scipio minor

𝐗. 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢

❛ 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 ❜
december 1998
SOMEWHERE IN SOUTHERN ENGLAND
⋅ ﹙ ♚ ﹚ ⋅

      𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 metal burned against his neck. He hid the necklace beneath his collar from the ice cold wind of the cliffs of South England that froze itself inside his bones. He wore the necklace like it was to be protected. It was ancient.

He still felt his mother's cold hands against his cheeks. She wished him to have a good time at the Weasleys. She said it with a smile, while he knew the grief she captured because she had to stay behind in order to protect Draco from the iron words and hands of his father. Scipio could only apologise and promise her he only did this so he could make his plan work. His mother laughed and said it was no wonder Cassie's son would try to make excuses to hang out with his friends. 

''Maybe some fresh air will do you some good,'' his mother's words resonated inside his head.

Crumbling by the fire before him were the remains of McGonagall's letter. Kindly, she explained to him that she could not grant him another chance at immunity as he had disrespected her shamelessly and she had already called it off with Kingsley and Falconar. He understood her and had expected it, that had been the worst thing, yet it still stung.

With immunity his plan could have been more effective. But with an emphasis on could, because who could say immunity would have any effect if he confessed to a terrible crime. It was thrilled with uncertainty.

He had to convince Harry there was no uncertainty. Cracks in a dam will cause the dam to break if only the dam knew of the cracks.

Those cracks were the questions about his opportunities to get out of Azkaban, because Scipio had no clue how to. To get into Azkaban, he already used all his assets, but how to get out without becoming a fugitive criminal remained a mystery. With his current schemes, he'd forced himself into a closed room where no one had the key to, but he was already too far to go back.

Hopeless, he watched the fire flocks get captured by the strong salted wind of the sea, before they descended to the ground. Everything burns.

An old cracking voice scares him away from his thoughts, "are ya ready for departure, mister Malfoy?"

O'Mally, preferably called Sir O'Mally, as he thought himself to be the lord of the ITDP (Illegal Travel District of Portkey Travelling), softly knocked an unfamiliar rhythm on his shoulder, distracting him from the fire pool. Gleaming with pride, he showed Scipio his brand new portkey.

In his hand he held a little box. It had buttons with white numbers painted on it. It was old and grey and probably broken. "The Muggles call it a cellphone," Sir O'Mally said. "It's quite handy as a portkey, very small, very modest, very Muggle-like. They won't find it odd."

"Right—" Scipio hesitated to pick the cellphone from Sir O'Mally's loose grip. The cellphone was cold in his hands. Wires stuck out from underneath the plastic. It was definitely broken. He didn't know a lot about Muggle technology, but considering his time spent with Ted and Hermione, everything that had a wire plucking out could be a form of danger.

"It's only a minute or so now," Sir O'Mally stepped away to create a safe distance between them.

Scipio eyed the now burned remains of his letter on the ground. He had read it while waiting for Sir O'Mally to arrive at the cliffs. Far away from Malfoy Manor, this place was the only ground he felt comfortable enough to read. Away from Lucius, at last.

Scipio forced a smile on his lips. ''Thank you.''

"What brings you to the Burrow anyway? Got a lady to fancy?" Sir O'Mally tattered.