Void
Disclaimer: Shut the ketchup! (New alternative for "fuck" since my mother banned me from swearing.)
Summary: A companion fic for "Hit the Floor". Dark Rosius in Scorpius' POV. Oneshot!
It's the last week of school, the beginning of the third week in June, and lately all you've been thinking about is how fucking long the terms here at Hoggy Hoggy Hogwarts are. It feels like they get longer and longer with each year you return, and with that though, you realize you've completed the second to last year before you're finally done with this place. You can't believe you're going to be a seventh year in the fall. You'll finally be on top – heck, you'll even have a shot at Head Boy. Not that you really want it; you especially don't deserve it, and when you really stop to think about it, you can't honestly say your chance is all that great. You stopped trying on your schoolwork and marks half-way through fifth year and now you're more focused on Quidditch than anything else. Nah, Head Boy just wouldn't be your cup of tea. Head business would be more fitting for your girlfriend, your Rose.
Your Rose. You always add that possessive word in front of her name because she is yours and yours alone. You don't want to share her, and a twinge of guilt stings the corner of your heart when you think about how possessive you've been. Admittedly, you turned into a monster, a jealous monster, over the last several months. You kept her from talking to other blokes, prevented her from meeting new people unless you had already met them first, and you did it all and managed to ignore those dirty looks she gave you. You've even got selective memory when it comes to this specific matter because you have no recollection of the night she pleaded and begged and cried and threw a tantrum because she wanted to break up. She had met someone she really liked, but you wouldn't hear her. She was your Rose. And you loved her, for Christ's sake.
"You love her," you correct yourself in your head as you stare at her from across the Great Hall. But you're not entirely sure how true that statement is anymore. She stares back at you with a blank face, and you can feel your blank expression reflected within hers. You frown as you pour some milk on your cereal. Vaguely, just vaguely, you can remember the days when you and Rose couldn't stop smiling at each other. She used to gaze at you with a strange yet serene and beautiful shine in her hazel eyes, but she hasn't looked at you like that since the beginning of this year. In fact, you could, without a doubt, classify some of the looks she gives you now as glares of resentment, pent up rage, and broken heartedness. She just hasn't looked at you the same way since you hit her.
You don't regret this, and you didn't actually utter the words "I'm sorry" to her for that act of physical violence, yet you know that day was one of the major cracks that formed in your relationship with her. The cracks just keep on forming, and you get this unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach when you think about what your life will be like if everything finally crumbles and the void between you and your auburn-haired goddess continues to grow.
You force spoonfuls of now soggy cereal down your throat. The only thing that really stayed truly satisfying in your relationship was the sex. You confess, it got a shade more violent after you snapped and hit her, but you don't think fucking your girlfriend harder than usual qualifies as abuse. Not like the abuse you brought down on her when she ratted out your family name to newspaper reporters. No, it wasn't abuse. At least, she never mentioned anything to you about it. You know she preferred the passionate love-making to your latest style, because she enjoyed being kissed on the forehead in the middle of it, but now the only communication you make with her during a shag is biting into her shoulder when she digs her nails into your back so hard you swear she draws blood. You discovered about three months ago the sex is much better without the restriction of having to be romantic, but right now you weigh the chances of keeping you and Rose as an item alive if you're only sticking it out for the sex. Slim to none, you decide as you down the remains of your cereal with a big swig of orange juice. Something in your head keeps reiterating, "fight or flight", and you just know the choice between fight (trying to revive what you fear ended last summer all while putting up with Rose's drama), or flight (breaking it off and using a summer away from her to clear your head) will be a tough one.
Your feet carry you to the Gryffindor table, and you reach your destination point, holding out your hand as a gesture for "hello". She looks up at you and smiles a crooked smile. Under her freckles, her skin is almost as pale as yours, and you recall the day she screamed at you because you were making her sick – literally. You wonder if she's still "sick" now, but silently she puts her tiny hand in yours, pulling you out of your reverie as she stands up and smoothes her black skirt with her free hand. With a forced smirk on your stiff face, you escort her out of the Great Hall, hand-in-hand, and the few people who care to take notice of your exit are fooled by the "happy" show you two are putting on.
There aren't any classes today because it's Sunday, the term's done and over with, and the End-of-Term Feast is tonight, followed by the students' departure tomorrow. So, without worrying about being late to somewhere, you lead her away from the castle, outside, where hardly any people are around. When you reach the fountain in the courtyard, you pull your hand away from hers and cross your arms over your chest. From the corner of your eye, you see her do the exact same thing. You both stare silently at the fountain, which bubbles with a quiet sort of murmur, a sound which used to give you comfort but brings none now.
It feels a bit chilly out here, and when you look up at the sky, it's partially overcast. Clouds move rapidly overhead, but the sun shines for the time-being. Something feels like it's melting and giving away, down inside the dark pit of your core, like icicle on the edges of rooftops melting at the beginning of spring, and it makes you feel warmth. Like maybe you can bring yourself to decide to fight for her. Your Rose.
But you don't.
The sun goes under a patch of clouds, and everything around you goes gray and matches the shades in your eyes, which have just hardened over. And before you give the sun and that certain warmth an opportunity to return, your mouth is forming words leading to the "flight" response.
You know what's coming. You know it's there.
The void is growing.
Your voice sounds hollow, cold, and harsh as you mutter the words, "I think we should break up."
Your fingertips deliberately let go, and it crumbles, leaving a huge space between you and her.
It's quiet for a moment, then you hear her suck in a lungful of air, sharply, and it sounds like it hurts. She whispers your name. It gives you goose bumps. You stare effortlessly in front of you. "What?" She doesn't say anything back, so you tear your eyes away from the fountain and force yourself to look at her. There are tears in her pretty eyes and her bottom lip is trembling. "What?" She shakes her head, and now you understand she's defying your prior suggestion. "Oh. What now? What is it?"
You feel the rage build up inside of you, just like the time you attacked her in that abandoned corridor. It starts low, at the base of your stomach and slowly rises. "What, Rose? I thought this is what you wanted!" You throw your hands up in the air and roll your eyes dramatically. As you shout this accusation at her, your voice echoes all around the four edges of the terrace. The rage floods through your chest and wraps around the muscles of your throat until it suffocates your brain. It screams at you, so you scream at her. "Isn't that what you wanted? You were fucking begging me to break up with you so you could shag sodding Scamander. Lysander! Or Lorcan, whichever the bleeding hell he was! I don't give a shit!"
You scream and it feels like something's scratching the fleshy skin off the back of your throat. "You want to be free? Then go! I'm done with you!"
She flinches and quickly turns away from you. Her eyes are red and she emits three loud sobs as she hurriedly leaves and runs toward the castle.
"Run away, you stupid slut." Your voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a sob yourself, but it's a dry sob because you're a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't cry, so you get a grip on yourself before a single tear forms.
The sunshine peeks back out from under the clouds. You feel relieved.
The first few hours are wonderful. You feel free. Not a single thought involves her.
The first few days feel the same.
You feel free.
The first week of summer passes, and you're free.
But by the second week in July, you fall ill. You run a fever, and little black spots keep appearing in your peripheral vision. You feel terrible, not free. But the fever goes away in time, even if the little black spots do not. It's not like you told your mum about them in the first place, though, or she never would have let you get out of bed.
On July 16th, your mum and dad take you to Rome with them for your birthday. As you blow out your candles and wish for "world peace or some shit", you see tiny black spots. And as you open your presents, tiny black spots. On the eve of your birthday, you dream for the first time in months. You see her. When you wake, you feel a tugging at your heart, and there's no more freedom left to feel. There's no more thrill in being alone. You just feel terrible. You feel hollow. You feel like someone took a knife and carved a circle out of the core of your body. Something's missing, you know this.
Your parents stay in Rome for three more weeks, so you stay in Rome for three more weeks. When you go to the beach, you see little black spots. When you go shopping with your mother, little black spots. One morning you wake up in your hotel bed, and some of the little black spots have clumped together. Now they're black blobs. Little black blobs when you dine at fine restaurants. Little black blobs when you tan on the beach with your mother. Little black blobs when you sneak away during the day to watch Muggle television, even if it's in Italian, because it reminds you of her. Every time you think of her, the hole in your stomach aches, but it sends a signal to your brain, "I know what's missing."
On August 12th, you wake up, and the little black dots are now black lines, streaking down the sides of your peripheral vision. The next morning when you awake, the black lines have aligned to make black stripes. Soon, the black lines have formed black rectangles, and you start to panic when you finally return home to England and you can't read the Daily Prophet because the black rectangles are getting in the way of seeing the right and left sides of the paper.
Then it hits you.
Along with the void you created between you and her, you created a void within yourself, and these black areas are the deep, never-ending darkness of that void, swallowing you whole.
You walk blindly and numbly to your bedroom and look in the mirror. There's no reflection of the pale face and the blond hair you love so much. Just black. Black in front of your eyes, black flooding your insides, black in your mouth. The black seeps through your ears, and so you can't hear yourself hyperventilating. The black creeps around your brain like some treacherous vine.
You fall to your knees, consumed by the black void, and close your eyes. Your mind goes into a comatose state. Except you keep living your everyday life, and no one seems to notice you're not there. "Scorpius isn't here!" You've fallen into the void, asleep, without her. And it's your own damn fault.
After nearly two weeks, you finally wake up. There's a light in the dark, a breakthrough from the outside world into the void. Light floods in from all directions, and your eyes are suddenly wide open, free of all little black spots. You frantically glance around you. You're at Kings Cross Station with your grandmother. It's September 1st, and you're about to head back to Hogwarts for your final year. Your heart skips a beat and a tiny, odd smirk creeps onto your lips. You know she will be there, and you can breathe again. You can taste your own life on your tongue again.
Off to the side, you hear your grandmother bitching about being late. "Better hurry and get on, Scorpius. Nearly missed it, we did. I haven't done this in years, you know. If your parents would have come back from Paris like they were supposed to…" She trails off and places a soft peck on your cheek. "Right. Off you go then!"
Your legs hurriedly carry you toward the Hogwarts Express, and you board it unknowingly. In the first few compartments you find McLaggen and Flint, who great you with big grins and slaps on the back. You lug your suitcase into their compartment, and all you can say back to them is, "yeah, yeah," and then you're off down the hall again, in search of her.
Finally you find her in a compartment with her cousins Lily, Albus, and her brother Hugo, playing Exploding Snap. You go unnoticed, watching, as she loses and howls, "Ouch! Bleeding hell!" You can't help but snicker along with Albus, and this attracts her attention. Immediately she's standing up and staring at you, unblinkingly.
You feel something inside you melt and give away. Warmth spreads, and you breathe, "Weasley," which she responds to with wide eyes and surprise. But she quickly recovers and promptly replies, using a similar last name basis. "Malfoy." She falls quiet, unsure of what to do or say now, and stares at you. You feel your face soften and a smile creeps onto your face. A huge toothy smile, the sort of smile your father has numerously reminded you makes you look like an idiot. Something melts and gives away in her too, when she sees you smile, and she rushes to you, arms outstretched. You step forward and meet her halfway, your arms reaching as well. She falls into your arms and buries her face into your chest. She grips at your back, and you wrap your arms securely around her head and shoulders and press your cheek to the crown of her head.
Pressed against your chest, you can hear her say, muffled, "I missed you."
You can't will yourself to say it back, for some reason, probably because of your cold and aloof nature, but you smirk and squeeze her a little tighter, knowing that a bridge has finally been formed over the black void.
For now. For at least a while. You hope.
FIN, BITCH.