Here's part one of a piece I've been working on. Enjoy!
She's staring blankly at the floor. But Rose Weasley always seems to be in another place when she sits there. Her business-padded shoulders peak just barely over a desk too lofty for her and her modest personality.
He's told her, at least twice now, she should buy a taller chair so he can see her when he visits. But Scorpius Malfoy rarely visits her at work. She's always choosing to pace and stare vacantly at the floor in his office 'because the ceilings are higher.'
Normally, he couldn't be bothered to knock. Her door is always wide open, for Merlin's sake, so why take the trouble? It's different today, though. Aside from the fact that Scorpius has come in a huff, Rose's lips are straight instead of curled maniacally in their usual way. He supposes that's what stops him at the door. That, and the realization she hasn't perked up to welcome him inside. It's crushing to perceive her frozen in some unpleasant moment, though he knows already what it is.
He stands in the threshold, hoping that she'll notice something, anything, and turn to him. The ugly purple tie she bought him last Christmas is wrapped sentimentally under his collar. The knocker squeals lightly under his clammy fingers, and he almost winces as it comes back down to thud against the door. Shouldn't friendship-best friendship-mean not having to knock?
Rose's mouth turns up once she glimpses him leaning awkwardly against her doorframe, but the cheer doesn't quite reach her eyes. She used to tell him that her irises were the color of mud, and he hates himself for noticing it for the first time just now.
He must have an aura of disapproval, he realizes, as she suddenly ducks her head and freezes up once more. They've never played this game before-the 'You Say it First Because I Wouldn't Dare' contest. She'll win, of course, but he focuses on the silver barrette over her right ear until then.
"What happened?" he finally asks, voice far more understanding than intended. Marching here in a rage was the easy part. Holding it out in front of her presented the challenge. "Rose," he dictates more firmly as soon as her lips are drawn in silence, "What the bloody hell happened?"
For a moment, he wishes he'd have chosen his words more carefully. They both know why he's there; they both know what happened last evening.
Scorpius watches her chin tremble and wonders whether it will be the utter end to his resolve. He hates himself for giving in to crying women; just last month he agreed to a horrid date to appease his mother. Fortunately, Rose finds a backbone and remarks plainly, "I couldn't do it."
It.
Two letters leading to the longest night of his life. Ironically, he considers, this mess came about with a different two letters: No.
She's removed the pictures from her desk already and has rearranged the other frames, likely hoping he won't know the difference. He briefly wonders what she's done with the photographs, but only manages to shake his head.
Peter McMurray has already disappeared from Rose's office. Her life, even. Fourteen hours later and she's carrying on as per usual.
"That's it, then?" His fingers press into the edge of her desk as he casts a shadow over her face. It's stupid, and he knows it, but he backs up a few centimeters just so the light can hit the freckles on her temple. "You and he date for a year and a half and you decide now you can't do it?"
A rumble shakes the counter as Rose pulls open a large drawer. "I see you're picking sides," she murmurs, probably hoping he can't hear. But Scorpius has had ample time training his ears to her mumbling.
"I'm not-"
"Stop assuming the worst of me."
Scorpius demanded the same thing of her once after she accused him of cheating in Herbology. His jaw clenches as he is reminded of their long friendship: ten years that saw them from naïve schoolchildren to working adults and everything in between.
"Why? So you can keep lying to me?" He hears her suck in a shallow breath, but every part of him refuses to take it back. Scorpius won't regret those words. No amount of tears can convince him otherwise, not even hers.
But now is not the place-nor the time-to address this fear. "Rose, Pete was tossed when he came home last night. Do you know how many cliffs I talked him down from? I nearly checked him into St. Mungo's."
She refuses to meet his anger, instead turning her disappointment toward the clock on the wall. Cursing, she abruptly ducks back down and flies through various drawers, file folders stacking haphazardly in front of her.
"Is it because he hates the Cannons?" Scorpius asks, mostly out of desperation. "Not that you care, but your father might. Or," he adds when Rose remains unresponsive, "because he gets his hair cut twice a month?"
Something churns inside of him unpleasantly when she shoots him a venomous sneer before turning away again. The barrette in her hair comes loose as she bows over her lowest cabinet.
"Rose," he all but pleads. He hates how she can hide from him so easily while his palms sweat and ears ring. "I know you're not that blinkered. Please talk to me."
The too-short chair she sits in scrapes unpleasantly across the floor as she stands abruptly. "Why?" Her voice is low and steady, but he notices her hands shaking as she presses them into her stacked files. For her small stature and quiet disposition, Scorpius reflects-not with comfort-that she can inflict a fear of Merlin into someone. "So you can keep accusing me?"
His head spins as she mocks him. "You don't regret any of it? You're just walking away knowing Pete could have died last night?"
"It isn't my fault he chose to get arseholed, no matter how much you try to twist this!"
"No, of course not. Merlin forbid he grieve when the woman he loves rejects him." If anyone were to ask, Scorpius would say that he hadn't planned to start yelling. In fact, he might say a part of him died from the defacing repartee she had begun. "Why, Rose? Tell me why you would do that to a man who loves you!"
"Because he's not you!" her voice breaks as she screams across polished maple. In the following silence, Scorpius swears her words echo off the brick walls around them.
He can't budge. He can barely breathe. His tongue tries so hard to move, to form words that could matter, but it sinks like lead in his mouth.
A glint of wetness shines in mud-brown eyes before a rustle of folders and steady movement. "Close the door when you leave," is barely heard as she sweeps past him and out of her office.
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Part 2 is written and ready for release soon.
Happy Holidays :) Stay warm wherever you are.
Blessings,
CompletelyDone