A/N: Don't own anything – not even the basic plotline sadly – that's Jane Austen's. Don't own the characters either.
[Author kneels down and begs for mercy] Sorry for that awful two-month wait: other parts of my life beckoned.
She was unutterably beautiful.
Her skin glimmered in his imagination. The penetrating midnight blue of her dress draped on her was rather dull compared to the sight he had seen yesterday of her bare stomach.
There was a strong fire blazing in his room, spreading an all-encompassing warmth through his body. The red flickering embers reminded him of the colour of her hair, and the way that her intensely brown eyes would flash when she got angry.
It was like she was being willfully troublesome sometimes; the way that she stormed from the marble staircase when he could see her spasm in pain from her torso, the way that she would deliberately force herself from safety and right into danger.
She was smart too, providing a witty response to everything. And he was convinced that underneath that seemingly cynical and shallow banter was a set of unshakeable morals.
He looked out the window and saw the drizzle clear. The fire was starting to feel oppressive, and the building perspiration crippling. Maybe it was the fire, or thinking about Rose too much. That usually prompted a physical reaction.
Running down the stairs to the stone archway allowed him a fresh gulp of crisp air. He leaned on the archway to catch his breath. Maybe he would see Rose appear from the fog, a fiery apparition.
Footsteps slapped hard against the stone and Malfoy turned around, his heart quickening at the thought of seeing her. He refrained from turning around to the approaching person and waited. He held his breath and waited for the distinctive swing of her red hair to burst into his line of vision.
'Hey,' said a distinctly un-Rose-like voice.
He snapped his head around to the direction of the source of the voice, and saw the brown hair and friendly smiling face of Rose's friend.
'Chantal,' he replied.
It was slightly embarrassing for him to bump into her on the second day of the visit and then realise he had ignored her completely in his hopeless preoccupation with Rose.
'I didn't fancy seeing you around her,' she said in a light conversational way.
'Nor did I,' he said as though he was talking to himself.
Malfoy picked a dry twig off the ground and split it in half. There was something mildly therapeutic and mind cleansing about the hollow cracking noise that his force alone could instigate.
'So, what are you doing here?' she asked.
'Getting some fresh air.'
'You know,' she said with a hint of a wicked smile, 'that Rose is quite fond of these random leisurely walks. I run for exercise's sake and not for pleasure, and I'm quite sure that most people hate to put that kind of strain on their feet. So I guess that makes you two really similar doesn't it?'
He tried to keep his composed air on the mention of her name and Chantal's obvious allusions to their suitability together by disinterestedly kicking the ruined halves of his twig.
'Is she a good friend of yours?' he asked in a curious voice. 'I mean Rose of course,' he then added, trying to backpedal on his curious voice.
'Hell yes!' she shouted enthusiastically, like she was trying to sell her friend. 'I've known her for absolutely ages and she's as good a friend as I've ever known. In fifth year I had a Transfiguration essay that was due in an hour and she basically let me copy word for word. And after many a disastrous Hogsmeade date she would have a kind word and the respect to leave me alone for the night so I could cheer up.'
Chantal did sound like she was a salesman peddling a product to him, albeit with a lot more sincerity.
'She sounds like a good friend then.'
'Definitely! She went to my mum's funeral and she gave me a shoulder to cry on throughout the whole service.'
He looked up in a mildly concerned way, actually feeling very affected by her strength in talking about her mother's funeral in such a blasé way. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't worry. I've got an aunt who's sort of become a surrogate mother.'
He detected a hint of bitterness in her voice when she talked about this aunt of hers that had definitely failed to replace the place of her mother in her heart.
He was right: Chantal didn't much like her family and her mother was a pacifying influence on her father's ferocious temper. Her aunt, who was her father's brother-in-law, only served to encourage her father to make rash choices and generally manipulate people.
Her father and aunt had been quite enthusiastic to throw Chantal together with Probity Burke. She didn't resist it despite Rose's decidedly eager proclamation in dissuading her from what was essentially prostitution in an arranged marriage. He would probably run out of things to say in the first few hours of everyday and then would shut up and leave her to do whatever she wanted. And contrary to Rose's belief nothing was even certain: it was all just a holiday to 'know their lover more intimately', in her aunt's incredibly crass and vulgar words. If she did eventually get to marry him it'd be a relief to leave a family whose elaborate and regular dinner parties were starting to get more paltry and increasingly looking like they were trying to hold on to their last remnants of medieval glory. She would understand if she ever had to marry Probity it was all for a chance of a comfortable life. Chantal assured herself everything was undecided.
Rose, despite whatever she was mistaken about, was an amazing friend and she would be sad to lose her respect so utterly and wholly. She had (generally) good intentions for anyone who deserved it. Rose deserved someone brilliant, someone amazing. Chantal would try to push Rose to him.
Out of the people she had met Probity was superficial but essentially bearable and easily persuaded and Kareena Burke was superficial and menacingly disapproving about just about everything. Richard was nice, and she wondered where he had gotten his genes from: the dead father probably was good-looking and had a shred of sense and heart.
Malfoy was by far the most interesting person who was invited. He was hopelessly in love with Rose, and stared longingly across the room at her. It was clear that Rose wasn't giving Malfoy enough credit for his intelligence and unwavering empathy for others. He was more sensitive than most of the girl's, let alone boys she knew. Add to that some flying rumours about Malfoy's sister and an elusive man known as Wickham. They were unsubstantiated, but Chantal knew that soon enough Rose's delusions about Wickham would finally end. Chantal would just rather let Malfoy, the actual hero of that story, tell Rose. Rose would probably believe it more.
'I should be going in now,' Malfoy said as he threw the stick he was fidgeting with away.
'I'll see you around,' Chantal replied.
She skipped happily away and then she turned around to him again.
'Good luck with it,' she said mysteriously.
Before he could reply she had ran back into the house.
Good luck with what?
He had to give it to Chantal: she was quite perceptive and in tune with other people's feelings. She was very un-subtly suggesting that Rose and he were perfect together. What was stopping them? Why was he staring hopelessly at her everyday when she could be in his arms?
***
He was sure that he had managed to weather even the strong marble floor with his pacing.
His aunt had been particularly tiresome, trying to get him to join a department where one of her friends was the head. Living off other people: he despised people who did that but recognized the irony of his situation. He had sailed through life easily, and with a deep vault of gold to satisfy his every want.
Tonight was going to be the night. The New Year's Eve was symbolic. A new year, a new beginning. The awkwardness between them would be dissolved. She would know his passion. He would tell her about his hopeless infatuation and of everything that had drove him nearly crazy, separated by those stupid desks on opposite sides of the room. It might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet.
He had been worried about what everyone would think of them when they walked out of the Ministry hand in hand. He had been worried that he was somehow failing the silent expectations of all his family. The images of familial glory, fame and superiority had been ingrained within him. With words they had tried to tell him of how everyone, regardless of family background, were equal in the world of magical society. But there was always a suppressed bitterness in their voices when they described the rather evil events surrounding Voldemort. A decidedly sinister reputation followed the Malfoy family everywhere.
Rose was worth twice the scorn of his collected family. Ten times, a hundred times.
Beautiful. Check. Flaming red hair and the face of an angel. Well-read. Check. She could make animated conversation on nearly any subject. Intelligent. Check. If she didn't know what the hell was going on she could probably bluff and improvise her way through it. Extroverted. Check. Determined. Check. Foolhardy more like: to disagree with someone for the sole purpose of disagreement on nothing more solid than intuition. Persistent. Check. The girl could get through and type a whole pile of incredibly dry material. Brave. Check. Questionable actually. But anyone (the exception maybe being Richard) who challenged his (great) aunt in such an ostentatiously defiant manner was quite formidable in his eyes. Independent. Check. As demonstrated in the encounters detailed previously. Random knowledge of Muggle pop culture. Check. But maybe Shakespeare was not that random, nor Beethoven. A sense of humour. Check. Well developed eye for satire and sarcasm especially. Overall, cute insanity? Check. An incredible partiality for talking and amazing energy and vivacity always gave the impression of mental instability.
Richard would call him delirious for actually checking off a list of attributes for the perfect woman. Richard would laugh, and then flash an I-told-you-so look at him in finally finding a Weasley who ticked all the boxes. He never told stupid Cassiopeia Burke that her list of traits for the perfect woman was absolute crap.
He looked out the window to see her sitting alone on a deserted ledge, sitting so serenely. So goddamn beautiful in her own casual and disinterested way.
It was time to grasp the opportunity. He would get her.
***
He would have never had admitted that on that night his heart was beating so hard because he was afraid of her. Afraid of the fact that she could simply say no and he couldn't force her to change her mind, save through messy Unforgivables.
He tentatively fingered the loops of his pants, fidgeting hopelessly and willing himself to step forward. She was sitting there, legs dangling and with what he imagined was a dreamy expression on her face as she stared into the stars and lost her head in the clouds. The pacing was uncontrollable as a thousand different scenarios played out in his mind. Some involved her meek compliance but the majority were rather more passionate as her face became so prettily flushed with anger, an anger that soon dissolved in amorous embraces and whispered words of love.
'Malfoy,' she said. 'If you pace anymore you will break this ledge off and we shall fall and die.'
She had just interrupted his rambling thoughts of kissing her.
'That would be a tragic thing indeed,' he replied, trying to keep his voice steady while still trying to perpetuate his wondrous dream.
'Very tragic indeed, depending on your point of view. I can't imagine you being really upset if I fell to my death.'
The sarcasm was all there, just without the usual light and fluffy playfulness that characterized her usual banter. He wrought his eyes up to her face, only seeing scorn and immense distaste in her expression. He was momentarily speechless, fumbling about words in his mind as he tried to counter the disbelief in her raised eyebrows.
'You're wrong then.'
Those perfectly arched eyebrows were mocking him again, asking him to peel away the layers of awkwardness and tell the complete truth.
'And might I ask why?' she asked.
The face wasn't playing easy with him now but playing hard like a lawyer trying to cross-question a defendant to insanity. Her voice was edgy, precise and ice-cold and the consonants crisp and hard. He marveled her amazing tonal range, from the sweet, melodious and rounded words that flowed like honey to the short, energetic staccato phrasing of piercing questions.
She bit her lip, making a seemingly innocent action that still managed to send a paroxysm of agony and pleasure through him. It was ridiculous for him to spend so long pining after her when he got most girls swooning in his spell, panting. It was bloody emasculating to imagine that he couldn't seduce any pretty girl if he wanted to. This pretty girl was slightly different to the rest, but nonetheless the principle still applied.
He walked slightly closer to her and dared to lift his eyes to hers. She hesitated but then lifted her eyes to meet his. His throat constricted and he forced his mouth to start making some noise. He fixed his eyes in what he believed was an earnest expression and tried to remember desperately some eloquent words of love he seemed to forget once he saw her.
'You've bewitched me.'
There was a slight twitch in her face as he said that, only realizing much too late that it sounded as though he was accusing her of using nefarious wandwork to ensnare him.
'Everyday you sit at your desk and you just act so totally oblivious. I tried to ignore you, believe me.' He had tried desperately not to fall for this unusually pretty girl out of all the rest he saw.
'But every time I see you my admiration for you grows exponentially. It's unstoppable, despite your lack of an estate, money and blood that I have. I don't care how inferior you are to me,' he added. He thought that the mention of money and blood would not help but her eyes were begging for truth and as he had already laid the groundwork for thoroughly embarrassing himself there was no point in holding back now.
'Marry me.'
He had no plan to say that but he couldn't stop himself after seeing the immensely cute furrowing of her brow and the way the skin over her cheekbones stretched as she pursed her lips. They could run away together, basking in each other's glow without his stupid aunt trying to stare them down. Life would be good, and they would laugh as they ran away together in the dead of night, married by the beginning of the New Year.
'I don't care how much I'm diluting my magical blood because of your Muggle parentage. I love you Rose. Ever since the first moment I saw you.'
He hadn't meant to tell her about his reservations about her mother, who despite being crazily intelligent liker her daughter was still a Muggle-born. Their children could be non-magical, a horrifying concept to him who valued magic as the foremost part of his life. It was his identity, and what made up every part of his being. His family had ingrained him with the idea of the family's deep, deep magical history and the family tree was a symbol for the many centuries of grandeur and excellence. It was formidable to him.
Magic was everything.
His hands were slightly clammy as he reached his tentative fingers to the milky skin of her clavicle. His mind was in a haze as everything was happening, like during his naïve days as a school student taking an exam.
He saw the puzzled expression on her face and the attempts she made to articulate her tumultuous thoughts. He was proud that he had managed to put her thoughts in disarray like she did to his.
'I'm still trying to convince myself that this is all a huge betting scheme and if I marry you Chantal, Richard and you will all benefit,' she said, the light sarcasm returning but still failing to hide the immense disdain in her voice.
A betting scheme? Was she crazy? He had told her everything and she thought he was playing some kind of cruel joke on her. Did she still honestly believe that he was the kind of person to tell a girl that he loved them only to turn around and laugh at them five seconds later?
He was still marveling at the soft skin of her neck, mutely aware of the fact that she hadn't really accepted the proposal. In hindsight it was a bit ridiculous, but he had really pulled out all stops to grovel at this girl's feet and admit that he had fallen in love with her. He was still grasping at the rapidly fading hope of Rose simply making another one of her unconventional jokes. And he thought that she wasn't the kind to willingly hurt someone else's feelings. He thought she wasn't the kind to send subtle signals that she loved someone and then turn around and laugh at them for their stupidity.
He was ready to try the ludicrous by kissing her, but she stopped him.
'Should I be falling down onto my knees in deep gratitude for your willingness to rescue me from the horrors of singledom?'
He was starting to hate the sarcasm. Goddamn impertinence and wit.
'Are you mocking me?' he replied, not daring any more to hope that she would ever love him.
'No.'
There was the briefest pause, and the briefest burst of sunshine upon his soul as she supposedly indicated that she wasn't making fun of him.
'I'm rejecting you,' she said, her face completely devoid of any pity or regret. She was taking a leaf out of his book, trying to stop wearing her heart on her sleeve.
The briefest burst of sunshine past as he prepared for the monumental mental breakdown that would definitely accompany the woman of his dreams (for the past two months at least) blatantly refusing his offering of love. He braced himself but the hopeless feeling of falling into a deep chasm had not yet occurred. He was surprisingly numb and oblivious to the new developments so far.
He could feel the start of a breakdown though. His usual focus and concentration was starting to fall apart and all he was able to glean from her was her hatred and scorn of him. She shouted at his desperately throbbing head about Al and that hopelessly awful girl and he tried valiantly to make his 'separation' of them seem morally justified while enduring the nausea of a migraine.
In his many years Malfoy had had his fair share of people trying to suck up to him, and he could spot the typical symptoms of sycophancy in Jana when she nodded dully and seemed to come alive and listen only when it was necessary. He had seen Jana get absolutely everything for Al and seem like the archetypal perfect housewife, or rather house-girlfriend.
And then she started to harp on about all of Wickham's virtues.
What virtues? Did they include being a general criminal by pillaging, looting and raping everywhere like some vagabond soldier in some horrid Muggle army?
He hoped that she had better morals then those.
The headache was still there, and the mention of Wickham had only made it worse by bringing back the memory of the similarly bad headache of that horrible night where Lola went missing, to be found deserted in some dingy alleyway near the pub where he had decided to be foolish enough to celebrate a birthday with cheap alcohol.
Wickham. He instigated nearly every major calamity of his life with a devious smile and a malious wink.
He was only vaguely registering the meaning of every quick phrase of hers. He knew later that he would remember in awful clarity each detail of the night. It had been the same when they figured out that Wickham had raped Lola.
She was still moving her lips at a furious speed, with occasional spitting occurring inevitably due to the passionate frenzy of her words.
'- ignored their emotions, their livelihood and you even have the gall to propose to me and then follow that promptly with an insult to my background and family!'
The cogs of his mind were turning painfully slowly and his defence was especially lame. He started off by stating a purely accurate fact that managed to offend her, even though it was basking in historical righteousness and an unbiased point of view. He then tacked a compliment to the back of it, hoping to lessen the blow of his previous words.
'Nice attempt at trying to compliment me, but you really need to cut out the insults,' she said, with that Wickham-esque smile planted on her face.
His anger with her was starting to rise like the magma rising in a volcano. The volcano of burgeoning anger burst forth upon Rose, in the form of bitter and scathing words.
'Maybe if I did flatter your vanity you would have accepted! If I said I didn't care about my family, if I said I didn't give a damn about what everyone else would think about us together it might have worked out!'
How could she have ever thought that even the purest love for her would mean that he would abandon the memory of his noble forbearers by supposedly showing off a half-blood pretty slip of a thing to the world? The world would think he was using Rose as a gambit just to try and improve the Malfoy's public image by showing off a gorgeous, intelligent Weasley. They would think that she was his trophy wife. And on the flip side other people would just think it was despicable that a Malfoy would hook up with some Weasley girl.
He was so frustrated that he had trouble articulating the simplest, most archaic of feelings when he never had any problems expressing complex ideas in a concise paragraph. She would never understand his values, or any part of him because he couldn't articulate any of his damn thoughts!
In frustration and desperation he engaged in a vigorous pacing and fidgeting fit. Why was there so much misunderstanding between them? It had breed so much distrust of one another and she hated him just because she didn't understand him.
And it really did annoy him when he heard her say that she didn't give a damn about the world. It would have annoyed him enough for her to have been pretentious enough to say that opposite of what he said just to irk him but what really angered him was the fact that she actually sounded sincere and genuine when she said that she didn't care about other people's opinion.
She was truly a deviant, not caring about what other people said about her as long as she was satisfied with herself. She was so self-assured and never felt the crippling weight of the fear of other people's judgement and condemnation.
Her piercing eyes were back, sending the feeling of a knife plunging right to the back of his heart and mind. He was helpless against her accusations, and he gave up fumbling for answers and instead stood there in a dignified silence. She would make a great lawyer if she had aspirations higher than the mediocrity of filing useless papers and creating farcical sketches out of a boring life.
The silence didn't last long however and every time he said something she managed to make a rebuttal and twist his words wildly out of shape. Everything that he said to her was honest, brutally honest and in her eyes it only served to make her hate him more. He would have sworn that she managed to give him a hefty dose of Veritaserum every time she so much as looked at him.
She continued shouting, accusing him of a huge pride, a huge ego, a huge everything-under-the-sun-that-was-bad. He was so tired and angry at having nothing but insults hurled at him. Yet despite that he still found that he loved the fact that she was stubborn, relentless, fearless and sharp.
Her tirade finally reached a climax, and by the end of it she was red in the face and panting hard. He tried to regain what precious dignity remained after his sense of worth was so thoroughly destroyed.
'I owe you my thanks. I owe you my thanks for telling me just how bad a person I am.'
He had felt it necessary to repeat his thanks to Rose, trying to hurt her with sarcasm like she had hurt him. He was sure that his face was convulsed in some terrifying way, reflecting his tumultuous thoughts.
Determined to make a clean breast of his attempt to hurt her he leant in for a kiss, hoping to make her regret what she had lost, pretend that she hadn't hurt him and to taunt her.
He was glad that he had managed to thoroughly scare her again. There was a small flit of shock and then terror in her eyes before she relaxed. Slightly. The fire of the love of her within him had been rekindled as he worked his way through her soft pink lips. Her eyelids seem to shimmer with the dust of the stars and her eyes had that pearlescent of the moon. The cheeks were flushed and her hair was disheveled with strands falling onto her forehead. He wasn't thinking of much else but the feel of her full lips over his and the feeling of bare skin on bare skin. His heart was racing and he could hear the thunderous thumping of his companion's heart.
She responded back fiercely: in the form of an almighty slap.
His face was burning although her hands were perilously cold. A deathly silence hung, only occasionally punctuated by the sound of birds in the sky.
'That's the last kiss you'll ever get from me,' she said, with a harsh growl uncharacteristic of her.
He only realized then that he had royally stuffed up any chance he ever had with Rose Weasley.
***
He was positively thunderous as he strode away from her. He held in the urge to let out a huge roar of anger and instead satisfied himself by clenching his fist and trying to dig his fingernails as deep as they could go into his palm.
She had insulted him mercilessly and grudged him his love for her. Why did he have to have the misfortune of falling in love with someone who hated him?
Why?
Why?
Why?
He took a sadistic pleasure in kicking each rock and pretending that it was Rose Weasley's face. She had so thoroughly condemned every part of him and thought that he was some obsessive-compulsive meddler with evil tendencies. Now she hated him, and knowing her stubborn way it was likely to stay that way unless a miracle occurred.
Now he was having a mental breakdown. The tightly bound gears of his mind were starting to unwind, his thoughts coming apart and his internal monologue dogged by horrible what ifs.
What if he had told her about the messy history between Wickham and him? What if he had decided to make sickeningly obvious displays of affection to her? What if he had decided to stop acting like he was a 'pretentious git'?
Now he couldn't indulge in wild flights of fantasy without the jarring pang of reality reminding him that she despised him fully. There was the exhilarating thrill of that kiss, but if felt hopelessly hollow to his romantic mind. There was absolutely no respect or trust for him in that moment and his motives were more selfish than sincere.
But what was the difference between selfishness and selflessness? Was saving someone you loved selfish or selfless? There was no difference between wanting to protect someone just to hold them one more time and to protect someone just so they could live their life how they wanted to.
That kiss with Rose had been out of spite and selfishness though and even in his deteriorating state of mind he felt the need to morally justify that bliss by saying that it was a gift of love that showed his sincere intentions.
Such was human nature, or at least his nature.
It was infuriating to know that she was so stubbornly and wrongly against him! Why wouldn't she listen to the truth? Could she not accept that not everyone was as outwardly good as their disarmingly nice and charming exteriors might suggest? Why was she so hasty to judge him when she was so lenient towards Wickham who had ditched her at that ball?
Rose had judged him upon a first impression and she hadn't had the sense to change her mind, only choosing to see what her mind wanted to see. He may have called her barely pretty but that was his instinctive reflex. A Weasley?
Through those tedious days in the office he had changed his mind and ended up falling in love with her looks and intelligence.
She on the other hand was determined to hate him with a vengeance, using that first overheard comment as a catalyst and as a reason to loathe that Slytherin snake Malfoy. She was holding a grudge against him, seeing all his actions through the prism of that first blasé remark.
Why so stubborn? Why so determined to see everything the wrong way? Hadn't he made his love obvious to her through adoring gazes, kind comments and a general concern for her welfare?
She was the kind of girl who would refuse protection even if she knew she was going to die. Furiously independent.
How could he ever have thought that she would condescend to marry him? How could she have caused him to fall so desperately that he would propose to her a mere two months after becoming her colleague? Maybe he should have loosened up instead of deciding to become deathly silent and internally moan about the banality of his life whenever he was around her.
He walked back through a side door, knowing that no one would be around to watch his furious stomping and to hear the constant stream of dark words spewing from his mouth.
Richard was there with Chantal, laughing manically at some (probably) vulgar joke or anecdote he told her. Malfoy stopped his muttering and looked in to see them both sitting on the balcony with food and alcohol aplenty. He squinted to make sure that the balcony didn't overlook the cliff where the whole scene with Rose had played out. Richard and Chantal turned around, saw him, and then beckoned for him to come. Seeing his foul mood Richard turned back to talk with Chantal and all she did was to shoot a weird look at him. He hated them. Not just because of the association of the two with Rose on the visit but because they had inadvertently supported his crush on Rose which subsequently failed so epically.
He was not in the mood for a party tonight. He was rarely in the mood for a party in fact but especially not tonight after the love (of his life?) had rebuked him so harshly.
He continued up the stairs. The marble sounded hollow and dull. It felt hopelessly pretentious instead of being tastefully opulent. He was becoming a Rose Weasley, hating all things unnecessarily rich and fine.
He sat down, cursing the fact that his window looked over the place where she had rejected him. He sighed.
It would not do to leave the place before making an attempt to explain himself to Rose.
Thanks a lot, he wrote, sensing that the first letter he wrote would be more an outlet for his emotions than something another person would appreciate reading.
You haven't noticed yet? It's sarcasm, your favourite tool, alongside those killer looks and charmingly naïve and delusional sense of righteousness.
You delight in indulging that sharp wit of yours to torment people. Why can't you go and delight someone else with your sparkling verbosity instead of trying to literally and figuratively push me off that cliff? You reel people in by batting eyelashes, flaunting the right curves and speaking some words of repartee. Then you tell them that they're worthless, that their morals, beliefs and their heart and soul are trash and that you despise every fibre of their being. You play us men for fools.
I may have acted in a cold, even cruel way but at least I was upfront with everything. At least I laid the truth bare for you to see instead of wrapping it up with a bundle of lies.
Do you really have no capability to speak without mocking someone in every phrase? Do you really have any substance behind all these snarky, meaningless phrases? Sarcasm does not become you, no matter how lovely that face is.
You're just so proud, stubborn and unbelievably sure of yourself. You just think you are right about everything, and stick to your wholly biased point of view even if it's just for the sake of annoying me. Do you ever think of putting a filter in between your mind and your mouth before speaking? Did your mother ever tell you to think before you speak? Just maybe next time you could have rejected me in a slightly more tactful way. Instead of insulting me (which seems to be all you are capable of doing) you could have been more rational and not explode with anger for seemingly no reason at all.
Was I really wrong in thinking that absolutely no one would approve of us together, anywhere? Society has expectations on all of us and you know it. What would they say if we were romantically linked, or heaven forbid even married? That father of yours would go ballistic and he would probably use that as an excuse to duel my father. Everyone expects me to be brilliant, do something amazing and bask in the glory of hereditary money and fame. I am just not meant to go out with someone whose family is respected but still widely regarded as thrifty and constantly trying to make ends meet. Add that our parents' relationship was antagonistic to the point of murderous and then you see that love between us was going to be a hell of a lot harder than with anyone else.
I'm proud of the distinguished names and groundbreaking, amazing, brilliant achievements of my forbearers, and I want to retain that kind of precious, valuable dignity that everybody takes for granted. Would that be possible if I got married to a Weasley, no less one that could probably make a complete fool of herself in public and stick out like a sore thumb with ridiculously vibrant red hair? A Weasley and a Malfoy? A bright, outlandish, upstart Gryffindor teamed up with a dignified, reserved, and well-established Slytherin? Is this some kind of lame joke? But the worse thing is that you don't even try to dispel these supposedly restrictive stereotypes but you reinforce them with your actions! You, the person who shouts on about social equality, justice and rights, are a hypocrite in the way you act. You say you don't care, but you do care about all this
At least you aren't being a social mountaineer, like that upstart Jana. She's some kind of sick sycophant masquerading as an adoring angel just to get the prestige of dating a Potter. How could you ever be tricked by her, my fortuitous Rose? Those smiles and zombie-like nodding are so forced and fake that even someone so nice and unobservant couldn't miss it unless they were hopelessly in love. I do honestly think that he fell for her through innocent means. I was watching them carefully and she didn't slip anything into his drinks or jinx him.
I couldn't stand you consorting with Wickham either. Those polished manners barely concealed the malice beneath. I had started to fall in love with you already, and then to see you fall into his hands was utter agony. I thought that my word was strong enough to keep you from associating with him, but apparently not. You had so little faith in me and I could not bring myself to divulge the whole messy history.
Wickham is a despicable man willing to destroy the world if he thought it could benefit him in any way. We put him in a position of trust, and then be betrayed it so fully by stealing close to a hundred thousand galleons from our family's own (hard-earned) vault of money. I kindly told him to 'get lost' and he did. Temporarily. He came back and acted as if we had cheated him out of something by preventing him from stealing our fortune. He raped my little sister Lola. Unless you are significantly stupider than you seem you can see why I didn't ever want you to get anywhere near him. See, I wasn't as ridiculous as you thought I was when I tried to block you from your 'date' with Wickham, and I knew that he had a particular panache for young, pretty and naïve girls.
But most of all, I must give you copious thanks for you informing me that there was no point in driving myself crazy over you when you hated me and were so undeserving.
Love –
He was about to add his name to the word 'love' but then he realized that it might be seen by Rose as a provocative statement designed to make her feel remorseful for telling him to piss off in a not-so-kind way. Then again he had wanted to make her feel bad and force her to run back into his arms, tearful. And then again she wasn't likely to read this letter because he wasn't willing to send such a pain-laden letter to her, making it seem as though he despised her. He did resent her but underneath that was a much stronger, much less brittle love for her.
He briefly toyed with ceremonially burning the letter in a bonfire but decided to keep it as a bittersweet memento of the night where his world came crashing done. That and someone might notice the raging vault of fire presided over by an evilly cackling, half-crazed Malfoy.
The relentless torrent of rain fell, recalling to him the many restless teenager nights where he had lain awake pondering the questions of the world. The raindrops had a peculiar pattern and rhythm to them, a ceaseless cycle of gently pattering droplets accompanying the scrawl of his feathered quill. He could see her lying in the half-drenched grass, sprawled out and her hair flying out everywhere.
She was the epitome of ethereal beauty, lying there with her limbs skewed all over the place and her body drenched. She had taken off her sweater, revealing a singlet underneath and it left her slender arms bare. The water continued to pound her and she remained rooted to the ground, obstinately immovable.
How could he have called her barely pretty? He had never whispered to her how beautiful she was. He had never told her anything about his feelings before that explosive outburst of feeling tonight.
It was time to rewrite the letter with more tact after he had gotten rid of the more potent of his angsty feelings. He took a deep breath, trying not to be distracted by the fact that she was right there through the open window.
Rose,
I write this in the hope that you will never have your heart so thoroughly broken. I also write this to defend what little integrity I have left in your eyes. Believe me, this isn't a defence driven purely by my 'meteoric pride' but you have a right to know the truth.
You might view the friendship between Al and I with some skepticism. But, like you, I only wanted the best for him. I saw Al and this new girl Jana. It was obvious that they liked each other, or rather it was obvious that Al liked, maybe loved, Jana. Her feelings were more dubious. She would talk animatedly. She would compliment him and flatter his feelings. Nonetheless, she was perfectly content to bestow her smiles on some other admirer. She never looked as though she was in any way affected in anyway by love. She didn't look as though she cared for his love at all. I thought she was after the 'prestige' of having dated a Potter, as many girls had been before.
You might have thought me blind and thinking only of mercenary motives. I really wasn't, and I reiterate that I only had the best for my friend at heart. There was an opening for someone in his department to go and work in Germany. It was the perfect opportunity really for him to advance at his job and to simultaneously help him get away from Jana for some months. Hopefully by then her hold on him would have waned.
I (rather pointedly) suggested to Al that it would be the best for him if he took himself away from England and away from Jana. I showed him a flyer for that job and let him decide for himself. He was undecided upon the matter and then I told him that Jana didn't love him at all and only wanted to be associated with a Potter. That might have been harsh, but I believed it to be the truth. Al still sounded doubtful after that, but by the end of the long evening he had sent an owl applying for the job. Needless to say he got it.
Whatever I did for or against Al and Jana I believe it was the right thing to do. I only hope that the attachment was superficial so neither Al nor Jana is hurt too badly. I feel that my apologies are getting rather tiresome, but once again I am sorry to hurt anyone. You must know Jana better than me.
Wickham is another matter entirely.
He's always had his way with both men and women, but the women especially. I don't doubt your general judgment on normal things, but something about his looks and slick charm allows him to tell absolute and malicious lies about everyone else.
Wickham, even with his constant deceptions, may have informed you that his father was a pseudo-financial advisor to our family. Wickham elder had managed our family's monetary transactions without ever abusing our trust in allowing him full access to our gold and assets.
Jake Wickham and I did 'play' together as kids nearly every single day, but there was always a level of mistrust between us. Wickham (to even acknowledge him by a first name is a degradation) seemed to fit the typical mould for an unbearably cheeky child. He would deliberately knock vases over, damaged paintings and other pastimes that all parents hope their kids grow out of. After these devilish tricks he would blame me for them and I took these with as much forbearance as I could. I never said a word against him; because of a bizarre fear of exposing a guest that everyone made such pains to treat as an equal.
All I can say is that I am extremely glad that Wickham did not go to Hogwarts; or otherwise I would have never become friends with Al with such an oppressive presence always trailing me in some way or another.
Wickham did not improve much in his teenage years. By the time he and I were eighteen his father had died and my parents had 'retired' to the French Riviera, only coming back for the summer holidays to see Lola. All this might sound ridiculous to you, but even as young as I am now I can see the delights of an idyllic life of brunches with close friends.
Despite Wickham only being eighteen my father insisted on keeping with tradition and allowing an eighteen-year old to handle large amounts of gold and bonds. It was a whole six months before I realized he had pilfered nearly a hundred thousand galleons. I confronted him and when he refused to own up to the gaping holes left in the accounts I blasted open his safe to find only a thousand galleons. The rest he had gambled away.
I suppose now that you can't reprimand me for telling him to leave immediately. I gave him a thousand of the recovered galleons, a bribe really to keep him away from our family. It turned out that this was a prequel to the events that occurred last summer.
You know, or at least you've heard of my sister Lola. She turns nineteen next (or rather this) year.
It was my twenty-first birthday, and I had stupidly decided to celebrate it with a raucous party. Wickham 'gate-crashed' the party but I was oblivious to it. He proceeded to buy my sister drinks which he had spiked. To put it bluntly Wickham took her to a rented room, robbed her and raped her.
Even in my post-party haze I noticed that she was missing. I found her, and though she was angry with herself for accepting drinks from a man who I had told her was dangerous I was angrier with myself for never giving her the full details. Wickham left without a trace, and my sister was deeply shaken. With the help of our parents and I she is recovering her shattered self-worth and confidence. I would love it if you would properly meet her, except I wouldn't presume to ask you anything more after asking you to read this letter.
There: I have defended myself and I'm sorry yet again for my presumption last night. If you don't believe me there's always Legilimency or Veritaserum though it would be preferable if they weren't used. I will have left by the time you have received this. I can't stay where you are knowing that it was my own distant and apparently arrogant behaviour that drove you away.
Good luck with whatever happens.
S.M.
He sealed the letter, still not satisfied that they could convey the depth of his emotions. Nonetheless he was much too tired and too stressed to do anything about it tonight. And he couldn't bear another awkward breakfast between them underneath the penetrating glare of his aunt. He called the house-elf in and told him to give the letter to 'Miss Weasley' tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. He was betting that she wasn't an early riser, judging on her sometimes stormy mood when she came to the office at 9:15, still tired although fifteen minutes late.
'Oh, and could you bring a goblet of sleeping potion?' he asked wearily.
Winky was used to bringing many a sleeping potion to the restless people inside the house but never Master Malfoy. He was always self-assured, clear and direct without any of that pity or fake, over-the-top friendliness that other people had in their tone of voice when addressing her. He had no qualms in asserting his authority as a superior when addressing an inferior like her.
But today he sounded, for lack of a better word, completely shattered, even considering that it was three in the morning.
While waiting for the potion to arrive he haphazardly summoned all his stuff into a large trunk and sealed it shut. The potion arrived and he gulped down a few hours worth of the blessed stuff. He would leave before breakfast tomorrow, not really thinking that if he left like that they might think he disappeared in some gruesome way in the night.
The sleep was a dreamless one.
Only in the following days of solitude would he realise that he had acted horribly towards her by snappishly replying at everything and acting like a general git who could only stare down meanly and act morose all the time.
A/N: So long… 19 pages on Microsoft Word. So, so much mindless typing. Still, despite this mindless typing I quite like this chapter because it's emotional and describes just how misunderstood he is. His views are a bit hypocritical at several points in the story and I think those bits are especially funny.
Half of the chapter just sat stagnant for the past two months because I was just way too busy to think about it. Such is the life of a student. Then the blessed holidays arrived and I finally had the time to do something about it and finish it. I absolutely love days where I'm free to do what I want, even if what I do is what my peers would call 'pathetic'.