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24 November 2008 @ 03:20 pm
The Hour Turns Mauve  
Title: The Hour Turns Mauve
Pairing: Scorpius/Albus, one-sided Scorpius/Rosie
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Angst, General
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500

They’ve been “best friends” for far too long.

She’s seen him naked more often than even his mother (probably). She can trace the curve of his hips, the pretty white skin, perfectly in the back of her mind. She knows him better than anyone else.

And he knows her too, or so she thinks.

But she is unnaturally smart (as she is too often described) and the worst feeling is knowing you were (are) wrong.


He’s someone who would make a good boyfriend-lover-husband. He’s someone who understands, who listens. And holds others up even when he is aching too.

So Rosie rationalizes that it had been only inevitable that she fell for him. Fell for him hard, the devil-thought mentioned.

After all, she could’ve done much, much worse.

Like Crabbe or Goyle. Now, that was a scarring idea.


Rose had finally thought it through, fixed the patches, the undesirable what-ifs. She’s covered any Achilles heels she might have.

Made it perfect, the occasion.

And maybe she will tell him now.

But she’s never been good with these things, love confessions (was that what they were called?). Her brain wasn’t designed to work this way.

So maybe she won’t.

Rosie smiles nonetheless.


“I think I’m gay.”

She stops and laughs. It was a funny (cruel) joke. It had no meaning, it meant (stupid)…gay, happy, delight, bliss, joy, jubilant. The words churn in her head, coagulating into a sticky, graying mess.

A farrago of her own thoughts and doubts and I-Told-You-Sos. Rose didn’t want to believe it.

She stops and (stops) laughing.

“What do you mean?”


“My cousin Albus?”


She turns her face to face his face, to make some dramatic, hitting impact. Raises her hand (about to bring it down) and does not.

He is going white, thin and translucent like his hair. And she still wonders why he looks so damn good, all caught in a fright.

“Yeah,” she says. And leaves it at that.

The words dangle, but there’s no net waiting to catch the stilted conversation.


It’s hard to imagine growing up with him. But that she did. And that she regrets.

It’s hard to let the past go, when the past keeps trying to make her budge (and make its stay permanent).


He tells her how he and him (Albus, that dim-witted kid) had been walking, had happened to fall together, had happened—oh it was all just really sudden, the tempest, the bursting flux—to kiss.

Like some bloody, incidental miracle.

Rose wanted to say she knew all a long. And found it awfully frustrating that the words kept dying on the tip of her tongue.


It started years ago, he always did that, always began to explain it that way—telling it like it was some glorious story.

“Shut up.”

This time he did.


Flowers are red, and leaves are green.
Scorpius is blushing, and Rosie is envying.
The hour turns mauve, the irony is suave.