I'm back more than a month later this time and with less to show for it. Although, I think this chapter is pretty crazy even though it's shorter than the last one. I guess I'll just let you guys judge for yourselves. Thank you for all the support and for all of you who have stuck it out so far. I know this story is really unconventional and as a result, I didn't expect it to get much attention. That being said, I think it's probably some of my best work which is why I wanted to share it with those willing to read it.

WARNING: this chapter contains mentions of suicide and actual suicide. Please be careful if you are easily triggered by themes related to this kind of content.

Chapter Three: Into the Woods

"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name

But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game"

- The Rolling Stones

This can't be ethical.

The eyes try to pinpoint something unique on the wall, drill into the horrible greyness of the room to curb the boredom. Spots begin to appear in Its vision. It looks up at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, hanging by a single thread and perfectly aligned with the center of the table to which the hands are handcuffed. It tugs against the chains, checking for what feels like the hundredth time whether or not It can break free. The heavy table shakes a little from Its attempt, but the steel stays solid. Above, the bulb swings rhythmically.

It tries really hard to see this whole thing as a learning experience; after all, It had not previously been aware of the fact that county jails commonly had creepy interrogation rooms. For all It knows, this may be a storage closet they shoved a table into to try and intimidate It. There's a significant absence of windows and mirrors and the door in the corner is conveniently painted grey so that it blends in with everything else.

They could seriously benefit from an interior decorator.

It's pretty sure that the absence of a clock is also deliberate. Time feels weird in this room, almost like it does in The Corridor. Like it's not actually real. It doesn't know if It's been here for two hours or two days and even though It's used to that feeling, not knowing the time is driving It a little crazy.

The door clicks and the eyes snap to the left to stare at the grey outline before swinging back to the wall in front. The sound of it swinging open is swallowed by the shouts It can hear coming from down the hallway. Footsteps, then the door closing, then more footsteps. Its gorgeous view is quickly obstructed by the short possessed man (AKA: Officer Megaphone).

"You know, people in the movies always get a phone call," It stares straight into the man's opalescent eyes.

He smirks sharkishly, teeth glinting in the low light, "People being the keyword there, right?"

"That's a technicality. I'm in a human body, aren't I?"

"I think we both know that there's much more to being human."

And yet the body is such a connected thing. Such an innate part of being a human being, such a critical aspect of the human experience. It changes a person's lifespan, experiences, interactions, comfort levels, attitudes. To undermine the role of a person's body is to undermine them, is to undermine a fundamental part of humanity.

A fundamental part that It's never had for Itself.

Maybe the man is right, but for the wrong reasons. It's lack of humanity isn't a result of failing to have a personality beyond a human body, it's a result of not having a body to begin with. If It's never had a body of Its own, has It ever really been human?

"Why are you keeping me here?"

It suspects that they want to kill It. But if that's the case, why isn't It dead yet? They could have shot It when It got out of the car, pretended that It had a weapon, or was violent, or whatever else they claim when an innocent man is shot down.

"We just had to make sure that you wouldn't try to leave again."

It tenses, "Why?"

The man's smirk widens, insidious and unnatural, "We may not be after you but that doesn't mean something else isn't."

The knowledge that there's two supernatural entities intervening in Its life is… rather underwhelming actually. It's experienced varying degrees of shock too much in the past twenty-four hours to find this new revelation particularly riveting.

If this guy wants a horrified reaction from It, he's gonna have to take a fucking number.

"So I'm in a cage."

The cop shrugs, leaning forward and tapping his fingers against the table. It wishes that It was free so that It could break them off. "Think of it more like destiny. This couldn't have happened any other way."

"Sounds an awful lot like a cage to me," It briefly wonders whether or not this man is aware of what's going on. If he even knows what It is or what's after It. Probably not given the milky eyes.

It has to give them points for creepiness cause that shit is straight out of a horror movie.

"By that definition, we're all trapped."

"Please don't go fatalistic on me," It scoffs, "we're both better than that."

"Fatalism is theoretical. I only speak the truth."

"Jesus, this can't be happening," It mumbles. "Did I die and go to some sick hell where a possessed pig shouts philosophical jargon at me for all eternity?"

"No Scorpius," he chuckles like he just made a funny joke, "you haven't died. Your job on Earth has barely begun."

It's gonna slit the throat if this guy doesn't cut out the cryptic bullshit.

"What job?"

"You're a pawn in the game Mr. Malfoy," he says slowly, carefully, "we can't have one of our pawns running off to Europe, now can we?"

"What other pieces are on the board?"

He raises his eyebrows, "Now what would be the fun in telling you that?"

It groans, "So what? You're just going to hold me in here forever?"

"Certainly not. Just until you promise not to leave."

It grits the teeth, "And why would I do that?"

(~won't work~)

"It won't work anyway," he echoes, "and because everytime you try, they get closer. It's like setting off a sonar alarm that alerts anything that might be hunting you of your approximate location. It's not completely accurate, but it'll get stronger if you flee again."

"So basically… I'm screwed."

"In a word: yes. But the amount of time left is entirely in your control. If you stay below the radar, blend into your life, maybe they won't find you as fast. I'd say that the stunt you pulled tonight cut your time in half."

Questions swim in Its mind like piranhas, snapping at each other and mixing together to create a best case, worst case, and everything in between. If It dies, will It end up back in The Corridor? Does the amount of time even matter if It's going to die either way? Will the thing hunting It do something that would be worse than death? The feeling of hopelessness and futility crashes into It, slams into some metaphorical body of the mind, bullies It into submission.

It should just kill Itself.

The thought is a shining beacon in a pool if inky darkness. It grows, expands, molds into a monster of its own. The idea isn't impressive or rather ingenious. In fact, it's wondrously simple, fantastically easy, brilliantly obvious. There are a hundred things piling up against It and It's the only one on Its side. So if It has no chance of survival, at least It'll die on Its own fucking terms.

"Okay, I promise."

"Wow, I didn't think you'd be this easy," he stares at Scorpius with mild interest, "I didn't realize we'd broken you poor suckers down so bad."

"What?"

The implications of what this man (or thing) just said are too much to bear. Too much for It to deal with right now. It doesn't even want to know the answer to the question that just slipped out of the mouth. It can't handle the answer. Not right now.

Maybe not ever.

"Don't worry about it."

It feels relief, "Do I get to go now?"

"Of course."

The man walks over to the door and opens it wide, allowing light to pour into the room, "Bring her in!"

It waits, confused and tired, staring at the blank rectangle of light in the corner of the room. It seems to grow smaller, grey enveloping it, as the footsteps grow closer. But reality sets back in when a familiar head of blonde hair pops into view. It's never been happier to see anyone in Its entire life. And that's saying something.

Alice is real and full and physical and tangible and there as she all but runs to the table. Her arms circle the body and for once, It's glad to have the skin to skin contact reminding It that It's alive. Even the tears staining the t-shirt are a welcome sensation. It regrets that It can't hug her back because of the cuffs hugging the wrists almost as tightly as she's hugging It.

"Oh my God," she whispers, breath hitting the ear, "I thought you were dead. How the fuck could you do that to me? What were you fucking thinking?"

She pulls back, hands still framing the face, eyes reflecting a state of conflict. Sadness and joy welded together. Her gaze shifts to one of the bruises when her thumb grazes over it. It inhales sharply and she winces.

"Jesus, this guy really fucked you up bad. How did you even get out of there?"

"I did jiu-jitsu as a kid," the lie flows from the mouth smooth as butter.

She laughs and rolls her eyes, "You really didn't."

"How did you find me?"

Alice's expression contorts into one of irritation, "These idiots called Rose because she was the last person that tried to contact you. She called me and I hopped on the nearest bus up here. You stole our car by the way."

It stole a lot more than that, but she doesn't have to know that.

It shoots a look at the cops blocking the doorway, "They didn't give me my phone call."

"They didn't do a lot of things," Alice says darkly. "Do you want to press charges?"

"No," It says, "the last thing I want is to have anymore contact with the cops of Bozo County."

"Okay," she nods. She looks down at the hands, which are still pinned to the table, "Can you get these off of him?"

One of the cops approaches with a small silver key and uncuffs It. It rubs at the angry red circles pressed into the skin by unforgiving steel before standing up.

"We should go," It says, not taking the eyes off of the possessed man. He seems to have softened a little, his eyes slightly clearer, posture less aggressive. But It's not fooled. At any sign of trouble, the entity will come back full force.

So It leads the way to the door, eager to get out of the police station from hell. Unfortunately, Officer Megaphone blocks the threshold one last time, dangling freedom in front of Its face and then snatching it away.

"Remember your promise," he whispers.

It swallows loudly and nods the head, maneuvering around him and out the door. It doesn't even bother checking if Alice follows.

It's had a long ass day. All It wants is to recline the car seat, close the eyes, and maybe listen to some calming music.

"Okay, what the fuck was that?"

Of course.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she fumes, knuckles turning white against the steering wheel, "what possessed you with the need to drive to some random ass town in the middle of a work day only to get assaulted by a fucking stranger?"

It really hates how frequently Scorpius' friends use the word possessed.

"I didn't plan to get assaulted by a stranger."

"Well then why the fuck were you there in the first place!?" her voice is hysterical, but her eyes remain cooly fixed on the dark road ahead.

"I don't know."

The car turns sharply to the side of the road, sending the body against the passenger door, "What the fuck?!"

Alice violently twists the keys out of ignition and puts the car in the park. She takes an unsettlingly deep breath and then slowly turns towards It, eyes ablaze. Her voice is barely a whisper, "I swear to God, if you don't explain to me why I'm driving you home from Bozo County at midnight right now, I will leave you out here to die without a second thought."

"It's actually eleven thirty."

"Scorpius!"

"Okay, okay, I get it," a pause while It decides what will sound most plausible. It settles on a half truth, "I've just been really overwhelmed in the last twenty-four hours. Mostly with work. Some of the cases have really been… getting to me."

Connor's picture flashes before Its eyes, and then his head hitting the freezer as his body crumples. But when the eyes focus in on Alice again, focus in on reality, It realizes that It's just as stressed out by her as It was by Connor. Everything about this goddamn life just seems designed to stress It out.

Everything about this life probably is designed to stress It out.

Alice takes another deep breath and rests her forehead against the top of the steering wheel in the place between her hands. When she looks back up at It, the tension is drained from her body and all that remains in its place is exhaustion and fear. She looks older than she should. And wiser. The corners of her mouth remain tight and heavy as her eyes trace the planes of the face, trying to find a hole in a facade that is just one massive hole. One endless, bottomless, hopeless hole.

"Are you sure this isn't about us and…" she hesitates, looks down at her left hand, "what happened?"

For a moment, It considers breaking off the engagement. And then It remembers the consequences of doing that, the least of them being an awkward car ride back to the apartment. Besides, what's another night of having a fiance? It'll be dead by tomorrow anyway. Or at least Scorpius will be.

So It shales the head confidently and says, "No. I love you."

Sometimes It wonders when It got so good at lying.

Her lips remain pursed and she cocks her head a little, gaze unnervingly steady. There's no flash of relief in her eyes like there was last time, barely any indication that she even heard what It said. Time crawls as she looks right through It, combs through every part of It, picks out every characteristic, habit, motive, that isn't her fiance's.

With no warning or build up, she turns back to the front and starts up the car, "Okay."

The car pulls back onto the main road and for a few moments, there's nothing. Just the steady sound of the engine running and the tires gliding smoothly across the gravel below. The pure darkness rolls by as It stares out the window. It can do nothing but trust that the scenery is changing, but It feels relief from knowing that if something is out there—watching, waiting—at least It can't see what it is.

"You're not going to work tomorrow," Alice's voice crackles in the empty space and breaks into Its reverie.

Tomorrow It'll be back in The Corridor. Or It'll be dead.

"Okay."

The next day

It sleeps in,

It makes breakfast,

It takes a shower,

It shaves,

It gets dressed,

It goes for a drive,

It steps in front of a car,

It gets hit.

The next day It dies.

The first breath burns. The first thing It sees burns, lights and colors bouncing back and forth, blurring and blending images together. Then It starts to hear and that burns too. The pain melts together and sets every nerve on fire, a feeling so alive yet so dead that It's not sure if It's gone to Heaven or Hell or some sick in between where this will never stop.

It doesn't want it to stop. The burning feels good. sosososososogood.

(But something is wrong.)

There's no hallway, no door, no endless sky. No corridor. Just this… whatever it is. This burning.

Is It dead? Where is It? Why does everything hurt? Why is everything so heavy? So weightless? So painful? So euphoric?

(Can It go back?)

"Oh my god."

The voice can't be above a whisper, but it rings out like gunshots in Its mind, ricocheting back and forth against the walls of what feels like a skull. The pain becomes unbearable.

Take It back! Take It back please! It can't live like this!

The voice tunes back in, louder this time, ascending in a crescendo, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

It speaks before It's even aware that It can, moves before It's aware that any muscles are attached to Its mind.

"Could you please shut the fuck up? I just got hit by a car."

Shapes begin to form as It turns over onto Its back, head facing the sky. The cloudy, grey sky. It's overwhelming. Everything is quiet and It focuses on the breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. It's beginning to regain a connection with the body when the voice speaks up again.

"Shit, dude. Are you alive?"

The world shifts again, changes and rearranges until It makes sense and It can see, hear, smell, feel and taste. It groans loudly in response, before trying to prop Itself up on the elbows. The motion is easy and smooth, maybe even better than before It got hit by the car. There's no pain, no struggle, no problem. Which makes no fucking sense. It just got hit by a car going seventy miles per hour. It—or at least Scorpius' body—should be destroyed. And yet here It is, lying in the middle of the road, staring up at a grey sky like It doesn't have a care in the world.

The eyes scan over the scene playing out in front of It. The highway It chose is still deserted, no cars for as far as the eye can see. There's a car parked off to the right, still running, which It finds kind of insulting. It would hope that It's death would be enough to get the guy to turn his fucking car off. But then It sees the actual person that hit It and figures that might be too much to ask. A pimply, douchey kid is standing a few paces to Its right, staring down at It.

It cracks the neck, to the right, to the left, and then sits up straight.

"Whoa. How the fuck-"

"Seriously shut up. I have a massive headache."

"You stepped in front of my car."

"Yeah whatever," It says, stretching out the arms and legs, "did you call the cops kid?"

His eyes widen comically and he runs a hand through his greasy hair, "No. Shit. No."

Idiot.

"Of course not," It chuckles sardonically. "Oh well, probably for the best."

Taking a deep breath, It pushes the body off the ground and onto the legs. They're a little wobbly, like they haven't been used in more than a decade, but otherwise solid. It's amazed at the absolute lack of consequences to the body. It should've probably been killed on impact, but It's almost certain that if It goes to a hospital to check for internal bleeding, they won't find anything.

It spares a glance at the kid and then starts walking down the road to where It left the car. Parking it down the road was mostly a way to avoid immediate identification by the person that hit It.

Although, It really doubts that the kid would've thought to check Its ID anyway.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

It doesn't look back, ready to never see the kid's face again, "Don't worry about it."

A beat, then more obnoxious yelling, "What am I supposed to do?"

It sighs and turns around, getting a proper look at the guy for the first time, "You believe in God?"

The kid's eyebrows raise, "I don't know. What kind of question is that?"

"Well you do now. You've experienced a miracle. Accept it and move on."

He sucks in a sharp breath as It turns away from him, "What the fuck are you?"

It laughs.

The bug on the dash of the car crawls across slowly as It watches, deciding whether or not to kill it or leave it be. That's what It feels like right now. That bug. Crawling across the car dash that is life until something decides that it doesn't want It around anymore.

What the fuck is It going to do?

It can't leave, It can't kill Itself, and honestly, It's run out of other ideas.

It'll be the first to admit that It's never been particularly creative…

Anyways, It's pretty sure that there's nothing else It can do that wouldn't warrant some kind of divine intervention from the decidedly non-benevolent entity that's doing this to It. So It's stuck. Stuck in a life that It doesn't know how to live while something gets closer and closer to ending Its life forever.

The memory comes like an epiphany, obvious yet so very brilliant.

'If you stay below the radar, blend into your life, maybe they won't find you as fast.'

That's what the man said and now It has to take it to heart. It has to live Scorpius' life without becoming him. And It thinks It knows where It needs to start: tell someone what It really is. Surprisingly, It's refrained from doing that thus far in Its unnaturally long life. That's been fine by It; in fact, the thought of telling someone what It really is terrifies It. Not because It cares what others will think of It. It's lived long enough to realize that bullshit doesn't matter. It's afraid because telling someone else would put power into their hands. Power they could use against It.

But It doesn't have the time to figure out Scorpius' life on Its own. It needs to blend in as fast as possible and focus on figuring out what's after It instead of dealing with this stupid life. So the solution seems simple: It has to tell someone. Someone that was close to Scorpius, knows him well, but isn't too attached. That means Alice is already out of the running. She might do something crazy like blame It for her fiance's death. The only other people It knows are Dean Thomas and Rose Weasley. Thomas was Scorpius' boss and seems rather friendly towards him. Even if they were close, there's quite an age gap, so It doubts Thomas knows all that much about him.

That leaves one option: Rose… which sounds like a terrible idea. Rose is obnoxious and obsessive and forward and hostile. Ultimately, she's the person It wants to confide in least. And that's exactly why It needs to tell her. In this case, all her infuriating traits may be an advantage. She seems to know a lot about the guy if her questions about the hair gel and the coffee are anything to go by. She called Alice to let her know where It was, indicating that they're on speaking terms, maybe even friends. But she also hates Scorpius, which is a definite benefit when looking for someone who won't freak out when It tells them he's dead. She can help It while remaining disconnected. It's perfect.

And It hates the idea.

It's considering how long It can put off telling Rose when the phone buzzes.

'I rescheduled with Al and Lily cya tonight.'

So It needs to figure out who Al and Lily are by tonight. It lets the head fall onto the steering wheel in frustration, "Fuck."

Then It turns on the car and pulls away from the side of the road, heading towards the last place It wants to go: to see Rose.

The bullpen is deserted save for a few people It doesn't recognize doing work. There's no sign of the sergeant or the captain, which decreases Its anxiety by a third. That anxiety is further alleviated when It spots Rose at her desk, face half hidden by a stack of paperwork. She's writing furiously next to it, occasionally looking over at a page to read a few sentences over. There's a highlighter perched precariously behind her ear.

"Hey."

Rose startles, highlighter finally falling to the ground. She scowls and stoops to pick it up before staring It down angrily, "Why are you here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" there are many reasons why It shouldn't be here, but It's found playing dumb quite useful in the past few days.

She rolls her eyes, "Need I remind you that you had a freak breakdown yesterday, left work two hours early, ignored everyone's calls, drove three hours to some random town, got assaulted by a stranger and ended up in prison? Alice told me you took a personal day."

"Which reminds me," It grimaces, "don't mention this to her."

Rose gives him a dark look, "There is no way you're asking me to lie to my best friend just to cover your ass."

Scorpius' fiance is best friends with his greatest enemy. Could this life get any worse?

"I have to talk to you," It says ominously, "but first, where's the gear locker?"

"What?"

"Where's the gear locker? I need to check on something."

"You don't know where the gear locker is?" Rose asks blankly. "Seriously, did something happen to you?"

It huffs, "I'll explain in a second. Please just tell me where the gear locker is."

She hesitates, but then nods slowly, "Down that hallway, one door past the locker rooms on your left. I'm guessing you'll need my key. Bring it back."

"Thanks," It grabs the keys from her and walks off in the direction of the gear locker. The room It finds is small, with a padlocked locker at the end that It walks over to immediately. The key clicks into place with ease and It turns it, the joined becoming unjoined. Swinging open grandly, the door reveals an array of dangerous weapons that makes the skin crawl in anticipation and wonder. A familiar excitement. A desire to destroy, to kill, to feel wells up inside, a passing montage of blood and guts and roars of passion that lead the crowd, the soldiers, into battle. A romanticism that lives in some places and dies in others. The temptation grows as It stares down the largest gun, immense power.

It grabs the first handgun It sees, checks the safety, and tucks It into the jacket. Then It closes the door and locks it carefully.

Rose is still crouched over her desk, nose buried in a book, when It returns, "Alright, we're going. I'll drive."

"What?"

"We're going. I'll-"

"No dumbass, I heard what you said," she growls, "But I'm not going anywhere with you because you've lost your goddamn mind."

It runs a hand through the hair and sighs. It should've probably realized that this would happen and It's really not helping the situation by being all ominous and creepy.

"Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been acting weird, but it's because I found something and I don't know what to do about. I need your help. Please."

Her eyes change when It says please, softening by just a degree. She scans the face and eyes suspiciously, analysing every detail of Its facade with intense scrutiny.

Just when It thinks that she's going to refuse, she nods slowly and stands up, "Lead the way."

As soon as It spots the deserted parking lot, It steers off the road and down the makeshift path that leads to it. They're already far out of the city and the lot is somewhere between towns. A nature path bends out into the woods on the right. To the left, a desolate soccer field that's seen better days dominates a vacant field.

Perfect.

When It parks the car, they both sit there for a moment, quietly, motionlessly examining the surrounding area, but looking for entirely different things. It glances at Rose, the eyes focusing in on her hand, which is gripping the handle on the ceiling, knuckles white from the pressure.

"You're actually going to kill me, aren't you?"

Her voice shatters the silence, tension prevailing even though her joke was supposed to break it. Maybe It was the crack in her voice at the end. The one that exposed her genuine fear. Maybe she just wasn't convincing enough, couldn't prove to either of them that there's nothing to be worried about. It just wasn't enough.

It doesn't think she needs to be scared, but then again, It's never revealed Its true identity to a human before. Perhaps this is something to be afraid of. Perhaps It is something to be afraid of. It doesn't know.

It releases a bubbling laugh, because killing her is kind of the opposite of what It's about to do. "Nope. Come on, we're going on a hike."

"I'd rather stay here, thanks."

It grins at her and the tension in her body decreases minutely, "I'm not going to kill you. I have to show you something I found out there."

She stares at the path that It's pointing at, "Can you stop being so fucking cryptic?"

It shrugs, "You really just have to see it for yourself. I can't explain it."

"Why were you even out here?"

"I was on a walk."

"That's a lie," Rose scoffs. "I guess I'm not going to get any straight answers from you. Alright, let's go then."

In a flash, she's unbuckling her seat belt, pushing her car door open and slamming the door behind her. It watches her outside as she stretches, staring off into the woods with distrust. Taking a deep breath, It gets out too, closing the car and adjusting the gun nestled near the ribs. Then, It heads on the path, Rose close at Its heels.

The forest is fresh and suffocating at the same time, humidity drifting through the air like something It could actually touch. It takes random twists and turns, not really paying attention to Its surroundings or to where It's going or how It should get back. Something tells It that finding Its way back to the car is the least of Its problems. At some point, It swerves off the main path and steps over a root and then ducks under a low hanging branch. The crunch of leaves under Its boot is musical. Crisp and clear. It waits to hear the sound amplify as Rose steps off the path as well. But it remains the same.

Looking back, It takes Rose in, standing at the edge, staring past It with a look of scepticism on her face. It can't blame her. Her coworker that has seemingly gone batshit crazy in the past few days is leading her into a forest with no eye witnesses to vouch for what's about to happen. It wouldn't even follow It.

So why is she still here? She's clearly quite intelligent and level-headed and yet she's doing everything contrary to her natural instinct and for what? For some guy she supposedly hates? That's when the realization dawns on It. She must have really trusted him. She must have trusted him with her life. She may not have liked him, but she knew she could count on him. That's why she's still here. That's why she won't leave. Above all, she believes It because she believes Scorpius.

It can use that against her.

She's still staring at the line of gravel separating the path and the forest. The point of no return. The edge of a bottomless cliff. There she stands, contemplating the risk.

"Trust me."

Her eyes snap up, soaking It in, gauging the degree of truth, the degree of falsehood in Its voice. She takes a deep breath like she can't believe she's actually doing this. Then she nods, "I trust you."

The step that takes her off the path and into the woods feels momentous, the creation of history, one that will never be written down, in real time. What feels like a ripple travels through It and now It knows. Knows that, for better or worse, Rose Weasley's fate is inextricably connected to Its, her actions and thoughts woven into Its own, forming a spider web of possibilities. She doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve It barging into her life and turning it on its head. But It needs her and if It needs her, It can hardly feel sorry about doing everything in Its power to get her help.

The walking is nearly aimless. They could be going around in circles for all It knows. It just wants to make sure that they're away from anyone that could see them. Isolated from society. It pretends to pay attention to the trees, landmarks that may catch a human's eye, but really, It's just waiting for a sign. And after some time, It finds one: a tree hollow, perfectly circular, dark and deep, calls out to It. Willing It to stop. The hollow reminds It of The Corridor and It takes that as a good sign even though It's never really thought of The Corridor as being good.

When It stops near the hole, Rose stops too, her hands on her hips, toe tapping against the decaying forest floor, eyes scanning the small clearing with hawk-like precision. They're surrounded by trees, Rose on one side, It standing on the other, a ring around them. Tying them together. The hand moves without permission, running along the rough bark of the holetree, feeling the bits break under the fingers, the soft palm.

"I don't see anything."

It turns away from the tree and trains the eyes on Rose, gaze locked on hers. Taking her in. Soaking her up. Hair wild and dancing in the cold wind. It smells like rain. Dark blue eyes crackling in the grey light. It smells like rain. Pale skin blending in, meshing with everything that will accept it. It smells like rain.

"That's because there's nothing to see."

Blue narrows, "I will skin you alive if you don't tell me what's-"

It laughs, "You can try, but it won't work."

(~won't work~)

It smells like rain.

"You've gone insane," she whispers, eyes widening. She takes a step back, hits a tree, searches her pocket to pull out a cell phone, "I'm calling the cops."

This conversation is too much. This whole life is too much. It wishes that it would all just end. Would It really be so bad if the hunting thing finds It? Would it really be so bad to finally rest? It's been here for so long. So damn long. It just wants to sleep. Sleep forever and ever and ever. Sleep until It's no longer tired. Sleep for an eternity.

But no. She's dialling the number, It can hear it even though she seems miles away. Hears the sound of Its downfall as clearly as It can smell the rain. The death that rain unearths. The gun pokes at the ribs. With shaking hands, It pulls it out and silently points it at Rose.

It smells like rain.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

When she looks up, her eyes zero in on the gun. Her body freezes and she stares down the barrel, phone forgotten in her clenched palm.

"I won't hesitate. Drop the phone."

It's killed people before. Rose isn't any different. She's just another human. There have been tons like her and there will be tons more. Rose isn't any different. It's watched others kill people more times than It can count. Mutilate their bodies, disembowel them. It never blinked an eye. A human is a human is a human. Rose isn't any different.

But that wasn't the plan. It's not here to kill Rose. It doesn't want to kill Rose. Not even if It has to. It doesn't want to. Doesn't. Won't. Can't.

Rose isn't any different.

(It smells like rain.)

It can hear her breathing from where It stands, slow and steady, pulse thrumming just beneath, separated by no more than thin skin. So alive. The phone makes a soft thud when It hits the ground.

"Scorpius, I don't know what's going on, but I can help you," (yes, she can help). "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

It wonders if she's trained for these kinds of situations. If they taught her how to handle those who seem unstable, those who point a gun wildly and never think twice about it. It knows that they did. Her voice is careful and controlled, genuine despite being detached. She's careful not to trigger It. Careful to say only what is innocent and right. None of that masks the stench. The stench of the blatant fact that she considers It a threat.

Is It a threat?

"Scorpius is dead."

"No," she insists, "You're not dead. You're just sick, but I can help you with that. We can help you. All of us: Alice, Al, Lily. All of us."

She thinks It's talking about that bullshit humans say in movies. Where they pretend they've become a different person even though none of them are capable of change. None of them even know what real change is. Real change is having to live a different life every half a century. Change is being ripped from one body that's not yours to another body that's not yours. Change is visceral, painful. None of them know.

"Rose, the Scorpius Malfoy you knew is actually dead. I'm not him. I'm an immortal being occupying his body. Just please, let me explain."

She doesn't flinch, eyes remaining on the gun, "This is a disorder. Dissociative identity. It's hard to get through, but if you put down the gun we can get help. Please, do it for Alice. For your parents."

"Rose, can you please look at me?" It says earnestly and she finally tears her gaze away from the gun. "I'm only keeping this gun on you because I don't want you to call the cops. I'm going to explain what's going on and I need you to be quiet through the whole thing. Will you please just let me explain?"

She hesitates, takes another deep breath, nods.

"Okay," It nods along with her, "I'm not Scorpius Malfoy. I don't think I'm even human if I'm being honest. It's a little confusing even for me. Basically, I've been alive since the dawn of humanity. I have a conscious mind, but not a body of my own. Instead, at the beginning of each life, I end up in this place. I call it The Corridor."

It pauses a moment to look at her reaction. She doesn't say anything, doesn't make a move. All It can do is continue.

"This place—The Corridor—contains billions of doors, each one representing a human currently living on Earth. Within half an hour, I need to choose one of them or they choose for me. Then I live the life I enter until I die and start the whole thing over again. I don't actually know what happens to the human whose body I occupy. I think they die, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I've never seen one come back. I don't know who controls this fucked up system, who chooses my lives when I run out of time. All I know is that this time, something is wrong. I can't get out of this life. I can't leave the state or die. I'm stuck. I need your help."

The silence that envelops the forest is deafening. It's an absence of voice, Its own and Rose's, but it's so much more than that. The whole world is holding its breath. The leaves stop rustling, the wind stops whipping, the birds stop chirping. Just It and Rose and the world. Waiting to see what comes next.

"Okay, I believe you. Just put down the gun."

Her voice doesn't waver, statement solid and believable. Firm and confident. There's not a shred of doubt to be heard in what she's just said. That's how It knows that she's lying. It can tell she's lying because none of what It says shatters her worldview, the tight bubble she's created for herself that allows her to make sense of the world. She's not freaking out or asking questions or doubting It in any way. Which means she doesn't believe It.

"You don't believe me."

Rose looks at It sadly, "Please put down the gun."

"Fine, have it your way," It shrugs, "I'll prove it to you."

The next moment, It's pulling the gun up and pressing the hard steel up against skin, up against the temple where it rests, cool and unfriendly and daunting. Part of It hopes that Its plan will backfire. That they'll just let It die right here right now, put It out of Its misery. Maybe they'll even send It back to The Corridor. Unlikely, but It can't help but hope.

The eyes stay wide open, so It watches Rose reach out her arm, mouth opening, legs moving slowly like she's running through molasses. But it's too thick, too much, too slow and she'll never make it in time. On some level, It's pretty sure she knows this. Will this be traumatic for her? Will this leave her with nightmares for years to come? Panting as she sits up in her bed, blown off face of a long gone detective partner dancing before her eyes?

"No!" she yells, "Scorpius, don't-"

It smells like rain.

He pulls the trigger.