This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter and a Scorose fic in a while, so hopefully it works out well. There's also the fact that the idea is rather unconventional for a romance story. My ability to turn really interesting concepts into mindless romance will never cease to amaze me.

I updated the first chapter after I posted it because there was a typo where it said 'Scorpius Brown' instead of 'Scorpius Malfoy'. I get people who don't know I write fanfiction to edit my stories so I change the names and I forgot to change that one back.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters in this story you may recognize. The title is taken from the song by The Rolling Stones.

Chapter One: The Beginning of the End

"I've been around for a long, long year

Stole many a man's soul and faith"

- The Rolling Stones

It's back in the room. Again.

White walls tower on both sides, extend up, up, up with no visible end. Its line of sight follows them until It hits the space between. A non-existent ceiling. Yet there's no sign of a sky anywhere above.

It takes the obligatory look right, then left. A narrow infinity filled with delphic doors. Different colours, different carvings, different configurations. Stretching to unreachable heights. It doesn't recognize this strip, so they must have dropped It somewhere new.

Home sweet home.

It went right last time, so It goes left. It's surprised when It feels the sudden overwhelming urge to actually explore the doors. Falling prey to the irrationality of believing in choice is always painful. After all, the true choice never lies behind the doors. It exists in the gaps between observation and ignorance; the consequences of which are identical.

It drifts through, paying no attention to the passage of time until the third bell goes off. Deep (~ten minutes left~). A door flashes, catches Its eye. Yellow metal shining and shimmering despite an absence of anything that could be called light. Instead of a doorknob, a circular crank inhabits the middle, merely ornamental. It's pretty sure they like the irony of the fact that It doesn't have any hands (or other body parts) that could actually open the door.

Instead, It wills the door to open with Its pure and unadulterated yearning. The signal for its release. It's a wonder that this trick still works considering that It stopped actually wanting things a long time ago.

The door swings open slowly, silently, trying to draw out the suspense as to what's behind it. It would roll Its eyes if it had any. Performing the same ritual for all time basically eliminates any element of surprise this process once possessed.

They're so dramatic.

The story this door sells is beautiful, in that desperate, tragic way that It knows too well. A little girl huddles over a piece of fabric in a dark room, her back hunched, her skin the colour of copper. Lithe fingers work deftly on the task at hand. One child working tirelessly for the superficial joy of another. Because everything must be paid for in the equivalent to what it provides.

The name comes as It watches her: Aayana. Beautiful and tragic, just like her. Just like this story.

But Its desire fades with the thought and the door slams shut. It could save her. Lift her out of a life of poverty, pain and lost potential. But she would be long gone by the time It arrived.

More importantly, It no longer has any interest in leading that life. A life destined to fail. A life over before it has begun. Experience, adventure and suffering are the food of the young, not the old. The desire to feel died long ago.

It drifts past, moves on.

At the fourth bell (~one minute left~), It resigns Itself. Getting sucked into a random life contains minimal sacrifice anyway.

(~left~) (~look left~)

Its attention is drawn, like a magnet to its mate. The door consumes It. Rectangular, smooth, simple. A thick red; the colour of blood. The door calls, asks It to pursue it, spins the web of a siren. The intrigue is almost tangible in its intensity. A that fog invites It in, sedates It into a lull. Convinces It that the mystery behind it could be a home.

But that's impossible. It has no real home, nothing to call Its own. It can't.

(~it could be home~)

Then the door grows larger, becomes daunting, frightening. Threatens It and everything It's ever known. There's something monstrous about it. The door represents a choice they want It to make.

Run.

(~stay~)

It rips away, the edges of vision becoming blurry as reality shifts. It wills Itself to see something else, anything else, before time runs out. Another door comes into view, dull grey, pushing It away. It plows on, watches the door crack open as a result of Its efforts. It tries to wrap Its mind around it, the world on the other side. But it stops at the crack, mocking It as the final toll signals the end of choice. Then: a blood curdling laugh, the deep gong going off again and again and again, a whistling wind. It's sucked back, sucked into a nightmare. Sucked into the red door.

It can't scream, but if It could…

again and again and again

It wakes up in The Corridor. Every time.

It chooses or gets sucked into a door. Every time.

It inhabits a host that no one knows. Every time.

It dies when the host dies and is forgotten. Every time.

again and again and again

The new body flies up to a sitting position, panting hard, heart racing, eyes wide open. Once the body's breathing steadies, It takes a moment to bask in the feeling of acquiring a heart beat. A euphoria so great it rivals all other pleasures. One that most humans cannot remember because they only encounter it as infants.

The body is sweating, in shock from the transition, a current of fear running through it as the previous owner is ejected. Rarely, they linger like this, eliciting this kind of reaction. Sometimes, It wonders if their last dream before their body is stolen is about The Corridor. It's a good thing they don't stick around to deal with the psychological trauma that would come from that kind of an experience.

Death is often a mercy.

Everything is calm for all of two seconds, and then a chill runs up the spine and the red door reappears. The laughter comes, the bell, the whistling. This time It does scream, or at least the body does, as loud as it can to release the pure terror that grips its heart. Because the body is in The Corridor. It's vulnerable to them. This has never happened before. Something is wrong.

(~this is the end~)

It forces the eyes to blink, to get rid of the reflex tears. When they open again, It's back in the new body's room, darkness engulfing It and providing sanctuary. The body is panting, but this time, It causes the reaction, not the previous owner. Something is very, very wrong. It doesn't even know the new body's name. It doesn't come like it usually does.

It looks down in a haze, notices a flat and broad chest. It looks for what's longer than probably necessary, wondering what's so special about this host, this man. Finally, It decides to go through Its regular routine. There's already enough abnormality to this whole situation, It may as well inject some semblance of order into it.

First, It focuses on the fingers, flexing them, moving them, weaving them around each other. A tingling sensation spreads through them and travels up the arm. A sign that the body is being reminded that it's still alive. The newness is always strange, like a memory missing its most important piece. Familiar, but forgotten in its true form, its fullness.

It moves on to the other appendages, the toes then the arms then the legs. Tests out the twist of the torso, the roll of the neck. It melts through the whole body, connects it, welds it together, almost forces a gasp from the mouth. It brings the arms up to the shoulders, trying out the touch. It feels smooth skin, broad shoulders, and sharp collar bones. The fingertips brush down the body like a lover's kiss, light and feathery, just enough to awaken the nervous system.

As soon as every part of the body is awoken, It feels it. Skin on skin. Someone else's skin. An arm casually draped over the stomach, disguised, masked by deceitful sheets. Someone is with It when It wakes up. The terror that was barely kept at bay by the illusion of routine begins to bubble up again, rise, escape. Every muscle in the new body tenses and It forces Itself (oh so, slowly, slowly) to turn the head to the left.

What have they done?

(~this is the end~)

There's a sharp intake of breath when the silhouette comes into view and It quickly realizes that it came from the mouth of the new body. It can't properly see them. They are only a shadow. A question mark. An ambiguous figure capable of anything.

This is a problem that It quickly determines It needs to solve. Nothing like this has ever happened before. What is It supposed to do?

Leave.

(~won't work~)

It can't see much around It, it's too dark, but It feels the walls of the room closing in. The air around It seems to grow thicker, choking It as It tries to escape, get up, do anything. But It's frozen in place, muscles of the new body taut and struggling against the force of Its mind that tells It that leaving won't work.

The room is deathly silent, but the sound reminds It of screaming.

The release comes slowly, first in the soles of the feet and then it spreads, up, up, up, until it hits the head. It knows that It can scream now, or force the mouth to scream. But It no longer wants to. The feeling is gone, swept away with the entrapment.

It gets the mouth to take a deep breath and instead of leaving, It does the only thing that It can think of that doesn't involve going back to sleep next to a stranger. It slips out of bed and looks for a bathroom. Fortunately, It spots a large white door next to the cupboard at the front of the room. It's one of two and closer to It so It heads towards it first. The It hears a creak, the shifting of another body.

"Scorpius?" A light, female voice. She speaks with an American accent. It freezes.

It turns around at a snail's pace, as if to avoid frightening a wild animal. The silhouette has propped herself up on her elbows and is staring at It, waiting for a response. She doesn't get one.

After a moment of stretched out silence, the figure clears her throat and asks, "Are you okay?"

It finally finds the voice, although it comes out cracked and rough, "Bathroom."

Another silence, heavy and skeptical. Then (to Its tremendous surprise and relief) the woman falls back onto her pillow and mumbles, "Okay," before rolling over and falling asleep.

It releases a breath It hadn't known It had been holding. It takes a peek into the first door and, sure enough, It spots a shower. Once inside, It gropes for a light switch on the nearest wall, finally fumbling over it and turning it on.

A strong, fluorescent light bathes the room in harsh, yellow tones. It closes the eyes and allows them to adjust to the light, crouching down to press the palms against the cool, tile floor. Taking a moment to just feel.

It slides open the eyes again, letting them meet the uniformity of the square ceramic in front of them.

Standing, It examines the room and is less than impressed by what It finds. It's small and dingy, but clean and well-kept. A little like a bathroom in a motel. Expectations of beauty are suspended, but not those of cleanliness.

By now It's just looking everywhere but the mirror It knows hangs above the cracked sink. But It doesn't want to turn around and face Itself. Take a good look at the new body in its entirety. That's the moment when reality sinks in, fixes itself to a particular moment, place, human. And for some reason (perhaps because of the very real person on the other side of a thin wall that knows It), that seems like a lot to take at the moment. So instead, It feels the face to prepare Itself.

The hands move up to cradle the cheek and then slowly move over it. The skin is smooth, the jaw strong and ovular with high cheekbones. When It runs the hand through the hair, it's short and straight, goes down to the ears and sticks up around the head. A mental picture begins to form in Its mind. Imagining what the host looks like almost always leads to a pleasant image that reality often doesn't live up to.

It's done going over the lines and curves of the face much too fast and It feels the acceleration of the heart beat without Its permission. Which means the association has already begun. It tries not to panic, turns around quickly and stares down the face It feared moments earlier to keep Its mind off the association.

The first thing that pops out about the new body is how white it is. Not just regular white. White white. It doesn't look unhealthy, but it's pretty close. The skin is like porcelain, flawless, not a blemish or birthmark in sight. There's a worn cotton t-shirt stretched across the frame of the upper body and plaid pajama bottoms with a few holes hanging low on the hips and exposing a bit of underwear. The arm muscles are defined and clear, veins like branches running down to the hands which are large, the fingers long and graceful. It can't tell much with the body's clothes on, but It hesitates to take them off. The first time always feels like a violation.

It chooses to move onto the facial features instead. The lips are light and on the thinner side, curled up in what seems to be a natural smirk. A sharp, straight nose with a thin bridge that comes to a point. It smoothly leads up to dark, arched eyebrows that make the eyes pop. The eyes themselves are grey, cold and disinterested. They seem calculating and stand out despite the banality of their colour.

But the most striking feature by far is the hair. From touch, it seemed pretty standard. Soft and thick, short and a little wild. But it wouldn't be special without the colour. A light blonde, nearly white, falling in every direction, but not messy.

The itch to associate grows stronger with every second that It examines the body. Realizes that the body belongs to It now. But it doesn't. Not really. The body is someone else's. They're gone, but their presence lingers like that of a ghost.

Usually it doesn't matter whether the previous owner feels present or not. The association is not a thing of choice and It's never had a reason to fight against it before. In fact, the association usually feels good. Right. But this time It doesn't want to.

For the first time ever, It feels the risk in associating. Becoming someone else. This host still has friends, family, probably a job and obligations. It doesn't want to get tied down to that. Doesn't want to have to pay attention to others. The consequences could be catastrophic. God forbid that someone holds these things against It, uses It, manipulates It. Or worse. It may start to feel things. Things that Scorpius felt.

No, It can't risk it. It'll just resist the association. It's never done that before, but there's a first time for everything.

(~won't work~)

The bathroom feels much larger all of a sudden and an awkward tension coats the room, like It's alienated some ancient deities that are offended by Its refusal to comply with their stupid rules.

It ignores the feeling and decides to take off the clothes. It's going to have to take them off sooner than later. It can't just avoid showering and changing for the rest of this life. It does it quickly, stripping off every piece with a total lack of pizzazz. When all the clothes are off, It just stares, letting the new body sink in.

The craving to associate intensifies yet again and It can feel it building, like water behind a bursting dam. But It pushes it down, rotating to look at the backside. It stretches the arms up in the air, up, up, up, imagining the endless walls of The Corridor. The bones crack, twisting and turning to fulfill Its whims.

Turning back to the front, less bashful this time, It shamelessly drinks up the image of the body, takes in the pale skin, the strong muscles, the youth that it exerts in waves.

It looks back up to the face when It's done and a strong pang of pain hits it, burns behind the eyes and in Its mind, not the brain. The association pulls again, writhing, trying to get out of Its grasp, but It tightens Its hold, pulls back just in time. All is quiet. And then there's a buzzing sound, smothering It, forcing It down. It grits the teeth.

"I am not Scorpius," It grinds out, staring down the eyes in the mirror, the voice deep and smooth, sophisticated. The buzzing intensifies and the hands fly to the counter, grip it, the knuckles turning white.

"This is not my body," It tries again, saying it like a prayer and a sin. The pain comes back, dull and throbbing, the buzzing cheering it on like a great crowd.

"I am not Scorpius," It chants, voice growing in volume, but too focused to pay such an insignificant detail any mind. The fluorescent lights brighten and the buzzing passes into reality, fills the room, bouncing off the walls, hitting, beating, crushing It. Bones crack, tendons snap, muscles tear. It screams, placing the hands over the ears, the eyes slamming shut.

"I am not him!"

(~this is the end~)

The buzzing shatters as does the light bulb above It. Shards of glass rain down, covering the bathroom in physical evidence of Its lost control.

It stands there in the dark, naked, raw, vulnerable. The thin film that covered Its senses in the first few moments of life in the new body disappears. All It feels is dread. It needs to get out.

(~won't work~)

The curiosity that blooms in Its chest is unexpected. But It feels that for the first time in a long time, It has something to be curious about. So curious, that for a second It forgets the fear. Why is It here? What makes this host so special? Who's controlling Its lives? For the first time in a long time, It wants answers. But not today. Today, It needs to focus on fighting the association. Today, It needs to observe, test the waters, see what happens. No, It'll wait for tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

It slips back into the clothes pooled on the ground, splashes water on the face, and takes one last good look at the new body in the mirror. Without further ado, It opens the door and steps back into the bedroom, back into the real world.

It climbs into the bed, mindful of the foreign body on the other side, and takes care to lie down as far away from it as possible. Turning the back to the anomaly, It feels the steady, aching fear. It is uncertain. And that makes It afraid.

(~this is the end~)

Darkness fills Its senses. Becomes all It can see, hear, smell, feel, taste. Infinity, a forever horror with no grotesque imagery. Emptiness is what intimidates, expectation is what terrifies.

The darkness is oppressive in its totality, its insistence that it is the only thing that truly exists. The only thing that should be acknowledged as real. Maybe It's floating or swimming or walking or running through inky nothingness, but It can't tell. Everything is the same. The discovery is strange even though it should be obvious: relativity. Oil is only thick compared to water. Light only exists in contrast to dark.

But darkness lives on regardless, pinned to nothing but itself.

A point appears, light in an everlasting plane. Maybe in the center, maybe to the left, maybe to the right. There's no direction here, no concrete field of vision.

As the light shines, infinity become smaller, until It senses a wall, two walls, slowly closing in. Panting fills the room, adding dimension, differentiation to the senses. The sound isn't coming from It. From something else: a human, It thinks. The light shines on at a single point to Its left. It reveals nothing.

The light begins to crawl, languidly, like it has all the time in the world.

It wants to see where the panting is coming from, not just hear it. In this case, to see is to know. It can sense that the thing making the noise is a resolution, an answer to all Its questions.

The light continues to crawl.

Yearning too strong, It reels back, tries to gain control over the space around It, over the new body. But the desire grows stronger and stronger, overpowering.

The light continues to crawl.

The walls begin to shift, squeeze further, the air turning to ice. It struggles to breathe, the bitter cold assaulting the lungs and pricking the skin.

The light continues to crawl

… until it hits the edge of… something… something red. A low humming strikes in the background, soft and then growing, growing until it blows out to a full on buzz, intensifying and sending It wild, the sound painful to Its very core.

The light continues to crawl.

The curiosity vanishes. It doesn't want it. Not anymore. Not ever. It wants to gauge out the eyes, rip off the ears, break the nose, cut off the tongue, burn the skin, mash in the brain until It can't see, hear, smell, taste, feel, think anything.

The light continues to crawl.

It wakes up again, in the same room, in a cold sweat. Some 70's or 80's pop song plays in the background, but the noise is drowned out by the dream. Or the memory of it. The ceiling is white and the light filtering in paralyzes It. The light fresh in Its mind eyes, crawling, crawling towards the end. Crawling towards it. It doesn't want to see.

(~has to~)

A hand grips It, pulls the new body and It flinches, pushes away, the head whipping around to meet the attack head on.

But instead of red, the light, the end, It sees a woman, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. It takes her in, her pale skin, brown eyes and dirty blonde hair. The shape of her face, the curve of her cheekbones, the swoop of her eyebrows. It all seems too delicate. Too delicate to grace the features of the only person that's ever known It when It wakes up.

"Morning," she whispers, scanning the face, distracted. "Is something wrong?"

The soothing quality of her voice calms It down a little, bringing It back into the room instead of the dark. It manages to give her a small nod.

Her face doesn't change though and she puts a hand to the forehead. It flinches when skin touches skin and her concern goes deeper, manifests itself more obviously across her features.

"You don't have a fever, but you seem really freaked out," she pauses like she's waiting for It to explain. When It doesn't say anything, she pushes, "Did you have a bad dream?"

It knows It has to speak soon, can't convince people It's Scorpius if It never says anything. But as long as she's going to ask yes or no questions, It's going to take advantage. It shakes Its head.

Her worry is clear as she continues to scan the face, deep in thought. The expression melts abruptly, replaced by a blank face, something It can't read. It's unnerving.

"You're having second thoughts," her voice is small, but in an oddly strong way. It's a statement, not a question, like she's steeling herself for the inevitable. It doesn't like the way she says it. Not at all. Unfortunately, It has no idea what she's talking about so It doesn't know how to respond appropriately.

She takes in the confusion on the face and sighs heavily, pulls up the hand that's been resting between them, her left, "You haven't forgotten yesterday already, have you?"

It registers that her voice sounds a little insecure despite the fact that she's good at hiding it. That thought quickly flies out the window when It sees it. An elegant band on her left ring finger. An engagement ring. Scorpius is engaged.

It scrambles for a response, something that sounds believable enough that It won't expose Its unbelievable identity on day one of being Scorpius.

Finally, It smooths over the face and tries to give her a comforting look, brings a hand up to her jaw to cup it lightly. Her eyes close when the skin touches her cheek.

To really sell it, It leans in and kisses her forehead, "Of course not. To both. I didn't forget and I'm definitely not having second thoughts."

Nevermind the fact that It's definitely having many, many second thoughts. But she doesn't have to know that.

Her face brightens and she leans over to plant a kiss on the lips. The kiss burns, the feeling foreign to the circumstance. When she pulls away, It makes sure to compose the face and smile back at her.

They stay silent for a moment, just looking at each other. It drinks in her appearance, fascinated by this woman because of the change she represents. That's when It hits It. It can make her forget.

Cautiously, It moves the hand that was previously resting on her face down to her wrist. Once It feels the connection establish, It tries to recall all the memories she has of them. Pull them to the surface so It can catalogue them and make them all vanish.

Usually, a tingling sensation spreads from the chest out to every crevice of the body, then flows into the other person's body through the point of contact. It glows, not so bright that the human can see, but bright enough for It to bask in the amazing power of memory. And then slowly crush it, one moment at a time.

None of that happens this time. Instead, the silence extends, stretches out into the room, mocking It as It tries to coax the memories out so It can provoke them to implode. The woman seems oblivious to Its failing efforts, sharing a very one sided moment with It in the peacefulness of the morning.

Thankfully, It's saved from any further conversation by the opening notes of the alarm song, the snooze turning off to bring them back to the present.

The woman startles out of her moment and flips to the other side to press a button on her phone. She gives It another swift kiss on the lips before swinging her feet over the bed and standing up, stretching her arms to the ceiling and yawning.

"You mind if I take the first shower?"

The shards of glass flash before Its eyes, "Can I?"

She shrugs, "Yeah sure, I'll go make breakfast. I have the afternoon shift anyway."

"Great," It says, hoping to end the conversation and get out of the room faster.

Instead, she gives It another wondrous look, then bends down to press one last lingering kiss on the lips, her fingers wrapping themselves around the arm. It's soft and slow, tender and innocent. Despite Itself, the kiss travels through the body leaving a pleasant warmth. She pulls back, but just enough so she can rest her forehead again the body's forehead.

"I love you."

It swallows and looks into her eyes, "I love you too."

It sounds like a lie, but apparently she buys it because she gives It a brilliant smile and walks out of the door on the left of the cupboard, shooting one last wink over her shoulder.

When the room is empty, It moves, planting the feet solidly on the ground next to the bed. Next, It lifts up the entire body, walks slowly towards the bathroom. It stares at the door knob and gets a strange sense of deja vu. A flashback to all the doors that It can't open. Now that It can, It doesn't want to.

The buzzing sound grows in Its mind, a trick, a delusion, but disconcerting nonetheless. It imagines that the glass must still be on the ground, shattered and bathed in an unnatural darkness as a result. No longer able to perform its function.

(~don't be afraid~)

The fear grows sharper, more acute, pointed towards the implications of what happened. It doesn't want to deal with them. It said tomorrow, but now that tomorrow has come, It wants yesterday back.

(~don't be afraid~)

The arm stretches out slowly, almost of its own volition, ready to grip, to turn, to open. It panics internally, but there's no sign in the body. For once, the body is steady and calm as it continues to lean forward. The hand hits the knob, turns it.

(~don't be afraid~)

A push, the door swings open. And… nothing. The lights are back on, too yellow and too fluorescent and too strong. No shattered glass lies on the floor, only the same, neat, boring ceramic tiles as before. The room is silent.

It takes a step forward, careful to feel the floor before allowing the foot to fall completely. It's not expecting invisible glass, but It's seen weirder.

(~no need to be afraid~)

It respectfully disagrees. The absence of anything is much more unnerving than the presence of something. It means that there's something to come.

Searching the bathroom twice and coming up empty-handed both times, It gives in and decides to take a shower.

The badly pressurized water cleans the skin, goes deep, soaks the bones and relaxes the muscles. It helps, the feeling of getting clean of the previous owner always inviting.

But after a while the lingering desire comes back, hot water coaxing It to associate, reminding It of how nice it is to feel good in Its own (or someone else's) skin. So It stretches out the hand and cranks the knob to cold, ice water pouring down on It in an instant, the need melting away.

After the shower, It gets dressed and finds Itself staring at the reflection of the body again, trying to decide what to do. It needs to shake Scorpius's previous life, but until It can figure out how to do that, It'll follow his routine.

So It brushes the teeth, shaves, puts on deodorant and styles the hair. Some hair gel sits in the cabinet above the toilet, but It decides to skip it. It sincerely hopes that Scorpius wasn't making that choice before It came along, but if he was, it stops today.

Thirty minutes after It goes into the bathroom, It comes out

It heads for the closet immediately, sliding aside a paneled door and rifling through the clothes on the hangers. Most of the things It finds are business casual: collared shirts and dress pants good for semi-professional work. The rest of it is casual clothing that is a little lacking in the style department. If It was planning on staying, It would definitely have to rework the wardrobe.

It grabs one decent looking powder blue shirt and a pair of grey dress pants along with a black belt, slipping them on and giving the body a quick scan. It looks pretty good, but more importantly, ambiguous.

Grabbing the host's phone from off the nightstand It woke up next to, It heads towards the only other door in the room, the one It assumes leads out to the rest of the house.

This time, It doesn't bother stopping in front of the door. It's sick of playing out the cycle, the routine where It wonders what's on the other side and then finds out seconds later. The whole thing is a practice in futility. But then again, Its whole life is a practice in futility.

Even though It still feels the fear creeping through It, the hand pushes the door open, leading It into a life It's not sure It will come back from. It's definitely going to regret this.

The apartment, much like the bathroom, is quaint and dingy, but clearly cared for. Worthy of a motel. There's paintings and photos, strategically placed decorative pillows, bookshelves filled to the brim on either side of an old tv.

It walks into the kitchen, observing the woman humming to herself at the stove, her eyes focused on the food in front of her.

Well, if It's going to play the part, It's going to play it well. It walks up to her and wraps the arms around her middle, placing the head on her shoulder and snuggling into her neck. She giggles and bumps her hip with the body's.

"What ya makin?" It asks, the sound muffled by her skin.

"You have eyes don't you?" she smiles as she says it.

"Yeah, but I want you to to tell me."

She rolls her eyes and gestures behind them, "Fried eggs. Go sit down and stop bothering me."

It steps back, glad for an excuse to stop touching her. The thing she was pointing to is a counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and is surrounded with crappy, plastic bar stools. A comfortable silence settles over the kitchen when It sits down. It takes the opportunity to try to figure out how to casually ask Its fiance where It works.

"What took you so long?"

"What?"

"You were in the bathroom for a long time."

It hesitates, "Slept badly."

She turns to It, the worry from before back in her eyes. Then she pauses, her eyes flicking up to the hair, "No gel?"

So Scorpius did make that mistake. It shrugs, "Wanted to try something new."

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, but she nods, "Looks good. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, just feeling a little weird," that feels like the wrong thing to say.

"Do you wanna stay home today?"

"No!" It nearly shouts, not really knowing why. Staying in the apartment sounds extremely unappealing.

She gives It an odd look and It backtracks, "I mean, no, I have a lot of work to do."

She snorts and turns back to the eggs, "I'm sure Rose is more than capable of handling it on her own. In fact, she'd probably be happier if you didn't show up."

"I'll go in," It says instead of responding directly, Its mind swimming from everything It didn't understand about that sentence.

"You seem a little off. Maybe you're sick."

"It's fine," It snaps.

She doesn't say anything as she serves up the eggs, sliding a plate over to It along with a fork and knife. She eats quickly, looking up at It every once in a while like she's scared that It'll do something weird or different.

It eats slowly, waiting for her to finish so she'll leave and It can search through the apartment for clues as to who Scorpius is and what he does.

When she finishes, she picks up her plate and utensils and puts them in the sink to wash later. Then she turns back to It and looks It dead in the eye.

The action is a little intimidating. It wonders what surprise they have for It this time. What plot twist they plan on pulling to make the whole thing more interesting. Is she going to tell It that she's pregnant? Reveal her secret identity as an international spy? Convince It to move with her to Columbia?

Or, will she say that she knows who It is, what It is? That she wants revenge against the thing that replaced her real fiance? Will she ask where Scorpius is, expect It to explain what happens to the previous owners?

But they really can't expect It to answer for their actions. Although, knowing them, that's probably the joke.

Its wild speculations are unnecessary because she says, "Remember, we're meeting Albus and Lily tonight to announce the engagement. Be home by six."

That's menacing in its very own way. It really can't deal with all the name dropping It's had to endure this morning.

"Okay," It replies, nodding the head to reassure her. She gives It a relieved smile, like she expected It to protest, then she heads to the bathroom.

"I'm carpooling so take the car!" She yells back. "Have a nice day!"

"You too."

As soon as the shower comes on, It gets to work, looking through anything that may contain formal documents. The purse hanging on the coat rack must belong to the woman and contains a wallet with a hospital ID. It identifies her as Alice Longbottom, twenty-six, a resident at Bellevue Hospital Center.

It places everything back inside the purse and moves on, rifling through all cabinets and containers until It checks the pockets of a leather jacket hanging up on the rack.

The first thing It discovers is a police badge, which is a pretty good sign that Scorpius was (and is) a police officer. It spells out NYPD in shiny letters under a golden, blue crest. In a wallet, It finds a police ID that says the host's full name is Scorpius Malfoy and that he's a detective at the 78th precinct in New York City. The driver's license says the host is twenty-eight.

It shoves the wallet and badge back into the leather jacket and sits down at the counter to finish Its breakfast. After putting the plate in the sink, It goes through the kitchen to find some coffee, but there doesn't seem to be any. What kind of grown adult doesn't have coffee?

The keys to the car are already dangling on a finger when It hears the door to the bathroom open. It throws the leather jacket on and steps out of the apartment before the fiance can come back out, taking one final look at the place before shutting the door. It wants to believe so badly that It won't see it again.

It takes the stairs two at a time, the need to escape from this building where everything has changed growing inside It. When It pushes out into the lobby, It doesn't bother looking around to inspect the mundane greyness of a shitty, run-down, New York apartment building. Instead, It barrels ahead and out the front door into a bright, cloudless day. It has the clarity of mind to look back and check the unit number so It can find the place again.

The car is parked at the very end of the first row in the parking lot. It gets in, searches up the address of the precinct and sets up a GPS on the phone.

It's about to back out when It hesitates, grabs the phone, and finds the nearest Starbucks so It can grab a coffee on Its way to work. It's definitely going to need it.

That's all folks!

I hope you enjoyed it, I'll be jumping into the real stuff next chapter. I'll try to keep updates within a two week time span, but it kinda depends on how busy school gets and how far ahead I've written.

This story is rated mature because even if I decide not to include explicit sexual content, it still deals with a lot of intense topics like murder, suicide etc. Suicide is the specific reason why I'm going to keep this story mature, because the treatment of it may be triggering to some readers. If a chapter contains this kind of content, I'll mention it in the author's note at the beginning.

With all that said, please favourite, follow and review. I love constructive criticism so if you have any, I'd appreciate it.