September always seems to come as a shock to Scorpius – August is still summer, after all, and somehow he never makes the connection from August 31st to September 1st, from the carefree laziness of summer to the perfectly timed regulation of school. It takes weeks before he can force himself back into the familiar routine – by the time the leaves start falling, Scorpius has switched out of summer mode. His nature changes with the seasons, Rose told him once.

His mother presses a cool kiss to his stubbly cheek, her lemony perfume sweeping over him. "Have a good term, dear," she says, giving him one last hug before straightening out her pale yellow dress and waving him a refined farewell.

All he can think as the train pulls out is yellow, the color of surprise. He doesn't know where the idea came from – a dream? – but now it's stuck in his head like the rhythm of a pounding drum – yellow, surprise, yellow, surprise.

This year is different – she isn't there, and he sits alone with the window, noting how remarkably different its frigid touch is from her blazing one, the touch that sent tongues of fire dancing through his entire body.

And now her body has succumbed to the flames, which, now that he thinks about it, really owned her all along. She doesn't belong with the rushing waves and the damp earth and the swirling air. She belongs to the sun – fiery and golden and passionate – and so far away.

In a moment of foolish fancy, he presses a kiss to his hand and blows it out the window towards the sun, daring, hoping, for it to reach her. He doesn't know if it ever will.