24 year-old femaleish book nerd, nurse, and part-time writer.
Abruptly, Albus pushed Scorpius’s hand away from the tapestry and took him by the shoulders, turning him around so that they faced each other. “Don’t,” he said with a pained expression, shaking his head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Do what?” Scorpius asked, his voice a whisper. Albus’s hands were on him and it felt as if the room had fallen away.
“Think of all the horrible things they’ve done and said to you,” Albus finished, with utter conviction. “It’s tempting,” he conceded, “I get that. But don’t do it; there’s no point. You might as well hurl yourself off the roof for all the good it’ll do you.”
He let go of Scorpius then and turned away, looking back at the tapestry. “I know you can’t see it,” he continued in a very soft voice, “but there’s never been anything missing in you. Whatever’s missing, it’s in them. I think they hate themselves and they hate each other and all your life you’ve paid for it. They brought you into this world after the war, when neither of them had any love left to give, and it should be criminal. But it’s not,” he said with a heavy sigh, and ran his fingers along the tapestry like Scorpius had done moments ago. “I hate them for what they did to you,” he murmured.
There was a long, drawn-out silence. Scorpius stared at Albus, bewildered, as his every thought floored him. He remembered now, with perfect clarity, why he had fallen in love with Albus Potter; why he would always love Albus Potter, no matter what happened. Why no one else would ever do. He remembered now why it killed him to look at Albus and not be able to be near to him; to have any part of him at all.
Albus had always possessed surprisingly keen insight into things he shouldn’t have been able to understand—it was one of the things which had drawn Scorpius to him in the first place. No one understood things the way Albus did; no one could explain things to Scorpius the way Albus did—in such a way that it ensured Scorpius truly understood what was being said to him; in such a way that he didn’t feel pitied or patronized or demeaned, only understood.
And no one had ever understood him, had ever seen him, quite the way Albus did.