Disclaimer: I don't own the Potter series, as I feel the need to reiterate at the beginning of each chapter.

Chapter Ten

"A Million Apologies"

Or

"French Aristocracy"

For James Potter, it was so close that it almost hurt.

For Cordelia Gilbert, denial was stopping it from getting anywhere.

For Fred Weasley, denial was also the problem.

For Barbara Tennant, the same dilemma.

For Scorpius Malfoy, the sheer abstract idea of it was foreign.

For Rose Weasley, past experience proved it unsuccessful.

For Patricia Day, a layer of disappointment was fogging it over.

But so far, we've only touched on some of that.

Lily couldn't remember the last time either of her brothers had been in love. She sat lounging in the oversized chair by the window in Gryffindor tower, the heat from the fire emanating throughout the room, warming her right cheek as her attention turned away from the common room itself, to the grounds below. People were scattered around the grassy lawn in their various groups, and all the common, stereotypical cliques emerged: shy groups of girls sneaking glances at boys they thought were above them, these boys in question paying next to no attention whatsoever; angry hordes of fifth years confronting one another about nefarious rumours, the occasional love-struck couple embraced near the corner of the trees. At last her eyes fell on her brother Albus: tall, often underappreciated, with a certain air around him that just radiated intelligence.

He was deep in conversation with Lorcan Scamander, Andy (the Hufflepuff, whose last name Lily didn't know), and Cordelia Gilbert, who made Lily sigh with a mixture of slight jealousy, endearment, and a light sense of foreboding which she couldn't quite place.

'What's going on there?' Lily wondered aloud, watching Shelley Corner blunder up and grab Cordelia from the group. There was a short "goodbye" and then Shelley and Cordelia raced off, the latter looking just as confused as Lily felt. When her attention returned to Albus and his companions, Albus was spluttering, wide-eyed about something Andy had said. She knew it was Andy because it was at her that this so rarely occurring bewilderment was aimed. Lorcan was standing beside them, amusement blatant in the smile that was plastered along his face.

'Why does Al look like a boggart that's just met another of its kind?'

Lily hadn't noticed James coming up behind her; he bent over to observe the third Potter child with a humorous curiosity.

'Well,' Lily said, 'first, they were just talking—Al, Andy, Lorcan and that—but Cordelia was there as well.' She ignored James's slight jump and continued, 'then Shelley Corner came over and dragged her—Cordelia—away and Andy said something that made Albus look like a goldfish.'

James nodded his eyebrows, apparently nonchalant. He shrugged and set off up the stairs to his dormitory. Lily called after him, 'is there any specific reason you're going to hang out and be lonely in your room on a Sunday?'

'Yes,' James called back, still on his way up the stairs, 'and the reason for that is shut up.'

'Please don't still be mad at me.'

Patricia exhaled, definitely exasperated. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch in front of the chartreuse-tinted fire in the Slytherin common room, having been forced into listening to what Scorpius had to say by Ruby and Venice—'closure,' her dorm-mates had said, 'is important. And if you don't want closure, at least listen to his side of the story.'—her hair fell in long brown sheets down either side of her face, spilling over her back in loose curls that she hadn't intended to have. Despite the annoyed expression on her face, Scorpius looked desperate enough to make her cave and listen. For the sake of their practically disintegrated friendship, at least.

'I'm not mad at you,' she said. 'I'm disappointed—I don't like being lied to.'

'I know,' Scorpius replied, looking at her from the other side of the couch. Thankfully, they had been undisturbed throughout this, though it might have been the fact that Slytherins were giving Scorpius a wide berth after finding out what had happened with Rose. 'And I'm sorry—I'll say it a million times if I have to.'

'You don't,' she snapped. 'But I think I need more than two days to get over'—Patricia paused, trying to find the right word to describe their situation, and in her failure, settling for—'this.'

Scorpius stayed silent.

'Was she worth it?' Patricia asked. 'You knew I didn't like her, Scorpius. Was Weasley worth it?'

To this, the answer came at once. 'No.' Then, with more force, 'no, she wasn't.'

Patricia sniffed. It wasn't that the answer had been positive to Rose's favour, but she still felt as though she wanted to cry. She didn't know why—Scorpius's answer had been a good one: their friendship meant more to him than a month's worth of kisses from a smart, albeit occasionally haughty, Gryffindor—but still, Patricia remained unsure. Any girl apart from Rose would have been easier to handle; even Shelley Corner wouldn't have made her hurt this badly. Scorpius had always caught girls' eyes, and Patricia knew that: he had all the appeal and talent that the Potters and the Weasleys did, but he had that darker element, the dangerous Slytherin allure. All this time, he had acted as though he didn't care, like all the attention didn't matter to him. Patricia had told herself that it wouldn't always be like this, that there would come a time that Scorpius would find someone he liked, and make a girlfriend of them, and she knew it wouldn't be her.

She just really wished that it hadn't been Rose Weasley.

'Please don't lie to me.'

Scorpius's eyes widened, a jolt of misery crossing his face. 'I'm not,' he stammered. 'I wouldn't. Why won't you believe me?'

'Why didn't you tell me about her?' Patricia insisted. 'I'm your best friend—Merlin, I thought I was! If you couldn't tell me, who could you tell?'

'I couldn't tell anyone!' Scorpius cried. 'Tell me you wouldn't have judged me if I had: tell me you would've been okay with it.'

Anger surged through her, running from the end of each strand of hair on her head to the tips of her limbs, and Patricia replied: 'Of course I wouldn't have been! I don't like Rose Weasley—'

'Why not, though?' Scorpius pressed. It wasn't a question in Rose's defence, it wasn't a "give her a chance" gesture. The sheer maliciousness of his tone as it took on a new note made Patricia nervous, despite her anger. 'You don't like her—why not? I think I know why, Patricia; I think I know why you hate Rose so much.'

Do you? Do you really?

'You're jealous of her.'

Patricia wasn't jealous of Rose's intelligence, because knowledge can only get you so far. She wasn't jealous of her looks, because such things fade. She wasn't jealous of anything else Rose had going for her, because she really couldn't see what was so great. Everything fantastic about Rose was her family: her parents had defeated Voldemort, not Rose herself. Sure, Patricia was eternally grateful to the Weasleys and Potters of previous years—of previous generations—and being a Slytherin didn't change that. But none of that had anything to do with Rose.

But really, she was only jealous of one thing Rose had ever been in possession of. It wasn't a material object. It wasn't a reputation, or a name. It wasn't fame.

It was Scorpius.

Shelley Corner was on her way to dinner when Thomas Prikk pulled her aside. His grip, vice-like on her upper arm, would certainly leave a bruise. Shelley contemplated hexing him; her wand was in her back pocket, she could do it if she wanted to. He was slow enough that she would probably get away with it. But then she remembered that Prikk had knowledge of magic that even she—as demented as she was—wouldn't dare to try. This thought sobered her up.

'Let go of me, Prikk.'

'I don't think I can do that,' he said, pulling her behind a statue, hiding them from view. 'You see—we had an arrangement.'

'What—can't get anyone now that Goyle's dumped you?'

Prikk smirked. 'Who are you kidding, Corner? Really?'

Shelley glared at him. She didn't like his tone: it made her feel small, like she was a child who had done something wrong, and he was an adult who'd gotten tired of the routine. 'What are you talking about?' she snapped.

'You know,' he said. No I don't, Shelley thought, otherwise I wouldn't be asking you. 'Who are you trying to fool; who would be stupid enough to fall for that dumb change-up?' He leaned closer; Shelley tried to recoil, but there wasn't anywhere to go. They were backed up into a corner, behind a stone statue that she definitely couldn't move. 'You can change your clothes, you can change your make-up—hell, you can pretend to be a clone of Tabitha Perkins, and quiet and sensible.' Shelley's face flushed. 'But you and I both know you will never stop being who you are, Corner. You'll never change your past; what you've done. You'll never stop being a –'

' – Shelley?'

Prikk wheeled around, letting his hand slide from her arm. Shelley swallowed. Coming around the corner was James Potter: tall, dark and handsome—beating all fairytale heroes without even having to try. He caught sight of what was happening: Prikk looking fearsome and oafish, as usual, standing over a frightened Shelley.

'I don't think you understand the first thing about girls, Prikk,' James said.

'Piss off, Potter.'

James raised his eyebrows. 'Touchy,' he noticed. He raised his arms in a surrendering gesture, but then dropped them quickly, saying, 'I've got a proposition for you, Prikk. I'll take Shelley from here, and escort her to dinner, where I'm assuming she was on her way to when you grabbed her. And in exchange for letting me take such a fine woman to a more fitting location, I'll let you keep the contents of your trousers. Presuming you haven't forgotten how to change your underwear and accidently soiled them,' James added, putting a hand out for Shelley to take and lifting her away from Prikk, who now looked both angrier than either of them had ever seen him, but also the most like a troll.

'Thanks for that, James,' Shelley said, the two of them returning to the familiar lights of the entrance hall.

'No problem,' he replied. Then, concernedly: 'He didn't hurt you, did he?'

Shelley shook her head, touched that James at least had the sense to act like he cared. In the beckoning light of the Great Hall, she could see the planes of his face; the smooth, slanted nose, the angles of his cheekbones, drawing down to his sculpted jaw, athletically narrowed to a chiseled point. He was definitely one of the most attractive people she had ever seen. Shelley felt plain by comparison.

'Do you want me to hang around until your mates get here?' James asked. He seemed anxious to leave her alone while Prikk still had his vitals.

'No, you don't need to worry—look,' she said, gesturing to Cordelia and Tabitha Perkins—frightfully shy girl, Shelley had time to think, judging by the way she walked: afraid of everything and everyone—who were on their way down the stairs. 'Thanks for the offer, though.'

'Any time,' James guaranteed.

'I'll put in the good word with Cordelia,' Shelley added, watching her housemate approaching. James grinned and departed, leaving Shelley to greet her friends and wonder why in the world she felt downhearted as she offered to help the Head Boy get a date.

Fred Weasley had taken a strong dislike to Monday mornings over the course of his academic career. However, with only History of Magic, a double period of Charms, Herbology, and Potions, perhaps things were starting to look more optimistic. James had posted a bulletin scheduling a practice for the Gryffindor Quidditch team at seven o'clock that night, which—although it cut into the time Fred probably couldn't afford to lose for the completion of his Potions essay—only made his longing for the days completion even more potent.

The walk from breakfast to History of Magic wasn't too long, and so Fred didn't mind making the trip alone; James had hung back to make sure everyone on the Quidditch team was aware of their practice, and Molly and Barbara were too wrapped up in conversation about the Holyhead Harpies to focus on who they were walking with; Barbara had almost crashed into two third-years leaving the Great Hall, and Fred didn't think that her clumsiness would improve any time soon. He entered the classroom alone.

Professor Binns looked up from the book he was investigating, and turned back to it when he realized it was "just another student of the Weasley lot". Fred guessed that, over Binns's time at Hogwarts, his family had been constant, ever-present from generation to generation. Archie Myers and his friends were sat together up the back, apparently eager to push latecomers towards the front, where at least a try for vigilance and concentration was more highly expected. A couple of Hufflepuffs were speckled around the room; Miles Clarke one of them, though he did not seem eager to meet Fred's eye after what happened last time he met any part of Fred's anatomy—Fred's fist, with his face, for one.

Barbara and Molly shuffled in the room, James and Wood close behind. Miles Clarke made a disparaging noise.

'Don't concern yourself,' Barbara said to Fred as she took a seat in the row beside him. 'He's just sour because our date didn't go well.'

'Really?' he asked, hoping that his tone hadn't sounded to desperate. 'I mean—what happened?'

The Head Girl took out her copy of Hogwarts: A History, even though the chances of using it were dim. These days, Binns usually just lectured on and on about nothing in particular, and expected them to take a decent amount of notes, which Fred didn't usually uphold. Most of the time, these random lectures were something to do with his family, and so it was really just reliving what his grandmother had told anecdotes of three Christmases ago, or something of the same familiarity.

'I threw butterbeer in his face.'

'You didn't!' Fred grinned despite his curiosity, unable to help but look at her and marvel. Barbara raised her eyebrows fleetingly, gesturing that yes, she did. 'But I thought dramatics were more Molly's style—what made you do it?'

'Well, to put it bluntly,' Barbara's voice shot down in volume as Professor Binns began speaking, 'he said you were a prick or something like that, and then... yeah. Butterbeer in his face.' She turned to look at him. 'It was like he was trying to get me to agree with him that you punching him was wrong—how could I have? You're my best mate, and I don't even know why you punched him, so I couldn't exactly—'

She leaned over the empty sheet of parchment and began copying Binns's lecture down with brilliant drive. Fred couldn't have accomplished this, no matter what his motivation. All the thoughts in his mind were now revolving around the fact that Barbara had thrown butterbeer in Miles Clarke's face—in public—because he had said something against Fred. He tried to imagine the scene: Barbara and Clarke, sitting in The Three Broomsticks, mugs of butterbeer in front of them; he imagined Barbara standing up, her long, black hair spilling over her shoulders, picking up the glass and—splash—the entirety of its contents smashing Clarke right in his annoying, fraudulent face.

It was all he could think about all through the lesson; when James glanced over half-way through, as Binns mentioned the forming of the Order of the Phoenix, he told Fred that he'd sucker Barbara into letting him borrow her notes, even though neither of the boys really needed them. Of course the mention of her—that she was a real, tangible person—didn't really help Fred's case at all.

He was in the same, semi-isolated state—almost comatose to the outside world—all through double Charms, where somehow he managed to conjure up a good enough version of whatever it was they were meant to be learning for Flitwick to be satisfied with him, before sending them all out to lunch.

'Are you all right?' Molly's voice cut into his reverie on the way down to the Great Hall. At Fred's befuddled expression, she stated, 'You look like a right tosser—like Barbara's snogged you senseless.'

Fred and Barbara, who was a stair or two behind, both jumped slightly. Molly didn't seem to notice; all she said was, 'that's got you back to normal, now hasn't it? Honestly, Fred, I'm starting to think you need a bit.'

'A bit of what?'

'A bit of snogging,' said Molly, as though Fred was stupid. 'Don't look so holy; when was the last time you kissed anyone?'

Fred scratched his head. He hadn't had a proper girlfriend since fifth year. Last time he kissed anyone, though... it was probably December of his sixth year, when mistletoe had hung in bunches off practically ever doorway in the school. He and Barbara had been late for Quidditch practice—she had dragged him to the library to find Volume 13 of some Potions book she needed—and they'd hurried out of the changing rooms to find an infamous sprig hanging above the door. He remembered mime-kissing her, like they were both French nobility; it was all jokey and fun, but right now he wished it wasn't. 'I don't know—last Christmas?'

'Aunt Mildred doesn't count—'

'—I wasn't talking about Aunt Mildred—'

'—then who were you talking about?' asked Molly. 'Oh, do tell.'

Fred froze: if he said anything about Barbara, then she might take it the wrong way, like that joking moment of French aristocracy was the best moment of his life—but if he didn't say it, she was right there and would know he was lying, and then would probably wonder why he had lied by not mentioning it.

He was surprised when Barbara's voice cut through the air, humorous in tone. 'It was me, wasn't it?' The Head Girl cut to explaining once the rest of their company looked confused. 'I suppose it wasn't real kissing, so to speak; last Christmas, before one of the Quidditch practices—'

'—don't tell me you two...'

'—no—shut up, James, and let me finish: we were late for Quidditch, and there was all that mistletoe about, so we made a joke about it. You know when Louis's aunt Gabrielle came to stay?' Barbara checked for affirmation before continuing. 'And you know how there's all that extravagant cheek-kissing and stuff?'

'Can't say I minded it,' James cut in, 'very attractive woman.'

Barbara said, 'well, yeah, we just did that. Though I don't think that counts as a proper snog, so...'

They were now at the door of the Great Hall. Molly's expression molded into something that almost made Fred worried. 'Well,' she said, looking sly. 'You never mentioned that, Freddo.'

It was five in the afternoon when Shelley was calm enough to ask what she had been trying to work up to. The Ravenclaw dormitory was mostly empty, but all of the sixth-year girls had found their way back there to finish up what they needed done before dinner. Pulling up from where she had been resting on a stack of pillows, Shelley inquired: 'So you and James aren't...?'

Cordelia, who was finishing an essay, looked up from the comfort of her four-poster bed. She brushed a lock of light brown hair, curled at the end, out of her face and Shelley watched her eyebrows scrunch slightly in confusion. 'No,' the Prefect said quietly: it could have been an absentminded comment, but Cordelia seemed too confused to remain completely unconcerned. 'We're—we're just friends.'

'Doesn't seem that way to me,' Sarah scoffed.

Shelley rolled her eyes, trying her best not to let the unfamiliar bitter taste from earlier settle in her mouth. Cordelia returned to her essay, apparently brushing off Shelley's interest after Sarah had said something to debunk any curiosity.

'He is a lovely bloke,' said Shelley slowly.

'Yes, but he's obviously smitten with someone else.' Bridget scoffed.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and began packing up her quill and parchment. Shelley found herself struck with a strange kind of melancholy, the kind that she hadn't experienced in years. She picked her hairbrush up from her bedside table and began to pull it through her hair, as if having control over something as simple as her hairstyle would calm her down. For a while, the dormitory was quiet, and then Cordelia jumped up from her bed, taking her quill and half-finished essay with her.

'Where are you off to, then?' asked Bridget.

'The library,' said Cordelia. 'I can't get anything done with you lot here; Will told me he'd be in the library til dinner and it's much easier to be productive with someone who doesn't try to distract me.'

'If this were any other year,' Sarah began, 'I would be teasing you about him and not… well, you know.'

'And the rumours would be even more false,' Cordelia sang, leaving the room.

Shelley watched her go, then returned to focusing on her hair. Cordelia was lovely, in all the right ways. She was well versed in magical and Muggle literature alike, and her taste in music was delicately rustic, and she packed a hard hit but never needed to throw a punch. Shelley liked books and music and believed aggression was a good driving force, but mostly she was fond of kissing boys who wanted to be hers, and knowing that they very easily could have been. She wasn't the kind of girl men ever took home to their parents, but she was the kind they loved introducing to their friends. She supposed Cordelia Gilbert was both.

She set down her hairbrush and ventured to the bathroom as Bridget and Sarah began talking about her cousin, Kevin Corner. Poor, earnest Kevin.

Shelley stood in front of the mirror and checked for anything that needed touching up. She wasn't terribly meticulous about her appearance, because confidence outweighed any beauty people could actually covet, but if Thomas Prikk was going to approach her again, and James Potter was going to come to her aid again, then she wanted to make sure – she wanted to make sure of what? What possibly concerned her about putting on a good front for James? Why did she want to?

Staring her reflection in the eyes, Shelley placed her hands on either side of the sink. Perfectly lined eyes framed by magically lengthened eyelashes bore into her soul. And then it hit her, more intense than the first time she drank Firewhiskey.

She had a crush on James Potter.