I think last chapter went really well and had some ideas for the future, but I'm a bit stuck. I don't want this story to be utter fluff, which it is threatening to become. I want there to be something slightly darker, it doesn't have to be a dark story, just something a little less… sugary. And I also want to find a way to make Shawn less two-dimensional. So if you have any ideas, go ahead and post them in a review.

Major thanks to Hopey-dopey, my brainstormer, semi-beta, and bff .

Disclaimer: Nope! I don't!

I know of families that pray for forgiveness, that have fallen so heavily into their own misery that others must pull them out by the thin strings they hang on by. I never know why they pray to a man who, if existent, has already condemned them. To them I give not sympathy, but pity. I pity their scars, their wounds; I pity their faces, so tangled with pain and guilt that they hide behind drawn curtains.

But the Malfoys, tainted as their family name was, always opened their windows and filled the house with so much light and wind. I wonder now if that house still smells like the sea.

I close my hand and it aches.

The sling is finally gone, as well as the bandages. Slowly, I stretch and flex my hand, just like Madame Feverfew told me I should, cringing a bit at the stiffness in my knuckles. Shawn grasps them in his tender hands and warms them, pressing his lips to my wrist softly. I let him.

James said I needed a few more days before getting on a broom. So I settle for sitting with Shawn in the common room and finishing my History of Magic homework. It's nighttime and I'm jittery, waiting for something new to happen. And as if on some eerie schedule, everything is too regular tonight. The clock ticks in perfect intervals and the fire refuses to spark. The chair never gets uncomfortable. My hand doesn't pause to let me think, because it's practically writing my essay for me.

Stupid as it sounds, I kind of miss being in the hospital wing. At least something there was different.

Finally, when I've had enough silence, I drop my pen and close my eyes.

I should be thinking of my boyfriend, of how lucky I am, of how he's perfect. But I'm not. Because in the long run, he's just not that high on the list of people that impress me. Most on that list are people in my family, but there are a few that have no relation to me. Hagrid. Oliver Wood. Professor McGonagall. Scorpius Malfoy used to be on that list but lost his place when he failed to face his cowardice. But Shawn could never be on that list. He never surprises me or makes me think, which is occasionally pleasant since there's nothing complicated, and he's never been anything more than happy or apologetic or embarrassed. And that's it. If it was a beauty contest I'm sure he would win, but that side of Shawn is hardly exciting anymore.

For a second my mind argues that Scorpius is much more to my taste than he is, but his voice interrupts me before I can finish that thought.

"I think we should talk."

"What about," I question.

His hands wring themselves together nervously as he stumbles over his words and he's almost incomprehensible. Looking him in the eyes, I see guilt in his face. Resting my hand on his shoulder, I encourage his to speak, my voice mimicking that with which one might use to coax a scared animal out of hiding.

"About… why does he have to… me? Why me?"

"Why you what? Who's he?"

"James," Shawn groans. "He asked me to talk to you about the Quidditch game."

Instinctively, I cringe at the memory. The blinding pain of the fall flashes in my mind.

"What of it?"

"Well," he begins, edging away from me, "he thought that if I told you that you were off the team for the next month, instead of him telling you, that you might take it easier. Well, you have to heal, right?" He exclaims, watching me as my face grows hot. "That's the only reason. Your hand. That's all."

A fleeting kiss touches my forehead. His lips are cool and supple, smooth. My face relaxes, almost like he's drained the anger out of me. And for a minute, I feel radically, immeasurably safe.

"Thank you, by the way, for taking me to the hospital wing."

"Pardon?"

"When I fell. Thanks for bringing me to the infirmary."

"Don't thank me. I didn't get down until you already crashed." Shrugging, he leans back and continues his homework. "It was that blonde kid on the team. Thank him."

Confused, I turn to him. "We don't have any blondes on our team."

He shakes his head. "No, the one that was holding the place for Ravenclaw. Their new seeker. Don't know his name… something with an… N? Ah… never mind. I'll tell you one thing, though, Rosie. If anyone could be a match for you, it's him. Bloody fast. Crazy.

"The moment he saw you fall, well, the whole team was just, well… staring. Alright? Like in shock, but he just… I mean he's so damn fast! Just dived! He almost caught you! If you hadn't turned he might have. I don't know whether to hate him or worship him."

And then, again, I feel that flash of scalding pain and then the cool damp feeling of evening-chilled hands on my face. And I remember that Scorpius' hands were always cold. "Bad circulation" he used to say.

"Malfoy," I scowl.

"Yes! That's it. Makes sense. His dad was a seeker too, not bad, I hear, must be why h–"

"Merlin! I don't want to hear anything about how bleedin' fast he is, alright?"

Shawn sighs and draws away from me, his arm slipping from my shoulder and folds with its twin against his chest. I rest my head on his knee, whispering a quiet "I'm sorry." His hand rests on my head and pets my curls softly, sighing heavily.

"I'm sure that you'll catch up to him once you get your flying legs back."

I shake my head. He doesn't understand. How could he? He doesn't even know. Al knows, James knows half. But I know everything and it crushes me, bit by bit. And with nowhere to go, it seeps into my life and crushes those around me.

"I'm taking a walk," I announce, standing up slowly. He stretches, ready to push himself up, but I place a hand on his shoulder. "Alone…?"

Shawn pauses for a second but eventually nods, almost looking resentful. Smiling sadly, I leans towards him in an apologetic kiss. With stabbing eyes, he looks at me solemnly and turns his face.

It feels like a rock has dropped in my stomach.

The words I want to say get caught in my throat, so I just stare at him for a while before walking slowly to the exit. I check back over my shoulder to see if he's watching me leave. He isn't.

At least things aren't simple anymore. But they don't excite me. It hurts seeing Malfoy again, just as it hurts to put my boyfriend under so much stress.

But hearing Shawn, of all people, reminding me of everything I loved and hated about Scorpius— Malfoy—, everything I missed about him, was too much to bear.

Sometimes I'll watch him, always glaring, so if he looks up he'll know how I feel. But other times, usually late, usually in the library, I'll watch him as he stands amongst the shelves and shelves of books, sifting casually through the fiction section, and remember how we loved to read together; how his father's office was lined with books held upright by clocks he never finished. Scorpius still holds books in the same way: turning the page from the middle. And when his fellow Ravenclaws whisper about his family, I feel both vindicated and furious at the same time.

But then I see the silver of his house pin, and those terrifying, cold eyes fill my head like the silence that filled the house after his grandfather's departure. And the bitterness returns.

I cough, rubbing my eyes, trying to get his image out of my head.

"What do you have to cry about, Weasley?" A thin voice asks, wavering.

I look around and realize for the first time, in spite of the chill, that I'm walking along the lakeside and Gilda Ipswitch is sitting on the ground, her smooth caramel skin painted blue in the low moon's light.

"I'm not crying," I say.

"You were rubbing your eyes."

"But I'm not crying." I take a seat next to her so she can have a closer look at my eyes.

She studies my face for a long time.

"No," she says finally, "but you want to."

"And you are," I point to her puffy, red eyes before she can turn away from me. "What's wrong?"

She rubs her hand along the water's edge and picks up a flat rock, palms it, then rotates it in between her fingers.

"Girls. Roommates, specifically. I walked in on them saying some things that were less than kind. I was under the impression that my house was a home for the clever, but I suppose that drowning themselves in gossip is easier than learning anything about someone. People just– …just ramble on to people they've never talked to. Oh my god, I'm losing it! Mental! I'm so sorry, you must think I'm barking."

I shrug and laugh.

"I'm no stranger to stupid insults," I offer.

"It's not just the names, it's the gossip! Everyone knows who I am, but no one knows me."

Gilda's wrist flicks sharply, flinging the rock, spinning, into the blind depths of the lake. It skips, two, three, four times before sinking below the surface.

I'm quiet, because I've listened to (and believed) all the things said about this girl.

"I promise I won't judge you," I say cautiously. "Even though I've heard the rumors."

Gilda stares at me again, seemingly surprised by what I said, but smiles. "Thank you."

After spotting a nice looking rock, I reach for it and throw it in. It hits the surface with a soft plop and sinks.

"You have to toss it like a disc. Close to the surface, yeah?"

I try again; it skips once and then falls under the surface. But it's enough for me.

"So… what is true?" I ask, unable to quiet my curiosity. Thankfully, she chuckles. But it still feels heavy and I curse inwardly at my lack of tact.

"I slept with Arnold Church once while we were dating. And then Kiran Goldman. We weren't exactly together… but I liked him, but we got walked in on by a third year… and it just… well, spread. Kiran got scared by all the rumors, I think. We haven't spoken for a bit."

"How long is a bit?"

"Er… a few months?" Gilda shrugs. "All the talk scared him off. Once you get one rumor, other things leak and get blown out of proportion, all the gossip and such. Boredom. People get bored and it's easy to make things up."

Simultaneously, we breathe in the sharp, cold air. It's comforting, just as the lake always is and always has been. It's calm tonight, the surface glassy. The squid must be asleep, just like I should be. But talking to someone who doesn't seem to care about my last name feels energetic and fresh, and maybe, maybe, I can ignore the rules for once.

"You aren't like what I've heard, Weasley," Gilda states as another rock is trapped under her fingers.

"And what's am I like, according to them?"

"Uptight and snobby, mainly. Nothing too harsh. A little boring and studious, relying on your boyfriend's popularity."

"Not entirely inaccurate."

"Nothing is entirely inaccurate. But there's more lie to it than there is truth. You aren't a snob, at least, well, not to me. And you like learning. That's good."

"That's boring," I correct her.

"Who cares? Shawn certainly doesn't seem to think so."

I groan into my arms. My boyfriend, my annoyingly perfect, gorgeous boyfriend, is not one of the things I want to talk about. If he wasn't so forgiving, I could, perhaps, make a mistake without feeling guilty. But even though I hurt him, I know when I talk to him next he'll be the one apologizing.

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not exactly," I mutter. "I don't think we fight."

"Don't fight?"

"No. Not really. I'm insensitive. I know I can be a frustrating person to be with. And he has a very different need of space than me. I need more of it than he does. But we never really argue, we're too different to argue successfully."

"That sounds nice."

"Maybe."

I stand, my footing unsure on the wet bank. I stare down at Gilda and realize that she has a very sweet face. Was it the rumors that made her eyes look so feline and her mouth so coy? Her eyes are wide and brown and her smile is kind, if not a little sad.

For some reason, when I looked at her, I saw myself.

"Would you like to partner for Magical Creatures?" she asks me, looking at her feet. "Sorry to bother. I don't have many… there aren't many that offer."

I nod. But I don't admit that I'm in the same boat.

"I have a question."

She waits, listening, and I continue.

"Why not just talk to Kiran?"

"For the same reason you don't talk to Scorpius."

"Pardon?" I cough, alarmed.

She shrugs but nods, looking at the lake.

"I see how you look at him. Angry, hurt… maybe a little caring. He did something you can't forgive. He notices too. He doesn't even look at you, maybe because of what happened. He notices."

"Do you know what he did?"

"No. But he definitely knows," she chuckles darkly. "You and I, Rose, we're the same, you know. More or less. Minus the enormous family. But we have too much pride and we expect too much from others. …I think we're right to do so. Some things are just inexcusable."

"I think we should get over ourselves," I laugh, tucking my hair behind an ear.

"You think you might forgive him someday?" She asks, surprised.

I laugh again, walking up the first step towards the Hogwarts entrance.

"Never."