AN: Written for the Hogwarts Oneshot Wars. My prompts were "sienna" "silver necklace" "grief" "apart" and the poem I Have Loved Flowers That Fade by Robert Bridges.

xxx

"Molly Jane Weasley, beloved mother, grandmother, wife, and friend…"

Rose shifted uncomfortably and scratched her neck. The black dress she'd been wearing all morning was too small for her and horribly itchy. All she wanted to do was go home, put on her pajamas, and curl up with a cup of tea.

She supposed it was horrible, thinking about her clothes at her grandmother's funeral, but she knew Grandma Molly wouldn't mind. In fact, she was certain Grandma Molly would prefer that Rose remember her with pajamas and tea, instead of black lace and strangers. Pajamas and tea were things they'd shared, after all. Once a week, for as long as Rose could remember, she'd gone over to her grandmother's house for tea, cookies, and conversation. It was a long-standing joke of theirs that Rose was always too tired to change out of her pajamas for those early-morning cups of tea.

Tears prickled in her eyes as she thought about the mornings she'd spent seated next to her grandmother in her oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. Grandma Molly had always made a point of sharing special activities with each and every one of her grandchildren. For her and Rose, special activities meant sitting together, gossiping about the neighbors, and occasionally talking about Scorpius.

Scorpius.

She wished, more than anything, that he could be there. Grandma Molly had been a little suspicious of him, years and years before, but she quickly warmed to him, calling the eleven-year-old Malfoy boy "sweet" and "so polite." In the years that followed, as Scorpius became Rose's best friend, he had also bonded with her grandmother. He always painted her beautiful pictures for her birthday, and she scolded anyone who dared to speak an ill word about her granddaughter's friend.

And yet, despite the friendship and understanding between her grandmother and her best friend, he couldn't be there that day. The extended Weasley family would have balked at seeing a Malfoy in their midst, particularly during a funeral.

Despite the grief wrapped around her like a thick gray curtain, the thought still sparked a little anger within Rose. She was so used to protecting her friend, just the idea of someone judging him because of his lineage was enough to part the curtain a little.

A red-haired man- one of her grandmother's brothers, she thought- stepped forward and started to speak. It took Rose a moment to realize that he was reading some sort of poem. He'd probably explained why it was significant, but she hadn't been paying attention.

"I have loved flower that fade," he said, "within whose woven tents. Rich hues have marriage made, with sweet unmemoried scents…"

Grandma Molly had loved the scent of her lavender gardens more than any perfume in the entire world. Rose would always remember that about her.

"I have loved airs that die, before their charm is writ…"

What did that even mean? Was the poem supposed to be important to her grandmother in some way? She'd certainly never mentioned it, if it was.

"Fear not a flowery death, dread not an airy tomb…"

Grandma Molly's tomb certainly wasn't airy. It was just a box in the ground.

"To fiest now on thy bier, beauty shall shed a tear."

Aunt Ginny was crying silently, her children and husband crowded around her. Uncle George stood with his arm around his father's shoulder. Even little Lucy was crying, though whether from grief or tiredness, no one could be sure.

"Just as Robert Bridges wrote," said the man, wiping his eyes, "my sister will 'fly with delight.' She has many waiting for her on the other side, and though I know it hurt her to leave us, I'm sure she's with her other loved ones now."

More empty words were spoken, and then Victoire, blue eyes red-rimmed from crying, stepped forward and dropped a white rose onto the casket. Dominique followed suit, and James, and then it was Rose's turn. She moved towards the hole in the ground, bit her lip, and let the rose fall. What a waste. The flowers would all just die. Her grandmother would have much rather seen those roses growing and blooming. Besides, she'd loved red roses, not white ones. She was the one who'd chosen Rose's name.

Finally, all the flowers were scattered, the last words were spoken, and it was over, thank Merlin. Rose knew she should stay, that she should speak to everyone and give hugs and cry with them, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She kissed Hugo on the forehead, told him where she was going, and Disapparated.

She reappeared at Malfoy Manor and stood by herself for a moment, taking in the sight of the white marble building, and then headed for the door. She didn't feel like being surrounded by a crowd of people, but she didn't want to be alone, either. Not yet.

Not bothering to knock on the door, she stepped inside and quietly made her way up the sweeping marble staircase. Narcissa Malfoy lived in the house still, and Rose didn't want to run into her. Grandma Molly might have loved Narcissa's grandson, but she'd also killed her sister. Running into Astoria and Draco wouldn't be quite as awkward, but Rose didn't want to see them, either.

At that moment, there was only one person she wanted to be with.

She knocked on his door and listened to the sound of his footsteps. A moment later, the door opened.

"Rose?"

He was wearing the sweater Grandma Molly made for him two years before, and there was dried paint splattered on his arms. He always had paint on his arms, from his paintings, and somehow the familiar sight of it was strangely comforting.

"Couldn't take it anymore," she said, wiping at her eyes, and then she was in his arms, her face pressed into the soft material of the sweater. He closed his bedroom door with his foot, obviously realizing that she was in no state to speak to anyone but him, and held her close.

"It hurts," she whispered, "being this far apart. Being this far away from her."

Gently, Scorpius stroked her hair. "I know," he said. "I know it does."

They stayed that way until Rose couldn't cry anymore. When she was finished, she pulled away from him and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Thank you," she said quietly. She sat down on his bed, and he sat down next to her.

"Of course," he said, his voice serious and calm. "Any time."

"You're wearing the sweater she made you," said Rose. Her voice sounded stuffy and strange from all the crying.

"It seemed like a good way to… to remember her, I guess," he said.

Rose managed a smile. "She was always happy to see you wear it."

"I was so happy when she gave it to me," he said. "I mean, when she gave me the first one, our third year." The sweater he was wearing was identical to the first, just bigger.

"You wore it for almost three years," said Rose, remembering. "It was way too small."

"I thought it was a gesture that she approved of our friendship," said Scorpius, with a shrug. "I didn't think that anyone would accept it back then, especially her. So when she gave me that sweater, like I was one of her grandchildren, I never wanted to take it off."

"She always thought of you that way, you know," said Rose. "She really loved you."

"I wish everyone could be half as good as she was," he said.

"You mean your family," said Rose, recognizing his expression. "Scor-

"I know they've changed," he said. "I know they're much better now. I just wish they would just be nicer to you." It was true that his parents didn't always treat Rose kindly, but it had never bothered her half as much as it bothered Scorpius.

She fingered her necklace chain for a moment, debating, and made up her mind. Scorpius was in mourning, just as she was. If she could do anything to make him feel a little better, she should.

"Remember this?" she said, pulling her necklace out from under her dress.

He blinked. "Of course," he said. "It's your Weasley necklace. You wear it all the time."

Rose cradled the silver charm in the palm of her hand. "It's not a Weasley necklace."

"It's a W," he said, with a frown. "For Weasley."

"No," she said. She turned the charm upside down. "It's an M. For Malfoy."

He stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother gave it to me," she said, meeting his eyes. "At the end of our first year. She told me… she said that at the beginning of the year, she was terrified that people would be cruel to you, because of your family. She showed me this letter you wrote her, the third week of school, talking about how you'd made friends with a Weasley girl. Me."

"She did?" Scorpius's eyes were wide with wonder.

Rose nodded. "She thanked me for being nice to you, and not judging you because of your family. Then she gave me the necklace and told me that I could wear it upside down, like a W, but that it was an M for Malfoy, to show that I was a family friend."

"But why didn't you tell me?" he said.

"She didn't want me to," said Rose. "I think she's glad I wear it as a W, actually. But for me, it never meant Weasley."

"So she told you that you were a family friend, but didn't actually want you to show that you were a family friend?" said Scorpius.

She laughed a little at that. "I guess so."

"Well," he said, with a small smile, "at least it's something."

"Yeah," she said. She smiled back.

"Why did you tell me now, though?" he said. "I mean, it's been six years. Why now?"

"I figured you could use something to cheer you up a little," she said, smile fading.

He took her hand and squeezed it. "I should be the one cheering you up."

"So cheer me up," she said. "Show me your paintings and talk about all your pretentious art colors."

"Pretentious art colors?" he said, his eyes brightening as they repeated the familiar conversation. It was an old joke between the two of them.

"You're always talking about them," said Rose, just as she always did. "Chartreuse and cerulean and sienna. Why can't you just use words like green and blue and orange?"

"Did you just call burnt sienna orange?"

"Burnt sienna? That's even worse!"

Scorpius shook his head, already reaching for his stack of paintings. "I'll teach you the difference," he said. "Soon you'll be able to spot all the pretentious colors from miles away. You'll never call sienna orange again."

Rose flopped backwards onto the bed and watched him sort through his artwork, looking for the right piece to show her. She thought of the funeral, of the empty words and white roses, the poem about fading flowers and the grey curtain of grief. She and her grandmother were apart, yes, and they would be for a long time.

But she and her best friend were together, and for the moment, that was enough.