Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 15: The Remembrance
Wet mud squished under his boots as Scorpius Malfoy treaded up the winding trail. From afar a woman was paying respects to a loved one; she caught sight of him and waved. He returned the gesture, his face warm with a glowing smile.
The road flattened and began to descend to the other side of the graveyard. He pulled closer his traveling cloak, once his father's favorite, still cozy and in perfect condition save for a missing knot on the sleeves. The air around him had chilled, obscured from the sun among the shadows of the giant marble maze.
His pace slowed, his wand swinging idly side-to-side to bend the long overgrowths and make his way as his mind drifted. Once again, he wondered whether he would finally meet the person who had been paying visits to his father.
Someone who, like his father, loved to venture into the rain. The sole bunch of lily of the valley leaning against the tombstone was always sprinkled with fresh drops of precipitation, sparkling like tears on white petals that cupped the tip of the grey stroke running across the marble.
Scorpius had made an internal list of who could be the mysterious mourner, yet one by one the entries had been rejected as years went by. Admittedly, the list had been a short one; Draco Malfoy had died a recluse, and there were few family friends to speak of. The manor had not received a single owl during the days of his father's disappearance, except from that ruffian who reeked of tobacco and eventually the Potters who had disregarded the Muffliato rule. Scorpius had not read any of their letters, for anyone could surmise the intent behind the words. They would only further aggravate him.
His father's body, shattered among the northern cliffs in Siberia, had taken months to locate and return to its homeland. Scorpius had been the only attendee of the funeral in the deserted graveyard, his mother having passed away several years before. Tragedy had left him bitter and resentful, his heart congested by an unvoiced hatred against the Potters. Only via the passage of time did the ill will subside, the invisible wound closed slowly, if painfully, by a scar named reason.
It was then, when, almost against his own will, Scorpius began to feel his lament for the other family. Guilt overcame him, shameful of his compassion towards those who had inadvertently brought about the demise of his father. He had since come to this place almost daily to find peace, to comprehend why his father had taken on such a dangerous task for those who seemed fated to instigate his downfall. That was just one of the many things he could never understand about Draco Lucius Malfoy.
Such as his fascination with the rain.
Scorpius heaved a sigh and tilted his face upward, seeking the rays of the sun that had defeated the blockade by the monuments. The light strengthened him.
The path cleared as he reached the Malfoy grounds, a city of marbles in which his ancestors dwelled in towering vaults that were at once glorious and oppressive; almost hidden, yet distinctive in its humility and striking in its simplicity, was the tombstone of his father.
Even from the distance Scorpius could see the flowers he had expected, small and delicate, almost inconspicuous against the white profile of the marble.
Yet, in the background -
His heart skipped a beat as his eyes narrowed behind the wire-rimmed bifocals.
A small body, curled up in an almost fetal position, was leaning against the other edge of the tombstone.
Scorpius hastened his pace; he half walked, half ran the final stretch up the lane, the grass now brisk and green under his feet.
It was a very old man, even older than himself, wrapped in a plain black robe. The knees were raised and held tight against the chest, the arms resting outstretched and straight on the kneecaps. In one hand was a pair of spectacles. He appeared to be sleeping, his neck muscles relaxed to a bent, his head half resting against a shoulder and half against the limestone. Long white hair concealed the face, the delicate strands flying, waving gently at Scorpius in the breeze. Only a corner of the forehead remained visible; the exposed skin was spotted with age. A faint jagged scar could be seen intersecting an undulated sea of deep creases.
Scorpius did not want to startle the man. He crouched and gently tapped the shoulder.
There was no response.
Scorpius frowned. Lips bitten between teeth, he reached out a hand to close around the shoulder and gave it a light shake.
The old man didn't stir. From the free hand, a shadow fell and landed spreadeagle onto a pool of rain on the soil.
A knot with two long tails, frayed at the ends, its silver shade yellowed with age to a soft gold.