Professor McGonagall's study is, blissfully, empty. Scorpius sits, unmoving, on the leather armchair, watching the golden, crimson feathered bird perched in the cage. In its eyes, he sees decades of sadness, of tragedy, lifetimes of experience. And before his eyes, the bird bursts into flame, ashes trailing down pathetically.

Scorpius starts, making his way to the cage, as Professor McGonagall walks in. Uncanny timing.

"Professor – I, I…I was just sitting there and it.."

But to his dismay, Professor McGonagall smiles. The portrait behind her, of Albus Dumbledore, laughs, his eyes twinkling.

"About time, too, Fawkes," she says serenely, to the pile of ashes. "Scorpius, Fawkes is a phoenix. When he grows old, he will burst into flames – and from the pile of ashes, rebirth itself. It really is a marvelous cycle."

Scorpius, stunned into silence, just stares. McGonagall makes her way to her desk and sinks into her chair slowly, as though it hurts to sit down.

She's old, he realizes, his eyes tracing the wrinkles. He wonders what kind of grandmother she would be, what kind of grandmother he had. Father didn't talk about her much. He wonders if every wrinkle tells a story, from long ago.

McGonagall sighs, and Scorpius remembers where he is.

"Wait – is Rose okay?" he asks, anxiously.

McGonagall peers at him through her glasses. "I expect Ms. Weasley to make a full recovery. She'll have to remain in the Hospital Wing for a little longer, but she'll be fine." She watches as Scorpius's face transforms, a thousand times lighter. "Biscuit, Mr. Malfoy?"

She holds out a can of biscuits, and gingerly, he takes one, nodding his head in thanks.

"How's Draco been?" she asks him, carefully leaning back in her seat. "And Asteria? I hope she's doing well."

Scorpius nods again. "They're both well. Father's rather busy, but it's normal. Same old, same old."

McGonagall nods, stifling a yawn. "Well Mr. Malfoy, I believe it's time to get some sleep." She stands up stiffly, stretching out her limbs.

"Wait…" he pauses. "Aren't you going to …ask me what happened?"

McGonagall shakes her head, looking years older. "No, Scorpius." She opens her mouth, as if to say more, but closes it. "Not tonight, at least." He knows that's his cue to leave. He makes his way to the door, sleep already pushing. Yet as the door closes behind him, he sees a fleeting glance of McGonagall, standing underneath Albus Dumbledore's portrait, her expression unreadable.

****

"Where have you been?" Chris Longbottom says, yawning into his palm.

"Oh…just…not tired," Scorpius says, as he flattens the comforter around himself. He rolls away from Chris, and pretends to sleep. The moon basks around him, lighting up his face softly, thousands of miles away – yet so close.

Rose, he thinks to himself, as simple as that, as his eyes finally drift shut.