AN: I find many of the names in HP to be horrendous, hilarious, oddball, strange, etc. I have a particular loathing for Hermione Weasley. It's… awkward and it doesn't fit at all. I do like some though. Alliteration is my thing. Luna Lovegood is probably my fave of all time. Anyway, this Epically Long Oneshot was borne out of a need to get back into writing so I can update Of Great Cunning. Also, I have accidentally started a Neville/Luna fic that may-or-may-not be a oneshot. Depending on if I can finish it or not. But, knowing me, I probably won't. Which sucks, because I rather like it so far.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
By Any Other Name
It takes Rose a full seven-and-three-quarter years to learn how to properly say her mother's name.
Her-my-oh-nee Wheeze-eh-lee.
When she finally manages it, she swells up with pride, in the way any smart child (and she knew she was smart- everyone was always going on and on about what a smart little girl she was) does upon learning something new. After all, it's a hard name to say, and it's odd, too. Even at such young age, Rose knows this. For all the strange, unusual, and just plain weird names she's ever come across among wizards and witches, she's never once seen anything quite like Hermione Weasley. From what she knows of the muggle world, Mummy's name is even more peculiar there. For example, Nana Granger is called Helen, and Pop-pop is simply Greg.
Rose has been able to say and spell both their names since she was at least five.
Sometimes, she wonders why they couldn't have given her mum a nice, average name, like Mary, or Abigail, or Jennifer. Really, it would have made things much easier for Rose, in the long run. Once, she even asked Daddy why Nana and Pop-pop had chosen Hermione of all things. At first, he'd told her he didn't rightly know, and tried to send her off with a pat on the head. But of course, Rose being Rose, she turned back around and demanded impatiently he at least make a guess at it, at the very least to try and think up a reason. Which, after some brow furrowing and head scratching, he eventually did. Rose had deemed the answer acceptable, and went off with some peace of mind, finally understanding why her mummy had such a unique name.
And it was this very reason that until the age of twelve, Rose knew nothing of Shakespearian cleverness, or The Winter's Tale, or dead and grief-stricken fictional queens who share her mother's name. Until that age, Rose put her naive trust in her father's (rather ridiculous, she later discovered) answer:
"Because they're dentists!"
---------------
Rose is an eleven-year-old first year with wavy red hair and knobby knees when she first hears what must be the ugliest name anyone had ever had the misfortune to bear.
She's standing alongside the other first years, nervous, biting her nails, trying to remind herself that not being a Gryffindor wouldn't be the end of the world. The headmistress and all the other professors stare down at them from the head table, looking intimidating and impressive (except for Uncle Neville, who's smiling and winking). The other students, older witches and wizards who are far more interested in the feast than the first years, chatter amongst themselves, joke, laugh, while Rose miserably shifts from side to side, watching her classmates disappear amongst their newfound housemates. Your house could very well determine everything about the rest of your life- your friends, your enemies, what marks you get, who you fall in love with, what you do for a living. All the really important things.
It's while Rose is having this very thought that the deputy head calls out The Name.
"Malfoy, Scorpius!"
The deputy's voice has interrupted Rose's train of thought, and with such an atrocious, abomination of a name that it startles her away from her previous anxieties. Instead, Scorpius Malfoy curdles in her mind, syllables and vowels and consonants turning over each other. The name sounds like a bit of vermin- a poisonous, unfriendly, ugly creature, crawling around on its exoskeletal legs. Rose wants to try saying it, just to see if her mouth could manage it without choking. She imagines not. And in fact, not only does she find it ugly, but also quite silly. Arrogant and aristocratic to the point of being, well, comical.
Laughter, therefore, is inevitable. Rose only wishes she hadn't expressed her amusement in such a loud manner.
Her bark of laughter came just as the boy to whom the name belonged stepped out of line and toward the sorting hat. He is tall, with neat, brand new robes (just screaming of money) and pale blonde hair. His eyes are a sharp, startling shade of gray, and when they turn in the assumed direction of the inappropriate laughter, Rose feels an unexpected tingle run up her spine. Oddly, it's not quite fear that does it- though, when Scorpius Malfoy's gaze locks onto hers, Rose is sure he's going to somehow turn her to stone, like Medusa, only in the body of an eleven-year-old boy. He looks long and hard at her, purses his thin pink lips, and finally turns back toward the sorting hat.
She knows in that moment that she'd unintentionally made an enemy for life.
---------------
When Rose is thirteen, she's hit rather suddenly with a morbid revelation.
Sitting at a table of first years in need of her tutoring services, she's surrounded by ghosts. Not Nearly Headless Nick, from Rose's house, or The Gray Lady, or the ghoul from the Burrow. No, these ghosts are different. The living dead sit around the library table. Lily Potter is to her left. Next to Lily is Amelia Nott, named for her great-aunt, a deceased Ministry of Magic official. Down the line are Colin Creevy, from Hufflepuff, and- oh, well, Lorcan and Lysander Scamander, who don't count, Rose supposes. But the others, named for war heroes long dead, long buried under the earth and rotting off their bones, lean over their books and study notes on how to transfigure a button into a bottle cap, oblivious to that fact.
And there are more.
Cousin Fred and Teddy Lupin. All the Potters- James Sirius, Albus Severus, and Lily. Eloise Rosier, from Slytherin, is named after her mother's cousin. Fifth year Terry Davies, who was a friend of Lucy's. Kat Wood, the Gryffindor chaser in the year above hers had even once confessed to having the middle name Frederica (named, like Rose's cousin, for Uncle Fred Weasley, who had been a friend and teammate of Kat's parents).
They are tributes to the fallen comrades, well-missed family members, mentors, teachers, friends. Most people think it's a nice way to pay homage to the dead. To keep the memory fresh. Rose herself had once wondered why she and Hugo had been spared the honor of being named for a war hero. Now, Rose doesn't care. She just silently thanks her luck that she wasn't named after some long gone person, someone who had once fought a war she was glad she hadn't seen, someone with their own face and smile and identity. Of course, those that had died in the war do deserve respect, gratitude, in some form, and she'll gladly toast their names on Remembrance Day. But she's quite happy she doesn't have to trail in the wake of ghosts.
Rose Weasley is alive, and she is her own person.
---------------
At fifteen, the name Scorpius Malfoy is still sour in her mouth, but the person, she's found, is unexpectedly sweet.
Rose is sitting in the Gryffindor common room fruitlessly trying to do her potions work. The corners of her parchment have been doodled all over with hearts and Rose Malfoy written over and over again, in varying size and thickness. She sighs, working on a particularly curly version and thinks about earlier that morning. Scorpius had kissed her in the owlery. Among the squawking birds and the floating feathers and all the dung. Despite all the owlery's shortcomings, Rose is officially declaring it her favorite place in all of Hogwarts, and maybe even all the world. It had been a good and proper snog, to say the least. Rose hadn't been able to stand right after, her legs had gone so jelly-like.
Oblivious to the world, Rose misses Hugo's arrival, and is surprised to find her paper ripped out from under her elbows.
"Rose Malfoy? You can't be serious! Hey, Albus, Fred, Molly, come have a look at this-" Rose snatches the paper, face red as the Weasley hair on her head, and freckles sharp against the sudden flood of pink to her cheeks. She throws it behind her, in the vague direction of the armchair at her back, before giving chase to her pest of a younger brother. They disrupt the rest of the room. Students look up as they knock over books and run over unsuspecting first years, both startled and irritated.
Hugo declares he's going to write home to Dad, about having a Malfoy for a daughter (and by extension, "an up himself, rat-faced Slytherin, third generation Death Eater's wife!"), and Rose angrily threatens to write to Mum about Hugo's abysmal charms grade. She stalks around the couch, intending to give him a nasty hexing, but she's met with a spout of water shot up her nose and Hugo's insufferable laughter. They go back and forth with threats, dares, hexes, until a breathless truce is called. By now, most of the other students (except Molly, Lizzie Bell, and Fred, who bravely refuse to give up their study seats by the fire) have gone upstairs, seeking refuge from the family feud. They lay back on the carpeted floor facing opposite directions, exhausted. Rose is quiet, listening to the crackle of the fire, the huffs-and-puffs of her breath, and the dull scritch-scratch of Molly's quill a few chairs away.
"Hugo," she begins, breaking the silence. "Do you really suppose Dad would take it badly?"
"'Course I do," is his cheerful reply. Rose reaches behind her and tugs sharply on one of his ears. "Ouch- hey, quit it! I was going to say, but!"
"Go on."
"But, he'd get over it. Or, probably not, but Mum and Gran would make him be nice."
Well, that was something. A small something, but certainly comforting.
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Its three weeks after Rose's sixteenth birthday when she and Hugo get the news.
Hermione Weasley is gone. In her place, there is a new stranger. A woman whose last name is Granger, who is divorced, rents a flat in London, and has very little to do with Ronald Weasley.
It feels rather like, well, being told your parents are splitting up. There isn't any other feeling to compare it to. What was left of her childhood has just been ripped out from under her. Visions dance in her mind- mornings helping Mum make heart-shaped pancakes, Dad in pjs helping Hugo read the Quidditch scores out of The Prophet. Outings to Diagon Alley, ending with a trip to Uncle George's store, Mum and Dad holding hands. Christmas holidays, laying underneath the glow of the tree, secretly peeking as her parents dance sweetly to the wireless, wrapped up in each other.
In the first few months, it's easy to rage and cry and accuse them of ruining her life. She doesn't speak to her mother, because undoubtedly it's her fault. She's the one who's always nagging, who's always standing with her hands on her hips, dishing out punishment and putting Dad down in one way or another. Rose tears up her letters, and advises Hugo to do the same, though she knows he won't. He just quietly tucks them into his robes for later, rather than face Rose's lecture for reading them at all.
It takes a while, but eventually, Rose softens.
She remembers things for the way they truly were. Dad loutishly complaining about burnt pancakes, and the ensuing argument. Mum untangling their hands in Diagon Alley, when Dad ignored her frequent reminders that she and Hugo were too young for Uncle George's shop. Pressing her eyes closed tight and bringing her hands up to her ears, trying to block out the angry sound of the wireless being torn from the wall, thrown across the room, and the sharp hiss of fury hidden in a whisper.
Out of guilt, she writes her mother an invitation to The Three Broomsticks on the next Hogsmeade weekend, so she can apologize in person. Gladly, of course, Hermione accepts, and arrives even before Rose does, who is always sure to be at least fifteen minutes early to any appointment. Probably something she'd inherited, Rose thinks, unfurling her scarf from her neck and sitting awkwardly across from her mother. Hermione looks anxious, her face peaked and the age lines in her face more visible than usual. She leans uncomfortably over a cup of hot tea, blowing the steam away through chapped lips. Her back is stiff and straight, as if someone had replaced her spine with a rusted metal pipe. The sight makes Rose ache deeply, because her mother was lovely, smiling, and full of laughter.
But this is a weathered woman, foreign to Rose.
"I'm glad you changed your name back, Mum." She reaches across the table, grabbing this woman's smooth, pale hand with her freckled girlish one.
"Oh? Why is that?" Her mother asks, surprise written all over her face.
"Because 'Hermione Weasley'is a perfectly ghastly name- and, not to mention, it was a bugger to learn how to spell," Rose says, smirking a bit.
It's her wordless consent, her unofficial apology, and best of all, it makes her mother laugh.
---------------
There's nothing like being nineteen, still quite fresh out of Hogwarts, and sitting across from the man who holds your future in his hands.
Not literally, of course, because the only thing in Martin Skeeter's hands right now is a quaffle-shaped paperweight that keeps changing team colors- first Puddlemere, then the Tornadoes, and finally the brash orange of Rose's father's favorite team. She wants this job so desperately. She's wanted it since she was old enough to hold a pen to paper, and being here across from her potential boss is working her last nerve. Of course, she knows there will be other offers if she fails. Other interviews, and friendlier faces across the desk. But it's a hollow, cold comfort, and it only makes Rose even more determined to have this spot, this position.
Martin Skeeter passes the paperweight from hand to hand, frowning slightly. His creased brow smoothes, then, and he looks as if he's had a revelation. Rose holds her breath, watching him look over her application once more. She nearly jumps out of her seat when he snaps his finger and then leans back in his chair.
"That's it, I was right. Weasley- you're a Weasley!" Martin thumps his fist once on the desk, and announces that she's got the job.
He goes back to playing toss with his paperweight, satisfied the interview is over. But Rose isn't so sure. She's come across this kind of thing before, doesn't know why she didn't anticipate it when she started her job search. It was stupid of her. She and Hugo didn't get it nearly as often as the Potters- James, especially- but people loved to give them hand outs. Hand outs, favors, a leg up, gifts, compliments- all just because their parents had done something important. Of course, Rose didn't deserve any of it. She and her cousins had been negative-odd-years old during war time, not even conceived of yet, and certainly not worthy of anyone's reverence. Rose felt a sharp crack as her heart fissured. She quietly told Martin Skeeter that she would be turning the job down, in that case. She wanted something she'd earned on her merits.
Though it was her dream job, Rose was going to do the honorable thing- even if it felt like hell (and a thousand crucio's to the gut).
Martin Skeeter looks sharply for a minute, before delivering the best piece of advice Rose had gotten since Scorpius Malfoy told her she'd have more friends if she stopped being such a swotty little know-it-all.
"Look, kid, you can't sneeze in any direction without getting snot on someone who knows who you are and what you're parents have done. People want to give thanks to them that gave hope in the darkness. Who're you to spit their gratitude back in their faces? This is a part of who you are. Prestige. Smarts. A good, solid family name to be proud of. Just take the job, Weasley."
She thinks quietly for a moment, but ultimately does as Martin Skeeter asks, and takes the job. She only feels a little guilty.
---------------
When Rose is twenty two, she gets a rather unwelcomed surprise.
Lily Malfoy.
It feels… blasphemous, somehow. Wrong. Of course, it isn't because she's angry, or jealous, or upset by it. Except, in a large way, she is, because seeing little Lily in a sleeveless white lace gown with a spring-green satin ribbon across the empire waist, Rose is nearly sick on her train, thinking about Lily Potter becoming Lily Malfoy. Her cousin, standing in the middle of Aunt Fleur's dressing room at Shell Cottage, is twirling her skirt in front of the mirror, very much still a child, and far too young for marriage in Rose's opinion. She blames mostly Scorpius for this, for making a bride out of a girl who should be getting drunk off firewhiskey and going dancing and dating a string of silly, handsome boys.
Lily looks lovely, though, as if someone had captured the sun's light and poured it under her skin. She is summer personified, with fire-red hair and glowing freckles. Rose adjusts the crown of tiny white flowers adorning her head. But still, though she's dressed in a green bridesmaid's dress, auburn curls pinned up, Rose feels ugly inside. Her stomach turns over again, as she thinks about Lily receiving her new surname, which absolutely does not fit together with her first. Lily is innocent flowers and child-like laughter. Malfoy is black magic and secrecy behind closed doors.
Rose just can't reconcile the two, though she'd been watching the slow and steady relationship between her young cousin and her ex-boyfriend for years. It was quite shocking, even now, to think of the boy she'd kissed in the owlery and in the Hogwarts library and on the quilted comforter in her childhood bedroom doing the very same with the girl she'd taught to tie her shoes and played pick-up games of Quidditch with. Sometimes, she thought about what might have happened if she and Scorpius hadn't gone their separate ways after Hogwarts. Maybe, a quiet voice speaks in her mind, it might have been you.
Rose Malfoy did sound a might better than Lily Malfoy.
"Rose- pass me the bouquet, please," Lily says, humming lightly.
"Lily," she starts, handing her the bunch of white and tiger lilies. "Do you… Do you really love Scorpius, then?"
Lily stops her humming and laughs, like Rose had made a joke, and she supposes it might have been one, to Lily, at least. She feels a bit shameful now, because it's more than obvious that Lily is over flowing with love and happiness. She wouldn't be surprised if little pink and red hearts exploded from her ears when she and Scorpius finally gave their vows and exchanged rings. Rose can't remember feeling that way about anyone. Scorpius had once made her legs turn to jelly and her thoughts stray from potions class, but never had she worn the look of sheer joy that was on Lily's face now.
"Lily," Rose begins again, filling the silence, "Do you think you'll be Lily Malfoy, or Lily Malfoy-Potter, or just Lily Potter?"
"Hmm. I hadn't thought much about it. But it doesn't really matter what either of us is called, just that we're in love. I think Lily Malfoy sounds wonderful, though. Doesn't it?"
Yes, Rose supposes, it really does.
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To a drunken twenty five year old Rose Weasley, it doesn't matter that Lysander Scamander nearly three years younger than she is.
He's got the nicest name anyone has ever had, ever. Lysander, Lysander, Lysander. She says it over and over again. It flows off her tongue, and she likes the way it tastes. Like… mint and lemon tea.
Lysander, Lysander, Lysander Scamander is as many years younger than Rose as he was when they were in school together, but meeting him at Kat Wood's party (for getting first string on Puddlemere United) feels like an entirely different experience. For one, they're both adults, with adult figures, and adult sex drives. For two, Lysander, Lysander, Lysander Scamander is tall with lovely dirty blonde hair and dreamy broad shoulders and he walks right up to her by the punch bowl to tell her she was once the object of a rather serious schoolboy crush. Rose Weasley had unintentionally stomped all over his heart, but it was alright, because he forgave her- if she made all his dreams come true and spent the duration of the party with him.
Which, she obligingly does.
Rose spends the party with him, and the evening, and tastes his name on her tongue over and over and over again, until all she tastes on her tongue is him and his mouth on hers. He tastes just like mint and lemon tea, and his bed sheets are blue striped, made out of some super soft material, and feel like heaven on her naked skin. She wakes up the next morning, feeling achy and regretful, but a warm palm pressed on her bare hip keeps her from bolting from the room and away from Lysander, three years her junior and probably not her best decision in the world. She falls back to sleep, and the next time Rose wakes up, Lysander has left her hot breakfast and freshly washed clothes.
And, well, himself, grinning next to her while she drank coffee and ate as much French toast as she could fit into her mouth. He kisses her spontaneously, and their faces stick together a bit, because she's got syrup on her cheeks, but he still tastes like mint and lemon tea. With a morning like that, the three years between them is thrown out the window and promptly forgotten about.
Rose melts for him, and agrees to go with Lysander, Lysander, Lysander Scamander on a proper date the following Tuesday.
---------------
Rose Scamander is twenty nine when her son is born.
He's tiny and pink, and frail. His fists ball up around her shirt, and it's quite possibly the most beautiful thing she's ever experienced, until a few moments later when he opens his eyes and looks at her like she's the most important person in the world. In that instant, she feels like a mother- a real, honest to God mother for the first time. Everyone tells her how cute and sweet he is, and there's a flurry of guests and gifts and overnight visits from Mum, who's "just checking up on things!" He cries, all babies do, and Rose loses sleep (all mothers do). Lysander helps as much as he can, but Rose tends to beat him to the nursery, ready with a bottle and a pair of outstretched arms.
The first week goes by quickly, and yet, it feels like the longest week of her entire life.
Rose's eyes are heavy from lack of sleep as she gently picks up her squalling infant son and gives him the bottle he's been waiting for. She rocks gently, cooing a lullaby. Lysander appears in the doorway, sleepily stretching along the frame, smiling at his wife and his son from across the room. He strides over quietly, padding on the plush carpet. When he reaches Rose and the baby, he leans down to peck her on the forehead, gently touching the fuzzy strawberry blonde hair on their son's head.
"He's asleep," Lysander whispers.
"So sweet," Rose murmurs, gently bringing him up so she can kiss his nose. "Our little guy."
"You know, we can't just call him that forever," her husband says, holding out his arms so he can make the transfer to the crib. "He's got to have a name someday."
Rose sighs, watching as her as-yet-unnamed son is laid down in crib, and Lysander straightens.
"I'm still thinking!" She defends, frowning.
"Rosie," Lysander admonishes, wrapping his arms around her. "It's just a name!"
Rose laughs a little (quietly, of course) and agrees.
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AN: OMIGOSH I'M DONE!!! Its 7:22 am, BTW, and I've been working on this since… 10pm? Ish? So, please make my work worthwhile and tell me how I've done!