I got inspired for this little story after going on a Bronte bender. Jane Eyre can really do that to you… I wanted to write something timeless and moody and scandalous. When you read this, I want you to imagine large, gothic estates, brooding males, thunderstorms, linen dresses, walking barefoot through fields, the whole nine yards…
I wrote this in a weekend and if you guys are interested, I'll definitely continue. I think it has potential to be an interesting, simmering story. Also, I love a trope where Rose and Scorpius absolutely cannot stand one another and I thought I'd try my hand at it.
Let me know what you think!
xoxox
-Fervor-
It was uncharacteristically hot the day the party arrived.
It was summer and the climate was filled with an unrelenting and unpredictable malice. The likes of which manifested from days of dreary, heavy droplets permeating the atmosphere, to brilliant, electric blue skies capping the dancing poplar trees that rooted in the orchards out back.
Rose couldn't tell which one she preferred. The grey, wet days felt familiar in a muted; commonplace sense. The air threatened to swallow her whole; keeping her safe and motionless inside it's dull melancholy. If the mottled clouds could paint a fragmented notion of her inner being; they would be the daring, thunderous storms outside muddy panes of glass.
By contrast, the days bathed in the early, ephemeral sunshine made her skin feel foreign and her eyes feel heavy. The choir of rustling leaves and wistful chirps pounded in her ears. She felt a deep longing for something she could not grasp and could not name- or maybe, refused to. The earth was alive; the world was running. She was stagnant; rooted like the poplar trees in the orchard -But not dancing.
"Confiture! Confiture!"
She had run to France; she knew that. Lily, strangely enough, was the only one who understood. Lily; who's sharp wit and bolstering eyes held mawkish contempt for Rose's own enigmatic ways since before they could remember, had lain bare the plan with which her cousin should follow suit.
"-Just go…" she had whispered fervently, looking at Rose with a trembling transparency she saved for few, "Don't tell the family. Don't even think- I can handle it. Wait until you've settled. Or else… They won't let you leave."
The two had never not been at odds. Rose had galaxies within her; orbiting, pulling, expanding- always. Lily lacked her own internal cosmos; settling for total commandment of the universes around her. Rose could sometimes barely articulate words over the unearthly chatter going on in her own head. Lily had the uncanny ability to rarely ever cease speaking.
Lily had the world at her beck and call- leaving Rose as a familial shadow; ensconced to the society they held, permanently in the notions her dear cousin decided to bestow upon her. Rose had Albus- something Lily would never forgive her for…
"What about Al?", Rose had fervently whispered back, "What will I tell him?"
Something itched in the back of her mind as her cousin vehemently repeated her earlier statement, "-Just go!" she had said, taking Rose by the hand, "Don't think about him. Don't think about any of them…"
It itched with the twisting unease of distrust. Did Lily merely want her gone for good? It would not be uncharacteristic. However, something deceptively fractured in Lily's eyes told her that maybe -for the first time, it seemed- she wished she could be in Rose's place instead.
"Confiture! Confiture!"
At the time, even if Lily had wanted her gone, little could have kept her from exodus. She could no longer stand to exist in the stifling commotion her family provided. They were a tangled mass of long limbs and red hair and fiery opinions. They felt as if each existed solely to hold and transpire every burden; no matter how trifling. She often found herself scooped out, picked apart, feasted on; craving even a moment of silent clarity. How she wished she could cease their parade of jovial chaos.
It did not matter what she wanted. They were a family forged from fear; so tightly clung to one another, a slight desire of departure would cause a pain so deep it threatened to rip the very beating heart from their collective body. Family was everything. The highest sin would be to sever the tightly woven thread wound through each and every one of them.
And none of them even knew how deeply Rose had done just that.
Except…
"Mon bête confiture!"
That was the real reason she had to leave. With his deep, aching eyes searing into her at every family gathering; his arm swung tauntingly around the willowy, golden frame of his wife - her cousin. She was beginning to lose her sanity.
"He's in love with you, you know?" He had said to her on that summer afternoon.
The day everything changed.
Or had it? They had been dancing around each other for months. Toying with how far the other was willing to go. How much the other was willing to lose. Maybe that day, nothing had changed. They had merely given in to the inevitable. Rose could barely recall. Time seemed to blur; the memory feeling humid, sticky…saccharine.
He was referring to his son, Remy. Barely six.
"Mon bête confiture!"
Rose had always loved children. They had always loved her. Children did not mind the way words would catch in her throat, or the way her imagination often came to drag her from the dull reality of the world around her. They gave her words to say; begged of her to see their own spirited fantasies through her eyes. She was an eager and wistful accomplice.
Perhaps she was still very much the child who saw worlds hidden away in tree knots and felt the birds humming in the sky were speaking to her in a language all their own. She could coax even the most fastidious of children into believing in the universes unseen.
Remy was not fastidious. Remy was pulled by the tides; his person always frothing, swelling rising and falling. Moon Child, she had called him.
"All we hear about when you leave is 'Rose this…" and 'Rose that…' It's charming…" His eyes. Those deep, brown, aching…tempting eyes.
Rose remembered the rubied shine of his bottom lip as he drew the beer bottle away from his mouth. She had been so mesmerized by those lips; even as a child. They curved and pouted so beguilingly.
Vicky had needed help with the new baby. After moving from their seaside town so she could take a new job in the city; she found it much more difficult to manage a family without the help of her mother nearby. Margot was proving to be a child not so easily content with the world she had recently been brought into. Fits of screaming only ceasing from pure exhaustion and spent lungs, caused many a sleepless night in the Lupin household.
"Taking a toll…", she had heard Ginny say to her mother once in confidence, unaware of Rose's silent presence "That marriage has a shelf life…always has."
"New babies don't save relationships," her mother had confidently whispered back. Rose had found the exchange surprisingly cruel.
Rose found Margot to be a challenging child- but not impossible. On the first evening she was desperately begged to babysit -A vehement attempt on the part of Vicky to extract her and her husband from their slowly suffocating household- it seemed the little girl was prepared to wail into the night.
With Remy in tow; his bright pajamas and too big galoshes stark against the early evening sky, she carried Margot up and down the slow-moving creek adjacent to the family home.
She felt for the poor creature. She had valleys of sorrows inside she could not communicate; her tiny body holding the same turbulent galaxies spinning within Rose.
It seemed her little bundle of misery would be relentless in her crying. However, the warm summer wind and the gentle momentum of the water slowly lulled Margot into a deep slumber.
The three of them stayed outside for a moment more. Remy brought her bits of stone and sticks he had pulled from the creek; depositing them to her as valuable exchange for fanciful presents only the two of them could see. They stared at the silvery sky together; watching as the earth's natural satellite made its nightly appearance.
"Can you buy the moon..?", the little boy had sighed. "I'd like to buy you the moon…"
Rose looked down at his face; luminous and inquisitive. "You are the moon…Moon Child."
"Mon bête confiture!"
That night was the first night she felt those eyes on her. The two parents had come home early; anticipating the worst. They found Rose washing dishes; their home silent with the stark notion of two sleeping, starlit children.
"She loves the water…", Rose had said to their astonished faces. "The creek calms her…"
Vicky simply wrapped her arms around Rose; pressing herself in so tightly, she could feel every jolting angle of her thin frame. She smelled of jasmine.
That's when she first noticed the eyes. Eyes she had known her whole life shifted suddenly; moving from vacant acknowledgement, towards something… more engaged. These eyes were curious…wanting-almost. He walked her to the front way.
"Water, you say?" He had asked.
"Hmm?" She had been looking at her shoes slowly treading the gravel beneath her feet.
"You're good with them. Margie's a wild thing- We'll have to have you around more often." They had stopped at the front gate.
She remembered the color of his shirt; navy. How his hand curled around the edges of the wrought-iron. How she worshiped those hands…
"How's school?"
"School's done. Graduated last year."
The crickets chirped around them; a slow symphony aligning with the rising rhythms of her own heart. Those eyes shifted again. She saw it; that distinct change. She had noticed it in others as a girl; the summer her wiry limbs had softened and filled and the body she had always felt alien in became less so; much in the way the outside world now welcomed it's gentle curves.
She saw the looks from eager classmates at school; from men on the street. It terrified her. She cocooned herself in large sweaters and a mass of coarse, red hair. But then; with those aching eyes looking at her; almost through her. She did not feel the desire to leaden her body with fabric and silence. She imagined her own skin; softly shaded blue in the moonlight. The way she glanced at him through laden lashes. She felt brave. She felt powerful.
"We'll have to have you around more often…" he repeated.
She left without a word.
"Confiture! êtes-vous sourd?!"
"Don't most young boys fancy their sitters?" She had responded, softly. Back to the afternoon everything changed.
It had been a blistering summer. She had spent most of her days up to her knees in grass and mud and the tiny, tinkling of child's laughter.
One sitting job had turned to two, two had turned to three, and before she knew it, Vicky was on her hands and knees pleading with Rose to watch the children practically full-time. Rose was easily persuaded. Her post-school plans had been of a glaring absence for some time now. This would, at least, quell the hungering questions from mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles in regards to her future. For the moment.
She spent that summer living partially in dream worlds transposed from the mind of her young ward. She and Remy fought dragons and found ancient treasure and drew patterns in the sky with their words. All with Margot in tow; not fully trusting of the worlds harrowing realities, but slowly and surely getting there. They ate cheese sandwiches under willow trees and counted ants that walked by. They made up songs about blue houses, and mice with shoes. Their skin became freckled and golden; their feet painted earthen with dirt and grass. He called her Queen of Willows Ward.
She called him Moon Child… But you already knew that.
He began working from home. Just a day or two a week- but that was enough. Rose found herself counting down the hours till those eyes could burn intricate patterns through the linen of her summer dresses. At first, the notions of this blatant physical admiration were drawn more from fanciful loneliness, she felt. She could bask in the warmth of the attention due to the unattainability of his nature.
Then, she began to see patterns. She would put the baby down for a nap, Remy would soon follow suit. She would quietly tidy; placing toys back in baskets, opening windows so the blossoms opened by summer could fill the home with their subtle offerings. Almost like clockwork, he would emerge from his office; allowing a tactful excuse to slip from those beguiling lips.
He would ask her about her family; feign a small amount of interest in the goings on of her friends. She would try not to pay mind to the goosebumps steadily lifting from her skin as he would pass behind her, reaching for a glass on the shelf -conveniently adjacent to her.
In the hour or so of children's slumber, he began gleaning kernels of knowledge with which to gain access to those inner spinning universes she kept so closely guarded.
He would put on a record; something slow and evocative- ask her what she thought. He would offer her a book he felt she would like; the pages of which would often contain the taciturn simmerings of men in heady, reckless passions. She would take them home with her; allowing her body to enveloped in flame as she read the hungering words. He would come from the market, a tiny basket of strawberries in hand. Her favorite- she had told him. They would devour the fruit; their lips stained red with juice, eyes lidded with improper, unspoken words.
She knew what he was doing. She knew from that very first night exactly what he wanted. Every song, every book, every tooth sank deep into the soft flesh of fruit spelled out his errant desire for her. She should have felt the burdened sorrow of his infidelity, should have felt the indignation of his callous pursuit, should have felt her own guilt-ridden conscience so heedlessly pursuing her cousin's husband. She should have felt a great deal of things…
But she didn't. She, instead, was all-consumed by intoxicating, life-altering, sun-bathed, starry-eyed, unfathomable lust. Those eyes had set fire to everything inside of her and she could only feel the wayward flames curling and coursing through her body. She both yearned for and dreaded his imminent claim upon her. She knew it was coming, it was just a matter of who was willing to kneel first; who would admit delectable defeat.
"Most young boys don't have sitters as devoted to them as he does…", he had said. Another languid sip from his beer. How she wished she could be that amber bottle…
"Devoted is a strong word…", she had countered, lifting her eyes. The afternoon sun was catching against the light of the window, making him appear luminous; almost holy.
"He's lucky to have you." A clink of the bottle against the counter.
"I'm-" she stopped; her words catching in her throat. The light had shifted along with his person as he moved for her; the spell finally broken.
His hands on her face, wrapped softly around the base of her skull; capturing her in exquisite submission.
"Lucky to have you…", he breathed. Those beguiling lips and burning eyes made it impossible to tell exactly who the lucky one was.
"Écoute moi, confiture!"
Her world shifted, whisking her away from the golden, heavy, debaucherous kitchen. As she registered the sound of voices calling her, she could feel his hands slowly sliding down her body; slowly leaving her, slowly melting into her memories.
"Confiture!", a tiny explosion of anger registered nearby. The stifling heat and electric blue skies came and hit Rose with such a ferocity, she felt like she had been submerged under water, now gasping for air.
She turned to the source of the upset, her eyes registering on a small figure rushing towards her; golden hair and eyes too weary for such a young vessel to be holding them.
She rose from her seated position, brushing the small blades of grass that had become indented in her palm during her meditations. Feeling a small current of air brush through her fingertips, she looked up to see a wild, whipping wind coursing through the trees. Strange for the time of day.
"In english, Blanche…", she sighed, caught off guard by the enervating slightness in her own voice. Perhaps her tone would not sound so tiresome had she not said those exact words countless times since arriving at her newest place of employment.
"In english, Blanche!", mocked the little girl, stamping her foot haughtily; a move much too juvenile for someone at eight years of age.
Rose looked past her tantrum-ing ward, scanning the surrounding area for her other. Felix, just four, was sat beneath a tree; his usual pensive nature directed towards a small set of figurines he took everywhere with him.
"Écoute moi, confiture!", the girl stamped her foot again. Rose found it quite comical the way her golden curls would bounce with each impetuous stomp driven into the grass below.
Most would find Blanche Fauxcheu impossible. She had a power behind her brattiness Rose had yet to encounter in any other child. However, beneath her deeply spoiled and woefully vain exterior was something hardened by years of disregard. She was wounded; something that made her resolve almost iron-clad.
Almost. Blanche was not impossible to Rose. Frustratingly incorrigible? Yes. But not impossible.
She could see every placating habit the girl had been given in the place of love. She could see every fitful tantrum quelled with candy or presents; seen each haughty turn of phrase given attention with gales of laughter and a pat on the cheek. She could see every nanny brought to their wits-end, finally giving in to her tempestuous nature. All surmising the same tragic reality; Blanche was not worth their effort.
As Rose looked at the girl, matching her fiery indignation with neutral anticipation, she saw the frustration beneath the surface rise and then slowly settle. Blanche had begun to learn how decidedly immovable her new au pair was.
"Listen to me…", she said slowly, her eyes fluttering lightly.
Rose smiled softly, "Oh, is that what you wanted? Why didn't you just say so?"
Her face maintained it's stoney exterior, but Rose could see a small smile twitching beneath pursed lips.
"Mon bête confiture…" the girl drawled, somewhere between a taunt and an affectation. Rose let her have it.
'Confiture', or more often 'Bête confiture' was something of a nickname bestowed to Rose upon her initial arrival. On their very first meeting, Blanche had pointed to her head, the mass of red hair a humid halo in the summer heat, and declared "Elle est une bête confiture"…
The direct translation being "She is a beast jam". Rose surmised it was something of an insult.
You are a stupid jar of jelly.
Rose didn't mind. Somewhere in the month she had been with the family, the taunt had evolved from an angry "Une bête confiture!" towards a soft, more owning, "Mon bête confiture…"
My stupid jar of jelly.
The whipping air picked up again; startling Felix from his imaginary adventures. His blue eyes found Rose-
"…Wind!", he said with a smile, pointing up at the dancing trees. The lilt of his little accent making the word transpire as 'wee-nd'. Felix was easy to love. If Blanche was a torrential rainstorm; the world an unlucky boat lost in the treacherous waves of her malice, Felix was the immeasurable stillness of a lake at daybreak; its glossy surface broken only by gentle winds sweeping in to touch the waters.
"Très bon, Felix!", said Rose, "Yes, wind…"
Blanche huffed, "In english, Confiture…" Her haughty spark returning.
Rose reached down and gently touched her chin, "You are too smart for your own good- you know that?"
She often did not know how much Blanche and Felix actually understood of what she said. She suspected the elder knew more than she let on..
She found she did not speak much in the realm of her new employment. Her young, french wards had a minimal understanding of the english language; and an even more minimal desire to speak it. The House Elves employed at the estate came from a long line of Italian ancestry, and their thinly guised disregard for Rose aided in her encountering very little means of conversation that did not end in si, no, grazie and por favore.
However, Rose had found there was much that was understood in-between words spoken. She could surmise what she needed to know from the tone of their voice; from the inference in their eyes. Perhaps that was how it was with everyone; mattering less the translational nature of speech, and more the contextual nature behind it.
Perhaps Rose, gravely silent and endlessly empathetic, was better suited towards a life of wordless interpretation.
The wind picked up again, this time with such force it caused the dress she was wearing to catch and move rapidly. The golden curls of her french charges picked up and blew about wildly; inciting a fearful Felix to run into her arms and bury his face in her neck.
Rose anticipated the blued shadows of heavy rain clouds, as the wind was akin to the thunderous, late-July storms plaguing their countryside the past few weeks. However, the sky was the same un-mottled swatch of electric blue; not a cloud to be seen.
The rapid movement of the wind increased, causing even Blanche to move closer towards Rose, her eyes cast upwards with a tremor of fear.
The three of them began to move back towards the estate; shielding themselves from the gravel of the driveway, now picking up and swiftly transgressing towards them. There was an unnatural quality to the force of the weather. The poplar trees towards the manor gate were whipping so wildly, Rose feared they would become uprooted
Suddenly, everything stopped. An eerie echo of laughter could be heard from the farthest reaches of the property. The unmistakable cackling grew louder and louder until, all at once, the poplar trees bent forward in a chillingly unnatural way and a slight, purple haze was cast about the entrance.
A sound like the pop of a champagne bottle and the form of two sporting vehicles flew through the air; as if spit out from the purple haze. Blanche let out a small scream; the force of the extrusion causing the unsuspecting trio to be practically knocked off their feet.
The first car was the red Aston Martin. A favorite of Monsieur Faucheux; Blanche and Felix's father. The second was a small, sleek black car. She did not recognize it.
As the dust settled, Rose could hear peals of heady laughter coming from the attendee's, now emerging from the two vehicles. She registered the boisterous voice of Monsieur Faucheux.
"Oui d'accord! Oui d'accord!" His was a presence that could be felt, even from the back wall Rose was currently pressed against. "Vous gagnez!"
He was holding up his hands towards the black car, in mock surrender. Okay, okay. You win.
The tinkling, breathless voice of Madame Faucheux carried through the dust
"Bien joué!", she cried, clapping her hands towards the inhabitants of the smaller, black vehicle. Her hair was swept into an impeccable updo; caressed by a silk scarf, as effortless as an afterthought.
Like her daughter, Blanche, Vivianne Faucheux was impossibly beautiful. Her honeyed locks and sparkling eyes were added adorning on artfully aristocratic features. She carried herself with the air of someone who needed neither the money nor consequence to be so delightful to look upon. She had been born into privilege, married into more money and subsequently lived her life with the ease and cadence of someone who had very little to concern herself with.
Vivianne liked Rose. She liked the outward meekness Rose held, and the advanced status of her familial standing. Rose was the daughter of two heroes. And, like a delicately prized figurine, she enjoyed displaying Rose's obvious submission in the hierarchy of the Faucheux household.
She would often have Rose come down for dinner, when guests arrived; taking the opportune moment to flaunt her claim over the esteemed nanny from England. If someone as low in status as a nanny could hold the interesting caveat of a family of notoriety, imagine what that must say about the Faucheux's.
Rose did not mind. She knew she should feel the heavy insolence of manipulation; that she was not a puppet to be pulled out, showing her colors for the sake of elitism, but she did not. She did not feel much in any wayward sense, these days. Prior to accepting the position, all feeling within her had subsequently been bled out and buried. Her body still carried intuitive blueprints of lovers hands and whispered words, but her heart carried no trace of it's tortured past.
The parties from the unknown vehicle exited, making their stark presence known to the electric blue skies and dancing poplar trees. Both were male. Both tall, distinguished; the striking smartness of their attire aiding in the air of nonpareil status. One was larger and dark; he had been sitting in the passenger seat. The driver was fair and lean, a dark pair of glasses stood sharp against the pale of his skin. Rose found herself instinctively distrustful of his aristocratic nose and dry laughter; almost as if she had heard it before.
Blanche broke away from Rose, realizing the party was familiar. Her speed was impressive, and eyes darted mischievously between the new guests. Felix still clung to Rose; his tiny frame slightly quivering. The figurines in hand imprinted into the skin of Rose's chest; a small, plastic sword lancing her slightly.
"Maman!", screamed Blanche, the hard heel of her boots scraping across the gravel.
Rose flinched; knowing Vivinne's distaste for the screams of children. Even her own.
The Mrs. Faucheux turned; her face painted with a mixture of surprise and slight annoyance. This, it seemed, was the face she reserved solely for her son and daughter, anytime they had the notion of invading on her carefully esteemed exterior.
Blanche rounded the corner of the Aston Martin and barreled straight into her mother; her sparkling eyes intent on maternal embrace. "Maman! Maman!"
Vivienne held her daughter at a distance; pulling her skirt up, so as not to dirty her petticoat with the dust Blanche's momentum had kicked up.
"Calmez-vous, Blanche!", she chastised, her eyes looking over her daughter's wind-swept hair, intent on finding the person whose job it was to retain her young child until necessary presence was requested. Rose was already moving quickly towards the party.
Vivienne gave Rose an exasperated look; her face then scanning back to Blanche.
"Tu dois être une dame…", she sighed, placing herself further away from her daughter, and looking down critically at her. "Les dames ne courent pas"
You must be a lady. Ladies do not run.
Rose swiftly cut in, placing a hand on Blanche's shoulder. She did not miss the way the young girl fiercely wrought away from the touch; as if she was burnt by Rose's tenderness. Felix had still not brought his face out of the crook of his nanny's neck.
"Ah Bonjour, Rose-", soughed Vivienne, placing a non-existent stray hair back into place. "We are back early."
Rose nodded; shifting Felix in her arms. The Faucheux's schedule was so often effervescent in its comings and goings, she rarely knew what time or hour she could encounter her esteemed patrons.
"How are…?" the Madame asked; trailing a weak wave of her hand towards the two blondes hung off the side of their nanny. Her children.
Rose made another subtle attempt towards comfort with Blanche; but all she got was an indignant cross of her arm.
"Very well, merci." She sighed; squinting against the burgeoning sunlight. She could see the forms of the two strangers outlined in her peripherals. "We were just out in the gardens when you-"
"-And the English?" Vivienne inquired distractedly; signaling with a slight snap of her fingers for the bevy of House Elves employed to begin carrying in the luggage.
Ah, the English. Rose's entire entry to the grand lives of the Faucheuxs.
Vivienne's notion of refined offspring held the advantageousness of entering -by proxy- whatever society she ultimately deemed worthy. After the most recent nanny had fled; finally breaking under Blanche's mighty tyranny, Vivienne had decided the next one might as well hold some sort of value in the upbringing of her incorrigible daughter and unassuming son. She would find someone English to teach them English.
It was actually Louis who had informed Rose of this sudden opportunity. Wayward and impetuous in his own right; Louis had never really felt like a Weasley. His vixen-like prowess and veela blood kept him in a state of constant detachment. He was the only one who had chosen to attend Beuxbatons and he had stayed in France since then. It was, in all honesty, something Rose had always liked about him. Had she not been so enigmatically isolated by the power of her own internal cosmos, the two of them might have been much closer.
Do you fancy a summer in France?
His letter had read.
Mother has a cousin who is in need of an au pair. If you keep to yourself and know your place, I imagine you'll find the whole of it entirely tolerable. Send word if you're interested.
It was like a sign from the gods. The desperation inspired by months of heavy, sinful insolence had wrecked her. She was compulsively and heedlessly obsessed with a man who she should not love. They were reaching a frenetic breaking-point. It was only a matter of time before their passion boiled over into molten shards of infidelity and betrayal. The family could not ever find out.
She responded immediately and her position was secured within a fortnight.
She had bid Vicky a sudden goodbye via letter; stating a blisteringly nonsensical reason for departure. She did not tell Teddy goodbye.
The hardest part was looking into Remy's eyes on her final days in the Lupin household. She was too much of a coward to tell him she would be leaving for good; their hearts had wound together so tenderly in their year of kinship. He was seven now and his love for her was pure and delicate and intricately special in the way one's love is for someone who can gaze upon your soul and understand it endlessly. She hugged him so fiercely that final afternoon; finding a sheath of tears welling behind her eyes. She was his queen. He was her moon child.
And to save all parties involved; she prayed he would forget her as quickly as he possibly could.
"Their English is improving every day," she nodded; bringing herself out of her imbruing thoughts and nudging the cowering toddler she held in her arms, "Felix, tell maman about the trees moving…"
Felix scrunched his nose; bashfully turning towards his mother.
"So much...wind," he whispered shyly.
Vivenne was pleased; giving her son a slight pat on the back. "Et toi, Blanche?"
Blanche twisted her mouth; giving Rose a covert look of haughty distain. Rose could see an internal battle happening within the young girl. On one hand, there was nothing Blanche delighted in more than undermining her caretakers attempts at education. On the other hand; her mother's dismissal of attention was a much deeper bruise she did not feel keen on acquiring.
"I-" she started; her eyes darting between Rose and her mother, "I...am too smart for my own good."
Rose was impressed and exasperated in equal measure. Vivienne gave her daughter a strange little look, unsure of the statement. She opened her mouth to respond when suddenly, Blanche caught a better look at the new guests. Her eyes lit with delighted familiarity.
"Mon Frére!" she exclaimed with vigor; the frills of her summer dress bouncing again with a kick of gravel.
One of the strangers had moved towards the conversing party; his tall, lean frame dark against her vision.
"Ah! Mon petite monstre!", he growled affectionately; lifting the slight ingenue and spinning her lightly. My little monster.
Rose felt the snap of Vivienne's exasperation; silently commanding her employed to fetch the youth who was laboriously bestowing attention on an unsuspecting guest.
"Blanche!", cried Rose; shifting Felix again to place his feet back on the ground. He cowered; clinging tightly to her hand. "Come inside; mon cherie, we need to wash-up for-"
The stranger turned; his eyes resting on the sudden source of command. Rose felt her words fly; the flash of silver from his iris's slicing through her like ice. Her silent cocoon of safety came to suffocate her; reminding her succinctly of life's cold hand of unrelenting familiarity.
This guest was far from a stranger.
Her world seemed to slow for a moment, in the grand way one's world does when two abstract components of life decide to clash together with absence of fortuity.
She felt the young man's eyes dig into hers, inspiring spires of unsavory memories to construct beneath the surface of her skin. Her blood ran cold. His gaze cast a wash over her person; the insolence of recognition igniting a thinly disguised sneer.
Did he know her? Of course he knew her.
Even at school, he would never bestow her the true deference of apathy. A cool gaze would always be shot towards her; an attempt to bruise the guard of disinterest she held up so deliberately. His presence was always geared towards condescension; his manner always braised with privileged elegance.
His affect was one of calculated brilliance; sinful silence. He was better than every mere mortal surrounding him and he knew it. They had not shared more than a handful of exchanges in their time spent together. Not a single one could be construed as worthy of his time. Rose had not despised many in the years she had graced the orbiting earth, her nature did not permit it. But she had despised the boy now standing opposite to her; the dust settling around them like eerie snowfall.
One of the exuding graces from leaving school completely was the promise that she would be forever parting with the atrocious aristocratic sect he hung with and the labors of malcontent they exuded towards her family- Albus especially.
And here he was. Of all people. Scorpius Malfoy.
The spineless sanctuary she had shrouded herself in for the past month was being ripped apart by a flaxen monster who's silver eyes made her feel smaller and more insignificant than she thought possible.
His mouth parted; a recognant form of words spilling against the shine of his white teeth.
"Wea-"
"Blanche!", she commanded again; her eyes dropping to the dirt below. She would not recognize him. She would not give him that power. "Inside. Now."
Blanche obeyed; a small miracle in the grand scheme of the interaction. The young girl had never heard such a power behind the voice of her nanny; she was slightly startled.
Rose walked the two children quickly towards the servants entrance; the deadened galaxies within her igniting with sudden alarm. The subtle interaction felt like a torrential explosion compared to the listless orbiting her grey-world had submitted to within the last month. She had not felt the fiery energy of indignation, or the rioting shells of fear since she had left England. She hardly knew what to do with herself.
She heard Vivienne's voice croon softly to the source of her swift upset.
"Scorpius, gavroche… Est-ce que tu la connais?"
Do you know her?
Rose did not care to hear his response. If the heightening pulse of blood coursing through her veins was any indication, she already knew what his disparaging answer would be.
Next chapter coming very, very soon. Let me know what you think. I wanted to write a depressed and heartbroken Rose with no family loyalty and Scorpius as a bored and aristocratic elitist. I think the dynamic will be very interesting to experience, as they both really have nothing to gain or lose in their immediate interactions with one another. Just chemistry.
I listened to the piece: French Suite No. 3 in B Minor by Bach while I wrote this. It has that very despondent simplicity I felt whilst writing. If you are interested, I would highly recommend listening.
Reviews are always appreciated!
Xo