Warning: Rated T for some coarse language and character death.
Sneakily dedicated to my dear captain and friend, Ned - cause apparently she ships Scorbus and I owe her lots. :3
All Challenges and Competitions written below.
Word Count: 1989
Normally, Albus enjoys the bright summer sun, the blinding rays of light that dance along each curve and surface. He loves the way it reflects against the towering walls of skyscrapers or the way it casts an almost divine glow through vibrant-leafed trees and preening flowers. It reminds him of home, of playing sweaty basketball matches in the backyard with James, Lily, and their dad, the summer heat beating down on their backs. It's warmth, comfort — though he knows a lot of people hate it. After all, Vancouver summers are infamous for their heat — but Albus has never found a reason to hate the sun. Until . . .
Until, of course, he meets Scorpius Malfoy and spends day and night texting him. Which of course means his phone is always wherever he goes and it's set to auto-brightness, which — in the horrible Canadian sunlight — means a hefty phone bill.
So yes, Albus hates the sun because it's costing him money. It irrational, he knows, but since when has Albus Severus Potter been rational? Not then and not now, especially after meeting Scorpius Malfoy.
He didn't technically meet Scorpius — sure, he face-timed the blond and they sent each other Christmas presents and stayed up talking till the early cracks of dawn started to break the inky night sky — but they haven't technically met. It was more of an inconvenience than a choice since Albus was stuck in good old Blandcouver, where half the year was a witch's oven and the other half was hell freezing over. Scorpius lived in a fancy country house in Brussels. Albus didn't even know that was a place until Scorpius had mentioned it - why would anyone name a city after that god-awful vegetable anyway? Were they that against tourism?
Scorpius had, expectedly, given him a two and a half hour lecture on the etymology of 'Brussels' and how it was a beautiful city filled with rich culture, thank you very much.
Incoming Message: Al? You still there? Hello, earth to Al?
Albus jolts back to the present, drawn from his somewhat fond memory by the sharp, pleasant chiming he set for his phone's text notification. He knows there is a stupid grin on his face. It always happens — Lily had told him on numerous occasions.
Im here im here what it's been 2 minutes and u miss me already
Incoming Message: You wish. What are you thinking about?
How do u know im thinking i could be doing something v important rn
Incoming Message: And you would do this 'very important' thing while still texting me?
Well yeah ur important 2 me 2
Incoming Message: That's sweet, Al, but I'm not that easily won over by flattery. Tell me what you were thinking about. And by god, use proper grammar please. We've talked about this.
Albus's fingers pause, barely a hair from the screen of his phone, trembling with hesitance mixed with excitement — maybe even a shot of adrenaline thrown into the mix too. It's not an unfamiliar sensation; he's felt it a lot during games, where the clock's ticking and it's up to him to make the final score, or when he's running, footsteps falling into a smooth rhythm as his heart races with him, wild and alive.
If Albus is honest with himself, those feelings and sensations overtake him whenever he's with Scorpius. Well, talking with Scorpius at least.
Incoming Message: Al? I've got to go soon, my father's calling. If it's really that hard, I'll stomach your horrible grammar or therefore lack of.
Albus shoves the hesitance away, pointedly ignores the jab at his texting style, and adopts the bravery so famous of his family. He is just able to type the words, 'I was just thinking about you', in 'proper' text this time, when Scorpius sends another message.
Incoming Message: Sorry Al. I've got to go. Probably won't be able to talk tonight either. Father's invited to another party and I'm required to attend.
He doesn't realise his fingers are moving until it's too late and the message he'd given all his courage to create is gone. With an odd, almost discontent feeling writhing in the pit of his stomach, Albus sends his reply.
Yeah ok text back when u can gl scorp
Albus lays on top of his bed, his blankets draped in an unceremonious heap halfway strewn across his legs and the floor, staring blankly at his ceiling. He doesn't actually need the blanket because it's hot and he feels like it's smothering him. He wants it there to help him think. Except, Albus isn't quite sure what he's supposed to be thinking about. He knows it's about Scorpius, but what exactly?
The way he can't stop thinking of Scorpius' golden blond hair and the way it curls slightly from that time they face-timed after Scorpius' family went to the pool? Or how last Christmas, James had gotten Albus a brand new hockey stick and Lily had gotten him autographed photos of his favourite basketball players, and his parents had even gotten him a new phone, and yet the present that gave him the most joy, the one he had anticipated the most, had been the brown cardboard package Scorpius had sent?
He still remembers the confusion painted on his family's faces when they saw him rip over the cardboard box to reveal a small bedside lamp, painted and glossed with intricate designs of emerald green and gleaming silver. A single look at it was enough for Albus to know that Scorpius had spent hours deciding on that exact lamp, and the thought had made him burst into an uncontrollable grin. James had promptly declared him a sap and left to get more eggnog.
The thought brings a smile to his lips as he turns to look at that same lamp. It sits on his nightstand, green and silver polish shining faintly in the midnight black darkness of his room. Albus had refused any other light beside the lamp, so without it, his room was a sea of ebony, interrupted only by slightly lighter hues of the same shade.
It takes another hour of fitful rolling and grumbled curses before Albus is willing to admit he's not going to sleep anytime soon. Following that thought process, Albus does the one thing every other teen does when they can't fall asleep: he picks up his phone and starts scrolling aimlessly. He thinks about texting Scorpius, but then remembers that Brussels is nine hours ahead of Vancouver, and Scorpius is definitely not an early riser and would probably attempt to verbally murder him over the phone if Albus even dared try to wake him at six in the morning.
So instead, he checks all of his apps, spends a good half hour aggressively playing Flappy Bird, and finally resorts to clicking random things on Safari.
Currently, he's on the news tab, eyes starting to droop as he scans the titles of recent articles. Albus moves his thumb to close the tab, only to accidentally tap on the reload button instead.
"Ugh." His hand is already moving to place his phone on the nightstand, too tired to care about closing everything on his phone before turning it off when a new news article title jumps out at him.
Three Influential Belgian Families Killed: Massive car crash blocks Brussels main roads, many dead and confirmed members of influential Belgian politicians. Belgian Press - seven minutes ago.
Albus feels his breath stop. No, he feels as if he doesn't have any air. It's like he's suffocating, trapped, locked, caged and oh my god this can't be true. He's over-reacting. There is no mention of a name; not a wisp or a trace of any name whatsoever. Any sleepiness that plagued him before is gone, burnt away by this horrible, dreadful fear that makes his body tense, frozen, and paralysed. He can't move, oh god he's so scared he can't move.
Somewhere, deep in his brain, a voice calls out, Albus, you idiot click on the goddamn article, damn it, just read the freakin' thing! Read it, Albus. Albus, you got to get it together!
He clicks. Nothing. Again, no names are mentioned. No descriptions are given.
Forget this, Albus thinks. He dials Scorpius' number. He doesn't care that he may possibly have to face a cranky, just-awoken Scorpius — oh please God, please, he wants to face a cranky, just-woken Scorpius. He wants to hear the blond's voice, wants to hear Scorpius berate Albus for waking him up before the barest crack of dawn, Al, before dawn! — he just wants to know Scorpius is alive.
It's the eighth ring and no one's picking up and Albus feels his world closing in. The darkness of his room is no longer comforting — it's the worst possible thing in the universe. Everything is all wrong, it's not supposed to be like this. Scorpius Malfoy is supposed to pick up and yell at Albus in that adorable, indescribably cute accent. He's supposed to pick up and reassure Albus that he's fine. Why isn't he picking up, doesn't he know that this is killing Albus?
"Pick up the damn phone!" Albus screams and he doesn't care that his whole family may have heard. He doesn't care that he's sitting alone in the dark clutching his phone like it's his last life line. He just knows that Scorpius isn't picking up his phone and the god-awful twisting in his gut is a mixture of fear and worry and anger and Scorpius just pick up the phone.
A soft click. Someone picks up.
Words are already pouring out of Albus's mouth and he knows he should let Scorpius speak but he can't stop. He can't stop everything just pouring out.
"I was just thinking about you, God, Scorpius don't scare me like that. I couldn't sleep so I started reading the news and there was a car crash and it was where you live and oh my god, Scorpius, you bastard, why didn't you pick up the phone sooner? Do you know how scared I am? I could have lost you. I could have lost you! My god, I could have lost you and I could have never been able to tell you everything I always wanted to tell you and you bastard, I love you, don't do that again, please."
There is silence on the other line, but Albus can hear the ever so slight intake of breath.
"Scorpius?" His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. His mind races to come up with a reason why Scorpius would remain silent, why he wouldn't say even a word. "Oh, god, shit. If you don't feel the same way —"
"Sir, I must apologise."
The voice is deep, low and accented in the same way as Scorpius's is, but it's much too mature, too adult. It's not Scorpius.
"My name is Theodore Nott. I work for young master Scorpius's father. I'm afraid to inform you that the Malfoy family was in the crash you presumably read about, and they are one of the families who passed away on sight."
Slowly, Albus feels his gaze drift blankly to the beautiful lamp Scorpius had gifted him. He feels his eyes trail along each finely painted swirl and spiral, feels his hand reaching to follow the smooth, curving path. He feels his body moving and his lungs drawing in air, but everything is empty.
"Sir, is your name Albus, perchance?"
Those words echo hollow and void in his ears . . . It would have been no different if a robot had uttered them. Or a corpse. "Yes."
"Then, if it is any condolence, Albus, the young master spoke of you a lot. He has said on numerous occasions that he would find a way to visit you this —"
Albus's thumb presses down hard on the 'end call' button.
Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition:
CHASER 3: Write about a Truth that is a love confession OR write about someone being Dared to confess their love.
Prompts:
2. (emotion) scared
6. (colour) midnight black
13. (object) lamp
The Choose-Your-Wand Challenge:
Prompts:
Wand Length: 13-14 inches - min 1250 words
100 Ways To Say 'I Love You' Challenge:
Prompts:
75. "I was just thinking about you."
The FRIENDS Competition:
Prompts:
Princess Consuela: Write about Albus Severus
Shop for a Prompt Challenge:
Prompts:
(Character) Albus Potter
(AU) Muggle!
Slytherin Challenge:
Prompts:
Write about a Slytherin.