CW: Torture
Chapter Two
To be quite honest with you, Albus isn't sure what the hell happened.
Was it advisable to grab a random artifact off of his father's desk? No.
Was it a great idea to then attempt to figure out what said object did while sitting in the middle of the Malfoys' drawing room? Probably not.
Was it reasonable to think that the result of that bit of stupidity would be that an explosion the size of a nuclear blast throwing him backward, directly into a wall, and that he'd wake with his head feeling like it had burst in two, his wand nowhere to be found, laying in the back of the Manor's dungeons? Hell no!
"Al?"
The raven-haired boy's eyes snap up, finding his friend sitting not far from him, looking only slightly better than he felt.
"Scorp," Albus answers, his voice sounding hoarse and squeaky even to his own ears, "What happened?"
"Al," Scorp whispers, sounding gagged, "I think we messed up." He sniffles.
"What happened?" Albus tries again, starting to panic, but Scorpius doesn't seem capable of forming words.
A door opens somewhere off to Albus' left, light streaming in and making both boys squint and groan. "Oh good," a saccharine, shrill voice says, "You're awake."
Albus thinks afterward that he'll probably never get the sight of the woman's sadistic, gleeful expression out of his head.
Two men in dark robes come in and grab him roughly by the arms. He struggles, and he can hear Scorpius yelling for them to get off before a blow lands and his friend audibly groans and hits the floor again. "Scorpius!" He writhes, trying to get to his friend, but it's no use.
The men drag him while the dark-haired woman, looking entirely mad, skips down the hall. Albus has been to the manor enough to know nearly every inch, and yet, between the blinding headache he's still facing and the fact that he'd never been allowed in the dungeons before, he has no idea where they're headed until they enter the drawing room.
The first thing he notices is that it looks so, so different. The room he's standing in has always been bright, light shining in from every window, Mrs. Malfoy having filled it with bright, colorful decor that made the whole room all but shine. Now, however, it's dark, the windows drawn, black rugs and green tapestries everywhere.
The second thing he notices is the big-ass snake winding its way across the floor.
The third thing he notices is the white, nearly translucent, monster-like figure sitting in a throne-like chair at the end of the room. The sight of this man – this unmistakable person who Albus is sure will always haunt his nightmares now – would surely make him collapse if he was in fact the one holding himself up. Score one for the brutes dragging him, he supposes.
He can feel himself trembling as the woman leads his captors right up to Voldemort and then bows, sweeping out of the way just as he's dropped unceremoniously onto the ground.
"You're not Harry Potter." The snake-like man in front of him hisses it like an accusation. As though it's his fault that he's the wrong boy.
"Astute observation," Albus says, and the words have no sooner left his mouth than he feels every nerve ending light on fire, causing him to scream. He can't even bring himself to think lucidly enough to recognize it as the Cruciatus curse until afterwards, when he's writhing on the ground and panting to get his breath back.
"You will be respectful in the presence of the Dark Lord," the dark-haired woman from before sneers, but Voldemort puts his hand up as if to silence her.
"Now, Bellatrix," he hisses, but he almost sounds amused. "You're being overzealous. Something tells me the whelp hardly knows what's happening right at the moment." He turns to Albus, the half-smile he'd been sporting gone in place of a sneer. "You might not be Harry Potter," he hisses, "But you look just like him. What is your name, boy?"
Albus tenses, trying to decide whether lying or telling the truth is more likely to make another, more lethal curse come his way, but it hardly matters. Before he has a chance to open his mouth either way, someone is forcing his chin up and his eyes lock onto the red, slit-like ones belonging to the man in front of him. A white-hot pain sears its way through his skull and he can see the memories even as the man combs through them.
Mum and Dad, teaching him how to pronounce his name back when he still had that lisp.
Uncle Nev calling out his name just before the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin.
Holding his hand out to Scorpius and introducing himself for the first time.
He screams.
Scorpius hears the screaming from downstairs and wraps his arms around his legs, rocking back and forth. How the hell had this happened?
Now, Scorpius, you know not to mess around with dark objects. He can all but hear his father's reprimanding tone. He wishes he was home. One of his father's lectures would be heaven compared to this.
The door opens again, like before, and Scorpius flinches. He can't even bring himself to look, to see if it's Al coming back already or if it's someone else come to take him away, to kill him too.
"Hello?"
A soft voice greets him, and his eyes snap up.
"Grandmother." The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it, and the woman before him all but recoils before steeling her eyes again.
"I knew it," she says softly. "You look so much like him, of course you're ours." She comes in, shutting the door softly, noiselessly, behind her, and kneels in front of him. "Tell me your name, my love."
Scorpius hesitates. Gran had died during the war, and his father had never wanted to talk much about it either, but Scorpius knows that his grandfather, at least, had been on the wrong side of it. He never knew where his grandmother's loyalties had lain. Except, of course, with her son.
"Scorpius," he says finally, searching her face for a reaction. She gives him none except to nod, the ghost of a smile on her lips before her expression becomes neutral again and she stands, turning toward the door.
Just before the door closes behind her, she looks back at him. "You're one of ours," she says, and it sounds like some kind of an oath to him. The light leaves the room again as the door shuts noiselessly behind her receding form.
Rose wakes up in the same room as before, the pounding in her head having subsided somewhat. She blinks slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the light from the sunset streaming in from the window. Next to her, she notices, her dad has his head in his hands, rocking back and forth somewhat manically. She's never seen him like this.
"Dad?" It comes out like a croak, but his eyes snap up at her nonetheless. His eyes look manic, too.
"You alright there?" His question comes out somewhat dazedly, and she blinks. It takes her a moment for the memories from the day to come flooding back, but when they do, she feels tears prick her eyes again.
"You're not my dad," she says. "Or, not yet, I guess."
He looks like he wants to go back to rocking, but he doesn't. Instead, his foot taps anxiously against the wooden floor. "The others thought it best that I be the one here when you woke up," he says, and she's not sure if he's telling her or reminding himself. Maybe both. "Since, you know, I'm the one you were asking for. Before, I mean. And since Hermione was the one that, uh, upset you."
The reminder is like a spark that ignites in her brain, pumping adrenaline through her body instantly. She stands, then falls back, slightly dizzy. "We have to go," she says frantically. "We have to go right now. If this is 1998, then the boys– the boys are in danger. We have to go. We have to go."
Her dad stands, putting his hands on her shoulders. "We can't," he says firmly. "It's not safe, Rose. And you're in no shape."
"But Dad, they're there with Vol–"
His hand clamps across her mouth, his eyes frantic again. "Do not say that name," he says. "There's a Taboo."
Rose flushes, and he lets her go. Of course, she thinks. She'd already forgotten the most basic knowledge she'd learned about the Second Wizarding War. Idiot.
"Dad," she tries again, and she doesn't miss how he cringes. "We have to get them. They'll die. He'll kill them." Her eyes widen. "I thought you were Hugo," she whispers, more to herself than to him. She raises her voice again. "I thought you were Hugo, because you look alike. Dad, You-Know-Who is going to think Albus is Uncle Harry. He's going to kill him, or worse."
Her dad's face is grim, his mouth set in a straight line, and she can see his strategic brain working. It's the same expression he makes when they're playing Wizards' Chess.
The same face he makes when he realizes that she's about to take his queen and he can do nothing to stop it.
She pushes past him, out the door and into the hallway, and she runs right back into the sitting room before he can catch her. She checks her pocket as she runs and, Thank Merlin, her wand is still there. She almost makes it to the edge of the beach, to where she knows the anti-apparition points end, before someone grabs her from behind, arms wrapped around her middle.
She kicks and screams against her captor's grip, but it's useless. Tears stream down her face and she starts to hyperventilate again.
"Rose." Her Uncle Bill's voice seems distant, but she can feel his breath against her ear as she struggles against him. "Rose, you have to calm down, love. This isn't helping anyone."
Her arms and legs feel tired already. She sags, spent, and briefly wonders how long it's been since she's eaten or drank water. But she doesn't even know how long she's spent sleeping since getting to this place. "The boys," she sobs raggedly. "The boys are there, and he's going to– he's going to–" She can't even finish the sentence.
Uncle Bill puts her down but comes round to her front, wrapping his arms around her, and she hiccoughs into his tee shirt. She's glad that he's holding her up, because she feels her knees give way before long, her entire body turning to jelly as she struggles to get air into her lungs.
It feels like hours before she finally calms, before her brain just goes numb and the tears stop falling, before she allows herself to be all but dragged back into the house and plopped down on the couch. By that time, almost all of the adults are sitting on the couch again. No, she mentally corrects herself, They're my age. They're no more adult than I am.
She's certain the thought would bring tears to her eyes if she had any left.
"We have to get them back." She says it matter of factly. Defeatedly. The others all open their mouths to correct her, but she silences them with a glare. "I know my history," she continues. "I know what comes next, and I know that if we don't get them soon then my cousin and my best friend will be killed before we have a chance to do anything else about it."
"Alright then." It's Uncle Harry that speaks. "If Hermione's kid says she knows her history, I believe her." He looks resolute. Stressed as he is, Rose thinks he looks much older than he should. "What do we do, Rose?"
Rose looks down, playing with her fingers. "That's the hard part," she says. "I know what the books tell you. You lot– You're pretty opposed to telling war stories. Painful memories, I think."
"That's alright, love," Uncle Bill says, giving her a reassuring smile. "Whatever you know is helpful. Start with today: April 20, 1998."
Rose takes a breath. This is going to be a long explanation.
