And I'm back for chapter 2!

I realize it's been a month since I posted the first chapter. I was hoping to at least accomplish my two weeks goal at the beginning. It was almost done around the two week mark and I was going to edit it and post it around that time. Unfortunately, I went through an intense bout of anxiety that same weekend, stopped eating, couldn't sleep etc. After that life just got very busy. Sorry about that, I'll try to do better for next time.

Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed. Stuff like that helps me remember my stuff isn't trash so thanks. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter :).

Disclaimer: don't own Harry Potter or any characters you may recognize.

Chapter Two: Live Like You Mean It

"Just as every cop is a criminal

And all the sinners saints"

- The Rolling Stones

"Malfoy!"

Her voice is hawkish as she stalks up to It, her head held high and shoulders pushed back. Deep blue eyes rush over Its figure and bore into the eyes with unyielding certainty. The eyes instinctively flick away from hers and focus on her hair, which bursts down her back in a torrent of hellish ringlets. The colours of her, blue, brown, red, contrast sharply against her pale skin and black clothes. It's lived a lot of lives, seen a lot of people. But none quite like this woman. Her vividness is staggering. Her presence demands to be acknowledged as reality.

Like darkness.

She halts in front of the desk It's sitting at, Scorpius Malfoy's desk, and scowls down at It. She probably enjoys scaring people if her purposeful aggression is anything to go by.

"You're late."

It is? Oops.

A response flies out of the mouth before It can even consider whether or not it's a good idea, "Sorry Your Highness. What time would it please you for me to come in?"

The question rings with sarcasm, but It hopes that she'll look past that and answer seriously. It really needs some straight answers about how It's supposed to live this life.

Much to Its chagrin, she decides to be difficult instead. Her steady eyes flick up to her hair and her eyebrows raise in surprise, "No horrific hair gel today?"

"No," It answers shortly, "What time?"

She gives It an odd look which will probably be the first of many, "Preferably on time."

"There's still twenty minutes till the briefing," It knows this because the minute It had stepped into the precinct, a tall lanky white man had approached him with a flurry of incomprehensible questions. Once he had realized that It hadn't the slightest clue of what he was talking about (which earned It the first odd look of the day), he had cut off the conversation by reminding It of the briefing. It had previously thought that this was useful information, though by the look on the woman's face, it is not.

She rolls her eyes, "We have work to do."

There are many questions that come to Its mind based on that statement alone. It asks the one that seems most pertinent.

"We?"

She sighs in exasperation, "I know we've got this whole eternal-rivals-for-life dynamic, but yes, we have to work together. Need I remind you that's how partnerships work?"

That's when It conveniently remembers something Alice said this morning. Something about someone named Rose who could handle herself without It. It looks at the desk attached to Scorpius' and the eyes settles on a small silver nameplate. Her name is carved into it in neat block letters: 'Rose Weasley'.

It turns back to look at her, "What work?"

She smiles wickedly, "Thomas dropped a case on my desk this morning. Disappearance."

"And you're happy about that?"

Her scowl returns in full force, "Get off your high horse. You're excited too."

It wonders what it says about Scorpius that he enjoyed disappearances. Probably nothing. Most humans are oddly fascinated with stories of grotesque horror. That's why there's an entire movie genre dedicated to it. But It's also never been a cop before, mostly because It thinks that the justice system is pointless. That means that It does feel a little rush of excitement at the prospect of handling something like this. Hollywood movies may be cheesy, but they're great at making criminal cases look cool.

"Who disappeared?"

"An ex-con."

"What can we do before the briefing?"

Another odd look, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Rose is silent for a few moments, before hesitantly nodding, "There's files on the victim and some evidence that's already been submitted. I want to take it out of the evidence room and comb through it."

"Okay."

Rose turns away and starts walking through the bullpen, headed for a hallway on the left. It doesn't follow, doesn't think It needs to. Instead, It turns back to the computer and brings up the window It was looking at before she came over. Alice Longbottom's facebook page, on which Scorpius is featured quite heavily.

Before It can even click on the personal information tab, a disgruntled voice comes from behind It.

"I meant now," It looks over the shoulder to see Rose standing in the middle of the bullpen, tapping her foot impatiently. It sighs and exits the window, grabbing the coffee from the desk and walking over to her slowly (mostly to annoy her). But she doesn't move when It comes up beside her. She just stares at the coffee in the hand like it came out of an alternate dimension.

"Is that coffee?"

It looks down at the Americano that It's been nursing all morning and then back to Rose, "Looks like it."

"Did someone die?"

That doesn't even make sense. Why does no one in Scorpius' life make any sense?

Probably because It doesn't know anything about his life.

(Whatever.)

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't drink coffee."

The eyes narrow and It shakes the head a little, "Then what do I do with it?"

She gives an aggravated groan, "Not what I meant."

It shrugs, but her eyes stay trained on It, waiting for further explanation. When It doesn't say anything, she tries again. For someone who hates Scorpius, she seems awfully invested in his life.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

She doesn't seem convinced, but she lets it go with a scoff and turn of her heels, not bothering to look if It's following this time. Knowing It will.

And It does.

The briefing room is surprisingly small, compact, detectives in lax uniforms sitting down at the tables and uniformed officers (the inferiors in this place) squeezing in at the sides. A silent hierarchy naturally assembled. A podium stands at the front of the room with a whiteboard pinned up behind it and a presentation board standing precariously to the left. There's no one at the front except the man who had accosted It in the morning, a clipboard gripped tightly in his hands, an air of authority surrounding him.

Rose is sitting next to It, talking the goddamn ear off obsessively, her mind never straying from the case. They had brought out five heavy boxes filled with various documents, only to be called into the meeting moments later. They didn't even get a chance to look at them. But when It had asked why they couldn't have just brought in the boxes later or, better yet, looked through them in the storage room, she had cut It off and told It she was taking none of Its shit. It could understand why she had been Scorpius' eternal rival or whatever.

"So I think the kidnapping may have been motivated by some kind of revived connection to criminal activity. I don't want to profile, but the man was an ex-con, he may have gotten pulled back in. We should look through his bank statements to see if there's any-" she cuts off and snaps her fingers in front of Its face, "Malfoy!"

"Hmm?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

It's hard not to, "Criminal motivations, bank statements and whatnot," It waves the hand vaguely, a little mockingly.

She looks away and grunts, "Is it just me or are you being more of a dick than usual?"

It looks over at her and raises one eyebrow, "Definitely you."

She scoffs and opens her mouth to respond, but is (thankfully) cut off by a tall black man striding into the room and up to the podium. The morning man shuts the door behind him and the whole room goes quiet.

"Good morning everyone," The man at the podium says in a gruff voice, shuffling the papers in front of him, "We've had some updates on out crime stats. Sergeant?"

He looks over at the white man, who nods his head seriously and looks down at his clipboard, before rattling out statistics and corresponding analysis.

At this time, It decides quite consciously to tune out everything around It. Nothing personal towards the sergeant. It's just that crime stats are very uninteresting. To curb Its boredom, It scans the faces around It, searching for the common denominator. It doesn't take long to find it because it's exactly what It noticed this morning.

It couldn't tell what it was then, but now It can.

They're all oblivious to the presence around them.

The precinct feels heavy. Heavy in that way that dull things are heavy. Measured, weighted, precise. But heavy all the same.

It's no stranger to heaviness. Heavy jobs, heavy lives, heavy souls. It's no stranger.

Yet this type of heaviness puts It on edge because nothing has ever felt so heavily mundane. So mindful of the fact that evil doesn't live like the outrageous Hollywood movies claim it does. Not in discrete moments of horrific violence and gore. Evil lives as a persistent shadow, lining the very edges of life, ready to strike at the slightest signs of vulnerability.

It looks around, surprised, impressed, maybe a little disappointed with the fact that no one else seems to mind the heaviness. They seem to treat it like an everyday occurrence. Which for them, it probably is. Focused or distracted, cheerful or melancholy, meticulous or careless. They all ignore the heaviness. Or maybe they just don't notice it. Either way, it seems like It's travelled into some alternate dimension where the grotesque and sinister is easier to swallow than the kind and thoughtful.

"Scorpius!"

It winces and turns to Rose, a razor sharp retort ready on tip of the tongue. Then It realizes that Rose and It are the only ones left in the room. Scratch that; Rose, It and the black man that's probably the precinct captain are the only ones left in the room. And Rose is giving It that odd look again.

This is going great.

Rose tips her head sharply towards the captain, who's raising one pointed eyebrow in their direction. It realizes the captain was probably trying to get Its attention.

"Yes sir?"

"Can I see you in my office please?"

May I see you in my office.

It bites the tongue before the correction can come out, but nods sharply and follows the man out of the room. Rose quickly falls into step beside It.

"He called on you like three times," she says in the worst stage whisper It's ever heard. It doesn't want the captain to overhear, so It just nods in response.

She looks away and shakes her head, "Jesus, first the gel, then the coffee, now this?" she pauses, throws It a hesitant look before staring straight ahead. "Something's wrong."

"Don't have to tell me," It mumbles, then clears the throat when she raises a questioning eyebrow, "I mean, I'm fine. It's sweet that you're worried though."

The line has the desired effect when Rose grimaces and grumbles, "I'm not." Then she promptly cuts across the bullpen back to their joint desks. She rifles through the case files aggressively, before pulling one out and spreading pages across her desk. It watches her eyes fly over the pages, focus deep, mind intent. It watches so closely that It nearly walks right into the captain, who's holding the door to his office open for It.

It mumbles an apology and then a thank you, slipping in and looking over the office, eyes raking through the contents. It's bare, utilitarian. There's a single wooden desk in the middle with two large black chairs behind and in front of it. Papers are scattered haphazardly across the desk, like the man couldn't be bothered to organize them. It takes note of the shiny nameplate at the front, turned outwards: 'Dean Thomas'.

The door closes quietly and It feels a brief bout of panic at the thought of being trapped, caged in with a man It doesn't know. But the feeling passes when Thomas motions to the black chair on this side of the desk. It hesitates, then figures Scorpius would probably sit down, so It does. Knees spread, hands lying across the arm rests. Trying so hard to be casual.

The captain sits and inhales, deep and thorough, and looks It in the eye in that weird way that makes It feel like he's looking at It. Not at It in Scorpius Malfoy's body, but at the pure form It exists in. The panic rises in the chest again.

Its mind races, thinking of all the things It has done that could have possibly given It away. It knows It's been acting weird, at least for Scorpius' standards, but it's really unfair to call It out for that. It didn't choose this life.

(Quite literally.)

But in a surprise turn of events, the captain decides not to chew It out for something outside of Its control. Instead, his hand splays out on the desk and he leans forward in that odd way male authority figures do when they want to establish intimacy. It's had some experience with aggressive male authority figures trying to establish intimacy.

It doesn't get that feeling from Thomas though. His body language is unthreatening, maybe even a little welcoming. It has to remind Itself that this could mean nothing. After all, It is in the body of a man. If the guy were a pig, he'd surely act differently around men than women. As it is, It has no reason to distrust the man.

It also has no reason to trust him.

"Are you okay?" It is so goddamn sick of hearing that. "Did something happen between you and Alice?"

The genuine shock flows through the body and It feels the need to laugh to relieve some of the awkward tension It's feeling. Scorpius had some weird choice for personal confidantes if he thought it was appropriate to go running to his fucking captain whenever his relationship was in peril. Every minute It spends in this body makes Its hate for the previous occupant grow tenfold.

It decides to play dumb, "What?"

He leans back like having a chat about a detective's love life is a daily occurrence, "You guys have been dating for quite a while. Did you split up?"

It shakes off the ridiculousness of the situation and chooses Its next words very carefully, "What makes you think we split up?"

"You didn't? That's a relief. Otherwise I'd be consoling Neville for the next three decades. He's really overly fond of you," who's Neville?! "So what's wrong? You seemed so absent during the meeting. You're usually so focused."

It takes a note of that for later.

"I'm just tired."

He nods a little, but It doesn't think he believes It. The action inexplicably reminds It of Rose. "Alright, make sure you get some rest tonight," he shoots It a crooked grin that makes him look ten years younger, "can't have one of my best detectives sleeping on the job."

"Yes sir," It starts getting up, but quickly gets stopped in Its tracks.

"You're not dismissed yet," Thomas says good naturedly. "Did you think I called you in here just to gossip about your personal life?"

Actually, that's exactly what It had thought. It reluctantly shrinks back into the seat.

"I need to talk to you about that trial you're testifying in," He shuffles around some of the papers on his desk before pulling a stack to the forefront.

It gives him a blank look, waiting for him to continue. The captain doesn't, as though he expects It to jump in and comment on something It knows nothing about. Granted, Scorpius Malfoy probably would know what he's talking about. Alas, It is not Scorpius. At least not really.

(It could become him though. It wants to.)

NO!

The silence stretches on and It resorts to tapping the foot, staring at a spec on the wall in the corner of the room, pinching the skin on the inside of the wrist. It's officially resigned to the fact that It's going to have to suffer through a lot of awkward silences in this lifetime. It's resigned, but that doesn't mean It has to like it.

Thomas' face slowly melts into an expression of common confusion that all Scorpius' colleagues have been sporting today, "The drug bust you pulled a few months ago? You're testifying in the trial next Wednesday."

It doesn't even bat an eyelash, just goes with the flow, "Right. What about it?"

"The guy's willing to talk. Maybe rat out some higher level perps."

"Cool."

The odd look is back on the captain's face, "We need you to talk to him."

That may be a problem because It doesn't know how to do real police work, "Can't Weasley do it?"

Thomas shakes his head, "The guy said he would only talk to you."

That catches Its attention. It's not psyched that a random convict coincidentally decided to talk and, more importantly, talk only to Scorpius Malfoy on the same day It inhabited his body.

There doesn't seem to be a way out of this, but It tries anyway, desperate, "It could be a trap. We shouldn't give into his demands from the get go."

Sounds like cop drama bullshit.

A look of annoyance crosses Thomas' face, "I'm still your captain, Malfoy. This is your case and you'll handle the interrogation this Friday. Dismissed."

It doesn't know how It didn't stumble upon the victim's photo sooner, considering that they've been going through case files all fucking day. Needless to say, Rose is incredibly thorough. The first thing she'd said when It had come out of Thomas' office was, "You take that box I'll take this one. Look through everything."

"Do you ever turn off?" It had asked.

She had just rolled her eyes and flashed a secretive smile, "My personal life is none of your business, Malfoy. Start looking."

Now, after several hours of combing through every inch of every case file they could find that seemed even remotely related to the disappearance, they're standing in front of the white board in the briefing room. There's an array of papers posted on the board, ranging from court documents to financial statements to mob and gang crime stats. It feels very overwhelmed.

Rose is up at the board, drawing lines between things she thinks connect. This is way harder than It imagined police work would ever be. It kind of assumed that cops were always incompetent pigs that sat around pointing fingers all day.

Strictly speaking, It's never been on the right side of the law…

But Rose seems to know exactly what she's doing, her movements and decisions measured and sure. Nothing is changed without a reason, everything is logical and well thought out. It's reminded of the feeling It got when It first saw her, that she seemed more alive than everyone else, more vivid.

She's still staring at the board when she asks, "What did the captain want?"

It raises an eyebrow even though she can't see the action, "You're asking me now?"

"I forgot it happened."

It wants to argue, but quickly decides against it, "Some guy I arrested is ready to talk or something."

"Which one?"

It hesitates, "Drug dealer."

"Sterling?"

"Maybe," It recognizes that It could probably put more effort into being Scorpius, but honestly, It does not know what's going on. Better to just give up.

"You don't know."

It's supposed to be a question, but it comes out as a statement. It shrugs.

"Do you have a concussion? Amnesia? Have you been possessed?"

She doesn't even know how close she is to the truth with the last one. It tries not to laugh and fails. She turns and looks at It like the body has grown a second head.

"Seriously, do I need to be concerned?"

It pretends to think for a moment, "I don't think so."

"Because I am."

"Cute."

"Not for you," she turns back to the board, "I just don't want to be murdered in the middle of the night."

"I wouldn't do that," It shoots back, "you're no use to me if you're dead. Abduction, now that's where it's at."

Rose huffs out a laugh and then looks over her shoulder, surprised, "Did you just make a joke?"

The eyebrows furrow and one side of the mouth quirks up, "Is that not something I usually do?"

"You literally have no sense of humour."

Wow, Scorpius sounds like a real fun guy. Of all the lives to fall into, It had to fall into this one.

It rolls the eyes, "You're a dick."

She nods her head and looks away, "That's more like it."

The silence stretches on, oddly comfortable this time, as Rose looks over the files and It tries to figure out what the connections mean.

"What's the name of the guy that disappeared?" It asks, not because It actually cares, but because there's nothing better to do.

"Connor Walsh."

It blanches, "What?"

"Connor Walsh," She repeats and suddenly stalks across the room, "I have his picture somewhere around here."

It tries to process. The name sounds so familiar. Too familiar. Rose posts the photo of his mugshot up on the board and It freezes.

"Oh my god."

In an instant, the blood runs cold, feeling leaving the body. The light in the room becomes dim, the edges of reality fuzzy and incomplete. It feels like It's back in The Corridor, floating through space without the slightest tether to reality. The only thing in view is the picture in front of It. Connor Walsh.

Another century, another decade, another year, another week, another day. Another life. Smells of burning flesh, thick and foaming in the air. Ground hits knees, dizziness looming over like the true form of God himself. This was the horror of the Geraldine Rebellion.

Another life.

The scene shifts before It gets sucked in again. Before the knees feel like Its knees. Before the smoke filled lungs feel like Its own. His own.

It stands in a small room now. The eyes are already looking down at the strong, pale forearms of Connor Walsh. The head looks up, but It doesn't control the movements. Any of the movements. It is a voyeur in a recent memory.

A woman stares back at Connor, smiling, her light brown skin shining, eyes to match.

'Can you go get the ice cream?'

The lips move against Its volition.

'Sure.'

The body moves, travels deeper and deeper into the house. New rooms, new hallways. A life It's never seen passing before Its eyes. There are pictures up on the walls, cracks in the blue paint and crown moulding. It watches as the man plunges into the depths of darkness, down the bare skeleton of the staircase, gripping the bannister tightly.

A cooler is lightly illuminated at the bottom, the rest of the room shrouded in darkness. It doesn't trust this. It feels trapped. It wants to force the body to leave. It can't.

Because this is just a memory. A memory of the man It had once been walking down a set of stairs, opening a cooler at the end of the room, reaching to the left side to grab an ice cream carton. The chill of the freezer is gentle, effectively masks the true chill that sets in moments later.

It feels it before the body did. The presence doesn't really arrive because it's always been there, curled up in Connor Walsh's shadow, watching, waiting for the perfect moment.

(~they're coming~)

What happens next isn't special. It's not unique or interesting. One moment, the man is straightening up, looking at the ice cream in his hands and feeling that inexplicable pulse of love that comes with everyday objects. He hates this flavour, but the woman… the woman loves it. And he loves her. So it doesn't matter.

Then he's doubling over, head hitting hard against the side of the cooler. The carton drops out of his hands, rolls across the ground. There's fingers running over the body, something that feels almost human, pulling, grasping, reaching, stealing the breath away. The man doesn't even have the time to feel scared. He dies. Instantaneous, derivative, anticlimactic.

True tragedy.

It stares into the darkness that isn't darkness anymore. Instead, there's a shining, illuminating, blinding light crawling over the room inch by inch by inch by inch. Buzzing, grows and grows, louder and louder, as the light intensifies, room shrinks, suffocates. It can't scream or speak, just watch as something steals the life of an innocent man out from under him. Like an exceptionally unamusing magic trick.

A thought echoes through the room, the man's final words: Carla.

Then It's floating above the room, staring at a dank, dark cellar It was physically inside moments before. Now there's nothing. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of an ice cream carton rolling across the ground.

'Scorpius?'

It looks up at the platform at the top of the stairs and sees the woman, Carla, her lips moving.

Saying his name.

No. That's not Its name. That's his name. It is not him.

She speaks again, but when her voice comes out, it sounds like Rose.

'Scorpius!'

The woman begins to panic and descends, eyes searching the room frantically. But there's nothing. She walks over the place where his body had been lying moments before. He stares helplessly as she walks around the room over and over and over again, a broken record. She gives up and runs upstairs. He follows her. She's crying, her lips opening in the shape of the man's name, but her prayer is gone. The lack of sound rings through the house, silence after a gunshot.

He wants to stay with her. Reach out to her. But.

"Scorpius!"

He's back in the precinct, the light pounding down on him. Rose is in front of him. Too close, he can smell the undercurrent of lemon and lilac that lingers on her skin. The sensation of skin on skin shocks him. She's running her thumb over his hand in soothing circles.

No. That's wrong. Not him, not him, not him. It.

The eyes focus and from this distance, It can see the freckles painted across her skin, a map of constellations dancing in a pale light. It looks down where her hands are connected to the hands and inhales sharply at how natural it looks.

This action seems to snap her out of whatever bubble they'd existed in for a brief period of time. She drops the hand and takes a purposeful step back, hands hanging down loosely and lamely at her sides.

"Should I call an ambulance?" she asks gruffly, not looking at It. "You had some kind of episode. Your eyes glazed over and you were unresponsive."

It strikes her, how clinical she sounds. Like she deals with this kind of thing every single day. Maybe she does.

It shakes the head, mind still clouded over with… what was it? A vision? A dream? The only thing It knows is that the vision was real. It happened. Or maybe it will happen. The details are starting to blur.

"I'm-" It stutters, cuts off, takes a deep breath, "I'm fine. I'm going to the bathroom."

It turns away and walks towards the door briskly, but before It can get far, It feels Rose's hand catch the wrist, "Wait."

The look Rose gives It is pervasive. Her eyes roam, looking for inconsistencies, contradictions, faults. It feels like she can see It. Not Scorpius Malfoy, but It for who It really is. The look is simultaneously thrilling and frightening.

She drops the wrist with no warning, her eyes growing blank, "Okay, whatever."

It doesn't understand, stands there, wrist hanging in the air, the ghost of her fingers curled around the skin. Then It realizes It's been given a pass. The fact that she didn't just ask an onslaught of questions is a miracle. It whips around and runs across the bullpen to a bathroom they passed while grabbing the case files.

When It gets into the men's room, It checks the lock on the door five times before It falls to ground in front of the toilet and disposes the contents of the body. Leaving it empty. This nausea is akin to the feeling It gets when It's associating or has just entered a new body. But there's no euphoria this time. Instead, It feels like one force is actively trying to push It out of the body, back It into a corner, while the other tries to mash It into Scorpius, make them one and the same.

It throws up again.

It blindly grabs at the toilet paper roll, gripping it like a lifeline and ripping it to wipe off the mouth. Then, It grabs the top of the toilet and pulls Itself up, flushing and turning around to face the mirror.

The palms press hard against the counter, turning the knuckles white from pressure, "I am not Scorpius."

The eyes shift, reflect the image of the body back at It.

(~your body~) (~you are Scorpius~)

It grinds the teeth, pushes down harder, fights the ripping pain inside, "I am not him. This is not my body."

(~it has to be~)

The pain grows sweeter, sharper, more acute. Sweat pools near the small of the back as It strains with the effort to keep Itself separate. There's a climax, a pain so exquisite that It falls to the knees, head hitting the counter.

Just like Connor.

Then it stops. The pain stops. The body is still separate. It won.

It takes a few more moments to just stare at the body in the mirror. It's ragged, hair messed, face paler than before if that's even possible. The body is starting to react to Its emotions. Never a good sign.

The decision is made then and there. It's leaving. It has to or else It'll just keep moulding to Scorpius' life, becoming him. That can't happen.

That can't happen because something is after It and it won't stop until it has It.

The car in front of It inches forward, tires rolling across smooth gravel, the movement simultaneously encouraging and utterly disheartening. The eyes flit to the GPS set up on the dash. It's stuck in a traffic jam heading out of New York City. Massachusetts is still two and a half hours away, probably three and a half judging by all the jams. It looks back to the road.

After the unpleasantness in the bathroom, It had sneaked out of the precinct and headed straight for the car, weaving through the streets and back to the apartment as fast as It could without getting ticketed. Rose had called within the first ten minutes of Its escape. It had ignored the resultant notes of Beethoven's fifth symphony playing over and over again. Scorpius must have been a real nerd.

The universe had been on Its side for the first time ever because Alice hadn't been back yet when It got to the apartment. So It took anything valuable It could find and left within half an hour. Around this time, a line of frantic texts had started to trickle in. Rose had threatened just about everything from calling Alice to bodily harm. It ignored these too.

The plan is: cross the border, ditch the phone, get to the nearest airport, buy a ticket to anywhere in Europe. It'll get rid of the wallet and change Its identity when It gets to Italy or Spain or Germany or wherever else that's not here.

It acknowledges that, yes, it is a bit of a dick move to abandon Scorpius' fiance and basically rob her blind while doing it. One day she's engaged to the man of her dreams and then next he's run off with all her shit.

How romantic.

It tries to ignore how much it all sounds like the plot to a bad movie. But It has sound justification for leaving: It's selfish. It can't deal with this life. The confusion, the randomness, the conformity. It hates it all.

(Those three adjectives basically describe the life It's always lived though.)

Shut up!

Most of all, It knows that something is after It and It wants to survive at all costs. It doesn't know if It can die, but It doesn't want to risk Its life to find out.

So instead of thinking about Alice, Rose, Thomas (Neville?), It thinks about the things ahead of It, not Scorpius. Then It turns up the radio and continues to crawl across the highway.

(~won't work~)

The calls start coming in an hour later. It grabs the phone when Mozart's Sonata No. 17 starts flowing out of the phone speaker, rolling the eyes at the ringtone.

It holds the phone over the wheel precariously. 'Alice' with a heart emoji flashes across the screen. It's five thirty. For a brief second, It considers taking the call, making some excuse about work. Then It realizes Alice has probably talked to Rose. It remembers the dinner party as It drops the phone in the passenger seat, and feels a pang of guilt that passes quickly. It doesn't matter.

A clean cut is for the best.

The highway has shifted, few cars drifting across it the farther away from the city It gets. Fields stretch out on either side, barns and animals dotting the land in little clusters. The lack of humanity makes It feel safe, ensures that there are no shadows lurking behind corners or monsters hiding in closets.

'All Star' bursts through the tranquility of the countryside, reminding It of why humanity is a waste and why It's leaving in the first place. It doesn't bother grabbing the phone this time, just looks to the right where it sits face up, the name 'Al' flashing across the screen. It lets it go to voicemail, focusing energy on planning out the next few days of Its life.

But the phone doesn't stop ringing. They come in one after the other, a weird mashup of 'All Star' and No. 17 going around again and again.

A broken record.

When It hears 'All Star' for the fifteenth time, It pulls over and blocks 'Al'. After this experience, It's pretty sure It has no interest in meeting him anyway. The calls from Alice continue to come through and 'Lily' starts calling, her name in the middle of two devil emojis. It's pretty sure It doesn't want to know her either. If everything works out, these names will all become distant memories.

Around the two hour mark (six thirty), the calls are only trickling in, so It looks over when It hears Beethoven's fifth symphony play for the first time in an hour or two. 'Weasley' flashes across the screen. For some odd, irrational reason, It's tempted to pick up the phone. Instead, It forces the eyes back on the road and ignores the call dutifully. But they just keep coming in, one after the other. Even Scorpius' fiance wasn't this persistent.

The calls get so annoying that It can't even focus on the goddamn road, treacherous notes and insistent buzzing breaking through quiet every thirty seconds. Finally, It pulls over and waits for her to call again. When she does, It sends her one of those generic excuse texts smartphones offer, mostly because It thinks it'll piss her off. Then It blocks her and keeps driving.

It's almost at the Massachusetts border when the dashboard starts blinking, letting It know that the car is low on gas.

The tank was full an hour ago.

(~no it wasn't~)

It turns off the highway the next time It sees a gas station.

The place is a total shitbox, run down in that way that's old and uncared for. It doesn't even have those machines that let people pay for gas with a credit card. It's dark outside, but fluorescent street lamps circle the parking lot, illuminating the space in an eerie glow that reminds It of the bathroom. This kind of light takes an unnatural shape.

(~won't work~)

It briefly considers leaving because the change is palpable. Whatever is following It has gotten closer. It dismisses the idea when It realizes It has nowhere to go if the car doesn't work. The man working at the gas station is clear through the window, playing on his phone. It honks the horn once, twice to get his attention. The guy looks up and It can tell he's a little annoyed by the way he takes much longer than necessary to press the button that permits It to pump the gas.

It makes quick work of the whole thing, pumping in twelve gallons and then jogging towards the joint station/convenience store. When It steps over the threshold, an odd chill sweeps through It, prompting It to scan the area for any signs of trouble. There's a diner to the right of the door, empty as far as It can tell, but before It can even process that, the feet are steering It to the left where an overweight man stands behind a counter. His beady eyes follow the news on a small shitty television. He looks over when he hears It coming.

"How much?" It barks. It looks out the window where the lights seem to have gotten brighter, bouncing off the car callously. The itching is back. The itching is everywhere.

"Thirty-eight, fifty," the man's voice is painfully neutral as he rings It up, going impossibly slow.

It pads at the jacket, feeling the heavy weight in the pocket and breathing a sigh of relief when It pulls out a wallet with a credit card tucked in the front.

The crash comes before It can even pull out the card. It turns, the hair on the arms and back of the neck rises, connection inescapable. The diner is all greasy tiles, counters, barstools and booths. The diner is all red, the stinging lights enhancing its malignity. A man, tall and intimidating, balding, stands next to the closest booth, near the line that separates diner from store. There's a half eaten burger gripped lightly in his hand, but his eyes are decidedly trained on It. The burger drops to the ground.

It turns back to the man behind the counter, "Card. I'm in a rush."

The look the man gives him is unimpressed. He continues at the same pace. Because of course.

It just had to stop at the gas station with the slowest employee known to man.

Footsteps echo across the station and It whips the head around again, surveying the place again like a sentry. Stalky McGee has moved to Its right, two aisles down, pretending to browse the products while watching It in his periphery.

"Sir," the credit card machine is stuck out in front of It, plump fingers loosely wrapped around the edges. It snatches the thing away with an amount of force that is definitely unnecessary, but feels very necessary under these circumstances. The smooth plastic sticks into place without a hitch and It quickly follows the instructions on the pin pad. That's about the time when It realizes that it doesn't know the pin.

Fuck.

(Of course.)

The eyes travel up to look at the man again who's leaning against the counter with his back turned to It. The news has changed over to some infomercial on acne cream. Then It looks to the right. He's moved one aisle closer and is now just blatantly staring at It. The heart rate rises, pulse rapid inside the body. It pulls out two twenties and drops them on the counter.

"Keep the change," It doesn't wait for an answer, just turns and stalks down the aisle, eyes trained on the door. It prays to every god It's never believed in to just let It get out of this one.

No such luck. Halfway to the door, the man steps into the end of the aisle. Between It and the exit, a physical block, a barrier. Apparently the non-existent gods It doesn't believe in weren't feeling particularly benevolent today. Or ever, really.

The room becomes an aisle. One single infernal aisle that It has to get through. It pretends that nothing is wrong, keeps walking, head held high, shoulders pushed back. The darkness outside has never looked more inviting.

It's the light that scares It.

The guy is around three paces away when It says, "Excuse me," and tries to slip past him discreetly. An arm sticks out in front of It. It looks over at Stalky McGee who stares down at It like It's an ant he's about to crush.

Scorpius' body isn't short or small by any means. He's tall, maybe six foot, and lean with taut skin and defined muscles. But the guy staring down at him is on a whole other level. At least six foot five with a massive build and insane muscles. It has no idea how It didn't notice him when It first walked in.

Maybe he hadn't been there at all.

It lets out an exasperated sigh, feigning irritation despite being terrified, "I've got somewhere to be."

"No you don't."

There's such certainty in his voice that It does a double take, stares at the man dumbly, "What?"

"Go back."

The statement implies that he knows. This man knows who It really is and what It's leaving behind.

Impossible.

It stares into his eyes. They're blue, but there's a thin film hovering over the irises, clouds obscuring a perfect sky.

"Where?"

"Home."

It scoffs, "I have no home."

"You do now," a wicked smile creeps over his face, like he understands a joke It's not privy to.

It decides that It has no choice. It has to resort to Its last option, the one It hasn't used due to fear. Because if It doesn't work, It's truly stranded in this hellish reality with nothing that makes It superior or powerful or exceptional. Tentatively, It reaches out to the man. He doesn't stop the movement, but stares down at the hand with an intensity that makes It inexplicably nervous. The hand touches the skin of the wrist and for the second time in the last twelve hours, It tries to establish a connection. This time, instead of grabbing at memories, It grabs at the man's deepest desires, worst fears, and internalised insecurities.

Images flash before Its eyes like they usually do. A little girl running through a field, her eyes wide and shining as she looks up at a beautiful woman. The woman is looking at It. But she's not really looking at It. She's looking at him and It's just looking through his eyes. It feels his overwhelming happiness. It is yet again reminded how simple yet deep the desires of humans can be.

But there's something different this time. The picture is burned at the edges, too much light filtering through, the fluorescence of the gas station clear in the background, making the story nearly translucent in quality. It blinks and the whole place is gone, the man in front of him coming back to view. There's no usual rush, no feeling of power or control. No ability to manipulate the person in front of It. Just a distinct hollowness. The remnants of the very human sorrow this man must feel.

"You want to move," It commands anyway, desperation seeping into Its voice. "You want to go see her, both of them. If you don't, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

The man is still looking at the hand, shakes his head like he's trying not to comply. His other fist clenches at his side and his teeth grit. It grows hopeful. This might just work.

And then it doesn't. The man's posture straightens, stiffens, and he looks up at It again. His mouth stretches into a wide, sardonic, self-deprecating and heartbreakingly sad smile. His eyes have gone white.

"I would if I could."

The next moment, his fist is connecting solidly with the jaw, sending the entire body back. It knocks into the nearest shelf, mind trying to piece together the moments before impact to make sense of what just happened. Winding up, whistling through the air, crashing through the jaw. It doesn't see the next punch, but It senses it coming, the fist digging deep and then coming up into the stomach. The body bends over reflexively, allowing a sharp elbow to strike the top of the head. It crumbles to the ground.

Warmth and pain combines, melds together in a cruel cacophony of sensation, blood leaking from Its body. Every nerve and joint connected, It feels the physical frailty of this container that holds It. The fact that this stranger would dare disrespect Its body in such an irreparable manner is the only thing that forces It back up onto Its feet. To stare down the towering figure hunched above.

The beast looks unnatural, mouth curled into a cruel sneer, eyes blank and hollow, clouded over with a fog so thick It could cut it with a knife. His skin is too pale, stretched taut, bones jutting out stiffly. He's not thin, but at this moment, it seems as though It could map out the exact shape and size of each individual rib, feel every bone in his skeletal face.

There's a surge of energy, strength, that courses through Its body.

He sucker punches Stalky McGee in the neck.

And it feels incredible.

The way the man's head is propelled to the side is a rare image of violent beauty. Bones cracking and breath rushing out of the body. No damage to the mind, yet an innate connection with the pain somewhere else. He's fascinated by the way his fist can do so much damage. Fascinated and terrified.

Everything after that happens smoothly and succinctly. He swipes the man's legs out from under him, leading the huge body to topple over, failing its owner. He punches Stalky McGee's stomach as he goes down, just to make sure he stays down. Then, once all is said and done and the man lies on the ground, body trying to regain control, he steps over him politely and walks to the door, only breaking out into a run once he's cleared the front doors.

He barely registers the flickering lights as he races towards the car, adrenaline pumping, heart beating fast. Once he's in the car, he jams the key into the ignition and tries to start it. It stalls, over and over again until it finally catches. He looks over for one last look at the man who gets up slowly, cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders back. The sounds are clear even from the safety of his car. Then he starts walking, out the door, towards him, the lights flashing dubiously around him. The man is constantly in view.

He floors it, only seeing a brief flash as the man tries to jump for the car, misses, falls away somewhere in the back. His heart is still going like a jackhammer when he gets back on the highway. He keeps driving. Refuses to look back.

It takes him fifteen minutes to realize that he's let part of himself associate. Accepted the pronoun. Possessed the body. He stops at the side of the road, turns on the shitty car lights, and turns his attention to the tiny mirror.

He becomes It again.

When It flicks on the headlights, they come out odd and fluorescent. The road looks distorted and sick, the illumination creating a trail of blood poured out in the center of the road, red beating into the eyes with fierce intensity.

It turns them off.

The night grows blacker as It approaches the border. It's oddly comforted by the lack of light. At least It doesn't have to see the unspeakable horrors that no doubt lie all around It. But the expectation is almost as bad, especially with an overactive imagination.

It's imagining all the ways something could go wrong when something actually does go wrong. The sound of sirens arise from behind It, scaring It despite the fact that It saw this coming. It panics for a few reasons. The first comes as a result of Its forced dissociation from the body. For a second, It's irrationally scared of the police because It forgets that It inhabits a white body. So It pulls over immediately, no second thoughts. It isn't worth the risk. It could die.

Then It remembers.

Next, It feels the superficial fear of having to deal with a ticket for driving at least forty miles over the speed limit. There's probably some kind of over the top penalty for that kind of recklessness. This is why It hates the justice system. There's no cars for miles around, but cops still get off on pulling It over. It's all about the principle.

And that's when It finally realizes that this isn't a normal stop. This is more of that freaky, stalker bullshit that went down in the gas station. The police aren't in control; something else is pulling the strings.

This third type of fear is the deepest. It wants to drive off, damn the consequences. It'll probably be worse if It lets them apprehend It. But before It can even go down that route, a loud booming voice comes out from the road.

"Come out with your hands up!"

When It looks back, there are several police cars standing behind It, a set up of armed officers surrounding Its car, and two officers dead in the center, one holding a megaphone.

How did they find It? Maybe a 9-1-1 call form the employee at the station. Maybe the same supernatural force that's been chasing It all damn day. Probably a combination of both. It no longer makes any sense to run. They can't charge It for defending Itself and if they want something else… well, It'll figure it out as It goes. That's what It's been doing for Its whole life and It hasn't died yet.

Or rather, It's died multiple times, just not really.

So It turns the car off and steps out into the night, putting the hands behind the head. The rough gravel scrapes against skin when It gets down on the knees. Slowly, the two officers in the center, one with the megaphone, the other with a gun pointed at the chest, come up to It. The woman with the gun moves around It cautiously, cutting off the tension when she grabs the hands behind the head and cuffs them. It considers touching her wrist and trying to establish a connection again, convincing her to let It go. That's before It sees Officer Megaphone's eyes. They're clouded over, nearly white, pale brown shining through the film.

When he speaks, his voice is monotonous and robotic as he reads out Its Miranda rights. The woman pushes It forward roughly, pushes It towards the nearest cop car. It's not safe with these people, has never trusted cops but trusts these cops even less. It fears the worst.

Getting shoved into the tight, suffocating police car, cuffs digging into the skin of the wrists, reminds It of how tethered and caged It is by this goddamn body. But It quickly changes Its mind about what might yet be Its worst fate. Because as the car pulls away, It catches a glimpse, just a sliver of something next to Its car. Shrouded by the darkness of a field at the side of the road, but illuminated for a second by foul fluorescent headlights. The man, bloody and rabid, skin glistening, mouth foaming, teeth shining, eyes clouded over. Red.

I can't tell if this counts as a cliffhanger or not. Either way, the third chapter is in the works and will hopefully be up soon.

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