The Many Musings of Albus Potter

xxii. sirens

xxii. sirens

Albus likes being alone.

It's not like he has a choice now. But he likes it, that much he has decided. It's been two weeks since he moved back to Hogwarts. Two weeks since he packed his bags and stormed out of Grimmauld Place in the middle of the night, leaving behind nothing but a note telling everybody he was done. He hasn't decided what he means by that, however, because it holds too much weight, too much...permanence. It feels an awful lot like he was severing ties with his family.

Maybe that's what they thought too.

It's been two weeks since Albus found out that he's a monster. And Harry knew all along, maybe Ginny did too.

Five days since Lily last sent him a letter.

James, being James, went as far as to march up to Professor McGonagall's office demanding that Albus be sent back home immediately. Albus can only imagine the chilly disdain on her face as she told him that, as he is now eighteen, Albus is no longer under the magical guardianship of his parents and thus can choose to do as he pleases.

Do as he pleases.

He used to dream of this as a child. What did freedom entail?

For now, he sits and writes letters to Scorpius in those long, lonely hours after lessons finish.

Dear Scorp, he begins with his first draft before crossing it out in a quick rage. Traitor, another dramatically announces. Did you know and not tell me? Questions fill an entire parchment. Did you know about my father and yours? Did you know that Draco Malfoy was in love with my dad and maybe my dad was in love with him? Is our relationship just some poetic justice and not a relationship in its own right?

Eventually, the paragraphs dwindle down to short statements. I miss you. Do you still love me?

And the statement that stings most of all: I love you but I'm starting to forget.

It's true. It has been for a while, he supposes.

Once, Albus could close his eyes and trace an exact memory of Scorpius' smile in his mind. He could feel Scorp's tinkling laughter rumbling through his own chest. Now Scorpius is disappearing into the shadows. The aching wound he left behind seemed to have closed up at some point, now nothing more than a fading scar of distant hurt.

There's evidence of this in his magic too. Albus can't conjure his Patronus anymore - the more likely explanation, of course, is that he is simply depressed. But he can't help but wonder if it's also the side-effect of moving on.

He puts his quill down, sighing.

"Alright, Potter?"

Albus looks up to find Roscoe Sterling standing nearby. Ignoring the leap in his stomach, he scoffs.

"Piss off, Sterling."

"I'm not sure that's the solution to whatever..." Roscoe gesticulates to the mountain-pile of crumpled parchment in front of Albus' desk, "this whole crisis is."

"I am not in a crisis," Albus snaps, turning away from him. Only now does he notice he's got ink stains running down the sides of his hands.

"Isn't it funny," Roscoe snorts, sitting down next to him, "how utterly hopeless we are at lying to people when we're in a crisis?"

"I. Am. Not—" Albus stops himself then exhales slowly. He picks his quill up again, resolving to ignore Roscoe until he gets bored and fucks off.

"I heard you were disowned," Roscoe carries on, unperterubed by the sudden silence that has descended upon them.