else but you
chapter one: before it begins
She's shivering, rocking on her toes as she stands in front of her flat's door, digging through her purse, nails scratching its vinyl lining. It's a key she's looking for, though she's not entirely sure why. She's a witch, for goodness' sake, she could just as easily alohamora the bolt and have it over with, out of the cold and into her home. She suspects it's her mother's influence, her insistence that "patience is a virtue, Rosie" and endless pursuit of peaceful muggle-wizard relations rooted in simply accepting mutual behaviors. But she's not her mother, and if solely to prove that fact - well, and to finally get inside - she pulls her wand from her coat's inner pocket, glances over her shoulder for any passers by, and whispers the unlocking charm.
She carelessly throws open the door, stepping into her home with a heavy sigh and fallen shoulders. For the fifth time that week, she wonders why she didn't just work for the Ministry as everyone expected, why she decided to become a curse-breaker, of all things. She loves her job, really, but she hears Albus and Dominique and Louis and Molly and James and all her older cousins ramble on about the wonders of the governing body and can't help but think it would have been so much easier to follow in that path.
But following "that path" is not her way of living. She loves and cares for her family more than anything, but Merlin help her if her Weasley label serves as more than just her surname. Don't get her started on the "daughter of war heroes" thing, either. She's always wanted to break the mold her family has built, by preferring books to Quidditch, travels to home, individuality to community, bronze and blue to scarlet and gold. That last one was not even her choice; at barely eleven years of age, she had been fully prepared to blindly accept Gryffindor - and her thousands of cousins within the house. When the mangy old hat shouted "Ravenclaw!," she started to think that she was different from her family. Today she knows she's different.
Realizing that standing in her doorframe is not the brightest of ideas she's had today, she shuts the door loudly, silently thanking herself again for being shy and not having a roommate. A human one, that is, as she notices her tabby staring out her iron barred window. She breezes towards the cat, petting him for his attentiveness.
"Good Crookshanks," she coos. She picks the orange mess up and places him far away from the window she's about to open. Her mother told stories about Crookshanks Senior's escapades, and she was not quite willing to risk her cat's well being. She's quite attached.
Unfastening rods, she manages to open the window, seeing two fluttering owls outside. One is small and cross-eyed, most certainly from her little brother. The other is white and appears to be regal. It's familiar, but she can't put her finger on it. She wordlessly ushers the birds into the flat, grabbing seeds aside the window to treat the messengers. She takes the parchment from the tiny owl off first with some trouble - the psychotic bird will not stop flying about. She can't stand it, never could. The parchment, though, is covered in messily, hastily written print. It's from Hugo, just as she thought.
Hello Rosie!
How's the job? Mum said you like it, but you can never tell with her. I think she was preoccupied with another house elf case at the time. Anyway, school is fine. It's harder than it was before Christmas though, especially Ancient Runes. I don't know why I signed up for it in third year, much less why you're working with it everyday. I'm telling you, Rosie, it's pure torture. I think my professor wants to make me cry everyday. It seems to be his new goal. But really, it's terribly difficult. Mum also said you may have saved your NEWT level notes and Dad laughed and said if you did, you'd really be Mum's daughter - but did you? I'm three months away from the exam, but I really want the O. Albus says I can do it, but he never took Runes so I'm not too sure if I can believe him. I've got to go to practice, now; Lily is going insane as captain. I think she wants to win just so she can prove to Uncle Harry that Gryffindor is still capable.
Write back, Rosie, I miss you. So does Mum, so write her too. And Aunt Ginny. And grandmum! Both of them. And try getting out some. A part of me hopes Pig will fly back to Hogwarts because you weren't home to let him in.p
Right, practice. Love you, Rose!
Hugo
She rolls her eyes, tosses Hugo's letter aside. Of course he'd want her NEWT notes; she, begrudgingly taking after her mum, is the brightest witch of her age. Back at school, she prided herself on her ten OWLs and eight NEWTs, much to her father's dismay. Ron never did take his NEWTs and does not appreciate his wife's "you could have taken them, Ronald"s. She's certainly not the only one who can't get her mother's voice out of her head. But her dad, he's undoubtedly proud of his little girl. Said pride and its mother, intelligence, also account for the reason she is allowed to live alone. She's responsible and smart. Everyone knows that.
She shakes her head in a half-heartened attempt to stay grounded. She despises her inherited title, hates the Weasleyness her intellect proves. She really does try not to flaunt her smarts...much. Pursing her ops, she pets Hugo's owl and scribbles a quick reply back. Her penmanship, though rushed, is much more delicate and neat than her little - well, not so little anymore, she reminds herself - bother's scrawl.
Hugo -
Will send them soon. Keep studying, you hardly need my notes anyway. Work is lovely, I'm going out enough, everything is fine.
Rose xx
She hates being called Rosie. Her name is Rose, not the girlish variation everyone insists on calling her.
She ties her response to the little owl's leg, using both hands to steady his hyper body.
"To Hugo, at Hogwarts," she instructs. She picture her gangly, mop-headed brother sitting in an armchair by the fire up in Gryffindor tower, playing Exploding Snap or, alternatively, frantically studying. He fit both of their parental extremes, maddeningly shifting between painstakingly studious and dreadfully boisterous on a near hourly basis. He embodied her mum and dad to a tee, she mused.
Hugo would get his notes soon enough, through, and that's good enough for them both.
She turns to the next owl, slanted hazel eyes staring her down. She warily takes the elegant parchment from his leg, trying to avoid hurting the majestic bird that promptly begins to nip at her fingers. Realizing the bird is indeed friendly, she grabs another treat from her window sill and feeds him. Hooting joyously, the bird turns around and flies away without waiting for a response.
The letter is an invitation to a ministry function, it so happens. She's invited to another Anniversary Gala to be held in a few weeks' time. She throws the paper onto a ominously high pile of other neglected invites and Ministry notices resting on her kitchen counter. The cat likes this pile, and leaps at the new addition. Rose, finally - finally! - done for the day, pulls off her jumper and stumbles out of her trousers en route to her bedroom, where she collapses on her duvet immediately.
He claps Al on the back loudly, making his black-haired fellow Auror trainee sputter out his firewhiskey.
"Sorry, mate. I've got to run."
"Why now, Scorpius?" his friend slurs. "It's early yet! Not like you have anything to do tomorrow. Finally the weekend, eh, mate?" Albus continues to protest, Ogden's finest in hand.
"Yes, Al, but some of us could live without hangovers for a day or two," he responds, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his best mate's alcohol-induced antics. "And I'll see you tomorrow anyway. Brunch."
"Right! Bye, then, mate," Al slurs, drunkenly turning to the rest of the group the two men are with.
"'Bye everyone!" he shouts over his shoulder, making his way over to the floo. He throws a generous handful of powder into the fireplace, and in his inebriated state hardly realizes his mistake of shouting "Malfoy Manor!" while engulfed in green flame.
It's been two years since he's called the Manor home. When he left Hogwarts, his parents gave him his own flat out in Muggle London, where he lives quite happily with his owl Tessie. He thinks his parents wanted him out. Yes, he knows then love him; Merlin knows how much his mum cried when he left for his first night away, and even his dad choked up a bit. But with his burgeoning Auror career, it had made most sense for him to move out on his own.
And now, after two years of only being in the Manor a few days a week for tea or dinner, he floos in. He assumes the few shots he downed are to blame. Unlike Albus, who, for a relatively small man, could drink himself into oblivion and only sound like an idiot, alcohol still messes with his head. Considering his options - apparate, cause a scene with his neighbors and face an angry Muggle at this late hour; stay the night and floo home in the morning; or risk nausea flooing again now - Scorpius shrugs and quietly heads up the stairs to his old room.
The spacious bedroom reeks of teenage boydom - though with the house elves and two year difference, not quite literally anymore. There are quidditch posters and flags lining every wall, pictures of he and his fellow ex-Gryffindors framed by his mum on his desk. His bed, draped in soft gold covers, sinks in as he falls onto it.
When Astoria walks into the bedroom after hearing strange noises, her worries are quelled. It was just Scorpius, now sleeping quietly back in his home. After walking to his bed, stroking his blonde - overgrown, she notes - hair from his face, Astoria shuts off her son's lamp with a lazy flick of her wand. She'll ask questions in the morning.