On the Other Hand

Typical. Rose hates Scorpius. Scorpius hates Rose. But one day, Rose and Scorpius need to work together, and they fall in love. You know the story, but what does Ron Weasley have to say about it? He's not so pleased about chumming up with Draco Malfoy.

Oneshot. My first Scorpius/Rose fic. In inverted manner. Very hurriedly written – there are a lot of scenes cut out, so you'll just have to fill them in with your imagination. Pretend, initially, there's a lot more yelling going on between the scenes.

I'm actually not too pleased with this piece, so I might be taking it down for edits sometime in the future.

Other than that… Hope you enjoy!

Caution: This story has more cursing than I've ever written before. ^^ (Hopefully it won't stick. O_O)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Remember to drop a review

Day Negative One

"You know who's easy to rile up? Dad."

"Uncle Ron? Yeah, you take the win."

Scoff. "No, I got Mum angry for a whole week once. She wouldn't talk to me or anything. It was great."

"Aunt Fleur's… well, she's Aunt Fleur. She doesn't count."

"Besides, when Aunt Fleur gets angry, it's actually scary. When Uncle Ron gets angry – most of the time, it's funny."

"I bet you can't get Uncle Ron angry for a week for anything. In fact, I bet you can't even make it for half a week. Three and a half days."

"You're on. What does the winner get?"

"Besides the satisfaction of seeing your dad's name on the headlines of the Daily Prophet for rash behavior? Ten Galleons. And one night's worth of Transfiguration homework."

"Be prepared to part with your money, Louis."

"I'll be watching."


Day One

They've been strange things, ever since you let off that Draco Malfoy is your pronounced love – and by love, you mean enemy. Cunning little vile creatures, they are. Whispering and… giggling. "That's just what kids do," Hermione had said, but that was BS if you've ever heard of it. There is something going on.

But you have no idea to be suspicious of the owl that flies in during breakfast and holds its foot aloft for you to untie the letter. After all, the children are all at Hogwarts already. It as nice to know that they wrote back to their parents' letters… once in a while.

You absentmindedly peel off the wax seal and flip open the envelope as Hermione comes in, humming one Muggle tune or another as she sets the table for two. "What's that, dear?" she asks, interested, as she leans over your shoulder to read.

"The kids wrote," you respond, unfolding the letter.

Freeze frame.

This is not what you were expecting. Tear stains and blurred writing. A thousand words scribbled out. "They've sent us James's potions essay by mistake," you say blankly, blinking at the parchment. "Why was he crying when he wrote this? That kid doesn't have Snape."

Hermione hits you on the arm as she slides into the seat beside you, taking the essay from your hands. "It's not an essay, Ron," she said. "It's a letter."

A letter? No bloody way!

You grab the parchment back from her and hastily spread it out on the table in front of you.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I thought – no, you needed to know. There's no easy way to say this, and you probably won't believe me. I just want you to know that I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I don't even know how it happened – we were celebrating a Gryffindor victory over the first Quidditch game of the season, and I think somebody must've spiked the punch, because the next day, I woke up in the Slytherin dungeons.

I can't even remember what had happened. Merlin, it's been so confusing – I didn't mean to. I don't even remember what happened. But I've been feeling… funny lately, like there's something different, so I went to the Hospital Wing to get it checked and now I'm pregnant.

I already feel horrible about it – I really didn't mean for this to happen. I know what you've taught me and everything, and I really was planning on abstinence, but that night we had the party is just one giant blur in my head.

Everyone's been so good to me, considering the situation. Especially Lily. I know you probably don't expect it from her, but she's been the most understanding. She's there for me whenever I need her.

And I've thought about it for a long time. I think I want to keep the baby. It's not his – her – fault. I just don't know if I want to put it up for adoption yet.

I know you're probably hideously furious at me and so disappointed – I'm so sorry. I know what I did was wrong. It's unforgivable, even if my mind was in a haze.

And please – especially you, Dad – don't act too irrationally – but the father is Scorpius Malfoy.

Your mind has stilled in shock, like the calm before the storm. Hermione's eyes are trained upon the letter, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed tightly together in an effort not to show any emotion and to remain calm. But you don't care what else Rose has to say.

Your darling baby is pregnant.

By Draco Malfoy's son.

You're going to kill that man.

No. She said not to do anything irrational, you remind yourself. Change of plans.

You are going to ensure he can never reproduce again and force-feed him the souvenir.

Then you're going to kill him.



Red snares your vision. You can't see anything but red. Maybe owing to the fact that you are staring at a door that you have just lit on fire so you can gain entrance into Malfoy Manor, or maybe you're just that furious.

You have every right to be.


You're sure they're reacting inside, but you can't hear anything. You can barely hear yourself scream. Fury has deafened you.


No – that punishment would not nearly be cruel enough. It suited as a nice warm-up, however.


A jet of water shoots out from behind the curtain of fire. The red that blinded you moments prior turns into a thick, cloying grey that suffocates your lungs and forces you to cough. You unceremoniously barge through the hole that once held a door (and some of the wall), and when you run far enough, color restores in your vision.

"Shit, Weasley!" Malfoy swears as he comes running after you, his wife right behind him. You're looking left and right, your wand brandished, looking for the route to the kitchen. There's sure to be knives there, right? Hopefully blunt ones. "What the fuck was that for?"

You ignore him as you grab the nearest antique and throwing it on the floor. Malfoy winces as it splinters and shatters into thousands of slivers of shards. "Shit, Weasley!" he swears again. "That's been in my family for five bloody generations!" At this point, he, too, takes out his wand. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Again, you imagine that he is a fly you will exterminate shortly. First you'll pluck out the wings, then the eyeballs, then the legs, then chop the body up. Slowly. But for now, he is useless noise. "House elf!" you yell. There has to be a house elf here that can show you to the kitchens, right?

"What the – Salazar!" He raises his hands up in exasperation. You note with some satisfaction that he looks frenzied and confused. All credited to you, of course. But he's still breathing, and therein lays the problem. With a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation, he binds you to the wall.

Your feet are still free to aim (carefully, now) and kick, however. Such is good advice to listen to.

"Weasley! What the – "

"YOU BLOODY BASTARD!" you yell again. Maybe you'll be unable to control your fury and something else will light on fire. Maybe Malfoy will blow up like Harry's Aunt Marge (was that her name?). You round on his wife, who stands confounded beside him, her wand also out. You've never spoken to her before, but you know that she's – "AND YOU SHITTY EXCUSE FOR A WITCH! YOU ARE A MORONIC BITCH TO BRING A FUCKED UP BASTARD JUNIOR INTO THIS WORLD!"

She blanches for a moment, clearly taken aback, an offended look crossing her face. She should be glad that you care so much for first impressions; otherwise, she wouldn't be standing right now, either. Preferably six feet under.

Malfoy rises in rage and holds his wand pressed against your throat. "How dare you talk to my wife like that?" He pushes harder and you gag. He opens his mouth to continue, but you cut him off. You don't care what he has to say, anyways. It's not worth hearing. Besides, it would only delay his death.

"I dare," you rasp, the rounded point of the wand cutting into your vocal cords, your voice rising in crescendo as you speak, "because your fucking wife decided to fucking fuck the fucking you to fucking produce a fucking fucker who fucked up my daughter!"

His hold on his wand loosens, a quizzical expression on his face. One eyebrow arched. "English?"


Horror. Shocked silence. Your breathing comes in heavy puffs as you seethe, but not even after that display (and being chained by the hands to the wall) have you lost your energy. Your stomach still churns. Your fingers still itch.

"I don't believe this," Malfoy's unfortunate wife – her name was Astoria? Stupid name in your opinion, just like Draco and Scorpius – said, shaking her head. "Scorpius is a sweet boy, and he – "

" – bloody hates your daughter, that I know," Malfoy finishes, a sneer on his face. "Why would he fuck your daughter anyways? He can get bett – "

"I meant to say that Scorpius is a sweet boy," Astoria interrupted, a pointed look at her husband, "and he would never sleep with anybody."

Anger. Anger. Fuming. Galsieurlhg a;suira;oewuir jabser. Words fail to express the degree of your vehemence. And did Malfoy just insult your daughter? "SHOWS HOW MUCH YOU KNOW ABOUT YOUR BASTARD SON!" you spit at them with distaste. Then, as an afterthought: "And my daughter is a better fucker than your son," you add in regards to Malfoy's slight.

Astoria's brows knit together; Malfoy's brows rise. "How would you know, Weasley?" he questioned. "Have you fucked them both?"

"Boys!" His wife lashes out an arm at each of you. "This is not a competition to see whose child is… more experienced in intercourse." She rounds her eyes on you. "Returning to what's important, I'm not sure I believe you. Scorpius would never do something like that."

Malfoy coughs. "Besides. Doesn't it take two to have sex?"

If all four of your limbs were free right now, this would be when you would pull his dick off with your bare hands.

You open your mouth to respond, but your attention diverts to behind the Malfoys' shoulders. "Hermione!" you cry helplessly. "What are you doing here?"

She runs over, a frown on her face. "Ron, what are you doing here?" With a courteous smile and an apologetic look (how she manages it, you'll never know), she says, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't find your door, so I just helped myself in."

Malfoy sneers scathingly at you. "The pleasure is all your husband's."

Merlin. Somehow, there seems to be no love in the look she's shooting at you right now.


It's a miracle, you think, what two women with level-headed minds can do. Though it doesn't garner any of the satisfaction and pleasure you would be certain to achieve by watching Malfoy swallow his dick whole, you're actually getting somewhere in the conversation now.

"Rose wants to keep it," Hermione says, watching the two of them almost apprehensively.

Astoria sighs. "I'm still not sure I can accept all this," she comments. "I mean, we haven't heard anything from Scorpius." A shared look between her and Malfoy.

Cue the owl with perfect timing. Only it's an eagle that drops a letter into their laps, which all of you regard with uneasiness. Slowly – tantalizingly slow – Astoria slips her fingers beneath the envelope's flap and breaks the seal, removing the folded parchment. Scented, you see. Smells like green apple.

"Dear Mother and Father…" she reads slowly, as if afraid of what she would encounter next in the text. "Don't yell, but I got a girl pregnant…" She immediately closes the paper and shoves it at Malfoy's chest, fanning herself. "Merlin," she gasped, "I can't breathe."

Malfoy stares at the now wrinkled letter in his hands. Three, two, one…

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!" Two voices resound at once. One is yours, the other is his.

Two fingers of blame being pointed. One at you, the other at him.



Two wives leap out of their seat. "Ron!" Hermione reprimands sharply at you. "This is no one's fault."

You gape at her. Your own wife! "His bloody son - !"

"Yes, his bloody son, but what's happened is happened." She heaves a heavy sigh and massages her temples. "I'm sure both Rose and Scorpius have learned their lesson now. It was a mistake."

"A mistake? Are you fucking kidding me, a mistake?"

"Ron," she tries exasperatedly. You hesitate slightly, a tad of guilt lining your chest. She's just as disappointed – upset – exhausted as you are. "They're in the same situation as we are. Can you at least calm down enough so we can work through this? A temporary truce."

You try to release your breath slowly. Don't think of Malfoy. Don't think of Malfoy. Bloody git, it's all his fault -- "Okay."

The other two are still standing as you and Hermione seat yourselves again – as civilized people, and not as rash barbarians such as Malfoy who still flails in anger. Malfoy. You tut in your mind. He's always been irrational over petty things.

Not that this is petty or anything, but…

At least, the wife triumphs (which, you notice, seems to occur in most cases) and Malfoy frowns as he sits down, one glare at you marking his displeasure. You return the sentiments.

Ensue an awkward silence.


Day Two

"She wants to keep." Hermione catches everyone's eye, including yours. "And raise."

An sigh from Astoria and Malfoy raises his arms up in surrender. "I want to bail," he replied, "and run."

"Damn straight."

Pause – and rewind.

Did you just say that?

Did you just agree to something Malfoy just said?

You turn to look at him, and he's watching you queerly. Hastily, the two of you realize what had just happened and you turn away, coughing slightly. Astoria smirks. Hermione's eyes hit the ceiling.

"The good thing is, judging by the time, the birth will occur over the summer," Hermione shares. "And, considering they're both in their seventh year, they'll have graduated by the time the full responsibilities of being a parent need to be played." She hesitates for a moment before glancing from Astoria to Malfoy. "What does Scorpius plan to do?"

A pained look. "Well," Astoria began, wincing, "he made it clear that he has no feelings of affection for your daughter, but he does feel guilty over it, and he's willing to help out."

Malfoy frowns. "But he stated that marriage is not an option."

A relieved sigh escapes you. "Thank Merlin." You laugh. "I was worried that I might actually be related to you."

Did Malfoy just quirk a grin? It was intended as an insult. Though it was true all the while. "Traumatizing," he mutters with a shake of his head. "Just like the Chudley Cannon's season this year – despicable."

Stare. If Malfoy hated the Cannons, he would have termed it "hilarious." As it was…

"You're a Cannons fan."

His head shoots up and meets your eyes, looking alarmed, and Astoria laughs. "To the core," she says brightly, her smile wide. "He's only too ashamed to admit it."

You think you just fell in love. Except not really, because that would be revolting on every possible level and angle imaginable… and unimaginable. "Cannons fans are a dying species," you admit gravely, holding your hand to your heart. "Perhaps we can pass on the sagely wisdom of being a Cannons fan to this unborn child. Not all is lost yet!"

You think your wife and Malfoy's wife just exchanged glances.


"I think we should set terms," you declare.

The other three look up at you from the legal papers with surprise marked on their faces.

You nod as you continue, "We do all this work over their mishap – I think we should be able to choose the name of the child." A grin flashes across your face as you eagerly watch them for a response. "Eh? Ehhh?"

"First," Hermione says, overriding you and shooting you a dirty look, "the surname. I think that's for them to decide."

"You can keep the name 'Weasley,'" Malfoy drawls as he takes a sip from his martini. "It wouldn't do good to have an illegitimate child carrying the Malfoy name."

Your fists ball at your side at his insult, and you feel tempted to toss your own martini over his slick head. (At least, you think it's an insult. Or perhaps it's only insufferable arrogance.) You can't punch him, Ron, you tell yourself through gritted teeth. He's a Cannons fan. He's a bloody Cannons fan.

For a moment, you wish he wasn't a Cannons fan so you could beat the crap out of him for his obnoxious attitude, but the feeling passes over quickly.

Strange. What happened to your redheaded temper that not even Godric (okay, maybe Godric, but Godric only) could put at ease? Especially regarding certain blond prats.

"I agree," Astoria said, interrupting your train of thought, "with Hermione."

Hermione beams. "Thank you, Astoria."

You clear your throat. "As for first names… I highly doubt that the fathering half of the family should decide." You snort. "Really – Scorpius? Draco? What kind of names are they?"

Across the table, Malfoy glowers as you. It kind of gives you a warm feeling inside to see him angry. "They're constellations," he responds coldly. "It's a tradition among most pureblooded lines."

A small chuckle escapes you. "Thank Merlin I'm not one of them," you comment.

"Ron!" Hermione reprimands sharply, and instantly you are humbled. You don't dare to look in Malfoy's direction. As a matter of fact, you hardly need to, as you're pretty sure he's looking pretty smug and mouthing the word "whipped" right about now.

"God, I can't believe this is really happening," Astoria mutters, waving her hand before her face. "A baby. God."

A sigh – and in that sigh, it isn't a competition to see whose opinion gets greater applause. You're just four adults stuck in the same predicament – and not by anyone's fault.


Day Three

You bring a bottle of your finest Firewhiskey, lifting it at Malfoy in acknowledgement as you step in through what was once the door. "You need to get that fixed, man," you tell him, gesturing to the gaping hole that you and your wife just passed through.

"No kidding," he agrees dryly.

He advances and you hand him the bottle. "Firewhiskey," you say, tapping at the label. "Decided that this is a situation to pop out this kid."

To your surprise, he tilts his head in approval. "Good call." With a wave of his wand, he conjures four glasses and sets them on the table. "We could all use it."

He calls his wife over from some other unforeseen room, and she hurries over and greets us with a large smile. Huh. You've never imagined Malfoy to get married to a smiling-type woman.

"Has Scorpius expressed a... preference, of sorts, I suppose you can call it, of whether or not he'd like to participate in the baby's life?" Hermione asks as the four of you sit by the table with Malfoy pouring the whiskey.

The two Malfoys share glances before the blond-headed prick reveals, "He doesn't want to play the father role, but he's willing to participate." He nods. "To help out where the child is concerned." From within his robe pocket, he pulls out a new letter and slides it across the table toward you.

"Came in just this morning," Astoria says, her voice weak. She catches both your and Hermione's eye. "We're know he's half responsible, so if need be, we're willing to force him to play as the child's father, until whenever Rose finds a permanent partner."

Hermione smiles thankfully. "That's good to know."



Your eyes are beginning to burn as you reach blindly out for something else to look at. Your fingers close around –

More paperwork.


Your three companions look up at you just as you begin to claw your eyes out. "We've been at this for hours!" you exclaim with a wide yawn. "Not all of us have book-stamina." Pointed look at Hermione.

She sighs with a roll of her eyes. "How old are you, Ron, four?"

Malfoy throws down his quill. "I agree with Weasley," he states, rubbing his eyes as well. The Firewhiskey bottle is empty. "I've read more brochures and letters from the school staff just now than I have my whole life."

Hermione's lips are pursed together, a frown evident, her eyes turned to Astoria – who so happens to be trying very hard to repress a yawn. A triumphant grin takes control over your lips. "Aw, please, Hermione?" you beg. "We can have some – I don't know… bonding time, even!" You stare distastefully at the parchment before you. "If I have to read another 'Dear Mr. Weasley: The situation brought before us proves to be quite a predicament' in the next hour, I might go out, get drunk, and father another child."

Heated glare. She hits you – hard. Wrong thing to say. "I was kidding!" you yell as you bring your arms out uselessly in an attempt to defend yourself. "Kidding!"

"Ronald Weasley – if you do decide to blast your arse off after drinking too much – "

Malfoy's laughing. You can hear him past Hermione's threats.

"You know," he comments through Hermione's antics, "you two do have an interesting way to threat. Smite me with Salazar's arse? I may never recover."

The glorious break from hours of eye-searing secretary work you had been hoping for never comes.


Day Four

The Firewhiskey certainly worked the day before, you determine, since today, the same works feel so much more stressful and you feel your bones being eaten away, your soul chipping with every word.

Malfoy is absent. "He's at work," Astoria said when you first came in. "He's being held up." BS. That is some major bullshitting right there. You call their bluff.

However, the temporary curtain flap occupying the space where the door should be is pushed aside and a tired blond prick swaggers in with a heavy sigh, tossing his overcoat over the sofa and dropping his suitcase down to the floor. "Salazar!" he muttered bitterly as he plopped onto the sofa beside his wife. "You would think that things couldn't get worse."

…Okay, maybe he was held up at work. Your bad.

Astoria is immediately a face of compassion. "Oh, honey, what happened?"

He gives a short laugh. "Besides my boss being a tard? Well," he groans as he sits upright, pulling out an envelope from within his robes. Your heart stops for a moment, thinking it must be from Scorpius – and by the way Hermione's hand clenches around yours, it's what she thinks, too. He tosses it at you and said, "He decided I had nothing to do this weekend and booked me for overtime. So they're yours, Weasley. Congratulations."

You frown as you pick up the envelope and reach inside. When you withdraw your hand, your fingers are clasped around a pair of Chudley Cannon tickets.

"You kid." You're staring at them. They belong in a frame, but you don't have any open ones at home. Well, that picture of your wedding can be set aside for these. This – this is – wow.

"Box seats," he says. "Astoria doesn't like Quidditch games."

Have you ever mentioned how much you just love Draco Malfoy?


There has got to be some way to express "What the Fucking Hell" joined with "Are You Fucking Kidding Me" in a magnitude of Goyle's weight or the power of Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex. No, "or" would be the wrong conjunction. "Plus" would be better.

An unfamiliar owl (no doubt to be a school owl) flies in and dropped a letter on Hermione's lap. Her fingers tremble as she peels away the wax seal and removed the content.

"Dear Mum and Dad…" Her voice shakes slightly, and her eyes freezes.

You think you just died and went to hell. "Don't tell me she's expecting twins," you moan.

She shakes her head and points at the letter – fat load of good it does to you, considering that she's the only one who can read it. "About the pregnancy – just kidding. It was a prank we decided to pull, but we were disappointed when we didn't read of the damage Dad must've done in the Daily Prophet…"

Shocked still. You don't know how you feel – delighted? Relieved? Disappointed? You guess you were a little excited about having a grandchild, even with the given circumstances.

Angry? At them having lied to you. To everybody. For bloody making you waste your precious time antagonizing over papers in Malfoy Manor. Cue to retch.

Relieved, certainly – that life is still normal. Or what could constitute as normal.

But part of you still feels odd, hanging there.

"God," Astoria breathed, running her hand through her hair. She let out a small disbelieving laugh – no humor in it at all. "God."

You nod. "Damn."


Day Eight

"Hey," you say as you come home, the door swinging behind you. Harry shortly follows, his binoculars still out.

Hermione beams as she meets the two of you. "How was the game?" she inquires as she washes the dishes.

Harry grins. "We saw Malfoy there."

"Malfoy?" A porcelain mug almost slips from her hands. She frowns and glances at you for reassurance, and when you nod, she says, "But didn't he give you the tickets?"

You laugh and scratch your head. "Yeah, funny thing," you say, slumping into a chair. "I asked him why he didn't ask for it back, and he figured that since I was so bloody obsessed, he'd just buy another pair of tickets. Even when I was pretty sure they were sold out." You shrug. "Turns out his boss had a change of heart."

Harry helps himself to a cookie when Hermione's back is turned, quirking a small grin at you to stay silent. Of course, you oblige. "Hey! I want a cookie, too!" you protest loudly.

Instantly, Hermione spins around and lashes her soapy dishtowel at Harry, whose clothes are immediately splattered and dirtied. "Those are for Astoria," Hermione says with a sniff.

Harry blanches. "Malfoy's wife?"

She sniffs at Harry's reaction. "Yes, Malfoy's wife. She happens to be fascinated by other magical creatures, too, and she shares my views on house elves." You share a quick grin with Harry. "Plus the cookies are to apologize for their door."

You laugh nervously. "I think it might take a little more than a batch of cookies to apologize for a burned down door."

"Well, that's not my fault, is it?" A pointed look.

She returns to the dishes and Harry drags you out of the room, out of Hermione's earshot. "Let me get this straight," he says. "You burned down Malfoy's door and you get a free pair of tickets to the Chudley Cannons game from him?"

Well, when he puts it that way… "Maybe I should apologize to him when we meet him tomorrow at Diagon Alley."

Harry laughs. "Maybe."


Day One Hundred Thirty-Six

"Dad, can I talk to you?"

Rose is watching you apprehensively with a perfectly flat stomach – no child. At least, none that you know of. First day of winter vacation and she's already biting her nails off, and you didn't even do anything yet.


"Well?" you say expectantly.

She bites her lip – a pregnant pause before she suddenly bursts, "Well, you see, when we planned to aggravate you, we needed Scorpius to cooperate, and in order to do that, I needed to – you know, not hate him and such. And so it was only four days, but we spent a lot of it planning and forging letters and such, and we became friends, and I don't know, but it started rolling and then I started to like him, and I really didn't know whether or not he liked me back, but it turns out he did, you know? And then he asked me out, and I said yes, and so now he's my boyfriend, but I'm not having his baby or anything – just going out, you know? And don't do anything rash, but – "

You grin. "You're dating Scorpius Malfoy."

She stares. "Yes?"

Feigning disinterest, you flip open your agenda and begin to skim tomorrow's to-do list – go to a meeting, have lunch with Harry and Draco, get the groceries, and buy a box of chocolates for Hermione along the way. "That's nice. Anything else?"

She's still gaping wide-eyed at you. Probably expecting something a lot worse – but you've been to "a lot worse" when she pushed you to the "I'm pregnant" episode. "You're not blowing up," she observed blankly.

You look up at her. "Would you like me to?"

She hastily shakes her head, her eyes wide. "No, no, this is fine," she says quickly, in case you change your mind. "Thanks Dad, bye!" In a blink of an eye, she dashes from the room.

When you're certain she's gone far enough away, you laugh and take out a piece of parchment. "Pig, I have a mission for you. Send this to Draco Malfoy."

Hello, my future brother. Let's celebrate with a Firewhiskey over our children's future marriage.