~Rose's POV~

1. Coming home

The train lets out a final whistle as it pulls to a stop, breaks working as it squeals and whines. The world stops flying by outside those clouded windows, clouded with frost. The engine turns on and on, sputtering, but slowly slowing to a pace that matches the turning of the wheels, large, and shined, with pine needles sticking to their rims, now caked in mud, red, dark and gooey, but fresh from the tracks that were torn up in the first rain of summer end.

I watched the rest of the ride with my nose pressed against that glass, eyes wide, and forgetting the one tear, that trickled and fell, long gone, replaced by a thousand memories, all the times I have travelled back, back home on this train, with these people, in these robes, with this heart, beating just as loud, just as scared, just as hopeful.

The world turns by, taking its time now, as the wheels move their last few times, and the bells ring, from the train, kind, and smaller, but answered by larger, louder bells, ringing in response from the castle not too far off in the distance. And the sound of the communication between the both, as if telling everyone in Hogwarts we have arrived, and telling me that I am almost there.

The chatter in the corridor and compartments, roar to loud cries, of excitement and they hum in my ears, as my pulse quickens. I feel the vibrations of their joy, their loud conversations and shouts amongst each other through the floor, and up, from my feet, and through my veins like a wildfire, and then to my heart, my mind, my eyes. And I want to be loud with them, I want to join in that chaos, I want to be one with that sound, but I am not, I observe, an outsider, standing, surrounded by strangers, looking on at their joy, watching their happiness, and I feel the need to find my friends, no, my family.

I push my way through the masses, brushing past people of all shapes and sizes, eyes straining to find my friends through the crowd. I can feel hands graze me, and reach past me, never for me, looking through me as if I were transparent. And I let them look on through, through me, I am so used to being invisible, unseen. In a world that already has people to look at, like James Potter, why look at someone who doesn't have that last name, or any name you want to know. It reminds me.

And I am taken back to the streets of London, where the orphanage is located, is full of people, going somewhere, towards something, or running from the horrors they left behind, but they never notice, and this corridor reminds me of a busy alley way, as people are too caught up in their own little bubbles, their own little lives they can't see me, sometimes I wonder if they can see each other, or just themselves.

The streets in London are not full of wizards, not in the suburbs, close to the river that smells of rotting flesh and fish scales, salt, even though it is fresh water. No, not fresh, the colour of it is not clear, or blue, not even the grimiest shade, no it is a particular tone of brown and black, that looks like melted tar, full of garbage and bones, of god knows what animal.

And there, lost among the brick, the grim skeleton like people, with eyes that only face forward, and minds that only see themselves, is the building I hate. I hate few things in life, hate is such a strong emotion, that to use it you need to think carefully, and practically before saying you hate something, someone. I only hate 3 things in my life, and I can justify each one.

My parents, for giving me up, on that little orphanage step, without allowing me to have a chance to prove myself. I hate people who abuse the power they have been given, and don't have to work hard for what they get, the ones that breeze through life. And lastly, thirdly, I hate that building, with its faded welcome mat that you can't make out the letters on, the orphanage.

The hands reach for me, in the crowd and pull me into an unwanted hug, I let out a surprised gasp, unable to see who it is, I push at their chest, using as much force as I can muster,

"What the hell?"

A laugh, nervous, endearing, young, "Just me, just me,"

And I look up at the moulded blonde hair, sculpted with jell and god knows what else, into what one would think as perfection. His eyes are the colour of ice, a white blue, which reminds me of the clouds before a snow storm. His jaw is prominent, and his face is all shadows, and mystery. But his smile, quirked at the right corner, is something I have missed. But those beautiful eyes hold guilt, and they look at me estranged, and cautious, as if approaching a wild animal.

No wonder I didn't recognise his hands, which are clad in dark green leather gloves, soft at the edges. He wears long sleeves, also green, at just a glance he would look like a forest, full of trees, and snow just at its top leaves, but I am no fool, and I never just glance, I inspect, and what I see instils anger, but different then my anger with Potter, this anger is of someone I thought I could count on, and I refuse to let that anger slip, instead, I let it build a wall, and the wall does not have a door, or an end, it goes forever.

"Let go of me,"

There it is, a voice I reserve for people who hurt me, cold, unfeeling, unreal, not sarcastic, not joking. I am not playing a game, I am telling a coward to stop touching me, or he will lose one of those well-groomed hands.

"I'm sorry about this summer, I,"

"I don't want to hear it, it's okay, don't you see, I'm perfectly fine, until you came along,"

I am bitter, I am unforgiving, I am spiteful, and I watch him let go, hands slipping, as if he knows that he is walking on thin ice, which can break at any moment. So he steps back.

The crowd parts around us, and only now do eyes look at us, the stance, the person in front of me, the anger in my eyes, and they read it like a picture book, unable to look between the lines, unable to see beyond their narrow vision. They think he is breaking up with me, that the summer didn't go well for us. And they are only partially right. The summer didn't go well for us, but it isn't him breaking our friendship off, it's me, and it is nothing more than a friendship, nothing more.

And I feel it that caged feeling I get when I know the only way out is burning down the bridges, and running. So does that make me the coward, or him? I wonder, I wonder which one of us is worse, because I know I am being unfair, but he wasn't there, he didn't visit once. And he now comes to me and expects me to try and understand, and a part of me feels like I should be, understand him, help him, be his friend, but the bigger part of me is on fire, he thinks he knows hard? He was born into a family with money, riches, and yes, society rejects him, but at least they notice he exists, eyes follow him, the newspapers want to know who he dates, who he talks to. If he's gay.

His eyes fill with sorrow, and he grabs for me again, thin hands, not built for sports but for art and writing, he has lost weight over the summer, but not much, still grown taller, and I tare my eyes away before I recognise any other changes. I didn't want to have to recognise changes, I wanted to know what he'd look like, I wanted to spend the summer with him, so I wouldn't have to stare at him and take all the little differences in.

And here he is, begging me to forget and forgive. If I could scream I would, but I don't, I don't let him see how afraid I am that he will walk back down that corridor and never look back. I want to tell him he screwed up but we can fix it, but today is a day too soon, and my sympathies are buried far under the hurt.

"I was busy, you read the news, you know what's going on,"

His voice is cracked, urgent,

"I know? You're a kid, you think you can face the world, side by side with your dad, that's great, just remember I exist when you're done,"

My voice is harsh, demanding, done.

He shakes his head, eyes down cast, regret surges in those eyes, and I also look away, I can't, no, I can't.

"You know what, I shouldn't have thought you'd come, but it would have been better if you had written, or told me you couldn't because I waited, and waited, every day, on that street curb, eyes straining in the distance, saying to myself, he'll be here any minute."

He opens his mouth to respond, but I'm not done,

"I have to live in hell, hell, and your excuse for leaving me there, for 3 god damn months, is I was 'busy'?"

He gets a word in, with a, "Not busy, trying to help people,"

And then it's gone, the deep feeling of wanting to understand, and I snap, as if I was a cord transmitting electrical waves, but someone cuts me in half, and sparks fly.

"Helping people? Am I not a person? Did I not need your help?"

I am waving my hands, not even sure what I am trying to communicate to him, and the strange looks of the crowd pin me down, and again I remind myself of a wild animal.

I turn to leave, to leave Scorpius Malfoy in the dust, but before I go, I turn back, and look him dead in those liquid eyes, and I insult him, not for fun, but because I needed to see that look on his face, the fear, the anger, to see that I affected him,

"You know even bloody Potter has helped more people than you ever could, and I hate him…"

And as I walk away I call over my shoulder,

"Enjoy fourth year Malfoy…"

As soon as I feel his eyes leave my retreating figure, guilt washes over me like waves, over and over, never ending. What a way to begin, Potter knowing my name, me being a prefect, ending things with Scorp. What was I thinking? An idiot, I always have these moments, where I can't seem to stop myself, and my mind goes numb, and my tongue takes over.

Spinning a web and trapping whoever falls in first.

I was lying when I yelled at him; I was lying when I said I hated Potter. I don't know him well enough to hate him, despise, dislike, ignore, but never hate, he isn't on my short list of things I hate.

But the orphanage is. Mercy Orphanage, the name brings a shadow across my face, a look of fear, and I never let anyone see me be afraid, that wall never cracks, but only there, there I feel weak, empty, less than nothing, and the thought of it makes my hands shake, my breath quicken.

Three months was the longest in a while, I wasn't used to that long, in second year, I spent the summer with Scorpius at a beach house his family owns. Far away from everything, and I blocked out most of first year.

The beach house had a wonderful view of the setting and rising of the sun, a beautiful look at the harbour, watching ships arrive and embark, it was the best 3 months of my life. We were all alone, secluded, far from the hurricane back at Mercy's. I have never seen Scorpius happier, so I don't understand, why leave me waiting, silent, without a word he couldn't make it, all summer long, ignoring my letters, my spells, my presents, my question.

"Where are you?"

He is lying about the newspaper, yes, the world is in chaos, but he wasn't there, his father was, Draco Malfoy, but not him. He wasn't at the beach house; they sold it, I apparated, illegally, and checked. So where was he? Locked up in Malfoy Manor, behind those big iron doors? His parents loved him; they would let him go anywhere, right? His mother was an angel to him, she adored her only child, and his father was easily made proud, under the tough love is his heart, and it beats for him, he wouldn't drag Scorpius into this mess, and definitely not this young, right?

So why lie? My mind flew like the wind, thoughts scattering and unable to form one solid idea, why?

"You look like you just saw someone die"

The voice is clear, and beautiful, innocent, and worried, but not understanding what worry is, just knowing I'm off, that something must be wrong,

"Were almost there you know, don't worry,"

Kind and trying to help me, her voice does make my breathing slow for a moment.

Oh Lucy, the one who jumps to the conclusions as quickly as she can, trying to find the source of my troubled brow, but I can't tell her, I need V; I need V to hold me, with those arms and eyes that just get it. I need my mother, and V is the closest thing I have ever had to that.

My own mother left me a name, and a whisper, wrapped in a blanket of black velvet in the dark shadows of dusk, screaming my lungs out as I call for her, as I beg her, stay. At least I imagine that is what I'd be doing; trying to convince her I am worth it, that I won't be a burden, that I just need her. But she didn't stay, so my heart still beats, and I have made myself into a defence system, attack, retreat and so on.

Sometimes I stay up at night, staring at the stars through the cracks in the wooden ceiling at my small, confined room in the orphanage, and I look at those diamonds in the sky, and I wonder, do they know how precious they look, shining there, radiant, or do they wish they could shine brighter, do they also fear falling?

I look at the universe that covers me in its skied blanket, and I think, "Would she be proud, would she see me and want me back, and regret?" "Or would she say 'shine brighter'"

"I'm trying, I'm trying to make you proud" I whisper into that darkness, and I tell all I've done to make her so, the grades, the prefect badge, the homework always done, not one detention, top in almost every class, never late for curfew, with good friends, and learning to paint and draw, and write and do, everything, everything.

And sometimes I don't get an answer. And others, I argue in my head, until sleep drags me under…..

"What's wrong with you two?"

Dom is in far too happy of a mood to let me concern her, and I let her happiness warm the tips of my heart,

"Nothing, we were practicing Lucy's divination, staring into each other's souls, the usual,"

Dom claps her hands over her ears, eyes filled with horror, shaking her head, as she begins to yell at me,

"NOPE! No divination, no learning, we haven't even gotten there, give it a bloody rest!"

I raise my hands in defence, "Okay, okay, okay!"

And she slips past me, getting down all of our bags, excitement coursing through her. And I observe it with a distant look in my eyes. As if I couldn't, I couldn't reach out and grab hold of it that bliss. It was too far away. Too far gone.

Lucy follows her and Roxy trails behind her, still not fully awake.

"What is wrong?"

The voice is comforting, like a soft pillow that I could burry myself in and sob. V's voice is always comforting.

"I saw Scorpius,"

Her eyes widen a little, realization sparking, and sadness as well, she wraps her arms around my waist, loosely, chin wresting on my shoulder,

"Crap, I thought it would be something like that…. Did he tell you why he wasn't there?"

"Yes." My voice is broken at the edges and I feel small and cowardly as I shrink into her embrace,

"But what he said makes it worse,"

She sighs, jaw clenching with anger, "He lied didn't he, that bastard"

"No V, he is no bastard, but yeah, he lied,"

She is shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut,

"Why does he keep treating you like an idiot, you know you are the smartest person I know,"

I send her a sad smile, but no tears run, I feel drained, as if a year has already passed and the train should start taking me back. Why did today seem like forever?

"I'm fine,"

She opens her eyes, "No, but I will make sure that you will be fine…"

I am off the train, feet hitting the pavement, loud, my luggage following behind me, floating in the air with a simple Levitation spell, and flick of my wand. The carriages wheels are loud in the distance, and my keen ears pick up all the familiarities, Hagrid shouting for the first years, loud and booming, but the kindest, gentlest voice.

The stars bright as they all fall in salute, dashing through the sky, and flying towards the castle, we all watch in awe, but I smile, I remember the first time I saw the salute, which was developed after the great war, a reminder of the spells racing towards Hogwarts walls, as Harry Potter took his last stand against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I remember thinking they were bombs flying through the air; I remember how I wanted to know, to understand, to learn.

I suppose they serve that purpose as well, but the reminder seems lost in the beauty, the stars fly onwards, so close to Hogwarts' tall towers, I flinch for them, but they bounce off, as if they hit a barrier, just like in the war, and they fly back up to their original positions in that darkness, and I feel free, my worries of Scorpius and what the year will bring are forgotten, and I am charging through the crowd, hands interlaced with V's and Dom's as I drag them towards a carriage, that stands almost vacant, for the only person who occupies it is Sheila Rowle, a pureblood, who is James Potters girlfriend, at least, last time I checked.

Potter never keeps his girlfriends for long, some say he plays ball on the Quidditch field and in the Hogwarts halls. I say, he doesn't respect women; he isn't capable of long term commitment, which makes him a child with a big body to match his ego. Not that I think about Potter ever, just sometimes, it becomes a tad difficult to ignore him completely when my friends all love him. I suppose one must love their family, whatever family they are dealt with, but I wouldn't know. And all my friends, other than Scorpius are related to bloody Potter.

I put on my best fake smile, and add an extra zest to my happy voice,

"Hi Sheila, how was your summer?"

The question you must ask out of polite attitude, if I didn't ask she would have to ask me, and I would have to stumble out a lie, I don't like lies, they breed, and they grow, and you can cut off one head, but 2 more will take its place. Rumours will spread.

She looks at me, stunningly beautiful, it isn't too hard to see what Potter sees in her, or more like, outside of her. She is a Gryffindor, but I personally think she doesn't deserve the title, bravery isn't a word in her vocabulary, or perhaps, like Veronica always says, I judge too quickly and don't know someone just by an observation. I suppose she's right, but I want to believe James Potter is this shallow, that he likes girls who have the short blonde hair and brown eyes, the nice figure and low IQ.

"Great, I spent it with Jamie,"

The smile drips with disgust, but stays planted, "That sounds so… Fun,"

"Yeah it was, he helped me study and get ready for this year, he is so sweet,"

I nod my head, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, "Isn't he? Isn't he V, sweet?"

V raises an eyebrow at me looking amused, and nods, "Yes, he is,"

She sends me a quick smile of ironic payback, and steps forward to give Sheila a big hug.

They start chatting, already knowing each other well from this summer and a ripple of sadness washes towards me, but I push it away, rejecting it.

Lucy and Roxanne walk towards our carriage, and then, loud through the crowd and the whole station is his voice, projected through a microphone spell, that allows your wand to become one of those muggle devices that makes you louder.

His voice is exciting, it makes my blood hum in response, and the crowd's focus changes to that voice, just like his laugh it is addictive, but I am careful with it, because like a drug, I don't want to need it, to not be able to live without it.

"Gryffindor Quidditch team, let's take to the sky!"

And there he goes, pushing off the ground and into the world high above, soaring into the night, he is on his own brand of broom, called "Potter Two-one-o" (Potter 2-1-O)after the century he was born into, he has the latest model as he flies the wind, becoming the wind itself, and all eyes are on him, his robes flapping in the heavy air, hair streaming behind him, he uses no hands as he controls the broom with just his legs. Some say that Harry was good, but James? Both of his parents were brilliant Quidditch players, mom and dad, it's simply in his blood.

And there behind him, Lucy and Roxanne grabbing their brooms, and running into formation, all pushing off, the Gryffindor Quidditch team takes to the heavens forming a diamond, Potter at its pointed lead, and they look like angels, the stars shining on them with a tender light, making them seem to glow, all follow James' lead as he dips on his broom, and takes off like a thunder bolt. Laughing at the top of his voice, screaming to the wind, eyes alive, and in that moment I wish, I wish I was up there, racing the stars, and chasing the clouds, fingers running through their cold moisture, eyes never looking down, but ahead, without giving a damn about what lied before me, reckless.

And then he goes of course, yelling an order to the team to continue flying, as he stops at our carriage, 10 feet above us. Looking down, he always seems to be looking down. His eyes rest on me for the quickest of moments, and he must see in my face my want, my want for that life, because he sends me a small grin, his eyes twinkling as if he captured two stars within them, before his eyes rest on Sheila, of course he came for her.

"You gonna help me lead this parade, or you gonna rain on it?"

She blushes and giggles, and stands, jumping down from our carriage and running to the front, empty one, that James' and his friends luggage occupies, and she raises the Hogwarts banner, along with the Gryffindor one, and waving them in the air, the procession begins, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, led by their noble captain make their way towards the castle, away in the distance. And I watch him shout and scream, laughing and roaring, as he, not her, not the team, but him, leads us all, all the students, as the carriages begin to roll, and rumble forwards, and I let them, face turned upward, eyes to the sky, he leads us. I suppose that is what he was born to do, to lead.

Eventually my eyes face forward; V and Dom sit with me, surrounded by Sheila's, Roxy's, Lucy's and our luggage. I look at the carriage, soaking in the missed dark metal iron, painted in black and cushioned seats with chipped wooden backs, and pitch black leather harnesses tied to the beautiful Thestrals. I have always admired their wings, and how they look like horses, but their shadows, as if the obscured darkness you see in the grass, when they walk. Their eyes fascinate me, but in them I see a tragedy. Painted like a masterpiece the flashes of a high tower, and the world spinning by beneath it, the ground running at me, the scream, torn from my lips "NO!" And I look away, some things are better left unsaid, and some mysteries are better not solved, and that look in those eyes, the fear that they reflect, it sends a chill down my spine, so I ignore and I pretend that connecting to those harnesses is thin air, and that I can see nothing.

I like nothing, an emptiness you can fill with your mind, you can create anything out of nothing but if something is there, then you have to accept it, or pretend, but pretending only lasts so long, and one day you will make a mistake, and slip, and someone will notice that you can see so much more than nothing, that nothing is something you can't even remember.

The ride is short, bumpy, but beautiful, I watch the lake run by, the little boats bobbing in the water as the moon guides their way, the 1st years, biting their nails, and eyes wide, they can't believe, could it really? I know that feeling, we all had that feeling.

And there it is, rising from the shadows, and peering out of the dark, lighting my path, it's Hogwarts. And my blood is burning, my breath is quick, my eyes wide, my heart hammering,

"Almost there…."