Unspoken
Scorpius Malfoy was a man of few words. Not that he didn't have anything to say, he just preferred to keep his thoughts private. He had always been thoughtful and considerate, always careful to think before he spoke.
He couldn't keep anything from Rose Weasley though. She always teased that she could read him like one of their beloved books; that he couldn't hide anything in his facial expressions or in his eyes. Never before had this been an issue. Scorpius, while private, had nothing to hide.
Recently Rose's uncanny ability to read him had become a problem though. Scorpius had a great secret, and it was his most worrying fear that Rose would inevitably discover it. He was desperately in love with her, and hadn't the faintest idea how to tell her.
He was a master of his spoken words but a slave to those which remained unspoken.
The words he most desperately wished to speak weighed heavily in his mind, choking and gagging him. Rose, I love you. Four words. Four simple words, but he had no idea how to tell her, or how to even begin.
He concluded that there could be no greater definition of stupidity or bravery; insanity or clarity; hubris or humility; than falling in love with your best friend. And telling Rose about the depth of his feelings proved a daunting challenge.
She had said it to him once, when they were young and the words didn't carry the weight they did now. It had been a mundane Tuesday morning. Rose, who arrived late to breakfast, scooped a scone off of Scorpius' plate, and muttered, "Morning, Scorp," as she took a section of his newspaper and started to skim The Daily Prophet's Quidditch League results.
"Morning, Rosie." Scorpius replied, distracted by his own article.
"Scor, I love you, but call me Rosie one more time and I swear to Dumbledore I will hex you."
"Someone's in a good mood this morning," he teased. He tried to keep his tone even, but internally his head was spinning.
She loved him. Not like that, of course, she said it so casually. But still, she loved him. His heart contracted and stuttered sporadically.
For the rest of the day the words replayed in his head over and over. Scor, I love you. Scor, I love you. Scor, I love you.
Rose, I love you. Why couldn't he tell her?
Sometimes the words they left unspoken were the most important ones that should be said. He would tell her, one day. But he suspected somehow she already knew.
When he thought about it, they actually said "I love you" all the time, just not with those words. It was in their every action, every glance, an unspoken subtext.
It was when he said "take a sweater, it's cold out," or when she casually requested him to hurry back whenever he left the room. It was when he made her tea and when she would rise on her tip toes to kiss him gently on the cheek "just because."
Their relationship had become so multifaceted and their compatibilities so intricately dovetailed that they were perfect and irreplaceable halves of the same whole. There was no need for words between them.
So it remained unspoken. But they both knew.
