, tail twitching as he looks expectantly at Kiara. She coaxes him to slide down her torso and leg as she pulls out her wand and turns a small rock into a fat mouse with a simple transfiguration spell. It's one of the first spells she learned, and one she's most comfortable with as she uses it every day. To enforce exercise on the lazy snake, she drops the mouse to the ground and watches it scamper off—Basil hot on its tail.
Without much direction motivating each step she takes, Kiara eventually finds herself at the base of a spiraling staircase leading up to a tower that doesn't get much use throughout the year. She supposes some astronomy-driven students like herself may occasionally drag a telescope up to view the sky but, otherwise, there's not much need for the lonely tower—not with better towers nearby.
Identifying with the empty feeling, Kiara clucks her tongue to call for Basil, and together they climb the steps to the very top where the door already stands wide open. Raising an eyebrow at Basil to keep him silent, Kiara peeks through the entrance and spots the back of a tall boy, his elbows leaning against the sill of a paneless window and his slouched shoulders obscuring his head. He is bent over something, focusing intensely. An early morning breeze drifts about the tower and Kiara closes her eyes, smelling the metallic scent of deliciously refreshing late autumn air.
Perhaps Basil makes too much noise while slithering into the room, because the boy turns abruptly around, startled, and gapes at the large snake. Kiara instantly recognizes him as Scorpius Malfoy, the infamous Slytherin Seeker, but she pays him no more mind than she would any other acquaintance. She vaguely recalls the only thing he's ever said to her, years ago: "Welcome to Pigfarts, ickle firstie."
Scorpius gapes at Basil with wide eyes, his already pale face somehow draining of any color. From his trembling fingers he drops a quill, and Kiara watches with a frown as the breeze catches and flits it out through the window. She imagines if the wind hasn't carried it too far, it has drifted to the ground hundreds of feet below.
He seems to swallow a lump in his throat and tries to surreptitiously hide a journal of sorts under his robes. Throwing on a casual sneer, he manages to greet her with, "Swell going, you daft girl. That was my best pen."
"Let me get it," she offers.
"Bugger off."
With that he brushes roughly past Kiara, jolting a bit as though burned when her snake hisses defensively. Kiara knows that Basil is all bark, no bite—but anyone would be frightened of an unfamiliar snake that rattles its tail. She sighs and kneels down in front of Basil, no longer hearing Scorpius's footsteps, and pets his head lovingly.
"It's all right, Basil," she says. "That's just how Scorpius is."
Basil gives her a look as though chiding.