in the dark
by mistsplash
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She's grown up in a safe little bubble of happiness and charm and the-world-is-a-wonderful-place ideals, but she's not like James or Hugo or Al or even Lily, because the obliviousness that is Weasley has somehow (thankfully) surpassed her, and she's got her mother's brains and damnit, can't they see that she sees right through them?
She's a real Granger at heart. She doesn't like not knowing. She wants to know why people stare at them whenever they're out with Uncle Harry, what the story behind that horrible scar is, and why her mother (and sometimes her father) wakes up late at night, crying for some unknown reason.
She wants to know why Uncle George's ear is gone, and why Uncle Bill has all those scars. She wants to know why Teddy's hair changes colors, and where his parents went.
But she's just Rose, just another Weasley (she doesn't deny that they spread like wildfire), safe in her little bubble of goodness, supposedly oblivious to the world.
Perhaps that is why she's so excited to leave her life of bliss behind, to start at Hogwarts, and find the answers she's been looking for all along (though she honestly didn't expect half of them).
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But then he comes along and it's like what the hell because all the answers she's spent so long trying to find are gone, out the window, out of her mind. He's just there, taunting her, teasing her, pulling her hair—and when she's finally alone and he's not there bugging her, she can't stop thinking about him.
She can't stop thinking about the way he tells the story. Suddenly, there's no more oh-my-gosh-that-really-happened and wow-dad-and-uncle-Harry-are-so-brave to the tale. It's just plain, simple, straight (none of her parents' and friends' exaggerated comments and sound effects are there to heighten it all) and the worst part is—it's nearly terrifying.
He's been behind enemy lines, she thinks desperately. Or, at least, he knows what it's like. Therefore, her sometimes-overly-logical brain concludes, he is an enemy—an enemy because he's feeding all that rubbish about darkness and cowardice to her, as if trying to warn her.
Rose Weasley does not like being warned. Moreover, she does not like being treated like she doesn't know something very important.
What annoys her more, though, isn't the fact that he's telling her lies. It's the fact that she can't (or won't) stop thinking about him.
His icy grey eyes, his nearly platinum-blond Malfoy hair, his sarcastic yet undeniably witty tongue—she can't get herself away.
And she knows she's crazy for it, because he's a stupid Malfoy and she's a Weasley and really, they're not supposed to mix at all.
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"Weasley!" She turns abruptly, shaken from her duties as a prefect, to face the drunkenly-slurred voice that has called out to her. She's about to reprimand him for being out in the hallways, doing Merlin-knows-what, but then she sees the state he's in: crumpled clothing, messy hair, swollen eyes, with pungent alcohol staining his skin.
Her heart melts, because she's got a few of her father's wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve genes.
"What are you doing out here, Malfoy?" she asks quietly, eyes darting towards the other corridors, as if someone might hear them.
He mumbles something unintelligible before his lips split into a wide, cocky, positively drunken grin. "Pretty," he mutters, stumbling a few steps forward. She doesn't move backwards, hoping to catch him if he falls.
"You should go to bed," she advises, trying in vain to keep the tenderness out of her voice.
"Only if you're with me," he mutters, eyelids drooping and smirk curving. Had it been any other time, any other day, she would've punched him.
"Seriously, go to bed," she whispers, shoving him lightly towards the general direction of the dungeons.
"Wait." He takes in a hissing breath and, steadying himself with her shoulder, raises his eyes to meet hers. Once more—to her annoyance—she can't breathe, not because of some girlish crush, but because of the avidly grey color, the sudden intensity that no drunken person should've been able to manage.
"Yeah?" she whispers, biting her lips anxiously afterwards. Their faces are inches apart, and there's a sort of hideous warmth spreading to her cheeks.
He mumbles something under his breath, and before she's sure of what's happening, his mouth is on hers.
It's a chaste, alcohol-flavored kiss—simple, plain, with no moving involved. But to Rose, it's worse than, say, getting less than an O on her O.W.L.s.
I'm kissing a bloody Malfoy!
She puts her hands on his shoulders, trying in vain to push away, but instead she's molding into him, her slight frame fitting his lithe one—she's never kissed anyone like this, and it's a bit disconcerting to think of her first (mildly) intimate kiss being shared with…with Scorpius Malfoy, of all people.
After he's had his fill of her (running his hands through her unruly curls, touching her, smirking against her lips) he lets go, and as she feels that innocence just flying away, Rose will not let herself admit that maybe—maybe—she wanted it to last just a bit longer.
"M-Malfoy…" she whispers, catching herself by surprise. No, no, no—she, Rose Weasley, does not stutter and whisper in front of that damned Scorpius Malfoy. "Hey, Malfoy!" she calls, just a bit louder, so they won't get caught by the other prefects.
He turns slightly, indicating that he's heard. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if he was faking his drunkenness, for this is not the stumbling boy she had witnessed a few minutes (hours?) ago.
She realizes, with a slight blush, that he's still waiting for her to speak.
She wants to call him back, maybe use him like he just used her. Have a little fun with this, that's what she wants.
But she's only Rose Weasley, remember?
She walks up to him slowly, biting her lip once more, though it's slightly swollen now. She's trying to sway her nonexistent hips a little, impress him maybe. Why, she's not so sure, because they'll just go back to hating each other in the morning.
She freezes when she's about to pass him, quickly contemplating the options. With a small, barely noticeable sigh, she leans over, plants a kiss on the edge of his mouth, and whispers in the deadliest voice she can muster, "You're just lucky I didn't give you detention, Malfoy."
She doesn't tell him or apologize for it, but the words are a lot more acidic than they're meant to be. Then again, it's not like he really cares, right?
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The next morning, amidst the bustle and chatter and jokes of friends, she glances over to his table, and with a slight jolt, she finds him staring right back, cold grey eyes locked with river-blue. With that one look, she knows that something changed. Maybe not between the two of them, but something had definitely changed.
He doesn't speak of it ever again, though, and after a small bout of girlie, disheartened sulking, she resolves to do the same.
Silently, though, she thanks him, because he was all she needed to break that little bubble of not-knowing and innocence that she'd been trying to escape for so long.
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Author's Notes:
I'm not going to bother apologizing for this fic. But, since you've read it . . .