I do not own Harry Potter.

~oOo~

Stand there like a ghost

Shaking from the rain, rain

She'll open up the door

And say, are you insane?

Say it's been a long six months

And you were too afraid to tell her what you want

And that's how it works

It's how you get the girl

And then you say

I want you for worse or for better

I would wait for ever and ever

Broke your heart, I'll put it back together

I would wait for ever and ever

(Taylor Swift)

~oOo~

It's been a long time since you've last seen him (not in the grand scheme of things, really, but six months feels like a lot to you).

Because even though it's been only six months, it seems it was eons ago when you used to care for him so deeply. When you woke up every morning with his face imprinted into your mind the most gorgeous eyes and best hair in the entire world (or so it seemed at the time)), or better yet, with his arms around you. When once glance your way would make you so happy you could barely breathe. When he would kiss your freckles and refer to you as 'love'. How when you kissed (really kissed) your head seemed to explode and everything felt as it was on fire and it somehow seemed like the whole world was just black and white but you and him? The brightest splash of color imaginable.

Which was a really good description, you think.

Six months, one week and two days ago (you really have to stop counting the days).

You ignore your inner-urgings, (fuck it) once again, and continue to think. sixonetwo. Six months, one week, and two days since you caught him, drunk, with Shelley Sommers, snogging in the corner of that damn club.

Six months, one week, and two days have been spent walking around in a miserable daze, attempting to resume life as it was before thebreakup and failing miserably at doing so. Six months, one week, and two days spent dragging yourself out of bed and to work, six months, one week, and two days of counting down the hours until you can go back to bed and fall into sleep and stop thinking about him. Six months, one week, and two days of forcing yourself to eat and drink and live.

sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays of. being. utterly. fucking. miserable.

You can't stop thinking of him. The arrogance and the smirk that softened (he'd never admit it) when you looked at him a certain way. His (quite perfect) face nearly almost always devoid of emotion. His dimples that showed only when he really, genuinely smiled (he still denied the fact that he, Scorpius Malfoy, had bloody dimples).

You miss him.

For the thousandth time in those sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays, you are sitting at your kitchen table, slowly sipping a mug of hot chocolate (hot chocolate is pretty much the only thing you drink these days). You are sick of trying to not think about him, it's like trying to fight a fucking war with yourself, and it's bloody exhausting. So just for now, you let yourself angst over him as much as you bloody want.

You are in the middle of reminiscing a particularly happy memory with him (you pride yourself on remembering something so happy with the utmost muster-able misery and melancholy), when it happens.

It.

It was actually a very simple knock on your door. Followed by two more, sharp, prompt, orderly knocks.

Now who the bloody fuck is banging their god damn knuckles against my god damn door? Fucking fuckers need me to fucking let me fucking angst in fucking peace. You think, expression souring (even more).

Sighing wearily, you rise. You look like shit, to put it bluntly (messy, falling out bun, huge t-shirt with holes in it, sweatpants that sag in the butt, and shadows under your eyes so deep and dark that it looks like you are a fucking Walker like in the fucking Walking Dead). You grab your wand just in case it's your cousin, James, looking for somewhere to crash because he's so fucking hungover he can barely function. You're sick of his interruptions, and are ready to hex that fucker's pants off.

As you stride over to the door, you notice it's raining- it's all gray and drizzly and depressing.

It always in in London.

Sighing, you abruptly yank open your door, almost sure it's James. "James Sirius Potter, I swear-"

It isn't James Sirius Potter.

"What the fuck?" You splutter.

Because the person before you is not your cousin.

The person standing before you is someone you haven't seen in six months, one week, and two days. He's tall, and even, well (for lack of a better word) more gorgeous than you remember. His body is achingly familiar to you. Tall, fit from Quidditch, pointed chin, high cheekbones, skin that no amount of sunlight can penetrate, platinum blond hair that does holycrapthatswoopything. His clothes are dotted with raindrops, as is his hair.

It's He-Who Must-Not-Be-Named/ He-Who-Cheated-On-You-With-Fucking-Shelley-Slag-Sommers-And-Who-You-Broke-Up-With sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays ago.

He was solid, very much real, but it didn't feel like he seemed much more like a ghost to you.

Something with a smoky quality, that you had tried to touch but had quickly dissipated right before you, leaving you confused and stunned. Something from long ago (six months, one week and two days (shutuprose) to be precise).

You miss him.

Very much, actually.

Why?

Because when you love someone like that, and they leave, that's what you do (miss them).

Miss them so much that you don't even attempt to fill that damn black, empty space they left inside you.

You miss him. But you, of course, have your pride to consider (you've always been very prideful). So instead of hearing him out, you move to slam his face in the doo- uh, door in his face (preferably as dramatically as possible).

But before you can do that (asdramaticallyaspossible) that utter and absolute git does that disgustingly cliche thing in which he prevents you from closing the door.

You frown down at the long fingers gripping the door, and for a second, consider slamming his fingers in the door.

But that would be just cruel.

(And you you really want to know what he has to say but whatever)

So instead, you cross your hands over your chest (the lack of a bra becoming very apparent all of a sudden), lean against the door frame, and try to look as annoyed as possible.

But that doesn't work out. Because when you mumble a greeting, your voice comes out soft, shaky and very sad sounding.

Scorpius winces when he hears it.

You stare determinedly at the floor, avoiding his gaze.

An awkward, pregnant silence descends over the two of you, the tension so thick that for a minute, you entertain yourself with the notion of grabbing a knife and attempting to cut it..

(Finally) He speaks up. "I fuckinghate apologizing. Alright? But you know that. Fuck I'm rambling. Fuck. Okay. Right. Fuck. Anyway, the fucking point is, is that I'm fucking sorry, alright? I fucked up. Really, really, bad. I was drunk and wasn't thinking and I don't know WHY I did it. 'Cause I actually, like, fuck this is almost physically hurting me to admit this, but, I, like, actually, loved you? But yeah I told you that… . I screwed us up and I miss you and I miss us and I want us back. And I just now finally worked up the shit to tell you all this? It's been a really, really, long six months and I'm sorry I broke your heart, and I can't fucking get over you, and please, please, take me back, I'll do anything. I'll wait and wait and wait and… yeah, that was a lot of 'fucks'.", he finished awkwardly.

You stand there, blinking stupidly. It takes you a long time to process what he just said. You stand there and blink and internally weed through everything he says and you finally, finally realize exactly what he wants.

He wants you back.

"You know," You start, voice cracking (fuck), "That loquacious soliloquy right there? Completely cliche. Disgustingly cliche. Not to mention unnecessary."

His face flashes with several emotions (angerhurtembarassmentpain). But before he walks off, you finish your statement. "...because I really, really missed you too, and spent six months, one week and two days being all depressed, and would've taken you back without the speech."

~oOo~

Precisely six hours, one minute and two seconds later, after lots of kissing, hugs, laughter, snide remarks, and long-winded explanations, the two of you are laying on your couch. Your head is on his chest, and his arm is flung around your shoulder.

"Rose?", He begins, "You mentioned something about six months, one week and two sday earlier? Did you actually fucking keep track of how long we were separated."

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.

FIN.