She sees him before he notices her.
"Scorpius."
He jumps, almost dropping a bucket of supplies, and blinks hard as if he's looking upon a ghost. Jamie Button lopes up to the table Kiara is seated around and sits patiently. Kiara has a candelabra in her hands, polishing it up with a cloth until the silver shines. Her hands are covered in grease. She sets the candelabra down and takes up a rag, rubbing her skin as clean as she can bother to care.
Scorpius does nothing to acknowledge her, though she doesn't expect much from the boy. He reluctantly lifts Jamie Button up onto the surface of the table and sets his bucket down. Kiara leans forward and examines its contents, seeing a spray bottle, a small bristle brush, and a soft cloth—similar to her own supplies. Jamie Button purrs and rubs her face against Kiara's. She giggles, then turns her head and sneezes.
He almost looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Robeless, she sees his wand is tucked into the back pocket of his pants and his sleeves are rolled up. For all intents and purposes, it looks as though he is ready to clean.
"What're you doing?" he finally asks.
"I have detention," she explains. "I have to polish these, without magic."
"Me too. How many do you think there are? At least thirty. It's gonna take the whole holiday break."
She raises her eyebrows. Kiara never took Scorpius to be overly-dramatic, and she wonders if it's just part of his couldn't-care-less façade.
"There are only five left to do."
"Professor Longbottom said you were going home."
"Hm." Kiara tilts her head, and Scorpius seems like he doesn't want to look at her—but he does. "May I tell you something secret?" she asks him.
Scorpius stares at her, saying nothing at first. He just seems to be trying to find the cruelest way to say no, so she shakes her head at him and clucks her tongue.
"Never mind. You know, from my perspective, you act much meaner than you look."
"You sound much dumber than you are," he retorts. The lazy insult makes her lips twitch up into a half-smile.
He scowls back at her and takes a seat at the head chair of the professors' table—where Headmistress McGonagall normally sits. This is the only table in the Great Hall with candelabras, which Kiara is thankful for. She's certain it was an easy punishment on purpose. Now Kiara, with another dirty candelabra in hand, pops out the candles and watches Scorpius from across the table. He slouches in his chair, stroking Jamie Button's fur while his chin rests in his palm.
"Are you going to clean?"
"No."
"Well, there is no reason for you to just sit there, then," she reasons. "You may go."
"You're telling me to go?"
She nods, grinning even wider. At times she finds his act almost humorous, although if he were to know that she's certain he would become ever meaner. "Do you think I am blessed by your presence?" she asks him rhetorically. "Either serve your detention with me, or leave. It truly makes no difference to me."
His fake defiant nature shows.
"I'll do my work," he jabs at her. Pointing his wand at the nearest candelabra, he says, "Tergeo."
The candles rocket out of the holders and spin on the table, and the candelabra itself does a sort of heavy-footed tap dance before falling on its side with a resounding THUNK. Kiara laughs aloud.
"Do you think something's funny?" he snaps at her.
"You are the only wizard who could ever make a bigger mess with a cleaning spell!"
He points to the fallen candelabra with his wand and mutters the incantation again, firmer. It sits there, still and mocking this time. Unable to help herself, Kiara takes out her own wand from her sweater sleeve and points it at the candelabra. The wand always feels foreign in her hand, but she is confident in her spells. Saying the incantation with different emphasis than Scorpius had, she watches pleasantly as the grime and dust begin to wipe away, revealing a bright shine and looking brand new. She does this with another, and then another, no candles falling out as Scorpius's had.
"I can't believe it," he says dryly. "The witch that's scared of magic isn't absolutely useless after all."
"Hm."
"And now you've done it," he continues, walking closer to inspect her work. He picks up a candelabra and turns it in his hands as though it weighs nothing at all. "McGonagall said we couldn't use magic."
"You started it."
"You started it," he retorts.
Kiara looks into his grey eyes and waits until she knows he's uncomfortable with his childishness, before she says, "Maybe she will give us detention together again." She holds his gaze until he scoffs and looks away.
"I'd rather eat slugs, then waste another night with you."
She shrugs, hopping up onto the table and laying down. Her eyes flick toward the stars and her body language is dismissive. "I told you to leave," she reminds him.
"I don't take orders from you."
"Do you know what I think, Scorpius?" she asks, noticing past her cheekbones that he still hasn't budged an inch from his spot. "I think if you did not want to be around me, you would have left. It seems you are trying very hard not to admit that you would like to spend time with someone, by acting as though you would not. And the more you insult me, the more time you get to have social interaction and forget how terribly, utterly alone you actually are, all while staying true to this negligent caricature of your personality—or, in your case . . . the lack of one."
Scorpius, appearing dumb-founded, looks blankly at her. Kiara waits for him to spit something back about her English, or the way she enunciates her words, which is the usual defensive tactic people use when she says something she ought to not have. But he stays completely still and entirely silent.
"Goodnight now, Scorpius."
He takes his cat up in his arms and leaves. It's an hour and a half later that she heads back to the almost-empty Ravenclaw girls' dormitory, rests her head on the pillow, and stares up at the ceiling.
Sleep never comes easily.
-o-o-o-
The last place she expects to see a trio of Slytherins on Christmas night is in the lonely tower. She searches the group for Scorpius, but doesn't see him.
"Excuse me," she says, politely pushing past. She's got star maps rolled up in one hand, and a small telescope in the other. Basil, hissing softly in greeting, repositions himself around her shoulders. "Are you all staying for a while longer? I like company while I work."
"You're that French girl that Emmalee hates so much," someone who she's certain is Finley Creek says. He's one of two Beaters on the Slytherin Quidditch team.
"I am Belgian, but I suppose you would mean me. You are Fin. Am I correct?" She glances at the other two Slytherins, whom she recognizes but pretends she doesn't. "I do apologize to you both. It is just, Fin plays so wonderfully for the team. Does he not? Everyone knows his name."
They look at each other apprehensively, before agreeing. She gets the sense that these two—Henry and Tucker—aren't accustomed to being spoken to in a friendly, conversational manner. Henry and Tucker are part of the meaner crowd of Slytherins, and when they walk down the hall they expect others to move. Now despite Finley's talent on the Quidditch pitch, what Finley is known for is his ability to make everyone feel comfortable and safe; he is a fair prefect, and someone anyone, no matter what House, can go to when they need help.
Kiara is trying to appeal to all three boys, however—and Quidditch seems to be a safe bet.
Henry, closer to the stairs, mumbles, "I'm on the Quidditch team, too."
"Stuff it, Henry."
"Oh, yes! Henry Haddock, I do remember you after all! You score so very many points for the Slytherins. Why, you almost single-handedly won that last match."
"That's right," Henry bravely says.
"I'm Tucker," Tucker says.
"Hi Tucker. Do you boys like to stargaze? Is that why you are all here?"
"We were about to drop whiz-bangs."
"You are peeing off the tower?"
Henry and Tucker stare incredulously at her, so she guesses that she's misunderstood them. Finley, on the other hand, lets out a sharp, short bark of laughter that suddenly sets them all off.
"Would you like to join us?"
"I would not," she says decisively-so.
"No," Finley says, leaning against the window. "They're fireworks. We got them from that store on Diagon Alley, right before school started."
"I have never been to that store."
"We're trying to use them as moving targets. You see, if you hit them with a stunning spell, they go off. The best part is, if you hit them with a vanishing spell they multiply. Only I know that spell," he brags.
"They're banned from school, so we stayed for break while everyone's gone. It's gonna look really cool," Finley says.
"Fireworks," Tucker contributes.
Kiara can't remember the last time she's seen fireworks. She's certain that she's watched them every year in Belgium for their Independence Day in late July, but after her accident the memories have been wiped clean from her mind. Although she came up here to study the stars, she decides perhaps a different display of lights could really bring her spirits up.
"If you do not mind," she finally says, "I would be happy to stay."
"How's your aim?"
"Shall we find out?"
The boys glance amongst themselves with wide grins.
"Say, there's a trip to Hogsmeade coming up," Finley says. "Can I take you as my date?"
"You have a girlfriend already, Finley. I'll take you to Hogsmeade," Tucker offers.
"She's not my girlfriend. I'm like a damned pet to her."
"You'd still do anything for her." Henry crosses his arms. "Emmalee has the entire Slytherin team on standby."
"Please," Tucker says. "You wish you had a shot with Emmalee."
"I am a good Chaser! I score so very many points! Ask the snake girl, she said so herself!"
"If I may," Kiara interjects. "I would like to go to Hogsmeade. Even if it were not necessarily a date, would you still take me?"
"Sure. Why not? Pretty girl by my side?"
-o-o-o-
He reads the letter from his mother twice more before tossing it into the blaze of the Slytherin common room's fireplace. The red and yellow flames lick it up greedily. He received the letter two weeks ago—it was an invitation for him to come home.
Scorpius is consumed by grief. Christmas is right around the corner, and for the seventh year in a row he's insisting on spending it alone. The only thing he wishes to have is that his grandfather disappears so he can come home for the holidays.
Jamie Button purrs contentedly in his lap, atop his drawing pad. He scratches behind her pink ears mindlessly, staring into the fire and wishing he could feel its warmth. Everything is damp and cold. Not just in the dungeon, but everywhere he goes. There isn't a single place in the world that Scorpius Malfoy feels welcome.
He nudges Jamie Button from his journal and she settles down close, between the chair's upholstered arm and his warm thigh. In moments, she's softly sleeping.
Scorpius wonders offhandedly what the 'secret' that Kiara had offered to share with him was, while they were serving their detention the night before. So badly had he wanted to say yes. To know that someone wanted to trust him with a secret was immensely important. But he botched the opportunity, as he always does.
Tonight he draws a self-portrait. He knows his face well. There are enough family portraits in the mansion to memorize the details of how artists see him, and he duplicates this easily. But upon his neck he draws the Ashwinder—a pale serpentine creature. The snake-like serpent lays eggs, then dies and explodes into dust. Its very existence perpetuates death.
The Ashwinder is a reminder that life is short and pointless.
His hand takes over, as though possessed. While he recognizes the portrait of himself, he seems to be trying desperately to change pieces of his appearance. He's always found his features to be too delicate—a thin face, and thin nose. Dimples that he hides by never smiling. By the time his quill has paused, he barely recognizes the boy in the drawing. It looks like a stranger. Feeling angered by this, he finishes drawing the Ashwinder by having it twist tighter and tighter around his portrait until he swears he can feel it around his own throat.
He looks at the finished drawing for so long, he loses track of time. Then in a fit of rage, he tears it from the journal, crumbles it into a ball, and tosses it into the fireplace along with the torched letter. This time the flames crackle and hiss aggressively, and for a moment he fears a real Ashwinder is being born.
Taking care not to disrupt Jamie Button's sleep, Scorpius exits the common room and leaves the school for fresh air. He has an hour before Filch and Mrs. Norris start their after-curfew prowls, and he can't stay in the dungeon a moment longer. The air outside is crisp and chilly. He buries his face into his Slytherin scarf and exhales into it until his cheeks are warm.
For some reason, he thinks about the scarf that Rose Granger-Weasley had knit him when they were third-years. It was the warmest scarf he'd ever had—and the warmest gesture he'd ever accepted. And just how his blood ruined the scarf, his wrath destroyed their friendship. To this day he has never had the courage to explain to her what happened. Likely it is much too late to try now.
So it's better that she thinks he threw it away.
Sometimes he thinks about how we would make everything better between the two of them. Would he tell her about his grandfather's influence on him? But Rose, whose father grew up in a family of seven children, doesn't want to hear about how much Scorpius hates being rich and privileged. There's not a chance that she would ever accept any of his struggles as legitimate, when he grew up in a mansion and was served meals off of silver platters.
This is a thought he struggles with daily. Is any of the turmoil he has real? Does he deserve to be miserable?
Fireworks go off faraway, near the Ravenclaw tower. He watches the show with a heavy melancholy. His friends Finley, Henry, and Tucker had invited him along, but he'd told them he had things to take care of. When the truth is, he can't bring himself to enjoy anything around this time of year. Not when it's the anniversary of all his worst memories.
There's something about the fireworks that opens a portal in his mind. He keeps thinking about things he doesn't want to think about. He thinks about Rose. He thinks about what Rose had told him: 'The things I wish I could say to you. I hope it keeps you up at night.'
Of course it does.