Hey guys!
This is a companion piece from Scorpius' POV for my story 'Rose: These Lies We Live'. I hope you enjoy, don't forget to review with any feedback you may have! -M
Why do people judge us on what we are? It's never who we are or what we do. The first impression is always about the way that we look, smell, even talk. They never look at what's really inside us and what's really worth staying for. For me, my name is enough to send them running.
The reason?
My family fucked up long ago. That's an unfortunate truth I have to live with every day. My grandfather, Lucius was born into the Aristocratic, pureblood and callous family called the Malfoy's. For that definite reason, I'm sure, he was probed into the belief that we, accompanied with all other family's with "blood as pure as ours", were incalculably better than all others who "cowered before us" (his words, not mine). My grandfathers arsetard vision of a perfect pureblood family is the most glaring indicator of his unfathomable case of narcissism. Obviously, inbreeding never crossed his shit hole of a brain. Then, he had to go and make it all better and join the oh-so noble and righteous Deatheaters. Bloody brilliant that man, absolutely wonderful (please note my heavy sarcasm). Not to mention the fact he got my father branded with a dark mark and made him perpetrate to something no-one, especially teenage kid, should ever have to deal with. Being forced to kill your headmaster by your own father must have been so fucking scarring. No wonder my father has a perpetually horrified look in his eye when he thinks no one is watching.
And thus, I fall into the trap of being the book being judged by the cover because of my murder-worthy surname.
Despite the apparent interest from girls clamouring after me for my devilish wit and charm, I am more inclined to believe their intentions lie wholly in getting close enough to me to sell a lovely story to Witch Weekly. Charming. And thus, my dinner times at the Slytherin table are regrettably spent listening to people who claim they are my friends (apart from Greg) telling me tentative shit about what other houses (namely Gryffindor, what a surprise) have said about me. The comical part is that most of them have never even talked to me. Well, by that I mean a proper conversation.
"Infatuating half bloods and filthy mud bloods!" the words still clamour around in my mind like a brass band. His haughty voice wound itself around the manor like a disease to a new born child. I never understood why, for such a small family, we reside in such extravagant living quarters. I knew it had accumulated more deadly memories than Hogwarts (hint hint, Voldemort), but assume that when you're as twisted as my Grandfather you try and hold on as tight as possible to memories as horrifying as those. Getting back to the point, Grandfather was lecturing me about the do's and don'ts of life in Hogwarts before the beginning of my first year. And fretting around with those that didn't, per se, possess the same ranking in the social ladder as me, was unsurprisingly top on the don'ts. What a fantastic way of teaching your grandson to make friends in a new school where he was highly unlikely to have none I remember thinking to myself. All I wanted to scream in his upturned face was:
"Do you not realise no one apart from you gives a shit!"
That, coming from an 11 year old dumbfounded to why his grandmother, father and mother, just sat there, listening to that lunatic rant and rave without even attempting to interject. To be truthful, I'd never seen any of them look so emotionless. Mother and grandmother sat next to each other, platinum blonde hair cascading down their backs, blue eyes immersed with the grey flagstones, holding up no showcase of whatever was running through their minds. If it weren't for their faces and age, they could easily be twins. Almost identical sombre black dresses graced both of their slender bodies, because seriously, my family wears almost everything black, period. It appears as though we're in a perpetual state of mourning over the death of our family name, although I feel Grandfather mourns something (or someone) different. Father was situated next to mother, a pale, elongated hand resting almost possessively on her thigh. His feverish, stoic grey eyes were flickering, I noticed, from me, to grandfather, to the floor simultaneously. His receding slick of, also, platinum hair was combed back from his porcelain face, his pointed chin giving him the resemblance of a spooked cat. A horrendously expensive suit clad itself on his now, not-so, muscular body. The suit was black, of course.
Then there was Grandfather.
He reminds me of a sick vampire - one that hasn't eaten for years. I'm quite surprised they let him out of Azkaban, and I seriously hope they send him back there. I tell you though, it did turn him into a dishevelled, ball-less and terrified excuse for a man -for about a week. But his looks never did recover. Grandfather, the old fart, has an endearing bald head, which the light of the fire was dancing over. He was residing in his favourite armchair, sitting directly opposite myself who was occupying the adjacent seat. He had one minuscule eyebrow cocked, his pale elongated fingers caressed the (black) wand in his pocket. His drawn cheekbones, sharp nose and blazing grey eyes were staring directly at me. I'm surprised his lips could actually talk so much, they're that thin. Thank whatever is above me for gracing myself with my mother's beauty. No girl in their fucking mind would come anywhere near me if I resembled an inch of my grandfather.
And now, 6 years later, I, Scorpius Malfoy, am sitting in this green armchair (surprisingly not black) trying to drown out the suffocating voice of my Grandfather, sitting directly opposite me, giving me the same shitty lecture he has been doing for the last 5 years. Fan-fucking-tastic. Right now, I think he's spouting on about "controlling my hormones" now I am coming round to being of age. I think perhaps the only thing more likely to get me crucioed to death by my own grandfather more than a non-pureblood child would be an accidental non-pureblood child. I'm restraining myself from regrettably informing him that he is two years late for this amusing addition to his yearly speech. I'm resting on a solid assumption that Grandmother and Mother have asked him to inflict me with this excruciating token of conversation, although I'm sure Grandfather assumes the fact I "Whomped my Willow" long ago judging by the look he's giving me. Then, he does something I would have bet all my money on him never ever doing; seeing as he has the emotional range of a chicken egg.
He chuckles. But as soon as I tear my vision away from his eyes and to his mouth, it's gone as quickly as it came. Now that's something they should write about us in Hogwarts: A History.
I'm sure he's actually quite besotted with the fact his own grandson got laid aged 14. For the love of flobberworms, by the end of the week no doubt everyone grandfather talks to will know this. Fortunately, he doesn't have too many friends of acquaintances these days. His steely eyes and arched eyebrow are just oozing Scorpius, you are the biggest disappointment of my life.
"As always Grandfather, your invaluable knowledge astound me and I am forever thankful. Now if you don't mind, I have a trunk to pack." I smirk sarcastically and make haste away from the conversation and up to my bedroom.
SCORPIUS'S ROOM
A sharp rap erupts from the direction of my bedroom door.
"Come in." I drawl flatly. I don't bother getting off my bed and instead, I'm just lying here, unexcitedly anticipating another lecture from whichever family member is currently disgruntled with me.
"Scorpius, sit up." I hear my father drawl in a way entirely different from myself. I get up. His tone isn't pretty. I bet you 10 galleons right now, he's about to tell me how disappointed he is in me for losing my flower at such a young age.
"I want to talk about what your Grandfather said." He states flatly, grey eyes burning loopholes through my head. Avada me now! Did he just say ... talk? In all honesty, I'm stupefied. But I'm a Malfoy, lay it on thick Scorpius, lay it on thick. I cock my eyebrow and smear our trademark smirk across my face.
"Talk about what, father?" I challenge.
"I want you to know, don't listen to a thing he says - unless it's truly worthwhile. I made that mistake 25 years ago and look how it's left me." My father whispers, there's almost a hint of longing and sorrow in his voice. Though, his same steely expression gives away nothing of the sort. I look my father in the eye, I almost feel sorry for the old man I mean, the fact that he just told me that is, well, so un-Malfoy. Moreover, the reason for his big fat fail in fatherhood is no fault of his own. Come on, Lucius Malfoy is his father. Lucius Malfoy is the fucking reason my father turned into a nervous shit behind closed doors. I have a knack for listening into his and my mother's conversations.
But now, I have not a clue what to say for the first time in my life. So I lie back on my bed and mumble "mhmm." God Malfoy, what the hell's wrong with you?
"The thing is Scorpius, I really wish I could turn back time and make everything better for you. But I can't. It must be hell in school, I understand completely. Which is exactly why I want you to know, I really don't care about who you're friends with ok?" he said again, in the same sorrowful whisper as before.
"Ok, father." I drawl again, this time I just stare at the ceiling. Don't act surprised, Malfoy, keep pretending. You're completely at ease. Yeah right.
Then he absentmindedly scratched the arm I knew was burdened with that bloody dark mark. There's just a scar now that Voldemort's dead. But all the same. Now, the door was closing and I'm left here, lying back on my bed again. What a great Father-Son bonding session. I now owe you 10 galleons.
If only I was like her.
Perfect parents, who saved the world. Plus, she's got so many cousins running around Hogwarts she has no idea what it's like to be lonely. And I'll never admit it out loud, but she's bloody gorgeous.
Her name just oozes beauty. Rose.
She's got the perfect body, not that I've been looking. Her luscious auburn hair has loose curls draping themselves around her amazing face. It's always fluffy and messy, like she's constantly running her hands through it. I often find myself wondering what it would be like to run my hands through it. Her lips are full and pouty, and I always have to fight the urge to go and kiss her whenever she bites her lip. They always say eyes are the window to someone's soul. In my case, every time I look into her big brown eyes, all I see is this emotion I can't decipher, crossed with pure and utter hatred for me. Every time I look into those big brown eyes, I want to scratch them out. She scares the shit out of me, and she infuriates me more than anyone I know (excluding Grandfather). That's one thing she inherited from her family, her arrogant temper.
I groan. Why can't this just be easy? Father's right, school is hell, with her walking around me and knowing I'll never be to have a civil conversation with her, let alone kiss her. She's a Weasley.
God, these lies we live.
