Chapter 2 : Chapter Two
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They all think they know the story, but they don’t. Scorpius scowls a little at a passing third-year, who jumps and hurries away. Wherever he goes, the students part for him, as though he’s contagious.
The Gryffindors say that his Aunt was killed by Death Eaters and his mother committed suicide. The Red story.
The Ravenclaws say that his father is a Death Eater, and his mother and Aunt were Death Eaters too, and his mother killed his Aunt because she tried to defect, and then his mother killed herself. The Blue story.
The Hufflepuffs say that his mother and Aunt were Death Eaters conspiring against his father, who isn’t a Death Eater, and because he wouldn’t take the Mark, his mother killed his Aunt, whom his father was originally in love with, and then his father killed his mother. The Yellow story.
The Slytherins say that his mother was a Death Eater and his father is actually the Dark Lord, and his Aunt was murdered by the Dark Lord, and his ‘father’ was forced to kill his mother by the Dark Lord. Never mind that the Dark Lord was killed before he was even born. The Green story.
They’re all ridiculous; but perversely, the one with the most truth in it is the Gryffindor story. His mother did commit suicide. Of course, he’s the only one who know this, any more. He is the only one who knows the story in its original shade of black.
This year is his last year at Hogwarts, and he has no idea what he’ll do after this. His father would like him to go into a career of some kind, he is sure. He’d like to follow Quidditch professionally. The problem is it’s so difficult finding gainful employment when your surname and your father’s name is constantly against you.
He can’t get the Weasley girl out of his head. They share classes, Slytherin and Gryffindor, but she never looks at him. He feels bitter and laughs at himself. As if someone with her parents could like someone with his parents. There. Judged for his parent’s sins again.
He can’t quite get the image of her on the train out of his head. Tears painting a veneer over her cheeks, her raging hair pulled sharply back into a bun, showing off her cheekbones. A true Weasley, but without any freckles – only a small dark mark by her eye, on her cheekbone. She was wearing Muggle clothes, black jeans and a pink jumper that clashed with her hair.
Still, he wanted her. And he wants her still. He lies awake sometimes, aching for release, but his own touch does nothing. Is it pure lust, or something newer and more?
He allows two weeks to go past before he seeks her out. He lacks the confidence to go up to her that first time he sees her in the Entrance Hall, surrounded by her cousins, chattering animatedly.
The next time he sees her is after a Potions class on the way to lunch. Thankfully, she’s alone; her family have gone on ahead. She’s walking along slowly, immersed in a scroll she’s reading. He follows her soundlessly for a pace or two before speeding up to walk alongside her.
“How are you doing?” he enquires. She jumps, sees it’s him, scowls.
“Fine,” she replies, walking a little faster. She ducks her head to read the scroll again. He can see it’s a letter, which annoys him irrationally.
“Who’s that from?” he nods to the parchment.
“None of your business,” she retorts, rolling it up and sticking it inside her robes. They stop walking, a standoff, and glare at one another.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Rosie?” he murmurs, taking a step closer to her. She backs away, looking afraid. Of him? He nearly laughs. His eyes are intent on her brown ones, and she can’t seem to look away.
She jumps when her back hits the wall, but he keeps coming, backing her right up until he can feel her body heat a few millimetres away from him. Her eyes are impossibly wide. He puts a hand each side of her head, blocking her off, lowers his head so he can look her right in the eyes. He can feel her shallow breath panting across his face. She smells like chocolate.
“I – no…” she whispers. Her eyes dart to his mouth and back to his gaze.
“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning in just a little more so his breath blows across her lips. She shudders uncontrollably.
“I’m sure,” she squeaks. He touches a lock of dark red hair that’s fallen across her eyes.
“I prefer you with your hair down,” he says inadvertently. She blinks at him, something changing in her eyes; he sees he’s losing control of the situation.
“If I find out you’re lying, Rosie,” he whispers, his mouth so close to hers now, so close to everything he’s dreamed about, “I’ll be very angry.”
She shivers agreeably, losing the last of her control. She arches up, seeking him, pressing her body against his, but he pulls away.
“Meet me in the seventh-floor corridor tonight, after dinner,” he instructs harshly. “By that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.”
Then, appetite gone, he turns the corner to the Slytherin Common Room, leaving her speechless and shaky in the corridor.
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