VIII. Black

VIII. Black

“Death is nothing at all,

That we still are.” – Henry Scott Holland, excerpt from the poem ‘Death is Nothing at All’

Every year the trek to the grave seemed a little longer, a little harder. His knees creaked more and his hair was less, but he would not miss visiting her grave for all the world. Scorpius Malfoy, over a hundred years old with his oldest great-grandchild in tow, had missed his wife every single day for the twenty years since Death had separated them, coming upon his beloved quickly and painlessly in her sleep.

Even to this day, James S. Potter would still creak out that Scorpius did not really love Rosie. Scorpius had long since stopped replying to such behavior, but it was true that publicly he had not made a spectacle of himself in grief.

He mourned her, certainly. There was constant pain in his heart, carved into his chest and his soul, his constant companion. There was an empty slot in his bed, where she would lay curved against him; a missing warmth in his arms, where he held her; a missing softness against his lips, where he kissed her.

He missed the scent of her hair, the sound of her laugh, the twinkle of her eyes. The smell of roses could recall it all in an instant, bringing pain and pleasure through him like a stampeding herd of hippogriffs.

But at the same time, he knew in his heart that he woul see her again. She was simply across the Veil, waiting for him to cross over to her. He often felt like he could hear her speak, the softness of her voice coming from the next room, the brush of her breath against his ear, the brief pressure of her hand against his back.

She was there, and yet not. So how could he wallow in grief, when it would only be a time until he saw her again?

“Great-pa,” his ten-year-old great-granddaughter started, her little face so serious as it tilted up toward his, “am I really like Great-ma? Everyone always says so, but I don’t remember her at all.”

“You never met her, Prim,” Scorpius told her, resting a hand on the cold tombstone they had come to visit. “She died before you were born. But yes, you are very much like my Rosie, and she would have loved you very, very much.” The tombstone was elaborate, as benefitted a Malfoy and, admittedly, a Weasley in this day and age. The words were simple, however: Here Lies Rose Malfoy, Who was all things to all who knew her.

Primrose knelt on the ground, rubbing a smudge of dirt from the crystal vase in front of the carved stone. The vase contained eleven roses, the first seven he’d ever given her with notes, two additional blues for each child they’d had together, a white shot with red for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, and the only charmed one, which had a petal of every color, for when they passed their hundredth birthdays.

In his hand he carried a single flower. With the help of his great-granddaughter, he knelt to the ground, knees creaking with age, and reached out to slip it into the vase.

The black colour stood out darkly against all of the others. It was as close to true black as nature could ever provide.

“Great-pa, why do you always bring that flower here? Why aren’t there more of them?” Her curiousity made him smile, a nostalgic expression.

“I first brought this flower to her grave the day I had to bury her,” he said, as he’d started the story many times before. “Every year, the day before I come back, I wake to find it on my pillow, waiting for me to bring it again.”

It carried no charm other than the stasis charm. Rose was not a ghost. But it didn’t change the fact that he aoke to the heady aroma every year before he trekked here.

“And so every year, I bring it again, so that Rosie will know I’m here and always thinking of her.” And hoping, every year hoping, that this would be the last year he’d walk up the hill. That this was the last year he’d live without her at his side, always just around the corner.

Prim knew the story of every rose by heart—though some were edited for her age—but like every year, she asked, and like every year, he answered, weaving the tale of his childhood, of his Rosie, for her namestake. She kenw exactly what every rose said, and she read them as the story went on, taking each rose, smelling it, fingering the petals with respect.

She always lingered over the black rose. Scorpius suspected that she was too young yet to fully comprehend death and loss, but on the flip side, her youth seemed to allow her to understand better than most how he felt that his wife was right there, waiting for him to finish with his life so he could join her.

“Between this life and the next, where I’ll see you again, I’ll be loving you. Love, me.” Her young voice lilted, almost as if in song, as she read the note. He smiled, a sad smile, and Prim leaned forward and hugged him.

“Come on, luv, let’s go home,” he said, and she helped him off the ground and back down the hill.

~o0o~

A/N: Poems and quotes do not belong to me. Information on colors of flowers was mostly found on various websites. This was written for jade_chan on weasley_fest on LJ.