Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

7^th August

They land on a field in the outskirts of London with a thick layer of cloud above and an endless shower of rain soaking them, their bags and the ground under their shoes. Albus instinctively pulls down the sleeves of his jumper, but tilts his chin back and opens himself to the sweet, cooling drops.

Home, he thinks.

Opposite him, he hears Scorpius open up the rusty umbrella, now a dormant Portkey reduced to mundanity for eternity, and hold it above him. Albus is relieved for the weather mainly because it blurs the boundary between whether the streaks on his cheeks are tears or raindrops. Albus stands there for a moment, spread wide and free and exposed for the whole world to see, before Scorpius shuttles over to him and covers him with the rusty spokes and waning clear plastic coverings of the umbrella. There’s a pattern of owls dotted over the transparent base, some with parcels in their claws and others sitting on invisible branches.

“Lovely old London, huh?” Scorpius says.

Albus’ lips drag into a thin smile. He raises himself ever so slightly onto his tiptoes to kiss his boyfriend – boyfriend, his mind repeats – and the familiar feeling of Scorpius’ knuckles brushing over his cheeks fills him with warmth where the air had stunned him cold.

“Even lovelier now you’re back in it,” Albus says. “Fancy going to the Leaky Cauldron before we split?” He asks. He takes the zipper of Scorpius’ jacket between his fingers and gently drags it up and down, up and down, up and down.

Scorpius watches. “Are you sure you want to go home by yourself?”

Albus flattens his hand against the warm fabric of Scorpius’ jumper. And he shrugs. “No. I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what to expect when I get there. Everyone pretending like everything is okay for half an hour so I can talk about all the fun I’ve been having while they’ve been mourning my grandad? Them not wanting to talk about it in case it ruins what has been an amazing few weeks for me?”

“You know I will come with you, if you want.” Scorpius assures.

“I know. But I… I feel like this is something that should be just the Potters, you know?” Albus says.

Scorpius smiles. “I know,” he says, and Albus believes him. “Leaky Cauldron for lunch sounds great.”

⚡

The Leaky Cauldron is just as Albus remembers it. Which makes sense, he thinks, since it’s only been just over a month since he was last here. There are still scratch marks and dents on the floor from where slightly too-drunk patrons scrape their stools on the way out. Burn marks still decorate the table tops from drinkers’ failed attempts to warm their beverages up again, or set them on fire completely. Albus never really knows what they’re trying to do.

The door still swings open with the shiver-inducing creak that would burn right through him when he was younger, and the barmaid – Aurora – still beams at him when he walks through the open archway.

“Is that sweet Albus Potter I see?” Aurora says. She swings an arm around his neck as he comes to the bar and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her breath smells suspiciously of cinnamon, and he relishes in the familiarity of it all.

“It is,” Albus smiles. “And is this wonderful Aurora who has been chewing too many cinnamon sticks during her shift?”

Aurora playfully rolls her eyes and gently swats Albus with a couple of menus. “Don’t try and analyse me, little one,” she says, giving a small wave to Scorpius as he steps out from Albus’ shadow. “And the little Malfoy. Well, not so little. It’s wonderful to see you both again.”

“You too, Madam Ketterfull.”

“I do love the manners the Malfoy name has instilled in you,” Aurora smiles. She gently pinches Scorpius’ cheeks while wordlessly summoning a jug of water to their favourite table in the corner. “But if you call me Madam Ketterfull instead of Aurora once more, Scorpius, I will hex you. Now go sit, and I’ll bring over your usual drinks.”

Albus grins. “Thanks, Aurora.”

He notices as her gaze linger on their hands when they walk off to the table, fingers tightly tangled with Scorpius’ thumb rubbing soothing circles over Albus’ wrist bone. Even as they sit down, Albus’ legs crossed uncomfortably on the bench and their bags discarded to the side, their joined hands remain intact. Albus thinks they must be making up for all the days they went not being able to be this close; making up for the seconds that turned into hours that turned into years yearning to close the gap, those few dastardly millimetres. Albus remembers feeling like he was burning from the inside out when he’d watch Scorpius and Rose hold hands over the library tables, or under them. Dying to do it himself, even though he hadn’t come to terms with all of his feelings yet.

And look at him now. He squeezes Scorpius’ hand for good luck.

Scorpius squeezes it back.

They have their usual drinks, Scorpius incapable of resisting a classic Butterbeer and Albus almost draining his glass of Cranberry Velvet (a red drink that is made primarily of cranberry juice, but has a dash of a secret ingredient that makes the flavour change ever so slightly depending on what you’re craving at that moment) in seconds, and they split a bowl of soup.

People pass by their table and give them gentle smiles and strike up short, sweet conversations if they are particularly familiar with either the Potter or Malfoy family. Albus has the urge to hide their hands under the table just in case, but Scorpius keeps a concrete grip and Albus decides he prefers the view from up here anyway.

“Do you think your dad will be excited to see you?” Albus asks with a mouthful of bread.

Scorpius scowls at him. “You have no manners.” He says.

“I have perfect manners.”

“Lies.”

“This bread is just so good I could eat it all day.”

“I will hit you.”

“Bread. Really good bread,” Albus smiles. “Perfect bread.”

“Albus Severus fuck–”

“What’s wrong with bread?” Albus asks.

Scorpius continues to scowl at him, and Albus just beams back with an innocence so pure he can feel the Heavens beckoning him to come home. Albus leans over the table to kiss the crumbs off the corner of Scorpius’ lips, and maybe he can hear the Heavens telling him to stay down here for a little longer.

“I love you.” Albus smiles.

Scorpius cracks. Finally. “I love you.”

“But seriously,” Albus says once he settles back into his seat, another piece of bread in his hands. “Your dad is going to combust when you walk back through the doors, isn’t he?”

“Definitely,” Scorpius smiles. His free hand instinctively grabs at the chain around his neck, the ring effortlessly sliding over his slender index finger. Astoria’s wedding band is the simplest of things, Albus thinks. But he recalls seeing her a few times on the Platform and noticing that her engagement ring had more flourishes, so he supposed the wedding band was intended to be simple and solid and undeniably there: a bit like the love she and Draco shared. “I imagine he’s gone a bit stir crazy at home by himself, especially since I banned him writing letters to me. But it’s also been good for us, I think? We’re used to being apart, obviously, because I’d be off at Hogwarts. But this was different. This was me being away by choice, and away where he couldn’t really get to me if something went wrong. I’m hoping it will bring us closer in a weird way.”

“Are you going to mention Healing school to him?”

Scorpius shrugs. “At some point,” he says. “I’m not sure about it right now. I’m probably going to see if there are similar courses of study here, instead of in France and other places.”

Albus tilts his head to the side. “Huh? Why? I thought you were really excited about studying in the Academies?”

“I was,” Scorpius smiles. “But the Academies don’t have you.”

Albus flushes. “Oh.” He says.

“I mean, like… that’s not the only reason, obviously. And I’d like to think we’d cope with the distance if it came down to it,” Scorpius continues. “But it doesn’t really matter where you learn. All that matters is what you do with what you learn. Whether it’s France or Spain or Canada or here, it’s all the same principles. And I think I’d quite like to leave everywhere-else-but-here as places to relax and get away. I don’t want to blur those escapist havens with the boundary of work.”

“How,” Albus exaggerates. “How in Merlin’s name are you so effortlessly intelligent all the time?”

Scorpius rolls his eyes, throwing a loose bit of bread at Albus. Albus is a few steps ahead of him, though, and catches the bread in his mouth. “You’re insufferable.”

“I know,” Albus grins. “I have no idea how you’ve put up with me for the last few weeks.”

“Oh, trust me,” Scorpius says. “It took a lot of willpower.”

Albus smiles at him. Scorpius smiles back. Home. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

⚡

“I’m only an owl away if you need me,” Scorpius says as they stand at foot of the fireplace with a pot of Floo powder in their hands. “And you’re coming to stay at the Manor after… the funeral.”

Albus nods. “I know,” he smiles. “I promise I’ll write if anything happens.”

“Anything, Al.”

“Anything.” Albus reassures.

Scorpius sets the pot down to wrap Albus up one last time. Albus doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels weepy all over again. Perhaps because this is where the adventure really ends. No more being at Scorpius’ side every second of every day. No more waking up to his minty breath or his stretched out limbs taking up the entire bed. No more making sure they have sugar in their rental homes and hotel rooms so Scorpius can load up his tea with sweetness.

No more. No more.

Albus melts into Scorpius’ warmth and tries to remember every curve of his frame. Or, at least, the parts he has never noticed before. Like the tiniest dimple at the base of Scorpius’ spine, or the miniscule scar just underneath his ear from where he burnt himself on Lily’s hair straighteners when he stayed over one summer.

He thinks he has Scorpius pretty well memorised at this point, but the things that crop up when he dares to let his fingertips glide towards unknown territory always light a little spark in his heart. Scorpius is an endless, unveiling portrait that he will never fully know, but he will try his best to learn as much as possible.

“I love you.” Albus says when he finally pulls away from Scorpius.

Scorpius kisses him. And it’s so nice, Albus doesn’t know how he ever lived without it. “I love you.”

Albus watches as Scorpius steps into the fireplace with a hand full of Floo powder, his bag slung over his shoulders and his eyes glued to Albus. They smile at each other.

“Malfoy Manor.” Scorpius enunciates his syllables perfectly. He throws down the powder and he vanishes in an explosion of bright green flames and a cloud of ashy dust.

When everything settles, the grate is empty, and Albus is alone.

⚡

The rain soaks the sleeves of Albus’ jumper as he stands just beyond the fence outlining the Potter family cottage, staring up at his home after what feels like an eternity away. Everything feels different despite the fact nothing on the outside has changed.

The fence still needs repainting, little specs of white having chipped off through years gone by where toddlers would crash into it on their trainer broomsticks or accidental spells would be cast during a particularly intense tantrum. The knocker on the door hangs low as it always has, a little lopsided after James broke it with a misguided hex that was intended for a gnome but ended up hitting the door. Neither of them dared to tell their parents what they had been doing, so they found a Muggle screwdriver and fixed it themselves. Whether their parents knew or not was beyond Albus, but if they had noticed they never mentioned it.

Albus lets his fingers drag over the spiked planks that make up the fence, careful to not slip over the damp surface and jab his skin with thawing decaying wood that dares to make him bleed. The sunflowers stand tall by the main bay window, climbing endlessly into the sky alongside ivy that coils up the guttering and out of view. The window to Lily’s room is open for some inexplicable reason, her yellow checked curtains fluttering in the breeze and sodden at the hem where they tickle the little pool of raindrops lingering on the windowsill.

Everything is the same, but there is a little less life about the place. The flowers tilt towards the floor, shying away from the great wide world, and everything feels a little duller. The once bright, clean brickwork that makes up the structure of the cottage sags with a layer of grey must that lingers about the place. The hanging baskets are motionless. No smoke rises from the chimney.

Lifelessness.

The door swings open and drags Albus away from his melancholy observation of his home.

“My love,” his mum says. She rolls up the sleeves of her old Quidditch jumper, partially hidden beneath her standard dungarees, and steps out into the rain with him. Her arms are wide open, beckoning Albus to come home. “Hi.”

Albus drops his bag to the floor and bounds into Ginny’s open arms. She winds him into a warm hug, her arms tight around his shoulders and Albus’ clumsily gripping at the straps of her dungarees behind her back. She is delicateness and safety and love and home wrapped into one vanilla-scented bundle, and Albus has missed her so much.

“Hey, now,” Ginny says. Her fingers find their way to his hair as she feels him start to shake, strands of his hair gently curling around her skin. “It’s alright, Al. Baby, it’s okay.”

Albus didn’t think he’d have any tears left. He’s pretty sure there is a trail of his tears following the path he and Scorpius took throughout Europe; he could probably retrace all of their steps based on the shadowy outlines from where his tears fell on the floor. He didn’t realise there were more left inside.

“I missed you so much.”

“I have missed you too,” Ginny assures. She smells so distinctly of raising agent, and Albus knows the minute he walks into the house there will be an array of baked good covering every surface of the kitchen. His dad stress bakes, and Albus can’t imagine anyone daring to stop him right now. “We all have.”

Her hands are suddenly on his cheeks, pointlessly wiping away his tears as raindrops soon fill their empty spaces and stain his skin once more.

“Is James back?”

Ginny shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says. “He’s coming back tomorrow. We’re all heading to the Burrow in the morning. He’s coming straight there.”

Albus nods. His hair starts to stick to his forehead, delicate little curls glueing to his milky skin. “Okay.”

“Come inside?” Ginny asks. She reaches down to pick up Albus’ bag, shouldering it and taking his hand before he even utters an answer.

She guides him over the boundary and casts a silent spell to shut the door behind them. Albus kicks off his shoes and pulls off his sodden jumper, leaving him in his socks and his old Slytherin Quidditch t-shirt tucked into his jeans. He feels so meek, so little.

He is meek and he is mild, Albus thinks. A line from a Muggle poem Scorpius memorised one evening in their dormitory.

Ginny disappears upstairs with his jumper and his bag, and Albus is left alone to navigate the familiar layout of the house. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and wanders into the living room. The two oak bookshelves that sit either side of their fireplace seem busier than before, filled to capacity with Quidditch tactics books and sporting autobiographies. Books about law that his dad has gathered over the years. Lily’s endless collection of fiction books, in particular the Mistakes and Memories of Felicity Sugarloaf, Witch in the Making series. Photo frames, more than usual.

The fire is unlit, lone basket of wooden logs set to the side. Ginny has a few scented candles lit, one to do with orange and one called ‘seaside kisses’ (whatever in the world that means). The Potter family dog, Monty – a Westie named after Harry’s grandfather, snoozes on the rug, covered in old cinders that have found their way into his fur from his days spent rolling over and running around and mostly being an energetic little nuisance.

The noises of the house come from the kitchen where, as Albus predicted, trays of brownies and cakes and cookies cover every single surface. Albus takes a breath as he weaves around the furniture and passes under the little archway into the kitchen, a smile finding its way to his lips as he watches his dad busying himself with cleaning the dishes. Ginny often insists that he wastes far too much time cleaning up when he could just cast a spell and have it done for him. But Albus always notices how his dad adores standing at the sink, sponge in one hand and plate in the other, staring into the garden as he cleans, in peace.

It’s the quiet, simple parts of life that Harry Potter seems to cherish most. The moments when he can be as normal and mundane as possible. Heading to the local shop to get some more milk when they run out. Fighting with a duvet as he tries desperately to change the bedsheets every couple of weeks. Sitting in his living room, in the home he and his wife have spent their whole life moulding into the safest and purest of places, with his glasses sliding down his crooked nose and a book spread in his lap.

Albus imagines that silence after a life spent surrounded by noise is the greatest gift in the world.

“Hey, dad.” Albus says. His voice cuts through the tranquillity in the room, Harry’s head snapping immediately to his youngest son. There is light in his eyes and elation painting his face. He dries his hands on the tea towel slung over his shoulders and pulls Albus into a similar bone crushing hug to the one he received outside the house.

“My boy,” Harry says. His breath tickles the curve of Albus’ neck and he chokes slightly as Harry’s erratic hair suffocates him. But Albus doesn’t mind; he doesn’t care about being petted and grabbed and clung to, especially when it’s his parents on the other end. “Merlin, am I happy to see you.”

“You’ve been baking.” Albus observes, gesturing half-heartedly to the obvious plates everywhere.

“I have,” Harry smiles. He releases his son and lets his hands drag down Albus’ arms. They trace over his tan and the sun-induced freckles on his wrists. They wander over the spots where Scorpius had kissed him mere hours before. “And you’ve… been living.”

Albus beams as best he can given the circumstances. “I have.” He repeats.

“You have to tell me everything. Us everything,” Harry says, idly tipping his head to the ceiling above where they hear Ginny scuttling about in the bedrooms. “More than what was in your letters.”

“Of course, dad,” Albus assures. “Everything.”

“You know, Al,” Harry says. He looks at his son as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen him. Like the air has cleared and he is seeing with perfect vision; can see the intricacies of Albus’ mind and the wavering in his soul. “I am thrilled you stayed out and did the whole trip, but I have never been happier to have you under our roof again.”

Harry hugs Albus again. Albus lets himself cry; this is harder than he thought it would be. But he knows that for all the seconds he lets himself crumble, watching as the floor fills with specs of dust that would once make up his body, his parents are ready beneath him with a brush to scoop him all up and put him back together again.

They’ll put him back together again. And he will do the same for them.

Because this is what the Potter family do.

They love and they hurt and they break and they fix. And they always make each other whole again.

⚡

Albus sits on the floor with a mug of tea in one hand and the other submerged in the thick fur of Monty. The fire has finally been lit and the flames lick streaks of warmth onto his back. In the hours since he’s been home he has showered, changed, unpacked and inhaled a tray and a half of assorted baked goods provided by Harry. Lily returned from her History of Magic summer school midway through the day, clinging to Albus like she never had before, and now the four Potters all rest in the sitting room, drinking in the natural order that has reinstated with two thirds of the children back where they belong.

Lily curls herself up in the singular armchair, cushion hugged tightly to her chest and her delicate braid dangling behind the arm. Harry rests as he normally does, feet kicked up on the coffee table with one arm on the rest and the other gently wound around Ginny’s shoulders while she lies with her head on Harry’s lap, a cushion to keep her comfortable and a bubbling mug of coffee burning the palm of her hand.

Monty sleeps with his head tucked in the space between Albus’ crossed legs. The metal tag on his collar is cool against Albus’ ankle but the familiar warmth is welcome after weeks spent drifting aimlessly from place to place, always searching desperately for something that would feel like home. Albus sets his mug down and fiddles with the tassels that cover the perimeter of the slightly stark and jarring rug that covers the floor of the living room, letting the individual threads slip between the creases on his palm and over the bumpy landscape of his knuckles.

They speak about Albus’ trip; the fun things he and Scorpius did that he never mentioned in his letters, the different foods they had and all the different languages they came across. Albus waxes lyrical about the beaches they walked over and the different types of alcohol that still feels sticky on his lips even though it had been days since he’d touched some of them. But underneath it all, hidden in the cracks of their exteriors, is a complicated silence. A loud, crushing silence that Albus feels all too aware of. A silence that reminds all of them that they’re not talking about the specific, life-changing event that can’t be ignored forever.

As much as Albus relishes reciting the details of sun-kissed evenings he spent swirling a little umbrella stirrer through his glass of pink lemonade, he can’t sit in this burning atmosphere anymore.

“Are we going to the Burrow tomorrow to prepare for the… funeral?” Albus dares to ask. The word funeral sticks in his throat for a second. It feels like a word from a foreign language he isn’t familiar with. The syllables feel heavy and wrong as he speaks them, and his question hangs painfully in the air as they all come back down to Earth and realise that they have to have this conversation.

Ginny shifts ever so slightly to better face Albus. Harry keeps her wrapped up in his grip, and she doesn’t seem to want to ever be apart from him. But Ginny needs to look at her son.

“We are,” she says. There is a rawness in her voice now, too. She sounds so much like his mum but still, at the same time, like someone he has never heard before. “We planned the funeral for a few days after you got back. Just so you had time to settle and weren’t flung straight into all this,” she gestures ambiguously to the world around them. “Right away.”

Albus nods. Monty shivers in his sleep, and Albus gently scratches behind his ears to soothe him. “Okay,” he says. “Where… is it going to be held?”

“The main ceremony is happening in St. Christopher’s, in the little village near the Burrow. And he’s being buried there, too. Next to Fred,” Ginny explains. “We thought about burying him at Shell Cottage, or in St. Jerome’s, but… it felt wrong separating the family.”

Albus nods again. “What happened?”

Ginny’s expression wavers slightly. Albus watches as she releases herself from Harry’s grip and joins him on the floor. She rests on her knees and gently brushes her delicate fingers through Monty’s fur, too. Albus looks at her, tries to read the wrinkles around her eyes and the crestfallen shadows that contour her face in places they never used to.

“Nothing,” she says. “Well, nothing awful. He had undiagnosed sleep apnoea. You know how he would always snore really loudly if he fell asleep downstairs? Or he’d wake himself up by, you know, choking a little? We all just assumed it was how dad was, since he’d been like that for as long as all of us could remember. But, no. It was… a problem.”

“But he wasn’t… in pain?”

Ginny shakes her head. “No, no. No. Not in pain. The staff at St Mungo’s think he didn’t feel anything. Like I said in my letter,” she says, lifting a hand to gently brush some of Albus’ hair behind his ear. “He fell asleep, and now he’s asleep forever.”

Albus wavers. He scrunches up his nose and stares at the floor, but his mum can read him better than the simplest book in the world, and so he finds himself wrapped in a cocoon of familial love. Monty stirs beneath him, sensing his discomfort, and clambers into his lap to be as close to Albus as possible. Albus lets his head fall deep into the curve of Ginny’s neck, and around him, he hears Lily and Harry come to the floor, too.

And they sit there. The four of them, and Monty. The fire is warm on their backs and their tears are sticky on their cheeks. Seconds pass, minutes pass, hours pass. Albus doesn’t know how long they huddle on the carpet, the rain falling incessantly outside and the sun, masked by clouds, sinking slowly out of sight.

But none of them ever want to move.

⚡

When Albus retires to his bedroom it is past midnight and he can barely keep his eyes open. He squints at his desk, the shadowy outline of an envelope drawing him in. He rolls up his sleeves and brushes his messy fringe from his eyes, fingertips gently dragging over the handwriting staining the front.

Albus Potter

Switzerland

Geneva Hostel

The letter from his grandpa. The last thing his grandpa ever wrote.

Albus delicately picks up the envelope and sits on top of his duvet. He fearfully holds the envelope in his hands, terrified that he will do something and tear the paper or smudge the lettering or do something else that will ruin this perfectly preserved sliver of love.

Albus can’t open it.

He wants to open it, and his fingers itch at the corner where the opening resides, but he can’t. He doesn’t know what will be in the letter; he doesn’t know how it will make him feel. Will it fill him with guilt that he wasn’t here to see his grandpa go? Will it fill him with sadness as he remembers how happy and foolish and naïve the Albus to whom this letter is addressed to was? Will he miss Switzerland?

Albus doesn’t know.

And, right now, he doesn’t want to know.

He sets the envelope back onto the desk, tucking it securely under a dragon-shaped paperweight so it doesn’t get lost, and then he gets under his covers, and falls asleep.

Albus will start fresh tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

⚡

8^th August

My Albus,

I hate the way my bed feels without you in it. I hate the emptiness, the coolness. The vacant spot that burns in the room when you’re not around. I got so used to your breath tickling my nose. To your annoying habit of rolling yourself into the covers so I’m cold in the mornings. I thought I’d be grateful to have the entire duvet to myself, but no.

I feel a little empty. And a selfish part of me hopes you feel a little empty, too.

I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re okay.

I’m sending you the most sincere devotion today. And I’ll be with you tomorrow to shower you with sincere devotion and love in person.

You’ve got this.

Love, always,

Your Scorpius.

⚡

Albus pours out his rucksack and sorts through the assorted objects he brought back from travelling. He tips out his dirty laundry into his basket and puts away clean clothes, and new clothes, back into his wardrobe. He lines up the trinkets he purchased on his windowsill, gently blowing on them to brush off the dust and fluff that cling to the sleek curves of statues or have slipped into the openings of vials, necklaces, music boxes.

He fills his rucksack with black clothes. A pair of dark plaid pyjamas, patterned black cat socks. His black turtleneck and his fanciest black trousers. He is colourless. Shaded with dejection and stuck in a state of despair.

He is formless. Life is performative; he is performing the role of a grieving grandson. Because underneath he is empty. He is numb.

Albus wants to feel alive again.

⚡

They Floo to the Burrow just before noon, and once more Albus goes through the painful cycle of greeting his family, exchanging words about his trip, and then crying as they talk about his grandpa. Every time he sees someone new he crumbles inside as his body prepares to go through the pain all over again. Thinking about his grandpa seems to reset his grieving process. He talks about it with someone and, albeit only slightly, starts to come to terms with it.

Then he talks to someone else, and the feelings break down the walls of tranquillity and calm that he’s started to build. And Albus is left in the rubble of his emotions again.

Hovering above everything and everyone in the kitchen are clothes hangers holding up everyone’s funeral clothes. Ginny pulls out Albus’ black attire and utters a quiet wingardium leviosa under her breath until everyone from the Potter family has their clothes hung, too. His grandma pours everyone tea and sets out platters of bread and butter and fruit and fillings, but nobody eats anything.

Albus excuses himself from the full capacity lounge at some point. He uses the reasoning of wanting a fresh glass of water to get to the kitchen before escaping out the back door and looping around the building to head to his grandpa’s shed full of Muggle artefacts.

He gently pushes the door open and sighs at the sight. Albus wants to scoop everything into his backpack and apparate back home. He wants to put everything in his room, hang up the posters and box up the Muggle telephones, display the bobble heads on his bookshelf and frame the watch faces. Albus doesn’t know what the family are planning to do with everything, but he refuses to let them throw it all away.

Often had people referred to the shed as a place full of junk. Junk. The word makes Albus sick.

How could anyone look at this trove and think of it as junk?

Albus drags his fingertips over the dusty snow globes. He picks up one from the middle and shakes it, watching as the fake snow swarms the little sculpture and drifts ever so slowly back down to the ground. The base of one of the snow globes, one with a statue of a dinosaur in the middle, is engraved on the bottom.

Dearest Misty. You love dinosaurs. And I love you. So, by extension, I love dinosaurs, too. Happy Valentines. Love, Roger.

Junk.

Never in a million years.

“Alright, little one?”

Albus jumps at the voice from behind him. He places the globe down and spins on his heels, smiling at his Uncle George, standing in the doorway with his fingers looped around his braces straps. Despite being in his mid-forties Albus thinks his uncle has this ineffable youthful flair about him that will never fade. Though little strands of grey peak through his mess of ginger hair he makes it work; over the years his freckles have darkened and alongside small scars from the Battle that weave from his neck up his cheeks and cut through one of his eyebrows he looks like a radiant explorer with a thousand stories to his name and an infinite fountain of experience about life wrapped in his soul.

George drags out a stool from under the main table and perches there, looking inquisitively at his nephew as they simmer within the dusty atmosphere of the shed.

“I’m not little.” Albus says. He clears a space atop of the table and hops on, his palms covering in a layer of thick dust.

“Sure,” George smiles. “So you had fun? In Europe?”

Albus nods. His mindlessly picks up small model of the planet Saturn. His grandpa had supposed it came from a Muggle model of the universe, with a tiny hook screwed into the top where it would hang from string, and Albus had grown obsessed with the idea of this tiny little thing spinning near the ceiling, dozens of enthusiastic, youthful eyes watching the rings as they sit in science class.

“Loads. It was… an experience,” Albus says. Does he tell his Uncle everything? Is the day before the funeral of George’s father really the time to bring up such trivial, teenage-romantic things? “I feel like a completely different person than I was when I left.”

The corner of George’s mouth quivers into a smile. “You look different.”

“How?”

“I mean, you know. Aside from the obvious tan lines and longer hair and little scratches from walking all day,” George says, gesturing to Albus’ calves where little red slits cover his skin, marks from where he got caught by a thorn bush when hiking over a volcano or through hills. “You just look older. More settled, almost? You used to have a naïve, youthful sort of deer in headlights look. Like you were terrified of what the world had to offer. Now you look ready to combat anything.”

“Oh,” Albus says. He drags his nail over Saturn’s rings. His mind takes him back to the science museum in Geneva, with all the telescopes that could magnify the stars and point out the planets lingering so, so far away. “I mean… a lot happened. So I guess it’s a testament to all the stuff that happened.”

George nods to Albus’ ankle. “I’ve never seen that,” he says. Albus’ eyes flick down to the peacock feather staining his skin. “Have you always had it?”

Albus smiles with a shrug. “Yeah. Well, not always. For a couple of years. It’s a peacock feather. Scorpius has a matching one,” he says. “We weren’t big on rule breaking, but we did smuggle stuff into the common room every now and again.”

George beams. “You do make me proud, little nephew.”

“I’m not little.”

“You are, averagely, three inches shorter than everyone you know,” George adds. “You are little.”

Albus rolls his eyes. The familiar silence blooms once more. The two of them glance at different things around the room; Albus gravitates towards the shelf of Muggle trophies (5-a-side football trophies, medals from swimming competitions, other things that Albus can’t imagine someone ever wanting to give up), while George looks at the jack-in-the-boxes. Typical.

“Is it easier this time around?” Albus dares to ask. “Losing grandpa? Or, well, your dad? After losing Fred?”

George unhooks and hooks the straps to his braces as he takes in Albus’ question. “I’m not sure,” he answers. “This feels different, for sure. But then I guess it hurts differently, too?”

Albus nods.

“Losing Fred… I wasn’t sure I would survive it,” George continues, fingers picking at the table. “Losing family is hard, as you probably understand now. You probably understood it from watching Scorpius after Astoria died. But losing Fred was losing half of me. Even though I was okay, only a few cuts and bruises, I felt scarred internally. Empty. Like I was breathing but one of my lungs wasn’t working. Constantly breathless, constantly lonely. It’s a tremendous pain… I mean. I didn’t just lose a brother, I lost my twin brother. And not just my twin… my best friend. It was, like, the cruellest compounding of problems in the world.”

“But you did survive it,” Albus says, not that George seems to need validation. “And I guess that means you could survive anything now.”

George smiles. “I sure can. I don’t think I’ll ever be myself again, but I’ve learned to be a different George to the one I was years ago. And though he isn’t perfect, he’s as good as it needs to be.”

Albus smiles, too.

“So, to answer your question,” George concludes. “Grief is grief. Every time you lose someone it’s different. It may not get easier, but I know how to handle it. And I know, from experience, that I can get through it. And I know this isn’t technically what you asked, but… you’ll get through this, too, Al.”

Albus nods. Then he shuffles off the counter and heads over to his uncle, waiting for George to clip his strap back into place before hugging him. “Thanks.” He says.

George squeezes his shoulders. “No problem, little one,” he whispers. “Is Scorpius coming tomorrow?” He asks after a beat of calm passes between them.

“Yeah,” Albus says, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. “Is that okay?”

George is confused. “Of course? Why wouldn’t it be?”

Albus shrugs. “He isn’t… he isn’t technically family.”

George rolls his eyes. “Albus Potter… you astound me,” he smiles. “You of all people should know family isn’t bound purely by blood. Scorpius is as much a part of this family as everyone else is.”

“I guess.”

George smiles. “I’ve missed you, Al,” he says, stool scraping on the floor as he stands up. “Ready to head back?”

⚡

“Albus!”

Albus finds himself winded as James all but catapults into him as he gets back to the Burrow. There are jackets tossed on the floor, a couple of bags set on the dining table, and another figure quickly wrapping their arms around him as he tries to take in his surroundings.

“James?” Albus asks, hand brushing his hair from his face when James finally releases him ever so slightly. “Sofia!”

Sofia is bundles of beautifully curled hair and dulcet flavours of Spanish culture and everything he remembers her being and more. She smells of pomegranate and cinnamon, her skin ever so slightly paler when her sleeves slip out of place and expose her tan lines. She has faintly teary eyes and her hands are pressed to Albus’ cheeks.

“Albus.” Sofia says simply. His name truly does sound a million times better coming from her.

For a moment Albus forgets that their entire family is stood in the cramped bottom floor of the Burrow; all he wants to do is wrap himself up in the presence of James and Sofia, inhaling them like he would breathe desperately after resurfacing from being submerged underwater.

“How are you?” James asks, fingers curled into Albus’ hair and eyes glued to his little brother. “How was Greece?”

“You have no idea how good it is to see you.” Albus says. He throws his arms around James’ shoulders and melts into the familiar athletic build. The last time he saw James, or an iteration of James, to be specific, was his dead body at the temple of Delphi. Washing out that image from his mind right now, instead drinking in the vibrant colour of James’ eyes and the slightly windswept ruffles of his hair, is all he’s needed.

James’ face twists into a perplexed expression, but he doesn’t question it out loud. Just wraps Albus up once more. Because this is what they do now. This is what best friends do.

“I love you, Al.”

“I love you so much, James.”

⚡

“A year?” Ginny asks, dumbfounded. She stares at James as if she’s never seen this boy before. “You’ve been in a serious relationship for a year and didn’t feel the need to tell any of us?”

James shrugs. He sips from his water and stares at his mum from his seat on the floor, Albus to his left and Sofia to his right. “It didn’t seem important. I was in Spain, everyone else was here. I didn’t fancy running my mouth off about this, since my reputation here is the boy who can never hold down a relationship. I thought I’d give it time to, like, develop. And then there was never a good time to bring it up.”

Ginny is aghast. “Never a good time? You come home almost every month, James. We come out and see you play Quidditch!” She says, gasping after she finishes. “Hang on. You weren’t at the matches were you?”

Sofia smiles. “Maybe? I’ve been going for a while. I try to go to as many as possible. I’ve only known about the whole magic thing since last October.”

“That’s still ten months,” Harry says. He is caught between being stunned at James’ news and overjoyed by it, so his face is constantly shifting from a wide open O to a beautifully curved smile. “I’m amazed you’ve had this going for over a year.”

James shrugs again. “I’m a grown up, you know? I’m good at adult decisions.”

“Did you know?” Ginny turns her gaze to Albus. “Before you went and stayed with him?”

“Sort of? He mentioned that he was living with someone before I left, but I didn’t find out much until I got to Spain. But I haven’t known forever.” Albus says. He picks up a cookie from a plate on the table and snaps it in half, handing the bigger portion to Sofia.

Sofia smiles and gently tips her head to Albus in thanks.

Everyone stares at her as if she’s some enigmatic star that has dropped from the night sky and is so blindingly confusing they can’t look away. Which makes sense, Albus thinks. She does have that ethereal beauty about her.

“Well,” Ginny smiles. “It’s wonderful to meet you now, Sofia. I know the circumstances aren’t… the happiest. But if you’re important to James, you’re important to all of us.”

Sofia smiles. Her lips part ever so slightly to show a sliver of her teeth. James’ hand finds hers and their fingers wind in to a familiar knot. “Thank you, Mrs Potter,” Sofia smiles. “And for what it’s worth, I really wish I had got to meet Arthur. From what James has told me… he sounded like a wonderful man.”

Ginny smiles. James smiles. Molly smiles.

Everyone smiles.

And, for the first time, Albus thinks they’ll get through this.

⚡

Given the unpredictability of James’ plus one, Sofia has to bunk with the two of them in Uncle Ron’s old room. Albus is on the floor in a sleeping bag that has been charmed to hover a few centimetres off the ground so he isn’t lying on the cold hard wood, and his two favourite lovebirds are to get cosy in the single bed pressed against the wall.

“Tell me everything,” Sofia says once the door is shut and all three of them are suitably wrapped in pyjamas and tucked under blankets. “Now.”

Albus playfully rolls his eyes. “Calm down, sunshine.”

“Tell her what?” James asks, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see Albus on the floor.

“Seriously?” Sofia asks. “Tell us about how he and Scorpius got together.”

“Wait,” James asks, suddenly sat upright and staring at Albus. “What? Together? Since when?”

“Oh, Merlin.”

“Hang on. You only told me you kissed… in Italy, was it?” James ponders. “When did this happen?”

“That’s what I want him to tell me.” Sofia says, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of James’ jaw.

Albus grins at them and settles back on his pillow. He stares at the ceiling and can see the events of the night on the Grecian beach playing right in front of his eyes. The shadows that skitter across the plaster seem to shift into shapes that barely resemble him and Scorpius, and the waves that crashed over their feet.

“We were in Mykonos,” Albus recites. “We’d been clubbing, obviously. And there was… alcohol and noise. And things just escalated. And then I asked him on the beach. We were messing about in the ocean and I guess I got the courage from somewhere to ask him.”

“God, Al,” Sofia beams at him from across the room. “I can’t believe you’re the same sweet boy who sat in my houseboat panicking about your feelings for Scorpius… I’m so proud of you.”

“Have you told any of the family?” James asks.

Albus shakes his head.

“Is Scorpius coming tomorrow?” Sofia asks.

Albus nods.

“Well…” James says.

“I know,” Albus chuckles. “It should be fine.”

“It will be fine.” Sofia asserts.

Albus smiles. “I know,” he repeats. “Deep down… I definitely know.”

⚡

9^th August

The sky is heavy with dark grey clouds that are threatening to split at any given moment. The air is rumbling with something insincere, and Albus thinks he should be surprised that a storm is brewing in August. But then he remembers they’re in England; he shouldn’t be stunned by this.

Albus is sitting on the doorstep to the Burrow, staring desperately out into the fields and the huge bushes and strands of grass that waver wearily in the early morning wind. His turtleneck is keeping him warm, sleeves pulled over his hands as he fiddles with a loose thread. He is waiting for the familiar crack to sound Scorpius’ arrival. He feels like he’s holding on to stability by a thread, a thread that will very likely snap if Scorpius doesn’t arrive soon.

Behind him, through the open windows, he can hear the boiling of the kettle and the cracking of eggs as Molly and Sofia make breakfast for everyone. There is a melancholy blanket settled over the house this morning. The exchanging of morning salutations feels forced and stilted even though everyone so deeply desires familiar faces and friendliness. It’s an odd atmosphere, and Albus sort of hates it.

Crack.

Scorpius appears from thin air, and Albus stands so fast he feels faint. Colours blur in his eyes and by the time he has blinked his vision clear Scorpius is in front of him, apple and vanilla filling his senses. He folds into Scorpius’ arms. Despite standing on the doorstep he is still ever so slightly smaller than Scorpius, head tucked perfectly into Scorpius’ chest, his collarbones digging into Albus’ forehead.

“Hey,” Scorpius finally says. He holds Albus at arm’s length, staring deeply into his eyes to try and read the hidden emotions that bubble below his surface. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you.” Albus says. He props himself onto his tiptoes, cracking the soles of his shoes, to kiss Scorpius. He breathes in the familiarity. He clings to the way it feels to be perfectly pressed against someone, to feel like he is okay. He can breathe properly for the first time since he arrived home.

Scorpius gently bumps their noses together. When they part he fixes Albus’ hair and collar, straightening out the folds of the turtleneck and tucking away some loose strands from curls that had been torn apart by Scorpius’ curious fingers tangling in them.

“Same.” Scorpius says.

They take a moment outside in the fresh air to look at each other. It’s almost ridiculous, Albus thinks, how sincerely he has missed this boy. He doesn’t know how they used to go weeks not seeing each other during summers gone by. Now, being apart from him for a few hours feels like he’s left part of his soul somewhere.

The first person to greet Scorpius when they step inside is Sofia, who throws herself at him with such force she knocks him flat into the door.

“Scorpius!” She beams.

Scorpius squeezes her. “Sofia!” He matches her enthusiasm.

Similar joy is shared as James tumbles down the stairs to join in the hug. The three of them whisper among themselves and Albus knows what they are talking about, a thought that is confirmed as Scorpius tosses him a lovingly relieved glance just before the rest of the family come to see what the commotion is.

Ginny brushes her fingers over Scorpius’ cheeks and comments on how radiant he looks. Harry ruffles up his hair, Molly force feeds him some toast and almost pours a glass of orange juice down his neck. Scorpius really is part of the family, Albus thinks.

They sit at the breakfast table and Albus keeps a hand on Scorpius’ knee out of view. At some point Scorpius weaves their fingers together, and if anyone notices that both of them eat their fruit and drink their tea with only one hand, nobody points it out.

⚡

Churches feel familiar to Albus.

The way his footfalls echo on the uneven slabs as they head to the front and slip into the pews, the gentle shuffles and scratches of coats against wood blending with the tones of the organ playing a soft song. The candles that flicker. The way the stained glass windows light from the way the sun’s rays catch them.

Scorpius sits beside him, James on his other side.

Albus feels numb.

He looks at the coffin and the photograph of Arthur set on top among a ring of blue flowers. He looks at his entire family, and friends of the family, dressed in black. Teddy behind him, hair subdued and dyed a darker colour as to not stand out among the crowd. His Aunt Luna and Professor Neville a few rows back. So many people. So, so many people.

The ceremony goes straight through him for the most part. One by one the grandchildren head to the front and say a few words, reciting something they have prepared, sandwiched between prayers and hymns. Albus sings and smiles and cries as if he’s reading cues from a script.

James steps up at one point to read out a letter grandpa had slipped in his birthday card last year. There are tears in his eyes, but James is strong, and he manages to get through it all without letting anything shed. Lily reads out a little speech she prepared about how wonderful it was when grandpa would take her into the garden and help her identify different types of magical and Muggle creatures in the grass.

And then it’s Albus.

Eyes expectantly turn to him as his name is read from the running order.

Albus avoids all eye contact as he steps up, front and centre, and stares, instead, to the circular stained glass piece hanging above the door opposite him. He thinks it is documenting the Crucifixion. He knows bits and pieces about religion, but his knowledge is still sparse.

“I, um,” Albus says. “I was only told to prepare something a couple of days ago. I’ve not been in the country recently, and I missed the day grandpa… yeah. And I feel really guilty about it, and it feels almost insincere to stand here and read something I memorised when I wasn’t here to see everything fall apart. But, you know.”

He catches Scorpius’ gaze and breathes in the smile.

“I’ve been travelling, as some of you may know. And I spent a lot of time in churches. A lot of time in cathedrals… little shops… famous landmarks. I surprisingly learned a lot about people who have passed away. I lit a lot of candles, said a lot of silent prayers. But there was this one cathedral I went to in France, Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon,” he says, and notices how Scorpius smiles at his perfect pronunciation. “And I lit some candles for my Uncle Fred and my grandparents on my dad’s side. People I’ve never met, but people I still love. When I lit those candles I thought it was so odd and trivial how I was doing this when I never experienced the pain of losing them… and now… now I know that type of pain.

“There was, um,” he continues, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a piece of paper. “A guestbook at the back of the cathedral. People wrote their names and where they came from, and all that. And there was this one page where someone had written out an entire poem. And I read the poem… and it stuck with me. I don’t know why, but it did. So I got a napkin from my bag and wrote it down. This is the napkin.” He says, flinging it about in the air. A few people laugh at his dry humour.

“And the poem… wasn’t written about a man. But I don’t think that matters. What matters is the message of the poem, I guess. And the feelings it will summon in you. I think it weirdly encapsulates grief in a way that isn’t too obvious. And when I was asked to prepare something, my mind immediately went to this.” Albus finishes, clearing his throat as he recites the poem.

Tread lightly, she is near

   Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

   The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

   Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

   Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

   She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

   Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

   Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

   She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

   Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

   Heap earth upon it.

“I miss my grandpa a lot,” Albus says after he has finished. “So much. It feels like it will never get better. But I know, in my heart, it will. He has fallen to dust, as the poem says, but he will always be here, somewhere.” He concludes, gesturing to the air.

Albus folds up the napkin once more, gives a final look at the coffin, and then heads back to his space in the pew.

⚡

The service ends. Albus watches as the coffin is taken out. They leave. The Burrow feels empty even though people crowd the garden where the post-service gathering is. People tell him that his speech was beautiful. People hug him. They love him. They give him sad looks accompanied by sympathetic tilts of their heads. They hand him cups filled with water and juice and try to share their cake with him. They exchange stories about Arthur and expect him to laugh.

He performs his part as best he can. For Arthur.

⚡

Albus sits in front of the fireplace long after everyone has left. Paper plates are scattered everywhere. Half empty cups sit on every available surface and a few left behind jackets have been hung on the hooks for retrieval later in the week. He drags the tip of his wand through a pile of cinders that have collected at the base of the fire. The flames lick dangerously close to his wand and his hand, the streaks of heat warming him more than he would normally like.

Everyone else is asleep. Or, well, they were.

“I have told you before that you’re awful at lingering in the background,” Albus says, motionlessly beckoning Scorpius to join him on the floor. “You still breathe loudly.”

“And you’re still awful at walking down the stairs quietly.” Scorpius murmurs, lips pressing a kiss to Albus’ temple as he sits beside him. He gently peels Albus’ wand from his hand and sets it on the floor, blowing sweet, cool breaths over his skin to subside the almost-burning sensation.

Albus looks at him. “I didn’t cry today.” He declares.

Scorpius nods. “I noticed.”

“I’ve cried every day since I found out he died,” Albus says. “But today of all days… nothing.”

“That’s normal,” Scorpius says. “Most people mourn the day before a funeral. The day of the funeral is a celebration of life. Plus, as a member of the family, everything is very overwhelming. I always think of it as an inverted wedding. At weddings, if you’re family, people won’t leave you alone. They come up and talk to you about the happy couple and try and get you to dance and laugh and have fun. At funerals they talk to you about the person who has died and try to get you to reminisce on happy moments. It’s jarring.”

“I feel like I’m going to crash back to Earth at some point,” Albus says. “I’ve been… floating, I guess? Drifting the last couple of days. Smiling when I’m expected to smile. Laughing when I should laugh. Frowning when I should.”

Scorpius’ fingers dance over Albus’ cheeks. “Yeah? Well,” he says. “I’ll be here to make sure you land softly. No crashing. Just… gently coming back down.”

Albus kisses him in the glow of the fire. His nose is rosy red and Scorpius’ is pale. His eyes flutter shut and his hand finds the neckline of Scorpius’ pyjamas. Albus drags him impossibly close.

Scorpius pulls away first. Only a few millimetres, but far enough away to notice the sticky tracks of tears that have appeared under Albus’ eyes. Scorpius pulls down the sleeves of his jumper and gently wipes his fingers over the tears to brush them away.

“Are you back down?”

Albus cracks.

On the floor of the Burrow, photos of his family and empty cups and lopsided shelves and old furniture around him, Albus bursts. And he is relieved. Broken. Empty. Fresh.

He is everything and nothing all at once.

⚡

10^th August

Albus wishes they were alone.

The entire Weasley-Potter-Granger family are stood at the door in their dressing gowns watching as Scorpius gets ready to leave. Albus has his arms crossed over his chest as he watches Scorpius zip up his coat and shoulders his rucksack. He wants to kiss him goodbye.

He really, really wishes they were alone.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days?” Scorpius asks. Albus watches as Scorpius sneaks a glance over his shoulders before gently reaching out to tuck a strand of Albus’ hair behind his ear.

Albus nods and dares to step closer. He knows they’re being watched. “A couple of days,” Albus promises. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”

“Great.” Scorpius smiles.

They look at each other. Albus looks behind him at his family, all smiling and nodding and watching as if they’re at a sporting event. It feels odd.

“I’ll be off, then,” Scorpius clears his throat. “I love you. I’ll see you–”

Albus kisses him.

He grabs Scorpius’ cheeks and rises to his tiptoes and kisses him because, Merlin, he loves him. And he’s not going to pretend as if he doesn’t just because his family is watching. Scorpius freezes for a moment before he settles into it. There’s a hand on Albus’ chest and one in his hair and everything feels right at once. Albus wishes they were alone, but he won’t let the company get in his way.

Their noses are pressed together when they part a few moments later. “I love you,” Albus says. “Openly, freely, forever. All that jazz.”

“I love you,” Scorpius repeats. “Openly, freely, and forever, too.”

Albus sees Scorpius’ gaze momentarily flick back to the crowd at the door. He uses a hand to tilt Scorpius’ chin down so they are looking at each other again. “Who cares about them?”

Scorpius softens. “Indeed, who cares?”

Albus fixes up Scorpius’ coat, folding down the collar and doing up a couple of the buttons over the top of the zip. He sorts out some of Scorpius’ hair, brushes off ambiguous clusters of dust that have clung to his clothes after a day spent at the Burrow.

“See you soon.” Scorpius smiles.

Crack.

Albus stares at the vacant spot where Scorpius stood seconds before. Odd, he thinks, how pathetically empty he feels now. Albus stands there for a few moments, mentally preparing himself for the next ten minutes of his life once he steps back inside the Burrow.

He turns on his heels and walks slowly back to the door. Most of his family have made themselves sparse, pottering about inside to clean up after the day before and work out how they go on and live life following the funeral. Only James and his mum are at the entrance. James is smiling, Ginny looks relieved.

“You could have told me, Al,” Ginny says as she pulls Albus into her side. She kisses his temple and fiddles with his hair, and Albus notices how she avoids all the spots Scorpius had touched moments before. “You know that?”

Albus nods. “I know.”

“Good,” she says. “I’m not going to bombard you with questions, but I just need to know… how long?”

Albus wraps his arms around her waist. “Officially? Under a week. Our last day in Greece. But me liking him? Fourth year.”

“Ah,” Ginny smiles. “I suppose almost ending the world is one way to bond with someone.”

Albus laughs. James snickers. Ginny kisses both their cheeks.

“What is it with my offspring and having secret relationships?” Ginny muses as they head into the house and shut out the light rain that has started to fall. “I’ll have to check that Lily is actually going to summer school and not, you know, having secret rendezvous’ with a secret partner.”

⚡

11^th August

Home.

James is asleep on the sofa, Monty on his lap. Sofia and Harry bond over baking in the kitchen, and Albus sits at the island sifting through photos from the disposable camera he had developed the other day. There are far too many of him, his cheeks flushing bright pink as he realises how many sneaky shots Scorpius took of him without him noticing.

Then there is someone sitting next to him.

“I will love you until the day I die, and even after that,” Harry says, a spec of flour on his nose. “You know that?”

Albus smiles and pushes his dad’s glasses back up his nose. “I know.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “And I’m so glad you’re happy.”

Albus flushes again.

Harry picks up a photo from the pile on the table, the one they got a couple to take of them while in Rome. He taps his wand to it, a few blue sparks shooting out and spreading over the little slip of paper. And then, magically, the figures of Albus and Scorpius start to move. A few seconds before and after the photo was taken, the two of them smiling at each other and squeezing each other and smiling.

“Can I keep this?” Harry asks.

Albus nods. “Of course.”

Harry smiles. And Albus doesn’t know why he was ever worried about coming back here and being truthful. He truly was a foolish soul.

⚡

12^th August

“This was just after Albus passed out in Barcelona,” Scorpius says as he shows photos to Draco over the breakfast table. Draco with his hair loose and over his shoulders, wedding ring catching the early morning sunlight, sleepy eyes alight with joy at having his boy back under his roof. “Because he was silly and forgot a cap and wasn’t drinking any water.”

“Hey!” Albus protests.

“And this,” Scorpius flips to a photo of the two of them in Alicante, sat on the hill looking at the stars. “Was stargazing. Learning about constellations. Eating a lot of strawberries.”

Draco nods along, pausing to take sips from his mug of coffee.

“This is Albus in front of a cathedral,” Scorpius continues. “And another cathedral… and another cathedral.”

“There were a lot of cathedrals.”

Draco chuckles. “Understandable.”

“And this is Greece.”

The morning burns on like that. Albus dips his soldiers into his boiled eggs and watches with a smile as Scorpius goes through every single photograph Albus had developed. Draco nods along and traces a fingertip over Scorpius’ face in most of the photos, pointing out moments where he looks a lot like Astoria. They go through the books Scorpius bought, talk about the ghost they met in Spain and the mirages they saw in Greece (with Draco hastily scolding Scorpius after finding out that going to the sanctuary was his idea), and they even touch lightly on the Healing Academy.

Draco’s eyes cloud with a layer of severity at the mention of Healing, and Albus can sense that this is a conversation the two of them have had before. He is interested in what Scorpius learned, constantly reminding him that whatever he chooses he will be fully supported the entire way.

Albus just drinks and eats and drums his fingers over the oak table, legs crossed and eyes permanently glued on Scorpius. He doesn’t know whether Scorpius has told Draco the details of their situation yet, but Albus is done pretending. And from the way Scorpius keeps gently knocking their knuckles together and looking at Albus with his wide-eyed, moony gaze, he thinks they’re both on the same page.

“What about you, Albus?” Draco turns attention to him. “Did the trip inspire your future life choices?”

Albus shrugs. “Sort of? I don’t know. I mean, before I left I’d sort of talked about opening a business in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade… like a trinket shop? Antique shop, I think the Muggles call them? Because I was already really fascinated with the things my grandpa,” the name catches in his throat. “Used to collect. So I started collecting my own on this trip. And I think I like the idea of doing that. Having a flat above the shop, showing off these artefacts I’ve picked up. Going on weekend breaks to European cities to restock my collection.”

Draco smiles. “That sounds perfect for you,” he says, looking between the two boys. “What does that mean for… the two of you?”

“The two of us?” Albus asks.

“The two of us,” Scorpius continues. “I’m not sure. We haven’t worked out details yet. I’m going to look into places local where you can study for your Healing License. I don’t think going abroad is the perfect choice for me. I need to do some more research, I might chat to some Healers at St. Mungo’s about it.”

“So you might stay?” Draco asks.

Scorpius smiles. “I might stay.”

⚡

Before noon they head out for a walk. Draco says something about wanting fresh air and Scorpius suggests going to the bakery he and his dad went to back when Astoria was alive. Draco’s expression crumbles slightly, but he agrees.

Albus rolls up the sleeves to his shirt and undoes the top button, the sun beating down on an uncharacteristically warm day, and he tucks his sunglasses into his messy nest of a hairdo as they walk down the long path away from the Manor and turn onto the street.

In the fields that surround the Manor kids are flying kites, little phoenix and owl-shaped ones drifting and twirling and coiling along with the gentle summer breeze that cools Albus’ cheeks and skirts around his ankles. At some point he knocks his hand against Scorpius’ and, to his surprise, Scorpius links their fingers together and Draco doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

So Albus kisses Scorpius’ cheek.

Nothing.

He is free to do as he pleases, and he finally feels released of all tensions that had burned a hole in his heart.

The village local to Malfoy Manor is outlined by cobbled roads and vintage shops with marquees that hover over the pavements and signs that hang and dangle in the wind. The hinges creak and the doors tinkle as they open and close, and every person they pass smiles in their direction, even when they realise it’s the Malfoys and the Slytherin Squib.

Wildflower Bakery is hidden between an old costume parlour and a charity shop. The steps that lead to the door are worn out in the centre, lopsided and steep and dirty from years and years of footsteps climbing them. The floor is old, dark wood, the heels of Scorpius’ dress shoes clicking as they head to the counter.

A man looks up from his copy of the Prophet, fingers snapping and sending his tiny pencil darting behind his ear. He’s a short man, the bottom half of his face covered in facial hair and his eyes so small Albus can barely see his blue irises peeking out. His eyebrows are almost comically curved into a perfect C, shooting sky high as he recognises Draco and Scorpius, his hands clasping over his heart.

“Draco!” The man – Archibald, his name tag reads – says. His voice booms, shaking the glass counters and shivering the silver cutlery resting to his side. “And is that Scorpius? Merlin, it’s been years since I’ve seen you two. Paloma! Come see who’s just walked in.”

Archibald speaks to the open doorway that leads further into the bakery, to the back where the ovens are, and seconds later a similarly short woman comes bundling in, hair wrapped up in a bun and flour dotted all over her face.

“Who are–?” Paloma starts, gasping as her eyes settle on the three of them. “Draco!”

Draco smiles. He holds a hand out for Paloma, kissing her knuckles as she takes it. “Lola… Archie,” he says. There is something in his voice that wavers ever so slightly, a flicker of emotion that fumbles in his syllables and appears in wrinkles over his cheeks. “It is so wonderful to see you both.”

“You’re so tall now, Scorpius,” Paloma (or Lola? Albus is getting mixed messages) says, flicking her gaze over to him, and then Albus. “And this must be…”

“Albus,” Scorpius smiles, gently swinging their hands. “Albus Potter.”

“Well, of course,” Archie says. “You look just like your father.”

Albus smiles.

“What can we do for you three today?” Paloma asks. She ties an apron around her waist and picks up a little paper bag, tongs in her hands as she looks expectantly between them.

“Do you still do those blueberry croissant pastries?” Scorpius asks. He steps up to the counter and taps his fingers gently over the glass, perusing all the options and murmuring things to his dad.

Paloma grins. “Of course we do,” she says, pottering over to the back left side of the counter. “How many?”

Scorpius looks at Albus. “Do you want one?” He asks, thumb rubbing over Albus’ wrist bone. “I promise they’re good.”

“Sure,” Albus says. “As long as one of those cookies gets slipped in, too.”

Scorpius’ eyes roll. “You’re a minx.”

“Hold on,” Albus murmurs, squinting at something in the display. “Are those Honey Rum scones?” He asks.

“They certainly are,” Archie grins, clamping a pair of tongs around one of the scones. “Our daughter went to Spain for her honeymoon and kept raving about this Rum when she got back. We made her and her husband some scones infused with it as a housewarming present, and they’ve been a decent seller ever since.”

“Can I…?” Albus asks.

“Sure!” Archie says, breaking off part of the scone to hand to Albus.

Albus spits it in half, cupping his hand to catch the crumbs, and hands the larger section to Scorpius. “Do you remember?” He asks.

Scorpius nods.

They cheers the portions of the scone and Albus drops his into his mouth whole. And, just like that, he remembers the sweet Barcelona midnight warmth on his neck, the taste of Honey Rum rich on his lips as they walked down the jetty back to the houseboat. The way the stars reflected in the sea, little splashes of white and gold shimmering with the waves. The way Scorpius’ eyes lit up like the North Star, always guiding, always there, always home.

“These are amazing,” Scorpius says, mouth partly full and hand covering his lips. “Put six in.”

⚡

Albus lingers at the door, half of a Honey Rum scone in his mouth, while Scorpius and Draco say goodbye to the Valencourt family. He tries not to listen, honestly, but Albus has always been bad at distracting himself, and he can’t help but dip in and out of the soft words that are being exchanged.

“I promise we will be back soon,” Draco says. “It was just… incredibly hard to come here after we lost Astoria.”

“We understand, Draco,” Paloma says. “We… figured that was the reason your visits stopped. All that matters is that you and Scorpius are okay.”

“We’re doing good,” Scorpius says. “And now I know you have Honey Rum scones… I’ll be here every week.”

Albus hears Archie laugh. In the faint reflection of the window he can see them reaching over to hug each other, tiny specs of flour ending up in Scorpius’ hair.

“It’s been wonderful to see you,” Archie’s voice is gentle. “And to see you both happy. The last few times you were here… we could see the weight on your shoulders. The sadness.”

Albus’ feelings lodge in his throat. He wants to turn around and look, but doesn’t allow himself to do so.

“Thank you,” Draco says. He clears his throat, Albus hears him rap his knuckles on the desk. The paper bags crunch as he picks them up. “We will see you soon.”

“Soon.” Paloma and Archie repeat.

Moments later there is a kiss to the back of Albus’ neck and a chunk from his scone stolen. Albus playfully rolls his eyes and loops his arm around Scorpius’ shoulders. He isn’t sure how much Honey Rum is in these scones, but he’s definitely wavering on the fragile line between sober and ever so slightly tipsy.

“Don’t steal my scone.” Albus says.

Scorpius has a hold on him, dragging him along by his presence alone as they walk back down the cobbles. He’s magnetic, Albus thinks. Keeps Albus hanging on to every single word and every single laugh.

“Our scone.” Scorpius smiles.

Albus grabs Scorpius’ cheeks and kisses him in broad daylight, sun shining on their hair and villagers bustling past them with bags full of groceries and pockets jingling with change. And, unsurprisingly, the world doesn’t end.

“I love you,” Albus says. “Are you fed up of me saying that yet?”

Scorpius shakes his head and kisses him again. “I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

“Good,” Albus smiles, their noses nudging together. “Because I love you.”

⚡

They sit at the side of a river, scones in front of them, bottles of lemonade dangling between their fingers, drops of condensation chilling their skin and staining their trousers. Draco transfigured his jacket into a blanket for them to use, and Albus fiddles with the tassels as he watches a little family of ducks waddle along the bank and jump into the water. Their feathers shimmer with beads of river water that trickles off them, little webbed feet propelling them away, away, away.

Scorpius lies on his front, a book he’d bought from the charity shop open in front of him. His legs are kicked into the air, feet hooked, cuffs of his trousers riding up his milky skin so his tattoo is free for the whole world to see. His eyes flit from side to side, drinking in the words as if they are a glass of water he’s found after months spent in the desert. Albus doesn’t think he will ever get used to how wonderful Scorpius looks when he reads. The way he mindlessly chews his bottom lip in concentration. Drags his finger across the lines when there is something particularly hard to understand. Sometimes he uses his wand, placing the tip on words he needs to reread a few times. He has a photograph of his mother and father as a bookmark, one of them on their first Christmas living together at the Manor. Occasionally, Albus notices, Scorpius absent-mindedly traces his mum’s face with his thumb when he is lost completely in the book.

And it’s moments like this, he thinks, where he sees who Scorpius truly is. With nothing holding him back, not knowing someone sees him. Where Scorpius softens into this impossibly endearing and intelligent boy, who loves reading books and learning things and living. A boy, sweet and delicate, who misses his mum.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want, Al,” Draco says. Albus drags his eyes from Scorpius to look at Draco. Draco with his sleeves rolled up, because he insisted on wearing a jumper despite it being summer, and his hair tied back. Ring glimmering. Fingers rolling over the silver band like he is attached to it. “But how was the funeral?”

“Oh,” Albus murmurs. He clears his throat and sits upright on the blanket, focusing his gaze on a duckling that is flapping about in the water and squeaking after its siblings who swim ahead. “It was… a lot?”

Draco chuckles sadly. “Makes sense.”

“I still don’t think I’ve fully processed it. I mean, for the entire time I’ve been back I’ve been reacting to things how I’m expected to react, if that makes sense? It’s like… I know I’m supposed to be sad, and I am, but I found myself crying when other people did, laughing when others were. For the whole day I was just performing, I guess?” Albus says, picking a blueberry out the croissant to nibble on. “None of it felt genuine. Until I got home, and I finally felt like I could just be.”

“When Astoria died,” Draco says after a few moments. “I felt nothing. Numb, I suppose. She was my soulmate, is my soulmate, so when she died I just… stopped working. Have you heard about Dumbledore’s phoenix, Fawkes?”

Albus shakes his head.

“They were together for sixty years. Master and animal. But friends, more than that. Dumbledore’s Patronus was a phoenix, Fawkes always protected Dumbledore. They were one and the same. And when Dumbledore died, Fawkes flew away from Hogwarts and nobody saw it again. The grief… the sadness at losing Dumbledore drove Fawkes away. Fawkes couldn’t stick around without Dumbledore, so it left,” Draco explains. “And I felt the same way when Astoria died. Like I couldn’t live. Couldn’t stay around. I couldn’t cry, because I was numb. I couldn’t talk, because I was numb. So her funeral was exactly as you said Arthur’s was. Me just pretending. Changing my feelings to fit what everyone else was showing. The only time I felt like I could express it all was when I went to her library afterwards. And I sat in her chair, fiddled with her bookmarks.

“It was only when I saw the book she was reading on her table that I lost it,” he continued, finger dragging over his lip. “It was four-hundred and twenty pages long. And she was on page three-hundred and five. And I realised then how much of her life was incomplete. She would never know how the book ends. Never know what Scorpius would do with his life. What I would do. And that was when I cried. Because everything was incomplete, things we were supposed to complete together… and it was so bitterly unfair.”

The lake shivers with a breeze that casts downwind. It blows pages of Scorpius’ book over, and the three of them sit up and back and bask in the tranquillity of it all.

“Life is unfair,” Draco says once more. “But we all survive, somehow.”

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a Ride!’”

Albus and Draco look over at Scorpius.

“What was that, sugar?” Albus asks.

Scorpius looks to them. “The wind… it made me lose my page,” he says. “And it opened on that one instead.”

“What a ride.” Draco repeats.

Albus reaches over to kiss away a few of the tears that have slipped on Scorpius’ cheeks. Scorpius looks to the sky, tears shimmering in his waterline and lips pulled taut in a desperately painful frown. He looks to the sky and Albus wishes he could reach up and pull Astoria from among the clouds. Place her gently on the blanket so she can sit and watch and eat the blueberry croissants with them. So Scorpius can talk to her about books and Draco can delicately braid her hair.

So they can circle the sun a few more times. Ride the wave of life. Just a few more times.

But he can’t.

Albus kisses Scorpius’ temple. Because he can.

⚡

“I’ve missed your bed.” Albus says, stretching out over the satin bedsheets and dragging his fingertips over the velvet blanket tickling his shins.

Scorpius draws the curtains shut and casts a quiet lumos to illuminate the lights that hang over them. The little bulbs wash the room with polka dots of gold and white, fading in and out as they twinkle like stars.

“We never sleep in here,” Scorpius says. He sets his watch on his bedside table and tumbles in beside Albus, lips pressed to Albus’ shoulder and fingers dragging up and down his arm. “Feels odd being in here with you.”

“Odd in a good way?”

Scorpius rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

The sheets crinkle together as Albus drags the covers over them. The Manor is constantly cold even in the middle of summer, with the cool air slipping under the doors and filling the high ceilings. It wraps around the marble pillars and high bedposts, clinging to the ornate artefacts that decorate bookshelves and wriggling into every nook and cranny it can find. Albus pulls the covers to his chin and curls in Scorpius’ side.

“Funny how this feels more normal than sleeping separately,” Albus murmurs. “Knowing I’ll be able to accidentally slap you in the morning is a great feeling.”

Scorpius hums. “And knowing I’ll be able to kick you out if you’re really annoying it incredible, too.”

“Hey.” Albus whines.

“You started it!”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Merlin,” Scorpius changes the tone of the conversation. “I’ve missed you.”

⚡

13^th August

They eat scones in the morning. Glasses of fresh orange juice cool their fingers. They sit in the garden in their pyjamas watching the peacocks rise from their slumber. The early morning sun is rich on their weary eyes and paints them with a thin lining of butterscotch orange.

Albus kisses Scorpius’ cheek. Scorpius points out the shapes of the clouds that slither past in the great abyss above.

Albus decides there and then, lips tacky with juice and fingers curled around Scorpius’ wrist and bare feet pressed firmly on the granite step below, that this is how he wants to spend the rest of his life.

⚡

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you”

(It never gets old.)

⚡

Albus gets back to his house a little after ten to empty rooms and empty tables. He sorts through his clothes, dropping things into the laundry basket and hanging up other things in his wardrobe. He sets the bag full of Honey Rum scones, for James and Sofia, in the breadbin and pours himself a cup of tea. The garden is alive with butterflies that hop from flower to flower as if they are stepping stones, tickling the petals with their antennae and blinding the world with their beautiful wings. Through the open window, lace curtains blowing from the sweet morning breeze, Albus can hear frogs from the brook at the bottom of the garden, hidden among huge clusters of grass and sat on lily-pads as they watch the world go by.

Upstairs, his eyes linger on the letter on his desk. The handwritten words are bold. They threaten to drag him in and knock him down a couple of steps in his healing process. He turns it side to side, watching as the streaks of sunlight that pass through his window light up the envelope differently depending on the angle.

He puts it down, picks up the gifts he bought for his family, and heads back to the living room.

⚡

“So, um,” Albus says. He looks at everyone sat around the coffee table, Ginny and Harry sitting on the armchair together, folded up in the most complex of ways, Lily sandwiched between James and Sofia on the main sofa. “I know you all told me not to, but I bought you guys some gifts. Not loads, because I know you’d tell me off, but just… little things.”

Monty plods into the living room and settles over Albus’ lap, nuzzling into his hand until Albus surrenders and pets him for a while.

“Okay. Dad, mum, James,” Albus says, sifting through the little wooden sculptures to hand them out. The stag to Harry, horse to Ginny and lovebird to James. “I found these in Greece. We were walking through a little market, and while Scorpius was looking at books I spotted them and got them.”

“Al…” James says. He smiles as he drags his thumb over the curves of the sculpture, handing it over to Sofia so she can look without craning her neck.

“I was really surprised they had them all.”

“What are they?” Lily asks, reaching over to take Harry’s to look at.

“Our Patronuses,” Ginny explains. Albus watches as she tries to subtly blink away some tears. “We can try and find one of yours when you learn how to cast a one. You too, Al.”

“You still haven’t cast one?”

Albus looks at Lily and shakes his head. “No… I never had, you know. A really positive memory,” he says slowly, almost ashamed to admit this in front of his family. “But I think… I think if I tried again now, after the last few weeks, I could make a pretty good go of it.”

“Sorry to ruin this really emotional moment,” Sofia interrupts, holding the lovebird statue in the light. “But what is a Patronus?”

Harry smiles. “It’s… a really powerful charm. A defensive charm. It is incredibly complex and difficult, and it relies on the person having very vivid positive memories. It’s a gift of light, and it protects the caster against some of the evilest forces in our world,” he says. “And your Patronus takes the form of the animal you share the most qualities with.”

Sofia looks at James. “A lovebird?”

“Friendly, active, loyal,” James says. “When they mate they do so for life.”

Sofia smiles.

“I think,” Lily says after a moment. “That my memory would be the first summer after I started Hogwarts. When we had that huge family gathering at the Burrow to celebrate Bill and Fleur’s anniversary?”

“I remember.” Ginny smiles.

“I was really, really happy when the sun set, and we were in the garden, roasting marshmallows. It was very nice.”

Sofia gently ruffles Lily’s hair. “What’s your memory, mi amor?” She asks James.

“It changes,” James says. “It used to be winning the Cup as Quidditch Captain. That was amazing.”

Albus scoffs. James throws a scrunched up napkin at him.

“Now it’s when you first said you loved me.”

Albus wants to vomit.

“What do you think your memory would be now then, Al?” Harry asks. He cradles the stag sculpture close to his chest, looking at his youngest son through glasses that are sliding down his face.

Albus shrugs.

He thinks about that time in France, Montpellier to be precise, when he watched Scorpius wave at the Thestrals. In Alicante, looking at Scorpius and his profile lit by the moon and the stars. Playing with the sundials in Geneva, suddenly realising that their romantic prospects – already met them and it is content – were about each other. San Nicolla Arcella – all of it. All of Mykonos. The sand between his toes and the salt sticking to his skin, drying in his hair, staining his tongue. The lights in the background, the gentle rumble of the bass shuddering the ground.

Scorpius in front of him. Smiling. Soft skin touching Albus’, eyelash shadows covering his cheeks. Hair that curls when dried by the sun. Voice that drops a couple of octaves when he notices Albus staring.

Scorpius. Scorpius. Scorpius.

Albus shrugs again.

“I’m not sure,” Albus says. “I’ve got quite a few to choose from.”

⚡

My Scorpius,

I’ve been thinking more about the future, and I realised I can’t make too many plans because they all include you. I think I’ve decided starting a business is the thing I want to do. My grandma has said I’m allowed to take anything I want from my grandpa’s shed, and I’m probably going to take everything, so setting up a shop or just finding somewhere to display it all makes the most sense.

I know you said you weren’t convinced by studying abroad, but I need you to know if you want to do it, then I am behind you and we will make it work. I get that we’ve started something… complex between us, but that doesn’t mean your dreams have to go on the backburner. These are the years in our lives to explore and do everything we want to do. If you want to go to France, or Spain – anywhere in the whole world, you should.

And we will make it work.

I think for the rest of summer I’m going to put everything aside and enjoy these days with family, with you. It’s odd that I don’t feel pressure to start my life like I thought I would. I think I’m still stuck in this weird transitional phase between coming back from Europe, dealing with the funeral, and deciding what to do next.

But anyway, the future isn’t the reason I’m writing to you.

I have some things I want to do to finally deal with the situation surrounding my grandpa, and I’d quite like to do it with you. I want the company, and I don’t think having my parents as that company would be best for me. Either tomorrow or the day after, I think. I’ll let you know. If you want to come, that is.

I just think after I’ve dealt with it and done what I need to do I’ll start feeling human again.

I’d love if you would join me.

Yours. Only yours. Always yours,

Al x

⚡

“You’ll come see us soon,” Sofia says, voice muffled against Albus’ pyjama shirt. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and she has the bag of Honey Rum scones in her hands. “Promise?”

Albus blinks back some tears. He really hates saying goodbye to people he loves. “Promise.”

As James takes Sofia’ spot, Albus crumbles. James is everything. He is friendliness and mischief and support and loyalty. He’s his brother; that sums it up perfectly.

“I’ll write to you,” James says. “And you will send us loads of those scones, anyway.”

“Of course.” Albus promises.

James shoulders their bags and Sofia rests her head on his shoulder. Ginny and Harry wave from the door and Lily sits on the steps watching them go. It’s dark and cloudy and Albus can barely see the stars. The sky feels lonelier, scarier, even.

“Love you guys,” James presses a kiss to his fingers and holds his hand out to his parents. He takes Sofia’s hand afterwards, joining them back as the perfect whole Albus knows them so well as. “See you all soon.”

Albus waves. Sofia waves back. James winks at him.

Then they leave through the gate, the fence creaking at the hinges and shuddering as it locks back into place. To the train station, Albus thinks. Sofia banned apparition, so he imagines they have a long journey ahead of them.

“Come on, Al,” Harry says, holding the door open to shuttle everyone back inside. “It’s getting late.”

⚡

My Albus,

Of course I’ll come with you. You know you don’t even have to ask. Give me a place and a time and I’ll be right there.

I’d follow you to the end of the Earth without question.

See you tomorrow.

Yours, yours, yours & yours,

Scorp x

⚡

14^th August

Albus holds a wreath of flowers in his hands as he stands in front of St. Christopher’s church. Beside him, hand slipped into Albus’ back pocket, is Scorpius. They both stare at the church. The curves of the glassless windows and the spire that extends up, up, up into the sky. The sun is sweet and familiar on his arms and if it weren’t for the road signs in English all around him, Albus could imagine them being back in France.

“Come on, sugar,” Scorpius says. He guides them across the road, through the iron gates, into the gardens and graveyard. “Do you know where his plot is?”

Albus nods and takes charge, weaving them between the lines of gravestones, stepping over plaques and being careful not to trip and step on anything. He gazes half-heartedly at the names engraved in the different stones, taking in the ages that all these people were when they passed. 72. 63. 24. 9.

He swallows thickly, shakes his head, and guides them to a little plot under an oak tree.

The stone is new, shining when the sun catches it through the branchy shelter that covers it. There are flowers covering the space already, roses and lily bouquets and orchids. A Gryffindor scarf has been laid out, some orange flowers, a Muggle locket with a photo of the entire Weasley family inside hanging off the edge.

“So many friends,” Albus says. “Grandpa had so many friends.”

“He knew a lot of people. Made a lot of people very happy,” Scorpius says, crouching as he reads the tags on some of the flowers. “Fought in the Wars… he did a lot, didn’t he?”

Albus nods and sits at the side of the stone. He fiddles with his wreath of flowers, folding out some of the petals and turning some leaves to create the perfect composition. He sets it in a little space he finds, tucking it among the roses and the booklet that was laid on the day of the funeral. Scorpius sits next to him, rests a hand on Albus’ thigh and rubs little circles over the material of his jeans.

“Is that what you came here for?” Scorpius asks.

“No,” Albus murmurs. He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the letter. “I need to read this.”

Scorpius reaches out. “Can I?” He asks, delicately taking it as Albus hands it over. “Who is it from?”

“My grandpa. I wrote to him when we were in Switzerland. He wrote a reply but didn’t get around to sending it before… you know,” Albus clears his throat. “And I haven’t been able to open it. I’ve tried, but I couldn’t. The Albus he wrote this to isn’t the Albus who will be reading it. I’m terrified of this, the last thing he wrote when he was happy and alive, being turned into something negative because of the circumstance under which I’m reading it…”

“But you know you can’t close this chapter of your grief until you read it.” Scorpius finishes.

Albus looks to the gravestone – Arthur Weasley in ornate capital letters – and nods. “Exactly.”

Scorpius hands the letter back to him. “Well,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Albus isn’t ready for a couple of hours. They sit there at the grave, making small talk and waving to people who walk past. Striking up a conversation with an elderly couple who have stories about Arthur. Scorpius heads out to buy some food from a corner shop and they sip on bottles of water as the sun moves above them. They talk about a lot of things. Their trip, their future, possible stories of the lives of people whose graves they sit among.

They never tire of talking to each other. There is never a beat of awkward silence.

Finally, just before five in the afternoon, Albus feels like he can do it.

He picks the letter up from the grave and turns it in his hands. Carefully, slowly and delicately he tears the envelope open. It smells so strongly of oil and sawdust, and Albus can picture his grandpa carefully writing this in his shed after a long day sorting through his artefacts. Albus treats the letter as if it could crumble to dust if handled too aggressively.

The parchment crackles and creases as he unfolds it, setting it on his lap as he begins to take in the words.

Albus,

You have no idea how much of a wonderful surprise it was to find your letter on my desk when I woke up this morning. I’ve been missing you since you left, and worrying about you, too. It’s a grandparent’s job to worry.

It sounds like you and Scorpius are having a wonderful time together. I always wanted to go to Geneva. I wanted to do a lot in my life, and some of it I’ve done, but Geneva never happened. I love how full of Muggle history it is. I’m very excited to see all the artefacts you bring back. We’ll have to make some of those pancakes you love and go through it all. Maybe some of them can come in the shed? We will see.

It doesn’t matter that they may not be ancient. They don’t have to be. The fact you’re so interested in Muggle artefacts is wonderful to me. It means so much to have someone to share it all with. It feels like our thing, you know? When everyone else is talking about some spell or some magical news we just come to the shed and go through my candelabra collection. Old birdbaths. Bells. I count down the days to when you come back and we can go through it all once more.

I truly mean it when I say I am thrilled to hear you are having a good time. Your mum and I talk about your letters, and how much happier you sound even in writing. I think this trip will be the making of you. You need this. Something that is yours and only yours. (And Scorpius’, of course). Nobody can take this away from you. Nobody can bring anyone else into it.

This is your trip. Your journey. And it is going to make you amazing.

Though I myself am wishing away the days so I can see you and talk about it all in person, I hope you are making the most of the time you are spending out there. I hope you fall in love with the little things. The way the air is different. The way water feels on your skin when you shower.

I hope you fall in love with the big things, too. The landscape. The languages. The people you meet.

I wish for this trip to take you, tear you apart, and put you back together again so you feel free of all the pains of your past. The trauma of school. The dark clouds that have followed you. I wish you love and joy and happiness for the rest of your trip. And I, with everything I have, cannot wait to hear all about it.

I love you dearly, Albus. And I shall see you soon.

Missing you,

Grandpa x

Albus places the letter to his side and stares with tears in his eyes at the gravestone. There is silence as he looks and as Scorpius reads the letter himself. Then there are arms around his shoulders and kisses pressed to his cheek. Albus reaches up to wrap his hand around Scorpius’ arm, rubbing his thumb over the tensed muscles and the tendons he feels through Scorpius’ shirt.

He uses his free hand to fold up the letter and place it back in his jeans.

And he cries. And cries, and cries, and cries.

He lets himself fall into pieces, lets his tears seep into the soil, drip over the petals of flowers he leans over. Albus thinks Scorpius cries, too.

“I wish I could have shown him everything,” Albus manages to say. With Scorpius’ nose pressed to his cheek and their joined hands resting in his lap, it feels like them against the world. “I really, really do.”

“I know,” Scorpius whispers. “It hurts. It isn’t fair.”

“It’s not fair,” Albus repeats. “That you can’t show your mum and I can’t show my grandpa. That they don’t know about… anything.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “They do know,” he says, pointing to the sky. “Up there, down here, drifting. They know. You taught me that, Al. They don’t have to be here to see it all, to know it all.”

Albus looks at him. “I don’t want to feel sad anymore.”

Scorpius smiles sadly. “You won’t forever, Al. It subsides.”

Albus nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’m glad I have you.”

“Me, too,” Scorpius murmurs. He kisses Albus’ cheek. Kisses the curve of his jaw and the corner of his lips. “It’s been a rough couple of months, huh?”

Albus chokes out a laugh. He wipes his eyes and brushes away his tears. Enough crying, he thinks. Enough. “You could say so.”

The sky fades to light pink above them. Candy floss clouds and peachy streaks.

“Do you have to be home soon?” Scorpius asks.

Albus kisses him and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No curfew.”

The sun is setting above them, hiding behind the houses and shooting out waves of thick orange that blend into the coral expanse. Scorpius, his Scorpius, smiles.

“There’s a pub around the corner,” Scorpius whispers against his lips. “Shall we get a drink?”

Albus nods. Scorpius holds out his hands and helps Albus up. “That sounds wonderful,” he says. Their joined hands swing between them, and Albus looks down at his flowers on the grave once more. “It’s getting late, anyway.”

Albus kisses Scorpius’ cheek, blinks away his sorrow, and the two of them head out of the graveyard, the rest of their lives waiting on the other side of the gate. The sun sinks behind them, and they think they’re going to be okay.