There was no point pleading for her life. Rose had abandoned that avenue hours ago, when her throat grew hoarse and her lips began to crack and bleed from the effort. Every now and then the urge to beg rose back up her windpipe, and each time she quashed it with the same ruthless determination. There's no point, she reminded herself sternly, repeating the words like a mantra of sanity against the irrational, survival-driven instinct to try just one more time. These people were never going to release her. Nobody was coming.
Upon waking from her forced oblivion, she discovered that her surroundings had changed drastically. Gone was the disused, dirty warehouse she awoke in hours ago. Instead, she sat in what looked like the pompous, overdecorated parlour of some expansive manor house, decorated with elegant furnishings and several ornate picture frames, the inhabitants of which watched her with varying levels of curiosity. The carpet was plush and the fireplace gilded with gold trimmings, a ceramic pot Rose was sure held Floo Powder taunting her from its position on the mantelpiece. On the far side of the room, an enormous set of glass doors hid behind thick velvet curtains, casting the room in a heavy darkness with only a thin crack of light to reveal that it was daytime outside.
There was no sign of Jean. If it weren't for the ropes tied tightly around her wrists and ankles, and the throbbing in her head, she might almost have felt as though she were sitting in someone's elaborate living room, waiting to be served tea by their house-elf. She had come to places like this with her mother from time to time as a child, visiting as part of a charitable cause or in Hermione's official capacity with the Department of Magical Creatures. Her mother had disdained the over-the-top trappings of the extremely wealthy, turning up her nose at their expensive furniture and grandiose manner of living. Often, she would make a point of asking the house-elves about their conditions and whether they were being paid award rates for their service; Rose would enjoy watching her mother in these situations, impervious and determined in the face of her host's hostility or embarrassment. Hermione had never been cowed from doing her job. She had never been intimidated by anyone.
The hot trickle of a tear on her cheek distracted Rose from her memories, and she sniffed, annoyed with herself for drowning in reminiscences when she should have been focusing on the present. Now was not the time to be dwelling in the past. Her mother, if she were here, would want her to get a grip and take control of the situation, as she had done countless times over the course of her adventures, not sit around moping. If Hermione were here, Rose knew her mother would conjure some daring, ingenious strategy of escape, and execute it perfectly, taking down all those who got in her way. Now it was her chance to do the same.
Rose fidgeted with her bonds, testing their tightness, then experimented with trying to shift her chair; but the ropes were welded to the floor with magic, and she could tell there would be little point in struggling with them. Her gaze travelled around the room once more, lighting on an elderly wizard seated morosely within one of the picture frames.
"Where am I?" she asked.
The man stared back at her balefully.
"Where am I?" she repeated, and he shook his head.
"Not where you belong," he replied, before creaking to his feet and hobbling out of the frame.
Undeterred, her gaze shifted to the next painting. It featured two women, one a middle aged matron with a beak-like nose and a chin so sharp it threatened to cut through the canvas; the other a pale, watery girl not much older than Rose herself, with fair hair and a flushed complexion.
"Where am I?" she asked them, and the girl's lower lip trembled.
"Oh, ç'est pas bon. Ç'est pas bon du tout," she replied, her hands wringing together in her lap as she looked imploringly at the elder woman.
Rose tilted her head. So they were still in France. She had thought as much. Studying the older woman, and her proud, aristocratic features, she wracked her brains for the cursory strands of french she had gleaned visiting her aunt and cousins as a child. "Er, comment vous appelez-vous?"
The woman sniffed, apparently unimpressed by the attempt. Her lips thinned, and for a long time she said nothing. Rose was about to continue her line of questioning when the woman lifted her chin and replied in a haughty, arrogant kind of voice, "Je suis Madame Marie Thérèse de Châlus L'étrange, Duchesse d'Anjou."
Rose ducked her head in a gesture of respect, though mostly she hoped to conceal the spark of shock that must surely have ignited in her eyes. L'étrange. Of course. Her hands tightened into fists and she fought to keep her breathing steady. She should have guessed that family would be involved somehow. Jean had practically said as much, earlier. Punishment? I wouldn't use such a banal term. I prefer vengeful retribution for wrongs suffered... Rose bit her tongue. Oh, if she ever got her hands on Ivy Lestrange…
And then there was the other tidbit of information. Duchesse d'Anjou. Rose grimaced, wishing she had spent more time listening to her Aunt Fleur talk about France and its geography. She had only the vaguest idea where Anjou was located; somewhere in the north… west? That was something, at least, but Rose couldn't think how to use the information to her advantage. If she could get a message out, somehow… her gaze flitted once more to the fireplace.
The main door rattled, then creaked loudly as it swung open. Rose straightened, relaxing her shoulders and attempting to look innocent through the sudden pounding of her heart. But it wasn't Jean as she had feared it might be, nor even Cheren with his two lumbering oafs. Rose blinked a few times to make sure she wasn't hallucinating, but the girl who walked through from the main hall did not disappear. Instead, she clomped forward with a sour look and extended a cup of what appeared to be water.
"Drink," she commanded.
Rose stared at her in shock. She could not have been more than fifteen, though her pinched expression, sallow skin and heavy scowl made her appear much older. She was wearing plain, dark wizading robes, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun that reminded Rose all at once of Professor McGonagall.
"Drink," the girl repeated, prodding the cup closer to her face. Her accent was heavy, the english word thick and clunky on her tongue. When Rose still didn't reply, her scowl deepened and she took a long step back.
"No, wait," Rose managed at last, finding her tongue as a sharp pang of thirst shot through her. She couldn't remember the last time she had drunk anything, and her throat was hoarse and parched from her earlier screaming. Hurriedly, she wet her lips. "I - I'll drink. I just - " she made a gesture to her bound hands, drawn painfully behind her. The girl followed her movements but made no move to untie them. "You'll have to help me..."
The girl's lip curled in disgust, as if this simple suggestion was akin to sticking her hand into a nest of doxies. Rose bit her tongue, holding back a sharp comment regarding purebloods and their notions of cleanliness. Eventually, the girl gave a long-suffering sigh and strode forward, thrusting the cup to Rose's lips and tipping it unceremoniously upwards.
Half of it spilled over her shirt, but it still felt like diving headfirst into a crystal pool of heaven. Rose choked, trying to gulp as much of it as she could, then attempted to dry her chin on her shirt. The girl walked away and placed the cup on a table with two fingers, before heading back to the door.
"Wait!" Rose called, and the girl halted in her tracks. "I need to pee. Like, really badly," she added when the girl did not immediately react. "I mean it, seriously, you don't want me to - "
The girl span around, scowling, and waved her wand with a sharp cutting motion that wrenched the ropes from Rose's legs and arms. She walked forward, wand poised and pointed straight at Rose's face, then seized her in a vice-like grip and hauled her to her feet.
"Th-thanks," Rose stammered, her muscles seizing in complaint from the sudden movement. Tingles raced along her legs and arms as her blood began to circulate properly, and she wobbled a little. "I mean it, I really - "
"Sssh!" The girl hissed at her, and Rose fell quiet at once. She tried to walk slowly as the girl pushed her forwards, her eyes darting around as they left the room. The parlour led into a cavernous, marble-floored entrance hall, with a staircase winding to the manor's upper levels opposite a set of engraved, oak-panelled doors Rose could only assume led outside. She studied them keenly as the girl steered her in the other direction, behind the staircase and towards a plain looking side door. They did not appear to be obstructed in any way, but it was probably hoping for too much to assume they were unguarded. Her captors didn't strike her as that unprofessional.
The girl marched her through the side door and down a narrow, carpeted corridor before coming face to face with a small bathroom clearly designed for servants' use, its plain, unadorned furnishings in stark contrast to the rest of the house.
"Here," she said, and Rose nodded vaguely, her mind racing ahead as she strove to keep her expression blank.
"I, um…?" she indicated her hands, still bound behind her back. The girl glared at her fiercely, and she shrugged. "I can't go to the toilet with no hands. Unless you want to pull my pants down for me and - " she broke off as the girl let out a series of curses in French, then yanked her round to untie her hands. Rose let out a sigh of relief as the tight bonds gave way, flexing her wrists and wiggling her fingers gratefully.
"Be quick," snapped the girl, a dark crease between her eyebrows adding gravity to the statement. In normal circumstances, it would have been hard to take such a young girl seriously, but something about her mannerisms and the tight way she gripped her wand made Rose nod her head and obey. She shut the door to the toilet and took a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily and trying to channel a little of her mother's courage. Now was her chance. Possibly her only chance.
She did her business and reopened the door. With a neutral expression, she motioned to the washbasin, and when the girl nodded begrudgingly she moved to wash her hands. Her reflection stared back in the large vanity, hollow-eyed and pale. There were deep, dark circles beneath her eyes, and a large, ugly bruise flowered across her cheekbone where Jean had struck her earlier. She grimaced and turned the faucet off, shaking her hands a few times before drying them carefully on her jeans.
"Ready?" asked the girl.
Rose nodded and turned around. With a casualness of deception that would have been comical in other circumstances, she took a few steps closer before letting her eyes spring behind the girl's left shoulder, her features contorting into an immediate, exaggerated horror. She opened her mouth to call out, and lifted her hands in a dramatic display of self-defence.
The girl stiffened, and half-turned. The vice grip on her wand loosened just a fraction and her gaze shifted away from Rose's face towards the door.
It was barely a heartbeat, but it was all Rose needed. Her pulse thundering in her ears, she lunged forward, moving faster than she would once have believed possible, and seized the girl's wrist in both hands. The girl cried out as her grip was broken, and a spell burst from the tip of her wand, missing Rose's face by a hair's breadth before ricocheting off the wall and shattering the vanity behind them. Gritting her teeth, Rose wrapped both hands around the wand and, using all her strength, thrust it forcefully away from her and into the girl's face instead.
And fired.
The wand fought her, resistance juddering through it and running all the way up Rose's arm to make her teeth clack. A furious burst of red shot from the end of it, straight into the girl's widened, furious eyes. Rose fancied she could almost see the explosion of colour mirrored in their dark depths.
A second later, and the girl crumpled lifeless to the floor.
Heartbeat. Hammering. Sweat. Rose sucked in a desperate gulp of air, her lungs so tight she worried she might asphyxiate from the tension. The room swam around her before righting, and she stumbled back a step, hitting the cracked basin with a thud. Her hands, which still clung white-knuckled to the wand, were slippery with sweat, and she hurriedly wiped them again on her jeans. Then, forcing her trembling arm to steady, she cast a petrificus totalus and conjured ropes to pin the girl's stiff, frozen body to a copper pipe. It took Rose several attempts with the reluctant wand, and the bonds were nowhere near as strong as those that had been used on her, but they would do.
They would do, Rose assured herself, swallowing the thick lump of fear that had lodged in her throat.
They had to.
.
It took less than three minutes for Scorpius to realise he was being left behind. It was obvious in the way the adults bustled around without even glancing his way, their hushed conversations and the muttered messages that were clearly not intended for his ears.
His father was busy talking to Harry Potter. They stood in a corner of McGonagall's office, heads bent as Draco spoke with obvious urgency, his hands moving rapidly as he attempted to make some point that Scorpius was too far away to catch. For his part, Potter spoke rarely, nodding once or twice and occasionally firing out a short question as he scribbled hastily on a conjured parchment. Scorpius had little doubt as to what they were discussing. Around him, the others hurried to and fro; he watched them with growing impatience, his body itching for activity and his mind racing with worry for Rose, unable to understand what could possibly be taking so long.
At some point, McGonagall and Hermione rushed off somewhere, muttering something about contacts within the French Ministry. Scorpius barely heard them as they disappeared into the swirling green fireplace; he was suddenly preoccupied with the realisation that their departure left him practically alone with an agitated, fuming Ron Weasley.
There was a long, tense pause. Rose's dad seemed to realise at the same moment Scorpius did; he stood frozen in the centre of the room, his gaze abstracted and his breathing heavy. By his sides his fingers twitched convulsively, and Scorpius winced, remembering that fateful night six months ago when he'd found himself thrown against the wall of the Burrow's living room. It was a moment he was not likely to forget anytime soon.
Something must have shown on his expression, because Mr Weasley's gaze sharpened, and his jaw tensed as though he knew what was on Scorpius' mind. "Listen, Malfoy," he bit out in a terse voice. "If you seriously think I'm - "
"I love your daughter, sir."
Ron pulled up short, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging open mid-sentence. In the corner, Harry and Draco broke off their conversation and turned their heads towards them; apparently, Scorpius' declaration had carried further than he'd intended. He sucked in a deep breath to steady the suddenly pounding drumbeat of his heart. The words he hadn't intended to say hung in the air, taking on a life of their own until Scorpius fancied he could almost have picked them up and thrown them, so real and tangible did they feel in that moment. He swallowed, and decided to dig his grave a little deeper.
"I love your daughter," he repeated. Ron appeared no less shocked the second time round; if anything, his eyes bulged even wider. "I do. I know you may not believe me, after everything that's happened, after… what I did - but I do. I love her like - like I've never loved anyone, ever. She's smart and beautiful and strong and - and sometimes she's annoying as hell, and stubborn and proud and all that too but - I still love her. I swear it on Salazar himself, or - or Godric Gryffindor," he added as an afterthought, his palms beginning to sweat as Ron continued to stare at him. "Or whatever. I don't even need to swear it cause I know it's true… Sir."
The atmosphere had thickened to treacle. Scorpius cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the clammy sweat that had broken out on his forehead. Ron was still gaping at him as though he wasn't sure he was even speaking english, and his own father's expression wasn't much better. Scorpius considered Draco out of the corner of his eye, wondering whether his father had got the message. His speech had been as much for his benefit as for Mr Weasley's.
"And one more thing," he added, his voice growing in strength now when none of the adults tried to interrupt him. "I just want to make this clear, before we go and get Rose back. I made a deal with my father last summer..." his gaze cut to Draco, fierce with challenge, before returning to Ron. "That if I spent a year at Durmstrang, and still wanted to be with Rose at the end of it, he'd give us his blessing. He told me if I did as he asked, and didn't fight him for just one year, he'd let go of his objections about us being together. So… I agreed. I knew he expected me to forget about her, and move on. But I haven't. I won't."
This seemed to kickstart something in Ron Weasley's brain. He straightened and inhaled deeply, his gaze swivelling between Draco and Scorpius, a furrow deepening in his brow and his face scrunched as he attempted to process what Scorpius had just said. "I don't understand," he said at last. "I thought - "
But whatever he thought would have to wait, for at that moment the fire in McGonagall's office gave a resounding crack, and Hermione Granger stepped smoothly through it, followed by the Headmistress. Hermione's face was paper-white but determined, her left hand clutched around a chipped coffee mug so tightly her knuckles were almost purple.
"It's time," she said, her voice echoing around the silent room. If she noticed an unusual amount of tension in the air, she ignored it. Instead, she held the coffee cup aloft, gesturing for them to approach. "Ron, Harry, Draco. We're moving."
Scorpius watched them cluster together, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears it made it difficult to think straight. When he caught his father's eye, he saw the answer to his unspoken question written in Draco's gaze. Frantically, he shook his head.
"You can't leave me behind. I'm coming. I have to."
But the expressions on the adults' faces told him his protests were futile. Harry and Ron ignored him, while Hermione shot him a sympathetic, understanding glance before she too turned away. Draco's mouth was thin, his grey eyes unyielding as he regarded him.
"We'll discuss this later," he said. "Now is not the time to - "
"NO!" He strode forward, breathing heavily. "You can't - Rose is in danger - I have to - you can't leave me behind!"
Draco gave the tiniest shake of his head. "No, son. Not this time."
"Let's go," said Ron.
"Ready, everybody?" Hermione glanced at the clock and held out the cup for them all to touch. "On the count of three."
"No!" Scorpius rushed towards them, only to find himself buffeted backwards as the air in front of him became as solid as a brick wall. He stared in horror at Harry Potter, whose wand was pointed directly at him.
"Stay here, Scorpius," the boy-who-lived said, his free hand reaching out to take a corner of the coffee mug. "We'll be back soon."
"One..."
"No - you can't - " Scorpius fought against the invisible barrier, straining every muscle to break through it. Futile.
"Two..."
He pulled out his own wand, but his mind was blank as to how to break the spell. It dangled uselessly at his side.
"Three..."
There was a flash, and Scorpius stared at his father. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, before, with a rushing noise that sounded louder than it probably was, he and the rest of the adults faded into thin air.
He was alone.
Scorpius let out a vicious string of curses, lashing out and kicking over one of McGonagall's display stands. It toppled to the floor with a crash, spilling its contents across the room. Oblivious to this, he slashed his wand through the air, causing objects to go flying and several inhabitants of the portraits to scream and run for cover. Blood thundered in his veins and he paced like a caged tiger, his hands flexing and unflexing, desperate to cause some kind of damage, to release a little of the anger and frustration currently bubbling inside him. His gaze span around the room, landing on things at random, strange objects that he didn't know the use of, delicate instruments, hundreds of vials and potions and -
He stopped, abruptly. The merry flames still crackling in McGonagall's fireplace filled his vision, making his eyes water until he blinked and forced himself to look away. Their light lingered, casting a red glow over the debris scattered at his feet. Scorpius breathed deep, the beginnings of a plan scratching together in his mind and causing his heartrate to pick up and his spine to stiffen in anticipation. Making up his mind, he strode quickly to the door and yanked it open before he had a chance to overthink things.
And found himself face to face with Albus Potter.
White-hot anger erupted inside Scorpius' chest. The intensity of his reaction caught him by surprise, and he found himself taking a step back before he knew what he was doing.
Seizing the advantage, Albus stepped quickly into the room. His green eyes scanned the area before settling on Scorpius' face with a heavy frown, apparently not in the least surprised to see him standing there. "Where did they go?" he demanded. "What's happened to Rose?"
It was tempting, so tempting, to lash out. Scorpius' hand clenched around his wand and his upper lip curled as he considered the boy in front of him. They could have it out right now, all the crap and bullshit that had come between them, and Scorpius could finally vent the thick slab of tension and worry that was weighing down his chest. But as quickly as the rush of blood came it faded, and he shook his head, his mind returning to Rose, to France, to the threads of a plan he was clinging to with something approaching desperation. To the time he didn't have, and the reason he was walking out the door in the first place...
"Get out of my way," he growled, moving to brush past Albus and snarling in frustration when he found himself obstructed.
"Not so fast." Albus stepped into his path, gaze sharp. "Tell me where she is."
Scorpius chewed his tongue, wondering whether there was any point trying to withhold the truth. "France" he relented at last, deciding the truth was faster than a lie. "Your dad, my dad, everyone just took a portkey and disappeared. That's where they've gone. Now move."
Al's brows contracted sharply. "And you're planning on following them."
It wasn't a question. Apparently, years of being best friends had made his thought processes transparent. Scorpius swore silently and drew his wand. "Look, I really don't want to have to do this, but - "
"Take me with you."
He broke off, stunned. Of all the things he'd expected Albus to do or say, that had not been it. Try to stop him, yes. Attack him again, maybe. But come with him?
"Take me with you," repeated Albus. His jaw was set, eyes lit with a fierce determination. "I mean it, Scorpius. We do this together."
Scorpius hesitated, torn between his desperation to get on with things and the need to know what Albus was playing at. "What happened to the whole 'swinging punches if I try to see Rose again'?" he asked against his better judgement.
"Yeah, well, things change," muttered Albus. He bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly as impatient as Scorpius felt. "My cousin's in danger, and if you have a plan to help her then I'm in, no questions asked. Everything else can bloody wait." His gaze cut to Scorpius, heavy and intense. "You do have a plan, don't you?"
Scraping a hand across his face, Scorpius tried to get his thoughts in order. Truth be told, he couldn't force himself to be annoyed that Albus had shown up. Sure, they had a lot to sort out and he was still a little worried his friend might start swinging at him again, but there was something comfortingly familiar about his presence by Scorpius' side. Standing here like this, they could almost have been back at Hogwarts, planning another raid on Filch's office, or breaking into the potions storeroom to concoct some awful prank on an unsuspecting Hufflepuff. It was almost like nothing had changed, like nothing had ever come between them to begin with...
"Well?" Albus demanded, and Scorpius' daydreams shattered like glass. He scowled, annoyed at himself for getting distracted. This wasn't some stupid prank. This was Rose and... "I have a plan," he said. "But I need..." he took a deep breath, and stared at his best friend, the person who had been there for him through thick and thin for almost as long as he could remember. Sent a silent prayer to Salazar that he wouldn't find himself regretting this. "I need Ivy Lestrange."
Albus didn't even blink. "I think I know where she is. Should I bring her here?"
Relief that his friend was taking him seriously flooded through him, and he nodded. "If you can, yeah. Don't tell her what's happening just - just that I need to talk to her." Scorpius could feel his palms sweating. He wiped them hurriedly on his robes. Told himself he wasn't as crazy as he sounded right then. "And... have you still got your brother's cloak?"
Albus scowled. "It's not my brother's - " he broke off at Scorpius' pointed look. "I mean yeah, I do."
"Okay. Bring that too."
"Anything else?"
Scorpius shook his head, and Albus strode towards the door. He paused just beyond it, and turned back to give Scorpius the kind of look that reminded him exactly whose son he was. "Is it true, what you said?" he asked. "To Rose's dad, just then?"
Something tight and painful constricted in Scorpius' chest, but he fought to keep his expression blank. "You heard that?"
"Yeah, I did." Albus' eyes remained fixed on him. "So was it true?"
He took a deep breath. Held Albus' uncanny gaze as steadily as he could. "Yes."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
Something that might have been relief passed over Albus' face, and he almost smiled. "Thank Godric," he said, then straightened and nodded once. "I'll be back soon."
The door slammed shut, and Scorpius found himself alone once more. He let out the breath he was holding, and staggered over to the fireplace. The flames burned again in his vision but he welcomed it, clenching his hands into fists and bringing them to rest against the mantelpiece. Right beside the vial of floo powder McGonagall had left behind.
"Hold on Rose," he said aloud, as the fire crackled and turned green, the flames jumping high enough to lick the lintel. "Hold on. I'm coming."