Chapter Three
Irrational Love
"To Sherlock Holmes, she was always The Woman, the beautiful Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory."
~The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
SECOND YEAR PASSED JUST like the first. Nothing of notable interest happened, well, aside from that time I set Rose's hair on fire . . . an accident I swear! Her head just happened to pass where I was aiming my wand . . . besides, Madame Pomfrey was able to fix her up in a trice, so it was no big deal . . . really . . .
Well, anyway, when it was time to go back to Hogwarts for third year, I knew something about this year was going to be different. Perhaps it was because I was now thirteen and felt that I could take on the world, or maybe I was having a bit of foresight as to what was going to happen. Either way, third year was going to be different, I knew it.
It most certainly was.
For whatever reason, the fights between herand I had become more intense. They were no longer the pointless bickering of two people who did not get along, but they were actually over something. They were no longer jabs but disagreements. Disagreements turned into arguments, and more than not we ended up in detention together over it. And then, of course, we would get into an argument during detention. I do believe we were in detention more than anyone else, and that includes Fred and George Weasley and James Potter. Put together.
My hatred for her increased tenfold over the course of the first semester. It seemed that whenever we argued she always won. It was perhaps because she was infinitely smarter than me and I knew it. It stung my pride. I thought perhaps that once Quidditch tryouts were held and we got the same position on opposing teams, it might nurse my injured ego back to its over-inflated state, as I knew I was a better Chaser than her. I was wrong, of course. I should have known better. There was no way anyone could beat a Weasley or a Potter at Quidditch. It was just simply impossible.
Well, it was after Fall Break that everything began to change. That life, as I knew it, ended.
It was about a week after I got back. I was sitting with Goyle and Blaise, the closest people I could count as "friends" though I didn't feel that way. I did not have any friends. It would be nigh impossible to feel any kind of emotion for these idiots in Slytherin, aside from disgust. But I pretended to like them. It assuaged the loneliness that I constantly felt.
Anyway, it was lunch. And Goyle and Blaise were talking about something they found very funny, though because I was half-paying attention (I was studying), I did not get the joke.
I had had a very bad day already. I had gotten back a test paper we had done in transfiguration and the score was not very good. It put me in quite a temper, and I was studying to try and take my mind off things. And it did not help that only an hour before I had gotten into yet another argument with herover . . . well, honestly I can't quite remember what it was over. But it had definitely just made things worse.
By then I had really started to loathe when we fought. Honestly, I had started to hate fighting with her. It not only made me fell extraordinarily insignificant, it made me feel . . . It gave me this awful, heavy feeling in my chest. It weighed me down. It made me feel like nothing good was ever, ever going to happen to me and I would just continue to fight with her all the time.
"Hey, hey Malfoy!" chuckled Goyle in his stupid –sounding voice. "Let's play a prank on that Weasley girl!"
Sighing, I turned to him, suddenly annoyed. "Goyle, can't you see that I'm studying? I don't care."
He punched me in the arm, making me drop my spoon. "C'mon, Scorp, why do you study so much? It's not like it matters in the real world."
"Yes, actually, it does," I said tersely, rolling my eyes. "When you get a job, it's important to actually know what you're doing in said job."
Goyle guffawed. "C'mon Malfoy, you know you'd love to play a prank on that stupid little Weasley girl. You hate her."
"No, actually I don't want to play a prank on her." I said, turning back to my transfiguration book.
"Well, why not?"
"Because, Goyle," I said impatiently, "we get in enough fights as is. I don't want nor need to start another one. Grow up."
Goyle frowned and gave up on me, turning back to Blaise.
I huffed and turned back to my book. I admit, I barely took in anything in the chapter. I was so distracted. Everything I found in the hall diverted me in my task of trying to get through the chapter. Something about the construction and similarities between mammals and amphibians or reptiles or some such thing, point was—I couldn't focus. There was one thing in particular that kept distracting me –a light flashing by the Gryffindor table. But every time I looked over, it was gone. I did this so many times that I knew my neck would be thoroughly worn out. Eventually it annoyed me so much that I just stared over there.
It was Weasley's hair. I could hardly believe that that was what had distracted me. Every movement of her head made the red strands of hair shine in the sunlight.
I tried to look away, but the more it shone, the more I kept looking. I found myself transfixed by the way the light hit her hair, the way the light strands would catch the light as she tossed it over her shoulder. I realized I had not really looked at it in quite a while. It was longer—it was only about four inches above her elbows—and it was no longer bushy. It fell in smooth waves down her back. And then I started looking at the other parts of her body.
She was no longer then lanky eleven year old she had been. She had begun to form curves, and her robes clung to her curves in a way that made my heart race.
She looked around. Our eyes met. For one fleeting second there was a look in her eyes that made fireworks explode in my chest. That second seemed to last an eternity. And then . . . nothing. She gave me a look of hatred and disgust that I didn't even think of returning. All I knew was that the room had suddenly become suffocating and I couldn't breathe. I had to get out . . . away from her, away from everyone. I gathered my books and got the hell out of there, her eyes following me the entire time.
I didn't stop till I reached the lake. I dropped my bag by the big beech tree and splashed into the cooling water, quickly soaking my socks, shoes and the bottom of my trousers. But the ice-cold water brought me back to my senses, and it was like being awaked abruptly. I took deep, soothing breaths until my heart had stopped racing and rational thought began to creep its way back into my head. I stepped out of the water, took off my shoes and socks, and began to dry my trousers. I all but collapsed next to the tree where I had left my stuff, and I held my head in my hands.
What had just happened in there? I must be sick or something. I checked my forehead. I did feel a bit hot. There obviously must have been something wrong with me because I was clearly delusional. For the thoughts and fantasies my mind had formed in that short space of time was obviously the product of a feverish mind, there was really no other explanation. I had thoroughly convinced myself by then that I really must be sick, because there was no way in hell, no way in hell, that those thoughts that my mind had unwillingly forced upon me could possibly be the product of a rational mind.
But then again, I did not know then what I do now—love is never rational.
Hermione Weasley had been through war, love, grief, pain, and happiness. She had been through marriage and childbirth. She had raised and taken care of her two children, (and her husband, too. Merlin knows he couldn't take care of himself). She could say she had been as reasonably well prepared as she could have been in any of those circumstances, but nothing could have prepared her for one hot summer afternoon before dinner when her nearly fourteen year old daughter approached her with a simple question—
"Mum, how do you know when a guy likes you?"
Yes, nothing could have prepared her for that feeling of dread that coursed through her veins at that question.
Ron's not going to be happy,she thought with a shiver of trepidation. Hermione sighed and turned to her daughter.
She was always amazed at how much Rose looked like herself, aside from the red hair, blue eyes and excessive amount of freckles. But the bushy hair, the buck teeth, the inquisitive eyes, were all Hermione. Aside from that smudge of dirt on her nose. That was most defiantly Ron.
"Hun, you've got dirt on your nose," said Hermione, taking a dish towel and approaching the offending spot, but Rose waved her off.
"Mum! Just tell me!"
"Oh, alright then," sighed Hermione. She sat down at the table; Rose put down the potato peeler and joined her. "How do I start? Your father and I were friends all through school, and it just sort of happened, of course, we quite liked each other for a long while, and the whole school knew we liked each other. The only people who didn't know that we liked each other were us."
Hermione smiled, and her daughter giggled.
"So I don't suppose that's the best example. Hmm, let's see . . . well, in fourth year I dated Viktor Krum—"
"You dated Viktor Krum?" exclaimed Rose.
"Hush, not so loud, he's still a bit of a sore spot with your father. The Triwizard Tournament was going on that year, and he was the Durmstrang champion, and of course a famous inter-national Quidditch player. And everytime I was in the library he'd come round, and sit at the desk opposite. He said that he was trying to pluck up the courage to ask me to the Yule Ball. But of course with Viktor Krum came the Giggling Girl Viktor Krum Fan Club, hiding behind the bookcases and debating whether he'd sign their hat with lipstick."
Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head at the memory.
"But who is it you think likes you?"
Her eyes darted back and forth in a panic. She had clearly not thought this through.
"Er . . . Lorcan Scamander?" Merlin, she was just as bad as her father at lying. Hermione thought about calling her out, but she knew that if her daughter didn't want to tell her, she probably didn't want to know.
"Okay sure," said Hermione, and the look on Roses' face told Hermione that she knew she'd been caught. "But a word of advice—don't let your father know boys are paying attention to you. He'll be unbearable."
Rose grinned.
"Go set the table, and tell dad and Hugo dinner's ready."
Rose jumped up from the table and skipped into the living room, and Hermione felt a tug at her heart. Her little girl was growing up.
I waited for more than a month into second semester for my mum's advice to come to fruition. I was immensely curious, but the more I watched Malfoy, the more I thought I knew. Whenever I saw him in the corridors, he would look the other direction. We hardly ever fought anymore, mainly because he avoided me at all costs. There were times when I caught him looking at me in a strange way, and then he would flush, give me a dirty look, and then look away or return to whatever he was doing. I seriously suspected that Scorpius Malfoy had a crush on me.
I wasn't sure how I felt about this. On one hand, he was the person who had caused me more grief than even my brother, which was saying something. And I was supposed to hate him with all my guts, because that was how I had felt for the past two years. But on the other hand, there was something in the way he looked at me that made my heart race and my head light.
Regardless of how either of us felt, it was forbidden anyway. Just imagining the look on my father's face made me cringe. I was pretty sure my mother would be okay with it after the initial shock, but my dad would probably disown me. Not to mention my many cousins and uncles. James would probably want to beat Scorpius to death, and Al . . . I wasn't quite sure how Albus would react. But it probably wouldn't be good.
Wait, why was I thinking this? I hated Scorpius! Why was I thinking about him as though . . . as though . . . as if we were a couple? What was wrong with me?
I threw down my quill and stared at the blank piece of parchment in front of me. I was supposed to be doing a foot and a half of parchment for Slughorn on shrinking solutions, and instead I was daydreaming about what would happen if Malfoy and I were a couple. I pursed my lips in agitation and put my nose to the grindstone.
I had had about three-quarters of the parchment filled when Albus came in and collapsed next to me.
"I hate that class," he muttered.
"I told you not to take it, but you didn't listen to me. You just hadto take divination."
Albus groaned and dropped his head on the desk dramatically.
"What happened this time?" I said sympathetically.
"She pulled out 'death' in the tarot cards. I wish she'd quit saying I'm going to die every five minutes."
"You know she's just an old fraud."
"I dunno, dad told me not to underestimate her. That every once in a while she's pretty accurate."
"Every great once in a while."
He looked up from the table.
"What are you working on?"
"Slughorn's essay."
Albus jumped up and took out quill and parchment from his bag. "What have you got so far?"
I frowned at him.
"I don't know why you think you can copy off me every time. I'm not going to be there during an exam, you know."
"Aw, come on, Rose . . ."
I huffed.
"I'm almost done. You can have it after I'm finished."
I scribbled off the rest of the essay with Albus flipping through his potions book absently. Extremely annoyed, I pushed the essay towards him.
"Thanks," he said, dipping his quill into ink and putting it to paper. "How are you and Lorcan?"
"What?" I had temporarily forgotten that I was dating Lorcan Scamander. "Oh, that. Fine. Just fine."
Albus looked up from the parchment.
"You know, if you don't like dating him, then why don't you break it off?"
That was the problem with Albus. He could read me like a book.
"It's none of your business."
Albus raised his eyebrows, "Fine then."
I sighed. "I didn't mean . . . I just don't want to talk about it."
"Okay."
He was right, really. Why did I date Lorcan if most of the time I couldn't stand him? He was fine at first, as he was different, and had been very nice, but he was just so . . . weird, some of his ideas were just so ridiculous . . . and as much as I wanted to break up with him, I didn't quite know how to go about it. And with my growing suspicions about Malfoy . . . my desire to break it off had been doubled.
"Maybe you're right," I said quietly after a while. Al's head snapped up. "Maybe I should break up with him."
"Yes, maybe you should."
"But how would I do it?" I was talking more to myself than Albus, but he responded anyway.
"Just tell him you don't think it's working out."
I looked up at him. I really hadn't paid any attention to what he was saying, but an idea was forming in my head anyway.
"Or that you're just, I don't know, not into him or something. Or maybe . . ."
The idea in my head was becoming more concrete, as I figured out ways I could pull it off . . . of course, yes, I could do it, that would be easy . . .
"Rose, are you listening to me?"
"Al, you're a genius!" I said excitedly, and threw my arms around him. He looked very puzzled and a bit grouchy as I hurried out of the room to break up with my boyfriend.
