Music listened while writing (and played by the Musician of Azkaban): Irene Adler's Theme - Extended Version
This story is a one-shot; it has only one chapter. It's my little drama. Ever since I became captivated by Arben Bajraktaraj, I've always wanted to write about his character in Harry Potter: Antonin Dolohov. With little time, I crafted this short story set in the universe where I write the most: Harry Potter Next Generation. I wanted to create a tragic, sad, and unsettling love story.
I hope you'll give this story a chance.
He hadn't wanted this. Nothing had been planned, and if there had been any betrayal, it was that of his own heart.
He had always been close to the other kids, the descendants of Death Eaters. They all told him he was hard and cold enough to endure all this. So he had to come. For them, it was too much, but he was made of ice.
That's how it had started.
He didn't have any imprisoned family members, but he accompanied the others to Azkaban, out of solidarity, every time. It's true, he had no business being there. He could have avoided those walls. But he couldn't say no to those children who resembled him but were not like him. He was strong enough to bear it, tough enough to accept the past.
But at Azkaban, he got bored while waiting in the dark corridor where the cells lined up one after another, so numerous that he couldn't tell how many there were on each floor of the prison. He wasn't afraid, he didn't feel sad or empathetic, he didn't share their pain. He just came and waited, retrieving friends who were always trembling and inconsolable. But he felt nothing. That's why he was the ideal companion to venture into that dreadful prison.
He shouldn't have been there.
He was waiting for Ethan that day, Ethan Rowle. He was visiting his grandfather, and Scorpius had followed, as usual, but this time he shouldn't have. He was lying on the prison floor, his back against the cold stone. He was listening absentmindedly to the Rowles' conversation, more out of boredom than real interest.
But that day was different, because that day, he had heard the music.
Distant and pleading, sliding along the cold stone, it pierced the darkness. The pure sadness in the notes that rose. An echo of his own solitude. He stood up and followed the music. He passed the cells, one after another, ignoring the occupants who either ignored him or shouted at him with invectives or groans. Assassins and worse inhabited these walls, but Scorpius followed the music down the stone corridor.
Finally, he saw the musician. A man with black hair in his cell, sitting on the floor, one leg bent, eyes closed as he played the violin. He stopped when he heard the shuffling steps of Scorpius and looked at him with icy blue eyes, almost as pale as his own.
"You've gotten lost, little angel?"
The voice had a Slavic accent, Russian or Ukrainian, that weighed on his words, making them deeper. Scorpius shuddered at the sound of his voice, as he would so many times after that meeting.
"No."
"Oh yes, you're lost."
He placed the violin along his leg and pointed the boy out with his bow.
"You have no business being here."
"I am comfortable among murderers."
Scorpius's voice was flat and cold. Everything about him was cold.
"Ah, so you're one of us, then?"
He placed the bow on the floor next to his leg but remained seated.
"Come closer to the light so I can see your face."
Scorpius stepped into the faint moonlight streaming through the barred window. The man's face cracked into a half-smile.
"A Malfoy. But your features are softened. Your mother?"
"Astoria Greengrass."
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, as if presented with a fine wine. Death Eaters all had the same reaction when they learned of a Pureblood lineage.
"What's your name, little angel?"
"Why should I tell you?"
He smiled.
"To make acquaintance. Don't you want to give me your name?"
Scorpius shook his head.
"Do you want to know mine?"
"No."
He kept a meter of distance between himself and the cell bars.
"I just came to listen to the music."
The man picked up his instrument.
"Then I'll play for you, little angel."
And the notes rose and rolled over the stones. Scorpius sat on the cold floor, never taking his eyes off the violinist, who lost himself in his music. Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Ethan Rowle appeared out of the corner of his eye, and he stood up before the boy could speak. The music stopped.
"I have to go," said Scorpius.
And so, he turned his back on the man. The man's voice reached him.
"Will you come back to see me?"
"No."
And he left the man behind.
But he had come back. He had come back, again and again, to listen to the music. Or so he said. Yet, the man didn't always play; he talked. He told marvelous stories. He was a storyteller, and Scorpius loved listening to him, listening to tales of sea voyages and sirens, of battles that spanned centuries, of fallen kingdoms and heroes. He showed him the little astrolabe he wore as a pendant and recounted the journeys of ships guided by the stars. Several times, Scorpius was tempted to write these stories down, take them home and keep them forever. But he didn't, preferring to come back so the man could tell them again in that deep, singing voice. Scorpius never gave him his name, and the man kept calling him "little angel." Sometimes he coughed, turning away to press a handkerchief to his lips. Then he continued his story.
"You smell like flowers," he said one day. "I've had enough of the smell of stones and the sea. Every time, you come back to me with a different scent."
How old had he been when he first met the man? Fourteen? He didn't remember anymore, but he recalled that he started writing to him as soon as he returned to Hogwarts.
"You'll give my letters to the man who plays the violin," he had told the guard, who saw him visit so often.
That's how things went, for years.
He was eighteen now. A Slytherin, who made his family proud. He had a friend. A very dear friend, with immense green eyes and dark hair. A friend who loved him and looked at him the same way he looked at the man.
Albus Severus Potter was everything he was not. Adventurous and combative, with a heart of fire, whereas Scorpius was cold, distant, and secretive, a being of ice. Albus was life, he filled the space, and his radiant aura was bright, while Scorpius preferred the darkness and the pale, diffuse light of moonlit nights. Albus had the most charming smile in the world and full lips. Ambitious, he was, but he should have lived among the lions of Hogwarts. He always said that the Sorting Hat had let him choose his house, and that he hadn't chosen Slytherin. It was a real mystery because he was indeed in Slytherin, despite it not being his choice, but he said he was exactly where he wanted to be, and leaving that mystery in the air pleased him greatly.
He was the only one Scorpius had told about the man. It was a secret he shared with him, and it brought them closer. Scorpius wouldn't have told anyone else about the man. Albus also questioned him about the letters he received, all sent by this unknown person from Azkaban.
"Don't you want to know who he is?" he had asked him so many times.
Scorpius didn't want to know. He was just the man, and that was all.
Every year, on the same date they had first met at Azkaban, he would receive a nocturne in a letter, and the music would begin playing as soon as the envelope was opened. Always a different melody, beautiful music but incredibly sad, notes of absence and loss. The echo of his own heart.
A little before Christmas that year, Albus had kissed him on the rooftop promenade. Scorpius had lost himself in the kiss. He was moved by the intensity with which Potter caressed him. He desired him, that was clear, and Scorpius loved the feel of his hands on him, his lips on his skin. He loved Albus's eyes, the warmth of that deep green. But he preferred cold, pale eyes. He preferred the ice.
He awaited the holidays with impatience. The waiting and absence tortured him. Despite the regular letters, the man never asked for him and never seemed surprised to see him. Scorpius came to see him every vacation, cheeks flushed by the sea breeze and his own anticipation, practically running down the corridors to the familiar cell. The man smiled at him tenderly, but never with impatience.
Scorpius was troubled by it, almost jealous. One day, he snapped:
"Do you not care if I come to see you?"
The man looked surprised.
"Why do you say that?"
"You feel nothing!"
He was made of ice, he always had been, but now he burned, and the man before him felt nothing. For the first time, he wanted to run from that place.
The man had caught him through the bars and pulled him close. It was the first time he had touched him, felt his skin on his, his hands delicate yet powerful. He wrapped his arms around his hips and rested his forehead against his head.
His breath slid over his face and down his throat.
"More than enough, I feel more than enough."
Scorpius had felt tears welling in his eyes with the urge to give in to the man's embrace, surrender to the warmth that made him tremble. Feeling himself weaken, he pulled away. He fled. He was done for, he knew it. And yet, he returned in the following days to lose himself in the music and the man's voice.
The months passed without substance, through a veil, like a trial to endure before each return home, before each visit to the prison.
One spring morning, he had let himself be led into the Room of Requirement. He closed his eyes and let himself be undressed. He was on his stomach, Albus pressing down on him, entering him, gripping his wrists tightly.
"I don't care if you think about someone else. He's far away, he can't have you."
He bit his shoulder, and Scorpius spilled onto the floor, crying out in pleasure. He had no name to scream.
The start of summer, the one marking the end of his schooling, was the moment that broke the spell.
"You mustn't come back."
A cold veil trapped Scorpius's heart, as bleak as the prison whose dark stones he now saw clearly again.
"Your place isn't here. I've always told you that, Little Angel."
"I'm not your Little Angel."
He was pale, and his cough had worsened. His whole body was shaking, and he pressed his handkerchief hard against his lips with every fit.
"I won't come back. I'm done. I'm tired of you!"
But he was trembling, clenching and unclenching his fists. Never had the man's eyes seemed so sad to him. What a farce!
"Will you keep writing to me?" the man asked. His soft voice was almost tinged with hope.
"No."
Scorpius left. Hurt, broken.
And he had held firm, stayed silent, and didn't write anymore. He still received the letters, but he didn't read them. Each envelope he threw into the fire felt like it was tearing his heart out, but he held strong, clinging to his pride.
He spent the end of summer at the Potters' home, in the stifling heat of an unusually warm month, clinging to Albus, comforted by his presence and his fevered embraces, when a country-wide alert was issued.
A dangerous criminal had escaped from Azkaban, one of Voldemort's followers, a terrible killer.
Antonin Dolohov. Murderer, executioner.
"He's dying," said Harry Potter at dinner, trying to reassure his wife. "A severe pneumonia. It's a miracle he lasted this long. The other guards were questioned. He received a lot of letters, but we couldn't find any trace of them. The letters stopped all of a sudden, and he became lethargic. The guard thought he was dead, but then he attacked and escaped."
Pale and trembling, Scorpius asked to leave the table and go to bed. They thought it was heatstroke, and he fled to Albus's room. He lay down on the bed, his mind blank. From his hair to the tips of his toes, he felt himself flooded with a powerful pain radiating from his heart. Breathing felt difficult.
For hours, he couldn't sleep. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lulled by the sound of Albus's breathing as he slept beside him.
At the break of dawn, he thought he heard the cry of a violin, familiar notes, faint and distant, pulling him from his stupor. He couldn't tell if he was dreaming the music or actually hearing it. He got up and quietly left the room. As he reached the door, the notes seemed to become clearer. He stepped outside without shoes or a coat. The air was cold, the sun barely rising. He passed the garden and the gate and ventured into the nearby plain toward the large willow tree from where the melody seemed to come. As he approached the tree, the music grew louder, and despite the swelling of his heart, he couldn't make his legs move any faster.
When he reached the tree, he saw the man beneath the willow. He stopped playing and opened his eyes, giving Scorpius a tender look, to which the boy couldn't help but respond with a sad smile. He stepped closer as the man set his instrument down and stood to meet him. Face to face, they hesitated, accustomed to the bars and the distance that had always separated their bodies.
"How did you know I'd be here?" Scorpius whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.
The man smiled.
"Does it matter?"
Scorpius shook his head.
The man coughed, but he didn't have a handkerchief to cover his lips, and he pressed his sleeve against his mouth.
Scorpius winced at the sight of the bloodstain on his shirt.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His voice was just a whimper. His lips trembled, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"I wanted to see you," the man said, stepping closer to him.
He reached out a hand to the boy but didn't dare touch him. He hovered over his hair and clothes as if Scorpius were unreal.
"But I didn't want you to see me like this. I… I didn't want to die in front of you."
In a sudden rush, he pulled Scorpius into his arms and held him tight, burying his face in the boy's blond hair, breathing in his scent. His hands gripped Scorpius's hips and gently drew him closer. He wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his forehead against his. His black hair, too long, brushed against Scorpius's cheeks. His body trembled, his hands were feverish. He had longed for this embrace for so long.
"But I'm selfish," he breathed. "I don't want your happiness; I don't want to ease your pain. I just wanted to see you one last time, just one last time."
Beneath the willow, leaning against the tree, with his arms wrapped around the boy's waist, the man made love to him.
He kissed him on the forehead and placed the astrolabe around his neck "so that he too could find his way by the stars," and the boy tucked the pendant against his heart.
The man died in his arms, leaning against the trunk, Scorpius's face resting against his chest. He listened to the last music the man offered him, the final notes of his heart, and his name in his last breath.
He remained still for a moment, pressed against him, until reality struck him.
A scream built in his throat, and he stifled it against the man's chest, clutching at his clothes with his fists as tears streamed down his face. Still shaken by sobs, he pulled himself away, staggering. He had to tell someone, Albus, Harry Potter, the Aurors! He wanted him to be buried, with a name on his grave, a name for the man, not an anonymous corpse beneath a willow tree. He had a name.
He returned to the Potters' house and informed the family. They mistook his tears for fear, his dazed look for shock. Only Albus understood the moment he saw him.
He took them to the man and waited for them to take him away.
They didn't let him keep the violin, which left with the body.
Scorpius thought he would never stop crying. The cold metal of the astrolabe slipped against his chest as he wept over and over, listening to useless words of comfort, surrounded by people he loved, but who couldn't understand.
He spent the rest of the summer in the shadow of the willow. Albus came to pull him from his trance several times a day, almost furious.
"You can't keep going on like this!"
And Scorpius ignored him, his eyes vacant.
He eventually stopped crying. It was the last day of vacation, and his father would come to pick him up that evening.
He raised his eyes and saw Albus looking at him. He couldn't tell how long he had been there. Albus approached and sat beside him, brushing his legs against Scorpius's.
They stayed like that for a moment, gazing out at the plains in silence, when Scorpius felt Albus's lips graze his shoulder, then his neck.
"I didn't choose Slytherin," he murmured against his skin. "I chose you."
His voice touched him, piercing the heart that would never again be made of ice. Scorpius caressed Albus's cheek and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He smiled.
"It's going to be okay," Scorpius murmured. And he kissed him. For the first time, it was Scorpius who kissed him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw him, truly saw him, and regretted not looking at him sooner.
Albus had that smile that could light up the world and took his hand before leading him back toward the house.
For a moment, Scorpius thought he could hear the music, but it was only the wind in the willow.
The End.
