A whiff of cigarette smoke stenches the air above the ash-blond head of Scorpius Malfoy, and he exhales again.
"That's a pretty Muggle habit you picked up," Rose Weasley remarks, trotting past him with her chubby legs dimpling in those gauzy sleeping-shorts. The grubby ginger ringlets that stick to his bare feet every time he walks through the Headquarters' common room, are awfully nap-tousled, and adding the yellow hoodie she wears, the Weaselette looks like a rubber duck. Scorpius simpers at her back. "What does your narcissistic Death Eater daddy think of it?"
"Careful, Firecracker," he snarls, nipping on the filter.
Rose turns and crosses the seven steps between them, until her toes stub the armchair he is sprawled over. Pouting provocatively as she hovers over him, she coos: "Or what? You're gonna tell daddy?"
"'Least my father isn't Harry Potter's twee petty House elf."
"Is better than bein' Voldemort's arsewipe."
Scorpius shoots out of his seat, stabs the cigarette into an ashtray in the bookshelf and pokes his nose with her freckled one. The Hufflepuff doesn't even flinch, her forget-me-not blue orbs narrowing at him. "Fuck you, Weasley."
An eyebrow raised, Rose snorts: "You wish, Malfoy."
Then, his lips bump into the lone freckle on her bottom lip, accidently, of course.