Chapter 4

Scorpius had erected every ward he could think of. His apartments were locked up so tight not even radio waves were coming through. Nothing was getting into his apartments including the elves. In meant he had to clean the place himself, which wasn't such a burden considering he could just flick his wand. Right now, he just wanted rid of this damn cold.

It started to feel a little warmer, but there was a still a distinct chill. Scorpius guessed it would take some time to degrade, whatever spell had been inflicted on his personal space. This wasn't just some random attack, it was personal, targeted where he slept.

Draco was looking into who was attacking them, having engaged one of the charm masters to look into the issue. Scorpius sat back and relaxed, letting his father chase down the culprit. It was snowing again outside and the fire roared in the grate, enough to warm him as he sat on the sofa, feeling bored with the whole thing.

Perhaps he should find out what everyone was up to—the bored elite, forever searching for entertainment and distraction. He wouldn't even mind following Draco somewhere to beat up someone not towing the line. Draco was the consummate bully. Anyone who put themselves in his way, or stepped out of line, got it, swiftly and brutally. It kept insurrection at bay. Fear truly was the most effective tool for ruling.

A text pinged through on his phone, but he knew it was Claudine and he couldn't be bothered with her relentless neediness. Picking up his wand, he skinned an apple, slowly peeling the skin off it, seeing the juice spirt as he magically cut into cells. Merlin, he was bored, and bored made him cranky.

Suddenly he wanted to move, to stretch, feel his muscles work. He took good care of his body, keeping himself in shape. It was a point of principle. Looking good was important; added to the image of the family, of their invulnerability.

Again his mind turned back to the girl he'd killed, her tatty cardigan and dress. She had been much to pretty for those poor clothes. Why did they fight? He didn't understand. This was how things were supposed to be. What was the point fighting it?

Discomfort drove him off the sofa and he turned to his wardrobe. He needed to move, burn some energy. Undressing, he pulled on a pair of grey shorts and a dressing gown before heading downstairs to the pool located in a high vaulted room, which was completely silent, the water lying motionless and slack in its large basin. The windows in the pool room were always steamy, heat rising from the pool and distorting the view outside.

Slipping his white dressing gown off, he walked over the rough stone slabs and dived into the pool, feeling the warm water caress his skin. It felt heavenly and he emerged after swimming a good half-length under water. Noise echoed off the walls now—water rushing over the edge of the pool into its hidden receptors around the pool.

With speed, he swam the length and back, feeling the water move around his body. He stopped in the middle, where it was too deep to stand. All of the pool was too deep to stand. This wasn't a pool for frightened children. Lucius didn't necessarily believe in leisure, so he didn't build much for the pointless activity, including this pool, which was meant for exercise.

Cold currents swirled around his legs, which was strange. The cool spread up his legs, making him freeze. Goosebumps rose quickly, making his skin tighten painfully. The cold was intensifying and he feared the water would freeze around him.

With his heart beating and lungs burning, he set off at pace for the edge, when burning cold clenched around his ankle, dragging him under the icy water. He heard nothing but his own heart beat and the air coming out of his lungs. Fear speared up his spine, tensing his whole body, but he refused to give into it. Under attack, he couldn't panic. Don't panic he told himself, forcing himself to still.

A tug forced him down deeper and he looked down, trying to spot what was acting against him, but there was nothing. Clear cold water was all he could see as he opened his eyes. Not even the slight distortion around a disillusion charm. His ankle still burned from where the thing had touched him, but now his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. He had to get up, had to get air. His arms pumping, he forced himself up to the surface, forcing his body through the water. The ceiling was above him, dome shaped through the water. It seemed an eternity away.

He had no wand. It was in the pocket of the dressing gown and now he was vulnerable—in water, where he could drown so easily. Something slashed along his thigh, he felt the sharp burn of it. He saw no blood, but it felt like he'd been cut. With desperation, he focused all his attention to the surface. He had to get there. Lungs screaming for air and panic threatened to blind everything from his mind.

Flailing, he felt like he wasn't getting there, finally fearing that he might actually die. The surface came suddenly and he roared air into his lungs, looking around desperately for what was in the water with him. Beyond doubt, he wasn't alone in the pool and something was attacking him.

With harsh strokes, he swam to the edge, expecting another attack, but nothing came. The edge of was almost within his grip and he begged to reach it. His fingers clasped around the edge and he pulled himself out of the water in a smooth move leaving him crumpled on the edge. Urgently he shifted away from the edge unless he got pulled in again.

Powerful heartbeats pumped against his chest wall. Looking down, he saw red welts running along his thigh. Four of them in a row, like thin, skeletal fingers. They were around his ankle as well, pain searing up his leg and horror filled his mind for a moment, soon being pushed out by pure rage.

The rage wasn't enough to compensate for the iciness that had set into his body. His breath was condensating again and ice had crept up the lower part of the windows. This coldness hadn't been there when he got here, it had come and it had attacked him. Fury coursed through him as he rose, his leg aching in latent pain.

-0-

It stood in the doorway watching him, knowing it wasn't seen. He was there, the pale one. It hated him. It was the only thing it knew, hate directed at the pale young man. Cold hate emanated from fingers, freezing anything it touched.

Red welts ran along the man's thigh as he stood in the shower, naked now under the steaming water. It had placed them there. The ability to touch him, to hurt him, had been a revelation. Icy fingers reached through blankets and clothes, and scorched him.

The notion of form had just entered its mind. It had no past, no identity, no purpose other than to hate. Now there was fingers for touching, hurting.

The man leaned on the tiled wall, the hot water making his shoulders red. The urge to touch him again grew, to see him contort in pain, but abruptly he turned off the water and stepped out, naked, his slim form with corded muscles. If he was beautiful, it didn't notice. There was only hate.

Quickly, he stroked the towel along his limbs and let it drop to the floor as he walked with unseeing eyes. Solid form moved through mist and he continued, unaware he had passed by the thing that hated him.

Dressing quickly, he pulled on a shirt and pants, then a black jacket. As black as his heart.

The man left and it thought of following, but it was too tired. Too much energy had been used and now it was empty—too empty to follow. Touching took energy, rage fueling its actions, but now energy was depleted.

The hated one returned with another, older and colder.

"Even with the wards, it is reaching me," the hated one said. "I don't know how, but it must be someone very powerful. Who is powerful enough to get through our wards and attack me physically?"

The cold one slowly walked around the room, twisting a silver cufflink. "I don't know. Perhaps we need to get the professionals in, see if we can trace where this is coming from."

"Can you feel the chill?"

"Yes," the cold one said. "I will send a message, have Heffing come."

The cold one left and the other sat down on the sofa with his arms crossed, mouth drawn tight. It wanted to dig its fingers into his chest and pull him apart, aching to hurt, to scar the pale skin.

He pulled out a small, flat box and focused his attention there, while it stalked around him.

The cold one returned with a short man with glass making his eyes too large for his face. "Let's see," the man said as he lifted his wand and closed his eyes, moving like he was feeling the air. He walked around the apartment, eyes still closed and grunted when he walked into objects.

"There is a definite chill and I think it's colder over here."

"What is it?"

The man with brown hair combed over his balding head concentrated further. "There is nothing."

"What do you mean there is nothing?" the hated one demanded. "We can all feel it. Don't tell me it's nothing!"

The man tried again, mumbling as he felt the air. "It's not magical," he said, lowering his wand. "Other than the object emanating, which are all harmless, there is nothing here. Not even a trace."

"You're useless," the hated one screamed. "Get out."

The cold one didn't move as the small one rushed past.

"He's obviously worthless if he can't find anything. It couldn't be more obvious that there is something here."

A small knock on the door signified the short man's return. He refused to step into the apartment and looked ready to run if anyone so much as moved. "You might have to consider metaphysical," the man said in a squeaky voice.

"Metaphycisal?" the cold one repeated.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

The short man made a peeping sound and disappeared.

"It means you could be … haunted," the cold one said, looking down at the other who stared disbelievingly.

"That's ridiculous."

"Probably," the cold one said and walked out the room.