(no subject)
Title: 2 a.m.
Author: SugarHypeQueen
Genre: Romance
Rating: Meh, T for language.
Summary: Late at night, things get a little weird in the castle. Scorpius just can’t seem to catch a break.
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: I worked off a prompt from this community. They be rockin'.
Your bladder pulls you, kicking and screaming, to a sort of half-consciousness that the rest of your body can’t quite catch up with. It’s not pretty, the transition from dream to cold castle night: lurching out of bed, yelping at the cold floor, staggering out of the dorm room and praying that you don’t stub your toe or step on Gaxley’s stupid cat or something equally horrid.
And bloody hell, if you don’t get to a toilet in 30 seconds-
When you finally bang into the small boy’s lavatory next to the Sometimes Stairs, slam the stall door shut and answer nature’s call, bliss barely begins to describe it.
When you wash your hands, frown at your reflection in the smudged mirror (red eyes, sleep-mussed blond hair), and walk out into a hallway you’ve never seen before in your life, you find despair describes it quite nicely.
“No,” you mutter groggily, rubbing at your eyes. “No. Not right. Try again.”
You turn back to the bathroom, because obviously if you walk back in and then out again you’ll be back where you should be.
It isn’t there.
The bloody bathroom. Is not. There.
You stare at the blank wall, and the wall stares innocuously back. Slowly, limbs heavy with sleep you’re not getting, you turn, lean against the wall, and let yourself slide slowly down. There on the floor, legs sprawled out in front of you, you gaze blearily down the Hall of Doom.
As far as Halls of Doom go, it’s not very exciting. Dreary grey walls with torches set in the stone. No tapestries. No statuary. Just a hall that splits in two… and those halls probably split in two, and so on and so forth, like in a bad anxiety dream. (You pinch yourself, just to be sure. It doesn’t work.)
You draw your knees up to your chest and let your head thump back against the wall. Then you do it again. And again. And once more. And maybe if continue, the pain will wake you up, and you’ll snuggle into your warm bed and laugh at the thought of a dream as ridiculous as this one.
When a migraine threatens, you give up with a low groan of defeat.
“Scorpius? That you?”
You leap up with a strangled cry, grabbing for your wand.
“Wait a second, you stupid git! It’s me, it’s Al!”
You blink.
He’s not lying. Who else has that ridiculously messy dark hair? Those stupid vine green eyes? That annoying, overly expressive voice?
Of course it’s him. Fantastic. Bloody fantastic.
“Potter,” you drawl (sleepily rather than condescendingly, though not for lack of trying), “What are you doing off the Quidditch pitch?”
Al snorts, loping towards you with all the ease of an athlete. Because he is one. Obviously.
Standing there in your night robes, pale and disheveled and tragically lanky, you sort of want to deck him in the face.
“Have some coffee before you try another insult,” he quips, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because that was pretty weak. Even for you.”
Sort of? No. Will. You will punch him in the face. Even if it kills you. (Which, considering the Potter-Weasleys, it well might.)
“Where are we?” you grumble.
It’s too bloody late at night for much else. Not that you’ll ever even consider admitting he’s right, but you really can’t handle this before your morning coffee.
“Uhm… How did you get here?” he asks slowly.
You glare. He fidgets a little, tugging at the sleeve of his black woolen pajamas.
“Look, you stupid Hufflepuff,” you growl. “I asked you a question. It’s the arse end of night, I’m sleepy, I’m pissed, and I don’t know where I am. Fix it.”
“Hey, calm down. I was just… I mean… This is kind of a weird place to be, okay?”
“And where exactly are we?”
“Hard to explain,” he shrugs.
“…Let me put this into terms your little jock brain can understand: I’m lost. You’re getting me out, understand?”
An expression you can’t quite place flashes across his face, but he turns around before you can comment. A tendril of guilt creeps into your gut. Which is ridiculous. Why should you feel guilty?
It’s too late at night for this.
“Just follow me, okay?” he mutters, walking away with quick strides.
You follow silently, frowning. You reach the end of the hall and turn left, into a hall that is nearly identical but for the tapestries scattered down its length. There are all manner of people and creatures on them, smiling and staring and scowling. Some of the tapestries seem new. Some seem ancient. There are people you’ve glimpsed in textbooks (Hogwarts: A History, in particular), and there are some that you’ve never seen before in your life. You want to stop and look closer, but Al is walking pretty quickly, and you don’t want to be left behind.
One of the tapestries, however, locks you in place.
It’s your father.
He looks like you. His hair is shorter, and he’s definitely not as skinny as you are, but you’d know Draco Malfoy anywhere. In the tapestry, he’s bracing himself on a bathroom skink, an expression of pure anguish twisting his features.
“Scorpius, what are you staring at? C’mo-”
“Where are we?”
He turns back to you, brows quirked in confusion.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “What’s the big… Oh.”
“Must I repeat myself?”
He rubs a hand through his hair and sighs, the torchlight behind him displaying the dark red tint of his hair. You look quickly back at the tapestry.
“Look, you’re a Ravenclaw, right? Right. So you know that enough magic in a single place for enough time sort of makes things weird. That’s what’s happened here, in the castle. Things are weird. Moving staircases weird. Disappearing corridors weird. Sentient tendencies weird.”
“What?”
“Sorry, forgot you haven’t had your coffee. I’ll put it into terms your sleepy little brain can understand: I think this place is where the castle keeps its memories.”
“…What?”
“Mind you, this is all just a theory of mine. I’m not sure what this place is exactly.”
“Bloody hell!” you exclaim, gripping nervously at your hair. “I mean- how, and- and if it’s true, how are we here? I don’t…”
“Hey,” he says slowly, eyeing you with something like worry. “Let’s just go, okay?”
“But-”
“We can talk about it later,” he interrupts, grabbing your arm and dragging you away. “After coffee. Okay?”
He leads you through several more halls (or maybe two dozen- it’s all a bit blurry, really) until somehow you’re back at the entrance to the Ravenclaw tower. You regard the entrance with a small smile, and the requisite riddle (What is without end?) elicits a jaw-wrenching yawn.
“So the answer is just that boring, is it?” Al grouses, yawning himself.
“It can be,” you shrug. “Especially after all that, tonight. With you, and that place, and… I’m not making any sense, am I?”
Al grins, like he’s just won something. The look is somehow both infuriating and fascinating. He takes a few steps and destroys the space between you like it’s nothing at all.
“It’s a good thing this isn’t the end, then, isn’t it?” he laughs, casually tapping your nose.
The dorm entrance opens, and Al saunters off with a grin.
You consider hurling a hex at his turned back, but then you decide to deal with him in the morning. Preferably after coffee.