A/N AS ALWAYS, I DON'T BELIEVE IN OWNERSHIP. TO IMPLY AS MUCH MAY INSULT MY BELIEFS. THIS ALL BELONGS, ALL THIS SIN, TO THE GREAT JK IN THE SKY. SHE'S THE ONE WITH THE LAWYERS.
Enjoy!
PS: I APPRECIATE ALL REVIEWS. I ACCEPT BOTH ANONYMOUS AND MEMBER REVIEWS, FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH.
THE PRESENT:
"RESTRICTED SECTION" declaimed the sign, a black-on gold embossing.
With solemn decoration, it adorned the gate of corrugated metal, barring the maw of its eponymous denizen to new prey. Standing there, it seemed very final. The books in that nether corner were dusty, years turning by when they would chance to see a new face. Their yellowed corners turned with the years, as did the immediate area: the previously brilliant shades turning to an antiquitarian sepia; dusk in a corner of morning. The light dropped dramatically, he noted, looking behind him. Born of a central ward, it moved onward, gently revealing crested motifs, illuminating diaphanous folds in a robe, spilling across faces, lips, hair, intertwined. Teeth sparkled, and eyes blinked coyishly. Hands played over books, and laughs lilted in its gaze. However, as the library continued, beauty lost its hold and the light found scarce to illumine. Darkened corners sprang forward, titles gently faded. An obscurity eventualized, until identity had lost its meaning. Back here, there were secrets, lost, and hidden. Back here, you could forget who you were.
Where Scorpius stood, it was nearly dark.
Gazing into the RESTRICTED SECTIOON, he watched his soul flutter to and fro. The RESTRICTED SECTION was nearly pitch black, an ominous sigh folding from it, pushing back his hair.
Ever since Madame Pince had left, the Restricted Section had fallen into disrepair. Its arcana remained untouched, unseen. Professors used to call books from its recesses, eyes gleaning information that students could not dream of. However, as the years turned by, and the Professors left, the RESTRICTED SECTION had become forgotten. The pillars of the school, crumpling, words blurring over their eyes. Lips parted, the knowledge left the halls. And now, the dusty air pushed against his face from an antique land.
Hands stroking rivets, he noted the buzz of wards. They were weak, and as all untended wards do, they assimilated to the nature on which they were bound. The darkness shuddered. A palpable presence moved through him.
Pulling back from the gate, he took hold of his wand and with a flick, tested the charms. Feeling them over, eyes closed, he nodded to himself. Yes, they were weakened, and they would most likely break soon. He looked at the shelves holding the gate, testing them, passing through the gathered books to the surface of the burnished wood. Sending his aetheric consciousness through the wood was simple. There were no wards on these.
Eyes opening, he considered the situation. Past this portal lay vast fathoms of knowledge of that he would otherwise never see. The section was never visited, and if it was, for a scant minute to pluck the same book, over and over again. Those who knew not of, could not make rules for.
The night held by the gate pulsed.
It was waiting.
Looking over his shoulder, only conscious now of the blinding noise.
There were no friends for him there.
Turning back, cloak billowing in the tradition of a curtain opening, let the show begin...
"Perforatus Impedira."
The gate crumbled around the center, outwards-reaching disease, pulling at the metal, dissolving under its own weight. The dust spiraled down to the floor, from ashes to ashes, it coalesced into a pile of subdivisionary rudiments. As each bar snapped, the wards activated, reforming the gate. The life-cycle of the never-born. He cast the spell again, this time with greater inflection.
"Perforatus Impedira!"
Its reverberation pushed at the bonds of the steel, cracking the metal beneath the shock. The unholy glimmer of magic streamed from each of its bars, illuminating his face. There was a sound like the dying breath of an opium eater, and the gate crumbled, spreading across the floor.
Pushing back his hair, and his wand forward, he entered the abyss.
"Lumos."
The gate forming behind him, wings spreading, phoenix rising.
The RESTRICTED SECTION, after being neglected for so long, had a feral nature. The books were moving restlessly, and the lone window towards the back was choked with lichen and leafy things. Birds nested in the far reaches of the pane, gazing impertinently towards him. The darkness abated a bit the further you went, and a shape that remained- an obfuscated abstraction- became a table. Long clawed legs gripping the floor. It sat with ponderous ostentation. The black wood was wet with condensation. Running down the supports, pooling at its feet. Caryatids supported the shelves, eyes cast downward, mawkish faces cast in cowls.
Lumos barely penetrating the infinity before him, Scorpius realized that what he had previously regarded as an end to the library, an addendum, was actually the beginning. Monolith after monolith fell to his pale light as he processed in ritualistic respect.
A censer in his hand, swinging back and forth, pale steel glinting in the light, refracting on the shelves. Illuminating titles and figures, the renegade beams are dissipiated by the choking blackness. His face clouded, arms trembling. The censer dropped, rolling down the aisle, ashes loosed from its confining orb. Scorpius raises a hand, beckoning out to it, feeling along the ground, crushed incense moving between his fingers. A finger touching his face, tracing down his jaw...
Scorpius realized he was standing still. His eyes unfocused, mouth partly open, and fingers loose about the wand...he was a part of the library. A paralyzed Hellenic, his light began to flicker. The shadows circled closer.
A censer in his hand, swinging back and forth, pale steel glinting in the light-
No.
Resurfacing, he walked faster.
Remember why he was here.
"..." Steps over steps, swift, sempiternal steps- Surely the section could not be this long? Scorpius felt winded.
This place was not what it seemed.
Finally reaching the table, breath coming quicker than normal, he sat down. Weary hands ran through his hair. Taking in the sight, lumos waning, he inhaled in the moment.
A seperate plane, that's where he was. One that had never seen the Second Wizarding War, where the fingers skirting over the pages were the sole intermediary between sign and signifier. He was anonymous. The place had an air of want, as if it had great things to speak of. Of nebulous fixations, and labyrinthine corners. The pale glow of an outside mind, it beckoned to him.
"They don't understand. We can teach you. We taught Him."
"I don't want to be like Him."
Laughter.
"Then don't. We can teach you to be anything-good or evil. Strong or weak. We can teach you-to create-or destroy."
"I want to learn."
"Then go. Knock and the door will be opened. Ask, and you shall receive. Light, and you shall be burned. Breathe, and you shall taste. Read, and you shall live."
A FEW DAYS PAST:
The cloaks swirled behind him, tracing over the vaguely rough floor. His head was set forward, ignoring the footsteps behind, moving faster every second. He knew, when he looked over his shoulder, that they didn't have faces. Darkness pooled underneath hoods, and not a feature could be spotted. Occasionally, a hair might stray from the enchantment, and its lone existence, emanating from the abyss contained, would chill him. There were shadows behind him. He mustn't stop.
Turning quickly between two walls of books, he dropped his bag, and grabbed for his wand. The shadows met him there. There were four. Each had their wand drawn, oak, hickory, rowan, elm, each extending from the curled fingers of an obscured hand. Their cloaks billowed behind them. The enchantment gave off pressure.
Scorpius raised his wand hand, stretching out before his body. His eyes hardened, and his face grew impassive. A stillness overtook his features, each calming into stasis.
"Go."
The shadows moved between each other, threading in and out, circumventing his curses, and occasionally repelling them. A few flew towards his own frame, and he repelled them, disintegrating the bulbs of blue and white light. A silence smothered the scene, straddling the occasional curse. Scorpius didn't need to say anything. Blue, white, red, purple, each burst from his wand. The foremost shadow took a hit. Its cloak turning back, spreading out, like wings. A heartbeat, and it burst into flight, rushing away from the scene.
A splinter, as it hit the table, upper torso lurching forward. A nose briefly exited the shadow, and then fell back. Prone, on the floor.
The three remaining had had enough, ghosting forwards, repelling curses. He couldn't hit all of them. The one on the left sprang, and his wand clattered to the floor. It was kicked, and sent rolling. The shadows convened overhead.
"Silencing charm, she'll never hear a thing."
A fist curled back from his body, and Scorpius shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut.
It didn't feel so bad when you couldn't see.
Impact, rolling pain across his chest, something snapped, became pliant. Another blow, shattering the ribs. They continued, each connecting, imparting, and delivering a message. "Malfoy. Traitor. Fag. Marked. Death. Eater." The blows cumulated, increasing; blood was felt somewhere on his body. Crimson streaks falling from pale white paper-thin. He could taste blood on his teeth. The tongue pressed against his mouth. Flecks. Impact. Whimpering, his mouth moved restlessly. Blood, drops on the floor. They continued, his face moving in pain. The shadows struck, arms flying.
Impact. Release, clench. Impact.
Something fluttered outside his mind. Darkness. Peripherally, it waited. Black, shapeless. It waited for the end.
He hissed, a kick smashing his hip. Cracking, and suddenly ductile. It is a terrify thing when your body becomes independent of your will. It is like being lost inside an automaton.
A vertical collapse, following single vector, down. His knees gave out, losing their resolve. An illimitable surface rose to meet him, upwards, spanning in all directions. The darkness came closer. Feathers billowing as it encircled his awareness. Black raven, rivulets, down his hands. The infinite solid made contact, his nose, splintering, red, red, repulsed by tide from its origin. Spreading over the floor.
The shadows pulled back.
A kick, from a dark boot, massaged his groin. He gasped.
They left, pulling wands and dissipating the enchantment. With a flutter of darkened robes, they were gone.
Alone.
There was a shifting in the corner. Feathers fell down into his hair, eyes looking up sightlessly.
Darkness, talons spreading over his face. "Malfoy."
"Yes?"
A beak, an eye. Wings wrapped around his beaten body.
"Sleep."
Walls rose up around him. Grey and ponderous, they enclosed him. He felt his hands move across the floor. He was lying supine, supine in the darkness. He knew the walls were grey, stone, relic. He knew the walls would ring hollowly minutes after he screamed. He knew that the dust coating the floor would have spiders with more than eight legs and heads full of eyes. He knew this place. It was home.
"Scorpius."
The Grandfather ticked, bending over him. He felt the Grandfather's hair fall over his face, blond tresses full of dirt. He tried to clear them from his face, but he couldn't move. Paralyzed, he felt the grandfather carress his face.
"Scorpius."
He trembled. The Grandfather's hands were dirty, dust and lint caking the cuticles and the creases. It traced an arc across his cheek.
"Scorpius, we love you."
The Grandfather's voice was raspy and dead. He felt the flakes of blood coming from the Grandfather's mouth alight on his face. The hands moved down to his neck. Pulling at the white flesh. The Grandfather was tall, so he must be bending over, or kneeling. His cloak must be lying flaccid around him, in the dust, pulling on the rough stones. He must have his hands outstretched, for no more of the Grandfather could be felt. They plucked at his throat.
"We love you."
He swallowed, and the Grandfather's hands tightened. Scorpius could feel breath, like decanted wind, stroke his face. It smelled like a coffin. The Grandfather rose, and he could hear him moving away. The dust and the lint and the dirt were swirling around him.
"We love you."
He panicked, fingers digging into the ground. Screaming.
"Grandfather, don't leave!"
The ground gave way, and he could feel himself falling. Pale, soft, hands, pulling him further. Grabbing at his hair, his face. They burrowed into his mouth, scraping on his teeth. They grabbed his arms, and hands. They pulled at his tongue. Further, they felt at his throat. He tried to scream, and choked. Biting down, the fingers grew bloodied.
"We love you."
Blood in his mouth. Choking on fingers. Drowning.
INTERMEZZO: A REQUIEM FOR THE LIVING
The books watched solemnly as he was carried from the library. Levitated, his body passed the monolithic shelves in a procession. Eyes closed, hair matted with blood, he hovered, at about one and a half meters, cloak dragging against the floor. The rain pounded against the windows, sleeking the room with a grey light. The stained glass wept, keening, waving hands limply.
The Professor walked, face stony, to the front of the library. Long green cloak trailing from her, sliding over tiles, correcting its motion, like a snake. Her shoulder-length grey hair billowed against her face, which was rigid, composed of lines, a rough sketch of a beautiful person that never was. Thin spectacles sat over her eyes. Disembodied quadrilaterals, they flashed in tandem with the lightning.
Someone had been abused, beaten, nearly destroyed.
That person also happened to belong to her house.
As Argus Filch led the floating boy out the doors, she stopped in front of the desk.
She glanced at it coolly. Behind sat Madame Maureen, the librarian. Eyes rheumy and tired, they gazed from behind two lenses, each held in front of the eye by a levitating charm. Her every movement, every breath declaimed defeat. She, living her life as a reliquary, was condemned to the tepid and valedictorian. She was a post-script, an exegesis, an afterthought. Cobwebs fluttered from her cheeks. Her hands were deadly white against the void-filled it and chair, each black as night , enveloping her figure, pushing against her, containing the corpse like a coffin. Frills covered every inch of her robes. Her mouth opened and spoke with rustling leaves and acorns.
"I-I didn't realize what was happening to the boy."
Professor Sinistra's mouth hardened.
"Obviously you didn't, Mary, if you did you would have no doubt intervened."
The Madame swallowed. Veins tracing every sussuration of skin, folding beneath her chin, down, down, vanishing into frills.
Two pairs of lenses regarded one another.
"I assumed my position as the Slytherin's Head, Mary, and, as I see that Slytherin has weathered conflict, yes, and contention lately, I will thank you to be extra vigilant when it comes to my students. Especially Young Mr. Malfoy."
There was a silence.
The corpse's arm was blown from her coffin, pointing. The veins contracted, pushing it outwards.
"Surely, Aurora, you don't-you don't think it was intentional? And even-even if it was-"
Sinistras face was alit.
"-w-who could blame them?"
Hellfire. Inferno. The lid of the coffin blew back, crackling under the heat. The room glowed with infernal light and Sinistra raised a fiery face.
"Mary. I will forget what you just said. I will forget because of our years of friendship. I will erase that filth from my mind, expunge it for as much my sake as your's. It will be in a pensieve before the day is done. However, Mary, if I ever find that one of my students, most especially Mr. Malfoy, has weathered an attack inside this library-then, Mary, then we will have to see whether you really are with me-"
She turned, flames licking at her robe.
"Or against me."
The doors slammed, ringing their farewell throughout the arched room. Dust settled, and Hogwarts was still.
Her parting words, however, lingered. Sitting on the library floor, they regarded the room blearily, only moments before having come into the world.
"For to be against my students, Mary, is to be against me."
Scorpius Malfoy was lying on a bed. The sheets clumped sweatily to his body, stikcing to his limbs. The blood was cleaned off, he could tell, and it no longer clung to his face. His eyes were unfocused, and he was in pain. The pain coursed up and down his body, through his limbs, and in his head. He looked more statuesque than alive.
Looking straight down at the bed, grey eyes wide and sightless. Arranged on the white sheets, his limbs were heavy and spread. His long hair was stretched in every direction, a brillinat fan. Staring at the ceiling. As he coughed, a tiny rivulet of blood made its way from his mouth.
The ceiling concaved as he watched it, moving in an upwards lift, lights following, leaving him in darkness.
SHADOWS MOVING, PULLING BACK, CLENCHING, IMPACT
Pulling back, he felt hands on his back. Someone whispering at him. His eyes were tired, and he could not see.
SOMEONE WHISPERING, PULLING BACK, WE LOVE YOU
He was crying, but without noise, tears running down his face. The shadows. But the hands were firm and gentle, carefully enclosing his hand around a long cylinder. His wand.
FINGERS FIGHTING AT HIS TEETH, PULLING, PRISING
He blinked, fighting nausea. The vision cleared, and he looked into his savior's face.
DIRTY BLOND TRESSES, TICKING, DARKNESS
"Professor Sinistra, I promise, I found him like this."
DARKNESS, SHADOWS, IMPACT, PULLING, FEATHERS
Albus Potter.
UNMITIGATED, TERRIBLE, UMBROUS
The ceiling shuddered again, and the bookshelves encircled him, darkness moving in.
BEAK, EYE, HANDS, TERRIBLE HATERED
Albus Potter.
Scorpius lay in bed, motionless.
ALBUS POTTER.
NO!
Hands clenching the sheets, eyes staring wide...
This would not happen again. He swore it on his soul.
This would not happen again.
THE PRESENT:
The book spoke of terrible things. It spoke of death and pain and rebirth. It spoke of dark magics that would tear children from their mother's skirts, dashing them into hell. It spoke of binding angels and blood as bonds. It spoke of revenge and retribution. There were spells-spells he could barely read of. Darkness, nebulous, unbroken.
He looked at the book in disgust. This was too much.
"But the shadows, Scorpius..."
His eyes watering, he nodded his head. He promised himself that it wouldn't happen again. He promised not to be taken.
And he didn't need Potter.
That least of all.