(( I had originally began writing this story with no direction in mind, and after posting the starter on another site and asking people to apply for characters, it turned into a pretty intricate storyline. This is directly copied and pasted from the other site. Please understand, however, that I did NOT edit any of these chapters, and wrote this story entirely for pleasure. I don't really care if there's an error in spelling or grammar. All that matters is the story is linear enough for it to make sense, and you enjoy what you read. If you have any serious concerns with the story, PM me. Otherwise, READ AND REVIEW POR FAVOR, MY LOVELIES. ))

Disclaimer: I do not own the following characters: Garrett Hawke, Michele Blanchard, KC McFearson. It has come to my attention that Garrett Hawke may or may not be a character from another fandom. I did not know this when I wrote the story – it was simply a part someone auditioned for. If this confuses people/hinders the story, I may change his name in later chapters. I was given descriptions of personality/looks/name/age/etc for each of these three characters, but all the writing that involves them is my own.

Chapter Three:
"Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake." - Henry David Thoreau

The rest of the night had been a quiet, slow moving doldrum, but Albus could not shake his cousin's words. Why had she been so convinced of her expulsion? Furthermore, why had she abandoned the worry as soon as she saw that guy, Hawke?

He tried sharing his concerns with Scorpius, but the blond boy refused to listen.

"Just hear me out, okay Scorp? She was acting like a nutter at dinner."

Scorpius held up his hand, using the other one to turn a page in the newspaper he'd been reading since they got back to the Common Room. "Rose loses her marbles every now and then. Let it go."

Albus was shocked at his friend's callous dismissal, but he did not press the subject.

What the young Potter did not know was that Scorpius was in full agreeance with his worried pleas, but he needed to throw Albus off Hawke's scent if anything was going to be done about it. Scorpius planned on paying the older Slytherin a visit later that night, once he was sure everyone else had gone to sleep. Seventh years had their own section in the Boy's Dormitory, but Scorp was no stranger to breaking rules. He'd gladly beat this Hawke out of a good night's sleep with the dull end of a tennis racket (one he'd swipe from Al's stuff as soon as he went to bed) to demand just what he thought he was doing with Rose.

The two boys sat in silence for quite some time, until Albus finally stood, yawning. "I think I'm heading to bed," he said drowsily, almost overemphasizing his tired eyes.

"You do that," Scorpius smirked, not looking up from his newspaper.

"Goodnight." Albus shrugged as he walked past his friend, knocking his feet off the coffee table and stifling a chuckle.

"Goodnight, Potter," Scorpius called after him, pretending to be annoyed.

He sat as he was for the next hour, with his legs lazily propped up against the wooden table and his face hidden behind the Daily Prophet. It was a popular read amongst the older students, though there was little in the way of frivolity in its pages. His father, Draco Malfoy, told him that once upon a time the Daily Prophet was considered the biggest joke in news reporting history, and made its money off of filling its pages with monstrous lies.

Though that was not a shared sentiment amongst his father's schoolboy friends. It seemed Draco Malfoy was the only former Death Eater who was happy remaining just that – former.

As the Common Room died down, Scorpius peered over his newspaper to make sure he spotted Hawke entering. Though, the young man never showed up. It approached 2am, and with an irritated sigh, Scorp abandoned his post and crumpled up the Daily Prophet before tossing it into the fire.

The flames licked the crinkled paper, and as it burned down only a center headline was visible, 'ICARUS FITZWARBLER, FAMOUS PRACTICAL MAGIC BOOK AUTHOR, GONE MISSING'.

Despite the three sleeping potions, ambient music, and forced camp out under her covers, Rose Weasley could not fall asleep.

She had been stuck on the same image all night, rewinding and then fast forwarding through her brief encounter with the older Slytherin boy whose name she had yet to learn. His wrists were burned, of this she was certain, but she could not make sense of how he would come to obtain her letter.

There was no other plausible explanation as to why he kept his hands in his pockets the whole time, and why his arms were burned in such a peculiar place. Rose repeated this logic to herself until it became bedfellows with the truth. The curiosity in her hungered to see him; she wanted a proper explanation, and she wanted her letter back.

Around 3am, the young Weasley gave up on trying to sedate herself into forgetting, and threw off the covers, grabbing her cloak and hopping towards the door as she ungracefully tried to put on her slippers.

As she exited the Girl's Dormitory, a set of observing eyes watched her silhouette leave. Vivane Montague rolled over in her bed, tucking a hand under her cheek as she breathed slowly, trying to figure out why Rose Weasley was sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night.

In the past six years, Rose had made an art out of sneaking into the Slytherin Dungeons unnoticed, and tonight was no exception. She had almost forgotten her wand, turning around just as she reached the bottom of the stairs to retrieve it. As she rifled through her trunk, it sounded as though someone was moving around behind her, but when she glanced over her shoulder there was nothing but still darkness.

She quickly exited the dormitory again, and this time she was determined not to stop until she found the young man who had perhaps stolen the most important thing she'd ever come across in her entire life from her.

Subtlety was a hard endeavor when one had wild red curly hair, but Rose was surprisingly good at the art of skulking. She managed to go unnoticed all the way to the Entrance Hall, but just as she rounded the corner, eying the Dungeons entrance, a voice stopped her.

"Looking for me?"

She jumped, grabbing the banister next to her. "Oh, Merlin." Rose gave a sigh of relief, still holding the wood frame for support. "Yes, actually, I was. How did you know?"

The person whom the voice belonged to, the young man from dinner, gave a noncommittal shrug, his hands in his pockets like they were earlier that evening. "That's the wrong question."

"What?" Rose said, finding that the late hour made him less endearing and more irritating with each passing second.

"I'm going for a walk," he said plainly, and then turned his back to her, heading out the doors.

For a few moments she did not even believe the scene had transpired, until the cool wind from the left open door reminded her that it was real. Her fixation with the young man was eclipsed by the growing anxiety regarding her letter. He clearly was the one who had it; though she had to wonder, was he asking her to follow him? Did he want her to pursue him?

Rose took on a cautious expression, letting go of the banister slowly and moving towards the open door. "Hey!" She half whispered, half yelled, poking her head outside. He was no more than twenty feet ahead, hands still in his pockets, gazing up at the moon.

The newborn irritation quickly became a full blown dislike as she observed his calm features; Rose took off her cloak, wedging it between the door and the frame to make sure they would not be locked out, and she followed the shadow of his stride until she stood next to him, noticing then how much shorter she was.

"You stole my letter," she said after some silence.

The young man did not even blink. He kept his gaze on the moon.

Rose cleared her throat, stepping in front of him and leaning up, attempting to reach his eye level, "you stole my letter," she repeated, this time with a tiny growl.

Without warning the young man grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her up, bringing them to the same height.

"I did not steal anything of yours." He said firmly.

Rose squirmed against his grip, but it was surprisingly steady. Suspended in the air, she wiggled a few more times before letting her body slump in his tight hold, looking annoyed.

"Oh yeah? Then why did it burn you when you touched it? If it belonged to you, it wouldn't do that," she stared pointedly at his hands, which were now clearly visible in the moonlight. They looked as though he'd dipped them into a vat of acid.

He seemed shaken by this question, and a fleeting expression of anger marred his otherwise stoic face. Instead of setting her down, he pulled her in closer, so that her nose was now pressed up against his. To an outsider, it might have looked almost comical.

"This information is not yours to have."

She did not even hear his words at first; every nerve in her body had become electrified, uncomfortably aware of their close proximity. Her breath became slightly ragged as she tried to challenge is direct gaze with an unwavering one of her own.

"You're hurting my arms," she finally managed to say, still neglecting to process what he had said.

The young man shook his head, and his dead expression suddenly became one of panic. It was as though he'd just remembered himself. Placing Rose down slowly, he took a step back and re-pocketed his hands.

"Sorry."

"You're not a man of many words, are you?" Rose gave a tiny laugh.

He did not even blink. Instead, he stuck his scarred hand out, speaking in the most polite voice she had heard out of him so far. "My name is Hawke."

"That's a strange first name," Rose giggled, meeting his rather large hand with her own delicate one, feeling the abrasions on his skin as she shook it. "You should let me take care of that. I'm awfully good at healing spells."

"No," Hawke pulled his hand away quickly. "It's fine."

"If you give me back my letter I'll heal your hands." She took a step towards him.

Hawke suddenly laughed; it started as a tiny snort, and then it grew in swells of honest, loud, almost mocking laughs.

"What?" Rose said hotly, crossing her arms.

"I don't need your help to heal my hands." He smirked, taking a step towards her so that they now met at the base of a tree root, with the moon serving as an eerie backdrop to their strange conversation. "See?" Hawke said, as he held them up. If Rose had not been so taken by the beauty of his face, she may not have noticed how his eyes flooded a misty gray haze, almost as though there was magic seeping into them…

"See?" He repeated himself, wondering why she had not reacted with a shocked gasp, as most people did.

Rose tore her gaze from his changing eyes and noticed that his hands were as smooth as the skin on her face, still large and awkward but without a single callous. Grabbing his hand, she pulled it up to her face for closer inspection.

After a beat of silence, Rose exclaimed, "teach me how to do that!"

Hawke laughed again, pulling his hand away gently and using his free one to grip her shoulder. "It's not something that can be taught, I'm afraid." He sighed, looking directly at her for a full minute without saying anything. Rose felt as though he was looking for someone when he looked at her, someone that she could easily tell him was not there. Finally, Hawke let out a breath and placed his free hand on her other shoulder.

"It was nice to meet you, Rose," he smiled, and then squeezed her shoulder, maintaining direct eye contact. The last thing she remembered was the strange gray haze seeping into his eyes again, and then…

Rose shot up, gasping as she clutched the nearest thing to her, which happened to be the rather rumpled bedsheets of her four poster. She had been somewhere else, hadn't she?

No…

With each passing second it slipped away, like a long lost dream, and Rose found herself laying back down sleepily, passing out mid-yawn.

Just out her window Hawke stood, keeping his body stiff as he balanced on the North Tower's shingled roof. He took one last daring look through the stained glass, making sure Rose was asleep, and then he shifted his gaze out to the ever-changing night sky. Within moments a buzzing sound filled the quiet air, and Hawke leaped off the Tower, landing on his broom as it zoomed past, taking him back to the castle entrance.

From the view of the East Grounds, staring up at the North Tower with a very peculiar expression, stood one Scorpius Malfoy, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen.