When the last grandparent was kissed goodbye, the final ember of the fire settling beneath the holiday garland, and the only remaining cookie left for "Santa" snuck from its plate by one Hugo Weasley, the Ron and Hermione bid the children goodnight and shuffled off to bed.
Rose was still dancing.
She danced up the stairs, down the hallway, and into her room, sweeping the lush red dress off the bed as soon as she entered. Rose held it up to her figure as she swayed in front of the mirror, imagining herself twirling around the Great Hall at the St. Valentine's ball. The ball was one of the most highly anticipated events of the year, and she was finally old enough to attend. Fourth years could go so long as an upper year asked them, and Rose had watched with great envy as Roxanne waltzed out of their dormitory last year to attend with Trevor McKnight.
This year, she wanted to be the belle of the ball, and in this dress, she could be. Candles would fly high above, red hearts falling from cupid's arrows, and she would dance the night away in the arms of a certain blonde Slytherin. Or so she dreamed. So she hoped.
As she swayed, Rose caught sight of something twinkling in the window. Fluttering, more like it. A tawny barn owl tapped twice on the upper pane. Rose lay the dress gently aside and hurried to let it in. Clutched in its claw was a scrap of parchment, tied with a green velvet ribbon.
Her heart swelled.
Rose almost chickened out of buying Scorpius a present, contemplating returning it more than once, but she sent it with shaking hands earlier that morning. While browsing Diagon Alley with Hugo she shad potted a miniature set of Quidditch rings in the window of her favorite stationery shop. Much to her delight, when pulled from its stand each ring would transform into a quill ready for writing. She wondered if he had used one of the quills to write her a response.
Her note had been simple, but sweet.
Happy Christmas, Scor. I hope it's wonderful.
~Your favorite potions partner, RNW
Rose had swirled her initials at the bottom of the letter before tying it to the gift. From the looks of it, he hadn't sent her a gift in reply, but she didn't mind. A letter was enough.
The ribbon hit the floor with one quick pull. Her eyes lit up as she unrolled the scroll, but they clouded just as quickly.
There was one line. No signature.
Don't write me, Weasley.
Rose sank backwards onto the bed, her knees weak and throat tight.
No "Thank you". No "Happy Christmas". Pure rejection.
Rose didn't understand. The Scorpius she knew had laughed with her in the hallway, gifted her gloves to spend more time with her, sang silly songs to memorize potion recipes, and was capturing more of her attention and affection than he knew. She hadn't expected a grand gesture, but she hadn't expected this either.
Clenching the note in hand, she pitched it toward the rubbish bin and crawled under the quilt fully clothed. The rough tug of the comforter sent her dress crumpling to the floor.
Rose didn't notice. Instead, she willed away the day and all thoughts of Scorpius Malfoy.
If he was finished with her, then she would be finished with him.
"Scorpius, dear, you've another gift to open."
From his place on the couch, Scorpius glanced at Astoria. She stood framed by wide French doors, her silhouette dark against the snow falling outside. A once beautiful and petite woman, Mrs. Malfoy had fought a hard won battle to retain her looks as age claimed each day, and in moments like these Scor understood how his father had fallen into her trap.
But age had sharpened her nose, paled her skin, and every attempt she made to look younger only emphasized the years she had gained. Now it appeared that she was the one who had become trapped. Malfoy Manor was the captor of her days, and Draco Malfoy the master of her heart and home; she bent to his will and whims with grace, and together they raised their son to do the same.
Scorpius wanted for nothing, gifts abounding beneath the tree, though as the afternoon waned and his parents prattled he caught himself aching to hear the laughter of a certain red headed Gryffindor.
"It could be from Patricia!" sang his mother, shaking the box lightly.
This made Scorpius laugh but not for the reasons Astoria assumed. Rolling off the couch, Scor took the gift from his mother and tucked it under his arms, reaching straight for the note attached. He inhaled deeply, preparing to regale the room, i.e. his mother and father, with Patricia's long winded greetings.
"Happy Christmas, Scor!" he declared with a wave of his arm, nearly dropping the package. "I hope it's wonderful!" Scor mimicked Patricia's shriek, eliciting a giggle from his mother and a sour look from his father. "From, your favorite potion's partner… RNW."
Scorpius recognized the handwriting too late. He fumbled at the end of the sentence, swallowing her initials as the blood drained from his face.
"RNW?" Astoria echoed, exchanging a look with her husband who was rising from his chair.
Scorpius folded the note and shoved it in his pocket as nonchalantly as he could. "I'm sure it's just one of Trisha's games. Something for me to sort out, you know." His grip on the gift became white knuckled and he looked for any escape from the present situation. As Draco drew near, he realized there wasn't one.
"Do not tell me, son, that a Weasley is sending you Christmas gifts."
Fine, thought Scor, I won't.
Draco, however, was not satisfied. He reached for the package and pulled it from the boy's grasp. He held it up in disgust, lights of the tree twinkling behind it. "Why, may I ask, is a Weasley sending you Christmas gifts?"
Scorpius shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. She's my potion's partner, not my girlfriend."
"Your favorite potions partner," scoffed Draco, ripping the package open. Scorpius flinched, barely refraining the impulse to snatch the package back. He caught sight of the quill set, one he recognized from his last trip to town, just as his father pitched it into the fire. "I don't know what you think you're doing with her," spat Draco, pacing towards his son, "but whatever it is has to stop. This fling, flirting, fraternizing," he continued, a foul taste in his mouth, "is not acceptable."
"It's a stupid gift," Scorpius returned sharply. "It's not my fault."
"I don't care what it is," Draco shot back, "but it's over. Do you understand?"
Scorpius rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes," he grumbled, daring a glance at the fire. The quidditch quills were melting in front of his eyes.
But Draco was not finished. "I said, do you understand, son?" he repeated, bringing the gavel down with every word, squaring off with the boy.
Standing to his full height, Scor fought back his temper, replying through clenched teeth. "Yes, I understand, father."
"Good." Draco dismissed him with a wave of his hand and returned to his chair.
Astoria had not moved from her place by the window, but had turned her back on the exchange. She was not a strong enough woman to intervene for her son or to echo her husband's disdain.
Left to his own devices, Scorpius gathered his gifts gruffly and stalked up to his bedroom. His steps echoed through the empty manor and he slammed his door, tossing everything haphazardly on the mattress. The commotion of crashing gifts startled his owl out of a nap.
"Sorry, Titan," sighed Scor, caressing the cage on the way to his desk. Pulling the crumpled note from his pocket, he sank dramatically into his chair and pressed his lips in a flat line. The quidditch quills had been a very nice gift –she knew him well- but now they were burnt to a crisp, warming the house.
He still had the note however, which he now flattened against the desk with his palm, over and over again until the wrinkles were nearly faded.
Happy Christmas, Scor. I hope it's wonderful.
~Your favorite potions partner, RNW
"Wonderful," he scoffed, crinkling the note into his fist yet again. His Christmas had been survivable until her gift. Actually, it could have been fine, he thought, but he had the idiotic idea to read the note aloud. Another sigh pushed through his lips.
With greater care, Scor flattened the note once more and opened the bottom drawer of the desk. His gaze fell on a poorly wrapped package hidden beneath his potions notes.
At this he laughed, though half-hearted. The paper was removed, the twine discarded, and a set of quidditch quills emerged. He had purchased the same gift for Rose. But now, instead of sending them as a surprise, he tore a piece of the wrapping and scribbled one line, determined to put an end to his foolish fancies and the disgrace of the day.
One line. No signature. Pure rejection.
Don't write me, Weasley.