Part 1: The Resistance
Chapter 4
Scorpius
"What are you waiting for?"
Jane's voice, though a smooth velvet, is not pleasing to my ears.
I'm thinking of Confringo, then Sectumsempra, then Bombarda. I'm thinking of the effects whilst staring at her sleek dark hair and that skull beneath it. I'm thinking of it while my wand is pointed at her head, feeling crystal clear, but I'm only thinking about them. I did not cast them non-verbally.
The heat on my face is cooling rapidly, vanishing as the thud of my pulse seems to slow to a standstill.
I realize Raina's wand is trained on me, the focus of an assassin, and that my blood has run cold.
What am I doing? My hand is quivering and the wand tip is unsteady. Jane looks over her shoulder with an arched brow, her face marked by the golden glow of the candles.
"Well?"
Jane's wand is fixated on Roman's heart. In that second, her wand might as well be fixated at my head, her eyes boring into my skull, saying Confringo, Sectumsempra, Bombarda because she knows that she can.
I have just made things worse for him. He knew all along, when he told me to not worry, when he couldn't tell me what he had done because he knew I might interfere.
Jane does not like interferences.
With a shaky release of breath, I drop my hand. My wand skitters out of my fingers from the force. Raina picks it up with the litheness of a dancer, and twirls it, lowering her own.
"I can break it for you." She says.
My wand is a disembodied limb that is spinning in between her fingers. It's useless asking for it back. They'll chose to give or to keep, like always, because they can.
I tear my eyes away from Raina and meet Jane's.
"I'm sorry, Jane."
My apology is hoarse, the words breaking and rumbling in my throat as it closes and makes it hard to swallow.
"You're sorry?" Jane says.
"Yes, I—I didn't know what I was doing—"
"Oh, look at that, Roman." Raina cooes. "How sweet. The boy cares for you."
"No, I—"
"No?" Jane's eyebrow climbs higher. "Then don't mind me while I..."
I have never seen Jane use the Cruciatus Curse, though she is known to use it often. Every lieutenant under her has, except me.
Roman's scream saws right through my bones. His voice assaults my ears, a plea that I can't answer to, and drills itself into my brain, tearing at my flesh. I watch as the veins in his neck wish to break from his skin, and his eyes bulge as though his voice is forcing itself free from there as well. His back arches, and his chest protrudes so far that the buttons on his shirt pop off one by one...
"Jane." I say weakly.
She ignores me.
I can't hear my breath, but I know it's stuttered. I can't feel my arms, my legs, nor my face. I can feel a distant beat, but I can't be sure that it's my heart. Surely this is not my body, the body that is standing here, frozen to the screams of a man. Surely this is not him, this is not Jane, and not Raina. This is not the Resistance.
It is. It is. This is what I chose to join.
Jane clenches her jaw and Roman's screams become louder, the pitch climbing higher, piercing my ears. I want to block out the sound but I can't. A drop of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth.
"Jane." I feel my lips moving, but there's no sound.
Roman's crying, his eyes staring into the ceiling as though there was a savior who would take pity on him, his fingers shaking so hard they want to break off.
"You have to hear him out." I say, but it's drowned out by Roman's pain, his desperation seeping through the smell of blood and sweat.
Jane's entire body is taut, her attention focused solely on the contorted body at her feet.
He's levitating now, shaking, a spasm so frequent and violent that his lips vibrate visibly along with the rest of his limbs. His right leg is bent at an unnatural angle, twitching, twitching, twitching, and won't stop bending the wrong way. His screams don't cease, but they change texture, like new metal to rust. A wretched smell fills the room, and sick begins bubbling up from his stomach, spilling out over his mouth, cloaking the damning sound. He shudders harder, his eyes widened to the point where I'm sure they will rip themselves apart, and he flings out an arm like a drowning man trying to stay afloat. A feeble cough erupts, followed by another, and this man is fighting to regain control of his body over the pain, fighting to breathe...
"Jane." I croak out. I can't breathe either. "Jane."
Raina says, "Scorpius, you didn't even last two minutes without a protest."
This can't be two minutes. This must have been an hour, two hours, three. This must have been somewhere along the path to eternity, for no sound can exist like this for so long...
His knee snaps. It sounds like a gunshot amid the choking, amid the silence of the watching.
A choked sound escapes my lips.
Fresh blood drips off the glistening bone and sinew, dark against the fabric of his pants, a palette of red and white and black. He gives a bodily jerk, his mouth stretched wide, but no sound comes out. The coughs are gone. The limbs still twitch.
"Jane." My voice is stuck. "Jane, he can't breathe."
Jane does not stop.
His face is turning blue.
"Jane!" My voice rips itself from my chest. "Jane!"
Raina grabs my arms and twists them behind my back. She hisses in my ear, "Be good, Scorpius. Don't make it worse for yourself."
"Jane!" I'm still screaming at her. "That's enough! Stop it, that's enough!"
His eyes meet mine. It's not a person who stares at me, but a shell. His head twitches like a caught bug while sick and crimson smear his cheek in thick layers.
Then it all disappears. He flops onto the carpet, his eyes wide and glassy.
Everything will be fine, he said. Don't worry, he told me.
"You are too soft, Scorpius." Raina says from behind me. "I should have spent more time on Cantor just for you."
Finally, Jane turns to me, her eyes less cold. "He's not dead, Scorpius."
The smell of Roman's sick burns my nose.
"He...you didn't—you didn't hear him out." I hear myself say.
"You think I can't guess?" Jane turns to me, undeterred.
"But—" I stop. But he didn't get a chance to tell his story.
"But?"
I stare at my feet. Was there really any use arguing with her?
"Here's what he did, Scorpius. He took an order from Kingsley Shacklebolt to place Rose Weasley in one of the recent assignments for work experience. He decided to put Weasley into the execution mission, because Shacklebolt suggested it." Jane pauses, studying me. "Because a Confirmation Scout would not risk a life. And foolishly, Roman accepted Shacklebolt's suggestion."
"Foolishly?" I say. How is she certain?
"Yes, foolishly." Jane says as Raina smirks.
"You blame him for listening to the Minister for Magic?"
Jane says. "The Minister for Magic has nothing to do with this."
This is not making sense. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is the Minister for Magic—"
"You are beginning to feel like a nuisance to me, Scorpius Malfoy." Jane says icily.
I take a shaky breath and shut my words away.
"If you don't trust me, go ahead and ask Roman some day." Jane continues.
The lasting silence beats at my skull. Roman...he looks dead.
"You are dismissed." Jane's parting words, spoken softer, warmer.
I hesitate before turning to Raina. She tosses me my wand, the smirk still evident.
Jane takes a silvery pouch from her cloak, and holds it out for me on her palm. My fingers brush her skin when I take it, and I flinch. The right corner of her mouth tips downwards.
The Portkey is inside, a blue ribbon curled neatly. I dump it onto my palm, clench it hard. Roman's not dead. Roman's not dead.
He looks dead.
As an invisible hook pulls my navel, I hear Jane say, "Don't visit Roman again."
.
.
It has only been a day since the Resistance meeting.
We are in a single line down the hall as Pluvimber checks our uniforms one by one. There is no moving, no speaking, and no looking. Eyes must face forward, hands must be at one's sides, and feet must be together. If someone's posture is not straight, it means extra laps to run. During an inspection, no one wants to be pointed out.
Pluvimber, with his hands clasped behind his back, stops in front of Stevenson. His vivid green eyes rake over the cropped chestnut hair and the smoothness of skin free from stubble. He stares at the double buttoned jacket and leans closer, his eyes narrowing.
"There is a smudge on your button, Mr. Stevenson." He says. "Go clean up."
"Yes, sir." Stevenson breaks from the line with his head bowed, his shoes moving fast on the carpet, eager to get out of scrutiny.
Pluvimber steps in front of me. He does the same routine, checking from head to toe, his eyes travelling down in a precise manner.
"Well done, Mr. Malfoy."
I give him a sharp nod. "Thank you, sir."
Someone makes a small impatient huff. I don't need to turn my head to know that it's Weasley.
Pluvimber gives me a faint smile and moves on.
An hour passes as he examines the thirty-six of us. The slow laborious routine has come to an end when he moves from the end of the line to the front, walking in slow, long strides. His robes drag against the carpet behind him, hanging off his thin frame. His hands are clasped behind his back, left hand over the right. He paces the length of our line, taking his time to choose.
"What is a witch or a wizard without their wand?" He stops in front of Weasley.
Weasley's mouth is open before his words finish registering in everyone's minds. "They're helpless because they can't use magic."
"Correct." Pluvimber sweeps on. "It makes us vulnerable."
He stops in front of me. "Everything we have done so far has used a wand, with the exclusion of studying theory of course. Mr. Malfoy, how will you attempt a mission without your wand?"
I can feel the burn of everyone waiting for me to say the correct answer. How would I attempt the mission without my wand? I can't.
In my peripheral vision, Weasley's hand shoots up into the air. She's biting her lip, her foot tapping subtly.
I say, "It depends on the mission, Sir."
Pluvimber's smile is faint. "Very good. And how would you attempt a mission with someone else's wand?"
Weasley's arm stretches higher, rigid, foot tapping even faster.
"Today in Simulation Training," says Pluvimber, "you will not be using your wands."
Weasley deflates and drops her hand in a surly manner.
He steps backwards until he meets the opposite wall, waving me forward. I break from line, feeling the weight of everyone's curious thoughts. He then approaches Weasley, his auburn and silver hair glinting as he passes under lights, and gestures for her to step forward.
"Please." He says, clasping his hands behind his back once more. "Switch your wands."
It takes more than a few seconds for that to sink in, and I look at Weasley.
She's staring at me with a neutral expression, but her eyes burn. Her wand is being strangled in her grip, and I know she wishes that it was me in her fist.
"Now." Pluvimber's tone becomes authoritative.
I approach her with my eyes locked on her face. Every step I take feels wooden, and when my hand rises and offers the very object that contains my strength, I want the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
But she's still there in front of me, the top of her head reaching only my chin, her blue eyes glaring into mine as she plucks it from my palm with her index finger and thumb, like it's a diseased animal.
Neither of us move for the longest time.
"Your wand." I say, tersely.
A flash of a scowl crosses her face before she slaps her wand into my hand, the action gentle enough that onlookers wouldn't notice her hostility.
"Excellent." Pluvimber says. He peers at Stevenson as he returns to his spot in the line. "Stevenson, why don't you switch with Burclove?"
Stevenson blinks, looking from Pluvimber, to me, to Weasley.
"Switch, sir?" His voice rises an octave.
"Yes. Now." Pluvimber gestures at Celestia.
She steps forward and swiftly hands over her wand. Stevenson stares at it, a little baffled, and then hands over his.
"Excellent." Pluvimber says again, and then moves onto the next pair.
.
.
The Simulation Training room is made of a glowing, pearly white. I squint along with everyone else as we enter into the pulsing, sharp light, our feet marching upon smooth black marble floor .
It is large, spanning several kilometers outwards from where we've entered, from the center of the circle. The veil ripples like water as each person steps through, the ripples spreading and dying as the last Auror-In-Training has entered the Simulation Training room.
The silence follows. We wait, holding our breaths, shifting our feet further apart to prepare for the inevitable.
"There is thirty-six." The same cool, female voice from the lifts resounds. "Do you agree or object?"
Weasley's voice rises above all other voices, answering with a superiority that rings out. "Agree."
A click sounds. Then a chill settles over everyone, like ice-water trickling slowly, slowly, slowly from the top of our head to our toes.
And the dome whirls into a blur, high winds blow from nowhere, whipping our hair, and the light grows painfully bright.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the winds both hot and freezing against my skin, and the jolting and shuddering of the floor tosses me off balance. I grunt as I hit the marble floor, the cold as jarring as the pain that shoots up my elbow.
The winds rise to a complete roar, and I can hear someone saying something faintly, but the words are stolen and gone before I can comprehend them.
Then it suddenly stops.
The first thing I notice is that my right arm and leg are soaked. There is soft slime under me, sticky and drenched with water.
I open my eyes to find myself in mud, surrounded by tall reeds and grass, and accompanied by a thick, curling fog.
The smell is just as thick, pungent, stuffing my senses with the world of woodlands and swamp water. The fog drifts, its tendrils reaching out and touching my chest, lingering. I grip Weasley's wand tighter as it moves its way to my face, sliding up my neck, my jaw, and touching the corner of my mouth.
"Scorpius." It whispers. "Scorpius."
Around me, the rest of the fog echoes my name. It closes in on me, growing thicker, making it hard to see anything past a one meter radius.
I point my wand straight ahead. "Reducto."
A red jet smoothly slices through the fog and leaves a long streak of cut grass and reeds in its wake. Weasley's wand hums in my hand in approval, almost...eager.
I shake the curiosity out of my head and focus on the fog, which is now filling in the gap that I've made, condensing again.
I begin walking forward, pushing through the humidity, batting away the fog that swims to greet my face, echoing a faint 'Scorpius'.
This is not a normal Simulation Training class. The ones that we have done so far involve mock missions in cityscapes, buildings, and once, the Underground. I bat away more fog coming towards me. The Simulation Training room can design any location, and generate any target or assault. But this—I brush away some reeds—is nothing like before. This is as unique as Pluvimber's request to switch wands.
I take a breath and focus my mind on the mock assignment. Find your partner and retrieve your wand, Pluvimber had said. Return through the door to gain the points. Be the first to return if your partner also retrieved their wand from you.
The mud squelches beneath my boots, the mud swallowing the soles, unwilling to let go. Find Weasley in this place? I squint through the swimming fog. I need to look for the color red. I need to think of a strategy. Pluvimber had said that the Summoning Charm is not allowed for today's assignment.
I look at Weasley's wand in my hand, the smooth wood fitting into my palm in comfort, the dark brown a slash against my pale skin. I'm surprised by how easy it is to hold it, how simple it is to use it. The only difference between using my wand and Weasley's is the fact that mine fits my palm with familiarity, and hers is a stranger.
I shake an oncoming thought from my head. Focus on the goal, not the unimportant ideas. I wave my hand at the fog ahead, clearing enough to see a decent stretch of reeds and grass. I push through the green strands, the dew and the humidity clinging to my shirt and sticking to my skin. Sweat builds at the base of my neck, and my collared shirt feels tight. I unbutton the top three buttons while the whispers continue to speak my name.
A few meters in, the landscape doesn't change. It is still grass, still reeds, and still mud. My feet are becoming cold from wading in the muck for so long, and my hands have a few cuts from the stubborn reeds that won't budge. The whispers are also swarming around me, repeating my name to the point where I hate it more than I already do.
I hear a rustle to my right.
I stop.
As I wait, the whispers seem to sharpen, becoming clearer.
I slowly crouch. They're giving away my identity and location to whatever is approaching.
Another rustle, and the whispers seem to grow, mixing, blurring...
I listen harder. No, they're not just saying my name, they're also saying...
"Richard."
"Richard."
"Richard."
A hand swipes some reeds aside and Stevenson's standing there, panting.
I stand up, my joints making a slight cracking sound.
Stevenson slumps, his hands on his knees. "I thought I heard your name. How long have you been crouching there?"
I straighten my uniform. "Not that long."
Around us, the fog and the whispers interchange our names. I wait for him to speak.
He clears his throat. "So, uh, did you find Rose yet?"
"No." I reply.
Stevenson's chuckle is full of relief. "I haven't found my partner either. Her wand keeps rejecting me, won't let me cast anything."
With a sigh, he straightens and looks at Weasley's wand. "How's that working for you?"
I change the topic. "Is there anything else other than this?" I nod my head at the terrain.
"Nope." Stevenson says. "I haven't seen anything else. This makes it so much harder to track someone."
I make to move, but Stevenson shoots out his arm.
I look at it, only an inch away from my chest. "What?"
Stevenson says, "I heard something."
I peer behind me, where Stevenson is staring at intently. There is nothing, no sound at all except the whispers of our names.
"If there is another person." I say slowly. "The fog would whisper their name."
Stevenson lets his arm fall gradually, tearing his eyes away. "You're right."
"Impedimenta!"
The spell hits me square in the back, and my limbs freeze one by one, stopping me in motion.
"Stupefy!" Stevenson is shouting, but it's no use. It would be better if he left, concentrated on his own goal.
"Incarcerous!" Stevenson's body snaps into a rigid line as rope winds around him. He falls face first into the mud with a muffled grunt.
She steps into my line of vision, dampness clinging to her curls, mud and water staining her pants.
Now I realize that the fog has been whispering her name, a single short syllable that disappeared under the whispers of ours.
My wand is pointed at my chest.
"That was too easy." She smirks. Her bushy curls tickle my throat as she wiggles her wand out of my tight grasp. She tucks mine inside her Auror-In-Training jacket, and rakes me over with her blue eyes derisively as she steps out of my peripheral vision. A rustle of reeds and she's gone.
I lose count of the minutes that pass, my recording interrupted by a steady stream of the same roaring sensation that burns the bottom of my stomach and pumps my blood harder through my veins. Weasley took back her wand so easily. I couldn't do a thing against her. I didn't have a fucking chance to fight because I didn't hear her name!
My limbs are cold, brittle with the ache of holding a position for too long, and my head is swarming with the urge to chase after Weasley right now. But the spell has not worn off yet, and all I can do is wait for Stevenson to struggle out of his bounds.
He's on his back, rolled over after a painful effort in the muck, panting at the grey sky as his hand strains and strains for his fallen wand. Little frustrated sounds come out of his mouth, urging me to echo along with him and move, but both of us are useless.
I feel my shallow breaths in sync with the whispers of the fog, enveloping us in thicker densities now that I cannot bat it away. Weasley might have found the door already. She might have achieved the highest points for her quick find.
Stevenson lets out a guttural grunt as his hand finally closes around Celestia's wand. "Diffindo."
The ropes are barely severed.
"Diffindo!"
He repeats it over and over, and little by little, he frees his arms and tears the rest of the binds off his legs.
He climbs to his feet shakily. "Finite Incantatum."
My head can move. I turn to him and say, "Concentrate!"
"Finite Incantatum!"
My limbs drop like stone, and I stumble forward, nearly tripping over my feet. "Fuck it."
Stevenson is looking at me with a worried expression, his hand outstretched like he could catch me if I fell. "How are you going to track her down?"
I clench and unclench my hands. "Give me your wand."
Stevenson blinks. "What? This is Burclove's."
I stick my palm under his nose impatiently. "Give me the wand."
He slowly places it onto my hand, and I clench it fast, feeling the grooves and dips of the carvings on the base. Beech and unicorn hair. I can feel its calm, its confidence and its intelligence.
We are not allowed to simply say 'Accio wand'.
But the Summoning Charm is the most efficient in this situation.
I focus on Weasley's freckled face, on something that can't come off her easily. "Accio Weasley's knickers."
Stevenson stares. "What?!"
I say nothing, and wait.
Soon enough, a figure careens into the mud at my feet, struggling, arse lifting into the air again and again and restrained from its destination.
"Expelliarmus." I say with a flourish. Both wands fly neatly into my left hand.
Mud flicks from her nails and her boots as she grapples for purchase, trying to crawl away from me.
"This is too easy." I say as I watch her struggle, her face red. I smirk. She knows exactly what I had done.
"You're cheating." She snarls.
"If you listened instead of looking like a pompous prat, you'll realize that Pluvimber said no summoning wands. Summoning anything else is perfectly fine."
Weasley's right hand is digging into the waistband of her pants, fighting to keep it from flying off as her knickers respond to me. "Stevenson." She snaps, her angry blue eyes on him. "Don't just stand there."
Stevenson takes a direct step towards me, then pauses, looking from me to Weasley uncertainly.
"Fuck you!" Weasley snarls as the button on her pants pop off. Her footing slips in the mud and her body hits mine, her bushy hair choking me, her elbow painful as it contacts my stomach and we fall. My back slams into the mud and I feel the air escape me.
For a moment, I don't remember how to breathe.
Weasley's still struggling on top of me, her elbow digging into my lower belly as she tries to pull herself off and snatch away my wand and hers at the same time. I cough and struggle to regain breath as I keep the wands out of her reach.
She punches me in the nose.
"Fuck." I hiss, my head hurting from where it slammed back against the ground, and my nose throbbing from her fist. She's climbing off me now, all three wands in her hand.
I leap for her, and we crash into the ground again, this time with her trapped against the mud. Her chin knocks into the ground, and she lets out a pained moan.
I shove her face harder into the ground, and wrestle the wands from her single-handedly. "Nice try."
She bucks, almost throwing me off. I tighten my grasp on her, shifting my weight so most of it is on her head. She makes some muffled protests, her face half buried in the water and muck. She's useless beneath me, and I say, "Incarcerous."
I climb off her and turn to Stevenson. "Catch." I toss him Celestia's wand.
Stevenson fumbles, his eyes still on Weasley.
The ripping sound is too loud, and a blue shredded fabric lands into my hand.
I stare at it.
Stevenson stutters something unintelligible and turns away, his face bright red.
I drop the knickers and step on it, grounding it into the soft mud. "See you later, Weasley."
I leave her behind.
.
.
The narrow corridor is dimly lit by candles with an everlasting flickering blue light. It casts an inhuman tint on the Aurors who are escorting me—one in front and one behind—and invokes our shadows to become an unearthly hue. Our robes swish in the silence of the coming night, past Aurors who stand guard, past locked cell doors with tiny barred windows. The dementors who used to guard this place are long gone, but their presence still lingers, a sickness. The turns and twists seem to take forever—completely unnecessary—and after yet another flight of stairs spiralling downwards we reach it.
The Auror in front of me presses his hand on the grooved and patterned metal door—like the goblins would at Gringotts. His fingers are a little long, the tips pushing past the hand-shaped dent, but the surface of the door ripples and the indentation transforms to fit him. The sounds of the metal gears inside the door clink and twist and shift in a pixie-like chatter. The final lock releases itself with a thunderous boom.
The door swings open on its own.
A lone man sits on the narrow cot, undisturbed by the presence of three crowding the entrance of his cell, hunched in with his knees tight together and his forearms resting on them, hands clasped like a child.
The smell of urine is strong, and the toilet has a slug climbing up the side. The cover is lifted, and I can see yellow stains patterning the grimy toilet seat. The walls are all stone, sturdy unlike the inhabitants within it, holding candlesticks glowing with the same blue light as the corridors.
He doesn't look up at me. I swallow, and take a step inside.
Behind me, the Aurors immediately shut the door, and the clinks sound again, locking me in with this man.
I listen to the leak in the mildewed sink. The man looks as though he doesn't breathe. His body is as still as the stone around him.
I take a shaky breath. "Father."
He doesn't look up. He doesn't speak. He doesn't acknowledge me.
I might as well be the only one alive in this cell.
"Father." I say louder as I take another step closer. I can't see his eyes. His dirty hair and a glimpse of his nose are all that I can see from his face.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything.
I cross the small cell and kneel in front of him, tilting my head so I am lower than him, looking up at him, looking up into his grey eyes. My inheritance.
"Father." I say. My voice has turned funny. "It's me."
His grey eyes are blank. They blink.
With hesitance, I reach out and touch his right hand.
He recoils from me, clutching his hands to his chest like I hurt him, and turns his face away to stare at the toilet. I swallow hard.
Slowly, I withdraw mine.
There's a lump in my throat, and I swallow again to erase it. It doesn't go away. It's getting harder to keep the pressure in my chest from becoming crushing, and I can feel my thoughts losing themselves to the overwhelming replay of father jerking away from me.
He seems to feel the weight of my stare, and shifts over on the cot. He brings his feet onto his thin pillow, his knees to his chest, giving me his back.
He's still again, like the walls around him.
"I got another high score in Simulation Training today." I say.
He says nothing.
"Pluvimber made me partner with Weasley." I continue, after the long pause was drawing my attention to the hitch in my breaths. I close my hands around the edge of the bed. I can't lose composure. I need to think. I need to put away the emotional instincts. "But I beat her."
I wait for his congratulations, his pride, and his smile, but it is pointless. Those abilities were long lost to the soulless place called Azkaban. I draw in another shaky breath.
"So...that's good." I say.
He says nothing.
"It's a good thing." I say.
He does not move.
I shove myself to my feet. "It's an achievement!"
He stares blankly at the wall.
I sigh, and run a hand through my hair in frustration. Again and again, the same thing, the same results. Why do I even bother? Why can't I just let it go?
"Mum will be here to see you soon." I tell him. "She's redecorating obsessively now."
The grey eyes don't even blink.
I shift, and lean closer to him, trying to move myself into his line of sight. But he only pushes himself away again, and turns his back to me.
"Do you want me to come with her?" I ask.
No answer.
I clench my hands tighter. "Do you want me to come alone?"
No sound.
I can feel the pity of the Aurors outside, the ones who cannot see but can infer what happens inside. All of them, everyone, everything mocking and mocking while father treats me like vermin.
"What do you want me to do?" My voice cracks. "Do you want me to stay longer?"
I swallow hard and back away from him. It's excruciating, each step, each that lengthens the distance, as I reach the door.
I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait some more for that scene in mind's eye that should not be expected to happen in reality. Father would notice that I'm leaving now, and say something. He would say 'Scorpius, stay' and look at me in the eye. He would get up from that depraving cot and stand tall again. He would...he would...
I realize that my vision has become slightly blurry. I quickly swipe the back of my hand across my eyes.
Father has not moved.
I turn and knock on the heavy door. The echoing thuds of my knuckles on the metal are greeted by the resounding clicks and clinks of the locks, and I'm faced with the two Aurors again. They watch me with sharp eyes as I step out, and take their positions—one ahead, one behind—to escort me back out.
I catch a glimpse of father one last time before the door closes, and his hands are unclasped. He's examining his right hand.
.
.
Father had a dulcet voice. It was not melodious, nor sweet, but soft when reading to me and cutting when speaking to those beneath him.
I liked it best when he read to me. It was just the three of us: father, my stuffed hippogriff, and I, on a child's bed with a picture book open and father's voice flowing like a stream in the spring. It was a sound to look forward to at night, when I was sure a Red Cap would pop out from under the bed, or Inferi would make its way out of the closet to drag me back to their lair. On the nights when father didn't read to me, I swore to mother that the Grim was watching me sleep, and begged her to sleep in my room.
Mother's voice, prim and cultured, did not have the same effect that kept away the horrors of the night. Her presence, like father's presence, was enough to make me safe, but she refused because I needed to be able to sleep on my own. 'You'll learn that nasty Goblins and Acromantulas don't live in your room, Scorpius.'
She was right of course, as I came to discover, but by then even the Grim would have been friendly company.
I take a swig of firewhiskey.
My flat is dark. The lights of the city shine outside, the lamplights bright and interruptive of the peace that comes with the night. I have the blinds closed. It is not truly night when light can chase away the unseen. I let the night manifest in this place, silent and still.
The large spaciousness of a luxury flat holds many places for an evil creature to hide. The king-sized bed has plenty of room beneath it, and is out of my line of sight. The 'widescreen T.V.'—as the Muggles called it—could hide a monster behind it and under it within the drawers of the stand. The small kitchen as well, with the many drawers and cupboards I hardly use, all little nooks and crannies for tinier creatures. But where I sit, in front of the large mirror amongst three other empty armchairs with another liquor bottle, no creatures would reach. It's open, empty. And I can see them in the mirror if they approach me.
I am not my four year old self, in belief that magical creatures would come after me. Father is not his younger self either, with the dulcet voice and a protective arm.
I take another large swig of firewhiskey, and the burn that travels down my throat is welcoming. It promises forgetting.
"Do you want something to approach you?" I say to the person in the mirror. My voice is bitter, my tongue feels thick and clumsy.
The person in the mirror stares back at me, grey eyes and pointed chin. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are drooped. They're red rimmed, like he had been crying. His hair looks like he's pulled at it, sticking up in a crazed ruffle.
"You look like your father." I remark, then laugh, a coarse sound that rises and falls quickly.
"Cheers," I raise my bottle to the man in the mirror, who does the same, "to you, for being who you shouldn't."
I empty the bottle down my throat, the burn drowning away the things waiting in the dark, the things waiting in the morning, the things waiting in my head. My throat protests and I laugh again and sputter, my stomach on fire. There's no more in this one now, it's useless. I smash it against the coffee table, and it sprays little fragments of sparkling crystals everywhere. I smash again. Then again. I take a big piece, it's sharp, and I see a grey eye peering back as I look in.
"Go to hell." I tell the person, and throw the shard at the window.
It hits the blinds and falls gracelessly to the ground.
I grab another firewhiskey bottle near me, and uncork it. The smell beckons me, promising to steal my memories and to hide them so I don't have to see. I press my lips to the cool glass—
The click of my door unlocking alerts me.
I reach for my wand on the coffee table, but my leg shifts sideways under me, and the bottle is too heavy in my hand, tilting me to the side—
My ribs smash into the ground, and I groan as pain erupts all over my left ribs.
In the floor length mirror, I can see the door opening, and a flood of light that enters as it does, violating my flat.
A head becomes visible as I blink my eyes, and she quietly steps inside and closes the door behind her.
"Lumos." Her voice is soft, a hushed whisper.
The wandlight makes me squint. It gives her cheekbones prominence, making her face thinner and sharper, accentuating the dark bags under her eyes. Her pale blue eyes glimmer in the light as they meet mine.
I open my mouth, my tongue fumbling.
"Celestia?"
A/N:
So I will be moving the updates from now on to Saturday mornings, because Friday mornings are simply too hectic. The next update will be on October the 15th.
Tidbit: Rose's wand is Walnut and Phoenix tail feather.