Stiffness. An unrelenting stiffness. It had been like this for hours now. The man with the paintbrush had instructed Marguerite to "sit still!" and so she had, even when her nose had itched or the sun had went in her eyes. "Almost done darling" Grandmother said, she was sat in a straight-backed chair reading a book and observing the painting; it was her who had insisted on the portrait and having it done in the sun room. Eloise had lost interest hours ago and wandered off and her parents would be back to pick them up soon.
"Done" said the paintbrush man, giving a final wave of his wand over the gilt frame and stepping back; allowing Marguerite to finally see her painting. It was a beautiful likeness, down to every freckle and every curl and the little girl in the frame even had the same cold glare. Marguerite Alphonsine Zabini, Aged 7 read the label in curly scripture, Marguerite traced it with her finger and smiled. "It's wonderful" said Grandmother, "It shall go next to mine in the portrait room" and both Marguerite and her portrait double beamed.
"Muuuuuum stop fussing" whines a small boy to Marguerite's left, as his mother is wiping something off his face using the sleeve of her jumper. Marguerite raises one eyebrow in contempt and smirks inwardly when she catches an identical expression pasted upon her father's dark face. The Hogwarts Express lets out a dramatic billow of smoke; her mother readjusts her trendy up-do and smooths down the front of lilac silk robes, a beautiful compliment to her caramel coloured skin.
Marguerite fiddles with the leather strap of her luggage as an awkward silence descends, she has a lot in common with her parents and she knows that she makes them proud by following their example but they just don't have anything to talk about. "Well, goodbye darling, have a lovely year" her mother says, still with a lingering french accent, and extends a hand toward Marguerite who shakes it delicately (like she's been taught). "Goodbye Mother" and then inclines her head toward her Father "Father." Sidestepping a crying muggle-born with her trendy luggage floating behind her; she doesn't even glance back at her parents as she board the train. She doesn't need to.
"What a beautiful little girl. Those big blue eyes will set hearts ablaze one day." The old woman leaned in and gently poked the infants cheek.
"Well, thank you. But that's my son." Bill explained. As he spoke, he pulled the child back into his arms a little closer, as if shielding him from the prying eyes of the old witch. And while the woman was indeed about the power of such mesmerizing eyes, this day would mark the beginning of a life long struggle for Louis Weasley.
Initially, Bill and Fleur were certain that the misconception of their youngest child's gender was simply because it was rather difficult to tell at such a young age. Louis looked much the same as their daughters had, and not much different from the children of their relatives either, aside from hair and eye colours. Nevertheless, Fleur made a point to dress their son almost entirely in blue. To her horror, people tended to think it was less gender related and more to do with the colour of his eyes.
People who met them and knew of Fleur's Veela ancestry instantly assumed all of their children were female. As one would expect. That didn't do much in the way of helping others to realize that they did in fact have a son. While things didn't get worse as time went on, it certainly didn't get better either.
When Louis was six years old, he accompanied his mother and sisters on an expedition of sorts. A very important one, his mother had explained. And while Dominique and Victorie seemed less impressed with the idea, Louis was a ball of excitement. In light of his sisters lack of enthusiasm, the young boy had opted to take matters of the errands into his own hands.
That was how young Louis had ended up terribly lost and completely unconcerned about it. In his mind, he'd simply made the errands a solo mission. While his mother searched for him frantically, unbeknownst to him.
Through the winding alleyways, Louis traveled along unhindered by worries. While he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, he was certain that with his expert skills in exploring, he'd find it before long. Even at his young age, he was assured in his skills at the very least.Whether it was hours or minutes, he wasn't sure. But eventually, he was pulled aside by the hand of an unfamiliar woman. With wide eyes, Louis looked up at the woman, curiously.
"Where is your mother, little one?" She asked, to which Louis simply shrugged. He thought it strange that the lady was concerned for his mother. She was fine of course! He wouldn't have left her if she wasn't.
"Such a shame, dressing such a pretty little girl in boys clothing..." The woman commented, shaking her head as she tugged Louis's hand, intending on helping him to locate his mother.
"I am a boy!" Louis said firmly. A frown formed on his face as he tried to pull away from the woman. Clearly, he wanted nothing to do with her.
"Nonsense. Let's find your mother now." The woman said with a huff. Her good Samaritan nature was wearing thin it seemed.
It was a good thing Fleur stumbled on the pair when she did, because the poor woman's robes would have been scorched by Veela-fire in mere moments. While Fleur was upset that Louis had run off, she was more upset that some one else had the nerve to make her son so distraught.
Throughout the years, Louis faced seemingly neverending misconceptions and ill informed people. Puberty was a God sent, in that he began to develop much more defined, masculine features. And while he was indeed far more secure in his masculinity, he did often feel the need to affirm it. In case people forgot. Or worse yet, if some one dared to call him pretty, or beautiful, or any other word of the same meaning. He'd had more than his fair share of those sort of compliments and learned to positively despise them. After all, if some one felt the need to compliment him, they ought to at least make it something he thought he could be proud of. Like handsome. Or anything, really, that was much less feminine.
With a heavy sigh Ever shut the door behind her softly. As she walked further into her bedroom, kicking her flats off as she walked, Ever pulled her hair down out of its intricate bun. Her fingers getting caught and pulling at the tangles as she tried to get it down as quickly as possible which left pins sticking into her scalp. It would seem that she would never learn to patiently take down her hair regardless of the pinching and pulling that came from her impatience.
With a loud groan of frustrating Ever finally sat down in her desk chair clothed only in her bra and knickers, too lazy to actually find her nightclothes. Leaning against the cool top of her desk Ever sat in silence for a few moments, her fingers rubbing lightly at her temples. It had been an incredibly long day. She missed the days of childhood when Christmas was all laughter and presents. When she was ignorant to the discussions around her and the tension that made the air thick in her home.
Pulling out her notebook Ever grabbed a fresh quill and some ink from a drawer. She had to write. She wanted to write to Louis and get out her anger to someone who could actually respond, to someone who could comfort her. She couldn’t though. There was no way she could let him know about the extent of her family’s issues this early on. It wouldn’t be fair to him and how would she tell him anyway? Tell him that part of her family thought that he was a monster, just some half-breed that didn’t deserve to live let alone date her. It didn’t matter to her what they believed, not for a moment, so she felt no need to involve Louis in the mess before she absolutely had to. She knew she could confide in Scorpius but felt wrong doing so, she was too ashamed with her families behaviour to write to Rose and the last thing Ever could do was write to Jean.
So she opened up the book and wet her quill.
Jonathon Stanley
When we think about Azkaban prisoners we think of evil witches and wizards with scowls on their faces and guilt in their eyes, either guilt or anger. We think of straight lips and cold hearts. We think we would recognize them on the street. How could anyone that deserved to be locked up go unnoticed in our daily lives? When I was told my Uncle would be joining us for Christmas I expected to see just that. That wasn’t what I was greeted with though.
Jonathan Stanley is tall and slightly rounded. He has bright blue eyes that lit up when he saw my family. He came baring lavish gifts, gifts that had thought behind them. He gave me a new and elegant quill set, which is still under the tree, never to be used. He laughed and hugged my father tight, greeted my mother cordially, complimenting her on the beauty of our home and he spent several minutes talking about what a beautiful young lady I was. How sorry he was that he had missed my growing up. My stomach churned from the moment his stepped inside.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around him. I could almost like this man, if I didn’t know where he had been for the last 17 years. That was what scared me most, the idea that he didn’t seem completely evil. In fact I felt myself be lulled into a false sense of security for a few hours. My grandparents were laughing and being kind to even my mother, who they have always hated. Everything was calm in the Emerson house, it was just as eerie as it was calming. In the back of my mind I knew who they were, no amount of kindness could erase the past. Still, the welcome party had left the air far less tense then it usually was and as Christmas day wore on I let myself relax, just a little. That was my biggest mistake. I answered their questions and laughed when I was supposed to. I, as always, censored my answers where I needed to but I felt myself having to do so sparingly.
Until my Uncle John (as I had been asked to call him) asked me a completely innocent question. “So, Ever, pretty girl like you must have a boyfriend?” I could feel the air change. My mother tensed up, knowing that I did indeed have a boyfriend, one who was far less than desirable to the Emerson clan. My father laughed lazily about my being far too young to date. I was about to half lie my way out of it, it came so easily. My response was on the tip of my tongue. ‘I tend to find fiction far more interesting then that sort of thing.’ I was interrupted though after the first few syllables.
My grandmother scoffed and rolled her eyes “Of course she doesn’t Jonathan. Girl’s too wrapped up in those silly books. I don’t know where you went wrong with her Aurora. She’s not ugly, she’s not dull, but she has the social skills of a Muggle-Born. Really, we’ll be lucky if we can find her a half decent husband. Maybe we should just get her another cat.”
The room was silent for a fraction of a second before mother spoke up sharply, “For your information Ever does have herself a very fine young gentleman at school. I do request that you stop insulting her abilities in any field.” I did get my temper from her, after all. Mums voice was filled with venom and I knew that she was just trying to help but quickly it had snow balled.
The questions were on quick fire for the rest of the evening as I some how barely managed to find vague answers to their questions. “Does he come from a good family? Would we know them?” was one of the first, “Yes, he comes from a very good family. I’m afraid that they aren’t of much consequence; they wouldn’t be in your circle. Though, they are a wonderful family.” And it was true. Just not by their standards but certainly by mine. The evening went on like that. And on and on. Questions about breeding and social status that I pretended to not know much about, but falsely assured them that he would meet their criteria. Of course these lies will come to bite me in the arse. They already have. It has been requested that during our next break he come to dinner. Already I'm trying to find ways to get him out of it.
The questions go on and lead to side discussions that I tune out as best I can. The words being used make my ears burn and the inside of my lip is still sore from biting it instead of speaking up. I always had issues keeping my mouth shut but it was worse now. Now they weren't insulting nameless and faceless people, they were insulting a boy I cared very deeply for, even if they didn't know it. I'm lucky I managed to excuse myself early or who knows what could have been said.
It was brought straight to mind though that Jonathan Emerson had not changed his ways. He was quick to fire his own questions and judgments. The whole night left my stomach knotting and I’m sure if I had eaten anything it wouldn’t have lasted long in my gut. Just another person to make me sick. Usually I feel like throwing things after these dinners, like screaming and yelling, acting like a five year old just to get out my frustrations but tonight I just feel exhausted. Even my muscles hurt from the restraint of my comments. I'll have to put some ointment on the marks my nails left in my palms. My head is now pounding and I have to write a letter. More on ‘Uncle John’ will surely come quickly.
Putting down the quill Ever let out a very long breath. Her shoulders felt slightly lighter and she felt like she could breathe a bit easier. Even if the pages would never talk back to her she always felt a little comforted to see the words on the page. Just quick scribbles of messy handwriting and angry thoughts. Only now that she had gotten it out was her stomach starting to settle down. Still, hate filled her heart for a few moments as she read over her writing. Some of it didn’t make much sense when she read it over and some of it she couldn’t read through her quick writing but it was there. Concrete and black.
After a few moments Ever shook out her shoulders and pulled out a piece of parchment, a smile slowly growing on her face. Even just the thought of communicating with Louis made her feel a little better. After she was done she’d find something to sleep in and crawl into bed. Tomorrow would be a better day. She hoped.
Lucius Malfoy keeps peacocks. He has a whole flock, all pure-white leucistic creatures, and they roam the gardens of the manor freely. The birds are Lucius's favorite hobby (now that he has given up politics) and he dotes on them endlessly. In fact, it is fair to say that he downright adores his peacocks.
The rest of the family can't stand them.
Where the first peacock came from, no one was entirely certain, but it might have been Lucius's mother who initially brought the birds to the gardens. When Lucius was growing up there were only a few, two or three as far as he can recall, and they were kept as living decorations for one of the small sub-gardens--all soft moss, trailing willows, and shallow ponds, several yards from the south corner of the house.
Perhaps it was because that secluded little nook was one of Lucius's favorite places to go for some privacy when he was young, and still under his father's wing; Abraxas was not a man who enjoyed gardens, and rarely bothered venturing off the wide paths or rolling lawns into the more "natural" areas of his property. Perhaps it was because that private little garden became he and Narcissa's favorite spot to sneak off for a snog -- and more than a snog -- when they were courting, and everything associated with Narcissa was wonderful in Lucius's eyes. Perhaps he felt a kinship of sorts with the pretty, vain, inbred creatures.
Perhaps he simply liked the way they looked.
Whatever the initial motivating factor had been, Lucius Malfoy was very fond of his peacocks. He supplemented the flock through careful purchases and breeding, and removed the charm that had initially kept them confined to a single area of the garden. Soon the stunning (albeit stupid) white birds were wandering freely throughout all the gardens of the manor, with Lucius looking on like a proud papa.
He hadn't even needed to wait for Abraxas to die to make that change; the old man didn't care who did what to the gardens so long as they looked impressive to company, so Lucius was given free-reign thanks to his father's apathy. He took full advantage, cultivating his little flock, and Narcissa was far too besotted with Lucius to object to his little hobby. She had never been fond of the birds herself, finding the noise they made grating and obnoxious -- but what did she care about that, when the birds made her beloved smile? Besides, a few discreet noise-cancelling charms on the windows facing the areas of the garden where they most tended to congregate, and from inside the house one would hardly know the birds were there.
Each year, though, there were more and more birds, and Lucius didn't tire of his ornithological hobby. His son never found the birds of much interest, although Lucius certainly tried to instill in young Draco a love of the creatures. Draco adored his father, though, and readily pretended an interest he did not have in hopes of making Lucius proud. For once completely taken in by pretense -- possibly willingly -- Lucius happily taught Draco all there was to know about peacock care and keeping, and the more Draco learned, the more time he spent on the bloody birds, the less he liked them.
He never told his father, though, any more than Narcissa had before him. When Lucius spoke about his birds, they smiled and nodded along and asked the right questions in the pauses, and if Lucius ever privately questioned their devotion to his hobby, he pretended otherwise. Whether he was playing some elaborate joke on them or not, Narcissa never could quite work out; her husband was not a man who was easily misled, after all, but he never gave any sign that he doubted the veracity of their interest in his precious flock.
There was one time, during the war, that Draco appreciated the peacocks quite a lot. He and Narcissa had taken over the care of the peacocks after Lucius was imprisoned (or more accurately, instructed the elves to take over the care of them, for Lucius had always insisted that no simple-minded House Elf could be trusted with his birds and had looked after them himself), but sometimes during his school breaks Draco did the tedious chores himself, because he missed his father.
Thus he had been outside dispersing feed one summer's day when Fenrir Greyback came to the manor. Draco being terrified of the vicious werewolf, he had immediately dropped into the bushes to hide. Greyback, hearing the noise, ambled over to investigate -- and an enraged peacock had flung itself into the werewolf's face, screeching and flapping and quite possibly trying to either drive the beast away or mate with it; with the idiot peacocks it was sometimes hard to tell.
Whatever the bird's motivations, Greyback had been driven back by the surprise assault, and Narcissa, hearing the noise, came charging out the door warning the werewolf that if he hurt one of her husband's birds she would take his skin off before she gave him to her sister for punishment, so Greyback of course had had to put both wand and claws away and do his best to shrug off the attack without fighting back -- which largely resulted in a stumbling Fenrir Greyback reeling up to the door with a shrieking peacock on his head, feathers spread.
Draco had laughed until his sides ached and his eyes streamed and given the peacocks double their usual dinner in thanks for the amusing sight.
That was one story that Narcissa and Draco kept to themselves, not wanting to upset Lucius with thoughts of what the werewolf might have done to his precious birds. He was upset enough already by thoughts of what the beast could have done to his precious wife and son while he had been locked away, so there was no reason to add salt to those wounds, they both decided.
While Voldemort laired in their home, there was little time for any hobbies beyond, "don't make him angry, don't get yourselves killed," for any of the Malfoys, but the elves continued their duties and so the birds did not die of neglect. Lucius did see to them sometimes, as a form of respite and distraction, but it was not until after the war -- and the trials -- that he really took up his hobby again in earnest. And then, without the chance to play politics to distract him, he ended up spending more time with the birds than ever before. He got himself a pack of hounds, too, as supplement, and filled the gardens' ponds with interesting and exotic fish, and the trees with other birds; quite the amateur zoologist was Lucius, after the war, much to his family's tolerant exasperation.
But always the peacocks came first.
When Astoria was wed and when Scorpius was born, nothing changed, and Lucius took them both out in turn -- Astoria once he had decided she was properly part of the family, and Scorpius once he was old enough -- and taught them about the birds. Astoria apparently did not pretend as well as her in-laws, perhaps because she had started out genuinely interested in her father-in-law’s hobby, so the way her eyes glazed over as he kept talking was noticeable; Lucius thus soon determined that she did not have the level of interest worthy of further interaction with his menagerie. Astoria was dismissed, and glad of it, and she kept up a polite pretense of mild interest later, which was good enough for Lucius whose main interest in the girl was always, "is Draco happy?" and so long as that was true, she could do whatever she liked as far as he was concerned.
Scorpius, though -- Scorpius followed in the same vein his father had taken before him, and like Draco, he wanted his grandfather to be proud of him, and he thought that he ought to show an interest in the animals the old man doted on. It worked well enough with the fish, which did little but swim around and eat, although young Scorpius enjoyed feeding them a bit too much and one or two died of overeating thanks to his eager little hands. The birds were harder, because he was too young to have the patience it required to watch for the different flocks, so they bored him quickly. He did not get on with the hounds at all -- big scary slavering noisy overly-friendly brutes that they were, and besides they made his eyes stream and his nose clog -- and so in deference to his grandson's nerves and allergies, Lucius had sent the dogs on their way.
But the peacocks...Scorpius really didn't like the peacocks. They made the most ungodly noise, they were so stupid they might well starve out of sheer idiocy if not looked after, and the gardens had to be laced with charms and wards to keep the dumb creatures from stumbling into something dangerous like a deep pond or a bush with thorns. They were always waddling out onto the Quidditch pitch and screeching just when Scorpius was trying to concentrate, and they liked to stalk through the gardens and startle him when he was absorbed in his reading.
More than once he tumbled off his broomstick, dropping his book and skinning his knees and loosing his place in the story, because a peacock had screeched in his ears during a particularly interesting passage. Scorpius always passed the wounds off as acquired during his play at Quidditch, rather than while reading, because he didn't want to be banned from reading in the gardens on his broomstick, and so the peacocks never got the blame they deserved -- but he suspected that even if they had, his grandfather would have forgiven the birds. The blasted peacocks could get away with anything, it seemed.
And, thoroughly convinced that he was the only one entitled to do that, Scorpius loathed them.
Scorpius has definitely inherited the family look: tall, graceful, slim, blond, and pale. Very, very pale. In fact his pallor comes not from the Malfoy side of the family nor the Greengrass, for all that paleness runs in both their lines; rather Scorpius has inherited the Black family skin, which not only tends to be even more porcelain-like than that of Malfoys and Greengrasses, but also much more delicate as well.
In short, Scorpius sunburns easily. Very, very easily.
He doesn't ever tan, either. Scorpius goes from bright-blistered-pink right back to bleached-bone-pallor with hardly a flicker of anything else in between. The sunburns never last very long at least, but that's not because of any innate hardiness in Scorpius's skin; he heals quickly only because he is very, very good at Potions -- and very experienced at brewing relief for sunburns.
He doesn't get them often, because he's careful. Scorpius hardly even heads down to Herbology without casting at least one sun-shielding charm on his skin, and he would never go to things like Care of Magical Creatures or Quidditch practice without layering on two or three. Sometimes he forgets, of course, because even a teenaged boy as fastidious and prissy as Scorpius Malfoy can get wrapped up in other things and forget to take proper precautions with his health.
And of course, sometimes the charms simply wear-off without him noticing. That usually only happens during actual Quidditch matches of course, because he can't exactly ask the other team to stop play so that he can draw a wand and shield his skin from the sun overhead. Thankfully Hogwarts is not a place often blessed (or cursed, in Scorpius's opinion) with strong sunlight, but the skies burn often enough for Scorpius to need to turn a careful eye on the ceiling of the Great Hall every morning so he can determine what he needs to do before he risks going outside.
Scorpius doesn't tell people about his sun-troubles often because he thinks it smacks of weakness; after all, no one else reacts like that to a few stray beams of sunlight, do they? (Well, at least no one who has ever mentioned the problem to Scorpius, which given how many confidants he has -- all of two -- doesn't really single him out very much, but to Scorpius's mind, it does.) Not even Rose Weasley, with her ginger curls and pasty freckles, crisps quite so quickly or so thoroughly in the sun as does Scorpius Malfoy.
Despite his mother's very, very best attempts at keeping him indoors.
