Wednesday 14th December
Albus had spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror in the Slytherin bathroom, cursing his father and his genetics, because no matter what gels he used, he couldn't make his hair stay flat.
Finally, he gave up just after nine, storming to his dormitory where Scorpius lounged on his bed, looking ever the part of the aristocrat as he lazily flicked through the pages of a textbook.
"Where are you going?" Scorp asked, his eyes shifting from the pages to watch Albus storm around the room.
"I'm helping Hagrid with some creatures work." Albus lied absent-mindedly, digging around in his trunk for his trainers. He had absolutely no idea what Arataki had lined up for them, and was feeling completely lost on what to wear.
"You styled you hair for Hagrid?" Scorpius asked incredulously, as Albus finally produced his shoes. God, he'd never noticed how dirty they were before. Would Arataki notice? Or would it be just dark enough for Albus' apparent lack of hygiene to slide? Maybe he ought to do a charm.
"Does it look alright?" Albus asked, trying to press down the sticky-up bits down with his hands, shaky with self-consciousness. Oscar frolicked around on his bed, happily munching his treat allowance for his week.
Scorpius' tone was so soft it was patronizing, "You know, I didn't think Hagrid was your type. But I wish the both of you luck—"
"Piss off, Scorp." Albus snapped irritably, even less tolerance for snarky Scorpius than usual.
Scorpius sighed as Al tugged his shoes on, having found two socks that were similar colours, "You don't have to tell me her name. But please promise you'll use a contraceptive charm? I won't be a godfather this young."
Albus had to repress a derisive snort; 'her', "I can assure you, it won't be necessary at all."
Al stood now, grabbing his scarf as he headed for the door, and Scorpius' voice followed him into the hallway, "I hope that was a joke, Albus Severus Potter!"
Arataki was already there when he arrived, which was an immediate relief to Al—this meet-up wasn't a figment of his over-active imagination, and he hadn't been stood up. But then Al found himself getting anxious—had Arataki been waiting long? Had he though Albus had stood him up?
"Alright?" he asked carefully, and Arataki lifted his lumos to make out Albus' face in the dark.
"Alright!" Arataki beamed back—and his obvious excitement was a little infectious, as Albus quickly found his own face bearing the same grin.
"Shall we get going then? We've got a bit of a walk." Arataki asked, and Albus gave a quick nod, before realizing Arataki probably couldn't see it in this lack of light.
"Uh—yes." He cleared his throat, "Yep, let's go."
The moon wasn't full, which gave them limited light to work by, their lumos the only guidance through the pot-holed paddock to the other side of the stone-fence. But for the lack of the moon, it wasn't as cold as Al had been anticipating, and he quickly found he neck behind to heat under the triple knot of his scarf.
He loosened it a little, concentrating on keeping up with Arataki's surprisingly brisk pace and not tripping and falling on his ass. It wasn't until they'd jumped the fence, and the grass turned to knobbly tree roots under Al's feet, that he paused.
"Arataki?"
The older boy paused, "Most people just call me Taki." He suggested amicably, and Al tried again,
"Taki, are we heading into the Forrest?"
Taki's brow furrowed, "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" he fumbled in the pocket of his coat, presenting a crinkled roll of parchment, "Hagrid gave us permission for this outing. You don't need to worry about getting a detention or anything."
Al chewed his lip, "All respect to Hagrid, but I think he has a somewhat skewed idea of what's safe and what's not so safe."
"Oh!" Taki said in realization, as though he'd just remembered that most people were rightfully terrified of the Forrest, "You don't need to worry, Albus. Most of the creatures in this forest are more afraid of you than you are of them."
Albus thought back to his father's tales of Aragog and his human-eating kin, and swallowed heavily, "I don't know—"
"If it makes you feel any better, we're going to stick to the Forrest's edge. I've got a peace agreement with the centaurs, and we'll be miles from the Acromantula nest." Taki explained gently.
Albus felt a little relieved at that, and he nodded, "Alright then. That's fine."
"Trust me, it'll be worth it," Taki grinned, holding out a gloved hand to Al. It took Al a moment to realize he was expected to hold it, and the faint thought of facing man-eating spiders seemed like child's play. But he took it anyway, breath catching a little at the feeling of Taki's fingers tightening around his own, the faint heat of them just detectable through two layers of wool.
"So you didn't attend school in Britain?" Albus asked after a few minutes, noticing that they'd veered off to the left, a few metres from the treeline.
"No, I was home-schooled back in New Zealand." Taki explained, somehow effortlessly stepping over the tree-roots and holes without concentration. But he'd slowed his own pace to match Albus', which the younger boy was grateful for.
"Is the curriculum much different over there?" it sounded like small-talk, but Albus was genuinely curious—the furthest he'd been from Britain was a holiday in Rome a few summers ago, and he'd never given much thought to how magical folk were educated in other countries.
Taki nodded, "Absolutely. There's a lot more emphasis on magic within the environment—how people and magical force bind and connect us to nature. We quite literally refer to ourselves as tangata whenua, which translates to 'people of the land.' If you look at this forest, for example, the whole thing is a living breathing organism, with each plant and creature playing the part of a vital organ—all contributing and co-operating to bring life to the whole being."
Taki's voice was alight with passion now, and Albus found himself fascinated with the way he described it, and the excitement it obviously ignited in him.
"How do you think that affects your use of magic?" Albus asked, sure he could feel the ground shifting and breathing under his feet, at Taki's vivid description.
"I'd like to think it makes me consider the effect of my magic on the surrounding environment. We've been given this gift—you and I—to manipulate the forces around us, will them to be what we want. Magic has brilliant restorative properties, but can also be greatly destructive. We have to remember that even changing or shifting one aspect of the environment can trigger a chain reaction, changing the whole make up of the natural order."
Albus nodded, "That happened after the Battle here. They realized that the damage caused to castle and surrounding grounds had hurt the population of many creatures, upsetting the whole magical food chain. Professor Longbottom and my Aunt Hermione lobbied for the Ministry to set up a foundation for the environmental restoration of Hogwarts, which they eventually did, funded by the Ministry and a few concerned donors."
Taki nodded, "I think it's good they pushed for that. The grounds, especially the Forrest, has one of the most unique ecosystems I've ever seen—it's rare to see such a varied collection of creatures all peacefully cohabitating in a relatively small area. I suppose the magical creatures are attracted to the magic of Hogwarts—it's so powerful, it's like a second heartbeat."
Albus knew what Taki meant, even if he'd never describe it as eloquently. Arriving at Hogwarts after the holidays, it was like something clicking back into place, his wand practically buzzed with excitement. The whole castle hummed, encouraging Al's magic from him, as though it knew it were safe from detection in the castle's walls.
"You're in sixth year." Taki phrased it like a question he knew the answer to, "Do you have any idea of what you'll do after school?"
It was a question Albus often dreaded, but he sensed Taki was asking because he was curious, not because he expected an assured answer, "I'm not sure." Albus replied, "My best subjects are Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, but I don't see myself teaching them. And even Ministry workers need a certain level of aptitude in other subject areas, and admittedly, I'm sort of struggling with my other classes."
"You haven't thought of anything else outside of Hogwarts or the Ministry?"
Al shrugged, "That's kind of what wizards too. You either work on behalf of the Ministry, or at Hogwarts. Some people do other jobs, but often it's not stable work, or you just don't earn a decent wage in the long run."
Taki made a thoughtful noise, "What if we pretended wage and career opportunities were irrelevant? What would you like to do each day? What would get you excited enough to leap out of bed?"
Albus scratched his neck with his spare hand, his lumos jostled a little as he shifted the wand in his hand. He was still holding Taki's hand, but the novelty had worn a little, the early excitement calming into something comforting and fuzzy in his belly.
"I guess I love learning more about nature. The Hogwarts curriculum is only the tip of the iceberg—there's a whole entire world of animals and plants to study. I want to observe them, and then share what I've learnt with others. That would be something I'd get out of bed for."
"Then why not do that?" Taki asked, as though it were that easy. And hearing his optimism, Albus almost believed it.
"It's a bit more complicated than that."
Taki shrugged, "It's only as complicated as you make it, Albus."
But then the trees were thinning—the roots between Al's feet growing fewer and farther between. It wasn't until they cleared the last few branches (which seemed insistent on smacking Al in the face) that Al realized why the tress were spreading, or rather, had been pushed back.
The hill was not natural, or for a better word, had not been born without assistance. It was a lumpy mound, four times the height of Albus—but had been around long enough to almost fit with the landscape, dusted with frozen grass and trampled in snow. Little paths and tracks were worn into it, leading between a variety of entrances all over the mound, dark and wide like gaping mouths. Al counted at least ten, some right at the top, some low, near where Al and Taki stood.
"This is a mooncalf burrow." Albus guessed aloud.
"Correct." Taki nodded.
"But they only come out on a full moon, and it's not—"
Taki grinned, "You're not scared of small spaces, are you?"
When Albus shook his head, Taki's smile got brighter, and he began to lead Al up the hill to the nearest little hole. It was chest height, and Taki dropped to his knees, slowly shuffling forward until the relative darkness swallowed him up. Even his lumos disappeared. Albus, who considered himself reasonably brave, found himself erring on the side of caution when it came to throwing himself into an impenetrably dark cavern.
"Albus?" Taki's voice was faint from inside the burrow, "It's not that bad once you're inside."
Deep breath, Albus. Dreg up what little Gryffindor you've got in there.
He dropped to his knees, the frozen ground stinging his knees, even through his thick Muggle jeans. Feeling the earth squeezing him on all sides wasn't pleasant, but the sensation was over in a moment, giving way to a surprisingly spacious passage that Albus realized—as he stood up with shaky knees—that his head cleared the roof by just under an inch. Taki, who was taller, had to stoop a little, but from his grin, Albus guessed he didn't mind.
"Douse your lumos. You don't need it." Taki whispered, and Albus—again—put his trust in the unusual boy, muttering a nox.
It took a minute for Al's eyes to adjust, but soon the tiny earthen passage was lit faintly, holes in the roof opening the space up to the moonlight. Rays filtered down, revealing the worn mud walls, the dirt floor tightly packed and smooth, pressed down by the cold, and hundreds of little hoofprints. It was all cast prettily in the silver light, and Taki smiled in response to the clear wonder on Al's face.
"I'm sure you know that mooncalves are charged by the moon—only emerging when it's full—performing their dance rituals in some kind of worship of it. But the way they've evolved to use the moon in other ways is amazing. Like these skylights—they somehow worked out how to harness the moon's light with the utmost efficiency. Humans need maths for those kind of things, but they just innately know."
Al nodded, "But it's nearly new moon, won't they be in their hibernation period now?"
Taki nodded, "Yes, but that's what we need right now. C'mon." Taki was heading down the passage, and Albus strode after him, watching for stray clumps of dirt on the roof.
"I was out here last full moon," Taki continued, his voice lower, "and noticed this calf is expecting, and about to drop. I just wanted to come out and check if she's ok, and whether there was anything abnormal that Hagrid ought to know about."
They were turning a tight corner now—it was almost full circle—and the path was growing shorter and a little narrower. The whole burrow was growing warmer too, the further in they got, Al found himself eager to shed clothing.
But then Taki was helping Al through another hole, and they were in a tiny room, the floor covered in leaves and bits of dried grass.
"She's over here, look." Taki whispered, nodding to the corner of room. Sitting up, legs tucked under her, was a sleeping mooncalf. It was an unusual looking thing—a cross between an alpaca and a lamb, it's bulky fur midnight blue, with streaks of silver that caught the limited light funneled into the room. Her belly was swollen, her breathing shallow, but her ears hadn't pricked, indicating she hadn't noticed their presence.
"I've got a couple of sheep nuts in case she wakes, but it's unlikely." Taki was ushering Albus over, kneeling on the ground beside the mooncalf's belly. Albus found himself taking the head end, watching occasionally flicker and twitch of her eyelids, as though they barely fit over the large protruding eyes. Her eyelashes were incredible also, long and enviably soft, just as silver as the strands through her coat.
"Can I touch her?" Albus whispered, and Taki nodded, his own hands skimming and pressing firmly across her belly. Albus stripped off both his gloves before lifting a cautious hand, gently laying it over the creature's nose. She didn't make a sound, but Albus could feel each breath as it whistled through her nostrils, and the gentle humming and shifting of something deeply asleep. He ran his fingers through the curly tufts of fur, gently unknotting clumps where he found them. Albus was sure he was imagining it, but her breathing felt as though it had slowed a little, as though she found his stroking relaxing.
"I think she's enjoying that." Taki said after a moment, and Al couldn't help the goofy smile that lit his face, knowing that attempting to smother it was fruitless.
But Taki caught it all the same, "Here," he said, gently patting a spot on the calf's belly, "put your hand here."
Al shuffled around her little, to where Taki sat, pressing his hand on the spot on the place Taki had indicated, noting her underbelly fur was a little softer than that of her face. But then, under the skin, he felt a faint rhythmic pulse, beating away rapidly.
Albus' caught Taki's eye excitedly, "Is that her baby?"
Taki nodded happily, "Yup. It seems fine, I'd say she'll drop within the next few days."
"Wow." Albus breathed, his fingers tickling a little at the gentle thrum, "That's incredible."
Al's eyes lifted to find Taki's, a weird part of him wanting to share this moment with the almost-stranger beside him. But Taki's eyes were already on Al, not on the mooncalf, watching Al as though he were something to be studied—something beautiful and fascinating, something he didn't quite understand.
The intimacy of it made Al's neck flush; he hoped the moonlight turned his usual mottled red into something pretty, the pulse throbbing in his neck only seemed more erratic when measured with the hand he still had against the mooncalf's belly.
Taki was the kind of closeness that was only the precursor for a certain kind of action, the thought of which had Albus sweaty palmed and shaking.
It was funny how his imagination could take him all kinds of places, in the safety of his own bed, but being faced with the potential of even fulfilling the simplest of physical intimacies, he was frozen to the spot, not daring to initiate.
But, maybe, the difference was how real this felt. The only other kisses he'd shared were with girls—at sleepovers, or parties, trying to convince himself to play a role he wasn't qualified for. That had been mechanical, lips on lips, gentle use of tongue. Like actors on stage, reaching the indent in the script; the two kiss. A movement for the sake of the audience, not for individual gratification.
But he knew that Taki wielded the power to stomp all over his heart unintentionally, all because Al was invested—that investment weightier too, as he only had more to lose. His first kiss, his first real kiss, and Al found himself counting all the ways it could go wrong.
What if Taki didn't see him like that? What if he'd misunderstood the situation? What if Taki wanted a friendship? What if Taki was straight? What if…
What if Taki outed him?
"Is this the only calf you had to check?" Albus asked, intentionally breaking the moment. He was relieved at himself and angry at himself, pupils so blown out with arousal that it made his head hurt.
Taki didn't seem hurt, or upset, leaving Albus wondering if he was looking for romantic interest in something that was supposed to be platonic. Maybe he was picking up on hints that didn't exist, so starved from attention from his preferred sex that his imagination had decided to fill the gap.
"Yep, she's the only one. And I can't find anything abnormal, so shall we head back? It's getting late."
Albus made noises of agreement, and Taki offered him a hand to help him from the dirt floor.
Maybe his imagination was overactive, maybe he was starved for attention, but the way Taki refused to let go of his hand, weaving their fingers together on the walk back, that was nothing but real.
"Next Wednesday?" Taki asked, when they'd reached the back entrance of the castle. Both boys hovered in the archway away from the cold, but were reluctant to enter, as though going back inside would be acknowledging an end to their evening.
"Yeah. That sounds good."
"Great." Taki beamed with an ease Albus wished he could bottle, "it's a date."
And before Albus could doubt it, before his mind could undermine the innuendo in Taki's words, the older boy leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to Albus' stinging cheek. Albus knew, without words, it was an unspoken response to Al's earlier doubts, like Taki had read his mind. Paired with a sympathetic smile—which whispered I know, I know—with nothing more than the twist of Taki's mouth.
"Goodnight, Albus." Taki was pulling his hands from Al's, after one final swipe across Al's bare knuckles with his thumb, he was slipping inside the castle, the smell of dirt and wool following him.
It was almost midnight when Rose left the castle, broomstick tucked under one arm, jumper under another. Though she resolved not to lose any sleep over the likes of Malfoy, she found it happening—even when she'd asked herself specifically not to. She'd finally decided that lying around, getting angry about her inability to fall asleep was pathetic, and she'd headed out for her usual distraction tactic.
She donned the jumper she'd grabbed once she'd reached the pitch, casting a warming charm over her bare fingers and toes, ready to mount her broom and take off. She didn't like to cast a complete warming charm—the sting of the cold on her face seemed to freeze her brain a little, slowly the fervent movement of her more insistent thoughts.
Hovering, she did a few warm up loops around the pitch, barely two feet off the ground. When she'd gathered enough speed she did a couple of turns—practicing her direction changes—before trying for a mid-air barrel roll. Her eyes were watering, but her adrenaline was spiked now, making it hard to hold in her giggling as she managed a double barrel roll.
It was a challenge against herself, seeing the speeds she could reach, the fear she could overcome. Even when her self-preservation 'no!' she just leaned forward, pushing the broom and herself as much as she could—waiting until her heart or broomstick gave out, and she had to pull back.
The whole process was important, inflicting both physical and mental exhaustion on herself, so when she finally stumbled back to her dormitory, she'd be worn out enough to sleep.
Most times she didn't do this more than once a month, but with Malfoy and Selwyn, and the other slew of emotional issues her anxiety enjoyed chewing over, she was out here almost once a week now.
It was unlikely she'd be discovered—the Quidditch pitch wasn't part of the Prefect patrol, and no one would dare come out here in winter, so many assumed the pitch was clear.
Which, admittedly, was why she hadn't been keeping than much of an eye out—so she didn't notice the figure on the grass until they were practically beneath her.
Her stomach knotted immediately, imagining somebody like McGonagall or Zhou waiting for her, expecting Rose to drop to the ground, into a pit of her own punishment. Hermione Granger had instilled a healthy respect for authority in both her children—and defying it was akin to damaging a library book (both extremely serious offenses).
But then she considered what they'd say—another detention perhaps? Really, she had to spend two hours a week with her own personal nightmare, how much worse could it get?
Face the music, Rose. Get your rap across the knuckles and then head to bed.
Taking a bracing breath, Rose slowly lowered her broom, steadying herself for the approaching ground. She slid off as gently as she could—the groundshock still stung her ankles a little—she tucked the broom under her arm, awaiting her telling off like a good little girl.
But she wasn't granted with McGonagall's pursed lips, or Zhou's even disappointment, but something that was worse and better all at the same time.
"What are you doing here?"
"You didn't think you were the only one who snuck out for a late-night fly, Roza?"
Malfoy looked equipped enough—he'd worn shoes, unlike her—armed with proper gloves, his broom, and a practice Quaffle.
"I was just leaving." Rose replied shortly, throwing her broom over her shoulder. She had hoped for another half-an-hour in the air, but she hadn't gotten the telling off she was expecting. And if Malfoy was out here for his own fly, it was unlikely he was going to take points off her.
"You don't want a friendly game?" he replied, tossing and catching the Quaffle with a sort of arrogance that was painfully clichéd, but so quintessentially Malfoy that it didn't seem forced.
"I doubt anything Quidditch related between us would be 'friendly'." She could barely make him out—the moon was nearly new—but if she had to guess, he was probably smirking.
"Sounds like you're afraid of losing." The tone of his voice confirmed it—he was smirking.
"I'm sure that line would've worked when I was five." She snorted. For all of him that was shadowed, his hair was so light it glowed, as though it attracted and absorbed the little light the moon was divesting.
"Well, you haven't left yet." He countered, and she had to admit he was right.
"Goodnight, Malfoy." she went to step past him—nothing wrong with a classic shoulder barge—but he intercepted her, invading her personal space in one swift movement. It was impossible not to see him now, all those angles in all the right places, a measured balance of broad and slight. It made Rose and her bulky calves angry—for all his inbreeding, he was far too pretty, and it made Rose want to run her fist through a wall.
"Wait, Roza." His tone was an intimate whisper now, as though his words were too private for echoes, and Rose's breath was hitching against every fibre of her will. They'd been this close before—sure—but usually in the throes of her violence, and that was before she'd seen his kind of kindness, inflicted by strategic revenge and petty hints. Before she'd lain in bed, puzzling over his motives, what he really thought, mind churning over a mantra; does he care? does he care? does he care?
"If you don't play, I'll take ten points from Gryffindor."
Credit to the boy: he could invoke a mood as well as he could break one.
"That's blackmail!" Rose cried, and he shrugged.
"No, it's Quidditch. Up to you."
She stepped back as though she were enraged, as though he'd twisted her arm tightly behind her back, forcing her hand. Even as a voice versed in realism pointed out that she earnt ten points a day in classes, that his threat was weak and couldn't really hold her to anything.
But, she was pretending that he'd cornered her, so she wouldn't have to admit to herself that she did want to play—she wanted to see how many strands would escape from his hair tie, she wanted to race with him across the pitch, she wanted to make him chase her, she wanted to make him yell in frustration as she tore the ball from his arms.
"You're the worst." She said, trying to summon something like anger to smother the excitement in her expression, mounting her broom as stroppily as one could.
"Yes, but not at Quidditch."
"We'll see." Rose couldn't fight the tiny twist of a smile that time, but she rose quickly, hoping he wouldn't catch it and betray her.
Malfoy lay out the rules—first to put the Quaffle through the hoop won. Then he threw the Quaffle straight up, so high that Rose lost sight of it until it was coming back down, but her senses were sharp from practice, and she managed to grab it before him.
Then she was off, careening up the pitch, unable to hold in a squeal of laughter when she felt him on her tail, trying somehow to overtake her, so he could intercept her throw for the goals.
She tried to zigzag, evading his grasp each time he grabbed for the ball, dancing out of his way with moves that were unnecessarily flamboyant—not that she'd ever show off for the likes of Malfoy.
At these speeds, in the lack of clear light, he could've been anyone, and she was somebody else. Maybe when the sun was up, and they were forced together for another detention, she'd be confronted with the truth of whatever this was—he'd probably find way to hold it against her.
She thought she'd broken away from him, the goalposts looming nearer, when she felt a sharp tug,
"Hey!" she cried, half-laughter, half-shock, "You can't grab my broom! That's a foul!"
"Maybe in a real game." Malfoy growled back, fighting his own grin as he clawed his up her broom, to where she was perched. He tried to wrestle the Quaffle from her arms, the two of them hovering in the air, brooms locked side by side as they fought.
His face was scrunched up in concentration, paired with genuine—not mocking, not sardonic—laughter, he wasn't as pretty as usual. His usual stoic expressions were cool, only highlighting his symmetry, and the features Rose hated on him, because they were too beautiful for his cruelty. But now he was so attainable, so human, it was so far from the bitter aristocrat she usually dealt with, that the hollowness in Rose's abdomen had nothing to do the lack of gravity.
But he was wriggling the Quaffle from her grip, and Rose knew she needed to distract him, gain back the hold she'd lost, so she could fight her way to the goals.
She didn't think about it, just leant forward, and before he could lean back, or discern what was happening—
-she licked a clean stripe up the side of his cheek.
His shock was as she'd been expecting, and she took advantage of his slackened grip to reclaim the Quaffle, racing towards the goals and making a clean shot through the centre hoop.
"Did you just lick me?" Malfoy called incredulously, and Rose couldn't see him, but knew what his features would be twisted into horror, alarmed at the thought of being licked of all things, something so uncouth and vulgar for his fancy self,
"Maybe, but I won, didn't I?" she cackled.
"You absolute creature!" he cried, mock outrage in his voice.
She was about to reply—a taunt about upsetting his quaint sensibilities—but he was racing for her, revenge in his eyes. She screamed, taking off, heart racing as rode her tail back across the pitch. She duck and dove, trying to shake him, but he was stubbornly steady, yelling some nonsense about justice and honour.
Rose hadn't felt like this for years, reminding her of rough-housing with her older cousins. There was an element of fear to the excitement—but it was a safe kind of fear—like feeling fingers brush the back of your t-shirt in a game of tag, only just escaping being 'it'. She was going so fast she could barely see through the tears in her eyes, the wind had torn out her hair tie—the locks scattered and whipping madly. She knew it would be knotted and crazy, impossible to manage in the morning, but for now she didn't mind, enjoying the feeling of child-like carelessness. All she was missing was the permanently scabbed knees she'd always had as a kid, the gappy front teeth that took two years to grow in, and the bitten away nails.
She was lowering to the ground now, feeling that Malfoy had backed off, needing reprieve from the stitch in her side, induced by frantic laughter. The seemingly endless wellsprings of energy she'd had in her youth ran a little drier these days, a reminder of her age.
"Christ." She panted, and Malfoy landed too, far more mussed up than she was used to seeing him. His hair was no longer in its tie either, crazy and fluffy, making him look half his age. His face was red from exertion, and hands on his knees, half-crouched and drawing heavy breaths. Seeing him like this, she could almost make out the child she'd never met, a little blonde-haired snot, fighting to play dirty, and get away from his—probably—overbearing parents.
"I'm still going to get you back." He promised, but it didn't sound quite so threatening between exhausted breaths.
"What, you'll slip me a Puking Pastille?"
Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, separating out non-existent knots.
"Maybe."
She laughed, the image amusing her for reasons she couldn't pinpoint.
"It's getting late, we should head back." He suggested after a few moments of comfortable silence.
"What's the time?"
He shifted him jumper, checking the watch he always wore. Rose had only ever noted its presence because of how unordinary it was for a Malfoy—nothing more than a simple leather band, and plain face, hardly more than a galleon in any store.
Thursday 15th December
- Three -
"It's exactly one minute past midnight." Scorpius replied, "We should be heading to bed."
She knew what he meant of course, but his phrasing still brought out a blush on her face, one she was fairly certain he couldn't see.
"Alright." She agreed—so out of her depths she was drowning in complete uncertainty. She and Scorpius had never been in such amicable circumstances, the full effect of what had happened would surely hit her later. But it was still dark and things never felt quite real at night. Maybe in the light of day he'd be back all his cruelty cylinders would be firing again, reuniting her with the nasty boy she was well-acquainted with.
But for now, it didn't feel like him—the kindness he showed stripped away Rose's familiarity. He looked and sounded like the Malfoy she tried (and failed) to tolerate, but there was nothing malicious or mocking in his tone or expression. And without it, when you took all of that away, did she know who he was? Apparently not. She'd never considered him in that way, and their accidental midnight rendezvous was forcing her to reconsider that.
The walk to the castle door was silent, as though Malfoy recognized her need for space, attempting to align this Malfoy with all the others he'd shown her in the last few days. But the walk was short—a walk back to London probably wouldn't been enough time to sort her head—and they'd arrived at their destination.
"I'll see you later today." Malfoy nodded—Rose didn't realize until later this had been his attempt at a joke.
"Night." She managed, before he was off up the corridor, broom slung 'casually' over his shoulder. She hadn't been expecting him to walk her back to Gryffindor Tower, but it seemed so abrupt that Rose wondered he'd finally seen the error of his ways, his usual coolness firmly in place—his sweetness a flaw he'd quickly remedied, a lapse in judgement.
The walk back to her dormitory was muscle memory, apart from a brief almost encounter with Peeves. Being a Prefect gave her some leeway though, so night-time sneaking wasn't such a mission as it had been in her earlier years.
The only oddity in her journey was arriving back at her bed, whereupon drawing back her bed curtains, she found two eyes glittering at her in the dark.
She went to squeal, but the figure sat up,
"Jesus, Rose, it's me!" Albus hissed in a whisper, and Rose resisted the urge to smack him.
"Albus Potter! You gave me a fright!" she whisper-growled back at him, fumbling off her jumper and shrugging it in the direction of the floor. Crawling into bed, she made sure to press her cold feet into Albus as payback, but he didn't protest,
"You smell like outside." He stated, in a tone so suspicious it was practically a question.
"I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk." She gruffed—because admitting to Al that she'd enjoyed Malfoy's company—however brief—felt like waving a white flag in their six year war over the existence of Malfoy's much debated 'niceness'.
Normally Albus could tell when Rose was lying, even by emission, but it was clear he was in floating on a plain she wasn't even privy to, so instead she wriggled under her covers and tried to warm her chilled limbs in the heated sheets.
"I was out too." Albus began, the excitement palpable in his tone, preparing for story time. Albus was better at sharing his news than Rose—fleshing it out with artistic descriptions of setting and emotion, building a rollercoaster of narrative suspense before tying it all down into a basic mood or moral. Rose's recounts tended to be more stilted, word-vomiting as she sorted it all outside of her mouth, usually no pause between the event happening and telling Albus.
But now Al's recollection of the nights events were so close behind the actual event it was almost real time, and the story's emotional inflection coming from the boy himself—the way his voice slowed in awe as he described the mooncalf and the pulse, the way his voice lowered in disappointment and shame to something below a whisper when he discussed deliberately avoiding kissing Taki, the way his voice stopped completely when he confessed the way his gut swooped at the sweet, virginal, barely-there cheek peck.
"Wow." Is all Rose had after nearly ten minutes of Al's words filling her curtained-off bed, and both parties seem to fall into a contemplative silence—only broken by Tessie's chainsaw-like snoring.
Al sighed, "Merlin, Dad is already worried about his absentness as a father—imagine how he'll feel when I tell him I think I'm gay."
Feeling was beginning to return to Rose's toes, she wriggled them experimentally, "You 'think' you're gay?"
Al snorted, "Well, you hardly get a letter of confirmation."
Rose nudged him, and he laughed softly, "You know what I mean. And anyway—I don't think it has anything to do with parenting, I think it's just a luck of the draw thing."
"You mean, I won the gay lottery?" Albus asked sarcastically, before tagging on in a much less humorous mumble, "Or lost it, depending on your opinion."
Rose nudged him a little harder, as though she could jostle some self-esteem into him, "Won, you idiot."
Albus hmmed for a moment, "True. I mean, I'm never going accidentally impregnate anyone, am I?"
Rose smothered a self-deprecating chortle, "Neither am I, at this bloody rate."
"I'd hope not—traditionally as the female, you'd be the one getting impregnated."
Rose rolled her eyes, even if Al couldn't see the gesture in the dark, "That wasn't what I meant, you bellend. I was attempting to complain about my virginity, and its presence."
"Preaching to the choir, Rosie."
"Yeah, but you've got prospects now, haven't you?"
Rose was sure that Albus was rolling his eyes, even if it was dark and she couldn't see it, "I don't think a kiss on the cheek counts as a prospect, Rose."
"This week it's a kiss on the cheek, next week it's a kiss on your—"
"Rose Jean Weasley-Granger! What would your mother say?" Albus gasped in mock horror, and Rose tried not to cackle salaciously,
"She'd say, 'Rose, virginity is a concept. It was created as a mode of suppressing women, using their sexuality to brand them in terms of value, as man's olden-day obsession with colonialism and conquering extends not only to undiscovered land, but also over the women they viewed as chattel, and—'"
"Alright, alright. What would your father say then?"
"He'd say, 'what on earth are you two giggling about?! It's nearly one am—if you don't go to sleep right now, I'll put you in separate rooms.'"
Albus snuggled deeper into the blanket, having shed his coat and shoes somewhere on Rose's floor,
"Merlin, that brings back memories. But though I loathe to admit it, he has a point."
Rose didn't answer immediately, she was too busy yawning,
"He does. Goodnight, Al."
"Goodnight, Rosie."
There's a few minutes of silence before Albus speaks, his voice muffled by sleep and the pillow he'd stolen from Rose's two,
"I spose it is Dad's fault in a way."
"Hmm? Why's that?"
"Well, he named me after the village gay, didn't he? What did he expect?"
Rose chuckled in amusement, the sound strange against her pillow, "Did you just call Albus Dumbledore 'the village gay'?"
"If the shoe fits." Was Albus' pillow smothered reply.
Rose sighed, "Goodnight, Al."
"Goodnight, Rosie."
A/N: Sorry for tense errors, it's very late and I did a very light proof-reading. Again, keep up the reviews, I love opening my inbox in the morning and seeing what you guys think! The uploading may also slow over the next few days, I'm currently moving to the opposite end of the country, so stuff is busy and internet access sparse.