But I will see you again
I will see you again a long time from now
Rose Weasley was born on a day in late April, when the flowers were blooming and the birds sung, to a family who eagerly awaited her arrival in the St. Mungo's waiting room.
Scorpius Malfoy was born on a bleak day in early December, just when the winds hit, in a cold manor because the dark-haired beauty that was his mother refused to give birth in a filthy Muggle hospital.
She laughed and sang and ran away with the warm summer breeze, and had the brain of her mother and the heart of a lion, just like her father.
He didn't grow up around other children, and while his mother shunned all that she could, his father went to work and didn't come back for days.
She was summer and warmth, the fire burning around her head in a red halo and blue eyes like the Meditarranean Sea.
He was Aurora Borealis – he sure looked very nice, magnetic and appealing, but he was as cold as the wind blows and chilled down to the bone.
Her bonfire reached towards the sky. "You have so much potential, Rosie," they said. And she did. She had the whole world within her reach, because it was simply cupped in her two hands.
He was hollow.
She was too full.
He was cynical.
She was optimistic.
And this is how it happened.
His mother was beautiful.
She was the untouchable kind of beautiful. She was beautiful like he was, magnetic, polar, cold. He was his father in miniature – haughty tilt of the chin, arrogant stance, blonde hair, and pale grey eyes. His mother had black hair, pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a narrow nose. She was tall, slender and elegant.
He had once heard his grandfather say she was the perfect pureblood wife.
She was also not a mother, not really. She had given birth to him, but others had held him and others cooked his food and changed him as a young child. Neither of his parents did that; in everything but blood, Scorpius Malfoy was essentially the child of the housekeep at Malfoy Manor.
His mother does not love his father, and his father does not love his mother. That is textbook fact. They do not embrace, kiss, or even touch or speak beyond mealtimes and sleeping in the same bed. Scorpius knows he is a child of necessity, not one of love.
He was made because he had to be made. Not for the joy or passion or love, but because he had to simply carry on the name, and that was that.
His father could buy him all the things in the world, but that wouldn't matter. Because Scorpius would still be alone in the cold, damp Manor, wouldn't he? And his father, Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and Slytherin, would be out somewhere and his mother would be out somewhere different and he'd be alone.
His parents had dropped him off at the station, with the whistles and the bells probably reminding them they'd rather be somewhere else, other than here.
He sees red-heads, loads of them, and he doesn't know why, but he cringes on impulse. Hard-wired into his brain to do that.
Stay away from them, his father says.
Filthy, disgusting excuses, his mother sneers. He doesn't know why his family dislikes them, but he has an inkling. An idea created from many nights of sneaking and listening, hearing tales of war and torture and horrific things that are just that – things, because these simple things aren't real to him. He has never seen crucio (though he's been threatened with it) and he's never forced a woman and he hasn't killed an innocent man, but his parents have and to everyone else, he's as good as.
So he stays away, sneers, and joins the rest of the pureblooded Slytherins. The only acceptable ones, says his mother.
There was something a little brother couldn't exactly fulfill. Rose wanted a little sister; a best friend, a girl, someone other than her mum. Oh, she loved her daddy and she loved Hugo, but she wanted a little sister.
She thought she was getting one, too. She wouldn't know exactly what happened until years later, and when she found out, she cried and she broke and her hurt couldn't have even have compared to her parents.
Her mum had said they were going to have another baby – Hugo was barely a year, and Rosie just a toddler with bright blue eyes and red ringlets. Her mum patted her non-existent bump and said there's another one in there.
There was another one in there, until one night when Rosie was woken up by the Floo and her mother's sobbing and suddenly Auntie Angie was taking care of her and Uncle George, her funny uncle, hadn't ever looked so serious.
As a three year old, she hadn't understood. She asked and asked until Auntie Angie sighed exasperatedly and told her to please be quiet, love, because your mummy is hurt.
Her mummy said they weren't going to have another baby.
And Rosie asked her why she had changed her mind.
Rosie was still a very happy little girl. Her being so loud had squashed out her brother's quietness, and subsequently was the child her parents paid the most attention to.
(She hadn't known as a little girl he'd grow up to resent her for it.)
Her parents had a love so strong she couldn't even see the bonds ever being tested. They hugged, and they kissed... and they did other things, too. The bonds went over her head and when they pulled and tugged at them, she was blissfully unaware.
Maybe Hugo noticed – he was quiet, morose, silent, and could pick up on even the tiniest emotion. Rose was no good with subtlety.
Her childhood was good, she'd say in the future, to anyone who'd ask.
Rosie, she'd forget about the nights when her parents yelled and shook the house and she cried silently into her pillows because they'd forgotten a silencing charm again, and she's just simply choose to remember family picnics and Christmas time and the ornament on the top of the tree, and the gifts she got for every holiday, be it Easter or ever Guys Fawkes.
It was of her own choosing, more than anything else, that she was happy.
He did not see her for a very long time.
He looked, but he did not see. There's a very big difference between looking and seeing – when you're looking, your eyes just pass over the subject in question, but when you're seeing, you're seeing them. Mannerisms, the way they speak, the way they see things.
He didn't see her for years.
And when he did, he was sure there was more than just the surface, just happy, pretty Rosie.
She always mindlessly hated him.
Mindlessly, because it was how she had been taught. Her mother said he was okay, the Malfoy family was okay, but she was lying. Her whole family disliked him, and she saw no reason why not to.
She would never stop actually disliking them, ever. Him, especially.
There would always be one part of her that always disliked him. Even when she didn't show it. It was in the way he spoke, held himself, held her, eventually. She would always hate him for making her feel better when she thought she couldn't ever be.
At the same time, half of her loved him for it.
a/n - looking for a happy ending? not here. sorry. just gonna let you know right away - this is angst. says so in the category.
please review - a few words makes my day!