"I thought that Muggle technology does not work in the magic realms," Kiara says from the doorway.
Albus was watching something so intensely, he didn't realize she had opened the door. He whips around to face her, bumping a contraption by his knees. The old, tiny television shuts off with a staticky snap before she can see what he's been watching.
"Kiara," he says. "You startled me."
"What is going on in here?"
"Remember how you were telling me about movies? I went through my collection of things. I finally understood what VHS tapes and VCR TVs were. It took much longer to figure out how to make electricity, but I just compiled a bunch of lessons from my grandfather. He was on the right track. I've finally gotten it."
She blinks at him, shocked. "How did you?"
"A motor, magnets, and magic."
"But . . . At Hogwarts . . . how did you . . . ?"
"Muggle artifacts blow my mind. My grandpa and I used to sneak into junkyards when I was younger. You wouldn't believe what you can find there. We would always grab the magnets, just for the simple fascination of them."
Kiara raises her eyebrows. "This must be what your family meant, when they said you hoard Muggle things, huh?"
"They don't understand. They think Muggle things are junk!"
"Well, VCRs and VHS tapes . . . They are a bit junky," she says kindly, as to not offend. "Plus TVs these days are huge, and the bezels are really thin. My family has a sixty-five inch screen in the living room."
"I don't know 'inches'."
"Me neither," Kiara admits, "but it is a big TV."
Albus waves her over. "Check this out: It took me hours to build this thing."
"Only hours?"
"You see this wheel, here? I've lined it with magnets. And this part, it's like a mini motor. I actually already built this a while ago, and had it sitting around. I was inspired by cars from the Ministry. My dad let me take apart his engine at home."
"You . . . took apart an engine?"
Beyond intrigued, Kiara closes the door behind her and sits on the floor next to Albus. Electronics at home are a given—she expects them to always work, even without knowing how. As he points out different parts of his device, his knee bumps against hers over and over. He's so animated in his excitement, he doesn't seem to notice . . . and Kiara pretends not to be affected by it. Their shadows cast long in front of them from the candles in the private library room, usually used for intense studying.
Or in Albus's case, a homemade cinemas.
Albus takes his fingertip and spins the wheel gently. It begins to rotate so quickly on its own, it makes a humming noise. After he twists some wires together, the small television lights up once again. At first she is blown away by his ingenuity—but then, she is deeply entranced by the film he's watching.
"This is Star Wars," Kiara says, astounded. "This is . . . The Empire Strikes Back."
"Is that what this tape is called? There was no label."
Kiara nods. "Definitely. It is my mother and father's favorite movie of all time. Oh, my god. I cannot believe you are watching this. My parents watched this on many date nights."
"Is this one of the 'sci-fi' movies you were talking about the other night? In the tower?"
"Sort of. It is more science fantasy. It is a space opera."
"These 'science fantasy space operas' . . . It just may be my favorite part of Muggle life. I haven't got a clue how they've done all this with no magic. This is the first one I've watched. It's incredible! I don't even know how much time has passed. Are all movies like this?"
"Some are better than others. You are setting the bar very high, starting with this."
"Kiara . . ." he says, turning to her. "How did they do that? When people die in movies . . . do they die in real life? Where did they get someone like Yoda? Is he a magical creature, like Grindylow?"
"Yoda is so not a Grindylow!" she scolds him. "Hush, Albus. This is a good scene."
He grins at her and turns back to the television. The tape is fuzzy, and the audio quality is poor. Some moments get a bit jumpy and skip forward unexpectedly. Albus is too fascinated to care, or maybe he just doesn't realize.
'You must not go!'
'But I can help them! I feel the Force!'
'You cannot control it. This is a dangerous time for you, when you will be tempted by the dark side of the Force.'
She peeks at Albus again. The skin of his forearms erupt into goosebumps. She almost reaches out to grasp his hand, but fights against the urge to do so.
"Kiara, are there . . . ghosts in the Muggle world? Like Ben?"
"Not like that," Kiara says. "And not like the ones here, either."
"What about the Force? Is that the equivalent of magic?"
Kiara can't remember the last time she's enjoyed watching this film, as much as she enjoys watching Albus watch it. She reckons it's because she knows the story by heart, but Albus's awestruck face and raw reactions brings wave after wave of dopamine.
All at once, she realizes something vital—her parents haven't watched Star Wars since Kiara's accident.
This is a memory she has from before.
"Oh, my god," she breathes.
"What's wrong, Kiara?"
"N-Nothing. Not a thing. Look . . . Watch this part. My father always used to do this to my mother to make her mad." Her heart races as small pieces of this memory floods her brain. She is lucky Albus does not look at her face now.
'I love you.'
'I know.'
Albus's jaw drops. "Those are his last words for her? After that kiss?"
"It is perfect! Harrison Ford actually improvised that line. He was supposed to say he loves her, too. It is iconic, now."
He turns to her in confusion. "Who's Harrison Ford? Isn't his name Han Solo?"
Kiara can't help but crack a grin, and Albus's cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. He stretches his long legs out in front of him and leans back on his hands, soaking in every detail on the small screen. Kiara wonders what it's like, to both watch this film for the first time without knowing spoilers—as well as discovering that cinematography is a whole other type of magic he never thought possible.
"Oh, this part is really important," Kiara whispers.
Albus seems to be holding his breath. Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader fight on the narrow platform over the reactor shaft. She watches Albus instead of the film, although she tries not to let on. Albus gasps when Skywalker's hand is cut off. He clutches his own wrist and holds it to his chest, as though he physically feels Skywalker's pain. Kiara is struck by how deep Albus's empathy runs.
"Lightsabers are incredible."
"Shh!" Kiara waves her pointed index finger at the screen, worried Albus will miss it.
'I am your father.'
"No!" Albus cries aloud, just as Skywalker does. "No!"
Kiara has to laugh aloud at his reaction—she throws her head back and really laughs. She didn't know until this moment that she had any full-belly laughter like that left in her. Her heart swells, though she isn't sure whether it's from the excitement of watching a movie from her childhood . . . or if her cold exterior is slowly being melted by Albus's warm presence.
'Search your feelings,' Darth Vader seems to say directly to her.'You know it to be true!'
-o-o-o-
Scorpius picks at his bread, scratching a fingernail against the crust. No one at the table has said a word, yet.
Finally, he tells them what's on his mind.
"I came home for the weekend because there's some things I'd like to do. I'm heading into London tomorrow morning."
"To King's Cross? You're taking the train back? I didn't think they ran it during the school year, except during holidays," Scorpius's mother, Astoria, responds. "How are you getting to London? Will you be Apparating? Please be very careful."
She seems eager to have conversation at the table with her family, and it breaks his heart a bit. This is not a normal family that can have normal dinner conversation.
Scorpius shakes his head. "Not that part of London. I'm going to the Muggles' London. Just to clear my head. And freshen my perspective."
Draco clears his throat and looks to his father. Lucius sends a scathing look at his grandson.
"That is a terrible idea," he sneers. "Draco. You are going to let your son mingle with Muggles? What if he were to fall in love with one?"
"And what if I did?" Scorpius asks.
The old man swipes his wine glass off the table in a fit of rage and it shatters upon the hardwood floor. Scorpius flinches, half-expecting the glass to be beaten into his very flesh. Astoria jolts from the violence. Draco casts his eyes down at his dinner plate. The house-elf named Hiccup rushes in and begins to pick up the shards, scooping them bare-handed into its clothing which he holds up like a sling—in this case, an old potato sack that it had sewn together, and a pillow case that it had crafted into an apron.
Scorpius looks away from the creature. He'd have sooner cleaned the mess himself.
"You would bring shame to the entire Malfoy lineage."
To this, Scorpius says nothing. The backs of his eyes sting, and he blinks quickly until the tension behind them dissipates. Astoria bores a hole into Draco's head, but his father pretends not to notice—he cuts another small piece of steak and chews it slowly.
"He may borrow the car and go to London, if he pleases," Draco finally says. "But he will not speak to any Muggles."
"Thank you, father," Scorpius replies numbly.
"I have good news," his father adds. "I've secured a job for you at the Ministry of Magic. They'll start you right out of Hogwarts. You will have to pass the exam, of course. I'm certain you'll exceed all expectations, with your intelligence."
Scorpius swallows. "Thank you, father," he chokes out, with even less gratitude than before.
"Intelligence? Surely you can't be speaking of Scorpius," Lucius hisses. "Do you even look at his grades? He nearly failed Astronomy and Charms!"
"I got Acceptable marks for both," Scorpius defends himself.
"What's the difference if it's not an O or E, you idiot?"
"No speaking like this at the dinner table," his mother says through tight lips.
The four of them fall into a long silence once more. Scorpius almost wants to snap at his mother. He thinks about scolding her for thinking the dinner table is some sort of sacred area in the frigid mansion, where no one is allowed to be cruel. But it would only make him feel worse.
Hiccup tears a square from its potato sack and mops up the wine. Its blood mixes with the red alcohol. Scorpius, feeling ashamed, reaches down to hand the house-elf a napkin.
Lucius scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"This is how you decided to raise your son, Draco? To be fragile? Sympathy is a weakness."
His father fills his mouth with more food, so he does not have to respond.
-o-o-o-
Scorpius turns the key with his foot on the clutch, and the engine roars to life. His father's BMW—which Lucius nearly destroyed out of anger for his son owning a Muggle invention—feels powerful under Scorpius's hands. Every time he borrows the car, he's blown away by how much control he has with a few pedals and a 'steering wheel'.
He presses the brake pedal with his right foot and shifts from neutral to first, slowly releasing the clutch as he then presses against the accelerator. It always feels like the first time, whenever he drives this. A bubbling, excited sensation tickles the soles of his feet and makes his palms sweat. Although he never leaves the ground (Draco has no plans to enchant the car), it feels like flying. Sometimes it feels better than flying.
In the rearview mirror, he looks at himself. He has bags under his bloodshot eyes and a pale complexion. Last night he slept even worse than usual.
Scorpius hates the idea of working for the Ministry. It's always sounded dull and uninspiring to him.
It's just under a two hour drive to London from where Malfoy Manor resides in Wiltshire. Scorpius thinks nothing of it. He listens to whatever is playing on the WWN radio station, not really processing the words but grateful for a distraction from his own thoughts. When he finally arrives, he finds a parking spot and sits in the car for a while longer. There's no destination in mind. He isn't interested in visiting landmarks, or touring the city.
Often times when he visits Muggle cities, it's in an attempt to remind himself that he loves being a wizard.
Scorpius finds a random café in an especially lively area. With a Muggle newspaper in hand, he finds a table outdoors and watches the regular people that pass by. He orders a cuppa, and a plate of corned beef with two eggs and chips from the waitress. Then he glances at the paper.
It's dated properly as SUNDAY 5 MARCH 2023. As much as he tries, he cannot find himself interested in the Muggle news, and he folds it in half and tosses it upon the table. It's about ten degrees Celsius, and with the early afternoon sun bearing down, Scorpius is very comfortable.
The waitress sets down his food and tea. He accidentally spills a drop as he moves the cup, and his waitress apologizes profusely as though she's responsible. She mentions something of rain, then gives him a smile and disappears inside.
He thinks of more questions for himself. Part of him wishes Albus were here with him. Or Kiara. Both students challenge him beyond any way he or even a professor could. They force him to look at himself, even if he doesn't like what he sees. And he thinks this is good.
But above all, he catches himself imagining Rose.
Scorpius wonders if she still enjoys people-watching, and if he could ever take her to Trafalgar Square, or South Bank, and while away the hours with a picnic and maybe a book. They used to sunbathe by the Great Lake, with Rose's feet dipped in the water while Scorpius read her passages from a book Albus gave him years ago. He never did finish the story, although he named his cat after it. It was in the same suitcase as his drawings—the one his grandfather burned to ashes.
All these thoughts mildly frighten him, but instead of pushing it all deep down, he forces himself to think of the honest questions:
Do I still have feelings for Rose? Or am I falling for Kiara? Am I fooling myself to think Albus really still cares for me? Did I ever love Emma? Can I fix things with my family?
He only asks. He has no answers. But he believes it's a step in the right direction.
Although impartial to Muggle life, he's still fascinated. On the road he sits by, cars drive by nonstop. He can hardly believe it. Cars are mostly accessible only to Ministry of Magic employees, which is why his father has one—though not everyone would buy a BMW. As a Malfoy, his father is always concerned about how he and his family are seen. Even for Muggle standards, a BMW is high-end. What else would someone expect to be parked upon the grounds of Malfoy Manor, besides maybe a flying Rolls Royce?
Scorpius finishes his meal and uses his reserve of Muggle money to pay his bill and tip his waitress well. Just then, a pretty girl in a leather jacket approaches him. She wears light makeup and looks out-of-place with her large smile.
"Hello! How are you?"
"You're American?" Scorpius reflexively asks. "You have an American accent." He doesn't mean to sound rude—if he does, she pays no mind. If anything, her smile grows wider.
"I'm in London for a month. I'd like to move here one day."
"OK," he says uneasily. She's very loud and unpleasantly obnoxious, and he wonders if people around them are noticing.
"I'm going to write my phone down for you to have, OK?"
"Are you a scam artist?"
She laughs, shaking her head. The girl takes up the folded newspaper he had tossed aside and pulls a pen from her purse. She writes down a series of numbers that Scorpius doesn't understand.
"I don't have a mobile," he tells her honestly.
The girl pouts at him. "If you change your mind," she says, "give me a call. I'd love to see London from a local's point of view. It's weird out here! It's better at home in NYC—at least the streets there make sense. I could use a handsome guide to show me the cool spots."
"What is N-Y-C?"
She laughs again. "Call me!" she sings in falsetto to him.
With no intention of contacting her, Scorpius takes up the paper under his arm to be nice. He gives a nervous, half-hearted wave as he walks to the car. Even when he starts the vehicle, she is still watching him.
"Americans," he complains to himself.
The uncomfortable exchange has put a sour taste in his mouth. He drives toward Malfoy Manor and considers all the places he'd rather be than this 'NYC'. If she's from there, they must all be like that, right? Which means he'd sooner find himself taking a stroll through the Forbidden Forest, or stepping into oncoming traffic.
When he returns home he parks the car carefully, discards the newspaper and the girl's number with the other rubbish, and heads to his bedroom. He falls upon his bed and immediately passes out.