Hey. This is a one-shot for the 2011 Mew & Mor's Weird Pairings Challenge, no.86-Scorpius Malfoy/George Weasley. So…yeah.

He frowned at his reflection in his mother's boudoir; combed his hair to the right, to the left, made it stand up, let flow into long bangs across his forehead, dyed the tips purple, bleached them again, curled it, straightened it, tied it behind his head, shaved off the sides.

"Damn," he muttered, biting his lip, brush in hand. "Damn."

(something isn't right)

He let out a madcap giggle at his reflection and tried hard not to burst into tears. "Come on, Scorp," he hissed through his straightstraight teeth. "Stop it. He'll like it."

Really? whispered the tiny little girl voice in his head. How can you be sure, Scorpius? Why should he even like you?

"Shut up," he said aloud, still staring into the mirror. "Shut up."

He stood up and exhaled deeply. "Okay," he muttered. "It will be fine. It will be fine. It will—"

Scorpius continued the mantra, repeating himself in the same monotone over and over again. It will be fine. It will be fine.

He slipped into his favorite things, his white-blonde hair ruffled by the rough fabrics of his black coat. Before he left, he glanced at his reflection for the last time, biting his lower lip with an emotion he couldn't name but could feel churning through his stomach, a hot mess of shit.

The door slammed, and he was out.

†

George Weasley was tense as he sat at the table in the restaurant.

Malfoy's kid had invited him here, which was odd enough on his own. Even after the war, things between him and Malfoy had been rough. But then Fred (the second, of course) loved Scorpius.

"He's just great, Dad," he said during over Christmas dinner. "He's the best Chaser on the Ravenclaw team, and they've barely lost since he's been. And he's only thirteen!"

Fred did that a lot; first it had been James Potter, than his cousin Dominique, and now Scorpius Malfoy.

George's thoughts turned as the door of the venue opened, and the boy stepped in, lithe as a cat.

"Hello," he said in a quiet, rather reserved manner as he sat down, back straight. "Order anything you like; I'll pay."

George leaned across the table and shook the boy's hand. "Scorpius," he said, "I appreciate the gesture of this dinner, but why? Why not take Freddie, or Roxanne? I'm an old man with not much to interest you, an—"

"You're not old, and I find you completely interesting," said Scorpius, sipping his cream soda through a straw. "Roxy, as you know, is having a sleepover with Rose and Lily and Lucy, and Fred is having flying practice with your brother Charlie. Your wife is at your niece Victoire's bachelorette party, and if you were not here, you would be at home, drinking wine while thinking about the unmentionable."

He took another sip of his cream soda and smiled delicately at George. "Now please, just enjoy yourself and order some firewhiskey."

George looked unsurely at Scorpius and took a small drink of some wine. "So," he said in an attempt to make small talk, "how's your father?"

"He and my mother want another child," he said casually.

"Oh."

"How about you?" asked Scorpius, his long eyelashes kissing his cheeks. "Any weird mid-life crisis going on with you?"

"No," said George firmly. "I'm quite happy with where I am."

Scorpius seemed to deflate a little. "Oh."

There was an odd quiet, one that seemed to swallow them both up as the clatter of the restaurant faded into nothingness around them, eating away at something like they were spiraling, far away, down the hatch, into the thick, rich—

"Scorpius? Are you alright?"

His voice made him register the fact that he was not in orbit but on Earth. "Yeah," he said, losing the sophisticate act for a moment. "Just got lost in my head, that's all."

He laughed a little too loudly before realizing that he was crying, and then he felt like a shattered mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling away from the table. "Don't worry about the bill; I sent it before I came."

"Scorpius?" asked George, getting up. "What's wrong? Was it something I—"

But the tall, thin boy with girlish eyes fled from the restaurant, fighting something George couldn't see.

†

He was back, staring at his reflection in his mother's boudoir.

The light layer of mascara he had applied dripped down his cheeks, his hair stuck up in all directions, the whites of his eyes reddish pink, his coat thrown on the floor, his chest white in the dim candlelight.

Scorpius closed his eyes and sobbed, shaking slightly, his hands covering his eyes. He cried loudly, his thin torso shuddering with effort of losing control.

"I hate you!" he screamed at his pale reflection. "I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!"

He picked up the brush and hurled it at the mirror, shrieking madly as it shattered into a million pieces. He took a shard and cut his hands, his feet, his arms, letting himself bleed all over the oak floorboards.

Breathing became easier; the shuddered sighs eased to ragged breaths, quiet and delicate. There was an odd sort of peace about seeing his blood trickle out of him and stain the glistening bits of broken mirror. But then, he felt something inside of him twist, a little monster screaming to get out.

Something isn't right.