ALBUS, SCORPIUS, SEVERUS
The door wasn't shut properly and they had not noticed. Their voices could be heard rather well from the hallway and Wendy, for once, would have preferred that adults kept their conversation private.
- "... That's ridiculous!"
- "Notify the Ministry ..."
- "... All this time ..."
- "... Let parents have their ways on the school grounds ..."
- "... Ever ..."
- "... Even when those children were petrified!"
- "Harry Potter ... or anyone else ..."
- "... An Unforgivable Curse!"
- "... It's not the same! Albus ..."
- "... Unthinkable!"
- "... Specifically asked us not to make a difference!"
- "... It's a force majeure ..."
- "... But exactly what does it ..."
- "... Impossible!"
- "... How could he recover from it without ..."
- "... Not for us to say ..."
Professor Longbottom: pleading. The voice of the director of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall: severe and worried at the same time. Professor Wood: completely lost. Mrs Curtis: upset. Luna Lovegood: dreamy but concerned. Nurse Abbot... definitely on Neville's side.
Sitting under the arch on the windowsill, Wendy sighed. She pulled her knees under her chin and put her hands over her ears.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it...
Why couldn't things remain as they were before?
We didn't need adventure, drama or troubling past...
We were doing okay, like this...
In front of her, Terrence was leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed, one foot against the ancient stones, his round glasses pushed up on his forehead, a sign that he was thinking intensively. The golden spike on his head looked like an insect feeler more than ever.
The flower-shaped scar. The nightmare. The purring, the ferret feeling all better, the elves...
A horrible memory, buried and forgotten, in which his father cast an Unforgivable Curse...
That was a lot to take in.
He had trouble himself to swallow everything, so how could Albus cope with it?
Albus for who was difficult even the idea of competing with the other houses.
Albus who most people forgot, busy watching James or listening to Lily.
Albus who never said a word louder than the other, asked for nothing, gave everything.
"Albus Severus Potter, son of Harry Potter."
Terrence never thought of him that way.
Al.
The boy with green eyes that looked into the depths of your soul.
The quiet bloke who had an extraordinary power and did not even realize it.
My best friend.
He made his glasses fell back to their place with a flick and sighed seeing Wendy prostrated in front of him. He was opening his mouth to tell her not to listen to the snippets of the argument that escaped from Mrs Abbot's office, when Neville Longbottom stormed into the hallway.
He was breathing heavily. He took a few steps, rubbing his neck angrily, put his hands on his hips then in his pockets, turned on his heels, biting his lips, his eyes to the ground.
- "Professor?" Wendy called shyly.
He looked up and took in the presence of the two students with some difficulty.
- "Mr. Philips ... Miss Swanson ..."
- "Excuse me, sir", said Terrence, trying to catch the erratic gaze of the man, "Will Al's father ... I mean, will Mr. Potter come to Hogwarts?"
- "What's happening with Al?" Wendy asked pleadingly.
Neville looked away. His fingers were fidgeting with the corner of his white coat.
- "You should be in class", he said in a feverish tone. "Go back to your rooms, have lunch. It's not your business. Leave him be."
He cast a nervous glance around him.
- "Where's Albus?"
Terrence shrugged.
- "Some place. Leave him be", he retorted.
Wendy's eyes widened at such insolence, but Professor Longbottom merely let go of a long sigh.
He put his hand on Terrence's shoulder.
- "When he comes back from the gallery, tell him to come to my office. I guess he won't return to the infirmary ..."
He walked down the hallway, his shoulders hunched like an old man, then stopped and turned around.
His sad and gentle eyes locked with Terrence's fierce gaze.
- "All I want is to protect him, Swanson. Just like you."
Wendy came to the blond teenager when the man was gone.
- "How did he know about the gallery?" she whispered.
Terrence took off his glasses and wiped them on a corner of his shirt that stuck out from under his sweater.
- "I suppose in three and a half years, there's at least one teacher who realized that Al had a life of his own."
- "Or maybe there're cameras somewhere..."
Terrence patted her head patronizingly.
- "There's no camera, Philips. This is a magical school."
He felt just a teensy bit better.
oOoOoOo
Albus got rid of the dirty water and the withered flowers through the window overlooking the lawn where the first years learnt to fly. He put water in the high white vase and threw in a handful of seeds.
The sun came in waves through the vast open windows and the stained glass reflections were dancing in sparkling scrolls on the paintings' moldings along the hallway. Draperies in the colors of the four houses softly rippled in the breeze. On the shelf in front of each picture were placed small gifts, messages, photo frames, toys or candies, sometimes a teddy bear, often flowers.
The gallery was very long and very quiet.
People came there on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, at the end of the school year, but the rest of the time it was empty.
In the air hung the smell of soap, of parchment and ink, licorice and leather, the very sweet scent of memories.
Albus whispered the incantation with a delicate flip of his wand, then watched the lilies grow in the vase and open their cream-colored petals like if they were smiling.
He put the vase next to the last picture of the gallery, wiped empty shelf with the flat of his hand, then stepped back.
He sat in the middle of the thick brown and golden carpet and that covered the tiles of the corridor and crossed his legs before him. Lifting his chin, he looked at the portrait in front of him for a long time, before letting out a big sigh.
In the frame, the man dressed in a black collar raised an eyebrow. His eyes were scrutinizing the boy attentively.
Albus put his arms around his knees and sighed again.
The pain was still there in his chest, but more distant, muffled, hidden.
He blew on a black loop that fell in front of his eye. In the painting, the man with bony cheeks gave a little nod and threw back his greasy dark hair. He kept looking patiently at the teenager.
- "I'm in trouble, you know", finally said Albus.
His interlocutor's brow bounced.
- "No, it's not my fault. Well ... I don't think it is."
Tears welled up in the emerald eyes.
- "What kind of wrong could have I done that my dad would want to kill me?"
In the frame, the man's shoulders had stiffened. He pondered for a while, bringing his hand mechanically to his thin lips - which made him look really severe - and then cocked his head to the side.
- "I ... I don't know exactly what happened", Albus mumbled as if he had understood the unspoken question. "I ... it was just a flash. He had his wand and ..."
He closed his eyes, as if to brace for the impact.
- "I don't understand ..." he stuttered. "He loves me, he would never do that ... right?"
It was a cry - almost a sob.
On the painting, wrinkles painfully dug around the dark eyes gazing at the boy. There was only silence. Dust particles glittered in the sunlight, falling slowly, as if out of gravity.
Albus finally lifted his chin. He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
- "And there's more."
The eyes of the portrait flashed briefly, a little ironic, like a proud answer to the fragile bravery of the voice.
Albus put his hand on the warm spot on his chest. He could feel it even through the layers of his shirt and jumper. The scar was there, throbbing like a living bird.
- "There's a something weird happening to me ... it hurts ... and at the same time ..."
He tried to gather the so different, so complicated feelings.
- "I don't...I… I'm not scared – I think. Not of this ..."
His mouth twitched like one of a child trying to hide his pain.
- "But my dad ... why ..."
The man in the painting nodded thoughtfully. His sharp profile was lost in a long cogitation, then he turned again to the teenager, interrogatively.
- "I don't know what Terrence thinks of this strange scar", immediately replied Albus.
The portrait rolled his eyes and the teenager smiled despite himself.
- "Yes, I know. He's three times smarter than me and ..."
Again the sly bouncing of the eyebrows.
- "Okay, ten times smarter. I'll talk to him, I promise."
Tenderness drew over the sharp features and Albus' green eyes clung to the dark eyes.
- "And I'm going to trust my dad until he tells me ..."
The sun was sliding gold threads in the folds of the austere sleeves of the wizard.
The teenager heaved another sigh, feeling a bit relieved. He unlocked the fingers he had tightly interlaced on his knees and put his hands on the carpet, rocking back slightly. He stretched out his legs and felt his shoulders relax a little.
- "Severus ..."
In the gray painting, the pale man dressed in black waited patiently.
- "Wouldn't it be nice if you were one of my teachers ..."
A burst of silent laughter brightened in the eyes of the portrait. He quickly shook his chin.
- "What? You think I'd be afraid of you?"
Albus chuckled, exhausted by the storm of emotions he had been through since the day before.
- "No way!"
Someone cleared his throat quietly.
- "Sorry to interrupt ... can I join you?"
Scorpius Malfoy was standing there awkwardly, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his almost white bangs slicked back, looking down.
Albus exchanged a glance with the painting and nodded.
Scorpius sat next to him, cross-legged. He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and put his hands on his knees, his neck stiff, as he examined the portrait in front of Albus.
- "I know him", he said after awhile, narrowing his dark eyebrows. "I saw him once in my father's old school pictures. But he looked much more creepy."
Albus smiled.
- "He was a director of Hogwarts", he says proudly. "I was named after him."
Scorpius recorded the information without blinking. He looked around, then turned back to the green-eyed teenager.
- "D'you come here often?"
Albus nodded silently.
- "Why?"
The pearl gray eyes of Malfoy were a little surprised, behind their usual disdainful stare.
Albus took a deep breath before answering.
- "I like it, that's all."
His chin pointed at the painting in front of them, in which the man was watching them – looking totally bewildered.
- "I like to talk to him. When I'm not quite sure about something, or when I feel down... well ... I come here, and, after, it gets better."
Scorpius looked a little shocked.
- "Why are you talking to a bloke who died and who won't even answer? When you have Terrence and Wendy!"
It was a reproach, clearly, but Albus was not shaken.
- "We're the same age. You and me and them, we never had to make difficult choices. We have not even lived yet, we're so young. Here ... you see. There's my Uncle Fred, Tonks and Remus... And the others. I wish I could meet them. I… It's ... the people who died in that battle, they knew what they were doing.
Scorpius pulled a face.
- "Half of them are our age! It's almost only Hogwarts students, with a few teachers and some Aurors."
He hesitated.
- "Sometimes, you sound awfully older than you are, Al."
Albus smiled again.
- "Sorry."
He paused, then sat up and rubbed the sore spot pulsing under his sweater.
- "You've been here before, right?"
Scorpius blushed. He swallowed and smoothed a strand peeling from his neat hairstyle.
The man dressed in black, in the painting, rolled his eyes again and shook his head.
-"You're the one bringing lilies, isn't it?"
Albus nodded, then frowned.
- "My father asked me to, the first time I told him I was coming to the gallery."
Scorpius wrinkled his nose, looking thoughtful.
- "Your father knew him too, then."
- "Hum."
They stayed a moment staring at the portrait who seemed to find it highly uncomfortable and who crossed his arms sternly.
Albus chuckled again, as if the attitude really seemed incongruous, but Scorpius glared at the man.
- "If he was a director, he should be in McGonagall's office, isn't it?" he said after a moment. "And why isn't he talking?"
- "None of the portraits is speaking, in the gallery", said thoughtfully Albus. "You're right, though. James said he was not in the director's office."
Scorpius snorted - and the picture shared the feeling with him.
- "How does James know that? Has he been already called up there?"
Albus grinned.
-" Yep."
Malfoy was silent for a moment, pulling on a thread at the hem of his pants.
- "It's not likely to happen to you, though", he finally said, his voice slightly muffled.
Albus looked at him intently.
- "And neither to you", he finally added.
For a few seconds the whole gallery stood frozen, then they giggled together.
- "That's right", Scorpius said.
Albus turned again to the painting, dreamily.
- "We behave a lot better than our fathers did, don't you think?"
The portrait nodded vigorously. There was almost a drop of sweat on his pale forehead.
Outside, the sun was beginning to decline and the light was tarnishing. The breeze was a little fresher.
Scorpius put his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his palm.
- "Al?"
- "Hmm?"
The blond boy gathered all his courage. He bit his lips, then locked his gray orbs with the emerald irises.
- "Your father ... certainly ... if he really did... he regrets it, I'm sure."
Albus did not move. He did not turn his head. He swallowed hard, then gently asked:
- "What's on your father's arms, Scorpius?"
Malfoy winced.
It was his turn to look down. In the frame, the man dressed in black robes was contemplating the two teenagers with an infinitely sad gaze.
- "It's ... uh. A ... it's called the Dark Mark. The ... Voldemort's followers… the Death Eaters… They had it tattooed on their arms."
He pursed his lips and looked up fiercely.
- "But my father, he –"
His voice broke as he met the green eyes that were not judging.
- "He… didn't want all these horrible things to happen, Al! He decided he wouldn't be part of that... And ..."
His words were all mumbled up.
- "My father, he regrets. Sometimes when he looks at his arm, I think he wants to cut it. He never said anything, but ..."
Albus reached out, gently, as if he did not want to scare the other boy, as if he felt that Malfoy was about to flee. His fingers touched the trembling blond teen's shoulder.
- "I understand ..." he whispered.
It was not true. It could not be true, since they had experienced nothing like war, because they were so different, so far from what had happened.
But something very sweet, very pure, infinitely large and imperceptible, like a wing, touched Scorpius' shoulder.
The scent of lilies was filling the hallway bathed in gold by the setting sun and everything was silent.
In the painting, something was shining in the corner of the eye of the man with hollow cheeks and dark hair.
Scorpius heaved a long sigh and Albus removed his hand slowly.
- "Thank you", he said simply.
It was Malfoy's turn to stifle a fragile little laugh.
- "You're just too weird", he began. "You ..."
Albus suddenly groaned and curled up. He collapsed to the side, to the horror of the other boy.
- "Al! Hey, wait. You ..."
Scorpius knelt by his side feverishly. He did not know what to do.
Suddenly, it was very dark and very cold and Albus' green eyes seemed to be the only bright thing.
Malfoy cradled his forehead in his hands, bit his lip, reached out, half-got up as if to go look for help.
Albus' hand grabbed his wrist.
His eyes were pleading. Terrified. He writhed in a pain so strong that he could not even moan. His teeth were so tight that they were screeching.
Scorpius felt his own sweating, cold, dripping between his shoulder blades. He looked around frantically. The portraits were all gone - empty - only black cloths were still hanging on the walls.
There was no one else but him.
He wanted to flee, but he was pinned down.
He wanted to call for help but his dry throat did not produce a sound.
Don't you die, Al.
Please don't. Please, please, please.
Albus stiffened. A red streak trickled down his chin.
He let go of a hoarse cry of pain and Scorpius shut his eyes as if it could prevent him from hearing.
Then he opened them again, when he felt something touching his cheek.
Everything was so dark.
It looked like a pillow filled with black feathers had exploded in the gallery.
Albus' body arched violently and Malfoy fell on him, his wrist crushed by the boy's fingers. Thunder blasted above the castle and the sound enveloped everything, smashing and beautiful.
Then all was quiet again. The clouds dispersed, the light came back, peaceful and gentle, caressing the lawn outside.
The students, who had been squatting under their schoolbags and books, got up, surprised not to feel any rain. The teachers rekindled the candles that were extinguished on their desks.
In the highest room of the Gryffindor tower, Terrence put down his book and went to the window and to glance at the lake: the waves were slowly settling back, hemmed by silvery foam.
Wendy crouched down and picked up the remains of the clay pot she had dropped. Professor Longbottom was looking up through the glass roof of the greenhouses, not listening to her apology. He looked deeply troubled.
James let out a whistle, the time to compose himself. He was quite happy he had not been on his broom when the thunder blast had happened. Sandeszki had been thrown off like a sandbag.
Lily shrugged off the uneasiness and leaned down to pick up her spoon. She resumed eating her pumpkin compote while commenting on the last Witch Weekly with Alison Corner in the Great Hall.
It was the evening of an ordinary day.
Everything was perfectly normal.
Slowly, the gallery was emerging out of the darkness and the people in the paintings were coming back, except for the man with the dark robes and the pale skin.
- "Sorry ... sorry, I did not mean to hurt you ... " Scorpius muttered, sitting up, anxious at the idea of having worsened Albus' state.
He froze. Blood was throbbing in his ears, deafening, as if he was going to faint.
- "Al?"
His husky voice seemed so strange in the silence.
He reached out, swallowing hard.
His mind was working at full speed, so fast that he could feel his thoughts rattling in his skull.
- "Al? That ... is that you?"
His fingers were trembling.
He hesitated.
Then two green eyes split by a stroke of gold opened in the dark and stared at him.
TO BE CONTINUED