Recipient: The Community
Characters: Molly II/Roxanne, Albus/Scorpius, the Weasley family, mentions of other pairings
Rating/warning(s): NC-17, bloodplay, knifeplay, incest, self-harm, underage sex, girl-on-girl sex.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Summary: Try being the child of the only traitor in a family of heroes. Now that’s not easy.
Author's Note: okay, I REALLY hope you like this, there are a lot of firsts for me in this, and it was a bit of a challenge, but I’d great fun writing it! Okay, a big giant thank you to my beta lost_stray_cat, you’re an absolute star for putting up with my last-minute sending you stories to read, and this would not be half as fab without you.
It’s not easy being the child of a traitor. Just ask my best friend Scorpius Malfoy. Or rather, don’t bother, because he’ll probably roll his eyes, sneer disdainfully and send a stinging hex your way. Suffice to say, it’s not the setup for an easy life, not when the war is still so fresh in peoples’ minds.
Neither though, is it easy being the child of a hero. Just ask my cousin, Albus Potter. Unlike Scorpius, he won’t hex you, but he will roll his eyes, toss you the bird and walk off, muttering about, “fucktards are only interested in getting to my dad, I couldn’t give two shits about what he did twenty three years ago.”
Scorpius and Albus are two years younger than I am, but apart from Roxanne (who is a further year younger than they are), they’re the only people I talk to properly.
Scorpius arrived in Slytherin the night of his sorting, looking absolutely petrified underneath his façade of cool indifference, a look I recognised all-too-well, and so I took him under my wing.
“You just have to build yourself up.” I told him firmly. “You’re a Malfoy.”
“What’s the hell IS a Malfoy?!” He hissed straight back at me. “My father sure as hell never knew, and I don’t either.”
“Well, according to my Uncle Ron, you’re all a bunch of slimy, cowardly snakes.” I shrugged. “But he’s just prejudiced against Slytherins in general. Look, I’ve only been here two years, but I know that in order to survive, you need to muster all the confidence you have and push it out for the world to see. And whatever you do, DON’T let anyone see how terrified you are.”
“I’m trying!” Scorpius all but shrieked.
He quickly locked his jaw shut and took several deep breaths. I waited patiently, until he calmed down and looked at me.
“I’ve…I’ve never been around so many people before in my life.” He admitted softly. “My family isn’t exactly popular.”
As un-Slytherin as it was, I felt my heart soften as he spoke, and I knew I had to help him. Ironic, as I was, and still am, completely unable to help myself. Perhaps I had hoped to help myself through him.
Whatever the reason, I walked him through his next few weeks of school, teaching him the ropes and helping him with all the jinxes and hexes he could learn. Despite that, I could see he never fully fit in with his housemates, and so, I introduced him to Albus, who had surprisingly ended up in Gryffindor, and who was also ill fitting to his house. The two clicked, became instant friends and found peace and solace in each other’s company.
The child of a traitor and the child of a hero. The rules are laid out clearly – how people act towards them, respect or disrespect them, how they treat them. They never had it so easy.
Try being the child of the only traitor in a family of heroes. Now that’s not easy.
Percy Weasley – the turncoat, the blood traitor, the prodigal son. My father. How do you treat him? What do you say when the war is mentioned? Most people glance at him uncomfortably and quickly change the subject. Uncle George cracks a very bad joke, and Grandma Molly huffs indignantly before her eyes soften and water a little.
At seventeen, I’m too young to be noticed or have things fully explained to me, but I’m old enough to listen, observe and notice. And notice I do – I know how he turned his back on the family in order to further his career (thanks to Uncle Ron, who never could keep his mouth shut when he was in a temper), how he ignored and hurt everyone (Uncle Charlie), and how he returned to fight with everyone on the side of the light in the end (Grandpa Arthur). I see the way Uncle Charlie watches him out the corner of his eye, how Aunt Ginny switches between shuffling away from him warily, and practically clinging to him as if not to let him leave them. I see how my father is so very polite and nervous around them, uptight to the point of snapping and it kills me inside.
He is my father – he read me stories, took me to the Muggle theatre and cinema, bought me my very own record player, and always found time to play with me – I love him, and if he is to be treated like a pariah by his own family, then I will have no part in it. For as long as I can remember, I have always hidden away from my family at gatherings, preferring instead to read.
“So very like your father.” Grandma Molly would sigh, shaking her head. “Far too serious.”
As such, I too would be treated with mixed actions and emotions, and though I felt sadness at how heartbroken my father would look when I was treated as he was, I felt nothing towards my relatives.
Try being a child in the Weasley family.
It is a living nightmare.
Their easy love and warmth of family togetherness burns me, and I drown in a sea of red at gatherings in the burrow, where we all squish in together – from the strawberry blonde of Victoire, Dominique and Louis, to the deep red of Rose and Hugo. Even Roxanne, with her caramel skin has fiery ginger locks that flow wild and unkempt about her head, while I alone sport my straight, dull brown hair. What I hate most though, is the lies – anyone who truly believes that the perfect family image presented is real is totally disillusioned (and YES, I am talking about Uncle Harry here, the naive fool).
In a family this big, there are bound to be nutbag a-plenty, and I know of every one.
I know that Aunt Hermione has frequent business trips with her work college Pansy Parkinson, and more often than not returns home covered in bruises and bite marks she claims are from trying to capture a dangerous suspect.
I know that Louis is a manipulative mastermind, twisting everyone around him to suit his own needs – I remember spying on him as he got the Scamander twins high off potions and then encouraged them to kiss and touch each other while he watched and jerked himself off.
I know that Rose and Hugo are far closer than brother and sister ought to be.
I know that Uncle George frequently scratches an ear that isn’t there, talks to himself, and sometimes tells people his name is Fred.
I know so much, and it drives me mad.
I am sickened and trapped, a prisoner of this happy family of heroes. With one word, I could bring it all falling down, but then what would I do?
I plot, I scheme, I think of all sorts of escape plans, but constantly I am thwarted, and by one person. Since I was fourteen, it has been one person who has managed to set me free and ensnare me simultaneously.
‘Roxie,’ to none, she can barely stand ‘Rox,’ and NO ONE calls her Roxanne…except for me. I take great pleasure in saying it, drawing it out as I murmur it over and over onto her skin, as I worship her body. She takes what I give, and returns it one hundred-fold. She is my goddess, my bloody angel, my broken doll.
Try being the child of a man who lost half his soul, and then married said soul’s high school sweetheart. There is no normalcy in that sort of life, and no escape, though my Roxanne keeps on trying, cutting her way to possible freedom night after night. The first time I saw the angry red scars adorning her thighs I was shocked, appalled and distraught, but it is strange and disturbingly hilarious how well the mind comes to accept things when the other party is utterly nonchalant about it.
Soon enough, I was helping her – we would tumble together, and when we were pressed naked against each other, I would inevitably end up on top of her, blade in hand, while she looked up at me, manic grin in place. No words would be exchanged; I would simply tease her by running the blade lightly over her skin, blunt side, sharp side, blunt side, sharp side, over her stomach, breasts, arms and legs. Every muscle would quiver at the metal touch, and she would huff impatiently, until I would finally sink the blade in, creating small cuts that would elicit a hiss and a broken moan in response. After each cut I would press my finger against the wound and smear patterns across her skin with her blood, adorning her in red. She’d be wet and shaking with need after the first cut, and I myself would barely make it past three before I would have to toss the blade away and lap up the blood, cleaning away the proof of what I’d done. Roxanne would yowl in pleasure, and I’d feel sick to my very core.
I hated doing this, I hated it so much, but I did it because she wanted it. I was a prisoner of our desires, because in being with Roxanne, in giving her pleasure that no one else could, in being the one in control, I never felt more free, and it was wrong, all wrong. One was meant to weather the family shitstorm out with poise and control, and be rewarded with freedom, not claw their way out with whatever savage methods suit their needs. But oh, it felt so good to give myself over to her, to hand myself to my jailor and experience a freedom like never before. And for that, I adored and despised her.
Roxanne was loud, wild, uncontrollable, and everything I was not – everything I never could stand from anyone else.
“I hate everything about you, so why do I love you so much?” Was a frequent question that passed through my lips as we lay together. She would never respond, simply moan and push my head down so my mouth enveloped her sex.
Truly the answer is simple – I love her because hers is the only honest love I’ve experienced, in that it isn’t really love. She’s messed up, I’m fucked in the head, and together we have something honest. Something that makes me want to die, but which I wouldn’t give up for anything.
Some people find freedom in the simplest of things: a knife, a person to talk to, a hand to hold. Albus and Scorpius found it in each other. They are my shining example of how one day, I could find my own way, my own space, and truly I wish it were now, but for now, I am a prisoner of my own desires and inability to resist, of my parents, my name, my family. I am a prisoner of my own circumstances, and I cannot escape.
Try being the child of your own jailors. Add a cell mate who blinds you to everything but carnal urges.
Now you try to salvage a life from that.