Forgive me for the love that I have known,
Forgive me for the blood that's on my hands,
Yes, I have lives I've ruined to bemoan,
Yet, tears flow freely as the dawn descends...
She knew: he would come. Was she waiting for him? No, not for a long time. Had she ever? Yes, once upon a time. Yet, waiting was never her lot.
She wasn't pacing or watching the clock. She wasn't wringing her arms, fidgeting, or planning out her words for the upcoming conversation.
Her main concern was that this last encounter would not last very long. Because he would never come back, and she would never call him back.
She halted by the mirror, whose feedback she used to enjoy. What did she see? The same cold-eyed face; almost like his own.
Pale eyes, but expressive; cold, but full of disdain for everything around her.
There was nothing left in her face, despite everyone telling her of her enduring beauty.
Beauty… What good was it to her, this Merlin-given, cursed beauty, if behind it was only cold? Like a cruel joke at the expense of everyone around her…
Father used to say that she ought to have been born a boy. A funny bloke, Father… Yes, he was not very lucky with his sons, but she would never let him dump all responsibilities of an heir onto her shoulders. His creation, let him deal with them.
Even now she could not muster the strength to view her family through rose-coloured mist. Indeed, rosé was not for her – she hated things like that.
It was for those who believed in princes, white horses, and love with no boundaries and problems. She had never believed in princes, never wanted to meet one of her very own, for she was dead certain that after three days of being with together, one of them would commit suicide: either she – because of all the boredom and disdain for the white horse, what with all the cleaning and feeding; or he – from all her venom and coldness.
She was not capable of loving. Not the way this pathetic rosé world required. All that was not for her; she realized it back in her childhood, after she spit in the face of a boy for daring to touch her hand.
Pathetic rosé world… What's good in it? Moonlit walks? It is banal. Flowers at her feet? They are already dead, killed. Rosé, indeed: bringing a girl a bouquet of corpses… Serenades? She hated cats, even tossed one into the pond for howling too loudly by the kitchen door. Love professions? Silly, empty words, for once something is uttered, it is already dead.
And is that love? Stupid and empty, like a hungry dragon's belly. No, she had never dreamed of this. Passion – that's what was worth anything. It is not rosé, it is scarlet. Scarlet marble… Passion – that's what is the love of her world; the love of her soul. When the whole world is like a flash, when senses are on fire that burns bright, then dies down, before flaring up once again. When it is struggle, pain, arguments, eyes narrowed in ire – and then a flash! A flash of passion – the goddess of love…
This never happened in her life, because she was doomed to live in this pathetic rosé world. Flowers, poems, pledges – she walked right by, without even a glance. This must be why she was called a "marble dummy" behind her back…
She is not quite twenty-two, but her entire experience is the pathetic rosé world and disappointment. And blood – the blood that she had attempted to turn into passion. She never regretted anything, because she always did what she deemed necessary. Her every move was well thought out and calculated. She never made mistakes, other than through the mistakes of others; for instance, her brothers, the losers…
She looked away from the mirror and looked down at her palms, covered with nail-marks that would no longer heal. They were bloody, but she merely smiled at that. What had she done that was so terrible? Terrible, that is, by the standards of the rosé world, with its insipid rosé feelings. In her world – the living world, the world of passion – the ends justified the means.
For as long as she could remember, she had fought for this world, for every person in it, for those who were different from the herd… For cold, for ire, for the real, the alive. She had fought for the passion to live, and no amount of blood on her hands could change that desire. She fought for herself and for the others, so few of them… And they all were eventually consumed by the rosé world that she hated. Yet, she could not accept this, at least that he had also succumbed to the rosé world.
He was the only one of her acquaintances who also loved passion, only his passion was icy. Cold, ice, disdain… He was her male counterpart, until he was abducted into the rosé world.
Why? Why did he let it happen?
She could never find the answer to this question. And she never asked out loud. He was not a weakling, to be led blindly by others; he was not a puppet; he was too strong and too self-sufficient to need rosé people.
At first, she thought that something in him was broken, shattered, but later, looking at him, she realized that, to the contrary, something was restored, that should never had been. And then she tried to break it again, to bring him back to the world of passion, the living world. But the harder she fought, the more he retreated into the pathetic world that had been anathema to both of them.
And she was not able to bring him back, because the place of passion was taken by the rosé, insipid, fake love, the kind they had never believed into before.
She dropped her hands, and walked away from the mirror. All that is now in the past, because in the future, her future, there would be nothing. Not even passion that she had been craving so… She would never be able to break him.
No one would.
Although someone was trying to, and she was grateful for the attempt, grateful to this incognito fool. Yet, as grateful as she felt, she knew that that fool would fail, because he was no longer in the pathetic rosé world – that world was now inside him. And even if everything that linked him to this world was taken away, he would not come back…
And if not for that – for returning him to the vivid world of passion – this was all happening, then for what? She did not accept other aims, because they were vile, the dead infamy of the dead world, and she would not be a part of that.
The owl that had taken the letter returned, and Priscilla immediately pointed her wand at the bird – and killed it, without a moment's hesitation. She hated owls – the visible reminder that she did not have a future. She killed it and burned it up, leaving only a handful of ashes, which she swept swiftly into the waste basket.
No future, not in the world of passion, nor in the world of love, because she had made a single mistake – and had no one to blame for it. And she didn't. She never regretted her actions.
Actually, there was one thing she regretted. Not an action, exactly, but a part of her life. She regretted the hatred that had become part of the passion; the passion that has lived inside her all these years. This passion had icy eyes and a sneer; this passion had once been scarlet, before slowly retreating into the rosé world.
She regretted her passion becoming rosé – just like the object of that passion. For this – for the rosé – she hated him; hatred and love intertwined.
The door of her room opened, and her brother walked in. He looked scared, and she was glad of it. She was about to save his skin; she was about to touch the reddish-rosé – for the last time.
To touch, to help, and to say goodbye.
He followed her brother into the room – his eyes were the same, only the lips pressed tightly together.
"Leave us," she ordered Fritz, staring right into the cold eyes that reflected her marble-like beauty.
"But Pris…"
"Leave…" the girl said in a near hiss. She was ready to throw into her brother's face that because of him, because of what he had done, she had to now fight yet another battle, for which she had no strength or desire left. But she held herself back. "This second."
"Alright, I shall wait in the parlour; with MacLaggen…"
"No, go to your room and wait till I summon you."
Her brother nodded and left the room.
So, Malfoy, you found someone to help you – to help you save your insipid rosé world. And, revolting as it is for me, I shall help you now as well. Only because my battle is lost; my time is running out, and the one who has waged this war on you does not have what it takes. And going on for any other reason is vile, even in the world of passion… Infamy is not fair means to win a war.
"What did you want to tell me?" his voice makes a shiver run down her spine. But it is familiar. It was always this way. It is real.
"First I want your word that you won't harm my family."
"Zabini, I don't have time for your games," muscles flexing in his jaw, because he truly is at the end of his rope. "Speak, or I am going to leave; or better yet, force your brother to talk…"
"Give me your word that you will not touch any member of my family. Then I shall help you," she repeated firmly, not breaking eye contact. She felt blissfully cold inside, like an icy cold towel to the face on a torrid day.
"Priscilla…"
"I know something important…" she watched the wand in his hand twitch momentarily. "But you will not learn anything this way, trust me. You will only waste what little time you have left."
"You have my word," Malfoy said, and his eyes flashed, "but only if no one in your family had any connection to the kidnapping."
"You gave your word," Priscilla pointed out. "You will not touch Fritz, because he was merely a weapon."
"What?!" he took two steps toward her, his icy ire washing over her. "You…?"
"Calm down," Priscilla did not budge. She took out her wand and waved it, before Scorpius could stop her. The door to the secret passage opened. "Finite."
She took the spell off Xenia Verdi, whom she had locked in there before Malfoy's arrival. The healer promptly stepped into the room, squinting at the bright light.
"Xenie…"
He exhaled as though his throat was afflicted by spasms, took a step toward his cousin, and quickly looked her over, as if making sure that she was intact, that she was unharmed.
And then whirled around, pointing his wand at Priscilla:
"Where is Lily?! Speak, or I'll…"
"Wait, Scorpius," Xenia hurried to the rescue. She gently took his hand and moved the wand aside. "They don't know."
He didn't believe, and Priscilla understood why. She had indeed given him reasons to doubt her.
"Tell me everything," he turned toward his cousin, but Priscilla knew that Malfoy was watching her every move. Still, the girl remained still while Xenia recounted their ordeal: the portkey at the Diagon Alley, the strange dungeon caves, the Devil's Snare and lights in the ceiling, the house elves, Dong, Fritz, their abductor with his patchwork face. And Lily.
Lily Potter – this symbol of the pathetic rosé world.
Malfoy stood stock still; he appeared to have stopped breathing.
"Call your brother in," Scorpius said finally, once Xenia finished her tale and sank into a chair. The healer was clearly no less exhausted than Malfoy, gauging by the dark circles under his eyes.
"No. He cannot help you any further," Priscilla was breathing deeply, staring at Malfoy with passion he had never seen in her eyes. "He cannot Apparate to that place, because a house elf took him there the first time. He saw your enemy but once – at the same time as Xenia. And you promised…"
"I just want to talk to him," a bitter smirk ran across Malfoy's face. "Your brother is but a pawn, and I only have time for frying bigger fish…"
"No," Priscilla repeated just as firmly, and even smiled a little, eyeing Malfoy's wand. "Think carefully before using it here, because a couple of hours spent giving explanations to the Ministry is definitely not something you want to be doing right now. And explain yourself you will, because this kind of magic is forbidden in this house."
Xenia Verdi's hand touched Malfoy's wrist again.
"I am mentally linked to Lily…"
Scorpius closed his eyes tiredly.
"How is she?"
"She was asleep when I last read her mind… Scorpius, let's find James…"
Malfoy nodded, and then looked back at Priscilla:
"I will be back."
"Don't," she responded. "We have nothing more to say to each other, and you have nothing further to do here. Farewell, Malfoy."
He was silent, staring into her eyes. Staring too hard, too long.
And, for the first time, she looked away. For the first time, she hid from his cold eyes that would never show any passion; not for her.
"Let me help you," he was now at his cousin's side, supporting her.
Priscilla did not move until her visitors were gone.
He did not promise to return, but his cold eyes confirmed that this was not to be their last encounter. When he finds time for "pawns", he will be back. Only it will be too late…
Priscilla turned away from the closed door and used her wand to break the mirror: to avoid seeing a single, wayward tear escaping down the marble face.