Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

alternate ending two: heir

Scorpius' life is about to begin tonight.

Yes, it will.

For eighteen long years he's pressed down like an unwanted crease in an otherwise perfect white sheet. Enough is enough. It's now or never.

Sweaty hands were wiped on his rich cardigan. Too soft. Too fluffy. Too perfect. Nothing is meant to be perfect anyway. Not in this house. Not in the world outside it.

That man makes sure of it. He's trying to become a vision of it. From the way that he runs the manor-- not a speck of dust in anything and everything-- not a smudge of fingerprint, not a hair out of place on his head or Scorpius'-- wax or oil it if it won't stay down, if it still won't then cut it-- you don't need it anyway. Scorpius was raised to cut down people when they don't agree with him or if they serve him no merit or if they will become burdensome in the future.

He tried to believe, always and always tried-- tried his hardest to to believe it-- but it simply isn't the kind of life he wants to live.

He doesn't want cold calculations, he wants genuine human warmth. He doesn't want merit and sustainable alliances, he wants friends. It was simple too. Much to simple really.

He has no need for all this grandiosity.

But then again, why not?

Rose.

Rose whose mother just died. Rose who hates her father. Rebel Rose. Rose whose hair is as red as her name. Wit shaper than a thorn but lips softer than petals.

Just the thought of her made his heart race even faster. When they first met it was only just pitter patter against the windows, noticeable but can still be hidden, but he let it brew and brew until it was full on electrical thunderstorms. She's everything and he belongs to her. Only her and not to anyone else and certainly not to him.

Rose told him that anything-- anything at all-- can be had if you simply have enough nerve.

So here he goes, into the old man's office-- his office-- about to get his key to the vault. His birthright, his heirloom. The riches that are rightfully his even though he never stood for what they represent.

The night is dark and the moon was a solitary porcelain plate in the banquet of the night. Scorpius felt his forehead dampen with slick sweat as he crept closer and closer to the formidable office. It was daunting even when he just has to pass it. Like a constant monster just about ready to grab him, eat him alive and suck on his bone marrows.

Just imagine the weight of fear on his heart now that he actually has to enter it with menace in his mind.

He's actually going against him. 

Him.

It felt like all his life was leading up to this moment. This moment that he'd finally get ahead! Finally, finally! This is--

The doors of the office opened by their own accord.

Scorpius nearly jumped out of his socks.

"Took you long enough."

A gasp refused to let itself out from his throat.

Perhaps he was already spellbound.

Scorpius imagined his eighteen years of existence flash before his eyes.

But it was a mere imagination, he remained rooted to his spot and the old man on the throne behind the desk. Perhaps Scorpius was wrong, perhaps this is not the night that will begin his life. Perhaps it will be the night that will end it.