I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own the characters. I don't own one single thing. It all belongs to the great JK in the sky.
Happy Reading.
The library was not a quiet place. The hallowed motes of dust quaked under the imminent yaw of chatter. The tables were covered with notes and candy wrappers. Occasionally, a particularly vocal child would be thrown out, the stiff oaken doors slamming behind him...sonorously clanging "GOODBYE!" But on the most part, the roar continued its supine existence, permeating each shelf, each book, each ear...growing in magnitude, from a noise to a rumble. It gathered its heavy body and lumbered up and down the aisles, gnashing its teeth of gone-by decibels, moving in a mindless rage towards the end of the aisle, where a lone waif sat, eyes down on the paper, reaching for him-
Scorpius Malfoy screamed.
The quill he had been writing with snapped between his white knuckles. IDIOTS! This is the library! Silence! He wanted to raise his wand and Avada Kedavra the entire lot of those cacophonous vultures into oblivion. Gone were the days of Madam Irma Pince, courtesan of silence, paragon of the natural stillness-no! Gone were the days of hallowed silence and religious study. Blasphemy! Sacrilege!
Irma Pince, the unnamed martyr of the Battle at Hogwarts, died, blood running in rivulets over the tome she had been reading. The Death-Eaters three, who had dared ingress upon the library, dared throw open the doors to the dimly-lit chapel, had died, mutilated by curses only the most introspective mind could have formed. But she died, nevertheless, and the silence with her.
Scorpius Malfoy rose from his chair with a bang and ignoring the casual and condescending glances, fired a silencing charm at the air in front of him. Those watching were saluted with a rude gesture and a glare that conveyed a pertinent hatred. The ambsace between study and play was ruled by stillness. The equilibrium. Pang's Eighth Concerto...calm. Scorpius collected himself, breathing deeply. Fingers massaging his temples, he took breaths in a calculated order. Focus. Stillness. Calm. Tranquility. One, two. One, two. Calm. He opened his eyes. The light was mellow, the shelves orderly. His mind empty, except for himself. Like a lone gondolier in an infinite sea.
Good.
Pulling a black-feathered quill from his capacious attaché case, flourishing it, and vaingloriously spinning it in the ink blotter, he began again. The trails of pure black ink flowed behind his hand. From conception, to cognizance, to creation, his ideas rode the parchment in a trail unfathomed. Ratiocination came from inspiration, and back again, a cyclic movement. All you had to do was ride it. The feather instilled in the parchment an idea, lending a shadow of sentience to the object. It was not aware of its gossamer cling on consciousness, impressed by a nib trickling black blood on its visage, but felt a movement deep inside its material form. Gnosis.
Good.
The air was still around him, musty, with a feeling of atavistic propriety. The light beamed in from charmed windows. Never too much, never too little. Enough to illuminate his parchment, but not overwhelm it. Scorpius admired the carefully placed rays of light...each, diffracting from solid impediment, then rejoining in carnal union, basking on his page. You could say Scorpius Malfoy was a lover of small things. But he would assure, quite tersely, and with a feather in his mouth, that that was not the case. His fingers would splay over the table like spiders, and he would lean in close. You would feel, perhaps, a wisp of bleach blond hair float to your face, and hover there. His grey eyes would penetrate your mind, boring through your fleshy face, past lips and tongue, and nose, and eyes, moving through the flesh to your mind, and surveying it with Nero's eyes. Perhaps he would even have a fiddle. Then, he would begin to speak.
Scorpius Malfoy did not LOVE things. He appreciated them, yes. He valued them, indeed. He saw their unwavering worth, their intransient presence, their inherency...yes. But he did not love them. To love...is to be without condition. To love is to throw contingency to abandon. Scorpius Malfoy slept upon contingency. So, ipso facto, Scorpius Malfoy did not love. To love was to abandon practice, and improvise with presence. To love was for the naifs and nymphets, satyrs, and fertile things.
And, gathering the shadows around him, drooping his head, and refocusing his eyes, Scorpius Malfoy would begin to study. Not for the love of the thing, but the necessity.
Albus Severus Potter, possibly the worst named child in the history of ludicrousness, was enjoying himself. The library was loud, euphoric, the benign chatter stimulated him, invigorated him. Albus Potter reveled in chaos, it was his element. Such is Earth and Fire, Water and Air, compatible without dialectic, he was too, with disorder.
Hair arranged in a fey crown, Albus Potter, stood, one leg on the table, and declaimed regally, "My fellow Gryffindors..." with intonation so congruent to that of the headmaster, one could think it uncanny, "you know, most of all, why you have been called here. Called here, to this literary haven, where neutral grounds are linked. You know why...why we must meet here, fellow Gryffindors, and not in the Common Room! Why? Why, you may ask? We meet here, fellow Gryffindors, because we are not afraid. We are not afraid!"
There was a flourishing of giggles.
"We are not afraid, because we are brave! The snake slithers, the badger hides, the raven finds solace in its nest! But we, the lion, the lion does not run! Preposterous! The lion roars, on savanna or rooftop, wherever."
A flutter of faces, looking at him in question. Sylvanshine, from his branches. Strength. His heart beat against his chest. LOOK AT ME! LISTEN!
"We are not afraid of the snake! It makes to bite, but it has not teeth! The lion has! And so do we."
Scattered cheers.
"We scorn the badger! Its very turpitude, to approach us, makes us laugh! The raven! The raven may steal our cubs, but we shall steel them first! The raven cannot take what it cannot carry! And so, with all the houses, crippled, at their bloodied knees, we Gryffindors, we shall take the day. The cup, last year, the year before, it was taken from us. Not missed, not a grazing of fingers on what could have been. It was taken. Taken through injustice. Taken through our weakness. Taken through our pride."
His voice layered with intensity, necessity, began to perforate the consciousness of his fellow Gryffindors. His words were spoken with true rhetorical flair, and his every movement was placed. Green eyes wide, hands clenched, legs supporting upwards from the table, he was a pillar.
"We shall, fellow Gryffindors, rule once more! Rule this castle, rule this school and rule this game! Quidditch is ours! Godric Gryffindor fights in the light! And his opponents shall rue the day they challenged him in sport!"
Applause, polite, and vigorous. A few whistles, provocative, yet necessary. Morale is half the game. Albus looked down quietly, feeling the growing anticipation. He basked in it. Symmetry, that was his face, beauty was his mantle. Red hair mussed in a sweat-tinged halo, he screamed "THE GAME IS OURS!"
A moment. A lacuna. His heart beat once, his eyes blinked, white covering emerald green, his smile widened, white teeth, pink tongue. Then he heard.
Cheers, an eruption. Fiery, and glorious. He stepped back, singed.
His heart beat faster. He stepped down from the table, victorious. Leaning over to speak.
"Thanks, Rose." He said quietly.
A shock of red hair acquiesced. "You're welcome."
The noise permeated his hastily-cast silencing charm. Snapping another quill, Scorpius Malfoy saw red. Gold and red, moving concentrically around a centrifugal point, a Apollonian figure, stretching out its arms, charisma radiating from every pore. Albus Potter.
Hate.
Pure, unmitigated, raw.
Consuming.
Hate.
Scorpius Malfoy watched with unfocused eyes, as Albus Potter stepped down from the table, meeting his myrmidons, moving through the sea of cheers. His eyes passed over each of them in a loving caress, moving from face to face, eyes glowing, hands splayed, meeting slick, candied palms.
Black, turbulent, maelstrom.
His hair was plastered to his forehead. Red, lustrous locks that contrasted blasphemously with the black of the school garb. Red and gold tie flung away in masculine abandon. Unfettered youth, Ganymede, stood upon the library floor, radiance.
Unconquerable, terrible, umrbous.
Scorpius hated Albus Potter.
Scorpius hated Albus Potter more than anything else in the world.
Albus Potter was a demigod, one of virility, and happiness. One who cast the rigid propriety of etiquette to the winds. He feared nothing. No one. Not death. Death? Death come to Albus Potter?
Scorpius stifled a growl.
The two were antipodal.
Scorpius's hand slowly reached to his wand, fingering the long ebony handle. He swished it in a practiced arc, casting a restricted charm on his corner. A haze emanated from the tip, passing through the silencing charm, and gently encompassing his table. Like a globe, it settled over Scorpius, leaving him in darkness.
To think. To breathe.
He hated Albus Potter.
Pure, black, turbulent, maelstrom.
Unconquerable, terrible, umbrous.
More than anything in the world.
Why?
Because he loved.
The library was dark. The windows dark. The floor covered in shadow. The dread noisy spirit sat in a recess and died. The books regained their structure. The dust alighted again on their ancient forms. There was a great languor. A stretching.
It was night.
And the darkness was welcome.
Thank you for taking time to read my fumid mess.