  đťđŽđżđ¸đˇđ˝đžđľđŽđ˝Â    ⌠   twenty-six, healing student, knights 2ÉŞá´, đđđđđđ.
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makes you think of ... the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere & fine wool brushing the inside of your wrist, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, draping yourself dramatically onto the sofa like a fainting couch, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, chin up high as your heart beats out of your chest, 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, the long victory even if it takes years of late nights and sore bones.
always a riddle in the world, she said.
FULL NAME: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy GENDER: shrug | he/they AGE: Twenty-six BIRTHDATE: January 20th PARENTS: Draco Malfoy & Astoria Malfoy (nĂŠe Greengrass) Adopted
always a riddle inside your head.
BIRTHPLACE: St. Mungoâs Hospital, England HEIGHT: 5â11â WEIGHT: 56 kg ATTRACTION: Demiromantic Bisexual NATIONALITY: British MARKS: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat that almost looks opalescent in some lights.
always a thing to wonder the way we come to be.
BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin WAND ARM: Right PET: A crested toad named Jarvis (IV). PATRONUS: Arctic Fox WAND: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.
Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, and I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.
TRAITS: brilliant, innovative, empathetic, magnanimous, resourceful, loquacious, conscientious, adaptable, fair, individual, inventive, logical, diligent, over-intellectualizes emotions, dismissive, anxious, crotchety tempered, capricious, stubborn, facetious, rigid, prone to self-isolation & intellectual arrogance.
revontulet, which literally translates to âfox fire.â legend says that an arctic fox dashed across the tundra swiping snow up into the sky, while others claim his bushy tail caused sparks when brushing the peaks of tall mountains to create the aurora borealis.
[ parental death cw, substance abuse cw ]
I.
Centuries of tradition manifest, Malfoy Manor in its cold glory leaning in around you like a protective set of gnashed teeth has always been your home. Every first conscious memory is of your mother's smile above you and the kindness in your dad's hands. Consequence and penance aren't concepts you're privy to, not yet, they patiently explain every 'why' and 'how' question you fire off as soon as you get your clever tongue around the syllables; feeding your mind whenever it leaned helplessly toward knowledge like a plant toward the sun.
There was a warmth to the place, thick piled rugs and less oppressive air of rank fear and misery, more delicious cooking smells with whatever bounty had been harvested from the walled gardens for the vases that day. Your memories are of falling asleep high in the boughs of a weeping willow, dipping its thin tresses into the clear brook far below, its susurration lulling your eyes closed. Reading in high-backed armchairs in the library swaddled in furs, your mother's wand refilling your hot chocolate every two hours.
No blood varnishing the lacquer in the dining room, or the afterimage of torment ringing in the main hall.
Though sometimes late at night something ancient makes your teeth ache, and you wake up with your heart in your molars as something huge and without limbs propelled itself through your dreams across the floor in the hall into your waking thought.
Altan's knee pressed alongside yours on the stairs in Grimmauld Place, grazed by the escalating antics that only a house full of siblings could bring. One small hand of yours feels magnetized, warm and almost singing. When you bring those digits away the sluggishly bleeding mark is gone, your grin crooked and shining.
It isn't always so easy, for you. Ministry functions, grown-up family events filled you with dread and boredom. That incessant buzz of a hundred souls swarming around you, their emotions striking up the broad side of you like you needed wards to help you from absorbing it all. Taking up the pigmented hue of feeling like watercolour, the blues running and running no matter how hard you tried to stay in the lines.
When you were eight you got caught owling multiple senior mediwixen at the best institutions across Europe to ask their professional opinion, on how best to seal up your tear ducts when you finally got your wand.
II.
School is everything, the anticipation makes you glow and flicker in equal measure. A place dedicated to learning... Leaving the only home you'd ever known. You're more fully formed, finally, smart-mouthed but still caring, an uncanny wiseness to your smallness, a voracious appetite for knowledge.
Slytherin. The old thing so torn between the incessant questions you fired and the pure unbridled entitlement driving behind it that you stalled it for a minute and a half. You're not sure if your parents are surprised, your letter reaches them first thing September 2nd.
Since the world got bigger and you could no longer cinch your fingers tight in your mother's skirt and hide behind her leg; you'd always lived with some great yawning fearful dread, feeling on the precipice of something terrible that had your stomach heaving great swoops of vertigo at random times as though your body could prepare you.
You realise on your knees in the garden, on your knees in the blood, the blood that will feed the grass and make it grow; when the forget-me-nots open in the spring because time won't listen to your grief you'll lie in the shape they make in the dearth of her and pretend. Pretend. You realise, on your knees in the garden, you will never be ready when the other shoe drops.
The birds in the distance hadn't even stopped singing, only a lone Jobberknoll had flapped its wings out of the closest oak. The orangery stained glass hadn't shattered, rainclouds hadn't drawn in, there had been no accompanying swell of heartrending orchestral music. Just her absence, the absence of life stark against the world already moving on without her and how she didn't make sense in it anymore.
What happened? Tell me, what happened!
You don't speak. For a week, two. You can't, it isn't true. It isn't until Lila has to wrap her arm across your shoulders and help you duck away from the Shrivelfig planters in the greenhouses the first time you see Thestrals breach the canopy of the Forbidden forest. At heart you're a scholar, the hard evidence makes your chordae tendineae fray, near snap like broken piano strings.
What you'd dreamed of your whole life lands neatly in your lap. Apathy, curled around you like a familiar cloak. Standing three feet behind and one step to the left of yourself preparing for your OWLs, physically you were where you'd always been at Hogwarts, stepping carefully in the footprints of the boy you were a year ago, the boy as dead as his mother.
Your mind is keen still, the part that categorizes data is still working the auxiliary systems. Quill to parchment, nose in a book. Your father needs you, you need each other. Your grip on him now, like iron. If you puppeted things just right you could have the right to be indignant if anyone called you on it, even if they saw you with cleaner eyes than you'd ever caught through a glimpse of yourself in any mirror. Even if they saw how you wore yourself like an ill-fitting coat, as though old boots pinched your soul too tight.
III.
Prefect. Quidditch Commentator. The work. Make sure dad eats, forget to eat yourself. Take dreamless sleep draught to rest, repeat.
You've got some colour back of your own now, you can feel it again but you distract yourself with never pausing for a moment, never sitting still with the grief that creeps sluggishly toward you. You work like it's chasing you, like the world's slowest wild hunt could crawl into the dungeons at any moment but, you know. You know that you can't run from something that originates from you, deep in the pit of your belly, dark and knotted against your ribs.
You're so blinded by your petty teenage troubles and your own eclipsing darkness that the world starts to slip, outside your window. The careful cradle of post-war prosperity, the previous reform of the ministry. The shadows start to creep back into frame.
You know what is right, you've always known it. Your friends are good for you, bringing you a self-assuredness that didn't come naturally. You'll fight for it, die for it. You aren't a natural dueller but your defensive charms are incredibly strong, your potioneering knowledge even more so, poisons and venoms develop into careful weapons. Non-lethal and terrible.
You staunchly oppose the resurrection. Watching the ever-present spark in Lila's eye turn flinty in shock. Everything in you, fibre to your bones rails against it, is it because you've finally grown accustomed to the howling grief, just got it to quieten? Jealousy? Guilt? You dig your heels in, it's so rare that you rise to occasions but the only way the other Knights were wresting this snake was to cut off your head.
IV.
You nearly lose your apprenticeship developing the modified patronus charm, passing out at your desk in the labs. You are consumed by it, the project, the experimentation. You darken doorways at strange hours for opinions on obscure theory, elements of the magic, the importance of ritual and their thoughts on your experiments with dementors. It wasn't said, in any sort of terms, they all knew that you wouldn't let it go if they forbade you, that you'd go down with your jaw locked around the puzzle by yourself if they did.
What they didn't know is that even if they did assist you, you'd go ahead anyway. As the first iteration of what you had all made bloomed to fruition before your eyes, beneath your hands, a gnawing doubt started to form. Not an alarm but irritating, like a hang nail.
You could never ask anyone to take that risk, not when it was your responsibility. Not until you knew it was safe.
You find the fixed point of yourself in the universe as the ritual completes, you tear it up. Every single layer of your soul flays away from you, matter coalescing something to form in colours your eyes have no cones to capture. Time, space bend like wire and there is light shining out of you in every direction, cutting thread whilst also weaving it. You reach out with no bodily hands but the whole singing ream of you toward ribbons of your magic: inhaling it home with its torn, ragged edges.
You die. For one minute and thirty-seven seconds, after you slump limply to the floorboards from the piano stool, you stop breathing. A ball of snow-white fur is encircled, bracketed by your unmoving chest and you don't wake up. Rennervate jolting your form hopelessly, unoccupied.
You're good at your work. You limit the burnt, iron taste that lingered in the back of your sinuses for weeks, the numbness of your extremities and the crimson-eyed stare of the burst blood vessels, your ears trickling scarlet, your nose. No one else has to see what you have seen, they come to you and ask if it's ready and if they didn't already have every step in this intriguing dance of experimentation in too many minds to obliviate: you'd destroy it. You'd destroy it all.
You love Cleo. You're terrified for her, the sleek little arctic fox putting to word feelings you'd much rather bury.
You still can't take any life other than your own.
Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm. Bruises like a peach and scars so easily.
Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled. Â
Is a very skilled pianist.
Has a fabric sling that he wears across his torso that Cleo (his daemon) is often curled up in. Looks like a single dad at meetings, toad on his shoulder.
While very eloquent and well-spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.
When he isnât prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.
graphic template <3
