Free
You look at the ragged hat, perched on the equally beat-up stool. You notice a lot of people—first-years like you—are just as disgusted as they are fascinated by that dirty gray piece of cloth. You try to look disdainful, like them. In fact, you mimic that look your father has on his face, sometimes. Nose in the air, blond hair pushed back, gray eyes slitted.
But you don't have gray eyes—well, one of them is. Gray. The other is green. And your hair falls every-which-way in curls, obscuring your vision. Your nose will never be elegantly pointed like Papa's. Your nose is round and buttony, like Mum's.
Besides, you've seen your dad whenever he has that look on his face. That utterly detesting look…which disappears immediately when Papa realizes what he's doing. That holier-than-thou expression slides off his face so quickly, it's like he's ashamed of it. And whenever this all happens, Papa clutches Mum's arm tightly, like he's holding onto a cliff-edge. Like she's his savior, his salvation. And Mum always stops what she's doing to smile at him. Her smile makes him smile.
Besides, you're curious about the hat. Your parents don't talk much about Hogwarts. Maybe it's on purpose, but you wish you felt more prepared.
Besides, your name's just been called. Besides, you'd rather smile.
Nervously.
Your letter comes in the morning mail—your first one! You hope it's good news, because you're in the best mood this morning, and you've found that good news is better for grins than bad news is.
You tear open the envelope, ignoring the sniggers of the "cool kids" behind you. Those are the kids that toss their parents' letters, saying they're too grown up for weekly check-ups. You good-naturedly hope they go to hell, because imagine how their parents must feel!
You've startled yourself. Since when did you use language like that?
Since I came to school, you think happily.
Dearest Scorpius,
Congratulations on getting into Ravenclaw House! Of course, neither your father nor I was in Ravenclaw, but we hope you have the best years of your life there—as we did. (Papa was a bit upset, since apparently you've broken the Slytherin tradition. But he married a Hufflepuff, as I reminded him.
Do tell, how is Hogwarts these days? (Your father wishes to know if "that old codger Flitwick" is still your Head of House.)
Write us quickly. This letter is short because I don't want to wait any longer for your reply!
Love, and kisses, and all the pride in my heart,
Mum Malfoy
Beaming, you plunge a hand into your schoolbag. Black ink spatters the parchment in your hurry to write at least a roll—no, two, in a return owl to your beloved parents. Breakfast has long ended by the time you finish scribbling, and you receive a detention for your fifth tardy in two weeks.
Even the early morning sun is scorching and you stretch in your bed. Your eyes squint lazily as you lounge on your mattress. When you walk down the grand staircase to the breakfast room, Papa has already gone to work and the clock has chimed eleven.
"There's an owl for you, Scorpius! Is it one of your friends from school?" Mum asks brightly, her cheeks pink as they always are. She is such a little girl.
"Er, prob'ly," you say unconvincingly. But you scarf down a fried egg and a bite of toast before reaching for the tawny bird, who is sulking at the window.
Cheerily, you wave the stiff envelope at her. "Nope, Mum, just the list of books for second-years."
"Oh," says Astoria Malfoy, a bit put out. "Well, we had better go and buy your supplies then."
A blur of time runs itself out, and you're fifteen. You've found yourself a strange interest in a certain third-year. His name is Hugo. It's quite early in the school term, still falltime.
And Hugo has hair red as the autumn leaves—curly like yours, but while you've learned that yours is fairly tamable, presentable even, Hugo's locks explode from his scalp like a volcanic eruption. Also, while you're terribly thin and rather short for your age, Hugo is very overweight and squat for any age. Even at your five feet, three inches, your new friend is eye-to-eye with your chest.
He is. Your friend, that is. Possibly—probably—your only friend.
Hugo is a member of Slytherin House.
You have just finished your O.W.L.s. As you exit the hall, running a hand through your hair—which you're sure is crumpled and wild by now—the sound of a giggle reaches your ear. You turn, bemused, to look at the only other people in the corridor: that silly Molly Weasley and her good friend, Nalia Green. Nalia's quite comely, half-Indian or another, her mother having fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Meanwhile, Molly Weasley is one of Hugo's ridiculous cousins, who's always plastered in concealer—he supposes to hide her trademark freckles. She is attractive, but not pretty. She's appealing in the way only teenage boys understand, and as you think this, your lips quirk up in an involuntarily amused smile.
"Hello, Malfoy," Molly smirks. You're very surprised she's talking to you. She's a seventh-year, and will be graduating from school in ten days.
"Scorpius," nods Nalia. She attempts to keep a straight face, but succumbs to her giggles.
You find Nalia sexy when expressionless, and cute when laughing. An uncomfortable warmth touches your pale cheeks, and you mumble greetings to both girls—women—before stumbling to your dorm, where you give yourself some much-needed sexual relief.
You feel quite ashamed at your reaction to them, many years later, when you've found the one bride you'll love forever and ever.
You continue to be bombarded by the tittering of girls, normally senior to your age, which means the six- and seventh-years, until the school term ends. When you step off the Hogwarts Express, already having said goodbye to Hugo, you spot your parents almost immediately. But they don't seem to see you till you stand right-smack in front of them.
Your mother blinks. Your father impatiently says, "Excuse us," and tries to brush past you.
Mum calls after Papa a second too late: "Draco! He's right here." Your father spins 'round and stares.
Neither parent has said a word to you, yet.
Finally, Mum queries, "Have you joined the Quidditch team?"
A single sentence from this woman, unaccompanied by a term of endearment, puts you in shock.
And then your father exclaims, "Bloody hell, you've grown taller than me!"
So you have.
All throughout the summer, it keeps happening. When you go to pick up some groceries at the Muggle supermarket, a couple blocks from your family's summer home. The cashier smiles widely at you and you feel for a moment as though you are being undressed. The Malfoys visit the shore, and no less than seven bikini-clad girls ask if you could possibly put some sun cream on her back, pretty please? Around lunchtime two teenagers advance upon you at once and, confused, you send the paler one to your father. She throws you a dirty look, and both young women flounce off together.
You're bewildered. You never thought there would be this many people in need of assistance at a beach. Wouldn't four hands working at the same time get the job done faster? But the one you didn't dispatch to Papa doesn't seem as displeased, and she corners you by the refreshment stand. She stands much too close for comfort, and you accidentally overturn your coffee onto her. She stomps away after delivering a stinging slap to your face.
That's enough. You avoid females in general for the rest of the trip.
On the first of August, you're lying in bed reading. There's a knock on your bedroom door and Mum bursts in, brimming with excitement. She beams as you scan the short letter Hugo's sent you by his tiny, sleepy owl. He's invited you to stay at his place for the last month of summer.
Mum forces you to accept, although you'd have gone happily. Papa's on a business trip, else he'd have ground his teeth in the background and sulked—he doesn't like the Weasleys, much. However, Mum would have had her way in any situation.
"Is this a very good friend, Scor?" she asks as she twitters about, packing your trunk. You mumble a noncommittal answer.
In front of the fireplace, though, Mum is the one to trail off. "Well, have fun, my…" she hesitates. "No, you aren't my baby any longer. My young man," Mum smiles.
As you spin away, surrounded by green flames, you glimpse Mum's eyes—even deeper an emerald than the fire.
You are struck by the kindness and loveliness of those eyes. In that moment, you know you will love that face with a deeper, wildly different love than any other girl's, ones who could and would press their ample chests to his. Mother, you think with affection.
You don't know what the hell you were expecting. Quiet? Peace of mind? Card games and chess tournaments with Hugo in the evenings? You roll your eyes at your former naïveté.
Today is the third night in a row in which you've been forced to visit yet another hectic Weasley household—this time Hugo's only blood-related aunt, you believe. Wife of the famous Harry Potter.
When you've brushed the ashes off your Muggle jeans and gotten un-dizzy, you blink at the sight of a whole sitting room full of freckled people. You groan—very loudly—before you can stop yourself. There is a storm of chuckles at your reaction, but one slow laugh makes you blush harder than the others. Molly Weasley rises from a spot on the rug, slowly. Seductively. You look away and find yourself face-to-face with a defiant Lily Potter, who's covered in piercings as well as aqua-colored hair dye. A couple other girls in the crowd have stained hands as well, although none of them have colored their locks like Lily.
You turn back to the fourteen-year-old and open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. But her powdered face turns a frighteningly dark red, and she scurries upstairs. Her bare feet slap against the floor, and Molly Weasley is still headed your way.
Hugo and all his male relatives have vanished—outside? Into the attic? Simply down the hall? Bloody hell, there are only women in the room now. You don't know any of them very well, but—Molly's younger sister, Lucy, is in your house and year. You nearly sprint toward the kitchen, where she lounges in the doorway.
Goddamn it! She's seen you coming and her brown eyes have gone wide. Her cousin—Roxanne, you think—gasps and giggles. The two girls grasp each other's hands.
What the—you have no sodding idea what is going on. Never mind. Better brave the monster you've faced before, than deal with weird girl-hand-holding.
You turn around, resigned. And then you find Molly's very attractive face has been placed right by your own.
You flush and step back, only, now you've trodden on Lucy and Roxanne's toes. They shriek and yank themselves away, running upstairs—presumably to Lily's bedroom. Effing hell, there were just so many of these bloody Weasleys!
You're so busy being furious at this family's adversity to contraceptives that you almost don't notice you've tripped—onto your back—into the kitchen—under Molly, who's conveniently fallen on top of you.
You breathe a sigh of relief when you sense that your soldier has definitely stood down.
So either Molly doesn't notice that, or your exhalation has been interpreted very incorrectly. Swaths of auburn hair hang like red-brown curtains about both your faces, as her lips get closer, and closer, and closer to yours…
The kitchen door—which had somehow shut—blasts open.
Suddenly, the brunette lying lengthwise to you is almost tragically overshadowed by the beauties now in the narrow room.
"What the hell, Moll," complains the older one. Through your daze, you strain to remember her name—Vicky? Victoria? Something like that.
The younger sister smirks, tugging on the ends of her short crop. That one is Dominique, you realize. She simpers, "Veek-twah, I think he's cute."
Veek-twah reaches past you and Molly, opening and peering into the fridge. "You're joking. Of course he's bloody good-looking. You got yourself a catch, Moll." The woman winks a stunning blue eye before leaving, her walk more a dance.
Dominique looks you over once more, though, before pouting. "He's not that young. Only—"
"Like five years younger than you, Dom," snaps Molly. "Didn't know you were such a cougar, you whore." You remain very still.
Dominique snorts. "You're one to talk, Molly dearest. He's not even a sixth-year? Your standards lowered much?"
"Bitch!" gasps Molly. You try to look as small as possible as your former seducer leaps up.
There's a flash of orange light and Dominique blocks the spell with a sideways jab of her own wand. Crap.
As shrieks and curses fill the air, you crawl out of the kitchen. Once you're out, as that's most important, you take a chance and dash down the corridor. You burst into the room furthest from the duel as possible and slam the door shut. Collapsing on the floor with your back to the lock, you massage your temples and run a hand through your hair.
You revel in the silence, and the dark, as the lights are off.
You miss Malfoy Manor.
Jesus bloody Ch—
"Um, hello?"
Goddamn fucking hell.
Slowly, you stand, slumped over. Your curls hang in your eyes, and all you can see is the floor.
Sighing hard, you reach up and shove your hair out of your mismatched eyes. And then you promptly blush as you finally see the scene you've walked into.
There's yet another Weasley girl in the room, her amber-colored mane dishelved. She's struggling out of a tangle of bedsheets and skin. Her shirt is most definitely off.
The man lying in her bed is muscular, dark, and naked.
But the Weaslette looks just as startled as you do. Well, she should be, you yell at yourself. You've just walked in on her shagging some guy—
"Well," the girl says finally. She sounds very short of breath.
Despite yourself, you think, Is that because of the sex or is she reacting to me—
"Oi," grunts the bloke sprawled over the blankets. "Get out, will you? We're obviously in the middle of something."
–like all the other girls did? You seethe at his rudeness. But, ever the meek one, you apologize: "Sorry, man, I'll just be going—"
"Oh, no, don't leave me with this arsehole. I couldn't take it," blurts the Weasley girl, shooting a disgusted look at the figure on the bed. Her eyes are narrowed as she starts buttoning her blouse back on.
"What? You…" starts the arsehole, sitting up.
The girl rolls her eyes and you feel a surge of snotty pride that she's unaffected by that jerk. Apparently it shows, as a pissed look swipes over the other guy's face. He gets up quickly, strides towards you, shoves his chest up to yours, sticks his nose right—
Something stirs in your stomach. It's quite uncomfortable, but also irrepressible. You can't control your reaction as you tower over the dark bloke, your green and gray eyes boring into his black ones. You don't say a word, though that's not because your mind and mouth's confused. You just suddenly seem to believe that wit doesn't matter so much as weight in this situation.
A staring match proceeds.
Presently, there's a very unladylike snort from your right. You break off your gaze to look at the Weaslette running her hand through her curls exasperatedly. "If you two're done," she snaps, "I'll be going. Honestly, testosterone, it's ridiculous…"
With that, she turns and walks out of the dark room, into the evening-lit hallway.
You don't even glance back, but lope after her.
Once the door to her bedroom is properly shut, the girl turns again. But this time, she has none of the disapproving attitude displayed before—only a radiating smile, a mischievous grin that lights up her face. It's an expression that you think belongs on her face always; one that belongs in your mind always.
Yours specifically. Yours only.
"Hi, and sorry. Didn't get to, er, properly introduce myself earlier," the Weasley girl chuckles. "Name's Rose. Yeah, another apology," Rose adds, "I'm Hugo's older sister."
You're completely in shock. Hugo had an older sister? Pudgy, sly Hugo was related to this confident goddess?
Immediately you feel bad for thinking that. Hugo's very smart. Also, he is working on his weight.
"I've just been at Muggle theatre camp this holiday," Rose is saying. "Theatre's, like… Well, it's like getting up on a stage and lying, I suppose. Erm, no, more like telling a story. Right, there's no such thing in the Wizarding world, so I had to deal with Muggles this summer. But it's what I want to keep doing!" the red-haired girl enthuses. "I've been thinking of making it a career."
You listen to the sound of her voice, and feel her happy excitement, and watch her lovely hands, and let your eyes slide over her lovely curls….
"You aren't hearing a word I say, are you?" Suddenly, you're woken from your small reverie. You blush and drop the lock of hair you've just absentmindedly stroked. You avoid her beautiful blue eyes.
Rose smiles hesitantly. "That's all right, I suppose. You're nearly the only person who knows this stuff, now. Definitely loads more information than I told Derek back there." She jerks a thumb back towards her bedroom.
Unintentionally, your face tightens.
"Ohh," Rose breathes, teasing. "You don't like him much, do you, dear Scorpius?"
Startled, you blurt, "How… You know my—"
Rose flips her hair over her shoulder. "Hugo isn't very good at keeping things secret from me. He's my best friend, and I'm his, even if he is a filthy lying Slytherin."
The brilliant grin that accompanies this statement assures you of her joke.
You two set off at a leisurely walk down the hallway, heading in the direction of the garden. Conversationally, she offers, "Do you talk? More than four words at a time, I mean?"
"Hey," you protest, "I said six words back in the room, all at once—"
She laughs. "True! And now you've almost completed an entire sentence."
You smile. "It would have been complete if some people were able to refrain from interrupting."
Her giggles fill you with a strange elation.
You've reached the back porch, now, which is equipped a quaint swing. Rose flounces down comfortably, and pats the seat next to her. You lightly perch on the hanging bench.
"Well," comes a whisper. You turn and it's Rose, Rose, Rose, her face taking up your entire vision, every heart-shaped freckle clear against the smooth paleness of her skin, blue eyes—both one color—deep and merry.
"Well," she breathes. "Well," Rose says softly.
"Well, if you're not going to talk, might as well do something else with that mouth of yours."
You imagine two silhouettes sharp against the summer sunset, now joined as one.