AUTHOR'S NOTE: Quite a few people asked for a sequel to The Perfume of the Roses and The Roses Grow so thought I'd try writing one. This is mostly light-hearted though there's a little angst. Will keep the chapters short, it just seems more appropriate. The title is stolen from a Simon and Garfunkel song. :)
Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall
chapter one
The Invitation
The owl tapped on the window at 6.30 in the yellow early morning light and waited patiently for someone to answer the summons, tapping his foot and flapping his wings in order to draw attention, while glaring impatiently at the family of birds who peered down at him from the eaves of the rooftop and who were apparently the only ones who deigned to notice his presence. Stupid, inferior muggle birds, he deduced. (Of course, Reader, we cannot know for certain this is what the owl was thinking, none of us being proficient in owlology – yet; I understand this new magical art is, appropriately enough, in its fledgling stages, and being studied by a handful of very clever witches and wizards – but, judging by its behaviour, we may take an educated guess.)
The father of the inferior muggle birds at length came down for a closer look, bravely or foolishly, depending on your viewpoint, dive-bombing the owl and then trying ineffectually to peck when the visitor ignored him. A majestic flap of wings and loud hoot however soon sent him flying back to his nest, where much righteous squawking by both he and his spouse and four babies ensued.
And at long last and not a minute too soon a window opened.
Woken abruptly by the noise that startled her out of her bed, Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass peered down into the garden, where pink, red, yellow and white roses still glistened from the night's gentle rain and heavenly scents permeated the quiet morning air. Pretending he'd not been waiting on the wrong window-ledge but merely passing time – honestly, these muggle houses were all exactly the same, nothing like magical properties with their wards and peculiar shapes and crooked doors, with their curling smoke and interesting smells from brand new potions being brewed and their sudden bright flashes lighting up the sky from wonderful spells being conjured! - Trimblefeathers (yes, Reader, really!) immediately flew on to the one above and stuck out his leg. Astoria stared at him for a moment and sighed. "You're not Daphne's owl, Henrietta."
Well, for Merlin's sake, it was obvious he wasn't! Were all muggles stupid? Wait, wait! These people couldn't have been muggles. Muggles didn't receive owl communication. At least, not often. Not unless they were in the know about the magical world that existed right under their noses and yet never saw. Maybe because they didn't open their eyes wide enough to see or maybe because the wizarding world was adept at staying hidden, Trimblefeathers wasn't sure. He was a very young owl, after all, and his owner not much older. She certainly hadn't briefed him on anything much except how much fun it had been to meet somebody called Scorpius Malfoy.
That particular subject, his owner never stopped talking about and Rose Weasley could talk non-stop. And read non-stop too, frequently choosing to do both at the same time. Thus Trimblefeathers knew his name had been taken from a muggle children's book about different nocturnal creatures told in a simple storytelling format. The fictitious Trimblefeathers belonged to a boy named Rob, who chose it simply because he thought trimble was rather a nice word to say (the real life Trimblefeathers despaired at times of some muggle writers, he really did) and Feathers presumably because he was a bird, as neither Rob nor the author took the trouble to explain the suffix. No doubt the boring fictitious owl, who did nothing more exciting than hoot and appear wise (ha!) and swoop down to carry off mice, didn't even know the meaning of the word suffix anyway and never dreamt there were magic owls who ferried messages back and forth to the wizarding community. The real-life Trimblefeathers congratulated himself on his own importance as he graciously accepted an owl treat from the pretty lady with the glossy long hair and smiling eyes and, reply attached to his leg, soared into the sky once more. He hoped the reply was favourable, he was sick and tired of the debates, what with Rose Weasley and her small brother Hugo leading the pleas for a certain Scorpius Malfoy to be entertained at their home as promised, with Mr Ron Weasley holding forth with a firm No and Mrs Granger-Weasley being prepared to "consider" albeit erring on the side of caution, and finally being swayed in favour or keeping the promise. Besides, he was curious to meet this character. Let it be Yes, let it be Yes, he found himself chanting under his breath like a Babbling Bat as he flew.
Of course, as owlology is not yet an established science, the reader should note that our observations on the musings of young Rose Weasley's owl is pure guesswork. All we can be certain of at this precise moment is that the pet owl was named Trimblefeathers after a story she'd read and that an invitation to the Malfoy family to spend the afternoon in the company of the Granger-Weasley and Potter families had been...
...Accepted.