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Broken by Midnight_Fox

Format: Short story
Chapters: 2
Word Count: 3,403
Status: WIP

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Strong Language, Mild Violence, Scenes of a Sexual Nature, Contains Slash (Same-Sex Pairing), Substance Use or Abuse, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme

Genres: Drama, Romance, Angst
Characters: Lucius, Teddy, Scorpius, Albus, James (II), Victoire, OC
Pairings: Teddy/Victoire, James/OC, Other Pairing

First Published: 01/18/2009
Last Chapter: 09/30/2009
Last Updated: 09/30/2009

perfect banner by annihilation at TDA :)

Love is an odd concept. One that only Albus and Scorpius and quite possibly James (though that's always debatable) understand. Because she most definitely doesn't get it. Not in the slightest.

Chapter 1: Ice-Cold
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^image by annihilation^


I wasn’t sure if it was real, this feeling. If he would just break away, leave, close up and return to his hard shell. Impenetrable. Unbreakable.

“Just, just leave me alone!”

The cold mask would settle over his face again, eyes – something precious, like diamonds; sharp – freeze over. Like icy winds blowing over my own features, imprisoning them, capturing in an ice-cold cell.

“I, I’m sorry...I can’t.”

Moments of humanity, understanding – even affection would sometimes show. Sometimes crack the mask. Offering a glimpse of the person inside, hiding.

“No! Not again!” Writhing in his sleep, I had tried to offer comfort, smooth back his hair from his feverish forehead, move away the covers he seemed to be wrenching at. He had woken up, eyes, beautiful eyes, wild and staring. They had focused on me, and hatred had formed, as clear and sharp as a lash of a whip on my back. I had drawn away, huddled back down in my own bed. Frightened. Not of him, but of me. And the way his anger had made me feel.

I would try, try again and again to draw him out. I succeeded, sometimes, but then it was as if he realised, and enclosed himself again behind high walls.

A game of Quidditch; muddy from a fall, messy from the harsh wind, sweaty from the flying. My team had won, ecstatic – overjoyed, reeling with victory. Drunk from the rush, and the alcohol someone had put in my hand, I had found him. Alone, in our dormitory. In a corner, knees drawn up to his chest. Head in his hands. I had sat, collapsed – what’s the difference? – next to him, on the floor.

“Hey...” A drunken slur.

“You’re drunk.” He had stated, looking at me with blank eyes.

“It’s a party.” I replied, as if that explained everything – even the sensation in my stomach, right at the bottom, when he gave me his small, twisted half-smile.

So I had leant forward, crashing my mouth against his in a painful collision of thoughts, feelings, senses. For one minute – one, glorious, wonderful minute – he responded. His mouth opened in a gasp against mine, hands fisting themselves in my hair, tugging, crushing my face to his. Then his teeth were on my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, desperate fingers brushed down to my shirt, grabbing and pulling until it was just a heap on the floor – unimportant.

I melted into him, trying to give some sense that I was just as in control as he was – but we both knew, know, that he always has, and always will, be the master. My own hands reached eagerly for him, but he was already retreating back, away from me and the promise I held.

It’s always the way. He opens up, lets me in, like we both, so desperately crave, then shakes his head and him, the wild, passionate side of him, collapses, loses will to carry on.

“Guess what?”


“You could at least try and act a little excited.” I pouted, folding my arms in mock annoyance. Always fake though – any anger seems to automatically dissipate around him.

He doesn’t reply.

Our friendship is strange. He never puts any effort into it – it’s all me. Still, it was barely accepted my family – his were worse. His mother and father seemed not to mind, tolerated it, but it was his grandfather who had the final say in everything, in his own mind even. I sighed in resignation, “I’m captain of the team! Isn’t it great?”

He had turned to me, the soft breeze lifting strands of his hair – the mountains looming, grey, ominous, behind him. “That’s great, really it is.” A ghost of a smile. I couldn’t help it. I hugged him tightly, pouring my happiness into his cold, unresponsive form. His arms moved up, wrapped around my until I couldn’t draw back, even if I had wanted to. I felt his warm breath on my hair and his lips pressing against it.

But, like before, he drew away, too soon, too quickly. He pushed me back, away from him, roughly.

The Falling Snow

Christmas – my family was suffocating me, choking every breath out of my body. I slipped away and met him in a muggle park. We sat on a bench, inches between us. Not talking. But I didn’t mind. It was comforting, in a way.

“I got you a present.”

“You did?” I shouldn’t have sounded so surprised, but I couldn’t help it. He isn’t a gift-giving sort of person.

“Yes. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Were we? I didn’t know anymore.

A small, neatly wrapped thing, soft. I tore it open eagerly, more excited about his than any of the presents parents, siblings and grandparents had given to me that morning. A shirt. A Quidditch shirt from my favourite team.

Instantly I threw my arms around him.

Then, a first, he kissed me.

It was different to his others. Soft, gentle, caring.


He disaparated a second later, not giving me time to give him my gift. A notebook with an enchanted lock. It seemed silly all of a sudden.

It was term again, and he was colder than ever. Barely spared me a glance, let alone a hug. Things I treasured more than I probably should.

“Was your grandfather any better?”



Those were the only words we spoke for the entire train journey. I could have other friends – I could have hordes of people just desperate to be my friend. But I didn’t. Instead I chose him. Didn’t he see this? Didn’t he know I could leave whenever I wanted?


I think he did.

But he also knew I never would.

Exams came and went – we barely had a conversation – barely had any time for each other anymore. But it wasn’t me – he was re-doubling his efforts to push me away.

I wouldn’t go.

“Hello,” A girl, pretty, with brown hair, curled, and a large, pink mouth, said to me, twirling a lock of hair around a long fingernail.

“Hi.” I was distracted – he was walking down the corridor towards us.

“So I was wondering, if you, erm, maybe, you know, want to, like, come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?” She flushed, heat creeping up her neck. She chewed on one of the full bottom lips nervously. My gaze had barely left him as he walked, that lithe, feline stride of his.

I looked down at her. “Er, sorry, no. I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, ok. Maybe some other time.” She walked away, face downcast. She’s upset. I knew how that felt. Suddenly his gaze was on me. Angry. He wanted me to go out with the girl. To forget about him; leave him alone in his miserable life. I would never, could never do that. And he knows it.

If I did leave, get a life of my own, he would die. Shrivel up inside. Maybe even hate his life so much, he’d end it himself. That thought alone is enough for me to refuse dozens of admirers – nothing could make me leave his side.

Please – he’ll hurt you if you stay – go now!” He was standing on his doorstep – Christmas again – a mottled, purplish bruise swelling, forcing one of his beautiful eyes half-closed.

I could feel anger boiling up inside me, bubbling; begging, howling to be let free.

“Is he here?” I gritted out.

“Yes, but-” His pale hair shone as he moved forwards, pushing me back, the dull light from the street, filtering through the snow and glimmering in his eyes.

“Move. I’ll kill him.”

No! Albus – don’t – I couldn’t bear it if he hurt you too.”

I looked at him, cheeks white and face taut with worry. “ do care,” I said in a wondering tone, staring at him.

He laughed a bit, weak and rough, “Of course I do, you idiot.”

I kissed him.


He jerked back, shoving me away from him forcefully, “Go,” He whispered, before he shut the door. Leaving me standing in the cold snow.

Cold Skin

Blood, dark and wet and slippery on my hand as I reached out to steady him. He looked at me, pain in his eyes, and I knew it wasn’t just from his injuries – it was the thought that I would see him like this; so weak.

“I, I’m fine.” He made a feeble attempt to push me away. He’d gone home, for the weekend; his grandfather – the man I hated most in the entire world – claiming he needed him. He had returned like this.

“No, you’re not.” I slid my arm under his, taking his weight, but he refused, insisted on walking for himself. “For Merlin’s sake! Let me help you, for once!”

He collapsed into me, unconscious. Horror flooded me. I’d never been the one in charge; it’d always been him taking the initiative, controlling everything. I hated it, seeing him like this. It wasn’t natural.

I sit outside the infirmary, head in my hands. No one’s in there with him. His parents are coming as quickly as they can. True. His grandfather is desperately worried; can’t bear the thought of his precious grandson in pain. False.

“Matron, we’re here – our son...?” Mrs Malfoy leaves the question hanging, as if she can’t bear to consider the possible answers. Mr Malfoy grips her elbow tightly. The senior Mr Malfoy is behind them, one leather-encased hand draped over the sliver-topped cane with elegant disinterest.

I look up. Glare furiously.

How I want that man dead.

Mrs Malfoy hurries inside, but Mr Malfoy pauses by the door and glances down at me.

“Albus, isn’t it? Potter’s son?” I nod silently. “You’re my son’s friend.” It isn’t a question. “Thank you.” Then he follows his wife.

Long silver hair tied back, away from the cruel planes of his face, Mr Lucius Malfoy leans over me as he passes, “Yes, thank you.”

Barely half an hour later Lucius Malfoy re-emerges as whirls down the hall with one sneering glance at me. Two hours after that they both come out.

“He’s alright.” They leave.

I slip in, hurry, to his bedside. He’s so pale. Deathly.

“Albus.” He’s awake. His hand on my cheek fleetingly, but the cold touch lingers. “You’re here.”

He smiles, but then winces from the swelling. I squeeze his fingers.

“I’m here.”


Strange, how something so simple, so small, can be so beautiful. The white petal lands in his hair and he brushes it out irritably. I pick it up, smooth out the dent caused by his rough touch.

“What’s the point?” He asks, nodding at the petal.

“I don’t know.”

He watches me for a bit, then takes it from me, holds it up and lets the wind carry it away. We watch it go.

Our families don’t like it, not that we expected them to go into spasms of joy. Surprisingly, his parents are more accepting than mine. I don’t think my brother will speak to me again. My sister might. Father probably. I can’t tell with Mother.



“Don’t you regret it? Any of it?”

“No, why should I?”

“I just thought you might.” We lapse into silence. He rolls onto his back and watches the clouds. “Ireland is peaceful.”

“And remote.”

“And safe.” I look down at him, to see his gaze on me. I lean down and kiss Scorpius Malfoy.

“Yes, safe.”

Chapter 2: Colours
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A/N: continues right from where the last chapter left off, but from Scorpius' POV :)


1) It shouldn’t have happened like this. Hell, it shouldn’t have happened at all. Why did I let him do it? I knew it would kill him. But I let him do it anyway, because it’s what he wanted and I wanted and what I want always happens. ALWAYS.

Like when I was five, and I wanted a pony, but my father had said it was too expensive, and my mother had said it was too expensive, and my grandfather had smiled through his glass, hidden in the corner. I got the pony within a week. My grandfather’s smile had gone, and mine had replaced it. I think that’s why I go to any lengths to get what I want. To spite him.

Only once did I not go after what I wanted. Once, not after the thing I wanted more than I had wanted more than anything else in the whole wide world. I hadn’t believed it possible to want, need, something that much, yet I did.

And now. His hair as he arches up, thick, and matted with sweat and tears and blood. His eyes, filled to the brim with ME. His teeth as they grit together to stop himself from crying out. Redbittenlips. Pinkflushedcheeks. Shinyclenchedmuscles. Whitetwistedknuckles. Orangestrangledmoans. Hit the air with bruising force and my fingertips dig deeper in surprise and pleasure.

They’re mine, those gasps and groans and whimpers that escape his mouth. MINE. Just like his heart, partly blackened and shrivelled, now, of course. Not even I can replace that.

2) “Albus...?” A small, scrunched up figure sitting on the curb. At my voice, he leaps up, pummelling the palms of his hands into his eyes roughly, rubbing.

“Yeah?” He tugs at his hair distractedly. I say nothing, watching him. “Was there something you wanted?”

“No, I mean, it doesn’t matter.” I turn away. Grey tarmac, spotted with white ground-in chewing gum. I walk away slowly, waiting – desperately – for him to call me back.


A deep, sort of blue noise as my heart plummets beyond return.

3) And now, what do I do? Let go – GO! – of the thing that I love the most, the thing that I need the most, the thing that I couldn’t bring myself to live without. He’ll be happy with his family. I’ll be dead inside. Quite possibly on the outside too, by that point.

Or be selfish, and clutch him to me and nevereverletgo.

I like the second option best. But, then again, it’s not really about what I like now, is it?

His eyes speak of childhood and laughter and thousands of crystal towers and pinkness and running through long grass. Mine are empty voids. Dull and grey and impossible to read. Like frosted glass. But Albus shattered it, to be metaphoric, which I usually loath being with a passion equal to the hate Albus bears my grandfather.

Because Albus hates something that deserves to be hated. I am silly and stupid and inadequate and hate things like excessive use of metaphors.

But, all the same, Albus had smashed whatever had been shielding my emotions from the rest of the world. I’d always been acutely aware of what I was feeling. It had always pressed down on me uncomfortably; impossible to escape. But now... Everyone I meet can see just what I feel, splashed generously across my face in a rainbow palette. It hasn’t made much difference to Albus, of course. He always knew what I felt, no matter what.

If anyone, it’s him hiding his feelings from me. He used to be so open – you could read him like a book.

4) “Albus, how about we go out tonight, eh?”

He looks up at me blankly. “You want to go out? You hate going out.” It’s true, of course; I despise leaving the house normally, but this is an exception.

“You don’t.” I smile, taking his hand and lacing my fingers through his. His smile nearly splits his face in two.

“Okay.” He says happily. “Just let me get my coat.”

When he returns, I pull him against me, tight, and look into his beaming face, greengreen eyes looking so pleased and content and loving and GREEN. But underneath, very carefully disguised, was that edge of sadness. My grip tightens on his hand and I kiss him. My lips are still pressed to his, not letting him go any deeper, as I disparate. The second we arrive, I step back, letting go of him instantly. His gaze doesn’t leave me, confusion pooling in those eyes.

“Bye.” I whisper. He blinks and looks around sharply.

Comprehension dawns on his face, closely followed by horror. “No! Scorpius, no!”

A young female voice crying out, “Al! Mum, Al’s back!” He’s distracted for that one, vital second, and I’m gone, scrunching my eyes shut tight so I don’t have to watch him.

5) I don’t go back to the flat we shared, because I’m not that stupid. There’s nothing there I want, anyway. I go instead the only friend I was able to retain from Hogwarts, the only one that didn’t go when I pushed them all away in favour of Albus. We weren’t best friends, of course, that was Albus’ place. But she understood me better than the others had.

But that doesn’t stop the butterflies in my stomach as I ring the doorbell of the stylish townhouse, on Crescent Row in Bath, no less. When the door’s flung open, and a mountain of golden blonde hair tumbles out, I’m surprised by the sudden wave of happiness that floods me at the sight of her. I hadn’t realised how I’d missed her.

“Well, well, Scorpius Malfoy.” She says, propping one elbow on her hip as she drags her hair out of her face with her other hand. “I don’t mean to sound rude, though of course you know I actually do, but what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go...”

“And where’s your little toyboy?” She asks, peering round me.

“Um...” To my horror, I feel tears welling up. She notices at once, of course, and sighs.

“Oh, come in then. You need a drink, and I’ve a feeling I will too soon enough.”

6) Her house is very white. Everything in that pure, glistening shade. Pristine. In the sitting room there’s one scarlet sofa that she sits on, doing her nails in silver enamel.

“Albus misses you. Desperately. It really was terribly selfish of you to leave him, Scorpius.”

“I did it for him.” I grit out, glaring at her.

She shrugs. “Everyone’s talking about it. Your parents are horribly worried about their baby boy out on his own in the big bad world.”

Ailene.” I say forcibly, warning her not to push me.

Her knowing blue eyes – periwinkle today – laugh at me through black-coated lashes. “Scorpius.” She mocks. “Say my name.” She says suddenly. “My full name. My disgusting mudblood name.” I stare at her. I’ve heard her call herself that before, of course, she was in Slytherin and to escape being bullied by others, she learned very early on to appear to hate herself for being muggleborn. “Say it.”

“Ailene Merryweather.”

Abruptly, her face splits into a huge grin, and she starts humming under her breath and goes back to her nails. “So, what are you going to do?”

I’m still watching her. I’d been so wrapped up in my own problems and self-pity, I hadn’t taken a second to notice her state. She’d always been controlled, collected, and now... I’d seen something in her eyes which I had never witnessed in them before, and never thought I would; desperation.

7) Albus finds me a week later. He knocks on the door, and Ailene strides in, saying there’s a visitor for me, then disappears back out the door. Albus steps in a moment later.

“Oh, Scorpius...” He says softly.

That’s all it takes to have me up and against him, neon yellow starts exploding beneath my eyelids. We lie on the scarlet sofa, curled together in knots impossible to untie. I stroke his hair. He runs his fingertips up and down and up and down my side.

“She’s changed since school.”

“Who, Ailene?”

He nods over my heart. “Less together. She hardly seems to know what she’s doing.”

I’m silent as beige. Beige is silent. And inconspicuous. Dove grey is quieter still, though. I shut out thoughts of Ailene. Turn to the boy pressed closer than air. Shut out thoughts of the drowned. Turn to HIM.