—CHAPTER THREE—
It was the first time any of them had dared leave the battle lines drawn between the school and the village, the bank and the alley. Yet, they had returned to where they all had shared roots. Where a rickety old building teetered high above hedges, unchanged despite everything, at the top of the hill.
Ginny was leading the pack, several steps in front of the others the moment that they Apparated. Her brothers, Hermione and Harry all marched behind her. The only one of their number who had stayed behind was Fleur, insisting that someone needed to remain at the pub in case an ambush was sprung, in case a battle was to interrupt the throbbing grief of the Weasley's personal lives. In any case, all of them had their wands out.
As Ron managed to catch up to his sister, panting hard when he reached her, he was far more watery than she was. "You don't think there's a chance—maybe we should have brought Hannah."
Ginny shook her head, mouth drawn in a thin line, and kept up her steady stride.
As they reached the front gate, there was a loud crack. Everyone started, whipping around as quickly as their reflexed allowed. Half a dozen curses had already flown in the direction of their assailant before they recognise the shock of red hair.
"Blimey," Charlie said, dropping his own Shield Charm and blinking at the group. "I wasn't expecting a bloody ambush."
"Neither were we," George said grimly, no humour in his face. "You got here fast."
"As soon as I heard the news," Charlie replied, falling into step beside them. They had to shuffle single file through the gate. "When I got word, I dropped everything, went straight to the city so I could get transport sorted. I Apparated out of Romania without a visa, but I don't think we have people checking those things anymore, do we?"
Bill scoffed in response, gripping Charlie's shoulder tightly.
There wasn't time for reunions. Everyone was in the Burrow, surging up the stairs to the fourth floor. Having led the pack there, Ginny was the first to the door, but the moment she was beneath the frame, all the ferocity went out of her like a snuffled flame. Her brow crumpled, her mouth curved into its shrinking grimace as she took in the sight of her father crumpled under bed sheets, frail and pale.
She sucked in a deep breath and dropped her bags on the floor. "Daddy," she whimpered, and flew to his bedside, where Molly was sitting, hunched over Arthur's arms.
The rest of the Weasley children poured in after her, taking their places. Ron by the nightstand, George by his father's feet, Charlie and Bill at either arm.
Arthur had been like a father to Harry through all these years, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't cross the threshold and join the picture of grief framed by the door.
With some insistence from Hermione, Mrs Weasley agreed to retreat into the kitchen for a short break. She slumped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, her head resting heavily on her hands, doubled by the invisible weight of her exhaustion. The kettle was bubbling. Hermione was collecting mugs from the cupboard, taking the teapot from its shelf. It was all done without magic, as if to slow down the process. Perhaps she also felt the intrusion, the inability to return to that room. Harry took the kettle off the stove and carefully poured the boiling water into the pot.
"Are you sure you don't want to sit with him, Molly?"
Slowly, Mrs Weasley raised her head and blinked her bloodshot eyes. It was like Hermione wasn't even there, as if she was staring right through her. The question finally registered. "I've been sitting with him all night."
"Arthur's strong," Harry said, dunking the teabags. "He might pull through."
"We're old, Harry," Mrs Weasley said. She held his gaze blankly before a wispy smile played across her mouth. "Remember when he was bitten by that great dirty snake and he was sitting in St Mungo's, telling us he had tried that mad Muggle procedure—what's it called?"
"Stitches," Hermione said, also smiling a little.
"Stitches! As if he was a set of old robes that needed patching!"
Once again, she lowered her head onto her hands. "Percy wasn't there that time either."
While her head was bowed, Harry and Hermione were able to share a look. They hadn't been able to get word to Percy, who had completely dropped off the grid. Hermione clutched the locket around her neck and sighed, heading towards the living room, likely to try and contact him again.
With steady hands, Harry filled up the two remaining mugs and slid the second across to Mrs Weasley. She rose with the steam, breathing it in deeply and lowering her hands to clutch the porcelain. She smiled weakly at Harry. "I'm alright, dear," she said, suddenly seemingly exactly like her usual self. "Arthur and I have lived through three wars in our lifetime. We have lived long lives."
Something caught in Harry's throat, forcing him to gulp down a mouthful of scalding tea that only made matters worse. When he recovered, pretending the tears in his eyes were from his burning throat, he managed to say, "I don't know how you've done it."
"You find ways and reasons to survive. All of you, our family, our grandchildren. You were our reasons. And you're all grown up now. You're all fighting your own battles."
For a while, they sat in silence. They could hear Hermione murmuring in the next room, her voice urgent.
"I thought about running," Harry admitted, sheepish. "I've suggested t a few times to Ginny. It's cowardly, I know. But I want to protect them."
Mrs Weasley smiled slowly again, the wrinkled around her mouth folding into ceases. She blew on her tea. "You don't think Arthur and I wanted to run? But none of you allowed that to be an option, did you?"
"How did you cope?"
"Day by day, and with great fear," she replied.
And he remembered, with startling clarity, the boggart in Grimmauld Place, transitioning through each of her children as Molly sobbed over it—it had been too hard to come up with a funny memory then, a silly reason to disperse the very worst fear of a parent. Molly and Arthur had lived the reality of that fear. They had lost Fred, and the pain of that still made Harry's heart clench.
Hermione came back into the room, tucking her locket back under the collar of her jumper. She raised the teapot lid and peered inside. "Shall I get us more tea?"
"That would be perfect," Harry said, before sculling the rest of his mug.
Hermione carried it over to the kettle.
"Mum."
They all looked up. Ron was leaning on the kitchen's doorjamb, his eyes bloodshot and webbed with tears. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"He's gone," Ron sniffed.
Hermione slowly put the kettle back down again. It thudded dully as it hit the benchtop.
"Well, not a bad way to go, was it? With all of his beautiful children around him," Molly said, very calmly. She stood, wiping her hands down her front, then squaring her shoulders. "Let's head upstairs. Hermione, dear, could you please write to Fleur and let her know we'll be burying Arthur this afternoon? In case she wants to pop by. It'll just be down at the gravesite in Ottery St Catchpole, where Fred is."
"Of course, Molly," Hermione murmured, already moving out of the kitchen.
"It's quite alright, Ron. Let's head back upstairs. Harry?"
"I'll be up in a minute," he said, his voice still tight. He watched his best friend climb the stairs, his shaking arm around his mother's bent shoulders. It was the most exhausted he had felt in years. If he could have put his head on the kitchen table, he may never have been able to lift it again—it would weigh as much as stone.
He heard the door open and turned around, already grabbing his wand with clumsy fingers. Baffled and windswept, Percy burst into through living room and into the kitchen, his scarf trailing after him. He blinked at Harry, sitting solitary at the kitchen table, and all the urgency bled out of him.
"I'm too late, aren't I?" he asked.
Harry nodded his head infinitesimally. "They're all upstairs."
Percy slumped over to the kitchen table, taking a seat and removing his tortoise shell glasses. He buried his face in his hands.
"Here. Let me get you some tea."
Scorpius and Rose sat on the floor of the boy's seventh year dormitories, which had only recently been repopulated—Scorpius' neatly packed trunk, his dark navy duvet, his Quidditch boots by the door had all found their new home—but between them sat the most important item among his possessions.
The little black leather book.
It was bound with cordage, making it all the more tempting to pull aside and thumb through the pages.
"They said the official title is Serpen," Rose started.
They had revisited the topic several times during the summer, each time beginning with their meeting with the previous group of seventh years; rehashing the instructions, analysing the plain black cover of the little book in hops of gleaning some answers, as if holding it on a new angle would illume some new understanding.
"Serpen Bearers," Scorpius corrected, as he usually did when they had this discussion. "It's just Latin for snake."
"So it could be nothing," Rose said, with a shrug. "It could just be a stupid, made-up title, couldn't it? Wouldn't be surprising if someone just made up the title to feel important, would it?"
Scorpius nodded very slowly, his expression grim. "It is something a Slytherin would do," he conceded.
But neither of them dropped the topic. The official title, they had said, as if this had some important history attached to it. There was no one left to ask—a few of the former Slytherin seventh years had stayed in the Tent City, but it wasn't worth trying to get answers out of them. Scorpius' father, the only alumnus to ever discuss the fagmaster system, hadn't been any help at all When Scorpius brought the subject up. They considered the Bloody Baron, but when they plied the ghost with questions, they only received cryptic responses that made no sense at all.
But Rose couldn't just forget about the little black book. There was something sinister in its innocent appearance, its tattered corners. It thrummed with a magic that felt alive, as if hundred of ants were trapped under the cover. While she insisted that he pull it out so they could study it, Scorpius always locked it in his trunk when they were done, certain that Rose would have opened it by now—broken the rules. She was the sort of person who didn't put much stock into rules, and he had a bad feeling about breaking the particular instructions they were given.
Sensing that her fascination was becoming a tad too strong, Scorpius picked up the book and tucked it back inside his trunk, snapping the lid shut. Rose sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her hair, stopping short where it ended at her shoulders. She seemed to always forget its new length.
"I feel like we're a bit better prepared," she acknowledged, returning to her business like tone. "I've gotten much better with non-verbal magic, and you've improved somewhat with duelling."
"Somewhat?" he repeated dryly.
Rose sniffed. "I'm still far better than you."
"Remember that one time I brought the Owlery rafters down on you?"
"Cheating," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
They both gave each other their broken smiles, like second-hand gifts repaired then exchanged, offered to one another as recompense. It was the best they could muster up. Scorpius felt his slowly slip from his face.
"We do need to be better prepared. We need to be better than they are. I don't know how else we can push ourselves."
"I was thinking," Rose said cautiously, her blue eyes darting up at him, "we could always check out the Restricted Section."
It was an unintentional scowl that spoilt his cherub lips. He would have preferred not to have shown any emotion at all, but he couldn't help it. Rose was not in the soundest of minds, and even if she had been, the thought of her pulling ideas from those books alarmed him. She had far less impulse control than he did, and she was hell-bent on revenge.
Reading his expression, Rose launched to her defence. "We could just look through a few of the advanced offensive magic books, you know? And I was thinking, there might be something in there that explains the whole Serpen thing."
She had thought through how to sell this idea to him. It was true—it was the one place they had yet to look, that may hold answers. If they wanted to get to the bottom of Slytherin's secrets, the Restricted Section may be their best bet.
"We won't be able to check those books out while Albus is with us," Scorpius conceded. "He can't know about the Serpen Bearers."
"He wouldn't like it anyway, would he?" Rose said, frowning. "When I mentioned looking up goblin books in the Restricted Section a few weeks ago, he said we should avoid it until we've exhausted all the other shelves."
"We'll have to go to the library on our own then," Scorpius sighed. "Find the books we need and bring them back here."
"Just the two of us," she acknowledged, then pursed her lips in the faintest of smiles. "Just like all those study dates we used to do that we liked to pretend weren't really dates."
Scorpius scoffed quietly and rolled his eyes, returning to those days in fifth year. Rose tucked one of her knees up to her chest and straightening the other out so her foot could nudge his leg like some strange alternative to shaking hands to seal a deal. They would go to the library on their own and scour the shelves and pilfer what they needed from the minds of sadists. She nudged his foot with her own once more, forcing him to look up at her. He paused, a little perplexed, trying to read her expression. She seemed puzzled too, as if trying to remember something, her thick brows pulled together and her eyes studying him in distraction, their startling blue lingering on the pink of his lips in a way that he had almost entirely forgotten.
Scorpius raised his eyebrows, prompting her to say whatever was on her mind, but she only shook her head and brushed her hands through her hair once more—abruptly halting when she reached her shoulders, again forgetting its new length. But he didn't pause to consider what had arrested her attention. Scorpius knew what Rose was obsessing over, really—a little black book destined for them both, bound with secrets, waiting for them like a present under a tree. That had to be it.
Soon, they would be able to open it, one way or another. Soon.
Imogen Abercrombie was sitting in font of the old box-set television eating a packet of crisps that she had substituted for dinner. With each salty crunch, she flicked the remote control, skipping channels, until she finally came to a stop on the news.
It was some sort of breaking news report from London. What was speculated to be another terrorist attack. A car had driven into pedestrians outside the gates of Buckingham Palace, most likely targeting tourists. The news reporter was gabbing away at the scene, her voice throbbing with urgency as she said buzz words—"deliberate" and "calculated" and "all too ordinary".
Imogen switched off the television set. Since returning home at start of the summer, she was beginning to doubt her decision with each passing day. It hadn't been sensible at all to run from the fight, especially since it was the same shit out here, in the Muggle world. Terrorist attacks, random targets, climbing panic. And nothing that could be done about it.
She heard her mother enter, the jangle of keys, the smell of take-away food, and finally, the strike of a match. She was lighting candles, which meant someone was coming over. Imogen scrunched up the plastic packet of crisps to make her presence known.
"Oh, you're in, are you?" her mum said, coming through the flat with the matchbox still in her hand.
"I don't have anywhere better to be."
"I have a bloke coming by tonight, so you can either hang about in your room or go out."
"Again?"
This passive aggressive reply was ignored. Her mum lit a sandalwood candle on the mantle, then primed her hair in the mirror above it, dabbing at the skin beneath her eyes. It depressed Imogen to think that she would probably share her mother's appearance in two decade's time.
"I got a Chinese if you're peckish. It's in the kitchen."
"I'm not hungry," Imogen growled, lounging further into the sofa.
Her mother turned to face her, checking that both her earrings were in. She tugged her earlobes. Imogen hadn't told her that she wasn't planning to go back to school after the summer. That this was it, the world was ending. She was completely cut off since leaving Hogwarts, no way to communicate with anyone.
The scent of sandalwood, usually comforting, was getting to her.
"I'll go out," she decided, pushing off the sofa and grabbing her bag. "I'll be back in a couple hours."
"Thanks, love."
What did her mother think she would be doing? Where did she expect her to go? Did she lack all maternal concern, the sort that everyone else's mums seemed to naturally possess? Wasn't she supposed to say, "be careful out there" and "it's dangerous these days" and "make sure you keep your phone on." All the usual buzzwords.
But her mum just turned back to the mirror, smoothing her eyebrows and pulling at the skin on her neck so it was taut.
Imogen closed the door behind her. The hallway still smelt like take out Chinese. She could hear their neighbours rowing through the wall. Somewhere on the street, a dog was barking in response to a shattered bottle.
It was all so mundane. So Muggle.
She could have Apparated to anywhere in the country, anywhere away from the place she had put herself. Instead, she headed down the narrow staircase and into the flickering halos of the streetlamps.
They passed Mary Boot and Lucy Bird on the way up to the library. It was startling to see the two girls, leaning against the doors that led to the courtyard, deep in conversation with two mugs of steaming tea in their hands. There was something so pedestrian in their appearance there, their own little conversation interrupted as Rose and Scorpius passed, nodding briefly in hello. It occurred to Rose that she had forgotten that other people were still in the Castle. That it wasn't just her and the Slytherins in the underground den. People had stayed behind, other seventh years, other students, and she had quite forgotten that they existed.
"I forgot that Boot and Bird had stayed the summer," Rose admitted as they climbed their final staircase.
Scorpius shook his head, slightly exasperated. "Well, you practically live underground or in the library. Most days you don't come down to breakfast until it's ten to eleven, and by then he Great Hall is empty. What were you expecting?"
"I suppose I just got really good at avoiding people," she replied, annoyed by his sarcasm.
It occurred to Rose that, out of all the seventh year Gryffindors, Lucy Bird was the only girl who had stayed. It must have been very lonely in her single dormitory, so seeing her with Boot made sense. If anything, Rose had taken Isabella and Alice for granted.
"Am I becoming a recluse?" she asked, expecting her partner to reassure her.
Of course, Scorpius scoffed and said, "Absolutely."
"I'm not that bad," she scowled. They entered the library, Rose now striding ahead of him. She was relieved to find it empty—perhaps that only added value to her boyfriend's argument.
"You're wild and aggressive to most people who aren't me. And sometimes, you aren't all that pleasant to me either." He was droll in tone, tongue in cheek, but it rubbed her the wrong way a little.
"I'm not aggressive," she snapped.
"You're traumatised," he replied, weaving around her to the back section of the library. "You won't deal with your trauma. So you're acting out."
"Thanks, Doctor Feelings. Well, at least I won't need a self help book now," she replied, rounding the shelves and almost colliding with a person who ought not to be standing hidden behind corners.
"Were you planning a study session without me?"
There was Albus—the very person they were trying to hide from. They were close to the Restricted Section too, only an aisle away, and he had foiled them. Surely, he had better places to be than alone in the library. But Rose quickly batted that cruel thought away. Albus was also very lonely, no doubt. Imogen Abercrombie was probably his closest friend in Gryffindor, and she was gone. It was worrying that he could be found alone in the library, without company or acquaintance.
"We were going to grab a few books, then come and find you," Scorpius replied smoothly, the lie hardly detectable at all. "We thought it would be nice to get out of the library while the weather is still decent. Perhaps read by the beech tree."
Albus watched them both, lingering on Rose, who found it much harder to conceal her culpabilities. Was she avoiding Albus? She wasn't entirely sure she was avoiding anyone, really. She just found it hard to relate to anyone outside of her own head. And Albus seemed to require extra sensitivity that she now lacked more than ever. With the searing look he was giving her, she expected him to call her out—to accuse her of neglecting him.
Instead, Albus headed toward one of the Charms sections. Rose exhaled heavily and sent a pointed look to Scorpius.
They spent the afternoon as Scorpius had suggested—by the beech tree near the lake, with a few books scattered between them and parchment for notes. But while the weather was fine and the books interesting, no one spoke very much. Albus was working his way through The Healer's Handbook, quietly mouthing the spells he was trying to learn. Rose noticed that despite the warmth, he was wearing long sleeves and that he hadn't pushed them up.
"You know, Al," she tried tentatively, placing her own book down against her knees, "you can trust us both with anything. There's no reason to hide anything from us."
"Who's saying that I'm the one hiding something?" he replied, eyes still on the page, not missing a beat. Scorpius cleared his throat very quietly. Rose decided not to press the point.
Lucy Weasley, now ten years old, was sitting on the back veranda of her grandparent's home, lying on her stomach, her feet dangling in the air behind her. She was ardently sketching a family portrait, featuring her maternal grandparents and her mother and father, she herself in the very middle. As she drew, her brown hair fell over her shoulder, catching the light of the setting sun so that it blazed auburn.
Her mother came out onto the veranda. Lucy glanced up for a moment, noticing that something wasn't quite right. Her nose was pink, her cheeks rosy, and eyes bright—but it wasn't cold. And her mother didn't acknowledge her, as she usually would. There was no pat on the head or sweet endearment parcelled out. Instead, Audrey stared blankly out at the garden, in the direction of the right yellow Creeping Buttercups, but her eyes were unfocused.
Lucy turned back to her picture, colouring in the triangle of her mother's dress a vivid yellow. Then, as it was finished, she regarded her crudely drawn portrait. It still seemed somehow unfinished. Like something was missing.
Her mother kneeled down beside her, suddenly there again, switched on. She was gazing over her daughter's shoulder at the colourful drawing.
"Oh darling," she said, scooping Lucy into her lap. "That's so lovely. Is that us?"
"Mhm," Lucy said, leaning back into her mother's embrace. She could tell by the way her mother's head tilted and her brows furrowed that she shared in the same reservations.
"You've forgotten Molly."
Of course! Molly. She had forgotten her sister. A mingling relief and shame flooded her at the same time—how could she have forgotten Molly.
"I'll add her in," Lucy said, climbing back out of her mother's lap and returning to her pencil-set. "I'll add Molly in, and I'll also add Granma Molly and Grandpa Arthur too. So that it's even," she explained, already re-assessing the drawing.
Lucy didn't realise that her mother was crying. She was weeping very quietly into the cuff of her sleeve. She was thinking of Arthur, buried without having seen his son. She was thinking of her eldest daughter, whom she had not seen in years.
Audrey was weeping so keenly that she did not notice the pencil fly into the air of its own accord, scribbling itself across the parchment to add another stick figure with yellow hair and glasses, whisking itself wandlessly across the page.
It was best that they split up, and not remain in the library, in case Albus caught them again. Rose decided to collect the books and would meet Scorpius back in the dungeons. She had promised she wouldn't be long.
She threw one of her long legs over the red rope that ran across the Restricted Section, then moved towards the same row of shelves they had found last time. As she piled up the dusty books, a part of her wondered at the point—it was almost September, they would be allowed to open the little black book at the turn of the month. Her impatience had folded to an obsession with wanting to know more—Rose realised that their ambition to learn everything that could be learned was not entirely healthy. Even if she could swallow all of the information in this library, it would not save her.
The library was empty, like an abandoned catacomb. All this dead knowledge, useless to her as she lived and breathed and bled. There was nothing in these books that could tell her how to win against Romnuk, how to live with herself. There weren't answers to these questions. Why hadn't Scorpius tried to talk sense into her? Perhaps he had just become resigned to watch her burn through the ridiculous fever dreams she threw herself into.
The books felt unusually heavy in her arms, not just because of their weight, but because they lingered with a sticky maleficence. She wished she had wrapped them up in something for the long walk back down to the dungeons. They needed to be hidden. She knew there were things inside these books that were worse than the Killing Curse, worse even than what she had suffered under Romnuk's hammer. But she needed to know what was in them, whatever that might mean for her soul.
As she rounded the corner leading to the Slytherin common room, she jarred to a halt. Her cousin was standing there, black hair curling in every direction, green eyes flashing, parchment clenched in his hand. Rose almost dropped the stack of books.
Something about Albus standing there unsettled her. She couldn't make sense of the parchment—a letter perhaps, with bad news? Her mind was already racing with the worst. Their parents hadn't returned to the Castle yet. Something had happened—something must have happened—and Albus was not in the state to handle any fragile news.
"Al—is something the matter?"
"Why were you in the Restricted Section?"
"Sorry?"
Albus' eyes were now on the books. Rose jerked them closer to her chest, so the cover of the book on top was tucked against her robes.
"I saw you in the Restricted Section."
She looked again and realised that the parchment in his hand was the Map. Then, she understood.
"Have you been spying on me?"
"Well, you never seem to tell me where you're going."
"I'm not the one who refuses to talk," she snapped back.
Suddenly, the alarm and sympathy she had felt leeched out of her. Anger flared in its place, brief and bright, burning her eyes. She was tired of being treated like his enemy. She had enough of those as it was.
The common room passage slid open, stone over stone, revealing Scorpius a moment later—a turtleneck jumper, loose pants, his wavy silver hair cresting like seafoam. He walked in the way a character may enter a stage during a scene, an air of expectation carried with him, as if the surprise wasn't entirely real. He was always so predictive. There was a moment where his grey eyes were calculating, placing together the pieces of the situation, before he seemed to read exactly what their argument was about.
"Hello Albus. I was just on my way out to find Rose," he said.
"I'm certain you knew where she was," Albus replied coldly, spreading his anger evenly. "You two always seem to be scheming together."
Rose could actively see the effort it took Scorpius to contain himself—to avoid snapping or throwing a sarcastic comment. And by virtue of knowing him so well, she could tell what irked him about the accusation—it was almost always she and Albus who schemed together. She and Albus made the plans, then sprung them on Scorpius, forcing him to play along. She and Albus were thick as thieves, while Scorpius had to always police their ideas. It was an unfair accusation, but Scorpius didn't bite.
"We're not scheming, Albus."
"Then why was Rose in the Restricted Section?"
Like the Restricted Section itself, it felt as if there were volumes within themselves that couldn't be shared; chapters that had been censored and shut tight. They couldn't explain what it meant to be a Slytherin. Even if they did, Albus would never understand. They both held back their breath, unable to even find a way to answer honestly.
"You two are keep a secret and I feel it—I'm outside. You've locked me out."
When had they all become so antagonistic, so hostile? Albus, of all people, who was their mediator, their peacekeeper.
"Why were you in the Restricted Section?" he asked again, pestering now, his voice breaking with the effort to get back inside their circle.
"You won't like this," Rose said quietly. "But we're learning to fight. We're training."
"We're duelling."
"Just to practice. To get better at non-verbal magic."
"But why were you in the Restricted Section?"
"Why are you hurting yourself?" Rose demanded, unable to keep it in her anymore. "Surely that's a more pressing question! And why won't you tell us? It's us, Al!"
"I'm not hurting myself," Albus huffed, rolling his eyes. "Well—I'm not for the reasons you think I am. I've been practicing too."
"What?"
"I've been practicing my Healing magic," he replied, yanking up his sleeve. His olive skin was marked with several ugly scars, all in different shades, all at different points of healing so they faded as they reached the crook of his elbow. "And it's worth letting the wounds scab a bit, or have them get infected, before I can try the spells I'm learning."
"You're using yourself as a guinea pig?" Scorpius replied, appalled.
This was far worse than anything they had been doing.
"Well, I certainly can't ask others to volunteer, can I?" he snapped, pulling his sleeve back down. "And while you're both running duelling, I'm trying to be practical about what we'll be up against. It's all well and good if you kill a bunch of goblins, but that won't save you from sepsis."
It was like a boa had loosened its grip around Rose's heart. They were more on side than she thought they were. Albus had been pushing himself just as hard as she and Scorpius had.
"That's smart," Rose said. Her tone had changed from reproachful to encouraging, coaxing. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't fill us in earlier. If you want to practice on me, I'm all for it."
"No." Scorpius faced them both, pale and drawn. There was no relief or excitement. "No. We're going to take a break from all this. Like a proper holiday."
"Scorpius—"
"It's the last few weeks of the bloody summer! We're not going to talk about duelling or healing spells or study sessions or the blasted Restricted Section. And no one is going to hurt themselves. Until September the first, we just hang out."
"Hang out?"
"Yes. That's what people our age are meant to do."
"But we're at war."
"We're at school," Scorpius said slowly. "There's no reason for us to burn ourselves out."
While the tension in their trio had now redirected at Scorpius, it bounced off him like a wall. He took the books from Rose's stiff arms. He planted them on his hip and nodded at both cousins with an air of finality.
"Bed time. And tomorrow, we do something fun."
"Scorpius—"
"I demand," he said, through a clenched jaw, "that we all have fun."
Scorpius thought better than leaving the books on the table, where one of the other Slytherins may find them. Instead, he placed them all on the wall-to-floor bookshelf on the far right of the room. No one ever went through that shelf, so at least there they would hide in plain sight.
When he turned, he noticed that Rose had followed him inside the common room and was standing with her back to the sofa. He bit the corner of his cheek, wondering whether he was about to have another row, or whether she would have a go at him for demanding they have fun.
But Rose didn't begin to argue or mock. She just stood there, arms crossed behind her back and out of sight. They stood there, drinking in the quiet of their common room. A school of silver fish darted by the dark windows, but otherwise, the space was still. The fire was crackling low in the grate, its fingers curling around the last few logs. They were both very quiet, and turned to the bookshelf, their attention falsely held by the scattered books. Trying to seem judicious, Rose crossed to the shelf and ran her finger down the spine of one, The Serpent's Dark Secrets: Slytherin Through the Ages, as if she was contemplating opening it.
Instead, she looked up, and found that Scorpius was already looking at her. His expression was tender and his grey eyes were easy to read for once. It occurred to Rose how much he had changed in the last few years. Not just in the sharpness of his jaw, or how he had filled out his scrawniness into the lithe body of a young man, but that he was no longer so guarded and cool, that there was warmth and gentleness found in the moving marble of his face. He had become brave in the choice to express his emotions and pull down the armour around his heart. He had grown up to be someone she admired.
She wasn't sure what to say as she met that look. It felt as if a veil had been pulled off of her, like a statue now exposed. Allowing herself to be consumed in the preparation for battle and the fantasies of revenge had completely clouded her vision of the present—that this boy, steadfast and good, had bent to her every fancy, had fulfilled all her whims, had supported her even while she spiralled into her own self destruction. He was there, with the same look she had been missing—tender and patient and kind.
Having finally returned this gaze, he seemed to realise how startled she was. As if she had pulled the blinders off and was seeing properly for the first time.
"It's late. Let's just go through these tomorrow, shall we? Best we just go to sleep."
Rose watched him as he tucked the books firmly into the shelf, ran his thin fingers through his silver waves and then headed across the stone chamber, towards the deep-set staircase that led to the dormitories. As he turned, Rose finally found her voice.
"I don't remember when we last kissed," she said, to his back. He stalled by the sofa, resting a hand on it as if to anchor himself there. She kept prowling her thoughts, trying to work her way back into the swampy marshes of her memory. "I mean, I remember that we kissed a little while after Meredith died," she said, the conclusion of the sentence so blunt she had to choke her way around it, "you know, when I stupidly tried to sleep with you and you stopped me. But before that—I don't remember the last time we kissed when we were happy. I was trying to remember the other night and it's faded now. And I'd really like to remember the last time we were happy, you know?"
Scorpius seemed to sit on this a moment, not moving, not turning around. She wondered if he was thinking, too. Whether he couldn't remember either. As if everything that was before Meredith was a fog, a blur, something that felt like lifetimes ago. Maybe he didn't remember either, and those days were lost.
But Scorpius did turn around, and a faint smile was playing at the corners of his cherub lips. He shook his head a little and had to stifle a laugh. "The last time we kissed, the last time we were happy," he corrected, his eyes lost in the memory, "was after that atrocious Valentine's Day party Bellucci threw. We caused a dramatic scene and then stormed out into the hall afterwards, all giggles. We went back into the common room. I was standing exactly there, by the window, opposite you. You took off your shoes and were holding them in your left hand because they were the ones that give you blisters. And you placed your right hand on my chest and leaned in to kiss me. It was really quick, just a goodnight kiss. Just a habit by then, like you'd be kissing me goodnight for the rest of our lives. And then you went downstairs to go to sleep. That was the last time," Scorpius smiled, pressing his lips together.
Rose remembered it too, now. She had been filled with such warmth, such certainty. Kissing Scorpius had given her such clarity. It had been months since then.
"Goodnight, Rose," he sighed, turning back again and heading down to the seventh year dormitories, taking the memory with him and leaving her alone beneath the great grimy window panes. She was sure that somewhere in the world, someone was being kissed with warmth and clarity and simplicity.
But not her, and not here.
Scorpius had promised a day of fun, whatever that meant, and for most of the morning he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was off scheming, pulling together some odd fanfare to raise morale. Albus and Rose were both brought together once more by the outlandishness of this design, for what was Scorpius' classification of fun? Albus mused that they may spend the entire evening playing chess.
For the first time since the summer began, Albus and Rose were at ease with one another. Albus had dropped his edginess. Without the tension, Scorpius' insistence that they have a day of fun felt unnecessary. But when they located him in the Great Hall after breakfast, he was already on his way out and refused to stop and talk.
The pair of cousins decided to check on Stella Bellucci, to make sure they hadn't left her to descend into madness. There wouldn't have been any point inviting Scorpius along for input. He was still openly disapproving of her involvement in the apparently ridiculous plan to create a counterfeit Philosopher's Stone.
When they opened the door to her tower, they found her surprisingly content. Stella was humming under her breath as she sat crossed legged in front of the cauldron. Several half finished tests flasks encircled it. They approached her cautiously, wands extended.
"Visitors!" she trilled, "Visitors who aren't house-elves. How marvellous."
She smiled charmingly, but it only made her seem more deranged.
"How's the potion?"
"Can't you see? Can't you see how hard I'm working on this little number here, hmm? Working hard for my little tyrants."
And she was surprisingly obedient, swirling her wand over the filmy surface of the brew. There was no slyness in her eyes, no attempts for escape or attack. It was quite the change.
"I'll need some brass scales soon," she added, sprinkling what looked like salt into the mixture. "And I'll also need my potion kit from the storeroom. It has everything I'll need for proper alchemy—proper alchemical processes."
"Alright then. We'll just leave you to—"
"Oh, no! No, no, no, I want some company! I want to chat, to have a word or two. All alone up here, all day, I only get to see elves when I have my daily meal. No, no, no, you can't leave."
"You can talk to yourself."
Bellucci finally pointed her wand at them, her lip quivering. It was like a child on the brink of throwing a tantrum.
"I just want to talk."
"Here's a question, then," Albus said, not lowering his own wand. "Why aren't you trying to escape?"
"Oh, do you really think I haven't thought about it? Silly, silly boy. What do you think were to happen if I did escape? If I got out of this castle, out of these grounds? Where will I go? I am a prisoner to the wizards, I am a threat to the goblins. No matter where I go, they will kill me. Even if I tried to run, tried to leave, all those refugees fled because of my potions. They would string poor Stella up, oh yes they would, they would kill me. No, I'm quite safe here."
"You could go into hiding," Rose mused. "You could behave like a muggle and disappear."
Stella slowly widened her eyes. "Are you mentally sound, silly girl? Stella Bellucci pretend to be a muggle? What ever for? Who would recognise me? Who would know who I am, know what I've achieved, what I've created? How could I be a great Potioneer among muggles? No, no. That would be worse than death, wouldn't it? Far worse."
"I suppose you're stuck here then."
"Until I make the Stone—yes, yes. Then I will walk free because the Stone will save me—the Stone will make me famous again and everything else will be quite forgiven."
She settled back in front of the cauldron, smiling to herself as she gave it a stir. Her willowy arm moved slowly above the surface of the brew, slow and rhythmic circles.
"She's gone absolutely batty, hasn't she?" Rose muttered. She nodded for the door. "C'mon."
"Wait—wait! Children, will you visit me again? Check on the progress of the potion of course, but visit me again?"
"We sure will. You hang tight now, Stella."
"Visitors," Reuben Reid croaked as Victoire slammed her way into Charlie's cabin. She moved like a hurricane, like she always had somewhere she needed to go next, and only hesitated a moment to peer into the kitchen where Reid sat, hunched over a bowl of porridge.
"Where's Selima?"
"Sleeping. No hello? Not very well mannered, are you."
Victoire ignored him. She had heard all about Reuben Reid from her husband, and perhaps his bias had coloured the recounts, but she still had little sympathy for him. Instead, she walked over to Charlie's bedroom and stuck her head in, murmuring through the door. Only when she clicked it shut did she turn back to Reid.
"Where's Charlie?"
"He left earlier. Said it was an emergency."
"What kind of emergency?"
"I'm not privy to details, sweetheart."
Victoire moved over to the small dining table, all her hot energy now focused on Reid, like a magnifying glass refracting sunlight. The formidable beauty of her face was terrifying. "You're going to die soon anyway. No one will care when you die. But there are people I care about who could die any minute, so if there's some sort of emergency that could pull Charlie away from his dragons, I want to know."
Reid stared at her for a few beats, assessing the fierceness in her face. He clucked his tongue and took a rasping breath. "If only you were the Metamorphmagus. We'd have no problems."
Victoire held him there, the look in her eye prying him open. Reuben Reid shrugged, as if the secret didn't matter.
"You grandfather's died. Charlie left to try and make it there before he dies, but he got the message earlier today that he's on death's door. Sorry to tell you."
Victoire blinked at him, rapidly and quickly. She lowered herself carefully into a chair.
"He just died? From old age or—"
"Don't know the details," Reid barked.
"Mm."
They were both quiet for a moment in the stillness of the kitchen. They studied the bowl of fruit on the table between them. It wasn't appropriate to share grief with a stranger who already had his own foot in the grave.
Selima poked her way into the kitchen, stretching. She took in their stern silence.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah. Come on," Victoire said, pushing out of her chair. She tapped Reuben Reid's shoulder. "Let's go."
"What?"
"For a walk. Teddy said it's good to get out in the sun for a little while, and I'm making the rounds."
"I'm not in a state to walk."
"D'you wanna die locked up in this room bitter and spent? Or do you want to die having walked through an open field feeling free for the first time in your life?" Victoire demanded. "Because you are."
The women walked ahead of Reid. Victoire picked up a bloody goat carcass on the way, shouldering it, her arms strong and sinewy with muscle. Blood dribbled down her pale back and Selima dabbed it up with her thumb, sucking it dry like a baby that needed to self soothe.
And Reid followed them. It felt like his lungs were on fire. Each breath he drew was painful and sharp. He could feel the poison spreading with all the energy he was exerting. The sky was too bright, the light piercing his eyes in painful beams. He wondered why she had tortured him like this. He could've just stayed behind, in the hut, solitary.
"How much longer? You shouldn't have told me to walk with you if it was so far," he grunted, struggling now.
Victoire flicked her head back, her hands clenching the ribbons of red flesh hanging across her back. She halted to let him catch up. Selima paused to study him. There was pity in her eyes, which meant it was easier to look at Victoire's disdain.
"Not much further," she said. She didn't have sympathy for him. He was an Unspeakable, and from the few details Teddy had divulged, he had done Unspeakable things while working for the Ministry. There was no sympathy—just a desire to purge him before he was gone.
They came to a field that had far less security than the other enclosures. An enormous, pale dragon had its head dipped near the lake. A big lizard, harmless looking, toothless, tired, defeated.
Selima stopped beside Reid and watched as Victoire got right up to the beast, lowering the long slab of meat right near its teeth. The blind dragon didn't even blink. It's snout twitched. Victoire ran her fingers over his scales, prying at his gums to try and get his maw open. He kept his teeth fused shut. Victoire gave up, taking a seat beside his thick hide and laying a hand on its neck.
Selima sat down too, still keeping her distance, and Reid followed. He was relieved to sit. He was exhausted from the short walk. He was too scared to take his gloves off and see how far the poison had spread—up his arms, no doubt, close to his torso. The pain was still sharp, lightning in his veins. Like the old, scarred dragon, he too knew he was dying.
The sun was beginning to set over the rolling hillside, casting everything in mauve hues. A rosy sea of grass, brilliantly lit. Victoire didn't move from the dragon. After a while, Selima spoke.
"It's the one that the Golden Trio escaped on, back during the second Great War," she said, gesturing at the dragon. "He's lived here for a long time. He's suffered."
You could tell that his suffering was still coursing through him. The dragon's sightlessness was a tragedy. He could not see the beautiful blush of the sunset overhead. But Reid could and he felt a strange rush of gratitude—one he had not really thought he would ever feel. It was a beautiful sunset.
Victoire walked towards them, looking grim. The dragon was completely still.
"He's not eating?" Reid asked.
"He's died," Victoire replied, frowning. "I had a feeling it was coming. I wanted to see if Charlie might've known what to do. I thought maybe if we got the goat into him…but he was old. I guess it was his time."
"Ah."
"Let's get back to the cabin. It's getting dark."
The returned back to the cabin was sombre. Selima walked beside Victoire again. No one spoke at all. Every step was agony for Reid, but he said nothing. He had lived a strange life, one that was oddly amoral. He had joined the Order because a man in his position had nowhere else to go once the Ministry collapsed. Because he had spent a lifetime being used for other people's purposes, and using other people for his purposes. He had no family, no friends, no one to lean into. Even that dragon had died among friends.
He wondered if his time with the Order had made any difference. He wondered whether it had put right any of the wrongs he had let happen. He had a sudden surge of regret that he would not be alive to see what would happen next—whether the rebels would triumph. He wished he would be around to see the ending.
That night, in his sleep, Reuben Reid would die. All of his questions would remain unanswered.
As they headed back down the spiral staircase, tucking their wands away, Rose sensed Albus' uneasiness. Knowing it was better to ignore those moods, she broke the silence between them.
"What's on your mind?"
"Is it fair to leave Bellucci up there, solitary, all the time?" he asked, frowning. "She's lost her marbles."
"She's a murderer, Al," Rose said slowly. "Because of her potions, all those Werewolves are dead. She killed them. She was paid to come up with the weapon for them."
"I suppose."
"You can't be so soft," Rose warned, shaking her head.
"You shouldn't be so bitter. Let's go find Scorpius, shall we?"
They returned to the Dungeons. Rose checked the common room, but he wasn't inside. She even went down into the chamber beneath the boy's lavatories, but he wasn't in there either. It was like he had vanished.
"This is odd, isn't it?" Rose frowned, following Albus back out into the grounds, heading to the greenhouses. "He can't have just disappeared."
He wasn't in any of his usual places—the greenhouses or the lake, and the library was just as bare. As they returned back to the Great Hall in time for lunch, quite exhausted from their search, they could hear the sound of Celestina Warbeck warbling through the Entrance Hall.
Puzzled, they pushed their way through the doors to find that their usual dinning area had been quite transformed. The teacher's platform had been cleared. The long table had been pushed against the wall. Instead, it was being used as a stage. Most of the students and a great deal of the Hogsmeade inhabitants were sitting on the benches, avidly watching as James Potter moved across the stage. He was wrapped in a vibrant feather boa, his wand pressed to his throat as he crooned over Celestina in a throbbing voice. Lorcan Scamander stood just behind him, head ducked with a bowler hat on, providing the husky back up vocals.
"Oh, sure, you're quite the dancer, swept me off of my feet. But back here on the ground, I see a liar and cheat."
"What the hell is going on?" Rose demanded.
"You can't have my heart!"
Lorcan jumped in beside James for the finale, "No, no, no, you stole her cauldron."
"You stole my cauldron, but you can't have my heart!" James concluded, throwing his head back as he belted the final note. The room filled with applause. Both the young men held hands and took their bow.
Scorpius moved onto the stage, pressing his own wand into his neck as he read off his parchment. "Next up on this round are Slytherin Duo, Alice and Belle, singing Spellbound's number one hit, 'Poison.'"
Isabella dragged Alice onto the stage as Scorpius darted by them, the second girl looking quite reluctant to be standing up there about to sing a pop song from the nineties.
Scorpius carefully dropped the needle on the gramophone, then spotting the two new guests, wove down the aisle to meet them.
"A guy like you should wear a warning, you're poison."
Scorpius winced then plastered a bright smile on his face.
"Was worried you two would miss all the good acts."
"What the hell is this?"
"Magical Karaoke. I had to get permission from Professor Longbottom this morning. But he was quite pleased with the idea. Said I should invite everyone from Tent City along as well. It's going rather splendidly. Mind you, James may have destroyed my love for Celestina Warbeck, but it's all worth it."
"This is madness," Rose said shaking her head slowly.
"Madness is Alice Lim performing a Spellbound song," Albus grinned.
Alice was far less enthusiastic than her partner, Isabella, but she was holding her own on the vocals.
"You could come sit up the front. We have Tallulah up next, but then Hugo is performing after her," Scorpius said, consulting his list.
It was the kind of silliness that usually took place in Common Rooms during Christmas Holidays, where the Castle was a lonely playground for its left over students. It was a giddy sort of humour that floated beneath the cloudy ceiling. People whistled and applauded as the performances went on. Tallulah took bravely to the stage with a ballad from the Ministry of Madness, and Hugo stood up and sang an opera piece from A Ghosts of Hippogriffs Past that made Scorpius tear up. It was the most bizarre way to pass an afternoon.
Yet, Rose was constantly finding herself in stitches—especially when their teachers participated. Hagrid sang a whole string of sea shanties a cappella. His gruff voice echoed through the room. Rose let her head fall on her cousin's shoulder. She smiled fondly at her boyfriend and tugged his arm. She motioned to herself then the list. "Does the gramophone play Muggle vinyls?"
"It should."
"Okay. Put me down for the next song. I'll be right back."
Rose had returned just as Hagrid was bowing to a smattering of applause. She skipped around Scorpius and straight onto the raised platform, dropping a vinyl record onto the player and carefully placing the needle down.
Then, she turned to face the hall as the music crackled to life.
"You all know me," she said, nervously running a hand through her short cloud of hair. There was something self-conscious and youthful in the gesture. "Maybe a few of you know Bowie. My family certainly does. So for anyone who would like to join me on this one, the invitation is open."
The first few chords were slow and spacey. Albus gripped Scorpius' arm like a vice, his face breaking into a grin. "God, yes. This was a good choice."
I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Scorpius frowned, trying to figure out where he recognised the husky words from.
Though nothing will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be Heroes, just for one day
Hugo was already getting up, jumping up onto the stage, grabbing his big sister's hand and twirling her as she belted the lyrics. Lily and James pelted after him, launching themselves up to several cheers from their friends.
It didn't matter that Rose's voice broke with the next lines, or that she couldn't hit the octave change. She pointed directly at Scorpius and Albus as she started the next verse.
And you, you can be mean
And I, I'll drink all the time
'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we're lovers, and that is that
"Come on," Albus grinned, dragging Scorpius up. And as they mounted the stage, several others did as well. Everyone was up, even those who had no idea who David Bowie was or what the lyrics meant. But everyone seemed to know exactly what the lyrics meant.
"Though nothing will keep us together," Albus sung.
"We could steal time, just for one day," Rose replied.
We can be Heroes, forever and ever
What d'you say?
And Scorpius wished he knew the words, but with Rose, he didn't need to.
She took hold of his hands, swaying with him as she sang. He could feel the way her body throbbed to the music. And the silliness of the karaoke had worked. It had won out over the grisliness of their summer. It had shattered whatever wall she had stacked up around herself. She was wild again, as wild as she had been the day she danced with Meredith Maxwell after winning a game of Quidditch. She was full of abandon and she had never looked so beautiful.
Lorcan had dragged Isabella and Alice back onto the stage. James had dropped to his knees in an air guitar solo. Hugo and Lily ran forward to grab both of Rose's arms, Rose stumbling behind them like a drunk, throwing her head back and laughing. They launched her onto the teacher's table for the next chorus, so she was raised above those even on the stage, above it all.
"I, I will be king," she sang.
"And you, you will be queen!" the others echoed.
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be us, just for one day
Rose had closed her eyes. It was like she was in another world, transcending above them. Like she was in her pyjamas dancing in the lounge room. Like she was on a stage before a concert's crowd. Her face was completely pulled into the passion of the words, launching her voice into a gravelly climax.
Albus wrapped his arm around Scorpius' shoulders. "Thank you for organising this. For finding the joy."
Scorpius smiled, the chords washing over the hall in rippling echoes. Rose had stopped singing. Eyes closed, feet planted on the table top, she swayed. It was hard to look away from her.
"One day," Scorpius said to Albus, "I'm going to marry her. And when I do, you'll be best man.."
I, I can remember
Standing by the wall
And the guns shot above our heads
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be Heroes, just for one day
"Do you hear that?" Ginny frowned, hesitating in the Entrance Hall. "Music."
"That sounds like…David Bowie," Harry said, shaking his head slowly. It reminded him starkly of Aunt Petunia changing radio channels, tsking about such obscene music from such an abnormal man. It reminded him of being a kid, sitting on the carpet on the rare days he was left alone at Privet Drive, watching music clips on the television set. It was not what you expected to hear after a funeral, after putting a man in a grave beside his late son. It was muted but thumping, like your heart in you ears after you run. Muggle but oddly magical. Ron stepped into the Castle, closing the door behind them.
"Music?" he asked.
"From the Great Hall," Ginny replied, wiping at her still puffy eyes.
"Come on."
They pushed into the Great Hall and were surprised by the state of things. Everyone was there, adults and children alike. Most of the room was up and dancing. Most of their children were on the stage. Rose was standing on the staff table, belting out the words. Pure and untouchable, like young gods, like giants.
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes
"It's Bowie," Ron said, the music dawning on him. "Hermione plays this all the time. She has all his records."
"It's Bowie," Harry sighed, his eyes welling with tears again. This day felt like an eternity, like a sun that would never set.
They were spotted. Dressed all in their black, at the door, eyes still red and puffy from tears. Rose had spotted them. And once she had spotted them, Albus had followed suit. They descended from their stage, meeting Harry, Ginny and Ron in the middle of the aisle. They took in their black attire and dispositions, deflated.
"Where's mum?" Rose asked, frowning at them all. "Where have you been?"
Ron wound his arms around Rose but couldn't speak. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
"Grandpa Arthur passed away," Harry said, knowing the others wouldn't be able to say it out loud.
There was a tense pause as Harry's words were digested by the children.
"That's why you left," Albus replied, his face tight with emotion. "That's why…"
Ginny pulled Albus in tightly to her chest, hugging him so hard she looked like she would crack his bones. Rose sighed very deeply. Ginny released Albus and hastily wiped her eyes.
"Sorry you couldn't be there. It was just too hard."
It was done, it was too late, there was no point arguing. He had been put into the ground. The spacey synthesizer breathed over the guitar and Bowie's voice strained it's final chorus, shrieking out the words.
"C'mon," Harry said, taking Ginny's hand and drawing her to him. He linked his hand around her waist and took the other to steer her into a dance. Ginny shook her head, defiant, but too weak to let go. She dropped her head onto his shoulder.
Albus smiled feebly. Rose laughed half-heartedly. Ron took both their arms and twirled them simultaneously.
We're nothing, and nothing will help us
Maybe we're lying, then you better not stay
But we could be safer, just for one day
Oh-oh-oh-ohh, oh-oh-oh-ohh
Just for one day
A/N: I highly recommend listening to David Bowie's Heroes (if you haven't already!) while reading that final segment. Tell me who/what you feel the story is missing right now in the reviews!
An enormous thank you to my work and life bestie, Liv, for editing this chapter. I have never had a Ravenclaw edit my work, and she is meticulous. Thanks for diving into the Revolt so fast (after several years of me bullying you to read it). Soon, we shall be in a greenhouse together and the world will be right!
In the meantime check out my instagram for updates on my arty things! vanscribbles