Rosalie was, in the opinion of many, the most interesting Slytherin one could ever meet. Of course, she belonged in Slytherin; she was arrogant, clever, cunning, witty, and perhaps she was a little sadistic, but what surprised most was that she was fiercely protective of anyone that she deemed unfit to protect themselves. For example, Neville Longbottom.
There was no doubt that Rosalie had a soft spot for the surprisingly handsome sixth year Gryffindor, because she defended him from the littlest things. She never let anyone bully him when she was around, not even Snape, and though she didn't like the slimy creature, she sometimes would look after his toad if he asked.
Another example would be Rosalie's cat, Anders. The wily Persian longhair was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, as well as making others wonder what had happened to their various small articles that he hoarded in a small cubby in the dungeon, but Rosalie pampered him anyway, brushing his golden fur three times a day at least.
Rosalie protected various others from various houses whether they liked it or not, but the one that was the most adverse to it was Draco Malfoy. Yes, Rosalie had decided that Draco Malfoy was not capable of defending himself from the dangers of the world, and he didn't like it one bit.
Draco often found himself feeling confused when he was around her. At first, he thought he hated her because he thought she looked down on him, but that soon changed every time he found her pretty emerald eyes looking into his own steely grey orbs and felt like his chest might burst. He felt dizzy whenever she moved in such a way that her burgundy red-orange curls bounced over her shoulders. He got tunnel vision every time he saw her in the stands from the Quidditch Pitch with the sun shining on her ivory skin. And the night of the Yule ball when the Tri-Wizard Tournament was held, she wore a black dress that hugged her figure in a way that he thought should have been illegal. He had wanted to rip it off of her, but he wasn't sure what he would have done after that. And her accent, that wonderful Scottish accent, was absolutely sinful.
He also liked to count the freckles across her nose. In the evenings when they sat in the common room, she would get lost in her book and he would count her freckles by the firelight. He never came up with a set number. He wasn't sure he wanted to, because then what would be the point of counting? He always missed a few, or she would move so he could start over; any excuse to stare at her. Draco didn't know it, but he was in love.
When he started seeing Pansy, it felt wrong, and the way Rosalie distanced herself seemed even more wrong. She spent less time with him and more time with Neville or her cat, and she didn't spend as many evenings sitting by the fire. Of course, Pansy wouldn't understand if she saw him staring at her to count her freckles. No one would understand, so he had no choice. He always had no choice. He couldn't go on like this.
Draco stopped talking to Rosalie. His heart ached every time he saw her, and she still protected him from a distance, but he avoided conversation. Whenever he was about to give in and talk to her, Pansy would show up and hug his arm, cooing at him and asking him who he thought was the prettiest girl in the world. Draco always answered "you, of course, Pansy," but it was a lie. He thought Rosalie was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, even when put up against a unicorn.
One night, Draco found himself by the fire, alone, staring blankly at the seat where Rosalie usually read. His chest ached and his eyes felt hot; what was wrong with him? He hugged himself, blinking a few times. There was water on his cheeks suddenly, and he realized he was crying. It was late at night, so he doubted anyone would see, but still, he didn't like to cry. A soft sob escaped him, and he rested his face in his hands. He wanted Rosalie, more than anything, he just wanted to sit and count her freckles.
Draco nearly jumped out of his skin when small hands rested on his shoulders, but he didn't reveal his face. "Go away, Pansy. I'm not in the mood." He mentally cursed himself for his shaking voice. But the voice that answered him wasn't Pansy. "Och, now what's got you in a mood?" It was soft, but it still had that rough ring to it.
Rosalie.
Draco looked up, not bothering to hide his tears. There she was, the flickering light of the fire making her features dance. She had a look of motherly concern. Draco had never been happier to see anyone, but he remembered, they weren't supposed to be close to each other.
"Now, Draco," he loved the way she said his name. She moved around the chair and knelt in front of him, drying his eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "It's goin t' be alright." He loved her accent. "I'm here now. Nothin's gonna hurt you, darling." He loved her. He finally realized it, he loved her. He reached out to her, taking her face in his hands. "Rosalie," his voice was raspy, but she didn't seem to care. She gave him a tender look. "Draco, don't do anything rash." She was warning him.
He kissed her anyway.