Title: The More Things Change
Forum: QFLC - Ballycastle Bats (Beater 2)
Challenge: Round 5 - Write about a character being treated, or treating someone, as a consolation prize.
Prompts: (word) influence, (emotion) lust, (word) difference, (poem) 'Flower of Love' - Oscar Wilde, (object) toilet paper

Forum: HPFC
Challenge: FRIENDS Challenge
Prompt: Write about any fanon pairing (3.6)

World: Next-Gen
Word Count: 1,659

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Rose had always assumed she'd have a marriage like her parents: one full of laughter, of love, of warmth. She'd dated casually all through Hogwarts, looking for that someone who would light a spark in her.

She found what she was looking for her seventh year, during which she shared a dormitory with Scorpius Malfoy. For most of Hogwarts, Rose had written Scorpius off as Albus's weird best friend—quiet and studious, but nice enough for a Slytherin. Seventh year though, brought two changes.

The first change was that Scorpius Malfoy, nerd-extraordinaire, got hot. He was what her mother called a 'late bloomer.' He shot up, filled out, and all of a sudden where there had once been a boy there was now all man. When McGonagall had the pair stand in the Great Hall at the Welcome Feast, introducing them as Head Boy and Girl, Rose had barely been able to take her eyes off the blond. They'd met later in their private common room to go over the month's patrol schedule, and she'd damn near fanned herself in his presence. She found herself waking earlier, just to get a glimpse of him emerging from their shared bathroom, his luxurious towel hanging low on his hips after his morning shower.

The second big change was that Albus started dating Slytherin beauty Mirabella Zabini, and all of a sudden his wingman had become a third wheel. Given Scorpius's shy nature, Albus had pleaded with Rose to tag along on Hogsmeade visits and study dates. The four of them would ostensibly spend time together, but once Rose had Scorpius sufficiently occupied, Albus and Mirabella would slip off for some alone time. Given the blond's growth spurt, Rose was more than happy to help her cousin, and her familial sense of obligation quickly led to a whirlwind romance, culminating in a summer wedding after graduation. And then they lived happily ever after.

Or at least, that was the story she had told herself.

But eleven years later, she could see now the world for what it truly was—and what it truly had been.

She had read Scorpius as horridly shy, but practically anyone was shy compared to the Weasleys; the truth was, Scorpius was unfailingly polite and not particularly effusive. He wasn't shy, he was distant.

She had thought Scorpius's little gifts were signs of infatuation; years later, as their eldest, Caelum, prepared to head to Hogwarts, she discovered the gifts of flowers and sweet notes were in fact part of regulated pure-blood courtship etiquette. She had swooned at the gestures; Scorpius had taken each one from a hundred-year-old book that he'd passed on to his eldest son.

Scorpius's handwritten love notes to her had been copied verbatim from the book.

Rose had thought it was romantic to wait until after they were married to make love; she was thrilled when, after the wedding, Scorpius couldn't keep his hands off her. It was just like her parents—even after decades of marriage, her father still held her mother's waist and they still kissed each other affectionately. But after Altair, their second child, was born, Scorpius started emulating the way his father acted toward Astoria—distant and indifferent. He'd even moved into a separate bedroom.

She'd tried talking to him calmly; she'd tried screaming; she'd tried crying. Only when she'd threatened divorce had he changed at all, sullenly returning to their room and touching her just enough to make it seem like he was making an effort. All the fire that had existed between their wedding day and Altair's birth had disappeared.

"It won't make any difference," said a voice from the doorway.

Rose was jilted out of her musings by her mother-in-law, who glided into Rose's dressing room and seated herself on a divan.

"What won't?" asked Rose, reaching for the nearest appropriate dress for that evening's Ministry fundraiser.

"Whatever you decide to wear. It won't make a bit of difference to Scorpius."

Rose bit her lip. Before she'd gotten lost in thought, she had been trying to decide which dress might garner her husband's affection that evening.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the auburn-haired witch said, taking the elegant black shift off the hanger and stepping into it. There was something about the way Astoria was speaking to her that made Rose feel laid bare, but it had little to do with the lace lingerie she was wearing.

Astoria raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "No? So that lingerie isn't for my son? And you weren't here trying to decide which dress would appeal to him the most?"

Rose's eyes widened slightly. Astoria knew something.

If Rose had been a Slytherin, she would have played the game: little verbal jabs that raised more questions than revealed information.

Rose wasn't a Slytherin.

"Astoria, if you have something to say, I'd appreciate honesty. You seem to be very aware of the issues in my marriage to your son, and I'm willing to take any advice you have to offer."

Astoria stood and moved in front of her daughter-in-law. She considered the woman, raking her eyes up and down. Even after two children, Rose still had a womanly figure. Years of society events as a Malfoy had honed her chic style, but this poor woman was still a Gryffindor—the daughter of Hermione Granger and a Weasley—and her heart still showed on her sleeve.

Pitying the girl—coddling the girl—would do her no favors.

"Take it from someone who's been in your shoes," said Astoria, coldly making her way to the door. "He won't ever give you what you want. He won't ever love you, not like you love him."

...

Rose sat on the toilet, crying. Her makeup, assiduously applied, had run; she'd have to clean her face and start anew. She dabbed her eyes with a wad of toilet paper, sniffling loudly.

"Rose? Rose, we're going to be late," Scorpius called from the bedroom. She heard him make his way to the bathroom; she saw his dragon hide dress shoes and black dress robes stand before her.

"What happened?" he asked. She heard concern in his voice. And when she looked up, she saw it in his eyes.

But not love. Not affection. The concern was… diplomatic. Courteous. Gentlemanly. She could've been a strange woman crying on a bench in Diagon Alley, and he would have looked at her just the same, because it was what a civilized, well-bred wizard would do for any witch.

"I'm sorry," she said, gathering herself. "I'm just having a moment. Give me five minutes, and I'll be ready."

...

Rose was grateful that Albus and Mirabella were at their table; if she had to sit through one more society function where Phoebe Goyle undressed Scorpius with her eyes across the table, she was going to Avada the woman.

Rose listened to Mirabella describe her latest crusade—something about youth Quidditch leagues—but she watched her husband from the corner of her eye. Albus, who worked under Uncle Harry in the DMLE, had been assigned to a Occamy egg smuggling operation and had apparently gotten into a wand fight with a wizard he'd been tailing a few nights before.

She saw Scorpius's eyes go wide when Albus pulled aside his collar, showing off a fresh scar from a well-placed cutting curse. She saw the concern in his eyes.

And the love. And affection. This was not the polite response she'd received earlier that night; this was the fear and care and devotion she'd hoped—hoped with all her heart—that her husband would feel for her.

And then the look was gone, replaced with Scorpius's well-cultivated Slytherin mask, the trademark Malfoy smirk of his lips replacing the brief "o" that had revealed far more than Scorpius had wanted to.

Moments later, his eyes glanced to Rose. She met them, and he regarded her evenly.

She could not hide the grief in her own eyes, but he offered no apology.

And in that moment, she understood.

...

"How did you know?"

Astoria was rarely caught off guard, but she'd been so entranced watching her husband from across the room that her daughter-in-law had surprised her. She took the proffered glass of champagne and sipped. She did not respond.

"How did you know about Scorpius?" Rose questioned again.

The dark-haired witch sighed. What could she tell the young woman? That her sensitive boy was prone to poetics and that he'd not been quite Slytherin enough to adequately hide his pubescent musings on 'the bitter secret of his heart'? That she had found him crying in his room, later discovering the wadded parchment where Albus Potter confided to his best friend that he was in love with the beautiful Zabini girl? That she recognized the resigned look of duty in Scorpius's eyes as he stood at the altar on his wedding day, the relief that his firstborn was a boy, the horror when, at dinner one evening, Draco encouraged them to have another child.

Draco had looked similarly horrified when Lucius encouraged the same thing almost thirty years ago. Of course, he'd had enough of Lucius's influence during the war and had no desire to listen to his father's advice, so Astoria's bedside had remained cold.

She had figured out the problem long before Rose, but then again she was a Slytherin and prone to sussing out the subtlest of tells.

She stared across the room, where Draco was arguing with Harry Potter about some new DMLE initiative. Her lips curled into a wry smile as she watched the two men, a study in contrast, hiss snide insults and dramatically wave their hands in frustration.

Such fire. Such passion. All that unresolved, perhaps unrequited, tension, still brimming underneath the surface after more than forty years.

Astoria knocked back the rest of her champagne and looked at Rose, a sardonic smile on her lips.

"The more things change, the more things stay the same."