Remembered Fire

Remembered Fire... Epilogue

Scorpius Malfoy sat at the desk that had once been his father's, going over the financial pages of the Daily Prophet, studying which of their stocks was out-performing, and which was lagging behind. It had been a long week, and he was still in his shirt sleeves, his tie loosened yet still hanging about his throat, his jacket abandoned over a nearby chair. The fire in the hearth crackled merrily, adding a golden warmth to the room, but to Scorpius, the room had always been warm, always been a place of welcome. He'd played beneath this desk around his father's legs when he'd been a child, he'd taken his first lessons, long before Hogwarts, lying before the fire while his father had worked into the night seated where he was now. He sighed and closed the paper, folding it neatly, his eyes catching on a framed picture at the corner of the massive desk, and he reached for it, studying the images with a soft expression.

His father looked pale in the photograph, he thought as he studied the drawn face, and tired. It had been taken when Scorpius was four, and he knew now the personal tragedy that had etched the exhaustion into the aristocratic features. But as he watched the wizard photo, and the figures moved, he was reminded yet again why he kept the photo on his desk. For all of his personal pain, the hands that Draco Malfoy used to touch his toddler's pale blond head were gentleness itself, and the kiss he pressed to his temple, eyes closed, displayed the love he held for his son more than words ever could. Scorpius watched his father kiss him once, then again, and sighed softly.

He missed his father; desperately sometimes. And often, he blamed himself for Draco's absence.

Forty-three years before, at his son's urging, Draco Malfoy had gone to America to help their Ministry with a case. It had seemed very important at the time, and Scorpius had thought if his father could just put some of his painful memories to rest, he might find a measure of personal contentment, if not happiness. His father had been an Auror once, before an injury had forced his retirement, and his skills had been invaluable in cracking the case of a maddened Vampire that had been trying to set himself up as a new Dark Lord. When evidence that someone had found and was using the legendary Harry Potter's wand had come to light, Scorpius had known that his father needed to go, needed to be there, needed to be part of the solution. Needed to put his own ghosts to rest.

Scorpius had never judged his father. When his mother had told him that his father had been unfaithful to her, it had hurt him, but not for the reasons she'd thought. Scorpius did not care that his father had had an affair with a man. He didn't even care that the lover in question had been the great war hero, himself. In the ways of most children, he'd only cared that it had disrupted his sense of permanence, and security. But Draco had proved to him every day right up until he'd gotten on that plane to America, and even after, that regardless of who he shared a bed with, it was Scorpius that he treasured, Scorpius that he loved.

Scorpius had been surprised but pleased when his father had called him from America, telling him that he'd 'met someone', and that he wanted to see where it went. The Manor had offered little comfort to Draco once his wife found out about his affair. Scorpius loved his mother, but he wasn't blind to her faults. He knew she was a miserable shrew, so he couldn't begrudge his father a chance at happiness when he'd found it. He'd just never expected him to stay away permanently.

In a stunning move, Draco had signed the reins of the Malfoy Conglomerate over to Scorpius four years after moving to America. He was fairly mysterious about his new lover; he told Scorpius that he was an Englishman, and a wizard, but little else. He stayed available to offer advice and counseling, but he withdrew from the business completely, stating that he was 'starting over', and that he trusted Scorpius to take care of his grandmother and the family's affairs. There was a post office box in South Carolina where he sent correspondence, and for several years he'd spoken to his father via mobile, but then, suddenly, Draco simply disappeared.

Scorpius had hired private investigators. He'd even gone to America himself to search for his father, but he'd simply vanished into thin air. Defeated and grieving, he allowed himself to believe that his father had met a bad end at the hands of his lover, and he blamed himself.

But then, something unusual had happened.

His grandmother, who missed her son dreadfully and had become frail in her old age, had received a letter. He'd been seated with her at the breakfast table when the post had come, and he'd seen the color leach from her face when a house-elf had delivered her a missive on a silver tray.

“Grandmother,” he'd asked solicitously. “Are you all right?”

She'd met his eyes and nodded regally, then left the room, but she'd looked so stricken that he'd followed her shortly after.

He'd never forget for as long as he lived what he saw upon finding her. She'd been seated in a white Queen Anne chair before her fire, silent tears slipping down her cheeks even as she smiled. He crossed to her quickly and knelt at her feet, his hand reaching out to touch her wrist.

“Grandmother, are you ill?”

She found his eyes, hers bright with tears. “Oh, no, darling,” she whispered. “I am better than I have been in... so long.” She took a shuddering breath and released it slowly.

“What is it, then?” he asked, gently stroking her pulse point.

Her eyes warmed on his face. “I've had a note from your father.”

Scorpius had caught his breath raggedly. At that point, his father had been gone and presumed dead for nearly fifteen years. He stared at the stiff white parchment she still held in her other hand.

“May I?” he asked softly, and she'd handed him the letter eagerly.

Across the expensive foolscap, in a hand that he recognized instantly, were the words:

“Those who love do not die; perhaps they become translated from this perishable world to the world of eternal existences.” The Prophet Muhammad

And beneath that was written;

Rest easy, my darling. Do not grieve for me, for I am with you, and will love you always.

There was no signature, but there didn't need to be one.

When Narcissa had died not long after, Scorpius had buried the note with her.

For as happy as he'd been about the measure of peace the note had given his grandmother, Scorpius had been both hurt and angered by it. It had been years, years since there had been any word from his father, they'd all believed him dead, and when he finally had gotten in touch, it had been two or three scribbled lines to his mother about 'eternal love' or some rot, and nothing else. Scorpius hadn't wanted to feel slighted by it; Narcissa hadn't been well and that little note had scarcely left her hand in her final days, but he felt as if his father had slapped him. Was he not important enough to his father for him to contact him, too? And where was he? Clearly, he'd discovered some consuming passion in whoever this mystery lover was. So consuming that it had made him forget himself, his responsibilities, his family... Scorpius hadn't wanted to be hurt by it, but he had been. So hurt that for the next two-odd decades he'd tried to convince himself that he didn't care if his father was alive or dead.

But now, in his mid-sixties, a measure of understanding had come to Scorpius.

When he'd married his wife, Araminth, he'd done what he thought he had to do for the Malfoy legacy and married a pure-blood witch of good family. His mother had been pleased, and Scorpius had liked the girl well enough. She'd been easy-going, of sunny disposition, and wasn't too demanding. He'd been so busy with running a multi-national conglomerate that romance really hadn't been part of his life. He was in his late thirties, she'd been in her mid-twenties, but considering the differences in their ages, he'd grown to care about her, very much. She'd given him four children, three boys and a girl, and it was the birth of that precious little girl, his Narcissa Marie, that had made him begin to question his icy anger at his father.

Draco had loved him; Scorpius knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. He'd doted on him, built his life around him. Scorpius knew that his parents were not happy together, and that the center of Draco's existence for most of his life after Potter was killed had been Scorpius himself. So, what kind of love would it have taken for Draco to leave his obligations, his family, his son behind? Clearly, something earth moving; something profound. Something completely different and yet as deep as what he felt for his Narcissa Marie, and his anger at his father began to slowly fade until it was little more than a memory, and what remained was a dull ache near his heart where his father had once lived. He could honestly say, at sixty-five, that he wished his father well. He'd be in his early nineties now, but if he was still alive, he hoped that he was happy with the life that he had chosen.

Setting the photo back on the corner of his desk, Scorpius rose stiffly from his chair, pausing to stretch his back before crossing the room to one of two wing backed chairs that sat before the fire. There was a snifter of brandy already placed on a small table. He picked it up and held it in his hand, taking a slow sip, enjoying the way it burned down into his stomach, before settling into the padded chair. Araminth was from the Manor that evening at some sort of witch's gathering for the solstice, and the children had long been living away from home, leaving him alone in the vast house. He kicked his shoes off and stretched his feet out towards the fire, and sighed deeply, taking another sip of the strong liquor. Gods, he was tired...

He wasn't aware of falling asleep, and he wasn't sure he'd actually wakened when his eyes drifted open and he found himself studying the heavy velvet curtains across the room. They were a deep, hunter green, a hold over from his grandfather Lucius's time, and frankly Scorpius had never liked them much. But just now, they seemed darker near the center, somehow. Almost black, as if there was a shadow just there, near the middle. Scorpius blinked when the shadow separated itself from the heavy draperies and took a step toward the light.

He knew that he should be alarmed, and yet the misty, almost dream-like quality of what he was feeling made him more curious than afraid. The figure moved closer, almost as if it were gliding, and then stopped not five feet away from him, still in slight shadow, but clearly the form of a tall, slender man in a hooded cloak, face still lost in shadow. Still surprisingly detached and calm, Scorpius watched as pale, long-fingered hands lifted, and carefully folded the cloak back from the faintly pointed face.

“Father?” he gasped, straightening. Even as he said it, he realized that this must, in fact, be a dream. The face he stared into looked no different than his father had looked when he'd left him that night all of those years ago at the International Terminal at Heathrow. No, he amended, drinking in the sight of Draco Malfoy smiling at him gently. He'd never seen his father look like this; not in person. In photos, maybe, but even then...

His receding hairline was restored, his hair a gleaming swatch of white blond over his forehead. His face was unlined and his eyes were clear, and Scorpius knew that he had never looked as well in life as he did in this dream image. Convinced now that he was asleep, and yet so happy to see Draco, Scorpius blinked back tears.

“Hello, son,” Draco said smoothly, taking another step into the light.

“Gods,” Scorpius managed, sounding suffocated. “You look... you're.... you're so young!”

Draco laughed, reinforcing Scorpius's conviction that he was dreaming. Draco had never sounded so relaxed, or so free. His grey eyes mellowed as he studied his son.

“And you, fortunately, seem to have managed to avoid the Malfoy hairline.” He studied Scorpius as if starved for the sight of him. “You are a distinguished man, my son. With your hair in tact.”

Scorpius continued to stare even as his father gracefully settled into the chair opposite him, crossing his long legs. Astounded by the vividness of the dream, he studied the dark wool slacks, and the slender cut leather boots. There even seemed to be snow melting on the shiny black shoes, and Scorpius marveled at the power of the subconscious. He watched his father arrange his cloak over his lap, saw the firelight gleaming in the platinum signet ring he still wore on his right hand. The Malfoy signet ring; he'd never seen his father's hand without it.

“I'm sure you've questions,” Draco said when he was settled. “I cannot answer many of them. I simply hope that you are not... too angry with me.” He studied Scorpius's face almost anxiously.

“I was,” Scorpius admitted. “For a very long time, I was. But now...”

“Time heals,” Draco provided softly, voice mellowing.

“And offers perspective,” Scorpius added. “I've children; did you know?”

Draco smiled slightly. “I was honored that you named the eldest after me,” he said. “And the girl after my mother.”

It was Scorpius's turn to smile. “She is the light of my life.”

“As you were mine,” Draco murmured, still studying Scorpius's face. “And still are. I hope you've never doubted it.”

“I confess to having had... doubts.” Draco eyes darkened. “But then, Narcissa Marie was born, and... I realized something.”

“And what was that?” Draco prompted gently.

“I'd never loved anyone like that before,” Scorpius admitted frankly. “I didn't know myself capable. And I realized then that what I was feeling; you'd felt that for me.” Draco nodded, his eyes suddenly suspiciously bright. “And that, whoever this love was that you'd found, he must be very special, or you'd have never...” Scorpius's voice trailed off.

“He was,” Draco said fervently. “He is. I'd have never left you, or my mother, if he wasn't.” He paused. “And I'd never have left you if I hadn't felt that you were ready for me to.”

Scorpius frowned slightly. “I don't think I was...” He began, but Draco shook his head.

“Son, you were,” he said emphatically. “At twenty-two, you were more a man than I was at thirty-five. More sure of your place in the world, more in command of the business. More in command of your life.” He paused, still smiling faintly. “You were ready, Scorpius, or I'd not have gone.”

Scorpius stared into his father's light eyes, into the startlingly young face. “This is a dream, isn't it?” he asked abruptly. Draco cocked his head to one side.

“Is it?”

“It's the only explanation for you looking thirty years younger than I do.”

Draco's smile widened. “It's not the only explanation, but it's certainly the most rational one.”

“I was thinking of you, earlier,” Scorpius went on. “Looking at the photo that you kept on the desk...”

Draco glanced over his shoulder at the silver frame, and when he turned back his eyes were wistful. “Yes. I loved that photo. I still do.” His eyes moved over Scorpius's features carefully. “And I love you, son. With all of my heart.”

Scorpius felt his eyes began to tear, and he blinked quickly. “I've missed you, sir.”

Draco studied him as if memorizing his features. “And I, you. And I suppose I should feel guilty, for leaving you, for taking the chance at happiness when it was presented to me.” He paused. “But I hope you will understand when I say that I don't. I can't. I was so desperately lost, Scorpius, so miserable. For so long...”

“I know,” Scorpius said quickly, then paused. “You're still with him, then?”

The smile that broke over Draco's face was brilliant, and Scorpius could only stare. Even he could see the beauty in his face. “And will be,” he said firmly. “Until the end of time.”

“As long as that?” Scorpius teased, but Draco looked as if he knew the answers to questions unasked when he inclined his head regally.

“As long as that. And now, I must go.” He stood then, a fluid, almost supernaturally beautiful motion, and Scorpius began to stand as well. “No,” Draco said softly, putting out his hand, gesturing him down. “Be still, Scorpius. There's no need for you to rise.”

“I wish to embrace you, sir,” Scorpius said, alarmed when around the edges of his vision, a greying mist appeared. He blinked even as Draco smiled regretfully.

“One cannot embrace a dream, son,” he murmured. Scorpius wanted to ignore him, wanted to stand, but suddenly, his head began to loll and he felt the vision slipping away.

“I... will I ever see you again?” He managed, sounding groggy even to himself.

“Anything is possible,” Draco murmured, and his voice sounded distant to Scorpius's ears. “Just remember; I love you, Scorpius. I always shall. And I am so proud of the man you have become.”

“I... love you... too, sir...” his voice faded as the image before him drifted away.


oooOOOooo

He was waiting, standing by the ornate gates, broad shoulders swathed in black velvet, tousled black hair blue in the moonlight. Draco approached him soundlessly, but he sensed his approach and turned, opening his arms. Draco went gladly into his embrace, pressing his forehead to the sturdy jaw.

“How is he?” The deep voice was resonant in the darkness.

“Wonderful,” Draco answered a bit wistfully. “A fine figure of a man.”

“Of course he is,” came the answer. “Look at his father.”

Draco leaned back and looked into the face that he'd chosen over life itself; into the green eyes, almost black in the moonlight, that studied him so carefully. “I'd rather look at you.”

A dimple appeared just to the left of the mobile mouth, and Draco touched it gently with his fingertips.

“Are you glad you went to see him?” Harry asked gently, his hand spreading on Draco's back, pulling him closer. Draco swallowed heavily, but nodded.

“I needed to,” he answered. “I used a spell. He'll probably never be certain that it wasn't a dream.”

Harry nodded slightly. “That's probably wise.” Draco shrugged slightly, but Harry knew that in his heart, he agreed.

“Are you quite sure that you don't want to...”

“No,” Harry said softly, cutting him off. Draco searched his eyes. “It's better this way, love. Their lives are set, they've moved on. It could only cause them pain.”

Draco wasn't sure that he agreed, but he differed to his judgment. “Are you ready, then?” he asked, and Harry nodded.

“I've never seen Paris,” he admitted softly. Draco's smile began to grow.

“Then I shall take enormous pleasure in showing it to you.”

Harry pulled him in even more snugly against his body, his hand drifting down to Draco's arse and curving over it through his heavy clothing. “I take enormous pleasure in everything you show me.”

Draco rolled his eyes slightly and batted at his arm, but his smile widened. “You can do better than that, Potter,” he scolded lightly. “You're 91 years-old. Act your age.”

“Never,” Harry grinned, his young face glowing. “So, Malfoy. Paris?”

Draco nodded, his eyes alight. “Paris.”

Harry bent his head and captured Draco's lips in a kiss that was no less heartfelt for it's brevity, then tucked the fair head into his neck and stepped into a turn. They disappeared into the mist with a soft 'pop'.

oooOOOooo


Scorpius jerked awake with a slight snort, not sure what had disturbed him, to find himself still sitting in the wing-backed chair before the dying fire. He had no idea how late it was, only that it felt as if he'd been sleeping for hours. His hand lifted to slide over his white hair when snippets of his extraordinary dream began to drift back to him.

He'd had a conversation with his father. He paused, staring into the fire. An amazing conversation. And his father had looked... marvelous. Happy. Young. And he'd told Scorpius what he'd needed to hear; that he loved him. Missed him. Was proud of him. The thought brought a wistful smile to his lined face.

Scorpius shook his head in bemusement, sitting forward in his chair. “Time for bed, old man,” he muttered to himself. “You're getting fanciful in your old age.” He propped his hands on the arms of the chair and was prepared to stand when his eyes caught on something lying on the small table next to his brandy snifter, and he went very still, staring.

It was a ring.

Not just any ring, but a platinum ring, and curled into a small scroll and slipped through the center was what appeared to be a photograph.

Scorpius felt his heart slam against his ribs. He knew that ring; would have known it anywhere, with its entwined serpents over a standard of blooming lilies etched in the gleaming face. It was the Malfoy signet ring, the one that had never left his father's hand. How...?

Hand trembling, Scorpius reached out for it, afraid to touch, certain that the platinum would feel like ice in his hand. It didn't. Warmed by the fire, it seemed to almost throb with a heartbeat of its own. Scorpius stared at the family crest for a long time, then slid the rolled photo from the ring before slipping the gleaming circle onto the third finger of his right hand. It fit him perfectly.

Blinking suspicious moisture from his eyes, he slowly unrolled the photograph and stared at it, his eyes widening, his hand lifting to press over his heart as he stared.

It was of two young men; one dark, one fair, smiling into the camera, their arms around one another. As he watched, the dark-haired man with the wire rimmed glasses and the messy hair and famous lightning bolt scar leaned in and caught the fair man's lips in a quick kiss, and the blond laughed and returned it before turning his head and grinning. They looked so young, so happy. So... free.

Scorpius watched the scene play out again, and again, a slow smile beginning to pull across his lips.