Ello, everyone. I wrote this all in one go, so if you spot mistakes, pray-tell!
It's also slightly longer than the former chapters, so hooray for me. And you, in case you actually like what I write.
Disclaimer:
TEN
The week that follows passes quite uneventfully. I wake up, go to class, do well in class, get to know a few class mates, work on whatever the professors tell us to do. Most of the time I eat my lunch with Eloise and Albus, and lately our little crew has expanded little by little – Albus' teammates, the new friends Eloise and I made. Everything rolls on like it's supposed to, which makes me feel content, and given as I'm also very busy with school work, I don't have the time to convince myself otherwise.
Strangely enough, Malfoy isn't giving me any reason to feel bad either – other than the obvious, that is.
Just like everything else, we simply breeze by. We acknowledge each other in class and work on our project almost every night. The means we either meet up in his or my dorm, discuss the case, write down possible solutions, go to the forest or the potions lab, try and try again. The project is exhausting, brain-wise, but as for the contact between Malfoy and me, things run smoothly.
But of course – that blows up in our faces.
Thursday evening, one o'clock. We're sitting in the potions lab, as always, him currently leaning against the wall, yawning every now and then, and me hanging over the cauldron, supporting my body by planting my elbows on the wooden table. You know that feeling when you haven't been sleeping much for the last few days, and all of your energy slowly but surely drains, drop by drop, from every vein in your system?
Well, yeah.
Malfoy and I are both half-zombies for the moment.
So, right when I'm about to throw in the belladonna, the following happens:
"No, wait, Rose," Malfoys intercedes, "you've got to stir it first."
"What are you talking about, stir it first?" I ask.
He cocks an eyebrow. "Stir it? You know, to pass an implement through a substance with circular movement?"
"Give the boy an applause," I reply, rapidly becoming annoyed.
"Rose, it's late, I'm bloody tired, just cool it with the sarcasm and fucking stir it before you throw in the belladonna, alright?" He snaps, mirroring my emotions.
Just like old times.
And here I am – getting nostalgic over something as classic as a Rose/Scorpius argument.
"I know how to read the clock," I hiss back, dropping my movements altogether, "and I know how to stir, okay? It's just that, since you obviously lack the intelligence that comes with knowing in which order you brew this particular potion, you're supposed to throw in the belladonna before you stir."
Unbelievable how fast this turns. All the sense of normalcy, all the sense of artificial friendship – hitting us right back in the face. It's late. He's tired. I'm tired. We're both tired. Our patience is on a short leash and we're clearly paying the price on short notice.
Malfoy is gaping at me in contemptuous disbelief, enervation written all across his pretty boy features.
"You cannot be fucking serious, Rose. See this?" He holds up his hand above his head. "If this was your level of wits before, then," he drops it so it almost touches the ground, "this is the place you're at now." He shakes his head for good measure. "Astounding, really. Your current idiosyncrasy..."
My eyes hit the ceiling in response. "Then look it up in the fucking book, tosser."
"Oh yeah, Sherlock, 'cause we'd really be having this dispute if we'd had a book," he remarks snidely.
"How is it that we're brewing a potion without proper instructions?" I rub my temples, very, very fed up.
"It might surprise you, Weasley," he bites out, "but not everyone lives by books."
"It might surprise you, Malfoy," I scowl, "but in the academic world, you're obliged to live by books."
"Oh, this is rich. Very open-minded, Rose."
"Pray-tell, you omniscient one, how was that narrow-minded?"
Everything about his demeanour screams disdain at this point. "Rose, if Vesalius lived by the book, we still wouldn't know what the human anatomy looks like! If Columbus hadn't travelled the world, outside the damn book, perhaps we'd still think the earth is flat – "
I cut him off aggressively. "It was Erastothenes who came up with the idea first – "
"That's not the fucking point!" He breaks me off just as brutally.
With flaring nostrils, I spit, "Well, what was the point then?"
"You were telling me how in the academic world you're – "
"Oh, sod off, Malfoy," I sigh loudly, "I know what I said, thank you very much."
He opens his mouth, pauses momentarily and then closes it again. He walks toward the other end of the room, where he deposited his grey cashmere sweater earlier. He picks it up, catches me watching him, and opens the door of the lab.
"This," he says, "is fucking useless."
And then he walks out, slamming the door shut.
"We're back to square one."
"No, we're not."
"How isn't this square one, Eloise?"
"You're fighting! Fighting gives off sparks!"
"Oh yeah – sparks. The only sparks that come off while we're fighting will be the ones that leave my wand when I hex him into oblivion."
"We're talking about passion here, Rose!"
"Okay, maybe this is a cultural difference, but in England the word passion does not equal hate."
Lunch table. Eloise and I are whispering feverishly, while Albus and his buddies are discussing 'that hot girl from last night', and three of our class mates are whining about the project. None of them are actually paying attention to our little conversation, but hey. Imagine a little cockroach eavesdropping, running off to Malfoy, and informing him about the Evil that is called Eloise and Rose, ruining all of our fantastically calculated plans!
(That was a joke, by the way. We've been about as calculating and cunning as, well, the bunnies my little niece Molly used to breed.)
"There's a thin line between love and hate," Eloise singsongs.
"We're not going there," I singsong.
"Oh yes we are," she singsongs.
"We're trying to hurt Malfoy, not falling back in love with him," I singsong.
"Well, it's him who needs to feel the passion, honey," she singsongs.
"Why in Merlin's name are you girls talking like that?" Albus sings -
No, wait. He doesn't. His mouth is stuffed with food and if it wasn't for the grammatical structure of his sentence, the question mark wouldn't have been clear.
"Nothing that concerns you, dearest BFF," I reply brightly.
Albus gives me the Fake Unhappy Face, with drooping puppy dog eyes, exactly the way he has mastered it over the years. "Why so secretive?"
"Why so nosy?" I counter.
"If we're BFF's," Albus quips up, "then we should tell each other everything."
I smile at him mockingly. "I can't, love. Unfortunately I'm designed to be an enigma."
"She just doesn't want to tell you," our very own French Captain Obvious adds.
Albus looks from me to Eloise, back and again, but soon drops the effort to weaken our defences, as apparently, our front is standing pretty solid. He groans lightly, thus accepting defeat, and mumbles, "Alright, alright. We'll change the subject."
"How was practise?" Eloise inquires nicely.
It's official.
I from now on am going to hate nice people.
"We're not going to discuss Quidditch," I protest. "I'm sure it was fine."
"Great actually – " and then he sees my hostile look... "Okay, okay! But just – we have our first official match in two weeks, and I wanted to invite you two. You can have VIP seats, if you like?"
Eloise has stars in her eyes. "Of course we like! Don't we, Rose?"
"Are you asking the rest of the family?" I ignore her.
"Well, yeah, my dad, your dad," he says, and afterwards, a few decibels down, "and Louis, naturally..."
Aha.
Louis.
My best friend slash cousin slash the person whom I have said maybe five words to over the summer. You might find this strange. I mean – I know I do. But it just sort of fell apart. After that day in the hospital, when I yelled at him how he wasn't any better than Malfoy, something changed. It didn't work out of the blue. It just... came. When I came home after our fight, I didn't get to see him much. Albus, Louis and I used to meet up in either the Burrow or at the Potters, so when I didn't leave my room for a long time, I was quite isolated. Albus dropped in every now and then, bringing me cake and chocolate frogs in a cute but useless attempt to cheer me up, but I didn't hear a word from the other boy. When I finally swallowed my pride and asked Albus why the fuck my best friend didn't check up on me, he sat down on my bed and said that what I had said to Louis had gotten to him, and that, in all honesty, he probably just believed that I was still mad at him. It was a bizarre situation, and it left me wondering what in Merlin's name landed us there (... Malfoy, cough). We both let it slide. Neither of us (or at least that goes for me) wanted to do such thing, but it happened regardless, and that is how we spent the first month not speaking.
I think Albus hates us for this.
The second month Louis went away, on vacation. To Egypt, with his family. When they boarded off, I'd come with the rest of the Weasleys and Potters to say goodbye. At first he'd wanted to go without saying anything, but then for some strange reason he ended up standing next to me, patting my shoulder, asking me if I was alright. I told him I was fine, and wished him a great time. Then he went.
I haven't seen him since, because he came back the second day I was here.
It's stupid, really, because I missed Malfoy so bad those days, there didn't seem to be any space left to miss someone else. Yet as the days counted, I came to miss Malfoy less and less, which freed room to miss Louis instead.
So there's this gap. My very own Louis gap.
"You miss him," Albus puts a hand on my shoulder, awaking me from my thoughts.
I consider denial, but decide against it. "Yeah, but he hasn't written me yet, so..."
"So... what? You can write him," he says, irritatingly sensible.
"Okay, okay," Eloise interrupts, "stop being so serious here! Lighten up! Let's talk about something fun!"
By the looks of it, we're both inclined to go with that idea. At the same time, we exclaim, "Yes!"
Beaming at our approval, Eloise suddenly stands up and claps her hands. She successfully spikes the interest of everyone at our table and clears her throat. "Okay, everybody! Since Rose Weasley resembles a lemon today, we need something to brighten the day!" Of course, every head turns my direction. Eloise gives me an apologetic smile, and continues, "So I was thinking, let's have a campfire this Saturday!"
How... boy scout of her.
Out of habit, I'm about to glower, but then I realise what she's suggesting. Evidently, our friends like the thought, as many of them immediately start cheering, and enthusiastically begin to rattle off things to bring (Butterbeer, Firewhiskey... and is that 'wood' I hear?).
I must say I'm warming up to the idea.
"Saturday night, that's a date," she winks. "But now I have to go and meet Violetta 'horse face' Chang. See you later, and Rose, bring Malfoy!"
And before I can respond, she's practically skipping out.
When later I've made a visit to the library, I'm ready to commit suicide. I'm lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, having a nice little chat with myself about how I could possibly be stupid enough to think that you have to throw in the belladonna before stirring. As I now have learned from the book, Malfoy was absolutely correct, which means I am currently facing the vision of the total and complete deterioration of my ego. There is of course a chance that I won't have to speak with him for the next few days, and thus postponing my downfall, but sooner or later I'll have to admit it.
I was wrong.
Subsequently, Malfoy was right.
Try to live with that.
Contemplating all the different ways to avoid Malfoy tomorrow, I close my eyes. I could go to class incognito (with sunglasses for extra show), find a fake I.D. (they have it everywhere in the states!), call myself Henrietta (because it sounds like a name they'd use in the stories), tell people I'm from Uzbekistan (that comes off mysterious, doesn't it?), charm my hair blonde (for the surprising effect). I could also live up to my mistake and admit to Malfoy that for the first time in my life I'm to blame, but how can I be sure that my pride will ever survive such misery?
I mean – the horror! The utter damnation of that very thought in itself!
I'm just about to start contemplating all the manners to die as painlessly as possible, when I hear a knock on my door. I crawl off my bed in a very dramatic fashion, flinging on a silk robe (which is not as attractive as it sounds), and go to welcome the person who is brave enough to talk to me while I'm getting to know new lows in my life.
"Eh, hi."
Of course, because I'm me and the universe hates Rose Weasley, it is none other than Scorpius Malfoy standing on the other side of the door.
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic!
"Oh, hi, Malfoy!" I sputter, caught off guard but not really. "Fancy seeing you!"
"Yeah, well, see," he begins, his tone not too arrogant, "you're probably thinking that I'm a stalker now, but I assure you, my mental state is perfectly stable."
O-kay. Why isn't he rubbing it in my face already? "That arguable, but yes. Go on."
"I'm here with a peace-offering," he drawls.
To say I'm stunned is an understatement. I'm certain he's playing a game. I mean, surely he must've looked it up, just as I have? It's in our nature. We have discussions and do everything to prove that we're right.
So how come he's here with a peace-offering while I'm in the wrong?
"How very... Indian of you," I comment, for lack of a better thing to say.
Of all things, he then laughs. "Yeah, I know."
"Okay," I say, immensely relieved that he's acting so friendly in this horrifying situation, "okay. We can exchange peace-offerings."
"You have one too?"
"Yeah."
He leans against the doorframe, looking at me with eyes that aren't as positively freezing as they are most of the time, a smirk playing on his lips. It occurs to me in a flash how good-looking he actually is, as prissy and perfect yet nonchalant and apathetic as his ways are. I almost slap myself for doing this – going over his better assets – but then again, how can I blame myself? I can't deny his beauty. Whatever he does, whatever stunt he pulls – you can't deny his beauty. Ever.
"I'm going first," he says, raising his hands from behind his back with a book in it. "Here."
Eyeing the book in bafflement, I take it from him. In a disbelieving tone, I nearly squeal, "You bought Crime & Punishment for me?"
"Was about time you owned it, wasn't it?" His smirk broadens.
"Umthankyou," I mutter in one breath, wondering how much weirder this can get. "My peace-offering isn't quite as cool or... it's not even an object, but..."
"Doesn't matter," he shrugs.
"Well, since I have now accepted your peace-offer... we can now be peaceful strangers again... and seeing as I'd invite a stranger with whom I have a peaceful relationship to a campfire," I inhale, "I'm inviting you to a campfire Saturday."
It suddenly occurs to me that he can just as well decline. He doesn't have a reason to come with us. He doesn't really know Eloise, he's never liked Albus or vice-versa... He doesn't play the guitare, he hates mud and he hates forced socialising.
Oh, Merlin, please, don't turn me into a reject. My brain has already abandoned me, which is about as much as I can take for one day -
"Yeah, cool," Malfoy saves me from my own excruciating worst-case-scenarios, "we'll celebrate our peaceful stranger relationship there then."
Careful not to show my relief, I almost-smile. "Okay."
I give him a little wave as a goodbye, and just before the door is closed again, Malfoy halts it with his hand. I look at him through the small opening. "What?"
"You do realise I was right, yeah?"
Oh, shit.
Not bothering with an answer, I wait until he removes his hand and close the door fully. I hear him laughing on the other side, clearly amused by my behaviour. Not that I blame him.
"Whatever, Malfoy," I yell, turning the key over to prevent him from coming back in. "Nobody cares about matters such as those!"
I'm a born liar.
"Yeah, except you!" He yells back.
I roll my eyes without conviction, and put my ear against the wood to hear if he's still there. Fortunately, his laughter his fading, and so are his footsteps. Taking another look at Crime & Punishment, I smile to myself.
At least Raskolnikov is a less terrifying subject to ponder about.
I actually like this chapter better than the former ones - don't ask me why.
Review and spread your thoughts!
-Josephine