She's the most gorgeous girl at school, all around her jaws drop and boys fall in piles at her dainty feet. Nobody can help but fall in love with her because she is just so happy; she has the disposition of sunshine, all smiles and no clouds. He can't be in her presence without staring with incredulous eyes at something, her toned body, her cascading hair, her love of living. So he makes it his goal to have her, to make her want him in the same throbbing way he wants her.
"You're crazy, mate," Riley tells him, "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but, she's out of your league." And he knows she is but he can't accept defeat that easily.
"I know," Scorpius admits, "but look at her! She's beautiful. I need her. At least promise me you'll try to help," he asks his friend, who doesn't look so sure about Scorpius' mental health right now.
"Oh stop looking so pathetic," Riley chides, "of course I'll help, but don't blame me when she says no."
"I'm not going to come right out and ask her!" He looks shocked at even the suggestion, "I'm going to become her friend, you know, get her to trust me. Then I'll tell her."
He hears a sighed, "what ever you say, mate," before walking up to Rose. She smiles her sunny smile at him and he momentarily forgets what he was going to say.
"Do you need help with that?" He offers after regaining his breath. She looks at her trunk for a moment, and then glances at the rack where it needs to go.
"Would you? Every year I try to pack light but I can't ever seem to lift it up there." He leans down and, with a grunt, stows it next to the other trunks on the shelf.
"There you are," he tells her, aware that she is awfully close and her hair smells like lavender.
"Thank you," she breathes, seemingly captivated by his eyes. The two of them lean in, the difference in space almost imperceptible but really all the encouragement he needs.
"Oi! Rose! We're in this compartment," a voice yells out. The moment shatters and she turns away, blushing a delicate pink.
"Well," she casts her eyes down, awkwardly not meeting his gaze, "thanks again," before turning and walking into the compartment with all of her cousins.
"No problem," he tells the empty air, and then he walks back to Riley.
"So?" The other boy is surprisingly anxious to hear he results of the pair's interaction.
"She's even prettier up close," Scorpius sighs in response.
0000
September had passed, largely uneventfully, and now October was creeping close. Scorpius and Rose had spoken almost everyday, he always found reasons to run into her. She didn't see him as a friend, but they exchanged pleasantries with each brief conversation.
"Hey Scorpius," she smiles her ever-present grin, "you done with that essay for Transfiguration?" He nods, waiting until he swallows his buttered toast before speaking.
"I put the finishing touches on it last night," he is immensely proud of the piece of parchment, it is well written and answers all of the questions the students had been given. "Do you want me to edit yours?" He offers.
"Oh, yes please," she hands it to him as if she had been waiting for him say those exact words.
The sunlight streaming through the window was catching strands in her hair, illuminating the gold pieces hidden among the red. He takes the paper and reads it quickly, his eyes darting back and forth as he finishes the essay. It was extraordinarily good. So good, in fact, that he had only found a few minor punctuation issues, run on sentences and the like, scattered infrequently down the page.
"It's," he looks up at her, "it's really good. This, though, should be a semi-colon, and you need a comma here," he mumbles to himself, making the necessary changes. She gives him her best smile.
"Thank you," she says gratefully, "I really need to do well on this." But they both know she doesn't need to do well because she's already done so well in the class that she could pass it without doing any more home work for the year.
The two walk to Potions, her clutching her textbooks to her chest and laughing her tinkling laugh that makes his heart hurt a little.
0000
December ushers in snowy days and cold winds, she wraps herself up in a large scarf, Gryffindor colors of course, and he can't help but notice how her porcelain cheeks flush a delicate pink with the cold.
Everywhere he looks she's doing something, helping over-stressed first years, hanging Christmas decorations, tutoring third years, or visiting the groundskeeper. She's always moving, twirling around making the world a little more perfect with each act. She's everywhere doing everything and he can't keep up with how she can be so good, especially without failing out of her classes. Boys are always trailing her, trying to keep up with her charitable spirit. To each one that asks her out she says a polite no but suggests a better girl for them to focus on, more often than not the couples she match are inseparable for months.
"How do you do it?" He asks with wonder as she flits about, correcting three essays and instructing a younger student on the art of siphoning ink off of books.
"Oh, you know," she replies breezily, "I just do,"
Even with ink smudged on her face and her hair knotted into a bun, he thinks she's the most beautiful thing in the world.
0000
It was just the two of them, him and her, in the common room one abnormally warm night in February. She is sitting close to the fire, hunched over an essay that wasn't due for a week. He is in the corner of the room, preferring to watch the flames flickering over her face without her aware of his presence. She is captivating.
A tawny owl began tapping on the window, after a few seconds she walks over to the pane of glass and allows the bird entry. It drops a letter into her slender hands. She looks shocked as she reads it, muttering "no, no!" several times. When she is finished, she throws it to the ground and begins to cry.
Previously he could never imagine it, Rose Weasley crying? The happy, sunny girl in tears? But they are streaking down her face and she is sobbing. It is with none of her usual grace that she falls to the ground, pulling her knees close and rocking back and forth as if the simple action will keep her whole. He thinks he should say something, but he has no idea what words he should use. Instead, he steps forward and pulls her into his arms so that he is sitting on the marble floor with her on his lap. And he doesn't talk because he can't, the smell, the sight, the feel of her pressed so close to him makes him inappropriately exuberant but he tries to reject the joyful feeling because she is, obviously, miserable.
"They're gone," she mumbles into his shoulder, "all gone. No more. Like they went poof and disappeared," she dissolves into peals of hysteric laughter, "poof," she clenches her fist and then extends her fingers outwards like a magician, "did you know that? All gone, no more, never seeing them again, poof," she giggles madly, "poof."
It's heartbreaking for him to see her like this, so different from the girl he thought he loved, but even with her smile too wide and her eyes too bright and her laughter too high, she is beautiful. She quiets for a little while, just resting in his arms, occasionally dissolving in yet more laughter. He takes the silent moments to read the letter that had fluttered to the ground near his feet.
Miss Rose Weasley,
We regret to inform you that your parents were targeted by a group of supports of Voldemort. We assure you that their deaths were quite quick and painless and we offer our greatest condolences to your family.
-Alfred Worinsister
His chest aches for her but he doesn't know how to fix it, and he is sure her pain is much worse. His helplessness is frustrating to him, she is falling to pieces and he is just watching her go. He should stop her; put her back together before she's gone for good, too. Poof. But her laughter is dying down and her eyes are drying.
"Are you okay?" He regrets the question the minute it's out of his mouth. Of course she's not okay, she's lost everything.
But she tucks her grieving expression in her pocket and gives him a small smile, it's not her usual grin but she looks, at the very least, mentally stable again.
"Yes," she nods, her eyes still a little watery and her smile a little forced.
"That's good," he says awkwardly, because what should one say when they discover that not only has their love's parents died, but that their lady love might also be losing it?
"Very much so," she tells him before pushing off the cold ground and walking, quite calmly, to her dormitory.
He only sits in the common room for several minutes before she reappears. Alone, she heads for the exit, without thinking, he follows.
She walks with her usual confidence before, once outside the castle, deteriorating into a jarring, stumbling motion. It is in this way that she walks towards the weeping willow, a tree that he had often observed her leaning against in the few moments she wasn't doing some charitable act. But she doesn't slide down the tree, pressing her back against it and having her isolated cry; instead she passes the mourning tree and continues her odd gait. She walks into the water, wading forward with an air of desperate melancholy. He watches as her knees disappear under the water.
"Stop!" He cries out to her, taking satisfaction in the wondrous gaze the red head bestows him for his skill in remaining hidden. "The squid!" She laughs him off like he is a small child, incapable of making his own decisions regarding priorities.
"You don't get it, do you?" She asks him, looking bemused by his ignorance, "you really don't get it."
"Tell me," he pleads, his chest tightens with something that feels like apprehension? Fear? Dread?
"You think you love me." She grants his wish by telling him the cause of her small elation.
"I do!" He swears.
"No, you really don't," she says it kindly, as if hurting his feelings would be the worst crime in the world. He can't help but revel in how gentle she is even as she is refusing him.
"But I do! I have for years; I've loved you for years. Rose, you are what I picture my future to be." Desperation and years worth of aching loneliness seep into his voice.
"No!" The shriek tears its ugly sound from her lips, "You love the idea of me. You love who you think I am, what you think I am. You think I'm perfect but I'm flawed. I'm so screwed up but you, just like everybody else, think that I'm an angel. I see how you look at me, those admiring stairs, I see it. You only love what you think I am, you don't love me, see?"
"Give me a chance," he pleads, "one chance. Let me prove to you that I love you just like you are; I know you aren't perfect, but you are to me. I know you have problems but I want you to let me help you solve them. I can be your everything, I know that losing your parents hurts but I want to make it better. I want to make you better. Just give me one chance."
"I can't," she sounds so small and weak, "I can't do that. I don't love you. Would you do me one favor, though?"
"Anything," he promises.
"Tell them all goodbye." Her request shocks him; he wondered where she might be going and who she wanted him to deliver the message to.
"Tell who?" He feels silly for needing to ask but he would hate to deliver her message to the wrong people.
"Everyone," she responds, "just make sure they know that I didn't mean, that I didn't want, that I chose it to be like this. Tell them; promise me you'll tell them."
"Of course I will," he blindly swears, unsure still of his assignment.
"Okay, good." She smiles at him, her face looking weary and worn down by the weight of her grief. "Now, it's time for me to take my leave."
"You can't leave, you can't leave me. Don't go!" Because he knows what she means when she pulls a small gun from the bag slung over her thin shoulder. He begs but she just stands in the still water, calmly facing him with the face of a goddess carved by skillful hands, an angel fallen from the heavens.
"I'm already gone," her tear streaked face gazes back at him, "poof." And with that small utterance, she raises the gun in her hand and pulls the trigger.
I tried. I did, I did. I started this to be piece about her not being this perfect person, about her falling apart but him picking up the pieces and putting her back together but I couldn't do it. This was just too perfect an opportunity and it's been ages since I've written a tragedy.
Foxtail-Padfoot gets a huge thank you, so many reviews! I love it; keep 'em coming!
But, that's not fair, a few HUNDRED people read this, I can see when you click on 'Petals on a Rose'. I see it! But, only two of you see it necessary to respond? I'm sure some of you write, I'm absolutely sure that those who write enjoy hearing (seeing?) that other people enjoy their writing. Listen, I don't think I'm a great writer. I don't. I'm not. But I love this, I love weaving these stories. I see these authors with stories that are, what, sixteen chapters in length but have 300 reviews. That's not fair; I'm not that bad, am I? I'm not asking for a few hundred reviews, but if you read this it's not fair to me, as the author, to not receive any feedback. Think about it this way, don't you pay to see a play? What is that? A story being woven in front of your eyes. Now, I'm not a famous actor but I deserve a form of compensation for my work. I deserve to be praised or condemned as you choose. I put so much time into this, and I'm so tired of it. I'm sick of tapping away every night; I try to write for you all every night! But I'm not receiving emails saying that the last chapter was good, or it was awful, I don't care. I don't. You are allowed your opinion; all I ask is that you share it with me.
I love this story; I love all of these oneshots. Maybe I'm flattering myself, but I believe that (at least due to impeccable spelling and mostly good grammar) they are better than a lot of stuff on this website. They aren't the best in the world, I know that, but they are (I think) good. I love this but I can't do it anymore. So, I have an ultimatum to give: seven reviews or I'm done. I don't want to buy your love, tell me you hate it for all I care! I just need to see some sort of reason to continue this. I hate to do this, but you aren't leaving me a choice.
Upon receiving seven reviews, I will immediately publish a chapter, it's written and everything. If the emails don't come and no one cares enough to write me some sort of justification for continuing, then you will not be seeing any updates on this story except for a final goodbye.
Please stop thinking someone else will deliver the praise or critiques you think as you read all of this. Everybody seems to think somebody else will do it and the result is no one is reviewing. I've given you frequent updates and over two dozen lengthy chapters; I think that that it is fair to ask for a moment of your time to review. I've written 40 pages of this, that's a lot. I'm asking your for two sentences. I think you have it in you.
In case you don't like reading my rambles, 7 reviews or I'm out. Done. Gone. Poof.