Scorpius feels as though he is trying to push through a curtain that he can't find the opening to. He becomes entangled with the fabric and begins to panic, thrashing against the folds and kicking his feet out in a wild attempt to free himself. Everything is dark, and cold, and barren.

Is this what being dead is?

Drifting, drowning, forever?

"Scorpius!" a voice calls to him, and strong hands grab his right leg and arm. It's like he's resurfacing, following the voice desperately to safety. "You're awake, Scorpius. Open your eyes. It's all right, now."

He stops and draws deep breaths into his stomach, forcing himself to think. Truthfully, he feels scared. The last thing he can recall is falling through the air. He thinks he may have been considering a permanent nap.

When he remembers how to open his eyes, he does so slowly. Sunlight through the windows makes everything bleary. Streaks of light cross vertically across his vision and he blinks over and over in an attempt to dispel it. Someone whose silhouette looks vaguely like Nurse Abbott closes the blinds. When the room dims, he finally sees his father, who leans back and presses his lips into a thin line.

"I don't understand," Scorpius tries to say, but the air that travels down his dry throat all but chokes him.

He sits up abruptly and coughs between his knees, raspy breaths shaking him. Scorpius shivers, and Nurse Abbot covers his shoulders with a blanket. Next to him he sees Albus laying in the cot a foot from his. Albus has his hand outstretched with a cool glass of water. He tries to reach for it but his right arm feels like it's made of lead. Scorpius uses his other hand to take up the glass, and he drains it in an instant.

"You weren't answering any of my owls," his father says solemnly. "I had to come today to tell you the news. I hadn't a clue what had happened. I'm . . . relieved . . . I could be here when you woke up. Nurse Abbott," he spits, "didn't sound certain that you would today."

He hears Nurse Abbott sigh, exasperated, from the corner of their space.

"What's going on? I thought . . . I thought . . ."

He can't even get himself to say it aloud. He'd thought he was dead.

"Cory," Nurse Abbott says, carefully choosing her words. She averts her gaze, settling on her neatly folded hands. "First off, both you and your friend Albus are going to recover fully from your injuries. You'll just have to be patient, though. It's going to take you a few days. Maybe even less—we weren't sure when you were going to come around. You . . . bled quite a bit."

Scorpius turns his head again and locks eyes with Albus. He watches Scorpius with a curious expression. His head rests against the wall, his ribs are black and blue, and he says nothing.

"There was a terrible accident at the last Quidditch match—"

"It was no accident," his father says defensively.

"Please, not now. Cory, it was dreadfully frightening. There was so much confusion. It was chaos." Nurse Abbott seems to choke up, as though she holds herself personally responsible for the students' lives. "We all had our wands out, trying to catch you, but . . . I'm so sorry. Anyway. It was Albus, you should know. He flew right through the fireworks, and he saved your life. If he hadn't been there . . . you wouldn't be . . . here."

Albus blinks slowly at him. He looks foggy, as though he has just woken up, too.

"You have been unconscious for four days. You had so many visitors, I couldn't keep track. They'll be so relieved to hear that you're OK. Now, don't be alarmed by the cuts on your body. They already look much better."

Scorpius looks down at his torso, covered in gashes that are scabbed over and dark with old blood.

"Is everyone else all right?"

"You and Albus are the only two left in my care right now."

"Why can't I move my arm?"

Nurse Abbott takes a deep breath. She looks to his father and chews her lip. Then the small blonde woman says, "Magic can only do so much. Your father and I have been talking about your options—"

"They aren't options."

"Draco," Nurse Abbott hisses. His father clenches his jaw, but remains silent. Scorpius realizes they must have been students at Hogwarts together. "I recommended physical therapy for you. With persistence, one day you should be able to have some function of your arm again."

Scorpius is confused.

"Why can't I move my arm?" he asks again.

"A piece of your broom went through your shoulder. I had to remove some bones that were . . . shattered beyond repair. It's not irreversible, but we can't fix your muscles with magic. Only intensive training can heal you now. Physical therapy."

His father crosses his arms. "But the circumstances cannot be allowed. It's not a real option. I told you not to even mention it."

"It is the boy's choice to make."

"I'm not following," Scorpius interjects. "What is 'physical therapy'?"

"It isn't . . . common in the magic realm."

"It doesn't exist!" his father shouts. "It's Muggle hocus-pocus. Hannah—" he enunciates her name, as though it's an insult to the witch, "—is suggesting you go to a Muggle 'doctor' in London to receive 'treatment'."

"Draco, we have our differences," Nurse Abbott says calmly, "but this is truly your son's best chance for care."

"You're the bloody healer here!" his father carries on. "Fix him!"

He looks between his father and Nurse Abbott. They both look on the verge of tears, though his father's are angry and Nurse Abbott's are tender. Regardless, it's rare for Scorpius to see vulnerability in the adults around him—especially so with his own father. It's just as strange to wake up after four days, and be told that people bothered to visit him even when he had nothing to offer them.

"Would it . . . help me?"

Nurse Abbott frowns. "Nothing is guaranteed. But it would be a step in the right direction."

"Scorpius, she's asking that you immerse yourself into the Muggle world. I wouldn't leave work for that long, my son. It could take years. You would be on your own until you could come home. You wouldn't be able to use magic. You would be helpless out there. Could you do that, for even a month? We can find a healer, somewhere, better than Hannah, to take care of you."

"I . . ."

"Please, Cory," Nurse Abbott says. "Give it some thought, but it's not a decision you need to make today. In fact, I must meet with Headmistress McGonagall and let her know you've woken. I believe your father has something to tell you. Um . . . Good luck, Cory."

She leaves hurriedly. Albus begins to pull himself from his cot, wincing from pain, and says, "I should be going."

But Scorpius shakes his head at him. He pleads with his eyes for him to stay. To be truthful, he has no idea what his father is about to say to him. He doesn't want to be alone. They haven't spoken a word since Lucius almost killed him over a month ago—besides his father sending him a letterless owl only returning his wand. Scorpius knows that this meant his father had chosen Lucius, again.

"If it's not a bother, then, Mr. Malfoy," Albus says quietly.

His father clenches his jaw, but contrary to his expression he says, "Of course not. I remember you. Your Potter's boy. You were friends with my son."

So Albus stays.

"Scorpius," his father says. "After you Disapparated from home, my father and I had a talk. We spoke about his role in the family. I came to a decision that he would be leaving Malfoy Manor. Lucius wasn't thrilled to receive that sort of instruction." His father glances at Albus and scowls, and Albus—startled by the confrontation—quickly looks away. He continues on, anyway: "It was very tense the whole month before he was to leave. I have argued with my father quite a lot recently. I've been able to say things to him now that I never was able to before."

"Lucius is leaving?"

"He's . . ." His father looks to Albus yet again, who is pretending to be very interested in the wrinkles in his cotton pants. "He's left, already, actually. Actually . . . Actually, he died from a heart attack about five days ago."

"What does that mean?" Scorpius asks. "What do you mean, when you say he died?"

His father looks to the floor, leans his elbows against his knees, and then gazes back into Scorpius's eyes. "Such angry people set their own timers on their lives," he says.

"I don't believe it. He's not dead. Trust me. I've wished it dozens of times."

"I'm sorry to put this on you after what you've just been through. But we have an image to uphold as the Malfoys. I came to get you today, for your grandfather's wake tonight and his funeral in the morning. I need you to get cleaned up and come with me now. Just until tomorrow afternoon."

Scorpius laughs.

"I'm not going. Are you mental? I won't be there."

His father stares at Albus and finally narrows his eyes. Message received, Albus stands, collects his things, and briskly walks out.

"You must, Scorpius," his father says once they're alone.

"I won't."

"You have to."

"I'm telling you, I won't."

"Scorpius! Please," he forces the word out. Now his father refuses to look at him. His next words come out all at once: "I . . . I-I need you there. I . . . I-I-I can't do it alone. There's only so much Astoria can understand. Her family abandoned her when she was still young, and after she had changed her . . . views. She didn't need them. B-But I . . ."

His father passes his hand quickly over his eyes, as though Scorpius won't notice the sheen of tears.

"God, Scorpius. There's . . . There's hundreds of things I wish I could find the words to say to you."

Scorpius swallows.

"Try."

"What?"

"Try."

His father pauses.

"Very well, then. I want to hate Lucius. For what he's done to you. I wanted to hate him for what he's done to me. I've felt it in my heart since I was a boy—younger than you. It's this . . . this acidic burn that eats away everything inside of me. If I could hate him I would deeply, deeply despise him. But I . . . I-I feel lost. He's . . . really gone."

His father looks to Albus's empty cot, without interest. The muscles in his jaw bounce over and over, like he's chewing on his words and doesn't like the bitter taste.

"Please understand," he adds, softly. "I need my son there."

"OK."

"Thank you, Scor—"

"Albus will come, too."

His father looks incredulous, and stands. "No," he says. "It would be humiliating for a Potter to be present at a Malfoy funeral."

"It'll be more shameful if Lucius's only grandson refuses to be there."

"Fine," he finally allows. "I'm sorry I even said such a thing. Potter . . . saved your life. I'm forever indebted to him."

"Yes," Scorpius says. "We both are."

Scorpius finds his legs and places his feet firmly on the ground. The stone sends a cold shock up through his bare feet, but he leans into it and lets the coolness wash through him. There's too much for him to think about. He's been unconscious for four days; he's lost his ability to draw, and therefore his only outlet for his anger; he has to figure out if he can live like a Muggle for an undisclosed period of time in a feeble attempt to regain strength in his arm; and he now must process the death of a close family member who tortured him his whole life.

The best he can do right now is walk away.

"Scorpius," his father says. "Where are you going?"

"To take a shower. We'll meet you in Headmistress McGonagall's office in an hour."

"Very well. Please ask Potter to wear something nice. If he . . . has anything."

-o-o-o-

"Do you have anything that looks like utter shite?"

Albus actually laughs, toweling his hair dry. He moves carefully, and Scorpius looks away from his burn and bruises. If they look like this now, he can't even imagine how they looked four days ago—untreated and fresh. He could have looked like an Inferius, with slabs of rotting flesh falling in chunks from his body.

"Would it make you feel better," Albus offers, "if I came to your grandfather's funeral wearing the pink sweater Rosie knit for me last year?"

"Maybe I could borrow her Gryffindor uniform. Skirt and all. Do you think my grandfather would roll in his coffin?"

"I reckon he may have to come back to life, just to die again."

Scorpius crosses his fingers on his left hand and smirks. "I'd pay loads of galleons to see that."

Albus grabs a black turtleneck and black suit jacket, paired with black pants, and black dress shoes from his chest, and places them in a bag. He circles a black belt with a silver buckle around his fist into a tight spiral, and places that with a pair of black silk socks on top of his neatly folded clothes.

"Why do you have all that here?" Scorpius asks.

For a moment, Albus doesn't answer. His gaze looks distant as he pulls a cream sweater over his head carefully. Then he says, "My dad went through a lot at Hogwarts. He told me I should try to have something prepared for a funeral. Just in case. Because anything can happen. It's important to be ready for what comes after."

"God," Scorpius mutters. "That's what your father is teaching you? That's bleak."

"Not as bleak as making jokes about your dead grandfather," Albus says imploringly.

Scorpius shrugs, slipping his arms through a white button-up shirt with great difficulty. "You laugh, or you cry. Anyway, I hated him."

"Listen, Cory." Albus tugs Scorpius's arm and forces him to look into his eyes. "If you feel something later, I'm here for you."

"Um, OK."

"You've got a lot going on right now."

"I guess."

"Cory. No one is expecting you to sort it all out on your own."

Scorpius stares at Albus, his heart pounding. He's barely had time to think about anything, and Albus is already jamming it into his brain. He sees flashes of the accident: The fireworks—red, gold, purple, blue, green, every sort of color—explode behind his eyes; the sky and ground tumble together like rolling down a hill in an open butterbeer barrel. He hears screams, and a thunderous uproar. He feels the cold biting into his skin like bullets as he falls through the air.

"Thanks, Albus," he says, "but I'm fine."

With his good hand, Scorpius attempts to button his shirt. His cheeks turn red as he struggles to do such a simple task, and frustration builds in his chest. He turns abruptly and punches the wall behind him, digging his fist across the stone until his knuckles bleed. When he turns back toward Albus, he swallows.

"Sorry," he mumbles, focusing back on the task.

"Please let me help you," Albus insists.

He steps in front of Scorpius and begins to fix up the buttons, moving swiftly as his long fingers go from one to the next with ease. Albus's eyes flick down to Scorpius's, who looks away, embarrassed. There's too many emotions that bubble up around Albus, who always encourages him to think about things he'd rather not. It baffles him at times that Albus—someone who grew up thinking of all the bad things that could happen—can be so peaceful and lighthearted through everything. Scorpius isn't daft. Despite Albus's calm demeanor, Scorpius knows he, too, almost died that night.

Albus has a lot more to lose than Scorpius.

Yet he risked it all for him.

Scorpius just focuses on not getting any blood from his hand onto his white shirt.

Albus pulls gauze from his chest, always prepared for anything, and gently takes Scorpius's bleeding hand between his own. Scorpius wishes he could take care of it himself, but he can't. Albus cleans up the fresh blood by pushing a handkerchief against his fingers, then wraps the gauze slowly around his knuckles. He takes great care not to jostle Scorpius too much.

"There," Albus says softly, giving Scorpius his hand back. "You look brand new, now."

"Albus, I feel obligated to say something about what you did to help me."

"Don't mention it. Listen, Cory. About the physical therapy: I've had experience with it before. My mom had to have a physical therapist—they were a Squib, and became a 'doctor' from a Muggle university for the Holyhead Harpies. She got injured during a Quidditch match, and they were able to help her fully recover. It took a lot of time, I'll be honest. Three months, and her injury wasn't as bad as yours. She wouldn't still be able to play without what they did, though. What Nurse Abbott said, I think it really could help you."

Scorpius begins to walk to the door. "I would have to live among Muggles," he mutters. "My father doesn't like being around them. Only my mother would ever visit. I would be alone, with strangers, in a world I cannot even begin to understand."

"You can live with me," Albus says casually. "I just signed a lease for a flat in London. It's a little small, but it has two rooms. You could stay there until you're ready to go back home."

"What do you mean? You're . . . going to live with Muggles? Are you mad?"

"You've missed a lot since third-year, old friend," Albus says, laughing. "Just think about it. It could honestly be kind of nice, to—"

Henry walks in and Scorpius smiles warmly at him. But the boy freezes, his face draining of color, and he turns to run. He smacks straight into the wall and falls back, and before he can scramble to his feet Scorpius sees Albus pull him up by the scruff of his shirt and push him against the door with his forearm. Henry's eyes are wide and fearful.

"Albus! W-What are you going to do?" Henry splutters.

"Why the fuck are you here, Henry?"

Scorpius looks between him, an eyebrow raised. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Cory, n-n-nothing!" Henry shouts desperately. "Oh god, please help me, Cory! He's going to kill me!"

Albus lets him go. "Wouldn't be worth it. Let's just go, Cory. Headmistress McGonagall will take care of him. Isn't that right, Henry? You told her, right?"

Henry swallows. "Basically, Albus, b-basically. For the most part. I-I'm going right now, actually! I was just on my way! I'll g-go find Emma and we'll tell her tonight! I promise!" The boy continues babbling excuses as he backs out of the room. The moment he gets through the door, Scorpius hears him sprinting up the stone stairwell, with his footsteps echoing through the common room.

"What the hell was that about?"

He shakes his head. "I'll catch you up later. We should get going." Albus shoulders his bag and takes Scorpius's as well, and, still recovering from their injuries, the two boys slowly make their way to Headmistress McGonagall's office where Scorpius's father is waiting for them by the fireplace.

-o-o-o-

"Please, Albus, will you . . . come up with me?" Scorpius whispers as they enter the room.

The previous evening was almost unbearable, and Scorpius and Albus had spent the better half of the wake outside Malfoy Manor, under a willow tree that was considerably smaller when Scorpius was a child. In the evening breeze the strands of leaves had swayed gently back and forth, and had hidden the boys' conversation within its rustling bubble. Even when his father had been looking for them, to have Scorpius come back inside, the boys were out of reach.

"There's a dozen places I'd rather be," Scorpius had mumbled over his father calling his name. Albus, resting his back against the trunk of the tree, had nodded. "I'd even go to bloody 'N-Y-C' over this, and I think I'd hate it there."

Albus had chuckled. "I think you'd actually enjoy New York City."

"You are grossly over-optimistic."

"I've heard. Why did you ask me to come to your grandfather's funeral?"

Scorpius had shrugged. "Why did you agree?"

"I'd do anything for you, Cory. You're my closest friend." The backs of Scorpius's eyes had burned, and he'd looked away. Albus had continued with, "But it seems your family doesn't appreciate my presence as much as you might."

"I needed you," Scorpius had finally admitted. "Or whatever. Now enough of this."

Albus had smiled, then readjusted his body and clutched his side with the smallest grimace. Scorpius had wondered what Kiara must think of the whole event, knowing what he knows. It's hard for him to picture someone as strong as her being too affected by this, but he knows she must be.

"Do you have feelings for Kiara?" Scorpius had asked suddenly.

"I think a bit," Albus had replied.

"What kind of feelings?"

Albus had picked a long piece of thick grass at the base of the tree that hadn't been trimmed down, and had rolled it between his fingers. He'd then fixed it lengthwise along the edges of his thumbs and blew through the blade, until a high-pitched screeching whistle had come out from his cupped hands.

"Stop that!" Scorpius had said. "My father will find us."

Albus had laughed.

"You're avoiding my question."

"Yeah," Albus had admitted.

"What are the feelings you have for her?"

Albus had looked at him. "I dunno, Cory. The ones I'm scared to explore. You understand, don't you?"

"I suppose so. What is it about her? I thought I could have eloped with her at one point."

"She's so bloody brilliant," Albus had said.

"Does she remind you of Aurora?"

"No." Albus had begun to tear the piece of grass up, throwing the pieces away. His fingernails were turning green underneath. "Everything used to remind me of Aurora," he'd said. "Especially whenever it snowed. When I met Kiara, I finally stopped thinking about her."

"And that's when you knew?"

"That's when I knew."

"What was it you loved about Aurora?"

Albus had scoffed. "Geez, Cory, you sound like a Ravenclaw. I can't remember. She was so ethereal, even when we were speaking. And she loved winter storms. Her existence felt as fleeting as snow."

"Didn't you date her for like, three years?"

"We weren't dating. We were nine years old on opposite sides of the Atlantic. But yes, it was three years. It was like she didn't belong as a Muggle, but she wasn't a witch, either. It was hard to understand. Even then. She made this huge impact on me, and then . . . she was gone."

"Was it hard?"

"Of course. It is what it is. It's been easier, anyway. Actually, I hadn't thought of her in a long time."

Scorpius had looked away, sheepish. "Oh. Sorry about that."

"It's nice, now," Albus says. "It feels golden."

"Hm. So have you told Kiara how you feel?"

"She has a year left at Hogwarts, and I'm going to London. In a month, she'll forget all about me."

Scorpius had snorted. "You really are fucking stupid, Albus."

"What about you? Rosie is probably wondering where you are right now." Albus had looked at his watch. "She came to visit every day for two hours at six o'clock."

"Rose did, huh?"

"Are you going to marry into my family or something? You know, she won't accept the Malfoy name. But maybe you can be a Granger-Weasley."

Scorpius's cheeks had turned bright red, and he'd looked away. "You ought to do something different with your hair for the funeral, Albus," Scorpius had scolded, changing the topic. "No wonder my family is giving you dirty looks. You're like a werewolf."

That's about where their conversation had ended.

He looks at Albus now, who had taken his advice and combed his hair back with gel. The boy looks older, and his expression perfectly matches what would be expected at a funeral. Albus has never looked more Slytherin than he does this morning, and Scorpius notices that his family no longer snarls when they thank him for coming in hushed, neutral tones.

"Of course," Albus responds, following Scorpius up to the open casket where Lucius lies.

Scorpius did not look upon him at the wake. But it would be strange not to now, as part of him still toys with the possibility that Lucius is really still alive. A part of him does understand what his father was saying, about wanting to hate the monster yet still thriving off its existence. It is hard—perhaps impossible—to write off someone who created him, no matter how evil, just because they've left the mortal plane.

The boys look upon the old man, who is surrounded by white orchids, rosemary, baby's breath, and passionflowers. Scorpius leans over the casket and snorts.

"Do you think he might come back as a ghost to haunt me?" he asks indifferently.

But then he begins to cry.

Great big tears roll down his high cheekbones and splatter unceremoniously onto his dead grandfather's suit. He grips the casket rail tightly with his good hand, and fresh blood blossoms like red carnations across the gauze Albus had rewrapped for him this morning.

Albus rests on Scorpius's shoulder, to remind him he's not alone, until he stiffly walks away.

The two say nothing for the rest of the ceremony, watching as the casket is marched into the manor's backyard, and lowered into the ground with the other deceased Malfoys.

Lucius Malfoy is really dead, and Scorpius—despite his abusive relationship with the man—doesn't know how to feel about it.