When she heard the scream, she didn’t know if she should approach, freeze or turn on her heel and go. Before, she wouldn’t have even asked herself this: she would have just gone. Who was she to impose, to seek out the source of a scream? She wasn’t nosy ( usually ), nor interested in heroics, and yet she moved towards it, now.
She’d found her ability to be empathetic, it seemed, finally —– had it been buried before, all those years? Or had she developed it when she traveled north, when she faced the death with people she hardly knew, when she found comfort in their presence and they in hers? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she liked it: before, Ailyn had felt ambivalent about most others, and now part of her cared about people she had only known for months. ( Not too deeply, though — she knew that if push would ever come to shove, she would choose for herself again. She cared, now, but she still cared about herself most — and if you asked her, that wasn’t a bad thing, in this world. )
But either way, she approached the source of the scream, still unsure of what she should do when she found the person it had belonged to. That person was, apparently, Scorpius Malfoy, who looked mostly fine ( as in, not bleeding or on the brink of death or fighting with an inferi or any of the things that Ailyn had, for a moment, considered — had the scream even be his? ). On his lap was a book, though, that looked less-than. “You ought to do that with more care, if you don’t want any lasting damage,” said Ailyn. She then frowned, mostly at her own words. Yes, it was a crime to damage books in her eyes, but even she knew her words were misplaced. “Sorry. I heard you –” She just heard him, she decided, not finishing her sentence. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just getting a head start so it doesn’t soak through to all the pages, I wouldn’t leave it-” Scor’s chest tightened and he forced himself to take a deep breath, pulse starting to drum again in his ears. He reached for his wand, casting a quick Impervius charm over himself, his satchel, the book. Soaked to his skin, thick woollen jumper feeling like a lead weight dragging him down.
He heaved a heavy hand down over his face, a sigh breaking alongside it. “I fell asleep. It’s fine. I didn’t mean to scare anyone.” Scor’s eyes flicked finally to meet Ailyn’s. “Out for a walk? I got kicked out of the Research Department this morning, someone snitched that I came straight from the Hospital Wing.”
“the dead whisper beneath my feet, voices translated through wind in the dry grass. I shouldn’t be breathing above empty caskets and shifting bodies. my bones are cold – my joints shatter. the cemetery itself is dead. there will be no vengeance tonight.”
date: october 13, 2028
time: 3:30pm
location: Hogwarts grounds, near the (former) quidditch pitch
who: nadia zabini && open
The wind whipped against her cheeks as Nadia strode across the grounds—-a far cry from the well-kept lands of her own time at Hogwarts, she still wasn’t quite used to the sort of wildness that had spread over the grounds around the castle, but it did have its perks. Mainly, the small thicket of starthistle she knew to be just on the other side of what used to be the quidditch pitch. And while normally she’d wait, have someone bring her the plant she needed… even she needed a bit of fresh air sometimes, and this way her research wouldn’t have to wait. She stopped as she her destination, stopping down so deft fingers could pluck the plant in question from the grass. Though she was focused on her task, her mind remained alert, and she glanced over her shoulder, sensing a presence behind her.
“If you’re going to lurk, make yourself useful and hand me a vial. I’d like to get back to the castle and get started on the next round of trials.”
Scor’s trousers had been rolled up to the knees, wading beneath a bridge in the shallow water, deft hands turned almost blue from the cold. It had been odd to hold a sickle himself, he’d not gathered anything in a long while. Nothing spectacular grew where he’d trudged but it was enough, maybe the magic from the castle just sank down into the very land underneath it he’d wondered. The wards had been kept up for hundreds of years at the very minimum, that had to have an effect on a place especially one so usually untroubled from outside influences, left to itself in the wild highlands. All of what he’d found had been wrapped in plastic bags- terrible muggle invention but useful in that particular scenario, then shoved into his many deep pockets. They rustled sometimes when he shifted too quickly, it made his pulse spike every time.
“I lurk therefore I am.” He murmured, already in motion to crouch down to reach for an uncorked vial.
There were times where Lily seemed like the corporeal form of an inferno – bright red hair, soot-colored eyes, and a heart that kindled with her fervent emotions and passions. But for a girl who embodied fire, it was almost incongruous how drawn she had always been to water. As she walked towards her favorite spot in the entire castle – an enormous willow tree by the shore of the Black Lake – she didn’t even bother to cast an Impervius Charm, letting the gentle drizzle fall onto her face, her cheeks turning a rosy red. There was something so restoring about the rain. The mist slowly enveloped her, permeating her senses until there was only this. The crisp weather. The water dampening her hair, her face, her enormous raincoat. A world that no longer felt as though it was on fire – just for a moment.
But then the tranquility faded away as a wretched scream cut through the air – a wail her brain knew she recognized although she couldn’t place it to a face. Casting a nonverbal Homenum Revelio, she quickened her step to a run, not nearly as swift as she’d been eight months ago but still considerably fast. It was extremely foolish of her to rush to someone else’s aid when there was an extra heartbeat inside of her to think about, but it was a reflex she hadn’t learnt how to turn off yet. Besides, as she often liked to remind people, being pregnant did not mean she was incapable. It just meant she had to be capable enough for two.
“Scorpius,” she breathed when she finally reached him. Lily gave him a once-over, scrutinizing him for injuries that were not there. “Fuck, are you alright? I thought –” Her voice trailed off, leaving it unspoken. She didn’t need to say it for him to know. “– was that you screaming like a banshee then? Or is there someone else out here who’s in trouble?”
Scor carefully waved his wand over individual pages, back hunched tightly forward to shield the book. Rain dripped from the longest strands of his hair onto his boots and the greyish sand and pebbles of the shore, his breathing slowed incrementally, with each trembling pass of his wand. His other hand, scarred beyond recognition aside its twin, held it close and reverently smoothed the pages in tandem with the charm. An anchor. A library is like an island in a vast sea of ignorance.
Somehow, he felt immeasurably more tired than he had before having fallen asleep. Stiff, sore and fatigued down to the very bone. Like gravity itself somehow doubled where he leaned against the rocks, cold and unforgiving against each cresting knot of his spine.
His eyes shot to Lily. Bright copper, small form drowned in a heavy raincoat, hair sodden. Trouble. Weren’t they all in trouble.
“I’m fine.” It took two tries, even though the rest of him was soaked through his throat was hoarse where his breathing had quickened in sleep. He almost began to explain that he hadn’t meant to, had lost control, snared while unconscious then carefully slotted the book into the confines of his leather satchel. Gathered himself, raised one eyebrow. “You need to make sure that if you’re wandering round without an Impervius that the second you get even slightly cold you head back to the castle and dry off. Put your feet up and toast in front of a fire.”
WHEN: October 13th, 2028, around 18:30.
WHERE: Just outside the Great Hall.
WHO: Aurore & Open.
Leaning back against the wall, Aurore looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Aurore liked people. In general, at least. However, being stuck in one place, with so many people, with no other choice but to stay there? Not exactly her favourite situation in the world. She was used to crowds; had to get used to them from a really young age, really. Frightened crowds, though? Crowds ready to fight monsters to the death for their and others’ survival? That hadn’t exactly been part of her royal childhood.
Still, she had been trained to pretend that everything was okay, and so it was what she did. Pushing herself off the wall, she put on a bright smile — a well-practiced one that few could see through — and looked around the room. Finally spotting someone, she tilted her head to the side and softened her smile. “Mind if I sit with you in the Great Hall? I don’t like eating alone, and the people who were supposed to tolerate me today are too busy surviving and what not to accommodate my needs.”
Scor rarely made it down to the Great Hall for mealtimes but he’d gotten several looks from people earlier on when he’d insisted he wasn’t that hungry. So he trudged down the many steps towards the familiar ornate doors, one hand struggling to hold open the piece of parchment he was scanning between sporadic glances upward. The smell curling from inside was wonderful, though supplies were less plentiful than when he’d lived and studied at Hogwarts. A smile directed toward him, soft as cashmere. He blinked before nodding instinctively, politely and gave her a wan smile in return. “I think you’ll more be tolerating me than anything, I’ve been told off for my horrible table manners.”
[tw for body horror, injury & gore, animal mercy death all in italics]
His breaths come ragged, past swollen, bloody lips. Gasping. His cheek is scratched. He’d fought dirty. He’d lost. Cornered, now, he shifts his weight against the wall, big grey coat falling from his slight shoulder like a broken wing. He heaves a breath, straightens up, tries to yank the coat up onto his shoulder. It slides down further. He shakes his head, hair a mess and matted to the wound at his temple. His grandmother’s favourite drapes are in tatters on the floor and for some reason he cannot tear his eyes away from them.
Claws sinking deep into the meat of his bicep. His mother staring at her hand like she doesn’t recognise it, eyes wide with terror and then the whirling, hurling feeling of unexpected apparition and he can’t help the rough yelp that wheezes past his lips. The claws are gone. His mother is gone. Instead something shreds at his flesh, flaying up parts of his skin that flake off into scarlet red petals that are whipped away from him. He can’t stop watching. He was never very good with flowers. He is being thrown into a corkscrew of flips as magic and places he’s never seen roar past his ears, tumbling through space and nothing with no concept of which way is up.
He peels himself suddenly from the bark of a great old tree, the sounds of life fill the air around him. The Forbidden Forest, he knows. His mother is screaming and screaming and he snaps the bark that has grown into and up his arm, splintering and cracking as he hurls himself into a sprint. There’s a fox, in a clearing, there are three moons though the night is black as pitch around him he just knows. A glittering constellation of fourteen stars. Roots pull at his boots as he stumbles to the animal, it is heaving in guttural and mortal breaths. Twitching in pain. There’s a heavy, hard edged stone suddenly in his hand. No his wand. The rock. Something metal and sharp. He brings the flickering object over his head with tears streaming down his face, under his chin down his neck. The fox’s eyes glow yellow, then white over. Quicker than he can see there are jaws at his throat, tearing-
Scor snapped open blue grey eyes to the drum of light drizzle against his face and the bleak light of the rain clouds rolling over the mountains. There’s a sudden emptiness to the silence that can only mean that screaming sound had torn from him. The tome he’d been reading had fallen open, pages raised and bared to the sky, spine cracked wide. The pitter patter of rain drops on its pages. Everything hurt for a moment, the hard planes of the rocks at his back leaving an awful ache, even cradled by them his joints had been forced into strange positions. He grunts as he forces himself to sit up, leaning down to grasp for the book and cast a hurried drying charm.
the makeshift “intake” desk the healing division had set up at the entryway of the hospital wing was empty at this hour, save for rose, who was sitting with a mug of lukewarm tea and a bottle of midnight blue nail varnish. they enjoyed nighttime shifts — it was quiet, with only three recent arrivals to hogwarts and one injured guard sleeping at the far end of the medical hall. the other folks staffing the hospital wing at this hour (a healer, one muggle doctor, and another young trainee) were playing cards with a salvaged deck in what used to be the matron’s quarters and now served as a break room/healing space for the more seriously injured folks. ro had opted not to join them — not only to keep a watchful eye on their current patients, but also because they weren’t feeling up for idle chatter.
they never were up for it, nowadays.
the heavy doors to the hospital wing creaked open. ro paused the steady, repetitive strokes of nail polish to greet the visitor. they smiled, a hollow, practised action that had served them well over the last few months. “hi. do you need medical attention? if not, i’m also offering manicures.”
Scor bit back the curse that almost dropped from his mouth as he stood abruptly from his desk. His spine, his neck and both knees let out a chorus of displeasure as he creaked to his feet, a series of clunks that bounced around his skull. Vision swimming before him, crackling black with white fizz as he briefly felt entirely untethered and adrift. One bony hand came down harder than it’d meant to on the papers he’d just shuffled into a pile in an attempt to halt the sway. Low blood sugar, he surmised absently, Orthostatic hypotension. He had hit the brick wall that loomed at him on nights like this, the dead ends rising to meet each path he took in his research. Move, he instructed himself belatedly.
His fingers finally curled around a steaming mug of coffee, he weaved a silent path that carried him all the way to the Hospital Wing, sticking close to the walls and alcoves out of habit. Anyone passing would have seen the whites of his darting eyes. He pressed his spare palm to the exact spot he knew reduced the creak of the hinges to almost a whisper. A rueful smile quirked at his mouth at the greeting before he glanced down to his thoroughly clean but cracked, rough and mostly forgotten nails.
“Option two. Definitely.” He hummed, treading quietly up to the table where they sat.
SCORPIUS HYPERION MALFOY really is the spitting image of FROY GUTIERREZ, right? For someone only 22 years old, SCOR has been forced to endure so much. Yeah, that PUREBLOOD has been scraping by at the sanctuary since AUGUST, 2028, working as a HEALER-IN-TRAINING AND RESEARCHER in the DIVISION OF HEALING. HE is a CIS MAN and is known to be CAPTIOUS and DISMISSIVE but also FERVENT and RESOURCEFUL. Best of luck surviving through this.
CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (Spiderman: Homecoming), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)
[tw for patricide/parental death, desc of blood, substance abuse/addiction, under the cut]
scorpius was living in a tiny flat along diagon alley, flooing in to saint mungos for his healing apprenticeship monday to friday. when the wards came down around wizarding london he was holed up as the chaos ensued below, frantically trying to floo call the manor.
when he arrived at malfoy manor after crawling out of a skylight and apparating to the road alongside the driveway he was greeted by the gates hanging off their hinges. though he can only speculate, due to his father’s continued reclusiveness and refusal to return to assist the death eater ranks a horde were nudged none-too-gently toward the isolated house.
draco opened his eyes after burning through a fever too high to be calmed by any spell from his mother’s wand. just as he had always been. upon returning to consciousness he didn’t immediately reach for his wand, a fact which both astoria and her son found to be terribly odd. no matter the ailment, the circumstance, the time, draco malfoy had always curled his fingers around the hawthorn like a talisman when waking since it had been returned to him after the war.
the ensuing twenty minutes are something which scorpius has begged to have scoured from his mind, yet he knows he can never let himself forget killing his father. it fundamentally changed him in a way that is irrevocable.
as he and astoria fled the manor, no hope of the two of them alone eliminating the inferi on the grounds and securing it, his mother clamped a hand around his wrist and attempted to apparate them to an old greengrass property, a magical panic room of sorts. scor was badly splinched and ended up dumped 80 miles away from where his mother had landed.
he gathered copious notes from observations of the inferi in his time on the outside. temperature recorded, time of day, wind direction, sentience, and activity were all meticulously written down in an attempt to conserve his sanity while on his own. scor feels as though he had no trouble discerning infected from the living when he was out there and when he was filled in upon joining the others he speculated that a part of his brain concerning the glamours had just been burnt out. unfortunately since arriving this has been completely disproven and he’s trying to work out if the fear response or any other factors had anything to do with it.
since arriving at hogwarts, half-starved and wild-eyed he has thrown himself into the effort with a single-mindedness of someone attempting to forget every aspect of their own life. he doggedly continues his healing work, any time not spent at the infirmary is glued to his workbench and harassing the living shit out of the research department. drawing up hypothesis after hypothesis from the bits of infected he’s managed to have the privilege to pick at. if anyone interrupts him or makes what he decides is an unnecessary contribution he has a horrid habit of biting their head off.
while before he would play up and sneer, act posher than posh and generally fucked with anyone who had a problem with his family, specifically his father, now he will go absolutely stone-faced and has several times nearly had to be restrained because he will go off like a tiny, weedy bomb with a dangerously extensive knowledge of human anatomy.
neglects a lot of his own needs; goes days without sunlight, only eats when prompted to, hardly sleeps. a mess but trying his best. has a dangerous habit of consuming dreamless sleep but guilt at using valuable resources is essentially the only thing stopping him from launching headlong into addiction. lily and various others have a tally going on how many times scor says the words ‘i’m fine.’ in a single week and he suspects theres a pretty wide pool on the betting now.
he’s not all bad tho!! he can be a right softy if he knows you well enough and always always always wants to help. just… he’s a lil prickly rn.
skinny and kind of sickly, he never had the best health as a kid. he scars very easily and bruises like a gd peach. pretty alright on a broom but he has no real interest in playing quidditch. he’s always cold, he’ll be sitting in direct sunlight and complaining about needing a scarf. yeah hes that dude.
kind of craves attention? while being an introvert sometimes he just wants someone to pay attention to him until he gets annoyed by it and tells them to piss off. fickle.
his url is the italian word ‘cruores’ which means flowing blood and the latin ‘cruor’ which roughly refers to coagulating blood; gore.
Full Name: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy
Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him
Age: Twenty-two
Birthdate: January 20th
Parents: Draco Malfoy & Astoria Malfoy (née Greengrass)
Siblings: N/A.
Birth place: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 56 kg
Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic Bisexual
Nationality: English
Body Alterations/Marks: Terrible splinching scars up his left hand, arm over to his chest and shoulder blade.
Blood Status: Pureblood
Hogwarts House: Slytherin
Wand Arm: Right
Wand: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, supple, Dragon Heartstring.
Hogwarts House: Slytherin
Pet: A crested toad named Jarvis.
Special Abilities: None.
Patronus: Arctic Fox
Personality Traits: brilliance, innovation, individuality, openness, social consciousness, inventiveness, practical skill and self assertion; lack of attachment to people and the “real world,” over-intellectualizing of the emotions, dismissiveness, a crotchety temper, rigidity, intellectual arrogance, and stubbornness.
Zodiac Sign: Aquarius/Capricorn Cusp
Moral Alignment: Neutral Good
Core values: Loyalty, Knowledge, Hope
Four temperaments: Melancholic
HOGWARTS HOUSE BREAKDOWN
Slytherin Primary and a Burned Ravenclaw Secondary.
Slytherin Primaries prioritize their own selves and loved ones first. Slytherins don’t feel guilty or selfish about this– they feel righteous and moral. The most important thing is to look after your own. Abandoning or hurting one of your own is the worst thing you can do.
A Burned Ravenclaw Secondary might want to be skilled, curious, and prepared, but they feel like they are (or like people think they are) limited, clumsy, or inconstant. Gathering knowledge, hobbies, skills, or tools is the right way to achieve their goals, but Burned Ravenclaws know that’s not going to work within their capabilities. So they take other paths and use other tools– maybe a Gryffindor’s bluntness, a Slytherin’s flexibility, or a Hufflepuff’s slow and steady dedication.
You may have a Hufflepuff Secondary Model.
Hufflepuff is the House of grit, reliability, and determination, and Hufflepuffs use those values to help live, act, and succeed. If you model Hufflepuff Secondary, you also value these things and like to live by them. You like to be hardworking, dedicated, and consistent– but you wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning those values in the service of other, higher priorities. If there’s another, easier way to get what you want– you’d take it. You think hard work provides valuable rewards– and those rewards are why you work. The work doesn’t have persuasive value in itself.
the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.
As It Was by Hozier but you’re sitting on your windowsill, watching the thunderstorm that’s going on outside. You cracked open the window just a smidge because you enjoy the sound of the rain.
