Hi everyone,

It's been ages. But this time I've got a story that's as good as finished, so hopefully updates won't be slow.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.


JUNE 2024 – S

His loveliest of first meetings had always been besmirched by impure circumstances.

When he first met Olivia Parkinson – Pansy's niece – he'd worked his way through his father's liquor cabinet and was, consequently, off his face. When he'd seen her standing in the dining room, looking bored out of her skull, he'd walked up to her, asked if she wanted to see something of which the beauty lies mostly within, and she'd seemed intrigued. She'd followed him to his father's chambers and marvelled at its interior. Everything about it was quite fancy, naturally, as only the best was ever good enough for Draco Malfoy. This is knowledge Draco liked to emphasise, knowledge Scorpius learned by heart, and knowledge the latter somehow forgot by some sick joke of the universe (and a lot of Ogden's Finest) when he showed the cabinet to Olivia – an event sequenced by the loss of his virginity to her on top of it.

When he'd first met Stephano he was eleven and trying to steal his father's friend's Flor de Cano cigars. Scorpius had opened the door swiftly, catching Stephano red-handed, made a vicious comment, and yet the good-looking boy's face did not betray the sense of humiliation Scorpius was after. Instead Stephano had stoically asked, "What's it to you?" and his demeanour had hit so close to home Scorpius was initially dumbstruck. When having gathered his wits, he'd said, "My father's Punch cigars are more expensive. Let's go get those." Stephano had muttered something like "brilliant" or "wicked" (the pair of them usually opted for "brilliant" when recounting the anecdote, as they both found "wicked" to be a rather mediocre word). That was that. Friendship set in stone. Or cigars (which had turned out to be pretty awful).

When he'd first met his parents – well, he didn't remember that, obviously. But since the general consensus is probably that meeting the people whose lovemaking resulted in one's existence is lovely by default, it ought to be mentioned nonetheless. Scorpius felt as though he had less childhood memories than other people did, and more importantly, didn't regard them with corresponding fondness. Maybe that was because he nor his family cared much for sentimentality, or that his father had been in a perpetual state of misery and self-loathing until ten years after the war. More likely was that it had to do with Scorpius's unwillingness to come out as a baby, which had caused his mother to slip into a short coma and my father to nearly jump off a bridge. It'd been all over the papers. Headlines, even. Scorpius always liked to believe that his parents forgave him for the near death experience, but never managed to get over the ensuing scandal.

When he'd first met Rose Weasley – well, scratch that. When he first met the real Rose Weasley, not the perfectly politically correct and nice and controlled version of her, he'd developed an all-consuming, all-overpowering desire to get into her knickers that he never would've thought possible had it not, in fact, occurred. This meeting – or should he call it a revelation? – had happened mid-October in Seventh Year. He remembered sitting in a secluded corner of the library at a time pushing curfew, cozying up to a Slytherin sixth year named Adelaine Harper. She'd been laughing loudly at his commentary on the new batch of Hufflepuffs and had started to lean in a little bit more when they were suddenly interrupted by a girl he'd always disliked and begrudgingly admired equally. She'd gifted them the most withering of glares before launching into a five-minute-tirade on their depravedness, the sanctity of the library, the sanctity of silence, the sanctity of Merlin knows what. Scorpius had been stunned into complete incomprehension: he'd never seen her lose her cool before, ever, and he'd been so fully struck by the flush on her freckled face and the spark in her eyes that Adelaine Harper was instantly forgotten. A set of inappropriate images had wormed their way into his brain upon seeing her like this, never to be disregarded. He'd walked to his dorm that night, bewildered and turned on, desperate for a cold shower.

He never stopped wondering just what had made her lose her cool back then.

And so, he never stopped trying to get it out of her. Tonight, it seemed, things were finally swinging his way. As it happened, Rose Weasley seemed to be drunk. And a drunk Rose Weasley might be a little more open to soul-searching than a sober, brain-functioning-at-a-1000-miles-per-hour Rose Weasley.

"Weasley," he tutted when he found her next to the punch, "what have you been spiking your drink with?"

She turned to him with (clearly faux) annoyance and mumbled dispassionately, "Nothing that you could make you less irritating."

He smirked. He was up for this. He was always up for this.

"I see not even the shine of a terrifically decorated graduation party can diminish your ever present charm."

"Well spotted," she dead-panned.

Then she turned her heel on him – slightly less graciously than usual – and walked out of the Great Hall. She really had mastered the non-caring act perfectly, he had to give her that. In fact, sometimes he wondered if she'd taken notes from him, the bloke who'd practically been born and raised to perform it.

He didn't let her out of his sight and followed her right out the Great Hall.

"Weasley," he repeated, grabbing her arm as they stood before the staircase.

She sighed. "Malfoy. What?"

"I think the time has come to finally lift the veil off of this year's mystery," he announced.

She crossed her arms defiantly. "I think not."

"Don't be a spoilsport."

"Don't be a whiny tosser."

"Don't go hurting my feelings now..."

"That would require for you to have actual feelings, which – " she gave him a meaningful once-over " – you obviously don't have." She paused for a second, and then added, "I can't believe I just wasted my breath on that sentence."

"Too unnecessarily harsh?" He inquired drily, cocking an eyebrow.

"Too self-evident," she replied, just as drily, also cocking an eyebrow.

He took the glass she was still holding out of her hand. "Booze brings out your mean streak, Weasley."

"You bring out my mean streak," she said pointedly, and lurched for her glass. He did not to waver, however, and held it over his head. "Give that back!"

She was very close now, he realised when a wave of her perfume hit him.

"Never," he said, rather infantile, causing her to reach out again and stretch almost her entire body against his. Sweet Merlin, did he want to ravish her. He wanted to grab waist, put her on the nearest table, kiss her senseless –

"Really, Malfoy, it's like you're not even trying," Rose grinned triumphantly, waving the glass and her wand in his face.

He snapped back to reality at once. He debated taking out his own wand for a moment, but decided against it. She could have her glass. He just wanted her full, undivided attention.

"Pray tell," he began. "To what do I deserve such character assassination?"

"What?"

"You insult me every chance you get."

Her face morphed from glee into bafflement. "So do you!"

"I never insult myself."

She rolled her eyes. "That we all know, Malfoy."

She did kind of have a point though, somewhere. He hadn't been particularly nice to her in the past seven years. He'd been rather rude on multiple occasions, in fact. Now that he'd come of age, he was man enough to understand the machinations behind that behaviour: Rose Weasley was the girl who'd never shown him the slightest kind of interest, and never would if he didn't force it out of her. They'd never interacted much (despite her blossoming friendship with – much to his chagrin – his best mate), but when they did, it was usually on account of a sneering comment from Scorpius. As she'd rarely displayed anything more than a distant sort of irritation, he'd kept his digs mostly to himself, however. It was only when she'd blown up that day in the library that he'd decided the trouble of dismantling her utter lack of interest in him was worth it.

Since then, he'd been pestering her a whole lot more. He felt like a twelve-year-old sometimes, striving for her attentions and going about it in such a ridiculous and uncharacteristic way, but unfortunately, that was what she generally reduced him to. Sometimes it led to decent exchange of thoughts (they'd found common ground on Professor Goldstein's incompetence and once had a lengthy discussion on the different uses of a Bad-Boogey Hex), but those occurrences were rare.

"So, what then?" He pressed on. "You hate me because I benignly insult you every now and then?"

She gave him a challenging look. "Hate implies an investment of sorts. I'm not invested, so."

"You're not answering my question."

"Fine," she huffed exasperatedly. He checked if her vexation was genuine, but she made no move to actually leave. Instead, she started rattling, "You're incredibly self-involved, egotistical, conceited, offensive for no plausible reason, manipulative, and oh, I forget! A Slytherin."

That stung, if just a little.

If the girl you intensely lusted after regarded you the way she'd regard an insect – with disgust that would be tangible if only one gave it a little more thought – well, that ought to hurt. He wasn't that bad. He was a Malfoy, sure, which did entail Slytherin traits by default, but really, his character was not that problematic.

When he'd gathered his wits, he cleared his throat and pushed out, "I'm quite certain there were some tautologies in there."

She blinked.

Then she started to laugh.

He was stunned for a moment. Her laughter wasn't exactly a foreign sound (apparently Louis Weasley, Rose's best mate, was a very hilarious human being), but the fact that he was the one to elicit it this time stumped him momentarily. He invoked frowns and eye rolls and raised eyebrows and sighs when it came to her – not laughter. Attempting to ascertain whether this laughter was of a sincere kind and not of a derisive one, he narrowed his eyes and observed the object of his confusion. After a thorough investigation of her face – her nose was scrunched up, her mouth wide, her dimples present – he was fairly confident she wasn't laughing at him, but with him. She looked exactly like she did when that Louis bloke said something witty.

So he allowed himself a slight lopsided grin and decided to push his luck.

"Fancy another drink, Weasley?"

Composing herself, she looked at the glass she'd just downed. Her mind was made up rather quickly. "Yes."

He walked back into the Great Hall, where the festivities were ongoing. He kept his eyes on the table with the punch so as to not attract anyone else's attention and headed straight back when he'd refilled (and spiked, naturally) two glasses. In the corner of his eye, he saw Scarlet Rosier – a fellow Slytherin who'd played a huge part in the blossoming sexuality of 90 percent of the male Hogwarts population – making her way towards him, but he managed to walk away unscathed and undisturbed. Rose was waiting for him (for him), and she wasn't the type to be left hanging. When he slipped through the enormous entrance gates, he found her sitting on the lower steps of the stairwell, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and her stare glazed over. He silently sat down next to her and offered her the glass.

She snapped out of her reverie. "Cheers."

He nodded and took a sip. It burned his throat.

"Malfoy?" She turned to him. "Can I ask you a question and count on you to answer without the obligatory mocking?"

Suddenly he noticed how close she was. She was close enough for him to count the freckles spread out on her nose. She was close enough for him to note that her canine tooth was somewhat askew. She was close enough for him to discern the triangle of small birthmarks just under her collarbone. She was close enough for him to look down at the cleavage her dress presented him.

His mouth ran very, very dry.

Then he remembered she'd said something that required a response. When he'd reclaimed his voice and his cunning, he drawled, "Only if I get to ask my question too."

"Okay," she said with some trepidation. "Okay."

He couldn't believe his good fortune tonight. If he were the sort of person to put trust in karma, he'd be thinking hard and deep about what he'd done to deserve Weasley's going along.

"Are you sad? Nostalgic? Scared?"

What?

After swallowing down the impromptu discomfort that'd hit him, he dumbly brought out, "What for?"

"About leaving Hogwarts," she clarified, seemingly oblivious to his tensing up. Her eyes had grown big and inquisitive, as if to coax the truth right out of him.

"Are you?"

"Returning questions doesn't make for nice conversation, Malfoy," she scowled.

"Neither does sentimental probing."

"Well," she pronounced with emphasis, scowl still firm in place, "I'm sad and nostalgic and scared. And drunk, obviously, since nothing other than that could explain me telling you this. Except being hit by a Bludger, maybe."

He regarded her with something he could only call mild fascination. "I take it a causal relationship exists between your inebriation and your feelings, then."

"I just wanted to have a little fun and forget that this is one of my last days here," she sighed, emptying her glass once more. He had to admire the rate she was keeping up. "But then, of course, you accosted me. And now I'm here. Spending these crucial moments with a Wizard who undoubtedly does nothing but kiss his mirror and charm his hair every day."

"What a flattering picture you paint there," he all but snapped. "As per usual, I am warmed by your words."

"Again, you have no feelings," she said, slowly, as if speaking to a child.

He felt a distinct desire to hex her, but that was quickly suppressed by his other, considerably more intense desire to snog the daylights out of her. If only she could just stop spewing nonsense – if only she could just stop talking, really – or get a very effective personality transplant, they'd be good. Except, he realised with dread, he wouldn't think her half as interesting without all the witticisms and cutting remarks and colossal brainpower.

"Weasley," he said rather softly, determined to get back into her good graces, "I have feelings. In fact, I am not too wretched to admit that I am not entirely comfortable leaving the castle that has been my home since I was eleven. I do not look forward to spending all day with my parents." He was too wretched to admit, however, that his future so far was an abstract concept he couldn't seem to map out. Or that the idea of moving back into the Manor for good, where icy silence and stilted politeness triumphed over anything resembling human affection, completely filled him with anxiety.

Visibly thrown off by his sudden change of demeanour, Rose averted her gaze to the ground. Adopting his solemn tone, she eventually asked, "Are they that bad, your parents?"

"No," Scorpius looked at the ground too, contemplatively. "No, it's just... They seem to be stuck in a continuing state of dissatisfaction. They're both nice enough – well, I mean, my father's not nice in the strictest sense of the word, yet I can see he cares about me – but I don't think they're cut out for each other. Or at least my mother's not cut out for my father, because she has no idea how to deal with his bouts of post-war melancholia." Then, the strangest idea came over him. "I think you'd like him, my father."

"You're Draco Malfoy's son, right?" Her gaze turned vehemently searching, as if trying to figure out if he'd lost all of his marbles.

Ignoring her rhetorical question, he elaborated, "I think you'd find him hilarious. He's a pretentious prat – "

"Apple, tree – "

"But," he gave her a sharp look, "he hits the mark a lot. Verbally, I mean. He has a way with words."

"Yes, words like 'Mudblood' do suggest grand and marvellous eloquence."

His look now turned murderous. Bitch, he thought.

"Bitch," he said.

She smiled brightly. Then she seemed to remember that the conversation had been rather serious – that she'd been the one to initiate that kind of interaction – and grew earnest once more.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "Do continue."

An apology was always a great time to collect deliveries on promises. Scorpius thus figured this was the ideal moment to strike. On the one hand, it'd piss her off (which, quite frankly, she fully deserved); on the other hand, she'd be obliged to tell him (though – she was a Ravenclaw. Ravenclaws got, unfortunately, less starry-eyed over honour codes than those generally idiotic Gryffindolts. Why could she not have followed in her family's footsteps? Why were her genes defected? A less shrewd and distrusting Rose Weasley would've made his life considerably less frustrating.)

"No, no," he shook his head laconically. "I wish to ask my question."

She immediately looked alarmed. It took all of his might to reign in a full-blown smirk.

"What made you blow up in the library all those months ago?"

She had obviously anticipated the question, as she seemed resigned rather than surprised. She sighed ostentatiously, to emphasise her feelings on the enquiry. She needn't have bothered – he could read her well enough, especially when she didn't wish to mask any emotions. Sometimes, he could practically feel the vexation radiating from her pores.

"I knew it," she uttered.

"You promised," he reminded her helpfully.

She narrowed her eyes and pushed herself up.

"We were having a nice conversation that showed you just might have some emotion locked up somewhere far away, and now you're ruining it. Malfoy, you're a conversation ruiner."

"While that is the worst of insults indeed, I won't let you distract me. Out with it. I didn't just spill my guts for nothing. Don't," he touched her wrist softly when she made to turn, "leave."

"It just isn't your business," she said in a clipped tone, but halted her movements nevertheless.

"Well, you made it my business by misdirecting your rage at me."

"Misdirect is not a verb I would use. You deserve all the rage in the world."

Why on earth did he want to sleep with this impossible witch? He stood up as well, his figure now flush with hers."I'm listening."

"To an encore of my hissy fit?"

"Weasley. Tell me what brought the hissy fit on in the first place. Now."

He stared at her, hard, and brought his face closer to hers in an attempt to assert some misguided authority. She haughtily tilted her chin and returned the stare, equally hard.

"No."

"Weasley – "

And he didn't get to finish that, because in an ultimate act of defiance she surged forward and pressed her lips to his. A reality that took him three whole seconds to catch up on.

Rose Weasley was kissing him. Rose Weasley was kissing him. Rose Weasley was kissing him.

Only it wasn't soft and pliant as he'd always imagined it would be, because she was quite literally shutting him up. When he didn't – couldn't – respond, she sensed his dismay and stepped back, eyes wide and horrified.

"Okay." Rose turned an intense shade of red. "Okay."

Before he could even react and without so much as another glance, she stalked towards the Great Hall.

He watched her go, tiny jolts of disarray jumping from synapse to synapse in his brain. He'd been kissed a thousand times before. He himself had kissed a thousand times before. Why in Merlin's name had his muscles short-circuited this time? Dumbly touching his lips with his fingers, he mulled over the one million dollar question. In the end, he could only conclude the following: there was no way in hell this mishap would take place twice. Next time, he'd make bloody sure Rose knew what his true intentions were. Next time, he'd be smart enough to kiss her back.

Next time, he'd be as impure as he could possibly get.


JULY 2024 – R

"Oh, finally," Lily squealed. "Hot bloke coming in!" Then, after an unsubtle stretch of the neck, "Correction, two hot blokes coming in!"

Rolling her eyes ostentatiously, Rose checked the entrance. Comprehension dawned on her the instant a blob of highly blond hair entered her field of vision. The fact that it was accompanied by a cashmere jumper, an emerald-coloured robe being handed to the lady in the cloakroom, a lofty smirk, and a dark-haired best friend sharing said smirk, well, that settled it.

She attempted to hide her rising panic with an embarrassingly high-pitched chuckle. "Lily?"

Pointedly, Lily replied, "What? Don't you dare ruining my glee, you frigid little twit, or I will –"

"That's Scorpius bloody Malfoy and Stephano Zabini you're talking about," Rose interrupted her. She figured she got the intonation of disgust just right. She'd pat herself on the back – if only she could just unfreeze.

Lily's mouth turned into an apprehensive 'O'. She looked over her shoulder. The boys had relocated themselves to – where else – a bar stool, and were currently ordering what appeared to be two very fancy glasses of Firewhiskey.

"Dear Merlin," she said, not taking her gaze off of them for even half a second, "I can't believe this. They've changed, haven't they? Tell me they've changed."

Rose took a sip from her Butterbeer and said in what she hoped was a casual tone, "Nope, Lily. They haven't changed since you've last seen them... Which was a month ago."

"They have. Especially Scorpius! I mean, come on, I would've noticed them a lot more otherwise back in Hogwarts!"

"But you did!" She pointed out sharply. "I remember you practically drooling over him that one time Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup and he took off his gear for all the world to see."

"He didn't take off all of his clothes, Rose," Lily protested. Throwing another glance in said boy's direction, she added, "Unfortunately."

"Thank Merlin. His chest alone was enough to blind me. Imagine his legs soaking up that much sun too."

"He's not that pale."

"Yes, he is," Rose said with conviction. "Also, must you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Subject me to this… desperate, feeble attempt at glorifying Scorpius Malfoy's mediocre facial structure and ashen complexion?"

It was distracting. If there was anything Rose did not need, it was a reminder of Scorpius Malfoy's looks. She was quite aware of them as it was, thanks. The bloke had cheekbones to cut something up and eyes so piercing and bright it almost hurt to look at them.

"You, Rose Weasley," Lily tutted, narrowing her eyes, "don't recognise hotness even if it hits you in the face. Which explains why you ever went out with that Cowell ponce. Now – another glass of wine?"

"No, I'm good."

Though she was anxious to loosen up her now extremely tense shoulders, she couldn't risk having another damned drink. Look where it got her into last time at Graduation: her hands were two seconds shy of Malfoy's trousers. Obviously, alcohol fuelled insanity. She just could not, under any circumstances, feed that beast again.

"You think we should say hello?" Lily asked, nodding towards the pair. They'd just made their way to the pool table.

Thanking her lucky stars that Malfoy and Stephano hadn't spotted them yet, Rose vigorously shook her head. "Absolutely not."

"Weren't you friendly with Zabini?"

"Sure," she replied, smoothing her tone into nonchalance, "but Malfoy's obnoxiousness outweighs Stephano's niceness. I say we go somewhere else!"

"Too late," Lily grinned brightly.

And indeed, Rose's lucky stars had turned particularly unlucky. Both blokes were now looking straight at them, leaning against the pool table, Stephano smiling slightly and Malfoy with an upturned eyebrow. Stephano uncrossed his arms to beckon the girls, but Malfoy's hands remained in his pockets. He looked exceptionally bored, as if to say entertain me plebians.

Because of course.

Thing was – in case this was not yet clear – Rose didn't really like Scorpius. On a personal level. He was an arrogant shit, most of the time. Unfortunately, lately, some cognitive dissonance had come into play: the lad also happened to be very, very attractive, and very, very smart. While she could ignore the former (… mostly), she was somewhat plagued by the latter.

To make matters worse, the last conversation she had with the lad had made her… sympathetic. A bit. For each image of a housemate wailing (Scorpius moving on after one date), a first-year blubbering (Scorpius docking house points because a spell was not performed well enough), a Gryffindor fuming (Scorpius beating them at Quidditch with dirty tricks) – for each of those, a new kind had started to pop up: Scorpius admitting that the idea of moving back into the Manor scared him. He had seemed pretty honest when he had told her this, and the memory of that disquieted her.

Then again, she reminded herself, a tragic childhood did not justify him being such an arsehole to everyone all the time. It was too much of a cliché for her to fall for, really.

Either way, with Lily already bouncing off, Rose reckoned she had little to no choice. She briefly considered running out, but rejected the idea on grounds of dignity loss. Instead, she schooled her features into the most blasé expression she could muster and strutted towards them. Malfoy trained his gaze on her the whole way through.

"Hey," Stephano kissed her cheek.

Malfoy copied the gesture, smirking softly when his lips touched the side of her mouth. She, in return, shot him a death glare.

"You here for a drink?" He inquired, eyes never leaving hers. He probably thought he was being intense or something, the prat.

"Surprisingly, we are indeed in a bar to have a drink," Rose smiled sweetly. Malfoy rolled his eyes, which prompted her to add, "but not for long. We actually – "

"Really, Rose?" Lily interfered, the trollop. "We're celebrating! It's not like we have a curfew today, now do we?"

Silently, Rose promised herself to never take out this sixteen-year-old harpy with her ever again.

"What are we celebrating?" Stephano and Malfoy asked simultaneously.

"Rose got her apprenticeship at the Department of International Cooperation!"

Rose also promised herself to alert aunt Ginny to Lily's "alarming" drinking habits, to her "countless" dalliances with gentlemen of various ages, and, of course, to her "increasingly" slacking studying habits.

Stephano, having known of her career plans, congratulated her warmly, "That's great. I know you really wanted that."

"Well, what do you know," Malfoy, having not known of her career plans, drawled, "Guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other then."

The look she gave him must have been sheer panic. "What?"

"Calm down," he said, after a few pregnant seconds of silence. "I got one at Magical Law Enforcement."

How typical. Implying something quite clearly and then pushing her into the stereotypical role of the hysterical female, imagining things. Already she was ready to strangle him (good. Good. At least strangling was an activity very far outside of the realm of, for instance, kissing.)

"Well done," Lily smiled. "You blokes are here for a celebratory drink as well then?"

While Stephano started saying "Yes" (like normal people), Malfoy noted, "We don't have celebratory drinks. We just have drinks."

Malfoy's sentences always ended in periods or ellipses, never in, say, exclamation marks. He spoke in a way that was weirdly enough both extremely uptight and completely relaxed. He spoke like he was better than everyone else. He spoke like he couldn't be bothered speaking to any person on the planet. He either spoke with a certain mocking mirth belying his good intentions or with a superior drawl that told you just how much he wanted to get rid of you. She guessed he had a neutral tone too, but she just never seemed to pick up on that.

"So, Malfoy," Rose quipped, incentivised by his stupid remark, "that means you'll be working for my mother then, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you will manage?"

"Manage how?"

"My mother is an exacting woman. Always expects people to bring their A game. Do you have that A game, Malfoy?"

Scorpius grinned, "Somehow doubt that, do you?"

"Hmmm," she pretended to think, "I don't think I've seen it before…"

"You're a smart witch. I'm sure you remember my performance in class."

Before she could formulate a comeback, he leaned towards her and added in a low voice only she could fully hear, "And elsewhere. Care to finish what you started, Rose?"

His breath was hot on her neck for a second, until he leaned back. Stephano was looking at them expectantly, Lily was visibly brimming with curiosity. Deciding that there was no way this could end well, ever, Rose exclaimed, "Okay! Lily, we have to go! Stephano, Malfoy, you'll have to excuse us. We have a family thing in the morning."

Malfoy smirked. "I thought you didn't have a curfew."

"It must have slipped Lily's mind!" She answered snippily. "Let's go. Cheers, Stephano! Malfoy."

Lily, though clearly displeased, did not push her luck and merely grumbled, "Right. Potter party. Forgot all about that."

Rose tapped her foot while Lily took her sweet time in saying goodbye to both Slytherins. Though she kept her eyes fixed on the door, she felt Malfoy's boring holes into her skull.

When Lily finally linked her arm into hers, she mumbled, "Once we get out of this bar, you tell me everything, old lady."

While walking away from the duo, Rose just managed to catch the words Stephano threw at Scorpius: "Mate, she really dislikes you!" Unfortunately she was too far by the time Scorpius could reply.

"Rose," Lily stressed as soon as they were out of the door. "Was Malfoy just flirting with you? Tell me everything!"

"No," Rose said quickly. "No. That's absurd."

But he was – he was. And the reality of Scorpius Malfoy apparently wanting to get into her knickers was one she had to deal with, whether she liked it or not.

(Though, in a way she would never admit to anyone, she did. Like it. On a purely theoretical, abstract level. Kind of. A little.)


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Josephine