Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be writing side-along books about the Marauders and Next Generation. Not writing fanfiction.
A/N: I love Rose/Scorp, but I don't think I've ever pictured them this way. Anyhow, I like it. I'll most likely write a sequel at some point.
I do not like the girl in glasses. I don't. Honestly.
I lift my eyes up from the book in front of me, The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why Muggles Prefer Not to Know, and sneak a glance at the girl sitting two tables away. She seems sucked in by the words on the thick tome before her, so I'm pretty certain I won't get caught. Her cheeks are flushed, her brow is furrowed and she's biting on the left side of her lower lip, which is her "concentrating hard" expression. She turns the page with a swift flick of her thumb before pushing her rectangular glasses up the bridge of her nose and tucking a stubborn red strand of hair behind her ear.
The light in the library is scarce, each occupied table having a lit candle as their only source. The moon is hidden behind the clouds tonight, meaning no moonlight can seep through the windows like it sometimes does, giving us extra light than nights like these.
The flame of the candle brings out the different shades of her hair, varying from dark brown to auburn to light brown to violent red. The light bounces off each ringlet elegantly, making her appear even more sophisticated and studious than she already does. Behind the glasses, a pair of brown, all-knowing eyes lie, moving as she skims over the page. Her hand, closed into a loose fist, is supporting her head. On some, this position would make the person look bored out of their right minds. On others, such as her, it didn't. It made her look all the more beautiful.
Her freckles, barely visible during the day, were enhanced by the flicker on the stick of melting wax, seemingly dancing across her pink cheeks. She turned another page, almost impatiently.
We're the only two in the library, except for Madam Pince and – I can only assume – a few seventh years. If it wasn't for the annoying, distant sound of their quills scratching against parchment, I wouldn't have known they were there as they were hidden among the many bookcases. It's fifteen minutes to eleven, which means Madam Pince will be kicking us out in a quarter of an hour. She allows the Sixth- and Seventh-Years to stay until eleven, under McGonagall's request, as some of us will supposedly be studying for our NEWT's next year.
The book in front of me is forgotten, all I can think about is how mysterious this beautiful creature is. But this is wrong in more ways than I can comprehend. She's forbidden. Out of bounds. If Father found out how I felt, he'd be furious. Grandfather? That's even worse. Her family isn't like mine. I come from a family of darkness. She comes from a family of light. I come from a family that can't love. She comes from a family that is all about love. I come from a Pureblood line. Her mother is a Mudblood, father a Blood Traitor. It's all wrong.
But she's changed my view on things. When I started at Hogwarts, six years ago, I was the spitting image of my father – in both mind and looks. I was under the impression that muggles, muggleborns and blood traitors alike were worthless, filthy, pathetic excuses of human beings that deserved to be demolished from the Earth. He pointed this girl out to me. Told me not to get involved with her, because she was the daughter of filth. At the time, I had fully intended to follow his orders.
But, now … now, I'm having second thoughts.
She's a Ravenclaw, the brightest witch of our age. An excellent Quidditch player. A Prefect. And, without a doubt, she'll be Head Girl next year, too. She's modest and quiet, with very few friends. Although, if these people can count as "friends", I don't know. She prefers to keep to herself with a good book, and really only speaks to her friends when they force her to come with them to Hogsmeade, or at meal times, or in-between classes. During free periods and once classes end for the day, she excuses herself to a quiet spot – usually the library – and studies. She's natural as well, unlike other girls, who plaster themselves in so much make-up you can never be sure what they really look like. Sure, she's stubborn, quick-minded and sarcastic. And yes, she has a fiery temper and a pair of very loud lungs, but she wouldn't be herself without them.
She pushes her glasses up her nose absent-mindedly before once again turning the page. She raises her head, as if sensing my eyes on hers, and her curious brown orbs lock with my blue ones. Trying to ignore the way my heart picked itself up and raced off to Australia, I give her a small smile, which earns a raised eyebrow, before she returns to her book. I sigh and stand up, pulling my bag onto my shoulder in the same movement. I exit the library, cursing myself internally for getting caught.
Oh well, I can always start from scratch tomorrow …
I can hear Zabini's incessant chatter in my ear, but I ignore it, grunting at the appropriate times as if I'm on autopilot. I reach across the table and take a couple of slices of toast, grabbing the butter in the same action. I spread the butter across the toast before sinking my teeth into the corner. Once again proving my autopilot theory, my eyes drift from the wood of our table to the one beside us, instantly finding her dark red hair. She's laughing with her friends, and her hair is tied back into a messy bun, which will fall out by the end of the day.
She turns her head and catches me staring once again, raising a delicate eyebrow and smirking slightly, amusement evident in her eyes – whether from the jokes her friend told her or from catching me staring again. I look away instantly, giving my trademark smirk as Zabini made a comment about how batty Professor Longbottom's wife is. My eyes flicker back to her spot every few seconds, though they don't remain on her long enough for my pleasure. But still, just to be safe.
A while later, she stands up, along with a couple of other Ravenclaw girls. I watch them walk to the door, trying – and only just succeeding – not to drool as her hips sway naturally. It's something every female does, I've noticed. It's like they're trying to drive us insane. She turns around and smirks at me, which is something I don't miss, and I scowl half-heartedly at her before she leaves.
I enter History of Magic with my sleeping book in tow, and I fully intend to use it. Whoever made Professor Binns the History of Magic teacher must've been off their rocker. He's such a bore.
I take a seat at the back of the class with the rest of the Slytherins and retrieve the thick tome from my bag. Adjusting my position to one of more comfort, I lay my head on the book, with a perfect view of the entrance. It's my penultimate lesson of the day, and none of my previous classes were with Ravenclaws. Even though I tend to sleep through this class, I always watch the door carefully at the beginning of the lesson, as to catch a glimpse of her.
Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.
She walks in with one of the Scamander kids, a big smile on her face. I grind my teeth when I see him (is it Lorcan or Lysander? I can never tell them apart) throw an arm over her shoulder. She laughs, hits his middle playfully and pushes his arm off, before the two of them join the other Scamander twin at the front of the room. I fold my arms over the book and rest my chin on them, so I can watch her before Boring Binns floats through the chalkboard. She's laughing, and talking excitedly to the two boys. I know she's just friends with the two of them, but the green dragon still swallows up my insides whenever I see her with them.
I sigh quietly when Professor Binns sweeps in and orders the class to silence. Most of us have already closed our eyes, and my eyelids slowly droop closed as he begins his speech about Goblin History. Honestly, the Goblin's could have been nice to us by not making themselves so bloody historical. Before my eyelids close, I could have sworn I saw her turn around to look at me. I must be going insane.
I'm startled awake by the sound of a bell, and I blink blearily a few times as I come to terms with my surroundings. Once I finally realise it's the end of History of Magic, I stand up, scoop my "pillow" into my bag and swagger out of the room with the rest of my House. I see a head of red hair in front of me and I can't believe my luck. Because Zabini – whom, although my friend, I never address my his first name – and I are the only two Slytherins who decided to take Potions for NEWT's, and she's one of the five Ravenclaws who also take that class.
I smirk contentedly as Zabini and I follow the Ravenclaws to Potions. She trips and hits the floor with an umph, but promptly bursts into laughter right there on the floor. Honestly, she's near hysterics. She sees Zabini and I through tear-filled eyes, and begins laughing harder. One of the Scamander twins make a joke about how clumsy she can be and pulls her to her feet. They both put their arms around her to support her the rest of the way, as she's still giggling and stumbling like a fool, and the green dragon strikes again.
We enter the dungeon classroom and I take a seat at the front as Potions is my strong point. One of the Scamander twins has gone to sit with another Ravenclaw – Kathy, is it? – while the other one, along with the redhead, take seats at the front … right next to me. I've never been this close to her before. It's intoxicating. I can smell her subtle perfume, and it smelt unlike anything I had smelt before, though the Potion fumes might have altered it slightly.
Class begins, the grumpy teacher flicks her wand, and the instructions for a Numbing Potion appear on the board. I gather up my ingredients and get back to my table, trying not to make my edginess too obvious. I think I did rather well, myself. I overhear her and the Scamander twin (she calls that one Lorcan) discussing the Hogsmeade trip this weekend, and I nearly bang my head on the cauldron. Hogsmeade! How could I forget?
I sneak a look at the two in time to see her push her glasses up her nose and hear her telling Lorcan that she'd be in the library tonight until Madam Pince kicks her out. Needless to say where I'll be tonight, then.
I'm trying. I really am trying. But this book, Why I Didn't Die When The Augurey Cried, is one of the most boring books I've ever tried to read … and there's a gorgeous girl in glasses on the table right opposite me. Okay, so maybe the book isn't that boring, but compared to the person at the other side of the room, it's pretty dull.
I look up to see her pushing her glasses up her nose again. I wonder if she even knows she's doing it, or whether she does it subconsciously. I force my eyes back down to the book in front of me, in fear of being caught for the third time in two days. I've never been this clumsy with my people-watching before. I've always been the master of spying and slinking around. So why do I keep getting caught now?
I sigh and rub my eyes before leaning back in my chair and stretching my aching limbs. A glance at the clock tells me it's twenty minutes past ten, meaning I still have forty minutes until Madam Pince tells me to get out. I run a hand through my hair and continue observing the girl across the room.
Under the table, her ankles are crossed and her legs are straight in front of her. She's bobbing her left ankle, which is above the right, like someone would if they were listening to music. One arm lay limp beside her book, while the other is supporting her head, and her dark hair is falling over her shoulders; no matter how much she tucks it behind her ear, it stubbornly falls back into place. Every thirty-five seconds on average, she pushes her glasses up her nose again. Every seventy-five seconds on average, she'll turn the page. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip and her brow furrows when, I can only assume, she reads something confusing or surprising.
I stifle a yawn behind my hand and rub my eyes again. All these late night observations can't be good for my health, but I'll continue them anyway. She huffs when her hair falls out of place again and draws her eyes away from the book to tie it up. She sees me staring just as she's finished the bun, she blinks and cocks her head to the side. For a moment, I don't realise she's looking at me, but when it does, I feel my face growing hot. A sly smirk slides onto her freckled face, and she stands up from her seat. At an annoyingly slow pace, she walks over to my table.
"Is there something you wanted, Malfoy?" she asks politely, though the mischievous, all-knowing glint in her eye doesn't miss my watchful gaze.
"What makes you ask, Weasley?" I ask playfully as she pushes her glasses up her nose again.
"Well, I've just noticed that you can't keep your eyes off me lately," she says lightly, as if she'd just told him she thinks it'll be sunny tomorrow.
"If you've been noticing, that means you must've been looking at me quite a bit, too," I reply, my Malfoy confidence and arrogance overpowering me. I lick my dry lips to moisten them while I wait for her response.
"No comment."
"You, me, Hogsmeade, this weekend. How does that sound?"
"Perfect," she says with a smirk. "Meet me by the gates. Ten o'clock sharp."
"I'll be there," I reply, matching her smirk as I cross my arms over my chest arrogantly.
"See you, Malfoy." She bends down and plants a kiss on my cheek, winking cheekily before turning around and walking back to her table, her eyes back on the book as if the past few minutes had never happened.
I stood up from my chair a few minutes later, feeling smug and victorious as I swagger to the door. I turn around to see her watching me, a soft smile on her face. I return the smile and she look back down at her book. Watching a few seconds longer, I manage to see her push the rectangular glasses up her nose once more. I turn and leave.
I do not like the girl in glasses. I don't. Honestly. Well, okay … maybe a little.
A/N: The sequel, if I do decide to write it, will be their date in Hogsmeade, written in the same style as this. Not a very interesting sequel, I know, but oh well. (:
Reviews keep the world in balance!