These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase
-My Immortal, Evanescence
Rose Weasley can feel the whispers surround her even in the Muggle-occupied caverns of King's Cross Station. She wonders briefly whether she's imagining things, anxiety getting the better of her again, but when her mother takes a half-step forward, using her body to shield Rose from the crowd, the suspicions are confirmed.
People are talking about her.
This in itself is nothing new; people have an interest in celebrity and like it or not, Rose's family is filled with celebrities. But though the whispers used to be a steady rhythm that set the pace for the soundtrack of her life, today they are accompanied by pointed fingers, arched brows, and hurried voices, as though the Weasleys are a spectacle to be looked at.
Scandal. The word enters Rose's consciousness swiftly, forcing her to remember the headlines of the tabloid magazines her mother had attempted to hide in the rubbish bin over the course of the past eight months. War Heroes' Daughter's Mysterious Absence from Hogwarts – Find Out Why! and Rose Weasley in St. Mungo's! had greeted her in every Wizarding shop she had entered.
Some of the papers had gotten the facts nearly correct, others had concocted outrageous explanations that were so far-fetched they would have been laughable had they not been so damaging to "the family reputation," as her Dad liked to put it. Ron and Hermione Weasley held Ministry jobs which were frequently up for reelection and, though their heroism against Voldemort could get them far, any tarnish on their image could prevent future promotions.
Now that Rose had royally fucked things up, her parents had been working overtime and devoting their free time to charity work. She supposed it came from a place of love; the more Ron and Hermione were seen in public, the more attention they could garner from news sources in the hopes of replacing some of the more outlandish rumors about Rose's leave of absence.
It hurt all the same.
Hugo takes the wall of Platform 9 and ¾ at a run, and Rose prepares to follow after him.
"Wait," Hermione says, reaching into her purse and extracting something small. "Aren't you hungry?"
"I ate a big breakfast," she mutters. It's true, but she knows that Hermione will never believe her, not after everything that's happened.
"You should eat something," she repeats, handing Rose a protein bar, her tone insistent.
Rose can feel the stares of the people around her. Some are Muggles, but a larger portion her Hogwarts classmates and their families. Anxiety wells within the pit of her stomach as she realizes what her mother is doing.
Hermione gives her a forced smile. "Rose?"
And so Rose tears open the packet and scrapes her teeth over the edge of the bar. This isn't a part of the diet the nutritionist at St. Mungo's had prescribed. Logically, she knows that the extra calories are good for her, but there's a small but insistent part of her brain that calculates the effects of an extra granola bar on her figure, that pictures the needle of the scale ticking its way upwards.
No. She is in control of this. She will get through this; she will board the train while everyone watching sees that she can eat a protein bar just like anyone else. And then she can sneak off to the bathroom and force her hand down her throat or skip lunch or—
Or she can do none of those things, because her cousins will certainly alert her parents at the first sign of deviation from a normal diet and she'll be whisked away from Hogwarts again. Hogwarts, the one place where she has a chance to be away from her parents.
"Rose?" Hermione asks again, gesturing toward the wall that will lead them to the platform.
Scorpius Malfoy gives his mother a quick hug goodbye and nods curtly at his father. Draco is nearly always on edge when they are out in public like this, though over the years the rumor mill has lost much of its interest in the Malfoy family, or at least they have until they next neo-Death Eater group starts up and Draco is once again cast in the limelight, the public's suspicion of him plastered across The Daily Prophet as clearly as the Dark Mark on his forearm.
It's unseasonably warm for September, but Draco does not roll up his sleeves. He never does.
"Write to us, dear," his mother, Astoria, chides.
"Yes, Mum," he says, barely able to refrain from rolling his eyes at her. He owls home regularly and his mother knows it.
"I can't believe this is your last year at Hogwarts," Astoria continues, and this time Scorpius really does roll his eyes. "All grown up…" she mutters, and Scorpius thinks he might even see a hint of tears welling behind her eyes.
"Don't cry, Mum, I'll be back at Christmas," he protests.
Draco wraps an arm around Astoria in a rare moment of public affection.
"Right," Scorpius says, gathering his luggage. "Well, I'm off. I'll write as soon as I get a chance."
As he boards the train he receives a clap on the back from Noelle Shacklebolt. "Prefects meeting in 10, yeah?" she says, adjusting the Head Girl badge on her green and silver tie before rushing off somewhere.
Scorpius makes his way down to the Prefects' carriage, where he is greeted by a smattering of other students. The other seventh years are familiar, of course, and the sixth years as well. He recognizes six of the eight fifth year prefects and makes it a point to smile at those he does not, keeping his hands on his knees, nonthreatening.
The door slides open and he expects to see Noelle. Instead, a mass of copper hair he hasn't seen in ages fills his vision. The other Prefects, who had been conversing amicably, fall silent. Phoebe MacMillan, the seventh year Gryffindor who had been selected to fill in for Rose Weasley as Prefect last winter, shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Rose remains silent as her eyes scan over the carriage, no doubt noticing Phoebe's presence and discovering that she has been replaced.
"I—" she starts, her voice soft, "Sorry. I didn't think…" Rose lets her voice trail off as she begins to make her exit.
"Rose, wait," Phoebe says half-heartedly, but it's too late.