Hello, everyone. Please enjoy this One-Shot and the sunshine, wherever you may be!
Life is too short. I don't say this simply to defy the smart-arses who would reply that life is, in fact, the longest thing you'll ever do. I can't argue with them on that point, but I can rephrase this cliché expression.
Life is too short to waste on petty things. More specifically, life is too short to waste on petty things like midnight prefect rounds.
Many of my fellow prefects would vigorously agree with me on this point. Most would rather sneak out for a snog or late-night gambling in the Slytherin common room. I, on the other hand, am more concerned that I'm losing precious study time.
While I'm aware that this makes me somewhat of an anorak, time is money, as Muggles like to say. Or in my case, time is the difference between acceptance as an Unspeakable apprentice and complete failure as a witch. Were I not on duty this evening, I would be finishing my seventh book on the nature of thoughts and dreams; I was hoping to get to Magical Moral Perspective today, but I have literally had to put it on the shelf for now.
Though it is near summer, I have to wrap my arms around myself to keep warm from the brisk chill running through the castle. The left sole of my brand-new pair of shoes squeaks slightly as I continue to patrol at an impatient speed. This year's Heads scheduled rounds to take nearly two hours each night; I plan on completing them in under an hour, with or without my partner.
Preferably without.
"Weasley, would you slow down already?"
My pace decelerates, but I shake my head in annoyance. "Not having trouble keeping up, are we, Malfoy?" I call to my patrol partner. It really would have been best if he hadn't found me so quickly; half of the castle could have been checked by now.
"As much as I'd love to run about the entire school at this hour, I believe you missed several broom closets. Not one for thorough work, are we?" he drawls lazily. How utterly Scorpius Malfoy.
I nearly remind him of all of the cupboards I'd found him in last year, but I bite my tongue just in time. Instead, I set a less hurried pace that he easily strides at beside me.
The silence that falls between us is uncomfortable, even more so with my shoe piping in every four or five steps. If Malfoy notices, he doesn't show it. He walks indolently, only taking one step for every two that I have to take; he has never been much taller than me, but his long strides emphasize the difference between us. Locks of neatly-cut blonde are arranged on top of his head and the tips of his deep-black shoes shine like a new penny; everything in between is just as spick and span. He is the epitome of a Malfoy. Perfect on the outside, yet deeply troubled on the inside. His father must be so proud.
"Are we going to be civil to one another, or are we to continue in silence all evening?"
I sigh audibly. As far as I'm concerned, silence is civil. He's got something coming for him if he's under the illusion that I want to have a lighthearted conversation about Regina Heathrow's fanny. Or the fanny of whoever he's decided to bonk this week.
"Not really in the mood tonight, Malfoy," I reply curtly.
"Are you ever in the mood, Weasley?" I can practically hear the simpering look on his face-the one that tugs at his left cheek and makes him look far too much like his old man. "Tell me, do you ever do anything that doesn't involve a book?"
My family members have all asked me this several times, but my answer to this question seems less pertinent when a completely objective third-party is nosing around. "I was a Chaser for Ravenclaw in third year. Though, I'm not surprised someone as brainless as you can't remember."
"That was three years ago," Malfoy points out to me as if I couldn't do basic maths. He completely ignores my jibe, which bothers me to no end. I think of mentioning that I dated Jerome Davies for several months during fifth year, but I choose not to humiliate myself further by opening that can of daft decisions.
I can feel the heat of embarrassment rush into my cheeks and through my ears; I'm positive that my face resembles a sickly-looking tomato. Not even the frigid air is able to cool me down. In all of my encounters with people-few as they may be-no one has ever been able to get me as hot and bothered as Malfoy. If he's not questioning my lifestyle then he's making jabs at my naïve family or teasing me for my supposed ineptitude.
"So what if I like books more than people?" The question flies out of me in some lame attempt at self-defense. My cheeks grow even warmer as I realize how childish I'm acting.
He shrugs in response. As he does this, the material of his sweater gathers around the nape of his neck; I mentally chastise myself for admiring the pale skin below his left ear that sweeps down his throat. "I never said it was a problem."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm just curious why you never seem to take an interest in the people who take an interest in you."
I snort rather unattractively-a trait I'm told I get from my father. "No one is interested in me, Malfoy." A long silence follows this. He runs a hand along his damned neck as if considering whether he should say something.
Finally, he speaks up. "Have you heard what people say about you?"
A gossiping Malfoy. Now that's a new low.
"You know," I pipe in, carefully side-stepping him as he tries to stop my labored pace, "I don't particularly care that people think I've got a stick up my arse. But thank you for reminding me that it's there." I turn the corner near the courtyard hoping to lose my companion, or at least hoping to gain a few yards on him.
It takes all I have not to snap at him when he continues to follow my lead with no trouble. It takes even more for me to not hex him when he swings around in front of me, causing me to collide with his brawny shoulder.
"They say you're made of stone."
"What, like I'm some ice queen?" I'm grasping at straws, unable to decide how he's found it in him to talk about something other than himself.
"Not quite, princess," his condescension and smarmy smirk grind at me, but I refuse to show just how much. "Supposedly, you're quite impervious."
This time it's my turn to smirk at him. "Really. The entire student body knows what that word means. Color me shocked." It feels good to bite back at him sarcastically, though I am beyond curious about his topic of choice.
"Of course not." He knows I'm referring to birds like Bettani Munson who have more knockers than they do brain cells. "Point is, you're untouchable. Nothing anyone can say or do affects you."
I try not to let on how much this pleases me. As the bird who cried all of second year when her owl died in a snowstorm, I had been the target of far too much teasing and bereavement for a thirteen year old. It had been my Uncle Percy who taught me to be indifferent. Existing as an enigma, he told me, was the best way to ensure that people saw my best qualities rather than my weakest points. Being the perfectionistic, swotty girl I am, I had trained myself in the art of apathy and made it a point to be, as Scorpius put it, impervious.
"They're wrong, though." I only just register Scorpius' left-cheeked smirk as he turns down the vestibule ahead of me.
I can't decide if I'm angrier that his new shoes don't squeak or that I'm biting at his pathetic bait. Several jiffies later, I find myself rushing after him, just barely avoiding the large cracks in the hallway floor. I refuse to believe that he's seen past the front I've worked so hard on, and I'll even let him try and hook me to prove I'm unbeatable.
His grin is all white teeth and sparkling green eyes when I catch up to him. "I've hit a nerve, haven't I?" he simpers.
"No," I keep my voice as level as I can, given that we are walking at an excruciating pace. My shoe is now screaming wildly as I step on it, and I'm about ready to take it off and throw it at my fellow Prefect. "I just want to know why you think your opinion is right. Besides the fact that you're a hopeless narcissist without a care for anyone else," I add quickly.
Scorpius pushes up his grey sleeves as if he is going to confront me, but his strides stay even and face turned away. If not for the set of his rather pointed jaw, I would have thought he didn't hear me. "You want me to prove you're not impervious?" he probes as soon as I decide he's forgotten I'm beside him.
"Do your worst. Tell me-"
But I don't get the chance to tell him how utterly prepared I am because he's pressed me to the wall before I can get a word in edgewise. His pupils pulse as he looks between my mouth and my eyes. "As you wish," he mumbles, and I think I've stopped breathing. Whether from the air being forced from my lungs or the hunger in his gaze, I'm undecided.
Before I can even bother questioning him or demanding that he bugger off, his lips meet mine in a frenzy of heat and purpose. The hallway is spinning as he presses himself against me, and I hardly realize that I'm reaching for him until I feel the cool skin of his neck under my fingers. Everything fades while our mouths work against each other frantically as if we are always this familiar.
When he takes a step back, it doesn't take long for me to realize that my breath is labored and cheeks are full of heat.
"And there you have it, Weasley. Not quite as unaffected as everyone thinks." I have a hard time deciding if he's simpering in pride or clenching his teeth across the corridor. Either way, I won't have it. But before I can give some smart remark, he's moved, leaving only a cool breeze and an infuriatingly attractive scent behind him. "I'll see you next week," he calls over his shoulder from down the foyer. I curse the ease of his gait as I struggle to remove myself from the wall.
Not impervious, my arse. He's got it coming for him next Tuesday.
Life is too short to waste on petty things. But now I'm not so sure midnight rounds is one of them.
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CompletelyDone