Hi y'all. It's been a few months, but that's far better than my previous record of a year, right? I come bearing more good news. At some point last year, Chapter 3 of this story got lost somehow and in it's place was a duplicate of Chapter 4. So, I've finally rewritten it. It's up, so anyone wanting to fill in the hole in the timeline should check it out.
Chapter dedicated to mspadfoots for some wonderfully entertaining reviews.
Scamander sloppily apparated away not too long after I punched him. All that was left next to a cold and shuddering Weasley was a small pool of his blood, half of a fingernail, and a set of black robes sitting wrinkled in an icy puddle.
I cleared my throat awkwardly and offered her my hand. "Are—are you okay?" Weasley shook her head ambiguously, but nonetheless grasped my upturned palm with her icy, shaking fingers and hoisted herself up.
I retrieved Weasley's robe from the puddle and quickly dried it before offering it to her again.
"Do…do you want to discuss it?" I asked, and then immediately mentally kicked myself. It sounded as if I was asking her to review the history of wrackspurt development in ancient Mongolian civilizations rather than her very recent and very traumatic incidence of sexual assault.
Weasley, however, didn't seem to notice. After a moment, she replied in a tired voice, "I don't know."
"I'm… are… are you going to do anything about it? Tell anyone?"
"I don't know." She shivered again.
"Weasley, do you want my robe? You look hypothermic."
"No thank you," she sniffed, her voice igniting the tiniest amount. "I'm a strong, independent woman and I don't need you wrapping me with your veil of patriarchy." I raised my eyebrows at her, just as a well-timed gust of frigid wind ripped her curls from their perch at the nape of her neck.
"I really insist," I said, pulling my robes off. "I can cast a pretty strong self-warming spell. And if you die of frostbite, I'll have double the workload on top of probably having to fill out a ton of paperwork. This is really a selfish thing I'm doing."
"But-" her voice trailed off in a feeble, half-hearted protest jauntily composed of "male-imposed dominance parading as chivalry" and "Malfoy, I really couldn't" and finally "Oh goddammit, fine".
"This is just nice thing a friend is doing for another friend," I said, wrapping my robes around her. "Think of me as Amaryllis Finnigan."
"We're not fr—" started Weasley, but then stopped short upon catching sight of my right hand. I'd been ignoring the ringing pain in it, but now that it was no longer hiding under the sleeve of my robe, I had to actively hold in my vomit.
I guess I had cashed in all my sexy injuries during the Quidditch incident, because what I was looking at was decidedly not sexy. To be honest, I wasn't even sure if it was even human.
My wrist was a swollen stump in the richest, most magnificent purple. My knuckles were lumpy and disfigured, hardly distinguishable from my fingers. It was little solace that more than half of my fingers stood straight because that meant the others were very clearly and very painfully dislocated.
I honestly didn't understand. I mean, I've never been in a fight before per se, but I have had my albino peacocks attack the haughty Muggle children that live by the Manor before and they never returned beakless and battered. Honestly, what was Scamander's jaw made of, Grawp's own erect genitalia?
"We should get you to Madame Pomfrey," Weasley said.
"Me? Weasley you—"
"No. I've decided I don't want to talk about it right now. I'm going to go to my dormitory. Please don't tell anyone anything until I can… figure some things out. Maybe talk to Lorcan."
"You want me to keep this a secret," I replied flatly. "What about not succumbing to the veil of patriarchy? I feel like this is a little important than not taking my bloody robe."
"It's—it's different. I just need you to wait."
"I suppose," I muttered, wincing as I shoved my swollen fist into my pocket.
"Oh and Malfoy? Thank you. I'm sick of you saving me, but… thank you. I guess we aren't even anymore, are we?" She moved, as if she were going to hug me, but then seemed to think better of it—or I had probably just imagined it, because why would Weasley hug me?— and disappeared into the castle with a jaunty wave.
"Ugh, for fuck's sake," I groaned as I walked into the Slytherin changing room the next day. There was a gasp, a clattering sound, and a long string of muttered obscenities as I averted my eyes and turned around.
"You're early, Scorpius. Practice doesn't start for another hour and a half," Cecilia Vane said, her voice far raspier than I was comfortable with. I had to give it to her; she didn't look nearly as frazzled as my best mate did as he hurriedly pulled on a pair of pants.
"Do you two not have dormitories where you can do this?" I whined, turning around again now that Cecilia's undergarments were on and I was no longer in danger of losing an eye for ogling her svelte figure.
"We find the thrill of publicity titillating," Cecilia answered coolly, smiling at Phineas. Phineas grimaced in return, his face so red and sweaty –from my entrance, I hoped, and not from overexertion during any previous activity—that he looked like a veritable replacement for the Gryffindor mascot.
"I just wanted to fly a little before practice, but now you two have to find me a Healer that can do something about my burned retinas."
"Oh please," Cecelia said breezily. She grabbed Phineas by the hand and led him past me to the door. "I know the magazines you subscribe to. You've seen far worse."
"What happened to your hand?" Phineas asked suddenly, pointing to the bandages covering my right wrist, which was no longer quite as misshapen or swollen, but still retained a bright purple hue.
"Oh, nothing." I said quickly, shoving it into my robes. "I just… I walked into a tree."
"You walked into a tree," repeated Cecilia flatly, looking torn between wanting to tie me up and interrogate me some more and wanting to tie Zabini up and do god knows what.
"Don't worry about me. I can still hold a snitch." I hoisted myself up on a bench and pantomimed plucking a snitch from midair.
"Okay," said Cecilia after a pause. "But I really wouldn't lean against that particular bench if I were you." She gave me a small smirk and disappeared through the door.
"Bye Scor—" I heard Phineas say before his voice was suddenly and deliberately muffled.
I retched and scrambled off the bench I was on. I was genuinely happy that Phineas was able to get his own ass now, as scary as it was that the ass he had opted to get was Cecilia's.
I just, you know, didn't need to see live, visual proof of it.
And really— how does Cecilia know what magazines I read?
Practice was going fine thus far.
I say this because Lysander Scamander was nowhere to be found. Sources say that he hadn't even been spotted back at the castle after the Hogsmeade debacle yesterday.
Of course, no one even knew there had been a debacle because stupid Weasley was being stupid, and not taking any action to have him killed—or worse— expelled. I had been hoping to talk to her yesterday evening, but by the time I had wrenched myself from Madame Pomfrey's vice-like grip, Weasley had gone to bed. This morning, she out with her mother. It was almost as if she was avoiding me—for what reason, I had absolutely no clue. For once, I wasn't the villain in her life.
The villain in her life was Lysander Scamander.
Hell, it was even Lorcan Scamander. If she had told him already like she said she would, then why hadn't he ripped his brother apart yet? What was he doing, sitting passively as his innocent girlfriend got felt up by his own genetic replica? Why hadn't he gotten expelled for twinicide?
I mean, it made me physically ill just thinking about his blond hair and pale arms wrapped around her body, as if it were his. His hands on her white, flat stomach. As if he owned her.
His fingers snaking past the pleats of her gray skirt. Her eyes, both wet with panicked tears and bright blue with the most curdling anger I had ever seen in a girl. I was thirty feet in the air, and all of a sudden, I was shaking in anger. I tasted sickles in my mouth.
As if on cue, a small blond figure ambled onto the field.
"Scamander!" Cecilia Vane snapped, palming her Beater's bat and rapidly flying down the pitch. "You're over an hour late! Was the last match a joke to—"
She stopped suddenly. The rest of the team seemed to be descending from midair, so I joined them and landed delicately on the pitch's grassy lawn. Scamander had a mottled green bruise on his jaw, exactly where my fist had connected with it. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were bloodshot, and if we're all being perfectly honest, and he looked like he had physically been dragged by the ankle from the depths of Hades.
"What happened to your jaw?" snapped Cecilia. She threw a sharp, suspicious look to my bandaged hand
"Potions accident," mumbled Scamander, wincing at Cecilia's tone. "Also, I'm a little hungover, so if you wouldn't mind being a little quieter, I would really—"
"I don't know who told you it would be a good idea to spend the night with your bottle of Ogden's Finest the night before practice. I most certainly will not be any quieter."
Scamander looked miserably between Cecilia and the garbage bin a few feet from the entrance of the pitch.
I could hardly contain my disgust. I was just about to kick off of the packed earth again when Cecilia beckoned me over. "Here," she grunted as she placed a heavy, lead ball in my arms.
"What is this for?"
"You two work on the side of the pitch with some beater's drills. Charm this to fly around and knock into Lysander. It'll do him good to build a little muscle."
Everyone else departed back into the crisp blue sky, leaving Scamander and I with a rich, awkward silence to handle.
"So," started Scamander, with a bit of a chuckle. "What happened to your hand?"
I stared at him.
He chuckled again.
"Yeah, I am. Listen, mate—that was a nasty punch, but I totally forgive you."
"You forgive me." I repeated, deadpan.
"Yeah. I had been with Lorcan all day and he had just gone on and on about how wonderful his girlfriend is, and after the third firewhiskey I was just about ready to hex my balls off. Weasley is a moderately hot piece of ass, yeah? And Lorcan won't even try to sleep with her. What a fuckin' waste. I got out of there as soon as possible, and she happened to be right there. She was asking for it, walking alone… wearing that sweater, you know?"
I gaped at him. "You are joking."
"What would I be joking about? Like you wouldn't do the same thing in my situation."
"You nearly raped her."
Lysander guffawed. "Nearly being the operative word here. And really—no, I didn't. She wanted it. I saw it in her eyes."
"Of course she didn't fucking want it. Nothing gives you the right to do that. Are you a sociopath?! Are you unable to keep it in your pants?" Lysander tilted his head to one side and furrowed his eyebrows slightly, as if I had asked him where he kept his licorice sugar quills, rather than where he kept his fucking conscience.
"Why are you getting so worked up about this? You would have done the same thing if you were as drunk as me and someone as hot as Weasley happened to walk by."
"No I wouldn't have," I snapped. I was genuinely offended by this. I am an attractive dude, and the ladies do quite literally ask for it. But I would never stoop so low as to force myself on a girl—especially a girl who, let us not forget, is dating my twin brother.
I sneered at him.
Lysander rolled his eyes. He mounted his broom gingerly, clearly still suffering from the retroactive effects of alcohol, and kicked off into the bruise-colored sunset. "Whatever, mate. Are you going to attack me with your balls or what?"
"Yeah, mate," I yelled back, and sent the gray ball hurtling straight for his pretty, nauseating face.
Disgusted and oddly satisfied,
I'm not super pleased with this chapter, but it is what it is and I couldn't figure out how to make it better. The next one, however, is one that I've been waiting to write for quite a while, so stay tuned?
Reviews are greatly appreciated!