Rainy Day
Namesake.
“You're up late.”
“Or I'm up rather early.”
I could practically hear his eyes rolling.
“And you're completely drenched. Are you mad being out in that? You know, Rose would murder you if you had to share a room with her, sloshing bits of water like you are. Watch it!”
I stopped shaking my head—ceasing the onslaught of water droplets. I tossed him a cheeky grin and simply ripped off my shirt, well the best one could with a soaking shirt plastered to their body. His soft chuckle met my ears—I was stuck.
“Would you like some help?”
I turned to glare at him through the hole my arms provided.
“No, 'm fine.”
With a few shrugs and a rough tug my shirt fell to the floor with a soft slosh. I grinned triumphantly at him before reaching for my belt buckle and then my zipper. I always loved making Rose's poncy best mate squirm when he came to the Burrow for visits. He flushed beautifully, his pale complexion taking on a soft pink hue that spread across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks. He'd always suck in his bottom lip if I made him very uncomfortable.
I simply let my pants fall to the floor. I could go starkers but I'm not exactly the kind to show my parts to someone I'm not in a relationship with. I glanced at him, ah, there it was, that lovely pink. I kicked my wet clothes to the side and turned around to dig through my bag at the foot of my bed. I could feel his gaze on me, it was heavy—it always was.
“How come you never take that necklace off?”
I tensed; I always did when someone questioned the simple black cord around my neck. I brought my hand up to the small item against my chest and slowly turned around to face him. He had shut the book he was reading when I came in; we usually never chatted much, being two completely different people. I fingered the small glass stone and sat down, not caring that my undershorts were still wet.
“My dad gave it to me my first Christmas home after my first year. I had gotten in trouble once and was sent to the Headmistress' office and I finally saw the man I get my second name from. I know my dad has a portrait of him in his study, but every time I've been near it, it's been empty. He, he simply stared at me as I sat in that chair. Looking down at me over his nose. He was looking me in the eye.”
I let my hand drop to my lap, along with my gaze, staring at the floor now instead of him.
“He spoke to me, said, You're Potter's son. You're the one he named after me. You have your grandmother's eyes, did you know that? I grinned at him like an idiot, told him I did. I'm the only one of us that got green eyes, the others had blue like our mum. I asked him why my dad named me after him and he slumped in the chair he was perched in and brought his hand to his forehead and then glanced away from me. I thought I offended him, he was quiet for a while.”
I let my gaze dart up to meet his for brief second, letting it linger before returning to the floor.
“I'm, I was never fond nor kind to your father during his school days. That was due to a lot of biased hatred towards his father from my school days. However, I also believe that your father should be the one to tell you why he named you so, that is not something I should do. So I did, I asked my dad that Christmas holiday. He went to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out an old box we all questioned him about, but he never answered. He placed a vile on the desk in front of me. I knew what was in it, the silvery looking fluid inside, it was memories; he told me I could see them when I was ready to. He conjured another vile, moved the memories to that one and transfigured the original into a small polished glass stone.”
I brought my fingers back up to the stone, fingering it once again.
“He gave it to me. Told me I was a lot like him at my age...he also told me that, that day at the train station before I left that first year—James had teased me relentlessly about being sorted into Slytherin, said everyone would disown me—he said that he was almost sorted into Slytherin himself at his own sorting. He's only ever told me that, I'm not even sure Uncle Ron or Aunt Hermione know, or even my mum, but he told me he was proud that I let the Sorting Hat do it's job and placed me in Slytherin. He told me my namesakes would be proud of me.”
I bit my lip; I hadn't really ever shared this before, not even with Rose. I glanced over at him; his blue eyes merely met my own. He was truly interested in what I was telling him.
“I guess I feel like an idiot for still holding on to it, back then I thought it was so cool I had something tying me to someone my dad thought brave, someone he thought of as everyone else thought of him. He laughs every now and then when I tell him I excel at potions; he was abysmal, says I get it from my grandmother and possibly my namesake. Severus was his potions professor, a Potions Master. I guess I hold on to it now because I look up to him now, I want to be like him.”
A loud crack of thunder made us both jump, breaking the tense atmosphere that had surrounded us while I told him my story. Usually I just tell people it's from my dad and leave it at that. I let my gaze meet his once again, we both erupted in smiles, that turned to laughter. When we stopped a few moments later, I could feel something creep into the air—awkwardness maybe? Something was there that wasn't before. I got to my feet and stretched, then scratched the back of my neck.
“Erm...I'm going to get a shower...um, thanks for listening, I guess...”
Something flashed through his eyes, it was gone before I could identify it; he simply nodded, picking up his book and opening it to where he marked his spot. I turned back around to gather my clothes and quickly headed out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom, not caring about the time. I slowly stripped from my undershorts, letting them fall to the floor. I turned the water on and turned to look at myself in the mirror. My hair was still a mess, stiff damp tendrils, falling into my face; people found me attractive.
I climbed in the shower and let the water fall over me, causing my hair to plaster to my forehead once again. I sighed and wiped my face. A quick wash and rinse and I found myself back at the mirror, wiping off the fog from the steam. Like a bludger slamming into you, I realized what it was that had happened in Uncle Fred and George's old room; I shook my head and dried off. Dressing as slowly as possible, trying to delay my return as long as possible.
Perhaps I was the only one to be feeling this way; it's been five years of spending a long weekend with him—I can ignore whatever it was that flashed through his eyes. I know him, not personally, but I know some of his habits. He's definitely not a morning person, I've hated having to wake him up on days when Grandpa takes us out for breakfast. He's fascinated with muggle things just as much, if not more than Grandpa—Rose teases him relentlessly about it. He tends to sleep on his side, his left, so it's always weird when we have to share the room 'cause I usually sleep on my right and sometimes we can't help but stare at each other—or at least I can feel him staring when my eyes are closed.
He always reads before he falls asleep, says it helps his mind relax. He's left handed; a first for his family—both sides. He bites his lip when he's nervous and sometimes when he's uncertain. His eyes give away his emotions—his face never does.
I hit my head on the door—what in the name of Merlin am I doing? With a deep breath I opened the door and slowly made my way back to the room, the soft glow of light beneath the door let me know he was still awake. I bit my lip as I opened the door and let out a sigh of relief when I realized he had fallen asleep. His book was spread open across his chest, his hair spread about his head in distress; he looked, no I can't say it. I turned off the light and crossed the room and climbed into bed.
I listened to the rain steadily pelt against the window, a comforting sound. I listened to the blonde boy's even breaths, watched as his chest softly rose and fell with each one. I brought my fingers up to my glass stone, letting my thoughts turn to a part of the conversation I didn't let out. My dad had also told me that Severus loved my grandmother Lily, that's why he did the things he did, and I learned that on my sixteenth birthday when I finally asked to see those memories. Maybe I could love someone like that, so selflessly, so unending like that and just maybe, someone could love me just as much back; and if it happened to be the now softly snoring blonde boy across the room from me, well who was I to complain.
“Or I'm up rather early.”
I could practically hear his eyes rolling.
“And you're completely drenched. Are you mad being out in that? You know, Rose would murder you if you had to share a room with her, sloshing bits of water like you are. Watch it!”
I stopped shaking my head—ceasing the onslaught of water droplets. I tossed him a cheeky grin and simply ripped off my shirt, well the best one could with a soaking shirt plastered to their body. His soft chuckle met my ears—I was stuck.
“Would you like some help?”
I turned to glare at him through the hole my arms provided.
“No, 'm fine.”
With a few shrugs and a rough tug my shirt fell to the floor with a soft slosh. I grinned triumphantly at him before reaching for my belt buckle and then my zipper. I always loved making Rose's poncy best mate squirm when he came to the Burrow for visits. He flushed beautifully, his pale complexion taking on a soft pink hue that spread across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks. He'd always suck in his bottom lip if I made him very uncomfortable.
I simply let my pants fall to the floor. I could go starkers but I'm not exactly the kind to show my parts to someone I'm not in a relationship with. I glanced at him, ah, there it was, that lovely pink. I kicked my wet clothes to the side and turned around to dig through my bag at the foot of my bed. I could feel his gaze on me, it was heavy—it always was.
“How come you never take that necklace off?”
I tensed; I always did when someone questioned the simple black cord around my neck. I brought my hand up to the small item against my chest and slowly turned around to face him. He had shut the book he was reading when I came in; we usually never chatted much, being two completely different people. I fingered the small glass stone and sat down, not caring that my undershorts were still wet.
“My dad gave it to me my first Christmas home after my first year. I had gotten in trouble once and was sent to the Headmistress' office and I finally saw the man I get my second name from. I know my dad has a portrait of him in his study, but every time I've been near it, it's been empty. He, he simply stared at me as I sat in that chair. Looking down at me over his nose. He was looking me in the eye.”
I let my hand drop to my lap, along with my gaze, staring at the floor now instead of him.
“He spoke to me, said, You're Potter's son. You're the one he named after me. You have your grandmother's eyes, did you know that? I grinned at him like an idiot, told him I did. I'm the only one of us that got green eyes, the others had blue like our mum. I asked him why my dad named me after him and he slumped in the chair he was perched in and brought his hand to his forehead and then glanced away from me. I thought I offended him, he was quiet for a while.”
I let my gaze dart up to meet his for brief second, letting it linger before returning to the floor.
“I'm, I was never fond nor kind to your father during his school days. That was due to a lot of biased hatred towards his father from my school days. However, I also believe that your father should be the one to tell you why he named you so, that is not something I should do. So I did, I asked my dad that Christmas holiday. He went to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out an old box we all questioned him about, but he never answered. He placed a vile on the desk in front of me. I knew what was in it, the silvery looking fluid inside, it was memories; he told me I could see them when I was ready to. He conjured another vile, moved the memories to that one and transfigured the original into a small polished glass stone.”
I brought my fingers back up to the stone, fingering it once again.
“He gave it to me. Told me I was a lot like him at my age...he also told me that, that day at the train station before I left that first year—James had teased me relentlessly about being sorted into Slytherin, said everyone would disown me—he said that he was almost sorted into Slytherin himself at his own sorting. He's only ever told me that, I'm not even sure Uncle Ron or Aunt Hermione know, or even my mum, but he told me he was proud that I let the Sorting Hat do it's job and placed me in Slytherin. He told me my namesakes would be proud of me.”
I bit my lip; I hadn't really ever shared this before, not even with Rose. I glanced over at him; his blue eyes merely met my own. He was truly interested in what I was telling him.
“I guess I feel like an idiot for still holding on to it, back then I thought it was so cool I had something tying me to someone my dad thought brave, someone he thought of as everyone else thought of him. He laughs every now and then when I tell him I excel at potions; he was abysmal, says I get it from my grandmother and possibly my namesake. Severus was his potions professor, a Potions Master. I guess I hold on to it now because I look up to him now, I want to be like him.”
A loud crack of thunder made us both jump, breaking the tense atmosphere that had surrounded us while I told him my story. Usually I just tell people it's from my dad and leave it at that. I let my gaze meet his once again, we both erupted in smiles, that turned to laughter. When we stopped a few moments later, I could feel something creep into the air—awkwardness maybe? Something was there that wasn't before. I got to my feet and stretched, then scratched the back of my neck.
“Erm...I'm going to get a shower...um, thanks for listening, I guess...”
Something flashed through his eyes, it was gone before I could identify it; he simply nodded, picking up his book and opening it to where he marked his spot. I turned back around to gather my clothes and quickly headed out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom, not caring about the time. I slowly stripped from my undershorts, letting them fall to the floor. I turned the water on and turned to look at myself in the mirror. My hair was still a mess, stiff damp tendrils, falling into my face; people found me attractive.
I climbed in the shower and let the water fall over me, causing my hair to plaster to my forehead once again. I sighed and wiped my face. A quick wash and rinse and I found myself back at the mirror, wiping off the fog from the steam. Like a bludger slamming into you, I realized what it was that had happened in Uncle Fred and George's old room; I shook my head and dried off. Dressing as slowly as possible, trying to delay my return as long as possible.
Perhaps I was the only one to be feeling this way; it's been five years of spending a long weekend with him—I can ignore whatever it was that flashed through his eyes. I know him, not personally, but I know some of his habits. He's definitely not a morning person, I've hated having to wake him up on days when Grandpa takes us out for breakfast. He's fascinated with muggle things just as much, if not more than Grandpa—Rose teases him relentlessly about it. He tends to sleep on his side, his left, so it's always weird when we have to share the room 'cause I usually sleep on my right and sometimes we can't help but stare at each other—or at least I can feel him staring when my eyes are closed.
He always reads before he falls asleep, says it helps his mind relax. He's left handed; a first for his family—both sides. He bites his lip when he's nervous and sometimes when he's uncertain. His eyes give away his emotions—his face never does.
I hit my head on the door—what in the name of Merlin am I doing? With a deep breath I opened the door and slowly made my way back to the room, the soft glow of light beneath the door let me know he was still awake. I bit my lip as I opened the door and let out a sigh of relief when I realized he had fallen asleep. His book was spread open across his chest, his hair spread about his head in distress; he looked, no I can't say it. I turned off the light and crossed the room and climbed into bed.
I listened to the rain steadily pelt against the window, a comforting sound. I listened to the blonde boy's even breaths, watched as his chest softly rose and fell with each one. I brought my fingers up to my glass stone, letting my thoughts turn to a part of the conversation I didn't let out. My dad had also told me that Severus loved my grandmother Lily, that's why he did the things he did, and I learned that on my sixteenth birthday when I finally asked to see those memories. Maybe I could love someone like that, so selflessly, so unending like that and just maybe, someone could love me just as much back; and if it happened to be the now softly snoring blonde boy across the room from me, well who was I to complain.