The Burning Cores
Part One
Being cold is a discipline. And Scorpius has long lost the fight.
Being cold means to play dead, to live in worlds outside your own, to dream your life away, to dream up lives so strange and foreign that nothing and no one can bring them in connection with your own. Being cold means to die. And Scorpius has fallen in love with life. With Spring. With the sun and its rises. With the warmth of the day, with the heat of palms and the heat behind his collar bone.
They talked about what was possibly going to happen, too scarred by past events to trust the peace, and they had kissed afterwards, and Scorpius had felt the heat of a palm caressing his cheek, a cheek soon burning with heat as well. All that because of two simple Italian words. They talked about what did really happen, then, about the screams, the flashes of light, the crowd parting and dissolving into chaos, they expected it, but still there was fear.
Fear is not cold. Itâs of a heat just as cruel as anger and love, itâs the same as anger and love, only another side of it, for life is a dice with so many faces, and as Scorpius pushes himself against the shadows of the Honeydukeâs building, he has to notice how cold it is there, without those he loves around him. His mind commands him to go hide, to go knock himself out once again, to fall to the ground and let the chaos wash over him until all is over, just like the last time, just like when everything had turned out fine. But he canât. His heart, his rapidly beating heart, which has long lost the fight against Winterâs frost is keeping him near the entrance of the Honeyduke. Waiting. He is not going to run. He is not going to let the world rip itself apart and take himself out of the calculation again. He is not going to look into Aidanâs eyes and find the remains of a Crucio in his eyes again. He is not going to stay hidden behind his family and its name again, blaming them for pushing him into safeness. He is not going to visit his mother in the hospital again, and see Loraly cry again, and hear his cousins scream again, and come out of this unharmed. Again and again into infinite repetition built on the wish to not exist. You see, a heart which has learned how to love reality, is difficult to silence.
To convince that dreams are all there is.
Scorpius knows the words of the spell that hits him then. He knows that itâll make him feel numb, and bland, and cold, and dead once again. He knows that itâll make him do all sorts of things, and he wonât mind, because he wonât feel his heart rage with anger, or cry in desperation, or bleed the last drops of love it knows. He knows that his wand will not work quite right because one needs persuasion to make it work, and Scorpius does not want what he wants, then, he just knows that heâll do it, with this cold, dead wand, and this cold, dead heart. Losing the fight over its beats as the curse pounds through it.
Aidan comes running towards him eventually, and Scorpius knows his hand will wrap itself around his fingers, but he does not feel it, and he knows Aidan will look at his eyes, and feel it, too. This lack. He knows that it hurts when Aidan lets go of his hand again and backs away, but it doesnât, not really, and even though at least it doesnât hurt, Scorpius wishes he could feel the hurt, because hurt and pain and aches are only faces of the same dice that carries joy and laughter and smiles. But maybe it is good like this, because at least like this, the core of his wand cannot burn with will.
Being cold is a discipline, after all, and certain curses are nothing but a heart obliging to someone elseâs orders. Orders telling him to raise his wand against Aidan, orders forcing him to truly want to speak those words, orders cursing his heart to melt. To melt and beat relentlessly, incapable of yielding to this discipline. But you see, a heart which has learned how to love reality, is difficult to silence.
Aidan doesnât move. He stands there and stares at Scorpius, eyes wide, unarmed, handsome. Scorpius wants to smile, his lips twitch, almost, barely, perhaps they donât, but maybe thatâs why their eyes meet and speak of all those things that words cannot express, could never, perhaps will never again. Two simple Italian words. Scorpius takes a breath.
âDeath!â shouts the curse in his mind, âLife!â shouts the rhythm behind his collarbone. And Aidan? Aidan. Aidan watches him and there is no doubt in his eyes, no resignation, no fear. âTrustâ seems the nod of his head to say, and Scorpius speaks the words. The trust in Scorpiusâ own choices. He watches a lightning break through the air as it bolts towards those eyes, and just as it is supposed to meet them, they disappear.
Scorpius feels his wand warm in his hands when the curse in his blood disappears and he stares at the spot where Aidan has been, alive, only seconds ago, minutes ago. Time passes, and the burning core bows to him, understanding now, that Scorpius did not lose the fight against discipline. That there had never been a fight. That there had never truly been discipline. You see, a heart which has learned how to love reality, is difficult to silence.
It has always been that way. Winter is never eternal. Sometimes it merely needs a reminder of future Springs.
Scorpius turns and runs. Into the fight.
